Stargazer rests on her berth patiently. Her lines are doubled and her jib is stowed below. She's unscathed by last night's storm.
Ashore force ten winds clawed demonically at the house - shrieking and howling.
The car has been dealt a glancing blow by a nocturnal air bourn fence panel.
Today the skies have cleared and the barometer has risen. The Spring sun beams benevolently down on Poole from a cobalt sky.
It warms ranks of storm shuttered beach huts. They are hunkered down shoulder to shoulder, as if wary of another onslaught by the capricious elements.
The swell rolls in to burst into playful shards of glittering white spindrift on the gnarled groynes - protectors of the golden beach.
Bournemouth pier stands foursquare and stoic above the marching wave crests...
...,whilst slick skinned seal black surfers ride the break, at its feet.
As dusk falls, three new charts lie unfolded on Stargazer's saloon table. I pore over them...
.....and hear the lilting Celtic call of the crimson Welsh dragon summoning us for a summer cruise.
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