A pilot cutter carves a foaming white wake across an ink blue sea, inbound at the harbour mouth.
Stagazer swoops by, sheets eased, the ebb under her, nodding approvingly at the lift of the swell beneath her keel - back afloat and putting to sea.
Bright white smiles crack weathered brown faces. Easter sunlight paints our wind bellied sails a honey gold. The breeze sings in our rigging. We wave as we cross, sharing the joy of the moment.
Out in the Swash, the ebb slows. The wind backs and eases. A fisherman wrestles his catch, as we glide by.
The tide turns off Handfast. We ride it gently back to Poole and slip in....
...under South Haven.
Behind Stone Island, the Condor fast cat muscles it's way through the bank holiday...
....boating melee,in the harbour entrance, with five deep throated blasts of its horn...
...and barrels on past Brownsea Castle - decks lined with spectating passengers.
A keen breeze fills in from the North East and freshens. We slip in under the lee of Brownsea Island.
The sheltered pool in Blood Alley beckons and the ululating cries of peacocks hang hauntingly in the still air.
We drop anchor. Soon the spiced scent of toasting Hot Crossed buns mingles evocatively with the tropical birdsong.
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