Dandelion 8

 

My 02.00 alarm call sounds. The forecast looks manageable: northerly twenty four knots, dropping to seventeen later. A fair tide awaits. I open the hatch. Bullets, of horizontal rain, ambush me from the darkness. As a squall sends Stargazer reeling, on her berth.

I return to the warmth of my bunk. Reawakening at a more civilised hour. To take the air, atop the white cliffs, on, what has transformed into, a brisk spring day. (Now that the tide has turned).

Out in the Channel, freighters and ferries duck and weave. As they hurry about their business.

I picnic on the wooded slopes, beneath the castle. Warmed by the sun. Wondering what passage-making possibilities tomorrow may bring.