A port of refuge trumps rally diktat
Sep 16, 2021
2 minutes
The dawn did not so much break as insinuate itself, gradually turning a one-dimensional world of blackness into a delineated grey sea and sky. The only colour was provided by a disappearing ship which left a urine-streaked smudge of burnt diesel on the dull horizon, its wretched stench masking the aroma of undulating sea wrack.
It might have been June, but at 0400 the English Channel, from, a Swan 40, looked like a humid Siberian lake. The false bonhomie of the BBC’s music only served the 0535 Shipping Forecast cold: our southerly Force 3 was to veer southwest and increase to 7 or 8.
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