Waves gossip with the bow that breaks across them, lapping and gurgling the goings on of the Gareloch. There's no wind. The sails puff full only occasionally; the jib hangs. The jib is my job. Keep mind of the tell tails and let it out when needs be. When there's wind to fill it. There's a race, but it's a quiet one. Only three boats. My oilskin is stowed away, the west coast weather ignoring predictions and giving us a dry, silver evening. The clouds waltz around the sun, changing its light to chrome as it bounces off the water that could be quicksilver. Round the first marker there's a wheeze of a breeze and the spinnaker goes up like a great baloon, pulling us to almost 2 knots. But maybe not that much. The air is oysters and champagne without food poisoning or hangovers.
Afterwards in the club there are pints, smiles and food. A quiet Tuesday night made lively by those coming off the water.
Back at the house the vegetables come from the garden. The cats see no need to vacate the couch. The valley stretches below the house towards the old rail bridge and the sheep mutter to each other. My bags and wine crates are unpacked and put in their proper place.
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