While A is away, the blog still gets to play. Please welcome a swab on the Old Hand, from A View from the Wheelhouse.
Blinded by spray, I grabbed the weather rail as the north wind collided with the ebb and turned Saint George’s Channel into a churning mass of breaking seas. We beat westward until the conical shapes of the Skelligs rose out of the Irish Sea like the Tall, Shining Ones of ancient Celtic lore.
McWhirr peered through the wheelhouse windows.
“Looks like there’s some dirty weather knocking about.”
A wall of black cloud bore down on us from the northwest.
“Aye Captain, it looks forbidding enough. Should we shorten sail?”
“Shorten nothing lad, this is just the fair wind we need to make our offing. Better get some shut-eye, we wont fetch the Blaskett’s before noon.”
Though hard pressed, Old Hand was holding steady, and…
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