A southwesterly gale keeps our minds focused in haste while two gannets soar overhead, their blackened tips hook the eye in flight.
The white cliffs of Dover - a sight not easily forgotten. From tales of war and celebrated heroes, to those of the fisherman and their own throws against nature.
The riveted timbers breath sighs of relief as the wind eases and the sea provides a melancholy roll. The ships pass by like production line packages and the Varne stays watchful with her ominous static presence. The Gull Stream provides a short cut inside the sands, but prudence dances in the mind and outside we sail.
The steel grey sea of early hours gone makes way to a weathered bronze green, littered with the snowy streaks of breaking crests.
The storm staysail hangs drearily over the bow as the apparent wind falls and the motor shatters the relative calm, the ebbs and flows of life under sail.
We slide by the E Goodwin lightship, ghostly in stillness but vital in purpose.
Steel grey returns as the sun is shielded by a slow moving blanket and we steadily approach Sea Reach One.
