Supermoon Sunday

I'm doing a couple of hours on the lightship today, giving O'Neil a lunch break. It's a Bank Holiday, white cloud, cool, breezy in the open, not too many visitors about. I settle down with the paper. Sarkozy's had it, Boris is in, the Empire is out, Leveson drones on and on. It's the same old, same old world, no worries, mate. Well, there's war, pestilence, murder, famine and the usual bunch of nasty mayhem going on, sure, but not here, not on the lightship. Here, it's tranquility itself.

A couple of your man's tranquil friends arrive, wondering why they haven't heard from him, which is normal. I occasionally get texts from him three weeks after the event. We talk, as you do, about everything and nothing, all the while taking in the view. The rivers are stirring up a nice chop this afternoon, wind against the outgoing tide, miniature spindrift flying off in all directions. Yachts in the seaway crisscrossing and amongst the ubiquitous Bermuda rigged plastic bathtubs, a pretty little gaffer tacking nicely. She turns into a broad reach, heading our way, tight as you like, everything on presenting a nice three quarter view, passes us showing off her counter stern. Soon she arrives in the rivers' confluence, tries a tack but it puts her in her no-go zone, her way falls off and she turns back with the flow, and out of sight.

Himself back from lunch, I get ready to go, do goodbyes, but I'm called back. He needs to give his phone number, which he can't remember, to his friends. I get out my phone and pass it on. I'm his bleeding P.A. now, or what? Our yacht has found good wind on the far side of the haven and is making steady progress upstream. It's what we can all hope for, don't you think?