Another long one, hopefully you will all enjoy it.
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It's early evening and the gulls are mobbing restaurant patrons for scraps as I make my way down the pontoons, weekend bag and backpack both slung carelessly over my shoulder. The air is still warm enough for my tank-top and shorts, though I suspect it will be a cool night later.
I turn onto pontoon F for Foxtrot and saunter along to my private berth, number seventeen. Indigo strains gently against her moorings, seeming as eager as I am to get going. Like me, she'll have to wait till the morning; my Day-skipper's qualification permits me to sail in daylight hours only, and I'm not in any hurry to run afoul of the Solent Coastguard this weekend.
I dump my bags on the jetty by her stern and do a quick reconnaissance down her port and
