Martin waits patiently aboard Clover. The winds are obviously increasing, so we'd better get going. As we motor out of the boat basin, there's not another boat in sight.
Some airborne spray drifts over the foredeck. Neoprene gloves lay dripping in the cockpit after having been blown off the dock into the water. Cold hands and face indicate better than any calendar that winter has set in. This blustery day heralds the first Sunday sail for us this month. Our friend Claire catches us passing in front of the ferry dock.
Soon, cold hands are forgotten in the joy of the day. Spindrift blurs the definition between sky and water. Clover scuds along at a happy six knots. There's no where to go, we're already there.
The sea heaps up. Some foam from breaking waves blows into streaks along the buried rail.
Beaufort 7 indicates a near gale. We take cover back inside the breakwater, congratulating ourselves on a morning sail well done. Looking forward already to next Sunday's congregation.
When a sailor sees a sky like this, it's recommended to take cover. Why does it give me such a thrill? (The man must be out of his mind.)
