Standing on the starboard seat I looked across the boat, up the lake. Oyster catchers probed the silt to my right and beyond them, amongst the purple sea lavender, canada geese browsed the salt marsh. To my left little gulls dabbled and pecked as small prey surfaced.
The wind was at my back, warm, flapping my clothes. A weak front dominated the sky, casting shadow on the boat, stuck in the mud on its mooring.
I watched the flood returning; fingers of salty water probed the mud-flats, creeping up streams that still ran with the dregs of the ebb.
The sun broke through behind me, warming me through my jeans, the back of my shirt, my hair. I stood absorbing the sun's energy in the steady breeze. Where my shadow pointed, Portsmouth was showing off and dozens of sails were out playing, their boats concealed below the level of the marsh at this low state of tide.
Gently we lifted from the mud's embrace; the port-wise cant levelled. Imperceptibly at first, but quickening, we swung on the buoy into the wind. Sun wheeled around and the rig's shadow marked time on the deck.
Now to my right a ferry rumbled by, safety announcements blown in the wind, heading for the Island before me.
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