Twister_Ken
Well-known member
Despite the best efforts of Metcheck to produce a gale, yesterday in the Solent was ghosting weather.
Ghosting. Silking along, coaxing a knot of boatspeed out of two knots of breeze, the water glassy, conversations from neighbouring boats being heard a quarter mile away - "Yes, a slice of lemon please." Racing crews hang their legs over the leeward rail, to drape shape into gossamer sails that are capturing every catspaw. Idyllic.
Perfect conditions too for the keen motorboatist, able to blow the carbon deposits off of his valve seats. Behind him, a snow-white trail of water pulverised by turbocharged horses fed on high octane hay. And an arrowhead of vertically displaced water, curving, speading, lowering itself across the Solent from Lepe Spit to Gurnard Ledge.
And now the wake, no more than a few inches high, reaches the ghosting yachts. They rise and fall, rock and roll. Not much, but enough to shake the wind out of their sails in the way that a leopard shakes the life out of antelope fawn.
No wind, no power. The yachts stop and spin. Cursing, their crews gently tease the sails back into shape, tempting the air back onto the cloth. Once more they see a ripple develop around the bow. And then another throttle jockey passes by with a cheerful wave. "A perfect day to be on the water" he shouts. Nobody on the yachts hears through the exhaust roar.
And so the endless cycle of life continues on the Solent.
<hr width=100% size=1><A target="_blank" HREF=http://www.writeforweb.com/twister1>Let's Twist Again</A>
Ghosting. Silking along, coaxing a knot of boatspeed out of two knots of breeze, the water glassy, conversations from neighbouring boats being heard a quarter mile away - "Yes, a slice of lemon please." Racing crews hang their legs over the leeward rail, to drape shape into gossamer sails that are capturing every catspaw. Idyllic.
Perfect conditions too for the keen motorboatist, able to blow the carbon deposits off of his valve seats. Behind him, a snow-white trail of water pulverised by turbocharged horses fed on high octane hay. And an arrowhead of vertically displaced water, curving, speading, lowering itself across the Solent from Lepe Spit to Gurnard Ledge.
And now the wake, no more than a few inches high, reaches the ghosting yachts. They rise and fall, rock and roll. Not much, but enough to shake the wind out of their sails in the way that a leopard shakes the life out of antelope fawn.
No wind, no power. The yachts stop and spin. Cursing, their crews gently tease the sails back into shape, tempting the air back onto the cloth. Once more they see a ripple develop around the bow. And then another throttle jockey passes by with a cheerful wave. "A perfect day to be on the water" he shouts. Nobody on the yachts hears through the exhaust roar.
And so the endless cycle of life continues on the Solent.
<hr width=100% size=1><A target="_blank" HREF=http://www.writeforweb.com/twister1>Let's Twist Again</A>
