The ghost of George Hunter Gunn

Many years ago we were in Leixões harbour - trapped, along with loads of other boats, by bad autumn weather.

A singlehanded guy came in completely exhausted in a BenJen of around 40ft and was helped to berth stern-to by a posse of sympathetic sailors. He'd been at sea for sometime in lousy conditions & we all felt sorry for him.

Then a keen-eyed couple noticed that the exhaust smoke that had wafted up his transom had made the name of his boat visible despite there being no actual letters of any kind on the stern. The name rang a bell with them & they disappeared off hotfoot to the harbour office where they found a picture the self same boat on a stolen boat flyer pinned up on the wall.

The man was led away by the Guardia but as far as I know the couple never got the reward shown on the poster.

Every time I see 'Ghost' letters I'm reminded of this event & start to think "I wonder if . . ." :)
 
My crew chum is Secretary of The Ghost Club, London...I most certainly believe in dowsing ( but can't explain how it works ) and Ghosts are too often reported to be fancies of memory...I think this is a subject for The Lounge but I hope it gets taken seriously.
 
you got it

RobBrown said:
Wasn't as a result of being furnish'd & burnish'd by Aldershot sun was it?:D
Click to expand...

well done rob brown

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
 
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