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Well Written - Part IV
White yachts went sobbing and strumming past our bows and stern, their crews decked out in daffodil PVC and braided captains’ hats. The whole Solent was a crazy-paving of interlaced wakes as I did my best to thread us through the pack of charging motor cruisers, fishing parties, ferries, dinghies, yachts. The entrance to the Beaulieu River was hidden behind a bright fleet of sailboards. A big container ship, leaving Southampton Water, scattered the small fry ahead of it like a pike in a pond.
“Racing!” shouted a furious Saturday admiral from his cockpit, “We’re racing!”
“He seems cross,” my mother said.