Earlier this year I realised that something weird was going on, remarkably similar to the events portrayed in a film by the well-known surrealist Luis Buñuel, much viewed in student film clubs, called The Exterminating Angel.
In the story a group of well-heeled people gathers for a party, only to find that they are mystically unable to leave, and what with one thing and another the whole lot of them are trapped for days while the canapes and drink run out and mayhem cuts loose.
I was getting Dahlia ready for sea. The new strake had gone on, a charming sweep of iroko, though the Wood skin with which we planned to treat it had to wait, because it was raining somewhat, so we had only managed three coats. We had painted the decks with another layer of cream nonslip, though we were half a tin short. Then there was the running rigging. None of it was at the absolute peak of newness, but a purist might have thought that the main halyard was perhaps approaching middle age. So the order for plenty of pre-stretched three-strand had been sent, and had not yet arrived. Well, we could wait for paint, and the weather, and some rope.
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