The island rises up from sea, the colour of a wood pigeons wing as I sit in the bow motoring the short distance across the main channel. The water is peppered with rain, visibility is reduced. We feel so exposed, attracting concerned looks from the few yaughtsmen braving the weather.
The fort is a squat dark stain on the horizon. It is a safe haven from the storm racing up behind us. Despite it all I feel strangely tranquil, calmed by the waves as they pass me and head towards the beach.
It is a metaphor for life, I guess, endlessly rolling on as we are caught in the tide, trying to pitch up on a safe shore.