Fortunately a residual sense of self-preservation had kicked in at the last minute, and we dragged ourselves away from the party while we still could, but it was a less than lively crew who staggered on deck the next morning.
First light again to catch the tide for the next leg down to Carlingford Lough. Luckily for us the wind was light, the visibility good and the engine reliable, so despite having to hand steer it could have been a lot worse. Our off watches were spent in peaceful oblivion recovering from the previous night’s revelries, and the hours slipped by until we entered the calm of the Lough before coming to anchor just west of the marina.
No need for knock out drops that night though, although my dreams were beginning to become infected with doubt. This was all going far too well. The weather too good, tidal gates made on time, no mechanical problems so far—the gods must have something awful in store for us. Lou remained cheerfully dismissive of this pathetic lack of moral fibre and merely tugged back at the duvet.
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