For this sailing escapade I was christened Mr Burns - for the Simpson’s character who has all the physical strength of wet bread. But more of that later. We motored off down the creek just before 9am. I like being able to gaze at all the houses that have property down to the water. Cannons Creek is quite lovely (particularly in off-mozzie season) - too bad Parks Victoria are apparently going to remove all the channel markers (how helpful and somehow typical - we’ll just guess where the channel is shall we? And who do we sue when we savage the hull? Oops - here I am thinking like a Yank.)

We got to Warneet, which is remarkable also for it’s prettiness, and all the dickheads that moor their boats in the channel. This, startlingly enough, makes it quite difficult to navigate. In these trying times I wish I had a Humber Of The Sea, with which I would just push everything aside that shouldn’t be there, damning all their paintjobs to hell. Or wherever.

Anyway, we decided to head for Hastings and see if we could pull up on the sand and hit the cafe for breakfast. An excellent plan. We haven’t really had the boat long enough to be blase about sitting at a cafe overlooking the beach where Surfarosa is pulled up.
“Look at that sexy boat,” I say to M.
He looks dreamy.
“I’d love a boat like that,” he says wistfully.
“Maybe one day.” I am pensive.
“Oh hang on,” he says, deplorably perky. “That’s OUR boat! Ha!”
We are evil and smug.

After scrambled eggs we sail (not motor) off the beach and back out into the bay. It’s a cold and wettish journey over to Tortoise Head, where we forget how to navigate the channel, and have to turn around and try again. It’s bliss to be able anchor and make some hot milo. I could sit and read the paper until it got dark enough to crack a bottle of red and begin thinking about dinner, but M, blue-heeler like, is keen to walk.

We traipse the beach in front of the chicory kiln again, looking for treasure in the detritus that has been thrown up on the sand in a recent storm.

Last time we found six tennis balls, without a court in sight! This time it’s one tennis ball, two thongs (left ones, naturally, for that is the Law), a chopping board, a stubby holder, two foam fishing sinkers and chunks of thick thick glass that looks excitingly old and relicky. The Charles Dickens of broken bottles. I keep most of it.

Dinner is camping fare - tuna mornay Ellise style - and we collapse before 9pm. No television is a good thing.