Boat life.

Weather: overcast/showers. 17C.

Spent the morning up and down the boardwalk. Discussed trawlers and commercial fishing and how wild their (fisher-persons?) life must sometimes be, far off the coast, wrapped in a squall, in an old rusty boat (and the seaworthy state of some of those trawlers looked pretty sketchy to me).

Hark, now hear the sailors cry,
Smell the sea, and feel the sky,
Let your soul & spirit fly, into the mystic.

Van Morrison

We stopped to watch a family unloading their catch of mackerel. They were chatting and laughing and it seemed a good haul. Even so, I’m imagining it would be a tough job, with long hours, for average coin, and an eternal struggle to ever get the smell of fish scrubbed off you.

Tomorrow, we have a 3.5 hr drive southwest to the tiny township of Port Albert. We have stayed there before. ‘Tis a funky little spot with free overnight parking.

Top up the fresh water tank. Dump the toilet. Hoist the mizzen. Swab the decks. Onwards!

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