Predator, my 6.2metre surveyed hard-top Kevlacat, crested the four-metre high wind-distorted green wall as the waves rolled away from our stern. These finally dissipated on oyster encrusted granite boulders scattered at the base of the vertical, north-facing cliff of Pier Heads, sixteen nautical miles to our south-west. We had been bashed for two gruelling hours by the wind blowing across sea swells. Huey, our fictitious god of sea and weather had cranked his giant fan up to thirty knots, throwing down constant rain just to liven us up. Huey, with whom I have had quite a few confrontations over the preceding decade, was not going to pull any punches today.
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