In Bundy, the morning after. It is raining. We wake late - 7 am local time, or 8 by our little clock on the chart table. Three vodkas with home-made ginger beer were probaly one too many last night, but how often do you get to celebrate sailing into your home country - after two-and-a-half years? It is strangely satisfying to be back in your home country, after voyaging on the ocean, and there is a feeling of completion, of the fulfilling of a long-held dream. I was scarcely out of my teens when I was fired with the vision of waking in strange ports surrounded by one's journal, one's cup of tea, books on the bookshelf, a cosy cubby-house, safe on rainy days, like this one. The river is grey - a funny sort of greenish grey, and the low scrub on the farther shore is greyish green, the sky somewhere in-between.