The Dreadful Mists of the Ember (Weds 8th June)

It was a calm quiet evening. The thunder storms of earlier in the day had departed, and a strange stillness had passed over the lake. The sailors dallied over their chilli and beer, and little suspected what was in store. The sun slowly dipped towards the horizon, the silence broken only by the aluminium birds cleaving the atmosphere above.

Silently, and almost unnoticed, the sinister white mist was gathering. It spread round the lofty banks of the lake, spreading in a carpet across the unsuspecting turf. 

Then it rolled over the bank and spread across the water towards them. What evil, what terror was waiting for the sailors in that eager mist, as it spread towards them?

Finally it reached them, curling round the red and white striped flag hanging limp from the masthead, and then... 

 

 

Well, than it was time to go home. Racing abandoned, no wind. Still the supper was good.