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achieve. So to Buscot Lock, again beautifully neat and with a friendly lock-keepress. Ian was there too – turning up like a very welcome good penny with his camera. Off again: the sailing now more arduous, with wind right on nose, and much more tree-sheltered waters. The river opened out, and Gipsy began to fly, but suddenly Kerbang! the mast nearly brained me and I floundered under a cloud of sail. The rope for lowering the mast had snapped!
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To add to the excitement, the wind became decidedly blustery and the boat slewed across the river with a huffing puffing granny struggling first to knot the rope then to push up mast and sail. Luckily, there were no passing boats at all. I got the mast up, only to realised I had not included the forestay in my knot. I lowered it wearily, puzzled over pulley routes, then up again. Sailing short tacks with a piece of rope you no longer trust as a forestay is not
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