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Mark Rainsley - I realise I am awake. The slapslapslap of the flysheet tells all. Eyes tight, I extend a hand from my bag and fumble for my Nokia. I press out an ingrained key sequence.

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Mark Rainsley - I realise I am awake. The slapslapslap of the flysheet tells all. Eyes tight, I extend a hand from my bag and fumble for my Nokia. I press out an ingrained key sequence.

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Eventually I summon will to squint at the display. Same old same old. I draw my hood over my head, and zone out for a few more hours. I am about to completely miss Ramsey Sound. My head is down, but I am being sucked inexorably to seaward of Ramsey Island. A flurry of long strokes and finally I clear the tip of the island…on the correct side. Now allied with the flood tide, I surge down towards the broken bottle silhouette of the Bitches rocks.

I spy paddlers ferrying across to play the Bitches tidal race. I envy them, but not for the top wave; they have company and camaraderie. My friends are on a ferry to Norway. The boat accelerates amongst the swirls of Horse Rock, and only slows when it reaches Whitesands Bay. I Local girls sex for Harriman not alone.

A solitary porpoise and I share the last rays. Afternoon; I force myself to get up and boil some noodles. As the rain rattles the walls, I take stock. The interior of my space capsule is littered with chocolate and sweet wrappers, newspapers, Lucozade bottles, crushed clothes. My sleeping bag is dank from sweat and condensation. I have Looking 4 ltr eventually a life partner mirror, but guess I am no oil painting.

I retrieve the radio from under a pile of charts, and tune through a forest of static. Soporific dance music, or cricket. I have cut in too close around the point at Newquay, and collided with a back eddy. The sudden violence of the breaking waves is daunting. I accelerate to a sprint but my kayak is static. I veer inshore and off, trying to surf my way out. I find purchase against the current and judge I am making headway, but the harbour wall refuses to fall back.

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I gain an audience. In unison on either side, curved dorsal fins pierce the surface, rising to expose slick grey backs. Within touch of both paddle blades, I have a dolphin escort. I curse harder, in awed disbelief.

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I emerge before dawn, unable to ignore my bladder. Steadying myself in the porch, I aim into the bushes. Only with my business finished do I realise that the rain has moved on. I am the only person witnessing these sparkling stars. The morefambe glow to the south denotes garish Blackpool, but I am transfixed by the view north, ten miles across Morecambe Bay to Barrow. Deciphering the urban glare, I can make out the immense derricks and submarine units of the dockyards. Lady wants sex tonight Lambrook wind feels less defined.

Could this be it? I can be on the water in under an hour.

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I am already stuffing away my down jacket before I take a reality check. The wind will soon return morecambee force. Either way; huge seas bar the crossing, whipped up by a backlog of storms. It is not going to happen this time, just like all the other times. Am I making good decisions?

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Am I fabricating lame apologies? This is worse than anything by far. With no one to bounce ideas off, I relive this quandary a hundred times daily. Bardsey Sound has been oversold. Rounding the Lleyn Peninsula, I accumulate flow and pace. Today it comes easy, all effort absorbed by edcort unheralded beauty of this Lady wants sex CA Oroville 95966. Later I plot the next leg over pasta and pesto.

I am startled to see that forty miles have eased by; dew could this have been so pleasurable? I have ed the Lancashire Library Service. Killing a morning at the keyboard, I trawl through any and every weather website. I alight upon any minor disparities between forecasts, as if this will somehow wish the wind away. Escoft check the paddling message boards and post updates of my non-progress.

Later I walk along the sea front, transfixed by the kite surfers.

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The tent is safe, hidden at the back corner of a golf course. I am stunned by such consideration from a stranger, but rscort to take it up. I am dimly aware Sexy teens Wisconsin Dells I am relishing the ennui. Wales ends here in this disorientating landscape, where sand overcomes sea for much of the day.

Observed coolly by languorous seals, I launch an hour before sunset. I paddle north for an hour, hard. A escrt submerged wreck initially seems vast, but perspective proves to be distorted here. Miles from dry land, I wade and drag for a time. The swell gains definition; deep water. I alter course to cross the Mersey estuary.

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I knew the light would fade, but I am counting on the full moon. This is ascending behind Liverpool docks, too slowly.

My headtorch fails even to illuminate my compass. I am lost. Alaskan sluts pick out some lights and take my chances. Feeling my way blind, I stumble into a tidal race. The waves feel huge in the pitch dark.

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Terrified but exhilarated, I emerge right beside the Mersey Channel where a giant tug is passing. An hour later, I morfcambe landfall — on sand, by lucky chance - and discover that I am directly outside the Liverpool Coastguard Station. The night watch are concerned and sceptica. I am welcomed inside as a guest, albeit a late one.

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In the early hours of the sixth morning, I finish another book. By now I am tuned to the movements of the tent; something Seeking a Bigger Submissive different. I emerge and Moercambe look to Barrow once more. No doubt this time, the wind has eased. The sea is grey-brown mush, but has calmed appreciably. This is it. I engage myself with hurried packing, refusing to permit myself space to revisit my decision.

I am outside the surf break and already making ground towards Barrow through the peaks and troughs. The panorama of Morecambe Bay expands around me. I can see Lake District peaks and even my old university, white buildings against a Pennine backdrop. With inconvenient timing, a ferry emerges down the Lune Channel, and deee two more large ships; I have to sit tight as they pass, bracing into the waves.

Something is wrong; the swell is smashing right up their bows. Right away I am hitting very big water.

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Waves are surging and breaking around me. My nerves force a physical reaction; I retch. I try to rationalise my circumstances before fear predominates. My incredibly stupid, obvious error is that I am trying to cross as tide flows from the bay against the wind and swell. The tide is morecameb and steepening the waves.

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