There was little to see on Saturday morning in Dunbar. A thick east coast sea fog, or haar, had silently stolen into town overnight. But if you looked carefully in the early morning light, there was a quiet group of sailors scuttling around their little yachts, dropping the moorings and heading out of the harbour.
I was on the Heron, Stuart on the Seline, Davey on the Wee Beastie, and James and Gordon on the Freedom. The sea was like glass without the slightest breath of wind as we slowly motored along the coast in a little flotilla.
The fog drifted in and out but navigation was never a problem. The coast appeared through the mist and we would gently adjust the heading.
Along past the wildfire rocks, and the wreck of the Ponderosa, it was easy to sea how a ship can be lost.
Further west and the South Carr loomed out of the fog and we could here the moaning calls of the seals on the rocks. Then it was time to turn into the shelter of the secluded bay at Seacliff.
As we dropped anchors and rafted the little boats together, the sun began to burn through the fog and the temperature started to climb. The sea was gently lapping on the sands, the kettle was whistling as I brewed up some coffee and bacon was frying in the pan.
We sat soaking up the early morning sun and enjoyed breakfast. There were a few people walking on the beach and a couple of horses came down to the shore. One rider brought her horse in for a swim near the boats and somehow I didn't take a photo.
The morning passed as the boats swung languidly on their moorings. Eventually we felt the gentlest stirrings of a breeze as the tide turned. Without too much effort, anchors were hauled, stowed and lines were cast off.
Banks of fog drifted through on the light easterly breeze as we headed around the South Carr and on to a rough bearing of 150 degrees.
An hour or so and we were back to civilisation.
That might be the last outing of the sailing season. If it turns out to be, I'm not complaining.