Without a shadow of doubt this was the poshist, shiniest, posiest, yot yet I've darkened the doorstep of. Everything but everything is done by pushbuttons. "More mainsail? 'Bzzzz.' There you are." "Trim the genoa in? 'Bzzzz'. Enuff?" "Coffee with three sugars, please. 'Bzzzz'....."
Nuttin' much to do except warm up the HiznHurs helming-banquettes with one's well-travelled bum, press the occasional '20 Left' on the 'Gieves' ST7000 when the double-flashing yellows of the tuna purse seiners come bobbin' by and steal the occasional peek at the wrist timepiece. Then tug the Musto over the eyes again, wriggle the fingers, and wonder what 'her indoors' is up to....
FWIW,




This last dreary pic is of the distant top-left corner of Spain.
Now, in retaliation, I have a qwessy. This particular Oaxter 575, newly-minted this June past, managed to make a very firm connection with a resilient chunk of granite or gabbro somewhere on the Scotia West Coast. My gentle inquiries in the swamps of Suffolk have elicited embarrassed lowering of eyes, and changes of subject. So, 'who, what, where, when, how?'
And could it possible have been down to no detailed hydro-depth data being shown on the sooper-dooper double-duplicated plotter screens. Or some other basic 'thum-up-bum' encounter with the Hanging Judge That Is The Sea. Answers in conf. and on a postcard, pleez, to me.