Louey and I go way back. I’ve lost count of the years he’s been there waiting patiently in the shallows each time I come back to Edithburgh.

Sometime he’s sitting high and dry on the low tide sandy bay.

Sometimes he’s rocking gently to and fro.

And sometime, as I imagine him to night, he’s hanging on for grim life as an angry sea tests his moorings and his patience.

Louey and I go way back and despite tonight’s stormy weather I expect he’ll be there when I return.

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