The Boys small
The past couple days have been extraordinary. Disregarding a three hour temper tantrum it through around Cape Lyon last night, the wind has been behaving extremely well. We’re nervous though, mistrustful if you will, that the wind will turn when we least want it. Like parents with a disruptive child, we’ve grown accustomed to our blustery bundle misbehaving at exactly the wrong moment.

We haven’t stopped rowing in over 36 hours, passing around Cape Lyon this morning. The very word cape instills trepidation in us as Cape Dalhousie, Cape Bathurst and Cape Parry all had something to share. But Cape Lyon lies dormant, her 100ft face, precipitous and blank, a dark beast indifferent for now. The cape is nearly five kilometres in length and in a bad wind would be a very serious place to be. We don’t dawdle as we move through.

The deep pulsating rhythm of an oceanic swell begins to be felt as giant rollers sweep beneath us, their direction oblivious to the wind and waves, a momentum born of some far off event. We’ve turned a corner in our expedition. We’re heading east, the big bays behind us.