Sometimes, just sometimes, days go according to plan, and Friday was one of those days.  The fleet got away at the stipulated 7.15 (well, 7.45) with the tide and the land breeze, which took us down to Port Huon before dying away in time for morning tea.  We rowed across a mirror past Bullock's and Brabazon points, stopped for 'small lunch' and watched the grey band of a boisterous south westerly change  advance steadily up the river.  Oars were stowed, sails hoisted again, and we were away, tacking speedily down to Randall's Bay.  Tents were erected, eskies raided, beers drunk, meals cooked, birthday cheers sung to Peter Laidlaw, yack had, then off to bed.