The first thing I do every morning is listen; before my head even leaves the pillow, I listen to the weather. This method is a surprisingly effective barometer and the basis of many a life decision.
Staying at my parents’ in Peel, my room faces Northwest, and that’s the direction from which most of our bad weather comes. If I wake up and hear wind or rain hitting the window, it’s usually an indicator that I can go back to sleep. However, my room also overlooks the bay and most of the breakwater (a chimney stack halfway down Stanley road obscures the middle third), so I also back up my predictions with a visual inspection. Sea spray, rattling streetlights, the thud of waves against the promenade wall, and even the noise of traffic are also clues, even when it’s dark. The final forecast, usually mumbled to myself, is either “Game On” or “Fuck That”.
Journal entry. ‘Saturday 26th July – I woke up at 03.30, 15 minutes before my alarm. A slight breeze. Left the house without getting coffee as I didn’t want to disturb the dogs. I walked down through Peel and over to the breakwater. As I stood waiting, looking back across the bay, I realised that I’d forgotten my wellies. I also noticed that I’d left my bedroom light on. Cam, the skipper of the Anzac, arrived at 0.4.40, precisely on time, to the minute. It’s low tide, and I have to get onto the boat via a very long ladder. How often are those ladders checked? I hate ladders.’
Phil Kneen 
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