Savouring a Sea Dog's Blushes.

During my short time before the mast, one of my fellow cadets was an ego-ridden idiot who was full of stuff about how he knew all there was to know about the sea and sailing upon it because he was nothing less than a seasoned old sea dog.

One day we were heading out of the Dart estuary in a sailing whaler, heading for the open waters of the Channel (or La Manche as the French mistakenly have it), when he became most distressed about the white stuff forming on his lips.

‘It’s salt,’ said one of my less seasoned colleagues.

And so it was.