The main sail blows taut with a snap and the halyard dings against the mast like a bell. The sudden gust propels us forwards into the surging surf and horses' tails flick up over the bow. I lick salt from my lips and concentrate on grasping tight to the smooth hard rudder which is pulling excitedly at this speed. Wiping the hair and spume off my face with my diesel-soaked glove, I squint into the sun and the froth. The song I overheard in the cafe that morning when I went in for Gauloises is stuck in my head, disappointing me by reminding me where I'd left the soft pack. (110 words)
I replaced the word "spume" with "mist" when I was nicely forced to read this out to the rest of the group on Saturday, just because spume sounds a bit, er, physical and I needed to doublecheck in a dictionary that it was what I thought it was and wasn't going to bring great embarrassment on me and my family. As it happens it is what I thought it was and I think it works pretty well largely because it sounds like the other and therefore I think has certain rumbling rude undertones after the rudder description.
Anyhow, talking of things overheard and indeed writing projects, check out Bugged for all your "creative eavesdropping" needs on July 1st.