Hey Oz, are the arrows indicating wind direction?

Pretty cool report format. The best I've seen.

OzOne wrote:
http://www.seabreeze.com.au/graphs/nsw.asp

OzOne wrote:
On 9 Oct 2006 05:59:32 -0700, "Bart"
scribbled thusly:

Hey Oz, are the arrows indicating wind direction?

Pretty cool report format. The best I've seen.

OzOne wrote:
http://www.seabreeze.com.au/graphs/nsw.asp

Yep.
and yep.


But it's lacking in any personal perspective.
Your weather reports are a bit cold, and detached.

Joe




Oz1...of the 3 twins.

I welcome you to crackerbox palace,We've been expecting you.

"Joe" wrote

But it's lacking in any personal perspective.
Your weather reports are a bit cold, and detached.

What? You don't like the blue arrows?

"Joe" wrote
But it's lacking in any personal perspective.
Your weather reports are a bit cold, and detached.


It's the weather report, not a huggy-feely personals column
at MySpace.com!


Bart wrote:
What? You don't like the blue arrows?


I liked the format. Also the conditions! We should move down
there!

DSK

Bart wrote:
"Joe" wrote

But it's lacking in any personal perspective.
Your weather reports are a bit cold, and detached.

What? You don't like the blue arrows?

There OK, it justs boring and

But Oz could give us a real weather report like this one:

As the night advanced the wind heightened. When dawn glimmered,
unearthly-like, through the wilderness of murk, the hurricane hailed it
with the shriek of ten thousand furies.
The great salt wind blew dead inshore. It did not come gustily, but
with a steady, mighty, roaring pour.

When a glimpse of the water was caught through the obscurity one
looked, as it were, on a snow-covered moor lashed into white chaos by a
blizzard. The waves had no regularity, no rhythmic succession. Ere they
could assume definite shape and sequence they were shipped into the
air, torn into spray, blown ashore in perfectly horizontal lines,
hurled against the face of the cliff and sent pouring over its edge
like steam. The grim North Sea is terrible in its rage.

At the margin of the tide the foam lay knee-deep. With every run of the
sea it floated, an undulating snow-field. Then while it was still
buoyant the hurricane shipped it into a rapid vortex, drew it high
upwards, and drove it over the town. By it the Moor had its carpet of
green changed to quivering white. It was a lonely Moor that day.

Noon saw the storm at its height. To be then at the sea-front was
utterly bewildering. The senses were stunned by the terrible turmoil.
The merciless might of the ocean beat down all feelings save that of an
overpowering oppression. The heavens themselves seemed to have fallen
on sea and land. The sun's light was lost. An awful shadow eclipsed the
face of nature. A few pilots and fishermen stood braving the storm at
the heugh. Oilskinned and sou'westered, they huddled behind the
lighthouse-yard wall, on the New Pier side. They made an interesting
group. While the lowering scud flew over their heads, and the sea-spray
stung their faces and rattled on their oilskins, they tried to talk to
one another. but shouting their loudest they made themselves heard with
difficulty, and when the wind suddenly swept round the seaward end of
their sheltering wall it clopped off their words with vicious
abruptness.

Of course, their disjointed conversation was of wrecks and rescues.
'Tis ever so with these hardy fellows when tempest falls on the
north-east coast. What more appropriate surroundings, indeed, could be
conceived for recalling such stirring sea-tragedies as the loss of the
French barque Français on Middleton beach, a mile away; or the
heartrending wreck, almost at their feet, of the Rising Sun, of
Sunderland; or the heroic attempts to rescue the crew of the Granite,
over the hurricane-swept bay yonder! Starting from the northern side of
the lighthouse was the great Headland Protection Wall, built to
preserve the crumbling cave-eaten cliffs from the onslaught of the sea.
The storm played fearful havoc upon it. While the wind wrenched off the
heads of the tall, substantial lamp-standards and shivered them to
fragments, the waves snapped the thick, heavy iron stanchions on the
edge of the wall, and even tore some of them from their bed of solid
masonry.

At the New Pier - its construction is one of the memories of my boyhood
- the mountainous masses of water made sport with the loose giant
blocks of concrete. The North Sea storm-waves toy with mere tons.

Through the spray-mist I had wonderful glimpses of the raging sea
attacking this long, massive breakwater. As I stood in the wind,
fascinated, the ground beneath my feet quaked with the perpetual impact
between the forces of nature and the works of man. The great creamy
breakers rushed out of the haze with a speed that would seem incredible
to an inlander. Straight for the pier they went, and struck the high,
smooth, curved wall with a noise that resembled the explosion of a huge
shell. Then up, up they would shoot, eighty or a hundred feet into the
air with the swiftness of a cannon-shot, and before they could descend
again the wind would blow them into fine spray and sweep the mist with
a seething hiss into the calm water beyond. Those waves - all chaotic -
which were not thus dissipated, or which did not make a clean sweep of
the pier, would rebound from the glistening wall and would meet another
oncoming wave (perhaps a confusion of two or three of them) with a
crash like violent overhead thunder. Such collisions invariably
resulted in a tremendous upheaval of water. As may be imagined, these
contending seas, while adding to the general clamour, churned the water
into foam, which above the tide at this part of the shore lay quite
four feet deep.


Away from the sea, down in the ancient town, desolation reigned. No
vehicles were astir; the shops were closed and shuttered, to save the
windows. The storm was in absolute and undisputed possession; its
tumult penetrated every corner of the homes of the inhabitants, who for
the most part did not venture out to run the risk of being blown off
their feet or injured by falling masonry. It was exceedingly dangerous
being out in the streets at all that day. Slates were ripped from roofs
and carried away on the wind like so many pieces of paste-board, as I
myself witnessed in various quarters of the town. The crash of a
falling chimney-stack continually broke on the thunder of the gale. The
shivering of glass was one of the common sounds of the day. The main
approach to the docks was deep in débris torn from the house-tops.
Passing that way was a most hazardous proceeding. It was necessary to
hug the doorway, taking breath and a glance aloft from every place of
refuge. I saw several slates blown across the street to an opposite
roof, and on one occasion a chimney-stack fell with an ear-splitting
crash a few yards from where I was sheltering.
This thoroughfare led to the ferries, which for so many years have
plied across to Middleton, but the row-boats were suspended that day.
It is only in the severest weather that they cease running. Even could
they have been kept going there would have been no passengers to ferry
over.

On the Town Wall, which skirts the narrow channel leading from the bay
to the harbour, a small group of men stood leaning against the wind and
gazing fixedly in the direction of West Hartlepool sands. What they say
through such a smother of spindrift I was at a loss to imagine.
Suddenly, however, there was a slight clearance that way. The dim
outline of a ship on the beach slowly revealed itself; then the
spray-mist closed in again...


A tug heaved slowly into the little harbour at day-break on the
following morning. The skipper told me that for twenty-six hours he had
fought with the hurricane in the bay, almost within hailing distance of
land. During the whole of that anxious time he was unable to see more
than a few yards away, and could only keep steaming in the teeth of the
wind and sea.
His vessel moved in a circle, he believed. All around was the white,
ghostly spindrift, and so precarious was their situation that not a
single man of them expected to set foot on shore again. He described
the waves as the queerest he had ever experienced; they spurted into
the air twice the height of the funnel.

How the men kept the fires going no one seemed to know clearly; once
they were quenched nothing could have saved the tug and her crew. Sea
after sea flooded the stokehold, and all hands worked unceasingly to
get the water passed up in buckets. When I went down into it the
cinders were knee-deep.

One golden afternoon, when the bay had fallen as quiet as a lake, I saw
a waterlogged Norwegian barque towed into port. Her main and mizzen
masts had gone; so, too, had her foretopmast. The jagged stumps of the
missing masts protruded gauntly a few feet above the deck.

A trawler had the vessel in tow, and as she passed through the lock I
scrambled aboard of her. Her deck felt like pulp to the tread. Little
of her bulwarks remained; they had been carried away by the great seas,
and also, no doubt, by the falling spars. How she had kept afloat with
her decks almost awash was a mystery until it transpired that she was
timber-laden. The deck-house, always so conspicuous a feature of
Scandinavian timber-ships, was left standing, but the doors had
disappeared, and the interior was stripped bare. A prison cell could
not have been more uninviting than that skeleton of a deck-house. it
was clear that the seas had played hide-and-seek in and out of it at
will; and while bursting continually over the crippled vessel, as over
a log, they had made a clean sweep of the deck cargo, not a stick of
which remained. Those who were left of the crew were visibly affected.
Cowed by their terrible experience aboard this battered barque, they
shuffled along the soddened decks wearily and with vacant stare,
indifferent alike to kindly enquiries and to the fact that they had at
last reached a haven of refuge. When the seas were running at their
highest two of the sailors were swept overboard like a flash, and their
dying shrieks were smothered by the louder shrieks of the hurricane.
Another of the men had his leg broken. He lay helpless in the captain's
cabin.

On the board the trawler that brought her in a begrimed member of the
crew told of how the barque, before they picked her up, had been in tow
of another trawler, and how that one of the men of this later vessel
got fast in the bight of the warp and was cut in two, whereupon the
barque was cast off to the mercy of the gale again.

But such harrowing incidents as these were many during that memorable
storm. Yet how gently, and how insinuatingly, did it not come from over
the ocean to the little promontory! A discoloured dwell under a blue
sky in the daytime; a nightfall troubled with hollow draughts of air
and sighing sounds that mingled weirdly with the dull rumour of the
sea. That was all.

Joseph H Elgie Star and Weather Gossip pp. 70-76

Bart wrote:
"Joe" wrote

But it's lacking in any personal perspective.
Your weather reports are a bit cold, and detached.

What? You don't like the blue arrows?

There OK, it justs boring and

But Oz could give us a real weather report like this one:

As the night advanced the wind heightened. When dawn glimmered,
unearthly-like, through the wilderness of murk, the hurricane hailed it
with the shriek of ten thousand furies.
The great salt wind blew dead inshore. It did not come gustily, but
with a steady, mighty, roaring pour.

When a glimpse of the water was caught through the obscurity one
looked, as it were, on a snow-covered moor lashed into white chaos by a
blizzard. The waves had no regularity, no rhythmic succession. Ere they
could assume definite shape and sequence they were shipped into the
air, torn into spray, blown ashore in perfectly horizontal lines,
hurled against the face of the cliff and sent pouring over its edge
like steam. The grim North Sea is terrible in its rage.

At the margin of the tide the foam lay knee-deep. With every run of the
sea it floated, an undulating snow-field. Then while it was still
buoyant the hurricane shipped it into a rapid vortex, drew it high
upwards, and drove it over the town. By it the Moor had its carpet of
green changed to quivering white. It was a lonely Moor that day.

Noon saw the storm at its height. To be then at the sea-front was
utterly bewildering. The senses were stunned by the terrible turmoil.
The merciless might of the ocean beat down all feelings save that of an
overpowering oppression. The heavens themselves seemed to have fallen
on sea and land. The sun's light was lost. An awful shadow eclipsed the
face of nature. A few pilots and fishermen stood braving the storm at
the heugh. Oilskinned and sou'westered, they huddled behind the
lighthouse-yard wall, on the New Pier side. They made an interesting
group. While the lowering scud flew over their heads, and the sea-spray
stung their faces and rattled on their oilskins, they tried to talk to
one another. but shouting their loudest they made themselves heard with
difficulty, and when the wind suddenly swept round the seaward end of
their sheltering wall it clopped off their words with vicious
abruptness.

Of course, their disjointed conversation was of wrecks and rescues.
'Tis ever so with these hardy fellows when tempest falls on the
north-east coast. What more appropriate surroundings, indeed, could be
conceived for recalling such stirring sea-tragedies as the loss of the
French barque Français on Middleton beach, a mile away; or the
heartrending wreck, almost at their feet, of the Rising Sun, of
Sunderland; or the heroic attempts to rescue the crew of the Granite,
over the hurricane-swept bay yonder! Starting from the northern side of
the lighthouse was the great Headland Protection Wall, built to
preserve the crumbling cave-eaten cliffs from the onslaught of the sea.
The storm played fearful havoc upon it. While the wind wrenched off the
heads of the tall, substantial lamp-standards and shivered them to
fragments, the waves snapped the thick, heavy iron stanchions on the
edge of the wall, and even tore some of them from their bed of solid
masonry.

At the New Pier - its construction is one of the memories of my boyhood
- the mountainous masses of water made sport with the loose giant
blocks of concrete. The North Sea storm-waves toy with mere tons.

Through the spray-mist I had wonderful glimpses of the raging sea
attacking this long, massive breakwater. As I stood in the wind,
fascinated, the ground beneath my feet quaked with the perpetual impact
between the forces of nature and the works of man. The great creamy
breakers rushed out of the haze with a speed that would seem incredible
to an inlander. Straight for the pier they went, and struck the high,
smooth, curved wall with a noise that resembled the explosion of a huge
shell. Then up, up they would shoot, eighty or a hundred feet into the
air with the swiftness of a cannon-shot, and before they could descend
again the wind would blow them into fine spray and sweep the mist with
a seething hiss into the calm water beyond. Those waves - all chaotic -
which were not thus dissipated, or which did not make a clean sweep of
the pier, would rebound from the glistening wall and would meet another
oncoming wave (perhaps a confusion of two or three of them) with a
crash like violent overhead thunder. Such collisions invariably
resulted in a tremendous upheaval of water. As may be imagined, these
contending seas, while adding to the general clamour, churned the water
into foam, which above the tide at this part of the shore lay quite
four feet deep.


Away from the sea, down in the ancient town, desolation reigned. No
vehicles were astir; the shops were closed and shuttered, to save the
windows. The storm was in absolute and undisputed possession; its
tumult penetrated every corner of the homes of the inhabitants, who for
the most part did not venture out to run the risk of being blown off
their feet or injured by falling masonry. It was exceedingly dangerous
being out in the streets at all that day. Slates were ripped from roofs
and carried away on the wind like so many pieces of paste-board, as I
myself witnessed in various quarters of the town. The crash of a
falling chimney-stack continually broke on the thunder of the gale. The
shivering of glass was one of the common sounds of the day. The main
approach to the docks was deep in débris torn from the house-tops.
Passing that way was a most hazardous proceeding. It was necessary to
hug the doorway, taking breath and a glance aloft from every place of
refuge. I saw several slates blown across the street to an opposite
roof, and on one occasion a chimney-stack fell with an ear-splitting
crash a few yards from where I was sheltering.
This thoroughfare led to the ferries, which for so many years have
plied across to Middleton, but the row-boats were suspended that day.
It is only in the severest weather that they cease running. Even could
they have been kept going there would have been no passengers to ferry
over.

On the Town Wall, which skirts the narrow channel leading from the bay
to the harbour, a small group of men stood leaning against the wind and
gazing fixedly in the direction of West Hartlepool sands. What they say
through such a smother of spindrift I was at a loss to imagine.
Suddenly, however, there was a slight clearance that way. The dim
outline of a ship on the beach slowly revealed itself; then the
spray-mist closed in again...


A tug heaved slowly into the little harbour at day-break on the
following morning. The skipper told me that for twenty-six hours he had
fought with the hurricane in the bay, almost within hailing distance of
land. During the whole of that anxious time he was unable to see more
than a few yards away, and could only keep steaming in the teeth of the
wind and sea.
His vessel moved in a circle, he believed. All around was the white,
ghostly spindrift, and so precarious was their situation that not a
single man of them expected to set foot on shore again. He described
the waves as the queerest he had ever experienced; they spurted into
the air twice the height of the funnel.

How the men kept the fires going no one seemed to know clearly; once
they were quenched nothing could have saved the tug and her crew. Sea
after sea flooded the stokehold, and all hands worked unceasingly to
get the water passed up in buckets. When I went down into it the
cinders were knee-deep.

One golden afternoon, when the bay had fallen as quiet as a lake, I saw
a waterlogged Norwegian barque towed into port. Her main and mizzen
masts had gone; so, too, had her foretopmast. The jagged stumps of the
missing masts protruded gauntly a few feet above the deck.

A trawler had the vessel in tow, and as she passed through the lock I
scrambled aboard of her. Her deck felt like pulp to the tread. Little
of her bulwarks remained; they had been carried away by the great seas,
and also, no doubt, by the falling spars. How she had kept afloat with
her decks almost awash was a mystery until it transpired that she was
timber-laden. The deck-house, always so conspicuous a feature of
Scandinavian timber-ships, was left standing, but the doors had
disappeared, and the interior was stripped bare. A prison cell could
not have been more uninviting than that skeleton of a deck-house. it
was clear that the seas had played hide-and-seek in and out of it at
will; and while bursting continually over the crippled vessel, as over
a log, they had made a clean sweep of the deck cargo, not a stick of
which remained. Those who were left of the crew were visibly affected.
Cowed by their terrible experience aboard this battered barque, they
shuffled along the soddened decks wearily and with vacant stare,
indifferent alike to kindly enquiries and to the fact that they had at
last reached a haven of refuge. When the seas were running at their
highest two of the sailors were swept overboard like a flash, and their
dying shrieks were smothered by the louder shrieks of the hurricane.
Another of the men had his leg broken. He lay helpless in the captain's
cabin.

On the board the trawler that brought her in a begrimed member of the
crew told of how the barque, before they picked her up, had been in tow
of another trawler, and how that one of the men of this later vessel
got fast in the bight of the warp and was cut in two, whereupon the
barque was cast off to the mercy of the gale again.

But such harrowing incidents as these were many during that memorable
storm. Yet how gently, and how insinuatingly, did it not come from over
the ocean to the little promontory! A discoloured dwell under a blue
sky in the daytime; a nightfall troubled with hollow draughts of air
and sighing sounds that mingled weirdly with the dull rumour of the
sea. That was all.

Joseph H Elgie Star and Weather Gossip pp. 70-76

Joe wrote:
Bart wrote:
"Joe" wrote
But it's lacking in any personal perspective.
Your weather reports are a bit cold, and detached.
What? You don't like the blue arrows?

There OK, it justs boring and

But Oz could give us a real weather report like this one:

As the night advanced the wind heightened. When dawn glimmered,
unearthly-like, through the wilderness of murk, the hurricane hailed it
with the shriek of ten thousand furies.
The great salt wind blew dead inshore. It did not come gustily, but
with a steady, mighty, roaring pour.

When a glimpse of the water was caught through the obscurity one
looked, as it were, on a snow-covered moor lashed into white chaos by a
blizzard. The waves had no regularity, no rhythmic succession. Ere they
could assume definite shape and sequence they were shipped into the
air, torn into spray, blown ashore in perfectly horizontal lines,
hurled against the face of the cliff and sent pouring over its edge
like steam. The grim North Sea is terrible in its rage.

At the margin of the tide the foam lay knee-deep. With every run of the
sea it floated, an undulating snow-field. Then while it was still
buoyant the hurricane shipped it into a rapid vortex, drew it high
upwards, and drove it over the town. By it the Moor had its carpet of
green changed to quivering white. It was a lonely Moor that day.

Noon saw the storm at its height. To be then at the sea-front was
utterly bewildering. The senses were stunned by the terrible turmoil.
The merciless might of the ocean beat down all feelings save that of an
overpowering oppression. The heavens themselves seemed to have fallen
on sea and land. The sun's light was lost. An awful shadow eclipsed the
face of nature. A few pilots and fishermen stood braving the storm at
the heugh. Oilskinned and sou'westered, they huddled behind the
lighthouse-yard wall, on the New Pier side. They made an interesting
group. While the lowering scud flew over their heads, and the sea-spray
stung their faces and rattled on their oilskins, they tried to talk to
one another. but shouting their loudest they made themselves heard with
difficulty, and when the wind suddenly swept round the seaward end of
their sheltering wall it clopped off their words with vicious
abruptness.

Of course, their disjointed conversation was of wrecks and rescues.
'Tis ever so with these hardy fellows when tempest falls on the
north-east coast. What more appropriate surroundings, indeed, could be
conceived for recalling such stirring sea-tragedies as the loss of the
French barque Français on Middleton beach, a mile away; or the
heartrending wreck, almost at their feet, of the Rising Sun, of
Sunderland; or the heroic attempts to rescue the crew of the Granite,
over the hurricane-swept bay yonder! Starting from the northern side of
the lighthouse was the great Headland Protection Wall, built to
preserve the crumbling cave-eaten cliffs from the onslaught of the sea.
The storm played fearful havoc upon it. While the wind wrenched off the
heads of the tall, substantial lamp-standards and shivered them to
fragments, the waves snapped the thick, heavy iron stanchions on the
edge of the wall, and even tore some of them from their bed of solid
masonry.

At the New Pier - its construction is one of the memories of my boyhood
- the mountainous masses of water made sport with the loose giant
blocks of concrete. The North Sea storm-waves toy with mere tons.

Through the spray-mist I had wonderful glimpses of the raging sea
attacking this long, massive breakwater. As I stood in the wind,
fascinated, the ground beneath my feet quaked with the perpetual impact
between the forces of nature and the works of man. The great creamy
breakers rushed out of the haze with a speed that would seem incredible
to an inlander. Straight for the pier they went, and struck the high,
smooth, curved wall with a noise that resembled the explosion of a huge
shell. Then up, up they would shoot, eighty or a hundred feet into the
air with the swiftness of a cannon-shot, and before they could descend
again the wind would blow them into fine spray and sweep the mist with
a seething hiss into the calm water beyond. Those waves - all chaotic -
which were not thus dissipated, or which did not make a clean sweep of
the pier, would rebound from the glistening wall and would meet another
oncoming wave (perhaps a confusion of two or three of them) with a
crash like violent overhead thunder. Such collisions invariably
resulted in a tremendous upheaval of water. As may be imagined, these
contending seas, while adding to the general clamour, churned the water
into foam, which above the tide at this part of the shore lay quite
four feet deep.


Away from the sea, down in the ancient town, desolation reigned. No
vehicles were astir; the shops were closed and shuttered, to save the
windows. The storm was in absolute and undisputed possession; its
tumult penetrated every corner of the homes of the inhabitants, who for
the most part did not venture out to run the risk of being blown off
their feet or injured by falling masonry. It was exceedingly dangerous
being out in the streets at all that day. Slates were ripped from roofs
and carried away on the wind like so many pieces of paste-board, as I
myself witnessed in various quarters of the town. The crash of a
falling chimney-stack continually broke on the thunder of the gale. The
shivering of glass was one of the common sounds of the day. The main
approach to the docks was deep in débris torn from the house-tops.
Passing that way was a most hazardous proceeding. It was necessary to
hug the doorway, taking breath and a glance aloft from every place of
refuge. I saw several slates blown across the street to an opposite
roof, and on one occasion a chimney-stack fell with an ear-splitting
crash a few yards from where I was sheltering.
This thoroughfare led to the ferries, which for so many years have
plied across to Middleton, but the row-boats were suspended that day.
It is only in the severest weather that they cease running. Even could
they have been kept going there would have been no passengers to ferry
over.

On the Town Wall, which skirts the narrow channel leading from the bay
to the harbour, a small group of men stood leaning against the wind and
gazing fixedly in the direction of West Hartlepool sands. What they say
through such a smother of spindrift I was at a loss to imagine.
Suddenly, however, there was a slight clearance that way. The dim
outline of a ship on the beach slowly revealed itself; then the
spray-mist closed in again...


A tug heaved slowly into the little harbour at day-break on the
following morning. The skipper told me that for twenty-six hours he had
fought with the hurricane in the bay, almost within hailing distance of
land. During the whole of that anxious time he was unable to see more
than a few yards away, and could only keep steaming in the teeth of the
wind and sea.
His vessel moved in a circle, he believed. All around was the white,
ghostly spindrift, and so precarious was their situation that not a
single man of them expected to set foot on shore again. He described
the waves as the queerest he had ever experienced; they spurted into
the air twice the height of the funnel.

How the men kept the fires going no one seemed to know clearly; once
they were quenched nothing could have saved the tug and her crew. Sea
after sea flooded the stokehold, and all hands worked unceasingly to
get the water passed up in buckets. When I went down into it the
cinders were knee-deep.

One golden afternoon, when the bay had fallen as quiet as a lake, I saw
a waterlogged Norwegian barque towed into port. Her main and mizzen
masts had gone; so, too, had her foretopmast. The jagged stumps of the
missing masts protruded gauntly a few feet above the deck.

A trawler had the vessel in tow, and as she passed through the lock I
scrambled aboard of her. Her deck felt like pulp to the tread. Little
of her bulwarks remained; they had been carried away by the great seas,
and also, no doubt, by the falling spars. How she had kept afloat with
her decks almost awash was a mystery until it transpired that she was
timber-laden. The deck-house, always so conspicuous a feature of
Scandinavian timber-ships, was left standing, but the doors had
disappeared, and the interior was stripped bare. A prison cell could
not have been more uninviting than that skeleton of a deck-house. it
was clear that the seas had played hide-and-seek in and out of it at
will; and while bursting continually over the crippled vessel, as over
a log, they had made a clean sweep of the deck cargo, not a stick of
which remained. Those who were left of the crew were visibly affected.
Cowed by their terrible experience aboard this battered barque, they
shuffled along the soddened decks wearily and with vacant stare,
indifferent alike to kindly enquiries and to the fact that they had at
last reached a haven of refuge. When the seas were running at their
highest two of the sailors were swept overboard like a flash, and their
dying shrieks were smothered by the louder shrieks of the hurricane.
Another of the men had his leg broken. He lay helpless in the captain's
cabin.

On the board the trawler that brought her in a begrimed member of the
crew told of how the barque, before they picked her up, had been in tow
of another trawler, and how that one of the men of this later vessel
got fast in the bight of the warp and was cut in two, whereupon the
barque was cast off to the mercy of the gale again.

But such harrowing incidents as these were many during that memorable
storm. Yet how gently, and how insinuatingly, did it not come from over
the ocean to the little promontory! A discoloured dwell under a blue
sky in the daytime; a nightfall troubled with hollow draughts of air
and sighing sounds that mingled weirdly with the dull rumour of the
sea. That was all.

Joseph H Elgie Star and Weather Gossip pp. 70-76

Why? Is OZ taking 9th grade Creative Writing over again?

katy wrote:

Why? Is OZ taking 9th grade Creative Writing over again?

Why not? Do you dis-like personal reports on the weather from the other
side of the world?

Anyone can post a weather link. Oz allready posted a link to his
favorite format weather site, I've put it in my favorate's..that way if
he EVER talks about sailing on a boat I can see if he's joshin about
the weather like Rob always does.

With OZ being a leading citizen of OZ, with all that Bling, you should
be honored to read his personal anaylis of even mundain weather.

I ask you...Would you rather look at a web-site anaylis of weather in
Seattle or have Bill Gates tell us what his back yard weather is like?

ASA'ers will all be the wealthier for it.

Joe

Joe wrote:
But Oz could give us a real weather report like this one:

As the night advanced the wind heightened. When dawn glimmered,
unearthly-like, through the wilderness of murk, the hurricane hailed it
with the shriek of ten thousand furies.
The great salt wind blew dead inshore. It did not come gustily, but
with a steady, mighty, roaring pour. ...(snip for brevity)...


A bit long & wordy for a weather report, but a great story.

I bet this shows up later in one of Bobsprit's posts


DSK

Joe wrote:
katy wrote:

Why? Is OZ taking 9th grade Creative Writing over again?

Why not? Do you dis-like personal reports on the weather from the other
side of the world?

Anyone can post a weather link. Oz allready posted a link to his
favorite format weather site, I've put it in my favorate's..that way if
he EVER talks about sailing on a boat I can see if he's joshin about
the weather like Rob always does.

With OZ being a leading citizen of OZ, with all that Bling, you should
be honored to read his personal anaylis of even mundain weather.

I ask you...Would you rather look at a web-site anaylis of weather in
Seattle or have Bill Gates tell us what his back yard weather is like?

ASA'ers will all be the wealthier for it.

Joe

My Dad was a meteorologist for the National Weather Service. OZ's
reports are fine. Your rendition was superfluous. Weather reports are
facts. When you add in a bunch of flowery adhectives and adverbs,
you're just obfuscating the report in personal reference.