As the Queen empties, the throb of the winch's determined diesel, loud in the still chilly morning, will fade into the background, yet keep the rhythm of the launch. Knots of coveralled workers, scattered under leafless trees, respond into teams at the clarion of the weekend. The crack of butterboards being broken free punctuates the hiss of the car gliding down the track. Hands seek space on the cradle. Pushers lean poised as hawsers are tied on.
Ropes go taut as the refrain begins then slack as the stubborn cradle remains in place.
Mock accusations are hurled and the cry goes up again. Backs straighten in brief respite as the cradle rests on the car. The car with the first boat of the season rolls toward the lagoon and a summer's pleasure. The ritual will be repeated many times over the coming days, as it has thousands of times. Anachronistic, almost deliberately defiant of technology, even as sailing is to power.