The wind blew all night, it seemed.
Back home, as a child, these warm winds were always southeasters, with the attendant difficulties of being directly in the blast.
When we came home from town, (assuming we went in the first place) we'd pound up the other side of the bay until we reached the cove, then swing around and swoop down with the wind so we wouldn't get quite so soaked.
Getting the skiff out on the running line in that was never fun, and sometimes we'd actually anchor it out on the back side of the spit til the next day.
Last night I lay in bed and dreamed I was young and home again, with the waves shuffle, shuffling on the beach and the spruce trees whipping against the house.