I’ll crash through the swell,
hold my face to the spray,
wipe the salt from my lips
so they can swear and can pray.
Trim the head, trim the main,
crank the winch, pump the stay;
sailing my way to Whitehaven.

When my feet start to ache,
I think of silica sand.
When I tire and fall,
I recall why I stand.
There’s not many here
who can try understand
until they set foot on Whitehaven.

It’s not just her promise,
her colour or shape,
nor is it alone her smell or her taste.
No matter how hard, or how long I must wait,
I’ll never give up on Whitehaven.


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