Until the morning came when we went over to Port-na-Fraing, anchored, turned off the engine, and were getting ready to go ashore when the Crew said, ‘Listen!’

Very distinctly from within the body of the mechanism came an intermittent hissing, like the sound of a drop of water falling on hot metal.

I heard it with profound dismay, and opened the four priming caps. Sure enough, out of cylinder number one came a little jet of steam as each drop sizzled internally. We could hardly speak. For how could the drop get in except through a cracked cylinder casing? And if such a crack existed, with the boat in so remote a part of the world, well —obviously—we were through! The cost of the repair, even if it could be done, including mechanics and gear from Glasgow . . . we decided solemnly that it might be cheaper for us to sink her where she lay; and I actually found myself looking around for what might be a deep spot out of the way of traffic. After all we had been through, it was desperate luck. We went ashore profoundly dispirited. There was a motor boat at Iona, for we had seen it, and there might be a mechanic; we must investigate; but we had no slightest hope.

‘It would need one of St. Columba’s miracles,’ said the Mate.

And the Crew answered simply:

‘You never know.’

Her words took our breath, for to such a moment, fraught with such ruinous consequence, they seemed almost indecently insensitive. With some restraint, we ignored them, and walked up through the fields. It began to rain.

We discussed the crops. A light friable soil that should be very good for potatoes, assuming an absence of prolonged drought. The crofts looked very snug. Not many worries attached to living here. The Crew side-stepped to pick up a flowering weed, as if there wasn’t a broken-down engine in the whole world.

We held on until we came to the village, and there we entered a shop of modern Celtic silver work and carved Iona pebbles. Some of the old designs were attractive, and it was suggested by the Mate that the Crew might help herself to something. But she shook her head. This was apparently the sort of expensive moment that she could appreciate. ‘You may as well see first how deeply you are involved,’ she suggested mildly. And the efficient saleswoman told us of a man of skill in the village and came and directed us to his house. The Crew went shopping.

The more gentle dreams of Iona were in his eyes, and his courtesy was equalled only by his deep interest. On his palm he drew engine designs with a black-lead pencil. But as to what caused our trouble precisely—that was a difficulty. He would come with us now, for if the whole engine were taken down, then . . . But I decided against that. There was another man, he told us, who actually had the solitary engine of the island, so perhaps he might have had this mysterious trouble himself. What about coming to see him?