How friendly were the crews! In no time we were fast to the Invernairne and when I explained my difficulties the engineer and his mate came aboard to have a look at the engine, while the skipper, a dark obliging man, full of humour and fun, explained what he thought was wrong. The cones of the clutch were sticking because they were dirty and were not getting enough oil. This, too, was the engineer’s opinion, and he advised a cupful of oil in the gearcase before each long run. Otherwise the engine looked a good one, he said. I had long been certain that all that was necessary was a proper overhaul. However, she would get the cupful of oil—even if she had got it before!

Meantime the sluice gates were opening and in the boil of the waters the large vessels swung in a way that kept us busy. But soon we were moving forward into the next lock, towed by the Invernairne, having to drop astern to avoid the gates, before again hauling up to her starboard quarter. Then we discovered our dangerous moment, for when the Invernairne gave a few kicks astern, we were caught in the backwash and our own stern swung out to the lock wall. I dived with the fender, but the Mate checked the movement with our stern rope; instantly we surged ahead, and before I could get back to our bow we had scored a heavy hit on the stern of The Gleaners. This was bad. But now we were getting the hang of the business, and when we began the ascent of the eight locks at Banavie, I was ready for the Invernairne’s kick astern, while the skipper of The Gleaners had fendered his own stern to help us. The surge came, we strained ahead, I dropped the fender over our stem; but three inches from taking the impact, we stopped, and glancing up at the steering house I saw the skipper’s face hanging out the window, smiling at me.

I laughed back at the sheer neatness of the operation. After that we never bumped, for the skipper, spinning his wheel like a top, gave us the maximum of room while he took the gates as a Parisian cabman takes a kerb. What perfect control he had over his vessel, and how sympathetic the response of the engineer! We got great pleasure from watching this, and in the hours it took to ascend old Neptune’s Staircase, we had many a friendly talk.

What astonished us most in this talk was the good humour and human friendliness that prevailed amongst men who had been fishing for three months in the western seas and had barely cleared their working expenses. At thirty pounds a week, these expenses had beaten them in the end, and they were now returning for a month to get ready for Yarmouth and the hope of better luck.

During the three months, they had missed only one night at sea. That very morning at three o’clock they had hauled their drift of over seventy nets eighteen miles south-east of Castlebay, and here they were, regretting that the two hours’ hold-up at Corpach on account of low tide, would prevent their getting through the Caledonian Canal the same night!