Suddenly I observed seaweed around us, floating masses of it here and there, in a sort of vast still pool, and did not know what to make of it. I grew a trifle anxious about the propeller, wondered even over the possibility of submerged rocks, as I steered between the masses. Yet I was certain there could be no rocks, so certain that I had to make sure by a quick glance at the chart—and there, opposite Neist Point with its orange spot for the lighthouse, I read: ‘Streams meet or separate.’ The westernmost point of Skye, where the tides divide or meet. We were certainly at sea! So we had another smile, as the weed fell behind us, and the lighthouse.

All the coast we had hitherto passed was quite clean, but now between Neist Point and Idrigill Point, a reef of broken rock ran out into the sea for a mile and a half. I tried to work out the state of the tide here, for the Sailing Directions discussed in cable lengths possible passages between the Big and the Little Mibow Rocks; but decided finally to stand out round Dubh Sgeir, the outermost rock, and take no chances, consoling myself with the thought that by so doing we should lose very little distance in making Loch Bracadale. Yet I had the urge to try those rocks. Indeed this desire to attempt difficult passages for the first time grew with the days, and is, I should say, one of the finer pleasures of cruising. But I did not know yet what I could do with my engine, and moreover I here discovered for the first time how woefully insufficient is a small-scale chart for inshore navigation. I could not make out the lie of the rocks properly, nor could I draw up, as it were, by the roadside and explore the surrounding territory, but must keep on ploughing ahead at six knots.

Dubh Sgeir was unmistakable for I knew it should show sixteen feet clear at top of the stream. A light breeze was now darkening the waters to blue, but the day remained perfect.

Abreast of Dubh Sgeir, and quite close to it, the Crew got a real fright, for the engine missed a beat or two, spluttered, and then, without any attention, re-established the one-two-three-four. Everything had gone so well that she had begun to forget the uncertainties on which we depended.

And the rock, as its name told (Black Rock), was black enough, black as coal, with a small-columnar formation that looked at once fascinating and sinister. I could hardly take my eyes off it. Seabirds used it for resting. Cormorants had dived off it as we approached. In a regular sou’-wester it must stir up a devil’s broth. ‘I wouldn’t go any closer,’ said the Crew. Whereupon the first missed beat came dramatic as a hammer stroke.

Now I began to look for the Macleod’s Maidens. Long before we had reached the reef, we had seen three rocks of curious formation inshore, not very big-looking, in fact so slight against the cliffs that I had thought them the inner end of the reef itself. But they had receded as we came up, and with the reef behind us were still two or three miles ahead. They were in fact close to Idrigill Point and proved to be Macleod’s Maidens, those three basaltic columns that rise sheer out of the sea. We stood in to have a good look at them.