It was a moment for belief in man’s—but gratitude was knocked out of me by the Crew, who, all sea-depths forgotten, was crying to me to look at Portnalong against the Cuillin. I looked, and in that afternoon sunlight it was indeed one of the prettiest sights I had ever seen. The scattered white-washed croft houses ascended the green slopes from the pier and were backed by the Cuillin at full stretch, each jagged peak cut clear against the sky. It might have been an arrangement by some giant theatrical producer, who went in not only for impressive effects but for light and happiness. But the Crew could not get her camera on it because of the mast and stays in the field of vision—and this was part of the job for which she had signed on—yet at the moment I could do nothing to help her, for I was all alert and more than a trifle excited myself. If there is one fool who justly calls down upon himself the derision of all onlookers it is the skipper who makes a landlubber’s mess of coming to anchor. I knew this in my bones, but I had no knowledge at all of how the engine was going to help me. And I could take no risks. Nor could the Crew be of any assistance. While ducking my head into the cabin to get at the controls I, of course, lost sight of where I was going. And these controls! But with a quick spanner I did get her slowed down a very little, and then stood in for the ‘splendid anchorage to W. of pier’. I decided to try to get into neutral in good time—yet not too early, lest the engine stop altogether. The moment came. ‘Keep her going like that,’ I said, and ducked, caught the gear handle, and pulled—and pulled—and tugged—and wrenched—and swore—with every ounce of energy I had, but the handle refused to budge. There was nothing for it but to shut off the petrol. I did so, and before she had right stopped I was on top of the house and beside the anchor, which I had all ready to drop. She lost way more quickly than I had expected, and when the anchor got a hold she swung to it slowly. Not at all bad—except perhaps that we were a trifle nearer the pier than I had wanted to be, for I reckoned we were in about four fathoms of water (the chain was not marked) and I should have to pay out about ten fathoms for comfort, which would mean a fair swing. Two or three small boats anchored just inside the pier had attracted me, and I hailed a grey-bearded man working with a net in one of them and asked if I was all right. He said I might be all right but it would be better if I went ‘west a bit’.