So I went ashore for milk and left the Crew to her glory. Calling at the first cottage on the right, I had a talk with a pleasant woman who said she would be milking at half-past eight. It was almost an hour before I came in sight of the boat again—to find the Crew trying the lead line! I smiled, but kept hidden. There was now a gentle breeze blowing and the Thistle was slowly swinging through a considerable arc.

How transformed, the cabin! Where the pile of stuff had disappeared I could not see, but certainly here at last was something like a home. I pumped up the two red Li-lo beds, let down and fixed the frames of the cots, laced on the canvas, and soon our bunks were ready. At low tide that night I took the depth. A little over one fathom. The weed was very close. The wind was increasing.

Our beds were so comfortable that we decided to celebrate in two hot carefully compounded drinks. Whereafter I was able to explain how, even if the boat did drag her anchor, we should be in no personal danger, for she would merely go ashore and then we could jump. Quite simple. It was subsequently alleged that I fell asleep while still talking—and certainly in the last day or two I had expended more energy than I usually did in months.

But at 3 a.m. the Crew got up and tried the depth—though I did not discover this till many days afterwards, for I awoke at a reasonable hour—to find the wind disturbingly strong. Clearly something must be done about getting into deeper water, for the lee shore was so close that there was little margin left for a dragging anchor. So after breakfast I decided to start up the engine, engage the forward gear, jump for the anchor, carry it a bit, drop it, jump back and switch off. I tried this mad manœuvre but completely failed, for the boat got under way with astonishing speed. Against the grain, I therefore had to reconcile myself to the Crew’s suggestion of getting advice or help from shore.

The grey-bearded fisherman came out with me and surveyed the position. He walked the top of the cabin with ease, got hold of the chain, and began laying on it before I had the engine running well enough to take the load. On his knees he waited for me and then signalled to go astern. Yelling to the Crew to get hold of the dinghy’s painter, I put the lever in reverse. She began going astern, but slowly and would not back into the wind. He signalled to go ahead. My relief was great when the lever came out of reverse, but very short-lived, for when I tried to engage it forward it would not go home. The Crew was shouting that the painter was caught. One quick glance and I realised that that had happened which I had sworn should never happen: the rope was round the propeller!