Then suddenly came a lull. The glass fell to 29.14. So I knew we had to look out for something. The wind was changing, from sou’-east probably to. . . . It took the thought out of my mind in a roar from the north-west, and we were tossed with the spindrift like a cork. There was over a mile of carry now and quite a presentable sea running. As hour followed hour through the long day it became very wearing. I would stand now and then in the cockpit, hoping to see someone, some life about the shore. But the pier was deserted, and when a figure appeared near one of the crofts it was always with bowed shoulders, hurrying through the white drifts of rain. Once a man paused on a near rise and seemed to look at us. I gave him a wave. He hurried away and did not reappear. Afterwards we heard that some of the folk were concerned about us, and more than once Mr. Macleod had had a glass on us during the day. But at the time, the only thing that seemed to be near was the black spit of rock with the white barnacles and the whiter sea. Somehow I should hate to lose the boat now. And if she did break, nothing could save her, for the spit was only a matter of fathoms away.

However, a sleep we must get this night though the heavens themselves fell, so I decided to do something with the sixty (if not eighty) pound anchor, and about nine o’clock that night I hoisted it on to the top of the tossing house, got up after it, and on hands and knees pushed it before me to the bow, the Crew paying out the chain behind. Flat on my breast on the narrow triangle beyond the mast, I passed the chain through the channel against the stem and let the anchor go. I had waited my time until the boat had swung up to and away from her own anchor, so that, in the swing back, by keeping a strain on the new chain, I might prevent any fouling of the heavy anchor. After paying out a few fathom I made fast, with a final couple of hitches round the base of the mast. If the first anchor gave way, the second might take hold in time to keep us off the rocks. This was all I could do, and though it did not seem to be much or very satisfactory, yet when it was done it relieved the normal tension in quite a remarkable way, so that we brewed a strong drink and celebrated cheerfully.

Shortly after that the gale reached its height, a whistle and a whine in it, with the rain-tautened halyards slapping the mast at express speed. (I had meant to try to lace them up when putting out anchor, but had forgotten.) As I looked out of the cabin door, a sea-trout leapt six feet in the air and the backs of three porpoises showed by the pier going up Loch Harport.