His hand was meantime feeling around the big ends. ‘Some of your splitpins are missing,’ he said, in the same conversational tone. ‘You should have eight. I can only feel two.

‘Do you mean six are gone?’

He groped all over again to make sure. ‘Yes. Six splitpins are missing.’

‘Sounds pretty bad.’

‘It’s not too good.’

‘Any to be got here?’

‘No. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you get to the mainland. Of course, she might run without them for long enough.’

‘And she might not.’

‘That’s so.’

VIII

To Arisaig and the Sands of Morar

We waited for the 10.30 a.m. broadcast to shipping—some day a great or simple man will give the B.B.C. its high due—and were told that the visibility would grow less and the wind freshen. So by eleven we were trying to disentangle the anchor chains in the midst of a nest of boats, for a pretty red sailing yacht had come to rest dead astern, blocking the north passage. The sixty-pound anchor I managed single-handed to break out, haul over the bows, and stow astern; then, with the engine running, I felt for the small anchor, waited for the swing round of the boat, hauled away rapidly, and dived for the engine. Mercifully, she took the load and we threaded our way for the south channel against the tide. I had lost a good hour and a pint of sweat, but we waved to our friends gaily and so bade farewell to the bright island of Eigg.

We had already seen that there was a bit of a sea running outside, but in a rash moment we had arranged to meet friends at Arisaig, and go we must, while going was possible. A squall struck us as we came off the south corner of Castle Island and we rolled heavily, shipping some water over the high deck. The wind was certainly freshening and there were white caps ahead. This was the first time we had encountered a heavy sea, and as we came broadside to it, the Crew had to hold on with both hands. For a time the plunging roll was fairly violent, and I had to crawl forward on hands and knees, warily, to lash the anchor, while the Crew struggled valiantly with the tiller. It was then I got the feeling that she was a good sea boat. Subsequent events proved this, but even on that day if I helped her at all she rose up and bowed as pretty as you like. And she needed help sometimes, for we did, in truth, get a bad tossing. The rain showers came in squalls from the south, not only whipping up the seas in an ugly way but blotting out the mainland, until at last we lost altogether the landmarks by which we were to know the entrance to Arisaig. I suppose I kept nosing up to heavy seas more than I was quite aware, and when the Crew had performed her trapeze act past the engine into the cabin, and returned with the compass, I saw we were heading considerably south of east instead of points north of it, as we should be doing by the chart—though it was now not an easy matter to consult it properly, for we had no shelter and the helm required all my attention. There had been one very alarming moment, when I had heard a rush of mechanism and felt a sudden vibration under my feet. But before the trip was over I got used to this racing of the propeller, and the old engine refused to take the prank seriously.