"Oh, I think we've got pretty competent now," I said, giving a little more slack to the staysail. "But we could be hours yet if this wind doesn't pick up. I wonder if we ought to give the engine another try."

"Go on, then-we're almost home anyway. Maybe the thing that was making it get so hot has loosened up. We can always turn it off if things start to cut up rough."

So I turned the key and a little nervously pushed the starter. The engine burst into life and once again we surged on toward Spetses and the waiting welcome committee.

It held out well this time; I was running it slowly, just above the idle, to keep it as cool as possible, because I knew we would need it for the final docking maneuver and, as my crew had so succinctly pointed out, we didn't want to make a c.o.c.k-up of it.

We puttered slowly around the point and turned in toward the harbor. Tim was right: there on the dock was Jane, transported in what looked like a homemade litter, a Heath Robinson contrivance banged up for the occasion out of an old bedstead and some palm fronds. She sat in this flower bedecked contraption and held court among the score or so of friends who surrounded her, in their summer glad rags, and she like some queen of ancient times about to bless the waves. But that wasn't the half of it. As Tim had suggested, the whole d.a.m.n island was down there too, whooping it up on the dock. There were rockets and a band and buckets of booze and Bouboulina herself was there, magnificent in effigy, a great papier-mache lady admiral, glowering censoriously out across the water.

"We'd better make this look good," I said. "Or we're going to look prize a.r.s.e'oles. There's enough of a breeze now to sail in. Let's do it."

I cut the engine and brought the Crabber around. Tim trimmed the sails and she heeled gently and started her final run into the harbor. The wind direction wasn't quite right, but it would just about do. We were going to end up just a little farther away from the dock than I would have liked, but no matter.

As soon as we came into view we heard loud cheers from Jane's contingent-we must have cut a fine dash with all the red sails up and pulling-followed by a frenzied toasting and waving of scarves and kerchiefs. We smiled and waved to the happy crowd.

At the last moment I rounded up and started the engine, just letting it tick over for when we needed it. We dropped the sails and bundled them up neatly in a tight harbor stow.

"Better make this a bit snappy," observed Tim. "She's starting to smoke."

"Jee-zus, you're right." She wasn't just starting to smoke; we'd been too busy with the sails to notice, but there were clouds of smoke belching from the engine hold now. There was the faintest sense of consternation coming off the land, murmurs of concern, questions asked.... Was this perhaps some part of the Bouboulina festivities?

We drifted farther away from the mooring, not waving and smiling now, but panicking just a bit as we tried to retrieve something of the dignity of the occasion. Tim was on the foredeck, ready to do his stuff with the anchor. I jammed the engine into reverse and hit the throttle by mistake. The engine howled and promptly burst into flames. The boat rocketed backward toward the dock, belching smoke and flame. A Greek fire ship in reverse. The Bouboulina revelers on the dock scattered like ninepins-all except newly hipped Jane, enthroned among the greenery and flowers of the makeshift litter.

"Anchor aweigh."

"What?"

"DROPANCHORFORCHRISSAKES!! NOW!"

Tim dropped the anchor as we hurtled back. I hit the gear lever. d.a.m.n thing jammed. Engulfed now in the fire and smoke, I jabbed and tugged for all I was worth at the lever.

"SNAGOFFTHEANCHORLINENOW!" I yelled above the foul din ... just as a moment later with a satisfying crunch the Crabber crashed at speed into the stone dock.

Jane rose a little unsteadily from her litter, leaning on her stick, and cried, "Sto kalo "Sto kalo, all to the good, dear Chris. Welcome. I am overjoyed to see you and the Crabber safe and sound."

IF JANE WAS A little disappointed by the spectacular mode of our arrival, she was kind enough not to show it. Loyalty was one of her finer qualities, and I think she had decided that after all my tribulations in Kalamaki, I deserved a break. little disappointed by the spectacular mode of our arrival, she was kind enough not to show it. Loyalty was one of her finer qualities, and I think she had decided that after all my tribulations in Kalamaki, I deserved a break.

Florica, who was also there on the dock, gave us a touching account of Jane's spirited defense of her new skipper, to the less-than-impressed party of guests. Florica herself, though, had some searching questions of her own to ask us, such as why, when we knew the engine was faulty, hadn't we stayed on at Aegina and arranged for it to be repaired? It was a suggestion that left us both, and especially the more responsible Tim, feeling somewhat sheepish. He redeemed himself by introducing me to the island's best mechanic, who had the engine fixed by the end of the week.

Sadly, neither Tim and Florica could stay much longer than that. They had work to return to in Athens and London and were soon boarding the hydrofoil themselves. The trip to the mountains we would have to leave for another time. We parted with plans to meet up in London and, unusually for a holiday friendship, we each of us knew that we would. And so my summer job finally began.

As summer jobs go-indeed, jobs of any kind-this was a pretty good one. My duties were simply to keep the boat and myself in readiness to take Jane and her friends out on the water at any time of night or day.

Occasionally we would take the boat across the straits to a waterfront taverna on the mainland, setting out from the simple wooden jetty close to Jane and Bob's house. We would leave in the cool of the evening, just as the sun, drained of its noonday ferocity, sank toward the blue hills of the Peloponnese. This was a lovely hour to go sailing, on the gentlest of evening breezes and the sea almost shimmering. For a couple of hours we would sail lazily northward, trailing fingers and toes in the calm water till we dropped the sails and drifted deftly alongside the wooden tables at the quayside where we were to meet some of Jane and Bob's friends for dinner.

Dinner would go on for hours and I would sit with the boat tied, like an obedient dog, to my chair leg. The little harbor teemed with fish and there were candles in jam jars on the tables; the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle complemented by dishes of fried squid with the lightest coating of batter glistening with droplets of freshly squeezed lemon. Later, as the pale moon rose over the dark bulk of Trikiri, we would motor back to the island, shattering into bright shards the moonlight that lay on the still water. Jane would take the tiller and dream perhaps of her girlhood down in the Deep South, of the days when she could run fast and easy and dance all night. Bob would smoke and quietly tell stories that Jane must have heard a hundred times before, yet managed to greet with a look of amused attention. And me, I sat leaning against the mast in the dark, captivated by it all, and pleasingly troubled by wistful thoughts of my girlfriend.

At other times we might load the boat with food and wine and sail round the island to some quiet bay for a picnic beneath the pines on the beach, and there we would loll till late in the afternoon, in the glorious scented shade of warm Mediterranean pine. Or we might sail on to the house of one of their friends who had a waterside home with its own jetty and there take a lingering lunch through the long hot hours of the afternoon. Usually I would be invited, too, but on the odd occasion when the hosts were especially superior people, I would stay on the boat, munch sandwiches, and read some poetry books that Tim had left me-the very Seferis and Gatsos recommended by the Nikoses. And I'd swim, of course. Whenever the heat or tiredness overtook me, I'd simply plunge into the water and circle the boat for a while.

There were times, too, on those fiercely hot late summer days when there was just nowhere to get cool on the land. On those days we would take the Crabber out and sail to and fro, luxuriating in the blessed coolness of the wind on the water. I figured from the paths of conversation that this would probably be Jane's last year with the Crabber, and it was up to me to do what I could to help make it a good one.

If the seas were too rough, we'd stay at home, lounge about, read, or take long siestas. The original deal had been that I would live on the boat, which was fine for the odd night, but a bit of an ordeal for much longer. Fortunately, though, my employers insisted that I take a spare room in their villa. The very essence of minimalism it was, with a red tiled floor, a bed, and a chair with a mosquito coil smoking through the night. I would breakfast alone with a book, in the shade of a fig tree, on toast and b.u.t.ter and honey and yogurt, washed down with "mountain tea;" lunch and dinner we would take together on the terrace.

As late summer moved into autumn the high winds and stormy seas confined us more and more to the land. The pinewoods that crowned the hill above the town burst forth with a carpet of beautiful little Mediterranean cyclamen. At night there was the smell of wood smoke, and the occasional squall of rain would come tearing across the Saronic Gulf and lash the island for an hour or so. All the summer visitors had gone, and we began to make preparations to close the house up for the winter. Finally came the morning on which I helped carry Bob and Jane's baggage down to the town.

I laid their bags on the dock, among the usual milling crowd of Spetsiots who waited, with their trolleys and heaps of mysterious boxes and parcels tied with string, for the midmorning hydrofoil.

"My dear," said Jane, as the craft came into view, "I can't pretend to know what next year will bring. At our age we're happy just to enjoy the present. But as long as we keep my lovely Crabber you must come and sail her. There'll always be a place for you here."

I hugged her warmly.

"Good-bye, skipper," said Bob, extending his hand. "It has been a great pleasure. Please come and visit with us in London."

I saw them climb aboard, and stood on the dock and waved until I could see them no more. Then I turned and walked along the jetty to the town, where I had a coffee and a honey bun, before strolling along to the boatyard to make arrangements for taking the Crabber out of the water.

PART III

Cutting Up Rough

Vinland Voyage

IN THE WINTER, AFTER I had come back from Greece, Tom Cunliffe rang. The nights were drawing in by now, the trees were bare, and there was ice on the puddles in the yard. Ana and I spent the long evenings as close as we could get to the pathetic excuse for a stove that was all our wretched farm hovel offered in the way of heating. I was working again with the sheep, this time as a contract shepherd on a nearby Suss.e.x farm. In contrast to my elysian summer, I spent my days out on the hills, up to my knees in mud and driving rain, sorting lambs, foot-rotting sheep, moving electric fences. I enjoyed the work and was decently paid for it, but was troubled by a restlessness, a feeling that the chapter I had opened on the sea had come to a close before I'd had a chance to prove myself. I daydreamed that instead of grappling day after day with sodden sheep, I might have been better employed at the helm of some graceful craft, plowing across the oceans of the world. I had come back from Greece, Tom Cunliffe rang. The nights were drawing in by now, the trees were bare, and there was ice on the puddles in the yard. Ana and I spent the long evenings as close as we could get to the pathetic excuse for a stove that was all our wretched farm hovel offered in the way of heating. I was working again with the sheep, this time as a contract shepherd on a nearby Suss.e.x farm. In contrast to my elysian summer, I spent my days out on the hills, up to my knees in mud and driving rain, sorting lambs, foot-rotting sheep, moving electric fences. I enjoyed the work and was decently paid for it, but was troubled by a restlessness, a feeling that the chapter I had opened on the sea had come to a close before I'd had a chance to prove myself. I daydreamed that instead of grappling day after day with sodden sheep, I might have been better employed at the helm of some graceful craft, plowing across the oceans of the world.

Tom, as you may recall, had been my teacher on the Competent Crew course, and the man who had first instilled in me a love of the sea and its boats, as well as its language and literature.

"We've just about finished work on Hirta Hirta, Chris," Tom announced, "and she's looking magnificent. Tight as a nut, and she goes like a rocket."

I could well believe it. Hirta Hirta was his boat, a vintage Bristol Channel Pilot Cutter that he and his wife, Ros, had been restoring. I had seen her when I'd gone to visit Tom for the weekend, at the end of our Isle of Wight sailing course, and had been bewitched by her cla.s.sic beauty. She looked not unlike a Crabber, only much bigger and more solid and with a long graceful sheer. was his boat, a vintage Bristol Channel Pilot Cutter that he and his wife, Ros, had been restoring. I had seen her when I'd gone to visit Tom for the weekend, at the end of our Isle of Wight sailing course, and had been bewitched by her cla.s.sic beauty. She looked not unlike a Crabber, only much bigger and more solid and with a long graceful sheer.

"I'm getting a crew together," Tom continued. "We're going to sail her up to Norway and across the North Atlantic to Iceland, and eventually to Newfoundland-you know, in the footsteps of Leif Eriksson."

"h.e.l.l, Tom ... that sounds fantastic."

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," he went on. "It's going to be a beast of a journey: five months, at least. And even in summer it'll be b.l.o.o.d.y cold. There'll be icebergs up there, and bound to be a storm or two. I can't promise you plain sailing, but you're right-it'll be fun, and you'll learn a h.e.l.l of a lot more than you did puddling around in the Med on that little tub of yours."

"You mean ... you mean ... ?" I spluttered. I wasn't sure I had heard right.

To say I was excited would be an understatement. I was staggered. This was an adventure like I'd grown up imagining an adventure to be. Tom went on to say that our voyage north would be the most unpleasant and dangerous experience I would ever be likely to have, that I would be by turns sopping wet, freezing cold, unutterably bored, and frightened half to death.

"Are you on, then?" he concluded.

"Well, of course I'm on," I almost shouted.

How could I possibly resist such a tempting prospect? Perhaps I ought to mention it to Ana, but there was plenty of time for that. I listened on. The rest of the crew had already been chosen: Ros would be going, of course, which meant they'd be bringing along Hannah, their four-year-old daughter, who had effortlessly won my heart when I'd first met her. Then there was John, a merchant-seaman shipmate of Tom's, to whom, he a.s.sured me, he'd happily trust his boat and his life; Patrick, an ex-army man who knew about sailing in the Arctic; and Mike, a teenager who had done exceptionally well on Tom's skipper course and was taking a gap year before starting an engineering degree.

I wondered what quality it was that had landed me a place among such a seasoned crew. "Oh," said Tom, before hanging up, "bring your guitar. Hannah likes your songs," and then he added, as if in answer to my question, "she thinks you're funny."

WHEN I BROKE THE NEWS of my voyage, Ana turned out to be a little less sanguine than I had expected. She had always accommodated my wanderl.u.s.t, placing a high value on her own independence as much as mine, but was I really sure about the safety of it all? Tom had, after all, talked about storms at sea and this played on her mind. It rea.s.sured her to some extent that Ros and Hannah were going along; nothing awful would be allowed to happen to the boat while they were onboard. But what if I fell off it? What if far from land we hit the sort of freak weather that was beyond even the skill of the legendary Tom Cunliffe? of my voyage, Ana turned out to be a little less sanguine than I had expected. She had always accommodated my wanderl.u.s.t, placing a high value on her own independence as much as mine, but was I really sure about the safety of it all? Tom had, after all, talked about storms at sea and this played on her mind. It rea.s.sured her to some extent that Ros and Hannah were going along; nothing awful would be allowed to happen to the boat while they were onboard. But what if I fell off it? What if far from land we hit the sort of freak weather that was beyond even the skill of the legendary Tom Cunliffe?

I worked on through that winter with the sheep, and by the end of March, and lambing, I had enough money saved to defray my share of the costs of the voyage. I put the wheels in motion to see that the flock was well cared for while I was away and, in order to present my case to Ana in a better light, set to work with more enthusiasm than skill on some long-promised home improvements. All this had the effect of keeping me well occupied, and distracting me from my seething excitement about the journey. At long last April came, and with it the eagerly awaited call from Tom to say that everything was ready for our departure.

On a grim sort of a day with a lowering gray sky and squalls of rain scudding across the Downs, Ana drove me down to Brighton Marina, where Hirta Hirta now lay. The weather itself seemed full of menace and foreboding, and, as we drove, it got worse and worse. We didn't say much and, at the marina, as we walked arm in arm up the quay, Ana leaned into me as much for warmth and a windbreak as for affection. now lay. The weather itself seemed full of menace and foreboding, and, as we drove, it got worse and worse. We didn't say much and, at the marina, as we walked arm in arm up the quay, Ana leaned into me as much for warmth and a windbreak as for affection.

Hirta was moored at the end of the quay. I felt a frisson of pride as I saw her; her hull was deep black now with new paint, the spars-mast, bowsprit, and boom-glistened with coat upon coat of oil. The bra.s.swork gleamed, the deck was scrubbed, and everywhere were well-coiled ropes, hanging from the pinrails or neatly flaked down on the deck. The sails were shackled or tied into place and ready to be raised; all in all she looked a most businesslike boat, and rea.s.suringly well prepared for sea. was moored at the end of the quay. I felt a frisson of pride as I saw her; her hull was deep black now with new paint, the spars-mast, bowsprit, and boom-glistened with coat upon coat of oil. The bra.s.swork gleamed, the deck was scrubbed, and everywhere were well-coiled ropes, hanging from the pinrails or neatly flaked down on the deck. The sails were shackled or tied into place and ready to be raised; all in all she looked a most businesslike boat, and rea.s.suringly well prepared for sea.

"Now, there," I said to Ana, "is a well-found ship."

"I suppose you're right," she answered, just a little absently.

Hannah waved at us. She had posted herself as lookout, her little red Wellingtons and plastic mackintosh setting off her pale blond hair. As we climbed aboard, she ran giggling in a fit of shyness to hide behind her father's legs. Ros, who had been making tea in the galley, poked her head out at the top of the companionway steps to greet us. It struck me anew what a contrast they made: Ros, slender, quiet, and a.s.sured; Tom, towering above her, and with the presence of a bear in a barroom.

"Welcome aboard," he boomed. "Get your kit stowed. I see you've brought the guitar. Wonderful. We're having a quick cup of tea and some sticky buns to fortify us and then we'll slip the lines and get under way. The weather's not what it might be, but then it never is, is it?"

A handsome man of about thirty-five, and a gangly, mop-haired youngster with round spectacles were busy on deck lashing gas bottles into the big red dinghy. They paused for a moment to shout greetings, the former turning on a dazzling smile, which Ana returned.

"That's Patrick," said Tom, gallantly handing Ana down into the c.o.c.kpit, and then through the companionway doors to climb down the steps into the bowels of the boat.

It was good to get below and out of the cutting wind. The saloon, where a little potbellied stove supplied a welcome warmth, felt like a congenial place to be spending the next half year. While Ana chatted easily to Ros, Tom's attention was held by a slight, mild-mannered man, who, while thoughtfully fingering his beard, was speculating about the probable outcome of the weather pattern that was establishing itself. "I'm John," he said, extending his hand, before resuming their conversation.

Soon the tea and the buns were gone, and it looked like it was time for leaving. I moved to Ana's side. We could all hear the wind screaming in the rigging, the frenzied clattering of wire stays on tin masts. It sounded nasty out there. John, with reluctance, was suggesting we might want to delay our departure, wait for better weather.

"I'd given that some thought, too," said Tom. "But I think we're all set, and the waiting will do more harm than the wind."

"It's true," said John. "We've got to bite the bullet sometime."

"Right, let's do it." And Tom rose to his feet and went to start the engine.

I saw Ana off the boat, and there on the gale-lashed mole she kissed me good-bye. Feeling just a little lovelorn, I hung on to the shrouds (the tensioned ropes that support the mast on either side of the boat ... and the handiest bit to cling to when leaning over the side) and waved to the dwindling figure of my girlfriend as we motored toward the harbor mouth.

"I'LL SEE YOU NEXT AUTUMN," I shouted. But my words were whipped away by the wind, as Hirta Hirta shouldered her way into what looked an ominously swelling gray sea. shouldered her way into what looked an ominously swelling gray sea.

"THE ROUTE WE'RE TAKING," Tom announced to his crew, "is the logical and best way to get from Brighton to Newfoundland. Our next landfall, in a week or maybe ten days at the worst, will be Norway. With the right sort of wind up our chuff we should make it to the Hardanger Fjord for apple blossom time, which is one of the lesser-known wonders of the world. We have a good supply of whisky to trade with the natives, which ought to see us right for a warm welcome.

"Then, when we've exhausted our credit with the Norwegians, we'll head west past the Faroe Islands, and on to Iceland, and, if ice conditions are right, we can put in at Julianehb in Greenland. And then on among the bergs and growlers of the mighty North Atlantic until we hit the north coast of Vinland."

I looked around me. Everyone else seemed to know where Vinland was except me, and perhaps Mike, who was intently studying his shoes. Vinland, it transpired, was a historic destination in the Icelandic sagas, more commonly known as Newfoundland. I was going to hear a lot about the sagas on this journey; they were a literary pa.s.sion and inspiration of Tom's.

But the main point was that it was a long way to go ... and for now the task was to get safely away from Brighton. For, not ten minutes into our voyage, the wind was already building fiercely. Hannah had disappeared below deck with Ros, leaving Tom to shout instructions from the c.o.c.kpit, both hands clamped on the wheel. You couldn't help but notice that ours was the only boat on the water.

"Safety lines on!" Tom shouted through the foul weather. "I'll keep her head to wind; get the storm jib up, quick as you can." The storm jib is a small but heavy-duty sail that is flown from the bow when the wind is really strong, in order to keep the boat stable without driving her too hard.

We hauled at the ropes like men demented, slithering and sliding on the bucking foredeck. The red triangle of canvas rose like a spirit from the deck and leaped into the air. Then with a thunderous crack the sail snapped into the wind and instantly tore into shreds. The remaining tatters of sail and rope thrashed and flogged in a frenzy. It felt as if poor Hirta Hirta were being beaten to bits. were being beaten to bits.

"Kill that sail!" yelled Tom from the wheel.

I leaped to grab a snaking rope. It upped and smacked me in the head like a kick from a mule. I fell and grabbed at a stay to stop myself slipping overboard. Swiftly, Patrick, a bigger-built man than me, and far more alert to the real danger of a flogging sail, managed to quell its fury. But not before the long free end of the sail's rope had fallen overboard and snarled up in the propeller, thus putting the engine out of action.

Tom cursed, Patrick was ashen faced. It was humiliating for seasoned sailors like them to be caught in such a b.a.l.l.s-up so close to the land, even if none of them were culpable. For myself, I was mortified. What sort of a.s.set was I going to be if I couldn't even grab hold of a rope? But there was no time for such reflections; Tom was shouting to us to reef the sail. This is where you loosen and then tie up the lower segments of the sail-making it all a lot smaller and therefore offering less resistance to the wind. It's one of the crucial maneuvers, that every sailor learns to lessen the impact of a storm.

With an alternative sail taking the place of the storm jib, and with the mainsail substantially bundled and tied (or double-reefed), we headed east, and four hours later decided to put in at Newhaven to clear the propeller. G.o.d G.o.d, I thought. I hope this is not the way it's going to be all the way to Newfoundland I hope this is not the way it's going to be all the way to Newfoundland. Summer in Greece didn't prepare me for this. There was also a worry playing on my mind. How the h.e.l.l How the h.e.l.l, I wondered to myself, do you go about clearing a rope from a propeller without actually diving beneath the bottom of the boat? do you go about clearing a rope from a propeller without actually diving beneath the bottom of the boat? It didn't bear thinking about. It didn't bear thinking about.

IT TURNED OUT THAT I did not have much time to ponder the issue, as I was soon to find out firsthand. I did not have much time to ponder the issue, as I was soon to find out firsthand.

"Right, Chris, are you ready? I'll hand you the knife once you've got that safety rope sorted out; we don't want you slicing bits off yourself by accident."

It was Tom, leaning like the others over the side while I slid, tied to a safety line and fully clothed (for we hadn't a wetsuit and, even when immersed in water, wool still imparts a certain warmth), into the cold, cold sea. The odd thing was that I felt almost glad that I was the one to have pulled the short straw. It made me feel important and useful and redeemed that sense of guilt that maybe I could have prevented the rope slipping overboard. At least that's how I felt before the first gush of freezing water welled into my trousers, agonizingly consumed my nether parts, and then made a grab for my neck. G.o.d, it was cold!

Cold sea is always better once you're fully immersed, so I dived down, groping my way along the keel until I came to the propeller. I kept my eyes shut because the water in Newhaven Harbour, as well as being cold and fast moving with the tide, was about as clear as mushroom soup. The knot, thankfully, was easy to find-a ma.s.s of thick rope wedged tight into every turn of the propeller blades, like a grotesque sinewy growth.

Clutching the keel with one hand so as not to be whooshed out to the open sea by the tide, I started cutting. To my dismay the rope had been twisted so tight by the force of the propeller that it had taken on the consistency of steel cable. I sawed feebly through a few fibers and then burst to the surface, panting and spluttering.

My shipmates looked down at me expectantly. "Are you OK? Have you done it?" they asked.

"Very nearly," I lied as I wheezed and honked for air, and then ducked under again.

A few more fibers, a lunge to the surface for breath. Yet more still, and another lunge for breath. I continued in this manner until my fingers and face were half frozen and my body began to quake with cold.

"I think you should come up," Ros insisted after nearly half an hour had pa.s.sed. The others had stopped asking about my progress; they too thought I should stop for a break. But it would be unthinkable to stop without finishing the job. There was my pride to consider, as well as the fact that we wouldn't be going anywhere at all if the propeller was snarled up. There were just a few more fibers to go now. I sawed and hacked like a man possessed and at last the tangled skeins of rope came away in my hands. Propelled by an enormous sense of achievement I burst back to the surface, where five pairs of arms helped haul me back onboard and guide me down to the cabin.

I had just about managed to tug off my sodden layers of clothes and get into my arctic sleeping bag before the shivering started in earnest. I'd heard once of a man who shivered so much that he cracked a couple of ribs. Well, that's how I was shivering now. My teeth were chattering, my very bones were chattering.

"You've got a touch of hypothermia," said Ros, cracking open a small bag of heat-producing iron filings from the ship's survival kit and pa.s.sing it to me. I was unable to acknowledge the truth of what she was saying as my jaw was convulsed in violent spasms along with all the rest of my muscles. I cuddled the miracle bag that seemed somehow to be offering my body something of its lost heat.

Nor could I gesture, as I was stuffed tightly into my sleeping bag-silk filled with goose down, liner of cashmere wool, good for forty degrees below zero. Yet even so I felt that I might never get warm again, as I lay there, my body racked with convulsions. Gradually, though, a little of the warmth of life began to creep back into my body, and I was able to take a couple of sips of soup and fall into a sound sleep.

I slept so deeply and so fast that not even the clattering of boots on the deck, nor the roaring of the engine, nor the rumbling of the ropes in the blocks ... none of these sounds was able to rouse me to the fact that long before dawn we had put to sea. It was hours later when I slipped back into consciousness, and lay gloriously warm, listening to the sound of the water rushing along the wooden hull just inches away from my ear. When finally I emerged from my bag, the new day was well into the morning. I crept out onto the sloping deck and gazed across a blue and sunlit sea toward the white cliffs of Dover.

The wind was right and the tide was sweeping us fast along to where we would round the South Foreland and head north up through the Straits of Dover and into the English Channel. It was early in May and we were heading, by what seemed to me a somewhat circuitous route, for Vinland.