“Look out sharp, byes, I’m mistrusting’,” roared old Sammy.

There were some long tense moments, ended by a shriek from Frenchy by the foremast.

“Hard a-lee!”

The sails shook in the wind and swung in-board, and out again, with a rattling of the little blocks.  The forefoot rose high, once or twice, with the lessened headway, and a great savage mass of rock passed alongside, stretching out jagged spurs, like some wild beast robbed of its prey.  Frenchy, ahead, crossed himself quietly, without excitement, and again peered into the fog.

“Close call!” I shouted to the skipper, after I had recovered my breath, since I am not yet entirely inured to the risks these men constantly run.

“We nigh got ketched,” roared back Sammy Moore.  “I were mistrustin’ the tide wuz settin’ inshore furder’n common.  But I knows jist where I be now, anyways.”

His grim wrinkled face was unmoved, for during all his life he had been staring death in the face and such happenings as these were but incidents in the day’s work.

“I doesn’t often git mistook,” he shouted, “but fer this once it looks like the joke were on me.”

The little smack continued to rise and fall over the surge.  Yves, the Frenchman, remained at his post forward, holding on to the foremast and indifferent to the spray that was drenching him as he stared through the fog, keenly.  My attention was becoming relaxed for, after all, I was but a passenger.  Despite Sammy’s close shave I maintained a well-grounded faith in him.  It was gorgeous to see him speed his boat over the turbulent waters with an inbred skill and ease which reminded one of seagulls buffeting the wind or harbor seals playing in their element.  Like these the man was adapted to his life, not because he possessed wonderful intelligence but owing to the brine which, since childhood, had entered his blood.  The vast ice-pans had revealed their secrets to him and the North Atlantic gales had become the breath of his nostrils.

I can remember a time when I had an idea that I could handle a boat fairly well, but now I was compelled to recognize my limitations, while I really enjoyed the exhibition of Sammy’s skill.

“We’d ought ter be gettin’ handy,” roared the latter to Frenchy, who nodded back, turning towards us his dripping, bearded face, for an instant.

Suddenly he extended his arm.

“Me see.  To port!” he shouted.

Dimly, veiled by the fog curtain, of ghostly outline, a jutting cliff appeared and Sammy luffed slightly.  On both sides of us the seas were dashing up some tremendous rocks, but directly ahead there was an opening between the combers that hurled themselves aloft, roaring and impotent, to fall back into seething masses of spume.  There was a suggestion of tremendous walls over which voices were shrieking in the battle of unending centuries between the moving turmoil and the stolid cliffs, defying the battering waves.