I should like to see moorings done that way, at Cowes, say, or in Southampton Water.  I should like to see a lot of craft laid head and tail to the wind with a yard between each, and, when Lord Isaacs protested, I should like to hear the harbour man say in a distant voice, “Sic volo, sic jubeo” (a classical quotation misquoted, as in the South-country way), “the wind never changes here.”

Such as it was, there it was, and trusting in the wind and God’s providence we lay criss-cross in Lowestoft South Basin.  The Great Bear shuffled round the pole and streaks of wispy clouds lay out in heaven.

The next morning there was a jolly great breeze from the East, and my companion said, “Let us put out to sea.”  But before I go further, let me explain to you and to the whole world what vast courage and meaning underlay these simple words.  In what were we to put to sea?

This little boat was but twenty-five feet over all.  She had lived since 1864 in inland waters, mousing about rivers, and lying comfortably in mudbanks.  She had a sprit seventeen foot outboard, and I appeal to the Trinity Brothers to explain what that means; a sprit dangerous and horrible where there are waves; a sprit that will catch every sea and wet the foot of your jib in the best of weathers; a sprit that weighs down already overweighted bows and buries them with every plunge. Quid dicam? A Sprit of Erebus.  And why had the boat such a sprit?  Because her mast was so far aft, her forefoot so deep and narrow, her helm so insufficient, that but for this gigantic sprit she would never come round, and even as it was she hung in stays and had to have her weather jib-sheet hauled in for about five minutes before she would come round.  So much for the sprit.

This is not all, nor nearly all.  She had about six inches of free-board.  She did not rise at the bows:  not she!  Her mast was dependent upon a forestay (spliced) and was not stepped, but worked in a tabernacle.  She was a hundred and two years old.  Her counter was all but awash.  Her helm—­I will describe her helm.  It waggled back and forth without effect unless you jerked it suddenly over.  Then it “bit,” as it were, into the rudder post, and she just felt it—­but only just—­the ronyon!

She did not reef as you and I do by sane reefing points, but in a gimcrack fashion with a long lace, so that it took half an hour to take in sail.  She had not a jib and foresail, but just one big headsail as high as the peak, and if one wanted to shorten sail after the enormous labour of reefing the mainsail (which no man could do alone) one had to change jibs forward and put up a storm sail—­under which (by the way) she was harder to put round than ever.

Did she leak?  No, I think not.  It is a pious opinion.  I think she was tight under the composition, but above that and between wind and water she positively showed daylight.  She was a basket.  Glory be to God that such a boat should swim at all!