ULTIMA THULS 73 



watched us with their sleepless eyes, until daylight broke 

 at last among the tumbling surges of the Moray Firth. 



Stronger blew the wind, and heavier rolled the sea, 

 until, when the wall of Duncansby was past, with its 

 dark face pointing northward like the ram of a battle- 

 ship, we were in the rush of the tide that streams in 

 from the Atlantic, past the " Merry Men of Mey " into 

 the wild North Sea. All the sea was in a tumult. 

 Smooth and oily looking swirls of water divided sweeps 

 of seething waves. Suddenly, above the surge, appeared 

 a school of porpoises that, as if they gloried in the war 

 of waters, leaped high in air, right above the wave 

 crests of the angry sea. 



We have cleared the Skerries. ? Under the cliff of 

 Ronaldshay we can hear the thunder of the surge, and 

 the roar of the sea against the Lother Reef, whose dark 

 arm stretches out, as if to meet us, from the iron shore. 

 The skipper is standing in the bow, puffing hard at his 

 pipe, and balancing first on one foot then on the other 

 signs unmistakable of difficulty or danger. Yes, it is 

 a tug of war, but the end is clear. We are sailing seven 

 knots, but the tide is running eight. Slowly but surely 

 is the distance lessening between us and that evil-looking 

 reef. The skipper crams his pipe in his pocket and runs 

 aft to take the helm. " She can't do it ; get the spin- 

 naker off her, John ! " We take in the broad and 

 flapping sail as best we may; all hands haul on the 

 main-sheet. Now she goes about, with a list that sends 

 every unprotected book and pipe and field-glass into the 

 scuppers, to wait for better times. The yacht's bow 



