I sailed from Southampton on a thirty-ton yacht with a crew of amateurs, of whom only one had ever before in his life handled tiller or hauled on rope at sea. It was a crew of briefless barristers, by the way, and people prophesied that with such a strange ship's company we should never get outside the chops of the Channel. However, we contrived to reach Buenos Ayres, and to cruise over many thousands of miles of the South Atlantic Ocean without mishap. My companions, with the exception of the one who took the port watch, did not even know the names of the ropes before starting, and their nautical education commenced when we weighed our anchor.
I took the starboard watch with one of the briefless barristers, and this is what occurred one stormy night in mid-Atlantic. I quote the description of the incident from The Cruise of the Falcon, the published narrative of the voyage: 'Time, 2 A.M. Dark and squally night. Captain steering. A smoking and pondering (supposed to be looking out). Captain, observing squall coming up, loquitur: "A, just run forward and scandalise the mainsail, will you? Begin by tricing up the tack."
'A creeps deliberately forward, and disappears in the darkness. Five minutes elapse. Captain, impatiently: "Now, then, have not you finished that yet?"
'A: "In a minute—in a minute."
'Another five minutes elapse; we are now in
