Towards evening the deadlock was broken by the skipper of the American destroyer, a diplomatic, courteous, and thoroughly embarrassed commander by the name of Marsi. He had been allowed aboard the Campari, been gruffly asked into Bullen’s day cabin, accepted a drink, been very apologetic and respectful, and suggested a way out of the dilemma. He said he knew how intolerable it must be for a senior captain to have doubt thrown not only on his word but his ability to carry out a proper search; for his own part of it, he was thoroughly disgusted with the whole assignment. He had, Commander Marsi had pointed out almost despairingly, to carry out his orders, but how would it be if he and Captain Bullen put their own interpretation on those orders? How would it be if the search were carried out, not by his own men, but by British customs officials in the regular course of their duty, with his men present solely in the capacity of observers and under the strictest instructions not to touch anything? Captain Bullen, after much outraged humming and hawing, had finally agreed. Not only did this suggestion save face and salvage honour to a certain degree, but he was in an impossible position anyway, and he knew it. Until the search was completed, the Kingston authorities refused medical clearance, and until he had this clearance, it would be impossible to unload the six hundred tons of food and machinery he had for delivery there. And the port officials could also make things very difficult indeed by refusing clearance papers to sail. And so what seemed like every customs official in Jamaica was routed out and the search began at 9 P.M. It lasted until 2 A.M. The following morning. Captain Bullen fumed as steadily and sulphurously as a volcano about to erupt. The passengers fumed, partly because of having to suffer the indignity of having their cabins so meticulously searched, partly because of being kept out of their beds until the early hours of the morning.