Sailhardy began his run in for the beach. At the base of a thousand-foot cliff I could see the off-white streak of broken shingle which passes by the name of beach in these waters.

He shouted, and I shifted the rag of sail. The whaleboat slewed to port. There was more drift on her now. Sailhardy fought to keep her head up into the gale. Water poured over the side. I baled. The pitch-black bird moved his grip and glared unwinkingly at me with his drunk's eyes.

Sailhardy shouted something, and indicated the sail. The wind blew his words away, but I knew what he meant. Either he had funked it, or there was some danger I was not aware of. He intended to go about! I flicked the sail free. The whaleboat began her next sickening plunge.

Then it was quiet.

On every hand was the evidence of the gale's dissoluteness. From the low level of the boat the sea was a terrifying sight. Suds and spume lay six inches deep on the jerking surface of the water. Nightingale Island soared, appeared, and disappeared as the waves obstructed our view.

It was quiet.

I heard the aircraft engine overhead.

2. The Whale-Spotter

The engine coughed. The sound was as incongruous as the presence of the hovering helicopter. Tristan is too remote from the world ever to have seen an aircraft; the South African Air Force men I took to the island during the war were not fliers, but radio personnel.

" Helicopter!" I exclaimed. " Where the hell it comes from, though, I wouldn't know."

Sailhardy's strong hands were on the tiller. He guided the boat through the next crest before replying. " The main body of the storm isn't here yet," he said. " If it was, that helicopter would be blown from here to Bouvet."