To me anything seemed better than the break for the beach. Sailhardy shrugged. This time a second rope dropped from the rear cabin window, in addition to the one from the winch. I saw what was intended. The two ropes would have to be secured within seconds as the craft of the air and the craft of the sea came together-if their respective pilots could achieve that hair'sbreadth synchronisation. Sailhardy's lean brown hands on the tiller seemed to move almost in advance of his eyes, which searched for an easier patch, a less broken wave-top.

We rose. The helicopter hovered at an angle to our drift. At the very top of the crest, his hands tugged at the worn tiller ropes and laid the boat beam-on. She hung uncertainly, and he held her there. She did not take the next plunge, which would have torn us from the rescuers. The pilot's reaction was equally swift. He dropped to within fifteen feet. One rope fell aft and the other forward of the mast. I whipped mine round the metal skid of the foresail with a running knot. I couldn't see what Sailhardy was about, but if he did not succeed, the whaleboat would be upended at the next lift by the very rope I had secured, and both of us would be emptied into the water. The bow started to lift. Sailhardy's reaction times were incredible. In the few 27 brief seconds the rope had lain within his reach, he had slipped it round the odd tiller plank which projects athwartships on all Tristan whaleboats.

The wave dropped away. There was no sickening plunge as before. The boat was airborne.

The pilot lifted the helicopter gently. The weight of the suspended whaleboat seemed to steady it, like a bee carrying a pebble pulled level with the bow. The pilot was working his winches with the same nicety of judgement he had shown in the rescue. The boat was drawn towards the aluminium belly. Within a couple of feet, the winches stopped and a window opened. We climbed through.