She had been to a Spanish port for cork and hemp, as the fishing season
was not a very good one, and on her return voyage had run upon an island
called Jethou, during a dense fog, luckily in a calm sea, or she would
never have come off whole again. Nothing ever does when it once plays at
ramming these granite islands. Like the Syrens, who lured or tried to
lure Ulysses, these islands are very fair to behold; but woe to the ship
that comes into contact with them, for they rarely escape from their
deadly embrace.

The very next day (my father having allowed me to accompany him) we
started for Plymouth, a long journey, _via_ London, at which city, being
my first visit to the metropolis, I could fain have broken our journey,
but our business being urgent we steamed away to Plymouth by the night
train. After a substantial meal next morning we sallied out to find the
first vessel sailing to Guernsey, and were lucky in discovering one
called the "Fawn," which was preparing to sail the same day. Although
only a cargo ketch the skipper bargained to take us, and about two p.m.
we unmoored and were soon off. Our passage was a quick one, a strong
N.W. wind bowling us over to St. Peter Port in time for early breakfast
next morning.

It is needless for me to go through the whole story of the running
ashore of our smack, as beyond the important fact that it was her mishap
which caused me ever to visit the Channel Islands, she has little else
to do with my narrative.

She was damaged very seriously amidships, but my father, who had a happy
knack of turning almost everything to a good account, unless
irredeemably hopeless, was struck with a capital idea in this instance.