with sea. The shore appeared through scud, and men on a quay
shouting. Davies brandished his left arm furiously; I ported hard,
and we were in smoother water. A few seconds more and we were
whizzing through a slit between two wood jetties. Inside a small
square harbour showed, but there was no room to round up properly and
no time to lower sails. Davies just threw the kedge over, and it just
got a grip in time to check our momentum and save our bowsprit from
the quayside. A man threw us a rope and we brought up alongside,
rather bewildered.

'Not more so than the natives, who seemed to think we had dropped
from the sky. They were very friendly, with an undercurrent of
disappointment, having expected salvage work outside, I think. All
showed embarrassing helpfulness in stowing sails, etc. We were
rescued by a fussy person in uniform and spectacles, who swept them
aside and announced himself as the customhouse officer (fancy such a
thing in this absurd mud-hole!), marched down into the cabin, which
was in a fearful mess and wringing wet, and producing ink, pen, and a
huge printed form, wanted to know our cargo, our crew, our last port,
our destination, our food, stores, and everything. No cargo
(pleasure); captain, Davies; crew, me; last port, Brunsbüttel;
destination, England. What spirits had we? Whisky, produced. What
salt? Tin of Cerebos, produced, and a damp deposit in a saucer. What
coffee? etc. Lockers searched, guns fingered, bunks rifled. Meanwhile
the German charts and the log, the damning clues to our purpose, were
in full evidence, crying for notice which they did not get. (We had
forgotten our precautions in the hurry of our start from the Rute.)
When the huge form was as full as he could make it, he suddenly
became human, talkative, amid thirsty; and, when we treated him,
patronizing. It seemed to dawn on him that, under our rough clothes