Now, of course, this is always to be expected in crossing the Channel, but my friends said in going up the Channel we would not get those choppy waves, and that I would find that the Hela swam like a duck.

In analyzing that statement since, with a view to classifying it as truth or otherwise, I have studied my recollections of ducks, and I have come to the conclusion that in a rough sea a duck has every right to be seasick, for she wobbles like everything else that floats.  For real comfort, give me something that’s anchored.  Nevertheless, I was persuaded to join the party.

Everybody came down at Dinard to see us off, and quite a number even went over to St. Malo with us in the electric launch, for the Hela drew too much water to enter the harbor at Dinard at low tide.

We were a merry party for the first hour on board the Hela—­until we struck the gale.  It has seemed to me since that our evil genius was hovering over us from the first, and simply waited until it would be out of the question to turn back before emptying the vials of her wrath on our devoted heads.  It did not rain.  The sun kept a malevolent eye upon us all the time.  It simply blew just one straight, unrelenting, unswerving gale.  And it came so suddenly.  We were all sitting on deck as happy as angels, when, without a word of warning, the Hela simply turned over on her side and threw us all out of our chairs.  I caught at a mast as I went by and clung like a limpet.  There was tar on the mast.  It isn’t there any more.  It is on the front of my new white serge yachting dress.  Jimmie coasted across the deck, and landed on his hands and knees against the gunwale.  If he had persisted in standing up he would have gone overboard.  The women all shrieked and remained in a tangled heap of chairs, and rugs, and petticoats, waiting for the yacht to right herself, and for the men to come and pick them up.  But the yacht showed no intention of righting herself.  She continued to careen in the position of a cab going round Piccadilly Circus on one wheel.  The sailors were all running around like ants on an ant-hill, and the captain was shouting orders, and even lending a hand with the ropes himself.  I don’t know the nautical terms, but they were taking down the middle sail—­the mainsail, that’s it.  It did not look dangerous, because the sun kept shining, and I never thought of being frightened.  I just clung to the mast, watching the other people right themselves, and laughing, when suddenly everything ceased to be funny.  The decks of the Hela took on a wavy motion, and I blinked my eyes in order to see better, for everything was getting very indistinct, and there were green spots on the sun.  Suddenly I realized that I was a long way from home, and that I was even a long way from my state-room.  I only had just about sense enough left to remember that the mast was my very best friend and that I must cling there.