Captain Flett tried to make my position comfortable and my work agreeable, and sometimes when I was on deck with him at night, he would remain by me smoking, and make the time pass lightly by telling me of his early experiences in the Dundee whaling ships; or more often he would instruct me in seamanship, and teach me regarding the tides and channels of Orkney.

Thus during this voyage among the islands was the weariness of many a night watch relieved.  There was something to be told of almost every place at which the Falcon touched.  Often the talk would turn upon the subject of wrecks, and of the wreckers who inhabited the storm-swept islands, and were not above welcoming a shipwreck for the sake of the valuable spoil they might procure.

Anchored off a little port in Sanday, David told me of a minister who, while professing to deplore the frequency of shipwrecks on the coast, ended a prayer by saying: 

“Nevertheless, if it please Thee to cause helpless ships to be cast on the shore, oh, dinna forget the poor island of Sanday.”

We pursued our tortuous course as far north as a place called Pierowall, in the island of Westray; when we found that there was need to continue the voyage still further to Fair Isle, a little island that lies about midway between Orkney and Shetland, for the people in that place, we heard, had got short of winter provisions, and our skipper would not hear of returning until he had supplied the deficiency.

The weather became boisterous as we entered the open sea again, and I had my first experience of really rough sailing.  For two days the schooner tossed upon the great white-crested waves which dashed against her bows, broke in snowy foam upon the deck, and glistened on oilskin and sou’wester.  The wind whistled with piteous noise among the ropes, and frequent showers of hail and sleet added to our discomfort.

On the third day after leaving the Orkneys we sighted Fair Isle, looming faintly through a mist of snow, far to starboard.  With difficulty we tacked to windward, for the northeast wind had driven us considerably out of our course.  Darkness came on at about three o’clock in the afternoon in these latitudes, and we wanted to make the harbour in daylight.  But though the wind fell, the snow and mist came on so thickly that we quite lost sight of the island, and in our difficulty a terrible thing happened.

We were all hands on deck, and sailing close-hauled with a good stretch of canvas set.  I was at the helm, and the skipper standing near me.  Jerry and the mate were nailing some boards on the companion hatch to keep out the snow from the cabin.  Suddenly the schooner gave a great lurch and fell off the wind.  The mainsail flapped wildly for a moment, and as we luffed again we went over with a list that swung the boom back with such force that the ropes that held it were slipped, and the spar struck the skipper a blow upon the shoulder that sent him headlong overboard into the sea.