The sun rose red and angry, the wind blew in great jerks and booms that staggered me as I walked along the perilously narrow paths.  Just before high tide I walked along the lower path which, although fifty feet above the sea, was soaked with salt spray from the roaring coamers breaking below.  The wind was so laden with spray that it was difficult to face it while staggering along the rugged cliff path; but presently I arrived at the point opposite the “Yellow Boy,” and was glad to see her still there, although she was sadly buffeted by the waves, which continually leapt up to lick her off her granite cradle.

I had secured her with ropes as well as I could, and had even taken an anchor (attached to her mooring rope) some fifty feet up on a grassy ledge above, and there securely fixed it into the short turf, with which the first plateau of rocks were covered.

[Illustration:  “ALONG THE RUGGED CLIFF PATH.”]

I sat down in my oilskins in the shelter of a rock to watch my precious boat, but I could see that her doom was sealed if the wind did not drop; but that it did not do, for as the tide rose, so did the wind, till it fairly howled among the rocks and tore through the trees in an awful rage, so that presently the ropes which bound the “Yellow Boy” gave way, as she was now very heavy, being level full of water.  She only hung by the anchor rope now, like a man being hanged, and every wave that rose and broke in and around her, swung her from side to side, or spun her round till she gradually banged herself to pieces against the cruel granite walls.  Then the tide gradually went down, and left the mere dangling skeleton of my once beloved craft, hanging high and dry above the send of the foaming waves, which at intervals rushed among the now exposed rocks.  The anchor held, and to the rope hung the two upper strakes, to which were attached the two fore compartments; all the rest was completely swept away, and with it my hope of again being able to take the sea for fishing, shooting, or sailing purposes.  Alas! poor “Yellow Boy,” I shall never see your like again! (neither probably will anyone else!) She answered my purpose admirably, but as a model of naval construction she was an absolute monstrosity, and would have made an object of great interest in a naval exhibition.  I deeply regretted her loss, as I wanted to take her home as a great curiosity to open the eyes of the Yarmouth fishermen; but it was not to be, and I turned sadly away; my chief occupation (that of boating) being completely gone.

As I stood once more on the Cotills I saw two small vessels making for the Little Russel, or “Petit Ruan,” as the Channel between Guernsey and Herm is called.  They were labouring heavily, with very little canvas set, and evidently trying to gain the shelter of the islands, and if possible make for St. Peter’s or St. Sampson’s Harbour.  Along they came, struggling and creeping closer, fathom by fathom, till just as the foremost was passing La