Colonsay was too low an island to be any kind of breakwater against a western gale, so the weather was bad from the start.

Our course was north by east, and when we had passed the butt-end of the island we nosed about in the trough of big seas, shipping tons of water and rolling like a buffalo.

I know as much about boats as about Egyptian hieroglyphics, but even my landsman's eyes could tell that we were in for a rough night.

I was determined not to get queasy again, but when I went below the smell of tripe and onions promised to be my undoing; so I dined off a slab of chocolate and a cabin biscuit, put on my waterproof, and resolved to stick it out on deck.
I took up position near the bows, where I was out of reach of the oily steamer smells.

It was as fresh as the top of a mountain, but mighty cold and wet, for a gusty drizzle had set in, and I got the spindrift of the big waves.