The boat's crew was a picked one, and seldom could six finer men be
seen together. The skipper, my father, was himself a picture of
manly strength, handsome and agile. His father and grandfather had
been pilots; the latter, indeed, had been the chief pilot of
Stromness in the year 1780, when Captain Cook's ships, the
Discovery and the Resolution, lay in the harbour on their return
from the South Seas.
My father's shipmates, as he called them, were also fine stalwart
men, each of them competent to take the skipper's place, but each
willing to sacrifice anything for Sandy Ericson. My uncle Mansie
was mate, and sat forward in the bow. The stroke oar was usually
taken by Tom Hercus, a man of singular daring. Willie Slater was an
old whaler, who could stand any hardships with perfect indifference.
Then there was Jock Eunson, a good-humoured Orphir man, who, on many
a dark night, had kept his mates merry as they beat about in the
outer sea in search of ships; and Ringan Storlsen, of Finstown, who
had been at school with my father, and with whom he had had many an
adventure.
"Hurry along, my lads; there's Kinlay started," said my father,
seating himself in the stern sheets.
With that the ropes were cast off and the sail hoisted. Then the
boat was pushed off from the pier, and as she caught the light
breeze she glided slowly into the bay among the sailing shadows of
the summer clouds.
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