The Lydia was now in a most dangerous part of the channel, where
the rapid tide was met by the equally rapid stream of Burra Sound
from the south side of Graemsay island. They formed a wide, swift
current of broken water, which swirled and eddied about with a
rough irregular motion. As our boat passed the bowsprit of the
Lydia, my father turned her head towards the ship, and my uncle
Mansie was alert and ready to catch the coil of rope that was at
that moment thrown down to us from the barque's forecastle.
I think the rope was awkwardly thrown, or the man throwing it had
miscalculated the rate at which we were driving past. Howbeit, the
rope fell across our stern, beyond Mansie's reach. Leaving the
tiller my father seized it with the intention of passing it forward
to my uncle, holding the coil in one hand and the line in the
other. As he rose from his seat, however, the rope was by some
stupid mistake suddenly made secure on board the ship instead of
being paid out, and my father was instantly jerked into the sea.
"Let go the rope!" Tom Hercus shouted to my father.
But the seaman in charge of the line on the ship's deck, taking the
order as meant for himself, cast off the rope, the end of which
dropped overboard before the error was discovered. Thus the rope my
father held was fastened neither to the ship nor to the boat.
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