One glorious morning we three--Yamba, her husband, and myself--repaired to the fatal lagoon that hemmed in my precious boat, and without more ado dragged it up the steep bank by means of rollers run on planks across the sand-spit, and then finally, with a tremendous splash and an excited hurrah from myself, it glided out into the water, a thing of meaning, of escape, and of freedom.

The boat, notwithstanding its long period of uselessness, was perfectly water-tight and thoroughly seaworthy, although still unpleasantly low at the stern.

Gunda was impatient to be off, but I pointed out to him that, as the wind persistently blew in the wrong direction day after day, we should be compelled perforce to delay our departure perhaps for some months.

You see, Gunda was not a man who required to make much preparation: he thought all we should have to do was to tumble into the boat and set sail across the sunlit sea.

"I can paddle my catamaran against both wind and tide; why cannot you do the same ?" he would say.