But when we tried to breast the Gouliot passage with that heavy boat, we found it impossible.

Three times we nosed inch by inch into the swirling black waters, which leaped and spat and bit at us with fierce white fangs, and three times we were swept away down past Pierre au Norman, drooping over our oars like broken men.
"Guyabble! This is no good!" gasped Uncle George, as we came whirling back the third time.

"We must go round." So we drew in the oars, and hoisted a bit of our lug, and ran straight out past Les Dents, whose black heads were sheets of flying foam, to make a long tack round Brecqhou.

Then, with the wind full on our port quarter, we made a quick, straight run for the Boutiques, and found ourselves not very far astray.

Dropping the sail, and leaving Krok in charge, Uncle George and I pulled in the small boat to the channel into which his cave opened.