We were dawdling home from the westward on the flood. Astern of us,
knee-deep in foam, stood the slim column of the Bishop lighthouse, a
dark pencil mark on the cloudless sky. To the south the full Atlantic
piled the black reefs with hills of snow. Ahead the main islands
humped out of the blue sea like a school of basking whales. I had the
tiller and Uncle Billy John Polsue was forward picking up the marks
and carrying on a running commentary, punctuated by expectorations
of dark fluid. Suddenly something away on the port bow attracted his
attention. He rolled to his feet, stared for some seconds and shouted,
"Hold 'er on the corner o' Great Minalte!" a tremor of excitement in
his voice.