]
There were three courses open to me: to let her drift, consuming my oil,
in the hope that it would blow over; to run into a Spanish port; or to
run for France, my destination, and, if I fell short of it, to yell for
help by radio, and trust to luck that they could send out and pick me
up. The first course was too risky. I would be making untold miles to
leeward all the time, would probably roll the masts and funnels out of
her, and maybe burst down anyhow, too far off for help. The second
choice was the safest. I could reach Ferrol or Vigo all right, but they
would probably try to intern me; and while I had heard that King Alfonso
was a regular guy and a good scout to run around with, the ensuing
diplomatic complications would make me about as popular in Allied
circles as the proverbial skunk at a bridge-party. So I took the final
alternative, and jammed her into the teeth of it for all I thought she
could stand without imitating an opera hat or an accordion. And, glory
be, she made it, the blessed little old cross between a porpoise and a
safety-razor blade! Whether the gale really moderated, or I got more
nerve, I don't know; but anyhow I gave her more and more, half a knot at
a time, until we were actually making appreciable headway against it. I
never thought any ship could stand the bludgeoning she got. It seemed as
if every rivet must shear, every frame and stanchion crush, under the
impact of the Juggernaut seas that hurtled into her.
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