Heavy cumulus clouds indicated land; diving petrels showed, specifically, the Falklands (as did the raf fighter jets that buzzed them, so soon after the war). Red sand-streaks on the sails in the dew of morning proved they were close to the Sahara. For him, having the time of his life, happily chewing day after day the canned hamburger which Blanche, once resigned, had nobly put up for him, all the interest and point of the circumnavigation lay in these essential observations. Of course, there were dramas. Twice they almost capsized, with the mast 45% underwater.

He was just thrilled to prove that the ancients could have undertaken serious long-distance sailing, without toys, more often than people thought. Naturally he wrote a book about it. But publishers showed no interest. No one had mutinied in this story, or been lost overboard; it was academic rather than tragic. Besides, there were lots of sailing books, and circumnavigations were increasing. That was all true; but then again, how many of those sailors had estimated latitude by watching yager gulls, or knew they were approaching home when a housefly settled in the cabin?

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