To the very end, I think, we did our utmost toward the big transatlantic plan. Rushing through Nova Scotia and Cape Breton Island at breakneck speed, skipping one pleasant-looking harbor after another; overnighting to St. Pierre to jump off from there, rather than exploring the south coast of Newfoundland, getting everything in readiness—even to pre-rigging a stern warp for gales, a parachute anchor bridle for storms, and assembling a better ditch kit than ever before. When we sailed slowly out of St. Pierre in the thickest of fogs, we had been careful to leave no excuses not to go—Ganymede was ready and seaworthy, we had all the required supplies and charts, the windvane was working perfectly at last, the forecast was good, the season was right. And with all the excuses out of the way, we were left with nothing but reasons. We had carefully avoided serious discussion of these while working our way northeast along the Canadian coast—there was too much other stuff to see to. But as Ganymede gently rippled her way eastward under easy canvas, with the Beast (as we've named the windvane) at the helm, we could avoid them no longer.