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feeding. I knew that my chances of attracting an albacore were min-
imal, and that, if such a miracle occurred, the question of who had
caught whom would not be easily resolved. But the wild dream of it,
goaded by stories that echoed in the catacombs of childhood memory
and a yen for improbable glory, had dragged me, almost beyond will,
into this furious sea.
Had the sun not been shining, had the sky and waves been cut from
slate, not crystal, the sea that now looked inviting to me would have
appeared forbidding, perhaps terrifying. But we are simple creatures,
and a sprinkling of stardust dazzles our senses.
Had the quest not been so arousing, had the ride been any less
thrilling, I might have challenged the grounds on which I continued to
head out to sea. This is a roundabout way of telling you that I failed
to notice that a journey which had begun foolishly was now progress-
ing towards madness: the wind had both freshened and swung to the
south-west. By the time I looked around to see what progress I had
made, I had been blown two miles up the coast.
I decided to start fishing, sooner than I had intended, while paddling
back along the shore. I paid out the line from the heavy reel, and the
ridiculous creature fluttered away out of sight into the green water. I
leant forwards and hacked at the sea, fighting through the waves, loving
the sensation of the water streaming past the bows. But when I turned
to check the marks, I realized that I had gone nowhere. Only then did I
see how much trouble I was in. I stowed away the tackle as quickly as I
could, strapping the rod to the boat once more, stuffing the tackle back
into the bag and buckling it down securely. Even so, by the time I had
finished I had drifted a good distance further up the coast. The wind had
stiffened again and now it was coming from the south - directly against
my line of travel. The shingle beach closer to the rivermouth had given
way to rocks. To the north - the direction in which the wind was trying
to push me - were cliffs. The tide was up and the south-westerly swell
hammered into them. The breakers sounded like a motorway.
I put my head down and took on the wind. A kayak is a wonderful
vessel; it can make way through remarkably high seas - as long as the
wind is low. Against the wind it is a feeble instrument. There is a
point - roughly eighteen knots, or a force five - beyond which it can
make no headway: the resistance offered by the paddle and the body
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