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I climbed back on board, and while I was getting dressed on deck, I examined the Dulcibella. She seemed very small but was, in fact, ten metres long and three metres wide. She looked large enough for sailing weekends close to the shore, but I could not imagine how she had made the journey from England to the Baltic. She was not a beautiful boat, either, sitting low in the water, and with a very tall mast. But in spite of her plainness, she looked very solid and safe, and I was grateful for that.

"Quite well," I replied crossly, and stepped out of bed into a pool of water. But I went up on deck and, diving over the side, buried my stiffness and bad temper in the loveliest fiord of the lovely Baltic.

After a restless night in my uncomfortable bed, I was woken next morning by water pouring down on top of me. I sat up suddenly and hit my head on the ceiling.

"Sorry!" cried Davies cheerfully from above. "I'm washing the deck. Come up and swim. Slept well?"

Davies cooked a surprisingly good breakfast, better than my London cook ever managed. As soon as we had washed the dishes, he said, "There's a good wind. Let's sail down the fiord," and disappeared up on deck. I joined him there, trying to be of use, but he did not need me, or even notice me. He seemed to be everywhere at once, raising the sail, pulling on ropes, and steering the yacht, all at the same time. Soon the Dulcibella was turning away from the shore and sailing towards the open fiord.

I sat on deck, lazily watching the green fields and little white houses pass slowly by. With the clear blue sky, and the sun shining on the water, it was a beautiful view. I looked round at Davies. He had one brown arm on the helm, and seemed lost in his thoughts. For a moment I studied his face more closely than I had ever done before. I had never considered him worth spending much of my valuable time on, as I had always thought him very ordinary. Now I was beginning to see how wrong I had been. In that calm face I saw honesty, and bravery. Above all, he was sincere. I began to wonder how often I had misjudged other people in the past; I had always been so confident of choosing the right men to know.

Suddenly Davies threw me the chart. "Just tell me which side of the buoy we should pass, will you?" he said. I looked in horror at the black marks on the paper, which meant nothing to me.

In a minute we were passing the buoy, probably on the wrong side, since sand could clearly be seen below us. Then there was a loud unpleasant noise under the boat, and the Dulcibella ran aground.

Soon he said, "Never mind, I expect it's all deep water round here."

"You must remember I'm a complete fool when it comes to sailing," I said. "You'll have a lot to teach me. I've only ever sailed with a crew to do all the actual work."

With a little effort we managed to push her off the sandbank, but I felt horribly guilty, and apologized to Davies.

"Crew!" said Davies, shocked. "Why, the whole fun of the thing is to do everything yourself."

"I'm awfully sorry! But it's just the opposite -- you may be all the use in the world when…" He did not finish, and became lost in his thoughts again.

"Well, I've felt all morning that I'm no use to you."

That night we anchored in calm water in the shelter of the shore, and after supper I asked Davies to tell me about his voyage from England. He spread his charts on the table, and took his logbook from the shelf.

"There's not really much to tell," he began. "My friend Morrison and I left Dover on 6th August, and sailed to Ostend, and up the Dutch coast. Then we travelled through Holland by river and canal to Rotterdam, on to Amsterdam, and back into the North Sea. We sailed round the Zuyder Zee, then north to the Frisian Islands. Look, they stretch for a hundred and ninety kilometres from west to east, along the Dutch and German coast."

"Isn't it rather dangerous sailing there?" I asked.

He suddenly became enthusiastic. "Look at this," he said, pointing to an area covered with little black marks on the chart. "It's all sand between the islands and the coast. There are channels through the sands but they're all wrong on the charts because the sands keep moving all the time. It's a wonderful place for sailing -- no towns or harbours, just a few villages with a shop where you can get food. The islands themselves are really just big sandbanks, you see."

"Didn't you ever take a pilot?" I asked.

"Not if you know what you're doing," he replied. "The Dulcibella can sail in very shallow water. Of course, you can't help running aground sometimes. At high tide those sandbanks are all hidden -- everything looks the same."

"Pilot? Well, yes, I did take one once."

"And what happened?"

"Oh! I ran aground, of course. It was stupid of me to follow him. I wonder what the weather's doing." He climbed quickly up on deck.

"Rain coming," he said, on his return. "And possibly wind. But we're safe enough here. Time for bed, I think."

"When was that?" I asked.

"You haven't finished your story yet," I said.

"Well, Morrison had to leave me when we got to Terschelling, the third island. I followed the Dutch islands eastwards to Borkum, the first of the German islands."

"That's only two weeks before you wrote to me," I said. "You were quick getting to Flensburg."

He ended with rather forced cheerfulness, and quickly rolled up the chart. He had cut short the description of the last part of his journey. Why, I wondered? Perhaps he did not want me to realize how dangerous a voyage it had been. Whatever the reason, there was some mystery about it, and I wanted to know more.

"About the 9th of September."

"Yes. I went to Norderney, the third German island, but then decided to go straight for the Baltic. So I sailed to the Eider River, took the canal to Kiel on the Baltic, then turned north for Flensburg. I was a week there, getting repairs done, and then you came, and here we are. And now we really must go to bed. We'll have a fine sail tomorrow."

"I say, do you think you'll like this sort of thing?" he said.

Early next day, we raised the sails and the Dulcibella made her way into the fiord, where the wind was blowing the sea into short sharp waves, and I began to enjoy my first day of real sailing.

"Tell me about the passage to the Eider River," I said. "That was rather a long one, wasn't it?"

"Only once. I took shelter behind one of the sandbanks one night. Oh," he added, "I didn't fix that hole in the deck above your bed. I'd better do that before the rain comes. You go to bed."

"Ah, yes! The scenery," he said quietly. "You must think I'm odd, liking the Frisian Islands so much. How would you like sailing among those sandbanks?"

He disappeared. While I prepared for bed, I wondered again what he was hiding from me. I heard hammering above my head, and then he reappeared and got into bed.

"About a hundred and twelve kilometres, I suppose."

"I should hate it," I replied, sleepily. "Did you ever see another yacht there?"

"Didn't you stop anywhere?"

"Good night."

"Only one," he said. "Good night."

"If the scenery's as beautiful as it was today, I shall."

Looking at the books reminded me that I wanted to read his log-book, so, while Davies was washing the dishes, I took it down and began to read. There was much detailed description of winds, tides, and distances travelled each day. I turned to the later part, about his voyage to the Baltic. The log-book reached the 9th September, then the next page jumped to the 13th, and described the following three days with only the most basic details:

During supper we talked about war, and especially war at sea. This was Davies's hobby and he knew a lot about it. When he took a book from the shelf, I saw that his books were all about war at sea, or sailing in small boats.

"Germany's a great nation," said Davies quietly. "I wonder if we shall ever have to fight her."

Again that night, we turned back to the shore, where we anchored. Among the trees, only a hundred metres away, we could see a little monument. We took the dinghy to investigate. It was a monument to those who had died in the war between Germany and Denmark, when the area became German. It was very simple, but, in the moonlight and the peace of the evening, it was very moving too.

14th Sept. Nothing.

13th Sept. Decided to go to the Baltic. Sailed 4.00 a. m.

Fair west-north-west wind. Anchored for night in the shelter of Hohenhörn sandbank.

Before going to bed, we went up on deck and stood, listening to the wind in the trees. "The wind is sure to move round to the north soon," said Davies. "I asked some fishermen about duck shooting, and they said the best place would be Schlei Fiord. That's about twenty kilometres south, on the way to Kiel. We need a north wind for that."

15th Sept. East wind. West by south 6 km, north-east by north 24 km. Arrived Eider River 11.30.

I then noticed a page had been torn out of the book, between the 9th and 13th, and realized that the entries from the 13th to the 15th had all been written at the same time. Clearly, the log-book had been changed after the event -- but why? And what event?

I decided not to ask Davies about it, feeling unwilling to force a confession from him. After all, I thought, it was probably nothing of any great importance.

"I don't mind where we go," I said.

On the second day, I heard the sound of ducks and, looking up, I saw about twenty of them, flying in a V-shape across our path. "You see," I cried. "There are ducks here."

"Yes. Anywhere round here," I said. We stood for a while, looking at the moonlight on the water. Then we went below.

I had told Davies that I wanted to learn to sail the yacht in all sorts of weather, so he made me work hard for the next two days. I learnt how to steer the yacht in a high wind, when to take the sails in, when to let them out, how to deal with the little storms that blew up the fiords. I learnt to work with ropes that were wet and stiff, and to tell the depth of water by using the lead line.

"You mean anywhere in the Baltic?" asked Davies.

"Yes," Davies said doubtfully, "but I've heard it's difficult to get permission to shoot them here." He paused, then without looking at me, he added, "If we were in the North Sea, among the Frisian Islands, we wouldn't need permission."

"You surely don't want to leave the Baltic?" I cried.

"I'm sorry, old man," he said with a smile. "I'm being awfully selfish. You've been a real friend coming all this way to join me. Let's get to Schlei Fiord and ask about the ducks. We must be almost there."

"Why not?" he asked.

"But what for? What's the point…?" I was beginning to lose my patience, and was about to say something that would have ended our holiday there and then, but Davies spoke first.

"But, be sensible, man," I said crossly. "It's almost October, the summer's over, and the good weather's finished. Every yacht like ours is back in harbour for the winter. We've had the good luck to find these lovely fiords to sail in, and we've just seen there are ducks here. Why on earth make a long and dangerous voyage back to those islands in the North Sea?"

"It wouldn't be very dangerous," he replied.

We soon found the narrow entrance to the fiord and the pilot's little white house, where the fishermen had told Davies to ask about duck shooting. The pilot was very helpful, and told us the best places to look for ducks.

Davies and I were friends again by the time we returned to the Dulcibella, and all thoughts of going to the Frisian Islands seemed forgotten. I went to bed, hoping for the chance of some duck shooting the next day, and expecting no more excitement than a sudden fierce storm blowing up the fiord. I had no way of knowing that my autumn holiday was about to turn into a very different kind of experience.