Quotes from Brian Callison

CAN OFFER YOU A TOW OR WOULD YOU PREFER US TO HEAVE TO AND WIND UP YOUR ELASTIC BANDS AGAIN SIGNED CLINT CHIEF OFFICER END.

You also killed Despatov," he countered. "You and your damned seamen." It was the crocodile killed Despatov," I pointed out as reasonably as I could, still hoping to find a compromise. "We can hardly be held responsible for the actions of every crocodile on the River Beet-" SILENCE!" Bormann screamed.

His sextant is a natural extension of any seaman navigator; virtually a part of him. Even today, in a maritime world of satellite precision fixing, the sextants are as much a necessity as they were aboard the Indiamen of old. No well-run merchantman will make an ocean passage without each and every one of her deck officers reporting to the bridge before midday, sextant in hand in preparation for 'sights'.

But it would still be his own personal fear which would force him to stay aboard with the trapped Operator Stronach, not his bravery. Because Captain John Herschell's private nightmare was that of being seen to fail in his responsibility to those under his command. The prospect of being drowned or blown to bloodied lumps was secondary to a terrible wound like that.

It shouldn't have happened. But then, theoretically, no collision at sea should. Collisions are invariably an accumulation of small, individually insignificant events which, if unnoticed, make up the formula for disaster. Like this one, where the corvette watchkeeper's irritating elan had needled Evans into a disgruntled attitude

And Chief Engineer Graham? He never even tried to leave his post at the controls. He simply stood there and watched as the water rose to engulf him: and reflected on how much better it was to enjoy ten seconds longer as a ship's engineer than live ten more years as a friendless, shore-bound relic. And then he died too, in the most contented moment of his life.

only it was too late by then. Far, far too late. To preserve the life of Captain Jonathan Herschell: the last of those wartime merchant sailors who had struggled to bring Highlander into the haven of Loch Fhadaig. And some of whom had survived every hazard the Devil had cast before them. Except for the Good People themselves. Of a quiet wee village called Laichy.

It was a state called fear which afflicted Second Officer James Devlin, or perhaps - considering he was still aboard Highlander on that wild evening - a state called, simply, courage. Because you can't produce the second without experiencing the first. There are no brave men who haven't first tasted the sourness of their own inward terror, yet continued despite it.