The wind was a big easterly, coming in gusts over the Mayo hills, the sun white and heatless. George, and my son Ben who had joined us, were asleep below. There were shearwaters cruising the swells beside us, black, liquid, effortless birds, like the sea turned aerial, and a fulmar now and then hung in the slot between the headsail and the main, flying with us on the current of air.  The Auk surged on the wind that morning, heeling out into the Atlantic, churning her way north, horse-like in her strength. I don’t know when I have felt so happy.