The Canaries

We dock at the Canaries under the watchful eyes of gulls. But the prospect of land under my feet has shrunk with the captain's medieval tactics. The terms of our punishment include the following:

1. You will remain afloat in the lifeboat throughout the day, towed behind the Frontier, from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon, for the boys, and from two in the afternoon until four pm, for the captain's daughter (I'm not surprised by her lighter sentence, I'm surprised she was sentenced at all! This captain will not be defied.) for a period of one week, no more, and certainly no less.
2. You will not be permitted access to the dining cabin and will take your evening meals alone in your sleeping quarters
   
3. At night the stowaway will, once more, be secured in the hold
   
4. You will, under no circumstances, be permitted leave to go ashore
   

This last point is a relief to the lad. He has no desire whatsoever to go ashore and covers his head under a canvas rain sheet. There is no sign of a black flag fluttering in the harbour and I'm starting to doubt the validity of his tale.

The volcanic Canary archipelago lies off the northwest coast of Africa, miles west of the Western Sahara. The sea currents here carry ships across the Atlantic to the coast of America and the Caribbean. If there are pirates to be found anywhere in this great blue abyss then there they will be. There is no shortage of stories about the pirates of the Caribbean. But our journey takes us south, following cold currents down the west coast of Africa, all the way to the Cape of Good Hope.

Surprisingly (given my current predicament) my spirits are lifted by this thought. The Cape of Good Hope is a pleasant enough sounding place and for once my thoughts drift toward a future that is not filled with savagery and death.

This misguided hope is short-lived.