B. Mulcahy, Form IV Arts.

It was dark; so dark that the depth of it hit the mind as uncanny. There was an air of pride and mystery and unravelled secrets, but it was also simple. God’s own simplicity mixed with an earthly pride.

The wind lashed the mediocre sail. This was composed of a torn sweater and a ragged shirt. I was on my own, drifting in the unfathomed expanse of the Caspian. I could have rowed, but for the good it would have done, I used my intelligence in deterring a wasted effort.

This experience was due to an occurrence the previous evening, aboard the pleasure cruiser "Hammer and Sickle". The sea was rough and a damp convection fog had overhung us. The lookout in the crow's nest (may be rot, if he still exists) was asleep at his post and consequently we were rammed amidships by an oil tanker; the "Citizen of Kief". A gaping cavity appeared in our starboard hold. The boat was going down fast, so, to save my own perishing neck, I jumped overboard and inflated my rubber dinghy.

I was alone now, with the darkness, and all I had for companionship was a small portrait of my famous grandfather, Baron Trothausen, a nineteenth century adventurer. I had no fear. To do so would be to let down my ancestors, so I swallowed my pride and endeavoured to be gallant.

I knew only that I was somewhere in the region of the Persian coast. How near I knew not. It could easily have been between five and five hundred miles. Going by my knowledge of the Caspian I knew it couldn't have been over five hundred miles. Lest I mislead I will continue my story.

I stopped to rest for a while and entrusted my, seemingly unimportant, life to my genuine malayan-made rubber dinghy, a fortune to possess at that time, just after the turn of the century.

On opening my eyes, I realized that some of the mist had momentarily lifted, so I seized that opportunity to plot my whereabouts by any prominent landmarks (or sea monsters) but there were none. However, I was heartened by the new lightness and, despite the solemn breaking of the waves and ripples off the side of my craft, I lowered my sail and lifted my oars. They were heavy but this was because of my inability to manoeuvre them. They were really of quite minute weight for their size and lugubriously cumbersome appearance.

I began to draw my oars, a solitary figure on a vast horizon. I was a veritable small fish in a large tank but I dare say a fish would have been more content than I in my disheartening plight. I heaved this way and that, forwards and back, to and fro until it all seemed to, come to, no avail. The monotonous movement of the oars worsened the condition of my already badly blistered hands. I knew I would faint if I kept going much longer on an empty stomach, so once again my journey reached a terminus. I couldn't partake of a drink because to light a fire would have been to risk losing my all-precious dinghy.

I took out a tin of Portuguese sardines in tomato sauce. In my haste to remove the top of the tin I broke the opening key and had to scrape out the contents onto a plastic plate. This comprised my breakfast, (an apt word as it broke a fast), dinner, and supper for that day. I consumed this food with a bent spoon and a mouldy fork. While devouring those meagre fishes I knocked out one of my front teeth, to, my intense disapproval and pain.

When this operation had been fulfilled to the utmost I bent upon getting some sleep. I lay flat. my oversize feet dangling over the side and getting rather wet, as well as being a temptation to any sea fish which took a fancy to them, as there was no room for them in the interior of the boat.

Almost immediately I lay down I beheld a strange sight, possibly, I thought then, a mirage. As I neared it I saw it clearly to be an island. Frantically impatient I grabbed the oars and rowed for all I was worth, towards my island. Was it a barren island and had I wasted my time rushing for it? It was barren but I hadn't wasted my time, because, in the distance, not more than a mile away was the mainland. I approached it, riding the inrushing tide, the music of the waves and the rollers striking the cliffs was sweet and consoling to my ears. I raised my oars, bent them seawards, pulled sturdily and there I was. I disembarked, much more slowly than when I had jumped in a few nights earlier. I rushed along the beach, now and then jumping, for the joy of being alive.

I fell to my knees and thanked God that I had been preserved.

On sobering up, I ran back and pulled my dinghy under the comparative shelter of the gigantic cliff, I began to make a fire, the laborious way, using friction. Two pieces of cedar wood were my instruments. At last the twigs and reeds which I had assembled in a crescent shape, took fire and a gay flame leapt a full fourteen inches in the air. I dried my clothes over, then donned them, and cooked myself a meal of dried fish and a cup of coffee.

Afterwards I went up the cliff and wandered for a few hours, after which, acting on a Persian peasant's information, I found the main road to Teheran, the Persian capital. I duly reached the middle eastern, overgrown oasis and Persian capital town, Teheran.

Here I rang up the family home in Stalingrad, and managed to secure the family yacht for the journey back to Russia. I gave my dinghy to the Persian Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Men, who when drowning, clutch the final straw.