It was the latter part of 1951, and the small coal-burning steamer Baltkon was plodding eastward through the gray north Atlantic. It was the beginning of October, and the ship was making its way from St. John, New Brunswick, to the British Isles. Only a few days earlier, she had sailed from the Bay of Fundy with a full cargo of pulp-wood bound for British paper mills. Now, as the sun shone clearly above and the smoke from her funnel drifted lazily away, the hardy little cargo ship made her energetic way alone across the vast open sea.

The weather was exceptionally beautiful. In fact, for the north Atlantic at this time of year it was better than anyone could remember. As the crew went routinely about their duties on deck and below, they thought of the frequent other voyages they had made, on this ship and on others, by this route over the years. Luckily, the inevitable gales of autumn were late in coming this season, and so the ship ran smoothly and sleep was comfortable. Still, the Baltkon was quite a bit smaller than average ship in the north Atlantic trade, and her officers kept a keen eye to the sky and the wind for a change in the weather. At worst, it could delay their voyage by days; and make living conditions miserable.

Mid-day meals in the officers' saloon were traditionally the social events of the day. Everyone who was not on watch would gather around the one, large table at lunch time, and the usual atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. As a rule, no business was discussed at the table, and so the conversation drifted and roamed over a variety of topics. On this particular day, the talk came around to the ship's Chief Officer, a tall, granite-faced fellow very popular with the others. As they sipped at their coffee or finished up their plates of vegetables and cooked beef, the men listened with keen interest to his story. And the Chief Officer, slowly and vividly, began to talk of dreams.

In particular, he said, he had had one just last night that he felt might have been some kind of a premonition. Now, none of the officers or engineers around the table were about to admit that they had an inclination towards the superstitious, or that they believed in the supernatural. But the Chief Officer was a convincing fellow and, as I have said, he was well-liked and respected. He began to relate the dream to them, and slowly, the men began to listen.

In his dream the night before, the Chief Officer had seen again the Baltkon's recent departure from St. John. In the dream things happened just as they had in reality, but as things often do in dreams, they moved with a trancelike speed and smoothness. The Captain stood on the bridge, and the crew were at stations for casting off. The harbour pilot was getting ready to come on board, but because of the high tide at St. John it was impossible to use the ship's usual main gangway. So the pilot waited on the wharf as the main ladder was pulled up, and a second long wooden ladder was lowered far down to the pier. The pilot then clambered up and stood safely on the upper deck.

The Chief Officer and a sailor then took the end of the ladder to pull it back on board. Suddenly, as they began to heave it upwards, it shifted violently, yanking the officer forward. He began to lose his balance, and before he could grab a hold of the ship's rail he was falling from the high level of the amidships-deck to the wharf below. However, when he landed on the wooden jetty he was sitting upright, and had not felt the slightest blow or jolt in landing. Indeed, he felt quite comfortable sitting where he was, and so continued to sit right where he'd landed. The whole strange occurrence seemed like the most ordinary, tranquil thing.

Back on the ship, no one seemed to notice that he'd fallen and made no effort to call down to him or try to help him back on board. Nor did he feel any great urge to get back on board. Even though as he watched he could now see the ship was beginning to leave her berth, drifting slowly away. He gazed indifferently as she moved off.

It seemed as if a very short time had passed, then, but also a long time before the officer even looked at the ship again. By now, she was far down at the end of the basin and had begun turning to enter the lock. From this distance he could still see her clearly, and as she turned all of her familiar features came into profile. But, strangely, something was different about her. The Chief Officer knew that his ship had only two masts, one foreward, and the other on the afterdeck. But now the ship had four. She was slowly sailing away with two masts foreward, and another two by the stern.

In another few minutes the ship disappeared behind the warehouses and grain elevators far off down the waterway, and the smoothly sailing ship was gone from his sight. Still sitting on the jetty, the Chief Officer didn't feel the least bit worried about being left behind, neither did it concern him greatly that his departing ship suddenly had four masts. And then, the dream faded away and ended.

Many of the officers in the saloon, though interested by the look in their eyes, made indifferent noises once the story was finished. A few picked at their meals, or predicted that the voyage would have bad weather. The Captain, on the other hand, offered lightly that it perhaps meant good weather. In sailing days, he said, a four-masted ship always overtook a two-master. But everyone agreed that the dream probably was a portent of something unusual.

As all voyages at sea must finally reach an end (except, perhaps, the eternal wanderings of the Flying Dutchman), so it was that the tiny Baltkon finally one day reached her destination at Ridham Dock, in the Thames estuary near London. Tying up with her maximum cargo (some 2,300 tons of pulp-wood), it took a few days for the ship to be unloaded. During this time there was routine overhauling, minor repairs and general maintenance. Some changes of crew took place during this time too, as seamen frequently sign off ships whenever visiting a port in the United Kingdom. A British ship is never allowed to discharge her crew abroad except in highly unusual circumstances.)

The next voyage for the small steamer had already been contracted, sailing from London back west to St. John's, Newfoundland, with a cargo of cement. And after that she was to make a return voyage from Canada via Pictou, Nova Scotia, there taking on a cargo of sawn timber bound once more for the British Isles. As they sat in port damp, autumny weather began to descend over the Thames, telling them that winter was finally approaching. Meanwhile, the cargo of cement was loaded on board, carefully measured to leave buoyancy for the coal they would have to take on before leaving again on another long Atlantic crossing.

Cool mist gently covered the sea all the way to the Welsh port of Barry Dock, in the Bristol Channel. Here, they took on extra bunkers of coal as well as four passengers. Two married couples, bound for Canada as immigrants, had signed on with the ship as passengers, taking advantage of a fairly inexpensive passage to North America, rather than paying for more elaborate and expensive rooms on a passenger liner. Quite content to sacrifice some comforts, they nonetheless were warned that the Atlantic could be an unfriendly place in November. But both of the tough immigrant couples remained undaunted.

The ship set out on her voyage, then, and it was not long before the Captain's warnings became reality. The weather began to turn sour soon after they sailed beyond the Island of Lundy, at the mouth of the Bristol Channel. The decks of the now fully-loaded Baltkon were seldom free of the dark greenish-gray waters of the Atlantic, and the ship rolled heavily. Though the cargo had been stowed strictly according to the law for the steamer's size, the Tip was at any rate far too small for an Atlantic crossing at this time of year. Her engines were barely able to fight the rising wind and seas, and at times they could make no headway, except to toss and heave from trough to crest and down again on the great hilled surface of the ocean.

The radio weather service reported no sign of a letup in the weather, and the crew's hopes for a speedy round-trip now began to diminish day by day. The Master had decided wisely not to set their course along the so-called Great Circle, in higher latitudes, which frequently afforded favourable winds in the winter season. Probably he well knew that if forecasts proved wrong, the Baltkon would face even worse storms there.

The holiday season was now coming. Habitually at this time of year, men in ships at sea begin to guess at what port of call Christmas Day will find them. Among the crew of the Baltkon all seemed to be wishfully hoping for a swift return to England, where many had their families waiting. In fact, even before they had sailed from Barry Dock this had been a common topic of discussion. But now, as stormy days and nights followed one after the other with no sign of better weather, many of the crew now began to fear that they would not see Christmas at home this year.

Then, without a warning, the weather forecasts changed for the better. Report now came in of a deep low pressure area moving eastward; good news! The centre of the low was only a short distance to the south of the ship's position, and sure enough for a day they had favourable winds. But still, heavy swells continued to pound them head-on, and soon the cold front began to pass. The wind then shifted direction and began to grow in force. A fierce northwester was soon upon them.

The first day of the storm was the ugliest. Clouds were so dense that in the middle of the day it seemed as though dusk were coming on. The wind quickly reached the force of a whole gale; the waves around the ship were long and high, and the surface of the water seemed flattened. The crests of the rushing waves were blown into streaks of foam, and the air immediately above the surface looked to be full of steam as millions of tiny water droplets were blown into the wind. The officers on the bridge held tight as the small steamer twisted and turned between consecutive ocean rollers, which towered over them ahead and behind. As the evening approached, the sky became clearer and the clouds lifted somewhat; but the ocean was still furious. Where before only the tops of waves had crashed on deck, now great walls of water rolled over the ship, a huge solid green mass of surging seas completely filling the space between the four-foot high hatches and the bulwarks. In the gathering darkness with the black sky above, the boiling water below was illuminated by phosphorescent microorganisms around the ship, glowing in the wind in a weird, streaking light.

When daylight finally came the next morning, the weather was no better, and in fact it seemed that the length and height of the waves had increased. The crew, clambering perilously about on deck could see that in the night the storm had bent the starboard bulwarks inward by as much as a foot, indicating that the heavy steel ribs of the ship were also bent. The large deformation in the hull ran from amidships up to the forecastle — the entire length of the foredeck — hut fortunately the covers on the cargo hatches had not been blown away. They had resisted the heavy seas that battered over and around them. Shortly after breakfast, a giant wave rolled over the high amidships deck, eight feet above the main deck. It crashed on the bunkering hatch, swept away the covers, and poured tons of green seawater, torn tarpaulins and splintered wood down into the bunker space. In the cramped quarters between the amidships deck and the boat deck above, thousands of gallons of rushing water collided with the strong steel wall of accommodation to the engineer quarters, collapsing the substantial metal plating like tinfoil. The wave then tore the saloon door from its hinges and, rushing upwards, fractured the wooden floor of the boat deck above. The starboard lifeboat lying on it was actually lifted from its securing blocks, but escaped with little damage.

The northwester continued to blow strong for another two or three days before it finally showed signs of letting up. As soon as it was possible, the ship's carpenter went to work repairing as best he could the destroyed engineers' cabins, while the men, somewhat shaken, took temporary accommodation in spare rooms. Before dying away completely, the wind gusted up in one last spurt which, with a groan, bent and deformed the afterdeck bulwarks. As though done with a symmetrical eye, the entire starboard side of the steamer had now been battered an defaced from one end to the other by the already passing gale.

The passengers came on deck looking worried and uneasy. A professional seaman accepts bad weather on t he north Atlantic as inevitable, and as much as possible he avoids unnecessary worry about it. But no matter how much they pretended to take it all in stride, the officers of the battered ship found it a little difficult to reassure the passengers, who had never before been to sea. But one could hardly think this surprising. The officers knew amongst themselves that their recent damages were much worse than usual, even for a winter crossing and it must have showed no matter how hard they tried to hide it.

Fortunately, as the days went by the weather remained calm and the balance of the voyage to St. John's was made in fairly calm seas. Once they put into port, the passengers immediately disembarked, apparently deciding to make the rest of their journey by rail. Now the Baltkon would sit in harbour for two weeks, unable to set sail again after unloading her cargo until fairly extensive repairs were made to her hull. It was not until mid-December, that the sturdy little steamer was sufficiently patched up to continue her voyage, and head for further adventures on the icy waters of the Atlantic.

The Baltkon was now contracted to sail to North Sydney, on Cape Breton Island, there to replenish her bunkers. On this recent storm-tossed crossing she had used up much more fuel than usual while fighting the wind and waves, and the spare bunkers on board were running very low. Then, after refuelling, they would attempt to finish their voyage by returning to England.

On the day of their departure from St. John's the temperature was low, and the weather distinctly wintery. Ragged clouds drifted northward overhead in a leaden-grey sky, and as a reminder of the season, scattered snowflakes tossed in capricious flurries over the water. There was a southwesterly wind, not strong, but it was gusty and at times shifted several points on the compass — an ominous sign that the weather was unstable. But the seamen on board the Baltkon remained optimistic. They were well able to read the signs in the wind and sky all around them, but a sailor will seldom abandon his optimism or give up wishful thinking. Not that they didn't have enough reason. Every man on the ship could think of times he had hoped for good weather, and yet had seen it come out for the worst.

But a sailor will insist that sooner or later the weather has to get better, and, of course, by the law of averages he is right. It really didn't matter how one arrived at the idea that good weather was around the corner — any variation would prove acceptable enough. And so the officers and men of the Baltkon sailed westward, stubbornly believing that the clouds would soon clear and the wind would become nothing more than a light breeze.

In fact, during the first few hours' sailing down the eastern shore of Newfoundland, the weather got no worse, and so of course the crew began to feel more confident. They went about their duties briskly, and even though a few hours later the snow began falling more thickly, they continued to step lively, thinking it might still be a quick voyage home.

Late in the evening, however, as they were rounding the Cape Race headland, the vessel was assaulted with a sudden heavy westerly swell. From where they were, their course to Sydney would need them steering slightly south of west — almost directly into the heavy seas and strengthening westerly wind. With her cargo holds now empty and little coal on board, the Baltkon immediately began to buck-jump in the head-on seas. Any ship without an adequate ballast or cargo in this kind of weather begins to behave in an extremely disconcerting manner, and the small steamer quickly became no exception. Like so many other ships of her generation, she was built with very small water ballast tanks, and so, low on coal and light of cargo and ballast, she began to see-saw: approaching a coming wave the bow would rise high, and the propeller give a powerful thrust forward; but then the wave would pass, and the bow would dive into the trough of grey-green seas, raising the stern and bringing the propeller clear out of the water. High and dry, it would spin crazily, the ship would lose all momentum, and she would sit rocking like a barge until the next wave came along, raising the bow again. The Baltkon was hardly making any headway; far off on the shore, distant points of lighthouses and beacons, dim in the flying snow, were barely moving.

Night fell, and passed, and by the next morning the wind had strengthened. The radio weather service reported similar conditions over the entire Grand Banks area, and now the Chief Engineer began worriedly reporting to the Captain that though they had not covered even half of the distance to North Sydney, coal was getting dangerously low. With fair weather they would have been in North Sydney harbour by now; but in the face of the heavy weather, they were barely holding their position.

By afternoon, they could see the distant low, dark shapes of St. Pierre and Miquelon islands almost abreast of their position. The wind was now blowing gale force with blinding snow squalls sweeping the decks. The Captain and Chief Officer discussed the idea of taking shelter behind this group of French islands nearby. According to their charts, their position seemed well suited for cover during the storm but neither of the two men had ever before entered the small sheltered bay that lies between the two bodies of land. Night was coming again, and a decision had to be made without delay. They decided they would make a try for it.

The ship now had to be turned around in a howling gale, blowing by that time with a speed of almost fifty miles per hour. Fortunately the snow was falling only in patches, so the officers on the bridge could see just well enough to guide them in. The small steamer squeezed through the narrow entrance to the east of Miquelon island, and just as she passed into the bay, where the wind still blew but the waves died somewhat, a heavy snowfall began to come down drawing a heavy curtain over the horizon. They had just made it into shelter. Darkness descended over the bay as the starboard anchor was let out to 22 fathoms of cable. The engines were stopped.

The anchor cable quickly pulled tight, as the wind drove the ship forward in the gathering darkness. The short, heavy-linked chain, did not prevent a drift under the pressure of the increasing gale. More chain was quickly let out, but the anchor was definitely not holding on the bottom. It would grip, and then go slack, and then grip again for a moment. Sixty fathoms were let out, then seventy-five fathoms, but still the chain links rattled and trembled in the water — unmistakably a sign that the anchor was being dragged on the bottom and the ship was drifting. Then, abruptly, the rattling ceased. The tension on the cable was lost and the heavy chain swung loosely from the bow. The pressure of the gale had snapped it as the wind now began to reach 110 miles per hour.

The ship, drifting freely, turned sideways to the direction of the wind and began to roll. The engines were re-started and put into reverse to bring the stern into the gale and hold it there. Not willing to risk losing the port anchor as they had the starboard, it was decided that they should instead make for the open sea again. The gale was now behind them, blowing them forward. No one could make out their exact position in the heavy, blinding snow. There was no sign even of the lights of St. Pierre island, only a few miles off. They could only guess at a probable course that would take them around the rocks at the end of the island and into the open sea, as they had no radar. In those days, very few ships had.

The engines continued working astern but they were drifting forward, pushed by the wind. Driven snowflakes were overtaking the ship and tumbling past her, faint and ghost-like in the navigation lights. A heavy canvas cover on the open rails above the wheelhouse was rent in a loud crack by the storm, and the shreds of it flew down-wind like seagulls.

Suddenly a shuddering thunder was felt through the body of the ship. Seconds later, there were two more heavy jolts and the ship jerked sharply. The officers on the bridge grabbed wildly for support until the ship steadied. The message was immediately clear to everybody — the ship had struck rocks. At once, the engine was stopped to prevent propeller damage. On the heaving deck, men scrambled to the boat stations to ready a lifeboat for launching. No one could tell how bad the damage was, or even if the ship was firmly resting on the rocks. The Captain shouted in the wind to the Chief Officer to send out an SOS. In less than a minute he had made his way to the radio cabin and distress signals were penetrating the wintery night. Almost immediately, coastal stations in the vicinity answered, and a few ships in the area answered the call. But though all were willing to help, no ship could risk approaching the dangerous waters where the woeful steamer lay.

And then, just as suddenly, the ship was rolling again. Apparently she had, under the pressure of the wind, broken free. Relieved to be back on open water, there was nevertheless now the danger to the crew that their ship might sink if the bottom of the hull were wide open. Pumps were quickly started, and several men took lights to search the dark, lower holds. Fortunately, it seemed after a few minutes that the only damages were far forward in the cargo holds and that the water coming in could be controlled.

Meanwhile on the bridge eyes were peeled for the sight of more rocks breaking the waves. They were still drifting in the general direction of dangerous shoals. The port anchor was lowered to 30 fathoms, where it hung without touching bottom. They let it hang at that depth hoping that the anchor would catch on the sandy bottom and stop them from running onto more rocks. The engines were tested, and though battered they still seemed to be in running order, so now they attempted to steer the ship south. Fortunately they could take a heading from a radio direction beacon on St. Pierre island, and now the gale shifted direction clockwise and helped them reach the safe, open sea. Soon, the danger of the rocks was past. However, though the pumps worked steadily in the holds overnight, the level of the water there was rising.

Daylight broke over the open sea with a cold, moderate wind and only the occasional gliding snowflakes. Now able to take a bearing, they could see far in the distance the coastline. They had drifted farther in the night than expected. But the main engines were now working properly, and they turned once again for North Sydney. The pumps continued to work all morning, but still water was coming in forward and now the bow of the ship was settling noticeably deeper in the rolling sea. And as it did, the stern rose higher and higher, until the propeller and rudder were almost out of the water. Fortunately a Canadian ship, the Sir Arthur Cross, had found the Baltkon and was drawing up beside her, ready for rescue.

By radio it was arranged between the owners of the Baltkon and their insurance company that a salvage vessel would help the damaged ship reach North Sydney. Sure enough, before darkness came that evening the scarred old tug Foundation Josephine arrived and attached a heavy towing line. Trying to tow the stricken steamer was not too successful, however, with her lying in the water so unevenly; the stern was by this time high in the water, and the rudder was practically useless in steering the vessel behind the tug. As a result the ship veered from side to side during the night, and the line parted again and again.

By the next morning there came news of another approaching storm. Now the ship was abandoned by her crew, after the towline was made fast to her stern. The men were taken on board the salvage tug where they mournfully looked back at their beloved vessel being towed along stern-first. In profile, she looked ridiculously as though trying to dive under the waves — bow now almost even with the water, and her stern poking up in the air.

It took another half a day of precarious towing before the ship was finally beached at North Sydney. It still is a wonder that she survived the night in the state she was in; any seaman knows a ship in such a state as the Baltkon is higly unstable and easy to capsize. But now her hull was resting on the bottom, and soon large pumps had been brought on board. Her holds were quickly freed of water, and by keeping the pumps going they were able to nurse the ship into a small drydock (or marine railway) that luckily happened to be nearby, at Sydney. Though it was a tight fit, the small dock was enough for the tiny Baltkon. And, they didn't really have much choice, it being the only one in the area. So the little steamer made a shaky trip to Sydney under her own power, and there she was dragged up on dry land. Contracts were made for repairs by the dock, but the crew remained on board. It was the 23rd of December that day. Not a single one of the crew could have imagined that Christmas would come to them in such a place — high and dry at Sydney.

Repairs on the vessel dragged on for eight long months. Granted, damage to the ship was fairly extensive — a good two-thirds of her hull and the strong steel ribs of her frame had to be straightened out or replaced. But it wasn't entirely the amount of work that made for such a long delay. In reality, it was due to the craftsmen and management of the dry dock itself, who were completely lacking in skill and experience in this kind of job. Having had little or no opportunity to ever work on an ocean-going vessel (even one as small as the Baltkon), they were constantly being told by insurance company adjusters to dismantle and repeat the same repairs again and again. Obviously, the long delays and endless repetitions began to make for a great deal of bad blood between the shipowners and the dry-dock managers. Later, both sides would claim breach of contract.

But for now, the ship was stuck at Sydney. And during this long period of waiting, the crew had little to do but stare wistfully at their poor vessel, or wander the island, exploring. The Chief Officer, during this time, had a good deal of time on his hands and began to reflect on the singularity of their prolonged voyage — of which they had yet to complete even the first half. (On a British ship you measured a voyage in two halves, one going out, the other returning home.) So many other voyages he had made with this ship, and with others, without trouble or delay of any kind, turning a profit for the ship's owners. But this time they had had two serious mishaps at sea since sailing from England, and the last one was nearly a disaster. It was all like a Gordian knot to the quiet, thinking officer, one he was determined to unravel.

He was reluctant to accept these events as random occurrences. Instead, he searched for the inexplicable cause of it all. The threads, he felt, were all around him: his fellow sailors and their behaviour; the strengths and weaknesses of the ship, her materials, and her equipment; and, the idiosyncracies of the sea and sky. He tried to see it all practically, his pragmatic mind seeking to discard everything about it that seemed illogical or without rational explanation. But the months passed, and no answer came. And finally, it was the middle of September, and the drudgery of repairing the ship had finally come to its procrastinated end.

The originally contracted cargo of lumber from Pictou had been cancelled, and now the Baltkon was to carry a load of paper pulp from Sept Iles to Grimsby, in England. After leaving Sydney, they would sail to North Sydney for coal bunkers, and then on to Sept Iles. One and all sighed with relief; at long last, they could proceed on a safe, uneventful voyage. Everyone would settle back into his routine work, carrying out his duties and quickly forgetting their recent hard luck.

So the Baltkon now sailed to North Sydney for the coal and made her way into the harbour there, intact and well. But the little ship had yet to leave her bad luck behind. As they were approaching the wharf where the coal hoists lay, the vessel backed in too close to a heavy wooden float. Nobody on the bridge even knew that it was there, as it lay partially submerged and close astern. The harbour pilot, in charge of docking the vessel, also forgot, for a moment, to look astern. They collided with the float with a loud noise and all four cast iron blades of the propeller were sheared off. Only the mutilated stumps were left on the hub of the shaft, aimlessly churning the water until the engines were stopped.

There was a spare propeller on board, fortunately, but to remove the broken stump and refit the spare required that the ship be raised up so her shaft and aperture came out of the water. This, of course, meant the ship had to go back to a dry-dock — but North Sydney had none. Sydney dry-dock, though only a few miles away, was as good as on the moon to them because of all the recent arguing over the other just-finished repairs. (That is, unless the ship's owners were willing to pay triple prices.) The next nearest dock was at Halifax, 110 nautical miles away.

Fortunately, there was such a thing as local ingenuity. A small mechanical workshop was found at North Sydney whose enterprising owner agreed to replace the damaged propeller right where the ship lay, provided the crew could tip the ship forward far enough to bring the stern up out of the water. They only needed to get the shaft and opening a few inches above the surface. Quickly, the ship's officers made some calculations and set to work. First of all, their replenishment of coal was loaded entirely at the forward end on the deck. Next, the forward cargo holds were flooded with water to what, by calculation, was about the right depth. It all began to remind them of the same predicament they'd been in a few months previously, when it was so terrifying to see these same holds full of water. Soon, the little steamer became a queer sight in the harbour of North Sydney; her bow nodding deep into the oily water, her stern reaching toward the grey clouds above. She looked like a big heron diving for a fish.

But the tail shaft opening still wasn't above the water. Undaunted, the officers re-checked their figures and played with estimated weights a little more. The ship shifted accordingly, the stern a little higher. Encouraged, they then flooded even more water into the forward holds. And, sure enough, the stern finally rose enough so that the shaft and opening cleared the surface. Without a pause, the local mechanics tackled their job, the damaged propeller was removed and the new one fitted. With great relief all around, the whole unusual operation was soon over successfully, and all that remained was to right the ship again. So by hand, the hundreds of tons of coal on deck were now moved again back to the bunkers amidships. It took another two days, but finally the Baltkon, new propeller and all, lay at an even keel.

A funny thing about this most recent accident was how bad it was, when you thought about it. Life at sea, of course, is naturally hazardous, and it is not in the least unusual for a ship from time to time to damage her propeller. Usually it gets banged on floating objects in rivers and estuaries or while navigating through ice. But even when it does happen, usually you will only lose a blade; or, more commonly, bend one or two. And that's what made this recent accident to the steamer so uncommon, indeed, very rare — the ship had been totally immobilized. As well, it was a remarkable coincidence that this kind of major mishap would follow so closely on two others, and all in a single voyage! Once again, while repairs brought their progress to a halt, the Chief Officer wandered the deck pondering this strange course of events. His practical outlook, to tell the truth, was getting a bit rattled. It began to occur to him, in fact, that events were forming a mysterious sequence. After all, for a number of years the Chief Officer had sailed on a variety of ships without ever once letting himself get carried away by superstition. And so, once again, as he paced on the deck, he sought a level-headed explanation for the happenings. He ran back in his memory over the years of experiences he had (never too dull in themselves) at sea, but he could not remember even once ever seeing or hearing of similar calamities; three alarming events, in close succession, on a single voyage. And then, as he paused and leaned over the rail, from the far corner of his memories there came a moment of intuition, a little flash of light that suddenly brought the solution to him. Of course! For a year now he had tried to manipulate everyday events, real and abstract, into shapes and contours which could be in conjunction with the mystical number four! But he had always failed, and yet now it came to him again: the mysterious dream, so deeply etched into his memory, of their departure from St. John's. The ship had four masts! And then, he thought again of the three successive misadventures they'd had so far on the Baltkon, and it all seemed so clear! So clear, that these three events were connected ...

But abruptly, the end of the thought brought him up short. A shiver went down his back as he stood on the deck. For what if the three misadventures that had recently struck the vessel were part of this mysterious number four? And as he thought this, an ominous cold fear touched lightly on his back.

Was there now a fourth disaster to be met? Again, he thought of the dream: his ship with four masts. It appeared vividly before his closed eyes. He opened hem and shook it away. He turned his practical mind to the problem again, instead, and it calmed him. He wasn't about to accept this intuition completely, without reservation. And, slowly, as he began again to walk along the deck, searching for some other possible interpretation, he decided that in any event he would be prepared for whatever might happen.

After three more weeks of delay in North Sydney, they were finally at sea again under a brilliant sunny sky. The ill-treated little steamer was now finally sailing towards Sept Iles, and for once life on board was settling back into its traditional mold. Everyone , appeared greatly relieved, and even the frosty late season weather did not impede the sailors as, once in Sept Iles, they energetically arranged the cargo or set about the hundreds of other chores that are the daily life of running a ship. Down on the piers, the longshoremen busily carted bales of pulp paper aboard and soon the cargo holds were filled to capacity. Three more layers of pulp paper bales were laid out on deck. Damp to begin with, they had all soon frozen solid.

And then, it was finally off for home. The weather was beautiful this time, and held so for days. Not a single sign of bad weather could be seen, nor was it mentioned in the slightest in the radio weather reports that came in twice daily. Manning the radio room like a hawk, the Chief Officer daily collected these reports and jealously guarded them from being lost or misplaced. You might say his actions were those of one who had been forewarned, and he treated his pile of good predictions like a pile of paper talismans. But eastern passages on the Atlantic are always more favoured by the climate than westward ones, no matter what the season, and now the officers and crew began to enjoy the sensation of an uneventful crossing home. Their cargo was well loaded in the holds, and the deck cargo well strapped and covered from spray. This was, in fact, their chief concern — as a dry bale of pulp wood soaked in water could quickly swell up dangerously.

Christmas holidays finally seemed within reach. In continuing pleasant, calm weather they had left behind them the low, dark green contours of Anticosti island and the sharp sculpture of Bird Rock, and were at present sailing between high grounds on both sides: to the right, streaks of snow could be seen skirting the hump of Great Breton Island, and off to the north there lay the great sandy cliffs of the southwestern tip of Newfoundland. The barometer was falling only slightly as they again drew near their old menace, well known (and by now well disliked) St. Pierre Island, and passed into the open sea. The sky was clear, and the air crisp.

Radio weather information now advised them that there was a wide low pressure area newly forming between the American continent and the Bermuda Islands. The wind turned into the east and settled there (and as if bewitched it would remain there for two weeks), and soon the seas began to build up and the speed of their homeward voyage began slowing. But still, these were not exactly ocean rollers that they were running into. They were moderate waves that angrily tossed their white crests against the bow of the ship, occasionally sending spray onto the decks. Soon the ship was rolling continuously, an effect everyone hated.

High on the navigation deck, the Chief Officer was pacing up and down on his watch. Over and over he racked his brains with the unsolved problem of his dream, and tried to foresee in their present condition what could happen to cause a fourth disaster. By now he had accepted that their fate was inevitable, that a mysterious doom was invisibly this very minute dealing them their next hand of bad luck, and of course he thought the most obvious peril would be another gale. But as he looked around he could see that the weather, though poor, was hardly threatening with any kind of force. All it had done, in fact, was to slow the ship somewhat.

The days became weeks, the steamer plowed onward, and soon they were twenty-one days out of Sept Iles with Ireland now not very far off. Still, their crossing was very slowly proceeding, and now the Chief Engineer began to fret over the coal. Consumption was far ahead of their rate of progress, and day after day they continued to make consistently poor time. He began to get restless and worried. Routinely he kept the ship's master daily informed of consumption rates and how much coal they had left, and soon it began to become clear that without additional supplies of coal they had no hope of reaching Grimsby. On consulting their charts, the first convenient bunkering station was found to be Falmouth, on the southern coast of Cornwall.

More days passed, and the weather began to improve, but now it was too late for them even to reach Falmouth with what coal they had left. In fact, even Irish ports were outside their range. By radio, telegrams were hastily sent to the owners for instructions. The ship was soon steaming with sweepings collected from the corners of the bunkers, and nothing else. Taking some of their pulp paper cargo, the tried burning it in the furnaces, but it produced no usable heat. The ship was cut back drastically on power consumption, and even the cook began preparing meals that were — the joke was made, lamely — half-cooked. Galley coals might as well have been lumps of gold.

When finally a large tugboat arrived to take the crawling ship in tow, there was barely steam left in her to run the pumps and the steering mechanism. They were in open seas, 300 miles short of the nearest coal station, but finally with help they were able to make it. The officers, needless to say, were doubly uncomfortable with their predicament — not only was this yet another new cost the owners would have to bear on this voyage, but being towed into port without a breath of steam left on your own ship was embarassing. Although it wasn't their fault to have been victimized by the merciless sea, no sailor likes to be helplessly the object of mercy no matter how reasonably offered.

By the time the Baltkon at last arrived in Grimsby, home again in England, it was the middle of December. The Chief Officer now had no doubt that he had seen all four masts of his vessel, first glimpsed over a year ago. Running out of fuel at sea is a very unusual thing, and so it provided the natural final link in the chain of events. Now he felt a great relief well up in him from deep inside, as though the last payment of an enormous debt had finally been made, and this feeling, he told himself, was his release from the grip of a supernatural influence.

Some time later, a reporter came from a Grimsby newspaper to interview the officer on the ship's unusual adventures. Now home again and feeling free at last, the Chief Officer timidly included the story of his dream in his tale of adventures, pointing out the strange coincidence of events afterwards. Bringing it out in the open in fact made him feel better, and by the end of the interview he attempted to convey to this man of the land something of his own deep, profound feelings.

But the story was printed, and alas, when it appeared in print it had all the predictable flair. It described the unusual events of their voyage in detail, but nowhere did it mention of the dream. Apparently, what the Chief Officer had tried to convey to the man had never been truly understood.

But it would never be forgotten by the sailor. And all his life, he would remember well ... that a warning at sea will often come in the quietest and strangest of ways.

Stephanie Bergman

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