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Between the Muralls de Confit, the Bareta de Casaret and the Roca de Espioca, lay deep tortuous gullies far down under the sea. Tio Batiste could drag a net through the winding channel there without catching on a single rock, and without scooping up a mass of kelp that would break your tackle through. A dark night of fog! Not a lighthouse visible! Thick gloom ten feet ahead!
The ship still carried passengers and freight, the commissioned ranks were the passengers while the other ranks were freight; eggs were served daily to the former, sometimes returned uneaten but with a cigarette butt stabbed through their yolks but nary an egg was seen at our tables We had jam and marmalade in plenty, coming in seven-pound tins, some of it from South Africa, apfelkoos confit that I believe was apricot jam, that's what it tasted like anyway.
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