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    Lieutenant Grant pointed over the starboard bow of the sea boat, “That looks a good spot.”
    O ’Neill leaned forward, “Oars!” the emphasis on the word made it sound more of an insult than an order. The four oarsmen jerked their blades clear of the water and the boat slid in relative silence towards the craggy face of the rock.
    Deep under the overhang a series of caves could be seen burrowed deep into its stony face. “Hold water.” the heavy ash oars dropped as one and the boat instantly lost way.
    They lay there , still in the water, bobbing in the sheltered cathedral-like grandeur of the inlet. All around the rock face rose sheer to a neck-arching height, claustrophobic in its immensity.
    “ Right you two,” said O’Neill pointing at the two nearest oarsmen, “Boat yer oars and grab a hold of this little beauty,” he slapped the heavy warp anchor at his feet, the noise echoing around the rock walls like a gunshot.
    Between the three of them they wrestled the anchor up onto the gunwale, the boat listing alarmingly.
    At a nod from Grant , it was eased over the side until it hung fully submerged, held in place by a stout rope attached to a warping bollard set in the pointed stern of the whaler.
    “ Lower away,” ordered Grant.
    The anchor sank slowly through the green blur of the deep to settle on the bottom.
    “All right, coxswain, “I’ll take her in, you take charge of the warp…Give way… together”.
    The final stage of the approach up to the treacherous rocks was made with understandable caution. The warp pulled taut, rising from the clear waters, the boat only feet from the rock promontory.
    O ’Neill made fast at the stern and called, “Over you go, ‘Tug’.”
    The seaman scrambled onto the gunwale, paused a second, finely balanced, and then stepped almost gracefully across onto the rock ledge. The sea boat backed away.
    They repeated the manoeuvre farther along the cliff face, again choosing a site with a ledge and an adjacent rock outcrop to which they, would later, secure the destroyer’s mooring.
    The boat turned back towards the inlet’s entrance, the men leaning back into their oars as she gathered speed. As they moved out they made the soundings dropping buoys to form a marked channel deeper than the ‘Nishga’s’ draught. They worked swiftly, for as long as there was sufficient water there was no need to record the exact depth. They needed to save time in any way they could for already a dawn-blue light glimmered in the eastern sky.
     
    *     *     *
     
    As the ‘Nishga’ nosed her way slowly in towards Olaf’s Inlet, Grant climbed the bridge ladder two at a time. Barr sat huddled in his chair, he gave a quick salute.
    The channel’s marked, sir. Basically we’ll need to keep her over to port all the way in. There’s a shelf of rock to starboard at around one fathom but apart from that, the Inlet’s deep enough.” He turned and pointed,” There’s the first buoy, it marks the beginning of the shelf.”
    “ Right you are, Number One, good job. You’d better get for’ard and check the Bosun’s arrangements”.
    “ Yes, sir, I’ve briefed the coxswain of the sea boat he’s ready to lead the way in.”
    “ Very good,” Barr leaned over a brass voice pipe, his breath misting the painted brass “Port five, both engines slow ahead.”
    He listened with half an ear to the acknowledgements from the wheelhouse as he watched the flagstaff swinging rapidly left across the rock face. He could feel the eyes of the bridge crew boring into his back. He couldn’t blame them; it was an unsettling pastime, watching that unforgiving rock draw closer and closer. He deliberately turned away, “Any Kye left?”
     
    *     *     *
     
    Grant arrived on the fo’c’s’le as the ship lost way and started to roll lazily in the easy swell. He looked up at the cliff, now noticeably nearer; but for the ‘Skerries’, as the islands were known, their task