500 feet. As we moved, our miniature world of visibility, bounded by its walls of mist, moved with us. Half an hour later into it suddenly swam a fishing vessel. In a matter of minutes a fleet of small craft, probably fishing vessels, were almost below us. Happily their course paralleled ours. Although the gasoline in the tanks was vanishing fast, we began to feel land―some land―must be near. It might not be Ireland, but any land would do just then.
Bill, of course, was at the controls. Slim, gnawing a sandwich, sat beside him, when out of the mists there grew a blue shadow, in appearance no more solid than hundreds of other nebulous "landscapes" we had sighted before. For a while Slim studied it, then turned and called Bill's attention to it.
It was land!
I think Slim yelled. I know the sandwich went flying out the window. Bill permitted himself a smile.
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