n the following morning, as Queezebag and I were adjusting sails up on the Widow maker, there was a call of "Ahoy!" and "All hands on deck!" Looking down, we saw it was our Captain, Mayhem: a thin, small figure of a man, who had a keen glint in his eye that overcame his stature and made him seem to us a giant.

"Listen up, lads," he began. "It is a fishing expedition ye're on and a-fishing ye shall go. England's markets pay handsomely for what codfish you bring back, but I have a proposition for whichever of you all has greater -- and braver -- aspirations." He then drew from his breast pocket a gold coin and held it high to the zenith, so that the metal gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight.

"There swims among the fish of the North Atlantic a cod whose cunning deviltry is known among captains and crewmen alike. No ordinary cod, this fish weighs close on 80 pounds and is the size of an eight-year-old child. His color is more black than gray and he has upon his back a yellow hump -- the mark of a coward. Many's a time I've had my hook in that fish, only to have him slither his way out of my every hold. I offer this gold piece to whoever among you can bring to me the corpse of 'Slippery Sam,'" and with this he raised a hammer and fixed the gold piece to a bollard.

In the days and weeks that followed, Queezebag and I worked steadily on our chores, me at my lookout post in the crow's nest and he at his tasks as boatswain. Between shifts, Queezebag and I worked together on a sword-mat, passing the time by weaving threads into a pattern, symbolizing man's limited free will in a fixed universe. I could not help but notice that my friend always had one eye on the coin as we worked and I made mention of this to him.

"I suppose I've just as good a chance at it than anyone else," said he. "Besides, with the exchange rate, that coin would be worth almost double in Canada."

It was during one of these reveries when we were interrupted by shouts of "Codfish! Straight ahead!"

We had arrived in Newfoundland at last, and now the real work would begin. The anchor was lowered and, one by one, each man was lowered into his dory with his fishing equipment and a jug of water.

We fished for days on end, 12 hours at a time. On a good day, I'd have to return to the Peapod several times to empty my dory of codfish. On less productive days, I'd sometimes hardly manage to fill it once.

Such were the circumstances on an afternoon in mid-May when a fog rolled in around noon and had thickened considerably by 2:00. I decided to return immediately to the ship but soon realized that I'd lost sight of her entirely and could see neither buoy nor beacon nor boat.

"Ahoy!" I called. "Ahoy! Is anyone about?"

Silence.

I knew only that my position was somewhere between the shore and our ship and I determined the direction of the shore by looking at the current. I began to row with great determination, and as level a head as I could muster, dead astern.