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I was singing when I went below at 4 a.m. after my two-hour turn at the wheel. I stowed a large chunk of “Best Irish Fruit Cake” and flopped down on the settee to catch a nap until 6. By this time hours at the wheel and the effects of the sun and wind of the previous days’ sailing had begun to tell. It was only minutes after my head touch the settee that I was a sleep.
A crash somewhere about me brought me to half consciousness. Seconds later there was a more violent crack. The whole vessel trembled and lurched drunkenly. Commotion descended. Above the racket I heard Don yell: “Hell. We’re aground Murray. We’re aground.”

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