The letter arrived as I was dressing for dinner in my rooms in Pall Mall on the evening of 23rd September 1902. London was deserted at that time of the summer, and I had become very bored and depressed with my daily routine of work at the Foreign Office, and dinner at my club in the evening. All my friends were away enjoying themselves at country house parties, but here was I, a fashionable young man with a bright future, who knew all the best people and belonged to all the best clubs -- and who was forced to remain in London because of my job.

I had encouraged my friends to believe that the Foreign Office could not manage without me during the summer, but the plain truth was that my work was neither interesting nor important. It consisted mostly of taking messages for absent officials, whose own holiday plans had upset mine.

Although my friends had sent me sympathetic letters, it was clear that I had not been greatly missed, and now, at the end of September, I realized another bitter truth. Two more days, and I would be free to start my holiday -- but I had nowhere to go! The country house parties were all breaking up, and though I could always go home to Yorkshire, of course, which fashionable young man wants to spend his holiday with his own family?

I was, without doubt, extremely depressed.

So, when a letter, with a German stamp and marked "urgent", arrived that evening, I felt a touch of interest, even excitement, as I opened it and read:

Yacht Dulcibella

Flensburg, 21st September

Dear Carruthers,

You will probably be surprised to hear from me, as it's a long time since we met. But I write in the hope that you might like to come out here and join me in a little sailing and, perhaps, duck shooting. This part of the Baltic is very beautiful and there should be plenty of ducks soon, if it gets cold enough. The friend who was with me has had to leave, and I really need someone else, as I'd like to stay out here for a while.

If you can come -- and I do hope you can -- send a telegram to the post office at Flensburg. I know you speak German perfectly, and that will be a great help.

Yours ever,

Arthur Davies

Then followed directions as to how to reach him, and a long list of various things for the yacht that he would like me to buy and bring out.

The letter was a turning point in my life, though I did not know it at the time. During my lonely dinner that evening I was undecided. Yachting in the Baltic in October! I must be mad even to think of it. I was used to the kind of yachting party that took place in warm summer weather, on comfortable, luxurious yachts with servants to bring meals and drinks. But what kind of yacht was the Dulcibella? Davies, I remembered, was not rich. We had been at Oxford University together and had been quite friendly, but I had not seen much of him in the three years since then. On the few occasions we had met, I found him rather dull.

His letter, too, seemed rather unpromising. His friend had left him -- why? The Baltic was beautiful -- yes, but what about October storms? Did I really want to spend my holidays freezing in the Baltic, with a man who was sure to bore me to death?

Two days later I was on the night ferry to Holland, with a huge pile of luggage and a ticket for Flensburg in my pocket. I'd had to go all round London to find the things that Davies wanted for the yacht, and I felt I was being generous and unselfish. Davies had said that he needed a friend, so I was doing a friend's duty and answering his call. It was just possible, of course, that I might enjoy myself as well.

The train took me east, then north, through Germany, and by ten o'clock the next evening I was standing on the station platform at Flensburg, and Davies was greeting me.

"It's awfully good of you to come."

"Not at all. It's very good of you to ask me."

We watched each other cautiously. Davies, in ordinary old clothes, did not look like my idea of a yachtsman. Where were the fashionable white trousers and dark blue jacket, like the ones lying neatly in my big suitcase?

"You've brought a lot of things," said Davies, looking anxiously at my luggage.

"You asked me to get most of them," I replied. "I've brought you the hammer, the rope and the rubber boots you wanted. Oh, and the gun you were having repaired."

"Oh yes! Thank you. I didn't mean those. It's that large case. You couldn't manage with just the small bag?"

"No, of course not," I answered, puzzled.

"Well, never mind. It's not far to the dinghy," and he bent down to pick up my luggage.

"But where are your men?" I asked.

"Oh, I never have any paid men on the Dulcibella," he said cheerfully. "The whole fun is doing it yourself. It's quite a small yacht, you know."

I looked at Davies in silent horror. Then I picked up my bag, frowning. "Come on, then," I said.

"You'll like the Dulcibella," said Davies, a little anxiously. "She's very comfortable."

Loaded down with my luggage, we made our way in the dark towards the harbour. Davies stopped at the top of some steps that disappeared into the darkness.

"The dinghy's down there," he said. "You go down and I'll pass the things down to you."

The stone steps were slippery, and I had only a wet piece of rope to hold on to. I went down carefully, conscious of collecting dirt on my trousers. Near the bottom, I slid on the mud and sat down with one foot in the water.

I climbed miserably into a very small boat.

"Are you ready?" called Davies from above. He passed down my large case, which almost filled the little boat. The rest of the luggage followed, making a big pile that shook dangerously every time I moved. Somehow Davies managed to climb into the boat, and started to row across the harbour.

"The yacht is a little way away," he explained. "I hate to be too near a town." Then, a few minutes later, "Look! There she is."

In the dark, I could just see a small yacht with a light shining on its mast. Davies jumped on board, and tied up the dinghy. "Now, pass the things up, and I'll take them," he called.

I did as he said, thinking unhappily of the last time I had been on a yacht -- the paint shining in the sun, the decks as white as snow, the men eager to help. How different from this horrible, clumsy business in the dark!

When we had finished, I climbed on board. The deck was covered with boxes and cases. Davies, who was staring at my big suitcase, suddenly seemed to wake up. "Come on!" he said cheerfully. "I'll show you around."

He dived down a ladder and I followed carefully. At the bottom I turned, and hit my head on the low ceiling.

"Mind your head," cried Davies, too late.

I looked around, and saw, by the light of an oil lamp, that I was in a tiny cabin, almost filled with a large table. On each side there was a bench-like seat, above which was a shelf holding books, maps, and so on. Through a small door beyond the table I could see an old cooker. The whole place smelled of oil, cooking, and sea water.

"You see," said Davies. "There's plenty of room to sit up straight." I wondered if this was meant to be a joke, as I was bent almost double. As I sat down, my knee came into contact with a sharp edge. "Watch out for the centreboard," said Davies. "She's a flat-bottomed boat, you know, good for sailing in shallow water. And in deep water you lower the centreboard. That way we can go almost anywhere."

He disappeared up the ladder and started passing down the boxes and cases. Soon they filled the small cabin to the ceiling. I heard him trying to push my case through the doorway at the top of the ladder.

"It's no good," he said, reappearing in the cabin. "You'd better unpack it on deck, and drop things on to your bed."

He lit another oil lamp, and proudly showed me the other cabin, which had two narrow beds built along the sides. "This is where we sleep," he said. "I'm not sure there's enough room for all your things, though. I don't suppose you could manage without some of them?"

"No, I couldn't," I said crossly. "Now, if you could move out of the way, I can get out too."

He suddenly looked miserable at the way I spoke, but, tired and depressed, I pushed past him and climbed up on deck. In the dying moonlight I opened my case and took out some of the things. The rest -- the clothes I'd worn on my last yachting holiday -- I put back in the case, afraid that Davies might see them. I closed the case, and sat down on it. There was only one good thing about this depressing arrival -- it wasn't raining. This thought made me look round at where we were.

The water was as smooth as glass. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the bright stars were reflected in the dark water -- stars above and stars below. I could see a few little white houses on one shore, and the lights of Flensburg in the distance on the other. In between, the darkness hid the open sea. Everything was quiet except for Davies moving things about in the cabin.

How it happened I do not know, but suddenly my mood changed. Perhaps it was the miserable look I had last seen on his face. Perhaps it was one of those moments of clear-sightedness that people sometimes have, when I saw my silly selfishness compared with a simple, generous nature. Or perhaps it was the air of mystery about the whole trip. I suddenly felt ashamed of myself, a fashionable young man, tired and dirty, sitting on a case that was almost as big as the "yacht" that was to carry it, and with no idea of what I was doing there. I decided, then and there, that I was going to enjoy this strange and unexpected adventure.

"Supper's ready," Davies called from below.

I went down the ladder, and was astonished at the change in the cabin. All the luggage had been put away, and everything looked neat and comfortable. There were glasses on the table, and the smell of hot whisky and lemon hid the earlier unpleasant smells. Davies could see from my face that I had got over my bad mood, and he was obviously happier.

We sat smoking our pipes and talking for a while, and then came the problem of going to bed in the tiny cabin. After bumping my head and elbows several times, I finally managed it and lay down between the rough blankets.

Davies, moving quickly and easily, was soon in his bed. "It's quite comfortable, isn't it?" he said, as he blew out the light.

I felt a drop of water on my face. "I suppose the deck's not leaking?" I said, as politely as I could.

Davies was out of bed in a moment. "I'll just put something over it for tonight," he said, "and I'll fix it in the morning. I've been doing some repairs but I must have missed that bit."

In a few minutes he was back in bed, and soon after, I fell asleep.