Been a long time, Shipmates

Indeed it has; almost a year. I apologise profusely for the silence, my friends but we had a spot of bother. Where was Treliven? Where indeed. Last time I wrote I'd met an American canoeist, Thomas Edson Colt, and with my two other crew, we were last in a Bar in La Foret planning a trip down to the Morbihan. That great gulf, or sunken land of ancient stones and reefs, if'n you prefer. Set off we did but only a couple of days out, The Promise, our pilot cutter, was rammed and holed by a huge steel trawler. He'd come out of the smoke charging on his way back to France with a hold full of the silver darlin's and we were in the way. You'd think a big'n like us would leave a dent on his radar but Monsieurs head was occupied by other things and the Universe blinked and we were sunk. Well, almost. The Promise got clobbered for'ard of mid-ships and at an angle. The Bay of Biscay cascaded through her; more and more of the green stuff till I thought we were done for. I had time to activate the epirb, grab the panic box and launch the life raft but there ain't much time when your world is sinking beneath your feet.  The Promise held enough air in her sleek body and though she wallowed like a pig; down to her covering boards just about, somehow, somehow she floated. We four hurtled over the side and found the life raft. Four, I thought, thank Neptune for that, we're all sound. Pale, saturated and shakey like but sound. I'll tell 'ee more later; Kettles boiling in the new galley.