Blinded and deafened, I did not come to at once. When I did, I saw that half the island was gone, together with the yacht. Steam was swirling all around, winds were running riot, and boiled fishes were floating bellies up in the heaving sea. The heated rock had not withstood too quick a cooling and split into two. Poor Lom must have perished in the catastrophe, and the Rage was gone too. So much for our dreams. Fooks was in one piece though. He was spinning in the sea clinging to a board.
   Well, I decided it was not a bad idea, swam over to a board too, lay flat on it and awaited developments. Soon the sea calmed down and the wind subsided. Fooks and I fished out as much boiled fish as our boards could carry and surrendered ourselves to the mercy of the elements. We curled up on our boards and floated on parallel course in an unknown direction exchanging halloos from time to time: "How's life, Fooks?" "It's okay. Cap! Everything under control!"
   Under control, my foot! It was a sorry kind of trip, let me tell you. We were cold, wet and anxious. There was no knowing whether we were going to reach some dry land. And we were not given much room for manoeuvre. We were afraid to paddle or anything lest we attract sharks. Before you knew where you were you'd be short of an arm or a leg.
   So we spent our time in idleness and despondency. A day passed, then another. I soon lost count of days and nights. We had no calendar with us, all we could do was to check our ideas of time with each other.
   Then one night, when Fooks was sleeping on his board and I was suffering from insomnia, I decided to try and take my bearings. Without any instruments or tables, of course, I could not expect the reckoning to be precise. Still, I managed to establish that on that very night we crossed the International Date Line.
   You must be aware, young man, that this line can only be seen on a map, while in the open sea it is not observable at all. But people, crossing this line, perform a certain operation with the calendar. If they are sailing from west to east, they give the same date to two consecutive days, and if they sail from east to west, they skip one day altogether, having the day after tomorrow follow today, so to speak.
   So the next morning I informed Fooks after our usual morning greetings:
   "I want you to know, Fooks, that today is really tomorrow."
   He stared at me incomprehendingly and said stubbornly:
   "No, it isn't. I know my arithmetics. Cap."
   "Arithmetics has got nothing to do with it, Fooks," I told him. "Sailors take their cue from astronomy. While you slept through the night I made an observation by the Fishes."
   "I make my observation by the fishes too!" Fooks shouted. "Yesterday I had three fishes left, and today one and a half. I have a ration of one fish and a half a day. So it can't be tomorrow yet." I saw he wasn't with me. I meant the Fishes as a constellation, and Fooks spoke about his diet. I tried to explain: "Now, Fooks, look-what have you got right over your head?"
   "My hat!"
   "Nonsense!" I shouted. "Hat yourself! You have the zenith above you!"
   "What senate? God almighty, perhaps?"
   "Aw, let it ride," I spat in disgust. "And what have you got underneath you?"
   "What do you think? A board!"
   "Not at all. You've got the nadir."
   "I can't float on an idea. It's a very material board."
   There was no getting through to him. I made one last attempt: "What do you think your longitude is?"
   Without stopping to think, Fooks measured his board with his fingers and shouted:
   "About five feet I'd say!"
   What can you do with an ignoramus like that? I decided that this was no time to instruct him in navigation and astronomy and ordered to discontinue the counting of days. If we got into a civilised country, they would tell us. And out in the open sea it did not matter if the shark gobbled you up yesterday, today or tomorrow.
   Well, we drifted along for a few more days, and then one morning I saw a dark strip of land on the horizon. I wondered if these were the Sandwich Islands.
   We approached them towards evening. I had been right, it was the Hawaii.
   We had been lucky. The Hawaii are a heavenly place. Of course they used to have their shortcomings in the past. People were apt to get eaten there. Captain Cook was eaten for one. But the natives had long died out on the islands, the whites have nobody to eat, and there is no one to eat the whites, so all is nice and quiet. In all other respects the islands are a paradise on earth. The greenery is lush beyond description, with pineapples, bananas and palm-trees all over the place. But the greatest attraction is the Waikiki beach in Honolulu. People come here from all over the world to swim and to surf. Surfing, riding the waves on a board, is a traditional sport here, invented by the Kanakas.
   Jolly good show, if one thinks of it, riding a wave upright. And there were the two of us, clinging to our boards like blind kittens. I suddenly felt ashamed. Let's see if I can stand up on my board. I carefully picked myself up, straightened and stretched out my arms. And I kept my balance too! Standing upright!
   Fooks rose too. He stood there, holding onto his hat, swaying. But he kept his balance as well, and the surf carried us along in clouds of spray, like sea demi-gods. The beach came ever closer, then the wave broke, and we slid onto the beach like on a toboggan.