The romance of the sea has not been killed by
steam or wireless. Last week there came news of the safe landing of the crew of the Trevessa,' a cargo boat which went down in the middle of the Indian Ocean as long ago as June 4th. Steamers hurrying to the rescue had searched in vain for survivors. Meanwhile the crew in two open boats were sailing westward towards the nearest land, fifteen hundred miles away. The captain's boat reached Rodriguez on June 26th, and three days later the first officer's boat was found off the coast of Mauritius, several hundred miles further west. It is good to read of the cheery self-restraint of the British sailors in the captain's boat, who, encouraged by an old salt of sixty—a re-incarnation of the immortal Masterman Ready—kept to a daily ration of one biscuit and as much water as would fill the lid of a cigarette tin and had a week's supply left at the end. The men in the other boat, still more unfortunate, had to depend for half the time on such rain as fell. Several Lascars died as the result of drinking sea-water, though they must have known, as Homer's Greeks knew, that it was fatal. In all, it is believed, thirty-six out of the crew of forty-four survived this wonderful voyage.
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