Their smack was named /La Marie/, and her master was Captain Guermeur.

　　Every year she set sail for the big dangerous fisheries, in the frigidregions where the summers have no night. She was a very old ship, asold as the statuette of her patron saint itself. Her heavy, oakenplanks were rough and worn, impregnated with ooze and brine, but stillstrong and stout, and smelling strongly of tar. At anchor she lookedan old unwieldy tub from her so massive build, but when blew themighty western gales, her lightness returned, like a sea-gull awakenedby the wind. Then she had her own style of tumbling over the rollers,and rebounding more lightly than many newer ones, launched with allyour new fangles.

　　As for the crew of six men and the boy, they were "Icelanders," thevaliant race of seafarers whose homes are at Paimpol and Treguier, andwho from father to son are destined for the cod fisheries.

　　They hardly ever had seen a summer in France. At the end of eachwinter they, with other fishers, received the parting blessing in theharbour of Paimpol. And for that fete-day an altar, always the same,and imitating a rocky grotto, was erected on the quay; and over it, inthe midst of anchors, oars and nets, was enthroned the Virgin Mary,calm, and beaming with affection, the patroness of sailors; she wouldbe brought from her chapel for the occasion, and had looked upongeneration after generation with her same lifeless eyes, blessing thehappy for whom the season would be lucky, and the others who nevermore would return.

　　The Host, followed by a slow procession of wives, mothers,sweethearts, and sisters, was borne round the harbour, where the boatsbound for Iceland, bedecked in all colours, saluted it on its way. Thepriest halted before each, giving them his holy blessing; and then thefleet started, leaving the country desolate of husbands, lovers, andsons; and as the shores faded from their view, the crews sang togetherin low, full voices, the hymns sacred to "the Star of the Ocean." Andevery year saw the same ceremonies, and heard the same good-byes.

　　Then began the life out upon the open sea, in the solitude of three orfour rough companions, on the moving thin planks in the midst of theseething waters of the northern seas.

　　Until now /La Marie/ followed the custom of many Icelanders, which ismerely to touch at Paimpol, and then to sail down to the Gulf ofGascony, where fish fetches high prices, or farther on to the SandyIsles, with their salty swamps, where they buy the salt for the nextexpedition. The crews of lusty fellows stay a few days in thesouthern, sun-kissed harbour-towns, intoxicated by the last rays ofsummer, by the sweetness of the balmy air, and by the downrightjollity of youth.

　　With the mists of autumn they return home to Paimpol, or to thescattered huts of the land of Goelo, to remain some time in theirfamilies, in the midst of love, marriages, and births. Very often theyfind unseen babies upon their return, waiting for godfathers ere theycan be baptized, for many children are needed to keep up this race offishermen, which the Icelandic Moloch devours.