The sails flapped over their heads. The water chuckled and slapped thesides of the boat, which drowsed motionless in the sun. Now and thenthe sails rippled with a little breeze in them, but the ripple ran over themand ceased. The boat made no motion at all. Mr Ramsay sat in themiddle of the boat. He would be impatient in a moment, James thought,and Cam thought, looking at her father, who sat in the middle of theboat between them (James steered; Cam sat alone in the bow) with hislegs tightly curled. He hated hanging about. Sure enough, after fidgetinga second or two, he said something sharp to Macalister's boy, who gotout his oars and began to row. But their father, they knew, would neverbe content until they were flying along. He would keep looking for abreeze, fidgeting, saying things under his breath, which Macalister andand Macalister's boy would overhear, and they would both be made horriblyuncomfortable. He had made them come. He had forced them tocome. In their anger they hoped that the breeze would never rise, that hemight be thwarted in every possible way, since he had forced them tocome against their wills.

　　All the way down to the beach they had lagged behind together,though he bade them "Walk up, walk up," without speaking. Their headswere bent down, their heads were pressed down by some remorselessgale. Speak to him they could not. They must come; they must follow.

　　They must walk behind him carrying brown paper parcels. But theyvowed, in silence, as they walked, to stand by each other and carry outthe great compact—to resist tyranny to the death. So there they wouldsit, one at one end of the boat, one at the other, in silence. They wouldsay nothing, only look at him now and then where he sat with his legstwisted, frowning and fidgeting, and pishing and pshawing and mutteringthings to himself, and waiting impatiently for a breeze. And theyhoped it would be calm. They hoped he would be thwarted. They hopedthe whole expedition would fail, and they would have to put back, withtheir parcels, to the beach.

　　But now, when Macalister's boy had rowed a little way out, the sailsslowly swung round, the boat quickened itself, flattened itself, and shotoff. Instantly, as if some great strain had been relieved, Mr Ramsay uncurledhis legs, took out his tobacco pouch, handed it with a little gruntto Macalister, and felt, they knew, for all they suffered, perfectly content.

　　Now they would sail on for hours like this, and Mr Ramsay would askold Macalister a question—about the great storm last winter probably—and old Macalister would answer it, and they would puff theirpipes together, and Macalister would take a tarry rope in his fingers, tyingor untying some knot, and the boy would fish, and never say a wordto any one. James would be forced to keep his eye all the time on the sail.

　　For if he forgot, then the sail puckered and shivered, and the boatslackened, and Mr Ramsay would say sharply, "Look out! Look out!" andold Macalister would turn slowly on his seat. So they heard Mr Ramsayasking some question about the great storm at Christmas. "She comesdriving round the point," old Macalister said, describing the great stormlast Christmas, when ten ships had been driven into the bay for shelter,and he had seen "one there, one there, one there" (he pointed slowlyround the bay. Mr Ramsay followed him, turning his head). He had seenfour men clinging to the mast. Then she was gone. "And at last weshoved her off," he went on (but in their anger and their silence they onlycaught a word here and there, sitting at opposite ends of the boat, unitedby their compact to fight tyranny to the death). At last they had shovedher off, they had launched the lifeboat, and they had got her out past thepoint—Macalister told the story; and though they only caught a wordhere and there, they were conscious all the time of their father—how heleant forward, how he brought his voice into tune with Macalister'svoice; how, puffing at his pipe, and looking there and there where Macalisterpointed, he relished the thought of the storm and the dark nightand the fishermen striving there. He liked that men should labour andsweat on the windy beach at night; pitting muscle and brain against thewaves and the wind; he liked men to work like that, and women to keephouse, and sit beside sleeping children indoors, while men weredrowned, out there in a storm. So James could tell, so Cam could tell(they looked at him, they looked at each other), from his toss and his vigilanceand the ring in his voice, and the little tinge of Scottish accentwhich came into his voice, making him seem like a peasant himself, as hequestioned Macalister about the eleven ships that had been driven intothe bay in a storm. Three had sunk.

　　He looked proudly where Macalister pointed; and Cam thought, feelingproud of him without knowing quite why, had he been there hewould have launched the lifeboat, he would have reached the wreck,Cam thought. He was so brave, he was so adventurous, Cam thought.

　　But she remembered. There was the compact; to resist tyranny to thedeath. Their grievance weighed them down. They had been forced; theyhad been bidden. He had borne them down once more with his gloomand his authority, making them do his bidding, on this fine morning,come, because he wished it, carrying these parcels, to the Lighthouse;take part in these rites he went through for his own pleasure in memoryof dead people, which they hated, so that they lagged after him, all thepleasure of the day was spoilt.

　　Yes, the breeze was freshening. The boat was leaning, the water wassliced sharply and fell away in green cascades, in bubbles, in cataracts.

　　Cam looked down into the foam, into the sea with all its treasure in it,and its speed hypnotised her, and the tie between her and James saggeda little. It slackened a little. She began to think, How fast it goes. Whereare we going? and the movement hypnotised her, while James, with hiseye fixed on the sail and on the horizon, steered grimly. But he began tothink as he steered that he might escape; he might be quit of it all. Theymight land somewhere; and be free then. Both of them, looking at eachother for a moment, had a sense of escape and exaltation, what with thespeed and the change. But the breeze bred in Mr Ramsay too the sameexcitement, and, as old Macalister turned to fling his line overboard, hecried out aloud,"We perished," and then again, "each alone." And then with his usualspasm of repentance or shyness, pulled himself up, and waved his handtowards the shore.

　　"See the little house," he said pointing, wishing Cam to look. Sheraised herself reluctantly and looked. But which was it? She could nolonger make out, there on the hillside, which was their house. All lookeddistant and peaceful and strange. The shore seemed refined, far away,unreal. Already the little distance they had sailed had put them far fromit and given it the changed look, the composed look, of something recedingin which one has no longer any part. Which was their house? Shecould not see it.

　　"But I beneath a rougher sea," Mr Ramsay murmured. He had foundthe house and so seeing it, he had also seen himself there; he had seenhimself walking on the terrace, alone. He was walking up and downbetween the urns; and he seemed to himself very old and bowed. Sittingin the boat, he bowed, he crouched himself, acting instantly his part—the part of a desolate man, widowed, bereft; ............