I thought now that, under cover of darkness and with the aid of the storm, we might shorten our voyage to the Atlantic by cutting through the channel between the Orkney Islands and the Shetlands. I was about to order the helm changed, when the hurricane shifted abruptly from southwest to southeast. The change came so suddenly that the twisting winds nearly ripped our masts out by the roots. Somehow, that seemed to be a warning to us, a warning not to go through that channel. A sailor believes in signs. And something told me to take a more northerly course, nearer the Arctic Circle and the Faroes. Later, we learned that the German submarine _Bremen_ had tried to pass through that channel and was never seen again. The channel had recently been mined. But for that sudden shift of the storm, we too would have shared the fate of the _Bremen_. With sails still full spread, we continued north, nearer and nearer the Polar zone. It grew bitterly cold. The waves dashed over us, and the water froze where it fell. Our timber cargo was so coated with ice that not a stick of lumber could be seen. The deck was like a skating rink, and the ship's bow one huge cake of ice. Everything froze, including the sails. The ropes became coated and would no longer run through the blocks. We tried to thaw them with oxygen flame, but they froze again the moment the flame was removed. Unable to change the sails, we were helpless. To turn on the motor would only make matters worse, because that would carry us toward the Pole all the faster. We knew that unless the Hand of God intervened within a few days we would be hopelessly caught in the Polar pack and probably never heard of again. So long as the wind blew from the south, we were sure to continue on north. We were in the region of eternal night now, except for a few minutes each day. The sun rose at eleven and set at half-past eleven. If we continued this crazy, frozen voyage to the North Pole we would be smashed in the ice, by Joe. Christmas Eve came, and we prayed God to send us the one Christmas present, the only one that could save us--a north wind to blow us south. My men in the hold, my fighting crew, huddled together to keep from freezing. They were prisoners, for the waves and spray had swept over everything until our secret hatches were frozen as solid as concrete. My false Norsemen on deck slid about on the icy planks, and every man suffered from frostbite. No one tried to turn in to sleep. The tension on our nerves was too great. Only one thing was warm and steaming--the kettle of grog. You landsmen have no idea of what grog means to a sailor under such conditions. No wonder seamen call a glass of schnapps "an ice-breaker!" At heart every sailor is a child, and he has a child's love of Christmas. And how he enjoys a Christmas present! He turns it around in his hands, and says: "By Joe, it's good to have Christmas."