When the _Zaandyk_ came in from Rotterdam, Captain Dekker was asked if he had seen any mines in the North Sea. No, he hadn’t seen any mines, and he had not been molested by any craft of the warring nations. Yes, he was late, but that was the weather. Fighting westerly gales and head seas that kept his bow awash and his propellers clear too often to be comfortable, ate up his coal before he was halfway across, and he had to run into the Azores. It was pretty dirty weather, but he didn’t mind that. He didn’t carry a benzine cargo, like the other fellow, and what happened to the other fellow was perhaps worth telling. The other fellow was Captain Bugge, the mighty master of the Norwegian tanker _La Habra_, who had tried conclusions with the benzine cargo from the west coast. He had had a fire on board that cleaned up his charts, sextants, compasses, and chronometers, and let it go at that. Captain Dekker thought it was like the prank of a mean sailorman who would catch a shark, chop off his tail, and then turn him adrift, to die or be devoured alive by its mates. “I didn’t get over to see the tanker,” said Captain Dekker, “but she was making repairs when we put into Horta. Her experience was known all over the Azores.” According to what he had learned about her, _La Habra_ left Talara Bay, passed through the Panama Canal, and steamed east from Colon. Gales from the southwest and northwest did not bother her much, but when she got within about 400 miles southeast of the Azores the wind shifted to northeast, and she got a pounding which almost foundered her. Several times she nearly went over on her beam ends, and the treacherous fluid cargo was badly shaken. The engine and fire-room crews feared that at any minute a tank compartment might break and drive a flood of benzine into the fires. It was sure death for all of them if this happened, and they hadn’t much faith in the security of any tank in weather such as they were then running through. While this northeaster was doing its worst, a terrific explosion occurred aft of the house. It is not known whether the men below stuck to their posts but those on deck sought safety, some huddling together on the bow and others at the stern. Now, Captain Bugge had carried oil before. He knew his ship and was ready to save his men. “There isn’t any use of you fellows getting away up aft and forrid there,” the skipper shouted, “because if there’s another blow-up, you’ll have nothing but the sea.” He knew what was going to happen if the benzine became ignited. The lifeboats, tackle, and falls would go up like chaff, and all hands would have the choice of drowning or sticking to a red-hot tanker.