When everyone was on board and ready to go, deckhands untied the small sailing ship from its moorings and the ship shoved off.
The captain, after making a round to see everything was in order, came up to the group. "With this fair weather and the prevailin' wind, I reckon we'll make good time," he says. "Should have ya off at the marshes in about 16 hours, if'n we don't hit any snags along the way."
The sea is a little choppy in the steady, frigid breeze. The sun is shining and the air is clear, and you can see for miles as the rocky coast of the island fades into the distance. Far off to the south occasionally you see porpoises breaching. The continuous saltwater spray from the waves slapping against the hull eventually freezes on the deck, and has to be broken up.
The trip seems to be going well and uneventful, until a couple of hours after lunch. Everything is quiet until suddenly, the captain comes out of his cabin, looking around wide-eyed at the sea on all sides, and then squinting into the distance. Then he storms up to the pilot at the helm.
"What in the nine hells do ya think yer doin'?" he shouts. "We're too far out, this isn't our usual lane. You know better than to take us through these cursed waters. We need to be further toward land, in the regular path!"
The pilot cringed under the captain's yelling, then furrowed his brow, scratched his chin, and said slowly, "Well, maybe I misread the charts or somethin'..."
The captain looked flabbergasted. "Misread the...? We've done this route countless times and you never misread them before!"
The pilot just shrugged apologetically, and the captain shook his head. "Great, just great, these cursed waters..." he grumbled.