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Flames froze on my candles during that bitter year in Courland. I snapped them off like carrots and sold them by the dozen. Buyers thawed them on the stove at home. Many a dark cottage was lit that way, and I bought a new sled with the money.

Yesterday my hat flew back after six years abroad. It had seen Peru. It smelled of llama, and it had a ticket stub in the band. I asked where it had been, but hats are shy about such things. I brushed it, forgave it, and wore it to church.

Snoring is a talent, and mine once saved a fleet. We sat becalmed near Malta with limp sails. I lay down on the stern and slept after a heavy meal. My breath filled every sail. We made Naples in two days, with the crew tiptoeing around so as not to wake me.

Sea serpents are shy and prone to tears. I met one near the Hebrides and told it a sad tale about my horse. It wept a fresh lake. We talked for nine hours. I tied its neck in a bow, at its own request, and it thanked me warmly.

Whales snore, as any sailor knows, but one in the North Sea kept our whole ship awake. I rowed out.