It seems that John Fairfax launched his open boat from the Canary Islands on Jaunary 20, 1969 and 180 days and 36,000 nautical miles later arrived in Miami, but at first, in the face of all evidence, the reader cannot quite believe it happened. Throughout there seems to be the ghostly presence of a Dr. Traprock stroking in the prow, for Mr. Fairfax does not speak in the ordinary untutored, roughhewn rhythms of other adventurers. For example, as he confronts yachtsman Uffa Fox (?): ""With a tinge of scorn which set my blood on fire, he asked, 'Row the Atlantic single-handed, eh? And what on earth makes you think you can do it, my boy?'"" With introductory adverbial phrases which send the parodist's heart a-racing, Mr. Fairfax finally convinces the reader he did indeed do it and there's a row-by-row recital along with some unorthodox log entries: ""Bugger all! Most disappointing since it (position reading) gives a daily average of only eighteen miles."" All the predictable briny turmoil is there if you can concentrate with that tickling funnybone.