Having opened his mouth the story escapes and grows bold, grows old; the story is such a strange capering creature that he scarcely recognizes it as his own. The voyage happened, there is no doubt of that. He tells his listeners of gods, because they expect gods, and he tells them also of monsters, knowing that they have the genuine article sitting in front of them, if they cared to look. He tells the listeners of his crew, for a great man needs followers, although in truth he sailed alone, naked by day and sullenly wrapped in a stinking blanket by night, his beard permanently clarted with fish grease. He does not mention being so hungry he would bite into the shining flanks of fish whilst they were still convulsing in his hands, nor the gouts of watery shit this raw diet produced. Heroes do not squat and whimper and wash themselves in the contemptuous stinging waves.