On the small rain swept soggy Island the locals all huddled together under the upturned boat and off they squelched to the nearest seaside tavern. Squwlch squelch! The distant waves crashed upon the shingle beach and the sea slugs and sea squirts dived for cover for fear of being trodden on as nobody knew which was to go or indeed could see anything except the inky blackness of the neck in front. Social distancing was non-existent but luckily the Islanders were all immune from the Rettible virus which turned most fish into birds and birds into sniffling piles of feathery pin bundles. Captain Hiccup shouted "Avast me hearties!" and steered the boat with his prehensile shoulders. "Not far to go now me scurvy swabs" he mumbled through his beard. Soon they would be quaffing giant mugs of golden goat nectar - the Islands favourite tipple made from curdled goat milk and herby dung juice. An aquired taste I'm told!