You'd think it was good luck, being rescued when I was almost at the stage choosing between eating the SPAM and drowning or using it to keep me afloat and staving, but it wasn't so good, as it turned out...
Y'see, I was rescued by a boat from the French equivalent of the RNLI, the Société Par les Accidenté Maritime (SPAM), and they refused to take me back to Norfolk, citing my conjoined eyebrows as evidence that I'd suffered enough. Instead, with only a strategically-placed tin can to protect my modesty, they took me to their headquarters (not so strategically-placed in Bourges, central France), and I had to hitch-hike back from there, with only a rapidly-emptying can of SPAM as bartering capital.