"For the tired slave, song lifts the languid oar,
And bids it aptly fall, with chime
That beautifies the fairest shore,
And mitigates the harshest clime."
We lay about a week in San Pedro, and got under weigh for San Diego,
intending to stop at San Juan, as the south-easter season was
nearly over, and there was little or no danger.
This being the spring season, San Pedro, as well as all the other
open ports upon the coast, was filled with whales, that had come in
to make their annual visit upon soundings. For the first few days
that we were here and at Santa Barbara, we watched them with
great interest - calling out "there she blows!" every time we saw the
spout of one breaking the surface of the water; but they soon became
so common that we took little notice of them. They often "broke"
very near us; and one thick, foggy night, during a dead calm, while
I was standing anchor-watch, one of them rose so near, that he
struck our cable, and made all surge again. He did not seem to like
the encounter much himself, for he sheered off, and spouted at a
good distance. We once came very near running one down in the
gig, and should probably have been knocked to pieces and blown
sky-high. We had been on board the little Spanish brig, and were
returning, stretching out well at our oars, the little boat going like a
swallow; our backs were forward, (as is always the case in pulling,)
and the captain, who was steering, was not looking ahead, when, all
at once, we heard the spout of a whale directly ahead.
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