I Turn The Wheel Over To Warren And Start To
Go Below, Pausing On The Way To Rescue The Galley Stovepipe Which
Has Gone Adrift.
I am barefooted, and my toes have had an excellent
education in the art of clinging; but, as the rail buries itself in
a green sea, I suddenly sit down on the streaming deck.
Hermann
good-naturedly elects to question my selection of such a spot. Then
comes the next roll, and he sits down, suddenly, and without
premeditation. The Snark heels over and down, the rail takes it
green, and Hermann and I, clutching the precious stove-pipe, are
swept down into the lee-scuppers. After that I finish my journey
below, and while changing my clothes grin with satisfaction - the
Snark is making easting.
No, it is not all monotony. When we had worried along our easting
to 126 degrees west longitude, we left the variables and headed
south through the doldrums, where was much calm weather and where,
taking advantage of every fan of air, we were often glad to make a
score of miles in as many hours. And yet, on such a day, we might
pass through a dozen squalls and be surrounded by dozens more. And
every squall was to be regarded as a bludgeon capable of crushing
the Snark. We were struck sometimes by the centres and sometimes by
the sides of these squalls, and we never knew just where or how we
were to be hit. The squall that rose up, covering half the heavens,
and swept down upon us, as likely as not split into two squalls
which passed us harmlessly on either side while the tiny, innocent
looking squall that appeared to carry no more than a hogshead of
water and a pound of wind, would abruptly assume cyclopean
proportions, deluging us with rain and overwhelming us with wind.
Then there were treacherous squalls that went boldly astern and
sneaked back upon us from a mile to leeward.
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