Grouped together, holding
on to the rigging, swaying to the roll, they were gazing intently at
the squall. Strain, anxiety, and yearning were in every posture of
their bodies. Beside them was the dry and empty awning. But they
seemed to grow limp and to droop as the squall broke in half, one
part passing on ahead, the other drawing astern and going to
leeward.
But that night came rain. Martin, whose psychological thirst had
compelled him to drink his quart of water early, got his mouth down
to the lip of the awning and drank the deepest draught I ever have
seen drunk. The precious water came down in bucketfuls and tubfuls,
and in two hours we caught and stored away in the tanks one hundred
and twenty gallons. Strange to say, in all the rest of our voyage
to the Marquesas not another drop of rain fell on board. If that
squall had missed us, the handcuffs would have remained on the pump,
and we would have busied ourselves with utilizing our surplus
gasolene for distillation purposes.
Then there was the fishing. One did not have to go in search of it,
for it was there at the rail. A three-inch steel hook, on the end
of a stout line, with a piece of white rag for bait, was all that
was necessary to catch bonitas weighing from ten to twenty-five
pounds.
