When I Lean Toward It, I
Can Feel It Loom Against My Face.
Puff follows puff, and I am glad
the mizzen is furled.
Phew! that was a stiff one! The Snark goes
over and down until her lee-rail is buried and the whole Pacific
Ocean is pouring in. Four or five of these gusts make me wish that
the jib and flying-jib were in. The sea is picking up, the gusts
are growing stronger and more frequent, and there is a splatter of
wet in the air. There is no use in attempting to gaze to windward.
The wall of blackness is within arm's length. Yet I cannot help
attempting to see and gauge the blows that are being struck at the
Snark. There is something ominous and menacing up there to
windward, and I have a feeling that if I look long enough and strong
enough, I shall divine it. Futile feeling. Between two gusts I
leave the wheel and run forward to the cabin companionway, where I
light matches and consult the barometer. "29-90" it reads. That
sensitive instrument refuses to take notice of the disturbance which
is humming with a deep, throaty voice in the rigging. I get back to
the wheel just in time to meet another gust, the strongest yet.
Well, anyway, the wind is abeam and the Snark is on her course,
eating up easting. That at least is well.
The jib and flying-jib bother me, and I wish they were in. She
would make easier weather of it, and less risky weather likewise.
The wind snorts, and stray raindrops pelt like birdshot. I shall
certainly have to call all hands, I conclude; then conclude the next
instant to hang on a little longer. Maybe this is the end of it,
and I shall have called them for nothing. It is better to let them
sleep. I hold the Snark down to her task, and from out of the
darkness, at right angles, comes a deluge of rain accompanied by
shrieking wind. Then everything eases except the blackness, and I
rejoice in that I have not called the men.
No sooner does the wind ease than the sea picks up. The combers are
breaking now, and the boat is tossing like a cork. Then out of the
blackness the gusts come harder and faster than before. If only I
knew what was up there to windward in the blackness! The Snark is
making heavy weather of it, and her lee-rail is buried oftener than
not. More shrieks and snorts of wind. Now, if ever, is the time to
call the men. I WILL call them, I resolve. Then there is a burst
of rain, a slackening of the wind, and I do not call. But it is
rather lonely, there at the wheel, steering a little world through
howling blackness. It is quite a responsibility to be all alone on
the surface of a little world in time of stress, doing the thinking
for its sleeping inhabitants. I recoil from the responsibility as
more gusts begin to strike and as a sea licks along the weather rail
and splashes over into the cockpit. The salt water seems strangely
warm to my body and is shot through with ghostly nodules of
phosphorescent light. I shall surely call all hands to shorten
sail. Why should they sleep? I am a fool to have any compunctions
in the matter. My intellect is arrayed against my heart. It was my
heart that said, "Let them sleep." Yes, but it was my intellect
that backed up my heart in that judgment. Let my intellect then
reverse the judgment; and, while I am speculating as to what
particular entity issued that command to my intellect, the gusts die
away. Solicitude for mere bodily comfort has no place in practical
seamanship, I conclude sagely; but study the feel of the next series
of gusts and do not call the men. After all, it IS my intellect,
behind everything, procrastinating, measuring its knowledge of what
the Snark can endure against the blows being struck at her, and
waiting the call of all hands against the striking of still severer
blows.
Daylight, gray and violent, steals through the cloud-pall and shows
a foaming sea that flattens under the weight of recurrent and
increasing squalls. Then comes the rain, filling the windy valleys
of the sea with milky smoke and further flattening the waves, which
but wait for the easement of wind and rain to leap more wildly than
before. Come the men on deck, their sleep out, and among them
Hermann, his face on the broad grin in appreciation of the breeze of
wind I have picked up. 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.
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