Oh, I know now this Great West Wind that blows for ever around the
world south of 55. And I know why the chart-makers have capitalized
it, as, for instance, when I read "The Great West Wind Drift." And I
know why the Sailing Directions advise: "WHATEVER YOU DO, MAKE
WESTING! MAKE WESTING!"
And the West Wind and the drift of the West Wind will not permit the
Elsinore to make westing. Gale follows gale, always from the west,
and we make easting. And it is bitter cold, and each gale snorts up
with a prelude of driving snow.
In the cabin the lamps burn all day long. No more does Mr. Pike run
the phonograph, nor does Margaret ever touch the piano. She
complains of being bruised and sore. I have a wrenched shoulder from
being hurled against the wall. And both Wada and the steward are
limping. Really, the only comfort I can find is in my bunk, so
wedged with boxes and pillows that the wildest rolls cannot throw me
out. There, save for my meals and for an occasional run on deck for
exercise and fresh air, I lie and read eighteen and nineteen hours
out of the twenty-four.
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