There is little use to describe these monotonous and perpetual
westerly gales. One is very like another, and they follow so fast on
one another's heels that the sea never has a chance to grow calm. So
long have we rolled and tossed about that the thought, say, of a
solid, unmoving billiard-table is inconceivable. In previous
incarnations I have encountered things that did not move, but . . .
they were in previous incarnations.
We have been up to the Diego Ramirez Rocks twice in the past ten
days. At the present moment, by vague dead reckoning, we are two
hundred miles east of them. We have been hove down to our hatches
three times in the last week. We have had six stout sails, of the
heaviest canvas, furled and double-gasketed, torn loose and stripped
from the yards. Sometimes, so weak are our men, not more than half
of them can respond to the call for all hands.
Lars Jacobson, who had his leg broken early in the voyage, was
knocked down by a sea several days back and had the leg rebroken.
Ditman Olansen, the crank-eyed Norwegian, went Berserker last night
in the second dog-watch and pretty well cleaned out his half of the
forecastle.
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