From the first we had bad weather, and the winds increased in force during the next few days until, on Friday, May 12th, so fierce a gale was blowing that I was compelled to take in sail and heave to. We had a most uncomfortable time, though we could expect nothing less since we were now in the “Roaring Forties.”
Macklin’s diary of May 13th is fairly descriptive of conditions about this time:
Had the middle watch. Heavy seas were running and the wind was strong with violent squalls of rain and snow. It was a dirty night. The Quest rolled worse than anything I have ever known, with staggering jerks that made it impossible to let go a support.
At times the ship sagged down so heavily to leeward that my heart was in my mouth, for it seemed as if she could never recover herself. Peering to windward as the great seas bore down upon us I was reminded of Kipling’s
Be well assured that on our side
The abiding oceans fight,
Though headlong wind and heaping tide
Make us their sport to-night.
which is comforting to know. He always seems to catch just the right expression, as:
Out of the mist into the mirk