“We shall have light soon,” observed one of the men.
“And we shall want it to beach the boat in such weather as this,” replied another. “We shall have it harder yet before day.”
“Depend upon it this will be a mischievous gale,” observed Bramble, “and our coast will be strewed with wrecks. Any ships under canvas now, between the Channel shores, will stand but a poor chance against this heavy sea, which bears down with such force. I’d rather be in this boat now than in any vessel in mid-Channel.”
“And I had rather be on shore than in either,” rejoined I.
“Well, Tom,” said one of the pilots, “I do really believe you this time.”
When it was broad daylight, the coast to leeward presented a wild and terrific scene, lashed as it was by the furious surf; which dashed its spray half-way up the towering white cliffs, for it was within two hours of high water. The waves were now really mountains high, and their broad surfaces were pitted into little waves by the force of the wind, which covered the whole expanse of waters with one continued foam. On our weather bow a vessel with her foremast gone was pitching heavily, and at times nearly buried beneath the wild tumult. Her fate was sealed; to leeward were the cliffs of the South Foreland, and on our lee-bow lay the shelving beach of Deal.
“This will be awkward landing, shipmates,” said Bramble; “and yet we must try it. I’ll fill my pipe—hope it won’t be the last.”
Although not said in a serious manner, there were few of us whose hearts did not flutter responsively to this surmise, for the danger became every minute more imminent and we knew what a terrific surf there must be then running on the shingle beach. But we now rapidly approached the shore; we were near to the floating light, and in the roadstead not a vessel remained; all had weighed and preferred being under what canvas they could bear. At last we were within two cables’ length of the beach, and even at this distance from it we were surrounded with the breakers; the surf broke many feet high, and roared as it rushed up with a velocity that was appalling, dashing the foam right to the door of Bramble’s cottage, which was forty or fifty yards higher than it generally gained to even in very bad weather: we now lowered our sails, stowed them in the boat, and got our oars to pass, backing against the surf to prevent it from forcing us on the beach until the proper time.
It may not, perhaps, be known to many of my readers that there is a sort of regularity even in the wild waves; that is, occasionally a master-wave, as it is termed, from being of larger dimensions than its predecessors, pours its whole volume on the beach; after which, by watching your time, you will find that two waves will run into one another, and, as it were, neutralise each other, so that, for a few seconds, you have what they call a smooth; the safest plan of landing then is to watch these two chances, either to run in on the master wave, or to wait till the arrival of the smooth.
The latter is generally preferred, and with good reason, as unless a boat can be forced in as fast as the master-wave runs in, you are worse off than if you had landed at any other time.