[CHAPTER XXVI.]
Tuesday, one of the schooners arrived, and sailed again, the same evening, with a full complement of passengers. Another arrived the next day, and all of our party succeeded, with some difficulty, in obtaining tickets. After crossing the lake to the village of San Carlos, situated at the head of the San Juan river, we were to be transferred to canoes which would take us to San Juan, where we hoped to obtain a passage home in one of Vanderbilt's steamers. The fare for the whole voyage was sixteen dollars apiece, and we were obliged to furnish our own provisions. As under unfavourable circumstances the trip might occupy a week, we laid in a store of bread and cheese, sugar, and cocoanuts, sufficient to guard against all danger of starvation, and Wednesday evening, followed by several natives, carrying our luggage, we walked down to the lake.
In order to take advantage of the breeze that usually sprung up at nightfall, it was intended to set sail at once, but one delay after another interfered to prevent. The little bread-trough which was to transport us to the schooner had made only three trips, carrying two passengers each time, when there burst upon us such a sudden squall of wind and rain as at once put a stop to our embarkation. In a few minutes the lake exhibited all the phenomena of a miniature storm. The bread-trough was capsized and flung bottom upwards on the beach. Even our long experience on two oceans was not sufficient to deprive the scene entirely of its terrors. The little schooner tossed frantically at its anchor, and we could plainly see one unfortunate already paying to this humbler deity that tribute which we had hitherto considered the indefeasible right of Neptune himself.
As it was just as impossible for those on board to return to land as it was for us to reach the schooner, we were obliged to leave them to their fate, and make the best of our way back to the hotel. The landlord, so far from manifesting any pleasure at our unexpected return, received us with that sublime indifference that characterizes the keeper of a Spanish hotel, and seems almost the only remnant of Castilian pride now to be found in this their adopted country.
The next morning the sky was more propitious, and we set sail about ten with a gentle breeze that pushed us slowly out into the lake. Besides the crew, which consisted of only the captain and one man, who was mate, foremast hand, and cook, there were thirty passengers, each provided with his bag of provisions. Nearly one half of the number contrived to find room in the little cabin, which was about the size of a New York omnibus, like that miraculous invention was never full, and possessed of the same unaccountable propensity to knock two heads together, to the infinite detriment of their hats and their good temper. I remained all the time on deck, exposed to the scorching sun, by turns, and the pelting rain.
Towards evening the breeze freshened, and I began to feel all the symptoms of genuine sea-sickness. In spite of all my efforts, I could not disguise from myself the mortifying infirmity. It is really worth while to be sea-sick at sea, and when one is just starting on a long voyage. One feels so much better after it, and as if he had thus purchased an exemption from all further molestation, and had a perfect right to eat, drink, and be merry. Besides, there is a consonancy in the ideas as in the very words—this sort of ordeal through which we are required to pass before being initiated into the Neptunian mysteries is like those fearful preliminary tests which the aspirant after masonic honours is obliged to undergo.
It is well worthy the greatness and majesty of the sea. It is a price worth paying for the immunity it confers. No one who is bound on a voyage of four or five months can reasonably complain because his probation extends over as many days or even weeks. What though he is subjected to a constant process of subtraction—to a continual drain of life and energy—has he not all the rest of the voyage to repair his losses and replace his sickly, effeminate habit with that health and robustness which salt junk and pilot bread are so especially fitted to impart?
But on a little bit of fresh water the case is widely different. In the first place, there is no time to be sick, with any sort of decency or satisfaction. These things demand careful preparation, and that kind of dexterity that can only be acquired by long habit. But here one no sooner gets thoroughly into the midst of a fit of sickness, and begins to feel as if he were used to it, and to discover those little ameliorations that naturally suggest themselves, than the keel grates on the gravel, and no less harshly on his ears, and there is an end. All that you have suffered goes for nothing. You have been exposed to all this shame and ignominy, without any of the consolatory dignity that was to follow. You have been displaying all the helpless peevishness of a child, and have lost the opportunity of retrieving your character by a convalescent philosophy. You are like an unlucky knight who has had the worst in a duel, but is just about to regain the advantage, when the umpire throws down his staff and puts an end to the combat.