Ships of the seven seas

by Hawthorne Daniel

During the next seven or eight hours the storm gradually approaches. Higher and higher roll the waves, deeper and deeper rolls the ship, and suddenly we are aroused by the crash of a sea that mounts the side, dashes across the deck, and pours in a great stream through our open port. Shocked instantly into consciousness we leap from our bunks, into the inch or two of water that is swishing about the stateroom, and close the port, just too late to save ourselves from a wetting. But our interest is aroused by the dull gray sea, the rising and falling waves, the driving spray, and, quickly dressing, we hurry out on deck and up to the bridge, fearful, perhaps, that trouble is at hand. But once on the bridge everyone is calm—no one is worried. Another mate, now on duty, sings out a cheery “Good morning”; the man at the wheel looks up, nods, and drops his eyes once more to the compass card. We tell of our wetting and are laughed at, and the ships goes rolling and pitching on, the waves piling one after another over her weather rail, filling the low deck forward of the bridge, gurgling around the hatches, and finally pouring back into the sea in cascades through the scuppers. Now and again the combination of the ship’s roll and an advancing wave forces a great foamy cloud high over the bow, where the spray is caught by the wind which whistles aft with it, stinging our faces and leaving a pleasant taste of salt upon our lips.

The sky is still overcast, and as eight o’clock comes the clouds grow heavier, if anything, making it impossible for the officers to take the elevation of the sun with their sextants in order to work out our position. But the record of the log is taken, a line is drawn from our “point of departure” off Cape May, drawn at the angle from that point that our helmsmen have been steering, and the distance we have run—92 miles, since the evening before—is marked on that line, giving us our position according to dead reckoning.

Our course has been south, and so, while in the position we have there may be an error of two or three miles marked, we know that we are not far wrong, and that we are safely out at sea, about fifty miles due east of Cape Charles, which is at the entrance to Chesapeake Bay.

The captain now has a decision to make: The action of the barometer suggests that heavy weather will continue for a while—which is not surprising, for we are approaching Cape Hatteras, where storms are perennial. If the sky remains overcast we will not be able to get a glimpse of the sun, and consequently will not be able to work out our position, and dead reckoning, while accurate enough for short runs, is liable to grow progressively inaccurate if the run is long. In addition to all this we must either change our course to the east in order to cross the Gulf Stream, or a little to the west in order to stay between it and the coast, for it is wasted effort to go against a strong current when it isn’t necessary. Even if we cross the Gulf Stream to its outer edge we may have to go for several days without a sight of the sun. If we stay inside it we probably won’t see the sun any sooner, but we can pass close to Diamond Shoal Lightship, which lies off Cape Hatteras, and so check up our position.

The captain decides for this latter course, after studying the barometer again and deciding that the chance for more violent weather is slight, and with a mark on the chart for our position at 8 A.M. the course is changed slightly to the west of south.

All day we roll and pitch, not badly, but very steadily, but from the calmness of everyone about us we, too, view the gale as of no great importance. Nor is it, for, while the wind is kicking up a rough sea, the waves are far from mountainous, and in our deeply laden condition almost anything more than a ripple would wash over our low forward deck.

We have our meals and return after each one to the bridge—always the most interesting place on a ship, particularly in heavy weather—but by the time darkness has returned we have seen nothing on the gray and “smoky” sea save, in the distance, a steamer, that has been lost to view again, and a schooner under double-reefed sails that passed us bound north during the afternoon.

We are ready to turn in early, for all day on the bridge with the spray-laden wind blowing strongly in our faces has been tiring. We leave word to be called when Diamond Shoal Lightship is sighted, and roll into our bunks.

At four-thirty in the morning we are called, and bundling ourselves into our clothes we stumble out on deck. The wind has increased, and sweeps back from the bow furiously and heavy with moisture. The ship is rolling deeply, and ever and anon a huge wave pounds heavily on the high steel bow.

Up on the bridge the captain is pacing in his oilskins, and with him is the mate, but the night is dark and we stumble against them ere our unaccustomed eyes can make them out.