Don’t ever you ship on a steamer;
There’s stacks to scrape and rails to paint––
It’s always work to clean her.
When the wind is wrong and the shore is by,
They’ll keep you clear of leeway,
But they roll and they jolt and they’re never dry––
They’re the devil’s own in a sea-way!’“
Steve, trying to sing that, had one hand hooked into a ring-bolt under the rail and he was slowly pickling––we were all pickling––like a salted mackerel in a barrel.
An hour past Five Fathom and the tall white tower of Cape Henlopen could be made out ahead, as well as the gray tower of Cape May through the mists to the northward. The wind was coming faster and it felt heavier. We could judge best of how we were looking ourselves by watching all our fellows near by. We could see to the bottom planks of two to leeward of us, while on the sloping deck of one to windward it was plain that only what was lashed or bolted was still there. When they reared they almost stood up straight, and when they scooped into it the wonder was that all the water taken aboard didn’t hold her until the next comber could have a fair whack at her.