The sensations were prolonged enough to be analyzed and reasoned upon, and it was a difficult question which cannot yet be answered—“Would I willingly have all this over again?” Lying on a sofa in a comfortable room, I would not go out to this scene; but in a boat, if all this began again, I certainly would not go ashore to avoid its discomforts and lose its grandeurs.
The profound uncertainty as to what was to come next moment being one of the most exciting features of the occasion; perhaps the whole scene would be tamed sadly by a mere repetition; but one sentiment was dominant over all at the time, that I had lived a long year in a night.
Soon after four o’clock, there suddenly stretched out what seemed to be a reef of breakers for miles under the sullen rain-clouds, and, with instant attention, the yawl was put about to avoid them.
This extraordinary optical illusion was the dawn opening on the coast, then actually ten miles away, and in a very few minutes, as the cloud lifted, the land seemed to rush off to its proper distance, until at last the curtain split in two, and I found to my intense delight that in the night we had crossed the bay!
Now came joyous sounds from our moist crew—“Hurrah for the day! Pipe all hands to breakfast—slack out the mainsheet, here’s the west wind;” and up rose the sun, well washed by the torrents of rain.
An elaborate friture of my last three eggs was soon cooked to perfection, and I held the frying-pan over the side, while it drained through a fork; when, alas! there came a heavy lurch of the boat, and all the well-deserved breakfast was pitched into the sea, with a mild but deep-meant “Oh, how provoking!” from the hapless, hungry, lonely sailor. Shame that, preserved through such dangers, we should murmur at an omelet the less! But this tyrant stomach exacts more, and thanks less, than all the body besides.
Hastings was soon passed, and we skirted the cliffs towards Rye. I had written to the harbourmaster [267] here to send out a boat if he saw my craft (enclosing him a sketch of it), as the entrance to that harbour seemed to be very difficult by the chart.
But the breeze was fresh and invigorating, and though sadly needing sleep after two nights without any, the idea of going to bed while such a fine breeze blew seemed preposterous, and Rye was soon left in the rear.
From this place a very low flat tongue of land stretches along in the strangest way, until at its end is the lighthouse of Dungeness. Martello towers are on the shore, but for miles outside of this, the nearest beach is all one can see; and therefore the tall lighthouse, viewed even through the glass, looked only like a small grey speck on the waves, without any land whatever between. About midday the yawl neared this very remarkable beacon, which is painted red and white; strong, lofty, and firm set on a cape of pure gravel, with here and there a house, not visible at all until you come close.
A heavy sea was here, and it was more and more as we came quite near the cape; until one fine bold wave, following our little craft, actually cast the dingey (then towing astern) right upon the deck of the yawl, and dealt me a severe stroke on the back, by which I was cast forward, and then an awkward thump on the head by which I was stunned. [268] Recovering again just in time, I saw another wave send the dingey once more on board with a crash, and splinters flew up, so we thought she was smashed, but it was the jigger-boom that was broken by the collision. The very next billow broke the dingey’s painter of strong canoe rope, but much worn. Away floated the tiny cockleshell, and it was very soon hid in the trough of the sea.