A Fijian warrior
Reefing the mainsail Untying a reef in the mainsail
A strong westerly current began making itself felt about this time—Lat. 14° 06' South, and Long. 176° 04' West—which gradually worked more to the north as we approached the Line. On the 6th it set us eighteen miles to the west; on the 7th, twenty miles to W.N.W.; on the 8th, eighteen miles to N.W.; and on the next four days from twenty-four to thirty miles to N.N.W. This was considerably more of a current than the Sailing Directions indicate for those latitudes.
In the forenoon of the 7th the wind hauled to the north-east, blowing strong from that direction until four in the afternoon, when, without abating in strength, it went back to east. Toward midnight a heavy squall struck the yacht, and while furling the jib a foot rope gave way under Bill, a big Dane of the mate's watch, and only a lucky grab at the bobstay saved him from being swept away. The yacht put her nose under a couple of feet of green water at the same instant Bill went down, giving him a fearful ducking, but the plucky fellow swung up to the bowsprit the moment it arose from the sea and finished his work without a murmur.
On the 8th, 9th and 10th the wind continued fresh but persisted in shifting back and forth in heavy rain-squalls between east and north-east, making it impossible to hold one course for more than an hour or two at a time. The runs for these days were 127, 125 and 126 miles, respectively. On the 9th and 10th we passed straight through the middle of the Union Group, but so far from any of the islands that their presence was indicated only by the sight of an occasional land bird. This group is composed only of low atolls which are but sparsely watered and thinly inhabited. On the 11th the sky was completely overcast, making observations impossible, and the day was one long succession of baffling winds and fierce rain-squalls. This succeeded to a dead calm, the yacht lying all night with the booms hauled amidships and the sails furled.
In the middle of the forenoon of the 12th the yacht sailed under a black cornucopia-shaped cloud which we had been watching for some time as it lay in wait across our path. As we ran into the misty tail, which hung so low as to seem almost dragging in the sea, a veritable deluge of water broke upon us. The downpour was so fierce as to threaten for a while to break in the skylights and flood the cabins. The water accumulated so fast on the deck that the scuppers would not carry it off, and when the rain was falling heaviest the cockpit was flooded a foot deep. The cataclysm ceased as quickly as it had commenced, not by passing on like an ordinary squall, but simply by exhausting its fount. By the time the air was clear of water the black cloud had drawn up into itself and disappeared.
After four more days of variable winds, at four in the morning of the 16th, we crossed the Equator in Long. 163° 07'. The wind was fresh from E.N.E. and the air (82°) and the water (80°) were each a degree cooler than for several days. The evening was marked by an unusually brilliant sunset.
Neither our rate of progress to this point, nor the course we had travelled, were all that might have been desired. On the 12th we made but forty miles and on the three following days an average of about 140 miles each. The course approximated N.N.E., all of two points to the leeward of the direct track to Fanning Island.
To noon of the 17th there was a run of 161 miles, which placed us due east of Fanning Island and at a distance of about 150 miles. The next twenty-four hours were spent in beating in short tacks against a wind which had settled itself contentedly to blow straight down our course. By noon of the 18th, having gained but sixty-two miles in the day's run, we gave up trying to make Fanning Island and slacked off sheets for Honolulu. Twelve hours later the wind, blowing half a gale, had hauled up to north-east, forcing us to close-reef mainsail and foresail and head off to N. by W.