... An exquisite morning; at eight o’clock comfortably hot—wind westerly and we paddle away east from San Miguel. The island is getting low now on the horizon, but we still see a glimpse of sun on its highest land beneath the shadow of the great cloud cap—a glimpse of fields and faint white specks for cottages. Yes, my first impression seems still to hold—a land you could live and love in, with such exquisite sunny soothing fresh air; from the little glimpse we had of its people such ideas seem tenable.
We drifted all night, with riding light, taking things easy. Our busy time is still to come, perhaps that bank we are drifting towards, out of reach of shore whaling-boats, may show us some plunder or profit per cent., and if it doesn’t, well, we have other islands to discover and circumnavigate. “Discover” is the word I want. Once, long ago, the writer, with others, discovered new vistas of land and mountain, uninhabited grand mountains and glaciers in seas of table-topped bergs of huge proportions, and undoubtedly the sensation was not to be forgotten; but praise be, a new land to the writer, with new people to him, and new habits and customs, is still of the greatest fascination, even though it has been known, like these Azores, for six centuries.
I question if Columbus enjoyed the first sight of the Norse Vinland any more than we shall enjoy the sight of the next island we come to of this archipelago of nine islands.
Fayal, for instance, and Pico—we have seen post cards of both, and each looks perfectly charmingly fascinating. Pico must be like Fusian, the Japanese peak.
Truly this sea, between the Azores and Africa, is well called, by old shell-backs and South Spainers, the Ladies’ Gulf—most days fine, and blue, and then a tempest. The rocks Formigas we aim at lie between San Miguel and Santa Maria to the south-east. But the wind now blows hard and the sea runs too high, so we turn and pound back to patrol the north side of San Miguel, where we will get a little slant of shelter from the land.
As the wind is westerly we cannot help recalling what we call “our wreck” the B—enido, on the rocks of the breakwater, for a south-westerly wind is just what is needed to pound her into scrap iron; whereas she might have been floating to-day in port if she had accepted our polite offer of a tow.
A turtle is all we have seen this morning, and we have been looking out hard—one man in the crow’s nest on the foremast, and two on the bridge, and the writer in main rigging. The turtle was a browny yellow patch near the surface of the deep blue sea. We turned back to try and harpoon it, but it had gone down.
Though there is little life to see in ocean to-day it is pleasant enough sitting up in the shrouds watching the horizon, or sometimes casting an eye down to see St Ebba dip her bows under, and the burst of white spray that have made us again put covers over our three guns. The movement, sitting on the shrouds as we buck into the short sea, is rather like a side-saddle canter on a beamy carriage horse.
Before sundown, the wind keeping hard, we close in with the land, getting into smoother water. As we go some small whales appear, about fifteen or twenty feet long, and keep under our bows, and nearly give us a chance of putting in a small harpoon. They were whitish on back, with under side dark, marked along the sides with criss-cross pattern, as if slashes of a knife had been made through the dark skin.