There is a South Atlantic whale with its back marked in somewhat similar manner. I have seen a few in the Weddell Sea, amongst the Antarctic ice. Ziphius novæ Zealandicæ,—possibly this is the same, which would give a wide distribution.
I think this is as elaborate an impression as I dare to make without drawing on what I think it might be like, or faking, to use the artist’s term. But they kept so much under water, and only came to the top for such a rapid breathing-space, and it was so rough that we did not blow any powder—better luck next time.
Two and a half miles off shore we heave to, lash the wheel, and drift slowly out to sea and close our eyes for a little, they are sore with gazing across the blue in salt spray, wind and glare of sun.
Three little white and pink towns above a coast of cliff are to windward, and a little more to the south-west there is the volcanic mountain of the Seven Cities, with the lakes in its crater, a place of great beauty but suggestive of Martinique, especially so to-night, as there is an off-shore wind blowing from the south and an immense pall of cloud flowing over it and us, shadowing the little towns at its base, Ribiera Grande, Calhetas Morro des Capellas, and our little selves out at sea.
CHAPTER XIX
I see I have gushed a little about the blue sea in the last chapter. This begins with storm, and gale, and courage running into water in the grip of the elements.
Just now we are rolling in a loppy swell, high and irregular, but there’s no wind to speak of. We are right round to W. and S. of St Michael and we see the island faintly to north to windward, distant some eight miles; it gives us shelter from the remains of a north-east gale that sprang up last night, and is only now dying away this afternoon.
Between the time it rose and fell we had too much time to think and little enough to act.