Pitch, pitch--splash, dash, go the bows; at
one moment we are tossed high in the air, and the next we sink so low
that the water reaches up to our knees as the ship settles down again,
only to rise for a plunge heavier than before. We have just got the
jib half-stowed, 'after a fashion,' when our messmate sings out: 'Hold
hard, Jack!' and we cling for dear life. The next instant, a wave
rolls a fathom high over our head, and we emerge, spluttering and
gasping from a genuine cold salt-water bath, such as the hydropathists
have no idea of. Before our nice little job is completed, we get two
or three more comfortable duckings, and finally crawl on board
half-drowned, and thankful that we were not altogether washed away, as
many better fellows have been, at that same blessed task of
jib-furling on a stormy night.
We have just given ourselves a good shake, like a Newfoundland dog,
when four bells (2 A.M.) strike, and the man at the wheel is of course
relieved, his time being up. It happens to be our turn, or 'trick,' at
the wheel, and we must at once take to it, all dripping and exhausted
as we are.
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