145 I learn of flamingos and hurricanes 



"When we git t' Nassaw hell head for th' fust rumshop!" The 

 words of the hymns, in Herby's wheezy tenor, offered little com- 

 fort. Crossing the Bar seemed like the last straw. What a foolish, 

 unprepared way to die, I thought, out here in these strange waters, 

 in a boat with nothing but a torn, patched-up sail, in this day of 

 efficient marine engines. With two men I scarcely know, and who 

 probably don't care if I die or not. And, worst of all, in an unpre- 

 dicted hurricane, at the wrong time of year. Who ever heard of a 

 hurricane in mid-May? 



At dawn, the wind and the heaving seas increased to such an 

 extent that we finally had to drop all canvas to the deck and turn 

 the sloop loose. She fell into the long rolling seas broadside, riding 

 the gray slopes like a wounded duck and fighting the tops of the 

 combers fretfully, the water breaking across her from rail to rail. 

 There was nothing more that we could do. In the gray light the 

 men's faces were taut and old-looking. Herby, mercifully, had 

 stopped his singing. His usually bland features were an utter 

 blank, drained of all intelligent expression. McPhee, still alert, 

 like his stout little vessel, watched the approach of every big wave. 

 I knew what he was watching for, and I wondered vaguely what 

 we would do at the last minute. We counted as many as four 

 waterspouts in sight at one time, two of them dangerously near. 



In an odd way at that stage of the experience, I was actually 

 enjoying the freedom of our uncontrolled movement. It was a 

 seascape to remember. Against a sky that was tearing itself apart 

 with frenzy, surrounded by a changing series of backdrops, dark 

 and violent and forbidding, our naked mast careening at crazy 

 angles, the loose halyards flapping and singing in the wind, we 

 rolled and wallowed, pitched, lurched, bucked, dipped, shuddered 

 and, with it all, swept along toward whatever lay in store for us, 

 like a royal barge that must hasten to get there before all the rest. 

 And we were still afloat. 



By midmorning a lull aroused us enough to hoist the jib and 

 a small corner of the mainsail. McPhee, looking grimmer than 

 ever, loosed the sheet and let the sloop ride just a trifle off the 

 wind, so that the breaking seas were on our starboard quarter 

 rather than dead astern. Now we went forward with some pur- 



