WHALING AND BEAR-HUNTING 123 



beam or bridge and perhaps becoming a wreck in a second. 

 It was as if the lights of cities at night showed every instant 

 round the low horizon every now and then, to be blotted out 

 by black hills, the light of the phosphorescent white ridges 

 of foam. 



Seizing what we think is a lull between big waves we 

 scramble across the wet deck forward to our small mess- 

 room, pause as we hang on and swing, till the iron door is 

 almost upright and dive in. The door shuts with a clang. . . . 

 How the wind whistles as the new-comer opens the little 

 round-topped iron door ! But once inside there is peace 

 and warmth and lamplight and steamy air from the cooking 

 stove, and we have sardines and bread and margarine for 

 dinner, for it's too rough for cooking more than tea. Then 

 out into the black, wet, slippery deck again. Phew ! How 

 it blows, and how difficult it is to see now ! Then to the 

 bridge again and the St Ebba beneath us, a patch of black 

 with two lights like eyes shining aft from the galley, a mass 

 of dark against the wicked white of the surf which we tear 

 in the dark sea a black cat on a white bearskin, in a half- 

 lit room. I suggest to the styrman (Norse for first mate) 

 and captain as we shiver (I do at least) on the bridge that a 

 Rolls Royce motor car on a hard, dry road isn't so bad, and 

 they shout with derision. " No ! No ! " the St Ebba for 

 them, driving before a gale. I wonder if they really mean it ! 

 Anyway I must pretend that I like it too. 



A chunk of green sea came over our poop and bridge last 

 night, banged on our iron cabin door which faces astern 

 with a thunderous shock and swept over the bows. Some 

 went over the bridge, and a lot came down to the cabin, 

 enough to be unpleasant. Out came styrman like a rabbit 

 from his bunk, and I'm pretty sure both the writer and 

 captain's colour was not suggestive of pure joy. In a brace 

 of shakes, after this big wave broke over us last night, 

 Henriksen was at the wheel and the engine going again 

 the engineer had stopped it for some reason, perhaps to let 

 our decks clear off the sea. Then sacks with waste and oil 

 were rigged out on either bow, and we continued, the seas 

 breaking angrily but out of reach of us. So we drove through 



