380 FROM NORTH POLE TO EQUATOR. 



of the river show white sails, of which one can see twenty or more 

 gliding among the dark rocks; at first all the craft are about the 

 same distance apart, but soon the variable currents and breezes 

 break their order. One and then another lags farther and farther 

 behind, one and then another shoots ahead of the main body of 

 the fleet, and in the course of an hour there is a wide interval 

 between the first boat and the last. Yet, even with a strong and 

 constant wind, the progress of the voyage is much less than it 

 seems. The waves, indeed, break impetuously on the bow, but the 

 boat has to contend with so strong an opposing current that its 

 forward movement is really slow. It is an art to steer under such 

 conditions, so that the boat may sail as straight as possible, consistent 

 with avoiding the rocks hidden beneath the surface. For every tack 

 means a change in the position of the unwieldy sail, and every time 

 the boat touches a rock a leak is caused. Captain and crew have thus 

 constant employment. Yet their work only begins in earnest when 

 they near one of the countless rapids which have to be overcome. The 

 sail, hitherto but partially unfurled, is now given fully to the wind ; 

 the bark pushes its way like a strong steamship through the chaos 

 of rocks and reaches the whirlpool which is found beneath almost 

 all rapids. All the men stand with oars outstretched and ropes in 

 readiness, awaiting the inevitable moment when the boat will be 

 gripped by the whirlpool and drawn into its vortex. At the skip- 

 per's bidding the oars on one side dip into the water, on the other 

 side long poles are thrust out to keep the boat off the rocks, while 

 the sail, skilfully handled by the most experienced sailors, is taken 

 in or let out, turned and twisted, as the circumstances demand. 

 Once, twice, six times, ten times, they try in vain to cut through 

 the whirlpool; at last they succeed and the boat reaches the lower 

 end of the water-rush. But here it stops as if spell-bound; the 

 pressure of the current equals that on the sails. The wind rises, 

 and the vessel moves on a few yards; the pressure on the sail 

 slackens again, and the waves drive it back to its former place. The 

 contest with the whirling waves recommences, and again the boat is 

 worsted. At last it reaches the desired goal, and must hold to it. 

 One of the crew grips a rope in his teeth, plunges into the midst of 



