122 A YEAR WITH A WHALER 



The bow swung toward the 'berg — swung 

 slowly, slowly across it. The tip of the jib-boom 

 almost rammed a white pinnacle. Just when 

 everybody was expecting the brig to pile up in 

 >vreck on the ice, the great 'berg swept past our 

 starboard rail. But we had not missed it. Its 

 jagged edges scraped a line an inch deep along 

 our side from bow to stern. 



Shooting okchug (or, as it is sometimes spelled, 

 ooksook) or hair seals was a favorite amusement 

 in the spring ice. The mate was an expert with 

 a rifle. He shot many as they lay sunning them- 

 selves on ice cakes. Okchugs are as large as oxen 

 and are covered with short silvery hair so glossy 

 that it fairly sparkles. If an okchug was killed 

 outright, its head dropped over upon the ice and 

 it lay still. If only slightly wounded, the animal 

 flounced off into the sea. If vitally hurt, it re- 

 mained motionless with its head up and glaring 

 defiance, whereupon a boat's crew would row out 

 to the ice cake and a sailor would finish the crea- 

 ture with a club. 



It was exciting to step on a small ice cake to 

 face a wounded and savage okchug. The ani- 



