It's no squall. If it wasn't so late
in the season I'd call it a hurricane. I'm going on deck."
He climbed the companionway stairs to the poop, and shut the scuttle
behind him--for the rain was flooding the cabin--then looked around.
The shore and horizon were hidden by a dense wall of gray, which seemed
not a hundred feet distant. From to windward this wall was detaching
great waves or sheets of almost solid water, which bombarded the ship
in successive blows, to be then lost in the gray whirl to leeward.
Overhead was the same dismal hue, marked by hurrying masses of darker
cloud, and below was a sea of froth, white and flat; for no waves could
rise their heads in that wind. Drenched to the skin, he tried the
wheel and found it free in its movements. In front of it was a
substantial binnacle, and within a compass, which, though sluggish, as
from a well-worn pivot, was practically in good condition. "Blowing us
about nor'west by west," he muttered, as he looked at it--"straight up
the coast. It's better than the beach in this weather, but may land us
in Havana." He examined he boat. It was full of water, and tailing to
windward, held by its painter.
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