Thursday, Nov. 12th. This day was quite cool in the early part,
and there were black clouds about; but as it was often so in the
morning, nothing was apprehended, and all the captains went ashore
together, to spend the day. Towards noon, the clouds hung heavily over
the mountains, coming half way down the hills that encircle the town
of Santa Barbara, and a heavy swell rolled in from the south-east. The
mate immediately ordered the gig's crew away, and at the same time, we
saw boats pulling ashore from the other vessels. Here was a grand
chance for a rowing match, and every one did his best. We passed the
boats of the Ayacucho and Loriotte, but could gain nothing upon, and
indeed, hardly hold our own with, the long, six-oared boat of the
whale-ship. They reached the breakers before us; but here we had the
advantage of them, for, not being used to the surf, they were
obliged to wait to see us beach our boat, just as, in the same
place, nearly a year before, we, in the Pilgrim, were glad to be
taught by a boat's crew of Kanakas.
We had hardly got the boats beached, and their heads out, before our
old friend, Bill Jackson, the handsome English sailor, who steered the
Loriotte's boat, called out that the brig was adrift; and, sure
enough, she was dragging her anchors, and drifting down into the bight
of the bay.
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