I had no moustache then, was fat like a
whale, and first mate on the 'Dancing Kate', a pearler in the Indian
Ocean, between Java and Australia. That was sailing, mind you--real
seamanship, no bally nonsense; a fight every weather, interesting all
round. If it wasn't a deadly calm, it was a typhoon; if it wasn't either,
it was want of food and water. I've seen us with pearls on board worth a
thousand quid, and not a drop of water nor three square meals in the
caboose. But that was life for men and not Miss Nancys. If they weren't
saints, they were sailors, afraid of nothing but God Almighty--and they
do respect Him, even when they curse the winds and the sea. Well, one day
we were lying in the open sea, about two hundred and fifty miles from
Port Darwin. There wasn't a breath of air. The sea was like glass; the
sun was drawing turpentine out of every inch of the 'Dancing Kate'. The
world was one wild blister. There wasn't a comfortable spot in the craft,
and all round us was that staring, oily sea. It was too hot to smoke, and
I used to make a Sede boy do my smoking for me. I got the benefit of the
smell without any work.
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