business of "getting the anchor" and securing it afterwards is
unduly prolonged, and made a weariness to the chief mate. He is
the man who watches the growth of the cable--a sailor's phrase
which has all the force, precision, and imagery of technical
language that, created by simple men with keen eyes for the real
aspect of the things they see in their trade, achieves the just
expression seizing upon the essential, which is the ambition of the
artist in words. Therefore the sailor will never say, "cast
anchor," and the ship-master aft will hail his chief mate on the
forecastle in impressionistic phrase: "How does the cable grow?"
Because "grow" is the right word for the long drift of a cable
emerging aslant under the strain, taut as a bow-string above the
water. And it is the voice of the keeper of the ship's anchors
that will answer: "Grows right ahead, sir," or "Broad on the bow,"
or whatever concise and deferential shout will fit the case.

There is no order more noisily given or taken up with lustier
shouts on board a homeward-bound merchant ship than the command,
"Man the windlass!" The rush of expectant men out of the
forecastle, the snatching of hand-spikes, the tramp of feet, the
clink of the pawls, make a stirring accompaniment to a plaintive
up-anchor song with a roaring chorus; and this burst of noisy
activity from a whole ship's crew seems like a voiceful awakening
of the ship herself, till then, in the picturesque phrase of Dutch
seamen, "lying asleep upon her iron."

For a ship with her sails furled on her squared yards, and
reflected from truck to water-line in the smooth gleaming sheet of
a landlocked harbour, seems, indeed, to a seaman's eye the most
perfect picture of slumbering repose. The getting of your anchor