Neither before nor since have I felt a ship roll so abruptly, so
violently, so heavily. Once she began, you felt that she would
never stop, and this hopeless sensation, characterizing the motion
of ships whose centre of gravity is brought down too low in
loading, made everyone on board weary of keeping on his feet. I
remember once over-hearing one of the hands say: "By Heavens,
Jack! I feel as if I didn't mind how soon I let myself go, and let
the blamed hooker knock my brains out if she likes." The captain
used to remark frequently: "Ah, yes; I dare say one-third weight
above beams would have been quite enough for most ships. But then,
you see, there's no two of them alike on the seas, and she's an
uncommonly ticklish jade to load."

Down south, running before the gales of high latitudes, she made
our life a burden to us. There were days when nothing would keep
even on the swing-tables, when there was no position where you
could fix yourself so as not to feel a constant strain upon all the
muscles of your body. She rolled and rolled with an awful
dislodging jerk and that dizzily fast sweep of her masts on every
swing. It was a wonder that the men sent aloft were not flung off
the yards, the yards not flung off the masts, the masts not flung
overboard. The captain in his armchair, holding on grimly at the
head of the table, with the soup-tureen rolling on one side of the
cabin and the steward sprawling on the other, would observe,
looking at me: "That's your one-third above the beams. The only
thing that surprises me is that the sticks have stuck to her all
this time."

Ultimately some of the minor spars did go--nothing important: