In a way, the regulation was a good one, for it certainly
accomplished that for which it was intended. We all fought
shy of 30d on the east and 175d on the west, and, though we
had to skirt them pretty close, nothing but an act of God
ever drew one of us across. You all are familiar with the
naval tradition that a good officer could sense proximity to
either line, and for my part, I am firmly convinced of the
truth of this as I am that the compass finds the north
without recourse to tedious processes of reasoning.

Old Admiral Sanchez was wont to maintain that he could smell
thirty, and the men of the first ship in which I sailed
claimed that Coburn, the navigating officer, knew by name
every wave along thirty from 60dN. to 60dS. However, I'd
hate to vouch for this.

Well, to get back to my narrative; we kept on dropping
slowly toward the surface the while we bucked the west wind,
clawing away from thirty as fast as we could. I was on the
bridge, and as we dropped from the brilliant sunlight into
the dense vapor of clouds and on down through them to the
wild, dark storm strata beneath, it seemed that my spirits
dropped with the falling ship, and the buoyancy of hope ran
low in sympathy.

The waves were running to tremendous heights, and the
Coldwater was not designed to meet such waves head on. Her
elements were the blue ether, far above the raging storm, or
the greater depths of ocean, which no storm could ruffle.