carried in such a gale, may be blown to ribbons by the furious wind,
and a new one has to be bent on.

The night, perhaps, is dark, the tattered canvas is thrashing with a
noise like thunder, the ship burying her decks under angry black seas
every few minutes. The men's hands are numb with the cold and the wet,
and the hard, dangerous work aloft. There is no chance of going below
when their job is done, to "turn in" between warm, dry blankets in a
snug berth. Possibly even those who belong to the "watch below" may
have to remain on deck. Or, if they have the good fortune to be
allowed to go below, they may no sooner have dropped off asleep
(rolled round in blankets which perhaps have been wet ever since the
gale began) than there is a thump, thump overhead, and one of the
watch on deck bellows down the forecastle-hatch, "All hands shorten
sail." And out they must tumble again, once more to battle with the
hungry, roaring seas and the raging wind. So, when there has been a
long spell of bad weather, it is no wonder that the men are worn out.
And when, as was the case with Gulliver's ship, the food also is bad,
it is easy to understand why so many of the crew had died.

It was on the 5th of November, the beginning of summer in latitudes
south of the equator. The storm had not yet cleared off, and the
weather was very thick, the wind coming in furious squalls that drove
the ship along at great speed, when suddenly from the lookout man came
a wild cry--"Breakers ahead!"

But so close had the vessel come to the rocks before they were seen
through the thick driving spray, that immediately, with, a heavy
plunge, she crashed into the reef, and split her bows.