sir," he explained, in answer to my look of surprise, "this is what we
call a 'land wind,' that is, it's a-blowing, as one might say, direct off
the land."

When I came to think of it the man was right; the wind was blowing off
the land.

"It may change in the night," said Captain Goyles, more hopefully
"anyhow, it's not violent, and she rides well."

Captain Goyles resumed his cigar, and I returned aft, and explained to
Ethelbertha the reason for the delay. Ethelbertha, who appeared to be
less high spirited than when we first boarded, wanted to know _why_ we
couldn't sail when the wind was off the land.

"If it was not blowing off the land," said Ethelbertha, "it would be
blowing off the sea, and that would send us back into the shore again. It
seems to me this is just the very wind we want."

I said: "That is your inexperience, love; it _seems_ to be the very wind
we want, but it is not. It's what we call a land wind, and a land wind
is always very dangerous."

Ethelbertha wanted to know _why_ a land wind was very dangerous.

Her argumentativeness annoyed me somewhat; maybe I was feeling a bit
cross; the monotonous rolling heave of a small yacht at anchor depresses
an ardent spirit.

"I can't explain it to you," I replied, which was true, "but to set sail