Some ships are very dangerous to run at all.
Endeavouring to make the best use of the gale which is blowing in
the right direction, the captain "hangs on" to all the sail he
can carry, until she ships a mighty mass of water over all, so
that the decks are filled with wreckage, or, worse still, "poops"
a sea. The latter experience is a terrible one, even to a
trained seaman. You are running before the wind and waves,
sometimes deep in the valley between two liquid mountains,
sometimes high on the rolling ridge of one. You watch anxiously
the speed of the sea, trying to decide whether it or you are
going the faster, when suddenly there seems to be a hush, almost
a lull, in the uproar. You look astern, and see a wall of water
rising majestically higher and higher, at the same time drawing
nearer and nearer. Instinctively you clutch at something firm,
and hold your breath. Then that mighty green barrier leans
forward, the ship's stern seems to settle at the same time, and,
with a thundering noise as of an avalanche descending, it
overwhelms you. Of course the ship's way is deadened; she seems
like a living thing overburdened, yet struggling to be free; and
well it is for all hands if the helmsman be able to keep his
post and his wits about him.
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