It burst upon us in all its fury, and the
yacht became a tiny seesaw upon the murderous Himalayas that rose around
us.
Great chunks of green water came hurtling over the rail, thundering down
upon us till _The Waif_ was buried in a boiling turmoil from which she
would leap and shake herself, only to be pulled down again when the next
sea fell upon us. When she sprang out of the lather, those devilish,
snarling, snaky waves sprang after her, slapping at her flanks, tearing
and biting at her like a pack of wolves. There's an awful likeness to a
wolf pack about storm waves. When you see them all foam-lathered
stretching out like a pack in full cry, or watch them leaping up as if
they were trying to see whether the unfortunate ship had been torn down
by one of their band, you begin to credit them with some sort of
intelligence.
_The Waif_ was no poppycock yacht, built to dodge about the Solent and
run for Cowes if the wind blew a capful. She had been built to hold her
own with the hardest slamming seas that ever chased a shattered hull,
and it was lucky for us that she was.
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