He has taken a hitch round the
heavy tiller with the slack of the main sheet to keep it off the side of
his head while he eats. There is no current, and there is not a breath
of air. By and by, before midnight, you will smell the soft land breeze
blowing in puffs out of every little bay and indentation. There is no
order needed. The men silently brace the yards and change the sheets
over. The small jib is already bent in place of the big one, for the
night is dark and some of those smart puffs will soon be like little
squalls. Full and by. Hug the land, for there are no more reefs before
Scalea. If you do not get aground on what you can see in Calabria, you
will not get aground at all, says the old proverb. Briskly over two or
three miles to the next point, and the breeze is gone again. While she
is still forging ahead out go the sweeps, six or eight of them, and the
men throw themselves forward over the long slender loom, as they stand.
Half an hour to row, or more perhaps. Down helm, as you meet the next
puff, and the good felucca heels over a little. And so through the
night, the breeze freshening before the rising sun to die away in the
first hot morning hours, just as you are abreast of Camerota.
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