Early in the first day I saw a sail dimly
outlined in the misty air. I called John's attention to it with a shout,
and he saw it too, but, as we rowed toward it, the sail retreated and
then disappeared. We thought that this was strange, for the wind was not
strong enough to take a vessel away from us faster than we could row,
and we were near enough to make ourselves heard. Soon, the sail appeared
again, and again we shouted and rowed toward it, and again it glided
away from us and disappeared, and again, and again, through the
seemingly endless procession of the slow-moving hours of that first day,
we chased the phantom ship.
When night came on, there came with it a deepening sense of loneliness
and isolation. The night was also very cold, the chill penetrated our
thin clothing, and we were compelled to row the boat to keep ourselves,
not warm, but a little less cold. The icebergs coming down on the Arctic
Current hold the season back, and early June on the Banks is much like
April on the Massachusetts coast. We tried to sleep lying down in the
bottom of the boat with our heads in a trawl tub, but we were stiff with
cold, the boat leaked badly, and it was necessary to get up frequently
and bail out the water.
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