Nothing is
more dreadful to the mind of a sailor, I think, than a possible
encounter with a hungry shark.
A number of birds were always about; occasionally one poised on the
mast to look the _Spray_ over, wondering, perhaps, at her odd wings,
for she now wore her Fuego mainsail, which, like Joseph's coat, was
made of many pieces. Ships are less common on the Southern seas than
formerly. I saw not one in the many days crossing the Pacific.
My diet on these long passages usually consisted of potatoes and salt
cod and biscuits, which I made two or three times a week. I had always
plenty of coffee, tea, sugar, and flour. I carried usually a good
supply of potatoes, but before reaching Samoa I had a mishap which
left me destitute of this highly prized sailors' luxury. Through
meeting at Juan Fernandez the Yankee Portuguese named Manuel Carroza,
who nearly traded me out of my boots, I ran out of potatoes in
mid-ocean, and was wretched thereafter. I prided myself on being
something of a trader; but this Portuguese from the Azores by way of
New Bedford, who gave me new potatoes for the older ones I had got
from the _Colombia_, a bushel or more of the best, left me no ground
for boasting. He wanted mine, he said, "for changee the seed." When I
got to sea I found that his tubers were rank and unedible, and full of
fine yellow streaks of repulsive appearance. I tied the sack up and
returned to the few left of my old stock, thinking that maybe when I
got right hungry the island potatoes would improve in flavor.
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