A dip of the sails to the swell of the rising
wind, and the snowy heights of Avacha Bay are left on the offing. The
thunder of the surf against the rocky caves of Kamchatka coast fades
fainter. The myriad birds become fewer. Steller, the scientist, leans
over the rail to listen if the huge sperm whale, there, "hums" as it
"blows." The white rollers come from the north, rolling--rolling down
to the tropics. A gray thing hangs over the northern offing, a grayish
brown thing called "fog" of which they will know more anon. The
grayish brown thing means storm; and the "porps" tumbling, floundering,
somerseting round the ships in circles, mean storm; and Chirikoff, far
ahead there, signals back doubtfully to know if they shouldn't keep
together to avoid being lost in the gathering fog. The Dane shrugs his
shoulders and looks to the north. The grayish brown thing has
darkened, thickened, spread out impalpably, and by the third day, a
northling wind is whistling through the riggings with a rip. Sails are
furled. The white rollers roll no longer. They lash with chopped-off
tops flying backward; and the _St.
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