Strange how alike all these starts are - first on
shore, steaming hot days with a smell of bone-dust and tar and salt
water; then the little puffing, panting steam-launch that bustles
out across a port with green woody sides, little yachts sliding
about, men-of-war training-ships, and then a great big black hulk
of a thing with a mass of smaller vessels sticking to it like
parasites; and that is one's home being coaled. Then comes the
Champagne lunch where everyone says all that is polite to everyone
else, and then the uncertainty when to start. So far as we know
NOW, we are to start to-morrow morning at daybreak; letters that
come later are to be sent to Pernambuco by first mail. . . . My
father has sent me the heartiest sort of Jack Tar's cheer.
'S. S. HOOPER. OFF FUNCHAL, JUNE 29. - Here we are off Madeira at
seven o'clock in the morning. Thomson has been sounding with his
special toy ever since half-past three (1087 fathoms of water). I
have been watching the day break, and long jagged islands start
into being out of the dull night.
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