During the next seven or eight hours the storm gradually approaches. Higher and higher roll the waves, deeper and deeper rolls the ship, and suddenly we are aroused by the crash of a sea that mounts the side, dashes across the deck, and pours in a great stream through our open port. Shocked instantly into consciousness we leap from our bunks, into the inch or two of water that is swishing about the stateroom, and close the port, just too late to save ourselves from a wetting. But our interest is aroused by the dull gray sea, the rising and falling waves, the driving spray, and, quickly dressing, we hurry out on deck and up to the bridge, fearful, perhaps, that trouble is at hand. But once on the bridge everyone is calm—no one is worried. Another mate, now on duty, sings out a cheery “Good morning”; the man at the wheel looks up, nods, and drops his eyes once more to the compass card. We tell of our wetting and are laughed at, and the ships goes rolling and pitching on, the waves piling one after another over her weather rail, filling the low deck forward of the bridge, gurgling around the hatches, and finally pouring back into the sea in cascades through the scuppers. Now and again the combination of the ship’s roll and an advancing wave forces a great foamy cloud high over the bow, where the spray is caught by the wind which whistles aft with it, stinging our faces and leaving a pleasant taste of salt upon our lips. The sky is still overcast, and as eight o’clock comes the clouds grow heavier, if anything, making it impossible for the officers to take the elevation of the sun with their sextants in order to work out our position. But the record of the log is taken, a line is drawn from our “point of departure” off Cape May, drawn at the angle from that point that our helmsmen have been steering, and the distance we have run—92 miles, since the evening before—is marked on that line, giving us our position according to dead reckoning. Our course has been south, and so, while in the position we have there may be an error of two or three miles marked, we know that we are not far wrong, and that we are safely out at sea, about fifty miles due east of Cape Charles, which is at the entrance to Chesapeake Bay.