The captain now has a decision to make: The action of the barometer suggests that heavy weather will continue for a while—which is not surprising, for we are approaching Cape Hatteras, where storms are perennial. If the sky remains overcast we will not be able to get a glimpse of the sun, and consequently will not be able to work out our position, and dead reckoning, while accurate enough for short runs, is liable to grow progressively inaccurate if the run is long. In addition to all this we must either change our course to the east in order to cross the Gulf Stream, or a little to the west in order to stay between it and the coast, for it is wasted effort to go against a strong current when it isn’t necessary. Even if we cross the Gulf Stream to its outer edge we may have to go for several days without a sight of the sun. If we stay inside it we probably won’t see the sun any sooner, but we can pass close to Diamond Shoal Lightship, which lies off Cape Hatteras, and so check up our position. The captain decides for this latter course, after studying the barometer again and deciding that the chance for more violent weather is slight, and with a mark on the chart for our position at 8 A. M. the course is changed slightly to the west of south. All day we roll and pitch, not badly, but very steadily, but from the calmness of everyone about us we, too, view the gale as of no great importance. Nor is it, for, while the wind is kicking up a rough sea, the waves are far from mountainous, and in our deeply laden condition almost anything more than a ripple would wash over our low forward deck. We have our meals and return after each one to the bridge—always the most interesting place on a ship, particularly in heavy weather—but by the time darkness has returned we have seen nothing on the gray and “smoky” sea save, in the distance, a steamer, that has been lost to view again, and a schooner under double-reefed sails that passed us bound north during the afternoon. We are ready to turn in early, for all day on the bridge with the spray-laden wind blowing strongly in our faces has been tiring. We leave word to be called when Diamond Shoal Lightship is sighted, and roll into our bunks. At four-thirty in the morning we are called, and bundling ourselves into our clothes we stumble out on deck. The wind has increased, and sweeps back from the bow furiously and heavy with moisture. The ship is rolling deeply, and ever and anon a huge wave pounds heavily on the high steel bow. Up on the bridge the captain is pacing in his oilskins, and with him is the mate, but the night is dark and we stumble against them ere our unaccustomed eyes can make them out. “She’s blowing a bit,” shouts the captain, and we silently agree to his very obvious remark. “Have you picked up Diamond Shoal Lightship?” we shout in return. “There it is,” he replies, “two points off the starboard bow.”