The day proved clear, the trade blew steadily out of the east, and the Pyrenees just as steadily logged her nine knots.
The wind shifted back and forth between southeast and northeast, and at midnight the Pyrenees was caught aback by a sharp squall from the southwest, from which point the wind continued to blow intermittently.
Soon the Pyrenees was rolling madly in the huge waves that marched in an unending procession from out of the darkness of the west.
The Pyrenees was kept off, and sail after sail was loosed and sheeted home.
The captain gave his orders, and once more the Pyrenees swung off for another run across the inhospitable sea.
The current had accelerated, the wind had slackened, and the Pyrenees had sagged off to the west.
His voice was ringing out orders, the sailors were springing to obey, and the PYRENEES was paying slowly off from the wind until her bow should point in the direction of Makemo.
All day the current swept the PYRENEES to the westward, while there was no wind to bear her south.
A few minutes later, just as the captain had discovered that a new current from the northeast had gripped the Pyrenees, the masthead lookouts raised cocoanut palms in the northwest.
This will sweep us away from Fakarava, and Fakarava is the place for the Pyrenees to find her bed.
But the situation on the Pyrenees was reaching a culmination.
All night this apprehension weighed heavily on all, and in the first morning light, with hollow eyes and ghastly faces, they stared at one another as if in surprise that the Pyrenees still held together and that they still were alive.