His first troubles at sea had already begun.
His crew had managed, by foul play or otherwise, to break the ship's rudder while running before probably just such a gale as the _Spray_ had passed through; and there was dissension on the _Santa Maria_, something that was unknown on the _Spray_.
After three days of squalls and shifting winds I threw myself down to rest and sleep, while, with helm lashed, the sloop sailed steadily on her course.
September 1, in the early morning, land-clouds rising ahead told of the Canary Islands not far away.

A change in the weather came next day: storm-clouds stretched their arms across the sky; from the east, to all appearances, might come a fierce harmattan, or from the south might come the fierce hurricane.

Every point of the compass threatened a wild storm.

My attention was turned to reefing sails, and no time was to be lost over it, either, for the sea in a moment was confusion itself, and I was glad to head the sloop three points or more away from her true course that she might ride safely over the waves.

I was now scudding her for the channel between Africa and the island of Fuerteventura, the easternmost of the Canary Islands, for which I was on the lookout.