Therefore, instead of resting, I had to "man the windlass" and heave up the anchor with fifty fathoms of cable hanging up and down in deep water.
This was in that part of the strait called Famine Reach.

Dismal Famine Reach! On the sloop's crab-windlass I worked the rest of the night, thinking how much easier it was for me when I could say, "Do that thing or the other," than now doing all myself.

But I hove away and sang the old chants that I sang when I was a sailor.

Within the last few days I had passed through much and was now thankful that my state was no worse.
It was daybreak when the anchor was at the hawse.

By this time the wind had gone down, and cat's-paws took the place of williwaws, while the sloop drifted slowly toward Sandy Point.