There was no freshness in the air.

It was sultry and oppressive, reminding me of what the old Californians term "earthquake weather." There was something ominous about it, and in intangible ways one was made to feel that the worst was about to come.

Slowly the whole eastern sky filled with clouds that over-towered us like some black sierra of the infernal regions.

So clearly could one see canon, gorge, and precipice, and the shadows that lie therein, that one looked unconsciously for the white surf-line and bellowing caverns where the sea charges on the land.

And still we rocked gently, and there was no wind.
"It's no square" Wolf Larsen said.