That had been the first lesson, and quickly mastered.
Having settled the mainsail, Jerry returned in mind to Meringe.

But there was no Meringe, no Biddy and Terrence and Michael on the beach; no _Mister_ Haggin and Derby and Bob; no beach: no land with the palm-trees near and the mountains afar off everlastingly lifting their green peaks into the sky.

Always, to starboard or to port, at the bow or over the stern, when he stood up resting his fore-feet on the six-inch rail and gazing, he saw only the ocean, broken-faced and turbulent, yet orderly marching its white-crested seas before the drive of the trade.
Had he had the eyes of a man, nearly two yards higher than his own from the deck, and had they been the trained eyes of a man, sailor-man at that, Jerry could have seen the low blur of Ysabel to the north and the blur of Florida to the south, ever taking on definiteness of detail as the _Arangi_ sagged close-hauled, with a good full, port-tacked to the south-east trade.

And had he had the advantage of the marine glasses with which Captain Van Horn elongated the range of his eyes, he could have seen, to the east, the far peaks of Malaita lifting life-shadowed pink cloud-puffs above the sea-rim.
But the present was very immediate with Jerry.

He had early learned the iron law of the immediate, and to accept what _was_ when it was, rather than to strain after far other things.