AN hour after moonrise we were gone from Gomera.

At first a light wind filled the sails, but when the round moon went down in the west and the sun rose, there was Teneriffe still at hand, and the sea glassy.
It rested like a mirror all that day, and the sails hung empty and the banner at maintop but a moveless wisp of cloth.

In the night arose a contrary wind, and another red dawn showed us Teneriffe still.

The wind dropping like a shot, we hung off Ferro, fixed in blue glass.

Watch was kept for the Portuguese, but they also would be rooted to sea bottom.
The third morning up whistled the wind, blowing from Africa and filling every sail.
Palos to the Canaries, we had sailed south.