The situation really would have been favorable hadwe not been in the path of the storm. True， the winditself tore our canvas out of the gaskets， jerked out ourtopmasts， and made a raffle of our running gear， but stillwe would have come through nicely had we not beensquare in front of the advancing storm center. Thatwas what fixed us. I was in a state of stunned， numbed，paralyzed collapse from enduring the impact of the wind，and I think I was just about ready to give up and die whenthe center smote us. The blow we received was an absolutelull. There was not a breath of air. The effect on one wassickening.
Remember that for hours we had been at terrificmuscular tension， withstanding the awful pressure of thatwind. And then， suddenly， the pressure was removed.
I know that I felt as though I was about to expand， tofly apart in all directions. It seemed as if every atomcomposing my body was repelling every other atom andwas on the verge of rushing off irresistibly into space. Butthat lasted only for a moment. Destruction was upon us.
In the absence of the wind and pressure the sea rose.
It jumped， it leaped， it soared straight toward the clouds.
Remember， from every point of the compass thatinconceivable wind was blowing in toward the center ofcalm. The result was that the seas sprang up from everypoint of the compass. There was no wind to check them.
They popped up like corks released from the bottom ofa pail of water. There was no system to them， no stability.
They were hollow， maniacal seas. They were eighty feethigh at the least. They were not seas at all. They resembledno sea a man had ever seen.
They were splashes， monstrous splashes—that is all.
Splashes that were eighty feet high. Eighty！ They weremore than eighty. They went over our mastheads. Theywere spouts， explosions. They were drunken. They fellanywhere， anyhow. They jostled one another； they collided.
They rushed together and collapsed upon one another， orfell apart like a thousand waterfalls all at once. It was noocean any man had ever dreamed of， that hurricane center.
It was confusion thrice confounded. It was anarchy. It wasa hell pit of sea water gone mad.
The Petite Jeanne？ I don’t know. The heathen told meafterwards that he did not know. She was literally tornapart， ripped wide open， beaten into a pulp， smashed intokindling wood， annihilated. When I came to I was in thewater， swimming automatically， though I was about twothirdsdrowned. How I got there I had no recollection. Iremembered seeing the Petite Jeanne fly to pieces at whatmust have been the instant that my own consciousnesswas buffeted out of me. But there I was， with nothing todo but make the best of it， and in that best there was littlepromise. The wind was blowing again， the sea was muchsmaller and more regular， and I knew that I had passedthrough the center. Fortunately， there were no sharksabout. The hurricane had dissipated the ravenous hordethat had surrounded the death ship and fed off the dead.
It was about midday when the Petite Jeanne went topieces， and it must have been two hours afterwards whenI picked up with one of her hatch covers. Thick rain wasdriving at the time； and it was the merest chance thatflung me and the hatch cover together. A short length ofline was trailing from the rope handle； and I knew that Iwas good for a day， at least， if the sharks did not return.
Three hours later， possibly a little longer， sticking close tothe cover， and with closed eyes， concentrating my wholesoul upon the task of breathing in enough air to keepme going and at the same time of avoiding breathing inenough water to drown me， it seemed to me that I heardvoices. The rain had ceased， and wind and sea were easingmarvelously. Not twenty feet away from me， on anotherhatch cover were Captain Oudouse and the heathen. Theywere fighting over the possession of the cover—at least，the Frenchman was. “Paien noir！” I heard him scream， andat the same time I saw him kick the kanaka.
Now， Captain Oudouse had lost all his clothes， excepthis shoes， and they were heavy brogans. It was a cruelblow， for it caught the heathen on the mouth and thepoint of the chin， half stunning him. I looked for him toretaliate， but he contented himself with swimming aboutforlornly a safe ten feet away. Whenever a fling of thesea threw him closer， the Frenchman， hanging on withhis hands， kicked out at him with both feet. Also， at themoment of delivering each kick， he called the kanaka ablack heathen.
“For two centimes I’d come over there and drown you，you white beast！” I yelled.
The only reason I did not go was that I felt tootired. The very thought of the effort to swim over wasnauseating. So I called to the kanaka to come to me， andproceeded to share the hatch cover with him. Otoo， hetold me his name was （pronounced o-to-o ）； also， he toldme that he was a native of Bora Bora， the most westerlyof the Society Group. As I learned afterward， he had gotthe hatch cover first， and， after some time， encounteringCaptain Oudouse， had offered to share it with him， andhad been kicked off for his pains.
And that was how Otoo and I first came together. Hewas no fighter. He was all sweetness and gentleness， alove creature， though he stood nearly six feet tall and wasmuscled like a gladiator. He was no fighter， but he wasalso no coward. He had the heart of a lion； and in theyears that followed I have seen him run risks that I wouldnever dream of taking. What I mean is that while he wasno fighter， and while he always avoided precipitating arow， he never ran away from trouble when it started. Andit was “Ware shoal！” when once Otoo went into action.
