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To cross thirty or one hundred seventy-five has been, as you know, the direst
calamity that could befall a naval commander. Court-martial and degradation
follow swiftly, unless as is often the case, the unfortunate man takes his own life
before this unjust and heartless regulation can hold him up to public scorn.
There has been in the past no excuse, no circumstance, that could palliate the
offense.
"He was in command, and he took his ship across thirty!" That was sufficient. It
might not have been in any way his fault, as, in the case of the Coldwater, it
could not possibly have been justly charged to my account that the gravitation-
screen generators were worthless; but well I knew that should chance have it that
we were blown across thirty today--as we might easily be before the terrific west
wind that we could hear howling below us, the responsibility would fall upon my
shoulders.
In a way, the regulation was a good one, for it certainly accomplished that for
which it was intended. We all fought shy of 30d on the east and 175d on the
west, and, though we had to skirt them pretty close, nothing but an act of God
ever drew one of us across. You all are familiar with the naval tradition that a
good officer could sense proximity to either line, and for my part, I am firmly
convinced of the truth of this as I am that the compass finds the north without
recourse to tedious processes of reasoning.
Old Admiral Sanchez was wont to maintain that he could smell thirty, and the
men of the first ship in which I sailed claimed that Coburn, the navigating officer,
knew by name every wave along thirty from 60dN. to 60dS. However, I'd hate to
vouch for this.
Well, to get back to my narrative; we kept on dropping slowly toward the surface
the while we bucked the west wind, clawing away from thirty as fast as we could.
I was on the bridge, and as we dropped from the brilliant sunlight into the dense
vapor of clouds and on down through them to the wild, dark storm strata
beneath, it seemed that my spirits dropped with the falling ship, and the
buoyancy of hope ran low in sympathy.
The waves were running to tremendous heights, and the Coldwater was not
designed to meet such waves head on. Her elements were the blue ether, far
above the raging storm, or the greater depths of ocean, which no storm could
ruffle.
As I stood speculating upon our chances once we settled into the frightful
Maelstrom beneath us and at the same time mentally computing the hours which
must elapse before aid could reach us, the wireless operator clambered up the
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