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We embarked in the intense dark well before dawn, and set off. When the sun began to rise, it was not strong and clear. Distant clouds made a spectacular and almost ominous display around it, with garish colours. And around us was a patchy mist, swirling in the light wind. Gulls, and other birds I did not recognize, followed us, and swooped around the vessel, sometimes alighting on the rigging. The combination of the smooth swaying motion of the ship, the mysterious light, the poor visibility, and the calls of the birds made an eery atmosphere.
I looked back to the captain on the helm. He was frowning. I heard him mutter to himself: ‘I don’t like it.’
The voyage continued in this way. I lost count of time, of when I dozed off or when I awoke, of the periods of more or less light or darkness, of what I was given to eat and drink from time to time. But the ship continued steadily, with its rocking motion. There was a permanent lookout on the starboard side in case of hazards off the African coastline. And mostly there was also a lookout on the port side in case of offshore islands or reefs. Sometimes they called out, and the helmsman might order an adjustment of the sails to go with a change of course. But these exchanges were not shouted in the familiar manner, loud and clear, but subdued, as though we were in mysterious waters, and did not know what to expect, or who might be listening. I felt a great weariness.
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