The sea came on to us in
huge foaming rollers like waves of attacking infantry intent on
overwhelming us.
We struggled east at about three knots. But she stuck it magnificently.
Low scudding clouds obscured the sky and came like a procession of
ghosts from the north-east. Sun observations were impossible for two
reasons. Firstly, no one could get on deck; secondly, there was no
visible sun. This lasted for three days, at the end of which time we
had only the vaguest idea as to where we were.
The gale then blew out, but, contrary to all expectations, was
succeeded by a most abominable fog, thick and white like cotton-wool.
These were hardly ideal conditions under which to close a rocky and
unknown coast, but it had to be done. The trouble was that it was
entirely useless taking soundings, as the twenty-metre depth-line on
the chart went right up to the land. We crept slowly eastwards, till,
when by dead reckoning we were ten miles inside the coast, the
Navigator accidentally leant on the whistle lever; this action on his
part probably saved the ship, as an immediate echo answered the blast.
In an instant we were going full-speed astern. We altered course
sixteen points and proceeded ten miles westerly, where we lay on and
off the coast all night, cursing the fog.
Next day it lifted, and we spent the whole time trying to find the
entrance to the S. Landholm Fjord. The coast appeared to bear no
resemblance to the chart whatsoever.
The cliffs stand up to a height of several hundred metres, with
occasional clefts where a stream runs down.
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