In these places it seldom rained. Drinking water, as long as it lasted, became putrid, but the crew preserved it as their 33 most precious treasure, drinking a little when they could go no longer without it—holding their noses. The food became so bad that every man who had the courage to eat it wondered if it wouldn’t be better to starve. This happened often in the North Atlantic in the days when sailing vessels were carrying horses to the West Indies. If they were becalmed and fresh water ran short, the crews had to throw some or all of the horses overboard. In time this region became known as the “horse latitudes.” Because it lay north and northeast of the hurricane belt, a long spell of rainless weather for a sailing ship here could be succeeded suddenly and overwhelmingly by the torrential rains of a tropical storm.

At long intervals, a slight breeze came along, barely enough to extend a small flag, but it gave the ship a little motion and brought hope to the men who were worn out with tugging at the oars. In this circumstance, it might happen that a long, low groundswell would appear. Coming from a great distance, it would raise and then lower the vessel a little in passing. Others would surely follow—low undulations at intervals of four or five to the minute—bringing a warning of a storm beyond the horizon. Here was one of the ironic twists of a sailor’s existence. Even while he prayed for water, the atmosphere was about to give it to him in tremendous quantities, both from above and below. At this juncture the master was in a quandary. For the safety of ship and crew, it was vital that he know exactly what to do at the very instant when the first gusty breezes of the coming storm filled the sails.

From the law of storms, the mariner eventually learned—and it was suicide to forget it a