The days pass, and nothing of moment happens. We get nowhere. The
Elsinore, without the steadying of her canvas, rolls emptily and
drifts a lunatic course. Sometimes she is bow on to the wind, and at
other times she is directly before it; but at all times she is
circling vaguely and hesitantly to get somewhere else than where she
is. As an illustration, at daylight this morning she came up into
the wind as if endeavouring to go about. In the course of half an
hour she worked off till the wind was directly abeam. In another
half hour she was back into the wind. Not until evening did she
manage to get the wind on her port bow; but when she did, she
immediately paid off, accomplished the complete circle in an hour,
and recommenced her morning tactics of trying to get into the wind.
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