Posted by Edward Coppinger in Features.

Mighty the force of that lashing sea,
The rigging trembled and moaned,
In mountainous waves as none did see,
On an ocean that boiled and foamed.

That hurricane’s blast shook the mast,
The decks were out of bounds,
And men thought of sins long past—
In the ‘eye’ of the storms sound.

We pitched, rolled twisted and tossed,
Like a cork on maddened seas,
Some said” we’re as good as lost”,
And spoke to God on knees.

Crockery stashed broke loose and smashed,
All hell was unleashed below,
As downward waves onboard crashed—
Each threatened a mortal blow.

All our thoughts were in unison
At each dangerous breaking wave,
And spoke for all the Bosun,
Saying “for us it’s a watery grave”.

The angel of death was about that night,
We felt his beating wings,
And waited white, numb with fright,
In dread of his deadly sting.

When that awful wind was done,
And slow came the dawning day,
Some also looked at the rising sun,
And to that God too did pray.

Grateful now to have won the fight,
And our ship still making way,
Damaged she was, yet watertight—
All thoughts of God—we stowed away.

Some Eastern Seamen venerated the sun.