It was a day which only those who know tropical and semitropical seas can understand.

It had the sense of soaking luxury.
In his cabin, with the ship's chart on the table before him, Dyck Calhoun studied the course of the Ariadne.

The wind was fair and good, the sea-birds hovered overhead.

From a distant part of the ship came the sound of men's voices in song.

They were singing "Spanish Ladies": "We hove our ship to when the wind was sou'west, boys, We hove our ship to for to strike soundings clear; Then we filled our main tops'l and bore right away, boys, And right up the Channel our course did we steer.
"We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors, We'll range and we'll roam over all the salt seas, Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old England From Ushant to Scilly 'tis thirty-five leagues." Dyck raised his head, and a smile came to his lips.
"Yes, you sing of a Channel, my lads, but it's a long way there, as you'll find.