Waves seemed not to exist.

All looked smooth and polished as a mirror of bright metal.
At last, something like dim veils of whiteness began to draw and shimmer on the eastern skyline--the vague glare of the sun-crisped Sahara flinging its furnace ardor to the sky.

To catch first sight of land, the Master and Bohannan climbed the ladder again, to the take-off, and thence made their way into the starboard observation gallery.

There they brought glasses to bear.

Though nothing definite could yet be seen through the shrouding dazzle that swaddled the world's rim, this fore-hint of land confirmed their reckonings of latitude and longitude.
"We can't be more than a hundred and fifty miles west of the Canaries," judged the major.