The boat itself was crushed and splintered against the schooner's side as it came inboard; but the wreck was securely lashed, for it could be patched and made whole again.
Once more the _Ghost_ bore away before the storm, this time so submerging herself that for some seconds I thought she would never reappear.

Even the wheel, quite a deal higher than the waist, was covered and swept again and again.

At such moments I felt strangely alone with God, alone with him and watching the chaos of his wrath.

And then the wheel would reappear, and Wolf Larsen's broad shoulders, his hands gripping the spokes and holding the schooner to the course of his will, himself an earth-god, dominating the storm, flinging its descending waters from him and riding it to his own ends.

And oh, the marvel of it! the marvel of it! That tiny men should live and breathe and work, and drive so frail a contrivance of wood and cloth through so tremendous an elemental strife.
As before, the _Ghost_ swung out of the trough, lifting her deck again out of the sea, and dashed before the howling blast.