One of the shortest crossings between Mainland Britain and Ireland is that between Portpatrick and Donaghadee. This is about 22 miles and the settlement of Scots in Ulster created traffic. The main traffic was not mail, but cattle on the hoof. John Smeaton improved the harbour at Portpatrick.
Read more background on The American Literary Blog. A Tale intended to be after the fact. Being the experience of four men from the sunk steamer "Commodore" I None of them knew the color of the sky. Their eyes glanced level, and were fastened upon the waves that swept toward them.
These waves were of the hue of slate, save for the tops, which were of foaming white, and all of the men knew the colors of the sea.
The horizon narrowed and widened, and dipped and rose, and at all times its edge was jagged with waves that seemed thrust up in points like rocks. Many a man ought to have a bath-tub larger than the boat which here rode upon the sea. These waves were most wrongfully and barbarously abrupt and tall, and each froth-top was a problem in small-boat navigation.
The cook squatted in the bottom and looked with both eyes at the six inches of gunwale which separated him from the ocean. His sleeves were rolled over his fat forearms, and the two flaps of his unbuttoned vest dangled as he bent to bail out the boat.
That was a narrow clip. The oiler, steering with one of the two oars in the boat, sometimes raised himself suddenly to keep clear of water that swirled in over the stern.
It was a thin little oar and it seemed often ready to snap.
The correspondent, pulling at the other oar, watched the waves and wondered why he was there. The injured captain, lying in the bow, was at this time buried in that profound dejection and indifference which comes, temporarily at least, to even the bravest and most enduring when, willy nilly, the firm fails, the army loses, the ship goes down.
The mind of the master of a vessel is rooted deep in the timbers of her, though he commanded for a day or a decade, and this captain had on him the stern impression of a scene in the greys of dawn of seven turned faces, and later a stump of a top-mast with a white ball on it that slashed to and fro at the waves, went low and lower, and down.
Thereafter there was something strange in his voice. Although steady, it was, deep with mourning, and of a quality beyond oration or tears.
A seat in this boat was not unlike a seat upon a bucking broncho, and by the same token, a broncho is not much smaller. The craft pranced and reared, and plunged like an animal.
As each wave came, and she rose for it, she seemed like a horse making at a fence outrageously high.
The manner of her scramble over these walls of water is a mystic thing, and, moreover, at the top of them were ordinarily these problems in white water, the foam racing down from the summit of each wave, requiring a new leap, and a leap from the air.
Then, after scornfully bumping a crest, she would slide, and race, and splash down a long incline, and arrive bobbing and nodding in front of the next menace. A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective in the way of swamping boats.
In a ten-foot dingey one can get an idea of the resources of the sea in the line of waves that is not probable to the average experience which is never at sea in a dingey. As each slatey wall of water approached, it shut all else from the view of the men in the boat, and it was not difficult to imagine that this particular wave was the final outburst of the ocean, the last effort of the grim water.
There was a terrible grace in the move of the waves, and they came in silence, save for the snarling of the crests.
In the wan light, the faces of the men must have been grey. Their eyes must have glinted in strange ways as they gazed steadily astern.
Viewed from a balcony, the whole thing would doubtless have been weirdly picturesque. But the men in the boat had no time to see it, and if they had had leisure there were other things to occupy their minds.
The sun swung steadily up the sky, and they knew it was broad day because the color of the sea changed from slate to emerald-green, streaked with amber lights, and the foam was like tumbling snow. The process of the breaking day was unknown to them. They were aware only of this effect upon the color of the waves that rolled toward them.Grade 8 Literature Mini-Assessment.
Chapter III of “The Open Boat” by Stephen Crane. This grade 8 mini-assessment is based on an excerpt from the short story The Open Boat“ ” by Stephen Crane. This text is considered to be a text worthy of students’ time to read and also meets the Today you will read an excerpt from “ The Open.
Published by Pendragon, Easingwold, YO61 3YS. January (Number ) LNER Kl Class No at Alnwick station with the branch train to Alnmouth on 10th May Robertson, Michael, Stephen Crane: Journalism and the Making of Modern American Literature, Columbia University Press, Schaefer, Michael W., A Reader's Guide to the Short Stories of Stephen Crane, G.
K. Hall (New York City), "The Open Boat" is a short story by American author Stephen Crane (–). First published in , it was based on Crane's experience of surviving a shipwreck off the coast of Florida earlier that year while traveling to Cuba to work as a .
Literature / The Open Boat / Introduction ; That's what's happening in Stephen Crane's "The Open Boat." The story begins in medias res These are all pretty heavy questions to grapple with, and Crane manages to address them all in this short story.
Time to blow up those water wings, dear Shmoopers—things are about to get a little wet. The Open Boat by Stephen Crane. Home / Literature / The Open Boat / Brief Summary ; As the story opens, we're introduced to four men—a captain, a cook, an oiler, and a correspondent—who find themselves in a lifeboat after their ship sinks off the coast of Florida.
It's a small boat.