The Flood of the Lee's Scuppers

One of the hunters, a tall loose-jointed chap named Henderson, was going aft at the time from the steerage. The name the hunters facetiously gave their midship sleeping quarters to the cabin. Wolf Larson was on the poop, smoking his everlasting cigar. There she comes, sling your luck to the cook-cried. I sprang toward the rigging to which I might have clung and was met by the descending wall of water. What happened after that was very confusing. I was beneath the water suffocating and drowning. My feet were out from under me."

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