…We were navigating towards the direction of Truro, with a velocity of 106 miles p/h under rude eastern winds, with a nifty device: the captain moved along; the waves were high at the parallel and we had to endure the tempest to abate, then erect sails to go ahead among tall walls of cold water.
The rising dryness of the air, and the limpidity of the sky, was unfortunately blended with unbeatable blizzards coming now from direction north/east towards us. The shores of the cliffy islands seemed to be inhabited by Dianas apodectas or female beings resembling of: something cracked on the ship’s deck…
A rude blizzard roundly coming from the north/east, made ship shift violently the course in direction Biscay: 45 minutes after fight desperately the winds, almost shattering the higher top of the ship, we found ourselves on open ocean, near the parallel 47, triangulating with Bordeaux, and at the base, the dark-northern shores of Iberia.
The colour of the ocean was irritatingly blue, offensively blue; as the sky, the got open suddenly by rough winds from the east: this situation was pushing us more and more towards the west, towards an unknown destination under a blue sky enchanted by the horror, while our spirit was almost surrounded by our inner own phantasms…
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