For miles in every direction lay a desert of sand. To the north it touched the horizon, and was only broken by the blue dot of Neuerk Island and its lighthouse. To the east it seemed also to stretch to infinity1, but the smoke of a steamer showed where it was pierced by the stream of the Elbe. To the south it ran up to the pencil-line of the Hanover shore. Only to the west was its outline broken by any vestiges3 of the sea it had risen from. There it was astir with crawling white filaments4, knotted confusedly at one spot in the north-west, whence came a sibilant murmur5 like the hissing6 of many snakes. Desert as I call it, it was not entirely7 featureless. Its colour varied8 from light fawn9, where the highest levels had dried in the wind, to brown or deep violet, where it was still wet, and slate-grey where patches of mud soiled its clean bosom10. Here and there were pools of water, smitten11 into ripples12 by the impotent wind; here and there it was speckled by shells and seaweed. And close to us, beginning to bend away towards that hissing knot in the north-west, wound our poor little channel, mercilessly exposed as a stagnant13, muddy ditch with scarcely a foot of water, not deep enough to hide our small kedge-anchor, which perked14 up one fluke in impudent15 mockery. The dull, hard sky, the wind moaning in the rigging as though crying in despair for a prey16 that had escaped it, made the scene inexpressibly forlorn.
Davies scanned it with gusto for a moment, climbed to a point of vantage on the boom, and swept his glasses to and fro along the course of the channel.
“Fairly well boomed,” he said, meditatively17, “but one or two are very much out. By Jove! that’s a tricky18 bend there.” He took a bearing with the compass, made a note or two, and sprang with a vigorous leap down on to the sand.
This, I may say, was the only way of “going ashore” that he really liked. We raced off as fast as our clumsy sea-boots would let us, and followed up the course of our channel to the west, reconnoitring the road we should have to follow when the tide rose.
“The only way to learn a place like this,” he shouted, “is to see it at low water. The banks are dry then, and the channels are plain. Look at that boom”—he stopped and pointed19 contemptuously—“it’s all out of place. I suppose the channel’s shifted there. It’s just at an important bend too. If you took it as a guide when the water was up you’d run aground.”
“Which would be very useful,” I observed.
“Oh, hang it!” he laughed, “we’re exploring. I want to be able to run through this channel without a mistake. We will, next time.” He stopped, and plied21 compass and notebook. Then we raced on till the next halt was called.
“Look,” he said, the channel’s getting deeper, it was nearly dry a moment ago; see the current in it now? That’s the flood tide coming up—from the west, mind you; that is, from the Weser side. That shows we’re past the watershed22.”
“Watershed?” I repeated, blankly.
“Yes, that’s what I call it. You see, a big sand such as this is like a range of hills dividing two plains, it’s never dead flat though it looks it; there’s always one point, one ridge23, rather, where it’s highest. Now a channel cutting right through the sand is, of course, always at its shallowest when it’s crossing this ridge; at low water it’s generally dry there, and it gradually deepens as it gets nearer to the sea on either side. Now at high tide, when the whole sand is covered, the water can travel where it likes; but directly the ebb25 sets in the water falls away on either side the ridge and the channel becomes two rivers flowing in opposite directions from the centre, or watershed, as I call it. So, also, when the ebb has run out and the flood begins, the channel is fed by two currents flowing to the centre and meeting in the middle. Here the Elbe and the Weser are our two feeders. Now this current here is going eastwards26; we know by the time of day that the tide’s rising, therefore the watershed is between us and the yacht.”
“Why is it so important to know that?”
“Because these currents are strong, and you want to know when you’ll lose a fair one and strike a foul27 one. Besides, the ridge is the critical point when you’re crossing on a falling tide, and you want to know when you’re past it.”
We pushed on till our path was barred by a big lagoon28. It looked far more imposing29 than the channel; but Davies, after a rapid scrutiny30, treated it to a grunt31 of contempt.
“It’s a cul de sac,” he said. “See that hump of sand it’s making for, beyond?”
“It’s boomed,” I remonstrated32, pointing to a decrepit33 stem drooping34 over the bank, and shaking a palsied finger at the imposture35.
“Yes, that’s just where one goes wrong, it’s an old cut that’s silted36 up. That boom’s a fraud; there’s no time to go farther, the flood’s making fast. I’ll just take bearings of what we can see.”
The false lagoon was the first of several that began to be visible in the west, swelling38 and joining hands over the ribs39 of sand that divided them. All the time the distant hissing grew nearer and louder, and a deep, thunderous note began to sound beneath it. We turned our backs to the wind and hastened back towards the Dulcibella, the stream in our channel hurrying and rising alongside of us.
“There’s just time to do the other side,” said Davies, when we reached her, and I was congratulating myself on having regained40 our base without finding our communications cut. And away we scurried41 in the direction we had come that morning, splashing through pools and jumping the infant runnels that were stealing out through rifts42 from the mother-channel as the tide rose. Our observations completed, back we travelled, making a wide circuit over higher ground to avoid the encroaching flood, and wading43 shin-deep in the final approach to the yacht.
As I scrambled44 thankfully aboard, I seemed to hear a far-off voice saying, in languid depreciation45 of yachting, that it did not give one enough exercise. It was mine, centuries ago, in another life. From east and west two sheets of water had overspread the desert, each pushing out tongues of surf that met and fused.
I waited on deck and watched the death-throes of the suffocating46 sands under the relentless47 onset48 of the sea. The last strongholds were battered49, stormed, and overwhelmed; the tumult50 of sounds sank and steadied, and the sea swept victoriously51 over the whole expanse. The Dulcibella, hitherto contemptuously inert52, began to wake and tremble under the buffetings she received. Then, with an effort, she jerked herself on to an even keel and bumped and strained fretfully, impatient to vanquish53 this insolent54 invader55 and make him a slave for her own ends. Soon her warp56 tightened57 and her nose swung slowly round; only her stern bumped now, and that with decreasing force. Suddenly she was free and drifting broadside to the wind till the anchor checked her and she brought up to leeward58 of it, rocking easily and triumphantly59. Good-humoured little person! At heart she was friends alike with sand and sea. It was only when the old love and the new love were in mortal combat for her favours, and she was mauled in the fracas60, that her temper rose in revolt.
We swallowed a hasty cup of tea, ran up the sails, and started off west again. Once across the “watershed” we met a strong current, but the trend of the passage was now more to the north-west, so that we could hold our course without tacking61, and consequently could stem the tide. “Give her just a foot of the centre-plate,” said Davies. “We know the way here, and she’ll make less leeway; but we shall generally have to do without it always on a falling tide. If you run aground with the plate down you deserve to be drowned.” I now saw how valuable our walk had been. The booms were on our right; but they were broken reeds, giving no hint as to the breadth of the channel. A few had lost their tops, and were being engulfed62 altogether by the rising water. When we came to the point where they ceased, and the false lagoon had lain, I should have felt utterly63 lost. We had crossed the high and relatively64 level sands which form the base of the Fork, and were entering the labyrinth65 of detached banks which obstruct66 the funnel-shaped cavity between the upper and middle prongs. This I knew from the chart. My unaided eye saw nothing but the open sea, growing dark green as the depths increased; a dour67, threatening sea, showing its white fangs68. The waves grew longer and steeper, for the channels, though still tortuous69, now begin to be broad and deep.
Davies had his bearings, and struck on his course confidently. “Now for the lead,” he said; “the compass’ll be little use soon. We must feel the edge of the sands till we pick up more booms.”
“Where are we going to anchor for the night?” I asked.
Partly by sight and mostly by touch we crept round the outermost72 alley73 of the hidden maze74 till a new clump75 of booms appeared, meaningless to me, but analysed by him into two groups. One we followed for some distance, and then struck finally away and began another beat to windward.
Dusk was falling. The Hanover coast-line, never very distinct, had utterly vanished; an ominous76 heave of swell37 was under-running the short sea. I ceased to attend to Davies imparting instruction on his beloved hobby, and sought to stifle77 in hard manual labour the dread78 that had been latent in me all day at the prospect79 of our first anchorage at sea.
“Sound, like blazes now!” he said at last. I came to a fathom80 and a half. “That’s the bank,” he said; “we’ll give it a bit of a berth81 and then let go.”
“Let go now!” was the order after a minute, and the chain ran out with a long-drawn moan. The Dulcibella snubbed up to it and jauntily82 faced the North Sea and the growing night.
“There we are!” said Davies, as we finished stowing the mainsail, “safe and snug83 in four fathoms84 in a magnificent sand-harbour, with no one to bother us and the whole of it to ourselves. No dues, no stinks85, no traffic, no worries of any sort. It’s better than a Baltic cove24 even, less beastly civilization about. We’re seven miles from the nearest coast, and five even from Neuerk—look, they’re lighting86 up.” There was a tiny spark in the east.
“I suppose it’s all right,” I said, “but I’d rather see a solid breakwater somewhere; it’s a dirty-looking night, and I don’t like this swell.”
“The swell’s nothing,” said Davies; “it’s only a stray drain from outside. As for breakwaters, you’ve got them all round you, only they’re hidden. Ahead and to starboard is the West Hohenhörn, curling round to the sou’-west for all the world like a stone pier2. You can hear the surf battering87 on its outside over to the north. That’s where I was nearly wrecked88 that day, and the little channel I stumbled into must be quite near us somewhere. Half a mile away—to port there—is the East Hohenhörn, where I brought up, after dashing across this lake we’re in. Another mile astern is the main body of the sands, the top prong of your fork. So you see we’re shut in—practically. Surely you remember the chart? Why, it’s——”
“Oh, confound the chart!” I broke out, finding this flow of plausible89 comfort too dismally90 suggestive for my nerves. “Look at it, man! Supposing anything happens—supposing it blows a gale91! But it’s no good shivering here and staring at the view. I’m going below.”
There was a mauvais quart d’heure below, during which, I am ashamed to say, I forgot the quest.
“Which soup do you feel inclined for?” said Davies, timidly, after a black silence of some minutes.
That simple remark, more eloquent92 of security than a thousand technical arguments, saved the situation.
“I say, Davies,” I said, “I’m a white-livered cur at the best, and you mustn’t spare me. But you’re not like any yachtsman I ever met before, or any sailor of any sort. You’re so casual and quiet in the extraordinary things you do. I believe I should like you better if you let fly a volley of deep-sea oaths sometimes, or threatened to put me in irons.”
Davies opened wide eyes, and said it was all his fault for forgetting that I was not as used to such anchorages as he was. “And, by the way,” he added, “as to its blowing a gale, I shouldn’t wonder if it did; the glass is falling hard; but it can’t hurt us. You see, even at high water the drift of the sea——”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t begin again. You’ll prove soon that we’re safer here than in an hotel. Let’s have dinner, and a thundering good one!”
Dinner ran a smooth course, but just as coffee was being brewed93 the hull94, from pitching regularly, began to roll.
“I knew she would,” said Davies. “I was going to warn you, only—the ebb has set in against the wind. It’s quite safe——”
“I thought you said it would get calmer when the tide fell?”
“So it will, but it may seem rougher. Tides are queer things,” he added, as though in defence of some not very respectable acquaintances.
He busied himself with his logbook, swaying easily to the motion of the boat; and I for my part tried to write up my diary, but I could not fix my attention. Every loose article in the boat became audibly restless. Cans clinked, cupboards rattled96, lockers97 uttered hollow groans98. Small things sidled out of dark hiding-places, and danced grotesque99 drunken figures on the floor, like goblins in a haunted glade100. The mast whined101 dolorously102 at every heel, and the centreboard hiccoughed and choked. Overhead another horde103 of demons104 seemed to have been let loose. The deck and mast were conductors which magnified every sound and made the tap-tap of every rope’s end resemble the blows of a hammer, and the slapping of the halyards against the mast the rattle95 of a Maxim105 gun. The whole tumult beat time to a rhythmical106 chorus which became maddening.
“We might turn in now,” said Davies; “it’s half-past ten.”
“What, sleep through this?” I exclaimed. “I can’t stand this, I must do something. Can’t we go for another walk?”
“Of course we can,” said Davies, “if you don’t mind a bit of a tumble in the dinghy.”
I reconsidered my rash suggestion, but it was too late now to turn back, and some desperate expedient108 was necessary. I found myself on deck, gripping a backstay and looking giddily down and then up at the dinghy, as it bobbed like a cork109 in the trough of the sea alongside, while Davies settled the sculls and rowlocks.
“Jump!” he shouted, and before I could gather my wits and clutch the sides we were adrift in the night, reeling from hollow to hollow of the steep curling waves. Davies nursed our walnut-shell tenderly over their crests110, edging her slantwise across their course. He used very little exertion111, relying on the tide to carry us to our goal. Suddenly the motion ceased. A dark slope loomed112 up out of the night, and the dinghy rested softly in a shallow eddy113.
“The West Hohenhörn,” said Davies. We jumped out and sank into soft mud, hauled up the dinghy a foot or two, then mounted the bank and were on hard, wet sand. The wind leapt on us, and choked our voices.
We set off with a long, stooping stride in the teeth of the wind, and straight towards the roar of the breakers on the farther side of the sand. A line of Matthew Arnold’s, “The naked shingles115 of the world,” was running in my head. “Seven miles from land,” I thought, “scuttling like sea-birds on a transient islet of sand, encircled by rushing tides and hammered by ocean, at midnight in a rising gale—cut off even from our one dubious116 refuge.” It was the time, if ever, to conquer weakness. A mad gaiety surged through me as I drank the wind and pressed forward. It seemed but a minute or two and Davies clutched me.
“Look out!” he shouted. “It’s my channel.”
The ground sloped down, and a rushing river glimmered117 before us. We struck off at a tangent and followed its course to the north, stumbling in muddy rifts, slipping on seaweed, beginning to be blinded by a fine salt spray, and deafened118 by the thunder of the ocean surf. The river broadened, whitened, roughened, gathered itself for the shock, was shattered, and dissolved in milky119 gloom. We wheeled away to the right, and splashed into yeasty froth. I turned my back to the wind, scooped120 the brine out of my eyes, faced back and saw that our path was barred by a welter of surf. Davies’s voice was in my ear and his arm was pointing seaward.
“This—is—about where—I—bumped first—worse then—nor’-west wind—this—is—nothing. Let’s—go—right—round.”
We galloped121 away with the wind behind us, skirting the line of surf. I lost all account of time and direction. Another sea barred our road, became another river as we slanted122 along its shore. Again we were in the teeth of that intoxicating123 wind. Then a point of light was swaying and flickering124 away to the left, and now we were checking and circling. I stumbled against something sharp—the dinghy’s gunwale. So we had completed the circuit of our fugitive125 domain126, that dream-island—nightmare island as I always remember it.
“You must scull, too,” said Davies. “It’s blowing hard now. Keep her nose up a little—all you know!”
We lurched along, my scull sometimes buried to the thwart127, sometimes striking at the bubbles of a wave top. Davies, in the bows, said “Pull!” or “Steady!” at intervals128. I heard the scud129 smacking130 against his oilskin back. Then a wan20, yellow light glanced over the waves. “Easy! Let her come!” and the bowsprit of the Dulcibella, swollen131 to spectral132 proportions, was stabbing the darkness above me. “Back a bit! Two good strokes. Ship your scull! Now jump!” I clawed at the tossing hull and landed in a heap. Davies followed with the painter, and the dinghy swept astern.
“She’s riding beautifully now,” said he, when he had secured the painter. “There’ll be no rolling on the flood, and it’s nearly low water.”
I don’t think I should have cared, however much she had rolled. I was finally cured of funk.
It was well that I was, for to be pitched out of your bunk133 on to wet oil-cloth is a disheartening beginning to a day. This happened about eight o’clock. The yacht was pitching violently, and I crawled on all fours into the cabin, where Davies was setting out breakfast on the floor.
“I let you sleep on,” he said; “we can’t do anything till the water falls. We should never get the anchor up in this sea. Come and have a look round. It’s clearing now,” he went on, when we were crouching134 low on deck, gripping cleats for safety. “Wind’s veered135 to nor’-west. It’s been blowing a full gale, and the sea is at its worst now—near high water. You’ll never see worse than this.”
I was prepared for what I saw—the stormy sea for leagues around, and a chaos136 of breakers where our dream-island had stood—and took it quietly, even with a sort of elation137. The Dulcibella faced the storm as doggedly138 as ever, plunging139 her bowsprit into the sea and flinging green water over her bows. A wave of confidence and affection for her welled through me. I had been used to resent the weight and bulk of her unwieldy anchor and cable, but I saw their use now; varnish140, paint, spotless decks, and snowy sails were foppish141 absurdities142 of a hateful past.
“What can we do to-day?” I asked.
“We must keep well inside the banks and be precious careful wherever there’s a swell. It’s rampant143 in here, you see, in spite of the barrier of sand. But there’s plenty we can do farther back.”
We breakfasted in horrible discomfort144; then smoked and talked till the roar of the breakers dwindled145. At the first sign of bare sand we got under way, under mizzen and headsails only, and I learned how to sail a reluctant anchor out of the ground. Pivoting146 round, we scudded147 east before the wind, over the ground we had traversed the evening before, while an archipelago of new banks slowly shouldered up above the fast weakening waves. We trod delicately among and around them, sounding and observing; heaving to where space permitted, and sometimes using the dinghy. I began to see where the risks lay in this sort of navigation. Wherever the ocean swell penetrated148, or the wind blew straight down a long deep channel, we had to be very cautious and leave good margins149. “That’s the sort of place you mustn’t ground on,” Davies used to say.
In the end we traversed the Steil Sand again, but by a different swatchway, and anchored, after an arduous150 day, in a notch151 on its eastern limit, just clear of the swell that rolled in from the turbulent estuary152 of the Elbe. The night was fair, and when the tide receded153 we lay perfectly154 still, the fresh wind only sending a lip-lip of ripples against our sides.
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1
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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filaments
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| n.（电灯泡的）灯丝( filament的名词复数 )；丝极；细丝；丝状物 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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perked
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| （使）活跃( perk的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）增值； 使更有趣 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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watershed
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| n.转折点，分水岭，分界线 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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eastwards
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| adj.向东方（的），朝东（的）；n.向东的方向 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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silted
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| v.（河流等）为淤泥淤塞( silt的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）淤塞 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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43
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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44
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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45
depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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46
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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47
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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48
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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49
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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50
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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51
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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52
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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53
vanquish
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| v.征服，战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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54
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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55
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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56
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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57
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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58
leeward
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| adj.背风的；下风的 | |
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59
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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60
fracas
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| n.打架；吵闹 | |
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61
tacking
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| （帆船）抢风行驶，定位焊[铆]紧钉 | |
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62
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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64
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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65
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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66
obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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67
dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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68
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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69
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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70
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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71
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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72
outermost
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| adj.最外面的，远离中心的 | |
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73
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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74
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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75
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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76
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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77
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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78
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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79
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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80
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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81
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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82
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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83
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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84
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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85
stinks
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| v.散发出恶臭( stink的第三人称单数 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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86
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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87
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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88
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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89
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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90
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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91
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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92
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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93
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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94
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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95
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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96
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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97
lockers
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| n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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98
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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99
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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100
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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101
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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102
dolorously
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| adj. 悲伤的；痛苦的；悲哀的；阴沉的 | |
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103
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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104
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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105
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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106
rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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107
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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108
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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109
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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110
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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111
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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112
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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113
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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114
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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115
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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116
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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117
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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119
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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120
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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121
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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122
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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123
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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124
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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125
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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126
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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127
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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128
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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129
scud
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| n.疾行；v.疾行 | |
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130
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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131
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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132
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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133
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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134
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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135
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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136
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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137
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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138
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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139
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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140
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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141
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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142
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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143
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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144
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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145
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
pivoting
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| n.绕轴旋转，绕公共法线旋转v.（似）在枢轴上转动( pivot的现在分词 )；把…放在枢轴上；以…为核心，围绕（主旨）展开 | |
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147
scudded
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| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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149
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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150
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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151
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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152
estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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153
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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154
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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