They gurgle under my stern, in haste to fill the hollow that I have created. The waves seem to leap and roll like porpoises, with a slight surging sound when their crests break, and I feel an agreeable sense that I am swiftly gliding over and through them, bound on my own errands, while their motion is chiefly but an undulation, and an apparent one. It is pleasant, exhilarating, to feel the boat tossed up a little by them from time to time. Perhaps a wine drinker would say it is like the effect of wine. If is flattering to a sense of power to make the wayward wind our horse and sit with our hand on the tiller.
Sailing is much like flying, and from the birth of our race men have been charmed by it.
Again, it is with the side of the ear that you hear. The music or beauty belong not to your work itself, but some of its accompaniments. You would fain devote yourself to the melody, but you will hear more of it if you devote yourself to your work. As I sail up the reach of the Asssabet above Dove Rock with a fair wind, a traveler riding along the highway is watching my sail while he hums a tune. It paints the landscape suddenly as no agriculture, no flowery crop that can be raised.