Rough Weather

We have just barely survived a typhoon coming from the south upon us as we passed the Tropic of Cancer. The Tekedere is a cunning little boat, and her owner managed her well. Aouda has been admirable, she has not uttered one complaint through it all, though several times I had to rescue her from the perilous sea. Mr. Fix is grumpy, but was a gentlemen earlier the morning of the 8th, insisting that he pay for his expenses on board. Of course I further insisted that he not, and I was able to prevail over him.  So we are none the worse for the storm, except for waterlogged clothes. Before that we had been sailing rather well, with much speed. But we lost several hours, so everyone, except myself, are very impatient to get to Shaghai on time. At the time of the abatement of the typhoon, we were 100 miles from Shanghai. We are now 45 miles from the coast, with six hours before the steamer leaves. I have no doubt that we will make it in time, the weather has been rough, to be sure, but no matter.  The sailors and pilot are impatient, swearing at all sides for the land to come closer. Aouda is fearful we will not make it. Fix is silent as usual. I am composed. I know must leave off writing for today, as Aouda is calling me.

                                                              Phileas Fogg
                                                                   1:01 PM
                                                                   Saturday
                                                                   11th of November, 1872