Cape Horn
Frank Peterson
It was like riding a cork over a waterfall, sir
And wind is not the name for what blows in your face
It's something made of iron
Swings at you from the west
Never changing day in and day out
With seas as high as the neigh-mast
We had life-lines rigged everywhere, sir
And there were still sixteen men washed overboard
Cold?
Three men froze in the yards
Frozen stiff, sir
Couldn't get them down without cutting their fingers loose from the shrouds
I was lucky