Kydd stopped to feel the ship's motion. Under all plain sail in the brisk, quartering south-westerly, Tenacious heaved and rose over the long Atlantic rollers in a strong and compelling rhythm, pleasing in its regularity. He sensed the waves meeting her bow and surging aft under the keel, the vessel's slow pitch conforming to its motion. But there was something further—a trifle, perhaps, but out of harmony with the concert of movement.

He glanced across the deck. Captain Houghton was taking the air on the weather side, walking with the first lieutenant. There was a full watch of the hands on deck and others were at work on their part-of-ship. Kydd signalled to the quartermaster that he was going forward, then made his way to the foredeck and stood feeling, sensing.

The bow-wave swashed and hissed below; above him soared the headsails, taut and trim. But there was something. He turned to peer up, above the mighty fore-course, past the tops to the topsail and topgallant. Something was causing a hesitation, a brief interruption in the forward urge of the ship. He moved to one side until he could see the end of the bowsprit spearing into the sky ahead.

It soared and dipped but then Kydd saw what was happening. It was not an up-and-down motion. Instead, it described a circle in the sky, certain indication that the helmsman was having to ease the wheel each time the bows met an oncoming sea. That was it—a griping caused by the ship's tendency to come closer to the wind when her forefoot bit deep into the wave. Kydd was annoyed that the quartermaster had not noticed it: he knew that with every billow Tenacious was losing way through the water— only a tiny amount, but there were countless thousands of waves across the Atlantic.