When the Snark sailed on her long cruise from San Francisco there was nothing to drink on board. Or, rather, we were all of us that there was anything to drink, nor did we discover it for many a month. This sailing with a "dry" boat was aforethought on my part. I had played John Barleycorn a trick. And it showed that I was listening ever so slightly to the faint warnings that were beginning to arise in my consciousness.  
Of course, I veiled the situation to myself and excused myself to John Barleycorn. And I was very scientific about it. I said that I would drink only while in ports. During the dry sea-stretches my system would be of the alcohol that soaked it, so that when I reached a port I should be in shape to enjoy John Barleycorn more . His bite would be sharper, his kick keener and more delicious.
 
We were twenty-seven days on the traverse between San Francisco and Honolulu. After the first day out, the thought of a drink never troubled me. This I take to show how intrinsically I am not an . Sometimes, during the traverse, looking ahead and anticipating the lanai and dinners of Hawaii (I had been there a couple of times before), I thought, naturally, of the drinks that would precede those meals. I did not think of those drinks with any , with any irk at the length of the voyage. I merely thought they would be nice and jolly, part of the atmosphere of a proper meal.
 
Thus, once again I proved to my complete satisfaction that I was John Barleycorn's master. I could drink when I wanted, refrain when I wanted. Therefore I would continue to drink when I wanted.
 
Some five months were spent in the various islands of the Hawaiian group. Being , I drank. I even drank a bit more than I had been accustomed to drink in California prior to the voyage. The people in Hawaii seemed to drink a bit more, on the average, than the people in more . I do not intend the pun, and can awkwardly revise the statement to "latitudes more remote from the equator." Yet Hawaii is only sub-tropical. The deeper I got into the tropics, the deeper I found men drank, the deeper I drank myself.
 
From Hawaii we sailed for the Marquesas. The traverse occupied sixty days. For sixty days we never raised land, a sail, nor a steamer smoke. But early in those sixty days the cook, giving an to the , made a find. Down in the bottom of a deep he found a dozen bottles of angelica and muscatel. These had come down from the kitchen cellar of the along with the home-preserved fruits and jellies. Six months in the galley heat had effected some sort of a change in the thick sweet wine—branded it, I imagine.
 
I took a taste. Delicious! And thereafter, once each day, at twelve o'clock, after our observations were worked up and the Snark's position charted, I drank half a tumbler of the stuff. It had a rare kick to it. It warmed the cockles of my and put a fairer face on the truly fair face of the sea. Each morning, below, sweating out my thousand words, I found myself looking forward to that twelve o'clock event of the day.
 
The trouble was I had to share the stuff, and the length of the traverse was doubtful. I regretted that there were not more than a dozen bottles. And when they were gone I even regretted that I had shared any of it. I was thirsty for the alcohol, and eager to arrive in the Marquesas.
 
So it was that I reached the Marquesas the possessor of a real man's size thirst. And in the Marquesas were several white men, a lot of sickly natives, much magnificent scenery, plenty of trade rum, an immense quantity of absinthe, but neither whisky nor gin. The trade rum the skin off one's mouth. I know, because I tried it. But I had ever been plastic, and I accepted the absinthe. The trouble with the stuff was that I had to take such quantities in order to feel the slightest effect.
 
From the Marquesas I sailed with sufficient absinthe in ballast to last me to Tahiti, where I with and American whisky, and thereafter there were no dry stretches between ports. But please do not misunderstand. There was no drunkenness, as drunkenness is ordinarily understood—no staggering and rolling around, no of the senses. The skilled and seasoned drinker, with a strong constitution, never to anything like that. He drinks to feel good, to get a pleasant , and no more than that. The things he carefully avoids are the of over-drinking, the after-effect of over-drinking, the helplessness and loss of pride of over-drinking.
 
What the skilled and seasoned drinker achieves is a and semi-intoxication. And he does it by the twelve-month around without any apparent penalty. There are hundreds of thousands of men of this sort in the United States to-day, in clubs, hotels, and in their own homes—men who are never drunk, and who, though most of them will indignantly deny it, are rarely sober. And all of them fondly believe, as I fondly believed, that they are beating the game.
 
On the sea-stretches I was fairly ; but ashore I drank more. I seemed to need more, anyway, in the tropics............