Jersey to Bermuda on board the Bermuda Islander and got the chance to experience Hurricane Edouard first-hand along the way.

Tom Baldwin kept a diary of his journey which appeared in last Thursday's edition of the Journal of Commerce and is reprinted here.

* * * CAPE MAY, New Jersey -- Capt. Egbert Willems says he wants no part of Hurricane Edouard.

"If it comes after us, we will turn around and go back,'' he says.

The diary of this voyage begins at 9 p.m. on Friday when a big, red moon rises over the Delaware Bay.

"It's going to be rough,'' grins Capt. Willems, commander of the 205-TEU Bermuda Islander , said by its operators, Bermuda International Shipping Ltd., to be the smallest container ship on this side of the North Atlantic.

It offers weekly service between Hamilton and Salem, New Jersey.

Dawn Saturday The ocean to the south looks like corduroy, with even rows of waves.

"It feels like there are a lot of potholes in this road,'' says Chief Mate Paul Meerbach, 33.

Chief Engineer Johan Van Meeteren checks the refers, not knowing this will be his last inspection of the trip.

The view out of the porthole on the boat deck, 20 feet above the water, is all blue. Now it's all grey, then blue again.

"This ship rolls quite a bit,'' says Capt. Willems, 41.

The chief engineer points to an alarm box on the bulkhead. "These are my assistant engineers,'' he laughs.

Noon Saturday Waves from the south are magnificent, but do not break. And there is no wind.

One wave hits hard. Too late. So much for shatterproof sunglasses. There's a rainbow around the sun.

"The point of no return is sometime tonight,'' says Capt. Willems, a Dutchman. "We have a problem. the hurricane is staying at sea. the weather report said it should go inland. Don't the Americans have great experience with these storms?'' Squalls march up from the south. It's windy now. Porpoises play alongside the bow.

Seas are half the height of a five-storey house. How far do you have to roll before you don't come back? "Ha,'' the captain scoffs. "This is a good ship. But she does roll more than most. Do you know I am her fourth captain in less than a year? The others quit. Too much rolling.'' The waves now are as high as the bridge. There's a song playing on the tape player in the wheelhouse. It has a refrain. "All I need is the water.'' 5 p.m. Saturday The captain says we have passed the point of no return.

"Time no longer matters,'' he says. "We are going to be late to Bermuda. We have stopped the engines now to go very slow. We will ride it out.'' The ship rolls, and Capt. Willems goes sideways out of the starboard door, hanging as best he can to the instrument panel.

No one is getting much sleep. Those off watch wedge themselves between sea bags and mattresses, hoping for slumber and listening as the wind and sea send thundering booms through the hull.

"I think there's ice cream in one of the refers,'' the exhausted chief engineer says. "What a mess if it melts.'' 5 a.m. Sunday Good morning, hurricane! We're down to three knots and we're routinely taking 30-degree rolls. Winds are up around 100 mph. Walls of water march right past the bridge.

Cook Max Torres, 33, of Manila, does his best to produce a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs.

The ship's company holds no special service this morning but there was at least one individual vesper.

The vessel is new. Are we field testing it? Time does not fly when you're riding out a hurricane. It's 8.27. Heck it was 8.26 an hour ago.

This ship is a surfboard. the wind screams. It's an unforgettable sound, almost human. Up, up, up, then down. Weighty at once, then suddenly weightless. Clatter everywhere. Stuff's breaking. Aerials above are loose and dangling.

The sea's surface is all foam. It feels like there are quarry-sized holes in the ocean, and we plunge into them.

Sunday Afternoon Mr. Van Meeteren, the chief engineer climbs to the bridge.

"Great news,'' he says. "We're taking on water.'' A vent has ripped open. Mr. Van Meeteren says the pumps can handle it.

The captain flicks a switch to listen to microphones in the inaccessible holds. Not good. There is a sound of water sloshing.

The bow thrusters are gone.

No one has bathed. Tempers are short. Sleep has been fleeting. Alarms have been going off all day. They're now routine. This is just another, until everything goes black.

The intermittent power loss lasted 40 minutes. The ocean had broken a steel door on the aft house at main deck. The sea was gushing in on fuel-line kill switches. Someone had to venture out and secure the door.

The chief engineer and Cadet Werner Altena, 22, do the job, but not before breaking waves surge around the house and leave them waist deep on deck.

"I keep want to say it's easing, but it is not. At least the barometer has stopped falling,'' the captain says.

There is a crash. Winds tear away the masthead light.

It's been two days now of hanging on.

Monday breaks grey and rough but all agree the worst appears over. Seas begin to behave. Flying-fish land on deck -- and end up in the chef's skillet. This is a sign. Bermuda is 24 hours off.

On Tuesday, with the Island in sight, nothing seems so alien to this unshaven and weary seven-man crew than the appearance of the Bermuda pilot, starched in his white uniform, glossy shoe shine and beaming Island smile.

"Top of the day to you, gentlemen,'' he salutes. "How was the trip?'' STORM-WEARY -- The Bermuda Islander felt the brunt of Edouard.