The Cruise of the Snark (37 page)

The bath-room had long since gone out of commission. The first day out, the big iron levers that controlled the sea-valves and the bath-pumps broke into splinters. Jack's heart was sore at this, for he had planned that bath-room carefully, and had been to much expense in fitting it up. Another thing that would have dashed most skippers' spirits was the fact that the specially ordered planking from Puget Sound, warranted to have no butts, was literally crowded with butts. But Jack did not let any of these things trouble him much; he merely commented on them, and then set himself to make the best of the voyage. Luckily, we were not becalmed. Had this misfortune been added to the rest, it might have taken us sixty days or more to reach Honolulu.

A little over a week out, a gale struck us, and carried away the jib and staysail. Everybody worked; the boat was creaking and groaning, water spouting in everywhere, and the cockpit filled with water. The engine wouldn't work, and nothing else worked. This gale was a wonderful experience for me. The little boat would go down in the trough of the wave, and I would gaze up and see the water coming in a massive cone, a million tons of water, looking a hundred feet high. It seemed to overtop our main-mast several times and more. I felt absolutely certain that when that mass of water hit us, we would be gone; but each time our stout little craft would climb the side of the wave until we reached the top, and then would start down the opposite side so rapidly that it produced that peculiar feeling one experiences when going down a Shoot-the-Chutes or the steep incline of a Roller-Coaster. In fact, seasickness is nothing more than this sensation aggravated to a point where it is painful. We were pitched around with great violence—sometimes we would be away over on one side until the water came pouring in the scuppers; and again, the boat would rush downward at such a rate of speed that I just knew we were making for that bottom Mr. London had spoken of; then we would go up again, each time to my surprise, because I was satisfied that we were as good as dead at least twice to each wave we rode. During this storm, the thought came to me that just a year before, on May 1, I was on a big cattle-steamer, going east on the Atlantic and here I was, a year later, on a fish-bobber, in the middle of the Pacific, going—where? But the sea was not in existence that could swamp us. When the storm broke away the next day, and the sun arose bright and clear, everyone seemed to feel better and to take renewed interest in life.

We had not been long out of port before we became convinced that we had no navigator aboard. Captain Eames was supposed to be the navigator, but his knowledge was not of the practical order, and Jack had to do much of his work. Days when we had made splendid headway, and had gone what we considered at least several hundred miles, Captain Eames would make his observations and set down on the chart that we had gone only ten or fifteen miles. Another day, when it had been practically calm, he would have it that we had fairly whirled over the water. The principles of navigation are fairly simple—and misunderstood by most people. Before we had reached Honolulu, everyone in the boat was navigating, except Tochigi. Of course, most of our mistakes had their roots in the fact that the boat's tossing threw our observations out of line, and our eyes were rather too near to the water. Of course, too, our record of time on board was sadly perturbed; despite our turning the ship's clock back about ten minutes each day.

And still we saw no fish of any sort. Jack could not understand it. He had been in these latitudes before, and always had seen porpoises and dolphins and flying fish, as well as sharks and bonita. But the ocean was absolutely bare in every direction. We were in a watery desert. It was not until we got to latitude 19° that we saw the first flying fish, and he was all by himself.

On Thursday, May 2, we felt that we were certainly in the trade winds. We went dead ahead of the breeze, with all the sails except the mizzen, and doing what old sailors, men of forty years on the sea, declare cannot be done—racing along with no one at the wheel. We simply set the wheel over to suit the wind, without even lashing it; and then all went below to supper, and to play cribbage. By this time I had learned a number of new dishes. Tochigi showed me the Japanese way of preparing rice, and it beat anything I had yet cooked. All were feeling in high spirits. The sickness had left us, and the boat looked tidier than at any time since leaving Frisco, for we had spent the day in scrubbing the floors, and generally cleaning things up.

When it came to the actual test, we found that the provisions of the
Snark
were not exactly adapted to that kind of trip. The duty of provisioning the boat had been left to Mrs. London and myself, and I fear that in the buying we lost all sense of proportion. We had bought an enormous crate of cabbages (which, as I have said, speedily found its way into the sea), and a whole case of lemons; and I had made out the list of spices and seasonings, all of which were purchased, enough to run the Delmonico for a year. The amount of pepper we had aboard would last a good-sized family through several lifetimes. When we completed the voyage, we had pepper to throw overboard, and I'll bet the fish in that vicinity have been coughing and sneezing ever since.

But the cooking was a reasonably easy proposition, because most of the time over half the crew didn't care for anything to eat, and the others were kind enough to say that they particularly liked my method of preparing only one dish at a meal, and depending on the can-opener for the rest. And observe the security of my position—they could not fire me and hire a new cook, so they had to like it or do without eating.

The galley had a Primus kerosene stove, which burned without odour. On the galley shelves were all sorts of pots and pans, bottles, tins, and utensils. For each and every separate thing, a hole had been made in the shelves, of just the right size and shape, so that nothing could topple out. On the stove, there were racks to hold the skillets and pots and pans while I cooked; but the pots and pans had a trick of jumping out of their racks and banging down into the bilge-water on the floor. And what didn't leap off the stove slopped and splashed all over the galley and the cook. As for myself, I was flung back and forth from one side of the galley to the other, until my back was a mass of bruises from bumping against the bulkhead.

A few extracts from the diary I kept during this cruise to Hawaii will throw an interesting light on how we lived aboard the
Snark.
The entries in this diary reflect my feelings better than I could recollect them after the lapse of several years.

May 2, 1907.
—I feel much better to-day. Am trying to clean up galley. It is getting warmer. No wind scarcely—making about two knots. I've changed watches with Bert, so now I have from four to six in the morning. Mrs. London is certainly a brick—weighs only one hundred and ten pounds, but bears up wonderfully, and is everywhere at once. The last few days I've cooked with my boots on. Mrs. L. helps. Floor of galley only about two feet above inside bottom of
Snark.
Down below, water moves freely from one air-tight compartment to the other. Will we ever reach Honolulu alive?

Evening.—I feel fine. So do all. Even Tochigi is smiling again, and that's nuff said. It's the prettiest evening I've seen in a long time. Bert, who is engineer, finds the dynamo won't work, so he is filling the oil lamps again. Just think of it—we have 19 big electric lights on the boat; and a searchlight, and not one of them working! Jack and Mrs. London are playing cribbage in the cockpit. Tochigi washing clothes over the rail. Ocean calm, except for the swell that is always felt. We had a fine time at supper, telling stories, and joking with one another. Well, I'm going to turn in. My bunk is five feet five inches long, two feet wide, and one foot six inches from the ceiling, but I feel as good in it as on feathers.

Queer that we have seen no fish. Jack can't account for it. Mr. Eames has gone back to his room—he was run out a few days ago by gasolene leaking under his bunk. Water still spouting in. Pumps needed. Many of Tochigi's books are ruined by being water-soaked. Mrs. London has bad headache, and so have I, but a little sleep will cure that. So here's for the bunk.

Friday, May 3, 1907.
—Big sea to-day. Tochigi again seasick. I'm not feeling so well; neither is Mrs. London. At dinner no one could stay at the table, the boat rocked so. Jack and Mrs. London were thrown clear across the cabin. All my dishes swimming around the floor—nothing will stay on the stove. I just slid across cabin and ran into Mrs. London coming head-first down companionway. Not badly hurt. We are averaging 5½ knots.

Saturday, May 4, 1907.
—Last night we had some hard luck; at five o'clock the gooseneck, the piece of iron that holds the main gaff to the barrel on the main boom, broke, and let down the gaff. We took the gooseneck off the gaff of the storm trysail and replaced the one that had broken; and went below to supper. Just as we sat down the blamed thing came crashing down again, so we had to lash it with ropes, and let it go until we reach Honolulu—if we ever get there. But these goosenecks breaking looks bad. Both were of wrought iron; on the second one we would have depended in time of storm. Jack says it is just like macaroni, the way it snapped. Wind pretty stiff, and a suggestion of rain in the air. Feeling rather sick.

Sunday, May 5, 1907.
—Fine day, and everybody feeling well. I've just now begun to enjoy this trip. Wonder what's going on in the world, anyway! I've come to the point where I've forgotten what the world was like. The past is all like some dream. Our world is a big, blue expanse of water, reaching in an eternal circle to the horizon; a blue, clear-looking sky overhead, in which journeys the hot, glowing sun; and a tiny boat, a speck in the immensity of things, pursuing its solitary way across the deep. Loafed on deck most of to-day. We are far south of the regular track of steamers. Bert and Tochigi and I are all writing on our diaries this evening. The Londons have retired. Captain Eames is at the wheel, singing some sea-song—seems to be happy. Course south by west.

Monday, May 6, 1907.
—Baked bread and made biscuits today; had fine success. Fourteen days out of Frisco. Bert and Captain Eames took a bath in the ocean to-day—got clear down on the stays, and let the motion of the boat do the rest. Bert keeps declaring that he will let go and have a decent swim, but Jack warns him that if he does the sharks will get him. But Bert says the sharks are all with the dolphins and porpoises and bonita—in other words, that there aren't any. Changed our course to southwest by west. I think we are a little over half-way. To-night, we are going to start a game of whist and play it up until the moment we land. Everybody is making fun of my whiskers. Of course, I haven't shaved since we left, and I have an awful growth of beard, which I shan't scrape off until we reach port. Bert is the same way; there are times when he looks like a pirate. A queer bird hove in sight to-day. It's circling around us. It's white, with a long tail, sharp as a needle, and a long bill. Jack says he never heard of any like it before. I have my washing out. We just tie ropes on our clothes and tow them overboard all night, and in the morning they are clean; all we have to do is hang them up to dry. We crossed the line last night and are now in the tropics, or torrid zone. Have not seen a ship for over a week. Well, Jack's idea was to get away from the crowd, and certainly he has nothing to complain of in that respect. No mail, no telephones, no telegraph messengers, no cranks, nothing at all to bother him. He writes every day, and then does his trick at the wheel, or helps with the sailorising. Tochigi is at the wheel, reading a Japanese novel up-side down and from the back—or so it looks. Last night at supper he took the wheel, and played some weird music on his bamboo flute. We all stopped eating to listen. It is hard to realise that it is over a thousand miles to land in any direction.

Tuesday, May 7, 1907.
—Played whist last night and had a fine time. Jack and Mrs. London won both games. Captain Eames looked on until a lamp fell on his head, and after that he seemed to lose interest. Tochigi had the wheel. When I am feeling sick, my early-morning watch seems terribly long; but if I am well, it is really enjoyable. We are taking a good many pictures now-a-days. I develop and print my own pictures, and all the others'. Jack requires a good many as illustrations to his magazine articles. Today, Bert and Captain Eames set the spinnaker sail. Bert went out on the boom and got a good ducking, but the water is fine and warm, so it wasn't disagreeable. As I write, I have to hold on to the companionway with one hand. Lat. 22°—44'—24'', Long. 136°—4'. We figure that another ten days will put us in Honolulu. Captain has just hung the map with our course, and I don't think any old sea-captain would be proud of it. It's the most zigzagged route I ever saw. Yesterday we actually went out of our way fourteen miles. Everyone is feeling good, even if we are rolling some. I realise now, that, joking aside, this is as perilous a voyage as ever human beings voluntarily ventured on. We could never weather a hard storm. For the boat won't heave-to. And no one aboard knows how to make her heave-to. A fine warm evening, and the most beautiful sunset. It's queer we see no fish, for by all the books we have on fish, this is where they should be found. Jack throws out his trolling line every day, but catches nothing. Our course to-night is west-southwest.

Wednesday, May 8, 1907.
—My pay-day—but what's the use? I can't spend any money here. It may be two weeks before we reach Honolulu. Had fair wind to-day—changed course to south by west. At meals, Mr. and Mrs. London and Mr. Eames eat, Tochigi waits table, and Bert takes wheel; then we three eat. We are having lots of Portuguese men-of-war these days; they are a kind of jelly-fish that move in schools and have a sail in the middle of their backs. Jack and Mrs. London are playing pedro, and Bert is putting out the sidelights. It is getting awfully monotonous, always swaying up and down on these big waves—now away in the valley formed by two big swells, then on top of one of them. We are all over our seasickness, and feeling pretty good. Bert is certainly just right for this trip. He is robust and strong—a young Hercules. We are all discarding our shirts and wearing white trousers and canvas shoes. Fortunately, the breeze keeps the air from getting oppressively warm. Bert takes his daily bath from the stays.