It often happens that the gale increases from hour to hour very slowly, very steadily, and the temptation to continue running, whilst making an excellent passage has often proved too great, and the undoing of more than one good skipper. The hope is always there that the gale has reached its maximum. The glass has, perhaps, steadied a little, temporarily; may even show a tendency to rise. The seas grow and grow, until the term "mountainous" becomes a literal and actual fact. Then the psychological time comes, when the choice must be made. Heave to, or run it out; either bring her up to the wind under shortened canvas, making no progress whatever towards your destination, but riding in safety, or continue to run with ever-increasing risk.
In the latter event, the opportunity for carrying out the manoeuvre of heaving to, with any degree of safety passes; in fact, from safety it quickly becomes a risk, then a heavy risk, and finally an impossibility.
No choice then remains. Run you must, and hope for the best; but if one of those mountainous seas of water should bank up astern and break, then every man must seize some immovable object and hang on to it like grim death, hoping against hope that she will lift to it and ride. If, on the other hand, it breaks over her, and she is what is termed "pooped," the chances are just about a hundred to one that this is the finish. Apart from sweeping everything before it, smashing up everything that it doesn't wash overboard, she is filled up, rail and rail, and before she can shake the water off, the next sea is on her. Fortunately, one is not held in suspense. About ten minutes has seen the finish of many a good ship, and the "gone to glory" of every man jack of her crew.
We got through all right, and after sighting St. Paul's, this time in safety, turned north for the sea of fragrant smells. Up through the Indian Ocean and past the Andaman Islands, where the scent of spice spreads over the sea like a glorified chemist's shop. It's round here one can realise the origin of the tale of the sea serpent, but in point of fact, they are conger eels, and abound in this sea, but can be seen when lying becalmed in a sailing ship. They may not encircle the earth, but they are quite big enough to encircle a good sized sailing ship — not that there is any danger of their ever doing that; in fact, such are the conditions of the menu on board ship, that they would be welcomed.
It was in the Indian Ocean that we got mixed up with my one and only cyclone. A hair raiser of the first order. There is, as a rule, plenty of warning when a cyclone is cruising about, and no excuse for anyone to be caught out. For instance, long before there are visible indications from the weather, the barometer will give ample notice, as it did in this case.
Twenty-four hourse later, it commenced to bank up to the south east, a big rolling sea got more and more confused, for no apparent reason. Little or no wind, but huge masses of clouds. As the underpart turned a bilious green and later on, as the edges were torn away, we saw flecks of lightning, vicious, and threatening.
Long before this, the ship had been snugged down to the shortest possible canvas; in our case three lower topsails. It is not only the canvas that is on her, but that which is actually furled, which has to be taken care of; for the wind when it comes, will rip a sail out of the gaskets, just as easily as it will blow away a paper bag. All hands must get aloft, literally marling the sails down to the yards; not a corner the size of a pocket handkerchief must be left for the wind to get hold of. Once a full cyclone has struck, no man can even hold on to the rigging, much less secure any sails that are started out of their gaskets.
We were lucky. We lost a couple of staysails, and a couple of flying kites ripped out of their gaskets, and one lower topsail blown clean out of the bolt ropes. This went with a report like a six-inch gun.
This would not have happened, only through some miscalculation we let the centre pass over us.
A cyclone, as is well known, is a revolving circular storm with the centre a flat calm. It was proverbial in the old days, and before the tonnage of ships reached four figures — that no ship could pass through the centre of a cyclone and live. The seas simply pounded over from all sides, filling her up rail and rail, so that she was literally swamped. With the high bulwarks and big washports, we proved that it is possible to pass through; and in the circumstances with not a great amount of damage. Apart from what happened to the ship, there were three broken ribs and a broken arm, to add to our total casualties. This happened whilst the centre was passing over. At all costs we had to get the yards round on the other tack to meet the change of wind, and in order to save ourselves and the ship, this had to be done during the time we were actually in the terrific maelstrom in the centre, with the seas leaping straight up in the air and thundering on board from all sides.
However, we managed it, and the yards were hauled round before the wind struck us again, instantly and with full force, in diametrically the opposite direction from which it had been before. It was at that moment that the mizzen topsail, with a cannon-like report, went sailing away out of the bolt ropes. Having drawn clear of the cyclone, and the wind settled down to an honest gale, all hands were set about clearing up the wreck. Even yet, occasional seas came thundering on board, and a man caught unawares is quickly apt to lose the number of his mess — in other words, be washed overboard. Hundreds and hundreds of fathoms of rope to be hauled in through the wash deck ports and scuppers, disentangled from round spars; ripped sails to unbend, and fresh ones to be sent aloft. Everybody on deck and not a thought of sleep or rest; hot food, of course, is out of the question. A cyclone always seems a treacherous sort of beast compared with a good straightforward blow, that one gets with mountainous but regular seas, off Cape Horn, or running one's Easting Down, or even in the Western Ocean, where it can be notoriously spiteful and vicious.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“SHARKS”
A form of sport that always finds favour in a sailing ship, is carrying on the eternal warfare with the sailor’s hereditary enemy, old John Shark. The ideal condition is a calm day, with the ship riding on a sea, probably like glass; just a lazy motion, sufficient to send the sails slatting gently backwards and forwards up against the mast. Even from the deck, in these circumstances, the slightest ripple on the surface of the water is clearly visible and, to the man aloft, the sea an open page for many miles round. The result is that when John Shark slips his fin above the water, he is spotted at once.
Directly that sinister black triangle, is seen cutting through the clear water, then, immediately one hears the cry from some sharp eyed boy around the cross trees, “Shark on the weather beam” or “shark ahead” as the case may be.
In the discipline of a sailing ship — which is as strict as that of a man-o’-war — no other word or indication is permitted; but this cry conveys all the information required to the watch below, which is all that is intended. A couple of hands will tumble out with their shark hook and line, harpoon and grains.
Personally, I never favour the recognised shark hook, a massive great thing, with a lump of chain attached; in fact, in all my time at sea, although I have caught scores of sharks, I never caught one with the recognized shark hook.
What I much preferred was a dolphin hook, three-sixteenth metal and three inches between barb and shank. The whole of this you can almost hold in the palm of your hand.
About three feet of stranded wire, seized on to the shank, and a great hank of boat lacing, or codline, as it is sometimes called — not a great deal thicker than heavy brown string, was my full equipment