OBIE
Episode Twenty-eight
CROSSING THE EQUATOR
The captain’s word was good as gold, and by eleven thirty the ship was stocked, the anchor hove, and we were underway. The captain ordered full sail, and that clipper broke out in canvas quicker than a barn sour mule can breakout in sweat! I’d never seen such a mountain of sails in my life. That old ship had moonrakers, skysails, and topgallants, till a healthy sneeze would have sped her up three knots.
This being July 4th, the captain ordered assembly on the quarterdeck, and he and the mate gave speeches for an hour and a half, and colorful orations they were too! In the full sun, on the hot deck, and ya didn’t dare to take your leave or even try and sit! Speaking of sitting, they’re a lot stricter aboard these peacetime vessels than a body would expect. All the months that I was aboard the Pacific, I never saw an officer or a crewman sitting down on deck. From the captain to the lowliest crewman, month after month after long, tedious month, I rarely saw a single soul sit down. On the few occasions when some poor weary seaman even dared to try, they were on him like a duck on a June bug, with some other trifling task they needed done.
From sunup, till sundown, they were always busy at something, unless it was their watch or their time below. Four hours on, and four hours off, twenty-four hours a day, those seamen toed the line, and you seldom heard a single soul complain. They rested on their Sabbath, and those fellows deserved it if ever a sailor did.
Anyway, as I was saying, they gave some speeches dedicated to the glorious event of our independence, and then they toasted the country, the captain, and the Lord above, with grog. By the time they were finished, a happier bunch of folks you’ve never seen! I have to admit this was one rare occasion, when even the captain took a seat on deck.
Staying on the ship wasn’t going to be a problem from here on out! 6000 miles of uninterrupted ocean lay between us and the California coast. There’d be nothing to disturb our tranquility now, except a sail, a storm, or the San Francisco shore. The captain estimated, barring complications, we should make landfall in San Francisco the end of August, or early September. We seemed to be in pretty good shape as far as supplies. There was a small menagerie of livestock on board. We had pigs and chickens, and even a couple of milk goats. Besides eggs and milk, the ship had a good supply of all the sea cooks essentials. They stocked salt pork and hard tack, beans and bananas, apples and potatoes, canned goods and flour, and cheese by the hundredweight! We might not have a bowel movement for days on end, but there shouldn’t be a soul who went unfed.
Our biggest concern from here on out would be the blasted weather and the wind. About midway between our position and California, lay the equator. The combination of unpredictable currents and the sultry heat of the equator, creates all variety of conditions, some good, some bad, and some unbearable! Part of the trip we’re likely to be blessed by favorable southerly breezes and the trade winds. If the good Lord’s willing and the trade winds blow, this voyage could be over in a snap. If we’re plagued with calms at the equator, and don’t encounter a favorable westerly to blow us east toward land, we could reach the Sandwich Islands before we ever see the California shore.
So, on we sailed across the boundless south Pacific. Days begrudgingly turned to weeks, and at last the weary weeks had made one month. Early on the morning of August 2nd, Lidge and I were strolling the decks when ol’ eagle eye Kinney brought my attention to several small spits of land, about twenty minutes away, to our northeast. Borrowing the first mate’s eyeglass, we were busily scrutinizing the far-off islands when the captain joined us on the deck. Noting our curiosity, and evidently not immune himself, the captain called for a course that brought us hard to starboard.
Within fifteen minutes we heard the unmistakable sound of rookeries. Situated on the equator, west of Ecuador, and sharing their name with the 500-pound Tortoise who dines on the island’s succulents and suns his fortress-like hulk along their pristine shores, the Galapagos Islands are one of nature’s curiosities. Formed by comparatively recent volcanic eruptions and blessed with a variety of peculiar creatures found nowhere else in the world, they suggest that creation may be a work in progress. Bringing our vessel to within a couple hundred yards of this uninhabited haven, we gave her a quick once over with the scope, and then the captain suggested that time was money, and we veered hard a port and continued on our way.
Leaving the brief but satisfying diversion in our wake, we proceeded north by northwest and crossed the equator. Crossing the equator is not something I’d recommend to the faint of heart. Besides the fact that it’s hot as Hades, the crew has this little diversion that they plan. It’s evidently become a tradition among many seamen to initiate any unfortunate pilgrim who hasn’t made the club previously, with any number of unpleasant pranks designed to get even for the ones that were pulled on them. On this occasion, they had one poor unseasoned seaman suspended from a yardarm, upside down on a rope.
When you’re already fixing to lose your lunch from the heat and humidity, this treatment is almost guaranteed to make you cuss a streak, turn hemorrhoid blue, and eventually purge your innards! Fortunately for the rest of us, the captain intervened at this point, suggesting for the occasion a double ration of ale. This pacified the most avid prankster, and those not working retired below for a nap.
Sometimes, on a long, calm, leisurely afternoon, Lidge and I would lie on our backs on the decks and point out the shapes we believed we could see in the endless columns of constantly changing clouds. Uncle Mark warned that this kind of behavior might cloud our judgment or even addle our brains. Lidge and I took it all in stride, and Lidge came up with a pretty good comeback too. “My father always said,” says Lidge, “Hold tight to your dreams. Denied your dreams, reality can be toxic. A little taste of fantasy might cloud a fellow’s judgment, but a steady diet of reality could kill a goat!” Well, if you can find fault with wisdom like that, you’re a better man than me.
To be continued?
By Shannon Thomas Casebeer
Copyright © FEBRUARY 14th, 2009
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