The Three Voices

Over past months I’ve scoured Internet archives for good poetry on the subjects of the ‘sea’ and ‘ships’, but my search has borne little fruit. There’s a fair amount of mundane stuff out there, but little of substance with poetic merit. This next poem by Robert W. Service is the best of what I have not published to date.
The Three Voices
The waves have a story to tell me,
As I lie on the lonely beach;
Chanting aloft in the pine-tops,
The wind has a lesson to teach;
But the stars sing an anthem of glory
I cannot put into speech.
The waves tell of ocean spaces,
Of hearts that are wild and brave,
Of populous city places,
Of desolate shores they lave,
Of men who sally in quest of gold
To sink in an ocean grave.
The wind is a mighty roamer;
He bids me keep me free,
Clean from the taint of the gold-lust,
Hardy and pure as he;
Cling with my love to nature,
As a child to the mother-knee.
But the stars throng out in their glory,
And they sing of the God in man;
They sing of the Mighty Master,
Of the loom his fingers span,
Where a star or a soul is a part of the whole,
And weft in the wondrous plan.
Here by the camp-fire's flicker,
Deep in my blanket curled,
I long for the peace of the pine-gloom,
When the scroll of the Lord is unfurled,
And the wind and the wave are silent,
And world is singing to world.
Robert W. Service

A Shanty

Rudyard Kipling has written many a good yarn and some provocative poetry. For today’s entry I’ve chosen, ‘The Last Chantey’. This is a dirge in the form of a sailor’s shanty bewailing the loss of the oceans when God finally does away with the seas at the time of creating His new heaven and new earth. (Revelation 21:1 ‘Now I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. Also there was no more sea.’)
The Last Chantey
"~And there was no more sea.~"

Thus said The Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim
Calling to the Angels and the Souls in their degree:
"Lo! Earth has passed away
On the smoke of Judgment Day.
That Our word may be established shall We gather up the sea?"

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:
"Plague upon the hurricane that made us furl and flee!
But the war is done between us,
In the deep the Lord hath seen us --
Our bones we'll leave the barracout', and God may sink the sea!"

Then said the soul of Judas that betrayed Him:
"Lord, hast Thou forgotten Thy covenant with me?
How once a year I go
To cool me on the floe?
And Ye take my day of mercy if Ye take away the sea!"

Then said the soul of the Angel of the Off-shore Wind:
(He that bits the thunder when the bull-mouthed breakers flee):
"I have watch and ward to keep
O'er Thy wonders on the deep,
And Ye take mine honour from me if Ye take away the sea!"

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:
"Nay, but we were angry, and a hasty folk are we!
If we worked the ship together
Till she foundered in foul weather,
Are we babes that we should clamour for a vengeance on the sea?"

Then said the souls of the slaves that men threw overboard:
"Kennelled in the picaroon a weary band were we;
But Thy arm was strong to save,
And it touched us on the wave,
And we drowsed the long tides idle till Thy Trumpets tore the sea."

Then cried the soul of the stout Apostle Paul to God:
"Once we frapped a ship, and she laboured woundily.
There were fourteen score of these,
And they blessed Thee on their knees,
When they learned Thy Grace and Glory under Malta by the sea!"

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,
Plucking at their harps, and they plucked unhandily:
"Our thumbs are rough and tarred,
And the tune is something hard --
May we lift a Deep-sea Chantey such as seamen use at sea?"

Then said the souls of the gentlemen-adventurers --
Fettered wrist to bar all for red iniquity:
"Ho, we revel in our chains
O'er the sorrow that was Spain's;
Heave or sink it, leave or drink it, we were masters of the sea!"

Up spake the soul of a gray Gothavn 'speckshioner --
(He that led the flinching in the fleets of fair Dundee):
"Oh, the ice-blink white and near,
And the bowhead breaching clear!
Will Ye whelm them all for wantonness that wallow in the sea?"

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,
Crying: "Under Heaven, here is neither lead nor lee!
Must we sing for evermore
On the windless, glassy floor?
Take back your golden fiddles and we'll beat to open sea!"

Then stooped the Lord, and He called the good sea up to Him,
And 'stablished his borders unto all eternity,
That such as have no pleasure
For to praise the Lord by measure,
They may enter into galleons and serve Him on the sea.

Sun, wind, and cloud shall fail not from the face of it,
Stinging, ringing spindrift, nor the fulmar flying free;
And the ships shall go abroad
To the Glory of the Lord
Who heard the silly sailor-folk and gave them back their sea!

Rudyard Kipling

A Whale of a Time

I thought this little article I prepared for the smallsailboats Yahoo! discussion group might be appropriate here.

It tells of an encounter with a pod of whales when I was attempting to sail to the Azores in the yacht ‘Aziz’.

When we were about 500 miles out, and west of the Bay of Biscay - it was after an early morning kip - I woke to examine the scene. To my horror, nestling alongside, almost within reach, there was a huge whale, about the same length as the boat! I gasped, as my heart missed a beat; then to my utter concern I saw another dark shape immediately in our path, but even more startling, I observed we were in the centre of a large pod of these leviathans.

My first reaction was to avert a collision, but before I could release the self-steering gear, the benign creature in our path gracefully glided into the ocean depths.

Around me these wonderful, gentle, sensitive sea creatures showed no sign of panic; unlike the crew of ‘Aziz’. It was then I realised, they had the situation under control - they knew more about me and my boat than I did of them. With one flick of their tail they could have smashed us into oblivion, but instead they showed their friendliness.

The ship’s windvane self-steering, with its ever vigilant eye, maintained our course as our ‘companions’ escorted us for an hour or so. Finally they cavorted and snorted around us with the purpose of conveying their best wishes, ‘farewell’, and ‘bon voyage’, before making their departure.

The Sea

It's said you either like the sea or you hate it, but maybe there are those who are amibivalent about it?

I love the sea when all is fine and the sailing is good, but when it's evil and cruel, I'm fearful and respectful of it.

My mother positively hated the sea; probably because her father, when she was very young and unable to swim, made her cling to his neck; then swam in the sea with her on his back. That must have been terrifying for her, so that an indelible memory of fear remained with her for as long as she lived.

The poem I have chosen for today’s log was written by one like my mother who intensely hated the sea.

The Sea

There are certain things -a spider, a ghost,
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three -
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most
Is a thing they call the SEA.

Pour some salt water over the floor -
Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be:
Suppose it extended a mile or more,
That's very like the SEA.

Beat a dog till it howls outright -
Cruel, but all very well for a spree;
Suppose that one did so day and night,
That would be like the SEA.

I had a vision of nursery-maids;
Tens of thousands passed by me -
All leading children with wooden spades,
And this was by the SEA.

Who invented those spades of wood?
Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could -
Or one that loved the SEA.

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float
With `thoughts as boundless, and souls as free';
But suppose you are very unwell in a boat,
How do you like the SEA.

There is an insect that people avoid
(Whence is derived the verb `to flee')
Where have you been by it most annoyed?
In lodgings by the SEA.

If you like coffee with sand for dregs,
A decided hint of salt in your tea,
And a fishy taste in the very eggs -
By all means choose the SEA.

And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,
You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,
And a chronic state of wet in your feet,
Then -I recommend the SEA.

For I have friends who dwell by the coast,
Pleasant friends they are to me!
It is when I'm with them I wonder most
That anyone likes the SEA.

They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,
To climb the heights I madly agree:
And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,
They kindly suggest the SEA.

I try the rocks, and I think it cool
That they laugh with such an excess of glee,
As I heavily slip into every pool,
That skirts the cold, cold SEA.

‘Master and Commander’

My brother was somewhat surprised that I had not read any novels by Patrick O’Brian, the Anglo-Irish novelist whose stirring tales of the British Navy in the Napoleonic Wars made him a literary celebrity at the age of 85, when he died on 2nd January, 2000.

He is most famous for writing a series, chronicling the fictitious adventures of Jack Aubrey, and Stephen Maturin, the main characters in ‘Master and Commander’, the first of 20 complete volumes. Jack is the Commander and Maturin is the ship’s doctor.

To date, more than 2 million copies of the Aubrey-Maturin novels have been sold; some place O’Brian with Melville and Conrad.

Having first been introduced to his genius through seeing the film ‘Master and Commander’, directed by Peter Weir, I was smitten. True to O’Brian’s attention to historical detail, the film tells the swashbuckling story of confrontation at sea between ‘Lucky’, Jack Aubrey’s English ship and a superior French man–of–war; Jack’s vessel only escapes by good fortune, courtesy of the fog, but her ruthless and loyal commander is determined to inflict revenge, thereby bringing honour for himself and Country.

What the film does not do, is manifest the literary skill of a great author and wordsmith.

For the sailor of a small yacht in our times, O’Brian’s novels can convey a sense of history and wonderment at the fortitude, determination, and resourcefulness of seamen who defended and fought for their countries in a bygone era. Their struggles were often determined by the vagaries of wind and sea, and soundness of their vessels, just as our ventures at sea are today.

Sea and the Hills

‘Sea and the Hills’ is a compelling and enigmatic poem by Rudyard Kipling that demonstrates a certain knowledge and understanding of the sea gained through personal experience. How else could he conjure up description, atmosphere and location?

Who hath desired the Sea? -- the sight of salt water unbounded --
The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber wind-hounded?
The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grey, foamless, enormous, and growing --
Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing --
His Sea in no showing the same his Sea and the same 'neath each showing:
His Sea as she slackens or thrills?
So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills!

Who hath desired the Sea? -- the immense and contemptuous surges?
The shudder, the stumble, the swerve, as the star-stabbing bow-sprit emerges?
The orderly clouds of the Trades, the ridged, roaring sapphire thereunder --
Unheralded cliff-haunting flaws and the headsail's low-volleying thunder --
His Sea in no wonder the same his Sea and the same through each wonder:
His Sea as she rages or stills?
So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.

Who hath desired the Sea? Her menaces swift as her mercies?
The in-rolling walls of the fog and the silver-winged breeze that disperses?
The unstable mined berg going South and the calvings and groans that declare it --
White water half-guessed overside and the moon breaking timely to bare it --
His Sea as his fathers have dared -- his Sea as his children shall dare it:
His Sea as she serves him or kills?
So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.

Who hath desired the Sea? Her excellent loneliness rather
Than forecourts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather
Inland, among dust, under trees -- inland where the slayer may slay him --
Inland, out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him
His Sea from the first that betrayed -- at the last that shall never betray him:
His Sea that his being fulfils?
So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.

The Wind and the Sea

I know precious little of Paul Dunbar, except he wrote a poem in which he personifies a relationship between the wind and the sea, such that they connive together for evil intent, while shamming repentance for their wilful acts.

Paradoxically, we know that neither of these natural forces can be cognisant of themselves, and yet both can be very cruel to the point where after terrifying their victims (those who sail in ships) utterly destroy them, consigning them for ever to Davy Jones’s locker, and because of the evidence, we sailors can get to believe that both the sea and wind are mindful of what they do - we know from experience that they have moods and feelings, perhaps capricious at times, but as a cat plays with a mouse before releasing it after losing interest or relenting, so the wind and sea may, by whim, release their captives.

The Wind and the Sea by Paul Dunbar

I stood by the shore at the death of day,
As the sun sank flaming red;
And the face of the waters that spread away
Was as gray as the face of the dead.

And I heard the cry of the wanton sea
And the moan of the wailing wind;
For love's sweet pain in his heart had he,
But the gray old sea had sinned.

The wind was young and the sea was old,
But their cries went up together;
The wind was warm and the sea was cold,
For age makes wintry weather.

So they cried aloud and they wept amain,
Till the sky grew dark to hear it;
And out of its folds crept the misty rain,
In its shroud, like a troubled spirit.

For the wind was wild with a hopeless love,
And the sea was sad at heart
At many a crime that he wot of,
Wherein he had played his part.

He thought of the gallant ships gone down
By the will of his wicked waves;
And he thought how the churchyard in the town
Held the sea-made widows' graves.

The wild wind thought of the love he had left
Afar in an Eastern land,
And he longed, as long the much bereft,
For the touch of her perfumed hand.

In his winding wail and his deep-heaved sigh
His aching grief found vent;
While the sea looked up at the bending sky
And murmured: "I repent."

But e'en as he spoke, a ship came by,
That bravely ploughed the main,
And a light came into the sea's green eye,
And his heart grew hard again.

Then he spoke to the wind: "Friend, seest thou not
Yon vessel is eastward bound?
Pray speed with it to the happy spot
Where thy loved one may be found."

And the wind rose up in a dear delight,
And after the good ship sped;
But the crafty sea by his wicked might
Kept the vessel ever ahead.

Till the wind grew fierce in his despair,
And white on the brow and lip.
He tore his garments and tore his hair,
And fell on the flying ship.

And the ship went down, for a rock was there,
And the sailless sea loomed black;
While burdened again with dole and care,
The wind came moaning back.

And still he moans from his bosom hot
Where his raging grief lies pent,
And ever when the ships come not,
The sea says: "I repent."

Vagaries of the Sea

The appearance of the sea is for ever changing, since it is affected by particular light settings, moment by moment, and because of the variable effects of wind and tide. William Turner, England’s greatest seascape painter, depicted the vagaries of the sea from its most placid, as in 'The Fighting Temeraire', to its most tempestuous, as in 'The Shipwreck'.
Those who sail the seas know through experience that a variety of visual stimuli upon the water is not just brought about by the effects of innumerable permutations of wind, rain, snow, hail, cloud, mist or fog, but by many types of vessels that ply the sea in the course of their business, whether for profit or pleasure. Such changing scenes have been the reward of mariners since primitive man first ventured out to sea in dugout canoes or papyrus rafts, perhaps to fish or travel afar in search of new lands.
Over the centuries man’s industry, intelligence and technological achievements have enabled him to build a huge variety of vessels, some for peaceful purposes, and others for military use, but their presence has affected the mood and character of the mariner's scene.
In John Masefield's poem, 'Cargoes', we find descriptions of three trading vessels from different eras.
QUINQUIREME of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

Paintings by William Turner.
http://www.j-m-w-turner.co.uk/artist/gifetc/tameria.jpg The Fighting Temeraire.
http://www.abcgallery.com/T/turner/turner3.JPG The Shipwreck.

Christmas Eve

I found this poem floating around in cyber space; therefore I gather it’s there for all sailors at this time of year, especially the very young who know that Father Christmas really exists. If you want proof, then you must read C. S. Lewis’s ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’, one of ‘The Chronicles of Nania’, or if you can’t make the effort, then see a ‘documentary’ currently showing at most cinemas.

Christmas Eve

T'was the night before Christmas, I swung on the
hook
With snowflakes a'landing, asleep with my book
When up on the deck I heard footsteps and stuff
"I've been boarded!" I thought, and I tried to be
tough

Then down the companionway hatch came a dude
He was dressed like a nut and I thought, "I'm so
screwed"
But he laughed and he hummed as he surveyed my
junk
So I figured he must be the resident drunk

His eyes were lit up like a junkie on speed
But he gave me a whole bunch of stuff that I need
Like rum and cigars and new charts and a dinghy
And some kind of fancy electrical thingy

I knew it was stolen but I wasn't telling
I just hoped he was giving and wasn't just selling
And I poured him a grog which he downed with a
wink
Then I poured one for me (Lord I needed a drink!)

Then he staggered above to the dark snowy night
As I peeked I beheld an incredible sight
Eight tiny dolphins and a beautiful sleigh
And the dude hopped aboard and prepared to make
way

The dolphins were ready to power the sled
But the guy raised a genny and mains'l instead
With a burp and a chuckle he gathered the breeze
And called to the dolphins, now swimming with ease

"Hey Stalker and FEMA and Cancer and Nixon!
Or Stinky and Pepper Spray, Mason, and Dixon!
Or whatever your names are, you cute little
fishes,
Here's to every last sailor, my best Christmas
wishes!"

As he sailed away leaving a wobbly wake
I hoped he had not many stops left to make
He got close to shore and he soon was aground
But the dolphins proceeded to pull him around

And I heard him exclaim as he sailed out of sight
Happy Christmas to all... and to all a goodnight"

Yachtsman’s Christmas Tree

The Westerly Yacht Owners Association has a popular meeting at East Cowes Marina on the first Saturday of December. I am reliably informed that these frostbite rallies have been well attended for the past 22 years with the crews of 20 or more yachts coming together for the festivities. There’s a judging of Christmas decorations, including Christmas trees, resulting in rewards for those who have arranged the most attractive and creative displays.

This is far removed from years gone by when a few hardy yachtsmen extended the sailing season into the month of December. Such stalwarts may have hoisted an undecorated fir tree to the top of their yacht’s mast as a sign they were aboard celebrating Christmas; but where and when did the tradition come about?

What we do know is that schooners and barges in the age of sail were used to bring a variety of evergreen trees from northern Wisconsin and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula annually in November to ports in the south for local merchants to sell to the public. No doubt the captains of these ships hoisted trees to the tops of masts to advertise the nature of their cargo.

There is a legend that Martin Luther was the first to display a lighted Christmas tree as a symbol of eternal life generated by the Light of the World, Jesus Christ. Scholars provide evidence that the first decorated Christmas trees originated in Germany, back in 1521, in the region of Alsace. In 1605 a resident of Strasburg wrote that at Christmas, fir trees decorated with coloured papers, apples, wafers, golden foil and sweets were sometimes set up in the parlours of local houses.

In Germany around the middle of the seventeenth century decorated Christmas trees grew in popularity and the idea spread to America at the beginning of the eighteenth century when Germans immigrated to Pennsylvania, but it wasn’t until 1837 when Helen of Mecklenburg had a tree in Paris that it became fashionable in France. In 1841 Prince Albert decorated a tree at Windsor Castle.

There is doubt regarding the symbolism of a decorated Christmas tree, but some Christians may have likened it to ‘new birth’ and eternal life in Jesus Christ; whereas others may have thought of the tree as a symbol of the Paradise tree of life, and therefore decorated their trees with apples, representing the forbidden fruit eaten by Adam and Eve.

Today Christmas trees are exceedingly popular with Christians and non-Christians alike, but those who do not regard themselves as Christians simply use them as attractive decorations or consider them a necessity for maintaining a tradition, even being prepared to pay as much as £20.00 for a tree without roots!

More and more yachtsmen are extending their sailing season to include being afloat at Christmas. Perhaps we shall see their yachts being decorated with lights and trees in the fashion of Westerly Yacht owners at their annual December get-together.

‘Little Jim’

I have no idea how Alastair Law came to name his Paradox micro-sailboat, ‘Little Jim’, but there is a poem by E.Farmer with the name as a title for his poem.

The cottage was a thatch'd one,
The outside old and mean,
Yet everything within that cot
Was wondrous neat and clean.

The night was dark and stormy,
The wind was howling wild;
A patient mother knelt beside
The death bed of her child.

A little worn-out creature,
His once bright eyes grown dim;
It was a collier's only child,
They called him Little Jim.

And, oh! to see the briny tears
Fast hurrying down her cheeks,
As she offer'd up a prayer in thought,
She was afraid to speak.

Lest she might waken one she loved
Far better than her life;
For there was all a mother's love
In that poor collier's wife.

With hands uplifted, see, she kneels,
Beside the sufferer's bed;
And prays that He will spare her boy,
And take herself instead.

She gets her answer from the child,
Soft fell these words from him,
'Mother, the angels do so smile,
And beckon Little Jim.

I have no pain, dear mother, now,
But oh! I am so dry;
Just moisten poor Jim's lips again,
And mother, don't you cry.

With gentle, trembling haste she held
The tea-cup to his lips;
He smiled to thank her, as he took
Three tiny little sips.

'Tell father when he comes from work,
I said "good-night" to him;
And, mother, now I'11 go to sleep,
Alas, poor Little Jim.

She saw that he was dying -
The child she loved so dear
Had uttered the last words that she
Might ever hope to hear.

The cottage door was opened
The collier's step is heard,
The father and the mother meet,
Yet neither speak a word.

He knew that all was over,
He knew his child was dead;
He took the candle in his hand,
And walked towards the bed.

His quivering lips gave token
Of the grief he'd fain conceal;
And see his wife has joined him -
The stricken couple kneel.

With hearts bowed down with sadness
They humbly ask of Him,
In heaven, once more to meet again.
Their own poor Little Jim.

This is a very sad story that could well have been based on fact, before being transformed into fiction, but to my mind there is little to connect it to the name of a boat, but this particular boat of Al’s has become an object of study for me. I’ve made two visits to his place of residence to examine ‘Little Jim’. She’s very unusual in design, in that she has chine runners instead of a keel for minimizing leeway. She was designed by Matt Layden as a very small coastal cruising yacht, eminently suitable for shallow waters.

My interest in ‘Little Jim’ came about when I conceived the idea of building my own Paradox sailboat. Only yesterday I saw Al’s gem of a boat a second time and I made use of the opportunity to photograph some of the more complicated parts as aids memoirs to help me when building my own boat.

I am grateful for his help and encouragement.

Roadways

As you’ve probably gathered, John Masefield is a favourite poet of mine, especially as several of his ballads are about the sea and ships. I don’t think he could ever have imagined the changes that would take place with the English landscape over the past 38 years since his death, particularly the congestion of our roads. In his time he preferred the sea by far and here is his poem ‘Roadways’ that illustrates this point:
ONE road leads to London,
One road leads to Wales,
My road leads me seawards
To the white dipping sails.
One road leads to the river,
And it goes singing slow;
My road leads to shipping,
Where the bronzed sailors go.
Leads me, lures me, calls me
To salt green tossing sea;
A road without earth's road-dust
Is the right road for me.
A wet road heaving, shining,
And wild with seagull's cries,
A mad salt sea-wind blowing
The salt spray in my eyes.
My road calls me, lures me
West, east, south, and north;
Most roads lead men homewards,
My road leads me forth.
To add more miles to the tally
Of grey miles left behind,
In quest of that one beauty
God put me here to find.
John Masefield

Longing for the Open Water

Ellen MacArthur’s next project will be a personal crusade to save the Albatross. (http://www.savethealbatross.net/) She has an affinity with this majestic bird of the oceans, and from December, for two months, she will be accompanying biologist, Sally Poncet, on her annual bird life survey on South Georgia. That’s a fine way for this creative and youthful ‘Dame’ to spend Christmas, never being far from the sea and the breeding colony of the endangered albatross.

For many of us less ambitious sailors, but, like her, passionate lovers of the sea, our boats are laid up for winter and we pine for the open water and sea salt spray. Perhaps we can take some consolation by reading John Masefield’s poem, ‘A Wanderer’s Song’?

A WIND'S in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels,
I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels;
I hunger for the sea's edge, the limit of the land,
Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.
Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street,
To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet;
To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride,
Oh I'l be going, going, until I meet the tide.
And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls,
The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls,
The songs at the capstan at the hooker warping out,
And then the heart of me'll know I'm there or thereabout.
Oh I am sick of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick,
For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick;
And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels,
For a wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels.

Bolt Together Boat

Bolt Together Boat

There’s been sparse activity on this blog, because I’ve been busy with those things that ‘need’ doing; one of them has been assembling new furniture in the Ikea range. It occurred to me, while joining parts of the furniture, that it would be possible to create a small kit boat that could be assembled by unskilled people, using the same principle.

The boat would be bolted or screwed together with a number of cleverly designed components, similar to those used in the furniture, but two main problems would need to be addressed: watertightness integrity and structural strength, such that the boat would be able to survive rigorous use, or even misuse, both ashore and afloat. Watertightness could be achieved by rubber seals and gaskets, and strength by the use of appropriate materials – providing the designer basis his boat on the principles of sound engineering.

There would be several advantages of such a kit boat; for example, almost anyone could ‘assemble’ this boat that could be manufactured for a mass market. Distribution and carriage would not be a problem, because the components of each boat could be packed in several small containers, each being light enough for one person to carry. This would also make it easy for transportation to distant lands where the boat could be assembled, for immediate use.

Here, I’ve set out a proposition for an enterprising person who could earn a great fortune by designing, testing and manufacturing the ‘Bolt Together Boat’. If that person is you, please contact me when you have made your fortune and reward me accordingly. Many thanks. Bill.

“The Wreck of the Hesperus”

There’s no chance for a foolish skipper and his crew when he ignores the wisdom of the wise.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “The Wreck of the Hesperus”, illustrates this very point with the story of a proud and incompetent sea captain who takes his most precious possession to sea with him.
Here’s a lesson for all who go to sea in ships – let us heed the bard’s dire warning not to overestimate our own ability, or the seaworthiness of our ship, nor to underestimate the forces of nature, particularly the fearsome power of a winter gale.
It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintery sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.

The Skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
for I fear a hurricane.

"Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"
The skipper, he blew whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.


"O father! I hear the church bells ring,
Oh, say, what may it be?"
"Tis a fog-bell on a rock bound coast!" --
And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns;
Oh, say, what may it be?"
Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light.
Oh say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.


Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,
On the rocks and hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!

Hibernation for Paradox

In our particular part of England for the past few days the weather has been fine, being dominated with a high pressure system, but that has meant freezing conditions, especially at night. As most of my boat building takes place in the open, I’ve placed it on hold and taken the opportunity to catch up on some interior decoration of the home. Unless one’s place of residence is periodically maintained, it deteriorates, reducing the value of the property; therefore I’m pleased to assume the role of painter and decorator – at least until the spring of next year when, hopefully there will be some pleasant sunshine, sufficient to raise the temperature above 15 degrees Celsius for the efficient working of epoxy adhesive.

As we approach the Festive Season of Goodwill and the commemoration of the birth of Christ there’s always much to occupy ones time, and no doubt hours and days will pass quickly. In view of the situation it’s highly unlikely I’ll manage much boat building during the coming months, but within the next couple of days I’ll try to upload some pictures of my mast and rudder to my Paradox web site: http://www.paradox-uk.co.uk .

With thoughts of Christmas; how about this poem by Robert Louis Stevenson:
"Christmas at Sea"
The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seamen scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'long-shore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call.
"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate Jackson, cried.
..."It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a might breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

"The Lifeboat"

"The Lifeboat"
By George R. Sims

Been out in the lifeboat often? Ay, ay, sir, oft enough.
When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you! this ain't what we calls rough!
It's when there's a gale a-blowin', and the waves run in and break
On the shore with a roar like thunder and the white cliffs seem to shake;
When the sea is a hell of waters, and the bravest holds his breath
As he hears the cry for the lifeboat -- his summons maybe to death --
That's when we call it rough, sir; but, if we can get her afloat,
There's always enough brave fellows ready to man the boat.
You've heard of the Royal Helen, the ship as was wrecked last year?
Yon be the rock she struck on -- the boat as went out be here;
The night as she struck was reckoned the worst as ever we had,
And this is a coast in winter where the weather be awful bad.
The beach here was strewed with wreckage, and to tell you the truth, sir, then
Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men.
The single chaps was willin', and six on 'em volunteered,
But most on us here is married, and the wives that night was skeered.

Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to savin' lives,
But death that night looked certain -- and our wives be only wives:
Their lot ain't bright at the best,sir; but here, when the man lies dead,
'Taint only a husband missin', it's the children's daily bread;
So our women began to whimper and beg o' the chaps to stay --
I only heard on it after, for that night I was kept away.
I was up at my cottage, yonder, where the wife lay nigh her end,
She'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothing 'ud make her mend.

The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her side and prayed,
With my eyes as red as a babby's, that Death's hand might yet be stayed.
I heerd the wild wind howlin', and I looked on the wasted form,
And though of the awful shipwreck as had come in the ragin' storm;
The wreck of my little homestead -- the wreck of my dear old wife,
Who'd sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troublous waves of life,
And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had been my harbour lights,
To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, darkest nights.

She knew she was sinkin' quickly -- she knew as her end was nigh,
But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on her heart must lie,
For we'd had one great big sorrow with Jack, our only son --
He'd got into trouble in London as lots o' lads ha' done;
Then he'd bolted his masters told us -- he was allus what folks call wild.
From the day as I told his mother, her dear face never smiled.
We heerd no more about him, we never knew where he went,
And his mother pined and sickened for the message he never sent.

I had my work to think of; but she had her grief to nurse,
So it eat away at her heartstrings, and her health grew worse and worse.
And the night as the Royal Helen went down on yonder sands,
I sat and watched her dyin', holdin' her wasted hands
. She moved in her doze a little, then her eyes were opened wide,
And she seemed to be seekin' somethin', as she looked from side to side;
Then half to herself she whispered, "Where's Jack, to say good-bye?
It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die."

I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran down my cheek,
And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I couldn't speak,
When the door of the room burst open, and my mates were there outside
With the news that the boat was launchin'. "You're wanted!" their leader cried.
"You've never refused to go, John; you'll put these cowards right.
There's a dozen of lives maybe, John, as lie in our hands tonight!"
'Twas old Ben Brown, the captain; he'd laughed at the women's doubt.
We'd always been first on the beach, sir, when the boat was goin' out.

I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the bed --
"I can't go, mate," I murmured; "in an hour she may be dead.
I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone."
As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on my wife was thrown;
And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a pleading look on me,
While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the ragin' sea.
Then she beckoned me near, and whispered, "Go, and God's will be done!
For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor mother's son."

Her head was full of the boy, sir -- she was thinking, maybe, some day
For lack of a hand to help him his life might be cast away.
"Go, John, and the Lord watch o'er you! and spare me to see the light,
And bring you safe," she whispered, "out of the storm tonight."
Then I turned and kissed her softly, and tried to hide my tears,
And my mates outside,when the saw me, set up three hearty cheers;
But I rubbed my eyes wi' my knuckles, and turned to old Ben and said,
"I'll see her again, maybe, lad, when the sea give up its dead.":

We launched the boat in the tempest, though death was the goal in view
And never a one but doubted if the craft could live it through;
But our boat she stood in bravely, and, weary and wet and weak,
We drew in hail of the vessel we had dared so much to seek
. But just as we come upon her she gave a fearful roll,
And went down in the seethin' whirlpool with every livin' soul!
We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around was dark --
But only the wild wind answered the cries from our plungin' bark.

I was strainin' my eyes and watchin', when I thought I heard a cry,
And I saw past our bows a somethin' on the crest of a wave dashed by;
I stretched out my hand to seize it. I dragged it aboard, and then
I stumbled, and struck my forrud, and fell like a log on Ben.
I remember a hum of voices, and then I knowed no more
Till I came to my senses here, sir -- here, in my home ashore.
My forrud was tightly bandaged, and I lay on my little bed --
I'd slipped, so they told me arter, and a rulluck had struck my head.

Then my mates came in and whispered; they'd heard I was comin' round.
At first I could scarcely hear 'em. it seemed like a buzzin' sound;
But as my head got clearer, and accustomed to hear 'em speak,
I knew as I'd lain like that, sir, for many a long, long, week.
I guessed what the lads was hidin', for their poor old shipmate's sake.
So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to old Ben, "Look here!
I'm able to bear it now, lad -- tell me, and never fear."

Not one on 'em ever answered, but presently Ben goes out,
And the others slinks away like, and I say, "What's this about?
Why can't they tell me plainly as the poor old wife is dead?"
Then I fell again on the pillows, and I hid my achin' head;
I lay like that for a minute, till I heard a voice cry "John!"
And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes gazed upon;
For there by the bedside, standin' up and well was my wife.
And who do ye think was with her? Why Jack, as large as life.

It was him as I'd saved from drownin' the night as the lifeboat wentv To the wreck of the Royal Helen; 'twas that as the vision meant.
They'd brought us ashore together, he'd knelt by his mother's bed,
And the sudden joy had raised her like a miracle from the dead;
And mother and son together had nursed me back to life,
And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on my son and wife.
Jack? He's our right hand now, sir; 'twas Providence pulled him through --
He's allus the first aboard her when the lifeboat wants a crew.

The Jumblies

You'll never stop the foolish from taking unnecessary risks, or the ignorant from stepping out in their own wisdom. Brave men who man our lifeboats give testimony to many an incident when ignorant and stupid people, both old and young, have set forth on the open sea in woefully unseaworthy vessels without a knowledge of what the sea demands, even on the calmest of days. They are wise in their own eyes; sure in their own confidence and uncaring as to the consequences of their actions, both for themselves and others, but in Edward Lear's poem, “The Jumblies”, the crew of the Sieve had unbelievably good luck, and although all the odds were stacked against them, their rash adventure miraculously turned out for the better; they arrived home the richer for their experiences, and hopefully they had gained some wisdom.

“The Jumblies”

They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"
They called aloud, "Our Sieve ain't big,
But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!
In a Sieve we'll go to sea!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
"Oh won't they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, "How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
"O Timballoo! How happy we are,
When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jackdaws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

And in twenty years they all came back,
In twenty years or more,
And every one said, "How tall they've grown!
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore;"
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And everyone said, "If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

To the Sea in Ships

I found this today in Psalm 107, starting at the 23rd verse:

23 Those who go down to the sea in ships,
Who do business on great waters,
24 They see the works of the LORD,
And His wonders in the deep.
25 For He commands and raises the stormy wind,
Which lifts up the waves of the sea.
26 They mount up to the heavens,
They go down again to the depths;
Their soul melts because of trouble.
27 They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man,
And are at their wits’ end.
28 Then they cry out to the LORD in their trouble,
And He brings them out of their distresses.
29 He calms the storm,
So that its waves are still.
30 Then they are glad because they are quiet;
So He guides them to their desired haven.
31 Oh, that men would give thanks to the LORD for His goodness,
And for His wonderful works to the children of men!
32 Let them exalt Him also in the assembly of the people,
And praise Him in the company of the elders.

Lack of Progress

Since coating the rudder and stock with epoxy I’ve not been able to work on them again, due to more important matters and unfavourable weather; it’s either been too cold or too wet. On the weather front for the next few days, things are looking equally bleak, but there’s a lot more to life than building boats. People and their needs take priority, and following that, comes property and possessions. Bring out the violins when I say I come last in all of all of these, but that is a privilege some may find hard to understand. The Good Book says those who will be last shall be first*, and that paradox like many is true, as I can vouch from personal experience.

There’s no need for me to panic, as weeks and months lie ahead before I expect to have my Paradox sailboat finished and on the water. All this is within God’s providence; thererore I can relax and build a little at a time whenever occasions arrive. In between times I can dream of sailing adventures yet to come, perhaps cruising the many creeks and estuaries of the east coast of England or sailing afield on new waters accessed by use of a road trailer.

* Matthew 20:16