Seesaw Sailing

The Tale of a Jaunty Schooner, a Fiery Sea-dog, and a Sleepy Atiu Man.

IN this mechanical age when the daily duty of a ship’s captain usually con sists of shaving himself with a safety razor, glancing over the calculations by his officers as to the vessel’s position, pressing a button to notify the chief engineer he is awake, and devoting the remainder of the day to amusing the passengers, the tribulations of his fore bears are well nigh forgotten—except in the pages of fiction written by land lubbers.

In foregone days, master mariners fought as man to man with the elements of sea and sky. They wore beards to give them the strength of Samson, and their speech was as strong as their mighty arms and as full-flavoured as the salty spume torn by the winds from the crests of storm waves.

One such mariner was captain of an Islands schooner trading among the Cook and Society Islands. He battled with the sea and the sea battled with him, until his body was gnarled and toughened as a mountain cedar, and his vocabulary as sonorous as the brass choir of a Wagner ian orchestra. The story of one of his experiences may explain how he became moulded into that form.

The schooner was at Manihiki (North ern Cooks) bound for Penrhyn Island.

There was need for haste as the ship had been delayed by contrary winds and the captain was impatient to take his copra cargo to Rarotonga before the arrival of the mail steamer.

A smart breeze sprang up at sunrise, the sails were hoisted, the ship glided gaily over the smooth sea, and Manihiki soon disappeared over the horizon astern.

All went well until sunset when the wind died down. The captain chafed a bit; but there was nothing to do except make the best of it. So he left an Atiu man at the tiller with directions to keep watch, and all hands turned in for a well-earned rest.

The Atiu man kept an attentive ear until he heard the rumble of the captain’s slumbers. Then he, too, spread a mat be side the steering wheel and departed to the Land of Nod.

When rosy fingered Aurora painted the eastern skies, the captain arose, looked through the porthole of his cabin, and saw—land. He went on deck with the double purpose of swearing at the Atiu native for not awakening him and of commending him for bringing the ship safely to its destination. But a glance ashore told him instantly that this was not Penrhyn. Furthermore, the hand of the Atiu man was not on the tiller; he was still far away in the fairyland of dreams.

The land abeam was Manihiki. A strong current of the sea, during the calm night, had carried back the ship to the place whence she came.

The captain’s remarks were not nice; but he did not unmask more than a few

of his batteries of artillery. After all, such things do happen on the best regu lated of ships. He quenched his wrath, ate a hearty breakfast, and took advan tage of the morning breeze to bear away for Penrhyn.

At sunset the wind died down. The captain, threatening the Atiu sailor with all the pains and torments of the nether most Gehenna if the performances of the night before were repeated, went below to take a well-earned rest.

The Atiu man listened attentively at the skylight of the cabin until he heard the snortings and quakings of the cap

tain’s slumbers. Then he spread his mat beside the tiller and again departed for the Land of Nod.

At dawn the captain arose, looked through the porthole, and saw land. He rushed on deck. There lay the Atiu native wrapped in peaceful dreams. On the

sapphire sea, abeam, lay Manihiki.

The captain choked, hissed, then raised his arms on high and cursed the winds, the sea, the things under the sea, Mani hiki, and the Atiu man in a classic whose rounded periods drew their riches from every dialect in the speech of man. Mani hiki should have shrivelled to cinders, the ocean fled away, and the native dis solved to a mist of charred atoms before that withering blast.

But nothing happened. On a peaceful, smiling sea, Manihiki lay green and radi ant; the morning zephyrs crinkled the calm waters, and the Atiu man just grinned.

The captain gave up, and went below to refresh himself.

For six days and nights the same thing happened. The schooner sailed merrily

toward Penrhyn until nightfall. The fol lowing morning Manihiki stared at the

captain through the porthole of his

cabin.

On the seventh day, a waterspout came along. It missed the schooner by less than a hundred feet, as it roared savagely across the bow. That, however, seemed to change the fortunes of the voyage; for the wind continued and the schooner arrived in good time at Penrhyn.

In the meantime, the captain had ex hausted his vocabulary and his face had assumed a permanent bluish colour—like the face of Captain Flint of “Treasure Island” fame. The Atiu man and the native crew said merely “Aita Peapea” (What does it matter!), which in two words expresses the whole body of Poly

nesian philosophy.

A.C.R.