SHIP LIFE IN CALM AND STORM
The few days between our return from the New Zealand Alps and the
sailing of the _Terra Nova_ were occupied by multifarious duties. The
ship had been dry-docked at Lyttelton, and a bulkhead built across the
fore hold. This space was filled with water, and the leaks detected
where the water spouted out. At the same time the lock nuts on the
four-bladed propeller were inspected by chipping off the casing of
concrete in which they were embedded. A cross section amidships was
almost rectangular. I was surprised at the enormous lateral bulges which
almost made the boat flat-bottomed hereabouts, though she narrowed to a
sharp overhanging bow heavily plated with iron. To a landsman the rudder
appeared strangely long and narrow, almost like a simple vertical beam.
But a broad rudder would project dangerously in floe work.
After caulking, the ship was brought back to shed No. 5, and the loading
of the stores proceeded rapidly. On Friday (25th October) the dogs and
ponies were brought across from Quail Island, some five miles higher up
the harbour. Neither gave much trouble, and I was struck with the calm
way the dogs endured the pulling and ignominious lifting by neck, back,
or legs without retaliating. Probably our dogs are more gentlemanly than
those of former expeditions.
The ponies are placed in stalls in the fore part of the ship. Four are
just abaft the cook’s galley in a strong shed, boarded up for four feet,
but otherwise open in front. The mess deck—which may be described as the
ground floor of the fore part of the ship—has been given up to the
remaining dozen in similar stalls, six along each side. The seamen whose
quarters have thus been annexed have gone one storey lower. The dogs
were at first chained up everywhere—over the hatches, on the deck-house,
in the waist, everywhere except the poop. The two Peary dogs—somewhat
larger but not so sturdy as the Siberians—are marooned in the alley
between the laboratories and the deck-house, where they are tripped over
every few minutes by some hurrying scientist. They are both black and
indistinguishable to me, but are known—by a somewhat invidious
juxtaposition of ideas—as Peary and Cook.
On Saturday, the 26th, a farewell address was given by the Bishop of
Christchurch. It took place at noon on the poop, and was attended by all
the members of the expedition and some half-dozen visitors. The time of
departure had been fixed for three o’clock many days previously, so that
every one was ready and there was no delay. We were accompanied to the
Heads by half a dozen excursion steamers and tugs, and by numerous small
launches. Guns were fired from the battery and from the warships at
anchor in the port. A New Zealand flag floated on our mizen
mast—presented by a local school. Many of the launches had kindly
messages displayed. One particular large banner in the distance excited
our curiosity. With the glasses we made out, “Excursion to the Heads,
one shilling.” What a descent from the sublime to the ridiculous!
At the Heads Captain Scott left us to join at Dunedin, but our most
popular manager, Mr. Wyatt, accompanied us in his cabin. In anticipation
of bad weather—which happily spared us—the newly joined members of the
expedition devoted their attention to stowing their personal baggage. I
must confess I felt this a hopeless task.
Our cabin measures six by eight feet. On the roof beam is cut,
“Certified to accommodate two seamen,” but four scientists and their
belongings have spent a large portion of a month therein, and ultimately
with little discomfort. But four wooden bunks and a wash-basin take up a
large portion of six by eight feet. Our Antarctic clothing had been
issued the day before we sailed—a solid block of woollen goods, with a
canvas “sausage” four feet long which they filled completely. Four of
these formed the _pièce de résistance_ of our baggage. But each of us
had another similar bag of ordinary clothing, and a box for books, etc.
On top of this pile reposed a layer of sea-boots of enormous length and
weight, but during bad weather beyond price. Cameras and other delicate
trifles were shoved in through the door, when one had managed to open it
sufficiently.
I had no idea where we were going to bestow ourselves, but an old
voyager explained to me how it was to be done. Obviously there was no
floor space, no room for shelves, no cupboards; but the bunks (one above
the other) are big solid wooden structures provided with four blankets
and a thick mattress. A man does not need much more space than a coffin
to sleep in, and these bunks were nearly three feet apart. It was almost
impossible to fill that wonderful space beneath the mattress! I emptied
into it two rucksacks of books, etc., one of the aforementioned
“sausages,” a drawing board, all sorts of tools, diaries, hammers,
bottles of ink, hunting knives. When this was safely under the mattress
my sleep was not troubled by these crumpled rose-leaves.
The three new-comers were all geologists, and as such needed no
laboratory on the ship, but the other scientists were able to stow away
many articles in the physical, chemical, and biological laboratories.
These palatial quarters will be described later, when it will be
understood that this does not imply that _their_ mattresses were free
from protuberances. Wires festoon some of the bunks to eke out the
accommodation. The space over one’s feet is not wasted, for small wooden
boxes are nailed thereon—or maybe a small bookcase. I thought that two
of the shoulder-bags used in the Alps (known as rucksacks) would be most
useful if hung alongside my bunk. This ingenious idea failed dismally,
as will appear later. No one in our cabin has succeeded in controlling
the vagaries of our ubiquitous water-can. It would appear to be an
ordinary utensil of a brown-yellow colour, with a spout. But somewhere
or other it has a pair of legs and a mischievous brain contained within
it. And usually it is drunk with its powers for mischief, and is
discovered on its side spilling water on our socks and shoes, or
inebriate in another corner destroying all satisfaction in one’s last
dry change. It is only of late that we have had peace, for now only half
a cup of water per day is allowed, and the bucket over the bulwarks
serves all other purposes.
Let us pay a call next door—further for’ard, but still on the port side
of the wardroom. This apartment is known as the “nursery.” It is bigger
than our dwelling, but needs to be, for six stalwart explorers have
their quarters there. Black envy at times embitters the friendly
feelings between the neighbours, for has not the nursery a cupboard with
a whole drawer (two inches high) to each inmate! A somewhat doubtful joy
is theirs, however, for by far the most prominent piece of furniture
therein—and, indeed, there are only two besides the cupboard—is a
Broadwood pianola! One of the first I ever saw was in Samoa, twenty
miles from a town, and owned by a native gentleman. In that case it was
a separate attachment, and as his piano had lost many of the strings,
little good resulted from the combination. But our pianola is a thing of
beauty and a joy for ever. The new-comer notices a bulge in the
ceiling—apparently of rubber—with a hose pipe attached thereto. This is
a primitive but necessary adjunct to our pianola, and is, in fact, its
little umbrella, which keeps it dry when the stormy winds do blow and
poop-decks leak. The other piece of furniture, mentioned above, is a
tall wooden cabinet, containing 250 rolls for the pianola. Although
probably every member of the expedition has barked his shins thereon,
yet all is forgiven when Wagner, Gilbert and Sullivan, Strauss, the
Washington Post, or Ragtime tunes (not being a musician, I do not know
the names of 245 of them) are echoing through the wardroom. Another
trial to the men of the nursery is that their apartments form a short
cut to the engine-room. It is only since we reached the pack that a
constant procession of intruders, bearing unpleasing footgear and damp
clothing (to spread on the cylinder head), has ceased to trespass.
Across the for’ard end of the wardroom is an important room dedicated to
the culinary arts. Here the two stewards cut up succulent joints, and
during a gale a merry jostling and jangling of countless plates and
pannikins rival the notes of the pianola. The entrance to the wardroom
is on the starboard side. It is beset with angles and pitfalls. When a
visitor has safely negotiated the steep steps leading from the
poop-deck, and turned sharply round to enter the wardroom, he is in
grave danger of falling down a hatch to the lazaret and
chronometer-room. Theoretically, when the hatch is open (about six hours
a day) an iron bar is placed across the passage. Practically the natives
feel with an exploratory toe in the dark entrance, and press on boldly
if the hatch is down. Opening on to these somewhat dismal surroundings
is the cabin of Meares—the man of dogs and wild adventures in the Far
East.
A large portion of the starboard side of the wardroom is occupied by the
“owner’s” cabin. Here are Captain Scott and Lieutenant Evans, the latter
taking charge of the ship on its voyage south. The four after cabins
(two on each side) are not quite so circumscribed as those of the
scientists, but they are the permanent quarters of the navigators, while
_nous autres_ are mere birds of passage, and will soon be scattered over
the face of Victoria Land.
The ship was hove-to just outside Lyttelton Harbour, and one had leisure
to admire the wonderful coast-line of Banks Peninsula. Everything
indicates a late submergence of this part of New Zealand. Inland valleys
sloping _away_ from the coast—relics of a former topography—are laid
bare and chopped in half by the erosion of the waves. I strolled over to
the top of the ice-house, where one of the junior scientists was sitting
stoically among the dogs, and Lieutenant Pennell was bending over the
large standard compass which ornaments the ice-house roof. He said, “You
haven’t a knife on you, have you?” I proudly pulled out the bowie I’d
just bought with evil designs on Antarctic seals. He remarked, “You’ll
have to take that off. I’m swinging ship.”
This consisted in rotating the ship as rapidly as feasible, meanwhile
taking timed observations on the sun to obtain true bearings. By this
means the total effect of the iron in the ship and stores on the magnet
of the compass was ascertained. On leaving Antarctica next year this
operation must be repeated. The aforesaid assistant was noting times
when the observer called out “Top!” The actual swinging occupied about
an hour, during which one could trace the devious track of the ship by
the circular wake over her stern.
The Clerk of the Weather was kind to us, and our journey of thirty hours
from Lyttelton to Port Chalmers was peaceful and uneventful. The
farewell evolutions of Lieutenant Rennick on the poop-deck, whereby he
sent and received messages which apparently afforded him considerable
amusement, directed attention to the value of semaphore signalling in
the frozen south. Next day might be seen eminent scientists wildly
waving their arms according to the accepted code of the Boy Scouts.
Personally I prefer the Morse code, for it can be learned in ten minutes
by a dodge which may interest my readers as it did the Antarctic party.
Each sign is represented by a word or combination, which can readily be
associated with the letter required. In these key-words _dots_ are
represented by vowels and the isolated letters _s_, _z_, and _h_;
_dashes_ by the consonants (including _w_ and _y_). Thus A (dot, dash)
is _an_; B (dash, dot, dot, dot) is _base_; C is _cāve_; _die_, _e_,
_safe_, _gnu_, _hu̇sh_, _is_, _kit_, _aloe_, _Mr._, _no_, _PQR_, _Epps_,
_QRST_, _are_, _sss_, _t_, _usk_, _azov_, _awl_, _yell_, _bruz_. Of the
remaining letters J is the exact opposite of B and X of P. It was rather
a curious coincidence that both Dr. Simpson and myself became interested
in these codes through reading a tale, “Raymond Frezols,” years ago in
the good old _B.O.P._
At dusk on Sunday the 27th we entered the heads of Port Chalmers. This
is another drowned upland valley of a similar nature to Lyttelton
Harbour. The novices in the afterguard chose this opportunity to essay
the rigging. The scientists who had made the voyage from England lay out
along the yard in fine style, in a manner which seemed distinctly
precarious. Standing on a jumping “foot-rope,” and leaning over the
broad wooden surface of the yard, both hands can be used for furling the
sails. When the next sailor gets off the foot-rope the latter jerks up a
foot or more, so that this position one hundred feet above the water is
not one likely to attract a nervous person. On this particular occasion
it was too much for the hardy sailor man. The wind was dead astern, and
we were burning Westport coal—which is a tremendous soot-producer,
whatever its steam qualities are. As a result, a dense mephitic fog
enveloped every one, full of sulphurous fumes, with clinging clots of
soot. It was a weird spectacle to see the men working in what one might
call a “Hades in the Heavens”—while elsewhere the whole atmosphere was
calm and clear. Our photographer rushed out to try and get the effect,
but the wind shifted slightly, and the men had come down for a breather.
Soon they returned and made a “harbour stow” for the credit of the ship
and the gratification of the good folks of Dunedin.
The most striking object in a polar exploring ship is undoubtedly the
crow’s nest. This is a large barrel, about four feet high, with a
rudimentary seat therein, and a floor which chiefly consists of a
trap-door. After a good dinner on Sunday evening—which I note consisted
of tinned bloater, sheep’s tongue, rhubarb, and blancmange, with jam and
potted meat (if the former edibles did not suffice)—I climbed up 150
feet or so of ratlines and reached the crow’s nest. There are two
stories or landing-stages on the way, the “maintop,” about 60 feet up,
which is quite a large platform, immediately under the main yard. There
are two ways of reaching this—firstly, up the main ratlines, which bring
you right under the maintop, when it is necessary to claw out by a small
ladder—overhanging very unpleasantly at first—called the “futtocks.” The
other, simpler route—scorned by every true sailor, but very acceptable
at first—is an accessory lateral ladder, which gets there just the same.
Another pair of ratlines—the higher set a little to one side, as
before—lead to the next stage—the “crosstrees.” This is not a platform,
but a mere brace of horizontal beams. Another 30 feet and the crow’s
nest is reached. It is a scramble at first to get in. The trap-door is
lifted by one’s head, and then the difficulty I experienced was to get
my knees through, for the interior of an empty barrel does not afford
much of a grip. It is not used until the pack is reached, but is then
invaluable in tracing out the leads or lanes of open water, though, at
that height, it is almost impossible to tell whether a floe is one foot
or 20 feet thick.
Wednesday (30th November) was our first day out of sight of land.
Shore-going suits were either sent back to Lyttelton from Port Chalmers
or stored away in tin trunks on board. Little will they be needed for
eighteen months or more. Fearful and wonderful were the rigs that
appeared. Caps were of all shapes and sizes, from a Stetson with a
back-strap to a red piratical nightcap. One member turned out in a
salmon-coloured knitted confection, which by various foldings could be
used as a cap, a cravat, or a purse (of the oldfashioned sausage shape).
Coats of all kinds clothed us. A black leather jacket with the fur
inside is much admired. This is worn by our Siberian traveller (Meares),
and is suitably accompanied by a sort of fur busby of fox-paw fur.
Norfolk shooting-coats are popular; one man braved the cold in a
light-textured serge suit, such as clerks wear by the thousand. But a
most welcome gift at the last moment of a hundred grey jerseys furnished
every man with a pair of beautifully warm garments that have in every
sense driven all else under cover. They are rather large, so that when
increasing cold necessitates more clothing this goes on under the grey
jersey. Nether garments soon became fairly uniform also. The special
Antarctic clothing is being kept till we land, but by most of us nothing
but the heavy corduroy trousers have been found thick enough to
withstand the cold since we crossed the Antarctic circle. These trousers
are extremely broad in the beam, rivalling a Dutchman’s. But at the
ankle they fit tightly when buttoned up, so that they resemble a giant’s
riding breeches worn by a dwarf!
[Illustration:
Map of Antarctica showing localities of recent expeditions. (1)
Campbell, 1911; (2) Campbell, 1912; (3) Taylor, 1902; (4) Taylor,
1911; (5) Scott, January 18, 1912. Based on map from _Royal
Geographical Journal_, July, 1913.
]
When Nelson ran short of thick breeches he made some by the simple
process of cutting out a kilt of dreadnought blanket, putting in two
brass eyelets and lashing it with string. As he had a red mob-cap, a
sweater, and long sea-boots, he stalked about for days a living
representation of Captain Kidd.
The official breeches are adorned with bone soup-plate buttons which
displease some of the wearers, so that the bowie knives have come into
play and cut them off. Tastes vary with regard to knives. Experienced
men seem to prefer a shilling butcher’s knife with a rough wooden
handle; but the budding sailorman, if he has any money, cannot resist
the ornamental daggers, ranging to two feet in length, with highly
ornamental handles, cross-guards, and sheaths. For seal-killing these
are practically useless, for the cross-guard prevents a deep stab, which
is the speediest method of despatching the animal.
There is much variation in footgear. Our Canadian wears “shoe-packs” or
soft-soled boots, with some resemblance to a polony in shape. During the
earlier part of our voyage in the “furious fifties,” every one used
sea-boots of leather, rubber, or leather and canvas. A local New Zealand
brand were very comfortable, though heavy, and so long that, as an
envious officer remarked, “they only needed braces to turn them into
trousers.” It seemed almost impossible to get wet in them, but in the
gales we discovered they were waterproof from the quantities of water we
poured out on changing them. This had all swept in from above, but was
just as wet as if it had soaked through in the normal manner!
Every week increasing cold has led to a greater bulk of underclothing,
but little change is apparent in the outer man. With plenty of food,
plenty of blankets, and plenty of rope-hauling, the cold is hardly
noticed so far.
The poop-deck was converted into a barber’s shop the first day outward
bound. Scissors were despised by the operators, who preferred
horse-clippers, with which they simply and thoroughly removed every
possible hair. Ponting (the photographer) has a specially close-cutting
pair of clippers, designed to trim off frosty beards on sledging trips,
and one officer was so pleased with the first cut that he was retrimmed
with the latter weapon. The result was very comic, and called forth
enquiries from ribald youths as to when he was likely to hatch out!
We began the month of December with a spanking breeze in the most
favourable quarter. The fore and main masts were clothed in sails. There
is a huge boom on the mizen mast which swings over the poop-deck (as in
a yacht) when in use, and carries a spanker, but the alterations to the
poop and the presence of the funnel of the auxiliary engine so block the
sails, and indeed to some extent offer the same obstruction to the wind,
that our ship is to all intents and purposes a two-master. Howbeit, we
bowled to southward at a rate of nine knots. The average speed of the
engine is five or six knots, so that the sails were of great assistance.
Indeed, when little cargo is in the hold she has reached the respectable
speed or ten and a half miles per hour.
[Illustration:
How space was utilized on the steamer.
]
Let us take a walk around the decks in their present crowded condition.
The last day of loading the supercargo announced that the engineer could
have “two inches of coal.”
This amount is not quite so small as it might seem. It was found that
the ship was still two inches off her Plimsollmark (though one of the
advantages of being a Royal yacht, I believe, is that she is, to a
certain extent, freed from ordinary loading regulations), and as each
inch of loading represented nine tons, this meant an addition of
eighteen tons to our precious fuel. The most prominent cargo was,
therefore, this coal, in bags, which were laid wherever there was any
crevice to spare. The “waist”—as the deck between the elevated poop and
foc’sle is termed—was several bags deep where it was not occupied by the
huge motor sledges and cases and cases of petrol. Many bags were
deposited on the for’ard portion of the poop-deck. And over all sprawled
the dogs. Much of this deck cargo—including all the coal—would be
restowed later, the latter in the ship’s furnaces during the first week.
But “much water went over the bulwarks” (to misquote a proverb) before
we reached clear decks.
Under the rising wind on the evening of the first, the water repeatedly
came in board, and the “afterguard,” comprising the non-nautical
officers, were set to the task for which their knowledge was adequate,
that of heaving coal sacks to the bunker manholes below the bridge.
Slippery decks, soaking sacks, and swamping seas—for the wind continued
to increase—made this by no means a pleasant task. It was often
necessary to haul the sacks right over the engine-room from one side to
the other of the ship. A sudden lurch and down would slip a leg between
two cases of petrol while the sack fell on one’s person, and “Peary” (or
“Cook”) assisted in the mêlée. One special mantrap consisted in the
stiffening beams connecting the roofs of the laboratories and the
deck-house. When the deck of the alley-way between was covered with
sacks of coal a man’s head was very liable to crash into these beams in
the effort to escape a sea. I had that misfortune several times, and our
headstrong Canadian friend’s score must have mounted well into the
’teens.
Next day (the 2nd) the wind had veered to the west and south, and had
increased very greatly; in fact, we experienced a full gale. The ship
was hove-to for two days, and though we novices could see well enough
that things were very lively, we did not know how grave a risk we were
passing through. It was rather a rough breaking-in, for by this time our
cabins were swimming in water. At first I rather selfishly hoped that my
_lower_ bunk would be protected from the thirteen Niagaras flooding the
upper bunk by the floor of the latter; but as the storm increased in
violence both were soaked—blankets, tools, books, cameras, everything
except a foot or so at the head end.
Early on Friday (the 2nd) it was obvious that not much more could be
done with the hand-pumps. The seas were incessantly washing over the
waist—where the pumps are placed at the foot of the main mast—and
burying the deck under several feet of water. Casks of petrol were
drifting about and staving in; the hammering on the port bulwarks was
tremendous, and it was a risky business to get from the poop to the
foc’sle. This was, of course, not unnatural in a gale, and would have
caused little anxiety beyond that consequent on conditions of heavy
lading and loose deck cargo. But it can be readily understood that water
was finding its way into the bilge by a hundred channels with the
constant sweeping of the decks by the waves. The poop was repeatedly
washed, giving the helmsman a tough time to keep her head in the right
direction. At this time the pumps all refused duty! A curious compound
of coal-dust and oil had formed into balls and pellets, which collected
in the bilge and choked both the hand and engine-driven pumps. But this
could not be cleared out because the bilge was feet deep in water;
moreover, the suction end of the hand-pumps could not be reached without
lifting the hatches, an impossible expedient under the circumstances.
Thus were we driven to a method almost unique with a ship of 750
tons—that of bailing out with buckets!
Day and night—in two-hour shifts—the bailing went on, until, luckily,
the gale moderated. A very strenuous time, which I never desire to
experience again.
Down in the engine-room floor are some movable iron plates, which cover
a hole about two feet deep. Into this sump the bilge water and normal
leakage drains, and is pumped out with the greatest ease either by the
donkey-pump or by the hand-pumps. But during this gale the water was
nearly four feet deep, covering the whole floor of the engine-room from
side to side, and gradually creeping up till it was in the ashpits, only
an inch or two from the heated bottom plates of the boilers. If these
latter were reached there was great probability that they would buckle,
and practically ruin the boilers. Luckily there was no lack of unskilled
labour in the persons of the afterguard, and they assisted the stokers
by forming a chain from the bottom of the ship to the poop-deck. Three
iron ladders with two intermediate platforms led from the floor plates
to the open air, and a gang of a dozen men occupied this for twenty
continuous hours.
[Illustration:
Vertical section illustrating incidents in the great storm, January
2–3, 1911.
]
Outside was the sound of the booming gale shrilling through the shrouds
and ratlines in one continuous shriek. Cold waves washed over the
bridge, but luckily did not penetrate very rapidly through the
sou’-westers, oilskins, and thigh-boots worn by every one. But while the
upper end of the chain was in an Antarctic atmosphere, the heated waters
washing about the engine-room filled the latter with a steamy, oily
heat, so that several of the workers kept their clothes dry by leaving
them behind in their cabins. Down below the sound of the rushing waters
dashing from side to side with every oscillation of the ship was broken
only by a cry of “Water” as the chain of buckets went up, and “Empty” as
they descended rapidly to the bottom. Occasionally some one would raise
a chanty, which was sung vigorously until breath failed through swinging
up the heavy buckets. One of them was a shade heavier than the others,
and it was always a relief to be done with _that_ one for a brief space.
At the hatchway, luckily on the lee side, the end man held the empty
buckets to prevent them washing overboard. He was kept moderately warm
by the water from the emptying buckets, since being in the line of fire
he received most of it amidships, whence it trickled down inside his
boots, forming a novel mode of keeping the feet warm.
Now and again would come a welcome cry of “Spell Ho!” and those below
would climb into the cool air, and those outside dive inside to thaw
themselves. Then to it again till five minutes before the watch ended,
when some one would be sent off to warn the relief. The relieved watch
turned in, into bunks soaking wet in many cases, and by the time one had
warmed up and snoozed a few minutes, there came a cry of “Turn out; your
watch!” However, by Friday night we were holding our own and gaining
slightly on the water. Meanwhile the engineers were working double tides
to cut a hole through the bulkheads so as to get at the lower end of the
hand-pumps. This was accomplished after many hours’ work, and with the
aid of a rat-trap the pumps were brought into use again. This humble
implement was shaped to cover the end of the pipe, and served admirably
to keep the coal-balls from clogging the valves. Soon sixteen men—eight
on each long crank handle—were clanking away despite the incoming waves,
and as the sea moderated the outrush from the hand-pumps assisted the
steam-pumps so that on Saturday afternoon the ship was practically dry.
The toll of the gale was fairly heavy. Two of the ponies in the foc’sle
stalls had died of the buffeting and exhaustion; one dog had been washed
overboard; and the port bulwarks the whole length of the waist (about
thirty feet) had been badly damaged. The after-portion for two panels
(to use a landlubber’s term) had been torn out bodily, while for’ard of
that the planking was washed away, leaving only the framework. Personal
gear suffered greatly. Books and diaries in my bunk had been pulped, a
camera so warped as to be nearly useless, and several surveying
instruments, which I had placed in a canvas rucksack on the wall, ruined
or badly damaged. During the gale I had felt that the rucksack was quite
dry, but on clearing out the bunk a little later I found the bag
contained half a bucketful of a sort of “hoosh”—consisting of rusty
water, aneroids, compasses, and razors well mixed together! Waterproof
bags have their disadvantages under such circumstances. In the log the
gale is given the number 10, 12 being the maximum. We were unfortunate
in meeting with it so early in the voyage; but, now it is all over, one
is not sorry that for half an hour or so, in the words of Captain Scott,
it was touch and go.