THE LONG TRAVERSE
"It will be a long traverse."
"Yes, but what of that? The _Snark_ is equal to it, and so are we."
"It will be a difficult traverse."
"So much the better."
Jack and Mrs. London were sitting at the cabin table, poring over
their maps and planning the further voyage of the _Snark_.
"The Marquesas Islands lie two thousand miles away, as the crow
flies," Jack went on. "But there are a good many things to reckon
with. It will not be all plain sailing. Let's see--we mustn't cross
the Line west of 130° west longitude. To do so might get us
entangled with the southeast trades, and throw us so far to leeward
of the islands that we couldn't make them. Then there's the
equatorial current to be considered, and a few other things. But
we'll do it. We'll do it."
Mrs. London glanced across the table at him and nodded her assent.
"October 7, then, is the day," Jack announced; and we set to work.
Again we were kept busy almost up to the hour of sailing. The boat
was provisioned and fuel put aboard. We stowed away vegetables,
salt-horse, codfish, salt pork, canned goods, potatoes, and a
hundred and one things. We expected that it would take us at least
two months to make our next anchorage, and possibly longer. The
element of uncertainty was large, what of the storms and calms we
must look for. But we were confident of making fair speed, for had
we not a powerful gasolene engine with which to cheat the wind?
During the wait, we ordered a full wardrobe of clothing made, as we
could hardly expect to find any stores down in the South Seas. Our
working clothes were made like a Japanese fisherman's knee-trousers
and sleeveless shirts, but the most comfortable dress for lounging
was Japanese kimonos. My kimonos were made by two Hilo friends, in
the latest Japanese fashion; and by the time we were ready to sail,
I had a large camphor-wood chest full of clothing.
Gene Fenelon left on the little island steamer _Keaneau_ on the same
day that we sailed from Hilo. We had made many friends in Hilo, and
on the day of our departure, the wharf was crowded with the most
cosmopolitan gathering that ever assembled to see a ship off. Here
again the people prophesied that we would never reach port, for this
voyage was considered the most foolhardly we could attempt. But we
were not to be deterred. We were looking for Adventure and trying to
see the out-of-the-way places that other people did not see, and,
naturally, we wanted to make a trip that others could not make.
Before quitting land, I packed up a box of curios I had purchased in
the Islands, and shipped it by steamer back to the States. Good
fortune had attended my buying. In the box were reed sofa-pillows,
deerskin rugs, an Aloha Nui (a pillow signifying lots and lots of
good luck), a grass water-carrier, poisoned arrows, hooks used by
natives in catching devil-fish, one tapa _hula_ blanket, _hula_
dresses, calabash dishes, native combs, opium pipes, and other
interesting things. Jack and I determined from then on to get all
the curios we could. Captain X---- had once assured us that down in
the South Sea isles the natives would trade their very souls for
gaudy cloth or for trinkets, so we laid in a big supply of red
handkerchiefs, bolts of cheap but brilliant-hued calico, and
worthless pocket-knives. I even sent back word to the jewellery
store in Independence to have a consignment of highly polished
"junk" jewellery shipped ahead of me to the Society Islands.
At last came the hour for our start. I think we all had deep regrets
at leaving Hawaii. The months spent there had been happy ones, and
it was a sorrow to part with our friends. In Honolulu, the Elks had
been particularly kind to me, even giving me a letter to put with
the two I had previously received. It seemed to me as I stood on the
_Snark's_ deck taking my last look at Hawaiian territory that I
could subscribe heartily to the words of Mark Twain: "No alien land
in all this world has any deep, strong charm for me but that one; no
other land could so longingly and beseechingly haunt me, sleeping
and waking, through half a lifetime, as that one has done; other
things leave me, but it abides; other things change, but it remains
the same; for me its balmy airs are always blowing, its summer seas
flashing in the sun; the pulsing of its surf-beat is in my ear; I
can see its garlanded craigs, its leaping cascades, its plumy palms
drooping the shore; its remote summits floating like islands above
the cloud-rack; I can feel the spirit of its woodland solitudes; I
can hear the plash of its brooks; in my nostrils still lives the
breath of its flowers that perished twenty years ago."
It was just after dinner on the 7th of October that I started the
engine; the shore lines were cast off, and amid the cheers of our
friends we slowly turned our bow to the south, and one of the most
remarkable cruises ever attempted had begun. We ran along the coast
of Hawaii until nearly sunset; then the course was set to southeast,
and by dark we were out of sight of land. I stopped the engines and
went on deck to enjoy the pleasant evening. It was a strange sight
that met my gaze. Jack and Mrs. London, Nakata and Wada were all
leaning over the rail, as seasick a crew as ever I have seen, and
Captain Y----, our full-fledged deep-water captain, gave up the
wheel to Hermann just as I came on deck, and joined them. Hermann
and I sat back in the cockpit and made remarks about people with
weak stomachs coming to sea. And I started to enjoy myself at their
expense. But gradually the sea got rougher, and I began to feel
queer; then I stopped enjoying myself and went below to bed, while
Hermann called down sarcastic things from above.
During the next week, not much work was done aboard this ship. The
wind was gradually becoming lighter, and we knew we were nearing the
doldrums, or horse latitudes. The air was growing warmer, so that we
all slept on deck; and when the weather was not too rough, we would
place large canvas windsails below and catch all the fresh air there
was.
Jack was writing a new book. While in Honolulu, he had told me of
it, and he was then preparing his notes for it.
"Look here, Martin," he called to me one day, at the Seaside Hotel.
I came to where he was sitting.
"Look at this," he directed, holding out a sheet of paper. "There's
the title of something new I'm going to write. And I'm going to make
you half-hero of it, what's more."
I looked at the paper. On it was the title, "Martin Eden."
Jack then went on to explain. The name was a combination. Jack had
used my Christian name and the surname of an old friend of his
called Eden. The story, he said, would be drawn largely from his own
experience; it would treat of the struggles of a young fellow who
was determined to "make good" at writing; of his eventual success;
and of his unhappy death. But it was to be more than a story.
Through it was to run a certain cosmic undertone that would make of
it a record of universal truths. Beyond the mere recital of details
incident to the plot would be a biological and sociological
significance. The thing would be true, not only of Martin Eden, but
of all life, of all time. In a way, a value would be put upon life
and the things of life that would ring true, even though the
view-point would not be that of the smug bourgeoisie.
When he was not too sick, Jack worked on this book. I think he found
much pleasure in it. Of evenings, if the weather was fair, we would
assemble on deck, and Jack would read aloud to us that day's
instalment. Besides this, we had the five hundred books of the
_Snark's_ library to draw upon, so that we never lacked for reading.
But fair weather or foul, one thing was continual. The roll of the
boat was always present. The lunge, the dip, the surge--over and
over, never changing, never ceasing. Body and brain, we rocked.
Strange antics the horizon line played, shifting in all manner of
angles. Sometimes there was no horizon line--great towering waves
would blot it out, interposing their foam-capped crests in leaps
and tumbles, swelling and subsiding.
Finally, after about three weeks of slow sailing, the wind played
out altogether, leaving us rolling on a glassy sea for another three
weeks. We kept our head turned to the east as much as possible when
there was breeze enough to steer, and sometimes I would run the
engines for a few hours, but we were saving with the gasolene, as we
feared we would be unable to get any more for a long time to come.
Every time I had the engines running I noticed that they seemed to
decrease in power, until finally they were not developing half the
speed they should. On going over them, I found that the exhaust-pipe
had been connected up wrongly. The engines' being below the
water-line allowed the water to run back into the cylinders, causing
them to rust, and naturally they lost power. After showing Jack the
trouble, I suggested that it would be better to shut down the
engines entirely until we got to a place where we could get the
exhaust-pipe changed; he agreed with me, and for the rest of this
trip we were compelled to depend solely on the sails.
The Sailing Directions for the South Pacific says:
_Sandwich Islands to Tahiti.--There is great difficulty in_
_making this passage across the trades. The whalers and all_
_others speak with great doubt of fetching Tahiti from the_
_Sandwich Islands. Capt. Bruce says that a vessel should keep to_
_the northward until she gets a start of the wind before bearing_
_for her destination. In his passage between them in November,_
_1837, he had no variables near the line in coming south, and_
_never could make easting on either tack, though he endeavoured_
_by every means to do so._
The variables we encountered in 11° north latitude. This was a
stroke of real luck. The variables were our hope; without them the
traverse would be maddeningly impossible. We stayed in the immediate
neighbourhood of 11° north latitude.
The variables were extremely uncertain. Now we would have a fair
gust of wind, just sufficient to raise our spirits and set us
betting on the speed such a wind made possible; and now all wind
would die away, leaving us almost motionless on the smooth sea. It
was in such moments of despair that we realised the immensity of the
task we had set for ourselves. In years and years, no vessel had
attempted to cross the Pacific in this particular waste; several
vessels had tried it, but they had either been blown far out of
their course and landed in the Samoan or Fiji Islands, or else had
never been heard from again. A grim possibility stared us in the
face. What if all winds failed us; what if progress were impossible;
what if we were doomed to sail and drift in this deserted ocean
space for months and months, until death put an end to our
sufferings? It might happen. Who could tell?
But all things come to those who dare. We had dared mightily. And
mightily we reaped of our sowing. We did the impossible. We cheated
the chances, we defeated the odds that lay against us. The _Snark_
and crew put in safely to Taiohae Bay, in the Marquesas Islands,
sixty-one days out of Hilo, Hawaii.
By the time we were calmed in the doldrums we were all seasoned
seamen; and I never again saw one of the crew seasick.
From the time we left Hilo up to now, we had made no effort to catch
the fish that were so thick on every side of us, but now that we
were feeling fine and enjoying life, we each got our fishing tackle
and started to fish. When there was no wind, we lowered the sails
and spread the awning--there was no use letting the sails tear
themselves to threads by flapping around while the ship rolled. It
did not take us long to become expert in fishing, for we soon
learned the kinds of baits and hooks to use for the different kinds
of fish. We vied with one another to see which could catch the
greatest number. One of us need only say that he would bet fifty
cents or a dollar that he could catch a certain kind and amount of
fish in less time than any other person aboard could perform the
feat, and everyone would start in with hook and line. I've seen Jack
London throw aside "Martin Eden" and join us. Often Jack would come
up on deck, and say: "See that big fish over there, the one with the
spot on his back"--or any other way to distinguish a particular
fish--"Well, I'll wager I can catch him inside of five minutes." I
would take him up, and then his sport would begin, trying to keep
from catching other fish when only a particular one was wanted.
Some idea of the trouble he had will be conveyed when I say that I
have seen thousands and thousands of fish, anywhere from one to
fifteen feet long, on every side of the _Snark_. It was no longer
sport merely to catch fish--we must catch some particular fish. One
variety, the dolphin, the prettiest fish in the world, we would try
for with rod and reel and sometimes a quarter of a mile of line.
This fish we could easily harpoon, but that would not have been
sport. We caught many sharks, from which we used to cut out steaks
and throw the bodies overboard. Hermann, like all deep-water
fishermen, wanted to pull the sharks aboard and cut off their tails
and then throw them, alive, overboard; for a sailor hates a shark
worse than anything in the world, and will never miss a chance to
torture one. At last Jack gave orders that no more sharks were to be
caught, for they dirtied up the deck, and besides, some of the
larger ones had broken up things on the deck with their tails. A
large shark could easily kill a person with a well-directed blow of
the tail. But it was interesting to see the different species of
shark. Further along we found a number of different kinds.
An interesting thing about a shark is the way it turns on its back
to bite. The mouth is set back under the nose, so that the shark
must turn clear over with the white stomach upward in order to feed
itself. Another remarkable thing about a shark is its almost
unbelievable vitality. I have cut out a shark's heart and let it lie
in a dish, where I have timed it to beat for two hours. Up on deck,
the shark itself would be flopping and twisting--through some
muscular reaction, I suppose.
[Illustration: SANTA CRUZ NATIVES IN CATAMARAN CANOES]
On board we had a full set of harpoons and granes with which to
catch bonita. The bonita are the swiftest fish in the sea; no matter
how fast the _Snark_ sailed, they kept up with us without
difficulty. Often, if we would slightly wound a bonita so that the
blood would start, the whole pack would jump on this fish and have
him eaten before we were out of sight. Again, we have hauled them
from the sea with fresh-bitten holes in their flesh, as big as a
teacup. Bonita are called the cannibals of the sea.
Thousands and thousands of flying fish could be seen. It was these
that lured the bonita. For be it known that the flying fish are food
for many deep-sea creatures, and for the swooping sea-birds.
Incidentally, I might mention that on occasion they proved also a
delicious diet for the crew of the _Snark_. Our boat was continually
stirring up the flying fish, causing them to essay flight, but ever
the birds swooped and drove them into the voracious maws of the
bonita.
The sharks we caught by bending chain-swivels on small rope and
attaching big hooks. The shark steaks were very good to eat, when
properly prepared. We ate also pilot fish, and remoras; in fact, the
sea yielded up its creatures abundantly to our larder. Once we
spied a big green sea-turtle, sleeping on the surface and surrounded
by a multitudinous school of bonita. Hermann got him with granes.
That turtle later appeared on our table, and toothsome he was! I
think he must have weighed a full hundred pounds.
The dolphin proved good sport. We used an entire flying fish as
bait, strung on a tarpon hook. The dolphin leap and fight and buck
in mid-air when caught, turning the colour of rich gold. Many of
them are heavy, being usually right around four feet in length.
A passenger on a steamer never sees any kind of fish other than
bonita, unless it be an occasional whale or a school of porpoise,
for the swish of the propeller frightens the fish so no one can ever
experience the real excitement of good fishing at sea, unless he is
on a sailing vessel. And when a fellow tells you of the fish he has
seen from the deck of a steamer, enlarging upon their extraordinary
length, their abundance, their gorgeous colours, just set that
fellow down as a prevaricator.
In addition to "Martin Eden" Jack wrote on other work. There were
his magazine articles, short stories, and other things to be
attended to. He had now made up his mind to make a study of the
South Sea Islanders, a fancy which, as the event showed, was never
fathered into action. I have often wished he had had the opportunity
to spend more time among the primitive people with whom we later
came in contact. Jack London, what of his animal stories, or tales
of creatures closely approximating men, yet with all the simplicity
of animals, has often been termed a "primitive psychologist." Had
conditions favoured, I really believe he would have given to the
world some studies of the strangest creatures in existence, making
plain their mental processes and throwing light upon their manners
and customs in a way never before attempted. But it was not to be.
We were not wanted in the South Seas, as we were later to be shown.
We drifted at the will of the currents and tides for a couple of
weeks, until we had just about reached the Equator; then storms were
frequent, driving us to the westward further than we wanted to go.
For eight or ten days we had miserable weather. A squall would show
up on the horizon and a large black cloud sweep over the sky. Had we
been in Kansas and seen such elemental disturbances, we should have
hunted the storm-cellar. These storms would last from ten minutes to
an hour. The little _Snark_ would lay over in the sea while
salt-water would pour over the decks and sweep below, leaving
everything drenched. Many times the boat buried her rail and deck,
but she did not turn turtle. The _Snark_ was stanch.
Now entered the first real discomfort. And it was a serious one. It
was November 20, and we were in the doldrums. It was night, and a
storm was raging. One of the Japanese left a water-tap open that
connected the deck tanks, and in the morning not a drop of water
was left in any of the tanks, and only about ten gallons below.
We did not know what to do. We had been forty-five days out of the
Sandwich Islands, had not sighted any land or a sail, and were in
the uncertain doldrums and not half-way to the Marquesas Islands.
Jack immediately ordered the remaining ten gallons of water put
under lock and key, and one quart of water per day was our
allowance.
One has no idea how small an amount a quart is until he is put on
such an allowance. Before the middle of the afternoon, we would have
our water drunk. Our thirst raged. It grew worse because we knew
there was nothing to assuage it. At meals, when tins of provisions
were opened, we tried to buy each other's share of the liquid from
the can.
The days crept by. Our thirst grew almost unbearable. We spoke of
nothing but water. We dreamed of water. In my sleep, a thousand
times I saw brooks and rivers and springs. I saw sparkling water run
over stones, purling and rippling, and a thousand times I bent over
to take a deep draught, when--alas! I awoke to find myself lying on
the deck of the _Snark_, crying out with thirst. And as it was with
me, so was it with the rest of the crew. It seemed a monstrous thing
that there should be no water. The situation grew more serious with
every passing hour. It seemed such a needless misfortune that had
befallen us. We had started out with over a thousand gallons of the
precious fluid--had even installed extra tanks on deck, that we
might be assured of a sufficiency--and here we were, with a quart a
day apiece! and our thirst raging and crying out in our throats!
How we longed for rain! None came. At last, after nearly a week, we
saw a storm blowing up, and black clouds gathering. Here was
promise! We rigged lines on either side, between the main and mizzen
riggings, and from this spread out the large deck awning, so
disposed that it would catch and pour into a barrel as much water as
possible. The storm swept on toward us. We gazed at it with parted
lips. Gallons of water were descending a few hundred yards away from
us, and the heart of the squall was making directly for us, while we
stood there and exulted. And then, to our infinite disappointment
and dismay, the squall split, and the two parts drew off away from
us.
Twelve hundred miles from land, and no water!
Death leered at us from the dark sea. There seemed no possible
chance for us. And what did Jack London do?
Almost dead with thirst himself, he went into his cabin and wrote a
sea story about a castaway sailor that died of thirst while drifting
in an open boat. And when he had finished it he came out, gaunt and
haggard, but with eyes burning with enthusiasm, and told us of the
story and said:
"Boys, that yarn's one of the best I ever did!"
That night a heavy, soaking tropical rain came on; we spread the
awning again and filled our water tanks; and as the big barrel ran
over with the gurgling water, Jack said:
"I'll not kill that sailor; I'll have him saved by a rain like this;
that'll make the yarn better than ever!"
That water was the best we ever tasted. We couldn't deny it. After
seeing that we had a good supply, we set all the sail we could crowd
on the boat and crossed the Equator. When the sun rose next morning,
and we awoke for the day's duties, we knew we were out of the
doldrums.
During this time Nakata was rapidly picking up English; in fact, I
never saw a person pick up the language so fast. When asked if he
was happy, he would answer: "I'm happy, happy, happy!"--which seemed
to be the truth, for he was always in a good humour, and was never
too tired to do more work. Nights, when we would be called out of
our bunks to help on deck during a storm, Nakata would come up
smiling, while the rest of us would come up grumbling. It has often
been noticed how soon a small party will get grumpy if they are
together for a long time, but we were an exception to the rule; our
days were spent amicably up on deck, and in the evenings Mr. and
Mrs. London and Captain Y---- and I went below to play cards.
In the diary I kept on this part of the trip, I find these
interesting entries:
_Sunday, December 1, 1907._--Have started studying Henderson's
Navigation. The rest of the crew are up on deck, watching the fish
that keep up with the _Snark_. They look like thousands of comets,
swimming so fast that their shapes are not distinguishable. The way
we are gliding along is fine.
_Monday, December 2, 1907._--Sliding along at seven knots. A large
frigate bird followed us all day. They never go far from land, so we
were glad to see him, for he presages a landfall. The funniest
little mascot has been after us for a week: a little, pale-green
fish, about a foot and a half long, who is having the hardest time
to keep up, wriggling his tail as if it was awfully hard work to
swim so fast. Bonita and dolphin slide through the water with hardly
any exertion, but this little fish is so hard put that we wonder
what he gets to eat.
_Tuesday, December 3, 1907._--Captain says we are three hundred and
sixty miles from land--and still going! It is funny to see us crowd
around the chart at noon, as the captain puts our position on it. We
are drawing closer to the islands all the time, until it seems that
we should see them now, they look so close on the map. Captain, Jack
and I got away out on the flying jib-boom and had a contest to see
which would catch the most bonita. They caught more than I, but I
caught the largest, thirty pound. I must make a picture of the
little craft from there; she looks good, and the spinnaker-boom
improves it. Jack discovered to-day that last Thursday was
Thanksgiving. Just one year ago to-day that I left home to join the
crew of the _Snark_. Heaven only knows where we will be next year at
this time.
_Wednesday, December 4, 1907._--Still sliding along. Took off the
mizzen sail this afternoon, for with the wind aft it only cut off
the wind from the main and caused hard steering. Fish were so thick
around us this afternoon that the water looked as if it were boiling
and sounded like a waterfall. The bonita must have struck a school
of small flying fish near the surface. Captain got out large charts
of Nuka-hiva and the bay we are going into, so we are all
excitement; expecting to sight land to-morrow night. Clothes are
brought out and brushed and aired, and brass is being scoured up,
and still we slide along. Am getting along well with my navigation.
_Thursday, December 5, 1907._--I just got through giving Nakata a
lesson in English. He knew no English at all at the start of the
voyage, now can understand most anything told him; talks pretty
well, too. Fish is getting to be a tiresome subject by this time,
but must tell of the thousands of big five to thirty pound fish
leaping in the air and swarming through the water so that their
noise can be heard above the splashing of the boat here below. Jack
shot several, which were eaten before they could sink--wounded
ones eaten alive by their own kind. As we were all leaning over
the stern watching them, two monster sharks appeared, one at least
fifteen feet in length. Then all the bonita vanished. I have a bet
with everyone on board that I sight land first. It's only about
seventy miles away. How good it will seem after two months on the
_Snark_! I am going to print pictures up till midnight; then two
hours at the wheel, and if the air keeps as clear as now, I think
I'll win my bets. Got launch to running just as I was about to give
it up. Now I'm busy painting and oiling it, while Hermann is
painting and varnishing the boat.
[Illustration: CANOE HOUSE IN SOLOMON ISLANDS]
_Friday, December 6, 1907._--Midnight. We are anchored in the
prettiest bay I ever imagined. But let me begin at the first. My
brain is so full of things to write that I know I will never do them
justice, for I have not the time or paper. Early this morning
captain awoke us with "Land ahoy!" and in the quickest time anyone
ever got on deck we were trying to make out in the hazy atmosphere
_land_. At last we succeeded. Ua-huka was straight ahead, and away
in the distance could be seen the ragged crags of Nuka-hiva, the
island we were heading for. How good those big green mountains
looked! Only men who had been sixty days on the sea could appreciate
the scene. In a few hours we were within three miles of Ua-huka,
seven miles long and thirty-three hundred feet high. It looked like
a big rock. Soon Nuka-hiva loomed up straight ahead. It seemed as if
we were in another world as we sailed past several low cocoanut
islands, sometimes going so close that with the glasses we could see
villages of grass houses, and we knew that at last we were in the
real South Sea islands.
By five o'clock we could make out the two sentinel rocks, between
which we must go to get into the bay. It was nearly midnight as we
sailed up the coast of Nuka-hiva. A fine bright moon had been
shining earlier in the evening; but just as we had sighted the
opening of the bay (called Taiohae Bay on the chart), a squall
struck us and we were in the most dangerous position we had ever
been caught in: rocks and reefs on every side, so we could not turn
back. We did the only thing possible--drove right for the place of
which we had sighted the opening, and left to luck that we would
find it. Luck was with us. We sailed in the opening, just missing a
large, rocky island at its mouth. We passed so close that thousands
of sea-birds were sent crying and frightened off their rocky perch.
After getting inside the bay, the mountains on every side shut off
the storm, and the wind dropped so low that we were an hour getting
from the mouth of the bay to the upper end, where the water was
shallow enough for anchoring.
At last we are at anchor. It seems that we must be in paradise. The
air is perfume. We can hear the wild goats blatting in the
mountains, and an occasional long-drawn howl from a dog ashore. It
is so near morning now that the cocks are crowing; and we are so
proud of ourselves for doing what the Sailing Directions said was
impossible, and so happy at seeing land again! Well, now we shall
get a much-needed rest.