PITFALLS FOR THE SAILOR, AND THE CANARY
THAT SPOKE LOW DEUTSCH
That's a sailor's life, glorious one day, miserable the next. I went
on month after month drinking down in deep draughts the experience of
the sea. A heady drink it is.
The sea is the sailor's power, yet he is always eager to get to port.
There are two places that are ever in his mind: his home, if he has
any, and the port where he will be paid off. For months Jack Tar
handles no money. He dreams of the wad of bank bills that will be
placed in his hands and of ways to spend it. Aboard, no magazine or
newspaper, no matter how old, is left unread. Old fashion plates go
from hand to hand. An evening suit with a waistcoat cut as low as
possible so as to show a vast expanse of festive shirt front arouses
a general discussion.
"Hans, my boy, look at that rig. What would your sweetheart in
Düsseldorf say if she saw you in that?"
Mail-order catalogues are thoroughly thumbed.
"What! a gramophone like that for forty marks? I must have it, and
all the latest songs."
They plan trips into the interior of the Fatherland.
"We will go to Munich in Bavaria. They say you can see the Alps from
there."
The homegoings are anticipated with elaborate talk.
"Won't the old woman be glad to see me, particularly when I unwrap
that silk dress I bought for her in Singapore."
The most disagreeable thing that can happen aboard a sailing vessel
is to be becalmed on the homeward voyage, and the nearer the home
port the more irritating it is. The captain begins to look for a
Jonah. The first unfortunate for him to vent his rage upon is the
helmsman. Nothing he does is right. The skipper is certain that as
long as that hoodoo is at the wheel there will never be any wind. He
is driving it away. Taking the helm himself, however, seems to do no
good. He calls the youngest cabin boy and orders him to scratch the
mainmast, which is supposed to bring wind. When this does not help,
he gives the boy a broom and chases him to the top of the mainmast,
to sweep the sky. Then he takes either an old pair of pants or an
old boot and throws it overboard. Wind must certainly come now. He
stamps down to his cabin and sits and smokes for a while awaiting the
wind. When he returns to the deck, the calm is still unbroken. He
starts in with the helmsman again, angered by the leering grin on the
face of the Jonah.
"Here, Jan, you are such a fine fellow. You take the helm, by Joe,
and see if you cannot get some wind up. You are good luck. You are
an old friend of St. Peter."
Presently, indeed, far away on the horizon you can see a slight
curling of the water. A slight breeze is coming.
"Jan, what did I tell you? You shall have half a pound of tobacco."
The other sailors watch these manœuvres with profound sympathy.
On shore everything is different from what Jack Tar expected. He has
had the experience a hundred times, but he always has it again. The
crowds do not give companionship. Everything is too much in a hurry.
What people talk about does not interest him. He is out of touch
with things. Besides, people do not sit and talk except for a little
while. Someone always interrupts, or people grow impatient and go
away, too much in a hurry. Jack Tar misses the usual hour for
intimate conversation, on watch at night. The sea heaves slowly.
The stars are bright above. The ship follows her course.
Conversation is never interrupted by outsiders, and you can talk as
long as the watch lasts.
Jack Tar is ever a mark for thieves. Aboard ship the comradeship of
man with man will not tolerate dishonesty. A theft between shipmates
is the worst of crimes. No sea chest is ever locked. On land Jack
Tar likes bright lights and gaieties, and there, for some reason, a
great abundance of swindlers are found to take him in. You go about
Sankt Pauli, all sails set. You join a group and find that a horse
has fallen down and broken its leg. You hear a groan. You turn
around, and somebody says:
"Please, young man, can't you tell me the shortest way to a pawn
shop?"
"A pawn shop? I don't know of any."
"That is too bad. I am forced to pawn the last heirloom from my dear
mother."
"What is it?"
"A diamond ring."
He takes the ring from his finger, kisses it, and hands it to me.
While I look at it, a well-dressed man sidles up and addresses me.
"I beg your pardon for having been curious enough to listen to your
conversation. It is luck for you that I happen to be a jeweller. I
should not like to see you taken advantage of. Real diamond rings
are seldom offered in the streets."
The first fellow gets mad:
"Do you think I would try to cheat anyone with the ring that belonged
to my sainted mother?"
"I have nothing to do with you. I am trying to protect this young
man."
The jeweller examines the ring through a glass, and then whispers to
me.
"Ask him how much he wants for it."