SUVA TO HONOLULU
At five o'clock in the afternoon of the 2nd of July we weighed anchor
and slipped from the quietness of Suva harbour out into a roystering
east wind that was playing all manner of strange pranks with the placid
sea we had come in through a week previously. For steep, short seas and
uncomfortable small-schooner weather, nothing quite equals one of these
reef-locked stretches of the south-west Pacific with a stiff blow on.
The ever-imminent bottom, constantly dragging on the waves, retards
them below and lets them keep going above, producing seas something
between ocean swells and lines of surf. Sailing with seas of this
description coming anywhere forward of the beam is like tobogganing on
an uncleared mountainside.
Hardly was the yacht clear of the harbour before we were forced to
begin shortening canvas, and by eight o'clock double reefs had been
tied in the mainsail and foresail and the bonnet taken out of the
forestay-sail. Even then she made bad weather of it. She would make a
terrific leap skyward, almost standing on her rudder in an effort to
clear an advancing wave, and then crash thunderingly down and bore her
nose deep into the green water of the next sea before her bows began
lifting again. There was not a great deal of weight behind the seas
and they did little damage; but all night long they shook the yacht as
a terrier does a rat, carried away a couple of boat-loads of fresh fruit
contributed by our Suva friends, and made sleeping an impossibility.
By morning a falling wind and sea made it possible to shake the reefs
out of the foresail and put the bonnet back into the forestay-sail, but
the mainsail languished all day with the most of its length along the
boom.
Early in the morning of the 4th the yacht crossed the 180th Meridian,
carrying us back to West Longitude. Regarding the unusual sequence of
days on this occasion the "Ladies' Log" has the following entry under
date of July 3rd:
"Yesterday it was Sunday, the 3rd; today, from twelve P. M. to four A.
M., it was the Fourth of July. Then we crossed the 180th Meridian, and
it was again Sunday, the 3rd. Tomorrow we will have a continuation of
the Fourth which we started this morning. This figures out at one and
five-sixths Sundays and one and one-sixth Fourths of July, making a
total of three complete and consecutive holidays on which, according to
nautical custom, the cook must provide us with 'duff.'"
Levity of the "Ladies' Log" aside, the coincidence was a most
remarkable one.
It was possibly the first fragment of the Fourth struggling to join
forces with the unbroken one that followed which caused an hour's
diversion on the morning of the latter which was quite sufficient in
itself to stand for an Independence Day celebration. The wind had been
light but steady from E.S.E. all day, and when darkness fell there was
nothing in the smooth sea, clear sky and high barometer to point any
reason for not carrying the light sails all night. An easy nine miles
an hour was averaged all through the first watch, and a freshening
of the breeze shortly after the sounding of midnight had ushered in the
Fourth was responsible for better than ten miles being run in the hour
immediately following. Shortly after one o'clock the breeze, quite
without warning, suddenly fell light, and all in a minute the
celebration was on. What it was we managed to agree upon the next
morning, and as to why it was the coming day also brought considerable
enlightenment; how it was depended largely upon one's viewpoint, and no
two of us appear to have seen it quite in the same way. I, sleeping on
a cabin transom when the thing happened, can merely set down my own
impressions.
With the startling distinctness with which the slightest sound above
makes itself heard in the quiet spaces between decks, I noted how
the rustle of the seas along the sides died down as the breeze fell
light, heard the banging of blocks, the flap of sails, the slatting of
lines, and presently the buzz of voices in puzzled conjecture. Then a
low, grinding roar, like the distant sound of a dry-snow avalanche,
began filling the air, and instantly the sharp, incisive voice of the
Commodore cut in, shouting an interminable string of orders.
Suddenly the sound of the voices changed to gasping snarls, the
boom of boots on the deck to far-away rat-a-tats, and the whole of
the outside Universe seemed to resolve itself into one huge roar.
Then a great, big, solid something struck the yacht and all of the
staterooms lay down on their sides, the lamps swung up and lay
down against the ceiling, and everything movable jumped out and
lay down on the port berths and transoms. A trunk broke loose
from its lashings under the cabin table and slid down to mingle
with a typewriter, a phonograph, a couple of hundred of the latter's
loose records, and, incidentally, myself. Shortly a starboard
bookcase vomited its contents into the shambles, and a big bunch
of flags-of-all-nations, unrolling as it came, leaped out to lend a
festal touch to the glad occasion. And over all, through open skylight
and companionway, poured floods of brine to keep down the dust.
Time and again the yacht struggled to sit up, and as often settled
shudderingly back on her side. Finally, the muffled snarl of orders
forced from a wind-stopped throat cut down through the roar, to be
followed by a scurrying on deck--tiny and distant like the scrambling
of mice over paper--and the cabin leaped suddenly halfway up and hung
there quivering as though balanced on its corner. Then, as some one ran
forward the slide and jammed together the doors of the companionway,
came the tense voice of the Commodore, gasping above the wind:
"Tumble up lively, you there below! Come a-runnin' an' len' a hand
'fore the sticks go out o' 'er!" Then, more indistinctly as his face
was turned, "Le' go, there forrard; le' go!"
A moment later the cabin gave another jump back toward the normal, this
time straightening up enough to give me a chance to burrow out from
under a stack of phonograph records and crawl along the side of the
port transom to the stairs.
I have a distinct memory of how my head was bumped twice in gaining
the deck--once against the storm doors of the companionway and once
against the wind. The air, which was rushing by as though all the
atmosphere of the Universe was trying to crowd itself along the deck of
the yacht, felt as tangible as a solid stream of water, and so mixed was
it with water, in fact, that there was no telling where the surface of
the sea left off and the air commenced. The hard-driven drops stung
like sleet, and the act of breathing with the face turned to windward
was a sheer impossibility.
Still heeling heavily, and with mainsail dragging over her port side
like the trailing wing of a wounded bird, the yacht scudded off before
the wind. Withal she was making good weather of it, and even before
the coming of the rain marked the passing of the centre of the squall
we had the main-boom amidships and the troublesome mainsail hauled
aboard. The deck was a fathom deep in flapping sails and up forward a
water-butt and a salt beef barrel were having a lively game of tag, but
neither of the boats had started its lashings and none of the skylights
was smashed. Most of the damage was done to the storm-tossed
contents of the cabin. By daybreak the deck was cleared and the yacht,
under all-plain sail, headed again on her north-westerly course.
Our "Independence Day Celebration," as we afterwards had explained to
us in Honolulu, was what is commonly referred to in the South Pacific
as a "leeward squall." This phenomenon is met with only among
volcanic islands high enough to allow the wind to draw around them and
meet again in "twisters" a few miles to leeward. If the wind holds steady
from one direction this ordinarily makes little trouble, but if it
chances to haul two or three points ahead when a ship is passing a high
island the squall which comes boring in from leeward may take her aback
with disastrous results. Trading captains passing under the lee of
islands of this description always go under shortened sail. Light sails
of all kinds are unpopular in the South Pacific--one never sees a trading
schooner with a topmast on the fore, and not all carry them on the main.
It was a "leeward squall" of unusual force that _Lurline_ encountered
on the morning of the Fourth of July, and considering the fact that,
with the exception of her foretopsail, she was carrying all the sail
she had, the Commodore's work in bringing her through unharmed was
creditable in the extreme. From so unexpected a quarter did the squall
appear that only the briefest space was allowed for preparation; yet
in these two or three minutes all hands were called, the maintopmast
staysail and maingafftopsail were lowered to the deck, the jib-topsail
and flying jib hauled down and furled, the ship put about on the other
tack, the jib furled, and men stationed at the halyards fore and aft.
All of this was accomplished before the squall struck, which then left
nothing to do but let go the halyards when it became apparent that the
force of the wind was too great for the yacht to stand up under. With
the wind coming as it was, it was impossible to prevent the mainsail's
falling in the water.
By the afternoon of the Fourth we were out of sight of the last of the
Fijis and again dependent on observations for our position. It was our
intention to call in at Fanning Island on our way to Hawaii, to which
end the yacht was kept headed north-east whenever possible, a course
two points more easterly than the direct one to Honolulu. With a light
south-east wind 119 miles were run up to noon of the 5th, soon after
which a shift to N.N.E. forced us to go about and head nearly due east
all afternoon. Toward dark it fell calm and but three miles were run
between six o'clock and midnight. By the 6th the wind was back to
south-east, but blowing with little force, the run to noon of that day
being but forty-five miles.
[Illustration: A FIJIAN WARRIOR]
[Illustration: REEFING THE MAINSAIL]
[Illustration: UNTYING A REEF IN THE MAINSAIL]
A strong westerly current began making itself felt about this
time--Lat. 14° 06' South, and Long. 176° 04' West--which gradually
worked more to the north as we approached the Line. On the 6th it set
us eighteen miles to the west; on the 7th, twenty miles to W.N.W.;
on the 8th, eighteen miles to N.W.; and on the next four days from
twenty-four to thirty miles to N.N.W. This was considerably more of a
current than the Sailing Directions indicate for those latitudes.
In the forenoon of the 7th the wind hauled to the north-east, blowing
strong from that direction until four in the afternoon, when, without
abating in strength, it went back to east. Toward midnight a heavy
squall struck the yacht, and while furling the jib a foot rope gave
way under Bill, a big Dane of the mate's watch, and only a lucky grab
at the bobstay saved him from being swept away. The yacht put her
nose under a couple of feet of green water at the same instant Bill
went down, giving him a fearful ducking, but the plucky fellow
swung up to the bowsprit the moment it arose from the sea and
finished his work without a murmur.
On the 8th, 9th and 10th the wind continued fresh but persisted in
shifting back and forth in heavy rain-squalls between east and
north-east, making it impossible to hold one course for more than
an hour or two at a time. The runs for these days were 127, 125
and 126 miles, respectively. On the 9th and 10th we passed straight
through the middle of the Union Group, but so far from any of the
islands that their presence was indicated only by the sight of an
occasional land bird. This group is composed only of low atolls which
are but sparsely wateredand thinly inhabited. On the 11th the sky
was completely overcast, making observations impossible, and the
day was one long succession of baffling winds and fierce rain-squalls.
This succeeded to a dead calm, the yacht lying all night with the
booms hauled amidships and the sails furled.
In the middle of the forenoon of the 12th the yacht sailed under a
black cornucopia-shaped cloud which we had been watching for some
time as it lay in wait across our path. As we ran into the misty tail,
which hung so low as to seem almost dragging in the sea, a veritable
deluge of water broke upon us. The downpour was so fierce as to
threaten for a while to break in the skylights and flood the cabins.
The water accumulated so fast on the deck that the scuppers would
not carry it off, and when the rain was falling heaviest the cockpit
was flooded a foot deep. The cataclysm ceased as quickly as it had
commenced, not by passing on like an ordinary squall, but simply by
exhausting its fount. By the time the air was clear of water the black
cloud had drawn up into itself and disappeared.
After four more days of variable winds, at four in the morning of the
16th, we crossed the Equator in Long. 163° 07'. The wind was fresh
from E.N.E. and the air (82°) and the water (80°) were each a degree
cooler than for several days. The evening was marked by an unusually
brilliant sunset.
Neither our rate of progress to this point, nor the course we had
travelled, were all that might have been desired. On the 12th we made
but forty miles and on the three following days an average of about
140 miles each. The course approximated N.N.E., all of two points to
the leeward of the direct track to Fanning Island.
To noon of the 17th there was a run of 161 miles, which placed us due
east of Fanning Island and at a distance of about 150 miles. The next
twenty-four hours were spent in beating in short tacks against a wind
which had settled itself contentedly to blow straight down our course.
By noon of the 18th, having gained but sixty-two miles in the day's
run, we gave up trying to make Fanning Island and slacked off sheets
for Honolulu. Twelve hours later the wind, blowing half a gale, had
hauled up to north-east, forcing us to close-reef mainsail and foresail
and head off to N. by W.
Washington Island, lying in about Lat. 5° North, and Long. 160° West,
the only land we sighted between Fiji and Hawaii, was on the horizon
for several hours of the 19th. The wind continued as fitful as south of
the Equator. By keeping the yacht close-hauled all the time we usually
managed to hold her on the right side of N. by E., the course to
Honolulu, but it was a rough, slap-bang, ding-dong task. Of this period
the "Ladies' Log," under date of July 20th, records as follows:
"_Lurline_ might have been mistaken for a coral island last night,
so thick were the reefs upon her. 'The sea is going down,' cries the
Commodore cheerily early in the evening. 'Ay,' answers the mate;
'most of it is going down through the galley skylight.' And sure
enough it was. Contrary winds are forcing us to make considerable
westing and the heavy sea cuts down our speed, the main element in
linear progression. Reefs were shaken out at eight this morning and
tied in again at seven this evening, the constant succession of one to
the other during the last few days eliciting the suggestion from the
mate that the reefs had best be padlocked in and the key thrown
away."
Most of the following week was spent in reefing and unreefing and
tacking this way and that at the caprice of the wind. The sea was heavy
most of the time and the progress slow, the best days' runs being those
of the 23rd and 24th, when 147 and 142 miles, respectively, were made.
On none of the other days was there a run of over 100 miles, and on
the 21st only fifty-one was marked up. On the 27th, though 150 miles
west of the high island of Hawaii, we cut into the tip of the windless
triangle which lies under the lee of its 13,000-foot peaks and for
several hours floated without steerageway. When we got the wind again
in the afternoon it was noticed at once that the log was acting in an
eccentric manner, and on investigation its blades were found to be bent
and twisted and heavily scarred, apparently by the teeth of some large
fish.
At four o'clock in the afternoon of the 28th the green peaks of Oahu
were sighted on the weather bow, distant sixty-five miles. With a light
east wind the yacht averaged between four and five knots during the
night and at four A. M. was six miles off the Barber Point Light, which
bore N. by W. This was some miles to the leeward of Honolulu, and four
hours of beating were necessary to bring us opposite the entrance. Here
we were boarded by the pilot at eight o'clock, and a few minutes later
the tug, _Fearless_, dispatched through the courtesy of the Spreckels
Company, passed a line to the yacht and towed her in. We anchored in
Rotten Row, with mooring lines made fast to the identical old man-of-war
boilers from which they had been cast loose on our departure for the
Marquesas, four months previously.
From the sailing standpoint this run was the most unsatisfactory of
the voyage. Twenty-seven days were required to cover 3000 miles, an
average of but little over a hundred miles a day. Practically all of
this time the yacht was close-hauled, and a total of at least three
days was spent in tiresome beating against a wind which blew straight
from our destination. It is possible that two or three days might have
been saved had we made a fair wind of the south-east Trades instead of
keeping close-hauled in an endeavour to make Fanning Island; but this
is by no means certain, as the easting gained at this time stood us in
good stead when the north-east Trades were encountered.