Continental sailors—Mal de mer—Steam-launches—Punt chase—The
ladies—Fireworks—Catastrophe—Impudence—Drifting yachts—Tool chest—Spectre
ship—Where am I?—Canoe _v_. yawl—Selfish—Risk and toil—Ridicule.
The regatta days opened with wind and rain; but even at the best of
times, the sight of a sailing match from on shore is like that of a stag
hunt from on foot,—very pretty at the start, and then very little more to
see. It is different if you sail about among the competing yachts. Then
you feel the same tide and wind, and see the same marks and buoys, and
dread the same shoals and rocks as they do, and at every turn of every
vessel you have something to learn.
No one can satisfactorily distribute the verdict “victor” or “vanquished”
in a sailing-match between the designer, the builder, the rigger, and the
course, the weather, the rules, the sailor of each craft, and chance;
though each of these will conduce in part to the success or failure in
every match. Still there is this advantage, that the loser can always
blame, and the winner can always praise, which of these elements he finds
most convenient. But if a sailing-match has little in it quite
intelligible, even when you see it, the account of a past regatta is well
worth keeping out of print—so be it then with this one, the best held at
Cowes for many years.
The large crowds that attended, and their obstinate standing in heavy
rain, were in marked contrast to the phlegmatic and meagre interest of
the few French who came to the regatta at St. Cloud. But it is such
occasions that remind us of England being a land of seamen, while
continental sailors are at best of the land, except in northern nations.
Once it was my lot to sail in a small screw-steamer along the coast of
Calabria. Of the four passengers one was a Neapolitan officer, who
embarked in full uniform; and with light tight boots and spurs, and
clanging sword, he stalked the quarter-deck, that is, he took three
steps, and was at the end, and three steps back.
In going out of Messina I saw we should have a tough bit of sea outside,
and was soon prepared accordingly. He did not so, and the first bursting
wave wet him through in a moment, and down he went below. Some hours
afterwards I descended too, and a melancholy sight was there, with very
lugubrious sounds.
In the cabin was a huge tub full of water, and the officer (spurs, boots,
and all) was sitting in it with his legs out of one end and his head
groaning and bellowing from the other. This was his specific for
sea-sickness, and for three days he behaved about as well as a fractious
child who sadly wants a good whipping. It is no discredit to a man to be
sea-sick. Nelson, we are told, was so far human. But it is somewhat
unmanly for an officer to whine and blubber like a baby, and yet we have
several times seen this phenomenon abroad. When we came into Naples this
lachrymose hero was again in full feather, boots, spurs, and sword,
stalking the quarter-deck as if no tub and tears had intervened.
Some excellent rowing-matches, after the Regatta in Cowes, were varied by
a “punt chase,”—an amusement thoroughly English; when one man in a punt
is chased by four in a low-boat, who have to catch both him and his boat
within ten minutes.
Of course his path is devious and tortuous on the water, his resort being
quick turns, while the chasers gain in speed. After numerous close
escapes he leaps into the water. Then if the pursuers catch and hold his
boat it clogs them in following him, and if they follow him while his
boat is left free, he manages to escape round some tangled mass of
shipping, and so regains his boat for a new start.
This is the sort of thing that tries both swimming and pluck in the
water, as well as mere muscle or wind in rowing. It is to racing proper
what a hunt is to a flat race. Rowing is only one small part of boating,
and it is apt to monopolise our favour chiefly because many can row for
one that can _boat_.
In one of these punt chases at Cowes the punter had several times plunged
into the sea, and amid shouts and cheers he was always closely followed
by one of his chasers who swam almost equally well.
At length the brave punter swam over to the ‘Alberta,’ one of the Queen’s
steam-yachts, which had several of the royal Princesses and others on
board, who kindly thus patronized the races, and their presence was
thoroughly appreciated by us all. The hardy sailor scaled the yacht, and
actually ran among the ladies,—who doubtless were much amused, and indeed
they tittered vastly. Then he mounted the lofty paddle-box, closely
followed by his resolute pursuer, who would not be shaken off. With one
moment of hesitation the punter took a splendid “header” into the sea,
and as he was thus descending from the paddle-box the gun fired, showing
that the ten minutes had expired. The pursuer could then, of course,
have given up the chase as done. He had lost and could not win now. But
there was still in him that fine free boldness which superadds brave deed
to stern duty, and, amid a burst of cheers, he too leaped down into the
sea.
[Picture: The Punt Chase]
The first diver, however, had heard the wished-for gun as he fell and so
he claimed his prize when he came up, all red and watery, and both had
well gained the applause of the spectators.
It is not for one who has rowed fifty races with pleasure to underrate,
far less to disparage, mere rowing; but still we maintain that for the
encouragement of pure manliness, and the varied capacities useful in a
sailor’s life, one punt chase is far better than ten of the others.
The rapid introduction of steam-launches into use for our large English
yachts adds quite a new feature to every grand regatta. Here again,
however, the French navy led the way, and England follows somewhat
tardily. The French fleet at the Cherbourg review, some years ago had a
swarm of these fussy little creatures buzzing about the great anchored
iron-clads. English steam-launches were built to carry each a gun, and
so they are bluff and slow. Our Admiralty declined to allow a race
between these and the French launches in Paris, else, no doubt, the
superior speed of the French boats would have astonished John Bull. All
this has lately changed, so that launches and torpedo boats in England
can steam twenty miles an hour.
The “voyage alone” had culminated at Cowes when the splendid exhibition
of fireworks closed the grand show of British yachting. It was a
beautiful sight those whizzing rockets speeding from wave to sky, and
scattering bright gems above to fall softly from the black heaven; those
glares of red or green that painted all the wide crescent of beauteous
hulls, and dim, tall masts with a glow of ardent colour, and the
“bouquets” of fantastic form and hue, with noise that rattled aloft,
while thousands of paled faces cheered loud below. To this day the deck
of the Rob Roy (which is now in Australia) bears marks of the fire-shower
falling quietly, gently down, but still with a red scar burned in black
at the last.
Luggage is all on board again, and our tiny “Blue Peter” flies at the
fore, for the Rob Roy will weigh anchor now for her homeward voyage. The
Ryde Regatta was well worth seeing, and she stopped there in an uneasy
night, but we need not copy the log of another set of sailing matches.
Thus in a fine evening, when the sun sank ruddy and the breeze blew soft,
we turned again to Brading harbour, and, just perhaps because we had come
safely once before, there was listless incaution now, as if Bembridge
reef could not be cruel on such a fine evening as this.
Various and doubtless most true directions had been given to me as to
entering this narrow channel:—“Keep the tree in a line with the monument;
that’s your mark.” But when you come there and see the monument, there
are twenty trees; and which then is _the_ tree to guide by? Here,
therefore, and in mundane things on land too it is alike, the
misapprehension of a rule was worse than the chance mistake of undirected
mother-wit. A horrid crash brought us suddenly to rest; the Rob Roy had
struck on a rock. Though I was lax at the time, and lolling and lazy,
yet presence of mind remained. Down came the sails, out leaped the
anchor, and shoving, and hauling, and rowing did their best; but no, she
was firmly berthed on one of the north-west rocks. Presently a malicious
wave lifted her stern round and the rudder soon bumped on another sharp
ledge, until by sounding and patience I at last got her free, and rowed
out through a channel unconscionably narrow, and then ran the sails up,
and the yawl was safe again, sailing smoothly, with a deep sigh of
deliverance.
A sailing-boat had put off from the shore to help, seeing the
catastrophe, but I signalled to her, “Thanks—all right now,” and she went
back.
Soon another boat that had rowed out came near, and the man in her
determined to be a _salvor_ whether or no, and leaped on board the yawl.
I made him get off to his boat; I had not invited him, nor had he asked
permission to board me. He could see it was the other man’s job, and he
ought to have obeyed the signal, as the other did. Grumbling heavily, he
at length asked me to tow him in. “Well,” I said, “why, yes, I will give
you a tow, though you have been very impudent.” But the moment he came
near he jumped on board again, resolved “to save me,” though I might
protest ever so hard. Once more, then, I bundled him into his boat, and
this time rather by deeds than words. He kept up a volley of abuse all
the way to the shore, and there I gave my yawl in charge of the first
man, who had acted right both in coming out and in going back when
signalled. A hospitable Captain R.N. offered me his moorings (as a good
bed for my yawl), and asked me to breakfast next day, which was accepted,
“subject to the wind,” especially as the entertainer was of the clan
“Mac,” like his guest.
Calm night falls on the Rob Roy, in a little inland lake, profoundly
still, more quiet indeed, in respect of current, tide, or wind, or human
being than any night of the voyage. It was very difficult to turn in
below with such a moon above, and water quite unruffled. So there was a
long lean-to on propped elbows, and reverie reeled off by the yard.
Daybreak grey, with a westerly breeze, at once dissolved the breakfast
engagement, and carried the Rob Roy to sea, with her own kettle briskly
boiling; and now we are fairly started on our voyage to the Thames again.
But the glowing sun also took its morning meal, and greedily ate up the
wind; and so the yachts from Ryde could be seen far off, looking farther
off in a misty curtain, all only drifting with the tide, while they raced
their hardest for a cup. Yet there is science and skill in drifting
well. If the skipper has no wind to show his prowess in with sails, he
must win by his knowledge of current, tide, and channel, while he seems
perhaps to be carried along helplessly. One after another the pretty
racers slowly rounded the Warner light-ship, and then each sunk back, as
it were, into the gauzy distance, until they seemed like white pearls
dotted on grey satin, and the Rob Roy was alone again, while the fog
thickened more. Land was shut out, then sky, then every single thing,
and the glazed sea seemed to stiffen as if it had set flat and smooth for
ever.
To know that this state of thing was to last for hours would make it
intolerable, but the expectancy of every moment buoys up the mind in
hope, and every past moment is buried as you reach thus forward to the
next coming.
Then the inexorable tide turned dead against me, and down went my anchor;
for, at any rate, we must not be floated backwards. Tool-chest opened,
and hammer and saw are instantly at work, for there are still “things to
be done” on board, and when all improvements shall have been completed
then vacant hours like these will be tedious enough; but never fear,
there is no finality in a sailing-boat, if the brain keeps inventing and
the fingers respond.
Out of the thick creamy fog a huge object slowly loomed, with a grand air
of majesty, and a low but strenuous sound as it came nearer and clearer
to eye and ear. It was an enormous Atlantic Steamer, and it went
circling round and round in ample bends, but never too far to be
unexpected again. Sometimes her great paddles moved with a measured
plash, but slow, until she dissolved before my eyes into a faded vision.
Again, when hidden, there would still come a deep moaning from her hoarse
fog-whistle out of the impenetrable whiteness, and she again towered up
suddenly behind, ever wheeling, gliding on, vapour and water so
commingled that you could not say she floated, but was somehow faintly
present like the dim picture on a canvas screen from a magic lantern half
in focus. She was searching in the fog for the ‘Nab’ light-ship, thence
to take new bearings and cleave the mist in a straight course at
half-speed for Southampton. When she found the ‘Nab’ she vanished
finally, and I was glad and sorry she was gone.
After long waiting, the faintest zephyr now at last dallied with my light
flag for a minute, and the anchor was instantly raised. A schooner, also
outward bound, soon gently burst its way through the cloudy barrier, and
I tried to follow her, but she too melted into dimness, and left me in a
noiseless, sightless vacancy, except when the distant gong of the
light-ship told that they also had a fog there.
How did the ancients by any possibility manage to sail in a fog without a
compass? In those days, too, they had no charts; yes, and there was no
“Wreck chart,” to tell at the year’s end all the havoc strewn at the
bottom of the sea.
Well, we sailed on and on, always seeming to sail on into pure
cotton-wool, which blushed a little with an evening tint as the sun tired
down, and so here was a long day told off and ending; but where exactly
am I now as darkness falls?
You will say, “Why, the chart tells that, of course;” and so it does, if
you have anything like sure reckoning to indicate what part of the mazy
groups of figures on it to look for as your probable place; otherwise a
dozen different places in it will all suit your soundings, and eleven of
them are wrong.
Consider the _data_, for our calculation. The Rob Roy had been carried
by two tides; one this way, the other that. She had sailed on three
different tacks, that is, in various angular directions, and with
different speeds, and these complicating forces had acted for times very
uncertain. Where is she now? an all-important question for settling the
start point in a night cruise, and on a dangerous coast.
The last time I was sailing in fog was on the Baltic, in my canoe, where,
just at the nick of time, a look-out man was descried on a high ladder
far overlooking the low rocky islands of the Swedish coast, and he
speedily showed me that my bow was then pointed exactly wrong for the
desired haven.
This may be the time, perhaps, to compare the canoe voyages with the yawl
cruise, even if we cannot settle the question so often put to me, “Which
was the most agreeable?”
A canoe voyage can be enjoyed by several men, each in a separate boat,
and yet all in a combined party; that is, with distinct responsibility
but united companionship. The yawl cruise devolves both toil and care on
one alone, but he also has all the pleasure, and so it might be
pronounced at once to be more _selfish_ than the other voyage. But after
a score of tours, in large and small parties, I see that selfishness is
quite independent of the number concerned. A man who is pleasing his
wife or his children in a tour I do not count at all; for everything that
delights or benefits _them_ is of course a pleasure to _him_. Or again,
he may journey with ten companions, and his travelling circle will indeed
be larger, but the centre of it may be after all the same.
Of the thousand tourists who rush out over the Continent each summer
there is little check on selfishness by meeting people in trains,
steamers, and hotels for a temporary acquaintance which is speedily
dissolved as soon as the interests or the likings of the companions are
not coincident.
Unselfishness appears to consist in doing good when it is not exactly
pleasant to do it, and to people who are not in our own groove, or in
“our set,” but like the people invited in the feast prescribed by Christ,
and for whom we work as a duty, whether it is immediately agreeable or
not. It is giving up our own will to God’s command and obeying this
ungrudgingly: and yet our own pleasure may be most in giving others
pleasure, and we can be lavish of labour for others while we are selfish
at the core. Thus it seems to be very difficult ever to be unselfish in
the sense that it is often absurdly insisted upon; namely, that others
are everything and yourself nothing. Nevertheless, after all casuistry,
we know what is _meant_ by “selfish,” as an undue regard. But the result
of an action is to be looked at, and it does not become selfish because
we alone do one part of it. A man who steps out from a crowd to pluck
flowers alone on the edge of the cliff may bring back a bouquet that will
give fragrant pleasure to them all, while another who stays in the group
of gatherers may gather none at all or may be very selfish about his
handful. Our lonely labour may, in fact, be useful for other people in
the end.
The anxieties of the canoe trip are more varied and less heavy than in a
sailing cruise.
In the yawl I was always sure of food and lodging, but then in the canoe
one does not fear wind, wave, calm, and fog; for, at any rate, one can at
the worst take the canoe ashore. The risk of a total loss of the canoe
is only fifteen pounds gone, but the other shipwreck risks ten times as
much, and whereas each canoe danger can usually be avoided, those met in
sailing at sea are often to be encountered without any escape.
The physical endurance required in a canoe is more under control of a
previous arrangement. The muscular exertion with the paddle is generally
voluntary, while that in the yawl was often hardest when one wanted most
to rest. You need scarcely be forced, in canoeing, to go on two days and
two nights without sleep, as will presently be seen was my fate in the
yawl.
The scenery in traversing land and water in a canoe is of course more
varied than in sailing always at sea, but the perils of the deep have a
grandeur and wideness that seem to rouse far more the inner soul and with
more profound emotions. The thoughts during a night storm at sea are of
a higher strain than those in passing the rapids in a river.
Finally, there is at first a sense of incongruity in the appearance of a
canoe when in a cart, on a train, or in a house, and you have often to
meet an inexplicable but evident _smile_ at the whole affair, which
perhaps comes from pity, certainly from ignorance, and it may be from
contempt; whereas a sailing-boat crossing the deep is doing what people
in ports and ships know very well about, and if your boat keeps on doing
it successfully they cannot despise the deed because the boat that does
it is small. A man who comes to the “meet” on a little pony will not be
laughed at if he is always well in at the death.
Perhaps the voyage alone in a yawl will not be so often repeated by other
people as that in a canoe, but this last manner of touring became popular
at once.
One of the members of the Royal Canoe Club (The late Hon. J. Gordon), a
distinguished University oar and Wimbledon Prizeman, sailed {240} at
night across the Channel from Dover to Boulogne, paddled through France
and sailed to Marseilles, and thence from Nice to Genoa, through the
Italian lakes, the Swiss lakes, and by the Reuss to the Rhine home again.
A second coasted along England, and paddled across the Channel from the
French side in a ‘Rob Roy’ made with his own hands. A third crossed from
Scotland to Ireland in his ‘Rob Roy.’ A critic complacently denied, a
few months before these voyages, that a canoe could cross a bay eight
miles wide. The canoes of our Members have paddled over thousands of
miles in Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, including China and Japan,
besides cruises in Australia, New Zealand, and many groups of islands far
away.