The sailing and racing of yachts has developed a class of fore-and-aft
sailors, men born and bred to the sea, fishing in winter and yachting in
summer; men to whom the handling of that particular rig presents no
mystery. It is their striving for victory that has elevated the sailing
of pleasure craft to the dignity of a fine art in that special sense. As
I have said, I know nothing of racing and but little of fore-and-aft rig;
but the advantages of such a rig are obvious, especially for purposes of
pleasure, whether in cruising or racing. It requires less effort in
handling; the trimming of the sail-planes to the wind can be done with
speed and accuracy; the unbroken spread of the sail-area is of infinite
advantage; and the greatest possible amount of canvas can be displayed
upon the least possible quantity of spars. Lightness and concentrated
power are the great qualities of fore-and-aft rig.
A fleet of fore-and-afters at anchor has its own slender graciousness.
The setting of their sails resembles more than anything else the
unfolding of a bird’s wings; the facility of their evolutions is a
pleasure to the eye. They are birds of the sea, whose swimming is like
flying, and resembles more a natural function than the handling of
man-invented appliances. The fore-and-aft rig in its simplicity and the
beauty of its aspect under every angle of vision is, I believe,
unapproachable. A schooner, yawl, or cutter in charge of a capable man
seems to handle herself as if endowed with the power of reasoning and the
gift of swift execution. One laughs with sheer pleasure at a smart piece
of manoeuvring, as at a manifestation of a living creature’s quick wit
and graceful precision.
Of those three varieties of fore-and-aft rig, the cutter—the racing rig
_par excellence_—is of an appearance the most imposing, from the fact
that practically all her canvas is in one piece. The enormous mainsail
of a cutter, as she draws slowly past a point of land or the end of a
jetty under your admiring gaze, invests her with an air of lofty and
silent majesty. At anchor a schooner looks better; she has an aspect of
greater efficiency and a better balance to the eye, with her two masts
distributed over the hull with a swaggering rake aft. The yawl rig one
comes in time to love. It is, I should think, the easiest of all to
manage.
For racing, a cutter; for a long pleasure voyage, a schooner; for
cruising in home waters, the yawl; and the handling of them all is indeed
a fine art. It requires not only the knowledge of the general principles
of sailing, but a particular acquaintance with the character of the
craft. All vessels are handled in the same way as far as theory goes,
just as you may deal with all men on broad and rigid principles. But if
you want that success in life which comes from the affection and
confidence of your fellows, then with no two men, however similar they
may appear in their nature, will you deal in the same way. There may be
a rule of conduct; there is no rule of human fellowship. To deal with
men is as fine an art as it is to deal with ships. Both men and ships
live in an unstable element, are subject to subtle and powerful
influences, and want to have their merits understood rather than their
faults found out.
It is not what your ship will _not_ do that you want to know to get on
terms of successful partnership with her; it is, rather, that you ought
to have a precise knowledge of what she will do for you when called upon
to put forth what is in her by a sympathetic touch. At first sight the
difference does not seem great in either line of dealing with the
difficult problem of limitations. But the difference is great. The
difference lies in the spirit in which the problem is approached. After
all, the art of handling ships is finer, perhaps, than the art of
handling men.
And, like all fine arts, it must be based upon a broad, solid sincerity,
which, like a law of Nature, rules an infinity of different phenomena.
Your endeavour must be single-minded. You would talk differently to a
coal-heaver and to a professor. But is this duplicity? I deny it. The
truth consists in the genuineness of the feeling, in the genuine
recognition of the two men, so similar and so different, as your two
partners in the hazard of life. Obviously, a humbug, thinking only of
winning his little race, would stand a chance of profiting by his
artifices. Men, professors or coal-heavers, are easily deceived; they
even have an extraordinary knack of lending themselves to deception, a
sort of curious and inexplicable propensity to allow themselves to be led
by the nose with their eyes open. But a ship is a creature which we have
brought into the world, as it were on purpose to keep us up to the mark.
In her handling a ship will not put up with a mere pretender, as, for
instance, the public will do with Mr. X, the popular statesman, Mr. Y,
the popular scientist, or Mr. Z, the popular—what shall we say?—anything
from a teacher of high morality to a bagman—who have won their little
race. But I would like (though not accustomed to betting) to wager a
large sum that not one of the few first-rate skippers of racing yachts
has ever been a humbug. It would have been too difficult. The
difficulty arises from the fact that one does not deal with ships in a
mob, but with a ship as an individual. So we may have to do with men.
But in each of us there lurks some particle of the mob spirit, of the mob
temperament. No matter how earnestly we strive against each other, we
remain brothers on the lowest side of our intellect and in the
instability of our feelings. With ships it is not so. Much as they are
to us, they are nothing to each other. Those sensitive creatures have no
ears for our blandishments. It takes something more than words to cajole
them to do our will, to cover us with glory. Luckily, too, or else there
would have been more shoddy reputations for first-rate seamanship. Ships
have no ears, I repeat, though, indeed, I think I have known ships who
really seemed to have had eyes, or else I cannot understand on what
ground a certain 1,000-ton barque of my acquaintance on one particular
occasion refused to answer her helm, thereby saving a frightful smash to
two ships and to a very good man’s reputation. I knew her intimately for
two years, and in no other instance either before or since have I known
her to do that thing. The man she had served so well (guessing, perhaps,
at the depths of his affection for her) I have known much longer, and in
bare justice to him I must say that this confidence-shattering experience
(though so fortunate) only augmented his trust in her. Yes, our ships
have no ears, and thus they cannot be deceived. I would illustrate my
idea of fidelity as between man and ship, between the master and his art,
by a statement which, though it might appear shockingly sophisticated, is
really very simple. I would say that a racing-yacht skipper who thought
of nothing else but the glory of winning the race would never attain to
any eminence of reputation. The genuine masters of their craft—I say
this confidently from my experience of ships—have thought of nothing but
of doing their very best by the vessel under their charge. To forget
one’s self, to surrender all personal feeling in the service of that fine
art, is the only way for a seaman to the faithful discharge of his trust.
Such is the service of a fine art and of ships that sail the sea. And
therein I think I can lay my finger upon the difference between the
seamen of yesterday, who are still with us, and the seamen of to-morrow,
already entered upon the possession of their inheritance. History
repeats itself, but the special call of an art which has passed away is
never reproduced. It is as utterly gone out of the world as the song of
a destroyed wild bird. Nothing will awaken the same response of
pleasurable emotion or conscientious endeavour. And the sailing of any
vessel afloat is an art whose fine form seems already receding from us on
its way to the overshadowed Valley of Oblivion. The taking of a modern
steamship about the world (though one would not minimize its
responsibilities) has not the same quality of intimacy with nature,
which, after all, is an indispensable condition to the building up of an
art. It is less personal and a more exact calling; less arduous, but
also less gratifying in the lack of close communion between the artist
and the medium of his art. It is, in short, less a matter of love. Its
effects are measured exactly in time and space as no effect of an art can
be. It is an occupation which a man not desperately subject to
sea-sickness can be imagined to follow with content, without enthusiasm,
with industry, without affection. Punctuality is its watchword. The
incertitude which attends closely every artistic endeavour is absent from
its regulated enterprise. It has no great moments of self-confidence, or
moments not less great of doubt and heart-searching. It is an industry
which, like other industries, has its romance, its honour and its
rewards, its bitter anxieties and its hours of ease. But such sea-going
has not the artistic quality of a single-handed struggle with something
much greater than yourself; it is not the laborious absorbing practice of
an art whose ultimate result remains on the knees of the gods. It is not
an individual, temperamental achievement, but simply the skilled use of a
captured force, merely another step forward upon the way of universal
conquest.