I have been all my life a lover of the sea; an observer of its natural
and social conditions; a student of its phases and fabrics; but
while my mind in its long and wide search has touched upon almost
every subject connected with ocean life, the one that has constantly
interested and fascinated me is that which relates to the care and
government of sailing vessels. This art, which is called seamanship, is
one of man's oldest and noblest attainments. What does the world owe to
him who possessed it?
To him the civilization of to-day owes its existence. Man cramped in
the confines of a continent, a prisoner at low-water mark, a dwarf in
a dwarf world, was released, lifted and enlightened by the Master of
the Sail. It was he who found the universe upon the sea, and brought it
home; a free gift, with the more costly but less valuable trophies of
distant trade. It was he who, broadening the world's world, broadened
the world's mind. With the spices and silks of the East, with the gold
and tobaccos of the West, he laded his ships with the new knowledge, a
commodity that paid no revenues to the crown, that added nothing to the
wealth and glory of princes, but, flowing slowly and steadily into the
minds of men, incited the intelligent few to broader, nobler and more
splendid achievements, and filtering through the masses, long steeped
in inveterate ignorance, uplifted, enriched and regenerated all.
In the shadow of his sail hamlets became cities; wealth increased,
suffering diminished. In his callous hands, the helm, that through
daylight and darkness guided his vessel from land to land, was more
marvelous in its powers than the famed ivory wand of the Eastern
genii; and to all who sought to receive, his sail bore more jewels
than ever burdened the magic carpet, or came into the hands of the
daring and fortunate through the incantations of the Sons of the Hidden
Light. While with one hand he struggled with chaffering Trade for her
sordid coin, with the other he threw into the laps of Science and Art
innumerable treasures. Impartial in his generosity as in his gifts, he
gave to Astronomy new constellations, to Medicine rare and efficacious
herbs, to Art fresh and invigorating colors, and to Literature a
strange breed of heroes, novel situations and unfamiliar plots.
The freedom that he found upon the high seas he brought back to cheer
the slaves of the mart. Kings bargained for his services, nobles and
merchants offered their purses to assist in his ventures. In return
for three paltry vessels he presented Spain with an empire; to prove
a chimera false he perished among the northern ices. No sea was too
broad to daunt him; no land was too distant to escape his search. The
miseries he endured, the hardships he underwent, were forgotten in the
joys of a new discovery. He opened roads of trade that brought riches
and power to his country, and sprinkled these pathways with the bones
of his companions--victims of exposure, famine and disease.
No reef lifts above the water, no shallow spreads its treacherous
sands, but the frames of his vessel have been broken upon it. The
hurricane and calm have taken toll of him; he has paid the penalty of
recklessness and greed. He has given to the annals of war its most
desperate and bloody conflicts; he has perished that nations might
live, and that a people might be free.
His life gave him strength and endurance; his art made him skillful and
courageous. He created and used a language of his own, and his customs
were not those of other men. The inventor of the sail, the user of
the elements, the discoverer, the trader, the protector, the world's
benefactor--the seaman.
A noble art makes noble men, and there is no nobler art than
seamanship. As free and changeful in its measures as are the elements
it employs and combats, it is prolific of resource, fertile in
expedient, and a prompter of mental activity. It promotes skill of hand
and tenacity of muscle. Courage is bred in its duties, and the mind
broadens in its services.
It is this that makes the practice of seamanship so valuable to those
who employ it only as a pastime. The care and handling of the sailing
vessel furnishes most excellent training for the young. Aside from
the skill it imparts, it takes men out into the open air; it offers
to those whom the obligations of life keep at the counter and desk an
opportunity to be free, to get away from and completely out of the
business world. It gives the mart-worn mind a change and a rest. The
sea has no postmen; no telegraph messengers. It prints no newspapers.
The feet of society merely tread its borders. It is a place where man
is really free, and where he can realize his freedom.
Many have written upon this art. Some of these works are an addition
to literature and of value to the seaman, but the majority are not. On
that branch of seamanship, which we will call yachtmanship, and which
is principally the art of sparring, rigging, canvasing and handling
fore-and-aft vessels, there has been penned several large works and
many small ones. The standard books are by Vanderdecken and Kemp,
and the majority of the others, I am sorry to say, are in the most
part copies of these two. In some cases the authors have lifted their
information bodily, and have forgotten to acknowledge the indebtedness.
While standard works of their time, both Vanderdecken and Kemp are now
out of date, and, moreover, they deal largely with big vessels, and
vessels of a type no longer employed in yachting.
Among the smaller works there are several good ones, but they lack
originality and do not properly cover the ground, nor do they contain
the information which is most necessary to the beginner. Again, many of
them have been written by men who are enslaved by one type, and are
therefore considerably biased; others are from the pen of those who
have had a special and not a general experience.
But the crowning defect of all these books, to my mind, is that the
authors in the portion relating to handling try to teach a man, instead
of prompting him to learn. You cannot teach a man to sail--he may
learn. In order to do so he must have the sailor instinct. Unless he
has that he will never become a seaman. That is why some men can never
learn to handle a boat, and why others will pick up the knowledge in a
few months.
Again, there are many men who learn to sail a boat; that is, become
possessed of so much knowledge as will permit of their working a
vessel from place to place, but yet never succeed in mastering the
nicer or more difficult points of seamanship. These are the parrots of
the profession--men who simply repeat what they see other men do. The
skillful seaman is the man who thinks, who studies his profession, and
who learns from his own experience what he cannot from the practice of
others.
It is often said that experience is the great teacher. To be sure it
is; but even experience cannot teach one who will not learn. The most
intense and varied experience is of no use to one who casts it aside
without first fitting it into place in his life's record by turning it
over and over in his mind. Spasmodic storage of experience is of no use
whatever; it must be sorted, checked up, ticketed and stored away in
its proper place in the next bin to that which it joins in the sequence
of events. Unless this is done it will not be forthcoming when needed.
Properly arranged and stored, experience is the mother of what is
called "presence of mind," the most necessary mental part for a
seaman to possess. Without it he will be a menace to his own safety
and a threat of danger to others. Presence of mind is simply applied
forethought. You do in an emergency without apparent reflection the
right thing, and save your boat, your life, or somebody else's life.
People who see the act, exclaim, "What wonderful presence of mind!" but
would be more correct, if they exclaimed, "What perfect presence of
plan!" You have simply executed at a moment's notice a plan of action
that has been stored away in your mind, perhaps for years.
When a boy, I frequently amused myself when skating by thinking out
what I would do if a person fell through the ice. I pictured all
possible situations and methods of rescue. One day the accident
happened; a boy in skating across the head of a pond broke through the
thin ice formed where the river entered the lake. From the hundred
skaters present a yell of terror went up, and, as was the case when
the immortal Mr. Pickwick met with a similar accident at Dingley
Dell, everybody called for help, and nobody offered it. Though at
some distance, my attention was drawn to the mishap by these cries.
Instantly I responded. There was no mental preparation, no reflection;
the proper plan flashed into my acting mind. I executed it, and the boy
was saved.
Now, if I had not had that plan stored in my mind, I should have been
just as much at sea as the rest were. I should probably have joined
them in shouting for a plank or rope, or, like Mr. Tupman, have cried
fire, or performed some other senseless act, such as people do when
brought suddenly face to face with a dangerous emergency.
One day when running down wind I said to the young fellow at the wheel,
who was anxious to learn the seaman's trade, "What would you do if one
of us fell overboard?" "I don't know," he answered. "Haven't you ever
thought, planned out, what you would do in such an emergency?" No, he
hadn't. "Well," I said, "you think it out; put the boat in different
positions and under different sail, and plan out what you would do if
such an accident happened." A day or two after, while the same lad
was at the wheel, we lost the dingey. Without calling me from below
or hesitating, he wore round and recovered the boat, executing the
manoeuvre in so clever a manner as to call praise from all the old
hands. When, shortly after, I relieved him at the wheel, he said, "I
thought that out the other day after you spoke about what to do if a
man falls overboard."
Again, I was on the bridge of a steamer chatting with the mate. "What
do you do to pass away the long night watches?" I asked him. "Well,"
he answered, "I spend hours thinking and planning out what I would
do if certain things happened. I put the ship into every possible
danger--fire, collision, shifting cargo, broken shaft, and unexpected
land. I then plan how best to meet the emergency created. I place other
ships in every position--green to port, red to starboard, lights dead
ahead, lights on the beam, lights everywhere--then plan to work my ship
clear of them. I have some run into me, am sinking, lower boats, save
my own crew and rescue others. I pick up lame ducks, pass hawsers,
make fast and tow them in. Everything that could possibly happen I
have happen, and plan the ways and means of meeting them over and over
again. That is how I while away my eight hours in the scuppers."
There was a seaman who had prepared himself for an emergency; a
commander who had ready for instant use a plan, so, let occasion demand
it, he could stand forth the man of the hour.
Let me advise you who would learn the seaman's art to copy that mate.
Spend your idle hours thinking and planning. Never go into a difficult
channel without first picturing what dangers may confront you, and how
you can overcome them. Never pass through a fleet or come to anchor
among vessels without planning beforehand your mode of action. Never
turn in at night without first looking about you and outlining in your
mind your position in regard to shore and craft, and forming a plan
for getting away if anything should happen to oblige you to make sail.
After a little practice this thinking ahead will become second nature,
and your brain will plan and act with the regularity and cheerfulness
of a good clock.
The backbone of active seamanship is confidence--confidence in
yourself, confidence in your craft, confidence in your crew. The first
and most necessary of these is confidence in yourself. Without it the
place for you is on shore, or in a subordinate position. No man should
attempt to command who has shaken confidence in his own skill and
judgment. I mean by confidence the true article, not the false, which
is more commonly called conceit.
Confidence is inspired by action and confirmed by success. You attempt
a feat such as you have never attempted before and are successful,
therefore you are sure that the skill or knowledge you used in
performing it is reliable, and that you are possessed of a mastery over
it sufficient to enable you to repeat the act. In plain English, you
are sure you can do it again.
Let us suppose it is a feat of navigation. By yourself you have never
taken a yacht out of sight of land, but, having the opportunity, decide
to attempt to run from one point to another across an open stretch of
sea. You take the chart, find the magnetic course and distance, allow
for leeway and current, and having thus found your compass course put
the ship on it, and away you go. Land soon drops down astern, and you
begin to feel a bit shaky. Suppose you have made a mistake in laying
off the course; not allowed enough for leeway, too much for current.
Suppose you should miss the distant cape. This and a dozen other things
begin to haunt your mind. You go below, out with the chart, pass over
your figures, remeasure the distance, get the same result for compass
course--we will say N. E. by E.1/2E. You go back on deck confident that
your course and distance are correct, and then begin to worry about
the compass. You are sure it was correct yesterday, because you took
several bearings and found it so, and it was also correct two weeks
before, on your last cruise. Then you reason that it is very unlikely
that it would go waltzing off into an excessive error just because it
happened to have been taken out of sight of land for the first time,
and so give it back your confidence and steer away N. E. by E.1/2E.
Your crew now begin to worry, never having been out of sight of land
before. They look at you as though they suspected you of contemplating
their murder. They walk around uneasily, search the horizon ahead, and
cast regretful glances at the one astern, pay repeated visits to the
log and act generally like a set of condemned victims. Your confidence
under this condition begins to wilt again. You take the log index, go
below, and find that your passage is half made. You show this to the
crew, and they appear half satisfied and half doubtful, despite your
assumed air of implicit faith. They seem to know that your face is
acting, and that your stomach is not backing up the play. Just then the
helmsman calls out that a steamship is in sight ahead. The smoke-boat
approaches rapidly, running almost on the back-bearing to the one your
craft is on--S. W. by W., as near as you can make it. As she draws near
you recognize her as a coaster running between the place you are bound
to and the place you have left. Here is positive evidence that you are
on the right track. You strut round the cockpit with the airs of an
admiral, and the timid members of your crew shrink into their lower
garments.
But a few hours after passing the steamer, night comes on, and it
begins to blow and get nasty. You call all hands, reef down, and thus
check your speed, so that instead of making six knots you are only
doing four. Then the wind hauls a bit more forward, and you have to
flatten-in your sheets. This increases your leeway, and you decide to
allow another point for it--making your course N. E., 1/2 E. Then you
wonder if that is enough, and again begin to worry. By this time your
crew have accepted their fate, and are in a profound state of despair,
beyond even a murmur of insubordination, doing their work slowly and
sullenly, as though every act was a part of a preparation to commit
suicide.
Down to the chart you go again; pass over the course, and pricking
off the distance, find that you are by your reckoning still twenty
miles from the landfall you expect to make. The light on it is visible
fifteen miles. Laying out this on the chart, you see that you can
hardly miss hitting that big circle, and are somewhat assured. Now the
wind falls light, and instead of being within the range of visibility
of the light in an hour or so, it is three before the log says you have
run far enough. You carefully search the horizon for it. No light is
visible. A cold sweat begins to break out. You are lost--lost at sea.
You must have allowed too little for leeway and have passed far outside
of the light. What had you better do, keep your course, or haul up?
After thinking it over, and again consulting the chart, you decide to
hold the course for an hour longer. How slowly that hour drags away! At
its expiration the log shows three and one-half miles more. You are now
by your reckoning eleven and one-half miles from the light. Certainly
you must see it. A long search with the glass; no light. You decide to
haul up and try for it to the north'rd and west'rd, but before doing
so have one more look. Hello! there it is, a point on the starboard
bow. That's the light, sure enough. It flashes; you count ten seconds,
fifteen seconds, darkness; again it flashes ten seconds. "Light ho!"
you shout.
Has your log overrun that amount? You decide it has; but a few
minutes later the light is lost again. That settles it--fog or mist
inshore; the log is all right. So you stand boldly on, your whole
mind aglow with the triumph you have just achieved--that of making
a good landfall. The drama of Columbus at San Salvador is replayed,
you taking the part of the great admiral, and your crew that of the
conscience-stricken mutineers. You wonder why they ever doubted your
skill and knowledge, forgetting that you doubted yourself.
The next day your crew strut proudly about the port like a lot of
mariners just returned from circumnavigating the globe. They are proud
of you, proud of their vessel, and very proud of themselves. But what a
change it has worked in you! You are a very different man to-day from
what you were the hour you took your departure to make that passage.
To-day you have confidence in your skill and knowledge, and in yourself
as a user of those powers.
I have written that little sketch to show you that knowing how to
hand, reef and steer is not all that is needed to make a seaman. The
knowledge of the methods of working sails and ship are only a part of
the seaman's craft. His head as well as his hand must be trained. He
must not only know his vessel thoroughly, but he must as thoroughly
know himself.
_ON BOATS IN GENERAL_
_"Is it come?" they said, on the banks of the Nile,
Who looked for the world's long-promised boat,
And saw that the lines he had drawn on a tile
Would make a good cruiser--if it would float,
Thro' pyramids, temples, and mummies stuffed,
We vainly search for this ideal plan;
We fear the Burgess of Pharaoh's bluffed--
Yet there was hope when that day began._