Racundra's First Cruise

  Spar-buoys are the loneliest things in the sea. For those who do not know them I should perhaps have said before that they are tall posts anchored to the bottom of the sea to mark the shallows. On their ends in these parts they carry brooms, one or two, and according to the number of the brooms and to their position, the handles of the brooms being up or down, the mariner learns on which side of the buoy is the danger. The brooms do not long survive the buffeting of wind and water, and these lone sticks with their draggle-tailed besoms far out at sea have a most melancholy appearance in themselves, although the sailor finding his way over the waters is glad enough to recognize them and be assured of his position. We rushed past that solitary pair, jibed for the last time, and stood away E.N.E. for the narrow passage across the reef that almost joins Odensholm to Spithamn.

  The wind strengthened in successive stout breaths, and then settled down in the S.E., to blow considerably harder than Racundra had yet had opportunity of feeling. We were some eight or ten miles off the land, and the wind, blowing since the afternoon of yesterday, had had plenty of time to get up the waves – nothing, of course, compared to those there must have been on the other side of the Gulf, but still enough to make a pretty fair test of Racundra’s quality. With her broad beam and heavy keel she stood up to the wind magnificently, of course, but, as she dropped between each wave, something fairly thundered within her, shaking the whole ship. It was the centreboard, and we hauled it up, for, with the wind broad on her beam and plenty of it, the difference it made to her sailing (if any, for she is by no means flat-bottomed) was fully discounted by the pounding effect on our nerves. Even so we were left with a noise to which to grow accustomed – the tremendous crashing of the water under her weather bilge keel as she sank into the trough. As soon as we knew what it was, we stopped worrying, but before we knew we had crawled all over inside her, feeling her sides, inspecting the boltheads of her three-and-a-half-ton keel, and generally expecting unpleasant surprises. Once we knew what it was, it rapidly became unnoticeable, and we were able whole-heartedly to rejoice in Racundra’s manner of dealing with waves, a thing beautiful to see. We took plenty of spray on deck, but no heavy water at all. “She juist joomps out of them like a dinghy,” said the Ancient, restored to happiness after doubts, during the centreboard’s orchestral performances, as to whether the keel was adrift. In the general buffeting she got between leaving the Moon Sound and coming into shelter of the land by Spithamn, only one thing gave way. In the working drawings for her there had been a neat galvanized iron saddle and ring by way of gaff jaws, but the builder, saving money, had not bought it, and, at the last minute, had made wooden jaws, with holes for the lacing bored far too big, thereby weakening a contraption which even apart from that was rather ineffectively held together with screws. Further, the shrouds of the mainmast fell rather far aft, and the mainsail being very tall, the gaff tended to swing forward and press against the shroud, putting an unfair strain on the jaws. We had heard a loud crack aloft, but nothing had come down, and from the steering-well we could see no damage. After sighting the low island of Odensholm with its lighthouse, and finding the two buoys that mark the passage just north of the promontory of Spithamn, where more ships were taking refuge under the lee of the rising ground with its six windmills, we heard another crack. I set a course to take us north of Sandgrund and the rocks beyond Spithamn, left the tiller to the Ancient, and went forward to take a look at things. I saw at once that the parrel rings of the gaff jaws were hanging loose, that the gaff jaws were broken, and that the broken side of the jaws was jammed in place by a halyard, which, bar-taut, was the only thing that kept the gaff from breaking loose. This was pretty unpleasing, but, after watching it for a minute or two, I became convinced that nothing would shift it so long as we held the wind on the starboard side, which we should do until we came to Reval Bay. In any case we were moving finely, and this place, with Sandgrund, Grasgrund and the Locust Rock all to be avoided, was not the one to choose for a stoppage for repairs.

  We held on, and Racundra, settling down to her work, justified our trust by the speed with which she hurried eastwards. At 6.5 we had Grasgrund abeam and saw the lonely rock, well out to sea, where in fine weather there is often a broad space of visible ground. On our starboard bows were the islands of Roogö, off which we had been becalmed one summer’s night in Kittiwake. There was Pakerort Lighthouse, tall on its cliff, the witness of how many of our struggles in the recalcitrant but lamented Slug. In the bay on the higher side of Pakerort was Baltic Port. We were already in familiar waters. And, with the thought of Baltic Port, our pleasant anchorage of last summer, came doubts as to the wisdom of standing on for Reval in the dark through what in any other boat we should have called a storm, with so serious a piece of trouble as broken gaff jaws awaiting attention aloft. We should have to beat into Reval Bay anyhow, when the gaff jaws would infallibly come down. It would then be dark. Better beat into Roogowik, to Baltic Port, here, now, in daylight, when, if anything went wrong, we could see what we were about. So, rather nervously, we hauled in the sheets, put the helm down for a moment, and stood close-hauled into Roogowik. But we were already too late. The deep bay running S.E. into the land left us again without protection, we were bucketing into a head sea, Racundra’s speed fell off, and the twilight was upon us. It became imperative to have a look at those gaff jaws while it was yet light enough to see. The Ancient lowered away the peak, which stuck, of course, in the makeshift blocks, then loosed the throat halyard, when the whole thing came down in a tumultuous and entangled rush. Within a minute we had learned that with her staysail and mizen setting as badly as they then were, Racundra would have a very difficult time beating against a heavy sea under those two sails alone. She absolutely refused to stay (I hasten to explain that now, since we have put things right and given her the tackle she deserves, after generally clearing up the abounding errors in her rigging, she stays with the utmost regularity). We had to wear her each time we went about. Now, Roogowik is a narrow inlet deep to either shore, but with rocks along both sides and an awkward reef running out north of the harbour, which is well into the inlet on the eastern side. It grew perfectly dark. The harbour lights appeared, but there were no lights whatever on the Roogö island shore opposite the harbour. We could not tell how near we were to the land when on the tack that took us in that direction. The wind was extremely strong (indeed, if it had been weaker our position would perhaps have been worse); our sidelights would not burn, and the binnacle light blew out every time it was lit. We found ourselves not snugly making repairs in Baltic Port, as we had hoped, but rushing wildly in the dark from one side to the other of the bay, desperately wearing round when we thought we could afford to go no farther, and gaining absolutely nothing in our struggle towards the green light which meant, as I thought then, a well-known harbour.

  Providence, perhaps, was with us, for, as we were to learn a fortnight later, if we had gone in there with the wind behind us, as it would have been if only we could have made the entrance, which is from the south, we should almost certainly have been smashed up. The harbour had been halved in size since last year. The open space through which I should have tried to go to my old anchorage had been blocked by a new pier of black tarred timbers, quite invisible at night, and my old anchorage, behind it, was high and dry out of the water. I do not like to think of what would have happened if, with that wind, we had raced into that blind alley in the dark.

  However, we had no chance of doing any such thing. With the darkness the wind increased to a gale and our position became rather seriously uncomfortable, for it became clear that, so far from gaining, we were actually losing ground, and that with each tack we were coming nearer to the reef instead of farther into the bay beyond it. At this point, the Ancient and I had our only quarrel. He wanted to get as near the harbour mouth as we could, drop anchor and try to get a line ashore. I knew the place well from other years, and so knew that the depth was far too great to give us a chance of doing an
ything but lose an anchor, and that if we got anywhere near the shore, unless actually in the harbour mouth, we should infallibly go on a rock. I was therefore for admitting that Baltic Port was a mistake, for wearing for the last time, getting well out into the middle of the bay and clear of the reef, and then putting the helm up and running out to sea until beyond the precipitous point of Pakerort, when I should bring her up to the wind and remain so till morning. There was a little breathless bitterness on the subject as we shouted at each other and tried to hear what the other was shouting back, and it ended in Racundra pretending she had never wanted to put her nose into Baltic Port at all. She stopped bucketing into the wind, and with sudden restfulness and three times the speed, flew out of the bay with the wind at her heels to the open sea, where she was more at home. The Ancient watched Pakerort light till from the cliff-top it looked down over our stern, and then went below and to sleep. There was, after all, nothing more to be done.

  PAKERORT TO REVAL

  THEN began a wild but, in a curious way, rather enjoyable night. No misfortunes at sea are enjoyable in themselves. He is a liar who says they are and he is a fool who courts them. But when misfortune has come against your will, when it is there, when you have shaken hands with it, realized it thoroughly, and done what you think is the best possible thing to do, there comes a sort of release from further worry which is quite sensibly pleasant.

  There was Racundra with her mainsail gone, proved incapable of beating under staysail and mizen, rigged as they then were in a temporary manner, careering through steep seas in a pitch-dark night with no sidelights and a binnacle lamp that would not burn. On the face of it, misery. Yet there was no misery about it. While in that narrow bay I had been much afraid, but here, in the open sea, things were better. Besides, we were doing the thing which I had myself urged as the right thing to do. It was my own thing, this careering business out here in the dark, and I had the joy of possession. I was still afraid, of course, but knew where I was, and knew what I had to avoid. I had to prevent Racundra from being blown too far out to sea, to prevent her from working sideways to Nargon island, and to make headway if possible towards the shallow bay on this side of Surop, without going on the rocks off the near point of it and without getting into the bay until it was light enough to see what we were about. Wind and sea had clearly made up their minds to knock us and blow us to Finland, or, if we insisted on working sideways, to plant us on Nargon like many good ships before us. Racundra and I were of a different determination, and, as we careered in the dark over waves which always seem bigger at night, I had the definite impression that Racundra was enjoying it also in her fashion. I found myself, who do not sing in happier moments, yelling “Spanish Ladies” and “Summer is icumen in” and “John Peel” at the top of my voice. Then the Cook struggled up the companion-way with a sandwich. She asked, with real inquiry, “Are we going to be drowned before morning?”

  I leaned forward from the steering-well and shouted, “Why?”

  “Because I have two thermos flasks full of hot coffee. If we are, we may as well drink them both. If not, I’ll keep one till tomorrow.”

  We kept one. We drank the hot coffee from the other and ate a huge quantity of sandwiches. The more we ate the better things seemed. We grew accustomed even to the din. Douses of spray merely made it seem worth while to have put on oilskins. The howling of the wind and the recurrent crashing of the waters became monotonous. The Cook, who had been doing her work as calmly as Racundra, and like Racundra was enjoying it, fell asleep in the middle of a laugh. She was tired out, and when the next big splash woke her, I sent her below to lie down, knowing that there would be plenty of work for her in the morning, whereas there was nothing she could well do at the moment. I do not believe she has forgiven me yet.

  After that, Pakerort light and Surop light and the faraway flash of Nargon were my companions. The riding light, the only one of our lamps that would burn except the swinging lamp in the cabin, I had under my knees in the steering-well. With an electric pocket-lamp I had a look at the binnacle now and again. So we went on, hour after hour, until I too fell asleep.

  I suppose everybody who has spent long hours at the tiller of a little boat has done the same. But, I admit, I was startled the first time I woke to find myself in the steering-well of Racundra, holding a kicking tiller, with the dark in my eyes and a great wind in my face. The next time it happened I said to myself, “Done it again!” and began pinching myself as hard as I could, in muscles, in any places that seemed to hurt, in the effort to keep awake. It was no use. The lamp was burning all night in the cabin and light came up through the round windows in the cabin roof. I had shifted the riding light from the floor of the steering-well to the seat behind me. A faint divided light was thrown on the staysail and the upturned shape of the dinghy lashed underneath it on the foredeck, and these in successive dreams took different shapes. I found myself wrestling with a large and difficult collar-stud stuck in a stiff shirt, and only slowly came to understand that the collar-stud was the tiller and the white shirt spreading somewhere before me was the lonely staysail. A minute or two later the dinghy was the moulded base of a huge table and the staysail was a corner of a tablecloth most annoyingly put on crooked. “Do put that cloth straight,” I woke saying, and found myself, as before, keeping Racundra up into the wind.

  I think that is the secret. One could not go to sleep at the tiller with the wind aft, but, when close-hauled, steering is done so much by feel, especially in the dark, that the ship takes care of the sleeping helmsman. I never once woke with sails flapping, and never once to find that I had fallen off the wind. Racundra took care of her skipper, who was far too tired to take care of himself. Then, suddenly, the sleeping fit passed from me and I was extraordinarily awake, most unpleasantly aware of what I took to be some martial idiot rushing about with a little ship of war showing no lights but the occasional disconcerting flash of a projector. Then came the lights of a steamer from the west (as I learnt afterwards, our old friend the Baltabor from Riga), also at that time, when we were bucketing about without sidelights, a thing of infinite hate. And then, suddenly, with a relief which let me know how great the strain had been, I knew that the eastern sky was distinguishable from the sea. Day was coming at last, and with day the possibility of doing more than hold our own, if indeed we had been doing that.

  Day came, or the light before the day, and I found exultantly that I was now not sleepy at all. We had done much better than I had expected in the dark. We were well clear of Nargon and about two miles from Surop. I held on joyfully, no longer thinking of calling the Ancient, who at last, when the sun was up, came on deck and, with that little faith of his, as once before he had looked for Riga, now looked for Pakerort. Everything was hope. We could see what we were doing, and the Ancient dug out the trysail from the solid mass of gear and sails stowed in the forecastle during our hurried departure. We disentangled a halyard and got the trysail up, wore ship after an ineffectual attempt to go about, and stood in on the port tack for Fall and the hollow of the broad bay west of Surop, to get under the shelter of the land for repairs that would let us hoist the mainsail again, without which we were so badly crippled. At last we got into fairly smooth water. We drank the hot coffee from that other thermos flask. The Cook worked one of her miracles and produced great bowls of porridge. The Ancient Mariner made a wonderful job of a manila rope substitute for gaff jaws. This done, the Cook took the tiller while we took off the trysail and hoisted the main. Would it stand or would it not? It stood most beautifully, and with singing hearts we went about on the starboard tack, cleared the rocks by Surop and then, coming nearer to the wind, held on till close by Cape Basanova, the S.E. point of Nargon, where, long before, we had landed on our first voyage in Slug. Then we went about and stood due south, the wind having momentarily backed to the east. We stood into Zigelsko Bay. Reval was in sight for a moment, then blotted out by big rain-squalls. We went about thinking to clear Karlo, but the wind shifted
too, and had such strength that even with eased mizen it took all the strength I had to keep her off the point, which she seemed determined to ram. I ran her off a little whenever I got a chance, but there were moments when it was impossible to do anything but luff, and Karlo, now and again invisible in the squalls, seemed most unpleasantly close. These squalls were, I think, the toughest wind we had throughout the storm, and Racundra, forced over by them, and meeting the short steep waves of the entrance to Reval Bay, shipped more water than throughout the whole of the rest of the passage. The Ancient had left the forecastle hatch open under the overturned dinghy, and until the Cook, guessing what had happened, went forward and closed it from underneath, each wave that came over sent a deluge below. Holding on in the cabin in a sort of whirlwind of flying pots, pans, apples, pipes and other loose lumber, the Cook was persuaded we were going to run her bodily under water, but Racundra’s admirable nose took care of that. We had a wet but exhilarating time clearing Karlo, after which the squalls slackened, and we stood right across the bay towards the low hill and windmill by Miderando, went about there, and tacking with long legs and short, made our way up the bay towards the three ships of the Esthonian Grand Fleet and the rock and spires of Reval, dim in the rain, with each tack getting more into shelter and finding things easier, until at last we rounded smoothly into the harbour, picked up a buoy, warped into a berth by the Yacht Club mole, made all snug and had a pretty decisive supper.