BAD WEATHER

Evening Star, Issue 21965, 27 February 1935, Page 7

BAD WEATHER

ATLANTIC CROSSING ON THE BRIDGE OF A LINER CAPTAIN'S STORY The great liner is outward bound from England to the United States. She lias just passed Bishop Rock Lighthouse (Scilly Islands) —her last link with home —and its friendly beams are rapidly sinking below the horizon on her starboard quarter (writes Captain J G. Bisset, R.N.R., commander of the Ounard-White Star liner Asconia, in the ‘ Daily Mail ’). Before her lies three thousand miles of trackless ocean, the most tempestuous stretch of water on the face of the globe. High up on the bridge, 70ft above the water, the chief and third officers, who are keeping the four to eight watch, stand peeping into the darkness ahead. Occasionally thev focus their binoculars on the lights of nearby vessels, and at times the course is altered slightly to give a passing ship a wider berth. So far the weather has beeu normal and the ship has been slipping along at 23 knots. Now a smart south-west-early breeze has sprung up and raised a choppy sea, which starts her pitching easily. Every few minutes a wave slaps against the bow and sends a cloud of spray whipping across the forecastle head. A FALLING GLASS. The captain, who has beeu snatching a series of cat-naps during the night in the chart room, rouses himself wearily and takes a long look at the barometer. “ Falling rapidly,” he mutters to himself, and struggling into his greatcoat he steps out on to the bridge. “You there, Mr Rankin?” he calls into the darkness. “Aye, aye, sir,” answers the chief officer, and the captain gropes his way towards the voice. “ Black as the inside of a cow,” he grunts as he ranges alongside and plants his feet widely apart. “ Yes,” replies the chief. “ it's very black, but perfectly clear.” At that ’moment a heavy spray crashes over the bridge and they duck for shelter below the wooden dodger. “ Heavy swell getting up since we passed the Bishops,” says the chief. “ Aye,” rejoins the captain. “ Glass falling rapidly too. It looks like dirty ■weather to me. Make sure that everything is well secured round the decks.” and with that he seeks the warmth and shelter of the chart room again. At 8 a.m. the sun appears above a low bank to the eastward—a brassy orb, presaging wind, and plenty of it. The two officers for the eight to twelve watch arrive on tlie bridge clad in oilskins and sea boots, having been warned of the weather. The retiring officers hand over various details such as the course, speed, leeway, revolutions of the engines, compass error, barometer movements, and so on. and dive down to their quarters for a wellearned bath and breakfast. ' RUNNING HIGH. By now the wind has risen to gale force and the waves are running to a height of 20ft. Every now and again the liner puts her bows under and ships the top of a sea which sweeps along the deck in a foaming cascade. The officers seek what shelter they can behind the dodgers, for the law of the sea says: “ No keeping a look-out behind glass,” meaning the heavy plateglass windows of the warm, dry, wheel house. They must be out in the open, where they can see everything ahead and astern, alow and aloft. Th captain joins them. “ Sea’s rising,” he remarks. “We’ll have to reduce soon. Don’t want to do any damage.” The wind and sea continue to increase rapidly, and heavy squalls, accompanied by blinding rain, scream over the ship. At 10 a.m. she takes a purler. “ Half-speed,” barks the capr tain, shaking the salt water out of his eyes. She drops down to fifteen knots and rides easier, but at intervals plunges sickeuiugly, and, as the propellers break surface, she shudders in every rivet. By noon the glass has fallen to 28iu, and the log hook entry reads: “ Whole gale with hurricane squalls. Mountainous sea. Ship pitching, lurching, and labouring heavily and shipping large volumes of water fore and aft.” The engines are now running at slow speed, which is just sufficient to give the ship steerage way. The seas have risen to forty feet from crest to trough and seem to be rushing at her like mighty foam-crested mountains. As in all heavy gales, there are isolated groups of three or four abnormally high waves at frequent intervals, probably piled up by the squalls. BOATS SUFFER. These reach a height of over sixty feet, and advance with furiously curling crests, their steep, black fronts laced with a myriad streaks of foam. One of these breaks on board, on the lore part of the bridge, and, crashing on the boat deck, reduces three massive lifeboats to fragments in the twinkling of an eye. The ship is slowly brought round till the sea is dead ahead, and the log book entry reads “ Hove to.” Towards evening the glass steadies at 27.60 and the sea becomes confused. The captain predicts an imminent change. Sure enough at sunset, after a terrific rain squall, the wind lulls momentarily, then suddenly flies round to the north-west and begins to blow with renewed violence. But the centre of the storm has been passed, and it is only a question of hours till it blows itself out. Throughout the night the glass rises steadily and the hurricane squalls lose their intensity. As the sea gradually subsides the engine revolutions are increased, and by the early hours of the morning the telegraphs signal the welcome order, “ Full speed.” DANGER OVER. The jaded captain, satisfied that all danger is past, takes off his clothes‘for., the first time in fifty hours and climbs into his bunk to sleep like a log. Before the voyage is over the liner en-, counters another gale lasting fortyeight hours, and she is much delayed. On arrival in New York the ship news reporters clamour round the captain’s cabin door. “ You’re very late, captain,” they say. “ Have you any story for the boys? ” The captain passes his hand wearily over his tired eyes and smiles. “Oh, nothing out of the ordinary,” he re-* plies. “Just a spot, of bad weather.”’ The reporters bid him a cheery faro--well and rush away to make a fine; story about it I