WHALING A WELL-PAYING JOB

Manawatu Times, Volume 63, Issue 39, 16 February 1938, Page 8

WHALING A WELL-PAYING JOB

gANDEFIORD is my home town. It is a pretty little place situated some hundred and fifty miles west of Oslo, Norway, where the whaling fleets of many nations in its harbour used to thrill me as a boy. And when, hungry for adventure, I left the lecture halls of the Medical Faculty in Oslo, it was here I came, as naturally as a bird returns to its native haunts after its long winter in the south, writes Gunnar Melle, in the Atlantis, Berlin.

At first I didn’t understand why England, America, and the Argentine kept their whaleboats anchored here in the summer (which is the Antarctic winter), but I learned that modern whaling fleets, with their complicated gear, require the expert handling of experienced whalers—and Norway is the classic land of whaling. Although these other nations have also been in the trade for centuries, and have built wonderful fleets of whale-boats, they have always engaged the services of Norwegians to man the boats or at least supervise their construction. And little Sandefiord is the whaling metropolis. Whaling is the most dangerous and most difficult work on all the seven seas. But were not our ancestors Vikings? With thoughts like these in mind I hired out as a green hand on the “cooker,” Thors Hammer. Sending our fleet of seven “catchers” (I shall explain these terms later) directly to Capetown, South Africa, which we would leave for our whaling grounds in the Antarctic, the Thors Hammer made for the coast of Venezuela. This meant a loss of three weeks, but the comparatively cheap price of oil in the harbour of Oruba, Venezuela, warranted the inconvenience and extra expense, since we needed 15,000 tons of the fuel for our vessel and the seven little whaleboats waiting for us. Then we sailed for Capetown, met the rest of our fleet, and loaded up with provisions. We took along, besides a large supply of fresh water, 10,0001bs. of meat, 60001bs. of vegetables, 60001bs. of fish, 10,000 eggs, and mountains of fruit. There were 180 men in the crew, and we knew we would not see land again for five months. That

meant we would arrive at our destination sometime around the beginning of December, when summer is in full swing in the Antarctic. Six years ago, at the insistance of the Norwegians, the whaling nations of the world agreed to restrict whalehunting to the period between December 1 and March 15. This was intended as a preservation measure, and was readily assented to by all concerned — except the Japanese, who bluntly refused to recognise any closed time. Whalemen are about the hardest, most courageous, and sturdiest of all who sail the seas. Many of them have been whale-hunting every year for the past three or four decades, first in the Arctic, now in the Antarctic. They are a decent, self-respecting lot, fanatically proud of their “metier.” On land they may go out for the occasional spree—but not a drop of liquor do they touch on board. They are hard—they have to be—and unbelievably practical and versatile in their handling of the many tasks confronting them during a whalehunt.

We reached our whaling-grounds at the scheduled time and activities began immediately. The catchers, laden with harpoon guns, bomb-guns, air-pumps, and ropes scurried out in all directions. They are sturdily-built steam-propelled little craft of 100-300 tons, carrying a crew of ten or eleven men, and fast as greyhounds in any weather. It is their job to reconnoiter the area in search of whales, make their kills, and tow them back to the big ship, which is known as the “cooker,” or “floating factory.” Such a vessel is the Thors Hammer. It is ’literally a huge floating factory of 20,000 tons, acting at the same time as

MODERN EQUIPMENT Dangerous and Difficult Work

a supply base for the seven catchers. When the whale is towed in, it is hauled on deck, in spite of its vast bulk, through a .specially constructed opening in the stern. It is then “cut in,” and the dismembering process is nothing if not thorough. First the blubber is hacked off with the aid of longhandled cutting spades; then the meat and bones are attacked. Soon, unbelievably, there is nothing at all left of the briny monster—for everything is consigned to the open or pressure “cookers” where very last ounce of oil is extracted and drained away into tanks. The residue is converted into fuel and fertiliser. For months I had been watching the catchers hustling back like busy little ants towing their booty behind them. One day I received permission from the captain to sail out with the hunters. Soon the Thors Hammer was a mere speck in the distance. I looked about me. Far up in the masthead stood the lookout, his sharp eyes watching for the white fountain of spray that betrays the presence of the whale. Below in the bow stood the harpooner with his gun, alert and ready for action. Suddenly ;he look-out from the masthead shouts., “Whale on the lee!” A small white gusher is seen in the distance. The whale is breathing his hot breath, mixed with sea-water, six feet into the air . Has he spotted us yet, with his lively little eyes? No, fortunately. Otherwise, he would dive and remain unde:: as long as twenty minutes, during which time we might lose him. We sail full steam ahead until we are only a hundred yards away from him. Now the harpooner, most important man of the catcher crew, and second

only to the captain, in status, directs the course of the boat.

Eighty yards! Seventy yards! Our opponent dives, remains under five minutes. When he emerges we are only thirty yards away. Suddenly a shot rings out, and a bomb-tipped harpoon barb cleaves the air. The animal rears, throws itself back and fourth with violent jerks. A strong coil of rope is unwound at lightning speed near the cannon. The ship sways from the force of the whale’s dying convulsions. But soon all is quiet . . . the whale is tired of struggling. Hunter and prey are unequal opponents to-day. It’s butchery now, not fighting. Once upon a time not so long ago the whalemen used to go out in row-boats with hand harpoons. They might be hurled to destruction with one mighty heave of the monster’s tail. But that was real fighting. That was heroic—the animal had a chance then.

Whaling is still a well-paying proposition. Since a method was discovered to make the oil both tasteless and odourless it is in great demand by the margarine industries. Scientists have even succeeded in processing the meat in such a way as to make it edible for humans. The bone is used in the corset industries, for buttons, and similar lines. So whaling is still considered a lucrative business and new fleets are being built every season. But how long will it last? The exhaustion of many famous whaling grounds is already complete and irrevocable. From 1868 to 1919, 236,187 whales altogether were killed. After the war these figures rose meteorically, till in 1930 they reached the fantastic total of 40,000 in one year alone. (Thors Hammer herself brought in a haul of 1600 the season I sailed with her). One sad day soon we shall awake to find that the seven seas of the world have been emptied of the most beautiful and the most gigantic of the mammals of the earth, as the buffaloes disappeared from the American prairies, the eagles from the mountains of Europe—ruthlessly destroyed by the greatest beast of prey of them all—man.