OUTWARD BOUND.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVII, Issue 20508, 8 March 1930, Page 1 (Supplement)

OUTWARD BOUND.

HEADING FOR THE LINE.:

BY W. B. WEBB.

n Out into the North Atlantic we sail, bound for tho other side of the woild. We havo had time by now to weigh each other in tho balance, and it appears that despite our varied nationalities we are going to prove a happy crew. Hard work and a common hunger havo banished the desire for drink and. united us in the bond of good shipmates all. By the time we run into the North-East Trades our traits of character, good or bad, have run tho gauntlet of general observation and criticism. The growler has been silenced, tho braggart subdued, and the bully brought to a sense of the proper proportion of things; this last accomplished, by the way, in short order by the silent man of tho crowd, ho whom wo havo already dubbed a dummy, wherein the saying that "still waters run deep" is once again exemplified. Of course we all growl sometimes, particularly on Sundays, when'we are compelled to indulge in the pastimo of " sweating up" sheets and halliards and braces, manoeuvres apparently reserved for the Day of Rest when the ordinary tasks of the week are laid aside. However, in spite of our grumblings we aro ,proud of our vessel and the mate is a favourite with his watch, which is saving a good deal. A seaman of the old school, brought up in tho fo'c's'le, willing to give and take hard knocks, there is not a trick of tho sea he does not know. His gnarled hands arc always ready lo take their share of a heavy drag, and nothing misses the eagle glance of his keen grey eyes. A smile and a word from him arc worth the weight of half a dozen men on tho end of a brace. Wo have seen little of the "old man. He is something of a hermit in his habits, and save to rap out a sharp order or two on occasions when he appears' to be almost oblivious to what is happening to liis ship seldom'speaks. He tramps the poop in solitude and eats alone, and lias a predilection for putting his head up through the companionway scuttle at all hours of tho night that makes us feel that in spite of his seeming indifference he is keeping a watchful eye on all that is toward. All Going and Taut. Up to the present we have been extremely fortunate in so far as weather is concerned, for we have not as yet been forced to shorten down to topsails. Perhaps when we run into a real blow we will see of what stuff the "old man" is made. . It is evening and we are holding the Tradewinds steady and strong, every stitch drawing and booming, our yards a. couple of points off the backstays, and both watches out on the fore-deck on recreation bent. There is a fragrance in the breeze which stirs the blood, and the tinkle and whisper of the seas in the lee scuppers seem to breathe a story of tho spicy isles by whose shores they have perchance lingered awhile in their ceaseless wanderings. Two bells in the second dog—seven p.m. Overhead, bur billowing canvases strain at their rovings, a steady noiseless straining that lifts our huge bulk through the water without fuss or flurry. Down on deck everything is snug; ropes neatly coiled, planks clean and warm to ' the tread of our bare feet. Sambo, the black cook, stows the last of his pots on the rack, closes the galley door and comes out to mingle with the crowd. His ebon skin glistens in tho dusk, and his teeth show white and strong in tho cheerful grin that is always on his countenance. Black cooks are not regarded with favour as a rule, but in this instance we arc willing to overlook his colour in compensation for the fact that he is a pastmaster in the art of bread-baling and an adept at disguising the insipidity of preserved vegetable soup and the inevitable "Harriett Larie"—tinned boiled mutton this last, gruesome by deriving its name from that of an actress who was murdered and whose decomposed body was found in a trunk; disgusting, but expressive of the loathing with which this particulararticle of diet is regarded by sailormen. Music Hath Charms. " Give us a tune, Peder," demands Sambo, breaking in on the conversation .of a group of yarn spinners. Peder Pedersen, a flaxen-haired Swede, after a little persuasion produces his accordeon, seats himself on the main hatch with his feet touching 'the deck, twirls his immense moustache, takes a firm grip of his pipe stem with his teeth and breaks into a vigorous and lively rendering of "Augustine" that makes our feet, willy-nilly, keep time to the tap, tap of his own. Sambo, however, not content with' this limited expression of approval, can contain himself no longer and proceeds to favour us with a wild buck and wing dance that grows fast and furious as Peder enters into the spirit of the performance. ■ •,, Exhausted at last the cook falls back on the hatch, gasping and. fanning himself with his apron, while Peder changes to a dreamy Scandinavian tune, the signal for all hands to pair off and indulge in the queerest of waltzes, old salts and young ones footing it with all manner of grotesque contortions. Even tho ship's carpenter, a sedate and pessimistic Scot unbends to the extent of linking up with his arch enemy, a vivacious and garrulous old Welsh sailmaker, and the studied politeness of the pair forms a distinct contrast to the nature of their customary relations. An Interrupted Yarn. We pause to lake breath and Peder. fearful of a too frequent exploitation of his talent, slows his cherished instrument away and the yarn spinner comes into his own. A long lean Yankee takes up the role on this occasion. He has "hoboed" it from one sido of the States to the other and is possessed of an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes that aro a never-failing source of. entertainment. Keeping one eye on the black cook he starts off. "I was beatin' the freight one time up in Montana when I ran across a big nigger I had been shipmates with—" Sambo sits up with a jerk. "Who say nigger ? You white trash ? Not nigger, sir. coloured gontleman, sir." " Gwan, you tin of black bootpolish, you, who stole the chickens, anyway ?" Sambo, who knows lie-is no match for the nimble-tongued Yank, subsides with a peal of laughter. "Go on, you tellum story, Yank. Ono day I catch you tell tho big lie, then I laugh at you, white trash." Yank with his yarn, whose theme is freely interspersed with talk of " hand-outs," "bpatups," "cops" and " guys" and, the incense from a score of pipes ascending to'heaven, we sit around and listen. Thus the evening wears on. Eight bells strike and the group disperses, the helmsman and the look-out man are relieved, and we coil up on the hatch or beneath the fo'c's'le head to dream the watch away, and so beneath a starlit sky, with Folaris waning in the Norlh, and the Southern Cross beckoning low down on the Southern horizon, we speed on for the line.