OLD SAILER PASSES.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVII, Issue 20602, 28 June 1930, Page 10

OLD SAILER PASSES.

KEWA'S last journey.

DAYS. OF. FORMER GLORY, left astern by progress.

BY w. R. WEBB.

Whenever, during the years the Rewa has lain in the stream, I have had occasion to pass her by, there has always come over me the inclination to lay a caressing hand on her discoloured and decaying sides and to murmur the opening line of an old song—"Gone are the days ■when my heart was young and gay. And gone they truly are—gone with the passing of sail and the era of striving to turn the winds of the earth to account for the furtherance of our sea-borne commerce. The brain of man, ever on the alert for the shorter, easier and more economical method of doing things, has definitely replaced her and her kindred to its temporary satisfaction, and utterly sad though the spectacle be to those of U3 who knew hex* in the full tide of her glory, and no matter how reluctant we are to face the fact, we realise that 'the wheels of progress have left her astern. And so, from idly swinging and £hafing at her moorings in a peaceful land-locked harbour, alternately stemming the ebb and flow of its tides, watching ships come and ships go, she makes again for the open sea, to face once more the buffetings of the long ocean rollers and the flying spume of the gale. But tnis time, on this last short voyage, she goes as a captive, in chains, fettered and helpless, to her prison, mourned by her friends, mocked by the very seas she once trod proudly underfoot. No more for her the click of capstan pawls and the rattle of the incoming chain through the hawse pipe to the tune of "Sally Brown." No more the cry of "Mainsail haul" and "Fore bowline" to the music of the braceblocks and the stamp of sea-booted feet. Gone is the silent helmsman from his perch beside her wheel, gone the lookout tramping out his lonely vigil on the fo'c'sle-head, silent the bell whereon he clanged the night hours and marked them with his sad, long-drawn "All's well!" Deserted is the deckhouse where her hardy crew turned in, oftimes all standing, ate and slept, played and fought their wordy battles, prayed for a fair wind and growled because—well, because it was the custom. Sailer in her Prime. How easy it is to picture her in her prime, running down her easting for Gape Horn, shortened down to topsails, snoring sometimes a-top or sometimes submerged by the overtaking rollers, seas cataracting across her decks and foaming around her capstans, and hatch-coamings, men picking a wary way along her slippery decks, hanging to lifelines as they go. Overhead is a full moon in a cold sky, bitter squalls occasionally interposing themselves and shutting out everythingsave the hissing sea overside. The "old man" on the poop, glasses m pocket, hiding the anxiety he feels; the second mate standing deferentially _at hand, the two men clinging to the kicking wheel, striving might and main with its recalcitrance; the man on the look-out, stamping his feet and beating his arms, looking away to port, where, somewhere in the smother the black fangs of Diego Ramirez, dripping whi£e froth, await to entrap the unwary. Milestone on the Journey. "Land ho!" yells the look-out. "Land ho!" echoes the poop. In an instant the foredeck is a'swarm wjth men, some half-naked and shivering, fresh from their bunks, others muffled to the eyes, but all equally eager to catch a glimpse of that on which they have not looked these many days—land. What though it be but a scowling pinnacle as barren and as bleak as the. waters, whence it lifts its head! It is land a milestone on the journey to a happier And then the slipping into a wanner . clime. The lighter canvas distended to a breeze that scarce cants clipper, the night jet-black but beautified by the Snklfng lamp of heaven-the Uw> drowsing as he maintains a perfunUoiy liold on the spokes, the light from the slit in the binnacle adding to his drowsiness; the mate padding softly up and down. Is he mapping out the work for the morrow, or do his thoughts, under the influence of the evening,, run m less material channels 1 ■ His weather-beaten face provides no clue, but—who knows. For'ard, the passing hour is all that matters, and the sounds of laughter that come from that direction and the music of an accordeon softly played, testify to the fact that the business of holy-stoning and the monotony of sand and canvas scrubbing have been relegated to their proper place for the time-being. Last Leg Up Channel. And then, the last leg up the Channel; in sight of Home and all the# word stands for. The hurried packing of seabags, the discarding of oft-patched rags that have done incredible service, thrown aside with a prodigality induced by the prospect of a generous pay-day. And the en( ]—the last line made fast; the leavetakings, the old enmities forgotten and revived again in the first tavern; money hard earned flowing into the laps of board-ing-masters and their attendant harpies; and then away to sea again with a packet of matches and a "donkey's breakfast" (straw mattress) and a sore head. Hard times, hard men. v Ah,, well, those days are ended, and now a potent reminder of them has gone I from our midst—gone to end her days as I a breakwater; still serving man, still submitting her proud spirit to the yoke. Hats off to the Rewa.