SONS OF THE SEA

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXII, Issue 22262, 9 November 1935, Page 1 (Supplement)

SONS OF THE SEA

A DOUBTFUL LINEAGE

BY BART SUTHERLAND

The sea, in its eternal restlessness and changing moods, has often been held to expound tho unsatisfactory life of mortals. Olive Sehreiner says that, of all the things she has ever seen, only the sea is like a human being. "It never rests; it is always wanting, wanting, wanting. It hurries on; and then it creeps back slowing without having reached, moaning. It is always asking a question, and it never gets an answer." From philosophising to getting annoyed, from being momentarily happy to settling down to passive melancholy, we can all see ourselves in tho mirror of the sea; even down to the ne'er-do-well who, like Mark Tapley's sea, " is as nonsensical a thing as any going. It never knows what to do with itself. It hasn't got no employment for its mind, and is always in a state of vacancy." In 110 sense are the human traits of the changing sea more fully demonstrated than in the seasonal publicity stunt in which it now engages as summer approaches, putting on smiles and winsome airs, like any false woman, in the hope that, for a space at least, we may be allured into allegiance. For wo all feel that by conquering the sea we shall have conquered ourselves, and it is only in the season of false smiles and favouring winds that wo may hopo to do so.

We start off by buying a new bathing suit, and in the confidence of bobbing about in the buoyant water we forget all our cares and draw the too-swift conclusion that we are at last in tune with infinity. Then yachtsmen ply the paint brush, and may be heard hammering into the watches of the night, in a sort of orgiastic tribute to Tangaroa. And even the veriest landsman, watching a mere fourteen-footer bobbing up and down near the waterfront embankment, feels inclined, airily, to order her owner to send his top-men aloft to stand by to clew up the royals, and all the other things they do in Captain Marryat when stirring deeds are toward. Ignorance and Hypocrisy Your landsman, probably, like Mark Tapley, has to inquire in what part of the vessel is situate the leeward; ho probably looks up the exact position of royals, topgallants, flying jibs, and all those other wonderful names, in the ship diagram in the dictionary at homo. He will forget them, and have to look them up again when next summer arrives; but that docs not stop him from puffing out his chest, as he is standing on the esplanade, and assuring himself that he is a son of the sea. Is he? 1 feel impelled, in view of the false glitter on the face of the waters, to expose the lying jade, and also our hypocritical selves. 1 hold that no man, not even a Briton, is at home on the sea. Truth is,, a fancied love of ships and sailing, like a love of anything on this imperfect earth, is brought about by the illusion that works us up into a state of religious enthusiasm. The humblest scow passing down the gulf for a load of shingle adds just the right note to the seascape on a shining day. Very little imagination is needed to make it into an Arabian dhow, with a Sindbad cargo, or a felucca, one of the very oldest of ships that sailed the blue seas. Ah, we think, as we pause for a moment cf gazing to relieve our stolid gardening, " That's the life—what wouldn't I give to be there!" " Whither, 0 splendid ship, thy white sails crowding?" we murmur, lying as always to ourselves; for we know very well that her sails aren't white, and that, in the words of a more truthful poet, she is probably Rotten from the gunwale to tho keel; Rat-riddled; bilge bestank. But we are in the mood for that strange translation of tho mind that would render beauty transcendent. Here on this solid earth is reality; there the call of the unknown. The Real Attitude But what, when we actually anticipate a sea voyage, do we quite truthfully think of? We try to wangle a one-berth cabin, in case the person who may be above us should miss the strawherry box. We think of that wellknown odour of paint generally dispersed and the particular odour of onions from the galley. We pass on to the ancient quarrel of the wind-god with the ocean and altogether aren't too sure of ourselves. We even descend to accepting the ideas of our friends regarding specifics against mal-de-mer. No man, not even a true Briton, ever niado a voyage because he loves the sea itself, or because he wants to store illusive memories. He goes, says Mr. H. M. Tomlinson, who seems to know what he is talking about, "to catch fish, or to try to round Africa, as did Diaz, or to bring tea from China or guano from Chincha, or to look for El Dorado, or to watch from an island in the South Seas the transit of a planet, as did James Cook." In short, he goes out mainly on business occasions, or in answer to the insatiable thirst for exploration. Long ago, feud and famine drove men forth; and a certain freebooting spirit uninhibited by international law. It sounds good to bellow that the hardy Norseman's home of yore was on the bounding wave; but he probably felt far more comfy when ho had settled down for the night by a peaceful British creek, with camp fire and looted roast .ox complete. It is journey's end that lures men on. A recorder of the voyage of the Mayflower says with truth and solemnity that as soon as the voyagers landed they fell on their knees and blessed the God of heaven for " againe setting their feete on the firnie and stable earth, their proper elemente." And similarly Mr. Mark TapIcy, on first viewing the land of liberty, said that any land would do for him, after so much water. Flight from. Boredom It is, perhaps, indicative of the modern spirit, that most of us go to sea nowadays out of boredom. Panurge, in the midst of the trials and discomforts of a howling storm, " bawled out frightfully": "Oh, twice and thrice happy thoso thai plant cabbages!" But, by the usual twist of human perversity, the cabbage planter, in his turn, yearns to go to sea, and in tho desperation of boredom often attains his object. Mr. Ford Madox Ford, in a retrospective appreciation of the work of Conrad, recorded recently that even that supreme sea writer hated the sea, as a man detests a cast mistress; and that a curious half-misconception of the English character led Conrad to assume that in England men and sea interpenetrate, so to speak. It is probable that Englishmen, in common with most men, enjoy looking at tho sea rather than conquering it. Not long ago one of our own eminent spiritual leaders expressed horror at tho bombastic sentiment of such a typically British song as " Sons of the Sea," and said it should be ruled out of the national list. But this is debatable, 1 think, on the ground that our wilting morale wants bolstering up. Myself, I can only force myself up a ship's gangway by reiterating that my ancestors sailed every ocean, laughing foes to scorn. And even then, once out on the choppy waves, I feel that it's in moments like these I need my cabbages. Some even more lurid propaganda than " Sons of tho Sea " will bo required to make me spend my life on the ocean wave.