BOOK OF THE WEEK

Taranaki Daily News, 7 February 1931, Page 1 (Supplement)

BOOK OF THE WEEK

AN IMMORTAL VOYAGER

(By

C.E.)

“In Quest of the Sun," by Alain Gerbault: Hodder and Stoughton, Ltd., London, through their Sydney representative, W. S. Smart.

It is from the London Morning Post’s appreciation of Alain Gerbault that I have borrowed the description of this intrepid young sailor as an immortal voyager, for it seems entirely apt. Some of my readers may remember that Gerbault’s story, “The Fight of the Firecrest,” was discussed in this column some months ago, and there may be some who have already enjoyed the larger volume, “In Quest of the Sun.” It was first printed in November, 1920, and reprinted two months later, , but that edition perhaps was not within the.reach of everybody. Now, however, the publishers have seen their way tq respond to the obvious public demand with a popular edition —this great book in seven and sixpenny form, stoutly bound in rough cloth (which I personally admire), admirably printed and got up, and illustrated very efficiently with maps and photographs. It is a wonderful volume at 60 cheap a price.

Gerbault, as everyone probably knows, is a young Frenchman, who has done wonderful things as a single-hand-ed sailor in his small cutter, the Firecrest. In his other book he told of his lone voyage from the South of Prance to New York. “In Quest of the Sun” is the story of a tremendously longer and still more thrilling journey. Leaving New York at the beginning of November, 1934, he made his way through the Panama Canal, across the Pacific and Indian Oceans, round the Cape of Good Hope and back through the Atlantic to France. It was nearly five years later, at the' end of July, 1929, that he stepped ashore in France, completing his circumnavigation of the globe. Of course, he was not all that time out at sea, for he made long stays, sometimes of' necessity, at many anchorages, but in summing up he tells us that he travelled over 40,000 seamiles and spent more than 700 entire days at sea. “After incessant struggles against the elements,” he writes in his simple way, “I brought home my old, worn, and battered Firecrest into a French port.” Simplicity is the keynote of Ger-bault’-s life, and therefore of his story. He is no crank seeking notoriety,, but a fine, healthy, vigorous young man, who not only loves the sea but is deeply interested in the strange places and peoples of the world. True, he enjoys a primitive kind of life in his lone wanderings, but his outlook is entirely sane and he is a great reader. He takes every opportunity ‘ to get into a game of football or of tennis, and as to his prowess one only need mention that he was invited by his friend Jean Borotra to represent France on a South African tennis tour.

Ona finds two unfailing sources of the deepest interest in Gerbault’s account of his voyaging—his remarkable experiences in his “incessant struggles against the elements,” and his descriptions of life in out-of-the-way corners of the world. But his experiences at sea are rather suggested than described. With? in a day or two of leaving New York he almost met disaster. “About 1 a.m. I notice that my red port light is out,” he writes. “I carry the lamp below to light it, but I take my time, for I have not sighted another boat for 48 hours. I seize the opportunity of being below to prepare a meal. I am filling the lamp and lighting it when suddenly the Firecrest reels under a terrific blow. I rush on deck and in the blackness of the night see the innumerable lights of a steamer fast receding into the gloom. It is my bowsprit that has received the shock. The bronze bobstay is twisted; the bits have been shorn clean away from the deck, and have wrenched it up, leaving a great hole. The forestay and jibstay are adrift, and the mast, having no support forward, is bendipg in a very threatening way. There is no use whatever in trying to attract the attention of the steamer, which probably never saw me in the darkness of the night; there is no \time to be lost if l am going tolsave my mast.” What a thrilling story a fiction writer could construct around such a sensational incident! But Gerbault is the very antithesis of a sensationalist: he just goes calmly on with his job. That makes his book a source of delight. As he made the stages of his tremendous journey Gerbault visited many wonderful islands. Galapagos was the first after he left Panama, but it is the Marquesas that arouse his enthusiasm, and he gives jis some fine pictures of the natives. In his’ rather staccato style he also tells us much about ■ the the places he sees: “Virgin Bay, the native name of which is even more melodious—Hanavave—provides a perfectly fantastic spectacle, that only Poe could have described. Towers of basalt taking the strangest shapes of minarets, towers, steeples, pointed rocks pierced like a needle’s eye, form the background of the bay, and a narrow cleft in the mountains opens on to a valley. The breakers roared like thunder on a beach of black shingle. A'line of coconut trees showed minute against the mountain sides. Smaller yet were two tiny native huts, and smaller still a few dots on the shore, which were men. Never had I felt such a sensation of the insignificance of man beside the grandeur of Nature.” That passage should indicate that Gerbault’s book takes high rank among travel stories. I should like to quote much of what he says about the native races. He saw many of them, for he made stays in Tahiti, Samoa, Wallis Island, Fiji, the New Hebrides, New Guinea, the Malay Archipelago and elsewhere. His comments on the “civilisation” of some of the peoples are shrewd and impressive, and his admiration for many of the islanders is most convincing. He gives his readers an insight into the habits and character of coloured folk living under widely varying conditions. There is no boasting of any kind, but one learns from the simple record of the voyager’s life among entirely strange people what a fine character he is himself. Though he is a most patriotic Frenchman, he does not hesitate to condemn those features of French colonisation with which he cannot agree, and he certainly states a strong case. One feels it a privilege to be admitted to the thoughts of so fresh and keen an observer, and one realises that he is entirely frank and natural because he has no axe to grind. He is not doing stunts in order to make money, but merely seeking what he regards as the real pleasures of life “betwixt sea and sky.” “In Quest of the Sun” is a book to be kept handy, for it will always bear re-reading.