July 25, 2025 • 35 mins
Immerse yourself in the captivating tales of Jack and Charmian Londons adventurous journey across the Pacific between 1907 and 1909, detailed in The Cruise of the Snark. This memoir not only introduces and popularizes the royal sport of surf-riding but also vividly depicts the thrill and beauty of the Pacific. Experience the exhilarating rush of riding the crest of a breaker, the sensation of being flung landward by the powerful sea, and the challenge of trying to match the skill of a Kanaka on a surf-board. This striking narrative captures the essence of living life to the fullest, promising a reading experience as invigorating as the pounding surf.
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Speaker 1 (00:03):
Chapter nine of the Crews of the Snark. This is
a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.
Recorded by Brian Ness The Crews of the Snark by
(00:23):
Jack London, Chapter nine. A Pacific traverse Sandwich Islands to Tahiti.
There is great difficulty in making this passage across the trades.
The whalers and all others speak with great doubt of
fetching Tahiti from the Sandwich Islands. Captain Bruce says that
a vessel should keep to the northward until she gets
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a start of wind before bearing for her destination. In
his passage between them in November eighteen thirty seven, he
had no variables near the line in coming south, and
never could make easting on either teen, though he endeavored
by every means to do so. So say the sailing
directions for the South Pacific Ocean, and that is all
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they say. There's not a word more to help the
weary voyager in making this long traverse, nor is there
any word at all concerning the passage from Hawaii to
the Marquess, which lie some eight hundred miles to the
southeast of Tahiti, and which are the more difficult to
reach by just that much. The reason for the lack
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of directions is I imagined that no voyager is supposed
to make himself weary by attempting so impossible a traverse.
But the impossible did not deter the snark, principally because
of the fact that we did not read that particular
little paragraph in the sailing directions until after we had started.
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We sailed from Hilo, Hawaii on October seventh, and arrived
at Nukahiva in the Marquess on December sixth. The distance
was two thousand miles as the crow flies, while we
actually traveled at least four thousand miles to accomplish it,
thus proving for once and forever that the shortest distance
between two points is not always a straight line. Had
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we headed directly for the Marquesses, we might have traveled
five or six thousand miles. Upon one thing, we were resolved.
We would not cross the line west of one hundred
thirty degrees west longitude. For here was the problem to
cross the line to the west of that point. If
the southeast trade winds were well around to the southeast
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would throw us so far to leeward of the marquesses
that a head beat would be maddeningly impossible. Also, we
had to remember the equatorial current, which moves west at
a rate of anywhere from twelve to seventy five miles
a day, a pretty pickle indeed, to be to leeward
of our destination. With such a current in our teeth, No,
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not a minute nor a second west of one hundred
thirty degrees west longitude would we cross the line. But
since the southeast trade winds were to be expected five
or six degrees north of the line, which if they
were well around to the southeast or south southeast, would
necessitate our sliding off towards south southwest, we should have
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to hold to the eastward north of the line and
north of the southeast trades until we gained at least
one hundred twenty eight degrees west longitude. I have forgotten
to mention that the seventy horsepower gasoline engine as usual
was not working, and that we could depend upon wind alone.
Neither was the launch engine working. And while I am
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about it, I may as well confess that the five
horsepower which ran the Lights, Fans and Pumps was also
on the sick list. A striking title for a book
haunts me, waking and sleeping. I should like to write
the book someday and call it around the World with
three gasoline engines and a wife, But I'm afraid I
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shall not write it for fear of hurting the feelings
of some of the young gentlemen of San Francisco, Honolulu,
and Hilo who learned their trades at the expense of
the snark's engines. It looked easy on paper. Here was Helo,
and there was our objective one hundred twenty eight degrees
west longitude. With the northeast trade blowing, we could travel
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a straight line between the two points and even slack
our sheets off a goodly bit. But one of the
chief troubles with the trades is that one never knows
just where he will pick them up and just in
what direction they will be blowing. We picked up the
northeast trade right outside of Hilo Harbor, but the miserable
breeze was away around into the east. Then there was
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the north equatorial current setting westward like a mighty river. Furthermore,
a small boat by the wind and bucking into a
big head sea does not work to advantage. She jogs
up and down and gets nowhere. Her sails are full
and strang Every little while she presses her lee rail under,
she flounders and bumps and splashes, and that is all.
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Whenever she begins to gather way, she runs kurchug into
a big mountain of water and is brought to a standstill.
So with the snark, the resultant of her smallness, of
the trade around into the east and of the strong
equatorial current was a long sag south. Oh, she did
not go quite south, but the easting she made was distressing.
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On October eleven she made forty miles easting. October twelve
fifteen miles, October thirteen, no easting October fourteen thirty miles,
October fifteen, twenty three miles, October sixteen eleven miles. And
on October seventeen she actually went to the westward four miles. Thus,
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in a week she made one hundred and fifteen miles easting,
which was equivalent to sixteen miles a day. But between
the longitude of Hilo and one hundred twenty eight degrees
west longitude is a difference of twenty seven degrees, or
roughly sixteen hundred miles. At sixteen miles a day, one
hundred days would be required to accomplish this distance, and
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even then, our objective one hundred twenty eight degrees west
longitude was five degrees north of the line, while Nukahiva
in the Marquesis lay nine degrees south of the line
and twelve degrees to the west. There remained only one
thing to do, to work south out of the trade
and into the variables. It is true that Captain Bruce
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found no variables on his traverse, and that he never
could make easting on either tack. It was the variables
or nothing with us, and we prayed for better luck
than he had had. The variables constitute the belt of
ocean lying between the Trades and the Doldrums, and are
conjectured to be the drafts of heated air which rise
in the doldrums, flow high in the air counter to
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the trades, and gradually sink down till they fan the
surface of the ocean where they are found. And they
are found where they are found, for they are wedged
between the trades and the Doldrums, which same shift their
territory from day to day and month to month. We
found the variables in eleven degrees north latitude and eleven
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degrees north latitude. We hugged jealously. To the south lay
the doldrums. To the north lay the northeast trade that
refused to blow from the northeast. The days came and went,
and always they found the snark somewhere near the eleventh parallel.
The variables were truly variable. A light headwind would die
away and leave us rolling in a calm for forty
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eight hours. Then a light head wind would spring up,
blow for three hours, and leave us rolling in another
calumn for forty eight hours. Then hurrah, the wind would
come out of the west, fresh, beautifully fresh, and send
the snark along, wing and wing, her wake, bubbling the
log line straight astern. At the end of half an hour,
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while we were preparing to set the spinnaker with a
few sickly gasps, the wind would die away, and so
it went. We wagered optimistically on every favorable fan of
air that lasted over five minutes, but it never did
any good. The fans faded out just the same. But
there were exceptions in the variables. If you wait long enough,
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something is bound to happen, and we were so plentifully
stocked with food and water that we could afford to wait.
On October twenty six, we actually made one hundred and
three miles of easting, and we talked about it for
days afterwards. Once we caught a moderate gale from the south,
which blew itself out in eight hours, but it helped
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us to seventy one miles of easting in that particular
twenty four hours. And then just as it was expiring,
the wind came straight out from the north the directly
opposite quarter and fanned us along over another degree of easting.
In years and years, no sailing vessel has attempted this traverse,
and we found ourselves in the midst of one of
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the loneliest of the Pacific solitudes. In the sixty days
we were crossing it, we sighted no sail lifted, no
steamer smoke above the horizon. A disabled vessel could drift
in this deserted expanse for a dozen generations and there
would be no rescue. The only chance of rescue would
be from a vessel like the Snark, and the Snark
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happened to be there principally because of the fact that
the traverse had been begun before the particular paragraph in
the sailing Directions had been read. Standing upright on deck,
a straight line drawn from the eye to the horizon
would measure three miles and a half. Thus seven miles
was the diameter of the circle of the sea in
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which we had our center. Since we remained always in
the center, and since we constantly were moving in some direction,
we looked upon many circles. But all circles looked alike.
No tufted islets, gray headlands, nor glistening patches of white
canvas ever marred the symmetry of that unbroken curve. Clouds
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came and went, rising up over the rim of the circle,
flowing across the space of it, and spilling away and
down across the opposite rim. The world faded, as the
procession of the weeks marched by the world faded, until
at last there ceased to be any world except the
little world of the snark, freighted with her seven souls
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and floating on the expanse of the waters. Our memories
of the world, the great world became like dreams of
former lives we had lived somewhere before we came to
be born on the Snark after we had been out
of fresh vegetables for some time. We mentioned such things
in much the same way I have heard my father
mention the vanished apples of his boyhood. Man is a
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creature of habit, and we on the Snark had got
the habit of the snark. Everything about her and aboard
her was as a matter of course, and anything different
would have been an irritation and an offense. There was
no way by which the great world could intrude. Our
bell rang the hours, but no caller ever rang it.
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There were no guests to dinner, no telegrams, no insistent
telephone jangles invading our privacy. We had no engagements to keep,
no trains to catch, and there were no morning newspapers
over which to waste time in learning what was happening
to our fifteen hundred million other fellow creatures. But it
was not dull. The affairs of our little world had
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to be regulated, and unlike the great world, our world
had to be steered in its journey through space. Also,
there were cosmic disturbances to be encountered and baffled, such
as do not afflict the big Earth in its frictionless
orbit through the windless void, and we never knew from
moment to moment what was going to happen next. There
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were spice and variety, enough and despair. Thus, at four
in the morning, I relieve Hermann at the wheel east northeast.
He gives me the course. She's eight points off, but
she ain't steering. Small wonder the vessel does not exist
that can be steered in so absolute a calm. I
had a breeze a little while ago. Maybe it will
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come back again, Hermann says, hopefully. Ere he starts forward
to the cabin and his bunk. The Mizzen is in
and fast furled in the night. What of the roll
and the absence of wind. It had made life too
hideous to be permitted to go on rasping at the mast,
smashing at the tackles, and buffeting the empty air into
hollow outbursts of sound. But the big mainsail is still on,
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and the staysail jib and flying jib are snapping and
slashing at their sheets. With every roll, every star is out.
Just for luck. I put the wheel hard over in
the opposite direction to which it had been left by Herman,
and I lean back and gaze up at the stars.
There's nothing else for me to do. There's nothing to
be done with a sailing vessel rolling in a stark calm.
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Then I feel a fan on my cheek, faint, so
faint that I can just sense it. Ere it is gone,
But another comes, and another, until a real and just
perceptible breeze is blowing. How the Snark's sails manage to
feel it is beyond me, but feel what they do
as she does as well. For the compass card begins
slowly to revolve in the binnacle. In reality, it is
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not revolving at all. It is held by terrestrial magnetism
in one place, and it is the Snark that is revolving,
pivoted upon that delicate cardboard device that floats in a
closed vessel of alcohol. So the Snark comes back on
her course. The breath increases to a tiny puff. The
snark feels the weight of it, and actually heals over
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a trifle. There is flying scud overhead, and I notice
the stars being blotted out. Walls of darkness close in
upon me, so that when the last star is gone,
the darkness is so near that it seems I can
reach out and touch it on every side. When I
lean towards it, I can feel it loom against my face.
Puff follows puff, and I am glad. The Mizzen is furled. Phew,
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that was a stiff one. The snark goes over and
down until her lee rail is buried, and the whole
Pacific Ocean is pouring in. Four or five of these
gusts make me wish that the jib and Flying Jib
were in the sea is picking up. The gusts are
growing stronger and more frequent, and there is a splatter
of wet in the air. There's no use in attempting
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to gaze to windward. The wall of blackness is within
arm's length. Yet I cannot help attempting to see and
gauge the blows that are being struck at the snark.
There is something ominous and menacing up there to windward,
and I have a feeling that if I look long
enough and strong enough, I shall divine it. Feudile feeling
between two gusts. I leave the wheel and run forward
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to the cabin companionway, where I light matches and consult
the barometer twenty nine ninety. It reads that sensitive instrument
refuses to take notice of the disturbance, which is humming
with a deep throaty voice in the rigging. I get
back to the wheel just in time to meet another gust,
the strongest yet. Well, anyway, the wind is a beam,
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and the snark is on her course, eating up easting.
That at least is well. The jib and the flying
jib bother me, and I wish they were in She
would make easier weather of it, and less risky weather. Likewise,
the wind snorts and stray rain drops pelt like bird shot.
I shall certainly have to call all hands, I conclude,
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Then conclude the next instant to hang on a little longer.
Maybe this is the end of it, and I shall
have called them for nothing. It is better to let
them sleep. I hold the snark down to her task,
and from out of the darkness at right angles comes
a deluge of rain, accompanied by shrieking wind. Then everything
eases except the blackness, and I rejoice in that I
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have not called the men. No sooner does the wind
ease than the sea picks up. The combers are breaking now,
and the boat is tossing like a cork. Then out
of the blackness the gusts come harder and faster than before.
If only I knew what was up there, to windward
and the blackness, the snark is making heavy weather of it,
and her lee rail is buried oftener than not more
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shrieks and snorts of wind. Now, if ever is the
time to call the men, I will call them. I resolve.
Then there is a burst of rain, a slackening of
the wind, and I do not call. But it is
rather lonely there at the wheel, steering a little whirled
through howling blackness. It is quite a responsibility to be
all alone on the surface of a little world in
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time of stress, doing the thinking for its sleeping inhabitants.
I recoiled from the responsibility. As more gusts begin to strike,
and as a sea licks along the weather rail and
splashes over into the cockpit. The salt water seems strangely
warm to my body, and is shot through with ghostly
nodules of phosphorescent light. I shall surely call all hands
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to shortened sail. Why should they sleep? I am a
fool to have any compunctions in the matter. My intellect
is arrayed against my heart. It was my heart that said,
let them sleep. Yes, But it was my intellect that
backed up my heart in that judgment. Let my intellect
then reverse the judgment, and while I am speculating as
to what particular entity issued that command to my intellect,
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the guests die away. Solicitude for mere bodily comfort has
no place in practical seamanship, I conclude sagely, But study
the feel of the next series of guests, and do
not call the men. After all, it is my intellect
behind everything, procrastinating, measuring its knowledge of what the snark
can endure against the blows being struck at her, and
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waiting the call of all hands against the striking of
still severer blows. Daylight, gray and violence steals through the
cloud pall and shows a foaming sea that flattens under
the weight of recurrent and in increasing squalls. Then comes
the rain, filling the windy valleys of the sea with
milky smoke, and further flattening the waves, which but wait
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for the easement of wind and rain to leap more
wildly than before. Come The men on deck there sleep out,
and among them herman his face on the broad grin
in appreciation of the breeze of wind. I have picked up,
I turn the wheel over to Warren and start to
go below, pausing on the way to rescue the galley stovepipe,
which has gone adrift. I am barefooted, and my toes
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have had an excellent education in the art of clinging.
But as the rail buries itself in a green sea,
I suddenly sit down on the streaming deck. Herman good
naturedly elects to question my selection of such a spot.
Then comes the next roll, and he sits down suddenly,
and without premeditation. The snark heels over and down. The
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rail takes it green, and Herman and I, clutching the
precious stovepipe, are swept down into the lee scuppers. After
that I finished my journey below, and while changing my clothes,
grin with satisfaction. The snark is making easting. No, it
is not all monotony. When we had worried along our
easting to one hundred twenty six degrees west longitude, we
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left the variables and headed south through the Doldrums, where
was much calm weather, and where, taking advantage of every
fan of air, we were often glad to make a
score of miles in as many hours. And yet on
such a day, we might pass through a dozen squalls
and be surrounded by a dozens more, and every squall
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was to be regarded as a bludgeon capable of crushing
the snark. We were struck, sometimes by the centers and
sometimes by the sides of these squalls, and we never
knew just where or how we were to be hit.
The squall that rose up covering half the heavens and
swept down upon us as likely as not split into
two squalls, which passed us harmlessly on either side, while
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the tiny, innocent looking squall that appeared to carry no
more than a hogshead of water and a pound of
wind would abruptly assume cyclopaean proportions, deluging us with rain
and overwhelming us with wind. Then there were treacherous squalls
that went boldly astern and sneaked back upon us from
a mile to leeward. Again, two squalls would tear along,
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one on each side of us, and we would get
a fillip from each of them. Now, a gale certainly
grows tiresome after a few hours, but squalls never. The
thousandth squall in one's experience is as interesting as the
first one, and perhaps a bit more so it is
the tyro who has no apprehension of them. The man
of a thousand squalls respects a squall, he knows what
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they are. It was in the doldrums that our most
exciting event occurred. On November twenty, we discovered that through
an accident, we had lost over one half of the
supply of fresh water that remained to us. Since we
were at that time forty three days out from Hilo,
our supply of fresh water was not large. To lose
over half of it was a catastrophe. On close allowance,
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the remnant of water we possessed would last twenty days.
But we were in the doldrums. There was no telling
where the southeast trades were, nor where we would pick
them up. The handcuffs were promptly put upon the pump,
and once a day the water was portioned out. Each
of us received a quart for personal use, and eight
quarts were given to the cook enters. Now the psychology
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of the situation. No sooner had the discovery of the
water shortage been made than I, for one, was afflicted
with a burning thirst. It seemed to me that I
had never been so thirsty in my life. My little
quart of water. I could easily have drunk in one draft,
and to refrain from doing so required a severe exertion
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of will. Nor was I alone in this. All of
us talked water, thought water, and dreamed water. When we slept.
We examined the charts for possible islands to which to
run in extremity, but there were no such islands. The
Marquess were the nearest, and they were the other side
of the line, and of the Doldrons too, which made
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it even worse. We were in three degrees north latitude,
while the Marquess were nine degrees south latitude, a difference
of over one thousand miles. Furthermore, the Marcasis lay some
fourteen degrees to the west of our longitude, a pretty
pickle for a handful of creatures sweltering on the ocean
and the heat of tropic calms. We rigged lines on
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either side, between the main and Mizzen riggings. To these
we laced the big deck awning, hoisting it up aft
with a sailing pennant, so that any rain it might
collect would run forward where it could be caught. Here
and there, squalls passed across the circle of the sea
all day We watched them now to port or starboard,
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and again ahead or astern, but never one came near
enough to wet us. In the afternoon, a big one
border down upon us. It spread out across the ocean
as it approached, and we could see it empty and
countless thousands of gallons into the salt sea. Extra attention
was paid to the awning, and then we waited. Warren,
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Martin and Herman made a vivid picture grouped together, holding
on to the rigging swaying to the roll. They were
gazing intently at the squall strain. Anxiety and yearnings were
in every posture of their bodies. Beside them was the
dry and empty awning, But they seemed to grow limp
and to droop as the squall broke in half, one
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part passing on ahead, the other drawing astern and going
to leeward. But that night came rain. Martin, whose psychological
thirst had compelled him to drink his quart of water, early,
got his mouth down to the lip of the awning
and drank the deepest draft I have ever seen. Drunk.
The precious water came down in bucketfuls and tubfuls, and
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in two hours we caught and stored away in the
tanks one hundred and twenty gallons. Strain to say, in
all the rest of our voyage to the Marquess, not
another drop of rain fell on board. If that squall
had missed us, the handcuffs would have remained on the pump,
and we would have busied ourselves with utilizing our surplus
gasoline for distillation purposes. Then there was the fishing. One
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did not have to go in search of it, for
it was there at the rail. A three inch steel
hook on the end of a stout line with a
piece of white rag for bait was all that was
necessary to catch bonitas, weighing from ten to twenty five pounds.
Bonitas feed on flying fish, wherefore they are unaccustomed to
nibbling at the hook. They strike as gamely as the
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gamest fish in the sea, and their first run is
something that no man who has ever caught them will forget. Also,
bonitas are the veriest cannibals. The instant one is hooked,
he is attacked by his fellows often, and often we
haul them on board with fresh, clean bitten holes in them.
The size of teacup. One school of bonitas, numbering many
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thousands stayed with us day and night for more than
three weeks. Aided by the snark. It was great hunting,
for they cut a swath of destruction through the ocean
half a mile wide and fifteen hundred miles in length.
They ranged along a breast of the snark on either side,
pouncing upon the flying fish her forefoot scared up since
they were continually pursuing Astern the flying fish that survived
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for several flights. They were always overtaking the snark, and
at any time one could glance astern and on the
front of a breaking wave see scores of their silvery
forms coasting down just under the surface. When they had
eaten their fill, it was their delight to get in
the shadow of the boat or of her sails, and
a hundred or so were always to be seen, lazily
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sliding along and keeping cool. But the poor flying fish
pursued and eaten alive by the bonitas and dolphins, they
sought flight in the air, where the swooping sea birds
drove them back into the lad under heaven. There was
no refuge for them. Flying fish do not play when
they essay the air. It is a life and death
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affair with them a thousand times a day, we could
lift our eyes and see the tragedy played out. The swift,
broken circling of a gunny might attract one's attention. A
glance beneath shows the back of a dolphin breaking the
surface in a wild rush. Just in front of its nose,
a shimmering, palpitant streak of silver shoots from the water
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into the air, a delicate organic mechanism of flight, endowed
with sensation, power of direction, and love of life. The
gunny swoops for it and misses, and the flying fish,
gaining its altitude by rising kitelike against the wind, turns
in a half circle, and skims off to leeward, gliding
on the bosom of the wind. Beneath it, the wake
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of the dolphin shows in churning foam. So he follows,
gazing upward with large eyes at the flashing breakfast that
navigates an element other than his own. He cannot rise
to so lofty occasion, but he is a thorough going empiricist,
and he knows sooner or later, if not gobbled up
by the gunny, the flying fish must return to the
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water and then breakfast. We used to pity the poor
winged fish. It was sad to see such sordid and
bloody slaughter. And then in the night watches, when a
forlornable flying fish struck the mainsail and fell, gasping and
splattering on the deck, we were to rush for it,
just as eagerly, just as greedily, just as voraciously as
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the dolphins and bonitas. For know that flying fish are
the most toothsome for breakfast. It is always a wonder
to me that such dainty meat does not build dainty
tissue in the bodies of the devourers. Perhaps the dolphins
and bonitas are coarser fibered because of the high speed
at which they drive their bodies in order to catch
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their prey. But then again, the flying fish drive their
bodies at high speed too. Works we caught occasionally on
large hooks with chain swivel bent on a length of
small rope, and sharks meant pilot fish and remoras, and
various sorts of parasitic creatures regular man eaters. Some of
the sharks proved tiger eyed and with twelve rows of
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teeth razor sharp. By the way, we of the snark
are agreed that we have eaten many fish that will
not compare with baked sharks smothered in tomato dressing. In
the calms, we occasionally caught a fish called hake by
the Japanese cook, and once on a spoon hook trolling
one hundred yards astern, we caught a snakelike fish over
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three feet in length and not more than three inches
in diameter, with four fangs in his jaw. He proved
the most delicious fish, delicious in meat and flavor, that
we have ever eaten on board. The most welcome addition
to our larder was a green sea turtle, weighing a
full hundred pounds and appearing on the table most appetizingly
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in steaks, sous hoops, and stews, and finally in a
wonderful curry that tempted all hands into eating more rice
than was good for them. The turtle was sighted to windward,
calmly sleeping on the surface in the midst of a
huge school of curious dolphins. It was a deep sea
turtle of a surety, for the nearest land was a
thousand miles away. We put the snark about and went
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back for him, Hermann driving the grains into his head
and neck. When hauled aboard, numerous remorro were clinging to
his shell, and out of the hollows at the roots
of his flippers crawled several large crabs. It did not
take the crew of the snark longer than the next
meal to reach the unanimous conclusion that it would willingly
put the snark about any time for a turtle. But
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it is the dolphin that is the king of deep
sea fishes. Never is his color twice quite the same,
swimming in the sea. An ethereal creature of palest azure.
He displays in that one guise a miracle of color,
but it is nothing compared with the displays of which
he is capable. At one time he will appear green,
pale green, deep green, phosphorescent green. At another time blue,
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deep blue, electric blue, all the spectrum of blue. Catch
him on a hook, and he turns to gold, yellow, gold,
all gold. Haul him on deck, and he excels the spectrum,
passing through inconceivable shades of blues, greens, and yellows, and
then suddenly turning a ghostly white, in the midst of
which are bright blue spots, And you suddenly discover that
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he is speckled like a trout, then back from white,
he goes through all the range of colors, finally turning
to a mother of pearl. For those who are devoted
to fishing, I can recommend no finer sport than catching dolphin.
Of course, it must be done on a thin line
with reel and pole. A number seven O'Shaughnessy tarpon hook
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is just the thing baited with an entire flying fish
like the bonita. The dolphin's fare consists of flying fish,
and he strikes like lightning at the bait. The first
warning is when the reel screeches and you see the
lines smoking out at right angles to the boat. Before
you have time to entertain anxiety concerning the length of
your line, the fish rises into the air in a
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succession of leaps. Since he is quite certain to be
four feet long or over the sport of landing, so
gamey a fish can be realized. When hooked, he invariably
turns golden. The idea of the series of leaps is
to rid himself of the hook, and the man who
has made the strike must be of iron or decon
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it if his heart does not beat with an extra
flutter when he beholds such gorgeous fish, glittering in golden
male and shaking itself like a stallion in each mid
air leap where slack. If you don't on one of
those leaps, the hook will be flung out and twenty
feet away, no slack, and away he will go on
another run, culminating in another series of leaps. About this
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time one begins to worry over the line and to
wish that he had had nine hundred feet on the
reel originally instead of six hundred. With careful playing, the
line can be saved, and after an hour of keen excitement,
the fish can be brought to gaff. One such dolphin
I landed on the snark measured four feet and seven inches.
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Hermann caught dolphins more prosaically. A hand line and a
chunk of shark meat were all he needed. His hand
line was very thick, but on more than one occasion
it parted and lost the fish. One day, a dolphin
got away with a lure of Herman's manufacture, to which
were lashed four O'Shaughnessy hooks. Within an hour, the same
dolphin was landed with the rod, and on dissecting him,
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the four hooks were recovered. The dolphins, which remained with
us over a month, deserted us north of the line,
and not one was seen during the remainder of the traverse.
So the days passed. There was so much to be
done that time never dragged. Had there been little to do,
time could not have dragged with such wonderful sea scapes
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and cloudscapes, dawns that were like burning imperial cities, under
rainbows that arched nearly to the zenith, sunsets that bathed
the purple sea in rivers of rose colored light flowing
from the sun whose diverging heaven climbing rays were of
the purest blue. Overside, in the heat of the day,
the sea was an azure satiny fabric, in the depths
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of which the sunshine focused in funnels of light. A
stern deep down, when there was a breeze, bubbled a
procession of milky turquoise ghosts, the foam flung down by
the hull of the snark each time she floundered against
the sea. At night, the wake was phosphorescent fire, where
the Medusa slime resented our passing bulk. While far down
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could be observed the unceasing flight of comets with long,
undulating nebulous tails caused by the passage of the bonitas
through the resentful Medusa slime, and now and again from
out of the darkness on either hand, just under the
surface ar ger phosphorescent organisms flashed up like electric lights,
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marking collisions. With the careless bonitas scurrying ahead to the
good hunting just beyond our bowsprit we made our easting,
worked down through the doldrums, and caught a fresh breeze
out of south by west, hauled up by the wind
on such a slant we would fetch past the Marquesses
far away to the westward. But the next day, on Tuesday,
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November twenty sixth, in the thick of a heavy squall,
the wind shifted suddenly to the southeast. It was the
Trade at last. There were no more squalls, not but
fine weather, a fair wind, and a whirling log with
sheets slacked off, and with spinnaker and mainsail swaying bellying
on either side. The trade backed more and more until
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it blew out of the northeast, while we steered a
steady course to the southwest. Ten days of this and
on the morning of December sixth, at five o'clock we
sighted land just where it ought to have been. Dead ahead,
we passed to leeward of Uahuka, skirted the southern edge
of Nukuheva, and that night, in driving squalls and inky darkness,
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fought our way into an anchorage in the narrow bay
of Taiohe. The anchor rumbled down to the blatting of
wild goats on the cliffs, and the air we breathed
was heavy with the perfume of flowers. The traverse was
accomplished sixty days, from land to land, across a lonely sea,
above whose horizons never rised. The straining sails of ships.
(35:33):
End of chapter nine, recorded by Bryan Ness. This recording
is in the public domain.
Chapter nine of the Crews of the Snark. This is
a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.
Recorded by Brian Ness The Crews of the Snark by
(00:23):
Jack London, Chapter nine. A Pacific traverse Sandwich Islands to Tahiti.
There is great difficulty in making this passage across the trades.
The whalers and all others speak with great doubt of
fetching Tahiti from the Sandwich Islands. Captain Bruce says that
a vessel should keep to the northward until she gets
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a start of wind before bearing for her destination. In
his passage between them in November eighteen thirty seven, he
had no variables near the line in coming south, and
never could make easting on either teen, though he endeavored
by every means to do so. So say the sailing
directions for the South Pacific Ocean, and that is all
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they say. There's not a word more to help the
weary voyager in making this long traverse, nor is there
any word at all concerning the passage from Hawaii to
the Marquess, which lie some eight hundred miles to the
southeast of Tahiti, and which are the more difficult to
reach by just that much. The reason for the lack
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of directions is I imagined that no voyager is supposed
to make himself weary by attempting so impossible a traverse.
But the impossible did not deter the snark, principally because
of the fact that we did not read that particular
little paragraph in the sailing directions until after we had started.
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We sailed from Hilo, Hawaii on October seventh, and arrived
at Nukahiva in the Marquess on December sixth. The distance
was two thousand miles as the crow flies, while we
actually traveled at least four thousand miles to accomplish it,
thus proving for once and forever that the shortest distance
between two points is not always a straight line. Had
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we headed directly for the Marquesses, we might have traveled
five or six thousand miles. Upon one thing, we were resolved.
We would not cross the line west of one hundred
thirty degrees west longitude. For here was the problem to
cross the line to the west of that point. If
the southeast trade winds were well around to the southeast
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would throw us so far to leeward of the marquesses
that a head beat would be maddeningly impossible. Also, we
had to remember the equatorial current, which moves west at
a rate of anywhere from twelve to seventy five miles
a day, a pretty pickle indeed, to be to leeward
of our destination. With such a current in our teeth, No,
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not a minute nor a second west of one hundred
thirty degrees west longitude would we cross the line. But
since the southeast trade winds were to be expected five
or six degrees north of the line, which if they
were well around to the southeast or south southeast, would
necessitate our sliding off towards south southwest, we should have
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to hold to the eastward north of the line and
north of the southeast trades until we gained at least
one hundred twenty eight degrees west longitude. I have forgotten
to mention that the seventy horsepower gasoline engine as usual
was not working, and that we could depend upon wind alone.
Neither was the launch engine working. And while I am
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about it, I may as well confess that the five
horsepower which ran the Lights, Fans and Pumps was also
on the sick list. A striking title for a book
haunts me, waking and sleeping. I should like to write
the book someday and call it around the World with
three gasoline engines and a wife, But I'm afraid I
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shall not write it for fear of hurting the feelings
of some of the young gentlemen of San Francisco, Honolulu,
and Hilo who learned their trades at the expense of
the snark's engines. It looked easy on paper. Here was Helo,
and there was our objective one hundred twenty eight degrees
west longitude. With the northeast trade blowing, we could travel
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a straight line between the two points and even slack
our sheets off a goodly bit. But one of the
chief troubles with the trades is that one never knows
just where he will pick them up and just in
what direction they will be blowing. We picked up the
northeast trade right outside of Hilo Harbor, but the miserable
breeze was away around into the east. Then there was
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the north equatorial current setting westward like a mighty river. Furthermore,
a small boat by the wind and bucking into a
big head sea does not work to advantage. She jogs
up and down and gets nowhere. Her sails are full
and strang Every little while she presses her lee rail under,
she flounders and bumps and splashes, and that is all.
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Whenever she begins to gather way, she runs kurchug into
a big mountain of water and is brought to a standstill.
So with the snark, the resultant of her smallness, of
the trade around into the east and of the strong
equatorial current was a long sag south. Oh, she did
not go quite south, but the easting she made was distressing.
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On October eleven she made forty miles easting. October twelve
fifteen miles, October thirteen, no easting October fourteen thirty miles,
October fifteen, twenty three miles, October sixteen eleven miles. And
on October seventeen she actually went to the westward four miles. Thus,
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in a week she made one hundred and fifteen miles easting,
which was equivalent to sixteen miles a day. But between
the longitude of Hilo and one hundred twenty eight degrees
west longitude is a difference of twenty seven degrees, or
roughly sixteen hundred miles. At sixteen miles a day, one
hundred days would be required to accomplish this distance, and
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even then, our objective one hundred twenty eight degrees west
longitude was five degrees north of the line, while Nukahiva
in the Marquesis lay nine degrees south of the line
and twelve degrees to the west. There remained only one
thing to do, to work south out of the trade
and into the variables. It is true that Captain Bruce
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found no variables on his traverse, and that he never
could make easting on either tack. It was the variables
or nothing with us, and we prayed for better luck
than he had had. The variables constitute the belt of
ocean lying between the Trades and the Doldrums, and are
conjectured to be the drafts of heated air which rise
in the doldrums, flow high in the air counter to
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the trades, and gradually sink down till they fan the
surface of the ocean where they are found. And they
are found where they are found, for they are wedged
between the trades and the Doldrums, which same shift their
territory from day to day and month to month. We
found the variables in eleven degrees north latitude and eleven
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degrees north latitude. We hugged jealously. To the south lay
the doldrums. To the north lay the northeast trade that
refused to blow from the northeast. The days came and went,
and always they found the snark somewhere near the eleventh parallel.
The variables were truly variable. A light headwind would die
away and leave us rolling in a calm for forty
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eight hours. Then a light head wind would spring up,
blow for three hours, and leave us rolling in another
calumn for forty eight hours. Then hurrah, the wind would
come out of the west, fresh, beautifully fresh, and send
the snark along, wing and wing, her wake, bubbling the
log line straight astern. At the end of half an hour,
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while we were preparing to set the spinnaker with a
few sickly gasps, the wind would die away, and so
it went. We wagered optimistically on every favorable fan of
air that lasted over five minutes, but it never did
any good. The fans faded out just the same. But
there were exceptions in the variables. If you wait long enough,
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something is bound to happen, and we were so plentifully
stocked with food and water that we could afford to wait.
On October twenty six, we actually made one hundred and
three miles of easting, and we talked about it for
days afterwards. Once we caught a moderate gale from the south,
which blew itself out in eight hours, but it helped
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us to seventy one miles of easting in that particular
twenty four hours. And then just as it was expiring,
the wind came straight out from the north the directly
opposite quarter and fanned us along over another degree of easting.
In years and years, no sailing vessel has attempted this traverse,
and we found ourselves in the midst of one of
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the loneliest of the Pacific solitudes. In the sixty days
we were crossing it, we sighted no sail lifted, no
steamer smoke above the horizon. A disabled vessel could drift
in this deserted expanse for a dozen generations and there
would be no rescue. The only chance of rescue would
be from a vessel like the Snark, and the Snark
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happened to be there principally because of the fact that
the traverse had been begun before the particular paragraph in
the sailing Directions had been read. Standing upright on deck,
a straight line drawn from the eye to the horizon
would measure three miles and a half. Thus seven miles
was the diameter of the circle of the sea in
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which we had our center. Since we remained always in
the center, and since we constantly were moving in some direction,
we looked upon many circles. But all circles looked alike.
No tufted islets, gray headlands, nor glistening patches of white
canvas ever marred the symmetry of that unbroken curve. Clouds
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came and went, rising up over the rim of the circle,
flowing across the space of it, and spilling away and
down across the opposite rim. The world faded, as the
procession of the weeks marched by the world faded, until
at last there ceased to be any world except the
little world of the snark, freighted with her seven souls
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and floating on the expanse of the waters. Our memories
of the world, the great world became like dreams of
former lives we had lived somewhere before we came to
be born on the Snark after we had been out
of fresh vegetables for some time. We mentioned such things
in much the same way I have heard my father
mention the vanished apples of his boyhood. Man is a
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creature of habit, and we on the Snark had got
the habit of the snark. Everything about her and aboard
her was as a matter of course, and anything different
would have been an irritation and an offense. There was
no way by which the great world could intrude. Our
bell rang the hours, but no caller ever rang it.
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There were no guests to dinner, no telegrams, no insistent
telephone jangles invading our privacy. We had no engagements to keep,
no trains to catch, and there were no morning newspapers
over which to waste time in learning what was happening
to our fifteen hundred million other fellow creatures. But it
was not dull. The affairs of our little world had
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to be regulated, and unlike the great world, our world
had to be steered in its journey through space. Also,
there were cosmic disturbances to be encountered and baffled, such
as do not afflict the big Earth in its frictionless
orbit through the windless void, and we never knew from
moment to moment what was going to happen next. There
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were spice and variety, enough and despair. Thus, at four
in the morning, I relieve Hermann at the wheel east northeast.
He gives me the course. She's eight points off, but
she ain't steering. Small wonder the vessel does not exist
that can be steered in so absolute a calm. I
had a breeze a little while ago. Maybe it will
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come back again, Hermann says, hopefully. Ere he starts forward
to the cabin and his bunk. The Mizzen is in
and fast furled in the night. What of the roll
and the absence of wind. It had made life too
hideous to be permitted to go on rasping at the mast,
smashing at the tackles, and buffeting the empty air into
hollow outbursts of sound. But the big mainsail is still on,
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and the staysail jib and flying jib are snapping and
slashing at their sheets. With every roll, every star is out.
Just for luck. I put the wheel hard over in
the opposite direction to which it had been left by Herman,
and I lean back and gaze up at the stars.
There's nothing else for me to do. There's nothing to
be done with a sailing vessel rolling in a stark calm.
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Then I feel a fan on my cheek, faint, so
faint that I can just sense it. Ere it is gone,
But another comes, and another, until a real and just
perceptible breeze is blowing. How the Snark's sails manage to
feel it is beyond me, but feel what they do
as she does as well. For the compass card begins
slowly to revolve in the binnacle. In reality, it is
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not revolving at all. It is held by terrestrial magnetism
in one place, and it is the Snark that is revolving,
pivoted upon that delicate cardboard device that floats in a
closed vessel of alcohol. So the Snark comes back on
her course. The breath increases to a tiny puff. The
snark feels the weight of it, and actually heals over
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a trifle. There is flying scud overhead, and I notice
the stars being blotted out. Walls of darkness close in
upon me, so that when the last star is gone,
the darkness is so near that it seems I can
reach out and touch it on every side. When I
lean towards it, I can feel it loom against my face.
Puff follows puff, and I am glad. The Mizzen is furled. Phew,
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that was a stiff one. The snark goes over and
down until her lee rail is buried, and the whole
Pacific Ocean is pouring in. Four or five of these
gusts make me wish that the jib and Flying Jib
were in the sea is picking up. The gusts are
growing stronger and more frequent, and there is a splatter
of wet in the air. There's no use in attempting
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to gaze to windward. The wall of blackness is within
arm's length. Yet I cannot help attempting to see and
gauge the blows that are being struck at the snark.
There is something ominous and menacing up there to windward,
and I have a feeling that if I look long
enough and strong enough, I shall divine it. Feudile feeling
between two gusts. I leave the wheel and run forward
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to the cabin companionway, where I light matches and consult
the barometer twenty nine ninety. It reads that sensitive instrument
refuses to take notice of the disturbance, which is humming
with a deep throaty voice in the rigging. I get
back to the wheel just in time to meet another gust,
the strongest yet. Well, anyway, the wind is a beam,
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and the snark is on her course, eating up easting.
That at least is well. The jib and the flying
jib bother me, and I wish they were in She
would make easier weather of it, and less risky weather. Likewise,
the wind snorts and stray rain drops pelt like bird shot.
I shall certainly have to call all hands, I conclude,
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Then conclude the next instant to hang on a little longer.
Maybe this is the end of it, and I shall
have called them for nothing. It is better to let
them sleep. I hold the snark down to her task,
and from out of the darkness at right angles comes
a deluge of rain, accompanied by shrieking wind. Then everything
eases except the blackness, and I rejoice in that I
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have not called the men. No sooner does the wind
ease than the sea picks up. The combers are breaking now,
and the boat is tossing like a cork. Then out
of the blackness the gusts come harder and faster than before.
If only I knew what was up there, to windward
and the blackness, the snark is making heavy weather of it,
and her lee rail is buried oftener than not more
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shrieks and snorts of wind. Now, if ever is the
time to call the men, I will call them. I resolve.
Then there is a burst of rain, a slackening of
the wind, and I do not call. But it is
rather lonely there at the wheel, steering a little whirled
through howling blackness. It is quite a responsibility to be
all alone on the surface of a little world in
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time of stress, doing the thinking for its sleeping inhabitants.
I recoiled from the responsibility. As more gusts begin to strike,
and as a sea licks along the weather rail and
splashes over into the cockpit. The salt water seems strangely
warm to my body, and is shot through with ghostly
nodules of phosphorescent light. I shall surely call all hands
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to shortened sail. Why should they sleep? I am a
fool to have any compunctions in the matter. My intellect
is arrayed against my heart. It was my heart that said,
let them sleep. Yes, But it was my intellect that
backed up my heart in that judgment. Let my intellect
then reverse the judgment, and while I am speculating as
to what particular entity issued that command to my intellect,
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the guests die away. Solicitude for mere bodily comfort has
no place in practical seamanship, I conclude sagely, But study
the feel of the next series of guests, and do
not call the men. After all, it is my intellect
behind everything, procrastinating, measuring its knowledge of what the snark
can endure against the blows being struck at her, and
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waiting the call of all hands against the striking of
still severer blows. Daylight, gray and violence steals through the
cloud pall and shows a foaming sea that flattens under
the weight of recurrent and in increasing squalls. Then comes
the rain, filling the windy valleys of the sea with
milky smoke, and further flattening the waves, which but wait
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for the easement of wind and rain to leap more
wildly than before. Come The men on deck there sleep out,
and among them herman his face on the broad grin
in appreciation of the breeze of wind. I have picked up,
I turn the wheel over to Warren and start to
go below, pausing on the way to rescue the galley stovepipe,
which has gone adrift. I am barefooted, and my toes
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have had an excellent education in the art of clinging.
But as the rail buries itself in a green sea,
I suddenly sit down on the streaming deck. Herman good
naturedly elects to question my selection of such a spot.
Then comes the next roll, and he sits down suddenly,
and without premeditation. The snark heels over and down. The
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rail takes it green, and Herman and I, clutching the
precious stovepipe, are swept down into the lee scuppers. After
that I finished my journey below, and while changing my clothes,
grin with satisfaction. The snark is making easting. No, it
is not all monotony. When we had worried along our
easting to one hundred twenty six degrees west longitude, we
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left the variables and headed south through the Doldrums, where
was much calm weather, and where, taking advantage of every
fan of air, we were often glad to make a
score of miles in as many hours. And yet on
such a day, we might pass through a dozen squalls
and be surrounded by a dozens more, and every squall
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was to be regarded as a bludgeon capable of crushing
the snark. We were struck, sometimes by the centers and
sometimes by the sides of these squalls, and we never
knew just where or how we were to be hit.
The squall that rose up covering half the heavens and
swept down upon us as likely as not split into
two squalls, which passed us harmlessly on either side, while
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the tiny, innocent looking squall that appeared to carry no
more than a hogshead of water and a pound of
wind would abruptly assume cyclopaean proportions, deluging us with rain
and overwhelming us with wind. Then there were treacherous squalls
that went boldly astern and sneaked back upon us from
a mile to leeward. Again, two squalls would tear along,
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one on each side of us, and we would get
a fillip from each of them. Now, a gale certainly
grows tiresome after a few hours, but squalls never. The
thousandth squall in one's experience is as interesting as the
first one, and perhaps a bit more so it is
the tyro who has no apprehension of them. The man
of a thousand squalls respects a squall, he knows what
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they are. It was in the doldrums that our most
exciting event occurred. On November twenty, we discovered that through
an accident, we had lost over one half of the
supply of fresh water that remained to us. Since we
were at that time forty three days out from Hilo,
our supply of fresh water was not large. To lose
over half of it was a catastrophe. On close allowance,
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the remnant of water we possessed would last twenty days.
But we were in the doldrums. There was no telling
where the southeast trades were, nor where we would pick
them up. The handcuffs were promptly put upon the pump,
and once a day the water was portioned out. Each
of us received a quart for personal use, and eight
quarts were given to the cook enters. Now the psychology
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of the situation. No sooner had the discovery of the
water shortage been made than I, for one, was afflicted
with a burning thirst. It seemed to me that I
had never been so thirsty in my life. My little
quart of water. I could easily have drunk in one draft,
and to refrain from doing so required a severe exertion
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of will. Nor was I alone in this. All of
us talked water, thought water, and dreamed water. When we slept.
We examined the charts for possible islands to which to
run in extremity, but there were no such islands. The
Marquess were the nearest, and they were the other side
of the line, and of the Doldrons too, which made
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it even worse. We were in three degrees north latitude,
while the Marquess were nine degrees south latitude, a difference
of over one thousand miles. Furthermore, the Marcasis lay some
fourteen degrees to the west of our longitude, a pretty
pickle for a handful of creatures sweltering on the ocean
and the heat of tropic calms. We rigged lines on
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either side, between the main and Mizzen riggings. To these
we laced the big deck awning, hoisting it up aft
with a sailing pennant, so that any rain it might
collect would run forward where it could be caught. Here
and there, squalls passed across the circle of the sea
all day We watched them now to port or starboard,
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and again ahead or astern, but never one came near
enough to wet us. In the afternoon, a big one
border down upon us. It spread out across the ocean
as it approached, and we could see it empty and
countless thousands of gallons into the salt sea. Extra attention
was paid to the awning, and then we waited. Warren,
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Martin and Herman made a vivid picture grouped together, holding
on to the rigging swaying to the roll. They were
gazing intently at the squall strain. Anxiety and yearnings were
in every posture of their bodies. Beside them was the
dry and empty awning, But they seemed to grow limp
and to droop as the squall broke in half, one
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part passing on ahead, the other drawing astern and going
to leeward. But that night came rain. Martin, whose psychological
thirst had compelled him to drink his quart of water, early,
got his mouth down to the lip of the awning
and drank the deepest draft I have ever seen. Drunk.
The precious water came down in bucketfuls and tubfuls, and
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in two hours we caught and stored away in the
tanks one hundred and twenty gallons. Strain to say, in
all the rest of our voyage to the Marquess, not
another drop of rain fell on board. If that squall
had missed us, the handcuffs would have remained on the pump,
and we would have busied ourselves with utilizing our surplus
gasoline for distillation purposes. Then there was the fishing. One
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did not have to go in search of it, for
it was there at the rail. A three inch steel
hook on the end of a stout line with a
piece of white rag for bait was all that was
necessary to catch bonitas, weighing from ten to twenty five pounds.
Bonitas feed on flying fish, wherefore they are unaccustomed to
nibbling at the hook. They strike as gamely as the
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gamest fish in the sea, and their first run is
something that no man who has ever caught them will forget. Also,
bonitas are the veriest cannibals. The instant one is hooked,
he is attacked by his fellows often, and often we
haul them on board with fresh, clean bitten holes in them.
The size of teacup. One school of bonitas, numbering many
(25:03):
thousands stayed with us day and night for more than
three weeks. Aided by the snark. It was great hunting,
for they cut a swath of destruction through the ocean
half a mile wide and fifteen hundred miles in length.
They ranged along a breast of the snark on either side,
pouncing upon the flying fish her forefoot scared up since
they were continually pursuing Astern the flying fish that survived
(25:26):
for several flights. They were always overtaking the snark, and
at any time one could glance astern and on the
front of a breaking wave see scores of their silvery
forms coasting down just under the surface. When they had
eaten their fill, it was their delight to get in
the shadow of the boat or of her sails, and
a hundred or so were always to be seen, lazily
(25:48):
sliding along and keeping cool. But the poor flying fish
pursued and eaten alive by the bonitas and dolphins, they
sought flight in the air, where the swooping sea birds
drove them back into the lad under heaven. There was
no refuge for them. Flying fish do not play when
they essay the air. It is a life and death
(26:08):
affair with them a thousand times a day, we could
lift our eyes and see the tragedy played out. The swift,
broken circling of a gunny might attract one's attention. A
glance beneath shows the back of a dolphin breaking the
surface in a wild rush. Just in front of its nose,
a shimmering, palpitant streak of silver shoots from the water
(26:30):
into the air, a delicate organic mechanism of flight, endowed
with sensation, power of direction, and love of life. The
gunny swoops for it and misses, and the flying fish,
gaining its altitude by rising kitelike against the wind, turns
in a half circle, and skims off to leeward, gliding
on the bosom of the wind. Beneath it, the wake
(26:52):
of the dolphin shows in churning foam. So he follows,
gazing upward with large eyes at the flashing breakfast that
navigates an element other than his own. He cannot rise
to so lofty occasion, but he is a thorough going empiricist,
and he knows sooner or later, if not gobbled up
by the gunny, the flying fish must return to the
(27:13):
water and then breakfast. We used to pity the poor
winged fish. It was sad to see such sordid and
bloody slaughter. And then in the night watches, when a
forlornable flying fish struck the mainsail and fell, gasping and
splattering on the deck, we were to rush for it,
just as eagerly, just as greedily, just as voraciously as
(27:33):
the dolphins and bonitas. For know that flying fish are
the most toothsome for breakfast. It is always a wonder
to me that such dainty meat does not build dainty
tissue in the bodies of the devourers. Perhaps the dolphins
and bonitas are coarser fibered because of the high speed
at which they drive their bodies in order to catch
(27:54):
their prey. But then again, the flying fish drive their
bodies at high speed too. Works we caught occasionally on
large hooks with chain swivel bent on a length of
small rope, and sharks meant pilot fish and remoras, and
various sorts of parasitic creatures regular man eaters. Some of
the sharks proved tiger eyed and with twelve rows of
(28:16):
teeth razor sharp. By the way, we of the snark
are agreed that we have eaten many fish that will
not compare with baked sharks smothered in tomato dressing. In
the calms, we occasionally caught a fish called hake by
the Japanese cook, and once on a spoon hook trolling
one hundred yards astern, we caught a snakelike fish over
(28:37):
three feet in length and not more than three inches
in diameter, with four fangs in his jaw. He proved
the most delicious fish, delicious in meat and flavor, that
we have ever eaten on board. The most welcome addition
to our larder was a green sea turtle, weighing a
full hundred pounds and appearing on the table most appetizingly
(28:58):
in steaks, sous hoops, and stews, and finally in a
wonderful curry that tempted all hands into eating more rice
than was good for them. The turtle was sighted to windward,
calmly sleeping on the surface in the midst of a
huge school of curious dolphins. It was a deep sea
turtle of a surety, for the nearest land was a
thousand miles away. We put the snark about and went
(29:21):
back for him, Hermann driving the grains into his head
and neck. When hauled aboard, numerous remorro were clinging to
his shell, and out of the hollows at the roots
of his flippers crawled several large crabs. It did not
take the crew of the snark longer than the next
meal to reach the unanimous conclusion that it would willingly
put the snark about any time for a turtle. But
(29:42):
it is the dolphin that is the king of deep
sea fishes. Never is his color twice quite the same,
swimming in the sea. An ethereal creature of palest azure.
He displays in that one guise a miracle of color,
but it is nothing compared with the displays of which
he is capable. At one time he will appear green,
pale green, deep green, phosphorescent green. At another time blue,
(30:06):
deep blue, electric blue, all the spectrum of blue. Catch
him on a hook, and he turns to gold, yellow, gold,
all gold. Haul him on deck, and he excels the spectrum,
passing through inconceivable shades of blues, greens, and yellows, and
then suddenly turning a ghostly white, in the midst of
which are bright blue spots, And you suddenly discover that
(30:28):
he is speckled like a trout, then back from white,
he goes through all the range of colors, finally turning
to a mother of pearl. For those who are devoted
to fishing, I can recommend no finer sport than catching dolphin.
Of course, it must be done on a thin line
with reel and pole. A number seven O'Shaughnessy tarpon hook
(30:49):
is just the thing baited with an entire flying fish
like the bonita. The dolphin's fare consists of flying fish,
and he strikes like lightning at the bait. The first
warning is when the reel screeches and you see the
lines smoking out at right angles to the boat. Before
you have time to entertain anxiety concerning the length of
your line, the fish rises into the air in a
(31:11):
succession of leaps. Since he is quite certain to be
four feet long or over the sport of landing, so
gamey a fish can be realized. When hooked, he invariably
turns golden. The idea of the series of leaps is
to rid himself of the hook, and the man who
has made the strike must be of iron or decon
(31:31):
it if his heart does not beat with an extra
flutter when he beholds such gorgeous fish, glittering in golden
male and shaking itself like a stallion in each mid
air leap where slack. If you don't on one of
those leaps, the hook will be flung out and twenty
feet away, no slack, and away he will go on
another run, culminating in another series of leaps. About this
(31:55):
time one begins to worry over the line and to
wish that he had had nine hundred feet on the
reel originally instead of six hundred. With careful playing, the
line can be saved, and after an hour of keen excitement,
the fish can be brought to gaff. One such dolphin
I landed on the snark measured four feet and seven inches.
(32:15):
Hermann caught dolphins more prosaically. A hand line and a
chunk of shark meat were all he needed. His hand
line was very thick, but on more than one occasion
it parted and lost the fish. One day, a dolphin
got away with a lure of Herman's manufacture, to which
were lashed four O'Shaughnessy hooks. Within an hour, the same
dolphin was landed with the rod, and on dissecting him,
(32:38):
the four hooks were recovered. The dolphins, which remained with
us over a month, deserted us north of the line,
and not one was seen during the remainder of the traverse.
So the days passed. There was so much to be
done that time never dragged. Had there been little to do,
time could not have dragged with such wonderful sea scapes
(32:59):
and cloudscapes, dawns that were like burning imperial cities, under
rainbows that arched nearly to the zenith, sunsets that bathed
the purple sea in rivers of rose colored light flowing
from the sun whose diverging heaven climbing rays were of
the purest blue. Overside, in the heat of the day,
the sea was an azure satiny fabric, in the depths
(33:21):
of which the sunshine focused in funnels of light. A
stern deep down, when there was a breeze, bubbled a
procession of milky turquoise ghosts, the foam flung down by
the hull of the snark each time she floundered against
the sea. At night, the wake was phosphorescent fire, where
the Medusa slime resented our passing bulk. While far down
(33:43):
could be observed the unceasing flight of comets with long,
undulating nebulous tails caused by the passage of the bonitas
through the resentful Medusa slime, and now and again from
out of the darkness on either hand, just under the
surface ar ger phosphorescent organisms flashed up like electric lights,
(34:04):
marking collisions. With the careless bonitas scurrying ahead to the
good hunting just beyond our bowsprit we made our easting,
worked down through the doldrums, and caught a fresh breeze
out of south by west, hauled up by the wind
on such a slant we would fetch past the Marquesses
far away to the westward. But the next day, on Tuesday,
(34:25):
November twenty sixth, in the thick of a heavy squall,
the wind shifted suddenly to the southeast. It was the
Trade at last. There were no more squalls, not but
fine weather, a fair wind, and a whirling log with
sheets slacked off, and with spinnaker and mainsail swaying bellying
on either side. The trade backed more and more until
(34:47):
it blew out of the northeast, while we steered a
steady course to the southwest. Ten days of this and
on the morning of December sixth, at five o'clock we
sighted land just where it ought to have been. Dead ahead,
we passed to leeward of Uahuka, skirted the southern edge
of Nukuheva, and that night, in driving squalls and inky darkness,
(35:09):
fought our way into an anchorage in the narrow bay
of Taiohe. The anchor rumbled down to the blatting of
wild goats on the cliffs, and the air we breathed
was heavy with the perfume of flowers. The traverse was
accomplished sixty days, from land to land, across a lonely sea,
above whose horizons never rised. The straining sails of ships.
(35:33):
End of chapter nine, recorded by Bryan Ness. This recording
is in the public domain.
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