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In 2002, as an apprentice deck-hand aboard the Dutch square-rigged barque
Europa, Nicholas sailed from Costa Rica to Hawaii and on towards Japan and
Korea for a sail-training festival.
Feb 18
So I have now been on Europa since January 9. Just over 40 days. Thoughts of
home are slowly vanishing and I am able to enjoy the experience. The escape
from domesticity is an aid to self-discovery. I have come to realise that my
home is a lonely place, dislocated from friendship and the strong emotions
which now flood my heart. From sunset to sunrise a sustaining energy seems
to run through the ship. People are always awake, always working.
As each day passes, I become sensible of a stronger emotion, forged by a small
group on an inexplicably large ocean. It crushes and redeems in a way I
never knew was possible. Right now the ocean swells which have kept our
small ship company since Costa Rica are rolling us onward towards Pohnpei.
I find that one of the best things about working with a professional crew is
that there is no feeling that people must shout or scream to make their
orders clear. People simply fulfil their tasks in the simplest and most
efficient way possible.
It is strange how a word can shape your day, if not your life. The right
phrase from the right person can echo in your mind and in your dreams like a
floating ghost. For hours now I have been wondering about a line. The merest
hint given by a friend, of immeasurable pain in her life. It emerged in
casual conversation, as a tangle emerges in an unknotted rope.
When somebody that I care about creates a dark shadow as a part of their
impression, it is sheer agony. O, if death could visit me, torment me for
eternity if just to take away this person’s pain, dear God, let it fall upon
me like Satan’s rage! For nobody deserves less to be followed by a shadow,
when they are created of such brilliant lightness. Let this be no idle wish
if souls share any connection whatsoever. Retrace the soul’s history to the
time when we were one.
March 7
In the Pacific trade winds a sailor will often talk about the slipping by of
time, how two days seem to turn into 20 without any conscious interval. The
days are punctuated by blazing skies, feathery pink at sunrise and vividly
fiery in the evening. The ship becomes like a metronome which has been
attached to a human heart. Sometimes a breaking wave excites this heart: the
helmsman’s hands cannot correct the course and the ship sways more
violently, straining alternately at the rigging to port and starboard. The
crew conform to the rhythms of seconds, watches, days and passages with a
huge sense of wellbeing. Many of my shipmates have vivid dreams of
navigating the ship through city streets. My dreams have become too vivid. I
dream of islands where the dead go to watch angels die. Lying on deck at
night, watching the stars roll in and out from under the sails, I could not
help feeling infinitely small, yet in such good company.
The first indication that our voyage was ending was a mass of grey cloud in
the sky. The forest zephyrs of Pohnpei send up moisture, spreading out in a
gigantic mass of cloud, which in turn causes 300 days of rain per year,
making the land fertile in its cycle. I had been up since 4am, carrying out
routine maintenance, thoughtfully, with the spectre of land in my mind. As
the sun rose it split the sky, a seam of gold through the cloud, making the
island look somehow unreal. It barely distinguished itself from the
mountains of silver trade wind clouds which had been the crux of my waking
dreams since leaving Hawaii. Drowsily, we all looked at the shadow land, hot
cups of coffee melting into our hands, anticipating ends and beginnings. The
wind was the same as it ever was, the land had not yet disturbed the sea as
we climbed aloft to stow the sails, shaking morning dew from the rigging as
we grasped the nightcold wire stays. The sails billowed slightly in their
gear as if they were eager to take the ship the last bit of the way into
dock. For the first time in 3,000 miles they were tied up, reduced to
ornaments as the sound of engines began to fill the world.
When in dock we set to breakfast. Flies began to infest the deck, then the
hatchways, then the galley as we raced them for the fresh fruit and bread
rolls. This was a distant port, the least lonely nowhere in the world. This
was a port through which all manner of ships passed on their journey between
the superpowers. If you journey into the jungles as we did, there are
ancient ruins among the swampy rivers, created by the old superpowers, who
must have moved tonnes and tonnes of stone to build a jungle city. I asked a
young child how it was believed that the stones got there. He gave an
answer, more sensible than my question, that they “flew there by magic”.
On the final night in port I was not good company. Some of the crew who had
become dearest to me were leaving and we were to change captains. I walked
alone and heard the barking of dogs, subdued by day and enlivened in the
tropical night. I felt inhuman, recessed into the same darkness which made
the chained dogs growl and grind their fangs as I passed.
Often when we meet people, we have something in common with them. What I found
on board Europa was that I had very little in common with any of my friends.
It seems that free spirits make the best companions.
Pohnpei to Saipan, via Nonwin atoll: Day 2
Klaas joined the ship in Pohnpei. Goodbyes proved to be difficult and I was
more tearful than most. At school I shook about five hands and that was it.
Here I was hugged and talked to with sincerity. It was heartbreaking to wave
goodbye to people who had come to mean so much to me.
Feelings of woe soon evaporated as we sailed out past the reef in a brisk 17
knots of wind, all working to set sails and fly. Pohnpei vanished into the
light rainy mists like a half-retrieved memory, and we were once again out
in the Pacific Ocean.
We two, like horses on the waves Ran through the canyons blue And all that
lonesome sailors crave Was running round with you.
We have watched the trade-wind swells begin to form off the shores of Costa
Rica. Some break as surf on Hawaiian coasts, others glide on, to Micronesia,
gather might and engulf atolls, lapping upon the shores of Pohnpei. Some
accompany us still as foam-topped couriers bound for lands beyond our reach.
The day our wave breaks upon the shores of Japan will be the consummation of
delight and dread.
The Pacific Ocean is the least lonely place on earth. Birds land on deck,
whales and dolphins have accompanied us and in such good company loneliness
seems a mere figment of the land. To look upon an empty sea and say that it
is empty is not to look on it at all. As the squalls roll on past us, we
feel truly like a part of the ocean.
Day 4
We are at Nonwin Island. The water is flat and a pleasant breeze is flowing
over the ship, making sleep a positive joy.
Having been ashore, I hold a place in my heart for such an island. The warmth
of human spirit everywhere sometimes overwhelms me. Every object makes a
voyage, every person is infinitely complex if only one could see. The spirit
which continues our race, the spirit which founded Rome and realised how
unimportant it is, was in the air and every hopeful eye I see.
Perhaps too much beauty has the power to crush us. When what is in our minds
cannot compare to what we receive from the world around, the islands, the
artwork, the Spirit will outlive us. Shining and beautiful for what to us is
an eternity.
If I could spread the wings of my spirit and become a sunrise and hang over
all the earth where there is no heart to swell with love but only beauty to
absorb it, I would be content.
Day 5
Yesterday was again spent at the atoll. I had a dip in the morning, largely
due to exhaustion – sleep and waking have become dreaded to me and in my
fatigue I painted the mizzen top and moused it, returning to deck when my
arms burnt inwardly and outwardly.
I went ashore in a foul mood, hoping only to stretch my legs. The afternoon
was more wonderful than I ever could have hoped. I played with the children
all afternoon and ate coconut. Myself, Ric, Erica and John played volleyball
against the islanders.
Nonwin Island gave me a glimpse of redemption. The flatness of the atoll gives
it a beautiful vulnerability, almost as fragile as the way of life it
supports. One man told me that the world was ending. I also found out from
him that he had never been further than Yap. I suppose perhaps that if your
world is infinitely small, the ending is easier to contemplate. When a storm
could destroy the fragile balance, the end is an easier concept to handle.
Day 10
Yesterday the main t’gallant staysail halyard broke as did the chain sheet for
the main royal. I have spent what seems like many hours trying to repair the
halyard but one mishap after another seems to occur. The blocks needed
switching and the splice needed serving.
It has been good to busy myself but a quiet desperation remains with me
always. What will I do after this? Can I bear to go home? Where is home? If
home is where the heart is, I shall never reach it for my heart is in all
around. Everything and nothing possesses it. A warm wind from the North East
surges us on to Saipan.
Gale at sea
Later, off the Korean coast, a storm hit.
In the hours before the gale the skies had been grey and the visibility marred
by a persistent drizzle which hung in drops from every line, block and
sailor on board. Although we were within the Japanese archipelago, the giant
meteorological forces of the Pacific were operating upon us. The wind did
not rise gradually, over the course of hours, but suddenly in a second as
the ship collided with a wall of air, a slope down which air was rushing
from the clouds.
I was falling asleep when it hit and felt the ship start to keel over as if it
had been punched. Two bells rang “all hands on deck”, and the warm sanctuary
of the cabin was replaced by the howling tangle of the deck. Lines which had
been slack, fearless objects a few minutes before were thrashing and
straining with all the power of the wind. Klaas was in the thick of things
as he shouted orders, calculating and refining while wind and rain played in
his hair like a tattered sail. The Mate was standing at the wheel. One
mistake at the helm could lead to the ship rounding up, letting an acre of
canvas flog itself to pieces. Or she could fall off a wave, becoming
dislodged from the rhythmic gimbals on which she seemed to be so finely
balanced.
As gear reaches its limit and begins to break, the familiar rigging becomes a
forbidding web set inharmoniously against the sky. The question must have
arisen in all our minds “When will it stop?”, “when will the wind stop
rising?”. Common sense has an answer, but it is absorbed in following
orders, climbing the sodden rigging and balancing the ship with the new
forces. As feet felt for the footropes and nervous hands clutched the
yardarms high above the deck, Klaas became the conductor of an orchestra,
modifying the discordant rhythms of Europa into a harmony with the wild and
barren sea.
The chaotic deck gradually fell back into order. Ropes were refastened and
rehung, safety nets set up for the waves which were already beginning to
sweep the deck. By night the waves are invisible and the rogue, swamping
giant that takes you off your feet comes in silently from a rain-tinted
blackness. It was like a dream where every aspect of normal life is
magnified, every benign feature made razor-sharp and menacing. In the
daytime you drop a glass, and that night it shatters your whole world. So it
is with a gale. The missed footing or unsecured line has an enhanced and
deathly significance.
When I got off watch I tried to get some sleep. Anxiety, combined with the
motion of the ship, made it impossible. I lay in my bunk wondering why I was
here and not at home, happy, warm and comfortable.
In Korea
On the night of John’s dinner, in which my out-of-control chopsticks had sent
some pig’s intestine skyward, I was, being English, invited to play soccer
against the Russian cadets. I was disgustingly drunk and barefoot. The
Russians were icily sober and wearing combat boots. I remember as the ball
scudded towards me over the ground and made contact with my feet, my
swimming head sent me toppling over and I half walked, half crawled back to
my ship.
Another memory was the day I took the bus. The plan was to take the crew by
bus into Seoul and then split, spend the day and return by Metro. We
wandered around the winding backstreets looking for somewhere to eat lunch.
We found a small, dicy looking café which served “salad”. The proprietor did
not speak a word of English but we were welcomed into the empty little cave
all the same. A gas burner was lit in the middle of the table and the food
was placed upon it. Various types of meat and uncooked noodles, vegetables,
etc, were placed in the water which began to boil. The effect was to make a
thick and pleasant soup-like substance which we mixed with kimchi and some
tofu. Eating the whole thing with chopsticks was a messy but fun process. I
am sure that the owner thought us animals. Me especially, since my place
setting resembled a slaughterhouse floor by the end.
After a cup of coffee and a visit to an internet café, it was time to rejoin
the subway system and make my way back to Incheon (Not Inchon, an entirely
different place). The Seoul Metro system is very well organised and clear,
making my trip back to Donincheon a simple one (provided that I did not
accidentally disembark in Tonincheon or Bonincheon).
I really wish I could say the same of the bus service. I arrived at 6.45,
which should have been plenty of time to get back for my watch at 8. I had
been told to get on bus 12. Not a difficult task in itself, but the first
bus I tried to board did not work out. The driver irritably waved me off the
steps. He did not want the trouble of some tourist asking volleys of
questions, as I surely would. When I refused to move he reached over and
with the lightest yet most accomplished shove, sent me skittering back onto
the street. The second driver beckoned me on board. I knew it, I knew even
as I boarded the bus that it was the wrong one. But I was tired and thought
it would be better to ride the bus, which cost next to nothing, than stand
around confusing myself. The buses were, in fact, so cheap that I am sure a
good night’s sleep could be had on one for far less than the cost of the
fine for street-sleeping.
I digress. After an hour, I admitted to myself that this bus was not going
anywhere special, least of all to Incheon harbour wharf 5. Any question of
being back for the watch was gone. I began to ponder where I might be, and
what these places meant to the rest of the people on the bus. People had
come and gone, yet some were staying. This must mean that the bus had still
further to go on its journey before it began the second half of its circuit,
otherwise the people would have got on the bus going in the other direction.
That was assuming the bus went in a circuit. Perhaps it simply kept on
rolling and rolling and . . .
I had gone to sleep for about half an hour. Just myself and an old couple
remained on the bus. There were no English signs, nobody spoke English, the
street outside had lost the capital city neon glow. I got out. I had to do
something. Once again, the Korean metro saved my life. I came upon a station
and noticed to my horror that I was a long way from where I wanted to be. 45
minutes Metro ride took me back to Donincheon. My watch had been over for
over an hour now. This time, I got on a bus going in the opposite direction
and soon the route became familiar.
I arrived back at the ship, shattered and pale, whereon I was informed by Glen
that my new watch was in 25 minutes and I had to do the baking. Had I not
been so stunned I would have cried. Had it not been for the kindness of one
Korean man I would have still been orbiting South Korea in a dingy bus.
Thank you, Korea, thank you numbness.
Back in England
The moon marked time
The lamps were raining an orange sea of gases and grime in rancid waves to
welcome me
The gloom that clustered in the neon light
The gloom worn in fashionable emptiness
Took to the air, and made a baby cry.
Paper shells like claws, kicked through old streets
An empty can, a bullet cartridge falls to ground
And all but one can hear that sound
The moon keeps time still, underneath a sea
And England spreads its streets to welcome me.
The Silence at the Song’s End by Nicholas Heiney is available for
£12.95 at www.songsend.co.uk
and from Times BooksFirst for £11.65, free p&p. 0870 1608080, timesonline.co.uk/booksfirst
