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GOING ALOFT
Excerpt from log, Norwegian tall ship Christian Radich, 2001

Going aloft is to me a magical experience, of which I do not believe I will ever tire. On the way up you are encapsulated in a world of rope, tar and billowing sails. Height is not an issue since the distance travelled is less important than the overtarred rung in which the foot must be jammed. Every ratline, shroud and futtock contains the fear, relief and exultation of everybody who has climbed it.

You are ascending through clouds, through your own effort, not the will of any power or God. Yourself, in control and washed clean of identity, association. The mind is drawn to the climb through the jungle of rigging.

When I reach the top, the jungle, the cloudy sails and everything else lies below. I am open to the sky and can look down upon the ship as a soul in heaven looks down upon the Earth. Through jungles of complication and stress, to the open sea and sky. Every thought wiped clean, every emotion intensified, every colour brighter.

Day started well at 0000. We sustained 11-12 knots, surfing down the rolling waves in perfect trim. Passing close to an oil rig at night, the sails silvered in the moonlight, contrasting with the garish Gothic firestack.

Friday 13th
Shortly after this time yesterday, the wind blew up to a force 6-7 by 2230. The first I noticed of this was when I looked up from my book to find the cabin at a slight heel. As the wind strength increased, so did my curiosity, to the point when I could not settle in my hammock. The restfulness of the banjer [accommodation] contrasted with the frantic activity on deck. Sails being struck and the rigging of safety ropes foretold a difficult night.

I find that as soon as the weather shows signs of getting rough, a mental separation occurs between the deck and the cabin. One is a wet, cold wilderness of lashing ropes and raised voices; the cabin becomes the warm womb, with dim lights and gently swinging hammocks, far far away from the frantic world above.

To return to events: at 2230 wind-driven rivulets of wind and water were skimming the waves, as happens at first, before their running fingers manage to grip the tops of the waves, turning them over like the hand holding the whip.

Watching the crew up on the yardarms, shortening sail, caused a little envy inside me. Looking upwards from under the mainmast, I could see that the main royal was yet to be stowed. At 2300 I found myself volunteering to climb. Three crew-members in addition to myself, and an old man from another watch ascended, stopping to hold on, white-knuckled as a particularly large wave struck the ship. On the royal itself, the wind whistled past at 35mph as with a beating heart I stepped onto the footrope.

I had made it. Now to do the job. My imagination was racing, headlines entering my head like arrows as I became conscious of only wearing a rope around my waist for safety.

The best part of working on a yard to furl a sail is the teamwork. Everybody works slowly and steadily with each other, driven by adrenaline and necessity. After a certain point, adrenaline stops pumping through the veins. It is replaced by pure life.

By the end of the evening, I had been aloft three times and the ship had been tacked, not an easy manoeuvre. I was tired, the sky vibrated when I blinked and I watched myself from two inches behind my own eyes. Pulling on ropes, slowly and steadily counting the hours . . . the clock hands heaving round as if pulled by tiny, tired sailors.

Throughout most of the night, the sun was up. The sky was clouded over but for dim shapes of light on the windward side. It was as if God was watching us and the remote flicker of the sun on the water extended a tiny thread to protect us all. God was to windward, watching from where we all should be. 1900. We are now proceeding up the fjord to arrive at perhaps 2200. The fjord stretches many miles into Norway, like a gulley cut into its very soul. Clouds hang over the mountain-tops, providing a ceiling and curtained veil for waterfalls to form trickling valleys into the basin. From the royal yard at sea I was the most powerful being alive, but now I am overpowered.

Wordsworth wasted his time in Italy. The ancient cities held little for him. I think that he would have found a greater spiritual home in Norway, among the fjords, as Shelley did at Mont Blanc.

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