We get under way. Polynesia's busiest corner. Our ship's company. A patriotic celebration rudely interrupted. In the grip of the elements. Necessary repairs. A night vigil. Land ho!
"Is she tight?" asked Captain Ezra Triplett. (We were speaking of my yawl, the Kawa).
"As tight as a corset," was my reply.
"Good. I'll go."
In this short interview I obtained my captain for what was to prove the most momentous voyage of my life.
The papers were signed forthwith in the parlor of Hop Long's Pearl-of-the-Orient Cafeteria and dawn of the following day saw us beyond the Golden Gate.
I will omit the narration of the eventful but ordinary occurrences which enlivened the first six months of our trip and ask my reader to transport himself with me to a corner with which he is doubtless already familiar, namely, that formed by the intersection of the equator with the 180th meridian.
This particular angle bears the same relation to the Southern Pacific that the corner of Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue does to the Atlantic Seaboard. More explorers pass a given point in a given time at this corner than at any other on the globe. [Footnote: See L. Kluck. Traffic Conditions in the South Seas, Chap. IV., pp. 83-92.]
It was precisely noon, daylight-saving time, on July 4th, 1921, when I stood on the corner referred to and, strange to say, found it practically deserted. To be more accurate, I stood on the deck of my auxiliary yawl, the Kawa, and she, the Kawa, wallowed on the corner mentioned. To all intents and purposes our ship's company was alone. We had the comforting knowledge that on our right, as one faced the bow, were the Gilbert and Marshall groups (including the Sandwiches), on our left the Society, Friendly and Loyalty Archipelagoes, back of us the Marquesas and Paumotus and, directly on our course, the Carolines and Solomons, celebrated for their beautiful women. [Footnote: See "Song of Solomon," King James Version.] But we were becalmed and the geographic items mentioned were, for the time being, hull-down. Thus we were free to proceed with the business at hand, namely, the celebration of our national holiday.
This we had been doing for several hours, with frequent toasts, speeches, firecrackers and an occasional rocket aimed directly at the eye of the tropical sun. Captain Triplett, being a stickler for marine etiquette, had conditioned that there should be no liquor consumed except when the sun was over the yard-arm. To this end he had fitted a yard-arm to our cross-trees with a universal joint, thus enabling us to keep the spar directly under the sun at any hour of the day or night. Consequently our celebration was proceeding merrily.
While in this happy and isolated condition let me say a few words of our ship's company. Having already mentioned the Captain I will dispose of him first. Captain Ezra Triplett was a hard-bitten mariner. In fact, he was, I think, the hardest-bitten mariner I have ever seen. He had been bitten, according to his own tell, man-and-boy, for fifty-two years, by every sort of insect, rodent and crustacean in existence. He had had smallpox and three touches of scurvy, each of these blights leaving its autograph. He had lost one eye in the Australian bush where, naturally, it was impossible to find it. This had been replaced by a blue marble of the size known, technically, as an eighteen-er, giving him an alert appearance which had first attracted me. By nature taciturn, he was always willing to sit up all night as long as the gin was handy, an excellent trait in a navigator. About his neck he wore a felt bag containing ten or a dozen assorted marbles with which he furnished his vacant socket according to his fancy, and the effect of his frequent changes was both unusual and diverting.
The annals of maritime history will never be complete until the name of Captain Ezra Triplett of New Bedford, Massachusetts, receives the recognition which is justly its. For more than ten generations the forebears of this hard-bitten mariner have followed the sea in its various ramifications.
The first Triplett was one of the companions of Goswold who, in 1609, wintered on Cuttyhunk Island in Buzzard's Bay. From then on the members of this hardy New England family have earned positions of trust and honor. By courage and perseverance the subject of this portrait has worked himself up from cabin boy on the sound steamer Puritan (wrecked on Bartlett's Reef, 1898) to his present position of commander of the Kawa.
Of his important part in connection with the historic cruise described in these pages, the Kawa's owner, Dr. Traprock, has no hesitancy in saying, "Frankly, without Triplett the thing never could have been done." The accompanying photograph was taken just after the captain had been hauled out of the surf in Papeete. It will be remarked that he still maintains an indomitable front and holds his trusty Colt in readiness for immediate action.]
But sail! Lord bless you, how Triplett could sail! It was wizardry, sheer wizardry; "devil-work," the natives used to call it. Triplett, blindfolded, could find the inlet to a hermetically sealed atoll. When there wasn't any inlet he would wait for a seventh wave—which is always extra large—and take her over on the crest, disregarding the ragged coral below. The Kawa was a tight little craft, built for rough work. She stood up nobly under the punishment her skipper gave her.
Triplett's assistant was an individual named William Henry Thomas, a retired Connecticut farmer who had chosen to end his days at sea. This, it should be remarked, is the reverse of the usual order. The back-lots of Connecticut are peopled by retired sea-captains who have gone back to the land, which accounts in large measure for the condition of agriculture in these communities. William Henry Thomas had appeared as Triplett's selection. Once aboard ship his land habits stood him in good stead in his various duties as cook, foremost-hand, butler and valet, for it must not be supposed that the Kawa, tight though she might be, was without a jaunty style of her own.
Our first-class cabin passengers were three, Reginald K. Whinney, scientific man, world wanderer, data-demon and a devil when roused; Herman Swank, bohemian, artist, and vagabond, forever in search of new sensations, and myself, Walter E. Traprock, of Derby, Connecticut, editor, war correspondent, and author, jack-of-all-trades, mostly literary and none lucrative.
Our object? What, indeed, but life itself!
I had known my companions for years. We had been class-mates at New Haven when our fathers were working our way through college. How far away it all seemed on that torrid Fourth of July as we sat on the Kawa's deck singing "Oralee", to which we had taught Triplett the bass.
"Like a blackbird in the spring,
Chanting Ora-lee...."
"Very un-sanitary," said Whinney, "a blackbird ... in the spring ... very un-sanitary."
We laughed feebly.
Suddenly, as they do in the tropics, an extraordinary thing happened. A simoon, a monsoon and a typhoon met, head on, at the exact corner of the equator and the 180th meridian. We hadn't noticed one of them,—they had given us no warning or signal of any kind. Before we knew it they were upon us!
I have been in any one of the three separately many a time. In '95 off the Blue Canary Islands I was caught in an octoroon, one of those eight-sided storms, that spun our ship around like a top, and killed all the canaries for miles about—the sea was strewn with their bodies. But this!
"Below," bellowed Captain Triplett, and we made a dive for the hatch. William Henry Thomas was the last in, having been in the bow setting off a pinwheel, when the blow hit us. We dragged him in. My last memory is of Triplett driving a nail back of the hatch-cover to keep it from sliding.
How long we were whirled in that devil's grip of the elements I cannot say. It may have been a day—it may have been a week. We were all below, battened down ... tight. At times we lost consciousness—at times we were sick—at times, both. I remember standing on Triplett's face and peering out through a salt-glazed port-hole at a world of waterspouts, as thick as forest trees, dancing, melting, crashing upon us. I sank back. This was the end ...
Here, against the background of a closely woven hedge of southern hornbeam (Carpinus Tropicalis), we see that eminent scientist, Reginald Whinney, in the act of discovering, for the first time in any country, a magnificent specimen of wild modesty (Tiarella nuda), which grows in great profusion throughout the Filbert Islands. This tiny floweret is distantly related, by marriage, to the European sensitive plant (Plantus pudica) but is infinitely more sensitive and reticent. An illustration of this amazing quality is found in the fact that its snowy blossoms blush a deep crimson under the gaze of the human eye. At the touch of the human hand the flowers turn inside-out and shrink to minute proportions. Dr. Whinney attempted in vain to transplant specimens of this fragile creation to our old-world botanical gardens but found the conditions of modern plant life an insuperable barrier. The seeds of wild modesty absolutely refuse to germinate in either Europe or America.]
Calm. Peace and sun! The beneficence of a warm, golden finger that reached gently through the port-hole and rested on my eye. What had happened? Oh—yes. "Like a blackbird in the spring." Slowly I fought my way back to consciousness. Triplett was sitting in a corner still clutching the hammer. On the floor lay Whinney and William Henry Thomas, their twisted legs horribly suggestive of death.
"Air," I gasped.
Triplett feebly wrenched out the nail and we managed to pull the hatch far enough back to squeeze through. Enlivened by the fresh air the others crawled slowly after, except poor William Henry Thomas who still lay inert.
"He's all right," said Whinney. "The gin bottle broke and dripped into his mouth. He'll come to presently." He added in an undertone, "The wages of gin..." Whinney was always quoting.
Minus our factotum we stood and silently surveyed what once had been the Kawa. The leathern features of Captain Triplett twisted into a grin. "Bald's a badger!" he murmured.
Everything had gone by the board. Mast, jigger, bow-sprit and running gear. Not a trace of block or tackle rested on the surrounding sea. We were clean-shaven. Of the chart, which had hung in a frame near the binnacle, not a line remained. All our navigating instruments, quadrant, sextant, and hydrant, with which we had amused ourselves making foolish observations during that morning of the glorious Fourth, our chronometer and speedometer,—all had absolutely disappeared.
"And there we are!" said Swank.
Triplett coughed apologetically and pulled his forelock.
"If you don't mind, sir, night'll be comin' on soon and I think we'd better make sail."
"Make sail?" I murmured blankly. "How?"
"The bedding, sir," said Triplett.
"Of course!" I cried. "All hands abaft to make sail."
How we knotted our sheets and blankets together to fashion a rough main-sail would be a tedious recital, for it was slow work. Our combined efforts made, I should say, about eight knots an hour but half of them pulled out at the least provocation. We persevered, however, and finally completed our task. Nor were we an instant too soon, for just as we had succeeded in getting the oars to stand upright and were anxiously watching our well-worn army blankets belly out with the steady trade wind, the sun, which for the last hour had hung above the horizon, suddenly fell into the sea and night was upon us.
"There's that," said Whinney quietly.
Thus we slid through the velvet night with the Double Cross hanging low, sou'west by south.
It must have been about an hour before dawn that a shiver of expectancy thrilled us unanimously.
"Did you hear that, sir?" said Captain Triplett in a low tone.
"No ... what was it?"
"A sea-robin ... we must be near land ... there it is again."
I heard it that time ... the faint, sweet note of the male sea-robin.
Shortly afterward we heard the mewing of a sea-puss, evidently chasing the robin.
"Sure enough, sir," said Triplett. "It'll be land." Somehow we felt sure of it.
In calm elation and tired expectancy we strained our eyes through the slow crescendo of the day's birth. Suddenly, the sun leaped over the horizon and the long crimson rays flashed forward to where, dead ahead, we could see a faint swelling on the skyline. "Land-ho!" we cried in voices of strangled joy.
"Boys," said Captain Triplett, apologetically ... "we ain't got no yard-arm, but the sun's up and there's land dead ahead, and I reckon..."
He paused. Through the hatchway came William Henry Thomas bearing a tray with four lily cups.
"Fair as a lily..." said Whinney (I knew he would).
by the faithful Triplett, moved steadily toward our unknown haven.
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