The award winning - Memories from the Ship
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Richard hated his job in the call centre. He hated a lot of things about contemporary life, fifty minute commutes to and from work; the seemingly constant noise of mobile phone ring tones; celebrity obsessed culture. Only 21 years old, Richard longed to have been born in the past and often fantasised of having been a sailor in the old days of sail. He read any sea related fiction he could find, but it wasn’t until he read Moby Dick that he discovered a true inspiration in the adventurous life of the novel’s characters. Despite the modern era viewing it as an unethical practice, Richard longed to have been a whaler.
The daily drudgery in the call centre was lightened by the arrival of Jack, an older man at 42, who had spent a few years at sea. During a lunch break Jack and Richard struck up a conversation. It wasn’t long until Jack mentioned he had been at sea, then the conversation became interesting for them both. Over the following weeks Richard and Jack became friends as Jack relived his memories through the stories he told to Richard who loved to hear the first hand accounts of life on the ocean.
On a few occasions Richard had mentioned he wanted to go to sea. One lunchtime he confessed to Jack he wanted, not just to go sailing, but to go whaling.
Jack laughed, “You’d have to work on a Japanese factory ship.”
Richard said, “I’d rather do it the traditional way, under sail, chasing a whale on a wooden boat, casting a hand thrown harpoon like Captain Ahab in Moby Dick.”
Not wanting to dampen Richard’s enthusiasm for the sea, or mock the boy, Jack said, “But you can’t kill a whale, its unethical, and even it wasn’t, how would you do it? Where would you get a harpoon?”
Richard ignored the question. “But it’s heroic, adventurous. What do we do all day? Sit here re-setting passwords for idiots who can’t remember a four digit number. We should be out on the ocean, breathing fresh air, taking on real challenges not just ‘how many phones calls you can answer per hour’. What’s challenging about using a phone?”
Up to a point Jack agreed, a call centre was no place for young people to be wasting their youth. He joked along about whaling but, feeling a taste of sea life would be good for Richard, he suggested they should go on a tall ship holiday. Jack hoped this experience might purge Richard’s negative feelings about the era and culture into which he had been born.
Compromising his principles, Richard used the
Internet and found a few web sites about tall ships. He was surprised to
discover how many such vessels were currently on the seas and anyone could join
as voyage crew for a working holiday. After a discussion with Jack they booked a
three week voyage on the Siren, a brigantine which was due to leave Cornwall to sail for
Tenerife.
A train journey took the friends to a harbour town in Cornwall arriving
early enough for a walk along the coast. Jack wanted to rest so Richard went
alone to explore. He found a small cove where he stared out to sea as a fierce
wind whipped up foaming waves. As Richard marvelled at the expanse of water,
seemingly empty yet full of potential, he wondered what adventures the voyage
would reveal to him.
With evening drawing on Richard walked back to the
town and saw a tall ship anchored in the harbour, an imposing sight with its
high masts looming above the other craft in the water around it.
“That must be the Siren,” he said to himself in
an excited whisper.
As darkness gathered, a lamp was lit high up in the
foremast, casting its light to give the Siren an ethereal presence. Richard
imagined himself climbing in the rigging or standing astride the bowsprit facing
the open ocean. Whaling scenes from Moby Dick flickered through his mind and
filled his dreams that night.
Early the following morning Richard and Jack went aboard and were
introduced to the captain and crew. After stowing their belongings in their
cramped cabin they were shown around the ship by one of the permanent crew.
Away
from work Richard’s hobby was carpentry and unknown to Jack he had made a
harpoon. Built in sections, it easily fit into a long kit bag which Richard had
brought aboard without raising suspicion. When he found an opportunity to be
alone Richard stored the harpoon sections in the space beneath his bunk.
Once there was sufficient wind for raising sail
they were under way with the land diminishing on the horizon in their wake.
Richard loved the ship, its wood, canvass and rope, natural materials crafted
and brought together to create a vessel which seemed to be alive, especially
when it sped through the sea under full sail ahead of the wind. He even enjoyed
the continual and unpredictable rolling and pitching motion. What especially
impressed Richard was that the captain didn’t use a global positioning system
but favoured instead compass and sextant.
If anyone saw wildlife a shout would go up, usually
“Dolphins!” at which those on deck would rush to the side while others came
running up the companionway steps to take a look. When for the first time the
cry was “Whales!” Richard was below and the creatures had gone from sight by
the time he made it up on deck. Nevertheless he was satisfied to know there were
whales in these waters.
Richard made the second whale sighting, seeing a plume of spray in the distance. As other crew members gathered round at his cry of “Whale off the port beam!” he began to wonder how he could actually approach the object of his fantasy. Ideally he would like to take one of the ship’s inflatable boats, but these needed more than one person to launch them. Failing this he would have to hope for a whale to surface close to the ship. Considering the layout of the Siren’s rigging, Richard thought the bowsprit would be a good position from where he could throw his harpoon.
One evening, approaching sunset, when the watch had just changed so that
most people were below, either asleep or at dinner, Richard and Jack were on bow
watch. Jack thought he saw a whale spout not far ahead in the gathering
twilight. He was uncertain and didn’t want to raise a cry which might bring
his shipmates from their rest or dinner for no reason.
“Is that a whale?”
“Where?” Richard asked eagerly.
“About a hundred yards ahead, two points to
starboard.”
Richard’s heart leapt. ‘So close, here’s my
chance’ he thought. “I don’t know. Keep your eye on it I’ll go below and
get my binoculars.”
The dining area was amidships and Richard’s cabin
forward so he could bring the harpoon sections up on deck without being noticed.
There was only Jack forward on deck, the rest of the watch were aft standing
around the wheel. Jack’s attention was on the sea. Richard assembled the
harpoon then held it down by his side.
“Is it still there?” he asked.
“I think so and close up too. There!” Jack
said, pointing to an unmistakable arched hump in the water.
Jack had his back to Richard so didn’t realise
what was happening behind him until Richard leapt onto the bowsprit
and stood with the lance raised.
“Richard! What are you doing?”
“Whaling.”
“Are you mad? Even if you hit it what would you
do then? Put the damn weapon down.”
Richard hesitated. He hadn’t thought of the
harpoon as a weapon, just a tool, part of his fantasy, suddenly it felt alive as
if it had a mind to kill. He glanced back at his friend and felt ashamed.
Looking back out to sea just he saw the whale arc, rising its great fluked tail
to descend in a graceful muscular movement. He suddenly felt for the whale as he
felt for the sea, and if he loved the sea surely he could only love it’s
greatest inhabitant.
The sound of footsteps came up the forward
companionway.
In a low urgent voice Jack said, “Richard get rid
of it.”
Richard dropped the harpoon over the side. It made
a harmless splash before sinking.
Sally, one of the other voyage crew, appeared on
deck. Seeing Richard standing on the bowsprit she looked suspiciously at the
friends.
“Are you two all right?” She asked.
“Yes,” Jack said quickly, “We thought we saw
a whale, Richard was about to . . . was about to call out but changed his
mind.” He looked at Richard. “He made a mistake and didn’t want to make a
bigger one in front of the whole crew.”
Richard said, “Yes it was a mistake, just wishful
thinking, a fantasy.”
Sally said, “Never mind, there’ll be others.
I’ll take bow watch, you can go aft.”
There was little to do for the remainder of the
watch, Richard said nothing, he spent the dark hours staring out to sea at the
moonlight’s reflection, a silvery path shifting its shape on the gentle swell.
When the watch ended at midnight he went below to sleep. He was still perturbed
over the incident, though glad he hadn’t harmed the whale. Embarrassed to have
gone to such an extreme, he was pleased only Jack knew of it. Lying in the dark
cabin he now felt relieved to have got rid of the burden of his hidden secret
from beneath his bunk.
Being on the 8-12 watch meant Jack and Richard were up for an early
breakfast and they soon went about their tasks in the warmth of the morning.
Frequent changing winds meant the watch was kept busy, working to set or furl
sail, it was a couple of hours before Jack and Richard had a chance to talk out
of earshot.
Jack said, “I’ll not say anything, you went too
far but I think I understand the root of this, your frustration with life back
home. I know pressure can build up and drive a person to extremes.”
Richard said, “Thanks Jack,” then after a
moment’s hesitation, “I can’t go back, I love it here, it’ll crush me to
work in that call centre again, knowing all this is still out here, real though,
not just a story in a book.”
Jack smiled. “Have a word with the skipper,” he
said, “I heard some of the permanent crew are leaving when we get to
Tenerife.”
Richard brightened at this suggestion.
The remaining days were a happy time for the friends now that Richard had
got the idea of whaling out of his system and Jack had forgiven him. With fair
winds the sailing was good and the spirit on the ship was high. It seemed an
anticlimax to reach their destination which had no purpose save to be the end of
the voyage, for the voyage had been the purpose of the holiday.
With all sail furled the Siren sat stationary at
her moorings, tethered after running wild. In a modern commercial port, lying
alongside much larger cargo vessels, the wooden tall ship seemed incongruous,
the Siren would look more at home anchored off a Pacific island, but that was
months hence.
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The keys to the farm’s four wheel drive stuck into George’s leg as he crouched to cut another cabbage. He ignored the slight pain.
“Cabbages,” he said under his breath as if it was a profanity, “look at you sitting there in rows doin’ nowt.” He scowled at the vegetables.
On hearing voices behind him George glanced round, suddenly embarrassed at speaking aloud what he thought were ‘daft thoughts’. What kind of Yorkshire man had ‘daft thoughts’? He hoped he hadn’t been overheard.
He cursed again on seeing a couple of hikers following the public footpath which ran across his fields.
“Bloody townies, bet they’ve got 4x4’s without a spec o’ mud on ‘em.” he glared at them until they had gone from sight.
“Good riddance, can’t get away from bloody townies,” he stared at the ground again, “or bloody cabbages.”
George was worried. Lately the silent rows of green heads had brought on hallucinations, did they really watch him as he worked along the lines? He even dreamed of cabbages, they were controlling him, human sized cabbages cutting off people’s heads. He knew he had to get away, well away, to farm something that moved, sheep, living moving sheep, and far from England. Australia without any ‘bloody townies’ hiking all over his land. He longed to disappear.
In the Australian outback George was struggling to control his 1000 strong herd by himself.
“Bloody sheep, wish they’d keep still. Why can’t they line up in rows?”
Time passed. The sheep moved. George followed them. Nothing else changed.
“I wish there was someone to talk to out here.”
Time passed. The sheep moved. George followed them. Nothing else changed.
“Maybe someone will come out from town.”
Time passed. The sheep moved. George followed them. Nothing else changed.
George stared (again) at the horizon, so much further away than horizons in Yorkshire, he scowled at what lay between his eye and the shimmering line; red dust, sparse bushes, intense sun. George longed for rich black soil, lush green vegetation, soft rain.
The sun and loneliness colluded to make his hallucinations and ‘daft thoughts’ more outlandish with each slowly passing day.
George grew to hate the sheep, he was tired of chasing them all over his empty ranch, he just wanted them to stand in rows. He had reached the limit of his tolerance with emptiness, sheep, this whole life. He reached for his long knife.
In a village pub in Yorkshire the TV was on but was being ignored. The local news was ending with an obscure story to offset the banal happenings of the day.
“… and from Australia the story of a bizarre farming incident on an outback farm owned by a Yorkshire man ….”
Thinking immediately of George, the locals all looked up to see the pictures. Dozens of sheep’s heads had been found laid out in rows. Of the farmer there was no trace, which was frustrating for the people who had travelled from the town hoping to see him.
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