OCEAN CURRENTS
So mysterious are all the physical phenomena of the sea that it is, perhaps, hardly possible to say of any particular one that it is more wonderful than the rest. And yet one is sorely tempted thus to distinguish when meditating upon the movements of the almost inconceivable mass of water which goes to make up that major portion of the external superficies of our planet which we call “the sea.” In spite of all the labours of investigators, notwithstanding all the care and patience which science has bestowed upon oceanography, it is nevertheless true that, except in a few broad instances, the direction, the rate, and the dependability of ocean currents still remain a profound mystery. Nor should this excite any wonder. If we remember how great is the influence over the sea possessed by the winds, how slight an alteration in the specific gravity of water is sufficient to disturb its equilibrium and cause masses hundreds of square miles in area to exchange levels with the surrounding ocean, we shall at once admit that, except in those few instances hinted at which may be referred to constant causes, ocean currents must of necessity be still among the phenomena whose operations cannot be reckoned upon with any certainty, but must be watched for and guarded against with the most jealous care by those who do business in great waters.
Perhaps one of the commonest of the many errors made in speaking of marine things is that of confounding current with tide. Now tide, though a variable feature of the circulation of the waters near land, is fairly dependable. That is to say, the navigator may calculate by means of the moon’s age and the latitude of the place not only the time of high water, but knowing the mean height at full and change of the moon, he may and does ascertain to what height the water will rise, or how low it will fall at a certain place on a given date. True, a heavy gale of wind blowing steadily in or against the same direction of the ebbing or flowing tide will accelerate or retard, raise or depress, that tide at the time; but these aberrations, though most unpleasant oftentimes to riparian householders, are rarely of much hindrance or danger to navigation. This cannot be said of the currents of the sea. The tides have their limits assigned to them both inland and off-shore, although in the latter case it is almost impossible to tell exactly where their influence becomes merged in the vaster sway of the ocean currents, with all their unforeseen developments. The limits of tidal waters in rivers, on the other hand, being well under observation at all times, may be and are determined with the greatest exactitude.
With regard to the few instances of dependability among ocean currents, the first place will undoubtedly by common consent be given to the Gulf Stream. Owing its existence primarily to the revolution of the earth upon its axis, its outflow through the tortuous channel connecting the Gulf of Florida with the North Atlantic is more constant and steady in direction than any ebbing or flowing tide in the world, inasmuch as its “set” is invariably upon one course. Its rate is not so uniform, varying somewhat with the season, but in the narrowest part of the channel remaining fairly constant at about four knots an hour. Yet sail but a few score leagues into the Florida Gulf whence this great river in the sea takes its apparent rise, and its influence disappears! The mariner may seek there in vain for that swift, silent flow which in the Straits of Florida sweeps him north-eastward irresistibly in the teeth of the strongest gale. What has happened? Does the mighty stream drain westward into that great land-locked sea by hundreds of channels from the Equatorial regions, but far below the surface, and, obeying some all-compelling impulse, rise to the light upon reaching the Bahama Banks, pouring out its beneficent flood as it comes at the rate of a hundred miles per day? It sweeps into the broad Atlantic, and immediately spreads out into a breadth to which the Amazon is but a brooklet, losing its velocity meanwhile, until, having skirted the North American coast as far as the Grand Banks, it rolls in sublime grandeur eastward towards these “fortunate isles.” As it does so the mystery attendant upon it deepens. Its balmy presence cannot be mistaken, for the air on either side of it may be piercing in its keenness, while immediately above it there is summer. A gale blowing at right angles to its course will raise that terrible combination of waves which gives alike to the “Western Ocean” and the “pitch of the Cape” their evil reputation as the most dangerous in the world; and yet who among navigators has ever been able to determine what, if any, rate of speed it has in mid-Atlantic? Look through hundreds of log-books kept on board ships that are, perhaps, more carefully navigated than any others, the North Atlantic liners, and you shall not find a trace of the Gulf Stream “set” mentioned. In order to make this clear, it should be said that in all properly navigated ships the course steered and the speed made are carefully noted throughout the twenty-four hours; and this course, with distance run, calculated from the position accurately fixed by observation of the celestial bodies at the previous noon, gives the ship’s position by “dead reckoning.” The ship’s position being also found by the celestial bodies at the same time, the difference between the latter and the “dead reckoning” position should give the “set” and direction of the current for the twenty-four hours. And in vessels so carefully steered, and whose speed is so accurately known, as the great liners are, such current data are as trustworthy as any nautical data can be. But according to the records kept by these able navigators, there is no current setting eastward across the North Atlantic. Perhaps the explanation is that it is so very sluggish as to be unnoticeable, for those dreadful monuments of misfortune to themselves and others, the derelict ships, have been known to drift completely backwards and forwards across the Atlantic, finding not only a current to carry them eastward, but its counter-current to carry them back again.
But who among us with the slightest smattering of physiography is there that is not assured that but for the genial warmth of this mighty silent sea-river our islands would revert to their condition at the glacial epoch; who is there but feels a shiver of dread pass over his scalp when he contemplates the possibility of any diversion of its life-giving waters from our shores? The bare suggestion of such a calamity is most terrifying.
As steady and reliable in its operations is the great Equatorial current which, sweeping along the Line from east to westward, is doubtless the fountain and origin of the Gulf Stream, although its operations among that ring of islands guarding the entrance to the Mexican Gulf are involved in such obscurity that none may trace them out. And going farther south, we find the Agulhas current, beloved of homeward-bound sailing-ships round the Cape of Good Hope, pursuing its even, resistless course around the Southern Horn of Africa changelessly throughout the years. How its stubborn flow frets the stormy Southern Sea! No wonder that the early navigators doubling the Cape outward-bound, and fearing to go south, believed that some unthinkable demon held sway over those wild waves. The passage of Cape Horn from east to west holds the bad eminence to-day among seafarers of being the most difficult in the world, but what the outward passage around the Cape of Storms must have been before men learned that it was possible to avoid the stream of the Agulhas current by going a few degrees south we of these later days can only imagine. What becomes of the Agulhas current when once it has poured its volume of Indian Ocean waters into the Atlantic? Does it sink below the surface some hundreds of fathoms, and silently, smoothly, glide south to the confines of the Antarctic ice barrier, or does it wander northward into warmer regions? In any case, it fulfils the one grand function of all currents, whether of air or water—the avoidance of stagnation, the circulation of health among the nations of the earth.
Coming northward in the Pacific, let us note the counterpart of the Gulf Stream, the Kuro Siwo, or Black River of Japan, with the multitudinous isles of the East Indian Archipelago for its Caribbean Sea, and Nippon for its British Isles. It is, however, but a poor competitor in benevolence with our own Gulf Stream, as all those who know their Japan in winter can testify. Others there are that might be noted and classified if this aimed at being a scientific article, but these will suffice. These are surely wide fields enough for the imagination to rove in, wonderful depths of energy in plenty wherein the reverent and thoughtful mind may find all-sufficient food for its workings. Remembering that the known is but the fringe of the unknown, and that the secrets of the ocean are so well kept that man’s hand shall never fully tear aside the veil, we may patiently ponder and wonder. That great sea of the ancients beyond whose portals, according to their wisdom, lay Cimmerian darkness—what keeps its almost tideless waters sweet? Unseen currents enter and leave by the Pillars of Hercules at differing levels, and could we but penetrate those dim regions we should doubtless find the ingress and egress of that incalculable mass of water proceeding continually, the one above the other, renewing from the exhaustless stores of the Atlantic the staleness of the great midland lake, itself apparently remaining in unchanging level.
But when all these great well-known movements of the ocean have been considered, there still remain an infinite number of minor divagations influenced by who knows what hidden causes. The submarine upheavals of central heat, when from out of her glowing entrails the old earth casts incandescent stores of lava, raising the superincumbent mass of water for many square miles almost to boiling-point—who can estimate the effect that these throes have upon the trend of great areas of ocean? The almost infernal energy of those gyrating meteors of the tropics as they rage across the seas—how can any mind, however acute, assess the drag upon the whole body of surface water that is manifested thereby? To say nothing of the displacement caused by the less violent but far more frequent stress laid upon the much-enduring sea by extra-tropical gales, whereby the baffled mariner’s calculations are all overset, and his ship that should be careering safely in the wide offing is suddenly dashed in ruins upon the iron-bound shore!
Great efforts have been made to lay down for the benefit of seafarers a comprehensive scheme of ocean currents all over the watery surface of the globe, but in the great majority of cases the guidance is delusive, the advice untrustworthy, through no fault of the compilers. They have done their best, but mean results can never help particular needs. And so the wary mariner, as far as may be, trusts to the old-fashioned three “L’s,”—lead, log, and look-out; knowing full well how little reliance is to be placed in the majority of cases upon any advice soever concerning the mystery of ocean currents.
THE UNDYING ROMANCE OF
THE SEA
Some of the greatest among men have spoken and written regarding the material progress of mankind as if every new invention for shortening distance, for economising time or labour, and increasing production were but another step in the direction of eliminating romance from the weary world.
Especially has this been said of sea traffic. We are asked to believe that in the tiny vessels of Magalhaens, the pestilential hulls of Anson’s squadron, or the cumbrous wooden walls of Trafalgar, there dwelt a romance which is now non-existent at sea—that the introduction of the steam-driven ship has been fatal to a quality which in truth belongs not at all to material things, but holds its splendid court in the minds of men. Do they, these mourners over departed romance, hold, then, that misery is essential to romance? Is it essential to romantic interest at sea that because of the smallness of the ships, their lack of healthful food, their clumsiness of build and snail-like progress, men should suffer horribly and die miserably? Truly, if these things are necessary in order that romance shall flourish, we may find them still amongst us both at sea and on land, though happily in ever lessening proportion to an improved order of things.
But sober consideration will surely convince us that as far as true romance is concerned the modern ironclad warship, for instance, need abate no jot of her claim to the three-decker of last century or the Great Harry of our infant Navy. The sight of a 15,000-ton battleship cleared for action and silently dividing the ancient sea in her swift rush to meet the foe, not a man visible anywhere about her, but all grim, adamantine, and awe-inspiring—in what is she less romantic than the Victory under all canvas breaking the line at Trafalgar? As an incentive to the exercise of the imagination, the ironclad certainly claims first place. Like some fire-breathing dragon of ancient fable she comes, apparently by her own volition, armed with powers of destruction overtopping all the efforts of ancient story-tellers. Yet to the initiated she is more wonderful, more terror-striking, than to the unknowing observer. For the former pierce with the eye of knowledge her black walls of steel, and see within them hundreds of quiet, self-possessed men standing calmly by gun-breech, ammunition-hoist, fire-hose, and hospital. Deep under the water-line are scores of fiercely toiling slaves to the gigantic force that actuates the whole mass. Hardly recognisable as human, sealed up in stokeholes under abnormal air pressure, the clang of their weapons never ceases as they feed the long row of caverns glowing white with fervent heat. All around them and beneath them and above, clearly to be discerned through all the diabolical clamour of engines and roaring of furnaces, is that sense of invisible forces subdued by the hand of man, yet ferociously striving against restraint, a sense that makes the head of the new-comer throb and beat in sympathy until it seems as if the brain must burst its containing bone.
Just abaft these chambers of accumulating energy are the giants being fed thereby. Unhappy the man who can see no romance in the engine-room! Nothing exalting, soul-stirring, in the rhythmical race of weariless pistons, no storm-song in their magnificent voices as they dash round the shaft at ninety revolutions per minute. Standing amid these modern genii, to which those of “The Thousand and One Nights” are but puny weaklings, the sight, the senses are held captive, fascinated by so splendid a manifestation of the combination of skill and strength. And when unwillingly the gazer turns away, there are the men; the grimy, greasy, sweat-stained men. Watchful, patient, cat-like. Ready at the first hint, either from the racing Titans themselves or from the soaring bridge away up yonder in the night, to manipulate lever, throttle-valve, and auxiliaries as swiftly, deftly, and certainly as the great surgeon handles his tools in contact with the silent, living form under his hands.
What a lesson on faith is here. Faith in the workmanship of the complicated monsters they control, faith in one another to do the right thing at the right moment when a mistake would mean annihilation, faith in the watcher above who is guiding the whole enormous mass amidst dangers seen and unseen. This, too, is no blind faith, no mere credulity. It is born of knowledge, and the consequences of its being misplaced must be constantly in mind in order to insure effective service in time of disaster. It would surely be a good thing if more poetry were written on the lines of “McAndrew’s Hymn,” always supposing the poets could be found; greater efforts made to acquaint us who lead comfortable lives ashore with the everyday heroism of, the continual burnt-offering rendered by, the engineer, fireman, and trimmer. Perhaps we might then begin to discern dimly and faintly that so far from the romance of the sea being destroyed by the marine engine, it has been strengthened and added to until it is deeper and truer than ever.
And as with the men in the bowels of the ship so with those above. Commanding such a weapon of war as hinted at in the preceding lines, see the central figure in his tower of steel, surrounded by telephones, electric bells, and voice-tubes. Every portion of the ship, with its groups of faithful, waiting men, is within reach of his whisper. Behind him stands a man like a statue but for the brown hands grasping the spokes of the tiny wheel which operates the 150 horse-power engines far away in the run, which in their turn heave the mighty steel rudder this way or that, and so guide the whole fabric. This man in command wields a power that makes the mind reel to consider. A scarcely perceptible touch upon a button at his side and away speeds a torpedo; another touch, and two guns hurl 850 lbs. of steel shell filled with high explosive to a distance of ten miles if necessary. Obedience instant, perfect, yet intelligent is yielded to his lightest touch, his faintest whisper. So too his subordinates, each in their turn commanding as well as being commanded, and each saturated with the idea that not merely obedience, but obedience so swift as to be almost coincident with the order, is essential. Yet above and beyond all this harmony of discipline is the man who controls in the same perfect way the working, not only of one ship, but of a whole fleet. He speaks, and immediately flags flutter if by day, or electric lights scintillate if by night. Each obedient monster replies by fulfilling his will, and the sea foams as they swoop round each other in complicated evolutions, or scatter beyond the horizon’s rim to seek the common enemy. It is the triumph of discipline, organisation, and power under command.
As it is in the Navy so it is in the Mercantile Marine. Here is a vessel of a capacity greater than that costly experiment born out of due time, the Great Eastern. Her lines are altogether lovely, curves of beauty unexcelled by any yacht afloat. With such perfect grace does she sit upon the sea that the mere mention of her size conveys of it no conviction. Her decks are crowded with landward folk, for whose benefit naval architects and engineers have been busy devising ways and means of bridging the Atlantic. Every comfort and convenience for the poor, every luxury for the rich, is there. Majestically, at the stroke of the hour, she moves, commences her journey. Amid all the hubbub of parting friends, the agony of breaking up home bonds, the placid conductors of this floating city attend to their work. Theirs it is to convey on scheduled time from port to port across the trackless, unheeding ocean all this multitude of units, each a volume of history in himself or herself of most poignant interest could it be unfolded. And oh, the sinuous grace, the persistent speed, the co-partnership of affinity held between man’s newest and God’s oldest work. Its romance is beyond all power of speech to describe. Silent, speechless marvel only can be tendered unto it. The very regularity and order which prevails, the way in which arrivals may be counted on, these are offences in the eyes of some would-be defenders of romance. They are not apparently offended at the unerring regularity of natural phenomena. How is it that the same quality manifested by man’s handiwork in relation to the mutable sea gives occasion of stumbling? A hard question. Not that the mere regularity alone is worthy of admiration, but the triumph of mind over matter, manifested as much in the grimiest little tug crouching behind a storm-beaten headland watching, spider-like, for a homeward-bound sailing-ship, or in the under-engined, swag-bellied tramp creeping stolidly homeward, bearing her quota of provision for a heedless people who would starve without her, is everywhere to be held in admiration as fragrant with true romance, the undying romance of the sea.