As a specimen of a dirty night at sea, I give another extract from the log-book. During our voyage round the world in 1876-77, after leaving Honolulu for Japan, as we approached Osima, on January 26, we were struck by a tremendous squall of wind and rain. We at once took in the flying square-sail, stowed the topgallant-sail and topsail, reefed the foresail and mizen, and set mainsail. At 6 p.m., the wind still blowing a moderate gale, the mizen was double-reefed. We pursued our way through a confused sea, but without shipping any water. All seemed to be going well, when, at 8 p.m., shortly after I had taken the wheel, a sudden squall heeled us over to the starboard side, where the gig was hung from the davits outboard. At the same time a long mountainous wave, rolling up from the leeward, struck the keel of the gig and lifted it up, unshipping the fore davit, and causing the boat to fall into the boiling sea, which threatened at every instant to dash it to pieces. We at once brought to. A brave fellow jumped into the boat and secured a tackle to the bows, and the gig was hoisted on board and secured on deck intact. It was a very seaman-like achievement. A heavy gale continued during the night, and at 2 a.m., on the 27th, we met with another accident. The boatswain, a man of great skill and experience, was at the wheel, when a steep wave suddenly engulfed the jibboom, and the 'Sunbeam,' gallantly springing up, as if to leap over instead of cleaving through the wave, carried away the spar at the cap. This brought down the topgallant-mast. The jibboom was a splendid Oregon spar, 54 feet long, projecting 28 feet beyond the bowsprit. It was rigged with wire rope, and the martingale was sawn through with the greatest difficulty.
The record of personal experiences must not be further prolonged. To the writer yachting has been to some extent part of a public life, mainly devoted to the maritime interests of the country. To conduct the navigation and pilotage of his vessel seemed fitting and even necessary, if the voyages undertaken were to be regarded in any sense as professional. There is something pleasant in any work which affords the opportunity for encountering and overcoming difficulties. It is satisfactory to make a headland or a light with precision after a long run across the ocean, diversified perhaps by a heavy gale. To be able to thread the channels of the West Coast of Scotland, the Straits of Magellan, the Eastern Archipelago, the labyrinths of the Malawalle Channel of North-East Borneo, or the Great Barrier Reef of Australia, without a pilot is an accomplishment in which an amateur may perhaps take legitimate pleasure.
To the yachtsman who truly loves the sea, it will never be satisfactory to remain ignorant of navigation. Practice of the art is not a relaxation. It demands constant attention, and is an interruption to regular reading. It may imply a considerable amount of night-work. On the other hand, the owner who is a navigator can take his proper place as the commander of his own ship. All that goes on around him when at sea becomes more interesting. He is better able to appreciate the professional skill of others. The confidence which grows with experience cannot be expected in the beginning. The writer first took charge of navigation in 1866, on a voyage up the Baltic. It was a chequered experiment. In the Great Belt we ran ashore twice in one day. In making Stockholm we had to appeal to a Swedish frigate, which most kindly clewed up her sails, and answered our anxious enquiries by writing the course on a black-board. On the return voyage to England we struck the coast some sixty miles north of our reckoning. Such a history does not repeat itself now.
It is not in books or at the library table that the art of the seaman can be acquired. Quickness of eye, nerve, promptitude of judgment, are the indispensable gifts, which must be gained by long and varied experience at sea. The seamanship required in a gale of wind on the open ocean, the seamanship displayed in sailing matches in over-sparred yachts, sailed mainly in smooth waters, and the seamanship called for in pilotage waters not previously visited, and especially at night, are different branches of a wide profession. There is a skill of a very high order in docking an Atlantic liner at Liverpool. There is a skill of a different but equally high order in knocking huge ironclads about in fleet-exercising at sea. There is a skill in bringing the Channel steamers alongside the pier at Dover. The skill of every description of nautical specialist will never be combined in one individual. There is some risk that the more careful the navigator, the less dashing the same man may be as a seaman.
I must not conclude without some reference to the most attractive cruising grounds. To begin near home, the Seine, the Meuse, the coast of Holland, the Baltic, the coast of Norway, the grand West Coast of Scotland, the East Coast of England (a cruising ground too much neglected by yachtsmen), and the Channel are all favourite haunts of mine. Going further afield, in my own case nothing was more satisfactory than a voyage along the East Coast of North America, in which every river was ascended to the head of the navigation for sea-going vessels. Certain parts of the Mediterranean offer a perfect cruising ground for the winter months. Most suitable waters for yachting are those bounded by the Straits of Gibraltar on the west and the Balearic Islands on the north-east. Here the mistral of the Gulf of Lyons is not felt. The Spanish coast offers many places of shelter and many points of interest. In westerly winds keep to the eastward of Cape de Gata; in north-easterly winds to the westward. There is another charming cruising ground between Corsica and the Italian coast, as far north as Spezia, and south down to Civita Vecchia. Sicily is admirable for yachting. A weather shore can be always made upon its beautiful coasts. In the spring or autumn the Archipelago and eastern side of the Adriatic can be confidently recommended. In the winter months the West Indies are a most perfect cruising ground. It will be well to make Barbados the landfall, then run to Trinidad, proceeding thence to Grenada, and following on from island to island down to Jamaica. The return voyage should be by Havana, and thence to a port in the United States, and by an ocean liner home, or by the Bahamas, Bermuda and the Azores to England. The Pacific, Japan and Eastern Archipelago will well repay those who can give the time required for such distant voyages.
Lastly, let no yachtsman speak contemptuously of the Solent. It is no exaggeration to say that if the splendid natural breakwater of the Isle of Wight were removed, half the tonnage of yachts under the British flag would disappear. The Solent offers a sufficient space of sheltered water for all but the very largest yachts to manœuvre in conveniently. Breezes are seldom wanting, and the shores of the Wight are most pleasing. In this miniature ocean many have formed tastes for the sea which have led to more ambitious voyages. The estuary of the Clyde merits equally high praise, but the puffs off Bute are less gentle than those off the Wight, and the racing partakes of a hard-weather character, with streaks of calm.
In the preceding observations it has been assumed that I have been addressing readers who love the sea in all those varying phases which have given inspiration to some of the finest creations of poetic genius. The Greeks were lovers of the sea. We have been reminded of their admirable descriptions by Mr. Froude, in a brilliant passage:—
The days pass, and our ship flies past upon her way.
γλαυκὸν ὑπὲρ οἶδμα κυανὁχροἁ τε κυμἁτων
ῥὁθια πολιὰ θαλἁσσας.
How perfect the description! How exactly in those eight words Euripides draws the picture of the ocean; the long grey heaving swell, the darker steel-grey on the shadowed slope of the waves, and the foam on their breaking crests. Our thoughts flow back as we gaze to the times long ago, when the earth belonged to other races, as it now belongs to us. The ocean is the same as it was. Their eyes saw it as we see it.