As we persevered closer and closer to the boundary, tension and suspense continued to mount. With less than a degree remaining and the ship cruising steadily south towards our date with Neptune, our course was adjusted westward and instead of a direct interception, we painstakingly remained in suspended animation kissing along the closest latitudes parallel to the equator without actually crossing it. The new evasive course persisted for days and it was anyone’s guess when we would finally travel the remaining miles to confront our fate. The Shellbacks evidently were keen to avoid making our experience in any way predictable.
Eventually on an average sunny Wednesday afternoon, the slightly southerly tangent into which our route had gradually meandered became abruptly steeper bringing us to the convergence of the Tropics and with but a minute of latitude remaining, or a mere mile to the equator, we peered over the port side to see if we could make out the much famed green dotted line circling the globe. Sure enough she sparkled in radiant glory as we admired her glistening in and out of the swell. Beyond these bounds lay the true depths of the South Pacific.
No sooner had we spotted the line than a bell resounded on the fo’c’s’le head as the lookout reported the arrival of a spiritual entity from the deep now boarding the ship. None other than Davey Jones presided before us dragging his mangled and rotten corpse aft and amidships where he was greeted warmly by the Captain. All hands mustered to hear his tale before a terrible admission was made by the Shellbacks. An unfathomable stench emanating from certain quarters on board was actually that of an abominable number of remorseless Pollywogs entering Neptune’s hallowed kingdom in a contemptuous attempt to cross the line without his blessing. It was soon clear that King Neptune himself would arrive shortly to deal with them.
Without further ado, the Pollywogs, thirty or so in number including myself, were rounded up and locked below decks in the dark pending the arrival of judgment from the deep. Remorseless for our sins, our Pollywog brethren proceeded to raid the ample stashes we had diligently prepared earlier in contemplation of such incarceration, including rum, snacks and the loudest battery operated speakers we had in our power and possession. Our music pumped out unremittingly and dancing and jumping rocked the ship as abusive taunts from the Shellbacks through the vents and portholes above were met with unperturbed screams of excitement and delight from the Pollywogs below.
As Neptune and his cronies prepared his court above decks, the shenanigans and partying of the condemned continued vivaciously down below and by the time the first were called to hear their sentence, many of us were well on our way to a superior level of inebriation from which we could look down upon proceedings. The first to be called up were three of the professional sailing crew who themselves were yet to cross the line by ship. Their fate was dealt away from the prying eyes of the other Pollywogs. Shortly after, all remaining Pollywog hands were spitefully dragged above decks to the open air courtroom of the deep.
The workings of Neptune’s court are, in theory, enshrouded with a measure of secrecy so I dispense tales from this event without undue reserve. It has to be noted, however, that prior proceedings of Neptune’s court have been televised and indeed this voyage’s events were recorded as they unfolded by Ollie, our on board documentary maker. It would appear that in this modern age, Neptune is as media savvy and publicity loving as the rest of us. Reality television, while a blight of modern society, would certainly raise his standing amongst unassuming landlubbers the world over.
One by one or in small groups of no more than three, the Pollywogs were called up to Neptune to hear sentence. Only after serving this sentence could Neptune, who looked strangely similar to the Captain dressed in a sarong, then decide whether to welcome them into the brotherhood of the Shellback. Neptune was joined by Aphrodite, who dazzled the crowd with her radiant blond hair and hairy sailor’s beard. She was wearing perhaps the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. Neptune was indeed a very lucky mythical being. Neptune’s servants were dressed in a variety of costumes, including a nurse and a pastor. Many mingled actively in the crowd and force fed delicious treats to the Pollywogs in waiting, including garlic jelly, chocolate and marmite soufflé surprise and some kind of putrid blue mashed potato. Foolish diners wretched over the side of the ship as the sumptuous and lovingly prepared canapés were shovelled down their throats generously by the court’s attendants.
Shipmates were called to account for crimes noted and committed on board since departure. A temporary hair salon was established next to the court at which a reasonable number of Pollywogs would be served an appointment. This hair salon offered one style only, known as the “I’ve just been attacked by a lawn mower” cut, which ladies and gents alike would receive efficiently and skilfully from Neptune’s in house coiffeur. Indeed, one of the professional crew removed from the pack before we headed above decks could now be seen sans cheveux sporting the highly sought after look behind the court in newbie Shellback attire.
Some of the more interesting crimes and sentences brought to justice by the court included a shipmate found guilty of adding too much cinnamon during coffee making for which the punishment comprised several litres of cold coffee slops and grinds being poured directly over her head. Another shipmate held to account for canoodling in the sunset with a certain female accomplice was sentenced to dance and make out with a large inflatable dolphin toy for all to enjoy. And two male shipmates, accused of being “too sexy”, were condemned to dress up as girlfriend and boyfriend and have a racy date together before the whole ship.
My own heinous crime had been largely unknown to me until that day. I had thought that perhaps I would be held to account for my prior steering mishap or indeed any other number of minor oversights in my hitherto day to day endeavours. Instead my crime related to the intricacies of the time I spent in the head (otherwise known as the toilet to those back on land). Kicking back after a long day’s watch on the crapper with a copy of the Economist, which someone had kindly donated as in poop reading, was a pleasure I held dear, and with there being four heads on board, I didn’t think it too presumptuous to permit myself the simple luxury. However my dumping downtime had not gone unnoticed by shipmates too lazy to go to another head. Instead they would wait frustratedly in the wings for extended periods of time as I finished doing my business enveloped in an article on some random developing nation’s GDP outlook.
Although I admit I may spend a little more time in the bog than the average guy dropping the kids off at the pool, I am otherwise courteous in my lavatory dealings including ensuring I execute a courtesy flush within seconds of impact to minimise foul aromas as well as a good scrub and if necessary a squirt of bleach to guarantee that the toilet is without residue before I leave. Leaving a floater in the toilet bowl akin to a Mars bar in a teacup would be something I wouldn’t dream of doing, although I could count the number of times on more than one hand I had encountered one before courtesy of the previous discerning toilet user.
Alas such mitigating factors weren’t going to save me from my fate. My sentence had been predetermined and a toilet smeared with peanut butter was brought out on deck and paraded before me. I looked around and wondered whose ass might have been sitting on it last as I came to terms with the notion that I would shortly be licking and swallowing the butter spread over its porcelain. Thankfully, my nightmarish thoughts were not to be realised. I kept my mouth shut just in case. The head was the ship’s spare and so remained unchristened and hence glisteningly white and clean. This news was confirmed by Neptune who started picking off and eating the peanut butter with his fingers. After attempting to steal away a snack for myself from the toilet rim, my wrists were slapped by Neptune and my insolence loudly bemoaned.
Instead, my sentence would be to sit on the toilet and act out a typical crapping scenario. Still too sober to make the simulation as accurate as possible by pulling my kecks down completely, I sat fully clothed on the toilet, smearing peanut butter into my shorts. A copy of Cosmo was handed to me to make my public toiletry experience as realistic as possible. I did my best to mimic wiping up while tactfully reading my magazine and once all was done to the satisfaction of the court, sentence was deemed served and I could proceed to the next step in Neptune’s retribution.
After serving sentence, each Pollywog was finally baptised in a bath of food slops mixed with water. Thankfully and in contrast to expectations, the slops appeared to be maggot free. For some, ironically, this would probably be a bath that would actually leave them cleaner than they were before. Once cleansed, the Pollywogs could then proceed to be officially welcomed as a Shellback with a title by Neptune. Once done, the Pollywog immediately became a Shellback and could commence forthwith in condemning and taunting those remaining to face sentence.
After proceedings had come to a close and Neptune and his henchmen had returned to the deep, the astronomical mess we had made was promptly cleared up and the ship restored to its normal clockwork self. We then reflected on the day’s events with the Captain on the quarterdeck. Although the day was perhaps a little silly and slightly over the top, it was still a tremendous amount of fun. And not without meaning. The Captain had received his equator initiation on another vessel some years prior and in turn his predecessor and so forth going back many many years. The baton had in fact been passed through the ages and we were continuing and passing on a tradition continued for centuries. We were the next generation of Shellbacks and indeed one day perhaps it would be our turn to pass on the tirade of love and abuse. The ship, after all, would be returning to the equator with a new host of Pollywogs on its trip back to Canada.
The following day we reached the world renowned Galapagos Islands putting in at the harbour in the island group’s capital, Puerto Baquerizo Moreno on San Cristobal. Although it contains the official capital of the Galapagos, San Cristobal is not quite as touristy as the neighbouring island of Santa Cruz but nonetheless has a population of 13,000 out of roughly 28,000 living on the entire island chain. The inspiration behind Darwin’s theory of natural selection and evolution along his monumental five year voyage around the world on Beagle, I was excited to be setting foot on the islands, and to be arriving on a similar mode of transport to which he did all those years ago. The fact that the revelations of these islands helped to unlock the very secret to life today on earth was for me a very powerful notion.
Our first evening on the island was spent in the capital familiarising ourselves with its activities and sights, and participating in that most hallowed of in port sailing activities, drinking. With two thirds of the ship invited to a meal al fresco on the seafront, local Ecuadorian live music was laid on to welcome us and whole swathes of crew took to the streets to dance (very badly) in their own strange form of Latino style. Having missed the last skiff back to the ship, a relatively large group of us wandered aimlessly around town and decided to put our heads down for the night in what looked like an overblown bandstand close to the jetty. No sooner had we got comfortable than we were helpfully advised that we could not stay there by an obliging local who swam out and nicked a water taxi to take us back to the ship.
One of the more remarkable things about San Cristobal is the sheer presence and number of sea lions roaming the streets and beaches all over the island. Although they are not so keen on visitors touching them, or for that matter slapping their curved, flabby backsides as indeed can be a delicious temptation sometimes, the sealions are stupidly tame and sleep in packs on pavements and jetties, climbing into virtually any boat anchored in the harbour for a siesta in the sun. When you approach them, they simply do not bother themselves with moving and require a gentle nudge to get them going, after which a grumpy retort is usually sounded before they waddle away slowly. Unless you really piss off one of the larger males, or threaten the young of a mother in some way, they are generally harmless and indeed often only too friendly.
The following night on anchor watch, one of the beasts had taken it upon himself to attempt to board the skiff which was moored alongside the Picton to do runs into the island. The previous night, a sealion had made a successful attempt to clamber into the skiff and it was only after a rope was thrown at it by a watch mate too sheepish to confront it head on, that it jumped back in the sea and swam away. Wishing to avoid a similar confrontation, I felt it better to nip the problem in the bud before it developed into an ugly wrestling match between the sealion and me and so jumping up and down frantically waving my arms in the air like a demented morning television aerobics instructor (but quietly enough to avoid waking the entire ship) I eventually managed to scare the intruder off.
Something of a pest to anchored marine vessels, I couldn’t help but think that, purely as a deterrent, sealions would make great ammunition for a catapult. Attaching strops around the intruding animal before it went on the rampage aboard, a catapult could be rigged up between the two masts of the ship with a giant elastic band being tightened around the capstan steadily until its final release would come with a swing of one of the ship’s fire axes, sending the wailing beast into the air with a resonating sonic boom until it was but a speck on the horizon. A spot of topspin could garnish an aesthetically pleasing forward rotary motion of the projectile creature around the central pivot of its body before it left the earth’s atmosphere entirely on a collision course with the sun. Alas slingshooting the entire Galapagos population of sealions to the other side of the solar system for trespassing on the ship’s boats would likely contravene one or two of the islands’ conservation laws, so gentle coercion of the creatures back into the water would be our only option at least for now.
The following day, a shipmate and I took it upon ourselves to tour the island. With only a few easily accessible sights, San Cristobal would be easy to become acquainted with, but with each of its attractions being pretty unique, many would need a little more than just a passing glance on a tour. Using stunted Spanish, I managed to get a taxi driver to take us on a tour. Speaking foreign languages, I found, it was generally better to not outdo yourself. Coming across stupider than one really is is a talent not completely foreign to me, and so I was able to pull it off admirably with my finest thick English accent and total disregard for pronunciation and grammar. When you don’t know a language, doing your best to ask a set phrase in a perfect accent will only be followed by a long tirade of incomprehensible speech by a counterpart mistaken in their thinking that your language skills are far beyond what they really are, whereas playing it dumb would lead to life being a lot simpler and less stressful by keeping the details and pointless attempts at conversation to a bare minimum. Having said that, I did somehow get the feeling I managed to convey, perhaps through the power of dance, how long we had been in the Galapagos and which ship we had sailed in on. Although in reality, the taxi driver was probably just smiling and nodding as his ears were unceremoniously attacked by a monologue of unintelligible babble.
The terrain on the island was delightfully varied, with sandy beaches surrounded by seemingly desolate plains beyond which lay lush swathes of jungle. The hillier landscapes were more often than not enveloped in mist while the rest of the island basked in warm sunshine. This melange of traits was truly unique. Our first stop was at the crater of a volcano which had long vegetated over and become a lagoon. The lagoon was paraded by scores of frigate birds circling the air above while the views down to the ocean and cliff islands below were breath taking.
We continued our tour with a visit to the island’s giant tortoise sanctuary. Having survived and evolved for millennia without new entrants to the island’s ecological systems, given the geographic isolation of the Galapagos, the giant tortoises now face new threats in the form of externally introduced wildlife both wilfully and accidentally through human activity since the islands’ discovery by the Spanish in the 16th century. It is as if the tortoise, buoyed by its success in the great race against the hare, had started to become complacent about its own evolution. In reality, slow and steady more often than not does not win the race. Until now the tortoise has been lucky to survive the adversity, but with the age of conservation comes new hope that the protection and nurturing these animals need to go on will prevail. The creatures are intriguing and indeed rather big. They move as robotically as they do gradually. On display was a crèche and juvenile enclosure where the young could be observed.
The tour concluded with a final stop at Porto Chino. A small beach to the south west of the island, we wandered through a plantation of cacti to reach its sandy shores where a pelican fished from rocks against which Pacific waves crashed vigorously and continuously. Having the beach to ourselves in the sun, we couldn’t help but kick back for a while leaving the taxi driver to stew waiting in the car park.
The following day in Galapagos didn’t quite exactly start as I might have hoped. A day of scuba diving we had planned off the coast of an islet beside San Cristobal had to be cancelled as I awoke with the cold of the century. You should never dive if you have a cold and your airways are congested. Then, as the heavens opened and rain came down, I wandered into a bar to catch the England v Germany match to be sorely disappointed by a result I know you are all only too familiar with. Part of me wasn’t overly sad England were knocked out as it would have royally sucked to miss out on the (very, very, very outside) chance of England taking the cup as I would be at sea for the final, but an ass whooping of such epic proportions against Germany in the World Cup second round was just plain nasty to behold.
Thankfully things looked up by lunchtime. A group of us returned to Porto Chino beach with surf equipment we had rented out to try our hand at riding the waves. Having only surfed once before in Australia using a professional board upon which I spent maybe a fraction of a second all up, things could only look up for me second time round. Although I hardly came close to standing up, I managed to catch a few waves head on before being thrown off the board within seconds and pinned underneath the crashing waves for an admittedly surprising amount of time. This was masochistic fun at its best, and I think I’ll be surfing a lot more before I part company with the ship. By the time I reach Sydney, I will certainly be in a position to go professional.
Back on anchor watch on board the ship, the following day wasn’t completely uneventful. Ascending to the top yard to stow sail was a great start to the day. That afternoon, someone had involuntarily knocked the stove’s extractor fan off in the galley. The fumes from the diesel powered oven were not being drawn out as should be the case, and as the galley door was subsequently opened, thick smoke billowed out. Although not quite a fire, the situation worsened quite quickly. With a single watch on board the ship, the full complement of crew operating all fire positions was simply not available. Thankfully, the predicament was promptly brought under control by the ship’s engineer, but the experience was a lesson that fires do happen and contingency arrangements needed to be considered for an event in port with a greatly reduced crew. Going forward, we would have to think on our feet to have all critical positions covered. More broadly in the ship’s history, fires have taken place from time to time, and remain a major threat to any ship at sea. Even while asleep, one must always be prepared to be awoken and to move extremely quickly to deal with an emergency. Indeed fires had been fought on board by crew in their underwear after having arisen from their slumber without any time to get dressed. This is why it’s probably for the best that one doesn’t sleep in the nude. Those around you would sooner not have any dangly distractions in the event of an emergency.
As news spread that we would be spending a full six days in the Galapagos, I planned out my final couple of days to ensure I wouldn’t miss out on anything. The first morning was spent horse riding in the hills of the island. This culminated in a breathtaking lookout to sea. The horses themselves couldn’t really be described as thoroughbreds. They were about three quarters the size of a normal horse (a little bit like the locals), seemingly rabid at first and their coat reminded me of a sofa way past its sell by date from which the threads had all but worn away on the corners and edges. The stirrups felt like they had jagged rusty nails on the inside around which I had to contort my feet to avoid puncturing the skin and for the most part my horse had a mind of its own which only converged with mine intermittently. The experience was still pretty special. I galloped for the first time which felt exhilarating although I remained a little disconcerted that I would be duly acquainted at any moment with the gravel in the ditch running alongside us. I later learnt that the sound of my laughing encouraged the horse to move more quickly, so every time it took off, my nervous sniggering only incited it to continue accelerating. The return journey wasn’t without discomfort, chafing around the thighs left me bow legged for a good few hours and a need to go to the toilet was magnified a hundred fold by the horse’s indefatigable desire to canter and bounce me around in the saddle as much as it possibly could. I couldn’t hold it entirely at fault though. If I were a horse, I’d likely do the same thing.
That afternoon we visited perhaps my favourite place on the trip so far, a little beach, known as “La Loberia”. A famed snorkelling spot where sea turtles, tropical fish and sealions could be observed and admired in abundance, we brought along some equipment and were not disappointed. Spotting a marine iguana basking on the path toward the beach, we continued and recognised a blue footed boobie (a type of bird as opposed to a mutant human appendage) diving into the ocean. On the beach swathes of sea lions lay sleeping and grunting. As we stripped down to our swim shorts, we noticed everyone else snorkelling in wetsuits. The water was freezing at first, but we persevered and were rewarded for our efforts. At one point, three sea turtles swam alongside, apparently unperturbed by me, not even flinching when a massive wave washed me into their path. Certain people were even hitching a ride off them – an activity I hasten to add is deeply frowned upon by the island’s authorities. Prior to this, three playful sea lions surrounded me as they swam in circles only inches before my face. Some video footage of them I captured is below for your delectation. It was a pretty special experience to be up close and personal with such tame, friendly and playful wildlife.
Before long it was time to leave Galapagos and continue on our voyage across the Pacific. The following passage, spanning almost 3,000 nautical miles, would be the longest in which I would participate, and could take anything up to five weeks to complete depending on conditions. Our destination would be the most unique on the entire trip. One of the most isolated islands on the planet, the world’s least populated jurisdiction founded in the aftermath of a famed mutiny over 200 years ago, Pitcairn was the place on everyone’s lips. Little did we know, however, that within five days of the Galapagos disappearing over the horizon, we would be right back where we started, only this time in the midst of an emergency.
