As I became increasingly interested in joining the ship on its latest voyage, the long passage to Pitcairn reoccupied my thoughts, the very possibility to visit Pitcairn Island being perhaps for me the ultimate honour of the trip and the long lonely passage to it a potential deal breaker. Having never sailed before, I struggled to conceive what spending weeks on end in an enclosed space with fifty others would be like. Would seeing nothing but ocean on the horizon for days drive me mad? How would I cope in the situation? In the end, the challenge proved, curiously, to be an attraction and I signed up not still without certain hesitations about the endeavour.
Little did I know at this point that I would soon come to love the time I spent at sea and that although time in port was a great pleasure, I would before long yearn for a return to the sails once again. Having been underway for a couple of months, and familiarised with the routine and workings of life on the ship, the passage to Pitcairn would actually present us with the opportunity to learn more of the older modes of tall ship sailing. The modern GPS trackers and computerised charting technology hitherto relied upon would be covered up in favour of the old traditional methods of dead reckoning and the shooting of celestial bodies to triangulate the ship’s position, and find our way through the boundless waters of the South Pacific to the tiny craggy island of Pitcairn. Workshops in sailmaking and the reappointment of willing watch crew into vocation specific daymen, such as riggers and carpenters, would also step up our learning experience and equip us with yet more skills in becoming competent tall ship seamen.
Our day of departure from San Cristobal was 1 July, Canada’s national day. Given the ship’s key base in Canada and a significant proportion of Canadian crew, celebrations would undoubtedly be unleashed in earnest. Asked to attend said celebrations in Canadian attire on the ship’s hatch at 4pm, the Brits on board formulated a little plan to ensure Canada’s royal head of state could take some time out of her busy schedule to oversee the festivities. None other than Queen Elizabeth II arrived on board on time with myself, her royal consort, introducing her to the crowd as blasts off God Save the Queen, admittedly mostly from Canadians, resounded across the ship. The party kicked off with an interrogation quiz to establish weird and wonderful accomplishments achieved by each of the Canadians on board. This was followed by an improvised, but nonetheless highly successful, sporting tournament comprising curling and ice hockey on deck. Suddenly in the port breezeway, a branch of Canada’s most highly esteemed coffee chain, Tim Hortons, announced itself open.
Tim Hortons, an anomaly of all rhyme and reason, is Canada’s best answer to Starbucks. Although some of their pastries are admittedly rather tasty, their coffee, which many a Canadian would not flinch in killing for, tastes rather like what being kicked in the face feels. The sheer queues that blight every drive through outlet in the country cause more tailbacks than the morning rush hour, and often led me to wonder whether the coffee was somehow laced with crack cocaine to keep driving people back to its offensive taste in droves.
The Tim Horton’s Picton Castle branch was, conversely, a great novelty. Payment for drinks and lovingly prepared treats, known as Timbits, was provided by correctly answering Canadian specific questions. The coffee available, being the ship’s usual brown sludge, was delightfully true to life but was more than compensated by the delicious cakes offered in accompaniment. Celebrations were rounded off that afternoon with a Canadian music disco on the hatch and a heart rendering speech by the Captain, himself, once American, in the process of becoming a citizen of the maple leaf commonwealth.
At sea, the 12-4 watch’s daily toil of ship’s work recommenced in earnest and for me turned to a pursuit known as booty stitching. Not quite a nip and tuck of someone’s rear end as the name might suggest, the task was nonetheless as testing as it was painstaking. The metal turnbuckles which tune and hold the shrouds and rigging in place in turn needed to be greased and covered with canvas “booties” to protect them from the elements and prevent them from seizing up completely. The endeavour involved stitching with two needles piercing through thick and tough material and when the stitching twine inevitably snapped in the process, which happened painfully often, a small part of me would die as the effort involved in obtaining new twine and reperforming a load of reinforcement stitches was frustratingly awkward. After spending a number of hours completing just one booty, I remember sitting there almost hypnotised by the end game, rubbing my fingers along the stitches that had lovingly drew roughly a litre of blood from my fingers during their execution. It was a strange and mesmerising feeling of job satisfaction.
On Saturday, matters turned more serious. In the early afternoon on our watch, orders were cast to switch the ship from its almost perpetual port tack to starboard and the engines were fired up simultaneously. Our steadily south westerly trajectory had instead been shifted north east and in the opposite direction. We were heading back to Galapagos. Although I’d like to have said that this was because the Captain suddenly came to the realisation that he’d left his favourite T-shirt in one of San Cristobal’s many fine drinking establishments, the reason was much more alarming. One of the ship’s deckhands, Paula, had been suffering stomach complaints for some time, and after consultations between the ship’s doctor and local medical experts in Galapagos on the satellite phone, it was deemed imprudent to continue sailing into remoteness towards Pitcairn and instead to return so that Paula could be properly observed. A major and critical risk of appendicitis was cited and so no chances could be taken. We were all worried for Paula’s welfare and were somewhat relieved that we would reach the island of Santa Cruz and Galapagos’ best hospital by Monday morning. Paula would remain under the watchful eye of the ship’s two medical crew 24 hours a day until the problem was addressed.
On Sunday, it was 4 July and already that other most famed of national days in North America. With an admirable complement of American crew on the ship, there was no doubt that it would be marked vivaciously in the middle of the South Pacific. Indeed it felt like the party season was in full swing. The ship’s BBQ was set up on the well deck and a fine array of meat and accompaniments were set out for those attending the party in suitably American themed apparel. These included characters such as Marilyn Monroe, Barack Obama, The Statue of Liberty, Colin Powell and myself, devoid of tools and imagination, as a morbidly obese American redneck. My look was enhanced on the advice of fellow US shipmates by spreading jam and icing sugar all over my overstretched and pillow filled shirt to give the illusion I had been stuffing my face with doughnuts (if only).
No sooner had festivities commenced than a previously advertised swimsuit competition was announced and kicked off with some fine displays on the hatch. Hosted by none other than our latest American addition, Mike Jehle, competitors included two of the bat cave (the younger female cabin) girls sporting “For Rent” bikini boards, Gary the ship’s doctor in a gorgeous lady’s swimsuit and Liam wearing some “Borat” style, over the shoulder, speedos. Needless to say, Liam’s Borat ambitions paid off as he took the title with Adrienne who was beautifully and, dare I say, more tastefully kitted out as a Californian surfer chick.
The next event in the coveted 4 July running order was turtle racing. Not hitherto mentioned in my blog is the fact that along with fourteen lawnmowers and lots of other weird and wonderful delivery requests, we had been asked to bring some baby turtles for the islanders in Pitcairn. These had been picked up by the ship’s engineer in Panama and had been given interim residence in a tote on the ship’s galley house. The request was only for a handful of the creatures, but on the basis that we thought that most of them would suicidedly kark it on the way down to Pitcairn, thirty-two of the little blighters were brought aboard. Furthermore, a miscommunication had led us to purchase fresh water turtles, when the islanders had wanted land based tortoises, in particular for a very lonely pet tortoise already on the island looking for a mate. Needless to say, said tortoise remains lonely to this day and may have to wait until the Picton’s next visit to find the love he so desperately seeks.
In spite of the main top mast staysail’s best attempts to terrorise them to death, being the gargantuan sail that was vigorously hoisted and pugnaciously let down directly above their temporary galley house home almost repeatedly each day, all the turtles survived the journey. Only a few millimetres wide, their little heads already looked like they belonged to old men, and although they were shy at first, they became more adventurous as time elapsed. Their appearance almost gave me the shivers at times. They looked exactly like plastic toys which had been possessed and given a mind of their own.
In the previous few days, an all singing all dancing turtle race track had been put together by the ship’s carpentry gifted crew ready for its Independence Day inauguration. Three of the turtles were selected from the population to compete and the crew each selected the one they would follow to win. The races were somewhat hit and miss with the turtles mostly standing doing nothing, turning around and going the wrong way or trying to mount the sides of the track. Eventually though, one would be filled with beans and race for its little life to the other side of the track causing the shipmates to scream raucously cheering it on. After a few rounds, however, we thought it best for the little creatures’ well-being to return them to their temporary crèche and fellow (non-pedigree racing) peers.
The final celebrations of the day concluded at sundown on the quarterdeck with Jimmy Hendrix’s rendition of the American National Anthem boomed out to “fireworks” consisting of both hand held and fired flares. Canada Day was a tough act to follow, but the Americans on board certainly knew how to give them a run for their money.
On Monday morning, we had reached Santa Cruz and the Galapagos once again. The time we would spend here would heavily depend on Paula’s hospital test results and whether or not she was suffering with appendicitis, a risk deemed very high at the time. Paula and the ship’s medical crew were permitted on the island while the rest of us would remain aboard at anchor in the harbour awaiting further information before we would be signed back into the country. The day was relaxed with ship’s work put on hold and instead a swim call complete with rope swing filled most of our afternoon and kept our minds occupied.
Eventually, information on Paula’s condition was provided. She did not have appendicitis and instead was suffering from an intestinal complaint that would rectify itself in time. This was great news as it not only meant that Paula would not have to undergo the stress of a hospital operation, but she would also be clear to rejoin the ship and continue the journey with us to Pitcairn.
Having only observed Santa Cruz from a short distance for the day, and with Paula and the medical staff aboard once again, it was time to set sail and return to sea. We were already well behind schedule. At every departure when the ship is not alongside or otherwise hove to, the ship’s anchors must be lifted manually by the crew on board using a device known as a windless. It is positioned on the fo’c’s’l head to the fore of the ship. The process of heaving up anchor takes four people on each side of a lever (similar to those old school manually powered rail cars you often see in cartoons). The noise and rhythm of the windlass in full swing is almost hypnotic and saps the energy out of you quicker than a classroom filled to the brim with ADD five year olds on a concoction of artificial colourings and preservatives. On this occasion, however, certain crew and passengers on board other ships immediately around us watched as we heaved, and began to cheers us on. Spurred on with encouragement, we felt proud of our ship as it left the harbour and waves were exchanged with our cheering fans as the sails were set carrying us out to sea. Once again, we were underway.
The following day was my birthday, and a celebration of my survival of twenty seven years on the planet. For reasons you might already know, a huge celebration will be order if I manage to continue surviving all of life’s dangers to my twenty eighth! Having thought I might let this one pass quietly, I was stunned by the fact that all the crew on board knew that it was my birthday, and treated me like a king for the day. That afternoon, I was treated to a stunning birthday treat as a pod of about sixteen dolphins played and flipped in the water – at times only a couple of metres beside us. And with dinner, I was presented with several birthday cakes. Yes, there were loads of them including one with a picture of the Isle of Man iced onto the front. Now, that’s attention to detail!
That day, daymen were also selected from willing crew to step down from standing watches and instead work day shifts to maintain the ship either in rigging, carpentry, engineering or sailmaking. Furthermore, the first workshop in celestial navigation was hosted and heavily attended on the quarterdeck. With our increasing experience and comfort in handling the ship at sea, the time had come for us to take our traditional seafaring skills and knowledge up to the next notch.
On night watch, the winds provided perfect sailing, and we reached a speed of nine knots – significantly above the usual average. At 3am and in heavy winds, I was thrilled for the opportunity to go out onto the ship’s headrig and stow the flying jib. This is the foremost headsail on the ship, bent on and used solely in the Tropics, and is one of the first to be taken in when the winds pick up as it tends to make steering the ship more difficult. Most of the sail handling takes place between the lighter hours of 4-8 when I am off watch, so it can be quite exciting when the weather provides the impromptu conditions for you to have to step in and pull your sleeves up in the middle of the night either aloft or in the headrig stowing sail.
The following day during 12-4 afternoon watch, the ship was hit with the wave of the century. Every now and again, usually at least a few times per day depending on conditions, a massive wave will crash against the side of the vessel, either due to poor steering into the swell or just plain bad luck, causing a mass of water to spray over the side and drench whosoever finds themselves in its wake. This, of course, provides a lot of entertainment for the ship’s crew, in particular during watch changes, when large numbers of people muster close to the “danger zones”.
What was most interesting about this particular wave is that it covered practically the entire deck with a splash akin to Niagara Fall’s plunge pool. As I sat quietly next to the paint locker cleaning up from an afternoon of ship’s work, the pre-warning crash of the wave against the ship’s port side alerted the crew to the impending arrival of an upsurge nearby, however I considered myself safe being all the way over to the ship’s starboard side. I was evidently wrong. Within seconds, I was absolutely drenched from head to foot by an unforgiveable wall of water taking me completely off guard. Looking around to see everyone else on deck absolutely flabbergasted to have suffered the same fate, the ship suddenly pitched back and the water which had gathered on the ship’s raised deck was unceremoniously funnelled straight onto my head providing me with my own very personal and second unanticipated ocean power shower. On the plus side, I could have done with a scrub and this little episode enabled me to put back my next shower date by a whole month.
Beneath the radiant tropical sunshine and forgiving trade wind breezes, the days at sea began to fly by. The ship touched 10 knots, its record speed, during, of course, our 12-4 watch (each of the watches competed heavily to achieve the fastest speeds) and celestial navigation workshops along with noon sightings continued in earnest. Having always wanted to understand how to navigate by the stars, I applied myself to the books and felt rewarded to get my head around the logic and apply it. Having not really considered it in much detail before, it suddenly dawned on me that this was the way all ships and even planes navigated their way around the world until only recent years with the advent of GPS and other navigational technologies upon which we have become so reliant.
A new Picton Castle phenomenon was also born that week after the involuntary actions of a trainee trying to give a helping hand. Every now and again, when handling sails, two people are required to do something known as “sweating” a line. This is where two people must work together to pull the line out and down while a third takes in the slack on the pin. It is a technique that enables you to haul a halyard line (and hence a sail) much further than by a single person simply pulling down on it. Usually the two people stand side by side to sweat the line, but on this occasion, the trainee had stood directly behind the other person wrapping his arms around him lovingly as they pulled the line together. And thus, the phenomenon of halyard spooning, or as the cool kids call it, “Halspo”, was born.
The rules of the game are simple. Points are awarded for seeing the opportunity to sweat a line with your victim before you step into his/her aid wrapping yourself romantically around and gently spooning as you both sweat the line tenderly together. Bonus points are awarded for spooning unusually tall or well-built shipmates. This is where the true Halspo glory is to be found. Perhaps the largest shipmate on board, Ollie, was a triumph sought by many. He, however, to this day remains unspooned. Indeed, doing so would be like trying to wrap your arms all the way around the Eiffel Tower and, if it went wrong, you might risk finding yourself spotted by your peers in an exaggerated and overcompromising position, breaking all rules of respect for personal space, probably much to your own embarrassment as opposed to your victim’s. Quite literally, the stakes are high. Conversely, if you find yourself being the “spoonee”, points are deducted liberally from your running tally, so one must always keep one’s wits about who may be standing in the wings prepped to come to the rescue.
The jokes continued enthusiastically that week after certain night watch members, who shall remain nameless, took it upon themselves to label every single banana (there must have been about a hundred of them) hanging for crew to eat on the Aloha deck. A fellow shipmate, Fred, has the habit of labelling just about every item he owns in thick black permanent marker including the most mundane of his possessions. This is well known to all on board. The crew thought it would be funny (and indeed it was) to label each banana with Fred’s name, just as he does with all his belongings, apart from a few which they were good enough to attribute to some other crew members, including myself. All on board found the joke all the more hilarious after one of the mates took the matter seriously and reprimanded Fred for labelling the bananas, shouting “They’re not your bananas Fred, they’re for everybody!”
The following Sunday was a hotly awaited day, not only because it was our beloved shipmate Julie’s birthday and the World Cup final (which, sadly, we would be unable to watch but would some time later learn of the result), but because a total solar eclipse would be sweeping its way across the South Pacific towards us. Sadly, delays in the voyage had meant that we would not be within the window of totality but should nonetheless enjoy a partial eclipse of around 35% peaking just after 2pm local time. All gathered on the quarterdeck with sextants and even a couple of welding masks to get suitable protection from the sun’s glaring rays, and there was much excitement as the moon made first contact. I was on helm for most of the transition so was witness to much of the fun without actually seeing the eclipse, including curiously looking shipmates adorned with the welding masks looking up to the sky. A generous peer then offered to relieve me from the wheel giving me the opportunity to take some half-decent photos which you can see in the album below. The timing of the eclipse seemed only too perfect with the passage’s growing focus on celestial bodies and navigation.
In the days that followed, the crew became increasingly psyched up and excited about our impending arrival on Pitcairn through various talks led by the Captain and the announcement that a concert would be held in our honour on the island. The only catch with the concert would be that we would be the ones starring in it and hence we would have to consult and dust off all our most hidden of talents to perform to and impress our audience. As Picton Castle crew, we would be amongst the most privileged people in the world to spend as much as ten days on Pitcairn Island living with the fifty or so residents while ashore. Most other visitors would generally get no more than a couple of days to see the sights and experience the relaxed and welcoming local lifestyle given the timetables of passing ships. There is no airport and a supply ship visits the island only once every three months acting as a ferry for residents. It truly is one of only a handful of isolated and cut off inhabited locations left on the planet. This, the incredible history that precedes it, and, as we would discover, the boundless warmth of its people, are what makes Pitcairn Island such a special place to be.
We were told that the islanders were as excited as we were about our impending arrival having spring cleaned their houses and trimmed up their gardens to welcome us as guests. It was at this point that we were each allocated a family with whom we would stay during our visit based on the ship’s best consideration of where each of us would fit in. I would be staying with my shipmate, Meredith, with a local family. We couldn’t wait to meet everyone.
Our thoughts then turned to the concert and how we would entertain our hosts. Along with my 12-4 brethren, I hatched a plan that would be sure to impress and, somewhat usefully, could be pulled out as a party trick to amuse passers-by on any occasion whenever the opportunity arose later on. The whole charade started much earlier in the voyage, while ashore in Anguilla, when a small group of us had danced somewhat drunkenly at a beach shack to Michael Jackson’s 1983 cult classic hit, Thriller. I had agreed with a couple of shipmates after unashamedly getting down to the track, that it would be quite amusing to learn the dance moves exhibited in the famous zombie section of the music video and to just break them out whenever the song happened to be played at other bars along the course of the voyage.
Subsequently in Panama, thinking it would come in handy at some point, I searched for, and successfully obtained and downloaded a series of videos illustrating how to perform the dance moves from start to finish. Sure enough, the videos did come in rather handy! A few adjustments were required to the choreography, but a final series of moves were formulated which would be called up by cue words to enable a group of us to dance in perfect synchronisation just like the zombies. Initially, a group of us on the 12-4 watch had wanted to learn the dance in secret to freak out the other watches one quiet Sunday afternoon, but doing this in the dark combined with the motion of the ship proved too difficult. We agreed instead that we would do this in the light of day in front of our fellow shipmates and instead surprise the Pitcairn Islanders with our talents.
The first practice was held in the salon, and although the other shipmates found it highly amusing at first, with me shouting out the cue words, including, for example, “booty bounce” as a prompt for us to stand side-on to the audience gyrating our backsides amorously, many suddenly felt compelled to join in the fun and be part of the act, with one participant joyously concluding it was the best thing she’d ever done. As time progressed, Thriller practices became part of the ship’s daily routine, with more and more people joining in. In the end, fourteen of us were in the line-up dancing in a triangular formation, just as in the video inspiring our endeavour. Almost nightly, at 2am, we would have a Thriller run through on watch in the dark, repeating the cue words as we ran through the choreography bouncing our booties and breaking into the most animated of hip shakes and “roar turns” in the moonlight. Check out the music video on YouTube and you will see what I mean.
At one point, as we held a practice on the hatch in the early evening hours after dinner, the Captain came out to watch us grabbing one of the ship’s search lights to illuminate the group mid-dance, as Ollie, the documentary maker, filmed us in action. We completed the section of the choreography we had already learned to rapturous applause and cries of more from the Captain. We evidently had an increasing fan base and the pressure was on to impress en masse and in sync in Pitcairn. Thriller was becoming quite the unexpected phenomenon on board.
As the voyage continued, new sails were steadily bent on to increase the ship’s speed and efficiency. The already mentioned, flying jib, was one of the first to be added along with the main topgallant staysail and main topmast staysail both running fore and aft between the fore and main masts and main and aft masts respectively. Due to the fact that these sails were bent on to masts higher up made of wood, they risked damaging and even snapping the wooden masts in strong winds. We would therefore need to act quickly in changing weather conditions and squalls to bring them in promptly. On the after mast, an additional sail was also bent on above the spanker, known as the gaff topsail. This sail left me a little disillusioned as to its value as it looked nothing more than a bedsheet which had blown out of someone’s window and haphazardly wrapped itself around the top of the mast.
The most impressive of the additional sails which were added to the fleet were the stunsails. Talk was rife about when these sails would be dusted off and bent on. Perhaps we would need to wait until the Indian Ocean to see them. But as the winds died down a little, the decision was taken to bend them on one morning as I slept heavily after the usual 12-4 night watch. Stunsails are those which are positioned outboard of the existing sails by attaching and binding extra yards made of bamboo and wood to special latches on the permanent yards. A photo of the stunsails in full glory can be seen in the album below. As with the other additional sails just mentioned, they work best in lighter winds and must be brought in promptly if the weather picks up, as the weaker bamboo and wooden yards are more prone to rupture. Indeed, if I am not mistaken, this did actually happen on one occasion during the passage, although not, of course, on my watch.
As the winds picked up in the second half of the passage, sheets on the royal sails on both the fore and main masts (the upmost of the square sails) parted numerous times, including once on our watch. The sheets are the lines which pull the sails down and out in the corners (i.e. they sheet out the sail), and chafing of the line against its surroundings can cause it to fray and rupture in stronger winds. The problem is easy to fix – you simply cut the frayed section off and retie the line to the edge of the sail. The immediate effect of a sheet parting is that the sail is no longer secured and flaps frenziedly around in the wind like a giant pair of long johns in a hurricane. It’s both amusing and disconcerting to behold. As soon as the problem is observed, someone has to get up there and stow the sail safely before its indefatigable flapping causes any more chafe and damage to the rest of the intact structure.
The final days of the passage were some of the best. Already we had been three weeks at sea, and although we were incredibly excited to be approaching Pitcairn, many of us yearned for the passage to last yet longer. We had already sailed some two thousand miles with about seven hundred left on the clock. For the first time in weeks and on my look out, a ship was spotted on the horizon. It was a non-descript cargo vessel, but clearly a mutual sight for sore eyes, with all crew coming on deck to view the passer-by as it changed its heading completely to sail right next to us and take a good look. I imagine, for them, seeing a tall ship under full sail in the middle of the Pacific is something which doesn’t happen every day.
The next port of call after Pitcairn would be the island of Manga Reva in French Polynesia, only a few day’s sail. This would be the first major opportunity for smaller groups of crew to take the ship’s boats out to sail and explore some of the uninhabited islets nearby. A lot of work was needed to prepare the boats for the outings, including carpentry to make their masts and work to finalise their sails. One of the boats, the Monamoy, required a complete overhaul and so I found myself, for several days, scraping, painting and then varnishing the base of the boat. The varnish was said to last a century and was perhaps the most potent of liquids I am yet to encounter on the Picton Castle. After a few hours applying this stuff, I would be high for the rest of the day, frantically rubbing my head and enjoying life in a strange shade of purple. God knows the damage this stuff caused to my brain but hell for the ensuing mind trip at least, it was worth it.
As the winds died down once again only miles from Pitcairn, we were treated to some of the stillest and most beautiful night watches of the entire voyage. This coincided with the full moon, and I felt compelled to take out my good DSLR camera and experiment a little. You can see the results in the photo album below. During day watches on lookout, I was treated continually to the spectacle of entire schools of twenty or more flying fish hovering across the ocean waves before returning to their watery depths. Many had haphazardly flown their way onto the ship’s decks which I had, to that point, sadly missed out on. But it wouldn’t be long before I would bear witness to the marvel of the misguided flying fish landing midships. No sooner had it landed on deck and we had located its position with a torch, than Chibley, the ship’s cat, appeared on the scene swooping in and swiping it away. Under the spotlight of the torch, she had all the stealth and speed of a ninja cat and disappeared with her prize almost instantaneously. Knowing full well she had left her previous “catch” in the Chief Mate’s bed, I felt it imperative to intervene and get the fish back off her in case she, heaven forbid, gutted it and dumped it in my own. Searching the ship frantically in the dark, I found she had made her way down below and then back up above deck outside the professional crew’s quarters, where she had dropped the fish as a gift, and was loudly announcing its arrival through a series of deafening yowls. Seeing the catch, I grabbed it promptly before she had the chance to take it again, and threw it almost immediately back overboard. She is a temperamental little creature at the best of times, and certainly was not best pleased by my meddling. I was definitely in her bad books for a few days. Part of me regrets having interfered, as it would probably have been the perfect photo opportunity to snap a soundly sleeping shipmate awoken in disarray to the alarming sensation of flying fish flapping up and down their face. Never mind.
Having not had any celebrations for a few weeks and in the mood for some revelry, the 12-4 watch decided to mark the occasion of Christmas a few months early, that being on July 25th as opposed to the well-known date in December. At the stroke of midnight at the start of watch, Christmas carols resounded ardently yet quietly on the quarterdeck so as not to wake our fellow non-Christmas observing shipmates. We also exchanged gifts thanks to our very own Secret Santas. In my case Father Christmas and his elves were clearly cost cutting and minimising all wastage in Santa’s workshop, given the ongoing age of economic austerity. At any rate, Santa had evidently read the letter I had sent to him in the North Pole in anticipation of his July arrival, since his elves had made me the gently vibrating dildo I had always wanted, although I later discovered that it was nothing more than a cunningly disguised plastic cover over an electric toothbrush. I thought it best to return the electric toothbrush to a shipmate I felt might be missing it, but on the pretext that I could use it for Santa’s intended purpose as and when I felt like it.
Christmas continued the next day with a gift the entire ship could enjoy – the first piece of land we had seen in almost a month, namely, Henderson Island. Seeing land on the horizon again was almost entrancing, particularly given Henderson was reasonably large but completely uninhabited. The ship approached the island and we pulled aside less than a mile away to admire its shores as the Captain told us of his visit there in the 70s to cut wood for the Pitcairners. Taking some time to watch the Pacific waves crash against its raised shores, we set off again away from Henderson safe in the knowledge that its sister island, Pitcairn, was now only a hundred or so miles away. We would be there in the morning.
That evening, our first Marlinspike party since the wedding in Lunenburg would be hosted with the theme “looking and feeling good”. Dressed up, drinks were in freeflow as we enjoyed our last night at sea. As the sun set, we adjourned to a party in the newly nightclub themed Bro Cave complete with disco ball and iPhone strobe lights. A single glow stick that was lying around was also broken out and it wasn’t long before the entire thing was split open splattering the Bro Cave and everyone in it with fluorescent green goo. As we continued to party, safe in the knowledge the stuff was non-toxic, certain feathers were evidently ruffled as one of the mates came down and hit the roof providing a mass reprimand demanding all be cleaned up. The party spirit was promptly pooped as a major clean-up operation was unleashed in spite of certain shipmates who were quite blatantly worse for wear!
On night watch, we waited in earnest as the miles to Pitcairn ticked down. Sadly we would not be the first to see it appear on the horizon. As we handed the baton to the next watch at 4am, we were safe in the knowledge that they would have the privilege to spot the island before anyone else, which they did at roughly 5.30 that morning. I went to sleep, as normal, just after 4, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before I’d be up again loading Pitcairn’s deliveries off the ship and, of course, setting foot on dry land once again for the first time in a month. Indeed as I hoped, my time in Pitcairn would prove to be incredible, but little did I know that just days into my stay, I would find myself in the midst of the most unnerving accident I expect I will ever have the privilege to survive. Lasting no more than ten seconds, it would change everything. Instead of continuing my extraordinary tall ship voyage around the world, my fate would inescapably turn to confronting an epic, challenging and painful journey of a whole different kind. It would be one that I would ultimately have to face alone, but would introduce me to some incredible people along the way. My time on the Picton Castle was over. But in the face of adversity, my unrelenting determination to return would remain.
No comments:
Post a Comment