The Moss Garden Journal Of Chan Wing Tsit

by Richard Bell

  Chapter 4

  I’d been told I had passage on a two masted merchant vessel. And, certainly this hauler of freight had two stubby masts. But instead of the sleek lines of the ship I’d imagined, it was a rough, blunt-bowed utilitarian freighter without the slightest hint of amenities. Though once brightly painted, now its graying wood was weathered and exposed, every surface had been deeply gouged and battered. Only chips of the paint were visible, only stumps of its railings remained. With its deck opened for loading cargo, it looked like an open barge. I had been warned that the captain was a short, ugly man with a voice like a shrieking axle—the description wasn’t playful sarcasm. The man and his decrepit vessel fit the description to a tee. If I wasn’t so discouraged I might have laughed at how apt the depiction was. I didn’t even bother confirming the ship and captain’s names; it was depressingly obvious I’d found them.

  Laborers carried crate after crate at a driven pace along the dock to our ship. The captain oversaw their placement in solid rows, growling curt orders and inspecting each knot and lashing. One after another, crates of porcelain were carried from the quay to the dock, checked off against a manifest and carried up the gangplank. They were set in place as if it was a race. Maneuvering each into position was the least of the effort; the laborers appeared to work against an unseen urgency, rushing through the steady drizzle along a quay lit by sputtering pitch torches, down rickety piers and the single gangway plank to the dim, inadequate lanterns in our hold.

  But the cargo was at last given a final tally. Insecure and out of place in my brown priest’s robe, I watched from the shelter of the passageway as the deck was replaced and firmly chocked into place. I had an uneasy feeling as the grim-faced captain made his way over to me, sizing me up immediately and spitting curses that the wind was rising too fast before the tide.

  I held out my letters of introduction, showing their opened seal and Master Lu’s stamp, asking politely if this was my ship. Crowding me against the bulkhead to share the inadequate eves, the captain shielded the papers from the rain and gave each a cursory glance before thrusting them back with a distracted nod.

  As my fare had been paid already he quickly lost interest. In his eyes I was clearly only cargo and quickly turned over to a sailor whose skin was crowded and as decorated with rough tattoos as an scroll. His leathery wrinkles tightened into what seemed a smile before he led me to a thin pallet laid-out in a dark, low-roofed cupboard, deep in the bow among huge lengths of unused rope.

  I could imagine Master Lu, who was truly both humble and frugal, choosing a similar vessel himself. But it was not what I’d imagined for myself. As I huddled, it occurred to me that the choice of ship might have been intended to humble me. It was obvious that in my anticipating better I’d inappropriate assumptions of self-importance. In truth I was a naive young priest of limited experience who was prone to a sense of entitlement. The ship could have been chosen to teach me a lesson. If so, I would embrace it.

  In my morning’s short journey I had already proven myself inexperienced and egotistical. Through my years of training I’d struggled to hide the unconscious arrogance that arose from unearned advantage and scholarship. I endeavored to embrace Nan Hua’s monastic austerities as useful polishing. Unfortunately discipline alone doesn’t erase such conditioning. With influenza taking senior priests, I’d been assigned tasks usually falling to those with more maturity. I’d risen too quickly to learn the true strength of acceptance and simplicity. I was no doubt due a balancing slap of humility.

  Master Lu was wise in such things; knowing that once in Korea I’d be lauded. Perhaps confronting me now with some perspective was calculated. He must have realized how I would respond, how ready I was to assume myself special. I felt chastened—the very fact I had expected better proved that I deserved a correction.

  Heavy dark clouds and the coming night had cast the world into darkness when I crept out to peer at the frenetic world. A muffled shout from an adjoining ship capped by a sudden crash jerked me from my musing. The shifting ships and loading cargo filled the world with sound.

  The massing clouds released a few monsoon-like drops that slowly swelled into a deluge. He could hardly see the ship beside us. Dark shadows lent a supernatural eeriness. Pools of shadow and flickering half-light offered a sense of unreality. At the far end of the quay a contingent of soldiers huddled against the downpour watching as a small mountain of hawsers was wrestled into a hold. The wharf’s great piers bristled with boats and swarmed with coolies, their backs glistening in the rain as they shuffled ant-like across the quay with bulging sacks and wooden crates.

  Wind whipped the flickering lamps and feeble torches lit the unceasing movement of cargo. Finally, when our decking was replaced the crew waited with nervous idleness, seemingly deaf and blind to the racket like the cymbals and drums accompanying opera. There was the sound of pulleys screeching, the whip-like slaps of rigging and the constant grinding thuds of shifting boats. I felt engulfed by the almost rhythmic throb of effort and commerce punctuated by the screams of foremen and alarming crashes of unseen freight.

  As I watched, the crew suddenly responded as one to some subtlety beyond me. I finally learned that the tide had turned. Soon even I could feel our ship quivering like an impatient horse, its hull scraping against the battered pilings as if anxious to pull away. I squatted uneasily in the shadows just out of the downpour, too excited to risk missing a thing; my uncertainty and anticipation tangling within me.

  I had been scheduled to leave months before—leaving now, winter storms would dog our heels. But I’d been assured it would make little difference; the journey was the same. We would reach Korea before the worst of the winter cold.

  The captain suddenly reappeared, barking orders fore and aft. The crew jumped to their tasks like a well-trained team. Dock-bound lines were freed and coiled then stowed away as long wooden poles maneuvered us into the river’s current. Sailors clamored above to expose a cautious patch of sail. About us, dozens of nearly invisible craft were setting themselves in motion as we were. Dim bow and stern lamps were all that revealed the movement of our choreography. Other boats were merely indistinct patches of darkness, heading toward the sea. Ships of every description lined up to catch the river’s current and process in stately order, all of us equally eager to catch the tide.

  There is a strange unreality to the stately movement of large, ungainly vessels. Beyond the receding torches on the piers, only a few glimmers along the banks were visible. I saw no way to gage the river’s channel or the movement of other ships, to say nothing of the effect of tide and wind. Despite the dark our captain maintained a proper course; reckoning from signs I was totally blind to, adjusting sails and rudder at the proper moments, turning as the river did to enter the rough waters of the bay.

  Since being tied to the dock we’d been surrounded by other vessels. Suddenly we were alone. The downpour blinded us to both ships and the islands I knew we passed. I didn’t see a single light from the cantons of Hong Kong or Macao. Soon it was obvious we were out upon the sea itself, cutting the endless flanks of deep-ocean swells.

  Beyond the tiny puddles of our lanterns, the world was lost to blackness. We adjusted course again and again, both sails and rudder receiving endless fine-tunings. In time I accepted that there was nothing left to see and I retreated to my pallet among the rope stores. Despite the day’s excitement, exhaustion swept me off into the realm of dreams.

  It was confusing to wake on a pitching ship in total darkness. It took a moment to remember where I was. I’d spent much of the night braced uncomfortably against the ship’s erratic roll. As I slept the storm had worsened, but the tattooed helmsman laughed at my alarm and claimed the pitching and yawing was normal upon the ocean. We plowed the sides of foam-littered slopes rising like mountains. I clung desperately against the whipping wind and bucking, pitching deck. Through the day, the crew alternated between make-work and frantic activity. I wholly lacked anything to fill my
time. Any direction one looked there was nothing but waves and clouds that joined at a vague horizon. Returning to my cupboard with a chipped bowl of soaked millet, I braced myself between one of the ribs and a bulkhead and tried pass the time in meditation.

  It seemed to me that the storm steadily worsened. I was terrified in my cupboard, I couldn’t imagine clamoring in the rigging to trim sails or braving the deck as waves washed across without warning. More than once my head collided with the beam above me so hard I was left blinking at glimmering sparks.

  For six days and nights the winds drove us eastward while the captain fought to bring us north. Sailors worked day and night at the pump that drained our bilge. Like a leaf on a flooding stream we could do little to counter the flow. Though we must have been far from our intended heading the captain assured me that all would be fine once the storms gave way. We might be off-course, but the storm had sped us far ahead of schedule.

  Our intended course would have closely skirted the mainland coast; east then bending north between the mainland and Taiwan, but we’d been driven out onto the endless ocean. The crew were sure that all would be well once the storm gave way so we could correct our course. Still, it was obvious that the further we were driven the further we had to fight back against the wind. But with luck and the captain’s skill we could still backtrack to Taiwan, skirt Nippon and reach Korea.

  Day and night, at every easing of the wind we worked northward, struggling to correct our progress. But gradually it became clear that even our captain was growing worried. With neither I sun nor stars for guidance, he relied upon his navigator’s bowl and iron needle, but determining position was nearly impossible. Even I knew there was no navigation tool known to fix one’s position east to west.

  The shrill of wind in our rigging and the pounding of the sea against our hull was deafening. Despite flying barely enough sail to give us rudder and dragging sea anchors to slow our progress we fairly flew, driving headlong into mountainous swells as if trying to impale our ship’s blunt prow. Over and over our small ship thrashed and shook as it thrust itself into swells. We quivered as the seas poured over us. It seemed impossible that so frail a vessel could survive. I gave up all thought of survival.

  Gusts came from astern as we ran before the storm, striking with such force our hull shook; it seemed inevitable that we would be beaten to splinters or flooded from the waves that flooded our deck. Each time I was left certain we’d foundered. I have no doubt that we owed our lives to the crew’s constant presence at the pump.

  Still, the storm took its toll; two sailors disappeared without a clue, washed away without anyone noticing. Then one morning the bamboo lean-to that had stood securely amidships with our baskets of yams, extra sacks of millet and a cage of chickens, was suddenly, simply gone.

  The storm pounded until there seemed nothing else in life. Ignorant of basic nautical skills and clumsy at best, I was of no practical value, but remaining in my dank cupboard seemed like punishment.

  With the ship bucking and constantly awash, rekindling a cooking fire was impossible so we thankfully ate soaked grains and sipped water. With the loss of our lean-to our meager rations were cut to a few mouthfuls, twice a day. Even a land-bound priest like myself realized how poor our chances were.

  Eventually, despite our struggles it was clear we’d missed all chance of reaching Taiwan. Caught out somewhere mid-ocean we would have to fight our way back, but the storm was unrelenting. Wind caught the tips of waves and whipped them into a froth that swirled mast-high so that our water cask of captured rain was fouled. Now even the sailors swore that the wind screamed like none they’d known and prayed constantly to the goddess Ma Tsu.

  Out of nowhere a spinning gust swung us about and knocked a sailor to the sea. A moment later our rearward mast split down it’s length and splintered, heeling over among the waves. The falling spar crushed our captain, tearing a deep wound in his side and battering him unconscious. With our gunwales awash and the seas unrelenting I gave up all hope, but the sailors clung to whipping lines to cut-away tangles until our poor craft swung from the clutching seas and righted.

  “None of us will return,” the helmsman screamed. “If the Captain dies…it’s an omen…very baa…” his words were lost as the wind whistled through our sodden lines.

  Without needing orders, the crew reset a shredded patch of sail to give our rudder purchase and we plunged eastward again at break-neck speed. Existence became a blur as I braced myself in my cupboard. Day or night seemed little different, only the raging storm was constant. Terrified in the dark of my cupboard, I fantasized about a future I didn’t believe in, imagining myself Master Lu’s Dharma heir, in time perhaps Abbot of some venerable abbey; such steps seemed inevitable after a sojourn in Korea. Certainly I’d been groomed for such a role, it had seemed attainable. I felt I’d been humbled. Once in Korea, I would leave my youthful ways behind. I would be quietly wise and restrained.

  With the captain lost and our crew much depleted, the sailors huddled, hushed and reverent in the passageway outside my cramped cupboard whispering about the vengeful, malevolent sea-monsters that lurked these uncharted waters.

  Two days later without warning, in the ink-like dark our rudder broke. Again the ship heeled suddenly, shipping water until nearly foundering. Again the crew responded fearlessly; climbing out precariously to cut lines and spill the wind that held us hostage, then once righted they would set a patch on our remaining mast and patch together a makeshift rudder. But despite their efficient handling, another sailor had been lost, washed away as he lashed a swinging spar.