by Farley Mowat
Most of the essential equipment was aboard and had found a place in which to live, at least temporarily. There remained only one area of real uncertainty—the engine. Since she looms all too large in what follows I shall give a detailed introduction to her. She was a seven-horsepower, single-cylinder, make-and-break, gasoline-fuelled monster, built in the 1920’s from an original design conceived somewhere near the end of the last century. She was massive beyond belief, and intractable beyond bearing. In order to start her it was first necessary to open a priming cock on the cylinder head and introduce half a cup of raw gasoline. Then you had to spin her flywheel which was as big as the wheel of a freight car and weighed about the same.
There was no clutch and no gear box. When, and if, the engine started, the boat immediately began to move. She did not necessarily move forward. It is an idiosyncrasy of the make-and-breaks that when they start they may choose to turn over either to left or to right (which is to say either forward or astern), and there is no way known to man of predicting which direction it is going to be.
Once started, the direction can be reversed only by snatching off the spark-wire and letting the engine almost die. On its next-to-final kick it will usually backfire and in the process reverse itself, at which instant one must push the spark-wire back in place and hope that the beast will continue turning over. It seldom does. At least it seldom did for Jack and me. To properly dominate a make-and-break engine one must have grown up with it from childhood.
According to mythology the virtue of these engines lies in the fact that they are simple and reliable. Although this myth is widely believed I am able to report that it is completely untrue. These engines are, in fact, vindictive, debased, black-minded ladies of no virtue and any non-Newfoundlander who goes shipmates with one is either a fool or a masochist, and is likely both.
We ran our first engine test on a Sunday morning and, for a wonder, the sun was shining in Muddy Hole and the fog had retreated out to sea. It was therefore an auspicious morning, but the auspices proved misleading. Enos and Obie were on hand to demonstrate the engine to us, but although both of them had lived with make-and-breaks all their lives it took them an hour to get the beast going. When she did start it was with a bellowing roar that reminded us we had been unable to find a muffler for her. She started in reverse, but this was of no moment since we had moored the schooner to the stage with enough lines to hold the Queen Mary. The big blade turned and stirred up the bottom muck, so that great gaseous bubbles began to burst under her counter, testifying to unknown horrors of corruption in the depths below.
Jack and I did not observe much of this first-hand. We were too busy leaping for our lives. The moment she started, the green monster went berserk. With each stroke of her huge piston she leapt a good four inches off the wooden bedding plates, and then came down again with a jolt that shook our little ship from keel to masthead. At each jolt, the open-topped carburetor flung a spray of gasoline over the battery box and over the hot exhaust pipe.
Since it seemed obvious that the vessel was going to explode Jack and I flung ourselves on deck, gained the stage head and ran for our lives. We did not halt until we were safely behind the shelter of Enos’s house. However when a few minutes later the bellow of the engine ceased and there had been no colossal bang, we cautiously returned to the harbour. We found Enos and Obie unconcernedly awaiting us. They explained what had taken place.
When he originally built the boat Enos bedded the engine with iron bolts and during her years with the Hallohans these had rusted out. The Hallohans had not attempted to replace them, but had devised a system of two-by-four wooden shores, which they had braced all over the engine room and which served to hold the monster in its place. During the refit Enos removed these shores without stopping to consider what, if any, purpose they served. He now knew, as did we all.
Replacing the bolts was a tedious task. The vessel had to be dried out again at low tide and holes drilled right through her bottom, into which we fitted big bronze keeper bolts taken from the boiler of a wrecked coasting steamer. Enos was of the opinion that these would hold, and in this instance he was right.
When next we ran the bullgine (this is the nicest of the names we devised for her), she stayed put in her place, and that was a blessing, although it did not solve all our problems. Foremost of these was the fact that neither Jack nor I could get her to start. We did not have the knack, neither did we have the muscle. Since I had become the self-appointed skipper of the vessel I used my prerogatives to appoint Jack to the position of chief engineer and turned my mind to other things.
I must pay him homage. Throughout most of one day he wrestled with the beast under the tutelage of Obie. Toward evening, exhausted and filthy, wordless with fury but still indomitable, he finally got her to go. She immediately backfired, kicked into reverse all on her own, spun the flywheel the wrong way around, and caught Jack on the elbow with the starting handle, propelling him full length into the main cabin.
His was something of a Pyrrhic victory since his back went out and his elbow swelled up so he could not even feed himself properly, let alone raise a glass with his right hand. Furthermore it was a victory in a single battle only and on every subsequent occasion when he had to start the engine the victory had to be won anew.
The Hallohans’ failure to name the boat was their own business. We had no intention of girdling the world in a nameless ship. Off and on we thought about the matter and we almost decided she should be called Black Joke.
The original Black Joke was a particularly infamous slaver sailing between West Africa and Virginia. She made a desperate reputation for herself. Her accommodation was so bad that a large part of her hapless passengers died of it. She also had the reputation of carrying such a stink that her presence could be detected aboard ships fifty miles to leeward of her. In general, the name seemed apt even if our vessel was green instead of black.
One night Jack and I visited the Morrys to cleanse ourselves physically and spiritually, and Howard began yarning about Peter Easton, gentleman and captain in the Royal Navy who, early in the seventeenth century, decided to better himself by going into business on his own. He became one of the most successful pirates of all time. With a fleet that at one time numbered thirty vessels he dominated the sea routes between Europe and North America. He captured the Governor of Newfoundland and virtually made that island his personal domain.
Using it as a base, he raided the Caribbean, even capturing Morro Castle, together with its governor. On another foray far afield he captured four vessels of the Spanish treasure squadron off the Azores and took them to Tunis. The Bey of Tunis promptly concluded an equal alliance with Peter who then set out to singe the beard of the King of Spain. He did this so effectively that the royal Spanish fleet refused to face him in open battle and remained bottled up in its home harbours for more than a year. By this time Peter was growing weary of the active life, so he blackmailed the King of England into granting him a pardon, after which he retired to the Duchy of Savoy, bought himself a vast estate and the rank of Marquis, and gave up the sea.
Peter Easton was unique. He never made anyone walk the plank. He paid his men well and treated them decently. He had a sharp sense of humour. He was kind and loving—very loving, it is said—to women.
Jack fell completely under the Easton spell, possibly because of a psychological phenomenon known as transfer identification. He became such an Easton fan that he insisted we call our ship after Peter’s flag ship—the ironically named Happy Adventure.
I at first demurred, being well aware that it would be necessary in future to offer long explanations for such a choice to critics who thought the name was simply too sentimental to be true. However in the end Jack won.
We did not have a traditional christening ceremony since nobody in Muddy Hole would have tolerated the waste of a bottle of anything alcoholic. Instead we sat in her crowded cabin one evening and drank a number of toasts to the reincarnation of Peter Easton’
s ship. Then we pumped Happy Adventure dry (it now took only an hour or so) and bade our guests goodnight. We had determined to try our wings upon the morrow.
Seamen refer to the first tentative voyage of a newly commissioned ship as her trials. Happy Adventure’s trials began at 1400 hours the next day, and so did ours.
It was a “civil” day (in Newfoundland this means the wind is not blowing a full hurricane) and a stiff easterly was whitening the waters of the harbour. Because this was our first departure, and because we were being watched by most of the inhabitants of Muddy Hole, we felt compelled to leave the stage under full sail.
We did not do too badly. With main, foresail, jib, and jumbo hoisted. Jack cast off our moorings. We sheeted everything home, the heavy sails began to draw and Happy Adventure slowly picked up way. In a few moments she was standing swiftly across the harbour.
In order to get out of the long narrow harbour of Muddy Hole against an east wind a vessel under sail must beat to weather—that is, she must tack back and forth against the wind. We were, of course, aware of this necessity. We were also aware that, as we left the stage, directly ahead of us there lay a covey of two dozen dories and skiffs, moored fifty yards off shore. As we approached them I prepared to come about on the other tack.
“Ready about!” I sang out to Jack. Then, pushing the big tiller over, “Hard a’lee!”
Happy Adventure’s head came up into the wind. She shook herself a bit, considered whether she would come about or not—and decided not. Her head fell off again and she resumed her original course.
Jack was later to claim that this was one of the few honest things she ever did. He claimed she knew perfectly well what would happen if we ever took her to sea, and so she decided it would be better for all of us if she committed suicide immediately by skewering herself on the rocky shores of her home port, where her bones could rest in peace forever.
I disagree. I think that, never having been under sail before, the poor little vessel simply did not know what was expected of her. I think she was as terrified as I was as she bore down on the defenceless mess of little boats and the rocks that lay beyond them.
It was Jack who saved us all. He did not even pause to curse, but leapt into the engine room with such alacrity that he caught the bullgine sleeping. Before it knew he was there he had spun the flywheel and, even without a prime, the green beast was so surprised she fired. She had been taken totally off guard, but even as she belched into life she struck back at us, thinking to make us pay for our trickery by starting in reverse.
There were a great many people watching from the fish-plant wharf. Since they could not hear the roar of the bullgine above the thunder of the plant machinery they were incredulous of what they saw. Under full sail and snoring bravely along, Happy Adventure slowly came to a stop. Then with all sails still set and drawing—she began to back up. The fish-plant manager, a worldly man who had several times seen motion picture films, said it was like watching a movie that had been reversed. He said he expected to see the schooner back right up Obie’s stage, lower her sails, and go to sleep again.
I would have been happy to have had this happen. To tell the truth I was so unnerved that it was on the tip of my tongue to turn command over to Jack, jump into our little dory which we were towing astern, and abandon the sea forever. However pride is a terrible taskmaster and I dared not give in to my better instincts.
It was now obvious to Jack and to me that we were not going to be able to beat out of the harbour and that we would have to go out under power if we were to get out at all. But neither of us cared to try to make the bullgine change direction and drive the boat ahead. We knew perfectly well she would stop, and refuse to start, and leave us to drift ignominiously ashore. Consequently, Happy Adventure backed all the way out of Muddy Hole harbour under full sail. I think it must have been the most reluctant departure in the history of men and ships.
Once we were at sea, and safely clear of the great headlands guarding the harbour mouth, Jack did try to reverse the engine and she reacted as we had known she would. She stopped and would not start. It no longer mattered. Happy Adventure lay over on her bilge, took the wind over her port bow and went bowling off down the towering coast as if she was on her way to a racing rendezvous.
During the next few hours all the miseries, doubts, and distresses of the past weeks vanished from our minds. The little ship sailed like a good witch. She still refused to come about, but this was no great problem in open water since we could jibe her around, and her masts and rigging were so stout that this sometimes dangerous practice threatened her not at all. We sailed her on a broad reach; we sailed her hard on the wind; we let her run, hung-out, with foresail to starboard and mainsail to port; and we had no fault to find with her sea-keeping qualities.
She had, however, some other frailties. The unaccustomed motion of bucketing through big seas under a press of canvas squeezed out most of the fish gunk with which she had sealed her seams, and she began to leak so excessively that Jack had to spend most of his time at the pump. Also, the massive compass I had brought with me from Ontario demonstrated an incredible disdain for convention, and insisted on pointing as much as forty degrees off what should have been the correct course. It was apparent that, until we found someone who could adjust the compass, our navigation would have to be, in the time-honoured phrase, “by guess and by God.” Neither of us was a very good guesser and we did not know how much we could rely on God.
In our temporarily euphoric mood we dared to sail several miles off shore to reconnoitre a belated iceberg. We were circling it at a discreet distance, for the great bergs become unstable in late summer and sometimes turn turtle, setting up tidal waves that can swamp a small vessel, when the sun began to haze over. The Grand Banks fog was rolling in upon the back of the east wind.
We fled before it and Happy Adventure carried us swiftly between the headlands of the harbour just as the fog overtook us, providing a grey escort as we ran down the reach and rounded-to in fine style at Obie’s stage.
Despite her unorthodox departure, and despite the leaks and the compass, we felt reasonably content with our little vessel and not a little proud of ourselves as well. We were as ready as we would ever be to begin our voyage.
8. The Old Man earns his drink
ONE SMALL difficulty still remained. We had no charts of the east coast of Newfoundland. The lack of charts, combined with a misleading compass and the dead certainty of running into fog, suggested we would do well to ship a pilot until we could make a port where charts could be bought and the compass adjusted.
The obvious choice for a pilot was Enos. Like most Newfoundland seamen he possessed, we presumed, special senses which are lost to modern man. He had sailed these waters all his life, often without a compass and usually without charts. When you asked him how he managed to find his way to some distant place he would look baffled and reply:
“Well, me son, I knows where it’s at.”
We needed somebody like that. However when we broached the matter to Enos he showed no enthusiasm. For a man who was usually as garrulous as an entire pack of politicians, his response was spectacularly succinct.
“No!” he grunted, and for emphasis spat a gob of tobacco juice on our newly painted cabin top.
There was no swaying him either. Persuasion (and Jack is a persuader par excellence) got us nowhere. He kept on saying “No” and spitting until the cabin top developed a slippery brown sheen over most of its surface and we were prepared to give up. I was, at any rate, but Jack was made of sterner stuff.
“If the old bustard won’t come willingly,” Jack told me after Enos left, “we’ll shanghai him.”
“The hell with him, Jack. Forget it. We’ll manage on our own.”
“Forget him nothing! If this goddamn boat sinks I’m at least going to have the satisfaction of seeing him sink with it!”
There was no arguing with Jack in a mood like that.
He arranged a small farewell
party on board that night. It was one of the gloomiest parties I have ever attended. Six or seven of our fishermen friends squeezed into the cabin and ruminated at lugubrious length on the manifold perils of the sea. When they got tired of that, they began recalling the small schooners that had sailed out of Southern Shore ports and never been heard of again. The list went on and on until even Enos began to grow restive.
“Well, byes,” he interjected, “them was mostly poor-built boats. Not fitten to go to sea. Not proper fer it, ye might say. Now you takes a boat like this” un. Proper built and found. She won’t be making ary widows on the shore.”
This was the opening Jack had been waiting for.
“You’re so right, Enos. In a boat as good as this a fellow could sail to hell and back.”
Enos eyed Jack with sudden suspicion. “Aye,” he replied cautiously. “She be good fer it!”
“You certainly wouldn’t be afraid to sail in her, now would you Enos?”
The trap was sprung.
“Well, now, me darlin’ man, I don’t say as I wouldn’t, but a’course….”
“Good enough!” Jack shouted. “Farley, hand me the log. Enos, we’ll sign you on as sailing master for the maiden voyage of the finest ship you ever built.”
Enos struggled mightily but to no avail. He was under the eyes of six of his peers and one of them, without realizing it, became our ally: