My Life at Sea: being a "yarn" loosely spun for the purpose of holding together certain reminiscences of the transition period from sail to steam in the British mercantile marine (1863-1894)Crutchley, William Caius
History
My Life at Sea: being a "yarn" loosely spun for the purpose of holding together certain reminiscences of the transition period from sail to steam in the British mercantile marine (1863-1894)
Crutchley, William Caius
Merchant marine -- Great Britain; Seafaring life
Once more in Cape Town, homeward bound, and coming events did not cast
their shadows before, for little did I think as I took her out of dock
in the most approved “show off” fashion that it would be the last time
I should do so. Sailing days at the Cape for the mail steamers were
red-letter days, when all men interested came down to criticise the way
in which the various ships were handled. On this particular occasion I
managed to retain my reputation, but the pitcher sometimes goes to the
well once too often, and I fear I was what the boys call “coxy” over
what I could do with that ship. Altogether that was one of the days of
my life on which I felt pleased with myself, and it may be observed
that there have not been many of them. Sailing day at the Cape was once
well described by Leigh, who, speaking of visitors generally, said,
“They come on board in ballast trim, and leave drawing twenty-seven
feet by the stern.”
Few things would give me greater pleasure now than to revisit the old
scenes and see how the modern school of men deal with the great ships
they command, but the early negotiators of Cape Town dock had a fair
amount of pioneer work to do. We learned as we went along.
My chief recollection of that last trip home was that I first made
the acquaintance of Clark Russell’s novels, and on my arrival at
Southampton I wrote him a letter expressing my admiration of them,
which resulted in a friendship still unbroken. There are few men who
have so faithfully painted life at sea as it really was. His _Wreck of
the Grosvenor_ is simply a marvel of realism, having only one equal so
far as my knowledge serves me,--Dana’s _Two Years before the Mast_.
Southampton dock came at last, and it was with little pleasure that
I learned the Commodore was at home without a ship and that I should
have to make way for him. It was no use kicking against the pricks;
seniority was the law of the service and it had to be abided by, so I
turned the _Mexican_ over with regret to Ballard, and once more joined
the army of the “stand-bys.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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