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CHAPTER ONE
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in which the reader is introduced to the hero
and which contains nothing out of the ordinary |
Navigation in our nautical school was taught by Christopher Wrungel.
"Navigation," he told us at our first lesson, "is a science which helps one to choose the best and safest sea route, to chart it on a map and to steer the ship along it. Navigation," he added in conclusion, "is not an exact science. To master it completely one requires a lengthy experience of practical seafaring..."
This unremarkable introductory address occasioned fierce arguments among us students and divided us into two camps. One party maintained that Wrungel was an old sea wolf now retired. He did know navigation inside out and taught it well. Obviously he had enough experience of practical seafaring. Indeed, he must have sailed the length and breadth of the world.
But in any community you will find a fair number of sceptics. These asserted that our professor had never gone to sea at all. To prove their point they invited us to take a good look at him. And his appearance was in fact at variance with our idea of an old salt.
Christopher Wrungel was squat and stout, wore a grey shirt girded by an embroidered belt, combed his hair down on his forehead, had a pince-nez dangling from his neck on a black cord, had a restrained pleasant voice, smiled a lot, used snuff, had a habit of rubbing his hands together, and generally looked more like a retired apothecary than a seasoned sea captain.
So one day, to solve the argument, we asked Wrungel to tell us something about his seafaring experiences.
"Oh no, not at the lesson," he said with a smile and gave us a stiff test instead of the lecture that was planned.
When he walked out of the classroom with a pile of notebooks under his arm, he left us united in the opinion that, unlike other navigators, Christopher Wrungel acquired his maritime knowledge without leaving the safety of dry land.
I might still have been labouring under this misapprehension, had not I, soon afterwards, had the good fortune to hear from Wrungel himself the story of his remarkable global cruise that abounded in danger and amusing adventures.
It came to pass quite by chance. After that test he gave us out of turn, Christopher Wrungel did not report for duty for three or four days. We were told that on his way home that day he had lost his galoshes in a tram, come home with wet feet, caught cold and run up a high temperature. It was spring, examinations were near, and we needed those notebooks. So I, monitor of the course, was delegated to visit Wrungel and collect the notebooks.
Well, I went to the address, found his flat and knocked on the door. While I waited for the door to be opened I painted a mental picture of Wrungel lying in bed among a heap of pillows, his nose red and running, and blankets piled on top of him.
I knocked again. Nobody answered. Then I pushed the door-and was struck dumb with astonishment. In place of the expected retired apothecary, sitting at the desk and absorbed in some ancient book was a formidable sea captain in full regalia, with gold stripes on his sleeves. He was chewing furiously at a huge charred pipe, the pince-nez was nowhere in evidence, and his grey hair was dishevelled and stuck out any old how. Even his nose, for all that it was really red, expressed determination and valour.
On the desk in front of Wrungel was a special stand on which was perched a model of a schooner with tall masts and snow-white sails, decked out in many-coloured flags. Beside it lay a sextant. A roll of maps half-concealed a dried shark fin. On the floor, instead of a carpet, spread a walrus skin complete with head and tusks, and in the comer sat an admiralty anchor with bits of rusty chain. On the wall hung a curved sword and beside it a whale harpoon. There were other curiosities which I had not the time to make note of.
As the door creaked letting me in, Wrungel raised his head, marked the page in the book with a small dagger, rose from his seat and stepped towards me rolling like in a storm.
I was quite overwhelmed.
"The chaps have sent me about the notebooks, sir," I stammered.
"Sorry," he interrupted me. "Silly of me not to have recognised you. It's the illness-the memory is not what it used to be. I'm getting on, there's nothing one can do about it. The notebooks, you say?" and he began to mmmage on his desk.
At last he unearthed a pile of notebooks and gave them such a hearty slap with his big hairy hand that dust flew every which way.
"Here you are," he said, after giving a hearty sneeze.
"Excellent works, all of them. Yes, excellent! Congratulations! You will be armed with full knowledge of the science of navigation as you ply the seas under the flag of the merchant marine. You will be doing useful work, and you will have a fascinating life as well.
Oh, young man, I envy you the marvellous sights and delightful impressions that await you! The tropics, the poles, the ark of the great circle..." he said dreamily. "I raved of it all before I went out to sea."
"Did you go out to sea?" I exclaimed unthinkingly.
"But of course!" Wrungel replied huffily. "What did you think? Oh, I did my bit of seafaring sure enough. I performed an unparalleled round-the-world cruise on a sailing yacht... One hundred and forty thousand miles. Scores of ports, heaps of adventures... Times have changed of course. So has the international situation," he added after a pause. "A lot appears in a different light now but, as one peers back into the depth of the past, one has to admit that the voyage held a lot that was amuzing and a lot that was instructive. It's something to remember and to tell the younger generation. Why don't you sit down?"
With these words Wrungel pushed over a whale's vertebra to me. I sat down into it as into an armchair, and Wrungel launched on his story.
