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CHAPTER NINE
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About old customs and icebergs
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The ocean greeted us with a steady trade-wind and the Rage ran along nicely.
The humid wind relieved the heat somewhat, but there were plenty of indications
that we were in ttie tropics. The sky was azure blue, the sun stood right
overhead and, the main thing, there were lots of flying fish. They are
wonderfully beautiful, those fish! Soaring above water like dragon-flies
and gladdening the heart of an old sea-dog. Flying fish, you know, are
the symbol of ocean spaces.
Those fish, worse luck, brought to my mind recollections of my young days,
my first voyage, the crossing of the equator.
The equator, as you know, is an imaginary line, but its crossing has since
days immemorial been celebrated by an amateur show on board ship. The
Neptune is supposed to come on board, have a chat with the captain and
give a dousing to all those who are crossing the equator for the first
time in their life.
I decided to revive this old custom. The props are easy to come by, so
is the costume, but in my case the trickiest problem was the casting.
I was the only seasoned sailor on board, and I was also the captain, so
willy-nilly I had to combine the two parts - those of captain and Neptune.
But I found a way out. I had a tub of water set up on deck in the morning,
then pleaded sick and turned the command over to Lom. Lom presented his
condolences, but was quite pleased to assume command and at once started
ordering Fooks about.
Meantime I locked myself up in the cabin and set about preparing for the
masquerade. I made myself a beard out of a mop, fashioned a trident and
a crown, and hooked on a kind of fish tail behind. I looked swell in this
rig, though I say it myself. Out of the mirror a very life-like Neptune
looked at me.
When, according to my calculations, the Rage crossed the equator, I went
up on deck in my Neptune guise.
The result was shattering. The crew was taken by surprise and, not being
versed in old maritime customs, their reaction was quite unexpected.
When I emerged on the deck, my first mate Lom was proudly standing at
the wheel peering at the horizon, while looks, according to his orders,
was polishing the brass parts. Flying fish were still flitting above the
waves.
All was serene, and my arrival passed unnoticed.
To attract attention I banged the trident on the deck and growled. Both
Lom and Fooks turned round and froze in amazement. Recovering himself
somewhat, Lom stepped forward and asked in an embarrassed voice:
"Is anything wrong, Captain?"
I was prepared for this question and came forth with a poem of my own
composition.
"I am Neptune, king of oceans,
Ruling over seas, winds and fish!
Give account about your purpose,
Where is sailing your fine ship?"
Lom's face registered consternation, which gave way to desperate resolution.
He jumped on me like a leopard, pinned my arms to my sides and dragged me towards the tub.
"Hold the captain's legs," he commanded to Fooks over his shoulder.
Fooks grabbed my legs and then Lom added in a less panicky voice:
"The old man has had a sun-stroke. He needs a dip in water to cool head."
In vain did I struggle and argue that the old custom demanded that they, and not me, should be dipped in water to mark their first crossing of the equator. They just would not listen, but dragged me towards the tub and started dipping me there head first.
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"Enough dipping the captain!"
And it worked, you know. Lom yelled, "Aye, aye, sir!" and stood at attention, letting go of me. I fell plop into the tub, with just my legs sticking out. I might well have drowned had not Fooks the presence of mind to tip the tub over. The water poured out but I got stuck.
There I was, like a hermit-crab in his shell, trying to regain my breath. When I did, I crawled out of the tub crabwise, back stern.
You can imagine how my prestige suffered from this incident. On top of it all we lost the trade-wind. Dead calm was all around and the crew languished from idleness. Every morning Lom and Fooks would squat Turkish fashion on the deck and play cards until they were blue in the face. I watched these goings-on for a couple of days and then decided to put a stop to it. Generally, I am against all gambling, and here this new craze served to undermine discipline. Judge for yourself-Fooks was a cardsharp, so Lom lost every single game.
What respect would Fooks have for his senior?
On the other hand, by simply forbidding cardplay I would leave them with nothing at all to do. They would die of sheer. boredom, and that was worse than loose discipline.
So I suggested they play chess. It's a clever game that sharpens the wits and develops strategic thinking. Besides, it is conducive to quiet, home-like atmosphere.
So we brought out a table on deck, placed a samovar on it, stretched an awning above and sat there from morning till night, sipping tea, and engaged in bloodless combat.
One morning Lom and I were absorbed in a game, and Fooks decided to take a swim.
Lom's king had been driven into a corner, and I was anticipating checkmating it in two moves. Suddenly we were startled by a yell overboard. I looked up and saw Fooks's hat in the water (he was bathing in his hat as a safeguard against a sunstroke). Raising a cloud of spray with his flailing arms, Fooks was making for the yacht at top speed. Behind him a shark's fin could be seen slicing noiselessly the calm surface of the ocean.
Within seconds the shark overtook our wretched comrade, turned on its back and opened its fearsome jaws. I saw that unless I did something at once the poor chap was done for. Without looking I grabbed something from the table and threw it at the shark's muzzle.
The result was spectacular. The shark's teeth closed on the object, and the next moment the monster abandoned its pursuit of Fooks and began spinning around, its eyes popping and its jaws locked.
Fooks, meanwhile, reached the boat safely, scrambled aboard and sank on a chair in exhaustion. He croaked something unintelligible, his throat dry from the fear, and I hastily poured him out a glass of tea.
"Would you like a slice of lemon?" I asked and stretched my hand to the saucer with lemon. But it was empty.
It then dawned on me that at the moment of deadly danger it had been a lemon I grabbed and hurled at the shark, and it had saved Fooks's life. Sharks are obviously unused to its sour taste. And not sharks alone either-just try biting a whole lemon, young man, and your jaws will be locked too.
That incident made us stop sea-bathing. Of course we had many more lemons on board, but you cannot hope to hit the bull's eye every time. So we set up a shower on deck and doused each other from buckets as well. But all the same the heat was driving us crazy. Then, one fine morning, a breeze rose.
Wearied with indolence, the crew literally flew to their posts. Within seconds we set sail and the Rage continued on its way south.
You may find it surprising that I chose a course to the south. But have a look at the globe. Circumnavigating the earth at the equator is a long and tedious job that requires many months. And near the pole you can walk round the earth's axis five times a day if you feel like it, all the more so since a day at the pole may last all of six months.
So we set our sights on the South Pole. We passed the temperate latitudes and were approaching the Antarctic Circle. It had grown coldish, and the sea was very different to look at: the water was grey, there was heavy fog and the clouds hovered low. One had to put on a fur coat while on watch, the ears went numb and icicles hung from the rigging.
But we never considered retreat. On the contrary, we availed ourselves of the favourable wind to reach ever lower latitudes. The light swell gave us no trouble, the crew was in excellent form, and I was eagerly awaiting the moment when we should sight the ice barrier of the Antarctic coast.
And finally one day Fooks, who had the eyes of an eagle, shouted, "Land ahead!"
I peered hard but could see nothing. I even wondered if Fooks was seeing things, but what do you know?! Before half an hour passed I saw a dark line on the horizon. It did look like land. Lom thought so too.
"Good lad, Fooks," I said and picked up my telescope. A glance through it told me Fooks had been mistaken. It was not land but a huge iceberg, the shape of a table.
I steered for it and two hours later it rose before us, sparkling with miriads of lights in the rays of the never setting sun.
Blue ledges rose above the sea like the walls of a chrystal castle. The ice mountain breathed calm and cold. Green waves dashed against it with a rumble and feathery clouds all but caught at its top.
I am something of an artist in my heart, and majestic nature always moves me deeply. My arms crossed on my chest, I stood on deck lost in admiration.
Suddenly a scrawny walrus popped his silly mug out of the water, climbed up the icy slope, sprawled on a ledge and began scratching his tummy.
"Shoo!" I shouted at him. He paid" no attention whatever, but went on scratching and snorting, defiling the majestic picture.
Unable to stand his insolence, I made a ghastly mistake, which nearly spelled an inglorious end to our entire cruise.
"Get me the gun," I said to Fooks.
Fooks dived into the cabin and brought me the gun. I aimed at the cheeky walrus and bang!!! Suddenly the mountain which has looked as mighty and strong as Mt. Everest, swayed and, with a deafening roar, broke into two. The sea boiled underneath us, bits of ice showered our deck, the iceberg made a somersault and turned upside down, carrying the Rage along, and-lo and behold!-we were perched on its top. When the elements had somewhat subsided, I took a look around. The yacht was firmly embedded among crags of ice, the grey ocean was all around us, and, to crown it all, at the foot of the ice mountain was the same cheeky walrus floating on its back and grinning up at us with exasperating gall.
The crew were subdued, overcome by the turn of events. They looked at me wonderingly, awaiting an explanation of the amazing phenomenon. Well, I had quite a stock of information on icebergs and I readily shared it with them.
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My crew heard me out attentively. Fooks, who was a sensitive chap, made no comment, but Lom, a blunt fellow that he was, asked me a very awkward question:
"It's all very well about its overturning, Captain, that's past history. But how does one turn it back as it was?"
Well, that, of course, was the rub. How does one go about turning the huge thing back? Surely we could not stay perched on it till doomsday!
I started pondering the question, while Lom decided to see what he could do on his own.
Unthinkingly, he picked up an axe and chopped a chunk of some two hundred tons off the iceberg.
He must have imagined that in this way he was going to break up our icy postament and bring the yacht back to water level. The intention was good, but the result was quite the opposite.
It all came of lack of knowledge. Freed of part of its weight, the ice mountain became lighter and acquired additional buoyancy. So it rose higher. By the time I arrived at a decision, the top of the iceberg, yacht and all, was, through Lom's efforts, an additional forty feet higher over the sea level.
This made Lom repent his hasty action, and henceforth he fulfilled my commands with alacrity and precision.
My plan was simple enough. We sheeted the sails home and headed north, iceberg and all, closer to the tropical latitudes. The cheeky walrus decided to keep us company.
Before a week was out our ice mountain began to shrink, then cracked, somersaulted once again and the Rage slid into the water as though down a slipway. And the walrus, the varmint, found himself on the top, but slipped and flopped down on our deck. Gloatingly, I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, gave him a hearty belting and tossed him overboard. Serves him right. He'll know better than annoying seamen next time.
Lom, meanwhile, swung the yacht about, and the Rage headed south again.
