Martin hadn't the remotest idea of how to provision a ship. He had crates of cabbages, lemons, apples, carrots, and other perishables piled high on deck, most of which had to be tossed over the side before many days had passed. He had enough spices on hand to supply several large restaurants for years.
Luckily for Martin, the appetites of the crew were not at their peak, so most of the time preparing food was merely a matter of warming the contents of a can or two. No bride ever relied more on her can-opener than did Martin. At irregular intervals-dictated usually by the size of the waves-Martin baked bread which they say was not bad. But it was next to impossible to do any real cooking. Dishes defied all laws of gravity, and the stove was caked with food that had slopped over.
It is difficult for anyone who has never experienced a shortage of water to realize just how inadequate a quart a day is for comfort, especially in the tropics, where one perspires copiously. As the days went by, the thirst became maddening. Martin dreamed of the Saline River and of the old mill. He dreamed of carrying precious water to fill his mother's washtubs. And always as he was about to bury his face in it he would awaken with a gasp.
The situation became more and more acute as the small supply of that life-sustaining fluid dwindled. Twelve hundred miles from land, and no fresh drinking water!
He swam, he fished, he took pictures, he played. He did everything but cook. He put it more graphically than I can when he wrote, "For my part I had plenty of leisure. After an heroic silence of days, the crew finally broke out in protest against my cooking. They simply could stand no more of it. When on the sea, it had been eat it or starve; but now that they were ashore, there was a greater latitude of choices. We all boarded with different folks in the vicinity, and the poor harassed crew forgot its troubles in the delight of eating once more the things that humans eat, cooked as humans would cook them."
In many, many years no vessel had ever attempted to cross the Pacific by this treacherous and isolated route. Some had tried it but had been blown far off their course. Others had never been heard from again. But the Snark and her crew accomplished the impossible, and in sixty-one days out of Hilo, Hawaii, they put safely into Taiohae Bay, in the Marquesas.
For two idyllic weeks the London party basked in the hospitality of the Marquesans. They visited the Typee Valley, made famous by Herman Melville, and Martin took pictures by the score. Everyone felt a deep pang of regret when Jack decided they had better be getting on.
Martin was advanced to engineer and was beside himself with pride. He had learned all the idiosyncrasies of the seventy-horse-power engine and was undoubtedly worthy of the promotion, but I suspect that Jack did it to get a new cook. Martin wrote to Jess Utz, his cooking teacher, "I guess, Jess, my cooking wasn't so much of a success-they've hired someone else."
Little pearl luggers pile up on the white coral by the hundreds every year. And yet here they were, in the middle of the typhoon season, sailing the part of the world most dangerous for storms, navigating by blind guesswork through the treacherous currents and tides of those hidden atolls. Because f the low, black clouds, they had not been able to make proper observations.
Luckily for Martin, the appetites of the crew were not at their peak, so most of the time preparing food was merely a matter of warming the contents of a can or two. No bride ever relied more on her can-opener than did Martin. At irregular intervals-dictated usually by the size of the waves-Martin baked bread which they say was not bad. But it was next to impossible to do any real cooking. Dishes defied all laws of gravity, and the stove was caked with food that had slopped over.
It is difficult for anyone who has never experienced a shortage of water to realize just how inadequate a quart a day is for comfort, especially in the tropics, where one perspires copiously. As the days went by, the thirst became maddening. Martin dreamed of the Saline River and of the old mill. He dreamed of carrying precious water to fill his mother's washtubs. And always as he was about to bury his face in it he would awaken with a gasp.
The situation became more and more acute as the small supply of that life-sustaining fluid dwindled. Twelve hundred miles from land, and no fresh drinking water!
He swam, he fished, he took pictures, he played. He did everything but cook. He put it more graphically than I can when he wrote, "For my part I had plenty of leisure. After an heroic silence of days, the crew finally broke out in protest against my cooking. They simply could stand no more of it. When on the sea, it had been eat it or starve; but now that they were ashore, there was a greater latitude of choices. We all boarded with different folks in the vicinity, and the poor harassed crew forgot its troubles in the delight of eating once more the things that humans eat, cooked as humans would cook them."
In many, many years no vessel had ever attempted to cross the Pacific by this treacherous and isolated route. Some had tried it but had been blown far off their course. Others had never been heard from again. But the Snark and her crew accomplished the impossible, and in sixty-one days out of Hilo, Hawaii, they put safely into Taiohae Bay, in the Marquesas.
For two idyllic weeks the London party basked in the hospitality of the Marquesans. They visited the Typee Valley, made famous by Herman Melville, and Martin took pictures by the score. Everyone felt a deep pang of regret when Jack decided they had better be getting on.
Martin was advanced to engineer and was beside himself with pride. He had learned all the idiosyncrasies of the seventy-horse-power engine and was undoubtedly worthy of the promotion, but I suspect that Jack did it to get a new cook. Martin wrote to Jess Utz, his cooking teacher, "I guess, Jess, my cooking wasn't so much of a success-they've hired someone else."
Little pearl luggers pile up on the white coral by the hundreds every year. And yet here they were, in the middle of the typhoon season, sailing the part of the world most dangerous for storms, navigating by blind guesswork through the treacherous currents and tides of those hidden atolls. Because f the low, black clouds, they had not been able to make proper observations.
Inga kommentarer:
Skicka en kommentar