We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea

by Arthur Ransome

  “Are we sinking?” she said. “There’s some water on the floor of the cabin. I was thrown right out of my bunk.”

  “It’s all right,” said John. “We got some water over when we tried to go the other way.”

  Roger looked down the companion.

  “There’s a book floating about,” he said. “Everything’s all over the place.”

  “Somebody’s got to pump,” said John. “We took a lot of water over and we’ve got to get it out again.”

  “Oh … Oh … Oh …” moaned Susan.

  “Try pumping,” said John. “You’ll feel better with something to do. And we’ve got to get all that water out before we have another shot at turning back …”

  “Oh not again,” Susan groaned. “I can bear it all right like this, but it’s too awful going the other way.”

  “We could go right on till the wind drops a bit,” said John doubtfully. “And the wind may change. It can’t blow like this for ever …”

  “Oh, what are we to do?” said Susan. “And it’s going to be night.”

  “It’ll be night anyway,” said John. “It won’t be worse than the fog.”

  “I’ve got the lid of the pump off,” said Roger. “If Susan’s going to pump, I’d better go down and help Titty in the cabin.”

  “Don’t you feel sea-sick at all?” said Susan almost angrily.

  “Not a bit,” said Roger.

  “Oh … Oh … Oh … Oh … Where’s the handle?” She got hold of the handle of the pump and began pumping. Up and down. Up and down. “John,” she said, “I can’t help it. We’ve got to go on like this till it gets better. If we turn round and start jumping and banging again I shall simply die …”

  “All right,” said John. “Count your strokes …”

  “One … Two … Oh … Four … Oh … Ough … Oh … Sorry, John. I really am better … Six … Seven …”

  “Just shout if I’m wanted on deck,” said Roger, and John, for the first time for many hours, felt like laughing.

  Roger went carefully backwards down the companion-steps, finding water over his ankles when he got to the bottom. Titty was down there, picking one thing after another out of the wet.

  “Are you all right now?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Titty. “At least I think so. My head’s stopped aching long ago. I was asleep for a bit until I got flung out. What happened?”

  “We tried turning round but it didn’t work,” said Roger. “So we’re going on … But it’s Susan herself who wants to go on now.”

  CHAPTER XII

  A CURE FOR SEA-SICKNESS

  TITTY, WHO HAD been asleep, coming down with a bump on the cabin floor, thrown this way and that as she crawled on all fours towards the companion-steps, and seeing water pouring down over the engine, had been more frightened than she liked to admit. And then things had suddenly quieted, and the door had opened, and John had said it was all right, and Roger had come down, as cheerful as could be. Titty, now that it was over, was very much ashamed. She, an able-seaman, to get into a panic like that! How much had Roger guessed?

  “Get your feet out of it,” she said. “Up on that bunk. I’ve got no shoes on, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m pretty wet anyway,” said Roger.

  “Don’t get wetter,” said Titty. “Let’s get the things all that side. Lucky John’s blankets didn’t go. What’s that noise?”

  “Susan’s working the pump.”

  “Did we run into something?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Where did the water come from?”

  “It just came … Dollops and dollops of it.”

  “Were you frightened?”

  “Just a bit,” said Roger, “but it’s all right again now.”

  “Grab that book … No … Don’t put it in the shelf.”

  Roger caught Knight on Sailing, that John had not put away. He grabbed it out of the water, and, just in time, was stopped from pushing it in among the dry books.

  “Put it in the sink,” said Titty, “to let it drain.”

  Not even Susan at her best could have hoped to make the Goblin’s cabin properly tidy. But Titty and Roger did what they could by piling all loose things on the lee bunk from which they were not so likely to fall off. It took them a long time.

  “How’s the water?” John called down to them.

  “Gone,” shouted Roger. “The floor’s nearly dry.”

  “This box of matches is soaked,” said Titty.

  “Shall I put it in the sink too?” said Roger.

  “Aren’t there some matches in that shelf?”

  Roger scrambled across the cabin and felt along the shelf over the bunk. There was a low coaming along the shelf to keep things from falling off, and he found a box of matches lying snug against it. Titty, wedging herself between bunk and table, was trying to lift the chimney from the cabin lamp.

  “I say,” said Roger. “Would she want you to?”

  “Of course,” said Titty. “She’d be doing it herself if she wasn’t ill.”

  Four matches were spent in lighting that lamp, but the result was certainly worth it. The little lamp, swinging wildly in its gimbals, sent shadows chasing all ways about the cabin, but gave a feeling of triumph to both the able-seamen, who, for a moment, sat holding on by the table, watching it. Having that little lamp properly lit in the cabin was almost like snapping their fingers at the storm.

  “I’m going to light the lamp for the compass,” said Roger. “It’s just a candle, but it’s in gimbals too.”

  “We ought to have thought of it first,” said Titty. “Here are the matches …”

  “Gosh!” said Roger suddenly. “What’s happening now? Susan’s steering. Where’s John?”

  Something queer was going on. From down below in the cabin they could see Susan, her sou’wester all awry, her face white and worried, wisps of hair blown across it, hanging on to tiller and tiller rope, steering with her eyes not on the compass but on something over their heads. What was that banging on the cabin roof? John couldn’t have gone forward … Or could he? … How long had Susan been at the tiller? She was calling out something… not to them in the cabin. John must be on the foredeck.

  “I expect they’ll want me,” said Roger and made for the companion-steps.

  And just then they heard Susan shriek, and saw her let go of the tiller altogether.

  *

  Even before they had made up their minds to go on, John had been finding it harder and harder to keep the Goblin from charging round into the wind. Those few moments when they had tried to turn back had shown him how strong the wind really was. And it might get stronger. Night was coming. Something had to be done about it. He knew he ought to reef. He had put it off as long as he could, hoping the wind would slacken. But he was getting tired, and it was blowing as hard as ever, and reefing would be much worse if he had to do it in the dark. He looked at Susan. She was huddled up over the pump in the corner of the cockpit, leaning her head against the cabin. She had stopped pumping. The pump had sucked dry at last … four hundred and seventy strokes … or was it five hundred and seventy? … Twice she had had to break off to hang miserable and groaning over the coaming.

  “Susan,” said John.

  She did not hear him in the noise of wind and water.

  “Susan!” he shouted.

  She lifted her head. He saw something that was hardly Susan’s face, blotched and white, with wisps of bedraggled hair across her eyes, a face wet with rain and tears.

  “Not yet,” she gasped. “Not again … I can’t … I can’t bear it.” For one awful moment she had thought he meant to try once more to turn back, to bring the Goblin round and head her into that raging wind and battering, leaping sea.

  “It’s going to be dark,” he shouted. “I can’t go on holding her like this … Too much sail … Reef … I’ve got to reef …”

  “You can’t,” groaned Susan.

  “I’ve got to!” yelle
d John. “He showed me how …”

  “You’ll be thrown overboard …”

  “Rope,” shouted John. “I can’t let go the tiller … Rope … Starboard locker … That one …”

  Susan slid herself along the seat and hauled a bundle of ropes out of the locker. She tried to disentangle one rope from all the others that had fallen in a heap on the cockpit floor. Bending to do this was too much for her. She flung herself across the cockpit, collided with John, hit the tiller with her elbow, grabbed the coaming, and was sick once more.

  When she looked again at John, she saw that he had one end of a rope and was kicking at the tangle, trying to free the rest of it. He could not do it. She dropped on the cockpit floor, and there, grovelling at his feet, cleared the rope. She struggled up again. What was he doing? Pushing with his body against the tiller and making the end of the rope fast round his middle.

  “Oh, John,” she groaned. “What are you going to do?”

  “Life-line,” shouted John. “Look here. You’ll have to steer her … Just for a minute … No time to spare … I ought to have done it before …”

  “I can’t…”

  “You must,” said John. “Buck up, Susan … It’ll be easier the moment she’s reefed. Look here. Get your foot like that. Hang on to the tiller rope and push against the tiller for all you’re worth. Don’t let her come round whatever you do …”

  Susan found herself in John’s place. He was rummaging in a locker … What was that brass handle that he was forcing into the pocket of his oilskins? He was making the other end of the rope he had tied round his middle fast to a bollard on the side deck. He was shouting … She caught the words … “If I do go overboard I’ll still be tied on … and you’ll have to let her come into the wind while I get back … It’ll be all right …”

  “Oh, John! … No! … NO!”

  But already he had climbed out of the cockpit. He was sitting on the cabin roof, clinging to the hand rail, wriggling himself forward. A sea leapt up on the quarter and splashed aboard. She saw him look back at her … Not to let her come to … Keep her steady … She must … She must … She pushed at the tiller with all the strength she had. Again she saw John’s face. He said something, she could not hear what, but she could see from his face that she was doing right. He was going on, inch by inch, along that dancing, swaying, dripping cabin roof. And no matter how she fought the tiller, the Goblin leapt and pitched as if she were trying to jerk him off.

  *

  John had never felt so lonely in his life. In the cockpit, with its high coamings, he had been flung about and bumped here, there, and everywhere in his desperate struggle with the tiller, keeping the Goblin before the wind and stopping her from broaching to. But he had felt that he was inside something, in the boat, together with Susan, Titty and Roger. The moment he had climbed out of the cockpit that feeling was gone. He was not in something but on something, and on something that was doing its best to be rid of him. Wild water churned close past his feet. The Goblin leapt and dived and leapt again as the seas swept by.

  Crash! That sea coming up on the quarter burst over the coamings. A biggish dollop must have come aboard. A hard bucketful of spray landed on his back as he clung there on the roof of the cabin. He looked over his shoulder, blinking with the wind and spray in his eyes. Susan seemed very far away. What was she doing? Perhaps she wasn’t strong enough to hold the Goblin on her course. Another sea like that and he would have to go to help her. But he must get some of the sail off first. The thought of Susan’s misery when they had come head to wind came again into his mind. The wind was stronger now. Reefing was the only way. Hadn’t Jim said that with roller reefing, just winding the sail down on the boom, you could reef with one hand no matter what the ship was doing? He looked forward. The water from that last splash was pouring down the sail and dripping from the boom. The cockpit seemed a hundred miles away. But so did the foredeck. Somehow or other he must get there. High on the leaping cabin top, hanging on with both hands, he hardened his heart. The thing simply must be done. The Goblin was going steadier now. Susan had got the hang of it. He shouted to tell her so, but the wind blew the words back down his throat with a lot of salt spray, and he gulped and gave her a wet encouraging grin.

  Now for it. Once more he measured the distance to shrouds and mast. The rail on the cabin top seemed a flimsy little thing to hold. But till he reached the mast there would be nothing else. He pulled at his life-line to make sure it was coming free out of the cockpit. Never do if it got hitched up on something and he had to go back to loose it. All right. He reached forward and slid himself along the roof. Gosh! How did she manage to leap like that just at the wrong moment But he was still on board and had gained a good six inches. He did it again and yet again. Lonely? It was as if he was outside life altogether and wouldn’t be alive again till he got back. He remembered a man he had once seen putting in a loose slate on the steep roof of a house. But at least the roof had kept still and had not tried to throw the man about.

  Come on! He had got half way, and things were no worse than when he had first left the shelter of the cockpit. He was still on the cabin roof and the rail wasn’t so flimsy after all, and he would soon get a grip on the shrouds, the halyards, and the mast itself. He could take a rest then. Oh, no, he couldn’t. Susan wouldn’t be able to hang on to that tiller for long. Buck up! In quick, short jerks, he slid along the roof. Ah! The halyards were in his left hand, a shroud in his right. He was there and it would take something pretty bad to throw him off now.

  Loose ends of rope were sloshing about on the foredeck. Lucky he had lashed the anchor, as Jim had shown him how to do it. What would have happened if that had come adrift? And the rope that they had used for an anchor warp, a rope neither thick enough nor long enough, was coiled round the winch. That was all right. All this mess must be the falls of the jib halyards and the main. Well, he couldn’t tidy it up now. Hanging on by the shroud, he felt in his pocket for the little brass crank handle for the reefing gear, got it out and, after a struggle, fitted it in its place. Now for reefing. He had to ease off the main halyard while he turned the little crank and wound the sail down on the revolving boom. One hand for the crank. One hand for easing off the halyard, though it would want two, really. That made three. And at least two hands for holding on. That made five, and he had only two altogether. “One hand for yourself and one for the ship.” His father had told him that years ago, when he was a little boy and had tumbled down in the bottom of a fishing-boat while using both hands to pass Daddy a rope. Well, he hadn’t got a hand to spare. Far from it. Perhaps he could ease off the halyard and hang on to it at the same time. He worked himself down on the foredeck with one arm round the ropes that stretched taut up and down the mast. Main halyard? This was it. Sopping wet and jammed on the pin. His own fault, making a tight hitch for fear it would slip when he had been hoisting the sail. The struggle to free it was the worst bit yet. “Beast! Beast! Come on, will you!” He got it loose at last. Now then. He gave a jerk at his life-line which was getting in his way. Then, cautiously he slackened the halyard. If only that had been all. But he had that crank to wind as well. He reached up round the mast, found the crank, and, thanks to a sudden lurch of the Goblin, pulled it off. He was rather out of breath. But he had not gone overboard and neither had the crank. It was still in his hand. He fitted it on again and turned. Pretty stiff. He went on turning. Yes. The thing was working. The boom was twisting just as it should. Brown sail, rolled on it, showed on the nearer side. Hullo! Stuck? Of course he had to slack away the halyard a bit more because of the sail already wound down on the boom. He did it, and went on, forcing that crank round and round, winding, slacking the halyard, and then winding again. The first cringle in the luff of the sail was down on the boom. That meant one reef. But she needed much more off her than that. Then he noticed a girt in the sail, and remembered that he had to cast off the lower mast-hoops. That meant standing up.

  Anyway, one reef was rolled
down. The sail was that much smaller. Already she must be not quite so hard to steer. He pulled himself to his feet and knelt on the cabin roof. How were those mast-hoops fastened to the sail? Key-shackles. You had to give the key half a turn and then it would slip out of its slot. Easy. Yes, with dry hands, but his were wet. The key would not turn. He needed the spike of his scout knife. That meant getting a wet hand inside his oilskins, which were held tight round his middle by the rope he had knotted round himself, and then getting that wet hand into his hip pocket. An awful job with everything bucketing about. He did it, and the key slipped round and out of its shackle so easily that he thought he could after all have done it without the spike. He could only just reach the second mast-hoop. With both hands above his head, holding on by the mast-hoop only, his feet felt as if they were going to slip from under him. He thought of himself clinging on, and flapping out from the mast as if he were a flag.

  Far away in the cockpit he saw Susan’s face, white and frightened.

  Gosh! He had been frightened too, but the worst was over now. He was down on the foredeck again, winding steadily. There was that second cringle … Two reefs … He went on winding … Better have all three down while he was about it. What was it Daddy had said? “Never be ashamed to reef in the dark.” And it was going to be dark almost at once. He glanced about him. Darkness ahead. Dark clouds everywhere and under them nothing to be seen but white-capped waves, and spray blown from their crests.

  There. The thing was done. The crank that had once come off too easily, stuck for a moment. He jerked at it and freed it and then nearly lost it, through missing the way to the pocket of his streaming oilskin. The main halyard was fast. He looked aft at Susan and could see that the steering was no longer the fight that it had been. With her mainsail only half its proper size, the Goblin no longer tried so hard to turn into the wind.