This is Me, Jack Vance

by Jack Vance

  One day the captain ordered a fire drill. The lifeboats were unchocked, lowered into the water, and rowed about for a bit, then hauled back aboard the ship—all except for that boat manned by the bosun and about six of the crew. This particular boat was powered by a gasoline engine, and the bosun seemed to enjoy driving it about the lagoon, because after a while, instead of returning to the ship, he set off to the west and disappeared from sight. This was outrageous conduct, which could only have been conceived by Gerald Britt, the flamboyant bosun. Capt. Reisendorf glared after the retreating lifeboat, then shrugged and retired to his quarters.

  Two hours passed, then the lifeboat returned to the ship. The bosun no longer looked jaunty—in fact he had a rather hangdog droop to his head. The crew, whom he had dragooned, were furtive and looked over their shoulders up toward the bridge to see if the captain was watching, but he did not appear. The boat was hauled aboard and dropped into its chocks. The chief mate then summoned the miscreants to his quarters, where they were all docked a day’s pay. However, they were not logged, which is to say that their names and exploits were not recorded in the log book. The punishment, in short, was light. It appeared that Capt. Reisendorf had considered the situation, and deciding that no great harm had been done, he had elected to avoid a sensational display of authority.

  The Katarina finally left Ulithi and sailed first to Townsville, then after discharging cargo continued northeast to Malaita, one of the Solomon Islands, and there dropped anchor a quarter-mile offshore.

  The chief mate, probably in order to keep the crew occupied, called in the bosun and instructed him to slush the rigging. This, of all the deck work, is probably the most disagreeable. The bosun compounds a heavy semifluid substance consisting of fish oil, creosote, tar, and anything else he can think of. The cargo masts are secured by staves consisting of inch-and-a-half wire rope running from transverse spars near the tops of the mast, port and starboard, to the deck. Slushing is intended to protect the rigging from the corrosive effects of salt water, and it may well do so, for all I know. The process is not complicated: the bosun’s chair is shackled to the stay, and is controlled by a line running down to the deck. The chair is hoisted aloft; the man with the slush bucket climbs aboard and proceeds with the slushing, which means that he dips a rag into the brew and wipes it upon the rigging. Meanwhile, down on the deck, his partner lowers him at an appropriate rate. On this occasion, I was aloft in the bosun’s chair. My line was tended by a man named Fini, who was not a profound thinker. When the bosun yelled, “Knock off for lunch!” Fini dropped the line and made for the deck house, while I came sliding at speed down the rigging. I landed in a tumble with the slush bucket in my lap. Fini, sheepish and apologetic, ran back and helped me to my feet.

  After the slushing, the crew was put to work painting the side of the ship just above the waterline. To this end, a raft was lowered into the water and a line, known as the frapping line, secured it to the side of the ship. While engaged at this work, it was necessary that the painters be constantly wary of the sewage outlets, which opened from the hull about ten feet above their heads. Signs were always posted in the head, saying: “PLEASE DO NOT FLUSH THE TOILET—WE ARE WORKING BELOW.” But like as not these signs were ignored, and as we worked there might occur a sudden deluge from above.

  The water here was clear and green. We saw no evidence of sharks, and so spent a great deal of time swimming off the side of the ship. Sometimes, diving deep, I could look clear under the hull of the ship, and I was tempted at times to swim under to the other side, but was always deterred by some primal fear.

  We finally received sailing orders, and hoisting anchor sailed north to New Guinea, where we unloaded about half of our remaining cargo. Then we swung south to Brisbane, where we unloaded the other half. Leaving Brisbane, we set off to the east across the Pacific, but our destination was not San Francisco but South America. We learned that we would be at sea for twenty-seven days; it would be the longest passage of any I had known.

  After about a week at sea, during the 8 to 12 watch, I did something to annoy the bosun. I’ve forgotten what it was—something trifling, as far as I was concerned. However, the bosun, who was generally unstable, flew into a sudden rage, and instead of knocking off the crew at five minutes to 12, kept them working until exactly 12 o’clock. Aboard the Katarina I was union delegate for the S.U.P., and I remonstrated with Britt.

  Strange events occur at sea, and I had heard rumors of macabre incidents and tales of folk who had gotten on someone else’s nerves, and who had disappeared leaving no trace. In all candor, I was afraid. Was I destined to end my life at this early age? I felt especially vulnerable standing lookout in the bow, and spent more time watching over my shoulder than searching the sea for approaching vessels. But nothing ever happened, and I heard no alarming sounds. Meanwhile, the bosun ignored me, but I was not reassured and remained on the alert.

  One day, Britt and I worked aloft on the transverse spar of the No. 2 cargo mast. Britt, busy at something, looked over his shoulder and instructed me to go to the far end of the spar, drop a line and haul up some tools. The deck was forty feet below. I thought, “This is it—no way!” I pretended to be busy and caught hold of the mast. Britt, muttering in annoyance and disgust, went himself to the far end of the mast and dropped the line. I breathed a sigh of relief: had I wished, I could have tapped his shoulder and sent him plunging forty feet to the deck. No man wishing to kill another man would have placed himself in so vulnerable a position*.

  The Katarina was a slow ship, and idled at a stately eight knots across the ocean. Each day was like every other, and time lost its meaning; but eventually, the imminence of landfall hung in the air, and everyone aboard began to stare forward across the bow hoping to detect the first loom of the continent.

  Yet the days passed and the sea remained empty, until one morning a shadowy layer of what appeared to be mist lay across the eastern horizon. As the hours passed, the mist took on color and substance, and finally contour. At last this was revealed to be a great mountain range: the Andes.

  As the Katarina approached the coast, black jagged crags rose up to awesome heights. The base of the mountains was splotched with what appeared to be bird droppings. The details gradually became distinct, and the splotch became a town—namely Tocopilla, where the Katarina would take on a cargo of nitrate. At Tocopilla there was a single loading dock, now occupied by another vessel, so that the Katarina dropped anchor a hundred yards offshore to await its turn at the dock. Almost at once a flotilla of rowboats put out from the shore. As they drew near, the hucksters aboard jumped to their feet, gesticulating, shouting slogans, and waving bottles in the air. Aboard ship, any seaman who wished to obtain one of these bottles tied a dollar bill to a line and lowered the line into a boat, where the huckster exchanged the dollar bill for a bottle, which was then hoisted back aboard the ship. Here the cork was removed and the contents tested, where they usually proved to be brandy of tolerable quality. And so began the Saturnalia.

  Tocopilla was not a large town, nor particularly impressive, being dwarfed by the Andes rearing behind and by the expanse of the Pacific in front. There was no agriculture and the local economy subsisted upon the sale of nitrate from guano, as well as the entertainment of visiting seamen. To this latter end, a number of hospitable young ladies were ready to solace any forlorn or homesick sailor whom they might encounter wandering at loose ends along the street. Few of these ladies spoke English, but this was no handicap, since all were adept at sign language and mathematics. It should also be noted that alcoholic beverages were everywhere available, including wine, beer, brandy, gin, vodka, the legendary Pisco rum, and what was locally known as “Scotch whisky”. This may or may not have been distilled in Scotland, but it was probably not a product of Chile.

  Public order in Tocopilla was maintained by a corps of stern and uncompromising policemen who patrolled the streets. They wore brown semi-military uniforms and were clearly not to be trifle
d with. If they came upon a seaman committing a nuisance, they would not hesitate to hustle him off to jail, where he might pay a $5 or $10 fine—or, if he was howling drunk, he might be sequestered overnight and released in the morning. Some of the town ordinances were bewildering: for instance, a man and a woman were not allowed to walk side by side; one must precede the other. If a couple wished to promenade in civilized fashion, they might well be apprehended and fined. I myself never ran afoul of this particular law; however, as I rambled about the town inspecting local landmarks, ingratiating myself with the population, I took aboard considerably more Pisco rum than was necessary, and in the process generated the king of all hangovers, from which I did not recover for three days.

  Meanwhile, the Katarina had shifted to the loading dock, where it was now taking on cargo. I finally became restless; time was passing, and I felt obliged to go ashore once more, although on this occasion I would indulge in no more wine, beer, or even Pisco rum. Nor would there be any further raffish antics of the sort which had enlivened our first hours in port.

  I went ashore in company with a young seaman named Tom Cogsdale, who was civilized, of easy disposition, and a year or two younger than myself. His current mood was much like my own: languid, depleted, and not disposed to further revelry.

  At the southern end of town was what passed for an upper-class district. There were two churches, a grade school and an almost imposing high school, a market, a pharmacy, and a sprinkling of fine residences—and also an old-fashioned soda fountain. Tom and I, wandering along the main street, discovered the soda fountain, and entering, seated ourselves at one of the two tables, which seemed more comfortable than the stools along the counter. An old man in a white smock served us ice cream sodas, and we sat brooding over the events which so far had befallen us during our time ashore. After a time the door opened, two girls entered the shop and seated themselves at the other table. They were perhaps eighteen years old; they wore white blouses, dark skirts, white sandals: evidently the costume of high school girls. Both were clearly the daughters of upper-class families, and both were decidedly pretty, each in her own fashion. The brown-haired girl was pert, vivacious and conceivably more extroverted than the slender, black-haired girl, who showed a thoughtful, almost wistful expression, as if she were caught up in a charming daydream. She might be said to have resembled an illustration in a pre-Raphaelite book of fairy tales.

  These events occurred many years ago, and I cannot pretend to exactitude in every detail or every trifle of conversation, which in any case would be irrelevant. Suffice it to say that in the next few minutes Tom and I roused ourselves from our malaise and set about making the acquaintance of these two girls. I will also point out that both Tom and I wore clean, neat, socially acceptable garments, that neither of us could be considered notably ill-favored and raffish vulgarians, and that we both conducted ourselves with an old-fashioned gallantry, to which only a vestal virgin might take exception.

  Both girls knew a few words of English, and Tom and I remembered something of our high school Spanish, the use of which caused the girls amusement. Nevertheless we managed to communicate adequately.

  The brown-haired girl was Miranda, we learned, and the black-haired girl was Laura. Both had double-barreled or hyphenated last names, which indicated that their families had pretensions to aristocracy. Both girls were graduates of the local high school, and hoped to start the coming semester at the university of Chile in Santiago far to the south. The parents were not in accord with this program. Here it should be noted that among upper-class South American families arranged marriages were still common practice. To such unions both Miranda and Laura were in opposition, since they seemed an unfair infringement upon their destinies.

  The sun was dipping into the Pacific, and dusk had started fall over the town. Both girls were friendly but neither flirtatious nor forward. Still, we asked them if we might take them to dinner at some nice restaurant of local reputation. At this proposition the girls became ruefully amused; their parents, so they stated, would be outraged to learn of the escapade, for fear that the girls’ reputations had been irretrievably soiled.

  A sudden idea occurred to the girls, and they conversed back and forth in rapid Spanish, which neither Tom nor I could understand. Then Laura told us that there were no fine restaurants in town, but that they knew of an interesting spot down the coast which they would be happy to visit. If we hurried, we might dine at this restaurant and be back before their parents returned from the social event at which they were engaged this evening. We went out into the street, where I flagged down a taxi; we all climbed aboard, and Miranda gave instructions to the driver. He looked over his shoulder, shrugged, and said, “Muy bien, señorita—¡vamos!”

  The above account is not significant in itself, and is only a precursor to subsequent events. I must inform the reader that most the evening’s impact derived from the landscape, and that there are no sensational or erotic climactics to this episode. Nevertheless these events still haunt me whenever I think of Tocopilla.

  The road south was a poorly maintained track of compacted sand and gravel flanking the shore, curving in and out to avoid the Andean crags which thrust high into the sky. The moon was at its full, ripe and round; it illuminated what was at once a mountainscape, a landscape, a seascape, a jagged and irrational chiaroscuro. A fringe of white surf came and went along the pale beach; in the water beyond rose sawtoothed ridges of black rock, twisted spires, isolated reefs, at intervals creating coves and small bays.

  After fifteen miles or so we arrived at the restaurant. The kitchen, outdoors, consisted of a grill over a bed of hot coals and a nearby worktable, both under a canopy. Five or six tables fringing the beach were available to patrons. Tom and I and the girls seated ourselves at one table, and the taxi driver went to another at the far end of the beach, where he evidently expected to dine alone. On this evening no one else was on hand, and a middle-aged lady served us fish, potatoes, a bottle of white wine, all of which were extremely good. The girls were anxious to return home, so we wasted no time staring out to sea, but rather paid the bill, which was not at all exorbitant.

  We climbed aboard the cab and returned to Tocopilla, where the girls were pleased to arrive home early enough to avoid the censure of their parents. We took leave of them with polite shakes of the hand and no more, a situation which caused me a fit of depression since, I must admit, that in the course of the evening I had become enamored with Laura. As I watched her disappear behind the door of her home, I wondered whether we should ever meet again, although I realized that this was not likely. We were ships that passed in the night.

  On the afternoon of the next day, the Katarina put out to sea and Tocopilla dwindled astern.

  Here I include a final note in regard to our stay. As I mentioned, the local police were both vigilant and rigorous. Certain members of the crew were apprehended and put in jail once; several of them were put in jail twice; but only one member of the ship’s crew was jailed three times. This was none other than Captain Reisendorf! As he was being released from his second stay, he crossed the street and, feeling an urgency, urinated against a tree. The police immediately dragged him back to jail.

  We sailed north to the Panama Canal, passed through, crossed the Caribbean to Charleston, South Carolina, where we discharged our cargo of nitrate. The crew was paid off and started home.

  I rode back to California by bus, and waited about two months before shipping out again.

  My next three ships were all tankers. On each occasion I signed on as quartermaster, which meant no more, or very little, deckwork. I always hoped to find a ship fitted out with an iron mike—which means that a gyroscope steers the ship and that the quartermaster has little to do but chat with the mate on duty—but I was never this lucky, and so had to stand at that wheel four hours at a time.

  Once, while putting into New Orleans, we approached along a narrow canal. I was at the wheel; the pilot was looking forward calling instruct
ions. I veered a bit to the right; the pilot called out, “Easy left.” I complied. The pilot looked ahead, and said more sharply, “Easy left!” I complied again; the pilot looked ahead again. The pilot at last looked over his shoulder and cried out: “Haaaaard left!” In my concentration, I had been giving him easy right on each occasion, with the banks of the canal only a few feet to either side.

  Perceiving my previous mistakes, I did as commanded, and the ship did not run aground, for which both the pilot and I were thankful.

  Aboard another tanker, the Verendrye, I obtained some luminous tape and, for no particular reason, created a star chart on the overhead of our forecastle, with the major constellations, the first and second magnitude stars picked out accurately. The captain, learning of this enterprise, came down to the forecastle, lay down on his back, looked up and marveled at this unprecedented creation. At the end of the voyage, he gave me a glossy photograph of the ship signed with his name and best regards. I still have this photograph and am naturally very proud of it.

  My third tanker ship was the Mission Dolores. To allay the tedium of the voyage, I built a still, using copper tubing, assorted pots and pans, and a garbage bucket to hold what was called the “swipes”, consisting of dried apricots, water and yeast allowed to ferment. Surprisingly, I produced what turned out to be some rather good apricot brandy. On the homeward voyage, the captain chanced to explore the forepeak, where he discovered the still and became enraged. He confiscated the works and tried to identify the perpetrator, without success. I stood at the wheel while the captain raged back and forth with the mate, vowing all manner of penalties upon the depraved bootleggers, which would be meted out as soon as the ship reached port. Meanwhile, I stood at the wheel quivering at every threat.