My Year Before the Mast by Annette Brock Davis

Author:Annette Brock Davis [Davis, Annette Brock]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781459714267
Barnesnoble:
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 1999-04-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11 L’Avenir Departs

The next morning all turned to, hauling aboard the huge fenders, casting off the mooring lines and then heaving in the 120 fathoms of cable on the anchor, which had been streamed ahead. Practically the entire population of Port Germein was on the wharf to watch the departure of L’Avenir. Standing by the warps and then coiling up the obstinate wire mooring lines, I saw the long wooden jetty loaded with friendly folk diminish, until their hearty cheers faded to chirps in the distance, and their forms specks of dust on a match stick. Only a couple of vigorous enthusiasts were screaming and jumping enough to be heard more than the others. These greatly amused Mac and Dane Doctor, and vaguely, I wondered why. Regrets at leaving behind their kindness and even the parched Australian countryside for the months of cold wet sea ahead tugged at me as L’Avenir was drawn away by the stout little tug Yacka.

How many ages ago it seemed since Copenhagen, when Dennis had sung out to us, tailing onto halliards, “Oh hogy! Australia. Rabbits boys! Oh yes, and kangaroos.” Now that was all past, except for the left hind leg of a rabbit in my pocket, given to me by the stevedore Clem, as a good luck token. I pinched it, praying, “Rabbit, I’ll need all the luck you can bring.” Rough weather awaited us. Our hatches, heavily battened, ready for the savage South Pacific rollers, filled me with awe. On our departure I had written to my sister in Canada,

Well, I wonder if I shall see you? ... shall cable home on my arrival. Our lives are very near death, so close to the sea as in a sailing ship. But it is intensely vital and so beautiful that it does not seem it would be as hard to die, as in a bed with some painful disease as most people do. The fellows get used to it. Just look on a near slip as a joke, and no matter how one feels inside, it is never well to give the least sign of fear in one’s face. I guess there will be times on the homeward voyage when I shall tighten my lips; but then again, there are more when one feels absolutely happy. After all it is really living.

We anchored outside of a long sand bank about five miles off Port Germein. Spencer Gulf is so shallow that there was not enough water even at the end of that mile-and-a-quarter long pier to finish loading. The rest of our cargo of wheat came out in lighters. We lay there, far out on Sunday, a holiday, but with no one allowed ashore for fear that they might drink or desert. Free time aboard was grumbled away. We all wove about, restless. I finally came fluttering down among a group of malcontents who squatted on the sails in the cadet room. They formed a sort of web surrounding Chesus, who sat with his long black-suited limbs folded like a spider.

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