Surfing v. Climbing... Complimentary Pursuits?

SHIP’S PERIL IN FIJIAN WATERS,1806 by Stephen Cline

In the Naval Library in London is a wing called Admiralty Records. This area contains nearly 300 years of ship’s logs and records of Admiralty proceedings. There is a vast section on courts-martial due to the fact that every time a ship was lost or taken such a proceeding was convened to determine whether the captain had done his utmost to save his ship, or if there had been some dereliction of duty. In the latter instance, a captain could face serious criminal charges. In such cases, all of the ship’s officers would be called before a panel of captains and admirals to testify as to the circumstances in question. One case, dated October 1807, contains among its many, many pages of testimony the following account given by a helms - man, a Mr. Lawrence, aboard the ship in question, HMS Ariel. Her captain (rank of Post Captain) was a G. Parker by name, who was being tried for the loss of his ship off the coast of Australia in a typhoon the previous year. Based on other testimony, it appears that Captain Parker acted admirably, saving almost his entire crew. He was acquitted of negligence and given another command. For our purposes here, though, it is Lawrence’s account that holds interest as a striking anecdote of seamanship and surfing lore (as well as 19th century, naval, colloquial speech). This particular story was told not about the actual wreck of the Ariel, but of a prior event as an example of the captain’s ship-handling skills. What follows is a verbatim transcript as recorded by the two court clerks present.


YOU HA’ HEARD, sirs, already from Lieutenant Furner of the Captain’s steadiness in the engagement with the French Frigate, Rendezvous, off Madagascar. So I’ll tell you of his seamanship, for I ha’ ne’er before nor since seen the like of it.

As you know, we was continuin, as it were, where Cook left off (he bein kilt and all) cruisin and chartin the isles of the South Pacific. Beautiful it were, sirs, I can tell you, but too it were dread dangerous with all uncharted reefs and shoals everywhere a body cast an eye. Why, a ship could fetch dry on coral in the middle of deep blue with not a bit of earth in view from the foretop. And nighttime bein the worst of it, swingin in our hammocks listenin for the breakers over the sound of the bow wave and wind in the riggin. Nervous work to reel off the leagues and be cautiouslike too.

So, we was layin for the Fijis, runnin on Cook’s charts of Vatoa one dark dawn, me at the wheel, a fair breeze near abeam to larboard1 or maybe to forward a few points, fillin fore and main courses, tops’sls and stays’ls. We was rail down some, six or seven knots I recollect at the last throw of the log, with a smooth surface and a good-sized, well-spaced swell runnin with us.

The Captain came on deck, it bein still dark as I said, as often he did in them waters, and he says, “I thought I heard breakers, Mister Lawrence. Is there land about?”
“None I know of, sir,” I told him, though never did I know a man who could so feel the loom of land below the horizon. He called up to the lookout in the fore crosstree who said he saw no sign. So we held course with nary a cinch needed to trim the sails for the next two turns of the glass. Captain musta felt somethin though for he come up on deck again half through the watch and shortened sail some, not much, a pull or two.
Then, by God, I did hear it, and the Captain too at the same time. Almost at the same minute the sky lightened, suddenlike as it does in the tropics, and the lookout he sings out. No doubtin but it were breakers, almost hidden by the sounds I mentioned before, but then suddenly very loud, and as steady as the drummers of the Coldstream Guards, and close, very close. I don’t wince at tellin you sirs, of a sudden I thought we’d founder on coral the way we feared. But Captain he says to me very cool, “Steady as she goes, Mister Lawrence,” and he quickly looks at his spread of canvas, the quarter of the wind, then dashes up the lee side waist riggin, wraps in arms and legs and claps his glass along the line of the reef. Down he scampers, me thinkin there ain’t time for such comins and goins. As it stood, were we to try to come about there was a good chance the yards wouldn’t come round and we’d get caught in stays and broach to in the swell, or else drift on. Were we to try and jibe to leeward we’d likely drive right onto the reef, for it was coming clear that it were rounding off to starboard. Only other thing I could think of was to throw anchor and try to stop headway, and then warp on cables back to sea using the cutter and the launch. None very likely prospects.

But Captain, calm as May on Thames, says, “Steady on, Lawrence, but mark my commands exactly.” “Aye,” says I, startin to break sweat. “All hands aloft, Mister Manson,” he says to the master, who has the bosun, Mister Benson pipe the men up. Such a flurry of feet and hands you never saw, and not a word, sirs. No, every soul down to cabin boy knew we was in a pinch and we’d either drive hard aground or the Captain would sail us safe. It were a disciplined set o men in the riggin, set to do their duty or die tryin. So, when Captain tells Mister Manson to prepare to strike all sails, the master looks at him for half a second like he’d gone stark mad, for as you know better than me, sirs, to strike sail would be as much as to let all help from the wind go by bare poles. But Manson says nothin but “Aye,” and sets me men in a flash ready to swing axes.
By now we can see the backs of the breakers splash high with white water, and the swells are racing up behind us lifting the stern and heaving us forward several knots faster before passing under us. The midshipmen were callin out soundings as fast as they could count knots on the line, the Ariel drawin nigh on two fathom, and me waiting to hear the scrape of her copper covered bottom. Well, all this was happenin faster than I can tell it.

Then the Captain says to me again somewhat frabbit2 “Steady on, Lawrence,” and looks behind us at the comin swells. I dared not look, but I heard him remark, “Ah, the master wave. Good.” Then to me he says, “Steady, steady. Mark my command exact, Mister Lawrence.” “Aye sir,” I says with a shivered voice.

Suddenly a brute wave comes under us and lifts us. It pushes us with it, fast, like a surf dingy runnin up a beach. White water near come over the bowsprit as we’re lifted stern high. Then Captain calls loud, “Hard to windward, 90 degrees,” and I spin the wheel for my life. The ship come right around and the Captain yells, “Strike sail!” Which Mister Manson repeats, but no one needs to hear a second time, for all of us know in an instant that we are coming up into the wind head on and the sails will catch abaft and stop us dead in the water broached with a breaker right abeam. Sails and sheets fly to the wind, and by the time as we come full to larboard the poles are bare.

Meanwhile I’m holdin the spokes as I said for dear life. The Captain steps beside me and latches on too, sayin, “Hold steady’ By God, we’ve got her riding!” The ship had gone right down the face of the wave, turned near 90 degrees to larboard, and now we were speedin across the face parallel, don’t you see. A wondrous sight, sirs, God’s truth! I thought for a moment that the masts would be rolled by the board in the turn, but they held, though they pitched fierce with men hangin on like rats on a hawser.
Well sirs, we raced across that wave at a hull speed that would ha’ set her ship architect’s jaw agape, me an Captain steerin for the deep water channel, while that wave broke and spit right behind us. I damn well...excuse my language, sirs, but it nearly caught us. I swear the curl came for an instant right over the poop where we was standin and I ducked a little. But Captain he stood straight, starin at the safe shoulder of the wave like it were Christ himself out there callin his name.
And the Lord must love ’im, for soon enough we come skitterin out onto the gentle slope, hearts in our mouths, and he calls out, “Hard to larboard, set jibs then spanker!” And we come turning out over the top of that wave, the wind now instead of bein dead on ahead is off our starboard bow. The jibs open, bringing her further around and we gradually slow to a two-knot starboard tack in deep water, as pretty as kiss my hand. It were a sight, I say sirs, a sight.

The Captain steps away from the wheel and says to Manson and me, “Steer us further into the channel and hove to off that island ahead.” The men aloft suddenly lets out a cheer you coulda heard clear to Portsmouth.
A few minutes later, we was at anchor, knotting and splicing the cup up lines, nary a scratch on Ariel’s bottom. The Captain says to me, and I’ll never forget it, “Fine helmsman- ship, Lawrence, fine.” Tickled I was, though still shook I must say, for, forgettin my place, I asked, “How did you know to do such a thing, sir?” He smiled and said, “I was Lieutenant with Cook in ’79 in the Sandwich Isles, and I saw the natives ride the waves on planks just so.”
Then he walked to the taffrail and watched the shore- line of the beautiful, little island we’d fetched up to. Some natives were coming out in dugouts. They seemed mighty enthusiastic too, seein us surf our ship round that reef. Generous folk they were too, bringing out coconuts and the like. which we ate as if we was clemmed3. They called their pretty little isle Tava Ruah. Aye sirs, Captain Parker can handle a ship.


1—larboard:
left side of ship facing forward, opposite starboard, modern usage: port 2—frabbit: Lancaslcrshire dialect, irritated, short of palienee 3—clemmed: Lancastershire dialect, starving

Bah! 90 foot waves are everywhere now because
of climate change. This morning i caught one to work.
And our receptionist has a 55 footer in an aquarium.