Gilboy’s Quest

by Sam Ivey

Chapter IV: Tradewinds
part 3 of 3

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From the deck watch on the forecastle came the hail. “Helm there! A small vessel; fine on our starboard bow. Got the looks of a small lugger, but she’s rigged like a little schooner.”

The barkentine’s captain walked swiftly across the slanting quarterdeck. At the windward rail he extended his telescope and clapped it to his eye. Boggs, his first mate, followed and stood just behind him, observing through his own glass the tiny vessel ahead of them. For several seconds they watched wordlessly, while many of the crew on deck crowded to the rail; the report had triggered rampant curiosity among them.

“What do you make of her, Mister Boggs?”

“I don’t know, Cap’n. She ain’t no fishin’ boat, and she don’t look like no kind of lifeboat. None what I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s just a driftin’ boat; broke loose from somewhere.”

“Nope. She’s manned, Mister Boggs. Look how she holds course. Trimmed right proper on a beam reach, she is, and heading right for us. Maybe it’s someone from a ship that’s gone down, or it might be from one of the islands. But if it ain’t one of them two, I’d be askin’; what in blazes is a little boat like that doin’ out here?”

He snapped his telescope closed before turning and shouting along the deck. “Back tops’l, Mister Kinder! We’re gonna heave-to.” Then to Boggs: “We’ll let him come alongside. Whoever he is, I think he’s gonna need our help.”

It had been almost two hours since he had sighted the ship, and had hoisted the national ensign to the main gaff for identification. Now it was nearly dark as he approached, daylight being little more than a pale band along the western horizon. The ship was lying easy in a gentle sea, with both her jib and flying jib backwinded. Her mainsail was free to leeward, and the mizzen spanker was sheeted in hard. Gilboy was in a state of high excitement as he came alongside.

“Boat ahoy! What boat are you?” came the hail of the barkentine’s captain as a line was passed and Gilboy was made fast to the ship’s side. “I’m Captain Burns. What Island are you from?”

“Well, I’m not from an island, Captain,” Gilboy called up to the deck above him. “This is the boat Pacific. I’m ninety days out of San Francisco — left on August 18th. I’d like very much to confirm my location, my longitude in particular. What’s the name of your ship?”

At his mentioning that he was from San Francisco, there was a smattering of cheering and a flurry of excited conversation that erupted along the ship’s maindeck. Those crewmen with the opportunity jostled each other in an effort to see over the side; senior personnel back on the quarterdeck exchanged questioning glances.

Boggs, leaning on the rail, turned to the captain. “Sir, did he say San Francisco?”

“Yes, I believe he did, Mister Boggs, and I find it as hard to believe as you do.” Then to Gilboy: “This ship is the Tropic Bird. We’re a few days out of Tahiti and bound for San Francisco. What’s your name? Have you lost members of your crew?”

“No, Captain. My name is Gilboy, Bernard Gilboy, and I’m sailing alone; bound for Australia, for Brisbane.”

Again the excited discussion aboard Tropic Bird before Burns replied. “Well, Mister Gilboy (and he chuckled), I have to say that you are doing remarkably well. Yes sir, remarkably well. And as to your position, I believe we can help you with that. What do you have as your last fix?”

As Pacific rose and fell on the easy swells, scuffing herself against the side of the dark ship, Gilboy produced his log from its locker. And after he had given them his location as of last Saturday, Captain Burns said: “That sounds about right, Mister Gilboy. My navigator gave us our noon position as ahh... What was our position again, Mister Granack?”

Granack had already gone below in response to Gilboy’s request, and having returned with the ship’s log he was now standing behind the Captain. The book was open and he was turning pages. He turned two more before he replied. “We were at fourteen degrees, fifty minutes south; a hundred and forty-nine degrees, two minutes west at noon, Sir.”

“There you are, Mister Gilboy. And if you’re bound for Australia, you’d be hard pressed to be doing any better. How are your supplies, by the way? How are you fixed for water?”

Scribbling the fix on a scrap of paper, Gilboy said, “Actually I’m quite well off, Captain. My supply of bread is below what I had calculated, but that poses no serious difficulty; I seem to recall that William Bligh did with a lot less. The other supplies are in good quantity, and water is close to ninety gallons. My only real concern was confirmation of my longitude, and I really appreciate your help. And I thank you Mister Granack.” With that he told them of the problem he had been having with his Greenwich-time clock.

“Well now, this might be a good time to correct that, too,” said the Captain. “Mister Granack, be so kind as to lay below and bring up our chronometer. We’ll get Captain Gilboy’s Greenwich time reset for him, and then if his clock will do him the courtesy of continuing to run, he’ll have a better account of his longitude.”

Granack headed below as the Captain continued. “Well, your dead reckoning is quite good, Mister Gilboy, and I seriously doubt that you’re gonna get lost. But I’ve gotta know this: what in thunder are you doing out here in the Pacific all by yourself?”

“Lord, I sometimes wonder that myself, Captain. It’s just something I had to do. So here I am.”

The captain looked at his mate and then at Granack who had just returned. Pointing a chubby finger at Gilboy he said, “Mister Boggs, Mister Granack: there is a seaman. You won’t see many of his kind, so take a good look.” Then calling down to Gilboy again: “We’re carrying a load of fruit bound for California. Could you use some?”

“Well, I have some canned peaches, so it’s not really a need.”

Burns stressed the offer. “I’d really like you to take some, Mister Gilboy. Australia is still a long way from here, and it would do my conscience nothing but good were you to accept. We can fill you up pretty handsome, and they just might stand you in good stead.”

“That would be most appreciated, Captain. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Mister Gilboy.” Then turning he ordered, “Mister Scully! Detail a small party to break out some of the cargo, and let’s get it over the side to Mister Gilboy here. Then we’ll get ourselves underway.”

Responsively, the fruit was brought up from below and lowered over the side: bananas, oranges, limes. And it kept coming — a generous abundance — until Gilboy finally announced that he had all the he could possibly use before it went bad. And while this was going on, the adjustment was made to Gilboy’s clock.

Then, with the gracious gift stored below deck, Gilboy made his final request. “Captain, I’d be greatly obliged to you if you would report my position to the authorities in San Francisco when you arrive. Perhaps they might have it reported in one of the papers. I have friends there who I believe would be comforted to know that I’m still alive.”

“I have no doubt of that, Mister Gilboy. Have you had any contact since your departure?”

“No, Sir. I’ve seen two sail, but I’ve had no contact with either one. In fact, you’re the first person I’ve spoken to in three months.”

“Well sir, Mister Gilboy, just you be assured that I would be downright honored to make such a report — such a favorable report — and about such an excellent seaman. You may consider it done, and I wish you well.” He looked up at his sails before adding: “But right now, we’ve both got a fair breeze a-wastin’ and we’d best get underway.”

Then he gave a soft, one-finger salute before turning and bawling the order. “Mister Kinder! Cast off the Pacific and get us underway.”

As he started to move away from the quarterdeck rail, he turned and spoke over his shoulder. “God’s speed to you, Mister Gilboy, God’s speed.”

Gilboy returned the courtesy salute, and let go the line connecting the two vessels. Watching as they hauled it up the side, he listened to the blocks rattle and canvas bang as the foretopsail on Tropic Bird was heaved around; the mainsail was sheeted in and the mizzen eased. As her canvas hardened in the wind and she gathered way, there were many of the crew crowded along the rail, and on the quarterdeck, who waved their farewell.

Gilboy, standing on his little rolling deck and holding on to the mainmast, waved in return. As he did so, he began to feel such loneliness as he had not felt on the entire voyage until now. This separation was altogether different from his departure in San Francisco. This brief encounter — this very precious chance meeting there in the awesome expanse of the ocean — had reminded him once again of the natural need humans have for companionship. How unimaginably sweet it had been to talk with someone. Anyone would have been welcome, but it had been especially pleasant to talk with one of his own breed, a seaman. And as he got Pacific underway, he could not help wondering: how long would it be before he spoke to another person?

The following day, Saturday the 18th, he made the entries in the log, elaborating in some detail on his meeting with Tropic Bird and Captain Burns, and making note of his confirmed position. Today he posted his longitude — grateful to be able to do it with accuracy — as being another 40 minutes to the west, and his latitude by observation was 15º, 10’ south. Over the past week, by calculation, he had sailed 370 miles. According to the taffrail log: 278 miles.

Not only were the tradewinds favoring him constantly, but the Peru Current — that blessed west-setting current — had, in addition, moved him nearly one hundred miles toward his goal. It amused him to think that perhaps here, south of the Equator, there was a change of theocracy — that old Neptune, the Roman god of the sea, exercised sovereignty in these southern waters, and that he was dealing with him in a more humane way than had the Greek deity, Poseidon, north of the Line.

The weekend passed while the seas continued to build and the wind grew fresher. By Monday, the ocean was running very high. The weather was all of frisky, with the wind perhaps up around twenty knots. And the waves were tall — widely spaced but tall — and frequently frosted at the crest with white foam. For little Pacific it was a moderately heavy sea, and she struggled against the face of each wave, only to surf down its opposite side. Indeed, it was nearly all she could do to run before it and stay on her feet. But run she did, with her jib poled out to starboard, and the main and foresail splayed out on opposite sides. She was driving hard and making excellent time for a craft of her size.

On she ran, west by south and plunging from crest to trough. Her sails were drenched with spray, and more often than not her deck was awash with foaming seas. Hour after long hour the man sat at the tiller. Food, when it was taken, was taken cold. But that mattered little. He was sailing wild and free, hammering out mile after nautical mile and reveling in the essence of what had been his vision.

Today, according to the taffrail log, would see him cover 89 miles in a 24-hour period. And as the weather continued strong for the next two days, he found that on Thursday he had covered 106 miles in about the same amount of time. On that day he read his Bible some, too, and offered a prayer of thanks for his very good fortune.

Somewhere in the course of the past few days, he lost track of the fish that had been with him for the last two weeks. And with them went the sharks. Perhaps the turbulence of the water had some bearing on the matter. At any rate, by Saturday they were nowhere to be seen, and their absence was comforting. There had been a few squalls through the week, but over all the weather had been favorable — clear and pleasant, with the wind generally growing stronger.

And today, Saturday, an unusual thing happened. A fly landed on the boat. Under normal circumstances, back in Buffalo, he would have considered the little creature as a pest and would have swatted it without a thought. But here, he watched it with both wonder and with appreciation; and with amusement as well.

He smiled broadly as he considered that there was no ceiling upon which it could land. A fly. A poor creature of limited lifespan and of questionable usefulness, if any; a pitiful little beast that was wholly out of its element even as he was, and that would shortly cease to exist. From where had it come, and why was it here?

He recalled Captain Burns’ question about himself: “What in the world are you doing out here in the Pacific all by yourself?” But this fly landing — such a peculiar thing. In his log for this date he wrote, “I also had a small fly make its appearance aboard, which I looked upon as company.”

Even as he wrote it he reflected on how inseparably the human species is linked — or perhaps integrated was a better description — with its environment: everything made of the same stuff, the elements of the earth. Everything — everyone — was simply an extension of the earth. It had been eight days, he recalled, since he had spoken with Captain Burns; over a week had passed since the joyful fire of companionship had been rekindled, had warmed the cold void of loneliness. And now curiously, this fly, this insignificant insect, was filling that void; warming it, if only in a minuscule way.

It had been a very favorable eight days also, both as to weather and as to progress. Now and then a passing squall had wetted things down pretty well, but generally the skies had been blue and decorated with the splendid expanse of intensely white cumulus clouds that are the nearly ubiquitous marks of the South Pacific seascape.

At noon on this Saturday, November 25th, he performed his usual obligation of taking the sun’s elevation, logging himself at 17º, 54’ south, and an even 162º west. Again he felt very pleased to be able to enter his longitude as an exact figure. Thanks to Captain Burns, and to a much drier climate, his clock was now properly set and running quite satisfactorily. Accordingly, he had sailed 730 miles in the past week, averaging over 91 miles a day — a very satisfactory distance indeed.

His taffrail log, however, showed the distance to have been only 610 miles. But the current, the wonderful Peru Current that was proving to be the very antithesis of that devilish California Current — the one that had hammered him so far to the east while in the lower northern latitudes — was of itself propelling him some 15 miles a day toward the fulfillment of his dream. And that current could carry him all the way to Brisbane as the tradewinds blew him westward. Yes, he was deeply satisfied.

To be continued...