fumes of the turtle-soup! At sea we do meet with rough weather at
times; but, for roughing it out, give me a yacht.PASSAGE 2My very first sea voyage was in a small merchant vessel out of New
York called the Alba. I was only twelve years old at the time, and full
of dreams of boundless adventure upon the high seas. I was to serve
as the ship’s boy. I was given the post by my Uncle Joseph, the weath-
ered old captain of the Albawho uttered few words, choosing to speak
more with his menacing gaze than with his mouth. The moment I
stepped upon the bustling deck my Uncle Joseph set me straight about
shipboard life. There were to be no special privileges afforded to me
because of our relations. I was to live and mess in the ‘tween decks
with the other seamen, and because I was his nephew, I would proba-
bly have to work twice as hard as the others to prove my worth. From
that point on I was to refer to my uncle as “Sir” or “Captain,” and only
speak to him when he addressed me. He then told me a bit about the
Alba. I learned that she was a cutter, and all cutters were fore-and-aft
rigged, and possessed only a single mast. After my brief lesson, he then
sent me below deck to get myself situated.
What I found when I dismounted the ladder below was an entirely
different world than the orderly brightness of the top deck. Here was
a stuffy and dimly lit space barely tall enough for me to stand up
straight in. It was the middle of July, and the heat was oppressive.
There seemed to be no air at all, there certainly were no windows, and
the stench that rose up from the bilge was so pungent it made me gag.
From the shadows, a pair of eyes materialized. They belonged to a
grimy boy no older than me.
“Hello mate, you must be the new lubber just shipped aboard. I’m
Nigel. Follow me, we’re just in time for dinner.”
My new friend led me into the tiny dining room where the crew
messed. The men ate shoulder to shoulder on wooden tables bolted to
the deck. The horrific smell of so many men crammed together was
overpowering. We received our food from the ship’s cook, a portly
man in a filthy apron who, with the dirtiest hands I’d ever seen, ladled
us out a sort of stew. We found two open spots at a mess table and sat
down to eat. The stew was lukewarm and the mysterious meat in it was
so tough I could barely chew it. I managed to swallow a few spoonfuls
and pushed my dish aside.(35)
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