KEY POINTS:
A square rigged sailing ship is always worth a look. I wandered up Princes Wharf on Auckland's waterfront to where Tall Ship Soren Larsen lay alongside.
I expected to see the nautical equivalent of a vintage car; polished and gleaming, not a smear of dirt nor a drip
of oil; a museum piece. Her spotless decks and shining brass were impressive, but as I gazed down at the Soren Larsen, her weathered spars and rust-streaked bright work spoke of heavy weather and ocean voyaging.
Well scrubbed and buffed she may have been, but slightly faded and with patches of peeling varnish; Tall Ship Soren Larsen reeked of tar and adventure.
A ute drew up and from the ship the scruffy, barefoot crew issued to form a chain to unload boxes. I was newly arrived in New Zealand from England and already inspired by the infectious "can do" Kiwi attitude so I asked for a job. The driver looked me up and down and handed me a box. There was a spot as a volunteer helper and, to my delight, I was given a trial.
Next to those salty dogs, brown and sea-worn, I felt pale, soft and untested. I remember that first night sitting with the crew in the foc'sle - six bunks crammed into an area the size of a small single bedroom. Beneath the floor were the anchor chains which had been soaked in fish oil to stop them from rusting. I was in a stinking 19th-century time warp, but it was a friendly place to be. The wine bottle was passed; all was well.
Life aboard ship is relaxed and informal but there is a clear hierarchy. There is discussion, but it is the captain and the ship's officers that make the decisions. A deck hand is manpower to enable the skipper to sail and maintain the vessel.
I was told when to sleep and when to wake; my every action dictated by another. Life was simple. All I had to do was work hard, learn and look forward to eating five times a day.
I learned to sail by helping to instruct groups of up to 22 paying voyage crew; people of all ages and from all walks of life that joined the ship for five-day adventures in the Hauraki Gulf and the Bay of Islands. I soon realised that the threadbare appearance of the crew owed more to hard work than to anything else.
I struggled to meet their exacting standards, sometimes redoing the same bit of sewing or lashing several times before it passed as fit for purpose.
As soon as I picked up new skills, they were cemented in place by the necessity of passing knowledge on to the voyage crew, who from the beginning are involved in the running of the ship.
Life at sea is sociable. We made our own entertainment and finished each voyage with a party. It's not only the rigging that harks back to a bygone era. People say that we have lost the art of conversation, but I never found that to be the case. Take away the gadgets and the pressures of modern life and we soon revert to a friendlier, more communal state of being.
I was one of the crew. At anchor I joined in the fun; flinging myself off a rope swing into the sea, fishing and drinking rum, but I had a problem. I hated heights. I would look enviously at my professional crewmates who moved with ease aloft. How did they do it?
"Practise", they told me - and they made sure that I did. There is always maintenance to be done in the rigging; blocks to be inspected, lubricated and rubbed with linseed, leather sleeves that prevent lines from chaffing are oiled; even the wooden masts themselves need to be greased with tallow.
So I climbed with buckets of smelly animal fat and bottles of oil. I even stood on the highest Top Gallant yard and smeared and wiped, but I was always afraid; swallowing back panic and yearning to be back on deck.
It didn't matter how beautiful the ship, how thrilling the sense of movement. I knew that this fine old lady had voyaged to the far reaches of the globe and could take me there, too. I felt a sense of foreboding at the start of each four-hour watch. Unlike our voyage crews, who always had the choice, I had to climb the rigging. It was my job.
As we went into refit to prepare the ship for the arduous voyage to Easter Island, my fears got the better of me. The great Southern Ocean seemed to yawn before me; an abyss waiting to swallow me. I said my goodbyes and I left the Soren Larsen.
Defeated, I spent a week driving around the Coromandel, trying to convince myself that quitting was the right decision; but I had chickened out and I knew it. There was only one thing for it. I went back to the ship.
I never became entirely comfortable aloft, but I did learn that to move with decisiveness and confidence is to move safely. It is strange to say, but I will miss climbing the rigging. Tall ship sailing taught me that nothing in life that is worthwhile is entirely without risk.
A few weeks later, deep in the Roaring Forties of the Southern Ocean, we took a big roll. I happened to be on my way up to stow a sail. For a moment, I lost my footing and found myself swinging by my arms 25m over the swirling sea. I never let go and I was clipped on anyway ... but if I ever have grandchildren, I won't be telling them that.
FURTHER INFORMATION:
Tall Ship Soren Larsen, ph (09) 8178799, email escape@sorenlarsen.co.nz, website www.sorenLarsen.co.nz.
All voyage crew must complete a medical form and, if over 70 years, must supply a doctor's letter confirming that they are fit to sail.
