After having learned about Fennia in Falklands during my visit I did some research and came over the diary of Mr Howlett on JStor that depicts his voyage from Australia to Europe in 1926. He had the wherewithal to negotiate his passage and then had the luxury to take off in Chile for some sightseeing so he was not a deck boy per se a but still helped and worked where he could as well as taught he cadets English. I also have corrected the anglicised names with the Scandinavian alphabet.
CHARLES EDWARD HOWLETT
Charles Edward Howlett was born in Melbourne in 1897 and was educated ac Melbourne Grammar School. He ma1ricula1ed in 1914 and went 10 Melbourne University to study law. He took his B.A. degree in 1919 and his law degree LLB in 1921, and was admitted Barrister and Solicitor shortly afterwards.
He worked for some time in a solicitor's office, but his interests were not in the law. His great desire was 10 travel. His other interests included amateur acting. singing in Gilbert & Sullivan operas, concert-going, motor-cycling. bush-walking, and playing tennis and golf. His opportunity to travel came with the offer to sail in the Fennia, as described in his diary.
After the Fennia reached Europe, Charles spent several months in Finland teaching English. With financial help from his father he then spent two years studying French in Paris and German in Heidelberg, and visiting friends in Switzerland and England. On his return to Australia in 1929 he had no wish to return to the law, but obtained a position to teach at Hale School in Western Australia for a year before returning to his old school, Melbourne Grammar, as a teacher of French, German, History and Divinity. At the school he sang in the chapel choir, produced the school play for twenty years, ran a play-reading circle, and became House Master.
He was still interested in travel and, in 1937, he returned to Europe for a year to continue his French and German studies ac Grenoble and Munich. In 1950 he was able to spend another year overseas with his wife studying French at the Sorbonne and German at Heidelberg. As a 'Cape Horner' he visited Mariehamn and met again some of the apprentices of Fennia days. In 1963 and 1969 he had his last overseas trips: in 1963 in a French ship across the Pacific and through the Panama canal to Europe and then in a Dormobile van from Marseilles through France, Germany, Switzerland and England. His 1969 trip was by plane via Hong Kong to visit Angkor Wat, the Taj Mahal, Isfahan, Greece and Italy.
Charles showed his continued interest in ships as a member of the Shiplovers Society of Victoria, and often gave talks on his Fennia trip. He was to have been the Museum Director on the Polly Woodside, the restored sailing ship now on display in Melbourne but did not live to see the project completed. He died in May 1973.
Melbourne, June 1986. Betty Howlett
*****
Across two Oceans in the Fennia
An account based on the diary of Charles E. Howlett,
May to December, 1926
Edited by Vaughan Evans
My passage around the Horn under sail began with a chance meeting during a long railway journey. I had booked to return from holiday 10 my home in Melbourne on the overnight train from Adelaide. The other person allocated to my two-berth sleeping compartment was Kalervo Grundström, chaplain for Finnish seamen and emigrants in Melbourne. An exchange of cards led to further meetings on our return home and we became friends.
I had always had a strong urge to travel, and had already managed to see much of the eastern States of Australia, but had not been beyond. My father's recent decision to make an overseas trip strengthened my desire to follow suit. My Finnish friend sharpened this desire with his accounts of Finland, and with invitations to visit Finnish ships in port from time to time.
Among the overseas arrivals in Melbourne in January 1926 were two sail training ships operated by the Finnish Steamship Company, the largest shipping company in Finland. Finland still had about fifty large deep-sea sailing vessels in common.
Sweden and Norway about five each, but their numbers were being reduced at an alarming rate by lack of trade, old age, or casualties. The Fennia was a four-masted barque of about 4,000 tons, and was said 10 be the largest of her kind still in operation. The other training ship was the Favell, much smaller than the Fennia and rigged as a three-masted barque. These ships both hoped 10 secure cargo of wheat for Europe, but the season had not been good and only the Favell was successful. She sailed early in March 1926.
I learned later that the Fennia, though under the Finnish flag, had not yet been to Finland. Her previous voyage was from Liverpool, from which port she had sailed in January 1925 with a cargo of coal and machine pans for Santos in Brazil. The captain had died in Liverpool just before the cargo was all on board and First Mate Christerson had been promoted to take his place, Carl Olsen being sent from Finland post haste to be First Mate. The owners' original intention was for Christerson 10 change places with Captain Stromsen of the smaller Favell when the ships came together in Melbourne, but this was not done. From Santos the Fennia had sailed in ballast around Cape Horn to lquique in northern Chile to load nitrate for Melbourne, arriving there a few days before Christmas 1925.
For the officers and the crew of the Fennia there now began a long wait as she lay at anchor in Hobson's Bay outside Port Melbourne hoping for a cargo. I had been on board both sailing ships soon after their arrival, and now had the opportunity to get to know particularly well the officers of the Fennia. They became frequent visitors to our Melbourne home. After four months the ship received orders to proceed in ballast to Taltal in Chile to load nitrate for a European port, the exact destination to be advised when they reached Chile.
About a month before the ship sailed the chaplain and I visited the Fennia and were invited to spend the night on board. For the first time in my life I found myself in an utterly foreign environment, a floating colony of Finns. I lay in the little cabin allotted to me that night, and heard the watchman pacing the deck overhead. and the thousand and one other sounds of a ship at anchor in a lively roadstead. I thought of my grandparents who had come to Australia in a sailing ship perhaps not even half the size of the Fennia. I began to envy the crew their coming voyage on such a ship, one of the few surviving windjammers still working in this less romantic age of steam and motor ships.
The seed was sown and, over the next two weeks, I thought more and more of the idea of seeking a passage in the Fennia. On a sudden decision I spoke with the Captain. Two days of negotiations resulted in my being invited to sign on as 'deck-boy', to take part in the general work of the ship and to give English lessons to the apprentices. In return I would have a cabin to myself. mess with the Captain and Mates, and receive the princely sum of one Finnish mark (equal to about three pence) per month. Later on I realised that this was not as niggardly as it might seem: the Captain was paid the equivalent of only ten shillings a month when the ship was not actually carrying cargo. I had four days in which to settle my affairs and to pack for a voyage which might last from five 10 eight months, and take me to a destination as yet unknown.
The ship was due to sail early on the morning of Saturday 1 May 1926. I joined heron the Friday evening, having travelled 10 Port Melbourne in a char-a-bane accompanied by some of my family and friends. A launch trip of about twenty minutes brought us safely alongside Fennia and after my friends had seen me safely established in my small cabin in the very stern of the ship they returned ashore. While it was still dark early next morning the anchors were raised and the tug James Patterson began the long tow down the Bay. By breakfast time we were off Queenscliff. We passed the Olivebank of Mariehamn, another Finnish sail training ship lying at anchor awaiting orders. Once clear of the Rip sails were loosed, the tug cast off, and the pilot steamer Akuna sent off her boat 10 pick up the pilot.
A good swell caused the Fennia to roll heavily. which soon sent me below to mycabin where, except for a few miserable hours on deck, I remained in utter wretchedness for the next five days. During this time the ship was struck by squall after squall. At times the deck would heel to abou1 forty-five degrees from the horizontal. The Captain had to be on hand for any emergency and for some days slept when he could, fully clothed and ready for any call. There was some concern on board because, for three days, overcast skies made it impossible for the officers to get any sight of sun or stars to fix their position. The Snares, a group of islets about sixty miles south of Stewart Island, were Estimated to be less than twenty-five miles away at one stage, so the Fennia was hove to overnight to avoid running too close in the dark.
A particularly heavy squall with rain and hail blew out three of the sails. causing damage estimated at £400, the worst damage that the Captain had had since taking over his command. It took fifteen of the men and apprentices over two hours to bend one of the new sails: not much 'romance of the sea·, I thought, for those who had to keep their balance on a swaying footrope, leaning over a massive yard one hundred feet above the deck, fisting heavy canvas, with bare hands while an icy wind with rain and hail beat against them. One of the crew was knocked backwards off the yard but, as he fell he managed to clutch a rope and gradually climb back to safety. Later on one of the apprentices had a similarly lucky escape when he fell from aloft and was saved only by his leg catching between two ropes and leaving him suspended head down until he could heave himself free.
It was not only the continuous rolling and pitching that gave me such distress, but also the strange Finnish food which delayed my return to feeling reasonably normal. I wrote in my diary "No townsman who has not been on a long voyage in a sailing vessel can realise how weary one can become of the weeks of never-ceasing rolling and pitching: every movement requires such an effort that life is reduced to a minimum of necessaries. Meals are things to be got over as quickly as possible, and on a very bad day undressing at night and even washing may be abandoned with a feeling of relief while shaving is never even considered."
If the ship bad been laden with a full cargo the motion might have been easier, but with ballast consisting of recently demolished Melbourne buildings and the Plimsoll Mark well out of the water, the rolling and pitching was severe and sickening. Even the Captain was anxious. He told me that about half the sailing ships that foundered at sea had done so when in ballast. He rarely slept below in bad weather, but used a bunk in the chart room. I must admit that, during this bad weather, I was in such a state that I did not care whether the ship or I survived or not. I lay in misery on my bunk for much of the time constantly urged by the Captain and the Mates to eat salt pork as a remedy. Of course. such advice often had an immediate and reverse effect. I began to doubt the wisdom of ever embarking on such a mad escapade as this.
Fortunately, on the sixth day of the passage the weather moderated and we soon found ourselves almost becalmed, lying about 450 miles from the southern extremity of New Zealand. Albatrosses and mollyhawks flew about waiting for scraps, and a school of porpoises played around the ship for hours at a time. The Captain shot one of the albatrosses, hoping that by so doing he would bring good luck and a fair wind. Now at long last, I felt able to face whatever the ship's galley might provide, and to meet my old friends in their proper environment. The officers of the Fennia on this trip were:
Captain - Ragnar Christerson, a Swedish Finn
Chief Officer & First Mate - Carl Olsen, a Norwegian Finn
Second Mate - Enrique Sanchez, a Spanish Finn
Third Mate - Thor-alv Linden, a Swedish Finn
Fourth Mate & Radio Operator - Julius Gadd, a Danish Finn
I had soon realised that I was 'odd man out' on board. The donkeyman and I were the only 'Day men', the others being divided into two watches. While I messed with the Captain and the mates, I did odd jobs alongside the apprentices and crew and bad to be careful what I said and how I said it. I had to be particularly careful when speaking with the youthful Captain, whom l found to be a bit odd in his manner, often saying what he did not mean, nervy, very obstinate, and very superstitious. He told me his life story during the many sessions I had with him. He said that there was too much kindness on the ship. He had little time for any of his officers except Sanchez. The mates, for their part, urged me not to take too much notice of what the Captain said. They reckoned that he was mad at times and too young, at 29, to be in command. He was never satisfied with anything done by anyone, and was constantly complaining, they said. The English-speaking members of the crew told me just what they thought of the food, and bad already complained to the Captain about the lack of beef and jam.
The apprentices and crew were divided into two watches. The mates were always on deck for the whole of their watches and were not permitted to sit down anywhere. The apprentices and crew might not necessarily be always on deck, and might even have some time to themselves whilst on watch, but they had to be alert for the mate's whistle. One blast meant that the man next due for a trick at the wheel had to double up; two blasts called the starboard watch out; three blasts for the port watch; and five blasts for 'all hands'. The watches worked the following hours over each two-day period:
Day 1 Watch A Midday to 7 pm. Day 2 Watch B. Midday to 7 pm
B 7 pm to midnight A 7 pm to midnight
A Midnight to 4 am B Midnight to 4 am
B 4am to 8am A 4am to 8am
A 8 am to midday B 8 am to midday
Watchkeepers could only count on a spell of spare time on every second day between noon and 3 pm. After each watch on deck the mates had to enter up the log to show the ship's position- latitude and longitude, the distance sailed, wind conditions. barometer and barograph readings, and certain other details. Of course, all meals were taken during off-watch periods.
In the evening of calm weather on the sixth day of the passage the apprentices and seamen, twentytwo in number, danced and sang to the music of an accordion and violin, accompanied occasionally by someone playing on a comb and paper. The melodies were a curious mixture of Finnish and Swedish folk tunes, polkas. German waltzes, and the latest popular jazz successes such as the inevitable 'Moonlight and Roses' and 'It ain't goin' to rain no more, no more·. The whole experience was new and attractive to me: a cold and crisp starry night with the sails flapping gently above the dancing and singing boys. I heard that the apprentices referred to me as 'Mr Hamlet' and decided that I had probably looked melancholy enough up to this point to justify the name.
During the second week the wind sometimes headed the Fennia, but we made some way to the south and west. I got to know the ship and its people better. Most of the apprentices were Finns. In the starboard watch under the Chief Mate were Aulio, Lindström, Karjalainen, Lindberg 1, Sainio, Nyholm, Turja and Johannsen, and in the port watch under the Second Mate were Pihlgren, Martinsen, Swahn, Höijer, Autio, Lindberg 2, Niemi and Mendelin. Niemi and Swahn spent much of their spare time making models of the ship. Pihlgren. the ship's lamp-trimmer, was an excellent violinist whose mother was a musician at the St Petersburg Conservatorium, his father a painter, and a sister an actress. The apprentices got on very well together on the whole although there was the occasional fight, usually over possession of some favoured tool.
There were six others who formed the crew, four of them 'Britishers' like myself. Two were Scotsmen who were continually complaining. These were the ones who had complained about the lack of beef and jam. They made no bones of the fact that they couldn't bring themselves to approve of 'foreign grub'. There was also a thin young seaman named Allan from Tasmania with an old but open knife wound in the fleshy part of his leg, and a very young looking Melbourne lad. We also carried some livestock comprising some fowls of mixed Chilean and Melbourne descent, six sheep, two pigs and three cats. There were also plenty of rats of various nationalities. They could often be heard squeaking and fighting. I was told all sorts of lurid tales about these rats. of how they could chew a man's ear off while he slept without waking him, because of their anaesthetic breath. I was warned that they would get far more lively in the Tropics. Later on in the voyage I had the unpleasant experience of finding one trying to share my bunk with me, fortunately discovered before he had commenced any depredations upon my person.
On board the Fennia the food was the same for everyone, though the officers enjoyed some extras such as butter and condensed milk. They ate off china instead of 'tin' and had a mess-boy, Kalle. to wait on them. Most men had some private stores to eke out the ship's rations. It took me quite a time to get used to the standard diet. It was not only the salt junk, pea soup and ship's biscuits - which I had expected - but also the Finnish 'delicacies' which were common fare on board. For example, we might have curious sweet soups made from dried Finnish blueberries, tasting like watery black-currant jam. Other soups were concocted from rhubarb, rice or semolina. We had black rye porridge and sometimes a sort of fried porridge with condensed milk. As a change from the cook's fresh bread we could eat "hard bread". ship's biscuit made in Finland two years before and fit to crack any but the strongest jaws. The Captain ate no other bread than this, perhaps to impress us.
The dried stock-fish really was difficult to take. It would be pounded with an axe by the cook on Wednesday. soaked in water over Thursday and Friday, to be served up on Saturday with an onion sauce which only slightly disturbed the feeling that one was eating sodden cardboard. Except for the stock-fish I found myself looking forward to the days on which certain of the cook's other specialities appeared. Friday night was particularly welcome for its outsize soggy pancakes and marmalade. I also enjoyed the occasional tea of curry and rice, and eventually got used to salt herring with chopped up beetroot, carrots, onions and other vegetables. Two typical day's menus were:
Breakfast - Disagreable brown mess, of broad beans and goodness-only-knows what with salt pork
Dinner - Tomato soup and kedgeree
Tea - Tasteless tinned stewed rabbit, meat balls and potatoes.
Breakfast - Rye-meal porridge of chocolate brown colour
Dinner - Vegetable soup, English bully-beef and potatoes
Tea - Norwegian salt beef, potatoes and carrots
I learned that a forecastle delicacy, made with ingredients saved from their rations. was a thick slice of bread spread with margarine and sugar and toasted brown in the cook's oven. As a special favour I was invited on one or two occasions to share such a feast with them.
For four weeks the Fennia sailed through the cold stormy seas of the 'roaring forties', going as far south as 49° 15' south at times. On a good day we might make nearly three hundred miles. On 13 May we passed between the uninhabited Bounty Islands to the north and the loftier Antipodes Islands to the south, and crossed the 180th meridian thus giving ourselves a second Thursday 13 May. We saw an occasional whale. I spent some of my time in the sail room unpicking the seams of torn sails. Suitable strips of canvas were salvaged and put on one side to serve as ties to secure the sails 10 the yards when they were furled . Damage to the sails was of great concern on this passage since the ship's sailmaker had deserted while Fennia was in Melbourne. A Finnish AB who had his Mate's ticket had charge of the sail locker in the meantime.
During the second half of May we steered north east, and could begin to look forward to a warm sun and calmer seas. However, before these halcyon days came, we had to endure a fierce sudden gale which raged for a day and a night with great fury. Both watches were on duty all the time and when the second day brought a moderating wind, it was a thoroughly soaked quartette of mates with no voices left, and a very tired set of apprentices, which came down to breakfast. The fore lower topsail and one of the jibs was torn to ribbons and some other damage was done to two other sails and to the rigging but, from my point of view, the greatest loss was that we had missed seeing anything of Juan Fernandez, Robinson Crusoe's Island, because of this storm. Although the ship's bottom was foul with barnacles and other growths, the Fennia had made ten to eleven knots with only four sails set. The Captain asserted that in such a gale a steamer would have made only about five knots, whilst a smaller sailing ship would have had to heave to. In a week's sailing in the roaring forties we had logged about 450 miles.
Now began the days when the 'romance of the sea' and of sailing ships became something of a reality. We now enjoyed glorious sunshine that stayed with us until we made port. I found it a most exhilarating experience to sit on the end of the jib-boom with the sparkling sea all around, the ship gently rolling, her sharp stem cleanly cutting the water at about eight knots, and the masts with their sails bellying out full and firm to a height of nearly two hundred feet above the decks. Forgotten were the cold wet days of the 'roaring forties' and the initial mal-de-mer: it made me feel that the weeks of discomfort were well worth having endured to be rewarded now with such a glorious sensation. l was brought down to earth by being required to help in such work as securing tarred ropes around the tops of the huge baskets which would be used for discharging ballast at Taltal. Salt meat and fish was more frequently included in our meals now that the fresh meat had nearly gone.
Late on the afternoon of 10 June land could be discerned from the upper yards. Next morning the inhospitable barren mountains that run for thousands of miles down the west coast of South America were-well in sight on our starboard beam. Later in the day the great snow-covered mass of the Southern Cordillera of the Andes could be seen faintly, far inland. The Fourth Mate Gadd, in his capacity as radio operator, managed for the first time during the voyage to get into touch with the outside world. There had been a previous but unsuccessful attempt to contact the Belgian sail trainig ship L'Avenir which bad left Geelong with a cargo of wheat a few days after the Fennia had left Melbourne, and which was estimated to be somewhere in our vicinity at one time. On this new attempt Mr Gadd transmitted a message to Coquimbo requesting that a cable should be sent to Helsingfors. Back came the question from the shore station. 'Where is Helsingfors?'. 'ln Finland.' replied Mr Gadd. 'Where is Finland?' came the next question, necessitating a description of just where in Europe Finland was to be found . We could only pray that the cable got there.
As Fennia was not far south of Taltal. the anchors were got ready, gangway steps brought up from the hold, the donkey engine overhauled ready for the discharge of ballast and loading of cargo, and the carpets relaid in the saloon. There were one hundred and one other jobs to make the vessel 'ship-shape and Bristol fashion', Brass polishing had been going on for some time, as had scraping and oiling saloon stairs and other favoured woodwork, and painting ironwork about the decks. As deck-boy I was kept busy at a variety of these mundane tasks. In between times I might be found in the sail locker on the old job of cutting away badly storm damaged sails from their bolt ropes.
On the day after contacting Coquimbo, we sighted our first steamer since leaving Melbourne. It was the Chilean cargo boat Rancagua from whom we were able co confirm our exact position. We thought that we had every chance of making port the next morning. However. fate was against us. The fair wind died away during the night and next morning, to everyone's chagrin, the strong ocean current from the south carried us slowly and helplessly past the port of Taltal. As there was no radio in that place, desperate attempts were made to contact Antofagasta by radio, to request them to cable Tahal for a tug to pluck us into port. However, it became evident that radio operators in Antofagasta did not believe in an early start to work on Sunday mornings, as an American steamer radioed Fennia that she could not raise them either, despite their having a radio far more powerful than Fennia's. Hopes rose when a motor boat was seen heading out towards us. When it was half way between ship and shore a stiff wind from the south suddenly sprang up and, in a quickly rising sea, the motor boat was obliged to turn for home.
For a week the Fennia had to sail out into the ocean westward and then back towards the coast, always trying to beat to the southward so as to be able to approach Taltal again. As the ship came closer the Fourth Mate again tried to contact the radio station at Antofagasta. This time he was successful, but learned that it was no longer a public station, and that the nearest public stations were now Arica to the north and Coquimbo to the south. As both were about five hundred miles away they were far beyond the 250-mile range of our radio. The delay in getting into Taltal must have caused concern to the owners, since the earlier cable from Coquimbo would have led them 10 expect a prompt further report of the ship's safe arrival. Our concern was to get into port despite the current that might again sweep us past. To bring us luck in the guise of a favourable wind, the Third Mate tossed an old pair of shoes overboard, while the Second Mate threw a copper coin over one of the lower sails. Both actions were thought to be: singularly profitable on most occasions, but they did not bring any great benefit to the Fennia this time.
By the evening of 19 June the ship was just south of Taltal, drifting in a dead calm. That night we came perilously close to some outlying rocks but were narrowly saved by a brief early morning breeze off the land before being becalmed once more. To counter our renewed shoreward drift the lifeboat was launched and the Third Mate and six apprentices did their best, but to no great effect. While this calm lasted the Captain got me to take some photographs of the ship from the boat. Fortunately, soon afterwards a light breeze sprang up and our hopes brightened. The Captain and Chief Officer surprised everyone by appearing on deck, properly shaved and in full uniform, with their gold-braided hats on their heads. The crew and apprentices were all on deck ready to let go the anchor and take in all sail.
It had taken eight days to return to Taltal, but fate was still unkind. As we crept into Nuestra Senora Bay we were met by the ship's agent in a rowing boat. When he got near he shouted out that orders had been changed, and we were now to load at Antofagasta, one hundred miles to the north. The agent had tried to contact Fennia by radio at eight o'clock each night through the help of a Jugoslav steamer then lying in the port, but it was no part of the Fourth Mate's duty to maintain a continuous radio watch, so the messages were never received. We were told that our letters had been forwarded co Antofagasta already. There was a lot of heartfelt cursing in several languages as the ship went about to bead out to sea again. Had the news of the change of plan been known eight days earlier we could have been in Antofagasta within twelve hours or so under the conditions then prevailing. Now, once again, the wind dropped, and it took w nearly four more days with only light breezes at best, aided by the strong current, to come at last to Moreno Bay. The wind failed completely when we were only four miles from Antofagasta, lying abreast of Caleta Coloso, a small nitrate loading port, and some concern was felt until the tug Alida Harvey came out to us. I thought that the tug skipper looked like a comic opera villain. He was a small, dark man, quick and gesticulating, sporting long and luxurious black moustachios. The Finnish flag was hoisted on the jigger mast, and the pilot flag at the fore. All hands were now employed furling all the sails and giving them a 'harbour stow' by passing gaskets round sail and yard to give the ship a neat appearance.
The Fennia was brought to anchor about three quarters of a mile from the shore, and lying opposite the city. Although the surrounding scenery was very barren. the bay itself teemed with life. Every buoy had its complement of shags and gulls, with an occasional pelican to add dignity to the scene. In the water could be seen many penguins and sealions. The only other ship in port was the Norwegian steamer Key West, but she left soon after we arrived. Our quarantine flag was hoisted, mail was delivered by motor boat and, after a short delay, various officials came on board. All hands were lined up on the poop deck, the roll was called, and the doctor made a very brief inspection.
We were all relieved and happy that this part of the voyage was over. There was now no more watchkeeping, no more sounding of bells every half hour, and a change in our meal times. The officers celebrated by drinking some whisky brought from the city by the Captain on his initial trip ashore. Since no strong drink was allowed on board when the Fennia was at sea, the night was soon quite a rowdy one. We had dropped anchor on 2S June, fifty-four days out from Melbourne. For six weeks the ship lay in Moreno Bay, emptying part of the detritus and debris of Melboume's heritage into this foreign harbour. and loading in its place a full cargo of nitrate in sacks from lighters which came alongside in a never-ending stream. During this time I was able to make two trips inland, paying only two brief visits to the ship for changes of clothing.
I had 10 wait for the second day after our arrival before actually going ashore. I was directed to the Gran Hotel Mawry, where I was accommodated on full board for the equivalent of ten shillings a day. I found that all hotels in Antofagasta called themselves 'Gran', however exaggerated a claim that might be even to the least discriminating. My hotel was a two-storeyed wooden building in a dusty lane where donkeys were hauling trucks of nitrate along trolley lines to the little piers where the lighters were tied up. Opposite the hotel was the high iron wall of a store shed of the Nitrate Agencies Company. I began to explore the city. I found Antofagasta to be an impressive place compared with Taltal, where all one could see from the water was a mean cluster of low buildings around a central square, with only one large church to relieve the monotony. Here in Antofagasta there were some buildings of four or five storeys, and an outstanding cathedral with a dome and towers. This Chilean centre is the chief port for the neighbouring inland state of Bolivia to whose capital, La Paz, it is connected by rail.
The hotel itself was built partly over the water and, from the balcony, I soon saw just how full of life was the bay. I could watch huge flocks of Pacific gulls wheel in the air and then drop like an avalanche of stones into the water, leaving a pale-green patch on the surface, before suddenly reappearing with a fish in each beak. In the water dozens of seals and sealions could be seen at one time. As they chased the schools of fish they would be followed by thousands of black sea birds which dived for any fish which had managed to double back behind the larger predators. Pelicans by the score were all around the rocks. To escape from this combined assault, the dense schools of fish would come into the shallows in such numbers as to make the water go black. So thick were they that men, women and children could literally scoop them up by the basketful. This frenzied activity began and ended within an hour at the same time each evening.
After a short stay in Antofagasta I went on a sixteen-day trip by rail up and over the mountains into Bolivia, to Oruro, Lake Titicaca, and La Paz. This city was about 600 miles from the coast and over 12,000 feet above sea level. After a few days back in my old hotel I went on a shorter trip by car to a place about 500 miles south, mostly through nitrate country of black stones and some copper-rich areas, I returned to find that the Fennia had almost finished loading. The boredom had been enlivened by a small fire in the cargo, thought to have been started by one of the Chileans throwing away a forbidden cigarette. Fortunately it was discovered before it had really got going. By the time I rejoined the ship on 11 August. I found that my six weeks ashore had cost the enormous sum of £50, and this included the cost of having numerous copies made of most of my photographs.
Three of the crew had deserted in Antofagasta, the two Scotsmen and the young Tasmanian, Allan. Two of their replacements were Danish seamen. They were brought on board very drunk just before the ship sailed. The third recruit was a Norwegian who had signed on as donkeyman and sailmaker. He had to be winkled out of a shoreside bar and was locked in the forecastle to recover . Apart from the officers and apprentices the crew now comprised ·Pete', Bendicksen, the bosun, a Dane; Alfred Thurmudsen, sailmaker and donkeyman; Serlinsen, 'the little Dane'; Laurie Lindqvist, or 'Kalle', who acted as officers' steward; the cook, Umo; the seaman Kapten; and little George Van Pelt from Melbourne. (Note 'kalle' was the general name in Finnish for the Captain's and officers steward still in the 80's when I started at sea. JL)
The Fennia took her departure very soon after I arrived back on board. I must admit that I did not have quite the same feeling of eager anticipation that I had in Melbourne: this leg of the voyage would be twice as long as first and would take us past the dreaded Cape Horn, through cold and stormy seas. I had just celebrated my twenty-ninth birthday. It was odd to think that the 'deck boy' was the same age as the Captain, and that there were perhaps only two others on board who were any older. We knew now that our port of destination was Delfzijl in Holland, It took me a while to get accustomed again to the motion of a ship at sea. The Fennia was now fully loaded and had a more 'solid' feel, slower, heavier and more bearable. For the first few days we had a steady beam wind to take us well off shore and out of the strongly northflowing current. The Captain told me he intended to go as far as five hundred miles to the west before heading south for Cape Horn. The mizzen royal and the jigger gaff topsail, sails not previously set, were now sheeted home to help drive us along. Even though the seas were moderate, the well decks were frequently awash, a forewarning of what we could expect when we went south into the forties again.
As fine weather could be expected until we neared Cape Horn, the theoretical part of the apprentices' training began in earnest. I had to prepare to take my first English class. The apprentices were obliged to spend many hours in their messroom scratching their heads over the intricacies of astronomy, navigation, trigonometry, English grammar, and other subjects. Their normal 'school' hours were from 8 to 10 am and from l to 3 pm. My main concern was that, whilst Swedish was the official language on board, and although I had been working on that language in much of my spare time during the passage from Melbourne to Antofagasta, I had found practically no opportunity to speak the language. The Captain, the Mates, and a few of the crew knew English fairly well, but all were so keen to improve their skill at it that they normally spoke English to me, and I was expected to correct their mistakes. I had better luck with the ship's cook, a young and happy-go-lucky, easy-going Swede, who talked slowly in his own language. He only knew a few odd English words, and I managed to speak a little Swedish with him each day.
When it came to teaching English to the apprentices. another problem arose. For a start, some apprentices were pure Finns, not Swedish Finns and, although they knew Swedish as a second language, they usually spoke Finnish among themselves, and most of them knew little or no English. The only English grammar available to me was one written in Swedish, issued by the Swedish Navigation School. It was easier for the Swedish Finns among the apprentices to learn English and for me to teach them because of the many similarities between the Swedish and English languages. For the Finnish speaking apprentices it was much harder, since their difficult language is utterly unlike any other European language except, perhaps, Hungarian.
Now that school had started I worked as a deck-boy for eight hours a day, and also had to fit in two hour-long classes as well. The classes were held in the apprentices' messroom. and at times under some physical difficulty. I had to learn how to keep my feet on a wet iron deck. and to write legibly on a blackboard while the ship did its best to toss me, a not infrequent happening at first. Fortunately, all the apprentices seemed eager to learn English, and in each watch there was one who already knew much more than the rest and could help me to explain grammar by giving the Swedish or Finnish for what I said. Some even arranged for me to give them extra coaching and, of course, if I found myself working with one of them on a sheltered job, other opportunities presented themselves for discussion. I decided that pronunciation and a vocabulary were the most important things to develop, and concentrated in getting the apprentices to read aloud, 10 learn common group words, and to take dictation from me.
Two weeks after leaving Antofagasta the Fennia was in latitude 40 degrees south, and the weather was decidedly colder. On one day of unexpected calm the ship was surrounded by a large school of hundreds of bottle-nosed whales. The Captain felt obliged to shoot one. for good luck, and we prepared to lower a boat to recover the carcass, said to be good eating. but it floated away too fast astern to be worth the effort. By 28 August we were down to 50 degrees south. In an area marked on wind charts as 'perpetual storms and constant rain' we had one day of flat calm when the ship hardly rolled at all. Intermittent fog necessitated the sounding of the fog horn on the forecastle at two-minute intervals. The new sailmaker and donkeyman had been many times around Cape Horn and declared that he had never seen so much calm water, light winds, and mild weather down then: I found it quite cold enough, and was very glad of the easy motion. In this cold weather the long job of picking off sprouting shoots from the thousands of potatoes stored on shelves under the roof of the sheep pens was perhaps one of the more favoured occupations that came my way. Work in the sail locker was perhaps even better. not only because the sheep did not get under foot, but also because it was warm and there was always company. Here one could hear the strains of the accordion occasionally played by one of the apprentices in their adjoining messroom.
Sometimes 'Sails', or 'Pete the Big Dane', would be working with me in the sail locker. Sails spent much of his time complaining at his locker being used as a junk shop for all the odds and ends of the ship, or at members of the crew continually coming in for old canvas. twine and other materials. He would lament the disappearance of so many sailing ships since the start of the World War, and the degeneracy of the few now left. He missed the discipline of the old days, even though they bad been so much harsher for the seamen. He usually wore his wooden clogs lined with straw for comfort on these occasions. He was an old and well -tattooed bosun who could recount many tales, from his own experience, of dismastings and the labour of making port under jury rig. He also recalled visits to sailor-town whore-houses as casually as others might recall visits 10 the theatre. In Shanghai before the war, he said. a sailor could hire a Chinese or Japanese 'wife' for thirty dollars a month, to wash and cook and
otherwise see to his needs. In some eastern and even in some European ports a pimp might be one of the earliest visitors to the newly arrived ship. to arrange how many women were wanted, to live on board until she sailed again.
One day when the two watches were trimming the sheets, I beard my first real sea shanty, sung by Bendicksen, our real old-time sailing ship bosun. I realised how well 'Blow, boys, blow', a traditional topsail halliard shanty, highlighted where the crew had to heave, and where to rest. The chorus for each verse always had three big heaves at the end, 'Blow boys, Blow boys, Blow'. Bendicksen gave his own peculiar melodic fragments without words at times between choruses.
The Captain had decided to keep well away from the coast. so there was no chance of actually seeing the dreaded Cape Horn. He planned to go south to latitude 57° 30' and then to steer east for five hundred miles before turning northward. School ceased while the ship was in these cold and dangerous waters. It was on 6 September that we actually rounded the Horn, but sixty miles to the south of it. A strong westerly drove the Fennia along at about ten knots under topsails and topgallants. Seas poured over the main deck all the time and hurled spray high over the side. It was a disappointment to me not to see an iceberg, or the ship covered in snow, but I had to concede that I might have been quite alone on board in having such romantic thoughts. At least I did not fall for the yarn the Big Dane told. of the letter-box standing up in the sea near Cape Horn where one could deposit mail and pick up whatever might have been left by other ships for you.
The Fourth Mate managed to get a message through to the English cargo steamer Maihoa, bound from Wellington to London via Cape Horn, and then about fifty miles to the northward of us, by the more certain means of our radio. The steamer expected to reach London on 3 October: the Fourth Mate jokingly said that Fennia should reach Delftijl on Christmas Day at 10 am. Soon after, in gale-force winds, hail and powdery snow, we were able to steer a north easterly course to pass a little 10 the south of the Falkland Islands. In these bitter conditions I joined the apprentices at the task of chipping rust from the anchor chain, which we flaked out on the iron deck of the forecastle. We only managed to get warm when we had to heave round the capstan a few turns to drag up a new length of cable. I was amazed to find that one of the Mates, Sanchez, was never more happy than when the weather was bad: calm weather bored him.
The Fennia off Taltal. 1926. (Original photo by Charles Howlett.)
The crew of the Fennia, 1926. (Original photo by Charles Howlett.)
The fore lower topsail after the storm. {Original photo by Charles Howlett.)
Another new sail being brought aft. (Original photo by Charles Howlett.)
At times, a heavy swell from astern caused the Fennia to pitch abominably. My cabin was right aft. and the thud of the waves hitting under the counter sounded as if the hull was hitting on rocks. Working at the anchor chain became too dangerous in these conditions, as it would slide all over the deck in a mad rush that could easily catch you unawares and crush your legs. Amidships there was a continuous mass of white foam pouring from side to side, and the deck was often canted over at an angle of 45 degrees or so. The only consolation was that we were making such good speed, homeward bound, and on course.
By 20 September the Fennia was nearing the belt of southeast trade winds, but was still encountering heavy weather. The first of our five sheep had been slaughtered, providing welcome fresh meat for dinner. and less than welcome intestines for breakfast. The chicken coop, moved from under the Starboard boat to the donkey room when the ship was in. colder waters, also provided us with an occasional change of menu. Bottle-nosed dolphins appearing close to the ship, the Captain got out on the jib-boom with a harpoon to try to kill one for its meat - and for a fair wind - but they wisely sheered away before he was quite ready. A week later we had better luck in catching dolphins with a hook and line, using a piece of white cloth as bait. I found them quite good to eat. I was relieved to hear that the last of the stockfish had been dumped overboard. Everyone on board was amazed at the phosphorescent glow of the dolphins long after they were dead. Even hours after the head of one had been cut off it would glow a shimmering green, and appear almost transparent, but I far preferred to see them alive, dashing swiftly about the ship.
On 26 September the Fennia was a little to the south of the latitude of Rio de Janeiro, 54 days out from Antofagasta, having taken the same time as for the first leg of the voyage from Melbourne. It was thought that it would take us another sixty days to reach Europe. By the end of the month we were enjoying warm weather and calm seas. For the first time we could dispense with the 'fiddles' that kept our dishes from sliding off the table in rough weather. In these near idyllic conditions I was initiated to the art of taking the wheel. The wind was forward of the beam and the ship close hauled. I had to keep her as close to the wind as possible while keeping all sails filled, with the weather leech of the mizen royal just quivering. This manner of sailing, I learned, was described as 'on the wind, or By the wind, or full and by the wind' or, as my shipmates on Fennia would have said 'bide vind med fulla sigel'. I found my first two-hour trick quite enough, and admitted to having steered a rather erratic course. On the following day the ship was still close-hauled and the wind light, so I was given two more spells at the wheel, each of two and a half hours' duration. This time I felt more at ease, holding the wheel more loosely but more confidently than on my first attempt. I got a thrill at steering the ship with such a great mass of canvas towering above and before me. I soon learned also how to steer by the compass when the wind was abeam or on the quarter.
Now that we were in the steady trade-wind belt the best suit of sails, bent for the heavy weather of the southern passage around the bottom of the world, was replaced with an older and lighter suit. This was heavy work for all hands over a period of two whole days. As deck-boy I was not expected to work aloft, but I climbed the fore shrouds to the upper topsail yard to take photographs of the crew at this work. Just before nearing Trinidad Island another sailing ship was sighted on the horizon, but we did not approach near enough to exchange signals and find out what she was. Progress was now very slow, the ship making in a week no more distance than she had made in a day off the Horn. The Captain and the old Sailmaker agreed that the trade winds were not what they used to be. They were dying out with the old windjammers. The cause was, of course, the continuous noise of gunfire in Europe during the War.
The apprentices' English lessons were cut down now to three hours a week for each watch as there was so much studying to be done in other subjects for their coming examinations. While they were at this work I took regular tricks at the wheel for two hours, morning and afternoon. In the mornings I noted that the Captain came on deck at about 11.30 am with his sextant to take the exact time and latitude from the sun at local noon. When he got the reading he wanted he gave the order 'Åtta glas!', and the helmsman struck eight bells and was relieved. My normal routine was now to rise at 7.30 and have breakfast; 8 to 10 am was spent on general ship work such as scraping rust off the bulwarks; 10 to 12 at the wheel; 12 to 1 pm lunch; l to 3 on ship work again; 3 to 3.30 coffee break; 3.30 to 5 pm at the wheel again ; 5 to 5.30 wash and clean up; 5.30 to 6.30 English reading with the watch; 6.30 to 7.30 supper; 7.30 to 8 coaching individual apprentices; turn in.
As the weather got warmer the apprentices appeared in more and more scanty clothing. In fact, all the crew appeared in a quite amazing variety of clothes, or lack of them. The Third Mate impressed everyone by wearing an ancient pair of striped dress trousers that had once belonged to the Chief 's father, holding them up with a Paisley pattern silk scarf. The atmosphere was now altogether more relaxed especially for the apprentices, since it was rare now for their studies to be interrupted by a whistle call for work aloft. By mid October the Fennia was near the latitude of Pernambuco and off the Brazilian coast. We sighted the first steamer we had seen since Antofagasta, ten weeks previously. We saw another two steamers shortly afterwards. The Captain explained that we would soon be off the steamer track again, and would probably not see many more steamers until we neared the English Channel.
On 16 October we were nearing St Paul's Rock. I had hoped to be at the wheel when we actually crossed the 'Line.·, but it fell in between two of my spells as helmsman. Mysterious movements and consultations were said to be going on , and George Van Pelt and I felt that all the smiles of the apprentices carried a special meaning. I had thought that because there were only the two of us who had not crossed the Line before, the others would not bother with the traditional ceremony of having King Neptune come aboard. However, the rumour was strong that something was planned for the next day, Sunday, when everyone would be free from normal duties. I had been told in Antofagasta that people whose home is in the Southern Hemisphere should never be subjected to the ordeal because King Neptune's kingdom was originally south of the Equator, where no white people lived, and it was only people from the northern hemisphere who needed to be met, and obliged to pay tribute.
On the following morning, feeling like a victim being prepared for sacrifice, I dressed in my oldest rags and waited for King Neptune's summons. My appearance on deck, in working gear in place of the more respectable gear I normally wore on Sundays, raised smiles from the Captain, the Mates, and Autio who was at the wheel. The Captain innocently enquired if I was quite ready for work. I still did not know if any ceremonies were planned, but handed my camera to Linden to take some photographs for me if events should warrant it. I was aware that a number of other cameras had been brought out and dusted, so it seemed that something certainly was in the wind.
I did not have long to wait. At about 9.30 there was a furious ringing of the forecastle bell and sounding of the fog horn as King Neptune came onboard. Linden called me up from my cabin where 1 had been filling in time and. as I came up on deck, 1 saw a weird and wonderful procession approaching at a slow and stately, if rather rolling, gait along the flying bridge joining the midships and poop decks. First came Swahn, dressed in a long white robe, with a white pointed hat, wearing a pair of motoring goggles, and playing on his accordion a Russian march so slowly that it sounded like a funeral dirge. Next in line came Levun as King Neptune bearing his trident and crown, with a mask on his face and a long beard, a tunic of sacking. and a bristly doormat around his waist. Affectionately holding his arm was his Queen, Lindström, dressed in a sacking blouse and skirt with a coloured handkerchief over 'her' long and flowing locks of string and rope yarn.
The royal couple were followed by the huge Autio and Kajander as trident brandishing policemen. with rope-yarn hair, wearing only bathing trunks and having their bodies striped like savages in black and red paint. Next came Neptune's secretary, Pihlgren, named 'Garding Ankarspel' (Buntline Anchor-winch!), wearing moustaches and a son of Roman tunic caught on one shoulder. He had a quill behind one ear and was carrying a large and untidy bundle of papers. The Court Priest, Karjalainen. now appeared in a long black robe to his feet, large black-rimmed glasses of cardboard, a huge white back-to-front collar, also of cardboard, and carrying a large book. Autio was the Court Barber and had as his assistant Kalle. The latter was dressed in a sack with holes cut for his head and arms. a face painted on the front and a pair of scissors on the back. He wore a strange beard, and had on his head the Sailmaker's Chilean strawhat. The Court Doctor, Turja, named 'Kvickadoden' of 'Quicksheath', was in a black robe like the Court Priest, but had a painted cardboard mask. He carried an alarm clock in his hand. His assistant. Medelin, had a rope wig which made him look like a blond Fijian, and carried his master's tools of trade. The procession was completed by Sainio as a villainous-looking pirate, to help the policemen, and Martinsen in the guise of a Paramount Films representative, completely covered in a black hood and cloak, and carrying a large camera and tripod. Perhaps this was a joke against me for my frequent use of the camera during the voyage.
The procession came right aft and, as they reached the break of the poop. asked the Mate on watch, Sanchez, if the Captain would allow King Neptune to baptise two persons on board who had not previously crossed the Line. This being granted, King Neptune then asked permission to check the ship's position. On being handed a large blackboard drawing compass, he went to the rail, opened it towards the sun as if it was a sextant and, imitating the Captain. called out 'Passa på' ('Watch') and a few seconds later, again imitating the Captain. 'Ugh!', and appeared to be satisfied. The two policemen and the Pirate now took firm hold of me, and we led the procession slowly back down to the main deck where a canvas bath of water had been set up. I was surrounded by this grotesque gang, the few remaining members of the crew having dress-circle accommodation from the poop and midship house.
The Secretary advanced and read in a dramatic voice two pages of verse in Swedish, written by Linden, which sounded very awe-inspiring but was quite unintelligible to me. I heard later that it was a recital of the examination I was to go through. The Doctor came next. He handed me two empty tomato sauce bottles tied together like binoculars, and told me to see if I could locate the Line with their aid. Seeing a swinging rope in front of me I said that I could, but it must have been some other line, perhaps one of the lines of longitude, because the Doctor was quite sure that I could not see it properly. He said that I needed some medicine for my eyes. The Doctor's Assistant was only too happy to oblige, liberally smearing my forehead with grease and fat from his tin. I was then made to take another look for the Line and, as a wire and now been put across the end of the 'binoculars', I found it quite easy to do so, and to assure the Doctor that I could.
The Doctor was concerned about my general health. First, I had to laugh, not once but many rimes, and each one louder than before. I feared that the worst might happen while my mouth was wide open. I then had to produce a crescendo of weeping. With a large funnel the Doctor listened to my chest, and got me to cough. Alarm clock in hand, he took my pulse and informed me that it was beating one hundred to the minute. This concluded the examination. The verdict was that although my general health was quite good, a little medicine was needed to bring my pulse back to normal. His assistant produced a bottle of brown liquid, a large spoonful of which l was obliged to take. Before I could spit it out Autio put his hand over my mouth and tilted my head back so that I could savour to the full the concoction of vinegar, lime juice essence, pepper, salt, mustard, tomato sauce and pickles that they had prepared.
The Barber and his assistant now advanced to begin the next part of the ceremony. First of all. I was seated on a barrel in front of the canvas bath, and held by the two policemen. A filthy potato sack was tied around my neck and my face was smeared with wood tar by means of a large paint brush wielded by the assistant. Lumpy chalk was thrown on to the tar and rubbed in. This process was repeated. Fortunately l managed to keep my eyes and mouth tight shut while all this was going on. The barber now produced an enormous wooden razor and started to scrape the tar off. Wiping the blade on the sack around my neck. He did not have much success although he scraped more than hard enough for my comfort.
The final stage of my initiation was to have red paint smeared on my neck and while the Priest stood over me solemnly utttering in his deep voice such Latin phrases as 'Sic transit gloria mundi ... O Tempore amore . .. Pax vobiscum . . . Gloria Neptunia...' and many more, he baptized me with a tin of cold water. I had hardly got over the shock of this shower before the two policemen, aided by the Pirate, tipped me over backwards into the canvas bath, held me down under the water for a few seconds. lifted me, plunged me in again twice more, and then set me on my feet on the deck.
The baptism thus being completed, the Secretary again advanced and read in Swedish from a paper certifying that l had been duly received into the citizenship of Neptune's Kingdom. He handed me my certificate, and I was free again. I could now claim to be a real deep-water sailor. However. real sailor or not. I had an urgent need to look more like a normal human being again. Slush provided by the cook helped to get some of the tar off my face. but I was determined not to miss seeing George put through the ordeal. He had not been allowed out of the forecastle all morning and, when I was conducted to the main deck, he was locked up in the carpenter's shop until l had been disposed of. After photos of the group had been taken by the Paramount Film representative and several others, we all dispersed to clean ourselves. Many of Neptune's court had more paint on them than their two victims.
It had been the general custom for the Captain to treat Neptune and his court to drinks all round, and for the whole crew to be given a special dinner, but for some reason best known to himself Captain Christerson kept to his cabin and never appeared on deck during the whole proceedings. The mates thought this was just another of the unaccountable sides to the Captain's character. Linden suggested that I might be able to do something for Neptune and his court. I had already thought of this, and gave them six tins of fruit, four tins of condensed milk, a small tin of biscuits, some raisins and toffee. After dinner Turja and Autio came to thank me. For some time afterwards the Russian march chosen by Linden to be played at the ceremony quite ousted every other tune in popularity. lt was now called 'Mr Howlett's Dop Marsch' (Baptismal March). It was whistled at all times of the day and night all over the ship, and the accordion played nothing else. Pihlgren wrote down the melody for me as a memento.
Looking back at the ceremony I thought that the solemnity of the 'officials' had made it a very amusing affair. There was not a smile on the face of any of them and. in fact, everything was done with an almost religious air. Karjalainen as Court Priest was easily the best maintained character and Sainio, as the villainous Pirate, the best dressed. I was relieved that l had not been made to go through the old-time ceremony which had included being tarred all over, and being given castor oil as the medicine. I found that my medicine should have included Epsom Salts. Kalle had gone to the Captain saying that he did not feel well and would like some Epsom Salts, a dose of which was usually handed over without question. This time, the Captain suspected that Kalle's illness was feigned and that he needed the medicine for the ceremony, so he made up the mixture and insisted that Kalle should take it on the spot. To add insult to injury. the Chief asked very kindly if he was feeling better next morning.
Soon after crossing the Line the Fennia left the South East Trades, and we had to endure six days of the Doldrums before picking up the North East Trades. Occasional spells of torrential rain would fill the lee side of the main deck knee deep with water. On one occasion when I was at the wheel I could see one downpour for about an hour before it caught up with us, and heard the sound of it on the water at least ten minutes before it actually hit us. Everyone rushed around practically naked filling all the buckets to replenish the tanks of fresh water used for washing. The rain came none too soon as these tanks were nearly empty, and water for washing one's self or one's clothes had been restricted for some time. The tank of drinking water under the apprentices' mess were still half full, so they had caused no worry.
We now trailed astern an immense shark hook, baited with a lump of salt pork, but although plenty were seen it was some time before a shark was taken. Once we were well into the North East Trades, Fennia sailed close hauled at about four to five knots. We steered by the wind and the course ranged between north nor'west and north. By the end of October the crew were taking bets as to how long it would be before we made port: the range was from twenty-five to thirty-five days. Europe seemed very close, and every man on board spent much of his spare time turning out his kit bag, chest and suit cases, and sprucing up hats, suits and other shore gear in readiness. It was about this time that I heard from Linden that he, Sanchez and the Chief were quite expecting me to leave the ship at Antofagasta, as they had thought that the rough trip from Melbourne would discourage me from facing Cape Horn on a passage twice as long. I was glad to have proved them wrong.
Each apprentice was required to write an essay on the voyage for submission to the owners. The essays were in English and came to me for corection. I particularly liked the one by Turja, which included the following passage:
The crown of the trip was the Line dip. The victims were 2 Australian: Mr Charles Howlett and George Van Pelt. Especially we enjoyed ourselves very much on the sight of Mr Howlett who, in spite of his hysteric weep and laugh bursts, became well tarred by the Court Barber and baptised by the Court Priest of Neptune. I hope that the voyage will forwards be as much favoured by Neptune and other go& as it hu been favoured till this day. Amen.
The main ship work was now chipping rust from all iron work on deck, priming with red lead and then repainting. Although school bad ceased, I still took the wheel at the same times twice each day. finding that with the ship pitching in a good swell it made the wheel very jerky.
We bad the trades for longer than we had hoped, and at 30 degrees north and practically in the centre of the North Atlantic Ocean and on the eastern edge of the Sargasso, we still had strong winds from the north east. Occasionally we would see clumps of weed with yellowish berries floating past. I had a pleasant change from chipping rust during the first week in November, when the Captain gave me what turned out to be the most congenial and interesting job of the whole voyage. It was to translate into English from a French pilot book a description of the coast, banks, lights, entrances, tides and other features of the Ems River and Delfzijl. Some of the technical words baffled me since they were not in my dictionary. I worked at this task for several days, using the saloon table. It resulted in 124 pages of foolscap notes. The Captain would often come in for a yarn, mostly about how he longed to reach port. The Fourth Mate was busy alongside preparing an inventory of the ship's stock for customs inspection. The end of the voyage might be only two weeks ahead.
As we made our way to the north the weather became decidedly colder, and l realised only too well that 1 had left Australia in winter only to arrive in Europe at the same season. While we were in between the North East Trades and the belt of south westerly anti-trade winds we saw a school of really huge whales passing astern. With only about 1500 miles to go, there was wet paint everywhere on deck. The poop was finished first in white, grey and brown, to be followed by the midships deck and then the forecastle. By the second week in November we were back in the steamer lanes. This was made evident one bright starlight night of dead calm when I rushed up on deck at the sound of our fog born going full blast. Everybody was forward, anxiously watching a steamer that was coming straight for us as we lay becalmed and helpless. The Captain signalled to her in Morse by lamp. To our immense relief she at last
altered course and slowly glided past us with stopped engines, only three hundred yards or so away.
The steamer was of a good size, and from her came a stream of questions in the universal language of the sea, English, but in foreign accents. It was the first outsider's voice that we had heard for over three months: 'What you like? What ship? What nationality?' The Captain answered in English also and added that we were al right. As the two ships came abeam the stranger's voice came again, 'Have you a wireless on board?' and, answering in the affirmative. the Fourth Mate started up our set. The steamer was an Italian bound from New Orleans to Genoa, heading for the Straits of Gibraltar. From the radio exchange we found that they had seen us before altering course. and had thought that we were in trouble of some kind. For this reason a ladder had been dropped over her side in case we had needed to send off a boat for provisions or other help. Explanations having been made, she steamed off. The Captain had been concerned that she had continued straight for us, instead of following the correct procedure of turning so as to come astern and then abreast of us.
Two more steamers were seen on the horizon the next day, and three the next, but there was not much chance for sight-seeing as the time had now come to shift back to our heavy weather suit of sails. Throughout the days when this work was being done, I would frequently be called off my ordinary deck jobs to help haul with the watch. It was heavy work even with the smallest of the square sails. About twenty of us would tail on to the rope and then, to a chanted 'Hay-ye-ho-ye'. all would beat time together with our feet on the deck. pulling the rope aft as far as we could go. then back to the block at the foot of the mast to repeat the process. With seventeen square sails alone - course, lower and upper topsail, lower and upper topgallant on each of the first three masts. and a royal on both fore and main - it meant a tremendous amount of physical exertion for all. In between times, the poop deck was tarred, even the Captain helping, while the Fourth Mate took the wheel so that every man in his watch could be put to work.
After a fitful start the north westerlies ser in strongly, and we found ourselves sailing in a very heavy swell. We steered north east: and thought that, with any luck, we could be in Delfzijl in just over a week. Spain lay somewhere over on the starboard side. The weather was now decidedly cold, but painting went on apace. It was also very overcast, and there was one spell of three days when the Captain could not make any observations. He told me that he hoped to get a fix from the Pole Star but, as all the officers had been pulling my leg unmercifully, I was suspicious of any technical fact they might give me: strange fact is difficult to distinguish from pure fiction in these circumstances.
On 17 November we were again in really dirty weather. A strong westerly wind was blowing. and a heavy sea running and increasing hourly. My work painting a winch on the midships deck was rudely interrupted when I saw a huge wave rearing up over the side. My first impulse was to jump to the shelter of the donkey boiler behind me but the next thing l knew was that I had been knocked down, blinded with water, and was sliding down the steeply sloping deck to the lee side. I knew that I must grab the rail or a rope or l might go overboard. Something hit my head and half stunned me for a moment, but I managed to hold on and pull myself to my feet. I was sick and shaken for the rest of the day from this scare, and realised what a lucky escape I had had.
Rain squalls became frequent and the rolling was terrible. Terrific winds continually struck the porthole by my bunk, which happened now to be on the windward side. Waves washed over the poop deck, and the wind howled. To look out of the porthole was quite alarming. We would rise on one of the largest rollers I had ever seen while below was a watery abyss into which we rapidly sank, with the great wall of water of the next wave towering above. The ship shuddered under a succession of great blows. It really was awe-inspiring. I had to make myself stop praying that these conditions would cease since the Captain was delighted that we were racing along at about eleven and a half knots on course for Bordeaux. The gale intensified and, during the evening, we shortened sail to lower topsails only. Most of the apprentices were aloft making fast the remnants of the foresail . and two were at the wheel. White spray was driven across the ship so thickly at times as to blot out all sight of the forecastle from the chart room amidships. A scratch meal was all that could be managed that evening. Sanchez, wet through and dirty, had been thrown heavily on his back three times, but seemed to revel in the storm. and joked and laughed as usual.
The wind now came in even greater roaring gusts. At about 3 am there was a tremendous thud and crash on deck. Water poured through the skylight into the saloon, and all the cabins were flooded ankle deep. The Donkeyman had been told to caulk the doors from the main deck to the midships house, as had been done before rounding the Horn, but had not finished before the gale struck. As a result, the donkey room and sheep pen were so full of water that two of the apprentices had to be employed all night and through the next day baling out the constant streams of water coming through various gaps. It was no wonder that we had such scratch meals while the gale raged: the cook was often working knee deep in cold water, and got an icy shower every time he came out on deck through the hatchway overhead. The main decks between the forecastle, midship house and poop were often filled with foaming water to the top of the bulwarks. Without the flying bridges running fore and aft at the upper deck level it would have been impossible for much of the time to get from one end of the ship to the other. The little water that came over the bulwarks after rounding the Horn was a mere fleabite to what we now experienced.
That night of 17 November was long and terrible. One real storm is quite enough for any man to want to experience, I thought. In the morning the glass rose and the wind abated a little, but the seas were still mountainous. The ship had not come through unscathed. One of the iron ladders from the main deck to the poop had been twisted into a spiral, and another had come adrift. The iron pillars supporting the flying bridge between the poop and midship deck had been bent and, more seriously, some heavy planks protecting the canvas covers on No. 3 hatchway had broken adrift. Without these planks the canvas might have ripped off the the hatches (the heavy wooden covers over the hatchway) broken. Worst of all, George Van Pelt was missing. At the height of the storm the Chief had needed someone to help him see to the damaged No. 3 hatch. Autio and George, ever willing and eager co help and to learn, had promptly stepped forward .
Life lines were rigged for their safety, while the Fourth Mate and Linden were stationed one on each side of the poop to give warning of any particularly large sea looming up. The three working at the hatch also had ropes tied around their waists, but after nearly half an hour had passed without any big sea breaking on board, George must have taken his rope off to give him more freedom of movement. After some time an exceptionally heavy sea broke on board. The Chief and Autio were held by their ropes and managed to climb up to safety. Sainio and Nyholm were looking down from the poop deck, but the mass of spray prevented them from seeing clearly what had occurred. One of the others was nearby, but he was knocked down by the same sea. The Chief, seeing two figures emerging on to the poop presumed that they were Autio and George. Autio also thought the other figure was George, and it was not until five or ten minutes had elapsed that they realised their mistake and began a desperate search, but to no avail.
The temporary repairs to the hatch held during the remainder of the night, but in the morning it was possible to get the ship to run before the wind to lessen the danger of taking seas over the bulwarks so that more permanent repairs could be made. By midday the hatchway was satisfactorily secured. and the ship was brought about to lie west by south against the fierce north west wind. The sea was as mountainous as ever. As the wind eased, some of the lower staysails were set in addition to the lower topsails. My cabin was now on the lee side, and the motion became easier to bear since the force of the waves was now taken on the bow.
I felt very bad about George. It was cruel that such a young, happy boy should be cut off so suddenly. I realised how much our almost daily talks had meant to me. George had been popular with all on board. He was always keen 10 learn, imbibing sea knowledge from the two Danes and the sailmaker , knots and splices from Sanchez, and Swedish from my grammar. He was the youngest on board. He had given his age as 17 to get on board, but really was only 15: the Captain was not awue of this. lt fell to my lot to draft a letter to his widowed mother. Bendicksen, the bosun, had become almost like a father to George. and was very cut up about his death.
It was generally agreed that the 'forties' of the Northern Hemisphere had proved far more 'roaring' than those of the Southern Hemisphere as far as we were concerned. The wind gradually eased, but the seas remained high , making the Fennia roll and pitch as badly as ever. The four mates had worked for twenty hours without a break. Sanchez was as hoarse as a crow. The Captain had not been able to get a fix for six days but dead reckoning placed us at about 43° north 21 ° west on 19 November. It did not surprise me to hear Sanchez say that most of the apprentices had been very frightened over the previous days, and had to be kicked to work. I felt more than a little sympathy for them, especially as I watched them struggling aloft as they fought with the sails.
While the gale was at its height the Captain was amazed to find a large fish dropped at his feet by two seagulls squabbling overhead. Nobody had seen anything like it before. It was blackish in colour, about a foot long, and seemed to have no bones. It had a huge throat, a flat lower jaw and a long curved upper jaw with cruel little teeth. The Chief thought it might be a species hitherto unknown to science and worth a for tune but, having nothing to preserve it in, it was given 10 the apprentices to examine.
On the evening after the storm Mr Gadd called me up on deck to see a large passenger liner, brilliantly lighted, about two or three miles astern. He reckoned that she would have been about four days out of London or Southampton, heading for the Azores enroute for South America or Panama. She was steaming directly into the heavy sea and making little progress, pitching heavily. Our own rolling was becoming even worse, so their discomfort did little to cheer us. Next morning we saw two tramp steamers making very heavy weather of the conditions also. The continuous dirty weather after fifteen weeks at sea made everyone long for our landfall more than ever.
On 22 November, five days after the gale had begun, the wind and sea moderated enough for the mizzen upper topsail to be set. An English cargo ship passed close by and signalled our position. The Fourth Mate was now keeping regular radio watch from 8pm 10 midnight, and invited me to see him sending out a message. After several attempts a ship station answered and he transmitted our message. Mr Gadd could hear the calls of many steamers, and also radio stations at Algiers, Gibraltar, Oporto, Lisbon, Cape Finisterre and Ushant. Fennia's position was now 45° 10'N 13° 30'W and the Captain had to consider going about on the other tack as we were heading too far to the east. Fortunately, after a brief spell of near calm, the wind freshened from the west and we were able to run direct for the English Channel. After sixteen weeks from Antofagasta we were still only just within 400 miles of the Lizard, which lay north east of us.
Next day we had light and variable breezes, and reckoned we were only about 180 miles from the Scilly Isles and Ushant. A good wind could have got us there in one day, but it was not to be. Our position at noon on 25 November was 4 7° 34'N 9° 5'W. We had made good only thirteen miles in the previous twenty-four hours, but it was encouraging to see that anchors were being got ready for our arrival at Delfzijl.
On 27 November the Fennia was only 60 miles south of the Lizard, but was again becalmed. That evening we saw the first signs of Europe for, from each side of the Channel we could see flashing light, on one side from the Bishops Rock Lighthouse, and on the other Ushant. The ship was strangely quiet, so calm was the sea that we might have been moored to a quay. The next day was one of squalls, first from the south east, then from the north east. The Fennia was obliged to beat first towards Lyme Bay and then towards Le Havre. The pessimists said that this could go on for a fortnight. Steamers of all kinds, large and small, were in sight all day. After so long sailing on an empty ocean it was almost like being in a traffic jam. We had a man on duty day and night on the forecastle head to keep a good lookout.
It was not until 28 November 1ha1 I caught sight of England, when Start Point was only fifteen miles away. That day we got a strong north westerly that enabled us to set course up Channel. It did not last long. Next day there came a north-east gale which forced us 10 'wear ship' about every four hours. Why the Captain chose to wear instead of tack no-one could fathom. The ship always lost a lot of ground in turning away from the wind like this, and the complete process took about an hour. The fore course was blown out that night. The great danger now was that the ship had to wear or tack after sailing about sixty miles on any one leg, or she would have run too close to the English or French coasts. I was hardly cheered by the news that we might still be in the Channel for Christmas, since the easterly winds often blew for a month at this time of the year.
To everyone's surprise, 2 December found us in the stillest of calms again, not the slightest ripple ruffling the surface of the Channel. Sitting at work in the sail locker one could have imagined that the ship was deserted. Never since the Fennia was in the Yarra bad she lain so motionless. It was perhaps as well for the patience of all on board that, in the early hours of !I December, a fair wind came at last, a strong westerly which soon drove us well past the Isle of Wight in a smooth gliding motion. At midday Beachy Head, its castle plainly visible, was only a few miles to port. We could see houses and even an occasional train. At 4 pm we saw Dungeness Light Tower flashing, and an hour later Cap Gris Nez on the other side. As night fell we had a continuous line of lights on our port side as we passed by Romsey, Hythe, Sandgate, Folkestone and, finally, Dover. I was sorry to miss the famous white cliffs, but hoped that the next few months would give me other opportunities.
So we passed through the Straits of Dover at night, with lights all around us from the shore and from other ships at sea. We were thankful to have a fair wind after so much adverse weather. It really was delightful to be on the deck of a large sailing ship, gliding so smoothly and noiselessly, the sails all drawing well, and only the gurgle of water to give a sense of movement. Unfortunately, this delightful situation did not last, and I soon realised how quickly a rising wind can make the sea unpleasantly choppy in the shallow waters of the North Sea. Even more unfortunately. on 4 December the wind went almost dead ahead, and we were carried more than twenty miles back by the strong tide. At 10 o'clock that morning we were only 45 miles from Rotterdam and 180 miles from Delfzijl, but were obliged to head west towards England.
On 5 December we were becalmed again, an unusual phenomenon for the North Sea in December, just as it had been unusual to be becalmed off the Horn. Even Sanchez was getting dispirited, as was the donkeyman, too, since he would not be able to reach his home island off Åbo if we did not get in to port before the end of the week. Reference to old copies of Sea Breezes magazine on board showed that Fennia's passage was long by any standards. I read that the longest time from port to port for the outward passage from England to the west coast of North America was 224 days, and the shortest was 100 days. For the homeward passage one ship had taken 212 days after enduring one hundred days of calms and light airs. Her bottom was so foul after this delay that she could not make reasonable speed when fair winds finally greeted her. Fennia was suffering a similar complaint.
That morning we sighted another four-masted barque, the Passat. a German sail training ship under Captain Muller bound from Nantes to Hamburg. She, too, was obliged to sail uselessly east and west until a fair wind should arise. It gave us all a good idea of our own appearance on the ocean to see this ship. The calm did us one service: from the British steam drifter Kipper of Warwick we received about 160 lbs of fresh herrings in exchange for a large carton of cigarettes. At last, on the 126th day out, at the end of the eighteenth week since leaving Antofagasta, a fair wind came from the south west. At midday on 7 December we had only 150 miles to go and, helped by the tidal current, only about 80 miles to Borkum Riff Lightship where we expected to meet our pilot early the next morning.
It was hardly surprising that nobody was interested in work at this stage of the voyage. I spent the day with Sails, more or less playing with the fore course damaged in the Channel. He spent most of his rime grumbling at the small size of the sail locker, quite forgetting that when he joined the ship at Antofagasta he had declared it to be the biggest and best he had ever seen. Sanchez always declared that Sails was a real old grumbler, but he found him amusing. The apprentices were kept at work sanding the decks, while Kalle furiously polished brass in the saloon, laid the red carpet, and put in place the fringed green cloth on the saloon table. Linden's gloom and silence of the previous two weeks had vanished, and Sanchez' face was wreathed in smiles and good humour again. The Captain had had a badly needed haircut, and the Fouth Mate sang. Only the Chief remained apparently unmoved.
At last the great day dawned, 8 December 1926. I awoke at 5.30 to find the German tug Titan from Hamburg just taking us in tow. At daylight the apprentices went aloft for the last time to furl all sails. Soon the Delfzijl Pilot. a short fat and red-faced genial man, came over the side. Our next visitor was the ship chandler's steamer. We had to anchor until the tide changed. Mr Holm, the Managing Director of the Finnish Steamship Company, owner of the Fennia,came on board together with the men who were to be Second and Third Mates on the next voyage, and two new apprentices, one of whom I took to be a girl with an 'Eton crop'. This young man was accompanied by his mother, a wealthy Finnish woman on her way to Paris. The other apprentice-designate was a Finnish Count, a lean and weakly chap who looked most forlorn and cold. I thought that both would have a very bad time at first. We learned that a whole new crew, about thirty in all, were already waiting in Delfzijl to come on board and take over.
Despite the excitement of such a crowd of new faces on board, I had-time to look all the scenery; at the dykes holding back the sea, at the long lines of trees everywhere, and at windmills, four of which were in sight from where we lay. Quaint fishing boats with dark-brown sails slipped by, untroubled by the shallows that kept us where we were. Watches were now a thing of the past, and that evening seven people sat down in the saloon - the Captain, all four mates, the pilot and I. We heard that Captain Christerson was to continue in command, and that the next voyage was to go to Swansea to load coke for Valparaiso.
The voyage finally ended on Thursday 9 December, and I set foot on Europe for the first time. We had a fog all the way up to the port, and saw nothing of the land until we had nearly reached our destination. It took us from 10.30 in the morning until 3.30 in the afternoon to make our way up the river. Half the population seemed to be waiting, including all the new apprentices, who waved a welcome to us as we slowly maneuvered up to the quay with the help of three tugs. It was a day of extreme excitement, but also one of mingled joy and sorrow. Sanchez, Linden and some of the apprentices planned to leave for Lubeck and Helsingfors very early on the Saturday morning. I decided to stay on at Delfzijl for a few days and then go to Hamburg for a brief visit and to Lubeck for a day before catching the boat there for Helsingfors with Mr Gadd.
I was delighted that evening with my first acquaintance with a town in Europe. Delfzijl really was a quaint place, and I was quite enchanted with it. The buildings looked just like dolls' houses, and everything was so clean. Even the narrow cobblestoned footpaths and the brick walls of the houses were regularly scrubbed clean by the housewives. Next morning I found thirty four letters from home. It made me feel more than a little homesick. Sails came back on board during the evening so drunk that he could not manage to sign off.
The new mates and apprentices began the work of discharging cargo. Of the old crew there remained only the Captain, Chief, Fourth Mate, Nyholm and Pihlgren, Johanson, Martinsen and Kalle. Poor Pilhlgren had his sea-chest stolen. presumably by one of the wharf labourers, with all his clothes and his precious violin, The Fourth Mate and Martinsen were due to leave in, a week, Kalle in two weeks, and the Chief only when all cargo had been discharged. Only the Captain and the three other apprentices would stay on board for the next trip. The new cook was not a patch on the old one, and managed far worse with fresh food than ours had managed with sea fare. The new Second and Third Mates were both solid-looking Swedish Finns: I was glad that we had Sanchez and Linden. By Monday morning our old Sailmaker had drunk all his pay for the long voyage and had to borrow from the Captain to get himself to Rotterdam where, with any luck, he might get another ship quickly.
My own discharge came after I had completed my schoolmaster business by signing a paper for each of my apprentices 'Lärare i Engelska', the Captain and Chief countersigning the certificates. I presented the Captain with the bottle of Australian port and box of cigars which I had brought from Melbourne. He gave me my certificate of discharge and my pay- all eighteen pence of it. I bade goodbye to my remaining old shipmates and to the new apprentices, miserably engaged chipping rust from stages rigged over the water. My time on board the Fennia had been a wonderful and never-to-be repeated experience. I left with an odd feeling of pride, and not a little regret that it was now over. I recalled a note that I bad made in my diary from Sea Breezes:
A landsman would have, 10 make a voyage of one or two months without touching port to realise fully the appalling monotony of a voyage of this length. Day after day the same faces, the same duties, and almost the same food, and nothing but sea and sky all around. A shoal of porpoises would be an incident: the sight of another ship a thrill.
I realised how lucky I had been as a landsman , employed officially as a deck-boy, but able to relieve the monotony by reading in the privacy of my own cabin, by teaching English to willing students, and by studying another language myself. There were days, especially in rough weather, when the monotony did seem appalling to me, but the sight of the same faces for all those months had not wearied me at all.
NOTES*
The Fennia was built in 1902 as the Champigny by Forges et Chantiers de la Mediterranèe for the Sociètè Anonyme des Voiliers Long Courriers Francais. She was a steel four-mast barque of 5,112 gross tons on dimensions 312.1 x 45.5 x 23.9 feet, registered at Havre. She was typical of French-built ships of the spar-deck type. She had a forecastle which came well abaft the foremast, and a poop 115 feet long.
Champigny at the launch (?)
In 1917 she was sold to Belot for his Sociètè Gènèrale d'Armernent. There were over forty sailing ships in this fleet at the time. She was laid up in the Canal de la Martiniere for some time before being bought by the Finns in 1925. They fitted her out as a cargo and training ship, and renamed her Fennia. She loaded her first cago in this capacity at Liverpool, from which port she sailed for Santos and Melbourne as described in the narrative. Her movements during 1926 are described in the narrative also.
On her 1927 passage from Cardiff, bound for Valparaiso, the Fennia was dismasted off Cape Horn, but struggled back to the Falkland Islands. Although her hull and cargo were undamaged, the expense of procuring and fitting new masts was considered excessive, and she was sold to the Falkland Islands Company. She served as a store for her own cargo of patent fuel until it was used up, and was then used as one of the company's fleet of hulks for wool storage.
The Fennia lay at Port Stanley for forty years but, in 1967, she was sold to the San Francisco Maritime Museum for restoration and preservation under her original name. Although towed to Montevideo in June 1967, she was still lying there at the beginning of 1972 awaiting refit for the passage to San Francisco. Her subsequent fate has not yet been ascertained.
This ship is often confused with an earlier ship of the same name ex Goodrich, which was operated by the same Finnish owners. Fennia (1) was a steel four-mast barque of 2,262 gross tons, with registered dimensions 284.2 x 42.1 x 24.5 feet . This ship was built by Workman and Clark of Belfast in 1892 for Boyd Brothers and Company. In 1895 she was 1101d 10 J. W. Söderland of Raumo, and in 1910 to Gunnar Rydman of Helsingfors, Finland, who fitted her out as a cargo and training ship, and renamed her Fennia. Rydman traded as Finska Rederi Aktiebolaget, the name being changed in 1911 to Finska Skolskepprederiet (Finnish Schoolship Association). The ships were managed subsequently by the Finnish Steamship Company.
In 1917 the Fennia (1) was taken over by the British Shipping Controller. Her masts were taken out and she was converted to a twin-screw oil tanker, but the work was not completed until the war was over, and she was idle for some time. She had a short career as a motor tanker until 1921 when she was converted again, this time as an oil depot ship. In this capacity she was stationed in Greece and later in Gibraltar, where she remained in service at least until the middle 1930s. Her fate bas not yet been ascertained. Owners of the Fennia (1) after the war were Anglo Saxon Petroleum Company in 1920. and, after 1925, Oilfuels Depots (Gibraltar) Ltd.
* Based on extracts from: H.A. Underhill, Sail Training and Cadet Ship; Villiers & Picard Bounty Ships of France
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