Boatshed

Mark Pearse 2004
Kemmiss Hill Road, Yankalilla 6
Acrylic on board, 9″ x 10″

I recently acquired this little landscape. It must have been painted quickly: each element is a sort of visual abbreviation, or shorthand. Mark liked to explore both light and colour in his work – and yet, he was at heart a sculptor. He shaped his landscapes with paint and brush.

 

Here is a patch of dunes immediately to the west of our shack. Most of the plants were propagated from local seeds*.

Rabbits have been and are the enemy. It has taken a quarter of a century to revegetate this one small section: a  reminder that natural systems are   easier to preserve than restore.

The dunes stretch north and south; there is plenty of work to do….more than enough to last a lifetime. But I am encouraged to note signs of progress. Olearia seedlings are popping up here and there. The Isolepsis (renamed Ficinia, for reasons unknown) – or Knobby Club Rush – is spreading.  Coastal spinifex and Muntries put out their long shoots.

The seed bank is restored, to some degree – and looking south-west towards Rapid Bay Head, I can almost imagine I am back in the late 1950’s, when the dune system was relatively untouched….

*Knobby Club Rush (Ficinia nodosa); Pigface (Carpobrotus rossii): Coastal lignum (Muehlenbeckia gunnii); Seaberry Saltbush (Rhagodia candolleana); Dune Fan-flower (Scaevola calendulacea); Coastal Wattle (Acacia sophorae); Coastal saltbush (Atriplex cinerea); Muntries (Kunzea pomifera); Cushion Bush ((Leucophyta brownii); Coast Daisy-bush (Olearia axillaris); Coastal Spinifex (Spinifex sericeus); Spreading Flax-lily (Dianella revoluta); Coast Bitter-bush (Adriana klotzschii).

I made for the cove, a lovely branch of Gloucester’s fine harbour, again to look the ‘Spray’ over and again to weigh the voyage, and my feelings, and all that. The bay was feather-white as my little vessel tore in, smothered in foam. It was my first experience of coming into port alone, with a craft of any size, and in among shipping. Old fishermen ran down to the wharf for which the ‘Spray’ was heading, apparently intent on braining herself there. I hardly know how a calamity was averted, but with my heart in my mouth, almost, I let go the wheel, stepped quickly forward, and downed the jib. The sloop naturally rounded in the wind, and just ranging ahead, laid her cheek against a mooring-pile at the windward corner of the wharf, so quietly, after all, that she would not have broken an egg. Very leisurely I passed a rope around the post, and she was moored. Then a cheer went up from the little crowd on the wharf. “You could n’t ‘a’ done it better” cried an old skipper,”if you weighed a ton”. Now, my weight was rather less than the fifteenth part of a ton, but I said nothing, only putting on a look of careless indifference to say for me, “Oh, that is nothing”; for some of the ablest sailors in the world were looking at me, and my wish was not to appear green, for I had a mind to stay in Gloucester several days. Had I uttered a word it surely would  have betrayed me, for I was still quite nervous and short of breath.

Beautifully written, and a wonderful story. That is Captain Joshua Slocum spinning a yarn, as he did so well. He was a master mariner; masterful also when it came to words:  indeed, he wanted to be known primarily as a writer – and  Sailing Alone around the World is surely the greatest maritime yarn ever spun.

The paragraph came to mind when I was thinking further about our Tasmanian friend, Captain Tom Spaulding. You may remember a previous commentary, in which I quoted from Traders under Sail, by Captain James Gillespie:

At the time of the sale, Captain Tom Spaulding inspected the vessel on a slipway, and being satisfied that she was sound, and would suit his purpose of trading between Tasmanian ports and Melbourne, said that he would purchase the ship if the vendor was prepared to take the auxiliary engine out. He wanted no part of these modern inventions and preferred to rely on the power of the wind and his own skill as a sailor. The vendor was happy to comply with the conditions of sale and had the engine removed.

Now that is pure class. What a man, and what a mariner. He put himself on the line; placed his faith in the ‘eternal verities’….the never-ending winds of the wide ocean; the sun and  moon and stars overhead; the passage of seabirds north, south, east, west; the tides and currents, signs and symbols of long experience and intuition.

We only have a few paragraphs about Captain Spaulding; enough, though, to give us a glimpse of his character.

Let us call him a sort of Tasmanian ‘Slocum’. I can imagine those two in the same room – I should say, cabin – telling what they knew, perhaps in company with Thoreau and Villiers and Howard I Chapelle and William Atkinson and Weston Martyr and the like. Dad would be there, quietly listening. I would no doubt be a fly on the wall: listening and learning, as these men and others (all jumbled up in my mind) shared their practical wisdom, their philosophies, their understanding of what matters – of what lasts the distance.

At first glance, Thoreau might seem out of place in that company of mariners. Certainly, he was a navigator of less obvious ‘tides and currents’. He explored the rivers of Maine Woods, by canoe;  in partnership with his brother, he  built a wooden vessel: a dory-like boat named Musketaquid; he lived for two years in a tiny cabin, beside Walden Pond; he walked the beaches of Cape Cod, and  thereafter wrote a book of maritime reflections.

In short, I believe he was a master mariner at heart, and in spirit. He cherished his independence – cherished, too, the ‘eternal verities’ mentioned above. They were his guides and source of inspiration. He followed his own path without compromise, and without faltering. We could almost call him prescient:

If a man loses pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music he hears, however measured or far away.

Which of course brings me back to Captain Tom Spaulding, and Traders under Sail. Here he is once again, stepping to the music of far away – the music best suited to his temperament and philosophy:

In 1934 Captain Spaulding had the Aristides lengthened  at Dover, in Tasmania, by Ernest Higgs. Her new dimensions were L 100.3′ x B 22.3′ x D 6.7′ and her tonnage was increased from 84 tons to 118 tons. With the tonnage now being in excess of 100 tons it was necessary for the vessel to be piloted in and out of ports where compulsory pilotage applied, until the  master had completed three voyages in and out of such ports with a pilot in charge. He then obtained a pilotage exemption certificate for those ports, which would permit him to take his vessel in and out without engaging the service of a licensed pilot.

A while back I came across a tiny photo of the captain, standing squarely on the deck of his vessel, below a great expanse of canvas. He is wearing an old waistcoat and battered hat, and from afar looks to be a little stout – one might say, immoveable. When I tried to enlarge the photo, the outlines became blurred: he belongs to a distant world which was, even then, slipping from his grasp….

Well, he chose his Way, and (like Slocum and Thoreau) did not falter – chose to maintain the nautical skills based on tradition and commonsense. Some might call him old-fashioned; I regard him as far-sighted. But more of that later. For the moment….here is the last of those few, precious paragraphs from Traders under Sail – brief and to the point:

The Aristides was wrecked on Three Hummock Island in Bass Strait, and her register closed in 1940.

Not an unfamiliar story – and I cannot yet say whether it has a direct bearing on the life of Captain Tom Spaulding. I will think on it.

It was a poetic recreation to watch those distant sails steering for half fabulous ports, whose very names are a mysterious music to our ears. Fayal, and Babel-mandel, ay, and Chagres, and Panama – bound to the famous Bay of San Francisco, and the golden streams of Sacramento and San Joaquin, to Feather River and  the American Fork, where Sutter’s Fort presides, and inland stands the  City of los Angeles. It is remarkable that men do not sail the sea with more expectation. Nothing remarkable was ever accomplished in a prosaic mood. The heroes and discoverers have found true more than was previously believed, only when they were expecting and dreaming of something more than their contemporaries dreamed of, or even themselves discovered, that is, when they were in a frame of mind fitted to behold the truth. Referred to the world’s standard, they are always insane.

From: Cape Cod….the beach again.
Henry David Thoreau

Each would-be boat awaits its destiny. As Dad used to say: patience is the most aggressive (powerful) virtue….

Sam and I strolled northwards a few weeks ago. Not a breath of wind. As you can see, the estuary looks tranquil –  but there is plenty of water flowing from the catchment. Note the wedge of late-winter sky to the south: gradations of colour (or bokashi) straight out of a Hiroshige woodblock print….

This is the first of a series. The wood is Eucalyptus camaldulensis, River Red gum: an unsuitable material for detailed low-relief carving….but after forty or so years, I am accustomed to the challenge.  Still plenty of work to do with palm chisels, miniature files (rifflers) and home-made sanding sticks. It’s a ‘bit by bit’ job:  a sort of fine-tuning….

I have been practicing the art of going in circles. The edge of this particular  rose design is usually defined by a  carved line – but I haven’t yet decided whether I will follow tradition: I quite like the look of an ‘open’ decoration. At any rate, I thought to try my hand  on a spare piece of Huon Pine. The first  cut is vertical; thereafter I angle the blade one way, then the other, to create a v-shaped groove. Not so easy; one false move and the game is over.

 

Sea Rat to Water Rat:
There, sooner or later, the ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and there, at its destined hour, the ship of my choice will let go its anchor. I shall take my time, I shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies waiting for me, warped out into midstream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing down harbour. I shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then one morning I shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the clink of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain coming merrily in. We shall break out the jib and the foresail, the white houses on the harbour side will glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way, and the voyage will have begun! As she forges towards the headland she will clothe herself with canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding slap of great green seas as she heels to the wind, pointing South!

And you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass, and never return, and the South still waits for you. Take the Adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes! ‘Tis but a banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life and into the new! Then some day, some day long hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the play has been played, and sit down by your quiet river with a store of goodly memories for company. You can easily overtake me on the road, for you are young, and I am aging and go softly. I will linger, and look back; and at last I will surely see you coming, eager and light- hearted, with all the South in your face!

 From: Wind in the Willows: by Kenneth Grahame