Thalassa
An Anthology
ON SAILING AND THE SEA
With an Introduction and Notes by Brian Coman
Paperback, 202 pages, 9781923224049
From the Introduction
By its very nature, an anthology is a very personal affair. It is
determined entirely by the tastes of the compiler and by the
breadth of his or her reading. This is especially the case when
the topic is a very broad one, as is mine. There are, no doubt,
many hundreds, if not thousands, of books and essays on the sea
and on sailing, and my selection represents only a tiny fraction
of the material available. I make no apology for this. It is
simply the result of the brevity of a single human life and, in my
case, of coming to an interest in the subject matter late in life.
Not until I was sixty-five years old did I first board a sailing
vessel and experience that highly specific sensation of gliding
over water with only the sounds of lapping waves and the hum of
keel and rigging.
Again, there is always a danger involved in selecting pieces for
an anthology. The selector assumes that particular works or
extracts of works will move the reader just as it moved him or
her. But, of course, literary tastes vary—“in matters of taste”,
goes the old maxim, “there can be no disputes”. One could overcome
the problem by sticking to well-known and much-loved classics,
whose popularity has stood the test of time. But then, where’s the
point of producing yet another collection similar to the last? I
have tried to steer a middle course in this matter, dispersing
little-known authors amongst old favourites. This particular
arrangement has certain advantages. The reader, coming across some
obscure (to him or her) writer rubbing shoulders with an old
favourite, might be pleasantly surprised to find just how well
this new intruder measures up. There again, reading an anthology
ought to be a voyage of discovery, opening new vistas.
In choosing this arrangement, I had a particular model in mind. As
a young schoolboy, I was introduced to the various volumes of The
Victorian School Reader. Each Reader was an anthology of prose and
poetry where Henry Kendall might sit next to Shakespeare, or Henry
Lawson to Charles Lamb. The effect was marvellous. I owe a great
debt of gratitude to the compilers of those Readers, for they
stimulated in me an interest in literature which was to be a
source of inestimable pleasure over the ensuing decades. This
present volume could never hope to match the achievements of those
early Readers, but in attempting to emulate their particular
approach, I hope that I might gain, for authors whose works
deserve a wider audience, at least a few new admirers.
The reader of this collection will quickly note that I have
limited myself to older accounts of sailing and of the sea—few of
the extracts are later than the 1950s. This was a deliberate
choice. There have been some epic sailing adventures in more
modern times, but I have omitted them in favour of an era lacking
satellite tracking and other modern navigation guides, radio
communication, and sophisticated sea rescue methods. There is
something in that mix of real danger and human determination which
gives the older accounts a sharper edge. I have also omitted
accounts of racing yachts though there are many fine accounts
available. This again, reflects my own interests. I have not a
competitive bone in my body. Mark Twain once quipped that it is
“difference of opinion that makes horse-races”. I feel the same
about yacht racing.
My limited purpose in making this collection was to gather
together some of those accounts which have moved me by their
eloquence in describing the business of sailing and the moods and
phenomena of the sea. Not all of my extracts are written by
sailors; Freya Stark, for instance, was not a sailor, but her
ability to paint, in word-pictures, the moods of the sea and the
characteristics of sailing vessels, is unparalleled. Some of my
chosen authors are little-known. H.C. Barkley wrote a couple of
little-known works for young people but his description of a wild
storm and of a ship-wreck is superb. Likewise, the Irish author,
Maurice O’Sullivan, is little known today, but his Twenty Years
A-Growing was once considered a classic. The collection includes
the work of some sadly neglected Australian writers. Here, I have
deviated a little from my stated purpose by including an account
of a river journey by paddleboat, but the spirit of a sea
adventure is there.
In my selection, I have exhibited an unashamed bias towards
accounts dealing with the ancient world. Like my sailing and
boat-building, I came to Homer at a late age, and it was a
revelation. The Odyssey and Iliad contain some of the most
beautiful, short descriptions of the sea and its creatures that
have ever been recorded. Who has not heard of “the wine-dark sea”;
who has not been moved by that lovely description, “down the shore
of the sounding sea”? I sometimes think that all Western
literature is, in a sense, merely footnotes to Homer, for in Homer
is the seedbed of all human experience. For this and for other
reasons mentioned above, my chosen extracts follow no strict
chronological order. In sailing, the old and the new are always
companionable, for the experience is unaltered.
But, more than anything else, the experience of sailing alone on
the vast expanse of the ocean or walking alone along the shore of
that “sounding sea” engenders the activity of reflection and of
human imagination. “Life”, Plotinus said, “is the flight of the
alone to the alone”. True enough: when the winds are strong, the
sailor must devote all of his or her attention to the task, but in
placid weather, the gentle lap of waves, the gurgling wake, the
caress of soft airs and the immensity of the surrounding waters,
brings on that pensive mood of personal reflection. I have tried,
in making my selections, to include such experiences. This
reflective mood is no better exemplified than in the writings of
Hilaire Belloc. Many readers will be surprised to see him
represented here, but he was more than just a fine sailor; he had
a rare ability to represent, in the written word, that sort of
deep longing that so often accompanies an experience of beauty or
tranquillity. C.S. Lewis once described it as “an unsatisfied
desire which is itself more desirable than any other
satisfaction”. And so, coming into port, or dropping anchor, has a
much deeper significance for Belloc and the spiritual quest is
never far away. This, too, will explain my inclusion of Tennyson’s
Crossing the Bar and an extract from Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach.
At the other extreme, the men sailing on the large merchantmen had
that experience of living in close contact with their
comrades—working together, sleeping in the same cramped quarters
and, in the little leisure time available to them, relaxing in the
same forecastle. Here, too, were men from every corner of the
globe, from every conceivable background and holding diverse
philosophies and religious beliefs. Perhaps no-one has better
explored the group psychology attending this situation than Joseph
Conrad in his novels.
No-one knows when humans first took to sailing in boats. Perhaps
it was the ancient Egyptians or Phoenicians. Certainly, by Homer’s
time it was one of the main means of commerce in the
Mediterranean. Commercial sailing reached its zenith in the age of
the great clippers and then declined as the age of steam overtook
it. The steamers, in turn, gave way to oil power. Today, large
sailing ships are, for the most part, museum pieces, sailing for
the tourist trade. The more romantically inclined among my readers
will, like me, see this as a sort of regression, and they will
then understand why I have included John Masefield’s Cargoes. But
the age of sail is not dead. Small sailing boats are still very
popular, kept alive in large measure by the sport of competitive
sailing. Even where I live, in north-central Victoria, we have a
sailing club and an inland lake to enjoy the sport. Each year, a
cohort of young boys and girls is introduced to sailing at our
club. I hope that they might, one day, come to love the sheer
enjoyment of sailing, for its own sake and experience, as my
chosen authors have experienced, that special sense of unity with
a vessel that only sailing can give. For a boat under sail is
almost a living thing, as many of my chosen extracts seek to
demonstrate.
My first sailing boat, a Hartley 16, was called The Governor. The
next and larger boat was, understandably, called The Governor
General. Perhaps, before I die, I might justifiably call my last
boat The Governed, but I doubt it. No matter! When these ageing
limbs can no longer haul in the main sheet or hold the tiller in a
hard wind, I will have my books. With these, I can sit in my chair
and sail the world. It is my hope that the reader of this
collection can do likewise.
Finally, I must acknowledge my debt to Maurice Nestor, formerly of
La Trobe University, who acquainted me with several excellent
books on sailing and the sea. Another colleague, Dorothy Avery,
gave me access to her late husband’s excellent library of
sea-faring books. I thank them both. The first edition of this
book was expertly copy-edited by Jessica Milroy and any layout
errors in this edition are the responsibility of the author.
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