Before I joined the Picton Castle, I often wondered what I would do with my free time at sea. I knew what I wouldn’t be doing–talking on the phone, watching TV, surfing the internet, shopping with my sisters, going out for coffee or meals with friends. One thing is for certain, there is no shortage of time when you are at sea. Sometimes I have to look for things to do, but I never have to look very far. Here are some of my favourite free time activities at sea:

• Reading. I have always loved books. When I was a kid I used to get in trouble for reading in bed by the bathroom light when I should have been falling asleep. I brought a few books with me but certainly not a year’s supply, so that’s where the ship’s library comes in. There are three shelves in the salon stuffed full of any kind of book imaginable. I think I have read more in the past nine months than I have in the past five years. Reading is my number one favourite free time activity.
• Craft projects. Before Christmas I decided to make each of my shipmates a bracelet with hemp and beads, which turned out to be a lot of work. I brought all kinds of glass and plastic beads, strings and wires with me and I have been collecting shells from a lot of different places to make fancy jewelry. I recently finished my ditty bag by tacking in the wooden bottom. I started knitting a pair of mittens in the Pacific Ocean and although I only have half of one mitten done, I hope to have a pair by the time we return to Lunenburg. I also have cross-stitch kits just waiting for me to open them and start.
• Keeping a journal. I try to write in my journal every night, not a lot, just a quick recap of the day’s activities. I found out in Bali that my parents have been keeping a journal at home while I’ve been away, and I want to have something to share with them when I get home.
• Talking to my shipmates. It’s amazing how much time can pass during a good conversation. There’s bound to be someone to talk with on the Aloha Deck or the Well Deck, and since the crew is a collection of interesting people, there’s almost always something interesting to talk about. We discuss the weather, ship’s work, our shipmates, food, good books, and strange dreams, and we tell stories from home.
• Watching DVDs. I never thought that I would watch movies or TV shows on board, but a lot of my shipmates have laptops and they prefer having friends to watch with. The girls of the Bat Cave have recently become obsessed with The 4400, Ollie’s most recent TV series, and we have watched an episode every night for the past few weeks.
• Napping. I used to be terrible at napping, waking up grumpy and un-rested, but since I joined the ship I have become a champion napper. I can hardly remember the last time I slept through the night between watches, so usually a small nap in the day is necessary. Sometimes the problem is when a short naps turns into a longer one, but that’s not always such a bad thing.

Editor’s Note: Maggie is a trainee from Brampton, Ontario. A resident of the After Cabin (nick-named the “Bat-Cave” before being restored), she is with the Picton Castle for all of our Fourth World Voyage.

Maggie Ostler

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Location: 31° 58.5′S / 29° 19.7′E Ordered Course: Hove-to
Day’s Run: 117 nautical miles
Distance to Cape Town, South Africa: 677 nm

We’ve had a little bit of weather that set us back about 12 hours of being hove-to, but we are underway again, bound for Cape Town!

Last evening’s 4-8 Watch was busy, but not too bad. Haul tight weather braces and the same old routine. The seas were still swelly but we did not pay much mind anymore. Overnight the weather changed and kept the watches on their toes. At 0100 the wind came ahead to N x W and the 12-4 Watch braced sharp on a starboard tack. The Mate altered the ship’s course at 0130 because the wind was ahead and down, and the order came to take in and stow all square sails. At 0200 the Watch set the foretopmast stays’l and at 0215 the main engine was fired up. By 0300 the wind had picked up and the forward lookout was moved to the bridge because of waves sloshing up to the foc’s’l head, and the Picton Castle’s course was altered to W x N.

When our watch came on deck at 0350, it was really windy and gusty out, at least a Force 6 (strong breeze), which is a far cry from the Force 2 only a short while before. At 7 PM we had been making between 9.7 and 10.9 knots and now, at 0400, we were making only 3 knots in strong headwinds and headseas. At 0410 the ship’s course was altered to NW x W and we were ordered to take in the inner jib, a routine task that becomes hazardous if you are not careful on a night like last night. The members of our watch had to move about the foc’s’l head and decks in a buddy system for a time because walking was difficult and with the wind on the foredeck, it was dodgy to be up there alone. Tracy and Rebecca went out on the head rig to quickly stow the inner jib. I was standing by on the foc’s’l head to keep an eye on them and Maggie came to watch me and Torunn had to walk her there. By 0530 the wind force was a strong 7 (small gale) and there was salt water in the air. At 0535 I was ordered to put the helm hard left and we hove to. The Picton Castle would heave-to until the near-gale conditions improved. When I stood down from forward lookout at 0750, the wind was up to a force 7-8 (moderate gale) and there were streaks of foam on the surface of the water behind the white caps. We all got wet and we were a little chilly, but the swells were not that terrible and the watch went well and without incident.

At 5 PM this evening the weather had improved significantly, and Chief Engineer Danie was ordered to fire up the main engine and 2nd Mate Greg was ordered to steer us SW x W toward Cape Town! An hour ago the breeze freshened and our Watch loosed and set headsails, spanker and the topsails. We are now motor-sailing along at 7 knots! Our watch really likes to go aloft and work and then come down to deck to sail handle. Springing into action at the last minute has got us all wired up and giddy, even though we’ve just been sent Watch Below. We’ll see what adventures the waters off the coast of South Africa bring to the Picton Castle tonight and tomorrow.

In the evening we had a little sing along with Jean Claude on squeeze-box, and Logan on strings in the carpenter’s shop up under the foc’s’le head.

Location: 17° 27.0′S / 81° 43.0′E

“Easy does it! … Higher!” he called down at me, pushing me to keep going. “Keep your hands on the shrouds, feet on ratlin’s! … One step at a time!” He could not contain the thrill of taking a new person aloft, and his pleasure came at my expense. Because I was petrified, his easy and supportive grin was as distressing to me as if it were a sinister smile that curled his cheeks up against his squinting dark eyes.

“Hustle it up!” he teased, “This ain’t no fat-belly, fakers ship ya know!” My pride battled my better sense to keep my feet on terra firma, “I’ll be darned if some kid is gonna taunt me on my first climb aloft.” I submerged my fears to at least the pit of my belly and took another step.

Looking aloft from on deck, my teacher and I would have appeared as two faceless bodies, backs arched against all the forces trying to hold them down to the deck as they carefully ascended into sheets of white stone. One, the younger, was seasoned with confidence and the other nearing his capacity, filled with eager innocence. Both climbers, regardless of experience share a zest for salt water, boundless horizons, and a need for a breeze dampened by God’s own sweat. The air aloft dripped heavy with His breath.

I gripped the pitched, vertical rope, looked to the heavens for another hold, heaved a weighty foot and hauled against the mass of my stubborn frame. Again. Again. Repeating the task endlessly. My ears became attuned to the shrill choir of wind bending the sail canvas into heart-shaped curves around me. A harmony played through the webbing of clews, bunts and braces. A leaf-less forest of rigging surrounded me, branching from the turf of the deck below to the towering Mainmast trunk above. This classic old ship sings her nearly hundred year old melody to every sailor who joins her.

I was scared but my teacher was not one to coddle a frightened soul, and at that moment I imagined him to be the devil and I imagined that this torturous first climb must be what hell is like. The young demon hung from the narrow shrouds above me. His voice cracked above the chorus, and his frank coolness sharply juxtaposed my anxiety and his self-assurance made me feel as small as if he were egging me on. The upper Tops’l yard hung within inches of my desperate grip. I lunged, grasped and hauled again. This time I coaxed my lanky leg higher than usual, stretching its aching, tightened muscles out onto the yard. I hugged myself tightly to the main branch of this powerful tree, my breath refusing to be caught.

Turning my head from my desperate perch I spied Lucifer sitting freehanded near the starboard end of the yard. Below, on deck, he is commonly known as John. Just John. Quiet and unpretentious. Up here in the jungle though, he changes. He looked across at me and smirked.

“Welcome to paradise!” I heard a strangely bright but cloudy voice say. I straightened myself up and looked out across the expanse of liquid turquoise, unable to discern where the ocean stopped and the heavens began.

“Wow!”

Of all the words in my vocabulary that I could have called upon to describe the grandeur, elegance, strength and beauty of the scene before me, the only utterance I could dig from my churning gut to enunciate my awe was, “Wow;” the single syllable escaped my slightly salt-chapped lips and we hung together sixty feet above the deck - the foyer to God’s own palace. To us “tree-climbing mortality mockers,” no word other than “Wow” could have described that heaven more adequately. The music, the statuesque sails, the tree-trunk mast … the vastness of blue eternity spreading before us …

“Wow!”

Then … another change. I looked again across the mast to see John gazing at the shapely wings of this ship, hidden in his own thoughts. My thoughts. Twelve thousand square feet of pressed dirty white sheets harnessed the Creator’s brute force. This silent engine propelling us to places so magical and beautiful only the Master Himself could conjure. Ceaselessly cutting us forward, the ship split the aquatic world below in two, leaving behind a small, whitewashed trail, which in turn is swallowed again by the sparkling depths of blue beneath.

I might have sat there for minutes or for hours. Time was meaningless. Maybe there is no time once a dream has been claimed. Once God’s choir has been heard for the first time through manila lines.

A minute later came the heckling of the now slightly less horrid voice again, interrupting my serenity. His eyes tightened and that sly, devilish grin reappeared. “Lets go higher!”

I felt tugged in two directions. One was to square myself to all those known ratlin’s and descend to the familiar safety of the below. The other, the more forceful tug, the one I knew I had to succumb to — urged me climb further aloft. I hated the evil temptation of scaling higher but deep down I loved John’s confident suggestion of eclipsing the Royal. Cautiously I answered by rolling off the yard and reaching skyward making headway up to the king of sails. Fear gave way to excitement, and excitement gave way to confidence. Feathers lifted my feet this time. If the Upper Tops’l was the entrance to God’s paradise, the Royal must be His living room. His towering invitation sprawled above me. This time I climbed ahead of John!

Nearing ninety feet I stalled …

“Oh crud!!?”

I stopped under the small cantilevered ladder overhanging above me. John swung round to the opposite shrouds and raised himself to my eyes. Dante’s fire sparked from his pupils. He motioned for me to keep going and with fiendish delight he squealed, “Lubbers leap!”

As a first time climber on this floating tree, I knew I had an excuse. I could have claimed small victory and turned back now. I wrestled between my thoughts and fears. How could I even entertain the idea of quitting? Not when the glory of a man meeting the pinnacle of his sailing dream lay so close at hand! At this point, any resemblance or notion of a man intentionally confining himself to his landlocked ideals of supposed safety was to be discarded immediately. I refused to quit. This was my right of passage! My baptism was to climb up, outboard and up again!

I reached up over the futtocks’ cantilevered perimeter grasping at the air until I felt the firm continuation of shrouds above. No caution remained in my spirit. I boosted my exhausted, boney soul into the full trust of the highest of the rigging. I screamed silently and with a desperate tug I kicked my heels up at this last unconquered space, swinging by my fingertips, The final, highest yard at hand … I … I … The choir stopped. Above the futtocks there are no more branches or rigging left for the wind to make an audible melody. All that was left was a quiet, moist wisp of air moving across my ears. An angel’s welcoming kiss.

Awe came over me like an overwhelming epiphany. Perhaps the greatest thing on all of earth and sea was revealed to me there — that of the reward of the struggle in gaining an entirely new point of view. Again I stood on a narrow footrope a little wider than my thumb and looked across the blue expanse, this time from the most regal of perches. The Master’s armchair. I looked down at the tiny deck creatures far below, beyond earshot. From here the ship possessed the curves of the most beautiful women, swimming effortlessly into heaven’s horizon. Not even “wow,” that captivating three-letter word, could include the freedom I felt at this moment. I stood there long enough to fill my sails with as much of God’s sweet breath as I could contain.

16° 58.2′S / 84° 06.0′E

The experiences of the Picton Castle crew might not exactly mirror the fantasy vision that landlubbers have of a voyage at sea aboard a magnificent square-rigged tall ship. But then this was true for Richard Henry Dana too. But this sure is the real thing. This is not a luxury cruise with air conditioning, refrigeration or private staterooms. The ship requires that her crew put a lot of time and effort into tending to her needs, often at the cost of our foregoing our own, if not needs, certainly our conveniences. Sure, we get to spend extended periods of time at sea, leaving behind a world that is so fast paced that there are not enough hours in a day. But then our hearts soar when working aloft among 12,500 square feet of canvas sails and watch with pride as the seams of canvas sewn together by the hands of our shipmates possess the strength to harnesses the power of the wind. But we also chip rust in the blistering heat, surrender our privacy, endure the task of scooping water from the bilge of the skiff with our bare hands and a soup can, and sand and varnish the same rails time and again. With the wrong attitude (and this is taken day by day) these can feel like mere chores, but we do it without hesitation because she is our ship and our home and our pride all rolled into one, and she faithfully rewards us for our efforts.

“The love that is given to ships is profoundly different from the love men feel for every other work of their hands; the love they bear their houses, for instance, because it is untainted by the pride of possession. The pride of skill, the pride of responsibility, the pride of endurance there may be, but otherwise it is a disinterested sentiment.” So wrote Joseph Conrad. As if the seaman belongs to the ship not the other way around. And the ship belongs to the sea and, thus, so do we.

By day the Picton Castle is a thrilling classroom. She continually challenges us on a personal and professional level, demanding that we evolve and grow as seamen, people and shipmates, and demanding that we rise to new challenges and apply our seamanship skills in unpredictable situations. By night, however, under the cloak of darkness, she is positively magical!

When the 12-4 Watch took the deck tonight, the clouds parted and it looked as though someone twisted the top off the world to let us see the stars in a way that no other human on earth is privy to. The small 3-4 foot swells are tumbling along her beam, bubbling and sloshing with a sound akin to those of waves lapping at the shore. Swirls and flashes of phosphorescence light up in the Picton Castle’s bow wake as magical as the trail of Pixie Dust that Tinkerbell sprinkled to make Peter Pan’s ship lift high into the night sky and sail off into the stars. The swells are low and gentle and the breeze is moderate, but not too fresh. She is braced on a Port tack with her square and studding sails set, her bunts nipped and hanging loosely below the foot of the swollen sails.

Before our Watch mustered at quarter to the hour, I sat on the cargo-hatch cover among the shadows midships for a short time. I had my gaze directed so high aloft that my head was tilted back to the point that my breathing was restricted. I watched the sails bow out as the wind hit their “sweet spot,” the helmsman guiding the ship with the intuition gained from an hour’s trick, filling her sails just right. Tonight these enormous scraps of canvas propel our 300 ton Barque forward through black waters that are dotted with whitecaps that glow eerily in the starlight. And as I sat on the Hatch I watched and listened as the sails, burdened with so much responsibility, rose to their task and did so in absolute silence. Not a single snap of a sheet. Not a shiver from the filled canvas. Not a song in the rigging as the breeze weaves in and out between the manila lines that run down to deck. Silently the ship goes to work. Her crew sensitive to her ways because tonight we are gathered together on the Quarter Deck and talk amongst ourselves in especially hushed voices so as not to disturb the endless magic is at hand.

The young apprentice may have come aboard with his head filled with queer ideas about sailing ships and the sea. His first month at sea may be a distressing experience, shattering illusions right and left until he sees only the bare bones of real life remain. He expected romance, and found work; he expected a “great life” and found himself principally called upon to perform feats of almost superhuman endurance - feats which everybody did daily and never noticed. Then, after a while and he settled into things, he finds that there really can be romance in those bare bones of life, if one knows how to go about looking for it; and he sings while he works aloft, and laughs when he is wet for the twentieth time in succession, and turns out quickly when the call is for all hands on deck, though he made the acquaintance of his bunk only half an hour ago. Yes, the sailing ship can be hard, and it is not always a pleasant process having the edges knocked off you. But the ship casts a spell over those who sail in her.

Captain Allen Villiers, writing in “The Way of Ship”

Last evening Chief Allen came aboard the Picton Castle with his wife, Mrs. Chief Allen, for dinner. I was invited to join them and the Captain and a few other members of the crew on the quarterdeck where table had been set for us to enjoy a delightful evening under the stars. Chief Allen’s English is excellent, as I’m sure are the other four languages he speaks, including Bislama, and over dinner and a few glasses of wine the conversation ranged far and wide. Along the way we came to discuss the local diet and how the people of Bwatnapne Bay obtain their food. We touched only briefly upon the chief’s garden, but I clearly remember saying that I’d love to see it. Then the conversation moved on. By morning I’ve forgotten all about it. Chief Allen has not.

The next morning bright and early (the day, not me), I say good morning to Chief Allen. He has come back aboard to conduct some business with the captain. I am getting prepared to go snorkeling. But I am quickly reminded of my appointment with the local vegetables, and I hastily swap towel and fins for bug spray and my most sensible pair of sandals.

The “skiff,” the ship’s boat, gently touches the steep coral beach and we hop ashore with the bags of clothes the captain has traded with the chief. We drop these off at the chief’s house and we are off. After we leave the village it is pretty much over the river and through the woods, then up the hill. Did I mention how hot and humid it is?

Along the way I ask Chief Allen how he came to be chief of Bwatnapne Bay. He had not been born at the bay but nearby on the same island of Pentecost. He had spent several years working as a teacher on another Island in the Vanuatu group, where he had met his wife—or where he had “pinched” her, as said with a grin.

It turns out that the position of chief is neither hereditary nor elected. It’s more of a consensual arrangement with the people of the village. If you consider yourself to be a good man who does good work for the community and feel you have what it takes, you basically declare your intention. Next, the chiefs from all the surrounding villages arrive on the appointed day for a pig roast. Your ability to be chief is then apparently (but not really) judged on the basis of how many pigs you kill for the roast. In an interesting twist, the pigs are actually supplied by the visiting chiefs. After your ascension to chiefdom you are obliged to pay them back. As far as selecting a leader goes, I have to say that far worse methods spring to mind.

Chief Allen’s garden faces mostly south and west. The soil is a lovely reddish brown. I could see the ship at anchor in the bay from up behind a stand of paw-paws. However, the word garden means something different to me: flowers in beds with lawns and hedges and a bird table. Chief Allen’s garden is not formal; it’s functional. It’s not without beauty, but that is clearly not its purpose. The garden is tidy in so much as the weeds are under control—no small feat I’m sure—but the object here is growing food and a few other crops, not creating a nice place to sip Pimms on a summer afternoon.

The garden covers about three or four hectares, broken up into patches with jungle in between. It’s mostly on a steep slope. While the crops are vaguely separated into different zones, none of these are exclusive. Pineapples grow next to sugar cane and manioc (cassava); taro grows beneath bread-fruit trees. This, I am sure, helps reduce the damage caused by crop diseases and pests, which thrive in the monoculture stands you find in the vegetable gardens and farms in more developed countries. A straggly-looking herb in the tomato/yam/tobacco area turns out to be a “weed,” but it keeps the bugs off the tomatoes. “Weed” seems a little harsh. When I ask Chief Allen what kinds of pesticides and fertilizers he uses, he politely stifles a laugh. Everything is organic, although here the term is redundant—that’s the only kind of food they grow.

The last time I picked bananas, on Pitcairn Island, Steve Christian raised me up in the front bucket of the tractor and I cut the bunch free with Steve’s knife. I’d left my knife rig at his home out of habit (most places you go it’s not too smart to wander around with a large knife and metal marlinspike at your hip). In Chief Allen’s garden I find myself ill equipped once again, but it is not a problem; the chief has his machete (as always, I suspect), and in short shrift he cuts the whole tree down, casually catching the bananas as they reach shoulder height. Why not leave the tree to grow another bunch? Well, the steep, uneven ground rules out the use of ladders and, anyway, another tree will spring up from the felled tree’s root system in no time at all. Looking around at the lush jungle that surrounds the garden, and from which it was obviously carved, it’s easy to believe that that’s true. (Editor’s note: Banana trees can produce only once. They are not really trees but more of a perennial.)

As we stroll (hike) through the garden, Chief Allen’s pride is obvious, perhaps stoked by my interest. When not detained by his chiefly duties Chief Allen spends about half of every day working his garden. His machete serves as axe, knife, and spade as he harvests pineapples, plantains, and yams. Some things here I recognise: tomatoes, cabbage, and spring onions. More things I don’t. Some do not have English names.

My favourite new vegetable is the Island Cabbage. I’m sure it is no Brassicae. It tasted more like spinach at lunch the day before, and now that I see it growing out of the ground it looks a little like a nasturtium, only upright and leggy. Chief Allen picks a huge bundle and wraps it in a banana leaf as a gift for the ship, but on board it doesn’t taste half as good. There’s probably a trick to cooking it.

After about an hour we start gathering the morning’s harvest to head back. I am feeling pretty sturdy—a big sack of manioc over my shoulder, a few mangos under the other arm, coming down the steep muddy path. Spiky things scratch my legs, while vines snatch at my ankles. Then as we come to a clearing Chief Allen tells his ten-year-old granddaughter to take the manioc. I might have protested, but I don’t. After all, it is about two miles back to the village.

Four years ago when I told my sailing buddy, Mark, that I had decided to sail around the world on the Picton Castle, he immediately replied, “Bruce, you are going to be visiting some of the top dive sites in the world and if you don’t take the time to dive them you will be missing half the trip.” He was right. Mark has been an avid SCUBA diver for about 20 years, and shortly after our conversation, I enrolled in a dive class at my local PADI dive center. I earned my Advanced Open Water certification, and began preparing for this upcoming adventure. I practiced deep dives, night dives, wreck dives, and underwater photography (which, by the way, is a lot tougher—and more expensive—than it looks) so by the time we set sail I felt very confident in my diving ability.During my interview with Captain Moreland, I asked him about bringing dive gear and his advice was, “If the island doesn’t have a certified dive shop, it isn’t worth diving there. You can rent everything you need, so keep what you bring to a minimum.” By this time I had grown accustomed to (and quite fond of) my own gear, but I packed only my mask, snorkel, fins, dive computer, regulator, and a lightweight (0.5 ml) wetsuit and left behind the bulkier items—the BCD and heavier wetsuits.

As the crew arrived in Lunenburg, I found seven other divers among them, and we began talking and planning our dives along the way.

The stop at Jost Van Dyke in the British Virgin Islands was short and unexpected, and while the diving is good, especially on the wreck of the Rhone, we had no time there to get away and coordinate anything. Perhaps on our return leg, we’ll have the pleasure of diving in the BVI.

Our next port of call was Panama City. We were eager to get wet, but when we arrived we found that most of the dive centers were located on the Caribbean side of the isthmus. There was only one dive shop near Panama City. I called there, and being on short notice, they were unable to accommodate us. Also, the dives there are about a 2.5-hour boat ride out to some islands of the Pacific coast. So we set our sights on the Galapagos Islands.

Once in the Galapagos, we discovered that most of the best dive sites were in the northern part of the islands and were accessed by live-aboard dive charter boats on 5–7 day trips. Since we had only a few days and we were all assigned different duty days aboard the ship, we opted to go with a local PADI shop, called Charo’s Dive Center. Charo and his crew took very good care of us on a couple of local dives at Kicker Rock and Lobos Island.

Kicker Rock is a split rock standing tall out of the sea about 25 minutes by dive boat from our harbor anchorage at Puerto Barquerizo Moreno, the main seaport town on San Cristobal. The water is quite cold (the prevailing current flows up from the Antarctic), but my 7 ml wetsuit kept me warm as we dove 80 feet down and swam around the rock. We caught a glimpse of a Galapagos shark, an eagle ray, and we also saw beautiful sea stars among the colorful algae on the rock.

Later that day, we dove at La Isla de Los Lobos. It was a shallow dive of 20–25 feet along a sandy reef between the main island of San Cristobal and the smaller Lobos island. The smaller island was inhabited only by sea lions. As I was entranced with the number of stunning pincushion sea stars along the sandy bottom, my dive buddy, J.D., grabbed my fin and motioned upward. Behind and above us were baby sea lions frolicking and making sweeping passes at us. Although they are very territorial and at times aggressive on shore, in the water these creatures were amazingly friendly, curious, and playful. They tagged along like puppies throughout most of our 40-minute dive. In the shallows of the reef we witnessed marine iguanas feeding on the algae.

Our next opportunity to dive was in Rarotonga, although we did some pretty extensive snorkeling in Mangareva, where the reef revealed white-tipped sharks (about 5 feet long), octopus, lots of parrot fish, butterfly fish, angel fish, and wrasses. There were no dive shops on Mangareva. My theory is that because of the extensive pearl farming there, they are reluctant to have a bunch of SCUBA divers swimming around their oyster beds.

Then on to Rarotonga. We were all excited at the prospect of donning tanks again, but while the dive shops there were all well equipped and ran some first-rate dive operations, the dives were lackluster. We booked a couple of dives with Cook Island Divers, the oldest dive shop on the island and we had a great time with them. But much of the reef we saw had been destroyed by pollution and was rife with Sigua Terra, a bacterium in the algae. It is harmless to reef fish, but if the fish are eaten by humans, the bacterium causes an irreversible neuropathy. There is an effort to revive the reef and evidence that it is slowly coming back to life, but we saw little live coral and few reef fish there. What an unfortunate situation.

After Rarotonga, we snorkeled on Palmerston Atoll and found more reef life there. Without the threat of Sigua Terra, we tried our hand at a bit of spear fishing, but the fish proved far too smart and agile for us.

A short sail later and we were once again strapping on the tanks to dive at Tonga, and what a thrill that was! The reefs were beautiful, with a variety of fish and other reef animals that we had expected to see since our arrival in the South Pacific. One dive was on a site called “The Chinese Garden.” Here, the table coral stretch across acres of reef and the landscape is covered with Christmas Tree Worms. These lacy, conical-shaped animals live attached to the coral and rock and are about 1.5–2 inches high in brilliant shades of blue, yellow, white, red, green, and black. As we swam over the terrain, I thought that not even an IMAX camera could capture the beauty of that reef!

The next day we went for a couple more fantastic dives on a wall and through several underwater caves, then spent a couple of hours whale watching with a mother and 2-week-old baby humpback whale. What awesome and graceful creatures they are!

Fiji was our next stop, and we were already psyched up for the “Soft Coral Capital.” We were not disappointed. What we saw in Tonga somewhat paled to the beauty, variety, and vibrant life in the Beqa (pronounced Benka) Lagoon. In short, the diving was getting better as we sailed West. The Beqa lagoon is a wide reef between Viti Levu and the smaller island of Beqa to its south. Here we saw multitudes (no exaggeration) of Angelfish, Wrasses, Parrotfish, Butterfly fish, Chromis, Clown fish, Shrimp, Octopus, Lionfish, Sea Stars, Sea Cucumbers, Eels, Goatfish, Squirrelfish, and Grouper among huge growths of staghorn, table, brain, and soft coral, alongside sea fans, anemones, and urchins. Fiji was, indeed, an underwater paradise and the best reef dives so far. I am told that the Western Coast of Viti Levu around Nadi (that’s right, pronounced Nandi) also has some spectacular diving, and I regretted not being able to stay longer to explore the other dive sites. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to return.

As we set sail for Vanuatu, all the divers began focusing on our first opportunity to do a wreck dive. Now, this is not just any wreck, but rated one of the top 60 dive sites in the world. The wreck of the SS President Coolidge. A luxury liner built in 1931 and pressed into service during World War II, the President Coolidge served as a troop transport for American forces in the South Pacific. On its fourth trip as a troop transport carrying 5,000 troops, as it was approaching Luganville on Espiritu Santo, Vanuatu, miscommunication caused the ship to strike a mine. The ship’s captain put her full speed ahead in an attempt to beach her but his attempt was thwarted by the reef. There was no panic as the 5,000 troops disembarked, and many even walked to shore. There were only two deaths: one man was killed in the explosion, and an army captain, finding the man missing, went back on the ship to find him and lost his life in the attempt. The ship sank in 90 minutes. Later, during a cyclone, she slipped to the bottom and now rests on her port side, completely intact on a gentle slope between 60 and 230 feet deep.

After the war, salvagers recovered the propeller, bunker oil, brass, copper, and electric motors. But in 1983 the Vanuatu government declared that no salvage or recovery of any artifact was allowed from the Coolidge. One of those involved with the salvage operation was a man named Allen Powers, who currently runs Allen Powers dive tours. Allen has more than two years of bottom time and has intimate knowledge of both the wreck and the reef around it. Since the wreck is so deep, Allen leaves plenty of surface interval between dives and we spent the four hours between dives hanging out at Allen’s place, having tea, coffee, and rolls, asking questions, and pouring through the extensive library he has accumulated on the President Coolidge.

So, we dove into history and viewed the awesome splendor of this 654-foot ocean liner with its holds and compartments filled with WWII relics such as jeeps, tanks, halftracks, big guns, rifles, helmets, mess kits, china, and silverware. And, of course, we can’t forget “The Lady.” The lady is a porcelain panel of a woman and a unicorn. A well-known artifact among dive enthusiasts, it measures about 2 feet by 3 feet. It was originally in the smoking lounge, but in the 1980s its fastenings gave way and it fell. Suffering only minor damage that was easily repaired, she was moved up to the main dining room, a location farther forward in the ship and more easily accessible for divers to see. I did five dives on the Coolidge, including a night dive into the hold and chain locker to view tiny headlight fish. These creatures have phosphorescent “lights” on their gills and in the pitch black of the hold at night, they appear to twinkle like fireflies on a summer’s eve.

That’s about it so far for our underwater adventures with the Picton Castle dive group. We’re all looking forward to the beautiful reefs and walls off Bali, and to cage diving with Great White Sharks off Mozambique and South Africa. We’ll keep you posted!

• Position: 12° 32.5′S, 153° 06.0′E
• Weather: Overcast, rain squalls
• Wind: Force 3 (gentle wind; crests break, whitecaps)
• Sails: Braced nearly sharp on a Port Tack
• Speed: 5.3 knots

The sea cook has one of the most difficult jobs onboard a ship: he is responsible for keeping the crew well fed while in port and underway. Joe, the Picton Castle’s cook, plans well in advance when provisioning for long ocean passages because at sea we cannot run out to the grocery store for a carton of milk. We have to make do with the resources that are already onboard. So the veggie lockers and fruit hammocks are well stocked when we leave each port, fresh meats and fish go into the freezers, and the types of food items that we run through most quickly are stocked up again (besides the essentials, our crew has a sweet tooth for packages of cookies).

In old sailing ship lingo Joe is called an “idler,” meaning he sleeps through the night and has specific duties to perform during the work day. Joe wakes up at 4:30 every morning to heat the water for coffee and tea and to make “Mug Up” (traditionally hard tack, jam and coffee, but we get muffins and all sorts of baked treats) to serve to the 4–8 watch around 5:45 AM. He then prepares breakfast for 50 people to be served in two sittings. He prepares three meals daily, paying especially close attention to details such as making sure we get a balanced diet and also tries to meet individual dietary needs (i.e., vegetarian or non-dairy options) as often as possible. Joe’s work day ends only when dinner is finished, around 6:30 PM.

One hundred and fifty years ago the position of sea cook might have gone to the youngest or least physically capable crew member onboard the ship. It was not considered a profession and consisted mainly of chopping and boiling, and cleaning the pots and pans. On a whale ship, the cook would have also had the responsibility of tending to the foresail when the ship changed tack (direction) and he would have performed specific duties aloft in the rigging.

Joe is truly a professional sea cook, having cooked on many boats, including a ship that Captain Moreland skippered years ago. Joe’s job is to provision the ship and to prepare our meals. He does not have any responsibilities in sail handling or in maintaining the rigging. Feeding 50 people three times a day, every day, is a big enough job! While Joe is responsible for planning our meals, three crew members (one from each watch) are assigned to assist Joe on Galley Duty each day. The Galley Crew (his assistants) sets up meals, cleans the dishes and the Galley between meals, and does the bulk of the chopping and preparation of sauces, deserts, and salads. The Galley Crew also cleans and stocks the scullery shelves; keeps hot water, coffee and juice flowing; and cleans used dish towels so they do not go sour or mouldy.

In the old days, a sea cook might have been treated with disdain or suspicion by the ship’s crew, but that is not so on the Picton Castle. Joe is a nice guy, and he’s fun to have around. He is a good cook. When you are nice to him, you get to lick the spoon and bowls when he makes cakes and icing, and sometimes you’ll even find that he’s slipped your favourite treat or dish onto the menu!Compared to a sea cook in the Age of Sail, Joe has a lot of help. But one aspect of the occupation has not changed in the past 150 years—the cook has to make sure all of the food and boiling water does not slide off the stove and onto the galley floor as the ship pitches and rolls on the ocean swell. To keep food on the stove, Joe has installed “fiddles” (metal bars that clamp down to hold pots and pans in place on the stove top), but that does not prevent boiling water from sloshing out of a pot from time to time! When boiling water for the night watches, I’ve learned there is an art to balancing and timing movements so that you don’t get scalded or burned—because even if the pot stays still on the stove, the water will not.

The things you will find in the Picton Castle’s Galley are very similar to what you might have in your own kitchen at home, with the exception of a few items:

• Cast iron stove (the Picton Castle’s is from the 1800s; it used to be heated by coal but has recently been converted to diesel)
• Cook (recipe) books
• Pots, pans
• Pie plates
• Graters
• Kettles and pots for boiling water for tea and coffee (we do not have electric kettles or coffee makers)
• Carving forks and knives and cake testers
• Ladles and tongs
• Cooking spoons
• Five-gallon buckets for mixing bread dough
• Baking pans
• Icing kits
• Funnel
• Chopping board/ butcher’s block
• Coconut meat scraper

The Galley supplies and the food stores in the hold are off limits to the Picton Castle crew, but the scullery shelves are lined with snacks that we can fix for ourselves between scheduled mealtimes. In the Age of Sail, when food was rationed closely, Hard tack—a rock-hard, flour-dry sea biscuit—was one of the only treats a sailor could fix for himself. If he played his cards right he could sweeten his treat by talking the cook into sparing some molasses or leftover drippings from cooked meat. Hard tack is still found in bakeries (and homes) in Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. Here is a variation on this staple in a sailor’s diet that you can make for yourself:

What you need:

• Paper towel
• 1 tablespoon shortening, such as Crisco or butter
• Small baking dish
• 1 cup of crushed crackers, such as saltines
• 1 gallon re-sealable plastic bag
• Drinking glass
• ¼ cup light molasses
• 2 tablespoons butter
• Fork

What you do:

1. Preheat the oven 350° F.
2. Dip the paper towel into the shortening can and scoop out a tablespoon-sized amount. Use this to grease the baking dish.
3. Place the crackers in the bag, seal it, and roll over it with the glass until the crackers are coarsely crushed.
4. Pour the crackers into the baking dish. Mix in the molasses and butter with a fork.
5. Bake for 15 minutes

Makes four servings

I never did find out where I lost my wallet. It was our second day in Banam Bay, a beautiful and very traditional thatch and bamboo Vanuatu village surrounded by forest on the island of Malekula. I’d packed my bag and gone ashore, ready for a day of snorkeling and lying around on the beach. Chief Saitol (the most energetic and spry 87 year old I have ever met) had planned for the Picton Castle crew a grand performance of Kastom (custom) dancing and a Kava party complete with a string band for later that night. We were told we might need money (Vatu is Vanuatu’s currency; 107 Vatu is equal to 1 US dollar) to make a donation to the dancers, so I’d thrown my wallet into my bag without a second thought. It was a great day ashore! Chief Saitol and the villagers rolled out the red carpet for the Picton Castle crew. The dancing was amazing, and the party was a blast!

I was scheduled for watch aboard the ship the following day. The next morning at the on-duty watch muster, Greg (Second Mate) mentioned they were collecting donations for a feast on the beach that afternoon. I went to my bag to grab some money. No wallet. I searched my bunk. No wallet. My sea chest. Still no wallet. I quickly came to the awful conclusion that my wallet, and all it contained, was not on board the ship. At one point, Sam, the Chief Mate, asked me what the heck I’d been doing for the last half hour. I told her I’d been searching for my wallet, and I thought it was lost on the island. Dave M. (trainee, UK), overhearing the conversation, asked “Why did you bring your wallet ashore?” Another helpful shipmate piped up, “Yeah, I needed my ID twice yesterday.” Ha, Ha. Banam Bay didn’t exactly have an ATM. Truth was, it had never occurred to me not to bring it. Yet another valuable traveling lesson learned!

Being stuck on board until the feast, there wasn’t much I could do about my wayward wallet, so I tried to concentrate on the ship’s work we were carrying out onboard that hot morning. It didn’t work. Finally the on-watch was permitted to go ashore for a few precious hours to participate in trading with the villagers and to attend the traditional feast that was prepared for our crew and for the crew of the Brigantine SOREN LARSON, which had joined us at anchor overnight. As much as I was caught up in all the excitement, I’d not forgotten my mission to find my wallet. I checked the spot on the beach where Andrea (trainee, USA) and I had purchased some shells the previous day, but no luck. I followed the rest of the crew into the village. I wanted to search the grounds where we had seen the dancing the night before, but sensitive to the various taboos in Vanuatu society, I didn’t want to go traipsing around what was obviously an important place in the village. I would need permission to do so.

As luck would have it, I ran into my friend Charo. He’d shown me around Banam Bay my first day ashore. We had hung out together the entire day, and he was very good at explaining the details of their society that were completely foreign to me. He effortlessly scampered up a coconut palm to retrieve coconuts for us to drink and he answered all of my questions in perfect English. I told him about my missing wallet and asked if we could check out the grounds. He told me that we ought to pay a visit to Chief Saitol instead. When we arrived, Chief Saitol was sitting under the covered gathering area where we’d had the party the night before. He was chatting with our Captain as well as some village elders. When Charo told him of my predicament, he looked quite concerned, as did the others. They spoke among themselves in their island’s unique Melanesian language. (The Vanuatu island groups boast more than 100 Melanesian languages that are specific to the different villages and islands. Islands, even valleys, that are in close proximity to one another cannot communicate in their own Melanesian languages, but instead have to use the Nation of Vanuatu’s lingua franca, Bislama). I don’t know what they said, but the message was clear: “Dude, that sucks.”

Curious what the interruption was about, Captain Moreland asked what Charo and I were up to. I told him I’d lost my wallet. He replied, “Well, at least you know no one’s going to take it.” That was true. If I had to lose my wallet, this was about the best place in the world to do it!

Chief Saitol then excused himself from his guests, apparently to help me find my wallet personally! As we walked back toward the beach where the crew and the villagers were engrossed in trading, I figured we’d go asking around after my wallet. Not quite. Charo told me that we were going to see a woman they went to when they lost things. Apparently she had visions and could help find my lost wallet. Okay, I thought, I’ll indulge them a while. We found the woman among the people who were trading, and the four of us went to one of the houses nearest the beach. After shooing away the children who were curiously milling about, we sat down and Charo explained the situation to her. They were all taking this very seriously. I figured I’d better take it seriously, too. They talked back and forth for a while. I watched intently, unable to understand the conversation. Charo touched my arm and put his hands together: We were going to pray. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, listening to the lengthy prayer and envisioning my poor lost wallet in my mind. Maybe it would help. The only words I understood were “Jesus Christ.” After the prayer, they talked again briefly and then stood up. The meeting was over.

As we left the house, Charo explained to me what had just taken place. The woman had seen my wallet in a vision. Apparently it had fallen out of my backpack and someone had picked it up. It was dark, however, so she couldn’t see exactly who it was. We were to wait, and that person would be compelled to return the wallet. I was a little nervous at this point.

“So, we just sit here and wait and someone will bring me my wallet?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied matter-of-factly.

I was unsure what to do. Part of me wanted to believe in her vision and the prediction that my lost wallet would appear; part of me wanted to retrace my steps and scour the island looking for it. I asked Charo if it might be helpful to go around and ask people if they had seen my wallet.

He calmly said, “No. Just wait here.”

I remember thinking to myself: I’ve always been told to just trust in God and everything would be okay. I didn’t know what else to do, so I figured I’d just trust their faith and confidence. I went over and sat down with some of my fellow crew members, feeling anxious and somehow hopeful. I told myself that everything would be cool, but all I could think about was how I would replace all the contents of my wallet. It would be difficult enough if I were back home, but out here, traveling in the South Pacific, it would be impossible. I looked down at my watch. I had little time left before I had to return on the skiff to turn to for duty on the ship. I couldn’t just sit there. I remembered one more place I hadn’t checked and was just about to get up to go look. Then a woman approached me from behind.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Did you lose something? A wallet?”

“Yes!” I said, surprised.

“My sister’s son found it on the ground and brought it home. Come, I’ll show you.” We went over to where a young woman was standing, my wallet in her hands. As she handed me the wallet, a small crowd gathered. Apparently word of my loss had spread. I checked through the wallet. Everything was there. It had been sorted through, but the 9,000 Vatu cash was still there, as well as everything but my credit card. When I told her this, a few words sent her red-faced son sprinting back to the house to get it. Maybe it was a souvenir, or perhaps it simply didn’t make it back into the wallet with the other stuff. No matter; he couldn’t have used it here anyway. I pulled out 2,000 Vatu (about $24 Canadian) and handed it to him, thanking him profusely. I thanked his mother and her sister, who had approached me in the first place, and walked back toward the beach where the feast was about to take place. I sat down on the woven palm mats, relieved and contented, and enjoyed our delicious feast with my wallet tucked safely in my backpack.

I suddenly realized what had happened: The vision, the prediction — it was all true!

Now, I could propose that she made it all up and that my wallet was returned to me regardless of what she said, but I prefer to believe. I prefer to think that here in Banam Bay — a place where modern science meets ancient tradition — that an elderly chief, a village seer, and a newfound friend helped me find a couple of things that I was sure I’d lost: my wallet and my faith.

Sunday afternoon the Picton Castle cleared into her current port of call in Suva, Fiji, and there was only one thing more exciting than arriving at a new and exotic port: Mail Call!We had not had a mail call since Rarotonga, and that was four ports of call ago! Lo, the ship’s agent, stepped aboard with paperwork, and after some time had passed, Captain Moreland called a muster amidships and introduced Lo to our crew. She gave us some advice about places we might like to visit, and places and people we might like to avoid. And as it turned out, she had brought mail with her! Cheers all around! We were given the opportunity to pick out our mail and read as much as we could before we get the order to “Up and stow.”

I circled the hatch, looking at the piles of envelopes and boxes. I had two letters in the first stack, and few more letters scattered in the next few stacks. I even had a big, bubble envelope that rattled a bit when I shook it. SCORE! I hit the mother lode of mail calls! First postcard made me cry, the pathetic guttural sobbing kind of cry. Not so embarrassing now that I’ve been living with this crew for nearly six months. Second post card was from my father, and I laughed so hard the Captain even came over to read what was written. Third and fourth envelopes were Thanksgiving and Halloween cards, respectively, and my family had thought to stuff the cards with tiny Halloween confetti that static clung to everything it came in contact with. I recognized the writing on the next envelope as that of my best friend of more than 16 years, and I had just begun to tear into it when we got the order to “Up and stow” (go aloft and stow the sails).

I stood up to anchor my mail under some items on the hatch, and I realized it was the first time I had looked up since I sat on the corner of the hatch to read my mail. Boxes were torn open and their contents were strewn everywhere. Colourful witch hats and bags of chips and chocolate, magazines, t-shirts and fans were scattered in every direction. The scuttle door had been covered with a plastic Halloween sign that had battery operated lights.

The crew scattered to the Fore and Main Masts and laid out on all the yards. I was still wiping my runny nose when I laid out on the Main Upper Topsail and then Lower Topsail with Morgan (sailmaker’s assistant, Canada) and Jeff B (trainee, USA). We busted the sails up onto the yards and had a short discussion about a gasket that was too short. The sun was shining, the weather was warm, and typically we would stay out on the yard as long as possible, feigning some kind of work, but from where we were aloft, we had a direct line of sight to our unopened mail. Calls of, “Laying off!” were heard all over the Main Mast as we hurried down to deck again. I scooped up my mail, and that of my cabin mate, Mhairi (trainee, Canada), and slipped below deck and into the Bat Cave to open the rest of my mail.

It was like watching a hungry person eat. I held the envelopes that were impossibly bound with too many layers of tape and I felt absolutely desperate to get to the contents inside. I just wanted to read my mother’s handwriting again. With her swooping and dipping cursive, she always manages to summarize a few months’ worth of activities and events into a few lines and still make me feel like I was part of it. I wanted to read my best friend’s letter because she is the only person I know who writes just like she speaks, and coming from Cape Breton, it’s always colourful!

The big bubble envelope was from my parents, and using my sheath knife, I made short work of getting into it. I felt something soft and pulled it out. Long underwear? I reached in again: sure enough, it was a matching long-sleeved shirt and pant long underwear set. It is 27°C in Suva and they sent me long johns? I laughed out loud. What were they thinking? A little note inside answered my question. It read, “Because you said you were cold.” It’s true. I had told them I was cold when we were sailing between Galapagos and Mangareva, but that was winter in the South Pacific. It was now spring and we had just sailed into Melanesia; the sun was out and those familiar beads of sweat were back!

As we sat around the Bat Cave, we took turns opening our mail and showing one another the contents inside. Maggie (trainee, Canada) gets the most hysterical gifts from home, and we were not disappointed this time: she pulled out two dozen hair combs of difference colours, shapes, and sizes. I got new Cape Breton and Canadian flag patches for my backpacks from my grandmother. She knows me so well. When I came back on deck, I learned that Mike’s (trainee, Canada) mother mailed him heaps of peanut brittle, fudge and toffee, and she made a lot of sons and daughters happy for several days!

I guess our message to home is this: We take great care of one another, but the minute there is a glimmer of hope that there might be a special note or package for us from someone who loved us before this all began, the salty exterior and calluses threaten to melt away and reduce us to a puddle of raving derelicts. We may be very good at making our own adventures on exotic South Pacific Islands, but there is no place like home.

Weather: Black, starry skies and cool, fresh breeze.

The first thing the Picton Castle crew saw when they stepped from the dock at Neiafu, Tonga, were rows and rows of fresh fruits and vegetables. In the open-air market, oranges, watermelons, lemons, limes, coconuts, pumpkins and leafy greens crowd the table tops. Vendors sit near their crop, promising to “give you best price,” while a torn piece of cardboard attached to a dowel sticks up like a flag above the produce advertising the suggested price. There is not much room for bartering in Tonga, but they will often quote too high a price and let you believe you have dickered the price down, while they really have all control over the cost. At any rate, a crate of oranges for the equivalent of US$3 is a steal, so just pay the man his money.

Attached to the outdoor market is a large concrete building with a high ceiling and oversized cut-out doors and windows that are covered with chain link and tarpaulins rather than panes of glass or wooden panels. Inside the building is the artisans’ market. Only natural sunlight through the doors and windows lights the entire building. With the overcast skies and the endless rows of unfinished wooden carvings and earth-hued woven crafts, everything appears cast in shadow.

Absentmindedly, I pick up and examine a woven leaf-shaped fan that is in a large basket of woven crafts, including a breadbasket and wine-bottle holder that looks a little too small to hold wine. A pleasantly plump older woman leaps up from her stool when she sees me and asks if I like the fan I am looking at. I tell her that I think it is very nice and I ask her how long it took her to make. She tells me it took her five to seven days and seems pleased that I am interested in her labour. I start to put it down and she presses it into my hands. “You like? I give you special price.” I tell her I have just stepped through the door and am not prepared to make a decision and thank her for her time. She grabs my hand and leads me around her table to show me the other crafts she weaves to sell at the market. There are large, flat platters with geometric shapes woven in complementary hues and bowls of all different sizes made of the same materials. She promises me the best prices, and as I walk away, I thank her for showing me her crafts and promise to keep her in mind when I decide to buy something.

I purposefully walk down the next row, which does not have a vendor sitting in it. I examine the racks of carved necklaces made mainly of cow bone and mother of pearl shell. They are not nearly as nice a quality as those our crew have purchased along the way from Pitcairn to Rarotonga. I pause from time to time to examine the wooden carvings stacked high off the tabletops. There are many carvings of humpback whales and dolphins—creatures of great importance to Tongans. There are carvings of what look like a wooden troll doll wearing a tribal mask. These odd little men with gruesome faces represent the different gods that play a large role in Tongan religion and culture, such as Maui, Tangaloa, and the gods of War, Peace, and Love.

Something on the next table over catches my eye. It is shiny and looks like old, cracked leather. Is that a turtle shell? I walk over to the object and pick it up for a closer look. It is the shell of a sea turtle, about the size of my chest, and is chipped and decaying. Right next to the turtle shell is a carving of two humpback whales breaching, but rather than being carved out of wood, it is carved out of what looks like a very porous grey stone. Is that whale bone? As if reading my mind, a vendor steps up alongside me and smiles. Pointing to the carving, he says, “Made of whale bone.” I am a bit taken aback that I am actually looking at whalebone because hunting whales was banned in Tonga in 1978. Rather than ask their origins, I inquire as to whether tourists have any trouble taking whalebone and turtle shell souvenirs out of Tonga and back into their own countries. “No trouble,” I am told. “One can get a permit from Immigration,” he says, gesturing to the white building next door to the market. (Editor’s note: Much old whalebone has been lying around for years and it is very unlikely to be recent; more likely it is at least 50 years old.)

I thank the gentleman for answering my questions and shuffle away, pretending to eyeball something across the room before he tries to sell me something made from the bones of a poached whale. There is something specific that I am looking for that is not available at the market that day—I am in search for Tapa cloth. I have been told I will know the real deal when I found it.