From the Archives • December 1999

by Bob Rice

Richie, having been temporarily retired as our captain o' top, is heavily involved in ship's maintenance along with other members of the permanent crew, but not to the total demise of his passion for fishing. Early on he catches a couple of blue fin tuna, and later, as we get further southwest, he lands a Mahi-mahi that shimmers bright yellow on the deck until it quickly fades to a gray death. The prize catch of the voyage is an Ahi measuring well over three feet in length. Jo prepares a visually delightful platter of sashimi for our day of rest Sunday Brunch.

Sunday means we don't have to stow our hammocks away, nor engage in any of the regular cleaning and maintenance routines. This is a most welcome break for all concerned to read or just laze about on the sunny decks that normally challenge us to find new limits to what we think we are capable of doing.

We're into the second week and the wind gods have taken their act somewhere else. According to the weather maps received via satellite, we escaped the Pacific Northwest just in time to avoid a major storm that's dumping high winds and rain on Vancouver and the Seattle area. Here, we have sunny days and starry nights, but no wind. So to lighten moods, dampened by the drone of diesel engines, we stage a show night wherein each watch and the idlers (scurvy curs and other permanent crew members) choose a costume theme and clash in heated competition of college-bowl-like questions and answers moderated by Dierdre and Dominique, both of whom are dressed in slinky dresses of dubious origin. My watch became the Mighty Mizzen Molly Mop Heads to acknowledge our reputation of excellence on cleaning detail.

Early in the third week (when things become truly desperate as Rob, Axel and I spend days precariously perched on yardarms and the bowsprit sanding, painting, and oiling) an evening is devoted to a "suds opera". That's Aussie for soap opera. Again each watch and the idlers don scraps of costumes conjured from now warped, but still fertile imaginations and proceed to make total asses of ourselves. The Idlers manage a rather contrived rendition (humor being a relative thing) of Star Wars, while we of the mizzen mast performed a medley of oldies but goodies from the 50's, 60's, and 70's with brand new nautical lyrics. Think about the tune to "Maria" from "West Side Story" and plug in, "Endeavour... Endeavour... I just met a ship named Endeavour." That's the mild stuff. Much of the rest of our dubbed lyrics are unprintable in this 'family' oriented journal. What may seem like hyper-silliness to land bound folks becomes perfectly normal behavior after a certain time at sea. No apologies made.

One positive thing about motoring in the middle of the Pacific is that you can shut the engines off on a whim and stop. If you're under sail it takes a lot of time and effort to come to a halt. So when the captain tells Wally to cut the engines and we drift to a standstill, everyone is a bit quizzical until he gives the command loud and clear over the speaker system: "THE POOL IS OPEN."

As everyone makes a dash for their lockers to don swimsuits, the captain adds an afterthought, "Remember when you're out there swimming that the closest piece of ground is three miles below you, so stay close to the ship." For the next hour or so the world stands still while we dive and splash and frolic in Neptune's personal playground.

During the second half of the voyage, our course sticks close to 210 degrees and this brings us right though the Alenuihaha Channel off the northern tip of the "big island", Hawaii, adjacent to Maui. For the last three days we have a strong favorable wind and the ship tops eleven knots as the mast and bowsprit strain and we set a new speed record for the Endeavour. Then, rounding the northwest corner of the island, we lose the wind and end up motoring down to Kealakakua Bay. Here we anchor where the Coast Guard indicates we should, but we are soon confronted by local marine wildlife enforcement agents who threaten to cut our anchor line if we don't move away from the coral reefs. We oblige as quickly as possible and then the captain announces once again that the pool is open. It seems strange, being so close to land.

In the morning, I join a party of five others in the zodiac to go ashore with wire brushes, paint brushes, and buckets of paint to clean and dress up the Captain James Cook Memorial, which is located a few yards from where the great explorer was killed in 1779. Meanwhile, half the ship's company is shuttled ashore to attend a church service in the village, complete with hula dancing and traditional chanting.

When the painting duty is finished we return to the ship to find it transformed. Local girls greet us with leis and the ship is crawling with dignitaries and Hawaiian Chiefs who are being feted to a lavish meal on board. I get to speak with one of the council of Chief members and his spiritual advisor. Their message is one of reconciliation and a hope for recognition of their hereditary rights to their lands and customs. I have mixed personal feelings about being perceived, by my mere presence as crew on the Endeavour Replica, as a representative of Cook's arrival, but this fades as Captain Blake and The Chiefs acknowledge each other with simple heartfelt dignity, embraces and the touching together of foreheads.

Once the hoopla is finished, and the assembled VIP's and dignitaries have departed, the captain's voice rings out with the now familiar refrain, "The pool is open," and he dives overboard in his full white dress uniform. The rest of us are close behind. Or so we can hope.

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