Читать книгу Into the Frozen South онлайн

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I was standing the morning watch, 8 to 12, the watch when most of the ship-work is done; and always there is a lot, even in a little ship. Before I trod a deck-plank I had a notion that being at sea consisted for the most part in sprucely pacing the decks and pointing a telescope at the horizon, hoisting my slacks and singing thrilling sea chanties. The reality was very different. Apart altogether from taking a regular trick at the wheel—the easiest part of seafaring in many ways—there are look outs to be kept, decks to be washed—if the ship is going down you give a final scrub to her planks, remember!—paintwork to be wiped over, sails to be loosed and set and furled and overhauled; old ropes to be spliced, whipped and served; new ropes to be coiled and recoiled and trailed out astern in order to remove the annoying kinks that take up so much space on a crowded deck; the cook demands assistance, there are always errands to go, and so the time slips by so rapidly that almost as soon as a watch begins it is ended. Then you go below, where you are at liberty to do what you like—in reason. Your time is more or less your own, and it is wonderful how many odd jobs you can find to occupy that time. Of course, you sleep a lot; that’s the sailor’s favourite recreation, according to my way of thinking. Sleep aboard ship is a very sacred thing; you never disturb a slumberer unnecessarily.