Forty Years On The Pacific/Navigation On The Pacific

by Frank Coffee

BEFORE the compass was invented the Pacific Islanders were guided by the winds, currents and stars, by means of which they found their way from one group of islands to another. From all accounts, they were fond of visiting one another, and being of one and the same race— Tahitians, Samoans, Kanakas and Maoris—intercourse was not difficult. Exchange of language, ideas and customs was thus effected and development brought about. How fearless and indifferent to tide and wind they were, and still are, was aptly illustrated at Samoa as late as 1918, when a native girl, her lover and sister, fled from the island of Tokelau, which is some three hundred miles north of Savaii, in a fourteenfoot open boat. Without oars they ran before a gale that was half hurricane and reached Savaii safely, later crossing to Apia, where they were made welcome by the Taupu of the tribe. Some idea of the velocity and ferocity of the wind they encountered may be gathered from the fact that the captain of the small mail steamer which plies between Apia and Pago Pago refused to face the elements. Incidentally, the flight on the wings of the hurricane was another triumph for love, one of the girls fleeing from an objectionable suitor who was backed by her father, a chief in Tokelau.

Native navigation on the Pacific, then, may be said to have been guided by Nature's chart of the skies and the compass of wind and tide. European navigation of this most spacious of oceans is usually dated from Magellan who sailed upon it in 1520. Then came Drake seven years later. Quite a number of explorers cruised about the Pacific in the seventeenth century, discovering Australia, New Zealand and minor islands, and a hundred years later, or, to be exact, in 1770, the famous Captain Cook made his memorable journey along the eastern coast of Australia.

The date of the beginning of navigation by trade vessels on the Pacific is hard to place. However, a British fleet of eleven ships under the command of Governor Phillip arrived in Botany Bay on January 19, 1788. La Perouse,^[1] commissioned by Louis XVI, entered the same bay with two ships, only a few days later—January 24th. It will be seen, therefore, that Australia came very near being a French possession. The first foreign trader to arrive in Sydney was the Philadelphia, on November 1, 1792, with Captain Patrickson in command.

Of course, all the foregoing vessels were under sail. The first steamer that made the trans-Pacific voyage that I find record of, was the Monumental City, from Panama to Sydney, in the 'fifties. She put into Tonga for provisions and firewood, and the amazed and fearful natives called her a "fiery sailing ship." Their emotions are not to be wondered at when we remember the bewilderment of our own people at the sight of their first steamer, the Savannah (300 tons), that crossed the Atlantic in 1819, traveling from her namesake town to Liverpool in twenty-six days.^[2]

The early efforts of government and steamship companies to establish a line between Australia and America are well worth our notice. In 1869 Colonel Woods, mail commissioner of the New Zealand Government, was told to devise the best route for steamers carrying mails across the Pacific. He recommended establishing a service from Sydney via Wellington and Tahiti, to San Francisco, and claimed that a 2,500-ton steamer could accomplish the journey in twenty-five days under ordinary conditions. Colonel Woods was evidently a sanguine fellow, for the larger and better-equipped passenger ships of 1916 took from twenty-eight to thirty days on this same route.

In 1870 the first San Francisco-to-Australia service was begun. Most trying conditions had to be contended with for many years. To Mr. H. H. Hall, the American consul at Sydney, is credit given for an active part in the creation of this service. He inaugurated a monthly service to cost a thousand pounds a month, payable by the New South Wales and the New Zealand governments. Unfortunately, all parties to the enterprise were suspicious of one another, and there were times when the captain of the ship would not land his mail until the subsidy was paid.

For the service Mr. Hall chartered the old Australian Steamship Navigation Company's boats, the Rangatiara and the Balclutha, which connected with the Ajax at Honolulu. Later, they were replaced by the City of Melbourne and the Wonga Wonga. The vessels of this line were often forced to burn wood because the Honolulu coal dealers insisted upon cash before they would supply the fuel.

In 1871 an agreement was made to run a line of steamers from San Francisco to Sydney, stopping at Honolulu and New Zealand. Ships of wood, the Nevada, Nebraska and the Dacotah, 2,100 tons each, and the Moses Taylor, 1,350 tons, were put in commission on the route. They undertook to make fifteen knots an hour. A flattering description of them appeared at the time in the San Francisco News of the World, which set forth the proud facts that the Nebraska averaged fifteen knots an hour, and that the staterooms were all double, with doors on either side and ventilators on top. The writer contrasted this magnificence with "the augerholes" (ports) of the Wonga Wonga. The mark of progress and inventive genius was upon them! The Nevada and her sisters were paddle-steamers, and the trimming of the paddles affected the speed. Thus, when they were heavily laden, the floats choked upon leaving the water, bringing the speed down to eleven knots an hour. After many vicissitudes, these four steamers were withdrawn in 1873.

Nothing daunted, the indefatigable Mr. Hall established a temporary service with the Mongol and the Tartar, which were subsequently replaced by the Mikado and the Cyphrenes. Eventually, the City of Melbourne filled the place of the Mongol. It is sad to relate that Mr. Hall, together with another steamship pioneer, Mr. Forbes, were fined ten thousand pounds for relinquishing this contract.

Which brings to mind the fact that the efforts of steamship owners to establish mail and passenger service between Australia, New Zealand and America have never received the recognition, let alone reward, to which their enterprise entitled them. For the most part, the service has been comfortable and safe, and as fast as the remuneration warranted. Speaking from an experience of forty-five years of ocean travel, much of which has been on the Pacific, I am able to say that during my time there has been only one passenger and mail steamer in the trans-equatorial Pacific trade between America and Australia lost by shipwreck, and none by fire. With that one exception, no serious disaster of any kind has occurred in this trade.

Also, I may note in passing, that the rates were reasonable and, most of the time, the seas were smooth—indeed, enjoyably so. It is one of our human weaknesses to remember one stormy voyage longer than a dozen tranquil trips, and we never forget to refer to our trying experience. The longest voyage I made was from San Francisco to Sydney. It took thirty-two days, but we reached port none the worse for a month of salt water. I was going to give the name of the ship making this momentous journey, but the owner modestly censored it.

This record of safety I have touched upon is certainly a high tribute to the captains and officers engaged in the trade. I have known nearly all the captains on the trans-equatorial Pacific since 1878, and I always felt safer in their care at sea than on any train overground or underground. These officers spent their early lives on sailing vessels, which gave them the experience to handle any situation and cope with unforeseen problems. It is singular that their manifold responsibilities are so little appreciated by passengers. For instance, a passenger might protest against a captain putting to sea in wicked weather, not realizing that he must, to satisfy the owner of the ship, who is obligated by the terms of his mail contract.

To return to the one shipwreck mentioned above: It was that of the Maitai at Raratonga, in the Cook group of islands. She drifted on a reef while trying to pick up an anchor. There was no loss of life. Evil rumor seemed to follow the Maitai from San Francisco, for she was reported to have bumped on a rock when leaving. But people smiled and said: "You can't sink her."

The Maitai, or Mioiverc, as she was called when James Huddart owned her, was built in 1892, and until she met her fate at Raratonga had led a charmed career. To use a sailor's expression, she tried to go overland to Honolulu in 1893, and got stuck fast on the rocks, where she remained several weeks. After this adventure she went to England to be overhauled. While there she took a party of excursionists to Norway for a glimpse of the midnight sun. Again, she ran ashore north of Bergen, but later was salved.

An old Sydney journalist, the late John Haynes, M.P., who was on the News in the 'seventies, described to me the arrival of the first passenger boat from America. He said it reminded him of Noah's Ark. Her entry into the trans Pacific trade aroused jealousy in the breasts of many people, who thought that the new line would interfere with the P. & O. steamship service, and, furthermore, by bringing Australia into closer relationship with the wide-awake United States weaken the ties that bound the Colonies to Great Britain. But it proved quite otherwise. The service to America became popular. It was found, for one thing, that news could be obtained from England via America in three weeks' less time than by the P. & O. boats; and one of the many pleasant results of the new traffic was the introduction into Australia of all sorts of modern American labor-saving devices. After the full value of the line had become recognized it was easy for a Sydney reporter, who was a good oarsman as well, to get a job on a paper, for by rowing to the Heads to meet these Frisco ships, he might get the latest American newspapers.

While on the subject of Pacific navigation, it is pertinent to set down in this place a method of what I may term echoseamanship that greatly interested me on the Pacific coast of the United States and Canada. This unique form of navigation I witnessed in Puget Sound and the Gulf of Georgia, which are noted for the numberless islands in their waters. On the voyage the ship is seldom on the open sea, and the going is smooth. But sometimes in Spring and Autumn Puget Sound, the Gulf of Georgia and the waters between them and Alaska are fog enwrapped. In Summer, too, occasionally, a forest fire will contribute a huge pall of smoke to add to the dangers and difficulties of navigation. Between Victoria, Seattle and Vancouver large ships from Australia and the Orient must plow their way over this route at all hours and seasons. The navigators, nevertheless, have so accustomed themselves to finding their way by echo that neither fog nor smoke-bank can interrupt their course. At certain periods of the year rain, snow and wind increase the hardships.

To beat the elements at their worst the officer on watch must, first of all, know the time the engineer is making. Of course, he must possess excellent hearing and an accurate measurement faculty, together with a qui vive alertness that is attuned to the slightest variation. Not for an instant must he forget that sound travels a mile in four seconds, and his reckoning must be absolute. The whistle is tooted frequently, and the captain must gauge his position by the echo-return just how far he is from rocks. There are some very narrow passages, and all the skill of the captain is called into play. There is a large amount of iron in the rocks contiguous to the shore which demagnetizes the compass, making it unreliable. For that reason, on board some of the ships, the use of the magnetic compass has been discontinued, and the gyroscopic compass is used instead.^[3]

Naturally, the aural sense of a pilot in these fog and smoke blanketed waters becomes abnormally acute, which will likely prove of great assistance to him in other regions of the world. This was demonstrated in the experience of Lieutenant-Commander Barney L. Johnston. Johnston acquired his skill in the whistle-echo system through years of work on the British Columbia coast where the fast express ships of the Canadian Pacific Railroad and the Grand Trunk Railroad are navigated in all seasons, no matter what the condition of the weather, and they must reach their destination without loss of time. At one time he was skipper of the Grand Trunk Railroad steamship Prince Rupert out of Vancouver, and at a later period he was one of the Vancouver pilots. In 1915 he took one of the Canadian-built submarines from Montreal across the Atlantic. Leaving the Canadian service, he was given a lieutenant's commission in the Royal Naval Reserve, in command of the British submarine H-8. When in the North Sea, he struck a mine which blew off the forward end of his craft. Luckily, the bulkhead held, and after resting on the bottom, to effect repairs, he managed to grope his way back to the English coast; where, caught in a fog, he navigated into port by the method of whistle-echo from the cliffs on shore. As a result of this exploit, he was made lieutenant-commander of his new ship, the "D. S."

So much for the whistle-echo and its effect on at least one man's destiny.

Generally speaking, the conditions on the Pacific coast have many advantages for those who follow the sea. Navigation here is not so hazardous as in numerous places in the same latitude along the Atlantic coast. Owing to small rise of the tide on the Pacific coast and freedom from ice, passengers and cargo can be handled at all ports night and day throughout the year. As a contrast, take the Bay of Fundy, on the Atlantic side of the continent, which is enwrapped in fog throughout the greater part of the year, and where the tides rise and fall in such extraordinary fashion. At St. John, N. B., the tide has a variation of twenty-seven feet, and the reader can easily figure out the difficulties of loading ship in these eccentric waters. The Bay of Fundy separates Nova Scotia from New Brunswick, where at Moncton, at the head of the bay, the inflow of the spring tide is called "the bore," and rushes in at a height of five feet and travels eight miles an hour. Near this point is situated Cape Blomedin, which derives its name from "blow me down," as the wind sweeps around there at a terrific rate. Incidentally, I have picked up amethysts at this cape. At the head of this tempestuous bay is Minas Basin, where, at the point of Noel Bay, the tide rises fifty feet. In passing, I might mention that there are three other world-famous places where the tide rises to this height: At Broome, on the west coast of Australia, at Honan, 1,100 miles up the Yangzekiang River, in China, and at Chepstow, on the Wye, England.

Crossing the peninsula of Nova Scotia, fifty miles due east of Minas Basin,^[4] at Halifax, on the Atlantic, the tide rises and falls only five feet, but to the north of Nova Scotia, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, fogs and icebergs make navigation both dangerous and difficult.

Before we leave these waters and get back to our proper environment, the Pacific, permit me to record the romance in the early life of Captain Kughan, of the Oceanic steamer, Sierra, in the Pacific trade. With his parents, when a child,

he was wrecked on the brig Maggie, in the Straits of Canso, where the tide runs at fifteen knots. He was rescued from a cake of ice and rolled in a blanket. Like all Prince Edward Islanders, he was a sturdy youth. Having reached the age of fourteen, he, together with other ambitious and daring boys, repaired and launched the Maggie and turned her into a floating cold-storage plant. She was loaded with frozen turkeys, geese, ducks and other poultry, and with that delectable cargo the Maggie was headed for St. John, Newfoundland, where the entire load of fowl was sold over the ship's side to the residents of the town, at a good profit.

I have told of some of the difficulties of salt water navigation, but these troubles are by no means confined to the seas. In 1872, on the Ohio River, between Pittsburgh and Cincinnati, when I w.as working as a newspaper compositor, I traveled on steamboats when the water was so low in the Summer-time that these flat-bottomed boats could travel only early in the morning at the time the heavy dew was on the bed of the river! This is related at the risk of giving readers the impression that I have been perusing the "Arabian Nights."

However this may be, let us get back to our marvelous Pacific from which we have wandered far too long.

Notes

1. A friend, Hon. R. J. B., has written for me an excellent account of La Perouse, the navigator, and from it I select the following authoritative paragraphs: "Jean Francois de Galaup, Comte de la Perouse, was born at Albi, France, on August 23, 1741. He entered the navy and became an admiral. King Louis XVI had always been desirous that France should secure possessions in the Coral Seas. In 1785 he decided to send out an expedition; and two ships were commissioned with La Perouse in command. The ships were to sail round Cape Horn, to visit Tahiti, the Society Islands, the Friendly Islands, and other island groups, as well as New Caledonia, La Perouse was then to explore the western shores of New Holland and New Zealand, which had become fabulous lands to the people of Europe after the voyages of Captain James Cook. He was also to sail in the China Seas, and it was expected that the voyage would take about three years. On August 9, 1787, he discovered the Strait of Perouse, north of Yezo, Japan. "On January 26, 1788, La Perouse, with his two ships, the Boussole and the Astrolahe, was almost within sight of Botany Bay, as Phillip with his fleet was sailing out of the bay to find Sydney Cove. La Perouse remained several weeks in Botany Bay. In fact, he sailed from Botany Bay on March 10, 1788. "The fate of himself and crew was unknown for many years. Navigators of all nations were fascinated by the mystery of the cruise of the lost La Perouse. Expeditions were sent out to find him or traces of his fate. Fifty years later it was finally determined that La Perouse had met with shipwreck on the island of Mannicola in the New Hebrides Group. Dumont-Durville, in 1828, recognized the remains of anchors, chains, and various other articles belonging to the ships of La Perouse. It was further ascertained that most of the officers and crew of the Boussole and Astrolahe were murdered by natives. Relics of La Perouse and his ill-fated ships were gathered together and brought to France, where they may now be seen at the Marine Museum of the Louvre."
2. When the Savannah approached the coast of Ireland, smoke was observed by those on shore, and it was seen to be issuing from the boat itself. The residents concluded that she was on fire. A king's cutter was sent to her relief, and several shots were fired. At length her engines were stopped, and the surprise and excitement of the cutter's crew can well be imagined. Coming into Liverpool, an equally great sensation was caused by the fire-driven Savannah. Hundreds of people swarmed down to the water-front to see the extraordinary vessel. This story always reminds me of Sir Walter Raleigh and his first pipe of tobacco in England: his audience thought he was burning and took measures with water to salve him. Colonel George H. Ham, of the Canadian Pacific Railroad, very kindly sent me this interesting item, in a letter: "It is claimed that the first vessel to cross the Atlantic under steam was the Royal William, which sailed from Pictou, Nova Scotia, on August 18, 1853, and reached London, England, in twenty-five days." The London Times of March 31, 1838, states that the first steamer to cross the Atlantic was the Sirius (700 tons and 320 H.P.), which sailed from London for New York, March 28, 1838, touching at Cork, and reached her destination April 22nd.
3. The echo is a source of many surprises, and a good yarn is told of Captain Sid Phillips, a Sydney skipper who, by the way, was born on board a ship in Sydney Harbor. It appears that a young couple who were traveling between Victoria and Vancouver were up forward under the bridge. Every time the whistle blew the girl would giggle, and this served to distract the captain's attention and interfere with the echo he was trying to concentrate upon. At last he became annoyed and yelled out from the bridge: "Will you stop your noise, so I can hear?"
4. On the south shore of Minas Basin is the station of Grand Pti, the scene of Longfellow's "Evangeline."