The Captain
by
by
Worse Things Happen at Sea
A ripping yarn, a wizard adventure. Only Patrick O'Brian holds a candle to Jan de Hartog in authentic tales of the sea. It's the combination of human relations and the relations with the ship itself that does it for me.
Men under stress act in interesting ways. And all men on a ship, not just in time of war, are stressed. They live (or did when Captain was written) more or less in conditions of deprivation - of sleep, of palatable food, of basic comforts like showers and silence, and perhaps most importantly, female influence. Working ships like ocean-going tugs, icebreakers, and most military vessels were traditionally designed and built with accommodation for the crew as a last consideration. Crammed between fuel tanks or below-decks equipment into spaces lacking ventilation, hygiene, and ... well space, it is no exaggeration to say that they were treated worse than animals in a zoo.
And the conditions only get worse at sea: bobbing like a cork, shuddering and sliding with every wave, pounding over and through ice, wet through with no chance of completely drying out, continuously cold with nothing but cold food and cold, undrinkable coffee. The smell of diesel fumes is one that no one really gets accustomed to. If it really gets rough, everyone is sick, even the old salts. In wartime convoys, people die.
And yet men perform their duties. They get up for watch at 3:30 in the morning, stand in the rain or snow and dark for four hours, do their daylight chores and drills, chip paint and paint rust, go back on afternoon watch, then do it again and again. For months on end. None of it very edifying, except at the pen of a master like de Hartog who recognises the stamina, the grit necessary to persevere. And somehow it is the ship, which they simultaneously distrust and love, that allows them to transcend the objective misery of their existence. The ship is a god-like object of faith that mediates their relationships. Its operating, its maintenance, its survival is shared as an existential fact; something that needs no discussion, no explanation or theory. It just is.
De Hartog insistently makes the point that the idea of the ship is very different for military and civilian crews, especially on Dutch ocean-going tugs. This difference goes beyond spit-and-polish versus slovenly make-do-and-mend. De Hartog's portrayal of the culture of high seas towing and salvage is clearly based on the old Dutch 'sleepdienst' company L. Smit & Co. Smit became known as the 'vulture of the seas,' as well as the more romantic Hollands Glorie, because it made its money by being the first on scene anywhere in the world to claim salvage rights for vessels in distress. Smit's fleet of huge tugs were strategically placed to offer assistance ... as soon as everyone was off the stricken vessel in order to establish salvage, but not a moment before.
Life on Smit tugs wasn't governed by military discipline but by mutual confidence in competence and respect for the ship. But the relationships are more than that of camaraderies among heavy equipment operators. De Hartog plays on the tension between the naval commander of the convoy and the tug captain to great effect. Both their motivations and their methods of command are fundamentally incompatible. Warships are machines run on fear of the consequences of disobedience. Tugs are organic entities powered by a sort of hive-mind which is as delicate as lace. The former operates by rote procedure, the latter by experiential skills. The convoy commander wants to get as many ships as possible to Murmansk. The tug captain wants to get a single ship through the war, his.
No glorification of war. No romanticising of life at sea. No sympathy for loneliness and discomfort. Just a stirring tale of quiet persistence.
A ripping yarn, a wizard adventure. Only Patrick O'Brian holds a candle to Jan de Hartog in authentic tales of the sea. It's the combination of human relations and the relations with the ship itself that does it for me.
Men under stress act in interesting ways. And all men on a ship, not just in time of war, are stressed. They live (or did when Captain was written) more or less in conditions of deprivation - of sleep, of palatable food, of basic comforts like showers and silence, and perhaps most importantly, female influence. Working ships like ocean-going tugs, icebreakers, and most military vessels were traditionally designed and built with accommodation for the crew as a last consideration. Crammed between fuel tanks or below-decks equipment into spaces lacking ventilation, hygiene, and ... well space, it is no exaggeration to say that they were treated worse than animals in a zoo.
And the conditions only get worse at sea: bobbing like a cork, shuddering and sliding with every wave, pounding over and through ice, wet through with no chance of completely drying out, continuously cold with nothing but cold food and cold, undrinkable coffee. The smell of diesel fumes is one that no one really gets accustomed to. If it really gets rough, everyone is sick, even the old salts. In wartime convoys, people die.
And yet men perform their duties. They get up for watch at 3:30 in the morning, stand in the rain or snow and dark for four hours, do their daylight chores and drills, chip paint and paint rust, go back on afternoon watch, then do it again and again. For months on end. None of it very edifying, except at the pen of a master like de Hartog who recognises the stamina, the grit necessary to persevere. And somehow it is the ship, which they simultaneously distrust and love, that allows them to transcend the objective misery of their existence. The ship is a god-like object of faith that mediates their relationships. Its operating, its maintenance, its survival is shared as an existential fact; something that needs no discussion, no explanation or theory. It just is.
De Hartog insistently makes the point that the idea of the ship is very different for military and civilian crews, especially on Dutch ocean-going tugs. This difference goes beyond spit-and-polish versus slovenly make-do-and-mend. De Hartog's portrayal of the culture of high seas towing and salvage is clearly based on the old Dutch 'sleepdienst' company L. Smit & Co. Smit became known as the 'vulture of the seas,' as well as the more romantic Hollands Glorie, because it made its money by being the first on scene anywhere in the world to claim salvage rights for vessels in distress. Smit's fleet of huge tugs were strategically placed to offer assistance ... as soon as everyone was off the stricken vessel in order to establish salvage, but not a moment before.
Life on Smit tugs wasn't governed by military discipline but by mutual confidence in competence and respect for the ship. But the relationships are more than that of camaraderies among heavy equipment operators. De Hartog plays on the tension between the naval commander of the convoy and the tug captain to great effect. Both their motivations and their methods of command are fundamentally incompatible. Warships are machines run on fear of the consequences of disobedience. Tugs are organic entities powered by a sort of hive-mind which is as delicate as lace. The former operates by rote procedure, the latter by experiential skills. The convoy commander wants to get as many ships as possible to Murmansk. The tug captain wants to get a single ship through the war, his.
No glorification of war. No romanticising of life at sea. No sympathy for loneliness and discomfort. Just a stirring tale of quiet persistence.
posted by The Mind of BlackOxford @ April 25, 2017
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