An exhausted crewmember hears sweet voices at night
Issue 35 : Mar/Apr 2004
Brave Ulysses headed due east under power with sails furled. It was one of those nights when only the occasional reflection of the yacht’s running lights on the calm water gave any evidence of an outside world. The sky was overcast and black. Only a gentle and random motion betrayed the presence of the flat and glassy sea beneath her keel. The skipper and I had the midwatch while the rest of the crew caught up on sleep after a hard afternoon of beating to windward.
While the captain puttered around on deck and prepared for our morning landfall, my own world was restricted to the helm: the red glow from the compass bowl and the distant fl ash of the lighthouse at the harbor entrance, dead ahead, still hours away. A day’s hard sailing had left me exhausted as well, and I was looking forward to greeting my relief and retiring to my damp corner by the companionway. My only duties were to keep her on course and to check the distant light for leeway. Only the throb of the engine and an endless supply of cigarettes was keeping me awake, and I was having trouble staying alert.
The skipper went below to take a fix and try to raise the harbormaster on the radio. There was a shallow and very dangerous bar at the mouth of the harbor ahead, and many boats had been lost on the seas that often broke on it, invisible until too late to those who approached from offshore. Even with this night’s gentle conditions, it was only prudent to call ahead and verify the state of the sea at the harbor entrance.
When I first heard the music, I thought the skipper had found a broadcast station instead, or that he was maliciously waking up the crew by playing a tape. But the music! A chorus of men’s voices, a hundred of them, harmonizing beautifully in an unearthly song. It was glorious music, performed a cappella, somewhat like a Gregorian chant, yet different. And so, so, beautiful . . . I didn’t want it to stop.
Inconsiderate skipper
It swelled so loud that I first thought the skipper was being inconsiderate waking the crew this way. Next I thought how lucky they were to have this to wake up to. Then I realized that it was much too loud for our stereo. I even glanced about to see if there were any other boats nearby that could be the source of the music. There were none. Even in this darkness, it would have been impossible to sneak up on us that way. I glanced about anyway, but the boat drove on into the night alone. And the music went on, louder and ever more beautiful, somehow falling in time with the engine noise.
And suddenly it stopped. I was wide awake now, and I realized that the music had somehow followed the varying hum of the motor until it vanished almost exactly when I noticed the dependence of one on the other. For a few seconds I could remember precisely how it had sounded; I could even have hummed the tune. Then, like a dream, it faded from my memory even as I struggled to retain it. I could describe it to myself in general terms, and I could recall my emotional response to it accurately, but the experience itself was gone. There was nothing left but the water gurgling past the hull, the slapping of the halyards against the mast, and the distant rumble of the diesel.
Soon the skipper was back on deck, and our relief crew would follow shortly, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Below, the morning watch was turning to, coffee was being brewed, and lights were flickering on and off. I stayed on deck long enough to have a cup and another smoke, but I didn’t mention anything about my ghostly choir to my shipmates. I was certain I had dreamed it all, yet I kept expecting that someone would mention it, that someone else had heard it, too. Of course, no one had. Normal shipboard routine prevailed until I went below and collapsed on my rack.
Cleaning up
When I awoke, the boat was tied up and the crew was finishing the morning cleanup. During breakfast, I worked up the courage to share my previous night’s experience with the others. To my surprise, they had heard of comparable episodes, and some had had similar experiences themselves. There was even a West Coast sailors’ term for it: boat fairies. The boat fairies came to haunt tired sailors, those who had spent too much time on watch in cold, rough, and monotonous conditions. And not all the hallucinations were auditory. Under the hypnotizing effects of repetitive sounds and glowing compass cards, suggestion sometimes took over, they told me. Stories of horrible monsters lurking below and cries of “Repel boarders!” invoked against hordes of nautical gremlins were not uncommon.
After breakfast, I took a walk through the little town. It appeared to be dominated by two industries — fishing and tourism — with much of the latter provided from the sea as well. Scores of yachts rode at anchor in the bay or were tied up along the waterfront. Fishing boats still in port, as well as the usual seaside fish markets and chandleries, added to the picturesque scene. There was also a memorial. A huge stone in the town square had a large metal plaque on which were inscribed the names and dates of the mariners who had died there. I imagined most of them were victims of the breaking surf at the bar.
Sometimes no amount of seamanship can overcome the temptation to bring a catch to market before it spoils in the hold, even when one’s instincts are to stay offshore and wait for the weather to subside. There were dozens of names, many of them repeated. Whole families had drowned there. I felt it overly melodramatic to remove my cap, but I did so anyway, hoping none of the strolling tourists caught the gesture and misunderstood it. I felt I owed it to them. They had sung their song for me.
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