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Walter E. Traprock - The Cruise of the Kawa
"As tight as a corset," was my reply.
"Good. I'll go."
In this short interview I obtained my captain for what was to prove the most momentous voyage of my
life.
The papers were signed forthwith in the parlor of Hop Long's Pearl-of-the-Orient Cafeteria and dawn of
the following day saw us beyond the Golden Gate.
I will omit the narration of the eventful but ordinary occurrences which enlivened the first six months of
our trip and ask my reader to transport himself with me to a corner with which he is doubtless already
familiar, namely, that formed by the intersection of the equator with the 180th meridian.
This particular angle bears the same relation to the Southern Pacific that the corner of Forty-second
Street and Fifth Avenue does to the Atlantic Seaboard. More explorers pass a given point in a given time
at this corner than at any other on the globe. [Footnote: See L. Kluck. Traffic Conditions in the South
Seas, Chap. IV., pp. 83-92.]
It was precisely noon, daylight-saving time, on July 4th, 1921, when I stood on the corner referred to
and, strange to say, found it practically deserted. To be more accurate, I stood on the deck of my
auxiliary yawl, the Kawa, and she, the Kawa, wallowed on the corner mentioned. To all intents and
purposes our ship's company was alone. We had the comforting knowledge that on our right, as one
faced the bow, were the Gilbert and Marshall groups (including the Sandwiches), on our left the Society,
Friendly and Loyalty Archipelagoes, back of us the Marquesas and Paumotus and, directly on our course,
the Carolines and Solomons, celebrated for their beautiful women. [Footnote: See "Song of Solomon,"
King James Version.] But we were becalmed and the geographic items mentioned were, for the time
being, hull-down. Thus we were free to proceed with the business at hand, namely, the celebration of our
national holiday.
This we had been doing for several hours, with frequent toasts, speeches, firecrackers and an occasional
rocket aimed directly at the eye of the tropical sun. Captain Triplett, being a stickler for marine etiquette,
had conditioned that there should be no liquor consumed except when the sun was over the yard-arm. To
this end he had fitted a yard-arm to our cross-trees with a universal joint, thus enabling us to keep the
spar directly under the sun at any hour of the day or night. Consequently our celebration was proceeding
merrily.
While in this happy and isolated condition let me say a few words of our ship's company. Having already
mentioned the Captain I will dispose of him first. Captain Ezra Triplett was a hard-bitten mariner. In fact,
he was, I think, the hardest-bitten mariner I have ever seen. He had been bitten, according to his own tell,
man-and-boy, for fifty-two years, by every sort of insect, rodent and crustacean in existence. He had had
smallpox and three touches of scurvy, each of these blights leaving its autograph. He had lost one eye in
the Australian bush where, naturally, it was impossible to find it. This had been replaced by a blue
marble of the size known, technically, as an eighteen-er, giving him an alert appearance which had first
attracted me. By nature taciturn, he was always willing to sit up all night as long as the gin was handy, an
excellent trait in a navigator. About his neck he wore a felt bag containing ten or a dozen assorted
marbles with which he furnished his vacant socket according to his fancy, and the effect of his frequent
changes was both unusual and diverting.
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