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Name:
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MAJ USA RET
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Subject:
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Rounding the Horn
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Date:
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11/12/2009 1:26:13 PM
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The great three masted clipper pushes into the teeth of Poseidon’s terrible trident as she rounds Cabo de Hornos. Close hauled on a (port tack) as any square rigged ship can be, she has every fore an’ aft sail set and sheeted home. Foresail, main, and jigger are furled to give greater purchase to the stays’ls.
In the best of conditions, 55 degrees off the wind is little progress. There are three prongs to the trident: wind, waves, and current. And then, there are icebergs… but these are the least of the Captain’s concern. The Hermites lie too close on the port bow. Her captain has misjudged this course and the gale. He needs more room.
The watch and off-watch… there is no off-watch when rounding the Horn… are exhausted. The Master stares him square in the eye… waiting.
“Mr. Knight, we shall come about.”
“Aye, come about.”
The announcement is carried forward. Groaning hands lie to windlasses and pin rails. Numb and not so nimble hominoids scrabble up ratlines. The Hermites beckon… they are hungry.
“Now, Mr. Knight!” The Captain marks the promontory on Hermites that is bisected by the skysail stay.
Mr. Knight barks to the helmsman and his burly assistant, “Helm alee!”
“Helm Alee,” the echo. The two men strain to the Herculean task of redirecting thousands of tons of clipper ship against inertia apparently responding to Hermite’s call.
“Helm alee” is passed forward. Faces look up to the canvas canopy.
Long moments pass before the skysail stay begins to move south along the cliff. Square sails go slack. Backs strain to transition the great yardarms, lest they be caught aback. Miles of port side rigging begin to shed their strain. The fore-and-afts pull onward. Would it be that they’d all luff together… but they don’t.
The creeping traverse of the skysail stay tests the Captain’s patience.
One by one, the fore-and-afts luff and are hauled around. The club-footed stays’ls mostly tend themselves. The flying jib-boom, an extension of the bow sprit, finally passes threw the eye of the brutal wind. Strain is now only on stays. The ship sheds much of her way… the skysail stay lingers on the brow of a cliff. The Master strides to the wheel and grips a spoke of the for’d wheel… there remains great pressure… she is still under the control of the great rudder.
In chaotic sequence, the fore-and-afts snap from fluttering drapery to curves of steel. Strain is taken on the starboard shrouds, increasing exponentially. The transience of the skysail stay passes from imaginary to perceivable. The great clipper falls off the wind.
At last, the square sails billow.
“Sir, the ship is squared away!”
“Thank you Mr. Knight. Please, pull the off-watch down… and set your course at 165 degrees.”
“Aye, 165 degrees.”
The Captain had been here before. (He knows nothing of the Panama Canal… for it is yet a pipe dream.) He aches for the family he has not seen for fourteen months.
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I believe that we are rounding the Horn in a great clipper ship… our Constitution. We are in horrendous danger. We just need a good captain and a crew that never gives up. We have misjudged this course… and we need more room.
…else we go onto the rocks.
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