It seems to me that no man born and truthful to himself could declare that he ever saw the sea looking young as the earth looks young in spring.But some of us, regarding the ocean with understanding and affection, have seen it looking old, as if the immemorial ages had been stirred up from the undisturbed bottom of ooze.For it is a gale of wind that makes the sea look old.
From a distance of years, looking at the remembered aspects of the storms lived through, it is that impression which disengages itself clearly from the great body of impressions left by many years of intimate contact.
If you would know the age of the earth, look upon the sea in a storm.The grayness of the whole immense surface, the wind furrows upon the faces of the waves, the great masses of foam, tossed about and waving, like matted white locks, give to the sea in a gale an appearance of hoary age, lustreless, dull, without gleams, as though it had been created before light itself.
Looking back after much love and much trouble, the instinct of primitive man, who seeks to personify the forces of Nature for his affection and for his fear, is awakened again in the breast of one civilized beyond that stage even in his infancy.One seems to have known gales as enemies, and even as enemies one embraces them in that affectionate regret which clings to the past.
Gales have their personalities, and, after all, perhaps it is not strange; for, when all is said and done, they are adversaries whose wiles you must defeat, whose violence you must resist, and yet with whom you must live in the intimacies of nights and days.
Here speaks the man of masts and sails, to whom the sea is not a navigable element, but an intimate companion.The length of passages, the growing sense of solitude, the close dependence upon the very forces that, friendly to-day, without changing their nature, by the mere putting forth of their might, become dangerous to-morrow, make for that sense of fellowship which modern seamen, good men as they are, cannot hope to know.And, besides, your modern ship which is a steamship makes her passages on other principles than yielding to the weather and humouring the sea.She receives smashing blows, but she advances; it is a slogging fight, and not a scientific campaign.The machinery, the steel, the fire, the steam, have stepped in between the man and the sea.A modern fleet of ships does not so much make use of the sea as exploit a highway.The modern ship is not the sport of the waves.Let us say that each of her voyages is a triumphant progress; and yet it is a question whether it is not a more subtle and more human triumph to be the sport of the waves and yet survive, achieving your end.
In his own time a man is always very modern.Whether the seamen of three hundred years hence will have the faculty of sympathy it is impossible to say.An incorrigible mankind hardens its heart in the progress of its own perfectability.How will they feel on seeing the illustrations to the sea novels of our day, or of our yesterday? It is impossible to guess.But the seaman of the last generation, brought into sympathy with the caravels of ancient time by his sailing-ship, their lineal descendant, cannot look upon those lumbering forms navigating the naive seas of ancient woodcuts without a feeling of surprise, of affectionate derision, envy, and admiration.For those things, whose unmanageableness, even when represented on paper, makes one gasp with a sort of amused horror, were manned by men who are his direct professional ancestors.
No; the seamen of three hundred years hence will probably be neither touched nor moved to derision, affection, or admiration.
They will glance at the photogravures of our nearly defunct sailing-ships with a cold, inquisitive and indifferent eye.Our ships of yesterday will stand to their ships as no lineal ancestors, but as mere predecessors whose course will have been run and the race extinct.Whatever craft he handles with skill, the seaman of the future shall be, not our descendant, but only our successor.
