Zeelandia

6. Of Water, Wetness and the Sea

When we had entered the small bay, I stood at the bulwarks, out of the way to watch the activity. Soon after we had anchored, the two longboats had been slung over the ship's sides and lowered to the sea. Before I returned to the great cabin to gather items to launder, the crew had begun trundling empty hogsheads toward the bulwarks, so I assumed they were taking them ashore to refill with water.

Now, as I hung Captain's breeches on his private drying line and further smoothed the wrinkles in the crotch, the first boat returned. I remained there, out of the way to observe. Among the men's activities as I laundered had been rigging a set of blocks from the mainmast's lower yardarm. And now, two of the men lowered one of the blocks over the side while a dozen or more, still dressed in nothing but boots, grasped the long, thick rope.

Steward had told me each hogshead has a weight of over six hundred pounds when full, so it was not a surprise that so many men were needed to hoist each aboard. I marvelled at the wondrous ways their muscles bulged and their bodies flexed as they worked. Their arms, shoulders, legs, butts. Oh, God, their butts. What beautiful creatures, men. Why have I not before had the interest to observe any? I laughed to myself. Even clothed? And here are dozens in the buff.

My mind drifted as I continued to watch, the thrill in my cunny reminding me of the tingle from watching Captain's arms and shoulders at the windows. When I caught myself dreaming again, my face warmed, and I glanced around to see if any watched me. None. All busy and beautiful. I sighed, retrieved the basket and returned to the great cabin.

Inside, I set the laundry basket in its place and went to the privy to check if it needed cleaning, but more as an opportunity to investigate the wetness I felt. Surely, I am not again visited, it has been little more than a week since it ended. A wipe with a square of cotton showed no red, so relieved, I washed away whatever it was.

Mother had said being a woman is complex, and even more so when with a man. I wish I had asked for details, but I had no interest back then. But now... I paused at the memory of what Captain had begun to explain before he was called away. Perhaps I can find a means to guide him back to that. What would rouse a young boy's inquisitiveness about girls?

A while later, as I waxed and polished the chairs at the dining table, I set my mind back to how Chris had acted when he began his changes. And to how his behaviour toward me had become more awkward after that. Then more distant. Had he been thinking about me as I have been thinking about Captain? Feeling as I am, both curious and confused about it?

But I fear discovery. I fear my ruse being recognised. Fear Captain will set me ashore. Then I remembered Mother's stern warning to both Chris and me when she happened upon us in my bedchamber. She warned me to not be alone with a man until I was wed. While I pondered this, Captain descended from the quarterdeck and crossed the cabin to the tall table I had been told by Steward to neither rearrange nor clean.

I watched him surreptitiously as I continued polishing, wondering what was there I might disturb. He appeared so serious as he studied a large sheet of paper, then his voice interrupted my thoughts, "Boy, come look at this."

As I approached, he continued, "Master told me you are aware of the curve of the earth and curious about our location, so I thought you might have the interest to see the chart and where we are on it."

"Oh, I am, Sir."

He ran a finger along a crooked line. "This is the route we followed, and this is where we now are, the Portuguese islands of Cabo Verde. And here, a notation of the date, the second day of December."

I followed where he indicated, then asked, "Why is the line crooked like this?"

"Because we can easily determine our latitude by measuring the height of the sun above the horizon or that of the pole star at night."

"Latitude? I remember Father talking about it, but I forget what it is."

"How far we are from the Equator." He pointed. "This line, mid-way between the two poles. Latitude is the measure of how far north or south we are."

"How do you measure east and west?"

"We cannot because it is determined by time, and we have no means to measure that beyond knowing sunrise, noon and sunset. We use sandglasses and a logline to estimate our movement through the water, but this is imprecise."

I nodded as I looked at the pencil line, wondering. "How does this explain the crooked line? Straight, then a sharp angle here, and here?"

"We sail to the latitude of known land, and then we turn to sail along that line until we sight it. This establishes where we are before we continue. Here, we did it with the islands of Madeira, and here with the islands of Cabo Verde."

"Ah, I recall Father explaining this. Aim the ship to miss the island far off to one side, so he would know in which direction to turn to find it."

"Exactly, Boy. You have a better understanding of this than most."

I examined the map again, then asked. "Where do we go from here?"

"To Barbados." He ran his finger across to a group of small islands far to the west. "About two thousand sea miles, so if the wind remains much as this, ten days to two weeks from here."

"It appears to be about the same latitude as here."

"It sits at thirteen degrees north of the Equator, and here we are fifteen."

My mind ran through possibilities, then I tapped a finger on the map and said, "To ensure we find it, we should sail along its latitude, as you had done here and here."

"Excellent! You have a fine grasp of this, Boy."

"Thank you, Sir. I would be interested to learn more."

"And I would delight in assisting you with this."

He looked into my eyes, and I into his, feeling again the tingling.