The Flying Dutchman

I joined the Navy in early 1941, before the war began, when the backbone of the fleet was the old-time sailors with thirty or more years of service. Guys who had been everywhere, seen and done everything. That was a time when tradition was all important, when superstition and ancient beliefs still governed a sailor's life to a large degree, even though he might not realize it. A time when the oldtimers would gather over a steaming mug of Navy Joe to tell sea stories the like of which newcomers couldn't imagine.

One such salty old duffer was Jack Ryan, Chief Bo's'n Mate, USS Trever. Ryan had his thirty years of service behind him when I reported aboard. Admittedly, I stood in awe of this crusty old seaman with his rough ways, his tattoos, and the endless sea stories he was ready to tell to those who deferred to his age, experience, knowledge of the sea, and, of course, who were willing to believe every word of the tales he told. Like his version of the ageless legend of the Flying Dutchman.

The Flying Dutchman (according to the Bo's'n) was a square rigged schooner of Dutch registry, homeward bound and heavily laden with looted treasures of the West Indies. Sailing around the Cape of Good Hope, long known for its fierce storms and rough seas, the captain met with gale winds, much stronger than expected, and he was forced to take his ship around the point. Day after day the Flying Dutchman tacked agained the calamitous blasts, but with no success. The storm worsened, threatening to tear away all canvas, and the crew begged the skipper to turn and run with the wind to calmer waters. He refused, swearing he would round the Cape against the winds, if it took until Doom's Day.

Sails began to shred from the force of the blow, and when the captain ordered men aloft to make replacement, they rebelled. In fear and anger, the crew mutinied, and, taking their maddened captain prisoner, they sought to murder him. He was shot with his own pistol, and his body hauled to the starboard yardarm of the mainmast as an offering to the sea gods.

As his almost-lifeless body swung in the force of the gale, his blood pouring from the mortal wound in his chest, the captain found the strength to cry out to the mutineers below: "As I die, so do I curse this ship and all who sail in her. You shall roam the seas forever, never to touch port, to see your homes no more, always to sail the latitudes, never knowing rest or fair weather. You shall become a specter ship, cleaving the main for all eternity, unblest by God or man!"

Jack went on to tell me the Dutchman sails on to this very day. Seen all over the world, her once snow-white oaken sides are yellow with age, the cadaverous color of quarantine. Her once brightly polished brass, now green with corrosion; her smartly pained cabin decks flaking away, festooned with slimy seaweed. A portent of violent storms, death, or madness, she is usually sighted in the gloom of dusk, or at the height of a gale. Known as the unspeakable Sea Rover, or the Scourge of the Seven Seas, the ghost of the captain is said to be seen high on his poop deck, dirty white beard streaming in the wind, his face a black mask of malevolence, eyes glowing red and teeth tightly clenched in a snarl of hatred as he shakes his fist at the heavens.

Not a particularly well-educated man, the Bo's'n of the Trever was prone to accept the age-old story as gospel truth. He became almost poetic, however, as he spoke of the Dutchman, reciting the story as it had been told to him. He ended his tale with a bit of verse, almost whispering:

She is manned by a crew of rebellious lads,
As ever a ship's deck have trod,
Cursed to sail the seas for evermore,
Their fate known to none but God.

Copyright 1996, 2007