Sea Monsters: "An Incredibly Rare Find"

I'm kind of fond of big animals. Gorillas, whales, mastiffs, they all give me the urge to just grab and hug. My favorite Animal Planet "Growing Up..." show is the one with Maximus (yep, like in Gladiator) the baby elephant whose mother was afraid to let him sleep. Proving that just because you have instincts doesn't mean you know what your doing. Get a grip girl. But it was all OK in the end with young Max. Unfortunately, today's massive critter didn't fare so well.

In July of this year the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, or NOAA, was conducting a study on sperm whales and what they eat in the Gulf of Mexico. While cruising along they caught something big in their trawling net and hauled it up from a depth of 1,500 feet. It was a giant squid 19.5 feet long and 103 pounds. Unfortunately, being yanked out of such deep water does a number on animals and our tentacled friend came up bug-eyed and dead. Not so good for him.

For centuries, seamen have told tales of giant, multi-armed monsters rising up from the depths and dragging whole ships down. It would probably be an unusual happenstance if it ever happened at all but certainly a squid as big as the one caught in the Gulf could do a number on a small boat if it had a hankering to.

This giant squid is the first caught in the Gulf since 1954, when a carcass was found floating around off the Mississippi Delta. Squid expert Michael Vecchione told reporters : "This is an incredibly rare find in the Gulf of Mexico." He went on to say that giant squid are more common in waters around New Zealand and Spain. Scientists knew that the squid lived in the Gulf, however, because they have found remains of the creatures in the gullets of other Gulf animals like sperm whales.

The squid, whose Latin name is Architeuthis dux, has been transferred to the Smithsonian Institute for further study. Scientists hope that the big guy, who literally gave his life for science, will tell them a lot more not only about his species but about what is going on down there in the very deep (as low as 3,000 feet in some places) water of the Gulf.

Although I've never had the urge to hug a squid, I salute you Architeuthis dux for your sacrifice. I hope a lot is learned from it.

The Pirates Own Book: "Good Devil, Take This Till I Come"

Its been a bit since we visited The Pirates' Own Book by Charles Ellms so I pulled it out yesterday and, in between exclamations of "Geaux Saints!" I read up on the short but busy life of Captain Lewis, pirate. Here it is in a nutshell.

Captain Lewis is not given a place or date of birth and in all honesty I cannot find any other references to the man. Ellms doesn't even give him a first name so its a little hard to know which Captain Lewis was "the pirate Lewis". Ellms is quite clear that the man was a Satanist though and, given the lack of ravishment of young ladies in this chapter, that's about as scintillating as he gets.

Lewis signed aboard the ship of a pirate named Banister as a boy. When Banister was hanged "at the yard-arm of a man-of-war" in Port Royal, Jamaica, Lewis followed in his footsteps. He appropriated a canoe and a couple of men and captured larger and larger ships until he had his own brigantine. He seems to have worked the Gulf of Mexico in his early career and taken mostly fishing vessels. When he does capture a merchant off Campeche, he chastises the Captain for not adequately looking after his employer's property. An unpleasant but humorous scene follows in which Ellms has Lewis caning the merchant Captain who runs around the deck attempting to surrender even more goods and cash to the pirate, which in turn only enrages Lewis all the more. Good times.

Lewis then sails to the Carolinas and begins taking merchants in earnest. He works the coast of North America from the Caribbean all the way up to Newfoundland. His largely French crew falls out with the Englishmen among them and Lewis maroons the would be English mutineers on one of his ship's boats with only a small amount of provisions. Ellms tells us that "These men, it is supposed, all perished in the sea".

Shortly after this incident, Lewis takes on a 24 gun merchant who somehow manages to capture Lewis' quartermaster. They keep the man in chains overnight and Lewis is prepared to do a deal whereby the quartermaster would be returned and Lewis would let the merchant go about its business. The news that his man was kept in chains sets him off, however, and Lewis boards the merchant killing any man who will not join his crew.

Generally, though, Lewis is rather gentlemanly to his victims, giving them his ship if he likes theirs and only taking on men who are willing to turn pirate. At some point, he sails for the coast of Guinea. When his ship is in pursuit of a fat merchant and her main and fore topmasts are torn away in a high wind, Lewis climbs to the maintop, cuts off a lock of hair and throws it into the wind saying "good devil, take this till I come". "And it was observed," Ellms says "that he came afterwards faster up with the chase than before the loss of his top-masts".

Off Guinea, Lewis' crew splits up and this time it is the French who cause the trouble. They get a ship and elect as their Captain one Le Barre but Lewis will have none of it. He gives chase and sinks Le Barre's ship, leaving only a handful of Frenchmen alive. While celebrating this victory, Lewis' men inform him that "...the French had a plot against him". His response is that "...he could not withstand his destiny..." and evidently the Devil told him he would die that night.

Sure enough, the Frenchmen board Lewis' ship in the night and kill him as he sleeps. His men take care of the intruders and then elect John Cornelius "...an Irishman..." as Captain. A delightful little poem follows and that's it for Captain Lewis, Satan's pirate.

If you've a desire to read The Pirates' Own Book yourself, it is still in circulation from the Marine Research Society of Salem, Massachusetts or the good folks at the Gutenberg project have the entire book - illustrations and all! - available on line here. Check it out. You won't be disappointed!

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Before and After

So much of our common language comes to us from the sea that I'll be well into the hundredth year of my life ('od forebear!) before I run out of words for SMS. The most common of all seem the most interesting to me because the etymology of words is so gosh darn debatable and if there's anything a right sailor enjoys its a good debate. Nothing passes the time quite like it. So let us have a go at before and after, shall we? To me it's obvious where they came from. If you've got a different thought, let me know. The door to the great cabin is open... usually.


Fore and aft are the old sailor's terms for the front and back of anything, usually a ship. As near as I can tell they both come from the Saxon terms fore (front) and abaft (back) which was then shortened to aft. After came along fairly quickly but fore remained the terminology in use for some time and fore and aft are used to this day aboard ship. If you hear some guy call the bow front or the taffrail back, he's a lubber. Period.

Fore was used not just in relation to the ship but in reference to anything that went before. "Boarders to the fore!" was an order indicating the obvious - board the enemy! Fore could be added to almost any word to indicate location - forelock, fore-chains, fore-cockpit and so on. The common seafaring term forecastle - foc'sul - came into use because Medieval ships actually had fore and aft "castles" built on them to protect archers. "Aftcastle" (aft'sul?) never quite caught on and became the giggle inducing poop instead. Anything ahead of fore is before.

Aft is just as handy. Right aft is in a direct line with the keel from the stern. A mast rakes aft when it points to the stern and so on. Aft in particular became part of common terms - afternoon, aftermost, afterguard, afterlife, etc. Anything behind aft is after.

Try using the original terms and you're talking like a pirate without thinking about it. "Get your homework done fore you run out and play." "Let's have some cake aft supper." Try it! The fun never ends!

Happy Saturday, Brethren! Mind your fore and aft sails and they'll get you to the prize all the sooner.

History: Gone to the Dogs

Dogs have a special place in sailors' hearts. There has been a strong belief that dogs bring a ship good luck. Their fidelity and good will toward humans was thought to bring a crew together, making men more like the dog if you will. Seamen were rarely overly affectionate to the ship's dog, however. Like every other manjack aboard, Dog was expected to pull his weight and then some.

It is unknown when dogs began long voyages with man but it can most probably be traced to the first outright pirates, the Phoenicians. Many people imagine that small dogs were the norm aboard cramped and crowded vessels but the opposite is true. A small dog was fine for ratting, but that was generally left to the cats. So what was it that a dog did aboard ship besides eat, sleep and soil the deck? Save your life, mate. And then some.

In the early days of sail - from the Medieval period until the 18th century - mutts were brought aboard. They were expected to move heavy loads, sometimes even being strapped by a harness to the capstan in order assist in pulling up the anchor. These guys were the burly, musclebound mastiffs that are sometimes labelled "pitbulls" today. They could handle a lot of hard work and their short muzzles allowed them to breath more easily while carrying an object in the water. More times than not, that object was some sailor who had tipped overboard, couldn't swim and was fit to drown had it not been for trusty Dog.

Humans can't stop tinkering and the 18th and 19th centuries saw a boom in genetically engineered dogs. These breeds, like their forebears, were born to do specific tasks and the Newfoundland/Landseer (shown above) was particularly popular aboard ship. Bred to pull heavy fishing nets, boats and waterlogged people they were welcomed not just as loyal crew members but as hard workers and lifesavers. On his sail back from Elba to his Hundred Days in France, Napoleon fell overboard and was saved by a Newfie.

Other famous dogs dotted the landscape of the Golden Age of Sail. British Admiral Collingwood had a dog, most likely a beagle, named Bounce whom he refused to sail without. Admiral Lord Nelson had a strapping dog named Nileus, no doubt after his master's glorious victory at the Nile (humble sort, that Horatio) and an interesting - and telling - family story goes along with him if you will permit me to digress.

Nelson carried on an open liaison with Emma, Lady Hamilton, until his death at Trafalgar. Their affair produced a set of twin girls but Emma felt she could only handle one child. She abandon one girl to a foundling hospital. The other she named Horatia and raised without informing Nelson of her twin. Horatia spent her young life in privileged surroundings and despite her mother being married to Lord Hamilton, Horatia knew who her father was. She believed to her dying day that the Hamiltons had adopted her. Even though she already had a pony, the girl begged incessantly for a dog. Her father, who wrote her frequently, sent her a gold locket with a dog's picture inside and told her it must replace the dog he "could never have promised" her "as we have no Dogs on board ship..." Lying, like fame, seemed to come quite easily to Horatia's parents.

Pirates and privateers were very similar to their naval cousins and dogs were a common sight aboard them. The canine crewmen did the same jobs they did in the navies - just like the men. Unlike cats, though, they rarely came in multiples. One dog was surely more than enough in the close confines of a ship, especially since he or she would spend a lot of time wet. Even dog lovers are not very tolerant of that smell.

A famous Newfoundland named Bosun accompanied Lewis and Clarke on their expedition west and George Gordon Lord Byron, the poet who authored The Corsair, had a landseer named Boatswain.

Like their feline compatriots, dogs got the official boot when the navies on both sides of the Atlantic branded them "unhygienic". Also like their kitty friends, however, dogs are still carried aboard ship in other parts of the world and probably will be until there are no more seas to sail. Let us not forget, though, that a cat might keep the rats down, but he won't fetch your Emperor - or you - out of the drink.

People: Is There a Doctor in the House?

The man we're going to discuss today is one of those people that would be on my "who would you invite to that hypothetical dinner party, living or dead" list. I think the exercise is silly, really, because most of us would end up entertaining about twenty or thirty and at that point you're never going to be able to really talk to each person and get the goods on their life. But so little is known about Dr. Exquemelin that he would definitely stay on the guest list even after the initial culling process.

Alexander Exquemelin was born in Honfleur, France around 1646. Honfleur is a port town on the northern coast so it is safe to say that young Alex was exposed to ships and shipping - and very likely privateers - from an early age. Some historians claim that the young man had a hankering to become a ship's surgeon. Others go so far as to have him studying medicine in France. While Alexander may have set his sights on doctoring early, his later life hints at a pauper's youth and in all probability school of any kind was out.

At some point in his early life Alexander really hit the skids and either sold himself or was sold into indentured servitude. He sailed to Hispaniola and there was put to work at hard labor for his new master. Indenture in the Caribbean was nothing more than slavery and Alexander was worked so hard that he fell deathly ill. Seeing that the young man was of no further use, his master put him up for "resale".

At this point, Alexander's luck began to change. A local physician took up his indentured, saw him through his illness and made the young man his assistant. Alexander learned the skill of doctoring over three years and the elbow of this unknown gentleman and, when the term of indenture was up, Alexander's benefactor gave him not only the money he was owed but a set of surgical tools as well. What had started out as a potential death sentence became a door to an entirely new life.

With the proliferation of buccaneers on the local islands, it wasn't hard for Alex to find work as a ship's surgeon. By his own account he sailed with the psychopathic Francois L'Olonnais and witnessed his horrors at Maracaibo. It is documented that Exquemelin was with Henry Morgan when he sacked Panama in 1671. The doctor also claimed to know other buccaneers personally, including Rock Brasilliano and Michel de Grammont.

Evidently Alexander came to a point where enough was enough and some time between 1671 and 1678 he returned to Europe. He settled in Holland, where the Amsterdam Surgeon's Guild Book indicates that he passed his exams and become a legal surgeon in 1679. Before that, though, Exquemelin published the book that would make him famous to this day.

Buccaneers of America, first published in Holland in 1678, would be a runaway bestseller in Europe for the next ten years. A lot of the stories still told about the men Alexander knew and claimed to know come from this original work. While many historians have tried to discredit Exquemelin's work as pure fantasy, more and more information comes to light that proves them wrong.

In fact only one man has managed to successfully challenge Exquemelin's description of a buccaneer. Henry Morgan, who did not care for the way he was portrayed in the book, sued Exquemelin for slander and won (of course, it probably helped that Morgan was Governor of Jamaica at the time).

Alexander Exquemelin's book is still in circulation today and it is a fascinating read. All the same, I think it would be even more fascinating to hear the Doctor's stories first hand. I'll seat him between Andrew Jackson and Horatio Nelson. His sense of humor might keep the dueling to a minimum. Crack open the wine and let the good times roll!

Lady Pirates: And A Right Real Lady, Too

I made my way down to the orlop for a consultation with the surgeon yesterday. Ours is an old, crusty sort, highly religious and probably close to retirement. I got pushed and prodded and swabbed and when all was said and done he looked at me and said: "Well, you've got what we used to call 'walking pneumonia' which is just an inflammation of the mucous membrane and the bronchi." Of all the words in that sentence, my favorite is the word "just". So that's why there was no post yesterday, Brethren and why I apologize for any errors in this one. "Just" having your breathing apparatus inflamed means that you score good drugs, at least, and I'm on 'em!

The woman pictured above is not today's topic in the flesh. She is Lady Elizabeth Vernon who lived at the same time. I hope she doesn't mind me appropriating her portrait to give you an idea of what out own Lady Mary Wolverston Killigrew would have worn en deshabille. So stylish! Her wardrobe aside, whether or not Mary Killigrew was actively involved in piratical goings on is open for debate. There can be no doubt that today's heroine was from a family with a piratical tradition and that her second marriage took her to a place that shared the same.

Mary Wolverston was born in Suffolk in 1540. Her father, Sir Philip Wolverston, was what was known in that time as a "gentleman pirate". Henry VIII, in his hot and heavy lust for Anne Boleyn, had essentially turned his back on Europe and European trade when he broke with the Catholic Church. Only the budding Protestant countries such as Germany would consider above-board trade with England and this opened the door for smuggling operations that made more than one indebted nobleman rich. Along with the privateer navy, the "gentleman pirate" was born.

The gentry who had the good fortune to own estates with ports or harbors would basically rent out space in their waters to pirates. The Lord would bribe local officials, help the pirates sell their goods at market and take another cut on the back end. There are ledgers and books still in existence today that document these operations all along the British coast and they continued well into the reign of Henry's daughter, the great Elizabeth.

Born at Wolverston Hall, young Mary would have seen this kind of racketeering from an early age. In her youth she was married to Thomas Knyvett who died in short order. Her second marriage was to Sir John Killigrew. He was the hereditary governor of Pendennis in Cornwall, a vice-admiral and the lord of Arwennack Manor. The Killigrew lands included the harbor of Falmouth and the Lord was as deep into the smuggling business as his father-in-law had ever been.

It seems that Mary dug right in to the family business and the business of growing a family once she was mistress of Arwennack. By 1562 she and John had five children and Mary was keeping the books and entertaining the more gentile freebooters that frequented Falmouth Harbor. She was known in the area as an excellent hostess and, given the fact that her husband died ten thousand British pounds in debt, it seems that no expense was spared.

Perhaps because of their precarious financial position, Mary is reputed to have gotten her hands bloody in 1582. A large merchant full of goods took refuge from a storm in the harbor on New Years Day. The story is very muddled. Some historians say the ship was Spanish, some Dutch, but they generally agree that the Captain felt safe where he was and allowed shore leave for all but a very few crewman. The story goes that Mary was introduced to the Captain, heard of the skeleton crew, and hatched her plan then and there.

Under cover of night Mary took two servants, rowed out to the merchant, killed the crew - some say herself - and put her own men aboard. The merchant disappeared from Falmouth harbor that night, allegedly on her way to Ireland where the Killigrew's men would turn a profit from her as prize. Whatever actually occurred, the ship did disappear and the Captain made protest to the local naval commissioner.

Wouldn't you know that said commissioner was none other than John, Mary's son. Of course the plea was dismissed on the grounds that there were no witnesses to the theft of the ship and the merchant Captain was sent packing. The merchant's owners were not so easily put off, however, and they put their protest before the Earl of Bedford of the Queen's privy council. An inquiry was launched and Lady Killigrew, along with two men named Hawkins and Kendal, were jailed. All three were sentenced to be hanged for piracy.

Mary's son set to work trying to save his mother and, though the two men were hanged, Mary remained in prison while John appealed, finally to the Queen herself. Mary's sentence was reduced to time served and she was released in 1585. She returned to Arwennack to find her husband dead and her estate in debt.

There is no further mention of Mary Killigrew in connection with piracy. She died in 1617 and her son, John, became Lord Killigrew. If he continued the family's piratical dealings, he did so without attracting the attention of authorities.

To me, the story of Lady Killigrew is interesting for what it lacks. Did she really have a hands on involvement in the smuggling trade? Was she guilty of murder? And how many other "gentlewoman pirates" were out there? Its something to think about, but not too hard. Thinking makes my head hurt right now.

Tools of the Trade: What's In A Name?

Ahoy Brethren and happy Columbus Day! When I was a wee cabin girl this was a day of celebration. Banks were closed, the mail didn't come, but you still had to go to school. And there, in the halls of Newport Hills Elementary School, we learned a thing or two about Cristobel Colum. And not just the 1492 rhyme either. We had to know the names of his ships. Do you remember them?

That memory got me thinking about ship names and naming ships and the pirates and privateers who sailed aboard them. Most sailors have a superstition against renaming a ship but our Brethren were a different breed. A new name for a prize covered your tracks and made it harder for the rightful owner to reclaim the booty. A new name and a refit could virtually make a ship disappear. But what names did the freebooters favor over the years? Here's a handy list by way of an answer:

Sir Francis Drake, The Golden Hinde
Francois L'Olonnais, Olonne
Christopher Myngs, Marston Moor and Centurion
William Kidd, Adventure Galley
Edward England, Fancy and Pearl
Thomas Tew, Liberty
Henry Avery, Fancy
Bartholomew Roberts, Fortune renamed Good Fortune renamed Royal Fortune
Edward Teach, Revenge and Queen Anne's Revenge
Charles Vane, Ranger
Sam Bellamey, Mary Anne, Sultana and Whydah
John Paul Jones, Bonhomme Richard
Jean and Pierre Laffite, La Seour Cheri, Dorada, Dos Hermanos, and General Santander (only the first and last of these ships were actually Captained by Jean Laffite)
Dominique Youx, Tigre and Mexicaine
Renato Beluche, L'Intrepide, La Popa, General Bolivar, General Arismendi, Mizelle (the last ship was named for his wife)

Of course I could go on but you get the idea. Maybe when you decide to invest in that dream ship you'll consider one of these historical monikers. Or you could go with one of Columbus' ships - Nina, Pinta or Santa Maria.