STORY NO. 1
A Short Story
By: Jay R. Calkins
(For the teacher to read to the class)
As we leave the dock at Sapelo Island, Georgia aboard our boat, my senses are filled with the sights, sounds, and smells of the salt marsh, which dominate the shoreward side of Georgia's barrier islands. Cordgrass, now green and waving in the hot summer wind, stretches as far as you can see, broken only by the tea-coloured tidal creeks and rippling waters of Doboy Sound. Great blue herons squawk as our noisy passage disturbs them from their concentrated fishing rites. Fiddler crabs scurry into their muddy holes as the wake from the boat splashes along the mudflats.
I can see an old lighthouse, long abandoned, marking the southern end of Sapelo Island as we leave the sound and enter the Atlantic Ocean. To the north are the beaches and dunes, which protect the island from the constant wash of ocean waves. Shorebirds scamper among the waves in search of food.
The water changes from the colour of tea to a blue-green as we leave the sound and travel east across the continental shelf. Flocks of sea gulls and terns follow our boat hoping to get an easy meal. The birds have learned that workers on fishing boats throw scraps of fish overboard after picking out the delicious white shrimp. Some of the birds follow us for miles out to sea.
We, the captain, crew, and I are going to visit Gray's Reef National Marine Sanctuary today. This sanctuary is about 17 miles ahead of us. Behind us, Sapelo Island is shrinking into the horizon as we travel to the east. Suddenly, appearing like magic, the boat is surrounded by six dolphins. The sleek mammals swim around the boat with ease. They pass the boat, swim beneath it and surf on our wake.
As my diving partner swims over a ledge slightly ahead of me, he suddenly stops and gestures wildly for me to look below him. There, resting on the bottom is a six-foot-long shark. The theme song from the movie "JAWS" echoes through my head as visions of some "man-eater" biting me fill me with dread. But this is a nurse shark, a large docile fish, which would not bother anyone.
I know very well that few sharks are dangerous to humans. Of the 300 species of sharks, only a dozen have been known to bite humans. Many of those attacks are thought to be the result of mistaken identity. For instance, great white sharks are thought to attack swimmers because they mistake them for seals or sea lions. Actually, sharks have much more to fear from us, as thousands of sharks are killed yearly for human food. Still, some primeval fear lingers from the sight of any shark.
We swim back up to the boat and take off our scuba tanks. I hope we get some good pictures. Slightly chilled and tired, I lie on the deck and let the sun warm me. I have just seen sights that very few people will ever see, except in photographs.
As we head back to shore, I notice a couple of fishing boats trailing lines in hopes of catching some of the fish drawn to Gray's Reef. Somebody might be eating mackerel, or sea bass or snapper tonight.
This must be my lucky day as someone shouts, "Whales off the starboard bow! Three of them! Big ones!" Sure enough I spot a spout of water and spray shooting into the air from a huge dark shape off to the right about 100 yards ahead. "Those are right whales," cries the captain. "They're larger than our boat so they must be 50 feet long!"
Taking care not to scare these wonderful mammals, we stand off and watch the whales from a distance. "How can one of the largest animals that ever lived be so graceful? " I wondered aloud.
I think back of the stories I've read about hunting whales and wonder how such a magnificent animal could be nearly extinct from such puny beings as ourselves. I take some comfort in knowing that these whales are now protected from whalers' harpoons.
We leave whales and other animals behind and once again approach Sapelo Island, which now casts long shadows on the water from the setting sun. What a day! I hope our pictures are good enough to help us share our trip with others. We need to let everyone know why the ocean and Gray's Reef National Marine Sanctuary are so important to protect and conserve.
STORY 2
Scrimshander
By: Gary Tonkin 1949
Portland Victoria, Australia
I worked all around the world; done a week on a whaling ship and came back to Albany and suddenly realised, “Hell, these whalers are unique.” So I set up a Maritime Heritage Association in this region and lobbied. The thrust was to focus on our whaling heritage in the region, because I’d been around the world and realised I’ve got living history on my doorstep.
John Bell (whale spotter pilot) introduced me to scrimshaw and I started buying whale teeth and I registered myself as a scrimshander and started buying from the whaling station. I’d pick the teeth over for scrimshaw.
To find out about sailing I jumped on one of the last wooden registered merchant ships in the world. The uniqueness of the coast and the mariners and especially the whalers and their contribution to this country’s development is significant. School kids aren’t taught enough about that. I have a strong passion about the whaling contribution to our national maritime history.
If you don’t lead a conventional role you’re termed an eccentric and I can’t believe it’s the right terminology. I don’t want to be stereotyped. I reckon I was moulded by the early characters I was involved with as a child. The early people of this country had an adventurous character and an inspiration that’s missing today. It is! We’re so young and so ready to let the history in front of us go. I’m saying you won’t get another breed of them. Those whaling guys won’t get resurrected. They’re living characters and they’re still alive – very gutsy characters. Through my scrimshaw I want to tell the story of these characters and whalers.
I’ve drunk with these guys, I’ve mixed with these guys and it pisses me off that they haven’t been recognised as characters in their own right. I’ve interviewed a lot of the early whalers. I put it off and put it off and put it off till the point where I had to do it and I said, “Let’s do it.” Ches Stubbs contacted me and stated he had to go to hospital the next day and couldn’t do the taping. I said “You’re going to be all right, aren’t you? And he said, “Are you worried I’m going to drop off the perch?” 48 hours later he was dead. I’ve located a lot of them and the National Library have agreed to incorporate several of them in their records. Ches Stubbs, Paddy Hart, Mick Stubbs, Gordon Cruikshank, Case Vandergaag, John Bell, Spanner Manley and Axel Christensen are some of the many characters.
Paddy Hart, the skipper of Cheynes II whaler, told me he believes we’re cultural cannibals the way we’ve turned our backs on what little history we have specifically here. We’ve let the Cheynes II lay battered and vandalised in Princess Royal Harbour – a bloody disgrace. She’s a symbol of history passing before our eyes and of our neglect.
It comes from my childhood. As a lad I played in a shore-based whaling station in Portland. It really started to hit home to me when I was going through the whaling archives of America and the UK. Hell! The whalers are unique! I realised I’m amongst living history in Albany. Ches is gone. They’re dyin’ like flies. At times I get over-passionate with what I’m doing. But my unorthodox manner has been effective. We’ve got the government looking at whaling station problems. My focus, at present, is the Australia-American whaling connection because it was a very unique situation.
The last 2 American whaling ships under sail were here in Albany, King George Sound, in 1888 – the Canton and the Platina. Few of the general public are aware of this part of our history. There were only 3 known ships in the world sunk by whales – the Essex, Kathleen and, I think, the Alexandra – all American sailing ships and all were rammed, and all by sperm whales as far as I know.
I operate as a whaling historian scrimshander. You can see I engrave the subjects on the teeth to convey historical statement. In the National Maritime Museum is a series of 6 of my teeth depicting life at sea and whaling.
We’re the linchpins. We’re the link> I reckon we’re the last cab off the rank to identify with the old characters. If we don’t pass the message on, Mick – like your book and my scrimshaw – who’s going to?
All those things we did as kids – trap rabbits, catch minnows in the creek, sneak the ol’ shotgun out and stuff like that –today’s kids aren’t going to do that. We used to set 20 rabbit traps before we went to school and sell them to a buyer for 5 bob a pair, and pick blackberries for 6 pence a pound, and kids today aren’t doing it. We collected and we loved the old stories off the oldies. The young blokes of 45 today, we were listening to stories 35 years ago that were going back 100 years. There are a couple of whale dicks in the pubs in town, the Albany and the George. One hung above the glasses at eh George Hotel. To look at them you’d never know what they were. They’d invite any new girls in the pub to have a blow in the didgeridoo. It was the usual thing.
I’ve made a 20 year commitment to whaling and scrimshaw. Conveying your message through the medium of your craft is a most powerful tool. It takes the politics out of it. It takes the bullshit out of it. It’s a genuine and meaningful message. I’m talking about your book here, my mate’s art, my scrimshaw, other leading artists of our age. With our art, our cultural background; we’re at the helm to pass it on because the rest are dropping off the perch. We’re 40s but we’re old to young people.
I’m still watching my way to freedom. I want to scrimshaw my way to freedom. I want to scrimshaw my way into things I love and enjoy in life – the beach, the sea, diving and the simple things. I won’t be comfortable until I get my work all together and part of it is to help save that whaling station, to get the State and Federal government to assist the last intact historic whaling station of it’s type in the world.
Gary Tonkin engraves and carves whale’s teeth and bone for a living. Residing in a whaling town, with a passion for the sea, maritime history and art, Gary was destined to be a scrimshander.
Short Stories for Your Class