The Cruise of the Kawa | Page 3

occasional rocket aimed directly at the
eye of the tropical sun. Captain Triplett, being a stickler for marine
etiquette, had conditioned that there should be no liquor consumed
except when the sun was over the yard-arm. To this end he had fitted a
yard-arm to our cross-trees with a universal joint, thus enabling us to
keep the spar directly under the sun at any hour of the day or night.
Consequently our celebration was proceeding merrily.
While in this happy and isolated condition let me say a few words of
our ship's company. Having already mentioned the Captain I will
dispose of him first. Captain Ezra Triplett was a hard-bitten mariner. In
fact, he was, I think, the hardest-bitten mariner I have ever seen. He had
been bitten, according to his own tell, man-and-boy, for fifty-two years,
by every sort of insect, rodent and crustacean in existence. He had had
smallpox and three touches of scurvy, each of these blights leaving its
autograph. He had lost one eye in the Australian bush where, naturally,
it was impossible to find it. This had been replaced by a blue marble of
the size known, technically, as an eighteen-er, giving him an alert
appearance which had first attracted me. By nature taciturn, he was
always willing to sit up all night as long as the gin was handy, an
excellent trait in a navigator. About his neck he wore a felt bag
containing ten or a dozen assorted marbles with which he furnished his
vacant socket according to his fancy, and the effect of his frequent
changes was both unusual and diverting.
[Illustration: Captain Ezra Triplett]
[Illustration Note: CAPTAIN EZRA TRIPLETT
The annals of maritime history will never be complete until the name of
Captain Ezra Triplett of New Bedford, Massachusetts, receives the
recognition which is justly its. For more than ten generations the
forebears of this hard-bitten mariner have followed the sea in its
various ramifications.
The first Triplett was one of the companions of Goswold who, in 1609,
wintered on Cuttyhunk Island in Buzzard's Bay. From then on the

members of this hardy New England family have earned positions of
trust and honor. By courage and perseverance the subject of this
portrait has worked himself up from cabin boy on the sound steamer
Puritan (wrecked on Bartlett's Reef, 1898) to his present position of
commander of the Kawa.
Of his important part in connection with the historic cruise described in
these pages, the Kawa's owner, Dr. Traprock, has no hesitancy in
saying, "Frankly, without Triplett the thing never could have been
done." The accompanying photograph was taken just after the captain
had been hauled out of the surf in Papeete. It will be remarked that he
still maintains an indomitable front and holds his trusty Colt in
readiness for immediate action.]
But sail! Lord bless you, how Triplett could sail! It was wizardry, sheer
wizardry; "devil-work," the natives used to call it. Triplett, blindfolded,
could find the inlet to a hermetically sealed atoll. When there wasn't
any inlet he would wait for a seventh wave--which is always extra
large--and take her over on the crest, disregarding the ragged coral
below. The Kawa was a tight little craft, built for rough work. She
stood up nobly under the punishment her skipper gave her.
Triplett's assistant was an individual named William Henry Thomas, a
retired Connecticut farmer who had chosen to end his days at sea. This,
it should be remarked, is the reverse of the usual order. The back-lots of
Connecticut are peopled by retired sea-captains who have gone back to
the land, which accounts in large measure for the condition of
agriculture in these communities. William Henry Thomas had appeared
as Triplett's selection. Once aboard ship his land habits stood him in
good stead in his various duties as cook, foremost-hand, butler and
valet, for it must not be supposed that the Kawa, tight though she might
be, was without a jaunty style of her own.
Our first-class cabin passengers were three, Reginald K. Whinney,
scientific man, world wanderer, data-demon and a devil when roused;
Herman Swank, bohemian, artist, and vagabond, forever in search of
new sensations, and myself, Walter E. Traprock, of Derby, Connecticut,
editor, war correspondent, and author, jack-of-all-trades, mostly literary

and none lucrative.
Our object? What, indeed, but life itself!
I had known my companions for years. We had been class-mates at
New Haven when our fathers were working our way through college.
How far away it all seemed on that torrid Fourth of July as we sat on
the Kawa's deck singing "Oralee", to which we had taught Triplett the
bass.
"Like a blackbird in the spring, Chanting Ora-lee...."
"Very un-sanitary," said Whinney, "a blackbird ... in the spring ... very
un-sanitary."
We laughed feebly.
Suddenly, as they do