Gilboy’s Quest

by Sam Ivey

Chapter I
part 2 of 3

The memory of that part of his life crystallized the sight of the store he had set up on the corner of Forest Avenue and Niagara Street. It was indelibly crisp in his mind’s eye; it had been on land that his father had acquired years earlier. And as he reflected on it now, he could not imagine a single reason why he had done it — some effort to become a legitimate landsman, probably.

And then there had been the marriage. Pretty girl she was: Catherine Loretta Whalon, from Lockport; a close friend of his sisters. How lovely she had looked in her wedding dress, her face radiant with joy, her dark eyes sparkling with excited anticipation. He could still almost hear the Father intoning: “Do you Bernard Gilboy take Catherine Loretta...” And he had answered “Yes” to the question, and he had meant it.

But even then the roving spirit was upon him. So after two years as a grocer, something about the same as a husband and a little less than that as a father, he felt himself succumbing to the Siren Song of the sea. Even the birth of his first child, a daughter, Mary — named after his mother — was not sufficient to keep his anchor fixed deep in the soil of New York State.

“Catherine,” he announced one day, “I’m going to sell the business.”

“I must say I’m surprised, Bernard. You’re doing quite well; everyone speaks highly of your success. Why do you want to sell? What do you plan to do?”

“I’m not sure. But I’m thinking of returning to San Francisco. You know — get work out there, maybe set up another business. Don’t ask me why, but I just feel better-spirited out there than I do here in Buffalo.”

That had been the gist of the conversation as he remembered it. And so he had left. His intentions had been noble: namely to care for the family. But the compelling desire to make this trip — to sail across the Pacific to Australia — possessed him. And he knew his family would be there to care for Catherine and for his child.

So here he was, walking along San Francisco Bay on a chilly night in July, with his heart out there in the Pacific somewhere.

He had been in town only a few months, and had worked at the United Workmen’s Shoe Factory. But it was only to occupy his time. He didn’t need to work; money was not an issue. There was the money from the sale of the business and he was financially comfortable, having been a frugal person from his youth. It was a trait inherited from his father.

So as he walked tonight, he felt a sense of freedom: a freedom from those things that hold people rooted in certain places; rooted with such permanency as to allow no room for the soaring, vagabond spirit of emprise. Such persons never experience that demandingly impelling inducement that causes men to leave the comforts of wherever they had happened to live, to leave friends and relatives; yes, like himself, even to leave ones so close as a wife and a child.

But there was no feeling of moral irresponsibility. Catherine and Mary were in good hands, whereas he was, as it were, in the hands of destiny. Had he been asked to explain such a persuasion, he would have been at a loss. For it transcended explanation.

It was, then, in the pattern of such men as Magellan and Cabot, of Balboa and Columbus — men who had waited for ships to be built to carry them to places unseen and even unknown — that he now waited for a boat to be built; a boat that would, hopefully, carry him to the realization of a dream and into history. And tomorrow he would visit the builders of that boat.

He was up early. He breakfasted at a nearby restaurant on four eggs, six strips of bacon (still wiggly; he didn’t like it too crisp), coffee and biscuits. Then he walked, very leisurely on this bright summer morning that was somewhat unusual for San Francisco, over to Burns & Kneass, boatwrights with a shop at 22 Mission Street on the waterfront.

“Good morning, George Kneass,” he said, coming through the shop door that stood open on this fine, shining morning.

“Well, hello, Bernard,” Kneass said, turning from a discussion with a worker and from his practiced examination of a vessel under construction. “You’re up and about early today.”

“It’s a handsome day, George, and one not to be wasted. How’s the boat coming along?”

“Come take a look, Bernard, then tell me what you think.”

They walked together to the back of the shop, the tangy smell of fresh-cut wood blessing their nostrils and overlaying the tart aromas of paint and glue. Workmen took the opportunity to greet him.

“Good morning, Bernard;” “How’s it going, Gilboy?” “About ready to make that trip, Mister Gilboy?”

“Just a soon as you can get me a boat done,” he replied cheerily, shaking hands with two of the men.

Then on toward the rear of the shop where George said, “Well, there she is.” As he said it, he pointed to a small hull, upside down on a pair of sawhorses. Gilboy drank in the sight.

She was not yet fully planked, and the shiny white frames of bent oak, still visible under the aromatic cedar strakes, looked very much like the bleached ribs of a carcass. Lying back against the wall were the masts and booms, the amber-gold wood sheening with a patina born of multiple coats of varnish.

“She’ll be decked with spruce,” Kneass explained, “and then we’ll cover that over with canvas. That’ll provide her with a real watertight topside. We’ve used spruce for the top strake as well, and the same for all the spars. She has oak mast bands and solid, cast iron fittings throughout; she’ll be a strong vessel.” He paused before continuing. “I have to ask you though: there are those who have questioned your idea of a schooner rig on a boat of this size. They feel that it’s too... well, too cumbersome.”

Gilboy smiled knowingly. “Oh, I don’t know, George. They have their viewpoint and I have mine. I look at it this way: I feel that rigging her schooner-like is the strongest and the safest way to go. With a runabout rig — you know, just one mast — if I lose that, there isn’t anything left. But with the schooner rig: if the weather carries one of the sticks, I’ve still got one. Besides, it breaks up the sail plan into pieces that are much more easily handled. I think it’s less cumbersome if anything. No, I believe my idea of the rig I’ve chosen is right, even though, as you say, it may be a little unusual for a boat this size.”

“Well, I guess I can’t fault that thinking, Bernard. By the way, I feel we’ve got a really good hull here, too. We’ve stepped the masts as you requested; they’re both removable, and we’ve arranged to shim them at the partners. That’ll keep them steady when they’re in place. And I think you’ll find that she’s well suited to off-the-wind work.”

“Excellent, George. That’s exactly what I need.” He laid a hand on Kneass’ shoulder. “If everything runs true to form, I expect the wind’ll be on the starboard quarter initially — at least as far south as the Doldrums. And if I can have a decent passage through that area, and get across the Equator, I’ll be able to pick up the southeast trades from there on.”

“I would think so,” Kneass agreed. “And you’ll have plenty of canvas up to catch it. We’ve figured for sixty-seven square feet in the main, forty-five in the fores’l, and twenty-nine feet in a club-footed jib. Should give you a good balance.”

“Sounds good, George, and I think that probably makes my point, don’t you see? Can you imagine that same spread of sail... what would it be (he calculated quickly)... a hundred and twelve square feet? Yes, I believe that’s right. Now can you picture that in a single mains’l? Talk about cumbersome! What do you suppose that would weigh when it got wet? And besides, a mains’l that large would require a larger jib for balance. No thank you. The schooner rig is it.”

He turned to run his hands over the smooth cedar planking. “You and your people have done a fine job here. When do you reckon she’ll be ready?”

“When do you need her?”

“Well, I don’t want to hurry you, but I’d like to get away by, say, the middle of next month. Does that look to be reasonable?”

Kneass scratched his head and looked thoughtfully at the floor before looking back at Bernard. “I don’t see a problem with that. As a matter of fact, I’d say that you can bank on it. Do you have a name for her?”

Still stroking the naked wood, and without looking up, Gilboy said, “Yes, Pacific. That’s what I’ve decided to call her: Pacific. Seems appropriate.”

Now he turned back to Kneass. “George, I’d love to stay and talk, but right now you’ll have to excuse me. I know you’ve got work to do, and I do also; got to look into seeing about some supplies. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

A couple of weeks it proved to be, and on Thursday, August 3rd, 1882, Pacific tasted, for the first time, the waters of the ocean after which she had been named. Gilboy stood watching as she was launched, arms folded across his chest, his heart exuberant with excitement as the masts were stepped and the standing rigging was tensioned.

She was a smart little craft, with her jaunty bowsprit and jib boom thrusting forward some four feet beyond the plumb bow, and with her soft sheer line rising slightly at the stern. And there on the trailboards that flanked the bow, her name in capital letters.

There were a few passersby on the occasion, and some of them asked questions. Some inquired as to where he might be going. In answering, he replied that he was just going to take a little cruise outside the heads. At the time, it was the colloquial way of referring to the Bay’s entrance.

He was guarded, however, when it came to discussing his plans. What he desired most at this time was privacy, and he had revealed his intentions of sailing to Australia to only a few very intimate friends — not even to any of his family. Of necessity, this desire for secrecy precluded anything resembling a shakedown cruise. It would have been most welcome to know how the boat would handle, especially when fully loaded and setting low in the water.

But it had occurred to him that if his pending venture were to become widely known, and if a numerous crowd were to turn out to see him off, they might also have the cynical satisfaction of reading — in San Francisco’s Alta California or the Chronicle — on the following morning, of his humiliating return; this being either for repairs or refitting, or for having abandoned the whole idea.

Besides, San Franciscans didn’t view small boats the way they were viewed back in Boston or Newport, or on the Chesapeake. Here the comings and goings of tall, stately square-riggers were a common sight. But a small boat putting out to sea, with a solo occupant intent on a Transpacific crossing, would appear ridiculous.

So for the next few days he spent much of his time calculating his needed provisions. As discreetly as possible, he began purchasing the necessary food and water that he saw as requirements for the trip. There was no stinting, and the little craft would be literally stuffed with supplies.

His list included: water, 140 gallons; bread, 165 pounds (in fifteen-pound, air tight-cans); roast beef, roast chicken, roast salmon and boneless pigs-feet, all in one- and two-pound cans. There was milk and sugar. In a half-dozen glass jars there were matches. There was coffee, tea and lard; there were peaches, four cans of nut oil, and one bar of Castille soap.

His list of hardware supplies included a wooden pump with 12 feet of hose. This would be used to siphon water into or out of kegs. Two lamps were included, along with a pound of paraffin candles. There was a hammer and assorted nails, a hatchet and a fish spear. There was a double-barreled shotgun and a revolver, along with ammunition for each. For cooking, along with their respective fuels, he had both a kerosene oil stove and an alcohol pocket stove. Some of these items were already aboard, and it all seemed quite complete; he felt he had thought of everything. All that remained was the final purchasing and loading.

Another two weeks passed before all of that was done, and before he felt that both he and the boat were ready for sea. And though he had wanted to be underway by the 15th of that month of August in 1882, it was not until the afternoon of the 17th that he hauled the anchor and moved the vessel down to the Clay Street wharf — closer to the Golden Gate.

Having tied up there, his next intention had been to obtain the required clearance from the Custom House. Following that, he would cast off for some yet-to-be-determined point, a landfall somewhere along the northeastern coast of Australia. The tide would be on the ebb at about four o’clock that afternoon, a tide that would conveniently sweep him out to sea. With that in mind, and with the boat finally secure, it was shortly after 2:00 p.m. when he made his way to the Custom House.

Entering the office of the Deputy-Collector, he said, “Good afternoon, Mister Jerome. My name is Gilboy, Bernard Gilboy. My boat, the Pacific, is tied up at the Clay Street wharf, and I’d like to get clearance for Australia.”

“Certainly, Mister Gilboy. What’s your tonnage?” Jerome asked the question as he took forms from a basket on his desk, preparatory to filling them out.

“It’s... well, I’m not sure.” The question came as a surprise.

“I see. Well, Mister Gilboy, we’ll need the tonnage before we can issue your clearance. And since, as you say, the boat is in the water, let me make this suggestion. Perhaps you could get the dimensions from your builder and take them to the Marine Surveyor. From them, he’ll be able to calculate the tonnage. Then bring us those figures, and we’ll make out your clearance papers.”

Proceed to part 3...