I, THE SEA TRAMP

Moored among so many fresh faces, I try vainly to recall the names of the many ships with whom I have shared the sea. I just don’t have the rigging for it, as they say of us tired and forgetful tramps. I seem to remember lots of Apollos and Aphrodites, since sailors can suddenly get religious when about to christen a new boat, and plenty of nostalgic home-port monikers like Syracusia or Alexandria. Here and there I’ve met vessels longingly named Eirene [Peace] or Thalia [Wealth], but men forget that Poseidon covets those things, too. He has dragged them down one by one to his undersea collection. Someday, soon I suspect, these new-berthed ships bobbing beside me will be wondering what I was called. None will recollect rightly, of course—then some young wag will make up a name like Rhapte [Patched Together] to set the whole dock giggling.

In fairness, I suppose I do look about as rhapte as a ship can get. Extensive repairs have kept me in service these 80 years. Besides a few bumps, most of my damage results from a lifelong battle against the dreaded Teredo navalis, an insatiable mollusk that bores into a wooden ship en masse like underwater termites. These so-called shipworms riddle every vital organ, from keel to strakes. Occasional scrapings and fresh coats of pitch have helped a little, but twice I have been hauled out for major surgery. Lately, like a leaky pot, I have been patched inside and out with sheets of lead. In fact, my entire hull has been sheathed with metal laid over a matting of agave leaves and pitch. Held in place by thousands of copper tacks, this stopgap shields my aging timbers from Teredo. My worried crew keeps a mallet and two rolls of lead sheeting stowed on board for further emergencies. I am an old lady on life support, but I am not ready to retire.