Hans had been daydreaming all day long. Finally he was to go into the open sea! It was fun going out in the small fishing boats, but it was rather like playing with tin soldiers instead of being in battle. The little boats never got out of sight of land. It was as if they were tethered to shore by long mooring lines. But now! Hans looked at the “Rosendahl” and his heart flew. She was long, but well-rounded. She was sturdily built with lots of freeboard, which meant that even in a big blow she could carry lots of sail. Her bow curved up high to smash through waves. Hans had laid most of her timbers himself, and he knew how massive and strong they were. It would take more than the North Sea to get the best of the “Rosendahl”!
Hans had watched the loading of the livestock and other goods with impatience. He was no businessman. He was not interested in selling livestock to the British, nor did he understand it. They have pigs too, he thought. Why don’t they eat their own pigs? But, if it was an excuse to break away from the land into the freedom of the open ocean, he was thankful for it. Just that it took so long! The loading went on all day and was completed at nightfall. The next tide would be at five-thirty in the morning. Hans slept on board; that is, he spent the night on board. For a long time, even with his eyes closed, he saw waves dancing and blue-gray waves turning to foam and back to blue again. Just as he would get drowsy, he would see the white sails strain and pull and feel the heavy but graceful slow roll of the “Rosendahl.”
Finally he opened his eyes and stood up. He went up on deck and slid his hand along the railing. He checked out the rigging and sails for the thousandth time. He spun the wheel, then went forward. He walked out on the bowsprit and looked down into the black, black water of the harbor. Lights danced in riplets like silver snakes. The patches of water in between looked like humps of sea monsters. A row of bars with rowdy sailors huddled close around the wharves. On the other side away from the harbor everything was black. Hans walked out to the very tip of the bowsprit and leaned with his back against the forestay. Then he went back to his tiny cabin. He couldn’t get to sleep and couldn’t get to sleep, and then, he was asleep.
Hans’ eyes opened wide. He couldn’t have been more awake if someone had doused him with a bucket of ice water. He grinned inwardly, “My father always complained that I was a sleepy-head. It is exactly five-fifteen and I am wide awake. I wonder how my eyes knew it was time to open?” By this time Hans was dressed and on deck. No one else was up, so he prepared the sails for hoisting himself. There was a feather-soft breeze blowing from shore and a trickle of current flowing past along the sides of the “Rosendahl” out to sea. Hans loosened the mooring lines, jumped onto the dock and pushed with all his might. With the help of the flowing tide, the ship moved slightly. He continued to push. Hans strained, his blood vessels taut and pounding. The “Rosendahl” had moved an inch, was moving. Now perceptively moving. The weak beginnings of the early morning tide gurgled past the ship, edging it along and away from the dock. Slowly, slowly, the crack of black seawater between the pier and the Rosendahl’s hull widened. Now it was a foot wide and growing more rapidly. Hans swung himself over the railing. He hoisted the staysail. Black silence. Only the small staysail forward rippled slowly and palely. It fluttered and muttered and whispered a pre-dawn prayer.
By the time the rest of the crew was awake, the “Rosendahl” was well into the channel. The crew members went to work hoisting the sails, laughing and talking about their crazy skipper who got up so early and tried to sail the “Rosendahl” by himself. The land breeze breathed softly but steadily. Suddenly, before anyone noticed it, the black was gray. Gray shapes began to appear, and gray water let itself be distinguished from gray sky. Red shafts speared upward behind the “Rosendahl.” A red hump appeared, then quickly became a ball. It was day. The breeze freshened only slightly. The banks of the fjord widened and fell away. Ahead, stll far ahead, the wide, sweeping, glinting arc of the open sea showed itself. The sun sparkled and glinted on the rippled arc.
The nose of the “Rosendahl” dipped and rose, dipped and rose, then met its first deep water swell. The swell passed underneath. The “Rosendahl” soared and flew. Her bow impacted firmly into the next swell and foam creamed along her sides.
Ahead the sweep of the horizon, behind the sweep of the low beach, which dwindled slowly as the patch of water widened. First the beach went down. Then the brown grass. For a long time the land hung there as a thin black line. Once in awhile a big swell came up somewhere in the ruffled tossed-about area and blotted out the line. Then, one time, the line did not come back. The sea was all around. Hans’ heart was huge and tiny. He felt bold and frightened. He was free.
The passage to England was a dream that Hans did not want to wake up from. Soaring swells bounded up toward blue sky and puffy white clouds. Time did not exist. Farms and crops were gone forever. The clinging drabness of the soil was washed clean.
When the lookout shouted “land ho,” Hans’ heart sank. His spirit came crashing down. He looked around him and saw the pen with the grunting pigs. The heavy odor choked him. He hoped the lookout was wrong. Land couldn’t be there yet. But after a few minutes there it was -- a hairline. Thin, but unmistakable. Land. The closer they drew, the worse Hans’ mood became. He went down to his cabin and turned over the responsibility of docking to the first mate.
The crew was overjoyed to set foot on strange territory. It was an adventure. Every day they saw the sights, shopped, looked and listened. Every night they drank and fought. Hans never left the ship. He wanted only that the unloading would hurry up.
Finally it was time to return. The early morning fog made the world gray. The “Rosendahl” slipped her moorings and drifted down the sluggish river. The ship’s bell dinged and channel buoys went past. No one could tell when the ocean replaced the river, but after a time there were gentle swells instead of stagnant ripples. A breath of air came from astern. Off to port Hans spotted a swirl in the water, then another. Sharks were feeding. The air breathed of land smells. The sun must be coming up soon. The fog drifted up - higher, higher. But no sun came through. The world was gray.
The breeze freshened, and swells curled up behind. The swells began to have flecks of foam here and there. The wind blew stronger and the swells chased along after the “Rosendahl.” But she was too fast for them. She caught each swell from behind, crawled up its back, hung there, sped furiously along at its crest, then slipped down its face.
The gray turned to black with the passing of day. The wind did not diminish, but increased. All of the swells were breaking and foaming. Here and there, foam was being lifted from the top of a wave and sent scurrying over wavetops. The swells became mountains and the wind howled. The “Rosendahl” shortened sail and ran. By morning it was all over. Hans and the “Rosendahl” had been through their first storm together.
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