Some indigenous North American tribes still whale, at a subsistence level. The whaling is allowed because whale populations have rebounded beautifully since commercial whaling ended, and because whaling is an important part of the tribe’s culture, tradition and history. I’ve spent years trying to convince people that whaling is a vital part of non-indigenous American culture, tradition and history too, but I haven’t made any progress. It seems to me that the sacrifice of a few dozen non-endangered whales each year in exchange for the continued operation of a great, square-rigged wooden tall ship would be a fair trade. I’d bet the market value of hard-to-obtain whale-meat would cover the cost of laying down a 19th-century-style whaler. Any difference would doubtless be offset by the romance of the high seas and wind-power.
This was on my mind last week when I got a chance to drop into Mystic Seaport on Connecticut’s coast, not far from Rhode Island. Mystic Seaport, in the mouth of the Mystic River—which is not mysterious, but is named for the Pequot word for large river, missi-tuk—is a maritime museum that hosts about 15 ships and boats, and a 19th-century “seafaring village” of about 60 original buildings. One its ships is the Charles W. Morgan, the oldest merchant vessel and only wooden whaler left in the world. Her keel was laid is 1841. She was a contemporary of the Beagle. In fact, she stopped at the Galapagos on a whaling trip less than a decade after Darwin’s visit.
That was her first voyage, during which she took 59 whales that yielded 2,400 barrels of oil and five tons of whale bone, for a gross revenue of $53,052 and 56 cent; not a bad return for a ship who’d cost less than $35,000 to build. The voyage lasted three years and three months. Looking at the Morgan now, floating in a harbor on the Long Island sound, it’s hard to imagine how anyone could spend three weeks aboard, let alone three and a quarter years. Below decks, there’s scarcely a spot a man can stand up straight. It’s lucky that New Englanders are a hearty breed. Hearty and romantic: Whalers were paid no salary, and had to pay for their own meals and supplies; at the end of a voyage, they were paid a share of the profits. A whaler who signed on to an unlucky ship could easily come home after years at sea owing money. And it’s said that, in the mid-19th century, even a very lucky ship that filled its hold in a few months would still net a whaleman less than he would have made working in the merchant fleet. But of course, the merchant fleet couldn’t promise polynesian adventure.
Interior space not withstanding, the Morgan is a beautiful ship. She’s 113 ft long and 27 and a half feet wide; 17 and a half feet deep, with a gross tonnage of 314 and two masts who can carry as much as 13,000 square feet of sail. One wonders how Mr. Morgan felt about his eponymous ship being a “she”; in fact, it’s reported that for modesty’s sake he opposed the boat’s name. He was the owner, and in time the just name stuck. She, such as she is, has a very pleasant musty-wood smell and is filled with the ubiquitous sound of rigging being pulled to and fro by the wind. When I was aboard her, one of the museum’s tour guides was leaned against the foremast playing sea-shanties on his fiddle. I was there on election day, and the whole thing had a profoundly American feel to it.
And whaling, though it long predates the United States, is an activity inseparable from the American story. Whalers in the North Atlantic fishery were the first to become intimately familiar with the American coast, and later, whaling from the coasts of Long Island, Connecticut and Massachusetts were major drivers of the colonial American economy. Once the coastal fisheries were fished out, Yankee whalers moved into the south seas, and eventually to the Pacific, laying groundwork for our manifest destiny of reaching the Pacific coast.
During the Revolutionary War, American whaling ships turned themselves into privateers and harassed British commerce. It was their supreme seamanship that meant, when the War of 1812 broke out, the United States was able to put up a good fight against the Royal Navy—which was not only the largest and most powerful navy in the world, but the best trained and most experienced, having been almost constantly at war with the French since 1792.
To say the Americans put up a good fights sells us far short; when the war of 1812 broke out, the British dedicated 11 line-of-battle ships and 34 frigates to fight the United States. The United States had no battle ships at all, and only 6 frigates. Nevertheless, the Americans won action after action, humiliating the British and eventually forcing the war to a close (the fight on land, of course, went more the British way, which is why the war ended up as a draw—but in the end, the British agreed to stop kidnapping our sailors, so really, we won). To quote historian-novelist Patrick O’Brian’s fictional Captain Jack Aubrey on the shocking beginning of the war:
“[HMS] Guerrière, thirty-eight [guns], met the American Constitution, forty-four, brought her to action of course; and was beat. Distrusted, taken, and burnt. Then their sloop Wasp, eighteen, tackled our brig Frolic, of almost exactly the same weight of metal, and took her too. Then United States, forty-four, and our Macedonian, thirty-eight, had a fight off the Azores and Macedonian struck [ie, surrendered] to the Americans. Two of our frigates and a sloop have struck the Americans, and not one of theirs to us.”
That was the seamanship of the American whaling fleet turned belligerent. As the 19th century wore on, the American whaling fleet dominated the industry. New Bedford became known as the “city that lit the world.” Moby Dick became the great American novel. The last Yankee Whaler sailed in 1927.
Now, I’m not saying that, in the absence of a real need, whaling is a desirable activity. I am pro-whale. I’m only saying that a little heavily regulated, 18th century-style whaling could help preserve a uniquely American tradition, the way it does on the arctic coast. It could also help preserve the skill—the art—of sailing square-rigged ships. But I suppose I shouldn’t hold my breath.
In the meantime, you can relive a little of America’s past maritime glory aboard the Charles W. Morgan, just off I-95, exit 90. In fact, this year is the Morgan’s 50th anniversary as a National Historic Landmark. It’s not to be missed.
