Remembering gratefully, as all students should do, the immense literary value of the Bible, it is not without a pang of regret that we are obliged to confess that its pages are so meagre of allusions to the grandest of all the Almighty’s works—the encircling sea. Of course we cannot be surprised at this, seeing how scanty was the acquaintance with the sea enjoyed by ancient civilised peoples, to whom that exaggerated lake, the Mediterranean, was the “Great Sea,” and for whom the River Oceanus was the margin of a boundless outer darkness. Yet in spite of this drawback, Old Testament allusions to the sea then known, few as they are, remain unsurpassable in literature, needing not to withdraw their claims to pre-eminence before such gems as “Ocean’s many-dimpled smile” or the “Wine-dark main” of the pagan poets. In number, too, though sparsely sprinkled, they far surpass those of the New Testament, which, were it not for one splendid exception, might almost be neglected as non-existent.

Our Lord’s connection with the sea and its toilers was confined to those petty Syrian lakes which to-day excite the traveller’s wonder as he recalls the historical accounts of hundreds of Roman galleys floating thereupon; and all his childish dreams of the great sea upon which the Lord was sailing and sleeping when that memorable storm arose which He stilled with a word suffer much by being brought face to face with the realities of little lake and tiny boat. St. John and St. James show by their almost terror-stricken words about the sea what they felt, and from want of a due consideration of proportion their allusions have been much misunderstood. No man who knew the sea could have written as one of the blissful conditions of the renewed heaven and earth that there should “be no more sea,” any more than he could have spoken of the limpid ocean wave as casting up “mire and dirt.”

But by one incomparable piece of writing Paul, the Apostle born out of due time, has rescued the New Testament from this reproach of neglect, and at the same time has placed himself easily in the front rank of those who have essayed to depict the awful majesty of wind and wave as well as the feebleness, allied to almost presumptuous daring, of those who do business in great waters. Wonder and admiration must also be greatly heightened if we do but remember the circumstances under which this description was written. The writer had, by the sheer force of his eloquence, by his daring to await the precise moment in which to assert his citizenship, escaped what might at any moment have become martyrdom. Weary with a terrible journey, faint from many privations, he was hurried on board a ship of Adramyttium bound to the coast of Asia (places not specified). What sort of accommodation and treatment awaited him there under even the most favourable circumstances we know very well. For on the East African coast even to this day we find precisely the same kind of vessels, the same primitive ideas of navigation, the same absence of even the most elementary notions of comfort, the same touching faith in its being always fine weather as evinced by the absence of any precautions against a storm.

Such a vessel as this carried one huge sail bent to a yard resembling a gigantic fishing-rod whose butt when the sail was set came nearly down to the deck, while the tapering end soared many feet above the masthead. As it was the work of all hands to hoist it, and the operation took a long time, when once it was hoisted it was kept so if possible, and the nimble sailors with their almost prehensile toes climbed up the scanty rigging, and clinging to the yard gave the sail a bungling furl. The hull was just that of an exaggerated boat, sometimes undecked altogether, and sometimes covered in with loose planks, excepting a hut-like erection aft which was of a little more permanent character. Large oars were used in weather that admitted of this mode of propulsion, and the anchors were usually made of heavy forked pieces of wood, whereto big stones were lashed. There was a rudder, but no compass, so that the crossing of even so narrow a piece of water as separated Syria from Cyprus was quite a hazardous voyage. Tacking was unknown or almost so, and once the mariners got hold of the land they were so reluctant to lose sight of it that they heeded not how much time the voyage took or what distances they travelled.

The nameless ship of Adramyttium then at last ventured from Sidon and fetched Cyprus, sailing under its lee. How salt that word tastes, and what visions it opens up of these infant navigators creeping cautiously from point to point along that rugged coast, heeding not at all the unnecessary distance so long as they were sheltered from the stormy autumn weather. Another perilous voyage across “the sea which is off Cilicia and Pamphylia” (another purely maritime term) and the harbour of Myra was gained. Great were the rejoicings of the voyagers, but premature, for every day that passed brought them nearer to the time of tempest, and consequently of utmost danger. In fact the memorable voyage of St. Paul may be said to begin here. The crossing of the Great Sea had been accomplished without incident, although doubtless occupying so many days that the landsmen were by this time somewhat accustomed to the misery of life at sea in those days, when in coarse weather sea-sickness was one of the least of their woes.

The shipment by the centurion of his prisoners on board of the Alexandrian wheat-ship marked the commencement of a series of troubles. In the first place, for such a ship and such a voyage the number of people on board was far too great, even if we accept the lower estimate—seventy-six—which is placed on her complement by some ancient authorities. If she carried two hundred and seventy-six she must have been like an Arab dhow running a full cargo of slaves, and it is difficult to see how, even taking into consideration the way in which both mariners and passengers were inured to hardship, she could have carried them all through the wild weather and weary days following without some deaths. “And when we had sailed slowly many days” (what a world of suffering can be read into those few pathetic words), they fetched under the lee of Crete with all the thankfulness that might be expected from men who had been so pitilessly exposed to the fury of the open sea. With difficulty they crept along the coast until they got into the Fair Havens and refreshed their weary hearts.

No wonder they were reluctant to put again to sea, even though they knew that every day brought wilder weather, and their chance of wintering in their present harbour safely was poor, from its exposed position. And now we find St. Paul taking the risky step of advising seafarers as to the proper conduct of their own business—risky because while no man likes to be interfered with at his work by one whom he considers an outsider, sailors are perhaps more touchy upon this matter than most people. True, the science of navigation and seamanship was in its infancy, and no such gulf of knowledge separated landsmen from seamen in those days as existed afterwards, but one can easily picture the indignation of the commander of the ship (curiously enough here called the owner, the very same slang title given to the Captain of a man-of-war by his officers and crew to-day) when he heard this presumptuous passenger-prisoner thus daring to give his unasked advice. Besides, Paul’s motive for wishing to remain in port was one easily misconstrued.

Therefore the centurion’s refusal to listen to Paul’s suggestion was quite natural; nay, it was inevitable. Still, there was evidently no intention of persevering with the voyage upon getting under way, only of entering the nearest harbour that might afford sufficient shelter against the fury of the winter gales. With a gentle southerly breeze they left Fair Havens, and moved along the shore. But presently down from the Cretan mountains Euraquilo came rushing, the furious Levanter, which is not surpassed in the world for ferocity, hurling their helpless cockle-shell off shore. Their fear of the storm was far greater than their fear of the land, for unlike the sailors of to-day, to whom the vicinity of land in a gale is far more dreaded than the gale itself, they hugged the small island, Clauda, and succeeded in their favourite manoeuvre, that of getting under the lee of the land once more. It was high time. The buffeting of the ship had weakened her to such an extent that she must have threatened to fall asunder, since they were driven actually to “frap” her together, that is, bind their cable round and round her and heave it taut—a parlous state of things, but one to which sailors have often been brought with a crazy ship in a heavy gale.

In this dangerous state they feared the proximity of hungry rocks, but instead of reducing sail and endeavouring to get along in some definite direction, they lowered down the big yard and let the ship drive whithersoever she would. The storm continued, the poor, bandaged hull was leaking at every seam, a portion of the cargo, called by St. Paul by its true nautical name “freight,” was jettisoned. But that did not satisfy them, and they proceeded to the desperate extremity of casting overboard the “tackling,” the great sail and yard, and all movable gear from the upper works except the anchors.

Then in misery, with death yawning before them, already half drowned, foodless, and hopeless, they drifted for many days into the unknown void under that heavy-laden sky before the insatiable gale. In the midst of all this horror of great darkness, the dauntless prisoner comforted them, even while unable to forbear reminding them that had they listened to him, this misery would have been spared them. His personality never shone brighter than on this occasion; the little ascetic figure must have appeared Godlike to those poor, ignorant sufferers.

At the expiration of a fortnight, the sailors surmised that land was near, although it was midnight. How characteristic is that flash of insight into the sea-faring instinct, and how true! They sounded and got twenty fathoms, and in a little while found the water had shoaled to fifteen. Then they performed a piece of seamanship which may be continually seen in execution on the East African coast to-day—they let the anchors down to their full scope of cable and prayed for daylight. The Arabs do it in fair weather or foul—lower the sail, slack down the anchor, and go to sleep. She will bring up before she hits anything.

Unfortunately, space will not admit of further dealing with this great story of the sea, so familiar and yet so little understood. The sailors’ cowardly attempt at escape, the discipline of the soldiers foiling it, the arrangements for beaching her by the aid of what is here called a foresail, but was probably only a rag of sail rigged up temporarily to get the ship before the wind, and the escape of all as foretold by St. Paul, need much more space for dealing with than can be spared.

But the one thing which makes this story go to the heart of every seaman is its absolute fidelity to the facts of sea-life; its log-like accuracy of detail; its correct use of all nautical terms. In fact, some old seamen go so far as to aver that St. Paul, having kept an accurate record of the facts, got the captain of the ship to edit them for him, as in no other way could a landsman such as Paul was have obtained so seaman-like a grip of the story, both in detail and language.

Note.—It will of course be noted that while the general opinion is in favour of assigning to Luke the authorship of the narrative commented upon above, I have credited Paul with it. I have my reasons, but because of controversy I refrain from stating them.