The Hitchhiker
White splatters of what was once seafood, litter the deck as we emerge from breakfast. The culprit, a masked booby (Sula dactylatra) hangs in the air nearby. He is a juvenile, with mottled brown feathers yet to be replaced for the crisp white of an adult. Their scientific name derives from the Ancient Greek dactyl, meaning "finger", and the Latin ater, meaning "black" as his adult wings will be tipped with dark primary feathers. This plumage is more than an aesthetic choice, the melanin colouring his wing tips black will strengthen the feathers he relies on most for flight, and a tiny white notch at the very tip will break up his silhouette so not to alert his prey below.
The masked booby expends energy flapping high above the waves, plunge-diving into tropical waters in pursuit of prey. Evolution has gifted these birds an easy meal, as flying fish grew gliding wings to evade predators of the deep, but now find themselves soaring into the scissor-sharp bill of a glassy-eyed gannet. We watch as our hitchhiker plummets to the sea, seemingly changing his mind on reaching the water and unceremoniously flapping back to the sky. He never seems to catch anything.
At the third yard from the top, Nadia, Christiaan, Hugo and Thomas work to replace the main top gallant. They unlash the robands (soft shackles) of the old ‘broken spare’ sail and prepare to lower it to deck. The booby circles in and out, eyeing the sailors suspiciously. He probably wonders what these land-smelling beasts are doing out here in his ocean. He is visibly bothered that they are busy on the mast that he had been perched on for the last 3 nights. He disappears from view as they lower the cumbersome package of neatly furled sail to the deck below. They will be busy with this project all day, skipping up and down the stays with various tools, eventually hauling the new sail to her home in the sky, lashing her to the stay, and leading the buntlines through to form a powerful sky engine puppeteered by a system of lines on deck. On a day like today, working 20 meters closer to the beating sun takes its toll. Most sailors know the dangers of sunburn and do everything they can to avoid it. The crew varnishing on deck cling to the shade, venturing into the strong light only with skin covered. Those in the mast do not share this luxury.
The hitchhiker returns, this time an adult is nearby and they tousle low in the air. Once satisfied, they hunt and circle the ship in unison. Are these birds from the same breeding colony? Had they met one another before, or are they strangers meeting for the first time on the open ocean? We admire their clumsy aerobatics, wondering if tonight we will have two hitchhikers.
The new sail is now rigged but remains furled. The varnish is cordoned off and drying as the sun sinks into the horizon. Tomorrow, we will cross the equator and celebrate with one of the most time-honoured of seafaring rituals- the meeting of Neptune. The young booby and his acquaintance are nowhere to be see. We are thankful that there will be no morning mess, unaware that Neptune has plans of his own.
