Page 270, Owen Coffin and Felix Pappalardi

Oh Herman, beautiful prose but why so dense? It is slow, slow, slow, like wading in treacle, very nice but awfully hard going. Not that I have ever waded in treacle, mind, but you get my drift!

Reading about whales & whaling reminded me of the story of Owen Coffin. An unfortunate name for starters, to be sure, but the Coffin family were very big in Nantucket whaling in the 19th century.

What is strange is that I remember very distinctly why I know this story. I didn't just find it. Read it in a book. I went looking for it.

Back in the 1960/70s, there was a group called Mountain. (Guess what? They were at Woodstock too! - Wasn't everyone, daaahliiiing?) On their album, 'Nantucket Sleighride' was a song called 'Nantucket Sleighride (For Owen Coffin)'. At the time I assumed Owen was some drugged up roadie who'd died or something. It's a wistful little love song about 'little Robin-Marie' which suddenly erupts, instrumentally, in the bridge after the first chorus, before returning to the same wistful atmosphere of the introduction. Now it always troubled me because I never seemed to be able to 'get' the lyrics - they just didn't really make a lot of sense to me. So I thought: "If I know who Owen Coffin is/was, maybe it will make sense."

Owen Coffin was a 17 year old who, as was customary in the family in the 19th century, was set for his first journey aboard a whaler skippered by his uncle. Now as anyone who has ploughed their weary way through Moby Dick will know :), whaling voyages would last between 3 to 4 years at that time and although there was some communication between ship and shore, returning whalers would pass outgoing whalers and pick up mail to take 'home', you were pretty much signing up for 3-4 years of no contact with family, friends, loved ones.

Some months into the voyage, Coffin's uncle, on the hunt for Sperm Whales, was rammed by one. Yep, really! When you are as big as a Sperm Whale with a head like a battering ram, a puny, human, wooden ship is just so much target practice. Especially if you are bright enough to recognise a whaling ship when you see one and you are not keen on getting your arse, back or head punctured by a bloody great, barbed, knitting needle. Believe me, Sperm Whales are an awful lot brighter than that! Although not bright enough to realise that ramming ships on a whim, albeit one motivated by self preservation, (a) gets them a bad reputation for truculence and (b) a headache.

As the ship went down, the whalers took to the boats, presumably with what provisions they could muster at short notice. At this point, they are adrift on the open ocean with no means of communicating and at the mercy of the seas and pure chance, with a very hacked off Sperm Whale about. They were 'fortunate'. He/she had already decided that he/she didn't need another headache to go with the one he/she already had and had buggered off for a bit of sounding practice.

I doubt, though, that they considered themselves particularly fortunate. In small open boats, on the wide, open ocean, what chance had they of being seen by a passing whaler or merchantman? About as much chance as I have of seeing, first hand, what's inside Angelina Jolie's knickers - not an odds-on certainty then.

Some time elapsed, I can't remember how long and I can't be fagged to go and look it up. Anyways, the food (spam and hard tack, probably :) ran out. After a few days, everyone was getting mighty hungry and eventually, they had a little competition. Who could draw the 2 shortest straws. One to do the killing, the other to be killed, for food. Owen Coffin drew the shortest straw.

Despite his uncle's offer to go in his stead, Owen refused, little Owen was killed and eaten. Some of the crew were picked up after three long months on the open sea in open boats. Beggars belief, doesn't it? That will to survive?

Goodbye, little Robin-Marie,
Don't try, followin' me.
Don't cry, little Robin-Marie,
'Cause you know, I'm comin' home soon.

My ship's, leavin' on a three year tour,
Next tide, will take us from shore.
Wind-laced, gather in sail and spray,
On a search, for the mighty sperm whale.

(chorus)
Fly your willow branches,
Wrap your body 'round my soul,
Lay down your reeds an' drums on my soft sheets,
There are years behind us reaching,
To the place where hearts are beating,
And I know you're the last true love I'll ever meet.
And I know you're the last true love I'll ever meet.

(insert musical mayhem here)

Starbuck's, sharpenin' his harpoon,
Black man's, playin' his tune,
An old salt's, sleepin' his watch away,
He'll be drunk again, before noon.

(insert 'Leslie West restrained self indulgence' here)

Three years, sailin' on bended knee,
We found, no whales in the sea,
Don't cry, little Robin-Marie,
'Cause we'll be, in sight of land soon.

(chorus)
Fly your willow branches,
Wrap your body 'round my soul,
Lay down your reeds an' drums on my soft sheets,
There are years behind us reaching,
To the place where hearts are beating,
And I know you're the last true love I'll ever meet.
And I know you're the last true love I'll ever meet.

(insert more musical mayhem here)

I have no idea what reeds and willow branches or drums have to do with all of this, and Melville, so far, has been of no use whatsoever, but it did become a little clearer. And what a wonderful way to end a song! Not the mayhem, stupid boy, the lyric!

Who was Felix? Bass player in Mountain! :) And producer of Cream. And manager of the Yardbirds.