Part I: Seals teeth and whales ears - Scott Polar Research Institute ...

On New Year’s Eve it was extremely hot throughout the day. Flying fish
appeared in great numbers and one or two had flown aboard in the night. In
fact I was woken that morning by hearing someone say "Shall I hold it over his
nose?" and opening my eyes saw, first a flying-fish - not flying but hanging
from a wire - and above it Ted's (Gutteridge) smiling face. Jumbo (Nichols) had
one for breakfast and said it tasted like sea trout; I painted mine in watercolour.
Just after lunch, when standing at the bows, a pair of Wilson's storm petrels
flew with characteristic flight, paddling the water every 2 or 3 yards, their long
legs and yellow feet plainly visible. We saw a great skua. Objects floated past
us at intervals but we were not able to collect any; they looked like cephalopod
shells with barnacles etc. attached.
After lunch we sighted Santa Lucia (1296 ft), the first of the Cape Verde
Islands on our port bow. The day was very hazy and the island appeared
higher than it was because its base could not be seen. As we came closer we
made out the line of breakers along the shore. It is a volcanic island with some
very striking peaks and a symmetrical cone in the south. St Vincent and Santa
Antao came in sight ahead and at 4 o’clock we anchored in Porto Grande the
main anchorage, where stood the town of Sao Vicente. The islands were
volcanic with craggy ridges that reminded me of the island of Skye. What little
vegetation there was looked parched and brown; we heard later that there had
been no rain for four years! In the valleys were old lava flows, looking like vast
black glaciers shining in the sun. The geologists had fun speculating about the
rock formations. We slipped past a massive isolated rock in the harbour
entrance (Ilhe dos Passaros, 283 ft) which carries a lighthouse on its summit;
past the terraces of gun emplacements built during the war, and rounded the
promontory to find ourselves in amongst the shipping in the harbour. Signals
and the quarantine flag were run up and the Pilot, Port MO and British Agent to
one of the oil companies came aboard. From London we had taken 11 days,
over a distance of 2568 miles, at an average speed of 9.51 knots.
There were two ships at anchor and several dilapidated rowing boats came
out to us, some with native boys who dived for pennies; others with ragged
native rowers commanded by a ‘spiv’, with a white cap and affluent manner,
belied by his clothing. These of course were the ‘bumboats’ of which I had
heard; they immediately began to sell and barter local goods, straw hats,
coconuts, oranges and bananas and dived for pennies. I traded some cigarettes
for a piece of Madeira lace. The town of St Vincent was bleak, straggling along
the shores of the bay, but it looked quite pretty from a distance in the late
afternoon sun and I was impressed by the diverse pattern of the roofs, and the
white-washed walls. It was a typical Portuguese town, of about 30,000
inhabitants, with numerous cobbled streets and squares - and trees which cast
shade and probably could only survive by absorbing the dew, which is
considerable. Behind on the red volcanic slopes were the scattered villas of the
suburbs.
Shore leave was granted and we began to negotiate with the bumboat boys
to take us ashore and back - the snag being that once they got us there they
would have asked an exorbitant price for the return trip. As it happened the
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