An Account of the Circumnavigation of Mizahar

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Revision as of 21:24, 16 August 2009

An Account of the Circumnavigation of Mizahar is a book written by the Zeltivan navigator Kenabelle Wright. It contains a narrative of the 450-451 voyage of Wright and her crew aboard the Seafarer, which, as the book's title indicates, ended in the first -- and thus far, only -- circumnavigation of the continent of Mizahar.

The book draws extensively from Wright's journals, notes, and maps of her expedition. It was published in 457, and became an instant classic. Wright's book is still the most detailed, and in many cases the sole, source of information regarding Mizahar's far northern and western shores, and her obsessively detailed maps remain the definitive charts of Mizahar's coastline.

It is widely available, and any library or center of learning in Sylira, Cyphrus, Akvatar, or Konti will almost certainly have a copy. For many subjects concerning the western reaches of Mizahar, the book is the only available source of information in the east.

TEXT OF THE BOOK

Please note, this is a work in progress.

Introductory Notes

This volume represents my attempt to collect all that I know of the first voyage to circumnavigate Mizahar. I have made use of my log notes, as well as my own personal recollections. I have tried to make it as accurate as I can, and have included the charts and maps that I made during the journey, in order to provide as much information as possible to any who may follow in our wake.

Precious few of those who began the voyage with me returned home. I dedicate this work to those others, and particularly to the ship's steersman, Bethany Edgetower.

Chapter I

I have been told that, in order to provide the necessary background for my narrative, it is prudent for me to outline some of my earlier history. I had not planned to do so, but my friends and associates insist that it is essential, and so I concede this point to them.

I was born in Zeltiva on the first day of winter, 431 AV. My parents were Irina (nee Rivers) and Edgar Wright; my mother was a trained shipwright, and my father was a sailmaker. I was their first child, and their only until my sister Charm was born in 436. They had no children after Charm's birth.

Both my father and my mother had made sailing voyages in the past, and I was always drawn to the sea myself. My parents recognized this, and apprenticed me to study at the Sailors' Guild hall after school when I was ten. They insisted that my knowledge of the sea not come at the expense of my schooling, and I took them at their word.

I am told that I displayed aptitude for sailing and navigation; I also took courses in cartography, which became a lasting passion for me.

In 446, I was given the use of a single-person coracle by the Sailors' Guild. There were no sails, of course, but being able to pilot one effectively was and still is regarded as the first test of one's navigation and seafaring abilities. My task was to travel once around the full circumference of Mathews Bay.

I made it to the outer lip of the bay very quickly. According to my instructions, I was supposed to cross the outlet, and then turn back southward. However, a combination of curiosity and confidence got the better of me, and I instead rounded the point and began sailing northward along the coast.

It was several days and nights that I traveled; I don't remember how many. I hardly slept, that being a difficult thing to do in such a vessel. I drank rainwater that collected in the bottom of the hull, and ate flyingfish that leaped into the boat. It had been an impulsive decision to make the turn, but once I did so, I was obsessed with the idea of making it to some identifiable point, though I wasn't sure what exactly that would be.

Chapter II

We set sail on the first day of summer, 450 AV. It was the peak of the sailing season; the wind was favorable, blowing from the southwest, and the sea was calm. However, despite the pleasant atmosphere, it was in the back of my mind that it would be much better if we were many leagues further north at this time. The delay in choosing a captain and crew for the Seafarer meant that we were in a position where we would need to reach the western coast of Mizahar before the storms of winter began.

The issue was, we didn't even know how far away the western coast of Mizahar was. We had pre-Valterrian maps, but given how radically different the current eastern coast was from that shown on those charts, it was difficult even to guess what the western coast looked like now. None of our Zeltivan ships had sailed any further than the settlement of Novallas to the northwest, or the other side of the Faleyk Gulf to the southwest. Nor were there any reliable informants regarding what might lay beyond. The few residents of Novallas claimed there was nothing but tundra to the west, in which they had little interest. Falyndar of course was the domain of the Myrians, who had no interest in sharing information. The Sylirans had sailed across the Suvan Sea, but reports from Alvadas and Karjin were vague and conflicting. Some claimed the coast was a mere day's journey from Alvadas, while others insisted that it was hundreds and hundreds of miles away.

The Sailors' Guild attempted to sort through the details and the Administrative Committee personally assured me that, as far as they could ascertain, the coastline curved sharply southward a few miles west of Novallas Bay. Even given the lateness of our departure, we should be able to escape the far northern seas well before the worst storms began.

I took them at their word as best I could, but I was of course aware that neither they nor anyone else could guarantee the accuracy of this information. We were simply going to have to gamble on it being correct. Seafaring is not a vocation for the faint of heart, and one becomes accustomed to taking risks that could well result in one's own death.

We made excellent time out of Mathews Bay and past Sunberth. The winds remained favorable, blowing generally from the south. We had plenty of water and other provisions, and we had no need to stop. At any rate, ships rarely dock at Sunberth unless there is no other choice -- especially not if they have any cargo of value.

The way that most ships, especially trading ships, proceed next is to hug the coast, remaining perhaps a mile or two offshore, until they reach Nyka or Mura. Because we were trying to make the best time possible, however, once we passed beneath Sahova, we struck out almost straight northwest, hoping to hit Konti Isle, and then skirt its eastern coast, rather than navigating the narrows between its western shores and the mainland. It had been done before -- the great Timothy de Octans had done it more than once, proving that it was both possible and practical -- but it required careful navigation, as even a slight variation from the course could prove disastrous, given that we were passing out of sight of all land.

Some sailors consider that the ocean is a hostile entity, one whose anger must be respected and guarded against at all times. But, in my own experience, this is not the case at all. The ocean is not hostile; no, it's something much more terrible, much more frightening. It is utterly, wholly, and completely indifferent. It takes absolutely no notice of one vessel or one individual. Away from shore, surrounded by the dark, unreadable water, one realizes how very small one truly is.

Fortunately for us, the skies remained clear, so we were able to navigate the passage precisely. No matter how often one makes it safely to one's destination, it still is an experience that brings a secret thrill to the heart of a sailor. Although Konti Isle was not where our journey was to end -- or even pause -- smiles still stole across the faces of both myself and the crew.

It was the fifteenth, not even a quarter of the way through the autumn, and we figured that we would have another two weeks before any storms were likely. (Although, as we eventually found, even two weeks wouldn't have been enough time to clear the northern coast.)

The lookout sighted the clouds that evening, coming out of the north-northeast. They were a hellish shade of purple, made more lurid by the declining sun, and they seemed to be advancing rapidly. We were still only a mile or so from the coast, but the shore as far as we could see in either direction was made of jagged basaltic boulders, and I was afraid that if we were to anchor too closely, we might be dashed against them if the storm proved severe. As such, I made the decision that we would try to ride it out in open water. We furled the sails as much as possible, and tried to wait patiently.

Near the twenty-third bell, it started raining, moderately at first, and then increasing to a steady downpour. The wind increased, still from the north-northeast, and the waves became rougher, with higher swells. It was difficult, in the near-darkness, to see precisely how high, but the ship was beginning to rock severely.

Sometime around the first bell, the rain turned to ice. Moving about the deck became a challenge. Shortly thereafter, the wind increased again, this time at least to the force of a severe gale. The ship was pitching violently now, and it was impossible to cross from one side of the deck to the other. I tried to keep the ship turned so that the wind wouldn't blow us into the rocks, but maintaining any control over the vessel was a quixotic task at best. Nonetheless, we remained far enough out to sea as to avoid that danger for now.

Perhaps at the third bell -- there was no way to keep track of time -- I heard a voice, which I assumed was Ms. Edgetower, calling out something about the sails. I couldn't make out the words, but I suddenly understood the meaning, as without warning, the ropes holding the fore-sail snapped. The sail billowed out to the wind, and was immediately ripped in half. To our great fortune, it did not blow entirely away, but it was gone for all practical purposes, at least for the moment.

Five minutes later, the mizzen-sail followed suit. It did not blow away either, but it was quickly reduced to shreds by the ice-laden winds.

We struggled for another bell, or two, or three. Then, shortly before sunrise, the ferocity of the storm began to abate. By the eighth bell, it had entirely disappeared, leaving the air clear but bitterly cold.

We had only one operational sail, and it would be impossible to continue without repairs. However, it appeared that there was a large inlet slightly to our west, toward which we had been blown during the night. I gave the order that we should make our way in that direction. Fortunately, the sea was calm, and we were able to limp into the shelter of the bay, dropping anchor as close to the shore as we could.

As quickly as we could, we began repairing the sails. I used what I had learned from my father, and pitched in as best I could. Mr. Saworth had been trained as a sailmaker, and directed the effort. The damage was extensive, and precious days began to slip away, though Mr. Saworth and the others worked long into the nights.

The chill remained, and four days after we had anchored, the lookout spied sea ice forming along the shore. We redoubled our efforts, but still, another seven days passed by before the sails were in workable condition. It was only the twenty-seventh then, with two thirds of the autumn still before us. The ice was quite thick around the bay, and only a small channel remained for us to sail out.

We raised the anchor and unfurled our newly-mended sails. However, any anticipation we had was short-lived once we reached the head of the bay. The ice had spread further, and our channel ended half a mile past the headland. We were surrounded; we were trapped.

The Seafarer turned around, and we eased it back into its former anchorage in the bay. Desperation Bay, Ms. Edgetower said, and the name stuck. Although the official start of winter was still dozens of days away, for us, it had already begun.