On this April Fool's, I'm unpaywalling an old whaling history essay from my patreon about the various pranks fellows played upon each other. Here you are! Silliman B. Ives, a two-time veteran whaler aboard the Sunbeam in 1868, talked about the phenomenon of every ship having their ‘fool’ for entertainment.
“On board all ships carrying a large crew there is generally one among the company who by his awkwardness or want of sense becomes the butt for the whole crowd, the object of innumerable practical jokes, and a great source of amusement for the whole crew.”
On William B Whitecar’s 1850s voyage on an unnamed whaleship, that ship’s fool was a man whom he nicknamed Kedge Anchor. Kedge had drawn the attention of all hands for his boasting of seamanship and long experience on the waves, only for it to be revealed in short time through his own ignorance that he had no such experience at all.
“His sickness, and ludicrous exclamations of “I wish I was on the steam-wagon again” (he had formerly been a brakeman on the New York and Erie Railroad), and pathetic entreaties to be allowed to die in peace, when desired to do anything, excited the mirth of all, no sympathy being tendered to him except in one instance, when one of the seamen offered him a pint of salt water, assuring him it was a cordial; a mouthful was sufficient to undeceive him, he spat out the nauseating draught, and the queer expression he wore on his phiz, and no less queer entreaty to take the darned thing away, were so humorous as to shock his auditors into merriment, and secured him against farther molestation.”
Seasick greenhands were often the easiest targets on the first days out. In one humorous exchange recorded by Charles B. Nordhoff on an unnamed 1850s voyage, a sick greenhand lamented the ship's food not agreeing with him. He went on to say that if he could only have a nice piece of pie like his mother used to make he’d be well again soon enough.
“Pie!” exclaimed the boatsteerer, “as I live, I am glad you mentioned the word. There’s a whole cask of pies down below, which was sent aboard by the owner, on the purpose for the sick ones.”
“Suppose I were to ask the captain to hoist it up, and give me some?” suggested the sick man, eagerly.
“You could not do a better thing.”
“I’ll go to him immediately—he seems to be a kind man, and I will tell him how badly I feel.”
Accordingly he dragged himself slowly aft, and there meeting the captain, stated the case to him, and ended with a request that some of the pie might be given to him, as he felt convinced that he would soon recover on such a diet. The captain, smiling grimly, explained to him that some unfeeling wretch had been trifling with him, and that pie was an impossibility at sea.”
A lack of knowledge about how the ship worked led to many a greenhand being advised by another crewmate to make such absurd requests like climbing up to the man at the mast head to ask what time it was, or to go to the mate and tell him to ‘secure the barometer’ and ‘ask him if the masts were working’.
It wasn't just seasick greenhands, however. Any man could find himself fair game, especially those who fell asleep during their watch. One of the most popular pranks involved tying a line around a man’s legs while he was sleeping, and then working together to haul him up into the air. William Abbe once found himself at the rope end of this. He was a Harvard law student who had signed on the whaler Atkins Adams in 1858 ‘for his health’, and at times due to his education tutored other men on board in writing and reading. He showed a great allegiance to the after cabin, including a particular noted favoritism from the Captain’s wife, and could get quite self righteous about the behavior of his shipmates. This didn’t always endear him to his fellow foremast hands.
“That night I laid down for a little while on my chest during my watch on deck + Shanghai making the fore lift fast about my legs, the rest of the watch bowled away till I brot up against the steps, taking in my passage hither an alarmingly sharp cut + twirling around in a way that would have immortalized a circus tumbler. Shang—the rogue—pretending ignorance + when I went on deck all hands were cooly singing — “Bully in the Alley” — + as innocent as so many sucking pigs—I couldn’t help laughing, though at first I was slightually mad. I am now waiting a chance to make S fast. Such tricks are common + all make common sport of each other.”
J.E. Haviland, greenhand aboard the Baltic in 1855, enjoyed partaking in this prank every chance he got, after having it done once to himself:
"After a great deal of trouble [I] finally succeeded in getting it made fast around one of his feet. I then went carefully up on deck where the other end of the rope was + 6 of us got hold of it and gave poor Matt what I call an after haul. To use his own words however he did not wake up until he felt himself strike the Deck right plump on his setdown. In trying to haul him up through the scuttle by his leg he got fast in the steps + then for the first time commenced to sing out bloody murder. After he got on his togging + came on Deck I commenced consoling him + he laid it to everybody else but me. This makes five times I have bent on him + I am the last person he suspects of doing such a deed."
Sometimes the pranks were a little more visually lasting, as Whitecar highlighted another joke set upon Mr. Kedge Anchor.
“One fine Sunday morning Kedge Anchor expressed a desire to have his hair cut. Here was an opening—and a conspiracy was immediately formed against his cranial adornment. One went to work and cut his hair. When finished, a dozen voices exclaimed against the barbarian who had put so outre a cut on his poor head; others recommended a little more off behind. The victim acquiesced, and submitted to the operation. A second, third, fourth, and fifth lent their aid in denuding his skull, and by the time the last had finished he was a picture for a painter.”
The captain often didn’t bother to step in to put a stop to such tricks, having other things to concern himself with than the antics of the fo'c'sle. Albert Peck, on board the Covington in the 1850s, described what happened when a whaler, nicknamed Duff, made his complaint to the captain about being the object of a prank.
“Speaking of duff reminds me of another little incident which transpired a little while before. One evening as Duff (not the cook’s duff but our Duff) was lying on the fore hatch enjoying an evening nap, some mischievous chap smeared his hair and face with tar. A short time afterwards, waking up and finding it out, he at first tried to find the author of it and failing in this he posted aft to where the captain and mate was sitting and began to make his complaint to the captain that some one had been tarring him.
"What did you let them for?”
“I didn’t know it, sir.”
“You were asleep, then. They wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been. Keep awake and you won’t get tarred. Clear out and don’t you come to me with any more of your complaints.”
He could get no satisfaction either forward or after, and was forced to swallow it down, vowing that if he ever found out who it was he would serve them the same.”
Often times payback was handled internally in the fo'c'sle, usually with a deliverance of the same prank upon the culprit. From Whitecar,
“I remember one poor fellow, who prided himself much on his agility, giving us a specimen of the movements of the kangaroo, sweating and exerting himself for a whole afternoon, delighting us, as he supposed, with his farcical antics, until he discovered on his back a large paper figure in imitation of himself. He said not a word at the time, and sat down totally abashed; but ere long a paper Punch figured on the back of the supposed instigator.”
"We are constantly abusing each other in fun," William Abbe cheerfully recorded. Among such abuses:
"I have known Shanghai when on deck in his wilfull, mean spirit of mischief + coarse trickery - go to the forecastle hatch and pointing his breech down the gangway discharge such a tearing report that the sleepers have actually startled in their bunks."
“Antoine went to the mate last night after his supper and complained of R. Eggs who went down to the forecastle while the starboard watch were eating and — my pen blushes to record the deed — raised a foul gale from his slim sheets. We all laughed at Antoine for he should have taken the matter up himself + not complained to an officer. R. Eggs is a decided nuisance in this respect.”
“After sunset often all hands play “Whang O Doodle” round the windlass, or chasing each other and spanking—fast + terrible are some of the blows — and we are kept in a roar of laughter at the contorted faces and the rubbing with hands of the wounded parts.”
Regardless of how the decades stretch away from the height of American whaling to our present, the phenomenon of...a bunch of late-teens-to-early-twenties lads spending the dull periods of their voyage farting on each other and running around slapping each other's ass is Truly Enduring.