E is for Equator. Crossing the Equator. Crossing The Line.

Few years back, way back in 2000, height of summer. We steamed up on the Greenpeace ship MV Greenpeace (no longer with us) from Cape Town, way out into the South Atlantic to look for illegal long liner tuna fishing boats.Way out into the South Atlantic and take a right, head north.

We checked the charts, water all around, but for some small dots. The first dot was St. Helena Island, so we went there. The next dot was Ascension Island, so we went there. It helps to have a captain, Cap’n P.S., from Switzerland, landlocked at birth, happy to dock everywhere later in life.

For a few weeks we’re at sea, looking for those dastardly fishermen, finding them and shooting an expose of their evil raping and pillaging of the seas. See the photographs of illegal tuna fishing here, read about illegal tuna fishing here.

And we know we’re in the vicinity of Zero Degrees Latitude. The Equator. But first we have to cross the Horse Latitudes. I always loved the story of the Horse Latitudes, and the various reasons for the name, such as was explained to me on this particular trip- the throwing of horses overboard to lessen the weight of sailing ships, so the sails can catch the slightest breeze. Imagine that photo.

And as we close in on Zero Degrees, the rumours begin. Well from Cape Town onwards the rumours had begun. It’s tradition on ships to mark the crossing of the Equator Line, usually these days with a party, and this ship and this trip would be no different. The parties can be of various forms, from the celebratory to as one engineer told us, from his days in the Soviet navy, to the brutal. Brutal as in blindfolded and having to headbutt a swinging bag full of hammers and chunks of metal. That kind of brutal.

So our day neared. We knew when it would be. The ‘Shellbacks’, those that had Crossed the Line before, and entered Neptune’s Realm, prepared their ceremony, their initiation ceremony for those of us who had never Crossed the Line at sea before, us landlubbers, us ‘Pollywogs’. Amongst the Shellbacks all sorts of whispers and secretive goings on took place.

And for us Pollywogs, we talked, what would happen, would it be dangerous, how hard can it be ? I thought about it all, I needed to photograph it all. So I went and had a word with the Shellbacks. “Now listen here Shellbacks, I can’t be doing with any of this tomfoolery, I’m the photographer after all. We’re a protected occupation”. The reply came from head Shellback, “shut up Jeremy, you’re gettting done”. And so it was to be, but I negotiated, “I want to go first, in order that I can then photograph everyone else undergoing said initiation tomfoolery”. Oh how the Shellbacks laughed, “sure, you’re first”.

Big mistake No. 1

So the day came. I’d somehow forgotten and decided, against the usual way things are done on the Greenpeace ships, to have a lie in, to stay in bed. Slacker. But then I heard my name being shouted, I was called for. Craig, came in, H is looking for you. So off I went, out of bed to find H.

Big mistake No. 2.

I was immediately bundled into a paint locker, where to my surprise were about 15-20 other members of the crew…other Pollywogs. The ceremony had begun. And whilst the breathing of paint fumes was toxic and not pleasant, I don’t think it was really part of the ceremony. Quick chat, how’s the weather, what’s happening, what’s for lunch, doors opens, I’m hauled out.

I’m blindfolded, or rather I’m made to wear a snorkelling mask with, and with a rather surreal touch, there’s a picture of a hippo inside the mask blocking my vision. Salvador Dali would have been proud.

I’m escorted, on each side by a Shellback, through the ship, out into the Equatorial light and heat. I hear voices. I’m shoved on my shoulder and told to kneel. But I can see a hint of what is going on through a small gap. I’m kneeling, the sun beating down on my back.

“You, Jeremy Sutton-Hibbert, a pollywog, are charged with….”. My crimes were being read out in the court of Neptune. Had I really drilled a hole through from the darkroom to the showers in order to photograph the women naked ?. Possibly. Sounds like the type of thing a snapper would do. And then the verdict. I’m found guilty, surprise, surprise. “Any chance of appeal I ask ?”. I was made to kiss the feet of Neptune. And trust me his feet aren’t pretty. Next I’m hauled up. I’m taken to the side of the ship. “Can he swim?” I hear being asked. All I can see is a hippo.

“Climb the steps in front of you” I’m told. And I do as I say. I go up two steps, the hippo is taken away. In front of me, about four feet of wood, and then, beyond that, the SOUTH ATLANTIC.

I look around, and see the Shellbacks, Neptune in his tattoo’s looking triumphant, his wife beside him who looked vaguely familiar as the 2nd Engineer girl we had on board. All around Shellbacks with scars and swords.

I’m told to sit down on the plank and swing my legs into a huge oil drum that sits beside it. I look in. It ain’t pretty looking. In fact it just isn’t not pretty, it’s vile looking. I spot a dead fish looking back up at me. “In” they shout. And I’m in.

Head down under the surface of the liquid, fish all around me. Dead putrifying fish. Vegetables, the leftovers of the previous week or so’s dinners. I’m choking. I come up for air and wretch. I’m ducked under again. F*ck. Back up. Gasp air. Back under. Up. “That’s enough” I hear. I’m helped out.

I run to the side railings and try to vomit over the side. Oh how the Shellbacks laughed. I’m wretching, and, steadying myself against the side. I keep trying to vomit but can’t.

“Go” they shout, and I’m gone, off back through the ship to the shower. Even in the shower I wretch. My clothes get changed, and eventually thrown away. I get my cameras and now as a Shellback, I’m back on deck, ready to photograph the other Pollywogs. Damn them for not respecting Neptune. (see photographs of Crossing the Equatorial Line ceremony here)

Hours later, we recieve our Crossing The Line certificates, and our new Shellback names which we’re told not to reveal.

An hour or two later and we cross the line for real. I watch on the ships navigation instruments, as the digits decrease 0′ 001.674S, 0’001.106S, and then it jumps, it’s going back up, 0′ 001.211 N. We never saw the line of zero’s, 0′ 000.000. We Crossed the Line due south of Cote D’Ivoire, a place in the deep blue I’ll always remember.

For three days the ship stank of putrid fish, of vegetables, and other toxic things. For three days we had to clean the route from deck to showers. Cap’n P.S. wondered why he’d ever left Switzerland.