The Flying Dutchman
In the shadowed seas where legends dwell,
Sails the Flying Dutchman, bound by a spell,
With Captain Van der Decken at the wheel,
On endless quests, through storms of steel.

Through tempests wild and storms so fierce,
He steers his course with naught to pierce,
The wind’s defiance, the ocean’s rage,
Locked in time forever, he turns no page.

He once commanded a Fluyt, so old,
With timber worn and stories told,
But tired of creaks and splintered beams,
He traded up to a schooner of dreams.

No haven calls, no port’s embrace,
Only mist and waves to trace,
For a vow he made with an iron will,
It keeps him bound, forever still.

He bought a sleek three-masted ship so fast,
To outrun storms and winds that blast,
He left the Fluyt to flames and strife,
To burn the Turks and claim their life.

The Turkish admiral, with pride and might,
Met his destiny in a fiery light,
As the old Fluyt roared and flared,
The seas engulfed the foe, unspared.

Now, with a modern schooner’s grace,
Van der Decken sets his pace,
The Flying Dutchman, swift and keen,
Haunts the seas, forever unseen.

The new ship now bears the name,
Swift and silent, without shame,
Yet in the mist, his fate remains,
Chasing winds with ghostly chains.

But though his ship has changed its form,
His fate remains through every storm,
Chasing winds, defying death,
Till the end of time steals his final breath.

Through Hydra’s strait, by moonlight’s gleam,
He slipped unseen, like a fading dream,
An endless voyage, night and day,
The Flying Dutchman finds no bay.

And as the years, like waves, roll on,
His legend grows, though he's long gone,
For Van der Decken’s tale won’t cease,
Until his soul finds final peace.
Hydra, August 2024

The three-masted schooner depicted in the image is a fascinating vessel, living up to its name with three masts, all rigged with sails set lengthwise along the ship. This unique 'fore-and-aft' rigging allows the schooner to sail closer to the wind, showcasing its versatility. These schooners, often called 'Tern schooners,' were highly esteemed in the late 19th and early 20th centuries for their speed, agility, and ability to sail well, even when the wind came from the front. They were used for many purposes, including fishing, transporting goods, and leisure sailing. Notably, ships with two masts were more prevalent around Greece’s fight for independence in 1821. The three-masted schooner was a marvel of maritime engineering, with each mast supporting a different set of sails, allowing for more speed and manoeuvrability.

Less known is that Van der Decken, the legendary captain of the infamous ghost ship, the Flying Dutchman, upgraded his vessel to a three-masted schooner during the Greek War of Independence. This change had fatal consequences for the Turks and their admiral, Nasuhzade Ali Pasha. Read on to learn how the ghostly captain ended up near Hydra—it’s a truly spooky story.

In their quest to rid themselves of the Turks, some Greeks were willing to make deals with the devil himself if necessary. This wasn’t far from striking a bargain with a ghostly captain. Before the naval battle off Chios in 1822 and the burning of the Ottoman flagship, Andreas Pipinos, a native of Hydra and a respected naval captain, and Van der Decken met at a harbour tavern in Piraeus. It's a common misconception that the ghost captain was always at sea. Anyone could figure out that sailors need to come ashore from time to time. Even a ghostly crew requires supplies and a few pints of beer. In any case, Van der Decken found himself in the company of Captain Pipinos, and they discovered they had similar feelings about the Turks—very negative ones. The same went for the Spaniards, who had also humiliated the Flying Dutchman and its crew by firing upon them unprovoked, as Van der Decken merely tried to navigate Table Bay, not attack ships. While the old ghost ship was unsinkable, cannon holes didn’t mend themselves, and the vessel became increasingly drafty. After a few beers, the ghostly captain lamented how tired he was of his old ship, a 17th-century cargo vessel known as a 'Fluyt.' Pipinos was astonished at how one could still sail such an ancient tub.

"It's a long story," sighed Van der Decken.

"I'm in no rush, and the beer is good," Pipinos replied.

"Okay, but let this stay between us." The ghostly captain recounted that he was a staunch seaman who would have his way despite any force, including the devil. Even so, none of his sailors ever had reason to complain. Once, while rounding the Cape, he and his ship spent a long day trying to weather Table Bay. However, the wind grew stronger against them, making passing impossible. Van der Decken walked the deck, swearing at the wind. Just after sunset, the captain of a passing vessel called out to him, asking if he didn’t intend to anchor in the bay that night. Van der Decken replied: "May I be eternally damned if I do, though I should beat about here till the day of judgment." And so it was.

"And you can be certain I would never yield to a wind. I never did go into that bay that night, nor any other night, and I decided to challenge all winds, which I still do. But I need a new and faster ship because I swear that's where the problem lies. A boat like yours would do nicely," said Van der Decken.

Pipinos had boasted about his three-masted schooner, how fast and manoeuvrable it was, with an easy-to-manage rig that didn’t require a large crew. It wasn’t for sale, but why not if he got a reasonable offer? The war chest needed replenishing, and Pipinos had other boats. When asked how much a three-masted schooner would cost, he had said between 23 and 40 kilograms of gold, exaggerating to the point of embarrassment. He didn’t think the question was serious; after all, why would a notorious ghost captain change his ship’s silhouette after a few hundred years? The spooky 17th-century Fluyt was an established brand, so to speak.

"You'll get eighty kilograms for the whole lot," said Van der Decken, who had far more of the precious metal aboard his ship. There weren't many buried pirate treasures around the world that he hadn't already dug up. The best proof is that no one has found anything despite maps with Xs indicating where the treasure is buried. The offer was a considerable sum, representing a significant investment, even for governments. Pipinos could buy four similar ships or a much larger warship with plenty of cannons with the money.

The offer was for everything—lock, stock, and barrel—and the next day, Pipinos delivered the ship with rigging, sails, basic outfitting, and supplies necessary for the crew. The only thing not included was the ship's cannons, better needed in the war for independence. Besides, cannons were unnecessary on a peaceful ghost ship, which was now so fast that Van der Decken could easily outrun aggressive Turks and Spaniards in his eternal chase of defiant winds.

As a bonus, Pipinos received the ghost captain’s old, extremely worn Flying Dutchman. While the Fluyt wasn’t of much use as a warship by discerning standards, it was perfect as a fireship. With so much old, dry, tar-impregnated wood and rigging, it promised to be a spectacular blaze. And so it was—two thousand Turkish sailors were killed or drowned on the spot, including the admiral of the Ottoman navy, Ali Pasha, when the 84-gun ship exploded. Van der Decken missed the Turkish bonfire because he was already halfway to Cape Town for another attempt to sail directly into the wind.

Since the ship swap, confirmed sightings of the Flying Dutchman have significantly decreased. The ship passing outside Hydra this morning looked far too modern and wasn’t flying the old Dutch naval flag that the ghost captain was always careful to keep hoisted on the aft mast.

Perhaps the sightings were reduced because the new, modern ship's silhouette didn’t attract as much attention as a seventeenth-century vessel appearing out of the mist. After all, that was Captain Van der Decken’s signature move—only showing up in foul weather with poor visibility. Moreover, modern technology like radar likely filters out questionable sightings. Still, from time to time, mysterious radar echoes appear with no other explanation than that it was Van der Decken and his Flying Dutchman passing by in the fog.

The full-rigged ship, a vessel with three or more masts carrying square sails on all of them, is a marvel of maritime history. The German ship Preussen, a shining example of a full-rigged ship with five masts, was built in the early 20th century. Some full-rigged ships even boasted four masts. Other renowned full-rigged ships include the Cutty Sark, the Flying Cloud, and the Great Republic, each contributing to the rich tapestry of naval history.

Another intriguing type of ship is the 'Barque,' which has at least three masts. However, it stands out with its unique feature of having only fore-and-aft sails on its rearmost mast, while the other masts are adorned with square sails. This distinctive design sets the barque apart in the world of sailing ships.

Schooners usually have at least two masts, both rigged with fore-and-aft sails. But even if they have some square sails, they can still be classified as schooners. To be a schooner, the tallest mast on a two-masted ship must be in the back. The boat is considered a ketch if it has a shorter mast in the front and a yawl if it has a shorter mast in the back. Some schooners were built with as many as seven masts.

A "brig" is always a two-masted sailing vessel that carries square sails on both masts. It started as a type of "brigantine" but evolved into its style by the late 18th century. The key difference is that a brig has a square mainsail, while a brigantine has a fore-and-aft mainsail.

As a ship grows, its masts must be taller to hold more sails and capture more wind power to move the boat. However, taller masts also make the vessels lean more to the side when the wind blows, which can be a problem unless the ship’s keel (the bottom part of the boat) is made heavier or deeper to balance it. But a heavier, deeper keel can make the ship more expensive and slow it down by increasing drag in the water.

Shipbuilders often add more masts instead of making them taller to increase the sail area without making the ship more prone to tipping. Adding more masts allows the crew to adjust the sails to keep the boat steady and make it more manageable to steer.

In summary, designing and building a sailing ship involves many trade-offs, but adding more masts is one way to make a ship faster and more stable without making it harder to control. As is evident, being a shipbuilder is not easy.

If the centre of force is too far forward on the vessel, pointing into the wind becomes more challenging. Conversely, pointing away from the wind becomes trickier if it is too far aft. Therefore, moving the centre of force further aft makes it easier to point into the wind, and moving the centre of force farther forward makes it easier to point away from the wind.

How fast can these types of ships sail? The answer is simple and has been known for millennia: All sailboats have displacement-type hulls, and as such, their maximum speed is 1.34 times the square root of their length on the waterline in feet, which gives you the maximum speed in knots.

This is because, at that speed, the hull sits between the bow and the stern wave. To exceed that speed, the vessel must start climbing the bow wave, which requires flat buttock lines aft of midship. This speed, known as the 'displacement speed ', is a vessel's maximum speed without climbing the bow wave.

This is why, incidentally, modern racing yachts have wide and relatively flat sterns. When sailing downwind with a spinnaker or gennaker, they exceed the displacement speed a bit.

Hence, the longer the hull, the faster it can sail. Also, remember that a hull is twice as long as four times its wet surface and drag because of the square and eight times its displacement because of the cubic. This is why bigger boats can withstand stronger winds and need to reef later.

How many crew members would be required to sail a 2-masted, 52-foot-long Greek schooner in 1827 with two cannons? That depends on whether it’s wartime or not. In regular commercial traffic, the crew size was reduced to a minimum to increase profits. Sometimes, this led to disaster when the crew wasn’t sufficient during rough weather, causing the boat to capsize.

There was a rule of thumb: the Captain, 1st Lieutenant, master, gunner, carpenter, plus two mates each for the master, gunner, boatswain, carpenter, and purser—the number multiplied by the size of the boat, especially with the number of cannons. In the early 19th century, during the liberation war, it took up to twelve men to operate a muzzle-loading cannon; the number varied depending on the size of the cannon. This included two gunners, rammers (who pushed the black powder charges and cannonballs into the barrel), swabbers (who washed out the burning embers with wet sponges), trainers (who pulled the ropes to aim the gun), and, of course, powder monkeys (children who carried the black powder from the ship’s magazine) and then bigger monkeys to carry the heavy cannonballs.

Gun crews on a smaller Hydra ship with two guns could be fewer—about 8 per gun whether carronades or long guns were employed—so 16 for that, plus an additional ten or so other “waisters". A "waister" onboard a ship was a term historically used to describe an unskilled or less experienced crew member assigned to work in the waist of the ship. The waist is the centre of the ship's deck, between the forecastle in the front and the quarterdeck in the rear.

Waisters were typically less skilled than more experienced sailors and were often given menial or less demanding tasks. They might have been older seamen past their prime, young and inexperienced sailors, or less physically capable individuals. The term is outdated and was more commonly used during the Age of Sail.

A smaller Hydra schooner typically had two main fore-and-aft rigged masts and a flush upper deck. The guns would all be housed on the upper deck, so they were lighter, perhaps 6 or 8-pounders, and could be manned by a team of 4–5 men.

The ship would require a complement large enough to handle at least one broadside and have enough left over to sail the ship in the case of an attack. You’re looking at a range of around 20 to 70 seamen. A captain and a few petty officers would bring the complement up another five men.

Terpsichore was an armed 2-masted schooner laid down in 1816 on the island of Hydra and launched in 1818, three years before the independence war started. She was 27.45 meters long and had a burden of 256 tons, not particularly large but not small either, and as it would turn out, capable of inflicting significant damage on the Turkish enemy. The Turks allowed the Greeks to build and sail smaller merchant vessels, but none larger than brigs.

Terpsichore’s owners were the brothers Emmanuel and Jacob Tombazis from Hydra. Besides being a successful merchant, Jacob Tombazis studied naval engineering and design in Portsmouth until 1816. He secretly copied the lines of a captured American schooner, Lynx, which was then a modern design.

When England, France, and Russia joined forces with the Greeks in 1820 to help free the country, one of the main concerns was building a fleet capable of countering the mighty Turkish one. Most Greek shipowners joined forces and armed their vessels. The Tombazis brothers sailed Terpsichore to France to buy guns; they purchased six 12-pounder guns and one huge 48-pounder from 1680.

This was not cheap; the shipowners had to cover these investments themselves before the war. Once the war began in earnest, the central provisional government bore a significant portion of the costs. However, just keeping a ship operational was incredibly expensive. For example, the supply of Terpsichore with necessities such as gunpowder, lead, iron for the cannons, peas, tar, wood, nails, cannonballs, cork for the parapet, needles to sew the sails and sailcloth, and, in addition to keeping the crew in good spirits, plenty of wine, meat, bread, rusk, barley, wheat, cheese, rice, coffee, and sugar, and last but not least, money for the sailors’ salaries, was essential. The crew consisted of regular seamen who worked for their livelihood, not dedicated revolutionaries working for free. They risked their lives without any extra compensation. Such were the times.

But income could be supplemented. During long patrols around the Aegean, it became clear that these patrol duties included acts of piracy as an easy and efficient way of finding supplies and boosting salaries. This was nothing new for the Hydriots, who had mastered that trade for decades.

Such raids produced spoils and, therefore, wealth, which was divided into three shares: One share went to the central provisional government for the needs of the war, another part was given to the Church, which always ensured it had a stake, and the third was divided proportionally between the commander of the ship, usually the shipowner, the sailors, and the fighting men.

Additionally, you might have a captain's steward and a coxswain. They may be the same person. There would be a dedicated cook, a glorified water boiler, “assisted” by the mess cooks, who were members of each mess, both officers and enlisted men. As a rule, there would be four hands for each mast. There might also be a couple of ship boys who took on the job of running powder to the guns from the magazine when in action, applying nips to the messenger line of the captain when it was employed, hoisting yards, weighing anchors, and other such tasks. There might be as many as four. This assumes a naval vessel. A merchant vessel would have far fewer hands, depending on her role. For a merchant, a crew of fifteen would be considered “possible and economical.” And economical was something the Hydriot shipowners were known for. Just look at the grand houses and mansions they’ve left behind for the tourists' delight.