Latitude Forty-Eight South

Lyrics

[Intro]

James, it's January 1823,
and here we are, you and I,
in this cramped cabin on the brig Jane.
The oil lamp flickers, casting shadows on your logbook.

[Verse 1]
You grip the brass sextant,
its worn edges biting into your palms,
at latitude forty-eight south,
longitude forty east.
The gales howl outside,
but in here, it's just us,
the tang of saltwater on your woolen coat,
patched at the elbows from too many watches.
I watch you note the wind speeds,
ink staining the pages,
while frost clings to the ropes on deck.

[Chorus]
Oh, my reliable hand,
the second mate whose name you never write,
we're crossing the Roaring Forties,
where the albatross followed us for three days,
never landing, just gliding,
an omen in the gray dawn light at four-thirty.
The sea isn't tumultuous as expected,
but cold, so cold, twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit,
and I feel it in my bones,
like the hardtack biscuits we chew,
dry and tasteless, with salted beef from the barrels.

[Verse 2]
You turn to me, your logbook,
whispering entries about icebergs sighted,
the musty odor of damp wool filling the air,
mixed with unwashed bodies below.
James Weddell, thirty-six and bold,
voyaging towards the South Pole,
on this double-hulled vessel,
creaking timber and salt-crusted rigging.
I hold your secrets,
the ones about the missing voices,
the Māori navigators who knew these waters,
their stories unwritten in your European logs.

[Bridge]

And that strange fact, the albatross,
following without rest,
like the words we don't say,
innocent but sounding otherwise,
in this velvet-draped intimacy.

[Verse 3]
The captain's desk, bolted to the floor,
littered with charts,
the sharp bite of icy air in your nostrils,
whale oil burning acrid in the lamp.
Numbing cold on your fingertips,
gripping the wheel despite thick mittens,
rough hemp cutting into skin.
We're here, at the boundary,
where gales promise more than they deliver.

[Chorus]
Oh, my reliable hand,
the second mate whose name you never write,
we're crossing the Roaring Forties,
where the albatross followed us for three days,
never landing, just gliding,
an omen in the gray dawn light at four-thirty.
The sea isn't tumultuous as expected,
but cold, so cold, twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit,
and I feel it in my bones,
like the hardtack biscuits we chew,
dry and tasteless, with salted beef from the barrels.

[Outro]

James, in this cabin,
we set the course,
for words that sound dirty but aren't,
latitude forty-eight south,
whisper it close.