Ascension Island
After four days at sea, the cry of “land ahoy!” brought a bustle of activity to the decks of the M/V Endeavour. We had been well prepared for the volcanic landscape ahead of us by Jim Kelley’s geology lecture series and were better equipped to recognize the increasingly rich quantity of bird life thanks to presentations by Art Cooley and Bernard Stonehouse. Bernard looked particularly pleased to see once again the island group where he had led a pioneering ornithological expedition back in 1957.
Our morning lecture, from Steve Maclean had been about scientific naming. Using examples drawn from the rich variety of marine fauna that we had seen during our days at sea, -whales, dolphins, seabirds, flying-fish – he explained the significance of naming of these creatures in various scientific classifications. Such nomenclatures date back to the time of Carolus Linnaeus (1707-1778), itself a Latin version of the Swedish name of this pioneering biologist, Carl von Linné. A pupil of Linnaeus, Daniel Carl Solander ccompanied Joseph Banks on board the original bark Endeavour when she passed this way on expedition in 1771.
For a historian, naming usually signifies the power of the namer. The islands we call at on this voyage all have names that tell a story. The original name for the Canary Islands, used by the aboriginal Guanche inhabitants, has been lost in time. The islands were subsequently named by the Spanish after a mastif dog they found there; the Canary bird was named after the island, not the other way around. The Portuguese named the Cape Verde islands after the adjacent cape of the same name on the west African coast. Ascension Island was officially discovered by Alfonso d’Albuquerque on Ascension Day 1503; there had been an earlier sighting two years earlier. St Helena was named by a Portuguese mariner after the saint’s day on which he first sighted the island. Tristan da Cunha is the name of the Portuguese discoverer who first saw that island group in 1506.The last three island groups had no permanent settlement until they were garrisoned by the British at the time of Napoleon’s exile to St Helena. Like his compatriots he was sailing these waters to pick up the trade winds. Captain Cook named South Georgia loyally after the reigning monarch. The Falkland islands were named by the British after Viscount Falkland of the Admiralty, although to the Spanish they are the Malvinas, itself a corruption of the French Malouines, for the original settlers on that archipelago were Breton fishermen from the town of St Malo.
A name can therefore make a claim: by naming, man (woman also, I suppose, although are usually more sensitive) imposes order and dominion on both the territory and the fauna and fauna that inhabit it. Our days at sea have helped us to understand this, but also given us time and space to connect with the natural world in more numinous ways.
After four days at sea, the cry of “land ahoy!” brought a bustle of activity to the decks of the M/V Endeavour. We had been well prepared for the volcanic landscape ahead of us by Jim Kelley’s geology lecture series and were better equipped to recognize the increasingly rich quantity of bird life thanks to presentations by Art Cooley and Bernard Stonehouse. Bernard looked particularly pleased to see once again the island group where he had led a pioneering ornithological expedition back in 1957.
Our morning lecture, from Steve Maclean had been about scientific naming. Using examples drawn from the rich variety of marine fauna that we had seen during our days at sea, -whales, dolphins, seabirds, flying-fish – he explained the significance of naming of these creatures in various scientific classifications. Such nomenclatures date back to the time of Carolus Linnaeus (1707-1778), itself a Latin version of the Swedish name of this pioneering biologist, Carl von Linné. A pupil of Linnaeus, Daniel Carl Solander ccompanied Joseph Banks on board the original bark Endeavour when she passed this way on expedition in 1771.
For a historian, naming usually signifies the power of the namer. The islands we call at on this voyage all have names that tell a story. The original name for the Canary Islands, used by the aboriginal Guanche inhabitants, has been lost in time. The islands were subsequently named by the Spanish after a mastif dog they found there; the Canary bird was named after the island, not the other way around. The Portuguese named the Cape Verde islands after the adjacent cape of the same name on the west African coast. Ascension Island was officially discovered by Alfonso d’Albuquerque on Ascension Day 1503; there had been an earlier sighting two years earlier. St Helena was named by a Portuguese mariner after the saint’s day on which he first sighted the island. Tristan da Cunha is the name of the Portuguese discoverer who first saw that island group in 1506.The last three island groups had no permanent settlement until they were garrisoned by the British at the time of Napoleon’s exile to St Helena. Like his compatriots he was sailing these waters to pick up the trade winds. Captain Cook named South Georgia loyally after the reigning monarch. The Falkland islands were named by the British after Viscount Falkland of the Admiralty, although to the Spanish they are the Malvinas, itself a corruption of the French Malouines, for the original settlers on that archipelago were Breton fishermen from the town of St Malo.
A name can therefore make a claim: by naming, man (woman also, I suppose, although are usually more sensitive) imposes order and dominion on both the territory and the fauna and fauna that inhabit it. Our days at sea have helped us to understand this, but also given us time and space to connect with the natural world in more numinous ways.
