From as far back as Homer’s penning of his epic poem “The Odyssey” in the 7th or 8th century BC, maritime novels have been a notable literary genre. They’ve created their own niche, attracted legions of fans, inspired movies, television shows and other adaptations, not to mention sparked dreams in the minds of the impressionable about running away to sea or becoming a pirate.

If just the thought of being aboard a tossing ship makes you seasick, it’s hard nonetheless not to be lured into the romance, mystery and grandeur of stories about men who “go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters” (Psalm 107:23) 

There’s an alchemy about majestic sailing ships, wild oceans, mysterious creatures of the deep, ruthless commanders and simmering revolt among the crew. We probably all remember the first one we read. Mine, I think, was “Mutiny on the Bounty” (the original),

Also defined as nautical, naval, sea, or naval adventure fiction, such stories, according to Wikipedia, are set on or near the sea and focus on “the human relationship to the sea and sea voyages”. They feature all kinds of boats from sailing ships, merchant ships, liners, naval ships, fishing vessels, to dinghies, skiffs, canoes and even life- boats. But in all these tales it’s the sea itself that dominates and dwarfs into insignificance the human dramas played out upon its vastness. More than a backdrop, the ocean is a magisterial presence, a powerful visual and auditory element that explains why such books adapt so well to film.

Water and man, according to the website Book2Sail have always shared a “mystical bond” which may explain why we’re so drawn to stories of the sea. Wikipedia defines such narratives as follows: “a sailor embarks upon a voyage; during the course of the voyage he is tested – by the sea, by his colleagues or by those that he encounters upon another shore; the experience either makes him or breaks him.” This sounds like a version of the Hero’s Journey, widely considered to be a fail-safe formula for writing a blockbuster. Giants of the genre such as Melville, Defoe, Conrad, Marryat, and O’Brian would likely find this a gross over-simplification and argue that their novels owe their success more to their authors’ dazzling imaginations and mastery of prose rather than anything so crass as a formula.

What can’t be ignored however about maritime novels is their distinctively masculine focus. Not only have male authors traditionally dominated the genre, but also men inevitably feature as the heroes and villains – men at their swashbuckling, adventurous, daredevil best, bravely confronting the dangers of the deep to prove themselves worthy of the heroic status to which they aspire. They’re Boys’ Own adventures for big boys. A prime example is Horatio Hornblower, the inimitable protagonist created by C.S. Forester who featured in his many novels and stories. Just his name alone evokes the power and thrust of a man pitting himself against the formidable might of nature at its ferocious worst (never mind that he suffered from seasickness at the start of every voyage).

To find out what other factors might contribute to this overwhelmingly male dominance of maritime fiction, I consulted AI.  According to that repository of all knowledge, it’s the result of several factors, as follows:

Origins and Pioneers:

Nautical fiction as a distinct genre emerged in the early 19th century. James Fenimore Cooper and Frederick Marryat were pioneers in this field, with works like The Pilot (1824) and Mr. Midshipman Easy (1836) respectively.

These early authors set the tone for nautical fiction, and their influence continued to shape the genre.

Maritime Culture and Traditions:

Nautical fiction revolves around themes related to the sea, ships, and maritime culture. Given that seafaring was predominantly a male occupation historically, it’s natural that men became central characters in these stories.

The rich tapestry of naval traditions, shipboard life, and the challenges faced at sea provided ample material for male protagonists.

Social Context:

During the 19th and early 20th centuries, societal norms reinforced gender roles. Men were often associated with adventure, heroism, and exploration, which aligned well with the themes of nautical fiction.

The sea was seen as a rugged, masculine domain—a place where courage, leadership, and physical strength were tested.

Marketing and Audience:

Publishers recognized the male-dominated readership interested in tales of adventure, naval battles, and life aboard ships. Consequently, nautical fiction was often marketed toward men.

The assumption was that male readers would relate more readily to male protagonists navigating the challenges of the sea.

Themes of Masculinity and Heroism:

Nautical fiction frequently explores themes of masculinity, honor, duty, and bravery. The sea becomes a crucible for testing a man’s mettle.

Heroic deeds, leadership under pressure, and camaraderie among sailors are recurring motifs.

Language and Nautical Terminology:

Authenticity matters in nautical fiction. Readers expect accurate representation of maritime culture and terminology.

The use of nautical language—sailor jargon, ship parts, and navigation terms—adds depth to the storytelling.

Evolution of the Genre:

Over time, nautical fiction evolved to include both popular and literary works. Authors like Herman Melville, Joseph Conrad, C.S. Forester, and Patrick O’Brian contributed significantly.

While the genre expanded to include diverse perspectives, the historical legacy of male dominance persisted.

In summary, the historical context, cultural norms, and the allure of maritime adventures all contributed to men being central figures in nautical fiction.” 

A recent example that perfectly represents this kind of testosterone charged maritime adventure is “The Wager: a Tale of Shipwreck Mutiny and Murder” by David Grann, which I read and reviewed last year for Good Reading Magazine.  The book became a New York Times bestseller, was widely acclaimed as one of the best books of 2023 and is to be made into a movie directed by Martin Scorsese and starring Leonardo diCaprio. My review describes the book as “an unputdownable tale of intrigue, chicanery and high seas adventure to rival those of Herman Melville, Joseph Conrad or Patrick O’Brian”. 

It’s hard to argue with the well thought out rationale provided by AI above. The genesis and evolution of the nautical genre clearly owes a lot to men. What’s less easily explained is why “the historical legacy of male dominance” persists. What about the women?

Their omission may owe something to the fact that up until the 20th century women were officially banned from ships on the basis that they were considered omens of bad fortune. That didn’t mean they didn’t go to sea. They were always there in one capacity or another, albeit consigned to shadowy supporting roles, or, as Danielle Clode, the author of “In Search of the Woman Who Sailed the World” puts it: “When women appeared they were relegated to the periphery of the action, rarely occupied a central role, and, when they did, quickly died.”

As in so many historical accounts, fictional or otherwise, women have been largely written out of nautical stories. While clearly a presence, their roles remained invisible, a gross injustice considering their many groundbreaking maritime exploits. In an article called “Women aboard: the most famous female sailors of all time” published on the website yachting.com, women are shown to have carved out their places in maritime history just as forcefully as men.

As far back as the 9th Century AD, women have in fact played prominent roles on the sea, from Vikings to pirates to members of exploratory expeditions, in some cases commanding their own vessels. Among the pirates, Ann Bonny and Mary Read are widely recognised as the most infamous.

These ruthless pirate queens were the scourge of the sea in the 18th century, earning them a formidable reputation as even more cut-throat than their male counterparts.

Jean Baret, the subject of Danielle Clode’s remarkable  book mentioned above, was the first woman to sail around the world in 1776. In joining the expedition conducted by French explorer Louis Antoine de Bougainville, she disguised herself as a man in order to act as assistant to the botanist Philibert Commerson.  On that voyage Barret helped to compile what was then the largest individual natural history collection in the world, many specimens of which are still held in the Paris natural history museum (although in most cases not attributed to Jean).  

Sadly, Baret’s ground-breaking achievement went largely unrecognised. Clode however, in a project that took several years of exhaustive research, brings us fascinating new insights into her life and seafaring exploits, shining new light on a woman until then largely relegated to the dusty shelves of the archive and the footnotes of history.

In an example of another kind of heaving ocean that sucks you helplessly into its maw, I was distracted from exploring the idea of women and the sea on the internet when the term “thalassophile” (from the Greek words for love and sea) popped up. A thalassophile is someone who has a passion for the sea, being on or in or beside it, hearing it, smelling it, being seduced by it, and generally feeling like a jellyfish washed up on the sand if they spend too much time away from its addictive consolations. The word appeared in Hephzibah Anderson’s review of the book “Salt on Your Tongue: Women and the Sea” in The Guardian. Written by Charlotte Runcie, the book is described as a mixture of memoir, history and cultural criticism which looks at how the sea, in various ways, “inspires and connects women in art and life”. I wish I hadn’t found it, because now I’ve been inspired and connected to the idea of reading it and I’ve already got half a lifetime’s worth of books calling me to read them too.

What led me to that in turn (you can see how the hours drift by) was Charlotte Runcie’s article in the Guardian called “Top 10 Books About Women and the Sea” which explores the stories women have told of the sea through the centuries, contradicting the assumption that maritime stories are primarily a male domain. Runcie describes them as stories that “have their own compelling power, showing that women and the sea are linked in all sorts of ways in our cultural memory”. 

Indeed to describe the sea as “a rugged masculine domain” disregards the fact that for centuries the sea has been traditionally considered a feminine force. In an article on the website cunning-folk.com, Molly Aitken, the author of “The Island Child” explains the origin of this association. 

“The sea has long been viewed as a feminine force, recorded in myths and legends as powerful and dangerous. Ships are called ‘she’ and feminised with figureheads of Greek goddesses to protect them. Not only is the sea herself feminine but often so too are the mysterious creatures who inhabit her.”

She goes on to speak of mermaids (often associated with floods, storms and shipwrecks), selkies (who can be benign but also vengeful) and the sirens of Homer’s Odyssey who lured men to their deaths. That these mysterious feminine entities are often violent and dangerous, Aitken suggests, is a result of the misogynistic attitude to women that prevailed over the years and was no doubt a factor in women being banned from ships.

Back to nautical fiction. There’s no shortage in the genre of women novelists, if anything quite the contrary. Books such as “The Sea The Sea” by Iris Murdoch, “Wide Sargasso Sea” by Jean Rhys, “The Shipping News” by E. Annie Proulx, “The Light Between Oceans” by M.L. Stedman and “The Sea Lady” by Margaret Drabble are some of the better known examples. Any discussion of women’s fiction featuring the sea wouldn’t of course be complete without including Daphne du Maurier, who I’ve written about in a previous post. Cornwall, as du Maurier’s adopted home, provided the inspiration for many of her books featuring  those who depended on the sea for their living – fishermen, pirates, sailors, smugglers, and unscrupulous inn keepers. The maritime theme was heavily underscored by elements of the gothic, with chilling and supernatural happenings a typical characteristic of her stories, which, not coincidentally fitted perfectly with the darkly brooding aspect of the Cornwall coast at its most rugged and threatening.

Australian authors have also contributed to the lineup of nautical fiction written by women. There’s Ernestine Hill whose 1941 novel “My Love Must Wait“, a fictionalised biography of Matthew Flinders, was widely acclaimed and also adapted for radio. Kate Grenville’s 2008 novel “The Lieutenant” is the story of an 18th century boy who becomes an astronomer and joins the First Fleet voyage to New South Wales.

Another book I read and reviewed last year for Good Reading Magazine was “The Ghost Ship” by Kate Mosse.

Mosse is a prolific and bestelling writer with 12 novels and numerous non-fiction works to her name. A swashbuckling tale of piracy and romance on the high seas, “The Ghost Ship” is as breathtaking a nautical adventure as any penned by a male author. Set in the seventeenth century, it recounts the story of Louise Reydon-Joubert who at 25 becomes mistress and commander of her own ship. In a crusade to counter the iniquitous slave trade Louise reinvents herself as a “a she-captain, the huntress and hellion of the high seas” and sets out to prey upon the Barbary coast slave galleys. Her young apprentice Gilles (a woman in disguise) becomes not only her partner in crime but her lover. It’s a ripping tale, but also an example of those tough, resourceful women who in real life forged their way in a man’s world and carried the banner for all those other women written out of history.

Widening the focus from women authors to women’s achievements more generally, a 2020 article by Nina Strochlic published in National Geographic also poses the question of why, when so many women were at the vanguard of expeditions and scientific discoveries, both on land and sea, mostly we’ve never heard of them. A graphic example is the group of women scientists who formed part of the amazing experiment to map the ocean floor, in which underwater explorers were lowered into the Atlantic Ocean in a peculiar vessel called a bathysphere, which constituted the first such venture into deep sea exploration.  

“Women were often a side note,” Strochlic writes, “overshadowed by famous husbands.” One such husband was Matthew Stirling, a noted Mesoamerican archaeologist, who had numerous articles published under his name reporting his discoveries. His wife Marion who assisted in the expeditions only managed to get a single article published under her name and that was about keeping house in the field. Also noted was Anne Morrow Lindbergh, wife of Charles, the famous aviator. Anne was the first American woman to hold a glider pilot’s licence and won many awards for aerial navigation, all of which went unheralded. “I am sick of being this ‘handmaiden to the Lord'”, she allegedly complained. 

Other groundbreaking achievements by women were either barely acknowledged or belittled. Juliet Bredon, a journalist and writer working in the 1920s, discovered she could only get her articles published if she used a man’s name. 

Women in more recent times continue to set records in sailing. The featured image of this post, taken from an article on Zeymarine.com titled “Top 10 Women Sailors in History”, features Krystyna Chojnowska-Liskiewicz, recorded as the first woman to have singlehandedly circumnavigated the world, setting out from the Canary Islands on 28 March 1976 and returning there on 21 April 1978.

Clearly, when we look at the history of women’s achievements and exploits in fiction and in life, whether on sea or land, the record is disproportionately top-heavy with men. It would be nice to think attitudes have changed and sexism is no longer the barrier it once was to women gaining rightful recognition, although as remarked in my recent post about women writers, it seems little has changed. 

In writing, in the sea or out of it, women don’t want to shoulder men out of the way but we’d really like it if they could just move along a bit so that when we achieve something noteworthy, we can claim our legitimate place in the limelight.