The History of the Neptune Ceremony

Part initiation, part mock trial, this line-crossing ceremony is a legendary rite of passage for crew.

Fish heads… Flour… Glitter… The provisions list had taken a strange turn. At first, no one thought much of it — perhaps the chef was experimenting. Then came the hushed whispers, the knowing smirks from senior crew, and the inexplicable disappearance of the pantry’s flour stores. Something was afoot. By the time the stews were seen siphoning off the day’s food waste into a separate, suspiciously well-guarded bin, the fate of the newest crew members had been sealed. As the yacht approached the middle of the Atlantic, a tea-stained summons appeared, taped to the crew mess fridge:

“Hear ye, hear ye! All pollywogs aboard this noble vessel are hereby summoned to King Neptune’s Court. You shall present yourselves before His Supreme Majesty at the appointed hour, lest you incur the wrath of the deep.”

And so, the Neptune Ceremony commences, a time-honored rite of passage for sailors crossing the equator or ocean midpoint for the first time. Half initiation, half mock trial, it’s a tradition that has endured for centuries, ensuring no sailor crosses into Neptune’s realm without paying their dues.

Sailors are a superstitious lot. Bananas on board? Bad luck. Whistling into the wind? Risky business. Forget to slip a coin beneath the mast? Enjoy your impending doom.

For centuries, those who dared to dance with the ocean have leaned on strange and time-honored rituals to keep its unpredictable forces at bay. Some traditions, such as carving intricate figureheads to ward off misfortune, are steeped in history. Others, like always stepping on board with your right foot, are pure old salts’ lore. But of all the seafaring rituals, none is quite as unhinged as the Neptune Ceremony.

Where it all started

The first documented equator crossings date back to the 1470s, a time when crews feared boiling seas, sea monsters and tumbling off the edge of the world. By the 16th century, rituals had emerged to mark the occasion, with the first written reference appearing in 1529 of “knighting” new sailors, though later accounts grew far more elaborate.

“It is generally considered to be a British tradition, although it was adopted as a tradition by numerous nations’ navies,” says Laura Boon-Williams, Lloyd’s Register Foundation senior curator of contemporary maritime at Royal Museums Greenwich. “There are some suggestions that it formed an important test to ensure the men you were sailing with were able seafarers. A different interpretation is much more steeped in superstition — appeasing Neptune, the god of the sea, before ‘crossing the line.’”

During the Age of Exploration, reaching the equator was as much a test of survival as it was a geographical milestone. Crews faced weeks idling in the doldrums, the threat of tropical diseases and the occasional mutiny. The ceremony emerged as a morale booster.

“Throughout history, it is clear that both the morale of the crew and the bond between them was incredibly important to ensure successful voyages,” Laura says. “Life at sea, although at times dangerous, day to day could be monotonous. Festivities and rituals were important in bringing crews together and providing a sense of routine away from home.”

In 1768, on Captain Cook’s voyage to Australia aboard the HMS Endeavour, naturalist Joseph Banks wrote: “Every one that could not prove upon the Sea Chart that he had before Crossed the Line was either to pay a Bottle of Rum or be Duck’d in the sea.” Many, reluctant to part with their rum, opted for the dunking — hoisted up by a rope, swung over the side, and dropped into the sea or dunked into a water-filled boat on deck.

By the 19th century, accounts grew more colorful. Even Charles Darwin wasn’t spared. During his 1832 voyage on HMS Beagle, he wrote of his initiation: “Four of Neptune’s constables came to us, and one by one led us up on deck. The constable blindfolded me and led [us] along, buckets of water were thundered all around. I was placed on a plank, which could be easily tilted up into a large bath of water. They then lathered my face and mouth with pitch and paint and scraped some of it off with a piece of roughened iron hoop — a signal being given I was tilted head over heels into the water, where two men ducked me. Most of the others were treated much worse, dirty mixtures being put in their mouths and rubbed on their faces. The whole ship was a shower bath: and water was flying about in every direction.”

The ordeal differed from ship to ship, but some elements remained constant. “A key feature is generally immersion in seawater, either in the sea or a container on the ship, although some accounts just recall copious amounts of water being poured over the inductee,” Laura says. But the real spectacle has always been Neptune’s court, where an oddball cast of characters brings the ceremony to life. In the 19th and 20th centuries, sailors could expect to face a barber, a policeman enforcing Neptune’s laws, and even bears (though their exact role remains unclear). King Neptune presides over the chaos wielding a makeshift trident and a costume cobbled together from the ship’s stores: a colander for a crown and whatever fabric passes for royal robes. Queen Amphitrite, goddess of the sea, is traditionally played by a man adorned with sequins and feather boas. Davy Jones is the king’s loyal enforcer.

Some ceremonies stuck to playful theatrics; others took creative liberties. One junior navy sailor recalled the “grease belly” — a large, slippery stomach, often belonging to an engineer, that each initiate had to kiss to earn Neptune’s favor. Other accounts tell of sailors being dragged over the line feet first.

By the 20th century, stricter naval regulations curbed the ceremony’s more brutal aspects, but the tradition endures. Today, yacht crews uphold the ritual, though now it is more commonly tied to crossing the Atlantic. The tar and grease may be gone, but none escape Neptune’s judgment unscathed.

The Ceremony

The proclamation

As the yacht reaches the halfway point, Davy Jones issues a summons, warning the captain that his vessel has entered Neptune’s domain and must answer for the “pollywogs.” The uninitiated crew members on board must stand trial before King Neptune’s court to earn their place as “shellbacks.” Then, from the depths of the sea, the decree is announced:

“Hear Ye, Hear Ye! All ye Pollywogs aboard this noble vessel, heed the call of His Supreme Majesty, King Neptune, Ruler of the Seven Seas. As we prepare to cross the Equatorial Line, it is decreed that each landlubber who has not previously entered our realm must present themselves before the Royal Court to be judged and initiated into the mysteries of the deep. Failing to do so shall incur the wrath of the mighty ocean and its denizens.”

King Neptune’s arrival

At the stroke of the crossing, King Neptune and his court arrive in full regalia. The captain pleads for mercy on behalf of the pollywogs, but Neptune, in his infinite wisdom, decrees that they must first prove themselves worthy of his realm.

The trial

One by one, pollywogs are dragged before Neptune’s court to stand trial. “Anyone who had crossed before would lead the newbies to the bow,” says former chief stew Lexi Marino. The charges are read out — heinous crimes such as eating the last biscuit, tossing the heaving line straight into the water or leaving a wet chamois in the deck locker — and each must plead guilty or not guilty. But no matter their plea, no pollywog can escape King Neptune’s wrath.

A tarpaulin is laid out on deck and buckets of galley scrap slop are poured generously over each pollywog’s head. “They’d throw flour and read proclamations. Typically, you have days-old pureed food scraps dumped on your head while you’re on your knees,” Lexi says.

Chief stew Karly Hinkelbein shares a similar experience, taking part in a ceremony in November. “We saved our slops for three days to use as the ‘offering,’ and our captains performed the ceremony on the bow halfway through our crossing from Tenerife to Antigua,” she says.

Captain Paul Roger remembers some traditions that have been modified in recent years.

“We used to store our food slops in a bin on the foredeck for days before,” he says. “But the stench and the stains on clothes and teak took longer to clean than the ceremony. Now, I use an octopus draped over their face — it definitely has the desired effect!”

Blindfolded, the pollywogs are then handed a spoonful of “royal tonic,” a vile concoction that can include anchovies, Marmite, fish sauce and whatever else the galley crew has kindly contributed. A tot of rum is sometimes included. Then comes the “royal shave” — a thick paste of flour and water is smeared across their faces and wiped away with a deck brush or window wiper. And to prove their devotion to the sea, each pollywog must kiss a fish.

With the trial complete, the pollywogs cleanse themselves of their landlubber past. Whether by force or by choice, they are dunked into the sea, a dunk tank or even a bucket of ice water — finally emerging as shellbacks.

In Karly’s ceremony, the captains “wrote a lovely script and knighted us with a flying fish we found on the deck. The slops were poured on us one by one, and at the end we jumped into the Atlantic for a swim/wash off before heading back on our way. I was digging coffee grounds and eggshells out of my hair for days.”

The declaration of shellbacks

Neptune delivers his final decree, presents the shellbacks with certificates and grants them the right to continue their journey. “I’ve even had crew present me their crossing certificate along with their STCW during interviews,” Captain Paul says.

Though far tamer than in centuries past, the Neptune Ceremony remains a cherished ritual. “Although technology has changed the experience of life at sea, the fundamental need for crews to trust each other and form a temporary community remains,” says Laura Boon-Williams of Royal Museums Greenwich. “Ceremonies remain important, not just in providing a bonding experience for the crew, but also in linking them to the wider maritime community.”

So, the next time you ignore the overflowing bin or put the empty milk carton back in the fridge, remember: Neptune is watching.