11/21
Today was a great day, warm skies, no rain, ideal for working aloft. It’s a welcome patch in what has been maddeningly topsy-turvy weather here. The amount of work that has to get done aloft in the ship’s rig before winter was becoming overwhelming.
The weather teases us.
Sometimes it teases me by shining the warm sun, nudging my way a pleasant little morsel of autumn wind now and then, and I think, “what a perfect day for going aloft to do this three hour job I’ve been needing to do!” Then, five minutes into my work, a gang of thick, mud-and-steel clouds surround the friendly sun and pounce. I presume they do so with a snicker. The wind picks up, the temperature drops, and with their cruel, uncanny precision, the same thugs that jumped my workmate spit sleet or stinging snow flurries at me. My exposed hands, gripped around the shrouds, go numb. I finish the job. Why? Because I am a sailor, not a sally. Though I do generally go into the furnace-warmed galley for a thaw by hot cocoa afterwards.
Three times now this conniving atmosphere has greeted us with warm sun and gentle breeze serving as flimsy façade for the incoming gale or a hurricane, and we are forced to waste the nice weather, instead buttoning down docking gear and making sure we are secure for the storms. Then, the next day, bright and sunny again, to tease us as we work cleaning and repairing the damage done by the devious douche-bag weather systems.
The rest of the time: drizzly.
But not today.
Today was clear. There is the promise of storms tomorrow, but nothing so Biblical we needed to drop our work and get to preparations. Today we chalked off nearly half the list of the work that needs to be done aloft before the freeze of winter and all the snow and ice come and take tenement here for the next months.
The days have been ticking away louder and louder as the calendar pulls us closer and closer to that time, and work has been slow, and the list has been looming.
Most days, of the three deck crew, I am the only one working aloft. The others are doing things on deck and in the warehouse that also must get done.
But not today.
Today we had visitors, old friends from past voyages here to say hey, and eat our food, and buy us rum and beer, and help out with the dishes, and reminisce, and tell new jokes, and – ghasp! – help with the ship’s work! There were three of us aloft today! We packed sheaves with grease! We sealed up the wire stays! We downrigged weatherworn and unused bits of rigging! It was a very exciting time. At the end of the day, the entire foremast was ready for winter’s worst, leaving only the main and mizzen masts, which don’t have quite so much that need to be done. Ryan made pork chops for dinner, I made important steps towards getting my necessary certifications, the work aloft has a significant and happy dent, I am covered in the glorious, barbecue-smoke-and-wood-chip-scent of pine tar, Shackle and I shared some beautiful black rum, I took a hot shower, and I will sleep well tonight. A great day.
November 22, 2007
November 8, 2007
Big Winds and Reality with a Sneeze
11/3
Yesterday, though the skies were blue and the weather was warm, we could see the front edge of the approaching hurricane Noel, a milky, thin layer of clouds sliding up from the south. This morning the skies are dark and squally. The weather service is predicting sustained winds of 75 knots, gusts up to 90.
The past two days we have spent working to button down the ship and dock in anticipation of the storm. Dock lines have been reinforced, sheds have been hammered shut, and the small boats have been pulled out, resting well up on shore. We all sit, below decks, eating cereal and watching cartoons, ducking our heads up occasionally and monitoring the skies and seas, patiently waiting for the hurricane’s arrival. We are all tense, but there is also a bit of electricity. For my part, as long as everything here holds safe and sound, I am fairly excited about the promise of the spectacle, and tentatively look forward to seeing just what Noel has to offer us.
11/4
Storm blew through. Didn’t quite reach the predicted gusts of 90 with sustained 75, but close enough; sustained winds of about 65 knots. Hardly any damage done to the ship, just some paint rubbed off, but lots of damage done to the dock here. Wave surge took out a large portion of the planks and 6x6 solid cross-spars at the near edge, including bits of the cement driveway. When it was blowing its hardest, waves were crashing up through the dock. The storm’s aftermath left pilings, covered in tires we had lashed on yesterday as protection, ripped off of the dock, victims of our 300 ton steel ship grinding against them. The tires protected us, but the massive wooden spars were not so fortunate, many now floating in the harbor like corpses.
The other ships in the harbor appear to be secure as well. One ship is gone; they had to motor away in the middle of the night because they dragged their anchor and were blown into the rocks. But this came as no surprise to us, as this ship is always so notoriously poorly anchored (a sure sign of lame seamanship). We were confident they would drag last night. The thing drags when someone at the far side of the harbor coughs too much.
We are all tired. None of us slept much, just a few winks. We were all on edge, ready to pop out of our racks the instant trouble came. We were called twice to adjust dock lines, and reapply broken or worn fenders and chafe gear, but thankfully no emergencies. It did get to a point though where, if it had worsened any, Captain would have had us abandon the scene altogether.
Today it is calm and sunny, and the tropical storm has left behind some warm air. The dark steely ceiling has been replaced by a dome of blue, spotted here and there with white cotton puffs.
11/5
Work today was mostly repairing the damage done and refitting what was damaged or lost. Another bit of weather is supposed to make its way here late tomorrow or sometime Wednesday. Terrific
11/6
Gale is here. It had been working its way in all day. I was aloft when it started blowing, and I came down, frozen to the bone. I was not outfitted for cold, overcast, and windy, and when you are 50 feet up, the wind blows quite a bit harder.
I had my first curling lesson tonight. In short, it’s an absolute blast, totally a social game, but enough physical exertion to keep you energized. I went with Maggie, the ship’s purser, and Kjetl, (pronounced kind of like Shyetle, but we all call him Shackle because it’s easier and he doesn’t laugh at us), the other deckhand here for the winter (also, he’s from Norway). More on curling to come.
11/7
One of our main priorities before winter really kicks in here is to get the topmasts painted. The primer we’re using is an aluminum paint that, when it dries, becomes solid metal. The fumes are remarkable. My eyes crossed a bit when I cracked open the can. So I donned a breathing mask, and set up for the project, looking a bit like Darth Vader’s other-other long lost child. I felt pretty bad-ass when I caught sight of my reflection in a porthole, but then I sneezed. Life.
Yesterday, though the skies were blue and the weather was warm, we could see the front edge of the approaching hurricane Noel, a milky, thin layer of clouds sliding up from the south. This morning the skies are dark and squally. The weather service is predicting sustained winds of 75 knots, gusts up to 90.
The past two days we have spent working to button down the ship and dock in anticipation of the storm. Dock lines have been reinforced, sheds have been hammered shut, and the small boats have been pulled out, resting well up on shore. We all sit, below decks, eating cereal and watching cartoons, ducking our heads up occasionally and monitoring the skies and seas, patiently waiting for the hurricane’s arrival. We are all tense, but there is also a bit of electricity. For my part, as long as everything here holds safe and sound, I am fairly excited about the promise of the spectacle, and tentatively look forward to seeing just what Noel has to offer us.
11/4
Storm blew through. Didn’t quite reach the predicted gusts of 90 with sustained 75, but close enough; sustained winds of about 65 knots. Hardly any damage done to the ship, just some paint rubbed off, but lots of damage done to the dock here. Wave surge took out a large portion of the planks and 6x6 solid cross-spars at the near edge, including bits of the cement driveway. When it was blowing its hardest, waves were crashing up through the dock. The storm’s aftermath left pilings, covered in tires we had lashed on yesterday as protection, ripped off of the dock, victims of our 300 ton steel ship grinding against them. The tires protected us, but the massive wooden spars were not so fortunate, many now floating in the harbor like corpses.
The other ships in the harbor appear to be secure as well. One ship is gone; they had to motor away in the middle of the night because they dragged their anchor and were blown into the rocks. But this came as no surprise to us, as this ship is always so notoriously poorly anchored (a sure sign of lame seamanship). We were confident they would drag last night. The thing drags when someone at the far side of the harbor coughs too much.
We are all tired. None of us slept much, just a few winks. We were all on edge, ready to pop out of our racks the instant trouble came. We were called twice to adjust dock lines, and reapply broken or worn fenders and chafe gear, but thankfully no emergencies. It did get to a point though where, if it had worsened any, Captain would have had us abandon the scene altogether.
Today it is calm and sunny, and the tropical storm has left behind some warm air. The dark steely ceiling has been replaced by a dome of blue, spotted here and there with white cotton puffs.
11/5
Work today was mostly repairing the damage done and refitting what was damaged or lost. Another bit of weather is supposed to make its way here late tomorrow or sometime Wednesday. Terrific
11/6
Gale is here. It had been working its way in all day. I was aloft when it started blowing, and I came down, frozen to the bone. I was not outfitted for cold, overcast, and windy, and when you are 50 feet up, the wind blows quite a bit harder.
I had my first curling lesson tonight. In short, it’s an absolute blast, totally a social game, but enough physical exertion to keep you energized. I went with Maggie, the ship’s purser, and Kjetl, (pronounced kind of like Shyetle, but we all call him Shackle because it’s easier and he doesn’t laugh at us), the other deckhand here for the winter (also, he’s from Norway). More on curling to come.
11/7
One of our main priorities before winter really kicks in here is to get the topmasts painted. The primer we’re using is an aluminum paint that, when it dries, becomes solid metal. The fumes are remarkable. My eyes crossed a bit when I cracked open the can. So I donned a breathing mask, and set up for the project, looking a bit like Darth Vader’s other-other long lost child. I felt pretty bad-ass when I caught sight of my reflection in a porthole, but then I sneezed. Life.
October 27, 2007
Those pictures I promised, plus a video.
Life has been good so far. Lots of hard work. We turn-to at eight every morning, and end the day at five.
I love the sarcasm in this warning. This attitude of "please don't be an idiot" is a good example of the unassuming air and common sense inherent here in the maritimes. This would never pass in the states. Some bloated tourist with big-ass sunglasses would probably shrill, "we get a REWARD?" and then run into the water only to be smashed on the rocks and the subject of 1000 different law suits and 12 hours of Nancy Grace bellowing, "I don't care if they were just sitting there, someone should do something about those giant rocks! They do not deserve to be alive! They've clearly shown that!"
Also, here is video of just how windy it was that day. A pretty view of the coastline.
That's it for now. Not too much adventuring to do at present, but living the hardworking sailor life nonetheless.
Until next time.
One of the major perks of Canadian citizenship has got to be the socialized medicine. Well, though I am not a citizen here, I have enjoyed this perk. I threw my back out this summer and have been pushing through it ever since. One of my former shipmates, who is staying here in Lunenburg with us, works as physiotherapist in Bridgewater, a town just a few minutes away. Last week I cooked a delicious dinner of seared tuna steaks rubbed with chili and lime, served with wild rice, and in return asked only for her professional help on my aching back. She obliged.
She stretched and contorted my back, pushing on each vertebrae. "Does this hurt? How about now?"
My answers went like this: "no, no, no, no-YES-a little, no, no," etc. From there she had me lay down on the floor and administered my first session of acupuncture. It was weird. It didn't hurt, but when I moved, and one of my back muscles contracted, I could definitely feel the needles going down my spine. Weirder still was when she ran her fingers up and down the row of needles. It felt like someone was playing an upright bass that had been built with its strings embedded in my back. But, after fifteen minutes of this, the needles came out, and my back felt brand new. It still gets sore after the work day, but that is the just muscles -- a welcome change.
So, I promised pictures of Nova Scotia after blubbering about how nice it is here. Well, here they are. This first few are of the surrounding Lunenburg Harbo(u)r, basically what I look at every day.
This one is of the Dory Shop owned by Picton Castle. They make wooden dory's, modeled after the traditional fishing boats and other small watercraft by hand here.
The following are pictures of the town of Lunenburg, taken from aloft on the Picton Castle. A pretty picturesque town, I think. Can't wait to see it after the first snow, which will probably be sooner than later.
These next pictures were taken at Peggy's Cove, one of the more famous locations in the southern coast of Nova Scotia, about 45 minutes from Lunenburg. It was a windy, blustery, fantastic day.
I love the sarcasm in this warning. This attitude of "please don't be an idiot" is a good example of the unassuming air and common sense inherent here in the maritimes. This would never pass in the states. Some bloated tourist with big-ass sunglasses would probably shrill, "we get a REWARD?" and then run into the water only to be smashed on the rocks and the subject of 1000 different law suits and 12 hours of Nancy Grace bellowing, "I don't care if they were just sitting there, someone should do something about those giant rocks! They do not deserve to be alive! They've clearly shown that!"Also, here is video of just how windy it was that day. A pretty view of the coastline.
That's it for now. Not too much adventuring to do at present, but living the hardworking sailor life nonetheless.
Until next time.
October 20, 2007
Getting Back To It
10/10
On the road to Lunenburg, finally. I was three weeks between ships, and though the time was rich, I am poor. At least, poor-ER. With my ship-work winding back into action, so does this blog, and here I find myself knee deep already in my voyage back to voyaging.
As it was, I didn’t have enough money for a plane-ride to Nova Scotia, so I emptied my bank account and bought a Greyhound ticket. $73 to Montreal. That got me about half way. I didn’t really have enough for the rest, so I did some odd jobs and got some help from generous benefactors more commonly known as “parents,” and will not have to walk after all. Even still, I do not look forward to traveling to Nova Scotia in a bus.
My trip started, conveniently enough, where I was: Kansas City. Unfortunately, our bus arrived an hour behind schedule, and by our departure was an additional 12 minutes late. Our driver, however, more than made up for the delay. Not from keen driving, though. We arrived in St. Louis down another ten minutes.
Our bus driver was a commanding, middle-aged black woman named Annie. This is what she said to us as we embarked on our great Greyhound adventure:
“Ladies and gentlemen we do have some rules and regulation on this coach. first off, do not leave your bag on the seat next to you. I don’t care if nobody is sitting there; that is not your seat. If you would like to buy that seat, then I would be happy to take your money for the fare. I am all about increasing revenue for Greyhound.
Second, this is a non-smoking coach. No smoking on the coach, no smoking on the coach, no smoking on the coach.
Third, there will be no shout-outs. If you need to talk to me, then you may politely make your way to the front and I will politely answer you question.
These are the rules and reguluations. If you do not choose to follow these rules, then you choose to walk.
Also, I have one more announcement, ladies and gentlemen. We are currently 72 minutes behind schedule. Now I cannot promise that we will make up those 72 minutes, but what I can promise you, ladies and gentlemen, is that I will get you to St. Louis safely, OK? Have a nice day and thank you for going Greyhound.”
Scattered throughout the bus came timid cadences of, “you’re welcome,” from a few faint-hearted passengers.
Sitting across the aisle from me was one of the more interesting of my travel companions, a woman, early 60’s, in a motorized wheelchair, her left leg elevated.
“I shattered m’ kneecap,” she wheezed with a voice that was both smoky and cartoonishly high-pitched. “They started surgery here, but I’m headed out to Columbia where they got better doctors.”
She patted her swollen knee. “The wound’s still open. You can see all the hardware and stuff in there. All the tendons and stuff. It’s wide open.” She beamed with pride. I wrapped up my sandwich and put my lunch back in my bag.
“Only another ninety miles to go,” I said, trying to sound encouraging.
She told me a lot of things. Besides the knee bit, most of it I was glad to know.
She had won tickets to Super Bowl 27, sat in the lower level, and got to meet Mike Ditka.
Her mother was dying of cancer.
Her daughter was hooked on meth, and her grandson had been taken by the state.
This was the first of the two conversations I had during the three-day bus trip.
MY TIME ASHORE
It is good to be headed back to ship work, but my three weeks away was a very rich time.
Reunions with some of my favorite people in the world, weddings, and dancing at those weddings were the most fun, but perhaps the most important time was not a reunion or a wedding, but at a funeral, saying goodbye.
My friend Spencer died on Friday, September 28th. I was blessed with a chance to see him Thursday night. Spencer had been battling cancer for five years. Maybe even six. It’s hard to imagine it had been that long. He had had it for as long as I had known him.
He went through cycles of treatment, prayers, and remission. We went through it with him – at least, as best we could.
We sat there, that Thursday night, in the Green family living room; Spencer asleep in a hospital bed, his family and a few friends sitting around him. When he woke up we told him our names, and said we loved him, and sent love from others who couldn’t make it.
That night, saying “I love you” to a friend in his last few hours, I got a glimpse of God – the most crystal clear glimpse I’ve ever seen. Spencer’s family, his mother, father, and little brother, ministered to those of us there to visit our friend.His father and brother were telling stories and making us laugh, and his mother was offering us snacks, and asking us about what we were doing with our lives, and we all shared.
They were experiencing possibly the most painful thing they will ever face, and yet they were hopeful, and they were sharing their hope. They told us of something Spencer had said to them that afternoon, some of the last words he ever said.
He told his family, “I love you.” He told them each that he loved them. Then he asked them why they were crying. He knew he had nothing to fear in death. “I love you, and I love the Lord.” Then he added, “We all love the Lord.” He knew that he lived a life as fully as possible. He knew that he had lived out his faith. He knew that whatever the afterlife was, he could face it with unblemished confidence.
He lived and died with hope, delivered it to his family, and they in turn, through red eyes and broken voices, delivered it to us. It was beautiful. It was God.
Spencer’s funeral was perfect. I have never heard so much laughter at one before. It was a profound and intense celebration of a profound and intense life.
A rich time indeed.
10/11
5:00 P.M.
Just passed through Kingston, Ontario. I have been on the road now for nearly 30 hours. The first leg of the trip, despite being behind schedule, was full of promise; I had two seats all to myself, meaning I could lounge with my legs stretched out athwart-ships. This is key to surviving a long bus trip. However, the luxury was not built to last.
The first five hours notwithstanding, I have spent the entire trip imprisoned in these contemptible torture racks, these iron-maidens in sheep’s clothing, unfit for human use outside Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo, or some other place that rich liberals and college students pretend to care about when their reminded of it. I think that the only conceivable explanation for such shoddy (I’d like to buy a vowel and two T’s, Pat) bus seats is that they must be cast-offs from some ill-conceived chapter of the Lord of the Rings movies. I will send out a petition, and the rich liberals and college students will no doubt be enraged for a time – maybe even as long as until The Daily Show comes on.
The two hour leg from London, Ontario, to Toronto looked good for a bit, until my lounge was halved by a young Canadian man who turned out to be my second and last conversation of the bus-ride to Nova Scotia. He was a friendly sort of guy; a professional cook, had gone to culinary school, hated working at franchised restaurants, loved Led Zepplin, and was hungover. A nice guy, but he took up my leg room, and he hated football. A person can only stand so much.
So, I remained captive to my single seat, my knees jammed in the metal seatback ahead of me. When I wanted to move my legs I had to hit the side of my thigh with my fist several times in order to dislodge myself from this cruel compartment.
The countryside makes up for it, though.
As we head east, the scenery is simple but a pleasure nonetheless. The fall season is in full bloom here, and the bold colors of the trees are interrupted only by wide golden fields punctuated with a single barn, silo, or farmhouse. To our right we can catch an occasional glimpse of the Lake Ontario.
10/12
In New Brunswick now. Two and a half hours from Halifax. My friend Maggie, the purser of the Picton Castle, is meeting me there to take me the rest of the way to Lunenburg. I am excited.
I can’t wait to see my friends. The land is beautiful. The hills and valleys roll by, blanketed in a forest that’s exploding with autumn. Two and a half hours! What is two and a half hours? I’ve been traveling now for more than two and a half days! Though, right now, they feel about equal.
10/20
Finished with the first week of work. It has been varied, with no workday offering a repeat task. We’ve done everything from moving furniture, to replacing seams in the deck, to being filmed working and answering questions for a Japanese travel show. Eventually, though, I think we will settle into a nice maintenance routine. I’ve spent probably 3/4ths of my evenings at a local pub called the Grand Banker with crewmates, enjoying pints, laughing, and watching rugby. Invariably, at the end of the work day, someone wants to go, so we all end up going along to keep the person company. It’s not gotten old yet, though. Good company tends to stave off tedium as well as anything, I’ve found.
Fall has been nice so far, with some days warm, and some colder, but in all, this is beautiful country and beautiful coastline. Pictures coming soon, I promise.
On the road to Lunenburg, finally. I was three weeks between ships, and though the time was rich, I am poor. At least, poor-ER. With my ship-work winding back into action, so does this blog, and here I find myself knee deep already in my voyage back to voyaging.
As it was, I didn’t have enough money for a plane-ride to Nova Scotia, so I emptied my bank account and bought a Greyhound ticket. $73 to Montreal. That got me about half way. I didn’t really have enough for the rest, so I did some odd jobs and got some help from generous benefactors more commonly known as “parents,” and will not have to walk after all. Even still, I do not look forward to traveling to Nova Scotia in a bus.
My trip started, conveniently enough, where I was: Kansas City. Unfortunately, our bus arrived an hour behind schedule, and by our departure was an additional 12 minutes late. Our driver, however, more than made up for the delay. Not from keen driving, though. We arrived in St. Louis down another ten minutes.
Our bus driver was a commanding, middle-aged black woman named Annie. This is what she said to us as we embarked on our great Greyhound adventure:
“Ladies and gentlemen we do have some rules and regulation on this coach. first off, do not leave your bag on the seat next to you. I don’t care if nobody is sitting there; that is not your seat. If you would like to buy that seat, then I would be happy to take your money for the fare. I am all about increasing revenue for Greyhound.
Second, this is a non-smoking coach. No smoking on the coach, no smoking on the coach, no smoking on the coach.
Third, there will be no shout-outs. If you need to talk to me, then you may politely make your way to the front and I will politely answer you question.
These are the rules and reguluations. If you do not choose to follow these rules, then you choose to walk.
Also, I have one more announcement, ladies and gentlemen. We are currently 72 minutes behind schedule. Now I cannot promise that we will make up those 72 minutes, but what I can promise you, ladies and gentlemen, is that I will get you to St. Louis safely, OK? Have a nice day and thank you for going Greyhound.”
Scattered throughout the bus came timid cadences of, “you’re welcome,” from a few faint-hearted passengers.
Sitting across the aisle from me was one of the more interesting of my travel companions, a woman, early 60’s, in a motorized wheelchair, her left leg elevated.
“I shattered m’ kneecap,” she wheezed with a voice that was both smoky and cartoonishly high-pitched. “They started surgery here, but I’m headed out to Columbia where they got better doctors.”
She patted her swollen knee. “The wound’s still open. You can see all the hardware and stuff in there. All the tendons and stuff. It’s wide open.” She beamed with pride. I wrapped up my sandwich and put my lunch back in my bag.
“Only another ninety miles to go,” I said, trying to sound encouraging.
She told me a lot of things. Besides the knee bit, most of it I was glad to know.
She had won tickets to Super Bowl 27, sat in the lower level, and got to meet Mike Ditka.
Her mother was dying of cancer.
Her daughter was hooked on meth, and her grandson had been taken by the state.
This was the first of the two conversations I had during the three-day bus trip.
MY TIME ASHORE
It is good to be headed back to ship work, but my three weeks away was a very rich time.
Reunions with some of my favorite people in the world, weddings, and dancing at those weddings were the most fun, but perhaps the most important time was not a reunion or a wedding, but at a funeral, saying goodbye.
My friend Spencer died on Friday, September 28th. I was blessed with a chance to see him Thursday night. Spencer had been battling cancer for five years. Maybe even six. It’s hard to imagine it had been that long. He had had it for as long as I had known him.
He went through cycles of treatment, prayers, and remission. We went through it with him – at least, as best we could.
We sat there, that Thursday night, in the Green family living room; Spencer asleep in a hospital bed, his family and a few friends sitting around him. When he woke up we told him our names, and said we loved him, and sent love from others who couldn’t make it.
That night, saying “I love you” to a friend in his last few hours, I got a glimpse of God – the most crystal clear glimpse I’ve ever seen. Spencer’s family, his mother, father, and little brother, ministered to those of us there to visit our friend.His father and brother were telling stories and making us laugh, and his mother was offering us snacks, and asking us about what we were doing with our lives, and we all shared.
They were experiencing possibly the most painful thing they will ever face, and yet they were hopeful, and they were sharing their hope. They told us of something Spencer had said to them that afternoon, some of the last words he ever said.
He told his family, “I love you.” He told them each that he loved them. Then he asked them why they were crying. He knew he had nothing to fear in death. “I love you, and I love the Lord.” Then he added, “We all love the Lord.” He knew that he lived a life as fully as possible. He knew that he had lived out his faith. He knew that whatever the afterlife was, he could face it with unblemished confidence.
He lived and died with hope, delivered it to his family, and they in turn, through red eyes and broken voices, delivered it to us. It was beautiful. It was God.
Spencer’s funeral was perfect. I have never heard so much laughter at one before. It was a profound and intense celebration of a profound and intense life.
A rich time indeed.
10/11
5:00 P.M.
Just passed through Kingston, Ontario. I have been on the road now for nearly 30 hours. The first leg of the trip, despite being behind schedule, was full of promise; I had two seats all to myself, meaning I could lounge with my legs stretched out athwart-ships. This is key to surviving a long bus trip. However, the luxury was not built to last.
The first five hours notwithstanding, I have spent the entire trip imprisoned in these contemptible torture racks, these iron-maidens in sheep’s clothing, unfit for human use outside Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo, or some other place that rich liberals and college students pretend to care about when their reminded of it. I think that the only conceivable explanation for such shoddy (I’d like to buy a vowel and two T’s, Pat) bus seats is that they must be cast-offs from some ill-conceived chapter of the Lord of the Rings movies. I will send out a petition, and the rich liberals and college students will no doubt be enraged for a time – maybe even as long as until The Daily Show comes on.
The two hour leg from London, Ontario, to Toronto looked good for a bit, until my lounge was halved by a young Canadian man who turned out to be my second and last conversation of the bus-ride to Nova Scotia. He was a friendly sort of guy; a professional cook, had gone to culinary school, hated working at franchised restaurants, loved Led Zepplin, and was hungover. A nice guy, but he took up my leg room, and he hated football. A person can only stand so much.
So, I remained captive to my single seat, my knees jammed in the metal seatback ahead of me. When I wanted to move my legs I had to hit the side of my thigh with my fist several times in order to dislodge myself from this cruel compartment.
The countryside makes up for it, though.
As we head east, the scenery is simple but a pleasure nonetheless. The fall season is in full bloom here, and the bold colors of the trees are interrupted only by wide golden fields punctuated with a single barn, silo, or farmhouse. To our right we can catch an occasional glimpse of the Lake Ontario.
10/12
In New Brunswick now. Two and a half hours from Halifax. My friend Maggie, the purser of the Picton Castle, is meeting me there to take me the rest of the way to Lunenburg. I am excited.
I can’t wait to see my friends. The land is beautiful. The hills and valleys roll by, blanketed in a forest that’s exploding with autumn. Two and a half hours! What is two and a half hours? I’ve been traveling now for more than two and a half days! Though, right now, they feel about equal.
10/20
Finished with the first week of work. It has been varied, with no workday offering a repeat task. We’ve done everything from moving furniture, to replacing seams in the deck, to being filmed working and answering questions for a Japanese travel show. Eventually, though, I think we will settle into a nice maintenance routine. I’ve spent probably 3/4ths of my evenings at a local pub called the Grand Banker with crewmates, enjoying pints, laughing, and watching rugby. Invariably, at the end of the work day, someone wants to go, so we all end up going along to keep the person company. It’s not gotten old yet, though. Good company tends to stave off tedium as well as anything, I’ve found.
Fall has been nice so far, with some days warm, and some colder, but in all, this is beautiful country and beautiful coastline. Pictures coming soon, I promise.
September 13, 2007
Soul Selling? Not me! Probably! I Bet... I mean, It's Doubtful!
9/13
My time on the Harvey Gamage is coming to a close, and I am feeling the same feeling of reluctance to leave that I felt this May as my departure from the Picton Castle approached. The new crew is here, the ship is in the best shape she’s been for a long time, and all this plus the talk of the fall itinerary in the Caribbean make me sad to go.
But, just as it was this summer, I am excited about where I am going. I have not been able to escape this problem of loving where I am and loving where I am headed. It’s a terrible burden I bear, but if it is my lot, then I suppose I must accept it.
There is a big fancy motor yacht hauled out in the shipyard and we have gotten to know the crew a bit, and they are all good guys. We’ve gone out to some of the local Boothbay pubs and shared seafaring stories, and they buy most of the rounds because they get paid actual money, and then they offer us jobs and we squirm a bit because we know we are too young to sell our souls. It’s a nice motor yacht, and the crew is cool, but man… there’s nothing to climb up! There’s no tar! There are no sails! I think I would feel a bit nauseous every time I looked up from waxing the fancy teak decks and mixing mojitos to see a boat cruise past under sail with a tan and happy crew hauling on lines and getting rope burns and being screamed at by the captain and having their clothes ruined, and I would sit there in my khakis and white polo and feel sad inside. No, it will never happen. Unless I get into debt. Then, maybe.
My time on the Harvey Gamage is coming to a close, and I am feeling the same feeling of reluctance to leave that I felt this May as my departure from the Picton Castle approached. The new crew is here, the ship is in the best shape she’s been for a long time, and all this plus the talk of the fall itinerary in the Caribbean make me sad to go.
But, just as it was this summer, I am excited about where I am going. I have not been able to escape this problem of loving where I am and loving where I am headed. It’s a terrible burden I bear, but if it is my lot, then I suppose I must accept it.
There is a big fancy motor yacht hauled out in the shipyard and we have gotten to know the crew a bit, and they are all good guys. We’ve gone out to some of the local Boothbay pubs and shared seafaring stories, and they buy most of the rounds because they get paid actual money, and then they offer us jobs and we squirm a bit because we know we are too young to sell our souls. It’s a nice motor yacht, and the crew is cool, but man… there’s nothing to climb up! There’s no tar! There are no sails! I think I would feel a bit nauseous every time I looked up from waxing the fancy teak decks and mixing mojitos to see a boat cruise past under sail with a tan and happy crew hauling on lines and getting rope burns and being screamed at by the captain and having their clothes ruined, and I would sit there in my khakis and white polo and feel sad inside. No, it will never happen. Unless I get into debt. Then, maybe.
September 8, 2007
Yard Time
9/8
Times have slowed down a lot with the summer season’s end. I missed the last trip, a four day scoot from New London, CT, up to Boothbay Harbor, ME, to be in Phoenix for the wedding of Mr. Kyle St. John, my best friend since the second grade.
From there it was back up to Maine to reconnect with the Gamage and get my hands dirty in the shipyard. Currently she is hauled out of the water and “on the hard” so to speak, as the yard crew have been working diligently to patch up seams and replace some rotting planks in the hull. The sweet joys of wooden vessels.
Times have slowed down a lot with the summer season’s end. I missed the last trip, a four day scoot from New London, CT, up to Boothbay Harbor, ME, to be in Phoenix for the wedding of Mr. Kyle St. John, my best friend since the second grade.
From there it was back up to Maine to reconnect with the Gamage and get my hands dirty in the shipyard. Currently she is hauled out of the water and “on the hard” so to speak, as the yard crew have been working diligently to patch up seams and replace some rotting planks in the hull. The sweet joys of wooden vessels.
Harvey Gamage "on the hard"
The atmosphere has been pointedly industrious, yet a relaxed mood keeps the days fun.As much of Gamage’s crew have moved on to other endeavors, I have found myself as senior crew member onboard and responsible for directing the workday under the captain’s orders. This new challenge makes the workdays all the more satisfying. I love looking at the ship at the end of the day and seeing how much we got done, and much happier she is for it. I am supremely proud of the work we have been doing on Gamage. We have been working hard all summer to keep her in shape, and now we get to do all the big projects we haven’t had time yet to do. We’ve varnished the main boom, painted EVERYTHING (not kidding), spliced eyes in wire rope for new headstays, replaced old turnbuckles, fixed broken hatches, chipped rust, rolled oakum for the seams, and tarred our thirsty rig from top to bottom.
Freshly varnished main boom
Wire eye-splice for a new head-stay
The rig: tarred and happy
My palette
It’s amazing how much difference new paint or fresh varnish can do for a ship. Our bowsprit iron was afflicted with an embarrassing amount of rust, but a few hours of chipping and wire brushing, some osphoric acid, lead primer, and a couple coats of paint, and she is healed and sealed! And oh so pretty now, too. Sailors know that a fresh coat of paint can fix anything. As medical officer this summer, I had a student come to me after twisting his ankle. My first instinct was to crack open a quart of semi-gloss off-white, but I wised-up and opted for Tylenol and an ice-pack instead.
My glorious white bowsprit iron
My only complaint about my time here is the lack local establishments with NFL satellite TV subscriptions. There are none. So instead I will be forced to listen to Chief’s games online at the KCFX website. I want to WATCH them go 5-11, dadgummit!
Though I'm afraid I am mistaken. I do have more than one complaint. There's always the issue of the curious tourist. It can get irritating answering the same list of questions from sunglassed rubbernecks 3000 times a day. I love the interest in tall ships, and always am polite, if not at times begrudgingly so, but I can only feign a good-natured smile in response to "Ahoy mateys!" so many damned times. One imposing old woman even asked me to pose for a series of pictures, and it was only the spirit of Jesus in me that kept my middle fingers down.
Football dilemmas and lubbers notwithstanding, it has been a productive yard period thus far, and I am looking forward to more hard work, and a good rest when it’s all done. Just like the great poem Sea Fever says,
“I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.”
Thank you John Masefield.
August 17, 2007
Reunions
8/17
As the summer season with Ocean Classroom comes to a close, I find myself at a point of great personal richness. I have advanced as a sailor, I have grown closer with my shipmates and I hope the friendships last.
I have been tested as a man by the seas and the ship and by all the other facets of everyday life I find myself in.
Here we are, full circle, back in Boston, where the summer began, preparing for the final stretch of the season. This time, though, the whole Ocean Classroom fleet is together, as Gamage is rafted up alongside the Spirit of Massachusetts and the Westward. It’s not often we get to have all three ships together like this, but here we are, and we will all finish the season together.
As the summer season with Ocean Classroom comes to a close, I find myself at a point of great personal richness. I have advanced as a sailor, I have grown closer with my shipmates and I hope the friendships last.
I have been tested as a man by the seas and the ship and by all the other facets of everyday life I find myself in.
Here we are, full circle, back in Boston, where the summer began, preparing for the final stretch of the season. This time, though, the whole Ocean Classroom fleet is together, as Gamage is rafted up alongside the Spirit of Massachusetts and the Westward. It’s not often we get to have all three ships together like this, but here we are, and we will all finish the season together.
After my stint on the Gamage, I will head up to Nova Scotia and spend the next 18 to 20 months back with the Picton Castle, maintaining her through the winter and sailing her across the Atlantic, around Europe and the North Sea, down Africa, to Brazil, and back to Nova Scotia by way of the Caribbean. Someone will be giving me money to do all this, by the way, a fact that still baffles me.
The recent days have been challenging, and as is always the case, my alone time and quiet moments for meditation have been my closest allies. Perhaps the greatest challenge of the summer has been the separation from loved ones. It is extremely difficult for me, though luckily, having grown close and bonded with crewmates, I am never far from a brother or sister. Unfortunately, as is always the case, we will soon be parting ways and I will gain more friends whose company I will soon be wishing for.
So it goes.
That is why we can dream of heaven, and I can dream of having all my friends and family with me on a ship and we can all sail and have adventures together.
August 8, 2007
New York P.S.
I forgot to mention (I have no idea how) that I set foot on hallowed ground whilst trekking amid the towers and traffic flow of that venerable Gigantic Granny Smith, the Burgh of Insomnia. I saw -- and I recognized it immediately -- the firehouse that was used in the filming of one of the great archetypes of cinema: Ghostbusters. I saw it. From a quarter mile away, the very instant mine eyes laid rest on the brick-red edifice, I knew what it was.
Says I to Shayma, "Look thusly, good sister, that monument, lit from behind with the seraphic light of Olympus, be it not the same one as in the glorious and noble moving-picture from our youth, starring the gentlemen Akroyd, Ramis, Hudson, and Murray? Nay surely not; we are nary so blessed to receive such a heavenly eye-full."
She saith back, "I don't know, Ben, there's lots of firehouses in New York."
Yet, as we approached, the vision proved to be no counterfeit, mine eyeballs decievethed me not. I walked inside and waved to the firemen, and was greeted with stupefied looks. I called some friends to boast, I grinned widely, my gait gained gusto. My childhood had come 'round full circle and culminated in this one event, my Hajj. I am fully man, fully realized, fully awesome.
Says I to Shayma, "Look thusly, good sister, that monument, lit from behind with the seraphic light of Olympus, be it not the same one as in the glorious and noble moving-picture from our youth, starring the gentlemen Akroyd, Ramis, Hudson, and Murray? Nay surely not; we are nary so blessed to receive such a heavenly eye-full."
She saith back, "I don't know, Ben, there's lots of firehouses in New York."
Yet, as we approached, the vision proved to be no counterfeit, mine eyeballs decievethed me not. I walked inside and waved to the firemen, and was greeted with stupefied looks. I called some friends to boast, I grinned widely, my gait gained gusto. My childhood had come 'round full circle and culminated in this one event, my Hajj. I am fully man, fully realized, fully awesome.
August 5, 2007
Victims, Villains, and Wanderlust
8/1
Saw the Yankees. It was just about everything one could ask for in a trip to Yankee Stadium. They set the stadium record for home-runs with eight. The crowd was electric. It was about the loudest I had ever heard a crowd at a baseball game, though my background as a Royals fan is a handicap in that category. I think if I had been born in New York I would be a Yankee’s fan myself. There is something a bit magic about being in a stadium with so much tradition and energy, and seeing a team that fields half a dozen future hall-of-famers every game. But, alas, I am a Kansas City boy and hate the Yankees. Maybe even more so after today.
Views of the Stadium, and A-Rod at the bat, going for number 500. 
In the afternoon I walked to Ground Zero. It was powerful, as if the grave caverns stretched out and over the surrounding block, creating still sanctuary amid the energy so palpable throughout the rest of the city.
I was overcome with sorrow as I peered through the chain link fence and into the hole left where the towers once stood. The last time I was here was ten years ago with my family. We had bought lunch from street vendors, sat in the inter-tower pavilion and watched a big band play old standards. Now it was debris, and men in hard hats, and onlookers, still reverent after nearly six years.
What I felt more than anything else was that sorrow. Not a surprising feeling to be sure, but what followed was another, more painful type of sorrow. Where the first wave of sadness came in response to those who lost lives and loved ones in the attacks, the second came with the acknowledgement that this was small potatoes compared to attacks in the like of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Dresden, the campaign in Vietnam, to mention only the worst of those we inherit and must account for.
There is a fine line between “terrorism” and “war.” That is not a new idea. Neither is the fact that the victims and the villains each draw their own line. What troubled me is how quickly roles switch, and villains and victims exchange hats without a second thought.
Religious fanaticism is one of the most destructive, detestable, and obtuse forces on this planet. The second place entry is nationalism, and it is a photo finish. Both are diseases of the worse kind.
Across the street was the Church of St. Peter, undamaged in the blast and unofficial mission hub of the aftermath of the attacks. Workers came to the church to be ministered to mentally, spiritually, and physically, with the church feeding people, and offering the services of volunteer masseuses. Inside is a memorial to the post 9-11 ministry of the Church, which previously had simply been known for being George Washington’s home church.
The placards and signs described the efforts the parish had taken. I was struck when I learned that the church became an ecumenical worship hub in the truest sense, its worship services, prayer vigils, and Eucharist offerings being open to and attended by people of all faiths and denominations. What a beautiful image: all God’s children coming together, despite the different lenses through which they search for and view God, and, apparently, finding Him. Human beauty of the most profound type, of connection in the deepest way, of overcoming rifts so traditionally terrible and so seemingly impassable – especially when it was in the wake of violence triggered by the same rift.It was an exhausting day, but a good day. I needed it.
8/4
We’ve had good winds, finally. It had been hot and windless for the past month, with hardly a break. We had put in our time and were finally being rewarded. We made 11 kts coming into Nantucket Island yesterday. The blow is just as strong today. We have a shallow reef in our mains’l and are clipping along at seven kts.
Yesterday morning I spent three hours in Nantucket. It was plenty. What once had been a good, strong, working-class whaling hub had been systematically corrupted and robbed of anything resembling charm or spirit. As the whaling industry died out (a good thing to be sure,) the sailors and blue collar workers moved off the island and followed work elsewhere, leaving behind the wealthy ship owners to do with their private heap of rock and grasses as they saw fit, which meant creating a soulless vacuum of insular consumerism, pastel polos, and a general atmosphere of homogenous, lily-white financial exhibitionism. The ice-cream was good though.
8/5
Last night our watch underway was nearly perfect. We were on duty from midnight to 4am. Shooting stars were streaking through the black crystal skies, humpback whales were spouting and singing all around us as we clipped along in a fresh breeze, cleaving the black ocean beneath us and leaving a trail of neon phosphorescent krill behind us. All of this lit by a brilliant half-moon bright enough to read by.
I had a good conversation with Adam, the director of the Rocking the Boat program we have onboard right now. We worked ourselves up into a youth-worker fervor talking about all the intrinsic lessons tall ship sailing offers.
I think Nantucket topped me off. I am ready for a change of scenery. I miss the Caribbean. This summer, though it has been fantastic, many of our ports of call, minus Gloucester, parts of New York and Boston, and New Bedford, have seemed like places where the wealthy go to enjoy being wealthy without inconveniences like poor people. I’m tired of seeing a show made of the most meaningless of successes. I’m tired of seeing people work so hard and spend so much to insulate themselves from the rest of the world, and I am tired of feeling insulated from everything myself. I am ready to leave again, though I wish I could bring my friends with me.
Saw the Yankees. It was just about everything one could ask for in a trip to Yankee Stadium. They set the stadium record for home-runs with eight. The crowd was electric. It was about the loudest I had ever heard a crowd at a baseball game, though my background as a Royals fan is a handicap in that category. I think if I had been born in New York I would be a Yankee’s fan myself. There is something a bit magic about being in a stadium with so much tradition and energy, and seeing a team that fields half a dozen future hall-of-famers every game. But, alas, I am a Kansas City boy and hate the Yankees. Maybe even more so after today.
Views of the Stadium, and A-Rod at the bat, going for number 500. In the afternoon I walked to Ground Zero. It was powerful, as if the grave caverns stretched out and over the surrounding block, creating still sanctuary amid the energy so palpable throughout the rest of the city.
I was overcome with sorrow as I peered through the chain link fence and into the hole left where the towers once stood. The last time I was here was ten years ago with my family. We had bought lunch from street vendors, sat in the inter-tower pavilion and watched a big band play old standards. Now it was debris, and men in hard hats, and onlookers, still reverent after nearly six years.
What I felt more than anything else was that sorrow. Not a surprising feeling to be sure, but what followed was another, more painful type of sorrow. Where the first wave of sadness came in response to those who lost lives and loved ones in the attacks, the second came with the acknowledgement that this was small potatoes compared to attacks in the like of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Dresden, the campaign in Vietnam, to mention only the worst of those we inherit and must account for.
There is a fine line between “terrorism” and “war.” That is not a new idea. Neither is the fact that the victims and the villains each draw their own line. What troubled me is how quickly roles switch, and villains and victims exchange hats without a second thought.
Religious fanaticism is one of the most destructive, detestable, and obtuse forces on this planet. The second place entry is nationalism, and it is a photo finish. Both are diseases of the worse kind.
Across the street was the Church of St. Peter, undamaged in the blast and unofficial mission hub of the aftermath of the attacks. Workers came to the church to be ministered to mentally, spiritually, and physically, with the church feeding people, and offering the services of volunteer masseuses. Inside is a memorial to the post 9-11 ministry of the Church, which previously had simply been known for being George Washington’s home church.
The placards and signs described the efforts the parish had taken. I was struck when I learned that the church became an ecumenical worship hub in the truest sense, its worship services, prayer vigils, and Eucharist offerings being open to and attended by people of all faiths and denominations. What a beautiful image: all God’s children coming together, despite the different lenses through which they search for and view God, and, apparently, finding Him. Human beauty of the most profound type, of connection in the deepest way, of overcoming rifts so traditionally terrible and so seemingly impassable – especially when it was in the wake of violence triggered by the same rift.It was an exhausting day, but a good day. I needed it.
8/4
We’ve had good winds, finally. It had been hot and windless for the past month, with hardly a break. We had put in our time and were finally being rewarded. We made 11 kts coming into Nantucket Island yesterday. The blow is just as strong today. We have a shallow reef in our mains’l and are clipping along at seven kts.
Yesterday morning I spent three hours in Nantucket. It was plenty. What once had been a good, strong, working-class whaling hub had been systematically corrupted and robbed of anything resembling charm or spirit. As the whaling industry died out (a good thing to be sure,) the sailors and blue collar workers moved off the island and followed work elsewhere, leaving behind the wealthy ship owners to do with their private heap of rock and grasses as they saw fit, which meant creating a soulless vacuum of insular consumerism, pastel polos, and a general atmosphere of homogenous, lily-white financial exhibitionism. The ice-cream was good though.
8/5
Last night our watch underway was nearly perfect. We were on duty from midnight to 4am. Shooting stars were streaking through the black crystal skies, humpback whales were spouting and singing all around us as we clipped along in a fresh breeze, cleaving the black ocean beneath us and leaving a trail of neon phosphorescent krill behind us. All of this lit by a brilliant half-moon bright enough to read by.
I had a good conversation with Adam, the director of the Rocking the Boat program we have onboard right now. We worked ourselves up into a youth-worker fervor talking about all the intrinsic lessons tall ship sailing offers.
I think Nantucket topped me off. I am ready for a change of scenery. I miss the Caribbean. This summer, though it has been fantastic, many of our ports of call, minus Gloucester, parts of New York and Boston, and New Bedford, have seemed like places where the wealthy go to enjoy being wealthy without inconveniences like poor people. I’m tired of seeing a show made of the most meaningless of successes. I’m tired of seeing people work so hard and spend so much to insulate themselves from the rest of the world, and I am tired of feeling insulated from everything myself. I am ready to leave again, though I wish I could bring my friends with me.
July 31, 2007
7/31
Car alarms, sirens, helicopters, gigantic slices of pizza, I am in New York. We arrived two nights ago and dropped anchor right next to the Statue of Liberty. As the sun went down, the lights of the city behind us blinked on, and the statue was flooded in an angelic glow.
Car alarms, sirens, helicopters, gigantic slices of pizza, I am in New York. We arrived two nights ago and dropped anchor right next to the Statue of Liberty. As the sun went down, the lights of the city behind us blinked on, and the statue was flooded in an angelic glow.
I had one of those moments I so often have had in these past months and was a bit dumb-struck at the places my job takes me, and what an unbelievable blessing every day at sea has been, even the tough days.
I have the day off today, and am planning on wandering around, seeing things, watching people, and hopefully getting to a ballgame in the House that Ruth Built. I will be avoiding F.A.O. Schwartz completely. Knowing myself, I would not be able to leave without buying some Star Wars Legos and my bunk is cluttered enough as it is. Star Wars Legos are sweet, though. I'd probably buy an Optimus Prime action figure too.
Regardless of what I do, I am maintaining one firm goal for my day in New York: don’t go broke. We will see. I want to get a photo of me at Yankee Stadium where I am handing the cashier a $20 for a hot dog and then not getting any change back.
July 26, 2007
Gloucester: One of my Favorite Places
7/26
Today we are back in Martha’s Vinyard, stopped over in the afternoon to give the kids some beach time and a break from the ship. They had been onboard for three full days and done very well, but were excited nonetheless for a return to civilization (something greatly lacking onboard the ship, apparently).
Last week we got to spend the day in one of my most favorite places in the country, Gloucester, MA. It is about as soaked in schooner history and east coast maritime flavor as anywhere, yet it is without tackiness or that tourist friendly candy coating, and it is a bit off the beaten path. It has a salty history and is just as salty today.
Along the shoreline drive there are monuments that commemorate the impact the sea has had on the town.
The Gloucester Schoonerman is a memorial to all the men from Gloucester lost at sea from the town’s inception in 1623 to today.
Today we are back in Martha’s Vinyard, stopped over in the afternoon to give the kids some beach time and a break from the ship. They had been onboard for three full days and done very well, but were excited nonetheless for a return to civilization (something greatly lacking onboard the ship, apparently).
Last week we got to spend the day in one of my most favorite places in the country, Gloucester, MA. It is about as soaked in schooner history and east coast maritime flavor as anywhere, yet it is without tackiness or that tourist friendly candy coating, and it is a bit off the beaten path. It has a salty history and is just as salty today.
Along the shoreline drive there are monuments that commemorate the impact the sea has had on the town.
The Gloucester Schoonerman is a memorial to all the men from Gloucester lost at sea from the town’s inception in 1623 to today.
A bit further down the road is a monument to all the wives and families of the men lost at sea. Most of the men who lived in Gloucester were wrapped up in the fishing industry, and it was up to the wives and children to take on the role of breadwinner in the wake of each lost sailor.
Another cool thing in Gloucester is the Church of the Blessed Voyage. It is a small Catholic church and all the Virgin Mary icons are holding schooners, the traditional fishing vessel.
It is incredible how much the lives of the people in Gloucester have been wrapped up in the sea. The sea is their livelihood, their source of food, their platform for greatness, and the prime author of their tragedies. They are so holistically intertwined with the sea that not even their quest for relationship with God can escape it. As a sea-sensitive soul myself I appreciate this heartily. I have been in love with Gloucester since I came here the first time ten years ago. Glad to get back. Everyone needs to go. If I ever get married I want to have it in this church. If you notice in this last picture, the walls are lined with models of fishing vessels, schooners, and other kinds. Just like all those wrapped up in crossing waters, it is impossible for me to separate seafaring from spirituality. 
July 18, 2007
Been Gone for a While, Big Chunk to Catch Up
6/24
Today, while in New London, we had a day off. Kirk, Carrie and I took out the ship’s sailing dory, Gecko, to play in the busy waterway of the river. Gecko is about 12 feet long, has a homemade sail, and the tiller has broken off, so we steer with one hand in the water holding on to the rudder.
We were a bit of a sight. Prince William was in New London for the weekend and docked downwind of us, so we reached out our sail and skipped over to say hello. A friend of mine from the 2004 Voyage of Understanding was working on board as a deckhand, and she gave a big wave as all the other PW crew stood and stared, bewildered, at our stupid little craft.
Then the adventure started. We had to get back to the Gamage, which was directly upwind though only about 1/8th of a mile away. We left the PW on a starboard tack, across the traffic lane to nearly the other side of the harbor. We tacked across the channel three or four times, and being a vessel under sail, had right of way over all the other vessels. At one point, when cutting back across the channel towards Gamage with small fishing boats zooming past, we were caught between two gigantic incoming and outgoing ferries. We were making about one to one and-a-half knots. The ferries go 15 to 20. It was a bit disconcerting at first, but according to the rules of the road they had to yield and they did, slowing down, allowing us to amble by. We made it back after the better part of an hour at this, laughing at how ridiculous (inconvenient) we must’ve seemed to the other boaters. Being out in the channel with Gecko was like trying to go down the freeway on one roller skate.
6/29
Last week we had a group of boy scouts on board, a total blast. They took to the ship and ship-life immediately. When ashore they were a bit of a spectacle, though. They would hoot and holler at every young-ish, attractive-ish female they came across. Ridiculous. All the crew and chaperones would shake their heads and shush them, but it was no good. They were boy scouts, and were dead-set on repelling any and all women in the vicinity. Fun group, though.
During the trip we passed by Newport, RI, where ships were gathering for the tall ships festival this weekend, which will be followed by a parade. As the ships were coming in we saw Marine 1, the presidential helicopter, carrying President Bush to the festival. We continued on.
7/1
Today is my birthday. I am 24. We were in Newport, RI, for the tall ships parade. Spirit of Massachusetts came close alongside and my Uncle Bert, who was on board Spirit, bellowed, “Happy birthday, Ben!” I had been working on something on deck, and was surprised to hear his voice, as I had not seen them coming up, nor did I know he was out with them. We shouted greetings to each other across the water, and then he directed both ships in singing “happy birthday.” They veered off to get into their parade position, and I got back to work.
As all the ships were milling about in the Narragansett bay, waiting for the parade to begin, we got a glimpse of what the coast of New England might have looked like a century ago, minus the power boats and motor yachts of course.
While in the parade we passed right by the Picton Castle. I was aloft on the main mast at the time, and sent my greetings to the deck of my former home, which were received by smiling friends and returned in kind. Blue skies, Beautiful tall ships everywhere, friends and family, one of the best birthdays ever.
Pride of Baltimore II
Bluenose II, skippered by the one and only Phil Watson, onetime 1st mate of the Picton Castle.
Schooner Virginia
Barque Gloria, the flagship of Columbia
A view of the bay as it once may have been. Picton Castle is the small black barque in the center.
7/4
Yesterday we were anchored in Vineyard Haven of Martha’s Vineyard, MA. We toured the Gannon and Benjamin boatyard, one of the more renowned boatyards on the coast. We got a good glimpse of why, too. We saw a 60 foot schooner in the shop, being mostly assembled, and even though unfinished, it was one of the most beautiful looking boats I had ever seen.
We bumped into Mary Ann from the Picton Castle while on shore. They were anchored in New Bedford for the night, and she and a friend took a ferry to the island for the day. She gave me a big Nova Scotian hug and we laughed and caught up while the kids went on ahead. She said yes, she had seen me aloft at the parade and was waving, and that so and so say hi, and nobody will believe that we bumped into each other, and we must have our picture taken together as proof. She is such a fantastic lady. Not a sour bone in her body. It was good to see her.
I have never been to Martha’s Vineyard before. It is very nice. It’s a great place to be white. There is absolutely zero cultural diversity. They have mastered the art of the traditional white-American lifestyle. It looked like the set of Leave it to Beaver, or The Truman Show, or something. It was jam packed for the 4th of July.
Cheyenne, Shayma, and I went out to dinner with Cheyenne’s friend, Max, a former Ocean Classroom student and native of the island. He started working at the Gannon and Benjamin boatyard at age 11, sailed with Cheyenne on the Gamage as a high-schooler, and has been around the sea his whole life, a natural born salt.
I listened as they shared stories about old shipmates, mates and captains, about people with names like “Snark,” “Sterling,” or “Bobby Blood.” Sailor names. We ate and talked for the better part of three hours before parting ways; us back to Gamage and Max to his girlfriend.
Today we have set sail, headed out to Provincetown, being pushed by a beautiful, warm breeze.
Storms expected for tonight. 30 knot winds, 12 foot seas, a nice fresh blow. Right now we are making five knots with our main, fore, and stays’l set
Dolphins came and played after dinner, meinke and humpbacks this afternoon. We saw a family of humpbacks breach a good dozen or so times a few hundred yards off our port side. It was beautiful to see it, but almost equally fun was watching the kids ooh and ahh and squeal each time the gigantic black head would shoot up out of the water, exposing the grooves of its mammoth grey underbelly before splashing back down into the seas.
7/5
The squalls came. Cheyenne and I were on watch for the worst of it. We had sustained winds of 35 knots with gusts over 40. Pretty lumpy. We lost a lid to one of our deck boxes when the starboard rail went under water.
Most of the kids sat on the deckhouse, shivering in the stinging rain while Cheyenne and I stood on the quarterdeck, eating pb&j sandwiches, grinning.As the wind reached its highest point we struck the stays’l. I went out to get a quick stow of the sail and prevent it from flapping to shreds or dragging in the ocean. To do this I had to lean over the stays’l club (essentially a small boom) and gather up the whipping sheet of canvas. I balanced my hips against the club, hanging out over the starboard side, as waves and foam were washing over the rail and nothing separating me from the ocean besides my balance and fistful of sail.
After getting the thing under control I went back to the quarterdeck, big smile on my face and said to Chey, “that was fun.” It was one of those times where I absolutely love doing what I do. I never once felt overwhelmed or frightened, just filled with adrenaline and the thrill of working comfortably in conditions that six months prior would have scared the snot out of me.
7/7
I have moments while onboard ships. It’s hard to explain them without sounding corny or selling them short.
Yesterday evening I was lying on top of the deckhouse looking up the main mast, at the junction of timber, rope and tar; all shrouds, all lines, all canvas met at this point, the pinnacle of the rig.
I felt then as I have in other moments a brief loss of self. My worries and desires faded out and all I cared about was being on the ship and being part of the ship, and working the ship, because as I worked the ship I made her better and in turn make myself better too.
7/10
Finished with another program. We are in Maine and will spend the next three days here doing maintenance. I love Maine. Mountains of pine forests punctuated with sheer cliffs and ocean. My family is meeting me here. I am excited about getting some quality time with them. As we grow older, it’s great to see how we all can have so much fun together. Should be good times. Also, I plan on seeing Transformers. I haven’t been this excited about a movie in a long, long time.
Owl's Head Light, outside Rockland, ME.
7/14
Saw Transformers. Probably the coolest movie I have ever seen.
7/18
Humpbacks everywhere.
“We’re surrounded!” Shayma was yelling, giddy.
They were breaching and bubble feeding and playing all around us.
Bubble feeding is when the whales circle their prey from below while blowing bubbles. The circle of bubbles rises up and traps all the fish and krill and then the whales lunge upwards, mouths agape, and swallow their meals, much like an inverse bobbing-for-apples type of exercise. It’s really a rare thing to see whales bubble feeding in the wild. Luckily I got some pictures of them as they breached the surface with their gigantic mouths opened wide.
Also, some good fluke (tail) shots:
As the afternoon wore on the whales approached closer and closer, getting braver and taking curious looks at all of us. At one point there were three or four humpbacks right next to the boat. I wanted so badly to jump over the side and ride on one of their great broad backs. Some more pictures: 
Today, while in New London, we had a day off. Kirk, Carrie and I took out the ship’s sailing dory, Gecko, to play in the busy waterway of the river. Gecko is about 12 feet long, has a homemade sail, and the tiller has broken off, so we steer with one hand in the water holding on to the rudder.
We were a bit of a sight. Prince William was in New London for the weekend and docked downwind of us, so we reached out our sail and skipped over to say hello. A friend of mine from the 2004 Voyage of Understanding was working on board as a deckhand, and she gave a big wave as all the other PW crew stood and stared, bewildered, at our stupid little craft.Then the adventure started. We had to get back to the Gamage, which was directly upwind though only about 1/8th of a mile away. We left the PW on a starboard tack, across the traffic lane to nearly the other side of the harbor. We tacked across the channel three or four times, and being a vessel under sail, had right of way over all the other vessels. At one point, when cutting back across the channel towards Gamage with small fishing boats zooming past, we were caught between two gigantic incoming and outgoing ferries. We were making about one to one and-a-half knots. The ferries go 15 to 20. It was a bit disconcerting at first, but according to the rules of the road they had to yield and they did, slowing down, allowing us to amble by. We made it back after the better part of an hour at this, laughing at how ridiculous (inconvenient) we must’ve seemed to the other boaters. Being out in the channel with Gecko was like trying to go down the freeway on one roller skate.
6/29
Last week we had a group of boy scouts on board, a total blast. They took to the ship and ship-life immediately. When ashore they were a bit of a spectacle, though. They would hoot and holler at every young-ish, attractive-ish female they came across. Ridiculous. All the crew and chaperones would shake their heads and shush them, but it was no good. They were boy scouts, and were dead-set on repelling any and all women in the vicinity. Fun group, though.
During the trip we passed by Newport, RI, where ships were gathering for the tall ships festival this weekend, which will be followed by a parade. As the ships were coming in we saw Marine 1, the presidential helicopter, carrying President Bush to the festival. We continued on.
7/1
Today is my birthday. I am 24. We were in Newport, RI, for the tall ships parade. Spirit of Massachusetts came close alongside and my Uncle Bert, who was on board Spirit, bellowed, “Happy birthday, Ben!” I had been working on something on deck, and was surprised to hear his voice, as I had not seen them coming up, nor did I know he was out with them. We shouted greetings to each other across the water, and then he directed both ships in singing “happy birthday.” They veered off to get into their parade position, and I got back to work.
As all the ships were milling about in the Narragansett bay, waiting for the parade to begin, we got a glimpse of what the coast of New England might have looked like a century ago, minus the power boats and motor yachts of course.
While in the parade we passed right by the Picton Castle. I was aloft on the main mast at the time, and sent my greetings to the deck of my former home, which were received by smiling friends and returned in kind. Blue skies, Beautiful tall ships everywhere, friends and family, one of the best birthdays ever.
Pride of Baltimore IIBluenose II, skippered by the one and only Phil Watson, onetime 1st mate of the Picton Castle.Love to you Phil.
Schooner VirginiaBarque Gloria, the flagship of ColumbiaA view of the bay as it once may have been. Picton Castle is the small black barque in the center.7/4
Yesterday we were anchored in Vineyard Haven of Martha’s Vineyard, MA. We toured the Gannon and Benjamin boatyard, one of the more renowned boatyards on the coast. We got a good glimpse of why, too. We saw a 60 foot schooner in the shop, being mostly assembled, and even though unfinished, it was one of the most beautiful looking boats I had ever seen.
We bumped into Mary Ann from the Picton Castle while on shore. They were anchored in New Bedford for the night, and she and a friend took a ferry to the island for the day. She gave me a big Nova Scotian hug and we laughed and caught up while the kids went on ahead. She said yes, she had seen me aloft at the parade and was waving, and that so and so say hi, and nobody will believe that we bumped into each other, and we must have our picture taken together as proof. She is such a fantastic lady. Not a sour bone in her body. It was good to see her.
I have never been to Martha’s Vineyard before. It is very nice. It’s a great place to be white. There is absolutely zero cultural diversity. They have mastered the art of the traditional white-American lifestyle. It looked like the set of Leave it to Beaver, or The Truman Show, or something. It was jam packed for the 4th of July.
Cheyenne, Shayma, and I went out to dinner with Cheyenne’s friend, Max, a former Ocean Classroom student and native of the island. He started working at the Gannon and Benjamin boatyard at age 11, sailed with Cheyenne on the Gamage as a high-schooler, and has been around the sea his whole life, a natural born salt.
I listened as they shared stories about old shipmates, mates and captains, about people with names like “Snark,” “Sterling,” or “Bobby Blood.” Sailor names. We ate and talked for the better part of three hours before parting ways; us back to Gamage and Max to his girlfriend.
Today we have set sail, headed out to Provincetown, being pushed by a beautiful, warm breeze.
Storms expected for tonight. 30 knot winds, 12 foot seas, a nice fresh blow. Right now we are making five knots with our main, fore, and stays’l set
Dolphins came and played after dinner, meinke and humpbacks this afternoon. We saw a family of humpbacks breach a good dozen or so times a few hundred yards off our port side. It was beautiful to see it, but almost equally fun was watching the kids ooh and ahh and squeal each time the gigantic black head would shoot up out of the water, exposing the grooves of its mammoth grey underbelly before splashing back down into the seas.
7/5
The squalls came. Cheyenne and I were on watch for the worst of it. We had sustained winds of 35 knots with gusts over 40. Pretty lumpy. We lost a lid to one of our deck boxes when the starboard rail went under water.
Most of the kids sat on the deckhouse, shivering in the stinging rain while Cheyenne and I stood on the quarterdeck, eating pb&j sandwiches, grinning.As the wind reached its highest point we struck the stays’l. I went out to get a quick stow of the sail and prevent it from flapping to shreds or dragging in the ocean. To do this I had to lean over the stays’l club (essentially a small boom) and gather up the whipping sheet of canvas. I balanced my hips against the club, hanging out over the starboard side, as waves and foam were washing over the rail and nothing separating me from the ocean besides my balance and fistful of sail.
After getting the thing under control I went back to the quarterdeck, big smile on my face and said to Chey, “that was fun.” It was one of those times where I absolutely love doing what I do. I never once felt overwhelmed or frightened, just filled with adrenaline and the thrill of working comfortably in conditions that six months prior would have scared the snot out of me.
7/7
I have moments while onboard ships. It’s hard to explain them without sounding corny or selling them short.
Yesterday evening I was lying on top of the deckhouse looking up the main mast, at the junction of timber, rope and tar; all shrouds, all lines, all canvas met at this point, the pinnacle of the rig.
I felt then as I have in other moments a brief loss of self. My worries and desires faded out and all I cared about was being on the ship and being part of the ship, and working the ship, because as I worked the ship I made her better and in turn make myself better too.
7/10
Finished with another program. We are in Maine and will spend the next three days here doing maintenance. I love Maine. Mountains of pine forests punctuated with sheer cliffs and ocean. My family is meeting me here. I am excited about getting some quality time with them. As we grow older, it’s great to see how we all can have so much fun together. Should be good times. Also, I plan on seeing Transformers. I haven’t been this excited about a movie in a long, long time.
Owl's Head Light, outside Rockland, ME.7/14
Saw Transformers. Probably the coolest movie I have ever seen.
7/18
Humpbacks everywhere.
“We’re surrounded!” Shayma was yelling, giddy.
They were breaching and bubble feeding and playing all around us.
Bubble feeding is when the whales circle their prey from below while blowing bubbles. The circle of bubbles rises up and traps all the fish and krill and then the whales lunge upwards, mouths agape, and swallow their meals, much like an inverse bobbing-for-apples type of exercise. It’s really a rare thing to see whales bubble feeding in the wild. Luckily I got some pictures of them as they breached the surface with their gigantic mouths opened wide.
Also, some good fluke (tail) shots:
As the afternoon wore on the whales approached closer and closer, getting braver and taking curious looks at all of us. At one point there were three or four humpbacks right next to the boat. I wanted so badly to jump over the side and ride on one of their great broad backs. Some more pictures:
June 23, 2007
6/23
Finished with another week. The schedule has been insane. We get up at 0715 and are on deck and working, for the most part, until 2100, with at least a 90 minute anchor/dock watch interrupting the night’s sleep. I end each trip exhausted, thankful for the quiet days of maintenance at the dock.
However, in no way do I loathe the time out with the kids. It’s the exact opposite. I love it. Last week we had kids from disadvantaged backgrounds and I saw a lot of my kids from Chicago in them.
The program they were in was phenomenal. It was everything that INTRSCT would have loved to do had we had the financial connections and staffing, and it showed in the kids. I was sad to see them go because they had so much potential, and their school was clearly showing them how to grow into the best men and women they could. It’s always exciting to see kids that pliable, with that much potential, and showing them how to unlock it. Had we had them all summer, I think they would have learned some powerful and unique lessons. They sure seemed ripe for it.
Our last night of the voyage we were planning on sailing through the night, but an incoming thunderstorm, coupled with the so many of the kids’ predisposition to seasickness changed our minds pretty quickly. So instead we ducked into a cove on Fishers’ Island and were soon joined by the famous Schooner Amistad, on her way back to Mystic Seaport.
The night was nearly biblical. It started at sunset. The neon orange sun was setting behind thick, purple cumulo-nimbus thunderclouds and looked like a watercolor painting that had bled through. At twilight, the fireworks shifted from celestial to electric, with spirals and spikes of lightening coursing through the clouds. The kids cheered and hollered until we sent them below for safe shelter as the storm moved closer. The winds howled steady and we were pelted with cold bb’s of rain for the better part of two hours before it had passed overhead and left behind it a calm, cool, windless night. For a minute though, it was the kind of apocolyptic display that makes Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins drool.
In what little spurts of free time I’ve had, I’ve been reading some fantastic books. Before heading off for the Gamage in May I made a run to Borders and dropped $150 on some books I’ve wanted to read for a while but haven’t gotten around to. I started out the summer with Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, moved on to Slaughterhouse Five, by Kurt Vonnegut, and am in the middle of On the Road, by Jack Kerouac. Though my writing time has been virtually nil, my reading time has been legendary. 30-45 minutes here or there doesn’t lend itself to much of a creative process, but it’s been working out perfectly for cruising through other people’s work. And besides, they say that one of the best ways to become a better writer is to read, read, read. So at least I am learning from some of the masters of our century.
I suppose I could say the same of my sailing endeavors as well. It’s a fairly invigorating thing to be learning from the best in the things that make me catch fire with ambition and desire.
We are docked back in New London for the weekend. As soon as we finished our day’s work today the Prince William, the same from Charleston and my 2004 Voyage of Understanding, was hauling tight her dock lines at the same pier, a few hundred yards away from us. Better yet, one of my crewmates from the ’04 voyage was onboard as crew. Hopefully this weekend we can get some catch up time.
That’s it for this week. Prayers to the O’Sullivan’s, and drinks to life and loved ones all around.
Peace and Much Love,
Ben
Finished with another week. The schedule has been insane. We get up at 0715 and are on deck and working, for the most part, until 2100, with at least a 90 minute anchor/dock watch interrupting the night’s sleep. I end each trip exhausted, thankful for the quiet days of maintenance at the dock.
However, in no way do I loathe the time out with the kids. It’s the exact opposite. I love it. Last week we had kids from disadvantaged backgrounds and I saw a lot of my kids from Chicago in them.
The program they were in was phenomenal. It was everything that INTRSCT would have loved to do had we had the financial connections and staffing, and it showed in the kids. I was sad to see them go because they had so much potential, and their school was clearly showing them how to grow into the best men and women they could. It’s always exciting to see kids that pliable, with that much potential, and showing them how to unlock it. Had we had them all summer, I think they would have learned some powerful and unique lessons. They sure seemed ripe for it.
Our last night of the voyage we were planning on sailing through the night, but an incoming thunderstorm, coupled with the so many of the kids’ predisposition to seasickness changed our minds pretty quickly. So instead we ducked into a cove on Fishers’ Island and were soon joined by the famous Schooner Amistad, on her way back to Mystic Seaport.
The night was nearly biblical. It started at sunset. The neon orange sun was setting behind thick, purple cumulo-nimbus thunderclouds and looked like a watercolor painting that had bled through. At twilight, the fireworks shifted from celestial to electric, with spirals and spikes of lightening coursing through the clouds. The kids cheered and hollered until we sent them below for safe shelter as the storm moved closer. The winds howled steady and we were pelted with cold bb’s of rain for the better part of two hours before it had passed overhead and left behind it a calm, cool, windless night. For a minute though, it was the kind of apocolyptic display that makes Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins drool.
In what little spurts of free time I’ve had, I’ve been reading some fantastic books. Before heading off for the Gamage in May I made a run to Borders and dropped $150 on some books I’ve wanted to read for a while but haven’t gotten around to. I started out the summer with Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, moved on to Slaughterhouse Five, by Kurt Vonnegut, and am in the middle of On the Road, by Jack Kerouac. Though my writing time has been virtually nil, my reading time has been legendary. 30-45 minutes here or there doesn’t lend itself to much of a creative process, but it’s been working out perfectly for cruising through other people’s work. And besides, they say that one of the best ways to become a better writer is to read, read, read. So at least I am learning from some of the masters of our century.
I suppose I could say the same of my sailing endeavors as well. It’s a fairly invigorating thing to be learning from the best in the things that make me catch fire with ambition and desire.
We are docked back in New London for the weekend. As soon as we finished our day’s work today the Prince William, the same from Charleston and my 2004 Voyage of Understanding, was hauling tight her dock lines at the same pier, a few hundred yards away from us. Better yet, one of my crewmates from the ’04 voyage was onboard as crew. Hopefully this weekend we can get some catch up time.
That’s it for this week. Prayers to the O’Sullivan’s, and drinks to life and loved ones all around.
Peace and Much Love,
Ben
June 16, 2007
Mystic Grey-Water
6/12
Some good sailing. I am getting familiar with schooner life. Lots of different tricks. At times I feel like a total beginner again. Thankfully though I don’t feel that way often, but it’s still more than I would like.
We have been skipping up and down the Narragansett Bay and Block Island Sound for the past couple weeks, taking different groups around on short trips. This week we have our kids, all in middle school, for six days. I have been enjoying getting to know them. It’s especially fun to get the ones who show what a friend of mine calls “sea-sensitive souls.” You can tell as soon as they walk on board. Their eyes get wider, they look up at the rigging slack jawed, they can sense the potential for magic in the ship’s wooden beams.
Last night we anchored at Tarpaulin Cove near Martha’s Vineyard, next to a simple, attractive lighthouse. We shuttled the kids to the beach for some exploration and shell collecting, did some work in the rig, and then relaxed until they got back.
Some good sailing. I am getting familiar with schooner life. Lots of different tricks. At times I feel like a total beginner again. Thankfully though I don’t feel that way often, but it’s still more than I would like.
We have been skipping up and down the Narragansett Bay and Block Island Sound for the past couple weeks, taking different groups around on short trips. This week we have our kids, all in middle school, for six days. I have been enjoying getting to know them. It’s especially fun to get the ones who show what a friend of mine calls “sea-sensitive souls.” You can tell as soon as they walk on board. Their eyes get wider, they look up at the rigging slack jawed, they can sense the potential for magic in the ship’s wooden beams.
Last night we anchored at Tarpaulin Cove near Martha’s Vineyard, next to a simple, attractive lighthouse. We shuttled the kids to the beach for some exploration and shell collecting, did some work in the rig, and then relaxed until they got back.
When we pulled up the anchor and got underway, the front edge of a nor’easter had crept up on us and blew us fair, making our 36 nautical mile passage to Dutch Harbor, CT, in under four hours. Fast.6/13
Today has been energizing. The morning brought with it gale warnings from the weather man. We gave the kids some time hiking around Dutch Island. After some salty boat runs back to the Gamage (all were in their oilskins as waves crashed over the windward gunwale with whitecaps all around), we hauled up the hook and made our way west, still riding the nor’easterly winds, bound for the historic seaport in Mystic, CT. The main is reefed, the winds are fresh, and we are making eight knots. Occasional waves make their way over our windward rails and keep us damp. The girls squeal, the guys all yell “whoa!” and the crew just stand there, stoic, collected, salty. If the spray gets us we catch an eye of a fellow sailor and quick smiles are flashed in quiet exhilaration.
After lunch I went over the lines on the ship with some of the students. There are about 40 lines in all. The kids were sharp. Some of them got the majority of the primary lines without being prompted, and almost none needed more than one reminder of a line’s name. Right after finishing my last go around the deck, Captain called for hands to take in the mains’l preventer. My guys handled the line themselves masterfully. I was very proud. It is energizing to have a group that is on long enough to begin to plug into the ship and how she works. The baffled and overwhelmed kids that came on four days ago are beginning to look like sailors. It’s a beautiful process. I know because I am a participant myself.
6/15
We arrived in Mystic, CT, yesterday morning, coming in with the tides up the Mystic River, docked in the historic seaport next to fellow Ocean Classroom schooner, the Spirit of Massachusetts, and the Charles W. Morgan, at one point the last working whaling ship in the United States, though it’s retired now and lives here at the dock. We leave first thing tomorrow.
Today has been warm. The sun came out, the winds were gentler, and it finally feels like summer. It has been cold and overcast for the past two weeks. I think all are thankful for the break in the weather. 
Today we had a pin chase, where the kids divide into watches, a crewmember calls out a line, and the kids have to race to the pin where the line is made fast. My watch won.This group has been fantastic. I am going to sad to say goodbye, but it has been a lot of fun seeing them develop over the past few days. The difference in them even in this short time is remarkable.
I have spent the last two days working in the rigging while the kids are off in Mystic exploring the museums and terrorizing the ice cream shop. It is always a good day when your feet are planted firmly on footropes and ratlines. Our starboard topsides got a fresh coat of paint yesterday, and today I finished off the bowsprit and then tarred the head rig and fore port shrouds.
At this point, I think it’d be in line to address what is known as grey-water. The Gamage, like all ships, has a grey-water tank/bilge. The label of “grey-water” itself leads one to imagine water that is less than pure, if not downright nasty, and one would be correct in assuming as much. Basically, grey-water is this: all food scraps and water run-off from the galley goes into a big tank and sits there, fermenting and rotting. Black-water, if you’re interested, is second-hand toilet water.
Yesterday while I was sanding the bowsprit, Cheyenne, the second mate, and Carrie, a deckhand, were in Odie, the smallboat, painting the topsides. Kirk, the engineer, was tinkering with the grey-water tank pump. He was putting the finishing touches on the refurbished pump and asked Carrie and Cheyenne to tell him if it was working properly. As soon as he flipped it on Cheyenne answered with a horrified wail, “SHUT IT OFF! SHUT IT OFF!” and so on, as gallons of stagnant grey-water were discharged directly into her mouth. Her helpless wailing prompted not a sympathetic off-switching of the pump, but rather rolls of uncharitable and wild laughter from Kirk and Chief Mate Shayma, who was also witness at the scene. For my part, I was wrapped tight around the bowsprit, giggling, trying not fall in the water.
Eventually the pump was shut off – we didn’t want to swamp Odie, after all – and Cheyenne temporarily suspended her painting duty to smoke a cigarette in the hopes of killing any remnant tastes of grey-water. I’d like to think I would have been quicker to jump up and switch off the pump than Kirk or Shayma had I not been at the other end of the ship, but then again I’d also like to think I could bench press 500 lbs and outrun mustangs. Oh well. It was funny.
Another glimpse of life at sea I suppose.
June 8, 2007
Wintry Summer, James Blunt Sucks
6/8
Frustration. Not much time to write, trying to furl sail with kids on a daysail who couldn’t care less, small glories and victories on deck interspersed with a sailing brain fart (Coiling a line counterclockwise. Twice. Stupid. Ridiculous.), getting turned down for a second time by the same senior editor, both times with the basic caveat of, “I love it, the pub board voted it down despite my efforts, but keep sending in things of this caliber. Sorry.”
Frustration.
As the summer begins, so does my first professional winter. It is the first, and I am learning to handle it. It won’t be the last.
Chief Mate Shayma, and I were in the local New London area newspaper. A photographer took a picture of us while we were tuning the headrig.
Also funny, while at the Laundromat doing ship's laundry we found a Jehovah’s Witness’ tract with a picture of a man beating his wife, and the man looked uncannily like our fearless and domestically docile captain. If I had a scanner and a photo of Cap, you would be in on the joke. But for now, take my word for it, it’s funny. We all laughed a lot. Wish you could've been there and so on. Also, one of the ladies in the tract looked like Peggy Poteat, the head head of the English department at SNU, except in her picture she was in agony from being slaughtered by our loving Jehovah’s merciful angels. This particular tract followed the basic Bible tract formula: comic book + theological dogma – logic = inbred evangalism. I took it home.
On the car ride back from the Laundromat I reclined in the bags of clean laundry, reflecting on how frustrated I've been the past few days, though the cold beer and ice pressed up against my quickly numbing calf reminded me that it hasn't been that tough. I still have been learning a lot and improving as a sailor every day. Plus I have great crewmates and I get to see my Uncle Bert a lot. I just need to learn to adapt to the lack of routine, and make my own rhythm within the chaos.
At the risk of plagiarizing Donald Miller, I need to be like a good jazz musician, find the hidden melodies and harmonies, and play a song that was under the surface of the other elements. Jeez it sounds corny, but that’s what I was thinking on the car ride, and it brought me some peace of mind. Sometimes it pays to be corny. Just ask James Blunt. What a filthy wanker. Do not follow this link and read his song lyrics. You will be worse for it. Also, don’t go to his MySpace and listen to the song. Heaven may conveniently “lose” your file.
Ok, love to all, thanks for reading.
Frustration. Not much time to write, trying to furl sail with kids on a daysail who couldn’t care less, small glories and victories on deck interspersed with a sailing brain fart (Coiling a line counterclockwise. Twice. Stupid. Ridiculous.), getting turned down for a second time by the same senior editor, both times with the basic caveat of, “I love it, the pub board voted it down despite my efforts, but keep sending in things of this caliber. Sorry.”
Frustration.
As the summer begins, so does my first professional winter. It is the first, and I am learning to handle it. It won’t be the last.
Chief Mate Shayma, and I were in the local New London area newspaper. A photographer took a picture of us while we were tuning the headrig.
Also funny, while at the Laundromat doing ship's laundry we found a Jehovah’s Witness’ tract with a picture of a man beating his wife, and the man looked uncannily like our fearless and domestically docile captain. If I had a scanner and a photo of Cap, you would be in on the joke. But for now, take my word for it, it’s funny. We all laughed a lot. Wish you could've been there and so on. Also, one of the ladies in the tract looked like Peggy Poteat, the head head of the English department at SNU, except in her picture she was in agony from being slaughtered by our loving Jehovah’s merciful angels. This particular tract followed the basic Bible tract formula: comic book + theological dogma – logic = inbred evangalism. I took it home.On the car ride back from the Laundromat I reclined in the bags of clean laundry, reflecting on how frustrated I've been the past few days, though the cold beer and ice pressed up against my quickly numbing calf reminded me that it hasn't been that tough. I still have been learning a lot and improving as a sailor every day. Plus I have great crewmates and I get to see my Uncle Bert a lot. I just need to learn to adapt to the lack of routine, and make my own rhythm within the chaos.
At the risk of plagiarizing Donald Miller, I need to be like a good jazz musician, find the hidden melodies and harmonies, and play a song that was under the surface of the other elements. Jeez it sounds corny, but that’s what I was thinking on the car ride, and it brought me some peace of mind. Sometimes it pays to be corny. Just ask James Blunt. What a filthy wanker. Do not follow this link and read his song lyrics. You will be worse for it. Also, don’t go to his MySpace and listen to the song. Heaven may conveniently “lose” your file.
Ok, love to all, thanks for reading.
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