Wind and Wonder

New Location

2010-05-09T06:23:00.000-07:00

Hey there folks. I am still blogging, but my writing has moved to the ASTA Tall Ship's Challenge blog site at http://tallshipschallenge.wordpress.com/
I have joined a new ship, the U.S. Brig Niagara, as an AB. Been a blast so far.
Take care and as my good buddy says, I'll be out sailing like you should be.

2009-08-24T10:28:00.000-07:00

8/24

Have I been remiss? Have I been lazy? No. I was made bosun. The responsibilities of ship's maintenance fell to me, so there was little time for journaling little things like my thoughts and feelings, or how pretty clouds are. Instead, my notebook is full of things like rig survey notes, or line lengths, or scrape and paint the starboard veggie locker, or overhaul and reserve the starboard inner jib pennant.

Rather than stressing about prose style, or rhythm, or good word selection, I stress about deckhands taking an extra yard of our good, German, four-stranded seizing marline when they are replacing ratlines. When we bent on our sails before heading out for Gloucester at the beginning of the summer, I noticed the starboard main royal clew had a twist in it. We were a day out of Gloucester and the Captain wanted to bring Picton Castle in with all sails set, and the night before, I had a Groundhog's Day series of dreams where I was fixing the twisted clew, or asking Mike if I could fix the clew, or telling Mike that I did fix the clew, or some combination of the three.

All that to say, as bosun, priorities and interests take a dramatic shift from those of the starry-eyed, existentialist lead-seaman. My personal journal entries are much fewer, and far more terse these days, bullet points of observations, philosophical rifle shots.

Though, make no mistake, the summer has been a fulfilling and challenging one. The new position has widened my seaman's eyes and brought me a new intimacy with the ship. I take great pride in this ship, and her upkeep is the ultimate motivator, followed closely by the pursuit of more knowledge; I have lots yet to learn. The good news is, I am excited to be learning it.

As for the sailing this summer, it's been fine. Lots of tall ships events in the first half, touring the province of Nova Scotia, and seeing friends, which is a good time guaranteed. But the time between ports was less than sufficient, and while in ports the decks were open for public tours in lieu of ship's work, which I endured with gritted teeth – so much rust to chip off! But instead we're stuck monkey-shining the same thing every two or three days!

We went to P.E.I. and a few of us rented a car and saw AC/DC play a show for 88,000 people in Moncton, New Brunswick.

We sailed under the Confederation Bridge a couple times. It's 12.9 km long.

We went to the Magdalene Islands where we had a blast making friends and discovered another fantastic band.

We bent on Buddy's new main t'gallant. It's huge. Half and again as big as the old one. It has a reef band. It's huge.

We just finished waiting out Hurricane Bill here in Burgeo, on the south coast of Newfoundland. Sails were triple-gasketed and we put crazy Schwarzenegger chafe gear on all our mooring lines, but thankfully the storm didn't hit us that hard.

And now we're just a few days away from Lunenburg and the end of the summer season. Time flies when your rigging and painting, and shopping for seine twine in your dreams.

Lunenburg

2009-06-21T09:50:00.000-07:00

The glow of our homecoming, nearly a month past, has not left me. Coming into Lunenburg harbor, all sails set, light breeze astern, and the gorgeous golden afternoon sunshine, it was better than I had ever imagined it, and I'd imagined it many times. This was real. The ethereal mist of my mind's-eye was replaced with the unglamorous details of reality, making the day far more exciting than my daydreams could ever be.

The heaving line was actually in my hands, the weight of the monkey's fist pulling at my palm, and the black, oiled-pine decks were solid beneath me. My starched dress uniform chafed in my too-tight belt, my boots were rubbing my toes raw, blistering these feet which for so many months had grown accustomed to treading barefoot in the tropics. Walt Flowers' harbor tour boat came cruising past with old friends and shipmates cheering, waving and snapping pictures.

We could see the lighthouse, we could see the academy, the church steeples, the Grand Banker! And Lunenburg! It was a nifty move by captain to bring the ship alongside, warping her in around the edge of the dock, and we were home.

And the whole time, there were Mom and Dad, waving and grinning, and Mom was crying, and I waved and grinned back, but no crying from me because there was work to do. We stowed sail, secured our docklines, rigged the gangway, cleared customs, and then the flood of people, hugging and laughing, reunited after more than a year from home.

That night came the only proper way to bookend a voyage like ours: Dory Shop party. When we left Lunenburg, the aftershocks of our outbound Dory Shop party were still reverberating, with cautious anticipation of the next one, in 365 days. It did not disappoint.

Anna, our local South Shore fiddle-siren, who sent us off so well last year, played for us again, standing and stomping on a sailmaker's bench while she tore into her fiddle. Finn showed up. Stephanie showed up. I was not expecting to see either, and was elated to see both, two of my most favorite friends and shipmates and people and fellow human-being-earth-citizens ever. We Cakewalked, we put on Purple, we danced, we laughed, we met each others' families, and sometimes we just jumped up and down. And Mom and Dad were there with us until the small hours of the next morning. I've experienced cliche's in my life before, and our Lunenburg homecoming is one of them: one of the best days of my life.

After that, we had a quiet week of buttoning up the ship for some time off before our summer trips: getting ready for a safety inspection, unloading the timber, and sending down the all the sails, which we did in a record 1 hour 52 minutes, over ten minutes faster than the record set by the last crew.

As I said, the glow of our homecoming has not even begun to wane, but rather it's evolved into excitement for the coming months aboard, some tall ships festivals, old friends, downrig, and then, the great beyond, our next steps from there. There's a lot of exciting things in store for us, and we all know it.

Homeward Bound...

2009-05-13T12:23:00.000-07:00

4/12

Departed Martinique this afternoon. We came here from Dominica, where we finished strong with a big blowout at the Ruins Rock Cafe in Downtown Roseau. You can see Martinique from Dominica, so the passage was a short little day sail -- full sail of course -- and before you knew it, our hook was down in St. Pierre, Martinique.

The northern tip of Martinique

I have been here twice now, and it’s a distinctly, and pleasantly French town. At one point it was the hot culture spot in the

Caribbean -- the Paris of the West Indies, but a devastating volcanic eruption in 1902 leveled it. Ruins are scattered throughout, and a walk around town yields a glimpse of what used to be there. Tall, narrow buildings along the main roads, charred shells now, might have been general stores or cafes, but some have as many as four floors. The prison foundation still stands, which isn’t totally surprising as it was the sanctuary of the volcano’s only survivor, a prisoner locked in a cramped solitary confinement cell.

Right next door is the remaining skeleton of what was once a first class theatre. Surviving were the orchestra pit, the great staircase in the foyer, the yellow tiled fountain at the head of the staircase, and, ironically, a statue of a woman, seemingly writhing in pain, as if the sculptor realized the horrors she would weather. It’s a breathtaking place, the catastrophic scars merely heightening the wonder at what a place St. Pierre must have been, and this theatre being one of the cultural epicenters. What music must have been played there -- I imagine something like Edith Piaf fronting a classical island calypso band. I’d love to take a time machine.

These days the main attraction in St. Pierre, at least for Picton Castlers, is L’Escapade, a French cafe, and tattoo shop, run by a woman who, during the first world voyage, was so impressed by the crew’s polynesian tattoos, learned the art and open her own studio in the back of her restaurant. She works primarily in the Polynesian mode, but it’s well peppered with her own personal style, including fine lines and shading, and a distinct French flair. No one else does work like hers. Fifteen of our

crew were marked by her, and though I had hoped to get something done, she and I didn’t see eye to eye on what I wanted, so it didn’t work out. She was a bit too busy to try and adapt something from my drawings. Fine with me. There’s no point in rushing those kinds of things.

So today, Easter Sunday, we are headed north for the classic Yacht regatta in Antigua. It’s pouring rain, and we’re on a starboard tack, t’gallants set.

4/20

Antigua was great. Falmouth Bay was loaded with yachts of all sizes and rigs and insurance policies. The main focus of the week were the races. There were four, one single handed race and three crewed races. The object of coming here, besides showing off our barque, was to get our crew aboard some of the boats for the races. I participated in the Friday and Saturday races as crew of the Summer Cloud, one of the six Carriacou sloops in the race. These are the boats they’ve been making by hand on the windward side of Carriacou for many years now -- simple, seaworthy, fast, and totally unpretentious, which I guess in a way makes them a little pretentious, but who cares, it was a yacht regatta.

The view of the other Carriacou sloops. They were winning... though we caught the one with the red transom.

Stress free yacht racing was what I wanted and it’s what I got.

Stephanie, Geoff, Susie and I signed on and met the skipper, Charles, who was actually involved in the marine department of the Pirate Master production crew two years ago in Dominica. Small world. His tactician and Chief mate was a professional racer called Droopy, which is short for Andrew.

The first day went great, and we had a blast tacking back and forth, sailing around, drinking beers, eating sandwiches, and hanging out all the way to the finish line. When you have a skipper who knows his boat, and a crew who do their best, you can do these kinds of things. We didn’t win, but it was a fun day.

Charles on the tiller

Droopy

Steph and Susie catch a wave

The second day was fun too, though we were a bit slower. We rigged up a bamboo spar and went wing and wing in proper island form, with Droopy holding the spar together, and me sitting on the main boom as a preventer-weight.

Then, on another tack, the pin that holds the headstay to the stem gave out, and the whole rig fell down along with two-thirds of the mast. It was three seconds of terror, but thankfully everyone was on the windward side of the boat, and, the rig falling all to leeward, didn’t crush any of us. I jumped in the water and lashed all the dangly crap up out of the way, and we limped back under the crappy in-board motor.

My first, and hopefully my last dismasting. The rig failure was the exact same one that took out Pride of Baltimore II’s rig a few years ago. It’s a powerful lesson in keeping up with the details, because they can kill you if you don’t. At least we were all lucky enough to be able to laugh about it.

The yachts were spectacular. Big J-Boats, with sails priced around the same as an Ivy League diploma, and made out of crazy NASA fabric. The belle of the show, I thought, was Eleanora, a stunning schooner, massive, and rigged for speed without any sacrifice in opulence. I was also excited to see Juno and When and If in attendance. They’re Martha’s Vineyard schooners, built in Vineyard haven, and some of the finest looking wooden sailboats I’ve seen. Pretty quick too.

Ranger

Rebecca

Eleanora

Today we are bound for the Isles des Saintes, Guadeloupe, quiet little French islands. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve heard very good things.

4/24

These little Islands are gorgeous. A small chain of islands, just south of the big island of Guadeloupe, they are the pearl necklace of the Caribbean. Quiet, but not overly, and plenty of amenities and opportunities for relaxing, good food, wine, and a fantastic gelato shop right in town. I think the French Islands are some of my favorite. They take all the low stress charm of the Caribbean, and all the fine palated joys of French culture, and meld them into a colorful, friendly paradise.

4/30

Arrived yesterday in the British Virgin Islands. Our first stop was Virgin Gorda and the famous Baths, one of the most spectacular natural wonders I’ve ever encountered. Mammoth boulders, flung from the sea in some ancient catastrophe, landed here, arranged with such lucky precision that the result is a labyrinth of grottos and caves, lit up by the sun’s glow on the water. Some of the piles are nearly forty feet high, and the rocks all sit together as if each one is the keystone to the whole thing.

5/5

Jost Van Dyke, BVI’s, our last day here. Jost is the cool kid’s party mecca of the Caribbean, and it makes a fitting farewell to the islands for us. We’ve been here for six days, and it’s been nothing but wasted time, which is precisely why anyone comes to Jost Van Dyke in the first place.

They’ve preserved the sleepy Caribbean atmosphere of Petite Martinique or Maryeau, and imbued it with modern conveniences and services for the yacht charters and cruisers who are so common here in the Virgin Islands. The downside of this is that the beaches are usually crowded with an American Spring break atmosphere, which is tiresome at two in the afternoon, and everything is expensive. For example, a chicken roti here is $15 US. In Grenada it’s $2. A half-mile cab ride is $5 per person. You’ve got to be kidding me. I think one of the reasons the locals are so friendly here is that they are on the good side of one of the best and most prolonged practical jokes this side of papal indulgences.

I hadn’t been ashore for three minutes when some drunk, peeling-nosed yokel from a charter boat stumbled to our table and shouted at us, “Hey! Are you guys from that Pirate Ship boat? That looks like a fun boat! Are you guys pirates? OK, bye! Yarr mates! Ha ha!”

The plus side is that there’s always a party, and fun is never far. Two of the coolest beach bars in the Caribbean are here, Foxy’s and Ivan's.

Foxy’s is possibly the most famous beach bar in all the West Indies. It’s huge. Two stories, three bars, a cigar bar, and a gift shop, but it’s completely concealed from view by palm trees. They grow out of the floor, through the roofs, between the tables; the bar is ensconced in palm trees. The only hint of it from the beach are the twinkling Christmas lights and the pulse of reggae. Foxy’s gigantic black lab, Taboo, is always around, and usually at the beach with Foxy’s grandkids, acting as babysitter and towing the kids around in the water with his tail.

Ivan’s Stress Free Bar is cool on it’s own, less auspicious merits. The bar runs on an honor system, though occasionally patrons will step in and play bartender when they feel like it. Last time I was here some pot-bellied English tranny was playing barman/maid. The walls of Ivan’s are tiled with shells, a tire swing and hammock hang under the giant tamarind tree outside, and the beach is pristine and separated from the rest of White Bay.

5/6

The anchor is stowed, sails set, and we’re off northbound for Bermuda, leaving behind the quasi yachtopia that is the BVI’s and heading into the open ocean. Seamen once more. The wind is whistling over our starboard rail and the crew are reacquainting themselves with the art of dodging waves.

5/9

Continuing north, into the same latitudes of Florida. The moonshine this morning was brilliant, lighting up the ocean, the ship resting in the glow like a silent obelisk on a plain, everything gilt in soft silver against the black depths beneath and above. It made splendid scenery for our 4-8 watch as we took the deck and slid into our regular routine of poop jokes, farting, and incoherent giggle-fests, proving that the greatest pleasures in life seem so often to come packaged with irony or shame.

5/13

Arrived in Bermuda. It’s getting colder. We are all excited to move on north.

Bequia, Maryeau, Anguilla, and Dominica

2009-04-06T11:12:00.000-07:00

3/21

Yesterday Paul took another team of bushwhackers into the forest, this time in Bequia, and I got to be among them. In Grenada, the wood they brought was for the keels of two schooners to be built in Lunenburg. From Bequia, we searched out good strong pieces of hardwood for the stems. We climbed up the hill and found a white cedar tree with two big branches that were just the right shape. Paul and Joe worked the chain-saw, and after careful cutting, the branch fell safely to the forest floor, where the rest of us tackled the thing and dragged it down to the beach, returning just in time to retrieve the second branch.

The branches weren’t nearly as large as the Grenadian keels, but they were plenty big, and our efforts weren’t without healthy doses of grunts and dirty words. It was a good, hard day. I’m glad I got to participate. Once we’d brought them to the beach, the skiff came and towed them back to the ship where the on-watch hooked them up to tackles and hoisted them on to deck. Our new mammoth hunks of hardwood have been distributed around the deck and lashed down, an

d now, there’s never been so much convenient seating on the Picton Castle!

This morning, after breakfast, we said goodbye to Bequia, sailed off the hook and headed to Maryeau, a quiet little part of St. Vincent and the Grenadines. It was a beautiful day-sail. All canvas full and driving. We arrived mid-afternoon, dropped the anchor, rigged the swing rope, and launched our expedition dory, Sea Never Dry, for her inaugural sail. We painted her up in Dakar, and had been working on the rig as well, getting everything ready to go and making the sails as we could. Sara put in a lot of her spare time to stitch together the bright African cloth we brought with us from Senegal. Finally, she was complete, and off she went around the harbor, just as the sun was beginning to set. We had dinner, cleaned up, and went ashore for the local karaoke night. Money Money, Rocket Man, Alicia Keys, cold beers, good friends, good times, lots of laughs. One of the better days I’ve ever had.

3/23

Yesterday Mike designated “Sunday-Funday,” and so we gathered ourselves up and obliged him, suffering through such tortures as snorkeling in the reefs, launching ourselves off the swing-rope, sailing around the harbor in Sea Never Dry, napping under the shady trees on the beach, cold drinks, and other various tribulations and inconveniences.

After breakfast this morning, we sailed again off the hook, this time for Union Island, where we cleared out of customs and said goodbye to Joe and Queen, our shipmates and friends from Grenada. A quick lunch, and, for the second time that day, we sailed our barque off the hook, bound for Anguilla, a three-day sail away. Not many people get to be involved in a maneuver like taking a square rigger off its anchor and out to sea, using nothing but wind and sails, but we’ve done it nearly a dozen times this month already. Though that’s just first-rate Picton Castle sailing, which is really why we’re here, anyways. So we head for Anguilla and the legendary reggae festival, basking in a strange glow, either from Caribbean euphoria or sun damage, or more likely somewhere in between.

3/26

Busy morning. Snapped awake to the sound of a gunshot, followed by a deafening thunder outside. Kolin and I dove out of our bunks and jumped on deck. The flying jib was flogging in the gusting wind, violent flashes of white whipping canvas. Spenser was the lookout, the watch was still coming forward.

“Where’s the sheet?” I had to yell over the sound of the wild sail.

“It’s gone!” He yelled back, and then ran the downhaul aft. Kolin let the halyard go and we pulled on the downhaul along with Jon, Deb, and Nikki, and the sail came corralled in the headrig, thankfully undamaged. Notthe nicest way to be roused out of your bunk at 2:30 AM.

An hour later and I got my wake-up for the 4-8 watch. The wind had piped up and we were making eight knots under t’gallants. We took and stowed the fore t’gallant almost immediately, and within an hour we were stowing the main as well. We continued on towards Anguilla, but the wind freshened and came ahead, and we were forced to take in and stow all square sails, rather than sail to Haiti. We dumped the outer jib and sheeted all remaining fore-and-aft sails in as flat as possible. All hands on watch then turned to beefing up the lashings in the hold as we buckled down for the remainder of the passage, steaming into four-foot choppy seas and bracing ourselves for a bumpy ride.

3/31

We departed Anguilla yesterday. Now, bound for Dominica, close-hauled on a port tack, the helmsman steering full and by the wind, we set the royals at sun-rise this morning.

The reggae fest was fun, but otherwise, Anguilla has been the least interesting of all the islands. Donald put it best: it’s like being on a big cruise ship with sand. Everything is at least two to three times the price of things on other islands. The cab drivers are scam artists, and charge more for a five mile drive than the cabbies in Boston. It’s been recently developed by outside investors, and most of the business on the island seems to be geared towards entertaining and servicing vacationers with disposable incomes. Not exactly what a bunch of poor, dirty sailors are looking for.

But the music was good. The festival, called Moonsplash, is one of the biggest reggae festivals in the world, having previously featured icon’s like Toots and the Maytals, a fixture on the playlists at Picton Castle parties. This year the headliners were Duane Stephenson and Inner Circle, two big names in contemporary reggae. They did not disappoint, with Inner Circle playing as late as four in the morning, packing up the stage with Sunday’s first light breaking over the beach.

Dominica, one of my favorite islands, will be a fresh change.

4/4

Arrived in Roseau, Dominica April first. We have our port anchor out, and are stern-to, with mooring lines run aft and tied around a giant tree. Helping handle lines ashore were none other than Captain Greg Bailey and Mate Eric Welsh of the Spirit of Massachusetts, anchored just a short way north of us. Greg was the second mate on the Picton Castle’s fourth world voyage, and Eric is a friend of the ship, and shipmate of me and Mike. After we were all tied up and cleared in, we spent the remainder of the day catching up, and getting reacquainted with Roseau. It was good to see them again. I look forward to seeing them again in Boston and Halifax this summer, during the tall ships festivals.

It’s good to be back in Dominica. This is where I first joined the Picton Castle, and spent two months as the ship was the principal set piece of the doomed and dismal reality TV show, Pirate Master. We made a lot of friends here in that time, and it’s nice to come to a place like Dominica that is at once spectacular and unspoiled by tourism development, but also so familiar.

The Spirit of Massachusetts left the next day, after a tour aboard our ship for her students, sailing off the hook, swooping in close and firing off their signal cannon as they went by.

Yesterday we got organized and took a rowboat excursion up the Indian river, a beautiful nature preserve and filming site for Pirates of the Caribbean 2 and 3. At the end of the tour, we stoped off in a little jungle bungalow bar for a taste of what our guide called, “Dynamite-Saddam-Hussein-Explosion punch.” Dominica is an island with some of the best assortments of rum punches I’ve ever had. This one was not good. Oh well. Even a bad rum punch in the middle of the Dominican jungle after a row up a river is still a pretty good rum punch.

Jon samples the jet fuel punch as Maggie and Erin laugh. They knew it was bad.

After that we headed to a hot springs spa in the mountains and relaxed in a pool of volcanic mineral water. There’s not many better ways to spend an afternoon. Some roadside chicken and a Friday night calypso dance, and we rounded out the day in good form.

The Caribbean So Far

2009-03-18T09:49:00.000-07:00

2/23

Carnival at Carriacou. Got ashore today with Kolin and Weronika. We were anchored just outside Hillsborough, the biggest town on the island. The streets were packed with people covered in paint and mud, little clothing, dancing to the throbbing soca beat coming from the two-storey tall speakers. It was 0800. Holy crap were we in for a time here! The party in the street ended a couple hours later. I had to push my way through the crowd to get to the ATM and get some cash, but I wasn’t quite up to the level of raging that was already taking place, so I found a quiet spot on a beach and worked at my second life as a writer.

That night, as the Carnival recommenced, Donald and I sat out in front of a little rum shack sipping cold beer, talking and observing the crowd, until the sun went down and the parades started. He and Swiss Chris, our engineer, and I ate dinner at a little cafe with a balcony, and watched the parade start. Big feathery costumes, bright colors, satin angel wings, and for every beautiful girl in parade garb there were two older, mango shaped women who, though they exceeded no one in beauty, made up for it in lack of clothing and vigor. An A for effort, as they say, I guess.

And there was even a floatilla of Obama celebrators. It was remarkable. They may have been the most excited of all the paraders, though their costume was little more than pants, and Obama t-shirts. It’s been fascinating to see much of the world’s great enthusiasm for our new president. Everywhere, from England to Denmark and France, and especially in Morocco, Senegal, Cape Verde. In these places, where the language and culture barriers were strongest, a friendly outburst of “OBAMA!” was usually all it took to establish friendly relations.

Then, after the parade, came the steel drum bands. They were, without a doubt, the highlight of Carnival. Music from a skilled drum band doesn’t so much resonate as it glows. It’s a warm glow of sound -- melody and rhythm. And they played some old Culture Club, and Elvis too. Buddy and Donald and I just stood, enraptured.

2/28

My first day ashore in Grenada yesterday. We’re here for a while, but I wanted to get the tourist in me sated, so I hired a bus with WT, Bill, Sophie, Charlotte, Corey, and Sara. Larry, our driver, was a really friendly guy, and made for good company and a good guide. Our first mission of the day was waterfalls. The first waterfall was a literal tourist trap, and we didn’t stay long. The second waterfall was on private property, and required a two mile trek down muddy paths and under giant tree roots before we reached it. It was fantastic. A quick dip, and we hiked back up and got some lunch. The afternoon was spent on touring an ancient rum distillery, and then lazing on a beach on the northeast part of the Island.

This is the old water wheel at the Rivers Rum distillery. They've been making rum here the same way since 1785. It's terrible.

Then we headed to Goyave for their weekly Friday night fish-fry. On the way we stopped at a place called “Leaper’s Hill.” All the surviving indigenous Carib people threw themselves off the cliffs here, rather than face subjugation under French colonialism. The name of the town there is Sauters, which I believe is French for “jumpers.” It’s actually a very pretty view up there, despite the grisly history.

The fish fry was spectacular. I had fried red snapper, fried plantains, cold beer, rum punch, and the best fish-cakes I’ve ever had, and for only $1 EC, too. We had to leave early, since our time with Larry was up, and as we were going another steel drum band was setting up. If I lived in Grenada (which I wouldn’t mind at all) I would be here every week.

2/29

Little South African Nick always seems to be on eggshells with Kolin -- he’s right afraid of him, actually -- and today it was fun for everyone. Nick was driving Kolin crazy, in his own special way, while we were painting the bow of the ship, Susie sitting on the anchor flukes, Nick sitting on the whisker stay, Kolin in the net, and I hanging from the bobstay and painting the stem. Susie was painting away at the waterline there from the anchor flukes, and Kolin was getting as much as he could reach, alternating from paint brush to a roller on an eight foot pole. Little Nick was Kolin’s assistant, and everything he did seemed in some way to be the opposite of what Kolin wanted, and Kolin was generally pissed at him, and Nick had become a mighty rushing river of apologies.

Kolin handed Nick his paintbrush and asked for the long roller. Nick handed him up the roller.

“Sorry.” He said as Kolin took the roller.

“Sorry for what?” Kolin snapped.

“Sorry, I mean, that took--I hesitated for a second before I handed you the roller there.”

“Nick,” Kolin said as he painted, calming his exasperation. “I want you to stop saying sorry. Just erase it from your vocabulary completely. Got it?”

“Yes, Kolin,” Nick said. “Right. I will.”

“Good.” Kolin said. He handed the roller back to Nick and gestured for the brush. Nick took the roller and as he turned to reach for the brush he swung the pole and whacked poor Susie square in the skull.

“Sorry Susie!”

We all just about fell into the harbor laughing. We love that kid. He’s a good one, and one of the sweetest, if not snarkiest, guys you’ll ever meet.

3/5

Donald hosted a party at his house last night. He barbecued chicken, the calypso was loud, and we hung out with him and his family all night. The best part of this job are the friends you make who come from all around the world, so no matter where you are, you can have that feeling of home, even if just for a little while.

3/7

I got these new boxer-briefs in Cape Verde, and they are way too small for me. I wore them all day yesterday, and was in a perpetual state of almost coughing.

3/10

Petit Martinique, a small Island just north of Grenada. It’s very quiet here. I sat in a little rasta

bar all morning with Mike, Sophie, South African Nick, Buddy and Flemming, one of Captain’s friends, and a Danish master mariner, and we watched a sleepy cricket game that Nick assured us was already going to end in a draw (with six hour to go still!), and waited for the ferry that would bring fresh bread to the island. It was supposed to come at 11, but it never did. I ended up waiting there until 1:30 in the afternoon, when the local baker-woman up the road finished her first loaf. It was worth the wait. Warm, moist, and delicious, I could’ve eaten nothing but that loaf all day and been happy.

Though I didn’t have to.

Joe and Queen, shipmates and friends of ours from Grenada, were stewing fish over a fire on the beach. It was absolutely delicious, and we all ate and talked, and were joined by local kids who dug into the ample leftovers. Captain made his way down to the beach, and the kids were instantly fascinated by his tattoos -- he’s covered in Polynesian artwork, up both his arms and across his chest. The kids, ooh’d and aah’d as they followed the ink up his arm to his shoulder. “That’s all you’re getting,” he teased, and then handed out business cards with pictures of the ship to the kids.

I left the crowd and found a quiet little beach, nestled under a tree, and snoozed for a while. Then I ate my fresh bread, scribbled in my notebook for a couple hours, and sat on the beach with Buddy and watched the sun go down and the stars blink into life. I took the skiff back to the ship and Joe was on his guitar, singing Caribbean folk songs. Eric, our new doctor, added his skills with the mandolin. We laughed and sang and told stories in between; the moon was full, and the breeze was cool. I’ve had worse days.

3/15

Back at Carriacou. We had a fantastic daysail here from Petite Martinique. We’ve had to move the ship around a few times, and went on probably the shortest day sail in the ship’s history, taking it around the point to Tyrrell bay, with royals set, barely a mile away. It was fun anyway.

3/18

Arrived yesterday in Bequia. The ship has taken on a different rhythm since we’ve arrived in the Caribbean. There’s still lots of good work going on, and the ship is being babied as much as ever, but most of our time is in port, as opposed to the sea-passages we’d become used to. We had an overnight passage here from Grenada, which was a fun tease, everyone falling very easily back into the sea-watch schedule.

We had gone to Grenada from Carriacou because a few of our crew had stayed behind there to find wood for a boat-building project in Lunenburg. Paul and Matt, our two resident carpenters, took a small platoon of bushwhackers into the Grenadian jungle: Corey, Sam, Susie, Jackie, Marie, Job, and Rory. With the help of local guys, they cut down a tree, cut it into sections, each weighing 3000 lbs, and dragged them a mile-and-a-half through the jungle with block and tackles, a three-day endeavour.

The bushwhacking crew came back to the ship weary and mud-covered, but buzzing

nevertheless in the glow of their efforts. We towed the logs out to our anchorage, and then, in a very cool exercise in seamanship, we lifted the massive logs out of the water and onto our deck -- safely.

The bushwhackers were right in their ecstasy; not many people these days can claim to do what they did. It was a rare and unforgettable experience for them, and now we have a frigging tree in our port breezeway.

Paul and Job rig up the strops and tackles...The capstain crew heaves up the tree...

And now we bring it on deck.

Second Crossing

2009-02-26T11:30:00.000-08:00

1/26

We're bound for Fernando de Noronha. The wind is fresh to port, and we're flying under royals on a broad reach. We left Mindelo this morning. The island was just beginning to buzz in preparation for carnival. There were impromptu parades daily, and yesterday the parade canvassed the city from just after lunch until sundown, growing each time it passed my little cafe perch, before finally the street was filled and the parade stretched the length of the block. Most of the paraders were kids, banging drums, blowing whistles, dancing and clapping. One little boy on the edge had a toy xylophone, other older boys were dressed in broad grass skirts, and carrying staffs. Their bodies and faces were painted charcoal black, and they seemed to be in charge of the crowd. Every time they passed our cafe they would stall the parade and put on a show until we tossed coins to them, which the little kids scurried after and gathered. They would even hold up traffic and surround the car until the driver either relented his coins, or got so pissed that would cleared the roads and stood silently until the car had gone.

1/28

Today we rigged up the studding sails, huge areas of the lightest canvas stretching off our windward fore yards on booms fitted and lashed into irons. The lower stuns'l boom is an oar from the dory. Paul, our 2nd mate, put it best: "We're in a barque, cruising along, full sail, in the trades, I'm taking sun sights, we're setting stuns'ls, people are fishing on the aloha deck, the sun is shining, this sucks, I want to go home."

1/29

Alan Villiers, one of the more entertaining 20th century maritime writers, and grizzled square rigger captain besides, hated stuns'ls. He said, basically, they were an unnecessary pain in the ass, and could be eliminated with wider yards. Today we got a taste of some of his sour outlook. We were setting the topmast stuns'l when the wind caught it funny and twisted it, impaling it on one of the stuns'l booms where in the wind it continued to flog and thrash before it was soon nearly shredded.

We ran aloft and shipped the boom in as far as we could. I shuffled out on the yard arm and had to cut the sail clear so we could lower it back to deck.

Yesterday, while we were test-setting them, the topmast stuns'l yard gashed our fore upper tops'l, which we quickly sent down and bent on a replacement. Buddy is getting his work cut out for him. Even literally, I suppose.

1/30

My computer died today.

1/31

Six degrees north of the equator. Funny grins keep popping up on people's faces.

2/2

We've had luxurious sailing this whole passage so far. Buddy finished repairing the topmast stuns'l, and we reset it today. We're making about five knots, stuns'ls set, in the gentle equatorial winds. Just a couple hundred miles north of the line or so. Should be there soon.

2/5

Crossed the line. Got my shellback yesterday.

2/6

We've passed through the inter-tropical convergence zone, aka the doldrums, aka the horse latitudes, and are now back in the trades, this time from the South East. Full sail set and trimmed close hauled. The helmsman is steering by the wind.

We had to strike sail a couple times and push ahead with the main engine, but we were becalmed completely only once, and then not for very long. Our schedule dictated the motoring more than anything else. Captain says these SE trades are his favorite, some of the sweetest sailing you'll ever see. They certainly have been sweet.

A day or so out from Fernando de Noronha. Nadja will be signing off there and heading to the barque Europa, where she worked last winter, for a big voyage eastwards from Cape Horn to the Cape of Good Hope, stopping at Elephant Island, Antarctica, and South Georgia Island -- all of the great Shackleton's old haunts -- along the way. Lucky girl. We will miss her a lot. She's like a sister to me.

2/9

We left Fernando de Noronha yesterday. The customs people turned out to be twits, and they changed the way they enforce their immigration policy for the island regarding vessels in transit. We did manage to get a few hours to tour the island, which was necklaced with gorgeous beaches, and had a great big volcanic obelisk jutting up from the trees that resembled the Easter Island face carvings, as if Jim Henson had helped form it. I half expected the giant face to open up and start singing Harry Belafonte songs as we approached our anchorage, but I don't do drugs.

Our visit was cut short when the officials reneged on our clear-in, and we had to round everybody up. So it goes. Onward to the Caribbean. What are three days at one tropical island, when we're about to spend two months visiting a bunch of others anyways?

We're 2000 miles from Grenada, with the promise of fair winds and fair currents nearly the whole way.

I'm back in the 4-8 watch. Sunrises, sunsets, and deckwash every day. This morning the full moon, lit up like radioactive parmesan, set into a nest of periwinkle clouds, while behind us the sun rose and cast an golden-pink glow on everything. Another day at the office.

2/11

A busy watch this morning. Woke up to a squall pouring rain and blowing fresh and we shortened sail the instant we were on deck. I barely had on my pants before the mate sent me running aloft to stow the flogging, sodden fore royal. The squall blew itself out an hour later at first light our watch loosed and set all the sail again. A good morning.

2/16

Squally weather without much break ever since we left Fernando de Noronha.

The view from my porthole. You can see the squall on the horizon, and the beginning of a sunset just tinting the sky.

2/19

Today is my two year Picton Castle birthday. This date, 2007, I joined the ship in Dominica with no clue of what I was getting into, and even less of the notion that, two years and a few miles later, I'd still be here.

2/22

Arrived today in Carriacou, a small island just north of Grenada. Captain announced two days ago that our destination had changed, and our slight detour here allows us to get the ship shiny for our grand entrance into Grenada. As luck would have it, Carriacou just happens to be in the throes of Carnival. With plenty of work to do and Carnival, all after a spectacular passage at sea, nobody will be bored, I think.

Plus, a few beloved members of our crew depart from here. Gary, our doctor, heads back to Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Weronika heads back to school after spending her Christmas holiday with us, and Rich is off too, heading back to the States as well.

Preperations Before the Crossing

2009-01-22T05:20:00.000-08:00

1/22
It’s my last day in port before our western passage across the Atlantic and a brief but exciting dip below the equator. We’ve been in the Cape Verde Islands for about a week. No one is really doing any touring, or going on excursions though. There seems to be a national holiday here once or twice a week, and half of those are independence days, so not much is open. We’re all taking this time to relax, provision for the next month or so at sea, send our last communications, and just generally taking care of personal business. I am trying to download the season premier of LOST. I am pathetic.

The Islands here are barren, desert mountains and dunes, desolate and dramatic. They look like they might have been formed when some ancient titan kicked the dirt off his heel on a stroll from Africa to the Americas, the clods plopping here in the Atlantic. Beautiful terrain from a distance, however this would be a miserable place to find yourself left to your own devices. I’m impressed people live here at all, but they do – and well – and their villages are quite nice, actually. The atmosphere is more Caribbean than African, at least more so than Dakar.

Though we are nearly finished with the third leg, this feels more like the turning point of the voyage than the actual, mathematical middle in Mallorca. Something about crossing back to the west, the turn up north again coming soon, has people onboard talking about the ever looming A-word: after. Often times these discussions are instigated by questions containing the lesser known, though still disconcerting, N-word: next. It’s good to think about I suppose, but we still have lots of sailing to do, islands to explore, and several thousand miles between us and all that after/next business. Not to say it hasn’t crossed my mind though…

So signing off for now, westward bound for a short stop in the sapphire Brazilian island, Fernando de Noronha, and then turning out our fresh shellbacks and heading up to Grenada, four-thousand miles later. Should be fun.

Christmas and Senegal

2009-01-06T06:52:00.001-08:00

12/22
We got underway today from La Gomera, one of the western Canary Islands (beaches, cafes, cozy, quiet, lots of German tourists, lots of SPF 90), after signing on a new crew member, Weronika, who’s sailed with us before, and in fact was one of the off-going sailors when I joined the ship in Dominica nearly two years ago. As soon as she had her gear in her bunk we had our anchor up, lashed to the rail, and, with the Canaries astern, we aimed our pointy end towards Senegal.

La GomeraBuddy stitching sails in La Gomera.

West Africa is known for its northerly trades, but we might push through some weird bits for a while before we find them. A high altitude, low pressure system is forming right over the islands, so it will be interesting to see what the winds do. Right now it’s an easterly force six. We’re on a beam reach with t’gallants set. The whole sky is in flux as the system deepens. High cirrus clouds before a thick haze, then cirrostratus and more haze. Hopefully we will be south before it really kicks in.

12/23
A trainee, who has been aboard since day one in Lunenburg, just asked what needs to be done to clean the galley. This person, a full grown adult, said he/she has never before, in nearly eight months, cleaned the galley of the Picton Castle. Priceless. Little episodes like that make me a bit slower to shake my head when I hear about high-school graduates in America who are illiterate.

It’s a good thing our galley stove isn’t a part of a union. It would have gone on strike long ago. Or if it was French. Then it would strike too. French and unionized? Forget it. Cold cuts and canned mackerel till Lunenburg, and probably since Lunenburg. Maybe we’d get porridge on Thursdays.
As it is, though, the old stove has been at it nonstop for nearly 48 hours in preparation for Christmas, and it doesn’t look like a break is coming before the famous morning.

12/26
Christmas was a great success. Our little tree, center stage on the hatch amidships, was trimmed with tinsel, ornaments, popcorn garlands, and twinkling lights. In the morning our stockings and ditty bags were stuffed with candy and trinkets, and around the tree the packages quickly piled up into an impressive bunch of yuletide loot.

The Tree
Donald in the spirit of the dayWeronika has a cookie"Fat Nick" (I don't know how he got that nickname) and the ship's doctor, Gary Lynsey's Christmas wig. Spongebob looks on.Captain surveys the scene from the bridge.

We had a pig on a spit, roasting on the barbecue starting at eight that morning under the watchful eyes of young trainee Nick and Chief Mate Mike, along with, invariably, two cents from pretty much every other testicular member of the crew. Help is not always helpful. Nick, a new addition since Las Palmas, is South African, and seems well versed in the ways of barbecue. He says where he’s from it’s called a braai, and they grill up ostrich, warthog, spring buck, kudu, zebra, water buffalo, wildebeest – basically half the cast of ‘Lion King’ – with the same regard as we do chickens and cows. All day our stove’s hard work was in full splendor on the hatch, as platter upon platter appeared, each crowned with a pyramid of cookies and fudge.

After the dinner and festivities, an impromptu music session erupted on the hatch, and our house musicians, Gunner, Sam, and Buddy, put on a great show for the rest of us.

Sam on the banjo
Gunner and Buddy on the fiddle and guitar

The night was as picturesque as a Christmas night at sea could be. Not a ripple on the ocean, it was like our barque sat bobbing in a big bowl of water with glassy reflections of the stars on the surface. Sirius and Procyon, the two cardinal stars of the celestial dogs and navigational markers for centuries’ worth of mariners, shone doubly by the sea’s mirror, and we sat, mostly silent, before the view until the next watch relieved us at midnight.

It was an unforgettable Christmas. Though it was my first one away from my family, as it was for many of us, we were all here with a different kind of family, but a family nonetheless. The week had brought me the greatest feelings of homesickness I’ve ever experienced, but I was never sorry to be here, and feel lucky to have shared such a special time with my shipmates aboard our surrogate mother, the Barque Picton Castle.

12/27
Spectacular phosphorescence. A constant sparkle on the sea, scattered flashes the size of basketballs below the surface, the other worldly dolphin-comets, a gentle neon cloud around our hull as it ghosts through the water, a steady trail behind us of brilliant jellyfish creating a glowing tail of nearly three ship’s lengths, and every so often we pass through a glowing ribbon of algae stretching as far as we can see in either direction. Spirits are high.

12/28
Today I was annoyed to come into my bunk after watch and find a blue Moroccan headdress on my sea chest. This particular one had been floating around the focsle for a while and no one had claimed it.
“Whose turban is this?” I huffed at Ryan.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged back.
I don’t think that that particular question has ever crossed my mind before, but here it came so easily.
Only in the Picton Castle focsle are queries about banjos, wigs, pool toys, shrunken heads, beer, whiskey, gummy bears, and turbans so blasé. Sometimes we take our little never-neverland for granted.

12/29
300 miles from Dakar. Northerly trades finally setting in as we escape the influence of that big fat low forming overhead. Running before a friendly Force 5. Glow of jellyfish trailing 100 yards behind us. Wind just on our port quarter.

1/1
Rang in the New Year properly. The 12-4 watch spent the afternoon constructing a giant glowing ball, ala Times Square, and the thing was spectacular. Four feet in diameter, they wrapped it all in the sparkling lights and tinsel we had onboard, and even a few hundred watts worth of the engineers’ drop-lights made all spiffed-up and space-age gave it a glowing core within the outer twinkling layer.
Mike played Dick Clark, and we all danced a lot, too. From 0030 on, after each song, captain would bellow, “Bonus song!” and we’d all cheer and dance. We did this for another hour. Then we hoisted upper tops’ls, sheeted home the lowers and courses, set a couple jibs, and got back to business.

1/4
Spent my first day in Dakar, Senegal today. It’s as different from Prairie Village, Kansas, as you can get. When we were coming around the cape to our anchorage we could see, near the rocks in the distance, a black spiny strip just at the surface of the water. ”Is that some kind of reef?” someone asked.
Then it appeared to be moving. We were all lined along the port rail watching this long spiny thing get closer and closer, gaining definition bit by bit. The black strip became a long boat, the spines were people, and some were waving. The boat was about 40 feet long, and couldn’t have been more than five feet wide. It was like a floating needle, and it was loaded with people. As we came around the cape, we saw a harbor teeming with these boats, some completely jammed, stem to stern, with people.

The city of Dakar is not architecturally beautiful. Aside from the presidential palace, the great circular market, and some legislative buildings, the city is more or less a collection of boxes, some standing taller than others, some not standing too well at all.
What is beautiful about this place is the people. I don’t have a grasp of it yet, but I feel a strange glow of awe inside me after every conversation, every interaction, and even just the physical presence of the Senegalese.

There is great pride, but it’s good natured. There is great poverty, but the people are not downtrodden. Rather, there seems to be an overt, if instinctual, optimism here. For all the unhappy, hard elements of life here, it seems to be a happy place.

1/7
We had a spectacular day yesterday. Mike, Nadja, Christian and I took a taxi o the north part of the peninsula of Dakar. We walked through some neighborhoods along the coast, looking for a hotel for the night, making our way along streets lined with very posh, quiet houses, but somewhere along the way we found ourselves in a shanty town, full of people going about their daily business: cooking, cleaning, teenagers kicking a ball around. We had been urged from day one to avoid these places, as they are not known to be safe for visitors, so naturally, we were interested in finding our way back to the main road, but the place was a bit of a maze.

The children were thrilled to see us there, though most of the adults managed not to see us at all. The ones who did greeted us with a knowing smirk, or a questioning frown. But the kids just thought we were hilarious.

“Bonjour!”
“Bonjour!”
“Bonjour!”

They stopped their games and ran after us. Some held our hands, but most just followed close behind singing “bonjour” and smiling and waving, until we would round the corner where we had a new group of little laughing guides to escort us to the next block.

Though we were clearly there uninvited, and trespassing into these people’s lives, our overnight bags and urgent demeanor betrayed that we were merely lost, and not here as ignorant sightseers.

There are those kinds of tourists here, whose fascination with the different way of life seems to overwhelm them, and they begin behaving like ignoramuses, treating this whole place like some big cultural zoo for their own joy.

While we were on Goree Island on our first day ashore, we inadvertently wandered into an open churchyard where a wedding celebration was in full roar. We hung back behind the crowd to watch from outside.

The men stood together at the church steps, dressed in suits, chatting and watching the women, who were the stars of the hour. Each woman was wrapped in a vivid cloth, with a matching scarf knotted at twisted atop her head, like a psychedelic wave. They stood in a circle, facing the center, where a man in a gigantic hat, wearing big white sunglasses, suspenders, and a wild neck-tie, hummed on a saxophone that was painted in the motif of a graffiti mural.
The women had wooden boards in the hands, shaped like long, flat almonds, that they were clapping in unison. A barrage of drums constantly ringing.

Then, all at once, the music and dancing jumped to full pitch, the women’s throbbing steps elevated into ecstatic hops and kicks, the saxophone’s steady hum wound up into manic wailing, the wooden claps became a machine-gun staccato.
One at a time, a woman would leave the ring and dance in the center, jumping and spinning, her feet never stopping. Then another would replace her, and another and another, until the music and the women regained their steady pulse, sweating, smiling, and anticipating the next eruption. It looked sublime.

But all around this circle were pasty tourists with cameras cocked. They hovered around the circle of dancing women, clicking away photos. Some were even trying to dance into the circle; a few were dancing just outside it. They all had big dopey grins, thrilled at the show being put on for them. I was immediately self conscious. I knew their behavior was not without good intentions, but I found it so troubling, so distasteful, and so unfortunately typical.
It was their deliberate intrusiveness which emerges from a sense of entitlement to the experience, like it was some kind of theme park.

There is nothing wrong at all with experiencing new things, sharing in different cultures. These are prime reasons for traveling abroad, and particularly outside our western sphere of comfort, but this was done so flippantly, without any investment in the people, without any responsibility for the experience or real respect for what they were seeing. It was another kitschy trinket from an excursion to wild Africa.

My visit to Goree Island left me with so many strong feelings.

It was the final processing depot for Africans being exported into slavery, though that is a sterile description of a place of such horrors.
The buildings and layout of the island village are all well preserved French Colonial specimens, though they are now inhabited by African families who live in them like Africans. A stroll through town and you will see families sitting on the ground around massive wooden bowls of rice and fish and chicken, with animals wandering in and out the front door. Some of the vacant buildings were taken over by local artists, of which Goree has plenty.

If you want colorful acrylic paintings of black stick figures rowing skiffs, or playing music, or with baskets on their heads, this is the place. Most of the island’s shops are artisan shops, and half of those sold these paintings, but each set up his gallery as if it was his own unique style.
Of course there was much more diverse artwork and craftwork to be seen as well, people who painted sand on wood, and a handful of men under a grove of palm trees who made and sold djembes, the archetypal African drum.

One of our final stops of the day was at the main slave processing center, a small, two story, stone fortress at the edge of the island. The top floor had whitewashed plaster walls, and was where the slave traders had their offices. The ground floor was a cluster of small chambers, walls of jagged black stone set in cement. Over the portal to each was a succinct placard: “MEN,” “WOMEN,” “SMALL CHILDREN,” “INFANTS.” For so many years these rooms had been crammed with people, no where to sit, no where to sleep, nowhere to piss or shit. Now they were filled with graffiti, left behind as spontaneous cathartic memorials by visitors over the years. Words on top of words, on top of scratches in the masonry, signatures of ghosts, it is a haunted place of frightening tangibility.

It is a landmark of my troubling, European heritage, as it is to the ancestral legacy of much of the world. Donald could trace his own ancestors from Grenada in the West Indies back to this place. At the center of the building was a door, as if the whole place was a funnel into it, and to the ocean horizon beyond. It was called the door of the voyage of no return.

I walked up to the balcony on the second floor, overlooking the coast. I leaned over the rail and saw two boys fishing off the rocks. They smiled and waved, and I smiled and waved back. Three local women, wrapped in bright robes, came and stood at the rail with their daughters. They smiled and nodded at me, and one of the little girls squeezed my finger and sang bonjour. I smiled and bonjoured back. They got their fill of the view much sooner than me and then left.

It was a passing moment, but it delivered a thick, immediate weight to the place, lined with a strange feeling of optimism, too. This place was the epicenter of the western slave trade, an ugly part of the narrative of the human race for both the Europeans and the Africans involved, because it was not just the white man’s endeavor, and it is a tragedy for all involved as well, both the victims and the perpetrators. Everyone has suffered for it. Yet, somehow, the little beams of optimism still managed to break through, even here.

---

Last night, after a walk on the beach, and a nap in the hotel, we went out for dinner and then to a night club that we heard would have live music – and did they.

It was a local band. Electric guitar, bass, drum set, keyboards, a singer who stood at the mic like Bono and sang husky like Harry Belafonte. African drums were brought on stage. Then more, and more, and more drums were brought, filling up all the spare space on the low platform. One man sat behind them. The music started, and his arms turned into hummingbird wings.

Then a guy got up from the audience and started to dance. His purple velvet suit plumed like a cape, his long, thin dreadlocks whipping around his gigantic forehead, and an ecstatic smile of very small teeth. He jumped and kicked, spun and gyrated, slower and faster, than an explosion of movement. Stepping and turning from side to side like he was never sure it was safe to cross the street.

Another guy joined in. He was tall and bald, and was the yin to the other guy’s dancing yang. He slowly walked back and forth, his back stiff and bent slightly backwards, a beer in one hand, the other one raised in testimony. Each time he reached the perimeter of the stage, he would bob down slightly, like an oompa loompa, pop his drowsy eyes and open his mouth in a silent “WOW!” and then about-face until he reached the other side of the stage, where he did the same strange motion. Sometimes he would wave his raised hand. I have never been to a nightclub like that before.

1/9
Another spectacular day in Senegal yesterday. I set out, after a quiet morning, to run a few errands, and ended up last night sipping beer and sprite by the highway with three local guys after celebrating the religious fete with them at their homes.

I bought a djembe from one of the artisan shops. I didn’t have much money, and ended up bargaining down to a quarter of what they were asking.
It took a long time, and I spent a while hanging out with the guys there. They offered to give me a lesson. They were very proud of the drum they sold me. They led me out of the store and down a beach lined with the long, thin fishing boats. We sat on a rock wall, they put the drum between my legs and one, a gentle guy named Momo, squatted in front of me. He was my teacher. He played a simple beat. I botched it. They laughed. He played it again. I botched it again, and they didn’t really laugh so much this time. He played it again, and I played it back. We played together a bit, and then he left me to go and play it myself while they all laughed and danced and sang. Then they stopped, and Momo knelt back down to teach me another beat, and we did this for about half an hour.

I told them I needed to go and take the drum home. They insisted I let them carry it to my hotel for me, but I showed them a Picton Castle card and explained that I am not staying in a hotel. They were very impressed and asked to see my ship. I said OK, and brought them all back to the ship for a tour and coffee and muffins.

Back on shore, Willie, the one who sold me the drum, said I was welcome at his house tonight for the fete, for the Muslim celebration of Muharram, which comemorates the New Year, and the martyrdom of the prophet Mohammed's grandson.

We took a cab to his house where I met his family, his brothers and sisters, and nieces and nephews. The smallest one cried whenever I looked at him. Willie said I was the first white man he’d ever seen. We watched a basketball game on the TV, drank coke, and then went to Ablaye’s house for the first serving of dinner, where I met all his family as well.
The youngest boy brought a big plate of food into the room, where all the men ate. The food was a cous-cous type of meal topped with roasted meat, vegetables, and a spicy red sauce. It was delicious. Most of us ate with spoons, but a few of the guys ate with their right hands. As the plate was nearly finished, Ablaye’s sister came in with milk and poured some into the dish, everything was stirred together, becoming creamy and sweet.

I said thank you, “Djir a jif,” in Wolof, and we went back to Willie’s for round two.
After the meal at Willie’s we sat in his room and listened to music, and talked. Then Momo, Willie and Ablaye began dancing. Big goofy dances, they were cracking each other up. All the kids in the house came and looked and laughed as well. Willie and Momo kept asking me, “We are very happy. Are you happy? We are very happy. It’s good you are happy.” I was overwhelmed.

Soon the dancing stopped, and Willie said, “We’re going to make a walk, to have a look around.” We went out for a walk around the block, and all around the neighborhood were parades of kids playing homemade drums, hassling all the adults on the streets for coins. The adults would pretend to be annoyed, and then relent, giving a few coins to the gangs of kids. Momo, Willie, and Ablaye did this too, laughing together after they’d shooed off the parade. We stopped at a corner store and bought some drinks, beer and pop and chips, and sat by the road. It was a great night. We all laughed and talked and shared with each other. They asked about the ship, they told me about their lives, but most of the time we sat and watched the cars go by. Finally, I had to say goodbye, and I hailed a taxi for the trip back to the ship. They shared their lives with me in a way I will never forget. It was a touching evening among people who I am happy to call friends.

Bargaining, Observing, Preparing for Navidad

2008-12-21T05:34:00.000-08:00

12/8
Departed Morocco today. We had been anchored at the coastal town of Essaouira, the closest thing to a natural harbor on the west coast. A bunch of people took their liberty time and went to Marrakesh. Apparently it’s sensory overload. Narrow, labyrinthine streets crowded with people, aggressive shopkeepers, and snake charmers who drape a dozen or so vipers over you and then demand money. I opted for the more relaxed, picturesque Essaouira.

I had a fantastic time here. Possibly the best vacation spot I’ve ever found. I’ve never been somewhere so foreign before. Many of the locals walk around in pointy-hooded robes called Jalabas. Spectacular pastries, magnificent orange juice, tajine, friendly shopkeepers who offer you in for tea and then, the day’s entertainment: bargaining.

I love bargaining. I mean I absolutely love it. I had no idea how much fun it was going to be. My first day ashore I didn’t really shop much, but what I bought took about an hour to buy, and man was it fun. The guy asked first for 1500 dirham (about $175 U.S.) and I ended up paying 400dh. I don’t care if he probably got it for 4 dh, it was fun, and I would have paid about that much for a similar product in the states. But the process was just so much fun.

He approaches me on the street, “Hey, my friend, you from le bateau? Le gran bateau? You know Mike? You know Mike? Please come in, I make special price for you.”
And then I say, “Oh, no I can’t, I don’t have very much money, I really can’t spend much.”And he says, “It’s OK, just to look, come in, I’ll give you special price.”
“OK, then, but just to look.”

This is how every bargaining session begins.

Then we sit down in the back, and he offers a cup of hot, sweet, mint tea, and we toast and talk and shoot the breeze for ten or fifteen minutes. He tells me he is twareg, a traveling people from the Sahara. His name is Hasim, he has clear charcoal skin, a friendly, handsome face, and a toothy smile that comes easy. He shows me stuff, mostly knickknacks and crap I don’t want: camel-bone knives, amulets, and rings big enough to bully around most lugnuts. I try to explain carpal-tunnel syndrome to him, but he keeps offering me the damned rings.

The process is pure, theatrical euphoria, and afterwards, everyone is friends because he didn’t accept less than he wanted, and I didn’t pay more than I could afford and we shake hands.
But it is a such a strange process, and a strange game too, that two people, so eager to lie to each other, so happy to bemoan the onset of calamity should the other have his way, can walk away feeling friendliness for one another.

I bought a full hide of camel leather from one of the many leather goods stalls in the market. It was nearly one of the greatest thrills of the trip so far.
He showed me the hide, I was happy with it, and he said, with a smile dripping with insipid innocence, 1800 Dirham – just over $200 U.S. (Side note: This hide is about 8-10 square feet. I can buy cow leather in the States for $10 per square foot. This being Moroccan camel leather, I was willing to pay for it, but, still, the delight of shopping in Morocco lies in the bargain.)

At this point, all the other employees, and a few of the adjacent shopkeepers had gathered to see the crazy “English-Man” who had made such a strange request for a full camel hide.
I laughed and apologized for wasting his time. “I can only afford 400 Dh. That’s the most can pay,” I assured him.
They all went crazy. “400!?” “That’s so low!” “He can make twenty bags with this much leather!” “Do you even know how to bargain?!” And so on.
“My friend,” he strained to remain calm, “why are you even here? Why do you waste my time? We are not even within a few hundred Dirham. How are we supposed to come to terms?”
“That’s really as much as I can pay, otherwise I have no money for the rest of the time in Morocco.”
“His family has to eat!”
“I have to eat too.”
“You can eat at my house!”
I laughed at this.
He grinned back at me. We were testing each other.
“Maybe you want to swap for something?” They asked.
I gestured to my bag. “I guess I have some spare clothes.” I had brought a bag full of clothes, thrift store formal wear and free tall-ships festival t-shirts for precisely this purpose.
“What. Show us.”
A sweatshirt I had saved from the ship’s lost-and-found a few months ago came out. Oohs and Ahhs.
“Columbia?”
"That’s an American brand.”
“Yes, fine. What else?”
I revealed a Budweiser hat I had won during a football trivia quiz at the Grand Banker’s Superbowl party last winter in Lunenburg.
He put it on, struck a pose like Robert DeNiro, and then looked sideways at his cronies. “OK. With the hat, and the sweatshirt, 1650.”
By bartering with two garments which I had acquired for free, I knocked off over $17.
“I don’t have that much money. I’m sorry.” They were livid. “I’m, sorry, but I’m poor. I’m a sailor. I don’t have much money.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “OK. OK. Your maximum price. What is your maximum?”
I searched my wallet, and met him with a forlorn look. “I don’t know, I am sorry. I don’t want to cause you any trouble, but the most I can pay is 500.”
At this point, such an uproar erupted that I half expected them to begin thrashing about the floor, convulsing and biting themselves.
“This is your maximum? No no no. Name your real maximum.”
Another man, nearly doubled over, eyes wide, teeth bared, put his face right in mine: “SAY ANOTHER NUMBER!”
“Do you like my shoes?”
“Your shoes?” Instantly, their mood switched from boiling hostility to a feline curiosity.
I showed him my shoes. They were good shoes, but the soles were worse than useless on deck. In any moisture, they were like trying to walk across ice with metal saucers strapped on your feet. In fact, aboard the ship that morning, as the early dew had not quite totally burned off, I nearly slipped and fell while walking the ten feet to the boat for the skiff-run ashore. I wore them deliberately to trade. I knew they were good shoes.
”These are good shoes,” confirmed the man who had so recently screamed in my face, and they huddled again.
“We cannot take your shoes.” They said. “What will you wear?”
“I can figure it out.” I said, “But I just can’t afford what you ask.”
“OK fine. Give us the shoes. 900 Dh.”
Down another $90 U.S. for a pair of shoes I haven’t been able to wear since June. So far so good. I opened my bag, and displayed the remainder of my disposable wardrobe. They collected and folded the garments. The shopkeeper stared at me icily, his hand resting of the sizeable pile of my barter offerings.
“700.”
I ran my hands through my hair, shuffled my bare feet in the dirt. “OK,” I sighed. He wrapped up the leather, smiled, shook my hand, and I returned the smile.
“Are you happy?” He asked.
”Yes, thank you.”
”Good, thank you too. I hope you enjoy your leather.”
And so this is how we parted, with smiles all around and a big laugh as I pulled a pair of flip-flops from my backpack and walked out into the street.

Later, I allowed myself to be coaxed into a store by a man in a gigantic white turban, shaping his head with the same silhouette as a cartoon drawing of Saturn, his two crossed eyes, its moons. I didn’t want to buy anything, but I had a knife I nearly never used that I knew would be a big trade value. It was stainless steel, had a regular blade, a saw with a flathead screwdriver on the end, a Philips-head driver, and a small, adjustable crescent wrench on the handle. I got it for $10 in a bargain tub at a hardware store.
He showed me the same jewelry and camel-bone knives and medallions I’d been already been disinterested in. I showed him my knife. He gasped. He asked me what I liked. I said I liked his Jalabas, which are the pointy, camel-wool robes many Moroccans wear. He asked me to name a price. I said 100 Dh. He said 600. I handed him my now empty backpack, which I’d had since high-school, and offered 200.
He looked at me, looked at the backpack, and laughed. ”My friend, I am Berber. But you are more Berber.”
We shook hands, smiled, and he threw in a free headscarf for me. What a blast.

12/16
Sitting here at a beachfront cafe in Las Palmas, the capital city of the Canary Islands. We've been alongside here for a few days. Las Palmas is just another big European tourist city, but here, on this side of town, it's a nice enough place. We are all spoiled rotten after Essaouira.

I ordered a cannoli. I hadn't had one for a while, and was looking forward to it. The waitress gave me a funny look, and a dimpled smile when I ordered it, because most people don't order cannolis for breakfast. I assured her I knew what it was, but I don' think she was convinced. I tried to affirm my understanding of the menu by describing a tube pastry with cream filling in the middle, which was accurate enough, but my accompanying hand gestures were, inadvertantly, a touch obscene. She brought me the cannoli. It was indeed good. With my coffee, she brought out a small pastry as well: spongy, sweet, with a slightly soapy flavor, though not in a bad way.

The walkway is packed.

A stream of school children, ninos pequenos, dressed in blue jumpers, double file and about a quarter mile long, buzzes by, singing and chattering, peppered with the tall, wrinkly towers of teachers and nuns.

A hairy little man tromps across the square towards the beach at top speed, looks like Roberto Benigni with a habanero up his stern. He is clothed only in a towel wrapped around his waist. His wife is three meters behind, more suitably dressed for the cool morning weather in a sweater and trousers, half running to keep up. He is going to have a swim. He is going to freeze his balls off.

Without breaking stride, he whips off the towel to reveal a speedo underneath, thus bestowing on the rest of us the future pleasure of verifying that he has indeed emerged, sin huevos.

I thought we finished with Europe weeks ago, but such a rich history of imperialism has left its speedo-clad legacy everywhere, it seems. Here I am, on an Island just off the coast of Africa, and I'm sitting at an Italian cafe, speaking Spanish and English, and like clockwork, another speedo geezer strolls past. I don't understand these men. It's mid December, I am wearing a wool coat and sipping hot coffee. I think they are really just bald polar bears with health care plans and pensions.

Only from the Europeans do I see so many couples of short, ugly men with tall, beautiful women. And all this time we've branded America as the "Land of Opportunity."

Two more flocks of schoolchildren.

Igor just walked past, wearing a Mr. Rogers sweater.

--

The Danmark is here, the famous Danish trainish ship where our Captain cut his teeth as a seaman. It's a beautiful ship. Spent the afternoon there a couple days ago, had a tour and a coffee. I've gotten to know some of the crew. Great folks. We went for beers the other night and had a great time. Lots of laughs, lots of food, lots of beer; I love the Danish! It is harder to find a group of people who are generally as happy and prosperous and pleasant as Danes.

12/21

Anchored at La Gomera, a small Island in the Canaries. This is really where the charm of the islands must live. To be sure, Las Palmas and Gran Canaria was not at all without its charm, quite a good bit of it, in fact, but this island, with its steep, volcanic cliffs and villages nestled into every cove, and warm sunshine, and German families on holiday, is a bit more of the tropical paradise that we were all looking for.

The whole island is like a giant bowl. The outside is stark, brown, and barren. It looks like something out of Dante's imagination, a terrible place. But Mike, Nadja, and Christian and I walked around the face, through a couple towns, and past a lush green valley, the heart of the island, with towns blossoming out of the hillsides like roses on a bush. It's a good day for doing nothing.

Aboard the ship, though, the steady buzz of holiday preparations continues to build. People have been baking fresh bread and sweet treats constantly for the better part of a week now. Deb, in a fit of ambition, has set out to construct a gingerbread ship. I wonder if it will have licorice halyards.

No one is really sure what to expect, though, as this is the first Christmas away from home for many of us, and the first Christmas on a barque for even more. We are all very excited for the day, and I can't think of a group of people I'd be happy to have as surrogate family; we are as close to the real thing as people can get in eight months, besides.
Merry Christmas to everyone. Think of us in our Holiday celebrations on our way to Senegal.

Mallorca, Gibraltar, Morocco

2008-12-03T03:57:00.000-08:00

11/17
It’s been some kind of whirlwind here aboard the Picton Castle.
We left Cascais, Portugal, with a quick stop in the small town of Lagos, and made our way towards Mallorca, a Spanish Island in the Mediterranean. On the seventh of November we passed through the straits of Gibraltar and into the azure waters of the Mediterranean Sea. To our port was the famous rock, to starboard Africa. It was the first time I’d laid eyes on the gigantic continent. I took in the view, snapped a couple pictures, and then got back to work.
Another quick stop, anchoring next to a private island near Ibiza belonging to someone with more cash than architectural imagination. (Only one house there, might have been cool looking in 1982)
We wanted to really shine up the ship before coming into Mallorca. There were going to be lots of family and friends meeting us there, so looking sharp was key. We painted the entire topsides (the outside of the hull, not the wet part) in just one afternoon, among many other little jobs.

Then, once we arrived in Mallorca, the floodgates opened and the rivers of work and play converged with stunning violence. We sent down the mizzen topmast, my cousin Allison arrived literally minutes after this. I knocked-off work and we trekked away on bikes around the coast all afternoon, tapas for dinner, and a blues club very late into the night. When I arrived back at the ship, Donald was up cooking breakfast. Then work all day. Sister Katherine comes to visit from studies in Brussels. Bonfire at Nadja’s house, roasting sausages, guitar playing, singing, laughing, telling stories, catching up, relaxing. Cousin leaves the next morning. Then work all day again. Then another evening with sister and her two accompanying classmates from Brussels. Then a day off work, driving and seeing finally other parts of the island besides Palma, which is mostly big-city, party-central. Not really my scene.

The island of Mallorca has some beautiful little towns nestled away. We rented a car and stopped in three towns tucked inside coastal coves. Soller, Deia, and Valldemossa. Beautiful. Deia looked like concept art for a movie set, something Jim Henson would have liked, with stone dwellings lining the valley of a waterfall that cut through the village, all networked with timber walkways between patios. We stopped for coffee and watched the sunset over the mountains.
Then a last evening out with Katherine and her friends and my friends before she had to go. It has been a fantastic treat getting to see her and Allison while we were all in Europe. The long distance from family and friends that life seems to inevitably bring is weird and unwelcome, but the warm glow of reunions and the making of memories like these are superlative consolations

11/20
Squally weather since we left Mallorca. The wind’s been driving us hard; we’re screaming through the water. Trainees Gunner, Rich and Matt took a big wave down their coats while hauling on the starboard fore braces.
The wind piped up last night. I was called from my bunk to help get a stow on the t’gallants. Cold, wet, stiff canvas. Not easy stowing sail in those conditions. Drive down the highway, lean out the window, and origami some plywood. You’ll see.

11/22
Landfall at Gibraltar, capping our smartest passage so far. We had our best day’s run of the voyage yesterday, 156 nautical miles, and the day before we did 150. Though we’re hardly the Cutty Sark, it was pretty good for us. There’s a reason the Picton Castle slogans is, “We may be slow, but we get around.” It’s a strange place.
It’s a British colony, the gateway to the Mediterranean, home of the monolithic Rock of Gibraltar, the anchorage is littered with tankers and freighters, fueling or waiting for orders, the bayside is lined with pungent refineries and neon condominiums, and the city itself is comprised of Moorish and spansih stonework with a serious British veneer. English pubs, newsstands, double-decker busses, and a downtown jam packed with enough jewelry, clothing, and electronics stores to make you think for a moment maybe it’s some weird London borough, but then it’s pierced by a dirtbike buzzing down the road, a rooster tail of dust trailing, hanging in the air, and sun-baked adobe, Africans, Spaniards, Indians and every type of person in between. Plus they drive on the right-hand side of the road here.
This place has been a site of siege for over a thousand years. It’s been held under more queens than Christopher Lowell. Lord Admiral Nelson was killed near here at the famous battle of Trafalgar. Outside the old southern city wall is the Trafalgar cemetery, burial site of many British sailors who died from wounds sustained in the battle. The rock is more or less hollow now after centuries of military tunnels, and scattered with bastions, batteries, and abandoned towers, left behind by Spanish, Moorish, British, and American militaries.
At 10:00 AM, while walking through the city, I came to a square in the center of which were a dozen women, aged 50-99, dressed in pink, doing dance routines to Top-40 music.
Its identity crisis is its identity.
It’s a strange place.

11/26
Departed from Gibraltar. Weighed anchor, sailing off the hook, as they say, all canvas loosed, and wove our way out of the harbor amid the tankers and freighters, bound out to sea and headed for Africa! A square rigger leaving her anchorage by power of sail, past the noses of so many belching metal tubs, out from under the sour smog of the refineries, all with numbered days, our kites were flying signals that the sailing ship still prowls the seas. We’ve been catching wind for centuries, and we will still be long after all the petroleum sucking hulks have rusted out. The clockwork of the tradewinds will outlast any clunking contrivance, as long as the Earth keeps spinning.

Gibraltar turned out to be fun stop. At first I wasn’t impressed, though I think that was more from a desire to keep at sea for a while rather than stopping at another port. But Gibraltar was well worth it. There’s no where else on the planet quite like it. If you get a chance, you should see it.

On Monday, Mike and Nadja and I had a great hike up to the top of the rock. We found the famous Gibraltar apes, which are the only wild apes in Europe, and inhabit the mountainside like Central Park squirrels. They are notorious pickpockets and gluttons. The first one we saw assaulted Nadja immediately.
Then we made our way up to the top, to the mouth of some of the famous military tunnels, and a good view of our little barque out in the harbor. After that we meandered back down the rock to the ancient Moorish castle, erected in the 1300’s.

The evening we went to the local movie theatre, housed in a converted British fortress at the waterfront. One of the features was “Ghost Town,” featuring the theatrical support of Picton Castle shipmate Billy “Ollie” Campbell. He plays an uptight, wanker lawyer. It was his first movie since punching J-Lo in the face in “Enough” (A film for which he’s hinted a desire for a sequel). It was a funny thrill seeing our friend up on the big screen with Ricky Gervais, Greg Kinnear, and Tea Leoni. “Oh Lord! Please spare this man!”
I wanted to turn around and declare to the other four people in the theatre, “That guy had the Guinness-shits when he drove me to the airport!”

We’ve had a good work period here too. We changed out our braces, sent down and overhauled the fore tops’l footropes, and back up, and Buddy’s been cranking out sails like crazy. Since arriving in Mallorca he’s laid out and seamed up an upper tops’l, t’gallant, and inner jib, and nearly finished our new spanker.

We’re running westward now before a force 5, headed for Essaouira, Morocco, and hopefully warmer weather. It’s been cold here. The weather has been seriously unsettled here lately, and the forecasts conflicting, but the wind is fair so we are going to take it. We left this morning ready for bad weather, hoping for good, and taking what we get. Today it is a moderate easterly breeze.

11/28
The wind’s been shifty since leaving Gibraltar. Last night and this morning it seemed to have settled a bit, but two days ago it was as erratic and gusty as I’ve ever seen it, keeping us at the braces and sheets for nearly the entire watch. It would often make a full 360 degree shift, sometimes slowly, and sometimes within the passing of barely a minute, but always it had the helmsman on his toes. Even this morning it had been a nice and steady force 4, we had every stitch of sail set, and in the blink of an eye it piped up and came forward and we doused out kites.

We are having out Thanksgiving celebration today, on account of yesterday being so squally. Last night each watch was busy in the galley baking up desserts, and Donald has two big turkeys roasting in the oven.

11/29
Thanksgiving was fantastic. We had our feast in the salon, hove-to off the coast of Morocco, the lights of Casablanca glowing just on the horizon. All hands were present. Then we spent the next few hours with guitars out, making music and singing songs. Though the thought of a Thanksgiving away from family is a bit gloomy, the ship provides a unique sort of family, and it was in full bloom last night.
We remained hove-to for the remainder of the night, as the weather had been deteriorating, the wind increasing. Nobody slept much. The wind built to gale force soon after my watch, and I was on deck at points in the night to help secure flogging gear, and otherwise take in the spectacle of the howling wind and frothing seas.

This morning the wind had abated slightly, though it was still a steady force 7, and the seas were still very large, some peaking at 20 feet. At one point during our morning watch, a very small bit of diesel was inadvertently splashed on the deck, making a surprisingly large mess, and for nearly half an hour, as we scrambled to clean it up, scrubbing the area with degreaser and dish soap, the decks were transformed into oily ice. We were quite a sight for the helmsman, careening around the quarterdeck on our butts with deck brushes and pails of water in hand. I was almost constantly sliding into the mizzen mast and charthouse and Lynsey, scrubbing vigorously as I glided past the epicenter of the dribble. I felt like a hockey puck. After watch I slept like the dead until the dinner bell.

12/1
Arrived in Essaouira today. The beach is teeming with people on horseback and camelback, robed in dark, full length garments. It’s a cozy little seafront town of squat, white, Moorish buildings surrounded by a turreted stone wall. It’s a busy fishing port here. They make their own boats in Essaouira of a distinct flavor. They’re beamy wooden tubs, with a steep, arching bow, the stem nearly as tall as the keel is long, designed to work in the large swells that are almost constantly rolling in. Essaouira is as close to a natural harbor within 500 miles. There’s a reason no one has heard of the Moroccan navy.
So, today, I begin my first explorations in this country, on this continent, to see a bit of Africa.

France, Spain, and Portugal

2008-10-28T07:05:00.001-07:00

10/6
Today Nadja and I took a daytrip with a local aficionado I’d made friends with the day before during deck tours. His name is Guillaume, and he was a regular volunteer and ambassador for the Pride of Baltimore II during her seven month refit here in St. Nazaire after her dismasting in 2005.

He took us first to a beautiful medieval town, Guerande, complete with stone walls, an ancient cathedral, a moat, narrow streets, fantastic shops and cafes. It felt like a little fantasy village. Being in such and old and beautiful city, inhabited and functioning for centuries, made me feel a bizarre, specific, pride for the human species. I think I’d like to live there for a while, maybe retirement or extended honeymoon or something. It seems like a great place to get up early and be lazy and sit in cafes and eat late lunches and spend an afternoon with a bottle of wine.

We stopped in another coastal town for a coffee, then bought baguette, cheeses, Serrano ham, tomatoes, cheesecake, and a big bottle of grapefruit juice, and headed out for a picnic on a cliff overlooking the Bay of Biscay.

After lunch we drove around the countryside. We saw lots of salt marshes where they harvest the salt by feeding sea water into a series of shallow paddocks and eventually end with big piles of coarse white salt. The people here have been getting salt this way for generations. We stopped in a fairly large resort town that was all but deserted at this point in autumn, took a stroll down a beach and were passed by horseback riders on the way. Then we went for a beer, talked about life, family, and sailing, and then went back to his house for another coffee, and met his family, and shared pictures of ships and more stories. It was a great day.

10/11
A ripping sail last night, making six knots under full sail. Air is getting warmer. I’m studying and learning the stars, getting a map of the sky in my head. It’s a beautiful morning. Pink puffy clouds to the west, bright yellow sun to the east. Bruce-Bruce is steering. He can really steer the hell out of the ship. A pair of owls joined us along the way. Beautiful faces. We’ve locked Chibley in the port cabin below until they go away.

10/13
Arrived in Spain yesterday. We stopped for an afternoon of beach time in Cariña, a sleepy little coastal town. The water was cold, but the short swim felt good. Then a healthy dose of Frisbee, cold beers, Mike on guitar, and a sunset over the brown Spanish mountains, made us feel … well, we sighed a lot, and giggled, and commented on what the hell did we do in the supernatural realm to justify this kind of treatment.

Today we’ve found a new port, setting the anchor in the town of Ares, a resort town in the summer, though this time of year it’s pleasantly empty. As we came in past the marina, the voice of a toddler echoed from the P.A. system, flooding the small harbor with goo’s and gah’s and tiny Spanish gibberish.

We had originally planned on staying at La Coruña, a big, bustling port-city, though their port authority was a bit brick-like in their dealings with us.
We: “Can we anchor here, in this spot you said we could anchor when we called ahead?”
They: “No. Es impossible.”
We: “There’s a big empty dock over there. Can we tie up to it?”
They: “No. Es impossible.”
We: “Well what about that big empty area over yonder marked on the chart as an anchorage?”
They: “No. Es impossible.”
So we left.

10/15
Today is the first of two days liberty. I slept in, awoken by a distant chant of “hip, hip, hip, hip.” I dozed in an out for a few minutes, the hip-hip growing louder, coming closer. I dozed again. Then it was “HIP! HIP! HIP! HIP!” right outside my porthole. I looked out and saw a rubber raft full of uniformed men with paddles row past. A moment later and a cheer erupted from the well deck outside. I ran out and saw three identical boats, all full of soldiers, waving and rowing and general rowdydow. I suppose they had come out to greet us. Then they all broke off from each other a ways, turned, and, rowing furiously, converged in a great burst of silly violence, ramming, and boarding each other, soldiers flying from boat to boat, sending others from boat to water, water to boat, and then, quick as they came, they hustled away, hip-hipping back to base, or wherever they came from.

I went ashore with Matt, one of the trainees, for a day of nothing and lots of it, besides. The whole town is at siesta. Everything here shuts down and goes to sleep, including the people. The ships is a quarter-mile offshore, and is the loudest thing around by far. The tokk-tokk and clanging of rust-busting on the hull echoes throughout the town.
We found Wild Bill, sitting at a picnic table in the park, writing postcards. He’s something else, one of those special kind of personalities you don’t run into too often. He had six little local kids on bikes running around town for him, helping him with errands. One of the kids spoke English, and proud to show off his skill, asked the big old guy with the Brooklyn accent if he needed any help with anything.
Bill said, “OK guys, I need a Hotel, postcards, a post office, a restaurant, a bus station, and a bus schedule.” And all the kids tore off and found for him what he needed.
Matt and I spent the rest of the day lounging on a sunny beach with a big rock shaped like the head of a giant crocodile looking out to sea. Lounging, book reading, snippets of conversation, and some napping ensued. Tonight some shipmates are coming for a beach bonfire and campout.

There are worse places to spend an afternoon.

10/16
The bonfire last night was a success, though our feelings about it gained significantly in favor once the ordeal was over. We listened to music, sang, roasted weenies, talked about more or less everything there is to talk about, and then fell asleep under the stars as the fire dwindled. And then I woke up and it was pouring. I exhausted my vocabulary, and moved up the beach to sleep in a pile of weeds growing up out of rocks tucked up under a concrete staircase at the base of a graffitied retaining wall. At least it was dry. When I came out of my daze, as close to sleep as I could manage, I was at eye level with a snail who had slimed up the wall and was resting three inches from my face.

At 0700h the skiff beached and took us back to the ship where I changed clothes and set out immediately for an excursion into Santiago to see the old city there. At the heart of it was the famous Cathedral, a dark and imposing structure. Standing there outside of it, you feel like the thing might crush you at any instant. It’s a marvelous thing, and inside was gilt with all the ornamentation and icons and relics to be expected in a place like that, including a sarcophagus with the remains of St. James.
The place was swarming with pilgrims, who had hiked many lonely miles to come to this cathedral. I met a German woman there who just finished her pilgrimage. I asked her what compelled her to make the journey.
“Before, I have many problems,” she said, “and so I go walking, and now no more problems.” She said the journey afforded her peace inside herself. Several of the other pilgrims stood still out front, some squatting or sitting on the ground, tears streaming.
My time at sea has brought a better understanding of the cathartic power of a journey and the peace brought about through the meditative process of steady onward progress. I am always fascinated by the ways people pursue greater awareness of themselves, and deeper understanding of their place in the universe, whatever that may be to them. As far as I can tell, it’s this earnest pursuit of truth that brings us closer to the honest, peaceful clarity of life so many pilgrims and potential pilgrims seek.

10/17
Cruising along at six knots. Snotty rain. It’s cold. City lights are twinkling to the east of us, glowing from between the round mountains of the Spanish coast. 350 miles to Cascais, Portugal.

10/19
I’d like to talk about taking off pants after night watch. When we’re at sea, generally, the ship has a rhythmic pitch and roll, and one’s adaptation to the motion become second nature so that maintaining balance is more or less effortless. This is all part of “getting your sea legs.” It seems that, after negotiating the pitching and rolling of our barque all day with zero problems, as soon as I’m below decks trying to get my pants off for bed, achieving a momentary stork-like stance, an erratic swell invariably comes and sends me hopping desperately across the focsle before crashing into sea chests and disturbing my sleeping shipmates. This happens every night.

The weather’s been beautiful the past couple days. We deserve it after our damp summer in the North Sea. We expect good warm and sunny work days in Portugal. Should be there by Tuesday.
10/21
Another sweet sail, and now we find ourselves in Cascais, Portugal. We were escorted in to our anchorage by the German training barque, Gorch Fock, who was continuing on to the capital city of Lisbon, just a little further down the coast.

10/22
A gale followed us into the harbor here, and we spent most of the night securing the ship, hoisting boats, setting the port anchor, etc. Took my two days liberty ashore today and headed to Lisbon. It’s a spectacular city, decked in the same kind of fantastic, otherworldly feel and cultural vibrancy that made me fall so much in love with Copenhagen.
Note the large print of the hanging on the building. Pretty cool to be walking in the same square depicted in this famous painting that I had to know for Fine Arts class in college, and don't remember the name of anymore.
I got my first tattoo today. It’s something I’d been mulling over for a while, and this particular design has been on my mind for over a year. It's a black armband of mourning, specifically inspired by the life and death of my friend Spencer last fall, but it’s also a representation of all the hardships and struggles life brings. It's made of three stripes symbolizing faith, hope, and love, love being the greatest of these, and with faith the size of a mustard seed, we can move mountains. This is how Spencer faced his own mortality and lived out his life. By holding fast to these things in spite of the seeming hopelessness of his cancer, he exemplified a powerful, light filled life, and was an inspiration to so many people. This is how I work to live and face my own struggles, and the tattoo is not only a reminder to myself, but also an outward mark of the kind of man I strive to be.
Plus, I think it looks cool.

10/28
It’s blowing like hell here. We just finished a good three day mini-shipyard period, taking the time to open and close some big projects that the snotty weather of northern Europe has denied us. On the boat run to shore today we were pounded with waves, as the winds whipped upwards of 40 knots, gusting even higher, us dressed in our civvies getting soaked.
My circumstances overwhelm me. All the humility and hardships lain against the magnificence greeting me daily lends life a surreal flavor, as if I’m walking through some infinite story-book. Though, another moment’s reflection reminds me that these are the circumstances of all who venture seawards, who pursue watery horizons. I can never remember feeling such constant challenge and satisfaction as I have since taking up life as a sailor.

My Impression of French Culture So Far...

2008-10-05T10:57:00.000-07:00

Hahahahahaha!

Southward Bound

2008-10-01T09:09:00.001-07:00

9/25
Departed from Milford Haven, Wales, today. Stopped in Portsmouth for a couple days on the way over from Ipswich. Portsmouth is the home of three historic ships, the Mary Rose, The Warrior, and Lord Nelson’s famous man-of-war, The Victory. Mike, Nadja and I took a tour of all three.
The Mary Rose was Henry VIII’s flagship and had been at the bottom of the sea for four centuries before the recovery efforts began in the 1970’s. The exhibit there is a fantastic example of not only archeological restoration efforts, but a thrilling (at least to us sailors) display of the efficacy of our traditional rigging methods. On display were pieces of tarred hemp shrouds and ratlines, looking like pieces that could have come off of our own proud ship. The excavators were astonished, and we privately took it as an endorsement of the best kind.
It was also the first place historians were able to put their hands on actual English longbows, the legendary weapons that England’s adversaries were so sourly acquainted with.
The Warrior, when she was built, was the largest battleship on the seas, and one of the first with an auxiliary steam engine. It is a massive thing. It actually never engaged in combat at sea due to its imposing presence. The other guys just got the hell away from it.
The Victory was a bit of a surreal tour in it’s own way. It was reminiscent of Twain’s description of his tours in the Holy Land.
“This is where Nelson ate.”
“This is where Nelson slept.”

“This marker here is where Nelson stood when he was shot.”

“This is where Nelson died.”
“This was Nelson’s favorite chair”

“This was Nelson’s favorite cup.”
“This is where Nelson did potty.”
“This is where Nelson did potty once on accident.”
They rather worship him there in England.
All in all, though, it was a fantastic experience in the ancestry of this life I’m living, and gave me a great appreciation for being able to enjoy life at sea without all the weevils, scurvy, cat-o-nines, or cannonballs.

The Warrior. 400 foot long floating death monster.

"Princess is Much Pleased"Nadja and a big brass cannon. No touch! Mike and I and the gigantic deadeye on the mainstay on Warrior.The Victory's transom.

From Portsmouth we headed to Milford Haven, Wales, the ship’s first home port as a trawler, and home of our namesake, the Picton Castle. The castle was built in the 13th century, and the Phillips family had lived in it until the late 1990’s. We were given a tour, and treated to an afternoon tea. The castle, which was renovated in the 1770’s is beautiful, but the garden was the real show stealer, with flowered archways, stone walls, a hedge maze, and big green open lawns.

Afternoon tea at Picton Castle with Deckhand Ryan, homemade beer, and chocolate cake made with Guinness. A very good way to spend time.
9/26
Night watch was surreal. Making five knots under full sail with a gentle breeze, clear black sky, a thick blanket of stars, and then the dolphins. They darted through the water, luminescent comets of pale neon, arcing beneath the waves; they were our spectral playmates for nearly three hours, jumping and twisting, whistling and clicking. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was beyond anything my own imagination could conceive. Welcome ushers in our eager journey south towards warmer weather.

I laid out canvas today with Lynsey for a new jib for the dory. It was my first experience in sailmaking. She and I cut the canvas, seamed it together, and then cut it into shape so it draws properly. A great project, though my seaming is not nearly at the level of Buddy’s, our fulltime sailmaker. Practice, practice, practice.

9/27
100 miles south of the British island. Wind piped up last night. More phosphorescent dolphins, accompanied by a meteor shower overhead. Unbelievable spectacles the sea brings. I’m learning the stars, slowly building a map of the sky in my head.

The dolphins have been around all day. I spent the morning in the headrig, tarring and replacing worn ratlines, while five or six were jumping and playing directly beneath me. Even now, lying in my bunk after morning watch, I can hear them talking to each other through the ship’s hull.
I think my life has been touched by some benign form of sorcery, so filled with hard work, few full nights of sleep, little comfort, deep pangs of loneliness and separation from family and so many loved ones, and yet all of it trumped by the reward of the job well done and the satisfaction of life at sea. The hardships season the triumphs and make it all worthwhile, to the point where they are even joys in their own ways.

10/1
Arrived in St. Nazaire, France yesterday. The last of our historical Picton Castle tour stops. Our ship took part in the Allied raid here during WWII, in the effort to destroy the German dry-docks used for maintaining their big warships like the Bismarck. She also participated in D-Day, and was the liberator of Norway, being the first allied vessel into Bergen after Nazi occupation. This ship has rich history, and it’s been a special homecoming tour to say the least.

The North Sea, A Sister, Camera Reclaimed

2008-09-14T13:32:00.000-07:00

9/2
Anchored, waiting out yet another nasty North Sea gale that has interrupted our passage from Bremerhaven, Germany to Ipswitch, England. This is nearly exactly the same place we took shelter in our passage to Den Helder. As we push deeper into autumn, these gales become increasingly familiar.

The Bremerhaven Tall Ships festival went well enough. Lots of people, lots of vendors, and a pretty good time, too. The crowd was funny. Most seemed more interested, nearly obsessed actually, with getting their festival booklet stamped by all the ships than actually seeing the ships. People were vicious about it. I had one grown woman hip-check a kid who couldn’t have been older than six in order to get her stamp first. And if the stampery was less than pristine, Good Lord help you because those people cast the devil on your soul with their scowls.

My sister, Katherine, was able to join us for the weekend, which was far and away the highlight of my time in Germany. She is in Brussels studying abroad for the semester, and serving as an economics intern at the EU headquarters. Accompanying her were two schoolmates, all staying aboard for a good taste of what Tall Ships festivals are like, and a little glimpse of why I love calling Picton Castle home as well, although, since they didn’t go to sea with us, there was only so much to show.
Saturday night we had one last Picton Castle Tall Ships bash, inviting our friends from the crews of the other ships. We were on the brink of falling into a comfortable pattern with these things, mingle, reggae, mingle, reggae, dance, dance, fireworks, crazy dance, cakewalk, purple, reggae wind down, party over. Then came the musicians from Shebab Oman, the flagship and military training ship of Oman. They brought with them native drums, and a set of bagpipes (adopted during the British occupation of Oman). The band fired up and played a type of bagpipe music I’ve never heard, with exotic Arabian strains replacing the familiar highland tunes I’m used to, drums thumping and driving it along. Nadja and I jumped on the hatch, started dancing, and soon the hatch was full of people, Dutch, Scandanavian, French, American, German, and of course Omanian, dancing, jumping and cheering, the three musicians in blue turbans bestowing Picton Castle with yet another exercise in just how surreal the real can be. I’ve had more of these moments since going to sea than in my entire life before.
The next day I said goodbye to Katherine and her friends, and we geared up to get underway, though we were delayed a day due to the bottleneck of traffic trying to get in and out of the small harbor, and the silly way of handling/not handling it.

9/10
Alongside in Ipswitch. We’re delayed again due to a gale that is making its way east along the English Channel. It would be pointless to try and push against it. In shallow water like this, any wind at all pushes the seas up into nasty little two meter spikes of water, and it is neither fun nor easy to steam into. We’ll save some fuel, and probably a few lunches as well instead.

The gales that had us pinned for nearly three days at anchor off the Netherlands last week, ended up delaying us a day on our arrival to Ipswitch. Fortuantely we arrived in time for the mayor’s reception aboard, where he bestowed honors on the Captain and the ship, who, in his resurrection of her in 1993, stayed here nearly six months while repairing, fundraising and (surprise) waiting out gales. In their time here they made a lot of friends.

One of those friends is the knot master, Des Pawson. He’s published books on knots and ropework, and is one of the best knot-tiers on the planet. He had us over to his house yesterday where he runs a small ropework museum, and has a workshop where he makes all sorts of things out of rope and sells them for a living. I found my camera, thankfully. It had been misplaced in a shipmate’s backpack during the basketball tournament in Bergen. Some photos from the passage through the fjord to Bergen:

Tall Ships

2008-08-27T04:54:00.001-07:00

8/11
I’m exhausted. We’re winding down the first of our three Tall Ship festivals here in Bergen There are scores of ships here from nearly as many countries. We and the Mexican naval training ship comprise the North American delegation, and there are ships here from South America, Russia and nearly every country in Europe. All that to-do about the international community seen in the Olympics is common place for sailors, and was even more so when the age of sail was at its peak.

Yesterday was packed, starting with a basketball tournament. Our delegation dominated at first, but ended up getting eliminated by a team from Poland in the quarter finals. Unfortunately, I lost my camera at the tournament, so pictures will be a bit tougher to come by. After basketball was a parade through town complete with marching bands, color guards, military dress whites, and then us, the Picton Castle crew: sarongs, pool toys, foul weather gear, topical shirts, flags from around the world, Polynesian drums, a shrunken head, a juggler, cakewalking and shippy marching formations through the rain in Bergen, and irritating the naval cadets from Uruguay.

Immediately afterwards was a crew party held in a fancy hall that started civilized enough, but put a few hundred sailors in a big room, give them free beer, and then expect them to go home at 2300? Please. Reality deserves more respect than that. As the party was officially ending the last remaining sailors (about 150 of us) were gathered around a table bellowing shanties as the wait-staff did all they could for an hour or so to politely remove us from the facility, before security came and finally succeeded, ushering the singing procession, us all the while hollering “Leave Her Johnny, Leave Her” down the stairs, out the doors and into the streets. There’s no one on the planet better suited for rowdy friends than sailors.

Today things are rainy and quiet. Every one is gearing up to get underway for the big race to Den Helder tomorrow. I spent my afternoon visiting old friends on the British Brig, Stavros Niarchos, shipmates and crew from my life changing trip in the 2004 Voyage of Understanding in the Prince William, her sister ship. It’s amazing how, in Bergen, Norway, on the other side of the planet, I find myself bumping into familiar faces on the street. This community of ships is a fantastic little world.

8/13
We’ve left Bergen, finally. We departed yesterday with the parade of sail but turned back before the race to Den Helder started because our shipmate and cat, Chibley, has been missing since Saturday. We’ve had all hands off-watch scouring the city and following every lead, which many sympathetic locals have been happy to offer. The whole town rallied to help. One man came running from dinner with his wife in a café across town to say that he’d just seen a little brown tabby with a blue collar. John and Marie checked, but it wasn’t our Chibley. We’ve had reporters all day coming and asking questions and taking photos. “Square rigger pulls out of tall ships race in search of ship’s cat.” The story spread through the Norwegian national news, and by the end of the day was international news.

Thankfully she was returned to us by the people who found her. They spotted her in an alley eating a cheeseburger Friday night and took her home. Then they saw her in the news and brought her back. We are glad to have her home, and she’s glad to be back. She’s been extremely affectionate since her return.

She’s a big part of the lore of the Picton Castle, having been aboard for all four world voyages. There would have been a lot of long faces for a long time had we not found her. The mood was grim yesterday as we cast off dock lines and took part in the parade without her.

8/15
Ghosting along in the North Sea. Headed South-southwest, steering full-and-by with a very light Southeasterly breeze, en route for Den Helder, Netherlands.

8/17
Ripping along all day. 150 nautical miles out. Force 5 wind. All sails set. Making seven knots. Then a nasty little squall popped up, and we doused all our canvas. Sam and I went up to stow the fore t’gallant, urged into haste by the thunder and lightning looming ahead of us. Safe and sound on deck, Sam, the younger brother of our 2nd mate, Paul, and one of the green (and fast-learning) hands aboard beamed, “That’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever done!” We like Sam.

8/19
Anchored just east of Den Helder. A nasty low has developed, and Captain decided yesterday to wait it out here, rather than motoring strait into it for another five or ten hours. No point in burning all those dinosaurs and covering so little ground.

8/27/
The Den Helder festival is over. The crew parade was an absolute blast, and we put on the best show for the huge crowds, but it was exhausting. We cakewalked and marched and swirled and through pretty much the entire town, the parade lasting an hour and a half. By the end of it we were all pooped. But it was a lot of fun. We even got a few rounds of applause from the onlookers after marching in formation of our yards and spanker, and then mimicking sail maneuvers.

The highlight of festival though was the party we hosted aboard our ship. All our friends from the other ships came and we had music blasting and people were dancing all over the decks, and then BOOMBOOMBOOM! and a thirty-minute fireworks show set off, to which we provided the musical accompaniment. After another hour of dancing, cakewalking, and Wearing Purple, we headed over for the next leg of the evening at the Norwegian ship, Sørlandet.

From there, a few of us headed over to see a ship in progress, the Tres Hombres. The people there are doing exciting things. They are building a brigantine specifically for fair-trade cargo. This is a new trend in the tall ships world, but it is building steam, and with our current energy situation, along with the growing demand for sustainable, eco-friendly means of living, sailing ships are being turned to as logical harbingers, and showing promise of once again dotting the horizon in the endless global trade of goods. The people at Tres Hombres have had such a positive response from prospective customers that they already need more ships, and they haven’t even finished the first one. They hope to add a ship to their fleet yearly.

Now we are here in Bermerhaven, Germany, for the last of our circuit of Tall Ships festivals. It should be a fun time, but what I am most excited for is the arrival of my little sister, Katherine, who is coming to visit the ship with some friends. I’ve never had anyone from my shoreside life come and see the Picton Castle before. It’s a special ship, with a first class culture on board, and I can’t wait to share it.

Things in Scandinavia are Expensive

2008-08-05T05:49:00.000-07:00

7/29
Anchored now in Mærstrand, Sweden, a beautiful little resort town, and a good decompression stop after Copenhagen.

I think Copenhagen may be one of the coolest cities I’ve ever seen. The people are friendly enough, but the city itself is a maze of squares and domes, spires and sculptures, cobblestone roads, and canals. It’s expensive too.

I saw Batman. I want to see it again and again and again. I was giddy and stupid beforehand, but I came out of the theatre with an ethereal inner glow of childish glee, having finally consummated what was one of the most thrilling, anticipated, and fulfilling movie watching experiences in my entire life. I went to the Imperial Theatre in Copenhagen, paid 105 kronor ($21), and sat down in front of the biggest screen in Scandinavia.

In the afternoon Sailmaker Buddy and I went for a walk around Christiana, one of the last havens of the free-love movement left over from the 60’s. Nestled right in town, some hippie squatters took over an abandoned military base and set up a commune, independent of the Danish government, where they live for free, grow their own veggies, make artwork, paint trees and rocks and stuff, and make money off of tourists.

The main town felt like little more than a hippie theme park set up for curious oustiders, so Buddy and I took to the trails and walked back into the compound and among the very quaint if eccentric dwellings nestled along the river bank. It’s nice that they can have their place to live their unoffending, tax-free, hippie lifestyles, but they really don’t do a whole lot of good either, just maintaining their neutral existence. I think I would have really dug it when I was in high school, but it’s not really my scene anymore. It was cool to see it though. Apparently its days are numbered, as the Danish government wants to take control of it and get tax money off the real estate and the commerce, such as it is.

The next day I got up early and took the train out to Helsingør to see the famous castle Kronborg, the setting of Shakespeare’s play Hamlet. Tours of the castle were outside my budget, but I managed to get inside and have a walk around where I could.

That's Sweden on the other side of the sound. Those cannons have been pointed there for a very long time.
In the evening I met up with a familiar face, Annalisa, who used to babysit us Rogers offspring way back whenin Kansas City. Now she’s a big time business woman in Copenhagen with a Danish husband, Gustav. We went to Tivoli, the famous old amusement park in the middle of downtown, rode all the rides, talked about what we were doing these days, and marveled at our circumstances. I love how life brings people together in unexpected ways.
So now we’ve made our little detour here in Sweden, and it’s proved to be well timed. We aren’t staying for long, just two days, but it’s nice to be in a place where things are so leisurely after the week in the big city, which was beginning to get overwhelming and expensive.

On my day off, Mike and Nadja and I hiked up to an old fort from the 1600’s, we ducked inside with a tour group, and then split off and explored the inside on our own, ducking through dank underground tunnels, up shadowy stone staircases, peeking into old torture chambers, and occasionally finding ourselves on an elevated grassy terrace overlooking the rugged coast, blue water, and our lovely little barque. After our tour of the castle we, went and sat on a rock at the water, swam a bit, napped a bit, drank some beers, and watched clouds. A good way to spend the day.

7/31
In Norwegian waters headed for Christiansand, a quiet, ghosting sail, running before the wind under all squares. We’ve been bending on more sails in preparation for the upcoming tall ships race from Bergen to Den Helder. The flying jib, main t’gallant stays’l, with the gaff tops’l on the way soon – the kites. We may put something up on one of the mizzen stays too.
Last night we saw a comet or meteor or something in the sky. A bright turquoise streak went burning over our starboard side just past the fore shrouds. I don’t know if it was imagination or not, but a few of us swear we could hear it crackling. I’ve seen something like that once before, in Dominica, but it was dark orange.

Tonight there was a fishing party on the aloha deck, as Luke, Nate, Sam, and Wild Bill were putting out trawling lines. Wild Bill hooked a mackerel almost the instant he put his line in, and his second one came just as fast. No one was really surprised though. It’s just how things work when you’re Wild Bill. The end total was 24 for the group. Donald cooked them up the next day.

The sky never really gets dark here, even at midnight. There’s always an orange glow on the horizon.

Chibley is going crazy tonight. She’s climbing the mast, howling. Sometimes she gets goofy.

8/5
Alongside in Stavanger, Norway, home of none other than Lead Seaman Kjetil “Shackle” Dimmen. I am thrilled to be here. Shackle is one of my favorite people. It was him and me for most of this winter, doing the maintenance on the rig and taking care of the ship, and he became a good friend of mine. There’s really no one else on this planet quite like him. He’s unanimously regarded as weird by the rest of us, and has a sense of humor that is a mixture of Monty Python, and that bizarre uncle you have who smells kind of funny and says things that make your parents roll their eyes and change the subject.
Classic Shackle remark:
In describing for Mike the impressive beauty of a woman he’d noticed, he said, “On a scale of English to Norwegian…she was Swedish."

Today we sent down the main t’gallant for repairs and bent on the gaff tops’l.

Stavanger makes Copenhagen look like Budget City. One beer costs $20 U.S. I’ll pass.

How Things Are In Denmark

2008-07-23T12:03:00.000-07:00

7/22
We’ve made it to Copenhagen. We stopped for the weekend in the small coastal town of Korsør, where a traditional wooden boat festival was taking place, with a race around the island yesterday morning as the capstone event. We were invited to attend and serve in the race as pace car, so to speak.

One of the ships there was the sleek white German pilot schooner, Elba 5, more famously known as Wander Bird, the vessel Captain Irving Johnson took around Cape Horn and all over the globe as he pioneered modern sail training in North America. He was the Father Abraham for people like us, and this was his ship where it started. She is slick too. Raked masts, a sharp nearly-plumb bow, roomy below decks, and a dry, tight wooden hull; she was built for North Sea piloting, to sail fast and sound in all conditions.

We led the start of the race, the wooden ships went their course, and we continued on for Copenhagen, arriving noon today.
The city is littered with ice cream shops and I made several inquiries, all with successful results. After dinner, Kolin and I crossed paths and continued our tromp of the city with the hopes of finding some live music, preferably jazz. More success: We found a little basement pub nestled in one of the many city squares where a Dixieland trio was playing, led by a stellar clarinet.

He and I hunkered down there for the rest of the evening, talking, listening to music, and being talked at by a couple of drunk locals. One man started out useful enough offering tourism advice, but he quickly avalanched into lots of talk with little point.

“You know the Danes cut down all their trees to build the ships, so the government commissioned people to plant more trees and then let them know when the trees were ready, and in 1971, they called the government and said, ‘Your trees are ready now.’” He talked like this from the time he sat down until we left, about two hours later (he followed us out the door). I by-and-largely ignored him, preferring the band, but he had Kolin’s ear snared the whole time.

The local I had to deal with, though not so long winded, was equally cumbersome. He was wearing camouflage cargo pants and a satin, Hawaiian-print shirt. About every 20 minutes he would come up to me, clamp his hand on my shoulder or around the back of my neck, put his face eight inches away from mine and shout, “It’s queer week this week you know! You don’t have to be homo to go, just kind of for weird or different people, witches and homos and lesbios and stuff. You don’t have to be a homo. It’s not just for homos. It’s queer week!” He seemed really concerned that I get the message about participating in queer week.

I’ve been told I look gay before, but never was it declared with as much fervor. I don’t know if I should feel complimented or look for a new wardrobe, though being a single man hitting the streets Copenhagen and shopping for a new wardrobe is not the best first step in any attempts to solidify a heterosexual image. So I look gay sometimes. Oh well. Bruce just says I look “very Danish.”

7/23
The new Batman movie comes out in Denmark today. I am on duty. I have to wait another day. So it goes. I’ve waited about a year already anyway. I can’t remember the last time I was this excited about a new movie.

I had a nightmare last night, the kind only sailors can have. In my dream I awoke bleary eyed, having overslept. The focsle was empty. Coming on deck I looked up aloft and saw Mike, the Chief mate, on the main yards with the rest of the crew shaking out every sail, which I had furled just the day before, and re-furling them because my job had been so poor. It was horrible. A sailor takes pride in his harbor furls. Thankfully, it was just a dream.

I had a good work day today. Spent most of it in the shrouds replacing busted ratlines. The weather has been fantastic. There aren’t many places better than Denmark in the summer.

Another ice cream cone after dinner.

(I’m going to see Batman tomorrow)

Eastward

2008-07-17T06:39:00.000-07:00

7/10
Bound for Denmark. The weather is sunny and warm, wind and current are fair, and we are crossing the North Sea, coming around the Netherlands and headed for the Kiel Canal.
David, one of the trainees aptly assessed our favorable weather: “I think we’ve earned it.” At every port so far we’ve been delayed departing by bad weather, and Brixham, England, our last port, was the worst of it so far. We planned on only staying two days, and ended up staying nearly a week as the weather never let up until Tuesday, when we finally had enough of a window to escape into the English Channel. Yesterday, Wednesday, was squally and nasty, but the winds and current were cooperating and we made very good time, shooting past the famous white cliffs of Dover, through the Dover straits, catching a brief glimpse of France, and skating alongside the busy traffic lanes of the English Channel.

We had a good time in England, but everyone seemed thankful to be back at sea again.
My first day off in Brixham I went on an excursion with trainees W.T., Wild Bill, and master cook Donald. We rented a car and drove along the coast to the village of Salcomb. Nestled in a cove there is a famous shipwreck of one of the last working commercial square riggers. It had gone aground outbound from Falmouth, after having just finished a circumnavigation.
In an effort to salvage the vessel and its cargo it was towed into this cove, but unfortunately she broke her back on the sand and was lost.

The wreck site

We arrived at low tide when conditions would be best for sighting the wreck, but there’s not much left to see. The ship was made of steel, and the decades in salt water have all but disintegrated her, leaving behind only a shadow of seaweed growing on what little there was left.
But we had a great day anyhow. It was a fantastic hike up to the cliff overlooking the cove, and the drive through the countryside was beautiful. England and Ireland have some of the prettiest countryside I’ve ever seen. We had an absolute blast all day. We stopped into a little local pub in Salcomb, and Bill, W.T. and Donald chatted up the locals and boasted about the ship and sold it like true square rigger evangelists.

Wild Bill on the hike up the cliff.

Donald taking in the view.

W.T., Donald and me atop the cliff in Salcomb.

My next day out was just as good. Susie, Mike, Nadja and I hopped on an old-timey steam train to Dartmouth. Our train car was filled with mostly little kids, but we blended in without too much trouble.

Nadja, Susie, and me with the train. (Mike took the picture)

We spent the rest of the day in Dartmouth exploring book stores, old alleyways, and then ducked out of the rain into an ancient English pub with smoky wooden beams and white washed plaster walls and some of the best draught cider I’ve ever had.

The pub

Before leaving Brixham, hunkered down one more day by a threatening gale, we rigged up a swing rope and had a swim call. It was cold, but worth it. How I have missed the swing rope.

Bosun Kolin makes ready the swing rope.

Deckhand Sara, and trainees Jackie and Luke jump off the jibboom.

All of us frigid, questioning the wisdom of our Brixham swimcall.

7/13
Docked briefly in Kiel, Germany after passing through the canal. Kiel was a beautiful city, with a lot of history. Originally chartered in 1242, very little of it remains as its location made it an ideal naval base for the German forces, and an equally prime target in WWII, hit by over 90 bombing raids.

Kolin takes his trick at helm in the Kiel Canal.

We only spent a day there before throwing off docklines and making our way out into the Baltic Sea for the short skip up to Svendborg, Denmark.

7/16
Landed in Denmark. Home of Legoland and Hamlet. Had all of yesterday off. The captain has insisted that we all get some extra time ashore to explore here, as it has a lot of fantastic seafaring tradition, and was a significant training ground for him in his career.

In Svendborg is the Ring Anderson Shipyard, one of the last remaining in the world that still builds wooden ships. It is where the famous brigantine Romance was built, a ship in which the Captain served as crew as did my uncle Bert.

The yard is closed for the season, but we were still able to walk around and peek our heads into the work bays and explore the docks, loaded with all kinds of cool old wooden vessels.
I really like Denmark. It’s clean, the architecture is fantastic, with old wood-framed buildings still standing and housing modern shops and apartments. There isn’t too much traffic, the people are friendly, and the atmosphere is low key, and even when the streets are crowded with people there is still a calmness about things; it feels very civilized here, very comfortable. But the people here still know how to have a good time.

Last night we all collected at a local pub where the live entertainment was a blues guitar maestroed by a man with a voice like Eric Clapton plus a Danish accent.

Our day work has been mostly little projects here and there: replacing broken ratlines, staying on top of rust, keeping the paint and varnished wood looking bright, just general maintenance. The ship’s really been great to us so far, and we are working hard to keep her looking and functioning at her peak level. Even the engine room received a fresh coat of paint, and some brass polish to boot.

Falmouth For Orders

2008-07-01T02:16:00.001-07:00

6/25
Here we are tied up in Cobh, a beautiful town outside of Cork, one of the largest cities in Ireland. The ship is docked alongside the same quay where the final passengers loaded the Titanic nearly a century ago. As we sailed into the harbo(u)r under full canvas, crossing between two forts left over from the world war, and along the waterfront of the town nestled into the hillside, the bell tower of the immense cathedral chimed four, and people lined the docks, waving and cheering. Ireland really has been a bit of a dreamland stop.

We had a great time in out first port, Baltimore. Our stay was extended a few extra days because a gale stopped by, reaching a force 9, but it gave us some more time for getting the ship into sparkling shape, and getting familiar with the locals. Someone dug out a newspaper clipping from the Picton Castle’s past life reporting that she had ducked into this very same harbor so many years ago to weather a storm, and others told about family members who had sailed in her in those days of trawling and freighting. Our final two nights in Baltimore we were cozied up in Bushes bar with guitars and drums, fiddles and accordions, singing old tunes and falling into that sublime warmth that so often comes with good friends.

6/26
I think yesterday might have been one of the best days I’ve had in a very long time – and I’ve had some unbelievable days lately. I rented a hotel room on a hill facing out onto the cathedral and over the harbor, and woke up this morning slowly in my great big bed, the sunshine coming over me and church bells ringing. Then it was a walk into town for a nice Irish breakfast, a stop in to pick up my clean laundry, and a train ride into Cork to hang out with Mike, Susie, and Chris.

In Cork we ducked into a dingy pub that was plastered with old movie and concert posters, and bills for local acts all over. The downstairs area was all booths and tables, pretty generic seating options, but the upstairs was old dining room tables, dentists’ chairs, lawn furniture, and all sorts of ways to sit. There were more of the music posters all with names revealing this place as a familiar home of good times and cool scenes.

From there I wandered off by myself and into a music shop and pretended for a while that I was going to buy an instrument. I looked at accordions, guitars, banjos, and mandolins, and then said to the woman behind the counter, “Now what I really want is a melodica,” (which is true). They didn’t have any, and I doubt I would’ve bought one anyhow, but it was fun to look and play all the nice guitars.

We headed into downtown and found a Mexican restaurant. It felt a bit strange being in a Mexican restaurant in Ireland, but it appealed to us, so we went on in. It was pretty good, though it was definitely not like most places back in the states. Margaritas were eight Euros, and about as many ounces as well. The jalapenos were hot though, so I was happy anyways.

The next stop for us was the old Jameson distillery in Midleton, just a short cab ride from Cork. They had been distilling the famous Irish whiskey there in the old casks and copper pot stills for generations, before moving to more modern facilities in 1975. Besides an over-the-top cheese ball video at the beginning, the tour was great. The distillery was a stone compound of buildings looking like they could have doubled as a military base if needed. The mill stones and most of the power in the facility were driven by a massive water wheel, 22 feet in diameter.

One of the things that distinguishes Irish whiskey from other whiskies is the distillation process, Irish whiskey being distilled three times, Scotch twice, and American once, and the first stage pot-still at the old Jameson distillery is the largest one in the world. At the end of the tour was a taste testing where the guide provided us with a sample of Jameson’s generic seven year-old brew, Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch, and Jack Daniels’ American whiskey. This was followed with the obligatory, “Which do you like best?” To which we responded with the obligatory, “Jameson, of course.” We then were bestowed with whisky tasting certificates. It’s rewarding to finally be officially recognized.

At our table we sat with the pilot, co-pilot, and stewardess of the private plane owned by Jay-Z, who is touring Europe right now. They assured us that Jay-Z and Beyonce are very nice, down to earth people.

That evening back in Cobh we went to a nice little restaurant for dinner, and, guitar in hand, hiked up past the cathedral to a fantastic little Irish pub called the Roaring Donkey where there was the promise of live music. The band was there and, after some encouragement from my peers and a pint, I picked up my guitar and asked if I could join in. They invited me into their session, and I achieved instant nirvana, spending the rest of the night in that cozy Irish pub, playing Irish tunes with an Irish band, guitars, flutes, banjo, bodhran, and some weird elbow-bag-pipe-thing, all with a stupid grin plastered across my face, and every so often a hand would reach over and put a fresh pint in front of me. When the banjo player started the first measures of one of my favorite tunes, “Dirty Old Town,” my euphoria spiked and I just laughed and sang and at that moment was as happy as I think might be possible.

And I even got to impress them, which was a nice surprise, because they were a legitimate band and very good musicians. But they asked me if I knew any songs, and I said I did and played “I Will Follow You Into the Dark,” by Death Cab for Cutie, and they all cheered and asked what the song was and said it was lovely. We played all night long (Irish songs aren’t too difficult to strum along with on guitar, just three or four or five different chords), until finally the place was nearly deserted, and I was sitting in the corner by myself, strumming and humming away. The bartender sat down next to me and said smiling, “Please, son, you need to leave now.” Last night will always be one of my favorite memories.

6/27
Bound for Falmouth, UK. Thick fog. 188 miles away. Should be there tomorrow night.

6/30
Arrived in Falmouth safe and sound. I’ve been on duty pretty much since our arrival and haven’t really had a chance to explore the town yet, but it is a town rich in square rigger history. This is where ships would come for orders after picking up cargo in Australia. Falmouth for orders, as they said in those days. Ships would come to Falmouth, drop anchor, and a pilot boat would cruise out and deliver word from the company as to which port the ship would find the best prices for their cargo. Picton Castle most likely has been here many times before, but this is her first time here as a barque, and her first time here as a part of those famous lines.

As we sailed in onto the hook, we were escorted by the Matthew, a replica of John Cabot’s ship. She shot her guns and we tooted our horn, and locals were buzzing around in boats of their own as well. It was a cheery little impromptu parade we had.

7/1

Hanging out in Falmouth For Orders on my birthday. Had breakfast this morning at a little cafe tucked away in an old stone horse stall, apparently one of the oldest structures in the city. At the table next to me sat the manager and his crew, an old thin man with shaved head and big blue goatee, a tattoo of a flaming turqoise skull on his bicep. He told me about spending 1968-1971 in San Francisco, and being a roadie for Fleetwood Mac. Very friendly little place.
Tonight, for my 25th birthday, I will probably take it easy. Probably not.

Atlantic Crossing, Bound for Ireland

2008-06-20T00:56:00.000-07:00

5/20
My AB card came in the mail today. That was a happy surprise. I had resigned myself to disappointment, and by and large forgotten about the whole thing, when an envelope from the U.S. Coast guard is handed to me and, voila, question answered. Thankfully it was the good kind of answer.

We are staying here in Lunenburg a bit longer, delayed till Saturday. There is a string of gales coming up from the coastal States. It would not be the right foot for starting a voyage, especially with so much green crew. Everyone is excited.

These last few days before our departure have been surreal. It’s hard to believe, after all winter, and all the work we’ve done, that we are so close to departure. These few extra days will be great for spending some more quality time with beloved friends and former shipmates here to visit and see us off. It will be hard to leave them behind, and hard for them to watch us go, no doubt too.

5/23
It’s my last night in Lunenburg – I can’t believe it. It’s been some kind of winter; it’s been a fantastic winter. I really wasn’t sure what to expect when I came here in October, but I’ve learned so much and had so much fun, and grown so close to the people here that now, a few hours away from this highly anticipated departure, I find the whole thing fairly bittersweet.
We celebrated our last night at the Grand Banker, and then on the dock, a long round of tearful hugs and kisses goodbye from Picton Castle family who won’t be leaving with us tomorrow. “Start wearing purple! Shanananana!”
And then we’re gone for a year. I’ve never been to sea for a solid year before. I can’t even imagine how I will grow, how things will change, and what will stay the same by the time we are headed back into this same harbor next year.The focsle is buzzing with energy, like a room full of kids on Christmas Eve. It’s a clear, mild night, and in the morning we embark across the ocean. Next stop: Ireland.

5/24
Set sail, bound for Cork. The mayor of Lunenburg came aboard this morning and blessed the ship, her crew, and the voyage, and then after the ceremony, we began to get underway. As hands went up to loose sail, Stephanie, Finn, and Amanda rowed out in a dory. As we hauled back the anchor, they circled around us, yelling and cheering and sending us love. Then Bluenose II joined us and saw us off as we passed the breakwater at Battery Point and on out to the ovens, cliff caves just outside the harbor. Bluenose II’s second mate, Zander, led the crew in cakewalking around the schooner’s deck. All spring we’d been calkwalking in to town. Today we were cakewalked out of town. They have a good crew there for the summer. We look forward to seeing them all again soon.

The Ovens, caves in the cliffs outside Lunenburg.

It’s a sunny day, puffy clouds, nice s’westerly breeze, and we are sailing southeast to catch the bottom of the jet stream. The engine’s off; we’re doing four knots.

Lost sight of land just after dinner tonight. Won’t see the stuff again till Ireland.

The trainee crew is very well trained already. We’ve been doing safety drills every day for the past two weeks. Most everyone already knew not only their knots, but eyesplices and whippings as well before we even left the dock. There were almost no hiccups in setting sail and getting underway, a very relaxed and comfortable feel without the atmosphere of controlled chaos that is typical of first days at sea with new crew.

Trainee W.T. on forward lookout

5/26
Sailing along, continuing across the Atlantic bound for Ireland. Conditions are perfect. Sunny, crisp, clear, and a freshening wind kicking up scattered whitecaps and registering a solid force four on the Beaufort scale. If Beethoven had his fifth, then Beaufort has his fourth. Making six knots, which isn’t super fast, but it’s a very happy speed for this little barque.

We’ve been on the same tack for nearly two days now. It’s been like tradewind sailing, but we aren’t in the trades at all, just chasing the bottom edge of a string of low pressure systems coming off the continental states. Let’s hope for more fair winds.

5/28
Weather’s turned slightly snotty this afternoon. It’s nothing very dramatic, but the winds have picked up, and the swells, which have been increasing in size the past few days, are pushing eight feet easy. Not too bad, but still nice and lumpy. We’d been running dead down wind which causes the ship to roll more, and with every really good roll you could hear the people on scullery duty yelp as they dodged the crashing pots and pans that had suddenly taken flight. Towards the end of our watch the wind shifted northerly, and we braced up sharp, greatly reducing our side to side motion and simplifying the work of after-dinner clean-up.

At one point on watch tonight we had a sail handling frenzy, as the chief mate, Mike, shouted commands from the bridge and we all scurried around the deck to haul or cast-off the appropriate lines. There has been noticeable improvement with each sail handling evolution, and the learning curve continued its upward path as the crew handled the lines quickly and safely, and the job was done smartly. Striking this, bracing that, then resetting some and up and stow!

Afterwards I made my way up to the quarterdeck to coil and hang the main braces, and was just about to say to Mike, “That was fun!” before he grinned at me and said, “That was fun!” I concurred.

5/29
During deckwash this morning I went to pick up what I thought was a glob of seaweed that had been washed aboard under the smoker’s bench on the well deck. Instead what I got was a fistful of soggy dead bird. One of the ship’s cat, Chibley’s, victims no doubt. Not a nice thing at 0630.

5/30
Wind went light early this morning. There was talk of setting the deis’l and motoring a while, but thankfully the wind perked back up a few hours into a nice15-knot westerly. A weak low-pressure system has finally passed over us, and now we are catching the top edge of the incoming high.
We’ve been learning a lot here, and improving daily, and of all the learning that’s been going on, some of the most fascinating has been the lessons in weather analysis, both in weather faxes and studying the sky overhead, and then how the ship’s adapts to the observations and predictions. One of the most basic fundamentals of this process is the direction the systems rotate, low pressure systems rotating counterclockwise, and highs clockwise. The way we catch these winds is very much like surfing wherein we want to ride on the northern edge of the highs, and the southern edge of lows for fair winds in our passage east across the North Atlantic. So far it has been going well, and today, as the high moved in and the winds shifted from northwesterly to southwesterly, the skies cleared and the air warmed up enough that people could shed layers and walk around barefoot. It feels good padding around the sunny deck without shoes, feels natural.
And after our 4pm-8pm watch I sat on the Aloha deck with Bruce and a bowl of cereal and watched the sun set behind us, the high wispy clouds turning to steel as the blushing tangerine glow skirted away, drawn slowly behind in the ceaseless parade of fire westward. Though we’ve only been gone a week, the voyage so far has been fantastic, due in no small part to the quick camaraderie and fast learning of the hands aboard

6/2
Bent on the fore royal this morning. We were preparing to bend on the main, but the weather got too snotty, and Captain told us to wait.
Mike and I spliced on new braces for the fore royal yard, but in order to do that, the old ones had to be taken off. We lashed the yard to the royal backstay, but it was still awfully loose. We took turns helping to hold the yard steady for each other, as we laid out on the yard arms to unshackle or reshackle the braces, but even still, it swung around a lot. I didn’t notice it at first, but at one point when I was wrestling with the shackle I looked down and saw the whole ship seesawing back and forth, 90 feet beneath me. For an instant it was a little alarming, but then I figured I was fine before I noticed it and nothing had changed otherwise, so I finished the job and slid inboard to the mast to do the splice. Pretty fun, really.

6/3
I think I need to stop eating so much whole grain cereal.

6/4
Stowed the fore royal. I’d forgotten how much I love the royals. Best view on the ship, and the sail is so easy I had it halfway finished before I even realized.

6/5
Spent the day playing in the rig with the other watches in lieu of my usual after breakfast nap. There was a lot of rigging work to do today, the Bosun said, and I was happy to lend a hand.

Susie and Shackle replacing the port main upper tops'l brace

Since we’re only a couple weeks out to sea, most of the rigging work is still done by pro crew.
Being of the 4-8 watch, we really don’t do a whole lot of day work like the 8-12 and 12-4, so it was a lot of fun to stay up and work. Usually we clean up at the end of the day, maybe wrap up a couple projects, and keep the ship clean with deckwash and an after dinner galley scrub.
During the day, with all our coils of rope splayed about on the hatch, with the main royal being prepped for bending on, Nobby, the chief engineer had himself a nap in the midst of all the deck stuff, the stuff of “damned rope pullers” as he lovingly calls us. It’s been a dream passage so far as we work across the North Atlantic, but when the chief engineer’s sawing logs on some sunny manila, you know the sailing is good.

This afternoon, after working on the various rigging projects, I had a little time to lay down and get a nap before my next watch, but a happy interruption came: first a loud cry of ahhs and wows from on deck, and then Erin, a trainee, ran into the focsle and shouted, “Killer whales! Starboard beam!” I jumped out of my bunk and scurried on deck and sure enough, there they were gliding right along next to us, two shadows under the surface twenty or thirty feet away, one big, the other bigger. They sounded, catapulting their glossy black faces with white jaws and famous white marks over their eyes into clear view. I was ecstatic. Every since I’ve known about these creatures, my imagination’s been captivated. I’ve seen some in tanks at Sea World, but always dreamed of seeing one up close and personal in the wild. Wild, intelligent, and sleek, these hunters share the same aspects of awe as the sea, with their frightening power and singularly entrancing beauty, they should be feared, marveled at, and experienced. There’s a reason people worshiped these things.

6/9
Turned Northwards for Ireland yesterday. We came within 30 knots of the Azores. Captain didn’t plan on coming this far south, but a strong low has been following us and we’ve been racing to stay on the right side of it.
Dolphins have accompanied us nearly every day, and yesterday a sperm whale was sighted. Captain said he hadn’t seen one in ten years.
Yesterday we had a kite flying contest, with kites made from junk in our bunks or wherever (just no ship’s supplies!). Mine was an old plastic shopping bag cut in half with a stick as a spanner to hold it open. It worked OK, but the wind kept catching the edge and it would briefly collapse, and dive-bomb all the other contestants’.

6/11
I hope they have Snickers bars in Ireland.

6/13
We’re motoring tonight, trying to get out from under a low that is forming over us.
I got a haircut today. It feels good. I liked having long hair, but it was starting to drive me crazy, always being in my face and tangling up and generally feeling gross. Nikki, one of the trainees, is a professional hairdresser and did a really nice job. I almost never like haircuts right afterwards, but I was pleased with this one.
New haircut, shaved a couple days later. I may need to dust off the photo I.D. again for shore leave.

6/15
We’ve hove-to, and are sitting at about 50 degrees North, a few hundred miles out from Ireland. We’d been steaming ahead for the past day to avoid the low forming on top of us, but it’s here, and now we’re bobbing in the ocean, in force 6 conditions, waiting for it to hit and pass. The wind and seas are coming straight on our nose, so we would be burning fuel and wasting time trying to push through it.
--
The winds have shifted. We wore ship and are now sailing on a port tack. We’d been riding the fair winds on a starboard tack for nearly three weeks, the entire way East, and then on our turn Northward, until this low formed overhead and forced us to do weird stuff like sail handling.

6/16
We saw a big pod of pilot whales today. They looked like living submarines.

6/17
Here we are nearing Ireland, the swells building and rising, breaking beneath us, and pushing landward. We have crossed the Atlantic, seeing the ocean it at its best and avoiding its worst, all by the hand of our ship’s master.
And now Ireland emerges on the horizon, first a shadow of mass shrouded in haze. Then, as we approach, the famous rugged cliffs and green hills appear – it really is so green! All are smiling, a bit giddy. Since I’ve known about Ireland I’ve wanted to come here, and I can’t think of a better way to do it. Seeing a new place come over the horizon for the first time is by far the best way to visit the world, way better than first setting eyes on new land at an airport terminal.

6/18
My first day in Ireland. Stereotypes are generally regarded as negative things, but today every stereotype I’ve held about Ireland has been blissfully confirmed. The green hills, the ruins, the little coastal town with three little cozy pubs, and the Guinness really is better here. After landing ashore in Baltimore and doing some quick online work, we got some lunch and relaxation time at Bushe, our patron pub. Then Chris, the chief engineer, Susie, a trainee, and I went for a hike up the hill. We were looking for some shipmates, but kept going, and then decided to make our way up to the ruins way up atop a cliff by the shore.
We crossed big fields of tall grasses and wildflowers, discovering another ruined house along the way, saw ponies, bulls and cows, I was zapped by an electrified cattle fence, Susie fell into a patch of bush over her head, and we had to figure out how to cross a gorge, but eventually we made it, and were rewarded with a stunning view of the countryside, the ship, and the ancient fort.
From there, after our three hour detour through the countryside, we met back up with our friends and ducked back into Bushe for dinner, a recounting of our adventures, beers, and just generally relaxed, talked, and enjoyed a stellar first day in Ireland.

Made this slide show of the first day in Ireland.

The song I put on crapped out, so put on your own soundtrack.

Coming Togethers

2008-05-17T10:49:00.001-07:00

4/27
Finn’s Prom = Huge success. He knew we were throwing him a party in honor of getting his GED, but he had no idea of the scale. He thought it was just going to be a few people getting rowdy at someone’s house. He was wrong. Amanda and Maggie spent the better part of two days fixing up the Lunenburg fire hall, which we had rented for the night.

At 7:30 on the dot, the boys, decked out in thrift-store formals, grabbed Finn and threw him into the back of First Mate Mike’s truck. The inside had been overhauled with blankets, votives, Christmas lights, champagne on ice, and the one and only Katie Baker, Finn’s Picton Castle soul mate flown in for the night. He didn’t have a clue. He told me later he cried a little, but Katie didn’t notice. They sat in the truck and caught up while Kolin chaufferred, taking a round-a-bout way to the fire hall. The windows were blacked out, and Kolin drove for half an hour, so by the time they arrived at the hall Finn had no idea where they were. He and Katie made their grand entrance, the crowd of nearly 100 people cheered, and a few more old shipmates popped out of a giant gift box. Full sound system, computerized concert lighting, fog machine, dancing till 2.
It was perfect. A top-notch celebration of a top-notch friend working to continue his education and push on in his career as a mariner.

Katie and Finn, the grand entrance, cheering friends. Finn and the CaptainEric and me playing DJ and taking a breatherStart wearing purple wearing purple...
So when this Gogol Bordello song comes on (which it does at every party) Finn and I go nuts and dance around like Fiddler on the Roof + Alice Cooper. Some people freak out, most embrace it and join in.
And as for sailing work, we’re flying. Eric, my good friend and shipmate from Gamage this summer, has been here for up-rig, and has been a huge help. Last week we completed some key rigging tasks, sending up the royal yards and the fore t’gallant, and all the braces and halyards. The main t’gallant is under construction.

5/2
Dave Westergard, master boatbuilder, has finished the main t’gallant yard, and today we sent it up. It was the first rigging work I’ve done in three days. That may not sound like a long time, but I’ve been down in the engine room with Finn and Nobby drilling and tapping holes in the steel bulkhead for hanging new wire and fuel lines. It’s important work to do, and I’ve learned a lot, but I was suffering from acute aloft withdrawal.

All four deckhands were aloft for the procedure, and it went like clockwork. We worked together well. We all knew what to do, and we crossed the yard smoothly and safely. Job well done. And for all the sailor talk that was going on, much of it was in the language of inside jokes between friends, which we all are. It was only a short while aloft, but carried the promised of a tight team and a year of strong seamanship. We all feel it, and it’s why we have so much fun.
Kolin and Eric lash up the new main t'gallant yardMike cross checks everything"On the capstain, heave around!" (that's Shawn there)The yard comes up. Me, Nadja, Kolin aloft to guide it Bosun Kolin, the first one ever to lay out on our brand new yard, finished up the foot rope stirrup lashing.

5/3
Today, after unloading the cargo hold and organizing the contents on the dock, we broke for lunch. I went up and lay myself down on the fo’c’sle head deck, warm from the high-sunny day. The noon sun reflected off the harbor water, scattering wavelets of light on the yards. The whole rig glowed like it was alive, a weird, warm, electric energy. It seems like most days lately feel like this. The trainees are gathering. We have almost a full ship’s compliment now. Lots of new faces buzzing in the main salon.

Tonight we have a dockside barbecue with the Bluenose II crew, and the captain will be presenting them with them with fids adorned with Balinese carvings. It’s important for us to bond and share together. Both ships do very different things, but in our own unique ways we each bring great value and service to the tall ship community, and its place in the relevancy of the public consciousness – something that is in great flux today in the time of more modern commercial seafaring.

5/14
This might have been one of the most significant days in my time with the Picton Castle. In the wake of the tragedy in December, 2006 when one of Picton Castle’s crew was lost in a storm, the ship has been under extraordinary scrutiny, and making extensive improvements, all appropriate to any vessel in which a fatality is suffered, to ensure that the vessel is as safe as possible.

Today, in the climax of our efforts, we underwent three simultaneous and comprehensive safety inspections: one by the Canadian government, one by our flagship government, the Cook Islands and New Zealand, and one by a privately contracted safety inspector. At the end of the day, the representative of Transport Canada, a captain himself, said that, pending the successful execution of one more drill, he was very impressed by what he saw. It was obvious to him that the ship was in loving, skilled hands, and that he would be happy to report that he found zero deficiencies and wishes he could sail off as part of the ship’s company.

We are all proud of our ship, her Master, and proud members of her crew, and this is a very moving validation of all the hard work that’s been done, and the dedication of the Picton Castle family. It doesn’t fix what’s happened, but it affirms our constant work to improve, and the ship’s reputation as one the finest sailing vessels on the planet.

And that was just BEFORE lunch.

After lunch we continued on in form, bending on six of the thirteen sails we will be carrying for the crossing. The rig is nearly complete, and all the work we’ve been doing this winter is coming together. To be here, and be helping lead trainees in jobs like bending sail and sending up running rigging, and to be getting the jobs done is supremely rewarding. It is beyond exciting to see it all happen. I go to bed tonight a bit overwhelmed.

5/16
Finished. The rig is finished and ready. All sails bent on. New spanker boom and gaff on. And then?

Then the magic words from the Mate: “UP AND LOOSE!”

I shot up the main, Nadja up the fore, to the t’gallants, gaskets cast off, sails hanging, and down the mast loosing each sail, then to deck, hands to gear, sheet home, haul the halyards, ease the braces, the sails are set! All of them!

Mike, the 1st Mate, walked all the trainees out to the end of the dock to admire what they had just done. It felt just like Irving Johnson said in his famous film, Around Cape Horn. We got sails! All that canvas sewn together by our hands, and we put it up there with our own hands, and we set it all with our own hands! There’s not much else more satisfying as far as I’m concerned. It was cloud nine the whole time. It’s been a long, good winter, and this a fantastic layer of icing.

Donald Church: The Legend Returns

2008-04-20T04:37:00.000-07:00

4/9
The crew is gathering, the weather is warming, and the ship is out of the water. As the scheduled date of departure approaches, our work days are carried out with increased buzz. The galley is being prepared for the arrival of star-cook, Donald, flying in from Grenada. Finn, the winter engineer, has been busy getting the engine room and all its systems into premier form and ready for the voyage engineer to take over.
We are hauled out in the local shipyard, and as soon as the yard crew has finished painting our hull we will be back in the water, preparing for the arrival of the trainees and up-rig, the great salty jig-saw puzzle.

Kolin, Myself, Shackle on the ride to the shipyard
Shackle, Kolin, Mike, Myself and Nadja under the bow, the last night in yard.

All of us again, plus Amanda (front and center).

4/15
Donald is here and we are happy. For lunch: chicken wings, fries, and cheeseburgers. For dinner: ribs. It is good to have the chef back. Donald, chief morale officer.
All winter we’ve been taking turns each day preparing meals, and it hasn’t been bad, but there’s a reason we’re hired on as deckhands and not cooks. Shackle makes good burgers, and I will occasionally make fried chicken, but more often than not we serve up frozen pizza, or Hamburger Helper, or a box of carbohydrates and sodium courtesy of the culinary oracles at Kraft. It is good to have Donald back.

Donald

My whole body is sore. Our work week has had a growth spurt, and we now are working from 8 am to 6 pm at least, and on Saturdays too. It is good, though, because there is so much yet to be done, and time is becoming a keen adversary. We all want to get this ship ready in time for our May 17th departure for Ireland. Everyone is working hard. If there are any grumblers, they thankfully have the good sense to keep it to themselves.
Excitement builds on another front as well, as we all are planning a prom in honor of Finn, who had been studying hard for his GED, and wrote the test last month.
He knows the party is happening, but is in the dark as to just how big of a party it will be. Most of Lunenburg is involved. Epic would be an accurate word for the scale of the planned evening. Biblical might be a stretch, but I am withholding judgment until afterwards. We have all been raiding Frenchy’s consignment stores for formal wear. Should be fun.

Last month I went back Stateside to see about getting my AB Sail certification. I passed the exams and did everything they asked of me, and returned home to the Picton Castle with great satisfaction. Then yesterday I talked to an evaluator at the Coast Guard regional exam center in Boston and he told me I needed to get my Lifeboatman’s rating to complete the AB Sail, something I was twice told was unnecessary. I was furious. I still am, a bit, because I have neither time nor dime for the $900, five-day course and practicum required, and I spent nearly $1500 in travel and expenses to get the AB Sail, something I would not have pursued had I been told about the lifeboatman requirement in the first place. Furthermore, all the work and money spent will be for nothing, as the exam and all expires in a year. I obviously will not be back in the country within that time. I got screwed; I’m pissed.
It says something about the mess of the process when a sailor can come in, prove to be competent, pass all the exams, yet cannot seem to navigate the misinformed maze of paperwork and requisites. I have no problem jumping through hoops, but please don’t change the course after I’ve already crossed the finish line. How am I supposed to know what I need when the evaluators don’t even know?
(rant over)

On a positive note, the weather is unbelievable. The nights have been clear and crisp, forwards to warm sunny days with blue skies, with a fresh sea-breeze kicking in around 1400 or 1500 every day.

4/17
Shipyard work is done. We’ve overhauled the sea-cocks and through-hulls, the bottom has been coated with fresh anti-fouling paint, and we even dropped the anchors and flaked out all 800 feet of chain for some love and affection. Today they lowered us back into the wet stuff.
I would have loved to have been in the gear-house as the cradle was lowered by massive machinery. Giant links of chain, easing away our end, was payed out by unseen gear and motor. We couldn’t see the big wheels turning in the gear-house, but as each link inched out, it was accompanied with a round of timpani hammering, “ka-chunk a chunk a chunk.”
Then, with everything confirmed sound, the lines were cast off and the Picton Castle found herself once again in the familiar waters of Lunenburg Harbor.
Though we have had much work done, and the engineers have been busy, the main engine is still in the process of having the rings changed on each of its seven pistons, so we made way to and from the dock by tow. Coming into the cradle was a cinch. Conditions were perfect. Coming out was a bit trickier. A breeze had picked up out of the southeast, and was setting is onto shore at nearly two knots. We had bee planning on returning to the dock port side to, but the wind was uncooperative. Our Captain, salt of salts and smooth as Bing, told Mike, the 2nd Mate, to drop the port anchor. He did, the anchor bit, and the Picton Castle pirouetted gently against the dock, starboard side to. It wasn’t the original plan, but it was a perfect docking, and an excellent example of the level of seamanship all of us hope to attain.
We finished out the day with some overdue dockside work. As I was chipping rust off an anchor, Captain came by, took my chipping hammer, and, gripping it in both hands, attacked the rusty patch in rapid-fire assault. With the rust disintegrated, he handed the hammer back with the statement, “Go to it with violence, Ben.” Later, when I was sanding fair a freshly cut t’gallant yard, he took my sand paper, vigorously scoured the spar sending up a mushroom cloud of sawdust, and handed it back and said, “use compassionate aggression.”
At supper we were joined by Nobby, Picton Castle’s senior engineer emeritus and his wife and two children. Boy, age: three. Girl, age: baby.
Sitting around the salon table, eating the turkey dinner Donald had prepared for us, making faces at the baby and laughing at the boy’s stories and funny way of speaking, and genuinely enjoying each other’s company, I realized what a happy family we have here. We all are excited for this year. It is a good crew, and a pleasure to be a part of it. And it makes the long work days a hell of a lot more fun, too.

Dynamic Inertia

2008-03-08T11:02:00.000-08:00

3/8
Newton's first law of motion says that an object at rest tends to stay at rest and an object in motion tends to stay in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. Well, we most definitely are in motion here in Lunenburg. Our dynamic inertia brings us full ahead into the unbalancing force of the imminent black-diamond slope of work as we speed to the final weeks before our departure.

We’ve been sending down braces and their gear from aloft for overhauling. The braces are what we use to adjust the angle of out squares’ls. When we want to brace hard to starboard, we cast off or ease away the port side braces, and haul away on the starboard braces, for example. It’s much more difficult to do all this underway, so it is one of our major rigging priorities. It’s also exciting to getting back into the rig, spending several hours a day out on the Picton Castle's yardarms.

Plus, being aloft on the yards is a great workout. After the first couple days, every muscle in my body was sore. My legs get sore from supporting my body, my lower back and abs are sore from keeping balance, and acting as the fulcrum point whenever I have to haul anything up, which in turn works my shoulders and arms. I can feel myself getting back into square-rigger shape.

The biggest beneficiary is my lower back. I have had back problems since the end of the summer, and my friend Rebecca, a licensed physiotherapist has worked on it and given me two acupuncture sessions to alleviate the pain in exchange for homemade fried chicken dinners. But being aloft is basically one continuous back extension exercise, and as my lower back muscles have strengthened, the back pain has diminished. After two weeks with many hours aloft, I feel good as new.

The weekends have been pretty epic here too. Last weekend we all headed to shipmate Amanda’s house on Briar Island, situated at the doorstep of the Bay of Fundy, famous for its 50-foot tides.

(photo from www.pbase.com/athiker95/image/438977)

Briar Island may be one of my new favorite places. Salty beauty as I have ever encountered, right on par with beloved Gloucester. Amanda’s big brother is a lobsterman, as is her father, and he took us out for a spin around the island in his boat, letting everyone take a turn at the wheel as we circumnavigated the island's ragged basalt shoreline. Pictured here are my friends and former shipmates, Rebecca and Logan.

After that, Finn, Maggie and I headed back to Lunenburg to stand watches at the ship with Lynsey, as a nasty storm was blowing in. Unfortunately, our weekend gained a new adventurous flavor while passing through the backways in Nova Scotian blizzard, Maggie’s car spun off the road and settled in a snow banked ditch. The car and her crew were fine. It was cold, and the snow was coming in horizontally. While we waited for the tow truck, we found shelter in an abandoned hunting cabin a 50 or so yards off the road. The truck pulled us out and we turned back for Digby, the nearest town. It turned out to be no big deal, but at the time it was pretty intense feeling stranded in a snow covered back woods highway, 60 km from anywhere.

Life looks to continue its upward swing in momentum here, as Chad, my buddy of buddies, is headed here for a proper Picton Castle/Nova Scotia weekend, a road trip to Boston, and then I am flying back to Kansas City for the next weekend and my brother Brian’s 16th birthday. Then, back to it, getting ready for the trip, an Atlantic crossing, tour of Europe, duck into the Mediterranean, down Africa, across to Brazil, up through the Caribbean, and back here. Then, maybe, things will slow down…

Loving People, Living Poetry

2008-02-23T09:10:00.000-08:00

2/23
Work has been going really well. The leather work has been a great project. I have been sewing pieces of leather to protect certain parts of the rigging. All the leather has to be cut to fit, which at times is challenging because some of the pieces are fairly intricate. Maggie, the ship’s incumbent purser and goddess of all things office, has written a nice technical but easy to understand description of exactly what it is I am working on here. That’s also where I lifted the pictures from.

Last Tuesday, February 19th, marked exactly one year since I stepped of the plane in the Dominica jungle and boarded the Picton Castle. It’s hard to believe it’s already been a full year since I left to become a sailor. And after this year I can look back and see all the skills, friends and relationships I have developed, all in the process of becoming a proper sailor – a process in which I am still very much at the beginning.

I really feel unfairly fortunate in life. I don’t know how else to describe it. I am in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, working at a craft that I am deeply passionate about in sailing, with little hiccups of writing work, about which my passion is of equal depth. On top of this, I have this month received packages, letters, and phone calls from some of the best friends a person could have; friends who are amazing, who reaffirm my belief in God’s existence. There is no justice.

Last night we had a little party in the Dory Shop, sitting around the wood stove, drinking wine, laughing, listening to music, and just being generally happy. My friend, Finn, put it best:
“We’re a bunch of sailors in this old wooden dory shop that hangs out over the ocean, crowded around a fire barrel, listening to gypsy punk, dancing around—man, we’re gypsies!”
It was one of those moments I get every now and again where I realize I am living out poetry:

Sea Fever

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

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.

By John Masefield (1878-1967).
(English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)

That’s probably my favorite sea-faring poem, by the way. Also, the gypsy punk I mentioned is a reference to my new favorite band, Gogol Bordello, and gypsy punk is the only way to describe it. It's life changing. Check them out, and thank you Chad for turning me on to them. Gogol Bordello. Look them up on YouTube.
Anyhow, enough gushing. Life is good in Lunenburg. Loving people and living poetry.

Work, Curling, Futility

2008-02-03T09:11:00.000-08:00

2/3
Holy cow, I can’t believe it’s already February. Unbelievable.
Actually, what’s more unbelievable is the fact that I am continually surprised by the passing of time, and the progression of the calendar. I’m like the baby that giggles every time you pull your hands away from your face and sing, “peek-a-boo!”
I won’t be surprised if, when I peel up the next page on the calendar and March is revealed, I roll on the floor in a sublime seizure of giddy surprise.
Then my shipmates will put a wooden spoon in my mouth, and I will have to change pants. This cycle will repeat itself 31 days later. Time is truly our greatest enemy.

Fun has been in no short supply around here. We go curling nearly every Friday, and some of us are getting halfway decent at it. (Maggie and Shackle in particular)
I am getting halfway embarrassing at it. For every good shot I make, I seem to counteract it by bailing out on the ice and sending my stone off into a forsaken wilderness of furrowed brows and snickering.
One thing is for sure: curling is far easier without an excess of beer. But try suggesting that to one of the seasoned veterans and you’re met with a cold look and an ended conversation. Apparently, curling without beer is like trying to have a football game in which neither team fields a defense (something the Chiefs have been doing for years now, and even if this did happen their offense would still probably be forced to punt. Poo.)
We’ve also been participating in the weekly Pub Stumper’s trivia night at the Grand Banker, Lunenburg’s official pub of the Picton Castle (not really but it seems so). The Picton Castle trivia team, Three Sheets to the Wind, is in a commanding lead thus far in league play, buttressed by a dominating performance last night.

I’ve also been on a reading and writing tear as of late. I’ve checked about 1000 books out of the local library since I’ve been here. I’ve also just finished a play I’ve been writing for a friend who is an actor in a Los Angeles based theatre company. Now that I’m out of school, I’ve found that I have to be much more deliberate about nurturing the mind, but also that I take greater pleasure in it as well.

Work has been going along nicely. We’ve been overhauling all the blocks and bits of wire, varnishing spars and deckboxes, rewiring the ship’s electrical system, overhauling the ship’s plumbing, and basically giving her a good, thorough once-over. Leather-working, wire-brushing, corro-sealing, slushing, worming, parceling, serving, tarring, greasing, painting, scraping, sanding, grinding, rust-busting, and then, at five, clean-up for supper.

My ship’s work is interrupted at times by my efforts to get my AB-Sail certification, which is an important step in the licensing process. Collecting sea time, having it evaluated, background checks, and an exam are all a part of the process. There are a few more hoops mariners of today must jump through, but it’s not so bad, and easily worth the small hassle.

Next week promises more of the same for us here in the LBG: working, curling, dominating at trivia, and staying warm.

Slow times in Lunenburg

2008-01-12T09:22:00.000-08:00

All's well here in Lunenburg. Work is putting along nicely. The Picton Castle crew went out curling last night (a lot of fun), and the weather has been fantastic. The week before it was bitter cold, the coldest it's been all winter. It got down to -16c, and with the wind blowing... please! I could feel my breath freezing in my beard whenever I walked anywhere.
But today I am wearing a t-shirt, and went for a walk this morning in flip-flops.
We are expecting a lot of visits from friends in the coming weeks, but beyond that, the workweeks keep unrolling, and life keeps on its quiet pace.

Year in Review (because if you keep a blog you pretty much have to)

2008-01-01T10:37:00.000-08:00

12/30
December is once again set to yield power back to January, its unwavering usurper, and we find ourselves at the end of another year. Looking back over 2007, I can’t escape the feeling that this has been one of the more important years in my life. With all that’s happened and that I’ve experienced, the innocence and ignorance of childhood seem as far off as ever, and adulthood has managed to tighten its lasso around my ankle.

It’s been an emotionally charged year for me: elation as I helped usher good friends into marriages, the mournful celebration of another friend’s life, heartbreak, as much pain and joy as I have ever experienced, all accompanied by the steady thrill of life as a mariner – life seasoned with salt.

It’s interesting how this year of so much change and uncertainty will be followed by a year that promises very little of either, as my fate is more or less outlined in the itinerary of the Picton Castle’s trip across the north Atlantic. Not that I am complaining.

It’s been a year of coming full circle as a sailor. I spent the summer sailing as crew onboard the Harvey Gamage, the same ship where I first fell in love with seafaring as a kid. On top of that, while getting some formal marine safety training last month and found that the man with the beard sitting next to me was the captain of the Harvey Gamage that same week when I was there ten years ago.

I have found this year that life at sea augments all of the traits in me that I knew existed, yet hadn’t really been tested: commitment, courage, leadership, and selflessness. If life on a tall ship can’t bring these out in you, then you don’t have them. For my part, I was pleased to meet them.

With all that came in 2007, I am excited to see how 2008 will follow the act, just so long as it is without all the bummer stuff.
Right, I resolve to never have sad things happen in 2008...?
But seriously, you just can’t ring in the New Year with realism. Have you ever tried to party with a committed realist? It’s awful. Nothing but talk of gas prices, or the fact that Walt Disney was anti-Semitic, or that Iowa State will never field a national championship football team. No no, I will ring in the new year with the most unrealistic expectations possible. My friend the realist would call that “hope.”

Tricky Weather

2007-11-22T14:20:00.000-08:00

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.

Big Winds and Reality with a Sneeze

2007-11-08T15:00:00.000-08:00

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.

Those pictures I promised, plus a video.

2007-10-27T11:37:00.000-07:00

Life has been good so far. Lots of hard work. We turn-to at eight every morning, and end the day at five.

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.

Getting Back To It

2007-10-20T10:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Soul Selling? Not me! Probably! I Bet... I mean, It's Doubtful!

2007-09-13T18:18:00.000-07:00

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.

Yard Time

2007-09-08T12:04:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Reunions

2007-08-17T09:13:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

New York P.S.

2007-08-08T07:49:00.000-07:00

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.

Victims, Villains, and Wanderlust

2007-08-05T18:38:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-07-31T06:50:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Should be fun.

Gloucester: One of my Favorite Places

2007-07-26T14:23:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Been Gone for a While, Big Chunk to Catch Up

2007-07-18T17:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Love to you Phil.

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:

2007-06-23T15:19:00.000-07:00

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

Mystic Grey-Water

2007-06-16T14:39:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Wintry Summer, James Blunt Sucks

2007-06-08T13:45:00.000-07:00

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.

First Week on Gamage Plus Mild Insanity

2007-06-02T19:57:00.000-07:00

5/28
Today we set sail. It was my first time sailing on the Harvey Gamage since the summer before my 8th grade year, ten years ago. It was a lot of fun having some grasp this time around of the goings-on on deck and with the sails. I have enjoyed also my first day out with the kids. We have a group of sophomores from an all-boys school in Connecticut. They have a great energy, and love to growl and grunt every time we trim jib sheets or haul on halyards. They eat a lot too. One of them farts.
In the afternoon I got to spend a fair amount of time monkeying around on the main gaff tops’l, unfouling the tack and releading the brail. I started to feel fairly confident and good about myself after that, only to be sent up later to stow the same sail and struggling mightily, ultimately requiring the help of one of my compassionate crewmates who shuffled up the shrouds to show me how it’s done.It seems to be the way of a burgeoning sailor. Just when you are beginning to feel a bit of a hold on things, the ever punctual sea fates send along a lesson in humility and bid you take notes. Sometimes after these kinds of episodes, as I silently berate myself and hate my inexperience, I half expect to see King Triton from The Little Mermaid, in all his bearded glory, emerge from the swells with a dry erase board and diagram all the different ways in which I am an idiot. He would probably draw out a Venn diagram and say, “these are all the things you and good sailors do not have in common. Number one: can furl the main gaff tops’l on the Harvey Gamage. Number two: is a good sailor. These are all the things you and good sailors do have in common: smell bad, unkempt, dirty fingernails, no financial assets.” Thankfully, the good king was once again gracious enough to remain below the spumey ocean surface, tormenting me only psychically, and prior to this blog entry, privately. Now the whole world knows. I am followed around the ocean by a fictional cartoon merman king who likes to rub my nose in my mistakes. Hey, if Joshua Slocumb can publish serious accounts of his ship being steered by the ghost of the helmsman of the Nina, then I can tell about this. If I start seeing spots or talking to my neighbor’s black lab named Sam, then I will be worried. So far, though, nothing to report on those fronts.
After dinner I got to put my celestial navigation know-how to the test, offering a brief, 30 minute overview of the basic concepts. The kids all got to take sights of the sun, and I drew diagrams on a whiteboard. They are only on for four days, so we won’t have much time to go into depth, but the hope is that it piques their interest, and maybe in these short lessons they can find something that piques their inner salt and pulls them back to sea for more voyages.
As the sun was setting we came alongside fellow Ocean Classroom vessel the Spirit of Massachusetts. We zigged and zagged with each other for a short bit of fun, and finally pulled along her port side, the sky catching fire behind her at just the right moment. Pictures were taken.

6/2
Finished the first week of the summer. The kids were a blast. We only had four days together, but I got to have some really good conversations with some of them, and it was exciting to see some of the universal lessons that sailing can teach take hold in that short time. If my time on Picton Castle was comparable to my “sailing college,” being an absolute blast and shooting my learning curve through the roof, then my time with Ocean Classroom should prove to be more along the lines of my vocational sailing.
The past two days were spent doing maintenance here in New London, CT. It’s a nice little town on the northern coast of the state. The funny thing about small towns is that coastal ones are usually very nice. Inland ones, save for in the mountains, can be rather depressing. Though, maybe it’s just my bias showing through.
Pirate Master aired Thursday, and I missed it. I went to a bar in New London called the Roadhouse and turned on the TV just as it was flashing, “A Mark Burnett Production” on the tail end of the closing credits. I think they changed the times of the show, because my family almost missed it too. Fortunately, the earth continued spinning, and babies still laugh – especially babies who watch Pirate Master.
I have tonight and tomorrow off, so I am hanging out in Rhode Island with my Uncle Bert, Aunt Donna, and cousins Victoria and James. Should be a good time of fun, food, and laundry. (Internet, too, obviously)
I found though, if last week is any indicator, that I may not have as much time for writing while onboard the Gamage as I did onboard the Picton Castle. We will see how everything pans out, but I brought along a Writer’s Market and other freelancing and writing guides in anticipation of getting more serious with it. I am still working out the wrinkles of my new career as sailor/writer. I would like it to be somewhat balanced, but thus far it has been more SAILOR/writer.
At the very least, I am in a good predicament: how do I do all the things I love? There is never enough time. I know this is true because every time I say it in conversation with someone older and wiser than me they just shake their heads and give a weak laugh and a shrug. This is a good measuring stick. The more adamant their surrendering laugh, the deeper the following sigh, the more profoundly true the preceding statement. But it only works with profound or universal truths. Simply saying, “the prequels to Star Wars should never have been made,” though painfully true, will not trigger the same response.
Holy cow. This blog entry is quickly devolving into an exercise in tangents. I am tired. I varnished the jib-boom and repaired rigging all day. I am going to bed.

Pickle Relish, Boston, and The Laz

2007-05-27T11:48:00.000-07:00

5/24
I am headed out for a summer on the Schooner Harvey Gamage. After signing off the Picton Castle I spent a week catching up with friends (not nearly enough time) and family (even less time). I did my best to make the most of my short time ashore, but my apologies to all, as I did not get to spend the amount of time with all my loved ones that they deserve. That’s life, I suppose. Never enough time to spend a day or so with everyone.
While home I was able to take in all the staples of Kansas City in May: barbecue, Winsteads at the Plaza, McCoy’s in Westport, and even a Royals game. I’m not a real baseball nut, but Kaufman stadium is a beautiful ballpark, and seeing the Royals always brings back memories of being a kid. Fittingly, I went with two longtime friends, Tim and Elliott.

Probably the finest picture of me ever taken in the history of anything.

One of the more exciting happenings at the game, besides Mike Sweeney’s two-run homer or Zach Grienke’s 1 2/3 scoreless innings to clinch the game, was the hot dog race. It’s a masterpiece of idiocy, and loaded with the same kind charm as a toddler wandering nude into his parent’s social gathering. People dressed as giant hot dogs, each wearing a red, yellow, or green hat that represented ketchup, mustard or pickle relish respectively, ran a foot race from the foul pole in right field to home plate. The crowd was electric. Relish won.

I also made it to a baseball game in Oklahoma City last Saturday. Being only my second day back in America, it was one of the more intense “welcome back to America” moments. We were bombarded with advertisements relentlessly, and mini exhibitions between each inning meant to entertain. Periodically a notable Oklahoman like American Idol star Carrie Underwood or the governor would come on the JumboTron and deliver a heartfelt message to the troops overseas, saying words like freedom, and sacrifice, noble, and proud. Immediately following one of these tributes, the governor’s I think, with the screen still fading out, the P.A. system starts blasting with the Funky Chicken.
Also at the OKC Redhawks games is a cannon that shoots t-shirts (even weirder, at Kaufman in KC there is a bazooka that launches hot dogs into the crowd). Having just come from spending nearly three months either at sea or in a third world country (Dominca), It was strange to think that some very rich, powerful people got together and had a meeting in which they discussed seriously the need for a cannon that shoots wadded up t-shirts (or hot-dogs for that matter). In Dominica, conversely, when they get the wealthy and powerful people in a meeting together I have a feeling they would probably rather discuss their need for, say, an economy. The wonders of civilization: ceaselessly amazing, frequently dumbfounding.
Also, the word is out about what we were doing for those two months in Dominca. Officially, I can divulge somewhat openly without fear of a $5 million lawsuit. We filmed the new CBS reality show, “Pirate Master.” It is intended to be the next Survivor, and it is basically the same formula, just put in the context of a pirate adventure rather than a bunch of strangers moping around on a beach.

Of particular interest to me was one of the 16 contestants. Former Kansas City Chief running back, Christian Okoye, was onboard as a “pirate,” and I was thrilled. I had little fireworks go off inside me every time I got to show him something about sailing the ship or told a joke that made him laugh. Just seeing him haul on a line or heave on the windlass was a trip because you got to see just how big and strong he really was. I can’t imagine ever having to tackle him. He is huge. My friend Erin called him “Gigantor.” To cap it off, I got to sit and talk with him for 20 minutes or so at the end of everything, and he is a really nice guy. The ten year-old kid in me was on cloud nine while I talked football with one of the biggest football legends in KC history.
All in all, it was a pretty cool experience. The show airs Thursday, May 31st, on CBS. I want everyone to watch it and see the ship. She looks awesome. She legitimizes the whole pirate theme. If not for the Picton Castle, the show would lose a lot of its cool-factor.

5/25
My first day on the Gamage is over. Spent the morning doing ships laundry in a Laundromat here in Boston. The remarkable thing about Boston is that everything is historic. There is a plaque on every third building saying “Alexander Hamilton had tea here once,” or “Benjamin Franklin got drunk here a lot” (which, honestly, could be posted all over Boston and Philadelphia with reasonable confidence).
Historicity Saturation Exhibit A: We are docked where the famous Boston Tea Party took place so many years ago.
Exhibit B: Boston Harbor still brown.
Exhibit C: While walking from the Laundromat to a convenience store for a bevvy (beverage), I happened past the Old North Church where the signal was lit which sent Paul Revere on his famous ride, inspiring an equally famous song by the Beastie Boys. Boston really is a cool place, though. I have hoofed through a good bit of downtown, and the whole place has a very unique, cool feel. Though I’m sure it’s a tough place to navigate. Thankfully I have always been shepherded around by savvier crew mates when on shore
In the afternoon I overhauled the blocks on the main sheet and fore throat halyard, greasing the sheaves and pins, and rubbing linseed oil into the wood. One of the blocks had been worn down so severely it had to be fortified with a good deal of epoxy, which I then sanded and filed down into proper block shape. All in all good day’s work. Tomorrow I am going to clean out and organize our aft storage space known as the lazarette, or “laz” for short.
I am looking forward to this summer. The crew is friendly and enthusiastic without exception, always a good work environment.
Below is a picture of the Gamage I took about eight years ago while on the Lettie G. Howard. It gives a good idea of what the rig of the ship is like (schooners are vastly different than barques), besides, it’s one of my proudest pictures.

Dominica to Charleston

2007-05-18T12:09:00.001-07:00

4/28
Today we set sail from Dominica to Martinique, about 30 miles away, going to pick up 20 new trainees for the passage back to the U.S. All are glad to see Dominica disappear behind us. It is a lovely island with lovely people, but a change of scenery is a bit overdue and we are glad to be sailing again. We were escorted on our departure by a small pod of dolphins under our headrig.

As we were approaching the north side of Martinique, a bit of a squall blew through and I was at the helm. Guiding the ship through the foam-capped swells with warm wet needles stinging my face, I looked over the ship, at her rigging, her crew, even the small details like the turk’s head woven around the kingspoke on the wheel, and was for a moment overwhelmed with emotion at being onboard such a powerful thing created wholly for crossing seas, crew included. It’s good to be here.
Bittersweet, we had to leave our friend Rudolph behind on Dominca. He was our driver while ashore, and accompanied us everywhere we went. He is a wonderful man with a fantastic laugh and an extremely generous demeanor and we were sad to say goodbye. We presented him with some parting gifts, hugs and tears. For the past week he has been telling us how badly he will miss us, and we all feel the same. He really has been a great friend and the promise of a reunion makes any return visit to Dominica that much more exciting. On the bright side, the cricket world championships are today and he will get to sit at home and watch every bowl without any calls from us for a run into town or to Trafalgar falls.
One of the things I have gotten to enjoy with so much time ashore here has been the introduction to cricket. I have watched a few matches and though it is not my sport of choice, it is fun to be able to talk cricket with the locals, Rudolph and Donald our Grenadine cook especially.
Also in the sports world, today is the NFL draft and I am missing it. I can’t remember the last time I missed the NFL draft. I am fairly disappointed, but at least I have a good excuse. I am glad that my sailing off-season will coincide with the football season. The prospect of missing football season is not a happy one, and I will make sure to take in as many games as possible this year because who knows what I will be doing next season. I try not to think about it too much.
The Chiefs have been going kind of crazy this off-season, from what little I can tell. Re-signing Donnie Edwards (yes!), trading Dante Hall (sad, but probably a good move), and uncertainty regarding the futures of Trent Green and Jared Allen. I hope we draft a cornerback. DeAndre Jackson from Iowa State is a good choice… please? Also, still holding out for some blockbuster trade for Seneca Wallace. *sigh*
Well, that’s enough sports for this sailing blog. Thanks for indulging me. Probably a post draft entry on the way as well, but I won’t apologize. The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, so I confess to nothing.

4/31
Disappointed with the Chiefs’ draft. Hopefully they know something I don’t, but in the typical second-guessing-sports-fan fashion, I doubt it.

5/2
Left Martinique yesterday afternoon after the last of the new trainees arrived, about 12 in all. Martinique is a beautiful island. It is a part of France, and hardly any English is used, so I was always at the heel of a French-speaking crewmate. With a Picton Castle voyage to Europe being planned for next year, and my tentative hopes to be crew for it, I am certainly lacking no motivation to learn some fundamental bits of the language. Despite the barrieaux l’Francais (sic? Probably…) I enjoyed the afternoon I got to spend on shore. Nice cheeses and French baguette are always good even if you do need someone else to order it for you.

We are making about seven knots on our way to Jost Van Dyke, a part of the British Virgin Islands. The ship has some friends in Jost who, not surprisingly enough, manage establishments that specialize in the sale and distribution of strong spirits, cold beers, and (so I am told) some of the world’s most magical pina coladas. I have also been told that it is impossible to stay sober while on Jost, but bear in mind that the person reporting this could probably say the same about a Good Friday service. I will do my best.
We will be there for four or five days, and since the island is also known for its fantastic diving spots some of the crew and I are planning on taking a SCUBA dive outing.
Today I got my first lessons in celestial navigation from Doc, a retired heart surgeon and our ship’s physician. He is an avid sextanteer, and the second I mentioned I was interested in it he was emerging from below with his almanacs and sextant and (not kidding) a textbook for me. It has been so far all that I had hoped it would be. It is a method that, though still very mysterious, is not nearly as much today as yesterday. I am beginning to grasp just how to use the mathematical tools and plug each cog into its appropriate slot, but the theory behind the geometry is still a bit beyond me. Today we took a noon sighting of the sun, and my measurement turned out to be just over ten minutes of latitude off, which Doc assured me is very accurate. So far so good. We will do another sun plot this afternoon and hopefully some star sightings at dusk. From those plots of latitude Doc says we will be able to calculate our longitude. It is a totally fascinating experience, simultaneously cross-eyed-complex and then stupid-simple.
In a more personal note: I took a shower today. Haven’t done that for a few days now, and I needed it. My hair is getting long and sun-bleached, and all the funny little curls tend to get tangled and make shampooing a lot more interesting. Being on a ship does weird things to one’s hygiene sensibilities. Before, I couldn’t start or finish a day without bathing at least once. Now, any more than once every three days and I feel like a diva. Not sure why that’s pertinent to the blog, but it struck me today and I wrote it, and I am the one with the password anyhow, so there. Now the whole world knows the condition of my armpits.
Peace out.

5/8
Left Jost today. It was about the epitome of what someone thinks about when imagining the Virgin Islands; restaurants and bars right on beaches with sand so white and water so clear you have to wade out 20 feet before it starts to turn turquoise. For the five days we were in the BVI’s, private yachts would come and go, passing us by with their necks craned, all with the same fascinated/awed/slightly terrified expressions pasted across their faces. They cruise around on their (mostly) rented yachts rigged for convenience and come up on our black hulled monstrosity with shrouds coated in only slightly more tar than the crew, and rigged with time tested traditions and hand-worked materials.
One group of yachties (that what they are called around here) came by in their motor boat and asked for a tour. We obliged and I, right out of the rigging after tarring the shrouds on the mizzen mast, was apparently a suitable exhibit for one of them as he raised his camera and proceeded to photograph me. He kept his distance and didn’t address me once, though I probably didn’t make myself a welcoming presence, snarling pirate-like and posing as he clicked away. Even to my crewmates, the combination of sweat, tar and dirt on me and my work-clothes was remarkable, so to this man of bread-dough flesh, caterpillar moustache, Bermuda shorts, floral shirt and bright red cap, I may have been some degree of horrifying.
A funny thing as well, after putting baby oil in my hair to rub out the tar that had dripped, my hair sat on my head with enough shaggy greasiness to impress even the most downtrodden of vagrants. As the work day ended and cold beers were unveiled, another skiff-full of yachties intrepidly approached. At the prodding of my crewmates, I stood on the rail, bottle of Red Stripe in my left hand, shook my raised right fist, and screamed a guttural barrage of gibberish that brought laughter from my mates and an about-face from the oncoming skiff. Inhospitable, unprofessional, bad P.R. and probably the wrong move, but a lot of fun and enjoyed by all (including the chief mate, to my relief).
I didn’t get to do any diving, but it is a small regret. My time on Jost was an absolute blast, hanging out with crewmates, eating fantastic food (crab cakes, conch fritters, and pepperoni pizzas: all amazing) relaxing on the beach, swimming, talking, swinging on the tire swing at Ivan’s Stress Free Bar (a place where there is a fully stocked bar, but no proprieter; drinks are poured and paid for on the honor system), and dancing at Foxy’s till ridiculous hours.

Our last night we anchored off a small island called Sandy Cay, privately owned by a friend of Captain’s, and had a bonfire. It was the perfect way to cap off our time in the Caribbean. We sat and talked, played guitar, and watched as some of the more energetic of us lit up palm fronds and took off running down the beach, followed by a floating trail of orange embers. As the night wore on, many of these palm frond frolics were accompanied by glowing white butts as well.
Sad to go, but I am excited for the next stage. Always a good place to be in life: loving where I am, and loving where I am going. Hopefully I can keep it up.

5/9
Today on my watch, the 4-8 watch, we were greeted by the proverbial red sunrise, and the omen, though not too dramatically, was fulfilled as we spent the entire day running before squally weather, with warm rains dampening us as soon as we had dried off from the previous one. We steered Northwest all day. The wind is coming just over our port quarter, only a couple points off of a straight run. We are making about six knots, which is pretty nice speed for this ship.
Sunset was spectacular. The western sky, though mostly cloudy, was lit up in neon pink so brilliant that it could make one wonder if instead of sending Jesus to come from the heavens and redeem the faithful, God had sent Elvis. Of course, if one did wonder that, one would be a moron. I took about 20 pictures. Here are some of the better ones:

5/14
Today I was tired. Last night we held one of the Picton Castle’s traditional Sunday night marlinspikes. A marlinspike, named after the rigging tool, is a party held normally every Sunday but due to our strange schedule we only have had two previous in the past two-and-a-half months. What happens at a marlinspike? We make a few jugs of rum-punch, loads of popcorn, turn on the stereo, and dance on the hatch. Since we were underway, though, the rum punch was imbibed with much greater moderation. The theme of last night’s marlinspike was “goodbye tropics, hello Charleston.” Most people dressed either southern/white trash, or tropical (one lady, Mary Ann, a spirited 69 year-old trainee and one of my favorite crewmates, chose to dress as a Bedouin man, complete with sharpie-goatee and sharpie moustache. I went more the route of greasy redneck. Mission accomplished. I shaved my beard into handlebar moustache and big chops, greased my hair, and wore a torn-up tank top and ratty boxers. The others confirmed that I looked right out of a shanty in the boonies. The girl on the right is Nadia, one of the other deckhands, tropical themed.

By lunch, however, the handlebars and chops were gone, death by Gillette, to the disappointment of some and applause of others (including me, which is why I did it in the first place). After shaving, I went to my bunk, slept till lunch, ate, then slept till my watch at four. I was worn out from all the dancing the night before (not from rum-punch, I was on watch for the rum part of the party) and a long workday prior as well. Not to mention the giant water fight we had yesterday afternoon, spraying each other with fire hoses and dumping buckets of sea-water on the unsuspecting. It was a fun way to cool off, as the previous few days were really hot. The day before yesterday we had what is called a “power shower.” We hung a fire hose from the main shrouds and everyone got in their bathing suits and lathered up. Also a lot of fun. Thankfully, today was nice and cool; warm sun with a slight chill in the breeze.
We are pretty well settled into our routine now for the passage. I wake up every day at four AM and am on watch till breakfast at eight. Our watch is responsible for daily deckwashes, polishing the brass, and various other cleaning projects. One of my duties is to make sure to fill the captain’s log and plot our position on the charts at every hour. I really like the chart work. Navigation is a part of sailing that is really exciting to me.
I’ve been doing a lot more of the celestial navigation as well. I am starting to get the hang of it. The process is getting more and more familiar every day, and I am beginning to field the questions of other curious shipmates.
The puppies are getting big. They don’t fit under the vegetable lockers as easily as before, and from time to time get stuck in things they used to breeze through. Right now their favorite game is called “Is This Food?” Normally they lose.
We are just west of Great Bahama Island, about to come north and catch the gulf stream current which we will ride up into Charleston, just a few days away. It has been a great trip so far, and I will be sad to leave the ship, but hope for a return as soon as possible.

5/15
Big seas yesterday and today. Eight foot swells, 20 knot winds, half the crew sick. I am having fun though. Last night a very big wave crashed over the starboard side of the fo’c’sle-head deck and came in through the fo’c’sle hatch, flooding two bunks and dampening most of the rest. Lucky for me, my bunk only got a splash. The two forward-port bunks however were completely drenched. Logan, in the upper port forward bunk, looked as though he just crawled out of the ocean when he rolled out of his bunk. Not a nice way to wake up in the middle of the night.
We arrive in Charleston on Thursday, and I am not ready to go, though I am excited about seeing my family, the promise of a couple days in Kansas City, and then the summer as a deckhand on the Harvey Gamage, the ship of my inaugural voyage at sea.
Even if it was only for a week, the short time I spent on the Gamage in the summer of 1997 was a life changing one for me, and I am excited about the promise of sharing a similar experience with all the other young voyagers who come on board this summer.
Most of our time has been various ship work and maintenance, getting the Picton Castle pretty for the tall ships festivals. I am gaining confidence with my celestial navigation abilities, and even trouble-shooting the calculations myself when something doesn’t come out right. I’m not an expert yet, but if I needed to do it to save my life, I think I might actually manage it.

5/18
Well, the trip is over. I am in the airport waiting for my flight to Kansas City. I am sad to go. Very sad. Consolations come from the upcoming endeavor on the Harvey Gamage, and the near certainty that I will be back with the Picton Castle as soon as possible. I think this ship may be my sailing college; a ship I can always go back to with the assurance of becoming a better sailor and having an absolute blast with one of the most skilled and fun crews in the world. For now, though, the rest and barbeque will be a welcome treat before my next step. Thanks to all from the Picton Castle, and I look forward to reporting my new experiences in youth training onboard a very different yet equally magnificent ship. Holy cow, how did I get into this gig? I mean, with my journalism degree, I could be writing obituaries or formatting police blotters for a local newspaper right now! Maybe I should take this week off to rethink some things.
Maybe not.

More Dolphins and New Shipmates

2007-04-24T08:29:00.000-07:00

4/18
The past few weeks we have fallen into relatively predictable routine with everything. The charter business has been humming along steadily and is almost finished. I am becoming a more capable sailor each day. Climbing and working aloft is a pleasure now, and no longer a test of nerve and will like it used to be. I still have a lot to learn and still seem to have little brain farts more frequently than I would like (about one or two a day), but I feel pretty confident of my ability on deck and aloft. Hopefully the passage to South Carolina brings with it opportunities to learn more of the finer arts of sailing like navigation, particularly celestial navigation. The mate assured me I would get all the lessons I could handle.
A few days ago we had two new crew additions come aboard: puppies. Two of our crew members found them abandoned near a bar and after asking everyone around they decided that the pups were homeless and brought them aboard – with captain’s permission of course. After a couple days we finally decided on names. The white one, a girl, is named Foxy, and the spotted one, a boy, is named Louie.

Foxy looked pretty rough the first day, and we are pretty sure she has worms so a trip to the vet will happen by the end of the week. That first night she trembled and shook so bad she spent most of her time curled up, managing a few wobbly steps here and there. With each day she has been getting better and is now as sweet and curious and playful as a puppy should be.
It is funny to see the whole crew gather around and watch them play, mesmerized. Whenever they do any little thing right, we all cry out with a collective “hooray!”

The puppies stop what they are doing and give us a funny look, mirroring the captain, who sticks his head in from time to time, equal parts amused and impartial.

Today, though, was probably the most difficult day so far. We were all on very little sleep, spent most of our day idly standing by (one of the best ways I have found to manipulate the space-time continuum and bring all time to a near standstill), and it was one of the hottest days so far, no thanks to an absent breeze that left the air heavy and stagnant. When we weren’t idle we were hauling on the windlass, the giant hand crank that raises the anchor. My head wasn’t with me on the ship. The idle time and general, sweaty discomfort led my mind to wander to other things, writing projects and scripts in particular. I was wishing for nothing more than some lemonade and an internet connection to send queries and do some publication research, something I need to do very badly.
But all that changed when we went for a sunset sail. Working aloft was exactly what I needed, and when the call came to loose all sails I shot up to the top and laid on to the royal. Being up there changed the whole complexion of the day. The air was cooler, the view spectacular, and we were escorted by the playful presence of dolphins. Dolphins have been showing up fairly regularly, about once every three days or so, but these were the best yet. They were jumping clear out of the water, with their tails shaking back and forth as if they were trying to swim up into the sky, drawing ooh’s and aah’s and applause from all of us that had the puppies and captain wondering who had pooped on newspaper. I began to remember why I loved being out here so much.
Later on, after the sun had set, we went up to stow the royals and t’gallants. As a crewmate and I were stowing the royal the ship came under some squally clouds and a fresh rain began falling, pouring down for the next 90 minutes. It was a warm tropical rain, but with the sun down, and all of us sticky with sweat and grime, it was about the most refreshing experience I can ever recall having. Almost none of the crew donned foul weather gear, preferring instead to take off our shirts and soak up as much as possible.
It’s a unique feeling, being out in rain and doing nothing to avoid it. The last time for me was in Costa Rica, on a hike through the cloud forest. It’s a very elemental thing, to allow yourself to be rained on like that. I remember sitting on a boulder in the middle of the river that ran through the Talemonca valley, getting soaked and not moving for nearly an hour. I felt a self awareness there that was at once powerful and clear, but at the same time impossible to fully articulate. I felt like I was like the boulder, a part of nature – a fact we so often take for granted or avoid. The same thing tonight. I felt like I was a part of the ship. It’s almost like a small forfeiture of individual identity. Like I said, it’s hard to explain (especially without sounding to clichéd or Al Gore-ish). The main thing is thought that it was refreshing, physically and mentally.
Plus the puppies are really really cute.

2007-04-01T11:57:00.000-07:00

3/23/07
We have been getting to have little morning sails almost every day. Today we woke at seven, ate a quick breakfast, and set sail. The trades cooperated nearly perfectly, lulling only once, and briefly. I have an unofficial post I’ve adopted when we’re underway. I lean over the rail at the foredeck, arms crossed, and lose myself in the seas.
I watch the waves roll and reach and foam and breach with valleys and peaks like a thousand mountain ranges being constantly raised up and then toppled over, new ridges pushing up to replace those that just fell.
It is hypnotizing. It gets harder each day to imagine myself living on dry land for too long.

3/25/07
Found out today that our hot dogs come from Haiti. Not good news regarding an already dubious meat.

3/29/07
Accomplishment: Today I was asked by the mate to go aloft by myself and furl the main royal, something I have never done alone before. Despite the sail being whipped around by the strong winds I did it, and it was one of my neater stows as well. The best part was when I came down. Nobody said anything. It was just expected of me to be able to do that. A minute later the mate came back to me and asked me to furl the gaff tops’le, something I have never done period, alone or not. I did it (alone) and came down to no fanfare.
It feels good to be in a place where I am pushed as hard as I push myself. I have become uneasy with accepting praise for doing what I was supposed to do. It has always left me feeling strange. Here, that doesn’t happen, though it is not because of callousness between crew. This crew is as tight a group of co-workers as I have ever come across. There is little bickering though there are many types of personalities, and it is easy to see that everyone genuinely cares for each other.

P.S. Saw a dolphin leap out of the water off our port quarter at about six this morning. Not more than 20 feet away. It was the perfect way to punctuate a morning that opened with a spectacular sunrise of pinks and purples and robin’s-egg clouds silhouetting the cliffs of the southern edge of the island. What a great job.

Rigging, Tubing, and Rope-Swinging

2007-03-16T08:01:00.000-07:00

3/7
The past couple days of work have been great. We have been bending on sails (hooking them up to the rigging), and I have been learning a lot. Yesterday I spent over four hours aloft in the rigging, 3 1/2 of those coming on the topgallant yards, the second highest up on the masts, about 70 feet up.
Am I scared being that high up, standing on a rope, leaning over a pole and working with both my hands? You bet. It’s scary as hell. But after a while I grew used to it and it was then only slightly terrifying.
We have been downgraded from two days and on two days off, to one on and off because the schedule is getting tighter, and it is easier to keep the idle crew on stand by if they are only off one day. There may be a chance that once we start our day-sails and the charter really gets rolling we won’t have a day off for a month, which would really suck the life out of this blog. I wouldn’t be surprised either, because all of this off time is really unusual for ship life, and they may be giving it too us as a preemptive break. Who knows. The Picton Castle crew is largely in the dark regarding the details of the charter, as long as we know where we need to be and when we are good, and the next month will take care of itself.

Tubing:
Today we were given a free tubing expedition down the largest river in Dominica. It was a 6km trip, the weather was perfect, the rapids were fun, and the water felt fantastic.
However it was not without its kinks. First of all, the tubes we sat in did not lend themselves well to the human body. They were giant, over-inflated inner tubes with plywood fastened to the bottom to fend off rocks from unsuspecting tailbones, and hold in urine from unsuspecting ignoramuses (me). Your head and feet are exposed, sticking out of the center, and you end up looking like your back end got sucked up into a giant vacuum cleaner. Your arms are completely useless. They provide a paddle, but all it is good for is thrusting yourself into a vertigo-inducing spin. We ricocheted from rock to rock with our heads flopping against the tubes like old tits. Admittedly, I am not the most agile or dexterous member of the human race, but this was a new low in physical confusion for me. These tubes could render even the most graceful ungainly and awkward. Michelle Kwan could sit in one and she would instantly become George Costanza.
The main damper on the trip, though, was the group from the cruise ship that was with us. There were about 40 of them, and they were a classic display of what is known overseas as “the ugly American.” They were loud, obnoxious, drunk, vulgar, rude, and generally acted like they owned the gig. I wish we could have eliminated all the life-vests and river guides because it would have been a spectacular experiment in Darwinism.
Their ringleader, a doughy guy with squinty eyes, was singing songs with words like (this is not made up) “drunk drunk drunk drunk drunk drunk drunk,” discussing the genitalia of various animals and of his friends, and shouting to his sidekick, a slightly older version of himself but with a less stupid face, whom he warmly referred to as Captain Dumb-Ass. He did all this in what to him probably was his 12-inch voice but was in reality his 12-daiquiris voice. Later on I had the unique pleasure of floating next to him. He started talking to me about having kids, and how I was still young, but he waited till he was 27 to have kids and now he has four.
“I’m 37 now,” he informed me.
“Oh really,” I replied, “I would have never guessed it.” I rolled my eyes.
His face lit up. “Thanks!” he belched. He was genuinely flattered, if only erroneously, as his surprised humility regarding his looks—hairline, wrinkles, jowls and the like, had coupled with the month’s ration of alcohol he’d probably had for breakfast to prevent him from considering that not his boyish good looks but his behavior might be a more effective disguise for a man supposedly raising four children and nearing forty years old. Judging by his conduct alone one could have realistically pegged him between 21 and sophomore in high-school.
After the ride we all headed to the tube station to rinse off, pack up, and load back into our buses. I avoided the mob that had surrounded the bar, was slurping down all the complimentary rum punch and conveniently missing the giant red TIPS canister. Stupid-face saw me alone, assumed it was just some oversight of mine, and ambled over my way for another conversation. He asked me what I was going to do when I was done with all this sailing stuff, and was shocked when I said I may never be done with it. He figured I would naturally be itching to come back and start living the good life like him. It was a fantastic signal to me that I am right where I want to be.

3/9
Yesterday, more work aloft. This time we were on the royal, the topmost yard, about 80 feet high. I have learned a lot about what it takes to bend on sails, and feel fairly confident in my abilities to do so again with minimal direction. I have learned a lot about rigging in the past few days, but I still have a long way to go. Two percent may be double of one percent, but it is still not very much.
One of the crew members told me she was jealous that I got to help bend on sails, a job she claimed to absolutely love. I apologized, but I think her enthusiasm, while I admire it, can only be reconciled with rationality by attributing it to her being a bit of a brown-noser. Not to say she is, she may indeed love it as much as she claims. But I, in all my love of the sea, and sailing, and ship work, did not love it. I didn’t mind it, but I didn’t love it either. I would equate it to painting the house or mowing the lawn. I don’t especially love doing those things, though they aren’t bad and do have some enjoyable qualities, I love the results. I love having the ship ready to sail, and I put my best effort to help make her that way, but by no means was it an exercise in pure bliss, though the time did pass quickly.What I love is feeling the strain on the rigging, and the speed of the hull through the water kick up when you sheet in, trimming your sails tighter, grabbing the wind and really running with it. No exhaust fumes, no motors, just whistling wind and breaking seas. That is what I love. And I do whatever it takes to make that happen, including acrobatics 80 feet up.
This morning we heard on the radio a local debate that has the Dominican government at a standstill. There is heavy pressure from both sides as to whether or not they should approve the installation of an oil refinery on the island. On the one hand, it would create jobs and be a boost to the economy. On the other hand, it would likely hamper tourism and the locals wouldn’t be able to exclaim “Lovely Dominica” quite as enthusiastically as before. If you’ve ever driven past a town with oil refineries, you know what I am talking about. The air is green, and the town has a powerful stink. Not too many people would be interested in visiting Dominica when she has transformed herself from pristine and largely unindustrialized island with green jungles and beautiful coral reefs to a stinky, hazy island, largely skipped over by cruise ships and divers.
Plus, judging from how many refineries have been shutting down in Texas and so, added to the upswing in alternative fuels, and it looks to be a temporary economic solution at best. I have to think, that despite its positive side effects, brining money into the economy and creating more jobs, it doesn’t seem worth the environmental impact and I’m not convinced that it will still be a booming business beyond 50 or so years. There has to be more creative ways of marketing the eco-tourism and relative un-commercialized feel of the island to create those same jobs and bring in that same money.
A lot of my thinking is shaped by comparing Nicaragua to Costa Rica. Nicaragua had the booming logging industry and such, and is now somewhat of a wasteland. Their neighbor, Costa Rica, stopped short of that industrialization, and catered to the eco-tourist, and has saved most their pristine jungles and wildlife and is a very popular location for adventurers and tourists. You can literally see the border between the two countries because on one side there is forest, and on the other side there is mud. Dominica seems to be facing a similar fork. (My two cents)
It’s interesting to hear about the local politics though. Not too different from what we hear in the states, either. Global warming, protecting the environment, and building economy at any cost—the blessings of civilization!
Also, continuing with the theme of Dominican current events, there has been a nasty little virus going around the island, and it has been ripping through the charter’s main offices downtown. We are working really hard to keep it off the ship, but it is tricky because the symptoms only show up AFTER you are contagious. It is airborne, also. It’s nothing too serious, but when the symptoms hit you are basically bed ridden with joint and muscle pain for two to four days.The funny thing about it is that it showed up on the island a couple weeks ago, coinciding with Venezuelan dictator, Hugo Chavez, who was visiting to build bonds between Dominica and warning them about evil dictatorships and empires. I assume he meant us, but he could have also been making a joke and referring back to himself as well. It’s funny though because Chavez is generally reviled in America and upon coming to Dominica, where he is welcomed in goodwill, he ends up making them sick too. He seems to have the same affect on enemies and allies alike. But then I suppose subtlety has never been a strength of his.

3/10
Today was a day for naturalists. This morning, while aloft furling sails, we saw a pod of dolphins come to check out the ship and they hung around for about an hour, playing, and even once leaping completely out of the water (Of course, that was only AFTER I had put away my camera). I took a dozen or so photos, but these are the best ones:

Then tonight at about seven o’clock I spotted in the black seas a huge school of small blue fish with one or two flashing white with electricity here and there, twisting and throbbing in a defensive maneuver. Sure enough, a few moments later, a massive fish, about four or five feet long, shot through the frenzied school and snatched a mouthful. I could see its counterparts circling below. It was a dance between predator and prey I had seen many times on the Discovery Channel, but seeing it in person was far more satisfying.
I also had my own personal encounter with the way of nature in the form of pecking orders. Today I had a few brain farts, nothing of consequence, just minor breaches in common sense. But I caught heat for it all. Not serious, but enough to know that I needed to do better, and was being watched. Though, rest assured, I didn’t do irreparable damage to my career. The first mate and I had a good laugh about it later on in the evening. I think those things are things that never stop, it’s just that as you put in more and more time, you have fewer and fewer people ready to come down on you for slight missteps. Although, at some point, I hope that ship-sense becomes common sense, and I can do better to avoid those dumb little mistakes.

3/15
I’ve been here for nearly a month now, and today has been the best day so far. This morning we rose at five and set off for a quick sail, all our canvas set. The weather was nearly ideal, with a clear sunrise over the island and friendly trade-winds to scoot us along through capping seas.

Though the outing was brief it was refreshing, like diving into cool water on a hot day – which is exactly what we did next.
On the Picton Castle we have a device called a rope swing, and what it is is a rope hanging from the end of the fore-course yard, and you swing on it. It’s a blast. We swam and played in the water for a good piece of the afternoon before breaking into watches and dividing up for time on shore of which I am the recipient of none (though no big deal, as our mooring will allow plenty of time for reading and writing which is mostly what I do on days off anyhow).
Some pictures of me going off the rope swing:

Nadja, Deckhand:

John, Deckhand:

Finn, Assistant Engineer/Deckhand after getting caught on a mooring line:

It was funny because that happened right after we were telling Fredrick, a new crew member, how easy it was, and that he had nothing to worry about. Then Finn, one of the seasoned veterans on the ship, takes a turn. Just as he is hitting the bottom of the swing the ship strains against the mooring and the line rises out of the water taking out the slack, hitting him right in the stomach. He was fine, but Fredrick was a bit discouraged. Though, to his credit, Fredrick took a turn on the swing and did fine. Thanks to Katie for taking those pictures.

Things with the charter are beginning to get into full swing and start officially tomorrow, causing bit more of an obstacle to my already irregular access to internet.