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

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

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

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.