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)
July 23, 2008
July 17, 2008
Eastward
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.
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.
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
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.
July 1, 2008
Falmouth For Orders
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.
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.
Tonight, for my 25th birthday, I will probably take it easy. Probably not.
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