Mallorca, Gibraltar, Morocco

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

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...

Southward Bound

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

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: