back out to sea

The past few days have been pretty dynamic - Two of the outgoing crew finally got to go home, after 9 months on the boat. Having spent the past week training, yelling and coaching us through the ways of how to handle Spirit, we all were pretty worn down from the rapid-fire information overload. We had, and will continue to have a near-vertical learning curve from the 90% crew turn-over. I'm half anxious, and half stoked to have learned, and continue to learn all of line handling and navigation that would have taken me months on Argo.  Something about either this boat, the crew, the captain, the training or maybe just even the crew moral has made coming aboard here so much better. For one, I'm not the chef on board, and can therefore focus all of my efforts to being on deck. Second, I'm the third mate, which in sailing world translates to "the one in training, and the one who needs to prove themselves," so I'm in a very unique position. In a week I'll have my own watch team of 6-10 students, and will work with my deckhand, Carver, on leading them through sail handling, navigation, and making way to Bermuda. The thought of having an entire vessel under my command for alternating 4 hour watches is a little daunting - it will be my navigation that gets us there, and I'm just waiting for the moment I crash the boat, or fuck something up. My superiors tell me horror stories about "back in the day when I was 3rd mate and that one time I really fucked up," doesn't help, but doesn't put any additional pressure. It's comforting to know that they don't expect me to know everything, but its very much NOT comforting to know that the future holds a few inevitable times of being chewed out. So for now I'm keeping it simple - don't crash the boat.

Tomorrow morning we go underway to Gloucester, Massachusetts, which will take about 4 days. An easy sail, but a not-so-easy watch team schedule of 4-hour watches for 4 days straight. Though, by the 2nd day, you just get into a routine of coffee-slurping consciousness.

So here we go. 4 days of coffee guzzling, rapid-fire navigation to Gloucester. Readddyyyyyy go!

Hands of my Father

I'm sitrting on deck - the storm is coming. We awake in anticipation of turn-over being at 0800, but after hauling up the hook Cap have the orders to hold. Apparently radar showed "the end of the world" approaching, and with lightning, 40 knot winds, and crew turn-over still happening, we're waiting this one out in the harbor. I re-flaked the giant, muck covered anchor chain on dedk to 1.5 shots (each shot = 90 feet, and we anchor at a 3:1 or 5:1 ratio, depending on weather/type of ocean bottom), and grimmaced at my previously white thermal shirt - a bad morning decision. Argo didn't have nearly as much grase/grime/whatever, but being a sailing yacht (S/Y Argo), I guess she wouldn't. She was a white-hulled, beige-decked, 112' LOA (95 on deck) schooner with a massive marconi-rigged main...that I was constantly afraid to smudge. Her main is taller than ours, but with outs being gaff-rigged, I'm not quite sure which I prefer.

My Chief mate skips by, singing "Gimme Shelter," and suddenly it starts to pour. And it doesn't stop - even my foulies (foul weather gear) are soaked through. Not seeing a point in them, I take the pants off and wash the grime off from my legs. Not having a shower head on board makes the rain the most convenient thing. I look down at my hands, which I've been pretending don't hurt, and see my father's hands. All growing up, and still now he's the hardest worker I've ever met - always working on multiple projects at a time at camp or home. (I miss camp.) Tanned dark brown from always being outside, calloused knuckles, thick fingers, torn up cuticles, and dirt under the bitten-off finger nails. My hands are a 30 year younger mirror to his. I try to remember what it means to work as hard as he does, but I doubt I ever could.

I remember being 5, just having moved into the house I grew up in on East Kimberly. There were a lot of people in our new, big back yard, but Dad was ignoring them all and muscling my sister and I's new swing set into the ground - bar by bar. One of his friends, Brian, came over and helped him. The house-warming party had been planned far enough in advance that he didn't have to be working on this, but every day before thge party, the store had called to tell Dad that the swing set hadn't arrived yet. Finally, the morning of the party, Dad called the store and informed the manager that the swing set would be in that day, and that it would be delivered within 3 hours. When the store manager began his protest, Dad cut him off to say that it wasn't an option, and hung up. That afternoon, Dad had every part of the new swing set assembled, and my sister and I spent the next 7 year on it. We're older now, and the air lacks the persistent cacophony of squeaking swings & slippery hands on the monkey bars. But its still there, in the same holes my dad dug out that day, ignoring his party. In the same way I look at my hands, I still look at that swing set and remember decades of my Dad.

The rain lets up to a calmer, but persistently wet state. I'm sure even the sails are as soaked through as the wooden deck. No thunder or lightning yet, and I look at the looming grey out ahead, and wonder if it'll miss us. Three taps on the bell means chow time, and "Gimme Shelter" still rings through my head. I'm anticipating Cap to call for setting the rest of the sails despite the weather, but we'll see. I'm not looking forward to hauling up another heavy sail with a new soaking wet hallard.

overwhelmed and always moving

When my train arrived into quiet New London, CT, I knew the serenity of the town would in no way match the rhythm of the boat. 

Last anyone heard, I was living in the Caribbean on board S/Y (sailing yacht) Argo. She's a beautiful boat with a special place in my heart, being the vessel I learned how to sail on. Having the honor to return to the ship as working crew gave the opportunity to prove myself, and fail miserably. That boat has given me the highest highs, and the lowest lows. Days fluctuated between feeling like the queen of the sea, and then similar to how a toad must feel. At some point in the future I'll post my past stories, but for now, its stories from aboard Spirit of Massachusetts - a 125' wooden, gaff-rigged sailing schooner, built as a Gloucester fishing vessel. That means that everything is traditionally rigged, and expectations are high to keep it that way.

My first day I knew it would be part learning the vessel, but mostly the first week is unspoken "audition time." This is when they test us "green" crew to every limit we have.. and today was no different.

Today wasn't so great, but yesterday was solid. We had two day sails for middle school kids, and I taught everything I know - and well. Today was about little projects on board, and god...there are more ways to tie a knot than I will ever know.

 I'm in the 3rd mate role (amongst the role of Medical Officer and Safety Officer), which is the role "to prove oneself," says my predecessor. So, again, I find myself back in a role where I constantly feel like I can't screw up, and must excel, but knowing I'm going to screw up. The problem, however, is that they do things here completely differently than I have ever done on any other vessel, and in addition are THE most detail-oriented in line handling I have ever experienced. They also have a significant number of lines whose name/function I have never experienced. So, there's that. To make it even better, they don't use any of the same navigation methods I have experience with, and use only chart-paper-old fashioned navigation work, with no electronic use. So, I'm having to go back to my roots. I'm quite apprehensive as to whether I'll be able to learn everything that is expected of me, plus all of the stuff I haven't encountered yet that I "should" know, plus be able to lead a group of students in all of this. I'm really, really apprehensive about this. But, every day I'll wake up early and every night I'll go to bed studying, and (re?) learning large amounts of information. 

The Captain is Caroline Smith, who overwhelmingly resembles my beloved Aunt Sue, in both personality and appearances. The first mate, Matt, is my age and very very cool/nice. He also chain smokes unfiltered, American Spirit cigarettes which he packs/roles himself. The 2nd mate, Ryan, constantly gives me disapproving looks and is very stern...but also very goofy at random times. I'm probably just taking it too personally, so I try to just do everything I possibly can to not fuck up, and ask Matt any questions. 3rd mate, is myself. The deckhands - Ian, the first, has been here for 9 months and looks exactly how Bob Dylan looked when he was 19. He also loves to sing and play his guitar at night, and I love relaxing in my bunk at night listening to him sing. He leaves in a few days, and with him being so nice/chill/helpful, I'm very sad to see him go. The 2nd deckhand, who's name I've forgotten, is 20, very nice and coo, has traveled to Eastern Africa, understands "Mzungu" and is becoming a good friend. She was a volunteer/student on this ship in the past, so anything relating to this boat in particular I can ask her about. The 3rd deckhand, Dylan Pearce, is super green/super young, but very eager to learn. He just completed his first year at Maine Maritime, and is trying to learn as fast as he can, but is feeling a little squashed/deflated right now. He'll get there - I know exactly how he feels. 

Tomorrow we begin to make the ~120nm (nautical mile) passage to Governors Island, in NYC. From what I hear, its a hell-hole of a harbor, simply because its one of the busiest. So...here we go...

here we go again..

You would think I'd be used to this by now. 2 days before leaving, too much to do, and impending "goodbyes," loom overhead. I've packed for more voyages, long trips and extended wanderings for years, and there is always the same routine - packing will happen after saying goodbye for the next few months. I should learn to be more responsible. I'm supposed to be a teacher.

I'll be spending the next few months aboard the Spirit of Massachusetts - a 125ft tallship, traditionally-rigged schooner as a mate, the Medical Officer, and Watch Officer. Really that means that for the next 3 months, at least, will be having groups of students to teach how to sail, cook, navigate, and function while at sea.. and I'm pretty excited. Sailing is cool, but the coolest moment by far is the moment where everything on deck is going wrong, because the sea has its own moods, and the students *click* and finally "get it." I'm hoping, secretly, that the same happens for me. 

This will be the largest boat I'll have ever worked on. Last month I wrapped up a 3 month voyage aboard S/Y Argo around the Caribbean, with 21 fantastic, exceedingly energetic and commonly clumsy students. No day was like the one before it, and no medical incident was like the one it preceded. Everything from sea urchin spines, to fractured vertebrae, these kids could find any way to challenge medical care at sea.

In the past journey, I would write mass emails, but in its stead I will be spending the next three months telling my stories on here.  I have no idea whats going to happen, but its a little exciting :)

"I read somewhere how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong, but to feel strong. To measure yourself at least once, to find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions.