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.