After the best sleep I've had in years, spending an hour scrubbing the galley floor, falling in with a ragtag crew of miscreants, and polishing off half a barbeque, I've decided that I"m going to like it here.
I woke up at seven, hauled myself to the deck, and instantly recalled that I was on the water. It seems pretty easy to forget the rocking, although maybe I'll eat those words as soon as we get out of the harbor.
I set about my daily routine (full disclosure--it's harder to feel cooler than doing bare-chested pushups on the deck of a schooner), which culminated with the novelty of spitting my toothpaste into the murky bay waters. I'd like to think there's a minty-fresh lobster floating across the Penobscot Bay.
That's around where I am, by the way (Growing up next to Conshohocken, off the Schuylkill River, this name doesn't faze me as much as it should). Camden is a small port situated in the bay's inlet, and our cruises take us out to and among the islands that dot its expanses.
I met back up with the Mistress crew and met its chef, Patrick. We sat around the galley (kitchen), shooting the shit, when a voice as cool as a martini in November came over the radio.
"Mercantile, coming in a mile out."
We headed topside and within a few minutes we saw the impressive ship cutting the water. Two monolithic (dilithic?) masts rose up from a graceful, gleaming wooden deck. People dotted the deck in various positions of casual, and hands ran around tossing line to the deck. Two smaller boats paced a careful, coordinated dance off the bow and stern, and with the right leverage the Mercantile came to a smooth stop on the deck. Within minutes, we watched the spectacle repeat with the Grace Bailey. The two ships stood next to one another, gems of the harbor.
I finally met Captain Ray, until now known only to me as a laconic voice on the phone. Sporting a killer 'stache and a pair of aviators I have yet to see removed, he is the definitive sea captain. Three decades of owning this fleet seems to agree.
Still no parrot, though.
He introduced me to the crews. The Grace Baileyis crewed by himself and a group of young men and women, most younger than myself. The Mercantile, on the other hand, is run by a crew of sarcastic, salty, hilarious guys the likes of which you'd probably find at a pool hall or a Metallica concert.
It is for the sake of personal taste, a learning experience, and downright hilarity that I will be working on the Mercantile.
After getting acquainted with the Mercantile by scrubbing and sweeping the hell out of the galley floor, we headed off to Captain Ray's lake house for a barbeque. Massive farms, sprawling mountains, and not a speed limit under 55. What a state.
Taking on passengers to the Grace Bailey and the Mistress was a blast. Orientation, or How Not To Tragically Perish at Sea, went smoothly, and I ended the evening engaged in lively discussion with a 76-year-old fan of spy novels, who told me cheerily that I can make a shitload of money spying for the Russians.
Not gonna touch that one.
Sun's dying, which makes this whole process a bit difficult. I've found writing this out by hand makes for some terrific introspection. And yes, I feel kind of epic sitting on the highest part of deck scrawling in a notebook. Just once, I might tie one of these blog entries to a dove's leg and release it dramatically into the air.
Ah, poor thing will probably peck my face in. Maybe I'll put it into a corked bottle instead.
I woke up at seven, hauled myself to the deck, and instantly recalled that I was on the water. It seems pretty easy to forget the rocking, although maybe I'll eat those words as soon as we get out of the harbor.
I set about my daily routine (full disclosure--it's harder to feel cooler than doing bare-chested pushups on the deck of a schooner), which culminated with the novelty of spitting my toothpaste into the murky bay waters. I'd like to think there's a minty-fresh lobster floating across the Penobscot Bay.
That's around where I am, by the way (Growing up next to Conshohocken, off the Schuylkill River, this name doesn't faze me as much as it should). Camden is a small port situated in the bay's inlet, and our cruises take us out to and among the islands that dot its expanses.
I met back up with the Mistress crew and met its chef, Patrick. We sat around the galley (kitchen), shooting the shit, when a voice as cool as a martini in November came over the radio.
"Mercantile, coming in a mile out."
We headed topside and within a few minutes we saw the impressive ship cutting the water. Two monolithic (dilithic?) masts rose up from a graceful, gleaming wooden deck. People dotted the deck in various positions of casual, and hands ran around tossing line to the deck. Two smaller boats paced a careful, coordinated dance off the bow and stern, and with the right leverage the Mercantile came to a smooth stop on the deck. Within minutes, we watched the spectacle repeat with the Grace Bailey. The two ships stood next to one another, gems of the harbor.
I finally met Captain Ray, until now known only to me as a laconic voice on the phone. Sporting a killer 'stache and a pair of aviators I have yet to see removed, he is the definitive sea captain. Three decades of owning this fleet seems to agree.
Still no parrot, though.
He introduced me to the crews. The Grace Baileyis crewed by himself and a group of young men and women, most younger than myself. The Mercantile, on the other hand, is run by a crew of sarcastic, salty, hilarious guys the likes of which you'd probably find at a pool hall or a Metallica concert.
It is for the sake of personal taste, a learning experience, and downright hilarity that I will be working on the Mercantile.
After getting acquainted with the Mercantile by scrubbing and sweeping the hell out of the galley floor, we headed off to Captain Ray's lake house for a barbeque. Massive farms, sprawling mountains, and not a speed limit under 55. What a state.
Taking on passengers to the Grace Bailey and the Mistress was a blast. Orientation, or How Not To Tragically Perish at Sea, went smoothly, and I ended the evening engaged in lively discussion with a 76-year-old fan of spy novels, who told me cheerily that I can make a shitload of money spying for the Russians.
Not gonna touch that one.
Sun's dying, which makes this whole process a bit difficult. I've found writing this out by hand makes for some terrific introspection. And yes, I feel kind of epic sitting on the highest part of deck scrawling in a notebook. Just once, I might tie one of these blog entries to a dove's leg and release it dramatically into the air.
Ah, poor thing will probably peck my face in. Maybe I'll put it into a corked bottle instead.
- Sorry about the dearth of pictures. Still figuring out this Windows/Ubuntu switch.
- Not sorry about the lack of pirate jokes. I'm saving them up.
- Send me letters! I'll return the favor. C/O Sam Rapine, PO Box 617, Camden, ME 04843
- Still haven't started the damn Odyssey. Half because I'm waiting to go to sea, half because I'm keeping pretty busy, half because I'm still only half done Gates of Fire by Stephen Pressfield, and half because I suck at fractions.
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