Captain lined us up to teach us how to not get scuttled by the United States Coast Guard.
Well, maybe it wasn't that dramatic. But seeing as we are due for an inspection tomorrow morning, it seemed a good idea to run through the very basics of safety, locations of fire extinguishers, and the most important rule of Coast Guard inspections: don't give them a damn thing for free.
"They like to bust balls." Captain paused contemplatively, then declared "They've got a complex."
That done, we set about more maintenance work. It was at this point that the deckhand (we'll call him Hand) dropped an interesting bit of information on me.
"How's your rowing?" Hand asked, gesturing to the small rowboat situated off the bow.
I responded honestly: despite a hell of a lot of time on the rowing machine, I didn't have a lick of practical experience.
Hand nodded. "Well, you're going to want to get on that." he gestured to the mooring lines, ropes thick as a kid's wrist that anchored the ship, holding it fast to massive slabs of granite sunk to the harbor floor. "It's the galley's job to row out ahead of the Merc and toss us mooring lines. We pull like hell and tie her off."
I nodded. So I had to race--and beat--the schooner in a rowboat. Sure.
"What happens if we don't make it first?" I asked offhandedly.
He gestured to the dock with a grin. "We crash."
Oh. Cool!
Which is how I spent the next hour flailing in a rowboat.
Ever see those scenes in movies where the chiseled hero has to cross some insurmountable distance of water? There's always that scene where he jumps in the tethered canoe, casts the line onto shore, and then sets off, grim-faced, across the channel or strait. There's probably a low whistle or some uillean pipes playing in the background. Highlander, Rambo, they all do it.
Yeah, that's bullshit.
For one, without some extensive training, you're not going anywhere fast. As I found out, even with a strong back, an amateur rower suffers from a hilarious lack of coordination. With three hard strokes, I found myself listing directly towards a sailboat that probably costs more to paint than the original sticker price of my car.
And you'll always see the burly action hero hauling on the oars in these picturesque, climactic strokes. That's probably not happening either, unless there's virtually no tide or wind (e.g. he's rowing through a fish tank). The water does something; you compensate. It's tricky, and it's hard.
All of which is to say I spent an hour, made it half a mile, and chafed my hands raw.
Sitting on the aft cabin roof, I turned to aft port (back-left) to behold a disheveled looking gentleman climbing aboard the Mercantile.
Fair enough.
He introduced himself, and for all intents and purposes (as we'll see) I'm going to call him Obi-Wan. Former captain in this fleet, friend of the crew, all-around interesting guy.
"Feel like a boat ride?" he asked.
Jumping into a boat with a stranger? What the hell!
We cut through the afternoon bay waters courtesy of a powerful yellow yaw boat, and as we traversed the forest of masts that constituted the outer harbor, he regailed me with a fascinating life story including Vietnam, years spent as an international educator, and a childhood filled with no small amount of Semtex explosives.
We arrived on his ship, a schooner no longer than a school bus, where he set about repairs. In the process, he quickly discerned my appreciable lack of searfaring experience (seeing a pattern here?) and the visit quickly became an introductory lesson.
The gale of knowledge, as we returned to the Mercantile, concluded with a speculative look. "The art of sailing is done not by thought, but by the transformation of practice into habit and habit into doing--a process which, when mastered, is applicable to any walk of life."
"Seamanship by Lao Tzu." was all I could think to respond.
Obi-Wan seemed to appreciate that. "Welcome to the industry." he said with a grin, extending a hand.
Fifteen minutes later, ignoring the reopening blisters, I climbed back into the rowboat and set out.
Well, maybe it wasn't that dramatic. But seeing as we are due for an inspection tomorrow morning, it seemed a good idea to run through the very basics of safety, locations of fire extinguishers, and the most important rule of Coast Guard inspections: don't give them a damn thing for free.
"They like to bust balls." Captain paused contemplatively, then declared "They've got a complex."
That done, we set about more maintenance work. It was at this point that the deckhand (we'll call him Hand) dropped an interesting bit of information on me.
"How's your rowing?" Hand asked, gesturing to the small rowboat situated off the bow.
I responded honestly: despite a hell of a lot of time on the rowing machine, I didn't have a lick of practical experience.
Hand nodded. "Well, you're going to want to get on that." he gestured to the mooring lines, ropes thick as a kid's wrist that anchored the ship, holding it fast to massive slabs of granite sunk to the harbor floor. "It's the galley's job to row out ahead of the Merc and toss us mooring lines. We pull like hell and tie her off."
I nodded. So I had to race--and beat--the schooner in a rowboat. Sure.
"What happens if we don't make it first?" I asked offhandedly.
He gestured to the dock with a grin. "We crash."
Oh. Cool!
Which is how I spent the next hour flailing in a rowboat.
Ever see those scenes in movies where the chiseled hero has to cross some insurmountable distance of water? There's always that scene where he jumps in the tethered canoe, casts the line onto shore, and then sets off, grim-faced, across the channel or strait. There's probably a low whistle or some uillean pipes playing in the background. Highlander, Rambo, they all do it.
Yeah, that's bullshit.
For one, without some extensive training, you're not going anywhere fast. As I found out, even with a strong back, an amateur rower suffers from a hilarious lack of coordination. With three hard strokes, I found myself listing directly towards a sailboat that probably costs more to paint than the original sticker price of my car.
And you'll always see the burly action hero hauling on the oars in these picturesque, climactic strokes. That's probably not happening either, unless there's virtually no tide or wind (e.g. he's rowing through a fish tank). The water does something; you compensate. It's tricky, and it's hard.
All of which is to say I spent an hour, made it half a mile, and chafed my hands raw.
Sitting on the aft cabin roof, I turned to aft port (back-left) to behold a disheveled looking gentleman climbing aboard the Mercantile.
Fair enough.
He introduced himself, and for all intents and purposes (as we'll see) I'm going to call him Obi-Wan. Former captain in this fleet, friend of the crew, all-around interesting guy.
 |
| Eh. Close enough. |
"Feel like a boat ride?" he asked.
Jumping into a boat with a stranger? What the hell!
We cut through the afternoon bay waters courtesy of a powerful yellow yaw boat, and as we traversed the forest of masts that constituted the outer harbor, he regailed me with a fascinating life story including Vietnam, years spent as an international educator, and a childhood filled with no small amount of Semtex explosives.
We arrived on his ship, a schooner no longer than a school bus, where he set about repairs. In the process, he quickly discerned my appreciable lack of searfaring experience (seeing a pattern here?) and the visit quickly became an introductory lesson.
The gale of knowledge, as we returned to the Mercantile, concluded with a speculative look. "The art of sailing is done not by thought, but by the transformation of practice into habit and habit into doing--a process which, when mastered, is applicable to any walk of life."
"Seamanship by Lao Tzu." was all I could think to respond.
Obi-Wan seemed to appreciate that. "Welcome to the industry." he said with a grin, extending a hand.
Fifteen minutes later, ignoring the reopening blisters, I climbed back into the rowboat and set out.
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