Whoops.
I didn't screw up (at least not much). I wrote that word because I want you to look at its width. Maybe half an inch? Well, that's about the width of the semi-slack steel cable I spent half an hour balancing on tonight. Twenty feet off the bow. Over dark, frigid, impermeable waters.
God, this job rocks.
I woke up this morning on the Grace and climbed out of the forecastle. My firs tlesson as a deckhand is that most of the terminology is based on drunken, uneducated British antiquity. Case in point: "forecastle" is pronounced "folks-ull." Same way "main sail" is pronounced "mainsull" and "jibe" is spelled "gybe". Just drink some rotgut, hum "God Save the Queen" and roll with it. I promise it'll make sense.
Being a deckhand is a lot like what I was doing in the galley: lots of washing, punctuated by stressful intensity. I wash the heads thrice (see? Think British thoughts) a day, wash down the deck at least four times, and cautiously pull and push a myriad of levers that keep the boat afloat. The key differences lie in the amount of sunlight I get (more), the amount of smoke I inhale (less), and the required skillset (enough to make me wish I'd joined the Scouts as a kid).
Every activity has a routine, and it can get stressful. In the galley, they were independent--wash the dishes, wash the floor, all self-contained. Up on the deck, something like raising the sails or dropping the anchor has a few timed, precise steps. Diving right in has been a bit nerve-wracking. It's getting better, and easier every day, but nerves are still wracked.
Where I shine are moments like tonight, where we drop anchor late just for the opportunity to literally sail into the sunset. We did; it was indescribable (so I won't try). It left us, however, sitting with the two foresails still hanging out and unfurled--and the night fog rolling in, with not a light in sight.
Furling the foresail and mainsail is pretty straightforward--remember my cowboy gig? It's that. Except instead of hanging out on the back of the sail, I'm on one of the halyards (big rope that lowers/raises the gaff, in turn controlling the height and tautness of the sails). The headsails, however, involve walking out on the tightropes in front of the ship and rolling them by hand like a giant cloth cigar. As your objective is to furl up the sails, there's very little in the way of handholds.
And, in keeping with the chaotic theme of my sailing escapades thus far, it should go without saying that my first time doing this took place on a brisk, windy night, surrounded by impermeable fog that coated the steel cables under my feet and varnished wood under my hands with a fine, slick sheen of water.
Just in case this was all getting too boring.
Wolfman led the charge, climbing out in front of me. Named for his epically shaggy beard, Wolfman is the first mate on the Grace, a competent sailor, patient teacher, and enthusiastic person. As we inched our way out on the tip of the bow, he instructed myself and the messmate on the way to get the job done.
"Grab a big chunk of sail," he said, clutching the canvas in his grip. "We're going to give it three shakes, and after the third, we'll pull it aft [back]. Hard." and, because sailing isn't complete without rhythm and psychopathy to distract from the fact that we're balancing over a boreal Maine ice bath, he began a chant to match our tempo."
"My-NAME is-SAIL-or DAN--HUH!" on the "huh!", we yanked back a section of staysail. The club, sheeted in, rocked back and forth, threatening to sweep our shins.
"I-AM a SAIL-or MAN--HUH!" the sail moved backwards. Our handholds got smaller.
"Some-BOD-y KISS-ed my-WIFE--HUH!" in the inky blackness below, something--let's say an adorable harp seal for the sake of my imagination--splashed quietly through the water.
"I'm GON-na GET-my-KNIFE--HUH!" The cable shook in the wind, and the fog-shrouded night was silent as a morgue.
"And THEN I'll END his LIFE--HUH!"
Charming bunch, the sailing industry. We soon finished and slinked back to the deck.
So that seems to be the deckhand gig. I'll spend eighty percent of my day making beds; the other twenty will consist of getting punched in the face by a flogging jibsheet as I try desperately to make it off, or slacklining over cold water with no tie-in to furl the sails. After a few days, I can only say that despite a wicked sunburn and flog bruises, I'm loving the hell out of it.
We've got a huge schooner festival back in Camden on Friday. A boat parade, fireworks, food, and maybe best of all--shore time. I'll keep you posted.
I didn't screw up (at least not much). I wrote that word because I want you to look at its width. Maybe half an inch? Well, that's about the width of the semi-slack steel cable I spent half an hour balancing on tonight. Twenty feet off the bow. Over dark, frigid, impermeable waters.
God, this job rocks.
I woke up this morning on the Grace and climbed out of the forecastle. My firs tlesson as a deckhand is that most of the terminology is based on drunken, uneducated British antiquity. Case in point: "forecastle" is pronounced "folks-ull." Same way "main sail" is pronounced "mainsull" and "jibe" is spelled "gybe". Just drink some rotgut, hum "God Save the Queen" and roll with it. I promise it'll make sense.
Being a deckhand is a lot like what I was doing in the galley: lots of washing, punctuated by stressful intensity. I wash the heads thrice (see? Think British thoughts) a day, wash down the deck at least four times, and cautiously pull and push a myriad of levers that keep the boat afloat. The key differences lie in the amount of sunlight I get (more), the amount of smoke I inhale (less), and the required skillset (enough to make me wish I'd joined the Scouts as a kid).
Every activity has a routine, and it can get stressful. In the galley, they were independent--wash the dishes, wash the floor, all self-contained. Up on the deck, something like raising the sails or dropping the anchor has a few timed, precise steps. Diving right in has been a bit nerve-wracking. It's getting better, and easier every day, but nerves are still wracked.
Where I shine are moments like tonight, where we drop anchor late just for the opportunity to literally sail into the sunset. We did; it was indescribable (so I won't try). It left us, however, sitting with the two foresails still hanging out and unfurled--and the night fog rolling in, with not a light in sight.
Furling the foresail and mainsail is pretty straightforward--remember my cowboy gig? It's that. Except instead of hanging out on the back of the sail, I'm on one of the halyards (big rope that lowers/raises the gaff, in turn controlling the height and tautness of the sails). The headsails, however, involve walking out on the tightropes in front of the ship and rolling them by hand like a giant cloth cigar. As your objective is to furl up the sails, there's very little in the way of handholds.
And, in keeping with the chaotic theme of my sailing escapades thus far, it should go without saying that my first time doing this took place on a brisk, windy night, surrounded by impermeable fog that coated the steel cables under my feet and varnished wood under my hands with a fine, slick sheen of water.
Just in case this was all getting too boring.
Wolfman led the charge, climbing out in front of me. Named for his epically shaggy beard, Wolfman is the first mate on the Grace, a competent sailor, patient teacher, and enthusiastic person. As we inched our way out on the tip of the bow, he instructed myself and the messmate on the way to get the job done.
"Grab a big chunk of sail," he said, clutching the canvas in his grip. "We're going to give it three shakes, and after the third, we'll pull it aft [back]. Hard." and, because sailing isn't complete without rhythm and psychopathy to distract from the fact that we're balancing over a boreal Maine ice bath, he began a chant to match our tempo."
"My-NAME is-SAIL-or DAN--HUH!" on the "huh!", we yanked back a section of staysail. The club, sheeted in, rocked back and forth, threatening to sweep our shins.
"I-AM a SAIL-or MAN--HUH!" the sail moved backwards. Our handholds got smaller.
"Some-BOD-y KISS-ed my-WIFE--HUH!" in the inky blackness below, something--let's say an adorable harp seal for the sake of my imagination--splashed quietly through the water.
 |
| Close enough. |
"I'm GON-na GET-my-KNIFE--HUH!" The cable shook in the wind, and the fog-shrouded night was silent as a morgue.
"And THEN I'll END his LIFE--HUH!"
Charming bunch, the sailing industry. We soon finished and slinked back to the deck.
So that seems to be the deckhand gig. I'll spend eighty percent of my day making beds; the other twenty will consist of getting punched in the face by a flogging jibsheet as I try desperately to make it off, or slacklining over cold water with no tie-in to furl the sails. After a few days, I can only say that despite a wicked sunburn and flog bruises, I'm loving the hell out of it.
We've got a huge schooner festival back in Camden on Friday. A boat parade, fireworks, food, and maybe best of all--shore time. I'll keep you posted.
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