Exhausted and at the library for a short hour, so I'm just going to tell the story of how I didn't go for a swim yesterday.
We came in towards Castine, a small town on the coast known for a Merchant Mariner academy. The cool part was that there was a great wind putting us towards the dock; the less cool part was that there was a rather massive tide tearing us the other direction.
So, you know. Tricky conditions, nobody really knowing what to do, and a big decision bearing down on us--drop a serious amount of anchor, or try to catch a mooring--a small hook that'll fasten us to the bottom of the harbor?
What the hell. Let's shoot for the mooring.
Remember those cables I was balancing on? Well this time, I found myself sitting on the lowest one with a red hook attached to a black mooring line the thickness of two fingers. The goal: to get the hook around a three-inch diameter shackle attached to the buoy that marks the mooring. Yelling commands up to the captain at the helm, I get it to within a few feet of the ship.
I stretch and try to hook it. No dice--it's still a few feet away. And drifting past the ship. Fast.
I look up, and I see another chain. I prop my feet on my seat, grab the other chain, and lean out more. Nope. Just short by a few inches.
At this point, pandemonium is going down on the deck. Picasso is cheering me on, the Admiral wants to know what the hell is going on, and the passengers are reasonably sure their deckhand is about to get keelhauled. Suddenly, the image of having to hand-crank a hundred feet of anchor chain the next day pops into my head.
Oh, fuck it, I decide, and let go with my legs. As I dangle, twisting in the wind, by one hand, I swing my momentum over and jump onto the buoy. The red hook swings around, and click-- it's on. Sweet!
Ah, right. Now I'm stuck on a mooring buoy.
I scramble back and manage to grasp the cable. Holding on with both hands, my feet scraping the water, I look up and see the Admiral handing me another black line.
"Swap it out."
Oh, joy.
I swing back over to the buoy, manage to thread the shackle, and hand it back to him. As soon as it leaves my hands, the boat shifts, and I'm left hanging again.
"Oh, gosh." the Admiral says, and his tone indicates something approaching mild alarm. "Don't fall in."
And, because I am a bonafide master of clever one-liners, I of course respond with something kitschy, dashing, and clever, right?
"I have great upper-body strength, sir!"
Oh, fuck off. I was too busy being a ninja.
That's what the passengers seemed to think, anyway. After I pulled myself back onto the deck, I received a number of high-fives, and one decided that I was "the next American Ninja Warrior" for the rest of the day.
It's been that kind of week. Today we furled the headsails--the one that involves climbing across the bowsprit--in eighteen-knot winds and bitter rain, then did a surprise docking in Camden. Got compensated in shore time and steak, though, so I'm calling it a win. Catch you later.
We came in towards Castine, a small town on the coast known for a Merchant Mariner academy. The cool part was that there was a great wind putting us towards the dock; the less cool part was that there was a rather massive tide tearing us the other direction.
So, you know. Tricky conditions, nobody really knowing what to do, and a big decision bearing down on us--drop a serious amount of anchor, or try to catch a mooring--a small hook that'll fasten us to the bottom of the harbor?
What the hell. Let's shoot for the mooring.
Remember those cables I was balancing on? Well this time, I found myself sitting on the lowest one with a red hook attached to a black mooring line the thickness of two fingers. The goal: to get the hook around a three-inch diameter shackle attached to the buoy that marks the mooring. Yelling commands up to the captain at the helm, I get it to within a few feet of the ship.
I stretch and try to hook it. No dice--it's still a few feet away. And drifting past the ship. Fast.
I look up, and I see another chain. I prop my feet on my seat, grab the other chain, and lean out more. Nope. Just short by a few inches.
At this point, pandemonium is going down on the deck. Picasso is cheering me on, the Admiral wants to know what the hell is going on, and the passengers are reasonably sure their deckhand is about to get keelhauled. Suddenly, the image of having to hand-crank a hundred feet of anchor chain the next day pops into my head.
Oh, fuck it, I decide, and let go with my legs. As I dangle, twisting in the wind, by one hand, I swing my momentum over and jump onto the buoy. The red hook swings around, and click-- it's on. Sweet!
Ah, right. Now I'm stuck on a mooring buoy.
I scramble back and manage to grasp the cable. Holding on with both hands, my feet scraping the water, I look up and see the Admiral handing me another black line.
"Swap it out."
Oh, joy.
I swing back over to the buoy, manage to thread the shackle, and hand it back to him. As soon as it leaves my hands, the boat shifts, and I'm left hanging again.
"Oh, gosh." the Admiral says, and his tone indicates something approaching mild alarm. "Don't fall in."
And, because I am a bonafide master of clever one-liners, I of course respond with something kitschy, dashing, and clever, right?
"I have great upper-body strength, sir!"
Oh, fuck off. I was too busy being a ninja.
That's what the passengers seemed to think, anyway. After I pulled myself back onto the deck, I received a number of high-fives, and one decided that I was "the next American Ninja Warrior" for the rest of the day.
It's been that kind of week. Today we furled the headsails--the one that involves climbing across the bowsprit--in eighteen-knot winds and bitter rain, then did a surprise docking in Camden. Got compensated in shore time and steak, though, so I'm calling it a win. Catch you later.
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