Today I dropped everything and surged to the bow of an oncoming ship with six other deckhands as it careened towards the port side of the Merc, full speed ahead, inches from rending a hole in the side and sending us to the bottom of the harbor.
Let me back up.
It'd been an efficient day so far. Wrestling the PVC framing for the covers into place, the combined crews of the Merc and Grace were making outstanding headway.
This was less true for the crew of a ship which we'll call, to both spare a bad reputation and assuage the history nerd lurking not so deep within me, the Farragut. Although they already have their cover on, they needed to navigate across the harbor to get mast work done. Fair enough.
Less fair were the conditions. Like the prevailing wind pushing it hard to the south. Or a pair of severely underpowered yawl boats to maneuver it. Or, like us, a lack of onboard engine. So, as we watched them drift about the harbor, scraping across other ships and pylons, we debated whether or not we should send a boat out and lend them a hand.
Then the wind shifted. And the Farragut started drifting, slowly at first but rapidly picking up speed, bow-first towards the side of the Merc.
"Fire up the yawl boats!" roared the Admiral, as the rest of us scooped up fenders and sprinted to the port. I snatched the eight-foot boathook from its stand and jumped housetops to get to the side. Our two yawl boats cast off and coursed towards the oncoming bow, and the Admiral shouted after them as though from the bow of a destroyer, "YOUR JOB IS TO DEFEND THIS BOAT!"
The ship was now no more than twenty feet from crashing into ours. Its bowsprit passed over the rail of the Merc, and two-hundred tons of schooner pressed closer and closer.
I stood on the housetop and pushed directly against it for everything I was worth, as six other sets of hands did the same. Two inches from my straining face was the blue star painted on the heavy wooden tip, closing the distance with the slow, irrevocable pace of an ocean wave.
And there, I think, is the cool thing about ships. Take six people together and tell them to move a log or a boulder just by pushing it. That fucker isn't going anywhere. It's just physics--weight, and ultimately just friction, hold it on the ground.
But put it in the water, and something cool happens (okay, the boulder will sink. Take the log instead): You take away the friction, and suddenly six people working in serious concert can move a few hundred tons. Not very far under these conditions, mind you, but just far enough to buy an extra second.
Sometimes a second is all you need, though. It was all the small fleet of yawl boats needed to move into position and shove the Farragut back into the harbor, where it safely navigated to the other side of the marina and docked up.
The rest of us got back to work. I re-racked the boat hook, and pondered my newfound respect for physics as the Farragut's cover fluttered softly in the breeze.
Let me back up.
It'd been an efficient day so far. Wrestling the PVC framing for the covers into place, the combined crews of the Merc and Grace were making outstanding headway.
This was less true for the crew of a ship which we'll call, to both spare a bad reputation and assuage the history nerd lurking not so deep within me, the Farragut. Although they already have their cover on, they needed to navigate across the harbor to get mast work done. Fair enough.
Less fair were the conditions. Like the prevailing wind pushing it hard to the south. Or a pair of severely underpowered yawl boats to maneuver it. Or, like us, a lack of onboard engine. So, as we watched them drift about the harbor, scraping across other ships and pylons, we debated whether or not we should send a boat out and lend them a hand.
Then the wind shifted. And the Farragut started drifting, slowly at first but rapidly picking up speed, bow-first towards the side of the Merc.
"Fire up the yawl boats!" roared the Admiral, as the rest of us scooped up fenders and sprinted to the port. I snatched the eight-foot boathook from its stand and jumped housetops to get to the side. Our two yawl boats cast off and coursed towards the oncoming bow, and the Admiral shouted after them as though from the bow of a destroyer, "YOUR JOB IS TO DEFEND THIS BOAT!"
The ship was now no more than twenty feet from crashing into ours. Its bowsprit passed over the rail of the Merc, and two-hundred tons of schooner pressed closer and closer.
I stood on the housetop and pushed directly against it for everything I was worth, as six other sets of hands did the same. Two inches from my straining face was the blue star painted on the heavy wooden tip, closing the distance with the slow, irrevocable pace of an ocean wave.
And there, I think, is the cool thing about ships. Take six people together and tell them to move a log or a boulder just by pushing it. That fucker isn't going anywhere. It's just physics--weight, and ultimately just friction, hold it on the ground.
But put it in the water, and something cool happens (okay, the boulder will sink. Take the log instead): You take away the friction, and suddenly six people working in serious concert can move a few hundred tons. Not very far under these conditions, mind you, but just far enough to buy an extra second.
Sometimes a second is all you need, though. It was all the small fleet of yawl boats needed to move into position and shove the Farragut back into the harbor, where it safely navigated to the other side of the marina and docked up.
The rest of us got back to work. I re-racked the boat hook, and pondered my newfound respect for physics as the Farragut's cover fluttered softly in the breeze.
