So, has anything happened since I left Digeo?? Tell me tell me..

We sail on Sunday!!

1. Lady Maryland is desperately looking for an education officer and deckhand, to start ASAP. She's a sweet little schooner, sailing in the Bay and the Patapsco River in the spring and fall, and between Long Island and Massachusetts in the summer. They have a small crew, liveaboard, and excellent education programs. Email Lisa Jones or Peter Bolster at lisaj@livingclassrooms.org for educational positions or pete@livingclassrooms.org for deck positions!! And ask and more than likely I'll give a rec!

2. Revealed: The Man Who May Have Sunk the Mary Rose

..Eyes bleared from gunsmoke and salt spray, the face of the man who may have sunk the Mary Rose has been revealed, more than 400 years after he went to the bottom of the Solent in the wreck of Henry VIII's flagship.

The head has been modelled by the internationally renowned forensic artist Richard Neave from a skull recovered from the wreck. Only a handful of the more than 400 crew and soldiers survived when the ship sank so fast and so close to shore that helpless watchers on the cliffs heard the screams of the drowning men. For the first time, the face of one of the victims can be seen.

The remains of more than 170 individuals have been recovered, but few can be identified as specific members of the crew. This man was found with the emblem of his comparatively senior status, his bosun's call - a whistle - proving he was the man who may have been at least partly responsible for the disaster. The public will see him next month, in an exhibition at the Whitgift conference centre, Whitgift school in Croydon, the first time objects from the wreck, normally stored at the Mary Rose museum in Portsmouth, have been displayed...

EDIT:
3. This is not so nerdy. Hopping up to Long Beach for the weekend to see friends on the American Pride and the Tole Mour. One day, I swear I'll visit someone and expect to stay in a bed, not a boat bunk!

Oh.
I have so much to tell.
So many emotions that I need to put to paper before they burst inside me and I disappear in a flurry of luggage and goodbyes.

oh gee.

March seventeenth came and went. And with it, a flight and six days in Oakland, California, on what I've come to realize and finally accept as Home, onboard Lady Washington. Even with all the trials and doubts and fears and anger she has brought me over the years since first stepping upon her decks in October nearly three years ago, she has changed my life. Brought me family and friends of a sort I've experienced rarely.

But enough of that.

With an overnight the evening before, and an 0445 wake-up to go with it, my ninety-minute flight found me falling asleep in my St. Patrick's beer, courtesy of the holiday and Southwest Airlines (note to self: St Patrick's and Valentine's translates to free booze). A quick hike down the street, and there they were, just as I had left them sitting at Jack London Square's dock 385 days ago. Hugs, hose fights, and salt-spiked coffee brought me back to reality and the warmth and smells of the main hold of Lady.

Tiny, Pony, Chad, Beau and I trotted off across the bridge to San Francisco to make mischief, and found that strangely enough, the bars closed by 2300, so Tiny and I were left feeling quite sober, but we had our fun watching a very drunk white-collar man (who was at one point I'm sure, dressed in a suit) challenge the Tiny one to shots of whiskey and downing beer... and then watch him down the ketchup and other condiments sitting at the pub, which also happened to have the most disgusting bathrooms I've ever seen... Why did I always look forward to celebrating St Patrick's legally?

Wednesday we sailed, a nice sweet day to feel the rig again and familiarity. Cookface, Miah and Kent came by, current crew of the Bill of Rights, now owned by the most insane captain I've ever worked with, so we managed a night out on the town, to Heinold's First and Last Chance Saloon and the ever-classy Merchant's.

Thursday I became a Professional Tarbaby (if you have an issue with my resume title, wiki it. Term is not racist.), painting the deck with a handful of crew, with thick coats of pine tar and Penetrol, darkening my beloved Lady into the queen of the bay. Nothing, nothing smells better than pine tar. Unless it's fresh cedar, pipe tobacco, and sauteeing butter. And so, still tar-speckled with brown feet and black toenails, we enjoyed the spring sunshine in the hotel's pool, then warmed up in the sauna. (How many tallship sailors can you fit in a sauna?)

Friday more education sails, the deck stick-stick-sticky with tar.

The weekend came too quickly, sailing the brig on the bay, set to a soundtrack of chanteys sung by Sparky and Tiny. And drowsy with happiness, came my favorite evening. The first day of spring, celebrated with gin and tonics (my traditional first day of summer drink). Out came the sweet music of Frank and Ella, swooning into dancing with the girls of the Lady and some of my most beloved crewmates.

Monday brought another sail, and packing my bags, I headed for home. Appropriately finished my flight in a cloud of clove-smelling smoke, and fell asleep in a pile of brig-smelling wool blankets on the Star of India.

It was easily one of the monumentally life-changing weeks. A week I can place with the trip to Boston (that eventually led to applying for Lady Washington in the first place), the week before I left Home to sail, the Great Chesapeake Bay Schooner Race Week, the trip to Richmond, Virginia... all these full moments in my life when I knew I was, for one instant, at the exact place I was supposed to be, and everything in the universe was perfect.

And dammit, I think of her and her crew and those moments every night before I sleep, and when I wake up. She's impressed herself onto my dreams.

I'll find myself in her rig again soon. If just for a few more days, I'll enjoy another salt-sweetened cup of coffee with some of the Best of the West.

"I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time."
- Jack London

Photos!!

he gave me until the 26th. I'm trying not to stress. Really.

I have some funds saved, and plenty of offered couches. More stressed about all the CRAP I've managed to accumulate, and packing all that. And moving it in the spare hours I have when not working that week.  (40 hours in 4 days, including two overnights, two 2pm-8pm shifts, and two morning sails. I think I have a time frame of four hours.)

I finally got a new phone. I don't have many minutes on it, but I do have unlimited text. Hurrah, real life. 619-846-7994.

I work an overnight tomorrow, then visit the Lady and Chieftain in Oakland for the next week. Thank god I found cheap tickets, and had these days off anyway, because heaven knows I need the time away, and if I can be 1400 miles away, and 90 feet above the sea, the distance is good.

Time to breathe.

Fresh air.

Good food.

Salt.

Oh crap I need to be there now. 26 hours.

 THE BOATS ARE HERE!!

oh yay.

Sorry friends, but it has to be done.



This last one I completely blame on my love of Jack Black and musicals.

Put your MP3 player on shuffle, and write down the first line of the first twenty songs. Post the poem that results. The first line of the twenty-first is the title.

It Takes a Lot to be Always on Form
As your soul drifts on the plate
A restless feeling consumes me tonight
Banned from the end of the world
Well we realized so long, long ago, and I bet you,
There's still a little bit of your taste in my mouth.
Last night I said to her
"!Óígame compay! No deje camino por coger la vereda." (Translation: Do not stray from the road to pick up the trail)

Stay away from me, 'cause I'm in my sin
I ain't got no home
Tied down against the tracks
If you want me I'll be there

Lovely is the feelin' now
I got nasty habits, I take tea at three
Five to one, baby
I thought I heard the old man say,
"Welcome to the real world,
Build a bridge or maybe two"

My gift is my song and this one's for you
You'd be so nice to come home to
I've got a smile on my face, I've got four walls around me


( Read more... )

From The New London Day News

This state has some of the strangest weather patterns. I know there's a typical marine layer that hangs over the bay until noon usually, but today the fog was so thick I could hardly see two blocks away, and that was twenty blocks inland. Weird city.

I have my first overnight tonight on Star of India as the Cookie!!!

*squeee*

But finally we have been heard and Mike Rowe of Discovery Channel's Dirty Jobs has come out and played tar monkey on Star of India at the San Diego Maritime Museum!

For those of us on the left coast, the episode airs TONIGHT at 2100. Yay!

More info here.

Did I mention it's raining? This is good, I miss a good rainfall after not even a sprinkle in months:) Gonna dance in it now.

I finally found a job. I think I logged a good 40 miles in walking since Wednesday, walking everywhere in San Diego looking for anyplace to hire. Had perhaps 15 interviews, god knows how many applications filled out. So what am I doing? Well the sweet part is, I'm putting in 20-odd hours as a receptionist at the hostel, in exchange for a free bed.

The rest of my time, starting Monday, will be taken up by my lovely telemarketing gig. (Hate me now, please.) Not selling anything, thankfully, just responding to people filling out those little forms for vacations/cars/whatever you see in the mall and Pizza Hut, getting them to come in for a spiel about a timeshare, and hopefully making extra cash when they show up for the talk on top of a base pay of.. minimum wage (luckily, California doesn't have the assinine minimum wage that Maryland does, and they pay their waitress minimum wage plus tips - not a measly $2.25 plus tips like other east coast states - which means that ideally, one can make a pretty penny).

I had a promising interview with Westin Hotel earlier today as well for front desk work, so perhaps I can drop the phone gig sooner. I also applied to the USPS for desk work.

San Diego Maritime Museum doesn't start until another few weeks, which will fill in the spots.

Starting over in San Diego was harder than I thought. Silly economy. Silly tourism.

I miss my boat family like mad. The Lynx called and re-offered me a gig as Education Officer through December, but I feel like I need to do this.. stay still for a bit and save money so I can pay off debts and afford to do what I want without anything hanging over me.

I guess if anything, the last week at the hostel has made me want to travel even more. Hearing others' stories, making friends with English, Irish, Italians, Ukrainians, Australians and New Zealanders, thinking how easy it would be to pack a few belongings (no fowlies, so much lighter!) into my seabag, and go from hostel to hostel. In a year, perhaps? Why not? I'm certainly not tied down, and if there's one thing I've felt for a very a long time now, is to see "out there." Whether on sea or on land.

So Mom, Dad, I'm safe. Cheers!

Meeeeehhhh.

That is all.

I need loud head-splodey music. And a long bicycle ride. And a puppy.

Starting to allow myself to realize what little is left: $25, a week, a handful of unsent postcards,and a truckload of memories. Promises of tattoed sparrows when the ship returns. Unanswered questions we try to forget about. Desperate hugs and kisses. No promises. Ever. "See you laters" and fevered dancing and drinking in the galley. All these hopes and dreams.

July 8, 2008
The sun is shining through a clear blue sky as we lie, engine idling with an early dinner below, tied to a piling at the marina tucked inside Sooke Bay, on the southwest side of Vancouver Island.

We are still another seventy miles to the mouth of the river that will lead us to Port Alberni, but outside our kelp-laden refuge, a thick fog races past and the VHF issues gale warnings. It hardly feels anything like the 30-plus knots that tossed Nina like a bath toy just hours ago.

So I found myself on dock/piling/motor watch. Hoots and Hellmouth play in my ears drowning out the laughter below and the conversations drifting across the water from curious boaters. Since leaving the Foss Waterway and Tacoma, WA, last night, I am for the first time down to just two layers as the late afternoon sun warms our little black boat.

The music’s bluesy folksy quality evokes the bitter sweetness that has been my trip west thus far. As always, much has happened in too short a time for it to seem much more than a very long dream, but it has been too intense for it to be anything but reality.

After a week of dockside tours in Seattle, kept company by the Victory Clipper at the Center for Wooden Boats (a Mecca for small boat sailors if there ever was one), we headed out for Victoria, British Columbia, staled by the Bollard Locks, and nearly ran into the drawbridge that did not wait for us to chug through. We stopped overnight in the foggy little seaport of Port Townsend, and caught up with the news of the day: schooner Adventuress had grounded earlier, and was undergoing rig checks before she would leave for the north. The next morning, we faced NW winds and chop across the Strait of Juan de Fueca. Throttling into headwinds, boats appeared out of the mist from the west. Bounty, Lady Washington, Hawaiian Chieftain, Lynx, Kaisei, sails full. More and more arrived, and we spent our first evening in BC anchored and thrown about in the gusts that threatened to toss me from the boatswain’s chair as I rigged new halyards and re-reeved gear for our lateen sails.

The fort at Canada’s first lighthouse threw us the first of many parties, and the reunions started. Old crew, folks I haven’t seen in a year or more, now on Kaisei, Bounty and Lynx. Thursday morn dawned, and we set sail for the first time for the Parade of Sail. Downwind under the mainsail, we headed east at 4.5 knots, and once reaching our mark for the parade, fell off, set all four sails (fore, main, mizzen lateen, and counter mizzen lateen). For lack of better training amongst the long-term crew, it was a case of too many people in the galley and no cooks, with little familiarity with the rig, we looked a little the fool, but once everything filled and the brails were found and slacked, we heeled over to the tune of 8 knots under a 20 knot breeze. Sweet for an old tub like Nina, we ripped past the breakwater and clamoring onlookers. (I guess this should have been my first sign. I know the caravel rig well from time at Jamestown, but the Mate has 10 years of time logged on Nina, and the other deckhand a year. And still they were befuddled by the layout and setting of a rather simple set of sails.)

Once we had docked and prepped for tours, I wandered over to the familiar and still Home-like Lady and Chieftain, and soon twenty-odd rough-and-tumble sailors were making their way to the pub, dodging cars and playing Red Rover across intersections, not drunk with alcohol yet, but, as Davey put it, “intoxicated with life.” From not meeting dress codes to singing louder than the radio in Big John’s brassiere-strewn honky-tonk, we found our third and final port of call at Garrick’s Head. We closed the pub, pitcher after pitcher of the local Honey Brown, singing and dancing chanteys and bawdy limericks off the pub’s porch and into the alley. Stomping and singing so loud, crowds appeared and glasses vibrated across tables. (If there is one thing I love most about West Coast tallship sailors, it is the music. The loud as the hell we want, pounding down beer and lyrics that cement our reputation in town.)

No other evening passed quite the same, but down time meant finding the best pizza at The Joint, where curry chicken and pineapple or alfredo-something slices were the norm. Or an evening with Zach, scruffy from our respective boats, playing the dirty bums sitting in the alley, straight sober, but catcalling and fashion policing the passerby, ending the night in the early morning with a pedicab ride as far and fun as $5 could afford us. Sunset watching from the main t’gallant yard of the Bounty with friends, hashing out past adventures and experiences. Another ‘stache Bash, ending another early morning somewhere in Victoria, the mustache painted on my upper lip forgotten (no wonder...), and an afternoon in Chinatown with a nearly forgotten friend.

Next to Tacoma, stopping in Port Orchard with a sleepover on the foredeck of the Bounty, shared cotton candy from the town carnival, half frozen whiskey (destitute sailors can only afford a certain grade of alcohol), sugary sugary Canadian cake, and cheese and bread.
Vashon Island was a small paradise just north of Tacoma threw a crews’ party with a bluegrass and blues band, the crews dancing until our feet ached.

Tacoma was quieter than Victoria, mostly because the waterfront was separated from the town by the freeway and industrial railroads. Still, as all good sailors, we found the Dock House Bar, all of 200 feet from our docks. Fifty cent drinks on the house beat $18 Canadian pitchers any day, even if it was PBR.

However (sign two) after my captain neglected to inform, and the mate gave me misinformation, I missed the boat leaving her dock for a 2300 fueling the first night in, I became the black sheep of the crew. In all honesty, it seems that far from being able to use the “FNG” excuse, there is little info ever given about anything, from docking to wake-ups to where tools are kept. (When the other deckhand – with a year on board – doesn’t know where shore power cords are kept, there’s a problem. We deckhands did literally nothing aside from steer during watch. Transient docents is all we were, as the captain/mate did everything.) This rubs me raw, because being a new hand, I am clueless, and none of my simple and obvious questions are answered.

So I am looking to pack my bags once in Port Alberni, and jump ship. I have no qualms, no misgivings, no guilt.

After leaving me on the dock to fuel up, I spent my evening and subsequent night at the pub with crew from Bounty and Kaisei, topping it off with a Zoolander-esque pose-off between the boys. Shirtless. I love tallships.

Between that night and other reasons pertaining to my ship, Bounty has become second home. A few of her crew are former shipmates, and the rest of them have become fast friends and family, wingmen, wandering the streets dancing under street lamps like Groucho Marx… And Cookie’s food is damn good; I do not mind washing dishes in exchange for enjoying leftovers.

Friday night, July fourth, the USCG gave us a full tour of the Eagle, including entry into the untouched aft cabin, where Hitler spent time during the war, and we retreated to the stern of the Bounty for fireworks and watching a few vessels battle underneath the explosions. The next evening was an entry into Tacoma, full of events like the “Magic Lantern,” an 1800s-era show of sailing still and animations in the beautiful old Pythian Temple; taking in the chic and young at the art/fashion show TacomaOpolis; and the crème de la crème, a brilliant hilarious drag show. The following evening toned down a bit, watching Pee Wee’s Big Adventure and the Bounty-starred Pirates Thirty with crew in the Bounty’s galley. (Last night I dreamed my cock was a giant tri-masted Spanish galleon.)

We left early Monday night, following Lady into the fog, for a plodding several-day transit on Nina.

July 9, 2008, 1340 hours

I always look forward to the first rays of sunshine, or when the sky clears enough for the light to turn the dismal steel gray chop and haze of fog into a blue-green with a blue blue sky, mountains peaking from behind mountains, beyond more mountains, tipped with patches of virgin white and spotted with towering pines. God’s country.
Days of perfect weather and Crayola colors are nothing to these spare moments, and it is both in the savored and the despised times that one smiles, knowing that the sun is just beyond this watch.
I am off watch now, and rather than retreat to what hours before was a windless and dry haven of darkness, I lie in the sun, sopping it up like a lizard on my floating rock.

2249 hours

It is nearly tomorrow, and Kaisei has just joined the marina next to Lady. As Capt Kyle and I walked to catch her lines, I still sober and the rest of the crew smelling of Budweiser and Jim Beam, I broached the subject, apologizing for not being too social and nearly jumping at the chance to visit the other ships. He nodded, saying he knew of my desire to jump ship, that I wasn’t cut out for the “dog and pony show” and needed to sail. And sail often.
While he may or may not know all my reasons, that’s the simplest, most honest-sounding answer I can come up with. The type that looks ludicrous on a resume to anyone but a sailor.

July 15, 2008, 0231, somewhere around the WA/OR border

I cannot help but write at the most inopportune of times. It is a little before my watch, and unless I focus on writing, the ick will come back. Mysterious, blame-it-on-supper-not-seaway ick, for I am also wheezy and dizzy. (After discussing it with ship’s medical officer, we blamed it on my sanding teak caprails earlier. Apparently the oils in the wood is highly allergenic to some.)

But not that that matters. My mood is far more resolutely happy, for we are two days out from Port Alberni, BC, eighty odd miles from land and lifestyle, and heading south. The twelve of us on the steel and aluminum Kaisei, a ragtag bunch of excellent sailors and gypsies, bent on rebuilding a boat from the scrap pile that was neglected for four years. She is the utter opposite of Niña. The red-headed stepchild of ASTA, cool and quirky as hell (After my first tour below, before I was thinking of hopping aboard, I exclaimed that she was “stupid awesome!” to the engineer. The description stuck.), and something so much bigger than myself. She is a warm haven out here, and her roll, roll, roll, roll, bounce, roll, seems a little skip to be back “out to sea.” The three best words to hear on the radio.

“Once again we are on your waters; keep us safe and there will be more!” – Captain Jake’s “The Wolf” offering to Neptune

July 16, 2008, 1424 hours

We continue our sail south, NNW winds following us, a well-timed jibe every eight or twelve hours, over 100 miles offshore and off the edge of our charts. The water this far out is a deep cobalt, slightly darker than Kaisei’s hull, and the sky remains overcast and gray as it has for the last two days. The wind has slowed to 5-10 knots, making five knots seem like a snail’s pace.

There’s a line that’s sometimes repeated, a cry of “oh god, the seas are so big and my boat is so small!” Someone reminded me of that call in Port Alberni, asking if I’d ever felt that way in heavy weather.

I can’t say I have, and I’ve experienced some crazy weather. Until this morning’s 4-8 watch. The sea was placid, no breakers. Just an occasional roller to make it seem as if we were sliding on a skin of leather. The wisps of wind, the seemingly barely moving vessel, and the occasional luffing staysails gave the appearance of not moving on a still expansive lake, where other peoples, lands, vessels, were nonexistent. That is being alone on a very big ocean.

More to come...

The ideal nightwatch menu: lychees and cotton candy. Not that this has been tried or anything. The boats lie at anchor off Vashon Island, waiting to sail into Tacoma, and we are loved.

By the time you read this, we'll have left the States for Tallships in Victoria, BC, eh. Be back in a week. (Wanna geek out, Kaiotte? Nina is the epitome of replicas, all hand tools; built by 8th generation boatbuilders in Brazil; with sisal, manila, and Hemp-ex line; linen(!) and canvas sail; and tarred deck and hull -no red bottom paint here. She's beyond ridiculous.)