"The Unbearable Loudness of Boating"

Springtime. When the seagulls soar overhead, eyeballing scraps from fish boats and the terns begin squawking at 6 AM like prehistoric birds--hence our gate's nickname "Jurassic Dock."   It's also the time of year when we awake to the sound of bow thrusters and engines in full reverse--the morning stillness broken by shouting couples screaming directions--or arguing about directions not clearly given. Yes indeed, it is boating season.

It occurred to me this morning, as I sipped my second cuppa' joe and observed the frustrated couple screaming back and forth as they sidled into the large empty bay across from me, that not enough attention is given to the aesthetics of yachting. No, wait--let me explain. I know exactly what you're thinking... There is ample attention given to the accoutrements of yachting, the vessels, the clothing, the gear, yes. But there is so much more to being a classy boater than the amount of gleaming brass on the transom or size of the yacht club's burgee on the bow pulpit. I'm talking here about manners, etiquette... the aesthetics of handling those big, shiny boats.

At the risk of sounding like a judgmental snob (a potentially accurate observation some say), let me elaborate briefly.

Those of us who live and work around boats consistently, are accustomed to a certain status quo of serenity, relatively speaking. Even when there is urgent work or duties to be performed, there is a stubborn tranquility around the commercial dock. When voices are raised it draws our attention. When shouting is heard, we impulsively stop what we're doing (yep, even if it's drinking coffee), and ascertain if help is needed. Most of the time help is not required--but every so often it is.

Last spring over--you guessed it, our morning coffee, we heard just such a noise. Actually, I thought it had been a gull shrieking, but Jeff discerned a woman's voice and jumped into action immediately. Two boats down, a woman had missed her footing and slipped off the bull-rail. By the time we arrived, her husband had managed to pull her out of the water. She was shaken and cold, but fine.
                                                                          

In preparation for their season's opening, the fish boats begin to load their gear. The occasional shout or command can be heard, however the ones that are making all of the noise are usually the new deckhands. Seasoned crewmembers are efficient and economical with their words and for the most part, a whole lot of work gets accomplished on the commercial boats by keeping the communication at a conversation level.

When I worked as mate on the 160-foot Zodiac, I trained my deckhands to watch for hand signals. All commands when we came into dock were silent. If the captain was bringing her in, I would station myself midship and relay the critical information he needed by our standardized hand signals. This practice allowed the captain to concentrate on his job and the rest of my crew to remain alert--using their eyes and ears instead of their mouths. Dock lines could be tossed ashore with just a nod instead of shouts, the winch operator knew when to power down on the bowline with just a finger gesture and knew when to make it fast by watching for the helmsman's crossed fists above his head. Smoothly run, safely operated. Classy.

On a vessel the size of Zodiac, it's fairly important that orders are given to and by a few select officers. I don't mind saying that it's pretty damn impressive to watch a 200-ton tall ship slide into her slip (in reverse), without a word from her crew.
... Aesthetics.



Don't get me wrong, it can be amusing to sit at anchor with a drink in our hands and watch the calamity that often ensues as boats arrive to anchor. That is to say, sometimes it is amusing, other times it is just downright annoying--or worse, frightening. I've witnessed some pretty abusive relationships on boats coming into dock or getting their hook down. It upsets me as a fellow boater and as a person who has trained sailors. And it doesn't have to be that way.

Some boaters use the wireless headsets when maneuvering in close quarters or anchoring. These hands-free devices work pretty effectively, and definitely cut out the noise. There's no denying that they lend an air of professionalism to a ship's crew. However I've been in the Ballard locks (of all places) and watched what happens when headsets crap out: frantic family members start screaming out of sheer desperation. 

I believe that devising your own set of hand signals--and becoming comfortable using them, is the most practical method. Add on the electronics afterward, but you can always rely on the old-school method should batteries die or earpieces fall into the drink.

The ultimate answer might lie in the hands of instructors. If novice boaters learn the right way to communicate--and the reasons for doing so from the very start, the problem may weed itself out eventually. There's a lot to be said for peer pressure. After all, nobody wants to be *THAT* boat...  

Anyway, as the cruising season progresses, I'm going to try and remember to give credit to those who practice proper etiquette and display the kind of manners that I wish everybody did. I can't really change others behavior, but I'm going to certainly give props to those around us who demonstrate good seamanship.




              I just wish the damn seagulls would get the hint.    

 
~ Chris

 

"Making Way"

Chapter 27 "Making Way" from Prepare to Come About

“T

hose headsails are killing our tack! Go tell your husband to sheet in his jib—again.” Tim said. “We’re never going to make it through Thatcher Pass at this rate.”

Oh dear lord, not again. I drew a deep breath and went forward to relay the captain’s orders to my foredeck leader. I seriously doubted he’d be any happier hearing from me this time than he was the last three. “Jeffery, Captain says your jib’s still sheeted out too far. It’s killing the tack and making us carry too much rudder.”

“Christ—I’m doing it exactly the way he asked for it last time! If I sheet in any more we’ll be backed!”

“All I’m doing is passing along orders; please don’t kill the messenger.” I spun around and returned to my new position at the quarterdeck, complaining under my breath all the while. “Talk about getting caught between a rock and a hard place…” I shook my head and silently counted the hours until we’d drop anchor and I could go hide in my stateroom. “This totally sucks. Why did I ever think I could actually pull this off?”

It didn’t help that on this, my first trip out as a mate, I had a fractious captain and a partner who didn’t appear to be adjusting very well to taking orders from his wife—especially when those orders often contradicted themselves. I wasn’t certain whether Tim was testing me or just being testy—either way, it made for a long day. It felt like I’d already logged countless miles on-deck, relaying commands and responses to and from the foredeck.

 

 I walked up to Tim and inquired if the headsail was now to his liking and received a reply that was more of a muffled grunt. I chose to interpret it as a sound of approval. My next duty was to walk around the deck and make sure everything was ship-shape. I began capsizing a few coils, only to hear the captain’s voice from the quarterdeck. “Chris—hands in your pockets! Your job is to delegate. You can’t keep an eye on everything if you’re busy coiling lines!”

I sighed. I missed my old job as a deckhand where I could just manage my sail, stow my lines and retire below to read or chat with friends. There was no such thing as standing down for me any longer, and no reprieve from the constant vigilance. Now I had four sails to manage—over 7,000 square feet of them—with two or three stations per sail. I had to watch over all the passengers now, not just the ones who were assigned to my station. Worst of all, I had to keep a look-out for eight other deckhands, a few of whom were beginning to stand out as accidents waiting to happen.

I finished my lap of the deck and collared the appropriate crew to tidy up their lines. In doing so, I was met with several annoyed expressions and one unruly complaint from a little blonde deckhand on the back-stays. “Mom! I hung it on the pin just like Tim told me to! I don’t wanna coil it again!”

“This is the mate telling you to recoil it, not your mom. You can’t argue with the mate—if you don’t like it, go talk to the captain.” Juliet pouted and went back to her station to tidy up lines.

Once we cleared Thatcher Pass, Tim told me to sheet-out to a beam reach and order the main and foresail crews to rig preventers—cables that inhibited the booms from swinging back on an accidental jibe. I called my crew and their passengers on deck to start rigging their preventers. I walked forward to supervise the process and noticed that the main preventer cable looked strange; the mainsail team had run it inboard of the jib sheet. “Hey Ron, I think you’ve led it wrong. It’s gonna conflict with the jib once you sheet out…I’m pretty sure.” I scratched my cheek as I studied the layout, and said, “Let’s redo it; I’m not happy.”

Ron glanced down at the preventer and shook his head. “Nah, this is the way it’s supposed to look. I’ve done it this way a hundred times.” He continued to lead his cable aft to connect it to the boom. I shook my head and stared at the mess of lines; now the jib sheet, main and fore preventers were laying one atop the other. My memories from my former position as the foredeck leader told me that things were askew. It doesn’t seem right somehow…Well, he’s been doing this a helluva lot longer than I have. I guess he knows better.

Tim called to ease out all sails for our new course and as the main boom stretched outboard, I heard the twang of my jib sheet springing tight. Dammit! I knew it!

“Chris! Get that preventer fixed—before that ferry crosses in front of us and we have to move out of his way—I do not want to jibe!” Tim yelled at me.

            I nodded my head and glared at Ron, who was too busy trying to free the preventer to bother with my silent reproach. Once their line had slacked, we struggled as a group to untangle the main cable. Tim shouted at me to quit doing the deckhand’s work and to supervise, but I pretended not to hear him—I could see that Ron and his passengers were unable to cope with it on their own. I leaned overboard to help disconnect the hasp, when suddenly a gust of wind grabbed the mainsail and back-winded it, sweeping the sail and all its hardware toward the opposite side of the ship. I instinctively ducked and at the same time heard Tim yell, “Everybody—out of the way!” The massive boom caught on the throttle of our inflatable tender that hung over the starboard rail. It wrenched the throttle mechanism off the console with a resounding smack! The tender jerked upwards, then fell back into the boat-falls.

            The thermal eased as quickly as it started, and the boom slowed its swing just enough that we were able to counteract a complete jibe. I looked back at Tim’s face and had no doubt as to what might be on his mind. He glowered as he spun the wheel around to keep our sails in their rightful positions. Oh balls. I’m gonna hear about this one. Deckhands ran to the rail and helped the mainsail crew secure the preventer correctly. I stood by and pretended to supervise, but inwardly I felt foolish and superfluous. At that moment, my husband appeared beside me. “Whoa! How’d all this happen?” He inquired.

            “Don’t even ask. I think I’m in big trouble.”

            “They shouldn’t have led their preventers like that… didn’t you stop them?”

            “Aren’t you supposed to be up on the foredeck?” My irritation started to get the better of me—I was jealous that my husband had the ability to just come and go during my crisis. I resented that he could identify the problem so quickly and furnish a solution so assuredly.

            “Alright, I’ll stay out of your way. I get the hint,” Jeff said and went back to the charthouse to read his magazine.

            Tim called Worley and Jeff back to the helm. “Get on the tender and see if you can repair that throttle before we anchor this afternoon. We’re going to need it to shuttle passengers to shore.” The guys went down to the engine room to find the appropriate tools. I leaned against the lifelines, hands finally in my pockets, and awaited the reprimand that I knew was forthcoming.

            Tim ignored me for the most part, and concentrated on keeping his sails full. Ron sat in the captain’s chair and avoided all eye contact. Eventually, Tim handed the wheel over to a crewmember and walked over to where I stood. “What went wrong?”

            “The boom jibed because we didn’t have the preventer hooked…” I started to explain.

            “No. I know all that—I could see it from the wheel. What did you do wrong?”

            I gulped. Oh, that. “Well, I didn’t trust my instincts and let a deckhand overrule my decision… I didn’t step back and delegate to the crew when I needed to and as a result, I didn’t catch what was happening with the boom.”

            “Yep, pretty much. You would have seen that we were about to clear the lee of Willow Island—and you probably would’ve held off on releasing the preventer until you knew whether or not we’d get a gust.”

            “I’m sorry Tim. I… I guess I’m just struggling with how to be the boss. I know I shouldn’t worry about how much everybody else knows and, well, start believing in what I know.” I looked down at the deck and fumbled with my words; at that point I didn’t feel like I knew much at all.

            “You got that right—you have to be the authority on the ship. I need to know that you’re watching all this stuff and that you can give orders that will be obeyed—otherwise stuff like this happens.” He nodded in the direction of the tender, where Jeff and Worley were crawling around trying to reattach the throttle.

            “Yeah, I know, but—these guys—like Ron… He’s ex-Navy and he’s been crew on here for years. I realize that I have to tell ’em what to do, but it’s hard to make ’em listen sometimes,” I said.

            Tim looked unsympathetic. “If you don’t believe in yourself, then why should any of them believe in you?” He gestured toward Ron, who was now snoozing in the chair. “Ron’s probably forgotten more about sailing than you and I’ve ever known—but the problem is, he doesn’t realize he’s forgotten it.”

            “I understand.”

            “Alright then, let’s tack and then we’ll drop in about thirty minutes or so. Get ready to slack preventers.” He turned back to the helm and then paused to add, “Hands in your pockets.”

            “Yes sir. I got it.”

            Later that evening, with the hook down and our passengers occupied in conversation and cherry cobbler on deck, I stole away to my little cabin. The mate’s stateroom had become my favorite place on the ship; a solitary confine where I could curl up in my bunk and lick my wounds from the day. And by this time, I’d develop some substantial wounds to care for—after the throttle debacle, we’d encountered another mishap as my crew launched the tender. I’d assigned several of the younger crewmembers to the boat-falls and instructed them to listen for my commands. Unfortunately, one of the old timers took matters into his own hands, calling for the bow to lower first. This resulted in a rather ungainly and rapid entrance into the water for our poor inflatable. I’d pondered briefly about which of us was having the worse day: our little tender or myself. Before Tim had the chance to start yelling, I went back to the helm to explain. “I know, I know…”

            “Get control of your crew,” Tim said.

            “I will—I swear. Mitch just jumped in without asking. I’ll come down on him next time.”

            “Yes, well, Mitch… having him as crew is like losing ten good men.” Tim grabbed his sweater and newspaper from the scuttle. “You either have command of your deckhands or you have… anarchy. It’s your choice.” With that he walked below.

            “Aye boss.” I said aloud to myself.

            A soft tap, tap at my cabin door shook me out of my contemplation. “Yeah?” I said.

            Jeff’s voice emanated from the other side of the door. “Hey, you up for a little company?”

            “I s’pose so.” I leaned over and unhooked the latch. “Just don’t mention anything about today’s events, please.” I thought to myself,  If Jeffery had been the first mate, there wouldn’t have been any arguments or insubordinate looks… nobody would have presumed to call orders out of turn. My ego felt trampled and my insecurities ganged up on me.

            “Can I get you anything—you hungry?” Jeff asked.

            “Nah, I’m good.”

            “Well, you don’t look good,” he piled several armloads of clothes onto the sole so that he could sit next to my bunk. “Are you in here feeling sorry for yourself?”

            “Perhaps. It’s been a sucky kind of day. I think Tim may have overestimated my ability to take charge.”

            “He told me you might be feeling that way,” Jeff replied. “He also said that you’re doing OK… all things considered.” Jeff repositioned himself on my tiny bench seat; my cabin was not built for a tall individual such as himself. “Wanna know what I think?”

“I guess.”

“I think that you’re just going to have to commit to this thing—make your decisions, right or wrong, and stick to them. You’re going to get blamed regardless, so rather than getting chewed out for somebody else’s mistakes, you might as well get chewed out for your own. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah—yes, I reckon it does.” I moved to the edge of my bunk. “What you’re basically saying is that I just need to ‘cowboy up’ and grow a pair.”

“Exactly!”

I sighed, “Alrighty then, starting tomorrow I’m gonna own this whole mate’s job,” and then added with a smile, “There’s just one thing babe.”

“What’s that?”

“Sheet that jib in tighter when we come about—you’re killin’ the tacks.”

Jeff chuckled and got up to kiss my forehead. “You got it Madame Mate. You got it.”

 

                            ~ Chris

The author will be reading an excerpt from Prepare to Come About and signing copies at Seattle's Queen Anne Book Company on February 12th  @ 7PM. Please stop by and say hello.

Preordained as Sailors?

You know, If somebody asked me fifteen years ago what I'd be doing on my fiftieth birthday, standing on the deck of a wooden schooner barking orders would not have even made the short list.






When I met Jeffery seventeen years ago, we were both working steadily in the professional theater world. I walked onto the paint shop floor at the Seattle Repertory Theater as an over-hire scenic artist. My college degree and background was in stage and costume design but I filled in the gaps as a scenic painter. Jeffery was one of the Rep's stage carpenters on loan from the A.C.T. theater as their lead carpenter. His theater experience was originally as a lighting designer and rigger.

It was a long road to tall ship sailors for the two of us. Let's see.... on the job-market angle; two more career changes for me and a long spell of general contractor work for Jeff. On the personal life angle; four step-children for him and a new daughter for the two of us. A lot happened before we felt the lure of the sea and tossed in our land-lubber lifestyles for a career as sailors.

And yet, it almost seems that our fates were sealed before we even knew it.



Take our trades for example. I have over thirty five years of practice on drops and flats perfecting  three color wet-blends and faux wood grain techniques. My scenic background gave me the know-how to lay down flawless coasts of gloss and/ or varnish on anything that could absorb lacquer. I am well versed in matching paint tints and can cover a broad section of canvas or wood in unbelievably short periods of time. In short, give me a brush and a bucket and I am nothing short of a wizard (apparently, unabashedly immodest about it too)!




Being a theater brat meant that my life was always on the move. When one plys their trade by working in stage and film production, one adapts to a gypsy kind of existence.

...it is that sort of mentality that transfers well to a sailor's kind of lifestyle. (It also allowed me to meet Jeffery).






Jeffery also led a wanderer's life. An Army brat himself, he was accustomed to moving from state to state as a young boy. By the time he began working in professional theater, his travels took him to the Bolshoi in Moscow, Boston, Denver, and finally Seattle.

On Jeffery's rather eclectic vitae are skills such as theatrical rigging  and specialty expertise with designing hydraulics for stage...  and of course, carpentry.






As if that wasn't enough predetermination, he has over thirty years spelunking and climbing, (including big wall climbing). He was quite simply, born to be a ship's rigger.

Jeffery's predisposition for all things aloft have served him well on the water. In 2008, he designed, constructed and installed a new main mast for Sugaree out of old growth fir and re-engineered the new masts for Zodiac in 2010.

When it comes to climbing up the masts, its more like a kid playing in a tree-house than going to work for that guy.




As far as the job I wound up with on the Zodiac... Well, I suppose if you count my last career as a small business owner with 35 staff members and twelve tenants to juggle and oversee...it might lend the necessary practical know-how towards being a first mate--coupled with the bossy characteristics I've acquired from raising five kids and two dogs.
(At least it has been proven that I can make myself heard over the general chaos and din onboard a big ship).



Perhaps the surest characteristic that cemented our destinies is our proclivity to anthropomorphize the living hell out of certain inanimate objects. Especially our fondness for Volkswagen buses... 
We got our first VW bus before we were married. A well worn 1972 bus that we named Ruby. We spent several years full of adventures and constant tender loving care (that included punctual, monthly repairs that always cost exactly three hundred dollars--no matter what the break down).

After Ruby went to "live on a farm", we upgraded to an 84 Vanagon.
We named him Max-the-bus and immediately began to throw money at all of his various needs and issues. He is still part of the family and we just rebuilt his engine (Okay, Okay--we paid our mechanic to rebuild it).  However, Max is a certified member of the family and has participated in some very important milestones with all of us.

In fact, if we had not cut our teeth for years on the relationships with our VW's, we would have been sorely unprepared for the constant attention required from our various project--boats.
(And make no mistake here, ALL boats are project-boats).






It's our propensity to be drawn to objects (people too I suppose), that exude a great deal of potential and charisma that set us on this particular course. 
Because hey--after all, if we were the "practical" sort of people, we wouldn't have spent years living in the world of non-profit theater; we wouldn't have been at all attracted to each other or raised five kids as free-thinking individualists, nor would we have spent thousands of combined hours volunteering on tall ships and most certainly would never have moved our little family onto a
leaky,
         diesel-soaked, 
                                wooden,
                                            90 year old forestry boat.


                                       God bless the inherent inability to think practically.

There are often times when we look back on what our lives used to be like and it never fails to make us laugh. We had absolutely no idea that we would be so tied to boats and the water, and yet, it makes perfect sense that we are.
In fact, we just can't imagine what else we would or could do nowadays!

The Transition Time from Mom to Mate

Today I am frantically gathering the adequate safety gear, the proper emergency signage and all the requisite paperwork for schooner Zodiac's USCG C.O.I. (Coast Guard certificate of inspection). The Coasties board tomorrow morning and we take her out for a brief spin around the bay; fire drill, M.O.B. drill (man over board) and inventory of all of our safety equipment/ review of security protocols.

All of this is necessary for a certified passenger vessel. It is quite the kerfuffle, as far as the officers and owners of inspected small passenger vessels that carry over 6 passengers are concerned.... Needless to say, it's crunch time for the first mate.

This week is a funny time for me. I ease out of the boat-mom role on Kwaietek and move over to the first mate role on the Z. Aside from the ongoing transfer of my proverbial shit from one vessel to the next, it requires a dynamic shift in attitude and priorities that sometime interfere with family relationships.

The kids hate it when they have to take orders from their mother the "mate". Often times, predicated by the sentence, "I'm talking to you as the mate here so listen up." In fact any time they hear "OK. Listen up!" it means they're getting an order that can't be argued with or whined about or even returned with over-the-top exaggerated eye rolling.

Juliet, who is currently entering her teenage years with a vengeance, particularly despises crewing on board the same ship as her mother the mate.



Megan at least, has reached the mature age to roll with it pretty well. The chapter in my memoir, Prepare to Come About   mentions the intricacies of being mom on one boat and mate on another boat. Prepare to Come About, "Locking Through"



I've pretty much been able to make it through the initial rough patches of working with my husband on both of the boats.  There is no doubt that Jeffery has more sailing experience, and has read more nautical books than I could possibly find an interest in delving into. The first few years were interesting as we adjusted to my new role as the deck officer who ordered him around. I remember several times when the captain would send me forward to pass messages to Jeffery that he needed to readjust his sail because he was "killing the tack", where I would finally feel inclined to suggest that the captain deliver these messages himself--as the reaction I'd been receiving was growing frostier with each occurance.

Now-a-days, I can make the call myself, and deliver it with little resistance. It's been a good confidence building exercise. To believe that I have the knowledge and skill set to keep the ship running smoothly and safely. It has also cemented Jeff and my relationship as partners and sailors.

Now, as I run to the marine store yet again in preparation for our inspection, I am eagerly looking forward to my third full season as the first mate. I  like knowing that the captain relies on my organization and preparation and that I have a solidly trained core deck crew, (including one surly teenager).


I spend the next six months on the charter ship and transition back into boat mom in the fall... then my orders are met with somewhat more resistance and 14 year old attitude!

Can't wait.

~ Chris