Dedicated to Bucko Billy Sims
Bells from distant harbors echo over the vast ocean. Anchorages left astern with the new moon's crescent fall into shadow and sink below the headland. Echoes of future landfalls are heard over the dim sea while courses drawn on a dog-eared, yellow chart note the progression of points that make up the perpetual departure of Old Hand.
The slanted cross of the waypoint rises on the GPS screen and the light on the Sierra Echo buoy flashes a mile to starboard as I sheet in a for a close reach with the wind on the starboard bow. To the west, above Point no Point, the dark hills of the Kitsap Peninsula stands vivid against a red sky streaked with lime green and violet clouds.
“Time we switched on pilot house light, lad.”
My face is suddenly revealed, glowing red in the wheel house window.
Illumined by the masthead light, the gracefully curving staysail draws us onward, its rise and fall foretelling every shift of wind. From the darkness ahead the tolling bell off Foulwheather Bluff is accompanied by sea lions barking from the wildly swaying buoy. The swell is steep past the headland, but we are finally able to ease sheets and fall a few points to the west northwest on a faster and easier point of sail. Smashing into the rut of the seas, Old Hand is set on her beam ends as the wind rises to force six.
“Good job we tucked a reef in the main.”
“That it is.
We are just able to lay the Foulweather buoy and, taking it's black profile to starboard, we sail past with but few yards to spare. Rain begins to pelt the wheel house windows and the mournful sound of the bell is heard over the howling wind as Old Hand pitches into seas built up by cold wind blowing from the far north. The confusion of cross seas make it difficult to pick out the Kinney Point light off the south shore of Marristone Island.
Squinting into the radar screen McWhirr's face seems lit by the fires of hell.
“Fall off a few points to west. There's a deep draft bearing down on us from the north east.”
“A few points west it is, sir.”
On we plunge into the darkness, the bow lifting high and falling into the phosphorescent troughs of steep waves. The wind sings a tremulous note in the rigging and a fan of spray strikes the working jib with wrathful vehemence.
Suddenly, in the lee of Marristone Island, the wind suddenly falls and we ghost into the peaceful waters of Oak Bay and head for the Port Townsend canal.
As we steam through the cut, I peer anxiously aloft. Our mast seems about to scrape the steel I-beams of the bridge. But we motor safely past the rip rap surrounded piles and open the wind-ruffled waters of Port Townsend. Leaving the naval instalation at Wallan Point far to starboard, we motorsail past the pulp mill's foul plume blowing athwart our course. The shadowy hulks of fishing boats moored off Boathaven fall astern, and we hand all sail before dropping anchor under the dark towers of Port Townsend.
Later, after a stroll on the deck, I say:
“It's a beautiful evening, Skipper."
The golden glow of the oil lamp illumines the hourglass while McWhirr scans the chart, compass in his gaunt hand, sweeping vast arcs across the eastern straits.
“Best we were under weigh at 0800 hours."
Though, at times, I am exasperated by McWhirr's terse manner, we are of one mind about wanting to make all passages under sail, prefering to use Phyllis only when necessary. An early start will give us plenty time.
~~~
Stars vanish one by one with the violet traces of dawn and the smooth water reflects the waterfront's red, earthen glow. The town hall tower tolls six bells as we fall to kippers and joe around the salon table.
McWhirr stikes me as a bit off this morning. Something in his glaucous eye--like a landed mackerel.
Swatting at something invisible before his face, he says:
“I had a strange dream last night.”
My ears perk up this pronouncement, so unlike his normally reticent manner.
“A dream, Sir?”
“Aye, I was wandering in a lovely green field.”
“Indeed?
“Let it be. Our rendevous with slack water is at 1400 hours.”
Now this is strange. Being a confirmed Francophobe, he's not given to bandying about such high-fallutin' terms. Something is amiss.
“More joseph, sir?”
Smiling serenely he says:
“Aye, that'll do nicely, old son."
We are underweigh across the Admiralty Inlet entrance with the last of the ebb, while keeping Partridge Point fine on the port bow.
I stand by the the mast, uncoiling hallyards.
“Ready to set the Main." Calls McWhirr from the helm.
“All ready, Skipper.”
Perhaps he can smell a wind somewhere.
As I haul on the halyard, the mainsail rises, brilliant white against the cerulean blue sky.
After crossing the Admiralty Inlet traffic lanes we bear away west-northwest.
"Good lad. Now lay our course 318 degrees. That'll carry us past the Romeo Alfa buoy. Call me if the wind rises.”
McWhirr has gone below for a spell, entrusting the solitary weight of command to me.
To the sound of Phyllis' rhythmic thumping we float over the flat water while Porpoise wheel below the surface and again rise in graceful arcs, flashing toward distant Hein Bank.
Upon darksome terrors of the deep we steam, over seaweed rising from lost schooners in graceful arabesques to entwine Old Hand's keel in a languid embrace.
Partridge Bank recedes into a perfectly calm sea off the port quarter.
The rig of a ketch has hove in sight, its white sail hanging motionless on the straits. Reflected from polished fittings, light scatters in incandescent beams. Even the gulls seem stalled-- flattened against the dome of sky while the torpid heat drives all energy from the weary face of the world. There's nothing to measure time's passage but the hypnotic heave of the glassy swell tolling the bell buoy's diapason over the boundless surface of the main.
We are West of Smith Island early. Nothing for it but to head to and wait for slack water and listen to the lugubrious monody for a dearly departed breeze.
To the far west, a laden deep draft looms, hull down, out of the blue haze.
An icon mounted above the radar screen's mandala shows Gabriel standing north up; guardian of the Boreal quarter where come cardinal winds from the northern Salish Sea. A blip moves toward us through the seven concentric circles like a wrathful Deity seeking tribute; an Archon holding Old Hand in irons within the lower spheres and from whose deliverance we yet nurse a forlorn hope.
The way point cross of the GPS fixes this fleeting moment on the motionless sea where all time converges. Vast spaces are enclosed in the mystic rose of compass points, and binds our present passage to ancient voyages beyond the worlds edge where the sunlight's vertical descent meets the reflective sea and time intersects infinity.
How long, my son, I have yearned to tell you...They are spirits owed a second body by the fates. They drink deep of the river Lethe's currents there, long drafts that will set them free of cares, oblivious forever.
Hmmm. 1400 hours and slack water. The flood will kick in soon.
Maybe I should wake McWhirr. No, I can command this vessel as manfully as he. He needs a rest. There was something odd in his normally salty manner--like a beatific glow.
The ominous blip on the radar is now five miles off and bearing steadily on our position. Which way will it turn?
“Skipper?”
No response.
“Sir?"
Hurrying below, I call again: "Captain!"
I rush to the forepeak. "Where...?"
He's gone.
A tattered paperback lies on the pilot berth. It's Virgil's Aeneid . Opening it at random, I see a passage underlined in bright yellow:
From me learn patience and true courage, from others the meaning of fortune.
McWhirr has absconded to the far shore, cut his painter and withdrawn through the diaphanous veils of occultation. In a realm between the offices of master and mate he floats supine. Like the stone effigy from an ancient line of kings he sleeps; hands crossed over his long white beard, hourglass laid aside, in surrender to to the ebbing stream where all noble hearts must finally hie. He is the true sovereign of the watery sphere which has long held me captive. He is the enlightened aspect of my inner Captain Bligh, the Noah of my being, guiding me safely past treacherous maelstroms where the faithless whirl forever amid skeletal hulks and drowned chain.
I'm roused by the sound of halyards frapping against the mast and go on deck. To northwest the horizon darkens with catspaws padding southward and the genoa is soon unfurled before a freshening breeze. The somnolent spell cast over the straits is broken. I set my course after the dolphins wake toward Hein Bank, furthest extent of Old Hand's reach into the deep blue marine.
Aloft, the immense wingspan of a crystalline white eagle soars in the high cirrus toward the Western entrance, where the great indraught of the Pacific flows past the promontory and into the open inlets of the soul. It's a messenger to mind me of my former estate, a call of return to my forgotten kingdom.
The Goddess of the living waters is heard singing over the ocean, absolving Old Hand's crew of impiety and forgetfulness of her benign reign. Yemaya, Ardvasura Anahita, Our Lady of the Reef: all praise is of you and your healing waters by which we live.
Even McWhirr has seen that this is what the winds demand.
```
With the rising wind, we point the bowsprit toward Salmon Bank. On this heading Old Hand will be set by the current back to north east through Cattle Pass at the height of the flood.
The skipper looks up at the foresail. "Now keep the genoa filled, lad."
"Aye, Skipper"
"Blast it, the genny's fouled on the forestay. Head up!"
I have a habit of addressing myself thus when alone at sea.
Captain Spencer is a horn-fisted salt with little tolerance for nonsense.
Call me Ascanius.
I
