Friday, October 14, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Navigating the seas 5- Reef net boats off Shaw Island
At slack water, an ominous rumbling from the Widbey Island Navy air base resounds over the Straits. The Romeo Alfa buoy lies a mile and a half off the port beam when I start Phyllis and ease sheets for a broad reach Northeast toward Cattle Pass. Old Hand's sail's fill with the rising Westerly as she bears away toward Cattle Point with the first push of the flood. McWhirr calls from below:
“We'll make good headway with this big flood.”
A sea lion's rust-red hulk sounds astern as we catch the current past the lighthouse on Cattle Point. We steam past Goat and Deadman Islands where I struggle to hold Old Hand's course amid the boisterous eddies.
Easy, lad. Don't set us on Deadman.”
“Aye, Cap'n.”
The jib is backed and sets our bows to leeward toward the doleful Isle.
“Hand the jib. I'll take the helm.”
McWhirr is ever on my case. He's always after a better trim of the main and critical of the least breach of sea etiquette on my part. I thought he'd mysteriously vanished somewhere Southeast of Hein Bank, as if drawn in rapture, toward the heavenly harbour of infinite light, leaving only a cryptic missive highlighted among the pages of Vergilius Maro's heroic verse:
From me learn patience and courage, from other's, the meaning of fortune.
After pondering this laconic admonition at length I've come to appreciate the archetypal nature of this relationship and regard my inscrutable Captain with respectful awe. There's more to him than meets the ear. Our northward voyage seems propelled by the combustion of our contrary natures. My poetic flights are countered by his exacting demands. Some may see this dynamic as one between states of soul, an epic struggle for fictive supremacy, whose only hope for rapprochement lies somewhere in far golden latitudes where some Arcadian Isle awaits Old Hand's final landfall.
But McWhirr, as if nothing were amiss, as if he'd merely taken a pleasant constitutional along the strand to relieve himself of authority's burden a spell, has again descended to his rightful office and again lords over this yarn like Gregory Peck.
“Blast ye, ya walleyed galoot! Hand the foresail!”
After uncleating the halyard, I crawl gingerly onto the bowsprit and furl the jib, lashing it with a few turns around the pulpit while grebes dive for herring in the scud below my dangling feet. Now Old Hand sails past Goat Island without the backed jib setting her bows to leeward toward Deadman's Rock.
Once past the eddies I again set the jib, trim the main and shut down Phyllis for a lovely reach along the west shore of Lopez Island.
What can be more idyllic than a warm breeze off the port beam with Old Hand steady up channel while the tea kettle steams on the galley stove. It's times like this I feel I may have finally attained a state of something like grace, no longer assailed with the demons that beset my youth; that all my worry and preparation have lead to this particular point where all flows into the realization of a fleeting instant's perfection.
That is, if it weren't for McWhirr and his uptight commands.
Beyond the entrance of Fisherman's Bay, we open Upright Channel and ghost into the lee of Shaw Island; passing the reef net boats anchored off Squaw Bay with their ladders ascending the blue sky.
I strike all sail and flake the chain on the foredeck before letting go the anchor into the soft mud of Indian Cove.
When all is secure a profound silence reigns, broken only by the sound of frenetic splashing from the rocks off Canoe Island where seals flap their tails against the calm surface of the water.
After a dinner of Spaghetti, anchovies and merlot, I sit lazily in the cockpit, and see the rough-hewn shapes of the reef net boats silhouetted against the vivid red/orange sunset . In the old times tribal Chiefs would climb these ladders and intone the ancient songs to welcome the Salmon as honored guests to the Spring Equinox feast. At this respectful tribute those below would draw up the net.
Tired after the day's passage, I lean against the bulkhead, lulled by a faint sound that comes and goes with the intermittent breeze-like the sound of a passing diesel engine: thump, thump, thump.
A vortex of rising gulls call to the deep. A dark form climbs the reef-net ladder and chants low over the bay:
Come up the straits with the influx of tide, O my brothers
By Clallam's icey waters run.
Past Ediz Hook hie with the flood
Thump, thump, thump
Haya haya haya
Thank you elder brother; come elder brother.
Dark against the red sky he hails the salmon's return. His chanted drone summons fish people to the shoal, where falls the ladder's crooked shadow deep into Indian Cove.
Come, O my brothers, past Sooke Inlet and Esquimalt shore.
Look, look , look!
Thump, thump
Song of vanished tribes drift over shallows and beat gently on sand, ebbing again to where descended the first reef net ladder- a link between Creator and men; when salmon first came to Salish shores.
Raising his hands, he calls:
Lift, lift ,lift
Hauling away, the crew sings welcome to the glistening catch.
He'e'e'e'e'e' he'e'e'e'e'e'
Thump, thump
Old Hand rocks upon the seas begining, where fresh breezes exhale the cedar's swaying advent and creation forever unfurls on this crude scaffold of years, days and hours.
“We'll make good headway with this big flood.”
A sea lion's rust-red hulk sounds astern as we catch the current past the lighthouse on Cattle Point. We steam past Goat and Deadman Islands where I struggle to hold Old Hand's course amid the boisterous eddies.
Easy, lad. Don't set us on Deadman.”
“Aye, Cap'n.”
The jib is backed and sets our bows to leeward toward the doleful Isle.
“Hand the jib. I'll take the helm.”
McWhirr is ever on my case. He's always after a better trim of the main and critical of the least breach of sea etiquette on my part. I thought he'd mysteriously vanished somewhere Southeast of Hein Bank, as if drawn in rapture, toward the heavenly harbour of infinite light, leaving only a cryptic missive highlighted among the pages of Vergilius Maro's heroic verse:
From me learn patience and courage, from other's, the meaning of fortune.
After pondering this laconic admonition at length I've come to appreciate the archetypal nature of this relationship and regard my inscrutable Captain with respectful awe. There's more to him than meets the ear. Our northward voyage seems propelled by the combustion of our contrary natures. My poetic flights are countered by his exacting demands. Some may see this dynamic as one between states of soul, an epic struggle for fictive supremacy, whose only hope for rapprochement lies somewhere in far golden latitudes where some Arcadian Isle awaits Old Hand's final landfall.
But McWhirr, as if nothing were amiss, as if he'd merely taken a pleasant constitutional along the strand to relieve himself of authority's burden a spell, has again descended to his rightful office and again lords over this yarn like Gregory Peck.
“Blast ye, ya walleyed galoot! Hand the foresail!”
After uncleating the halyard, I crawl gingerly onto the bowsprit and furl the jib, lashing it with a few turns around the pulpit while grebes dive for herring in the scud below my dangling feet. Now Old Hand sails past Goat Island without the backed jib setting her bows to leeward toward Deadman's Rock.
Once past the eddies I again set the jib, trim the main and shut down Phyllis for a lovely reach along the west shore of Lopez Island.
What can be more idyllic than a warm breeze off the port beam with Old Hand steady up channel while the tea kettle steams on the galley stove. It's times like this I feel I may have finally attained a state of something like grace, no longer assailed with the demons that beset my youth; that all my worry and preparation have lead to this particular point where all flows into the realization of a fleeting instant's perfection.
That is, if it weren't for McWhirr and his uptight commands.
Beyond the entrance of Fisherman's Bay, we open Upright Channel and ghost into the lee of Shaw Island; passing the reef net boats anchored off Squaw Bay with their ladders ascending the blue sky.
I strike all sail and flake the chain on the foredeck before letting go the anchor into the soft mud of Indian Cove.
When all is secure a profound silence reigns, broken only by the sound of frenetic splashing from the rocks off Canoe Island where seals flap their tails against the calm surface of the water.
After a dinner of Spaghetti, anchovies and merlot, I sit lazily in the cockpit, and see the rough-hewn shapes of the reef net boats silhouetted against the vivid red/orange sunset . In the old times tribal Chiefs would climb these ladders and intone the ancient songs to welcome the Salmon as honored guests to the Spring Equinox feast. At this respectful tribute those below would draw up the net.
Tired after the day's passage, I lean against the bulkhead, lulled by a faint sound that comes and goes with the intermittent breeze-like the sound of a passing diesel engine: thump, thump, thump.
A vortex of rising gulls call to the deep. A dark form climbs the reef-net ladder and chants low over the bay:
Come up the straits with the influx of tide, O my brothers
By Clallam's icey waters run.
Past Ediz Hook hie with the flood
Thump, thump, thump
Haya haya haya
Thank you elder brother; come elder brother.
Dark against the red sky he hails the salmon's return. His chanted drone summons fish people to the shoal, where falls the ladder's crooked shadow deep into Indian Cove.
Come, O my brothers, past Sooke Inlet and Esquimalt shore.
Look, look , look!
Thump, thump
Song of vanished tribes drift over shallows and beat gently on sand, ebbing again to where descended the first reef net ladder- a link between Creator and men; when salmon first came to Salish shores.
Raising his hands, he calls:
Lift, lift ,lift
Hauling away, the crew sings welcome to the glistening catch.
He'e'e'e'e'e' he'e'e'e'e'e'
Thump, thump
Old Hand rocks upon the seas begining, where fresh breezes exhale the cedar's swaying advent and creation forever unfurls on this crude scaffold of years, days and hours.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Two Stories, Three Heroes
It has long been said that history repeats itself.
Recently, when our region was assaulted by the first freezing storm, and boats were set dragging in Eagle Harbor, Dave Ullin, reluctant island icon, rescued a young mother and her baby from drifting into the shipping lanes after her boat broke loose from its mooring. He somehow managed to lasso the ungainly, thirty-something foot vessel and secure it to his tug in the midst of a freezing, howling gale under oar power alone.
I thought it heroic enough of me to get up and lash the halyards frapping against Old Hand's mast.
Now, here is a story told by Jo (Monk) Helman, daughter of Bainbridge's most influential boat designer, Ed Monk Sr, of an event that occurred in the nineteen twenties aboard the Ann Saunders. It was recorded by Bet Oliver in her biography Ed Monk and the Tradition of Classic Boats:
We were anchored in Winslow …my father commuted to work on the passenger steamer, in fact he stayed in Seattle overnight. The wind came up one night and we were adrift in the dark. I wonder what my mother was thinking, alone in the boat with two small girls? In the harbor was an old sailing boat, The Conqueror, and living aboard was Captain Hershey... He became aware of our troubles and tied us to his ship.
Though separated by some eighty years, these tales of heroism occurred in the same harbor. Perhaps, the same fierce Northwesterly raged with a similar intensity and broke loose boats that even experienced sailors thought securely moored. Nature has a say in this drama, and no one knew better than Captain Hershey the imperious dictates of a Northwesterly gale to set, even a consummate mariner like Ed Monk, adrift.
Captain Hershey was one of the more colorful characters in our Island's celebrated maritime history. He went on to become consultant with MGM in the production of Hollywood sea epics like Captain's Courageous and Mutiny on the Bounty.
Sometimes, in its bewildering interweaving of past/present, hero's/villains, fact and fiction, life resembles a vast Hollywood production. It's difficult to know what to believe or how to interpret “hard facts”.
These two tales of heroism are true.
But I wonder at our collective grasp of reality when it can be so distorted that Dave must live under threat of eviction for “trespass” simply because he chooses, like our venerable Hershey and Monk, to live on the water.
I am told to accept that we live in different times. That may be, but is it progress when Dave's heroic and selfless actions are met with the threat of banishment? This is an example of the absurdity at which we arrive by a stolid adherence to the letter of the law, and when the arcane convolutions of our legal system become so ponderous as to threaten those very citizens it claims to protect. To force unseaworthy boats out of one of our few safe anchorages during the harsh winter season is the height of irresponsibility.
Whether these boats ought to be seaworthy is another matter. That fact remains that many are not. And I would think few would like to have on their conscience the responsibility for the bad end that would result: a hefty bill for salvage, rescue, or, God forbid, death.
Living on Eagle Harbor has always been a part of Bainbridge Island's heritage. Its preservation is still part of the comprehensive plan and is supported by a majority of Islanders. Why can't COBI arrive at a workable arrangement with DNR? Both seem to wish to avoid taking responsibility for this unseasonable eviction of our historic community and we are caught in a bewildering web of contradictions.
Imagine what might have happened if Monk's family had no safe anchorage, no Captain Hersey, no Conqeror. The world might be quite different. It may have had a devastating impact on Monk's career, and the world would never had known the boats Ed designed for the builder of modest means, and the vessels built expressly for that colorful, sometimes unseemly class of citizen, the liveaboard.
Recently, when our region was assaulted by the first freezing storm, and boats were set dragging in Eagle Harbor, Dave Ullin, reluctant island icon, rescued a young mother and her baby from drifting into the shipping lanes after her boat broke loose from its mooring. He somehow managed to lasso the ungainly, thirty-something foot vessel and secure it to his tug in the midst of a freezing, howling gale under oar power alone.
I thought it heroic enough of me to get up and lash the halyards frapping against Old Hand's mast.
Now, here is a story told by Jo (Monk) Helman, daughter of Bainbridge's most influential boat designer, Ed Monk Sr, of an event that occurred in the nineteen twenties aboard the Ann Saunders. It was recorded by Bet Oliver in her biography Ed Monk and the Tradition of Classic Boats:
We were anchored in Winslow …my father commuted to work on the passenger steamer, in fact he stayed in Seattle overnight. The wind came up one night and we were adrift in the dark. I wonder what my mother was thinking, alone in the boat with two small girls? In the harbor was an old sailing boat, The Conqueror, and living aboard was Captain Hershey... He became aware of our troubles and tied us to his ship.
Though separated by some eighty years, these tales of heroism occurred in the same harbor. Perhaps, the same fierce Northwesterly raged with a similar intensity and broke loose boats that even experienced sailors thought securely moored. Nature has a say in this drama, and no one knew better than Captain Hershey the imperious dictates of a Northwesterly gale to set, even a consummate mariner like Ed Monk, adrift.
Captain Hershey was one of the more colorful characters in our Island's celebrated maritime history. He went on to become consultant with MGM in the production of Hollywood sea epics like Captain's Courageous and Mutiny on the Bounty.
Sometimes, in its bewildering interweaving of past/present, hero's/villains, fact and fiction, life resembles a vast Hollywood production. It's difficult to know what to believe or how to interpret “hard facts”.
These two tales of heroism are true.
But I wonder at our collective grasp of reality when it can be so distorted that Dave must live under threat of eviction for “trespass” simply because he chooses, like our venerable Hershey and Monk, to live on the water.
I am told to accept that we live in different times. That may be, but is it progress when Dave's heroic and selfless actions are met with the threat of banishment? This is an example of the absurdity at which we arrive by a stolid adherence to the letter of the law, and when the arcane convolutions of our legal system become so ponderous as to threaten those very citizens it claims to protect. To force unseaworthy boats out of one of our few safe anchorages during the harsh winter season is the height of irresponsibility.
Whether these boats ought to be seaworthy is another matter. That fact remains that many are not. And I would think few would like to have on their conscience the responsibility for the bad end that would result: a hefty bill for salvage, rescue, or, God forbid, death.
Living on Eagle Harbor has always been a part of Bainbridge Island's heritage. Its preservation is still part of the comprehensive plan and is supported by a majority of Islanders. Why can't COBI arrive at a workable arrangement with DNR? Both seem to wish to avoid taking responsibility for this unseasonable eviction of our historic community and we are caught in a bewildering web of contradictions.
Imagine what might have happened if Monk's family had no safe anchorage, no Captain Hersey, no Conqeror. The world might be quite different. It may have had a devastating impact on Monk's career, and the world would never had known the boats Ed designed for the builder of modest means, and the vessels built expressly for that colorful, sometimes unseemly class of citizen, the liveaboard.
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