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.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
The impecunious Professor and the sea
As much as the DNR and all who would oppose live aboard rights are concerned, the issue has been settled and the demise of our community is immanent. But there are those whose flukes will hold fast in the murky depths of DNR bottom lands and will remain until forceful eviction, hell freezes over, or both.
It seems that nature has a part to play in this. With the sub-freezing temperatures this holiday season, the game has taken on a more serious tone, as we are forced to consider moving into a hostile environment ravaged by uncertainties of weather and boats ill-prepared for the open sea.
Consider the case of the Professor:
With the eviction deadline looming like flashes on the horizon from an approaching storm, the impecunious Professor cut his painter and set sail for the far Northern promised land in an engineless Buccaneer that sailed like Grandma's gravy dish. He'd gotten as far as Sunrise Bluff and sat for nearly a week rolling at anchor in the wakes of hideous container ships and buffeted by squalls.
The forecast called for North winds of ten knots as the crew of Old Hand, all brave lads and true, set out to tow the hapless Prof to safe harbor. As we steamed around Point Monroe and bore away South the wind rose steadily. Aboard was Dave Ullin and Marc the camera man. Marc is shooting a documentary on the live aboard drama and Dave was using the opportunity to pass some of his vast maritime wisdom to generations of future mariners.
We were rolling fitfully in a four foot sea that had built up with the Arctic blast and sent its jackbooted minions all the way from the Alaskan tundra, setting Old Hand on her beam ends.
Cut to the offices of the Department of Natural Resources where decisions regarding private use of public lands are made. Lobbyists sip lattes with politicians behind closed doors.
Music: Bob Marley's Exodus/Movement of the people.
So the wind howls in the rigging as Dave tosses the Prof a tow line and the two vessels bash together in a flurry of spray. Securing the tow and unable to make headway against the Northerly, we point our bowsprit South and with the seas crashing over the port quarter, motor sail back to Eagle Harbor.
This is what this cruel eviction leads to: Unseaworthy vessels forced into harsh Winter conditions, risk of life and limb, a mass exodus of the poor driven out by market forces. It's a story repeated all over the globe: The Roma of France, Sudanese, Nigerians- or people whose only crime it is to lower property values by their very existence. Here, a few shore side property owners inconvenienced by the sight of poverty marring their million dollar views are powerful enough to influence government policy on regulation of our public lands.
It seems that nature has a part to play in this. With the sub-freezing temperatures this holiday season, the game has taken on a more serious tone, as we are forced to consider moving into a hostile environment ravaged by uncertainties of weather and boats ill-prepared for the open sea.
Consider the case of the Professor:
With the eviction deadline looming like flashes on the horizon from an approaching storm, the impecunious Professor cut his painter and set sail for the far Northern promised land in an engineless Buccaneer that sailed like Grandma's gravy dish. He'd gotten as far as Sunrise Bluff and sat for nearly a week rolling at anchor in the wakes of hideous container ships and buffeted by squalls.
The forecast called for North winds of ten knots as the crew of Old Hand, all brave lads and true, set out to tow the hapless Prof to safe harbor. As we steamed around Point Monroe and bore away South the wind rose steadily. Aboard was Dave Ullin and Marc the camera man. Marc is shooting a documentary on the live aboard drama and Dave was using the opportunity to pass some of his vast maritime wisdom to generations of future mariners.
We were rolling fitfully in a four foot sea that had built up with the Arctic blast and sent its jackbooted minions all the way from the Alaskan tundra, setting Old Hand on her beam ends.
Cut to the offices of the Department of Natural Resources where decisions regarding private use of public lands are made. Lobbyists sip lattes with politicians behind closed doors.
Music: Bob Marley's Exodus/Movement of the people.
So the wind howls in the rigging as Dave tosses the Prof a tow line and the two vessels bash together in a flurry of spray. Securing the tow and unable to make headway against the Northerly, we point our bowsprit South and with the seas crashing over the port quarter, motor sail back to Eagle Harbor.
This is what this cruel eviction leads to: Unseaworthy vessels forced into harsh Winter conditions, risk of life and limb, a mass exodus of the poor driven out by market forces. It's a story repeated all over the globe: The Roma of France, Sudanese, Nigerians- or people whose only crime it is to lower property values by their very existence. Here, a few shore side property owners inconvenienced by the sight of poverty marring their million dollar views are powerful enough to influence government policy on regulation of our public lands.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Navigating the seas of reverie 4
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
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
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