Life Aboard

—05.23.2000—

We left Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, the day before yesterday and motored down through the Solent to Yarmouth on the western end of the island. We’d been moored up in the harbor since approximately Sunday, noon, waiting for better weather. Not only had it raining, but it had been blowing southwesterly as well, precisely the direction in which we wanted to sail. So we had two reasons to stay put. Now the weather has cleared. Tomorrow we’ll make the 80 nautical-mile run to Dartmouth.

I’m still thinking about staying on St. Agnes this summer, and also wanting to get back to projects and work. There were aspects of my work before I left that I really enjoyed: the vintage poster show I put on, the Lite Rock Kills poster I wheat pasted around the city. I like doing graphic design work that has some meaning behind it, some commentary.

—05.24.2000—

This is the first time we’ve come into port at night. The dark gray sea, the dim sky, the glowing lights illuminating the wind instruments, the stern aglow from the stern light, they all seems to make the ship look like a model of itself. It doesn’t look as big against the backdrop of the sea.

Soul music is playing on deck and Dom and I are ducked behind the canvas dodger at the front of the cockpit so as to stay out of the wind. We’re steaming into Dartmouth at 9.5 knots under power and sail. Dom’s peering over the top of the dodger to starboard and I to port, both of us bundled up with scarves and hoods. Jack stands between us in the companion way and consults the radar. The cabin is lit red down below so that none of us lose our night vision. It feels serious. There’s a gravity... the sea, the night. We all understand that our safe passage, our lives, are solely in our own hands.

We’re watching the lighthouse as we plan our approach into the narrow passage at the mouth of the River Dart. The lighthouse beam splits into three colored zones as it projects out to sea. If we headed toward the mouth from too far east, we’d see a green light, from too far west we’d see a red light. When we’re lined up perfectly, we’ll see a white light. The light is currently green. When it turns white we’ll know to make our turn.

——

Coming into Dartmouth Harbor was just beautiful. We transited the narrow passage which is still guarded by a stout, old castle. From there the River Dart opens into a wide basin at the bottom of a steep valley. The river is popular here. Buildings line up along both banks just to see it. It was late. We dropped anchor, set our anchor light, and then went below to celebrate our long passage with a round of rum, as seems to be the English sailor’s way.

——

During my orientation aboard the boat, at the beginning of last week, both Dom and Jack cautioned me about moving around on deck while we were underway. Dom offered the maxim, “Always keep one hand for yourself, and one for the boat.” Jack put it differently,  “Always hold on to something, especially if you’re pissing over the stern. More people have been found drowned with their flies open...”  

They’ve got my back. I mean, who wants to lose a perfectly good shipmate over the side? And I get the sense that Dom wants everyone to be aware of his back... side. For example, just the other day, after I’d climbed down from the deck into to my cabin and closed the hatch behind me, everything went dark. I looked to see what was up. What turned out to be up was Dom’s hairy ass hovering over the hatch. Sheesh... I guess I didn’t think I’d get away without a light hazing. And he does seem to want to show off his bum at every opportunity.

Thankfully though, the opportunities don’t come that often. Mostly life aboard just involves standing behind the dodger and staring at the sea. Admittedly that’s something I’ve gotten pretty good at. Napping is also very popular, mostly as a seasickness deterrent. Laying down in the middle of ship helps a lot. For one, the midpoint of a pitching ship is the point of least motion. I also think it has something to do with the inner ear but I don’t really know. All I know is when I’m horizontal, I feel a much welcomed respite from the life-draining nausea.  

The other big pastime, since weather is the end-all-be-all for us, is listening to the BBC Shipping Forecast. In the forecast each sea area has a different code name: Fastnet, Dogger, German Bight, etc. It all sounds pretty cryptic at first: Dogger, southwest 4, cyclonic, becoming west 4 to 5, showers, good. Only the conditions are read. The characteristics they’re describing are left off to save time but are as follows: name of the area, current wind direction and speed, wind conditions later on, rain, and visibility. The Shipping Forecast predicts the weather on the seas around the British Isles starting in the north and working it’s way clockwise. If two regions have the same forecast, they list both at the start instead of reading the same forecast twice for each region. Tyne, Dogger. Northeast 3 or 4. Occasional rain. Moderate or poor. Listening to the whole thing... there’s poetry to it.

Cribbage is the final pastime and Dom and Jack play a lot of it. A game of cribbage always starts with one of them clapping their hands, rubbing them together determinedly, and giving the other a resigned “I’m-just-gonna-have-to-kick-your-ass” look. I tried to join the fray on occasion but the rules of the game are so convoluted, so hopelessly English, that I didn’t stand a chance. Observe:

Jack: “That card counts as three unless you’ve got an Ace and it’s a Thursday.”

Me: “But it’s a five of diamonds...”

Jack: “That doesn’t matter.”

As I said, completely hopeless.

—Thursday, date unknown—

Heard aboard today:

Dom: <long fart>

Jack: More tea, Vicar?

Dom: Well... I’ll have one more scone and then fuck off home.

And so goes life aboard the good ship Elde.