Captain America Hidden

Sailing with Pride

Jane Meneely

It occurred to me that I might faint. Just watching my son climb the equipment aboard the Pride of Baltimore II It left for Norfolk was so great that I was afraid that I swoon like a diva film B and hit the deck hard. And if that happened, my son would be mortified, no doubt, marked for life. But this was a test for us. I looked away as Stewart ran up the equipment after the crew furling the main dish. And I do not faint.

We went to the south of Full Tilt, hoping whip every other boat in the fleet schooner during the Great Chesapeake Bay Schooner Race in October last year. Stewart sixteen years of age had reluctantly agreed to participate at his age I could only have dreamed there was no Pride of Baltimore then. But he had begun during The grumps and bent with a will that was a joy to behold as well, except when he ran up the mast. You see, I am very afraid of heights. Death, knee knockingly fear of heights. Just look at the mast of a ship like the Pride gives me chills. God forbid that I should look up and see my baby perched there as it is against to a street corner. No matter, I told myself, looking carefully at the compass in front of me and keeping my hands hard on the rudder. That's why I wanted him to come.

When Stewart was born, his father and I had promised him Jan Miles, a co Pride, captains and a friend of mine from high school days. Jan could have it for a year, we said, before going to college. Naturally, Stewart grew up hating everything about traditional Tall Ships. He enjoyed the advantage of mechanical winches to begin with, and he prospered in the smoke and noise of internal combustion. Candle in the Pride of Baltimore, he announced the high school graduation approached, went to the birds. I tried to convince him that our signature aboard the Pride for the Great Schooner Race was the chance of a lifetime, but he did not believe me. He said he would rather go to school, lack of calculation that his test would be a pain indescribable, that whereas his father and I pay the monthly fee was criminal even suggest that he loses a few days (I admit, that argument was quite convincing). But I played the motherboard and signed him up anyway. It was only four days, and not a whole year, I said, and if it does not really like it, it was the end of it. He could join the rat race like everyone else.

And so the father (who is sick of death and therefore begged off) he fell on the deck of the Pride of way Baltimore early in the morning of the race. Stewart and spit and sputtered and angered, and often poisoned the air around it: the revenge of a child, completely delivered (not slouch he). And I really wanted to know if I made a mistake in "forcing" to accompany him.

Thus began the journey together.

My Travel had actually begun the previous day, on the afternoon of Wednesday. Probably half the fun of racing schooner is the Parade of Sail and party dock in Baltimore, so I arrived in time to board the Pride of the full contingent of AG Edwards Baltimore office, guests at the Pride for the parade. (The offices are in Baltimore Pride World Trade Center and had been sunk into oblivion by Hurricane Isabel. AG Edwards, a financial consulting firm, had graciously offered temporary office space and now the ship was saying thank you.)

Unfortunately the wind was very blustery, therefore, the Parade of Sail was canceled. But Captain Jan constants anyway. After all, a boat as the Pride is built for wind. Whitecaps shone through the Inner Harbor. A bright sun slanted behind Fort McHenry. The sky was a deep cobalt blue, with only one or two patches of clouds. We drove past Fells Point and fought gun crew of the ship at port arms. "Fire in the hole! "We are linked to our ears like a geyser of flames and sparks of fire that is literally a hole in the rear end of the canyon. Then kaboom! We just put a bullet in the Spirit of Massachusetts arch-figured, of course. She was the Pride's main competition in this race, and she was placed on the ad.

With a breeze, the boat sails badly needed to move through the water. The wind was abeam full bore as he slipped past the green walls of Fort McHenry. I looked back and tried to imagine Baltimore harbor with tall buildings, without the pier stretches along the shore below the fort. I tried to depict the time at Fort McHenry was at the gate effectively controlled the port and sending up and down the Patapsco River. If I pressed a little to make things fuzzy and out of focus, I could turn the upward slope of Canton pier in a lot of small houses where the Fells Point shipyard workers lived. Opinion that they must have had their windows dormer.

The crew had raised arm and was enough to pull us to the key Bridge. A ship was coming from the Bay, and the tug Mary Krause idle nearby canal. Now they were on the bridge and look for Back in Baltimore, the city seemed smaller scale with more than my imagination. Steeples chopped into the sky. The skyscrapers of downtown were hiding.

Made our afternoon sail, the crew retreated to the party held under the giant canopy Bohag in Fells Point. A crowd of crew schooner captains, support staff, several other significant and wanders hunger had gathered here to eat large quantities of food and drink prodigious amounts of beer. To gain entrance, I was said, I had to use my official shirt Schooner Race, an event of long sleeves with a scene of schooner John Barber printed on the front. It was cold enough, however, that I was wearing a sweatshirt on top, so it comes through the door Bohag, I said to peel. Mind you, I had no amount of beer, however, prodigious or not, but transported back to the days of my rebellious youth, I felt very flattered. It had been a long time since anyone asked me to strip, and what I said. It was like be-carded in my age (the last squinch 50), always a compliment. Turns out they just meant I had to lift my shirt so they could check shirt. Oh, well, you take what you can get.

Sidling up to the bar, I ran into Bill Oliver, as a partner in the nefarious China Sea Marine Trading Company formerly Fells Point (where the Fells Point Maritime Museum is now), and now Oliver Ale Beer and holder of the Wharf Rat pub. Not surprisingly, the largest spike behind the bar touched the barrel of his special Ironman Pale Ale. This was a good thing, because Oliver Ale is like mother's milk. You just gotta have it to live well. And today was free flowing for the asking. It took me a while to get my first swallow, I was not the only one in line.

So I was on stage singing with the company Ship chanteyman Jim Rockwell (music of the sea, of course) and took off at night. More music, more food. And finally, the crowd broke up and we walked up tugantine Lane Briggs, Rebel Norfolk, on the docks of Broad Street and sang some more. Much more. Then the sun came up and we staggered back to our boats, some to sleep with this, to be greeted by some surly teenagers.

Breakfast was a simple meal of strawberries and bagels. Laura Morrissey, Cook, it was about, and I had offered to help in the kitchen. One of my fantasies is to be a cook aboard a tall ship. I would not mind being a sailor, but clicking on halyards and braces and sheets in the early morning hours can be tedious. And truth be told, I could not, so can not climb the rigging. The heights thing. Cooks, on the other hand, get to work "normal" hours and are expected not to go climbing around on deck, unless particularly want. At least that is what to do on board Pride, according to Laura, who was supervising me now as I store food and generally made myself useful. I was trying to stay as far away from Stewart. Let him rot.

Stewart and I were guests on board. The Pride still several guest cabins open for thems who are willing to pony up for the privilege of navigating the ship here and there, generally speaking, the short legs between two ports of call in the hectic schedule of Pride. The ticket price pays for the guest's stay and chucks in a little boat operation coffers. In return, guests are expected to join the group and work off before the ends of the mast. Fun, huh? For the racing schooner, Stewart and I were joined by John Mac MacIver and MacIver (fast friends, but no relation), and Ron and John Shurie Menocal. All they had sailed the Pride in the race before schooner. Nothing to it, they said. Gluttons for punishment, I thought.

As the Pride came out to the starting line, Laura told me I could make the soup for lunch. Nothing to it! She had what I needed to cooked lentils five fingers: an ingredient and a glass of liquid for each digit. In this case, a carrot, an onion, a stalk of celery, a bay leaf, one cup of lentils and five glasses of water. Saute the dry ingredients by some minutes before adding the water then. . . . Oops, I did not get it started early, so it was a bit chewy eight bells. (Way to go, Mom.) But the crew was very kind, those who were not related to me, anyway. They made their own sandwich, adding that under diplomatic stew was usually better than burning, and that Laura could save the trouble of making soup tomorrow.

I went to watch the harbor, with Stewart, to work on the boat. Even though I was assistant cook, I wanted to work on deck when I could. Laura gave me a startled look. It's a slippery slope, "she said. Help them once they have come to expect from him. But I reminded her that I was here for fun and experience, so I wanted to help, sometimes. Let's see, he said menacingly. surliness Stewart had washed, fortunately, and he was entering the fray, charging lines and generally looking lively. I found it much easier to stay out of the way and watch, especially after it took off half my finger pull a halyard rebel. But, unfortunately, who was right. I was once perceived as one of the grunts and put to learn the ropes with the rest the guests. "I could hear the captain Jan snigger rudder.

Was like, three or four of us took a line of about half the thickness of my wrist. When your partner (or who) yelled course, we all pulled. Or maybe we cried haul us to get a rhythm. Or maybe one way and we just screamed bloody well pulled even. For all they were worth. And when we thought we had hauled enough, "cried the new travel companion, and we bloody well pulled again. And so successively, until someone said, "That's OK," and could make the line fast. I had blisters before they have a goddamn candle up. Before my nervous system can also record the news, blisters and torn all the remaining skin surface worn away. I was a dog suffering. (Stewart had brought his gloves sailing, wise guys).

It occurred to me that this would not be a sail on Sunday. The Pride really need all the muscles that the group could muster. There was a fast wind, and was on the nose of Norfolk. We would have to grip over the starting line and then beat the bay. So it was all hands on deck, as in songs I like to sing. And just because I gouged a big hole in my index finger in the get-go does not mean I could weenie out. Jan knew me very well for this. helper Cook, hah! I packed my wound with a moleskin donut and wrapped with black electrical tape. My black badge of courage. I was a real sailor now. It was like having a tattoo. If only I had a knife strapped to my waist.

I drove down to wash the pots in the short time between the studs, but I ran to the deck at the Ready "Nothing!" to pull in the lines. And I remembered that I withstood the rigors of childbirth twice, for a dinky little bubble would not let me down. Moreover, the time is that it could eventually lead us to get to Norfolk? We there yet? The gun warning came five minutes to get started and all hell broke loose on board Pride.

Jan Miles know for most of my life. Actually, it was my first passion. I met him when we were in college. He had just returned from his first major ocean voyage to Tierra del Fuego and back and took the swell of the ocean as a sea chest hung on his shoulders. My mother said that a girl could go anywhere in January and I thought, before Tierra del Fuego, then. . .

My passion has gone the way of Clearasil, Jan, but now the crew and master some of the finest tall ships in the United States. He is one of the most laid-back than you could ever know. Years of sailing tall honed his instincts and built a solid confidence. But outside, early in the race schooner, a change came my friend bland. When the gun went off and alert all the schooners pirouetted in position, his eyes brightened, his face flushed and became absolutely focused on the task at hand. "Okay, children of prostitutes, which begins in the arm," he shouted (he is a great guy, and he can always below). And we skipped the children of prostitutes to and tried with all our strength, which in this case it was not enough to get that arm And in the master Jan observing our efforts and allowed as we were a bunch of cowardly pieces of lard or words to that effect and we have the guts to show you that to God we were not. And so it was like Pride crossed the starting line and the race began with the explosion of the final parting shot. This was to be some sedate them buoys-affair. This race will be won to windward leg (do not they all?), But with the wind screaming in the south, which would be a long windward leg. And Captain Jan suggested that this package of prunes puckered had better shape up and get with the program. Which meant flashes in the arm when the captain said "inside" or something else. At the pace we were going, if the British had been on our tail instead of the Spirit of Massachusetts, who would have been toast. But it got better, and by adherence seventh or eighth, we would have gotten much better, and a smooth Jan Miles came back and were making good time. At least this time, there was no other schooners in the area, so competition was not just licking our bow waves. And the Spirit of Massachusetts had been left behind.

It's hard work tacking a topsail schooner. At the time, running down the west coast opposite the mouth of the Choptank River, eight sails up: the fore boom, boom, front staysail, foresail, fore front, topgallant, main gaff mainsail and topsail. And they all needed some kind of adjustment in all major adhesion release leaves, in leaves, stems slacking, pressing keys. The candle had not only the bully was the mainsail, which behaved as any good and obedient tacked mainsail itself. The only candles that were not even the candles were studding (stunsails) and the tail of the ring. But stay tuned. Right now one of studding sails were being checked and corrected and prepared for rigging in case the wind came up and we could take off. The tail of the ring, I was told, was not worth it. Much work for little power. E oomph counted for much in this race.

The night arrived with winks and nods, like a sailor fawning sure exactly where to go. The sun shone down, leaving a cloud of color the crease between land and water. The stars turned against the dark sky. Still no moon. Stewart and I sat companionably in the watch tower, breathing it all inside had worked out the kinks out of your system and was ready to acknowledge that I was a traveling companion. (This is really cool, Mom.) I showed him how to find Polaris, the North Star, and who accompanied us over time, at the turn of the other stars around it, and we checked our progress up the Bay the way they hung stern. The half-moon rose as the eye of a whale gold, setting the sky leviathan. We were moving along with eight nodes, creaming through the water. There was no phosphorus, but the waves bow as milk poured out, moonlight and paved with slabs of the Bay of gold head east. It was dark on the deck. Even in the glow of moonlight, it was difficult to see under your feet. It was easy to travel routes and address the daylight are relatively benign, but at night it acted as rambunctious dogs nipping at our heels. At midnight Stewart and I were out and see the boat had slipped just below the Patuxent River.

We woke up at 5:30 to get the sweeper up. The wind had dropped and went along on a ghost whisper. Two of the crew were already in the yard course set the chopper boom to run it out from where it is normally against the lintel. Moonlight fell behind, silhouetting them in a golden haze. The sweeper sat on the foredeck, someone had already done from below. We rigged the halyard and the sheets and hoisted the stringer to the windward spar. Sail, we could go back to our bunks. She was close to seven hours now, and morning was relaxing in an elbow with a spot of rouge cheap tarnished in your face. She, like me, had been too long at the fair. Laura was up, though, so I hurriedly brushed my teeth, washed my face, took my clothes Woolie, spread in a layer of deodorant and grabbed a cup of coffee.

We were back on deck at 8:00 and came down the knife gravity helped. And the morning came the Chesapeake. We could see Gwynn Island and Wolf Trap Light, which put us well below the Potomac. And there was no wind to speak. The slump in the morning was ambling along with plenty time to look around and see anyone! We were about as lonely as this Bay Wolf Trap.

The finish was an imaginary line extending east of Thimble Shoal. The wind had picked up and Jan gave me to take the helm of the boat across. I was honored. I could feel the boat surging in my hands. The helm was amazing. When the boat was balanced, sailed straight, and one or two moments I thought Jan was on autopilot and just pretended to me behind the wheel. She did not depart from a wire Hair of your compass course. But then he crossed the finish line and Jan told me to carry out, and I stayed in front as we tacked and started working our way West. Complete, and Jan said. Just take it. And I felt the wind in my face and looked at the candles, and I turned the wheel and the boat responded. For me! There is nothing better than that. And then Stewart went up the equipment to roll something and I thought I would faint.

The race ended and Jan did some quick calculations. At 21:20 hours, ran a total of 139 nautical miles at an average speed of 6.53 knots on a rhumb line to 127 miles. We hauled 12 tons of length per person. (Not wonder what I was hard.) finished in 10:59:58 am the first class. The Spirit of Massachusetts can not touch us.

Stewart was back on deck and I I asked him if sailboats height can be in your future. No way, Mom. Yes, remember that he is sailing, while he lives. But think about it, he said: He's spent every minute of his waking life trying to invent your way to easy street. Without getting out of bed, he can call his fourth light, turn on the radio, adjust the fan's window until you close the door, using intelligent devices saving work of his own design. He understands the concept of mechanical advantage. A traditional sailing boat height, without squeaks? Why?

He is my son, with whom I am well pleased, and I told him so. When I grow up (next week), it goes fast to build engines for race cars, or maybe an engineer for the advancement of a hydrogen fuel cell mainstream. Your house will be connected with buttons and switches that make things open, closed or off. Exerting minimal effort he will make the maximum change. If not for the brain like his, we all we would be sailing Tall Ships and not for fun. Meanwhile, we went to the party: pork roast, awards singing, much more. Then home to study calculation.

About the Author

By Jane Meneely, writer for Chesapeake Bay Magazine. For more great articles and photos on boating, sailing, fishing, and cruising, visit http://www.ChesapeakeBoating.net

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