ERQM THE LOWER LEFT CORNER
watch shifts, taking turns at the helm, bow and stem watch
and radar if fog mandates. One night when we pull the twelve
to four a m. watch Sarah and I join Ev, a watch mate from
Israel, on a platform half way up the mainmast. While
speaking o f constellations and myths of the sea we realize that
none of us knows for sure what day it is. Time has collapsed
as we are suspended in a void where stars dip into the sea in
every direction with the rolling of the ship.
On days three and four we have good wind as a
routine of work, ephemeron stints of sleep and Jo's great
meals, suck us ever deeper into the here and now. A shift on
maintenance duty finds Rick and I sanding and varnishing a
section of the foremast while nearby Sarah and her mother
Ruth, who's also on our watch, enjoy their Cose
mother/daughter bond while polishing the ship's bell. Later,
while I'm sitting on the tiller housing savoring a few
moments of quiet reflection, I spot the Captain emerging from
the below decks companionway with a strange looking orange
device in his hands. An alarm sounds as he darts for the port
side gunwale and shouts "man overboard", heaving the
electronic buoy over the side. The memory of a first day
briefing by Jason snaps me to attention as I jump to my feet
and extend an arm full length to point at the buoy rapidly
drifting astem. It's absolutely critical that I keep my eyes
locked on the receding buoy, for if this were a person and I lost
visual contact for a split second the rolling sea could forever
hide its victim. Without looking I know from the briefing that
the rest of the crew is taking its cue from me. While two
people scurry up the shrouds for a higher vantage point from
which to keep sight of the buoy others assemble at their
bracing stations to change the angle of the yardarms and sails
in order to bring the ship around to recover the victim. At the
same time still others are launching the ship’s boat, a zodiac,
to complete the rescue. When, and only when, I see the zodiac
crew retrieve the buoy do I know that I'm free to lower my ami
and relax. If it were an actual person overboard someone would
have thrown a life ring as soon as possible too, and had it
happened at night a series of glowing snap sticks would have
been tossed astem to create a luminescent trial back to the
victim. The Captain nods his head at me and says, "good
work". Since the zodiac is already in the water Anthony and
Dougal take groups of six for a 360 degree trip around the
ship. It's a great photo opportunity and chance to get a
detached view o f die ship under sail.
While I'm taking a turn at the helm Geoff inquires
whether or not there might be a local radio station by which to
warn inhabitants of Long Beach, Washington that we are
approaching the shoreline to discharge a camion salute. When I
give him KMUN's number he rings up the station on his cell
phone and makes the announcement. Nevertheless, I'm certain
startled residents think they are under attack by a ghost ship
that has somehow pierced a time warp. What else could one
think, confronted with such an apparition?
But that's nothing compared to the raging sea battle
that erupts when the Lady Washington engages us under full
sail just outside Gray's Harbor. Gary, who thus far has been
our faithful navigator, turns traitor by stealthily commanding
his own ship via cell phone. The maneuvering is intense as
both ships blast away with their cannons. Anthony, Dougal,
Paul, Jordan, Richard and Dominique, a fine lot of sailing
blokes, otherwise known as the scurvy curs, saved the day by
not only scoring several direct blasts with our cannons, but
also pelting our rivals with a barrage of water balloons
launched from a giant slingshot of surgical tubing rigged up
between the masts. And so the first leg of my voyage comes
to an end; at play in the eighteenth century .
Of Time And Place At Sea
Eastern wisdom traditions have long taught that the
only place and time is here and now. Despite the mildly
schizoid personality of the H M Bark Endeavour, sailing on
this "replica" brings the lesson deftly home. I say schizoid
because the ship has multiple personalities. Of course there
was the distinct personality of the original ship skippered by
James Cook in the eighteenth century. But, the present ship
has a dual personality. The general public when touring the
ship will see the exterior, including the top deck and the first
deck below. What they won't see is a "place" called the
twentieth century. This is located on the second deck below,
where the crew is privy to hot, though limited showers,
nautical hand pumped heads - toilets —, locker rooms, a
modem galley — ship’s kitchen, - and a dining area just large
enough to accommodate the crew in rotating shifts. Aft of
these amenities lies a pair of Murphy diesel engines which can
be called upon when modem decorum refuses to sacrifice a
virgin to the wind gods. Still further aft lies a generator
powered freezer and cold storage unit necessary to maintain a
well fed, scurvy free crew. Also hidden from public view is a
tiny cabin, barely large enough for two people, fitted with
satellite linked global positioning, navigation,
communications, radar and computer equipment. These features
are a distortion of time and place that would make the heads —
the ones above their shoulders - of an eighteenth century crew
spin with awe.
At 7:30 a.m., an hour and a half into our deck watch,
Sarah and I have long since finished our waltz, routine duties
o f checking mooring lines, gangplank, food storage
temperature gauges and bilge water depth, when we are startled
by one more modem feature. The ship's public address system
crackles to life emitting a voice that carries a twinkle in the
eye and a jocular lilt. This is the way first mate Geoff awakens
the crew and welcomes them to the first day of what is for
many their first voyage on the Endeavour. As drowsy
shipmates come on deck we compare details of sleep in the
sardine configuration of hammocks. Some slept well, while
others like me hadn't slept at all in anticipation of getting
under way.
Following a hardy breakfast we begin the daily
morning task o f cleaning the ship. Some of the permanent
crew hose down and scrub the weather deck while the rest of
us, known as the voyage crew, assume a position on hands and
knees to sweep, scrub and otherwise tidy the lower decks,
heads, locker rooms and officers’ quarters. Every surface, be it
horizontal or vertical, must be rendered spotless. Each watch is
assigned an area of the ship and we are not relieved until Geoff
completes a white glove inspection. Realizing that the ship is
about the size of a normal house and occupied by a crew of
fifty-six, you can appreciate the need for such detail.
On deck Helen, our "captain o' top" for the mainmast,
gives us instructions on handling and belaying -- securing --
the teeming lines that position the sails. She also schools us
in the proper way to climb the shrouds — rope netting that
runs up from the side of the ship to the mast - in order to step
off onto the rat line slung below the yardarms so we can haul
in or release the heavy canvas sails. At this point we are three
stories above the deck, but at least the ship is still in calm
water. One woman freezes up with fingers locked to the shroud
and Helen has to gently coach her back down to the deck.
It's eleven a.m. and a beautiful day by the time we
release the gangplank and mooring lines to head down river.
Unfortunately, there isn't any wind so the diesels are fired up
to propel us over a seldom placid Columbia River Bar. Once
out to sea we are mustered on deck to receive a weather report
and daily briefing from Captain Chris Blake who has a sharp
wit and sardonic sense of humor. The captain is a man of
sleight build, but exudes authority when necessary. He also
introduces Gary who will be our guest navigator on the four
day run from Astoria to Westport, Washington located at
Gray's Harbor. Gary is the Captain of the Lady Washington, a
smaller sailing vessel making its summer home at Westport.
The skill with which the three captains o* tops,
Helen, Richard and Dominique, along with Geoff, second mate
Jason, bosun Anthony, his mate Dougal, shipwright Paul and
his mate Jordan begin to mold a functioning crew from a
bunch of relative or absolute greenhorns is quite amazing. The
sense of camaraderie among these folks and other members of
the permanent crew including Wally the engineer, Jo the ship’s
cook and medical officer, Katrin, Sally, Chris the ship’s
steward and James the galley slave is contagious and fosters a
vital team spirit. This isn't to say that neither I nor any o f the
other voyage crew aren't prone to botch an order now and then.
It's easy to act too slowly or too hastily or to just plain get
confused with the daunting array of lines and sails.
Nevertheless, it's exhilarating when everything happens just
right and we see the result of your coordinated efforts.
There is a lot of motoring the first couple of days of
the voyage and we get a small sense of the frustration with
which early sea explorers had to contend. The prevailing
currents in these waters are southerly and if it weren't for the
diesels we'd be as stymied in our efforts to go north as
doubtless Captain Cook and the original Endeavour must often
have been. However, wind does happen and when Endeavour is
under full sail she is as magnificent as the Notre Dame
cathedral would appear if cast adrift upon the sea. Her grace
under sail belies the combined strenuous effort of the crew just
as the ease of unassisted flight does in a dream. Sarah and I
take turns on fore watch by sitting astride the bowsprit, and as
it plunges and rises above the gray-green water we call out
whale and shark sightings to our mates.
Climbing to the yardarm of the mainmast top gallant
— the highest sail — my mind is focused so intently that no
trace of fear or anxiety could possibly intrude. Each foot and
hand placement becomes a fleeting meditation on
impermanence. It is only when Helen's voice directs eight of
us perched on the yardarm rat line to let go and clap our hands
that I become aware of a sense of place, poised as we are
somewhere between the sea far below and the sky so close
above. Throughout the night we rotate four hour sleep and
VicroKia Swppiello
Everything Flows By
When people ask me where I live, I tell
them Ilwaco, Washington. Usually they don't
know where that is, even if they live in the
Pacific Northwest. Then I say, "It's at the mouth
of the Columbia River." I used to quickly
explain where the mouth of the river is,
shortcutting the inevitable "Is that near
Vancouver?" "No, we're I(X) miles further down
stream." "Oh, near Htxxl River?" etc. Now I wait
while the person mentally stumbles through
what little they know of Northwest geography or
geography terminology , words like river mouth,
headwaters, gorge, della, estuary , channel,
slough, tributary; spit, wetlands, riparian zone,
marsh. They get lost in words whose meaning
they've never attached to a real place.
I hang back, partly to figure out how
much awareness of river geography exists in the
general population and partly to let the person
figure it out on their ow n. Perhaps if they truly
learn where a river mouth is, what an estuary is,
they won't blindly accept the idea, for example,
of dredging the Columbia over channel an
additional three feel from the mouth of the
riverlOO miles upstream to Portland.
The best effort lately was a fellow who
said, "Is the mouth of the river the delta?" I
responded, "Could be, depends on the river, but
the Columbia has no delta; it's too deep and
fast." The man traced in his mind the upstream
course of the Columbia, through the gorge past
Hood River, now famous for wind surfing but
not yet invested with wind turbines, and kept
going, turning north in a big bend into
Washington, then further on toward Canada.
Having mistaken the mouth for the headwaters,
he realized his error because he knew I lived in
Washington, not British Columbia. We
visualized the river tracking past the Hanford
Nuclear Reservation, and noted the irony that this
is one of the last remaining sections of free-
flowing river and salmon runs in that area are
still pretty plentiful —but as one humonst
mentioned, probably radioactive.
The thing about living at the mouth of
the river is that everything that happens to the
river goes by your front door, either literally or
figuratively. The salmon go up, and the smolLs
come down. The ships go in and out. The tide,
too, influences the river all the way beyond
Portland. The only thing that comes one way on
the river is what we dump in it upstream,
whether radioactive wastes seeping from Hanford
into the acquifer and hence to the river, or PCBs,
or dioxin from the paper mills, or cow manure
from every trickle that trips to the river, or
sewage effluent, or bait boxes, fish guts, and
Styrofoam cups, or log txxims broken apart by
storms, or picnic tables and plastic buckets set
loose by spring floods, it all eventually goes
down river, past us, and out to sea, unless we're
able to snag it from shore or a convenient boat.
Most of it we don't want to bring ashore
and hope the great ocean will somehow absorb
and take care of it, dilute it, if not cleanse it.
Without meaning to, we're like the faithful
Hindu of India who believe their great river, the
Ganges, will cleaase everything. Water
punfies...to the best of its ability. Wc take that
lor granted even though if we look beneath the
calm, glassy surface, we know better. Anything
can be overwhelmed, even this great river.
It's time to step back from our usual
way of doing things, our modus operandi of the
last 100 years. We can start with the obvious and
easy, what some would call "picking the low
hanging fruit." An example would be not doing
any more destruction of the river as a natural
system, not blasting and dredging the river
deeper. At the next level would be repairing some
of the damage, for example by removing the
four lower Snake River dams, allowing the
salmon to reach a vast area of relatively
untouched habitat in central Idaho.
No flood control or irrigation and only 4 per cent
of our electric supply would be impacted, and I
suspect the fish would return to Idaho like
urbanites snapping up homes in a suburban
subdivision.
Like every thing else that goes up and
down the river, those Idaho salmon will swim
right past us here at the mouth of the river. I
remind myself that any thing that happens to the
river, impacts me, and some of it might as well
be good.
Bob Rice's Grande Endeavour will continue next month.
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