A Red Flag Flying

The sailing program at the local Marina had a red flag warning for high winds. Only qualified helmsmen were allowed to sail with qualified crew. A double red canceled all sailing and generally meant a storm warning.

Around the harbor, people used the same warning system for my father-in-law, the Cap’n. A red flag day meant that he was more irritable than his usual tetchy self – irritable as heck. 

He’d grumble at you, glare, stuff his pipe full, slowly light it, point the damned thing at you, and then unload both barrels in a biting style. He’d learned this method of intimidation on the bridge of numerous merchant vessels. He believed there was no reason to let shoddy incompetence go by. When the red flag flew, the Cap’n had enough venom to squelch any angry retort and make a shop owner fear a recession.

I got the pipe filling, lighting, pointing, and glare routine daily. As his son-in-law, crewman, and general assistant, I had more contact with him than anyone other than his wife or daughter. The Cap’n seemed to have more red flag days than most folks. But that was not true. His initial level of grouchiness was just higher than other people’s. The only times he seemed truly happy were when he was afloat. 

Coming ashore or “swallowing the anchor” happens to all sailors eventually. Most adapt to life away from the vast and liquid parts of the world called the sea. They make peace with the land. People like my father continually threatened that he’d “go looking for a ship” when he grew frustrated. I’m contented with a trip to the coast and looking at the boats. The Cap’n, though, would storm off, get into the skiff, and row out to his 34-foot ketch, Psyche. The visit to Psyche was refreshing to his soul, and by late afternoon, he’d row back in as positive a mood as was possible for him.

So much for a “normal” red flag day; small craft had better head to a safe harbor if a full storm warning was set. What set him off? 

Well, the Cap’n loved seafood. His wife Cora was an exceptional cook of traditional coastal recipes, and she spoiled him with her fish chowder, and especially her Finnan Haddie.

Once, he and Cora visited us in Boston, and we ate dinner at a well-known seafood restaurant. The Finnan Haddie was not cooked in enough cream to suit. The Cap’n had the chef called out of the kitchen for a rage-filled complaint that only ended when we were ordered to leave. An entire decade passed before I dared venture back. I was afraid there might be a photo of me and the Cap’n in the kitchen with the warning—”barred for life.”

Eventually, I introduced the Cap’n to a tiny place called ” The No Name.” It seemed just a hole in the wall, but the Cap’n declared it among the best-run places he’d ever visited. He even put his pipe away and smiled.

So, food was a big double red flag event for him. Other things included my failing to pick up the mooring as he zipped by it at hull speed, the local boatyard refusing to haul his boat on time, and people tuning his tantrums out.

Eventually, I decided to get even with him for making me the object of so much of his wrath. As you may know, many sailors have an addictive relationship with coffee. You drink it in the morning. You drink it to stay alert on your watch. And you drink it socially with your shipmates. It was a common complaint in the Navy that there were seven grades of coffee. You might start at the top with “joe” and proceed downward until you reach something more appropriate for stripping varnish off wood.

Yes, I admit it. I degraded the Cap’ns coffee. I searched the spice cabinet and medicine chest for the most distasteful condiments. The son of a bitch, thrived on the stuff. The day I used the laxative, he smiled at me. “Wes, I haven’t had coffee this good since I left my last ship, the Martha P. Pickens. Good work, son!”

Then I realized I was just the most recent member of a long-line crew who had tried to get at the old coot and failed.

He was a force of nature, a natural two-red flag storm warning, and I was out of my class.