Tag: sea stories

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Round About…the prompt

In 2023, these paragraphs are what I led my post on for what I knew about the year I was born…not much. But here they are:

Prelude

“Swallowing the anchor” is the phrase sailors use to describe coming ashore permanently. Consider you give up on the vast horizon, the lift and movement of the ship, the routine of ship work and watches, and watching the celestial movements in an intimate fashion never found ashore.  Another thing you give up coming ashore is language. The overhead becomes the ceiling, the head the bathroom and at sea a holiday can refer to a messy spot left while cleaning. The dining room is, of course, the mess or mess deck, and who would want to eat in a mess? Bluntly, you give up an entire life, and vocabulary.

Funnily, this all has to do with the year I was born. It was the year that my mother convinced my father to swallow the anchor. Note that I did not say coerced; I said convinced. As a result of my father coming ashore, I received a complete maritime education by age nine. His urge to be at sea needed an outlet. I grew up with a good helping of the romance of the sea.

TINS

Now, here is my added stuff this time around! I also grew up as a lover of stories. Sea stories are an entire genre of their own. There is a formula – it’s called “TINS – this is no shit”. Here is an example:

“Now this is no shit. I heard it from my shipmate, and when I landed, the chief mate told me he had seen it too! Off the starboard bow, there was this….”

And so it goes on to a phenomenal ending, which a shipload of nautical storytellers will attest to! See TINS! Famously, we nautical types compare our exalted traditions to mere fairy tales. Pah! Once Upon A Time. OUAT isn’t even a word!

Anyhow, while I know little about the year in which I was born. I know a lot about the traditions from which we Carreras arise.

Now, listen up! This is no shit! All my stories are true…But I have this fond affection for sea stories. So pass the word and take due notice thereof!

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The Devil

As Halloween approaches, I’ve decided to bring some of my seasonal stories back “from the grave,” so to speak. This one was from October of 2022. Although strictly fictional, it is based in part on some real events, attitudes, and behavior.

You’d be hard-pressed to find any seafarer, fisherfolk, or plain coastal types without some horror tale on the water. It just goes with the territory; salt water envelopes most of the world and is dangerous. 

Lurking beneath that calm tropical paradise you’ve vacationed in are currents, tides, rips, rocks, tidal flats, and reefs. These might all be known hazards, but that doesn’t mean that they are less deadly. Circumstances and bad luck can be the dividing line between inconvenience and tragedy. And that’s just the stuff you can make plans to avoid or correct.

There’s just a ton of stuff you can’t plan for: rogue waves, sudden squalls, or engine failures that put you at risk on lee shores. Then there are collisions with unseen objects and illness at sea. I could go on, but I think you get the idea. It’s no wonder that hidden in every sailor is a tiny little superstitious knot. It might not be as apparent as a refusal to sail on a Friday. Or no bananas on board, or not whistling while you set sail, but it’s there. But without a doubt, the most dangerous element at sea will always be the human element.

Name Changes? Oh No.

Where I lived on the coast, it was considered bad luck to change the name of a boat. But, if you did, many boatyards followed procedures that seemed more like heathen rituals. They sure didn’t come from anything Baptist, Catholic, Congregationalist, or Methodist.

Libations would be poured to Neptunas Rex and Davy Jones. Coins under the masts would be added. After repairs, they are carefully put back or eliminated in exchange for a completely new set. And of course, the boat would be thoroughly cleaned fore and aft. Sometimes this would not be enough.

Thrice Warned

One of the Allens from over to the cape purchased a very smart lobster boat third-hand. He did this against his wife, father, and brother’s wishes. He’d been thrice warned.

The boat had started life as a workhorse lobster boat built by a well-known builder out of Boothbay. She’d worked the waters of the mid-coast for years as the Hattie Carroll. Then, about 1974, she’d been sold to a New York City Banker. He had her gutted and fixed up as a fancy boat to tour clients around during the summer. She was what we call a lobster yacht these days. 

Then, without any to do, he’d had a signmaker slap some vinyl letters on her. The new name was ” The Cheek Of The Devil” in a fancy script. The boatyard had suggested that a bit of ceremony would be nice. But he wanted what he wanted, so he got it. No ceremony, but it was the talk of the harbor. Using the Devil in a boat’s name was not typical and not thought lucky.

He didn’t enjoy his boat long. A fire started offshore, and all aboard went into the bay. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been enough floatation devices aboard for all the guests, so he yielded his floatation vest and drowned. 

The boat survived with severe fire damage but was salvaged and put up for sale.

The Devil

She lay in Spinney’s yard for two years before being sold. I wouldn’t know if the reason was the fire, the owner’s death, the name, or a combination of all three. But she sat in the back of the yard, nevertheless. To locals, it was the Devil.  That should have been enough to discourage any local from buying it. 

History and name suggested that nothing but ill luck was involved in that boat. Wash it in a bathtub of holy water from Saint Jerome’s, or do whatever hocus pocus you wish, and none of that would help. My father-in-law, the Cap’n, put it succinctly enough, ” I wouldn’t allow any of my kin to sit in its shadow, much less step aboard.”

Lobster Boat Races

The Devil sat there until Jacob Allen went looking for a cheap boat with fast lines that he could pour a high-power engine into for lobster boat racing. The Devil fit the bill. And over a long Maine winter, he worked to rebuild the boat into his dream of a fast racer. 

During the spring, his trial runs seemed to indicate that he’d be a contender in any race he entered. Unfortunately, Jacob was not the type to go full speed ahead, only at a race. He’d run circles around other lobster boats in the local harbor gang he belonged to. He took pleasure in almost swamping small craft he considered to be in his way. Jacob wasn’t well-liked.

Jacob was known to infringe on the territories of nearby lobstermen. He was closely watched until, one day, he was caught. The first time you get caught, you will likely pull your traps and find a half hitch in your line. It’s a warning that your trespass has been noted. Do it again, and the penalties will go up. 

The Devil proved as successful as Jacob believed it would, and victory was frequent. Now I do not know how plush the prizes are these days, but back then, it was peanuts. You raced for the joy and pleasure of it. Jacob also raced because he loved to rub other skippers’ noses in how fast the Devil was. In a family of quiet Mainers, he inherited all the ego.

Thief

I was helping out at Spinney’s boat yard that September. It was time to be hauling out summer people’s boats, and I overheard Spinney talking to my father-in-law, the Cap’n. They both agreed that Jacob was heading for a fall. They quieted down when I walked up. But it was common knowledge that Jacob had been robbing traps, and something was bound to happen.

Things get slower as the weather gets colder. Lobstermen spend more time repairing and making new lobster pots ( or traps), repairing their gear, and taking care of their boats. But on Halloween morning, the blast rocked the entire harbor as the Devil blew up with Jacob Allen aboard. The official report said Jacob had ignited a puddle of gasoline while starting his boat. A death by misadventure, I guess. But knowing people understood that Jacob Allen had been a scrupulous man in caring for his boat.

Murder was suspected but never proven. There wasn’t enough of the Devil or Jacob Allen left for much of an inquest. Just the mutterings of people about the enemies he’d had, and someone finally canceling a grudge hard.

At the coffee shop in the morning, there were comments about how the boat had been ill-fated from the start. Then, more quietly, someone muttered that the Devil had certainly known his own.

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The Shell Game

“luck is what you stumble upon in life. Providence is what God plans for you, and planning is how you thread your way between the two without getting crushed.” The speaker of these words was the rather infamous first-class petty officer John O’Toole. Destined never to become a chief, he was swimming towards retirement. 


Along the way, he offered bits of sage advice to drifty shit misfits in uniform like me. After the second pitcher of beer at the Harvard Gardens, he’d offer tips on all and sundry of life aboard ship, everything except how he ran his racket as a ship’s bootlegger. Onboard, it was John who, according to legend, had three barrels from which he rendered scotch, bourbon, and rye. 


The Navy built the carrier during the Second World War, but it was still serving through the 1960s. Along the way, so many renovations and rebuilds had occurred that there were supposedly compartments that appeared on no known plan and were complete mysteries to the Master At Arms. In the interstices, John’s barrels brewed up the best hooch available outside of a base, with a Seabee battalion running the still.
We, of course, did not know if any of this was true. But none dared doubt it publically; it was the stuff of nautical and Naval mythology. Sailors love the mythological; it makes up for their otherwise dull life at sea.

Sailors also like to place small bets on almost anything; they are called pools. An anchor pool would predict the date and time the ship anchored. Sailors organized pools for anything -when a sailor’s wife had their baby, the baby’s eye color, or if the weather would blow up. In my day, the pools were for dimes and quarters. If kept quiet, nobody would mind. But John’s barrels were legendary. Every deployment, there was a pool on whether or not the Masters at Arms would discover them. On every voyage, the Master at Arms uncovered lots of activity, but not the infamous barrels.

I’d love to say that the night John blessed me with the formula for success, but that did not happen. Years later, I ran into a former shipmate who told me the secret. There were no barrels. They were just a distraction. The hooch was snuck aboard before each deployment in sealed cruise chests by Confederates who shared equally in the take. I have no idea how the whole thing was a secret for so long. But, the barrels eventually became so famous that they became the absolute focus of the racket and the search. A shell game. Where are the barrels?


Over the years, I discovered that John’s formula had it right. Luck was fickle and could run hot or cold. Providence could get you in a lot of trouble while intending to “save” you, but planning could ease the berth between the two.

I understand there was a pool among the former crew when the ship went to the shipbreakers. The pool was for finding the barrels.

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Tradition!

The “Red Head” was my great-grandfather’s nickname. He was a mariner from a line of mariners and most favored Nicholas as either a first or middle name. Saint Nicholas is the patron of sailors, so it fits with the family’s maritime connections. On my mother’s side of the family, she came from a small island in the Caribbean where seamanship, fishing, and piracy loomed large in the types of occupation available to the youth.

My father was a marine engineer who only came ashore after two torpedo sinkings and the end of World War II. I was in the Navy and spent enough time at sea to qualify as a bluewater sailor. Half of that time was aboard a ketch-rigged sailboat with a former Merchant Marine master mariner who resented every moment spent on land.

When the Jubilee comes, most of the above individuals will be asking for easy berths aboard the celestial yacht so they can sail the Blessed Isles for eternity. Yes, soft swinging hammocks, no bosun mates harassing you to get up and go on watch, ship’s work, or have holiday swabbing decks. Instead, you leisurely rise, get on your Sunday best, and head ashore for liberty.
The Shore Patrol smiles indulgently at your antics, and you almost hate to go back aboard, but Cookie is making your favorite meal for dinner. So you bid adieu to the lovely one who has been your companion and climb the gangway.

Being a seaman and a BS artist are two of my family traditions.
Now, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

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Geedunks

I’m careful of what I put in my mouth regarding snacks; normally. But when I was doing boat shows as a wood carver, I had a bad tendency to worship at the “geedunk” altar. I’d head off to whatever food concessioner was selling the saltiest, sweetest concoction and pig out. Don’t know what a geedunk is? Sorry, it’s sailor talk for snack food – candy bars, ice cream, or snack food. The sort of stuff that they tell you will rot your teeth.

Geedunks help fill up tedious days, watches, and shifts. Idly watching the waves roll by? Slip a geedunk from its wrapper and distract yourself with the chew and taste of something sweet, salty, nutty, and chocolate.

When totally bored, I had a friend who one day estimated the number of excess calories needed for the typical chief petty officer to acquire that roll of fat and belly that automatically said “Chief.” He calculated the mean decline in work completed with each increase in rank. Then, predicated on someone else now doing the work, he calculated the median increase in waist size per rating. Then, through some complicated “bar-top” Calculus, he did a multivariate analysis of how much geedunk the chief would have to consume daily to maintain that authoritarian heft.
By then, we had lost track of the bar tab until the waitress brought notification that we were shut off for being too noisy, eating too many free bar snacks, and having a hefty bill that needed payment now.

In any case, this is what ran through my mind at boat shows when I found some irresistible geedunk that I couldn’t resist. And judging from the waistlines of the other “chiefs” in line, I was not the only one.

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BPOE – A flashback Friday Presentation

Small nuggets of fact often are below mountains of folklore. Getting to the nugget is usually impossible. So it is with most sea stories. But this story is true. It was told to me by an admiral I knew back in my Navy days. My first father-in-law, the Cap’n, confirmed it.
Navigation and pilotage are difficult. The texts would have you believe that we have a science before us. In truth, they are arts. Like many art forms and crafts, bits of received knowledge point the way.

Most mariners can recite verbatim even the most obscure “Rules of the Road.” The Rules of the Road are a set of international rules and regulations for preventing collisions at sea and inland waterways. Beneath those codes are even older traditional sayings and acronyms used to remember basic things. Things like *BPOE—Black Port On Entry. In my day, BPOE meant that on entry into a harbor, you left the black can buoys to your port side while entering. The black cans marked the channel.

And that’s where the old sea story comes in. It seems there was an admiral of great repute and skill who every morning arose. He had his coffee, entered his day cabin, opened his safe, and read from a note. That accomplished, he proceeded with his day. None of his staff knew what was on the paper. After he died, they opened the safe and found this note: ” Port-Left, Starboard-Right.” None of the aids will do any good if you can’t tell Port from Starboard – left from right.
The admiral swore he had been among the crew opening the safe. The Cap’n claimed that it was he on board Liberty Ship Charles Owen who had opened the safe. Even though the ships were thousands of nautical miles apart in space and at least a decade separated in time, I believe the story.

If you spend enough time at sea or even sailing in coastal waters, you learn that human perceptions and memory are frail. That’s why we have all the rules, aids, and techniques, and still, things go wrong. Ask any sailor. Life on the water is dangerous.

  • BPOE is now an obsolete term since they changed the color of the bouys.
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Flashback Friday from October 2020 – REO Tractor

So, as sailors like to say, this is a true story; I was there. Well, that’s not so true. However, while writing the story in 2020, I borrowed heavily from boatyards that I knew intimately. And yes there is a 1932 REO tractor in a yard I know of, and I think it may be in service to this date – just as described.

REO

Spinney was going to see his new accountant for his tax review. Last year, on his own, Spinney had tried to sell the IRS on a depreciation of the 1932 REO he used as a tractor for hauling boats. After being driven in reverse into the cove, its extensive rebuild should have qualified it as a new equipment item. At least Spinney thought so.
The IRS disagreed, which was a shame because the only original parts in the darn thing were the frame and a single axle; everything else was new or new used from the junkyard.
After losing the tractor argument, Spinney reflected on the unfairness of the tax code. Massive tax write-offs were given to the Allen yard for the brand-new 20-foot launch. They spent huge money on that! But, not cent came the way of a frugal yard owner. His yard workers referred to his tractor as “vintage.” suggesting that Yankee Magazine might be interested in featuring them as the oldest operational tractor in Maine. Or that the Maine Antiques Digest would be interested in advertising it for sale to a collector.


I thought that Spinney carried Yankee frugality to the extreme. All the talk of the Great Depression’s adversity rang a chord with me—I was the child of Depression-raised parents. All the workers were tired of taping up extension cords and hoses that were frayed beyond repair. He did everything but sit in his office, watching the electrical meter spin.
For Spinney, the problem was cheapness. But not the way he thought of it.
Every other yard charged more per foot for storage and repairs. Spinney’s eyes were on the costs of running his business, not the income from his company. The previous accountant had tried to talk him into raising prices. No, Spinney told him. The lower prices attracted customers. But, maintained the accountant, his cash flow was affected, and ultimately his profits reduced. Spinney disagreed and scraped by every year while Allen’s charged a premium. He lost clients to Allen’s because Allen convinced them that the goods and services he sold were of better quality than Spinney’s – take a look at the ratty extension cords and hoses, a safety hazard!


Spinney, a dedicated deacon in his church, took the Old Testament injunction to heart: “You shall not muzzle an ox while it treads out the grain.” So he didn’t mind scrap wood walking off with Bubba as kindling for his wood stove, nor begrudge me a bit of varnish to finish off a project. But he chose to economize on the strangest things, like the 1932 REO tractor and the extension cords. He staunchly maintained that down the line his methods would prove to be best.


We all laughed at this until the day the film crew showed up. Folklife Films came to town looking to film a documentary on traditional boat building around the coast. Over the next several days, their location specialists visited every yard around. They spent lots of time at Allen’s of course, and the talk at the Harbor Tavern was that they’d be back in a week to start shooting there.
Just before the location crew left town, one of their team wandered over to Spinney’s. In about ten minutes, he had the entire crew examining our full setup. They ooohed and aahed over the 1910 planer with no safety guards that we all complained about. They nearly had an orgasmic experience when they saw us using the 19th-century ship’s saw. The antique table saw was affectionately patted and examined. But they saved their true ecstasy for the 1932 REO tractor. It sealed the deal for them; Spinney’s yard was where they wanted to do their documentary. Yes, Allen’s had all the modern do-dads. But, Todd Allen looked like the IBM executive he had been before coming home to run the family business. Spinney looked the part of a cranky Down Easter.


Spinney was insufferable after this and made sure that we all understood that his methods had paid off. At the film company’s suggestion, he replaced the worn hoses and extension cords. But that 1932 REO tractor could still be there, for all I know.

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The Emma G. Paxton

Going into Will’s workshop was always on par with entering a sorcerer’s hut. He might be working on anything. Sometimes it was toys for the grandkids, trap stock to make lobster pots for Lowell down at the Cove, or a boat. The rafters hung with templates for boats made anytime in the past century or more. Will’s father before him had built schooners in the Cove below. On the walls were old black-and-white photos of shipyard workers, ships, and Island scenes from the last century. The one I always look at has a crew of workers wearing vests and bowler hats in front of a schooner about to be launched.

Today, Will was working on a half-hull model of an old-time schooner. “Coffee’s where it always is, Wes. Help yourself.” So I wandered over to it, grabbed an old tin cup, and poured some of the worst coffee available in the state after carefully blowing off the sawdust. ” Thanks, Will; by the way, those quarterboards are about finished – just one final coat of varnish. What Schooner is that?” He winced, screwed up his mouth like he’d just tasted something foul, and said, “She’s the Emma G. Paxton, worst schooner my grandfather ever launched. It wasn’t his design. Some fancy naval architect out of Boston drew up the draughts for Asa Paxton. He had my granddad build her for him. When she sank out at the Needles, he blamed our yard for shoddy work. It was a shoddy design. She wallowed in the water like a fat man in a bathtub.

Only the Captain, Asa Paxton, the cook, one mate, and the ship’s cat made it off her. That was the only thing that saved Gramp’s reputation. No one liked the Paxton’s anyway. They had a reputation for sloppiness and being hard dealers.

Pondering this for a while, I examined the parts of the half-hull model. It was a series of template “lifts” that fit on top of each other, each one forming a waterline for the model. A skilled craftsman could remove the information on the lifts and use it to make a full-size hull. “why are you working on this if it was the worst ship to launch at the family yard?” He paused before answering, ” Able Paxton wants to build a replica to clear his grandfather’s reputation.” It was my turn to ponder. “And you are making the half-hull, why?” – “To prove it was those thuggish Paxton’s responsible.”

The local schooner museum actually planned to build and launch a typical three-masted coastal schooner as a living history display. During the summer, she’ll take visitors on day cruises, host overnights for school kids, and sit pier side as a living history display. The only impediment to the plan was raising the money needed for construction. The Paxton clan came forward with the offer to foot the bill if the ship would be a replica of the Emma G. Paxton, the most infamous vessel launched in these parts. The museum couldn’t be too picky and decided to do it while downplaying that the original sat on the bottom, barely five nautical miles away at the Needles.

As the area’s “resident” maritime anthropologist ( even if I was still in grad school), I was hired to interview visitors, the builders, and the Paxtons about the project. This would be for the archives, quotes for museum exhibits, and historical documentation. This was wonderful in theory, but there were…complications.

After sinking, a lot had been salvaged off the vessel before she broke up in the waves. Donations came in for the new ship from the salvage: the original binnacle, the ship’s billet head, and other odd parts. The transom eagle and quarterboards were also salvaged soon after the sinking and stored in the Paxton barn. So the new ship was, in part, the old ship.

It didn’t take too long for the rumors to start. There were sounds of timbers groaning and muttering in the forecastle where the crew quarters were, that sort of thing. Someone told the Harbor Standard reporter the hull was cursed. Always in need of a good headline, the next day’s was “Schooner Cursed!”

Over the next week, the TV station in Portland sent a news crew, and a reporter from the Portland Press Herald also came up. At first, the museum decided to ride the wave of publicity. The director’s quote on camera is that the report of the haunting is “…not to be taken literally…” did not go over well. Museums don’t like notoriety.

Eventually, all the fuss and feathers about the schooner settled down. The Coast Guard did not deem her seaworthy, so she sat at the pier side as a static exhibit and a drain on the museum’s resources. Then, someone came up with the idea of Halloween haunted ship tours and sleepovers. These were popular. Once again, camera crews trekked to the Cove for stories of the haunted schooner.

But every year, on the anniversary of the sinking, the ship’s bell starts ringing—eight bells of the morning watch. Then, there are sounds of the boat tackles straining, and the curses of the crew running to the boats echo below.

Thanks to Fandango for introducing me to OWLG where I got the prompts.

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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.

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The Sound of Sand Beneath the Keel

I like the coast during a good blow, hurricane, or full fog—just as long as there is a nice spot to dive into for tea, coffee, and something to snack on. Looking out the window is much more pleasurable than being in a blow, reefing sails, and getting ready to rig a sea anchor to steady the boat. Playing hopscotch over the waves is no fun.

This is not speculation on my part. I’ve been there, not willingly, but yes, I’ve been there and done that. The Cap’n had spent his entire life at sea or in local waters and did not see why a little spume, sea foam, heavy tide, storm surge, or any other act of nature should impede his time sailing. And so, as his son-in-law, I was ordered by the women of the family to ensure his well-being while on the briny reaches – as if he’d ever listen to me.

That is why I hurried to reef sail and rig a sea anchor in a full blow one June morning. Hearing a weird hissing and scrubbing sound below the keel, I looked toward the Cap’n to confirm what I thought was happening. “just the sand bar below us. We still have plenty of depth to make it!”

So when I get that distant look in my eye as I watch the sand sucked from the shore, don’t look to me like I was some experienced master sailor. I’m just reliving the terror of that moment. Don’t mind the slight shake in my hand as I sip from my cup. It’s a chill.