Ok, Ladies and Gentlemen- I’ve done it again. Usually I publish these stories years after the fact, in hopes that the various statutes of limitations would cover me. (Next year, I can finally tell you all about the time I stole a yacht for an evening…) But this time I get to tell you about something that just happened. About 3 hours ago, as I now sit down to write.
As many of you know, I’ve spent most of the last few years cloistered in my little apartment; too sick and sad to get out and about much. The last few years have been about discovering that I have limits, and it’s caused me to lose all my nerve. But I’m feeling a bit better lately, and I’m really trying to get out more. It’s time to climb back on the horse, so to speak; to get back to adventuring as best I can and try to move on with my life. Well… let me tell you how that’s working for me.
I think I’ve told you all that I conned my way into getting my captain’s license last year. Which I feel pretty good about in and of itself. I mean- the coast guard is a serious outfit. Having pulled the wool over their eyes is quite a feat, if I do say so myself. (Seriously- Can you believe they didn’t know better?) Anyways- I’ve got it. I officially hold a “50 ton Inland Master’s Captain’s license,” and with it a “6 pack” (six passenger) license that’s good out to 100 miles off shore. But as with all my best plans, it doesn’t impress women like I had hoped it would. So I’ve been trying to find other things to do with my shiny new credential. Y’know- things like actually being the captain of a boat. But it’s a funny thing about boats- turns out you actually need to know some shit about them. I really don’t. And it turns out that in many ways, boating is one of those crazy industries in which you have to have experience to get experience. And in my experience, there’s only one way to get through that kind of thing: lie. Shamelessly, often, and with panache. (“…Oh, yeah; been doing this for years. Got started making runs back and forth around cape horn…”)
So about a week ago, my wonderful mother writes me an E-mail saying that she’d seen a help wanted ad in the paper, looking for a captain to take out sailing tours in the area.
…Can you see where this is going?
So I called the guy. I didn’t even do any rehearsing before I dialed. I just figured I’d let the bullshit roll naturally off my tongue, as it so often does. But a strange thing happened. I had this attack of conscience when he answered the phone. I’m telling you- I’ve lost all my nerve. I fully intended to tell the guy that I’d sailed around the world several times and once alone. With one arm. Backwards. That’s what job interviews are all about, right? No better way to learn than to do it. And it’s only the ocean. Nothing bad ever happens on the ocean, right? So I dunno what came over me. Instead, I leveled with the guy. I was totally honest. Totally. And despite my myriad confessions of utter incompetence, He said he’d give me a shot. I was stunned. I said I’d call him the following weekend, and arrange a time to go out sailing with him on one of his tours.
This, dear readers, is that weekend.
I’ve been stressed out about it all week. He’s gonna know I’m a charlatan. The boat is a wooden gaff rig with a stays’l. I’ve never sailed anything close to that. She’s also nearly double the size of anything I’ve sailed before. True, I did some time on bigger motor boats, to get my sea time for my license; but not a sailboat this size. Sailboats are much trickier (Ever seen one? There’s ropes and lines all over the damn things. And every one of those lines does shit. And you kindof have to know what they do, or you’re screwed.) Worse still, this boat also has an engine. Which has an upside, If you know how to use it. But I don’t. Which means that to me an engine is nothing more than a pile of mysterious fiddly bits aboard to misbehave. You see- boats aren’t like cars. In a car, all the important parts are in reach of the driver. But not on a boat. They like to tuck things away is strange places. The battery switches will be over here, but the starter button and gauges are over there, where they can’t be seen. Meanwhile the steering wheel is back there, with the throttle. Which may or may not be built into the gear shift knob. And did I mention the miles of lines you have to play with at the same time? It’s like Rube Goldberg designed the whole affair.
So; knowing all this, I was nervous. I procrastinated as long as I could, afraid to face the music. I wrote letters and played guitar all day (I find it’s best to avoid wearing pants when stressed. I find it therapeutic. The police find it “indecent,” but whatever…). Eventually, the time came. I made the call. I was told to meet him at the town dock at 5 for the sunset cruise. I drove down to meet my fate.
I did a lot of thinking on the way down. Maybe this was a bad idea…
I sang some sea chanties while I drove, to get my spirits up. I smelled the salt air. Hell with that. This was a great idea.
My potential employer expressed concerns with my lack of experience. I was going to calm his fears by lying my ass off, when it suddenly happened a second time- again with the honesty. (It seems to be working out for me, in retrospect; I may be honest more often…) I agreed with his assessment of my experience, and told him that experience is precisely what I was after in applying for the position. He said he’d give me a try. We climbed into his dinghy, my pack shedding pine needles and looking a touch out of place.
I want to take a second here to say what a huge thanks I owe this guy (who shall remain nameless, for the sake of his business). He could have told me to screw off. He could have told me I had no business being a captain. He could have turned me in to the coast guard station across the harbor and reported me for a fraud. He didn’t. He didn’t even try to make me feel bad about it. He just let me try. That was a great deal more than I had a right to ask.
The boat is beautiful. She’s a palace; all rigged properly and with bells and whistles I’ve never actually been able to handle before. Lazy jacks and a furling jib. A boom footed, self tending stays’l. A working engine. A steering wheel. A bilge pump that actually moves water. A working radio. A bathroom that isn’t a 5 gallon bucket. For those of you not familiar with boats- the point here is simply that she’s the real deal. She’s got amenities I’ve seldom had in the apartments I’ve rented, let alone on a boat.
So we ride over to the dock -mostly in silence- to pick up the passengers. I want to ask lots of questions, but I know it’ll only prove how inept I am, so I refrain.
The guests are a couple slightly younger than my parents, along with their 3 kids. My almost-employer introduces me to the guests. “…And this is [the atavist]. Captain [atavist], actually…” I feel dangerously good about myself. I do my best to be on my game, but I’m muddling all the details. I put the boarding ladder in the wrong spot. I tie the boat off improperly. I stare at the daughter’s legs. I’m not fooling anyone.
We depart.
The weather here was heavenly tonight. We’re just now coming into the few weeks in Maine that make life worth living. Autumn. When the sun is pleasantly warm but not hot; when the wind is pleasantly crisp but not cold. It was a perfect evening for pleasure sailing- the wind was light and the seals and porpoises were out playing.
We tack around the bay; the real captain pointing out ledges I’ll need to avoid should I ever take command. I have a wandering and very enjoyable conversation with the various passengers. The lovely daughter races little sailboats at the yacht club back home (she probably knows more about boats than I do…), and is getting ready to start a new school, in which she’ll be going to sea on a tall ship. The brother is quiet; says he digs sports. The father and I chat about Alaska and bears and fishing and blowing up dead whales. The mother follows our conversation, and the younger daughter chats with her sister, taking their turns posing for pictures. I drop lots of nautical words into conversation, because I’m such an expert. Smiles all around. I like these people.
We head back into the harbor as the sunset dips behind the hills of the park.
The captain orders me hold her into the wind while he drops the sails. I pretend I know what that means. He orders me to start the engine. I don’t know how. He orders me to motor over there. I don’t know how to put her in gear. My steering is lubberly. The captain is shockingly patient, but the rouse is up for me. Now we all know I’m faking.
It’s rapidly getting darker. Land is getting closer. Goodness, that harbor is crowded…
The coast guard station is at the mouth of the harbor. I don’t look that way.
The captain orders me to dock the boat. I try not to shit my pants.
This is a maneuver I’ve never attempted before, and he knows it (that whole honesty thing…). I intend to surprise everyone and make a perfect landing. I accomplish exactly half of those goals.
I get us lined up with the dock. No one seems worried (fools!). I feel the wind off my port quarter, so I leave some space for the wind to blow me gently into place. The wind fails to uphold it’s end of this bargain. The boat settles awkwardly in front of the dock, but about 10 feet away. Attempt 1: Fail.
Everyone is still good natured, but eyebrows are raised. Not in alarm, but in curiosity. Will the plucky rookie be able to make this happen? Take 2: fail.
I’m more than a bit embarrassed. And frustrated. I start swearing in Greek.
…if you’ve been reading these stories, you know by now that things never get better when I get frustrated. Tonight is no exception.
The captain, still being bizarrely calm and friendly and ok with all this, starts trying to help. “Back her out. Cut the wheel this way. More throttle. Reverse. More throttle. Neutral. Less throttle. Cut the wheel that way. Take 3: fail. The worst yet. Now we’re sitting at a funny angle to the dock.
This dock, I should take the time to mention, apparently belongs to a lobster co-op of some kind. They have a small shack sitting on the float; where they house their scales and pumps and log books and other odds and ends. It has a window on one wall, facing the dock where I’m trying (rather unsuccessfully) to tie up. It has a window. For the time being.
A bowsprit, for my non-sailing readers, is a long narrow bit that sticks off the front of the boat, which allows you to hang more sails out front, and looks totally cool. But the important part here is that it sticks off the front of the boat. Like a narwhal tusk, only it’s 20 feet long and probably a good deal more expensive.
So there’s a shack with a window. And a ship with a long, pokey bit on it’s face. And a hapless fool at the helm, waiting to introduce them.
There’s also a restaurant full of people watching. Did I mention that? Because an audience is always helpful at moments like this.
“turn the wheel.”
“…no- the other way.”
I wind the wheel all the way towards me. Nothing happens. I spin it all the way the other direction. Still nothing.
“…”
The guests are patiently waiting this out. The people in the restaurant crack lobsters and slurp spaghetti and watch my little show with mild interest.
I remember feeling helpless. And muddled. We’re drifting away from the dock. Goddamned boat drives nothing like a truck. My mind starts wandering. (y’know- because this is a good time for that.) Perhaps this really was a bad idea. I kindof have to pee. I wonder if I’ll get us landed in time… Good lord, the redhead is smiling at me…
“more throttle.”
We are now aiming at the shack. Concentrating on the engines, I forget that there is such a thing as a bowsprit.
The next bit is kindof fuzzy for me; though it only happened a few hours ago.
I remember the captain saying something to the effect of “perhaps I should take over” as he came to the helm to do so. He had no more than laid his hand to the wheel when it happened.
It wasn’t a loud sound, really; not even all too unpleasant to the ear. Boat-to-shed crashes don’t sound like car crashes. They sound like they happen in slow motion. And… they kindof do. You’re crashing, but… slowly, and with a strange sort of grace. You have time to stop and think about it. People have time to let other people know you’re crashing, so they can watch, too. It takes all damned day for a bowsprit to go through a plate glass window. You can hear it rearranging the contents of the shed as it goes, mixing in bits of broken glass nice and evenly. It would almost be a pleasant sound, if your blood wasn’t busy turning to ice water.
We are now stopped. I have just parked a 33 foot boat inside of a 5 foot shed. A shed which is, by the way, more or less on land. A shed which no longer has a window.
I stand alone in front of the helm, contemplating running away. I’d have to run down the bowsprit, over the shed, and through the restaurant, where a crowd has gathered to get a better view of my latest handiwork. Can’t go that way. I consider swimming. The lobster men are watching from their boats. There is no escape.
We are all making faces. I, in a historic first, did an actual facepalm. The lovely redhead is still looking at me. She is no longer smiling.
We all take turns blinking at each other. I try to think of something to say. More glass clatters out of the window, instead. I close my mouth, which had apparently been hanging open for some time.
The father steps up beside me and says -with a straight face- “Man- you did that just right…” I hang my head.
“…No- really. Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if there hadn’t been a window there? You’d have carried the shack right off the wharf. Or snapped the bowsprit off. You handled that really well…” He nods and pats me on the back.
It took a minute for me to process what he had said. He was absolutely right. It’s these moments in which I am reminded why I’m religious. I couldn’t have hit that window if I had aimed for it. Not in a million years. But I wasn’t about to tell him that. I said my prayers silently.
Now, in the grand scheme of things, a window is a small thing. Obviously. Nobody died, nothing sank, and I didn’t have to run away. But in my mind, it was the principle of the thing that was so outrageous. I had just used an 80,000 dollar antique wooden sailboat as a wrecking ball to rough up a 400 dollar shed. With passengers on board. With people watching. During what was, for all intents and purposes, a job interview. I assumed that was… well… out the window, if you’ll pardon the pun. So you can imagine my shock when the captain asked me to back her out of the slip and head to the mooring. He was totally cool about it. So were the clients. Everyone kindof laughed it off. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never did. The captain even told me I could come back when I was able. I was stunned.
Maybe I can make a career of this, after all. I hear they’re always hiring Italian cruise ship captains…
…Anyone up for a sail?
The Wandering Atavist 