Superior Tattoo At Tattoo Edge

Sailing with Pride

Jane Meneely

I noticed that I fainted. Watching my only son of the rigging to climb aboard the Pride of Baltimore II as we sailed for Norfolk was so overwhelming, I was afraid Iâ € ™ d like a faint B-movie diva, and struck the deck hard. And if that happens, my son would be humiliated, be no doubt scarred for life. But that was a test for both of us. I looked away as Stewart darted the rigging, as the occupying furl the main course. And I didnâ € ™ t weak.

We were headed south Full Tilt, while in the hope of any other ship in the fleet saver the Great Schooner Race Chesapeake Bay last October whip. Sixteen-year-old Stewart had reluctantly agreed to participate in what I dream about his age only could aboutâ € "there is no Pride of Baltimore was then. But hea € ™ d get the grumps and bent with a will to pleasure beholdâ € "was good, except when he ran up the mast. You see, Iâ € ™ m deadly fear of heights. Deathly Hallows, knee knockingly fear of heights. Just look at the masthead of a ship like the "Pride makes me crazy. God forbid that I look up and see how it my baby hea € ™ s perched leaning against a corner lamppost. Anyway, I said to myself, peering studiously at the compass in front of me and holds my hands on his helmet. For this reason, Iâ € ™ d wanted him to come.

When Stewart was born, his father and I had promised him to Jan Miles, one of the Prideâ € ™ s co-captains and a friend of mine from high school days. added Jan was him for a year, said Weâ € ™ d, before he goes to college. Of course, Stewart grew up to hate everything the traditional high vessels. He liked the mechanical advantage of winds, for a start, and he flourished in the exhaust fumes and noise of engines. Sailing on the Pride of Baltimore, he announced as a high school graduation approached, it was for the birds. I tried to convince her that we signed on board the Pride of the Great Schooner Race, the opportunity of his life was, but he didnâ € ™ t believe me. He said hea € ™ d rather go to school, the lack of his calculus Test would be an unspeakable need to consider what was his father and I pay for teaching it to say, even criminal, that he was a few days (IA € ™ ll admit, this last argument was pretty convincing to miss). But I played the Mom card and ordered him anyway. It was only four days, not a whole year, I said, and if he really liked didnâ € ™ t be that would be the end. He allowed the rat race like everyone else to join.

And so the father (Who gets seasick was shameful, and therefore begged off) he fell on the deck of the Pride of Baltimore way too early on the morning of the race. And Stewart and spit and sputtered pyrogenic, and generally poisons the air around him: a childâ € ™ s Revenge, masterfully delivered (no sissy, he). And I wondered if in fact Iâ € ™ d made a mistake in â € € œforcingâ him to come along.

So began our journey together.

My journey had actually started on the day before, on Wednesday afternoon. Probably half the fun of the schooner race is the Parade of Sail and the dock party in Baltimore, I came in time to board the Pride climb with the full quota of AG Edwards Baltimore office, Prideâ € ™ s guests for the parade. (The Pride offices in Baltimoreâ € ™ s World Trade Center and had been forgotten were flooded by Hurricane Isabel. AG Edwards, a financial consulting firm had mercifully temporary office space offered, and now the ship was to say thank you.)

Unfortunately the wind was stormy, so that the Parade of Sail was canceled. But Captain January set out anyway. After all, a ship like the Pride of wind is built. Whitecaps sparkled on the Inner Harbor. A bright as obliquely from behind Fort McHenry. The sky was a deep cobalt blue, with only one or two smudge of clouds. We drove past Fells Point and the crew fought the shipâ € ™ s gun in the gun port. â € œFire in the hole! â € We plugged our ears like a geyser of flame and sparks from what is, literally, shot a hole in the rear end of the gun. Then Kaboom! Wea € ™ d only one shot in the spirit of Massachusettsâ € ™ s set bowa € "figuratively, of course. She was the Prideâ € ™ s main competition in this race and take Shea € ™ d note.

With such a breeze, the boat had no sail to move through the water. The Wind was abeam full bore when we slipped on the green ramparts of Fort McHenry. I looked behind me and tried to imagine Baltimoreâ € ™ s port without the tall buildings without the yards along the shore below the fort. I tried the time in the Fort McHenry harborâ € ™ s had a gate and effective control of shipping to and from Patapsco River. If only a little blurry and fuzzy squint at things, I was able to increase the slope of the District again in a wharf Hill of the small houses where the workers lived on the Fells Point shipyards. What a view they must have had their dormers.

The crew the jib was set and it was enough to drag us to the Key Bridge. A tanker was out of the bay, and the tug Mary Krause near idled in the channel. Now that we were on the bridge and looking back to Baltimore, the city seemed smaller, more with my imagination scale. Steeples poked into the sky. The downtown skyscrapers were hidden.

Our afternoon did sail, the crew of the party took place under Bohagerâ € ™ s huge canopy in Fells Point. A crowd of schooner crew, captains, support staff, significant others and hungry sorted wrong had gathered here to eat large amounts of food and drink vast quantities of beer. To access, I was told, I had on my official Schooner Race shirt, a long-sleeved affair with a schooner John Barber to wear scene printed on the front. It was cold enough but that I wore a sweatshirt over it, so come by Bohagerâ € ™ s door, I was told to peel. Mind you, I hadnâ € ™ t had a lot of Beer € still enormous or otherwise, Buta € transported back "to the days of my wayward youthâ" I felt very flattered. It was a long time since you had asked me to peel, and I say. It was like cardedâ € "at my age (a squinch past 50), always a compliment. If turned out, she just said that I lift up my sweatshirt, so that they could review the T-shirt had. Well, you take, what you can get.

Sidling up to the bar, I ran into Bill Oliver, as soon as a partner in the infamous China Sea Marine Trading Company, formerly of Fells Point (where the Fells Point Maritime Museum is now), and now Brauer Olivera € ™ s Ale and owner of the Wharf Rat pub. Not surprisingly, the largest journal tapped a keg behind the bar in its special Ironman Pale Ale. This was a good thing because Olivera € ™ s Ale is like motherâ € ™ s milk. Youâ € ™ ve just Gotta Have It, to live right. And tonight it was asking for the free-flowing. It took me a while to get my first swallowâ € "I wasnâ € ™ t the only one in line.

Then I was singing on stage with Shipâ € ™ s Company chanteyman Jim Rockwell (sea-music, of course) and took the evening. More music, more food. And, finally broke on the crowd and we went to Lane briggsae € ™ s tugantine, Norfolk Rebel, on Broad Street Pier and sang some more. Much more. Then came the sun rises and we staggered back to our boats, some sleep to get it off, to be greeted by some surly teenage sons.

Breakfast This morning was a simple meal of strawberries and bagels. Laura Morrissey, the cook, was already on, and Iâ € ™ d offered his help in the galley. One of my Fantasies is to be great cook on board a ship. I wouldnâ € ™ t mind, a sailor, but carry on falling and braces and sheets in the early hours of the morning, could get boring. And the truth be known, I could € ™ t, since € ™ t able to climb the rigging. The Heights thing. Cooks, to know on the other side â € € œnormalâ hours and Arena € ™ t expected to go on deck to climb it work unless they particularly want to. At least thatâ € ™ s the drill aboard the Pride to Laura, who now was to monitor me as I put away food and generally made myself useful. I have tried so far away from Stewart as to remain possible. Let it fester.

Stewart and I werenâ € ™ t the only guests on board. The Pride holds several guest cabins open for Thems are willing to pony for the privilege of sailing the ship from here thereâ € "Generally speaking, the short legs are paying between two ports of call on the Prideâ € ™ s busy agenda. The price of the guest ticket for accommodation and Food and Chuck a little in the boatâ € ™ s operating cash. In return, the guests are expected to join the team and from their cigarette butts, before the mast. Fun, eh? For the schooner race, Stewart and I were joined by John MacIver and MacIver Mac (fast friends, but no relation), and Ron Shuri and John Menocal. All of them had sailed the Pride in the schooner races before. Nothing, she said. Glutton for punishment, I thought.

As the proud head from the starting line, "Laura said, I could make the soup for lunch. Nothing to it! They had what I needed for the five-finger stew: one ingredient, and a cup of liquid for each digit. In this case, a carrot, an onion, a celery, a bay leaf, one cup of lentils and five cups of water. Saute the dry ingredients for a few minutes before adding the water, then. . . . Oops, I didnâ € ™ t get it started early enough, it was a bit tough at eight bells. (Way to go, Mom.) But the team was very much inclined € "that the werenâ € ™ t told me, anyway. They made their own bread, adding diplomatically that under cooked was generally better than burnt, and it would make the effort to save Laura, soup tomorrow.

I closed the harbor to see me, with Stewart, the boat to work. Even if I was cookâ € ™ s helper, and I wanted to work the deck, if I could. Laura gave me a look alarmed. Itâ € ™ sa slippery slope, she said. Help them once theyâ € ™ ll come to expect. But I reminded her that I was here for the fun and the experience I wanted so help sometimes. Weâ € ™ ll see, "she said menacingly. Stewartâ € ™ s peevishness had washed fortunately, and he was Jumping into the battle, drawing in lines and generally looking lively. I found it much easier to stay out of the way and watch, especially after I tore half of my fingers Skidding to a stubborn case. But alas, Laura was right. I was soon perceived as one of the grunts and focus on learning the ropes with the rest of the â € œguests.â € I could hear Captain Jan chuckle out of control.

It was like this: Three or four of us picked up a line about half the thickness of my wrist. If the pilot (or whoever) Get cried, we got them all. Or maybe we would have screamed haul us get a rhythm. Or perhaps no one cried and we just drag damn anyway well drawn. For all we were worth. And if we thought Weâ € ™ d obtaining enough shouted, dragging the officer again, and we moved again damn good. And so on, until someone said, â € œThatâ € ™ s good, â € and we could make the line fast. I had blisters before we even sail damn up. Before my nervous system could even register the message, ripped open the blisters and remove all remaining surface of the skin removed. I was hurting a puppy. (Stewart's Sailing Gloves, smarty-pants had brought.)

It dawned on me that this is not going to be a Sunday sail. The Pride actually needed could exert every muscle of the team. There was a fresh wind, and it was on the nose of Norfolk. We want to tack off the start line, then burned the Bay. So it happened all Hands on deck, as in I like to sing the songs. And just because I dug a big hole in my index finger to signify the get-go didnâ € ™ t, I could Weenie out. January knew me too well. Cookâ € ™ s helper, hah! I shook my wound with a moleskin donut and wrapped it with black electrical tape. My black badge of Courage. I was a real sailor now. It was like a tattoo. If only Iâ € ™ d had a knife strapped to your belt.

I went down to wash the pots and pans in the short stints between pens, but I ran on deck at the â € œReady About! â € transported on routes. And I remembered that Iâ € ™ d survive the rigors of birth twice, so a little blister Dinky wasnâ € ™ t I would be down. Furthermore, as long it might be able to get to us in Norfolk? Were We There Yet? The warning went gun offa € "five minutes before startâ €" and broke all hell broke loose on board the Pride.

Iâ € ™ ve Names Jan Miles for most of my life. In fact, he was my first crush. I met him when we were both in high school. Hea € ™ d just returned from his first great ocean voyageâ € "to Tierra del Fuego and Backa €" He wore and the swell of the ocean as a sea chest across the shoulders. My mother said that a girl could go anywhere with Jan and I'm the first Tierra del Fuego, then. . .

My crush walked the path of Clearasil, but Jan went to the crew and the captain of some of the most beautiful tall ships in America. Hea € ™ s an the laid-back people who could ever know. Years of sailing Tall Ships has honed his instincts and built a rock solid confidence. But out there at the beginning of the schooner Race was a change with my gentle friend. If this warning gun fired and pirouetted all the schooners into position, his eyes blazed, his flushed cheeks, and he was to concentrate on the task at hand. â € œAll right, you sons of whores get that in Fock! â € he yelled (HEA € ™ sa great guy, and he can always below). We hopped on sons of whores, trying with all our mighta € "which in this case wasnâ t Quite enoughâ € ™ € "that Fock get in. And Captain January noted our efforts and welcome them as we a bunch of lily-livered clumps were lardâ € "or something like effecta €" and we have our damnedest to show him that we werenâ € ™ with God t. And so it went flying the pride on the start line and the race began with the last shot of the launch. This was no sedate affair around the buoys. This race would be on the windward leg (Arena € ™ t won it all?), but with the wind screaming from the south, it would be a long upwind leg. Captain January and suggested that This pack of corrugated prunes would come in better shape and with the program. Which meant more in the flashing Fock, if the master said, â € œin.â € or different. In the evaluation, we would be if the British had been on our tail instead of the Spirit of Massachusetts, Weâ € ™ d have been toast. But we have better, and by the seventh or eighth tack, Weâ € ™ d much better now, and the mild-mannered Miles came back in January and we made good time. At least at this Point is werenâ € ™ t other savers in the vicinity, so that competition wasnâ € ™ t exactly lapping our bow waves. And the Spirit of Massachusetts had fallen behind.

Itâ € ™ s hard work, a topsail schooner tacking. At the moment, the Western Shore runs from the mouth Choptank River, we had eight sails: the jib topsail, jib, fore-staysail, jib, topsail fore topgallant, main sail and main gaff-topsail. And they all needed some kind of major adjustments to each Tacka € "releasing curve, in sheets, is slacking braces, suspenders . Tighten The only thing we have to sail abuse didnâ € ™ t been the main sail, the mainsail attached as any decent and obedient behave. The only sails that werenâ € ™ t been to the studding sails (stunsails) and the ring tail. But stay tuned. At that moment one of the studding Sailing is checked and was patched and ready for rigging in the event the wind came and we could pay off some. The ring tail, I was told, wasnâ € ™ t worth the effort. Too much work for too little oomph. Oomph and counted for a lot in this race.

The night came with eyes winking, nodding, fawning like a sailor just not sure where they go. The sun burned down, let a hint of color in the crease between land and water. The stars turned against the darkness of the sky. No moon yet. Stewart and I sat on the deck-house camaraderie, worked all breathed a sigh of Hea € ™ d The Kinks out of his system and was ready to recognize I was a fellow traveler. (This pretty cool, Mom is.) I showed him how Polaris can find the North Star, and we monitor our progress journey through the rotation of the other stars around him, and we check our progress down the Bay from the way aft hung. The half moon rose like a golden whaleâ € ™ s eye, down the Leviathan sky. We were moving along at eight knots, creaming through the water. There was no phosphorus, but the bow waves away spilled milk, and paved the Moonlight Bay with golden tiles leading east. It was dark on the deck. Even in the light of the moon, it was difficult to see under your feet. It was easy to Ride on lines and combat that are relatively benign in daylight, but at night was like rambunctious puppies nipping at our heels. At midnight, Stewart and I were Watch out and the boat had slipped just below the Patuxent River.

We were awakened at 5:30 am clock to get up to the studding sails. The wind had subsided, and we were ghosting along at a whisper. Two of the crew were already on the track court set the studding sails Booma € "running it from where it is usually against the frame. Moonlight streamed behind them, silhouetting her in a golden shimmer. The studding sails set on the foredeck, someone had already conducted from the bottom up. We manipulated the case and the sheets and raised the SPAR to the Windward Rah. Set sail, we could go back to our bunks. It was almost 7 am now, and on Friday morning was easing up on one elbow with a smudge of cheap rouge smeared cheeks. You, as I was, too long at the fair. Laura was, though, so I hurriedly brushed my teeth, washed my face, took out of my wool underwear smeared on a further layer of deodorant and grabbed a cup Coffee.

We were back on deck at 8 clock and after came the studding Saila € "helped gravity. And the morning came to the Chesapeake. We could see, Gwynnâ € ™ s Iceland and Wolf Trap Light that brought us well below the Potomac. And there was no wind to speak. The slowdown in the morning had us strolling along with a lot of time, look around and SEEA € "No one had we so lonely on this as Bay Wolf Trap.

The finish was an imaginary line extending east of Thimble Shoal. The wind had picked up and Jan gave me this, rudder to take the boat across. I had the honor. I felt the boat rolling in my hands. The rudder was surprising. When the boat was balanced, she sailed a straight line, and for a moment or two I thought that Jan had the autopilot on and only pretended to give me the wheel. They differ didnâ € ™ t, of course, to a hair from her compass. But we have told over the finish line and Jan take me off and I stayed on the helmet, As we tacked and started to work our way west. Full and through, said in January they just sail. And I could feel the wind on my cheek and looked at the Sails, and I turned the wheel and the boat responds. To me! It doesnâ € ™ t get better than this. And then Stewart went something furl the rigging and I thought I would faint.

The race was over, and Jan has some quick calculations. At 21:20 hours we drove a total of 139 nautical miles with an average speed 6,53 knots on a rhumb line of 127 miles. We carried 12 long tons per person. (No wonder I was stiff.) We finished at 10:59:58 First in class. The Spirit of Massachusetts Since there was € ™ t touch us.

Stewart was back on deck, and I asked him if sailing Tall Ships could be in his future. No way, Mom. Yes, hea € ™ d remind the sail, as long as he lives. But think about it: HEA € ™ s in every minute of his waking life spent thus said to invent his Road to Easy Street. Without getting out of bed, he can turn his bedroom light switch on his radio, adjust the window fan, anything close to his door, with smart labor-saving devices of his own design. He understands the concept of mechanical advantage. Sail a traditional sailing without wind? Why?

He is my son, with whom I am well pleased, and I told him. When he grows up (sometime next week) hea € ™ ll build engines for fast cars, or perhaps engineer a breakthrough for mainstream hydrogen fuel cell. His house is with buttons and switches that make things open to be wired to close on or off. Exertion of minimum effort maximum effect, he will change. If it werenâ € ™ t for brains as he did, sailing Weâ € ™ d all high shipsâ € "and not for the fun of it. Meanwhile, we led the singing for the party: suckling pig, awards to more. Then, to study home Calculus.

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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