Tag: Sailing

I Don’t Have A Title Yet…Part 4

If you have any ideas for a title to this latest story let me know through the comments…thanks.

 

I walked back to G dock down to G35, and waited alone, contemplating as to my near and future prospects in this marine environment, an environment that was entirely foreign to me. Why on earth did they ask me to do this I thought. I know diddly-squat about sailboats. I don’t know Nigel at all, what he looked like, sounded like or thought like. Nothing in common I would think between the two of us.  And where the hell was he? He knew when I was arriving this day, this hour, this time. Not a great impression on me for sure. Of course my sister and brother in law had already left and were currently in Japan I would have thought. But no note no letter just some vague instruction as to where I should go on landing.

“You must be John”

A voice, a Brit voice. behind me. I turned, shielded my eyes somewhat and there coming down the dock, about 10 feet away, was this bronze looking but scruffy looking dude coming toward me.

“Nigel?” I queried.

“Yup, in the flesh.”

He was carying a small bag, groceries I imagined, but no groceries, some beer, a six pack of Oly’s and a bottle of scotch. We shook hands.

Nigel was scruffily dressed in faded knee length brown, I think, shorts cinched at the waist by a length of hemp.  I can say this because his short sleeved, rust coloured shirt was unbuttoned, open at the front exposing a hairy chest that was pidgeon like, with its tail flapping somewhat in the late afternoon breeze. He was wearing dark blue flip-flops that flip and flopped with every step. He walked right by me, climbed onto Krofune, jumped into the cockpit, put his things down then opened the hatch to the gangway and cabin below.

“C’mon onboard.” he said

I complied and shyly looked into the cabin below. I could see Nigel from his backside placing his bag onto the table top on the starboard side of the interior.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck and more fuck, for fuck’s sake. he yelled at the bulkheads. I left the god damned hatch closed. It’s a bloody fucking sauna in here.” as only a Brit could say, in understated understatements.

You don’t fuckin say I thought. Sure enough it was hot, and not just from the stale air under the cabin sole.  In the next breath, Nigel turned, looked at me sheepishly, apologized for his outburst, grinned, and then giggled somewhat nervously and somewhat like an English school girl revealing a mouthful of yellow stained and ancient eye teeth and molars.

“Got to keep that forward hatch ajar and this hatch vent opened for cross circulation. Or it can get as hot as Hades in here in this heat.”  He paused. “Here, have a beer?”

“Thanks.”

“We’ll have her up there in the cockpit.  Wear this hat. You’ll need it until you get used to this heat.” Never heard of a beer referred to as a her!

“It’s really camel piss this liquid shit. But its cold.”

Oly’s, short for Olympia Beer, a Pacific Northwest favourite, along with Rainier Beer. Hawaii has to import everything.

We sat there in uncomfortable silence as Nigel didn’t know what to make of me and me of him. He took a huge slug from his can, looked at me, sighed, depressingly like, looked around at the surroundings.

A classic song by a classic lass

SJ……Out

I Don’t Have a Title Yet…Part 2

If any of you have an idea for a title to this new story I am developing, let me know in the comments.

Part 1 was yesterday’s post.

 

“Hello.” What does one say when one comes calling at a sailboat? ”

“Ahoy there?” That sounds too cartoonish, like Popeye to Olive Oil.

“Anyone home? Onboard?” Nigel?? I knew his name.

Nothing. Silence except for a slight clanking sound coming from a loose halyard somewhere on some boat somewhere in the harbour and the relentless caw of the seagulls. Nothing. I was beginning to sweat in the mid afternoon sun. There was no breeze to speak of, no cool northeast trade-wind that I had read and heard so so much about.

It was bright, blindingly so. The same acuity sensation one gets when exiting a theatre on a hot summer’s afternoon. I made a note to myself to get shades as soon as possible.

Dropping my kit bag into Krofuni’s cockpit I decide to have a look at what will be my home for the next few months, my foreseeable future. From the perspective of the G35 finger float, on which Krofuni was tied, I took a good look at her from end to end or stem (bow) to stern. She was, in the vernacular, a sloop rig. That is she was equipped with a foresail, or a sail properly positioned when raised ahead of the mast, then a mainsail, the main propulsion, providing the primary source of horsepower for the boat to move through the water. That sail’s foot or bottom portion of the traingular shape was attached to a boom, along a track that went from the mast to an end cleat, of a thingamajig contraption on the end portion of the boom. The boom itself was connected to the mast via a universal joint such that the boom could move from side to side and up and down. A topping lift, or a line attacked to the end of the boom then running up to the top of the mast, parallel to the backstay, or metal line that was connected to the top of the mast and a chainplate at the transom or stern, rear end of the boat, held the boom horizontal, about 6 feet off the deck of Krofune’s cockpit. The forward, or leading edge of the mainsail, the luff, was down as was the trailing edge, of the mainsail, or the leech, stuffed in a seamanlike folds to the boom and protected from the sun with a mainsail cover.

Her decks were wide enough to manoeuvre, to work the sails. Painted a sun bleached dull yellow with a non skid of flecked shells, hard on bare soles but stiff and skiff free to provide non slip protection when operating forward and outside the combed protection of the cockpit.. Up in the bow, in the confines of the pulpit, were a few sail bags secured to the forestay, ready to go, to hoist as they say with only their hanks showing in a step like fashion. Lines emerged out of those bags leading aft outside of all the standing rigging like sinewy snakes meandering in unison back toward the winches. Of course I can say this now, decsribe Krofuni as I am looking back on this, but at the time I didn’t have a clue, or a withering breadth of knowledge of the nautical world.

No sign of life, The cockpit was very large for a sailboat of this size. Deep and narrow with combed benches port and stsbd. The engine controls were abutted up against the stbd side combing in the after section of the cockpit while a manually operated “gusher” pump was situated on its forward bulkhead. Turns out that is was a gusher pump having an attached steel handle topped with what resembled an eight ball. For leverage I guess. I would become very familiar with this piece of kit in due course.

The cockpit went as far back as it footprint would allow ending at a narrow covered transom. The transom, or stern section, had a protective white railing attached, not robust enough to save one from hurling overboard but more for utility and functionality as cordage, various sized red and black “Scotsmen” floats were attached. Some 5 gallon buckets, whisker poles, fishing poles were also in situ as if this part of Krofuni was a catch-all for the rest of the boat. Krofuni’s was squared off at the rear by a stern that dropped to the vertical for about a foot then angled itself forward at about a forty five degree angle toward the waterline. The stern’s aspect gave Krofuni an air of sleekness, fine lines and speed. An illusion as it would turn out. Of course it was impossible to see how the bottom faired as the deep bluish green shades of surface water obscured visibility other than a few inches below the boot topping. The boot topping, that narrow 4 inch wide black painted strip that followed the waterline of Krofuni from bow to stern and separated her from the living and the dead. It provided an aspect that seemed to frame Krofuni synergistically.

The hatch to the gangway was locked so I couldn’t go below. This was taboo of course without prior permission, no matter that I was deemed crew. If you want to get off on the wrong foot with any skipper or make a poor first impression just climb aboard without permission to come aboard. This I knew

I threw my kitbag into the cockpit and left it there. I wasn’t worried about somebody stealing it for there was nothing of value in there except for a 35mm camera, which I had with me, on me. No, if someone wanted my stinky stuff they were welcomed to it. I then proceeded to explore my surroundings. “G” dock, Krofuni’s main street was very long with finger floats abutting both sides of the main dock. Probably up to 100 boats on this dock alone. And “G” was followed by “H” and “J”, no “I” apparently, preceded by “A” through “F”. Unbelievable!  An entirely different world than what I had been used to or even imagined: somewhat of a parallel universe to the tourist district and peons of the Waikiki district of Oahu.

This song was a huge hit in Hawaii in those days – Jessica by the Allman Brothers.

Day 25: Thiviers to Sorges

Thiviers is quite the place. Coming into town on the road it does not look that interesting. But get to the church via the big hill – is there any other kind – and one enters another era. Yes the centre ville is anchored by the eglise and a  small but beautiful square buttressed by quaint streets alleyways and paths. And no cobblestones, which are awful on the feet, especially in heels – or so they tell me.

For once the ville’s core is vibrant with shoppers and looky louies like moi. I sat at a corner cafe and had 3 grande cafes. It was grand. In some cases you have to be careful as a grande cafe means a large cup but with a petite dose of cafe as in demi-tasse.

Interesting that a woman pilgrim stayed at the shelter with me. Her name was Bridgitte and she came from Lyon. Her family was in the wine business. And she travelled alone. That took guts. Her English was as good as my French so we got along just fine. We chatted at dinner for about 2 hours. She and a girlfriend had backpacked in America for almost a year. Visited California, the east coast and even Quebec – in January and February- brrrrrr. She was headed for Limoge though. In her 50,s I would say. Great.

I left Thiviers about 0630 am. As I was heading out of town they were setting up for the village market. In some respects I wish I could have stayed.

I arrived at Sorges around 10. The Pelerins were all full, which confuses me as I haven,t met any other pilgrims for awhile. And again what frustrates one to no end is the lack of response from these sites. They want a day’s notice but never answer your emails and ignore your phone calls. A waste of time. I got here and it started to rain so I booked into an Auberge. I can afford to treat myself once in awhile. Again I had to laugh at the French mileage markers. At Thivier the road sign said Perigeux 37 kilometers. I then did 10 kilometers and the road sign said Perigeux, 33 kilometers. So do not trust French distance road markers. The datums are much more accurate.

Sorges is the truffle ( Truffe ) capital of the world or so they say! I did see a boar cross the road earlier this morning so perhaps they are right about Sorges.

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Why do this? Someone asked. Why this walk, this pilgrimage, this Camino? I don’t have an answer for that question. People do this for a variety of reasons: religious, spiritual, forgiveness, a life crisis, physical challenge, atonement, absolution, penance, clear the head or out of sheer boredom. Everyone you meet here will have an answer. Some will not answer you at all, saying it comes from the heart, from within, while others will tell you their life story when asked about their mtivation behind this excursion. For me? None of the above really. My good friend Ted who did the Camino a few years ago tweaked my interest in it. Ted lost his wife quite awhile ago to cancer as well. But unlike my wife his wife died a lot younger than Marijke did. I can’t speak for Ted but for me this journey has provided me with a distraction from the grief. A focus in which to see if life really is worth continuing. From what I have seen and experienced so far there is beauty all around us with a spirit of giving, a selflessness that deserves our attention and our recognition that life really is worth living to the fullest that one can possibly achieve.

I find that when I am alone with thought, walking and attuned to my surroundings, experiencing an “ah ha “ moment or some epiphany of recognition, that I can reach a level of happiness, of sheer joy and acknowledgement that there has to be some presence, spiritual or otherwise, watching over us, protecting us and guiding us through this journey.  We are not alone. There has been only one other time in my life when I have experienced a similar high. And that was when I was sailing. At the age of 22 / 23 I had the fortunate opportuniity to sail to the island of Saipan from Honolulu Hawaii. As you can imagine, alone at night, with nothing but the stars to accompany you and the dancing, glittering phosphorescence of the sea for entertainment that your mind wanders with a myriad of thought. Things become clearer, enlightened and not complicated by the day to day nuances, distractions of living. One is at once at peace with oneself and with the world at large. One is happy. And that is how I feel right now with this walk, each and every day.

Like Michel and Yannick I was confused about my life’s direction when I was sailing. But I was fortunate to have had a mentor in Mr Ted Culp. I met Ted and his wife in the sailing community at Waikiki. He was a lot older than me at 49 years but he treated me as an equal and like his son. There were many hot Hawaiian afternoon get togethers over some Oly,s where he would share his life’s experiences with me. As a US Navy WW 2 veteran he had much to share. Ted convinced me to consider a Navy career once I had sown my restless ways.

Ted gave a great deal of himself to others. He volunteered his time for over 5 years at St Jude’s Hospital for Children in Memphis Tennessee. Ted was from the Bremerton Washington area. He passed on in May 2011 at the age of 87. Ted would have been able to see the logic in a Camino. He died 37 years after I joined the Royal Canadian Navy. And it pisses me off when people apologize to me for thinking I may be an American after finding out I am a Canadian. Some of the best people I have ever met are Americans.

Ted is the inspiration for the Ted Culp character in my book KUROFUNE: The Black Ships. I was very fortunate to have met Ted and Laverne. I can only hope that Michel and Yannick have a similar experience as I had and sort out their own lives. I am sure they will.

This song is a reflection of an easier time in my own life:

 

https://youtu.be/a9PpsPZ_4Gk

The Kinks were one of the most under-rated band ever.