Tall ship diaries: Part two
by Heather Holbrook

As I fall asleep in my bunk under the moon’s watch, I dream of waves. Little lappers that turn to big glassy rolls crashing on a grainy beach. Not South Carolina waves, not Maine waves; more like California waves. Over and over. Bigger and bigger.

Still moored to the dock in Charleston harbor, the continuous movement of schooner Virginia throughout the night must have had something to do with my dream. Even asleep I clung to my mattress or wedged my heels into the wooden rail at the foot of my bunk as to avoid flopping like a flounder to the sole of the boat. I didn’t want to embarrass myself so soon into my adventure at sea on this re-creation of a 1917 Pilot Schooner ready to set sail for her home port in Norfolk.

First light Monday, May 19, 05:45 I meet Captain Andy Reay-Ellers, an extremely affable man with quick wit and silver beard; he looks as if he came straight off the page of a story book. As much as I would have enjoyed asking all him about his years at sea, this is not a coffee shop where one can sit back and chew the fat, but a working vessel in motion. Winds are shifting! Orders are given! Rough logs are dutifully recorded in notebooks and the helm is tended!

Downtime is either spent in your bunk or carefully standing near enough to speak with, but certainly out of the way of, the crew on active watch. Being a very green Guest Crew member, I am acutely aware of being a little in the way all the time. But the crew is very generous about it. They are Kenny Quesenberry, Chief Mate; Jimmy Narin, Intern/Deckhand; Beth Deal, AB/Deckhand; Steven Porco, AB/ Engineer; Autumn Taphorn, Intern/ Deckhand; Chelsie Carver, Tracy Nichols, Naomi Mathai, and Jonathan Holmes. All sea worthy, all good people. I am not the only Guest Crew aboard: there is Rosie Brooks from Columbia, Shane Kersting from Summerville and Samantha Main from Charleston. None of us have ever sailed much before, except for Shane who had been aboard a tug; basically we are all in the same boat, as it were. A smattering of tattoo ink here, a cigarette dangling there, pants rolled up mid shin to avoid deck wash. Baseball hats all around. There is much to learn about life aboard a ship. And my first lesson is to stick to the high side of the vessel to increase the chances of not falling overboard.

Once underway, part of the crew the ship around the clock. The crew divides into watches: A Watch, B Watch and C Watch. I am on B Watch with Chelsie, Steve and Naomi. Our usual 4 hour watch cycles through each 24 hour period while underway so for example we are on watch for 4 then off for 8, then back on for 4, etc. Here’s a list of what we do while on watch: Safety check- On deck and below, a multiple point routeto check around the vessel from engine room and bilge pumps to testing the security of the anchors and smelling for smoke. Bow watch- Position yourself near the bow and scan 360 the horizon for things in and on the water like vessels or flotsam and report to the mate or captain. All this while doing the involuntary hula to keep your feet under you. At the helm- Keep her on course. The enormous wheel which controls the rudder effectively steers Virginia toward our destination. My first time at the helm, the realization that I am driving this wooden beauty and that these people trust me in this untamed ocean under this endless sky is beyond description and makes me want to cry. Then there’s Standing by. When not actively performing assigned tasks on watch, one stands by. And not standing by in The Dummy Zone, a section on deck located mid-ship, seemingly open and safe to stand, where booms and blocks can unexpectedly swing. A magnet for newbies to congregate. Always alert, standing by is also a lesson in observation skills. Behind us, I observe the last image of land disappearing as we sail due East –the double tips of the Ravenel Bridge slowly fade from sight and nothing but the open sea lies before us.

After a breakfast spread of French toast, bacon, fruit, cereal, milk, yogurt and coffee prepared by Johnson & Wales trained Jonathan, a dark and handsome sailor, witty but a little surly beyond his years. I decide to steer clear of his galley. In it, the enormous diesel stove is the hidden centerpiece of Virginia and unless I’m washing my dish, I stay clear of it. Lit at 05:30 each morning, the thing is hot to the touch all day and best avoided especially as the seas pick up. All our meals are better than excellent and snacks are plentiful and available at all times. But as good as the food is, I will admit that the saltine cracker is my best friend and I share them with the likes of Naomi, a spry copper haired lass who, like the other two female crewmen, is adept at every sailor task. Even she gets woozy at sea, so I don’t feel too silly.

My seasickness is not debilitating. Just embarrassing. I do heave ho over the starboard side a few times today despite my trusty Dermo-Scop transdermal patch behind my left ear. With the constant pitch and roll it takes a while for my legs an inner ear to regulate, but eventually they do. “Next time try to throw up over the lower side of the ship,” Naomi offered politely. “And pass the crackers.”

While on deck I cling to my favorite spot portside. Here I can avoid, for the most part, seasickness, watch the action all around me and learn. Handling sail is a beautiful thing. On the down haul- the mate leading the action calls out “Two, six! Two, six!” and as she shouts ‘two’, the hands shout in unison ‘six’ and with each call out, there is a group heave on the line. This way everyone is pulling together. If it were left up to me to haul lines, we’d all still be out in the Atlantic Ocean today. I try to pitch in, but my ‘six’ is pretty ineffective.

I find a few minutes to go below to grab my camera and write a little. Things happen so quickly aboard a working ship that I find I am reduced to jotting a list of subjects in my journal with hopes of coming back later to fill in the story. Here’s a handy place for a disclaimer: As much as my heart thinks it lives in a sailor’s body, my brain has not caught up and all the true nautical terminology that belongs in sailors’ vocabularies is not at my disposal. Therefore, you the reader must pardon my clumsy use of ocean-going verbage. Some of it is correct. Most of it may not be. Doing my best.

Humbling to be sure, after a while I get the hang of it and despite the ups and downs, my first day at sea is smooth, satisfying and exhausting. I sleep happily.

Tuesday, May 19, 07:00 It’s a sunny, mild morning and up on deck I scope out my surroundings: blue water as far as the eye can see, a beautiful wooden schooner under my feet, fair winds and 6000 square feet of billowing sail above and flying fish all around. I run my hand over one of the ship’s two 500 lb anchors lashed near the bow and on it spy a bright red ladybug hunkered down on the ride of her little bug life out there in the Gulf Stream. But the other creatures I see -the pods of dolphins, wild animals who may have never ever seen a boat or a person before, race with the bow. Sometimes as many as 10 or 12 dive through the waves to come greet us. Flying fish, something of a myth in my mind, are quite real indeed. I see countless flocks of these. Schools, oh whatever. A sea turtle among the Sargasso, a lone bird lands on deck for a breather.

The human dynamic aboard is at once intimate and very polite. There is a protocol to be sure and additionally the physical proximity dictates that each sailor’s boundaries be respected. In the finest tradition of the sailor’s craft, it is understood that we be courteous and respect the rights and privacy of our shipmates. The chain of command is always honored. Orders given are repeated aloud by he who was given the order as an acknowledgement and to double check that communication is 100% accurate. Mustering at the start and finish of each watch is an essential way of maintaining that we are all on the same page on this voyage. Little errors at sea have a way of becoming magnified and cannot be risked. Almost every movement or action has a purpose and certainly a repercussion on board as everything one person does directly affects his shipmates. And further, the common good of every member of the crew is paramount to individual happiness. I like that. Sounds like a lesson we could all learn on land, right?

The sea is always listening. Maintaining a humble attitude toward the water is essential. I find this to be a fact of life as sailors, a superstitious lot by nature, will wave off talking about bad weather in general as if a fly were buzzing their heads. Do not comment on how mild the storm season was last year while standing on deck- the sea can hear you and this might give it some ideas. And don’t even bring up the hurricane season ahead. After a while I decide to stick to safe topics like politics and religion.

By 16:00 Tuesday, things take an ominous turn. On bow watch I see dark clouds ahead and get a foreboding sense that something big this way comes. No more animals are to be seen. The ions in the air change. With a course set to make it around Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, we meet with six foot seas and a steady 20 knot wind. The swells, an astonishing and indescribable color of blue, build and are accompanied by 30 knot gusts. No rain yet, but clouds now choke out the sun. A jack line runs the length of the deck some 114 feet from bow to stern and on deck we are to clip on with a safety harness. “This is a precaution. The captain likes us to wear harnesses at night,” Naomi says well before the sun is to set behind big clouds and bigger winds. “And in foul weather,” I think. And fouler it becomes.

Heading for Norfolk, we are sailing around Hatteras straight into the Graveyard of the Atlantic. This name was given to the treacherous waters along the Outer Banks of North Carolina and the Virginia coastline south of the entrance to the Chesapeake Bay at Cape Henry. In this area of the ocean, the cold waters of the Labrador Current, originating between Greenland and the northeast coast of Canada, collide with the warm waters of the Gulf Stream flowing from the Caribbean Sea. This salty cocktail mixes to create perfect conditions for untamed, furious seas. The hazards of severe weather, strong currents, and navigational challenges have caused the loss of ships and an untold number of human lives. It’s said that more than 2000 ships have sunk in these waters since people began keeping records in 1526 and although few ships wreck today, absolute attention is required when passing through Cape Hatteras waters. Gee. Had I read up on any of this ahead of time I may very well have stayed home.

Am I afraid? Not really. There is lots to keep me busy and besides if the ship goes down there are life boats and waterproof life suits equipped with emergency food rations and GPS. I find it is the fear of the unseen that gets me- what if a rogue wave washes over the stern in the dead of night? That’s what watch is all about, I soon learn. That’s why each crewman is always on alert, taking his task very seriously and doing the best job he can so when it is time for the next watch to take over, he can rest easy knowing they are doing their jobs. But I am nervous as I witness big waves lift the stern higher and higher behind Chelsie, who appears very confident, at the helm. I figure I am better off not watching these waves that take my breath away. I decide to face the rain instead. The possibility of lightning striking one of the two birch masts that tower more than 100 feet over the water is entirely plausible, potentially blasting a hole in the bottom of the hull. I ask Tracy what happens in that event. He says, “Cross your fingers.” I ask if we are able to tip over. He says that this type of schooner is designed to lie down to 110 degrees and right herself again. This for some reason makes me feel much better.

The pitch is epic. The waves, to my land lubber’s eye, are monstrous and bare teeth -white caps atop towers of crazy blue water- as they appear one after another on the port side stern quarter. One after another after another after another they come and at the bottom of each swell, these waves look twice as tall. Only a few times do the deckhands and mates standing near the helm get soaked by a big one. More often it is we greenies on the port side midship who get doused and make everyone laugh real hard.

The waves never appear angry to me, more like taunting, but they now bring with them 30 knot winds that amp up to 40 knot s with 50 knot gusts. They continue to sneak up aft and surf the 154 ton Virginia into the next one. The bow is routinely at an extreme low into the swell, the boom of the mainsail rigged to the starboard dips into the ocean every third set and drags through the swirling water making the high side of the ship even higher. You know that when the captain calls “Hold on” in his understated manner (which in seasoned sailor speak translates to “Otherwise this one might wash you into the drink”) that this is adventure on the high seas.

Captain Andy orders several sails to be struck as the winds whip us along in the storm. We are clocked going about 14 knots. This is exceptional as Virginia’s theoretical hull speed is 12.28 knots. Being no expert here, I have asked Jonathan Gorog, Executive Director of the Virginia Maritime Heritage Foundation, to fill in the blanks of my soggy journal and explain just how fast we are cooking along in this schooner. He says that hull speed is calculated using length at the water line, so the vessel’s theoretical hull speed is 12.28 knots based on her length at the water line of 84 feet.  Our 13.9 knots obviously exceeds the theoretical hull speed of the vessel. We are flying. Jon further explains that this is due to two factors: (1) the Gulf Stream, flowing north, the same direction Virginia is heading, adds speed and also, (2) it could be postulated that the vessel is getting additional help from breakers pushing her along much like a surf board on a good wave. 

There is no sunset as night falls with a curtain of rain and engulfs those unlucky enough to be C Watch. I feel a little guilty going below just as the lightning and thunder really kick in and climb into my rack without brushing my teeth. Now versed in mattress clinging, I automatically brace myself with my left hand gripping the wooden structure around the porthole and place my right foot against the bunk’s wooden rail. With many muscles engaged, I fall fast asleep with lightning illuminating the violent wash at the porthole. The tossing of the ship at one point is a distinctive roll that instead of side to side felt like this: bow, port, stern, and starboard as if the ship did a 360 (but it did not). And to accompany this range of motion were various scary wave and water noises, crashes of rigging slamming the deck, and assorted cracks of lightning and claps of thunder. I rather think Heaven is applauding a good show.

Next part: Terra Firma