I shall start with one of the first psychological blows I received after reporting aboard the Rose. I awoke early in the morning on Sunday and after taking my pillow below (I slept on the deck that night for a variety of reasons which I might explain later,) came back up to find a shorter, slender man in his late 30's dressed in incredibly dirty shorts with paint and other traces all over both the shorts and him. This person turned out to be Jesse The Bosun. He was doing something that looked complicated to a rope (yeah, I know it's really a line, but until it has been put to a legitimate use and thereby baptized I shall call it a rope.) I asked if I could watch, and he graciously said "Sure." He was whipping a line, a skill that was somehow never offered to matriculants at any of the various 5 colleges or universities that accepted my tuition at one time or another in my life, and I was fascinated. I have seen beautifully whipped lines on a number of boats, most of them a bit too expensive for my bones. I know what whipping does, and also know that on synthetic line, at least, duct tape and butane lighter will achieve much the same practical, if not aesthetic, result. (A blow torch alone will nicely seal line brought dripping from the deep, but you have to be careful of your fingertips.)
I had hitherto thought such fine needlework was a bit beyond my small motor skills, but what the hell, I was paying $100 a day to either learn, work or make a fool of myself, so I asked if I could do the next one for him. He probably knew the line was going to be used for nothing particularly critical, and told me to go ahead. He also patiently interrupted his next job to answer a number of my questions as I stumbled through, discovering new challenges at each turn of the sail thread. The end result did look a bit nautical I must admit, although if I were to go into whipping as a career I might be better paid by the hour than by the piece.
As I concluded my whipping I asked what should I do then, and he said "just cut it off, and the end will disappear into the line." AHA, this was one of those moments I had been waiting for, and I reached into my pocket, deftly retrieved my fairly well used rigging knife, whipped it open and sliced, veritably severed that little piece of twine. He was finishing about the third whipping he had started since I first weighed in, reached behind him to a well beaten leather holster, pulled out a knife of about 8" of finest steel, only slightly smaller than a cutlass, and certainly certified for boarding and cutting out expeditions of ships up to the 2nd rate, sliced through the whipping without even grazing a major limb, and tucked it back in his holster about as smoothly and with as much unconscious skill and panache as Gary Cooper, John Wayne or Gene Autry holstering their pistols after blowing away a villain or two.. (Yes, I know that the only salt water those guys tasted was sweat from kissing their horses, but they are the only comparisons I can think of) To continue the simile, my guess is I looked just like the little kid in Shane as he stared up at Alan Ladd.
We continued working, and I had a piece of line which was a bit hard and difficult to push the needle through, and I thought again here was an opportunity to show I wasn't just a passenger, that I knew my way around a boat, and that I had not forgotten the old Boy Scout motto of "Be Prepared." This time I reached behind me to "old Reliable" the working Leatherman tool I wear on my belt whenever there is the slightest excuse. (I do take it off when going into court, it sets off alarms and awakens deputy sheriffs from their morning and/or afternoon naps.) When I volunteer up at our Y camp it is an extremely handy gadget down at the sailing area, and I should probably get a commission from all the sales made to kids who ask where they might get one. I used the pliers to shove the sailmaker's needle (nothing effete about that tool,) through the line and then folded it up and put it back on my right rear hip. A bit smug, or at least justifiably self-satisfied, I casually glanced over at Jesse to see what he was doing. He reached behind him to the other holster on his hip, which I had previously thought held at least a Magnum 38 Police Special to repel boarders or shoot curious whales, and pulled out the biggest Leatherman I have ever seen! He did something magical, folded it back down to a size a bit less than that of a modest suburban tool shop, and silently continued his work. I finished up my whipping, and then excused myself for fear that he might ask if I wanted to go to the head before we went to breakfast. No way in hell was I going to take a chance on a called third strike.
Good Grief—even though I came into the office early this morning I spent a little longer on this post than I thought when the headline was first conceived. I really do have to do some work, so I'll try to fill in the other topics when I next get a chance. I promise that they will deal with the specific subjects heralded.
John Donohue
Evanston, IL—Where he plans to go down to see the Chicago Tall Ships exhibition this evening, if for no other reason than to casually mention to one and all that "Mine was bigger." You may also bet I'll be wearing my Rose T-shirt.