Those who followed the voyage of The Rose to Bermuda and back to the U.S. will know that not only did she face headwinds going, but in an extremely untimely wind shift she also had to motor into wind and sea to try to make her rendezvous with a minor gathering of other Tall Ships in Savannah, Georgia. The historically minded will savor the thought the "modern" Rose replica sailing into Savannah over the sunken timbers of the original, scuttled by the British in an attempt to close off the harbor. The Rose was to participate in the festivities there, and then was to compete in a Tall Ships Race. In addition to other personal concerns and scheduling, it was this latter which was particularly intriguing to me when I signed up for my week aboard.
Alas, none of these came to pass. The Rose, neither original nor modern version, was not designed or built to go into the wind. The addition of modern diesel engines make such a strange method of advance possible for a short while, but really only serve to emphasize the reality that The Rose and her sister tall ships, even on a bowline, are much happier and competent sailing with the wind, or a little bit sideways to it. Those who sail on modern sloop rigged craft which can "point" high up into the wind will find it difficult to comprehend. Perhaps if they were faced with the need to go upwind with only their spinnaker the picture would start to dawn. (An interesting fact given us by one of the permanent crew aboard The Rose was that the spinnaker, a sail which we all normally associate with curves, roundness, big-belliedness, etc., is technically a "Square" sail, because it is flown square to the ship.)
The Rose had to divert to Norfolk, as fuel, time and probably psyches were all running lower. The Rose Foundation called my home on Thursday and advised that I switch my travel plans. If that were to prove impossible, the plan was to send the old crew to Savannah by bus, and pick up those who were unable to make last minute changes and return them to Norfolk on the same bus. Fortunately my 86 year old mother is still an active (what an understatement) travel agent, and she was able to change my reservations on the 5th of July to fly right into Norfolk, and to give me almost a full extra hour of sleep on Sunday morning besides. (Little did I know how precious that hour was to become later in the week to a member of "The Hell Watch.) For a brief moment I thought of sticking to my Savannah arrangements, taking the bus North with my new fellow crew trainees, and bonding with them as we went rolling through GA, SC, NC and VA. Sanity prevailed, and I decided instead to board The Rose directly on Sunday afternoon, go identify and claim the best bunk available, ingratiate myself with the cook, and continue the futile task of trying to memorize the pinrail diagram. I did all of the foregoing, with varying degrees of success or lack thereof.
The plans and diagrams of The Rose in the handbook, while certainly accurate and honest, give no real picture of the reality of many of the spaces. All berthing compartments for trainees are two levels (probably 3 or 4 of the old, original decks) below, and in the summertime are far removed from any source of fresh air. Each has positives and negatives. "A" compartment was the closest to an occasionally open hatch two levels above, and was in some sense a bit removed from the mess deck and concomitant noise or goings on. For those on Hell Watch this latter was important, although not critical. There are no passengers aboard The Rose, and falling asleep when the opportunity aRose was not in the least bit difficult. "A" compartment was also the most forward, and thus most reactive to both pitch and yaw. Ship's motion would be felt here more strongly than in "B" or " C," both located almost dead amidships. I had read of the trip to Bermuda, and one of the Lissuns who could only make that leg of the trip, Rich Spilman, off-list told me that he "would have killed for a small 12 volt fan which he could have wired into the reading light fixture." High temperatures and lack of circulation in those enclosed spaces made them extremely uncomfortable. He also passed on a few other tips on what to take, etc., which certainly made aspects of my own week aboard The Rose far more pleasant. He also casually mentioned that The Rose sported, in addition to battery powered (but very hot) reading lamps in each bunk, 110v AC in the berthing compartments. I made a slight but not real serious note of this, for reasons which will become explained later, and thought of taking a small fan and extension cord.
I am saddened to report that in this modern day of automobile air conditioning there are few, indeed almost no, 12-volt after-market type auto fans available. I scoured local stores for small battery operated fans, and bought about three different styles, each promising multitudinous hours of bliss on only 2 or 3 "AA" cells. One hung on a rope around the neck, one came with a spritzing bottle, and one (the 99cent special) was primitive but extremely efficient. I also took along a large pack of "AA" cells, as I am accustomed to using a small headlamp for reading late at night in bed. It is referred to affectionately around our house as "the marriage saver." I decided against taking the 110v fan I set up in my cabin when I work at our Y camp, as I didn't really think that any boat had a constant supply of electricity, especially one which was a replica of one originally launched in 1750, long before Ben Franklin put on his foul weather gear and went outside to fly a kite. Well fanned, lamped and batteried, I awoke at 0530 on the 5th, and started my journey to Norfolk.
Reasoning that a simultaneous arrival of my luggage and me was to be highly desired I planned to carry on my medium sized duffle and backpack. The specter of traveling for a week in exactly the same clothes, plus whatever the purser might issue from the slops, was not appealing. I was prepared to turn over to the stewardess or other authority my rigging knife (and the Swiss Army one as well) when they set off the bells and whistles at the security checkpoint of the airport. I also took some of the gear I normally sail with such as gloves, foul weather boots and my safety harness. A couple of years ago my children, in stark recognition that they stood to gain little or nothing from my death, gave me an CO2 inflatable life jacket, which takes up little room and is easy to wear. This I took along, but decided to leave my GPS at home, for after all, I was to be before the mast aboard The Rose, and I doubted that the officers would pay much attention to a foredeck trainee shouting "you're off the Rhumb line again!"
The aforesaid bells and whistles went off, and both I and my luggage were pulled aside for closer inspection. I immediately told them "Yes, I knew there were a couple of knives in the duffel," and in fact I had packed them for quick removal. The two security types paid no attention to this whatsoever, and instead went pawing a bit eagerly through all my clothing (good thing this was at the start of the voyage—had it been on the return trip they might have been dropped immediately by their HMOs as too high a risk.) I just figured that there wasn't much action at 6:30 am, and they were curious. I offered to help, but was curtly waved away. I was asked about the batteries, and told them exactly where they were. The search continued, and finally someone asked me a question—"Do you have a gas cartridge? You can't take that aboard." I explained again I was going sailing for a week, and despite my confidence in The Rose meeting and exceeding all Coast Guard standards, a little redundancy in this instance might not be too bad a thing. They had no sense of humor, and went back to pawing through my carefully packed bag. I again offered to help, and this time in resignation they signaled that I was not to let their supervisor see me. I reached in and immediately pulled out what was obviously a new treat for these two. They called the supervisor over, and he informed me that I would have to check the life preserver. Good thing I had allowed lots of time.
I went back to the check-in counter that I had so cleverly by-passed just 10 minutes earlier, and explained my situation. They had no container smaller than about 3 cubic feet, so we assembled a cardboard monstrosity, taped the tiny life preserver assembly to the bottom, and off it shuffled, hopefully to take the same plane that I now went running for. We both managed to change planes successfully in Cincinnati, and also arrived together in Norfolk. A short limo ride took me to the dock—and there was The Rose!
At last, after reading CS Forester's Hornblower saga approximately every 18 months or two years since puberty, wearing out at least three sets of paper backs, and after listening to the POB canon not once but twice through, I was about to set foot on a square rigged "tall ship." Not just any square-rigger, but a frigate besides. I am getting goose bumps again at my keyboard at the mere memory of it. How I wished my Uncle Jack, who had periodically mysteriously disappeared when I was a youth to go sailing in races to Mackinac and Sweden, and in whose home I had read my first Hornblower book (remember the teal bindings?) could have been with me at that moment. I set my luggage down, and just walked around looking at her lines. That alone would have been a full cup for me, and the thought of a week's working sail aboard was almost too much to bear.
I reported aboard, stifling an impulse to salute the quarterdeck, and was met by Todd, one of the executive officers of the ship. He showed me the berthing compartments, and suggested I pick out a bunk. At this point I met fellow trainees Ron and Ed. I spotted a couple of very prominent 110v outlets high on the walls in berthing compartment "A" and I asked Todd if they were for real. He looked at me a bit oddly, and answered yes. I then asked when was the electricity turned on, and he replied—as if to an idiot—"all the time" not adding aloud but undoubtedly thinking "you damn fool!" I must digress here just a minute and explain why this phenomenon was so strange to me.
Electricity aboard and the easy and constant availability thereof, was a brand new concept to me. I know one skipper who would, upon seeing someone emerge from the companionway to go on deck immediately find a reason to go below and make sure that all the lights were turned off. I knew someone who would go around and turn off lights even as you were using them, including the one that I was then using to navigate, casually mentioning that there was now enough light that "we don't need to run the battery down." This was at false dawn, mind you. A number of years back aboard that same boat he installed over the nav station a new, low wattage, white and night-vision preserving red florescent fixture which probably burned 8 milliwatts a day. It wasn't much good for seeing thin pencil marks on the chart, but what it was absolutely fantastic at was degrading the Loran signal because of the interference its ballast emitted to that instrument immediately adjacent. The Loran would then tell me that we were safely two miles off the coast of Connecticut, which isn't bad in the Atlantic, but a bit unhelpful when I was trying to figure out just exactly (well, almost exactly) where we were between Michigan and Wisconsin. I'll bet that fixture is still there, with a bulb that should outlast us all. I know that I never turned it on unless we were to be within sight of well-identified land for at least the next three hours.
(Even though on a race a boat will typically make a very conscientious effort to charge batteries, everyone on and off watch hates the sound of the running engine, and sometimes life gets too interesting to remember to turn on the motor for a while. Over the last weekend as we came to the finish of a 222 mile race we were advised by the race committee that the boat which just finished ahead of us had no battery power, couldn't start their engine, and would need a tow through the drawbridge and to the yacht club docks. After just a bit of local grumbling on our part about failure to charge batteries, etc., (ah, it is so nice to be virtuous,) and a bit of discussion concerning our magnanimous waiver of salvage rights in exchange for approximately a case of beer per crewman, we took her under tow at around 0015 and headed toward the drawbridge which was not due to open next until 0100. Acts of mercy at sea or at lake are not unrewarded, and after calls which eventually reached the Coast Guard the drawbridge opened specially for us, a bit reluctantly it seemed, and we got to dock and go ashore about 35 minutes sooner than we should have. There is no truth to the rumor now going through the fleet that in alternate years we will take turns towing each other towards that drawbridge.)
At that moment it was about 92/92 in Norfolk, counting heat and humidity, and unbelievably hot in "A" seemingly the coolest of the trainee berthing compartments. I mentioned to my new shipmates my exchanges with Rich Spilman, and suggested we go buy some real 110v fans. Hah, the city of Norfolk still observes what are called "Blue Laws" (shades of POB) and we found to our dismay that there was probably only one drugstore in the town open that afternoon, and that one approximately 2 or 3 miles away. Ron and I hopped in a cab, and went to that Rite-Aid store. Dismissing the cab on our arrival (bit of a mistake, that,) we went inside and almost exhausted their supply of small, two-speed fans which were perfect for the job, as they came with a clamping device. We also bought a supply of extension cords, as I have already mentioned the 110v outlets were placed very high on the bulkheads. We went back out into the sun to seek a cab back to the ship, and realized that like drugstores, there was probably only one cab in Norfolk operating on Sunday, and it sure wasn't where we were. Luckily we had a tourist brochure map, and started hoofing it back. I had not been in Norfolk since WWII when my dad was stationed there and in Hampton Roads, but memories of how hot it had been came flooding back into my mind. The only difference was that somehow that heat had been more tolerable at age 7 or 8. The walk back was an excellent time to get to know one another, and in reality was one of the warmly good times of the trip. At one point we both discussed how we might be able to pay for our trip by returning, buying out the store, and scalping fans at slightly inflated prices "How much? How much you got?" to newly arriving and sweltering trainees, but then realized that by so doing we might be in a bit of peril walking the deck alone at night. We decided to just pass along the wonderful cooling device we bought for Ed at cost, and besides, by that point we were about a mile and a half away from the store. That little fan was probably one of the best investments I have ever made in my life.
I realize that this is going on a bit—so shall cut it off here for the weekend. I appreciate your indulgence in letting me continue this narrative.
John Donohue
...About to mow his lawn in Evanston by the Illiwimichiana Sea - no wonder Midwesterners went to sea.