I stand amidships waiting for someone to show me where to stow my gear. Finally one of the crew breaks loose from his duties long enough to escort me to my berth; a curtain covered, human sized shelf, below another bunk in the middle of eleven others along the Starboard side of the Main Salon. Twenty-two (of the current thirty-four) co-ed crew eat, sleep and seek shelter in this room, in 'round the clock watches.

I was raised as an only child.

Stowing my gear in the bunk, I visit the Head to familiarize myself with the operation of its’ plumbing then go back on deck and stand around looking for something to do that will differentiate me from the tourists.

The ships’ one hundred and eighty-foot length is webbed with ropes of every size and type, Standing Rigging (to hold the three masts in place), Running Rigging (to control the eighteen sails), Ratlines (for climbing), and Hawsers to moor to the dock, Lashings, Vangs, Tackles, and Lanyards; there's even a skein of Marline (a heavy waxed thread for sewing sails and binding the ends of lines) lying on the hatch cover in preparation for repairs. Soon I'm assigned the not very nautical task of standing by the boarding Gangplank to help infirm adults and small children negotiate the big step down to the deck and to continually remind the more able bodied visitors to: "Watch your step and move to the left please". It wasn't much of a job but by the end of the day I began to feel like part of the crew.

After a night of acquainting my body with the limits of my bunk I emerged from the belly of the ship in response to the call of, "All hands - make ready for departure". While gulping a quick breakfast of coffee and fresh baked muffins we were divided into "watches"(work shifts) and assigned various tasks, stowing gear, swabbing decks, inspecting rigging and generally making ready to get under way; then, just before lunch, my watch was ordered aloft to set sail.

Following our Watch Leader to the windward side of the ship we began our assent up the Main Mast "Ratlines" that rose at an angle from the rail to the mast. I was instructed, by the more experienced crew to always hold onto the vertical ropes, not the horizontal rungs and to climb slowly, careful to maintain a "three-point- contact" (one hand and two feet, or two hands and one foot) at all times. I started climbing with confidence. There weren't many trees where I grew up in New York City; but as a kid I used to climb fire escapes and scale high fences for fun, (and sometimes to get away from whatever or whoever

was chasing me) so I felt equal to the challenge of climbing in the rigging.

My comfort with my abilities quickly eroded as I approached the first platform. The Lower Ratlines that I had been climbing ended at the mast under a pair of short horizontal beams called crosstrees, which support the platform and provide the anchor point for the base of the Upper Ratlines. Here the climber is obliged to lean out backwards, away from the mast, grasp the bottom of the Upper Ratlines above the platform at an awkward angle, and haul himself up onto the platform.

After a few moments of doubt and a couple of false starts and much advice and encouragement by my crewmates, I successfully negotiate the "Futtocks", as this area is called, and stand breathless and tingling on the platform fifty feet above the deck. Then it's on to the Upper Ratlines for another twenty feet until we are level with the Lower Topsail Yard. Here we leave the ratlines to step across and shuffle out along the foot-rope that drapes below the yard until we are standing evenly spaced, in midair, as the remaining crew climbs higher yet, to the sails above us. My fingers tightly grasp a thin steel rod, chest high in front of me that is set lengthwise into the massive timber of the yard. The footrope wiggles and jumps against my feet in response to the movements of the five other crewmembers standing on it. I try very hard not to look down or to think of the deck some seventy feet below me. Concentrating on the task of using only one hand to untie the gasket lines that will unfurl the sail, I manage to (barely) keep my fear of falling in check, and the job is quickly done. Then we all retreat back down the ratlines to the deck and haul on the lines to brace the yards and trim the sails before the cook sounds the bell for lunch.

The remainder of my watch is spent scrubbing decks and learning how to coil, secure and hang lines on a belaying pin, and then another, longer, more harrowing trip aloft to shorten sail before dark. When we finally sit down to dinner I'm still shaking, but I don't know if it is from fear, fatigue, excitement or hunger. What I do know, at the end of my first full day at sea, is that I am tired, physically and mentally, and I crave privacy, perhaps, more than sleep. The meager bunk that seemed cramped earlier, now strikes me as a palatial fortress of solitude as I roll in and draw the curtain tightly against the bulkhead. Wriggling out of my clothes I arrange them so that I can find them quickly in the dark. I also dig my foul weather gear from the bottom of my sea bag and place it within easy reach. Then after