on deck in time to be drafted, along with other passengers, to help raise the sails. The wind was rising quickly behind the thunder and the fog began to congeal in to a cold, hard rain that slapped our faces and clawed at our eyes,when we glanced aloft as we hauled on the halyards. When the mainsail was raised and reefed and the jib and staysail were hoisted and set, the Riggin slowly swung her bow to face into the gale. It was time to weigh anchor and I was again pressed into service with four other passengers. Taking turns, pumping up and down on the iron bars that operated the Windlass, the anchor chain was slowly lifted, one link at a time, until all one hundred and fifty feet of chain lay on deck and the anchor was catted along the gunwale.
Winded from the last round of pumping, I remained panting over the windlass as most of the other “draftees” scuttled below to the warmth and dryness of the main salon. The retreating fog revealed that we were among a number of small islands. The crew said that it would take several short tacks before we could reach open water and settle down to a steady course. The sudden and prolonged physical activity had transformed me. My muscles felt tight from the exertion of raising the anchor and sails. My heart was jumping in my chest. My anger and frustration, the feeling of helplessness, the accumulation of my years, were all blowing away with each gust of the fast approaching squall. I felt ageless on that timeless sea of excitement. So I readily agreed when I was asked, along with another passenger who had remained in the bow, if we would like to help tack the boat toward open water.
The crew barely had time to instruct us in our duties before we heard the Skippers’ command to tack shouted against the gusting wind. My job was to release the windward jib sheet when the boat headed into the wind. Mike, the older and taller of the two deckhands, would then haul in the leeward sheet as the boat turned through the eye of the wind. Tyson, the other crewmember, along with the other passenger were stationed behind us and would perform the same procedure with the staysail sheets. It seemed simple enough, too simple, I was hoping for more of a challenge. While the Skipper slowly turned the boat I loosened the line and kept a half turn around the belaying pin as instructed. When the sail began to flutter, I undid the half turn but continued to, loosely, hold the line. The jib began to flap wildly and with such force that it tore the line from my hand. The flailing, inch and a half diameter, rope caught me across the bridge of the nose and sent me sprawling on the rain soaked deck. Mike had the Jib sheeted in on the new course before I was able to scramble to my feet.
This process was repeated, with minor variations but similar results, two more times before I learned how and when to release the line. Mike offered very little advice, knowing that the uncontrolled rope would prove to be the best teacher. One more tack, this time properly executed,
and the islands were behind us. The squall was full upon us now. The boat healed hard over and plunged through the waves, occasionally taking water over the bow. The four of us braced ourselves in the bow, ducking the spray and enjoying the ride. Peering forward through the rain we could see the bright morning sunlight streaming down behind the edge of the dark storm clouds and sparkling off the surface of the sea ahead. Tyson, the dark-haired, extroverted deckhand with an impish air about him, began tease me about my misadventures with the jib sheet. Mike joined in the laughter when I responded that considering their names (Mike & Tyson) I should have expected to get a little beat up and that I was grateful that I still had both of my ears.
For the next four days we had perfect sailing weather, breezy, sunny days and calm, starry nights. In an attempt to recapture some of the time I had lost in the fog I took every opportunity that presented itself to work alongside the crew. Eventually I developed the knack of anticipating when something needed doing and I was at the right place at the right time. After a while, I think the crew even began to expect me to perform certain duties without having to be asked. Toward the end of the trip, my body, unaccustomed to the repeated physical exertion, began to protest, and when I would try to hide from a particularly unpleasant or strenuous job Mike would find me, and in his quiet way, he would counter my excuses until I had no choice but to rise to the task or assert my rights as a passenger. Of course, claiming passenger status at this point in the voyage would cost me the hard earned respect of these boys who had treated me like a man and, it would have turned the adventure into just another sightseeing tour.
So I would drag my tired old butt over to the bow or stern or amidships and force my untrained, aching muscles to heave on this line or haul on that halyard, or, in the worst case, pump the windlass. But when the job was done and the trip was over, the old boat and the young crew had given me more than they took. I felt reborn, vigorous, and more alive than ever. I know that those feelings can be attributed to the fresh salt air and exercise. I know that feelings of excitement and euphoria can be purchased for the price of a ticket on a roller coaster, but those are momentary thrills. This heightened sensuality was brought on by a change in sensibility, a mind-altering, glimpse of things around me and in me that were hidden. When your view is no longer obstructed by the fog of mere existence, the course ahead is clear sailing.