Eves: Of Flags and Reflection

“There are two terrible things for a man: not to have fulfilled his dream, and to have fulfilled it.”

• Bernard Moitessier, The Long Way

 

 

17 October 2019

Chase Creek

Annapolis, MD

 

Gale warnings are in effect for this evening, and have been since yesterday. The wind is howling through the rigging and since there is a boat occupying the slip portion of the pier, Albion is laid up along the outside of the dock, tied only along her starboard side, resulting in her being forced quite hard against her fenders. With the low-tide, not only is she almost sitting on the bottom, all but one of the fenders are below the dock, making for an awkward tie to prevent her stations from smashing into the wooden edge that extends beyond the pilings. Ziggy however, is oblivious to this worry. Rather, he is curled up in his little beddy nestled in a nest made from two blankets, sound asleep only awaking periodically to remind the loud wind gusts that he’s in charge.

It’s the eve of my thirty-second birthday. Two years ago, on the eve of my thirtieth birthday, I kicked-off this blog writing,

“This birthday represents the year during which I will start the pursuit of making a dream come true – to leave behind, even if only temporarily, the muddling life that has come to describe the near-decade since graduating college – and to take on the challenge of evolving a dream into reality. In doing so, there will be many more ‘eves’ – the eve of my last day at work, the eve of the first departure and the many departures to follow, the eve of the first day back home, the eve of returning to ‘reality’  (emphasis added)

Here I sit, now on the other side of that sentiment – on the side of “the first day back home” and the “eve of returning to ‘reality.’”  Albion is tied at what is her new home, at least until she is pulled for the winter, and hopefully, next season.  Our arrival here was far from the serendipitous “crossing of our wake” celebration I anticipated when dreaming and planning this grand adventure two years ago – visions of Albion tied to the front dock of the little Pentwater Yacht Club, her flags flying proudly, and the sounds of friends and family celebrating, together, the experiences shared aboard Albion. Rather, her flags are down, pulled due to the winds passing through from a nor’easter. They are remnants of our journey; faded, tattered, and dirty. As I look at them, now draped over the back of the settee, I see that first day in Pentwater when they were hoisted in anticipation of the thousands of miles ahead. I see them proudly waving in the Garrison Bight mooring field after our long and rough passage into Key West. I see them flying in Bimini as the Bahamas courtesy flag was raised alongside. I see the red whipping thread used to re-stitch the torn Hope College Sailing Team burgee in Lee Stocking Island. I see the flags being hoisted again after successfully riding out Hurricane Dorian in Hilton Head. I see the piece of cheap cotton line used to tether the Hope Burgee to the Pentwater Yacht Club burgee – a temporary tie that lasted the entire journey. As I see them now, I know, they will never be flown as part of this grand adventure again. Albion will only be in the water a few more weeks before she is pulled for the season, and at most, there may be a couple day-sails squeezed in amongst apartment dealings, boat yard calls, applications, and the numerous other responsibilities that come with transitioning back into “reality” – most likely, no occasion for flags.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The flags tell a story – where we’ve been and where we’re going. The Pentwater Yacht Club burgee, representing the sailing community in the home port from which Albion departed. The town in which our family boat frequented, annually, for thirty years. A town that played such a pivotal role in instilling the love of boating and sailing that fueled the dream that became this journey. Beneath that, the flag of the Hope College Sailing Team – a community that not only provided an outlet from the studies of college (though many practices I ran the committee boat, in part, so I could do homework) but also relationships that last into this day – the source of many of my closest friends. The “courtesy” flags, some legitimate and some for fun – the Conch Republic flag that flew so proudly during our month and a half stay in Key West, a time that includes some of our greatest memories, memories shared with people who have become lifelong friends. The Bahamas Courtesy flag, lightly faded from accompanying us over the course of three months in some of the most beautiful anchorages and accomplishments of the journey. The yellow Maritime Republic of Eastport flag, for those times ahead when anchored in Back Creek, because, after all, we can’t all be snobs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The flags flown opposite of these, from the port spreader, though, perhaps best represent the evolution of our journey. It was the swallow-tail flag of the America’s Great Loop Cruisers Association (AGLCA) which flew proudly from the port flag halyard for the first legs of our trip, and from the bimini support pole during the river portion when the mast was absent from the boat. The hoisting of that flag in Pentwater signified we were “doing it!” We weren’t dreaming, we weren’t planning, we were leaving, setting off, forgoing the security to which we had become accustomed and committing to the adventure ahead. That flag, through the river systems especially, identified us as part of a community, a community of “Loopers” – those touring the waterways of America – the Inland Seas of the Great Lakes, the rivers, the intercostal waterway, and the canals of Canada. Though together we traveled through the swift, current riddled, muddy waters and “locked-through” the numerous locks of the river system; it was a community with which we found ourselves relating less and less as the trip progressed. We were not without companionship though, as we became part of a developing community of cruisers, and were especially embraced by a couple with whom we would ultimately travel thousands of miles – from the Great Lakes where we initially met, to the rivers where we first started our intentional travels together, along the Gulf coast where, though taking different routes and ports we were never truly “separated,” a horrible crossing to Key West and magical time there for the holidays, to our reunion in South Bimini after my unplanned layover in John Pennekamp State Park, to our ultimate, and inevitable “good bye” in Brunswick, Georgia.

 

 

 

 

The AGLCA flag made few appearances after the Florida Keys, in part due to the lack of “Loopers” who make the crossing to the Bahamas – a prime example of how our journey departed from that of the “typical” Loop experience.  The ultimate absence of the AGLCA burgee from our spreaders, however, was not because of disassociation or intentional distancing, but rather, due to its unfortunate succumbing to mildew while stowed during my Atlantic crossing. This timing was felicitous, as by this time, our progress placed us well south of the Loopers, most of whom were much further north at this point, seamlessly, the Port spreader was graced with the navy and yellow “Flying Fish” burgee of the Ocean Cruising Club (OCC) – a burgee that must be earned, a burgee that signifies having accomplished qualifying sea time and offshore passage distance, a burgee that demonstrates offshore sailing experience – experience that came through embracing departures from the “plan.” Experiences that we never dreamt of on the prior birthday “eves” – experience we could not have gained were we to have remained, as Sterling Hayden so eloquently described, “…enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of ‘security.’” Experiences that could not have been had were I still “…glued to my Herman Miller chair in the office.”

 

 

Prior to our departure, when announcing my resignation from work, I wrote:

“Though this trip may lead to a figurative temporary ‘bankruptcy of purse,’ it stands to be an experience that will make me a more dynamic person than I am today, an experience that will push me in ways I would not otherwise be pushed.

…

Even if Ziggy decides the heeling of a sailboat makes him sick, the tensions with Cuba once again lead to a closure of its access, the weather prohibits crossing the Gulf Stream to the Bahamas, or we blow an engine and make it no further than Mobile, the experience will still be that – an experience, and one that will reduce the likelihood of one day laying in a hospital bed wondering what it might have been like to have tried to go about sailing the Loop when I had that opportunity back when I was thirty and transitioning professions.”

 

The trip did lead to a, more than I had foreseen, “bankruptcy of purse” – a consequence that will considerably impact our future plans. Weather patterns and continual cold fronts delayed (but thankfully did not prohibit) our crossing of the Gulf Stream to the Bahamas. “Tensions,” of sorts – results of the presidential election in the United States and changing foreign policy edicts, did close our access to Cuba. Our trusty little Universal diesel not only got us to Mobile, she pushed us, through strong currents, large waves, and occasionally debris riddled waters, all the way home. As trusty as she was, minor failures (not necessarily her fault) resulted in experiences that significantly contributed to opportunities far beyond the initial scope of or travels – relationships, sailing abilities, mechanical knowledge, destinations, and introspective reflection – experiences that were only the result of what at the time, seemed like setbacks and delays.

 

 

As we sit here, safely moored back in the Chesapeake, with Ziggy settled in for the evening – thousands of miles under his now tattered collar – thousands of miles without ever once showing signs of succumbing to seasickness; hours away from completing another trip around the sun – reflecting on a trip that has, perhaps more than any other decision in the course of our nearly 32 years on this Earth, contributed to “…making [me] a more dynamic person…” than I was, even two years ago, on the eve of my thirtieth birthday. Melancholy as it may be, Ziggy and I can soon settle into our comfortable settee aboard Albion, as we have every night for the past 14 months, assured that we won’t need to fear lying one day in our hospital bed wondering “…what it might have been like to have tried to go about sailing the Loop when I had that opportunity back when I was thirty and transitioning professions.”

Tonight, after Ziggy’s evening walk, when returning to Albion, now tied to her dock along the Severn, Sterling Hayden’s closing to his book Wanderer comes to mind:

“Grabbing his bag, he slips over the bulwarks and down to the heaving logs where, under the tall ship’s lee, he turns and stares to the legend:

WANDERER   SAN FRANSISCO

With his back to the wind, he plows up the dock and reaching the land turns left. He corners the squat brown bank, crosses the Bridgeway road, turns right past The Tides Bookstore, and steps from storm to the warmth of the No Name Bar.

He buys a drink and turns to a ship lost in the night and drinks to a life that was.

He turns to stare at a face in the back-bar mirror: a vague face with bleak and querulous eyes. The eyes lock and he drinks to himself alone. Vale! Wanderer. “

Tonight, cold, rainy, and gusty from the nor’easter, we walked down the steep steps leading to Albion, proudly tied across the t-head, wind blowing through her rigging, rigging now devoid of the flags that graced them for so many thousands of miles. We can’t help but be endeared to the little ship that carried us safely through this journey, a yellow mustache indicative of her miles up the ICW now gracing her bow, a bow that, even with the irregularly low tide, still protrudes above the dock. Her mahogany bow pulpit adorned with its mud stained anchor that held us securely hundreds of nights, penetrating the driving rain. She sits proudly as a testament to the year that was. We stare at the legend, her slightly diesel and tannin stained transom displaying:

ALBION     PENTWATER MICH

Returning then to the warm cabin, the glow of her oil lamp dancing across the teak adorned interior, we reflect on this journey that we accomplished together, and the unknown adventures that lie ahead. Vale! Albion

 

 

 

“And to all would-be wanderers . . . Hail! Not Farewell.”

Sterling Hayden, Wanderer