Thanks Janice, for the link

A couple of photos taken on  the morning it happened.

 IT WAS A VERY GOOD YEAR!

My first real boat job was working as a deckhand on a “head boat” out of Grand Lagoon, down in Panama City Fla. I don’t know why they call them head boats, but the “Gulf Pride” was sixty feet or so, and  took 20 or 30 paying passengers bottom fishing out over the horizon in the gulf. We would leave the dock about seven a.m. My job was to stock all the coolers with block ice, drinks, and bait, rig up all the electric reels, cut bait on the way out, set and weigh the anchor, help those who needed it, gaff the fish when they caught them, then string them up and store them in the fish box. On the way in I would hang them up for display all-around the wheelhouse so the gaggle of summer tourists waiting at the dock would all gasp and take pictures. We were a floating billboard for the fishing business, and the fleet owners made a real production out of it. There was a guy there at the dock with a microphone, as we were tying up. He would comment on the boat and the skipper and the mate and the fish, “… a real nice grouper there folks… prob’ly thirty pounds, looks like they found a school of amberjacks too… mmmm delicious when they are fresh… ooo and look at that big PENsacola Red snapper… it JUST don’t get any better than this, folks. Y’all better c’mon and sign up …we still have a few slots left for tomorrah!”

After we unloaded all the fish, gear, and seasick tourists, washed down and took on fuel and water, I was allowed as part of my pay to carry whatever fish anyone left behind down to the market and sell them to the ladies there. Usually that was trigger fish, which, although good eating, back then was considered a trash fish. Folks would want to keep them just the same, until we got ashore and they realized what a pain they were to clean and how little meat they had on them- so then they would give them to me. I usually wound up with a wheelbarrow load at the end of every trip. They fetched Five cents a pound. Those women filleted them there under a tin shed, and re sold them as “ocean perch” to commercial packers. So, the humble Triggerfish eventually became the “Whaler”- a fish sandwich at Hardees.

The mate’s name was “Buster”.  A cranky, tobacco stained old salt, with no shirt no shoes and no teeth. He had one crooked old pair of blue jeans that he wore every day I ever saw him, held up by a manilla rope tied into a square knot.  A homeade knife was kept in a sheath, made of a piece of fire hose looped onto this “belt”. As far as anyone knew that was all the property he had to his name. Except for his crooked glasses, which were always fogged up and hung across his crooked grey head, which sat upon his crooked shoulders, made so by a collapsed lung, which had been perforated by shrapnel in the war in the Pacific. His skin was a riddle of tattoos browned by the sun, that  looked something like an overcooked blueberry cobbler. He smoked pall malls and drank warm beer more or less constantly. I never saw him eat anything. He slept in a little place right there at the “curve” next to Capt Andersons’ restaurant. I can still see him standing in the road with his knife out, “directing traffic” as he zig zagged towards his shack. Buster didn’t do too well on the “hill”, but  was at home in a seaway; perfectly tuned to the intricate rhythms of nature. Like a gyroscope he kept true to the vertical axis, while everything and everyone else rolled and pitched around the deck. Buster stashed his beer in the overhead life jacket bins, and was always circling the deck surveying and counting his supply, to the alarm of some of the guests, who sometimes thought he was counting the life jackets.

Technically, it was forbidden for any of the boat hands to drink on board, but Captain Cisco, who understood the intricacies of fuel curves and power consumption, made a quiet exception in the case of his mate, who was not expendable. Buster simply couldn’t function without his own special fuel. Cisco was concerned with only two things: getting the old girl back home, and having more fish hanging off the eyebrow than any of the other dozen or so competitors of the fleet. All of his policies were simply a calculation towards those ends.

Cisco was the first man I ever saw that wore a diamond ring. I didn’t know men did that. I grew up in the pine woods of Georgia, where men only wore senior rings or maybe wedding bands. But it somehow suited him. Standing at the wheel in his kakis and canvas shoes, the ring gave him a touch of elegance, that somehow enhanced his natural gravitas. I would watch him twirl the dials on the old loran-a, or study the way he used the throttle and gears to position the boat. Like Buster, Cisco was at one with the machine that they both depended on to stay alive. He was a quiet spoken practical man, and he liked me, mainly because I showed up on time just before sunup, every day. He was always there first with a pot of coffee.

The cook, “Sarge”, was a white haired yankee who hated cooking. He took the job so he could “dead head”- fish for nothing and sell his catch when we got in. He had a special electric commercial reel we called the “one armed bandit”. It had a dozen or so baited hooks set vertically with three way swivels on a long wire leader, carried down by an old window sash weight. He would sell his catch, usually snapper and grouper, at the dock. Sometimes he would fillet up a trigger fish or amberjack, and make fish sandwiches for the crew. That lunch made it almost worth showing up every morning! Sarge made a few bucks off the grill, but we (Buster Sarge and I) had an unspoken objective- to make as many of the tourists as seasick as possible, so they would go inside and lay down and not bother us. Then, we could get more fishing done ourselves. To this end, we had the bait cutting table set up right next to the galley. The aroma of diesel fumes, bacon and eggs, and squid thawing in the summer heat usually did the trick, sometimes before we even got outside the inlet.

Now and then, someone would hook into a shark. Usually a Bull or a Hammerhead. The tourists, who were often first timers, couldn’t recognize the bite. They would feel a tug, and start reeling in furiously, as the shark made a lazy circle around the boat gathering up everyone else’s gear. Then as each fisherman began to feel something they would reel theirs in too. The result was a huge wad of 20 oz leads, leaders and hooks in a ball under the boats keel. The only thing to do was to go around and cut everybody’s line on one side of the boat and deck the whole mess. It usually took an hour or so to sort it all out. Nowadays people fish for sharks for sport. We considered them a huge nuisance.

The thing I remember most of the whole party fishing boat experience was the colors. What a treat it is to peer down into the blue, and watch as a tiny caricature of a fish gradually grows in shape as it nears the surface, taking on pigmentation when it meets the sun for the first time, flashing the most vibrant shades of red, green or silver. We caught “Beeliners”, or Vermillion Snapper, Goggle eye, red and black (Gag) Grouper, Red Snapper, Amberjacks and Triggers. My favorite was the Queen Trigger (above photo), which unlike her common grey cousin, is a flamboyant neon version.

I lasted a couple of months. One morning I slept late, which is a sin among those who depend on each other. But I was a harum sacrum nineteen year old with other priorities. I just slid on out of town, without notice, chasing after my next adventure. When the great reckoning day comes, and my case comes up, I expect to be penalized for that. It was years later before I realized how much I really owed those folks, and how much they had taught me.

And once again, when the river had just increased its flow in the rainy season and made a powerful noise, then said Siddhartha: “Isn’t it so, oh friend, the river has many voices, very many voices? Hasn’t it the voice of a king, and of a warrior, and of a bull, and of a bird of the night, and of a woman giving birth, and of a sighing man, and a thousand other voices more?”
“So it is,” Vasudeva nodded, “all voices of the creatures are in its voice.”
“And do you know,” Siddhartha continued, “what word it speaks, when you succeed in hearing all of its ten thousand voices at once?”
Happily, Vasudeva’s face was smiling, he bent over to Siddhartha and spoke the holy Om into his ear. And this had been the very thing which Siddhartha had also been hearing.

Siddhartha

After two years in the water, I have gotten around to hanging my first interior decoration. Here it is. (double click on it to read)

This is the final order on a list of instructions to his fleet that was drawn up by the slave trader John Hawkins in 1564, prior to his second voyage to the New World.

He stopped in at Fort Caroline, near here, on his way back to England

…beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
sillouhetted by the sea
circled by the circus sands
with all memory and fate
driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow…

Hilaria, a local classic, found her “default position” this week on the bottom of the harbor in Brunswick. A cohort once nodded at my old sloop and said, “she’s just sitting there trying to sink, you know”. This fact is well known among boaters but like a death, when it happens it is always a bit of a shock.

click photos for larger. click again to zoom

Fortunately, this was no death. We have Sea Tow.

The salvage crew first had to call in two cranes and place lifting straps on each end to stabilize the hull and lift her up till the decks were at water level. Two divers positioned the straps. Then the pumps were started.

Three lifting forces were at play here: pumping the water out of the interior, pumping air into bladders placed beneath the keel, and the cranes lifting and taking up the slack to keep her from rolling.

Like it never happened. Well… not really, but the owners seemed unfazed. They intend to go ahead with the refit. According to wikipedia, The term hilaria seems originally to have been a name which was given to any day or season of rejoicing. It was a joy to see her revived today, and it will be an even greater thrill to see her under sail again.

Tenderly, he looked into the rushing water, into the transparent green, into the crystal lines of its drawing, so rich in secrets. Bright pearls he saw rising from the deep, quiet bubbles of air floating on the reflecting surface, the blue of the sky being depicted in it. With a thousand eyes, the river looked at him, with green ones, with white ones, with crystal ones, with sky-blue ones. How did he love this water, how did it delight him, how grateful was he to it! In his heart he heard the voice talking, which was newly awaking, and it told him: Love this water! Stay near it! Learn from it! Oh yes, he wanted to learn from it, he wanted to listen to it. He who would understand this water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would also understand many other things, many secrets, all secrets.
But out of all secrets of the river, he today only saw one, this one touched his soul. He saw: this water ran and ran, incessantly it ran, and was nevertheless always there, was always at all times the same and yet new in every moment! Great be he who would grasp this, understand this! He understood and grasped it not, only felt some idea of it stirring, a distant memory, divine voices.

Siddhartha

The anchorage in Cocoa is tucked in on the south side of the causeway, close up to the town. It is shallow with no current, good holding, and protection from all points North and West.
That morning there were a handful transients in there, some that had stopped for the night to watch the Orion rocket launch up at Canaveral, a few locals on moorings, and the usual derelict or two. I was there with the Spirit of St Simons and her brand new mast to meet with the local sailmaker, Scott Morgan, and get measured up for a new suit. I tiptoed through the crowd till I found a spot, and eased down the plow. As we rounded up, I took a look around and wondered what my daddy would think.

Seventy five years ago, my folks lived straight across this river on Merritt Island. They rented a farm house right down on the water. It was known as the Winslow place. Dad had an uncle- the bridge tender, who helped him get a construction job over at Patrick AFB. They lived in a shack right out on the bridge. Mamma always told the story about how they would go out there on Sundays and do their laundry, hanging the wet clothes out on the line to dry in the breeze as the traffic rattled past. As I was growing up I heard many stories about this place. Tales of fishing, snakes, mosquitos, oranges, the heat, the diphtheria…

My daddy’s favorite story was about how he rowed all the way across the river to town on Thanksgiving day, and bought a pork loin for dinner. My mother was beside herself. She was terrified of the water, but he loved it. He was fascinated with everything about it -the colors of the open sky, the herons and ibis, the pink clouds of spoonbills.

I was born a few years later, and in a different place. When I was little, my favorite spot was in his lap. He would tell me stories about times past, when he was young and alive, and then he’d serenade me to sleep. He was a big Tennessee Ernie Ford fan:

“ Loaded sixteen Tons, and what do you get… another day older and deeper in debt…”
I could feel the notes as they formed and rose up out of his chest.
“St Peter don’t you ask me cause I cant go…I owe my soul to the company stoooooow….”

My favorite song was what I called “wederee”, or actually, River of No Return. There are a couple of you tube clips of it online, so you can still listen to it if you like. Marilyn Monroe sang it in the movie of the same name, but when I hear Tennessee Ernie Ford sing it I can see my father.

“There is a river, called the river of no return… sometimes its peaceful, sometimes wild and free…I lost my lover, on the River of No return… Waileree Wail erreeheehee. [no return no return].”

Late in the night sometimes I drift into this special place. It is a sanctuary of sorts, that we must all dream of from time to time. It is a place of images where one can re- taste that long dormant sensation of love, security and the blissful ignorance that comes with childhood. When I imagine heaven, it is always some variation of this place. Usually this vision involves water, cypress trees, soda crackers and Vianna sausages, campfires, boats and fish, the smell of spent shotgun shells and Tennessee Ernie Ford.

Its hard to mess up a pork loin. On the boat, I like to keep it simple. I just sear it up a little in my old friend, the cast iron skillet, drop the heat, and cover it. Let it simmer. It doesn’t take long. Put in some vegetables. Anything. Onions of course, but whatever you have. Carrots and potatoes might need par boiling first, unless you cut them up small. It doesn’t matter! If you are anchored up in the Indian River in late November, it is going to be good. A bottle of red wine will make it even better.

The old causeway bridge and the tender’s shack are long gone. The town has changed. The island has changed. The world has changed. But a pork loin with caramelized onions and carrots and red wine under a free and open sky is still as just as good as it ever was.

“ Wail-er -ree Wail-er-reeeeeee. [no return no return no return]”