One Week before the Mast

Words and Photographs by Cliff Wassmann

It's 11:00 PM on a cool Southern California night. There's a full moon above me and almost touching it is the 84 foot tall mast of the Brig Pilgrim. The huge sails gleam in the moonlight. Every once in awhile a gust of wind shifts direction and there's a soft "flap" to accompany the sound of waves being parted by the ship's bow. It's a hypnotic experience.

It occurs to me, as the hectic days that usually occupy my life drift away like the coastline behind me, that there is nothing at this moment that ties me to the 20th century. There is a cellular telephone in the Captains quarters, of course, and an engine if the wind dies down. But they're not in evidence at the moment. Over and over, the Brig's figurehead rises and falls as it encounters each wave-silent as it drops, creaking in the distance as it rises.

Watch

What I'm doing up at this hour when I should be fast asleep is working my first "watch." The Port Watch, I was informed as my head was about to hit the pillow at 11 PM, was to be on for the next four hours. Wait a second, I thought! I was invited to come on board to take photographs. "Layabout" was the term given to my status on the ship. I liked the sound of that; I needed a vacation.

But there it was-my name on the Watch List. My puzzled look only got me my orders for the next 4 hours-stand watch at the bow, maintain the helm, and do such dignified duties as checking the bilge every half hour. All of these were synchronized to the ringing of the ships bell. Layabouts, apparently, do not exist on the Pilgrim.

When the last bell is rung at 3:00 AM, I'm more than ready to hit the bed. Climbing into my bunk I notice a large sheet of plastic with an ominous bulge containing at least a gallon of dark water hanging over the location where I planned to place my head. "The ship leaks" I was matter-of-factly told.

By this point I'm so tired that I ignore the wet sleeping bag and the queasiness I feel now that I'm below decks. I start to drift off to sleep...and then I hear it. The melodic creak I heard up on deck in the distance is coming from the stairs next to my bunk. And now it's twice as loud. After several sleepless hours the sea changes and the creak moves to another part of the vessel.

I finally start to drift to sleep when; GOOD MORNING PILGRIMS, ALL HANDS ON DECK comes in a voice so loud I'm sure the whales are jolted by it. This announcement is from the ship's Bosun, Tom Burkholder. Tom is a thin, pony-tailed man who seems to have stepped out from another era-an era when bosuns commanded instant obedience. Those who don't follow the first command get an even ruder awakening. Sleep, it seems, is another thing that doesn't exist on the Pilgrim.

Bleary-eyed, I drag myself up to the deck to find our vessel anchored just off Avalon, on Catalina Island, in the shadow of a gigantic cruise ship. I look up at the people on the decks looming over us. Pool side, they enjoy a champagne breakfast. I'm certain they got a good night's sleep. But the magic of the Pilgrim is seeping into me. Even now I know I'll never be able to travel on a boat like that after sailing through the stars the night before.