One Week before the Mast (cont')

Of Kelp and Men

Our trip through the channel is surprisingly calm and uneventful. We anchor for lunch in a quiet spot called Forney's Cove. The water is crystal clear and it's easy to see the kelp trailing 60 feet to the bottom. I have a request from the engineer for an underwater photo of "his" propeller and so off the side I go.

The water is frigid at first but soon becomes tolerable and the views from below the water's edge have me spellbound. The healthiest kelp I've ever seen waves back and forth in silent rhythm with the sea looking for all the world like a giant green kaleidoscope. Bright orange Garibaldis eye me warily, their vibrantly colored bodies stand out in contrast with this green world. A California sea lion, natures underwater comedian, spirals and dives around me, mocking my attempts to adapt to his undersea environment. My dive fins are, however, sufficient to get me to the underbelly of our vessel.

After checking out the wood slats that form our protection from the cold dark ocean, I make a disturbing discovery upon arrival at the ships propeller. Wrapped tightly around the propeller and its shaft is a large quantity of nylon rope. Left alone this could cause a jam and send the ship out of control at a crucial moment. Too tightly wrapped to be removed easily, a crew member with scuba gear is dispatched to cut the lines away before we set sail.

More than happy to do the task is Al Sorkin, a surly chap that prefers to sleep in the forecastle, the tightest, noisiest, smelliest part of the ship. It's hard to image Al in any other environment than on the Pilgrim. It seems like he's part of the ship and no one seems to know anything about his life before the Pilgrim. There's even a rumor they found him in the forecastle when the ship was brought over from Denmark!

Not only is he indispensable on a voyage, he is a fixture on the vessel when it's in dock. Al is the voice of terror to the thousands of schoolchildren who spend the night aboard the ship for its educational programs. One glance at him the wrong way and they soon find themselves swabbing the decks!

Captain Jim

Our captain, Jim Wehan, is the total opposite of what I expected. In Dana's book, the captain of the Pilgrim was a ruthless man. A mistake by a crewman could lead to a beating or worse. Two of the crew were flogged-something quite rare in the merchant service of the 1830's.

In contrast, our captain is a soft spoken man who exudes a quiet confidence. A seasoned sailor, he commands the ship so effortlessly that it seems like his orders are passed down to the crew by osmosis. This doesn't mean quietly-there is a lot of yelling back and forth due in part to the stress of difficult orders and the fact that often the orders are being yelled to crew members 60 feet above the churning waves. It is obvious that the crew has a deep respect for the captain and no one dares challenge him. He makes it clear on more than one occasion that democracy is for the people back on shore.

This one man leadership is vital to the effective operation of a vessel like the Pilgrim for, just like the journeys that Dana described, ours is filled with dangers.

The most dangerous time for all of us comes at the end of our voyage. We have experienced only clear weather during the trip but as we approach the mouth of L.A. Harbor a thick fog envelops us. This is an extremely hazardous situation as it is impossible to see oncoming traffic and navigational buoys. The entire crew is on edge as we slowly make our way towards the harbor. It is at a time like this that the job of the person doing bow watch is the most important on the ship.

In a stroke of bad timing I am up for bow watch just as we enter the fog bank. What had been an easy job of notifying the third mate of vessels on the horizon now becomes an almost life and death situation. Several boats per minute, some of them larger than us, come looming out of the mist in front of us. There are several near misses that twist my stomach as I rattle off approaching vessels to the sound of our ships horn blaring into the fog-the only warning we can provide. Suddenly, like a curtain being lifted, the fog disappears and the harbor appears.

Sailor Home From The Sea

It is a startling sight after being in near wilderness for the past week. Hundreds of ships are all around us from small sailboats to giant tankers. Huge cranes lifting cargo containers as large as the Pilgrim from ships the size of office buildings move in a surreal ballet. The smell of diesel fuel is everywhere.

I'm reluctant to disembark when we get to port. I've fallen into the rhythm of the sea and the ringing of the ship's brass bell. I know what awaits-the frustration of being stuck in freeway traffic and an overload of work due to my absence from the "real world."

As our bus travels along the freeway on the way back to Dana Point, a bottle of rum is passed around. Soon the traffic noise is replaced by voices singing sea chanteys. As I drift off, I am once again taken back to the creaking magic of the Pilgrim.

To view more of Wassmann's photography see his web site at http://artseek.com/wfa