Of Yachties and Schooner Trash
As I was packing for a 5 day sail on the schooner Mystic Whaler, Scott McGinley warned me from the other end of the phone that “this is a working boat…” Not quite sure what he meant, I inquired further. “Well, it isn’t like sailing at a yacht club. To us, you guys are ‘yachties’ – you know, guys who wear Breton red shorts and drink martinis.” In a single sentence Scott had dismissed most of my sailing wardrobe. I glanced down at my faded but still quite red Bermuda shorts and replaced them with a pair of kahkis. Quickly I called Wayne. “Perhaps we should leave the dress blues at home.”
We boarded the Mystic Whaler on Sunday night. Wayne, Ragi, Scott the Elder, Randy and I met in the parking lot, assembled our baggage on carts, and headed down the dock. We were greeted by a wiry young man with an excellent tan and the “seasoned sailor” look about him. “Oh, you must be the Scott McGinley fan club! Welcome aboard! We’ve got a huge cooler on deck, just leave your booze here and we’ll load it for you.”
Bags stowed, Jeremy, the mate, returned to the deck to transfer our liquor to the ample deck locker. A look of dismay crossed his face. “The cooler’s not THAT big!” You could tell by the look on his face what he really wanted to say… “yachties. What will they do next.” Fortunately mine was a cabin meant for two. I slept on the top bunk, the booze nestled in the bottom bunk and on every square inch of the cabin sole.
The schooner day starts early. The cook is always up at 5:30 to tend to “Emily,” the diesel stove. She occupies most of the galley and takes about 2 hours to come up to temperature. Having learned that the cook always has the morning’s first pot of coffee ready at 7, I was up in time to watch the rest of the crew emerge from four cozy bunks in the fo’c’sle. The crew is a study in and of themselves. Some are college kids taking the summer to do something different. Others are “friends of the boat,” somewhere between paid crew and volunteers, former passengers who need to escape their desk jobs for a few weeks. A few are seasoned sailors who have made a career moving from one boat to the next, wintering in the Florida keys and summering between New York and Maine. Known “in the trade” as “schooner trash”,” professional schoonermen (and schoonerwomen) have a distinct look -- well-tanned, swarthy souls, most brandishing impressive-looking rigging knives, clad in wrinkled khaki pants and red shirts that probably hadn’t seen a washing machine for a while. “When did you have your last shower?” I asked. “I dunno,” said Scott with a grin. “What day of the week is it?”
One of Scott’s first jobs is morning colors. Unlike the yachtie tradition, the Mystic Whaler observes colors at 7am, and, in deference to the passengers, without a gun. The schooner usually flies two flags, the American flag from the main topmast, and one of any number of commemorative or decorative flags from the foremast. Sheepishly, I asked Scott if he would mind being “yachtie” for a day or two and fly the 4’x6’ Club Burgee I brought with me. All of us were somewhat relieved when the Captain pronounced it “cool” several hours later.
The burgee flies from the foremast shrouds. The pigstick, seen at the truck of the mast, had been destroyed in a squall a week earlier.
Captain John came on deck shortly after the crew was up and about. He surveyed the vessel and motley crew with obvious pride in both. My sense of schooner life is that the Captain makes the boat, and that certainly was the case here. “Cap’n,” as he is called by crew and eventually passengers too, is an entrepreneur, a small businessman, a hotel operator, a leader and a sailor all wrapped up into one. He clearly loves his job and his boat and would rather be nowhere else. He spends a good deal of the day on his cell phone, in between tricks at the helm and puffs on the ever-present cigar. Cap’n appears to be on a first-name basis with most of coastal New England.
I get the sense that despite a rigorous cruising schedule Cap’n and boat like to take life one day at a time. “Where to today, Cap’n?” I asked. He smiled. “Dunno. Haven’t thought about it yet. Maybe Newport. Where would you like to go?” Though I have always fantasized about calling the Newport harbor master and asking for a mooring for a 110ft schooner, I’d been to Newport a lot this summer. “How about Cuttyhunk?” Clearly pleased at the prospect of a change of scenery, Captain explains to the rest of the passengers “I have orders for Cuttyhunk, the Mystic River Bridge opens in 15 minutes, so let’s get going” and he starts the engine.
Scott has his pancake ready as the Mystic Whaler approaches the Mystic River bridge.
One of the joys of sailing on the Mystic Whaler, or any schooner, is the odd little traditions that make life interesting. As “payment” to the bridge keeper, the crew and passengers hurl, Frisbee-like, the remnants of this morning’s pancake breakfast at the small target presented by the bridge-keeper’s open window. None of them go in, but the bridge-keeper waves his thanks anyway. What he’d do if he actually caught one, no one seems to know.
On the way over to the island I was amazed at how close smaller boats got to us, weaving in and out under our bowsprit. The captain didn’t really seem to mind. Scott explained with a grin. “We have a saying on the boat… ‘they sink, we paint.’ Though Cap’n does like us to avoid hitting anything over 25ft.”
The Mystic Whaler is definitely a working boat, and like any working boat, there’s always plenty to do. The crew always asks for help raising the sails. The passengers form two rope lines, one for the throat and one for the peak, and haul away to the grunt of sea shanties. For some reason, “What do you do with a drunken sailor” seems to be a favorite, though as far as I know the Captain has no daughter, and certainly not one on board.
When not raising sail, passengers are welcome to lounge in ignorant bliss in the waist or take part in the action on the quarterdeck. It definitely helps to have some of the vocabulary down. Most of the terms and techniques are familiar, especially if you’re used to gaff-rigged boats. There are some new twists, though. It took me a while to get the hang of the pinrail and to figure out just what the “jigger” did. (It’s tāckle and dāvit, by the way – not tackle and davit.) The crew is great at explaining things, though, and they seem to actually appreciate the extra help.
Day two sees a brief stop at the fuel dock in Cutythunk’s inner harbor and a beautiful sail to Oak Bluffs. (Our original destination was Vineyard Haven, but the Captain, understanding something of the yachtie mentality, knew that a dry town wouldn’t be our idea of fun.) The third day the winds are right for Newport and we docked at Christie’s. I asked the captain about dock fees and whether he’d rather anchor. “We get a deal at Christie’s – they think we add to the nautical flavor of the place.” And indeed we appear to do so everywhere we stop. People always come up to the boat. Some are former passengers and friends, others just curious. “Where are you from? How long have you been sailing? Can I come on board for a tour?” The Mystic Whaler does not usually invite the casual inquirer aboard while there are passengers on the boat. Pepe the pirate statue (having a suspicious resemblance to Captain Morgan of rum fame) stands guard at the end of the gangway offering brochures but letting none pass.
After a night on the town in Newport, we set sail on the morning of the fourth day for Block Island. For those of you familiar with the narrow channel that separates New Harbor from the sea, imagine sailing through there at 4 or 5 knots on a boat more than 28’ at the beam. “Raise the centerboard to ½” orders the captain as he tacks the boat through the anchorage, casually waiving to nervous boaters as our 30’ bowsprit swings over their cockpits. “Let’s do this right, guys,” he calls to the crew. “There are people watching.” We ghost up alongside Payne’s Warf as the crew drops the sails in a quick maneuver obviously designed with some element of showmanship in mind. The engine still not running, we drift to within what seems like inches of the pier. “What happens if the engine doesn’t start,” I asked. “We anchor. Quickly.”
Foul weather is no problem for hearty yachties
The fifth and final day of our cruise is grey and drizzly. Most of the passengers head below just after breakfast, content to lie in their bunks and finish their books. The yachties, of course, are equipped for this sort of thing. Foul weather gear comes on deck and we enjoy the peace and quiet of a rainy sail home. Randy takes stock of the remaining liquor stores and declares that the weather is just right for rum and hot chocolate. As we head back up the Mystic River and toward home, the captain turns to us with a smile and declares, “one thing’s for sure about you yacht club folks… you have a drink for every occasion.”