Windjamming

An icy drizzle penetrates my newly purchased plastic poncho as I drag my suitcase down the weathered-plank wharf toward the schooner. At anchor, the MARY DAY lacks the grandeur of the full canvass pictures in the brochure. Still the wooden vessel enchants me. I feel as though I’ve stepped a hundred years into the past as I stand at the ladder and request permission to board.  Homer, one of the ship’s mates, greets me and helps me load my luggage on to the deck. He holds out a calloused hand to assist my climb up the rope and wood ladder. Leading me through the hatch and down the steep companionway steps to a dimly lit corridor, we approach my cabin’s open door. Two sets of thick plank bunk beds bolted to the wood walls dominated the room. A small sink hugs one wall. Naked bulbs dangle from the ceiling and provide sufficient light for reading, dressing, and basic grooming. The shower and the head (bathroom) are on deck. As the cabin is below the water line, a damp chill invades the dim space. After stowing my gear, I make my way to the saloon to meet my fellow passengers. We huddle around the wood-burning stove and introduce ourselves.

I wake to the aroma of fresh coffee. A chill hangs heavy in the small room. I dress quickly and hurry topside to infuse my sleep-fogged body with caffeine. Rain drops plop onto the canvas overhang, adding to the gloom of the early hour. The heavy stoneware mug warms my hands as I sip the strong coffee our cook provided.  I soon realize my Amarillo, Texas clothes are not warm enough for the early June rains. Our captain assures us we have time to go into Camden for any last minute purchases, so I head for a clothing shop near the dock.  With two pair of stretch pants, two Maine souvenir sweatshirts, a bottle of wine, and a six-pack of Diet Coke stuffed into my canvass ice-tote, I retrace my steps to the slip. Changing into my warmer clothes and donning my ugly but practical foul weather gear, I climb the companionway to the deck.

Camden Harbor is one of the busiest ports in Maine. Boats from outboards to schooners to yachts anchor in the sheltered waters. The harbor master maintains a strict schedule for moving craft from their slips into the bay.  The tug ties onto the MARY DAY and hauls us from the far end of the harbor towards Curtis Island.  Once past the Coast Guard Station and Curtis Island Lighthouse, we enter Penobscot Bay. The tug releases the lines and we are on our own. The captain requests volunteers to help hoist the sails. I join one of the two lines. Grabbing the oiled jute rope, I listen to the captain’s instructions. His commands echo across the water. “All together, pull!” “Right side, hold.” “Left, pull!” Inch by inch, gray-white canvas rises to the sky. The kid, Scooter, crawls across the mast protruding from the bow. Wearing flip-flops, he balances on the ropes and releases the rigging securing the canvas to the polished wood. One wrong move and the teen will plunge into the icy waters of the bay. My unused muscles burn and scream by the time sails fill the sky. I make a decision as the five-mast beauty glides into the open water. Tomorrow, I will lie on the deck, train my camera lens on the masts and shoot Scooter as he scampers up the tall spikes toward heaven.

Cait Collins