Coast Guard Cutterman Andrew Shook offers his musings on his trip to, and a day in Shipyard. I think I've found a regular contributor. Take it away, Andrew..
Spirit on a
Sunday…
0645- The piano
riff alarm I’ve had as the ringtone on my phone for years now is still too loud
and always goes off at the worst times. Like those nights up in Alaska where
the weather was so bad they’d bring me (on lookout.) down to the bridge and
it’d ring every 55 minutes to switch with the guy on helm. Like this morning,
except for a different reason. Today, for the first time since November, I’m
going to see Spirit. Actually, today
is one of many firsts. My first time in Savannah (Proper downtown, on the
river, old Savannah. Just a few blocks up from SCAD, my uncle’s Alma Manner and
a few houses down from the Midnight in
the Garden of Good and Evil house.). My first time attempting to bring my
supposed electrical experience courtesy of the US Coast Guard back to somewhere
a little close to home. My first time (well, maybe second really.) spending the
night. The last time I did, Uncle Ben was still the Captain. My head is still
just a little bit groggy from Saturday night. But not too groggy. I actually
spent yesterday morning packing. I even packed an extra pair of coveralls. The
non-USCG ones of course.
After 7 I hit the road, hoping all the way and amidst the
talk radio the front tire rods and bearings in my ancient (well, 2003.) Nissan
Xterra won’t give out. At least not today. I’ve already had to reschedule that
appointment twice.
What I hope will be my first and only stop is actually just
down the street and around the corner. A half a tank of gas to top off at the
BP. I grab a bottle of iced coffee on the way out, and throw a CD in the tape
deck. Sheryl Crow’s self-titled second album sings cut and dry 90s country-rock
back to me. Like presumably half the population of Florida (not to mention the
tourists.), I was hoping to beat the typical I-95 traffic before 8. An orange
glowing construction billboard warning of lane closures and a wreck by the
airport quickly curtails that idea. Pulling into a Mobil with high gas prices
forces me to reroute my GPS- getting it to find a route without highways is a
particular challenge, but it finds one. The same route as half the traffic,
guided along slowly by Jacksonville Sheriffs, takes me down North Main, and the
typical assortment of Baptist churches, firework stores and vacant lots for
sale by the same half dozen real estate and insurance companies promising
everyone the rural properties they crave to get while they still can.
Sometime later, passing through parts of parts of Florida
that somehow manage to feel both like the back roads upstate South Carolina and
the way to Folly Beach, I see the sign for I-95. Black 47 (another one of those
since broken-up Celtic folk-punk rock bands that sang exclusively about
drinking, hard work, sailing and the troubles in the vein of the Pogues that we
tall ship sailors seem to gravitate toward.) takes over from Sheryl at this
point. It’s been awhile since I left Jacksonville (I think.), and I haven’t
gotten stuck behind a tractor yet, so I think why not?
And for once I-95 isn’t too bad.
Crossing over the river, and the bridge into Georgia let me
know I’ve made it. From there the exits signs are easy to follow into Savannah.
A little green “US COAST GUARD COMMUNITY” gives me a faint smile.
Finding a park spot is bit more difficult. I pay around 10
for just under an hour to grab a quick lunch (pub nachos and a soda.) from a
British-style place my parents recommended. The statue of founder James
Oglethorpe looks down on me, tour guides and college students in the rays of
the afternoon sun peeking through the Spanish moss and the trees. Lunch is
good- I take half of it in a box and tip 20%. The drive to Thunderbolt is
shorter than I expected, and scenic nonetheless. I didn’t know Thunderbolt was
actually its own little town- I pass by shrimpers, sloops, a ketch or two and
numerous small powerboats trying to catch the last of the weekend. Not to
mention apartment complexes with a view that probably cost more than my BAH. A
nice gate guard smiles when I tell her I’m a volunteer with Spirit of South Carolina, seeing the
ship for the first time in months and points out where I can find a parking
spot. I wind up parking a further up than dock, but past the cabin cruisers,
catamarans, and the yachts I can recognize the rake of the foremast and the
spreaders on the main anywhere. And Virginia’s
black hull with her knock about spoon bow is easily recognizable. The pilot
schooners together are an impressive sight, rivalling anything else in the
shipyard. A part of the old competitive sailor in me even kind of wants to see
them race. Next Chesapeake Bay Schooner Regatta anyone?
I remember from Bryan’s last volunteer blog that the hull
was in better shape than expected, despite it being sometime since she got out
of the water. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her out of water, and she
looks good. Whoever pressure washed down there did a good job. Her red bottom
paint is a bright to her white topsides, the growth on her hull zincs and props
seem minimal. Ascending the scaffolding (still less shaky than the brow of my
cutter in Tampa that’s already broken the foot of one of the Gunner’s Mates.) I
simultaneously greet Charlie Malone (A volunteer I’ve not yet met.), and pass him
my cooler and overnight bag. Hunter and I catch up for a moment, and I present
him with my donation to the ship’s coffee mess- a locally brewed medium dark
roast courtesy of a shop downtown. I lay down my bags in my rack for the night-
not the one I always try to claim in the fo’c’stle-that one’s currently buried
under gear for the dory, but I’ pretty sure this one might have been Melissa’s
rack- a tough (actually, I’d say the toughest.) old Boatswain from some years
past.
The three of us form a plan and set to work. To stow
everything removed in 4 minutes during the middle of a Coast Guard inspection
back below in the lazarette, a space not typically accessed and with not much
headroom or even room to maneuver. It begs the question, what might we need most
and to be most accessible (i.e. shoring battens and wedges, the emergency
tiller and its relieving tackles, and a bag of caulking hammers and mallets.)
versus what might not be an immediate priority (assorted wood pieces and extra
coils and spools of lines.). Charles beats me volunteering to go below, and as
we discuss the priorities for the items in the cockpit, we make small talk on
the industry. And slowly get to know each other. My electrical experience (or
maybe what passes for a conscience.), actually does come in handy- I refuse to
let a shore tie with cracked and frayed insulation go below, and we leave it
with the expired line throwing guns at the base of the main sheets.
We find the halyards for the fisherman and the gaff topsail.
I can’t even remember the last time we hoisted those. Not while I was aboard.
After a quick break for water and a soda, next we start on
the starboard cleats (number one and three.). It takes some effort to strip the
black grime down and remaining bits of varnish to bare wood. Two years holding
the strain and tension of the mooring lines to the Charleston Maritime Center
dock have taken their toll. An orbital sander probably has helped in my case
(it helps Charlie.), but chasing rust on the last 378 gives me an air of
confidence. After about an hour, we can start on the first three hot coats of
D1.
As the sun begins to set, the no-see-ums come out, and the
number of weekend power boaters in the back creeks begins to thin, Hunter,
Charlie and I don long sleeves and crack open beers by the port deck boxes. I’m
finally old enough to do that now on Spirit-
another first. We talk life in our respective industries, how shipyard periods
go (Charlie and I both just got one of one.) and eventually Hunter lays out his
dinner plans- nothing fancy, simple enough. Just steaks, baked potato and salad
at the crew lounge. We load up provisions, make it down the scaffolding and
Charles gives us a ride in his Tacoma.
The crew lounge is nice- nicer than a lot of other shore
side facilities I’ve been to (at least in the Coast Guard.). We set the table
and Hunter puts the steaks (seasoned without salt, pepper or garlic, just steak
seasoning courtesy of Jack Daniels.) on the grill by the pool. We might have
even raised a toast to all the crew come and gone.
Dinner is delicious, as always with Hunter’s cooking. After
helping clean up, we play a game or two of pool afterwards, first Hunter and I
and then Hunter and Charles. Hunter gives me tips on how to play like a sailor
as the Blaggards (another one of “those” bands.) and the Pogues play silently
in the background.
Aside from getting a few photos of me under the keel, the
rest of the night is quiet, as we swap sea stories- Alaska, tall ships, recent
months missed in between, those missed and forgotten, and hopeful plans for the
future before we turn in. After about 2 hours, we head below. Like when you
know you’ve got next watch, but somehow can’t find it in you to fall asleep.
Changing in the head and then moving items around in my rack for the night
under the red lights don’t seem to do the trick. Even if Spirit is the only ship I’ve ever been in with the headroom sit up
in.
Monday is my last day of leave, so unfortunately I can’t
stay long. That same damn piano alarm soon rings early the next morning. I get
packed, change in the head, and leave a note (sorry to take a page out the
volunteer log Bryan!). I try a left over nacho or two in the cockpit. Too damp-
and the no-see-ums make sort work of that idea. It takes me a minute to pass
everything over the rail, but I make it down and over to my car, and even grab
a few more photos of the pilot schooners together. It takes a minute to load
her up, and another to look back at the two raked masts I’d recognize anywhere
before heading out.
The last of Savannah I take in is the gas station just up
the street to grab a Red Bull and top off my tank. I find the local morning
talk radio (just the NPR outlet.), and stay tuned to that between the
directions of my GPS until I fall out of range- and I’m at that point of I-95
where it calls for Sheryl Crow. Not a bad way to end a weekend in Spirit of South Carolina. And before
long I’m crossing back into Florida.
Coming back here has always felt strange since November.
Florida is technically “home”, I mean it’s where I’m stationed. It’s my current
homeport. It’s where I’m billeted for the next three years until I rank up- and
where I even have a small apartment with what I’ve brought down from the trips
back home. But it doesn’t really feel like home. But I mean, neither does
Charleston. It evokes sentimentalities, and reminds me where I grew up. I am in
no man’s land, as I try and tell people home is “everywhere.” Even if it
doesn’t feel like that, wherever I may roam- to borrow that last part from
James Hetfield.
Thankfully Spirit of
South Carolina still does.
