ADVENTURESS - "Our James Bond crew"

2015-01-22

We must be nearing Martinique. We had one leg of jamón to last us the trip, and we’re damned near out of jamón. Las galletas con chocolate went scarce days ago. Our cargo of hope and dalliance and pride and people are primed for shore, even though the lure of land can be scarier than any approaching storm. We’re ready. Our vessel of wood and metal and cordage and leather and blood and sweat wants for a breather. The corner of the eye catches a silver glint: Form or function?

 

We must be nearing Martinique. We had one leg of jamón to last us the trip, and we’re damned near out of jamón. Las galletas con chocolate went scarce days ago. Our cargo of hope and dalliance and pride and people are primed for shore, even though the lure of land can be scarier than any approaching storm. We’re ready. Our vessel of wood and metal and cordage and leather and blood and sweat wants for a breather. The corner of the eye catches a silver glint: Form or function? Duct tape from an abstract artist or the simple securing of some pesky working part that doesn’t like to stay in its place, like an errant toothbrush? We’ve called it French Classique”, as in “CLASSEEK!” Andy assures us that, “Hell, in Tennessee that’s called chrome!”
The new moon came and went and now waxes poetically, a sliver of crescent silver hanging amongst sunset wisps towering pink off of our port bow. Orion still follows and leads us, nudging and beckoning east to west through the dark, stalking silently in hunting advance, night riding the wind-whipped clouds while we midnight ride the ever-westward waves.
It’s a bit late in the play to introduce the cast, but so I shall. These deck-loping wolves sailed together and sang together and howled together. These howling wolves. Howling at the Universe. Howling at the world.  At each other. With each other. An exploration in leadership, camaraderie, and tenacity. Bold moments, hesitant moments, angry moments, intelligent moments, hilarious moments. Misquoting movies and singing the wrong lyrics to songs, reading and recommending books and the normal course of a day became, well, normal. Teasing and bickering and dancing and dining and succeeding. We paced the deck and gathered at the cockpit. We storm chased and squall fought from the foredeck. We took in the sun and eased out the sails. A wide steady gait and the chatter of friends, “Good morning” and “Sleep well?” and “Feeling good?” and “Get that sail in!” and “YESSS!!!” and “Woohoo!” and “Alright!” These hard-charging, laughter-booming, world-problem-solving, life-loving sailors. These howling wolves:
Captain Seth Salzman, our fearless leader, El Capitán de Cayo Hueso, with the skills of a bygone era, a throwback having a spit-in-the-eye-of-the-world go at making these old rigs fly over the far-off, rounded horizons.
Çağan “ChaCha” Çetin, the Turkish Terror, the Istan-Bull, the Barbaros with an artistic eye for photographic capture and an Ozan poetic presence.
Pablo “Cito” Bujosa, our Mallorquin rock star, rebel poster adorning the walls of Spanish girls all over the Iberian peninsula.
Andy “Memphis” Gardiner, representing the Maine windjamming schooner fleet, southern twang yarn-spinner with a Carhartt conscience for these old wooden gals.
Wes “Buck” Cannon, Cajun philosopher, Steel City entrepreneur, and fan of Costa Rican slang. A lo chancho chingo, and into the surf we go.
British Jenny Corcos, gifted linguist from the country that invented “take the piss”, and generous encourager of boys to be at least good boys, if not hero-saints.
“Robusto” Michael Hoch, “Mad Mike Hawk”, gazing with Ichabod eyes and demanding a hell of a lot from the winds, the wheel, and the espresso.
Toti, "El Diablo del Dragon", passionate Catalan, boat builder, ocean crosser, a man willing to marry a wild-willed Colombian beauty, father of two, and therefore stormy gales mean  just a stroll on an easy sea.
Connor “Sprouty” Scruggs and Griffin “Crime Dog” “Pinky Bear” Scruggs, ”The Brothers Nordique”, these two galley-crouching giant Canadians, restaurant chefs in a former life; boat chefs, sailors, engineers, bosuns and bass dropping dancers in this one.
And me, Jeremiah “Jack” “Squads” Bailey, just a traveler that enjoys the finer things at the edges of society.
A crew mileage-tested that sailed her ‘round the Atlantic, Caribbean to New England, to the Mediterranean, to the Canary Islands, and now back to the Caribbean, and some crew that flew in from historic sailing grounds, exotic in their lore: England, Maine, Turkey, Spain, and Pittsburgh. Our James Bond crew full of wit and charisma keeps looking patiently outward and exploring inward.  Low-brow comedy passes the time, and high-brow ferocity keeps us on our toes. We eat well and joke often. Fish guts and fist bumps and our gypsy heels are kicking up. Rejuvenating seatox clean living and we’re coming for you Loic, wolves on the prowl.
“Now this is the law of the jungle,
As old and as true as the sky,
And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper,
But the wolf that shall break it must die.
As the keeper that girdles the tree trunk,
The law runneth forward and back;
For the strength of the pack is the wolf,
And the strength of the wolf is the pack…”
-Rudyard Kipling
Heraclitus of Ephesus said, “You cannot step twice into the same river.” Soon our Fellowship of Fun-Seekers will separate, and the next time we return to these waters we will be different, the ocean will be different, the jokes will be different, and we’ll seek it out all the same, knowing it will be different. The magic of the moving sea will enchant us, and we will cross it again, attracted to its differences and dangers. Mermaids and sirens and rum squalls will terrorize with their mesmerizing pull. New friends and new ships will make acquaintance, and old ways and the good old days will paint nostalgia on our faces. Our seemingly senile methods of forward motion shall not be hindered by reasoning ways, and we will ride on and sail on and howl on, thankful that we’re on this journey.
- Jeremiah Bailey`

We must be nearing Martinique. We had one leg of jamón to last us the trip, and we’re damned near out of jamón. Las galletas con chocolate went scarce days ago. Our cargo of hope and dalliance and pride and people are primed for shore, even though the lure of land can be scarier than any approaching storm. We’re ready. Our vessel of wood and metal and cordage and leather and blood and sweat wants for a breather. The corner of the eye catches a silver glint: Form or function?

Duct tape from an abstract artist or the simple securing of some pesky working part that doesn’t like to stay in its place, like an errant toothbrush? We’ve called it French Classique”, as in “CLASSEEK!” Andy assures us that, “Hell, in Tennessee that’s called chrome!”

The new moon came and went and now waxes poetically, a sliver of crescent silver hanging amongst sunset wisps towering pink off of our port bow. Orion still follows and leads us, nudging and beckoning east to west through the dark, stalking silently in hunting advance, night riding the wind-whipped clouds while we midnight ride the ever-westward waves.

It’s a bit late in the play to introduce the cast, but so I shall. These deck-loping wolves sailed together and sang together and howled together. These howling wolves. Howling at the Universe. Howling at the world. At each other. With each other. An exploration in leadership, camaraderie, and tenacity. Bold moments, hesitant moments, angry moments, intelligent moments, hilarious moments. Misquoting movies and singing the wrong lyrics to songs, reading and recommending books and the normal course of a day became, well, normal. Teasing and bickering and dancing and dining and succeeding. We paced the deck and gathered at the cockpit. We storm chased and squall fought from the foredeck.

We took in the sun and eased out the sails. A wide steady gait and the chatter of friends, “Good morning” and “Sleep well?” and “Feeling good?” and “Get that sail in!” and “YESSS!!!” and “Woohoo!” and “Alright!” These hard-charging, laughter-booming, world-problem-solving, life-loving sailors. These howling wolves:Captain Seth Salzman, our fearless leader, El Capitán de Cayo Hueso, with the skills of a bygone era, a throwback having a spit-in-the-eye-of-the-world go at making these old rigs fly over the far-off, rounded horizons.Çağan “ChaCha” Çetin, the Turkish Terror, the Istan-Bull, the Barbaros with an artistic eye for photographic capture and an Ozan poetic presence.Pablo “Cito” Bujosa, our Mallorquin rock star, rebel poster adorning the walls of Spanish girls all over the Iberian peninsula.Andy “Memphis” Gardiner, representing the Maine windjamming schooner fleet, southern twang yarn-spinner with a Carhartt conscience for these old wooden gals.Wes “Buck” Cannon, Cajun philosopher, Steel City entrepreneur, and fan of Costa Rican slang.

A lo chancho chingo, and into the surf we go.British Jenny Corcos, gifted linguist from the country that invented “take the piss”, and generous encourager of boys to be at least good boys, if not hero-saints.“Robusto” Michael Hoch, “Mad Mike Hawk”, gazing with Ichabod eyes and demanding a hell of a lot from the winds, the wheel, and the espresso.Toti, "El Diablo del Dragon", passionate Catalan, boat builder, ocean crosser, a man willing to marry a wild-willed Colombian beauty, father of two, and therefore stormy gales mean  just a stroll on an easy sea.Connor “Sprouty” Scruggs and Griffin “Crime Dog” “Pinky Bear” Scruggs, ”The Brothers Nordique”, these two galley-crouching giant Canadians, restaurant chefs in a former life; boat chefs, sailors, engineers, bosuns and bass dropping dancers in this one.And me, Jeremiah “Jack” “Squads” Bailey, just a traveler that enjoys the finer things at the edges of society.

A crew mileage-tested that sailed her ‘round the Atlantic, Caribbean to New England, to the Mediterranean, to the Canary Islands, and now back to the Caribbean, and some crew that flew in from historic sailing grounds, exotic in their lore: England, Maine, Turkey, Spain, and Pittsburgh. Our James Bond crew full of wit and charisma keeps looking patiently outward and exploring inward.  Low-brow comedy passes the time, and high-brow ferocity keeps us on our toes. We eat well and joke often. Fish guts and fist bumps and our gypsy heels are kicking up. Rejuvenating seatox clean living and we’re coming for you Loic, wolves on the prowl.“Now this is the law of the jungle,As old and as true as the sky,And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper,But the wolf that shall break it must die.As the keeper that girdles the tree trunk,The law runneth forward and back;For the strength of the pack is the wolf,And the strength of the wolf is the pack…”-Rudyard KiplingHeraclitus of Ephesus said, “You cannot step twice into the same river.” Soon our Fellowship of Fun-Seekers will separate, and the next time we return to these waters we will be different, the ocean will be different, the jokes will be different, and we’ll seek it out all the same, knowing it will be different.

The magic of the moving sea will enchant us, and we will cross it again, attracted to its differences and dangers. Mermaids and sirens and rum squalls will terrorize with their mesmerizing pull. New friends and new ships will make acquaintance, and old ways and the good old days will paint nostalgia on our faces. Our seemingly senile methods of forward motion shall not be hindered by reasoning ways, and we will ride on and sail on and howl on, thankful that we’re on this journey.

- Jeremiah Bailey`

 

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