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Going Aloft

Ben McCanna

(page 1 of 3)

Last night, while hanging out on the foredeck with Shelly and the cook, Chad Pelletier, I expressed an interest in going aloft. In this mad, season-long quest to experience firsthand the knockabout lives of schooner bums, I’d logged — at least to my mind — some notable achievements: I’d tacked headsails in a gale; demystified the myriad lines of standing and running rigging; climbed the head rig to furl canvas while underway; practiced all manner of knots and coiling techniques; learned to identify windjammers by their rigs like an ornithologist observes plumage; and even suffered cold, wet weather in bare feet like a bona fide deck ape. Going aloft seemed like the next step in a natural—albeit slow — progression.

While most reasonable people go to great lengths to avoid heights, the average schooner bum fervently seeks them. Part of the appeal of climbing the rigging, I’m sure, is pride. A schooner bum who fails to mount the ratlines would be as cowardly as an outlaw who never drew his gun.

Theatricality plays a part, too. I’m sure there’s something satisfying about fearlessly teetering atop a swaying mast while a gaggle of lubberly onlookers gasps below your feet.

And, naturally, going aloft to furl the headsails or inspect the rigging is as much a part of the daily routine as dropping anchor or swabbing the deck. The fearful need not apply.

Still, when you talk to schooner bums, they never couch the task in daring terms. Instead, they mention the allure of peace and solitude found on high. When you live and work aboard a cramped windjammer, going aloft may be the only time you’ll find yourself utterly alone. Solitude is a rare commodity in this seagoing life; a privilege that mates and deckhands vie for. And, once up there, the schooner bums invariably find reasons to lengthen their stay.

I, on the other hand, have an unsteady relationship with heights. When I was younger, heights weren’t a problem. In my college days, however, I lost my nerve when I broke my collarbone jumping from a train trestle into a swim hole far below.

Last night while talking to Chad, my gusto had been amplified by a mug of red wine; today, I’m all too happy to forget the conversation ever took place.

Unfortunately, Chad has not forgotten. When the Deer Isle-Sedwick Bridge comes into view, Chad approaches Captain Mike and says, “Ben really wants to go aloft today while we pass under the bridge. Is that OK?”

“No problem,” says Mike.

Posted on Thursday, September 18, 2008 in Permalink