A Voice From the Past

Friday, April 21, 2006

Page 15

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

A Voice From the Past

By J’AMY PACHECO

The sea has many voices.

—Thomas Stearns Eliot

A few nights ago, my sleepy little girl snuggled against me and asked yet another one of those unexpected questions. This one was, “Mom, do you think I was born to be a sailor?”

To understand how unusual this question was, you’d have to understand what kind of daughter I have. She’s 10, petite, shy, and rather princess-like. She is afraid of many things, including high places, and takes weeks at the beginning of each summer to remember how to swim.

The question came about because of something sort of crazy we did the first weekend of her Spring Break. We loaded sleeping bags, camping dishes, a change of clothes and little else into a borrowed duffel bag and headed for San Diego.

There, we ventured to the waterfront, where we found pirates guarding a bunch of old ships.

We were met on the dock by a nautically attired first mate, who yelled at us like the untrained seaman recruits we would soon become. Instantly, we were transported back in time to 1874, and began an adventure in living history.

With our crewmates, we boarded the vintage tall ship, “Star of India.” Our first mate showed us where to stow our gear, then introduced us to our stern captain, Sir Francis Drake IV.

So began our overnight trip as emigrant sailors working as deckhands to pay our passage across the sea. We were sorted by jobs — we were “riggers” — and lined up by height. We were told what would be expected of us, and shown the cat-o-nine-tails that awaited any sailor who did not perform as expected.

I could tell that my princess was not a happy sailor at this point, but when we riggers went off to learn about rope, she didn’t hesitate to follow. Once I quietly assured her that the “cat” would not be let out of the bag on our imaginary voyage, she started to get into the sailor mood.

All afternoon, we learned how to be sailors. We learned to tell the difference between working lines and…uh, the other kind. We learned the proper way to coil and hang rope, and how to raise and lower a sail. We rigged a boatswain’s chair, tied knots and practiced the proper method of climbing in and out of the ship’s rigging. We learned how to “ho” when our mate told us to “heave,” and how important it is to work together as a crew.

We watched with some trepidation as the ship’s cook demonstrated — using a carrot and a big knife — how a sailor’s injured finger might be treated while at sea, and vowed to keep our hands away from any moving lines.

At sundown, we sat on a cold, damp deck while beef stew was slopped into our metal bowls. We sipped lemonade to prevent scurvy (you know how fast THAT can set in), gnawed on bread, and got to know our shipmates.

At dogwatch that evening, we learned a few sea chanteys, heard a maritime ghost story, and listened raptly as the captain recounted the history of our ship.

Originally named “Euterpe,” the ship carried emigrants for more than 25 years, and later, salmon. As we sat below decks listening to the captain, the ship creaked and groaned.

“She’s talking to you,” the captain explained.

When dogwatch ended, the riggers stood a two-hour night watch, protecting the ship and our sleeping shipmates from rocks, weather, and the occasional drunks who wandered the waterfront. Under a clear night sky, we ran our fingers over the ship’s wheel, and marveled at her beauty.

The next day, my daughter and I received certificates proclaiming each of us an “Ordinary Seaman.” By then, my little sailor didn’t want to leave the ship, and hugged its railing in protest.

In daylight, the pirates had returned to the dock, and one of them quizzed my sailor about her experience. She answered every question he posed, and he rewarded her by giving her pin naming her “First Mate” of the Star of India.

She was delighted, and asked if we could repeat the experience next year. The voyage left her wondering if she should think about a career at sea, and wanting to return to the Star of India.

“She’s calling me,” she murmured sleepily into my ear.

I’m not anxious to spend another night camped out on the hard wooden deck of an old ship. But when the past calls, it’s kind of hard to resist answering.

I admit even I’m curious about what the old ship might have to say…