Cheaper by the Dozen

Author:Frank B. Gilbreth [Gilbreth Jr., Frank B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-5707-2
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-10-04T20:13:00+00:00

12

The Rena

DAD ACQUIRED THE RENA to reward us for learning to swim. She was a catboat, twenty feet long and almost as wide. She was docile, dignified, and ancient.

Before we were allowed aboard the Rena, Dad delivered a series of lectures about navigation, tides, the magnetic compass, seamanship, rope-splicing, right-of-way, and nautical terminology. Radar still had not been invented. It is doubtful if, outside the Naval Academy at Annapolis, any group of Americans ever received a more thorough indoctrination before setting foot on a catboat.

Next followed a series of dry runs, on the front porch of the Shoe. Dad, sitting in a chair and holding a walking stick as if it were a tiller, would bark out orders while maneuvering his imaginary craft around a tricky harbor.

We’d sit in line on the floor along side of him, pretending we were holding down the windward rail. Dad would rub imaginary spray out of his eyes, and scan the horizon for possible sperm whale, Flying Dutchmen, or floating ambergris.

“Great Point Light off the larboard bow,” he’d bark. “Haul in the sheet and we’ll try to clear her on this tack.”

He’d ease the handle of the cane over toward the imaginary leeward rail, and two of us would haul in an imaginary rope.

“Steady as she goes,” Dad would command. “Make her fast.”

We’d make believe to twist the rope around a cleat.

“Coming about,” he’d shout. “Low bridge. Ready about, hard a’lee.”

This time he’d push the cane handle all the way over toward the leeward side. We’d duck our heads and then scramble across the porch to man the opposite rail.

“Now we’ll come up and pick up our mooring. You do that at the end of every sail. Good sailors always make the mooring on the first try. Landlubbers sometimes have to go around three or four times before they can catch it.”

He’d stand up in the stern, the better to squint at the imaginary mooring.

“Now. Let go your sheet, Bill. Stand by the center-board, Mart. Up on the bow with the boat hook, Anne and Ernestine, and mind you grab that mooring. Stand by the throat, Frank. Stand by the peak, Fred. …”

We’d scurry around the porch going through our duties, until at last Dad was satisfied his new crew was ready for the high seas.

Dad was never happier than when aboard the Rena. From the moment he climbed into our dory to row out to Rena’s mooring, his personality changed. On the Rena, we were no longer his flesh and blood, but a crew of landlubberly scum shanghaied from the taverns and fleshpots of many exotic ports. Rena was no scow-like catboat, but a sleek four-master, bound around the Horn with a bone in her teeth in search of rare spices and the priceless treasure of the Indies. He insisted that we address him as Captain, instead of Daddy, and every remark must needs be civil and end with a “Sir.”

“It’s just like when he was in the Army,” Ernestine whispered. “Remember those

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