In Danger at Sea by Capt. Samuel S. Cottle

Author:Capt. Samuel S. Cottle
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780892728275
Publisher: Down East Books

CAPTAIN’S LOG

Section III

The Final Years

MISTRESS OF THE SEAS

As a small boy raised at the edge of the sea, I tried to absorb the terminology used daily by the fishermen around me as they carried out various tasks aboard their vessels and ashore.

I was fascinated with the names and meanings of such things as “sea anchor”—a canvas cone that floated when thrown overboard while most anchors sank instantly to the ocean bottom; a “monkey’s fist”—a special knot that did not look at all like the hand of a primate; a “turtle back”—an extension aft of the wheelhouse—and a “whaleback,” or raised deck, running from the bow aft to the mainmast. Both were common aboard eastern-rig draggers, but neither looked like a turtle or a whale.

I gradually learned this unique language and adopted it as my very own. Yet there was one thing I never really understood until I grew to manhood and became the master and owner of my own vessel: Why do men—all men—refer to ships as being of the feminine gender?

When talking about his fishing boat, the Olive, my grandfather would soften his voice and speak in a gentle tone he never used when referring to his wife or daughters. There was no question that he had a deep and abiding love for his family, yet he reserved his most intimate tone for his boat.

One day we were hauling the Olive, gently sliding her onto the half-submerged cradle at the boatyard. Secured by cables that were wound around the drums of a winch, this frame sat on railroad tracks that slanted down into the water. Any vessel to be hauled out for repair or painting was eased into this cradle, which then was gently pulled up out of the water onto land. This all took place at Captain Hanson’s shipyard, up at the head of Salt Pond.

Because I was smaller and more limber than any of the crewmen, my job was to climb under the boat and begin to quickly scrape her bottom of the barnacles and sea grass that had been accumulating there all summer. It was imperative that this process begin while the hull was still wet, as the marine growth would bond to the wooden planks like concrete if it was allowed to dry. This was a horrible job. Not only did the growth dropdown on me in a soggy mass, but it also went into my eyes, down my shirt, and into my boots. And as I scraped, the “red lead” antifouling paint would drop onto my skin and begin to sting like a wicked sunburn—I guess from the chemicals in the paint. I was always determined to complete the job as quickly as possible because my grandfather expected that of me, and I never wanted to disappoint him. But that didn’t make the task any easier.

On this particular day, when the job was complete Gramp took a long, careful look and then said, “There now, you’ve made her happy. Good job.”

As he turned to

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