There is a tradition for those who sail on the Columbia and Snake Rivers: the first lock toss makes or breaks your season. Our Chief Mate, who was pragmatic and not given to superstition, told me that the worst river season he’d ever had was when the boatswain missed the first lock toss.
Our Captain was an excellent ship handler. I once watched him dock the 153-foot Sea Bird in a 150-foot slip, with the bow hanging over the stern of the boat in front. He shied away from using the bow thruster, preferring to feather the controls of the engines. His landings were smooth, quiet, and predictable.
He was also an enigmatic man. He triple-checked everything, spoke of the full moon with reverence, and bumbled under his breath, “bum-bum-bum,” when operations were slow. The scuttlebutt was that he was part of an acapella group in Boston called the Scalawag Mooners.
He was a man given over to signs and omens. “Red in the morning,” he’d say, looking out the bridge windows and shaking his head. He announced the last puffin of the season over the radio, and when not enough people came out on deck, he announced it over the PA as well. When the Chief Mate talked about a near miss at a crew meeting, Cap intoned, “Well, John, it was a full moon.”
This was to be my first river season and his last. I had been promoted to Rotational Deckhand, or Rot Deck, as it was commonly known. Cap called me up to the bridge and explained how we would enter the lock, make fast to a bollard, and transit around our first dam.
I was to stand at the bow; he’d be up in wing station. I’d point at the bollard and call distances to him, walking back until the Boatswain threw the hawser over it. Then we’d ride up seventy feet or more to a phenomenal river season. We’d sail to Clarkston, transiting eight locks along the way. For some of them, the guests would be asleep, but for this, the first to kick off the trip and the voyage, it was all hands on deck.
After I met with Cap, I told the Boatswain that we needed to move the mooring line from the three-chalk to the two-chalk.
“Why move it from three to two?”
“That’s what Cap wants.”
“We always do three.”
“This time, he wants two.”
The Indian summer had stretched into autumn; it was a beautiful day. All the guests were out on deck watching with anticipation. I stood at the bow, ready to call distances. Cap looked regal in his black and whites at the wing station, a bit of breeze in his salted hair. He gave me a knowing nod.
I pointed at the bollard and began to walk. “Twenty feet,” I radioed. The assembled crowd of guests snapped pictures. “Fifteen feet.” I could tell we were going too fast. “Ten feet!” I said as I started to go under the Portuguese deck, and Cap looked at me like I was daft. “Five feet!” I shouted.
The Boatswain stood on the bottom rail, hawser draped over the top, poised to throw as the bollard raced past but thought better of it.
“Zero feet!”
“What the devil’s going on?” Cap’s voice cracked over the radio.
“We passed the bollard.”
“It’s not even midships.”
“We’re on two chalk.”
“What? You should be on three!”
There was a flurry of activity. The Third Mate, Boatswain, and I tried to untangle the mooring line from its setup, but then the mates realized it would be faster to get another line altogether. They rushed to the bow and grabbed one from the line locker.
“Chief! Get down there!” Cap barked over the radio.
The Third Mate and Boatswain nearly had the line set up on three.
“Where’s my bollard?”
I ran to three and radioed, “Four off and forward.”
The engines whined.
“Engineering?”
“Yes, Cap?”
“Get my thruster online.”
The crew gulped in unison, and all the guests looked confused. The thruster began to whir. The Boatswain made the throw of his life and got the line on. Cap snugged us in tight.
As soon as I radioed all fast, Cap radioed back, “Boatswain to the bridge.”
A few moments later, the radio crackled, “Third mate to the bridge.”
The Chief Mate looked at me. “Why this setup?”
“That’s what he told me to do.”
“Chief Mate to the bridge.”
“He’s going to ask me, and I need to tell him something. What were his exact words?”
“He said, ‘starboard side, two.’”
I’d never seen someone’s jaw drop before. It was like the hinges on his mouth broke. “I can’t believe no one’s ever made that mistake.” He started to laugh.
“What?”
“It’s starboard side to, as in, to the dock. Not two,” he held up his fingers and shook his head.
When I taught English in Korea, I learned what a homophone was. It’s a word that sounds the same but has a different meaning, like two and to, or four and for, or steak and stake. I’ve always had a problem with them. People often point them out to me in my writing, which I am always extremely grateful for but also deeply embarrassed by. In my post, In Memory of Zach Redding, I wrote life is not for the fient of heart, ouch. In my post, The Only Way to Learn, I wrote that the switches were labeled with ancient ruins, twice. Double ouch.
Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” But I think he had a different kind of pain in mind than wincing at your own mistakes.
Still, I’ve applied a lesson or two from my boating days to how I write.
That river season, I missed one of my first lock tosses, and it stung. After that, I went to the fantail and practiced. When we docked at Clarkston, I took a morning line ashore and threw it around a bucket repeatedly until I could hit it every time.
At the last crew meeting, Cap told us it had been a good season, even if it had gotten off to a foreboding start. He went on to say that the longest lock toss of the season belonged to me. It was true; I had made one that was fifteen feet if it was an inch.
And so, I continue to practice my writing, I triple-check every post, and when I make a mistake, I blame it on the faze of the moon.
;)
Standing gangway watch in Baja, circa 2013.
Thank you for your time and attention this week. Keep in mind there’s a full moon Tuesday.
Oh the human factor... Made me smile