Location: Spanish Town, BVI
We awoke this morning in the Spanish Town anchorage to the unmistakable sounds of a fire drill, a test of our preparedness for a true emergency. Everybody was awake and on deck within a minute and a half, and I’m sure the sweet aroma of homemade cinnamon rolls from the galley didn’t hurt this timing either. After breakfast, the crew had some free time ashore to get their fix of cheeseburgers and ice cream, not to mention also stock up on seasickness meds and provisions for the upcoming passage. We readied Ocean Star and secured her contents before departing for the 150-mile passage to Nevis in the early afternoon. The crew is looking forward to the time at sea and anticipating a stiff north/north-easterly breeze and many flying fish sightings. Jack read us a sweet poem about being a schooner sailor to mentally prepare for the journey; here’s a passage: We enjoyed a beautiful rosy sunset for our first dinner underway as we got into the rhythm of 3-hour watch routines. A great kick-off for our first big passage. See you in Nevis! Sea Slug Cocktail (courtesy of Jack) Down the dock, with a swaggering walk, came another salty lad. A hollow fid was in his hand, a sextant in his bag. From the placid Caribbean, where Hed made himself a name, Hed comes to join the big rigs and sail the bounding main. Of spinnakers and bloopers, and Cunninghams and such, He could tell you A to Z. He seemed to know as much As all those red-pants yachties, who’ll tell you of the storms they’ve fought While sailing around the sound in boats of frozen snot. But he said he knew the gaffers, he could tell you throat from the peak, Hed brought along his Ashley’s and smeared tar upon his cheek, And so that day he stepped aboard the big rigs salt-stained deck, His eagerness to take the helm was barely held in check. Now Wayne the Mate was forward, and Dan the Bosun was too Just sitting up in the Rum Sharks Lounge and knockin back a brew I don’t know, says Wayne the Mate, about our newest hand, He claims to be a schooner boy, but his boot is full of sand. He steps aboard and spins a yarn bout all the rigs he’s known, But let’s see him up in the widowmaker when the hawse is full of foam. Let’s send him aloft on a stormy night with his belly full of supper And make him hand the topsail when there are fishes in the scupper. Me thinks yer right! says Bosun Dan, And so I have a plan, With which tonight, we will prove the mettle of this man. You meet me here in the Rum Sharks Lounge, and though our ways be rude, Well, make a proper schooner boy of this inland waters, dude! That night, up in the focsle, they assembled all the gang. The fun was fast and furious, and loud the hootchbird sang. And amidst the din of shanties and the strumming of guitars, In walks the new recruit, the jaunty, would-be tar. A yachting cap was on his head, and topsiders on his feet! The boys all rose to greet him, and they offered him a seat. To the brotherhood before the mast, we welcome you! they roared. We knew that you were one of us the minute you stepped aboard. And so continued Bosun Dan to the blushing new deckhand; we’ve assembled the elite of the schooner fleet. They are here before you stand, and just one thing would fill their hearts; one thing would bring them joy. They wish to make you, honored sir, a bonafide schooner boy. Now, the same, some say, is one who sailed through a roaring water spout, but most genuine authorities doubt that definition. And it’s a general notion of this assemblage of renown That a schooner boy is one who drinks a sea slug cocktail down. A puzzled look crossed the new man’s brow. I trust you do not tease. A cocktail, I understand, but what’s this sea slug, please? We’re not surprised, says Wayne, the Mate. The sea slug you do not know, For they cling to keels of deep-water ships in the seas where the big rigs go. They’re soft and fat and pasty white and feed upon red lead, bottom slime, barnacles, and stuff that’s pumped from the head! A toughish yarn, laughed the new recruit, as well, you may admit, But I’d like to see this little beast before I swallow it. Tis easy done! cried Bosun Dan Ho! Cookie, hast and bring, Bring forth some pickled sea slugs of the vintage of last spring. So the cook went into the galley and in the reefer found A jar of slimy sea slugs, in sperm whale vomit, drowned. Then she mixed the critters up in the shaker of squid secretion And handed them over to Wayne and Dan, who drank down the creation. The would-be schooner boy turned green, his face a ghostly pale. He bounded out of the forepeak and headed for the rail. And there he pumped his bilges while the schooner boys made a jest. And if you’ve read your Service, then undoubtedly you’ve guessed That the sea slugs in those cocktails, of such formidable size, Were just chunks of macaroni with red ink dots for eyes. But if you were a Schooner Boy, you’d know it was no sham. Those were bonafide sea slugs; no sweat for Wayne and Dan. For a schooner boy is forged in hell, he knows not little pains. His stomach is lined with iron; he has salt water in his veins! – Unknown, passed down from Capt. Tofferi