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Sayonara Bermuda There was a choice to be made. We could leave the dock and go out to anchor in cozy St. George's Harbor. Or we could just leave. Either way, since a 30,000 ton cruise ship was scheduled to lie at our dock the next morning, staying put was out of the question. Going to sea would have been the natural choice if there was anything remotely like a fair breeze in the offing, but there wasn't. A fresh sou'westerly was forecast and guess which way the Bahamas lie? Southwest. On the other hand, when it comes on to blow, 'cozy' is a better word for a bed or a hearthside than for an anchorage. The bottom of St. George's Harbor is hard clay and notoriously poor holding ground for an anchor, and especially for the Pride of Baltimore II. On at least one occasion the late Capt. Sid Miller described to me a hellish time in St. George's, dragging anchor up and down the harbor all night long in Pride II. With a squirrel's nest of yachts congregating at the windward end of the anchorage, I decided to head for the wide, open spaces of the North Atlantic. Even if we couldn't advance toward our destination, at least we had room to move. Besides, I told the crew, the change would do us good. For a still-green crew, each night at sea is like a tuition-free seminar in how to be a sailor.

Before departing, Phil Collyer and Ched Bradley contrived a cunning scheme to photograph the Pride as she emerged from the narrow rocky cut at St. George's. Phil and Ched are accomplished photographers who have donated their time, materials and effort to produce some images that will be useful to Pride of Baltimore, Inc.'s ongoing fund-raising efforts. So the lads perched on the crags to snap the passing ship and we scurried back with the boat to pluck them from the rocks. Then, it was off to cruise the waters south of Bermuda until the wind shifted.

The wind shifted. It always does. We left on a Tuesday and by Wednesday morning a cold front had passed through bringing us a north wind. Pride II was on her way again, crashing crazily through the new and old seas with the awe-inspiring recklessness of a drunkard diverted through a furniture store, flinging chairs and tables in his wake, careening off an umbrella stand into a tea set of blue and white-capped china as the crew clung wide-eyed to the wheel like spectacled store clerks following meekly behind, attempting to persuade, dissuade, or somehow coax the beast away from the more expensive items and toward the door.

It was a beautiful thing to watch. In due course the breeze moved into the easterly quadrant and then to the southeast. Pride II regained her composure and sailed along quite politely for awhile. When the breeze moved from 15 knots to 25, she put on her "game face" and assumed the serene athletic demeanor of one accustomed to victory. We were moving. We were leaving hull paint behind. The race had begun without a starting gun. This was sailing at its finest. On at least two occasions, Pride II topped 200 miles a day, but who's counting?

Flare Fun

At one point out there, someone remembered that we had some expired flares aboard. We all take safety very seriously aboard the Pride of Baltimore II but the fact is, flares are more fun than they have any right to be. And expired flares are not a thing to carry around indefinitely because as they age there is no saying how they might behave beneath one's bunk. So we called a drill, though it was more of a flare party. The weather cooperated beautifully: there was a fresh breeze for long trajectory and good visibility for pleasant viewing. I made a "Securite" call over the radio to announce our intentions to any vessels in the area, though we were hundreds of miles from land and no vessel was in sight. Then we read the directions: "Hold This End," "Point Away From People You Like," "Do Not Stare Down Barrel While Pulling Trigger" and other helpful hints. The exercise went well. There were no duds. The orange smoke was impressive for sheer duration but the red parachute flares were best because they take off like rockets with a big roar that is kind of scary, like pulling a fire alarm. Especially the one that Alex shot off. He's the engineer. He didn't follow the directions. He shot his at the water. It was truly impressive as it skipped from wave to wave like a combustible flying fish. At one point it even went through a wave. But then it started changing direction unpredictably, so we were glad when it went away. Enough fun for one day.

At another point out there, my former captain, employer, and mentor Eben Whitcomb happened along in a yacht at a few miles distant. We spoke by radio. He was sailing upwind for Bermuda. We were reaching for the Bahamas. It was under his command 20 years ago that I first traversed those waters. It was with him that I first saw what 60 knots of wind looked like, and how to handle it cool as a summer squall. It was with him that we rescued a foolish yacht in our 125 foot gaff-rigged schooner while a Coast Guard plane circled uselessly overhead. It was during one of our stops at Bermuda that I first sailed off the edge of a pier in a shopping cart, but that's another story. In Ireland they speak of the lucky break as "the chance." Captain Whitcomb gave the chance to many an aspiring sailor, myself included.

Bahamas

Speaking of "firsts," six days out and two days ahead of schedule the Pride of Baltimore II nosed into Freeport, Bahamas, for the first time in her life. Freeport is a commercial port and makes no bones about it. It is completely man-made and dredged out of thin air. As we made our approach, Ched said, "It looks like Newark" and he was right. The telltale cranes and stacks rising above the palms were visible well out to sea. For a port that has no real city to back it up, Freeport is a bustling harbor. Tugs came and went, pirouetting on their boisterous Z-drives. The pilot boat was on and off the dock like a ping-pong ball. Massive container ships carrying up to 6,000 TEUs (Twenty foot Equivalent Units) glided in and out of the cut like cities afloat, like space ships, like tectonic tremors rumbling and displacing on their way to do business upon great waters. Freeport Harbor Control kept up a steady banter of communications as pilots, linesmen, agents, tugs, and countless other details were arranged and dispatched and executed all in the name of commerce. As Irving Johnson once said, "If you can't keep the cargo dry, then you might as well stay home." They were keeping the cargo dry and moving. Pride II called at Freeport to host an event with Mediterranean Shipping Company. MSC is the third largest container ship company in the world, with its sights keenly set on being number two behind the mighty Maersk-SeaLand conglomerate.

MSC moves a great deal of cargo through Baltimore and the company was hosting its annual seminar for regional managers at Freeport. Since we were in the neighborhood, it made sense that the Pride should stop by and say hello. About 80 people from MSC joined us for an evening aboard. Jim White, Director of the Port of Baltimore, flew down to make a special presentation. Captain Lorenzo DiCasagrande, Director of MSC Baltimore, and Manuel Ruiz, General Manager of MSC Freeport, helped make the ship's visit one of the best of the year. Manuel loaned us a grill and we held a first rate cook-out right there on the dock with all sorts of delicious things made by our cook, Daphne Glover.

The Port of Freeport is somewhat remote from any sort of town or recreation but the crew are a resourceful lot and doubtlessly managed to expend their free hours in some fashion distinguishable from work. Additionally, we were able to attend some of the MSC functions held at a not-too-distant resort.

Now understand, the crew of the Pride work hard. There are the ten, twelve and fourteen hour days, and no time and a half. There is no air conditioning when its hot and no heat when its cold. There is no weekend and there are no holidays. Showers are allowed every other day at the best of times. You must expect to be rousted from your bunk to handle sail at any hour, quite likely having the skin torn from your hands and getting soaked to the remaining skin in the process. There is an endless supply of dirty, physically demanding, yet highly exacting work relating to the maintenance and sailing of the ship, not to mention the whimsies of a tyrannical, irrational, and thankless captain who surely could benefit from several pages from your as yet unpublished book to be titled "How to Command" just as soon as you find a publisher who sees your point of view.

Speaking of views, you have to climb 90 feet up the mast in any kind of weather, not to see the sights, but to work as if you were a roller-coaster repairman clinging to the hurtling chariot with one hand while making adjustments with the other. You can't listen to your music and you can't hide in your room with the door closed because you don't have a room anymore or even a door for that matter. There is no ice for your drink and there's no drink for your ice. When you are lucky enough to get a day off, you have no car and no money. You are a stranger on a street corner looking both ways for traffic and a clue. There is bad weather, snoring, seasickness, other people's seasickness, cramped quarters, interesting aromas of socks, shoes, foul breath, a frequently used head a few feet from your own head, and the occasional fragrance of vomit from a meal you recall all too well. Finally, there is the constant haunting sense that one is missing out on the important events that define being a member of a family that is located in some distant place, thus whatever the event missed you bear the burden of knowing that you were busy fulfilling selfish pursuits. Selfish? Ha! Few people give more than sailors, but in the giving they receive strange treasure. Nevertheless, every once in a while you hit pay dirt and, despite all the above and more, the ledger is squared.

At Freeport the crew were invited to a very special dinner event at the resort of Port Lucaya, courtesy of MSC. There was music and tiki torches at twilight. An extraordinary buffet of uncommon delicacies wound through the palm trees upon linen clad tables beside an illuminated riverine pool in which shapely shapes swam amid the flicker and the gleam. Overhead a full moon swam through tropic clouds while moon-gilt waves lapped at a sugar-sand beach. The beverages were cold, diverse, and plentiful. A small mountain of exotic desserts awaited those who still had room, while the perfume of fresh brewed coffee lingered beneath a canopy whispering fronds. Each blade polished and sharpened itself against its neighbor, briefly interlocking as if the wind were weaving a basket above our heads. These transitory hours of luxury do not typify life aboard the Pride, but it is the kind of the thing that occasionally the crew fall into, and when they do, believe me, they have earned it!

Funnels off Florida

Whispering fronds or not, the day came when we had to sail, and sail we did. Before leaving I gave the crew a little talk about waterspouts because we were coming into a part of the world at a time of the year where such things are known to occur. Waterspouts are tornadoes at sea. They are highly localized and if spotted early enough they can usually be avoided. They don't last long as a rule but they can generate winds on the order of 150 knots, so they are not to be trifled with. The main thing the crew can do is to spot them early by knowing what to look for and knowing to look.

Our Executive Director, Linda Christenson joined us for the trip to the next port, Miami, along with Rosio and Joaquin who had come all the way from Cadiz, Spain, to make a documentary about the Pride. We left the night before our scheduled departure because a southerly breeze was forecast. Between that and bucking the Gulf Stream we needed every advantage to make our arrival in Miami on time. So we roared out of Freeport at six in the evening with 25 knots, gusting 30 out of the east-northeast. With only a stays'l and a foresail, Pride II shot along at 9 knots and sank the island by dark. The galley was upside down and several people were not feeling their best, but she was flying, eh?

By morning we were in the lee of Bimini but there was no sign of Gary Hart. So we carried on down the chain of reefs and islets, for now we were in a good position no matter what the wind did. The next day was sort of a semi-idyllic sailing day. There was a twelve knot southeast breeze coming off the reef so the sea was flat and the sails were full. It was a perfect time to launch a boat and get some pictures of the ship. The Spaniards were quite keen on this as they had missed their opportunity coming out of Freeport because it was too rough. So as we were setting up to launch the boat the thought came to me that this was a timely moment to hold a Man-Overboard drill. I flung a lifering into the water and watched to see what would happen. Sad to say nothing happened for several seconds but then Peter and Christine took up the cry "Man Overboard" and things got into gear.

The boat was launched and the lifering was recovered and we assembled on the quarter deck to debrief before going back out for the pictures. As we were discussing the highs and lows of the drill, I happened to glance off to the west where my eye caught view of the telltale funnel of a waterspout descending from the low cloud cover. "Remember I was telling you about waterspouts the other day?" Suddenly I had people's attention. The funnel had not yet connected to the sea surface but the distinct tapered swirl of moisture was taking shape not three miles to leeward. About that time the breeze picked up generally and it was time for action. We were in a particularly vulnerable position at that time as the topsail and foresail were aback for launching the boat, and the boat was still over the side. The crew quickly divided into watches. The Starboard Watch went forward with the Second Mate, Christine Cleary, to take in the topsail and the Port Watch went aft with the Mate, Daniel Hornstein, to take the main. I'd be lying if I said there wasn't confusion in the first frantic moments but the job got done. Soon the ship was under short canvas, the boat was aboard and, of course, the waterspout was gone.

Miami

Coming into Miami we were faced with a draft constraint. Normally this does not occur in a major commercial port such as Miami but our berth at Bayside involved slipping through a bottle neck of shoal water that was shown to be ten feet deep. Pride II draws twelve and a half feet. The tide is just more than two feet. Put it all together and we needed ideal circumstances to reach our berth.

Upon approaching the channel, Cleary had the radar. I sent the Bosun Greg Bailey and Deckhand Peter Floeckher out to reconnoiter the depth with a leadline in our shiny new red rescue boat. Happily, they found substantially more water than the chart indicated, leading one to speculate that perhaps some dredging may have taken place. They also found some additional markers that were not indicated on our chart, despite the fact it was up to date. We sniffed our way past all that was too deep or too shallow to arrive at our berth and found it just right. Miami was nice because we were walking distance from all manner of diversion and necessity. We owe a debt of gratitude to our dear friends Joe and Barbara Maggio, patron saints of wayward schooners, for facilitating our visit in so many ways.

Devon Anding, who until recently was the operations anchor at Pride, Inc. came by to say hello and take the cook shopping to boot. Devan is at flight school up at Fort Lauderdale these days but she set aside a day to help out the ship. An old Eye of the Wind shipmate, Peter Kane, from New Zealand materialized out of the atmosphere after 13 years plying other waters in the engine rooms of tankers. As Conrad wrote, once a shipmate, always a shipmate. But shipmates with the capacity for hard work and humor, shipmates who enhance the quality of life aboard for all to the degree that P.K. could and did, come along but rarely and are long remembered. Kessler Sullivan Parrott of Baltimore, Maryland, accompanied and accosted by her mother, Kimberly, also came to the ship in Miami to conduct inspections and make reports. The captain is said to have cooperated.

We had a crew change at Miami. We had to bid an early farewell to Deckhand Amanda Hatchard (left) but welcomed aboard new crew member Jocelyn Lohse (right). We sailed on a Sunday. Personally, I think that Sunday is the luckiest day to go to sea. While it is described as a day of rest down here, I have it on good authority that the Great Vessel Traffic System in the Sky is very much on the job on a Sunday. Once your vessel is "acquired" by the system, well, you're generally in good hands.

Watch Below,
Capt. Daniel S. Parrott