The Captain's Logs are below.

Read the Crew's Views from John, KC, and Caroline as they reflect on their experiences in Asia.

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On the morning of departure, some members of the New York City Fire Department bade us farewell. For the transit north, there were six additional guest crew, bringing Pride`s complement up to 19 souls, which is a full boat. The sky was clear and the crew was broke when we passed the idle docks of Brooklyn. Frank Sinatra's hackneyed classicism sings out in the mind as we view the Staten Island ferry crabbing past the Statue of Liberty. The current tumbles around in the East River as we examine the underside of the Brooklyn Bridge. From the deck, it always looks as though the masts are going to hit, so it comes as a sort of gratuitous miracle when we don't. I just hope that all the bridges are as high as the chart says they are. Eddies part among the pilings and re-gather beneath the hollow cargo sheds where Marlon Brando made a name for himself. We are bound for New England.

We caught the East River at the flood tide and were soon making eleven knots past buoys, boats, islands, and office buildings. Deckhand Dave Briddle got a workout on the helm before we even reached Hell Gate. Hell Gate is the confluence of the East River, the Harlem River, and Long Island Sound. The currents at this point can reach six knots on the ebb. Whirlpools develop that make it impossible to hold a steady course. The bow abruptly takes a dive to starboard. The helmsman spins the wheel to correct and I rev the engines to give more rudder control. Back on course. Suddenly she leaps to port. Warm work at the helm. By the time we pass the abandoned prison on Rikers Island, the current is much diminished. City Island, where the original schooner America was built, lies off to port; the United States Merchant Marine Academy at Kings Point is to starboard. Long Island Sound widens and we work our way along the soft Connecticut shore as the afternoon wanes. We pass Penfield Light and my hometown of Fairfield. Mom comes out to wave from the beach. The days are long now and we are well past New Haven when darkness finally falls.

The forecast is not good. They are calling for northeast winds 25 to 30 knots, shifting north at some point the next day. Our course to Boston is northeast, shifting north at some point. But at the moment, there is little wind of any kind so we will motor hard to get as many miles behind us as we can while the going is relatively easy. Maybe we can get as far as Buzzards Bay tomorrow and seek shelter before it comes on to blow.

Wednesday, June 16, 1999

Where is this gale we heard so much about? The season's first tropical storm, Arlene, is stewing around somewhere out by Bermuda, but at the moment she poses no threat. We are getting some rain and about 15 knots on the nose, but in the lee of Cape Cod, the sea stays small and we continue to make good progress. Maybe something nasty awaits us on the other side of Cape Cod. Cape Cod Bay is somewhat protected from the northeast, but it is utterly exposed to the north and there is no place to hide unless we can creep along the shore up into the lee of Provincetown.

The forecast is unchanged, but in the absence of deteriorating conditions we press on. Maybe things are developing more slowly than predicted; maybe we can attain Boston's north shore before nightfall brings the gale.

We enter the Cape Cod Canal at noontime. Once again the current is with us and we whistle through the ditch at eleven knots, encountering a 700 hundred foot cruise ship struggling the other way. The crew has reefed down the main and brought the jib topsail in from the headrig in anticipation of a foul, plunging sea on a lee shore. We exit the canal and enter Cape Cod Bay at 1300. The sea is flat and there is even less wind than we saw on the Buzzards Bay side. We press on. The Pilgrims Monument at Provincetown pokes up above the horizon twenty miles off. Boston appears on the horizon. We press on.

At 1900, the anchor goes down in Gloucester harbor in 30 feet of water, 34 hours after leaving New York. Not a breath of air. Overhead heavy clouds coil and contort in the twilit sky. The anchor watch is set and, one by one, the crew heads for their bunks.

Thursday, June 17, 1999

Today is beautiful. It is clear and sunny with blue skies in every direction. The forecast has changed. All that for nothing. An easterly swell tells us that something has happened somewhere, but we have been spared this time. So here we are, only 20 miles from Boston and a whole extra day on our hands. There is a light but adequate breeze outside the harbor so we sail off the hook and go out for a trot around the waters of Cape Ann. Gloucester is holy ground for schooner sailors so it is a treat to cleave these waters with our keel. It occurs to me that, here, where schooners are so deeply imbedded in the collective psyche, a Baltimore Clipper must be regarded as a strange and wild creature, not because people don't know what they are looking at, but precisely because they do.

A collection has been taken around the ship to buy some lobsters. Our guest crew have tossed in handsomely so a Lobster Bake is developing. I and the second mate, Tim Frush, take a boat ashore and hand pick the bugs at a wharfside fish market. We gather seaweed from the rocks and they are packed away on deck.

After sailing around for a few hours, the wind begins to fail. We spy the schooner Ernestina coming over the horizon. They hail us on the radio. All of our crew knows all of her crew. Many hellos and regards are passed and she carries on to Gloucester, where she was built over 100 years ago, while we select a new anchorage at Salem Sound. When the sails are furled and the deck is secure, there is still some time before cooking the lobsters, so the question arises about having a swim call. But, of course!

Out come the swimsuits and the frolicking begins. It starts with jumping off the rail, but before long nothing less than the bowsprit will do.

From there it moves to the rigging. As night follows day, next comes the request to rig a line from the end of the yard for a rope swing. Then a series of experiments with various laws of nature ensues. Since swinging from the rail is so much fun, it stands to reason that swinging from the bowsprit would be even more fun. The roughness of this calculation leads to a failure to consider the effect of moving farther and farther from the point where the line attaches to the yardarm. Simply put, the line gets longer, but the height above the water is unchanged. This results in the bold Likeke gracelessly splattering into the water while still on the downward portion of his swing. The enlightenment emanating from this particular experiment leads directly to taking the end of the line up into the rigging and swinging from points higher and higher, instead of farther and farther.

Unlike other fields of research, where whole schools of thought seem to benefit from the experiments performed by individuals in the field, our particular pool of recreational scholars demonstrated a distinct reluctance to accept findings produced by any participant other than themselves. Nowhere was this more evident than in the process of comprehending just how crucial the "let go" part of rope swinging is to the overall success of the proposition. Although the data was plainly available, it was treated as proprietary knowledge, and no one seemed to want to avail themselves of another's experiment.

Meanwhile the lobsters were forming up to conduct a recreation of the Bataan Death March. With the water now boiling down below in the galley, a chain was formed to pass them to their doom. Last rites were performed. When the lobsters were asked if anyone would prefer not to be boiled alive, nary a word was uttered. Into the caldron they went. They were delicious. Later that evening, led by Deckhand Gene Williams, we had our first shanty session of the season.

The next morning brought an early start. We weighed anchor and hustled down to Boston for our noon arrival. With time to kill, we conducted a Man Overboard drill. A light but useable wind accompanied Pride II up the harbor and past the waterfront. Another schooner, Liberty Clipper, returned our cannon fire, and a fireboat led us in. The media was out in force. Two of our crew, Samantha Heyman and Christine Cleary, are from the Boston area, and their families turned out to greet us.

Pride II has lain at Rowes Wharf for five days now. Captain Miles came aboard today to relieve me. Large quantities of provisions have come aboard and a big load of laundry went out. From Boston, Pride II will go direct to Detroit by way of the St. Lawrence Seaway. It will be the longest leg of the 1999 season. The summer weather patterns have pretty well arrived now. We can hope for good weather.

Watch Below,
Captain Parrott