How can I thank everyone? Is there a way to personally, I mean beyond the texted word, beyond the tweet or message, a way to thank you? I have felt your kindness in the exchange of words, a remembrance, a shared experience. Thank you for sharing stories, telling me about the man I knew for almost 50 years, stories from your meetings and experiences with Captain Dave. They are new to me, enriching, expanding, renewing my thoughts of David. And so I thank you.
This blog is begun after Captain Dave crossed the bar. June 2,2016
In October, 2016 Dave and I left Provincetown heading south. We had a destination, but no schedule. We knew where we would be stopping along the way. We looked at charts, always wondering about the next ten miles, the seas, and the weather. David's uncanny judgement of places, tides, height of the waves, the direction of the wind, the clouds blowing across the sky gave him a sense of well being, thereby relieving my an angst -somehow it worked. If things got bad he dealt with it, that's when he really excelled. Managing emergencies, high seas, gale winds brought out the real man in him. He didn't hesitate, he acted. And so I hope to give you a picture though the journal that I kept from October, 2015 into the spring of 2016 of the fun we had, the experiences and the love we shared. The Captain is no longer at the helm, he's gone to higher ground. I think he'd like me to share with you a glimpse of what we had on our last voyage together.
Leaving Provincetown was more difficult than I could have imagined. There was a need to cast off in both of us. It pushed us. We knew somehow that if we didn't do it now, then we never would. And so the journey began. It was a Tuesday evening, our first night aboard, but we spent it tied to the float where in 1980 Dave and I tied with our sailboat, The Arethusa. I'm in the galley putting away supplies when Dave tells me he's going to go out with Bob for a quick ride to charge of the batteries in Bob's boat the Near Miss. It's a farewell, a father / son special time, the way men do. They spend half an hour cruising around outside the breakwater, listening to the engine. Dave gives his approval and they head back to the wharf. Last night he took his grandkids out in the skiff to check out the ten horse engine hooked over the stern of the dingy. For the past week we have been bringing supplies, clothes, utensils and every other conceivable convince that I could comfortable carry to the boat. The living quarters are small, but when we moved aboard I was surprised at how easily the Richard & Arnold absorbed it all, took everything in with ease, and it could have held more. When I commented on this to the captain he said, "Well remember this boat carried forty tons of fish in the hold - this is nothing."
What a vessel, the sparkle in the captains eye! Oh he loved me, without a doubt, and I am forever his mate, but the Richard & Arnold was something special to him. Fortunately I understood the term 'the other woman'. We've owned, operated, sailed, fished and lived aboard many vessels. I'll give you their names and then you'll understand a little more about the captain. The Fanny Parnell, The Wildflower, Julie D, The Kingfisher, The Office, The Arethusa, The Osprey, The Vast, The Opel, The Richard & Arnold, the Last Tango and a couple of good sized skiffs that had no names. We've owned them, worked on them, and learned to love the sea from them. Some we owned for years and one we owned for three days before it broke loose in a February NE gale and sank. All of the boats were given his time, his money and his love. He wanted to save them all. I learned that if I had faith, went along with some of the wild ideas, I'd get to live a life that held excitement, humor, and shear terror, but would never be boring.
And so because of who he was, leaving Provincetown for a six month cruise was inevitable. We both faced challenges, surprises and risks. Our faith was tested. That first night onboard, that Tuesday Dave asked if I was excited I told him I was too busy to think about it. I had a million loose ends. He had one loose end and that was the sixty foot Casey built, 1924 fishing vessel tied to the float on MacMillan Pier. For Dave his journey began the day he was born. Casting off lines was what he'd been doing for over fifty years. I had to remind him a few times that I was new at this. I came to visit a couple of times when he was fishing, stay a couple of days, but I was the homebody, the shore captain, and not a seasoned crewman. He put up with the newbie, the inexperienced crew, the landlubber. And he had the patience of a saint.
To be continued:
No comments:
Post a Comment