"If you believe in things you don't understand, then you suffer......superstition ain't the way."
-Stevie Wonder, Superstition
Earlier in the week I was pretty tied up with my phony-baloney administrators job coordinating a bunch of upgrades to a County Park that is essentially, new.
These upgrades were spur of the moment type stuff designed to aggrandize the current commissioner, who was appointed after her husband, the former commissioner vapor locked in office about two years ago, and subsequently expired. Recently this commissioner was re-elected. So, in honor of the anniversary of the death of her dearly departed husband (who, by the way the park was renamed for), she decided to misappropriate a pretty substantial wad of County resource and add some additional accoutrements to the facility, throwing a pachanga grande (Big Political party, complete with beer, fajitas, rice and beans) out there on Wednesday.
Over the weekend, the winds had been pretty perfect for sailing, and I gnashed my teeth and watched in agony as just about the entire fleet streamed by on Saturday and Sunday while I was toiling in ‘Divs cockpit, mounting the plundered radome, chartplotter and radar displays. It was pretty maddening, but I had a task to do yasee…
Whistle while you work.
The wind started picking up on Monday, and by Tuesday as I was out in the Southmost area (about a mile from the border) ‘supervising’ the planting of a butterfly garden for this commissioners super-tailgate party it was beginning to gust fiercely, pushing the anemometer over forty.
On Wednesday a full tilt wind was raging, and dust, sand and lawn furniture were blowing about with great abandon. I was crossing the causeway from Port Isabel, watching the long muddy rollers, that had formed as a result of the incessant jen-aire hot wind, making the bay look like cappuccino, whitecapped and frothy. The confusion was offset by orderly spaced Langmuir currents, defined by green, dancing mats of Thalassia, the occasional pelican winging down into the heaving swell in search of a meal.
I was thinking that somewhere out there, in the natural and unseen world, perhaps this commissioner had violated some sort of precept, a ritual, or protocol unknown to me and had pissed off the weather.
Yep. I am not a particularly superstitious person, being a scientist and all, but as a sailor, I know there are just certain principals that must not be overlooked, or dishonored. A lot of this stems back to my early days on the northern seas fishing under the tutelage of ancient mariners and seaport scoundrels.
We all know the consequences of renaming a vessel without the proper procedure. It does spell consternation, aggravation and ultimate doom for the poor thing. So that is one element that I never overlook, with either my own boats (if they get renamed), or any other boat that I sail aboard that I suspect might have had a name change. For example, on the last voyage aboard Ciclon (and I will not even mention her former name lest I invoke the wrath of the sea), we had a bit of a mishap, which caused a valuable crewmember to suffer a serious accident and which caused us to bail from the race, I was concerned about whether the proper protocol had been followed. The commander however, ever adroit and observant to not only the scientific, but also the ritualistic, assured me that the proper protocol had been followed, and this was simply one of those ironic twists of fate.
I suggested that perhaps we re-perform the proper procedure, this time making sure that we too imbibe in the proper amount of 23 year old Ron Zacapa rhum. Hey, better safe than sorry.
When I was fishing out of Kodiak, I had a skipper aboard a vessel, the Bold Lady, who was very superstitious and ritualistic regarding the things of the sea. No getting underway on a Friday. NO OPENING CANS FROM THE BOTTOM (because then the boat might see this and want to follow the open can down, down below the waves). We used to jack with him regarding this one, taking the labels off of the cans, writing on the top and bottom what was inside…Hey doc? Which end is UP? NEVER turn a hatch cover upside down, because the boat might try and follow it down and sink, NO GREEN PLANTS ABOARD because the boat might want to try and follow the plant back to shore, ending up beached somewhere, and so on…..
Well, I have a few rituals of my own that I observe whenever I go out too.
First and foremost, I make sure that the ice chest has a sufficient supply of ice (and beer) to last the entire trip. To run out would be blasphemy. It might make me return to port sooner than anticipated to stock back up, thus inviting the wrath of the crew.
AND, I ALWAYS hank on the headsail before I get underway, because for some reason Olivia just doesn’t drive that great under main alone. It probably pisses off the wind gods.
Oh, and I make sure there is fuel in the tank, because when the engine stops twenty feet from the dock in a contrary wind, no amount of propitiation to the Westerbeke god will do unless one immediately adds a diesel ‘offering’ to the tank and then one has to complete the proper engine bleeding ritual, a complicated process involving mysterious incantations of sailor language, blood dripped onto the hot manifold from knuckles properly slashed by rusty brackets as one reaches in to loosen the injectors in order to receive the ritual baptism of atomized diesel. Then, if this protocol is properly observed, the engine will restart just in time to keep from ramming the dock, which if it happens is then covered under another archane and complex ritual called the "West Systems Protocol"....
And finally, I ALWAYS secure the boat to the dock whenever I return to my slip. And I ALWAYS use six dock lines (I know what some of you are thinking….there it is….the satanic SIX), but no, it’s just my ritual of the sea. Three dock lines per side, bow, stern and spring.
So here's what I’m wondering. Do any of ya’ll have these sort of rituals too?
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