No Traffic Ahead

Perched at the tip of the bow I stare at the clouds quickly turning pastel pink to peach to pale orange to yellow to grey. The Cramer violently rocks up and down but my harness and tether keep me calm. My head shifts from left to right in opposition with the rhythm of the boat and my eyes rake the dusky blue horizon. No lights, no boats, no traffic ahead.

****

"How can I help?"

On the first day we were instructed to ask that question often. My first time on a boat about to set sail, I eagerly asked, "How can I help?"

The deckhand Ashley immediately responded, "I need you to grab your harness and be lookout."

I rushed down below deck, gathered my harness from my bunk and ran up to the bow. The boat was just starting to inch its way out of port in St. Croix. Luckily I had studied the plan of Cramer before departing so I knew where the bow was. I waited for Ashley to give me further instructions, my stomach tightening as I regretted what I had unknowingly volunteered for.

Ashley came up next to me and yelled over the sound of the engine, "You have to tell the captain about any buoys or boats you see. If you don't tell Steve we'll crash." Using her arms to signal the relative bearing system she called out DEADAHEADONETWOTHREE BROADONSTARBOARDBOWTHREETWOONE ONSTARBOARDBOW BROADONSTARBOARDQUARTER ONSTARBOARDQUARTER DEADASTERN ANDSAMETHINGFORTHEPORTSIDEOKAY?

The wind roared in my face as I squinted out at the ten green and red buoys bobbing in the water. Dead ahead. Lunging aft to warn Captain Steve, I forgot to unclip my tether and slipped on the deck. When I finally made it to the other side of the 134 foot boat, I hurriedly tested out the new vocabulary words. Tether unclipped in my hand, I raced back to my lookout post. Five more buoys. No, now seven. Ping! Unclip. Ping! Clip. Three white buoys, two sailboats, two red buoys, one green buoy. It began to rain and I blinked away droplets as they whipped my face. I slid on the slick wooden deck as I ran back and forth.

And then there was nothing but the waves battering against the boat and the turquoise horizon dead ahead.

As I unclipped my tether and turned around slowly I noticed the four lowers raised. I had been concentrating so intensely I did not see or hear my shipmates handling the sails behind me.

The other bow watches I have been assigned have been much quieter. Even at different times of the day and night the horizon looks the same--a dark grey sky cutting into a black sea at mid watch, a blue sky blending with a cobalt sea at morning watch, a pink sky illuminating a dark blue sea at dawn watch. Staring at the Atlantic Ocean for an hour or more cannot be compared with any activity done on land; it is a strange juxtaposition of extreme concentration and idle time. I sing as I cautiously turn my head to scan 360 degrees and look for traffic, the noises of the wind and waves drowning out the sound of my voice. And when my shipmate comes to relieve me from my post, I am relieved to report "No traffic ahead".

The Priest of Time

"What is the story behind your name?"

"My name? There is no st--oh wait a minute. Yea man. So I had a bag filled with ganja, right." He picked up a brown paper bag and clamped both hands on the opening. "Four pounds. No, four kilos. And the police, they come an' take me arms." Still holding the bag, he crossed his arms, making eye contact with each member of his audience. "I go like this"--he flung his arms out and with his elbows tight began to flap--"and fly away. So my friends call me Father Tick Tock. I'm still running from the police and time..." His story faded there.

I nodded. The story only slightly helped make sense of the wonderfully bizarre name, yet I understood. Most likely the actual event connected less with Father Tick Tock than the friend who christened him.

We were sitting in a small circle on the prickly grass near the ocean--Father Tick Tock, Tim, James, Lis, Hilary, and I. Father Tick Tock was crouching on his shiny red and black basketball shoes and the red mesh tank top and three gaudy necklaces hung out from his torso. He had initially approached us as soon as we arrived at Boston Bay to sell us marijuana but even after we refused, giving different reasons for why ranging from a shrug to an elaborate lie involving Coast Guard drug testing, he continued to be friendly and interested in talking with us.

Having Father Tick Tock close by, I was more comfortable wandering the shoreline looking for shells and seaglass by myself as Jamaican men interrupted my childish venture to hit on me. New York City instincts still caused my chest to tighten and for my mind to jump to fabrications (I don't have a phone, I'm moving and I don't know my address yet, I have a Canadian boyfriend named Robbie), but when I pointed to where my friends were and Burt or Will or Papa turned to look, I was able to continue scanning the ground. Will even picked up some seaglass for me.

As we walked to Jerk Centre, where he was generously taking us to his favorite vender for dinner, I realized that Father Tick Tock answered my question better than I would have. What is the story behind Babby Malouf Gubba Gubba Dumptruck on Fire? Magubbagubba? Or Piccola Anguria? Chica de Sol? Wheeze? Aliza, even? I don't know but I remember who called me by each name. Nicknames bring me closer to people and I often brainstorm new names to give friends and family. Loula--that's my friend Mallory. Daniel is Bruce, Patricia is Martha, Ellis is Alaska, Rebecca is Cribut, my grandmother is Mother Gooseberry.

I found it strange that Father Tick Tock would adopt us as friends without a business incentive. New Yorkers are known for being snobby and aloof and I could only be skeptical of the sunny Jamaicans. A New Yorker would never run home to sell his mesh tank tops to tourists like Father Tick Tock did for James and Tim. But a New Yorker would not have any mesh tank tops in his dresser drawer either.

The One Hundred Count

The one hundred count sounds like a marathon or a dietary challenge. In some ways, it is both of these for it requires stamina and endurance, and the seasickness that often accompanies the one hundred count could sell as a weight loss program. In fact, the one hundred count consists of staring at a pile of pink goo under a microscope and poking at it with a sharp metal stick. Highlights include sitting while on watch. Downsides include picking through and identifying tiny zooplankton for an obscene amount of time.

I was almost a quarter way through a one hundred count, calling out the names of the zooplankton I had identified, when I excitedly shouted, "Chaetognath!"

"Really?" the second scientist asked me. Chaetognaths had never shown up on the one hundred counts before. My lab partner came over to the microscope for a second opinion.

"I don't think so, Aliza. Where are the fins?"

"But it's my critter fritter," I defended. "Look at the bristles on its mouth. And it's transparent and clearly a worm." On shore in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, I had studied the chaetognath as my assigned zooplankton and finally seeing it under a microscope, knowing it had been floating in the real live ocean before it was grabbed by the Neuston net and drowned in ethanol by one of my shipmates, ignited a special thrill and passion for this minute worm that I never knew I had.

This moment was one of those hands-on learning experiences advertised in catalogues--when a tedious homework assignment leaps off the page and lies freshly killed in a petri dish.

Three minutes later, I picked out another chaetognath from the mess of pteropods, siphonophores and copepods. This time no one doubted me. Another tally was recorded next to the chaetognath.

Staysail

"No, no, no! Work with me, please. C'mon, girl, just stay still."

I grit my teeth and sharply turn left, jamming the rudder ten degrees to the port side. The numbers continue to scroll right.

Maybe no one will notice. My fingers strum the helm as I consider bringing the rudder to fifteen degrees. The mains'l begins to luff.

"Shhhh!" I jerk my head upwards and glare at the sail. And of course, this is the moment the mate decides to emerge from the doghouse.

"Mark your head?" she asks me.

"Uhhh two nine zero but I was just at two seven five a moment ago and I'm trying to get back there." Obviously the coy numbered sphere bobbing in a glass dome of water is culpable yet somehow the blame is always put on the helmsperson with a tiny portion set aside for finicky winds and currents.

The compass, suspended in liquid to account for the boat's constant motion, turns its body to face magnetic North. A thin, white, cylindrical magnetic strip sticks up from the spinning black hole, remaining constantly firm in the middle of the doghouse doorway and determining the gravity of my errors. The numbers she reads are not even entirely reliable, since I have to convert from magnetic to true North before I plot our dead reckoning position on a chart. Still though, I stare at her unblinkingly for the allotted hour until I, relieved, am relieved.

The mate stands beside me and tries to give me tips, ones I have heard many times before. Wait twenty seconds before correcting again. Do not correct more than five degrees. Watch the bowsprit, mainmast, wind, current, JT sheet, birds, clouds, wave bubbles. Begin steering the other direction before the boat is done turning. Let Cramer steer herself. See what direction the boat is leaning and put the rudder a bit in the other direction to even out the course.

But the moments in which I am steadily on course are not due to these tactics but simply because the compass has decided to be generous. She taunts me, making me feel like I have finally mastered the helm and staying on course for just enough time for me to think it is safe to drink some water or adjust my ponytail. Then without warning I am off course and frantically pleading.

What a conniving little bitch! I have done nothing to deserve this.

Helmsperson is the position of most obvious power on the boat. The fate of our direction relies on the innocent helmsperson and this small object, which travels from 000 to 360, glorified on its own pedestal. I loathe its tick-marked, white numbers and the triangles that signify the direction points. I loathe the way it dances mockingly before me. I loathe its minion of luffing sails, banging sheets, clanging jiggers, screaming winds and boisterous currents. Even after eighteen years living in Brooklyn, I have never encountered a more terrifyingly powerful gang.

Before embarking on the SSV Corwith Cramer I joked that there was a strong chance I would be responsible for the boat hitting an iceberg. "But you're sailing in the Caribbean," my friends would remark. "There is no ice there."

"Exactly," I would respond.

Now that I am finally sailing, it is no longer a joke. If we were to end up in freezing waters, I would not be surprised. And it would all be the compass's fault.

But I was just at two seven five. I promise!

My Personal Coffin

My bunk is located on the port side of the SSV Corwith Cramer, the upper and most aft of the six cubbies. Initially I regretted calling this hole my home because of its location in the noisiest part of the boat, the main saloon, where people congregate to eat their meals and talk. In addition, there is no easy way to get into bed since I am a mere five foot four inches. However it is time to reassess this glum logic from thirty days of yore.

1) I hardly ever miss a meal. The galley workers really know how to turn canned produce into excellent food and meals are a great chance to catch up with my shipmates.
2) My bunk is tall enough for me to be able to put on pants without having to lie down like most of my other shipmates.
3) There is a fan inches away from the bottom end of my bunk. Though it blows cool air directly parallel to my bunk, if I dangle half my body off the bunk I can sleep comfortably.
4) Comfy red settees line the edges of the main saloon, including the area right below my bunk. This is convenient for relaxing as well as for when members of A watch come to wake me up. JP or Anna stands on the settee, which allows for optimal hearing and more satisfying wake ups since I can see the face of the person waking me.
5) The lab generator switchbox, located inches away from the top end of my bunk, hums to let me know when science is happening.
6) The water pipe running through the side of my bunk allows for extra hanging space. Along with the wooden pole located outside my bunk for vaulting in, I use the water pipe for damp laundry.
7) My bunk has shelves instead of nets or large, empty spaces. Ideal for organization.
8) The main saloon is centrally located which provides me with superior situational awareness.
9) The only smells are cooking and baking aromas. No greywater stench, head odors or engine room fumes.
10) Six other shipmates share the main saloon as a living space--Maggie, Heart Break, Sarah Sarah Dixon, Beta, Anna and Di--which makes it more entertaining than other spaces on the boat.
11) There is ample room both in my bunk and in the main saloon. Chances of me smashing into something are slim, though that does not mean I don't lose my balance multiple times a day.

Though I am fond of my bunk, I do not enter my space unless necessary. This is due to my aversion to being alone as well as my dislike towards the musty smell. The red curtains, thick enough so that I can change without shame, retain all heat within the small box. It has taken some practice but I can vault into my bunk without bruising my shins, a feat I am proud of. And now six hours of sweaty sleep await me and I look forward to curling up in the dank, yellowing polka dots of my soft mattress until JP sings my name repeatedly or Anna shines a light in my face and yells TRUCK!

The Crameid: Book One

I sing of a brigantine and seventeen students,

Who first set sail from the Virgin Islands;
They were not the first on the Cramer,
And will not be the last,
But the Caribbean waters were foreign to them.
From St. Croix to St. Maarten to Samaná, Dominican Republic
They were jostled and pushed by Neptune;
Most leaned over the side of the boat in anguish
As she rolled, but three strong ones--James, JP and Patricia--
Ate their fill of galley delights and lay down, satisfied,
In their cramped and musty bunks.

Tell me the reason, oh Muse, for the bioluminescence
Shining in the waves, almost as a reflection
Of the thousands of stars visible on clear nights.
Or of why there are no phyllosoma in the Sargasso Sea,
Or of how the clewl'n works to strike the tops'l.
How long would it take these seventeen students
To feel confident in their many jobs at sail in the Atlantic,
As a weather reader, a boat checker, an equipment deployer,
A line coiler, an assistant chef, a chlorophyll-a data processor,
An assistant engineer, a writer, a reader, a winkler,
A sailor.
Can such apathy hold the minds of professors?

There was a city they called Port Antonio--
Certainly welcomed by those who could not speak Spanish--
A city situated on the Atlantic Ocean, yet far
From the Dominican Republic from whence they came,
And the United States they think about often.
This land promised information about the Mooretown villagers,
About biodiversity and ecotourism, about reggae and literature.
The people would treat these seventeen students like tourists,
Which they were and were not simultaneously,
And some would feel uncomfortable looking at trinkets
While the island rocked back and forth like a large floating raft.

After adventures in Jamaica, presenting scientific findings
And hiking to marvel at green wonders not seen in the blue ocean
That the students would soon regard as their home,
They would set off on the last leg of their onerous journey
Up the Yucatán and back into the States.
The Captain prayed that King Aeolus would be kind
And offer them a favorable wind at little cost.
Once in Key West, a few would travel with family,
One would go see a space shuttle launch,
One would study for his LSATs,
And the rest would sail together to Charleston.

Just out of sight of Samaná, the students already
Had begun to wonder what would happen after
The Cramer had washed herself of the seventeen;
Would they ever be all together again?
The group had held together just as a copepod clinging to
A clump of Sargassum weed manages to nestle in a groove
And avoid being drowned in ethanol, instead being tossed
Once again back into the sea, a science evader.
Would all projects be turned in on time?
Would the water for the pasta ever boil in the galley?
The students constantly asked themselves questions.
Questions related to anxiety and homesickness,
Ignorance and frustration, curiosity and awe.
Hands to set the jib!
Which one is the jib downhaul again?