By Susannah
As I sat in the office in Erie, my last port as an intern, I struggled to provide a summation of my tall ships experience. This internship was just the beginning. I begin an apprenticeship with Niagara this fall after filling in as crew on S/V Denis Sullivan’s transit to Milwaukee from Erie. I never intended to fall in love with tall ships; all I’ve ever wanted to do is emergency medicine, as I am an EMT on land. I’ve wanted to work in medicine since I was six years old. Deviation from my life aspirations is to be expected, though I never believed I could stray this far from my field. What I believed to be a summer gig has proved life-altering.
I consider the tall ships community a niche, the conditions so specific that only a certain species of person may thrive. I never quite felt that I belonged at home. I was never interested in the parties, I never cared how my classmates scored on their SATs or where they were going to college. I never fit in with the upper echelon, nor the lower. But here, it doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from, the only factor in inclusion is the strength of what your hands and characters can muster. Tall ships eliminate difference.
To Erin, or Mother Duck, my wonderful, goofy, and thoughtful boss, you mean so much to me. I love how at every tall ships function, I can follow the sound of giddy cackling to find you in the crowd. I find it hilarious that you called me “Candace” by accident at the Bay City awards ceremony, in front of the whole Tall Ships community, when I went on stage with you to help pass out awards.
When I lament about the scattered nature of my writing, you remind me not to fight it, to allow my brain to undergo unadulterated catharsis. Thank you for giving me the space to create, for removing confines and expectations such that I was able to make this internship my own. Thank you for never making me get you coffee, as many bosses do to their interns. Thank you for carrying the smelly intern laundry bag hundreds of miles on a bus. And for caring for me, for protecting me when I didn’t even know that I needed it. You are one of the kindest humans I’ve come to know. If I could be 1% more like you, I would be content forever. Your ducklings will miss you dearly.
Candace, or Trash Can or Can-Dance, I love how you see the world. I love your fervent belief in causation and humanity, that everything happens for a reason and that monarch butterflies are omens sent by some supreme entity rather than a circumstantial encounter. I haven’t your faith. Instead, I see us as combinations of molecules groping around in the dark for some semblance of purpose. You make me want to believe in the divine, though I’m not sure I can convince myself so.
We have talked about how we would probably never be friends if we had met in any other context. I’m too chaotic, your peacefulness intimidates me. I am Energizer Bunny™, buzzing about without direction, and you are an Iphone 4, consistent and dependable until you need to be plugged in and recharged. But we balance one another by providing what the other is lacking. You have such a sense of humor about yourself, although I resent your self-deprecating jokes since you are exceptionally wonderful. I am honored that people jokingly refer to me as “Candace” after the Bay City debacle.
You are a seamstress, mending and splicing language into tercets and couplets, a composer of words. I haven’t your craft, I find the words in my mouth and splash them across a page. Your guidance encourages me to continue writing, a passion I have put on the back burner for some time now. When you publish your first collection, you better believe I’ll be the first in line at the book signing.
To James, or Bilge Donkey or Boat Boy or Intern James #7, thank you for showing me your world. Sailing is your past and present and legacy, etched into your very being. Your love for tall ships is palpable. I see it in the way your eyes light up when bending on a sail or using the blow torch to finish off the piece of standing rigging you’ve served, or when I finally understand something that you’re drawing out on a wipe board. Without judgement, you entertain my most ridiculous questions about sailing. You impress me time and time again.
You once told me that you see life as a game, that success is all about how you play. I subscribe to the idea that success is predominately about dumb luck rather than skill, though I believe you fall at the intersection of which. Let me tell you, you play this game well. I have no doubt that you will go far in this industry. One day, when you’re the captain of a ship, it would be an honor to be on your crew.
This community, averse to everything I have come to know in the world, has allowed me to better understand myself as a person. The conclusion I have come to is that I will never fully know my character. It is a lifelong process of learning, and relearning, how I function in different contexts.
I have been afforded the opportunity to hone personal gumption and stamina. I have learned that I am capable of more than I give myself credit for. Remaining chipper after a five AM wake up and a sixteen hour workday is not a claim many can make. After four days without a shower, hair wild and twisty and tangled, clothes pollacked with pine tar and oil, cheeks singed by the sun’s kiss, it’s a feat to feel beautiful or, better yet, to forget to look in the mirror, to release oneself entirely from the conception of appearance. After being properly petrified every time I laid aloft at the beginning of the summer, and pushing myself past these reasonable boundaries to a point in which I am giddy at the prospect (I even have a special harness dance), is something I can be proud of.
I have switched ships just about every leg of this journey, so my education has been somewhat haphazard. I feel inadequate constantly. Every time I begin to get a handle on a ship, memorize the pin rails, remember which lines get flaked and which ones get balantined, and what knot to secure a furled sail, I hop ship and the protocols are all different. At first, I felt frustrated for not being able to do things that I had already learned somewhere else. But I have come to appreciate my broad basis of sail training; I consider the differing procedures as tools added to my belt.
Sail training has cultivated in me a sense of confidence at odds to what is sanctioned by our society. The conventional perception of female confidence is security in one's outward appearance, not faith in the fortitude of one’s spirit and abilities. I’ve had the privilege of learning from an incredibly talented cast of professional mariners, who are impressive because of their knowledge, their gender is of pure coincidence. I’ve found that seeing women in positions of leadership allows me to see myself doing things that I’ve never been able to picture myself engaged in. I am surrounded by living legends: S/V Denis Sullivan’s Captain Tiffany, Engineer Abbey, deckhands Mariah and Inball, S/V Madeline’s Captain Stephanie, Fair Jeanne’s watch leaders Diva, Nicole, and Pamela, Picton Castle’s deckhands Anna and Ellen, The Brig Niagara’s Chief Mate Katelinn, Engineer Amanda, Bosun Cece, Able Seamen Sarah and Ordinary Seamen Meghan, to name some of the women that I am beyond grateful to have met. If just one young girl sees her own potential in another woman and recognizes the extent of her faculties, then we, as a community, have done our job.
The TALL SHIPS CHALLENGE® race series exposes the public, mostly people who haven’t sailed a day in their lives, to the world of sail training and the people that make it possible. This is what sail training is all about.
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