Journeys are not solely measured in miles. The distances we travel have as much to do with the means we use and the places we go as they do with the actual destination. My sail in the US Brig Niagara, while it only spanned three weeks and a few hundred miles, brought me full circle and completed a journey I had begun twenty years before.
When I was sixteen, I read the Hornblower series by C.S. Forester. I loved it, and dreamed of going to sea. Since berths in sailing ships were few and far between, I joined the Sea Scouts instead, and learned to sail in a thirty foot whaleboat.
This is cutter 1. She's not a whaleboat, but crewing her was similar. Twice I got to help take her between ports. Being out in the boat and watching Niagara as she sailed was an experience. It was the only time I actually got to see her sail while I wasn't aboard. Pulling was a completely different experience from sailing. It was calmer and strangely enough, more restful than being aboard Niagara. There, the activity of stowing gear or laying out mooring lines and fenders was more work than simply having the responsibility for one oar, as part of one crew.
This is the foretop, as seen from the maintop:
Being aloft was my favorite experience of the trip. I've always enjoyed climbing, though heights terrified me. I had several months training in Balclutha, a museum ship in San Francisco. The first time I went up there I was terrified, and barely made it over the top. By the time I got to Niagara, I had gotten used to it.
Niagara is a completely different feeling from Balclutha. She's a much older type of rig, and has ratlines all the way up instead of battens, as I was used to. Balclutha is more like climbing a ladder, while Niagara feels like stepping on an air mattress. The rig sways and bounces all the way up. The tops are very large as well. They're large enough to sleep on, really, and I was lucky enough to get to sit in the maintop for half an hour once when we were under sail.
This is part of the process of housing a yard. What, you may ask, is that? I wondered myself at the time. We were about to go out into the Atlantic, and if the weather had been bad, we might have wanted to reduce the amount of gear aloft. In this picture, one end of the yard is being pulled up towards the top of the mast. When it tilts far enough, it will be lowered down to the maintop below and lashed into place. This is really half the process of sending down a yard. If necessary, it could be lowered all the way down to the deck.
This is a chance meeting in the Atlantic. The ship here is the Half Moon, another training ship. She's much smaller than Niagara, and about 150 years older in design. She fired on us as we passed. Some people have a lot of nerve!
This is as far forward as you can get without climbing on the bowsprit. This was my view most mornings. Being before the mast as I was, the foredeck was my proper place. The white canvas on top of the rail is the hammock rail, so called because that is where our hammocks and bedding are stored during the day. You can also see two of the four anchors we carry on the deck aft of the foremast. (off to the left side of the picture) The rack behind the anchors is for storing the sweeps. Niagara is a very small vessel, as warships go, and can actually be moved under oars if necessary. There are small ports for the sweeps between the gun ports.We carry six guns, and you can see three of them along the deck. The first one is a cannon, a 12 pounder. Aft of it are two thirty-two pound carronades. One of my only regrets is never having gotten to participate in gun drill. Ah well, perhaps another summer....
This is the quarterdeck, with the main mast in the foreground. The two crew members standing behind the box are at the helm. The box is the binnacle, and houses the compass, the GPS and the engine controls. Niagara is unusual in that she has a tiller instead of a wheel for steering. Two people have the helm at a shift, and are directed by the officer on the narrow bridge deck above. Niagara doesn't have a raised fore or quarterdeck, and it's difficult to see above the rail when you're standing on the main deck. So the helm can't see where we're going. This isn't as frightening as it sounds, as we steer either by the compass, the sails, or by directions given by the officer in charge.
The Atlantic coast, as seen from aloft. Someday, may I get the chance to sail out of sight of it. The end of the journey for us both.