Bt Scott Dodgson
By the time the grey light of dawn slipped across the little harbor in Horta I had drunk a couple of cups of coffee. I didn’t shift from or change my constant vigilance of the watch system aboard my boat. By this point in time I had only one crew member left on board, a sixty something drunken chef who locked herself in her cabin. So I gathered my little clay paint pots and set off down the breakwater to find my boat’s logo painted on the breakwater rocks. This was my third trip through Horta; the two previous trips were noted by date and crew list. I considered out of betrayal and anger to just put Janice down as the only crew member. I wanted to practice even judgment when it came to these circumstances. “Stay above the fray” I thought. So I painted their names and made a small notation next to their names “M” for mutineer. To this day I feel good about that “M”. My subsequent trips through Horta (another eight) I march my crew up to the rock to paint their names as a rite and honor pointing out the “M” and its meaning. I have never had a crew member abandon my boat since that trip.
Upon returning I tried to get Janice out of her cabin. She moaned and begged me to leave her alone. So having gained three days on my schedule I decided it was time to shove off. (In previous blogs I describe the goal is to reach Rhodes Greece to pick up a charter) With the aid of a couple fisherman I slid my 72 CT off the wall and into the center of the harbor. This being very tight a man in a dinghy helped push my bow around. He pushed just enough and with little direction to allow me to exit straight out of the harbor. I set course for the Straits of Gibraltar some 950 nm away. I figured I had maybe two or three sleepless nights at the helm ahead of me and once Janice sobered up she would give me a couple of hours of sleep. With little or no wind I motored for the next six hours, before I became very concerned about Janice.
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Showing posts with label Azores. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Azores. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tradition of the Sea
By Scott Dodgson
I entered the Horta town harbor from the east. With the volcano to our starboard and a quaint but sturdy lighthouse to port the entrance is easy to navigate. The island of Fial has a population of 11,000 most of which lives in the charming town of Horta. I went directly to the customs dock. There is a large rather worn sign that is easy to see. The officials came out of their office and helped us tie up. The senior customs official greeted me with a big smile. This was my third trip to Horta and he seemed to remember me. I cleared customs and took fuel at the same time. My crew was very impatient. They already had changed clothes. It is always a pleasure when arriving in a new country, especially by sea when the officials are friendly. In my general and not so scientific study of Customs and Immigration officials U.S. are without a doubt the rudest and most unwelcoming organization on earth. Just my opinion, but a survey of Captains will support my conclusion. The Azores top the list of the most accommodating. We were directed to tie up side by side to the breakwater wall. With the traffic of transatlantic yachts I was lucky to get right next to the wall. I wouldn’t have to cross over other yachts to get to shore. The disadvantage was waking up in the middle of the night by a drunken sailor crawling back to his boat. We were finally secure. I turned off the motor and was stuck by the overwhelming silence. After thirteen days of wind and waves it felt as if I had stepped into a vacuum. I pointed out a restaurant across the harbor were we could all meet for dinner. I’m buying! The crew leaped off the boat a disappeared in an instant. I sat quietly in my salon and wrote in my log book. After taking a shower and changing I set off for the bar. We sailors do like rewarding ourselves. I intended to stay for two nights. I wouldn’t hesitate spending the summer going from island to island. If you are one of those been there and done that travelers go to the Azores. It is a magical place. The beauty of the islands is stunning. The people are warm and helpful. I likened visiting the Azores as stepping back in time to the fifties. The islands are unspoiled by the rampant tourism you find in the Caribbean or the South Pacific. Of course, I’m partial to Yachtie havens and Horta in the transit season is no different. Horta was filled with transatlantic sailors. When I met my crew for diner the bar was crowed and loud. It was perfect. I ordered a couple pitchers of the local tinta roja. By the second pitcher I felt a dark undercurrent in my crew’s mood. By the time our roast lamb and fried potatoes arrived I was experiencing a full on mutiny. David started by telling me that this adventure was a little more than he expected. He rationalized he had crossed the Atlantic even though as I pointed out he was a thousand nm miles short. Paul gave me a lame excuse that his family missed him and he had to return as soon as possible. I gave them a long and rather convoluted speech about respecting tradition which fell on deaf ears. They were afraid and had become tired of their fear. I handed them their passports and wished them good luck. There was nothing I could do as they were paying customers. They abruptly left to get their gear and catch the evening ferry to Lisbon. Mike, my first mate sheepishly announced he wanted his passport also, and that he too was catching the ferry. I was less generous and patient with him. I threatened that I would do everything in my power to make sure he never worked on a yacht anywhere in the world. Janice was leaning against the bar drinking shots. I went over to her and explained the situation. I decided to leave in the morning, out of anger and need to get to Italy and pick up my crew. She said she was ready. That evening as the ferry left for Lisbon I stood high up above the town with its sweeping vistas watching as my mutineers sailed. I questioned my leadership. I asked myself what I could have done differently. I came to the conclusion that without the leverage of military service I was impotent. From now on I would only hire sailors who respect the tradition of the sea.
http://www.azores.com/
I entered the Horta town harbor from the east. With the volcano to our starboard and a quaint but sturdy lighthouse to port the entrance is easy to navigate. The island of Fial has a population of 11,000 most of which lives in the charming town of Horta. I went directly to the customs dock. There is a large rather worn sign that is easy to see. The officials came out of their office and helped us tie up. The senior customs official greeted me with a big smile. This was my third trip to Horta and he seemed to remember me. I cleared customs and took fuel at the same time. My crew was very impatient. They already had changed clothes. It is always a pleasure when arriving in a new country, especially by sea when the officials are friendly. In my general and not so scientific study of Customs and Immigration officials U.S. are without a doubt the rudest and most unwelcoming organization on earth. Just my opinion, but a survey of Captains will support my conclusion. The Azores top the list of the most accommodating. We were directed to tie up side by side to the breakwater wall. With the traffic of transatlantic yachts I was lucky to get right next to the wall. I wouldn’t have to cross over other yachts to get to shore. The disadvantage was waking up in the middle of the night by a drunken sailor crawling back to his boat. We were finally secure. I turned off the motor and was stuck by the overwhelming silence. After thirteen days of wind and waves it felt as if I had stepped into a vacuum. I pointed out a restaurant across the harbor were we could all meet for dinner. I’m buying! The crew leaped off the boat a disappeared in an instant. I sat quietly in my salon and wrote in my log book. After taking a shower and changing I set off for the bar. We sailors do like rewarding ourselves. I intended to stay for two nights. I wouldn’t hesitate spending the summer going from island to island. If you are one of those been there and done that travelers go to the Azores. It is a magical place. The beauty of the islands is stunning. The people are warm and helpful. I likened visiting the Azores as stepping back in time to the fifties. The islands are unspoiled by the rampant tourism you find in the Caribbean or the South Pacific. Of course, I’m partial to Yachtie havens and Horta in the transit season is no different. Horta was filled with transatlantic sailors. When I met my crew for diner the bar was crowed and loud. It was perfect. I ordered a couple pitchers of the local tinta roja. By the second pitcher I felt a dark undercurrent in my crew’s mood. By the time our roast lamb and fried potatoes arrived I was experiencing a full on mutiny. David started by telling me that this adventure was a little more than he expected. He rationalized he had crossed the Atlantic even though as I pointed out he was a thousand nm miles short. Paul gave me a lame excuse that his family missed him and he had to return as soon as possible. I gave them a long and rather convoluted speech about respecting tradition which fell on deaf ears. They were afraid and had become tired of their fear. I handed them their passports and wished them good luck. There was nothing I could do as they were paying customers. They abruptly left to get their gear and catch the evening ferry to Lisbon. Mike, my first mate sheepishly announced he wanted his passport also, and that he too was catching the ferry. I was less generous and patient with him. I threatened that I would do everything in my power to make sure he never worked on a yacht anywhere in the world. Janice was leaning against the bar drinking shots. I went over to her and explained the situation. I decided to leave in the morning, out of anger and need to get to Italy and pick up my crew. She said she was ready. That evening as the ferry left for Lisbon I stood high up above the town with its sweeping vistas watching as my mutineers sailed. I questioned my leadership. I asked myself what I could have done differently. I came to the conclusion that without the leverage of military service I was impotent. From now on I would only hire sailors who respect the tradition of the sea.
http://www.azores.com/
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Knowing the Unknown
By Scott Dodgson
Let’s consider knowledge for a moment. There are three ways of looking at knowledge; those things you actually know, like driving a car, a good recipe for chicken, or baseball. Then there is a rather large category of subjects you are aware of but don’t know, Chinese language, nuclear science or metaphysical poetry. Then there is an even more expansive category of all the things you have no clue exists. Finding an island in the middle of the ocean after twelve days of sailing is a little like experiencing all three categories at once. I know I’ve been sailing to a point in the ocean. At first the crew was confident I would find the island. In the middle of the voyage they spent a good deal of time checking the chart and questioning my grasp of navigation. Near the end was a near panic that we were somehow lost. So on the morning of the twelfth day at sea I spotted what looked like a stationary cloud in the direction of our course. Without betraying my discovery I surveyed the crew. David, my retired businessman seemed to be hunkered down as if he were counting the minutes to go home and escape his cubicle. Janice seemed completely unaware and I suspected drunk. Paul seemed tortured by loneliness and longing for something I was not quite sure and Mike, my so called first mate was brooding. Every conversation I had with him since he fell asleep at the helm was strained and uncomfortable even though I had repeatedly told him everything was cool. I spent a couple of moments privately enjoying my accomplishment of finding the Azores. I quick note the Azores have been called the lost islands for hundreds of years because they had been discovered and lost by the Portuguese, Spanish, English and French. I lifted my binoculars and saw the hazy outline of Mount Pico rising nearly 8,000 feet. One degree to port laid Horta our intended destination. I asked Janice what she had planned for dinner. She replied the last of the salad, soup and fish. I announced it would not be necessary to cook tonight as I would be buying the crew dinner in Horta. With this announcement excitement and relief flooded the crew’s emotions. They had crossed from what they knew to what they were aware of and now stood face to face with an island they really didn’t know existed.
West Marine - The worlds largest boating supply company!
Let’s consider knowledge for a moment. There are three ways of looking at knowledge; those things you actually know, like driving a car, a good recipe for chicken, or baseball. Then there is a rather large category of subjects you are aware of but don’t know, Chinese language, nuclear science or metaphysical poetry. Then there is an even more expansive category of all the things you have no clue exists. Finding an island in the middle of the ocean after twelve days of sailing is a little like experiencing all three categories at once. I know I’ve been sailing to a point in the ocean. At first the crew was confident I would find the island. In the middle of the voyage they spent a good deal of time checking the chart and questioning my grasp of navigation. Near the end was a near panic that we were somehow lost. So on the morning of the twelfth day at sea I spotted what looked like a stationary cloud in the direction of our course. Without betraying my discovery I surveyed the crew. David, my retired businessman seemed to be hunkered down as if he were counting the minutes to go home and escape his cubicle. Janice seemed completely unaware and I suspected drunk. Paul seemed tortured by loneliness and longing for something I was not quite sure and Mike, my so called first mate was brooding. Every conversation I had with him since he fell asleep at the helm was strained and uncomfortable even though I had repeatedly told him everything was cool. I spent a couple of moments privately enjoying my accomplishment of finding the Azores. I quick note the Azores have been called the lost islands for hundreds of years because they had been discovered and lost by the Portuguese, Spanish, English and French. I lifted my binoculars and saw the hazy outline of Mount Pico rising nearly 8,000 feet. One degree to port laid Horta our intended destination. I asked Janice what she had planned for dinner. She replied the last of the salad, soup and fish. I announced it would not be necessary to cook tonight as I would be buying the crew dinner in Horta. With this announcement excitement and relief flooded the crew’s emotions. They had crossed from what they knew to what they were aware of and now stood face to face with an island they really didn’t know existed.
West Marine - The worlds largest boating supply company!
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