In the summer the Odyssey, our local Sea Scout sailboat,
sets out for the San Juan Islands.
Usually I go for a week of red shirts, lots of cooking, and
storytime.
The Sea Scouts range from age 14-21, usually leaving about
age 18 when they head off to college. If
it is a young crowd, the ship is awash in giggly screaming girls, and sleepy
sloppy boys who can’t find their socks.
One year the girls got to stay in the aft cabin. After hearing about broken relationships and
tears, he-said-she-said, the skipper described it as “chick hell.” Having a galley right next to the foc’sle,
filled with farting boys, contraband candy, or used Q-Tips, I have my own
descriptions of what to stand aghast at.
Somehow they morph into the finest kids on the planet. What magic is wrought within that 90 feet of
wood! Maybe the diesel fumes from my
stove have tweaked ol’ Cookie’s brain into being slightly off so that I see
them differently as the years go on.
Or maybe they really are the finest ever.
Some of the crew this year was older and ready to embark on
the next step of their lives. One young man is gone now to Calif. Maritime
Academy. Hair shorn and in a spanking
white uniform. Another is heading for
the Navy, where he will be a Special Forces rescue swimmer. Others are headed off to college, or are
already there. Some will move up to take
over the leadership of the boat.
We toasted s’mores on Sucia Island, filled with caves to explore,
forest trails, hidden harbors, cliff-side hikes, or perhaps a game of touch
football on the beach. Another day, the
kids zipped off on the zodiac and caught crabs in Bellingham Bay. Another day they rigged the little boats we
carry to sail, or kayaked, or had shore leave in Port Townsend.
Of course the best moments are when we put the sails up. Our mainsail is huge, 105 feet off the waterline. On that week's unforgettable morning, the canvas snapped to attention and caught the wind of Rosario Passage, where sea birds mewed and a bouy bell slowly clanged at us.
The wind flirted with the aromas
coming from my galley of a promised tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches
for lunch. A never-to-be-forgotten sunny day on the edge of a continent, on the
edge of childhood about to be left behind like the white foamy wake at our
stern.
Most of the young men and women clustered around the bow,
looking out for what was ahead. A few
hung around the helm steering our group’s course, looking up at the vane at the
top of the mast. Some were at the navigation table, plotting our future and
answering the radio’s call. But all of them
were working at going somewhere.
Somewhere of promise.
They have a lot to look forward to. Even if they tease me and tell me all they
are looking forward to is tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches.
