At the Helm of Adventure

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.

Along the cliffs, past rocky points where sea lions basked and argued, we raced over the glittering azure waters of Puget Sound.

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.