The next morning, I went for a walk before sunrise and ambled around the town, ending up at Harbor Walk Park, where I watched the sun come up. A big ship came through and the bridge raised up to let it pass. I don't think I'd ever seen a drawbridge in action before. It was pretty cool.
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| Approaching the Isles of Shoals. |
As I walked back to the hotel, I got a call from my dad. I thought he'd still be sleeping but he said to meet him in the hotel breakfast room. While we ate, he asked me if I would like to go sailing. I said Yes! but how, where? And he said he figured that the Navy base, the storied Portsmouth Naval Shipyard -- founded in 1800, but facilities on Seavey's Island where it is located have been building naval ships since 1690 -- doubtless had a yacht club so he checked and it surely did. He further found out that there was a Cape Dory 36 available for bare boat charter and if I wanted to sail her, a phone call would make her ours for the day. Of course I said yes, and then said so we'll just motor around the harbor and local waterways and dad said we could do that, but how about sail out to the Isles of Shoals? They're only about two leagues across the open ocean, an hour or so sail, depending on the wind. I'd never heard of the Isles of Shoals, but I said let's go! What are we waiting for?
Later,
I looked up the Isles of Shoals, a collection of nine islands, and learned that they had been the base for European fishing fleets since at least the early 16th century, with scores of sailing vessels from England, Wales, Brittany and even Portugal frequenting them, "the Doggers and Pinckes of the English; the clumsey Busses of Holland and Zealand, the light Fly-Boats of Flanders, the Biskiner, and the Portingal, and many another," as J.S. Jennes wrote in his 1873 history of the Isles. The "shoals" in their name don't refer to shallow waters but to shoals or schools of cod, which swam in such enormous abundance that it was worth the sail across the Atlantic in a small fishing boat to net them.
Once Britain acquired the Isles, they were considered one of the country's most valuable colonies because of the astounding quantities of cod caught, dried and shipped to the mother country. The first confirmed written mention of the Isles dates from 1605, when Samuel de Champlain, voyaging south from Port Royal, sighted them, noting in his log, "Nous apperceusmes un cap a la grande terre au su quart du suest de nous, ou il pourioit avoir quelque six lieues; a l'est deux lieues, apperceusmes trois ou quatre isles asses hautes, et a l'ouest, un grand cul de sac." I can't imagine why he called them "high islands." John Smith visited the Isles in 1614 and was so captivated by them that he wrote, “Of all foure parts of the world that I have seene not inhabited, could I have but the meanes to transport a Colonie, I would rather live here than any where.” By 1680, the thriving fishing village of Gosport was established on Star Island and prospered until the Revolution, when it and all the islands were evacuated in the face of British attacks.
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| Celia Thaxter |
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| A whale tail! |
It had been some time since I'd been sailing, but I recovered the skills fairly quickly. This boat was fully-equipped for hard-core sailing, even having a traveler, an essential piece of gear that a lot of sailboats are not equipped with, as well as a boom vang, preventer for the main and other useful goodies. The owner, so we understood, made frequent trips to the Maine Islands and farther north to the Maritimes and had set up his boat to make such voyages.
It had also been some time since I had been on a Navy base and it felt good, like coming home. I knew the routines and procedures, what everything was. The base was neat and clean and full of people busy with jobs that needed doing. I wanted to linger and wander around, but I couldn't do that and go sailing, too. So sailing it was.
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| Those bobbing black things are the heads of seals. |
After navigating carefully, following sailing directions to the letter and avoiding lobster buoys and commercial moorings, we anchored in two fathoms of water near a rockbound shore and were immediately surrounded by curious seals. The water was clear and I could see them swimming around, cavorting as only seals can. I'd dived off the Channel Islands into the kelp beds with seals, but here I saw no kelp, although there was plenty elsewhere, just a rocky bottom. I felt the urge to dive in among them although I knew that without a wet suit I couldn't stay in the water long. I'd looked up the water temperature for August at a diving site I belong to and learned that the average water temperature around the Isles in August was 70 degrees (compared to 60 degrees at Santa Barbara and 85 degrees at Guam, where I'd also dived). I figured in this shallow cove the water would be warmer because of solar heating and the heat of the rocks.
Anyway, I mentioned to my dad that I was going to dive in for a few minutes and to turn his back while I stripped out of my tee shirt and jeans, shoes and socks and dove in. The water hit me like jumping into a bowl of ice cubes but in a few moments I was accustomed to it. Seals immediately surrounded me, one approaching within about five feet before banking away. I swam for the bottom, seals following me, and looked up at our boat. As I did so, I saw dad, stripped down to his skivvies, dive into the water. He swam down to me, rolling over on his back and waving, then kicked up to the surface and began swimming a lap around the boat. I followed, just about out of breath when I surfaced. I treaded water, saw some seals sunning on a rock and thought about joining them but decided they might be aggressive and if not, would just dive into the water when I approached. I looked around and spotted a flat rock barely above the surface and swam over to it and clambered out of the water.
It was warm to my feet and the sun on my skin felt delightful. I realized that already my body core was chilled, just after that brief time in the water. I lay down, closed my eyes, and soaked up the sun. After a few minutes I heard splashing and some animal crawling up on the rock, as I imagined. Alarmed, I opened my eyes to see what it was. It was my dad hoisting himself out of the water. He was cold, too, and lay down beside me, breathing heavily. I didn't like hearing that. It worried me and reminded me that although I always thought of him as he was when I was growing up, he was really long past his prime. I shouldn't have encouraged him, if only by example, to over-exert himself. In a minute or two, though, his breathing returned to normal. He sat up and looked out across the water to our boat and asked me if I had seen the sharks. I had not seen any sharks. I asked what kind. He said he thought they were sand sharks, about three or four feet long. He'd also seen some horseshoe crabs. I hadn't seen those, either.
Not wanting to get sunburned and warmed up I said I was going back to the boat. Dad said he'd follow me. I swam back circled by seals. The water felt colder to me than before. I clambered up the swim ladder and turned around to see dad swimming up to it. He grabbed for the ladder and missed as the boat rolled, then got it when the boat rolled back. I got down on my knees and leaned over, stretching out a hand for him to grasp, which he did, but mainly to steady himself rather than needing me to help him climb. He looked up at me, then quickly averted his eyes. I stood back as he clambered aboard, panting slightly.
"Daughter," he said, "You shouldn't do that to an old man!"
"Do what?" I asked. He just looked at me and shook his head.
I noticed that he was shivering slightly so I said he should go below and take a hot shower and get into his clothes. I'd make some coffee in the galley and have it ready for him. He didn't object. While he was showering he began scat singing the Triumphal March from Aida, bellowing it out pretty good. I began humming it under my breath, too. There was only instant coffee aboard so when the water boiled I spooned enough into the pot to make a strong brew and told dad it was ready on the stove and that I was going topside while he put on his clothes.
I went forward and lay down on the warm deck, looked up at the sky. It had been fairly cloudy sailing over, but now the clouds were almost gone and the sun was strong. I propped myself up on an elbow and looked around at the islands. They were flat, practically treeless, covered in scrub brush where they weren't heavily built up with all sorts of structures and their manicured lawns. There was nothing attractive about them at all. What a contrast with Anacapa, or Santa Rosa, never mind Santa Catalina. Even Santa Barbara Island was more interesting. Yet these isles were popular with New Englanders and had been for hundreds of years, with, as I've noted, rhapsodic descriptions of their wonders. I honestly didn't see what the attraction was, especially since the anchorages were so crappy and dangerous in any kind of foul weather.
While I was thinking these thoughts, suddenly it popped into my head what dad had meant when he said I shouldn't do "that." Boobage. I hadn't considered the view I was giving the poor man practically right in his face.
Thinking about boobs and their effect on the male, I recalled reading somewhere once, maybe in Desmond Morris's The Naked Ape, that women had breasts to represent their buttocks. Other primates mated doggy style but humans mated face-to-face he had written, so to attract the male, the female had to grow pseudo buttocks in front. I remember when I read that thinking, wait, wait -- you're telling me I have a butt hanging off my chest? That I have two butts, uptown and downtown, so to speak? Oh, nuts. Just get out of here! Hasn't this guy ever seen photos of topless "native" women? Their breasts don't look anything at all like their hind ends. I guess if your mind went that way a woman clad in a western-style dress with cleavage could bring to mind a plumber's butt crack. But you know... I don't think so. Oh, and although the author of that book may not have been aware of it, humans do it doggy style, too.
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| Schooner at White Island, Isles of Shoals. |
About this time, dad climbed up on deck with a mug of coffee and sat down in the cockpit by the helm. I went below, showered, and then changed into my maple-leaf dress. I'd brought it along as an emergency change because you never know. I rinsed out my panties and bra, wrung them dry, poured myself a cup of coffee, grabbed dad's skivvies from where he'd hung them and went back up on deck. I laid out our underthings on the cabin roof but dad had a better idea and clipped them onto the pennant line and hoisted them aloft, where they waved in the breeze.
He then suggested we go ashore at Star Island and have a stroll and eat lunch before heading back. We clambered into the zodiac and each taking an oar, paddled briskly to the pier. It was hot on the island, but there was a pleasant zephyr wafting across what was basically a big, flat granite slab. We saw everything there was to see in about a half-hour stroll, then checked out the old hotel. It had a cute little gift shop that I pounced on to buy souvenirs for my kids and mom. I was pleased that I found some unique items for them because in Portsmouth I didn't really find anything aside from some glasses and mugs celebrating the 400th anniversary of the city's founding in 1623.
At the harborside Gosport Grill, we ordered New England clam chowder and fish and chips. The food tasted delightful in that nautical setting, with the bright seaside sun and salty sea breeze. I had an ice tea. Dad ordering a Stoneface festbier, a local brew. I didn't know what a festbier was so he offered me a sip. It just tasted like beer to me. But he said it was pretty good and after finishing it he ordered another and a third after that. I thought, dad, you are going to get blasted out of your skull, but I said nothing. Let him enjoy. What was the harm? I recalled el jefe, when I was with him at Ramstein, raving about all the great beers in Germany and saying poor old Germany: if there's any country that has been screwed more times than it by history and still managed to survive, he didn't know which one it was.
While we were eating, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation of an older couple at a table diagonally across from us. The woman was looking out over the anchorage and remarked to her husband (I assumed) that one of the boats was flying some sort of flags. The boat she pointed to was ours. She asked him if it was a distress call and shouldn't they tell someone. He looked over at the boat and said, "Oh, no. That's just their underwear. They probably hung it up to dry."
"How can you even tell what it is? I only see what looks like white flags."
"I looked at it through the binoculars while you were taking that call from your sister. Here, have a look," he said, handing her a small pair of folding spy glasses. She took them, fiddled with the focus, and scrutinized our Cape Dory.
"Why, yes," she said after a moment. "A bra, panties and boxer shorts. Now why would someone fly those from their flag pole?"
"It's not a pole, it's a rope."
"Well, whatever it is."
"I saw them, a man and a woman, swimming earlier and then sunbathing. I imagine after they got back on the boat they hung their underwear up to dry."
"They were swimming in their underwear? Why would they do that? Don't they have swim suits? And how could you tell they were in their underwear? That's pretty far away."
"I guess they didn't bring swimming suits." After a pause, he added, "I was watching them through the binoculars, my dear."
"You were watching a woman swimming around in her underwear through binoculars?" She frowned and shook her head.
The man shrugged. Finishing his coffee, he said, "Are you done?" When she nodded, he said, "Well, we might as well see what else there is to see here," and they rose to go, the woman saying, "I think you've seen quite enough."
"I wouldn't have minded seeing more."
"Dear! There are other people here," she said, glancing in our direction. Then as they walked past our table she glanced at us again, looking at me, then my dad, then back to me. As they walked away, she said, "I don't understand those December-May couples. What do they have in common? What do they have to talk about?"
The man, looking back at me, said, "Maybe talking is not what the relationship is about." I stuck my tongue out at him. He stuck his tongue out back at me.
My dad, who had been gazing off in the distance, not paying attention, noticed and asked what that was all about.
"Oh, we were just flirting."
"Huh."
"So, what were you thinking about? You looked lost in thought."
"Oh, nothing. Just sitting here enjoying the view and digesting my food. It's been a nice day, don't you think? Nothing better than messing about with boats."
"Wind in the Willows!"
"A happy book."
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Off Shore
The waves are full of whispers wild and sweet;
They call to me, -- incessantly they beat
Along the boat from stern to curvéd prow
Comes the careering wind, blows back my hair,
All damp with dew, to kiss me unaware,
Murmuring "Thee I love," and passes on.
Sweet sounds on rocky shores the distant rote;
O could we float forever, little boat,
Under the blissful sky drifting alone!
~ Celia Thaxter
