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Open Ship is code for "Ask me Stupid Questions"

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, there was an age of sail. It was grand. Sailors were dirty, poor, smelled bad, and were known for their indiscretions and general loutishness. Meanwhile, sailing was a profitable business venture, a means of trade and transport. All of this was quite splendid until some clever folks figured out some crazy stuff during the industrial revolution and from then on, sailing faded in the oddest of ways from being a poor man's job to a rich man's sport.

Fast forward to the present. Many times, when people ask what I do for a living and I say that I'm a sailor, they actually can't figure out what I mean. It's just not done anymore. There are professional sailors? What the bloody hell do they do?

Well, my friends, that's honestly a rather reasonable question. And my answer to you is this: we keep the dream alive. There is an art and a beauty to sailing, a sense of euphoria when the sails are set and the lines are humming and the wind whips your hair back from your face and throws spray sparkling around you. There is hard work to be done, and the sense of camaraderie and teamwork that goes into keeping the boat going. There is great value still in simply sailing, even if economically, it's entirely illogical.

And so, to keep the dream alive, to keep the money, if not flowing, at least somewhat stemming the wound, the sailing world has by and large turned to cruising and sail training. Some boats do booze cruises, island hopping, in a word, tourism. Others of us have latched onto the grand idea of putting kiddies on boats to teach them good skills, like respect, teamwork and leadership, as well as using the boat as a classroom for sciences, navigational mathematics, geography and anthropology (depending, of course, on where the boat goes). And all of this is great, but in order to keep interest and awareness up, there comes a time in every tall ship's life that it must advertise. The best way to do this is in Tall Ship festivals and thus, we come to my summer.

Festivals consist of a bunch of boats going on a road trip together; somewhat like a band going on tour. We head to a port, open our boats for thousands of people to tromp about on all weekend, then we have a parade, and trundle off, sometimes racing for funzies.

Now, I love answering questions about sailing. In fact, it's pretty much my main job on this ship. So I hear that thousands will be coming to see our ship and ask questions and I'm pretty onboard with the idea. Except- people are stupid. There is absolutely such thing as a stupid question, and sometimes people do the strangest things.

Some stupid questions and events during open ship in Toronto.

“Do you actually sail this boat?” (No, it's definitely all a ruse. We teleported here.)

“How are you going to leave?” (More teleportation, of course. The boat is superfluous. I did actually answer that question with a huge grin and the honest answer, “Well, sir, we're going to leave by boat.”)

“Do you really use the wheel?” (No, I steer with my mind. This is just a prop we put up to make you think this is real.)

“Why is the wheel backwards?” (Yeah, about that. Guess the boat builders just messed up when they put it in and we never fixed it. Never mind the box full of steering gear right behind it that attaches it to the rudder.)

“Do you guys really leave all this stuff outside?” (Of course not! We pry up everything that is bolted down and bring it inside. Or we build structures around them every time we suspect rain. Wouldn't want to ruin all that pretty varnish.)

“Why is this big metal thing here? It's in the way.” (Oh, of course ma'am. I'll get that bollard removed straight away so you can walk around better. I'm not sure where we're going to attach our dock lines anymore, but all of these parts are just for show anyway.)

“Why isn't the anchor down?” (Eh gads! The anchor isn't down? We're going to drift away! Oh no! It's too bad these lines attaching us to land won't help.)

“You should make these gangways less steep.” (I'll get right on that. What do you think would be better; raising the land, or cutting a hole in the side of the ship?)

It's truly amazing how many people think all of this is for show, or that we don't actually do anything onboard these vessels. Astonished faces greet me when I affirm that yes, we do climb the rigging, often multiple times a day and yes, I have been to the top. Probably three times the prior day. It's also amazing how surprised people are when you tell them that you live on the ship. I don't really know where else they think we'd be living, especially since we're in a different port every weekend. Also, my favorite action of all time was when one of our volunteers caught a family of four attempting to climb into one of our small boats that hang off the side. He overheard them saying “This is the perfect place for a picnic!” and turned around to see them standing on the railing, attempting to climb into the boat.

Ah, the humanity.  

So... What is it you do again?

Sometimes, life does really weird things to you. Sometimes you find yourself going from no job prospects to three job offers in a week, and then you suddenly can't decide whether to be the third mate on a schooner, a deckhand on a brig, or an... um... arbitrary random person on a full rigger. And when life gives you that decision, I hope you choose well.

I chose arbitrary random person.

Now, in order to explain this choice, I suppose I should explain the difference between these boats. One was a pretty ordinary schooner, not much different than the one I worked on last year. The second was bigger and better (okay, that's totally arbitrary, but everyone can definitely agree it's bigger and has more sails and is more complicated), but the third, well. A full rigged vessel, over two hundred feet long, with fifteen square sails and a mess of triangles. Over 220 lines, around 30 sails, accommodations for up to seventy trainees and fifteen professional crew. It made my boat-loving/semi-piratical heart go pitter-pat. I mean- how could I resist this?

I threw all other considerations to the wind. And thus I found myself finishing my last day of work at my outdoor science school on a Friday, throwing a farewell party on Saturday, driving to Los Angeles on Sunday and then leaving for Nova Scotia on Monday. My long-suffering parents accepted this abuse with relatively minimal complaint; I think I've numbed them by now. Yet it was a little too ambitious, even for crazy adventure-hungry me, since that really only left me with 26 hours to vacate the hoboshack, triage my possessions, wash everything, re-pack, and hit up a couple important chores (like doctor appointments before I become too old to get health care). My quick turnaround and then fourteen hour red-eye flight left me bleary and exhausted, stumbling around Halifax airport, laden with a backpack, a duffel bag and a ukulele, wondering what I would do if no one came to pick me up.

Fortunately, after about 45 minutes of sitting dazedly outside of customs, I was collected by a slightly kooky Kiwi. He loaded me and two others into a van and away we went.

It was on this car ride that I began objectively considering my somewhat rash choice. These two others in the van with me were past students, volunteers, and seemed to know way more about everything than I did. When I revealed that I was, as far as I knew, a member of the crew, they were taken aback.

“Really? What position are you?”

To which I had no better response than to shake my weary head and shrug. “Not a clue.”

My only comfort was that the boat had paid for me to fly from Los Angeles to Nova Scotia, so they must have wanted me for something. Hopefully not cannibalism. I'd signed a contract that said I could get ten hours off a day, and at least six in a row, so that seemed promising. (Some might think crazy is a better word, but that's objective, you know?)

When I arrived onboard, my new friends were shuffled off to volunteer land and I was taken aft to meet the crew. Upon my introduction, everyone's response was the same. “Oh, you're Halley.” Was I infamous already??? I hadn't done anything more than maybe pack a few too many things!

It turns out I was something of an enigma. I was a day later than the rest of the crew and no one knew what to expect of me. My supervisor had images of me as an intense sailor chick with tattoos, bulging muscles and the tendency to tie people to the masts with my awesome knot skills when they pestered me (two of those things are sort of true, but I comforted her a great deal by being my rather silly self).

What was even more of an enigma was my job onboard the ship. I was arbitrarily labeled Program- Deck... what that meant, no one really knew. I was to teach people about Seamanship and well, um, do other stuff.

And so that's what I've been doing. I teach people knots, line handling, climbing, sail theory, navigation, really whatever I feel like teaching whenever I want. When I'm not doing that, you can find me doing everything from scrubbing floors and doing laundry to working gangway or anchor watch to working on maintenance projects. When we're setting sail, you'll always find me on deck, unless of course we're aloft, and then you'll find me in the air. I'm the boat's official odd jobs girl, and since no one is really in charge of me, I make it up as I go along. I look for places I'm needed and do whatever I can find that's necessary. My goal is to have done everything on this boat by the end of August. It's going to be an interesting summer.