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Now we are ready to head for the Horn
And today there was the sea.
We had to earn it: we got hung up in transit hell getting to Long Wharf and the heat and humidity were like breathing through a damp towel. I was sprawled in the back seat of the taxi trying to cool down the back of my neck with the condensation on a glass bottle of apple juice while![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel said important, understanding things like, "You're going to be all right. We'll get you out to open water." We got to the harbor just as the Cetacea started boarding. Having arranged to meet at the harbor seals outside the Aquarium, teenybuffalo and I had a brief episode of the kind of cellphone conversation where the two of you are within shouting distance of each other, but there are crowds and heat and glare off everything, so you shout into the phones instead until somebody finally waves. Fortunately, we got aboard with plenty of time for the ritual slathering of sunblock and fastening back of hair with borrowed elastics. (Teeny is to be credited with the provision of both.) And then all was wind and salt and waves curling away from the catamaran and an arc of rainbow following in the spray. Teeny shared some of her ferry guide's spiel about the Boston Harbor Islands, which is how I know that Nixes Mate—a tide-vanishing flyspeck of granite topped with a black-and-white channel marker in hopes of no one else running aground on it; the most recent incident was 2012—is where pirates were hanged in chains as a warning in Colonial times. We'd started on the upper deck of the Cetacea, in the wind tunnel afforded by the only bit of outdoor shade we could find, but I spent most of the trip at the bow with the wind beating so hard on my face that it felt like one constant touch and my hair flinging itself into wind-knots, even tied back and stuffed down the back of my shirt. (I found one tangle so densely knotted afterward that I just had to cut it out. I considered it my sacrifice for the voyage.) I was incredibly, purely happy. The air smelled right. The suffocating haze blew off as we got out of the harbor; the sky was soaking summer blue and the water glinted and wrinkled like coiling glass, mirror-green waves combing and falling between white breaks of foam and bright buoys. Rob came down and joined me, standing against the rail with an arm around my waist. The islands ran off behind us. Cohasset went by and I thought of Jonathan Richman, although I was mostly singing chanteys and Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer.
I have no idea how long we spent at Stellwagen Bank. There was a whale there even before we slowed: a humpback by its long white fins and the splattered white markings of its tail, but it wasn't until its second, deep-arching dive that the guides could get a good enough look to identify it as a female named Hancock for the scribbly, signature-like marking on her right fluke. She was fearless of us, or a performer, or just didn't care: she surfaced more than a dozen times within close range of the boat, sometimes just the dark-shining slide of her dorsal fin, often the beautiful, heavy, fluke-lifting dive that made the guy in front of us fist-pump his phone and roar, "YEAH! GOT HER!" with vaguely inappropriate enthusiasm. (Rob began to refer to him as "Ahab.") We were instructed to look for the pale flash of her fins, phosphorescent green under the sunlit, plankton-rich water. I found it strange and touching to hear that Salt, the first humpback named by Provincetown researchers in the 1970's, is not only still alive, but just brought her fourteenth known calf to Stellwagen Bank for the summer. She's believed to be in her fifties. We have no real idea, the guide told us, of the natural life expectancy of whales: they have been studied for so little a time and hunted for so long. They may live as long as humans or even longer. I missed if we were told Hancock's age, but she came up streaming bubbles, gathering to dive so close to the Cetacea, I wondered if we were going to have to dodge whale breath fallout. (Memories of childhood whale watches off Cape Elizabeth: the blow smells terrible.) I wasn't the only person saying out loud, "Oh, beautiful."
Too soon, we had to turn around and make haste back to Boston. Most of the passengers moved indoors now that there were no more whales to crowd for a better view of, so Rob and I settled on the little rim of bench at the bow, and then shortly Rob was seated and I was passed out sideways with my head on his lap. I dozed on and off the whole way back, blinking awake sometimes to an afterimage-blue drench across everything and a little kid near us in a pink windbreaker with her fists on her hips, grinning fiercely into the buffeting wind. I'm not convinced that I didn't sunburn my eyelids slightly, but the rest of me appears to be fine. I woke for good as we were passing Deer Island. We got back into the harbor and the smothering heat came back; I stripped off my jacket and bundled it back into Rob's backpack, although my hat was a temporary lost cause as I picked the knots out of my hair. Teeny introduced us to some sea bass she knows; we fed them the only crackers we could buy from a nearby snack stand and watched the glimmering broken silver of their scales twisting and gleaming in the shadowy water, kelp-tatters clinging to the pilings and a pair of mallards doing their supercilious best to compete for crackers. After that we needed food ourselves, so after a quick calculation of proximity to waterfront vs. not murderously expensive, we ended up at Durgin-Park. Their Indian pudding was as excellent as we'd promised—and apparently competitive with the Indian pudding of Teeny's childhood, a bonus. She and Rob compared notes on growing up in the Pioneer Valley. I ate a very great quantity of fried clams and drank something that was mostly white rum with a gesture toward mint leaves. We separated outside Quincy Market, in the lowering storm that doesn't yet seem to have broken, although it has displaced Friday's fireworks. Rob and I installed the air conditioner in our living room window and collapsed. It has taken me about three times as long as usual to write up this post because my body really wants to be asleep, remembering the rise and rock of the waves and the sticky taste of salt blown on your skin.
Have some chanteys, because they were in my head all day.
The Young Tradition, "Randy Dandy-O"
The Young Tradition, "Shanties: Fire Maringo/Hanging Johnny/Bring 'Em Down/Haul on the Bowline"
Louis Killen, "Hilo Johnny Brown"
A.L. Lloyd & Ewan MacColl, "Blood Red Roses"
Stan Kelly, "Away, Haul Away"
I feel somewhat conflicted about the fact that I know many songs about whales, but mostly the hunting of them. I thought it might be indelicate to sing "The Balaena" or "The Wings of a Gull (The Weary Whaling Grounds)" where they could hear.
We had to earn it: we got hung up in transit hell getting to Long Wharf and the heat and humidity were like breathing through a damp towel. I was sprawled in the back seat of the taxi trying to cool down the back of my neck with the condensation on a glass bottle of apple juice while
derspatchel said important, understanding things like, "You're going to be all right. We'll get you out to open water." We got to the harbor just as the Cetacea started boarding. Having arranged to meet at the harbor seals outside the Aquarium, teenybuffalo and I had a brief episode of the kind of cellphone conversation where the two of you are within shouting distance of each other, but there are crowds and heat and glare off everything, so you shout into the phones instead until somebody finally waves. Fortunately, we got aboard with plenty of time for the ritual slathering of sunblock and fastening back of hair with borrowed elastics. (Teeny is to be credited with the provision of both.) And then all was wind and salt and waves curling away from the catamaran and an arc of rainbow following in the spray. Teeny shared some of her ferry guide's spiel about the Boston Harbor Islands, which is how I know that Nixes Mate—a tide-vanishing flyspeck of granite topped with a black-and-white channel marker in hopes of no one else running aground on it; the most recent incident was 2012—is where pirates were hanged in chains as a warning in Colonial times. We'd started on the upper deck of the Cetacea, in the wind tunnel afforded by the only bit of outdoor shade we could find, but I spent most of the trip at the bow with the wind beating so hard on my face that it felt like one constant touch and my hair flinging itself into wind-knots, even tied back and stuffed down the back of my shirt. (I found one tangle so densely knotted afterward that I just had to cut it out. I considered it my sacrifice for the voyage.) I was incredibly, purely happy. The air smelled right. The suffocating haze blew off as we got out of the harbor; the sky was soaking summer blue and the water glinted and wrinkled like coiling glass, mirror-green waves combing and falling between white breaks of foam and bright buoys. Rob came down and joined me, standing against the rail with an arm around my waist. The islands ran off behind us. Cohasset went by and I thought of Jonathan Richman, although I was mostly singing chanteys and Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer. I have no idea how long we spent at Stellwagen Bank. There was a whale there even before we slowed: a humpback by its long white fins and the splattered white markings of its tail, but it wasn't until its second, deep-arching dive that the guides could get a good enough look to identify it as a female named Hancock for the scribbly, signature-like marking on her right fluke. She was fearless of us, or a performer, or just didn't care: she surfaced more than a dozen times within close range of the boat, sometimes just the dark-shining slide of her dorsal fin, often the beautiful, heavy, fluke-lifting dive that made the guy in front of us fist-pump his phone and roar, "YEAH! GOT HER!" with vaguely inappropriate enthusiasm. (Rob began to refer to him as "Ahab.") We were instructed to look for the pale flash of her fins, phosphorescent green under the sunlit, plankton-rich water. I found it strange and touching to hear that Salt, the first humpback named by Provincetown researchers in the 1970's, is not only still alive, but just brought her fourteenth known calf to Stellwagen Bank for the summer. She's believed to be in her fifties. We have no real idea, the guide told us, of the natural life expectancy of whales: they have been studied for so little a time and hunted for so long. They may live as long as humans or even longer. I missed if we were told Hancock's age, but she came up streaming bubbles, gathering to dive so close to the Cetacea, I wondered if we were going to have to dodge whale breath fallout. (Memories of childhood whale watches off Cape Elizabeth: the blow smells terrible.) I wasn't the only person saying out loud, "Oh, beautiful."
Too soon, we had to turn around and make haste back to Boston. Most of the passengers moved indoors now that there were no more whales to crowd for a better view of, so Rob and I settled on the little rim of bench at the bow, and then shortly Rob was seated and I was passed out sideways with my head on his lap. I dozed on and off the whole way back, blinking awake sometimes to an afterimage-blue drench across everything and a little kid near us in a pink windbreaker with her fists on her hips, grinning fiercely into the buffeting wind. I'm not convinced that I didn't sunburn my eyelids slightly, but the rest of me appears to be fine. I woke for good as we were passing Deer Island. We got back into the harbor and the smothering heat came back; I stripped off my jacket and bundled it back into Rob's backpack, although my hat was a temporary lost cause as I picked the knots out of my hair. Teeny introduced us to some sea bass she knows; we fed them the only crackers we could buy from a nearby snack stand and watched the glimmering broken silver of their scales twisting and gleaming in the shadowy water, kelp-tatters clinging to the pilings and a pair of mallards doing their supercilious best to compete for crackers. After that we needed food ourselves, so after a quick calculation of proximity to waterfront vs. not murderously expensive, we ended up at Durgin-Park. Their Indian pudding was as excellent as we'd promised—and apparently competitive with the Indian pudding of Teeny's childhood, a bonus. She and Rob compared notes on growing up in the Pioneer Valley. I ate a very great quantity of fried clams and drank something that was mostly white rum with a gesture toward mint leaves. We separated outside Quincy Market, in the lowering storm that doesn't yet seem to have broken, although it has displaced Friday's fireworks. Rob and I installed the air conditioner in our living room window and collapsed. It has taken me about three times as long as usual to write up this post because my body really wants to be asleep, remembering the rise and rock of the waves and the sticky taste of salt blown on your skin.
Have some chanteys, because they were in my head all day.
The Young Tradition, "Randy Dandy-O"
The Young Tradition, "Shanties: Fire Maringo/Hanging Johnny/Bring 'Em Down/Haul on the Bowline"
Louis Killen, "Hilo Johnny Brown"
A.L. Lloyd & Ewan MacColl, "Blood Red Roses"
Stan Kelly, "Away, Haul Away"
I feel somewhat conflicted about the fact that I know many songs about whales, but mostly the hunting of them. I thought it might be indelicate to sing "The Balaena" or "The Wings of a Gull (The Weary Whaling Grounds)" where they could hear.
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Nine
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I don't think we got it in debt from anyone except
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There is no better ride. I'm glad you had a good day, and that the whales obliged!
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I think I agree with you.
I'm glad you had a good day, and that the whales obliged!
Thank you!
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You're welcome! It was exactly what we needed. [edit] I know it was necessary for
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(Thanks for the chantey links as well. I have multiple versions of 'Blood Red Roses", but not that one. *zips off to remedy this*)
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Thank you. It was a day in the right kind of summer, not the linoleum-melting one we've been having lately.
(Thanks for the chantey links as well. I have multiple versions of 'Blood Red Roses", but not that one. *zips off to remedy this*)
Enjoy! I have that particular chantey sung by Sting, Louis Killen, Peter Bellamy, the McCalmans, and Ewan MacColl and Peggy Seeger with A.L. Lloyd if you'd like any of those, too.
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sometimes just the dark-shining slide of her dorsal fin, often the beautiful, heavy, fluke-lifting dive that made the guy in front of us fist-pump his phone and roar, "YEAH! GOT HER!" with vaguely inappropriate enthusiasm. (Rob began to refer to him as "Ahab.")
--I laughed out loud, and kept on giggling each time I thought about it.
I dozed on and off the whole way back, blinking awake sometimes to an afterimage-blue drench across everything and a little kid near us in a pink windbreaker with her fists on her hips, grinning fiercely into the buffeting wind.
--That is beautiful and dreamlike. She could be child-you; who knows how time bends and curls around?
Teeny introduced us to some sea bass she knows; we fed them the only crackers we could buy from a nearby snack stand and watched the glimmering broken silver of their scales twisting and gleaming in the shadowy water,
Teeny has tame fish! That's excellent.
Thanks for sharing this; I feel some of that same wind-blasted joy and loose-limbed exhaustion, reading it, and it's great.
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I would have been so much less surprised to have met him at a sports game!
She could be child-you; who knows how time bends and curls around?
Poem.
Teeny has tame fish! That's excellent.
Teeny has excellent connections.
Thanks for sharing this; I feel some of that same wind-blasted joy and loose-limbed exhaustion, reading it, and it's great.
You're welcome. It was a wonderful day.
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It was. I could not have asked for anything better yesterday.
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May the rhythm of the sea follow you home and give you peacefulness.
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It was all lovely.
May the rhythm of the sea follow you home and give you peacefulness.
Thank you! Today we seem to have balanced the other side of the traditional equation with storm.
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I hope all's gone well with storms and all else.
I feel somewhat conflicted about the fact that I know many songs about whales, but mostly the hunting of them. I thought it might be indelicate to sing "The Balaena" or "The Wings of a Gull (The Weary Whaling Grounds)" where they could hear.
Ayup, that would be an awkward feeling. Reminds me that Andy Irvine sang a whaling song when I saw him last month. One of my mother's friends said that was the one part she didn't like; my mother said it was important to remember the history, which I thought was a good answer.
In any case, did you ever hear Brian McNeill's "Greenland's Icy Waters"? If not, I'll sendspace it to you when I get the chance.
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You're welcome. It was a wonderful time.
Reminds me that Andy Irvine sang a whaling song when I saw him last month. One of my mother's friends said that was the one part she didn't like; my mother said it was important to remember the history, which I thought was a good answer.
I don't feel bad about knowing the songs; I don't even feel bad about singing them. But there are audiences it would be unkind to, and even if humpbacks weren't hunted as ruthlessly as the right and sperm whales, seriously, that's just bad manners.
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I agree on all counts.
I suppose it's a bit like The Errant Apprentice. It's a grand song and I enjoy singing it,* but it's not a song I'd sing around people from Turkey, or from the Islamicate world in general.
*I really need to get back to work on an accompanied version, so I can sing it in places where a voice without instrumentation gets ignored.
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It's still great. When were you last in Boston?
I would have been humming Stan Rodgers chanteys all day, though I don't remember if he has any whale ones. I think I've listened to "Between the Breaks" a million times, but not much of his others.
Between the Breaks is the only complete album of his I have! Those are the definitive versions of "The Witch of the Westmerelands," "Barrett's Privateers," and "The Mary Ellen Carter" as far as I'm concerned. Otherwise I seem to own a mix from Fogarty's Cove (1976), Northwest Passage (1981), Home in Halifax (1982), For the Family (1983), and then some random posthumously released tracks. He does "Rolling Down to Old Maui" on Between the Breaks, but I think that's the only chantey. I feel he must have written a song about whales sometimes, but if so I don't own it.
This is the perkiest, most chipper song I know about wrecking, however, so you should have it: "The Wreck of the Athens Queen."
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That pretty much matches what I have for Stan Rodgers, too. "The Mary Ellen Carter" is one of my cheerful pick-me-up songs, but so is "Barrett's Privateers". I also feel he must have a whale song out there somewhere, too.