Calm (a new post from George Byers)

The bay was glassy calm. Slight swells from nowhere in particular imparted a little motion to the deck, but the sails flopped flaccidly only in response to the lazy rolling. The ice melting in the cooler made no sound. Somewhere below, a fly was buzzing.

The helmsman worked the wheel this way and that, attempting to keep the boat on course. But without headway, there was no response from the rudder, only the faint clanking of the chain and sprocket mechanism that converts rotation of the wheel to tension in cables that pass through sheaves around the axis of the rudderpost. A complex series of mechanical contrivances to have so little effect today. The vessel drifted aimlessly and eventually someone said, "You're off course!"

The helmsman replied testily that the boat wouldn't answer her helm. And what damned difference did it make anyway since it was obvious we weren't going anywhere?

"Well if we get a little puff you'd want to be pointed the right way," offered the critic.

The man at the wheel gave a sulky sigh.

The midday sun beat down on the deck and coachroof.

I cleated off the mainsheet, which was an empty and futile gesture anyway. Wordlessly I went below to get a drink. The navigator, a big and normally cheerful fellow, sat on the quarterberth, sweat rolling down his face and neck and into the soaked folds of his t- shirt. Every so often he would snatch at the pesky fly. His glass in his other hand was empty.

Looking into the cooler I saw a few lite beers floating in slush. I groped around and found a vestige of ice to suck on. The sun overhead was brutal, but the cabin in its stillness was ovenlike. The navigator seemed lost in his own thought, or lack of, so I returned to the cockpit. The foredeck crew, normally robust with exertion and urgency, continued their idle barbs at the frustrated steersman.

"Well, one of you smartasses can steer the summbitch if you're so damned skilled!" blurted the butt of their heckling, who straightway let go of the wheel and headed down the companionway from which I had just emerged. On its own suddenly, the wheel spun for about an eighth of a turn and came to rest. Nothing else changed.

No one came to the wheel. It made no difference anyway. I could hear a slamming door down below as the disgruntled crewman apparently sought the solitude of the vee- berth. I quietly wondered how many minutes would elapse before he fled that solar crock- pot.

Off in the distance a slight kitten's paw of breeze darkened the water for a moment and vanished as quickly. Once again the bay was glassy calm.

-G Byers

The Yarrr Of Living Dangerously

When our friend George Byers (AKA Bubba) says he's at sea, he's not just being metaphoric. This is his brief, vivid description of an incident that took place during a recent yacht race off Davis Island.

Seems like George is always off on some seafarin' adventure, to Cuba, Mexico, or the Everglades. We're hoping he'll keep us updated, and maybe become a frequent contributor.

He's also a very fine sculptor, whose award-winning work is widely exhibited.

Yarrr!

w t


How We Broke The Nan Shan's Mainmast
 
 It was a breezy evening and we were in a hard- driven first place.  I was facing aft from the cockpit, tidying up long, wet loops of the mainsheet after hardening up at the first mark.  Yes, for you purists, it had been a leeward start.
 
 I heard a sharp report but thought it was the jibsheet popping off the self- tailer.  I glanced up to see the masthead and triangle of dacron sliding down the cupped face of the lower part of the main.  That seemed very not right, and as my eye followed up the skewed spar I could see the tubular aluminum stick broken cleanly right above the spreader.
 
 Most of the crew was on the windward rail and unthreatened, but the tactician had been standing with his hand on the port shroud when its chainplate broke in two.  Thus the turnbuckle and eye were yanked up past his hand.  We could tell it had been painful but he kept moving all his fingers. 
 
 Other crews, good sportsmen all, checked up on us they whooshed by to vie for our lost lead.
 
 We examined the broken chainplate and could see to our horror that a hidden stress crack had reduced its effective cross- sectional area by 75%.  And to think we had been bouncing around out in the Gulf and in the Yucatan Channel and off the coast of the communist island.

-G Byers

June 5th, Wang Weilin Day

On June 5th, 1989, Wang Weilin stood alone before a row of tanks in Tiananmen Square.

Not much is known about what happened to him next. Some say that he was executed, or imprisoned, others that he is alive and free. Although his fate remains a mystery, what he did is not in dispute. Singlehandedly, while the world watched in disbelief, he stopped a column of tanks.

When the American press mentions the Tiananmen massacre, seems like it's always with a hint of smugness, as if that couldn't happen here. As if Kent State, or the '68 Democratic Convention, or Selma were the literary devices of liberal historians. But demonstrations occur wherever there's deep polarization and one segment of the population finds itself under another segment's boot heel. That such events take place is evidence of a dynamic society, just as their bloody suppresssion is evidence of institutionalized cancer.

It's a safe bet China will never honor Wang Weilin. And if America did it would probably be for the wrong reasons. Still, I wish we would. I wish June 5th could be Wang Weilin Day, a day to commemorate such selfless acts of courage and defiance, regardless of nationality.