"All hands prepare to brace yards," barked Capt. John Fisher, aboard the square-rigger Tenacious. "At the foremast, brace yards hard a-port. Let go and haul."
To some, the command sounded like work. To me, it was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard.
As a teen I was an avid boater. At 16 I bought a rowboat. My brother Mike bought a motor, and there was no keeping us off the water. But shortly after my seventeenth birthday I fell off a cliff in northern Ohio and broke my neck. Over the course of the next year, I regained enough shoulder movement to operate an electric wheelchair. But the deed was done. I thought I would never go boating again. The idea of steering a tall ship, or even sailing on one, never entered my imagination.
TALLSHIPSTOCK.COMTenacious at sea.Over the years I learned how to travel again and enjoy adventure sports. Then one day a friend told me about a tall ship excursion he found on the Web. It wasn't long after that I booked passage on Tenacious, one of only two tall ships in the world that is accessible by the disabled, designed, built and crewed by people with and without disabilities.
THE MISSION
Tenacious and her sister ship, the Lord Nelson, were built by the Jubilee Sailing Trust, which was formed in 1978 to provide the disabled a platform of equality, adventure and achievement.
Today more than 36,000 people have sailed with the Trust – about 24,000 on the Lord Nelson, which was launched in 1986, and roughly 12,000 on Tenacious, which set sail in 2000 and is the largest wooden hulled tall ship of her kind to be built since the end of the 19th century.
The voyage, while rewarding, is not cheap. Cruises last as long as two weeks, depending on where the ship sails. Day trips are $166, while a two-week voyage costs about $1,668 (some financial help may be available through the Trust). Passengers are not required to have sailing experience and most learn while on board.
Together, the ships sail about 22 times each season, with a crew of 11. Passengers, about 30, make up the rest of the crew, with disabled and non-disabled passengers paired together in a buddy-system.
The author is hauled 60 feet aloft to the crow's nest.For her part,Tenacious, a ship whose tallest mast towers 124 feet above deck and supports 21 sails, is the epitome of accessibility. The mess tables are height adjustable, the bathrooms are spacious, equipped with pivoting sinks, there is an elevator at both the bow and stern and handrails are ubiquitous.
The berths, as I discovered, are just big enough to sleep in. At night I kept my wheelchair next to my bed, which was separated from the hallway by a curtain.
The first time I sailed on Tenacious, in January 2000, we visited the Canary Islands. This time we were to sail around Antigua. While I waited for other passengers to arrive at the boat, I explored the small island. Suffice it to say it was surreal sitting at the docks that were once under the command of Lord Horatio Nelson. I felt a kindred spirit with the man who lost an eye and arm in battles. We would have made quite a pair.
TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS
When passengers first came aboard Tenacious, we were each assigned a watch. I was given aft starboard. Duties were simple enough – while we were at sea, I was to watch for other ships, debris floating in the water, fire and even pirates.
My first time on Tenacious I loathed the early-morning watch (4 a.m. to 8 a.m.) when the weather was particularly cold. My spinal cord injury makes it very hard for my body to regulate temperature. It only takes a few minutes for me to get very cold, and it takes me hours to defrost.
One thing I learned very quickly on Tenacious, however, is that disability means very little. Like the day I was looking for Norm, a British vet blinded during WWII. I was told, very matter-of-factly, that he was on the watch. "But Norm is blind," I said. "He can't watch for anything."
"Yeah, they know," came the reply "that's why they have him steering the ship."
So how was a man who has been blind for 60 years steering a tall ship? It turns out that Tenacious has a talking compass. It reads out the course in degrees at five-second intervals. If Norm knows he needs to keep the ship at 125 degrees and the compass indicates a deviation, he knows he needs to adjust.
The author at the helm.In this manner, Norm – or anyone without sight – can spend the entire watch at the helm and keep on course. I, too, enjoyed my turn at the helm. I can't move my fingers, so I wrap them around the wheel and am able to move just enough to keep the ship on a true course.
'CORK IN A WASHING MACHINE'
Each morning, we got a wake-up at 6 bells (7 a.m.). One morning, it was announced over the loud speaker: "Wheelies and wobblies (those who use wheelchairs and people with other mobility impairments) are advised to stay in their berths." Minutes later we could hear things crashing to the floor. We were in the middle of a storm and the ship was being tossed about like a cork in a washing machine.
Everything that wasn't tied down was being flung around the ship. I asked Laurence, my ship buddy, who occupied the berth above me, to pull my lee sheet up. This sheet attaches to the bottom of my bunk, and when pulled up, keeps me from falling out of bed.
Later that afternoon, when the winds subsided, I went on deck, aided by Laurence. Imagine trying to push a wheelchair on a moving deck while the ship rolled left then right, pitched forward and back, up and down.
Eating on a moving ship also presented some unique challenges. While the ship is moving forward, it rolls from side to side. These movements in three-dimensional space are known as pitch, yaw and roll. Normally, this would be a big problem for me, as I have no trunk balance. So, I adopted a compensatory policy: I wouldn't eat anything that I would be ashamed to wear.
A disabled crewman at an adjustable sink.Thus, I sat at a table facing port and secured my chair to the floor with several safety straps. As the ship rolled to port, I extended my arm and strategically placed my fork, secured in my hand by a Velcro strap, over a target such as a meatball. As the ship completed the roll, I stabbed the meatball. As the ship rolled to starboard, I aimed the fork for my mouth. I learned to get in rhythm with the waves.
On calm days, those of us who were willing were hoisted up to the crow's nest. A metal brace was placed under my wheelchair, I was strapped in, and the crew hauled me up to treat me to an extraordinary view.
But perhaps more spectacular was the view from the bowsprit. A metal grate was attached to each side of the bowsprit to accommodate people in wheelchairs. I seemed to be one of the few that relished this spot, perhaps because I was the only one there who had "sea legs" on my wheelchair, braces that prevent the chair from tipping over backward. I think I could spend my entire life on the bowsprit – the wind and salty spray in my hair, the motion of the waves, the occasional sight of dolphins just ahead of the bow.
I was sorry to say good-bye to Tenacious and all the great people who sailed her. I am still reminded of the words penned in 1900 by John Masefield in his work "Sea Fever."
"I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky. And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking. And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide."
I'll be back, for sure.
At Nelson's Dockyard, the author and his friend Andy man the capstans with Tenacious in the background. Capstans were each worked by 26 sailors to careen ships to work on the bottom of their hulls.
