The Gull

Old Fort Standish

                         

My heart sank when I came over the hill and saw that the mast of my little sailboat was at a funny angle. It should have been upright and bobbing gently up and down. After all, I had anchored it out in deeper water before I went exploring the underground corridors of old Fort Standish on Lovell Island in Boston's Outer Harbor.

Unfortunately I hadn't anchored it out far enough, or I had spent to much time in the fort and the tide had gone out under my 16' boat. If this had been a weekday, I just would have had to wait two or three hours for the tide to return. The Gull was made of wood and was much too heavy for me to move by myself. But it was a Sunday and there were other day trippers to the island. A couple of guys helped me haul the boat into the water. I paddled out from shore, fitted the rudder in place, dropped the centerboard, raised the sails and was on my way to the next adventure.

The Gull, had  belonged to my older cousin Jim. Jim took me sailing and taught me the rudiments. When he finished college and went off to work and marriage, he gave the boat to my brothers and me. I was 13 at the time. The Gull needed a couple of new planks for her hull, and my father was able to do that. He tried to interest me in the work, but I was hopeless, so he gave me the job of stripping and varnishing the wooden mast and boom.

My father was pilot on one of the Boston Fire Department's two fireboats. He hauled the Gull to the wharf between the fireboats, and was able to work on the Gull between fires, of which there were few. In late spring we launched the Gull behind the fireboat. After a few cruises around the inner harbor, Jim, my brother Bill, and I sailed the Gull  10 miles southeast to its permanent mooring in the town of Hull where my grandparents had a summer cottage.

For the first couple of years, my father set limits on how far from home I could sail. My brothers were either too young, or not as much interested in sailing as I was, so I went alone or with a friend, Donny Spring. There were lots of islands to explore or camp on. Way back, the Indians used the islands for fishing. Then the colonists took them over for farming.  Some had military forts on them. In my day, they were abandoned and open for exploration. Nowadays, the islands have been cleaned up and are part of the park system.

When I got a little older, my father extended my range. But you had to use common sense if you expected to be home for supper. You had to be aware of tide times, because the Gull's mooring was up the Weir, a tidal river. The river narrowed at one point and a strong current ran there. Sometimes there was not enough wind to get through the narrows and a kindly motorboat might pull you through. If there was no motorboat, you walked the boat along the shore till you got to a wider place in the river.

I'm a bit of a flibbertigibbet, so the Gull was an excellent grounding for me, though, looking back, I'm surprised I survived. My father made sure I could swim 100 yards, but we didn't wear life jackets. If you fell overboard, your companion would sail back for you. If you were alone, the boat would come up into the wind and you'd swim over to it. In my years of sailing, I went overboard on purpose many times, but never by accident.

It was the islands where the true danger lay. Spectacle Island had the ruins of Boston's horse rendering factory. It was a five story skeleton of rust, a jungle gym which disintegrated as you climbed it. Silly. A friend and I were exploring the third floor of an old barracks on Long Island when my friend went through the floor to his waist. Crazy. One day while sailing alone, a piratical looking old guy in a small motorboat paralleled me for a few minutes before veering off. Disturbing.

I'll close with a more pleasant memory. One day my brother Mark and I sailed to Spectacle Island. I loved to cook on islands. Nothing fancy. Some bread and butter and a can of tomato soup heated on a small fire under one of my mother's kettles. We took our supplies to the top of the island's wooded hill. The other hill was a smoldering garbage dump for the city. At the top of the hill was a two story concrete observation tower. The wooden stairs had rotted away, but you could climb up on the outside. I started a fire with twigs on the concrete floor and put the soup on.

Out the narrow window openings there was a great view of Boston Harbor and the islands beyond. There was also a view of the tide going out under the Gull far below us. I told Mark to keep an eye on the soup and made the five minute run down to the boat. I reset the anchor and returned to the kitchen in time for a lovely lunch. Thank you Mark.

School of Consequences