Sailing with Dad - 10 most embarassing Moments

Sailing with Dad! – or “ My 10 most embarrassing sailing adventures “

This short story will be an entertaining recollection of sailing with my father (now deceased) on many different boats from Camden, Maine down the East Coast to Cape May and the Delaware & Chesapeake Bays – They include:

1. Sinking in a Comet in Camden Harbor after trailering it behind an air-conditioned Corvair Convertible on a home-made trailer.  Then trailering it home again, (blowing the transmission and then blaming me.)

2. Puncturing an antique yacht in Marblehead with our boat's bow, while my father was trying to tell me how to make his coffee and was not watching where he was going,

3. Trying to sail through the Cape Cod canal against the tide with a British Seagull outboard on a 32 foot sloop and ending up sailing backwards while being arrested by the Coast Guard for trying to sail through the canal in the first place,

 4. Running aground in a muddy creek because my father never kept a chart on the boat that was newer than 10 years old and he couldn’t remember if the numbers were in feet or fathoms, (they were in feet, we drew 6 feet and the water was only 3 feet deep at low tide). We stayed in the boat, my father sleeping, snoring and smoking as he wallowed in bilge water on the low side.  I stayed up all night waiting for the tide to come back in.  When it did, he woke up looked around and said; “See, I told you it would be fine.”

 5. Hitting the rocks in Newport while trying to get in after dark with an old chart, taking a short cut and ending up bouncing on the rocks all night long, then being “rescued” by the Coast Guard, who towed us 35 miles out of our way to make a report,

6. Getting dismasted in a 24 foot Tylercraft because my father was too cheap to keep the boat at a marina and decided to throw out an anchor in a channel in front of a bridge that did not move when the anchor dragged and the boat was pulled under a bridge in Old Saybrook,

7. Hitting a bridge that wouldn't open in New Jersey, while we were powering out E-scow down the Intracoastal waterway to keep the boat in the Chesapeake for the fall to see the leaves change.  Dad forgot that the bridge was a swing bridge, not a lift bridge, so we had to make a U-turn by bouncing off the bridge.

8. Getting swamped by a tanker in Delaware Bay, because we were sailing after dark, without running lights, in the E-scow, which had a freeboard of about 12inches and they couldn’t see us and we were in the channel,

9. Running aground in the Delaware River because we didn’t check the tide drop and ended up walking around the boat in the mud, taking pictures with the sails up so Dad could look “cool”,

10. Converting a racing E-scow into a fishing/casting platform after 3 dismastings in 1 year!!  He couldn’t afford any more mast and besides it was bass season,

Maybe some day I will write this story when I have more time!

By his son, Tom.

7/16/02  

A Scrap of Wood

A Scrap of Wood

A scrap of wood

To warm the soul.

To break the chill

To warm a bowl.

He wandered through

The barren yard

Hard scrabble, stone

Dirt frozen hard.

No scrap, no stick

No twig nor branch

Met his eye

Rewarding glance.

His neighbors’ fire

Glowed through filthy pane

Greasy smoke signalled

Warmth in vain.

He walked the path

Grown slick with age

An animal pacing

In its cage.

Seeking change

A pattern broken

A thing to burn

The smallest token.

Neath clotted skies

Tumescent stars

His desperate cries

Heard not afar.

His upward gaze

Concealed the prize

Til he fell upon it

A great surprize

A scrap of wood!

In fact, a log!

Round and dry

He stared, agog.

What is this? luck?

No prayers for wealth.

Perhaps a dream?

He pinched himself.

That hurt, he giggled

An idiots laugh

He covered his mouth

And tripped down the path

He hid the prize

Beneath his coat

Ran into the house

And kissed the goat.

I have it my dear!

We’ll have heat tonight!

Its mine! I found it

I have the right.

As he stripped the bark

To save each sliver

He wondered aloud

Did God deliver?

How did he win

This warm reward?

He felt quite strange

The goat demurred.

But still he would know

The mysterious source

So he crept outside

And retraced his course.

There was no answer

There was no clue

He stood as before

And thought it through.

I was walking thus

Without success

And stopped right here

In cold distress.

What’s this? Another!

First joy, then fear.

This is not right

Who dropped this here?

Just then he saw it

A broken board

On his neighbor’s fence

Near his woodpile hoard.

This fat old man

With his smoking stack!

Who had more than enough

And for nothing lacked.

The board had shifted

Causing the logs to roll

Towards HIS yard

None would say he stole.

It would not be missed

These few logs at night

Besides he owned the yard

And was in the right…

He rightfully snatched

The second log

Scurried back to his lair

In a smoky fog.

The next day was fine

He was warm at last

He walked to town

But walked too fast.

He smiled to himself

And then almost laughed

His joy was a secret

His misery passed.

Then his neighbor saw him

And paused, quite smug.

What cheer inspired

This spineless slug?

Suspicion grew

He would know the truth

He summoned the man

Rank had its use..

“Oho! What joy

Do you celebrate?

Have I missed a joke?

Have I come too late?”

Oh no! What now?

Am I found out?

I am innocent!

I have no doubt…

“No, no! Good neighbor

I laughed at myself!

I was just thinking…

Of a dream of wealth”

“Ha Ha! That’s rich!

You? A man like me?

Good one Neighbor!

Now let me be…”

How smug, The rich.

He walked right home,

Into the yard

And sat on a stone.

The cold wind blew.

He stared at the board,

kicked the fence

and released the hoard.

Thomas Crowley – May 24, 2005

New Orleans: Post-Katrina - Hip Hop Hooray

Hip Hop Hooray!

Last night, as I returned to my second floor apartment on the 1400 block of Constance Street, near Magazine and Race Street in New Orleans, I was disturbed by some loud music across the street. I grumbled to myself as I climbed the steps and walked down the long gallery to my front door. My thoughts were harsh; what kind of music is that? It’s too loud, it has a thundering, repetitive beat and I don’t understand why anyone would listen to it!

I opened my door, stepped inside, closing it quickly to keep out the sound and walked to the kitchen for a beer. It had been a hot one today, over 80 degrees on March 21^st, not exactly like the New England weather back home, and I needed a cool one. The noise continued and then began to attract me for a closer look and listen. I opened the door again and leaned on the railing, peering into the night between the palm fronds screening my view of the source. Then I saw them.

Two young children, between 12 and 15 years old, were dancing to the music on the sheltered concrete stoop of their apartment building. The older boy was jumping and twisting, moving his arms, legs, shoulders, head, and whole body in an almost spastic, yet practiced set of moves. He was a big kid and it didn’t look easy. He continued to dance and then stopped suddenly and shut off the music. From the shadows, a slender, young girl stepped forward, appealing to the boy to teach her. He laughed gently, punching her arm with a friendly shove and then pulled her next to him. They stood there under the soft glow of the street light, turned the music on, louder this time, and then started dancing together. This time, it was magical as he performed and she mimicked him, learning quickly. I watched them change into a team and was amazed at the smooth, balanced, natural choreography as they turned Constance Street into their stage.

This is New Orleans, after Katrina, and this was the life blood flowing back into the city, person by person, house to house, filling up the city again. It can not be stopped and it should not be stopped. It should be celebrated with music and dancing and hope and love, regardless of the conditions of the land and buildings. The spirit of the young people, as I witnessed last night, is both essential to and emblematic of the recovery we will be privileged to witness and enjoy here in the “Big Easy”.

Tom Crowley

New Orleans

March 22, 2006

3/22/06 – I met the two kids above and gave them a copy of their story. Very nice, polite kids who shyly looked at me and simply said “Thank you”.

Katrina, You Bitch

Katrina, You Bitch

She took all that he had.

His house and his boat,

his dog and his guns.

and all that he wrote.

If he had a family,

she’d have taken that, too.

The levee had failed

he knew he was through.

The water rose,

the wind roared

but he never left town

nailing board upon board.

But she took it all

and left him dry,

whispering in the dust;

“You bitch, you bitch…Why?

He tried to walk out,

but was stopped at the bridge

so he turned around

on a virtual ridge.

He could leave now

no reason to stay

Or he could remain

and find a new way.

He walked to the East

his mind clear as a bell

to his own 9^th Ward

straight into Hell.

He laughed like a madman

and spit on the ground

his whole life was gone

not a trace could be found

There was no one else laughing

There was no laughter or play

So he walked into town

back to “Vieux Carre”

In his old bar on Bourbon

he relived the past

through the eyes of the devil

at the bottom of a glass.

It was easy to drink

his blood had been spilled!

But he slammed down the glass

and walked home to rebuild.

Tom Crowley
in New Orleans

since October, 2005

Written in November, 2005

To The Post!

Pop Pop Crowley was a professional jockey back in the days before cameras. He was a "little" unorthodox but very competitive. In the early 1900's he was a well-known Steeplechase jockey and road for the Widener Family.

When the race was about to start, all horses and riders would "jockey" for position at the starting line which was marked by a "Post" on either end of the line. Hence, the expression "To The Post!" announced by the starter through a megaphone. My grandfather, Frederick Aloysious Crowley would purposefully disrupt the start by banging his horse into the others to drive them away from the line. All the while he would be watching for the starting gun or signal and, when he heard it, quickly turn his horse to the start and get the jump on the other riders! Nice going Pop Pop!

Many years later, I watched my own father do the same thing at the starting line of several sailing events in the various boats we owned and sometimes raced. I never knew if it was a deliberate act, a genetic pre-disposition, or just bad sailing. Lessons from the Dads over the years...