Tall Ship Under Full Sail Defies Even Writer's Words

The Islander, November, 1989

By MAX RIZLEY, Jr.

DEAR BOSS -- No, I didn't forget about doing a column this month. I just can't seem to do one.

I mean, I know what I'd like to write -- something pretty about the tall ship Elissa, and how I came to join her volunteer crew in 1985, and what a grand rush it is to sail her.

It's certainly timely enough; we just finished our '89 sea trials -- a major reason I haven't gotten around to returning your call or any of the other calls stacked up on my machine this week -- and after four years with Elissa, I should be able to evoke the thrills of Life Before The Mast with a depth of feeling only a real insider can muster up.

Sounds simple enough, eh? No. You see ...

... Well, let me do it this way. Let me describe, as richly as written English will permit, one single, solitary moment during this year's sea trials:

It was shortly after noon on a brisk, sunny Thursday, and I had relieved the helmsman so he could go forward and get some lunch. There was a moderate sea running that day, and I could feel its power as the big, wooden-spoked wheel jerked and twisted like a live thing in my grip with every passing wave.

From my perch at the after end of Elissa's quarterdeck, I could look down her deck, past the guests milling about the main hatch, and watch the rhythmic roll and surge of her bow as the ship bore through the October swell, the graceful spike of her jibboom confidently pointing the way toward the empty horizon and the exotic ports beyond.

All was still, except for the peaceful swish-slap of water against her iron hull, and the quiet but restless sounds of a sailing ship underway -- the rattle and clank of swinging blocks and chains, the stiff creak of shrouds and stays flexing and slacking with each roll. Above, the brisk October breeze snapped at the flags and thrummed in the rigging, and the billowing white sails strained at their lashings as they drove the ship ever ahead.

And on that wind, faint and sweet, drifted the strains of "The Mingulay Boat Song," a tuneful little sea shanty that some of the crew gathered on the main deck were singing.

Okay. Now, having read that, what do you say? "Gee, sounds like fun"? "Oh, I bet it was nice"? A kind nod and a "Hmmmmm ..."? Or maybe a polite, "gee, you make me feel like I'm right there"?

And that's the problem. I can't make you or anyone else who wasn't there feel like you were there, much as you may think I do, and it's driving me crazy. It was a Moment -- and only one of countless such Moments aboard Elissa -- so sublime, so satisfying, so complete, that you almost wish you could drop dead right there, because you know you will never experience another like it all the rest of your days.

Human language can describe the scene, but not the Moment. That intangible, inexpressible high falls beyond the capacity of language, falls into a wavelength of expression outside the narrow spectrum of verbal communication.

And so, Boss -- no Elissa column. It's just too frustrating for me, a writer, to be confronted with my entire array of tools -- my words -- and not find a blessed one that works. Every last one of them, from Aardvark to Zymurgy, is utterly useless here.

You might as well try to fix a Swiss watch with a tire iron; it just can't be done.

One thing, though -- if a blabbermouth like me finds himself at a complete loss of words when he tries to tell you about crewing on Elissa, you know it's got to be a heck of an awesome feeling. Guess you'll have to trundle down to Pier 21 and sign on yourself as a volunteer if you want to know more than that.

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