Just as Mecca is to the Muslim, a Guernsey will face Wisconsin at dusk, a sailor will inevitably make a pilgrimage to Newport. Oh, I’ve been close before. We grabbed a mooring late one night running from a hurricane that was coming up the eastern seaboard as we were headed down, skipped out early enough to avoid the collection boat and stashed the boat in Wickford. The only problem was our car was left in Annapolis. That was one long trek home to Pittsburgh.
This place reeks of sailing and money; it’s no wonder the America’s Cup was held here all those years. John Cox Stevens, J. Pierpont Morgan, Vanderbilt, Turner, Conner, et al. Their palaces are up on the cliff above the ocean. The confluence of skill and money are necessary to make a Mecca for sailing, but I wonder about all the people who were abused to acumulate that kind of wealth.
Well we don’t expect much out of this boat show but you have to try. It’s about contacts and some research on new electronics.
I wonder if there’s an appropriate chant or tradition to observe here in sailor Mecca. Have any ideas?
I went on field trips to these Vanderbilt homes through the local school district. I recall that everything was highly decorated, and over-the-top ornate. I still love the exquisite scrollwork, and fruits and leaves of the too-rich designs. Newport is a neat little city, I hope you check out some local color, maybe get a tattoo of an anchor. Note the interesting beer selection, available at many of the downtown liquor stores. And see if Branson’s boat is still parked at the docks.
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum?
Thar she blows?
Or you can sing a chorus of “We sail the ocean blue” from H.M.S. Pinafore!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4dl5qHYOBas
Or recite John Masefield’s poem:
I must go 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 go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
Rum