How was I to know which line to tie off and which to slowly “let out.” I wasn't a boater.
“Can anyone..... hey Jerry? Frank? Bill? Stan? Anyone?.... come and help me out here?
Mike's voice from the top of the 61ft mast definitely had a tone of fear. We had been together now for 10 months and my decision to sail south, sail away, sail into the sunset with him had been made. The fact that I knew nothing about boats didn't bother me in the least. Didn't seem to bother Mike either so why would I worry? “You'll learn along way” he kept saying. Sounded reasonable to me.
Having to install a light, a wind vane or some doohickey on top of the mast, maybe wasn't the best choice of jobs to teach me about lines, ropes, winches and tieing off.
His logic was I wouldn't know what to do up there......duh....I don't know what to do down here. I should have felt more confident, obviously Mike felt I could do it.
He “arranges” himself ( men, you know what I'm talking about) into the bosun's chair.
We go through the procedure of wrapping the line around the winch, loosening this rope, taking up the slag on this one, don't let go of this one, close this stopper......
You lost me at “ wrap the line.....
Ready to ascend, I position myself and start to crank. So far so good. Whew.. hard work, I crack some more. Mike's toes are now skimming the deck and he's rearranging himself again. I guess sitting on a board which is 10” long and 14” wide just isn't all that comfortable and the straps that go between his legs seem to cause a bit of discomfort.
I'm thinking that possibility in the 15th century, which was a time in history when devises of torture were being introduced, there must have been an inventor named Bosun. His descendants who may have followed in his footsteps designing present day articles of pain and discomfort are likely responsible for such items as neckties, stilettos and the universal remote.
Two thumbs up, we're ready to crank again. From deck to top of the mast is 57ft. Inch by inch, higher and higher. Stopping at each speader to put his feet on something solid and yes, rearrange, I take a break, prying my fingers off the winch handle and straightening my back. I think Mike should have been the cranker and me being so much lighter, the crankee.
“So do I just untie this one now?”
That's when the realization of the choice he had made hit home. His pleas for help must have struck a cord among all men within hearing distance. Like a dog hearing a high pitched whistle they all came a runnin!
I don't think Mike has ever really gotten over that incident. It's buried deep but I'm sure it's there.
These days when anything has to be done on the mast, 9 times out of 10, I will do it.
The bosun's chair was most definitely designed for maximum discomfort to men only. I can sit on it, in it, quiet comfortably. The fear factor is minimal, I wear a safety harness (think it was a birthday present) that a second line is attached to. Mike is all about safety.
Having to take the mast down one year to run new lines inside it, we installed folding steps, the entire length. Ascending the “stick” is now a breeze.
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