QUITE A LEGACY

It is an honor to be living alongside the Chesapeake Bay’s Watermen.

JANICE ANNE WHEELER JUN 24

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Docked in our steamy summer environs, I cannot resist telling you about Tilghman Island and the legacy of the Watermen that have plied the Chesapeake Bay’s bounty for generations. STEADFAST lays at the creaking T-dock on the very channel that takes nine workboats from our yard to their hunting grounds each morning. These hardy individuals are constantly SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE; so this post begins a multi-part series about these hard-working people and a lifestyle that may change just enough to be jeopardized. Not by choice, but by circumstance.

STEADFAST’s spars tower above the workboats of Severn Marine Services.

The locals here have a compelling, distinctive, low-volume accent that blends words together while remaining perfectly understandable as long as you are paying attention. “I got you.” Is the best term for “yes” that I have ever heard and it is prevalent here. Tilghman is an unusual, supportive, close-knit place, a step back in time where things are simpler and people toil very long hours for uncertain pay. They rarely quit and they don’t judge.

On Saturday, from my shady pilothouse, I watched her rumble by, just as I have so many other days over the course of the last four summers, but this time the name struck a chord, and my brain started writing a story, as it does every time an opportunity presents itself that I cannot resist. I snapped some photos and the young man at the helm raised both his eyebrows and his hand in casual greeting. I smiled and went to ask permission, but he disappeared quickly at the end of his long, hot workweek.

Aptly named, LEGACY returns from a ten-hour day hunting blue crab. Boats much like her have harvested these waters for generations.

His classic 36-foot deadrise style workboat was built by David “Bunky” Miller (God rest his soul) more as a Yacht than a workboat in 1983. Long story short, she sank and was headed for the scrap yard when the Miller family decided that was not the right thing to do. To them, she was already a piece of history, so they clearly told the owner, “No, no, no, don’t junk our legacy.” And LEGACY she became.

Bunky Miller was eighty years old when he refit LEGACY into the rugged but sleek working boat that she always should have been. But what then? The vessel had an unclear future that soon came into focus. There was a sixteen-year-old on the island that showed an impressive interest in working on the water; it was decided that youngster would rent her for one summer and then they would all go from there. Five years later, Severn Cummings is serious, committed, successful owner and docks LEGACY just four slips down from the son of the boatbuilder, another David Miller, now age 60.

Severn Cummings expertly pilots LEGACY into her home slip. Docking contests are great entertainment; if you ever have a chance to watch one, do it.

“The whole story has a resurrection element,” David told me, “We wanted the traditions to continue. You know.” Severn had not yet learned all the things David’s grandfather had taught him when he was just a child, so when the summer crab season ended and oyster began, David kept Severn under his wing and taught him dredging, culling and the intricacies of making a living during the winter season around Tilghman Island. “I’ve never regretted that decision. Severn was the right choice.” he declared proudly. If taken care of, that workboat will last his entire career on the water. That’s how they’re built and we’ve learned a lot about that.

On Sunday I was on lookout again, and I caught the young Waterman at the last second as he pulled his rugged new pickup out of the dusty boatyard. I am the (nice but) eccentric sailboat lady, and played the part in full as I thudded, barefoot, wild-haired and sarong-clad, down the dock, hailing his rear-view mirror. He thankfully stepped on the brakes, rolled down the window and allowed that he didn’t think I could possibly be waving at him. He spoke quietly as I picked my way across the hundred-degree gravel, those eyebrows raised once again.

When I reached the driver’s side his expression plainly asked why on earth I would be flagging him down. “I’m a writer,” I told him (while we have greeted one another for years, it didn’t get much more personal than that). “I’ve published articles and was taking pictures of you yesterday….and I’d like to tell the story of you and your boat. The LEGACY of her.” I halted, which I don’t usually do. “That’s fine. None of that bothers me,” he told me directly. Well-adjusted, intelligent individuals meet your eyes when you speak to them, they answer quickly and honestly; they are decisive and, especially Watermen raised here, efficient. “That would be fine,” he nodded. “I’ll get in touch.”

Nothing bothers him much, I thought to myself as I turned back to the dock. Severn may just be one of those people who have the ability to take things as they come, and he’s learned some hard lessons lately, losing friends and seeing others injured beyond the imagination.

A peaceful evening scene, a flurry of activity at 4am.

The diesels awaken me around 4am these long early summer days, and only a little later as the sun takes its journey back south. Voices carry remarkably over water, especially on calm mornings and at times I can hear rough voices over a crackling VHF radio. Sometimes I step up in the darkness and watch the silhouettes move in comfortable, longstanding routine, running lights on, readying for the day. The conversations are limited, almost non-existent, as they work toward a universal mission, to make a living and spend another day on the water, the legacy of their island. The legacy of this entire region, really. Many of the members of Severn’s generation have opted for regular hours, consistent pay and benefits: mechanics, firemen, landscapers. He did not.

I step over the predictably-placed dock lines while they are gone and the boats come back each day in a perfectly choreographed routine that varies only with the other traffic on this hundred-foot-wide slice of the Chesapeake Bay called Knapp’s Narrows. The channel separates Tilghman Island from the rest of the world; drawbridge clearance is just twelve feet. As I write this I can hear the clanging of the warning bell that indicates another raising; it’s just part of the deal here, you’re probably going to have to stop at the bridge, going one way or another. The most important thing here are the Watermen, and it doesn’t matter to those who respect them how long it takes for them to do what they do. It’s an understandable choice.

Knapp’s Narrows Drawbridge connects Tilghman Island to the rest of the world.

Only on Sundays do the boats stay in. The government mandates six day weeks or many of these strong people would start at 4am on that day, too; it’s not truly a day of rest, it is maintenance, refueling, baiting the trot lines, making sure that at 4am tomorrow all is well. Last fall I had the unforgettable opportunity to go out on LADY ALISON and I will always savor the memory. That story will be published soon. I wrote that one because I know this life is a heritage, a legacy, a tradition, that is disappearing; mansions are replacing farmhouses and the cost of living rises quickly as this beautiful place is ‘discovered’ by the ‘new people.’ It is a lament that will show itself as this series progresses.

For now, I’m honored to be close to these long running traditions, which began with wooden sailing vessels just like the one below that still sits at the dock down-island, one of just a few left. These Skipjack Buy Boats used to meet the smaller sailing workboats out on the water back in the day.

I hope you’re as fascinated as I am with the LEGACY of these Watermen; there are many more characters yet to be met!

If you enjoyed this, please click the little heart as that encourages others to seek out my work. As always, I read & reply to all comments and so appreciate you following along!

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Message Janice Anne Wheeler

© 2024 Janice Anne Wheeler
548 Market Street PMB 72296, San Francisco, CA 94104

TALK TO STRANGERS

The simple recognition of another soul

JANICE ANNE WHEELER JUN 16

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In May of 2023 Mother Nature sent a cold front to the Northern Bahamas with formidable blasts of winter wind. We are used to changing our schedule at her bidding and hunkered down in one of our favorite places and within hearing distance of many of them. When storms threaten and linger we turn on our long-range VHF two-way radio. It’s an old-school safety tradition which may (unfortunately) be going by the wayside in a world of cell phones. Out on the water, the tried and true habits seem to prove themselves, over and over.

We feel that VHF communications are crucial enough to have a backup.

That morning we heard a distress call from two individuals who had made a mistake large enough to leave them and their inflatable dinghy stranded on a formidable, sharply pitted scrap of limestone off of Foxtown, Abaco. They were smart enough to have a handheld VHF, but not food, water or extra clothing. The female voice was audibly distraught when I gently told them there was no way for us to get there, but we would call BASRA (Bamahas Air Sea Rescue Association, a volunteer non-profit and the only option). We called, received no response on the radio, and tried their emergency line. A very nice gentleman in Nassau answered, ninety miles away; he wanted to help and had absolutely no ability to do so. There was no one available under those conditions.

A winter storm encroaches on the Bahamas. Photo JA Wheeler

The wind increased and the couple called us again, frightened, tired, cold. They should never have left their sailing vessel, and their radio batteries were dying. We considered the possibilities. On STEADFAST we try to connect with locals; we TALK TO STRANGERS. Our many stops in this archipelago have taken us to Spanish Cay Marina and into the realm of a manager named Felix. We also knew the predominant business owner in Foxtown, Ronnie, having had a long conversation late one afternoon as he cleaned Grouper with a machete and fed his resident nurse sharks. If we could get BASRA to call Felix, who we knew was friends with Ronnie, he was only half a mile from the stranded Americans. We took that chance and long story short, it was a happy ending when, hours later, the storm dropped just a bit, Ronnie went out and rescued those folks, gave them shelter in his little hotel and fed them what was probably that day’s catch of Grouper.

Teaching your children not to talk to strangers may be ‘safer’ a tiny percentage of the time. It may also be what is wrong with an entire generation (or two, by now). I see it as a lack of common courtesy, a lack of manners, a fear of connection with and disregard for anyone who isn’t already a ‘contact’. I don’t know for certain what percentage of the population harms children but I like to think it is remarkably small. Most of us can be pretty great if given the opportunity. So I give people the option to show their good qualities, with the understanding that not everyone will.

I feel it is incredibly important to greet people, however simple the greeting may be. Maybe it’s a smile, or a nod. That acknowledgement is the recognition of another person’s soul. Simple. Crucial. Life-changing. Seriously. This is big. Perhaps I feel strongly because I want others to recognize the importance of my own soul. I’m sure that’s what it is. We all want to be recognized, to feel that we make a difference, to feel a spark of importance. We want to feel that, if we disappeared, it would matter. If we died, people would feel the loss. If we quit caring, people would miss our compassion, empathy, and love.

Imagine how much we can learn from strangers who have  SPARRED WITH MOTHER NATURE before us. They are willing to share the lessons. It’s a highly underestimated resource. Imagine how little you would grow as a person if you never met anyone new, never made any more human connections, never heard a different point of view. We are not here to live solo lives. We are here to socialize, excel and overcome the challenges that this world brings; take a look at this post: WE ALL SPAR if you have the opportunity.

We understand what the term web conveys; it represents an interconnectedness where one part relies upon another, and another, even if those parts are far apart. In an astonishing minute this spring the world watched as the entire Francis Scott Key Bridge crumbled into the Patasco River south of Baltimore like so many tinker toys. We watched it over and over, each time newly amazed that something we relied upon could crumble with such speed and totality by an (admittedly not too gentle) bump to just one of the pillars designed to support the whole. We had sailed underneath that marvel of human engineering on STEADFAST, never imagining the day it would no longer be connecting our intricate system of Interstate Highways and bypasses.

Frances Scott Key Bridge at Sunrise from STEADFAST, October 2022. Photo JA Wheeler

I use the World Wide Web to convey my thoughts and perspectives, as well as marvel at the endless possibilities, news, opinions, facts, photos and figures presented. I use it to market myself @ www.JaniceAnneWheeler.com. Before the internet, we had the Web of Life; the understanding that all living things are interdependent; like a spider’s web, you pull one thread and the whole thing unravels. Isn’t it interesting how we so often name our technology after a natural concept? The benign-sounding ‘cloud‘ is actually  a network of giant, energy-consuming, industrial buildings full of machinery, data storage and other things I don’t care to learn about. Charlotte’s Web (remember that innovative, memorable story from decades ago by E.B.White?) saved one soul. She was fictious, of course, and brilliant in her efforts; showing us how two unassociated life forms can connect. They don’t have to, but sometimes they do. When you greet someone they may not respond at all, but you made an impression. And you might have even made a difference.

Weeks ago, an email from Winston Fowler appeared amongst several that I did not recognize, strangers that the web had brought to me by all of its magic. Each one is a recognition of my soul, but with a modern twist; without the internet our paths would probably not have crossed. “You have a God-given talent….,” he wrote to me. I saved that email. Flagged it. Reread it. I’m proud of it. Very proud.

I’ve told people, long before this, that I don’t know exactly how I write the way that I do. I have the ability to put myself in another’s place. I have the ability to bring the reader into my place. I’m honing and exploring that ability, here with you now, on Substack. I am a Chef by trade, a creator of something completely different than the written word; I am an explorer, a traveler, a gardener, a student of whatever interests me. That sounds as if I’m boasting, but honestly, I’m not. I’m introducing myself further to you readers who have and will take the time to absorb this; it’s as simple as that.

Winston and the other folks who manage, create and share The Salty Southeast Cruiser’s Net are people who have already learned what those two rookie sailors needed to know. They have sparred and developed a unique perspective and respect for the waters of the world. The Cruiser’s Net reaches out to strangers and certainly supported me when, at the beginning of this venture, they saw something that was worthy of recognition. I was honored, and relationships have developed beautifully. Although this is a virtual meeting of the minds and souls, it is none-the-less fulfilling, because what the internet has given us, in addition to a too-large distraction from Mother Nature, is the ability to experience another person’s point of view. We used to get a daily newspaper delivered to our home. Now we have the world in the palm of our hand and I, too, am guilty of getting lost in there instead of paying attention to the people, places and things in my direct environs.

“We’re in this together,” my family says. And we are. Perhaps the dramatic and horrifying increase in mental illness and acts of violence has to do with the fact that people are more isolated from human touch and human smiles. When you walk down the street, head bent, staring at your device, you’re missing your very own whale watch. Whale Watches are just my personal metaphor, really, for paying attention to what’s around you. See My Life is a Whale Watch for why you should book one, no matter how chance-ridden it may be.

Photo JA Wheeler

Perhaps we could all seek out connection instead of focusing on the ugliness in this world and simply recognize another soul. It’s not that hard to do, and can be worth every ounce of effort.

I think it’s OK to TALK TO STRANGERS. What do you think?

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If your own soul was receptive to this post, please click the little heart at the beginning or at the end. It seems like a small thing, but does mean that my words get to travel on and hopefully inspire others to join us here.

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© 2024 Janice Anne Wheeler
548 Market Street PMB 72296, San Francisco, CA 94104