The Captain's Logs are below.

Read the new entries in Crew's Views from John, KC, and Caroline as they reflect on their experiences in Asia.

DATE:	FRIDAY, October 30, 1998
POSITION:	Off the Coast of Nicaragua, approaching Costa Rica
ENTERED BY:	Captain Dan Parrott

Goodbye Puerta Vallarta

Normally we have enough time built into the schedule that we can play the winds, light or strong, so long as we are generally making progress. Leaving adequate time between ports to travel by sail not only keeps the crew in sailing trim, but working the ship as she was intended to be worked keeps us in touch with the state of the rigging and the sails. There are important safety considerations imbedded in these facts: 1) A crew that has handled every sail many times, both day and night, is a safer crew because it becomes expert in the details of the tasks at hand, and 2) A well-exercised rig is a safer rig because it is more likely to receive the maintenance it needs in the course of frequent use. Problems in the rig, such as they may exist, are better understood and compensated for by a crew who are intimately familiar with them. Besides, sailing keeps the fuel bill down.

By this stage of the game, we were sufficiently behind that the only wind that could be regarded as useful was one that allowed us to sail in the exact direction of Panama, at not less than 6.3 knots. Given these rather restrictive parameters, the state of our fuel supply loomed large as a key consideration in keeping the schedule. We left Puerto Vallarta full to the gills with diesel but we also had an additional 450 miles to cross, on top of the 1,400 miles from Acapulco to Panama. PRIDE II has never motored 1,800 odd miles flat out, and the west coast of Central America is notorious for its calms, except when a hurricane is blowing. PRIDE II carries a little more than 900 gallons of diesel when full. This is not a large quantity for an ocean going vessel, but PRIDE II's extraordinary sailing qualities have generally enabled her to meet her mission within her fuel limitations.

The first few days out of Puerto Vallarta we motored without mercy. There was no pretense of sailing; there was no pretense of wind. A mighty swell, generated by Hurricane Lester, rolled in from the southwest. It was a rolly and unpleasant time. Both engines were whining away. The engine room hatches were open for ventilation and the ventilator fan sang its circular song. The deck, normally a place of peace and serenity at sea, had more the air of a machine shop with people hollering to be heard, not above the wind, but over the racket of machinery. Temperatures ran to 110 degrees in the engine room and crew members emerged from the five-minute engine room check with cataracts of sweat gushing down their bodies. A salt water hose streamed across the deck all through the day to keep the timbers cool and saturated.

It could be worse. At least we have the option of motoring. Years ago sailors would have sat rolling in the swell, roasting in the sun, sails slatting and gear chafing relentlessly while making no progress whatsoever and possibly drifting backwards if the current were against them. We are reminded that no matter how bad it gets, it can always get worse.

A Fueling Dilemma

On October 23, 1998, the PRIDE OF BALTIMORE II turned ten years old. She is now a year older than her predecessor when she was lost. I made a note in the log and passed the word through the ship, but the time wasn't right for a celebration. Too much remained unresolved in respect to the voyage.

On the morning of October 25, we steamed in through Boca Chica, the narrow western channel, and all the splendor and glamour of famed Acapulco was laid out before us. There were more high-rises, jet-skies, para-sailors, dinner-boats, cliff-divers, water-slides and other hyphenated delights than you could shake a stick at. An American gunboat lay at anchor in the bay while a man kayaked past on a surfboard. It is hard to say if the Acapulco Yacht Club fuel dock was more of a nook or a cranny, but the depth was sufficient so in we went with the crew manning fenders on both sides. Some dockmen remembered the vessel and extended warm semi-official greetings.

"How long would you be staying?"

"We regret that we cannot stay at all. Our schedule will not permit delay. We will look forward to your hospitality another time."

Despite the fact that the crew did not have the opportunity to indulge in the pleasures of famed Acapulco, I believe we all derived a certain satisfaction for having at least laid our eyes on the place. With full tanks, no regrets, and two bags of ice, we headed back out to sea. The whole operation had taken less than three hours.

With this one significant logistical concern laid to rest, it was time to consider the matter of celebrating PRIDE II's birthday. After all, since we were fortunate enough to be aboard for this momentous occasion, did we not have duty to uphold? That very evening, after clearing with the coast, a Birthday Bardinay was declared in honor of PRIDE II's decade of faithful service. A more beautiful topsail schooner does not exist, and we know it. She, and her predecessor, were toasted. Long live PRIDE OF BALTIMORE II.

Then, with an uncanny serendipity, a faint breeze arose in the west. PRIDE II adopted a slight but discernible heel to port. The Mate, Wes Heerssen, and I glanced at each other. The birthday party ended with the mainsail going up along with the rest of her canvas. When the first seating went down for dinner, PRIDE II was gliding along on a starboard tack, her engines now stilled. That a few hours later a squall came through and all hands were up on deck running around in the pouring rain and pitch black, cussing and hauling down sails as fast as they could, is completely beside the point. PRIDE II had her magic birthday moment and that is what we will remember.

On to Panama

Sporadic motoring has continued to occur because, despite some fine sailing in recent days, we are still trying to regain the schedule and cannot afford to wait for ideal conditions. However, we did commit one small indulgence at the expense of the timetable. One day, while steaming along in light airs, the opportunity presented itself to conduct a Man Overboard drill.

Once the drill was debriefed and the equipment stowed, I shut down the engine, got out my lifeguard whistle, and declared the pool open. A ladder was rigged and a ring-buoy trailed astern. As the ship lolled lazily in the swell, the crew took to leaping from the bowsprit into the azure deeps of the Pacific. Screams accompanied the short trajectories through the lower atmosphere, and laughter and hoots were awarded to each carefree plunge. At the deep end, it was three miles down. No fear of hitting your head. Queer to think of the sea in this way. Swimming mid-ocean, one is eerily aware of a freedom of dimension in every direction in a way that doesn't come to mind when standing on the deck of a ship. Bobbing in the water, you are a random point in space. On a ship, one exists within the confines of a single plane, the ocean's surface, and we aim to keep it that way. For all the vastness of the sea and all the time we spend upon it, our experience is almost entirely restricted to that which is transmitted to us via the surface. What a small fragment of the ocean's entirety that is. Half an hour later we were on our way again.

After Puerto Vallarta, the fishing tapered off. Then on October 30, while blasting along in a fair breeze, the call went up, "Fish on!" There was little we could do to slow the vessel down, so Chris Dyer, Mike Lawnsby, and myself latched onto the handline and commenced to haul it in, hand over hand. Several minutes later, the fish was alongside but we still had no clear view of it in the shadow of the foresail. Extending the gaff down to where the fish ought to be, I hooked into something and hauled for dear life. An enormous yellow-fin tuna emerged from the water. There was no way I was going to heft that fish over the rail myself, so Mike Lawnsby jumped in. Heaving in unison (2-6!) we levered the creature over the rail and onto the deck where it flailed for 15 minutes despite all effort to dispatch it quickly. We can't be sure but we guess it weighed over a 100 pounds. We filleted it in quarters and each quarter seemed to weigh not less than 20 pounds. The fishing lines were stowed for the remainder of the voyage as we had no further need of fish aboard.

Halloween presented a strange sight to any vessel passing PRIDE OF BALTIMORE II. The tension built slowly through the day as crew members surreptitiously rummaged through the bizarre assortment of things that accumulate on a schooner that can be pressed into service as part of a desperate Halloween costume. At 1700 hours, the fruits of this labor were revealed. Christina Dyer made an excellent Princess Laiea with a life-size cutout of Chewbacca with the shop vac appearing as R2-D2. Mike Lawnsby, bedecked with broken masthoops, came as the foremast after Hurricane Madeline and Iron Mike Rogers was Superman. Chris Flansburg was a mad scientist and Stephanie Reynolds was Chris Flansburg. K.C. Hinkley was Pancho Villa and Jen Huggins was a roller-blading Venice Beach babe. Our guest crew member, Stan Fowler, appeared as Tinkerbell, near as I could figure, and the Cook, Tina Koch, looked something like the cook in Beetle Bailey. John Hope was a mad cow and Caroline Smith was the clairvoyant Eight Ball, who would divulge the future if shaken with vigor. Wes Heerssen came as Wes Heerssen on laundry day. After a few shanties, it was dinner time. The change of the watch passed and it was life as usual aboard PRIDE II. A bright first quarter moon illuminated perfect bands of altocumulus clouds moving in from the north like distant waves seeking the shore.

We are presently proceeding up the Gulf of Panama toward Balboa and the Canal. Every manner of shipping is passing, some inbound, some outbound. The past two days have been characterized by heavy showers punctuated with lighter ones. Today patches of blue permit scattered sunshine to strike the slopes of the islands that are strewn through the gulf. Both the sunshine and the islands are a welcome change of scenery.

We will soon be at our berth at Balboa and this very interesting and challenging leg of the voyage will be at an end. Capt. Miles will re-join the vessel here in Panama for the run home and I will return to Baltimore.

For several days now our hourly position plots have mingled and collided with those that we laid down on the charts last January when outbound for Hawaii and the East. PRIDE II has been out and about the wide world for nearly a year now. We are not home yet, but the circle is rapidly closing.

Watch Below,
Captain Daniel S. Parrott

We never intended to go to Puerto Vallarta, but that doesn't really seem to have mattered. What matters is that we ended up there, swept in on the broom of Hurricane Madeline. Puerto Vallarta is little more than a creek mouth that has been dredged and carved into a smallish harbor. It lies at the head of Bahia Banderos, a bay about 30 miles long and 12 miles wide that is open only to the west. Bahia Banderos is on the west coast of Mexico, just where it takes a sharp turn to the north, at the eastern margin of the Sea of Cortez.

PRIDE II arrived on a Friday night, October 16, having motored her little heart out to get in from the weather. By the reflected light of resorts and restaurants, she wended her way past the darkened hulls of ramshackle fishing vessels and gleaming motor yachts to her berth at the inner sanctum of a labyrinth of docks that constitutes Marina Vallarta. The depth was said to be adequate - if you were in the right place, at the right tide. As we passed through the breakwaters, the radio crackled and an anonymous voice spoke, "A little more to the left, skipper. There's a lot of silting from the creek on your starboard hand." Another voice piped in, "Yeah, he's right but don't go too far because its shallow over there too." Yet a third voice quoth, "Don't get too far to the right....but don't get too far to the left either." Thanks for the pilotage, guys. While creeping along, soundings came to within two feet of the keel but after that, never less than four. We had caught the tide right and were soon secure at our assigned berth.

We did not intend to stay at Puerto Vallarta. Our hope was that Hurricane Madeline would move through quickly so that we could make tracks for Acapulco before Hurricane Lester could come up the coast, thus blocking our path and fouling our schedule. Even the morning after arrival, I contemplated whether it had been truly necessary to seek port. It certainly was calm inside the marina. Then I saw the weather report. Madeline had not abated but was blowing a sustained 75 knots and gusting 90 knots. She had not moved on. In fact, she had taken a hard right turn and was coming straight for Puerto Vallarta.

The crew jumped-to first thing in the morning, and despite a noticeable sluggishness born of exhaustion, several necessary things were accomplished. First the ship was cleaned up. Below decks, in particular, was a mess. Repairs on the foresail were completed, then we lashed the sail and the gaff to the deck. PRIDE II is equipped with what is known as a "standing gaff" on the foremast such that it is normally in the hoisted position. However, given the forecast, the less windage aloft, the better. Sails were re-furled tightly and lashed with double gaskets to hold them secure. Lastly, all the dock lines were doubled up with extra chafe gear and winched tight so that there would be no "play" in them. The yards were braced into the direction the wind was anticipated to blow from, and extra docklines were laid out on deck in case it was necessary to run them across the channel to the opposite dock to hold PRIDE II off of our dock. The anchors were readied for this purpose as well. Then we waited.

But we didn't wait sullenly, mind you. The crew took the rest of the day off with orders to stay nearby and return to the ship if it came on to blow. This was easy to do as there were shops, phones, and other diversions all within sight of the schooner. English-language newspapers were available, and the World Series was on. Overhead the sky maintained an ugly pattern of black and gray cloud that coiled and unraveled disconcertingly. As the glass fell, the torn, raggedy edges of thunderheads periodically lashed the deck with rain, which ended as abruptly as it began. Despite the drama in the firmament, little wind was experienced at deck level. For the time being, anyway, we were safe within a citadel of condominiums and time-share apartments that ringed the marina.

The next day, October 18, was bright and sunny. Though Madeline was not far off, it was evident that she had moved past us. I read in the paper that she passed over a prison located on an island out in the Sea of Cortez. Now our attention turned to Lester. Hurricane Lester was approaching Acapulco just off the coast and blowing 90 knots sustained, and gusting 110 knots. If he went ashore, he would dissipate rapidly and we could get on our way. If he did not, then we would have to stay and watch for further developments. Our five guest crew handled the weather and the uncertainty that it imposed with complete grace and aplomb. Nevertheless, practical concerns dictated that they depart the ship in Puerto Vallarta rather than risk missing their flights from Acapulco. They had been troopers throughout and pulled their weight in every way.

I soon learned that the Port Captain for Puerto Vallarta had closed his harbor to outbound vessels, thus removing the option of departing until further notice. One vessel had slipped out at first light that morning but was back by noon, having taken a licking from Madeline while trying to go up the coast to Mazatlan. It was evident that we weren't going anywhere, whether it was the Port Captain, Lester, or myself that decided. In light of all this, it became equally clear that we should forego Acapulco altogether and make Puerto Vallarta the mid-way provisioning point on the voyage to Panama. To this end, the usual re-supply activities were set into motion: money was exchanged, the propane tanks were topped off, the Cook went shopping, a hunting party was organized in search of spare parts and other necessities, and fuel procurement was researched. The idea was to have the ship in perfect readiness for when Lester cleared the way. Most of this was accomplished in one day.

Lester did not go ashore and dissipate and he did not clear the way. He stayed at sea and moved in a generally westward direction, toward us, and in so doing continued to menace our ocean road to Panama. This simple fact illuminates the way in which landlubbers and seafarers view hurricanes in fundamentally different lights. For the landsman, the hurricane that lives its life at sea is a nameless, unborn entity that is scarcely worthy of mention in an idle sidewalk chat about the weather. Only when it threatens to come ashore does a hurricane suddenly become real enough to focus the mind. The moment it moves away, it is restored to lowly anonymity. A shopkeeper might opine, "Oh, its safe now. The hurricane has blown out to sea."

This view is oblivious to the perils a storm at sea poses to the mariner, for it is "out to sea" that we must sooner or later go. In this sense, we occupy the exact opposite pole of the dilemma. On the contrary, we grasp eagerly at every indication that the same hurricane will move ashore and break up, regardless of the havoc and misery it may wreak on those who occupy the littoral. When facing such a destructive adversary, it is impossible not to harbor the deep desire to see it deprived of the power that the warm sea supplies and instead wish that it would whither and starve over the nearest available continent. Sitting in port, with one foot in each camp, this dilemma was clearer than usual.

Several of the crew took a jeep ride up into the mountains, careening around on muddy paths and through mountain streams. Others were content to poke around town or walk the beach, where a mighty surf was running. We may have missed out on Acapulco, but Puerto Vallarta proved to be a pleasant place to wait out a hurricane or two.

By Tuesday, Lester reached a point about 250 miles to our south and just a little west. The radius of storm force winds was 90 miles, and gale conditions extended to 120 miles. This was the geographic point where Madeline had turned hard to the north and the northeast and into the Sea of Cortez. There were reports that Lester would do the same. Due to his position relative to the coastline, we would have to first go toward Lester before we could get past him. So we watched and we waited. Lo and behold, Lester paused to catch his breath. He was out there, a swirling vortex of madness, gusting to 120 knots. On Wednesday, October 21, he bobbed and weaved and then feinted toward us. Gulp! Lester was a MUCH bigger hurricane than Madeline. But by nightfall he was forecast to regain momentum toward the west, past us and into the wide Pacific. Like a shopkeeper, I thought with relief, "He's going out to sea!"

On Thursday morning we fueled up. The dock arrangement was not designed for a vessel of our size, but we had to make it work. We tried going bow in first, as I did not trust the depth along the bulkhead. We hung there with our stern out in the stream and the bowsprit amongst the foliage of a large overhanging tree. It wasn't pretty, but we were secure. At this point, the man on the fuel dock revealed that his hose would not reach the fill pipe on board the vessel. Hmmm. After a moment of contemplation, we spun the ship around and backed in. The tide was rising still. We had to wing the boom out to clear the bulkhead, and our bowsprit protruded well out into the channel, but it worked and the hose reached. The job was soon finished but reports of a heavy sea running outside the bay made a convincing argument to stay another 12 hours and leave that night when the tide was rising again and the seabreeze died away.

We sailed on the evening tide, once more feeling our way down the riparian alleyways, cramped with yachts and fishing vessels, toward the sea. Though black clouds clung to the nearby mountaintops, directly overhead was the first starlit sky we had seen in a week. PRIDE II rose and fell gently on an easy swell, reminding us that, while the insular world of the marina was a welcome respite from the vagaries of the sea, it was not our natural habitat. The glitter of shore lights at Puerto Vallarta gradually receded as we made our way toward Cabo Corriente, where we could turn to the south and resumed the journey toward Panama, and Baltimore.

Watch Below,
Capt. Daniel S. Parrott

The PRIDE OF BALTIMORE II left San Diego on October 8 with the fairest of breezes. She ploughed down channel through flat water under a full press of canvas and into the wide blue yonder. We were bound for Acapulco, 1,400 miles away.

With the lines now coiled, one by one the crew took their ease at the weather rail, adopting various angles of repose in keeping with the heel of the deck. While watching the water boil past and the sun move west, slow, easy grins broke out that needed no explanation: We are sailing fast, we are sailing well, and we are sailing home. Our ship is beautiful and capable. She will not fail us, and we will not fail her. So good to be at sea.

But a blue sky and a twinkling sea are but one of the many faces of Mother Nature. Within a few days, this scene of maritime bliss was to be replaced by the mayhem wrought by Hurricane Madeline, who hurled rain and sea at us with the fury of a jilted woman. Glad we were then that this ship and this crew are so well put together.

Departure from San Diego was followed by five straight days of "flying fish weather." PRIDE II had a sleigh ride south with the wind in the northwest quadrant, broad on her starboard quarter. After two days, we jibed over, putting the wind on the port quarter, and steered to clear Cabo San Lucas at the extreme southern tip of Baja California. All PRIDE II's working canvas, all her kites, her weather stuns'l, and her t'gallant were set and drawing. Oh sure, the breeze might back into the west for a bit, or veer into the north awhile, causing us to alter course a tad. Or it might puff up to about 20 knots, making us think about reducing canvas. Or it might drop away to eight or nine knots, sending a collective cringe through the ship's company at the prospect of motoring. But just as crew members began to look uneasily about, the breeze would fill back in again and we continued on our merry way.

The wind was not the only thing going right. The fine days gave us many hours to work on deck. A number of guest crew were aboard for this leg and they pitched right in. Before long the brightwork began to glisten in places that had been too long dull. There were calisthenics on deck in the afternoon. The fishing was fine as well. On the second day, we pulled a handsome tuna aboard in time to whip up a plate of sashimi before dinner. A few days later, it was a mahi-mahi.

The crowning fishing achievement was the 7 foot, 6 inch sailfish that came over the rail on October 12. This was not the largest fish to be landed by PRIDE II. That distinction belongs to the nine-footer that we manhandled aboard last January off Costa Rica when the ship was outbound for Asia. Nevertheless, this beautiful specimen fed us all twice and provided a bounty of sashimi for sunset hour on the quarterdeck. It was caught on a cedar plug sprayed with WD-40.

Sunsets were generally clear (red sky at night, etc.). The authenticity of at least two green flashes was hotly disputed. The Green Flash is a phenomenon whereby the final ray of the setting sun is seen as a green twinkle. It requires special conditions which include a particularly clear horizon. You can look it up in Bowditch's American Practical Navigator. It occurs rarely enough that greenhorns frequently doubt its existence, believing it to be some inside joke concocted by generations of sailors to make fools of young upstarts. Fortunately, nothing so elaborate need be devised for that purpose. Therefore, on a clear evening at sea, the deck is well attended by shellback and pollywog alike, looking for the green flash.

Adding to the general good mood of the ship, Deckhand, Mike "Bubbles" Lawnsby, celebrated his 26th birthday aboard. Our esteemed Cook, Tina Koch, baked a special cake for Mr. Lawnsby in the shape of a few of his favorite things. There were the normal, predictable pranks, like Caroline Smith putting the squid into Mike's shoe. However, this led on to more creative applications of our pelagic brethren, such as nestling a flying fish between Deckhand Christina Dyer's pillows. Or taking the Bosun's (Chris Flansburg) toothbrush, scrubbing the poor, stiff fish with it, and placing the toothbrush back among his things. These people actually do like each other.

On the sixth day, our breeze abandoned us and we resorted to the "iron tops'l." The weather remained fine, just a bit warmer. Bardinay Hour was celebrated on the quarter deck that evening in traditional PRIDE II style as a compensation for the lack of wind. As always, the dress code was strict: Hawaiian shirts, neckties, sunglasses, long dresses, and unadulterated haberdashery. Crew member Stephanie Reynolds fashioned a pareu from her PRIDE neckwear and Mike Lawnsby sported his jester's cap, bells and all. The object of the dress code is to distinguish one's appearance from the filthy and too-familiar T-shirts and cut-offs that are de rigeur at sea, for the benefit of your shipmates' morale. The Mate, Wes Heerssen, took care to pay the traditional tribute to King Neptune by tossing a tot of rum into sea. As it turns out, he may have been a little stingy this time.

That night the sky was lit all around us with heat lightening, fork lightening, and distance fiery glows. As we crossed into the Sea of Cortez, it was evident that it might soon come time to pay the piper.

Despite the celestial fireworks, the sea remained calm through night and all the next day. Daily weather reports and faxes kept me apprised of developments to our south. Though mid-October is past the peak of hurricane season, late season hurricanes are known to intensify quickly, and have a reputation for being the least predictable of all. A "disturbance" down in the Gulf of Tuanapec came ashore and dissipated after a few days, but that was over a thousand miles away. Then about 600 miles to our south, Hurricane Kay was born at sea. She tracked northwest and more or less away from us. Closer to our south, 300 miles or so, a disturbance was reported, but winds were estimated to be less than 25 knots and the whole system was giving indications of early dissipation.

The "lurid sky and an oily sea" that my old navigation teacher in Australia taught us to look for in advance of tropical trouble made its appearance on the evening of October 14. I took it to be Hurricane Kay advertising her wares well to our south. Though the barometer behaved normally, we had been warned.

On the night of the October 15, we were closing with Cabo Corriente, the Cape at the eastern mouth of the Sea of Cortez. We were running three days ahead of schedule for our arrival in Acapulco and I am certain that there wasn't a soul aboard who wasn't beginning to imagine himself or herself reclining beside a pool in Acapulco, piña colada in hand. It was a classic case of counting chickens before they hatch. About this time, the weather maps turned our attention to a new disturbance in the Gulf of Tuanapec, and the forecasters made no bones about it: watch out for this one! So we did, but it was still a long way off, probably 1,200 miles or so and 400 miles beyond Acapulco.

While steaming along, we had kept about half our sails up to take advantage of the odd puff. Around 2300, a slight fair breeze came up and we put it to use. Though showers appeared on the radar here and there, this had been the case for more than a day. Well, about midnight she came in with a wallop. Ten knots, twenty, thirty, forty, and then leveled off. The Standby Watch hit the deck like they were shot from a cannon. Within a few minutes, our heading changed from southeast to northwest as we turned to run before the building seas and wind. Farewell Acapulco. Farewell piña colada. The rain came in like bullets strafing the deck and all who were on deck. Of course, one of the nice things about getting your butt kicked in the tropics is that while it is getting kicked, at least it is warm out.

We ran before the wind, handing sail as we went. The topsail was clewed up and the buntlines hauled tight. The jib topsail was doused. The mainsail was struck, followed by the jib. And our work had just begun. The winds were not constant at all. It would ease off for awhile, to as little as 15 knots, then charge back up to 40 or so. In the lulls, we tried to get things done. First the jib had to be triced up. That took two watches an hour to execute. Then the jib topsail had to be brought inboard to reduce weight at the extreme end of the headrig. This took the same two watches another hour to accomplish, while occasionally plunging up to their waists in the Sea of Cortez.

By the time these tasks were completed, it was time for the change of the watch. So the Standby Watch, B Watch, which had been working steadily for three hours, now took responsibility for the deck, and the new Standby Watch, C Watch, came up to help. A Watch went below to try to get some rest, if they could stay in their bunks. Next it was time to furl the fore topsail, so A and C Watches laid aloft. There were myriad adjustments to make to the rigging, bilges to pump, and routine checks to stay on top of. Around 0430 on the morning of the October 16, I lay below, feeling that all that could be done had been done till things either got better or got worse. We carried on to the south on a port tack under foresail and staysail.

A wicked sea, 16 to 18 feet, was running by now that pulled at our well-ordered world, flinging any unsecured item as far as gravity would allow. Around 0530, I got word that, by the light of dawn, a few rips in the foresail and a few broken masthoops were noticed. Rather than take a chance with doing more damage, we lowered the foresail to the deck and set the storm trysail in its stead. The storm trysail is a simple, heavily built triangular sail that is easy to handle. It helped to steady out the rolling of the vessel and provided a little forward drive.

Around 0700, weather information confirmed that the "loosely organized" disturbance that was 300 miles to our south had in fact become Tropical Storm Madeline. She was developing into a hurricane and heading our way. Time to turn north and make way for Madeline. About this same time it was reported that the depression in the Gulf of Tuanapec to our east, was headed west as Tropical Storm Lester, soon to be Hurricane Lester. Meanwhile Kay, to our west, had reversed direction and was coming back east, though weakening. Never a dull moment.

Despite the peripheral activity, it was clear that Madeline was our most immediate concern. The problem with Madeline, aside from her proximity to us, was that she proved to be very slow moving and unpredictable. Instead of rushing on past and allowing us to continue on our way, seems she liked to want to sit and stew awhile. Then she'd move toward us a bit and stew again while blocking the way out of the Sea of Cortez. Although weathering Madeline at sea remained an option, there was safe refuge at Puerto Vallarta, where PRIDE II sat out a hurricane in 1994 with Captain Bob Glover. The question was whether we could attain Puerto Vallarta against the wind and seas.

By the 1300 change of watch, wind velocity was seldom above the mid-thirties and occasionally dipping into the high twenties. We set a triple reefed mainsail, about half its normal size, and this allowed us to come a little more onto the wind. Though we were still far from ready to try to fight this weather, we were setting sail again, and that was a good sign. The standby watches continued to work through the day repairing the foresail. Some of the masthoops were repaired with sections of other hoops. Segments of some hoops were fitted onto others both inside and out, glued, screwed and "fished" in place. On we waddled to the north through the night with the idea of getting some relief from the seas and positioning ourselves to get into Puerto Vallarta if necessary, if possible.

By the morning of October 16, we had run north of Puerto Vallarta but the winds had dropped considerably and we were able to turn and head south again. Whether we sought shelter or not depended on what Madeline was up to. Reports indicated that she had not really abated or even moved away, but she seemed to be pausing before running up into the Gulf of California. This was reason enough to make for port 70 miles away, since it was now within reach. Setting canvas and using the engines, we made as much speed as the lumpy sea would permit to get in before dark. Despite the failing breeze, the seas were still large enough that it was 2100, well past dark, when we passed between the breakwaters at Puerto Vallarta. Inside the harbor, all was completely still. The lights of hotels and resorts illuminated multi-million dollar mega-yachts that we passed with a few feet to spare on either side. A voice called from the darkness "Welcome to Paradise, amigos!" Paradise? We're running from a hurricane!

We were soon secure at our berth. I told the harbormaster that we needed to clear Customs and Immigration, as we had come from the United States. "Don't worry. Tomorrow." I wasn't about to argue. It was time for bed.

Watch Below,
Captain Daniel S. Parrott

This missive is long overdue. Knowing that we would soon put to sea for an extended period, it has been easier to put off writing and instead focus on the more pressing details of the ship. In addition to the usual activities, we have been making ready for the long poke down the coast to Panama. Although we have a scheduled stopover at Acapulco, logistically and psychologically it seems our preparations are better served by thinking of this as one long 2,800 mile voyage rather than two 1,400 mile legs. While we will have the ability to replenish certain supplies in Acapulco, other matters, such as the procurement of spare parts and medical supplies, are more expediently dealt with while still in the United States. With the shore now astern, the swirl of stimuli that characterizes the ship in port has been replaced by the order and single-mindedness of the ship at sea. Now there is time to reflect on what we have seen and done.

Marina Del Rey

Once secure at our assigned pier, a number of prominent citizens form Marina Del Rey came aboard to welcome us. Among them was a gentleman who had photographed PRIDE OF BALTIMORE when she visited Marina Del Rey in 1983. He knew of her loss in 1986 and the subsequent construction of PRIDE II. He presented us with a print of the first PRIDE that he had snapped in 1983. As we travel far and wide, it is always amazing to see how well people remember the first PRIDE, and how pleased they are to come aboard her successor. Later during this port call, a Mr. Terry Plumeri came down to the ship and explained that when he lived in Baltimore in the early 1980s he had been acquainted with the first PRIDE and Capt. Armin Elsaesser. Mr. Plumeri is a musician and symphony composer. In the aftermath of PRIDE's sinking, he wrote a piece called the "Pride of Baltimore." The piece premiered in Tchaikovsky Hall, Moscow, and was recorded by the Moscow Philharmonic in 1994. Terry gave each of us a copy of the recording. Many thanks.

Yet another creative connection with the ship was re-established in Marina Del Rey when Baltimore musician Patrick O'Brennan came aboard to provide entertainment during a reception for the Maryland Film Commission. Pat performed in Baltimore when the ship took her leave last December and has written two songs relating to the PRIDE legacy. One is dedicated to the "old boat," and is fittingly entitled "Pride of Baltimore." I was flattered when Pat told me that the other song, entitled "Pride II," was inspired by logs that I wrote last winter during the passage from Panama to Hawaii, which he had followed on the internet.

During time off, the crew visited Venice Beach and returned sufficiently impressed. We saw the windowsill at Hinano's into which Jim Morrison of the Doors allegedly carved his name. Said one patron, "And even if he didn't really carve it, he definitely hung out here, man." Strange days.

Long Beach

In Long Beach, PRIDE II tied up at a pier that is part of a harbor re-development project. The berth we lay at was normally reserved for the CALIFORNIAN but they graciously made it available to us, while taking a berth one pier over. Like PRIDE II, the CALIFORNIAN is also a topsail schooner, but the similarities go beyond that. The CALIFORNIAN is a replica of a Revenue Cutter from the period of the 1830s. The Revenue Service was a predecessor of the Coast Guard and its primary function was to thwart smuggling. In terms of rig and design, the Revenue Cutters borrowed heavily from the Baltimore Clippers.

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Pride of Baltimore II

Californian

Though the CALIFORNIAN is a little smaller than we, she has almost an identical sail plan, down to the sharply raked masts, the brailing foresail, the deck-setting t'gallant, and the stunsails. She carries four bronze cannon the same size as PRIDE II's and sports the same clipper bow and low freeboard. No sailing vessel in the United States, and probably the world, has an aspect more similar to PRIDE II. This is not surprising when one considers that the Revenue Cutters, like the privateering Baltimore Clippers before them, were designed to give chase and capture other vessels by force of arms. In both cases, speed and maneuverability were virtues.

PRIDE II's relationship with the CALIFORNIAN goes beyond developments in naval architecture. During the 1996 filming of Stephen Spielberg's "Amistad," both ships were used to portray the hapless slave ship, LA AMISTAD. CALIFORNIAN was used for the sailing footage which was filmed on the West Coast, and PRIDE II stood in for the waterfront scenes filmed in Mystic, Connecticut. Over the years many crew have come and gone between the two vessels; our current Bosun, Chris Flansburg, and the Chief Mate, Wesley Heerssen, both served aboard CALIFORNIAN in recent years. During our brief stay in Long Beach, the two crews got together for a "sailors' evening" of music, song, and merriment. It was great to see the two rigs side by side. PRIDE II returned to Marina Del Rey for one last event before proceeding to her last official port call on the U.S. West Coast, San Diego.

San Diego

All this military might made little impression on the local sea lions and seals. They crowded around the bases of the green and red bell buoys, cheek by jowl and flipper to flipper, sunning themselves and watching the ships come and go. In reality, beneath this peaceful facade a merciless version of "King of the Hill" was being played out. Periodically, when one attempted to usurp the position of another, a tremendous bellowing and bickering would erupt, followed by a mighty splash.

Just off the San Diego waterfront, we caught a light land breeze that filled PRIDE II's sails and gave us something to work with while grandstanding about. We passed back and forth, cannons blazing, then struck sail and went to our berth at the San Diego Maritime Museum. The museum had an excellent dock for PRIDE II, and our location could not have been better. We were open to the public three times in San Diego and there was a lot of interest in the ship, both from the media and the general populace. In addition to Open Houses, an event was held aboard with the Greater Baltimore Alliance which was attended by Baltimore Mayor Kurt Schmoke and featured some first rate Maryland crab cakes.

In San Diego, PRIDE II berthed beside the STAR OF INDIA, a full rigged sailing ship built in 1863. She claims the distinction of being the oldest merchant sailing vessel afloat in the world. Although she spends most of her year as a dockside exhibit, she is kept in sailing trim and sails several times a year. The museum staff welcomed us warmly, and although our stay was brief and busy, it was one of our most enjoyable port calls on the West Coast. There was some mad scrambling to get some last minute items aboard, but we managed. The crew were sent out for routine drug-testing, which is periodically done to comply with legal requirements affecting all sectors of the transportation industry. There wasn't much time to study, but with this bunch of scholars I wasn't worried.

Time-off in San Diego was scarce. The crew each got about half an afternoon to explore. Several made excursions to San Diego's historic Gas Lamp District and our Cook, Tina Koch, made it all the way to the world renowned San Diego Zoo. All of the West Coast ports have provided opportunities for crew to meet up with friends and family and we have taken advantage of this whenever possible. On departure day, October 8, we took on bunkers at a nearby fuel dock, while out on the bay a favorable breeze filled in from the north. With the fueling completed, we quickly made sail and headed down channel, PRIDE II gathering speed as she went. We dipped our ensign to an inbound Navy ship, which responded in kind. Passing seal-laden buoys, we shot out onto the open ocean. By late afternoon the Islas Coronados were but dim shadows over our transom, and the Pacific sparkled on ahead.

Watch Below,
Captain Daniel S. Parrott

Special thanks to the Los Angeles Convention & Visitors Bureau for the use of images from Marina del Rey and Long Beach.