Sailing with Yellow Jack
Apr. 6th, 2026 05:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aggienaut Okay some time has slipped by again. Nothing new on the employment front really, except that I've begun my work as a contributing editor for the state beekeeping magazine. And work on the book got stalled out when I realized my first chapter of history could probably be a peer reviewed article, so I switched gears to that, and then I mentioned it to my friend the vice president of the state beekeeping association, and when days later they had a late pull out of their intended guest for their monthly webinar he asked me if I could share my research there. So then the PAPER I was working on got set aside to work on presentation.
Said colleague eagerly volunteered that since there were only two days to go he would run my chapter (which I'd already sent him) through an AI to make slides. I was a bit skeptical, I am generally pretty skeptical of AI, but I figured why not. The result was actually better than I expected, I was able to even use several of the slides! Well there were two or three maybe that were alright as is, several I had to ask for changes, particularly it liked to hallucinate images it claimed were from studies I referenced, but weren't but when I provided the images the AI was able to put them wehre they should go in the slide. I was a bit put out however when once we actually did go live right at the start, evidently proud of his AI, said colleague announced the slides were made with AI. Personally I feel that's highly discrediting to me and my presentation even if it did do a surprisingly good job. So I was quick to say that I had thoroughly fact checked the slides and made sure tehy were accurate. Anyway, the whole presentation might be way more in depth about a specific pest of bees than anyone here is interested in but if you want to see it here it is. Interesting context: my thesis here runs contrary to the ubiquitous view that the varroa mite jumped host some times in the fifties (I am saying specific strains of a specific subspecies jumped host almost immediately on contact with european bees on contact from the 1890s on).
In preparation for this presention I had to complete a gap in my reading in re the actual genetic research into these mites. Happily every piece of that fit my theory (and I'm not opposed to changing my mind from the evidence as I come across it. Reading this did make me adapt my understanding from thinking all Varroa destructor mites originated from the Indochina Peninsula to that their native range extends up to Japan and Vladivostok, which understanding actually explains some things really well). And now I'm ready to pound out this scientific paper with all the supporting research now done!
Anyway, this was all meant to just be a quick preface before writing the next addition to my travel memoir! I'll carry on and post it anyway. So where we left off I'd left Guinea which was at the time ground zero for ebola, feeling very sick, but kicking around Europe I started to feel better. I return to California two weeks later and begin to feel very unwell again. The real ship's name was Pilgrim but in general I'm changing all ship names to protect the insoucient
Chapter 13
Vespera
Wednesday, July 30th, 2014, California - I stare in horror at the blood on the tissue into which I’ve just blown my nose. It’s very rare for me to get sick, and it’s almost unheard of for me to get nosebleeds. My health has suddenly completely deteriorated leaving me lying on the couch at my parents’ house, watching the ceiling fan slowly turn, feeling increasingly convinced I’m patient zero and have just doomed millions.
The news is playing on the TV in the other room:
“Ebola can have up to a 21 day incubation period during which it isn’t showing symptoms”
I count back, it’s only been 15 days since I left Guinea. I think it’s time to go to the doctor and get this settled once and for all. I’m afraid to even call the urgent care and mention what I want to come in for. But I call them and… they’re surprisingly nonchalant about having me come in. With ebola being in the news I know people who could not possibly plausibly have it have been hysterically calling into hospitals about it but, and I am careful to make sure they realize this when I call them, “I was literally there at ground zero.” But come in they say.
“Well you don’t have ebola” the doctor is soon assuring me, but you might have malaria.” I think it’s probably been a fairly rarely uttered sentence in human history where “you might have malaria” ‘was the good news. Interesting fact: malaria
Some blood tests later, I don’t even have malaria, just a bad sinus infection. Unfortunate coincidence that I’ve never been so sick in my life as I am with this random thing picked up at ebola ground zero. He gives me some medication, and, being habitually avoidant of taking even basic painkillers, they make me feel just fine! ..until they wear off but then I just take the next dose. I feel so good I happily board the sailing vessel Vespera the next day for its annual sail. I had missed 2010 and 2012 due to being at sea at the time on a different vessel (the Eos), and 2013 I was in Turkey, so 2011 had been the only prior year I’d been able to go on the annual sail of this beloved vessel, and I’m not about to miss another opportunity!
July 31st, 2100 hours - I stand at the bow of the 40 meter sailing ship Vespera, the wind is cool but refreshing, and I don't need my coat. The night is dark but clear, the moon a slim crescent. Lights twinkle on the headlands off to our right, waves crash on the breakwater that is slipping away behind us. I feel sick and achey, and anxiously await the moment I'll be stood down to go to sleep, but I'm very grateful to be here.
Sometime around 21:30, as we plow through the waves around the Dana Point Headlands, someone comes up to relieve me from bow watch:
"We're standing down to watches now, you can go below"
"I'm on till midnight anyway"
"Check the schedule, they've changed it again." We’ve barely begun and my position on the watch schedule has already completely changed three times but hopefully it’ll settle down and I’m not about to complain about getting to go to sleep earlier than I expected.
So I scurry down the ladder to see that they had indeed replaced the watchbill again, and I've been moved to "starboard" watch … which this night would be standing from midnight till 4:00am. Okay not so great an improvement after all. Just the thing to improve my health. I immediately climb into my bunk to try to catch what sleep I can before midnight.
August 1st, 00:00 hours - Upon being awoken by a member of the prior watch, I drag myself out of bed, though I’m not feeling great. Get ready to go up on deck in the dim red submarine-movie light belowdecks.
On watch, one rotates through four positions: the helm, "midships," bow watch runner, and bow watch. The bow watch runner's job is to stand at the bow with bow watch until something is to be reported, and then run down to the quarterdeck to tell the officer of the watch. "Midships" is kind of a rest position, though they theoretically are keeping watch off the sides, though the odds of something coming out of nowhere and t-boning us without anyone else noticing are pretty slim.
While I’m on bow-watch another crewmember, Aiden, comes up to try to talk to me but then has to retreat because his sea-sickness was highly exacerbated on the bounding foredeck (the forecastle, below the foredeck, is sometimes referred to humorously as the zero gravity chamber).
There’s no shame in getting sea-sick – back on the ole Eos on a five day transit down from Washington to the San Francisco bay our two most experienced sailors were green the whole time and when not on duty could be found curled up and miserable in the aft cabin. But when you're on watch, a sailor must always "do their duty." There’s no shame in getting sea sick … unless you don't let it prevent you from doing your duty. The Eos was notoriously "washing-machine-like," having a very flat bottom, and we used to do our hourly "boat checks" belowdecks either with a barf bag in hand or at least ready to run for the nearest trashcan at any moment (seasickness gets much worse when belowdecks).
One of the members on my watch, Melvin, has some kind of mental disability. He’s a well meaning kid though and we all applaud him for even being here with us. But unfortunately he couldn't steer the ship on a straight course for the life of him.
After my own trick at the wheel it’s his turn and I stand with him to keep us on course. I hand the wheel off to him and within moments the compass is beginning to spin and I have to grab the wheel again, which I do casually without comment.
This apparently involves me concentrating harder on the compass in front of us than when I had had the helm by myself, because seasickness begins to overtake me. As the countdown to inevitable barfing ticks off in my head I try to wrestle the ship on the correct course one last time -- three degrees too far starboard ... swinging back ... two degrees too far to port .... there we go "Melvin, hold it right there. Hold the wheel just so. I need to go over there for a minute, you got this? You got this??" and with that, I make a quick look around for the direction the wind is coming from, and dive for the lee rail (never never puke upwind). As I dry-heaved the last of my guts out I hear the captain once again bark "hey hey stay on course!" and see him look around and then dash to the wheel... I’m filled with shame, I thought I could puke and get back to the wheel in time, and it wasn’t even a long puke but….
Presently he rotates off the wheel and I can go to the foredeck. It’s a nice night. A bit chilly, but I have a fine fine bridgecoat, one of my proudest possessions. Mostly high cloud cover but some stars twinkled in gaps above. I’m actually feeling a little better by the time our watch ends at 04:00.
2014-08-01 08:30 - I had intended to sleep through till I was on again at noon, but all hands are called around 5 bells in the forenoon watch for a general all hands muster on deck for various announcements, and general cleaning of the ship. I feel very terrible as I drag myself sluggishly out of my rack. I generally try to avoid taking any painkillers or other medicines if I can all help it, but I feel like I've been stabbed in the face, the pain is excruciating, so I take some dayquil. As this takes effect the pain goes away and I apparently become dayquil-high, talking the bosun's ears off about bees.
Am on watch from 12:00-16:00, and then, due to the devilry of Vespera's watch schedule, I'll be on duty again from 20:00-24:00. The day is pleasant, there aren't the swells there had been last night and steering is easy. As soon as I’m off watch I once again bolt down below to go lie down, as the dayquil was wearing off.
An hour or two later I hear them calling for all hands again to handle sail -- we have heretofore been motoring, but they want to come in to Santa Barbara under sail, since there is a festival on and crowds await us expectantly. I sluggishly, reluctantly, pull myself from my bunk and get ready to aloft, and take some more dayquil. Up on deck I lean heavily against the galleyhouse and listen to the preliminary discussions listlessly. The foremast captain tells me I don't have to go aloft if I don't want to. Speaking of mast captains, I nominally hold the illustrious rank of "main-mast captain," though for some reason we have five "mast captains" listed for our two masted vessel. I let one of the other main-mast captains call the shots and sort of retreated to the quarterdeck where (with yet another mast captain, incidentally) I could work the sheets and vangs and the few other lines that come to deck back there without being part of the more chaotic action around the mast itself.
By the time people are going aloft to drop the sails, however, the dayquil has brought me back to life somewhat, and going aloft is one of my very favorite things, so I scurry up there and make myself useful. After coming down I feel quite rejuvinated, though its possible I was high on dayquil again (again, let me emphasize, I’m not taking unusually large doses, my body is just completely unaccustomed to any medications).
Once we were on the dock in Santa Barbara dinner is served, and some more people came aboard, notably a bigwig from the organization that owns the boat, the Maritime Director, Bob, with his walrus mustache. I am soon informed there is a shortage of bunks and, he is taking over the bunk I've been sleeping in and I am being evicted from my comfortable place in steerage (despite the name it’s a better place than the main hold where most of the bunks are), to one of the two bunks in the engineer's cabin. The engineer’s cabin would seem like an esteemed position until one reflected that the Maritime Director preferred steerage to it (the forecastle right foreward is would perhaps be the most elite location but as it is, as mentioned, also known as the anti-gravity chamber, it’s not everyone’s preference), but I can't make that move until one of the engineers left in the morning. So in the mean time I’m a bit homeless but can occupy a place in the main hold.
Then someone comes along, ducking under the low ceiling beams, and informs me "have you talked to the captain? He wants to talk to you." How peculiar. I go and find him, incidentally in the red glow of the cramped but cozy steerage area.
"How are you feeling?" he asks me with concern.
"Oh I'm alright" I say, smiling a bit wanly.
He smiles but then puts on a serious face and continues "I really value your seamanship, you are a very great asset to the crew ... but there's some concern that you .. may have been exposed to ebola ... and I think it would be best if you went home in the morning..." He seems genuinely regretful. He expresses hope I can make the second leg at the end of the month but I have to work (one does have to do so on occasion after all). He then says he would gladly sign me on as crew on any week-long or so trip to the channel islands one of the other tallships he captains, which is a nice gesture, and maybe I'll take him up on it, though if I take any more time off work I think I might just metamorphize into that species known as a boat bum.
I am supremely disappointed to hear this news though. I can't fault the captain for it, the health and safety of the whole crew rests on his shoulders and that's a heavy burden. Much later I hear on good authority that it wasn't actually the captain's decision at all but it came down to him from walrus-mustached Bob, who, having just arrived, learned I was sick and had just come from Africa and knowing no more about my condition, and no doubt having only a vague idea of the details of ebola, had ordered me jettisoned. I do respect the captain for not passing the buck though and pretending it was on his own authority even though he didn't seem to agree with it.
So I unhappily go to sleep on my cot in the corner of the hold while around me the crew break out their alcohol and made plans to go ashore and hit the bars of Santa Barbara, anticipating of the first of many fun evenings.
An interesting aspect of ebola is that because people are terrified of it, people merely suspected of having it are shunned. As such, people who think they might have it try to hide the fact. Which leads to more uncontrolled spread. And thousands of miles from where everyone else was experiencing this shunning, so was I.
Kind of funny that my most recent sailing adventure had a very similar moment of myself having to puke while at the helm, apparently it's not my best position vis a vis nausea.
