All Hands on Deck for Voyage Into State’s Past

It doesn’t take much more than an hour, your weight shifting to the roll of the ship and your eyes straining to see past the dim running lights into the black night, before your imagination begins to drift.

It slips back nearly 140 years, to the voyages along the same coast when other eyes stared out from the bow of a ship just like this one, when other ears heard the lines groan in the night and other, harder faces felt the chill when the dew fell from the waving sails overhead.

How dark it is, you think, and how lonely. The loudest sound at 4 a.m. is the glassy water lapping against the wooden hull. And in the middle of the night at sea there is no wind to fill the sails, nothing to move the ship.

Inevitably, you wonder, what was it like on ships like this in the 1850s, when sailors had to stand solitary, monotonous bow watches like this for nine months around Cape Horn and up the California coast.

Rocco Cappeto had barely set foot on board a boat in the last three years. He’s an inexperienced sailor, a marine electronics representative from Los Angeles who does his business almost exclusively on land.

But on one recent hazy morning in Dana Point Harbor, Cappeto felt the same hardwood deck beneath his feet as the legendary clipper sailors of the last century. He heard the same shouts of command, felt the strain of the same lines, balanced to the same exhilarating pitch and roll of the heavy wooden hull.

A Sail Back in Time

For the next three days and two nights, Cappeto and seven other shipboard companions were going to be transported back in time, to the days of the California clippers, the swift brigantines, the topsail schooners that slid through the coastal waters during the Gold Rush.

He was about to become a deep-water sailor on one of the state’s most famous tall ships.

“For me this is day two of sailing in three years,” Cappeto said, “but I think this is absolutely beautiful. And you learn much faster when you’re on the job. . . . Everything here has a special name and a purpose, which I think is kind of neat.”

That ship, the Californian, is a majestic presence in Dana Point Harbor--sleek and tall, a stylistic anachronism that was launched less than three years ago. Though it is owned by the nonprofit Nautical Heritage Society, a maritime research and education organization, which operates a museum in Dana Point, the topsail schooner is no museum piece. It was built for the open sea.

The construction of the 145-foot schooner was first proposed by the society’s founder, Steve Christman.He suggested such a ship could be used as a sail training vessel for high school and college students as well as act as a symbol of California’s nautical heritage.

Financed with private funds, the Californian cost nearly $1.5 million to build and costs about $360,000 per year to operate, Christman said. A full-time salaried crew of eight living aboard the vessel maintains and sails it year-round. It can carry as many as 30 passengers on overnight voyages.

Sea Cadets

Most of its cruises involve students--called Sea Cadets by the society--and last 11 days, during which the ship calls at ports along the California coast. The cadets pay $700 for the cruise, with some subsidized by scholarships given by the society or by private donations.

“We’re not just teaching them to sail,” Christman said, “although that is a big part of it. The vessel is a vehicle for teaching earth science as well as seamanship. Also, we stress teamwork and responsibility. A lot of the cadets find that they push their shore-side limits of what they think they can do.”

In recent months, however, many adults who had heard of the Californian began to feel left out, Christman said. They asked, why should the kids have all the fun.

“There was quite a popular demand for a similar sailing program for adults,” Christman said. “Some people got rather vocal about it.”

So in the fall the society instituted a series of occasional cruises for adults, both day sails and three-day voyages along the coast. For $125 per day, adults (referred to as “guests” by the crew) who want to feel the salt spray from the deck of a schooner and feel the bite of heavy lines in their hands can obtain a bunk on the Californian.

‘Feel of What It’s Like’

“We’ve had about 5,000 inquiries (from adults) so far,” Christman said. “For the adults, it isn’t so much of a cruise to teach them seamanship but to give them a feel of what it’s like to sail on a vessel like this.”

Few adults who have cruised on the Californian have had any experience in sailing such a vessel. The range of sailing experience is sometimes wide, from near-novices to the most experienced of deep-water sailors.

Guest Laurel Livesay, a retired Laguna Niguel resident, said she takes sailing classes at Saddleback College but has “always wanted to go on an overnight cruise on the Californian. I just love this ship.”

Livesay said she has been a volunteer supporter of the Californian project since it was first conceived and even helped to build one of the two longboats that the Californian carries.

Lynn Haskell, a recreation supervisor for the city of El Segundo, said she sails out of Marina del Rey twice a month on her own 22-foot sailboat.

‘The Art of Sailing’

“There are a lot of things that are similar on this ship,” she said, “but there are a lot more lines and a lot more sails. I came to get a different experience sailing a larger ship. Here you get a sense of the art of sailing, which developed centuries ago, and you can see that modern sailing boats work on many of the same principles as this one does.”

The Californian is a working ship, which means, simply, that everyone works. Guests on board must learn quickly how to interpret commands from the crew, handle lines, walk the deck in high seas, tie basic knots to make the lines fast and react in case of emergencies. And every guest stands watch for four hours each night.

On the first day under sail, Mark Crutcher, the ship’s second mate, was in charge of the instant education. He stood with his back to the pin rail, a low U-shaped wooden barrier nearly encircling the base of the forward mast, where much of the heavy work would take place. The lines controlling nearly all of the forward sails are tied there.

Crutcher told his eight visiting sailors that when handling the lines they would hear the commands “ease off” (slacken the line), “hold that” (keep a strain on the line), “take another turn” (wrap the line once more around the pin) and “make it fast” (secure the line with a hitch). He demonstrated how to wrap the lines around the pins and how to make them fast with a half-hitch.

Night watches, he said, are vital, because the running lights of a fast-moving ship sometimes have a range of visibility of only six miles and debris in the water can be deceptively dangerous. On night watches, at least one person would be positioned on the bow, one at the helm and two on deck on standby.

Walk to Windward

In high winds and high seas, always walk to windward, he said. That way, if you lose your footing and are blown to the deck, you do not immediately slide into the water but slide across the deck where you can grab onto something.

“If you feel yourself getting out of control when you’re walking on deck,” he said, “just let your knees buckle and sit down right where you are.”

While Crutcher delivered his matter-of-fact but earnest explanation, it dawned on some of the guests that life at sea on a topsail rig schooner meant hard work, vigilance and alertness to danger. Before thoughts turned too sober, however, a small motorboat, entering Dana Point Harbor, passed by Californian’s starboard side.

“Where are you bound?” the man at the outboard motor of the tiny boat shouted.

Scott Bottoms, the skipper of the Californian, paused, then answered:

“Points north.”

With those two words, the cruise suddenly became an adventure.

Hoisting the mainsail sounds like great fun--terribly nautical--until you realize that sail has to be hoisted nearly 100 feet to the top of the mast. It took all of the guests and some of the crew to heave it to the top, straining on two thick lines.

John Beebe-Center, one of the permanent crew members supervising the handling of one line, impulsively broke into an old sea chantey as he hauled away on the halyard, a line that hoists a sail:

Hey, don’t yer see that black cloud a-risin?

Way, haul away, we’ll haul away, Joe.

The huge mainsail began to get heavier and heavier as it approached the peak of the mast and, strangely, the gruff singing seemed to help. It established a rhythm for the crew heaving on the lines.

“Yeah! Ho! Rhythm!” an encouraging Beebe-Center shouted. “Rhythm is everything in this business!”

As the crew and the guests set the foresail, the topsails and the staysails, beginning to work up a sweat, Beebe-Center explained the chanteys.

“Back in the old days,” he said, “the guys who sailed these ships needed something to take their minds off their work, something to give them a rhythm. After all, they were hauling on these lines all day long.”

After the second staysail was set, the Californian looked majestic, complete. It wasn’t.

“OK,” drawled first mate Mark Herring, pointing toward the staysails. “We got another one!”

Cappeto couldn’t believe it. His shoulders sagged.

“Another one?”

Three miles off Laguna Beach, the Californian was barely making headway, the sails waving in a hardly perceptible breeze. But then Barry Labow, a guest from Dana Point and an experienced sailor, pointed out to sea.

“See that? That’s it. That’s the wind,” he said. “See how the water looks darker there? It’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Setting the Last Sails

The surface of the water several hundred yards off Californian’s port beam did indeed look slightly disturbed. And it was advancing. Three minutes later, the sails began to ripple and pop and the lines began to creak under the pull of the drawing sailcloth. The Californian’s bow began to lift higher through the waves.

The last sails to be set were the two topsails, a maneuver that obliged Beebe-Center and Don Lindsay, another crew member, to climb aloft into the rigging. They were up the rope ladders and onto the crosstrees, more than 50 feet above the rolling deck, in seconds. In fair weather like this, such agility is easy, they said.

“I’ve done it (gone aloft) for about six years,” Lindsay said, “so I’m pretty acclimated. I’m not a risk-taker or fearless or anything like that. Actually, when you’re up there sometimes you get the feeling you’re standing still and the other ships around you are moving. In heavy weather, though, there’s an old, old saying among sailors: It’s one hand for yourself and one for the ship.”

Lindsay, who has crewed on tall ships in Norway, received his baptism in the rigging in a storm while working on a square-rigged ship. Once in high seas, he had to climb aloft to the crosstree and then horizontally out on the crosstree a distance of nearly 50 feet.

“I was scared to death,” he said.

A Need for Privacy

After a day on deck, guests quickly discovered the need for privacy, which is practically nonexistent below deck. Bunks are curtained, but all eating and most sleeping is done in the main saloon amidships (most of the regular crew sleeps in a tiny forward cabin; the captain and first mate sleep in an after cabin). Meals--substantial food like pork and potatoes, pancakes, eggs and bacon--are served on two long tables. Carved wooden sea chests in which each person’s belongings are stored serve as seats. The galley is the size of a small walk-in closet.

By 6 p.m., the Californian still lay off the southern coast of Orange County, nearly dead in the water. The wind had died to almost nothing. With the arrival of night, life on board settled into an alternating routine of sleeping and deck watches. Voices lowered and each hand on board tried to claim a tiny bit of space on the ship for his or her own, at least for a while. After those on early watch--along with most of the crew--had turned in, Bottoms started the engine and the Californian motored toward the Catalina isthmus through the night.

In the middle of the channel, the sky turned black enough to reveal a dazzling canopy of stars overhead. Constellations appeared starkly clear and lights from San Pedro and white pinpoints of light from the Catalina shore stood out sharply. Bottoms cut the engine two miles off the Catalina isthmus and waited for dawn.

Finally, at about 6:30, Bottoms ordered the crew to furl the sails and the Californian motored past Ship Rock and into the isthmus harbor, its first port of call.

Herring, wrestling with the bow lines, supervised the tying up of the ship to a mooring in the harbor. He grinned at the sleepy guests who emerged on deck to watch.

“Well, you know what Ted Turner always says,” he cracked, hauling on the thick lines. “If you can’t tie good knots, just tie a lot of ‘em.”

Bottoms shouted across the deck, “Swim call!” No one believed it. Although the morning was beginning to warm up, the water looked forbiddingly cold. Still, minutes later, Crutcher, Livesay, crewman Phil Rice and Jayme Driggers, a society employee along for her first overnight sail on the Californian, hurled themselves over the starboard side and into the harbor. They climbed out smiling but suddenly ruddy.

Several of the crew and guests went ashore. The Californian rode at its mooring, solitary and elegant.

“It’s really an adventure, a kind of intrigue, Haskell said. “You can step back in time.”