Niagara Crew Stands Tall Living the Simple Life Aboard Ship

Life on a tall ship is more than a leisurely stroll on deck beneath billowing sails as the wind pushes the vessel across a tranquil sea.

There’s always work on the two-masted, square-rigged warship Niagara, the fourth incarnation of a vessel built during the War of 1812 on Lake Erie. Even when there’s wind in the sails and the ship leans slightly from the force, there’s work.

This summer’s Sail ’92 cruise along the Eastern Seaboard presented the Niagara’s crew with special problems. One was the installation of a diesel engine for auxiliary power.

Another was taking down the masts for the trip down the Black Rock Canal, the Erie Canal and the Hudson River to the Atlantic Ocean. Now past the dozens of low bridges, the crew is restoring the ship to sailing status with no leeway in the Sail ’92 schedule.

“The engine we use to drive this ship is a very complex thing and requires a lot of work to put it together and keep it running,” Capt. Walter Rybka told crew members as he complimented them on their progress.

The masts were put back by a crane at Philadelphia. The crew’s job is the standing rigging, which keeps things in place, and the running rigging, the system of lines and pulleys that raise, lower and control the sails.

Adding to the work is the historically accurate construction of the ship. The hull is made of wood. No metal plates or hoops. Yes, there are some nails and some of the lines have wire cores, but most of the fasteners are pegs and most of the lines are ropes.

The crew works from pictures, drawings and labels, as well as from memory. There’s also an expert on board, a 70-year-old veteran of the sailing ship known to all as Skipper. His real name is Arthur Kimberly.

“We’re looking for the main topsail clew and main topsail leech,” he said as he rummaged through piles on deck. Tags labeling each line had somehow fallen off.

Soon, he was headed aloft with the end looped over his neck and shoulder.

The day begins at 6:30 a.m.--4:30 for the cook. Hammocks are stowed and each of four crew divisions sends one person below to bring up dishes, utensils and food. Breakfast is oatmeal and peaches one day and blueberry pancakes another.

Tom Finnigan cooks on a wood-burning stove at the forward end of the crew cabin. In bad weather, meals are served below.

Fresh water is only for cooking, drinking and the final rinse for dishes. The rest comes from over the side in buckets. Dishes are washed in big metal tubs, dried and placed back in the division mess box.

After breakfast, first mate Dan Moreland shouts: “Muster all hands!” Moreland is one of the 16 professional sailors aboard. There are also 20 volunteer crew members with varying levels of knowledge.

Work assignments are made and each group heads to its station. Some will work for the ship’s two carpenters, Bob Arlet and Taylor Montgomery. Others go aloft as others wait below for orders. It’s the same under sail, rain or shine.

The 12 women on crew go aloft as often as men to work high above the deck. Everyone wears a safety harness.

“If you fall, you’re still going to get hurt even if you are wearing one of these,” Moreland cautions the crew. “This harness only means you probably won’t get killed if you do fall.”

Each person carries a knife and other tools attached to the belt by a lanyard. Anything that falls is a danger to others. Even pockets are emptied of anything not needed for the job.

There’s a coffee break at midmorning, followed by lunch. There may not be a midafternoon break.

No one is without a job. As quickly as a task is completed another is assigned. If there’s nothing aloft, there’s always painting, sanding, or something below decks.

Viewed from above, activity on deck has pattern and purpose.

“It works just like a small town,” said Rybka. “There are jobs to be done and we divide up and do them.”

There are no complaints and no place to hide.

“That’s what I like about this,” said Brian Donnelly, the bosun and the foreman who sees that the orders from the captain and first mate are carried out. “I’ve been doing this since I was 16. I tried it on land once. But it just didn’t work for me.

“There was no camaraderie, no closeness. I couldn’t stand it. On board ship, there’s a clear chain of command, a job to be done and people are here because they want to do it. I love it.”

That doesn’t mean there aren’t harsh words.

“Dammit, don’t pull on that line unless I tell you and if you do it again, I’m coming up there,” Donnelly shouted aloft.

Cleanup begins around 4:30 p.m. as the decks are cleared for the night. That can take an hour or more.

Finally comes the shout: “The captain has ordered the swim ladder over the side!” Water is not wasted on showers, so this is time to wash up.

There are no radios, TV sets or movies aboard this ship, so swimming is also entertainment. Someone rigs a line out over the water and crew members are soon swinging off it.

After a swim, dinner is served.

There’s no refrigeration and only one stove. Meals are simple but nourishing--soups, pasta, canned vegetables and a Finnigan surprise such as fresh biscuits or corn bread.

By the time dinner is over and everything is washed and put away, crew members break off on their own or in small groups. Some write letters or in journals by flashlight. More gaze off into the night, at the twinkling lights on shore and the blanket of stars above.

Finally, they drift off to sleep.

There are no walls in the crew cabin, nor are there separate quarters for men and women. There are two toilets off the main cabin.

Personal belongings are not locked away. They hang in bags from pegs along the sides of the cabin. Only the captain and officers have small, spare cabins aft.

“If people are squeamish about this much closeness, then they should not even consider it,” said Judy Casey--Bubba to the crew and a veteran sailor who works in advertising in Texas when she’s not aboard ship.

Each person is assigned a hammock that can be identified by a number on the bottom. Hammocks are rigged as close as possible to the deck beams and to each other, so that when occupied there’s just room to duckwalk beneath them and see the number.

Every crew member must take a turn at a one-hour watch during the night. The hammock number helps find the person on the next watch.

Some sleep on deck to avoid the close quarters of the cabin, which even without the hammocks has a clearance of only 5 feet.

At night, the only sounds are the breeze in the rigging and the rocking ship. Silence is enforced by rule.

“Living on a wooden ship is like living inside a guitar,” says the crew manual. “Ever thump a guitar? Makes plenty of noise!”

Even bare feet can be heard by those now just a hand’s-breadth beneath the deck.

The only real threat to the quiet comes from Deadeye, the ship’s dog, who gets playful in the cool of the night and likes to run from one end of the ship to the other.

“The order of the day is to tire that dog out in daylight,” Moreland told the crew during muster one morning, explaining why they should prevent the nighttime noise.

“It makes the captain grouchy and if he’s grouchy, I’m grouchy and you’ll pay.”

Nearly everyone took a moment or two that day to play with Deadeye--much to his delight.

Silence is also necessary when it’s time to get the ship moving. It begins with weighing the anchor, a heavy job that takes all hands and a capstan. Orders must be heard clearly.

The same rule applies when it’s time to set sails.

At each port, the ship is open to the public and the crew is expected to give tours and answer questions. Many ask about life aboard a ship and are surprised when they find there’s little time for leisure. Then they ask: Why sail?

“I really can’t imagine not doing this,” said Kathy Blanchard, who works as an intensive care nurse in Erie, Pa., during the winter. “It’s fun and it’s different.”