HMS Rose

I went ashore in December of 1989 after five years at sea. It was an attempt at college life that didn’t take. I’d like to say those five years matured me beyond the recent high school graduates who were my classmates, but that’s a lie.

Midterm in my third semester, I noticed some bad habits. I hadn’t registered for one class that started before 1:00 pm. A bicycle, instead of my motorcycle, was my mode of transport, just in case I found reason to drink. When the Treasure Island Tour Train came by at 10:00 am, telling me again that the mantle in the Bishop’s Palace was made of solid onyx and cost Walter Grisham $10,000, it was always an appropriate time to turn the garden hose to the street.

In short, it was time to head back to sea. Otherwise I might find myself, like Ismael in the opening of Moby Dick, tipping other people’s hats.

Twenty-five Christmases later, I am in the middle of the North Pacific. If Thanksgiving was any indication, there will be a feast. Pig, goat, lamb, and rabbit are all on the menu. That doesn’t stop the complaining though. “My prime rib is medium instead of rare.” “These vegetables don’t have the right amount of butter.” “What, no whip cream!” And wait till you hear what my shipmates have to say.

In April 1991, I dropped all my classes and left college. The First Gulf War was winding down. Africa was just getting over an Ebola scare. All the excitement had gone out of living. What was there to do? I signed aboard my first tallship, “HMS” Rose.

I won’t bore you with the details. Like boarding other boats, climbing the rigging on the USS Constitution, or firing off an original Paul Revere bronze cannon one drunken evening. Instead, I’d like to tell you about our cook.

It’s true that the trip started with Suzy Barnes manning the galley. Don’t let anyone tell you different. But she had a restaurant back in Camden, Maine, to tend, and away she went after a few months of dedicated service. Instead, I’d like to tell you about Rob Campbell.

Rob was a blacksmith from Mystic, Connecticut. How he got harangued into cooking is anyone’s guess. (And we took a lot of guesses that summer!) But Rob, among other things, is my go-to guy when someone wants to tell stories about bad cooking. And I haven’t been beaten yet.

Rob started as a deckhand. I first noticed him one day in the rig. I was aloft on the mizzen. He was in a boatswain’s chair tarring the lifts on the main course yard. To keep the bucket close, he clipped it to the lift. The course yard is a horizontal spar with the mainsail bent on. The lifts are the wires that hold the weight of the yard. To explain what happened next, I just want to say one thing: Triangle.

Rob’s bucket of tar, with a slow swing, walked itself down the lift. The lift had been wormed, parceled, and served, so added just enough friction to prolong the humor. Every time it swung outboard and bound up, he would reach for it, just in time for it to swing inboard and slide another six inches beyond his reach. It was a subtle humor, made all the more pleasurable by Rob’s expression of despair and helplessness. But I could not “roll on the floor laughing”, because the “floor” was sixty feet below.

On another occasion we had rigged a line from that same yard to swing out over the side and drop into the harbor. Yes, it was fun because we were all current on our Tetanus shots. To entertain ourselves when we’d had a few more drinks, we would push out and swing back to the ship, prolonging the mystery as to our next plunge. If the push wasn’t hard enough, however, there was no force to keep the pendulum going, stranding you over the water and mandating a swim.

To keep the skin on your hands, and to keep from getting a Daniel Craig to the ball sack, one had to push away and let go, committing to the water entry. Well, Rob had commitment issues. He didn’t swing near hard enough for the return trip. No amount of toe stretching could salvage his situation. He held on like a trooper, though, until the line came to a complete stop. Again, he equivocated and dropped a foot to test the brakes. Unfortunately, that was all it took to peel the calluses from his paws. Letting go, at that point, was involuntary. And the line made a loud “thwack” as it familiarized itself with his genitalia. Even the seasoned sailors winced at that one. When we next saw Rob, he had ten red badges of courage to wave at us. The medical kit was depleted of bandages, from the looks of it.

Mere hours later we settled down to our dinner. It was a simple course of hamburgers. Rob had, by this time, taken up the cooking duties. In the gloom of the mess, someone noticed that Rob’s raw fingers were no longer sporting their coverings. “Rob,” someone asked, “where’s your BandAids?” Someone else at the table, half way through their burger, offered, “Here’s one.”

Rose was similar in design to Bounty, another square rigger sailing the East Coast. And by that I mean a round-bottomed pig boat that rolled like a bastard. Unlike Bounty, when a hurricane loomed, our captain valiantly kept us at the dock, free to explore Long Island for another day. Good thing, because THAT hurricane became the “Perfect Storm”, the doom of several ships, including the schooner Anna Christina.

But that did not save us from foul weather, or its effects. It is a good cook that can crank out a hot meal when you are feeling low. And Rob Campbell was up to the task. Rob didn’t feel so good himself, but he persevered.

In the heavy weather, some containers of battery acid spilled in their compartment and had to be cleaned up. Access was behind the galley. Rob plugged away at lunch while we poured baking soda around the battery boxes. I wasn’t feeling well and excused myself to the deck a couple times. Rob was making soup in a 5 gallon pot and never left the galley. “How do you do it, Rob?” I’d asked. “How do you keep from getting sick?” “Uh, One,” he answered, “I’m as sick as the rest of you. And, Bee, as I throw up into my mouth, I just swallow it back down again.” Umm. Yummy.

We neutralized the last of the acid just before dinner. I got a drink and sat at the table, watching the master chef. He was in the home stretch. He stirred the pot with a big wooden spoon. Then his body convulsed and his cheeks puffed out. He swallowed hard and kept stirring. In a few minutes, it happened again. His body shivered. His cheeks puffed. He swallowed hard. What a seaman! The pot boiled. The spoon stirred. His body shook. A sole finger pinched his lips. His cheeks puffed. And little streams of liquid issued from the corners of his mouth right into the 5 gallon pot. I excused myself and spread the word that we were having peanut butter and jelly for dinner. (Don’t get me wrong. Rob served the soup!)

I do not mean to disparage the man, but, for the sake of disclosure, you should know that Rob and I had a tenuous relationship. It started on mashed potato night. We passed through line, receiving our generous portions. Just before sitting, I noticed something amiss and returned to the galley. “Where’s the gravy?” I’d asked. “Huh?” “Where’s the gravy, for the potatoes?” With a business demeanor he said, “There is no gravy.”

I accepted this answer without much dissension. But every night potatoes were served, I would inquire. And I was met by increasingly stern looks. Finally, after going home for Thanksgiving, I returned to the ship with a new vigor. The season was almost over. The crew was thinning. I was less concerned with Rose than my plans for walking the docks of Brest, France, in the Spring of 1992. In this air, Rob found me. “Where were you!” he demanded. “Uh, when?” “Over Thanksgiving?” “I went home. Thanks for asking.” “I made gravy!” I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry?”

I liked Rob Campbell. Some will tell lies about him. He snorted baking powder. He dressed in women’s clothing while off watch. His arms were on backwards. It doesn’t matter anymore because he’s dead. How did it happen? Rob met his end the way all blacksmiths do. In a horrific horseshoeing accident. If you don’t believe me you can go to Scotland and see his grave for yourself.

As for the Rose, she met a more horrible fate. She was renamed and used in a blockbuster movie. She got dolled up, goes by “Surprise”, and sits at the dock at the San Diego Maritime Museum. If you’re really lucky, like me and my family were the last time we visited, you’ll get to spend some quality time talking to Al Sorkin. Boy, does THAT guy have some stories!