My personal favorite, very best place, is the bow pulpit of a modest sized sailboat that is sailing herself off to weather. What you do, is sit ahead of the forestay, and keep your feet wrapped around a stanchion, or even jammed behind the stemhead in some fashion. You get to watch the wind do its invisible magic on the jib and then farther aft again with the main. But, the absolutely best part of this is that you can be a part of the dance your little girl does with not only the wind waves, but her own wake, as well.

Absolute best seat in the house.

I suppose it isn't completely necessary that the boat be self-steering when you are out playing tourist up forward. But, it's a whole lot more intimate, if you are the only human on deck. Of necessity, you are facing aft. A temporary departure from the COLREGS' mandate for posting a proper lookout. My boats, at least, normally know where they are going, and I trust them to avoid running into things. Besides.

The best time of day to do this, is in the middle of the night. There's less stuff out there to run into, at night.

Climb out onto the bow on a warm, starry night. Phosphorescence in the water makes this all the more magical. Most boats of my acquaintance can hold a course for at least the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee. So, I normally take one with me out there. A harness snapped on to a jackline is probably a good idea. But, the sensation is one of complete disembodiment. There's the wind in your ears, the boat scending with the head seas. The slush, gurgle, splash, and slap of water against the bow develops a syncopation all its own. I'll describe is as hurtling through space. Absolutely, everyone should try it some time. Do it once, and you'll be hooked.

The ol’ “Moc” underway in calm conditions…

A typical view from up for’d.  But, much more intimate with nobody sitting in the cockpit.

This is that particular boat, with yours truly doing a variation on the pulpit ride. That little fin keeler could run on auto for miles.

And, when ever I think I can avoid the protective eyes of mothers and grand mothers, I'll make it a point of honor that each and every kid that sails with me has spent some time up forward. On their own. It's a completely delightful way for a kid to get the feel of how a boat behaves. Moreover, it's a great way to demonstrate independent action in quite-controlled conditions. And, that's all quite mystical and wonderful. But.

But, every kid - myself included - who has ever gone up forward when the bow is heaving a bit will sooner or later jump up when the boat reaches her apogee to make their own jump magnified. Great fun.

And, once upon a time, I did that same trick in an extreme and unexpected way.

As the song goes, "back when I wore a younger man's clothes," I was aboard an ancient navy salvage tug. This old girl had been at the Tokyo Bay assemblage on VeeJay Day, done her bit in Korea, done Market Time ops in Vietnam, and was then serving out her dotage in a rag tag squadron out of Seattle in the late 70's. We were on transit from Puget Sound on south to San Diego. The wind had been out of the prevailing quarter, astern, for several days as we slushed our way south. By then, the seas had built to rather large coamers. I thought it would be cool to get a picture of the ship from out at the most forward extremity. With a following sea, the focs'l was pretty dry. And, as each sea would overtake us, with that characteristic heel-toe gyration, and uninhibited roll of a slow, round bottom ship, the breaking water up by the bridge wings was really dramatic. So, up forward I headed. This was a long time ago, so my camera would have been a trusty 35 mm SLR, with a roll of film inside. Decidedly non-waterproof. And, saltwater on the lens was never a good thing. So, anyhow.

I was out there facing aft, taking pictures of the ship as she appeared to be swallowed by the huge seas from astern. There were quite-long bronze wire life lines strung from the focs'l head on aft without any intermediate stanchions. Maybe a 30 foot span. I was also taking telephoto shots of the bridge crew and the officer the deck in particular as they stood their watch up there behind the port holes. I caught an almost demonic grin from the OOD, that basically told me I had stayed too long out there on the open deck. The ship started to rise. And, rise. And even higher, as the fantail settled into the trough. A breaking whelter began to sweep forward from stern to waist and then on toward the spot I was standing. Actually, I was in process of being rocketed upwards.

I grabbed my camera and swung it on the neck strap under my coat with one hand, and grabbed for that long bronze wire life line with the other. Once the ship had catapulted me up off the deck, she immediately drove downward and jolted forward. I was essentially weightless and suspended in mid air in a frozen stride. I slid like a trolly sheave aft on that bronze wire. This was the stuff of Olympic record. I did a thirty foot long jump from a standing start. Never touching the deck, or loosing my grip on that wire.

And, then solid water crashed down on me. Well short of the weather decks hatch. Wet and sputtering. But, what a ride! Everybody should try it. Really.

To comment on Duckworks articles, please visit one of the following:

our Yahoo forum

our Facebook page