Visiting the Festival of Sail

My wife and I knew we were in the right place because embossed on our hotel room’s throw pillows were the words, “I like big boats and cannot lie.”

As if to drive that message home, a mighty airhorn blared outside our hotel. Even though it was a quarter of a mile away, the horn was loud enough to loosen your toenails. I watched in awe as a 1,000-foot-long ore boat slid beneath the aerial lift bridge at a speed that could be nautically described as “super-duper slow.”

Big boats indeed! And that was just an appetizer.

We were in Duluth, Minnesota recently for the city’s biennial Festival of Sail event. Every two years, a dozen or so tall-masted sailboats make their way to Duluth Harbor to show off their vessels and their sailing skills.

Some of the tall ships came from distant ports, making their way up the Atlantic coast, down the St. Lawrence Seaway, and through the Great Lakes’ locks. It would have been faster to fly, but good luck squeezing a 150-foot-long schooner into an airliner’s cargo hold.

I felt very nautical as my wife and I strolled past the line of moored sailboats. It was as if we’d stumbled into the world of The Pirates of the Caribbean. This feeling was enhanced by such vocalizations as “Shiver me timbers!” and “Avast ye scurvy dog!” and “Scupper the mizzenmast!”

“Would you please stop that?” my wife asked. “You have no idea what any of that nautical stuff means.”

She was right. Of all the landlubbers in the world, I am probably the most lubberly. My experience with sailing consists entirely of tossing twigs into the rivulets of meltwater that run across our driveway in the spring.

 But that simply enhanced my enjoyment of the Festival of Sail. Not knowing anything about something just means that there’s a lot to learn. And there’s much pleasure to be had in learning something new.

I randomly decided to take a walking tour of the Alliance, a schooner that’s operated by the Inland Seas Education Association. Tourists were even allowed to go belowdecks to see what it’s like to live aboard the ship.

The term “packed like sardines in a can” came to mind as I perused the cramped quarters. Each crew member is given a bunk in which to sleep. I won’t say that these bunks were small other than to state that they would have to use a shoehorn to get me out of bed every morning. Such sleeping facilities are often called a berth, which is appropriate because getting out of one would be similar to the birthing process.

A microscope that was hooked up to a computer had been placed on the mess hall table. The computer’s screen displayed a staggering assortment of microscopic lifeforms that squiggled and darted. A cheerful crewwoman explained to a handful of curious children – and eavesdropping adults – that the microscopic creatures were from a sample of water that had been taken from beside the Alliance that morning. 

One boy was skeptical. “That’s a fake recording,” he said.

“No, watch!” replied the cheery crewwoman. She jiggled the slide beneath the microscope’s lens and the image on the screen jiggled accordingly. I was certainly convinced; I made a mental note to bear in mind that drinking a mouthful of lake water would involve swallowing a virtual zoo of zooplankton.

Upon returning to the topside, I found my wife chatting with a cheery young sailor. He was young enough to be our son.

The sailor was Chris Symons, and he is the Education Coordinator on the Alliance. I asked him if it was normal to see all those creepy crawly things in the water.

“That’s actually a good sign,” he replied. “It means that we have a healthy lake. The plankton and those other things form the bottom of the aquatic food chain. There wouldn’t be any fish without them.”

We chatted with Chris for a while and learned about the importance of stewardship and conservation on the Great Lakes. It occurred to me that these things are also important for us farmers. 

My wife and I grabbed some grub from one of the numerous food vendors and took seats under a picnic shelter. On a nearby stage a singer crooned nautical-themed songs, including a plethora of sea shanties. Among them was Wellerman, which contains the discombobulating words, “When the tonguing is done.” Whatever that means.

A line from another song went, “A boat is a hole in the water where all your money goes.”

And then I learned something new. I had thought that that sort of thing only applied to farming. 

Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.