Captain Clam Defies Hurricane Andrew



Captain A.P. Clam

For a number of years, I lived in South Miami, Florida. My sailing and diving buddy down there was a rogue I’m going to call Captain A. P. Clam. I’m granting him a pseudonym because he frequently exhibited a rather relaxed attitude toward laws he deemed inconvenient.

Captain Clam claimed to be a reincarnation of the comedian W. C. Fields*. He spoke like Fields and possessed many of the actor’s mannerisms. He also had a rather casual regard for the property of others and, as this story will demonstrate, a somewhat cavalier attitude toward his own as well.

As an example, on one occasion we were whipping down a street in a wealthy part of the suburb of Coconut Grove in Clam’s MG sports car. “You’re going too fast for this corner,” I remarked as we hurtled toward a ninety degree bend at around fifty miles per hour.

“Pipe down Lawson,” says Clam. “I know this road like the back of my hand.”

Well, I guess he hadn’t observed that particular appendage for some time because at that point we spun out, mounted the curb, sliced through a meticulously groomed hedge and ploughed our way onto a perfectly manicured lawn. A large, obviously expensive house, scowled at our intrusion.

“Good place to install a gate,” Clam offered casually as we drove out through the opening he’d created.

When Hurricane Andrew was approaching the east coast of Florida in 1993, I was living in Fort Lauderdale and Clam was in South Miami. I phoned him around two in the afternoon to enquire as to whether he’d prepared his house for the onslaught of the hurricane. In his typically haughty manner he replied, “Hurricane? What hurricane?”

“The one that’s approaching,” I reminded him patiently. I could tell by the tone of his voice that rum had been consumed.

“Let it come! Let it come!” Was his arrogant retort.

Well, it came all right, and with a vengeance.

Initially it was supposed to make landfall around Fort Lauderdale so I prepared for the worst. But its direction changed—perhaps due to the hot air Clam was exuding. The phone lines went down around six that evening so we lost communication. The next day I drove south to see how he’d fared.

Although I’d lived just around the corner from him for a number of years, such was the destruction and chaos that it took me over an hour to find his house. All the landmarks that I’d unconsciously used to navigate the area were gone. Huge ficus trees had been ripped out and lay around helter-skelter, blocking roads and perched atop crushed houses. There were no street signs. It was as if a bomb had flattened the whole area.

I eventually found Clam standing on his front lawn looking forlornly at the ruin of his house. The only undamaged part was a bedroom he’d added. A trail of garden implements led off to the west but there was no trace of the shed that had once housed them. While we walked the property he related the events of the previous evening and morning.

“All night the wind was screaming and rain was lashing down,” he told me. “Then, around two in the morning it went suddenly quiet and I went outside to see what was happening. Well, the rain had stopped and I could see stars in the sky. I could also see that the situation wasn’t going to remain peaceful for much longer—we were in the eye."

“I went back in the house and climbed into bed just before the storm returned. It seemed to peak around three in the morning at which time there was a loud crash. I climbed out of bed and went into the living room to see what had happened. Well, the first thing I noticed was that the roof of the main house was gone. It must have lifted like a lid and gone sailing off into the night. So I went back into the bedroom, closed the door and told Joan (Clam’s wife) the situation.”

“Oh my God! What are you going to do about it?” she asked.

“What do you want me to do, dear? Bridge the gap with my body? I’m getting back into bed if you don’t mind.”

That was typical Captain Clam.

*A. Pismire Clam was a name conjured up by W. C.

A Ghost Ship* of my Acquaintance

Sometimes a vessel is better off being left to its own devices. I became acquainted with such a craft under about forty feet of water off Grand Turk Island when a couple of friends invited me to assist them in bringing her to the surface.

The boat was a schooner of around sixty feet, built (I believe) in Maine—a replica of some noted vessel from the eighteen hundreds. She was around six years old at the time of my meeting with her. The upper portion of her bow was stove in and she had about half a mainmast and a broken stub where her fore had once stood. And, as I mentioned, she lay under around forty feet of water—a fascinating but sad sight.

How she arrived there is an interesting tale…and one with a moral. And the moral is: That the vessel itself is normally stronger than her captain and crew.

This all happened in the late 1980’s so the details are a little sketchy in my mind. But the basics are as follows: A captain and crew were hired to sail the ship from Boston to the Virgin Islands. Well, about half way through the voyage, they encountered a storm and began to take on water. For whatever reason, the captain and crew were unable to deal with the situation so a ‘mayday’ was sent out and a freighter came to the rescue. When it drew near, the captain of the schooner rammed his unfortunate vessel into its steel side in his eagerness to abandon ship.

All boarded the freighter safely and a message was sent to the owners that, despite all efforts to save her, their schooner was now at the bottom of the Atlantic.

Well, said vessel obviously didn’t grasp her rôle in the drama because, despite supposedly taking on water and having her bow smashed in, she remained afloat.

For three months she drifted—doing just fine without the clowns who were supposed to be in charge of her.





Anyway, it appears a fishing boat came across her, took her in tow and she ended up anchored off Grand Turk. What finally sent her to the bottom was that dreaded scourge of wooden ships in tropical waters—teredo worms. These little bastards munched away mercilessly at her timbers until this proud survivor finally gave up the ghost and went to the bottom.

Well, as you can see, we brought her back to the surface. But unfortunately her liberation was short lived. As her new owners were towing her to a mooring in East Caicos, the generator powering the pump that was keeping her afloat packed it in. She now rests in about two thousand feet of water.

*A Ghost Ship is generally considered to be a vessel sailing with no living captain or crew.

The Duel

In late 1971 I was working at a marina in Los Angeles when a gorgeous wooden ketch of around 70 feet pulled into the slip beside me. I got talking to one of the crew and found out that they were off to Hawaii the next morning.

A few words with the skipper—Bob something-or-other—and yours truly became the fifth crew member. As it turned out—apart from me—Bob was the only one with any sailing experience.

We stopped off in San Diego, where one of the crew and I met a couple of young ladies in a bar. Around two in the morning, on our way back to the boat, we happened upon a couple of supermarket carts. Being the gentlemen we were, we helped our new friends into these vehicles in order to spare them an arduous walk.




Most of our voyage was uneventful.
 Yours truly at wheel.

Well, sometimes chivalrous intent, mixed    with an excess of ale, has a tendency to take an unexpected turn. In no time at all, the sedate transportation of the ladies evolved into a race. We were neck and neck when the flashing lights of a police car brought an end to the contest. A grinning officer actually wrote us a speeding ticket! If only there were more cops with that same sense of humour. But alas, nowadays it seems the majority of them are being recruited from Serious School.

Wind beginning to pipe up.

Most of our voyage was uneventful—a steady fifteen to twenty knot breeze on the beam scooting us along at around nine knots. But a day out of Hawaii, the wind piped up.

For some reason, the owner and I didn’t get along too well. Perhaps it was because he was half Irish, half Cherokee and more than a little bonkers…or maybe it was me.

Anyway, as the sun set and the wind increased to a gale, Bob sent everyone below for the night—except me. He then announced that we would take hourly turns at being captain. I was crew for the first hour, and his initial command was for me to change the headsail.

Well, on a vessel this size, the sails are huge and weigh half a ton. Under a sane skipper, two or three people would be required to carry out his order. But on this night I was on my own.

So I dragged this monster of a sail through the cabin (I couldn’t take it out the fore hatch because waves were breaking over the bow) and wrestled it out through the main hatch. Then I hauled it to the bow along a wave-washed deck angled at around forty-five degrees—all under the gleaming eye of captain Mad Bob.

Once on the foredeck I lowered the sail we had up, climbed out on the bowsprit, un-hanked it and wrestled it into its bag. Then there was the replacement sail to put on and hoist.

The whole operation took me the best part of my hour and I was exhausted. When I returned, soaking wet, to the cockpit Bob had a shit-eating grin on his face.

But I soon removed that grin when I got the wheel in my claws and became captain. I adopted a thoughtful expression, scowled off into the gloom and announced that the wind appeared to have eased a trifle. “I think we could change up to a bigger headsail,” I gleefully told him.

What a joy it was to see him—through sheets of lashing rain and spray—perched out at the end of the bowsprit wrestling with a flogging sail as I drove him into the waves.

This went on all night with various sails going up and coming down with each change of command. The only difference between us (I discovered later) was that Bob had a supply of ‘bennies’ he was popping to keep himself awake.

The next day we sailed into port. Not a word was mentioned about our duel.

I recently Googled ‘yacht, Nam Sang’ and it would appear that captain ‘Bob’ went under a number of names and had stolen this renowned vessel from its New Zealand owners.

I caught this wahoo using
a strip of cloth as lure
—it was delicious

Additional post 30 Oct. '12

http://www.kamadofraudforum.org/viewtopic.php?t=507

http://www.stfyc.com/files/StFrancisHistory.pdf    Nam Sang is on page 28. She had a bowsprit when I sailed on her.

 

 



Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race

I grew up in Australia and began sailing around Sydney Harbour in 1957—when I was twelve years old. As anyone with a rudimentary grasp of arithmetic will be able to deduce, I am now well within the old fart latitudes.

In 1965, about a year before I sailed for Canada (aboard the Canberra, a P&O liner), I crewed aboard Seawind, a 43 foot wooden sloop, in the Sydney to Hobart yacht race. This is an annual event beginning on Boxing Day and taking (in those days) an average of a week to complete. Seawind was owned and skippered by Norm Brooker, an old rogue and excellent sailor*.

There’s always a huge spectator fleet to watch the start of the race and a bunch of police launches to keep these vessels in check.
 

For me, the highlight of this particular start was when one of the boys in blue on a nearby police launch went charging forward with a boathook to fend off an errant spectator boat. As he thrust his weapon at the bow of the offending vessel with all his weight behind it, said vessel suddenly reversed, leaving a void.

With nothing to impede his forward motion, our man of the moment charged off the bow of his launch like an unseated knight at a joust.

Needless to say he received a huge round of applause as he was hauled back aboard the launch.
 

*I recall only one exception to this statement. During a normal Saturday race, Norm would get through about half a bottle of Scotch and be little the worse the wear for it. On one occasion however, he had an unusual thirst on and managed to consume the entire bottle. The achievement put him in a decidedly aggressive state.

Upon spying his hated arch-rival Horrie Godden--slightly behind and to leeward--Norm eased sheets and headed for his enemy at ramming speed. There was a stiff breeze blowing so we were sailing along at a good clip.

We, the crew, were forced to mutiny in order to prevent disaster. We prised Norm’s claw-like fingers from the wheel and dragged him below. We then resumed the race while Norm snored off the Scotch.

Seawind on a Sunday afternoon. From right to left—Paddy (my girlfriend at the time), Norm, Dave and Peter (not me). Dave Linton was a master boat carpenter and did most of the building of Sea Wind. He claimed some kind of kinship with Hercules Linton, designer of the Cutty Sark.