Here are some stories from Joe

 
Listening to Joe May's stories over the years I'm sure people wished he'd write a book. I encouraged him a couple of times and even offered to help but he would have none of it. However,  he did write shorter pieces at times and posted them on Facebook. Always with his permission I published several of them on my blog. Listed below are links to the ones I could locate in case anyone would like to spend a little time with Joe.

About the photo: Sandra and Charlie on steering watch somewhere in SE, Alaska probably Lisianski Strait, around 1990...in the rain. We traveled for ten years in an open cockpit boat with no overhead protection (because I didn't think it belonged on a Redningskoit , (a traditional Atkin pilot cutter) and my thought was "if you can't celebrate tradition honestly you might as well stay home". My oft declared contention was that boaters in stuffy cabins and beneath canvas covers suffered from severe environmental deprivation. Over parts of two oceans, the Gulf of Mexico, the Great Lakes, the Mississippi, Illinois, Tennessee Rivers, and the Erie Canal we never once suffered the effects of that defect. Rain, wind, sun, and even snow were daily companions. I thought I had gotten it right...some days or nights more right than others.

Until recently, upon returning jubilantly from an oncologists appointment to announce the latest scans pronounced the cancer dragon dead, dead, dead. The good news was accompanied by, "Gonna go out and find another old wooden boat...missed Galapagos and Cape Horn on the last trip...whopeee!!!".

A pregnant silence followed, "you will need to find a new cook and boat dog, Joe. You're 88, I'm 81. and Charlie died 15 years ago".

Maybe Cape Horn was asking too much.

Reality is sometimes hard.

Maybe Cape Horn was a stretch.

 The Ghosts of Candle's Fairhaven

To build a fire (with an apology to Jack London)

2 Marines took the Korean conflict to a whole new level

A baby named Israel

Memo from the creek — Christmas 1972

Warning, childhood memories ahead  Bear with me on this one, you have to wade through my memory before you get to Joe's.

Ramblings in a mental wilderness   This is another one where you have to wade through my stuff (or you can just scroll down a ways)

Up a creek

We will rebuild  we shared an earthquake in 2018

 Joe May‪ Old cabins have a soul, and each its own character. ‬
‪With age they settle into the earth from whence they came. ‬
‪With temperature changes they creak and groan and shift,‬

‪seeking comfort, like duffers in rocking chairs.‬

‪Rehabilitation is a study in patience, frustration, and eventually...satisfaction. ‬

‪Crooked windows, crooked doors,‬

‪crooked walls and slanted floors.‬

‪Original builder unaware,‬

‪of plumb-bob and levels,‬

‪and framing square.‬

 

Here's a list of comments on the book we both participated in writing Iditarod, the first10 years

 

y, make it this one from my friend Joe May.

Joe May

 C deck: An essay by an old Marine.

More than six decades ago I was an overnight patient on “Consolation”, a Navy hospital ship anchored in Inchon harbor. The ship was full to capacity...the only available empty bunk was in the psycho ward three decks down. For a place to sleep for a single night I had to give up my boots, belt, and metal dog tags. I was sequestered in a locked compartment with an orderly and a dozen crazy guys, Marine and Army, half of them certifiably bonkers, and half of them faking it to get out of Korea. At mealtimes we were marched to the mess hall under guard—everyone we passed staring at the “crazies”. We slept with the lights on, someone watching...always...there were no lamp cords and the bathroom had no door. The memory of that 24 hours will be with me forever.

Years later, in a VA hospital in the middle of America, I found myself in the place where those who had been irreparably damaged in past wars were “stored”...human wreckage reaching back to WW11. Wheelchairs occupied by “empty” men in bath robes were pushed down long corridors by white-coated orderlies while others shuffled along in slippers, to the end of the corridor, and back again, and back again, and back again. I was there only a few days and on leaving felt I had just escaped from hell. Over subsequent decades, in other VA hospitals, I always imagined there was a similar corridor, hidden away somewhere to hide the detritus of war...so the rest of us wouldn't be discomfited or somehow feel guilty. In time, in subtle ways, I became as marked as the men in the corridors.

A VA representative recently offered me a seat on an “Honor” flight to D.C. for a tour of the monuments and memorials – a well-meaning gesture by a grateful nation intended to recognize “duffer vets”. I declined – I don't need a reminder of the past; it's never left me. It's reminder enough on national holidays to see the usual posse of narcissistic gray-beards on the evening news, on flag decked Harley's, “posturing” down Pennsylvania Ave; “LOOKIT ME!! LOOKIT ME!! LOOKIT ME!!

Some of us don't hang a flag on the side of our house, or wear military badges, buttons, or pointy caps, or march in parades, or belly-ache about the government, or denigrate our President – rather, we wear pride in self and service on the inside, salute the flag when it passes, quietly honor the memory of those who didn't come home...and still grieve for the guys on C deck..JM

 

A short from the road by Joe: While on a road trip between Fairbanks and Whitehorse on a moonlit winter night in the long ago John Balzar, author of "Yukon Alone", was riding with me...two of us on some mission for the Quest. John was a writer for the LA Times and was both covering the race and gathering material for a book. The road that night was a riot of rabbits reveling in the moonlight, as they sometimes do. Somewhere around Haines Junction I commented that there were more road-killed rabbits on the Canadian side of the border than on the Alaska side. A pause and John dropped a pregnant, "why?", into the darkness of the truck cab. I don't remember exactly what I told him but the explanation was the highlight of a shameless career of “putting on” journalists from south of “fifty”. Over the next forty miles of potholes, frost-heaves, and flattened rabbits I convinced him that it was fact, that there was evidence proving that Canadian rabbits were slower than Alaskan rabbits...and he believed it. There's no moral to this story. It's just a cautionary tale.. .probably something to do with the veracity of salty old dog drivers. Tim Jones and Slim Randles would understand."  

 

Here's a comment from my friend Joe May who lives not too far from the East Pole: "Got two snowfalls of a foot each, a day apart. Blew up the old snow blower on the first one. Got to Wasilla for a replacement between falls. Now gone to 40 deg and I've got yogurt in the driveway. Ahhh, but the struggle continues – wouldn't have it any other way – the alternative is playing shuffleboard with old farts in Florida and that isn’t my game."

 

ON THE TRAP LINE: 

Joe May

Crossing open streams/rivers without a bridge: Excerpted from a Quest related piece I wrote for SDC. long ago.

"I once had a nasty overflow creek on a trapline. To cross it, on memorable occasions, I pre-gathered a pile of dry firewood, twigs, and bark atop the sled bag, tied my boots, pants, and long johns around my neck, stripped down to one pair of socks, grabbed the leaders neckline, and hauled ass for the far side, sometimes knee and once belly deep. That may sound extreme, but you see, for ten minutes of discomfort I had the creek behind me, dry clothes on, a hot fire, tea heating, and I was fit to go to work drying dogs and harness. Provided you're not in the water very long, even at -30F, it isn't threatening until you come out, with or without wet clothes. The trick is to plan ahead to avoid protracted wetting".

 

ONE MORE THING This is the last of Joe's writing I saved. I haven't published it until now because I couldn't understand the part at the end about building the mast. The whole piece was triggered when a woman became the first to win an  Around the world race, and Joe recognized a connection with her. Have fun:

 Last week amid the school shootings, political battles, jerk fired from Fox and all the other distressing news an event unfolded off the coast of France that served to remind us there is joy in the world too. It slipped past most of the talking heads of big-time television news, so if you missed it, here's the story.

April 27 South African sailor Kristen Neuscheafer sailed her boat across the finish line to win the 2023 Golden Globe world-rounding race alone. It took her about 235 days and she set a time record for the race in addition to being the first woman to win it.

The following was posted on facebook by a contributor who goes by the name goodthingsguy and followed the race is it unfolded.

From goodthingsguy

(Be sure to read down to the part where she went out of her way to rescue another racer.)

Kirsten Neuschäfer has become the first woman to win the Golden Globe Race — a solo, round-the-world yacht race!

After almost 235 days at sea, the South African sailor from Gqeberha, South Africa, crossed the finish line off Les Sables d’Olonne in France at 9 p.m. on 27 April 2023 and became the first woman to win the round-the-world race.

This edition of the Golden Globe Race started on Sept. 4, 2022, with 16 competitors, all men, except for Kirsten. At the time of her finish, only three competitors (herself, Tomy, and Michael Guggenberger, who was still 1,800 miles to the finish) remained in the running. Two more (Simon Curwen and Jeremy Bagshaw - also a South African) were racing in the “Chichester class”, a class created for those disqualified for making a stop but who wanted to continue to the finish anyway.

But this incredible sailor didn’t just win the race; she also won our hearts.

Kirsten made headlines earlier in the race when she stopped to help a fellow competitor!

The kind South African diverted from her race route to rescue fellow entrant Tapio Lehtinen after his Gaia 36, Asteria, sank around 450 miles southeast of South Africa. Kirsten was the closest sailor to him, 95 miles away, and was able to reach him in fewer than 24 hours, taking him aboard her Minnehaha from his life raft and later transferring him to a merchant ship that had been diverted to the scene. She earned the 2022 Cruising Club of America’s Rod Stephens Seamanship Trophy for this rescue.

Good Things Guy has been following and reporting on Kirsten’s journey since the start of the race. And we couldn’t be prouder of the incredible South African and her fantastic win!

Yes, proudly South African… and PROUD of South Africa!

You can read her full story or more South African good things by visiting his web site at www.goodthingsguy.com.

 

But our story doesn't stop there. Joe May, a friend of mine who is no stranger to long-distance racing alone having won the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race in 1980 and has sailed the big oceans too, wondered in a comment if there was any information about her boat That led me to her web page where I found the following:

From Kirsten's Web page

"Kirsten’s racing boat is Minnehaha. 

"Minnehaha is a Cape George 36, launched in 1988. She was built in the Cape George yard in Port Townsend, Washington. 

"This boat design was created by Cecil Lange, an esteemed boat builder. With the help of Ed Monk, a designer, the Cape George 36 is a fiberglass adaptation of the Tally Ho Major, Atkins 1930s boat. 

"Minnehaha is a fictional Native woman from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's 1855 poem "The Song of Hiawatha." She is the lover of the poem's primary character, Hiawatha. The name Minnehaha is said to mean "laughing water' in the poem. It more accurately translates to "waterfall'' in the Dakota Sioux language. "

I didn't feel right taking more than that from her site, so here is the link if you want to know more. Kirsten Neuschäfer  She also posted videos on YouTube that can be found by searching her name.

With the news about her boat's history, my friend Joe realized that he came close to crossing paths with Kirsten in Port Townsend as he was there in 1988 and that opens the flood gates. This is how Alaska legends grow.

From Joe May:

Amazing: I was in the Lange shop in Port Townsend summer of 88 while looking for my own boat. Friends worked there and likely worked on her boat. One was on the floor being laid up and we watched the work.

Atkin modified a Colin Archer Redningskoit design for this line of hulls, as he did my own. I recognized the cutter rig he used so often.

I'll bet she had whole front half stuffed with cheese whiz and crackers.

Metal work was undoubtedly from "New Found Metal" and the sticks of old growth spruce and Doug fir from the yard just out of town.

A New-Zealander who was a friend ran the yard crew and bought out Lange a year or two later. Small world.

All kinds of bells going off: I maybe bought mast wood from the same pile when we built a new one there a bit later.

Joe and friends load mast for trip to boat yard.

San (Joe's wife) and I fabricated a round, hollow mast (55 'L-7" dia) over a winter in a rented chicken house in Port Townsend around that time...from old growth

With a little help from friends

Sitka spruce, scarfed to length and gallons of epoxy. A professional wooden boat friend came up once a week to check on our work and offer opinions and advice.

I can still smell the glue and have been allergic to it ever since. Only counter measure was local fish & chips and Oly beer. Photo is friends loading finished mast for trip to the boat yard...6 AM through the middle of town.

SEEKING ANSWER Started life as a pile of 2 x 6 x 16' Sitka old growth spruce planks. The pile about equal to the same size pile of $50 bills.

Evolved into a 55" tapered box gusseted on the inside corners to accommodate later rounding.

Joe's wife San checks the clamps  on the mast.

Evolved into 8 sided, 16 sided, and finally to 32 sided, after which it was planed and sanded to final shape. Round, 7" dia. at the base, 8" dia where it broached the deck (keel stepped) and 4" at the mast head. Much tricky (nervous) gluing as open time for our epoxy was about 45 minutes. An error would have resulted in a lot of very expensive firewood. Winter in an unheated building and the mix had to also be adjusted for ambient temperature. Took two months and a truck load of Oly beer to complete.

On completion my wife Sandra said, "once in a lifetime...never, ever, ever again."

To which I replied, "I've noticed she says that a lot.

                                                     Crossing the finish line.  

 

 

All right one more and this ones even more personal and maybe selfish, but Joe once heaped the greatest praise I have ever received on something I wrote. 

First his comments:

One: Really nicely written, Tim. Almost lost my breakfast just reading it.
Put me into a very similar situation sailing through a tropical depression in the Gulf of Mexico on my own boat many years ago. Most lasting memory of that night: My wife Sandra sat on the opposite side of the open cockpit of our 35 foot Colin Archer helping me hold the 8 foot monster tiller against the force of a quartering sea. A breaking wave reared up behind her and crashed on her head filling her boots and pockets. We were making for a lee behind an island as you were. Out of the froth and darkness came her normally understated English drawl, "if there's a G.. D..... ferry from this island to the mainland, I'M on it". Thanks for posting this, Tim. Made the day for this old sailor. 

Two: I've read about everything by Hiscock, Tristan Jones, et al and I've never read anything better about the last place I wish to be on a dark and stormy night.
I had loran C and the first comment on it was right on. Especially in Alaskan waters. Uptown in Ketchikan or on a mountain top.
In the Gulf of Mexico storm a white egret landed on deck and stayed with us all night. I guess he was just tired of flying in the wind. When daylight came left us. He even hopped over the hatch splash sill and went below for awhile. We were strapped in and unable to stop him.
When I got a clean cancer report recently I told San I was going to look for another old wooden boat. She said, "you will need a new deckhand, Joe". 

 

Now if you aren't tired out yet here's that story: Singin' them songs about them storms at sea 

‪

 

One more thing: What did Jimmy Buffett mean (to us)?

 

 

  I woke up around 6:30 a.m. September 2, 2023, and turned up the computer as I usually did to catch up on what happened while I was asleep. The first thing I saw was a message from a friend telling me Jimmy Buffet had died the day before. You could have slapped me in the face and I would not have been any more shocked. Eyes watered immediately and I leaned back absorbing. Then as the day progressed and more and more announcements and stories about him filled my screen. I attempted posting a couple of things and sharing a few more but none of them really said what I was feeling

Toward evening and still reflecting and letting even more tributes come up, one incident leaped out of the past and spoke to me.

     It happened like this, our usual bunch had gathered in our favorite bar, a place I called Key Largo as I had recently gone through another breakup with another woman I had loved and that song of the time had resonated. A wall of windows overlooked the harbor in Valdez, Alaska. In daylight we could see to the end of the bay where the Chugach Mountains rose to their white caps. Sometimes a sunset behind us would color them pink or purple. One time when they turned deep purple we made everyone in the bar stand up and sing that patriotic song with "purple mountains' majesty" in it. Commercial salmon fishermen sat next to some of us tour boar captains and charter fishermen along with several crew members, girlfriends and other hangers on, even a couple of ocean sailors, with a few tourists scattered at tables a cautious distance from us locals.

     The usual din of conversations, shouts from game players, laughter, cursing to be sure, stories being told, just the general noise that fills any bar along with the occasional interlude for some favorite song coming out of the jukebox. In short it was a normal night at Key Largo.

     Then the first notes came out of that box, familiar guitar chords and then a harmonica lament. By the time the first words emerged several of us were already singing, "Mother, mother ocean, I have heard your call, wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall…." By the end of that first phrase most other noise had ceased and the place had fallen almost into silence, almost or maybe in reverence as more people joined the song. We sang every word of that song to the ending verse:

"Mother, mother ocean, after all the years I've found
My occupational hazard being my occupation's just not around
I feel like I've drowned, gonna head uptown
I feel like I've drowned, gonna head uptown."

     As the last notes faded, so did our singing, into a funereal silence throughout the room as each of us relaxed into what might be described as a state of euphoria while we searched our own minds for meaning. That musician had been there, in one way or another done what we've done, and held the experience in high regard and was able to express our emotions about it for us, an unseen crew mate. We could feel the meaning but for my part anyway could not find the words to articulate it. Maybe it was the kinship all of us felt for each other, the singer and the ocean. The silence lasted for what seemed several minutes but was probably a few seconds. I recall catching the eye of a fisherman, recognizing each other as brothers despite our differences, as I whispered to my friend, "That was special," and then fell back into my reverie.

     Soon the buzz of conversation rose and the room filled with the usual sounds and the moment passed. Passed for the time being, yes, but not gone as is evidenced here and to tell the truth every other time I hear that song.

Bit of an update: I posted this on the BuffettNews - Jimmy Bufftett facebook page: 98 comments and likes.

MEMORIALS PAGES 

 

ADDENDUM:    I wore this shirt on and off for more than a week as kind of an homage to Jimmy Buffett. The shirt has quite a history of its own. When we sailed to Hawaii from Alaska several years ago with his music playing in the background like a movie theme during the 50 days it took, I had a plan for when we landed. As soon as I recovered my land legs I headed straight uptown in Waikiki to the first touristy store I could find and bought the shirt. I figured I had earned it. But the story doesn't stop there. A few years later when we made the Great Margaritaville trip to Anchorage for a concert I took it along fully expecting fit right in with the crowd. But when I heard my friend Stacey Smith Mitchell wishing she had the right thing to wear, with a big sigh I handed her the shirt. A couple of days after we returned she gave it back to me washed, ironed and folded. The next time I wore it was on the tall ship Kai Sei shortly before that trip landed in San Diego. Somebody had announced it and I said I have the perfect shirt for a shipboard party. I still wear it now and then when a festivity fits the shirt. During the week after Jimmy Buffett died, the shirt again seemed to fit the situation. Maybe I will ask to be buried in in it.

The Great Margaritaville Tour