A Tall Ship Extraordinare
I had seen the massive Columbian flag billowing from her stern. At night, as I drove down Tacoma’s Dock Street, I had seen the lights strung amidst her masts and yardarms. They beckoned, as sailing ships and the sea do. She was the tallest Tall Ship I’d ever seen and there was a familiarity about her too. I searched my mind to figure out why.
It came to me as I stood on the dock studying her, half way through my evening walk. She looked like a picture I knew, of a ship that was the subject of a story in the upcoming issue of COLUMBIAKids. A bark too, that one had been plying the waters in the 1890s, and word on the ’Net says this one was launched in 1968 specifically for cadet training. At one hundred and seventy-eight feet long, she’s so big she must be guided in and out of the Sound, for (if I heard right) she has no engine accept for her sails.
The Gloria sports a crew of about 135, and I’d seen the cadets walking in groups along the sidewalk the night before. I saw a handful of them now. Those on board were dressed in their “whites” to meet the public, while carloads of others were carrying bags and boxes of American “treasures” aboard. Cups-o-noodles, backpacks, play stations, toys, and tennis shoes to be buried amidst berths and bunks down below. As I stood in line to go aboard, a volunteer entertained us with stories of cadet adventures. They’d been supplied a van and driver, and when asked where they wanted to go, they all cried “Walmart.” So, to Walmart they went. When asked where they wanted to go to lunch, they cried “Hooters!” And so to Hooters they went. Rumor has it, they garnered much attention there.
Speaking of hooters, I tried to catch a glimpse of the Gloria’s figurehead, but the dock was too short and I not nimble enough to leap into a passing boat to catch a waterside view. I find figureheads a bit magical as they embody the spirit of the ship. I imagine the Gloria’s figurehead is as strong as the bronze emblem that is apparently the symbol of the Spanish Armada. Once I stepped aboard, I paused to study the huge polished bronze plague at mid-ship that bears the Spanish or Columbian seal. In it, is a crossed combo consisting of a sword, a quill, and a trident—intriguing ode to the Greek god Poseidon, ruler of the sea.
I walked the spotless teak decks from bow to stern, wondering at the tremendous masts, the web of complex rigging, and the aft deck that was large enough to host its own shipside version of Dancing With the Stars. Speaking of stars, I stopped to listen to a cadet explain, through a visitor who translated for his group, that while they had all the best navigation equipment aboard, they still learned to rely on the stars. Each sailor was trained to look to the stars first, electronics second. And the stars are never so bright as on a clear, dark sea.
As I padded down the steep stairs to the dock, I looked again to the pristine green and white paint, the Columbian-king sized blue, red, and yellow flag, and the metal hull. But it was the comment about the stars that stuck with me. I left the dock thinking that maybe, if we all made a practice of looking to the stars first, we might one day clear the air enough to see them.
