Our Sea-Girt Ancestor

When my grandmother died, there was in her foyer a large oil painting of a square rigged ship.  Family legend has it that the ship is one of her father’s.  The ship’s rigging is post-clipper: around 1875.  In the painting, she is roaring toward the viewer, all canvas pressed into service, including her stuns’ls.  Her voyage has been hard: rust mars her topsides, and her dolphin striker is askew to starboard.  But a fine sight she must have been as she schooned into Boston Harbor, bringing my great-grandfather a nice return on investment. 

 

            Now, the painting dominates my living room in Phippsburg. Maine.  I like to imagine my ancestor who, as a Danish sea captain, finally settled in Boston because, as I was told, it was the harbor of all the world into which he best enjoyed to sail. 

 

            That ancestor: the same burly, muscular build we all carried down the years, a white whisker running full round the face; stern visage, bright eye.  In a photograph on the wall of my grandmother’s dining room he sat and staring at the facing photograph of his wife, who herself had a formidable profile, an aggressive bosom, and a mouth which seemed to me as a boy more apt for command than for comfort.  His settlement in America underscored his forward view of things: in America, here was a land of opportunity and of virtue, where his children might blossom, and where the future looked bright. 

 

            For all the many years I knew my grandmother—she died just short of her 102^nd birthday—she searched for her father’s sextant, which she wanted to present to me, her first grandson, who spent a lot of time on the sea.  She never found it.  It was somewhere in her house, she was certain, just out of reach, at the back of some drawer or other, or in the bottom of some trunk.  

 

In addition to the picture of his ship, my grandmother did bequeath to me his definition of a gentleman.  A gentleman, my grandmother instructed me, is a man who knows how, and when, to shake another man by the hand.  But he also knows how, and when, to punch him in the nose. 

 

            Further, I have one more thing my grandmother passed down to me.  I have the idea that there is a sextant to be found, at the back of some drawer or other. 

 

Somewhere there is an instrument that will show us where we are.  I’d like to know where we are.  I’ve read thousands of books and written for many years, all of it to discover where we are.  As Americans: whither go we, and why? 

 

Today, in Bath, Maine, in the birthplace of ships, a ghostly reminder has been built that should help us to think about this.  Visit the site, those of you who come here sea-borne, or those who merely enjoy the metaphor.  The Maine Maritime Museum has constructing a full-sized replica-in-silhouette of Wyoming, the largest fore-and-aft rigged wooden vessel ever built.  Today, she is back on the very spot where, in 1909, her keel was laid down, at the Percy & Small shipyard.

 

Go to Wyoming and beside her stand.  She represents some of us—we are a mercantile people, ably building bigger vessels, ably sailing them. We found the routes that brought back finished goods and raw materials.  We made our trading partners and ourselves wealthy. Scarcely was there a port on earth that did not know a Downeaster and did not love the sight of her hull rising offshore.  Here came goods, news, ideas, and here—especially—here came hope of a better life. 

 

Might I go where to she came from, wondered some yet-to-be ancestor of ours?  Might I go there, too, and prosper?     

 

Any sea-girt ancestor of ours must surely be musing upon us now.  He may be the captain, or the bosun, or the master’s mate.  He may be a young able seaman, who can hand, reef, and steer.  All of them are out there on the sea right now, our ancestors, cradling their sextants, wishing us strength of purpose and character, and shooting the dark star of our soul. 

 

Have we done them proud?  Will we continue to do them proud? 



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Reach me, if you like, at dikkon@dikkoneberhart.com