Welcome To Flint School
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Flint:
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I was a student aboard Flint School's TeVega and teQuest for four years, from 1976 to 1980—when I would have otherwise been in landlocked "High School". Flint School was headquartered in Sarasota, Florida, and operated by George and Betty Stoll, with their son Jim and his wife Els.
| CAUTION: If you were a student or staff member aboard Flint School and hated the experience, grab a #10 can now. If you were unabashedly delighted with everything that went on aboard, you're late for your lobotomy—your appointment is in ten minutes. Better hurry! |
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More than half of each year's student body didn't return for a second year; maybe finances factored into the decision, but most likely it was related to the student's discomfort with having to endure the Flint School "pressure cooker" environment. Some liked it, many hated it.
Typically, the girls outperformed the boys. Not always, but often. (There were about three or four times as many boys as girls; the girls would achieve higher rank, have better room inspection scores, perform better during rank revotes...) This usually seemed to surprise the boys, much to their chagrin. And the girls, much to their delight. (The girls were also kept in aft rooms, where the seas have minimal effect; the boys were scattered forward, including the fo'c's'le which occasionally slams into the oncoming seas with what can be bone-jarring force.)
The school curriculum revolved heavily around concepts of self-reliance and competence; for a spoiled rich kid, such an environment is not easy to enjoy—for the self-reliant, it would be a breath of fresh air. We were regularly judged by our peers for qualities of integrity, honesty and effort. It wasn't a walk in the park; some of my classmates have commented that developing teens need a more relaxed environment... other people I talk to seem to agree with the Stolls, that kids—teens in particular—crave discipline and direction.
We Don't Need No Stinkin' Grades
Arriving on board, all students were presented with a barrage of tests; these tests would determine what level of which subjects they'd be placed in, from math to penmanship, from literature to economics. I recall one football-scholarship-bound jock who tested into college calculus and into third-grade spelling. (At the end of the year he was in eighth-grade spelling and advanced calculus.) We never advanced a level for any reason other than by demonstrating our ability to handle it—which for student rank, meant the unanimous recognition of our peers. The object was to eliminate academic weaknesses while honing advanced skills for enhanced overall performance: i.e. ability and performance mattered a hell of a lot more than how far you were from your birth—duh!
And thus I never was actually a "freshman", "sophomore", "junior" or "senior" in high school—I was first-year through fourth-year, and that is all. Plus, with the delightfully radical curriculum (radical compared to any American public schools', that is) the first-year students were presented introductory concepts, and second-year students were fed ideas to build upon the first years', and so forth.
As far as academic performance and report cards? You bet we had grades! Mom & dad weren't just gonna sit by and enjoy Junior being out of the house, fully chaperoned! No sir, there's gotta be grades... And quarterly report cards were, indeed, duly sent home to the parents, reflecting Junior's performance (or lack thereof) in all the various subjects.
Teaching the Three "R"s—and Fourth R...
We had various math classes including geometry and trigonometry, spelling and penmanship, physical education (waterskiing, swimming, or calisthenics and running through town if we were docked), biology, literature, history, english, foreign languages, economics and accounting—even home economics (known as "life in the galley"). But all these were peripheral, serving only to act as useful knowledge and skills when the need arose to call upon them; these were merely tools in a toolbox, and the central emphasis from first bell to lights out, was in how to use these tools.
The lynchpin, the primary course, was called "Fourth R", denoting reason. First-year students were purposely shaken up with such concepts as "don't bury your lack of understanding under a vague term such as instinct" and "there's no such thing as a group" with the purpose of getting us to question—perhaps only to verify conclusions or to only expose minor falsehoods, but at the very least, to question—the assumptions we'd accepted all our lives: Think, Rethink, and then Know. Covering not only subtle propaganda techniques used throughout the ages and the reminder that "those who do not learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them", 4th R provided a rich array of concepts and perspectives to see beyond the flash and glitz of, say, broadcast news items that intend to provide you with the conclusions they want you to carry on as your own, and sift through the colored reports to determine for onseself what had actually happened, and—the clarion call of Fourth R—why!
The secondary course was "Evening Reading," which took place after evening study hall, before bedtime. The literature selected was designed to match the "4th R" concepts being taught, and so first-year students met together for reading aloud and discussion; second-year students met likewise to read their materials, and so forth.
After primary and secondary classes (4th R and Evening Reading) all other classes—geometry, biology, economics, history—were tucked in during the day, to provide tools and background for testing and expanding on ideas learned in the two primaries.
Tomes selected for Evening Reading included:
- Atlas Shrugged and Anthem by Ayn Rand
- Topaz by Leon Uris
- 1984 and Animal Farm by George Orwell
- Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
One particularly noteworthy volume was presented (by Betty Stoll with electrifying vigor) in second-year "4th R" instead of in Evening Reading:
- Discovery of Freedom by Rose Wilder Lane (daughter of Laura Ingalls Wilder)
From what I've seen, American youths tend to discover the liberating concepts in Rand's Atlas Shrugged once they enter college. I discovered it in high school (at Flint School I couldn't have avoided it, in fact—not that I'd want to) and it's still number one on my recommended reading list. And number two is still Discovery of Freedom. Okay, number three might just be Isabel Patterson's God of the Machine (with emphasis on chapter 15).
For delightfully fun reading, there's always the Harry Potter series by J.K.Rowling, almost anything by James P. Hogan (but especially Inherit the Stars); for very serious—but fascinating—discussion of our place in the universe, check out The Origin Of Consciousness by Julian Jaynes—you'll need a big dictionary and a thesaurus, but it's worth it!
But I digress. (Often do, when it comes to books.)
Here's a typical Flint School day in port:
| F l i n t S c h o o l : A D a y i n P o r t | |
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| TEN DAYS A WEEK |
SCHOOL DAYS
Now, our week was ten days long—we knew it was Sunday only if someone bought a newspaper ashore that seemed bigger than normal. Ten days, that is, in port. When we pull up stakes to go sailing to the next port, school days are suspended until we reach our destination. Sometimes we took off in the middle of afternoon classes, which caused a bit of confusion when we'd anchor (or dock): do we continue with the rest of the in-progress classes? Start over at a new day? Always a conundrum to be had... Who needs a seven-day week, anyhow? How can anybody get anything done in just seven days? |
| 06:45 am | Wake-up bell |
| 07:00 am | Exercises |
| 08:00 am | Breakfast:
During breakfast we'd listen to the BBC radio report gathered by night watch. Frequently during a meal, we'd be tested—the infamous Awareness Quiz—on various news items, such as "who's chancellor of Germany?"... "In what city and country did last week's riot take place?"... or "What is the price of Gold, in Dollars?" (or even "What is the price of Dollars—in Gold?") |
| 09:00 am | 4th R |
| 10:00 am | Classes
Such as "Problems in American Democracy", biology, geometry, trigonometry, drafting, foreign languages, "Modern European History", marlinspike skills, literature and more. |
| 12:00 pm | Lunch
Galley duty was another area where the student body rotated through, to do the work required: waiter, scraper, washer, rinser... When our turn came, we'd spend a day at each post, getting out of class a bit early to help set tables and staying out of class afterward until all galley duties were secured. |
| 12:30 pm | Classes |
| 03:30 pm | Free Time
Free Time included shore leave: depending on your rank, you could go ashore for an hour and a half in a group of 4, 3 or 2; for student ranks above "mate" (ranks which were seldom reached) you could go ashore alone. Unless, of course, your particular deck station had "work crew" for the day, which involved manual labor for the afternoon for one day out of six (there being six deck stations). If today happened to be "Big Deal" (one day in every ten school days) then all deck stations were on work crew for two hours, and after a formal supper we'd enjoy some entertainment—perhaps a film, a talent show, or a dance. ("Big Deal" was our affectionate name for our one-day 'weekend'—our week lasted ten days, since seven days is hardly enough time to get anything done. Remember, this is only a typical Flint School day in port as opposed to a day at sea. We had a "Big Deal" once every ten school days which went straight through ten days a week, except for when were were either sailing between ports or travelling the historic Caribbean or European countryside; thus occasionally we'd have a few extra days between "Big Deal"s.) |
| 05:00 pm | Deck Stations |
| 05:30 pm | Cleanup/Room Inspection
A perfect score was zero; if your room was bad enough to warrant a five, supper was postponed—for everyone—until you restored your room to a zero. |
| 06:00 pm | Supper |
| 07:00 pm | Study Hall |
| 08:15 pm | Break (snack)
On birthdays, this would be the Cake of Choice for the birthday boy or girl—unleess Chris Mulligan's birthday was just a few days before yours, and he wanted German Chocolate Cake, so we had already had German Chocolate Cake, so why don't you try angel food, hmm? (Not that I'm bitter...) |
| 08:30 pm | Evening Reading |
| 10:00 pm | Lights Out |
| overnight | Night Watch:
In 75-minute shifts, we'd stand watch every other night. "Ideal" watches were first or last; "Dog" watches were second (gotta get up for your watch right when you drift off to sleep) and second-to last (not enough time to get back to restful sleep). When we were in temperate climes, the half who were on night watch during the night would "get to" enjoy water skiing for exercise the next morning, and the other half would "have to" swim instead; when in industrial (polluted) or cold ports, we'd hop onto the dock and do calisthenics while running through town. |
There's a lot to add to the typical day in port—but that'll do for a quick introduction.
By the way, if you detect any errors or oversights or outright fiction here, which obviously can't happen because my memory is flawless, let me know so I can adjust the text.
And here's a typical day at sea:
| F l i n t S c h o o l : A D a y a t S e a | |
|---|---|
| Cast Off | Leave the old port behind and head out to sea.
Of course, before leaving port, you'd be wise to secure your bunk shelf; on one sail, we estimate that we swung 50 degrees to port, and another 50 to starboard, in heavy, windy seas—anything that could be pried loose was found strewn across the room. (That was when we made an unplanned stop at Cadiz—that's the trip where peanut butter, among other things, got loose in teQuest's galley pantry, directly above the engine room. All that separated the pantry from the engine room was a thin layer of carpet over a loose iron grill, which could easily be removed for insertion and removal of engine parts—and entire engines, for that matter. Of course, the peanut butter managed to seep down into the engine room, mixing its bouquet with the air already saturated with diesel fumes. Combined with the randomly, wildly-tilting room, the resulting mix was enough to make any soul retch—which most did.) |
| 08:00 am... 01:00 pm... 07:00 pm... 12:00 am... 04:00 am... 08:00 am... |
Sail watches
Watches were scheduled in three shifts, rotating throughout the day—night watches were four hours each, morning and evening were each five hours, and day watch was six hours, so that on long sails all three watches (alpha, beta, delta) would rotate into all five time slots. Even so, for short sails—less than a couple of days—members from each watch would calculate how good or awful their shift would be shafted, and grumble or gloat, for the remainder of the voyage—and often continue doing so, for days after arriving in port, just for good measure. The watches were each broken into three stations: bow, engine room and helm, to take turns steering, watching for obstacles and traffic, and maintaining engine fluids and inspecting inspection points—continually, until either reaching port or the next watch came on duty. Then for the next sail, there would be much friction as to which watch shift should start: "Hey! They only were an hour into their shift when we landed, so they should start first..." As if it were a democracy!* |
| Arrive | Secure the two ships together and either drop anchor, secure to a buoy or make fast to the dock. Jim Stoll, fluent in several languages, would often be aboard to take care of customs. |
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*By the way, those of you who think
a) democracy is a laudable goal b) our founding fathers fought for democracy c) the United States of America is a democracy please sign here, and we'll call the nice men to come pick you up. While you're resting, you'll have plenty of time to read the federalist papers, the anti-federalist papers, and the U.S. Constitution. If you're adventuresome, you might even try reading Isabel Patterson's God of the Machine. | |
An Arm and a Leg? No—Just A Head
When I went to college at the University of Evansville, I was surprised to find that a full year of tuition at a landlocked college cost more than a year on board the Flint School. Perhaps it was because the students were the crew—we did the cooking, scrubbing, hoisting, scraping, sanding, and painting.
Part of your tuition was set aside—into an account (in the "Mulligan Bank"—see Atlas Shrugged) for our use during the year: the intial account started at $35.00, period. Sure, room and board were taken care of; but imagine budgeting $35.00 to last an entire school year, when you can only add to it with manual labor paying $0.35 for excellent work, $0.25 for fair labor, and $0.15 for poor work! (Yes, your wark was graded upon completion, and your 'grade' determined your wage. So you sure can't just sit around on the job hoping to rack up the charges!)
"Skilled laborers" who had been "checked off", or approved, for working with power tools, earned up to $0.45 per hour—still with a graded scale, only $0.10 higher than the unskilled scale. One kid earned a whopping $70 during work week, at $0.45 per hour! By contrast, another enterprising soul earned a couple hundred bucks by selling candy and sandwiches aboard to shipmates, at 100% markup—and all their food sales were immediately after supper!
The main demand was that we rethink our axioms, that we be sure we understood what we professed. "Don't work harder, work smarter" and "What am I trying to accomplish; and what will be the results of my actions?" were two maxims often employed on board. Think, then act.
Stretched, Examined, Worked Hard—And Growing
It was hard. You were given lots to do, and had a difficult set of standards to meet: those of your peers. Likewise, they had to meet yours.
Many students didn't return once they got home for the summer; perhaps couldn't afford another year—but most likely, they didn't get along with the system, had personality conflicts with staff, disapproved of the authoritarian means of running such a school... Have you considered how you'd run a school abord ship—where your life at sea depends on the skills and abilities of the students whose education is your responsibility?
Perhaps there's something that George and Jim could have done differently, done better. Maybe they made some bad moves.*
Maybe they made some good ones, too.
* For example, Juan Lorenzo Barragan was a good guy.
But he was rather independent; admonishing him in public had
little impact, for whatever purpose—and he was summarily
shipped off one afternoon, with little or no fanfare. Poof.
We students got the impression that he was
percieved as a bit of a danger
to the Flint School structure for some reason,
but never knew exactly why, or how.
