This whole shootin' match is my website. I'm your host, as it were. Check the links at the top left corner of any page to get more of my perspective on the Flint School experience.

Here are some general recollections, nonetheless...

• Mont Saint Michel, France—1978
• Rank Revotes—1979, 1980
• Talent Shows
• Cadiz—1978-79
• Galley Humor—1976
• Inspection Immunity—1980
• Holiday Night Watch—1979

Don't be shy. Add your own stories or correct mine if you feel the need.

Mont Saint Michel, France—1978
It's all Antony (Tono) Lineberger's fault. He and his partner (I forget whom) were the first to attain the summit, and when they came back, he drew me a map, enabling me to duplicate the crime. When the second shift followed suit the next day (rather odd in itself; most field trips were everybody all at once, except for the week-long land tours during 'work week') Greg Voth and I scurried to the top, just as Tono had done the day before. Many Americans are familiar with Mont Saint Michel, but few know it by name. It's an island off the coast of France that the Monks turned into a nicely-fortified cathedral-burg. At the base is a well-protected village; high tide makes it an island, and low-tide makes it a rock surrounded by mud. Hard to wage a frontal assault. Higher up, they built a beautiful cathedral, and at the top is a cupola that a sight to behold. The whole island is a big cone, with the spire at the top being the summit. Very picturesque, very alluring. Greg and I got to the top, swapped cameras, and took pictures of ourselves, to show non-believers that we'd actually done it. I'm surprised that nobody aboard ever got wind of our escapade—I'm sure we'd have been chastized if not de-ranked and restricted! Trespass? You betcha! Of course, the film in my 35mm camera wasn't advancing, so I had no corroborating evidence for some 20 years... until Tono emailed me some scans of his pictures (second-hand for me, but it's better than nothing), plus the map he drew... or at least a facsimile of it. Getting to the top required climbing up about 25 feet of drain pipe, traversing a few flying buttresses, some large, deserted open air rooms, and a trap door or two. Once at the top, the view was astounding! It was exhilirating! (Maybe someday I'll get to try it again...?)
Rank Revotes—1979, 1980
First year (76-77) I attained Apprentice Seaman, and stopped right there. Second year I tried the same thing, and got a bit pressure-cooked for slacking off. Third year, I tried it again, and got some heat applied to my posterior by Rank Revotes #2. By #3, still having not achieved another rank, I got DEMOTED (!) for not being PROMOTED. How many schools are there that push you that hard, and in that way? Heck, Rank Revotes are organized by the school, but the votes are from your peers—how's THAT for peer pressure? So I got Seaman First Class by the end of the year. Fourth year (79-80) I zipped up to Seaman First, and sat there. Again, I got steamrolled until I worked on getting—and finally achieving—Mate in Sail. I guess my old M.O. "quiet, maybe they won't notice" wasn't gonna work here. See? Nothing to it. You didn't have to do anything. They MADE you do anything. :)
Talent Shows
Halloween and Valentine's Day were usually talent show presentations. Most skits were humorous, some (usually singing) were serious. We did "echo valley" one year, where the guy 'on stage' welcomes everyone "to 'echo valley', which is an odd valley—it only echoes certain foods, and a few other things..." Of course, some partners-in-crime are spread throughout the audience, to effect the echoes: "Pumpernickel!" "Pumpernickel... pumpernickel..." "Spaghetti!" "Spaghetti... spaghetti..." "Bologna!" —no echo. After a pause, and after several failed echoing attempts with "bologna", the speaker moves on to a new phrase—in our case, "Frank Hefner has hair!" and now, of course, the echo replies "bologna! bologna!" Frank didn't seem too appreciative. Next year, however, he requested we do it again, reminding us how funny it was to use Craig Mercer... Hmm! :) Another time, we had such a consistently delightful talent show, including "you light up my life" sung a capella by little Brandy <?name?>, we got the following day off! A whole free day! (I think this was February/Leap Year1980?)
Cadiz—1978-79
Napoleon suffered his first significant defeat on land at a place called Waterloo. Because of this, the name "Waterloo" has come to mean unbeatable odds, or an obstacle you can't surpass. For those of us on board during the 1978-79 year, we used the term "Cadiz" for the same purpose. We were headed to Gibraltar from the Atlantic coast of Spain, and a squall came up and bit us on the ass. And it bit hard. With the wind and the huge swells, I swear teQuest swayed 50° to port and to starboard. Nothing anywhere stayed on a shelf or in a cabinet. The galley—that's where the food is cooked (or destroyed, depending on who's in charge of the meal)—is situated atop a tough mesh grid which can be removed in order to hoist large engine-room parts into or out of the hull. The grid was always covered with secured carpet scraps, and the mesh was strong enough it felt like a serious floor. When the peanutbutter jars in the galley went flying, with the sauerkraut and ketsup, the fluids that had once been conveniently contained were now on the floor (and walls) of the galley. Between 50° sways, of course, down was still basically down, so gravity finally drew the peanutbutter and kraut and ketsup through the carpet scraps, through the wire grid, into the diesel-fuel-fume-packed engine room. That was the other time I 'fed the fish'. Actually, I fed my #10 can and the bilges; I didn't dare get close to the scuppers—"Moron overboard!" (Once Jim had Te Vega secure, he came aboard to maneuver teQuest into port as we entered Cadiz harbor on an emergency 'landing'. He also fell victim to the lovely aroma. I can't tell if that's reassuring or disillusioning...) It took me a while to get comfortable with peanutbutter again. Not as long as it did with Chili, though— The first time I 'fed the fish' was our first sail in 1976.
Galley Humor—1976
When I first came aboard in Bermuda, I'd grown up near Lake Michigan, which can be as angry as the Atlantic, but never had I done any serious sea-time. So here are a bunch of fat/dumb/happy landlubbers swinging around the buoy in St. George's Harbor for two or three months. No big deal. Interesting how you can come out of the same companionway hatch three times a day—and once, you're facing north; then you're facing southwest; and now you're facing east. Same hatch. The sway, with the breeze and current, is too slow and subtle; you can't feel it. You merely observe that you're facing a different landmark this afternoon than you were this morning. For a landlubber, this is disconcerting. But after a few months, it becomes routine. You're tied to a buoy, and you swing around and around. Nice and easy. Life at sea, right? No problem. So they feed us CHILI for lunch, and we take off in early afternoon on a five-day sail, leaving the sight of land and calm intestines far behind us. Chili. Yes, chili. Ha, ha. Let's break in the new kids. I hope somebody somewhere thought it was funny. I'd hate to think that we endured that for nothing... I recall hearing of Ben Jackson's demonstration of the virtues of thorough chewing: he apparently sent a whole kidney bean back up through his sinuses, and out his nose. Gladly, I didn't witness it myself, I can only report hearsay rumors, and label them as such. You can choose to disbelieve them if you like. I can honestly say I successfully avoided chili for more than 20 years after that. It kinda bothered me the taste was the same, both before and after. Not a good sign, in my book. I've since learned it's okay to eat chili—only sparingly, and only on rare occasions, of course, but NEVER before a five-day sail.
Inspection Immunity—1980
Living in teQuest forecastle (pronounced fo'c's'le) with Matt Frazer, Steve Vickory and Juan Lorenzo Barragan, we developed a reputation for having an immaculate room. And for an extended period, it was immaculate. After a half hour of deck stations (this is after the 90-minute free afternoon period enjoyed by 5 out of six deckstations; the sixth deckstation having had work-crew today—see a Typical Day In Port on my About Flint School page) we had a half hour to clean our rooms, and our selves, before supper. The inspector was whoever was in charge of the deck station having work crew for the day. Any jumbled belongings, messy bedclothes, dust or grit was a point off. A perfect score was ZERO, and the worst you could get was FIVE. Any room getting the horrid FIVE would halt dinner for everyone until they'd cleaned it up to ZERO status again. Forward in the teQuest forecastle, we'd been doing such a good job for so long (the zero score would earn the winners each a hard candy for the evening—and in the spartan atmosphere of Flint School, it was a real treat) inspectors started slacking off, having given up trying to look for grit or mess in our room. We'd get zeros even when we ourselves thought we should at least get a TWO. (Gasp!) Alas, Kent Dillon finally blew the whistle on us one time, and we had to work hard again to earn our candies. For a while...
Holiday Night Watch—1979
I stayed aboard for the final holiday season of my stay—Christmas 1979 thru New Year's 1980. With a skeleton crew, the hour-and-fifteen-minute night watches were rearranged to be sure that two or three folk would be up and watching the vital signs at all times. Usually, there would be five or six on watch, but with most kids home for the holidays, the skeleton crew was stretched a bit thin. There weren't enough girls to go around. Some watches had no girls at all. Guess whose? But of course, the watch following mine, had a girl. Since I was watch captain, who d'you suppose got the job of going into the girls' rooms, where we weren't allowed during the day, the insides of which we knew nothing about, which were pitch black? Then to enhance the fun, the girls would tell me where to turn and which bunk to tap, and—amazing—turns out there wasn't any such bunk there, or it was someone else's, or they'd switched places. Over those three long weeks I occasionally got the impression they were disappointed that I didn't take better advantage of the situation... Anyway... That's also the same time period when I found the 24-horsepower fan over the tool room. No, wait—it was Juan Barragan who noticed a tube sticking out of the wall above me. So I climbed up, using the tool compartments as rungs on a ladder, to see what it was. It was a monster fan. Curious. In all my time in the paint locker, the chain locker and the tool room, I'd not ever noticed or heard such a fan operating. I tried to see if the gritty, grimy behemoth could still turn. It did. It also was supplied with power, and a loose connection, which was suddenly not loose any more. Unfortunately, I had used my fingers to turn it, which became jammed between those heftily-designed fan blades and the frame holding the motor. Did I mention 24-horsepower? All 24 horses galloped to full speed and they did so in an enthusiastic hurry. The sucker spun up, and the way it was turning, it was pulling my fingers farther and farther into the fan assembly. Juan heard the unpleasant noise, saw me turn white, and he took off. My first thought was "Great, thanks." Okay, my first thought was really something more like "Ow!" but much less printable. But Juan had apparently gone to get Sue Brown, Chief Medical Officer in charge of Sick Bay. My attention was still primarily on what was rapidly becoming shredded stumps at the end of my right hand. I managed to extract my fingers, quite forcibly. I cradled the wounded digits of my right hand with my left hand, and began to wander aft. By the time I met up with Sue midway, I'd gathered the courage to see what was left of my fingers, and luckily they all were still attached—and, though bloody, all still seemed to work. I was delighted. This was my mood when Sue encountered me, blood covering about everything I came near. She thought I was in shock; I was truly glad I'd have to to find other excuses for lousy piano playing... All ten still work; there's only a faint bluish mark on the side of my starboard middle finger, where it still feels a bit numb.

Nobody ever said life at Flint School was dull!