Hootie and the Virgin
Dooryard Boats
Another long cold Spring. After a brief kiss of the balmy we had
six weeks of miserable raw wet. Too soggy to plow. Too nasty to
al fresco. Too bitter to boat. If this precession of the seasons
continues, we'll have daffs in June and no snow until February.
I haven't even got all the lawn ornaments out yet.
But the trees are now in leaf, and hope pokes up eternal. Grass
deep enough to bog the mower. Bamboo three foot tall by the river.
Popple cotton in flight. Boat-tailed grackles soar along the banks.
Peckers are beating their heads against the woods. Pastellization
daubs the landscape. But don't forget to take your jacket.
Spring Waters
Take hold..
Yesterday morning Seth, Hilde, and I helped David step the masts
in the Beth Alison. We motored up under the double bridges at
low water, where David and his helper, John, had secured a block
and tackle to the rail road track overhead, and two quarterlines
to veer the boat. We set an anchor, and proceeded to jockey back
and forth under the bridge, waving masts in the air, and shouting
obscure directions. "Take it to Clay Hill." One of those local
pejoratives, I guess. The wind was icy, funneling under the viaduct.
After the usual ado, both spars slipped down snug into the steps,
and we cast all free. Five minutes later the daily freight blew
through, and we all got a jolt. You never think about trains in
this whistlestop, but the state of Maine IS trying to keep this
line alive, and we might have been caught in the awkward, with
our sticks in the air.
then lift..
daisie.
Big Sharpie & the Toad
I got the TOAD in the water in time for Seth's arrival, by sneaking
a slap of paint between deluges, and frigging with the rig when
the sun peaked. Seem to have cured the standing rigging problems.
When I took the tabernacle up to David MacLaughlin's to have him
weld another foot on either end, we spent the morning touring
his current works. The flying fish he's brazed up, the massive
granite constructions on his estab, the skyjacking he's done to
the outer chambers, and the hide-and-seeking he's done with the
boiling springs under his buildings. David has been chasing eruptions
coming out of the hillside he straddles, with a backhoe, culverts,
and crushed rock. Every time he gets one gusher channeled, another
sticks out its tongue. I can see a spring dancer leaping out of
the ground.
Toad in the mist
Toad's Mooring
But David refused to change the tabernacle. He's an artist, after
all, and he's convinced it would spoil the piece. Goddam artists.
He insisted that stiffening the rig with steel cables would obviate
the need for deeper pockets on the tabernacle. Tabanack!
Rick Ellis came to my rescue, however. After I launched the beast
last fall, Rick showed up at the landing, and introduced himself.
He's a rigger who works for Nat Wilson down in Boothbay, one of
the nation's premier sailmakers. They've been making sails for
the CONSTITUTION, and the Coast Guard EAGLE this winter, among
others. Rick offered any help I might need, including wire splicing.
Rick Splicing
Wire work
There aren't many crafts I won't essay, but splicing wire is one
trade makes my hair stand. So I called Rick when the boat cover
came off, and he spent a weekend shoving fids into twisted steel,
parceling and serving, and overseeing my installation. A beautiful
job in stainless steel, and the rig is now as taut as a bow string.
Another case of serendipity. The right man, with the right skill,
being drawn to the work at need.
And another small world scenario. Rick was a boatswains mate in
the Coast Guard, stationed in Jonesport when we lived there. Actually
spent some time fishing on one of the boats I crewed on. He was
also a longtime family friend of our nextdoor neighbor, and nemesis,
Willard. Very strange to hear admiring tales of Willard, who used
to take Rick hunting and clamming as a boy. So even your favorite
monster may turn out to be somebody's hero.
All rigged
Asail
Wednesday midday Seth, Hilde, and I took the newly rigged TOAD
out for her first millennial sail. It's fun to see the enthusiastic
reactions to this strange vessel. Even in light airs she goes
like smoke. I have been very self-critical for having produced
so little "sculpture" in 99, but I did manage to bring this flying
thing to life. Maybe that's enough to ask for.
Wednesday night a dozen of us local cases confronted the harbormaster,
and the waterfront committee, over the new waterfront regulations,
and the way some of us feel pushed around. This pot has been a
long time seething. The harbormaster is a strict law and order
man who has been promulgating what seem like draconian regs on
what had been a happily ad hoc waterfront.
Mooring Puller
Barging in
In order to accommodate the exploding demand for moorings, the
harbormaster had compressed the field, and boats have been too
close for comfort. The arbitrary way he has gone aboard boats,
shortened the scope of their moorings, or moved them, had riled
some of us. We had always managed to resolve our difficulties
with common sense and mutual assistance. Now there was a cop on
the beat dictating what would be what, and not always getting
it right.
To ice the cake, this spring he announced new regulations for
the "outer harbor", which is to say all the waters of Bowdoinham,
where he has declared jurisdiction. All moorings were to be registered,
with a fee, and if a shorefront owner had more that one, they
had to apply to the Army Corps of Engineers for permission. Docks
would have to be approved by the Corps, too.
Harbormastery
Mooring
What??!! There are no conflicts out on the rivers. The few docks
and moorings by people's houses have always been taken care of
by the owners. Who is this guy, and what is he thinking? You have
to get federal approval to do what you've always done? There were
some heated folks at the meeting.
The most outspoken critic of the new rules was John the Pilot,
who has been fed up with the usurpation of individual rights.
Since when is it improper for us to take care of our own moorings?
In addition to declaring his authority over the size and materials
in a mooring for the harbor, and its location, the master says
he has the sole power to set moorings. Jimmy used to be in the
mooring business, but he has gone hands off since the new master
issued his decree. So John announced he is going into the mooring
business, and the town has no right to compete with free enterprise.
He should be able to haul, overhaul, and reset moorings, so long
as they meet the master's criteria, and go in the same place.
Or why not?
Spring Dooryard
The harbormaster said no. He has to be there to set the mooring.
And because he'll do it with his mooring puller, for nothing,
that effectively puts John out of business. A lively debate ensued.
Turns out that the usurpation of responsibility traces back to
the federal government, which should be no surprise to local libertarians.
Because the town accepted handouts from the Army Corps and the
SeaBees, we triggered an oversight procedure, forcing us to comply
with the Corps' bureaucratic arcana. On top of which, the Corps
has been flexing its regulatory muscle in recent years, and has
promulgated a new batch of you will or elses.
Airfield Trailer
Eagle in the yard
The boom in boating in tidal waters has been a windfall for busybody
bureaucrats who want to write rules to make us behave properly.
Mooring conflicts along the coast resulted in universal demands
on all municipalities to toe a new federal line. Including the
registration of all moorings, wherever placed. The limiting of
locally approved moorings outside a harbor to one per shorefront
owner. Any more require federal approval. Don't you just love
federal paperwork? Common sense no longer applies. Anyone who
used to take responsibility for his own acts now has no authority
to do so. We are a nation of laws, remember. Not men.
But law and orderers, like the harbormaster, still have to deal
with cantankerous men, and women. Nobody had ever gone to waterfront
committee meetings with a bone to pick, and now there was a rattling
roomful of us. The master's reading of the new federal and state
regs put the local rules in a different light, but it still didn't
justify his arbitrary manner. By the same token, our private grumbling
hadn't formally alerted him to our anger. Now we all knew better.
By the end of the meeting we were grateful to be more fully informed,
and the committee was willing to apply common sense to some of
our conflicts. John still didn't get any satisfaction, and will
pursue the matter.
Roughshod?
Dishing it up
It's reassuring that conflicts in a small town do get resolved,
eventually, if you wait them out. Earla resigned as town manager
last week, after a second revolt by the other town employees.
She, too, had been using excessive arbitrary authority, so the
story is told. Apparently the iron fist soon gets rusty in this
backwater. And the proposed food concession at the town landing
isn't going to happen. A crowd turned out at selectman's meeting
to debate the proposal, but the newcomers had already gotten the
local drift, and withdrew their application. You still have to
get along with the locals. In this town, at least.
You don't always win, of course. The new abomination on the Town
Hall is nearly complete, and we'll have to live with this eyesore
for the foreseeable. And another confrontation looms. A draft
comprehensive plan has been presented to the selectmen, and will
be discussed and amended at public hearings, to be voted on at
the annual town meeting in June. Although the plan doesn't actually
contain new ordinances, even the nature of the planning recommendations
may raise an eyebrow. The ultimate plan is to control all land
use in the town by fiat, otherwise known as zoning, and there
are enough property rights advocates in these boonies to make
for a good fight.
Turkey Trotskies
The larger conflict is between rational order and intuitive pragmatism.
Can you really write rules which will fit all unique circumstances?
Or do arbitrary regulations impede the evolution of social adaptation?
In our eagerness to outlaw what we see as badacting now, do we
produce unintended consequences equally as pernicious? Should
local moorings be a federal case? Should land use decisions be
shaped by abstract standards conjured up in committee?
The major piece I've been conjuring this month is emblematic of
this dialectic. Athena in the Dawn. Another architectural pediment
for Weld and Molly's new house. The young goddess standing in
the sunrise, with a spear in one hand, and an owl perched on the
other. Weld calls it HOOTIE AND THE VIRGIN.
Hootie and the Virgin
Athena
Athena is, after all , rational consciousness. This piece symbolizes
the dawn of Western rationalism in Periclean Greece. She is virgin,
in the sense of being dispassionate, as well as being pure. Her
spear is the piercing implement of intellectual insight. Her companion
is the bird of wisdom. In this case he is on the edge of waking,
or sleep. One eye is a solar reflection, the other is squinted
tight. Does this imply that true wisdom is closer to dreams? Athena
wears a Medusa's head around her neck. The icon of self-awareness.
Confrontation with Medusa, the aspects of yourself you most fear,
can turn you to stone. The only way to conquer this gorgon is
not to look her in the eye, but to see her reflected in the shield
of Athena. By applying reason to the unconscious.
For me the image is a dialectic between the androgynous rationality
of Athena, and the intuitive wisdom of the owl. All our intellectual
best intentions are worthless without intuition.
Hootie
So I distrust federal regulation of local matters, and comprehensive
planning which pretends to understand how the trees will grow.
I can see the logic of mooring registrations. There are now large
mooring fields in coves by uninhabited islands, inviting the sort
of environmental abuse most sailors take wind to avoid. And I
agree that Bowdoinham should consider how the local water supplies
are recharged, or we will all be thirsty. But I'm too pragmatic
and creative to think that any design by a committee will be artful,
or wise. Or that we can make rules which control how sensible
land use will change over time.
The Virgin may be desirable. But listen for the owl.