A Mariner for Life

"If I can't see a body of water, I'm too far away." I come from a long line of maritime professionals; mainly Alaskan commercial fishers. Growing up, I was frequently around boats of varying sizes do to the fact that my parents own and operate a jet boat guide service on the Snake River that gives tours of Hells Canyon. If I was not around boats, I was playing in the creek that ran through my parent's property. As the oldest of three, and a Male, my parents expected that I would not go empty-handed, and would be treated like anybody else, regardless of my visual impairment. As a child of two maritime parents, I learned quite a lot about water, about vessels of all shapes and sizes, and a moderate amount of nautical terminology. For example, I learned the terms Left and Right, and then the nautical equivalents (Port and Starboard). Like many kids, I played with Legos, and put my nautical knowledge to work building vessels, and then testing their "seaworthiness," in the kitchen sink or the bathtub. My father was often present for these buoyancy tests, and was happy to provide me with suggestions for improvement. It was a great father-son bonding experience, but my father's suggestions also taught me several scientific principals, including buoyancy, density and water displacement. Knowing these concepts would help me to master my physical science classes in high school and college. I learned to run a jet boat by age eight. Often times on a calm stretch of the river, usually on a cargo run into Hells Canyon my father would let me drive; and what an experience. Running a jet boat, specifically a 40-foot aluminum landing-craft style boat on a free-flowing river is nothing like, say, a pontoon boat on a lake. My father and I had a system down: He would tap on my Left shoulder indicating a Left (Port) turn, and would tap on my right shoulder, indicating a Right (Starboard) turn. In addition, the terms "throttles ahead, or throttles astern meant speed up or slow down respectively. As I got older and more confident at the controls, my father would guide me through one or two class 2 (smaller sized rapids). Traversing the rough and rocky waters required cat like reflexes; if I hesitated, I could've run over large, sharp rocks that often times lay less than 2 feet below the surface of the water. My father added additional commands for manipulating the throttle controls in these situations: "throttles ahead/astern a quarter," meant to increase or decrease power by one quarter. I went kayaking and stand-up paddle-boarding with some friends a few weeks ago, and was reminded of how natural I feel around water. I have always been relatively good at water sports, and they always give me a sense of freedom that is hard to describe. These freeing sensations were born with my maritime experience. As a teenager helping my father around the jet boats, I can remember sitting in the captain's chair, putting my right hand on the heavy, chromed, ball-shaped throttle lever handles and pushing them all the way forward. The bow of the boat rising out of the water and planing smoothly a crossed the surface is one of the most freeing experiences I have ever felt. Using the joystick in my left hand to turn the boat gave me the sensation of being connected to the vessel. It was if the joystick was an extension of my hand. Perhaps that's why I felt confident in driving a boat. Whenever I participate in water sports, or handle boats of varying shapes and sizes, I'm reminded of this natural connection to the watercraft. Being around the water, and running a boat is an incredibly tactual and freeing experience, and is second to the same type of freedom that I get from walking at a heart pounding, three-and-a-half mile an hour pace with my guide dog.