MAY THE CIRCLE BE UNBROKEN by Captain Buddy Ward I stepped from the car into an ice-cold wind that blew from the northeast at a steady twelve knots. Instinctively I turned up my collar and pulled the woolen watch cap down over my ears. An unnecessary glance at my watch reminded me of the brutality of the hour; it was 0145. We had to be underway by 0200. As I walked Out onto the dock, I was met by the unique fragrance that is created when pluff mud, diesel exhaust, and creosote-treated pilings are mixed together in the cold night air. The aroma took me back to the days of my childhood when I walked hand in hand with my grandfather down the long dock at the Coast Guard Base. I climbed down onto the cold steel decks of the tug Christopher B. Turecamo, stepped into the galley for a quick cup of coffee, then climbed to the wheelhouse. Thankfully, PaPa (as my engineer was affectionately known) had run the heater as he warmed up the engine. The memories, the smells, and the familiar rumblings of the great diesel engine combined to put my mind in quite a reflective mood as I engaged the engine and backed clear of the dock. With a spin of the wheel, I throttled up into a turn, then eased the helm and steadied the tug onto the first leg of an outbound course. The bridge to bridge radio crackled with the call of a vessel just entering the shipping channel. "Security call, security
call. Tug Doris Moran and barge New York inbound, Fort Sumter range, checking for any concerned traffic, channel thirteen." We had been dispatched to meet the Doris at the entrance to the jetties and provide escort and assistance as needed. Steam, rose from my coffee as I took another sip, then turned onto Mt. Pleasant Reach. The wheelhouse was suddenly bathed in the pure white light as a beam swept over us. For a moment I was mesmerized by the rotating beacon. Subconsciously I watched and began to count the vi CAPTAIN BUDDY WARD; distinctive sequence that is the signature of Charleston Light - two flashes every thirty seconds. I returned to my coffee and the tasks at hand, but I could not free myself from the memories dredged up by every pass of the light. I was thirteen the year the new lighthouse was completed on Sullivans Island. On Friday, June 15, 1962, at 1830 hours, the grand new light was activated. Seventy-million candlepower reached Out some twenty miles to sea. "The most powerful light in the Western Hemisphere!" boasted The News and Courier There were many concerns that the citizens of Sullivans Island would not be able to sleep or that motorists traversing the Cooper River Bridge would be distracted. Careful adjustments were made and shoreside windows were painted black. I,
too, became caught up in the distractions. The massive rectangular tower, then red over white, some fifteen stories tall, was the first lighthouse ever to sport an elevator. I rode to the top with my grandfather and several local dignitaries for a final inspection of the light room. All the talk of the day was of newer, stronger, bigger, better. The Coast Guard wanted to demolish the now abandoned light on Morris Island. Had there not risen such a cry from local fishermen and shrimpers, the old lighthouse would have met its demise that week It seemed that the boat captains were quite dependent on the old tower for their logs and navigational practices, The Coast Guard agreed to leave the monolith but warned everyone that it was condemned and could not long stand. Once again the radiant beam swung around and washed over the tug. My mind wandered back to other lights and other places. Last year I helped a friend bring his boat back from the Bahamas. As we traveled up the southeast coast, I found the lighthouses to be remarkable, not so much from a standpoint of marking our position (satellites now do that quite well) but as a way of defining and welcoming us to each port. I looked at the color of the deep red brick of Ponce de Leon Light and felt the power, the shape, and the energy of the inlet. I looked at the stately barber pole striping of the tall light at Saint Augustine and remembered the class and the hospitality of that tine old city. I saw Haig Point, the simple quiet light on the back side of Daufusike Island, pointing the way across Calibogue Sound and thought of the irrevocable changes that had come to the people of that
once undeveloped island. Besides the precious few that remained operational, there were many more who stood alone and abandoned none more so than our own Morris Island Light. When I was eleven, I was told she would not last a year. Certainly she could not withstand the next hurricane. But Gracie came and went, as did Cleo and Dora, Alma and Abby, Gladys and David, then the horrendous winds of Hugo. Yet she still stands, waves lapping at her feet, still serving as best she can those who have abandoned her. "We must remember," I told myself, "in these days of high tech radii is, electronic beacons, satellites, and lasers. We must take time to look and to remember, for our children's children will never know them as we have." "Flash!" The sequence began again. The powerful beam reached into the wheelhouse and drew my mind from its wanderings. "Enough!" The light seemed to say, "Remain vigilant!" I peered out of the starboard side window and turned my attention seaward. The lights of the Doris Moran drew ever closer. I could hear her engines straining against the heavy tow. I spun the wheel hard over and began a long slow turn that lined the tug up alongside the massive black barge. It was time to begin the day's work.
The Journey is t he Destination by Captain Buddy Ward From the Asiatic Sea to the Conch Republic, Captain Lem Brigman has seen and lone it all. I recently had the great honor of spending the day with Lem aboard his pride and joy, the Toni & Donna. This ancient mariner" is an amazing man. A veteran of World War II, serving in the Asiatic Sea, Lem had one of the most colorful and
It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. By the long beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
adventurous naval careers I lave ever known. Amongst other duties that included hard-hat diving on a sunken German J-boat and clandestine operations along the DEW line in Greenland, Lem was the captain aboard the USS Umpqua. This navy tug was the last coal-fired steam tug to operate in Charleston Harbor. During the war, the Umpqua and another Navy tug found a sunken German U-boat by streaming six thousand fathoms of
beyond. In fact, he says he has sailed her over seven thousand miles since he built her. That’s right, I said built. For this is the the third large sailing vessel he has built or rebuilt since he left the Navy in the early 1960’s. The Toni & Donna is a true merging of form and functionality. The vessel combines the wisdom of the ages with the brilliance of her captain. I ask Lem why he built her, and he answered “Because I wanted her to be right. I built her in three months.” When I expressed surprise at the short span of time he laughed and said “When you go to build a boat, you should build a boat, not talk about it.” His eyes sparkled as he sang her praises. "She only draws three and a half feet with the boards up, eleven with them down. And I can drop my masts and get under a fourteen-foot bridge. People ask me how I handle this boat all by myself," he said with a smile. "I tell 'em it's simple. I work one sail at a time.” cable between the boats and dragging the waters off of the South Carolina coastline. She stayed on scene and supported the diving operation. "Our only protection, “ Lem told me, "was a British fishing boat that would warn us by signal lights if another member of the German wolf pack approached. Then we'd have to pack up and run for it while they dropped depth charges.” The honored old tug ended her career providing steam and electricity for the construction effort during the expansion of the Naval Station here in Charleston. After this boatswain's mate the only rate that really matters in the navy, by the way retired, he set sail in earnest. For years he skippered the Panacea. This beautiful old schooner was a Gill Smith sloop built at the turn of the century. She was sunk when Lem first saw her, but he loved what he saw, salvaged her by pumping air into trashcans to raise her to surface. Then this master sailman traveled to his sister’s property in Kentucky where he selected three grand popIar trees from which he shaped the masts for Panacea's thousand square feet of sail. "There's a real trick to shaping a mast with broad axe" he said, beaming with pride, adding that it takes great patience. Lem took this fine lady down the coast of South America and around into the Pacific. For years he carried the adventures that a lot of us only dream about. Now in his mid-eighties, with a flying white beard (he stopped shaving upon reentering civilian life) and full whited of hair, Lem single-hands his sixty-foot, forty-ton, steel- hullled schooner from Virginia to the Florida Keys, and points
Below deck this unique craft has three watertight cabins that can be converted to water tanks or can provide guests: with much needed privacy. Toni & Donna, named for his daughters, has seen the world with Lem at the helm. From the Great Lakes to Tortola, to the coast of Central America, together they have wandered far and wide. "We don't sail as far as we used to," he said. “No more than a year or so from a stateside port. My night vision is not what it used to be, so nowadays I take someone along.” This trip is an enthusiastic and affable young apprentice named Forrest who recently signed on with Lem as a deckhand to learn "everything there is to know about sailing," with the goal of someday commanding his own vessel and living the sailor's life. Captain Lem set sail in early October and will not return until the spring. I will miss my new- found friend and eagerly await his return. The Toni & Donna and crew are headed for the Keys where they will winter over. "Last year we were in the Key West Christmas Boat Parade," he said as he showed me the cannon he has mounted on the bow. "We fired beer cans at the judge's stand and we still won." Let those who have ears hear and let the judges be forewarned. THE WATER LOG Maritime Journal
HOLIDAY 2002