Schooner Harpooned by Whale... Page 2
By noon the diving began. During the five weeks she lay onthe bottom, Merlin had heeled over with the hole up, the perfect position for patching it under water. Ward had carefully cut six pieces of plywood to cover the five foot hole in layers, numbered them in the order they would go on, and covered the inner ones with tar and tarpaper. Each piece was readied for the divers on the deck ofthe Tana, the edges coated with tar and the nails started. It would be enough effort for the divers just to position the large sheets of plywood under water and drive the nails home.
By the time the patch was in place and the slings for the lift bags readied around the hull, it was dark. Early the next morning the ticklish business of actually raising her began.  First, small float bags were attached to the mast and rigging, and inflated in order to bring her into an upright position. Then the six large lift bags were attached on each side of the three slings; bow, stern, and amidships. Air hoses went to each bag from a manifold on Snorkel's bow. Slowly, the bags were inflated—a little air to this one, then the next—the object being to raise the boat slowly to the surface on an even keel. A mistake could cause one side of the boat to careen wildly up to the surface, setting the whole operation back, stressing the boat, and putting people at risk.
To those watching, it seemed painfully slow, but for Ward and the divers it was intense. At last, the stern broke the surface. From Mycia's deck, we sent up a spontaneous cheer. On Snorkel they kept working, continuing to inflate the bags on the bow. As the bow rose, the stern sank, until the whole boat hung just below the surface.
The sky was growing blacker and blacker, a mean wind had come up, and the afternoon was wearing on. It was vital to get her into a more sheltered place. Slowly Snorkel pulled her, like a halfsubmerged submarine, toward the island at the entrance to the inner harbor. She could be beached on the sand there, if it became necessary. We were thankful to have the Northern Mariner, a large fish packer, standing by with generator and pumps, and providing a large platform to tie to.
It was growing dark as the pumping began. The top of Merlin's wheelhouse barely stuck above the water, but they began to pump through the hatch in the roof. With the windows and doors closed, the wheelhouse was tight enough to pump through. In the yellow glow of the Northern Mariner's deck lights, withpumps roaring and water spewing into the night, Merlin slowly rose like some long-dead creature from the deep.
But once up, would she stay up? Water was coming through the patched hole rapidly. The pump would have to be manned in shifts all night. I volunteered to take the first shift, so the workers could sleep. Sitting on a deck chair on the sloping, slimy deck, the boat had an eerie feel. I ventured into the wheelhouse. My flashlight revealed a jumble of debris, with a bright chartreuse liquid puddled on the floor (later determined to be signal dye from an emergency kit). The chart table had come off its hinges and lay askew, blocking passage. Oddly, amidst the pulp of books, a pair of sneakers sat neatly side by side. I went back out and shone the flashlight down the main hatch into the bilge. The water had risen. I pulled the cord on the temperamental gas pump, and to my relief, it started sucking water. I settled back into the deck chair. Was the stern sinking? The deck seemed to be sloping at an increasing angle, although I was pumping periodically. Or was it my imagination? It was that hour of the night when it was hard to know. I was glad when I could turn it over to the next watch.
The next morning she was still floating, but taking on water too fast to risk towing her through the open outside waters. To slow the leaking, we thought of the old life preservers. We slit them open and the divers put handfills of the kapok into the seams of the patch—the water pressure sucked it right into the seams. The leaking slowed, and we rigged for the long tow to town.
She moved in tow behind Mycia like a ghost ship—no noise of sails or engine, but moving faster than she often had in life, and rolling from gunnel to gunnel as she never had before. Five weeks on the bottom had waterlogged her to the core, but she was going for one more ride. If the Maritime Heritage Society was a success, it would not be her last. At dark she put into Sitka—the oldest American-built wooden schooner on the West Coast being towed by what was likely the newest.
On Tuesday morning she went up in the boatyard, courtesy of Halibut Point Marine. Mobile Marine donated their services and had the engine running by the next day. With the plywood patch pulled off, the hole made very convenient access for working.
Then, as we began the task of mucking out the interior of the boat, Ward found it—a piece of baleen, the 'tooth' of a whale, wedged inside the boat near the hole.
We had never hoped to find evidence of a whale. Ward expected to be considered a crackpot for the rest of his life. But there it was - a piece about 15" by 4", with six plates of baleen. Jan Straley, a local whale biologist, identified it as humpback baleen, and took a DNA sample which later confirmed it.
From the position of the hole, the whale must have been attempting to jump clear of the water, or 'breach'. It smashed through the hull under the galley table, and must have had its head stuck inside the boat, leaving behind its baleen as it struggled to free itself. What could have possessed a humpback whale to ram an anchored boat? Ward's favorite theory is that the whale was being pursued by a pod of killer whales which had been seen in the vicinity soon after the sinking. Perhaps the whale was trying to shake them off, and forgot to look where he was going. But Ward has learned to be careful with his theories and is quick to point out that no one will ever really know.
Merlin is back in her old stall at Crescent Harbor in Sitka now, for the time being. The hole has been replanked as good as new. She is the property of the Sitka Maritime Heritage Society. It feels like a triumph for a community effort and for the boat. It is also a dangerous time. The excitement of the raising is over, and the initial contributions have been consumed, but the work has just begun. The Society has a vision. Merlin will go on as a working schooner, used to teach first boat repair, then sailing. She will be the flagship of a museum to commemorate Sitka' s maritime history and culture, from Tlingit and early Russian times to modern day fishing, a place where locals and tourists alike can learn about Sitka's links with the sea. In time they hope that other boats, representative of other aspects of Sitka's seafaring heritage, will join Merlin in a Sitka Seaport, which will be a living place offering apprenticeships in boat building and marine repair, classes in navigation and seamanship. It is an ambitious vision which will require energy and money.
Ward looks at Merlin now with a mixture of melancholy and pride. She isn't his anymore, and that marks the end of an era of his life. But he can still be a part of her future, and he takes great satisfaction in knowing that Merlin lives on.
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