Issue 27: Nov/Dec 2002
THE MAN WHO TAUGHT ME TO SAIL died this morning. Email from his daughter-in-law conveyed the sad news. His son, Brian, a friend since childhood and an officer in the U.S. Navy, is on his way home from the other side of the globe.
The news of Nat Klock’s passing blanketed me in an emotional fog. I was further saddened by the knowledge that I would not be able to travel to New Orleans for his funeral. By noon I managed to clear my calendar for the day and found myself tacking out of Bridgeport Harbor into a steady southwest breeze.
I realized, for maybe the first time, just how much I loved it all. I noticed the way the wind first tickles my neck. Then the rigging stiffens. Finally the water begins to foam past the leeward hull.
My love affair with the sea, spanning nearly 30 years now, began on one of those steamy New Orleans afternoons in 1972. Five of us unfolded ourselves from a powder-blue 1965 Mustang and made our way to the water’s edge. I remember looking down at the fiberglass sloop contemplating how I might navigate the three-foot step down to her. I was virtually frozen right there at the water’s edge. I thought to myself, “I’ll never be much of a seaman.” I was victimized by my uncertainty with heights, even three-foot heights.
The weather was with us for our first day. Sailing in calm seas and moderate winds, Mr. Klock methodically went through safety procedures. We learned where the life jackets were stored and how to fasten them properly. He instructed us in the laws governing life on the water.
Crew overboard
All in all, it was a relaxing introduction to boating until our friend, Warren, unexpectedly dove from the boat to retrieve the top to the suntan lotion. There was an instant when I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Someone tossed the flotation cushion toward Warren, who was rapidly growing smaller in our wake. Intercepted by the wind, this salvation was deposited onto the water a good distance from Warren, who hadn’t the sense to be upset by his predicament.
I heard the order, “Prepare to come about,” followed by “Coming about,” and Brian, our future naval officer, bellowed, “Heads down!” as the boat swung around in the murky waters of Lake Ponchatrain. It wasn’t the prettiest tack, but we managed to get around and bring the jib over. Warren was retrieved in short order and soundly scolded for leaving the safety of the boat. I’m surprised he ever sailed with us or even spoke to us again after the way we berated his actions.
Another six weeks into the summer, we arrived at the Klock home for a scheduled sailing adventure to find that Mr. Klock had just come home following an unexpected 16-hour shift. Mr. Klock, Nat to his contemporaries, worked many 16-hour days as a federal law enforcement officer in the New Orleans Transportation Center. Despite this brutish work schedule, he set aside time to spend with his children and, much to my benefit, his children’s friends. This day was to be no different. He sloughed off his fatigue and made good on his promise to observe while we put into action all we had learned. We smartly navigated the congested harbor out past the Coast Guard station and, at some safe distance from the concrete steps of the seawall, we hoisted sail. It was a calm day, almost no wind at all and hot.
owned by Charlie Allen (in foreground). The group would ski until the boat ran out of gas. Then the sailboat would tow it home once more.
Over to you
“I think you boys have it now,” Mr. Klock announced. “I’m going to lie down for a few minutes. Keep an eye on the weather.” And he went below.
New Orleans’ summer heat often turns Lake Ponchatrain into a violent and dangerous place. Mr. Klock hadn’t been below 15 minutes when the sky darkened, and the stifling humidity evaporated before a cold northwest gust. Lake Ponchatrain is a large shallow body of water where wind-driven waves roll deep and close together. The erratic motion of our vessel had Mr. Klock out of his bunk and back on deck before we could discuss the predicament amongst ourselves.
We had sailed through afternoon squalls before and even playfully sailed between squalls to avoid getting wet. But that day we caught an hour and a half of sheer terror at the hands of winds gusting to 70 knots. Cold rain pelted our bare chests and faces until our skin turned red. We downed the jib as we observed the storm’s approach, but no amount of tugging and pulling would release the main halyard from its cleat. It was a tough afternoon. There was talk of cutting the halyard and making me go up the mast to replace it should we survive.
I have a picture in my head of four sneakers at the ends of four legs horizontal to the deck as my friends lost their footing working to release the mainsail. Another more amusing image of Brian — prepared to abandon ship with his jungle hat, orange life vest, and knife — reminds me that we were never in any real danger. Mr. Klock’s stoic nature and fine seamanship kept us off the seawall and upright through the afternoon. That day I learned that there are at least two different, but bona fide, versions of The Lord’s Prayer. That day, I got gut-hooked on sailing.
Inner strengths
My friends and I began to appreciate the ebb and flow of the meteoric elements that produce tranquil mornings and fierce afternoon storms. We learned something about ourselves and our inner strengths. We also had the opportunity to test our darkest phobias and those personal weaknesses usually kept well hidden. There were lessons in seamanship but there was parenting, too.
If sailing is about time, the suspension of time, the gift of time, the precious nature of time, then Mr. Klock shared his most precious commodity — time — with his son and his friends. Spending time with him, we absorbed his good morals and his love of family. We also witnessed a fine example of how to be a husband.
Mr. Klock died this morning. The heart that sustained him through mile after mile of swimming and hour after hour of bodybuilding gave up today just before dawn. But twice a week or so the gift he gave to me will live on. Each time I step from the dock onto a boat to race, cruise, or even just to float, Mr. Klock will be with me. I am reminded of that first man-overboard situation each time I bring the throwable on deck in preparation for a sail. I think of that squall from nowhere every time I cleat a line. And the youngsters who sail on my boat get the same safety lecture I first heard 30 years ago from my mentor, Nathaniel Klock.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
