Know when to nip those nasty uprisings

By Tom Snyder
Until this past summer, I have always felt that the British Navy was way too hard on mutineers. Never ashamed to weigh in on this issue, I would regularly stand up at parties to say those very words: “The British Navy was way too hard on mutineers.” I didn’t care whom I said it to. I have literally burned bridges (figuratively speaking) between myself and those people who claim that the British Navy was not hard on mutineers. That’s just how I am.

However, all that said, this summer I began to appreciate the thinking behind the harshness of British officers. Here is how my eyes were opened.

My family and I were sailing to Camden from Rockland. As usual, I chose to have the sails up whenever possible, and in our fifth or sixth hour en route, my daughter, Amy, said she thought we should fire up the diesel for the last few hundred yards. She claimed that we had been moving backwards for quite a while. Obviously she was revealing a complaint that had been brewing below decks.

What I did next may surprise people who don’t appreciate the fine line that a ship’s captain must walk. I put my hands authoritatively on my hips (there was no danger in temporarily letting go of the wheel in a 1-knot breeze gusting to 2 knots) and simultaneously stamped my right foot. Needless to say, I had everyone’s full attention. Then I said, in a very low octave, “I will not have it!”

They knew exactly what was going on. They all retreated to the main salon, where they played Scrabble for the final three hours of our trip to Camden.

Too harsh? I don’t think so. If anything, I was too gentle in putting asunder what will go down in our family lore as “the insurrection that never was.”

Consider the realities of the situation plus a little bit of background: In any developing mutiny there is always a leader, usually a malcontent. Sure, some may claim that the animus behind mutiny stems from the neurotic and self-centered behavior of a captain. Yeah, right! As if. In this case, plain and simple, the malcontent was my son, Tim. I had been watching him since breakfast as he surreptitiously engaged in the subtle and destructive work of coalition building. One gets a sense for these things with time spent before the mast (or in my case, behind). One detects here a shared furtive glance, there the slightest roll of the eyes. I recognized that things were coming to a head when I saw that the entire crew was conferring in the galley.

I intended to play this one out perfectly. I didn’t want to display my fear, and I needed time to plan my next move. I allowed their conspiracy to continue in the galley. If I had challenged them at that point, Tim would have clung to some fiction about “deciding what to eat for an afternoon snack.” And my wife, under his spell, would have backed him up. No, better to wait.

Better to attack at the weakest link – Amy. She was the youngest, shortest, and lightest. If I went after Tim, he would exploit the politics of resentment to sway the crew. So I waited. And, lo!, Amy delivered the next move to me. She incautiously tipped her hand and, as I explained above, asked about turning on the diesel. I made my move with Tim below eating chips. I was all over Amy like a cheap suit. Remember, this was where I stamped my foot (with hands on hips) (“I will not have it,” etc.). Just as I had hoped, she caved immediately, saying something defeatist like “whatever.” The rest of the crew became despondent and it was over.

So I ask again: Too harsh? Same answer. I shudder to think about how close I came to losing authority in a potentially challenging sailing situation, what with the aforementioned erratic wind. So now when I meet someone with a British accent, I judge them less harshly and silently join them in the lonely place I like to call officers’ country.

Tom Snyder lives in Cambridge, Mass., with his wife, Anne, and children. He sails his Island Packet 350, Blue moon, out of Hingham, Mass., and Peaks Island, Maine.