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"Theirs was a society that was defined by itself, not by one church or one flag. They explored and assimilated world cultures, taking what they liked and leaving the rest. Just look at the music."
It was typical for most pirate articles of agreement to include a declaration that shipboard musicians were allowed one full day of rest. It was a necessary assurance. Sea chanteys were the work songs used on square-rigged ships during the Golden Age of Sail -- their rhythms coordinated the efforts of sailors hauling lines or raising anchor, which could take hours -- but the pirate's love of song was unparalleled, even among seamen. Apparently, it still is.
Taking a seat on the bare planks below deck on the 1895 schooner C.A. Thayer, I watch as would-be pirates begin to arrive for the "Chantey Sing," which the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park has hosted every month since 1981. The sea music community is informal and cozy, but its participants are devoted. With couples like Thad Binkley and Phyllis Jardine having returned every month for over 20 years, and people like Jerry and Bev Paver coming from as far as Cambria to join in the chorus, it's not surprising that more than a few children have grown up on the Thayer. As is customary, the families arrive first, with their children wrapped in sleeping bags, to stake out floor space and set up camp. Meanwhile, in the galley, park volunteer Alice Watts prepares hot mulled cider, tea, coffee, and cocoa. As the berth fills with sailors' caps and snow-white beards, chantey leader Peter Kasin begins to sing; by the second chorus, everyone has picked up the tune. The first three hours of the sing are devoted exclusively to chanteys, a cappella sing-alongs with numerous repetitive choruses, and everyone is invited to lead at least once, regardless of his or her current state of memory or voice. After 11 p.m., when the families have gone home to tuck their children, the sing becomes more casual, allowing room for x-rated chanteys and fourbitters, the ballads sailors sing in their off hours. While a number of regulars come armed with fresh songs and lyric books, it's the relative newcomers who steal the evening: 34-year-old Carleen Duncan, with her achingly beautiful treatment of "Nancy of Yarmouth," and 22-year-old Joni (who wouldn't give a last name) with her sex- and sweat-laden "Friggin' in the Riggin'" and her utterly rousing rendition of "Run Come See Jerusalem."
Joni, a onetime drummer for several Michigan punk bands and a salty wench through and through, is no stranger to the sings, or to the Pyrate Punx, but L.J. Quinn's Lighthouse in Oakland is where she belongs.
Quinn's is a small, crowded bar perched over the Oakland estuary where whiskey flows like water and peanut shells cover the floor. It is also home to a loose confederacy of five folk singers who have heard the call of the sea and turned feral. Calling themselves Starboard Watch, these silver-haired rapscallions dress in black, drink like demons, and growl and hoot through classics like "We'll Rant and We'll Roar." All told, the players have been together between 10 and 20 years, performing for fans who show their devotion by hurling peanut shells and contributing thundering baritones, and they are nothing short of amazing.
Skip Henderson, the blurry-eyed captain of the schooner parked at the dock below, is Starboard's principal singer. Jim Nelson, the banjo-playing devil with the fresh sailor tattoo, has a voice worth gold. Together, they're good enough to keep a ghost ship hopping. But by 10 o'clock at Quinn's, most of crowd and much of the band is three sheets to the wind, so the quintet packs up and divides the love offerings gathered in their tip jar. (Henderson recently sold his song, "Billy Bones" to the upcoming Johnny Depp feature, Pirates of the Caribbean, but, looking at the take, pirate songs don't generally feed the kitty.) They tip their hats and smile.
Looking for a ride to BART, I follow behind Bill Jansen, a longtime Starboard Watch fan who comes up from San Jose every week with his best friend, Al Magness, and his two grandchildren -- 2-year-old Ethan and 5-year old Mason -- just to sing along.
"In warm weather, we all just sleep on the boat and have breakfast at Quinn's in the morning," says Jansen as we walk down the dock.
We climb aboard a small sailboat called the Stray Cat and make room for John Blakemore, who also needs a ride home. Exhausted by the night's revelry, the children curl up in their life jackets and pass out with their cheeks pressed on the cool cabin walls. The men begin to sing "Black Velvet Band," their euphonic tones drifting into the night as we slice through the inky water. In the distance, city lights shimmer like mermaid scales and the stars quiver. The men pass around flasks and talk among themselves about the ship they are building and the commission they have to sail a friend's boat up the coast; contented exclamations of "aargh!" roll off their lips at every opportunity. They point out the pearls of Orion's Belt and sing another song as we glide through the lanes of Blakemore's quiet houseboat neighborhood. They serenade one of their friends recently returned from Quinn's, but, having a lady friend aboard, he does not join in the chorus. Saying farewell to Blakemore, we ease back into open water, and I begin to feel the pirate in my veins.
"What's a pirate's favorite letter?" asks Jansen.
"Aaaar!" we respond with gusto.
