THE NIGHT WE NEARLY DIED

Based Upon A True Story By Christian Benjamin Seaborn

© 2024 Christian Benjamin Seaborn

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CHAPTER TWO
For the next three and a half months it was difficult for both my brother and me not to think about the sailing adventure we had asked for and which our mother had, albeit reluctantly, agreed to.

As I said, our family business in Portland was Garden Manor, Weddings and Receptions. With the exception of holiday dinner parties and such, largely we lived on the second and third floors of our home while the main floor was used for the weddings and receptions. The bread and butter of the business were the receptions, with parties as many as 300 guests. Still mom never turned away even small weddings without receptions. She had one such small wedding scheduled for the night of Thursday, March 25, 1971. So, we could not embark for the two- and half-hour drive to Seattle until after the thirty-minute wedding had taken place.

Mom was an avid watcher of the evening news. In what we called the TV room on the second floor, she had had the news on. But between the wedding party coming, getting married and leaving, making sure that her sons were packed and ready to leave as soon as the wedding was over and everything else, she had been in and out of the TV room. Not really finding any need to stay glued to the television when they local newscaster said “and now for the weather”.

None of us were in the TV room when the local meteorologist came on.

“We are,” the weatherman had apparently said to nobody listening in our household, “following a rare but major Pacific Ocean storm that has formed off the northern coast of California. We are following this closely. Winds are already at a sustained level of sixty-five miles-per-hour and expected to intensify as the storm moves up the Oregon coast and into Washington State. The fast-moving storm is likely to hit the northern Oregon coast by around nine o’clock tonight. Bringing rain and heavy winds inland into the Portland metropolitan area by around ten o’clock this evening. Based upon current projections, we are advising the public to stay indoors this evening. We will keep you abreast of this rare spring storm on our eleven o’clock news tonight.”

By eight-thirty, under clear skies in Portland, the wedding was over. With Doug, Edie, Steve and Joey all coming from Portland, mom had rented a station wagon for the eight of us to fit into for the drive to Seattle. Elna and Jack, residents of Seattle, would be joining us at the Marina Mart around eleven o’clock. Bill lived aboard his thirty-footer so all he had to do was walk down the dock about fifty feet to join us.

Us four kids could not be more excited about the whole adventure. Joey, having never been out on a boat before in his life, was probably the most animated of all.

Even though we had been talking and dreaming of this for months, still we were peppering dad with the same questions we had been going over for months.

“Will it really be great sailing?” I had asked.

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“It will be memories that you will never forget,” dad promised, nearly as excited as the teenagers in his care.

Dad could not have been more prolific. As the eight of us happily drove north inland on Interstate 5 towards Seattle, one hundred and twenty miles west of us a massive storm was virtually following us up the coastline of Washington State where, a short two hours later, we would meet it head on.

On schedule, we arrived at the Marina Mart at eleven pm where we met Elna and Jack in the otherwise empty parking lot. Jack was this husky fellow who looked a bit foolish with a small Scottish tam-o’ shanter atop his large egotistical head. Of course, nobody said anything. Charles and I knew better than to be rude to a friend of a friend of our parents. But Elna’s friend, Jack, looked ridiculous.

We unpacked our suitcases and food supplies from the station wagon under clear skies in Seattle. It was a beautiful night with just a hint of a cool breeze.

Following the rest of the troop as we approached the locked sky-blue painted doors of the Marina Mart (Circe’s home since she had been launched thirty-nine years earlier), I had a glimpse of a memory from seven years earlier in my basically young life.

It had been a spring weekend in 1965 when Charles, then ten-years-old, and I, at eight, had made our first trip to Seattle. It had been for the funeral of dad’s step-father, Ray Welcome Cook. It had been Ray, whom my brother and I had never met, who had financed the building of the Circe in 1932 and had been, until his death, the sole owner and captain of the Circe, the flagship of the Seattle Yacht Club.

Now with both Ray and dad’s twin gone, ownership of Circe was about to become dad’s yacht.

While nobody, especially mom (with her fear of sailing), was planning on going sailing that weekend (we were, after all, there for a funeral), mom (as a former lawyer) had thought it a wise thing to go down to the marina and just check in on the Circe. As long as we were in Seattle. While she was scared of sailing, as an intelligent lawyer, she knew that the $200,000 Circe was a family asset not to be taken for granted. Whether she, with her fear of the water, liked sailing or not. The Circe, she knew, should not be taken for granted.

For the two young Seaborn boys, who had thus far grown up on all of dad’s sailing stories, even just seeing the mighty Circe and stepping foot on her was an excitement in and of itself in 1965.

As we had approached those same blue doors in 1965, I had wanted to know where the Circe was. It was a marina. Lost on me (I was only eight-years-old, afterall) was the notion that there were other boats there.

Dad had picked me up in his arms just outside the blue doors. Looking over a sea of boats, power and sail, of varying sizes, dad pointed to the largest mast of them all way out at the end of the marina. The rest of Circe was masked by the other boats and the marina itself.

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“You see,” he told me, pointing to the tallest mast there, “out there. That is our Circe.”

This alone had me thrilled.

Mom had been out on Circe, several times, when dad had been dating her up to their October 31, 1952 marriage. Even though she had not been on the boat in thirteen years, she had not forgotten her fears of the whole thing.

As we stepped through the blue doors into a whole other world, the magic of sailing, mom had Charles tightly by one hand and me equally tightly with her other hand. I thought I was going to lose circulation in my hand and arm she had such a firm grip on me.

“Now,” she said, walking us right down the middle of the fifteen-foot-wide sturdy wooden planks of the marina, “a marina is no place to be running and playing. You boys could fall in the water. And drown. Now once we get to the boat you boys listen to everything your father says. He’s the boss. Understand?”

Charles and I both nodded obediently.

It was a little bit of a maze as we made our way past many other boats. Both on our right and left sides. Finally, we came to the last turn.

There, as we made that final turn, before us was apt to be the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

The Circe rocked gently back and forth in her slip.

The white painted hull with a black painted arrow on both sides just below the deck. The arrows running the entire length of the racing yacht. A series of two-feet tall brass stanchions ran along both rims of her teak wood deck. Each stanchion connected to the next stanchion by two ropes. Her sixty-foot-high mast reaching to the heavens atop which was the flag emblem of the Seattle Yacht Club. All sixty-two feet of her was a sight I have never forgotten. So different, so unique from all the pictures I had ever seen of her.

Circe was so big; her slip was outside the sheltered part of the marina. Her bow facing into the marina, her port (left) side came up to the marina. Her starboard (right) side was kept in place by a mooring outside of the marina.

“Now,” mom instructed us, “your father will help you guys get on board.”

“I can do it myself,” Charles (being ten and the older brother) said.

“Like hell,” mom replied. “Your father will get you on and then you’ll sit your fannies down in the middle of the boat.”

Dad had effortlessly just stepped across the two feet expanse of water which separated Circe from the dock. At midship, he opened two of ropes between two of the stanchions. He pulled the boat as close as he dared, given that the mast could hit the tall wooden wall of the marina. There was still about a foot of open space separating the boat from the dock.

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Coming back on the dock, first he picked up Charles and brought him on to the boat. With my brother safely seated at the base of the mast, dad got back onto the dock to get me.

“Nora,” dad said, “if you don’t let go of Chris I can’t get him on board,” referring to her iron grip on my now numb hand.

 

“I cannot get you both on at the same time.”

“I don’t see why not,” mom said, knowing that what she was suggesting was utterly ridiculous.

“Nora,” dad said, begging her to be reasonable.

Reluctantly, she let go of me.

In the safety of my dad’s arms, I looked down at the water as he crossed us over onto Circe before he set me down next to Charles.

“Now you boys don’t go anywhere,” dad said. “While I help your mom on.”

What happened next had to be the funniest thing, or certainly one of them, that my brother and I had ever seen in our lives.

“Okay, Nora, honey,” dad said (knowing how scared she was of the water), “let’s get you on board.”

Mom had not even come close to the edge of the dock. Keeping her two feet solidly in place where they were.

“Nora,” dad said, quite gently, “you will need to step closer.”

Nervously, mom shifted her purse back and forth between her two arms.

“Nora, why don’t you give me your purse,” dad said while viewing this dance she was doing.

Slowly, she took her purse off her arm and handed it to dad who, in turn, passed it over to Charles.

“Okay,” dad said. “Now just give me your hands, dear.”

“Can’t you bring the boat closer?” mom pleaded.

“Nora, if I bring her any closer I’ll have the mast in the marina.”

Mom shuffled her feet back and forth, maybe moving a centimeter closer. Her “dance” was beginning to take a toll on dad’s patience.

“Nora.”

“Don’t rush me,” mom said.

Dad knew that mom was so scared. Yet he also knew she was an intelligent woman. A lawyer. Often, as Charles and I would grow up, he would always credit her for being the smart one in their team.

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“Nora, it’s two o’clock now. At this pace, it will be dark and time to leave.”

His effort of pleading to her intelligent side worked.

She extended her arms. He took them and brought her onboard.

“There. No big deal.”

It wasn’t dad saying that, but her.

It had taken less than a minute to bring Charles and me onboard. It had taken a good five minutes to get mom on. Charles and I were howling with laughter.

“Stop it, boys,” dad said with a bit of admonishment. There was, I’m sure our kind-hearted dad felt, no need to embarrass his wife and the mother of his sons. Ultimately, she tried her best to put her best foot forward where the Circe and sailing were concerned.

If Circe’s exterior, with its teak wooden deck and huge brass winches was a sight to behold, the cabin was a whole other part of the charm.

The cabin was divided into six distinct sections.

Going down the aft (rear) ladder and you were in like somebody’s living room.

Complete with a gas-powered fireplace with the yacht’s name engraved into the wood at the top of the fireplace. To the left of the ladder were both the slots holding different flags and a charting table for the navigator when the boat would be racing. To the right was the ship-to-shore radio, which would play a role on that night in 1971.

There were three bunks in the “living room.” Fastened around the top of the room were small plaques issued by the Seattle Yacht Club of all the races the Circe had either won or at least placed in the top three positions and the year of those racing achievements.

With the exception of the four portholes, the plaques ran side-by-side. So many races. So many victories. So many memories for my dad. It was the racing history of our family’s famous yacht.

(Behind the ladder (which swung out) was the engine room.)

Moving forward, we entered the dining area which also included three more bunks. There was a table which crew or guests could sit and eat at. Like the specific weights in her hull, which guaranteed that Circe could never flip over, Uncle Ben had applied the same math to putting weights in the tan-colored dining table. Even if Circe was sailing at say a thirty-degree angle, the table top would always remain flat.

The two top bunks had ornate curtains which could be drawn closed for privacy. The top starboard bunk was always dad’s bunk when he was onboard. Later, he mounted in his bunk a framed picture of me – when I was ten years old – at the helm.

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Beyond the dining area was the galley (the kitchen) and the head (the bathroom), both which were rather smallish given the overall size of the yacht. Off of the galley was another “ladder” of sorts which would bring you up on deck just forward of the mast. (It was six “steps” one right above each other. Holding on to an upper step with your hands, you would sort of step/pull yourself up on to the deck.)

Finally, beyond that was the sail room which also included two hammocks for sleepers. In total, there was sleeping for eight. Three bunks in the aft cabin (the “living room” which if my step grandfather, Ray, heard me calling it that would likely be rolling over in his grave…but with the gas-powered fireplace in it, there was sort of a living room “feel” to it). Three bunks in the mid cabin (the “dining room” (sorry, Ray). And then the two hammocks in the forwards sail room.
While Charles and I roamed the cabin (with strict instructions by both mom and dad that neither of us were to go back up on deck without one of them), mom went snooping. Exploring the cabin was enough to keep two young boys interested.

“Oh, my gosh,” suddenly came mom’s voice from the galley.

With dad leading the way, the three of us rushed to the galley.

“What is it, Nora?”

Mom was standing in the galley. In one hand she was holding a half-filled coffee can. In her other hand were papers. She was laughing.

“Nora?” dad repeated.

“Leave it to Ray,” she said. “Only Ray would do something like this.”

Ray and my paternal grandmother, Mary Helen (or Mimi, as she preferred everybody calling her…. including her three grandchildren. (addressing her as grandmother was a huge no-no)), had been separated for years. For decades. Ray had lived aboard Circe. For the last thirty years of his life. It was not only his boat and his life, but his home.

“It’s Ray’s Will. In the coffee can.”

Dad had a smile on his face.

Dad’s real dad, my grandfather, Charles Nelson Seaborn, had died falling off an eighty-foot power boat in 1924. When dad and his brother had been ten-years-old. Ray had been the “father” figure he was close to. Knowing his step-dad as well as he had, dad was not in the least bit surprised that, of all places, Ray would keep his Will onboard in a coffee can.

Being a lawyer and dad’s wife, mom flipped through the pages of the Will. It was not a very complicated document so it was not very long. In spite of being the owner of the best-known racing yacht in the Pacific Northwest, Ray had not been a rich man. For a living, he had been a Buick car salesman. He had sold his previous boat, the 40’ Claribel, in order to 

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finance the building of the Circe. When he died in 1965 he had two assets. A diamond dinner ring which, in the Will, he had left to his niece in Florida and, of course, the Circe.

“And to my son, John (Jack) Henry Seaborn, the love of my life, I leave the Circe,” mom read aloud from the papers in her hand. “Jack, may the wind always be at your back.”

Mom folded the paper back up.

“I suppose,” mom said, thinking as an attorney, “we should probably put this some place safe.”

(Most people would keep important documents either in a safe or with their lawyer. Certainly not with the coffee.)

“Put it back in the coffee can, dear,” dad said, a tear in his eye. “I can’t think right now of any better place to keep it.”

Mom, whom had become quite fond of her step-father-in-law during those early Circe outings before she and dad were married (and before Charles and I were even born), also, with both a tear in her eye and yet a smile at the memory of Ray, carefully folded the Will back up, put it back in with the coffee and carefully put it back on the shelf where Ray had put it for safekeeping.