Standing Tall

By Jean Hartley I pull my scarf up around my ears and breathe into the wool to create a little warmth. It’s August of 2007, and I am serving my midnight-to-4 a.m. watch duty on the bridge of the tall ship Lord Nelson in the middle of the North Sea. A pale yellow moon casts a path of shimmering silver on the water. As I look over the ship’s hull, my imagination prompts me to be on the lookout for submarine periscopes and telltale lines in the water as torpedoes rush to their mark.

There were no submarines, but many large container ships, barges and oil carriers underway for foreign ports. I had never experienced the serenity of the open sea. I had never felt what it’s like to be responsible for a ship and its passengers. Small though my part may have been, I felt like a nanny protecting the sleeping children below. The feeling was good. How did I come to fly alone, 8,804 miles from Kona, Hawaii, to London, England, to join a seafaring venture with 40 strangers? Why risk the distance and expense for seven days that could be too difficult and scary?

I remind myself that I had already done the “difficult and scary.” I have travelled as an adult with a disability to 32 countries, the biggest challenge being six trips to Africa between 2000 and 2007. The “scary” was experiencing a zipline in Salem, Oregon, in the summer of 2006. That day, I travelled at 55 kilometres per hour over the treetops while hooked to a cable, survived a giant swing with my heart in my mouth, and discovered that I am valued for who I am regardless of the body package I have worn since 1941 when polio stole the use of my legs.

I returned to Hawaii with a new appetite for going beyond familiar limits. I was hungry for more, but where? I Googled “adventures for disabled” on my computer and discovered a long list of products, travel agents and opportunities far too gentle for my taste. Then I found an entry that sounded romantic and daring: “Jubilee Sailing Trust offers the unique experience of crewing a tall ship regardless of physical ability.”

Jubilee Sailing Trust is a British charity that has enriched the lives of people with disabilities since 1977. Its fully accessible, three-masted ships, Lord Nelson and Tenacious, were designed to take on persons with disabilities as half of their hands-on crew, the only ships in the world with this purpose. Since her maiden voyage in 1986, Lord Nelson has taken over 9,000 people with disabilities to sea.


I selected a seven-day voyage on Lord Nelson, leaving from London and ending at the historic port of Chatham, Kent, in the southeast of England. On August 26th, I stood at the quayside at Canary Wharf in central London. The ship’s medical purser, Rachel Denton, who has made 10 journeys on tall ships, met me at the gangway. She showed me my sleeping alcove (a curtained cubby with two bunks and storage space). She explained how the “differently abled” are accommodated: four self-operated lifts that make all decks accessible, adapted bathrooms, Braille signs on railings, a speaking compass, non-slip decks and extra-wide doors. During voyages, although Denton has her medical kit at the ready, her medicine is encouragement, which she freely dispenses.

The other voyagers made their way up the gangway, an interesting parade of wheelchairs, canes and nervous smiles. Some arrived alone, others with their buddies. I was the only “Yank” aboard, and we soon compared our different uses of the English language. This trip was the 50th sailing for one man who had meningitis in his 20s. Aside from the wheelchair users, I wondered, who is disabled? And what difference did it make? My old attitudes were already being challenged.

Sitting on a ring of rope in the bow, Capt. Simon Catterson told me in his distinctive Scottish accent, “Jean, I defy anyone to come on one of our trips and not have it change their attitude toward people with disabilities.” Capt. Simon, an officer in the Royal Navy for 10 years, explained that Lord Nelson and Tenacious take on a crew of about 40 per trip, nine of whom are salaried, professional seamen. Both ships do voyages in the British Isles. Winter finds Lord Nelson in the Canary Islands off the coast of North Africa and Tenacious in the Caribbean.

My immediate contact was my watch leader, Welshman David Tombs, who guided his group of eight in the daily routine of tasks that duplicate those of a working naval vessel. We were not drinking tea in deck chairs. This was not a sissy cruise. We all worked the ropes to set the sails, and those who were able climbed the ratlines to furl or unfurl the large square ones. One young man who was blind confidently ascended the rope ladder unassisted to work the main sail.

After breakfast each day, everyone joined in for “happy hour,” when we swabbed the decks (and the toilets and the galley and every inch of the 180-foot ship). I got to polish the big brass bell on the bridge or assist the cook, David Stanley, with peeling onions.

Cook David turned out three top quality meals a day in his small galley. He served on the Queen Elizabeth II’s around-the-world voyage in 1986 and has spent 28 years at sea. He may have been the most popular person aboard, as there was always a snack left out for the midnight watch. The highlights of the day were the morning and afternoon “smokos”: tea and biscuits on deck and a smoke for those who do. Like the captain, Cook David is pleased that voyages on Lord Nelson defy stereotypes about disability. He told me, “I like to see people do things that they usually don’t do.”

In addition to ship maintenance, sail work aloft (off the ground), safety procedures and evacuation drills, Tombs showed us the radar instruments in the chart room. We each took a turn at the helm on the bridge. The directional settings for the wheel offered computer generated voice signals that allowed sailors who have vision disabilities to hold or alter the course. What a thrill it was to be at the wheel, guiding the ship through the North Sea – waters of significance during the Second World War, when they were patrolled by the Royal Navy to prevent enemy infiltration of Britain.

Tombs is a retired social worker who has crewed 16 trips in 12 years. He believes in the philosophy of Jubilee Sailing Trust: “Include, not exclude.” He encouraged our watch to try everything, even if we barely pulled the ropes or just managed to stay upright on the moving deck. I depended on the safety of my harness with its clip attachment for balance. I couldn’t be on the rope line or climb aloft, but I sure could peel onions and polish hardware.

Our 359-nautical-mile journey took us from London east on the Thames River, through the locks and out to the open sea. We said farewell to the town of Margate, the last outpost on the mainland. We sailed across the North Sea to dock in Middleburgh, Holland, where we enjoyed a night in calm waters.

That evening, we were given shore leave to enjoy the village. Here my heart was sorely tested. Because my polio was barely noticeable to others when I was a young adult, I had often “passed.” Denial allowed me to see myself as “normal,” so I did not want to be associated with “crippled people.” This corrosive attitude continued through adulthood and raised its ugly head in Middleburgh. Because our destination coffee shops were far and difficult to find, 12 of us formed a parade of wheelchairs and blind people holding the arms of friends, the slower among us bringing up the rear with halting steps. I was in the middle of my worst nightmare: being seen as “crippled” in public.

For a moment, I was sucked into the horror of the scene. I could either laugh or cry. God gave me the grace to laugh. As we made our way through the streets together, that corrosive corner of my heart was healed – I would not have to bear that burden again.

On board, we were encouraged to go aloft to the best of our abilities. Some could do “assisted climbs,” ascending the ratlines with an experienced crew member, but my leg braces did not let me do that. Instead, three of us viewed the world from the “tops,” a platform 12 metres up the main mast. Secured in a wheelchair, I was hoisted up by a pulley. (Just in case someone manning the ropes got distracted, I called upon attending angels as a back-up plan.) It was peaceful aloft, perhaps the same serenity mountain climbers enjoy when they summit.

The most astonishing wheelchair ascent was by a young man with cerebral palsy whom I’ll call Rick, who lives in a group home with full-time attendants. He uses a communication device with 120 symbols that he activates with pressure on his headrest. His attendant told me that the ship’s adapted equipment allowed Rick to try what others did. He was part of the team working the rope line. (He could not grip the rope, but it could slide between his fingers.) With assistance, he sailed the ship. And, in the process of participating, his world expanded. Rick proved the ethos of Jubilee Sailing Trust: “To provide a tall ship sailing experience for everyone irrespective of age, sex, physical ability or sailing experience.”

 The third wheelchair climber was a feisty Londoner named Paul. He’d enjoyed an exciting career as an international tour manager for stars such as Stevie Wonder and The Beatles. Multiple sclerosis changed his glamorous lifestyle at the age of 45.
“I can do everything on the ship that I can do at home,” he said. Paul also entertained us with his sharp wit and sophisticated banter during evenings in the lounge. “This is my first journey, but it won’t be my last,” he declared. “I’m already planning for the Caribbean run in the winter of 2008.”

Among our five blind or partially sighted crew was a gifted fellow called Sid who was doing his 20th tall ships journey. He moved about the ship easily using sensory navigation, Braille guides and an occasional helping arm. Sid is a talented mimic with a repertoire of 15 dialects. At breakfast, England’s prime minister, Gordon Brown, surprised us by calling for more coffee, only to be answered with the Texan drawl of George Bush.

Because of wind direction, we tacked north on our return to the port city of Chatham. A few days later, Lord Nelson would take on another integrated crew and head for new ports of call.

Disembarking in Chatham harbour on the first of September was a sad affair. We had lived so close, laughed so much and come to admire each other’s “personal best.” I will long remember the spirited laughter coming from the galley, the gentle rocking of the ship at night as I settled into my bunk, and the rowdy crowd at breakfast (along with the prime minister). But most of all, I cherish my acceptance of my disabled self.

The body may not work too well, but the heart is not “disabled.” My attitude has shifted and my spirit has been set free. I left my heart up on the bridge at 3 a.m., feeling very tall and very strong.

For more information about Jubilee Sailing Trust, visit www.jst.org.uk. Jean Hartley lives on the Big Island of Hawaii. In April, she will launch www.disabledadventureshawaii.com to link visitors to accessible sports, activities and transportation in her community.