First Sail
Most people who start companies, or any large endeavor, thoughtfully spend their first year preparing to present themselves to the world. They take the time to plan, prepare, and build a brand that is cohesive, polished, and marketable.
But not us.
We couldn’t wait. Once our first Viking ship replica was donated to us, we spent a few “short” months scrambling to get ourselves ready for the summer season of fairs and festivals—overworked and tired from the mad dash of people building something wholly new, or at least new to all of us.
Without a clear picture of what we were even attempting, we found ourselves in a constant state of redesign. It was chaos. It was maddening. And more often than not, we were at each other’s throats.
But we pushed through it all. We were building a dream—the dream for us—and we knew that the payoff was coming.
Our second event that first year was Poulsbo Viking Fest, and we had arranged with the port to park our boat on the water and sail her throughout the weekend. They gave us the seaplane dock to moor our boat and a floating office to set up our museum in. It was incredibly generous.
Aside from the fact that the only other time we had put the boat in the water was a brief float test—and we hadn’t even unhooked it from the trailer that day. Up to that point, we had yet to actually row or sail it anywhere.
But it was too late to back out, and the show must inexorably go on.
Towing our little ship—loaded down with museum exhibits, camping gear, and personal belongings—behind an underpowered Toyota 4Runner, we made our way from Snohomish to the Port of Poulsbo.
It took almost our full first year to learn the timing—how to load the boat, get to our destination, and set up before sundown. This event was our first lesson.
With no running lights on the boat yet, time and maritime law were against us.
As I parked the truck and trailer and frantically made my way back to the dock, my excitement began to outweigh the months of frustration and second-guessing every move we’d made.
Tensions were still high as I reached the boat and climbed aboard, but the anticipation of our first sail was beginning to show among the crew.
With the sun now set—leaving only the slightest blue horizon—and with no real running lights, we quickly kicked off from the dock and dropped oars to row into a light summer breeze, no longer driven by the heat of the sun.
To get to the dock where we’d spend the weekend, we had to make our way from the boat launch on the south side of the port all the way around the private and public docks to the north side.
Under the light of a waxing gibbous moon, we raised the sail and found that what little wind there was happened to be in our favor.
The sail gently filled, and as we pulled the oars up, we almost missed the moment we’d worked so hard for, for so many months.
After some convincing, we even got our youngest and most excited sailor to pipe down for a second.
The arguing stopped. In fact, all talking stopped.
The peace in those few moments was fueled in part by the slow pace, calm wind, and warm summer air—but mostly, it was because at that moment, perched atop our poorly packed gear, we realized that the moment we had been building toward had finally found us. We were no longer a fledgling group of Viking demonstrators. We had just become sailors.
As we neared the seaplane dock that would serve as our mooring for the weekend, our friends in the village of historically accurate A-frame tents above started to gather to watch us come in.
It was humbling, awkward, and a little nerve-wracking to be the focus of so much attention as we prepared to make our first landing—but there was also a sense that our goal of inspiring wonder in others was beginning to take shape.
What snapped us out of our peace—and the sense that everything we had done to get here was worth it—was the one thing that inspires the most provocation in anyone: the words of a dear, respected friend.
From onshore, one of our favorite, and by far one of the funniest, people in the NW Viking Alliance shouted out to us: “Come on, let’s go! What kind of Vikings are you?”
Of all the witty and downright vulgar remarks coming from within the boat that threatened to rekindle our frustration, only one thing was shouted back:
“The kind with a ship!”
Laughter and dismissive remarks erupted on ship and shore alike, and from that point on the mood remained jovial.
It stayed that way—until our first onboard catastrophe struck the very next day.
But that’s another saga.
