Seeing Stars

Have you ever been to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor? As the city’s premier tourist attraction, it draws thousands of visitors each year. The area is home to the National Aquarium, Harbor Place, museums, dragon paddle boats, shopping, restaurants, the lesser known World Trade Center Institute, and some fabulous people watching. When I was a child, forced to visit my father a few times a year per the divorce decree, I loved going to the Inner Harbor. It sure beat playing with the three toys my dad kept in his basement for our infrequent visitation.

In all the many trips to the Inner Harbor, though, he never allowed us to tour the USS Constellation. The USS Constellation is an old sloop-of-war, a sailing ship, and to me, it was the symbol of Baltimore. The ship is moored at the edge of the Chesapeake Bay and looks the same as it did when I was a child, at least on the outside, the glossy black and yellow exterior reminiscent of the state flag colors; other than that, it was just another maritime treasure, and more of a national one at that. What I wanted more than anything was to see what it was like on the inside, below deck. For some reason, my father, an avid sailor with his own sailboat, never took us aboard. What a selfish prick.

 

When my family went to visit Baltimore recently for spring break, we had to make some decisions about what we wanted to do at the Inner Harbor. We only had one full day for tourist stuff since we were going to drive to Washington the following day, and number one on my list of must-see attractions was the USS Constellation. My family didn’t really understand what was so damned important about that boat, but I insisted on seeing it. By the time we arrived at the Inner Harbor, I had talked it up so much there was no way we were going to miss it.

We purchased tickets to tour the boat, which, I might add, were quite reasonable. If that was the reason my father denied us the experience, then he was a cheap bastard in addition to being the aforementioned selfish prick. We boarded the vessel, and explored the top deck, which smelled of old wood and gunpowder. The gunpowder is because every day, a tour guide dressed like an extra pirate from “Peter Pan” demonstrates how to fire a cannon. Lucky for us, we had arrived only a little while before that demonstration was to begin, so we occupied ourselves by pretending to be the king of the world at the bow until it was time to gather around the gangly Mr. Smee near the cannon.

The tour guide told us he would talk for a little while about the weapons used aboard the USS Constellation before firing the cannon, and he wasn’t kidding. He went on and on about the size of the cannons and the weight of the cannons and the dangers associated with the cannons. He paused a few times, once to tie his shoe, and by the time he got around to the actual demonstration, my entire family was swaying, not with the motion of the water, but with the sleepy tedium caused by his monotonous droning. Luckily, the sound of a cannon firing was enough to wake us up, but not, as my younger daughter S pointed out, enough to warrant an almost twenty minute wait.

As the small crowd dispersed, we worked our way below the main deck. All the serious cannons were located here, along with several warnings about low head clearance. At 5’4”, which is an exaggeration, I don’t tend to worry about such things, but I enjoyed watching my tall husband and older daughter ducking under the beams overhead. We worked our way down another level to the main living quarters of both the officers and the regular seamen. I love to say seamen.

Hanging from the overhead beams were hammocks, one after another, looking more like an art installation than sleeping arrangements. At the stern was the infirmary, which housed swing-like hanging beds for the sick or injured, along with a rudimentary pharmacy and a scary little operating table. You could almost see the piles of limbs from the many amputations that probably took place in that area of the ship. It’s moments like those that make me believe that ghosts might be real.

On the other end of the ship were the officer’s quarters, which were much nicer than a bunch of hammocks and some old blood-stained hanging cots. The officers had their own dining table, bunks, desks, and yes, even bathroom facilities. In the lavatory area was a sign indicating the area used as a toilet, as well as another reminder of the low ceiling.

I leaned over to get a better look, because seriously, what is better than looking at a ship’s head from the mid 1800’s? Speaking of head, I whacked mine on a low beam while peering into the toilet. Not just a little bonk on the noggin, mind you, but the kind where you black out for a few seconds and your family rushes up to make sure you are okay as you try not to crumple on the floor. All I wanted to do was see where they went to the bathroom; I didn’t think I deserved a concussion for my curiosity. After my husband checked my scalp for blood and my pupils for equal dilation and reaction to light, he and my daughters continued to look around while I stayed close to one side of the ship and tried not to cry.

After the throbbing stopped, we descended to the bottom deck, the ceiling of which was so low we all had to walk hunched over like we had kyphosis. The cargo hold of a ship from the 1850’s is a dark and scary place, with old wooden beams and casks and probably skeletons and who knows what else hidden down there.  I don’t remember much else about the boat, except that by the time we left it, my head almost felt normal.

Even with the head smack, I still think it was worth the admission price, really everything I wanted it to be. I wonder if my dad hit his head many moons ago, and that’s why he never took us to see it. Which means that in addition to being a cheap bastard and a selfish prick, he was potentially also a clumsy ass. And I learned a lot too, about the rich history of the last sailing ship commissioned by the US Navy, and also that when a sign says to watch your head, you should.