A First Mate, Lost—Barb’s Way

As women who sail remake the images of crew and captain, we challenge some of seafaring’s hierarchical ways.

Barbara Rumrill Dahn approached crewing the way she lived her life, on her own terms. I hope her path inspires you.

Brava means bold or well done. Correct on both counts.

Barb died one year ago, too soon for anyone who loved life as she did. She’s deeply mourned by two sons and their families. Her life enriched thousands of others in her many roles: captain of her own boat, s/v Outrageous; fine artist; ski racing coach; guide, advocate and cultural ambassador for at-risk and international college students..

Barb was my badass first mate, the person who made me a better captain.

Here's what she taught me.

Pack and passport. — All she needed was a backpack and a passport.

Barb’s Way

(For cruising and everywhere else.)

1. Be friendly. Approach the unknown with curiosity.

Fifteen years ago, I asked Beth Leonard to help me find crew for the Tahiti-Hawaii leg of my first captain gig.

Beth’s lifelong friend, Barb, had recently been widowed and inherited a sailboat. She wanted to hone her sailing skills and taste blue water.

Barb flew to Tahiti on the strength of Beth’s recommendation and my own terse self-description of what I brought: good captain, excellent navigator, mediocre cook, mechanical idiot.

2. Be the girl who can’t say no–to life.

Barb showed up at sv Delos with a big, sassy smile and some story about an all-night Tahitian jam session.

I only had to mention wanting a tattoo and she was in. “Cool. Me, too.”

Next thing I knew, we were chez le tatoueur in Papeete’s central market.

I figured she’d always been that spontaneous, ready to say yes on a moment’s notice.

Years later, she told me that trip was her first foray out of a dark hole. Widowhood was not the end of her world. It marked the beginning of her new life of adventure.

3. Be present. You don’t have to speak the language to communicate.

At a fuel stop in Rangiroa, we encountered a young woman who’d been beaten by her boyfriend. She was frightened and waiting for her father to pick her up. Without a word, we both sat down to wait with her.

From then on Barb and I were friends.

Rangiroa, Tuamotus, French Polynesia. (Barbara Dahn photo)

4. Have faith in your captain, especially when she loses faith in herself. Everyone is on a learning curve.

I was new to captaining. The first leg of the transpacific trip had been disheartening. My all-male, macho crew ignored or overruled my orders. When they thought I was out of range, they mocked me.

Barb trusted my abilities (or let me think she did) and grew my confidence.

5. Watch where you step, look before you flush, fix your mistakes.

Our electric toilet was new to Barb. When coins escaped from her pocket into the head, she flushed.

Seriously, Barb?

She learned to repair the broken macerator, the first of many mechanical projects.

At her shellback ceremony, King Neptune gave her a (marzipan) toilet. Barb merrily ate it.

King Neptune shaving Barb when s/v Delos crossed the equator.

6. When in doubt, laugh. When there’s no wind, games are good. Laughter is even better.

We laughed all the way to Hawaii. I’ve seen Barb fall through a rotted hatch, be attacked by ants, and tumble into the Rio Dulce with her cell phone, laughing each time. When we crossed the equator and King Neptune shaved her, she laughed ’til she cried.

7. Nobody’s a dumb blonde.

Barb spent her watches learning stars, practicing knots, listening to books and fellow crew.

By our next trip, to Cuba, Barb was more than competent. She’d taken a class in diesel engines and revamped her own boat.She understood more about sail trim than I did. Her coaching style made her a natural first mate and our crews loved her.

8. Channel Mom (the good parts).

Help crew learn their work. Don’t command, collaborate. Whatever you have to say can be said pleasantly and firmly. Give clear directions and encouragement.

She’s tended injuries and illnesses on board as well as morning sickness, taken watches for seasick crew, kept lonely newcomers company on watch.

When crew made mistakes, she’d patiently help them sort out a better way. Then she’d tell a story about the time she made a worse error.

9. Get over yourself. Look beyond human failings.

Barb’s people cup was eternally half-full. She had no time to waste on ego when she could be having fun.

While threading entry buoys into Port Antonio, Jamaica, at night, we were hit by a sudden squall. Perhaps that wasn’t the best time to tell her I have poor night vision and couldn’t see a thing. Barb took the helm without missing a beat.

I think she forgave me for making her miss the Stones concert in Havana.

Sorry again, Barb.

Making chocolate with Dorothy, Antigua, Guatemala.

10. No matter how thin the pancake, it always has two sides.

When troubled waters needed smoothing, Barb always listened. She let everyone know she valued and respected them.

Also, good food and beer can fix a lot.

11. Never curb your enthusiasm. Share it. Fill the log book with discovery and delight.

Over 10,000 miles and a dozen countries, we sailed, provisioned, ate, and drank. We explored archeological sites, walked villages, and made new friends (or Barb did). She never lost her delight in discovery, whether relocating turtle eggs in Cuba or swimming with whale sharks in Mexico. When she wasn’t sailing, she was hiking or skiing somewhere, equally delighted.

I doubt that Barb will rest in peace. More likely, she’s off on a new adventure.

Anyway, she’d never let me get away with saying she’s sleeping with the angels. She’d smile mischievously and say they’re not her type.

Then we’d laugh together ‘til we cried.

Brava, Barb, and Happy Birthday. See you down the road.

Fair winds,

Christine