The sea calls to my son

Anthony stands on the deck of Maine Maritime's ship, the Ned, and braves the sea mist and cool temperatures on Penobscot Bay.

Maine Maritime's pride and joy —the State of Maine.

The bow of the State of Maine in Castine, Maine.

1. 

A true mariner.

The Turret house in Bar Harbor, Maine.

“For whatever we lose (a you or a me). It's always ourselves we find in the sea.” 

― E.E. Cummings

CASTINE, Maine — Our young sailor is back on land after his short trip around Penobscot Bay.

Anthony was one of 16 lucky Edward Little High School students who took a whirlwind, two-day tour of colleges around northern Maine.

He thought it was a worthwhile endeavor to take a peek at Unity College and the College of Atlantic, but Maine Maritime Academy was at the top of his list, and the school certainly got his attention. The students were given deluxe accommodations at Maine Maritime and really good chow.

He was impressed with the school and felt right at home on the bow of a fast-moving ship that took EL students on a sight-seeing adventure around the bay on a murky day. With the help of other students and the crew of the Ned — a 70-foot, twin-screw vessel — Anthony took the helm and docked the boat.

Students were also given a tour of Maine Maritime's pride and joy — the State of Maine — a 499-foot training ship that was built by the United States Navy. Its former name was the USNS Tanner and was launched in 1990.

 I would be remiss in not thanking the Edward Little guidance department for making this trip possible for students. Say what you will about public education, but there are many dedicated teachers and administrators who go the distance for their students, and they work right here in Auburn.

You see, my son has been captivated by the sea ever since he waded in the cool waters of the Atlantic as a 2 year old. Our ancestry is filled with seafaring men who found their calling traveling the planet's vast oceans. Throughout our history, our family tree is littered with mariners and beachgoers. I grew up in the coastal town of Revere. The beach was our playground during the summer. We are all beach bums in this family.

During his brief visit, Anthony saw a stunning rainbow over Acadia National Park, a fjord, the awesome power of Thunder Hole, Fort George, the Turrets — a large home in Bar Harbor — and used a ship simulator to navigate computer-generated boats at Maine Maritime.

During his brief excursion on the Ned, he stood on the bow, braved the windy, salty air and called his dad from a cell phone. It was one of the best conversations we had.

His fascination with ships began with large plastic boats that he placed in the path of large waves at Popham Beach. He watched the destructive force of waves toss and turn his small vessels, sending many of them to the bottom.

His passion never waned for ocean-going vessels. He can name many of history's famous ships dating back to the 1400s.

He has built numerous models of warships and has walked the decks of fighting vessels at Battleship Cove. I even tried my hand at building a seaworthy, wooden ship so that he could sail it on the calm waters at Range Pond in Poland. It still floats.

We sailed his model ships at a crowded Wells Beach on a hot summer morning. As we waded through a sea of  beachgoers,  comments like, "Dude, cool ships," emanating from a crowd of sun worshipers as we rushed toward the water.

Look, sailing the seven seas can be a dangerous profession, but so isn't driving over the Tobin Bridge and into Boston or trying to stay alive on Route 128 at the height of rush hour in Massachusetts. But this is a good paying, honest job, and it won't go away no matter how many super computers they build. Somebody has got to run those ships and deliver all those goods around the globe.

Perhaps my son will be at the helm at one of those behemoths, but that will be his decision to make in a couple of years.

It is a wonderful feeling watching your kid find his passion in life, but it is also hard on the heart letting him go. But I wouldn't have it any other way. 

He was impressed with Maine Maritime and all it had to offer a student whose heart lies somewhere out there on that vast ocean.

The sea has been calling to Anthony since he was a child, and I think he is about to give the ocean his answer.

I can't sea clearly now

"To myself I am only a child playing on the beach, while vast oceans of truth lie undiscovered before me."

                                                                                                         Isaac Newton

PHIPPSBURG — Some where hidden in all this fog lay the Atlantic Ocean. 

I could hear the loud rumble of waves, but no beachgoer could see the huge body of water from the shoreline. 

No sun, no ocean, just thick fog that you remember in old horror flicks. The fog would have made an excellent backdrop for the 1940s movie, "The Uninvited." 

If fishermen were at sea, I don't see how any skipper could navigate in that thick soup that hung around at Popham Beach. 

We were all in a fog on Sunday.

An obscuring haze covered the beach, lowering visibility to about 35 yards. 

The misty and pasty stuff snuffed out the sun, but the oppressive humidity hung around to make everybody feel uncomfortable. You didn't have to go swimming to cool off. Beachgoers got drenched just sitting in the warm sand as the low-flying cloud of vapor left us all feeling damp. There was a sheen of moisture covering the hair on my head and arms.  

I would wipe away the water, but minutes later, I was covered with murky film.  

Anthony and I watched as dozens of swimmers disappeared into the mist as they headed toward the choppy ocean. 

We joined them, hoping to latch on to a few giant waves. After a quarter mile walk, the soothing water stood at our feet. The water was warm, but when I looked back toward the beach, it vanished into the white haze. 

There were no signs of life beyond 50 yards. 

Walking back to the sandy beach would put our navigation skills to the test.

The water was unusually warm and I started thinking about sharks — really big dangerous sharks. Several days ago, a swimmer was bit by a great white off Cape Cod's Ballston Beach in Truro, Mass. 

There is nothing great about a great white sharks. They might look awesome on a nature show, but getting up close and personal doesn't appeal to me. 

Popham's cold waters do warm up in August, but the tepid water felt like I was taking a swim in a neighbor's pool.

My fear didn't stop me from diving into the surf, but I would quickly surface, see if Anthony was topside and quickly scan the water for a dorsal fin cutting through warm sea.  

I didn't like it, and I didn't like these bastards hanging around the New England coast.

Let them eat other fish and lay off the human flesh, I say. 

Thanks to changing temperatures in the world's oceans, great whites are paying more visits to our shorelines and sharp attention to unknowing tourists flopping around in the surf. 

Motion in the water is like signaling a shark that dinner is ready. 

I grew up a couple of miles from the ocean. Revere Beach was my second home as child, and I was like Jacques Cousteau enjoying its vastness. I couldn't get enough of the salt water or air, Kelly's Roast Beef, Bianchi's Pizza and foot-long hot dogs. That was our diet during summer months.

My mother ordered all four of us to the beach on those sweltering days. 

It was years ago, but shark warnings went up along the Massachusetts coast. I was 10 or 11 and didn't concern myself with sharks. 

I ventured 80 yards as the tide was going out when I heard yelling from the beach. 

At first, I thought everybody was waving at me. I waved back. I blamed the hot sun on their peculiar behavior.  

Then I heard the word, "Shark," from the shore and I got a little nervous. They were telling me to come in due to shark warnings, and I was floating target

I looked side to side as I trudged through the surf, fearing I was about to be cut in two by a shark with a voracious appetite.  

Terror can act like springboard when you are swimming for your life. I trembled as I safely rushed to shore. 

That was years ago. 

All I had to contend with was annoying fog and a warm ocean on a quiet Sunday afternoon at Popham Beach.  

And that was just fine with me.

Surf's up

"We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch — we are going back from whence we came."

                                                — President John F. Kennedy

OLD ORCHARD BEACH — Anthony and I have always been on the same wavelength when it comes to the ocean's tumultuous surf.

You could say we enjoy making waves at the beach.

Before Anthony reached the age when building sand castles was no longer a priority, my son loved constructing forts made out of the beach's moist, white sand. He also spent hours watching his boats get tossed around in the surf. He studied how his toy vessels capsized by the force of waves.

A decade later and Anthony's fascination with waves continues, and he literally dives head first into the topic whenever we storm Maine's beaches.

Unlike a majority of beachgoers, this father-and-son team refuses to sit on the hot sand and baste in the sun. I understand this is America and its citizens are entitled to develop skin cancer, but for us, tanning is a damn waste of our precious time. You can get all the vitamin D you need while you are floundering in the heavy surf.

A soon as we find a spot on the beach, we disappear into the Atlantic's cold waters like a nuclear submarine and ride waves for hours. We only drag ourselves to dry land for a towel — or when our empty stomachs demand a sandwich and a cold drink — and the occasional trip to the men's room.

Old Orchard Beach was crowded on a steamy Saturday, and the sea was angry that day my friends. The storm that lingered over Maine for nearly a week moved off shore but was still stirring the pot out at sea, providing eye-opening waves and a powerful undertow at OOB.

The surf was up and the dynamic father-and-son duo threw themselves into the fray. The water was warm, towering waves were plenty and the hazy sun was strong. Conditions were perfect for two surfer dudes who wanted to take Old Orchard's monstrous waves out for a spin.

The ocean generated huge waves nearly every minute, but when one of these tsunamis came our way and blocked out the horizon — look out — because you were in for one helluva a ride. Anthony and I dove into the water just as these waves crested, driving us about 50 yards toward shore. The force was so rough that there were moments where we seemed lost and feeling punch drunk when we surfaced from the shallow water.

We ran toward each wave, hopping aboard each time for another reckless ride that sometimes drove us into the murky bottom of OOB. We were patient when a brief calm on the high seas interrupted our frenzy of body surfing. But when the Big Kahuna, and I am not referring to actor Cliff Robertson who starred in a "Gidget" movie, came barreling ashore, we leaped into the water for another lift.

It never gets old and each wave is a challenge.

Riding a monster of a wave is a privilege, and as you hear it roar over you when you are shot through the surf like a torpedo, there is this wonderful feeling that you have left the planet. For me, it is like an out-of-body experience even though this feeling of ataraxia lasts for a few moments.

For the next two hours, Anthony and I tackled wave after wave before exhaustion, humidity and an unrelenting sun drove all three weary surfers off the beach. We had enough, but we can never get enough of summer and Maine's spectacular beaches. 

I have been drawn to the sea since I rode waves at Revere Beach as a boy, and I believe I have passed on my love and respect of the ocean to my son, whose passion for the sea and all its wonders grows stronger each summer.

Save the Olympia

Olympia

What shall be done with such a mass of floating steel?

Should she be sunk to become another ocean meal?

For though she belongs to us, we belong to her.

And if they say she should be scrapped, I cannot concur

For across the seas and in the enemy's grasp, she sailed to them and let loose her mighty blast.

And when this cruiser at last avenged the Maine, she sailed herself and America onto better fame.

And when she brought our last soldier home in the fall of '21, this great deed, we all know, did not go unsung

And when our children ask, where is this brave ship now, will we tell them where and will we tell them how?

Even though she survived her wars, the enemy sinking her not.

Is it our American duty just to let her rot?

And though you may sink her, or tear her up for scrap, you will not destroy her legacy or find it in that trap.

And posterity will read of her and think of her with pride. Will they see her at the wharf, as Philadelphia pride?

- Anthony P. Blasi, 2011

"A good Navy is not a provocation to war. It is the surest guaranty of peace."

                                                  - President Theodore Roosevelt, 2 December 1902, second annual message to Congress.

AUBURN, Maine - Anthony's passion for ships and boats began when he cast his oversized plastic vessels into the sea and watched them being tossed about by large waves at various beaches across New England.

He would study the toy ocean-going vessels being pummeled by breaking waves at Popham and Revere beaches. This 4 year old found it fascinating as the ocean's force capsized his fleet over and over again. He would marvel at how some of his boats would slowly sink to the bottom of the raging waters. 

Although he was still fascinated with cars, planes and trains, Anthony was eventually consumed by his passion for ships and the sea itself.

The years would pass, but his fascination of ships, particularly naval vessels, grew as well as his love of the ocean and all its sweet mysteries.

He began reading book after book about sailing ships and then set his sights on the world's navies and their amazing and destructive warships. The introduction of ironclads and the construction dreadnoughts between 1870 and 1920 fueled his passion to learn more about these behemoths and their deadly force.

Anthony also embarked on building his own fleet of Lego and plastic model warships, organizing battles between these toy fleets on our parlor floor. He would bring his Lego ships to the ocean and navigate the vessels on the tranquil seas as parents gathered to watch this young man let his fleet loose upon the world's oceans.

During our visits to the waterfront in Portland, we visited the U.S. Coast Guard's training ship, "Eagle," which was a Nazi vessel that America received for war reparations. We have seen huge cruise ships and toured the U.S.S. Cassin Young and the U.S. Constitution in Boston.

But his particular interest in dreadnoughts steered him to great warships like the Cruiser Olympia, which was Admiral Dewey's flagship during the Battle of Manila Bay in the Spanish American War and also saw action during World War I. He created the Olympia out of Legos and sailed his toy masterpiece in pools and on the high seas.

He was astounded to learn that this great ship with a storied history was in danger of being scrapped because of a poor economy and lack of funds to preserve the Olympia.

His disgust prompted him to write a poem entitle "Olympia" about her uncertain fate for a classroom project. 

I am forwarding this article to the Independence Seacoast Museum in Philadelphia to demonstrate our support for this great ship.

The Olympia is a wonderful piece of American history, and it would be a travesty to see this great ship drift into obscurity without a fight to save her from the scrap heap.

Loss for words

"You never realize how much your mother loves you till you explore the attic - and find every letter you ever sent her, every finger painting, clay pot, bead necklace, Easter chicken, cardboard Santa Claus, paperlace Mother's Day card and school report since day one." - Pam Brown


"Everyone I know goes away In the end." 
                                           "Hurt" by the Nine Inch Nails

AUBURN, Maine — Nothing is the same when your mother dies!

I look at the phone resting quietly on the counter and expect a call from her. But the line remains silent as I sadly remind myself that I will no longer hear her voice again.


The one-year anniversary of her death has snuck up on me and knocked me to the ground. I've been hit hard with such sorrow and find it almost impossible to believe she's been gone for what seems an eternity.

Those are the most difficult and depressing moments — when I am alone in the house and find myself longing to hear her long-distance voice. There is always that emptiness that seeps into your heart. She will never be apart of my life. The finality of death can drive any person mad or send them spiraling into a crippling depression.

Her passing reminded us all of our own mortality.

I cherished our lengthy discussions when we both had a free moment to speak with each other during the day. 


The world seemed right and I felt reassured that my mother still gave a damn about me despite our differences. Two hours before her death, I was pleading with her to see a doctor, believing she might have pneumonia. She wouldn't listen and told me she would be fine.

I wish that was true, but she wasn't a fan of doctors or maybe she had enough of muddling through another day of dragging around that ball-and-chain, her oxygen tank.

Going out for a cup of coffee also became a chore because she was forced to take along her portable respirator.

It's been a year since her tired body gave out and death quietly claimed my mother, leaving a family shell-shocked and heartbroken over her abrupt departure. I do not seek pity or comfort from my fellow man. I understand Death is inevitable, and for me, there are no five stages of grief, only longing for a person I loved and respected despite her shortcomings, and we ALL have them.

It just hurts and will smart the rest of my life. I have done a fine job keeping it together in spite of this enormous loss. My understanding son and wife are my lifelines and prevent me from going under in a tumultuous sea of sorrow.

Louise and I would talk every day about every thing. We engaged in lively debates about politics, religion and music. No topic was taboo for a mother-and-son team who figured out the world's problems over the course of a 20-minute phone conversation. I miss that give-and-take from a woman who loved opening her mind up to new adventures and ideas.

I still find myself reaching for the phone to boast about one of Anthony's adventures or accomplishments. She enjoyed hearing about all her grandchildrens' exploits, and I made sure she was the first to learn about our fun in the sun.

She was a remarkable women who confronted mental illness and other hardships with her combative zeal.

She wasn't perfect, and I don't think she sought perfection, anyway. She was life-long smoker who could drive us all mad at times, and of course, her four children drove her completely bonkers. But that is the pact you make when it comes to unconditional love among family members. There is a hidden clause in that unwritten contract where families promise to stir the pot as emotions run high between siblings and parents. We would be at odds with her one minute, and like sudden gust of wind, we would all be hugging her and professing our devotion to this family's matriarch.

Louise loved the ocean and was a regular at Revere Beach. Our mother courageously brought four children to the beach and single-handily watched over her brood without any help. She did this on a daily basis well into our teenage years before we slowly ventured out on our own. To this day, I think she deserved some kind of medal for entertaining four rambunctious children on hot summer days. There was one warm September day when we, just the two of us, walked the beach and then dipped our feet in the salt water that was still warm from those steamy August days. We topped off that Indian Summer day with a hot dog from Kelly's Roast Beef and just talked. Years later, Louise, my son and I spent a few hours on the beach while she sipped coffee and I flew a kite. She stood by the wall and smiled as our kite soared into the heavens.

Sometimes, I will listen to WBZ in Boston to get handle on the news and I think my mother is sitting at the table listening to radio with a cup of coffee in her hand. Louise always had her ears tuned to radio. She enjoyed the medium and thought television could not hold a candle to radio, books or newspapers. Louise believed in the power of knowledge and the printed word. She understood words start wars and bring peace, inspire people and uphold the law.

There is an old, hand-made windmill that was built in Pennsylvania by my late Uncle Ted. I took it home with me soon after Louise's death and began restoring it. She loved the unique lawn ornament because Uncle Ted built it.  I worked on it with loving care and remember how she would ask me to drag it out of her cellar each spring and display it on the lawn. I will carry on that tradition when I drag it out of my cellar and place this restored windmill and all its splendor in my backyard. 

A year has passed since she passed away with no fanfare on a Monday afternoon. The sadness still gnaws at me and memories of her still trigger a sense of hopelessness. A glance at the windmill, a song from the '70s or reading one of her numerous letters can be a heartbreaking experience.

I have in my possession hundreds of photographs of dead people who can no longer be apart of my short life. My mother joined that exclusive club of late family members frozen in time.

I miss them all.

And now, whenever I want to ask a question about our heritage or a long-lost relative, she is no longer there to provide the answers. This was a woman who was proud to be a DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution) member and regaled with stories of her childhood growing up in Everett, Mass., and spending her summers as a child in Waterford, Penn.

What I wouldn't do to have one more long-distance conversation with her over a morning cup of coffee. I would tell her I loved her even though she already knew that.

But I would tell her anyway.