The Blessing of the Fleet began with a prayer.
Which seems appropriate.
Because if you make your living on the ocean, there are probably days when prayer is less of a religious practice and more of a sound business strategy.
The tradition came to Galilee in 1972, when the Narragansett Lions Club organized the first local Blessing of the Fleet.
The idea was simple.
And meaningful.
Bless the boats.
Bless the fishermen.
Bless the crews.
And please, God…
bring everybody home.
Commercial fishing has never been a profession for people who require predictable working conditions.
The office moves.
The floor rolls.
The weather changes without consulting management.
And occasionally the Atlantic Ocean decides to remind you who’s actually in charge.
So communities throughout the maritime world have long blessed their fleets, asking for protection for those heading to sea and safe passage home.
Galilee was a natural place for that tradition.
Generations of fishermen have left Point Judith Pond, passed through the breachway, rounded the breakwater and disappeared over an Atlantic horizon.
Their families watched them leave.
And waited for them to return.
That was the heart of the Blessing.
Then Rhode Islanders got involved.
And we apparently decided:
This needs a party.
A BIG party.
Over the years, the Blessing grew from a relatively modest maritime observance into one of Narragansett’s signature summer events.
There came a road race.
A seafood festival.
Music.
Carnival rides.
Thousands upon thousands of people.
And, of course…
decorated boats.
Which brings us to Salt Pond.
And my photographs.
I headed out to see the boats assembling before the Blessing.
From a distance, everything looked reasonably nautical.
Boats everywhere.
Flags flying.
People waving.
Rafts tied together.
A beautiful summer day on the water.
It looked like a Norman Rockwell painting.
If Norman Rockwell had owned a center-console with twin 300s.
The farther I went, however, the more I realized that the modern Blessing apparently requires a somewhat broader definition of the word fleet.
There were fishing boats.
Pleasure boats.
Sportfishing boats.
Center consoles.
Inflatables.
And enough people rafted together to establish an independent municipality.
From a distance, the gathering looked like a floating neighborhood.
There were boats tied to boats tied to boats.
At some point I suspect nobody actually knew whose boat they were standing on anymore.
“Where’s Bob?”
“Four boats down, second Whaler, take a left at the inflatable flamingo.”
Perfectly normal.
Then came Keeper.
I don’t know exactly what category the judges put this boat in.
But I know what category I would have created.
Best Use of a Multimillion-Dollar Hollywood Franchise on a Rhode Island Fishing Boat.
Jurassic Park.
On Salt Pond.
There were vines.
Palm trees.
Warning signs.
Caution tape.
Dinosaurs.
And enough vegetation hanging from the boat to make me wonder whether the captain had accidentally navigated through a greenhouse on the way over.
I stared at it for a while.
Because that’s what photographers do.
We observe.
We study.
We contemplate.
And eventually we ask the important questions.
Like:
Is that a dinosaur hanging off the side of the boat?
It was.
Apparently, somewhere between Steven Spielberg’s imagination and Point Judith, dinosaurs learned to swim.
And party.
The genius of it was that everyone aboard looked completely comfortable with the situation.
Nobody appeared remotely concerned that prehistoric reptiles had taken over the vessel.
People were sitting around.
Talking.
Enjoying the sunshine.
Meanwhile, a dinosaur appeared to be climbing aboard.
This is Rhode Island.
We’ve seen worse.
Behind Keeper was Six Pak, which seemed almost conservatively decorated by comparison.
Once you’ve seen Jurassic Park floating through Salt Pond, however, your visual standards change considerably.
A normal sportfishing boat suddenly looks underdressed.
I found myself thinking:
Nice boat.
Beautiful tower.
Lovely lines.
But where are your velociraptors?
And beyond them stretched the raft.
Boat after boat after boat.
Some decorated.
Some flying American flags.
Some loaded with families and friends.
Some apparently carrying enough provisions to survive until Labor Day.
The serious maritime historian in me understood that I was looking at the modern evolution of a centuries-old tradition.
The photographer in me saw color, shapes, reflections and wonderful human behavior.
The former boat captain in me had another thought entirely:
I wonder how long it’s going to take them to untie all of that.
Because rafting boats together is one of boating’s great confidence-building exercises.
Everyone arrives thinking:
“No problem. We’ll just tie up alongside.”
Three hours later there are seventeen dock lines crossing twelve cockpits, somebody’s spring line is underneath somebody else’s stern line, and nobody can leave without moving a boat belonging to a man named Vinny who disappeared forty-five minutes ago looking for chowder.
Yet somehow…
it works.
And perhaps that’s what I enjoyed most about photographing this.
Because underneath all the spectacle, the Blessing still carries something important.
The boats have changed.
The crowd has grown.
The celebration has gotten louder.
And I’m reasonably certain the fishermen receiving that first blessing in 1972 never envisioned a day when a floating Jurassic Park would be waiting its turn in Salt Pond.
But the fundamental idea remains.
People gathering around boats.
Around the water.
Around a community whose identity has always been connected to the sea.
The Blessing reminds us that the ocean provides.
But it also demands respect.
For the commercial fishermen who leave Galilee before most of us are awake, that isn’t nostalgia.
It’s life.
Their boats aren’t decorations.
They’re workplaces.
Their crews aren’t festival participants.
They’re people doing one of the oldest and most dangerous jobs in Rhode Island.
And every time one of those boats disappears through the breachway, somebody hopes to see it come back.
So perhaps there’s room for both.
For the solemn blessing.
And the ridiculous dinosaur.
For remembering fishermen lost at sea.
And laughing with the people beside us.
For honoring Galilee’s past while watching another generation create its own traditions.
After all, a community celebration should celebrate the community.
And apparently ours includes fishermen, families, runners, boaters, Lions, clergy…
and the occasional Tyrannosaurus rex.
So bless the fishermen.
Bless their families.
Bless the commercial fleet.
Bless the recreational boaters.
Bless everyone who respects the sea and the people who make their living from it.
And while we’re at it…
Lord, please bless whoever has to untangle that raft.
They’re going to need it.
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