Spirit of Ostend, a Rolling Thunder Revue

Somewhere last summer, I watched Rolling Thunder Revue again, the Scorsese documentary about Bob Dylan. A second reading, you could say. Like returning to a book you read too young, not to understand it better, but to hear what now speaks to you.

The film is about communal gatherings, creating and owning your art, sharing your work, inspiring others, speaking truth, weaving myth, finding redemption. In Native American tradition, Rolling Thunder means speaking the truth. Watching it again, in the middle of a thorough refit of an old steel schooner, something clicked.

I wanted to use Spirit of Ostend for my own kind of Rolling Thunder Revue.

I believe I make art. My art is creating the stage, holding the space where something true can happen. For a long time, that stage was my home. My family. An open house, an open family, not limited to the nucleus idea of what a family is supposed to be, but lived as a communion, a gathering. Something with free spirit, open narratives, open endings. A house with a full fridge, food on the table for unexpected guests who always arrived exactly when they were meant to.

After twenty-five years, my lover and I decided to go apart. I didn’t only lose my lover. I eventually lost my home as well. With that loss, I lost more than a place. I lost the idea — and the identity — of a family, and my role in holding that space and stage. That loss was greater than the loss of the person I loved. It was the loss of a grounding identity.

That’s when Spirit entered my life.

In February 2023, I flew from Brussels to Barcelona and drove on to Girona. I had been looking for a ship for a long time. I arrived with a laptop full of questions and an inspection camera in my bag. Oliver welcomed me on board. A true gentleman. We sat in the saloon. We drank coffee. We talked. I listened. I looked around. I felt the boat, but just as much, I felt the way she had been held, treated, respected. I would not have bought Spirit if it hadn’t been Oliver selling her.

My laptop stayed closed. The inspection camera was never used.

Spirit is an old lady. There were signs of an eventful life everywhere. Wear, yes, but also care. She had crossed the Atlantic six times. She had lived. She had been sailed, looked after, loved.

I drove home and made an offer.

A few months later, my son and I sailed her north. What was meant to be a passage to England became a hard sail into headwinds and waves, so we decided to turn straight for Ireland.

When I bought Spirit, I saw her as my tiger. Like the tiger in Life of Pi. Pi is shipwrecked and ends up sharing a liferaft with a zebra, an orangutan, a hyena, and a Bengal tiger named Richard Parker. The hyena kills first. Then the tiger kills the hyena. And somehow, it saves Pi. The tiger gives him a reason to stay alive, to count the days, to stay alert, to remain human.

Spirit is my tiger.

I need Spirit as much as she needs me. Her fifty tons of steel and Burma teak need to be nurtured, fed, taken care of, loved. In return, she gives me a floating stage. A vessel for creation. A place where something real can happen.

Everything here is bigger than me.
The ocean is bigger than me.
The ship is bigger than me.
The stories are bigger than me.
The people who join are bigger than me.

I am just the gentleman who plays the role of captain, hands in pockets, making sure that what needs to happen, happens.