What’s In A Name?

A salty tale of boat christening, name purging, and Big Kahuna’s Cheesy Garlic Balls.

Sailors once believed meeting a mentally unbalanced person while heading toward their ships bespoke a safe, prosperous voyage. It’s strangely comforting to look back on my years as a liveaboard in Hawaii and realize that, most days, my safety afloat was guaranteed to the third or fourth power by simply walking down the dock.

Arriving on the island of Oahu in 1994 courtesy of a transfer with the U.S. Coast Guard, I quickly discovered that rent for even the

­tiniest of studio apartments was obscenely high. I soon reasoned it was more economically feasible to buy a boat, live aboard, and sell it once I transferred.

Boat slips were hard to come by at the time, with wait lists stretching many years for public marinas. As such, many boat sales hinged on access to a slip being included in the deal. The seller had a slip at Ala Wai Yacht Harbor – the very one Gilligan, Skipper, the Professor, and the rest are shown departing from on that infamous three-hour tour.

The wait list for Rainbow Bay Marina, a military-owned facility located in Pearl Harbor, was better (six months). To make the sale happen, the broker and owner worked a shady deal of some sort that allowed me to keep the boat at Ala Wai Yacht Harbor until my slip came up. The sale was completed, and I happily took ownership of my new boat and moved aboard. It was then I met my new dock neighbors and the real adventure began.

I’ll call them Ted and Frank (mainly because those were their names), and no written description can possibly do justice to the experience of having them as dock neighbors.

Ted was retired from one of the alphabet agencies (CIA, FBI, or something along those lines) and is the only person I’ve ever met who could credibly double for Blackbeard without makeup or role training. He was as big and hairy a guy as you could imagine, with a coal black beard so thick and bushy he always reminded me of the ZZ Top guys – except one who looked as if he’d OD’d on steroids and Minoxidil.

Frank, the anti-Ted as far as appearances went, was gray-headed with a short silver beard. He was so thin that if he turned sideways and stuck out his tongue, he looked like a winch handle.

Despite outward differences they had one thing in common: beer. To this day I’ve never seen anyone come close to consuming the amounts they did on a regular basis. I once asked Ted what his favorite brand was, and he replied in a gruff voice, “Whichever one I can reach without having to get up.”

I never did figure out just how they supported themselves. Frank always complained about the money he’d lost after backing some scheme to raise baboons for a children’s petting zoo. Ted, on the other hand, claimed he hadn’t been able to hold a steady job since fighting UFOs off the Presley Estate.

Other than drinking, the only other activities I remember them engaging in were poker, smoking, and fleshing out conspiracy theories. The topics we discussed in the evenings while sitting on the dock between our boats were mind-blowing. A perfect example would be the night I mentioned changing the name of my new boat. The conversations up to that point touched on the Grassy Knoll, gun running for the Contras, Pol Pot’s Tupperware fetish, and the Smurfs as a subversive communist push into America.

“They’ve all got specific jobs, and their leader wears a RED hat!” emphasized Ted. “It’s as communist as vodka and Khrushchev nesting dolls!”

Best I recall they were discussing the layout for Area 51 when I asked about the proper way to conduct a boat-naming ceremony.

“Hold on a sec,” said Frank. He climbed aboard his boat, disappeared down the hatch, and soon returned with a piece of paper. Handing it to me, I realized it wasn’t just a piece of paper, but a bar napkin from Honolulu’s infamous Club Hubba Hubba (look it up!).

Pointing at the spidery handwriting covering the napkin, Frank explained that he’d taken these notes years back after asking the same question of a venerable old salt elbowed beside him at the bar – a true rum-gagger who was on the island provisioning for a trip to Tahiti and beyond.

The Name Game

If your new boat isn’t named, you’ll simply do a naming ceremony. When changing a name, however, you’ll have to perform a denaming ceremony first. Unlike the festive gathering associated with a naming ceremony, this is a private affair between you, your boat, and perhaps one or two close friends – ideally while nestled in some peaceful anchorage. I conducted mine with a good friend while anchored overnight off Waikiki Beach.

The first step is purging all traces of the old boat name to cleanse its identity. Gather every item bearing the old name (documents, nameboards, life rings, coffee cups, dish towels, and so on) and remove them from the boat prior to leaving the dock. Be as thorough as possible. When removing the name from the hull, scrape, peel, or sand it off completely – don’t simply paint over it. If there are other, older names under the current name, remove them as well.

Some recommend going through the logbook and obscuring the name using correction fluid/tape or even burning the logbook itself. Hogwash! The old name shown in the logbook is accurate up to the date of the name change, so why go back and change it? Simply remove the old log (storing it ashore) and replace it with a new one. From a secular standpoint, a logbook can serve as a legal document in some situations, so you don’t want to deface or destroy it.

For social media, simply note the new name on your blog, YouTube channel, MySpace, or whatever, and use it going forward. No need to go back and change past entries for the same reasons given for your logbook.

Poseidon records the name of every vessel ever launched into his Ledger of the Deep. To change this name, you must first purge it from both the ledger and his royal consciousness.

Once the old name has been removed per the above, print the old name in water-soluble ink on a metal tag and recite the following:

“Oh mighty Poseidon, ruler of the seas to whom all ships and those who sail them are required to pay homage, I implore you in your graciousness to expunge for all time from your records and recollection, the name [Old Boat Name]. As proof, we submit this ingot bearing her name, to be removed by your powers and forever be purged from the sea.”

Drop the metal tag over the bow into the water, then say:

“In grateful acknowledgement of your munificence and dispensation, I offer this libation to the gods of wind and sea.”

Finish up the name-purging ceremony by joining the gods of wind and sea in a toast. Pour a generous amount of your favorite libation overboard while facing the cardinal points of the compass (north, south, east, and west), followed by a tot for yourself and anyone else aboard. In addition to their tot, the gods also got a couple of T-bone steaks during my denaming ceremony, due to a mishap involving a loose stern rail-mounted grill.

You can now apply the new name once back at the dock – just keep it covered on the day of the naming ceremony until it is completed.

What you need

Trigger warning! This is the (somewhat) unvarnished account of how my own commissioning ceremony played out back in 1995. It was a simpler time, but a lot bawdier. Feel free to modify as needed to fit your own.

1. Liquid spirits – wine, rum, beer, or other drinks of merriment. Red wine is traditionally used for toasting, but your spirit of preference will be fine.
2. Lots of food. This is crucial, second only to the liquid spirits mentioned above. I picked up plates of Hawaiian BBQ from L&L Drive Inn, as well as a variety of local favorites from Big Kahuna’s Pizza (the Garlic Cheese Balls are the bomb).
3. Entertainment is an option as well, to lend a festive atmosphere to the ceremony. Ted suggested Krazy Kemo and his singing weed eater, while Frank touted the vocal abilities of a recently met lady friend from a Ke’eaumoku Street karaoke bar. I opted for a Hawaiian friend of mine who could (and still can) sing and play an awesome ukulele.
4. A clergyman or religious representative of some sort – yacht club chaplain, high priest, rabbi, monk, or other religious official who won’t get too offended by the ceremony.
5. A silver dollar – the older, the better.
6. A bottle of champagne – the good stuff. This is not the place to save a few bucks.
7. Lots of people – the more, the better.
8. A salty old sailor, or as described by the Club Hubba Hubba napkin: “The saltiest, drunkest, crustiest SOB you can find.” “I’ve got you covered with that one,” said Ted, reading my list and thumping his chest with pride. If you don’t have a Ted handy, pick the funniest person from among your guests.
9. Ship’s bell – positioned and ready to ring.

The Ceremony

1. Plan your ceremony around nice weather, such as a warm, sunny day, to ensure maximum turnout. Ted suggested that I schedule my ceremony the following Saturday, which coincided with a Dragon Boat Festival and the Ali Wai Marina flea market.

“They ain’t all here for your ceremony,” he reasoned, “but the more people in the vicinity having fun, the better!”

2. On the day of your ceremony, place a folding table or two on the dock to hold the previously mentioned food and drink, ideally at the bow (as that’s where the boat’s “eyes” are). You want your new vessel to witness and be impressed with the pageantry provided by you in celebration of new ownership.

3. Offer food and drink to everyone who comes by – even nonparticipants simply trying to push through the dock rabble to reach their own boat. This shows your new boat that you’ll approach ownership with generosity and an open wallet.

4. Ring the ship’s bell to officially start the ceremony. Ask your guests to listen up while ringing the bell a second time (and possibly a third).

“Took five times at my own renaming ceremony,” noted Ted, “as well as threats that Poseidon would rise up and curse them all in some horrible fashion if they didn’t pipe down and pay attention.” Sometimes superstition works to our advantage.

5. Once you’ve got their attention, ask your guests to comment on how great your hospitality is, as well as how awesome you are in general. This may sound self-serving, but your new boat needs to hear all this praise to help in accepting you as the new owner.

“You’ll want to specify positive verbal comments here,” muttered Frank. “No hand gestures – especially if your group is anything like the bums, er, friends I had attending my ceremony.”

6. You can now begin the ceremony in earnest. There are countless variations to the wording used during a naming ceremony speech. I used the following, and the spirits of Club Hubba Hubba never let me down once during my liveaboard time in Hawaii.

“Let it be recorded on this day [Ceremony Date] that this worthy vessel is named [Vessel Name] henceforth and forever more. I implore you mighty Poseidon, ruler of the seas, to take into your records this new name and, in your benevolence, guard and grant this vessel and all who sail upon her safe and speedy passage on her journeys within your realm. In appreciation of your munificence and in honor of your greatness, we offer these libations to your majesty and your court.”

Once the above is proclaimed, never mention the old name in your boat’s presence again – ever.

7. Now take the champagne bottle and either pop the cork and pour the entire bottle over the bow or whack it against the boat – just like in the movies or those old news reels. If whacking, the ideal place to whack and avoid damage to the hull or finish is the anchor (another benefit of being at the bow). As a precaution against flying glass, I wrapped my christening bottle in a few layers of netting cut from an old cast net, which I then tied up neatly above the neck of the bottle. Buying a prescored bottle in a mesh bag is also an option, as long as you can verify it’s not cheap hooch or something equally nauseating, like sparkling water or prune juice. Fake or cheap rotgut sparkling wine is an affront to Poseidon, and the one thing you definitely don’t want is for the god of the sea (or your new boat) to think you’re cheap.

8. Pour drinks for anyone who doesn’t already have one, then make toasts to you (the new owner), any significant other, and your new boat, whose tot you’ll pour over the bow into the water. Make sure Poseidon hears and knows you’re serious in your efforts to gain his favor. Raise your glasses high, speak in a loud voice, and ring the ship’s bell with each toast.

9. Now comes the highlight of the ceremony. Introduce your clergyman or religious representative and ask them to make a short speech and bless the boat. Sprinkle it with holy water, toast it with wine, hang flower leis, chant, dance, sing – anything they feel is necessary to show Poseidon that there’s a higher power protecting the vessel with even greater magic than his! The more climactic this part of the ceremony the better, as it ensures that the vessel will be cleansed of all bad karma and past spirits by the wind and sea.

10. After the blessing, it’s time for closing commentary from the aforementioned saltiest attendee of the ceremony. Ask him or her to give their opinion on today’s festivities, to be accompanied by ringing of the ship’s bell and numerous toasts to both the boat and owner.

11. With the ceremony done and the celebration completed, place the silver dollar aboard your boat for good luck. Beneath the mast is ideal for sailboats, but if that’s not possible (or you own a powerboat), you’ll have to find some other suitably hidden place – one where the boat and Poseidon will know it’s there, but it can’t be accidently taken and used by others.