Skipper sails on silent seas – Deafness no bar to contest racing

And now ‘twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel’s song,
That makes the Heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.”

But one local ancient mariner, 66-year-old Laurence Schischka and his family, enjoy, and succeed at, sailing in total silence. Schischka, his wife Sylvia, and their three sons are oblivious to the creaking of the spars, the twirl of winches, the thundering of wind billowing sails, even the sloshing of waves against the hull.

The Schischkas — bar deaf Laurence profoundly deaf and sons John (39), Glen (32) and Gregory (28) — plus Sylvia having varying degrees of deafness.

This does not preclude skipper-owner Laurence from entering his 12m ketch Lorenz (named after their father) in Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron second division handicap races with six to eight man crews which are predominantly without hearing.

Says Schischka through interpreter Laurie Gunson, a two-year employee of Schischka’s 15-man Sale St engineering firm: “Normally at least 80% of the crew is deaf with only one hearing person on board. It is amazing really.”

“You just imagine being on board with the forward hand on one end of the boat and helmsman Schischka at the other. All skippers usually bellow away instructions, right? Well, Laurie bellows too, only nobody can hear him, except the hearing person who must then point to Laurence so they can all lipread.

“The only thing that stuffs them up is a night race. Darkness makes it hard to lipread.”

One of Schischka’s toolmakers, Jack Gerwitz, often acts as the hearing forward hand.

“I’m usually the one he yells at,” laughs Gerwitz. “The problem is when he starts sailing he really gets very into it. And as soon as he gets excited, he yells and I can’t understand a word of what he’s saying. Once he slows down, we get on.

“Laurence has so many things going round in his head yet he can’t always communicate them. Where a hearing helmsman might yell and curse his way through a tedious situation, Laurence can’t do that. Sometimes he’ll bang the deck and stand there thumping something. But then, his crew can’t hear him either. It’s funny and fun.”

One of the comical occasions on board Lorenz came during a race to Whangaraparoa. Under spinnaker from the start, Schischka positioned the boat handily.

We got the spinnaker up with our usual bit of bother,” explains Gerwitz. “But so many boats had jumped the start line – we hadn’t – that they ordered a re-start. The crew didn’t realise it, but Laurence did. He’s jumping up and down, screaming something like ‘pull the sail in, pull it in’. Of course, I look up and we’re heading straight for Mt Victoria. In the end, he left the wheel, ran up himself and let the spinnaker go.”

Other times, problems occur during that troublesome period when boats mingle closely before a start.

“You might get too close to another boat,” says Gerwitz, “and the other boat’s crew will be screaming at you — ‘whatsa matter, you deaf?’ Our guys just sail on, unaware of the near-collision and any abuse. The opposition will then often realise what boat it is and later say ‘hang on a minute, it’s them, no problem’.”

Schischka is a tall, grey-haired man with glasses that give him a distinguished appearance befitting a man who has earned the respect of all those who meet, work for, or befriend him.

During morning tea recently in the factory of a business he built from scratch in 1948 to one of Auckland’s three largest independent toolmakers, Schischka is caught deep in thought over a chess board.

He completes his game, check-mating his employee-opponent in three minutes, then welcomes the start of the interview.

Here is a man, prepared to answer questions without interpretation on a bold level few deaf people consider. Through no fault of Schischka’s, but because of my inability to grasp everything he says, we settle for Gunson to help. Proud as he is, Schischka is mildly unsettled by the move, but understands graciously.

Says Gunson: “Some guys who have worked here more than 18 years can understand 80 to 90% of what Laurence says. I pick up maybe 50% and fill in the gaps.”

Schischka dislikes sign language, or writing notes. Both frustrate him. He was brought up by parents — the original Schischkas immigrated to Puhoi as Bohemian refugees last century — to learn to talk and lipread. From the time he started work as an apprentice engineer in 1938 at 17 he has relied on talking.

Schischka says: “My parents felt it was better to use oral skills in society because society wasn’t going to make any effort to learn sign language.”

He is adamant also that sign language lends itself to too much misunderstanding. His family communicates orally 99% of the time at home. At work it is the same with understanding staff members who consider the boss has no handicap, only limitless courage.

Schischka is uncertain if his family’s deafness is hereditary. “No one knows,” he shrugs.

But the complaint hasn’t stopped any of his relations from pursuing goals. Gregory, for instance, has some hearing with an aid and has completed an engineering degree at Auckland University.

Glen is in England at the moment sailing Lasers competitively after moderate success in small boat regattas on Lake Pupuke. Mum and John are more cruising fans than yacht racers.

Schischka himself has achieved as much, if not more, than a man of his unquestionable intelligence, business acumen and stature should. His company’s growth is testimony to his commercial enterprise. So too was his appointment in 1981-82 as president of the Ponsonby-Herne Bay Lions Club. Schischka is also chairman of the Deaf Welfare and Awareness Cabinet.

Much of the respect he commands, though, comes on the water.

“He’s a good, fanatical sailor,” says Gerwitz. “The guy’s a competitor. Some days he just won’t come in. He’ll stay out in no breeze until 1am and sort of drift in to win. He’ll be the last boat out if that’s what it takes.”

Few things bother Schischka about his deafness. It frustrates him that people don’t always understand fully what he says. He has difficulty pronouncing some letters, like S, only because he can’t hear himself throwing his own voice. But if you try to decipher patiently, his most jumbled utterances becomes clear. The man is a marvel.

He says: “A lot of deaf people hide because of their afflictions. It is they who miss out. There is no reason to.”

As in the Rime, Schischka might say:

“I pass, like night, from land to land;

I have strange power of speech;

That moment that his face I see,

I know the man that must hear me:

To him my tale I teach.”