A Tale from Bud McCrary
You know, my great-grandfather, Joshua Grinnell, was born back in 1834 in Fairhaven, Massachusetts—right there in Bristol County, where the shipyards once hummed, and the salt breeze still clings to every old rope coil and weathered dock.
His father, also named Joshua, was 37 when he was born, and his mother, Jane Peters Merrihew, just 23. Folks don’t carry names like that much anymore—names with sea wind in them.
Now, Joshua was never what you’d call a famous man—his name’s not printed in any history books I’ve seen. But to our family, he was the kind of man whose stories linger. The kind you measure your own steps against, even if you don’t say so out loud.
I first heard his story as a boy, sitting at my grandfather Trovillo’s knee. That would’ve been sometime before 1933, when he passed. We were out in Swanton, California—tucked up in the redwoods where the morning fog comes in quiet, like it’s listening.
Back in 1861, just as the war was breaking loose back East, Joshua set sail from the United States. With him were his young wife and her two-year-old son—no blood of his, but my grandfather and family all the same. They were headed south, maybe to round Cape Horn, maybe chasing opportunity—nobody ever told it the same way twice.
What everyone agreed on was the storm.
Off the coast of Brazil, near Ilha Grande, the ship ran headlong into a squall so fierce it nearly cracked the sky in two. Lightning crawled across the rigging, and waves broke like thunderclaps. The vessel didn’t sink, but it came close enough to taste the bottom.
They made land, barely. And for reasons nobody ever fully explained—panic, caution, or providence—Joshua’s wife and the boy were left ashore, marooned, really. Some said it was meant to be temporary. Others reckoned it was a necessary sacrifice.
Joshua pressed on. Headed north. Maybe to find another ship, maybe to clear his head. He eventually doubled back—returned to Brazil—and brought them both out. From there, they sailed on to California.
He settled in Swanton, high in the hills above the Pacific, where the forest breathes slow and deep. Built a life. Had a daughter with Elizabeth Trumbo—my grandmother—and passed on in 1904, at the age of 70. His story could’ve gone quiet right there. But in our family, it never did.
You see, the timber in this country has memory. And when my Uncle Trubo Homer helped start Big Creek Lumber in 1946, along with my brother Lud and my farther right there among those redwoods, I like to think he was following in Joshua’s footsteps—carving a life from wild land, just like the old man did when he stepped off the boat.
And when I walk those woods today, or catch sight of a schooner out on the blue, I think of Joshua Grinnell. Born of New England salt. Tempered by storm. Rooted in California soil.
A man between tempests.
By Skeeter Wesinger
March 26, 2025