Sea Lawyer

In the fictional world of Patrick O’Brian’s 19th century Royal Navy, the worst thing an officer could be called was a “scrub” (the 19th century equivalent of a “real douchebag”). The worst thing a common sailor could be called, however, was a “sea lawyer.” A sea lawyer was someone who thought they knew a little bit about sea law, but, in reality, knew nothing about it at all. In O’Brian’s world, it was a terrible thing to have a sea lawyer on board—not so much because they were so woefully ignorant themselves, but because their ignorance was contagious: it could spread through the lower deck quicker than a case of the marthambles (a 19th century term for what we now call “the crud”).

It wouldn’t take a sea lawyer long at all to convince his shipmates that if a ship was struck on a reef, then they were all free from impressment, or that if their officers lost their commission papers in an accident, they no longer had any authority over the crew. In the strictly confined world of a man of war, there was nothing worse than having a “parcel of sea lawyers,” on board.

I mention this because, recently, I have observed that the same thing often occurs amongst teenagers, especially when one of them is possessed of a little knowledge and a lot of certainty. In much the same way that a 19th century sea lawyer could lead an entire deck astray, a 21st century teenager can infect an entire class with their own particular brand of bullshit; in fact, it is easier in the teenage world, because at least on a ship there are some sailors who have been around the world a time or two before—in a room full of teenagers, there are none. This is why in the teenage world arguments are won not through merit, or even logic, but rather by how many times a story has been told. If they hear it from enough people, then it must be true (even if all those people are simply parroting the same originally erroneous source over and over again).

Take, for example, the most recent story to sweep through the lower deck at my house; the one concerning the all important getting of driver’s licenses. Apparently one of them decided (and convinced a fair number of the rest of them) that the way to “get around” having to take your driving test was to wait until you turned eighteen, at which point the state would simply give you a license when you requested it, no questions asked.

In vain did I try to refute this argument. “Why,” I asked, “would the state issue you a driver’s license without knowing whether or not you knew how to drive?” Because, I was told, “everyone” knows how to drive by the time they’re eighteen. When I pointed out that I got my first license well past the age of eighteen, and yet had to take a test, their response was, “well, things were different back then,” as if I had had to learn to parallel park on a Brontosaurus next to Fred Flintstone.

Google was no help to me in this argument. Neither was showing them the DMV manual. And, since unlike the Royal Navy, flogging is not allowed, my only hope was to wait for another, even more convincing teenage sea lawyer to come along and refute the story, or wait for reality (the most convincing lawyer of all) to saunter in and refute it herself.

Luckily for all of us, that is exactly what reality did: refute everything. And what’s even better, she got to refute it all from behind that little desk at the local DMV.

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