Confined Spaces

A common question after the preliminaries of, “Where did you come from?” is, “How do you live in such a small space?” It is a reasonable query. The USA is a privileged country. For the most part, we have a higher standard of living than much of the world.

I am not saying we eat, drink, have more leisure time, live longer or are generally happier than the rest of humanity just that we have more room. Houses, apartments, condominiums, boats, cars, and motor homes tend to be larger, that is except in Manhattan.

Carrie Rose besides being a handsome boat has a well-designed interior for a couple. Incorporated into 32’ is a forward berth and toilet facility, a central pilothouse where the controls are located, and behind this, down three stairs, is the salon and kitchen.

The salon is the main living space. It is stretched out to almost the entire width of the boat and I’d say is about a third of the overall length. This space also houses the kitchen. The kitchen has a sink, a two-burner stove with a functional oven and enough counter space to cook a gourmet meal, along with storage and a small refrigerator.

The salon has a L-shaped bench to the port and a swing up dining table to the starboard. Just behind the table is a wet locker to which a cabin heater is attached. There are seven large windows to let light in and eyeballs out. It makes for a pleasant space. It is not claustrophobic. Here we can sit, eat dinner and watch the world float by.

The one area on the boat that is confined is the inner portion of the forward cabin’s double bunk. It is a compromise to get a double bed into a small V-shaped space. Instead of a V-berth, the port side of the V is combined with the starboard side of the V and thus a fair size double is created.

It is a good selling point. In fact, we looked for a model that had this feature. Later when we started to spend time on Carrie Rose we realize that it creates problems for the inside sleeper. That is the person nestled against the starboard side of the hull and partially under the deck.

Because of this, Charlotte and I have traded years. One year she sleeps inside and the next I do. Of course, since I have the enlarged prostate it is I doing most of the nocturnal WC visits. When the inside sleeper needs to rise the outside sleeper has to get out of the way or the inside sleeper will be forced to crawl over the outside sleeper. Either way neither of the sleepers remains sleeping.

Because of this, I have designated myself the outside sleeper and the yearly trade off has broken down. This is a source of contention.

There are other issues: claustrophobia, lack of a breeze for the inside sleeper, sleeper impingement — my fault due to due my need to warm up my freezing feet — and well, I think that is enough information.

Living on a small boat has many sources of contention. I will not even begin to list them. A cruising couple needs to develop a strategy and stick to it. Every couple we have cruised with has one.

These strategies are full of holes and inconsistences usually obvious to the rest of the world, and dare I say, the couple themselves. But cruising is an each-to-their-own environment. Whatever the magic that makes work in such a confined space is just that, magic.

Misc

Approaching storm at Barnegat Bay, NJ

Sunset Shadowed By Thunderheads

Picturesque Northern Delaware Bay

The Savior of Chesapeake and Delaware Bays

Sassafras River Sunset

Hard To Get Enough...

Couldn't Have Said It Better Myself

I Suggested A Bear Trap

How's This For An Oil Change

Well Balanced Meal New Jersey Style

The Robert's From Philly

Swells

The ocean is a new experience for Charlotte and I. Carrie Rose has been on the ocean with her previous owners but now it is our turn. The ocean presents a different set of challenges from the Great Lakes, rivers, and canals we have been travelling over for the last four years. Planning the next leg of the cruise requires the usual chart review, and besides the different weather patterns there are tides and currents to consider.

Part of the process is listening to the NOAA weather forecast. This in itself is not unique but part of the forecast is. NOAA weather forecasts cover a lot of ground both figuratively and geographically. The radio is turned on and the first thing to do is confirm that the forecast is relevant to the area we are in. There are, in many cases, multiple stations broadcasting.

Then we figure out where in the forecast the human or computer generated voice is. If the relevant part is missed, it could be another 5 minutes before it comes up again in the endless loop of the NOAA radio forecast.

It is common to lose focus, as the mechanical voice drones on about statistics, and miss the important part. So with pen in hand we concentrate. The part of the forecast that differs in the North Atlantic is the use of the term swell. This is not heard in the Great Lakes and their tributaries.

Swell is described in two ways: direction and period. Direction is which point on the compass the swell is coming from, and period is the time it takes for two peaks to transverse a stationary point. NOAA may say the swell is from the southeast with a period of 8 seconds. I make a note of this along with the wind blown wave information and think, what does this mean when I come out of the harbor mouth.

Many years ago, a friend who sailed the Newport to Bermuda race said that he was surprised by the ocean’s waves. He was expecting there to be long swells that even though large, allowed the boat to sail up and down them with more ease than the short choppy waves on the Great Lakes. In reality, the waves were from many different directions. The boat was being hit from all sides. He found it a most uncomfortable experience.

This was on my mind as Carrie Rose turned towards the North Atlantic. Our initial venture was from Jersey City, NJ to the first viable inlet at Manasquan, NJ. That day the wind was a steady 15 knots and started to gust to 20 as the day wore on. Since Carrie Rose was heading south, the NE waves pick up her stern and allowed her to surf down the front of the wave until the wave caught up and passed under us.

Picture this, first the left rear portion of the boat raises in an odd way for a 17,000 lb. boat. But let us not dwell on that. Remember when I said the boat surfs along with the wave until the wave catches up, well then the boat feels a bit like it is going to be flipped over but the wave passes under and instead of flipping over the bottom drops out. Now the front of the boat rises as the rear end sinks. Add to this an infinite number of variations of wind, wave and swell, and it keeps me riveted to the helm.

This brings another concept to mind. A boat steers because the rudder exerts a force on moving water. A boat travelling with the waves will on occasion match the speed of the waves and if the rudder loses traction the boat will fail to respond to the helm. When this happens the bow starts to turn sideways into the trough of the wave. This sideways turn needs to be controlled.

Carrie Rose, as boats go, is small, but she is a superbly designed craft based on the fast fishing boats in the Northwest. She has a long keel and a large 4-blade propeller driven by a big truck engine. If left on her own she usually does quite well with the autopilot steering. If not I take over steering and correct for this tendency. After many years playing in the waves I am better at anticipating what is needed to keep the boat safely on its heading.

Remember when I was talking about the waves coming from different directions, well that is what happened that first cruise south on the New Jersey coast. With the wind coming from the NE, short choppy waves were striking the rear of Carrie Rose. This was expected but there was something else going on in the waves that I did not realize until I started to steer.

Carrie Rose was being lifted from the stern by the northeast waves while riding up and down the long swells from the southeast. This odd mix of wave and swell combined on occasion to join forces and broadside the boat with a big whack and an impressive spray.

This was confusing the otoliths in my semi-circular canals. My vestibular system began to send caution signals to my gut. In the background mal de mar waited for its chance, which it never got. Steering the boat and concentrating on the waves helped stave off the effects of motion sickness.

The next time we ventured out into the Atlantic was to go from Atlantic City to Cape May, NJ. The wind was 5 to 10 knots from the northwest and the swell was from the south. I decided to stay close to shore to mitigate the effects of the northwest wind and because of this, the effect of the swell was noticeable. The autopilot had no problem steering us the 40 miles to Cape May. I sat back and watched Carrie Rose gently glide up and over each oncoming swell.

The ocean is now not a new experience. On a rudimentary level, my store of cruising knowledge has been enlarged. I would say that is a good trade for a few queasy hours in the waves and swells of the North Atlantic.

Lobsters

There are many dramatic personalities in NJ. I can see it is ripe territory for a writer. The story below is an impression seen through peripheral vision and eavesdropped across the fuel dock where Carrie Rose sat. It might be a product of my ripe imagination but I will let the reader judge.

A lobster boat pulls up — slowly, effortlessly with one spring line — and asks the dock boy if he knows John. “Sure”, the dock boy says. “Can you get him for me, he knows I’m coming”, the lobsterman says quietly. The young man straightaway jogs down the pier to the shore.

John appears moments later. He is in his 70’s slightly stooped with close-cropped hair. Skinny with a cigarette dangling that does not seem to get shorter, he has a deep gravely voice that is somehow sweet. The lobster boat — well used — with multiple large plastic containers sits waiting with its engine rumbling. The other dock boy walks to the side of the boat, takes a deep breath, and says to no one in particular, “This is the smell of money”.

John and the lobsterman have a conversation. They are on familiar but respectful terms. The first dock boy rushes in with the first of two wheel barrels. This one is filled with large sacks of ice. They are emptied into where I do not see. Then he runs back with the now empty wheel barrel, and returns with a cooler in place of the ice.

The lid of a large faded blue plastic container amidships is opened and the counting starts: one, two, …fifty-four lobsters are placed into the waiting cooler. Throughout the process John keeps commenting on how alive the lobsters look. To which the lobsterman says, “Of course, they were caught today.”

I am wondering how much is this going to cost when John says, “I got the money”. Four hundred dollars or so passes hands. John asks if he can step on board, which he does. He offers his apologizes before discussing the slightly less then anticipated weight of the lobsters. He will pay but offers his concern about the weight.

The lobsterman is grateful and respectful to John. I notice that he does not respond to John’s concerns. The moment passes. It ends with John requesting two more lobsters — he’ll pay for them — for the dock boys who have been hanging back a reverential distance during the transaction.

John starts to leave but first tells the lobsterman that he loves him and misses him. He clearly says, “I love you”. I realize the wheel barrel with the lobsters is gone. The boys are back to staring at their smart phones. John leaves as he came, cigarette and all. The lobsterman powers his well-worn boat slightly forward, unties the spring line, and motors out toward the opening of the inlet.

I want to ask the boys about what just happened but I think not. I am unsure if what transpired was legal. I begin to wash the salt off Carrie Rose with fresh water from the hose on the dock and decide to keep my own consul. Then I think; I should write this down and so I have.

What We Dodged Today…

Time to get out of Dodge. Well, really New Jersey. In this part of the world and I imagine most parts of the world tides and currents have to be dealt with. Trying to figure it out is like celestial navigation except not as precise. I purchased a book listing the tides and currents for the east coast. It is a book of tables and small print. And it is a book of suppositions about currents. To keep its bulk down the tables refer to other unrelated tables. There are many abbreviations, footnotes, and confusing relationships between data points.

It reminds me of nephrology. I can understand it if I squint and read every word and not let one thing I do not understand pass until I understand it. We have not found a local, or longtime cruiser for that matter that feels comfortable predicting the current. Today we got to our destination — Manasquan Inlet — at precisely the wrong time. The tide was at its high point and current was running out like gangbusters.

Let me backtrack. We pulled out of Jersey City, NJ with the current in our favor. The Hudson narrows here and in fact, the Verrazano Bridge is called The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. When a big tidal river like the Hudson narrows in the vicinity of lower Manhattan; Ellis Island; the Statue of Liberty; a major sea port with the tugs, tows, anchored barges, and moving tankers, car carriers, and bulkers; and add to this the local ships, water taxis, and ferries; not to mention the various security agencies and the local fisherman it creates maelstrom of activity. I could keep adding to the list but it is making me dizzy.

The above craziness ended as Carrie Rose passed between two incoming ships: a car carrier and a tanker. I am not sure how we ended up in the middle of the eighth largest suspension bridge with a fully loaded tanker from Liverpool and a behemoth car carrier from who knows where on either side, but it worked.

Now the Hudson opens up wide. The channel markers fan out into the distant Atlantic Ocean. We had decided to take a sharp right and head for Great Kills harbor to wait out the rough weather. It seemed like we would be there for a week according to NOAA weather radio.

I listened repeatedly for a glimmer of hope. No such luck, except maybe today. There were Small Craft Warnings, still it did not sound that bad. It was early in the day. We decided to go have a look, so I turned CR’s bow away from the land and for the first time towards the ocean.

As it turned out, just going to look turned into just keep going. Carrie Rose headed south around the Sandy Hook light and down the coast of New Jersey. Neither of us had anticipated this, so no route existed in the iPad or MacBook Air, our main navigational aids. We scrambled to enter the appropriate waypoints and in the process discovered that our destination was close to 50 miles away.

Northeast winds are the bane of Chicago’s boating world and it is the same here. The only difference is in Chicago the fetch is measured in hundreds of miles and here in thousands. The wind freshened and the waves grew. It is hard to estimate their size. The radio said two to fours. All I can tell you that CR was lifted and surfed down them close to 14 mph. Not scary, nerve racking is a better term. CR has been in worse on the Great Lakes, but there was something different about these.

They came out of the NE, which was good. CR does well with waves on her stern quarter. Then they morphed into an odd combination of NE and East. I turned off the autopilot and took over the helm. I can steer a straighter thus more comfortable course and I can take advantage of the following sea to speed us along. To my right I saw a large powerboat skimming the shore disappear into the inlet. It confirmed the point on my chart. I headed for it.

Inlets are odd places. They are places of abrupt change. In this case, the bigger seas of the ocean are broken up into small pieces creating a chaotic mess. Though this is a large inlet, it was hard to make out until almost upon it. I could see two distinct jetties on the radar so I knew it existed, and then I saw the red and green lights that mark their ends: chaos on the outside, smooth as glass on the inside. CR has 220 horsepower. I used them. With the throttle down, we cut through the maelstrom and into the smooth channel.

Now you have to remember we have never been here before. We have no local knowledge other than what we have gleaned from cruising guides. And since I was busy driving, Charlotte was busy (when not holding on) trying to gather data. I knew she was on the phone and then she said in a confident voice, “We are going to the Hoffman’s Marina gas dock and it is before the bridge”.

I saw the bridge nearby. My mistake was to relax for 30 seconds and in those precious seconds; I failed to realize the strength of the current. As is usual for any crowded confined place on the water, there were fishing boats, some quite large, drifting with the current. I hit the autopilot button, grabbed my binoculars, and started to look for the gas dock. Saw it and two men who were waving me off.

Looking down at my depth sounded it read 3.0 feet…not good. More power, I turned into the channel, saw and felt the current rushing in along the dock. One does not come into a dock riding with the current. One turns into it and so I did with the urgings of the dock master. The problem here was the current was also pushing me into the dock. I knew that if I did not do something quickly CR would miss the dock and be swept into a narrow channel lined with large sport fishing boats.

My first response was to reverse to give me some room to maneuver but with the weird current, it did not work as expected. Again, CR’s power came in handy. Throttle down for the second time, she came around and hovered off the dock as she slowly moved towards it. Then we were docked. This was a good stress test for my 60+ year old heart.

The rest of the story involves Larry the dock master and owner of the marina guiding CR into the slip next to the gas dock using lines and me at the helm to slow the progress of CR getting swept away with the current. Once tied to the various piers, a complicated task in itself, I turned the engine off and calm reappeared.

It had been five hours since we left New Jersey expecting to travel 15 miles to a quiet backwater and ending up in the middle of New Jersey vacationland in a busy marina next to the gas dock with an even busier channel next to it. And that bridge is for the New Jersey commuter railroad into Manhattan. It opens and closed all day announcing its intention with a siren. And did I mention the Marina’s restaurant in earshot, which had a live band playing the best of wedding music circa 1970 long into the night. Oh and the flood light on the fuel dock sending sunlight over CR.

None of it mattered. We started down the coast and ended up in a beautiful if noisy place, and now can ride the tides stationary while contemplating what to do next with our lives.

PATH

The path into, or should I say, onto Manhattan is straightforward. Walk down our dock through the magnetically locked but usually jimmied iron gate, take a right passed the guard tower, then north by the Krank gym with its patrons gasping and sweating while simultaneously lifting octagonal dumbbells, pulling weighted sleighs across the melting asphalt of Marin St., and trying to stay connected to social media.

Continuing into the bleakness that only new condos bring to the pedestrian street scape with owners of small dogs straining to pull them from the tiny hints of soil and smells left by the few trees some zoning ordinance forced the builders to put in. A little further on is what, at first, looked like tenements; but discreetly behind them are many different models of upscale sports touring cars.

Five blocks on, we reach what looks to be the town square except it is triangular. In four directions radiates vibrant old Jersey streets teaming with small shops, restaurants, and people. Here is where the PATH (Port Authority Trans-Hudson) subway station is located. The PATH has only a few stations. It feeds into the greater NYC subway. The interesting thing about the PATH is that it travels under the Hudson River and the NYC subway. Due to this it is another few flights of stairs down to access it.

I am of a mind that the deeper one goes, until reaching magma, the cooler it stays. There is proof of this in the many caves I have visited. The park rangers always mention that it is a constant 50 degrees and we know about the caves in France where wine and cheese are aged. But this logic breaks down here.

Standing at the precipice of the stairs, a hot, muggy, almost putrid wind hits you in the face, and if I were anywhere else than in NJ or NYC, it would a warning not to enter. Enter we do. Down and down, and though it is a cliché, Dante’s levels of hell cannot help but come to mind.

The authorities have provided fans but contrary to the laws of physics they seem to work in the wrong way increasing the heat rather than cooling our already sticky skin. A train appears and we jump on. It is cool, even cold. A collective sigh of relief should be heard but it is restrained lest one show a sign of vulnerability.

On the NYC subway, young people will in mass try to give us a seat, aged that we be. This is not the case in NJ. We try to find a corner to wedge ourselves in because the train is on a slalom course. These must be special train cars not to derail in the sharp sudden curves presented to it.

The river allows for down time not experienced in the NYC subway system. The trains still have momentary convulsions and then it’s NYC. Time to wake up and pay attention. Time to stop daydreaming and start planning the expedition that venturing onto the island presents. The first being which direction to turn when we emerge into the sweet Manhattan air. Now there is a non sequitur!

Glad This Did Not Say 666!

Jersey City, NJ

Of all the places in the world for Carrie Rose (CR) to end up, who would have thought Jersey City, NJ. Friday it was time to head the 32 nautical miles to Manhattan. Both Charlotte and I had no success securing a slip on the New Jersey side for a one-week stay. Frustrated, we considered a mooring on Staten Island when a young woman answered the phone at Liberty Harbor Marina & RV Park, our second choice. A few return calls later; we had a spot (B-49) for a week.

In our four-year sojourn from Chicago, we have been impressed at how trusting the folks that run the marinas and boat services we have done business with are. Maintenance, dockage, and storage are prearranged by a short email, phone call, but mainly a quick discussion. Though I try to flesh out the details of, let’s say the cost of bottom paint or anything else for that matter, it proves fruitless.

In the end, the charges have not been exorbitant and in most cases, less than I anticipate. I am not naïve. In pointing CR’s bow towards a population center of such magnitude as New York City I understand that Carrie Rose is headed for shark (and I do not mean the fish) infested waters. I expected some due diligence on the part of the marina owner, just not quite this amount of detail of personal and boat information, and proof of their authenticity.

Our journey has been an international one and so unlike the years spent swinging on Can-16 in Montrose Harbor in Chicago, we needed papers. Passports, CR and her crew signed up as an entity in the Small Vessel Reporting System, and I obtained a Radio Telephone License (WDB8275) for CR’s radio because at some point in the distant past Canada required one.

Then there is the boat’s insurance, which covers the Great Lakes and their tributaries. Well, once under the George Washington Bridge CR is no longer in a tributary of the Great Lakes. I called the insurance company from the middle of the Hudson River because I neglected to do it before we left. When a cell phone works it is a truly amazing appliance. Boat U.S. and I had a detailed discussion with the drone of the diesel in the background. Again, after another call back CR received a 15-day extension onto her insurance until that is, we decide on our final destination, and this for the grand total of $35.00.

The other identifier needed is the state registration, still Illinois in our case. I expect an official in one of these states we are parked in to question the fact that CR has not been in Illinois for four years and extort money for their state. So far, so good.

But I stray from the topic, when we called to make a reservation at the marina we were informed to pull up to the fuel dock and call channel 68. The dock, while looking quaint from afar was a rusting hulk of a barge with a floating dock attached to it. I called channel 68 and of course, no answer, so Charlotte called the office and they sent Francis to help us fuel up and pump the head. And again stressed that when we come in to register bring hard copies of insurance and state registration.

When Francis appeared it was not the typical boat boy or girl looking like a Ralph Lauren ad, but a big burly guy more of the plumber type. I should have known because she said she was calling security to come help us. He came on scene while I, ever curious, was scoping out the barge. The center was filled with multiple long cylindrical tanks, the kind seen on semi tankers. Along with the tanks were red diamond shaped chemical warning and identifying signs. It was not a sight to inspire confidence.

But he was friendly and to the point, and appear dumbstruck. I wondered but did not say anything, and then he started talking about another Nordic Tug he had seen a few years ago and how nice CR was. He even sat at the bow taking selfies as he guided me to our berth with the same hand signals that guide airplanes.

CR has garnered much praise on this leg of the trip. There must be more wooden boat builders around these parts because someone always mentions her two appendages: the Eastport pram and the Wee Lassie canoe. When this happens I feel the way a pedigree dog owner must feel when a passerby bends over to pet and compliment their dog.

The marina is in a transitioning area. High rise buildings of disparate shapes, sizes, and colors are filling in the gaps like the weeds in our garden do. Across from us I watch a crane supply wood and rebar to the construction crew of what people tell us is to be a hotel developed by a son-in-law of The Donald.

So, I think this odd mess of a marina, RV (yes, I said RV), and tent (yes, I said tent) park will not be allowed to exist in its present state of decrepitude. I am glad we saw it now in all its glory with its population of artist, musicians, local anglers, and good old boat sailors.

Soon I fear there will be no stressed out young women to insist in proof positive of our identity. No security to pump our head and fill CR’s tank with diesel. No New Jersey as it used to be.

Narrows at West Point, Storms at Storm King

On Wednesday, Carrie Rose passed through the narrow cut that the Hudson has been able to carve out of old hard rock. It took millions of years to make it wide enough for a large tow and us to fit through together. When coming from the north the Hudson is quite wide, almost like a lake and then it dramatically narrows.

In fact, The Narrows are narrow enough for George Washington and the boys to pull a wrought iron chain across to stop the progress of British ships during the Revolutionary War. There is still a piece of the chain at West Point and in fact, this is where West Point is located. It appeared just as we negotiated the turn south out of the Narrows in an area called World’s End. There it is, looking like a grey granite replica of the Buddhist temple in Lhasa.

Thursday we rented a black Dart. Nice car, well appointed, peppy, handled well in the surprisingly twisting roads. I am not sure why the surprise about the roads. To get to Storm King Art Center, Bear and Storm King Mountain need to be driven up, over, around, and down. Storm King Art Center has been a destination for me ever since I first saw David Smith’s sculptures displayed there in photographs.

David Smith — blue-collar welder turned abstract expressionist artist — welded delicate steel sculptures. He was a big burly guy often shown with a cigar in his mouth wielding a cutting torch while staring at a mass of steel.

I am not sure why but most of the abstract expressionist had a death wish, as did many of the poets and the photographers of that era. But so far, Charlotte and I have managed to avoid death wishes, and thus we will continue to wander a little further south.