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.