Bird Life

While washing the siphon coffee maker in the saloon (way too much work but it does make great coffee), I looked out the starboard windows and saw the resident mallards preening their feathers. I had observed their none to delicate courting behavior and their other antics the day before. They took a cocktail break in the late afternoon. A little more quacking and swimming followed, and then they gathered under the trees just south of the marina’s office.

They were still there in the early morning nestled in the grass or on one leg with their beaks tucked under their feathers. One eye eyed me as I passed, they are still wild animals after all but they did not stir, obviously use to bleary-eyed sailors in various states of disrepair walking by.

I started to think that being a duck might not be a bad idea and then remembered the multitude of duck blinds and duck decoy museums Carrie Rose has cruised by on rivers from Canada to here in the Chesapeake. Maybe, since I have the choice, I should aspire to something other than waterfowl, something more majestic.

On our time on the water watching birds has been a major attraction: eagles, osprey, herons, kingfishers, robins and warblers and sparrows and doves and gulls and terns. Now there is a bird, the tern. They are sleek in the way a 57 Chevy is. In terms of flying, they fly the pants off your average gull. Too see them soar, hover, then dive head long into the water, and come out with a twitching bit of silver between their beak is a marvel.

One thing I cannot say much for is their squawk. Grating is an appropriate description. The Peterson’s Field Guide to Birds describes it in varying ways depending on the type. From the Forster’s tern’s harsh, nasal kyarr to the rasping ka-a-ak of the Roseate tern, and “A harsh, squealing zree-k-zeek” of the diminutive Least tern.

And speaking of the Least tern aka Sternula antillarum, it is my pick, at least for today. A small tern, only nine inches from the tip of its pointed beak to the tips of its forked tail. When I first saw one on a dingy cruise up and down the La Trappe Creek in Maryland I thought it was a Purple Martin until I saw it hover and dive. It landed on a buoy and proceeded to enjoy its catch. Then I noticed several of its compatriots inhabiting a near by pier. They looked like a jolly self contained group.

Though the above reference mentions that they are “Threatened by disturbance and habitat loss” it appears, they live along the coast of North America from Maine to Texas, along the southern Mississippi, and in a few western river basins. Central America, the Caribbean, and northern South America are their wintering sites. I’d prefer Southern South America but then you can’t have everything.

So, for today, June 30, 2016, I will be reincarnated as a Least tern. When I get back to civilization, I will contact the lawyer to add an addendum to the trust to reflect my wishes. Now back to washing the coffee maker…

Relentless

I am not sure what I thought about crabbers before spending a protracted time in their presence. There is a romantic vision of fisherman as a whole. You know, rugged individuals at battle with the sea, Mother Nature, and worse yet, the bureaucracy. And I admit that even with the onset of technology it is a strenuous life with much at stake, somewhat like farmers. And like farmers, there is the division between small and mammoth corporate enterprises.

The crabbers and oystermen (often one and the same) here on Chesapeake Bay tend towards the small, even the tiny end of the scale. They ply the waters in beat up fiberglass and aluminum skiffs, and pristine Chesapeake Bay dreadrises.

Carrie Rose left Island View Marina on a Sunday and passed through a couple of narrows. The first was Poplar Island Narrows, which was not quite as narrow as I expected but of course, in the narrowest spot, the markers became confusing. I assume I am a deep draft vessel. It has kept Carrie Rose off most shallows but in reality at 3.5 feet deep, we can get in most places. With Poplar Islands Narrows left behind, the next was Knapps Narrows. A manmade channel that created Tilghman Island.

The narrows and the island boast a fine collection of deadrise fishing boats along with the famous sail driven (with caveats, of course) skipjack fleet. To enter the narrows from the bay (west) side has more consequences — running aground — if the buoys, day marks, and I might add, additional local markers are not heeded. The other impediment to traversing the narrows is the bridge.



Bridges are represented on charts by type, and by horizontal and vertical clearance. The Knapps Narrows Bridge is a bascule bridge (like the Chicago River’s many bridges) with a horizontal clearance of 42 feet and a vertical clearance of 12 feet. Carrie Rose is both 11 feet wide and high, and should fit without difficulty.

A hard learned, or should I say earned, lesson is that when on the water it is better to be cautious and so, the VHR radio was switch from channel 16 to 13 and the bridge tender was hailed, “Knapps Narrows Bridge tender, Knapps Narrows Bridge tender this is the Carrie Rose”. He responded immediately. I pleaded my case to proceed without a bridge rising, though I would have had to lower my antennas. To which he responded, “Better safe than sorry, let me know when you get to green marker 5 and I will raise the bridge”.

I slowed to let the boats coming at me from the last bridge rising pass. In an entrance that is by nature narrow, it narrows even more due to shoaling. It is a tight squeeze most of the way to the bridge, which by the way, as the bridge tender informed me, was already open for a sailboat.





Overwhelming may be a bit too strong of a word, but the sight of the fishing fleet lined up perpendicular to the canal was striking. So many individuals relying on the bay’s crabs and oysters, it is indicative of the strength of the centuries old local culture. All I could do, in the back of my mind, was wish them and the bay well.



But where was I in this story, I got lost in the details. Maybe I am not too far off the mark. The crabbers are similar to farmers plowing a field. The difference is that the crabber’s field does not move horizontally. A line, marked by some type of buoy, with crab bait attached every three or four feet is strung out at varying lengths, and then slowly traversed in one direction. Once at the end, the boat scurries back to the buoy and begins the process once again: the line is gently raised from the bottom and any feasting crab is netted.

These boats are not subtle. They have large block, souped up V-8’s with two minimal mufflers directly off the engine pointing directly to the sky. As I watched, and listened, I thought of my urge to seek out new territory and experiences, even while contemplating the familiar.

I think this is where Carrie Rose comes in. As she has moved throughout eastern North America, the new has been tempered by her familiarity. I suppose it is the same for the fisherman and his craft. Every day on the water brings with it a different challenge.

The morning Carrie Rose spent anchored behind the sandy spit at the entrance of the appropriately named La Trappe Creek off the Choptank River; I watched a well used dreadrise plow its field from before 6AM until noon. SW to NE, NE to SW . . . relentless.

Anatomy of a Thunder Storm

A couple of days before Dividing Creek Carrie Rose rode out a nasty thunder storm while anchored behind a small island on Hunting Creek off the Miles River. There was the first big blow and then three less dramatic storms blew through. It rained and rained but we had picked a safe spot and so, we each managed to finish a book.


Mammary Clouds


Shelf Cloud (it was copper colored). When one of these appears, let more chain out and wait for the wind!


Ditto!


The last storm almost missed us...


Ah, the skies are clearing.


Fooled ya!


Finally it was over.


A just reward...

Dividing Creek

We entered Dividing Creek and anchored in 8.5 feet in the first small cove. It is about a mile long tapering at its end in a mass of reeds. The edges ungulate from one side to the next providing swing room for boats to anchor not quite in the middle.

When Carrie Rose entered, she had already been down Granary Creek, and turned around at the narrow end while churning up dark gray-brown mud — never a great idea. I will be more careful in the future. This lapse in judgment would not have occurred in the North Channel because billion year old rock is not as forgiving to the prop as million year old mud.

There are small craft warnings on the bay but here it is calm, protected by the oaks and pines that line the banks. There was one other boat anchored here, a newish sailboat about 40 feet. They left early in the day probably towards Granary Creek but returned to anchor a little closer to us. I imagining they explored the above creek and found it wanting.

So, we sit here about a football field apart. They paddled by and said hello, and we rowed by and returned the gesture. It is nice to see a handsome boat in the creek, a focal point that puts the size and shape of the creek into perspective.

Carrie Rose moved here from Shaw Bay, a wide open anchorage, because of a dire weather forecast. It is hard to judge if it was a wise move because in this superbly protected spot who knows what happened on the more exposed bay. I have decided to not second guess myself; if I feel nervous, I am going to act. When I was practicing medicine it was not rare for me to tell a patient who was reluctant to go to the emergency department that if I was nervous they should also be. I’d say I was correct about 85% of the time. Not a bad average but only time will tell if my cruising average will correspond with my medical one.

On this creek on Maryland’s Wye River there are many sounds. Some are man-made: chain saws, skiffs on the river, the occasional rifle shot, small private planes practicing stalls, A-10 Warthogs flying low and direct back to their base, and private jets covering our section of the compass rose. Some are natural: song birds singing, great blue herons squawking, an osprey’s high pitched shrieking, schools of fingerlings rustling the water with their silver backs, the occasional plop of a fish catching an insect unawares, and the unfamiliar sight of two fins a foot or two apart surfacing under and around a swam of schooling minnows. These fins were identified for us by a trio of pre-teens, their leader compound bow in hand, as skate blown off the bay because of the recent storm.









This shoreline has a multitude of sticks that resemble hunting herons or maybe it is the other way around. The shoreline also has eroding banks littered with fallen trees. The Chesapeake is the third most susceptible area to ocean level rise on the east coast. Many large homes along the banks are stabilizing their shorelines with rip-rap or large wooden retaining walls.

With a little study, I realize that Carrie Rose is cruising through the northern pine-oak forest. I thought we were further south but it turned out not to be true. If she is to be in the southern mixed pine-oak forest we will need to get a few hundred miles south of here…sure is a big country!

Rockfish

Island View Marina Kent Island, MD

Rock Hall, Maryland is a small town that time has left behind, and I do not mean in a bad way. It is located on the eastern shore of Maryland in the middle of Chesapeake Bay. I have spent five days there. Once while cruising south on the bay and another time, most recently, by car. The car went there specifically to get a rockfish sandwich at Waterman’s Crab House.

I have been a vegetarian since 1978, and because the definition of a vegetarian has been corrupted the past few years, I will add of the ovo-lacto variety. There are times when I will succumb to a serving of fish. Famously, the three times I visited Japan I gave up and ate whatever sea creature was placed in front of me. I felt it was psychically easier than any benefit I might derive from not eating fish for a couple of weeks.

And then there are the times like this when I find myself in an area of the country where fishing is their lifeblood. So, while waiting for a deep fried rockfish sandwich with fries and tartar sauce, I found myself reading the placemat. This starts me thinking about how diverse a country I live in, and how a city dweller like me can feel unrelated to a village dweller like the folk in Rock Hall.

The placemat contains thirty ads of varying sizes but all are square or rectangular. It is printed in two colors not to my liking. One is a pukey green, the other a kind of varicose vein maroon. I, who used to be a printer, am thinking the printers had two half used cans they wanted to get rid of, but then there is no accounting for taste.

As I read the ads, I realize that some of them would never be seen on a Chicago placemat. An obvious one is the ad for cover crops with the catchy slogan of “Tap Into It”, whatever that means. I doubt the average person on a Chicago street will even know what a cover crop is.

Another is for a pile driving company that proudly states, “Four Generations of Marine Construction”. They will drive pilings for piers, boathouses, duck blinds, etc., etc., and they never cut off the old post, they pull them out.

There are ads for fishing charters, for a marine railway, and a motel that recommends reservations during hunting season. There is an oil heating specialist, a sail maker, and a towboat company with unlimited membership for just $158 per year.

I find myself smiling. On recent trips across the Great Plains, and up and over various eastern mountains, the just-off-the-interstate world has looked amazingly similar. The same architects, restaurant and retail consultants, and dare I say, the same politicians that approve of the former’s plans and designs must move from interchange to interchange.

It was refreshing to be in a place so unrelated to my place. It made me want to stick my head into every nook and cranny, to talk to everyone I saw, to drive down country back roads; I guess it made me want to explore the U.S.A. again. For as unrelated as we may seem, we are here in this greatest of melting pots because of our or our ancestor’s drive for a better life.

And for this insight, I have to thank Waterman’s Crab House of Rock Hall, MD for luring me back to visit their splendid town, and of course, for the best fried rockfish sandwich and fries.

Bimini

Island View Marina Kent Island, MD

What is the big deal about a bimini that this discussion will require hundreds of words, well I’ll tell you. The first big deal is that we finally have one. This has been on our wish list since Carrie Rose was purchased in 2003. The fact that we have one is not for the want of trying. What delayed its acquisition (at least for the first decade) was my tendency to jury rig.

For those not mechanically bent, jury rig means to try to replicate a professional’s craftsmanship with one’s own efforts. Of course, since “one” has no training and is trying to do it on the cheap the effort is mainly wasted. If any product is produced, it tends to be inferior and many times almost as costly.

It is a rare person that can replicate the efforts of a professional. I have known one or two, certainly less than five in my lifetime. They are the kind of people that myths are created about. On occasion, I can be counted amongst the few, but rarely. I am too willing to compromise, to settle for almost as good, to be chintzy on the materials, and lastly to try and get artistic.

This tendency often leads to long delays and cost overruns. Charlotte has been patient with my foibles. At times, when even her patience is tried, I am reminded that we end up with three of everything before obtaining the correct one.

But enough of me, five years ago Carrie Rose started on her journey east. It was quickly apparent that a shade on the stern of the boat would make life more comfortable. The sun is a blessing and a curse. Many days, even in the far north, to be able to lounge on the aft deck protected from the solar wind would be welcomed. To that end, whenever we reached our final destination for the year we would inquire about canvas makers.

Seems simple enough, where there are boats there is usually folk skilled in the craft of designing and making the many covering that boats require. There are shades for the exterior windows, there are chairs and sofas and bunks for the interior. Many boats have elaborate contrivances enclosing an upper steering station or a cockpit that in effect creates another room. I have rarely seen one of these creations done poorly, so I know there are qualified persons out there able to make a bimini for Carrie Rose.

And that is the point of this discussion; it took us five years to find one. To our queries, each marina owner in turn responded positively, sung the praises of and gave us the card of a canvas maker, and as we expectantly walked out of the office to give the individual a call, we would be stopped with the caveat, “They do excellent work but they are a little quirky”.

One was cranky, one forgetful, another had timetable issues, some would not venture to our remote location, and on and on. One we even met. He drove up in a sagging LaSabre with his imported Chinese wife and his sidekick poodle, deposited both on the boat, and then proceeds to talk about anything and everything unrelated to canvas. I think we ended up serving them snacks and drinks! Nonetheless, nothing ever came of it. I know that is a double negative but in this case, it is entirely warranted.

And I know you are doubtless sick of this tirade. I mean what a problem to have, not being able to spent thousands of dollar on a bimini while cruising around the country. I can hear it, “We should all have such problems.” And I am sympathetic to it, so I will end this tale simply by saying Carrie Rose has acquired a beautiful and functional bimini.

A sweet and competent couple from Cambridge, Maryland made it. If you need some canvas work and are in the area, call me and I will give you their names.

Projects

Carrie Rose spent the winter on Kent Island, Maryland. It was the last spot on a cruise that took her from the Vermont shore of Lake Champlain, through the Chambly Canal and the Hudson River to Jersey City, New Jersey, then out into the North Atlantic pass Cape May where she turned north again to transit Delaware Bay and into the Chesapeake Bay via the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal. By any account, it was a hell of a cruise.

Carrie Rose spent the winter at Island View Marina on a crab alley. She was visited once in March while on the way to see Charlotte’s mother in Sumter, South Carolina. Stuff was dropped off (including a case of wine) and stuff was taken off. Looking around the interior now it is not obvious that anything was taken off but believe that Carrie Rose is and has been in the process of shedding weight.

When here last the anchor chain and rode (all 400 feet of it) was taken out of its hiding place, which was then sealed for leaks and it all repacked. It was quite the task. Will any of it come out again when called upon to do so, time will tell.

Chopin Preludes are playing in the background and the music makes a hot day much cooler. The projects accomplished start to list themselves. The dingy that was almost destroyed in a mishap — it fell off the stern while being lowered in a suspect manner — was fiber glassed (read repaired) and has two coats of varnish on it. As do the stern saloon doors, the panels on the pilothouse doors, and the Wee Lassie canoe strapped to the pilothouse’s roof.

The saloon window blind’s teak cornices were re-engineered for the two inch blinds that were ordered rather than the one inch blinds that they replaced. A short (!!!) in the outside solar panel-to-battery connector was diagnosed and repaired. The newly refurbished LED cabin roof light was wired in place, and what should have been a simple four bolt attachment of the outboard engine mount, turned into a couple of hours whittling and sanding unforgiving plastic before using clamps to force it into place.

The sweet canvas making couple from Cambridge came calling to collect what was owed them and give us a demonstration of how the new bimini works, very well actually.

Half of the fourth day of living on the hard (yes, we are still on land, Monday is launch day) was spent in Easton, MD washing 30 lbs. of damp mildew-y clothes. An art museum was visited in the historic town center and a bucket was bought at the new town’s center Lowes and how’s that for the exciting cruising life…

After talking to George, the owner and chief mechanic, of Island View a slip was procured for the summer; home base from which to venture out on the bay and to return to should there be any errant hurricanes.

There are a few more projects but aren’t there always. It is part of the good life here on Kent Island, or wherever Carrie Rose might rest her weary diesel.

June 2016