Expectations

We concluded the summer where we began this fifth year of summer cruising. The mission for 2016 was to explore the Chesapeake, and instead of wandering freely as we have in the past, we choose to have a home base. It was a good call as various complications made having a slip advantageous. Though, I will admit it felt odd to end in the same place we started.

The first complication was Carrie Rose’s house battery failure and the second was a malfunction in the charging system. And then there was the unprecedented heat. If you can imagine, we fled home to Chicago in August to escape the heat! On the face of it, that made little sense but it proved to be another good call.

Carrie Rose (CR) was lifted out of the water on September 19, probably prematurely. Locals were quick to explain that the best part of the cruising season in the Chesapeake is fall. But there were other considerations; two of the most pressing are Charlotte’s 92 year old parents.

When I reviewed the logbook for this year, we cruised for over thirty days. By that I mean in transit, lying at anchor or in a distant marina, and exploring the rivers and creeks that make up the Chesapeake. I will venture to say that before we started spending the summer on the boat, thirty days doing the above would have constituted a lifetime of cruising.

Expectations, even if met, are an odd trap to be caught up in. Odder still is that within certain bounds we do not need to have any. We are healthy enough to do what we want despite some mild stiffness and arthritis. Both of us have had run-ins with the medical profession that have left us better off. Charlotte assures me we are firmly rooted in the middle class, and memory and brain function, though slightly fleeting is serviceable.

This year’s anchorages are already appearing in my dreams, and the material for next year’s dreams is being researched. To put the last five years in perspective is a noble thought but I think I will look to the future. By my reckoning, there are eight months left to ponder next year’s expectations.

Smoky

The Appalachian Mountains must be traversed to go from East to West anywhere north of Georgia. We began to head home at near sea level in South Carolina’s Low Country. The road climbed quickly into the mountains and once at the summit the descent into the Midwest’s fertile farmland is more gradual. Numerous Interstates crisscross the range and this year we chose to drive east on I-40.

I-40 was blasted through the mountains. Layer upon layer of geology is laid bare by road cuts. A tall concrete barrier with little or no shoulder bounds the driver’s side, and shear rock towers over the passengers. The road feels narrow and confined. A common sign seen before blind curves is “Falling Rocks”. It is unclear how to react to this pronouncement.

Trucks are restricted to the right lane and this forces them into convoys. The long strings of them are intimidating to pass especially on curves. Every so often there is a straightaway but mostly the road is in constant flux: right to left, left to right, ascending and descending. On certain curves, large yellow warning signs graphically depict trucks tipping over and threaten certain disaster if the traffic does not slow to 45 mph. Of course, no one does.

The mountains do not affect our Honda Accord V6 Coupe. It has enough horsepower, brakes, and handling characteristics to make light work of the mountains, that is if used in the proper dosage. Paddle shifters on the steering wheel get a work out downshifting, so I only have to brake on the sharpest curves.

I try to follow Marty’s (my all things car related consultant) advice to brake before the turns and accelerate through them but usually get the timing wrong. Driving here requires both hands on the wheel. I try to feel the car rather than look at the gauges. When the road straightens, I depress the gas pedal in an attempt to put distance between the tons of rolling freight and the car’s rear fender. I am often successful.

It is calming to be alone on the road. We glide through the turns and even with the electronic steering, I can feel the tires gripping the asphalt. Cloudbursts moved through the valley leaving smoky trails of clouds. The tires give a bit on the freshly dampened road. What would it be like to drive a true sports car through these mountains . . .

I have driven over these mountains since I was 17 and seldom see Porsches, Jaguars, Corvettes, and their more exotic counterparts. They seem to be reserved for the big city. The mountains are left to more mundane vehicles.

Half way between South Carolina’s Low Country and Chicago is Berea in the Kentucky Highlands. It is home to Berea College, and a vibrant arts and crafts community. The college stresses practical work experience, so each student must have a job and sometimes two. The upside to this is that the college is mostly tuition free.

We stayed at the Boone Tavern Hotel. It is affiliated with the college and most of the work force is students. The first student we interacted with was the young man who helped us with our bags. As I handed them over to him, he said in a quiet envious voice, “Nice car, mister”. To that I replied, “You are absolutely correct young man, it is a nice car”.

The next day we detoured to Cincinnati to see the art museum. At this point most of the drama was out of the road. It was replaced by the stress of negotiating the endless construction projects that continued into Chicago. It had me wishing for hairpin curves and steep declines, for the claustrophobia of concrete barriers and tractor trailers, and for the sight of the smoky clouds of the Appalachian Mountains.

Dog Walking in Annapolis

If you have never been to Annapolis, you owe yourself a visit. Go on a busy weekend when there is a regatta or the Naval Academy’s Homecoming or one of the in the water boat shows — sail preferably. It doesn’t matter that you are not interested in the Navy or sailing or boats in general . . . just go.

Walk down the main drag. Have a few beers. Buy a book at the classic used bookstore, or a hat at the best hat store I have ever been in. Make your way down to the water through too much traffic and too many people. And keep your eyes open for the fresh-faced navel recruits dressed in their whites and looking self-conscious as hell.

Annapolis is one of the few places where people dress like me: early American yachty. I fit right in even in a bright yellow rain slicker. There is the way-too-rich crowd, the snotty racing sailboat owners, and their cocky young crews. There are power boaters of every description and traditional Pete Seeger loving seafarers. And then there are the dogs.

Of course, it pays to dog walk on a warm summer afternoon, and that is what Adele, Charlotte, and I, and Miss Piggy and Cassie were up to. The latter two being the stars of the show: Miss Piggy, the runt of a litter of pugs, and Cassie, a fine example of a King Cavalier Spaniel.

These two canines brought more attention down on us than we deserved. Both were drawn to every opening shop entrance and it seemed like every other dog was drawn to the two of them. Big dogs, little dogs, middle dogs; dog that consisted of odd mixtures and pedigreed dogs; dogs with diamond collars and dogs with inch long spikes around their necks.

Dogs appeared from the N-S-E-W, from above and below and in between. When Adele and Charlotte left me alone on the street with Miss Piggy and Cassie to go get ice cream I was barraged with compliments: little girls, big girls; elderly and youthful. One classy older gentleman with a beautiful Eastern Shore accent offered to Miss Piggy that a pug was the best dog as long as you didn’t hunt or cared if they sat in your lap all night.

It was quite a whirlwind for the likes of me. Someone who has never owned a pet let alone a dog. Did these two beautiful little dogs make me more attractive — hardly. But did they say something about me, false as it might be — definitely.

I may just have to get myself a pug, move to Annapolis, and spend the rest of the days left to me promenading. So, like I said, you owe yourself a visit!

Back Creek

One of the nice things about cruising is not getting off the boat. Today (9/15/2016) finds us anchored in nine feet of water in Hunting Creek. We have been here before and did not get off then. The first time was to wait out a predicted cold front. It proved to be real. Huddled behind the small island that graces the creek’s entrance the storm raged around us. The island and its trees protected us from the storms multiple incursions from the NW.

This time the weather was coming from the NNE, so we opted for the other side of the creek. Here we anchored about 100 feet off a few houses and piers. There were still plenty of trees to block the worst of the wind.

Between the gaps in the foliage, I could see the ripe orange-brown of a dried cornfield. Other than the few people that made noise on shore the first night and the early risen crabber the creek was quiet.

A distinct line on the shores buttressing rocks marks the going of the tide. These rocks have been placed there to prevent further erosion. Where the rabble of rocks ends a more enterprising homeowner has had a wall of pilings and planks constructed to keep their property from becoming part of the mud that Carrie Rose’s anchor is firmly dug into.



Many grand trees cling to the shoreline's remaining soil. Their exposed roots drive deeper into the remnants of the earthen banks but I fear time is running out for them. The rising tide has recently become alarmingly higher than in the past, and due to the raising sea level large oceanic storms cause more damage in an afternoon then the tide could in a hundred years.



It is hard to comprehend what is happening. Of course, I am not an expert in these matters, only a casual observer on a cool cloudy day, on a quiet back creek, on the Miles River.

A Stiff Breeze

A stiff breeze can change a relaxing summer cruise into a challenging dilemma. Just getting out of a slip is froth with uncertainty. We arrived back to Maryland on Wednesday with plans to go cruising for a few days. Since we arrived in another heat alert, it was decided to defer leaving until it “cooled”. That, as it turn out, meant waiting until Sunday.

The cool arrived Sunday along with a 15 to 20 knots breeze from the NW. There were small craft warning on the surrounding waters but in these protected areas off the large bay, it is not a concern. So, it was time to leave, but the wind had Carrie Rose pinned in her slip, which is pointed west and open to the NW.

I proceeded to get the boat ready to leave all the while thinking we would be lucky to get out without colliding with the boat east of us or smacking the already abused dingy into a piling, or both.

I have gained enough experience that I know I should not repress feelings of dread. With this in mind, I walked from the foredeck with the wind rustling my almost nonexistent hair, through the pilothouse door and down into the saloon where Charlotte was cleaning up.

“I don’t think we should leave,” I said in a wimpy voice. To which she replied, “Well, we are only going 10 miles . . . we can wait”, adding, “When is the wind suppose to die down”? “Four”, I said. “Oh”, she said, and so we waited most of the day.

That Sunday (9/11) was the first day we were able to relax on the boat with the windows open for almost the entire summer. The stiff breeze brought with it less humidity and a high thin layer of clouds to shade us from the open sun.

As I sat reading, two guys on a large powerboat a few slips to our north prepared to leave and then spent the afternoon puttering around on the bow of their boat. A couple that had spent the night on their sailboat loaded up what looked like most of their processions and sauntered off. Just then, another sailboat came motoring in with its headsail in tatters.

Charlotte had started to draw this year’s holiday card, which she hopes to print using a woodblock she will carve from the drawing, and I began to write this. It was a day spent on the water listening to the wind howl in the rigging and wavelets smack into the side of the boat.



The wind calmed down as the last bank of clouds passed over us. We eventually left at three in the afternoon. It was 9.5 nautical miles southeast across Eastern Bay to where we anchored in Shaw Bay (N38 51.326’, W076 11.156’). It is deeper than most anchorages around here. I let loose 65 feet of chain to get the proper anchoring 4:1 ratio in 17 feet of water. The wind picked up a bit making the boat hobbyhorse, and at 5AM, a crabber arrived with lights blazing and started to circumnavigate the bay for the next 8 hours.



There is a saying in Chado — the Way of Tea — One Meeting, One Time. It means what it says, though there are many variations on its theme. This day only happens once, best not to ignore it, even if there is a stiff breeze.

Power Cord & Bilge Pump

For most, or I should say all of August, we sat in Chicago and monitored Maryland’s weather. It cooled down and we were ready to return, and then Herminie, a tropical storm in the Gulf of Mexico, turned into a hurricane. It vacillated back and forth between storm and hurricane, and in the process ruined most of the east coast Labor Day beach holiday.

The tracks of these storms are subject to the jet stream, the water temperature, the Coriolis effect, and the various land forms they pass over. A few super computers are needed to digest the data and come up with a probability curve for their path of destruction.

Carrie Rose was at the very edge of the warnings. I had faith in George, the marina’s owner, to act if needed. He did act last year when another hurricane threatened. This year the phone did not ring, so I called him. He explained not to worry; the marina is well protected, and then added the caveat that his prognosis could change at any moment. I decided to interpret this in the positive.

We postponed the trip back to the boat until the storm passed. It is a two-day drive for us that begins with the industry of Chicago and Indiana, and moves on to the farmlands of Ohio and then into the Pennsylvania and Maryland mountains. Once through the mountains it is a slow descent to sea level at Chesapeake Bay. The V6 Honda has registered close to 36 miles per gallon each time we have driven this way.

It was hot in Chicago when we left. The temperature moderated in the Allegany Mountains. Then with the loss of elevation came an increase in heat and humidity. By the time we crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge the radio was proclaiming a heat alert. It was as if we had never left. The locals at the marina confirmed our perception saying that this has been the hottest summer in decades.

The first task when reaching the boat is to connect the shore power cable. It is a simple job but the cable seems to get heavier each year. There is a sequence to follow before I plugging the boat into shore power. The boat side is attached first. Next, I lay enough cord out to reach the shore and secure the cable to the boat so it does not slip off or lay in the water. It also has to have enough slack to ride up and down with the tide, so it is a balancing act.

This done I plug it into the shore power side. A 30 amp marine connector has three prongs: power, neutral, and ground. It can only fit in one way and a twist locks it in. I looked at the prongs to align it properly with the plug and noticed that two of the connectors had black melted plastic around them. This is a bad sign of increased resistance and sparking leading to heat.

I took it apart to inspect the damage. I have done this before, so know the drill. It was time to head to the marine store. On the way to the car, I mentioned it to George who informed me that a new cord might be cheaper than the parts. It turned out a 50 foot cord was $30.00 more than the two plastic parts I needed to replace the plug, so I bought a new cord and plugged it in.

There were a few polarity issues to resolve then with the air on, we finally settled in after a long day of driving and fixing. Charlotte started to read a revised list of projects. The list was not too long since most of the summer has been spent repairing one thing or another. The most pressing problem, one that I have been delaying for far too long, was to repair the cantankerous bilge pump.

A bilge pump should be rock solid. It should pump immediately, but Carrie Rose’s pump has needed intervention about 25% of the time. To get to it I would move the heavy chest on the saloon’s floor off to one side, throw the carpet over the chest, and lift the wooden hatch off to expose the bilge pump. Of course, there is the large stainless steel propeller shaft that has to be worked around.

Since the pump is about my arm’s length down, I need to lie on the floor and reach into the opening. Most times, if I gave the hose that is attached to the pump a good shake the water would start to drain. This is hardly an ideal situation.

I needed to do some differential diagnosis. This meant taking the pump apart. When I tested the pump, its switches worked and plenty of water shot out.I did find a few cracks in the hose and the one-way check valve (a thing that most boating experts believe should not be there) was missing a spring.

My best guess was that the one-way valve was the culprit, and it turned out to be, but not before I wrestled with recalcitrant hoses and took several trips to the marine store. Over all, the bilge pump required about eight hours of work —where does the time fly! — much of it spent face down. That night, my ribs were aching.

I have been thinking, can I charge Carrie Rose an hourly fee for repairs, and considering my bruised ribs and multiple hand lacerations can I file for worker’s comp. I suppose not, I’d only be chasing my tail. Better to head out to sea and create a few more problems for myself to fix.

Falling

No deadlines have become part of our lifestyle. If Carrie Rose sits for a month without us while we wait for better weather and attend to family matters that is okay. With this in mind, it was decided to travel back to Chicago and to see a few sights on the way.

The first objective was to visit friends who sold everything and moved aboard their boat. Ideally, we would have met boat to boat but alas, Carrie Rose had generator problems. When it became apparent that Carrie Rose needed fixing, we were in Crisfield, MD. Crisfield is a place that brings meaning to the phrase, The End of the Road.

Island View Marina, where we have a slip for the summer, has become the go to place for all thing boat related. This year it has mainly been electrical issues. I called the owner to confirm if he could handle the generator glitch and when he answered in the affirmative, we started to head north.

Distances on the Chesapeake are deceptive. On the upper portion of the bay, it was mainly twenty miles between stops. Once in the middle this was whittled down to half but further south, the figure became close to fifty. Though I had studied the charts all winter, it surprised me. So, after two long hot days crisscrossing the bay we entered Eastern Bay and backed into our slip at the marina on Kent Island.

I had been informed that the generators problem would not be addressed for at least a week. I bided my time and finally brought the schedule up with the marina’s owner. He did not look happy: there were other pressing problems in the marina he had to deal with, it was too hot to crawl around in my tiny engine room, and then he said, “Can’t you take the alternator off.” A bit flummoxed,I walked back to the boat and did just that.

He was surprised when I walked into his office holding it. It certainly piqued his interest. Next, I was instructed to find the voltage regulator. I did but at the expense of Charlotte’s makeup mirror. It was the only way to see the far side of the engine. I found it mounted upside down under an inaccessible cowling. Before I could explain that I found it, he informed me the Kohler generator dealer said to simply disconnect it as it served no useful purpose.

I did as instructed and since everything was apart, replaced the original belt (1990) and the air filter, bolted the disconnected alternator back on, attached a multimeter to the battery to check the voltage, ran the generator, and the problem was fixed. It was time to head home.

With Carrie Rose intact and secure in her slip, we packed the car and went south to Solomons Island, MD to visit with our friends. On the way, we took a 60 mile detour to see Mt. Vernon. The founding fathers lived well: large picturesque estates with splendid views and plenty of help, even if it was enslaved. Both Mt. Vernon and Monticello are like small towns.

It was quite a feat to divide their energy between founding a nation and managing the plantations. Of the two, Jefferson’s was the more interesting if not quirky. The two seem to compliment each other. Washington, a successful farmer, general, and political leader was the pragmatist. Jefferson, an intellectual, connoisseur, and world traveller was the dreamer, seeing possibilities that did not exist.

Once we found our friends, we fell right in discussing the benefits of marinas and anchorages, anchoring and docking strategies, propane vs. electrons for cooking, storage and sleeping arrangements, etc., etc. An unspoken bond exists between cruisers, especially the ones we have traveled with. At dinner, plans were discussed and then it was time to move on.

That night Charlotte and I made plans to see Fallingwater, Frank Lloyd Wright’s masterpiece in the forest of Pennsylvania. The only tickets available were for Sunday, so there was a day to kill. Charlotte found a beautiful B&B nestled into Pennsylvania’s farm country on a wooded plot with meticulous corn and clover fields for a backdrop.

The next morning we left Solomons for what should have been a four hour drive but that would have been on the Great Plains. The closer we got to our destination the more the road undulated like a camel’s back. Caution signs took on a menacing tone, large and yellow with black capital letter as big as the road warned of treacherous declines, of hidden driveways, of ice and snow making the road impassable. I already had 6 hours of driving behind me when we reach this last segment of the road.

The Honda and I needed fluids. At a gas station on Route 40 I fueled up with regular gas and coffee. Charlotte, copilot and chief weather officer, had spent the last 50 miles reporting on the progress of the blackening chaotic clouds forming outside the windshield that she monitored on her smart phone. Unknowingly we had driven into the Laurel Highlands and climbed into the clouds.

The summits topped at 2800 feet and then abruptly fell. It was like being on a roller coaster with black SUVs and tractor trailers in pursuit. Route 40 is a narrow road with many distractions. There are state and national parks, Civil War battlefields, scenic outlooks, old timey resorts and motels, and even a tavern that George Washington frequented. These, and the off and on torrential rain made the drive to the inn taxing.

The inn was on the outskirts of Uniontown, another of an endless stream of rust belt cities struggling to reinvent. The GPS guided us down a tiny semi rural road that did not look promising. Then at the intersection a beautifully landscaped wooded scene appeared, The Inne at Watson’s Choice. Its only downside was the windows did not open — burglar alarms — so we spent time in a comfortable outside screened in lounge for lack of a better word. The innkeeper was a soft spoken former French teacher who noticed I was reading one of her old books I found in the inn’s library; “The Foods of France”; and engaged us in conversation.

After another night in air conditioning — I am not sure when the world decided to ban opening windows — we backtracked 29 miles on increasingly smaller roads to Fallingwater. Though it is hard to tell now, this was a spot for Pittsburgh’s wealthy to escape the summer heat and frolic in the woods and play in the numerous streams, creeks, and rivers.

Fallingwater is an interesting tale of wealth and privilege, of WASPs and Jews, of art over practicality, and in the end the construction of the most important private residence on earth.

At first glance, well let me say it is hard to get the first glance. Walking down the path to the house, it reluctantly reveals itself. It is almost disappointing nestled in its rocky folds. It looks small. Its colors are drab. It is unembellished rocks, concrete, steel, and glass. The overwhelming feel is one of moisture. A mist hangs in the air. Standing off from it on a bridge constructed over Bear Creek I am having second thoughts but dismiss the feeling and start to look.

As I do, the building begins to soar out over the creek. Vertical and horizontal lines seamlessly interact with the natural environment. The building is tacked onto massive boulders without disrupting the natural proportions of what is in itself a magnificent location. Of course, this is Wright’s oeuvre, using megalomania to create selflessness.

Fallingwater does not in any way detract from the enjoyment of the natural space. It must have been wonderful to spend time there. Once inside the enormity of the structure becomes apparent. From dangling toes in the creek to viewing the distant forest from the top floor balcony, we are transported to room after room delineated by staircases, narrow dark hallways, low ceilings opening into unobstructed panoramic woodland views.

Along the way various areas are pointed out where the family revolted from Wright’s vision: a couple of chairs in the main saloon, an elongated desk, gray window screens, and four carports to house the family’s Duesenbergs. These additions do not amount to much but I am sure they created much tension between the client and the architect who appears to have never really left the building.

Then after an hour of touring inside, we are left to wander the perimeter. Now the minimalistic supporting structure comes into view. The backside of the building is not as satisfying as the front. It makes me nervous. I start to think of Pisa and its unstable structure that has been (or so they tell us) stabilized. Well, Fallingwater is just that, falling. The verticals are vertical but the horizontals are succumbing to gravity. It is a work in progress.

There are two other Wright homes close by. We decide to leave them for another time. After all we have no deadlines, we can divert back to these highlands that have much of West Virginia’s terrain in them. Charlotte’s phone jingles and we find ourselves hightailing it back to Chicago to attend her aunt’s burial, falling from the Allegany Mountains to the flat wetlands of the shores of Lake Michigan.

Civility

Charlotte’s mother lives in Sumter, South Carolina, a small town in the middle of the state. It is not a place I would have envisioned spending much time. In fact, when we started our cruise five years ago I had not anticipated spending this much time in the south.

When in Sumter I enjoy strolling through the ACE Hardware, my favorite place in the town. It is like a museum. For a boy from Chicago there are many exotic objects to gaze at. There are stacks of ammo, display cases packed with guns and knives, rows of enormous gun safes, enough archery and fishing gear to fill several semi trucks, and more to my delight, about a hundred styles of flashlights.

One day at the check out, I was perusing the bric-a-brac and had the thought that anything would sell if it were camouflaged. Lined up before me were camo beef/buffalo jerky, lighters, bumper stickers, eyeglasses, screwdrivers, flashlights, etc., etc.

Visiting the south has forced me to change the way I view the U.S.A. I never understood the Civil War’s sacrifice. To walk the battlefields of Chancellorsville and Gettysburg is to comprehend that they are mass gravesites. I never would have known the sacredness of these places had I not visited them.

To spend days watching the fisherman ply the waters of Chesapeake Bay as they have since the 1600’s and really, for more then ten thousand years before that; to visit Monticello and see Jefferson’s intellect carried out by enslaved people; to cruise on rivers and find the preserved villages of Chestertown and St Mary’s City — the former lively, the latter just a memory; and to understand that the mud I wash off the anchor is the topsoil from 400 years of clear cutting the native forest and farming. I am not sure what to make of these revelations.

For one, I recognize that I have the manners of a chad. I have had to learn to greet people warmly, and respond when asked how my day is going. And I have learned to reciprocate, listen to the response, and remember (or at least try to) the name of the person I have just met. More importantly, and harder to accomplish is to feel this exchange with my heart and not make it reflexive. It needs to be genuine. Often I walk away from encounters chastising myself for failing to live up to the ideal.

It is difficult to change the habits of a lifetime. My home was loving; my parents caring, but I would not characterize my family as touchy-feely. Then there was my profession. Doctoring is a very succinct line of work. There was never enough time. Decisions were made quickly in stressful, scary situations and in a command role. A direct order given in a no-fooling-around timbre helped to get the task accomplished, and save the day and more importantly, the patient.

The transition to the civilian world has not been without snags, but I think the south understands that I come from the north, and cuts me some slack. Of course, this is no reason to be complacent. In France, I learned to greet with the phrase, “Bon jour! Parlez vous Anglais?” And here in the south, in response to, “Well, hello! How are you doing today”, I try to say, “I am doing just fine! And how are you this lovely day?”

Even when grumpy I smile before answering the phone (or send a text message), it makes my voice and me pleasant. Now please understand, I am not trying to be sarcastic: feelings manifest themselves in actions. A smile, a good word uttered, a text message or email expressing thanks works both ways, and this is what my unlikely time in the south has taught me — civility.

Whitecaps on Crab Alley

Chesapeake Bay is replete with thunderstorms. This was evident from the first time Charlotte and I cruised the bay over thirty years ago. We, or I should say I chartered a rotten little sailboat. It did not even have a compass. Lucky for us I had my Silva hiking compass, which I taped to the deck. This was in the days before GPS, so a magnetic compass was essential for navigation.

Amongst other issues, the boat had as many leaks as it had containers. If remembered correctly, it was thirteen. Each day brought a new anchorage or marina, and each late afternoon a new thunderstorm. All day the billowing clouds would coalesce into towering thunderheads, and then expend their energy in a tumultuous twenty minutes. Somehow, we were fortunate to be either in a marina or tucked into a secure anchorage before the outburst, and so, if a little nervous, enjoyed the show.

The bay has been our home for 7 weeks and the thunderstorm count kept climbing. Several nasty ones had been successfully negotiated at anchor, and a few others while Carrie Rose was tied to various docks. Two formidable looking storms never materialized. Mammoth black clouds blotted out the sun and filled the air with rolling thunder. But then, when about to descend into wind, waves, and fury turned away and dissipated.

It is impossible to predict this, so if anchored more chain is let out; if at a dock more lines and fenders are added, laundry taken in, windows closed, etc., etc. The extra chain in the water provides more weight and helps the anchor lay flatter, and thus it is less likely for the wind and the waves to pull it out of the bay’s mud.

Carrie Rose has had a few ailments this year. The first week of our cruise, the batteries we rely on for house functions decided to die. They were new in 2008 and so we came back to the marina to have two new ones installed. We went out again, much further this time to where Maryland changes into Virginia. The heat was relentless and while transiting from one point to another, usually over 40 nautical miles, the generator ran to power the air conditioner. Then I noticed the batteries were being overcharged.

If you are not interested in batteries, please skip the next couple of paragraphs. Carrie Rose has AGM batteries. AGM stands for absorbed glass mat. I am old enough to remember pouring distilled water into the car’s battery; well this is not necessary in AGMs. The trade off is that they need to be recharged slowly at low voltage not to boil off the water absorbed in the fiberglass mats. To cut to the short of it, if the charging voltage is too high then the batteries are toast, literately. What to do?

We were in Solomons, Maryland, a yachty place if I have ever seen one but no one responded to my calls for help. Our home base, Island View Marina, was another 43 NM north. We left early and made it back to our home slip by two in the afternoon. Other than Mike and his stressed out dog camped out on a large damaged powerboat, we are the only ones living on a boat. It is quiet during the week and not much more active on the weekends.

The sunsets across Crab Alley Lane, the small body of water we are floating on, have a nice crimson hue to them. On our second day back Charlotte noticed the sky darkening to the NW. The radar app showed yellow blobs with bright red centers cutting diagonally across Crab Alley. I tried to ignore it then realized the futility of this approach and got off my rear and tightened the dock lines, rolled up the sunscreen, took in the deck chairs and started a storm vigil.

As predicted, the sky turned many shade of gray with the approach of a long sausage shaped cloud. The ragged ripped apart low level clouds contrasted nicely with those above. A few raindrops appeared on the water and the wind died. This is not a good sign. Then the trees across the creek started to gyrate. The gust ruffled the surface of the water and Carrie Rose responded with taut bowlines.

The wind steadied her at first until the waves began to build, then she started to hobbyhorse in the whitecaps. The rapidity with which wave size can increase in response to the wind is sobering, from flat calm to racing whitecaps in minutes. On a large body of water like Lake Michigan, waves can go from nonexistent to six to eight feet in moments but here on this little creek off the Eastern Bay it is not as dramatic.

Once the wind passed the rain began, torrents of water obscured the far side of the creek. The rain came down with such force that the environment, including Carrie Rose, was scrubbed clean. When the storm finally moved on the air was crisp and the sky crystal blue.

We emerged from the pilothouse and marveled at the change. I got the squeegee and the chamois out of the aft dock box, and cleaned the windows and dried the boat. The air conditioner was silenced and the windows were opened. We relished the moment for we knew it would not last.

Seriously Rustic

Bathrooms tell a lot about a marina. If the marina is billed as a resort, it usually has clean ones. Municipal marinas are a mixed bag. Some are meticulously maintained due to the dictatorial nature of the harbormaster, and others languish with less adroit leadership. Marinas located on rivers and canals tend to be funkier in my estimation, the exception being Canada.

Now Carrie Rose is tied off on a floating dock on the eastern shore of Back Creek in Solomons, Maryland. It has been bloody hot and we are luxuriating in the new air conditioning. I admit sitting in AC is getting a bit old. It would be nice to go outdoors but it is too hot.

With that said, when we finished securing Carrie Rose to the dock both Charlotte and I separately walked down the pier to see what this marina had to offer. It is looking tired, and that seems to be due to the new condominium development being planned for this site, though at this point the project appears stalled.

When she got back I asked, “Well?” and she compared the restroom and showers to the decidedly backwoods facilities at Burton Island State Park on Lake Champlain without the mosquitos. The showers there had Vermont’s conservationist tendency of needing to be fed quarters to keep dispensing water. This is guaranteed to leave you searching for quarters with soap in your eyes.

When I got back she did not ask, I told, “These bathrooms are seriously rustic.” Of course, we did get what we paid for: a dollar a foot.

Noise

Several years ago Carrie Rose was anchored in an area remote even for the North Channel in Canada’s portion of Lake Huron. The only noise heard was when a large loon suddenly surfaced outside the pilothouse door. It felt like the sub in Red October surfaced next to our little ship, and then it was gone and the silence returned.

It is the only place I have “heard” silence. In response to the lack of sound the brain — at least my brain — began to create sound. For a while, I thought I was suffering from tinnitus. An odd reaction, it bordered on a hallucination.

Now in Maryland waters there have been a couple of quiet anchorages. Hunting Creek and Dividing Cove qualify as such but Maryland is an inherently nosier place than the North Channel. It is more alive. There are schools of rustling minnows skimming the surface, the endless call and refrain between osprey parents and their insatiable children, marauding eagles and crows fended off by whatever smaller birds they are hassling, and wasps trying to find a crevasse to build a muddy nest.

They all contribute to the sound scape. In many places that seem remote, once the anchor is down and Carrie Rose’s rattle has silenced, road noise appears. Tires are the main contributor with Harley Davidson’s unfettered exhaust being the worse offenders. In one quiet anchorage on the Corsica River I settled down to enjoy the silence when a crop duster buzzed by and commenced to spray poison on a nearby field for the afternoon. Watching its acrobatics almost compensated for its commotion.

Carrie Rose is south on the Chesapeake forty miles east of the Potomac River. She sits in an enormous state run marina. It is hard to imagine where the boats were going to come from to fill these slips. This is the land of the low lying sand and marsh islands of Smith and Tangiers. The folk on the Chesapeake, like folk all over the world, over fished, trotlined, netted, dredged, and farmed the life out of the bay. There is talk of a comeback but by then, the kids will have gone to school and be working for financial management companies.

Now that I have said this, remember I am speaking from a Midwesterner’s point of view. In my part of the world the 1850’s is old, here old is the 17th century. People are rooted to tradition in a way that I find hard to imagine. So, if there is a crab to be caught someone will catch it. And if the oysters make a comeback, a dredge will find them. My sense is that the locals know the bottom of the bay better then its surface.

As usual, I have wandered from the original topic, noise. We are in slip G25 at Somer’s Cove Marina in the town of Crisfield, Maryland. Across two wooden piles from us is a trawler slightly larger than Carrie Rose. It has an air conditioner similar to ours that pulls the cold out of the bay’s water and distributes it into the boats interior. To do this it sucks in water from the bottom and spills it back into the bay. The constant stream of water is on our starboard side. It is similar to running a garden hose in your bedroom. Though a little more restrained in the use of air conditioning, we are no different in this if the heat index starts to climb. This noise, often generated by unoccupied boats, has become ubiquitous.

The North Channel had several things going for it that the Chesapeake does not. It is remote; no airplanes traverse its skies. It is generally cool, especial the nights. There is no power available, and except in the direst of circumstances cruisers do not run generators day and night, an ethos followed by the boats that manage to get there.

There are no villains in this tale. We do what we need to do to keep comfortable and thus to keep cruising. This is the whole point after all, to keep plying the water until that silent spot is found, and then to recognize it for the blessing it is.

Tangiers

Tangiers is a low lying island of crab fisherman and their families 14 miles from Crisfield, MD. Considering that Crisfield is already the end of the road imagine Tangiers. It is cute with multiple small fenced in homes piled on top of each other and distributed in what seems to be about a city block. If it were New York City, there would be a million people here but since it is Tangiers there are 450.

There are a couple of churches competing for souls. An impressive number of war veteran memorials, the islanders have certainly done their share defending the U.S.A. The crabbers have shanty like huts build on stilts where they moor their boats and molt the crabs.

The islanders graves are distributed on various front lawns in a raised style similar to New Orleans. Their language (as we were informed by a well done video at the museum) is not British per se as much as from Cornwall. It is definitely different. It is not southern.

The island also has quite a bit of Christian signage. Many crosses dot the landscape. I think a strong faith is needed to spend generations here in as unprotected an anchorage as I have seen. God bless them . . .