The Good Old Days

Parked

We pays our money and now we is parked in Cape May, NJ until 7/5/2017. The strategy is to weather out The Fourth of July down south where the prices are more reasonable, plus this is a beautiful little community. Groceries, hardware, and The Lobster House (est. 1922) are close at hand. A mere walk or bike ride away and Charlotte has her pick of ice cream shops.

Of course being at a discount marina means we are out of the action but just as well. Yesterday we rode our bikes to the beach and realized that half of New York and New Jersey are here on vacation. Procuring a can of pop at a local family run fast food cafe proved fruitless. Between mom-behind-the-counter and mom-and-grandma-in-front-of-the-counter attempting to come to a kind of catering deal while mom-behind-the-counter’s prediction of her chef/husband’s demise if her daughter does not show up to help over the holiday, we gave up and went to the hardware store.

I decided to strip the pilothouse doors of their burden of failing varnish. I was sick of making excuses for my slovenliness. It was the reason for the stop at the hardware store. 3M stripper, sanding pads, a tarp, and a paint scarper were purchased.

The scraper, a Stortz Straight End Paint Scraper (Ultra Sharp!), deserves further description. I was looking at the usual boring collection of paint scrapers and putty knives when I saw a grouping of orange covered implements off to the side. Now these looked interesting, so I started to inspect them. They come in all kinds of profiles: square, trapezoidal, round, oval, everything it seemed but straight.

Of course, the prices were higher by maybe five bucks but who was I to quibble. It said right on the label/storage unit Finely Ground, Heat Treated, High Carbon Steel. I carefully un-velcroed its thick paper case and almost drew blood. It was then that I noticed the warning on the backside, Extremely Sharp! in red letters with the instructions to keep it in its protective sheath.

I only had it in my hands for thirty seconds and had already violated several of the rules. It was then that I knew it was coming back to Carrie Rose with me. I would have to use discretion otherwise, the pilothouse doors didn’t stand a chance.

Other than it emitting a nails-on-chalkboard squeal each time I pulled it across the somewhat gooey melting varnish it worked as promised. I started at 11 AM and finished at 6PM. The first and last steps required concentration. The doors had to be detached from the boat and gingerly carried down the skinny side deck to the back. I am not sure if teak floats but I did not want to test the proposition.

The next day the doors were coated with teak oil; oil that has the consistency of fine extra virgin olive oil and the smell of a fine men’s cologne. I sat back to look at my handy work mainly because I still could not straighten up after leaning over on the back deck to scrap the doors clean. I am feeling better today, just a little kinked. What’s a vacation for after all if I can’t figure out a way to throw my back out!

Root Beer

The Chesapeake & Delaware Canal has gone through several iterations since it was first dug in 1829. Its final phase finds it 14 miles long and 450 feet wide, enough to fit — with the proper piloting — a couple of large ships next to each other. Carrie Rose at eleven feet wide is a mere speck. We were lucky not to encounter any large ships on our two transits, though we did have two large go fast boats sneak up on us from behind and almost flip us over . . . just kidding.

Carrie Rose now sits, tied to a floating dock at the diminutive Delaware City Marina. It consists of a long pier to one side of what used to be the C&D Canal. This old section is what remains of the old canal and at about 50 feet wide; there is not much of it.

Delaware City is a town that time has forgotten, nestled between an unseen refinery and the modern canal. It is a place that you come to rather than find. The downtown is well preserved. There are a few busy restaurants, a liquor store, a small grocery, a couple of specialty shops, and of course, an ice cream purveyor. A hand written sign out front proclaimed “ROOTBEER FLOATS”, who could resist.

The young woman behind the counter showed us the size (about a foot tall) and quoted us the price ($5.50), so we ordered one with two spoons, two straws, but only one cherry. She looked dejected.

I am here to say that on a hot summer day there is not much better than a root beer float. It is creamy with vanes of frozen root beer running through it all intermix with the melting whip cream, and the chemically tainted cherry was delish.

Charlotte let me finish the dregs and as I slurped up the remnants, a vision of another hot summer day long ago surface as clear as if it had just occurred. It was in the late 1960’s. I cannot remember if I was just out of Grammar School or in High School. I know it was after 1967 because that is when I managed — by cutting grass in Rosehill Cemetery — to save up the $165.00 to buy a Peugeot PX-10 racing bicycle complete with Reynolds 531 double-butted frame. I still have it and once a year tempt faith to ride it around the block.

My friend’s father was quite athletic and adventurous. He was 10 years younger than my father and had a coveted job in the trades, and it seemed had some free time. He proposed to his kids and me that we go on the newly created Wisconsin Bikeway. My friend’s younger brother and I took him up on the offer as well as one of his buddies, a kinda odd bachelor that I cannot even recollect, even after spending ten days with him.

There was no fancy literature. I do not know how he even found out about it. The instructions or I should say directions cause there was a little of that, consisted of a stack of mimeographed sheets. This is before Xerox and the prematurely yellowed paper covered with smudgeable blue ink was the only guide to be had. But I was not concerned; directions were the job of the adults. My job was to pack sensibly and make sure my bike was sound.

The number one project was to have enough tires to get 500 miles across Wisconsin. I know this must seem peculiar but this was a time before the distinctions between cruising, racing, off road, recumbent, etc., etc. existed. I had my bike and that is what I was going with. But back to tires, since the PX-10 was a high performance bike it road on high pressure tires. With the technology of the day, that meant sew-ups.

Sew-ups were like inner tubes with treads and they were actually sewed up, and if you can believe this, glued to the rim. They were also fragile. My friend worked at a bike shop as a mechanic and his brother repaired sew-ups on the side. I was also schooled in the fine millenary art of repairing them. Between the two of us, we had some twenty tires and we went through all of them before we got home. Ah, a night around the campfire sewing sew-ups!

But I am getting a little long winded here. Bikes and all were loaded on a train, which took us to La Crosse, Wisconsin where we detrained and road off into the Wisconsin forest and farmland. It was the first and last time I ever had ripples on my stomach. It was a glorious trip with fun adults and a great companion.

No one in Wisconsin knew anything about the bikeway. We were trailblazers and were treated as such. We slept in town squares and one time, in a torrential rain spent the night in a tiny town’s jail due to the sheriff’s largest. And the most memorable moments for me, besides gliding downhill for miles from Blue Mounds, the highest point in Wisconsin, was stopping at every A&W for root beer floats.

My friend’s father knew how to keep a couple of goofy kids happy and sated. It is a wonderful memory to have while on another adventure. This one, of course, on a different and more comfortable venue, but still one that needs a couple of goofy adults to be contented with a foot tall root beer float.

Anchoring

To anchor is an indeterminate undertaking that once completed is froth with remorse: did I put enough chain out, did I anchor too close or too far from a boat or wall or rock or the shoreline, did I take into account the possible changes of the wind, did I set the anchor properly. I will stop here because it is giving me a headache.

A resource about where to anchor be it on paper or online, or some local knowledge passed on by a fellow boater about the area is helpful. It is essential to know if there is any severe weather in the forecast. Other important factors are the depth and what the bottom consists of, i.e. mud, weeds, rocks, or sand. Both contribute to the holding power of the anchor and to where the anchor should be placed.

Since most of my readers have not anchored a boat, I will endeavor to explain myself in the most general of terms and will leave out many of the vagaries that more seasoned boaters would consider. So please bear with me for anchoring is one of the more contentious topics in boating.

I think the best place to start is at the bottom and now Carrie Rose is anchored in the thick black mud of the Sassafras River on the northern Chesapeake Bay. I still remember the first time we anchored in this bay, when the anchor came out there was enough seafood attached to it that we could have had a decent lunch.

Carrie Rose has a Bruce anchor, a big 48lb. scoop that has dug in and held us firmly to the bottom. In Canada, where most of the waterways are chocked with an invasive weed, the anchor would rise covered with a dense ball of green fibrous growth that was quite the project to dislodge. The weeds would occasionally prevent the anchor from setting.

I understand that in Maine the bottom is rock and in Florida coral. I am sure these present challenges but let us stick to mud for this discussion. The first step is to lower the anchor until it reaches the bottom. I know how many feet this is thanks to the depth sounder.

Carrie Rose’s anchor is connected to 330 feet of rode. The rode is made up of 130 feet of 3/8” chain and 200 feet of 5/8” three stranded nylon line. The chain has a series of markers composed of cable ties and different painted colors for every 10 feet up to 130 feet and then the rest is marked at 20 foot intervals. This amount of rode is probably overkill but then again it is cheap insurance.

Once the anchor and the chain are down, Carrie Rose is put gently into reverse. This allows the anchor to dig into the mud. More chain is let out and the process is repeated, each time a little more aggressively until the boat pulls on the chain but goes nowhere. Sometimes the anchor just skips along the bottom, and then it is time to pull it up and start again. An anchor works best if laying flat on the bottom and the chain, due to its weight, helps accomplish this. The chain offers its own resistance to being pulled out.

How do I know how much chain to let out, well, I am glad you asked. The term for this is scope. It is based on the ratio between the amounts of chain let out per foot of depth. For chain, it is three to five to even ten feet of chain for each foot of depth. If we are in a crowded anchorage with light winds 3:1 will suffice, if a storm is coming the 7:1 or even 10:1 may be necessary. As I write this Carrie Rose is in 10 feet of water with 50 feet of chain off her bow. This system developed over millennia is adaptable, so it is best to flexible.

Chain does not stretch and thus does not absorb shock. To remedy this a hook with two lengths of stretchable nylon line is attached to the chain. Then the two lines are connected to the boat and enough chain is let out so the chain is slack. This keeps the chain near to the water’s surface where it is most useful, and allows for cushioning the pull of the wind and waves.

These are the basics. I forgot to mention the electric windlass that helps an old guy like me with a bad back raise and lower the anchor, but where to place the anchor is a shorter topic.

Anchoring usually comes at the end of a long day cruising and requires a shift in consciousness. At one moment, Carrie Rose is moving at 8 knots while we monitor the chart plotters to keep on the proper course. Then suddenly we slow, if not stop completely in a confined space surrounded by shoals and often other boats.

Neurons shift gear and begin to access the wind; weather; obstacles such as boats, shoals and the shoreline; and the depth. It has taken years to learn to slow down and let my brain catch up with the circumstances. And to realize that if not done correctly the first time, the anchor can be raised and reset in the proper position.

In this way, I think anchoring is an apt metaphor for how to live a life. To realize that no matter how we try to ensure stability in the end life is uncertain. That change is the norm and our response is what counts in the end. Happy anchoring!

Finally, the storm…

Charlotte and I have been tracking a storm for many days. It was the reason, amongst others, that we came into Havre de Grace and sat for three days. Well, it finally showed up. It is a different feeling to await a storm at dock as opposed to at anchor.

At the dock, I put out a few extra lines and keep track of the storm’s progress on my cell phone. At anchor, I let an extra ten or twenty feet of chain out as this tends to help stabilize the anchor, and keep track of the storm by looking out the window.

Here are a couple of pictures. The power and majesty of these storms is something I never get tired of, that is if I am safely out of their way. They are one of the terrifying joys of living outside with nature. I am not sure if that makes any sense but there it is…

R & R

If a vacation’s purpose is to replenish the soul and if the soul describes the human, maybe mammalian, life force, then I find it odd that most vacations involve heavy use of ETOH in the form of margaritas. But as usual, I stray from the point of this essay, that replenishment is an idea that is twisted while cruising.

Carrie Rose is a wood lined contrivance that Charlotte and I outfitted over the last 14 years to go cruising. It required and requires attention to details such as navigation, machinery, electronics, weather, and management of elderly parents and the home front, and as we have aged, attention to our health.

Of course, in mid-winter I sit in the dark and dream of sunny skies, blue water and distant anchorages, a fantasy sustainable only due to the distance from the above. The reality of small boat cruising is that it does not divorce the participants from daily life.

Now I know this is, let’s just say an obnoxious thing to say as Carrie Rose sits anchored in 10 feet of water on Langford Creek of the Chester River on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. What could be real world about sitting comfortably (though the temperature is rising into the 90’s) secured to the mud bottom with a 50lb. anchor and 50 feet of 3/8” chain, but I guess this is our real world for the moment so I’m sticking with the illusion.

I think that replenishment is passive and refit is active. So, this year and last we took the active route with the health of the vessel at the fore front. The boat is stocked with art supplies, books, electronic gadgets, new air conditioner, bimini, and gear to get us through the last of the South and onto the North. I say this year but it has been an on going project since we bought Carrie Rose and is not abating.

In the few days we have been on the water, mostly at anchor, electrical connections for the forward stateroom and saloon heater fans, and Charlotte’s new LED reading light were wired. The light also had to be mounted and I’d say for once I didn’t jury rig the above but I would be lying.

Next came installing the new faucet in the bathroom. Plumbing can be tortuous even in the comfort of home let alone in a cramped marine bathroom. I was my own worst enemy by not using the proper tape and sealers in the beginning (it didn’t leak before), so I got to do it three times instead of one. My neck still has a kink!

And, though I am trying to ignore them, the pilothouse wood doors, the dinghy, and the canoe are crying out (no, they really are) to be stripped and varnished.

In between refitting Carrie Rose, Charlotte and I will attempt to replenish our souls. In fact, as I write this Charlotte has her watercolors out, a good sign. Which brings me back to the beginning, replenish vs. refit. It is neither, but both wrapped in a tight little basket that at times I have to remind myself is the point of cruising. To be blessed to live in the real world while living a fantasy.

Screech

An osprey chick’s screech is like a sparrow’s chirp on steroids, high pitched and incessant. It must drive the parents insane. To say the osprey have made a comeback is an understatement. Sitting at the end of the dock at Rock Hall Landing Marina, I can pinpoint at least four nests — some on the top of telephone poles, others topping the day markers surrounding this odd harbor. The harbor has a large basin but due to the shallowness in the middle, a boat can only navigate the perimeter. We were told that when the harbor was dredged, the spoils were put in the center . . . sounds plausible to me.

Rock Hall is a place that seems to have resisted gentrification. There are a few condominiums around but there is also much free space, and original buildings and businesses. A working fishery still exist and to service it the Rock Hall Marine Railway has a railway in place to remove the fishing fleet in the time tested way before travel lifts were developed.

The restaurants here, like the Waterman’s Café, located just next to our pier, pride themselves on serving freshly caught bay food including but not limited to rockfish, blue crabs, and oysters. Of course, fish names are notoriously fickle, changing as stocks of familiar fish give way to odd sounding substitutes.

The reason for stopping in Rock Hall is that Charlotte had the best rockfish sandwich at the café two years ago on our way south. This and the fact that if we stay two nights the third night is free, which makes the stay here almost financially responsible. The other is that it has a pool, which feels awful good on 90 degree days. It is quiet too, devoid of PWCs and ski boats that seem to inhabit every beautiful cove on the western shore.

So we’ll sit here for a few days, have some fish, walk to town for an ice cream, take the trolley for groceries and booze and maybe swim a few more times . . . and of course watch the osprey chicks play out their infancy and adolescence with increasing louder screeches!!

Catch Up Shots

Will we fit!

Best boat name yet...

The Bay bridge on our radar.

Sunset at Eagle Cove on the Magothy River, MD.

The eyes tell it all.

Just under.

Suprise moonrise on Langford Creek, Chester River, MD

Off Annapolis, MD

Find the osprey nest...

Eagle Cove again...

Farewell

At nineteen, I left Chicago on a self financed, non college related odyssey. It would be a year before I returned. Only one aspect of that trip is relevant to this discussion and that is homesickness. It is not that I am homesick now, quite the contrary, but my previous experience acts as a beacon for how homesickness seeps into a soul.

As I type this Charlotte and I are anchored in 10 feet of water in a cove around the Rhodes River’s green day marker #7. Of course, there is ever present din of grass cutting. There have been a few speedboats pulling a sledder around until the turning radius becomes unsustainable and the occupants fly off in a straight line like a rocket breaking free from the earth atmosphere. I vaguely remember solving those problems in physics but as my yearlong odyssey is not relevant, neither is the calculus involved in leaving the earth’s atmosphere.

Carrie Rose has been cruising for six short days and in those few days has already said several farewells. The first was to our hosts at Island View Marina. The owner started out as the strong silent type and then as our residency lengthened became quite chatty and endearing. His wife, redeemer of all animals, warmly welcomed us. Through them, we experienced the rescue of multiple ill used Pomeranians, a sweet pit bull, and a cartoonish beagle.

We knew they were on campus when the door to the shop/office sported a red sign saying, “Don’t let the dogs out”. The owner’s dog, Precious, grew over the winter from what was a tiny precious puppy to outsize her mother, the other rescued Pom. Adela Mae, the pit bull was obviously overwhelmed with the menagerie. Especially with the addition of the special needs beagle.

At this tiny marina Carrie Rose had a bit of a refit: new air conditioner, a bimini, house batteries, bottom paint, zincs, flushed heat exchanger, electrical wiring, etc. It was sad to say good bye, so we hugged and took off and tried not to look back.

To decompress we picked a small anchorage on Tilghman Island to hang out overnight before crossing the bay to Herrington Harbor South for the Mid Atlantic Nordic Tug Association’s rendezvous. Herrington Harbor is everything that Island View was not. Large, landscaped with state of the art spotless bathrooms and a large staff, it even had a nature walk. After an initial confusion about where to tie off, and an inadvertent tour of the marina we backtracked and tied up along the jetty attached to the entrance channels eastern riprap wall.

Carrie Rose was sandwiched between two 42’ tugs and as usual looked tiny. What we lacked in size we make up for in accouterments on deck. This alas is the sign of a cruising boat. Bikes, fenders, spare lines, dingy, canoe, solar panels all go to give a boat that well travelled look. With our lines secured and power connected we went in search of the ‘vous welcoming committee and welcoming they were. The next four days were spent with folks that knew each other well and incorporated us into every event. We seldom sat alone for long.

This gathering differed from our Great Lake events. I never heard a soul speak of batteries, fuel filtration, diesel serial numbers, or that ever fascinating topic of what is the best anchor. Tech talk was replaced with a chef’s best one pot meals and the nightly entertainment from two of the member’s keyboard skills. After the barbecue a local band, Bone and String, played salty sea shanties and Irish favorites that the whole crew heartily sang along with while feeding the band with hotdogs and beer.

The bay was windy, cold and choppy on the day that the ‘vous ended so we decided to stay put as did several others. This was a great crowd to have a 5:30 drink with that morphed into the evening, negating the need to make dinner. Nuts, cheese, and crackers had to suffice. Again, it was time to say good bye to another set of fine hosts with hugs and pledges to stay in touch.

On my grand journey in 1973/4, the constant goodbyes eventually lead me home. Now, only 6 days into this years summer cruise the two fond farewells has me reminiscing on the nature of home, family, and friends.

Sunset/Sunrise

Sunset at Island View Marina

Sunrise at our first anchorage...Tilghman Creek

Preparation

There are different levels of awareness, or maybe anxiety is a better word, when it comes to preparation. The discussion turned to end-of-the-world scenarios at a recent dinner. This seems to be more prevalent since you know who was elected. I could not help airing my opinion that a big gun with lots of ammo needs to be part of your survival kit simply because once everyone figures out you have prepared, they are going to want some of it.

I was preaching to the choir. The entire table quieted down as one member gave a detailed description of a basement shelter stocked with months worth of food and water. I slowly backed out of the conversation murmuring to keep my opinions and smart ass delivery to myself.

Though I was a Boy Scout for only a few months, I am definitely an adherent of being prepared. When the leaves start to change, I begin to lay in stocks of pasta, canned tomatoes, olive oil and maybe a few cans of cannelloni beans. Chicago has not suffered through true survival conditions for some time but memories die hard.

Murphy’s Law was firmly inculcated in my young psyche by a friend’s father who started me sailing at the tender age of eleven. Most landlubbers consider this a truly negative way to spend a life…always waiting for the next shoe to drop, but for sailors it is all in an afternoon’s sail.

I feel I am drifting away from the initial intent of this essay: the preparation for 2017’s cruise. At 37,000 feet heading SE toward Carrie Rose, I feel a lack of urgency. I want to tell myself that this is because of the last six years of extensive cruising, but I know that is a lie. Despite the years on the water, I have never gotten beyond doubting my abilities.

Each morning before we depart, I do an inventory of where we have cruised. The mind is a miraculous thing especially first thing in the morning with rested neuronal synapses fired up with caffeine. The process of remembering goes quickly, and reassures me that I can get out of the slip and get us to our destination. Once reassured, I turn the key to begin the journey, that is, if we have disconnected all the dock lines.

The plan for 2017 includes two Nordic Tug rendezvous, time in NYC, and then meet up with Sir Tugley Blue in Massachusetts to cruise to Maine where Carrie Rose will spend the winter. All admirable goals and ones in which, I hope, Murphy’s Law will not have to be invoked.