CPR

One day, or maybe it was night, over the Pacific Ocean a flight attendant leaned over and whispered into my ear, “Can we continue to Japan or not, you have 30 seconds to reply.” It is a peculiar position to be in. Not the flight attendant whispering into my ear, but to be confronted with such a question. I took pride in being decisive when practicing medicine, and here on my knees in the escape door aisle staring at an unconscious middle aged man’s face I needed a quick response. 

I answered a summons on the 747’s intercom system for a doctor. Now I had thirty seconds to decide if 300 souls should take a detour to a South Pacific atoll instead of to Narita Airport outside of Tokyo. 

 

Let’s be clear, not all doctors are created equal. My interest lies in primary care. I disliked the techy misery of the ICU and the commotion of the Emergency Department. For me a good day was when patients kept their appointments and nothing dreadful occurred with those hospitalized. I liked to know, when possible, why I was walking into the exam room. I was comfortable with the fifteen minutes I had to decide on a plan of action. Of course, it did not always work out but then I admitted it and that was a plan in itself. The less drama the better. 

 

So, what to do. I remembered the ABC’s: airway, breathing and circulation. I saw his chest rise and fall. It took ten seconds for my fingertips to feel his carotid artery’s heroic pulsations. His face was pink, and became pinker after I gave him a slap and dug my index finger’s knuckle into his sternum. Now with eyes open wide he moaned and gave a generous cough. Without turning I quietly said, “Keep on course.” and sensed the flight attendant’s quick motion to relay my response to the captain.

 

He sluggishly sat up and apologize for Ambien and alcohol, and I in turn, for the slap. I cleaned the dribble off his chin, closed the enormous first aid kit and escorted his embarrassed self to an aisle seat, hovering until I was sure I would not have to return. It was a walk to get back to my seat and as Charlotte noted, not enough time for my pink cheeks to recede. 

 

This taught me to dread each plane flight. Now that we will soon be traveling to the tip of South America, I felt compelled to refresh my expired Basic Life Support (BLS)/CPR certificate. It is the third renewal since that faithful day. BLS is not for the faint hearted, but then consider the consequences of inaction. 

 

BLS/CPR is an odd formulation of recognition, activation, and compression/ventilation. There are ratios and rates, placements and depths, and age ranges to take into consideration. And then there is the acting out. My wrists and elbows have yet to recover from compressing the plastic adult dummy’s recalcitrant chest.

 

That said, none of this should deter you from becoming proficient at CPR, because one day, or night, you may find yourself on your knees staring into an unconscious face . . .

Mania & Happy Holidays

Charlotte and I are heading for the Southern Ocean in January. The dining room table is the staging area for most of the warm clothes we possess. We live in Chicago’s hostile weather environment and spend a cold spring in Maine on Carrie Rose, so I have resisted buying a new outfit. Certainly, I already own enough gear to get me through the Antarctic summer.

 

The other half of this is that the clothes need to be lightweight. Our luggage is restricted to one Rick Steve’s backpack and the equivalent of a camera bag each. Of course, this limit is self imposed. With decades of travel experience under our belts, our kit has been refined to the bare minimum. I even dug out a light weight 35mm zoom lens to fit the Nikon digital camera. The con is that it is not self focusing but the plus is its extended telephoto capabilities when used with a digital camera.

 

This trip is the equivalent of a moon shot for us. It includes a completely new set of constellations. On my list of To-do’s was a study of the southern hemisphere’s night sky, then I looked up the sunrise/sunset data and the only entry is ‘Up All Day’. That put an end to that line of inquiry. Once before we spent two sleepless nights on the Norwegian Sea where the sun never set. This trip it will be 23 nights.

 

I wanted to visit the region since reading of the Artic explorer Shackleton’s misadventures while attempting to reach the South Pole in the early 20^th Century. For many years I heavily lobbied Charlotte to include South Georgia Island (where the above is buried) on the itinerary. South Georgia Island being ninety degrees east of Antarctica and some thousand miles from the coast Chile complicates the passage.

 

Time, money and the sea state combined to make this trip untenable. But as with many things post pandemic, it begs the question what are we waiting for. It still has not sunk in that I am nearing my seventh decade. After visits to the internist, urologist, ophthalmologist, cardiologist and finally, the dentist it is sinking in. Though, considering the conveyance for our journey is the good ship Fram, the use of words sunk and sinking is probably not auspicious.

 

Most things we do or have done to us these days require initialing, signing and dating various forms letting the perpetrators off the hook for any malfeasance. It is no different with this cruise. The forms read like a pharmaceutical’s adverse reactions section. There is a doctor on board to attend to our medical needs, but spelled out in clear language it states that being in the middle of nowhere the chances of rescue from injury or illness are dismal.

 

To this end a physician signed medical release form is needed to confirm we are capable, after paying an exorbitant fee to travel to a desolate ice covered rock in the Scotia Sea, of surviving the trip relatively intact. I can state as a former member of the medical profession, that these forms are the bane of doctors. They seemingly place the liability of any catastrophe on the shoulders of the primary care physician.

 

Knowing this I expected some push back and was not disappointed. The reluctance took on the passive aggressive stance of not checking all the boxes. It required me to get huffy (I apologized) with the medical assistant and Charlotte to compel her doctor into completing the form.

 

I ordered ten 3M N95 masks to protect us on the three extended plane flights south, a portable water flosser to prevent worsening gum disease, and silk sock liners to keep our toes warm. And I was frantic searching the house for two misplaced electric hand warmers. Our Will is updated, and our families and neighbors informed of the departure and return dates.

 

Thus, we are ready to go. It is a privilege and a joy to have the time, the resources and the health to take on this endeavor. Now all that is left to do is find some eye shades in the hope of preventing sleepless hysteria . . . Though I am afraid there is no hope for our self generated mania!

 

Happy Holidays!

 

Charlotte & Dean

Dramatic

Many of my blog entries are, well let’s just say, dramatic. They consist of unruly seas and high winds, of engine breakdowns and electrical outages, of hiding from tropical storms and hurricanes. I have discussed extended cold and rain, water and electric shortages, and for that matter, toilet malfunctions and overflowing holding tanks. I have become lost and disoriented, had multiple hard landing onto docks, and spent days cruising in fog so thick that the bow is barely visible.

There have been noteworthy encounters with various custom officials. I admit to a few shouting matches with boatyard staff. And to be truthful, more than one self-incrimination for attempting the upgrade or repair of something that I was not qualified - despite much preparation and study - to complete. 

 

Carrie Rose is a well behaved boat. She sips diesel out of the tank when running slowly. When power is needed, I can count on her 210 hp turbo diesel to spin the large four bladed propellor and know that she will immediately respond. There is no denying that she is a wet boat when powering into a head sea. And in a confused beam sea she is equally confused inside and I wish for a seat belt. Following seas love to push the eleven foot wide flat transom around enough to render the autopilot useless.

 

At anchor she has a tendency to waddle making me search for my mal de mere remedies. And in a heavy wind she sails 180 degrees to the port and starboard making for an uncomfortable night at watch trusting that the anchor will not break free. 

 

You might be wondering, as I do sometimes, why we return each year for another season, and I contend that it is the drama that keeps us coming back. Boats are dramatic. The Great Lakes, the Canadian and American Canals, the many rivers and locks, and the Atlantic Ocean are dramatic. The history, the scenery, and if you can believe it, the geology is dramatic.

 

And the people are dramatic, though in a subdued way. They are each on a mission. A mission, or maybe goal is a better word, that they have dreamed of and prepared for over a lifetime. I say subdued because despite my machinations in the above paragraphs most cruising folk do not crave drama on the water. A boring days passage, a glass of wine at anchor, a tasty meal and a restful sleep are the ideal. 

 

So, the time and money spent in preparation are an attempt to further the above. It is a difficult and at the same time, a satisfying task. It only takes one magical moment to justify the blood, sweat and tears. It is then that the melodramatic is transformed into the dramatic!

November 2022

Inspiration

Sometimes I need a little inspiration. Writing a monthly column proved to be inspiration enough. I never stored commentaries for future publication, though that would have been nice. Instead, I waited for a word to appear before me. Either I heard one or my brain provided me with one. The titles of the articles were that word. In the 18 years of writing, I think only the first title, Wearing Kimono, had more than one word for a name.

 So, now, for some reason this word has eluded me. I am not hearing it maybe because I am not listening. And my brain is not providing me with one. This has not yet caused me distress since my focus has shifted to musical phrases. The shakuhachi, notable for its complexity, keeps ringing through my mind. The rhythm, timing, and phrasing, let alone the production of each pitch, floods my thought processes. 

 

I come late to the production of music. It was/is a goal to learn how to play an instrument, any instrument. At present there is a sax, multiple harmonicas, a violin, two cigar box guitars, and one electric and one acoustic guitar occupying a small space in the living room. I forgot to mention the penny whistles, and a small thumb piano next to the mini keyboard controller. 

 

I haven’t mentioned the shakuhachi. There are approximately six of them. Being lazy this morning I do not feel like getting up to do an accurate inventory. These stem from overly expensive and bamboo to dirt cheap and plastic. They each have their own sound and their limitations. Though, that said, many of their limitations have disappeared the longer I practice. 

 

Notes that were impossible have succumbed to years of practice. Phrasings that petered out mid stream can now be completed in one breath, on a good day at least. Breathe that lead to hyperventilation and dizziness, now, with care, is no longer an impediment. There is a YouTube phenom call Two Set Violin. Their dictum is to practice forty hours per day and I get it. Music is relentless in many of the same ways that medical training is. Neither take any prisoners.

 

The above is a long drawn out excuse to myself for not having the inspiration to write. Who’s kidding who after all? It comes down to motivation and lately the motivating factor appears to be delaying the onset of dementia. Most of us had wacky aunts and uncles or grandparents when we were young, they were easy to write off but no longer. Now those wacky relatives are too close for comfort. With every loss of car keys or  misplaced cellphone, the certainty of a lucid 70’s, 80’s and beyond is suspect.

 

Puzzles, exercise, supplements, reading, diets, and on and on promise to prevent or at least delay the above’s onset. It can get down right frantic trying to implement these preventative measures. But I guess the thought of this got me to sit down and try my hand at writing this. It is amazing how fear can be a motivation and lead to inspiration!

 

Thanks Butch . . .

1978

In 1978, after perusing the pages of The Whole Earth Catalog, I sent what little money I had to Monty Levinson in the fabled mountains of northern California. He in turn sent back a long slender scrap of corseted bamboo. It was, I should say is, for I still have it, a facsimile of a Japanese vertical flute called a shakuhachi. 

His catalog entry was familiar, like the Charles Atlas ad in the back of every comic. They promised, with a little bit of work, a magnificent buff body. The shakuhachi, steeped in Zen, offered enlightenment. It would be hard lonely work but it offered a path. 

 

As promised, it took sometime to get the first notes grudgingly out of it. The small but thorough instruction manual offered the basics along with a few pieces of music. In time I learned to read the unique tablature and began to practice just before bed. I was a diligent student, so just before bed was at 11 PM. I quietly played for 15 or 20 minutes then went to bed.

 

Later, after a chance encounter with my next door neighbor, and an apology by me for disturbing her sleep, she said she looked forward to the oddly soothing sounds. It helped her doze off. Time moved on and so did I. I bought another shakuhachi, this one a maple replica, and did not play for a decade.

 

Every so often I would revisit the flute. It would not last long: I was busy, I did not have the correct instrument, I did not want to disturb Charlotte’s and the neighbor’s peace. Always another excuse. As I inched towards sixty and after decades of watching, really envying, classical and jazz musicians I knew I had to act.

 

I took a lesson with Ronnie Nyogetsu Seldin, the YoYoMa of the shakuhachi world. He traveled around the east coast to his various dojos to teach. An email was sent and an appointment made for a session outside of Washington D.C. What can I say, it was humbling. Not because of him, he was gracious and encouraging. But because I realized how much time I had wasted.

 

After relating the above to a friend, an avid oboe player, who I had lunch with most days at the hospital, I promised to practice one hour each day. He said that is what is required, if I was serious. So, I have tried to stay true to that promise. 

 

At home when it is time to practice I retreat to the front of the house and close the doors behind me. This is not possible on Carrie Rose the only door being to the head. I still retreat to the bow where the bed resides. I prop the music up on a pillow or my flutes case, and begin by playing long notes and end by playing Choshi, literally “To tune”. It is an ancient piece that seeks inner repose.

 

I have no idea how the sound travels. Most harbors and anchorages in Maine are quiet. I think of this as I play and try not to annoy Charlotte, fellow cruisers or myself. The notes on the chart are a guide and I am thankful that I learned to read their magic in 1978, even if enlightenment has eluded me.

Brooklin, Maine

Blue Sky

The rain and wind stopped some time ago. Upon its cessation the fog did not creep in but descended from above. The hilltop clouds were kept in place by the wind and the upward force of falling rain. Once over, the dense cloud dropped. In a matter of seconds little of the harbor was visible. The temperature fell 5 degrees and we hunkered down. 

 

Hours went by with no change. We had lunch, read and eventually I lit the salon’s propane fireplace. After a few chores Charlotte napped while I sat below trying to stay interested in a book about lobstering which had begun to discuss lobster anatomy.

 

This type of writing by Melville or the less accomplished author of my book is doomed to failure. If I had not trained myself, over decades of intense study, to never pass over a paragraph without understanding it, I too would be napping. 

 

The wind shifted a bit from the South to the Southeast. The fog moved on, blue sky appeared, and a warm breeze filled in. I shaded my eyes from the sun. Opened the pilothouse doors. Then went outside to chamois off the boat.

 

Distant streaks of clouds headed Downeast. As the sunlight sparkles on the harbor’s blue water, we contemplated the shore. A walk to stretch our legs. The only impediment is to decide to put the dinghy in the water or to call channel 66 for the tender service to pick us up. It is only three in the afternoon, so there is no pressure to rush this decision. 

 

I may sit in the pilothouse, watch the various craft come and go, and let my mind wander until dinner time . . . Let’s see, what should I cook.

NE Habor, MDI, Maine

Redemption

We are tied to mooring ball #2 at Buck’s Harbor Marina. It is located at the northeast end of Eggemoggin Reach. The harbor is U shaped due to the appropriately named Harbor Island being in the center of a scooped out portion South Brooksville. As is typical in Maine there are many well found yachts here. 

 

The harbor is all moorings. We all swing with the wind and the tide generated currents. Tree covered granite hills a hundred or so feet high surround the harbor. Houses peek through the forest cover here and there. The marina is perched on the edge of the water. Its guts are out for everyone to see. 

 

One of the main attractions here is the two outdoor showers: your head and feet are visible. Most cruising boaters are elated to take a shower in any circumstances. The marina is owned and run by a delightful and low key family. Their lanky white and black dog could give a shit about any of us and that makes her even more endearing.

 

Their small shop has t-shirts, a few boating supplies, craft beer, and most importantly, The Island Lady brand of ice cream. It comes in small cups that are frozen rock hard. All the better for it slows the consumption down to a crawl even when it is warm.

 

Above the harbor is a small village but that is an exaggeration. There is a store which is attached to a famous restaurant called Buck’s, no surprise there. Due to its affiliation with the restaurant this out of the way store has a quirky selection of fine wines, Italian specialty items, and hand made goods. It is worth the walk up the hill.

 

When the restaurant is open, many of the transient boaters vacate their craft around dinner time and return some hours later a little louder than when they left. For some reason we have never been able to secure a reservation and have given up despite the insistence of our local friends that we must eat there. Not to be conceited but it is hard to find pasta made better in a restaurant than I can make on my little butane stove.

 

Of course, just around the corner we could anchor for free but there is something compelling about this little niche of the world. It seems to redeem my faith that we are not going to hell in a handbasket. Do not ask me why, I could not tell you and I am perfectly prepared if the opposite turns out to be true.

 

The young spirited owner was on his own today. His family, who usually runs the marina, were off doing various things. He was shirtless with bright Bahama shorts on and there was Reggae quietly playing on the deck that overlooks the harbor. As we sat in the sun eating peach and chocolate ice cream, I could have sworn I heard Bob Marley’s Redemption Song playing in the background . . .  

Northeast Harbor, MDI, Maine

                       

Plans

There was a time when much effort went into making plans. What with work, family, and other commitments scheduling one’s life took a bit of work. I can’t say when it became apparent to me that this was no longer the case. My guess is not long ago with the passing of Seymour, Charlotte’s father and the last of the ancients, that was a turning point. But it had begun long before.

 

I was guilty in my youth of being an expert procrastinator. I did manage to get things done though usually in a panic. When I decided to go back to school the first time, the deadlines for applications and the need to obtain historical data in time for said applications caused me no end of stress.

 

The second time I decided to go back to school was worse. At this point I already had a career. Problem was, I was not satisfied with it. To reach my goal I needed to return to the university to finish requirements and simultaneous apply to medical school. The internet was in its infancy. I poured over many pages of text in many school catalogs, and mined them for information, much of which concerned deadlines. 

 

The dates were noteworthy because missing any of them meant a lost year in the application process, and I did not have a year to lose. Between the USPS, faxes, emails, and even hand retrieved and delivered documents, I accomplished the task on time and as it turned out, successfully. It was a lesson learned without realizing that learning was taking place. 

 

Now I suppose long suffering readers are wondering what this diatribe is about considering I am sitting on Carrie Rose in the Maine fog. Well, Charlotte and I need to make a plan for how to end the summer. This year was a challenge from the beginning. I will spare you the details. We almost faltered but persisted just long enough to find a solution. Another lesson learned.

 

As I remind myself frequently, I am not getting younger. (I will let Charlotte comment - or not - concerning this topic.) There seems to be only so much energy, psychic or otherwise, to consume and then to recover. So, the plan for when Carrie Rose is coming out of the water rests on our collective energy evaluation. 

 

One of the fixes on Carrie Rose was the installation of a sophisticated battery monitor replacing the original quirky volt meter. The new device displays the percentage of power left in the batteries and for how long, at the present usage, the batteries will continue to provide power. It also, using Bluetooth, sends the data to my iPhone. Now would it not be convenient to have similar personal data sent.

 

I assume there exists an app for this on my phone. I am just too busy procrastinating to search and install it. My mind is preoccupied with the near future when I will be forced to declare a plan. I may leave it to Charlotte as she is well versed in spread sheets and seems to relish in making list and declaring deadlines! 

Seal Bay, Vinalhaven Island, Maine

Quiet Cove

It is like someone or something is daring us to see who will make the first sound this morning. I am lying in bed and straining to hear anything. What will it be: a faint craw of a distant crow, the current gently streaming pass the hull, a gull or a tern or more dramatically the splash of a hunting osprey? 

 Of course, those are natural sounds. It could be an engine starting, or an anchor clanging. It could be a dinghy motoring by or the swish of oars. Finally, I cannot stand it anymore and even though it is before seven, I get up. The cove is still. The ten or eleven boats are reflected in the mirror-like water. There is not even the hint of wind. 

 

The bow points away from the rising sun and is cool and covered with dew. The stern has two suns. The one in the sky and the other reflected off the still water. I take my flannel shirt off and sit down to enjoy the warmth. It is getting towards the end of August and the summer heat is over. Against my better judgement Charlotte has put the down comforter back on the bed. I can’t say it was a mistake.

 

As I warm up like a lizard, is when I hear it: the Stonington fog horn. I could be mistaken, the throughfare between North Haven and Vinalhaven may have a horn but I am not sure. I will consult the chart later in the day, that is if I remember to.

 

Now I sense some rumbling amongst the boats and decide to join in on the cacophony. It is time to boil water and make tea. At this Charlotte stirs and the day begins. For some reason I elect to polish the stainless steel railings and Charlotte joins in cleaning but her task is the mat in the bathroom. 

 

Boats begin to leave and as I polish the anchor windless I overhear one boater talk to the another about favorite free mooring sites. These are coveted details that I try as hard to hear as I did the first sounds of the morning. But alas I fail, and make another decision to be first in line to buy the new inexpensive hearing aids. 

Seal Bay, Vinalhaven Island, Maine

Brown

Maine is brown this year. Most of the fields look scorched. The brown is nestled between the dark blue-green sea and the rich green upper story of deciduous trees with an occasional red barn in between. To me it looks dangerous. One errant spark or discarded cigarette could send the whole island up in flames. Thankfully the only people I see smoking are the lobster fishers and they harmlessly throw the smoldering butts into the water. 

 

The fields in Maine were used for fodder and hay, but now most lay fallow. They have a certain appearance which at first looks like a monoculture wheat crop. On closer inspection the fields consist of a multiplicity of plants that glow. Though the predominate color is that of hay, there is much more complexity. 

 

There are greens and various shades of violet, even bright red makes an appearance. And of course, the colors depend on the time of year, the moisture content, the mowing and/or grazing schedule. I say grazing even though, other than the occasional goat or horse, I rarely see any barnyard animals. 

 

Last year Maine was green. It rained continually except when the tropical storms came and then it poured. Each morning when I emerged from our damp sleeping quarters at the bow I would look at the relative humidity gauge. It was topped out at 100%, whereas this year it hovers more in the 40 to 50% range. 

 

There have been many heat advisories this year, last year there were none. The few times we have made it to land the temperature have been in the high eighties or nineties. But Maine’s waters resist warmth except in isolated shallow bays. Eleven foot ebb tides suck warm water out into the Atlantic and replace it with fifty degree water during the flood. So, on the water it is rarely hot. 

 

Today is a down day for us. The wind, due to a large contra spinning offshore low, is from the northeast and gusting over the protective hill at 25 knots. The rain has been steady but not particularly hard. A few powerboats left this morning in contrast to the sailboats which have stayed anchored. 

 

Carrie Rose is in a well protect harbor attached to a friend’s mooring. As the gust blow over her she gently swings side to side. Wavelets clunk against the bow drum like, a sound we have become accustomed to and barely hear. I sit in the pilothouse and look out at one beautiful sailboat after another anchored before me. 

 

A large black heavily reefed Hinckley just sought refuge in the harbor. It does the usual dance to find the perfect spot to drop the anchor. The Camden Hills across East and West Penobscot Bays have faded in the mist, and white caps are streaming past the harbors entrance. The wind and rain have escalated, so it timed its arrival perfectly.

There is plenty of food, fuel, and wine on Carrie Rose. It was a good call to come here and then to stay put. When the low pressure system moves east and the sun returns I will be curious if Maine becomes green again, just in time to turn brown . . .  

Pulpit Harbor, North Haven, Maine

In-service

Today’s destination was Warren Island State Park, a mere 10 miles from Belfast where we spent the last two days. Belfast Harbor broadens as it opens northeast into Belfast Bay and then Penobscot Bay. Large ocean going ships, and tug and barge combos head to Searsport in the upper reaches of the bay from the Atlantic Ocean. There sits fuel storage facilities and a large chemical plant, some of the few industrial site we see when cruising in Maine. 

This island state park has nine moorings, one of which, at twenty dollars per night, give us a respite from anchoring. Once moored with the engine turned off I could hear the distinctive screech of the common tern. A large dark shape was flying erratically above the tree line. As I watched, a group of the diminutive but determined terns divebombed what turned out to be a somewhat ragged bald eagle. 

 

The eagle was surprisingly agile considering its size. Whenever it banked to the right or left its splendid white tail feathers became visible. I have only seen eagles fishing but maybe they will pick up the stray tern chick if given the opportunity. 

 

While in Belfast, Charlotte was marooned on Carrie Rose as I attended to a minor medical issue. Our friends on Blue picked me off our mooring and this left Charlotte there with the dinghy, which had the electric outboard attached. Now, I have talked of giving Charlotte an in-service on how to operate the motor but I never did. I am confident that in a pinch she would get it to work, though that is hardly the proper way to approach such eventualities.

 

That said, there is nothing like a personal lesson to make sure things run safe and smooth. So, our mission today at Warren was to get Charlotte up to speed. I dropped the dinghy off the stern and proceeded to attach the Torqeedo electric outboard. It consists of three parts: a shaft with the motor and propeller attached to the bottom, the heavy shoebox size battery, and the handle with the controls and a small rectangular screen that reports the speed and the battery’s charge.

 

The design is maximized to prevent errors when assembling it on the back of a rocking dinghy. The only difficulty comes when attaching the power and control cables. They only fit one way and then a screw on collar secures them. The collars are nylon and never quite line up the first time and risk cross threading. Let’s just say I never fail to curse as I make the final connections. 

 

But we are not going there with this day’s instruction. Today is limited to turning the contraption on and operating the motor. It is simple really. Place the round magnet that substitutes for a key in its socket, hold the “on” button down for 3 seconds, and turn the handle one way or the other depending on the direction and speed needed. 

 

It is nice to sit in the bow and look around while Charlotte drives. We cruise to inspect each mooring, then dock on the island’s pier to put twenty bucks in the moldy envelop to pay for the night. Then we went for a walk in the woods until the mosquitoes caught up with us. 

 

Charlotte attempted to have me drive back to Carrie Rose but I demurred. I sat in the bow and asked to be driven by the large schooner, the J&E Riggins, that anchored close by. The only tricky maneuver is the approach to Carrie Rose’s starboard midships. Here I get to attach the bow line to the cleat and the dinghy float to the stern ladder so we can disembark. The process goes smoothly without any voices raised. 

 

I am surprised we never had this lesson before considering the decades we’ve cruised. Early on Carrie Rose designated roles for us and despite knowing better, we resisted change. Such is the power of routine. 

Pulpit Harbor, North Haven Island, Maine

Envy

Charlotte and I have spent a bit of time in Maine over these last seven years excluding 2020 of course. I think we have the right to consider ourselves ‘part time’ summer people. We are not landed and thus have no bragging rights to any particular island or region. I suppose where the boat is kept is as close as we get, but that is a tenuous claim at best. 

Many folks we encounter seem to have roots connected to the Mayflower. And the summer people’s forebearers also, if not the Mayflower, have connections to Maine that go back generations. For a second generation Italian American like me this is heady stuff. 

 

Charlotte is better prepared. On her mother’s side the roots are deep in the Carolinas. Often when she discusses her kin I hear terms such as Huguenots, and a great grandfather in the Spanish American War with Teddy Roosevelt, and carriage makers in the deep south and other distinguished personages. She can make a case as a descendent of America’s first settlers.

 

I am from a prairie state with a small claim to Lake Michigan’s coast. It is there that I received my on the water experience. Maine is a vast tree covered state with a dramatic coastline. The population, like many similar land forms, hugs the Atlantic shoreline. It is best to have a full tank of gas when venturing inland and especially north to Canada as the population drops off sharply. Due to the jagged coastline, it is often easier to move about by boat then on the roads. 

 

When cruising on Carrie Rose we are often in remote areas with miles between the islands and the mainland. Invariably on a small mountainous island there sits a large rustic home on the summit. It is fascinating to think of the privilege and the mindset needed to construct such a monument. Do these people have large extended families to house? How do they get there without subjecting family and friends to the seasickness generating seas that we so often incur.

 

If you are getting the impression that I am envious, well, you are correct. I have no reason to be. I have a wholly envious life compared to most. But within my monkey brain it is hard to turn off the jealousy centers. I mean why couldn’t my family have come from Puritan stock with deep roots in the Northeast instead of dirt farmers from Italy. Life is just not fair . . . 

 

But as I sit in Carrie Rose’s pilothouse writing this I must disavow the above. Because of my heritage I grew up free in the much maligned city of Chicago with its art, architecture, music, ethnic food and diversity. I was nurtured by my mother’s splendid Southern Italian cooking and by my father’s Tuscan magnanimity. Life is more than fair; in fact, it is blessed.

Pulpit Harbor, North Haven, Maine

8/2022

Sound & Fog

Sound is especially acute in the fog. This is no great revelation on my part. It is just so obvious when lying on anchor with only a few boat lengths visible from the pilothouse windows. I am an early riser especially in Maine. The first glimmers of light begin before five. Due to my compromised bladder I often get to witness the faint glow below the horizon. Back in the warm bunk, if lucky, I doze off for another hour and by that time the sun has risen, that is except when it is foggy.

At times, before the sun and the lobster folk have risen there is no sound other than the lapping of water and this depends on the wind and the state of the tide. Lobster boats once awakened relish in the deep throaty thump of their large diesel engines. Sometimes it sounds like morning rush hour on the Kennedy Expressway out in the buoy fields. I wonder how they can spend the day engulfed in a bass drum, but maybe they are still young and not worried about hearing loss. 

 

As the morning progresses sounds fill in the landscape even if it is not visible. Cars and trucks, beeps and sirens, dogs defending their territory, voices are raised, grass is cut, heavy machinery rattles the earth, sea gulls and osprey begin to fish and scabble, outboards buzz by with their crews on a mission usually to walk the dog. 

 

Carrie Rose is a quiet boat. We have given up on television and in most cases the radio stays silent except for the VHF weather forecast. Usually solo no raucous parties are held. I tend to read and write in the pilothouse while Charlotte occupies the salon’s comfortable couch. It has been noted that advancing age brings with it an uncontrollable nodding of heads. This tends to end abruptly with a start and an aching neck. 

 

Sleep comes earlier in Maine. And as the sun sets the fog may begin to roll in and the soundscape, like the tide, reverses itself. The quiet becomes intense. It is time for bed.

Seal Bay, Vinalhaven, Maine

Carrie Rose Update 2022

 

It has been about six weeks since Charlotte and I pulled into Atlantic Boat where Carrie Rose spends the winter. The major question mark was - as it has been for the last several years - the electrical system. To be precise, the lack of interconnectivity between the charger/inverter and the generator. Along with this there is a lack of confidence about the wiring after many people have delved into the system.

 

I decided to learn as much about the system, so spent the winter reading. Most of it is over my head but thanks to physics in college I can grasp the essentials. There was an electrician at the yard I had kept in touch with but when we got there he had left for a job closer to home. The new part time electrician came and looked at the system. He seemed to have a plan but told us he had other things to do and could not work on Carrie Rose.

 

Our friend tried hard to diagnose the problem. We spent a weekend testing and complying data. It proved the original surmise that the system works fine with outside power but not with the generator. We even went so far as to next-day ship his computer from home to help with the process. But no cure was found, and thus began a search for another remedy. 

 

Ten or eleven leads were followed online, on the phone, and in person with only one response. We scheduled an appointment for three weeks hence. When the time came Carrie Rose was launched and we cruised 30 nautical miles to the yard. It was nice to get on the water even if we had a raucous trip west on East Penobscot Bay. We docked in one of our favorite towns and waited. 

 

The electrician came the next day. He was through. He had a plan. He would talk it over with the service manager and get back with us. Alas, they did not say no, but completely ignored us, so we left. 

 

I have to say I began to feel like a teenager again. My emotions were all over the place. How was it possible to find no one to help? We were both ready to leave the boat and head home. Carrie Rose was taken out of the water again and we sat in a rock and sand parking lot. 

 

Once we settled on land, the manager gave me another electrician’s card. He had come by to talk about his services. I called and he returned the call and most importantly, he came. He was an inquisitive young man who approached the problem like a competent internist. First he took a detailed history and then, got his notebook and multimeter out and did a thorough exam. At one point he exclaimed, “I can fix this!”

 

It took two weeks for him to return. We tried not to get our hopes up. It is an odd state of affairs to deem to be hopeless. When he came I had the boat ready and waiting. He immediately disappeared below the pilothouse hatch. Charlotte went off to read and I sat on the back deck. I could hear him talking to himself as he worked through the wiring. At the end of the first day, he needed a switch and said he’d be back when he found one.

 

Again, we suppressed any glad tidings. It turned out that the boat was dangerously wired. This needed to be corrected first and only then could the original problem be addressed. To our surprised he came the next day, finished installing the new switch and gave me the thumbs up to start the generator. His surmise was that the work he had done so far would solve the problem, when it did not we were deflated.

 

This did not stop him. He went to his truck and retrieved his computer, a cable and the necessary dongle to connect to the charger/inverter. The first attempts to connect were failures. Again, he persisted. He reached out to several folk for advice and when none was forthcoming, he went and had lunch.

 

My original plan was to disconnect the charger/inverter and go back to the boat’s less sophisticated arrangement. He was willing to do this but not without one more try. Back to his truck to make a new cable, while I lay in a stupor. To make this already too long of a story shorter, the new cable worked. The settings were set, the generator started and we both knew he had fixed it. 

 

The next day we launched and traveled 15 NM to Northeast Harbor on Mount Dessert Island, my favorite harbor. Charlotte and I chilled out for four days. We hiked, ate popovers, took the free bus to various placed, and reveled in having a functional boat for the first time in four years!

Seal Bay, Vinalhaven, ME

Getting There

 

In less than a week Charlotte and I are leaving for Maine and another summer cruising season. The process goes in slow motion until it doesn’t. When I was a kid aching for Christmas to come, my Aunt Sarah (who was my working mother’s daycare operator) would have cousin John and I make paper rings. One ring for each day before Christmas. Each morning we would tear one off the chain and then open the Advent calendar’s dated window. It was, as I said, an achingly slow process, almost unbearable.

 

I do not remember any of the gifts I so coveted. What I remember is the pomp and circumstance that St. Hilary’s church provided. The midnight mass, the processions, the smell of frankincense mixed in with the Christmas tree’s balsam. It must have been fun for my parents to watch the culmination of their efforts as I/we ripped into the presents. 

 

Though, I do remember Christmas dinners. My mother Theresa, a splendid cook, would always have a surprise. It could be flaming baked Alaska or make your own pizzas or a multilayered German torte, and always there was the once a year treat of Christmas cookies. Once the lights and hilarity of Christmas was gone, I settled into February’s gloom. Chicago was cold back then. To keep my spirits up I dreamed of spring and more importantly, summer vacation.

 

Time passes quicker now than it did sixty years ago. I am better at keeping myself occupied, so February is not as onerous as it once was. Still the first shoots pushing up through the snow always catch me off guard. My response is tempered because I know there are still months to come before shorts and t-shirts. Dreams shift from darker themes to ones of blue water and skies. 

 

Now my focus can safely shift from surviving the winter to planning for the future. About this time the first boating catalog is delivered. I cannot help but study, often in minute detail, each page. The more relevant the content the more it deserves to be marked by a Post-it Note sticker. A space is set aside in the basement for the myriad of things deemed necessary for a successful summer on Carrie Rose.

 

Charlotte begins to calculate our route. Maine is about as far away from Chicago as Miami. There is less infrastructure in terms of roads and facilities then on the trip south, so a bit more planning is required. And now that we have made this trip for a decade there are friends to visit, making the calculations more difficult. 

 

Of course, these dilemmas are good to have and having the where-with-all to work through them is a blessing. To watch parents, aunts and uncles, and friends disappear makes each year’s process of getting there more poignant. There is a Japanese saying: Ichi Go, Ichi E; One time - One meeting. We only get one chance . . . go for it!         

 

6/1/2022 

Growl

Charlotte and I have been within a stones throw of the Gulf of Mexico’s beaches for about two weeks. The beach is made up of fine white sand and at places, is almost a block wide. 

Our first abode – a condo east of downtown Galveston – was quieter in terms of people but not in terms of grinders and high pressure washers detailing the building for the spring and summer. 

 

The beach is wide; the water is shallow. Waves break far off shore. The constant breaking waves create a background growl, which upon nearing the surf line morphs into a metronome like regularity. 

 

Our second abode – a house on stilts in Surfside Beach – has a different character. Though we are the third house off the beach, the views out the front and back are uninterrupted. This beach is half the width as the previous one. This beach allows cars and golf carts and mini bikes to drive one way east. I even had to avoid horse poop while taking my daily walk. 

 

This beach’s surf is loud. The waves have a shorter period and are relentless. The sound oscillates, more like a narrow peak to trough sine wave. I keep reminding myself that I do not have tinnitus, but surly this is what it must sound like. The wind has increased and decreased. It has varied from northwest to southeast with no noticeable change in the waves direction or the steadfastness of the sound.

 

A common held belief that the ocean’s sounds are relaxing, even meditative, is being put to the test. Granted the ocean’s sound are more tolerable than the 737’s, 747’s, and MD-11’s, that buzz over our Chicago bungalow every 60 seconds. Could I live in such close proximity to these waves, I think not. 

 

I am probably being premature in my assessment of livability. Is fourteen days long enough to make a judgment, again, I think not. But then this is Texas in February. Once spring draws to a close the noise will be the least of concerns as the constant air conditioning will no doubt mask the sound of the gulf’s waves.

 

In this small coastal community, the stilted dwellings are spaced sporadically. It is a matter of failed developments and horrendous hurricanes. The homes are easily dated. Each new build is higher than the last. The loftiest are 15 to 20 feet off the sandy ground. The thought of that much water flowing under a house gives me pause. This area of Texas appears as flat as Holland, so to escape the rising water would entail a long inland drive. 

 

The wind was gusting to 45 mph from the north when we arrived. Opening and closing the outside doors became onerous on the north end and spirited on the south. We toasted our arrival dinner with the clink of tall wine goblets. Once placed back on the table the wine sloshed back and forth as the lofty three bedroom home swayed with each gust. It is sobering to think of what 150 mph of wind would do to the wine.

 

A shore side life, seemingly idyllic, presents challenges that I am not sure I am up for . . . so back to Chicago it is!    

 

February 2022