A Perfect day – 7/24/23 NE Harbor to WoodenBoat

Carrie Rose’s various fresh water tanks were filled. The launch took us to shore for one last shower. Mark, the launch driver, is the MDI High School history teacher. After a discussion where I told him the only Greek literature I had read was in preparation to read James Joyce’s Ulysses, he countered with Plutarch’s Wars and Livy’s Short History of Rome. He looks forward to my book report next time we meet.

 

It was sunny and warm as we cruised out of NE Harbor. We’d been there for ten days anticipating a surprise meet up with my nephew. His wife had arranged it with us last Christmas Eve. I am always more hopeful for the world after spending a few hours with them.

 

It was time to move on. Since we had already ventured east to Bar and Winter Harbors it seemed like a good time to head west. Other than a few squirrelly lobster boats and of course, the Swan’s Island ferry the Captain Henry Lee, the 20 miles to WoodenBoat was smooth sailing. 

 

WoodenBoat, the home of WoodenBoat magazine is in an eastern cove at the southern end of Eggemoggin Reach. It lies between Center Harbor to the NW and Naskeag Harbor to the SE. The moorings and dock are somewhat protected by Babson Island, though a southern wind, like we had, makes this a lumpy place. 

 

The tide was flooding with the wind on Carrie Rose’s stern, not her best handling conditions. It took a couple of passes before I could get the bow close enough for Charlotte to pick up the mooring pennant. 

 

Dinghy in the water, we motored to the dock and walked the few beautiful blocks into WoodenBoat’s facility. There is a school workshop and an elegant store. We marveled at the various projects, the wooden skeletons of boats in progress, the shops and stores of curing wood, and more wooden boats then you can shake a teak stick at. 

 

Back on Carrie Rose the wind calmed and shifted east. A large schooner, American Pride, anchored off Babson Island. A haze filled in the distant horizon with white. I spent the afternoon thinking I should do something but did nothing. It was a perfect day. 

Summer of Fog

Carrie Rose was getting antsy after being anchored in Somes Harbor for six days. There was the prospect of clearing weather so she lobbied for a cruise and a cruise somewhere new. Charlotte and I studied the chart and the cruising guide, and based on a suggestion chose to cruise to Winter Harbor. It is across Frenchmen Bay east of Mt Desert Island (MDI). And it is a few miles north of Schoodic point. Schoodic point is the beginning of wild Maine.

There is little recreationally, except for solitude and spectacular views to commend one to head Downeast. It is a place we are glad to have gone twice but probably will not go again. I may be wrong about that, so don’t quote me. But I doubt Charlotte will venture there again.

 

Frenchmen Bay is approximately 6 miles wide from Otter point on MDI to Schoodic point of the Schoodic peninsula. It is open to the Atlantic Ocean from the South/Southwest. The bay is a place where the surface waves suddenly become incorporated into what is usually a SE swell. Carrie Rose begins to rise and fall, and get pushed around by an infinite combination of waves and swells. As when riding large waves on the Great Lakes, Charlotte and I sit back, hold on and let Carrie Rose do her thing. I adjust the course here and there depending on the waves, currents and sea state but mainly the autopilot manages things

 

But I forgot to mention a major concern, not catching a lobster buoy in the propellor. On Frenchmen Bay the groupings of buoys appear haphazard. We maintain a constant lookout, though the fog complicates the search. As we travel into the middle of the bay the swell increases and each lobster buoy becomes two. The larger unique buoy is connected via a long tether to a diminutive float. This small float leads to the traps some 150 feet below. My observation is that in exposed areas with larger seas the traps have longer tethers to make buoy retrieval easier.

 

So, we watch: me starboard, Charlotte port. With any lengthy endeavor, concentration can wander or be disturbed by the many dials and screens stationed in front of me. When my instinctual “look-up” alarm goes off, most times there are one or more lobster buoy ahead. Off goes the autopilot and I hand steer a slalom course around them. 

 

Carrie Rose had a traditional six spoke steering wheel. Steering with it was annoying, so I decided to remediate it. I laminated six 1 1/2 inch strips of poplar and walnut into a ring. The first attempt (with the best wood) was cockeyed. A firmer frame was fabricated and the second ring was satisfactory. With six hardy brass screws the ring was attached to the six spokes. I planned to round the edges but once fitted never altered it. For the last 1500 hours the wheel has served us well. 

 

Frenchmen Bay leads into Sand Cove and the dramatic Winter Harbor Yacht Club. It is a rollie spot with the remnants of the bay’s swell and the wakes from the local lobster fishing fleet. The club is incorporated onto the side of a cliff. It has an old timey Downeast feel, damp but cozy. Dark wood frames the inside and borders the imposing central stone fireplace. The furniture looks and feels original. And above it all is a commanding chandelier with colorful models of the yacht club’s legacy 21ft wooden racing fleet attached to each rung. They have maintained and raced these unique craft for more than 100 years. 

 

We had signed up for two nights, then woke up to dense fog on departure day. When the fog deepened, we signed up for another day. The yacht club’s launch took us to shore. It’s a mile walk into Winter Harbor’s quaint and lively town center. Charlotte had a lunch of clam chowder, a half of a lobster roll and a piece of blue berry pie for twenty bucks. We bought two small well crafted wicker baskets at a tiny antique shop and then headed for the club. The sun appeared on the way back and the fog dissipated. We looked at each other and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

 

To leave on a substantial cruise in the afternoon feels against the grain, but considering the prospect of worsening weather it was time to go. First, we took the launch back to the club for quick showers, informed the dockmaster we were leaving, threw out the trash, prepped the boat and left. 

 

Somes Harbor on MDI, our destination, is twenty mile back across Frenchman Bay. The swell increased as we travelled west across the bay and as we closed on the island dense fog re-appeared. Then to welcome us back a couple of squalls blew over as we crossed the entrance to Northeast Harbor. It was tempting to duck into the harbor but as we entered Somes Sound the sun greeted us.

 

I could see another Nordic Tug 32 in Somes Harbor. We maneuvered Carrie Rose behind her, dropped the anchor and rowed over to re-acquaint ourselves with the crew. It had been several years since we met on Swan’s Island. Back on board the darkening sky clouded over as the fog crept in. Not able to keep our eyes open, we tucked in for the night with our down comforter not far away. 

 

NE Harbor Dense Fog 6-30-23

A 35 nautical mile cruise yesterday from the inland waters of East Penobscot Bay to the open ocean side of Mt. Desert Island, NE harbor specifically. We waited until 10:30 AM for the fog to lift and no surprise, it remained. Out on the water visibility varied from 50 yards to ¼ mile. At this stage in our ongoing Maine cruising anything thing greater than ¼ miles seems like clear sailing. 

 

One of fog’s vagaries is that visibility decreases whenever there are multiple navigational challenges: bridges, shoals, islands, harbor entrances, a busy thorofare all bring out the worse in the fog. Along with the above, the sea state often quickens at these pinch points making it easy to be distracted.

 

In Japan while riding numerous trains from single car country trains to 200 MPH behemoths, the engineers monitor each gauge by pointing at them in sequential fashion. I found myself doing the same. Oil pressure, engine temperature, battery state, RPM, depth, autopilot, AIS, compass, radar, paper chart and chart plotters, radio . . . it is a round robin. At different moments one of the above can overrule the others and then the cycle begins again. 

 

On passages of any length, I will don ear protection, lift the floor boards, and inspect the engine and shaft rooms. There are many spinning parts so I keep a proper distance. The diesel’s temperature, fuel filters and raw water intakes, hoses, the bilge, the shaft seal leading to the prop; I take a quick look around for abnormalities. Once satisfied I relieve Charlotte from the helm and she returns to navigation duties. 

 

So, I was doing the above while we cruised east across Blue Hill Bay’s Eastern Passage. approaching Bass Harbor Head, the southernmost point on Mt. Desert Island. Bass Harbor itself lies about a mile west of the Head and there lives the notorious Captain Henry Lee, the ferry to Swans Island. In Carrie Rose’s many transits back and forth across these waters, the Captain Henry Lee has never missed a chance for a close encounter. 

 

It was 1:45 PM and we were still a few miles west of Bass Harbor and considering the dense fog I was beginning to get nervous. Charlotte reported that the ferry leaves its berth at 2:15 PM. It has been my experience that attempts to outrun sizeable ships is futile. They leave the dock and in moments have accelerated to cruise speed. Except on days when I have an inadvertent death wish I tend to hang back and even circle in place until they pass. 

 

This time, now that I have deciphered the intricacies of the Vesper Marine AIS Watch Mate, I could see that the small black arrow that represents the ferry and its relationship to us, was stationary. 

 

For the uninitiated AIS, Automatic Identification System, is a relatively simple device (if that is possible these days) that broadcast name, speed, direction, destination and in some cases the closest point of approach of other boats that are broadcasting. Most commercial vessels are required to have one. Of course, no self respecting lobster fisher would have one but let’s not go down that rabbit hole.

 

As I watched, the black arrow began to move. I got queasy even though, according to Vesper AIS, the ferry would remain behind us. I decided, like any novice airplane pilot, to trust my instruments. We carried on to the Bass Harbor Bar and gratefully never encountered the Captain Henry Lee. 

 

The Bar is approximately a mile wide running north to south between Bass Harbor Head with its classic lighthouse and the northern shore of Great Gott Island. The passage is marked by two large bell buoys.

 

My observation, after passing over the 8 to 15 foot deep (at low tide) bar is that the weather and sea state often changes dramatically. In general, the sea is calmer when going west as the bar is open to the full force of the Atlantic Ocean when travelling east. We crossed and in an instance were motoring uphill to the top of a swell. The wind picked up and this was reflected in the rowdy sea surface.

 

Carrie Rose is a sea worthy craft that given the right circumstances gets as rowdy as the seas she is in. I check the course, made a small correction and then, for some reason looked behind me. There on the apex of the swell was a bright white LED light on top of what looked like a WW II landing craft. Its flat square bow was crashing into the waves as it moved to our starboard side. The radio came alive, “Carrie Rose I’ll be passing you on your right.” I responded affirmatively and thank him for letting me know.

 

It accelerated, passed in front and left us in its massive green phosphorescent wake. The hulk made a ninety degree turn around the green “1” buoy and disappeared into the fog. We simultaneously heard each other say, “Holy Sh-t!” 

 

The 30 miles we had traveled so far was in varying visibility. Now as we turn north into the Western Way to NE harbor the fog became all encompassing. I had sped up to get into protected waters and now slowed to check the course and the radar. The few blips on the screen were the expected buoys. They will lead into a progressively narrow channel bounded by Mount Desert Island and Great Cranberry Island.

 

A few other blips appeared with the characteristic stop and go of lobster boats pulling and setting traps. Further in, the small fleet of ferries that support Great and Little Cranberry Islands sped across the screen. Other than the radar screen the world was white. There are a series of large red gong buoys that show up well on radar, these were matched to their images on the chart plotter and now, even slower, Carrie Rose inched into the harbor. 

 

Boats grudgingly appeared out of the fog. We were in familiar territory but still could not relax. I called the harbormaster on channel 68 and suggested we be able to tie to mooring #362 for no other reason than it was in front of us. Charlotte armed herself with the boat pole as I nudged Carrie Rose’s port bow up to the can. She picked up the line on the first attempt and secured its slimy loop to the bow’s bollard. Then with the engine off, I entered the data of our trip into the log. 

 

We both sat in the salon and sighed. Espresso with a dash of milk was prepared and we both settled in with our reads. Charlotte’s book about the systematic murder of Native Americans to steal their oil money, and mine about the 900 day siege of Leningrad during WWII are both fitting topic for this day on the water . . . 

Coping

What to do when things do not go according to plan? It is as good a question as any other with as many answers as there are questioners. I do not have much to cope with. For this I am grateful, yet there are a few exasperating things. 

Today I read an article in the NYT concerning the “moral injury” of health care workers, especially doctors. I was one of those once. I did not know there was a name for it other than burnout. I learned to deal with duplicitous administrators and insurance companies. Though caught off guard, I eventually learned to deal with the ever increasing mix of newly minted medication addicts so adroitly created by big pharma. 

 

None of this was easy. I swallowed several generations of anti-ulcer drugs and was glad to have them. If you can remember when the country was not constantly thrown into one fake crisis after another, the by-word was change. Change is what I came to expect. When I first began to practice medicine something substantial changed every 6 months. Then that was halved to 3, then monthly, then I don’t know what. I just hung on for the ride.

 

Like those odd relational questions on the SAT, coping is to change as change is to coping. My mother, in her eighties, decided she did not want to contend with change any more. She was through coping. Though active and mentally sharp until her nineties, she would profess to all her wish to be taken into the great unknown, heaven in her case. This was a downer at our family’s holiday gatherings. She could not be dissuaded.

 

Charlotte and I arrived in Maine in early June. There were two outstanding projects, both of which I had consulted with the boatyard for over a year. There are many projects in the yard. It seems that five new boats are being build. Then there are always a few major refits taking place. Boats must be stored and then un-stored. They need to be prepared for the winter and commissioned for the summer. It is the cycle of a boatyard’s life.

 

Somehow Carrie Rose must fit into the boatyard’s schedule. I wish I could tell you I knew how to do this efficiently. There is no formula. I have tried passive aggression, shouting and swearing, calm retroflection, and appealing to the hierarchy, all have in one way or another failed. I am at a loss and have decided that the only way to cope is through persistence. My hope is that they will decide a better option than seeing me each day is to finish my projects and send me on my way.

 

A valuable lesson that primary care taught me was that logic is not an effective problem solving strategy. To provide logical solutions made me feel better but seldom helped the patient. People are mostly polite, listen carefully as I prattle on, nodding in agreement, and then do none of it. Sobering is all I can say. It taught me to listen to what they are saying and not listen to myself. 

 

So, what have I learned? If the boatyard is doing other things, my thingamajig will have to wait. And if done in duress (aka holding feet to the fire) best to check the project is completed before steaming off into the sunset. In the past I did most things myself. Now after my seventieth birthday, I’ve decided to delegate work and thus must suffer the consequences.                     

Chainsaw

I like many self proclaimed handymen have a multitude of power tools but a chainsaw is not in my repertoire. My home is located on a small patch of land in a Chicago neighborhood called Arcadia Terrace. It was named for the developers, Arcadia Builders. It is what we now call a subdivision, started in the early 20^th century on land that was once wetlands and orchards.

 

Our reddish brown brick bungalow was built in 1913. It resides on a block of single family homes similar to ours. There is a smaller wooden copy to the south and a larger cream colored ornate brick structure to the north. This is to say that though the neighborhood is lined with trees, and we have a 45 foot blue spruce in the backyard and an elm in the front, I hardly need a chainsaw.

 

It has been our practice to cruise Carrie Rose, a Nordic Tug 32, for three months in the summer. She has sailed many places from Michigan to Maine. For the last eight years she has resided 1300 miles away from home on Herrick Bay near the tiny town of Brooklin, Maine. 

 

When transiting either way we try to visit with friends. Maryland, Virginia, Vermont, Maine, Michigan and New York have all gotten a visit. One friend, who Charlotte has known since her early twenties, lives on a Michigan farm road 150 miles from our home. We drop in to pester her for a few days most spring and fall. Her homestead is comprised of a few acres, mostly forest and fallow fields. The remaining is a lovely backyard garden. Its perimeter is lined with pine trees and therein lies the rub. 

 

The grassy green yard is patrolled by a fluffy well mannered white dog that has the remarkable trait of stalking, leopard like, any furry creature that dares to enter his realm. He keeps the squirrels up in the trees and limits the rabbit population through an effective infanticide program. The trees that the squirrels occupy have what is known as needle drop. The inner needles of the lower branches die off first leaving a gnarly mass of grey limbs. 

 

In such a bucolic environment this is unsightly. Add to that a decrepit octagonal picnic table that begged to be dispatched and suddenly a chainsaw made sense. I thought a Sawzall would do the trick but I was mistaken. Our friend took out her new acquisition. It is about a foot and one half long with eight inches of it being a devastating chainsaw blade. There is a 20V battery attached to the end of the handle and an inadequate safety cover over the rotation blade. 

 

She demonstrated its lethality and set me free. The first thing to go was the picnic table. I was careful not to hit any of the nails or bolts. At first I tried to cut deep into the wood, the blade jammed repeatedly. I like to think I am a quick learner, so I took shallower cuts and the table collapsed. The thirty year old pressure treated wood made for an epic bonfire. 

 

Though sore from the day before, the chainsaw beckoned. It was time to trim the tree limbs. I put on the protective gloves. Made sure there was enough chain oil and that the spare battery was charged. The first tree I attacked attacked back. I needed a strategy. Slowly I made a path through a narrow section of limbs until I reached the trunk. Then there was no stopping me. I cut each limb close to the trunk and as high as I could reach.

 

In the process I got a bit too aggressive and was politely chastened. Three or four trees later with muscles aching, a sweat stained shirt, and scared upper and lower limbs, I gave in. The battery still held a charge, the blade was still sharp and I still had all my limbs. Now that was a fun and productive afternoon.

 

Throughout the process, in the back of my mind, I tried to convince myself that my life would be better, more fulfilled, if I had one of these lilliputian chainsaws. But maybe, just maybe, with age come wisdom and so I demurred. Afterall, despite all the contrary evidence, life will go on without the latest power appliance. At least that is what I’d like to believe! 

Trajan

Typefaces appeal to me. In an odd series of events while in high school I learned the printing trade. It was more of a pastime for me but it did provide sustenance during various times in my life. One time when I matriculated to Southern Illinois University and miscalculated my finances, I opened the school newspaper’s want ads to look for a job. 

There was a notice asking for a small offset printer operator (this was before ubiquitous copy machines) for the newspaper. I obtained an interview with the massive chain smoking master printer. I introduced myself and he led me to the shop. There on an equally massive paper cutter was a disheveled reem of paper. I instinctively picked it up, fanned the pages restoring order to it and set it carefully back on the cutter’s surface. He said your hired and walked out.

 

Many classical typefaces are based on script chiseled into various Roman Ruins. The most famous being Trajan’s column in Rome. As you can see, this type is all capitals and is often referred to as “capitalis monumentalis”. Capitals date to 43 BC. 

 

They have been lost and rediscovered countless times over the centuries. Many scholars and craft people have struggled to decipher their magic. They were chiseled into rock., carved into wood, drawn freehand, set into type and programed into software. 

 

As you can imagine, considering the millennia they have existed there are a cast of interesting characters that comes along with reading about the Capital’s history. There is also a quest to reduce Trajan’s inscription to a geometric formula, to divine its proportionality. 

 

There was Walter Kaech from Germany, a graphic designer, craftsman and scholar that wrote four books detailing the superiority of Roman letters. There was the multidimensional Catholic priest, Father Catich, who due to his Chicago sign painting past, when he was posted to Rome for four years became obsessed with the Trajan Inscription and wrote two scholarly volumes about them. And there is Carol Twombly, a graduate of The Rhode Island School of Design, who digitally replicated the Trajan Capitals. 

 

To that end rubbings, cast, reproductions, drawings, and photos have been made repeatedly. some of the rubbings are quite famous and are housed in renown research libraries. Some believe the capitals only come alive if they are chiseled, carved or hand drawn. Many used the capitals as raw material for their own font creations. I am composing this short essay in Word’s Trajan Pro (12 point) and I am delighted to have the choice to choose from hundreds of fonts at the click of a finger.

 

Maybe, if you have gotten this far, I have inspired you to look, as you would with a fine painting or sculpture, at the letters on the page. Someone, somewhere had to create everything we see, hear, taste, feel . . . relish in it.

 

  

Gathering

A post covid reunion with two friends I met when I was 4 and 5 years old got me thinking friendship. We represent multiple careers paths. One with a life time spent in tool and die as a machinist and a shop manager. The other a diesel mechanic turned firefighter and educator with a side line in hospital building engineering. And me with a list too long to catalogue but much of it spent in health care. 

At our gathering I mentioned the complete lack of sports in our childhoods. Most of our time, whether summer or winter, was spent in one garage or another. There were bicycles, minibikes, Model A’s, Triumph sports cars, motorcycles, various boats, and other mechanical projects. 

 

At some point in our late teens, we went our various ways off to school, to work, to see the world. Thankfully over sixty-five years we managed to keep in touch. It is quite a remarkable feat. When discussing certain memorable events there are now a few disputed interpretations due to, I imagine, the complications of sixty year old memories. 

 

That said most memories are etched in stone. Priests, nuns, and teachers we were exposed too stand out. Some are remembered more fondly than others. Some who in this day would be driven from the teaching profession. Overall, each of us had a firm enough foundation that the various travails thrown at us hardly mattered. 

 

We have vivid memories of each other’s families. Irish, Italian and German traditions color each recollection. I am still terrified of one friend’s beloved family dog that would have dispatched me at an early age had it been let into the room. The neighborhood, where I continue to live, was mainly German and Irish back then as were the churches and restaurants and bars.

 

It was a small Chicago neighborhood that was centered around the church and grammar school. At some point one of us moved to the suburbs. We attended different high schools, some Catholic, some not. Got exposed to a world of different people. Made other friendship, met and married spouses, had children. 

 

When I was young it was a common joke that our elders lived in the past. We tolerated their memories which were brought up whenever the conversation lagged. I get it now, even as I continue to add to my experiential bank. Are my new adventures as potent as the past ones; are they on an equal footing; I can’t say.

 

What I can say is that these and other prized relationships are invaluable. In fact, they are what make up the neuronal pathways that propel each day forward. An adage I see each morning when I walk into the kitchen says: Time is not passing, Time is coming. Keep it coming!

Steep

By the time we arrived in Georgia the azaleas had bloomed. There were just enough flowers on them to remind us of the glory we missed. A tree of unknown type was shedding inch long caterpillar shaped variegated flowers rich with sap. They covered every available surface of the car and defied removal, disintegrating with the slightest touch. Long brown syrupy trails down the side of the car were their calling card. 

 

The house we rented for a week 0n St. Simons Island turned out to have three floors. A fact that went unnoticed in the thirty pictures we previewed on the Airbnb. On first seeing the steep staircase to the bedroom we both sighed. Though strenuous, it turned out to be a blessing. A perfect opportunity to get our winter weakened legs in shape for the summer cruise. 

 

Three flights up was a small cheery room with sliding doors on either end and a retractable shade, which I managed to coerce open after years of neglect. There was even a two inch long frog wintering in one of its support beams. It never moved either on opening or closing the shade. Cool NE then warm humid SE breezes filled the space with the added benefit of a partially obscured view of the Atlantic Ocean.

 

To live in such a house, especially with limited energy stores to draw upon, a certain logistics must be followed. Time and distance dictates which space is used and when. As much as we wanted to eat breakfast on the 3^rdfloor deck it was untenable. Our tea and toast would be cold or spilt by the time we got there. Thus, breakfast was in the cool dim first floor dining room. When retiring for the night we made a reconnaissance to determine that phones, computers, clothing, and reading materials accompanied us to the second floor. My shakuhachi and espresso machine resided on the third floor.

 

The townhouse was steps from the beach. And even at hightide the block wide and blocks long hard packed white sand beach provided a perfect walking surface. At low tide we could walk along it a mile into the village in search of an ice cream cone. Except for one time, breakfast, lunch and dinner were prepared at “home.” Foodstuffs skillfully packaged in Chicago were stored in the trunk of the Honda providing the basics for our simple Mediterranean diet.

 

If possible I bake bread soon after arriving at a destination: it’s my method of burning incense. It is curious how a foreign place with unfamiliar ambiance and awful beachy art begins to feel homey after a few days. Of course, this does not always occur. Some spaces are beyond repair and need a complete refit. We were lucky this year with our primary residence. The second venue . . . well let’s just ignore it. 

 

Between the steep stairs, the ocean views, and the beach walks I feel enlivened. Ready to take on whatever Maine and Carrie Rose throws at us this summer! 

Reclaim

It is good to get away from Chicago. If we lived in paradise we might never leave, never see or taste the wonders that the world offers. The end of March is a hopeful time. In fact, any month other than February is hopeful but the third month always lets us down. There are a couple of warm days. There are even a few overly optimistic soil hugging spring flowers that appear in the garden, and then the inevitable deep freeze and snow storm follows. It is all a charade. 

My thinking on this subject has changed over the years. I used to believe leaving in January and February was the thing to aim for, but I may be mistaken. Many times, in the past, when we have headed south during the first two months, Chicago’s miserable weather follows us. So, you say, go farther south and for reasons I cannot explain we rarely venture from the mainland. This year though, we did travel to Costa Rica. No complaints there.

 

Still, that was in February and as March came around we decided to escape again. This time to St. Simons Island and Jekyll Island in Georgia. Now in the latter of the two we sit on a small veranda looking out onto a tangled mass of moss covered live oaks with a fan palm understory. About a half block away through the trees is a tranquil Atlantic Ocean. Between the end of the tree line and the ocean lies a DMZ of rough brown sand and small grey granite rip-rap.

 

The ocean has been trying to reclaim this part of the island for decades and the good people of Jekyll Island have been waging a quiet and expensive war against mother nature. The genesis appears to be a devastating hurricane in the 1960’s. Of course, as with much of the eastern seaboard, development has taken place close in along the shore line. This despite the risk that sea rise and the next errant hurricane will flatten whatever is standing tall.

 

This area of southeastern Georgia is new to us. I do not recall how we discovered it. Where there are beaches, they are composed of firmly packed fine white sand. Many are, at least during low tide, a block wide. They are a joy to walk or ride a bike on. There is an occasional sighting of porpoises just off shore and legions of pelicans and gulls fishing. And for a couple of boating enthusiasts, large freighters head into and out of interior ports, and smaller more relatable boats transit north and south on the Intracoastal Waterway.

 

On Sunday, Palm Sunday I think, and we drove 6 miles to the southern end of Jekyll Island. The beach is intact here and we walked 5000 steps along the beautiful packed white sand littered with the remnants of live oaks. Though they are called driftwood, it appears to me to be part of the island’s forest reclaimed by the sea. 

 

Near the parking lot there is a short trail that explains, using placards and audio, the interdiction of a lawless slave ship called the Wanderer. It is a vile tale of the slavers that brought to America some of the last Africans and sold them into slavery. I was not a deep thinker as a youngster but I did wonder why no history was taught about slavery. In past travels in Carrie Rose on Chesapeake Bay we visited the Washington and Jefferson plantations, and obscure places such as Chestertown, Maryland. The history of slavery is thankfully addressed in each. Little by little the blanks in my education are being filled in. 

 

I have wanderlust, so after a few months hanging around the bungalow on Talman Avenue my mind begins to cogitate: where to next? I drop Charlotte a few hints of places I’d like to go, and wait to hear what and where is possible. By the time we get home I realize paradise is closer than I think . . . at least until the cogitation begins again.        

 

    

 

               

Reflections

The Hudson River is deceptive. Two images come to mind. One is the transcendental paintings by the Hudson River School. They represent the river and surrounds as an idyllic kingdom where mere mortals feel out of place. The paintings are similar to Chinese brush paintings where humans and their dwellings are dwarfed by the natural world. The second is the Hudson River of New Jersey and NYC: congestion, pollution, dockside intrigue, foreboding wharfs. Neither image is truthful. 

Cruising in a small boat is a four part process: contemplation, planning, execution and reminiscing. For me at least, each is a necessary component, each with equal weight. I have a large library – some paper and increasingly digital - that aids me with the above. A friend who over two decades sailed around the world and then, because he missed the Mediterranean on his first try, sailed back there. When he was in the planning stage he purchased thousands of dollars’ worth of charts. I am the recipient of his North American collection.

 

Charlotte and I studied and updated these charts for many years and many miles. This, of course, was before electronic charts. Now for a minimal yearly fee the charts are easily accessed and updated. Just in case the electrons run out or a cosmic ray wipes out our iPad, we keep minimal paper around. I am not sure what triggered it but I found myself searching the Navionics app on my iPhone for the charts of waterways around NYC. 

 

Carrie Rose has transited these waters twice. Once from the Hudson River to the Atlantic and then from the Atlantic to the East River just north of the Hudson at Manhattan’s tip. For non-boaters a good approximation of what we did is to take the Staten Island Ferry. It captures the frenetic nature of the few miles beginning at lower Manhattan to passing under the Verrazzano’s Narrows Bridge. We took the ferry to get a feel for that trip because when piloting a small boat, it is, at least for me, difficult to sightsee.

 

A few impressions. The Hudson River, other than for a few ships and barges, and the last mile or so east, is a remarkably staid waterway. It is wide and scenic. There is one pinch point at the West Point Academy dictated by a mass of granite that surfaces and refuses to erode. I admit to anxiety on the day we cruised into NYC. Once under the Tappan Zee Bridge I steadied my loins, expecting the worst that never materialized. NYC greeted us with the splendor of the Palisades. A rock formation that was saved by Rockefeller so as not to spoil his view. 

 

It is not until passing Jersey City that the high speed ferries begin to buzz around like killer wasps. I may be naïve, but I think sinking us would not look good on a captain’s resume. I took my track, gave the right of way where necessary, and tried not to deviate my course. We spent a lovely 10 days amongst the local color at a decidedly local marina. Its lack of charm was made up for by the resident boater’s antics. If I were a writer of fiction this place would have provided fodder, if not for a novel, then certainly for several compelling short stories.

 

On the way back north from several years spent in Chesapeake Bay, we stopped short of Manhattan and docked in Staten Island’s Great Kills Harbor. We spent another ten days as guest of the Great Kills Yacht Club. They were a welcoming bunch who bought us way too many drinks in the yacht club’s bar. I half expected Martin Scorsese to appear with a camera at any moment they were so stereotypically New Yorkers. The more they drank the more grievance surfaced concerning the other New Yorkers. It was explained to us that Staten Island funded, through their hard work and taxes, the other Burroughs.

 

A bus took us into Manhattan and brought us back to Carrie Rose’s peace and quiet each day. The large oval harbor laid out in front of us New York’s glittering skyline in the near distance. One night we came back especially late after listening to the Mingus Big Band at the Jazz Standard. We enthusiastically walked along the darkening docks towards the yacht club still flush with the energy absorbed from the band’s virtuosity. 

 

Our guard was down when suddenly car doors closed behinds us and multiple footsteps came our way. Instinct quickened our pace as it seemed theirs did also. We punched in the keypad numbers and made it safely into the club. But now what? Not wanting to openly admit to being nervous, we waited. Boredom got the best of us and we opened the door and sprinted to the dock’s gate. Another keypad and we were in, walking to Carrie Rose who floated gently bobbing in the glow of NYC.

 

My experience is that a visit to any island, no matter if big and populated or tiny and deserted, is compelling. Despite modern accoutrements, islands maintain a singularity that the mainland does not possess. The Hudson River is the perfect (well, almost) conveyance to carry out this task. In writing this I am fulfilling three of the above requirements for small boat cruising. Bring it on!          

Weaving & Screaming

It is hard to describe the intensity of Costa Rica’s roads. A drive, no matter how short, requires stepping up your game. Patience helps with the exasperation which begins immediately once on the road. Multiple types of speeding vehicles share the narrow lanes made even narrower by strategically placed pot holes with the emphasis on the hole.

On one foray into the mountains, the Hyundai’s passenger side suspension bottomed out with such force that I was convinced the car would be inoperable. It kept going. After the first stop, I inspected the tires and rims. The forward tire had two bulges # six inches apart. The aft tire showed a 4cm gash radiating out from the rubber coated rim. They were functional but toast.

 

Most of the roads are shoulder less. If anything, there is a sheer V-trench made to syphon off the rainy season’s water. Not to belabor the point, but between the ups and downs, switch back ladened, too narrow for comfort asphalt there are fully loaded semi- trucks, young women pushing baby carriages, Tour de France clad bike riders, multiple sized utility vehicle barely able to climb the steep grade, speed racers of every type including motorcycles, gas powered bicycles, and scooters. Add to this a tractor or two and an errant cow, and well, you get the idea.

 

Costa Rica is stunning. Deep green valleys with picture perfect farms. An endless array of open air restaurants often perched on mountain precipices offering spectacular vistas. As the elevation rises, the architecture takes on a Germanic Black Forest vibe. Coffee plantations appear. Dairy cows graze in rich pastures, mountain tops and verdant valleys appear and disappear amongst the clouds.

 

At lower elevations the roads improve and so does the congestion. It is a free for all. On even the most substantial roadways buses indiscriminately stop traffic in the right lane. Accidents, toll booths, breakdowns, road repairs, congested off ramps, screaming weaving two wheelers, speed bumps and errant vendors require constant attention from the driver. As I was mainly the front seat passenger my right leg was sore from applying the brakes.

 

I am not sure why it is this intense. If there was a national ad campaign asking everyone to slow up by 5mph/7kph surely the polite and mild mannered citizens I have had the pleasure to meet would comply. But then I am living in the fantasy world of an aging white American guy.

 

My advice: find a beautiful Costa Rican destination and stay put, or at least don’t venture more then ten miles in any direction. Any greater distances will require a stiff drink and much soul searching before leaving your home away from home once again. Whatever you decide to do, good luck and may the force be with you!