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.

In the Meantime

It has taken us (Charlotte, Carrie Rose, and me) five years to get from Montrose Harbor in Chicago, IL to Kent Island, Maryland on Chesapeake Bay. In the meantime, we retired, a few family and friends passed away, others married or divorced, a baby (my nephews) appeared along with several dogs, and there have been a few health concerns, mostly resolved. The boat suffered numerous failures, none too calamitous, and has had various pricey upgrades.

At least six months were spent in Canada. It is a reasonable place considering how close it is to the USA. I cannot help but think that our northern neighbors should open a southern branch. I’d be first in line for permanent residency status.

Cruising on a small boat (32’ Nordic Tug) has a lot of pros and cons. The reason I say a small boat is not out of conceit but because in truth we are usually the smallest boat around, at least in the cruising community. In marinas, four or five story slabs of off-white fiberglass blanket Carrie Rose. They ruin the view but keep the hot sun off our deck. Like I said there are a lot of pros and cons.

Mid spring to summer’s end is spent motoring to wherever the body of water we are on takes us. The first several years we cruised with friends but these last three have been on our own. And since we’ve traveled in the direction opposite of the Great Loop (the counter-clockwise circumnavigation of the eastern USA), there have not been many boats to buddy up with. We have had the luxury of doing what we want.

This year we drove the car to the boat since our plan was to stay in the Chesapeake for the summer. In June, the weather turned unexpectedly hot and stayed that way. It did not stop us but the parking brake was stuck on a bit. Carrie Rose almost made it to Washington D.C. but not quite. We detoured out of the Potomac after making it to Colonial Beach, VA, a decidedly funky place.

Both coming and going we spent several days anchored in the St. Mary’s River, a tributary of the Potomac; home to a beautiful bay and an old college curiously named St. Mary’s. The college opens their campus to the cruisers anchored in the bay. We borrowed their AC and had a better than average college dorm meal (all we could eat) in the cafeteria for nine bucks each.

The Potomac is a grand river 13 miles wide as it enters the bay. On our way out Carrie Rose, with a little extra speed, rode atop the bays short choppy waves (something not possible in the Great Lakes). A destroyed battle ship was passed as we steamed east across the bay to Crisfield, one of those towns that bring meaning to the phrase the-end-of-the-road.

I could write about anchorages, small historic towns, fishermen and crab pots and trot lines and floating gill nets and fishing weirs placed far offshore; then there was the constant military presence with many areas listed as off limits on the charts; and the brown brackish water full of sea nettles, otherwise known as jellyfish…but I won’t. (See chicagotug.blogspot.com for more details)

It was stimulating to spend time on the eastern shore of Maryland. Kent Island was the first English settlement established in America in 1631. One transplant to the eastern shore described its genealogy as a wreath instead of a branching tree. Though we could find no direct evidence of the above, us Johnny-come-latelies from the Midwest were duly put in our place on occasion.

Our sojourn in the east—not done yet, Maine next year—has been noteworthy. For me it was the school trip I never took. We have been immersed in the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, and the Civil War; seen slavery up close; and witnessed the decline and fall of the industrial revolution.

This year we have met the fine folk of Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, New York, and New Jersey. All have shown us deference because of the great city we come from. Carrie Rose has been our time machine into the past and our way of anticipating the future, for cruising draws from experiences while forcing us to look into the future before departing each day. Is the weather to our favor; should we anchor or find a marina; will the tides and currents help or hinder the journey; have the hazards been identified and dealt with; are the boat’s systems and of course, we prepared to spend another day, week, or month on the water.

Cruising on a boat started as a pre-adolescent dream and became a possibility when it became Charlotte’s dream. We are blessed because of it. And we are blessed to have such a long list of friends to send holiday greetings too.

Let us have a safe, healthy, and prosperous—in the larger sense of the word—2017. Happy Holidays!

Charlotte & Dean

Expectations

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smoky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dog Walking in Annapolis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back Creek

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

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

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

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



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



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

A Stiff Breeze

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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

Power Cord & Bilge Pump

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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