Whitecaps on Crab Alley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously Rustic

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

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

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

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

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

Noise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tangiers

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

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

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

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

Changes

Cruising on one’s own lends itself to a certain amount of flexibility. If we want to stay another day, we do. If we want to leave early, we do that to. And if a destination seems too tasking then we turn around, and thus Washington D.C. was decided to be a bit much especially with temperature hovering around one hundred for weeks at a time.

The Potomac River is wide and long, and then narrow and long. Carrie Rose is at that junction in Colonial Beach, VA. There seem to be fewer and fewer places to hide out on the rest of the trip. The next leg was close to 40NM and then close to that into D.C.

Charlotte and I did the routes, and then both looked up at each other and said, “Forget about it”. So, we are heading back to the bay and the eastern shore. It was a nice idea but probably one for the fall with cooler temperatures and a deficit of thunderstorms.

Middle Danger Zone

I don’t know if I can call it dumb luck or just dumb. The latter is probably closer to the truth. I will explain. On our way to Colonial Beach, VA, Charlotte noted that Carrie Rose was the only boat in the middle of the Potomac River. The Potomac in its mouth is a huge 12 miles wide and about 5 miles wide when she mentioned it.

We had seen boats transiting up and down but all were hugging the shoreline. I usually stay offshore when in large bodies of water if there is a clear and direct route. And thus, we found ourselves smack dab in the middle. Charlotte is often prescient in these matters and so, I was beginning to have doubts.

Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries have an abundance of military, Coast Guard and secret research establishments. Many have sectioned off parts of the bay for their use. Of course, I do not know what these areas are used for except for the ones that have “target practice” or “bombing run” listed on the chart.

There are also fishing, crabbing, and dredging limits portrayed with a variety of dashed lines, buoys and shaded areas. Other places to be wary of are “submerged piles” and “fish trap area”. These tend to be close to the shore but not always.

The above can make for a confusing mix of details on a chart. Many have the notation of “See Note A, B, or C” printed on the chart. My eye begins to search for the reference and once found read it. Please excuse me if I am jaded concerning these notes. They often refer to the Coast Pilot or to the Notice to Mariners, neither of which is close at hand. But here I admit to ignorance verging on recklessness.

Note A was the standard reference to the above sources but Note B was titled UNEXPLODED ORDNANCE, and to make matters worse another note labeled MIDDLE DANGER ZONE explained that the U.S. Navy fired weapons into this area. It spelled out the use of range boats to warn off boaters when live fire was to take place; thus solved the mystery of the empty space that we were travelling in.

The fact that I write this from the Carrie Rose’s saloon is proof that we “lucked out” that Thursday afternoon for the zone was inactive. The next day the marina’s staff confirmed that it is an active testing site with a graphic handout, and later on Friday a loud bang was heard that for once was not heralding an approaching thunderstorm.

Did I mention there is also an upper and lower zone? I have considered these and altered my route to hug the shoreline. I may have had the benefit of dumb luck but I am not about to rest my laurels on it.

Crabbers

Last night there was a thunderstorm — yes, I know I have been saying that a lot lately. In fact there were two, one at twilight, and then another at 11:30PM. It seems to be customary to have another later just when REM sleep begins. The second was worse than the first. I tried to ignore it but could not.

It is beneficial to have several landmarks during a storm to gauge if the boat is slipping its anchor. To the south was a bank of trees with a field of winter wheat behind and thus no lights. North across Island Creek were several stately homes that had lights on. They were a couple of blocks away but still offered some reference, that is when the rain was not torrential and the other side of the creek was visible.

The other reference is a GPS, a Garmin 12. It is small, waterproof, battery powered, and looks as good as the first day I bought it in the 1980’s. One of the first things I do after dropping the anchor is come back into the pilothouse and mark Carrie Rose’s location. I write the Latitude/Longitude in the logbook along with the waypoint’s number. So, when I am rudely awoken in the middle of the night by wind, rain, lightening, and thunder, I switch the Garmin 12 on to see if Carrie Rose is in the same location. Knock-on-teak…we usually are.

The storm spent an hour expending its energy. By then it was later than even my night-owl tendencies can tolerate. We walked the three steps down into the forward (and only) stateroom and crashed. Next I knew a subdued light was streaming in the overhead hatch. I snuck passed Charlotte and went up the three steps to the pilothouse to discover that sunrise was 15 minutes away. I made an executive decision to watch the golden orb and then noticed several crabbers working the creek.

Crabbers are something: sunbaked, hard working, solitary with a one-track mind and a persistent patience. George, our marina’s owner, described them as gamblers, always hoping for the next big score. As I watched them, I had the notion that they were mining the bay and its estuaries.

Carrie Rose’s personal crabber that morning had two lines stretched out like an “L”: one behind to the south, and the other longer one to starboard and east. He trawled down the short end and then up the long. And then he made a wide arch around us and began again.

I stopped watching and went to bed. It was about 6:30 AM. At eight, I awoke and freshened up. Charlotte made pancakes. The dishes were washed and dried. An inspection of the sparklingly clean deck (from the rain and hail) was done. I made the morning log entry and settled down to entering a route for the next days cruise into the computer, and he was still circumnavigating Carrie Rose.

He finally pulled in his lines and left as we were contemplating a late lunch. That is a lot of driving in circles while bent over at the waist, net in hand concentrating at a continually moving target. Maybe it is similar to staring at a slot machine and repeatedly pulling the handle or hitting a button or however it is done these days.

Thunderstorms, as disconcerting as they are, have the unintentional consequence of realigning the clock and thus the small universe that a boat is. It may make the storms worth it or it may not. That probably depends on if the anchor holds!

Bird Life

While washing the siphon coffee maker in the saloon (way too much work but it does make great coffee), I looked out the starboard windows and saw the resident mallards preening their feathers. I had observed their none to delicate courting behavior and their other antics the day before. They took a cocktail break in the late afternoon. A little more quacking and swimming followed, and then they gathered under the trees just south of the marina’s office.

They were still there in the early morning nestled in the grass or on one leg with their beaks tucked under their feathers. One eye eyed me as I passed, they are still wild animals after all but they did not stir, obviously use to bleary-eyed sailors in various states of disrepair walking by.

I started to think that being a duck might not be a bad idea and then remembered the multitude of duck blinds and duck decoy museums Carrie Rose has cruised by on rivers from Canada to here in the Chesapeake. Maybe, since I have the choice, I should aspire to something other than waterfowl, something more majestic.

On our time on the water watching birds has been a major attraction: eagles, osprey, herons, kingfishers, robins and warblers and sparrows and doves and gulls and terns. Now there is a bird, the tern. They are sleek in the way a 57 Chevy is. In terms of flying, they fly the pants off your average gull. Too see them soar, hover, then dive head long into the water, and come out with a twitching bit of silver between their beak is a marvel.

One thing I cannot say much for is their squawk. Grating is an appropriate description. The Peterson’s Field Guide to Birds describes it in varying ways depending on the type. From the Forster’s tern’s harsh, nasal kyarr to the rasping ka-a-ak of the Roseate tern, and “A harsh, squealing zree-k-zeek” of the diminutive Least tern.

And speaking of the Least tern aka Sternula antillarum, it is my pick, at least for today. A small tern, only nine inches from the tip of its pointed beak to the tips of its forked tail. When I first saw one on a dingy cruise up and down the La Trappe Creek in Maryland I thought it was a Purple Martin until I saw it hover and dive. It landed on a buoy and proceeded to enjoy its catch. Then I noticed several of its compatriots inhabiting a near by pier. They looked like a jolly self contained group.

Though the above reference mentions that they are “Threatened by disturbance and habitat loss” it appears, they live along the coast of North America from Maine to Texas, along the southern Mississippi, and in a few western river basins. Central America, the Caribbean, and northern South America are their wintering sites. I’d prefer Southern South America but then you can’t have everything.

So, for today, June 30, 2016, I will be reincarnated as a Least tern. When I get back to civilization, I will contact the lawyer to add an addendum to the trust to reflect my wishes. Now back to washing the coffee maker…

Relentless

I am not sure what I thought about crabbers before spending a protracted time in their presence. There is a romantic vision of fisherman as a whole. You know, rugged individuals at battle with the sea, Mother Nature, and worse yet, the bureaucracy. And I admit that even with the onset of technology it is a strenuous life with much at stake, somewhat like farmers. And like farmers, there is the division between small and mammoth corporate enterprises.

The crabbers and oystermen (often one and the same) here on Chesapeake Bay tend towards the small, even the tiny end of the scale. They ply the waters in beat up fiberglass and aluminum skiffs, and pristine Chesapeake Bay dreadrises.

Carrie Rose left Island View Marina on a Sunday and passed through a couple of narrows. The first was Poplar Island Narrows, which was not quite as narrow as I expected but of course, in the narrowest spot, the markers became confusing. I assume I am a deep draft vessel. It has kept Carrie Rose off most shallows but in reality at 3.5 feet deep, we can get in most places. With Poplar Islands Narrows left behind, the next was Knapps Narrows. A manmade channel that created Tilghman Island.

The narrows and the island boast a fine collection of deadrise fishing boats along with the famous sail driven (with caveats, of course) skipjack fleet. To enter the narrows from the bay (west) side has more consequences — running aground — if the buoys, day marks, and I might add, additional local markers are not heeded. The other impediment to traversing the narrows is the bridge.



Bridges are represented on charts by type, and by horizontal and vertical clearance. The Knapps Narrows Bridge is a bascule bridge (like the Chicago River’s many bridges) with a horizontal clearance of 42 feet and a vertical clearance of 12 feet. Carrie Rose is both 11 feet wide and high, and should fit without difficulty.

A hard learned, or should I say earned, lesson is that when on the water it is better to be cautious and so, the VHR radio was switch from channel 16 to 13 and the bridge tender was hailed, “Knapps Narrows Bridge tender, Knapps Narrows Bridge tender this is the Carrie Rose”. He responded immediately. I pleaded my case to proceed without a bridge rising, though I would have had to lower my antennas. To which he responded, “Better safe than sorry, let me know when you get to green marker 5 and I will raise the bridge”.

I slowed to let the boats coming at me from the last bridge rising pass. In an entrance that is by nature narrow, it narrows even more due to shoaling. It is a tight squeeze most of the way to the bridge, which by the way, as the bridge tender informed me, was already open for a sailboat.





Overwhelming may be a bit too strong of a word, but the sight of the fishing fleet lined up perpendicular to the canal was striking. So many individuals relying on the bay’s crabs and oysters, it is indicative of the strength of the centuries old local culture. All I could do, in the back of my mind, was wish them and the bay well.



But where was I in this story, I got lost in the details. Maybe I am not too far off the mark. The crabbers are similar to farmers plowing a field. The difference is that the crabber’s field does not move horizontally. A line, marked by some type of buoy, with crab bait attached every three or four feet is strung out at varying lengths, and then slowly traversed in one direction. Once at the end, the boat scurries back to the buoy and begins the process once again: the line is gently raised from the bottom and any feasting crab is netted.

These boats are not subtle. They have large block, souped up V-8’s with two minimal mufflers directly off the engine pointing directly to the sky. As I watched, and listened, I thought of my urge to seek out new territory and experiences, even while contemplating the familiar.

I think this is where Carrie Rose comes in. As she has moved throughout eastern North America, the new has been tempered by her familiarity. I suppose it is the same for the fisherman and his craft. Every day on the water brings with it a different challenge.

The morning Carrie Rose spent anchored behind the sandy spit at the entrance of the appropriately named La Trappe Creek off the Choptank River; I watched a well used dreadrise plow its field from before 6AM until noon. SW to NE, NE to SW . . . relentless.

Anatomy of a Thunder Storm

A couple of days before Dividing Creek Carrie Rose rode out a nasty thunder storm while anchored behind a small island on Hunting Creek off the Miles River. There was the first big blow and then three less dramatic storms blew through. It rained and rained but we had picked a safe spot and so, we each managed to finish a book.


Mammary Clouds


Shelf Cloud (it was copper colored). When one of these appears, let more chain out and wait for the wind!


Ditto!


The last storm almost missed us...


Ah, the skies are clearing.


Fooled ya!


Finally it was over.


A just reward...

Dividing Creek

We entered Dividing Creek and anchored in 8.5 feet in the first small cove. It is about a mile long tapering at its end in a mass of reeds. The edges ungulate from one side to the next providing swing room for boats to anchor not quite in the middle.

When Carrie Rose entered, she had already been down Granary Creek, and turned around at the narrow end while churning up dark gray-brown mud — never a great idea. I will be more careful in the future. This lapse in judgment would not have occurred in the North Channel because billion year old rock is not as forgiving to the prop as million year old mud.

There are small craft warnings on the bay but here it is calm, protected by the oaks and pines that line the banks. There was one other boat anchored here, a newish sailboat about 40 feet. They left early in the day probably towards Granary Creek but returned to anchor a little closer to us. I imagining they explored the above creek and found it wanting.

So, we sit here about a football field apart. They paddled by and said hello, and we rowed by and returned the gesture. It is nice to see a handsome boat in the creek, a focal point that puts the size and shape of the creek into perspective.

Carrie Rose moved here from Shaw Bay, a wide open anchorage, because of a dire weather forecast. It is hard to judge if it was a wise move because in this superbly protected spot who knows what happened on the more exposed bay. I have decided to not second guess myself; if I feel nervous, I am going to act. When I was practicing medicine it was not rare for me to tell a patient who was reluctant to go to the emergency department that if I was nervous they should also be. I’d say I was correct about 85% of the time. Not a bad average but only time will tell if my cruising average will correspond with my medical one.

On this creek on Maryland’s Wye River there are many sounds. Some are man-made: chain saws, skiffs on the river, the occasional rifle shot, small private planes practicing stalls, A-10 Warthogs flying low and direct back to their base, and private jets covering our section of the compass rose. Some are natural: song birds singing, great blue herons squawking, an osprey’s high pitched shrieking, schools of fingerlings rustling the water with their silver backs, the occasional plop of a fish catching an insect unawares, and the unfamiliar sight of two fins a foot or two apart surfacing under and around a swam of schooling minnows. These fins were identified for us by a trio of pre-teens, their leader compound bow in hand, as skate blown off the bay because of the recent storm.









This shoreline has a multitude of sticks that resemble hunting herons or maybe it is the other way around. The shoreline also has eroding banks littered with fallen trees. The Chesapeake is the third most susceptible area to ocean level rise on the east coast. Many large homes along the banks are stabilizing their shorelines with rip-rap or large wooden retaining walls.

With a little study, I realize that Carrie Rose is cruising through the northern pine-oak forest. I thought we were further south but it turned out not to be true. If she is to be in the southern mixed pine-oak forest we will need to get a few hundred miles south of here…sure is a big country!

Rockfish

Island View Marina Kent Island, MD

Rock Hall, Maryland is a small town that time has left behind, and I do not mean in a bad way. It is located on the eastern shore of Maryland in the middle of Chesapeake Bay. I have spent five days there. Once while cruising south on the bay and another time, most recently, by car. The car went there specifically to get a rockfish sandwich at Waterman’s Crab House.

I have been a vegetarian since 1978, and because the definition of a vegetarian has been corrupted the past few years, I will add of the ovo-lacto variety. There are times when I will succumb to a serving of fish. Famously, the three times I visited Japan I gave up and ate whatever sea creature was placed in front of me. I felt it was psychically easier than any benefit I might derive from not eating fish for a couple of weeks.

And then there are the times like this when I find myself in an area of the country where fishing is their lifeblood. So, while waiting for a deep fried rockfish sandwich with fries and tartar sauce, I found myself reading the placemat. This starts me thinking about how diverse a country I live in, and how a city dweller like me can feel unrelated to a village dweller like the folk in Rock Hall.

The placemat contains thirty ads of varying sizes but all are square or rectangular. It is printed in two colors not to my liking. One is a pukey green, the other a kind of varicose vein maroon. I, who used to be a printer, am thinking the printers had two half used cans they wanted to get rid of, but then there is no accounting for taste.

As I read the ads, I realize that some of them would never be seen on a Chicago placemat. An obvious one is the ad for cover crops with the catchy slogan of “Tap Into It”, whatever that means. I doubt the average person on a Chicago street will even know what a cover crop is.

Another is for a pile driving company that proudly states, “Four Generations of Marine Construction”. They will drive pilings for piers, boathouses, duck blinds, etc., etc., and they never cut off the old post, they pull them out.

There are ads for fishing charters, for a marine railway, and a motel that recommends reservations during hunting season. There is an oil heating specialist, a sail maker, and a towboat company with unlimited membership for just $158 per year.

I find myself smiling. On recent trips across the Great Plains, and up and over various eastern mountains, the just-off-the-interstate world has looked amazingly similar. The same architects, restaurant and retail consultants, and dare I say, the same politicians that approve of the former’s plans and designs must move from interchange to interchange.

It was refreshing to be in a place so unrelated to my place. It made me want to stick my head into every nook and cranny, to talk to everyone I saw, to drive down country back roads; I guess it made me want to explore the U.S.A. again. For as unrelated as we may seem, we are here in this greatest of melting pots because of our or our ancestor’s drive for a better life.

And for this insight, I have to thank Waterman’s Crab House of Rock Hall, MD for luring me back to visit their splendid town, and of course, for the best fried rockfish sandwich and fries.

Bimini

Island View Marina Kent Island, MD

What is the big deal about a bimini that this discussion will require hundreds of words, well I’ll tell you. The first big deal is that we finally have one. This has been on our wish list since Carrie Rose was purchased in 2003. The fact that we have one is not for the want of trying. What delayed its acquisition (at least for the first decade) was my tendency to jury rig.

For those not mechanically bent, jury rig means to try to replicate a professional’s craftsmanship with one’s own efforts. Of course, since “one” has no training and is trying to do it on the cheap the effort is mainly wasted. If any product is produced, it tends to be inferior and many times almost as costly.

It is a rare person that can replicate the efforts of a professional. I have known one or two, certainly less than five in my lifetime. They are the kind of people that myths are created about. On occasion, I can be counted amongst the few, but rarely. I am too willing to compromise, to settle for almost as good, to be chintzy on the materials, and lastly to try and get artistic.

This tendency often leads to long delays and cost overruns. Charlotte has been patient with my foibles. At times, when even her patience is tried, I am reminded that we end up with three of everything before obtaining the correct one.

But enough of me, five years ago Carrie Rose started on her journey east. It was quickly apparent that a shade on the stern of the boat would make life more comfortable. The sun is a blessing and a curse. Many days, even in the far north, to be able to lounge on the aft deck protected from the solar wind would be welcomed. To that end, whenever we reached our final destination for the year we would inquire about canvas makers.

Seems simple enough, where there are boats there is usually folk skilled in the craft of designing and making the many covering that boats require. There are shades for the exterior windows, there are chairs and sofas and bunks for the interior. Many boats have elaborate contrivances enclosing an upper steering station or a cockpit that in effect creates another room. I have rarely seen one of these creations done poorly, so I know there are qualified persons out there able to make a bimini for Carrie Rose.

And that is the point of this discussion; it took us five years to find one. To our queries, each marina owner in turn responded positively, sung the praises of and gave us the card of a canvas maker, and as we expectantly walked out of the office to give the individual a call, we would be stopped with the caveat, “They do excellent work but they are a little quirky”.

One was cranky, one forgetful, another had timetable issues, some would not venture to our remote location, and on and on. One we even met. He drove up in a sagging LaSabre with his imported Chinese wife and his sidekick poodle, deposited both on the boat, and then proceeds to talk about anything and everything unrelated to canvas. I think we ended up serving them snacks and drinks! Nonetheless, nothing ever came of it. I know that is a double negative but in this case, it is entirely warranted.

And I know you are doubtless sick of this tirade. I mean what a problem to have, not being able to spent thousands of dollar on a bimini while cruising around the country. I can hear it, “We should all have such problems.” And I am sympathetic to it, so I will end this tale simply by saying Carrie Rose has acquired a beautiful and functional bimini.

A sweet and competent couple from Cambridge, Maryland made it. If you need some canvas work and are in the area, call me and I will give you their names.

Projects

Carrie Rose spent the winter on Kent Island, Maryland. It was the last spot on a cruise that took her from the Vermont shore of Lake Champlain, through the Chambly Canal and the Hudson River to Jersey City, New Jersey, then out into the North Atlantic pass Cape May where she turned north again to transit Delaware Bay and into the Chesapeake Bay via the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal. By any account, it was a hell of a cruise.

Carrie Rose spent the winter at Island View Marina on a crab alley. She was visited once in March while on the way to see Charlotte’s mother in Sumter, South Carolina. Stuff was dropped off (including a case of wine) and stuff was taken off. Looking around the interior now it is not obvious that anything was taken off but believe that Carrie Rose is and has been in the process of shedding weight.

When here last the anchor chain and rode (all 400 feet of it) was taken out of its hiding place, which was then sealed for leaks and it all repacked. It was quite the task. Will any of it come out again when called upon to do so, time will tell.

Chopin Preludes are playing in the background and the music makes a hot day much cooler. The projects accomplished start to list themselves. The dingy that was almost destroyed in a mishap — it fell off the stern while being lowered in a suspect manner — was fiber glassed (read repaired) and has two coats of varnish on it. As do the stern saloon doors, the panels on the pilothouse doors, and the Wee Lassie canoe strapped to the pilothouse’s roof.

The saloon window blind’s teak cornices were re-engineered for the two inch blinds that were ordered rather than the one inch blinds that they replaced. A short (!!!) in the outside solar panel-to-battery connector was diagnosed and repaired. The newly refurbished LED cabin roof light was wired in place, and what should have been a simple four bolt attachment of the outboard engine mount, turned into a couple of hours whittling and sanding unforgiving plastic before using clamps to force it into place.

The sweet canvas making couple from Cambridge came calling to collect what was owed them and give us a demonstration of how the new bimini works, very well actually.

Half of the fourth day of living on the hard (yes, we are still on land, Monday is launch day) was spent in Easton, MD washing 30 lbs. of damp mildew-y clothes. An art museum was visited in the historic town center and a bucket was bought at the new town’s center Lowes and how’s that for the exciting cruising life…

After talking to George, the owner and chief mechanic, of Island View a slip was procured for the summer; home base from which to venture out on the bay and to return to should there be any errant hurricanes.

There are a few more projects but aren’t there always. It is part of the good life here on Kent Island, or wherever Carrie Rose might rest her weary diesel.

June 2016