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.

Falling

No deadlines have become part of our lifestyle. If Carrie Rose sits for a month without us while we wait for better weather and attend to family matters that is okay. With this in mind, it was decided to travel back to Chicago and to see a few sights on the way.

The first objective was to visit friends who sold everything and moved aboard their boat. Ideally, we would have met boat to boat but alas, Carrie Rose had generator problems. When it became apparent that Carrie Rose needed fixing, we were in Crisfield, MD. Crisfield is a place that brings meaning to the phrase, The End of the Road.

Island View Marina, where we have a slip for the summer, has become the go to place for all thing boat related. This year it has mainly been electrical issues. I called the owner to confirm if he could handle the generator glitch and when he answered in the affirmative, we started to head north.

Distances on the Chesapeake are deceptive. On the upper portion of the bay, it was mainly twenty miles between stops. Once in the middle this was whittled down to half but further south, the figure became close to fifty. Though I had studied the charts all winter, it surprised me. So, after two long hot days crisscrossing the bay we entered Eastern Bay and backed into our slip at the marina on Kent Island.

I had been informed that the generators problem would not be addressed for at least a week. I bided my time and finally brought the schedule up with the marina’s owner. He did not look happy: there were other pressing problems in the marina he had to deal with, it was too hot to crawl around in my tiny engine room, and then he said, “Can’t you take the alternator off.” A bit flummoxed,I walked back to the boat and did just that.

He was surprised when I walked into his office holding it. It certainly piqued his interest. Next, I was instructed to find the voltage regulator. I did but at the expense of Charlotte’s makeup mirror. It was the only way to see the far side of the engine. I found it mounted upside down under an inaccessible cowling. Before I could explain that I found it, he informed me the Kohler generator dealer said to simply disconnect it as it served no useful purpose.

I did as instructed and since everything was apart, replaced the original belt (1990) and the air filter, bolted the disconnected alternator back on, attached a multimeter to the battery to check the voltage, ran the generator, and the problem was fixed. It was time to head home.

With Carrie Rose intact and secure in her slip, we packed the car and went south to Solomons Island, MD to visit with our friends. On the way, we took a 60 mile detour to see Mt. Vernon. The founding fathers lived well: large picturesque estates with splendid views and plenty of help, even if it was enslaved. Both Mt. Vernon and Monticello are like small towns.

It was quite a feat to divide their energy between founding a nation and managing the plantations. Of the two, Jefferson’s was the more interesting if not quirky. The two seem to compliment each other. Washington, a successful farmer, general, and political leader was the pragmatist. Jefferson, an intellectual, connoisseur, and world traveller was the dreamer, seeing possibilities that did not exist.

Once we found our friends, we fell right in discussing the benefits of marinas and anchorages, anchoring and docking strategies, propane vs. electrons for cooking, storage and sleeping arrangements, etc., etc. An unspoken bond exists between cruisers, especially the ones we have traveled with. At dinner, plans were discussed and then it was time to move on.

That night Charlotte and I made plans to see Fallingwater, Frank Lloyd Wright’s masterpiece in the forest of Pennsylvania. The only tickets available were for Sunday, so there was a day to kill. Charlotte found a beautiful B&B nestled into Pennsylvania’s farm country on a wooded plot with meticulous corn and clover fields for a backdrop.

The next morning we left Solomons for what should have been a four hour drive but that would have been on the Great Plains. The closer we got to our destination the more the road undulated like a camel’s back. Caution signs took on a menacing tone, large and yellow with black capital letter as big as the road warned of treacherous declines, of hidden driveways, of ice and snow making the road impassable. I already had 6 hours of driving behind me when we reach this last segment of the road.

The Honda and I needed fluids. At a gas station on Route 40 I fueled up with regular gas and coffee. Charlotte, copilot and chief weather officer, had spent the last 50 miles reporting on the progress of the blackening chaotic clouds forming outside the windshield that she monitored on her smart phone. Unknowingly we had driven into the Laurel Highlands and climbed into the clouds.

The summits topped at 2800 feet and then abruptly fell. It was like being on a roller coaster with black SUVs and tractor trailers in pursuit. Route 40 is a narrow road with many distractions. There are state and national parks, Civil War battlefields, scenic outlooks, old timey resorts and motels, and even a tavern that George Washington frequented. These, and the off and on torrential rain made the drive to the inn taxing.

The inn was on the outskirts of Uniontown, another of an endless stream of rust belt cities struggling to reinvent. The GPS guided us down a tiny semi rural road that did not look promising. Then at the intersection a beautifully landscaped wooded scene appeared, The Inne at Watson’s Choice. Its only downside was the windows did not open — burglar alarms — so we spent time in a comfortable outside screened in lounge for lack of a better word. The innkeeper was a soft spoken former French teacher who noticed I was reading one of her old books I found in the inn’s library; “The Foods of France”; and engaged us in conversation.

After another night in air conditioning — I am not sure when the world decided to ban opening windows — we backtracked 29 miles on increasingly smaller roads to Fallingwater. Though it is hard to tell now, this was a spot for Pittsburgh’s wealthy to escape the summer heat and frolic in the woods and play in the numerous streams, creeks, and rivers.

Fallingwater is an interesting tale of wealth and privilege, of WASPs and Jews, of art over practicality, and in the end the construction of the most important private residence on earth.

At first glance, well let me say it is hard to get the first glance. Walking down the path to the house, it reluctantly reveals itself. It is almost disappointing nestled in its rocky folds. It looks small. Its colors are drab. It is unembellished rocks, concrete, steel, and glass. The overwhelming feel is one of moisture. A mist hangs in the air. Standing off from it on a bridge constructed over Bear Creek I am having second thoughts but dismiss the feeling and start to look.

As I do, the building begins to soar out over the creek. Vertical and horizontal lines seamlessly interact with the natural environment. The building is tacked onto massive boulders without disrupting the natural proportions of what is in itself a magnificent location. Of course, this is Wright’s oeuvre, using megalomania to create selflessness.

Fallingwater does not in any way detract from the enjoyment of the natural space. It must have been wonderful to spend time there. Once inside the enormity of the structure becomes apparent. From dangling toes in the creek to viewing the distant forest from the top floor balcony, we are transported to room after room delineated by staircases, narrow dark hallways, low ceilings opening into unobstructed panoramic woodland views.

Along the way various areas are pointed out where the family revolted from Wright’s vision: a couple of chairs in the main saloon, an elongated desk, gray window screens, and four carports to house the family’s Duesenbergs. These additions do not amount to much but I am sure they created much tension between the client and the architect who appears to have never really left the building.

Then after an hour of touring inside, we are left to wander the perimeter. Now the minimalistic supporting structure comes into view. The backside of the building is not as satisfying as the front. It makes me nervous. I start to think of Pisa and its unstable structure that has been (or so they tell us) stabilized. Well, Fallingwater is just that, falling. The verticals are vertical but the horizontals are succumbing to gravity. It is a work in progress.

There are two other Wright homes close by. We decide to leave them for another time. After all we have no deadlines, we can divert back to these highlands that have much of West Virginia’s terrain in them. Charlotte’s phone jingles and we find ourselves hightailing it back to Chicago to attend her aunt’s burial, falling from the Allegany Mountains to the flat wetlands of the shores of Lake Michigan.

Civility

Charlotte’s mother lives in Sumter, South Carolina, a small town in the middle of the state. It is not a place I would have envisioned spending much time. In fact, when we started our cruise five years ago I had not anticipated spending this much time in the south.

When in Sumter I enjoy strolling through the ACE Hardware, my favorite place in the town. It is like a museum. For a boy from Chicago there are many exotic objects to gaze at. There are stacks of ammo, display cases packed with guns and knives, rows of enormous gun safes, enough archery and fishing gear to fill several semi trucks, and more to my delight, about a hundred styles of flashlights.

One day at the check out, I was perusing the bric-a-brac and had the thought that anything would sell if it were camouflaged. Lined up before me were camo beef/buffalo jerky, lighters, bumper stickers, eyeglasses, screwdrivers, flashlights, etc., etc.

Visiting the south has forced me to change the way I view the U.S.A. I never understood the Civil War’s sacrifice. To walk the battlefields of Chancellorsville and Gettysburg is to comprehend that they are mass gravesites. I never would have known the sacredness of these places had I not visited them.

To spend days watching the fisherman ply the waters of Chesapeake Bay as they have since the 1600’s and really, for more then ten thousand years before that; to visit Monticello and see Jefferson’s intellect carried out by enslaved people; to cruise on rivers and find the preserved villages of Chestertown and St Mary’s City — the former lively, the latter just a memory; and to understand that the mud I wash off the anchor is the topsoil from 400 years of clear cutting the native forest and farming. I am not sure what to make of these revelations.

For one, I recognize that I have the manners of a chad. I have had to learn to greet people warmly, and respond when asked how my day is going. And I have learned to reciprocate, listen to the response, and remember (or at least try to) the name of the person I have just met. More importantly, and harder to accomplish is to feel this exchange with my heart and not make it reflexive. It needs to be genuine. Often I walk away from encounters chastising myself for failing to live up to the ideal.

It is difficult to change the habits of a lifetime. My home was loving; my parents caring, but I would not characterize my family as touchy-feely. Then there was my profession. Doctoring is a very succinct line of work. There was never enough time. Decisions were made quickly in stressful, scary situations and in a command role. A direct order given in a no-fooling-around timbre helped to get the task accomplished, and save the day and more importantly, the patient.

The transition to the civilian world has not been without snags, but I think the south understands that I come from the north, and cuts me some slack. Of course, this is no reason to be complacent. In France, I learned to greet with the phrase, “Bon jour! Parlez vous Anglais?” And here in the south, in response to, “Well, hello! How are you doing today”, I try to say, “I am doing just fine! And how are you this lovely day?”

Even when grumpy I smile before answering the phone (or send a text message), it makes my voice and me pleasant. Now please understand, I am not trying to be sarcastic: feelings manifest themselves in actions. A smile, a good word uttered, a text message or email expressing thanks works both ways, and this is what my unlikely time in the south has taught me — civility.