How To . . .

A young man on the Internet asked the question, “How do I learn to write?” The website this was posted on has a way to respond to the question. In fact, that is the reason the site exists: post a question, answer a question. I have done neither. This time I considered participating; after all, I have asked the same question — mostly to myself — numerous times.

The appropriate buttons were touched, the answer written, and then I hit a snag. Username and password, sign in with Google or Facebook, a deep yawn surfaced. I retreated, turned off the iPhone, and went in search of a physical project, one that eventually required a trip to the engine room.

There is comfort in tinkering with the substance of the earth. That is not to say that bits and bytes aren’t made up of substance, electrons have mass after all. But I am thinking on a gross level: wood, metal, plastic, oil, and grease. The world cannot do without them.

And I am thinking of the tools needed to mess with the above: screwdrivers and drills, hammers and saws, wrenches, pilers and knives. The kind of tools that end up crushing, scraping or cutting me despite my familiarity with them.

Now to my question, will the projects on Carrie Rose ever be complete, I think not. To complete them would mean what; it would mean that it is time to move on to another venue. Time to join a Zen monastery, a cloistered order, or retreat into the deep forest and live the life of a hermit masquerading as a wise man. No, remaining entwined to this world requires projects.

What describes a project; we each have our own definition. Today mine is typing this, which I wrote with green ink in a Moleskin notebook, into Word. This morning’s was to attach the new letters C-H-I-C-A-G-O to the bottom of the dinghy, fill the fresh water tanks, settle the marina’s bill, and whisk Charlotte and I several bowls of matcha.

Once done, I sat in the pilothouse as a squall blew through and remembered the young man’s question, “How do I learn to write?”

Write!

Inlet

There are breakers in the distance. It is obvious they are coming across the inlet’s bar that we are about to turn into. There are also many small fishing boats (most with hundreds of horsepower strapped to their sterns) negotiating the passage. This makes me feel better about piloting Carrie Rose through, for you see this is Barnegat Inlet. An inlet infamous up and down the Atlantic coast for being the most treacherous of a treacherous group of inlets that makes up the New Jersey coast.

We left Cape May, NJ in the early morning’s calm, and the wind and waves have slowly increased. So now, Carrie Rose has to contend with a SE facing inlet, 15 knot NE wind waves, and the 3 foot swell that has been pushing us along for the last few hours. Though I did not realize this, Charlotte has been quietly studying the tide and current app on her iPhone. She quietly mentions that at this moment, minutes away from turning into the fray, there is a full ebb tidal current racing out of the inlet’s opening and running head first into the above wind and waves.

I hear this above the din and bile rises into my throat. This is a good time to take a few deep breaths. I turn into the inlet and push the throttle up a few extra hundred RPMs. Suddenly we are in a weird combination of broadside breakers, a following swell, 4 to 5 foot vertical waves standing straight up in the air, their curly little edges defying gravity.

The next moment the sea is oily flat with various eddies and whirlpools, then it erupts into sharp little wavelets that remind me of the meringue on a lemon cream pie. I can feel the stern rise as a trough opens up before me. The swell twists the hull to the port, so I turn the rudder starboard. Of course, I over correct and struggle to spin wheel over to the port.

Remember the little boats transiting the inlet, well they are coming and going amongst the waves. Some obviously frolicking while others twist and turn trying to compensate for the melee. One completely disappears into the swell ahead and pops out within a second.

Since this is not the first time we have been through an inlet — though this is the most extreme — we quietly talk to each other and make sure that Carrie Rose is between the red and green markers. All 220hp are engaged. The extra power makes us more responsive and stable. It also has the added effect of creating an imposing bow wave that keeps the squirrely-ist power boaters thinking twice before getting in our way.

That said the Barnegat Bay boating community seems to be a full throttle all the time crowd. It does not matter how shallow, narrow, winding, or crowded it is, this is a take no prisoner boating environment. I was thinking of getting a “Baby Seal On Board” sign for Carrie Rose but realized that they would only go faster and get closer out of spite. The odd thing is once we are out of the inlet most of these boats are stopped about a mile off shore trying to catch whatever pelagic creature that wanders by.

We decided to ignore the maelstrom and keep on task, which once through the inlet is no less daunting. Since the inlet and the area a few miles west are always changing, the charts are unreliable. I looked ahead and saw boats everywhere but where I thought they should be. Granted there was a large red buoy to port, which I would have aimed for but it was close to the shore and lighthouse. I pulled back the throttle to idled.

The usually reliable cruising guide’s only comment on Barnegat Bay was, “Use Local Knowledge, call on channel 16”. I ponder this and wondered whom I would call when on our port side I saw a Sea Tow rescue towboat. I picked up the radio’s microphone and called, “Sea Tow, Sea Tow, Sea Tow this is Carrie Rose, the trawler behind you.” He responded and I tried to sound calm when I asked, “I am new to the bay and I am confused about how to proceed, can you help direct me”.

In a comforting voice, he instructed me to follow him and then mentioned a shortcut across what was land on our charts. Charlotte groaned, I kept quiet and turned in behind him. Boats streamed passed us both ways. At one point, one large speeding boat got so close to him that the spray flying off the bow splashed the Sea Tow captain. Five minutes into this the radio crackled, “Captain just follow the large markers on in and watch out at buoy 37, it gets shallow and tricky there”, and off he went.

I looked ahead, saw a nun (red) and a can (green) silhouetted in the sun and spray, and headed between them. In another 10 minutes we were out in the bay and in 15 minutes more Spencer at Spencer’s Marina caught our lines. He graciously welcomed us. I slowed my breathing and tried to answer the questions the crowd on the dock peppered us with: where did you come from; how long are you staying; do you need to borrow a car; Chicago, how the hell did you get here from Chicago.

For the first time in weeks I slept soundly, woke at five and nudged Charlotte, “We gotta get out of here, sooner is better”. Charlotte made coffee for the thermos, took quick showers, pumped the head, and then headed east to exit the inlet. It was obvious that most of the bay’s fishermen go to church on Saturday evening because they again streamed passed us. Other than the ruckus, it turned out to be helpful. We followed their wakes out and by 7:50 were on the North Atlantic. As a fitting send off, the largest boat thus far encounter blew passed us creating such a large wake that it spirited us out of the channel and pointed us north.

Autopilot on, heading 014 degrees, coffee, banana, and a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast, we settled in for the 7 hour cruise to Great Kills on Staten Island. The NYC skyline slowly emerged from the curvature of the earth. We rounded Sandy Hook and saw the first large grouping of sailboats since Annapolis, and what I assumed to be New Yorker’s sunning themselves on the beach. Carrie Rose cut across both St. Ambrose and Cherry Hill Ship Channels while heading into another ebb current. I spied a boat flying a “Don’t Thread On Me” flag and followed it into the large Great Kills Harbor basin. Ah, home, for a week . . .

AIS

In the you-can-never-have-enough-information category, I am including the newly purchased AIS. No, it’s not misspelt, it is AIS, as in Automated Identification System. It came packaged in a Standard Horizon VHF radio. The Matrix AIS/GPS GX2200 to be precise. This marvel of technology has a VHF radio, GPS, compass, rudimentary but quite useable navigation abilities, and AIS. There is more, like a foghorn and a hailer but I do not want to be a bore.

For some background on AIS, working vessels are required to transmit their name, location, heading, and speed on a near constant time frame, and this is what AIS does using VHF frequencies. Depending on how a boat is equipped, it can transmit its own information and receive others, or just receive other transmitting boat’s data. The latter is what Carrie Rose chooses to do.

A VHF (very high frequency) radio is how boats communicate. There are specific channels for specific functions. Channel 16 is for emergencies and to be monitored at all times. Channel 9 is for calling other boats, though this often falls to 16. Channel 13 is for ship to ship or ship to bridge. The channels run into the 80’s and then there are 10 channels devoted to weather forecast.

In what I believe to be a remarkably simple solution for the government, they decided to use a radio signal, not some exotic space technology thus the price for an AIS devise is reasonable, and no complicated hardware is needed. For AIS to work all that is needed is power and an antenna.

Carrie Rose has always had two VHF radios that is until last year when the older of the two finally died. The AIS/GPS function added about 150 dollars to the cost of a plain radio, which in terms of “boat bucks” is a tolerable hit, that is if the AIS proves useful.

The first several cruises from Herrington Harbor South, where I installed it, to the Magothy and Chester Rivers and then to Rock Hall did not highlight its usefulness. I was beginning to doubt the expenditure. Then from Rock Hall to the Sassafras River, and onto Havre de Grace and the C&D Canal, the added information helped make the trips less demanding.

The northern portions of the Chesapeake are confined. We travelled closer, if not in, the large ship channel and crossed it several times once during a thunderstorm where the rain severely curtailed visibility. In the distance, I could see large tows (tugs pushing barges). Their speed and direction are the concern. If close enough, radar is a good way to keep track of them but now with the AIS, while many miles away I could see the little circle with a line pointing to their direction in relation to us.

I cued up the AIS screen and picked my target. There was the speed and direction. Though we were headed to the same place — the entrance of the C&D Canal — our speed was 7.1 knots and theirs was 6.8. I relaxed. Carrie Rose would slowly gain distance and be anchored in Chesapeake City without interference from the behemoth.

I would have easily dealt with this in pre AIS times, but by taking the guesswork out of the navigational question, it took the stress out. A simple thing this marvel, a couple of data points broadcast over Marconi’s wireless telegraphy.

Noise

The quietist place I have been, other than Mammoth Caves, is a narrow dead end cove in Canada’s North Channel. The only noise that interrupted my mild tinnitus and the clock’s soft tick was the abrupt surfacing of a large loon outside of Carrie Rose’s pilothouse door. It lingered long enough to give me the once over and then disappeared without a ripple only to surface a football field away.

It might be melodramatic to say this but it was a transcendental moment. I cannot say that in Cape May, NJ anything as inspirational has occurred but on this 4th of July weekend noise is plentiful. I think it would be an interesting exercise to try to describe my aural surroundings, so what follows is a somewhat disjointed “vision” of the sounds as they happened.

A small sport fishing boat just coasted by with hardly a sound, while on the pier across the canal (about 50 feet wide) a similar boat is having the sea’s salt power washed off. Back on our dock, two diesels quietly rumbled as a boat backs into its slip. There is an obvious void when they cease running.

Then a much quicker boat riles up the canal’s water. The waves it generates smack against the piers causing the pilings to squeal. Behind it, a spitting outboard heads for the fuel dock, and crunches in and out of reverse as it slows to make its approach. There is laughter and conversation in the background, and from our absent neighbor’s radio, a baseball game from Philly drones on.

In Copenhagen, a famous little boy tinkles into a fountain making a sound similar to the streams of water emanating from the sides of powerboat’s air conditioners, and a small plane struggles to keep its nose into the wind as it drags a long advertising banner overhead.

I would have commented on the wind had I written this yesterday, but today it is calm. With the wind silent, the ospreys were up early in the morning high above our heads peeping as they looked for food. And amongst the trees that line the northern bank of the marina, a few nest-robbing crows were chased by an assortment of smaller birds.

The road noise increased as the sun rose in the sky. When I took my bike ride across the bridge over the Cape May Canal to the marine supply store (where else!) the traffic was dense. A gaggle of Harleys hit all the base notes, each with their sound systems playing incompatible tunes.

On Carrie Rose’s aft deck, Charlotte flips through the pages of the Waterway Guide when suddenly the yelps of little boys and girls penetrate the din at the discovery of crabs in the traps their parents had set earlier in the day. And that brings me back, I start to focus on my other senses, and wonder how the loon is fairing in that cool quiet North Channel cove — a world away.

Crazy

It is blowing crazy out of the southwest; there is wind in the rigging for sure. Most of the transients both power and sail, stayed in port. A few large sailboats straggled in today with various levels of difficulty. Other than for the wind the weather is close to perfect. I can see why folk are drawn to Cape May. The air is clean and the light is fluorescent.

Cape May sits as the pinnacle with the Atlantic Ocean and Delaware Bay teetering respectively to the east and west. Both have a bad reputation. Before we left Delaware City to venture onto Delaware Bay, Tim the owner of the marina provided us with a detailed analysis of wind and waves, and tides and currents. We sat for three days waiting for the correct condition to make the 52 NM trip south to go north.

We have crossed larger bodies of water but Delaware Bay has a certain mystic about it. It might be because it starts as a river and then widens into a bay. It might be because the many large ocean going ships and tows are syphoned into a small deep canal. It might be due to its large mouth open to the North Atlantic and how the bay’s water interacts with the tide, tidal current, and river and canals current. The bay is also shallow and this just adds to the complexity of transiting.

Charlotte and I have the luxury of time. This makes a tremendous difference in the amount of risk we are willing to take. Though we have a destination, there is no hurry to get there. A common refrain in recreational flying is that most accidents happen trying to get home and since Carrie Rose does not have one, we can wait.

The Good Old Days

Parked

We pays our money and now we is parked in Cape May, NJ until 7/5/2017. The strategy is to weather out The Fourth of July down south where the prices are more reasonable, plus this is a beautiful little community. Groceries, hardware, and The Lobster House (est. 1922) are close at hand. A mere walk or bike ride away and Charlotte has her pick of ice cream shops.

Of course being at a discount marina means we are out of the action but just as well. Yesterday we rode our bikes to the beach and realized that half of New York and New Jersey are here on vacation. Procuring a can of pop at a local family run fast food cafe proved fruitless. Between mom-behind-the-counter and mom-and-grandma-in-front-of-the-counter attempting to come to a kind of catering deal while mom-behind-the-counter’s prediction of her chef/husband’s demise if her daughter does not show up to help over the holiday, we gave up and went to the hardware store.

I decided to strip the pilothouse doors of their burden of failing varnish. I was sick of making excuses for my slovenliness. It was the reason for the stop at the hardware store. 3M stripper, sanding pads, a tarp, and a paint scarper were purchased.

The scraper, a Stortz Straight End Paint Scraper (Ultra Sharp!), deserves further description. I was looking at the usual boring collection of paint scrapers and putty knives when I saw a grouping of orange covered implements off to the side. Now these looked interesting, so I started to inspect them. They come in all kinds of profiles: square, trapezoidal, round, oval, everything it seemed but straight.

Of course, the prices were higher by maybe five bucks but who was I to quibble. It said right on the label/storage unit Finely Ground, Heat Treated, High Carbon Steel. I carefully un-velcroed its thick paper case and almost drew blood. It was then that I noticed the warning on the backside, Extremely Sharp! in red letters with the instructions to keep it in its protective sheath.

I only had it in my hands for thirty seconds and had already violated several of the rules. It was then that I knew it was coming back to Carrie Rose with me. I would have to use discretion otherwise, the pilothouse doors didn’t stand a chance.

Other than it emitting a nails-on-chalkboard squeal each time I pulled it across the somewhat gooey melting varnish it worked as promised. I started at 11 AM and finished at 6PM. The first and last steps required concentration. The doors had to be detached from the boat and gingerly carried down the skinny side deck to the back. I am not sure if teak floats but I did not want to test the proposition.

The next day the doors were coated with teak oil; oil that has the consistency of fine extra virgin olive oil and the smell of a fine men’s cologne. I sat back to look at my handy work mainly because I still could not straighten up after leaning over on the back deck to scrap the doors clean. I am feeling better today, just a little kinked. What’s a vacation for after all if I can’t figure out a way to throw my back out!

Root Beer

The Chesapeake & Delaware Canal has gone through several iterations since it was first dug in 1829. Its final phase finds it 14 miles long and 450 feet wide, enough to fit — with the proper piloting — a couple of large ships next to each other. Carrie Rose at eleven feet wide is a mere speck. We were lucky not to encounter any large ships on our two transits, though we did have two large go fast boats sneak up on us from behind and almost flip us over . . . just kidding.

Carrie Rose now sits, tied to a floating dock at the diminutive Delaware City Marina. It consists of a long pier to one side of what used to be the C&D Canal. This old section is what remains of the old canal and at about 50 feet wide; there is not much of it.

Delaware City is a town that time has forgotten, nestled between an unseen refinery and the modern canal. It is a place that you come to rather than find. The downtown is well preserved. There are a few busy restaurants, a liquor store, a small grocery, a couple of specialty shops, and of course, an ice cream purveyor. A hand written sign out front proclaimed “ROOTBEER FLOATS”, who could resist.

The young woman behind the counter showed us the size (about a foot tall) and quoted us the price ($5.50), so we ordered one with two spoons, two straws, but only one cherry. She looked dejected.

I am here to say that on a hot summer day there is not much better than a root beer float. It is creamy with vanes of frozen root beer running through it all intermix with the melting whip cream, and the chemically tainted cherry was delish.

Charlotte let me finish the dregs and as I slurped up the remnants, a vision of another hot summer day long ago surface as clear as if it had just occurred. It was in the late 1960’s. I cannot remember if I was just out of Grammar School or in High School. I know it was after 1967 because that is when I managed — by cutting grass in Rosehill Cemetery — to save up the $165.00 to buy a Peugeot PX-10 racing bicycle complete with Reynolds 531 double-butted frame. I still have it and once a year tempt faith to ride it around the block.

My friend’s father was quite athletic and adventurous. He was 10 years younger than my father and had a coveted job in the trades, and it seemed had some free time. He proposed to his kids and me that we go on the newly created Wisconsin Bikeway. My friend’s younger brother and I took him up on the offer as well as one of his buddies, a kinda odd bachelor that I cannot even recollect, even after spending ten days with him.

There was no fancy literature. I do not know how he even found out about it. The instructions or I should say directions cause there was a little of that, consisted of a stack of mimeographed sheets. This is before Xerox and the prematurely yellowed paper covered with smudgeable blue ink was the only guide to be had. But I was not concerned; directions were the job of the adults. My job was to pack sensibly and make sure my bike was sound.

The number one project was to have enough tires to get 500 miles across Wisconsin. I know this must seem peculiar but this was a time before the distinctions between cruising, racing, off road, recumbent, etc., etc. existed. I had my bike and that is what I was going with. But back to tires, since the PX-10 was a high performance bike it road on high pressure tires. With the technology of the day, that meant sew-ups.

Sew-ups were like inner tubes with treads and they were actually sewed up, and if you can believe this, glued to the rim. They were also fragile. My friend worked at a bike shop as a mechanic and his brother repaired sew-ups on the side. I was also schooled in the fine millenary art of repairing them. Between the two of us, we had some twenty tires and we went through all of them before we got home. Ah, a night around the campfire sewing sew-ups!

But I am getting a little long winded here. Bikes and all were loaded on a train, which took us to La Crosse, Wisconsin where we detrained and road off into the Wisconsin forest and farmland. It was the first and last time I ever had ripples on my stomach. It was a glorious trip with fun adults and a great companion.

No one in Wisconsin knew anything about the bikeway. We were trailblazers and were treated as such. We slept in town squares and one time, in a torrential rain spent the night in a tiny town’s jail due to the sheriff’s largest. And the most memorable moments for me, besides gliding downhill for miles from Blue Mounds, the highest point in Wisconsin, was stopping at every A&W for root beer floats.

My friend’s father knew how to keep a couple of goofy kids happy and sated. It is a wonderful memory to have while on another adventure. This one, of course, on a different and more comfortable venue, but still one that needs a couple of goofy adults to be contented with a foot tall root beer float.

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.