Stalked

It is summer. I am in the backyard. There is a virus out there stalking me, so, as they say, I am making the best out of a sow’s ear. The local fauna has decided to use the large blue spruce, which occupies the southeast corner of the yard as a nursery.

Robins, sparrows, and now cardinals made nests, and as far as I can tell, have successfully raised the next generation. Though, I should hold off on proclaiming the cardinals a success.

At the very top of the spruce, tucked in about a foot from the outside edge is a barely visible mud nest. It took a while to locate the small mud inclusion within the shadows of the branches. Even for us city dwellers the attention that this active pair of cardinals paid to that spot portended something was a foot.

Charlotte and I took to a watch schedule similar to one when piloting Carrie Rose. She had her binoculars and I had mine. And mine are the beauteous Leica’s I scrimped and save for, and then bought in the late 1980’s.

Though other binoculars are more powerful, these have clarity of vision. The image is sharp. The colors are vivid. The ergonomics are, well, ergonomic. For years they have lived on the boat, that is when I am on it, as they travel with me. So, it was with the Leica binoculars that I saw the first hint of the muddy brown nest.

Fledgling birds grow up fast. In the few days since spotting the nest, tiny heads with beaks open skyward appeared through the tangle of pine needles each time the parents came to the nest. Then an E, three octaves about middle C was sounded whenever the parents flew away.

As I watch the various birds flutter from yard to yard, I am reminded of a fact that I hear repeated on public television’s science programs: birds are the remnants of the dinosaurs that were left after the asteroid crashed into Mexico. Now, dinosaurs were big beast. So, when I see how the birds constantly fly around the backyards, I wonder if dinosaurs were as hyperactive.

Of course, I know not to lump all dinosaurs into the same category. A brontosaurus was probably not as active as a T-Rex and a T-Rex was probably not as active as a velociraptor. But I admit ignorance and since it is the middle of summer and over ninety degrees, I do not feel like doing research. I am on summer break after all!

I cannot get the images out of my mind. It make sitting in the backyard more adventurous. I anxiously wait for a massive feathered creature to bound over the neighbor’s fence, and stop just long enough for me to take a picture for Instagram.

For it is my secret wish that before I pass from this earth, I will have one picture go “viral”. It will be my 15 minutes of fame, and as long as there is power for the Internet’s servers my digital footprint will exist, waiting to be retrieved by the latest search engine’s algorithm.

Is this too much to ask for while sitting in the backyard, in the summer being stalked . . . is it!

July 2020

Value

It is a quiet morning. The few jets that now fly over us come in spurts morning and late afternoon. Most are large freighters with indistinguishable colors. They often fly different patterns due to the skies being clear of traffic.

It makes me think how we took the value of our life style for granted. Since last fall I tried to suppress the feeling, let’s call it instinct, that there would be a reckoning. The chance that this level of bad behavior was not going to have consequences was remote.

A good example is my own behavior the last few months. Like many others sitting at home baking became an outlet. Bread is my main go too, and so I retrieved the sourdough recipe and grew a starter. This in itself is not an issue. There is not much bad that can come from sourdough bread.

But it did not end there. After watching Julia Childs and Jacques Pepin’s old TV shows, experiments with various buttered dough began. Some recipes are more elaborate than others. Some require a bit of technique, and of course that means much dough needs to be made to acquire the proper outcome.

The diet in my home, since I am the cook, is sybaritic. There is no meat, poultry, or fish. Butter is used sparingly replaced by a fruity, spicy extra virgin olive oil sourced from a beautiful hillside above Fiesole near Florence Italy. There is moderate use of salt and spices. White wine with dinner is necessary but it takes two days to finish a bottle.

This discipline began to break down. I found myself buying butter, not to mention eggs, at a rate unheard of in the near past. I became anxious as the shelves of the local grocery became sparser and sparser. The lack of toilet paper worried me less than the empty flour shelf.

One treat after another was produced, all flaky and sweet and delicious. There were a few mistakes but they were learned by and the trend to richer foods did not abate.

Then one evening with back-to-back Julia and Jacques tutorials on soufflés the zenith was reached. I should have seen it coming but my mind was cloudy with butterfat. The next morning with recipes flying out of the printer and post-it note tabs protruding from multiple cookbooks a plan was hatched. Tonight a simple but elegant cheese soufflé would be served for dinner.

Eggs are not a part of my usual repertoire. I do understand their utility and the fascinating chemistry behind it. What I don’t like is messing with them. I will hold my nose on occasion to make a frittata with left over pasta and vegetables but I am usually chastised for not using enough of them.

A soufflé is a dish whose very structure demands eggs. I failed to realize that I had succumbed to the allure of heavy cream, organic eggs, fresh creamery butter, and fine white flour. I had succumbed to the tyrants of technique and outcomes.

About this time, my left foot, toes to be exact, began to ache. Years ago after a long hike the soreness did not fade away, and I asked the x-ray tech in my office to snap an x-ray. Sure enough, in plain sight the second toe showed signs of arthritis. I was in my late fifties and if this was the worst of it, I considered myself lucky.

So, when my foot started to ache I chalked it up to the osteoarthritic joints. I thought my shoes were too tight and changed to a more broken in pair for daily wear. Then I decided that using the exercise bike in the basement was the aggravating agent and I cut back to every other day. Finally as I lay down to sleep the weigh of the bed sheet seemed excessive.

I determined that first thing in the morning I would take a full history and perform an exam. I would look at my foot, something I had feigned to do. There, on this nearly forty years a vegetarian’s left foot was reddish swelling across the metatarsals.

This could not be, but it was – gout! How many times had I diagnosis this in other poor souls, and ordained the value of a low fat and a low protein diet. Denied them beer and dairy. How many times had I inwardly smirked while writing a prescription for a powerful anti-inflammatory, and ordered a test for uric acid blood levels. The memories came flooding back.

And though doctors that treat themselves have fools for patients, there was no refuting this. I searched the medicine cabinet for a drug other than Tylenol and in the corner, hiding behind a large bottle of ignored multivitamins, was a small plastic container of ibuprofen.

I popped two rust colored pills into my mouth, walked into the kitchen, and extolled on the value of brown rice and vegetables. My behavior had bested me, to say nothing of the soufflé!

June 2020

Downtime

The second hand of the kitchen’s clock, the calendar attached to the back door, the monthly bank statements, anything for that matter that has periodicity has taken on new meaning the last few months. Except the months are not so few, they are lingering and passing by quickly at the same time.

Time has taken on different guises. There has been quiet time, dire time, fearful time, hopeful time, hopeless time, contemplative time, and time for screaming from the rooftops.

There is a lot of usually overlooked nature time in the backyard. Several robin families have nurtured their young in full view. The cardinals are busy with nest building. The ignored house finches have even garnered attention.

The fledglings, despite the species, clumsily begin life on the wing. They fly into fences, fall from perches, chase their parent’s relentlessly, and get lost in the bushes. They try to eat seed or attempt to pull worms out of the ground, and then alight on the birdbath only to slide into the water.

Unlike human babies, they get their chops together quickly and soon it is hard to distinguish them from their parents. This year there was a tragedy in the form of a parent robin found dead near the bath. Certain odors lead to the discovery. The backyard’s insect population was making quick work of the carcass.

Having downtime meant the garden was planted early, too early. The plants struggled to find a footing in the cold soil. But now that summer is one day old, the heat has lead to exponential growth. The cilantro made an appearance in a lively lemon sauce with egg fettuccine. Various lettuces are adding a spicy and silky addition to store bought salad.

One plant that almost did not make the transition from pot to soil is the San Marzano tomato. In a desperate attempt to save it, it was dug up, replanted in a clay pot with fresh soil, and placed under the grow light in the basement. Each morning a little sprit of water is applied and soon a new shoot appeared. The tricky part is to know when it is time to reintroduce it back into the wild.

Its fruit may not come this year for time is passing quickly and now the days are shortening. Granted heat will balance out the lessening rays, but if this winter and spring are an indication of time’s passage, the plants will need urging on, as will we.

Entrenched

We are supposed to learn by our mistakes. And then, if we ignore history we are bound to relive it. An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Well, I don’t know where that came from, just trying to extend the metaphor.

Here is another one: ignore (blank) at your peril. Blank could be masks, social distancing, looking like a Jefferson Davis statue, etc., etc. Feel free to add whatever the phobia of the moment is.

Much of my medical training boiled down to following the example of the attending physician. So, if they were cavalier about self and patient isolation measures, so was the rest of the entourage, for that day at least. Most of it came down to peer pressure.

Upon reviewing the pictures of front line police and National Guard, there is a conspicuous lack of facemasks. I noticed that their horses had face shields, which look oddly cute but also no masks, and they are about face level with most protestors. But I digress. To see the troops completely covered in protective gear and not wearing PPE made me wonder about entrenched corporate cultures.

Did a supervisor or officer tell the troops not to wear a mask, was it a ground swell of misplaced rebellion by the rank and file, were they following the lead of the Commander and Chief; Considering that once off the front lines it is time to interact with family and friends I would think it pays to be safe rather than sorry. There is another one of those pesky saying.

I have developed an entrenched culture. Breakfast consist of tea, toast with peanut butter and jelly, plain yogurt (Greek style preferably), and one half of a banana. At 2:30 in the afternoon a shot of espresso with a sweet treat, and a quarter bottle of white wine (preferably French) with dinner. I like to stay up late to watch YouTube vignette’s of tugboats, quirky musicians, and pilots piloting airplanes to no place in particular.

And just in case you are wondering, I wear my delightful Apple Bluetooth ear buds (declaimer, I am not nor have ever been an employee of Apple) so not to disturb Charlotte who has since gone to bed. Now if I consider my entrenched tendencies, other than for dental disease, none are self destructive.

Charlotte and I have even begun to wear life preservers when going on deck while cruising and when using the dingy. This policy took decades of self reflection to put in place, so I know it is possible to change, and to look out for oneself and others, for if one of us drowns, we cannot save the other.

It is time to end this scree for my shakuhachi begins at 11:00, and I only have 15 minutes left to set up the Skype paraphernalia. Stay safe and see you on the other side . . . of the pandemic that is!

June 2020

P.S. And if you are also wondering about those yellow orbs, they are quince, and I have yet to decide what to do with them.

Sunday, June 7, 2020

I thought I understood —


Elections without a plurality,

535 representatives but only one decides,

Partisan judiciary . . . so the letter of the law is scarlet,

Intimidated experts sit silent while people die,

A treasury gives millions to anyone.


Shotguns, phones, knees,

Who in their right mind . . .

The stars and stripes can fail,

Self-serving hate brings it down,

No joy in Mudville despite thousand dollar handbags.


Rubber, flash bang, smoke, tears,

Tear into flesh,

While desert painted caravans roll,

Let’s build more fences just one more,

Why not just one more.


Now we wait two weeks,

Hope we are wrong or not wronged,

By facing off police,

By drinking in saloons,

By sunbathing on a beach.


Confined to home without a bracelet,

Each fortnight out for sustenance,

Days, months marked by X’s,

Microscopic beasts force adherence,

We long for November.


I thought I understood

— I didn’t

Expatriates

In my neighborhood, cars are parked and people are in the street.

The NYT published a map of the USA with arrows of various sizes displaying NYC’s scattered population. In the same edition, an American living in France writes of the same fate for many Parisians, including him and his family, who have expatriated to the seaside.

It seems the locals in the hinterlands of France are as welcoming as the locals in Wisconsin and Michigan, and that is to say, not. My sense is that not that many Chicagoans fled their city, though that might be magical thinking.

Chicago can appear rational at times like this, despite the homicide rate. No AR-15 toting militiamen have stormed city hall and the Illinois Supreme Court has not overturned the governor’s edicts.

Granted this positivity is coming from an inhabitant of a quiet ward on the city’s north side. And when I say quiet, I mean that literally. O’Hare’s multiple east/west runways, other than for a few paroxysms in the late afternoon, are mainly offline.

Most of March was spent in South Carolina due to family concerns. This means for us, 2020 had two springs. Chicago in May is about where South Carolina was in March.

The forsythia budded, bloomed, and greened twice as did the plum and apple trees. There have been two sets of April showers bringing May flowers. Just substitute an un-poetic February and March for the thousand miles that separates SC from IL.

A Victory garden is planted in the backyard, the weeds graciously allow me to think they are under control, and the two mustardy lettuces that grew under a cold frame over the winter were harvested and eaten.

In the garage, the clutter around the BMW R50 is clear. There is hope that after years of neglect its cylinders will plod along again. Two Christmas trees gathering dust and spiders in the attic are gone to the landfill. And a new Chicago flag flies proudly from the front of the house.

Now it is time to wait. Waiting was intolerable in my younger years but at this stage of life, I have patience. Age brings discipline and the practical holds sway over the spontaneous. Still this wait is a waste of the time left to me.

If the world were free, life would be dictated by the wind and the waves, the tides and the currents, and by protected (or not) anchorages with good holding ground for the anchor and chain. The power for this frugal but privileged lifestyle would be generated by solar panels and the navigation done with the help of legions of satellites.

If the world were free, this Chicagoan would flee to the islands of Maine, but as that is not the case, this Chicagoan will join the others in the street, at least in my neighborhood.

May 2020

Queasy

In 2003, 400 square feet of sail were traded away for 5.9 liters of cast iron. On a day with a fair breeze and the destination an easy broad reach away, I wonder if the decision to move by diesel instead of wind was the correct one.

The canals of Canada, the tidal races of the New Jersey inlets and under Lubec Maine’s Franklin Delano Roosevelt Bridge, and beating hellacious Great Lake thunderstorms into its harbors, if any of these are justification then, a sound decision was made.

But that is not what I am looking to explore here. It is a more mundane consideration. The one constant for me, whether by sail or power, is seasickness. It has plagued me since I first ventured on the water in a 26 foot sailboat owned by a friend's father.

Each season I awaited the inevitable episode of projectile vomiting. Old age has brought on a diminishing of the senses, so these days I get queasy and not violently ill - knock on wood or in this context fiberglass.

The Atlantic Ocean differs from the Great Lakes in that there seems to be a constant southwest swell that is indifferent to the wind’s direction. I can feel it now even sitting at my kitchen table typing this.

Carrie Rose’s base of operations is in Herrick Bay, Maine. Northeast Harbor and Bar Harbor on Mt. Dessert Island are favorite destinations. They are a 15 to 30 nautical mile cruise northeast from Herrick Bay. There is a point after rounding the island’s Bass Harbor Head lighthouse where the path opens to the Atlantic.

The shallow Bass Harbor Bar extends east off the lighthouse and though, even at low tide we are in no danger of grounding on it, it effectively divides the two waterways. It is common for the sea state to abruptly change, and often so does the wind strength and direction. To the east of the bar lies a few small islands that offers protection but once past them the southeast swell begins to be felt as it lifts Carrie Rose’s stern.

While I never cease to extol our little Nordic Tugs virtues, she does have a few peculiarities. One being the large billboard like transom that loves to get pushed around by a following sea, and two, a not quite buoyant bow. I have tried to remedy this by removing as much weight forward as possible and relocating it below deck in the stern.

With my limited knowledge of naval architecture, this seemed a prudent course of action; I am now beginning to think I have shifted the problem by 30 feet. So, when the swell attempts to raise the stern, the stern does not respond swiftly. With what must be thousands of pounds of pressure, Carrie Rose aft will eventually rise, and often with a thud ricochet off the swell.

I feel pressure build along the outer edge of the stern, and as the boat begins to yaw left into the swell’s belly I correct by turning the rudder to the right. If done correctly the boat will begin to surf as the mass of green water passes under. It can be quite exhilarating.

But buried deep within the petrous portion of my temporal bone the semi circular canal’s miniscule otoliths immediately register the discordant motion. They tumble chaotically and the nervous system, registering that something untoward is up, translates the signals into the dreaded symptoms we know as sea or motion sickness. It begins with a slight acidity taste in the back of my throat. Along with a queasy stomach comes a queasy mind.

Of course, the approach into Northeast Harbor narrows and the traffic significantly increases. It is the boating equivalent of entering onto a crowded city interstate from a rural road. Anything from super yachts to tiny one design sailing dinghies can be and are encountered. This is not to mention speeding ferries and fishing lobster boats. No place to lose situational awareness.

Charlotte instinctively senses this change in me and heightens her surveillance. It is the dividend paid from thousands of hours on the water.

I throttle back the turbocharged 6 cylinders below our feet. Slower is usually better in these circumstances, and am thankful there are no sails to furl. Though, it would be spectacular to quietly sail surrounded by the lush green mountains.

May 2020

Violets

Violets, the weed not the dainty purple flower that populates our minds eye, have become significance this pandemic season. The neighbors to the south, during a particularly difficult moment, let their backyard turn into a field of violets. Years later the entire lawn was shaved off and replaced with sod.

Sod is a miraculous thing: like the aunt that disappears for a few months and comes back renewed with years taken off. In one moment, everyone else is forced to reassess their image in the mirror and wonder if they can do better.

And so, it was with our lawn. It went from lush green to a lumpy weed ridden mess. Of course, not prone to quick decisions it remained status quo. Then one day the violets, now expunged from the southern lawn, began to migrate north across the two foot sidewalk and under the cyclone fence into our back forty.

A violet is cleverly designed. They present with a few quarter to half dollar sized leaves supported by flimsy whitish stalks. The stalk originates at the interface between the earth and the sky, and once in the grass intertwines with the grass’s rhizomes. Their soft snarly tuber is buried deep in the soil. And on that pencil-sized carrot like appendage, subterranean tendrils are sent off to inform others of the species that here lives an unsuspecting humanoid open to colonization.

If the strategy is to pull off the leaves, this is wholly ineffectual. Like pruning a tree by cutting off the ends of the limbs, this promotes spindly growth that worsens the problem trying to be hastily solved with one stroke of the clippers.

Thus, when on weed patrol I carry several devices that resemble recently discovered Neanderthal tools. The best outcome is to remove, in one motion, the inches deep tuber without creating a large divot in the lawn. This is seldom the case. Once done the lawn looks like the tee off section of a major golf tournament, pot marked.

If violets would only confined themselves to the lawn it might be possible to eradicate them using physical and chemical means. They sprout from beneath any fixed object that has been haphazardly thrown into the garden. Every brick, cobble, decorative rock, metal sculpture, wooden plank, or fence provides a sanctuary for the tuber. I have dismantled entire portions of the gardenscape to get at an offending root.

In the past, I could not ignore the dandelion’s pretentious display; they were quickly dispatched. But readying for the summer cruise distracted me from what I thought were insignificant purple flowers. Now sequestered, I see the folly of shirking my due diligence. If my mother, an Olympian weed culler, were alive, she would be proud of my efforts despite the fact that it took a pandemic to motivate me.

May 2020

Shelves

This time of the year, I am usually immersed in planning for the spring and summer cruising season. Part of the process is staging materials deemed essential on allocated shelves in the basement. This year the shelves are filling much slower.

There sits the new AIS (Automatic Identification System). For those familiar with flying, it is the transponder of the watery world. AIS is simple in concept but immensely complex in execution. The device locates similarly equipped boats and displays their location on a screen for us to see, and broadcasts our location to them. Next to it is an ever enlarging folder with our and Carrie Rose’s papers just in case we need to justify our existence to the authorities.

There are the two solar panels I replaced last year that are going to be reborn because Dave tells me that one electron is as good as the next when it comes to recharging the new and larger batteries just installed. There is more but that is what I can remember without getting out of my chair to go look, and since the topic of this essay is a remembrance of Carrie Rose’s first cruise, I hardly think it matters.

It was the end of October 2003 when the monthly payments began. The boat spent its first half year in our possession unseen in heated storage in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. An entire winter passed without seeing it. As I think back, I am not sure why we never drove up to see her in storage but we did not.

The next time we saw her she was bobbing in a marina. It was mid May and almost blizzard condition prevailed. The wind was gale force and the temperature was hovering in the low forties. We walked to the slip with heads bowed into the northwest wind and the horizontal rain.

There she was, the occupant of our winter’s dreamscapes. We stumbled aboard and it was freezing. The previous owner had instructed me on how to start the heater. All I needed to do was connect the electricity. I knew how to do it but was not sure of the steps. Lenore, our now departed sailboat, was never kept on a slip always swinging on her mooring at the mouth of Montrose Harbor in Chicago, so I seldom had to.

The gangly yellow power cable was located in one of two dock boxes located on the salon’s roof. It was time to go back out into the wind and rain, and retrieve and connect the cable. The heavy cable is about as big around as a thumb. It would be hard to design a more obstinate thing.

The connecting points are an odd assortment of three curved appendages made to connect to only the thirty amp receptacle. It can only go in one way. In the best of times it is an awkward process, so when in a gale on a unfamiliar boat in an unfamiliar marina in the dark while hovering over water which will kill you in 15 minutes, well it puts a bit of an edge on the whole procedure.

With a little forethought, and some trial and error, the now connected cable swung between the dock and the boat. Back in the cabin, I striped off the soaked rain gear while trying not to drip water on the teak and holly floor. I made my way to the pilothouse, turned a few knobs, flipped a few switches, and heat began to calm our shivering.

The storm continued unabated the next day, the day we were to start our delivery trip back to Chicago. We stayed put and awoke to a calm crystal blue morning. It was time to leave.

Why we did not head south along the Wisconsin coast I cannot remember. It would have been simpler and less of a risk, but we did not. We headed straight east over the deepest portion of Lake Michigan (900 feet) for a 90 nautical mile cruise at 10 MPH to Frankfort, Michigan.

The trip south was a series of false alarms, large following waves, mal de mer on land not on the sea, waterspouts, and help from our friend’s on loan 16 year old daughter. What were they thinking! It took us a week longer than planned to arrive home due to 5 days spent sheltered up a river due to a late spring storm. But alas, that is Great Lake cruising.

Sixteen years have come and gone. Now the Great Lakes clear fresh water has been forsaken for the North Atlantic’s frigid brimming-with-life salt water. I will keep filling the shelves in the hope that the seventeenth year will not come and go without any log entries.

April 2020

Grins

I have, until now, neglected to add the little round image that is meant to represent myself on the computer. For some reason I suddenly felt the need to add one. I usually resist such temptation but this time I gave in. I knew instinctively what picture to add. The problem was, I could not remember where in tens of thousands of pictures it resides.

First, I began to search the most obvious place, the MacBook Air. This skinny little computer has been a trusted companion for almost a decade. We have had our ups and downs. It has played me dirt on several occasions, and caused me pain and sleepless nights, but overall it has been a useful tool.

I have written thousands of words, stored thousands of photographs. It has kept me entertained, and it has worked its little processor off navigating Carrie Rose from Chicago to Maine. More importantly, it has allowed me to keep connected with friends and family.

And I suppose I’d be bereft if I did not mention how with a few clicks of the keyboard it has helped me stimulate our consumer economy. That said I was looking for the image that I could see in my minds eye.

This brings me back to one of the “downs” we have experienced. On a rudimentary level I understand how this chuck of aluminum and plastic works but more on the hardware side. When I see computer code my eyes glass over and my mind goes blank. I spent my career dealing with flesh and blood not a digital representation of it.

So, when the computer decides to fail drastically I reach out for help since I cannot drive to Clark and Devon Hardware to search for a part. On several occasions, the hard drive has stopped recognizing my existence, and a dear friend who is wise to the world of bits and bites has rescued the data.

I am grateful for this even if at the time I was intolerable. One of the complications was that the individual files that separate the photos into useable/searchable data were lost. This left more than 80,000 photos with no rhyme or reason other than for dates, the mass of images became an integrated whole with no definition.

As I stated above, I knew the image but where could it be. To make matters worse about 2/3’s of the photos are on an old MacBook Pro. The search on the Air proved fruitless. It was time to turn on the Pro. The Pro has a quiet life. It lives on the bottom shelf of the printer stand perpetually plugged into its power source. In the past, despite the neglect it has always booted up though I live in fear that one day it will not.

The Pro is more than twice the size of the Air. Its screen is cinematic. I push the button that sits flush in the upper right hand corner of the keyboard, and the hard drive began to spin and make odd clucking sounds. The screen lite up displaying a picture of the Amtrak Bridge that blocks the path of the South Branch of the Chicago River.

I clicked on the iPhoto icon and the disc’s RPM immediately increased. This is not the instantaneous process I am used to on the Air. This process requires patience, and a bit of faith that in the end the program, with its treasure trove of 60,000 photos, will open and allow entry.

This time it went well, and before I knew it, I was reliving my life. It is not that I forgot my purpose but that I became immersed in how blessed a life I have had. As I searched the photographs, faces, countries, boats, all the experiences of decades came flooding back. I luxuriated in the images.

Did I find the picture I was looking for, I did. It is of my smiling mother and her cubby boy, hair cropped short in a photo booth. And the cubby boy seems equally as happy to be there, wherever there happened to be.

Like I said, I am not sure why this image called out to me but each time, when I have to enter my password to allow the computer to let me in, I grin and maybe on occasion tear up just a bit with the memories of time gone by.

April 2020

Risk

I am not risk adverse, though I am self protective, sometimes to the point of cowardice. But there is also a trait I have noticed of needing, let’s just say, a bit of calculated risk in my life. Since my eleventh year, I have been on the water. Much of that time was spent on Lake Michigan, a body of water that will provide as much risk, calculated or not, as anyone could want.

These years I am boating on Maine’s North Atlantic coast. This is a different world than the Great Lakes. It is not that it is more dangerous just more complicated. There are tides that average between 10 to 15 feet. These tides, along with the convoluted geography of islands and coves and rivers and rocks nestled along a corrugated mainland, make for strong currents and tidal races. And need I mention the fog.

Maine has the added attraction, which does exsist on the Great Lakes in a diminished state, of manmade hazards. Here I speak of the ever present lobster buoy. Maine’s lobster men and women manage to populate much of the coast with a system of colorful buoys that float within feet of each other if not closer.

A short cruise on a calm sunny day through the legions of buoys leaves the possibility of disaster always open. If one of the thousands of buoys passed managed to wrap around the boat’s propeller, well then, the boat is dead in the water. And as the water’s temperature is in the mid forties or low fifties diving in to untangle the line is not an option.

The purpose of the above several paragraphs is to give myself bona fides, and to make a case that I am not a scaredy-cat. Add to this that I practiced (and I do mean practiced) medicine on the south side of Chicago, and I think this should give me some cred.

On occasion, when confronted by a truly sick patient in the office I would tell them to go to the emergency room ASAP. By which I meant immediately. Most people confronted by such a demand begin a negotiation with themselves and eventually with me.

I understand this. They have responsibilities, which in many cases are deemed more important than their own well being. This lead to the inevitable question/statement, “I’ll go first thing in the morning . . .” To this I would respond that if their condition was making me, an old grisly white haired family practitioner nervous, then it should make them nervous.

This ended the conversation, and over the years my track record was, if I don’t say so myself, admirable. So, when I say that the Corona Virus has me nervous it should make everyone of my beloved readers nervous. Now is the time to error on the side of caution. Trust me, you do not want to be flat on your back with doctors trying to decide if you are worthy of a ventilator!

April 2020

2019 was an offbeat year.

2019 was an offbeat year. It started with a Viking cruise from Norway to Iceland. To be a passenger on a ship that someone else was piloting is an odd feeling. There was rain, snow, and a couple of gales. There were also four magnificent sunny days in Iceland’s capital, Reykjavik.

Iceland’s terrain has the look of the pictures beamed down to earth from the NASA Mars Opportunity rover. For me though, the story of Iceland is in its people. I lack the skill to describe my impressions of the culture that permeates this volcanically active rock sitting in the North Atlantic. To get a true sense will require an extended winter visit. I doubt I will have any takers for this endeavor.

We “only” had six weeks on the water with Carrie Rose. And by on the water, at least in Maine, I mean cold, fog, wind, and waves. I mean 25 foot tides and 6 knot currents, and whirlpools that the anticipation of which would be good fodder for a Peter Jackson movie. And I mean a nasty Canadian border patrol officer (an extreme outlier), and a United States Customs Border Patrol reduced to an app on the iPhone.

2019 reinforced the notion that it is impossible to avoid doctors. The year brought with it various skin lesions, some trivial, some profound. It brought with it plastic surgeons, urologist, dermatologist, pulmonologist, cardiologist, and of course our long suffering family practitioner. I cannot say that I enjoy the role reversal.

We realized that it was better to deal with the hand dealt, and deal with it efficiently. Thus, we came home early, reluctantly leaving our friends on Sir Tugley Blue as they cruised off into the sunset. It was the correct choice for other than a few missing pieces of flesh, the effort turned out positive.

The return home early in August, a first in nine years, prompted us to look around the bungalow and we noticed many deficiencies. This is the result of hours spent in Carrie Rose’s bilge to the detriment of our brick abode.

The dingy backroom room was painted. An ignored audio-visual system was re-commissioned, and wires were put in place for two new ceiling fans and a heated toilet seat. Four new windows were installed at five hundred dollars a crack, and on and on.

For all the care that North Talman Ave. needed, I began to think of it as a boat without a propeller. But then there were other projects that, let’s just say, were frivolous and thus, more fun.

An electric guitar (Gibson SG-ish) was built. It required many hours of study and tinkering in the basement. This did not prevent multiple missteps, several involving Titebond III Ultimate wood glue, making for more hours of study to plan how to recover.

Tools not used in decades were dusted off and recalibrated. After a heroic effort, the day was saved with the help of an accommodating guitar luthier. Now quite a nice instrument occupies a hallowed spot by the front door.

Then a vermin infested violin complete with open seams and a spilt face; with slipping and cracked pegs; with the hair and poop of the various species that had called it home for decades, came into my life. It took a bit of work and once again, the day was saved by a different, but as accommodating luthier. The violin, ensconced in its black paper case, also resides in the front room along with a growing menagerie of wayward instruments.

Charlotte, with her bent towards practicality, mentions on occasion that no one in our home has the skill to play this growing band of noisemakers. But it is reassuring to have them in working order, quietly inhabiting the house.

They lend a sense of hope, a sense that music surrounds us, and thanks to Ornette Colman’s aphorism, the truth that everyday is a new day and we can do whatever we want, including guitar and violin lessons.

Happy Holidays!
Dean and Charlotte

Once

This is a story from early in the cruise, which I seem to have forgot about . . . .

Today was one of those days; up at 5:30, a quick breakfast then the pre-cruise inspection. There was 75’ of anchor chain laid out between Cross and Mink Islands, and it needed the mud hosed off most of the chain before our scheduled departure at 6:45.

I said it was one of those days, so the reason for the 6:45 departure was to arrive at the Quoddy Narrows at the last vestige of Maine in time to reach the Lubec Narrows Bridge at 10:18. And the reason for this was (for once) to try to cross from the Atlantic Ocean to the Passamaquoddy Bay at High Slack tide when the water would be calm.

If we reached it at the proper time then the current under the bridge will be minimal. If not then it makes for a hair-raising experience, as the entire bay begins to lower itself by twenty feet and much of its water passes under this bridge.

To reach the bridge at High Slack tide is the theory, alas, we have yet to succeed coordinating the variables involved. Some of these include integrating the low and high slack currents with the timing of low and high tide. Another is the time zone: Eastern Daylight and Atlantic Daylight time, which here exists directly across from each other. And then there is the lack of data concerning the current at the Lubec Narrows. All these make timing the transit difficult to pin down. So far, we have been off by plus or minus an hour.

The timing error becomes apparent as Carrie Rose is being sucked through (if it is low to high tide), or struggles to transit the two bridge pylons of the Lubec Bridge (if it is high to low tide). Of course, it is not quite that simple. There are strong eddies above and below the bridge.

If there is one thing I know about Carrie Rose, if I fully engage the throttle she will plant her stern deep into the water and go straight. I have only had to do this a few times, most notably on the New Jersey coast and now in northernmost Maine.

At this point in my boating career I should know better, but as we say in the Tea Ceremony: One meeting, one time. Each attempt is unique. I should end this tale now but there is more. Please feel free to stop reading at any time. You will not hurt my feelings.

As I mentioned above, we left Cross Island in Maine early this morning. A horrendous dream awoke me and I got up to look around. The entire anchorage was shrouded in fog. I could barely see the glow from Sir Tugley Blue’s anchor light. I crawled back into bed and I awoke at 5:30.

The surrounding fog was gone, but this was nature being deceitful. It did not take long for the fog to envelope us once out onto the Atlantic. To add to the fog there was squall after squall. Their only benefit being to temporarily blow the fog away.

More events took place: whirlpools, a pissed off (I did inadvertently yell at him) hulk-like Canadian border patrol agent, and more cold rain and fog.

Now on our mooring, the rain has stopped, the winds have calmed, and the cloud ceiling has risen. There may even be a sunset, and tomorrow it is predicted to be sunny and in the 70’s. All is well.

Oh, did I forget to mention that the water hose popped off the hot water heater and sprayed 50 gallons of water over the engine room (an easy fix if you can believe it) as we approached the Narrows. I think it is time to have a glass of wine, a bite to eat, and go to bed!

Maine & Vermont

Carrie Rose Passing Bass Harbor Light, Mount Desert Island, Maine

Shore Acres Resort, Grand Isle, Vermont

2019 is the second year that circumstances have compelled us to travel home sooner then we might have. Not wanting to drive the 1200 miles in a couple of days, we have taken to wandering home. An unexpected pleasure is to visit with friends who live along the way.

One of our friends transplanted to a hilltop on an island in Lake Champlain. He and his wife are Vermont converts. Like all converts, as soon as we show up, they begin to extoll on the virtues of relocating to Vermont. This compelled me to think of the virtues of Maine versus Vermont.

It is not that we are considering moving to either of these states, too dark and too long of a winter, but I find the comparison thought provoking. So for what it is worth here goes.


Maine is edgy,

Vermont is chill.


Maine is cold water and fog,

Vermont is quiet comfortable fresh water.


Maine is devastating Nor’easters,

Vermont is summer squalls.


Maine is evangelical,

Vermont is Tibetan pray flags.


Maine is green lobsters,

Vermont is black and white cows.


Maine is green granite,

Vermont is black slate.


Maine is whales,

Vermont is Champ.


Maine is the Bay of Fundy,

Vermont is Lake Champlain.


Maine is ravaged,

Vermont is unmolested.


Niagara Falls, Canada

Why?

Boats get a grip on people. Though I am one of them don’t ask me why. It has been so since I was a kid. And despite being prone to seasickness and terror during some of the worse weather Lake Michigan can throw at a small boat, my obsession has not faded.

I have like minded friends with whom I constantly chatter about boats but never does this aspect of boating come up. Many of us have blogs or Facebook sites. These venues do not usually lend themselves to psychobabble, so the topic is not discussed.

This year’s (2019) cruising is ending early. There are health issues that should not be delayed but believe me, when to end the cruise was given much thought. The common refrain being, “Well, it will only be a four . . . . three . . . . two months delay. What difference can that make?”

I should and do know better, so two months was decided on and here we are anchored in thirty feet of water at high tide with two days remaining.

There is a warmish south wind blowing over the North Haven bluffs. The sky is clear and a kind of blue grey. A classic Herreshoff 12 ½ sailboat is tacking back and forth across the harbor. The occasional gust surprises and it points into the wind to spill the air captured in its sails. This is an ideal spot.

We both had luxuriant hot showers by Carrie Rose’s standards. Soon the water will be drained and we might as well waste it on ourselves.

There are only a few sounds. The drum like dinghy plops in the short chop that streams by the boat. On shore, children exclaim their joy. A small plane appears over the treetops buzzing into the wind as it slowly climbs. The flag rustles.

See, this is what happens. I began with a philosophical purpose and now I have devolved into listening to a flag rustle. I mean what the hell else is a flag supposed to do!

Augusta, Maine

Pulpit Harbor

Osprey Landing Its Catch


There is a Hinckley masthead sloop off our port side. It is probably forty feet long and though its lines are sleek, it bobs in the light swell like an eider duck. Unlike modern sailboats that fill the water up with their entire length, this beauty has long overhangs: maybe not as efficient but striking.

These boat are the pedigree of Maine. The market has moved on to other things, so now Hinckley produces a classic series of state of the art powerboats. They have managed to keep their boats distinctive. The owners of these crafts treat them like fine watches. I have never seen one that was not perfect.

There are many fine designs represented in Pulpit Harbor. There is the resident mix of working and pleasure craft, and then there are the transients, like us, that come in here to fantasize about being part of this world.

It is a small subculture of summer people and natives, and I suppose us cruising folk that show up for a few days a year to anchor in the mud are part of the mix. The harbor is often the first or last stops for the windjammer fleet sailing out of the towns on West Penobscot Bay.

Carrie Rose tends to get into harbors early and that means she is able to pick her spot without the interference of other boats. The chart plotter has several anchor icons representing where she has placed her anchor before. This makes the process of anchoring less stressful. The correct decision has already been made, so now there is no need to fret.

Glide to the mark, let go the anchor, set it with a few reverse thrusts, and then settle in, look around, and wonder after fifty years of dreaming how did we end up here . . . .

Augusta, Maine

Floating

Maine is a magical place.

The land comes and goes, as do schooners,

Enveloped in fog, drenched in rain, and on occasion,

In gloriously warm sun.


Seal noses pop up from the depths.

Osprey fly off the tops of towering conifers to hunt in open bays.

Fish jump into circular waves that interact

And dissolve into chaos.


Unobtrusive lobster boats appear to do their circular jig

And depart in a cloud of black exhaust.


Tides and currents reinforce the natural world.


There are raindrops on the water.

There are campfires on the land.

There are clouds of mosquitos at the screens

Trying to bludgeon a way into warm mammalian skin and blood.


Beethoven’s first Piano Concerto sounds in the foreground:

Pastoral and aggressive . . . .

This moment floating off West Penobscot Bay.



Warren Island State Park, Maine

Antsy

Morning comes early in Maine. By 5 AM with the sun barely over the treetops, it is bright. The air is clear, barely anything exist here to pollute it. The sun’s rays travel unimpeded and in the process fill Carrie Rose’s batteries with electrons.

It is cloudy this morning. Not rain threatening cloudy but high broken clouds that are slowly moving to the NE. The band of blue sky over Camden will soon be over us.

At 9 AM, I am already four hours into the day and getting antsy. The launch, which will transport us off the water and on to the mainland has been ferrying boaters since 8 o’clock. It occasionally passes by and throws a wake our way.

There are racing sailboats crisscrossing the harbor, sailboarders doing whatever they do, and there are departing cruisers leaving the two red markers, which delineate the rock free passage, to their port.

The sun appears and with a flash, the harbor is full of rusty reds, dark greens, blacks and whites, and here and there, blues. The water is a deep violet blue speckled with dark grey. Polished metal glints in contrast to deeply varnished wood. And throughout these observations, I am thinking it is time to get going . . . . but going where?

With the sun, the pilothouse goes from the 60’s to the 70’s and it is time to lose the flannel shirt and socks. It is summer after all even if we are in Maine where the North Atlantic creeps in with every high tide.

Since I awoke, the barometer has risen two points to 30.00 mmHg. So maybe, the high pressure is pressuring me to get the day going even if in the end it is going nowhere.

Camden, Maine

Stinky

Some may feel that two people, especially if married for decades, might find a 32 foot motor yacht (no matter how well designed) confining. If a months long cruise, many times without the ability for onshore distractions, is added to the equation, then the argument for incompatibility grows stronger.

From me you will find no argument with the above. These tendencies need to be anticipated, discussed, and through negotiations and the occasional mediation, overcome. The fact that Carrie Rose is able to swing at anchor in Maine is a testament to the fact that it can be accomplished.

There are times when continued cohabitation is challenged. It is not like these are planned. They evolve from a series of unforeseen circumstances. This recently occurred on Carrie Rose.

Think of the boat as a high end RV with a propeller. There are numerous mechanical systems and as mechanical systems are prone to do, despite conscientious maintenance, they fail. There are (to borrow a word from past committee work) multiple root causes. In today’s crasser world the phrase that comes to mind is, shit happens. And that aphorism is especially true in this instance.

In the confines of the Great Lakes, it is forbidden to pump black water or effluent or whatever else it is called, overboard. To be caught, as unlikely as that may be, would result in keelhauling by the United States Coast Guard. Most fresh water sailors disconnect the overflow plumbing. That way if ever boarded by the Coast Guard there is plausible deniability. Carrie Rose found herself in this state.

But in the state of Maine, as long as not in confined spaces, our poop may mingle with that of whales and seals and porpoises. But I get ahead of myself. Boats can be particularly stinking places. There are countless offending agents. And many of them lurk and mingle, in dark, humid, and airless crevices.

Engine oil, diesel fumes, antifreeze, molds and mildews, errant holding tank gases ferment with salt and fresh water; it is a potent mix. It is a mark of a true yachtsperson to be able to brag of a dry bilge. Despite Carrie Rose’s numerous virtues, a dry bilge is not one of them.

There have been moments when no offending agents exist in the nether world but faith intervenes and the process of hunting down the source or sources begins anew. This was recently the case.

I feel I must warn, like on the radio when a racy or violent program is about to be aired that the more sensitive listeners turn the volume down for the announced time span. This may be the time to look away from the page.

A decision was made that due to Maine’s lack of holding tank pump out facilities Carrie Rose should have a way to empty her own waste tank. Of course, this would only be done outside the three mile limit of the United States territorial waters. It involved the installation of various new hoses, a Y-valve, and a device worthy of a starring role in a horror movie called a macerator pump.

I considered the task doable and even bought some of the parts, but as the winter progressed the thought of wedging myself into the confined and smelly place brought me to my senses. Thus, it was decided to let the mechanic at Carrie Rose’s boatyard tackle the installation. It proved to be a smart move as I had underestimated the complexity of the connections.

The process was completed with my constant cheerleading. Carrie Rose was now in the water and I was itching to try the new system out. There was only one caveat it needs to be full. Due to our finely honed and frugal head usage, this could require a month. To circumvent the delay I suggested we forgo the usual precaution against a fetid head and flush with salt water.

Understand that salt water is not a benign substance. It is corrosive. It is packed with the denizens, albeit tiny, of the deep sea. And there may be remnants of Maine’s ten common seaweeds. To seal these into an airless tank along with other unmentionables, to use a worn out cliché, is a recipe for disaster.

Now I might have got away with the experiment had I not forgotten that the holding tank vent filter had been done away with several years ago. The instructions state yearly replacement but at a cost of eighty dollars, it stayed in place for a half a decade. When it finally blocked the clear flow of air, I dispensed with it services.

The experiment went well for a few days. It was cold and there had been minimal intake but that was to change. Canada and Maine decided to break high temperature records and we had inhabited the boat for a week to ten days. Without warning, flushing the head enveloped the usually pristine Carrie Rose in a cloud of noxious fumes.

Charlotte, whose nose is not typically that sensitive, called out in fright. I, of course tried to minimize the severity of the situation we found ourselves in. We began to warn each other when the head needed to be used. And though there is no place to run and no place to hide, Charlotte would station herself on the aft deck in anticipation of the oncoming stench.

Our usual docile relationship turned contentious: mine with futile denials of being the causative agent of this disaster and Charlotte’s with demands for an immediate fix. Both were implausible. I immediately tried by phone, Internet, and on foot to procure another filter. All my efforts were stymied.

Out of frustration, I confided in Dave of the famously, on many coasts, pristine Sir Tugley Blue, our traveling companions. He had a solution, that if I could find the correct fittings, he thought it would work. It was a humble RV charcoal water filter. The charcoal provides the barrier from the stinky tank to the outside world.

I searched through my stash. It looked promising except for one adapter. By this time, the unhappy crew of Carrie Rose had made it to Belfast, Maine for the upbeat Celtic Music festival. Belfast is a thriving town with an old fashion hardware store, and a rare owner that knows where every piece of inventory, no matter how insignificant, lives.

I searched the unlabeled drawers and became dejected. Then I enlisted the help of a young sales assistant, who after taking one glance at the mess, mumbled that only the owner would know if the part exists. A stooped but smiling tall and lanky middle aged man appeared, and inquired as to what I needed: ¾ threaded to a one inch hose fitting adapter.

He hesitated for a second; his hand reached into the hidden depths of an outwardly random drawer and came out with the part. The rest was mere mechanics.

Within twenty minutes the part was installed, tested, and pronounced a success by the first mate. Life went back to normal but then I suppose if a normal life is what Carrie Rose’s inhabitants wanted they would not have left the bungalow on Talman Ave. nine summers ago.

Warren Island State Park, Maine

Windshield Time

Taking on fuel in Southwest Harbor, MDI

Sunset in Seal Bay, Vinalhaven, ME

Sir Tugley Blue in twilight blue

J.O. Brown, North Haven, ME

I practiced chiropractic in Mt. Prospect, IL during the 1980’s. One of my patients was a fortyish male who resembled Falstaff as portrayed by Orson Wells. He was a Bell Telephone technician. His back suffered from poor physical conditioning and from long bouts of what he called “windshield time”.

It was the coveted time spent driving from one assignment to the next. He would fondly describe listening to the radio while snacking on the junk food of the day. Though it didn’t help his back, he was content to erred towards the sedentary aspects of the job.

Out on the water, chugging along at seven or eight knots with no obstructions for miles ahead makes me think of my windshield time. And though the distances covered are trivial in terms of ocean sailing, I ask myself if I covet the passages or not.

In the Great Lakes, it was common to cruise for 50 to 90 nautical miles at a time, and to have no land in sight for much of the trip. Most of the time there was only the occasional 1000 foot freighter to contend with, and they stuck close to the shipping lanes.

Once out on the lake and away from the shore with its gaggle of fishing boats, the autopilot would be set, and the feet would be kicked up. An occasional glance out the window and at the radar was enough to assure a safe passage.

Piloting Carrie Rose up and down the east coast of Canada and the USA requires a bit more concentration. Here in Canada and Maine there is the constant presence of lobster buoys, and variations in tidal currents and sea levels. It calls for an odd combination of alertness, and for the loss of a better description, spacing out.

It is difficult to maintain constant awareness. Even when focused, other tasks need to be attended to. Before altering my attention, I scan the horizon, review the chart and course, note the engine gauges, and make sure the autopilot is engaged. It sounds like a lot to do but it only takes a few seconds.

Despite these precautions, more times then not, something will require an immediate response. Of course, it helps to have Charlotte’s eagle eye stationed in the pilothouse.

I wonder about the inevitable story after every accident involving a behemoth ship’s crash of there being no one at watch. These stories seem to me to be disingenuous. It may be that the crew and its leadership is incompetent, but it is difficult to imagine leaving a hundred million dollar vessel to fend for itself.

My original intent was to write about how windshield time plays with the mind. How hours and hours of starring out the window, no matter how concentrated, allows the mind to catch up with itself. To sort out, in all the neuronal crevasses, the connections, past and present, that needs to be eliminated or filed.

When on Carrie Rose for a while it is usual for distant faux pas to appear out of nowhere. I have accustomed myself to disregard them for there is no resident psychotherapist on board. Happier moments also via for time in the mind’s eye, and occasionally there is a struggle between the light and dark side. May the best memory win out!

I in the meantime will keep my eyes pealed for the slightest hint of trouble out the windshield . . . no matter the time.

North Haven, Maine

Eddies

The Bay of Fundy was never on the bucket list. Somehow, Carrie Rose ended up there through no fault of her own. The bay’s entrance is approached using the Grand Manan Channel, which is demarcated by the coast of Maine and Grand Manan Island. And as with most directions in Downeast Maine and New Brunswick, the path is more east than north.

The Bay of Fundy is noted for its extreme tidal ranges. Though Carrie Rose did not experience the full range, she was rising and lowering 25 feet twice per day. It is quite the striking visual to be surrounded by water and six hours later to be surrounded by land. The mud flats reach out and then recede in magnificently smelly glory.

The towns and anchorages within Passamaquoddy Bay were the destination. The bay is accessed two ways: one through the Quoddy and the Lubec Narrows (previously written about) and the other through Letete Passage, an opening amongst the archipelago of islands north of Deer Island. There are other ways but these are the most familiar.

As with the Lubec Narrows, the Letete Passage needs to be respected and the passage timed properly. On this transit, it was deemed that low slack tide was the best time, so to arrive there at 11:15 AM the anchor was raised in Digdequash Cove at 10:00 AM. It was a bit more then an hour at seven knots.

The water was alive with Canadian lobster fishermen finishing up a season of lobstering. Many lobster cages weighed down their stubby boats. They scurried from buoy to buoy doing the dance of the lobster boat: turn towards the buoy, bring it on the starboard side, grab it with the hooked pole, hook the line on the pulley and then onto the winch, bring it along side, open and empty it, bait it, drive a bit then throw the buoy in the water and let the cage slide off the back of the boat.

The boats swing around in a circle while this dance is taking place, and usually end up pointing in the same direction as when they first approached the buoy. Mesmerized by the process, I have to remember to look forward not to snag a buoy.

At the Letete Passage the whirling waters begin. The water becomes three dimensional as eddies wax and wane. Disrupted current creates a popular fishing venue for seals, birds, porpoises, and whales. Carrie Rose gets a few more RPM’s to help with directional stability and just to get through the maelstrom quicker.

Now out to the coast along Campobello Island, famous for Franklin and Eleanor’s summer estate. After visiting there I feel I could be on a first name basis with them or at least with Eleanor, and possibly even be invited for tea.

The island is twenty miles long and ends at the Quoddy Narrows. In the correct conditions to pass through Letete Passage unmolested, as they were during Carrie Rose’s cruise, the tide will be rising and with it, the current will be head on. The throttle eased forward in a vane attempt to keep going at least 6 knots against the opposing current. The water raised and lowered, twisted and turned for many more miles, at times only 4 knots appeared on the chart plotter due to the opposing current.

Mid trip, the Canadian/US border was crossed. It was time to use the new Customs and Boarder Protection CBP ROAM app. The app had been loaded with information concerning our status as US citizens, and Carrie Rose’s registration and physical attributes. With the iPhone switched on, a touch of the app’s “arrival” button took us into a world of online real time bureaucracy.

The first attempt was denied due to the officer seeing Charlotte sitting in the pilot’s chair while I scanned the inside of the boat with the phone’s video camera at his request. The second try was accepted after Charlotte’s data was reentered into the app.

In the meantime, the distraction of this could not stop the scanning of the ocean out the front window. The wind had increased from the southeast and the sea had become choppy. Enough so the waves were breaking over the bow and depositing intermittent sprays of salt water over the pilothouse windows.

At some point after the customs interaction the VHF radio on channel 16 announced our name twice followed by, “…this is Sir Tugley Blue.” A suggestion was made that instead of carrying on to the planned destination of Rogue Island we tuck into Cross Island instead. This would mean we would be off the big water and anchored an hour or two earlier then planned. Great idea, we altered course and took a deep breathe.

The entrance into Cross Island requires careful consideration as it skirts several small islands and hidden rocks, and requires sharp turns to avoid hazards. Also, Carrie Rose has left Cross Island heading towards Canada but never entered it while heading back. In fact, a week ago we had passed through this path in total fog, never seeing any of it.

The calm weather now decided to act up. The wind from the southeast strengthened and the current, now from behind, began to push.

To come into a new harbor or anchorage, or take an unfamiliar path at the end of a long day requires a heightened level of situational awareness. The autopilot is turned off, the radar is set for the proper distance, a quick scan of the chart to locate key markers and hazards, and then if possible, to slow down. In this case, Carrie Rose was left to ride with the current. It made the circuitous route stressful with the tradeoff being better control in the increased wind, waves, and current.

The tide was at high, and with forty feet under the keel the anchor was set with 120 feet of chain leading up to the bow. The gusty southwest wind blew over the island’s trees and swung Carrie Rose back and forth but the anchor held. The wind abated, dinner was served, and after a long eventful day sleep beckoned.

With the Bay of Fundy’s eddies now forty miles behind and with the Customs Border Patrol’s approval, a down comforter was pulled tightly around Carrie Rose’s two exhausted inhabitance. The warmth allowed for a moment’s reverie of unsought challenges, and an unimagined future.

Northeast Harbor, Mt. Dessert Island, Maine

Dewy

It is a smoky day in the St. Andrews by–the-Sea harbor. At 5:30 AM, Carrie Rose was a single boat, alone in the fog. The other boats and landmarks (as well as the sky) had disappeared. The temperature was cool, about 55 degrees which corresponded to the water’s temperature. Sweat pants, socks, a fleece vest, and skullcap were fitted to ward off the cold. On the back deck, it was dewy. Water was dripping off everything that water could drip off.

The aft hatch contains a tank of propane and the necessary valves to route the gas into the saloon’s stove and fireplace. The main valve, which stops the flow of propane to the saloon and the two smaller valves for the above appliances were opened. The heat from the small fireplace was welcomed. It also lowers the humidity and buys a little time before cups of tea can warm from the inside.

Carrie Rose is a couple of city block from the dinghy dock. Yesterday, the high tech electric outboard motor, which has worked flawlessly for a decade decided to have a fatal flaw. This means the oars must be put to use.

In calm conditions with a favorable current, it is not a long row to the dinghy dock but add wind, waves, and an adverse current and it can be quite strenuous. The motor’s failure leads to a crash course in upper body exercise and that lead to an achy back and arms.

The fog dissipates as the sun rises, and at 10 AM there is only haziness left on the distant shoreline. The town awakes, and the familiar beep, beep, beep of a large truck in reverse is the first sound I hear. Next, the traffic’s din fills in the silence, and then the rat-tat-tat of power tools finishes off the peace and quiet. A few raucous sea gulls follow the rumbling whale watching boats that once out the harbor mouth accelerate with loud crescendos.

When the harbor was still covered in fog, the loon cried out. The loon, for there seems to be only one, fishes by the seldom used west entrance of the harbor. Why it chooses to catch and swallow its prey here with the many wild places available near to here is a mystery.

The tidal range today in St. Andrews is 25 feet. Mud flats reach almost to the boat. The town’s matchstick pier is completely exposed, and when in close proximity gives off an odd not quite putrid odor. The mud is alive, full of little critters. Large whales are still able to find breakfast, lunch, and dinner in these coastal waters.

A fleet of whale watching boats leaves three or four times per day. There are whales here but Carrie Rose has only once come close to one, or at least to its back. The small fin looked out of place on the wide black back it was attached to.

The temperature of the boat has reached 70 degrees, so it must be sweltering on shore. It is time to go bake in the sun and mingle with the summer people that crowd this small town. It is time to substitute an ice cream cone for a substantial lunch, time to stock up on beer and wine at the provincial liquor store, time to get the oars in the dinghy and row.

Northeast Harbor, Mt. Dessert, Maine

One of those Days

First Sunset of the Cruise

Canada Day in St. Andrews

Fireworks off the St. Andrews Pier


Today was one of those days; up at 5:30, a quick breakfast then the pre-cruise inspection. There was 75’ of anchor chain laid out between Cross and Mink Islands, and it needed the mud hosed off most of the chain before our scheduled departure at 6:45.

I said it was one of those days, so the reason for the 6:45 departure was to arrive at the Quoddy Narrows at the last vestige of Maine in time to reach the Lubec Narrows Bridge at 10:18. And the reason for this was (for once) to try to cross from the Atlantic Ocean to the Passamaquoddy Bay at High Slack tide when the water would be calm.

If we reached it at the proper time then the current under the bridge will be minimal. If not then it makes for a hair-raising experience, as the entire bay begins to lower itself by twenty feet and much of its water passes under this bridge.

To reach the bridge at High Slack tide is the theory, alas we have yet to succeed coordinating the variables involved. Some of these include integrating the low and high slack currents with the timing of low and high tide. Another is the time zone: Eastern Daylight and Atlantic Daylight time, which here exist directly across from each other. And then there is the lack of data concerning the current at the Lubec Narrows. All these make the transit’s timing difficult to pin down. So far, we have been off by plus or minus an hour.

The timing error becomes apparent as Carrie Rose is being sucked through (if it is low to high tide), or struggles to transit the two bridge pylons of the Lubec Bridge (if it is high to low tide). Of course, it is not quite that simple. There are strong eddies above and below the bridge.

If there is one thing I know about Carrie Rose, if I fully engage the throttle she will plant her stern deep into the water and go straight. I have only had to do this a few times, most notably on the New Jersey coast and now in northernmost Maine.

At this point in my boating career, I should know I better but as we say in the Tea Ceremony: One meeting, one time. Each attempt is unique. I should end this tale now but there is more. Please feel free to stop reading at any time. You will not hurt my feelings.

As I mentioned above, we left Cross Island in Maine early this morning. A horrendous dream woke me and got up to look around. The entire anchorage was shrouded in fog. I could barely see the glow from Sir Tugley Blue’s anchor light. I crawled back into bed and I awoke at 5:30.

The surrounding fog was gone, but this was nature being deceitful. It did not take long for the fog to enveloped us once out onto the Atlantic. To add to the fog there was squall after squall. Their only benefit being to temporarily blow the fog away.

More events took place: whirlpools, a pissed off (I did inadvertently yelled at him) hulk-like Canadian border patrol agent, and more cold rain and fog.

Now on our mooring, the rain has stopped, the winds have calmed, and the cloud ceiling has risen. There may even be a sunset and tomorrow it is predicted to be sunny and in the 70’s. All is well.

Oh, did I forget to mention that the water hose popped off the hot water heater and sprayed 50 gallons of water over the engine room (an easy fix if you can believe it) as we approached the Narrows. I think it is time to have a glass of wine, a bite to eat, and go to bed!

St. Andrews, New Brunswick, Canada

Tomorrow

The sun is out. An oddity since winter ended and spring began. Carrie Rose is to be launched tomorrow morning at 7-ish. I am forgetting something but it will have to wait. Last years project list was sitting on pilothouse’s shelf and most of the squares had been filled in. It is the same every year since we acquired her. If you want to be engaged in life, forever contemplating the summer, motivated to progress in your career (to pay for it all), then a boat is the thing. And if you ever manage to go somewhere with it, well that is even better. I looked in the mirror this morning and noticed that I am getting salty. This is code for unkept. It is not on purpose but in service to the ever demanding 17,000 lbs. of fiberglass and steel. Ah, I cannot wait to drop the anchor!

Belfast, ME


Sent from my iPhone

Rain, Sleet, and Snow

It was a cold winter in Chicago. And it was a cold beginning to spring especially since we went on a Viking cruise to Norway, Faroe Islands, and Iceland. There was rain, sleet, and snow. The Viking Sky gallantly streamed through several gales. Then there were several glorious sunny days in Reykjavik. More sun then they had had the entirety of last summer!

But all is forgiven today, June 22, while I sit on the deck next to Herrick Bay, baking in the morning sun. Here in Maine there is not the midnight sun, it is the forever morning. Sunrise is at four-ish but there is light before. I am awake as the sun creeps into view. It is odd trying to occupy myself for the three or four hours before everyone else awakes. I’d like to think that it is a productive time but it is even too early for me.

Due to unforeseen circumstances, Carrie Rose is and will remain on the hard for a while. We decided that instead of camping on her we would avail ourselves of Atlantic Boat’s second story apartment, until they kick us out that is.

To the west, off the deck’s beam is scenic Herrick Bay. I spent close to a month anchored there last year while Charlotte tended to her sickly father. To the east is the boat yard. Its scenery is an acquired taste.

The sun is out, the winds are light, and the temperature is mild; in other words, it is perfect. Would it be better on the water, probably, but it is great here and I will not lament.

Blue Hill, Maine