Trajan

Typefaces appeal to me. In an odd series of events while in high school I learned the printing trade. It was more of a pastime for me but it did provide sustenance during various times in my life. One time when I matriculated to Southern Illinois University and miscalculated my finances, I opened the school newspaper’s want ads to look for a job. 

There was a notice asking for a small offset printer operator (this was before ubiquitous copy machines) for the newspaper. I obtained an interview with the massive chain smoking master printer. I introduced myself and he led me to the shop. There on an equally massive paper cutter was a disheveled reem of paper. I instinctively picked it up, fanned the pages restoring order to it and set it carefully back on the cutter’s surface. He said your hired and walked out.

 

Many classical typefaces are based on script chiseled into various Roman Ruins. The most famous being Trajan’s column in Rome. As you can see, this type is all capitals and is often referred to as “capitalis monumentalis”. Capitals date to 43 BC. 

 

They have been lost and rediscovered countless times over the centuries. Many scholars and craft people have struggled to decipher their magic. They were chiseled into rock., carved into wood, drawn freehand, set into type and programed into software. 

 

As you can imagine, considering the millennia they have existed there are a cast of interesting characters that comes along with reading about the Capital’s history. There is also a quest to reduce Trajan’s inscription to a geometric formula, to divine its proportionality. 

 

There was Walter Kaech from Germany, a graphic designer, craftsman and scholar that wrote four books detailing the superiority of Roman letters. There was the multidimensional Catholic priest, Father Catich, who due to his Chicago sign painting past, when he was posted to Rome for four years became obsessed with the Trajan Inscription and wrote two scholarly volumes about them. And there is Carol Twombly, a graduate of The Rhode Island School of Design, who digitally replicated the Trajan Capitals. 

 

To that end rubbings, cast, reproductions, drawings, and photos have been made repeatedly. some of the rubbings are quite famous and are housed in renown research libraries. Some believe the capitals only come alive if they are chiseled, carved or hand drawn. Many used the capitals as raw material for their own font creations. I am composing this short essay in Word’s Trajan Pro (12 point) and I am delighted to have the choice to choose from hundreds of fonts at the click of a finger.

 

Maybe, if you have gotten this far, I have inspired you to look, as you would with a fine painting or sculpture, at the letters on the page. Someone, somewhere had to create everything we see, hear, taste, feel . . . relish in it.

 

  

Gathering

A post covid reunion with two friends I met when I was 4 and 5 years old got me thinking friendship. We represent multiple careers paths. One with a life time spent in tool and die as a machinist and a shop manager. The other a diesel mechanic turned firefighter and educator with a side line in hospital building engineering. And me with a list too long to catalogue but much of it spent in health care. 

At our gathering I mentioned the complete lack of sports in our childhoods. Most of our time, whether summer or winter, was spent in one garage or another. There were bicycles, minibikes, Model A’s, Triumph sports cars, motorcycles, various boats, and other mechanical projects. 

 

At some point in our late teens, we went our various ways off to school, to work, to see the world. Thankfully over sixty-five years we managed to keep in touch. It is quite a remarkable feat. When discussing certain memorable events there are now a few disputed interpretations due to, I imagine, the complications of sixty year old memories. 

 

That said most memories are etched in stone. Priests, nuns, and teachers we were exposed too stand out. Some are remembered more fondly than others. Some who in this day would be driven from the teaching profession. Overall, each of us had a firm enough foundation that the various travails thrown at us hardly mattered. 

 

We have vivid memories of each other’s families. Irish, Italian and German traditions color each recollection. I am still terrified of one friend’s beloved family dog that would have dispatched me at an early age had it been let into the room. The neighborhood, where I continue to live, was mainly German and Irish back then as were the churches and restaurants and bars.

 

It was a small Chicago neighborhood that was centered around the church and grammar school. At some point one of us moved to the suburbs. We attended different high schools, some Catholic, some not. Got exposed to a world of different people. Made other friendship, met and married spouses, had children. 

 

When I was young it was a common joke that our elders lived in the past. We tolerated their memories which were brought up whenever the conversation lagged. I get it now, even as I continue to add to my experiential bank. Are my new adventures as potent as the past ones; are they on an equal footing; I can’t say.

 

What I can say is that these and other prized relationships are invaluable. In fact, they are what make up the neuronal pathways that propel each day forward. An adage I see each morning when I walk into the kitchen says: Time is not passing, Time is coming. Keep it coming!

Steep

By the time we arrived in Georgia the azaleas had bloomed. There were just enough flowers on them to remind us of the glory we missed. A tree of unknown type was shedding inch long caterpillar shaped variegated flowers rich with sap. They covered every available surface of the car and defied removal, disintegrating with the slightest touch. Long brown syrupy trails down the side of the car were their calling card. 

 

The house we rented for a week 0n St. Simons Island turned out to have three floors. A fact that went unnoticed in the thirty pictures we previewed on the Airbnb. On first seeing the steep staircase to the bedroom we both sighed. Though strenuous, it turned out to be a blessing. A perfect opportunity to get our winter weakened legs in shape for the summer cruise. 

 

Three flights up was a small cheery room with sliding doors on either end and a retractable shade, which I managed to coerce open after years of neglect. There was even a two inch long frog wintering in one of its support beams. It never moved either on opening or closing the shade. Cool NE then warm humid SE breezes filled the space with the added benefit of a partially obscured view of the Atlantic Ocean.

 

To live in such a house, especially with limited energy stores to draw upon, a certain logistics must be followed. Time and distance dictates which space is used and when. As much as we wanted to eat breakfast on the 3^rdfloor deck it was untenable. Our tea and toast would be cold or spilt by the time we got there. Thus, breakfast was in the cool dim first floor dining room. When retiring for the night we made a reconnaissance to determine that phones, computers, clothing, and reading materials accompanied us to the second floor. My shakuhachi and espresso machine resided on the third floor.

 

The townhouse was steps from the beach. And even at hightide the block wide and blocks long hard packed white sand beach provided a perfect walking surface. At low tide we could walk along it a mile into the village in search of an ice cream cone. Except for one time, breakfast, lunch and dinner were prepared at “home.” Foodstuffs skillfully packaged in Chicago were stored in the trunk of the Honda providing the basics for our simple Mediterranean diet.

 

If possible I bake bread soon after arriving at a destination: it’s my method of burning incense. It is curious how a foreign place with unfamiliar ambiance and awful beachy art begins to feel homey after a few days. Of course, this does not always occur. Some spaces are beyond repair and need a complete refit. We were lucky this year with our primary residence. The second venue . . . well let’s just ignore it. 

 

Between the steep stairs, the ocean views, and the beach walks I feel enlivened. Ready to take on whatever Maine and Carrie Rose throws at us this summer! 

Reclaim

It is good to get away from Chicago. If we lived in paradise we might never leave, never see or taste the wonders that the world offers. The end of March is a hopeful time. In fact, any month other than February is hopeful but the third month always lets us down. There are a couple of warm days. There are even a few overly optimistic soil hugging spring flowers that appear in the garden, and then the inevitable deep freeze and snow storm follows. It is all a charade. 

My thinking on this subject has changed over the years. I used to believe leaving in January and February was the thing to aim for, but I may be mistaken. Many times, in the past, when we have headed south during the first two months, Chicago’s miserable weather follows us. So, you say, go farther south and for reasons I cannot explain we rarely venture from the mainland. This year though, we did travel to Costa Rica. No complaints there.

 

Still, that was in February and as March came around we decided to escape again. This time to St. Simons Island and Jekyll Island in Georgia. Now in the latter of the two we sit on a small veranda looking out onto a tangled mass of moss covered live oaks with a fan palm understory. About a half block away through the trees is a tranquil Atlantic Ocean. Between the end of the tree line and the ocean lies a DMZ of rough brown sand and small grey granite rip-rap.

 

The ocean has been trying to reclaim this part of the island for decades and the good people of Jekyll Island have been waging a quiet and expensive war against mother nature. The genesis appears to be a devastating hurricane in the 1960’s. Of course, as with much of the eastern seaboard, development has taken place close in along the shore line. This despite the risk that sea rise and the next errant hurricane will flatten whatever is standing tall.

 

This area of southeastern Georgia is new to us. I do not recall how we discovered it. Where there are beaches, they are composed of firmly packed fine white sand. Many are, at least during low tide, a block wide. They are a joy to walk or ride a bike on. There is an occasional sighting of porpoises just off shore and legions of pelicans and gulls fishing. And for a couple of boating enthusiasts, large freighters head into and out of interior ports, and smaller more relatable boats transit north and south on the Intracoastal Waterway.

 

On Sunday, Palm Sunday I think, and we drove 6 miles to the southern end of Jekyll Island. The beach is intact here and we walked 5000 steps along the beautiful packed white sand littered with the remnants of live oaks. Though they are called driftwood, it appears to me to be part of the island’s forest reclaimed by the sea. 

 

Near the parking lot there is a short trail that explains, using placards and audio, the interdiction of a lawless slave ship called the Wanderer. It is a vile tale of the slavers that brought to America some of the last Africans and sold them into slavery. I was not a deep thinker as a youngster but I did wonder why no history was taught about slavery. In past travels in Carrie Rose on Chesapeake Bay we visited the Washington and Jefferson plantations, and obscure places such as Chestertown, Maryland. The history of slavery is thankfully addressed in each. Little by little the blanks in my education are being filled in. 

 

I have wanderlust, so after a few months hanging around the bungalow on Talman Avenue my mind begins to cogitate: where to next? I drop Charlotte a few hints of places I’d like to go, and wait to hear what and where is possible. By the time we get home I realize paradise is closer than I think . . . at least until the cogitation begins again.        

 

    

 

               

Reflections

The Hudson River is deceptive. Two images come to mind. One is the transcendental paintings by the Hudson River School. They represent the river and surrounds as an idyllic kingdom where mere mortals feel out of place. The paintings are similar to Chinese brush paintings where humans and their dwellings are dwarfed by the natural world. The second is the Hudson River of New Jersey and NYC: congestion, pollution, dockside intrigue, foreboding wharfs. Neither image is truthful. 

Cruising in a small boat is a four part process: contemplation, planning, execution and reminiscing. For me at least, each is a necessary component, each with equal weight. I have a large library – some paper and increasingly digital - that aids me with the above. A friend who over two decades sailed around the world and then, because he missed the Mediterranean on his first try, sailed back there. When he was in the planning stage he purchased thousands of dollars’ worth of charts. I am the recipient of his North American collection.

 

Charlotte and I studied and updated these charts for many years and many miles. This, of course, was before electronic charts. Now for a minimal yearly fee the charts are easily accessed and updated. Just in case the electrons run out or a cosmic ray wipes out our iPad, we keep minimal paper around. I am not sure what triggered it but I found myself searching the Navionics app on my iPhone for the charts of waterways around NYC. 

 

Carrie Rose has transited these waters twice. Once from the Hudson River to the Atlantic and then from the Atlantic to the East River just north of the Hudson at Manhattan’s tip. For non-boaters a good approximation of what we did is to take the Staten Island Ferry. It captures the frenetic nature of the few miles beginning at lower Manhattan to passing under the Verrazzano’s Narrows Bridge. We took the ferry to get a feel for that trip because when piloting a small boat, it is, at least for me, difficult to sightsee.

 

A few impressions. The Hudson River, other than for a few ships and barges, and the last mile or so east, is a remarkably staid waterway. It is wide and scenic. There is one pinch point at the West Point Academy dictated by a mass of granite that surfaces and refuses to erode. I admit to anxiety on the day we cruised into NYC. Once under the Tappan Zee Bridge I steadied my loins, expecting the worst that never materialized. NYC greeted us with the splendor of the Palisades. A rock formation that was saved by Rockefeller so as not to spoil his view. 

 

It is not until passing Jersey City that the high speed ferries begin to buzz around like killer wasps. I may be naïve, but I think sinking us would not look good on a captain’s resume. I took my track, gave the right of way where necessary, and tried not to deviate my course. We spent a lovely 10 days amongst the local color at a decidedly local marina. Its lack of charm was made up for by the resident boater’s antics. If I were a writer of fiction this place would have provided fodder, if not for a novel, then certainly for several compelling short stories.

 

On the way back north from several years spent in Chesapeake Bay, we stopped short of Manhattan and docked in Staten Island’s Great Kills Harbor. We spent another ten days as guest of the Great Kills Yacht Club. They were a welcoming bunch who bought us way too many drinks in the yacht club’s bar. I half expected Martin Scorsese to appear with a camera at any moment they were so stereotypically New Yorkers. The more they drank the more grievance surfaced concerning the other New Yorkers. It was explained to us that Staten Island funded, through their hard work and taxes, the other Burroughs.

 

A bus took us into Manhattan and brought us back to Carrie Rose’s peace and quiet each day. The large oval harbor laid out in front of us New York’s glittering skyline in the near distance. One night we came back especially late after listening to the Mingus Big Band at the Jazz Standard. We enthusiastically walked along the darkening docks towards the yacht club still flush with the energy absorbed from the band’s virtuosity. 

 

Our guard was down when suddenly car doors closed behinds us and multiple footsteps came our way. Instinct quickened our pace as it seemed theirs did also. We punched in the keypad numbers and made it safely into the club. But now what? Not wanting to openly admit to being nervous, we waited. Boredom got the best of us and we opened the door and sprinted to the dock’s gate. Another keypad and we were in, walking to Carrie Rose who floated gently bobbing in the glow of NYC.

 

My experience is that a visit to any island, no matter if big and populated or tiny and deserted, is compelling. Despite modern accoutrements, islands maintain a singularity that the mainland does not possess. The Hudson River is the perfect (well, almost) conveyance to carry out this task. In writing this I am fulfilling three of the above requirements for small boat cruising. Bring it on!          

Weaving & Screaming

It is hard to describe the intensity of Costa Rica’s roads. A drive, no matter how short, requires stepping up your game. Patience helps with the exasperation which begins immediately once on the road. Multiple types of speeding vehicles share the narrow lanes made even narrower by strategically placed pot holes with the emphasis on the hole.

On one foray into the mountains, the Hyundai’s passenger side suspension bottomed out with such force that I was convinced the car would be inoperable. It kept going. After the first stop, I inspected the tires and rims. The forward tire had two bulges # six inches apart. The aft tire showed a 4cm gash radiating out from the rubber coated rim. They were functional but toast.

 

Most of the roads are shoulder less. If anything, there is a sheer V-trench made to syphon off the rainy season’s water. Not to belabor the point, but between the ups and downs, switch back ladened, too narrow for comfort asphalt there are fully loaded semi- trucks, young women pushing baby carriages, Tour de France clad bike riders, multiple sized utility vehicle barely able to climb the steep grade, speed racers of every type including motorcycles, gas powered bicycles, and scooters. Add to this a tractor or two and an errant cow, and well, you get the idea.

 

Costa Rica is stunning. Deep green valleys with picture perfect farms. An endless array of open air restaurants often perched on mountain precipices offering spectacular vistas. As the elevation rises, the architecture takes on a Germanic Black Forest vibe. Coffee plantations appear. Dairy cows graze in rich pastures, mountain tops and verdant valleys appear and disappear amongst the clouds.

 

At lower elevations the roads improve and so does the congestion. It is a free for all. On even the most substantial roadways buses indiscriminately stop traffic in the right lane. Accidents, toll booths, breakdowns, road repairs, congested off ramps, screaming weaving two wheelers, speed bumps and errant vendors require constant attention from the driver. As I was mainly the front seat passenger my right leg was sore from applying the brakes.

 

I am not sure why it is this intense. If there was a national ad campaign asking everyone to slow up by 5mph/7kph surely the polite and mild mannered citizens I have had the pleasure to meet would comply. But then I am living in the fantasy world of an aging white American guy.

 

My advice: find a beautiful Costa Rican destination and stay put, or at least don’t venture more then ten miles in any direction. Any greater distances will require a stiff drink and much soul searching before leaving your home away from home once again. Whatever you decide to do, good luck and may the force be with you!

CPR

One day, or maybe it was night, over the Pacific Ocean a flight attendant leaned over and whispered into my ear, “Can we continue to Japan or not, you have 30 seconds to reply.” It is a peculiar position to be in. Not the flight attendant whispering into my ear, but to be confronted with such a question. I took pride in being decisive when practicing medicine, and here on my knees in the escape door aisle staring at an unconscious middle aged man’s face I needed a quick response. 

I answered a summons on the 747’s intercom system for a doctor. Now I had thirty seconds to decide if 300 souls should take a detour to a South Pacific atoll instead of to Narita Airport outside of Tokyo. 

 

Let’s be clear, not all doctors are created equal. My interest lies in primary care. I disliked the techy misery of the ICU and the commotion of the Emergency Department. For me a good day was when patients kept their appointments and nothing dreadful occurred with those hospitalized. I liked to know, when possible, why I was walking into the exam room. I was comfortable with the fifteen minutes I had to decide on a plan of action. Of course, it did not always work out but then I admitted it and that was a plan in itself. The less drama the better. 

 

So, what to do. I remembered the ABC’s: airway, breathing and circulation. I saw his chest rise and fall. It took ten seconds for my fingertips to feel his carotid artery’s heroic pulsations. His face was pink, and became pinker after I gave him a slap and dug my index finger’s knuckle into his sternum. Now with eyes open wide he moaned and gave a generous cough. Without turning I quietly said, “Keep on course.” and sensed the flight attendant’s quick motion to relay my response to the captain.

 

He sluggishly sat up and apologize for Ambien and alcohol, and I in turn, for the slap. I cleaned the dribble off his chin, closed the enormous first aid kit and escorted his embarrassed self to an aisle seat, hovering until I was sure I would not have to return. It was a walk to get back to my seat and as Charlotte noted, not enough time for my pink cheeks to recede. 

 

This taught me to dread each plane flight. Now that we will soon be traveling to the tip of South America, I felt compelled to refresh my expired Basic Life Support (BLS)/CPR certificate. It is the third renewal since that faithful day. BLS is not for the faint hearted, but then consider the consequences of inaction. 

 

BLS/CPR is an odd formulation of recognition, activation, and compression/ventilation. There are ratios and rates, placements and depths, and age ranges to take into consideration. And then there is the acting out. My wrists and elbows have yet to recover from compressing the plastic adult dummy’s recalcitrant chest.

 

That said, none of this should deter you from becoming proficient at CPR, because one day, or night, you may find yourself on your knees staring into an unconscious face . . .

Mania & Happy Holidays

Charlotte and I are heading for the Southern Ocean in January. The dining room table is the staging area for most of the warm clothes we possess. We live in Chicago’s hostile weather environment and spend a cold spring in Maine on Carrie Rose, so I have resisted buying a new outfit. Certainly, I already own enough gear to get me through the Antarctic summer.

 

The other half of this is that the clothes need to be lightweight. Our luggage is restricted to one Rick Steve’s backpack and the equivalent of a camera bag each. Of course, this limit is self imposed. With decades of travel experience under our belts, our kit has been refined to the bare minimum. I even dug out a light weight 35mm zoom lens to fit the Nikon digital camera. The con is that it is not self focusing but the plus is its extended telephoto capabilities when used with a digital camera.

 

This trip is the equivalent of a moon shot for us. It includes a completely new set of constellations. On my list of To-do’s was a study of the southern hemisphere’s night sky, then I looked up the sunrise/sunset data and the only entry is ‘Up All Day’. That put an end to that line of inquiry. Once before we spent two sleepless nights on the Norwegian Sea where the sun never set. This trip it will be 23 nights.

 

I wanted to visit the region since reading of the Artic explorer Shackleton’s misadventures while attempting to reach the South Pole in the early 20^th Century. For many years I heavily lobbied Charlotte to include South Georgia Island (where the above is buried) on the itinerary. South Georgia Island being ninety degrees east of Antarctica and some thousand miles from the coast Chile complicates the passage.

 

Time, money and the sea state combined to make this trip untenable. But as with many things post pandemic, it begs the question what are we waiting for. It still has not sunk in that I am nearing my seventh decade. After visits to the internist, urologist, ophthalmologist, cardiologist and finally, the dentist it is sinking in. Though, considering the conveyance for our journey is the good ship Fram, the use of words sunk and sinking is probably not auspicious.

 

Most things we do or have done to us these days require initialing, signing and dating various forms letting the perpetrators off the hook for any malfeasance. It is no different with this cruise. The forms read like a pharmaceutical’s adverse reactions section. There is a doctor on board to attend to our medical needs, but spelled out in clear language it states that being in the middle of nowhere the chances of rescue from injury or illness are dismal.

 

To this end a physician signed medical release form is needed to confirm we are capable, after paying an exorbitant fee to travel to a desolate ice covered rock in the Scotia Sea, of surviving the trip relatively intact. I can state as a former member of the medical profession, that these forms are the bane of doctors. They seemingly place the liability of any catastrophe on the shoulders of the primary care physician.

 

Knowing this I expected some push back and was not disappointed. The reluctance took on the passive aggressive stance of not checking all the boxes. It required me to get huffy (I apologized) with the medical assistant and Charlotte to compel her doctor into completing the form.

 

I ordered ten 3M N95 masks to protect us on the three extended plane flights south, a portable water flosser to prevent worsening gum disease, and silk sock liners to keep our toes warm. And I was frantic searching the house for two misplaced electric hand warmers. Our Will is updated, and our families and neighbors informed of the departure and return dates.

 

Thus, we are ready to go. It is a privilege and a joy to have the time, the resources and the health to take on this endeavor. Now all that is left to do is find some eye shades in the hope of preventing sleepless hysteria . . . Though I am afraid there is no hope for our self generated mania!

 

Happy Holidays!

 

Charlotte & Dean

Dramatic

Many of my blog entries are, well let’s just say, dramatic. They consist of unruly seas and high winds, of engine breakdowns and electrical outages, of hiding from tropical storms and hurricanes. I have discussed extended cold and rain, water and electric shortages, and for that matter, toilet malfunctions and overflowing holding tanks. I have become lost and disoriented, had multiple hard landing onto docks, and spent days cruising in fog so thick that the bow is barely visible.

There have been noteworthy encounters with various custom officials. I admit to a few shouting matches with boatyard staff. And to be truthful, more than one self-incrimination for attempting the upgrade or repair of something that I was not qualified - despite much preparation and study - to complete. 

 

Carrie Rose is a well behaved boat. She sips diesel out of the tank when running slowly. When power is needed, I can count on her 210 hp turbo diesel to spin the large four bladed propellor and know that she will immediately respond. There is no denying that she is a wet boat when powering into a head sea. And in a confused beam sea she is equally confused inside and I wish for a seat belt. Following seas love to push the eleven foot wide flat transom around enough to render the autopilot useless.

 

At anchor she has a tendency to waddle making me search for my mal de mere remedies. And in a heavy wind she sails 180 degrees to the port and starboard making for an uncomfortable night at watch trusting that the anchor will not break free. 

 

You might be wondering, as I do sometimes, why we return each year for another season, and I contend that it is the drama that keeps us coming back. Boats are dramatic. The Great Lakes, the Canadian and American Canals, the many rivers and locks, and the Atlantic Ocean are dramatic. The history, the scenery, and if you can believe it, the geology is dramatic.

 

And the people are dramatic, though in a subdued way. They are each on a mission. A mission, or maybe goal is a better word, that they have dreamed of and prepared for over a lifetime. I say subdued because despite my machinations in the above paragraphs most cruising folk do not crave drama on the water. A boring days passage, a glass of wine at anchor, a tasty meal and a restful sleep are the ideal. 

 

So, the time and money spent in preparation are an attempt to further the above. It is a difficult and at the same time, a satisfying task. It only takes one magical moment to justify the blood, sweat and tears. It is then that the melodramatic is transformed into the dramatic!

November 2022

Inspiration

Sometimes I need a little inspiration. Writing a monthly column proved to be inspiration enough. I never stored commentaries for future publication, though that would have been nice. Instead, I waited for a word to appear before me. Either I heard one or my brain provided me with one. The titles of the articles were that word. In the 18 years of writing, I think only the first title, Wearing Kimono, had more than one word for a name.

 So, now, for some reason this word has eluded me. I am not hearing it maybe because I am not listening. And my brain is not providing me with one. This has not yet caused me distress since my focus has shifted to musical phrases. The shakuhachi, notable for its complexity, keeps ringing through my mind. The rhythm, timing, and phrasing, let alone the production of each pitch, floods my thought processes. 

 

I come late to the production of music. It was/is a goal to learn how to play an instrument, any instrument. At present there is a sax, multiple harmonicas, a violin, two cigar box guitars, and one electric and one acoustic guitar occupying a small space in the living room. I forgot to mention the penny whistles, and a small thumb piano next to the mini keyboard controller. 

 

I haven’t mentioned the shakuhachi. There are approximately six of them. Being lazy this morning I do not feel like getting up to do an accurate inventory. These stem from overly expensive and bamboo to dirt cheap and plastic. They each have their own sound and their limitations. Though, that said, many of their limitations have disappeared the longer I practice. 

 

Notes that were impossible have succumbed to years of practice. Phrasings that petered out mid stream can now be completed in one breath, on a good day at least. Breathe that lead to hyperventilation and dizziness, now, with care, is no longer an impediment. There is a YouTube phenom call Two Set Violin. Their dictum is to practice forty hours per day and I get it. Music is relentless in many of the same ways that medical training is. Neither take any prisoners.

 

The above is a long drawn out excuse to myself for not having the inspiration to write. Who’s kidding who after all? It comes down to motivation and lately the motivating factor appears to be delaying the onset of dementia. Most of us had wacky aunts and uncles or grandparents when we were young, they were easy to write off but no longer. Now those wacky relatives are too close for comfort. With every loss of car keys or  misplaced cellphone, the certainty of a lucid 70’s, 80’s and beyond is suspect.

 

Puzzles, exercise, supplements, reading, diets, and on and on promise to prevent or at least delay the above’s onset. It can get down right frantic trying to implement these preventative measures. But I guess the thought of this got me to sit down and try my hand at writing this. It is amazing how fear can be a motivation and lead to inspiration!

 

Thanks Butch . . .

1978

In 1978, after perusing the pages of The Whole Earth Catalog, I sent what little money I had to Monty Levinson in the fabled mountains of northern California. He in turn sent back a long slender scrap of corseted bamboo. It was, I should say is, for I still have it, a facsimile of a Japanese vertical flute called a shakuhachi. 

His catalog entry was familiar, like the Charles Atlas ad in the back of every comic. They promised, with a little bit of work, a magnificent buff body. The shakuhachi, steeped in Zen, offered enlightenment. It would be hard lonely work but it offered a path. 

 

As promised, it took sometime to get the first notes grudgingly out of it. The small but thorough instruction manual offered the basics along with a few pieces of music. In time I learned to read the unique tablature and began to practice just before bed. I was a diligent student, so just before bed was at 11 PM. I quietly played for 15 or 20 minutes then went to bed.

 

Later, after a chance encounter with my next door neighbor, and an apology by me for disturbing her sleep, she said she looked forward to the oddly soothing sounds. It helped her doze off. Time moved on and so did I. I bought another shakuhachi, this one a maple replica, and did not play for a decade.

 

Every so often I would revisit the flute. It would not last long: I was busy, I did not have the correct instrument, I did not want to disturb Charlotte’s and the neighbor’s peace. Always another excuse. As I inched towards sixty and after decades of watching, really envying, classical and jazz musicians I knew I had to act.

 

I took a lesson with Ronnie Nyogetsu Seldin, the YoYoMa of the shakuhachi world. He traveled around the east coast to his various dojos to teach. An email was sent and an appointment made for a session outside of Washington D.C. What can I say, it was humbling. Not because of him, he was gracious and encouraging. But because I realized how much time I had wasted.

 

After relating the above to a friend, an avid oboe player, who I had lunch with most days at the hospital, I promised to practice one hour each day. He said that is what is required, if I was serious. So, I have tried to stay true to that promise. 

 

At home when it is time to practice I retreat to the front of the house and close the doors behind me. This is not possible on Carrie Rose the only door being to the head. I still retreat to the bow where the bed resides. I prop the music up on a pillow or my flutes case, and begin by playing long notes and end by playing Choshi, literally “To tune”. It is an ancient piece that seeks inner repose.

 

I have no idea how the sound travels. Most harbors and anchorages in Maine are quiet. I think of this as I play and try not to annoy Charlotte, fellow cruisers or myself. The notes on the chart are a guide and I am thankful that I learned to read their magic in 1978, even if enlightenment has eluded me.

Brooklin, Maine

Blue Sky

The rain and wind stopped some time ago. Upon its cessation the fog did not creep in but descended from above. The hilltop clouds were kept in place by the wind and the upward force of falling rain. Once over, the dense cloud dropped. In a matter of seconds little of the harbor was visible. The temperature fell 5 degrees and we hunkered down. 

 

Hours went by with no change. We had lunch, read and eventually I lit the salon’s propane fireplace. After a few chores Charlotte napped while I sat below trying to stay interested in a book about lobstering which had begun to discuss lobster anatomy.

 

This type of writing by Melville or the less accomplished author of my book is doomed to failure. If I had not trained myself, over decades of intense study, to never pass over a paragraph without understanding it, I too would be napping. 

 

The wind shifted a bit from the South to the Southeast. The fog moved on, blue sky appeared, and a warm breeze filled in. I shaded my eyes from the sun. Opened the pilothouse doors. Then went outside to chamois off the boat.

 

Distant streaks of clouds headed Downeast. As the sunlight sparkles on the harbor’s blue water, we contemplated the shore. A walk to stretch our legs. The only impediment is to decide to put the dinghy in the water or to call channel 66 for the tender service to pick us up. It is only three in the afternoon, so there is no pressure to rush this decision. 

 

I may sit in the pilothouse, watch the various craft come and go, and let my mind wander until dinner time . . . Let’s see, what should I cook.

NE Habor, MDI, Maine

Redemption

We are tied to mooring ball #2 at Buck’s Harbor Marina. It is located at the northeast end of Eggemoggin Reach. The harbor is U shaped due to the appropriately named Harbor Island being in the center of a scooped out portion South Brooksville. As is typical in Maine there are many well found yachts here. 

 

The harbor is all moorings. We all swing with the wind and the tide generated currents. Tree covered granite hills a hundred or so feet high surround the harbor. Houses peek through the forest cover here and there. The marina is perched on the edge of the water. Its guts are out for everyone to see. 

 

One of the main attractions here is the two outdoor showers: your head and feet are visible. Most cruising boaters are elated to take a shower in any circumstances. The marina is owned and run by a delightful and low key family. Their lanky white and black dog could give a shit about any of us and that makes her even more endearing.

 

Their small shop has t-shirts, a few boating supplies, craft beer, and most importantly, The Island Lady brand of ice cream. It comes in small cups that are frozen rock hard. All the better for it slows the consumption down to a crawl even when it is warm.

 

Above the harbor is a small village but that is an exaggeration. There is a store which is attached to a famous restaurant called Buck’s, no surprise there. Due to its affiliation with the restaurant this out of the way store has a quirky selection of fine wines, Italian specialty items, and hand made goods. It is worth the walk up the hill.

 

When the restaurant is open, many of the transient boaters vacate their craft around dinner time and return some hours later a little louder than when they left. For some reason we have never been able to secure a reservation and have given up despite the insistence of our local friends that we must eat there. Not to be conceited but it is hard to find pasta made better in a restaurant than I can make on my little butane stove.

 

Of course, just around the corner we could anchor for free but there is something compelling about this little niche of the world. It seems to redeem my faith that we are not going to hell in a handbasket. Do not ask me why, I could not tell you and I am perfectly prepared if the opposite turns out to be true.

 

The young spirited owner was on his own today. His family, who usually runs the marina, were off doing various things. He was shirtless with bright Bahama shorts on and there was Reggae quietly playing on the deck that overlooks the harbor. As we sat in the sun eating peach and chocolate ice cream, I could have sworn I heard Bob Marley’s Redemption Song playing in the background . . .  

Northeast Harbor, MDI, Maine

                       

Plans

There was a time when much effort went into making plans. What with work, family, and other commitments scheduling one’s life took a bit of work. I can’t say when it became apparent to me that this was no longer the case. My guess is not long ago with the passing of Seymour, Charlotte’s father and the last of the ancients, that was a turning point. But it had begun long before.

 

I was guilty in my youth of being an expert procrastinator. I did manage to get things done though usually in a panic. When I decided to go back to school the first time, the deadlines for applications and the need to obtain historical data in time for said applications caused me no end of stress.

 

The second time I decided to go back to school was worse. At this point I already had a career. Problem was, I was not satisfied with it. To reach my goal I needed to return to the university to finish requirements and simultaneous apply to medical school. The internet was in its infancy. I poured over many pages of text in many school catalogs, and mined them for information, much of which concerned deadlines. 

 

The dates were noteworthy because missing any of them meant a lost year in the application process, and I did not have a year to lose. Between the USPS, faxes, emails, and even hand retrieved and delivered documents, I accomplished the task on time and as it turned out, successfully. It was a lesson learned without realizing that learning was taking place. 

 

Now I suppose long suffering readers are wondering what this diatribe is about considering I am sitting on Carrie Rose in the Maine fog. Well, Charlotte and I need to make a plan for how to end the summer. This year was a challenge from the beginning. I will spare you the details. We almost faltered but persisted just long enough to find a solution. Another lesson learned.

 

As I remind myself frequently, I am not getting younger. (I will let Charlotte comment - or not - concerning this topic.) There seems to be only so much energy, psychic or otherwise, to consume and then to recover. So, the plan for when Carrie Rose is coming out of the water rests on our collective energy evaluation. 

 

One of the fixes on Carrie Rose was the installation of a sophisticated battery monitor replacing the original quirky volt meter. The new device displays the percentage of power left in the batteries and for how long, at the present usage, the batteries will continue to provide power. It also, using Bluetooth, sends the data to my iPhone. Now would it not be convenient to have similar personal data sent.

 

I assume there exists an app for this on my phone. I am just too busy procrastinating to search and install it. My mind is preoccupied with the near future when I will be forced to declare a plan. I may leave it to Charlotte as she is well versed in spread sheets and seems to relish in making list and declaring deadlines! 

Seal Bay, Vinalhaven Island, Maine

Quiet Cove

It is like someone or something is daring us to see who will make the first sound this morning. I am lying in bed and straining to hear anything. What will it be: a faint craw of a distant crow, the current gently streaming pass the hull, a gull or a tern or more dramatically the splash of a hunting osprey? 

 Of course, those are natural sounds. It could be an engine starting, or an anchor clanging. It could be a dinghy motoring by or the swish of oars. Finally, I cannot stand it anymore and even though it is before seven, I get up. The cove is still. The ten or eleven boats are reflected in the mirror-like water. There is not even the hint of wind. 

 

The bow points away from the rising sun and is cool and covered with dew. The stern has two suns. The one in the sky and the other reflected off the still water. I take my flannel shirt off and sit down to enjoy the warmth. It is getting towards the end of August and the summer heat is over. Against my better judgement Charlotte has put the down comforter back on the bed. I can’t say it was a mistake.

 

As I warm up like a lizard, is when I hear it: the Stonington fog horn. I could be mistaken, the throughfare between North Haven and Vinalhaven may have a horn but I am not sure. I will consult the chart later in the day, that is if I remember to.

 

Now I sense some rumbling amongst the boats and decide to join in on the cacophony. It is time to boil water and make tea. At this Charlotte stirs and the day begins. For some reason I elect to polish the stainless steel railings and Charlotte joins in cleaning but her task is the mat in the bathroom. 

 

Boats begin to leave and as I polish the anchor windless I overhear one boater talk to the another about favorite free mooring sites. These are coveted details that I try as hard to hear as I did the first sounds of the morning. But alas I fail, and make another decision to be first in line to buy the new inexpensive hearing aids. 

Seal Bay, Vinalhaven Island, Maine

Brown

Maine is brown this year. Most of the fields look scorched. The brown is nestled between the dark blue-green sea and the rich green upper story of deciduous trees with an occasional red barn in between. To me it looks dangerous. One errant spark or discarded cigarette could send the whole island up in flames. Thankfully the only people I see smoking are the lobster fishers and they harmlessly throw the smoldering butts into the water. 

 

The fields in Maine were used for fodder and hay, but now most lay fallow. They have a certain appearance which at first looks like a monoculture wheat crop. On closer inspection the fields consist of a multiplicity of plants that glow. Though the predominate color is that of hay, there is much more complexity. 

 

There are greens and various shades of violet, even bright red makes an appearance. And of course, the colors depend on the time of year, the moisture content, the mowing and/or grazing schedule. I say grazing even though, other than the occasional goat or horse, I rarely see any barnyard animals. 

 

Last year Maine was green. It rained continually except when the tropical storms came and then it poured. Each morning when I emerged from our damp sleeping quarters at the bow I would look at the relative humidity gauge. It was topped out at 100%, whereas this year it hovers more in the 40 to 50% range. 

 

There have been many heat advisories this year, last year there were none. The few times we have made it to land the temperature have been in the high eighties or nineties. But Maine’s waters resist warmth except in isolated shallow bays. Eleven foot ebb tides suck warm water out into the Atlantic and replace it with fifty degree water during the flood. So, on the water it is rarely hot. 

 

Today is a down day for us. The wind, due to a large contra spinning offshore low, is from the northeast and gusting over the protective hill at 25 knots. The rain has been steady but not particularly hard. A few powerboats left this morning in contrast to the sailboats which have stayed anchored. 

 

Carrie Rose is in a well protect harbor attached to a friend’s mooring. As the gust blow over her she gently swings side to side. Wavelets clunk against the bow drum like, a sound we have become accustomed to and barely hear. I sit in the pilothouse and look out at one beautiful sailboat after another anchored before me. 

 

A large black heavily reefed Hinckley just sought refuge in the harbor. It does the usual dance to find the perfect spot to drop the anchor. The Camden Hills across East and West Penobscot Bays have faded in the mist, and white caps are streaming past the harbors entrance. The wind and rain have escalated, so it timed its arrival perfectly.

There is plenty of food, fuel, and wine on Carrie Rose. It was a good call to come here and then to stay put. When the low pressure system moves east and the sun returns I will be curious if Maine becomes green again, just in time to turn brown . . .  

Pulpit Harbor, North Haven, Maine

In-service

Today’s destination was Warren Island State Park, a mere 10 miles from Belfast where we spent the last two days. Belfast Harbor broadens as it opens northeast into Belfast Bay and then Penobscot Bay. Large ocean going ships, and tug and barge combos head to Searsport in the upper reaches of the bay from the Atlantic Ocean. There sits fuel storage facilities and a large chemical plant, some of the few industrial site we see when cruising in Maine. 

This island state park has nine moorings, one of which, at twenty dollars per night, give us a respite from anchoring. Once moored with the engine turned off I could hear the distinctive screech of the common tern. A large dark shape was flying erratically above the tree line. As I watched, a group of the diminutive but determined terns divebombed what turned out to be a somewhat ragged bald eagle. 

 

The eagle was surprisingly agile considering its size. Whenever it banked to the right or left its splendid white tail feathers became visible. I have only seen eagles fishing but maybe they will pick up the stray tern chick if given the opportunity. 

 

While in Belfast, Charlotte was marooned on Carrie Rose as I attended to a minor medical issue. Our friends on Blue picked me off our mooring and this left Charlotte there with the dinghy, which had the electric outboard attached. Now, I have talked of giving Charlotte an in-service on how to operate the motor but I never did. I am confident that in a pinch she would get it to work, though that is hardly the proper way to approach such eventualities.

 

That said, there is nothing like a personal lesson to make sure things run safe and smooth. So, our mission today at Warren was to get Charlotte up to speed. I dropped the dinghy off the stern and proceeded to attach the Torqeedo electric outboard. It consists of three parts: a shaft with the motor and propeller attached to the bottom, the heavy shoebox size battery, and the handle with the controls and a small rectangular screen that reports the speed and the battery’s charge.

 

The design is maximized to prevent errors when assembling it on the back of a rocking dinghy. The only difficulty comes when attaching the power and control cables. They only fit one way and then a screw on collar secures them. The collars are nylon and never quite line up the first time and risk cross threading. Let’s just say I never fail to curse as I make the final connections. 

 

But we are not going there with this day’s instruction. Today is limited to turning the contraption on and operating the motor. It is simple really. Place the round magnet that substitutes for a key in its socket, hold the “on” button down for 3 seconds, and turn the handle one way or the other depending on the direction and speed needed. 

 

It is nice to sit in the bow and look around while Charlotte drives. We cruise to inspect each mooring, then dock on the island’s pier to put twenty bucks in the moldy envelop to pay for the night. Then we went for a walk in the woods until the mosquitoes caught up with us. 

 

Charlotte attempted to have me drive back to Carrie Rose but I demurred. I sat in the bow and asked to be driven by the large schooner, the J&E Riggins, that anchored close by. The only tricky maneuver is the approach to Carrie Rose’s starboard midships. Here I get to attach the bow line to the cleat and the dinghy float to the stern ladder so we can disembark. The process goes smoothly without any voices raised. 

 

I am surprised we never had this lesson before considering the decades we’ve cruised. Early on Carrie Rose designated roles for us and despite knowing better, we resisted change. Such is the power of routine. 

Pulpit Harbor, North Haven Island, Maine

Envy

Charlotte and I have spent a bit of time in Maine over these last seven years excluding 2020 of course. I think we have the right to consider ourselves ‘part time’ summer people. We are not landed and thus have no bragging rights to any particular island or region. I suppose where the boat is kept is as close as we get, but that is a tenuous claim at best. 

Many folks we encounter seem to have roots connected to the Mayflower. And the summer people’s forebearers also, if not the Mayflower, have connections to Maine that go back generations. For a second generation Italian American like me this is heady stuff. 

 

Charlotte is better prepared. On her mother’s side the roots are deep in the Carolinas. Often when she discusses her kin I hear terms such as Huguenots, and a great grandfather in the Spanish American War with Teddy Roosevelt, and carriage makers in the deep south and other distinguished personages. She can make a case as a descendent of America’s first settlers.

 

I am from a prairie state with a small claim to Lake Michigan’s coast. It is there that I received my on the water experience. Maine is a vast tree covered state with a dramatic coastline. The population, like many similar land forms, hugs the Atlantic shoreline. It is best to have a full tank of gas when venturing inland and especially north to Canada as the population drops off sharply. Due to the jagged coastline, it is often easier to move about by boat then on the roads. 

 

When cruising on Carrie Rose we are often in remote areas with miles between the islands and the mainland. Invariably on a small mountainous island there sits a large rustic home on the summit. It is fascinating to think of the privilege and the mindset needed to construct such a monument. Do these people have large extended families to house? How do they get there without subjecting family and friends to the seasickness generating seas that we so often incur.

 

If you are getting the impression that I am envious, well, you are correct. I have no reason to be. I have a wholly envious life compared to most. But within my monkey brain it is hard to turn off the jealousy centers. I mean why couldn’t my family have come from Puritan stock with deep roots in the Northeast instead of dirt farmers from Italy. Life is just not fair . . . 

 

But as I sit in Carrie Rose’s pilothouse writing this I must disavow the above. Because of my heritage I grew up free in the much maligned city of Chicago with its art, architecture, music, ethnic food and diversity. I was nurtured by my mother’s splendid Southern Italian cooking and by my father’s Tuscan magnanimity. Life is more than fair; in fact, it is blessed.

Pulpit Harbor, North Haven, Maine

8/2022