Thanksgiving pictures

Karl displays the dinner of which I am so proud. Note the "Melissa" mug, a mainstay of the boat.

My candlelit casseroles, of which I was so proud.

Exhausted and happy.

Thanksgiving pictures

Karl displays the dinner of which I am so proud. Note the "Melissa" mug, a mainstay of the boat.

My candlelit casseroles, of which I was so proud.

Exhausted and happy.

Cohansey River to Greenwich, NJ

2.6 nm
Wind: NE 15-25 knots, gusting to 45
Maximum speed: 3.5 knots
Average speed: 2.1 knots
Latitude: 39°37.26’N
Longitude: 075°34.66’W

We’re socked in again today, trapped by the storm we saw coming yesterday. The wind is supposed to be gusting to 45 knots (40 is gale force), and it might be, although we think we’ve only seen about thirty. We’re not getting a very good forecast on our three-mile radius VHF radio, so it’s hard to know. We’re supposed to be out of the worst of it. But this morning we woke up to realize that the land we thought we had anchored behind last night was really a couple of reeds sticking out of the water. It might have been an island when there wasn’t six feet of tidal flooding.

After thinking it over, we decided to move farther up the river, where both Skipper Bob and the Reed’s Nautical Almanac, our two guidebooks, told us we’d have more protection. There’s a marina in the town of Greenwich, which we’re in sight of, but we decided to anchor behind a stand of trees in twenty feet of water. Right now we’re watching the tides very closely, hoping the tidal current after low tide doesn’t swing us into land. We’re anchored in a river that flows into the bay, so hopefully the river is strong enough to not reverse current. I’m making pizzas, and trying to decide how to make tomorrow’s boat Thanksgiving a good one.

We had planned to buy a little turkey and some other fixings, but now it looks like we won’t be able to get to a grocery store before tomorrow. So it looks like it’s going to be a canned chicken Thanksgiving. We’re pretty good at doctoring things up, so maybe I’ll be able to make it into some semblance of a festive event. It’s Karl’s favorite holiday, so I’m a little sad that we won’t be able to do it right, but as always, he doesn’t care about petty everyday concerns like that. If I get ambitious, maybe I’ll even make a blueberry pie.

The passage up the river was crazy, even though it was only three miles. Our GPS doesn’t have charts for inland sections (we’re working on this problem, and should be able to download more charts the next time we have internet access), so all we had was a rudimentary drawing of a river. Karl stood outside, at the helm, in the brutal cold and icy rain, trying to maintain the center of the channel. I watched the GPS like a hawk, giving him hints about which direction might be deeper, even though I had no idea. It worked out great, though. It was deep enough the whole way, and I feel good about heading up our first patch of uncharted water. I’m sure we’ll end up in more by the time we get around the world.

Now we’re cozy with the oven and candles on, and Phil Ochs on the CD player. I’m looking forward to my sausage and onion pizza, with cheddar and mozzarella.

Sunrise over Cape May

Cape May to Cohansey River, NJ

35.7 nm
Wind: NE 10-20 knots, sustained gusts of at least 25 in Lower Delaware Bay
Seas: 4-6 feet, extremely choppy
Maximum speed: 5.5 knots
Average speed: 3.7 knots
Latitude: 39°20.72’N
Longitude: 075°21.75’W

We had a bunch of firsts today. We double-reefed the main for the first time, and we were out of sight of land for the first time. Not exactly things you want to do on the same day. But we did them. We had been warned about the nastiness of Delaware Bay, but thought that it had been exaggerated, that it was probably no worse than Buzzards Bay, which we grew up on. But it was, a lot worse. At least a lot bigger. Halfway through the morning we looked out to realize that we were completely out of sight of land, even though we were surrounded by it. It was a creepy feeling, especially given the weather we had.

We woke up early to catch slack tide through the three-mile Cape May Canal, and on our way out past the last buoys, a guy in a huge sailboat came past us going the other direction. We were trailing Tinkerbell, our dinghy, behind us, like we always do. “Better pull that dinghy up,” he said. “It’s choppy out there.” At the same moment, we noticed two fishermen, who had made fun of our matching yellow foul-weather gear on their way out, before leaving a wake that nearly washed us into the rocks, came back the opposite direction. Hmm, we thought to ourselves. Maybe it’s bad out there.

And it was. As soon as we got out into the bay proper, waves were hitting our bow so hard that it was being driven underwater. Everything in the boat fell out of place—drawers were banging open, stuff we had neglected to tie down was falling out on the floor, coffee cups spilling all over the table. Karl had the helm at this point, I was below trying to control the chaos, and we both thought that we had gotten in over our heads.

There’s a huge storm coming in tomorrow, allegedly, and everyone else in the harbor had chosen to wait it out in Cape May. This wind was the vanguard to the storm, and it was coming from the opposite direction as the current, which makes the chop almost unbearable. Starting this afternoon, winds were supposed to gust to 25. Our brilliant plan was to head north during the relatively good weather today and get into the protection of Upper Delaware Bay, where the storm isn’t supposed to hit so hard.

But coming out into that wind, and those waves, made us almost want to turn around. Karl proposed putting two reefs in the main, which we hadn’t raised yet, and I agreed enthusiastically. I don’t even know if I would have bothered to try to sail if he hadn’t suggested it, but I’m so glad he did. Every time we start using the boat as she’s designed to be used, as a sailboat, our motion eases out, she takes the waves better, and we all relax.

It took about an hour to put the reefs in the main—we were both in full raingear, Karl was clipped in to his harness, up by the mast, I was making plans for what I would do when he fell over, or cracked his skull open and started bleeding all over the deck. But once we did, and reefed the main, and curled out a handkerchief jib to balance the helm, we were sailing pretty, at about five knots, and Secret was doing just fine. Because of the cold, we decided to take shifts of an hour on, an hour off, and I took the first hour. I just kept talking to her, especially when the waves would hit us broadside and nearly knock us flat. I knew she could handle it—we know someone who made it through 60 knots of wind in the Pacific with a triple-reefed main and a handkerchief jib. Knowing that made me a lot more confident, as did thinking about the racers who, God bless them, would have said we needed more sail out.

Karl, while reefing the main, was praying. A lot. He told me later that he had a crazy dream last night in which a sign on the wall read, “The way out is through God,” and he thought that could have been an omen. This could be it. But the minute he took the helm, the waves started to smooth out, the sky cleared, and even though the wind was still blowing us over, it was a beautiful day for a sail. I looked out at him and he had a euphoric smile on his face. “This, this is beautiful,” he said.

The wind and the seas calmed down in the afternoon, and we were even able to unfurl a little more jib, although we kept both reefs in our main for safety’s sake. We could see the line of building clouds on the horizon behind us—we just prayed that our boat could move faster than the storm. We ended up sailing almost right into the river where we’re anchored tonight.

We both felt ecstatic all day. To take our boat, to take ourselves, and push them to the limit, to realize that our limit can be stretched just that much more. It makes you truly alive. One day like that is worth a hundred ordinary days.

I leave you with a quote from Brion Toss, the author of the Rigger’s Apprentice, taken from the Pardeys’ Storm Tactics Handbook:

“If you spend any time at sea, you’ll spend sometime wishing you were someplace else. But the truth is that those times can be some of the best of your life, a tempering process that nourishes and confirms the resilience of the human spirit.”

May you always sleep as well as I will tonight.

Heading into the Cohansey River

Cape May, NJ

Wind: NW 10 knots

I don’t understand Karl’s blog entry. I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or an insult. Oh well. So the rest of our passage went fine, aside from our severe lack of sleep causing us to snip at each other. Karl had a bird come and visit him during his last watch, sitting on the boom to keep him company. I had a huge tug pulling a barge pass me about 100 yards away. I kept shining our spotlight (thanks Ralph!) on the sail to make sure he would know we were there, and I hope he did, but I would have had to take evasive maneuvers otherwise. Karl’s attempting to fix our autopilot, the Master, right now, so that we can use it if we decide to do the DelMarVa coast (the offshore route between Cape May and Norfolk, VA).

There’s a storm supposed to blow in on Wednesday, so we were supposed to head up the Delaware Bay tonight to get away from the coast, but I don’t know if we really will, especially because our friends on Sea Belle just showed up. We’re sharing the anchorage here with two other cruising boats, too—Decibel, out of Freeport, Maine (they have a sailing dinghy and a dog!), and Hispaniola out of Portsmouth, NH. So we’re in the New England section of the harbor, I guess. We haven’t met Hispaniola yet, but both boats appear to have three crew members, including captain, without being much bigger than our boat. An arrangement I can’t say I envy. We can barely keep from killing each other sometimes and there are only two of us.

After we got in, we were severely hypothermic the rest of the day, and exhausted, but I refused to go to sleep because I thought it would throw off my sleep schedule. Fat lot of good it did us—we still slept in until ten this morning, and haven’t left yet. But Karl made me awesome clam chowder last night, doctored out of cans, and I threw baked potatoes in the oven, and we ate those with butter, cracked pepper, cheddar cheese, and sour cream. I don’t think I’ve ever had better food in my life. Actually, I know I have, but those first creamy, delectable bites of potato in my frostbitten, sleep-challenged body were like heaven.

We’re certainly eating well on the boat. This morning, with the leftover baked potatoes, Karl cooked me up bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese and spinach, and curried hash browns. It was delicious. It’s been a week since we’ve been shopping, and we’re still eating like kings. All these things keep amazingly well—the spinach had barely begun to go bad, and we ate every last leaf of it, the sour cream, even the bananas. We’ve eaten both bacon and kielbasa that had been left, unopened and unrefrigerated, in the boat for over a month, without getting sick. Let that be a lesson to all of you people out there about the quantity of nitrates in your food. Not good news to you, I imagine, but for us cruisers, it’s definitely fortunate. So does unopened non-dairy creamer, opened mayonnaise, and unrefrigerated citrus fruit.

I’m sure, at this point, that you’re beginning to worry about our health. Karl makes fun of me saying that I’m never happier than when I can eat moldy food, and in some ways it’s true. I was thrilled to discover that Lin Pardey recommends hanging a side of bacon in your chain locker and wiping the mold off of it with a vinegar solution before hacking off chunks and eating them. In fact, she goes into great detail about the kinds of mold that can be wiped off raw, unrefrigerated meat after which it may still be eaten. It’s awesome. A girl after my own heart. It’s still nice to know that other people have eaten unchilled food for decades, living to a ripe old age, without keeling over and dying.

Things that do go bad quickly: salsa. Bagels. Anything that’s opened and is liquidy or moist. Actually, moisture kills everything, even cabbages that are supposed to survive indefinitely. Ah, the joy of the cabbage, though. We’ve been eating one down for the last several days after I rescued it from death by mold. Karl put some in eggs yesterday morning, it’s delicious in soup, especially ramen, when spiced appropriately. There’s something very heartening about cabbage soup in the cold, despite its bad reputation. I keep wanting to write recipes, like the soup I made for Karl on watch the other night when we used a vise clamp as a pot holder to keep the soup from falling off the stove. I had all my leftovers from burritos in the pan—refried beans, taco meat, spinach, habanero salsa, and chopped tomatoes, and then added a ton of cabbage and an Oriental ramen. It was delectable. Again, we were freezing, beam-reaching over the chilly wine-dark sea, so probably anything would have been good, but I swear, someone should market my Mexican ramen. Especially the dissolved refried beans in the broth—mmm mmm.

Lin Pardey also says you can keep food on the stove indefinitely by bringing it to a boil for a couple of seconds every day, as long as you keep the lid tightly on. Keep leftovers indefinitely? On the stove? It’s thrilling, this boat life. Waste not, want not. Most of our leftovers become the basis for our meals the next day—the tacos turned into soup, the soup turned into new soup, the potatoes turned into hash browns, the squash turned into beef stew. I’m just now trying to figure out what to do with the leftover clam chowder. Maybe white clam sauce for pasta? Who knows.

I’m very excited about our prospects for Thanksgiving. I was just surveying them in Joy of Cooking right now. I think Karl’s going to do a little turkey on the grill, that will probably feed us for a week, I might bake some rolls and make stuffing, and we have the ingredients for the rest of Thanksgiving dinner already on the boat. I’m trying to decide if I want to try to make pie, too. That might be a little ambitious. It won’t rival the feast I had last year at my sister’s, but what could?

Sorry to go on and on about food. In the cold, on the boat, one has little else to think about. And it’s been a while since I had to manage the cuisine of my own household. It’s very exciting.

Sandy Hook to Cape May, NJ

121.6 nm
Maximum speed: 6.7 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 6.6 knots
Average speed: 4.3 knots
Latitude: 38°56.98’N
Longitude: 074°53.18’W

We’re here. We made it in one piece. I’m exhausted and barely coherent, so I’m going to let Karl write the blog tonight. Which probably isn’t a good idea, since we got into a big fight today.

Im writing bthis the same way Melissa
































































































































































































Picks

















































Up

New Jersey Fishermen

They use sails while they're clamming!

En route from Sandy Hook to Cape May, NJ

Wind: Calm, building to up to NW 15 knots
Seas: 3-6 feet with swell

It’s midnight, and I’m getting ready to start my shift at the tiller, from twelve to three, so I can’t write for very long. The boat’s dark, Karl’s outside sailing on a beam reach. A beam reach to paradise, or so they say. I’ve just gotten about a half-hour of sleep out of my three hours of alleged sleep. Sleeping is difficult when you have water rushing past your ears at about 50 decibels, as well as all the miscellaneous creaks and groans a fiberglass boat makes under sail. Karl says it’s the hull flexing, but it freaks me out. Every time it happened I could swear something hit the hull.

I had the craziest dreams, too—that Karl was walking around the cockpit, not at the tiller, that we had stopped in someplace named Fargut, and docked with a nice young couple, that I had slept through my alarm and Karl had had to hold the tiller until five in the morning… The mind does crazy things at night on a sailboat under sail.

It’s our first time. It’s very exciting. I wasn’t very enthused about the idea. In fact, I had thought that we could go into Manasquan Inlet to anchor tonight, especially after we had to motor almost all day today. There was no way I was motoring all night, in the frigid cold. We pulled into Manasquan, after the wind picked up and we were able to sail for about an hour. It was freezing cold all day, and the prospect of sailing all night made me chilled. But for some reason our GPS doesn’t have detail for the inlets, and dark had fallen while we had messed around dropping the main, and all we had was a seven-year-old chartlet from Reed’s Nautical Almanac for navigation. There were no buoys in the channel at all, and the rumor that we had heard, that Manasquan was awful for anchoring, was rapidly proved true.

Karl said, “Screw this, we’re heading back out to the open water.” And we did. With a two-hour detour. Now we’re heading straight for Cape May, if the weather holds.

The best story of the day is that we almost caught a gargantuan fish, almost being the operative word. We have three fishing poles on the boat, as well as two boxes of fishing tackle, two crab pots, and a nine-foot casting net, but we have yet to fish from the boat. Yesterday, after watching all of the charter fishing boats leave Cape May on their twice daily excursions, Karl dug out our trolling rod and a tuna lure, costing $4.95, that I insisted we buy.

So he set it up this morning when there was no wind and we were motoring, right as we were approaching the charter fishing boat hangout. Now, our trolling pole is a sad affair, ancient, with a broken eye on the end. Karl attached it to its rod holder with a piece of twine, and was just sitting back as I steered, thinking that if a fish bit big enough to pull the rod out of the rod holder, the twine would never hold it. But it did. A huge fish of some variety yanked that rod so hard that it cracked the wooden rod holder in two. The rod went flying off the back of the boat, and the only thing I saw was Karl, almost jumping off the boat, as he tried to catch the end of the broken pole. He did, and fought with the fish for a couple of moments before it snapped the brass leader right off the line, along with my fancy lure. We’re going to have to buy some more of those, that’s for sure. I want some tuna. Still, it was exciting, and it’s nice to have a big bite on our very first day fishing. We’ll have to be more ambitious in the future. We’re not fishing right now because if we caught one, one of us alone couldn’t handle the tiller and the fish.

I must go. Three hours of finger-numbing servitude to the tiller await.

Our friends, Lise and Marcel

Sandy Hook, NJ

Wind: W 10-15 knots, gusting to 20 knots

Another day in lovely Sandy Hook. I shouldn’t complain, because we’ve accomplished a ton here. The head got fixed, we got showers, and internet, and laundry done, bought groceries, got fuel and water and ice, all of that important but boring stuff. We were supposed to leave today, and I fear we may regret not leaving today. There’s supposed to be a good weather window through Tuesday, but you never know, especially in November. Still, I’m glad we stayed, because I think we got more accomplished today on the boat than we have since we started sailing.

Let me see if I remember the entire list: dishes (which are never-ending on the boat, in my sink the size of a teacup), bleaching all the mildew out of the corners of the boat, off the wooden cutting boards and the trash can, bleaching our toothbrushes, organizing the toiletries, putting back in our navigation station cushion, going through our gigantic miscellaneous box that no matter what we do never seems to get smaller, making a tool drawer for Karl so he doesn’t have to drag rust from his toolbox all over the cabin sole any time he needs a tool, saving the cabbage from decay, rinsing out our floor rags and Karl’s muddy gloves, putting away my summer clothes so I can fit the important papers in the shelving in the vee-berth, sweeping and cleaning the floor, and all-around general organization.

Karl’s list was: putting up my Don Quixote Picasso print on the bulkhead, putting up my knife block, testing miscellaneous loose wires and taping them up, rigging up brackets for our VHF charger, inverter, and solar-panel controller, screwing wires in the head back into place and protecting them with a teak panel, putting up a paper-towel holder, and now he’s still working, trying to rig up more lighting, specifically lighting for the galley, where we’ve been using headlamps to cook.

I’m exhausted just thinking about it, and I’m sure I’ve bored all of you except for those who actually plan to do this someday. Because this is what it really involves—all these crazy jobs that don’t occur to you until you’re actually on the boat, sailing. The mildew is out of control. I’m not sure if it’s just because we have a fiberglass boat, or because we took out the thirty-year-old insulation and went down to a bare hull, but we have fungus coming out our ears. A lot of things on the boat are just management propositions. You can fix the problems. All you can do is manage them.

We were thinking about leaving sometime tonight, and doing the all-day all-night sailing thing straight down to Cape May. But now I think we need sleep. We’ll still try to leave early tomorrow morning, but we’re never very successful at that.

Sandy Hook, NJ

Wind: S 20-25 knots, gusting to 35

We’re still in Sandy Hook, and I’m getting very sick of it. Today was the day we had to wait for—in some places the wind is supposed to gust up to 50 knots tonight, although 35 is all that’s forecast for our area. I’m hoping 30 is all that we see. I think it’s the most we’ve ever been on the boat for. We’re not on our anchor tonight, but in some ways it makes me a little more insecure. This is an unknown mooring, with unknown lines and rode, as opposed to our anchor, which we know and love. If the mooring starts dragging, or the lines break, I guess we’ll just throw out all of our anchors as fast as we can. It hasn’t gotten so bad so far, but Karl can feel the pressure dropping in his ears, and there are tornado watches on the VHF. We should be fine. I’m hoping to get out of here tomorrow, but there’s still a small craft advisory for tomorrow, even though it’s only supposed to be gusting to 20.

We had a very late night with our friends last night—early into this morning, in fact. We had a great time, eating popcorn, listening to Bob Dylan, talking about boats, drinking wine. Their boat is absolutely insane. Marcel built it himself, from scratch. It took seven years—three for the hull, four for the interior. He was bummed because he couldn’t build his solar panels himself. He welded the hull together, welded his own mast, melted the lead for the keel down from lead weights for balancing tires in his backyard. 4500 pounds of lead, out of tire weights, which weigh about an ounce. And people think that we’re crazy. They’re great fun, though. I get to practice my French, when they let me, and Karl and Marcel talk on and on about boats. He built his own wind vane, welded his own anchors, bought almost everything off eBay. I, of course, am most impressed by their head, which constantly smells like peaches and cream. I want to just get into it and hang out there, it’s so lovely.

So today’s been a little bit useless. We’ve basically drunk coffee, ate leftover pasta, and listened to the weather radio. No work on the head, no work period. I’m thinking about making beef noodle soup for dinner, and Karl’s avoiding worrying about tornadoes and 50-knot gusts. If we want to leave tomorrow, we’ll have to wake up early. I guess we’ll just have to wake up and listen to the radio. I’m really ready to get out of Dodge.

Sandy Hook, NJ

Wind: SE 10 knots

The good news: we fixed the macerator pump. I know everyone’s breathing a sigh of relief. It was not without further horror, however. We came back to the boat last night, after gorging ourselves on Chinese food, emotionally prepared to deal with the head problem. Karl ripped apart the toilet yet again, and after some experimentation, cleared out the hoses that went between the holding tank and the pump. The pump was then able to successfully eject at least half the waste. A huge sigh of relief. It was luckily warm enough for me to perch outside away from the smell, allegedly to watch for telltale bubbling from the pump. When I finally saw the bubbling, I think my actual words were “Oh, you blessed machine!”

The drama was not over, however. We didn’t dump all of our waste because you’re not supposed to dump any this close to land, although I don’t know what they can expect when they close a pump-out station for the season. We just gave ourselves enough space to fill up the tank with water and head decomposer stuff, which can hopefully go to work on the solid matter. We’re going to try to run muriatic acid and maybe lye through the tank to do more decaying work. But after the blessed relief of getting the pump working, we decided to try to clear the vent to the exterior, which Karl guessed was plugged. I came in to help, clearing away books and cushions in case of accident. We then ran a bowl full of water through the system, just to try to flush it out, and—guess what. More crap spray, this time right in the cabin. Imagine your worst nightmare, and then a couple of steps below that. That was where we were. It managed to stay somewhat localized, on the hull, a bag of power bars, and some bagged toilet paper I had stored behind the books, but still. There is absolutely nothing fun about cleaning your own waste off the walls. I have absolute and unmitigated respect for any of the world’s plumbers. And for Karl, who has inhabited this inner circle of hell for the last three days.

We also found a huge wad of cardboard wedged in the holding tank. How it got there, I have no idea. I don’t even know how it could have gotten through the toilet. But it can’t have been helping. So now all we have to do is go offshore a little and pump out the rest of our tank, and then go to work with cleaning out the system completely. Today we did a thorough boat bleaching, and I feel much better about life, the universe, and everything. There is still some odor hanging around, but compared to what it was, it smells like absolute heaven. We also may borrow the Canadians’ pump-out system to try to get some more oomph. But we’re going to have to learn how to manage with ours. I just don’t know how to keep it from getting clogged. I’m beginning to understand why the fewer systems you have on a boat, the better.

After the crap debacle, we moved to a mooring closer to the marina. Our Canadian friends (Lise and Marcel—I suppose I should give them names) have been using a mooring with no charge. Evidently the harbor patrol is closed for the season, too, and bad weather is forecast for tomorrow. I made a lovely rotini casserole this evening, with fresh ground beef and mozzarella cheese from the icebox, while Karl went and bought us ice and filled up our water jugs. We also docked to get diesel today—only our third docking experience ever! It went without a hitch. Now we’re supposed to go over to Sea Belle, our friends’ boat, to split another bottle of wine.

Sandy Hook, NJ

Wind: S 5-10 knots

We're stuck here again. On the plus side, we've been stuck long enough for the library to open, so here I am, as pleased as punch, posting pictures and reading books. I've found a book that I've been looking for a very long time, called Julie and Julia, about a girl who cooks all of the recipes in Julia Child's cookbook in a year. It sounds exactly like something I'd do, and I'm supposed to be answering my zillions of emails, and instead I'm sitting here devouring it. Maybe I should make all of Julia Child's recipes while sailing south to the Caribbean and writing a novel? No, maybe that would be too much, even for me.

On the minus side, we may be stuck here for longer, at least through Thursday. We thought we were going to get a good weather window to leave tomorrow, but it turns out there's another low pressure front moving in on Thursday, with gusts of up to 35 knots. Knot fun. (Hardeehar.)

So instead, we're trapped in the boat, stewing in our own crap. I kid you not. Karl spent all last night and this morning tearing open our head, trying to repair the macerator pump, the thing that pumps all of our waste out of the holding tank, which is broken. Actually, we know it's not broken, because when he tore it out again this morning it worked fine in plain water. He's blaming it on all the toilet paper I've stuffed down the toilet, and I have maybe been less careful than I should have been, but I know the real reason it's having issues is that our salt-water pump is broken. We ordered a $50 rebuild kit for it before we left, and that was one of the things on Karl's list that didn't get done. So all that's in our holding tank is a mound of human excrement and wads of paper, rapidly solidifying. Our pump is not strong enough to get this out of our boat. And we just found out, from our French friends, that the pumpout station here is closed for the season. Is this possible? Today, while doing repairs, Karl managed to not only spray human waste all over the cockpit, but also all over our pots and pans, that were sitting out, allegedly to catch water. So now I have to go back to a boat covered in my own excrement. Thrilling.

I can't blame this on Karl. Both of us want to blame it on each other, just so we have someone to blame it on, but mainly it just sucks. Our boat stinks, we have no way to get rid of the smell or the waste, and now we may have nowhere to use the bathroom, either. And we're stuck here for another week. I feel vast amounts of money may be spent, mainly on food, to assuage our unhappiness.

We had a budget of $1000 to get out of the United States, which I personally felt was a little ambitious. So far we've already spent a third of that, a lot of it on diesel, since we've been motoring so much, an expense I didn't budget for at all. And if we have to buy a new macerator pump, that'll eat up another $150 buckaroos. I really don't feel like any of this is the end of the world. We'll figure it out, like we figure everything out, but I'm really not thrilled about the vast quantity of bleach scrubbing I'm going to have to do tomorrow. That's my solution: bleach. On absolutely everything. The boat will be bathed in bleach.

The great thing about today, other than the clean, fragrant library, the second hot showers that we snuck in, the internet access, and the lovely book, is that we ran into our French friends from the Statue of Liberty again. They're paying $86 for dock space--quelle horreur!--that doesn't even include running water, since it's shut off for the season! Still, I'm impressed that they crossed over from NYC with relatively little problem, and they're ready to press on down the coast. Maybe we can split another bottle of wine with them tonight--our treat this time. I'd love to offer them hospitality, but I can barely bring myself to go back to my boat myself, let alone invite anyone else in. If only the CSI people could come in with their black lights. What a show they'd have.

Sandy Hook, NJ

Wind: NE 20-25 knots, gusting to 30

We’re stuck here, in lovely New Jersey, again today, and signs do not look promising for tomorrow. Last night, we woke up to feel the boat sailing on her anchor. She’d heel over to port as she sailed one way, then she’d get caught by the anchor, and sail back the other way. Just the wind in the rigging alone will do that, and it was freaky. I think it was the worst weather we’ve ever anchored in. The howling of the wind in the rigging was scaring us both—I don’t think Karl slept much at all.

We’d heard the weather report yesterday, and it had predicted gale warnings for offshore north of us, and there was a small craft advisory, but it didn’t really seem that bad yesterday. There was a lot of fog, and some drizzle, and even if we hadn’t had to do all of our town stuff, I don’t know if we would have sailed, but the same basic wind was forecast for today, so we thought we’d be able to leave. Now it looks like we’ll be here at least until Wednesday. Everyone ends up stuck in Sandy Hook, supposedly—I guess now we know why. It’s certainly not for the friendliness of the town folk.

I wanted to go back to that alleged internet café today and give them a piece of my mind. Maybe not my mind, really—my plan was to go first thing in the morning and stay all day, after ordering the cheapest thing on the menu. That’d teach them. As Karl said, though, “That’ll teach them, Melissa. Give them more money.” Still, I was very angry. Aren’t you supposed to drink coffee at a coffee shop? Isn’t that the whole point? I’m mainly frustrated that I didn’t get to post any pictures. Karl’s been taking some amazing sunset pictures. There’s not much else to take pictures of—sunsets and lighthouses.

Still, the advantage of staying tomorrow will be that I can go to the library and use the internet to my heart’s content. If we feel safe enough leaving the boat, which we didn’t today. So I made pizzas from the More With Less cookbook (thanks, Sonia!), did the dishes, which took about five hours, and now Karl’s rebuilding the macerator pump for our head, which has been stinking to high heaven. It’s stinking worse now, but I think that’s because he’s tearing it all apart. If he manages to fix it, I’m going to be in seventh heaven. I definitely understand the appeal of the bucket and chuck it. In fact, if we were to do this again, I’d tear out the head and replace it with a bucket. No one needs two sinks in a boat, and if you have a bucket, at least you can get away with throwing it away in the harbor. I did yoga the other morning, and let me tell you—it is not fun trying to do shavasana with your head resting next to a week’s worth of your own accumulated crap.

Sandy Hook, NJ

Wind: N 5-10 knots

So I'm sitting in a little cafe called the Indulgence Cafe, using their wireless, for the first time since we've been sailing, drinking some coffee, and pissing everyone in here off. I came in, plopped down, opened up my computer, and ordered a coffee. That's what you do in wireless coffee shops, right? But evidently they close at three, in exactly 49 minutes, and I also have to order something in order to use the wireless. The waitress has been over three times to ask if Karl is coming over to eat (he came in to get change--he's doing the laundry at the laundromat across the street), I haven't gotten a refill on my coffee, all the waitresses going off duty are obviously sweeping and doing fillups around me, and still, I don't care. I need the internet! I need contact with the outside world!

What's awesome is that we finally got showers. It cost us $25 ($15 for use of the facilities and a $10 deposit), but still. We're in rather an urban area, the Atlantic Highlands, NJ, and I'm shocked by how much everything costs. I'm also shocked by just being around people again. It's very bizarre. I'm not quite sure how to deal with them.

I guess that's all I have time for. I better order something before the waitress shoots me. That would be a very anticlimactic ending to my journey. I'll try to post some pictures if I can find the time.

Sunsets

Sunset over the steely grey water.

A mauve sunset.

Liberty State Park to Sandy Hook, NJ

18.1 nm
Wind: S 10-15 knots
Seas: 2-3 feet
Maximum speed: 6 knots
Average speed: 3.5 knots
Latitude: 40°25.13’N
Longitude: 074°01.39’W

It was a rough day today and I’m exhausted. I’m not sure how much that has to do with sailing and how much it had to do with cumulative exhaustion without a real break. We’ve had one day off since we’ve started, but we really haven’t had any downtime. Mainly what’s bothering me is the lack of cleanliness. I’ve been reading Lin Pardey’s The Care and Feeding of Sailing Crew, and she devotes a whole chapter to the need of self-sufficiency when it comes to showering. At one point, when they were on Serraffyn, she goes to a tuberculosis sanitarium to shower, rather than trying to do it on the boat. So when they built their second boat, Taliesin, one non-negotiable was a built-in bathtub.

It’s a pretty bizarre requirement, I must admit, but it does seem brilliant, not just for cleanliness, but in order to have a place to dump all the wet stuff that accumulates on a boat. As it is, all our wet stuff gets dragged all over the place, fouling everything else up. Let me tell you one thing—I wish we had a bathtub on Secret right now. If I have to go one more day, I’m heating water up on the stove and washing my hair in the cockpit. The scratching has become compulsion. I feel like an orangutan at the zoo. Karl’s dandruff looks like snow. Our current state of filth does not seem healthy in any respect.

But today was a huge milestone. Coming out the other side of New York Harbor was insanity. I can’t believe with all the hubbub about Hell Gate, no one warned us about the shipping out the other end. Hell Gate was nothing compared to trying to leave the city. There were oil barges everywhere, mainly anchored or moored, but looking like huge hulking buildings blocking our way. I started counting them at one point, but lost count after twenty. Amid all of that were the crazy tourist ferries running back and forth to the Statue of Liberty, the Staten Island Ferry, fishing boats, powerboats, and sailboats, all throwing wakes, that threw up even more water than was already being disturbed by the currents and eddies where the East River met the Hudson River met the bay. It was very stressful.

We had intended to sail today, and hoisted the main so that we could motor-sail most of the day, but ended up using the diesel the whole way here, just because of timing. We ended up leaving late today, at around noon, because of both our late night last night and the tides, which didn’t turn until about two. By the time we got some place we felt comfortable sailing, it seemed smarter to rely on the diesel to get us to this unfamiliar anchorage before dark. It doesn’t help that we just ran into people who haven’t even used their sails yet.

I must say, though, I’m very impressed that anyone in New York sails at all. There were all sorts of local sailboats out there today, with full sail up, zipping around in between the oil barges. I don’t think I’d exactly call that pleasure boating. We even saw a kayaker, out in the middle of all the chaos! Karl’s done some crazy kayaking, but waves are one thing. I don’t think there’s any way one of those huge ships would be able to stop for a kayaker.

We made it, though. Anchoring here was tricky—we’re in the middle of a blank spot in the mooring field. A storm’s supposed to be heading our way, so we may end up stuck here a couple of days. Hopefully we can get some showers, at long last! They’re supposed to have some at the yacht club here, but again, we’re not members. There are also mooring buoys available here for $40 a pop. I’m hoping that not buying one of those doesn’t preclude us from having access to facilities.

Manhattan!

Our first bridge, the Throgs Neck Bridge.

Rikers Island.

The barge, outside of Rikers Island. The cage, at top to the left, is where prisoners were hanging out, being outside, playing basketball. I waved, but I didn't check in the binoculars to see if they'd wave back. I was too afraid.

Manhattan. I think that's the Empire State Building.

Long Island. The other side of Manhattan. The ghetto, more or less.

The Brooklyn Bridge. You can tell I took most of the pictures today.

The Statue of Liberty, as we approach.

The end of the day.

Throgs Neck, NY, to Liberty State Park, NJ

15.4 nm
Wind: NW 10-16 knots, gusting to 20 knots
Seas: two feet
Maximum speed: 7.9 knots, with current
Average speed: 3.7 knots

Today was the second day we didn’t even raise sail, but I really don’t feel bad about it. We came through Hell Gate today, and I am very pleased with my timing of it, because we came through at exactly the right tide. The thing that sucked was that no one had warned us about after Hell Gate. We came through it perfect, under the Brooklyn Bridge, past Manhattan, and then came out into this crazy stuff, right near the Statue of Liberty, at the end of Manhattan, where all of the East River and Hudson River traffic converged. It was insane. The standing waves were five feet. I’m not sure if it’s because of the wakes of all the tourist ferries passing or just the divergent tides meeting each other, but in any case, we went through them.

We were supposed to get all the way to Sandy Hook, NJ, tonight, the gateway to the whole offshore New Jersey experience, but Karl was so stressed out after navigating the mouth of the East River that we decided to just head to Liberty State Park, right behind the Statue of Liberty. We’re at this crazy anchorage tonight—we can just see the head of the Statue of Liberty. I can’t believe that they don’t screen for terrorists here or something. We’re in the anchorage with some crazy Canadians who motored down the Hudson River. The best part of the evening was being invited over to their steel boat that they built themselves to drink a box of wine. They’ve never sailed before, never even lifted the sails on their boat! And they’re sailing the same course we are. Makes me feel a little ridiculous for all the agonizing I’ve done about sailing versus motoring.

Still, it makes me feel pretty good to have met our first real cruisers. They had a huge anchor, one hundred feet of chain, a windmill, a radar deflector, all sorts of crazy gear, but they still don’t know how to sail. We have to go offshore in New Jersey just like them, and we probably know our way around our sails a little more than they do. It’s good just to feel like we have companions in this journey, even though I don’t want to be sucked into the group mentality that we were on the trail.

We got back from their boat, and now I have baked potatoes and butternut squash in the oven, which I think I’m going to supplement with fried canned ham. I made fancy bacon sandwiches with salsa mayonnaise today. Maybe I’ll give my recipe.

Melissa’s Fancy BLCSs (Bacon Lettuce Cheese and Sprout Sandwiches)
1/2 pound of cooked, chilled baconPublish
6 leaves of red leaf lettuce
6 thin slices of yellow extra-sharp cheddar cheese
4 T of Salsa Mayonnaise (see recipe below)
2 T of alfalfa sprouts
4 slices of wheat bread

Spread bread generously with salsa mayonnaise. Add cooked bacon, lettuce, cheese, and sprouts. Serve while traversing New York Harbor, preferably while going under the Brooklyn Bridge. Serves two.

Salsa Mayonnaise
2 T Old El Paso Hot Salsa
2 T light mayonnaise

Mix salsa and mayonnaise in equal proportions.


Delicious, eh?

Photographic experimentation

The lights of the bridge, from where we anchored beneath it.

Karl has fun with cameras.

More fun with the camera after dark.

Stamford, CT, to Throg’s Neck, NY

18.0 nm
Wind: NW 10-15 knots
Seas: Building to two feet
Maximum speed: 7.7 knots
Average speed: 5.1 knots
Latitude: 40°48.73’N
Longitude: 073°47.75’W

New York, New York! The Big Apple! We’re finally here! And it’s crazy. We’re anchored off of the Throg’s Neck Bridge, just north of the East River. Tomorrow we head down with the tide past Manhattan, through Hell Gate. We’re anchored right where our guidebook told us to, in a protected cove cut off by the western part of the bridge, but we’re the only sailboat in sight. As Karl said, it’s pretty crazy camping in New York City. I was just out, washing dishes off the stern, wearing a tank top because it’s been seventy degrees all day, and listening to the semi-trucks zooming by on the highway honk their horns at me. I just put a mussel noodle casserole into the oven (same as tuna, but with canned marinated mussels instead), and we’re getting ready to chow down after a sleigh ride down from Connecticut.

It was the first day that conditions have been ideal for sailing. We were on a beam reach (the wind was coming from the side), which is the fastest point of sail, a current of a little more than a knot was with us, we had all our sail set, which was just enough but not too much, and we careened on into the New York Harbor under full sail. It was pretty amazing. Even on a beam reach, there were a couple of times I felt our heeling get a little beyond my comfort level, which meant the wind was pretty strong. We would have had to tie a couple of reefs in if we were beating.

We’ve never sailed that fast, though. It was absolutely exhilarating. The sun beating down, the wind and water carrying us along—it was amazing. Karl saw the GPS hit 8.0 knots, a full knot above our hull speed, but it only recorded 7.7, so that’s all I’m giving us. That’s only two-tenths less than with the motor in full gear! It’s just nice to know, after all our frustration, that this old girl can really sail. The conditions just haven’t been right, and we really don’t have the sail area she needs for light air.

There continue to be some difficult things, though. We tried to dinghy up to a marina when we got in, to do all the town stuff that we have yet to do. Buy some more fresh food, maybe some diesel, some motor oil for the engine, get some water (because the stuff Karl got from the yacht club tastes like absolute crap, and I can already feel myself dehydrating), do some laundry—I still haven’t had a shower, which is beginning to affect my contentment. But they said there was no place for us to dinghy up to! The only thing they could offer us was a slip for the night, which we would have to pay for, of course, and I don’t think that would have even provided us with all the resources we needed.

We ended up rowing back by a members-only yacht club, and they were nice enough to give us good, old-fashioned Bronx chicken cutlet heroes, as well as some motor oil Jerry Gearbox had lying around in his locker. (Thanks Jerry!) But still, what I want is a good, old-fashioned Appalachian Trail town stop, where we can get some town food, get all cleaned up, and get our fill of civilization so we can head off into the wilds and not have to mess with people for another ten days or so. As it is, we’re just going to have to keep messing around until we can find some place where we can get everything done.

We just can’t figure out this marina thing. Do you need to call ahead? Do yacht clubs work the same as marinas? Do we need to hail them on the VHF? Do we have to buy a spot from them to get services? I just don’t understand. I thought it would be simpler than this. And to make things more frustrating, I can’t get internet access, so I have going on two weeks of unposted blog entries. It begins to make it difficult to get motivated to write them.

Still, life is good. Tomorrow, Manhattan, and the next day—the world!

Stamford, CT

Wind: E 15-20 knots, gusting to 30 knots

We’re socked in today. Rain was predicted for last night, today, and tonight. We had hoped to get a break at least for a couple of hours during the day, but it looks like a lost cause. So this may turn into our first zero (a leftover trail term—a day we make no mileage). The unfortunate part is that we can’t really use it to get any of the town stuff done either, the necessary food, fuel, internet, laundry, shower stuff. Karl was able to get water last night by breaking into the yacht club basement and turning it on and then off again (shh, don’t tell anyone), but the rest of our chores remain incomplete.

We watched another sailboat anchor last night and then set out this morning. They’re hardcore, I guess. They also had a pilothouse (a little enclosed protected area over the cockpit, where you can steer from and be out of the weather), which means they would have been safe from the rain. Still, as usual, I’m comparing us to them and feeling a little weenie-ish.

It was about time for a zero, anyway. We were both getting a little worn out. I know I was frustrated with the motoring-sailing conundrum. But we had a nice long talk about it over the bacon and eggs that Karl made me for breakfast, and the whole plan seems more manageable. Basically we need to figure out how to use our staysail for heavy weather, and additional power in medium air, figure out how to rig our spinnaker pole as a whisker pole to pole out our jib when we’re running, and how to use our spinnaker at all. So our only major need is a big genoa for beating to windward in light air. We’ll work it all out. And we really, really need a wind vane. For anyone else thinking about doing this: buy or build a wind vane! Cut out your budget for epoxy or canned goods or something!

In the meantime, we’re hoping our anchor doesn’t drag in thirty knots of wind. We haven’t anchored in that much ever. We’re staying tuned to the weather, reading books and charts, and just hanging out. It’s a little chilly in the cabin, but not bad. Maybe I’ll make some tea.

More lighthouses

Another lighthouse. For a while there, we fell off the picture wagon.

Fairfield to Stamford, CT

20.2 nm
Wind: calm to S 5 knots
Seas: building to one foot
Maximum speed: 5.3 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 3.1 knots
Average speed: 2.5 knots
Latitude: 41°01.59’N
Longitude: 073°32.19’W

I’m sitting in the dark boat. Karl’s gone to get water, and none of our interior light is really working. It’s okay—I have the light from the computer, the light of my headlamp, and I’m perfectly content. The computer is happily singing me Wilco songs. It’s astonishing to me how much enjoyment and civilization just music brings. I wish I could have put our entire CD collection onto my computer to randomize it all. Instead, I’m getting very familiar with the random selection of CDs that were loaded onto the computer. Every day I resolve to play an actual CD instead of my CD collection on random, but every day it seems like too much work and a waste of electricity.

Some huge powerboat ran aground right across the channel from us. As far as I know, he’s still there, waiting for the tide to come up. Yup, still there. I just peeked out of the companionway to check. I feel a little sorry for him, because I know how he feels. I hope he doesn’t think I’m mocking him, sitting over here with my light and my music. Not very much light, but light nonetheless. He called over another little fishing boat to come pull him off, but hasn’t seemed to want to ask for our help. We’ve been monitoring channel sixteen on the VHF since he ran aground, waiting for his call for help, but he hasn’t made one. Karl was going to row over and offer our assistance, but I’m not sure what we could do with a rowing dinghy.

We actually got to sail today. Very slowly, but sail nonetheless. Karl sailed us effortlessly out of the harbor at a rate of about one knot. When our speed dropped to about half a knot and the sea turned that glassy texture that indicates an absolute absence of wind, we decided to motor. We made a fair amount of progress before I made the casual observation that the wind appeared to have picked up. Then we were able to run with the wind (it was behind us) basically into Stamford harbor.

It was great to not to have to beat for once today. It was nice to be able to make a rather effortless three knots under sail. But both of us continue to be frustrated by our lack of ability to sail efficiently, and torn between the choice of sailing slowly and inefficiently and ending up stranded in winter gales or motoring our way out of danger. It’s a very tough choice. I lean towards sailing anyway, storms be damned, and Karl leans the other way. I just don’t want to begin a habit of reliance on the diesel. How then are we going to revise our sail plan? Where will be the motivation to work out our spinnaker arrangement, build a wind vane, get a larger genoa, all those things that need to be done? Even now, I feel our laziness when we’re both depending on the diesel to start soon. Why do we need to sail well in light wind when we can just fire up the engine?

Still, I feel backwards. Why not just use the engine if it will take us there faster? But then why don’t we have a blasted powerboat instead of this ridiculous sailboat? I know that sailing will be what helps us eventually, so it seems worth our while to learn to do it well now. But is this really the best time? I don’t know.

I had resolved that today was the day we got to go into town for some real food, ice, groceries, laundry, showers, and water, and I’m very dismayed that none of that happened. Neither of us quite know how to go about approaching a harbormaster or a marina. Do you just call them? Radio them? We don’t feel like real sailors yet—will they really believe we came from Massachusetts? And can we just dock and get these things without paying for a mooring? It’s all so bewildering. We’d rather just continue our habit of anchoring on the fringes of civilization. So Karl’s sneaking into a yacht club after hours to find an outdoor faucet. God forbid we actually try to talk to a living human being. Eventually we’ll have to figure all of it out. In the meantime, it seems amusing to continue our life of innocence, completely unconnected to the real world.

New Haven to Fairfield, CT

25.5 nm
Wind: SW 5-10 knots
Seas: One foot
Maximum speed: 5.4 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 4.9 knots
Average speed: 3.0 knots
Latitude: 41°08.70’N
Longitude: 073°13.21’W

I know I shouldn’t be frustrated right now, but I am. I’m hungry, but I don’t want to eat anything, because I can’t cook what I want to cook, which is stubborn and childish, but true. Our dishes are all still dirty from yesterday, because we’ve run out of water in our holding tank. I tried to wash them by boiling salt water, but the pot of water flew off the stove and all over the cabin sole. I decided that we were too far heeled over to wash or cook, but that since I had water on the floor anyway, I could clean the floor, which is filthy even though I swept and scrubbed it two days ago. But the dirty filthy floor and the dirty filthy rag conspired to make everything even more dirty and filthy, and there was too much crud on the floor for me to sweep into the bilge, and it was too wet for me to actually sweep up the crud, and I don’t know how to keep a boat clean and I’m hungry and cold and frustrated.

We’re actually sailing right now, and that is some part of the frustration. I love it when we’re sailing, and it’s mainly because of my stubbornness that we’re sailing at all. I insisted this morning that we tack out of the harbor under full sail against an incoming current, and we did, beautifully, and ended up outside the harbor, on a lovely southern tack, beating into the wind, with our rail nearly in the water.

It was nice—we sailed almost all the way across the Sound and were able to dump our holding tank, which has been stinking and making both of us think that we’re leaking propane. And we thought we were perfectly aligned to make a neat tack to the west and end up in Bridgeport, a respectable little hop for the day.

Instead, the wind died. Now we’re barely making two knots, and even with only that degree of heel, I still can’t do anything in the cabin or on the stove. It’s so frustrating to me that we can’t actually get anywhere under sail. I know why it is—we don’t have reliable enough light-air sails, and we don’t have a wind vane, which would allow us to be much more efficient sailors at any point of sail. Our autopilot is electric, meaning Karl doesn’t like to run it when we’re under sail, because it could run down our batteries and then we couldn’t start the engine. We’ve only attempted to use it under sail once, the day against the current, and it couldn’t hold its own while we were beating into light wind, which is what we’re doing again today. That means that one of us has to be a slave to the tiller at all times when we’re sailing, making us much less fond of sailing than of motoring, which is not the point at all.

I’m frustrated that we didn’t learn more about sailing before we left, not because we’d be safer, but because we’re so inefficient. I’m frustrated that I didn’t try to repair our 170 genoa and our spinnaker before we left, frustrated that we don’t have blocks for our staysail, frustrated that we didn’t try to build a wind vane. I know that we had many important things to do, but all of these things would make us so much more happy right now.

We can’t seem to be able to tack 90 degrees across the wind, like we’re supposed to be able to. A sailboat is supposed to be able to sail 45 degrees off the wind, meaning if the wind is coming from 270° (west), the boat should be able to go to 315° (northwest), or 225° (southwest). Instead, we seem to be unable to take tacks of less than 110 degrees, meaning that we make little to no progress on days like today, when the wind is blowing from the west and we need to go west. And I have no idea why this is, and no one to ask. Is it because we’re poor helmspeople? Is it because we have bad sails? Is it because we don’t sail close enough to the wind? Is it because of the current? It could be any of these things, and I don’t know which one of them it is. I feel like I spend most of my time on the boat cooking, cleaning, or washing dishes, and have next to none to spend on things like sail handling.

But we have to have some idea what we’re doing to even get better. How can we fix things if we don’t know what’s wrong? What if nothing’s wrong and this is just the way it is? I don’t want to live in an inefficient motorboat. I don’t want to burn fossil fuels, or spend $20 a day on diesel. I don’t want to be unable to use my kitchen whenever we’re sailing. I want to live on a sailboat.

I know it will take years to figure out all these systems. I could dig out the 170 genoa tonight, break out my sail needles, and start cutting up our backup main to patch it. After all, that’s the whole reason we brought those sails and the sewing machine, which I fought so hard for. But my floor’s dirty. I have a whole stack of dirty dishes to clean, and the system that I spend the last week working so hard to develop is now null and void because of a change in circumstance.

Things could be worse, after all. I could have a real job and have to drive a car to work every day. I guess I just want to be perfect at everything all at once, and that’s not going to happen. Of course I knew that. It’ s just frustrating to be reminded of it so thoroughly. Every day we’re learning, still. Today we beat out of a harbor for the first time, and learned it could be done, even in a foul current. Today Karl dumped the holding tank for the first time. Today we ran out of water for the first time. Eventually we’ll work on our sails, work on our self-steering, work on our galley. I’ll figure out how to keep my blasted floor clean. We’ll figure it out. I know this. I’m just an impatient little girl.

Old Saybrook to New Haven, CT

29.9 nm
Wind: calm to W 5 knots
Maximum speed: 5.4 knots
Average speed: 4.3 knots
Latitude: 41°15.57’N
Longitude: 072°53.96’W

We motored all day today. It’s the first day we didn’t even bother hoisting our sails. I’m becoming very frustrated with that, even though I know that today we had to make progress getting Wade back to New Haven. There was almost no wind, and we overslept our tidal alarm clock, so we were going against the current again. Luckily, on this side of the Sound there’s a lot less current.

So we ended up getting into harbor before dark, a first so far for this trip. Wade convinced us to go ashore, and we ended up trekking deep into the heart of New Haven for a piece of legendary pizza. Evidently New Haven is the town that invented the pizza or “apizza.” Pizza, or tomato pies, had never been commercially available (even in Italy!) before this place started in New Haven. We didn’t get to go there, but to a tiny little place, right on the edge, or so we were told, of the “hood.”

We didn’t have a place to dock the dinghy. Our guidebook told us there was a restaurant you could dinghy up to, but that place has been converted to a catering business. So instead we had to tie ourselves to a sea wall and hop over a fence right while a cop was driving by. It seems like no matter what we do, we’re automatically cast as homeless people.

We wandered to a gas station, picked up a few staples like bread and milk, and asked where we could get a bite to eat. A local guy at the convenience store not only told us where there was a place to go, but ended up giving us a ride there and back again. His name was Big John, and he gave us a tour of New Haven, including the legendary street where pizza was invented. He was obviously a man in love with his town, which is awesome. So far, Connecticut wins the hospitality award.

We met all of his friends, including the bartender, an old Cherokee guy who sailed back and forth from Florida in his youth, a wonderful lady named Casey, and George, who thought we were crazy for only having a 27-horsepower engine. They all thought we were crazy, basically—crazy hippies. They couldn’t figure out if we were on vacation or moving or mind-bogglingly rich or what. I guess we are crazy. I know I felt overwhelmed, back in civilization, with shiny televisions, and heat, and fatty food.

I’m beginning to realize that we have no fear, even when it might be better to. We made friends with everyone in the place, hopped back in a car with someone we didn’t know and got a ride all over town, and then came back to the boat. We had left the dinghy tied up to the seawall, our boat—our only means of transportation and livelihood—out in the harbor, locked, but with the computer sitting out, our camera sitting out. Karl looked around and said, “Yup, we’re going to get stuff stolen someday.” We had just marched into one of the most crime-ridden neighborhoods on the coast and hung out with a bunch of crazy locals. We hadn’t known anything about the town or the neighborhood or anything—just pulled up in our boat, hopped the fence, and marched on in. I know we would do the same thing anywhere.

I hope—but maybe it’s just me—that Karl’s wrong. That we won’t get anything stolen. That our complete and naïve trust in strangers will be rewarded. That we figure if you walk into people’s lives being open, being honest about who you are, and living in a way that’s inspiring, that people will respect us. Maybe that won’t be true when I get to a place where one of my shoes is worth someone else’s whole house, though. Here we’re still just stinky nutcases with greasy hair.

Submarines and lighthouses

The Coast Guard's three-masted schooner, stolen from the Germans after WWII. This is in the same harbor, where we stayed up all night, listening to the submarine sonar echo off our hull.

One of Karl's lighthouse pictures. He had the benefit of the sunset, but still.

The moon rises, full, over the breakwater, heading into the Connecticut River.

An iridescent sunset.

New London to Old Saybrook, CT

20.4 nm
Wind: Calm to NW 5 knots
Seas: Three feet
Maximum speed: 5.5 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 5 knots, with the current
Average speed: 2.8 knots
Latitude: 41°28.99’N
Longitude: 072°35.98’W

It’s quarter to four in the afternoon, the boat is zooming along under diesel and autopilot (whom we have christened “The Master”, because of his appellation, “Master Tiller,” and Karl and I are learning about currents. Who would have thought that it would be a bad idea to tack out into a place in Long Island Sound called “the Race” because of the swiftness of its currents when there was an outgoing full-moon 4.2-knot tide? Not us. We boldly attempt to sail in 5-knot winds against an opposing four-knot current. We’re brilliant.

But it’s okay. Everyday we learn about something. Today it’s currents, yesterday it was the autopilot, the day before it was reefing—every day we learn something new.

Okay. I wrote the above earlier while we were sailing. We’ve since pulled into Old Saybrook Harbor, attempted to anchor in North Cove, which has a controlling depth of five-and-a-half feet, according to our charts, and run aground. So today, maybe, we’re learning about running aground. Allegedly Einstein ran aground here too, at the mouth of the Connecticut River, so at least we’re in good company. We also know that the tide’s coming in, so we should be able to float free in a couple of hours or so. Unless we get blown farther onto the shoals by our mainsail, which is still up. We can’t get it down unless we point into the wind, which we can’t do while we’re run aground.

I made the boys (Karl and Wade) hot buttered rums, per Lin Pardey’s recipe. I know that everyone runs aground, and every sailor has stories to tell about it, but still. I feel stupid, sitting out here in the middle of the cove, in front of some people’s houses, with our mainsail up. I’m worried that we’re going to lie over on our side. I’m worried that we won’t float free, or that we’ll run aground again, on higher ground, when the tide comes up.

Meanwhile, Wade’s reading the Tao Te Ching and Karl’s making chili, with apparent unconcern. I, too, am feigning unconcern. But I am not unconcerned. This, however, is out of my hands. Either the tide will get us out of here, or I guess we’re spending the winter in Connecticut. More as news develops.

An hour later… We came adrift, got the mainsail down, and anchored in five feet of water. Even if we go aground at three o’clock in the morning, we’ll be free by four when we’re planning to leave. We have to be to New Haven by tomorrow night to get Wade on the bus back to his car. So we have to sail with the current tomorrow. Still, everything turned out. Maybe I need to have more faith. Einstein did, evidently.

The joys of sailing

Two ferries pass us, on the way from Point Judith to Block Island.

The sunset through the rigging. Here you can see our correctly reefed main--more or less.

The moon rising as the sun sets.

PublishThe moon above the city of New London.

Point Judith, RI, to New London, CT

34.1 nm
Wind: NW calm to 15 knots
Seas: 2-3 feet
Maximum speed: 7.9 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 4.5 knots
Average speed: 4.0 knots
Latitude: 41°20.18’N
Longitude: 072°05.71’W

It was a gorgeous, sunny day today, with sun almost the whole day, but ice-cold. My feet are still pretty cold, but I’ve been finally warming up after anchoring. We actually have a wireless connection tonight, and I was excited about posting my blog entries, but it turns out they’re all firewall protected. Bummer. So even though my Airport card is showing three very promising bars, I have no internet access.

I guess civilization is starting to sound appealing. I think civilization is appealing in direct proportion to how itchy my head is. Being aware that I haven’t had a shower or a shampoo since Tuesday morning makes me aware that I’m back to the life of a homeless person. A homeless person with a lovely 33-foot yacht, but a homeless person nonetheless.

Still, life is good. I’m still working out the details of this life—how to do things like do the dishes, make the bed, keep everything in its place, that sort of thing. This morning I picked up, made sandwiches for lunch, and did the dishes, all while Karl motored out of the harbor. The problem with that is that we didn’t get the sail up until we were out in the ocean with three-foot seas bouncing us around. It’s amazing how much less stability we have when using our engine. Once our sails are up, we stiffen right up and seem to glide right over the waves. Secret knows she’s not supposed to be motoring in that kind of weather, and she doesn’t let us forget it.

So I had to round the boat into the wind and stay there while Karl tried to hoist the main and avoid falling off the boat. We had also decided to reef, partly as practice and partly because there was allegedly a small-craft advisory in effect until ten. I say allegedly, because as soon as we got the reefed sail up successfully, the wind completely died. We pulled out the entire jib, but even with it, we were barely going a knot. Occasionally, though, the wind would gust really strong, always dead on our nose, and make us heel over sideways.

I wanted to keep sailing, as always, but we did have a deadline today. We were supposed to be in New London to meet Karl’s friend Wade, who’s supposed to sail with us down the Connecticut coast this weekend. Say what you will about Wade, he’s our only friend crazy enough to come and put his life in the hands of rank amateurs. I’m looking forward to it, even thought the boat is crowded enough with two people who are in love with each other living aboard. The plus is that we have to get forty more miles down the coast in order to get him to the bus that he can use to pick up his car, so we have to make some progress. It did mean that we had to motor all day today, though. We left the main up, which adds some lift as well as giving us stability. We did get going up to eight knots, according to Karl! The computer only recorded 7.9, so that’s all I’m giving us. Hull speed for a Ranger 33 is supposed to be 7 knots, so I’m pretty excited about it. I would be more excited if we had done it under sail. I’ll be happy when we record a day of five-knot average speed all under sail.

It’s crazy how obsessed I’ve become with the pedantic everyday life of sailing already. How much the wind is blowing and where from. How calm an anchorage is. How fast we can eat the fresh vegetables and how fast our ice is going. How cold it can get before I keel over and die. Right now, I’m in my full rain gear, with my lower body in my fifteen-degree sleeping bag under the table. My fingers are numb, because Karl left the top hatch open when he went to go pick up Wade. I would close it, but I don’t want to get out of the sleeping bag. I’m considering making a pot of tea just so I can warm up the cabin. But I have macaroni and cheese in my belly (big surprise there—that one’s for you, Dean), and I’m content, cold and all.

On our way to Point Judith

A big boat passes us on the way into Newport. It was reefed--we weren't.

Another one of the sailboat, through our rigging. You can see our half-furled lapper.

I make another valiant effort to take a lighthouse picture. This one's heading into Point Judith.

Sakonnet to Point Judith, RI

18.8 nm
Wind: NW 10-20 knots
Seas: 2-3 feet
Maximum speed: 6.2 knots
Average speed: 4.2 knots
Latitude: 41°24.36’N
Longitude: 071°30.30’W

We woke up this morning at 6:30 AM, which, for anyone who hasn’t read my trail journals, is a feat of nearly superhuman effort. I, myself, am still reeling from the shock of it. We’re finally motivated, I guess, or growing up, or had a fire lit under our asses by watching Secret catch air in the gale on Saturday.

In any case, we realize that as long as the sun’s setting at four, we need to make tracks while the sun shines. So we rolled out of bed, made coffee, peeled off the sail cover, and turned on the VHF, only to watch the freezing rain sheet across the horizon. The winds were forecast at 15-20 knots, so we had nothing to worry about wind-wise, but it still didn’t seem to start out in 35-degree rain. We had a saying, hiking: “You can hike in the rain, but you don’t start hiking in the rain.” It continues to be true sailing.

It’s unfortunate, because we had vast plans to break our thirty-mile barrier. Our longest day, still, was the day we sailed to Cutty Hunk and tacked across Buzzard’s Bay about eight times. We’ve been sailing in direct lines lately but still have been unable to cross that threshold.

When we finally set out at almost one the rain had cleared, but sailing still seemed ambitious. The sky was grey, it was still icy out, and we had our full West Marine raingear on—waders, rain jackets, and boots. We looked like a yellow West Marine convention. Rob, our friendly West Marin salesperson, would be so proud.

I must admit, though, the investment in raingear may have been the wisest we’ve ever made. It keeps us warm, dry, and happy as we sail in these conditions. I’m definitely glad we decided to take the plunge instead of using the bargain basement stuff we had intended to.

Because the wind was only forecast to go up to twenty knots we decided to leave the full main up. We’ve allegedly figured out how to reef, but it still seemed like a lot of work, and more trouble than it was worth. So when a huge sailboat, heeled over like crazy, passed u s reefed on the way into Newport, we felt hardcore or crazy with our full main extended. I continue to be thrilled with how our stiffened-up rigging is controlling our heeling. We only had a piece of the jib out for stability, but we were still sailing at about five knots, and barely heeling at all. I can always tell because everything stays where it’s supposed to stay. Anyway, the sailboat waved at us—their raingear as fluorescent as ours—and we waved back. It may have been the first time I’ve been acknowledged by another sailboat where I didn’t feel like I was doing something completely wrong. The wind was strong, but not out of control, and Secret was never unhappy or out of hand. It was a gorgeous sail.

The best part of the day was towards sunset, when we headed in to Point Judith, our eventual anchorage. The clouds cleared, the sun came out, and the wind calmed. We let out the whole jib and kept about a four-knot pace but in much more relaxed seas. It was always that way hiking too—it’s so rewarding to head out in awful weather, only to have the sky clear and the day show its beauty to you in a way that those who don’t brave the bad weather never experience. It just feels amazing to be outside again, every day, experiencing what the world is, rather than the controlled interior environments most of us live in everyday.

Even now, I can see my breath inside of the cabin, and the universe is letting me know that it’s cold outside. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can get under my covers, get warm and cozy, and wake up tomorrow morning and see what the world has to say. A full moon’s coming up soon. I can’t wait. In the meantime, we’re tucked in between two uninhabited islands in an anchorage that’s allegedly packed in the summer. Tonight, the water is as flat as a plate, and we have the anchorage all to ourselves. Life couldn’t be better.

The second day

Cranes haul away the boats that went ashore during the storm we didn't set sail in. Smart us.

Sunset through the rigging, as we sail.

Sunset over the water.

Another one of Karl's effortlessly beautiful sunset pictures.

A lighthouse picture--the first of many. I had to take this picture thirteen times in order to get a halfway decent one. Wait until you see the effortlessly beautiful ones Karl takes later on. This is the fourth of thirteen.

Padanaram, MA, to Sakonnet, RI

23.7 nm
Wind: SW 5 knots to calm
Maximum speed: 6.2 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 3.3 knots
Average speed: 3.8 knots
Latitude: 41°29.35’N
Longitude: 071°14.57’W

Our second day as cruisers. Or sea gypsies, or whatever you want to call us. I call us free. Free to follow the path we choose, at last. Without even white blazes to mark the way. We didn’t get very far today—we never get very far—but at least we’re out of Massachusetts. I had a great time in Massachusetts, but I hope it’s a long time before I’m back.

It’s funny, though, a short day sailing is the same as my longest day hiking on the Appalachian Trail. I definitely was a lot more tired at the end of that day. I’m tired today, too, but in a different way. Tired, but utterly, utterly happy. Everything in the world is perfect.

We didn’t have much wind today, which is why we didn’t get very far. We motored out of Padanaram, lifted our sails, and sailed for a while, at a fairly good pace. But by the time we got out into the bay the wind had completely died, so we succumbed to the lure of the engine. We motored the rest of the day, way out into the Atlantic, taking anything but a direct course, and using five gallons of diesel, we figure. That’s fifteen dollars, so it was a pretty expensive day of sailing. We’re torn between using our engine when there’s no wind so we can get south faster, or using our sails even though they’re slower, and getting more experience sailing.

In any case, life is perfect. We even initiated our autopilot, named “Master Tiller.” The autopilot is an absolutely ancient piece of electronics—basically some wires connected to a compass. But it worked more or less perfectly, even though it’s probably as old as the boat. I’m not sure how well it will hold up to big wind, or how much electricity it takes, but at least when we’re motoring it works fantastic, and that’s when hand-steering is the most tedious.

I’m sleepy, but I have to start writing a novel tonight. The main reason I decided to begin cruising is because I thought it would free up my time to write. In some ways it has, but I haven’t taken advantage of the time at my disposal yet at all. Two days before I left, on Monday, I somehow connected to the National Novel Writing Month website. It’s an organization, set up by a group of crazy, ambitious friends in San Francisco, who decided to start writing a novel every November. It doesn’t matter how bad it is, all that matters is that you complete 50,000 words by November 30.

So I signed up. You may think that’s rather far-fetched—journaling every night about my day, sailing all day every day, establishing this new life for myself, AND writing a novel, all in the month of November? But heck, what am I if not ambitious? If I fail, I will fail laudably. Finding that site seemed like a sign from God. If I’m sailing to write, then I’d better write. I fear my novel may be nautically themed, but so was Moby Dick. One has worse footsteps to follow in than Herman Melville’s.