0 nm
Wind: W 10-15 knots
We got into Elizabeth City yesterday, the famed Harbor of Hospitality. Some things I am very impressed with, like the wireless internet at the dock, the water access, and the proximity of cheap, delicious, humongous burgers (I convinced Karl to spend the money last night, quelle dommage), but all is not as it seems.
Fred Fearing, the famed “Rose Buddy” came by in his golf cart to give us a hello today, and it was great to meet him. Marcel’s sister, long a denizen of the ICW, was great friends with him, and she’ll be happy to know he’s alive and well. Fred, for those of you who don’t know, likes the ladies, and was once featured on the Today Show for his penchant of giving roses to visiting boaters.
Fred even gave me and my eighty-pound laundry bag a ride to the Laundromat in his golf cart. It was a kind gesture, but I must say, being driven around the streets of Elizabeth City on a golf cart by a nearly blind 93-year-old man was among my more life-threatening experiences so far on the journey.
What’s interesting is the whole collection of old dudes who have assembled at the dock, following Fred’s example. For one, there seems to be infighting among them. Sam, who introduced himself as “dock-master” was said by Fred to be nothing of the sort, and most of them (there are at least four) sit in their respective cars and watch our every move. It’s a little disconcerting.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Sunday, December 17, 2006
North Carolina Welcome Station to Elizabeth City, NC
19.6 nm
Wind: SW 10 knots
Maximum speed: 5.3 knots
Average speed: 3.6 knots
Latitude: 36°17.93’N
Longitude: 076°13.10’W
Well, we've made it here to Elizabeth City, the harbor of hospitality, and it may be hard to leave. For one thing, they have super-speedy wifi right at the free dock. Showers at the fitness center, laundry, groceries, and everything we need. Lise and Marcel have pulled right up next to us, exactly on schedule, even though they came through the Virginia Cut. The swamp was gorgeous all day today--after we got through the canal it opened up into far more of a swampy feel, which made Karl happy. Trees growing in the water, spooky channels shooting off, but no gators. He's convinced he heard one slapping its tail against the water last night at the dock, but I don't believe him. He's just gator-happy.
No wine and cheese, though, and no roses, yet. They say that you need five boats in order to have the party. Marcel did his level best to try to convince them, and if anyone can be convincing it’s a Frenchman in need of wine, but it didn’t work. We may go out with them for dinner, if I can convince Karl to spend the money. So far, the budget is suffering a little bit, but far be it from me to forego a night on the town.
Fred Fearing, the legendary Rose Buddy, didn’t come to greet us at the dock. He is 93 years old, after all. But according to the local guy who did come to meet us, he might be by tomorrow in a golf cart. Craziness. The local guy is the one that mans the dock when Fred isn’t here, and gives rides to the gas station and lets us use his hose for water. It’s pretty crazy. When we first pulled into the slip and didn’t see anyone, and there were no boats, and the downtown didn’t even look very promising, I thought “harbor of hospitality, my foot,” but my skepticism was unwarranted. I said, before we got here, that this was supposed to be the Saufleys of the ICW, and if you’ve hiked the PCT, you know what that means. It may be shaping up to be true.
So I’m sure that tonight will be another night of carousing with crazy French Canadians, until we set off again. I cleaned the boat yet again today, and now we’ve discovered a mysterious smell, like sewage, drifting back from one of the back lockers. Not pleasant. So we have to try to find it, or bleach it out, or something. Other things that are not cool about today: A dock line has mysteriously disappeared. We haven’t seen it since Rock Hall Harbor, and Karl is convinced someone stole it. I’m still hopeful it will show up.
Wind: SW 10 knots
Maximum speed: 5.3 knots
Average speed: 3.6 knots
Latitude: 36°17.93’N
Longitude: 076°13.10’W
Well, we've made it here to Elizabeth City, the harbor of hospitality, and it may be hard to leave. For one thing, they have super-speedy wifi right at the free dock. Showers at the fitness center, laundry, groceries, and everything we need. Lise and Marcel have pulled right up next to us, exactly on schedule, even though they came through the Virginia Cut. The swamp was gorgeous all day today--after we got through the canal it opened up into far more of a swampy feel, which made Karl happy. Trees growing in the water, spooky channels shooting off, but no gators. He's convinced he heard one slapping its tail against the water last night at the dock, but I don't believe him. He's just gator-happy.
No wine and cheese, though, and no roses, yet. They say that you need five boats in order to have the party. Marcel did his level best to try to convince them, and if anyone can be convincing it’s a Frenchman in need of wine, but it didn’t work. We may go out with them for dinner, if I can convince Karl to spend the money. So far, the budget is suffering a little bit, but far be it from me to forego a night on the town.
Fred Fearing, the legendary Rose Buddy, didn’t come to greet us at the dock. He is 93 years old, after all. But according to the local guy who did come to meet us, he might be by tomorrow in a golf cart. Craziness. The local guy is the one that mans the dock when Fred isn’t here, and gives rides to the gas station and lets us use his hose for water. It’s pretty crazy. When we first pulled into the slip and didn’t see anyone, and there were no boats, and the downtown didn’t even look very promising, I thought “harbor of hospitality, my foot,” but my skepticism was unwarranted. I said, before we got here, that this was supposed to be the Saufleys of the ICW, and if you’ve hiked the PCT, you know what that means. It may be shaping up to be true.
So I’m sure that tonight will be another night of carousing with crazy French Canadians, until we set off again. I cleaned the boat yet again today, and now we’ve discovered a mysterious smell, like sewage, drifting back from one of the back lockers. Not pleasant. So we have to try to find it, or bleach it out, or something. Other things that are not cool about today: A dock line has mysteriously disappeared. We haven’t seen it since Rock Hall Harbor, and Karl is convinced someone stole it. I’m still hopeful it will show up.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Deep Creek, VA, to North Carolina Welcome Station, NC
14.4 nm
Wind: NE 10-15 knots
Maximum speed: 5.8 knots
Average speed: 4.6 knots
Latitude: 36°30.39’N
Longitude: 076°21.35’W
We’re “Doing the Dismal,” as they say here. It’s beautiful, but Karl’s not impressed. He was expecting an Everglades-type swamp, with meandering channels of muddy water, huge mangroves growing out of rotting undergrowth, vast expanses of bubbling bogland. He keeps watching for an alligator, and we’ve heard that water moccasins can creep into your dinghy and catch you unawares.
I think it’s gorgeous. There are low, over-hanging trees, some of which I managed to hit with the mast when Karl was in the head today. The Master was steering, as he always does these days, and as Karl raced up from below I frantically adjusted his dial trying to find the middle of the canal. We didn’t lose our antenna, but the deck was showered with shrubbery, and I was pretty well panicked. Karl told me that it’s my boat too, so I can crash it if I want to. Fuggehdaboutit, I say.
We’re not making very good progress, as usual. We stopped over at the Food Lion for some necessary supplies we had forgotten at our last stop—including a grill lighter and matches. We were lighting our stove with fragments of matchbook covers twisted and lit from the candle, which we had to keep burning at all times. So that feels like utter luxury.
The hospitality in the South is overwhelming. The lockkeeper yesterday, so enthralled with his job and his canal, the people at the Mexican restaurant yesterday, all the people that maintain these free docks that we can tie up to, the people at the Visitor’s Center today. They even gave us free guidebooks to North Carolina and Florida, and we’re tied up at another free dock tonight, where they have bathrooms and water available. No showers, unfortunately. That’ll have to wait until tomorrow nighPublisht, at Elizabeth City, where supposedly they give you roses, wine and cheese, and a Jacuzzi for three bucks! This is all rumor, though. I hope it’s true.
Wind: NE 10-15 knots
Maximum speed: 5.8 knots
Average speed: 4.6 knots
Latitude: 36°30.39’N
Longitude: 076°21.35’W
We’re “Doing the Dismal,” as they say here. It’s beautiful, but Karl’s not impressed. He was expecting an Everglades-type swamp, with meandering channels of muddy water, huge mangroves growing out of rotting undergrowth, vast expanses of bubbling bogland. He keeps watching for an alligator, and we’ve heard that water moccasins can creep into your dinghy and catch you unawares.
I think it’s gorgeous. There are low, over-hanging trees, some of which I managed to hit with the mast when Karl was in the head today. The Master was steering, as he always does these days, and as Karl raced up from below I frantically adjusted his dial trying to find the middle of the canal. We didn’t lose our antenna, but the deck was showered with shrubbery, and I was pretty well panicked. Karl told me that it’s my boat too, so I can crash it if I want to. Fuggehdaboutit, I say.
We’re not making very good progress, as usual. We stopped over at the Food Lion for some necessary supplies we had forgotten at our last stop—including a grill lighter and matches. We were lighting our stove with fragments of matchbook covers twisted and lit from the candle, which we had to keep burning at all times. So that feels like utter luxury.
The hospitality in the South is overwhelming. The lockkeeper yesterday, so enthralled with his job and his canal, the people at the Mexican restaurant yesterday, all the people that maintain these free docks that we can tie up to, the people at the Visitor’s Center today. They even gave us free guidebooks to North Carolina and Florida, and we’re tied up at another free dock tonight, where they have bathrooms and water available. No showers, unfortunately. That’ll have to wait until tomorrow nighPublisht, at Elizabeth City, where supposedly they give you roses, wine and cheese, and a Jacuzzi for three bucks! This is all rumor, though. I hope it’s true.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Hospital Point to Deep Creek, VA
8.9 nm
Wind: SW 15 knots
Maximum speed: 4.7 knots
Average speed: 2.5 knots
Latitude: 36°44.43’N
Longitude: 076°20.70’W
I’ve just come back in from a lovely evening spent with two other nascent cruisers, Bob and Rodney, from Porland, Maine. Bob climbs trees for a living, and Rodney rebuilds old stone walls. We’ve been swapping war stories, showing scars, for the last few hours. We’ve both ran aground our fair share of times, had stories of hitchhiking to tell, storm stories, all of the sailor talk that you hear so much about.
They’re on a Herreshoff-designed Bristol sloop, 26 feet, a gorgeous boat that looks like she’d fly under sail. It stinks to be taking these lovely sailboats and sticking them in a little creek where they can do nothing but rev their engines for the next however many miles, but there it is. They’ll be able to fly when the time comes.
These two are two more crazy cruisers, though. I’m beginning to realize that actual cruisers resemble the people in Cruising World far less than I would have been led to believe. We all have boats held together with a wing and a prayer, which is the name of their boat, “A Wing and a Prayer.” We’re all beat-up poor people living in the dream, trying to end up some place where it’s cheap and warm. Just a step up from the seagulls, really.
They’re favorite boat-saying is “fuggehdaboutit,” from the movie Donnie Brasco. If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll know that “fuggehdaboutit” can mean all things to all people. If you’re engine won’t run? “Fuggehdaboutit.” Man, that’s a gorgeous sunset. “That? Fuggehdaboutit.” Did you end up in that last gale? “Oh, fuggehdaboutit.”
We gather a saying from every sailor we meet. The first was from Marcel on Sea Belle, from the infamous Canadian television show, Red Green. “It’s not a full moon every night!” It refers to the necessary piracy all of us as sailors must do. The second was from Geoff, on Serenity—“Garrrrr.”
And now, tonight, we’re tied up at the free dock just past the Deep Creek Lock, after a delicious burrito dinner, smothered in melted cheese, at La Familia Mexican restaurant, twenty yards from our boat. We’re finally in the Dismal Swamp Canal, heading towards North Carolina. Swamp trees bend down overhead. We’re through our first lock. Is life good? Fuggehdaboutit.
Wind: SW 15 knots
Maximum speed: 4.7 knots
Average speed: 2.5 knots
Latitude: 36°44.43’N
Longitude: 076°20.70’W
I’ve just come back in from a lovely evening spent with two other nascent cruisers, Bob and Rodney, from Porland, Maine. Bob climbs trees for a living, and Rodney rebuilds old stone walls. We’ve been swapping war stories, showing scars, for the last few hours. We’ve both ran aground our fair share of times, had stories of hitchhiking to tell, storm stories, all of the sailor talk that you hear so much about.
They’re on a Herreshoff-designed Bristol sloop, 26 feet, a gorgeous boat that looks like she’d fly under sail. It stinks to be taking these lovely sailboats and sticking them in a little creek where they can do nothing but rev their engines for the next however many miles, but there it is. They’ll be able to fly when the time comes.
These two are two more crazy cruisers, though. I’m beginning to realize that actual cruisers resemble the people in Cruising World far less than I would have been led to believe. We all have boats held together with a wing and a prayer, which is the name of their boat, “A Wing and a Prayer.” We’re all beat-up poor people living in the dream, trying to end up some place where it’s cheap and warm. Just a step up from the seagulls, really.
They’re favorite boat-saying is “fuggehdaboutit,” from the movie Donnie Brasco. If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll know that “fuggehdaboutit” can mean all things to all people. If you’re engine won’t run? “Fuggehdaboutit.” Man, that’s a gorgeous sunset. “That? Fuggehdaboutit.” Did you end up in that last gale? “Oh, fuggehdaboutit.”
We gather a saying from every sailor we meet. The first was from Marcel on Sea Belle, from the infamous Canadian television show, Red Green. “It’s not a full moon every night!” It refers to the necessary piracy all of us as sailors must do. The second was from Geoff, on Serenity—“Garrrrr.”
And now, tonight, we’re tied up at the free dock just past the Deep Creek Lock, after a delicious burrito dinner, smothered in melted cheese, at La Familia Mexican restaurant, twenty yards from our boat. We’re finally in the Dismal Swamp Canal, heading towards North Carolina. Swamp trees bend down overhead. We’re through our first lock. Is life good? Fuggehdaboutit.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Hampton to Hospital Point, VA
12.1 nm
Wind: calm to S 5 knots
Maximum speed: 5.8 knots
Average speed: 4. 0 knots
Latitude: 36°50.60’N
Longitude: 076°18.04’W
So we’re having Marcel and Lise over tonight, to repay them for all of their hospitality. I’m making a Cuban black bean soup, which I pray won’t be too spicy. I put in dried habaneros from Karl’s brother’s garden, since the Joy of Cooking called for a Scotch bonnet pepper, and then I found out Lise doesn’t like spicy food. Oh well. I had to pull it all out and infuse some olive oil with it.
But I’m making a salad and biscuits, and Karl rowed across to the mall to buy cheese and crackers, after making one of his infamous fruit punches, and I’m scrubbing the floor and putting on the good tablecloth and burning candles that smell good to take away that “essence of head” that seems to permeate even the best-kept sailboat. Which, as anyone who had read this far can attest, ours is anything but.
Still, though, even in our humble abode—or “aboat,” haha—I feel a desire to entertain grandly, to show our friends as good of a time as they’ve shown us. We don’t have much, but we have I want to be able to share. I think it’s one of the best things about sailing versus hiking. You never have people over to your tarp-tent the way you can have them over to your boat. And it seems like any excuse is good enough for cruisers to invite each other over and then repay the favor. It’s like our own little neighborhood. We’re getting to know the Joneses, and they’re getting to know us.
Tomorrow we enter into the Dismal Swamp canal, about which I’m super excited. Supposedly George Washington used to pal around their with his swamp-loving young buddies, when he was a wee lad. He surveyed the whole thing in about 1740, and your lovely congress is looking to cut funding, even though it’s the oldest continuously operated canal in the United States. And George Washington basically built the thing. It doesn’t get much more patriotic than that, does it? God bless America.
But I’ll get off my high horse. I have Canadians to entertain. French Canadians, at that.
Wind: calm to S 5 knots
Maximum speed: 5.8 knots
Average speed: 4. 0 knots
Latitude: 36°50.60’N
Longitude: 076°18.04’W
So we’re having Marcel and Lise over tonight, to repay them for all of their hospitality. I’m making a Cuban black bean soup, which I pray won’t be too spicy. I put in dried habaneros from Karl’s brother’s garden, since the Joy of Cooking called for a Scotch bonnet pepper, and then I found out Lise doesn’t like spicy food. Oh well. I had to pull it all out and infuse some olive oil with it.
But I’m making a salad and biscuits, and Karl rowed across to the mall to buy cheese and crackers, after making one of his infamous fruit punches, and I’m scrubbing the floor and putting on the good tablecloth and burning candles that smell good to take away that “essence of head” that seems to permeate even the best-kept sailboat. Which, as anyone who had read this far can attest, ours is anything but.
Still, though, even in our humble abode—or “aboat,” haha—I feel a desire to entertain grandly, to show our friends as good of a time as they’ve shown us. We don’t have much, but we have I want to be able to share. I think it’s one of the best things about sailing versus hiking. You never have people over to your tarp-tent the way you can have them over to your boat. And it seems like any excuse is good enough for cruisers to invite each other over and then repay the favor. It’s like our own little neighborhood. We’re getting to know the Joneses, and they’re getting to know us.
Tomorrow we enter into the Dismal Swamp canal, about which I’m super excited. Supposedly George Washington used to pal around their with his swamp-loving young buddies, when he was a wee lad. He surveyed the whole thing in about 1740, and your lovely congress is looking to cut funding, even though it’s the oldest continuously operated canal in the United States. And George Washington basically built the thing. It doesn’t get much more patriotic than that, does it? God bless America.
But I’ll get off my high horse. I have Canadians to entertain. French Canadians, at that.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Hampton, VA
0 nm
Wind: calm
I'm missing a couple of posts here, that I left back at the boat, but suffice it to say we did it. We're in Virginia, in a little town called Hampton right across from Norfolk, all set to start the actual Intracoastal Waterway tomorrow. I'm exhilarated, thrilled--words cannot describe. It felt like it was never going to happen, and it has.
I know, I know, we're still about two months late. November 1 is the official "safe" hurricane date when you can leave Norfolk and head south. Instead, we're here on December 13, all of twelve days before Christmas. At the grocery store today, the shelves were full of holiday nuts and gingerbread and eggnog, hams and turkeys were on sale, Christmas carols were on the speakers. It was bizarre. To be out sailing, so close to Christmas. For us it'll probably be no more than another freezing day at anchor with (hopefully) a little tiny turkey in the oven.
My parents live in Tennessee, so I'm hoping to be able to hook up with them one way or another somehow soon after Christmas. I'm hoping (although don't tell Karl) that we can leave the boat somewhere and even go visit them for a couple of days. Home--where I can take as many hot showers as I want and build fires in the fireplace and have heat!! It would be heavenly. But as of now, that's just a dream.
Hampton is a very interesting town, the home of Hampton University, the famous African-American institude founded by Booker T. Washington. At least that's what I've been able to gather from various historical plaques during our grocery-laden walk back to the dinghy. We're anchored right in front of it and it's a beautiful campus with clock towers and brick and ivy.
The town is making both of us rethink some of our prejudices, and is also making us more firmly aware that we're in the south. For one thing, we're in a definite minority. It makes me feel fairly awful that I'm so thrown off-guard by being one of the handful of white people in this gorgeous three-story town library with fantastic internet and hours until nine PM.
I guess it's good to be made aware of one's own racism--that's the only way one can fight it--but it also makes me sick to my stomach. How is it that I can have that much prejudice? It also makes me understand how unbelievably hard it must be to be a minority in any culture. I feel completely out of place, and while that may have to do with lugging around a backpack full of groceries, I think it has more to do with the color of my skin.
Still, I'm thrilled to be here, and I'm thrilled to have found wireless and groceries and to be in Norfolk, more or less. The best part is: we caught up with Marcel and Lise again! They had us over last night, wined and dined us yet again (this time with steak and macaroni and cheese!) and even let us use their marina showers. I'm in awe of their hospitality, and wish they would ever let us repay them. Instead, they ran off for Norfolk today, and we were supposed to go with them, but got distracted by our town duties. I hope they dawdle a little bit so we can catch up. They would be a fantastic pair to celebrate Christmas with.
So we're heading out again tomorrow, if we can find charts for the Dismal Swamp Canal. I've posted some pictures below up through the beginning of December. I've labeled them "pictures" so they should be easy to identify, but I'll start working on a Flickr account. Must keep up with the times, after all!
Wind: calm
I'm missing a couple of posts here, that I left back at the boat, but suffice it to say we did it. We're in Virginia, in a little town called Hampton right across from Norfolk, all set to start the actual Intracoastal Waterway tomorrow. I'm exhilarated, thrilled--words cannot describe. It felt like it was never going to happen, and it has.
I know, I know, we're still about two months late. November 1 is the official "safe" hurricane date when you can leave Norfolk and head south. Instead, we're here on December 13, all of twelve days before Christmas. At the grocery store today, the shelves were full of holiday nuts and gingerbread and eggnog, hams and turkeys were on sale, Christmas carols were on the speakers. It was bizarre. To be out sailing, so close to Christmas. For us it'll probably be no more than another freezing day at anchor with (hopefully) a little tiny turkey in the oven.
My parents live in Tennessee, so I'm hoping to be able to hook up with them one way or another somehow soon after Christmas. I'm hoping (although don't tell Karl) that we can leave the boat somewhere and even go visit them for a couple of days. Home--where I can take as many hot showers as I want and build fires in the fireplace and have heat!! It would be heavenly. But as of now, that's just a dream.
Hampton is a very interesting town, the home of Hampton University, the famous African-American institude founded by Booker T. Washington. At least that's what I've been able to gather from various historical plaques during our grocery-laden walk back to the dinghy. We're anchored right in front of it and it's a beautiful campus with clock towers and brick and ivy.
The town is making both of us rethink some of our prejudices, and is also making us more firmly aware that we're in the south. For one thing, we're in a definite minority. It makes me feel fairly awful that I'm so thrown off-guard by being one of the handful of white people in this gorgeous three-story town library with fantastic internet and hours until nine PM.
I guess it's good to be made aware of one's own racism--that's the only way one can fight it--but it also makes me sick to my stomach. How is it that I can have that much prejudice? It also makes me understand how unbelievably hard it must be to be a minority in any culture. I feel completely out of place, and while that may have to do with lugging around a backpack full of groceries, I think it has more to do with the color of my skin.
Still, I'm thrilled to be here, and I'm thrilled to have found wireless and groceries and to be in Norfolk, more or less. The best part is: we caught up with Marcel and Lise again! They had us over last night, wined and dined us yet again (this time with steak and macaroni and cheese!) and even let us use their marina showers. I'm in awe of their hospitality, and wish they would ever let us repay them. Instead, they ran off for Norfolk today, and we were supposed to go with them, but got distracted by our town duties. I hope they dawdle a little bit so we can catch up. They would be a fantastic pair to celebrate Christmas with.
So we're heading out again tomorrow, if we can find charts for the Dismal Swamp Canal. I've posted some pictures below up through the beginning of December. I've labeled them "pictures" so they should be easy to identify, but I'll start working on a Flickr account. Must keep up with the times, after all!
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Norfolk to Hampton, VA
2.9 nm
Wind: calm to S 5 knots
Latitude: 37°01.03’N
Longitude: 076°20.43’W
I guess I didn’t have much time yesterday, in our mammoth all-day run, to do anything except write and think and do the dishes. It was a glorious day, and I swear, as soon as we passed the Virginia line, which, was pretty close to being below 38° latitude, the sun broke free of the clouds, the temperature hit seventy degrees, and we started stripping off our layers like peeling an onion.
Everyone said that happened when you got to Virginia, and I didn’t quite believe it, but I guess it’s true. Either that, or we just got lucky, and we’re hitting some beautiful weather. I think the latter is more likely the case.
But we made it. Coming through all the crazy warships into Norfolk at night was pretty insane, but our trusty GPS (knock on wood) faithfully told us exactly where we were, and we made it right into Skipper Bob’s anchorage, with the beacon of the McDonald’s glowing temptingly off our bow. We didn’t risk it, thank goodness, because today when we came to the nearby town of Hampton we saw that it was actually on the other side of the highway.
Coming over this morning too, we saw crazy experimental naval vessels, shaped like gray stealth bombers in the water, with watertight hatches and all triangular planes. It looked like something out of Tron. I snuck a picture on the digital camera and then ran back down into the boat so I wouldn’t get shot.
But the best news of the day was when we pulled into Hampton and saw Sea Belle berthed at the marina! It was like being reunited with a long-lost relative. We hugged, we traded stories, we stayed up until three in the morning—it was like old times. They fed us steak from the grill and made us drink wine. It was awesome. It feels like coming home.
Wind: calm to S 5 knots
Latitude: 37°01.03’N
Longitude: 076°20.43’W
I guess I didn’t have much time yesterday, in our mammoth all-day run, to do anything except write and think and do the dishes. It was a glorious day, and I swear, as soon as we passed the Virginia line, which, was pretty close to being below 38° latitude, the sun broke free of the clouds, the temperature hit seventy degrees, and we started stripping off our layers like peeling an onion.
Everyone said that happened when you got to Virginia, and I didn’t quite believe it, but I guess it’s true. Either that, or we just got lucky, and we’re hitting some beautiful weather. I think the latter is more likely the case.
But we made it. Coming through all the crazy warships into Norfolk at night was pretty insane, but our trusty GPS (knock on wood) faithfully told us exactly where we were, and we made it right into Skipper Bob’s anchorage, with the beacon of the McDonald’s glowing temptingly off our bow. We didn’t risk it, thank goodness, because today when we came to the nearby town of Hampton we saw that it was actually on the other side of the highway.
Coming over this morning too, we saw crazy experimental naval vessels, shaped like gray stealth bombers in the water, with watertight hatches and all triangular planes. It looked like something out of Tron. I snuck a picture on the digital camera and then ran back down into the boat so I wouldn’t get shot.
But the best news of the day was when we pulled into Hampton and saw Sea Belle berthed at the marina! It was like being reunited with a long-lost relative. We hugged, we traded stories, we stayed up until three in the morning—it was like old times. They fed us steak from the grill and made us drink wine. It was awesome. It feels like coming home.
Monday, December 11, 2006
St Jerome Creek, MD, to Norfolk, VA
69.1 nm
Wind: calm to SW 5 knots
Maximum speed: 13.3 knots (but I think that’s a glitch in our system)
Average speed: 5.6 knots
Latitude: 37°00.53’N
Longitude: 076°19.11’W
Forgive me, but I was feeling philosophical today. So here goes:
When I was bicycling from Florida to Maine with my family, I felt like my brother and sister were paragons of grace, sleek tall other-worldly beings that glided down mountains on sleek tall bikes, leaning towards each other, canting towards the asphalt, like some species of brightly colored hawk. I, on the other hand, resolutely peddled my stout wide-tired bike, with stubborn revolutions of my stout elephantine legs, while the clown music started up in the background. They seemed to know, without even having to stop to consider it, how to deflate their tire tubes when they went flat, how to effortlessly slide them from their casings, how to replace them in an instant. It seemed to take no more time than the space of a breath. I, on the other hand, placed my stout and sturdy bike on the side of the road and threw up my hands to sky in despair. They would look at me with wordless disgust and change the tire for me, as easy as exhaling.
If you met them, you’d know. They’re both tall and elegant, regal, graceful, like ancient Egyptians or hybrid aliens from Superman’s planet. I, though older, am the short one in the family at 5’10”, farther apart in age, and sometimes I don’t even feel like I speak the same language, the secret language that only the two of them know.
Without even realizing it, I seem to have allied myself with another of these wordlessly graceful beings. When Karl was a boy, he aspired to be a ninja, even going so far as to buy himself black outfits and nunchaks. He would practice, out in the backyard, how to walk silently, how to take a step so the pressure rested equally on all planes of his foot at once but wouldn’t make a single sound. He practiced how to climb in and out of windows, how to sneak up behind someone so he could, eventually, assassinate them. That is, after all, what ninjas do.
He still walks silently. When we were hiking, he glided down the trail as effortlessly as my brother and sister bicycled, his whole body a lithe instrument of deadly grace. When we came to rocks, he sped up, leaping from the top of one to the next, seeming to sense without thinking where his foot would find traction on the angled and slippery surfaces, calculating, below the level of consciousness, all sorts of vectors of friction and physics. He hiked like a ninja.
I would try to follow precisely in his footsteps sometimes and would end up collapsing in a bloody and sodden heap on the trail, generally weeping. When I couldn’t follow him I would galumph down the trail, breaking through shrubbery like a large beast of burden. This is why, when it got really rocky, in Maine, our daily mileage collapsed to an average of about five miles. Small children could have kept up with us, and did.
Every day I ended up in a sobbing heap in Karl’s arms, continuing through sheer persnicketiness, as he tried to comfort me, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. I could feel, as he tried to tell me that I just had to believe in my next step, that same silent disdain that I felt from my siblings when I tried to change tires.
So now Karl sails like a ninja, like an assassin. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet, but I’m utterly convinced, when he does, that we’ll skim across the water like a flightless bird, leaving a trail of effervescent white foam across the water. He’ll trim the sails like they’re an extension of his own body, just like he used to walk like a ninja, like he used to snowboard, when he was almost a professional snowboarder, just like he used to ride his sleek yellow racing motorcycle at 180 miles an hour.
I, on the other hand, can’t even get the boat to tack. The amount of coordination it requires to hold the furling line in one hand while I pull the sheet in with the other is utterly beyond me. Reefing? Forget about it. My profound lack of balance prevents me from doing anything other than crawl out of the cockpit. Changing headsails? Are you kidding? Karl is so deathly afraid of me falling overboard that he doesn’t even let me go up on the foredeck while we’re moving. I went up, the other day, to watch the genoa as it curled and uncurled along its edges like a ruffled lily, trying to catch the wind. Then I had to pull myself, hand over hand, on my hands and knees, back to the cockpit, while the clown music started up again in my head.
As anyone who’s ever watched a kung-fu movie knows, assassins don’t teach. They merely beat their beffudled protĂ©gĂ©s into submission until that one student emerges from their ranks to become the next master while the sensei strokes his mustache and says “aso.” That’s what Karl’s doing to me now, but I’ll never emerge to be the next master.
What’s my point, though? I still love to sail. I love it. I love everything about it. Just like I loved to hike and I loved to bike before that. I want to do everything, to be the one who reefs and tacks and furls, the one who decides when we’re right on the edge of the wind, as close to it as we can get, the one who can use the wind against itself, tacking into it all day. I love feeling the soreness in my arms and abdomen after spending all day at the tiller. I even love beating, when the boat heels underneath us just a little, becoming a knife cutting through the water like so much excess fat.
But putting the sail cover on while we’re at anchor seems about the extent of my abilities. I’m much more a creature of the esoteric and useless realm of books and paper. I don’t even know why I keep putting myself in these places where the physical world can triumph over me one more time, but I do. I keep believing that one of these times, eventually, the stars will align and I’ll finally get it, that glorious golden line will appear and I’ll be able to follow it, like a ninja. But, until then, I’ll just keep galumphing along. The world, after all, must have a place for people like us.
Wind: calm to SW 5 knots
Maximum speed: 13.3 knots (but I think that’s a glitch in our system)
Average speed: 5.6 knots
Latitude: 37°00.53’N
Longitude: 076°19.11’W
Forgive me, but I was feeling philosophical today. So here goes:
When I was bicycling from Florida to Maine with my family, I felt like my brother and sister were paragons of grace, sleek tall other-worldly beings that glided down mountains on sleek tall bikes, leaning towards each other, canting towards the asphalt, like some species of brightly colored hawk. I, on the other hand, resolutely peddled my stout wide-tired bike, with stubborn revolutions of my stout elephantine legs, while the clown music started up in the background. They seemed to know, without even having to stop to consider it, how to deflate their tire tubes when they went flat, how to effortlessly slide them from their casings, how to replace them in an instant. It seemed to take no more time than the space of a breath. I, on the other hand, placed my stout and sturdy bike on the side of the road and threw up my hands to sky in despair. They would look at me with wordless disgust and change the tire for me, as easy as exhaling.
If you met them, you’d know. They’re both tall and elegant, regal, graceful, like ancient Egyptians or hybrid aliens from Superman’s planet. I, though older, am the short one in the family at 5’10”, farther apart in age, and sometimes I don’t even feel like I speak the same language, the secret language that only the two of them know.
Without even realizing it, I seem to have allied myself with another of these wordlessly graceful beings. When Karl was a boy, he aspired to be a ninja, even going so far as to buy himself black outfits and nunchaks. He would practice, out in the backyard, how to walk silently, how to take a step so the pressure rested equally on all planes of his foot at once but wouldn’t make a single sound. He practiced how to climb in and out of windows, how to sneak up behind someone so he could, eventually, assassinate them. That is, after all, what ninjas do.
He still walks silently. When we were hiking, he glided down the trail as effortlessly as my brother and sister bicycled, his whole body a lithe instrument of deadly grace. When we came to rocks, he sped up, leaping from the top of one to the next, seeming to sense without thinking where his foot would find traction on the angled and slippery surfaces, calculating, below the level of consciousness, all sorts of vectors of friction and physics. He hiked like a ninja.
I would try to follow precisely in his footsteps sometimes and would end up collapsing in a bloody and sodden heap on the trail, generally weeping. When I couldn’t follow him I would galumph down the trail, breaking through shrubbery like a large beast of burden. This is why, when it got really rocky, in Maine, our daily mileage collapsed to an average of about five miles. Small children could have kept up with us, and did.
Every day I ended up in a sobbing heap in Karl’s arms, continuing through sheer persnicketiness, as he tried to comfort me, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. I could feel, as he tried to tell me that I just had to believe in my next step, that same silent disdain that I felt from my siblings when I tried to change tires.
So now Karl sails like a ninja, like an assassin. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet, but I’m utterly convinced, when he does, that we’ll skim across the water like a flightless bird, leaving a trail of effervescent white foam across the water. He’ll trim the sails like they’re an extension of his own body, just like he used to walk like a ninja, like he used to snowboard, when he was almost a professional snowboarder, just like he used to ride his sleek yellow racing motorcycle at 180 miles an hour.
I, on the other hand, can’t even get the boat to tack. The amount of coordination it requires to hold the furling line in one hand while I pull the sheet in with the other is utterly beyond me. Reefing? Forget about it. My profound lack of balance prevents me from doing anything other than crawl out of the cockpit. Changing headsails? Are you kidding? Karl is so deathly afraid of me falling overboard that he doesn’t even let me go up on the foredeck while we’re moving. I went up, the other day, to watch the genoa as it curled and uncurled along its edges like a ruffled lily, trying to catch the wind. Then I had to pull myself, hand over hand, on my hands and knees, back to the cockpit, while the clown music started up again in my head.
As anyone who’s ever watched a kung-fu movie knows, assassins don’t teach. They merely beat their beffudled protĂ©gĂ©s into submission until that one student emerges from their ranks to become the next master while the sensei strokes his mustache and says “aso.” That’s what Karl’s doing to me now, but I’ll never emerge to be the next master.
What’s my point, though? I still love to sail. I love it. I love everything about it. Just like I loved to hike and I loved to bike before that. I want to do everything, to be the one who reefs and tacks and furls, the one who decides when we’re right on the edge of the wind, as close to it as we can get, the one who can use the wind against itself, tacking into it all day. I love feeling the soreness in my arms and abdomen after spending all day at the tiller. I even love beating, when the boat heels underneath us just a little, becoming a knife cutting through the water like so much excess fat.
But putting the sail cover on while we’re at anchor seems about the extent of my abilities. I’m much more a creature of the esoteric and useless realm of books and paper. I don’t even know why I keep putting myself in these places where the physical world can triumph over me one more time, but I do. I keep believing that one of these times, eventually, the stars will align and I’ll finally get it, that glorious golden line will appear and I’ll be able to follow it, like a ninja. But, until then, I’ll just keep galumphing along. The world, after all, must have a place for people like us.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Knapp Narrows to St Jerome Creek, MD
39.6 nm
Wind: calm to SSW 5 knots
Maximum speed: 5.8 knots
Average speed: 4.7 knots
Latitude: 38°07.52’N
Longitude: 076°19.62’W
We’re finally getting somewhere. That’s what that little 39.6 nautical miles means. And we’re finally listening to the critics who have been telling us: don’t sail, motor! They’ve been telling us that for the last month and a half, and after the debacle of yesterday, and with the impending realization that we might not even reach Norfolk by Christmas, we decided to listen to them.
So the sail covers didn’t even come off today. The wind was right in our faces, and we didn’t even bother to tack. The Master steered every last minute of the day. I thought to myself: hmm, this is what it must be like for all those people who don’t agonize and search their souls every time they flip the key for their diesel.
I think the hard part is the decision. If you’re resigned to having an inefficient powerboat, as Lise and Marcel seem to be, or if you’re like the Pardeys and don’t even have an engine, then you don’t have the choice to make. But with us, we look back and forth at each other longingly in the morning. Who’s going to take off the sail cover? Who’s going to pull out the winch handles? Or, when there’s no wind at all: who’s going to have the cojones to pull out the key?
We knew the wind was against us. We know the wind is going to be against us tomorrow. So instead of agonizing, or beating ourselves up (although I’ll do both of those things in even the best conditions), we just motored. I was able to do the dishes, clean the whole boat, bleach the mildew off the hull, bleach the contaminated cutting boards, and all before breakfast. Well, not exactly. All before lunch.
Which is when—wait for it—the motor started acting up. Big surprise there, huh? As soon as we start relying on it, it turns for the worse. It’s doing this crazy thing where for no reason at all it loses RPMs and then gains them again. We even had to shut it down for a couple of minutes, with no sail out, lie ahull, and pour oil into it. Which didn’t fix it.
Poseidon must be taking his fierce revenge. Or something. So while we had thought about letting the Master steer us all night, right into Norfolk, instead we pulled into an extremely rolly anchorage right at dark, and Karl’s pulled the whole diesel apart. So now I’m agonizing and soul-searching again. That’s what we get for relying on our engine. We’ll probably have to tack against the wind tomorrow, if we move at all, at a grand average speed of 1.2 knots in the five-knot breeze. It will only be what we deserve.
Wind: calm to SSW 5 knots
Maximum speed: 5.8 knots
Average speed: 4.7 knots
Latitude: 38°07.52’N
Longitude: 076°19.62’W
We’re finally getting somewhere. That’s what that little 39.6 nautical miles means. And we’re finally listening to the critics who have been telling us: don’t sail, motor! They’ve been telling us that for the last month and a half, and after the debacle of yesterday, and with the impending realization that we might not even reach Norfolk by Christmas, we decided to listen to them.
So the sail covers didn’t even come off today. The wind was right in our faces, and we didn’t even bother to tack. The Master steered every last minute of the day. I thought to myself: hmm, this is what it must be like for all those people who don’t agonize and search their souls every time they flip the key for their diesel.
I think the hard part is the decision. If you’re resigned to having an inefficient powerboat, as Lise and Marcel seem to be, or if you’re like the Pardeys and don’t even have an engine, then you don’t have the choice to make. But with us, we look back and forth at each other longingly in the morning. Who’s going to take off the sail cover? Who’s going to pull out the winch handles? Or, when there’s no wind at all: who’s going to have the cojones to pull out the key?
We knew the wind was against us. We know the wind is going to be against us tomorrow. So instead of agonizing, or beating ourselves up (although I’ll do both of those things in even the best conditions), we just motored. I was able to do the dishes, clean the whole boat, bleach the mildew off the hull, bleach the contaminated cutting boards, and all before breakfast. Well, not exactly. All before lunch.
Which is when—wait for it—the motor started acting up. Big surprise there, huh? As soon as we start relying on it, it turns for the worse. It’s doing this crazy thing where for no reason at all it loses RPMs and then gains them again. We even had to shut it down for a couple of minutes, with no sail out, lie ahull, and pour oil into it. Which didn’t fix it.
Poseidon must be taking his fierce revenge. Or something. So while we had thought about letting the Master steer us all night, right into Norfolk, instead we pulled into an extremely rolly anchorage right at dark, and Karl’s pulled the whole diesel apart. So now I’m agonizing and soul-searching again. That’s what we get for relying on our engine. We’ll probably have to tack against the wind tomorrow, if we move at all, at a grand average speed of 1.2 knots in the five-knot breeze. It will only be what we deserve.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Knapp Narrows, MD
0 nm
Wind: W 10 knots
I made myself deathly ill last night. Well, that may be an exaggeration, but I did wake up at least four times to vomit all over myself and the boat. We had been told to not put anything that hadn’t been eaten into our toilets (hence the stinky grocery bag full of used toilet paper hanging off our toilet-paper holder) to keep it from clogging, and that included vomit. Although, I ask you: haven’t you, technically, already eaten what comes back up?
Something in the universe seems resolved to paint the boat with every kind of human effluvium it can come up with. So, when I woke up in the middle of the night, all ready to hurl, Karl’s first words were—not in the toilet!! Instead, I dug through the hanging locker for yet another grocery bag, which I proceeded to vomit into, and not very adeptly I might add. You try vomiting into a plastic bag in the middle of the night in the dark while barefoot while standing on 20-degree fiberglass. Just try it. I dare you.
Of course, the bag I grabbed was one of the ones with gaping holes in the bottom, so it started streaming out the bottom almost as fast as it was going in. I rapidly double-bagged, just like my mother always taught me. And this went on throughout the night. The five-gallon bucket was conveniently located out in the cockpit, separated from me by Lexan hatches and a layer of ice. Eventually, after the fourth time of leaping from my bunk and racing to the closet for plastic bags, I braved the cold. Not stopping to put on shoes. Oh no. Because that would make sense. Instead I walked barefoot on the ice, invoking comparisons to Hindi gurus, finally rescuing the bucket, at which point I failed to vomit the rest of the night. Figures.
Karl was fine, other than shooting pains in his abdomen all day today, which I had to. But no vomit for him. Lucky boy. I think that our utter sloth and slovenliness has finally caught up with us. It was probably the four-pound pork roast which we split in two and cooked last night. Although Lin Pardey says you can wipe off the yellow slime with a vinegar solution, we failed to do that. But there wasn’t any yellow slime! I swear to God!
It was probably the residual pork on the cutting board from the night before’s stir-fry, which I failed to wash yesterday. We didn’t actually use the same cutting board, of course, but I think it may have contaminated the other cutting board, which Karl did use for dinner.
In any case, we didn’t go anywhere all day. I didn’t get out of my sleeping bag until about four, at which point Karl very sweetly made me chicken soup, although without any carrots. I couldn’t face carrots after spotting shreds of them in the exterior scuppers.
Wind: W 10 knots
I made myself deathly ill last night. Well, that may be an exaggeration, but I did wake up at least four times to vomit all over myself and the boat. We had been told to not put anything that hadn’t been eaten into our toilets (hence the stinky grocery bag full of used toilet paper hanging off our toilet-paper holder) to keep it from clogging, and that included vomit. Although, I ask you: haven’t you, technically, already eaten what comes back up?
Something in the universe seems resolved to paint the boat with every kind of human effluvium it can come up with. So, when I woke up in the middle of the night, all ready to hurl, Karl’s first words were—not in the toilet!! Instead, I dug through the hanging locker for yet another grocery bag, which I proceeded to vomit into, and not very adeptly I might add. You try vomiting into a plastic bag in the middle of the night in the dark while barefoot while standing on 20-degree fiberglass. Just try it. I dare you.
Of course, the bag I grabbed was one of the ones with gaping holes in the bottom, so it started streaming out the bottom almost as fast as it was going in. I rapidly double-bagged, just like my mother always taught me. And this went on throughout the night. The five-gallon bucket was conveniently located out in the cockpit, separated from me by Lexan hatches and a layer of ice. Eventually, after the fourth time of leaping from my bunk and racing to the closet for plastic bags, I braved the cold. Not stopping to put on shoes. Oh no. Because that would make sense. Instead I walked barefoot on the ice, invoking comparisons to Hindi gurus, finally rescuing the bucket, at which point I failed to vomit the rest of the night. Figures.
Karl was fine, other than shooting pains in his abdomen all day today, which I had to. But no vomit for him. Lucky boy. I think that our utter sloth and slovenliness has finally caught up with us. It was probably the four-pound pork roast which we split in two and cooked last night. Although Lin Pardey says you can wipe off the yellow slime with a vinegar solution, we failed to do that. But there wasn’t any yellow slime! I swear to God!
It was probably the residual pork on the cutting board from the night before’s stir-fry, which I failed to wash yesterday. We didn’t actually use the same cutting board, of course, but I think it may have contaminated the other cutting board, which Karl did use for dinner.
In any case, we didn’t go anywhere all day. I didn’t get out of my sleeping bag until about four, at which point Karl very sweetly made me chicken soup, although without any carrots. I couldn’t face carrots after spotting shreds of them in the exterior scuppers.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Knapp Narrows, MD
0 nm
Wind: NW 25-30 knots, gusting to 45
We woke up this morning to icicles on our windows, formed from our own condensation. Icicles. Ice. In the boat. Not outside. Inside. Which means that (not only do we have a condensation problem, which we knew already) but that it was less than 32 degrees in here last night. Yikes. I keep saying that we’re preparing for our transit around Tierra del Fuego, but the joke is ceasing to be funny.
We used to say that we sailed no matter the temperature, that all that mattered was the wind, but that is ceasing to be true as well. Karl, who used to work making snow on Mount Killington in Vermont, where temperatures often reached forty below, has begun to refer to overnight sojourns in this kind of weather as “life-threatening.” I’m sure they wouldn’t be life-threatening if we were prepared for them, but the fact is that we don’t have the necessary gear.
It’s been in the twenties the last couple of nights, with daytime temperatures in the thirties. The typical wind-chill they give on the radio is in the teens. Now, think about a ten-degree wind-chill, and then think about the added apparent wind as we got straight into the wind. (As usual, the forecast is for wind directly in our faces.) That’s got to get down at least to zero. Which, if you think about the tropical clothing we came prepared with, puts us in severe danger of hypothermia.
Today wasn’t so bad. I refused to go outside to get water to do the dishes with, so they sat in squalor. We ran the oven all day for heat, and used up our first tank of propane. Other than that the day was spent reading and listening to the wind howl around in our rigging. We had thought about leaving tonight and doing an overnight straight to Norfolk, but even though I’m kind of gung-ho on the idea, I admit that Karl’s thoughts about our impending deaths by freezing warrant some consideration.
Wind: NW 25-30 knots, gusting to 45
We woke up this morning to icicles on our windows, formed from our own condensation. Icicles. Ice. In the boat. Not outside. Inside. Which means that (not only do we have a condensation problem, which we knew already) but that it was less than 32 degrees in here last night. Yikes. I keep saying that we’re preparing for our transit around Tierra del Fuego, but the joke is ceasing to be funny.
We used to say that we sailed no matter the temperature, that all that mattered was the wind, but that is ceasing to be true as well. Karl, who used to work making snow on Mount Killington in Vermont, where temperatures often reached forty below, has begun to refer to overnight sojourns in this kind of weather as “life-threatening.” I’m sure they wouldn’t be life-threatening if we were prepared for them, but the fact is that we don’t have the necessary gear.
It’s been in the twenties the last couple of nights, with daytime temperatures in the thirties. The typical wind-chill they give on the radio is in the teens. Now, think about a ten-degree wind-chill, and then think about the added apparent wind as we got straight into the wind. (As usual, the forecast is for wind directly in our faces.) That’s got to get down at least to zero. Which, if you think about the tropical clothing we came prepared with, puts us in severe danger of hypothermia.
Today wasn’t so bad. I refused to go outside to get water to do the dishes with, so they sat in squalor. We ran the oven all day for heat, and used up our first tank of propane. Other than that the day was spent reading and listening to the wind howl around in our rigging. We had thought about leaving tonight and doing an overnight straight to Norfolk, but even though I’m kind of gung-ho on the idea, I admit that Karl’s thoughts about our impending deaths by freezing warrant some consideration.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Rhode River to Knapp Narrows, MD
19.6 nm
Wind: WSW 5-10 knots, gusting to 15, shifting out of the NW and building to 20-25, gusting to 30
Seas: Building to three feet
Maximum speed: 7.1 knots
Average speed: 4.6 knots
Latitude: 38°44.41’N
Longitude: 076°19.34’W
I’ve been thinking a lot about Lin Pardey lately. Karl’s finally got sick of me saying, “Well, the Pardeys say that…” and has forbidden me from mentioning them, so you’ll probably hear me talking a lot more about the Pardeys. I have to take it out on someone. What I’ve been thinking about is that Lin Pardey is 4’10”. I am 5’10”, so I have exactly a foot on her.
I imagine that this makes things very different for us on sailboats. For instance: sailboat length. Larry and Lin circumnavigated in a 24’ wooden sailboat before upgrading to a 29’ boat. Our boat is 33’ long, but not even as wide as theirs, I don’t think. If I’m a full foot taller, then how much extra space does that translate to, percentage-wise?
That isn’t exactly what I’ve been contemplating, though. Karl and I have plenty of space on our skinny 33-foot boat, despite our frustrating attempts to pass each other in, what for lack of a better term I will call the hallway. No, what I’ve been thinking about is her claim that she can reef their mainsail single-handedly, while under sail.
I have yet to reef our main. Or our jib, lately, come to think of it. In fact, it takes Karl a full HOUR to reef, or take a reef out, under sail or at anchor. I kid you not. And on Seraffyn or Taliesin (the Pardeys’ two boats), Lin, a 4’10” 90-pound weakling, could do it single-handed. With one hand tied behind her back, too, I imagine. This morning, it took Karl an hour to take out our double reef from yesterday, with such effort that in the forty-degree winter weather he stripped down to his shirtsleeves.
Yesterday, double reefing the main was so much work that he again stripped out of his warm clothes, despite the thirty-knot breeze. I’m just guessing, but this doesn’t seem a very efficient way to sail. This point was proved rather effectively during today’s sail, when we set out with no wind, under full sail, with our new brand spankin’ new 130-percent genoa, and the wind suddenly shifted out of the northwest into a full-blown winter gale. We had known it was coming and were prepared, or so we thought. In fact, our plan was to just pop on down to the next anchorage, getting a couple more miles in before the weather took a turn. But we might have been a little safer if we had been capable of actually reefing our main in less than an hour’s time, instead of carrying full sail (we dispensed with the genoa, of course) and zooming into land at seven knots.
There’s a line you’re supposed to use for reefing, the use of which (I haven’t quite figure it all out) makes it called “jiffy reefing.” This was the line we didn’t know about on our first day of sailing, when we thought reefing involved simply tying some reef knots, which we had dutifully learned. Our reefing is definitely not jiffy. In fact, it is anything but.
There are definitely some times where I know we haven’t prepared enough, and that is perhaps most true when it comes to reefing. We didn’t even know how to reef when we left. We still barely know how. Gales are certainly not going to give us an hour’s warning, and Karl, hanging out up there by the mast for a full sixty minutes, is not exactly a model of boating safety. He does his best, but that’s not the point.
The point is that the Pardeys sail without an engine, and until we can figure out how to adjust our sail to suit the existing wind conditions, we’re up the proverbial creek without a paddle. We have to be able to sail with the wind that is, and then adjust our sail to suit the wind as it changes. We shouldn’t have even had the genoa up after about an hour of sailing. We should have been able to switch to our sturdier 110, the lapper, (that would take us about four hours) and then we should have reefed. Right now our only option is running away with the wind behind us and flipping on the diesel when things get rough. One of these days it’s going to get the better of us.
Wind: WSW 5-10 knots, gusting to 15, shifting out of the NW and building to 20-25, gusting to 30
Seas: Building to three feet
Maximum speed: 7.1 knots
Average speed: 4.6 knots
Latitude: 38°44.41’N
Longitude: 076°19.34’W
I’ve been thinking a lot about Lin Pardey lately. Karl’s finally got sick of me saying, “Well, the Pardeys say that…” and has forbidden me from mentioning them, so you’ll probably hear me talking a lot more about the Pardeys. I have to take it out on someone. What I’ve been thinking about is that Lin Pardey is 4’10”. I am 5’10”, so I have exactly a foot on her.
I imagine that this makes things very different for us on sailboats. For instance: sailboat length. Larry and Lin circumnavigated in a 24’ wooden sailboat before upgrading to a 29’ boat. Our boat is 33’ long, but not even as wide as theirs, I don’t think. If I’m a full foot taller, then how much extra space does that translate to, percentage-wise?
That isn’t exactly what I’ve been contemplating, though. Karl and I have plenty of space on our skinny 33-foot boat, despite our frustrating attempts to pass each other in, what for lack of a better term I will call the hallway. No, what I’ve been thinking about is her claim that she can reef their mainsail single-handedly, while under sail.
I have yet to reef our main. Or our jib, lately, come to think of it. In fact, it takes Karl a full HOUR to reef, or take a reef out, under sail or at anchor. I kid you not. And on Seraffyn or Taliesin (the Pardeys’ two boats), Lin, a 4’10” 90-pound weakling, could do it single-handed. With one hand tied behind her back, too, I imagine. This morning, it took Karl an hour to take out our double reef from yesterday, with such effort that in the forty-degree winter weather he stripped down to his shirtsleeves.
Yesterday, double reefing the main was so much work that he again stripped out of his warm clothes, despite the thirty-knot breeze. I’m just guessing, but this doesn’t seem a very efficient way to sail. This point was proved rather effectively during today’s sail, when we set out with no wind, under full sail, with our new brand spankin’ new 130-percent genoa, and the wind suddenly shifted out of the northwest into a full-blown winter gale. We had known it was coming and were prepared, or so we thought. In fact, our plan was to just pop on down to the next anchorage, getting a couple more miles in before the weather took a turn. But we might have been a little safer if we had been capable of actually reefing our main in less than an hour’s time, instead of carrying full sail (we dispensed with the genoa, of course) and zooming into land at seven knots.
There’s a line you’re supposed to use for reefing, the use of which (I haven’t quite figure it all out) makes it called “jiffy reefing.” This was the line we didn’t know about on our first day of sailing, when we thought reefing involved simply tying some reef knots, which we had dutifully learned. Our reefing is definitely not jiffy. In fact, it is anything but.
There are definitely some times where I know we haven’t prepared enough, and that is perhaps most true when it comes to reefing. We didn’t even know how to reef when we left. We still barely know how. Gales are certainly not going to give us an hour’s warning, and Karl, hanging out up there by the mast for a full sixty minutes, is not exactly a model of boating safety. He does his best, but that’s not the point.
The point is that the Pardeys sail without an engine, and until we can figure out how to adjust our sail to suit the existing wind conditions, we’re up the proverbial creek without a paddle. We have to be able to sail with the wind that is, and then adjust our sail to suit the wind as it changes. We shouldn’t have even had the genoa up after about an hour of sailing. We should have been able to switch to our sturdier 110, the lapper, (that would take us about four hours) and then we should have reefed. Right now our only option is running away with the wind behind us and flipping on the diesel when things get rough. One of these days it’s going to get the better of us.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Annapolis to Rhode River, MD
13.2 nm
Wind: SW 25-30 knots, gusting to 35
Seas: 3-4 feet, building to 6-8 feet
Maximum speed: 4.8 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 3.9 knots
Average speed: 3.1 knots
Latitude: 38°52.54’N
Longitude: 076°31.41’W
I’ve been thinking, lately, that we’re being a little chicken about the weather. So it’s blowing thirty. Who the hell cares?
Today I proved myself wrong.
We’ve been listening to the weather for days now, and allegedly there was supposed to be a break in the weather today, tonight, and tomorrow. We decided on a plan to zoom down the before the next storm broke on Thursday night. The idea was to be in Norfolk, Virginia, near the soothing caress of the gulf stream, by this time tomorrow night.
I woke up in the middle of the night last night and thought someone was stealing our dinghy. That’s how bad the waves were at anchor. I was so convinced I even went to check on the thieves. They were, of course, nonexistent. The seas bashing the dinghy against the boat were real.
So when the alarm went off at five o’clock this morning, I decided to go check the weather forecast rather than waking Karl. The wind was still howling in the rigging, and it seemed a lot worse than predicted. But no, it was the same as it had been yesterday. So, naively, I figure, it must just be the remnants of Monday’s storm. The waves will probably die down before we leave.
They didn’t. We double-reefed for only the second time, the bow coming up on top of each six-foot breaker, pulling the propeller out of the water, and crashing back down into the next one. Cabinets inside the boat flew open. Cans went flying. Bottles of water went flying. Mostly empty coffee pots and mugs and boxes full of spices were scattered all over the floor.
Thanks to the Delaware Bay experience, I didn’t exactly fear for my life. I knew Secret could handle it. But when yet another gigantic wave sent shudders through the hull, both Karl and I asked the same question. Um, where’s the next anchorage? So much for 130 miles. Instead, we’ve only made six miles of progress, according to Skipper Bob’s mileage down the middle of the bay. Six lousy miles. And we’ll probably be here for the next three days.
I know we’ll make progress eventually. This is just God’s way of teaching me patience. Right? RIGHT??? We have to start sailing at night, and making breaks for it when the weather’s good, but I swear, the weather was supposed to be good today. When we got into the anchorage, the weather forecast was the same as it’s been for the last three days, but the buoy reports weren’t. Thomas Point Lighthouse, which we had thought was way out in the middle of the Atlantic but was actually two miles away, was gusting to 28. And that was a random sampling, after it had died down. So I’m betting we’ve sailed in at least 35, now. I think the wind today was the worst we’ve been in. I guess we either need a better weather forecasting system, or we need to start listening to buoy reports. Or something. What we really need is to have left two months before we did. Which I even knew at the time. Oh well.
Wind: SW 25-30 knots, gusting to 35
Seas: 3-4 feet, building to 6-8 feet
Maximum speed: 4.8 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 3.9 knots
Average speed: 3.1 knots
Latitude: 38°52.54’N
Longitude: 076°31.41’W
I’ve been thinking, lately, that we’re being a little chicken about the weather. So it’s blowing thirty. Who the hell cares?
Today I proved myself wrong.
We’ve been listening to the weather for days now, and allegedly there was supposed to be a break in the weather today, tonight, and tomorrow. We decided on a plan to zoom down the before the next storm broke on Thursday night. The idea was to be in Norfolk, Virginia, near the soothing caress of the gulf stream, by this time tomorrow night.
I woke up in the middle of the night last night and thought someone was stealing our dinghy. That’s how bad the waves were at anchor. I was so convinced I even went to check on the thieves. They were, of course, nonexistent. The seas bashing the dinghy against the boat were real.
So when the alarm went off at five o’clock this morning, I decided to go check the weather forecast rather than waking Karl. The wind was still howling in the rigging, and it seemed a lot worse than predicted. But no, it was the same as it had been yesterday. So, naively, I figure, it must just be the remnants of Monday’s storm. The waves will probably die down before we leave.
They didn’t. We double-reefed for only the second time, the bow coming up on top of each six-foot breaker, pulling the propeller out of the water, and crashing back down into the next one. Cabinets inside the boat flew open. Cans went flying. Bottles of water went flying. Mostly empty coffee pots and mugs and boxes full of spices were scattered all over the floor.
Thanks to the Delaware Bay experience, I didn’t exactly fear for my life. I knew Secret could handle it. But when yet another gigantic wave sent shudders through the hull, both Karl and I asked the same question. Um, where’s the next anchorage? So much for 130 miles. Instead, we’ve only made six miles of progress, according to Skipper Bob’s mileage down the middle of the bay. Six lousy miles. And we’ll probably be here for the next three days.
I know we’ll make progress eventually. This is just God’s way of teaching me patience. Right? RIGHT??? We have to start sailing at night, and making breaks for it when the weather’s good, but I swear, the weather was supposed to be good today. When we got into the anchorage, the weather forecast was the same as it’s been for the last three days, but the buoy reports weren’t. Thomas Point Lighthouse, which we had thought was way out in the middle of the Atlantic but was actually two miles away, was gusting to 28. And that was a random sampling, after it had died down. So I’m betting we’ve sailed in at least 35, now. I think the wind today was the worst we’ve been in. I guess we either need a better weather forecasting system, or we need to start listening to buoy reports. Or something. What we really need is to have left two months before we did. Which I even knew at the time. Oh well.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Annapolis, MD
0 nm
Wind: NW 20-25 knots
Seas: 2-3 feet
My overwhelming feeling today is one of frustration. I feel like we’re too late—too late for the winter, too late for the cold, too late for the gales, too late for everything. Florida seems an eternity away, let alone anyplace farther than that. Anyplace where it’s warm, where your toes aren’t constantly numb, anyplace where jumping in the ocean is something other than life-threatening.
We were all set to sail today, and then we listened to the forecast. More bad weather. The last time we tried to sail in 25 knots was in Delaware Bay, when we nearly killed ourselves, so it doesn’t seem wise to go out in it. There’s a small-craft advisory, but I still feel unbearably antsy. I basically read all day to avoid thinking about it, now that I don’t have a novel to write, which means I didn’t get anything done on the boat, either, which I realized thanks to Karl’s very pointed glances.
I broke the budget yesterday in Annapolis to spend $14 on Julie and Julia, the book I fell in love with in the Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey, and spend all day reading it. I finally tore myself away two chapters from the end, so I could at least have something to save for later, like dessert. It’s such a fantastic book. A girl makes a simple—but not easy—goal, and in meeting it changes her life. I’m to the place where she’s getting interviewed by the New York Times and having film crews visit her house and cooking kidneys. Somehow I think that if I was being interviewed by the New York Times and eating kidneys that I could put up with numb-toe-syndrome a little better.
Then again, I have fish-head soup.
No new fish heads to report. Today the menu was cereal and soup. Delicious, heart-warming soup, created for me by the man I love, so I have nothing to complain about really. My toes will recover. One can think of worse things to do than read one’s life away.
Wind: NW 20-25 knots
Seas: 2-3 feet
My overwhelming feeling today is one of frustration. I feel like we’re too late—too late for the winter, too late for the cold, too late for the gales, too late for everything. Florida seems an eternity away, let alone anyplace farther than that. Anyplace where it’s warm, where your toes aren’t constantly numb, anyplace where jumping in the ocean is something other than life-threatening.
We were all set to sail today, and then we listened to the forecast. More bad weather. The last time we tried to sail in 25 knots was in Delaware Bay, when we nearly killed ourselves, so it doesn’t seem wise to go out in it. There’s a small-craft advisory, but I still feel unbearably antsy. I basically read all day to avoid thinking about it, now that I don’t have a novel to write, which means I didn’t get anything done on the boat, either, which I realized thanks to Karl’s very pointed glances.
I broke the budget yesterday in Annapolis to spend $14 on Julie and Julia, the book I fell in love with in the Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey, and spend all day reading it. I finally tore myself away two chapters from the end, so I could at least have something to save for later, like dessert. It’s such a fantastic book. A girl makes a simple—but not easy—goal, and in meeting it changes her life. I’m to the place where she’s getting interviewed by the New York Times and having film crews visit her house and cooking kidneys. Somehow I think that if I was being interviewed by the New York Times and eating kidneys that I could put up with numb-toe-syndrome a little better.
Then again, I have fish-head soup.
No new fish heads to report. Today the menu was cereal and soup. Delicious, heart-warming soup, created for me by the man I love, so I have nothing to complain about really. My toes will recover. One can think of worse things to do than read one’s life away.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Annapolis, MD
0 nm
Wind: W 20 to 30 knots, gusting to 35
It’s been one of the craziest days so far on the trip—one of those days I would never believe if it hadn’t have happened. We stayed in Annapolis to see our friend Terrapin from the Appalachian Trail (hi, Terrapin!) and to take showers. The showers were fantastic. Beyond anything I can even describe. To have hot water flowing over your body, after so long without. I can’t even begin to describe. But that was just the beginning of the day.
After we had our showers, we were picked up by Terrapin and his girlfriend Sara, who took us to the outdoor store, to the grocery store, and the mall, for an all-around American shopping experience. It was a little shocking to us, who haven’t been in civilization for a while. The best part was hearing Bob Dylan’s new song on the radio, though. The times they are a-changin’.
So we ended up at this classic Annapolis haunt, where George Washington used to booze it up in the attic with the masons. Terrapin and Sara took us there to try their raw oyster shooters, a Maryland classic. Raw oysters in cocktail sauce and Tabasco. Delicious. Together, we all ate about a dozen and a half of them, along with assorted other appetizers. Which was when the fun started.
Terrapin and Sara left, to go back to Baltimore, where they’re really from, and we began to wander the streets of Annapolis in search of entertainment. We had entered a lobster-weight guessing competition at the restaurant, in which we would win an entire giant lobster if we guessed its weight correctly. Karl was convinced he had the weight correctly, so we had to wait until the halftime of the Monday Night Football game to win.
So we met Setarcos, our code name for a 71-year-old gentleman who taught us a great deal about life. At first he tried to give us ten dollars, thinking that we were bums wandering the streets of Annapolis. When we tried to explain to him what we were up to, at first he applauded our adventures, and then began to ask us why, what we were doing, what our purpose was, and if we had always wanted to do what we were doing. All valid questions, but ones which I wasn’t sure I wanted to discuss with a stranger on the streets of Annapolis. We tried to explain that our only purpose was just to live and love, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted us to have some farther self-sacrificial purpose, as evidently he had spent his life doing psychotherapy for autistic patients. He argued with us about our knowledge of astronomy, existentialism, history, and philosophy, and as much as I tried to explain to him that I had done reading in these fields and planned to do more, but that I wanted to experience life in addition to reading about others’ experiences of it, he could not be convinced. Karl eventually forced his ten dollars back on him, at which point he almost went to take a swing at Karl.
The whole episode left us both a little shaken. The guy was basically crazy, or at least unable to listen to his own advice. Yes, we need to have purpose in our journey, and yes, we need to learn from others’ experiences. But both of us are perfectly content, or as perfectly content as we can be at our age and with our experience. I know Karl has taught me more than I can even begin to explain about how to be happy. But this guy was saying that happiness wasn’t enough, that we needed to grind our own telescopes out of glass in order to learn the secrets of the universe. Maybe we do need more discipline. Maybe we do need to study other people’s work more. Maybe we do need to think more about the purpose of our journey. And meeting him may have made us rethink all these things. But to have your adventure condemned by a stranger on the street? Is pretty gut-wrenching, even to the most confident adventurer.
So we went back to the restaurant and almost won the lobster, which the winner gave to us anyway, since we were the only people left in the place. Karl’s guess was the closest, but he went over. We chowed down on the lobster, sharing it with the bartender, a supremely drunk guy who showed up, and the little Latino busboy. It was a six-pound thirteen-ounce lobster (Karl’s guess was 7 lbs. 2) and we ate that sucker like there was no tomorrow. Free lobster is not a bad way to end the night.
Still, though. Setarcos haunts us. I know that he was brought into our lives for a reason, and that we do have something to learn from him, despite his utter lack of ability to see us as we are.
Wind: W 20 to 30 knots, gusting to 35
It’s been one of the craziest days so far on the trip—one of those days I would never believe if it hadn’t have happened. We stayed in Annapolis to see our friend Terrapin from the Appalachian Trail (hi, Terrapin!) and to take showers. The showers were fantastic. Beyond anything I can even describe. To have hot water flowing over your body, after so long without. I can’t even begin to describe. But that was just the beginning of the day.
After we had our showers, we were picked up by Terrapin and his girlfriend Sara, who took us to the outdoor store, to the grocery store, and the mall, for an all-around American shopping experience. It was a little shocking to us, who haven’t been in civilization for a while. The best part was hearing Bob Dylan’s new song on the radio, though. The times they are a-changin’.
So we ended up at this classic Annapolis haunt, where George Washington used to booze it up in the attic with the masons. Terrapin and Sara took us there to try their raw oyster shooters, a Maryland classic. Raw oysters in cocktail sauce and Tabasco. Delicious. Together, we all ate about a dozen and a half of them, along with assorted other appetizers. Which was when the fun started.
Terrapin and Sara left, to go back to Baltimore, where they’re really from, and we began to wander the streets of Annapolis in search of entertainment. We had entered a lobster-weight guessing competition at the restaurant, in which we would win an entire giant lobster if we guessed its weight correctly. Karl was convinced he had the weight correctly, so we had to wait until the halftime of the Monday Night Football game to win.
So we met Setarcos, our code name for a 71-year-old gentleman who taught us a great deal about life. At first he tried to give us ten dollars, thinking that we were bums wandering the streets of Annapolis. When we tried to explain to him what we were up to, at first he applauded our adventures, and then began to ask us why, what we were doing, what our purpose was, and if we had always wanted to do what we were doing. All valid questions, but ones which I wasn’t sure I wanted to discuss with a stranger on the streets of Annapolis. We tried to explain that our only purpose was just to live and love, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted us to have some farther self-sacrificial purpose, as evidently he had spent his life doing psychotherapy for autistic patients. He argued with us about our knowledge of astronomy, existentialism, history, and philosophy, and as much as I tried to explain to him that I had done reading in these fields and planned to do more, but that I wanted to experience life in addition to reading about others’ experiences of it, he could not be convinced. Karl eventually forced his ten dollars back on him, at which point he almost went to take a swing at Karl.
The whole episode left us both a little shaken. The guy was basically crazy, or at least unable to listen to his own advice. Yes, we need to have purpose in our journey, and yes, we need to learn from others’ experiences. But both of us are perfectly content, or as perfectly content as we can be at our age and with our experience. I know Karl has taught me more than I can even begin to explain about how to be happy. But this guy was saying that happiness wasn’t enough, that we needed to grind our own telescopes out of glass in order to learn the secrets of the universe. Maybe we do need more discipline. Maybe we do need to study other people’s work more. Maybe we do need to think more about the purpose of our journey. And meeting him may have made us rethink all these things. But to have your adventure condemned by a stranger on the street? Is pretty gut-wrenching, even to the most confident adventurer.
So we went back to the restaurant and almost won the lobster, which the winner gave to us anyway, since we were the only people left in the place. Karl’s guess was the closest, but he went over. We chowed down on the lobster, sharing it with the bartender, a supremely drunk guy who showed up, and the little Latino busboy. It was a six-pound thirteen-ounce lobster (Karl’s guess was 7 lbs. 2) and we ate that sucker like there was no tomorrow. Free lobster is not a bad way to end the night.
Still, though. Setarcos haunts us. I know that he was brought into our lives for a reason, and that we do have something to learn from him, despite his utter lack of ability to see us as we are.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Swan Creek to Annapolis, MD
16.9 nm
Wind: calm
Maximum speed: 6.2 knots
Average speed: 4.2 knots
Latitude: 38°58.62’N
Longitude: 076°28.89’W
At least we moved today. There’s another storm heading in tomorrow, and we need to get showers, and I’m beginning to feel stranded in the middle of Chesapeake Bay. I’m sure we’ll make it, and I’m sure we’re making progress, but I feel like we should at least be to Norfolk by now. There’s snow predicted for tonight. Snow. That’s fairly ridiculous.
Then again, I’ve felt this way on all of our journeys. On some of them, maybe all of them, I’ve been right. We just need to get our butts out of here the day after tomorrow, and make a run for the border, as fast as we can. Maybe we need to do another overnight. I’m just beginning to be freaked out about time and cold, and if I’m more freaked out about that than I am about the shower, then that’s really saying something.
We’re in Annapolis, tonight, which is cool. Anchored right off the Naval Academy. Coming in today was crazy. There was a sailboat race going on right in the mouth of the harbor, and with almost no wind these boats were tacking straight towards us. Some of them were literally three yards from our bow before they tacked. We, of course, were motoring straight here, trying to get here before the harbormaster’s office closed, which we failed to do.
I’m not sure we’re anchored in a place we’re really allowed to be. A ferry keeps making loud noises as it goes past, but the police went by earlier and didn’t say anything. We’re right at the edge of a mooring field, right behind a crazy green catamaran, but we’re right in the middle of everything, and it just doesn’t seem like we’d be allowed to anchor here. Still, we’re going to stay until someone says something, and hopefully we’ll be safe in the storm tomorrow.
We've also managed to get wireless access, although it involves a pseudo-prehistoric ritual of pressing the send button and then angling the laptop up towards the sky in a half-hopeful, half-prayerful stance. Karl's out collecting the fenders that have gathered in the corners of the harbor. As he says, they're worth twenty bucks a piece. That's a pretty penny. I'm a little depressed at having missed the showers, but I know we won't leave until we get one, so that makes me feel better. And I just want to get south fast. This cold is not cutting it.
Wind: calm
Maximum speed: 6.2 knots
Average speed: 4.2 knots
Latitude: 38°58.62’N
Longitude: 076°28.89’W
At least we moved today. There’s another storm heading in tomorrow, and we need to get showers, and I’m beginning to feel stranded in the middle of Chesapeake Bay. I’m sure we’ll make it, and I’m sure we’re making progress, but I feel like we should at least be to Norfolk by now. There’s snow predicted for tonight. Snow. That’s fairly ridiculous.
Then again, I’ve felt this way on all of our journeys. On some of them, maybe all of them, I’ve been right. We just need to get our butts out of here the day after tomorrow, and make a run for the border, as fast as we can. Maybe we need to do another overnight. I’m just beginning to be freaked out about time and cold, and if I’m more freaked out about that than I am about the shower, then that’s really saying something.
We’re in Annapolis, tonight, which is cool. Anchored right off the Naval Academy. Coming in today was crazy. There was a sailboat race going on right in the mouth of the harbor, and with almost no wind these boats were tacking straight towards us. Some of them were literally three yards from our bow before they tacked. We, of course, were motoring straight here, trying to get here before the harbormaster’s office closed, which we failed to do.
I’m not sure we’re anchored in a place we’re really allowed to be. A ferry keeps making loud noises as it goes past, but the police went by earlier and didn’t say anything. We’re right at the edge of a mooring field, right behind a crazy green catamaran, but we’re right in the middle of everything, and it just doesn’t seem like we’d be allowed to anchor here. Still, we’re going to stay until someone says something, and hopefully we’ll be safe in the storm tomorrow.
We've also managed to get wireless access, although it involves a pseudo-prehistoric ritual of pressing the send button and then angling the laptop up towards the sky in a half-hopeful, half-prayerful stance. Karl's out collecting the fenders that have gathered in the corners of the harbor. As he says, they're worth twenty bucks a piece. That's a pretty penny. I'm a little depressed at having missed the showers, but I know we won't leave until we get one, so that makes me feel better. And I just want to get south fast. This cold is not cutting it.
Pictures of sailboat racing in Annapolis
It's crazy that these people race in December. The whole harbor was full of boats.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Swan Creek, MD
0 nm
Wind: NW 15-20 knots, gusting to 25 knots
The forecasters predicted 10-15 knots of wind today, and we were all set to leave. They lie. The forecast keeps disagreeing with the actual buoy reports, which all have gusts of up to at least 25. It’s pretty and sunny out, if cold but I think we’re going to wait until tomorrow to move.
The plus side: we were able to do research on area showers and discovered the town dock in Annapolis still has them for a dollar! Hooray! That’s the goal for tomorrow, and I can finally feel clean again. Thank God. Although I’m not going to count my chickens just yet. Just, all you people out there—be grateful every time you step under that blistering hot stream of limitless fresh water in the morning. In fact, go take an extra shower today. Right now. Get off your butt and go take a shower, as hot as you can stand it, just for me. I’d appreciate it.
Wind: NW 15-20 knots, gusting to 25 knots
The forecasters predicted 10-15 knots of wind today, and we were all set to leave. They lie. The forecast keeps disagreeing with the actual buoy reports, which all have gusts of up to at least 25. It’s pretty and sunny out, if cold but I think we’re going to wait until tomorrow to move.
The plus side: we were able to do research on area showers and discovered the town dock in Annapolis still has them for a dollar! Hooray! That’s the goal for tomorrow, and I can finally feel clean again. Thank God. Although I’m not going to count my chickens just yet. Just, all you people out there—be grateful every time you step under that blistering hot stream of limitless fresh water in the morning. In fact, go take an extra shower today. Right now. Get off your butt and go take a shower, as hot as you can stand it, just for me. I’d appreciate it.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Swan Creek, MD
0 nm
Wind: SW 25-30 knots, gusting to 40
Another day socked in against the wind, and I think it’s the worst we’ve ever been through. Karl spent all day massaging the rode, letting out an additional twenty feet about every two hours, until we finally had 200 feet of rode out, a little ridiculous for our eight-foot-deep anchorage. But at least we’ll sleep soundly.
On the plus side, I finished my novel last night. It had rather an atrocious tacked-on ending, but I pounded out my 50,000 words in a month. The thing that sucks is that it won’t count for the NaNoWriMo, because I didn’t get it authorized and counted by the end of November. I will not, officially, be a Winner. No web icon for me. Still, if anyone wants to do a verification read-through, I’ll email the thing whenever I next get a chance. Karl refuses to read it until I at least to a preliminary edit, so I guess December will be NaNoEdMo for me—National Novel Editing Month. I’m going to give it a week, though. I need a break. It feels weird to have the immense burden of 1700 words a day taken off my shoulders, though. I’m at loose ends. I’ll have to find something else to do. Maybe read one of the hundred books that I convinced Karl to let me bring along.
I had long conversations with my mother and sister, though. My sister’s having a Christmas party this evening. They were playing carols in all the stores in Rock Hall. It’s pretty crazy to be sailing at this time of year. It doesn’t feel real somehow, either the boat or the holidays. I’m glad we’re out here, but I’m not used to be adventuring when it’s Christmastime. This is working and saving-up-money time of year, or has been for the last three.
Still, we’re having fun, aside from the continued adventures with the five-gallon bucket. Whenever we can’t move, we make each other elaborate meals as a way to stay entertained and warm. This morning, Karl made me scrambled eggs, home fries, and toast for breakfast, and for dinner we collaborated on a roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green bean feast. It’s cozy and warm, even though the wind is howling, and we’re calling up all of our friends on the cell phone to entertain ourselves.
Wind: SW 25-30 knots, gusting to 40
Another day socked in against the wind, and I think it’s the worst we’ve ever been through. Karl spent all day massaging the rode, letting out an additional twenty feet about every two hours, until we finally had 200 feet of rode out, a little ridiculous for our eight-foot-deep anchorage. But at least we’ll sleep soundly.
On the plus side, I finished my novel last night. It had rather an atrocious tacked-on ending, but I pounded out my 50,000 words in a month. The thing that sucks is that it won’t count for the NaNoWriMo, because I didn’t get it authorized and counted by the end of November. I will not, officially, be a Winner. No web icon for me. Still, if anyone wants to do a verification read-through, I’ll email the thing whenever I next get a chance. Karl refuses to read it until I at least to a preliminary edit, so I guess December will be NaNoEdMo for me—National Novel Editing Month. I’m going to give it a week, though. I need a break. It feels weird to have the immense burden of 1700 words a day taken off my shoulders, though. I’m at loose ends. I’ll have to find something else to do. Maybe read one of the hundred books that I convinced Karl to let me bring along.
I had long conversations with my mother and sister, though. My sister’s having a Christmas party this evening. They were playing carols in all the stores in Rock Hall. It’s pretty crazy to be sailing at this time of year. It doesn’t feel real somehow, either the boat or the holidays. I’m glad we’re out here, but I’m not used to be adventuring when it’s Christmastime. This is working and saving-up-money time of year, or has been for the last three.
Still, we’re having fun, aside from the continued adventures with the five-gallon bucket. Whenever we can’t move, we make each other elaborate meals as a way to stay entertained and warm. This morning, Karl made me scrambled eggs, home fries, and toast for breakfast, and for dinner we collaborated on a roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green bean feast. It’s cozy and warm, even though the wind is howling, and we’re calling up all of our friends on the cell phone to entertain ourselves.
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