Wind: NE 10 knots
Seas: 3-4 feet, with a four-foot swell
Two days before my birthday, and it’s another of those moments when my entire universe is perfectly aligned. I’m on the boat, Karl’s downstairs in the cabin sleeping, I’m writing in the cockpit. We’re under full sail, on a broad reach, the Master making a pleasant little whir as he steers.
And guess what? We saw more dolphins today. About an hour ago. Karl was sleeping, and I saw a flash off to starboard. I thought it was a fish jumping. Then, off to port, I saw a dolphin cutting smoothly through the water, maybe five feet from the boat. I made another of my gasps, loud enough to wake Karl up, and we both ran up and down the deck laughing and watching them play.
They were all around us, playing with the boat, I swear. One of them kept ducking down beneath the bow, then popping up on the other side. Two others started racing us, coming from behind, great gray shapes in the water. I was overwhelmed by how big they were, at least half the length of the boat. And how fast. The beat us, hands down.
They were so close that Karl laid down on the bowsprit and tried to touch them as they swam by. He saw one of their tails flick the hull.
We’re completely out of sight of land right now, only the second time, the first time since Delaware Bay. There are a number of things I’m worried about—how the four-foot swell keeps stealing the wind from the genoa, our inability to sail downwind, whether or not we can get around Cape Fear in the dark, coming into an unknown inlet with unknown tides at night (our tide tables expired with 2006), our second overnight passage, whether the weather will hold, and whether Karl’s unprotected solder of our computer cord will hold or whether the computer will die again, leaving us blind out here—but I know I’m doing something right. I live the kind of life where I sail with dolphins.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Oriental to Beaufort, NC
21.2 nm
Wind: N 20-25 knots, dropping to 15-20
Seas: One-foot chop in Pamlico River
Maximum speed: 6.8 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 5.4 knots
Average speed: 4.6 knots
Latitude: 34°43.61’N
Longitude: 076°40.04’W
We saw dolphins today. A lot else happened, most of it bad, but the main, and most important thing is: we saw dolphins.
The other thing that happened was: our computer died.
If you haven’t been following along, you won’t know that our computer is our GPS, our knot-meter, and our only source of charts, because we can’t afford paper ones. The computer is also the CD and DVD player, the only place of storage for the novel I wrote in the month of November, and the repository of all of our digital photos and hours of music.
The computer didn’t exactly die. Its power cord did, which is only logical, considering it’s been yanked across the boat when the computer was thrown across it by our heeling at least three times.
But without power we had no charts, no GPS, no navigation. Once again, I thank my lucky starts for blessing me with a genius among men, a paramour who can fix any engine, any electronic device, anything.
I steered gingerly for a while, staying between reds and greens, heading into the tricky and much-shoaled harbor of Beaufort, while Karl tore the power supply apart. Eventually we came to a fork in the channel where the greens and reds shifted, and we didn’t know which side to keep them on anymore. When the depth sounder hit 4.6 (our draft is five feet) we decided to turn around and anchor just off the channel.
I bit my fingernails in the corner while Karl performed surgery on the power cord, eventually breaking the corner of the computer’s case. I huddled in horror as if he were breaking the limbs of my only child. He pulled out the soldering iron and solder which we happen to have on board, yanked out wire, solder and hmphed and managed to fix it, believe it or not.
Right at the edge of sunset, right when we were on the verge of having navigation again, we saw the dolphins. I gave a gasping squeal which made Karl think I was dying and pointed. We both saw them surface at least five times, a pod of three, ten feet from a sandbar.
If that isn’t good luck, I don’t know what is. I don’t care of my iBook looks like Frankenstein.
Wind: N 20-25 knots, dropping to 15-20
Seas: One-foot chop in Pamlico River
Maximum speed: 6.8 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 5.4 knots
Average speed: 4.6 knots
Latitude: 34°43.61’N
Longitude: 076°40.04’W
We saw dolphins today. A lot else happened, most of it bad, but the main, and most important thing is: we saw dolphins.
The other thing that happened was: our computer died.
If you haven’t been following along, you won’t know that our computer is our GPS, our knot-meter, and our only source of charts, because we can’t afford paper ones. The computer is also the CD and DVD player, the only place of storage for the novel I wrote in the month of November, and the repository of all of our digital photos and hours of music.
The computer didn’t exactly die. Its power cord did, which is only logical, considering it’s been yanked across the boat when the computer was thrown across it by our heeling at least three times.
But without power we had no charts, no GPS, no navigation. Once again, I thank my lucky starts for blessing me with a genius among men, a paramour who can fix any engine, any electronic device, anything.
I steered gingerly for a while, staying between reds and greens, heading into the tricky and much-shoaled harbor of Beaufort, while Karl tore the power supply apart. Eventually we came to a fork in the channel where the greens and reds shifted, and we didn’t know which side to keep them on anymore. When the depth sounder hit 4.6 (our draft is five feet) we decided to turn around and anchor just off the channel.
I bit my fingernails in the corner while Karl performed surgery on the power cord, eventually breaking the corner of the computer’s case. I huddled in horror as if he were breaking the limbs of my only child. He pulled out the soldering iron and solder which we happen to have on board, yanked out wire, solder and hmphed and managed to fix it, believe it or not.
Right at the edge of sunset, right when we were on the verge of having navigation again, we saw the dolphins. I gave a gasping squeal which made Karl think I was dying and pointed. We both saw them surface at least five times, a pod of three, ten feet from a sandbar.
If that isn’t good luck, I don’t know what is. I don’t care of my iBook looks like Frankenstein.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Oriental, NC
0 nm
Wind: S 15-20 knots, building to 25-30, heavy rain
A new year. What a great place to celebrate. It’s rainy and dismal today, so we’re staying in the boat, but the “Better Than Football” race boats are all heading out of the harbor. If we were convinced to stay this long I really wanted to join them, even though we’ve never raced before, but the rain has convinced me otherwise.
Racing seems like such a yachtie thing—Ivy Leaguers in topsiders eating Chateaubriand (when they come into harbor, of course) and polishing their teak—or at least that’s how it seems. But here it’s just a bunch of people who love sailing, who go out with their buddies and see who can get around the buoys first. There isn’t even a winner—they pull the winner’s name out of a hat. That’s the handicap.
But even that couldn’t convince us to go. I was half afraid we’d end up hobbling into harbor last with broken spars and ripped sails, and everyone would say incredulously, “those guys are cruisers??” Because we really don’t know what we’re doing yet. But if it wasn’t for the rain, I think we would’ve gone anyway.
Then again, if it wasn’t for the rain, we’d be sailing today. I wish these people did enforce their 48-hour law. We’d probably be halfway to Florida by now.
Wind: S 15-20 knots, building to 25-30, heavy rain
A new year. What a great place to celebrate. It’s rainy and dismal today, so we’re staying in the boat, but the “Better Than Football” race boats are all heading out of the harbor. If we were convinced to stay this long I really wanted to join them, even though we’ve never raced before, but the rain has convinced me otherwise.
Racing seems like such a yachtie thing—Ivy Leaguers in topsiders eating Chateaubriand (when they come into harbor, of course) and polishing their teak—or at least that’s how it seems. But here it’s just a bunch of people who love sailing, who go out with their buddies and see who can get around the buoys first. There isn’t even a winner—they pull the winner’s name out of a hat. That’s the handicap.
But even that couldn’t convince us to go. I was half afraid we’d end up hobbling into harbor last with broken spars and ripped sails, and everyone would say incredulously, “those guys are cruisers??” Because we really don’t know what we’re doing yet. But if it wasn’t for the rain, I think we would’ve gone anyway.
Then again, if it wasn’t for the rain, we’d be sailing today. I wish these people did enforce their 48-hour law. We’d probably be halfway to Florida by now.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Oriental, NC
0 nm
Wind: NE 10-15 knots, building to 15-20
I’ve begun to get a little too long-winded and introspective lately, I think. Always my major fault. It’s important to think about what I’m doing, but it’s more important to actually experience it. What Karl, my ninja, is so good at.
So we stayed here another day, for the New Year’s Eve festivities, the running of the dragon. It was fantastic, amazing, well worth the time spent, but I still begrudge the loss of a day moving.
The local fish is called a croaker, and as part of the celebration, the town officials (who seem to be an ideal crew of casual ex-cruising sailor hippies) build a giant tinselly lit-up plywood croaker and drop it from the mast of a sailboat just in time for the new year, just after the dragon runs through the streets.
I woke up this morning hearing the crew of town officials ask our neighbors, fellow cruisers, if they would do them the honor of dropping the croaker from their mast. I am dismayed that our habit of sleeping in has kept us from having the privilege of dropping the croaker, especially because our neighbors’ boat has internal halyards and they can’t get the croaker all the way up the mast. Not that the town officials would have asked us, the dirty boat with the kids in it, anyway.
The town’s supposed to have a strict 48-hour limit on dock time here, but our neighbors, a Texan cruising sailboat called Gone with the Wind, got an exemption for the dropping of the croaker and we’re riding on their coattails. I feel a little guilty about it, especially because there are a bunch of local boats anchored in the harbor who I’m sure would jump on our spots, but locals, in a non-official capacity, kept begging us to stay, so we did.
We were even invited to a potluck pig roast! I made my soon to be famous chipotle-cilantro-cream cheese dip, but I think I may have put in too many chipotles for the locals, because no one touched it. Too much cooking for Karl, he of the burnt-out taste buds, I suppose. I swear if we took all the hot sauce off the boat, we’d gain half a knot of speed.
The pig picking was awesome, though. Best pig I ever had. Tennessee Ron, the Master of Ceremonies, a magical, grizzled, big-bearded, one-eyed sailorman, with a giant orange pig smoker he tows behind his truck, seems to have a Pied-Piper-like ability of making all the local townswomen make out with him. It’s rather astonishing. I brought my Tennessee hat to show him, mildewed though it is, and he was duly impressed. He told us tales of cruising through the Bahamas, and told us that the Azores, across the Atlantic, was where we want to be. He also went in for the kiss, when we said farewell at midnight, but I gave him the cheek. I don’t think Karl would have been too pleased with the alternative.
Then came the dragon run. It was an exuberant celebration, unlike any I have encountered since the millennial New Year in Germany. Not that there were really 20,000 people in the streets, as we had been promised—it was just a community of people who really liked each other and loved their town. Children raced through the streets banging pots and pans, anyone got under the dragon who wanted, loud music filled the air, and all was general chaos. It was great.
To top it off, we were invited over to someone’s house for Swedish glog, and we met a whole slew of amazing people: a solo circumnavigator who also walks thousands of miles with mules, an American-Scottish couple who crossed both the Atlantic and Pacific, and a bunch of community artists.
I think I’m half in love with this place. If there was any danger of us settling down, I might want to settle down here.
Wind: NE 10-15 knots, building to 15-20
I’ve begun to get a little too long-winded and introspective lately, I think. Always my major fault. It’s important to think about what I’m doing, but it’s more important to actually experience it. What Karl, my ninja, is so good at.
So we stayed here another day, for the New Year’s Eve festivities, the running of the dragon. It was fantastic, amazing, well worth the time spent, but I still begrudge the loss of a day moving.
The local fish is called a croaker, and as part of the celebration, the town officials (who seem to be an ideal crew of casual ex-cruising sailor hippies) build a giant tinselly lit-up plywood croaker and drop it from the mast of a sailboat just in time for the new year, just after the dragon runs through the streets.
I woke up this morning hearing the crew of town officials ask our neighbors, fellow cruisers, if they would do them the honor of dropping the croaker from their mast. I am dismayed that our habit of sleeping in has kept us from having the privilege of dropping the croaker, especially because our neighbors’ boat has internal halyards and they can’t get the croaker all the way up the mast. Not that the town officials would have asked us, the dirty boat with the kids in it, anyway.
The town’s supposed to have a strict 48-hour limit on dock time here, but our neighbors, a Texan cruising sailboat called Gone with the Wind, got an exemption for the dropping of the croaker and we’re riding on their coattails. I feel a little guilty about it, especially because there are a bunch of local boats anchored in the harbor who I’m sure would jump on our spots, but locals, in a non-official capacity, kept begging us to stay, so we did.
We were even invited to a potluck pig roast! I made my soon to be famous chipotle-cilantro-cream cheese dip, but I think I may have put in too many chipotles for the locals, because no one touched it. Too much cooking for Karl, he of the burnt-out taste buds, I suppose. I swear if we took all the hot sauce off the boat, we’d gain half a knot of speed.
The pig picking was awesome, though. Best pig I ever had. Tennessee Ron, the Master of Ceremonies, a magical, grizzled, big-bearded, one-eyed sailorman, with a giant orange pig smoker he tows behind his truck, seems to have a Pied-Piper-like ability of making all the local townswomen make out with him. It’s rather astonishing. I brought my Tennessee hat to show him, mildewed though it is, and he was duly impressed. He told us tales of cruising through the Bahamas, and told us that the Azores, across the Atlantic, was where we want to be. He also went in for the kiss, when we said farewell at midnight, but I gave him the cheek. I don’t think Karl would have been too pleased with the alternative.
Then came the dragon run. It was an exuberant celebration, unlike any I have encountered since the millennial New Year in Germany. Not that there were really 20,000 people in the streets, as we had been promised—it was just a community of people who really liked each other and loved their town. Children raced through the streets banging pots and pans, anyone got under the dragon who wanted, loud music filled the air, and all was general chaos. It was great.
To top it off, we were invited over to someone’s house for Swedish glog, and we met a whole slew of amazing people: a solo circumnavigator who also walks thousands of miles with mules, an American-Scottish couple who crossed both the Atlantic and Pacific, and a bunch of community artists.
I think I’m half in love with this place. If there was any danger of us settling down, I might want to settle down here.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Oriental, NC
0 nm
Wind: light and variable
The sun's beating on my shoulder so hard I can barely see the computer screen, I'm munching on a bagel, and I have wireless access at the free dock in Oriental. Life is good. This is perhaps my favorite town of the trip so far--there's a cute coffeehouse just across the way, a kayak shop and outfitter with an end-of-season sale going on, a nautical outfitter with charts, a West Marine a mile away, a restaurant with a great blue-cheese burger (my fatal weakness), and friendly locals.
We've already met a bunch of new cruisers here, too--a couple from Texas who's cruised all around Puerto Rico and Grand Turk, a single-hander with a 26-foot boat, and two powerboaters who've cruised from Annapolis in three days. We spent all night last night making new friends, first, eating dinner with the group of sailors, and then being invited over to the 46-foot power boat belonging to our new "stinkpot" friends.
And they say powerboaters and sailors can't get along. We had a great time, poking around the ginormous powerboat. The thing does 20 knots and burns 25 gallons of diesel an HOUR. It costs $500 to fuel it for a day, our budget, for everything, for an entire month. Then again, they'll be in Florida by the end of the week, and we might just make it there in time to meet them on their way back, in February.
The evening took on the familiar character of those of our adventuring days, meeting acquaintances who immediately become new friends. People are continually floored when we explain to them what we're doing. They don't understand how we can do it, so young, so poor, so schedule-free. We explain to them that we're just frugal (aside from the occasional blue-cheese burger) and that we don't have any debt. And we occasionally poop in buckets. It's just really not that hard, when it boils down to it. You just have to not spend money. You earn it, and you don't spend it. You save it for what you really want to do, and for us, right now, that's sailing.
You can easily make $6000 in a winter and have an extravagant budget for a six-month summer-long thru-hike, and people were continually amazed at how we managed to afford that. Sailing's even easier--anchoring's free, and you carry your house with you. You don't even need motel rooms to sleep in a bed, like we did on the trail.
It was just further proof of my evangelistic hypothesis. Just by sailing, by going new places and meeting new people, and showing them how we live, we open their eyes to new ways to live. How it's possible to free yourself from the curses of commercialism and appearance and over-medication of our decadent society. How easy it is, when it boils right down, to live a dream.
We were supposed to leave today for Beaufort, but we're being sucked in to stay for the annual Oriental New Year's Eve running of the dragon, the major event in the life of the town. It seems almost too coincidental that we happen to be here in time for it. I can't decide if it's worth trying to stay another day. We keep getting sucked into these towns, and as much as I love meeting new people and seeing new places, I miss the seclusion and peace of our beautiful days sailing and silent nights at anchor.
Wind: light and variable
The sun's beating on my shoulder so hard I can barely see the computer screen, I'm munching on a bagel, and I have wireless access at the free dock in Oriental. Life is good. This is perhaps my favorite town of the trip so far--there's a cute coffeehouse just across the way, a kayak shop and outfitter with an end-of-season sale going on, a nautical outfitter with charts, a West Marine a mile away, a restaurant with a great blue-cheese burger (my fatal weakness), and friendly locals.
We've already met a bunch of new cruisers here, too--a couple from Texas who's cruised all around Puerto Rico and Grand Turk, a single-hander with a 26-foot boat, and two powerboaters who've cruised from Annapolis in three days. We spent all night last night making new friends, first, eating dinner with the group of sailors, and then being invited over to the 46-foot power boat belonging to our new "stinkpot" friends.
And they say powerboaters and sailors can't get along. We had a great time, poking around the ginormous powerboat. The thing does 20 knots and burns 25 gallons of diesel an HOUR. It costs $500 to fuel it for a day, our budget, for everything, for an entire month. Then again, they'll be in Florida by the end of the week, and we might just make it there in time to meet them on their way back, in February.
The evening took on the familiar character of those of our adventuring days, meeting acquaintances who immediately become new friends. People are continually floored when we explain to them what we're doing. They don't understand how we can do it, so young, so poor, so schedule-free. We explain to them that we're just frugal (aside from the occasional blue-cheese burger) and that we don't have any debt. And we occasionally poop in buckets. It's just really not that hard, when it boils down to it. You just have to not spend money. You earn it, and you don't spend it. You save it for what you really want to do, and for us, right now, that's sailing.
You can easily make $6000 in a winter and have an extravagant budget for a six-month summer-long thru-hike, and people were continually amazed at how we managed to afford that. Sailing's even easier--anchoring's free, and you carry your house with you. You don't even need motel rooms to sleep in a bed, like we did on the trail.
It was just further proof of my evangelistic hypothesis. Just by sailing, by going new places and meeting new people, and showing them how we live, we open their eyes to new ways to live. How it's possible to free yourself from the curses of commercialism and appearance and over-medication of our decadent society. How easy it is, when it boils right down, to live a dream.
We were supposed to leave today for Beaufort, but we're being sucked in to stay for the annual Oriental New Year's Eve running of the dragon, the major event in the life of the town. It seems almost too coincidental that we happen to be here in time for it. I can't decide if it's worth trying to stay another day. We keep getting sucked into these towns, and as much as I love meeting new people and seeing new places, I miss the seclusion and peace of our beautiful days sailing and silent nights at anchor.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Bear Creek to Oriental, NC
19.5 nm
Wind: calm to NE 5 knots
Maximum speed: 4.8 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 4.4 knots
Average speed: 2.6 knots
Latitude: 35°01.49’N
Longitude: 076°41.74’W
I’m sitting in the cockpit, writing on my notepad. It’s about 3:30 in the afternoon, the sun’s beating down so hard I may get a sunburn, we have all sail out, running wing-and-wing with the Master steering at about three knots, and all my depression has burned off. Life is perfect. This is the dream, right here, now, its pulse heavy beneath my fingers.
It’s the first day we’ve had the mainsail up since Knapp Narrows, way back in the Chesapeake, eons ago. Since the day we ran straight at the bascule bridge at seven knots under main alone, the water pushing us forward.
We both needed to sail today, like a fix. I admit it—we’re addicts. It’s the last day that we’ll have open water until Beaufort Inlet, when we have to decide whether or not we’re going inside to Cape Fear. So even when the forecast was for light and variable wind we dutifully raised our sails this morning and sat in the sun while we drifted along at less than a knot.
It’s all done under the pretense of testing the Master’s battery usage under sail. He’s doing amazing. We’ve never used him under sail before, but he’s rated at less than a half-amp an hour, so we figured we’d give it a try. With the computer, the depth sounder, and the Master all running on one battery for five hours, which charged for only a half-hour this morning, we haven’t had our voltage alarm go off yet. If you’re not a cruiser, you don’t understand how you live and die by battery, but I’m in awe. The Master might even outlast our daylight.
That’s very good news for going offshore this next stretch. We’re both getting impatient with the diesel, even though it’s done its part, and a good one, getting us this far. But I don’t want to build bad habits. I don’t want to get lazy. And sailing today has been like medicine. I feel like my universe has realigned. I know what I’m doing, why I’m here. We may have to motor the whole rest of the way down, and that’s okay. It’ll be a necessary sacrifice. Fossil fuels burning at the altar of adventure. But I know that this, this perfect moment, in harmony with the wind, the water, the sky, the moon shining like a coin in the blue behind us, this is why I’m doing this. I’m a believer again.
Wind: calm to NE 5 knots
Maximum speed: 4.8 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 4.4 knots
Average speed: 2.6 knots
Latitude: 35°01.49’N
Longitude: 076°41.74’W
I’m sitting in the cockpit, writing on my notepad. It’s about 3:30 in the afternoon, the sun’s beating down so hard I may get a sunburn, we have all sail out, running wing-and-wing with the Master steering at about three knots, and all my depression has burned off. Life is perfect. This is the dream, right here, now, its pulse heavy beneath my fingers.
It’s the first day we’ve had the mainsail up since Knapp Narrows, way back in the Chesapeake, eons ago. Since the day we ran straight at the bascule bridge at seven knots under main alone, the water pushing us forward.
We both needed to sail today, like a fix. I admit it—we’re addicts. It’s the last day that we’ll have open water until Beaufort Inlet, when we have to decide whether or not we’re going inside to Cape Fear. So even when the forecast was for light and variable wind we dutifully raised our sails this morning and sat in the sun while we drifted along at less than a knot.
It’s all done under the pretense of testing the Master’s battery usage under sail. He’s doing amazing. We’ve never used him under sail before, but he’s rated at less than a half-amp an hour, so we figured we’d give it a try. With the computer, the depth sounder, and the Master all running on one battery for five hours, which charged for only a half-hour this morning, we haven’t had our voltage alarm go off yet. If you’re not a cruiser, you don’t understand how you live and die by battery, but I’m in awe. The Master might even outlast our daylight.
That’s very good news for going offshore this next stretch. We’re both getting impatient with the diesel, even though it’s done its part, and a good one, getting us this far. But I don’t want to build bad habits. I don’t want to get lazy. And sailing today has been like medicine. I feel like my universe has realigned. I know what I’m doing, why I’m here. We may have to motor the whole rest of the way down, and that’s okay. It’ll be a necessary sacrifice. Fossil fuels burning at the altar of adventure. But I know that this, this perfect moment, in harmony with the wind, the water, the sky, the moon shining like a coin in the blue behind us, this is why I’m doing this. I’m a believer again.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Belhaven to Bear Creek, NC
23.6 nm
Wind: calm to N 5 knots
Maximum speed: 5.5 knots
Average speed: 4.3 knots
Latitude: 35°11.74’N
Longitude: 076°35.58’W
Karl and I spent all night tonight talking about boats. Karl’s latest plan is to buy some dugout canoes for outriggers and turn our Ranger 33 into a trimaran. Originally he wanted to buy another Ranger 33 hull and turn Secret into a catamaran, but then we’d have to move the mast.
My holiday angst is basically gone. Karl and I have been a little bit snippy with each other lately, but I imagine that has a lot to do with being stuck at the dock with Lise and Marcel, and Christmas, and not having been able to sail lately.
Tonight it was fun to be talking about dreams and schemes and plans again. We pulled out all of our old Cruising Worlds and looked at crazy tribal-inspired catamarans and trimarans. I don’t believe that building a crazy outrigger and attaching it to our hull with telephone poles is really a good idea, but I told Karl if we find one cheap and he’s convinced of the idea’s seaworthiness, he’s welcome to go for it.
We’re far more likely to actually trade for a multi-hull, but even that idea makes me nervous. I feel very safe on Secret, and I’m convinced she could weather a hurricane just fine, but multi-hulls seem a bit sketchy. I know people swear by them, but still. And I have a hard enough time getting rid of a pair of shoes, let alone a boat.
We did look, though, at Jim Brown’s trimarans in Cruising World and Good Old Boat magazine—he’s a crazy dude that performed the first ocean crossing in a trimaran, in a 23-foot boat with his pregnant wife and another crew member. He then designed plans for a 31-foot trimaran, the Searunner, and sold the plans to all sorts of crazy hippies in the seventies, who built them themselves out of plywood. At least a half-dozen of them circumnavigated.
I’ve always thought that if Karl absolutely had to have a multi-hull, that that’s the one I’d want to have. I’m not sure if it’s so much the boat as it is the creator. Jim Brown, as Cruising World says, has “thought deeply about cruising.”
That’s what appeals to me about the Pardeys, too, and even Henri Amel with his 54-foot Super Maramus. Especially with all the thinking I’ve been doing about meaning in my life, coming up on my birthday, as I begin to appropriate the reality of this lifestyle.
It’s something I believe in, at all levels, spiritually, emotionally, physically. It’s what bothers me so thoroughly about motoring. I understand an engine is another tool, one more thing the sea gypsy needs and uses, but my whole nature protest from building my existence around it.
What I love about the Pardeys, and Jim Brown, is how sailing to them is organically and spiritually linked to life, how sails and sheets and whisker poles and wind vanes allow them to harness nature herself for power, and use her to carry them to other places where they can experience strange people and foreign cultures.
Jim Brown calls other cultures “differing states of consciousness,” and I believe in that, too. One of the things that Jesus said—the last thing, actually, what is called the “Great Commission”—was “go into all the world and preach the good news.”
I’m not a missionary, like my parents, because I interpret that commission differently than they do. I am a a Christian, as they are, but that doesn’t mean to me that I need to convert people. Instead, it means that I need to live a life suffused with knowledge and love of God, and knowledge and love of other people, and that’s exactly what cruising allows me to do. Sailing, being in contact with the Spirit of the wind and water, allows me to know and love God in ways I’m only beginning to grasp. And the sea carries me to places where, I hope, I can discover new things about the world and love thoroughly everyone I meet. I can share the good news with them—the good news of freedom from fear, from mammon, from hate, if only by the way I live in freedom.
I’m not sure if I’ve don the best job of explaining it, but I figured I needed to try, for myself, for my parents, for everyone who wonders about the verse up there beneath my title.
Wind: calm to N 5 knots
Maximum speed: 5.5 knots
Average speed: 4.3 knots
Latitude: 35°11.74’N
Longitude: 076°35.58’W
Karl and I spent all night tonight talking about boats. Karl’s latest plan is to buy some dugout canoes for outriggers and turn our Ranger 33 into a trimaran. Originally he wanted to buy another Ranger 33 hull and turn Secret into a catamaran, but then we’d have to move the mast.
My holiday angst is basically gone. Karl and I have been a little bit snippy with each other lately, but I imagine that has a lot to do with being stuck at the dock with Lise and Marcel, and Christmas, and not having been able to sail lately.
Tonight it was fun to be talking about dreams and schemes and plans again. We pulled out all of our old Cruising Worlds and looked at crazy tribal-inspired catamarans and trimarans. I don’t believe that building a crazy outrigger and attaching it to our hull with telephone poles is really a good idea, but I told Karl if we find one cheap and he’s convinced of the idea’s seaworthiness, he’s welcome to go for it.
We’re far more likely to actually trade for a multi-hull, but even that idea makes me nervous. I feel very safe on Secret, and I’m convinced she could weather a hurricane just fine, but multi-hulls seem a bit sketchy. I know people swear by them, but still. And I have a hard enough time getting rid of a pair of shoes, let alone a boat.
We did look, though, at Jim Brown’s trimarans in Cruising World and Good Old Boat magazine—he’s a crazy dude that performed the first ocean crossing in a trimaran, in a 23-foot boat with his pregnant wife and another crew member. He then designed plans for a 31-foot trimaran, the Searunner, and sold the plans to all sorts of crazy hippies in the seventies, who built them themselves out of plywood. At least a half-dozen of them circumnavigated.
I’ve always thought that if Karl absolutely had to have a multi-hull, that that’s the one I’d want to have. I’m not sure if it’s so much the boat as it is the creator. Jim Brown, as Cruising World says, has “thought deeply about cruising.”
That’s what appeals to me about the Pardeys, too, and even Henri Amel with his 54-foot Super Maramus. Especially with all the thinking I’ve been doing about meaning in my life, coming up on my birthday, as I begin to appropriate the reality of this lifestyle.
It’s something I believe in, at all levels, spiritually, emotionally, physically. It’s what bothers me so thoroughly about motoring. I understand an engine is another tool, one more thing the sea gypsy needs and uses, but my whole nature protest from building my existence around it.
What I love about the Pardeys, and Jim Brown, is how sailing to them is organically and spiritually linked to life, how sails and sheets and whisker poles and wind vanes allow them to harness nature herself for power, and use her to carry them to other places where they can experience strange people and foreign cultures.
Jim Brown calls other cultures “differing states of consciousness,” and I believe in that, too. One of the things that Jesus said—the last thing, actually, what is called the “Great Commission”—was “go into all the world and preach the good news.”
I’m not a missionary, like my parents, because I interpret that commission differently than they do. I am a a Christian, as they are, but that doesn’t mean to me that I need to convert people. Instead, it means that I need to live a life suffused with knowledge and love of God, and knowledge and love of other people, and that’s exactly what cruising allows me to do. Sailing, being in contact with the Spirit of the wind and water, allows me to know and love God in ways I’m only beginning to grasp. And the sea carries me to places where, I hope, I can discover new things about the world and love thoroughly everyone I meet. I can share the good news with them—the good news of freedom from fear, from mammon, from hate, if only by the way I live in freedom.
I’m not sure if I’ve don the best job of explaining it, but I figured I needed to try, for myself, for my parents, for everyone who wonders about the verse up there beneath my title.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
River Forest Marina to Belhaven, NC
.5 nm
Wind: NW 15-20 knots
Maximum speed: 2.4 knots
Average speed: 1.8 knots
Latitude: 35°31.74’N
Longitude: 076°37.26’W
My sister posted a poem today on her blog. Not to copy her, but I’m going to copy her. Because more people should read this poem. Bob Dylan mentioned on his Theme Time Radio Hour a couple of weeks ago. If you happen to have the resources and oh, say, the house, you should buy XM Satellite Radio just so you can hear the Theme Time Radio Hour. It’s worth three times what they charge. I’ve heard the show once, and even I know that.
THE SEVEN SORROWS
The first sorrow of autumn
Is the slow goodbye
Of the garden who stands so long in the evening-
A brown poppy head,
The stalk of a lily,
And still cannot go.
The second sorrow
Is the empty feet
Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers.
The woodland of gold
Is folded in feathers
With its head in a bag.
And the third sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers
The minutes of evening,
The golden and holy
Ground of the picture.
The fourth sorrow
Is the pond gone black
Ruined and sunken the city of water-
The beetle's palace,
The catacombs
Of the dragonfly.
And the fifth sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp.
One day it's gone.
It has only left litter-
Firewood, tentpoles.
And the sixth sorrow
Is the fox's sorrow
The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds,
The hooves that pound
Till earth closes her ear
To the fox's prayer.
And the seventh sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window
As the year packs up
Like a tatty fairground
That came for the children.
Wind: NW 15-20 knots
Maximum speed: 2.4 knots
Average speed: 1.8 knots
Latitude: 35°31.74’N
Longitude: 076°37.26’W
My sister posted a poem today on her blog. Not to copy her, but I’m going to copy her. Because more people should read this poem. Bob Dylan mentioned on his Theme Time Radio Hour a couple of weeks ago. If you happen to have the resources and oh, say, the house, you should buy XM Satellite Radio just so you can hear the Theme Time Radio Hour. It’s worth three times what they charge. I’ve heard the show once, and even I know that.
THE SEVEN SORROWS
The first sorrow of autumn
Is the slow goodbye
Of the garden who stands so long in the evening-
A brown poppy head,
The stalk of a lily,
And still cannot go.
The second sorrow
Is the empty feet
Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers.
The woodland of gold
Is folded in feathers
With its head in a bag.
And the third sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers
The minutes of evening,
The golden and holy
Ground of the picture.
The fourth sorrow
Is the pond gone black
Ruined and sunken the city of water-
The beetle's palace,
The catacombs
Of the dragonfly.
And the fifth sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp.
One day it's gone.
It has only left litter-
Firewood, tentpoles.
And the sixth sorrow
Is the fox's sorrow
The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds,
The hooves that pound
Till earth closes her ear
To the fox's prayer.
And the seventh sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window
As the year packs up
Like a tatty fairground
That came for the children.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
River Forest Marina, NC
0 nm
Wind: SW 20-25 knots, gusting to 30
It’s so windy today that we can’t leave the dock, so we’re stuck here for another day. Wireless access not withstanding, I’m miserable. One of our remaining, unstolen dock lines has chafed through, and the squeaking of our fenders is driving me crazy. It’s just one of those days I wonder why the hell I’m even out here.
Why am I depriving myself of the beauty of Bob Dylan’s radio show, in his waning years, that my sister blogged about today? I’m eleven days always from 29. Is this really what I want to do with my life? Not that Bob Dylan is a reason to make major life decisions—except, wait, yes he is. At least to me. But there’s other things, too. My subscriptions to the New Yorker and McSweeney’s Literary Quarterly. Having social interactions with anyone other than Karl. Having my family believe in me.
I don’t know why it is—maybe because prophets are doomed to be unbelieved in his or her own hometown—or maybe it’s just because that’s a parent’s job—but I just wish that they could allow for the possibility that I’m not completely wasting my life away. Perhaps Will Smith said it best: “parents just don’t understand.” Crazy Southerners, the Beanses, random Californians who happen to own the same boat that I do, random strangers—all these people believe in what we’re doing. They read what I write about it. It means something to them. They think that I’m doing what most people only dream about, the adventure of a lifetime, that I’m doing what I should be doing—sucking the very marrow out of life.
My parents, however, think I should be attending graduate school or feeding Indian babies or doing evangelistic work or at least getting married and having babies, because all of those things have meaning. Even being a waitress is better than being a bum and living on a boat. No matter that I paid my own way, that I bought and rebuilt this thing, this home, and that I’m living my dream. No matter that I wrote a freaking novel in the month of November, something I’ve wanted to do since I was three. None of that means anything.
I love them. Too much, sometimes, because it’s not that what they say doesn’t hurt, it’s that it makes me believe them. What if they’re right? What if I die alone and miserable? What if I destroy my life this way? What if I end up penniless and they have to fly me home? What if the boat and my body is crushed in an accident and I don’t have any insurance to pay my medical bills?
All those things could happen. They’re not even that unlikely. At least Karl’s family just worries about him dying, not whether or not his existence is being justified. But I’ve chosen to live a life not based on fear, not on what-ifs. Paul said, “the Spirit of the Lord has given you not a spirit of fear, but of love, and of power, and of a sound mind.” And one of His penitent sinners said to Jesus, “Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief.” That’s how I feel right now. Help thou my unbelief. It’s so lonely when I can’t believe in myself.
Wind: SW 20-25 knots, gusting to 30
It’s so windy today that we can’t leave the dock, so we’re stuck here for another day. Wireless access not withstanding, I’m miserable. One of our remaining, unstolen dock lines has chafed through, and the squeaking of our fenders is driving me crazy. It’s just one of those days I wonder why the hell I’m even out here.
Why am I depriving myself of the beauty of Bob Dylan’s radio show, in his waning years, that my sister blogged about today? I’m eleven days always from 29. Is this really what I want to do with my life? Not that Bob Dylan is a reason to make major life decisions—except, wait, yes he is. At least to me. But there’s other things, too. My subscriptions to the New Yorker and McSweeney’s Literary Quarterly. Having social interactions with anyone other than Karl. Having my family believe in me.
I don’t know why it is—maybe because prophets are doomed to be unbelieved in his or her own hometown—or maybe it’s just because that’s a parent’s job—but I just wish that they could allow for the possibility that I’m not completely wasting my life away. Perhaps Will Smith said it best: “parents just don’t understand.” Crazy Southerners, the Beanses, random Californians who happen to own the same boat that I do, random strangers—all these people believe in what we’re doing. They read what I write about it. It means something to them. They think that I’m doing what most people only dream about, the adventure of a lifetime, that I’m doing what I should be doing—sucking the very marrow out of life.
My parents, however, think I should be attending graduate school or feeding Indian babies or doing evangelistic work or at least getting married and having babies, because all of those things have meaning. Even being a waitress is better than being a bum and living on a boat. No matter that I paid my own way, that I bought and rebuilt this thing, this home, and that I’m living my dream. No matter that I wrote a freaking novel in the month of November, something I’ve wanted to do since I was three. None of that means anything.
I love them. Too much, sometimes, because it’s not that what they say doesn’t hurt, it’s that it makes me believe them. What if they’re right? What if I die alone and miserable? What if I destroy my life this way? What if I end up penniless and they have to fly me home? What if the boat and my body is crushed in an accident and I don’t have any insurance to pay my medical bills?
All those things could happen. They’re not even that unlikely. At least Karl’s family just worries about him dying, not whether or not his existence is being justified. But I’ve chosen to live a life not based on fear, not on what-ifs. Paul said, “the Spirit of the Lord has given you not a spirit of fear, but of love, and of power, and of a sound mind.” And one of His penitent sinners said to Jesus, “Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief.” That’s how I feel right now. Help thou my unbelief. It’s so lonely when I can’t believe in myself.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Christmas!
12/25/06
Belhaven to River Forest Marina, NC
Wind: S 25-30 knots, gusting to 35 (knot-meter recorded 33 on dock)
Seas: one-foot, choppy
I didn’t mention it last night—too busy with the turkey—but Lise and Marcel are here with us too. When we pulled in last night we saw them at the marina, and Marcel motored over in his dinghy yesterday to where we were at the anchorage, and invited him to come stay at the dock, his treat, as a Christmas present. We thought it over, and decided to head over this morning, figuring it’d be good to celebrate with some friends as well as alone. Some local hunters had given Marcel a hank of venison for Christmas, seeing how far away he was from home.
So we ate a leisurely breakfast, not really paying much attention to the rocking of the boat. She lies so easy at anchor that it’s almost like being rocked in a cradle. I didn’t even realize that the wind had picked up until I listened to the weather report and then went outside in my raingear. We got docking lines and fenders ready, Karl pulled up his crap trap (baited with turkey neck) and anchor, and we set off for the marina. Both of the other boats in the anchorage peered out at us from under their spray dodgers, white-faced, as we motored blithely by, waving. It felt like the wind picked up the closer we got to the dock, the chop building, and as Secret slammed down into the waves and strained ever harder to power into the wind, we both began to rethink our lovely Christmas plan.
Keep in mind we’ve only docked a handful of times, maybe ten, and never in thirty knots, which is what it became clear to us it was blowing. Marcel and Lise stood on the dock, gamely waiting to hold our lines. Luckily they do a lot of docking, especially in bad weather, so Marcel knew just what to do, even when the boat was perpendicular to the dock with Lise holding a bowline and the anchor roller gouging out chunks of wood as I tried to keep the boat off. We came off relatively unscathed, but the fenders are screeching against the pilings and the motion of both boats is so uncomfortable that Lise is completely seasick. I’m not sure how much it is homesickness and how much it is seasickness, but whatever it is, she’s miserable, and Karl and I both wonder if maybe we should have stayed at anchor. At least we can try to comfort Lise and be good friends to the two of them, even if we are worried about the boat.
I’m more than ever convinced of Karl’s anchoring abilities. We’ve rode out a ton of storms at anchor, and Karl goes out and confidently manages how much chain and rope we have out, and prepares a second anchor that we’ve never had to use, and basically I don’t worry. Docking during storms is a whole new ballgame, and really seems a lot more frightening to me. Your boat has a whole ton of things to crash into at a dock, and with a fiberglass boat like ours, that means you lose your boat. If your anchor drags, you have at least a couple of minutes to try to get another one set.
So a cold and wet Christmas for us. We’ll go over to Marcel and Lise’s later and try to watch movies and eat venison and be somewhat festive. I’m just glad we had our warm and cozy family Christmas last night.
Belhaven to River Forest Marina, NC
Wind: S 25-30 knots, gusting to 35 (knot-meter recorded 33 on dock)
Seas: one-foot, choppy
I didn’t mention it last night—too busy with the turkey—but Lise and Marcel are here with us too. When we pulled in last night we saw them at the marina, and Marcel motored over in his dinghy yesterday to where we were at the anchorage, and invited him to come stay at the dock, his treat, as a Christmas present. We thought it over, and decided to head over this morning, figuring it’d be good to celebrate with some friends as well as alone. Some local hunters had given Marcel a hank of venison for Christmas, seeing how far away he was from home.
So we ate a leisurely breakfast, not really paying much attention to the rocking of the boat. She lies so easy at anchor that it’s almost like being rocked in a cradle. I didn’t even realize that the wind had picked up until I listened to the weather report and then went outside in my raingear. We got docking lines and fenders ready, Karl pulled up his crap trap (baited with turkey neck) and anchor, and we set off for the marina. Both of the other boats in the anchorage peered out at us from under their spray dodgers, white-faced, as we motored blithely by, waving. It felt like the wind picked up the closer we got to the dock, the chop building, and as Secret slammed down into the waves and strained ever harder to power into the wind, we both began to rethink our lovely Christmas plan.
Keep in mind we’ve only docked a handful of times, maybe ten, and never in thirty knots, which is what it became clear to us it was blowing. Marcel and Lise stood on the dock, gamely waiting to hold our lines. Luckily they do a lot of docking, especially in bad weather, so Marcel knew just what to do, even when the boat was perpendicular to the dock with Lise holding a bowline and the anchor roller gouging out chunks of wood as I tried to keep the boat off. We came off relatively unscathed, but the fenders are screeching against the pilings and the motion of both boats is so uncomfortable that Lise is completely seasick. I’m not sure how much it is homesickness and how much it is seasickness, but whatever it is, she’s miserable, and Karl and I both wonder if maybe we should have stayed at anchor. At least we can try to comfort Lise and be good friends to the two of them, even if we are worried about the boat.
I’m more than ever convinced of Karl’s anchoring abilities. We’ve rode out a ton of storms at anchor, and Karl goes out and confidently manages how much chain and rope we have out, and prepares a second anchor that we’ve never had to use, and basically I don’t worry. Docking during storms is a whole new ballgame, and really seems a lot more frightening to me. Your boat has a whole ton of things to crash into at a dock, and with a fiberglass boat like ours, that means you lose your boat. If your anchor drags, you have at least a couple of minutes to try to get another one set.
So a cold and wet Christmas for us. We’ll go over to Marcel and Lise’s later and try to watch movies and eat venison and be somewhat festive. I’m just glad we had our warm and cozy family Christmas last night.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Christmas Eve!
Alligator River to Belhaven, NC
31.6 nm
Wind: N 10-15 knots
Maximum speed: 6.1 knots
Average speed: 5.0 knots
Latitude: 35°31.76’N
Longitude: 076°37.21’W
So Christmas (or at least Christmas Eve) ended up being not so bad, despite my pity party of yesterday. We motored all day up the Alligator River-Pungo Canal, under beautiful sunny skies and wearing tee-shirts in the sixty-degree weather. Not very Christmas-y, but it did lighten my mood significantly. Karl kept a sharp lookout for alligators all day. And I mean literally. There was nary a moment when the binoculars were not glued to his face. I kept trying to suggest that maybe we should wait until Florida to keep the 24-hour gator watch, but he could not be swayed. His new plan is to become the next Animal Planet sensation—Karl Tomasik: Alligator Hunter, and then to upholster our entire boat (including cockpit cushions!) with alligator skin. In the meantime, I’m just happy he was the one to scrub the floor today as a little Christmas present to me. Sometimes, just little gestures like that make my heart overflow with love and holiday spirit.
I spent the last couple of hours trying to navigate with raw turkey grease on my hands, as I attempted the not-so-easy task of making stuffing as well as washing and rinsing a nine-day-old eleven-pound turkey in a sink the size of a teacup. Fannie Farmer always says to slather a turkey with butter, so slather with butter I did, even though this made the negotiating of piles of dishes, pots and pans, heaps of stuffing, and the occasional turn to the GPS a little more complicated. Most complicated yet was fitting the blasted thing in the oven. We don’t have a roasting pan, so the 6x8-inch broiling pan that came with the RV oven had to do, and Karl literally forced the turkey into the oven, after protecting its breastbone with tinfoil. We were concerned (over the five hours it took) that the breast of the turkey would remain raw, thanks to its direct contact with the wall of the oven, and the turkey having been thawing for nine days, cooking it thoroughly was of the essence. Which is probably why we didn’t eat until ten.
But the turkey was delectable, among the best I’ve ever eaten, although that could be the hunger talking, as was everything else—mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, gravy. We had enough food to feed an army. We talked to our families on the phone, and while I was waiting for the turkey to cook, I got all decked out in a glittery shirt and skirt, let my hair down, and even put on makeup and perfume. Whenever I put on makeup and perfume, Karl says I smell like chemicals, but hey, sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I suppose that’s the price you pay for having met the love of your life while drenched in two months of body odor. And today he didn’t even tell me I smelled like chemicals, he just said I was beautiful, and we burned all the candles in the boat and listened to our favorite Flaming Lips CD because we don’t have Christmas music. So life is good. And even though I won’t be able to make my famous cardamom bread or open Christmas presents, Christmas is good.
31.6 nm
Wind: N 10-15 knots
Maximum speed: 6.1 knots
Average speed: 5.0 knots
Latitude: 35°31.76’N
Longitude: 076°37.21’W
So Christmas (or at least Christmas Eve) ended up being not so bad, despite my pity party of yesterday. We motored all day up the Alligator River-Pungo Canal, under beautiful sunny skies and wearing tee-shirts in the sixty-degree weather. Not very Christmas-y, but it did lighten my mood significantly. Karl kept a sharp lookout for alligators all day. And I mean literally. There was nary a moment when the binoculars were not glued to his face. I kept trying to suggest that maybe we should wait until Florida to keep the 24-hour gator watch, but he could not be swayed. His new plan is to become the next Animal Planet sensation—Karl Tomasik: Alligator Hunter, and then to upholster our entire boat (including cockpit cushions!) with alligator skin. In the meantime, I’m just happy he was the one to scrub the floor today as a little Christmas present to me. Sometimes, just little gestures like that make my heart overflow with love and holiday spirit.
I spent the last couple of hours trying to navigate with raw turkey grease on my hands, as I attempted the not-so-easy task of making stuffing as well as washing and rinsing a nine-day-old eleven-pound turkey in a sink the size of a teacup. Fannie Farmer always says to slather a turkey with butter, so slather with butter I did, even though this made the negotiating of piles of dishes, pots and pans, heaps of stuffing, and the occasional turn to the GPS a little more complicated. Most complicated yet was fitting the blasted thing in the oven. We don’t have a roasting pan, so the 6x8-inch broiling pan that came with the RV oven had to do, and Karl literally forced the turkey into the oven, after protecting its breastbone with tinfoil. We were concerned (over the five hours it took) that the breast of the turkey would remain raw, thanks to its direct contact with the wall of the oven, and the turkey having been thawing for nine days, cooking it thoroughly was of the essence. Which is probably why we didn’t eat until ten.
But the turkey was delectable, among the best I’ve ever eaten, although that could be the hunger talking, as was everything else—mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, gravy. We had enough food to feed an army. We talked to our families on the phone, and while I was waiting for the turkey to cook, I got all decked out in a glittery shirt and skirt, let my hair down, and even put on makeup and perfume. Whenever I put on makeup and perfume, Karl says I smell like chemicals, but hey, sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I suppose that’s the price you pay for having met the love of your life while drenched in two months of body odor. And today he didn’t even tell me I smelled like chemicals, he just said I was beautiful, and we burned all the candles in the boat and listened to our favorite Flaming Lips CD because we don’t have Christmas music. So life is good. And even though I won’t be able to make my famous cardamom bread or open Christmas presents, Christmas is good.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
South Lake to Alligator River, NC
22.3 nm
Wind: SW 10-15 knots, building to 20
Seas: One foot
Maximum speed: 7.0 knots
Average speed: 4.3 knots
Latitude: 35°39.91’N
Longitude: 076°01.87’W
I was wrong yesterday. I need Christmas. It’s beginning to get to me, my forced cheer. I miss my family. They’re all together now, in Michigan, and there’ll be snow and presents and Christmas lights and trees and turkey and my grandmother’s famous cranberry relish (that I don’t particularly like) and pies and stuffing and more food than any human being could possibly eat. We don’t have any Christmas music on the boat, not even one lonely Christmas decoration, and I think this will be the first Christmas ever that I don’t even have a single present to open, unless Karl has a surprise in store, and Karl hates surprises.
Karl also hates Christmas. He loves Thanksgiving, but he thinks Christmas is all about buying cheap plastic crap at Wal-mart. To be fair, the holiday has been stolen, to a large degree, by commercial interests. But I still long for the childlike wonder of it. That feeling, on Christmas morning, when you race downstairs to see what was in your stocking.
I grew up in the tropics, and we never had snow, or big family gatherings, or mistletoe or fires or any of that other Christmas stuff. But even the years we went to the beach, or had shishkabobs on the barbecue, Christmas was undeniably special. A day like no other during the year. I fear our Christmas will be anything but.
I have to haul out the turkey, which we’ve been keeping on ice for ten days, pray it’s not rotten, and find something to stuff it with. We’ll have potatoes and vegetables, and I’m sure it will be delicious, but it won’t be that much different from any other dinner on the boat, aside from the amount of work. Tomorrow, Christmas Eve, I have to do the dishes and clean the floor and bleach the mildew and do all the other things that have to be done to keep the boat in one piece. It’s going to be a day like any other day. Even the heat, which is wonderful, is my enemy right now. I miss those crisp Chicago nights, walking back to the train station past the lit-up Marshall Field’s windows in my Icelandic wool jacket from 1973, when the whole world seemed to scream Christmas. Today the sun beat down all day. It was beautiful, but nothing like winter.
We even stopped to get diesel today at Alligator River Marina, and they were closed. A guy came out and offered to open up the pump for us, and as he did so, Karl and I wondered to ourselves why were they closed? It was two in the afternoon—too early to be closed for the day. Closed for the winter? But Marcel and Lise left us a message that said they were open two days ago. We didn’t get it. Until the guy explained that they were closed for Christmas, the idea never even occurred to us. The lady at the counter rolled her eyes at me when I tried to apologize. I’m sure I had dragged her away from a real Christmas, with family and food and celebrating.
We’re just poor, pitiful, yule-less lost souls.
Wind: SW 10-15 knots, building to 20
Seas: One foot
Maximum speed: 7.0 knots
Average speed: 4.3 knots
Latitude: 35°39.91’N
Longitude: 076°01.87’W
I was wrong yesterday. I need Christmas. It’s beginning to get to me, my forced cheer. I miss my family. They’re all together now, in Michigan, and there’ll be snow and presents and Christmas lights and trees and turkey and my grandmother’s famous cranberry relish (that I don’t particularly like) and pies and stuffing and more food than any human being could possibly eat. We don’t have any Christmas music on the boat, not even one lonely Christmas decoration, and I think this will be the first Christmas ever that I don’t even have a single present to open, unless Karl has a surprise in store, and Karl hates surprises.
Karl also hates Christmas. He loves Thanksgiving, but he thinks Christmas is all about buying cheap plastic crap at Wal-mart. To be fair, the holiday has been stolen, to a large degree, by commercial interests. But I still long for the childlike wonder of it. That feeling, on Christmas morning, when you race downstairs to see what was in your stocking.
I grew up in the tropics, and we never had snow, or big family gatherings, or mistletoe or fires or any of that other Christmas stuff. But even the years we went to the beach, or had shishkabobs on the barbecue, Christmas was undeniably special. A day like no other during the year. I fear our Christmas will be anything but.
I have to haul out the turkey, which we’ve been keeping on ice for ten days, pray it’s not rotten, and find something to stuff it with. We’ll have potatoes and vegetables, and I’m sure it will be delicious, but it won’t be that much different from any other dinner on the boat, aside from the amount of work. Tomorrow, Christmas Eve, I have to do the dishes and clean the floor and bleach the mildew and do all the other things that have to be done to keep the boat in one piece. It’s going to be a day like any other day. Even the heat, which is wonderful, is my enemy right now. I miss those crisp Chicago nights, walking back to the train station past the lit-up Marshall Field’s windows in my Icelandic wool jacket from 1973, when the whole world seemed to scream Christmas. Today the sun beat down all day. It was beautiful, but nothing like winter.
We even stopped to get diesel today at Alligator River Marina, and they were closed. A guy came out and offered to open up the pump for us, and as he did so, Karl and I wondered to ourselves why were they closed? It was two in the afternoon—too early to be closed for the day. Closed for the winter? But Marcel and Lise left us a message that said they were open two days ago. We didn’t get it. Until the guy explained that they were closed for Christmas, the idea never even occurred to us. The lady at the counter rolled her eyes at me when I tried to apologize. I’m sure I had dragged her away from a real Christmas, with family and food and celebrating.
We’re just poor, pitiful, yule-less lost souls.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Elizabeth City to South Lake, NC
32.4 nm
Wind: calm to SE 10 knots
Seas: one foot, building to two
Maximum speed: 6.4 knots (motor-sailing)
Maximum speed under sail: 1.4 knots
Average speed: 4.6 knots
Latitude: 35°55.51’N
Longitude: 075°54.69’W
We’re in a gorgeous anchorage tonight. Maybe the nicest of the trip. Looking around after we anchored, Karl wondered why there were no duck blinds here, when there were slews outside. He saw a white sign on a tree, we checked our chart, and sure enough, we’re anchored right in the middle of a wildlife refuge. We’re the only civilized thing in eyesight. It seems like Skipper Bob would have mentioned it, but it’s nice to be surprised by beauty, too. I don’t think either of realized how breath-taking-ly beautiful the ICW would be—we were both just disappointed we’d have to motor the whole way. People do come this way on purpose, I suppose.
I was disappointed we weren’t going to see the Outer Banks, which I bicycled up in 2002. Before I started keeping journals of my peripatetic tendencies, I bicycled from Florida to Maine with a group that included, at one time or another, every member of my immediate family. It was a wonderful experience, especially the first week when my sister and I bicycled from the tip of Key West to San Fernandino Beach, Florida. I remember it as an absolutely glorious week of sunburn, furious rain, Power Bars, the beach, pelicans, bridges over the ICW, and ice-cold orange juice from roadside stands in blazing heat. It was heaven. By the end of the week I had sunburn underneath my sunburn. I looked like a rare steak. Later on, we took a ferry from the North Carolina coast, this time with the whole group, and spent another glorious week bicycling up the entire Outer Banks. There I remember windswept white sand and sea grass, huge lighthouses, surfers, and undertow. I remember my cousin and I got pulled back into the beach for swimming in the wrong section.
So I wanted to show Karl the Outer Banks, and I thought we could just sail along the inside. Little did I realize it’s two feet on this side of the Outer Banks. No wonder everyone does the ICW. No wonder they call the outside the “Graveyard of the Atlantic.” To make things worse, there’s a 45-foot tall bridge over there, so even if we could negotiate the six-foot deep channel, we couldn’t get under the bridge. I guess if you could, everyone would go out there.
But being here tonight makes me think that this anchorage is probably nicer than any on the Outer Banks. We’re all alone with the emptiness of the water. I can’t hear anything except my fingers on the keyboard and the water lapping at the dinghy. A candle burns on the table, and the Chinese food is now soup, bubbling on the stove. We’re making our own memories. It’s three days until Christmas, and I’m not with my family, but we’re having our own Christmas, here on the water. This will be the Christmas we went south.
Wind: calm to SE 10 knots
Seas: one foot, building to two
Maximum speed: 6.4 knots (motor-sailing)
Maximum speed under sail: 1.4 knots
Average speed: 4.6 knots
Latitude: 35°55.51’N
Longitude: 075°54.69’W
We’re in a gorgeous anchorage tonight. Maybe the nicest of the trip. Looking around after we anchored, Karl wondered why there were no duck blinds here, when there were slews outside. He saw a white sign on a tree, we checked our chart, and sure enough, we’re anchored right in the middle of a wildlife refuge. We’re the only civilized thing in eyesight. It seems like Skipper Bob would have mentioned it, but it’s nice to be surprised by beauty, too. I don’t think either of realized how breath-taking-ly beautiful the ICW would be—we were both just disappointed we’d have to motor the whole way. People do come this way on purpose, I suppose.
I was disappointed we weren’t going to see the Outer Banks, which I bicycled up in 2002. Before I started keeping journals of my peripatetic tendencies, I bicycled from Florida to Maine with a group that included, at one time or another, every member of my immediate family. It was a wonderful experience, especially the first week when my sister and I bicycled from the tip of Key West to San Fernandino Beach, Florida. I remember it as an absolutely glorious week of sunburn, furious rain, Power Bars, the beach, pelicans, bridges over the ICW, and ice-cold orange juice from roadside stands in blazing heat. It was heaven. By the end of the week I had sunburn underneath my sunburn. I looked like a rare steak. Later on, we took a ferry from the North Carolina coast, this time with the whole group, and spent another glorious week bicycling up the entire Outer Banks. There I remember windswept white sand and sea grass, huge lighthouses, surfers, and undertow. I remember my cousin and I got pulled back into the beach for swimming in the wrong section.
So I wanted to show Karl the Outer Banks, and I thought we could just sail along the inside. Little did I realize it’s two feet on this side of the Outer Banks. No wonder everyone does the ICW. No wonder they call the outside the “Graveyard of the Atlantic.” To make things worse, there’s a 45-foot tall bridge over there, so even if we could negotiate the six-foot deep channel, we couldn’t get under the bridge. I guess if you could, everyone would go out there.
But being here tonight makes me think that this anchorage is probably nicer than any on the Outer Banks. We’re all alone with the emptiness of the water. I can’t hear anything except my fingers on the keyboard and the water lapping at the dinghy. A candle burns on the table, and the Chinese food is now soup, bubbling on the stove. We’re making our own memories. It’s three days until Christmas, and I’m not with my family, but we’re having our own Christmas, here on the water. This will be the Christmas we went south.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Elizabeth City, NC
0 nm
Wind: SW 10 knots
Our fourth day in Elizabeth City. Argh. The jazz party last evening was a huge hit, but that means we overslept our deadline this morning, which means Marcel and Lise left without us. We’ve been told it’s a long haul across Albemarle Sound, and we didn’t want to do it starting at 10:30 this morning, so we’re stranded sleeping and reading all day and eating Chinese food. It’s a hard-knock life all right.
The party last night was amazing, though. The food was great, always a good point for an ex-hiker, and there was a lot of it. There were only a handful of us, but that made it even better. The only other couple were classic Southern aristocrats, genteel through and through. They were both Elizabeth City natives, and their drawl, though difficult to decipher, was from another era. The wife was a member of all the local society committees, including the museum committee and the Chamber of Commerce. Her husband is named Beans, because he spent some time in Boston, including racing sailboats on Buzzards Bay, our home sailing ground! It was funny for Karl, Massachusetts born and bred, to try to figure out what Beans’s name even was. Though he may be named after Beantown, he certainly pronounces it differently than they do up there.
They were horrified when we told them about our escapades with the “dock-master.” Evidently he holds no official title with the town, but he’s not breaking any laws, so if he wants to call himself dock-master there’s nothing the town can do. Small-town politics, especially when one doesn’t have to live in the small town, are a blast.
But the best part was the host, who, it turns out, is a trail angel on the Long Trail! If you haven’t read my trail journals, then you don’t know what that means, but basically it’s someone who helps out hikers—giving them food, cold drinks, rides, and occasionally showers. They’re godsends when you’re hiking, true saints of the trails, and I can’t believe we actually met one so far from “home.” We even have mutual acquaintances—he’s good friends with Roni from Israel, of all people. Roni, the trail legend. It sure is a small world. We were up until all hours talking trail talk, about pack weight, hammocks, snow, New England, all that old familiar stuff. He even put up with some of the local Chicago jazz I brought. At least for a little while.
So I guess it was worth sticking around. We promised Mrs. Beans we’d go to the museum today, but we may just loaf around. Loafing, after all, is a full-time occupation. If you don’t believe me, read The Razor’s Edge.
Wind: SW 10 knots
Our fourth day in Elizabeth City. Argh. The jazz party last evening was a huge hit, but that means we overslept our deadline this morning, which means Marcel and Lise left without us. We’ve been told it’s a long haul across Albemarle Sound, and we didn’t want to do it starting at 10:30 this morning, so we’re stranded sleeping and reading all day and eating Chinese food. It’s a hard-knock life all right.
The party last night was amazing, though. The food was great, always a good point for an ex-hiker, and there was a lot of it. There were only a handful of us, but that made it even better. The only other couple were classic Southern aristocrats, genteel through and through. They were both Elizabeth City natives, and their drawl, though difficult to decipher, was from another era. The wife was a member of all the local society committees, including the museum committee and the Chamber of Commerce. Her husband is named Beans, because he spent some time in Boston, including racing sailboats on Buzzards Bay, our home sailing ground! It was funny for Karl, Massachusetts born and bred, to try to figure out what Beans’s name even was. Though he may be named after Beantown, he certainly pronounces it differently than they do up there.
They were horrified when we told them about our escapades with the “dock-master.” Evidently he holds no official title with the town, but he’s not breaking any laws, so if he wants to call himself dock-master there’s nothing the town can do. Small-town politics, especially when one doesn’t have to live in the small town, are a blast.
But the best part was the host, who, it turns out, is a trail angel on the Long Trail! If you haven’t read my trail journals, then you don’t know what that means, but basically it’s someone who helps out hikers—giving them food, cold drinks, rides, and occasionally showers. They’re godsends when you’re hiking, true saints of the trails, and I can’t believe we actually met one so far from “home.” We even have mutual acquaintances—he’s good friends with Roni from Israel, of all people. Roni, the trail legend. It sure is a small world. We were up until all hours talking trail talk, about pack weight, hammocks, snow, New England, all that old familiar stuff. He even put up with some of the local Chicago jazz I brought. At least for a little while.
So I guess it was worth sticking around. We promised Mrs. Beans we’d go to the museum today, but we may just loaf around. Loafing, after all, is a full-time occupation. If you don’t believe me, read The Razor’s Edge.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Elizabeth City, NC
0 nm
Wind: NE 10 knots
As much as I try not to be frustrated, it is frustrating that we’re wasting all this beautiful sailing weather. Again, I know it’s for the best, and I know that we’re getting a lot accomplished here. Laundry, for one, which hadn’t been done in about a month. Secret got a bath on Monday, her first since we started. She was filthy, and I was ecstatic that dirt will not be tracked across my scrubbed interior floors. She’s filthy again, already, of course.
Yesterday, Karl climbed both our mast and Sea Belle’s mast, which gathered a whole crowd of spectators and cries of horror from our Greek chorus of elderly gentlemen. Evidently we were doing it all wrong, though I’m grateful that we convinced the eighty-year-old “dock-master” to not clamber over to our boat and show us how it’s done. It was actually remarkably simple, although I’m very glad that I had Marcel to help me for the first time. We had a brand new boatswain’s chair bought off eBay, but winching Karl up both masts was easier than I expected. Of course, Marcel did all the heavy winching, but I’m convinced I could do it myself if I had to. It also helps that Karl was a monkey in a past life. And not too distant of a one, either, I’d wager.
The highlight of the day, though, was showers. They always are the highlight of my week, basically, but today’s were especially so. We took a pleasant jaunt down the river to a local fitness club, where we had heard you could get $5 showers. There had been rumors of a pool and Jacuzzi, too, but I was skeptical. Nothing prepared us for the ecstasy of it. In each locker room, not only were there showers with fantastic water pressure (always a telling point), but also a hot tub, sauna, AND a steam room. I think we spent a full three hours each in those locker rooms. I’ve never felt so rosy and scrubbed.
It’s a good thing, because we’ve been invited out this evening! A local gentleman (one of the non-creepy ones, thankfully) hosts a jazz club at his house on Wednesday nights. So we’re going, even though it may interfere with our departure on the morrow. Lise and Marcel aren’t, shockingly enough. Evidently they hate jazz, although I think I’d go even if it were a Toby Keith appreciation club, just for the cheese and shrimp. Then again, maybe not.
Wind: NE 10 knots
As much as I try not to be frustrated, it is frustrating that we’re wasting all this beautiful sailing weather. Again, I know it’s for the best, and I know that we’re getting a lot accomplished here. Laundry, for one, which hadn’t been done in about a month. Secret got a bath on Monday, her first since we started. She was filthy, and I was ecstatic that dirt will not be tracked across my scrubbed interior floors. She’s filthy again, already, of course.
Yesterday, Karl climbed both our mast and Sea Belle’s mast, which gathered a whole crowd of spectators and cries of horror from our Greek chorus of elderly gentlemen. Evidently we were doing it all wrong, though I’m grateful that we convinced the eighty-year-old “dock-master” to not clamber over to our boat and show us how it’s done. It was actually remarkably simple, although I’m very glad that I had Marcel to help me for the first time. We had a brand new boatswain’s chair bought off eBay, but winching Karl up both masts was easier than I expected. Of course, Marcel did all the heavy winching, but I’m convinced I could do it myself if I had to. It also helps that Karl was a monkey in a past life. And not too distant of a one, either, I’d wager.
The highlight of the day, though, was showers. They always are the highlight of my week, basically, but today’s were especially so. We took a pleasant jaunt down the river to a local fitness club, where we had heard you could get $5 showers. There had been rumors of a pool and Jacuzzi, too, but I was skeptical. Nothing prepared us for the ecstasy of it. In each locker room, not only were there showers with fantastic water pressure (always a telling point), but also a hot tub, sauna, AND a steam room. I think we spent a full three hours each in those locker rooms. I’ve never felt so rosy and scrubbed.
It’s a good thing, because we’ve been invited out this evening! A local gentleman (one of the non-creepy ones, thankfully) hosts a jazz club at his house on Wednesday nights. So we’re going, even though it may interfere with our departure on the morrow. Lise and Marcel aren’t, shockingly enough. Evidently they hate jazz, although I think I’d go even if it were a Toby Keith appreciation club, just for the cheese and shrimp. Then again, maybe not.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Elizabeth City, NC
0 nm
Wind: N 10-15 knots, sunny
Our stay in Elizabeth City continues. I have a feeling this town may trap us a while, despite our lack of privacy. Every day we get a lot accomplished, but it’s still frustrating not to be moving. I think the seventy-degree weather and sun is lulling us into a false sense of security. That, and being south of Norfolk.
It’s great to feel like we’re really, truly in the south, the Deep South, where seventy-degree days, even in December, are the norm, and frost the exception. I keep having to remind myself it’s six days until Christmas.
I also keep trying to remind myself that I don’t have a deadline. I don’t have to BE anywhere. I’m impatient to get to Florida, to the Bahamas, to warmth, but I know as soon as I reach one milestone (like Norfolk) I’ll be impatient for the next one. I don’t know why I can’t just enjoy where I am, now, in the moment, something else Karl seems to do effortlessly. Where I see laziness, he sees accomplishment. Why can I never see the glass as half-full?
Lise and I had a long talk about it last night. I fear hanging out with the Canadians every night may also not be good for our daily mileage, as they keep trying to ply us with steaks and wine, and, lately, DVDs until all hours.
She feels the same way I do: impatient. Even though they have an airtight, well-insulated steel boat with a drip-diesel heater, she feels the cold more than I do. She nearly collapsed in horror when she found out Marcel had taken a fifty-mile detour to Elizabeth City to check on Fred Fearing for his sister, or so I gathered from the stream of furious French. (They took the alternate ICW route, the Virginia Cut, and detoured to the end of the Dismal Swamp.) But Marcel gets it—there’s no reason to go if the weather’s not right, and there’s no reason to not explore. Why are we doing this, after all? There’s no reason to not stop and smell the roses, as it were. We are in Elizabeth City, even if the roses are all dead.
Wind: N 10-15 knots, sunny
Our stay in Elizabeth City continues. I have a feeling this town may trap us a while, despite our lack of privacy. Every day we get a lot accomplished, but it’s still frustrating not to be moving. I think the seventy-degree weather and sun is lulling us into a false sense of security. That, and being south of Norfolk.
It’s great to feel like we’re really, truly in the south, the Deep South, where seventy-degree days, even in December, are the norm, and frost the exception. I keep having to remind myself it’s six days until Christmas.
I also keep trying to remind myself that I don’t have a deadline. I don’t have to BE anywhere. I’m impatient to get to Florida, to the Bahamas, to warmth, but I know as soon as I reach one milestone (like Norfolk) I’ll be impatient for the next one. I don’t know why I can’t just enjoy where I am, now, in the moment, something else Karl seems to do effortlessly. Where I see laziness, he sees accomplishment. Why can I never see the glass as half-full?
Lise and I had a long talk about it last night. I fear hanging out with the Canadians every night may also not be good for our daily mileage, as they keep trying to ply us with steaks and wine, and, lately, DVDs until all hours.
She feels the same way I do: impatient. Even though they have an airtight, well-insulated steel boat with a drip-diesel heater, she feels the cold more than I do. She nearly collapsed in horror when she found out Marcel had taken a fifty-mile detour to Elizabeth City to check on Fred Fearing for his sister, or so I gathered from the stream of furious French. (They took the alternate ICW route, the Virginia Cut, and detoured to the end of the Dismal Swamp.) But Marcel gets it—there’s no reason to go if the weather’s not right, and there’s no reason to not explore. Why are we doing this, after all? There’s no reason to not stop and smell the roses, as it were. We are in Elizabeth City, even if the roses are all dead.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Elizabeth City, NC
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)