Fog in the morning.
More fog.
Another sunset.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
Still Pond Creek to Fairlee Creek, MD
7.6 nm
Wind: calm to S 5 knots, dense fog in the morning with quarter-mile visibility
Maximum speed: 5.4 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 3.4 knots
Average speed: 3.2 knots
Latitude: 39°16.25’N
Longitude: 076°12.60’W
We caught a fish last night! It was very exciting. Karl’s been putting out his crab traps because we’re in the Chesapeake, which is famous for its blue crabs, but last night he caught a seventeen-inch catfish in one of them. The crab trap was subsequently lost to an errant log this morning, but still, it did its job, I guess. We kept it alive all night in a bucket of water, and I woke up this morning to find it looking at me, accusingly, still breathing.
Our macerator pump is broken down again. At least this time we’re smart enough to not keep pumping the holding tank full. So Karl finally has me peeing and pooping in an actual bucket, which has been his goal for sometime. I’m quite convinced that he thinks that any more sophisticated plumbing system than a bucket is for effete literary snobs.
I don’t even know what we’re going to do about the macerator pump. We may have to pay someone to fix it, or buy a new one, but for whatever we pay to fix it or buy a new one we could probably use to buy a whole new head, a simpler one. A glorified bucket, basically, that would be far easier to repair and use. Or we may be able to rig up some kind of manual pump, so that we at least don’t have to use electricity to pump out our holding tank.
My point being, this morning, I woke up to go out into the cockpit to pee in a bucket, and while I was sitting there, I was able to stare into the eyes of a barely-alive catfish, looking up at me from my dish basin. Such was a thrill I had yet to encounter.
The fish was delicious, even though my Joy of Cooking preparation didn’t quite do it justice. I am unable to pan-fry food, evidently, at least to the point of crispiness. I think Karl gets to cook the next fish. The meat itself, though, was delectable. I haven’t always liked catfish before, but as Karl says, fish is all about freshness. It’s hard to go wrong with something that was alive, watching you pee, an hour before.
I also attempted to make fish chowder out of the head and carcass, as per Joy of Cooking’s mandate. I’ve heard about fish-head soup since my days living in France, and have always wanted to give it the old college try. Unfortunately, however, it was disgusting. And when neither Karl nor I are able to eat something, that’s really saying a lot. We actually threw out the broth, retaining the potatoes and onions, and turned it into a decent clam chowder from cans. Karl argued that the potatoes had retained some of the fish flavor, and that it added to the taste of the chowder, but all in all, I think the fish-head soup was a rather colossal failure. It may have had a lot to do with the water we used, however. We’re almost out of fresh water—down to our last gallon—so I’ve been using water from the bay in all my cooking. It’s fairly nasty water. I’m not even sure it’s salt water up here. In some of the weather reports, they call this the tidal Potomac River, and we’re far enough north that it’s hard to know where the river ends and the ocean begins. Most nights we end up anchored up some river or creek or other, and most of the time I imagine it’s right where the fresh water turns brackish.
This doesn’t mean it’s any less nasty, however. Catfish are kind of disgusting, scum-sucking fish, after all. The mud on the bottom is a thick black sludge. I’m not sure we should be using this water for anything, let alone eating, but I figure as long as I boil it vigorously it should be fine. It does not, however, taste fine, as proven by the soup. At least I’ll blame it on that, rather than the boiled fish head, with its shriveled-up whiskers. Because knowing me, I’ll give it another try with the next fish. God forbid we throw away a perfectly good corpse.
We had really bad fog again this morning, which is really hurting our mileage total. The weather forecast says that the hot temperatures (in the sixties) during the day and the cold temperatures (in the thirties) at night are what’re doing it. The last two mornings we’ve woken up completely unable to see land. It generally burns off by about noon, but it cuts in half the amount of miles we’re able to do in a day. There’s a town with a free dock, groceries, and other services that we’ve been aiming for for the last three days, but we can’t seem to get to it. Tomorrow it’s really going to get desperate, because we’re going to run out of water. Karl keeps reminding me of the gallons of apple juice we have in the storage lockers, but I’m not convinced they’ll do the trick. We’re near a marina tonight, but it’s a long dinghy ride away and we’re not even sure they’re open. We tried to hail them on the VHF—a first for us—but couldn’t get through. I suppose if we’re socked in by fog tomorrow, we can always row over there and try to find a working hose. Things are getting serious, though. As of tomorrow, it’s been two weeks since a shower or internet access, more than two weeks since laundry or groceries, and we’re all out of ice. I don’t know why we always push things to this extreme.
Wind: calm to S 5 knots, dense fog in the morning with quarter-mile visibility
Maximum speed: 5.4 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 3.4 knots
Average speed: 3.2 knots
Latitude: 39°16.25’N
Longitude: 076°12.60’W
We caught a fish last night! It was very exciting. Karl’s been putting out his crab traps because we’re in the Chesapeake, which is famous for its blue crabs, but last night he caught a seventeen-inch catfish in one of them. The crab trap was subsequently lost to an errant log this morning, but still, it did its job, I guess. We kept it alive all night in a bucket of water, and I woke up this morning to find it looking at me, accusingly, still breathing.
Our macerator pump is broken down again. At least this time we’re smart enough to not keep pumping the holding tank full. So Karl finally has me peeing and pooping in an actual bucket, which has been his goal for sometime. I’m quite convinced that he thinks that any more sophisticated plumbing system than a bucket is for effete literary snobs.
I don’t even know what we’re going to do about the macerator pump. We may have to pay someone to fix it, or buy a new one, but for whatever we pay to fix it or buy a new one we could probably use to buy a whole new head, a simpler one. A glorified bucket, basically, that would be far easier to repair and use. Or we may be able to rig up some kind of manual pump, so that we at least don’t have to use electricity to pump out our holding tank.
My point being, this morning, I woke up to go out into the cockpit to pee in a bucket, and while I was sitting there, I was able to stare into the eyes of a barely-alive catfish, looking up at me from my dish basin. Such was a thrill I had yet to encounter.
The fish was delicious, even though my Joy of Cooking preparation didn’t quite do it justice. I am unable to pan-fry food, evidently, at least to the point of crispiness. I think Karl gets to cook the next fish. The meat itself, though, was delectable. I haven’t always liked catfish before, but as Karl says, fish is all about freshness. It’s hard to go wrong with something that was alive, watching you pee, an hour before.
I also attempted to make fish chowder out of the head and carcass, as per Joy of Cooking’s mandate. I’ve heard about fish-head soup since my days living in France, and have always wanted to give it the old college try. Unfortunately, however, it was disgusting. And when neither Karl nor I are able to eat something, that’s really saying a lot. We actually threw out the broth, retaining the potatoes and onions, and turned it into a decent clam chowder from cans. Karl argued that the potatoes had retained some of the fish flavor, and that it added to the taste of the chowder, but all in all, I think the fish-head soup was a rather colossal failure. It may have had a lot to do with the water we used, however. We’re almost out of fresh water—down to our last gallon—so I’ve been using water from the bay in all my cooking. It’s fairly nasty water. I’m not even sure it’s salt water up here. In some of the weather reports, they call this the tidal Potomac River, and we’re far enough north that it’s hard to know where the river ends and the ocean begins. Most nights we end up anchored up some river or creek or other, and most of the time I imagine it’s right where the fresh water turns brackish.
This doesn’t mean it’s any less nasty, however. Catfish are kind of disgusting, scum-sucking fish, after all. The mud on the bottom is a thick black sludge. I’m not sure we should be using this water for anything, let alone eating, but I figure as long as I boil it vigorously it should be fine. It does not, however, taste fine, as proven by the soup. At least I’ll blame it on that, rather than the boiled fish head, with its shriveled-up whiskers. Because knowing me, I’ll give it another try with the next fish. God forbid we throw away a perfectly good corpse.
We had really bad fog again this morning, which is really hurting our mileage total. The weather forecast says that the hot temperatures (in the sixties) during the day and the cold temperatures (in the thirties) at night are what’re doing it. The last two mornings we’ve woken up completely unable to see land. It generally burns off by about noon, but it cuts in half the amount of miles we’re able to do in a day. There’s a town with a free dock, groceries, and other services that we’ve been aiming for for the last three days, but we can’t seem to get to it. Tomorrow it’s really going to get desperate, because we’re going to run out of water. Karl keeps reminding me of the gallons of apple juice we have in the storage lockers, but I’m not convinced they’ll do the trick. We’re near a marina tonight, but it’s a long dinghy ride away and we’re not even sure they’re open. We tried to hail them on the VHF—a first for us—but couldn’t get through. I suppose if we’re socked in by fog tomorrow, we can always row over there and try to find a working hose. Things are getting serious, though. As of tomorrow, it’s been two weeks since a shower or internet access, more than two weeks since laundry or groceries, and we’re all out of ice. I don’t know why we always push things to this extreme.
Pictures of the catfish
The catfish, the night Karl caught it. Note his glee.
Before its imminent slaughter, filet kit at the ready. Not so excited now, is he?
Sunset that night.Sunday, November 26, 2006
Bohemia River to Still Pond Creek, MD
16.2 nm
Wind: SW 5 knots to calm
Maximum speed: 6.0 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 4.1 knots
Average speed: 3.0 knots
Latitude: 39°20.06’N
Longitude: 076°08.58’W
Anchored again tonight with Serenity. It was a beautiful, but exhausting day. Karl singled-handed all day, basically to see what it was like, while I cooked and cleaned. Lin Pardey says her duties as chief cook and bottle-washer only take her three hours a day. To that I say: Ha! And: Pshaw. There’s no way. She also scoffs at the idea of a “galley slave,” saying that the galleys are the best-equipped part of a modern cruising yacht.
This may well be true. Ours, however, is nothing of the sort. It took me about two hours to wash two days of dishes this morning, wrestling swamp water to a boil using the vise clamp as a pot grip. I can barely fit our plates in the miniscule sink, and we’re out of fresh water in our holding tank, so I can only use salt water scooped from the ocean. It’s not bad, and I’m gradually getting the hang of it, but it’s exhausting and time-consuming. Then I decided the filthy floor needed cleaning, so swept it, twice, and bleached it down by hand. This was in between doing the navigation duties this morning that I had neglected last night and making tortilla roll-ups for lunch. By the time I was done with the floor, we were pulling into our anchorage and it was time to start dinner. Now I’m writing—I’m days behind on the novel, with only four days to go I have 14,000 words to go. I’ll pound them out.
I know that Karl feels as tired as I do, but hanging out in the cockpit while the Master steers merrily away somehow doesn’t seem like as much work. Or at least more fun work. Maybe we should take turns. I’m just not sure, physically, if I could handle the big tasks like tacking single-handed. And it was such a gorgeous day for a sail. There was a quarter-mile visibility because of fog this morning, so we didn’t get off until 11:30, but Geoff came over and had coffee and rafted up. He’s over again right now, and Karl and he are hanging out in the cockpit. We’re going to try to make it to a town with a free dock and services tomorrow. We only have one more day of water, no ice, and I’m feeling in sore need of laundry and showers again, not to mention internet access.
But Karl sailed off the anchor, single-handed, when we were finally able to leave, and then tacked beautifully down the bay at about three knots, before finally succumbing to the diesel when the computer starting beeping, telling us it was out of batteries. The wind was exactly in our faces again, but sometimes that makes it more of a challenge. When we pulled into the anchorage, and I started cooking dinner, Karl killed the diesel and tried to sail onto our anchor again tonight. We were going maybe a quarter of a knot, drifting endlessly towards Serenity, Geoff’s boat. Karl started pumping the tiller, but even there he could barely get more than a half-knot. Still, it was a fun way to end the day, drifting slowly towards our stopping point.
The moon’s getting fuller again. I love watching the changing phases of the moon. We’ve watched it set the last couple of nights, a little fingernail of light, sinking below the trees. Moonset gets later and later as the full moon approaches.
Wind: SW 5 knots to calm
Maximum speed: 6.0 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 4.1 knots
Average speed: 3.0 knots
Latitude: 39°20.06’N
Longitude: 076°08.58’W
Anchored again tonight with Serenity. It was a beautiful, but exhausting day. Karl singled-handed all day, basically to see what it was like, while I cooked and cleaned. Lin Pardey says her duties as chief cook and bottle-washer only take her three hours a day. To that I say: Ha! And: Pshaw. There’s no way. She also scoffs at the idea of a “galley slave,” saying that the galleys are the best-equipped part of a modern cruising yacht.
This may well be true. Ours, however, is nothing of the sort. It took me about two hours to wash two days of dishes this morning, wrestling swamp water to a boil using the vise clamp as a pot grip. I can barely fit our plates in the miniscule sink, and we’re out of fresh water in our holding tank, so I can only use salt water scooped from the ocean. It’s not bad, and I’m gradually getting the hang of it, but it’s exhausting and time-consuming. Then I decided the filthy floor needed cleaning, so swept it, twice, and bleached it down by hand. This was in between doing the navigation duties this morning that I had neglected last night and making tortilla roll-ups for lunch. By the time I was done with the floor, we were pulling into our anchorage and it was time to start dinner. Now I’m writing—I’m days behind on the novel, with only four days to go I have 14,000 words to go. I’ll pound them out.
I know that Karl feels as tired as I do, but hanging out in the cockpit while the Master steers merrily away somehow doesn’t seem like as much work. Or at least more fun work. Maybe we should take turns. I’m just not sure, physically, if I could handle the big tasks like tacking single-handed. And it was such a gorgeous day for a sail. There was a quarter-mile visibility because of fog this morning, so we didn’t get off until 11:30, but Geoff came over and had coffee and rafted up. He’s over again right now, and Karl and he are hanging out in the cockpit. We’re going to try to make it to a town with a free dock and services tomorrow. We only have one more day of water, no ice, and I’m feeling in sore need of laundry and showers again, not to mention internet access.
But Karl sailed off the anchor, single-handed, when we were finally able to leave, and then tacked beautifully down the bay at about three knots, before finally succumbing to the diesel when the computer starting beeping, telling us it was out of batteries. The wind was exactly in our faces again, but sometimes that makes it more of a challenge. When we pulled into the anchorage, and I started cooking dinner, Karl killed the diesel and tried to sail onto our anchor again tonight. We were going maybe a quarter of a knot, drifting endlessly towards Serenity, Geoff’s boat. Karl started pumping the tiller, but even there he could barely get more than a half-knot. Still, it was a fun way to end the day, drifting slowly towards our stopping point.
The moon’s getting fuller again. I love watching the changing phases of the moon. We’ve watched it set the last couple of nights, a little fingernail of light, sinking below the trees. Moonset gets later and later as the full moon approaches.
Pictures of the fog and sunsets
The sunset through the rigging.
Over the Chesapeake Bay.
The fog that kept us barely moving for three days. You can see Geoff's sailboat in the distance if you look really, really hard.Saturday, November 25, 2006
Reedy Island, DE, to Bohemia River, MD
22.7 nm
Wind: NE 5 knots to calm
Maximum speed: 6.5 knots (with current)
Maximum speed under sail: 1.8 knots
Average speed: 3.8 knots
It was a beautiful day for a sail again, today, although we didn’t get very much sailing done. We were a little unexcited about going through the Chesapeake-Delaware Canal under power, but it ended up being a lot more fun than we thought, mainly, I think, because the Master is working again. We decided against short tacking up north of Reedy Island, and ended up right at the entrance of the canal. We had thought we would sail those six miles, so had budgeted four hours, as the wind was only supposed to be five knots. As it was, we ended up at the canal two hours early for the current.
We still did fine, our speed building to six knots as we picked up the current halfway through the canal. We only had one big huge barge pass us, a Swedish one, carrying who knows what. They ended up passing us with a huge wake right as we were nearing a bridge piling, and we had to fight a little hard to avoid getting thrown up on it. Still, it was exciting being so near such a huge ship. They kept sounding their horn, making sure we knew they were there. We had our main up for extra power, so they were probably wondering, what the heck is that little sailboat doing in the middle of the canal under sail?
We passed by Chesapeake City, which is supposed to be a good stop for restocking, but we wanted to make more miles today so we headed on to a beautiful, pristine anchorage in the Bohemia River. We’re both shocked by how beautiful Chesapeake Bay is. I had always wanted to visit, but I don’t think Karl expected it to be any more unusual than Buzzards Bay. There are quaint-looking old plantations and farms right up to the water’s edge. You can tell we’re in the south by the plethora of Nascar flags and the orange-painted camaros.
The best thing about tonight was meeting another cruiser who’s crazier than us. Geoff, a Vermonter, sailed his 23-foot Oday Serenity all the way from Lake Champlain, single-handed, without having any idea how to sail. He was like us, just wanted to live on a boat, and ended up the proud owner of a classic plastic. Sometimes I think that we’re pretty crazy, but doing what we’re doing except single-handed? That’s really crazy. To make things worse, he has a swing-keel that got jammed during the last big storm when he ran aground, so he had no ballast coming through Delaware Bay. I’m shocked he’s alive, honestly. Especially with no storm jib and having to hank on his sails himself, while he ties off his tiller, because he has no self-steering.
When we were heading into our anchorage, about a mile away, with hours of beautiful sunshine left, Karl decided to anchor under sail. We progressed at a stately pace of about one knot, into the anchorage, the Master performing admirably. Geoff radioed us to find out what was wrong, it being unthinkable that a boat would actually try to sail under such conditions. It really was rather unthinkable, but we had a blast, actually sailing, trying to coax an extra quarter-knot from the slack sails.
So when we got into harbor, we had to radio Geoff back, thank him, and invite him over for a pasta and sausages dinner, it being about all the fresh food we have left. We’re running low on water, too. We really need to find a town, and fast. We had a great time, though, talking late into the night, about boats, heads, solar panels, electricity, ice—all the fun things we crazy people talk about.
Wind: NE 5 knots to calm
Maximum speed: 6.5 knots (with current)
Maximum speed under sail: 1.8 knots
Average speed: 3.8 knots
It was a beautiful day for a sail again, today, although we didn’t get very much sailing done. We were a little unexcited about going through the Chesapeake-Delaware Canal under power, but it ended up being a lot more fun than we thought, mainly, I think, because the Master is working again. We decided against short tacking up north of Reedy Island, and ended up right at the entrance of the canal. We had thought we would sail those six miles, so had budgeted four hours, as the wind was only supposed to be five knots. As it was, we ended up at the canal two hours early for the current.
We still did fine, our speed building to six knots as we picked up the current halfway through the canal. We only had one big huge barge pass us, a Swedish one, carrying who knows what. They ended up passing us with a huge wake right as we were nearing a bridge piling, and we had to fight a little hard to avoid getting thrown up on it. Still, it was exciting being so near such a huge ship. They kept sounding their horn, making sure we knew they were there. We had our main up for extra power, so they were probably wondering, what the heck is that little sailboat doing in the middle of the canal under sail?
We passed by Chesapeake City, which is supposed to be a good stop for restocking, but we wanted to make more miles today so we headed on to a beautiful, pristine anchorage in the Bohemia River. We’re both shocked by how beautiful Chesapeake Bay is. I had always wanted to visit, but I don’t think Karl expected it to be any more unusual than Buzzards Bay. There are quaint-looking old plantations and farms right up to the water’s edge. You can tell we’re in the south by the plethora of Nascar flags and the orange-painted camaros.
The best thing about tonight was meeting another cruiser who’s crazier than us. Geoff, a Vermonter, sailed his 23-foot Oday Serenity all the way from Lake Champlain, single-handed, without having any idea how to sail. He was like us, just wanted to live on a boat, and ended up the proud owner of a classic plastic. Sometimes I think that we’re pretty crazy, but doing what we’re doing except single-handed? That’s really crazy. To make things worse, he has a swing-keel that got jammed during the last big storm when he ran aground, so he had no ballast coming through Delaware Bay. I’m shocked he’s alive, honestly. Especially with no storm jib and having to hank on his sails himself, while he ties off his tiller, because he has no self-steering.
When we were heading into our anchorage, about a mile away, with hours of beautiful sunshine left, Karl decided to anchor under sail. We progressed at a stately pace of about one knot, into the anchorage, the Master performing admirably. Geoff radioed us to find out what was wrong, it being unthinkable that a boat would actually try to sail under such conditions. It really was rather unthinkable, but we had a blast, actually sailing, trying to coax an extra quarter-knot from the slack sails.
So when we got into harbor, we had to radio Geoff back, thank him, and invite him over for a pasta and sausages dinner, it being about all the fresh food we have left. We’re running low on water, too. We really need to find a town, and fast. We had a great time, though, talking late into the night, about boats, heads, solar panels, electricity, ice—all the fun things we crazy people talk about.
Pictures from the Chesapeake-Delaware Canal
In my usual post, working on my NaNoWriMo.
Tinkerbell, trailing along dutifully behind, carrying our garbage.
A gigantic Swedish ship passing us as we transit the Canal.Friday, November 24, 2006
Greenwich, NJ, to Reedy Island, DE
23.1 nm
Wind: N 10-15 knots
Seas: calm
Maximum speed: 5.9 knots
Average speed: 3.2 knots
Latitude: 39°30.74’N
Longitude: 075°34.00’W
We’re south of the Mason-Dixon line! At least I think. Delaware is the south, isn’t it? I’m actually not quite sure. But we’re getting there, at least. Tomorrow’s Maryland, and then after that we’ll be in the south proper. I’ve been whistling Dixie all week. It was a beautiful day for a sail, too, plenty of sunshine, the temperatures in the sixties, the wind about ten knots. The only problem was that the wind was coming from exactly the direction we wanted to go, which it always seems to manage to do. This, we know, is part of sailing. We are learning to live with it.
Quite well, actually. We tacked across the Bay about five times, practicing our tacking skills. I kept the helm the whole time under sail, and I think I’m getting a lot better at maintaining us exactly in that sweet spot where a vacuum is created right in front of our foresail and the wind just sucks us along. We were maintaining around five knots, which is generally our goal speed Even though seven is our hull speed, it’s fast enough to scare the pants off me most days, unless we’re running. We haven’t run at seven knots yet, and I think that would probably scare me too.
At around three, when the current turned against us, we decided to break out Ole Faithful, the diesel, to carry us against current and wind combined. Even she couldn’t do much against both of them together, barely breaking two knots. The best part was that the Master is back in service again, so neither of us had to be slave to the tiller. Finally, Karl hoisted all sail, and that got us clipping along. It’s pretty bad when you have to have all your sail out, plus your engine in full gear, in order to fight a current!
We came into our anchorage after dark, as usual these days, and those last hours are always very stressful as I hover around the GPS watching our depths, and Karl freaks out about that light or the other. We made it just fine, to just where our GPS said we should be, and our now anchored safely right under a giant blinking green and white light on Reedy Island. The currents are still insane here, and I imagine they will keep being so until we get farther south in Chesapeake Bay again. We had delicious leftovers for dinner, improvised gravy out of cream of chicken soup, and are drinking leftover fruit punch. All is right with the world.
Wind: N 10-15 knots
Seas: calm
Maximum speed: 5.9 knots
Average speed: 3.2 knots
Latitude: 39°30.74’N
Longitude: 075°34.00’W
We’re south of the Mason-Dixon line! At least I think. Delaware is the south, isn’t it? I’m actually not quite sure. But we’re getting there, at least. Tomorrow’s Maryland, and then after that we’ll be in the south proper. I’ve been whistling Dixie all week. It was a beautiful day for a sail, too, plenty of sunshine, the temperatures in the sixties, the wind about ten knots. The only problem was that the wind was coming from exactly the direction we wanted to go, which it always seems to manage to do. This, we know, is part of sailing. We are learning to live with it.
Quite well, actually. We tacked across the Bay about five times, practicing our tacking skills. I kept the helm the whole time under sail, and I think I’m getting a lot better at maintaining us exactly in that sweet spot where a vacuum is created right in front of our foresail and the wind just sucks us along. We were maintaining around five knots, which is generally our goal speed Even though seven is our hull speed, it’s fast enough to scare the pants off me most days, unless we’re running. We haven’t run at seven knots yet, and I think that would probably scare me too.
At around three, when the current turned against us, we decided to break out Ole Faithful, the diesel, to carry us against current and wind combined. Even she couldn’t do much against both of them together, barely breaking two knots. The best part was that the Master is back in service again, so neither of us had to be slave to the tiller. Finally, Karl hoisted all sail, and that got us clipping along. It’s pretty bad when you have to have all your sail out, plus your engine in full gear, in order to fight a current!
We came into our anchorage after dark, as usual these days, and those last hours are always very stressful as I hover around the GPS watching our depths, and Karl freaks out about that light or the other. We made it just fine, to just where our GPS said we should be, and our now anchored safely right under a giant blinking green and white light on Reedy Island. The currents are still insane here, and I imagine they will keep being so until we get farther south in Chesapeake Bay again. We had delicious leftovers for dinner, improvised gravy out of cream of chicken soup, and are drinking leftover fruit punch. All is right with the world.
Lovely scenic Delaware
Light from the horizon, underneath the moon.
The gibbous moon and a vapor trail.
A nuclear power plant. Lovely, ain't it?Thursday, November 23, 2006
Thanksgiving Day!
Greenwich, NJ
0 nm
Wind: N 15-20 knots, gusting to 30, rain
Our first Thanksgiving on the boat. We have much to be thankful for. Not dying the other day, for instance. Even on Tuesday, when we were heading over here, I thought—if we make it through this, I’ll have a lot to be thankful for on Thursday. The boat. Each other. This wonderful new adventure we’re on, and that we’re both crazy enough to want to keep going, and that we found someone else as crazy as we are. So, a lot to be thankful for.
No turkey to be thankful for, though, unfortunately, although we do have plenty of food. We had planned to buy a little two-pound turkey, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, pumpkin, all that good stuff, but thanks to the gale we weren’t able to make it to a grocery store. The town of Greenwich, winking accommodatingly a mile up the river, was very tempting, but even if we had braved the 35-knot winds to head up there yesterday, I’m not sure anything would be open. Or even if there’s a grocery store in town.
So we had to do with a boat Thanksgiving, which was basically how close we could approximate real Thanksgiving with the canned goods in our storage lockers. Luckily we still had fresh onions and potatoes, as well as an apple, and bread. I made stuffing as fancy as I could without celery or sage, adding dried fruit and nuts and an apple. Then I topped it off with canned chicken, to approximate a turkey with stuffing. I whipped up some mashed potatoes, as good as at home, and a green-bean casserole with our last can of green beans, which had to be beefed up with our last bit of cabbage. Karl made a fruit punch as beverage, and I invented a blueberry-cherry strudel for dessert. The cherries were PCT vintage, and as such had absorbed a little bit of the plastic Ziploc flavor, but the dessert was still a hit.
I took a bunch of dumb pictures of the food I made, and Karl took some silly pictures of me looking exhausted, we listened to music, we did a little dancing. We tried to call our families, but have a really horrible signal here, so were only able to make out a word or two. Still, I am happy and sated and feel surrounded by people who love me, all of the feelings you’re supposed to have on Thanksgiving. What a wonderful holiday.
0 nm
Wind: N 15-20 knots, gusting to 30, rain
Our first Thanksgiving on the boat. We have much to be thankful for. Not dying the other day, for instance. Even on Tuesday, when we were heading over here, I thought—if we make it through this, I’ll have a lot to be thankful for on Thursday. The boat. Each other. This wonderful new adventure we’re on, and that we’re both crazy enough to want to keep going, and that we found someone else as crazy as we are. So, a lot to be thankful for.
No turkey to be thankful for, though, unfortunately, although we do have plenty of food. We had planned to buy a little two-pound turkey, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, pumpkin, all that good stuff, but thanks to the gale we weren’t able to make it to a grocery store. The town of Greenwich, winking accommodatingly a mile up the river, was very tempting, but even if we had braved the 35-knot winds to head up there yesterday, I’m not sure anything would be open. Or even if there’s a grocery store in town.
So we had to do with a boat Thanksgiving, which was basically how close we could approximate real Thanksgiving with the canned goods in our storage lockers. Luckily we still had fresh onions and potatoes, as well as an apple, and bread. I made stuffing as fancy as I could without celery or sage, adding dried fruit and nuts and an apple. Then I topped it off with canned chicken, to approximate a turkey with stuffing. I whipped up some mashed potatoes, as good as at home, and a green-bean casserole with our last can of green beans, which had to be beefed up with our last bit of cabbage. Karl made a fruit punch as beverage, and I invented a blueberry-cherry strudel for dessert. The cherries were PCT vintage, and as such had absorbed a little bit of the plastic Ziploc flavor, but the dessert was still a hit.
I took a bunch of dumb pictures of the food I made, and Karl took some silly pictures of me looking exhausted, we listened to music, we did a little dancing. We tried to call our families, but have a really horrible signal here, so were only able to make out a word or two. Still, I am happy and sated and feel surrounded by people who love me, all of the feelings you’re supposed to have on Thanksgiving. What a wonderful holiday.
Thanksgiving pictures
Karl displays the dinner of which I am so proud. Note the "Melissa" mug, a mainstay of the boat.
My candlelit casseroles, of which I was so proud.
Exhausted and happy.Thanksgiving pictures
Karl displays the dinner of which I am so proud. Note the "Melissa" mug, a mainstay of the boat.My candlelit casseroles, of which I was so proud.Exhausted and happy.Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Cohansey River to Greenwich, NJ
2.6 nm
Wind: NE 15-25 knots, gusting to 45
Maximum speed: 3.5 knots
Average speed: 2.1 knots
Latitude: 39°37.26’N
Longitude: 075°34.66’W
We’re socked in again today, trapped by the storm we saw coming yesterday. The wind is supposed to be gusting to 45 knots (40 is gale force), and it might be, although we think we’ve only seen about thirty. We’re not getting a very good forecast on our three-mile radius VHF radio, so it’s hard to know. We’re supposed to be out of the worst of it. But this morning we woke up to realize that the land we thought we had anchored behind last night was really a couple of reeds sticking out of the water. It might have been an island when there wasn’t six feet of tidal flooding.
After thinking it over, we decided to move farther up the river, where both Skipper Bob and the Reed’s Nautical Almanac, our two guidebooks, told us we’d have more protection. There’s a marina in the town of Greenwich, which we’re in sight of, but we decided to anchor behind a stand of trees in twenty feet of water. Right now we’re watching the tides very closely, hoping the tidal current after low tide doesn’t swing us into land. We’re anchored in a river that flows into the bay, so hopefully the river is strong enough to not reverse current. I’m making pizzas, and trying to decide how to make tomorrow’s boat Thanksgiving a good one.
We had planned to buy a little turkey and some other fixings, but now it looks like we won’t be able to get to a grocery store before tomorrow. So it looks like it’s going to be a canned chicken Thanksgiving. We’re pretty good at doctoring things up, so maybe I’ll be able to make it into some semblance of a festive event. It’s Karl’s favorite holiday, so I’m a little sad that we won’t be able to do it right, but as always, he doesn’t care about petty everyday concerns like that. If I get ambitious, maybe I’ll even make a blueberry pie.
The passage up the river was crazy, even though it was only three miles. Our GPS doesn’t have charts for inland sections (we’re working on this problem, and should be able to download more charts the next time we have internet access), so all we had was a rudimentary drawing of a river. Karl stood outside, at the helm, in the brutal cold and icy rain, trying to maintain the center of the channel. I watched the GPS like a hawk, giving him hints about which direction might be deeper, even though I had no idea. It worked out great, though. It was deep enough the whole way, and I feel good about heading up our first patch of uncharted water. I’m sure we’ll end up in more by the time we get around the world.
Now we’re cozy with the oven and candles on, and Phil Ochs on the CD player. I’m looking forward to my sausage and onion pizza, with cheddar and mozzarella.
Wind: NE 15-25 knots, gusting to 45
Maximum speed: 3.5 knots
Average speed: 2.1 knots
Latitude: 39°37.26’N
Longitude: 075°34.66’W
We’re socked in again today, trapped by the storm we saw coming yesterday. The wind is supposed to be gusting to 45 knots (40 is gale force), and it might be, although we think we’ve only seen about thirty. We’re not getting a very good forecast on our three-mile radius VHF radio, so it’s hard to know. We’re supposed to be out of the worst of it. But this morning we woke up to realize that the land we thought we had anchored behind last night was really a couple of reeds sticking out of the water. It might have been an island when there wasn’t six feet of tidal flooding.
After thinking it over, we decided to move farther up the river, where both Skipper Bob and the Reed’s Nautical Almanac, our two guidebooks, told us we’d have more protection. There’s a marina in the town of Greenwich, which we’re in sight of, but we decided to anchor behind a stand of trees in twenty feet of water. Right now we’re watching the tides very closely, hoping the tidal current after low tide doesn’t swing us into land. We’re anchored in a river that flows into the bay, so hopefully the river is strong enough to not reverse current. I’m making pizzas, and trying to decide how to make tomorrow’s boat Thanksgiving a good one.
We had planned to buy a little turkey and some other fixings, but now it looks like we won’t be able to get to a grocery store before tomorrow. So it looks like it’s going to be a canned chicken Thanksgiving. We’re pretty good at doctoring things up, so maybe I’ll be able to make it into some semblance of a festive event. It’s Karl’s favorite holiday, so I’m a little sad that we won’t be able to do it right, but as always, he doesn’t care about petty everyday concerns like that. If I get ambitious, maybe I’ll even make a blueberry pie.
The passage up the river was crazy, even though it was only three miles. Our GPS doesn’t have charts for inland sections (we’re working on this problem, and should be able to download more charts the next time we have internet access), so all we had was a rudimentary drawing of a river. Karl stood outside, at the helm, in the brutal cold and icy rain, trying to maintain the center of the channel. I watched the GPS like a hawk, giving him hints about which direction might be deeper, even though I had no idea. It worked out great, though. It was deep enough the whole way, and I feel good about heading up our first patch of uncharted water. I’m sure we’ll end up in more by the time we get around the world.
Now we’re cozy with the oven and candles on, and Phil Ochs on the CD player. I’m looking forward to my sausage and onion pizza, with cheddar and mozzarella.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Cape May to Cohansey River, NJ
35.7 nm
Wind: NE 10-20 knots, sustained gusts of at least 25 in Lower Delaware Bay
Seas: 4-6 feet, extremely choppy
Maximum speed: 5.5 knots
Average speed: 3.7 knots
Latitude: 39°20.72’N
Longitude: 075°21.75’W
We had a bunch of firsts today. We double-reefed the main for the first time, and we were out of sight of land for the first time. Not exactly things you want to do on the same day. But we did them. We had been warned about the nastiness of Delaware Bay, but thought that it had been exaggerated, that it was probably no worse than Buzzards Bay, which we grew up on. But it was, a lot worse. At least a lot bigger. Halfway through the morning we looked out to realize that we were completely out of sight of land, even though we were surrounded by it. It was a creepy feeling, especially given the weather we had.
We woke up early to catch slack tide through the three-mile Cape May Canal, and on our way out past the last buoys, a guy in a huge sailboat came past us going the other direction. We were trailing Tinkerbell, our dinghy, behind us, like we always do. “Better pull that dinghy up,” he said. “It’s choppy out there.” At the same moment, we noticed two fishermen, who had made fun of our matching yellow foul-weather gear on their way out, before leaving a wake that nearly washed us into the rocks, came back the opposite direction. Hmm, we thought to ourselves. Maybe it’s bad out there.
And it was. As soon as we got out into the bay proper, waves were hitting our bow so hard that it was being driven underwater. Everything in the boat fell out of place—drawers were banging open, stuff we had neglected to tie down was falling out on the floor, coffee cups spilling all over the table. Karl had the helm at this point, I was below trying to control the chaos, and we both thought that we had gotten in over our heads.
There’s a huge storm coming in tomorrow, allegedly, and everyone else in the harbor had chosen to wait it out in Cape May. This wind was the vanguard to the storm, and it was coming from the opposite direction as the current, which makes the chop almost unbearable. Starting this afternoon, winds were supposed to gust to 25. Our brilliant plan was to head north during the relatively good weather today and get into the protection of Upper Delaware Bay, where the storm isn’t supposed to hit so hard.
But coming out into that wind, and those waves, made us almost want to turn around. Karl proposed putting two reefs in the main, which we hadn’t raised yet, and I agreed enthusiastically. I don’t even know if I would have bothered to try to sail if he hadn’t suggested it, but I’m so glad he did. Every time we start using the boat as she’s designed to be used, as a sailboat, our motion eases out, she takes the waves better, and we all relax.
It took about an hour to put the reefs in the main—we were both in full raingear, Karl was clipped in to his harness, up by the mast, I was making plans for what I would do when he fell over, or cracked his skull open and started bleeding all over the deck. But once we did, and reefed the main, and curled out a handkerchief jib to balance the helm, we were sailing pretty, at about five knots, and Secret was doing just fine. Because of the cold, we decided to take shifts of an hour on, an hour off, and I took the first hour. I just kept talking to her, especially when the waves would hit us broadside and nearly knock us flat. I knew she could handle it—we know someone who made it through 60 knots of wind in the Pacific with a triple-reefed main and a handkerchief jib. Knowing that made me a lot more confident, as did thinking about the racers who, God bless them, would have said we needed more sail out.
Karl, while reefing the main, was praying. A lot. He told me later that he had a crazy dream last night in which a sign on the wall read, “The way out is through God,” and he thought that could have been an omen. This could be it. But the minute he took the helm, the waves started to smooth out, the sky cleared, and even though the wind was still blowing us over, it was a beautiful day for a sail. I looked out at him and he had a euphoric smile on his face. “This, this is beautiful,” he said.
The wind and the seas calmed down in the afternoon, and we were even able to unfurl a little more jib, although we kept both reefs in our main for safety’s sake. We could see the line of building clouds on the horizon behind us—we just prayed that our boat could move faster than the storm. We ended up sailing almost right into the river where we’re anchored tonight.
We both felt ecstatic all day. To take our boat, to take ourselves, and push them to the limit, to realize that our limit can be stretched just that much more. It makes you truly alive. One day like that is worth a hundred ordinary days.
I leave you with a quote from Brion Toss, the author of the Rigger’s Apprentice, taken from the Pardeys’ Storm Tactics Handbook:
“If you spend any time at sea, you’ll spend sometime wishing you were someplace else. But the truth is that those times can be some of the best of your life, a tempering process that nourishes and confirms the resilience of the human spirit.”
May you always sleep as well as I will tonight.
Wind: NE 10-20 knots, sustained gusts of at least 25 in Lower Delaware Bay
Seas: 4-6 feet, extremely choppy
Maximum speed: 5.5 knots
Average speed: 3.7 knots
Latitude: 39°20.72’N
Longitude: 075°21.75’W
We had a bunch of firsts today. We double-reefed the main for the first time, and we were out of sight of land for the first time. Not exactly things you want to do on the same day. But we did them. We had been warned about the nastiness of Delaware Bay, but thought that it had been exaggerated, that it was probably no worse than Buzzards Bay, which we grew up on. But it was, a lot worse. At least a lot bigger. Halfway through the morning we looked out to realize that we were completely out of sight of land, even though we were surrounded by it. It was a creepy feeling, especially given the weather we had.
We woke up early to catch slack tide through the three-mile Cape May Canal, and on our way out past the last buoys, a guy in a huge sailboat came past us going the other direction. We were trailing Tinkerbell, our dinghy, behind us, like we always do. “Better pull that dinghy up,” he said. “It’s choppy out there.” At the same moment, we noticed two fishermen, who had made fun of our matching yellow foul-weather gear on their way out, before leaving a wake that nearly washed us into the rocks, came back the opposite direction. Hmm, we thought to ourselves. Maybe it’s bad out there.
And it was. As soon as we got out into the bay proper, waves were hitting our bow so hard that it was being driven underwater. Everything in the boat fell out of place—drawers were banging open, stuff we had neglected to tie down was falling out on the floor, coffee cups spilling all over the table. Karl had the helm at this point, I was below trying to control the chaos, and we both thought that we had gotten in over our heads.
There’s a huge storm coming in tomorrow, allegedly, and everyone else in the harbor had chosen to wait it out in Cape May. This wind was the vanguard to the storm, and it was coming from the opposite direction as the current, which makes the chop almost unbearable. Starting this afternoon, winds were supposed to gust to 25. Our brilliant plan was to head north during the relatively good weather today and get into the protection of Upper Delaware Bay, where the storm isn’t supposed to hit so hard.
But coming out into that wind, and those waves, made us almost want to turn around. Karl proposed putting two reefs in the main, which we hadn’t raised yet, and I agreed enthusiastically. I don’t even know if I would have bothered to try to sail if he hadn’t suggested it, but I’m so glad he did. Every time we start using the boat as she’s designed to be used, as a sailboat, our motion eases out, she takes the waves better, and we all relax.
It took about an hour to put the reefs in the main—we were both in full raingear, Karl was clipped in to his harness, up by the mast, I was making plans for what I would do when he fell over, or cracked his skull open and started bleeding all over the deck. But once we did, and reefed the main, and curled out a handkerchief jib to balance the helm, we were sailing pretty, at about five knots, and Secret was doing just fine. Because of the cold, we decided to take shifts of an hour on, an hour off, and I took the first hour. I just kept talking to her, especially when the waves would hit us broadside and nearly knock us flat. I knew she could handle it—we know someone who made it through 60 knots of wind in the Pacific with a triple-reefed main and a handkerchief jib. Knowing that made me a lot more confident, as did thinking about the racers who, God bless them, would have said we needed more sail out.
Karl, while reefing the main, was praying. A lot. He told me later that he had a crazy dream last night in which a sign on the wall read, “The way out is through God,” and he thought that could have been an omen. This could be it. But the minute he took the helm, the waves started to smooth out, the sky cleared, and even though the wind was still blowing us over, it was a beautiful day for a sail. I looked out at him and he had a euphoric smile on his face. “This, this is beautiful,” he said.
The wind and the seas calmed down in the afternoon, and we were even able to unfurl a little more jib, although we kept both reefs in our main for safety’s sake. We could see the line of building clouds on the horizon behind us—we just prayed that our boat could move faster than the storm. We ended up sailing almost right into the river where we’re anchored tonight.
We both felt ecstatic all day. To take our boat, to take ourselves, and push them to the limit, to realize that our limit can be stretched just that much more. It makes you truly alive. One day like that is worth a hundred ordinary days.
I leave you with a quote from Brion Toss, the author of the Rigger’s Apprentice, taken from the Pardeys’ Storm Tactics Handbook:
“If you spend any time at sea, you’ll spend sometime wishing you were someplace else. But the truth is that those times can be some of the best of your life, a tempering process that nourishes and confirms the resilience of the human spirit.”
May you always sleep as well as I will tonight.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Cape May, NJ
Wind: NW 10 knots
I don’t understand Karl’s blog entry. I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or an insult. Oh well. So the rest of our passage went fine, aside from our severe lack of sleep causing us to snip at each other. Karl had a bird come and visit him during his last watch, sitting on the boom to keep him company. I had a huge tug pulling a barge pass me about 100 yards away. I kept shining our spotlight (thanks Ralph!) on the sail to make sure he would know we were there, and I hope he did, but I would have had to take evasive maneuvers otherwise. Karl’s attempting to fix our autopilot, the Master, right now, so that we can use it if we decide to do the DelMarVa coast (the offshore route between Cape May and Norfolk, VA).
There’s a storm supposed to blow in on Wednesday, so we were supposed to head up the Delaware Bay tonight to get away from the coast, but I don’t know if we really will, especially because our friends on Sea Belle just showed up. We’re sharing the anchorage here with two other cruising boats, too—Decibel, out of Freeport, Maine (they have a sailing dinghy and a dog!), and Hispaniola out of Portsmouth, NH. So we’re in the New England section of the harbor, I guess. We haven’t met Hispaniola yet, but both boats appear to have three crew members, including captain, without being much bigger than our boat. An arrangement I can’t say I envy. We can barely keep from killing each other sometimes and there are only two of us.
After we got in, we were severely hypothermic the rest of the day, and exhausted, but I refused to go to sleep because I thought it would throw off my sleep schedule. Fat lot of good it did us—we still slept in until ten this morning, and haven’t left yet. But Karl made me awesome clam chowder last night, doctored out of cans, and I threw baked potatoes in the oven, and we ate those with butter, cracked pepper, cheddar cheese, and sour cream. I don’t think I’ve ever had better food in my life. Actually, I know I have, but those first creamy, delectable bites of potato in my frostbitten, sleep-challenged body were like heaven.
We’re certainly eating well on the boat. This morning, with the leftover baked potatoes, Karl cooked me up bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese and spinach, and curried hash browns. It was delicious. It’s been a week since we’ve been shopping, and we’re still eating like kings. All these things keep amazingly well—the spinach had barely begun to go bad, and we ate every last leaf of it, the sour cream, even the bananas. We’ve eaten both bacon and kielbasa that had been left, unopened and unrefrigerated, in the boat for over a month, without getting sick. Let that be a lesson to all of you people out there about the quantity of nitrates in your food. Not good news to you, I imagine, but for us cruisers, it’s definitely fortunate. So does unopened non-dairy creamer, opened mayonnaise, and unrefrigerated citrus fruit.
I’m sure, at this point, that you’re beginning to worry about our health. Karl makes fun of me saying that I’m never happier than when I can eat moldy food, and in some ways it’s true. I was thrilled to discover that Lin Pardey recommends hanging a side of bacon in your chain locker and wiping the mold off of it with a vinegar solution before hacking off chunks and eating them. In fact, she goes into great detail about the kinds of mold that can be wiped off raw, unrefrigerated meat after which it may still be eaten. It’s awesome. A girl after my own heart. It’s still nice to know that other people have eaten unchilled food for decades, living to a ripe old age, without keeling over and dying.
Things that do go bad quickly: salsa. Bagels. Anything that’s opened and is liquidy or moist. Actually, moisture kills everything, even cabbages that are supposed to survive indefinitely. Ah, the joy of the cabbage, though. We’ve been eating one down for the last several days after I rescued it from death by mold. Karl put some in eggs yesterday morning, it’s delicious in soup, especially ramen, when spiced appropriately. There’s something very heartening about cabbage soup in the cold, despite its bad reputation. I keep wanting to write recipes, like the soup I made for Karl on watch the other night when we used a vise clamp as a pot holder to keep the soup from falling off the stove. I had all my leftovers from burritos in the pan—refried beans, taco meat, spinach, habanero salsa, and chopped tomatoes, and then added a ton of cabbage and an Oriental ramen. It was delectable. Again, we were freezing, beam-reaching over the chilly wine-dark sea, so probably anything would have been good, but I swear, someone should market my Mexican ramen. Especially the dissolved refried beans in the broth—mmm mmm.
Lin Pardey also says you can keep food on the stove indefinitely by bringing it to a boil for a couple of seconds every day, as long as you keep the lid tightly on. Keep leftovers indefinitely? On the stove? It’s thrilling, this boat life. Waste not, want not. Most of our leftovers become the basis for our meals the next day—the tacos turned into soup, the soup turned into new soup, the potatoes turned into hash browns, the squash turned into beef stew. I’m just now trying to figure out what to do with the leftover clam chowder. Maybe white clam sauce for pasta? Who knows.
I’m very excited about our prospects for Thanksgiving. I was just surveying them in Joy of Cooking right now. I think Karl’s going to do a little turkey on the grill, that will probably feed us for a week, I might bake some rolls and make stuffing, and we have the ingredients for the rest of Thanksgiving dinner already on the boat. I’m trying to decide if I want to try to make pie, too. That might be a little ambitious. It won’t rival the feast I had last year at my sister’s, but what could?
Sorry to go on and on about food. In the cold, on the boat, one has little else to think about. And it’s been a while since I had to manage the cuisine of my own household. It’s very exciting.
I don’t understand Karl’s blog entry. I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or an insult. Oh well. So the rest of our passage went fine, aside from our severe lack of sleep causing us to snip at each other. Karl had a bird come and visit him during his last watch, sitting on the boom to keep him company. I had a huge tug pulling a barge pass me about 100 yards away. I kept shining our spotlight (thanks Ralph!) on the sail to make sure he would know we were there, and I hope he did, but I would have had to take evasive maneuvers otherwise. Karl’s attempting to fix our autopilot, the Master, right now, so that we can use it if we decide to do the DelMarVa coast (the offshore route between Cape May and Norfolk, VA).
There’s a storm supposed to blow in on Wednesday, so we were supposed to head up the Delaware Bay tonight to get away from the coast, but I don’t know if we really will, especially because our friends on Sea Belle just showed up. We’re sharing the anchorage here with two other cruising boats, too—Decibel, out of Freeport, Maine (they have a sailing dinghy and a dog!), and Hispaniola out of Portsmouth, NH. So we’re in the New England section of the harbor, I guess. We haven’t met Hispaniola yet, but both boats appear to have three crew members, including captain, without being much bigger than our boat. An arrangement I can’t say I envy. We can barely keep from killing each other sometimes and there are only two of us.
After we got in, we were severely hypothermic the rest of the day, and exhausted, but I refused to go to sleep because I thought it would throw off my sleep schedule. Fat lot of good it did us—we still slept in until ten this morning, and haven’t left yet. But Karl made me awesome clam chowder last night, doctored out of cans, and I threw baked potatoes in the oven, and we ate those with butter, cracked pepper, cheddar cheese, and sour cream. I don’t think I’ve ever had better food in my life. Actually, I know I have, but those first creamy, delectable bites of potato in my frostbitten, sleep-challenged body were like heaven.
We’re certainly eating well on the boat. This morning, with the leftover baked potatoes, Karl cooked me up bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese and spinach, and curried hash browns. It was delicious. It’s been a week since we’ve been shopping, and we’re still eating like kings. All these things keep amazingly well—the spinach had barely begun to go bad, and we ate every last leaf of it, the sour cream, even the bananas. We’ve eaten both bacon and kielbasa that had been left, unopened and unrefrigerated, in the boat for over a month, without getting sick. Let that be a lesson to all of you people out there about the quantity of nitrates in your food. Not good news to you, I imagine, but for us cruisers, it’s definitely fortunate. So does unopened non-dairy creamer, opened mayonnaise, and unrefrigerated citrus fruit.
I’m sure, at this point, that you’re beginning to worry about our health. Karl makes fun of me saying that I’m never happier than when I can eat moldy food, and in some ways it’s true. I was thrilled to discover that Lin Pardey recommends hanging a side of bacon in your chain locker and wiping the mold off of it with a vinegar solution before hacking off chunks and eating them. In fact, she goes into great detail about the kinds of mold that can be wiped off raw, unrefrigerated meat after which it may still be eaten. It’s awesome. A girl after my own heart. It’s still nice to know that other people have eaten unchilled food for decades, living to a ripe old age, without keeling over and dying.
Things that do go bad quickly: salsa. Bagels. Anything that’s opened and is liquidy or moist. Actually, moisture kills everything, even cabbages that are supposed to survive indefinitely. Ah, the joy of the cabbage, though. We’ve been eating one down for the last several days after I rescued it from death by mold. Karl put some in eggs yesterday morning, it’s delicious in soup, especially ramen, when spiced appropriately. There’s something very heartening about cabbage soup in the cold, despite its bad reputation. I keep wanting to write recipes, like the soup I made for Karl on watch the other night when we used a vise clamp as a pot holder to keep the soup from falling off the stove. I had all my leftovers from burritos in the pan—refried beans, taco meat, spinach, habanero salsa, and chopped tomatoes, and then added a ton of cabbage and an Oriental ramen. It was delectable. Again, we were freezing, beam-reaching over the chilly wine-dark sea, so probably anything would have been good, but I swear, someone should market my Mexican ramen. Especially the dissolved refried beans in the broth—mmm mmm.
Lin Pardey also says you can keep food on the stove indefinitely by bringing it to a boil for a couple of seconds every day, as long as you keep the lid tightly on. Keep leftovers indefinitely? On the stove? It’s thrilling, this boat life. Waste not, want not. Most of our leftovers become the basis for our meals the next day—the tacos turned into soup, the soup turned into new soup, the potatoes turned into hash browns, the squash turned into beef stew. I’m just now trying to figure out what to do with the leftover clam chowder. Maybe white clam sauce for pasta? Who knows.
I’m very excited about our prospects for Thanksgiving. I was just surveying them in Joy of Cooking right now. I think Karl’s going to do a little turkey on the grill, that will probably feed us for a week, I might bake some rolls and make stuffing, and we have the ingredients for the rest of Thanksgiving dinner already on the boat. I’m trying to decide if I want to try to make pie, too. That might be a little ambitious. It won’t rival the feast I had last year at my sister’s, but what could?
Sorry to go on and on about food. In the cold, on the boat, one has little else to think about. And it’s been a while since I had to manage the cuisine of my own household. It’s very exciting.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Sandy Hook to Cape May, NJ
121.6 nm
Maximum speed: 6.7 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 6.6 knots
Average speed: 4.3 knots
Latitude: 38°56.98’N
Longitude: 074°53.18’W
We’re here. We made it in one piece. I’m exhausted and barely coherent, so I’m going to let Karl write the blog tonight. Which probably isn’t a good idea, since we got into a big fight today.
Im writing bthis the same way Melissa
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Up
Maximum speed: 6.7 knots
Maximum speed under sail: 6.6 knots
Average speed: 4.3 knots
Latitude: 38°56.98’N
Longitude: 074°53.18’W
We’re here. We made it in one piece. I’m exhausted and barely coherent, so I’m going to let Karl write the blog tonight. Which probably isn’t a good idea, since we got into a big fight today.
Im writing bthis the same way Melissa
Picks
Up
Saturday, November 18, 2006
En route from Sandy Hook to Cape May, NJ
Wind: Calm, building to up to NW 15 knots
Seas: 3-6 feet with swell
It’s midnight, and I’m getting ready to start my shift at the tiller, from twelve to three, so I can’t write for very long. The boat’s dark, Karl’s outside sailing on a beam reach. A beam reach to paradise, or so they say. I’ve just gotten about a half-hour of sleep out of my three hours of alleged sleep. Sleeping is difficult when you have water rushing past your ears at about 50 decibels, as well as all the miscellaneous creaks and groans a fiberglass boat makes under sail. Karl says it’s the hull flexing, but it freaks me out. Every time it happened I could swear something hit the hull.
I had the craziest dreams, too—that Karl was walking around the cockpit, not at the tiller, that we had stopped in someplace named Fargut, and docked with a nice young couple, that I had slept through my alarm and Karl had had to hold the tiller until five in the morning… The mind does crazy things at night on a sailboat under sail.
It’s our first time. It’s very exciting. I wasn’t very enthused about the idea. In fact, I had thought that we could go into Manasquan Inlet to anchor tonight, especially after we had to motor almost all day today. There was no way I was motoring all night, in the frigid cold. We pulled into Manasquan, after the wind picked up and we were able to sail for about an hour. It was freezing cold all day, and the prospect of sailing all night made me chilled. But for some reason our GPS doesn’t have detail for the inlets, and dark had fallen while we had messed around dropping the main, and all we had was a seven-year-old chartlet from Reed’s Nautical Almanac for navigation. There were no buoys in the channel at all, and the rumor that we had heard, that Manasquan was awful for anchoring, was rapidly proved true.
Karl said, “Screw this, we’re heading back out to the open water.” And we did. With a two-hour detour. Now we’re heading straight for Cape May, if the weather holds.
The best story of the day is that we almost caught a gargantuan fish, almost being the operative word. We have three fishing poles on the boat, as well as two boxes of fishing tackle, two crab pots, and a nine-foot casting net, but we have yet to fish from the boat. Yesterday, after watching all of the charter fishing boats leave Cape May on their twice daily excursions, Karl dug out our trolling rod and a tuna lure, costing $4.95, that I insisted we buy.
So he set it up this morning when there was no wind and we were motoring, right as we were approaching the charter fishing boat hangout. Now, our trolling pole is a sad affair, ancient, with a broken eye on the end. Karl attached it to its rod holder with a piece of twine, and was just sitting back as I steered, thinking that if a fish bit big enough to pull the rod out of the rod holder, the twine would never hold it. But it did. A huge fish of some variety yanked that rod so hard that it cracked the wooden rod holder in two. The rod went flying off the back of the boat, and the only thing I saw was Karl, almost jumping off the boat, as he tried to catch the end of the broken pole. He did, and fought with the fish for a couple of moments before it snapped the brass leader right off the line, along with my fancy lure. We’re going to have to buy some more of those, that’s for sure. I want some tuna. Still, it was exciting, and it’s nice to have a big bite on our very first day fishing. We’ll have to be more ambitious in the future. We’re not fishing right now because if we caught one, one of us alone couldn’t handle the tiller and the fish.
I must go. Three hours of finger-numbing servitude to the tiller await.
Seas: 3-6 feet with swell
It’s midnight, and I’m getting ready to start my shift at the tiller, from twelve to three, so I can’t write for very long. The boat’s dark, Karl’s outside sailing on a beam reach. A beam reach to paradise, or so they say. I’ve just gotten about a half-hour of sleep out of my three hours of alleged sleep. Sleeping is difficult when you have water rushing past your ears at about 50 decibels, as well as all the miscellaneous creaks and groans a fiberglass boat makes under sail. Karl says it’s the hull flexing, but it freaks me out. Every time it happened I could swear something hit the hull.
I had the craziest dreams, too—that Karl was walking around the cockpit, not at the tiller, that we had stopped in someplace named Fargut, and docked with a nice young couple, that I had slept through my alarm and Karl had had to hold the tiller until five in the morning… The mind does crazy things at night on a sailboat under sail.
It’s our first time. It’s very exciting. I wasn’t very enthused about the idea. In fact, I had thought that we could go into Manasquan Inlet to anchor tonight, especially after we had to motor almost all day today. There was no way I was motoring all night, in the frigid cold. We pulled into Manasquan, after the wind picked up and we were able to sail for about an hour. It was freezing cold all day, and the prospect of sailing all night made me chilled. But for some reason our GPS doesn’t have detail for the inlets, and dark had fallen while we had messed around dropping the main, and all we had was a seven-year-old chartlet from Reed’s Nautical Almanac for navigation. There were no buoys in the channel at all, and the rumor that we had heard, that Manasquan was awful for anchoring, was rapidly proved true.
Karl said, “Screw this, we’re heading back out to the open water.” And we did. With a two-hour detour. Now we’re heading straight for Cape May, if the weather holds.
The best story of the day is that we almost caught a gargantuan fish, almost being the operative word. We have three fishing poles on the boat, as well as two boxes of fishing tackle, two crab pots, and a nine-foot casting net, but we have yet to fish from the boat. Yesterday, after watching all of the charter fishing boats leave Cape May on their twice daily excursions, Karl dug out our trolling rod and a tuna lure, costing $4.95, that I insisted we buy.
So he set it up this morning when there was no wind and we were motoring, right as we were approaching the charter fishing boat hangout. Now, our trolling pole is a sad affair, ancient, with a broken eye on the end. Karl attached it to its rod holder with a piece of twine, and was just sitting back as I steered, thinking that if a fish bit big enough to pull the rod out of the rod holder, the twine would never hold it. But it did. A huge fish of some variety yanked that rod so hard that it cracked the wooden rod holder in two. The rod went flying off the back of the boat, and the only thing I saw was Karl, almost jumping off the boat, as he tried to catch the end of the broken pole. He did, and fought with the fish for a couple of moments before it snapped the brass leader right off the line, along with my fancy lure. We’re going to have to buy some more of those, that’s for sure. I want some tuna. Still, it was exciting, and it’s nice to have a big bite on our very first day fishing. We’ll have to be more ambitious in the future. We’re not fishing right now because if we caught one, one of us alone couldn’t handle the tiller and the fish.
I must go. Three hours of finger-numbing servitude to the tiller await.
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