Two-Dozen Day Sails

In sight of the dock

I'm eyeing the chart, the calendar, cold fronts and Nadine, searching for two dozen day sails that will take me the seven hundred miles from Norfolk to Jekyll Island, GA.

I need to arrive in time for the holidays while keeping Sweet Pea well ahead of the frost line and totally away from those storms with names. What a pleasure to contemplate.

When I was a boy, sailing on small lakes in Oklahoma, there was plenty of wind but it was hard to go far. Other than exploring Elmer Thomas Lake's one crooked arm, I would mostly zig-zag in sight of the dock and dream of someday voyaging so far that I couldn't see where I started.

Two-dozen day sails should just about do it.

I sometimes hear cruisers complain about the chore of doing the ICW ditch or the boredom of miles of low country salt marsh. I can understand that feeling but don't share it.

I'm looking forward to the luxury of cruising in protected waters, spiced by an occasional daylight dash on the outside. With any luck I'll be able to sail a good part of the way, leaving each morning's anchorage well out of sight.

Hello mile zero, goodbye Chesapeake.

Chatter Box

Allison  listened graciously

"How has your day been?" I knew she was talking to me since I was the only person in Social Pie and Pub.

It was 4:45 and though no yardarm was in sight, the sun was well above Baltimore's nearby Cross Street Market. It seemed a reasonable time to see what was on draft but the pub was curiously deserted, other than a young woman tending bar while busily tapping away on her phone.

Be careful when you ask a single hander about his day. Thirty minutes later Allison knew all about my day, my week, my month, my summer. I jabbered away, enjoying the sensation of talking to someone other than myself. She revealed that she was flying to Nassau to visit an aunt. Well, wasn't that a coincidence since I am headed there, too. We had a jolly time talking about beaches.

It had been a mostly silent sail from Havre de Grace. I try to avoid extended conversations when no one else is there, though if the topic is really interesting I am tempted to hold forth. NOAA weather radio is an exception. I find myself chatting with Tom -- he's a synthesized male voice and can be so full of himself -- and expressing doubts about his view of the future. "15 knots, yeah, right. That's what you said yesterday. It was dead calm." Donna -- the other voice -- doesn't get as much air time and may be new at her job. I don't want to hurt her feelings, so we're not quite so close.

Ron and I gave lots of advice
 on Chris Parker's call-in show.

This chatting with the radio started in the Bahamas a couple of years ago when Ron and I headed off, leaving our girlfriends behind.

Around six AM he would stir and I heard the scrape overhead as he rigged the antenna for the Yachtboy, a shortwave receiver that let us listen to single sideband. I made a pot of coffee and served each of us a cup and then we settled down to listen to the weather.

Ron graciously donned headphones to tune the radio and in the process eavesdropped on some good old boys who ran a breakfast call-in SSB club. He would chuckle now and then and occasionally share a comment like, "They're talking about refrigerators" or chain saws or whatever. If it was a particularly spirited debate he turned on the speaker to reveal voices with a twang that would corrode titanium and a fascination for the trivial that nearly rivaled that of George Town cruisers.

Then Chris Parker came on the air and we would incline toward the radio and quiver like bird dogs who have scented a covey of quail. The reception came and went with squawks, bleeps, and other electronica while Chris discussed the week to come in general and then focused on each section of the Bahamas. When our section came by Ron made cryptic notes. Then the fun started.

Various sponsoring vessels contact Chris to say where they want to go and Ron talked back to them, "You want to go where?" or "Give up now," or whatever seemed appropriate, often contradicting Chris' polite replies. After a while I would chime in -- really, it is an irresistible sport -- and we conducted a spirited debate with those poor souls who only wanted a little advice about the wind and seas. Fortunately, we had no microphone so no one in the anchorage approached with an awkward question as to whether we were those two jerks who keep stepping on the weather.

Then the wind came up and I . . .

There are only so many beaches in Nassau. When Allison's eyes glazed over I knew it was time to head off to dinner at Matsuri, a nearby sushi place. The chef didn't have much to say but I knew he was listening since he nodded a lot as I held forth.

In the Fog

Leaving behind Manhattan, The Bronx, and Staten Island ,too

That teasing promise of a leisurely jaunt down the Jersey shore turned into a continuous push. Not what I had imagined. The wind and moon gods beckoned, promising that if I just kept going they would help by pushing me along. Ignoring their siren call would have meant head winds and foul currents, turning the jaunt into a rough slog.

Rather than heading into Barnegatt Bay the first afternoon, I sailed by as the wind window slammed shut. Instead, I dropped the hook half way up the Delaware in the Cohansey River 150 miles and 30 hours later. So, it actually was a dumpster fire fought in a fog of fatigue.

The romp from Sandy Hook to Barnegatt Inlet was delightful. The stiff breeze had just enough westerly slant to tame the wind waves. The hurricane's leftover swells were imperceptible. I arrived by mid-afternoon with perfect conditions for running the inlet at the start of flood. I love it when a plan comes true.

Well, mostly true. The forecast for the next day's winds was hedging its bets. Rather than light airs it was updated to be on the nose and building throughout the afternoon. Within three days everything would be flying about in the gale. It was time to think seriously about where to be by then.

Dawn, yawn, on the Delaware River

The prospect of hunkering down in Cape May or Chesapeake City wasn't appealing. Neither anchorage is my first choice for serious southerlies. Still Pond, a well-protected Chesapeake anchorage, was in reach but short on amenities. I chose Havre de Grace, MD, which has become one of those places that I find hard to avoid. This let me dodge west and then north after rounding Turkey Point. It seemed preferable to slogging into building southerlies.

The Delaware River was calm after a night's sleep.

Getting to Havre de Grace involved sailing most of the night to Cape May in fading northerlies, motoring the Cape May Canal in inky blackness, and heading up the Delaware River to catch the flood before dawn. By noon when the Cohansey River was abeam, I had entered the zone: numb tiredness where you do everything twice and talk about it aloud, just to be sure.

I'm too old for these single-handed overnights. But sometimes a hard thing is easier than the alternative. I'm way too old for the alternative.

That gale was everything they promised and more. By then Sweet Pea was lashed to the dock at City Yacht Basin and I was having a delicious oyster po' boy at Laurrapin's.

Wind tide from gusts in the 40's at Havre de Grace

More Is Never Enough

" ... a little less fun things, and a little more maintenance, repairs and attention to properly securing things IMO ..."

As it turned out more maintenance
caused more maintenance.

That comment, written by a reader of a cruising blog, has been echoing in my thoughts. Point well taken. It is an appealing idea that a little more effort and attention would prevent cruising mishaps like steering gear failure, dragging anchor at night and having a dinghy come loose. So really, is cruising's to-do list finite or infinite?

IMO the comment is symptomatic of dreaming near the dock rather than living that dream beyond the horizon. More maintenance, repairs, and attention might change what happens, but out there, stuff happens. More is never enough, not even close. The list is infinite.

Quixotically, more maintenance and repairs can lead straight to even more maintenance and repairs. I may adopt the mantra: if it ain't broke, don't fix it and if it is broke, leave it alone unless there's water over the floor boards.

I recently had professionals replace an aging cutlass bearing and subsequently had the propeller shaft try to jump ship. Had it been successful, the resultant hole would have quickly sunk Sweet Pea. More maintenance might have revealed a hidden bolt that had been sheared, but I doubt it. Stuff happens to the pros and certainly to me.

Of course, the mantra doesn't apply to things like adding oil to the engine and replacing a defective bilge pump. That type maintenance is de rigueur. But, sometimes going looking for trouble can be counterproductive.

Prior to my departing for the Bahamas a couple of years ago, the insurance company required a survey. The surveyer reminded me of myself. Washed up old dude with little hair and an air of expertise. The only major finding was the rigging had to be replaced. Not because there were any flaws but because it was 20 years old and near the end of its servicable life. 

This led to a discussion about how that would apply to him and me. We were both near the end of serviceable life and clearly need to be replaced. He tacked away from that lee shore and amended the finding to recommend a rigging inspection prior to any major ocean voyage. Point well taken. But I feared the potential failure cascade of untested new rigging or, for that matter, a new skipper. Both the rigging and I made it back intact, which proves nothing, I suppose. The Bahamas is hardly a major ocean voyage.

I would agree that most of the stuff that happens out there could have been avoided by more maintenance, repairs and attention, but only in retrospect. It requires the unique perspective of hindsight to re-prioritize an infinite to-do list.

Good enough to go

Now that I have maintained my drinking water filter so coffee doesn't taste uukk, repaired my teak by slapping on a new coat of magic juice and paid more attention to securing my button box, I think I'm ready to take off for Cape May. Perhaps I always worry about the wrong things, but I do love the way that teak shines, if only for a couple of days.

I also rigged the jack lines so I can clip in and packed an abandon ship bag -- thanks,Anita, for making me promise.

Everything else I'll leave to fate, plan, or Pachinko, though I do wonder about that rigging.

Waiting for To Go

The delivery was exactly right for our northbound hop

My needs are simple, my wants few. For my offshore run from Sandy Hook to Cape May I want an order of north westerlies, not too strong, not too weak, just right.

Part of that order did arrive several days ago. I could hear the north part moaning in the rigging, way stronger than I had in mind. A complication -- and in cruising there's always something to make life interesting -- was paired hurricanes off the east coast kicking up southeast swells that only surfers could love. The net result was five-foot wind waves running across these swells. With the wind directly behind, Sweet Pea would roll and yaw like a dog enjoying a dead fish.

I also wondered whether Barnegatt Inlet, the half-way point between Sandy Hook and Cape May and my intended overnight anchorage, would be a total dumpster fire? I'm too old to find out. (But not too old a dog to learn that new phrase from Mathias Dubilier's excellent blog le grand voyage.)

Now a weak wind at Atlantic Highlands, NJ

Instead, I huddled behind the breakwater at Atlantic Highlands, NJ, and bounced in the chop. Occasionally a high-pitched shriek was accompanied by a lurch as Sweet Pea tacked abruptly at anchor. That was enough sailing adventure for me.

Now I'm waiting out a week of little wind, punctuated by afternoon southerlies, which would be right on the nose. As the cruisers say, look at the arrow on top of the mast, which always points where you want to go. Yep, I just checked and it's pointing south.

I could do an overnight motor down the coast, starting after the breeze dies down. But, she's a sailboat, yes? Plus, motoring single-handed through fish-trap floats in the dark is for kids in their forties. I used to think nothing of it but now I'm too old for that.

When I was younger I would have ventured out
 instead of sheltering in Pipe Creek, Bahamas.

On our first Bahamas cruise we had cocktails in Chub Cay anchorage with a couple who had cruised those waters for decades. I described our plans to push on to Nassau the next day despite having to beat into 20-knot winds. We were meeting crew and felt we had to honor a schedule. They looked thoughtful and said, "We too old for that. We'll leave it to you youngsters."

We got the snot beat out of us. Anita lay on the saloon floor, saltwater-drenched and retching. All the stuff that had tumbled out of the lockers slid back and forth as Sweet Pea leaped about. At a critical moment a bowl whizzed by and she managed to grab it for her offering, so all was not lost to the bilge. We still refer to that passage as the ooze cruise and translate too old to mean too experienced and youngsters to mean too dumb to know better.

Waiting for the right wind delivery at Cave Cay, Bahamas

So I'm waiting for the next front and its promise of delivering the wind that I ordered. If Amazon can get it to me by next day, why does it take NOAA a week? After all, this isn't the Bahamas.

Finally, groan, were Vladimir and Estragon waiting for a to go delivery, too?

Jonah

Stripped for Irene

Long Island Sound can be really interesting in September. Last year I was fortunate enough to be in Northport, NY, for hurricane Irene. I say fortunate because it is one of the few really sheltered harbors in the area. I checked Sweet Pea into Britannia Marina, which is surrounded by high ground, and consulted my charts to find a 100 foot hill should the storm surge be ferocious.

A couple of days before I had met Rick and Sylvia who were strolling the town dock. They offered a spare bedroom and fed me a delightful dinner and breakfast, all well above any conceivable high-tide line.

Dinner and breakfast with new friends

I escaped unscathed and very well fed, with new friends. Sweet Pea did OK too.

Yesterday, as if to to mark Irene's first anniversary, NOAA weather was stridently warning that I should, "seek immediate shelter on the lowest level of my building". Port Washington was in the path of a tornado. What is with this weather? I think of tornado alley as being well inland of the Bronx, Queens, and Manhattan. Even so, Doppler radar showed angry red rotation, the same movie we often watch in Atlanta. The one where you think, run, run as the slasher approaches.

There goes the tornado

Sweet Pea's lowest level is the bilge, but rather than trying to squeeze in under the water tanks, I decided to make do with the main saloon. Taking off in the dinghy seemed madness, given the advice that one should never attempt to outrun a tornado, even with seven-foot oars.

Plus, now that the myth of sheltering under a highway bridge has been debunked, I wasn't sure where I might go anyway. The prospect of lashing myself to the dinghy dock as cows whirled by made staying aboard seem attractive.

As it turned out the worst of the blow passed by to the north and we didn't drag our extra-heavy-duty mooring. But there for a while, it was a spectacular show.

Last year's flood in Havre de Grace

I'm wondering whether I'm a Jonah and all this is my doing. As soon as things settle down, I'm out of here for the Chesapeake. I'll take last September's flood at Havre de Grace, MD, over a tornado, anytime.

I do hope I'm not greeted by a mob, swimming by torch light in pouring rain and determined to throw me overboard. No whales in the Chesapeake so it would be sink or swim.

The Things Wives Say

"So it's parked out front and I say to her . . ."

"Don't spend more than $100," she said as he headed off to see what might happen at a local auction near Cranston, RI. In my experience wives say these things, thinking that really you shouldn't spend a dime, much less a dollar. But if you must, then here's a pittance. Had he come back lugging a moose head, it would be just another comedy trope.

Out with the old

Instead, Frank O'Niel is busy restoring a 1970's 27' Tartan. To hear him tell it -- here I must say that Frank is quite the raconteur and he does thoroughly enjoy telling it -- he positioned the trailer in front of his house and invited his wife to come out and see. The price? Exactly the sum she specified, not a penny more. Well, perhaps not at the auction, but since then he's fudged a bit.

In with the new

Frank hasn't an unfilled moment on his hands since he sold his architectural molding company and ventured into retirement. I met him at Port Edgewood Marina where he was putting the finishing touches on the Tartan's interior and turning his attention to the deck and rigging. He is a cabinet maker who has been around boats and yards forever. He mentioned Ted Hood and Shannon as just a few among many and offered me a tour of Infinity's cabin.

It is a work of art. Much of the wood he had salvaged from office buildings on which he worked, replacing flooring with something more trendy or a better match for the color scheme. In his hands this commercial jetsam became the best match for building a gutted interior from scratch.

He's thinking of heading south to revisit Florida. He and his family explored the Keys in the 60's and he hankers to see them again from this old boat's new deck.

Infinity on the way to beyond

I mentioned that Infinity would be perfect for venturing beyond and hopping across to the Bahamas. She draws three and a half feet with her board up and is as solid as a stone.

His eyes lit up but then he asked whether pirates would be a problem. I could only advise that the further he got from those marauding bands of big-city bankers, the safer he would feel. I hope to see him in Georgetown this winter.

Single Handed Mutiny

The crew says we were in the Thimbles yesterday.
I have pictures to prove it.

When I'm sailing solo I think of the various electronic gizmos scattered around the boat as my crew. They tell me where we are, worry about depth, collisions and voltage and remind me when I'm about to screw up. Best of all, they totally ignore my wishful thinking and dispassionately report their own version of reality. It's like a Greek play where I have the gods watching over me, discussing things among themselves via SeaTalk.

When Anita is aboard she leads this crew. We run Fugawi on an LCD monitor below, displaying our little ship's position on a chart. She busies herself, knitting or whatever, but keeps an eagle eye on our progress. Like a deus ex machina, her words waft up the companionway, solving some intractable problem such as my heading for a shoal or having wandered off the waterway.  She is, after all, our world-class worrier.

Batteries disconnected as ordered, Sir.

Recently she's been single handing the house in Atlanta and I've been the one worrying over why the starter battery always has the same voltage as the house bank. The West Marine Combiner is responsible for joining all the batteries into a single bank when a charger is pushing enough electrons to raise the voltage above 13.1 and disconnecting them when the voltage falls below 12.8.

It uses an LED to say whether the banks are combined or separate and reported that it was faithful in fulfilling its duties. Still, the voltages should have diverged between charges. When I demanded to know why the voltage is always the same across all banks, it had nothing to say, the dog. I realized that its mechanisms were failing but its tiny brain either didn't realize this or was making up a story in desperation.

Sailing from Providence, I've been listening to an unabridged audio of James King's stunning first novel, Bill Warrington's Last Chance. Synapses in Bill's brain are in the throes of early dementia. He fills in the gaps to cover his growing inability to determine what has just happened and to recall names and facts.

Like Bill and myself, that combiner is getting along in years. It has faithfully cycled its relays thousands of times. Alas, at some point one relay snapped shut and stuck, refusing to budge despite repeated combiner commands to do so. The combiner knew the voltages but didn't puzzle over why they were always the same. Instead its LED reported that all was well. The implications of voltage are above its pay grade so I suppose it was doing its job to the best of its ability.

Rather than a flogging to serve as an example to the rest of the lot, I kindly rearranged its wiring to avoid the sticking relay. Once again the LED means what it says. It has been rehabilitated, without my having to let the cat out of the bag.

If only it were so easy to fix all those aboard. These days I find myself monitoring the congruity between my external world and my internal awareness of that world. I ponder my growing inability to determine what has just happened and to recall names and facts. Is it age-driven brain wear and nothing much to worry about for now? Or are my own synaptic relays sticking shut? Am I filling in the gaps? Is this actually Duck Island Harbor outside my port or not?

Duck Island Harbor, yeah.

So rather than simply believing the stories I make up, I'm relying on my electronica to keep me on course and off the shoals until Anita rejoins me in a couple of weeks. Then her voice will again float up the companionway.

The GPS is certain that we're where I think we are. Even so, after Anita looks at this picture of the place and agrees, I'll know for sure.