The history of cruising friends

We've said it on this blog many times - the best thing about cruising, hands down, is the people you meet. Relationships are made quickly, run deep, and last a very long time.

Long before we even bought Kintala, I was sitting in the cockpit of our first boat, Nomad, enjoying the afternoon. I heard some sails tacking behind me, on the other side of the rock breakwater that separated the marina from the channel. No engine running. I was awed that someone would even consider sailing onto the dock. Entering Boulder marina required a trip down the channel, a 180° turn around the end of the breakwater, and then to enter this particular sailboat's slip, required three 90° turns - one to the right, one to the left, and another one to the right into the slip.

The little yellow sailboat rounded the breakwater and I was able to make out the captain - a young man who clearly was completely in control, relaxed, and one with his boat (which I later found out was his parent's boat). There was very little wind that day (and even less inside the breakwater), but he nursed every whisper to bring the boat down the length of piers and through the three turns, after which he calmly stepped off the boat and flipped the dockline around the cleat. My hero. As a brand new sailor with two ASA courses under my belt, I hollered across the fairway and said, "I aspire to do that some day." He laughed.

Joel (l) and Eric (r)

A few months later I subbed for Tim as crew for some club races at one of the other marinas on the lake. We had signed up to crew when they were shorthanded, but that particular Saturday Tim was very sick and couldn't go. I had no idea what to expect, and was completely surprised when I stepped up to the Viper 640 sailboat to find this same young man was the jib handler on the boat. I'll spare you the agony that a 53 year old body experiences when pushed by a very fast boat and two young men whose combined ages were less than mine, but suffice it to say that I was again impressed by his skill.

As the years went on at the marina, we began to become friends. He eventually brought with him our now close friend Kacey and, later, a beautiful new wife, Emily. We developed a deep relationship with the kids we came to call The Three Musketeers, and it was one of the harder things about going cruising, that of leaving them behind.

My favorite photo of Em

Kacey (l) Joel (r)

 

So it was with a big smile this morning that I greeted the truck carrying their boat into our boatyard, where it would be launched for their voyage into cruising. Unlike us, who made the decision to cruise late in life, Joel had dreamed of sailing his boat to new places, and experiencing new things, for almost as long as he could remember. The opportunity presented itself and he grabbed it. Emily will join the adventure at the end of her school year.


For the last few years they have labored endlessly to ready Pascagoula Run for cruising. They replaced windows, replaced the headliner, added a bimini and dodger, beefed up the ground tackle, added a windlass, bought a dinghy. Emily sanded, painted, polished, completely rebuilt the counter in the galley and added the countless small touches that an artist does to make a boat a home. Ready or not (and they're never ready), Monday the boat was loaded on the truck and off she went.

It's a bit of closing a circle for me, this watching someone else realize a dream. It also makes me realize that, should we ever have to quit cruising, it will be these images that stay in my mind: the smiling faces of friends, the easy laughter at sundowners, the gleam of accomplishment in someone's eyes, the look of concern on a fellow cruiser's face as they help someone through a difficult moment. It's a permanent piece of my history now, that history of cruising friends, and one I'm abundantly pleased to call my own.

A perfect sail...

No, Kintala is still on the hard at Oak Harbor. She still needs weeks of work before we can splash her and go exploring some more. And we are still in St. Louis. But with the condo just a few more hours of work from being handed over to the broker, we decided to call it an early Friday and head out to our old stomping / sailing grounds of little Lake Carlyle.

Boulder Yacht Club's annual Tapas at the Dock party was this weekend. Friend Jeff and several others were off chartering in the BVI, but he offered Gail Force as a place to park our gear and lay a weary head after each day's festivities. Such an offer was too good to pass up.

It was evening by the time we made it to the Tradewinds marina with the hope of touching base with some friends made during the initial weeks of getting Kintala ready to go on the truck. Unfortunately, one boat was heading out for a night sail when we pulled into the parking lot and no one else showed by the time we had finished our pizza. With it getting late and us feeling the efforts of the last few weeks we headed off for Boulder.

The lights were on in club house and a collection of life-long friends were gathered around trading stories. Walking though the door was like stepping back in time. Heartfelt greetings all around and soon we were settled in as if two years had never passed, telling stories and catching up on local goings on. Friday had nearly become Saturday before we found our way to Jeff's well-maintained Hunter and settled in for the night.

It felt so good to be back on the water, the boat moving just that little bit against her dock lines. I even smiled at the thump of carp on the bottom of the boat, a sound traded for that of sizzling shrimp at many of the places we anchor now. The moan of the coal train floated over the boat while the pterodactyl cry of the blue herons raked the marina. Two years...I couldn't make the time lines fit together.

Our good friend Bob and yes, alcohol was involved. 
Photo credit Emily Elden

Saturday dawned clear and nearly windless. The scheduled race was canceled for lack of motivation and we spent the day greeting familiar faces, walking the dock while hearing tales of who had sold, who had bought, who was still around, who had moved on. At 1800 the party officially started. We all walked the docks some more, now well fortified with various concoctions of drink (some hi-test, others pure rocket fuel), food, costumes, and boats open for inspection. The party went late and this morning started kind of slow.

By mid-morning pretty much everyone was accounted for. Even better the wind was blowing a steady 15, gusts to 20. Residual affects from the night before were forgotten as several crews started prepping for some hours on the water. Pam and Bill gathered up a crew of eight to get Paradise underway for only the second time this season. The mid-west winter was nearly as bad as the one that beat on Oak Harbor. Many are getting a late start on the season and, as a result, today was just the first or second time out for nearly everyone. Deb elected to stay in the club house and finish up the final edit of the book with the help of Best of Friend / English teacher / book editor, Emily.

I went sailing.

Motoring out of the marina it was hard to grasp just how much has happened, how drastically our lives have changed, since the last time I rode a boat around that corner. The lake that opened up off the bow was much bigger than the one that resides in my memory, the dam appearing much further away. The main went up with a single reef, soon joined by a full jib. Waves were barely a foot or two, though some sported little whitecaps in an effort to look respectable. Once in a while the bow would catch one just right, tossing enough spray over the boat to wet the spot at the base of the mast. The same spot where I was sitting with a content smile on my face, lost in the feeling that I was riding a sail driven time-machine.

We tacked back and forth on the southwest wind, working toward the dam and Coles Creek. I barely recognized where we were, my memory of the place skewed by the miles of blue water that have become our home. A couple of hours passed and then it was time to point the bow away from the wind, back toward the marina. It seemed too soon to me, but for people living on land “weekend” is a word with real meaning. Monday is a day to be reckoned with and some on board faced a pretty good drive to get back to their world. The main was tucked away and we jibed past party beach toward the barn. With the wind and waves just off the stern and the jib full and pulling hard, a more perfect point of sail could not be had. At the last minute we fell away from the channel marker onto a jib-only broad reach. Approaching Monday or no, making one more pass across the lake and back met with everyone's approval.

Being back on Carlyle, sailing with old friends on such a perfect day, was a sublime treat after weeks on the road. We have a good life now and the day on the water has me eager to get back to it. But our old life was a good one as well, with treasures of its own. Lake Carlyle, muddy water, carp banging on the bottom of the boat at night, shallow spots and all, was one of them.

Spring in Illinois

A friend of ours took this picture at the marina this afternoon. That would be Kintala's mast sticking up there front and center - we're the one with the blue sail cover on the main dock. You just gotta love the Midwest in the Spring...

Photo courtesy of Kevin Sheer

Good Peeps

We have the good fortune of keeping our boat at Boulder Marina on Carlyle Lake.  I say good fortune because, as long as we can't be on the ocean, Boulder Marina is a pretty great place to be.  Aside from the park-like atmosphere and the many varieties of wildlife, the people there are "good peeps" as a friend of mine likes to say.  Whether you're a sailor, or a power boat owner, or a fisherman, or a racer, everyone is welcome.  It never ceases to amaze me.

 A few weeks ago I stopped to talk to one of my favorite of these good peeps, a local fisherman who walks the docks fishing very nearly every day. His name is Ralph, and he's one of the more interesting people I've ever met. I asked him how he was doing today and he said, "Seven or eight good ones I think.  If I had my filet knife with me I'd give them to you". I told him we had a good electric one up at the clubhouse and I would be really tickled if he'd show me how to use it, since I hadn't filleted a fish  since I was 12 with my dad.  An hour and a half, and many laughs later, I had a ziploc full of crappie filets ready for the frying pan. I don't know who enjoyed it more, me or him.

The next day I was getting onto my boat and there in the cockpit was a West Marine "Gone Fishin'" attache case set of filet knives, gloves, cutting board, fish scale, and a few other essentials.  I yelled over to him a dock away that it was too much, but he just waved me away and said he couldn't use the manual ones anymore since he shakes too bad.  I was pleased, he was pleased, and it was a really terrific way to start the day. This kind of generosity is an almost daily example here at the marina.

So, for now, even though we can't quite leave to sail the deep blue sea, we have some pretty compelling  reasons to enjoy the shallow greenish brown here at Carlyle.  If you're ever nearby, please let us know.  We'd love to introduce you to some pretty good peeps.

What's in a name?

Kintala: Gypsy for "A State of Balance" or "Karma"

Today was a pretty spectacular day.  Well, actually yesterday was, as it's 1:38 in the morning as I write this after a pretty wonderful party.  You see, today was our boat renaming day at Boulder Marina.  We had 4 boats at the marina all properly denamed and renamed according to John Vigor's official renaming ceremony, followed by a potluck with way too much food and a rather large bonfire, so our boat is officially Kintala, although the vinyl graphics have yet to be put on her sides and stern yet. The weather reports had called for thunderstorms off and on all day, yet we had perfect weather, mid seventies and blue skies - already Kintala was bringing good luck and her name wasn't even official yet.  With a few notable exceptions due to events beyond their control, most of our good friends were in attendance, including the officiator, a Polish priest who happens to be one of the aforementioned good friends. Not being the superstitious type, Tim (those of you who know him well know how big an understatement that is) thought the whole thing was being taken way too seriously, but at the end of the afternoon even the skeptic was won over and confessed to thinking it was a good day.  Unfortunately, he got called out and had to leave the party early to drive back to the city for a 6:00am wheels up Sunday.

The official denaming ceremony - ooops did I point the bottle in Tim's direction accidentally?

The official renaming ceremony

And the toast with Captain Morgan 100 proof

It was a good day.  Boats, good weather, good food, excellent friends, and an occasion to share, and Kintala certainly lived up to her name.  It just doesn't get much better than this.

Dragging bumpers...

To a sailor "dragging bumpers" probably describes heading off with the fenders still dragging through the water. (Little Nomad suffers this indignity once in a while, her deck monkey occasionally forgetting that chore.) But I am still more pilot than sailor, and "dragging bumpers" is pilot speak for drag racing a thunderstorm to an airport. When I do it in the airplane I have a huge speed advantage ranging anywhere from 60 to 340 nm/p/h. I have onboard weather radar. And I usually have continuous weather updates from approach control and the tower. Doing it in a sailboat is a little different story.

After two days of pretty tame sailing and the season's first raft up Deb and I awoke this morning to the weekend's best winds. Knowing we had to keep and eye to the weather as storms were forecast, we headed out enjoying a really fun sail on a nearly empty, and quiet, lake. (The power boaters were out in droves this holiday. For most of the weekend all we could hear was the roar of motors turning dinosaur juice into noise. If my bike made that much of a racket they would throw me in jail! Early this morning though, they were apparently still nursing hangovers and had not yet taken to the water.)

We were about 3 miles south of the marina and on the other side of the lake when we decided that the clouds were taking on the solid look of approaching weather. Mid-western T-boomers can flash to life in surprisingly few minutes. Time to turn for home.

At first it was a struggle. The growing storms seemed to be sucking all the energy out of the sky. Wing on wing for a bit put us on a bad heading. A deep reach just shy of a run had us pointing better, but the GPS still showed only 1.6 knots on the VMG. This put the slip nearly 2 hours away. I wasn't sure we had two hours, but hey, we are (or are trying to be) sailors. Do the best you can with what you have and hold the diesel for last resort kinds of things. But as we watched the sky darkened and the first outlines of a wall cloud started to take shape. The VMG was up to 2.2, but we really had to make a decision on the engine. Best motor speed is about 4 knots. If we could catch a bit of wind we would do much better on the sails; I decided to hold off just a little longer.

It was a textbook example of getting it perfect. The wind freshened, Nomad leaned against the traces and soon we were making 5.8 knots directly for the "No Wake" buoy. Lightning danced behind us, thunder rumbled in an almost continuous song, waves danced, and the rain started to fall. But we had done everything we could think to do should we get caught flat footed in a gust front. The boat was closed up tight, the Bimini was folded up and secured, the fenders were deployed, we even had a plan for spinning up into the gust and blowing the halyards. That proved unnecessary as our timing was spot on. The incoming weather was pushing a huge ridge of air in front of it, and we rode that ridge right to the harbor inlet.

As we closed in on the marina, (us and a slew of others running for cover) we turned just enough to blanket the jib and dropped it to the deck. Even with the jib gone Nomad was making nearly 6 knots flying dead down wind on the main. Near the point we tacked the boat into the wind, dropped the sail neatly onto the boom and swung the bow for home. Friends waited for the dock lines as we coasted into the pier and I didn't quite get the last of the teak covers on before the deluge arrived.

I know I am a deranged individual. But riding that wind, playing right on the edge of an ugly gybe to keep the main sail full of push, making plans to cover possible contingencies like a massive gust or the engine failing at a bad moment, and working with Deb to get the things done we needed to get done, was some of the best minutes of sailing we have had so far. I love sitting at a quite anchor, swinging gently in my hammock and sipping a sundowner. I love rafting up with friends and splashing around with the kids in the lake. I love those easy tacks where everything seems to be on rails and you look up from your book once in a while just to check on traffic. But I really love it when you look to the sky, your boat, the water; read the weather, make the plans, and do it right. There is a whole bunch of stupid in the world and I contribute my share. But not today.

A 10-Isobar weekend

For those of you who might not be pilots and therefore might not care about such things, isobars are lines of equal atmospheric pressure drawn on a map. The closer they are, the steeper the pressure gradient, the stronger the wind. Yesterday we looked at the Intellicast Wind Cast and there were 11 isobars in the state of Missouri. This makes for a very windy day. The winds were 20-25 gusting to 35, the boats were heeling in the marina with not a stitch of canvas out, the hallyards were clanging away on the masts, and no boats were racing in this, the first race of the Boulder Yacht Club 2009 racing season. Here's the map for tomorrow, just so you have an idea of what I'm talking about:

The Boulder Yacht Club still had a productive day, sold many items at the club garage sale, and ended the day with a fantastic fish fry / potluck dinner. The fish had been donated by the fishermen who fish off our docks all year as a gesture of thanks for allowing them to use the facility.

By the end of the dinner the wind was dying down enough to make a night sail so 10 of us squeezed into Dennis' boat and took off. We made it all the way to the dam and back posthaste with a favorable wind and only 2 tacks (well there were a couple "accidental half-tacks" entirely attributable to the potency of Captain Morgan's 100 proof rum and entirely too many skippers in the cockpit.) Tim and I found the foredeck to be the safest place to be and we stretched out and enjoyed the stars. The evening was brought to a close with the most amazing display of sailing skill as Barry sailed the boat all the way into the slip without the engine, a feat that is completely beyond my skill at this point.

The wind today was even worse than yesterday with frequent gusts to 40 so we spent the day sanding and varnishing teak and finishing up my gelcoat repair project. As promised, here are some pictures of the finished instrument pod and our newly overhauled compass, just returned from Viking Instruments who did a tremendous job.

The completed project:

The shelves for the instruments are mounted to the bottom of our drink holder:

The overhauled compass. They put a new glass on and fresh compass fluid so we can actually see the numbers now!

Freshly varnished teak:

Acetone mixer

It has been a while since I regularly worked in chemicals; I had forgotten the exquisite case of heart burn that comes with sniffing Acetone. Add a belly full of Cheez-Its and a warm Coke burp and you will swear that life as you knew it is coming to an end.

"And what," you might ask, "were you doing sniffing Acetone, munching on Cheez-Its and drinking warm Coke?"

And I would answer, "Working on little Nomad." Of course.

Through a happy set of excuses I ended up spending the day at the marina with a box full of parts, a bag full of tools and a squawk list nearing twenty items. Items 1, 2 and 3 on that list were: Replace the head hose, fix the water pump wiring and re-seal the porthole in the head. Items 1 and 2 killed most of the morning. I started item 3 by pulling the clamping plate off the outside of the porthole, a task that proved pretty easy. The years had turned what had been sealer into something more like dust, which was no match for some Scotch-Brite and Acetone. Me being me, I figured the rest of the portholes could use some sealer work as well and so I just kept going. By porthole #3 I was getting kind of hungry. I hadn't packed a lunch and didn't what to stop long enough to drive into town, so I raided the snack locker and came up with Cheez-Its and Coke. About half way though porthole #4 the Cheez-Its and Coke were well mixed by my constant motion and started some kind of bubbling action that was distinctly uncomfortable and produced a whole range of low frequency noises. By the time I got to pulling the nuts and screws out of porthole #5 the Acetone was joining the fray. I have to admit to being somewhat distracted while working porthole #6. I haven't lit my insides up like that since a long ago night that included too many tacos and just enough Tequila. Every time I had to lean over to do something it felt like the fire was starting at my navel, flowing up my throat and leaking out my nose. It was a relief to finish torquing the last screw and start the task of cleaning up. I sat kind of straight up during the ride home and by the time the Arch hove into view I was feeling more or less human again. Deb had Mexican Bean Dip ready for my dinner. It was pretty good but I was careful to drink a lot of milk.

2009 Shakedown Cruise

Aaannnnnndddddd.....we're off! (like a herd of turtles)

    

After a whole lot of engine work over the past few weeks, including oil changes and fuel filter changes and impeller changes and coolant bleed work, we finally got to go on our shakedown cruise for 2009. Most of the other folks at the marina that went out yesterday did so a lot earlier in the day, but we were determined to finish two of the projects (the new bilge pump installation and finishing the instrument installation) before we went out. We finished late afternoon and had just enough time to cross the and return, a good thing, since the wind was due out of the north which makes thi the preferrable trip anyway. No speed records today, but just as well since the 58 degrees while sitting sheltered in the marina is a whole different experience than out in the middle of the lake in 16 knots of apparent wind. We got to see quite a few of the migrating terns diving for their dinner, and just before we made the marina channel we got to see one of the last lines of white pellicans heading north for the breeding season.

Boats are being splashed a few a day, so Margaritaville (our dock's name) is filling up and the population of the marina is growing day by day. It's good to see friends from last season and meet a few new ones, but in a way I'll miss the quiet of the winter marina and the company of the emboldened wildlife. One of the liveaboards at the marina was getting ready to take off for his parents' home for Easter weekend yesterday and he made a comment that struck a chord. He said, "You know I'm getting in my truck to go "home" to my parents' for Easter but I feel like I'm leaving home to go somewhere strange". I so know what he means. Since it's too windy to sail today I find myself dawdling around looking for small projects that will prolong our time here. Anything to keep from having to go "home" and back to work on Monday...

Season Starter

We did get a short sail in yesterday after all. The winds were modest and out of the north so we managed just a short sail across the lake and back. Our newly mounted instruments gave Nomad's max speed for the outing at 4.5 knots and the engine ran as smoothly as it ever has. So the boat worked pretty well.

I, on the other, was more than a bit rusty. The sails went up, the lines got coiled and stashed, the fenders (all but one that I somehow completely missed) got stowed in the lockers; but nothing seemed to flow smoothly. I didn't do much better getting us back in the slip. Fortunately our slip mate has not splashed his boat yet so I had a little extra room. Even with that I managed to come up a bit short and a big step away from the dock. Nomad made the last few feet to home by being hauled in on lines. Still, it was a good weekend. We got several projects finished, made notes of some things we need for other projects, and got in the first "shake down" sail of the year. We spent the evenings having impromptu parties full of good food and even better stories. And we are now just four weeks or so from the Catamaran class.

Anticipation

Anticipation... It is raining like mad outside, thunder and lightning. The list of boat work is kind of long, (it took four trips to load the truck with stuff this morning; parts and bits and tubes and pumps...). I hope to actually get off the dock for a while this weekend but I am not holding my breath. Between the weather and the work it may be another weekend in the slip.

But I am still looking for an excuse to leave work early and head to the lake. I'll get grubby, collect a few more cuts on my hands, probably swat at an insect or two, mutter a few choice words at boat designers and their ancestors, enjoy a few cold ones and sleep soundly at night. There is something magic about sailboats...

A note from a boat

I'm sitting inside Nomad at the moment, the rain is falling outside, the heater is running at my feet, and I am about as content as a person can be. Before we leave this afternoon I have to winterize the engine again. (Freeze warnings!)

We worked pretty hard on the boat yesterday, making headway on the cooling system and running the wiring for the instruments. That turned out to be a huge job. I think I jumped in and out of the cockpit lockers about 100 times but with any luck we can finish up the instrument install next weekend. With all the rain we have found some leaks in the boat, two in particular are pretty noticeable so they have moved to the top of the "FIX THIS NEXT" list. Leaks or no, with the next nice day we get we are going sailing. (How else can we check to see if the motor is really working?)

The best part of the weekend was the group of people in the marina. Spring prep work on the fleet is in full swing. Yesterday boats were being put back in the water, bottoms painted, masts stepped, rigging rigged and in the evening an impromptu dinner party to share food and knock back the Marina's stash of various wines, beers and spirits. Well, there is some thunder about so I need to get off line. (I'm sitting next to 35 feet of solid metal lighting rod!)

Snow flakes, Snow Geese,and Whipping Wind

The past week we've had flowers blooming on our trees and warm sunshine abundant. Old Man Winter, in a toddler tantrum similar to my granddaughter's, decided to show us who's boss this weekend with one last bout of winter ice and snow, just enough to kill all the daffodils that were cheerily swaying on warm breezes just 3 days ago. Unfortunately timed, this fit of his, with the only days off Tim and I were to have together on the boat. In spite of the fearful forecast projected for Saturday, we headed out to the marina Friday anyway, because a bad day on the boat is still better than a good day elsewhere. We were the only ones who challenged the weatherman's warning and after dinner in the marina clubhouse we spent a half hour bundled up in the cockpit enjoying the lack of human noise and the announcement by the local frog chorus that they had returned and were open for business.

Morning came with the decision that Tim would head to Pittsburgh earlier than his planned Monday morning departure, to relieve his sister from hospital duty (their mom has been ensconced in the hospital for 2 weeks after a fall) and give her a much-needed rest. The decision of stay or go home for me was made rather easily. I figured if I was going to learn to live on a boat full-time, then I should expect to learn to live on a boat in cold, windy, icy, gray, nasty...well you get the idea...weather.

Since it was too cold and wet to accomplish any of the boat projects I had on my to-do list, I spent the day puttering around the marina, building a wine rack for the clubhouse, a project I'd been putting off for some time, and chatting occasionaly with the marina office manager. Toward the end of her shift she asked if I was staying all night to which I answered yes. "All by yourself?" she asked. "Why would you do that? You're nuts!" I wondered about this myself as I braved the 35 knot wind and 40 degree temperatures to head back to the boat after my canned chicken soup dinner. I wondered why I was actually doing this when I had a perfectly warm house with a functioning fireplace just an hour and ten minutes away. Just then I rounded the corner at the end of our dock and found myself face to face with a great blue heron who hadn't heard me coming due to the howling of the wind and hadn't seen me due to the bulk of the houseboat moored at the corner slip. We eyed each other, he assessing the threat, me soaking in every detail of his perfect beauty before he would finally muster the strength to draw his 7 foot wing span into the heavy wind, leaving me with that prehistoric, garbling cry reminisent of his ancestors. I stood there for a moment longer, oblivious to the wind and snowflakes whipping around me, and said out loud "That's why."

For some, a boat is an end. For them it's about speed, or the latest model, or the race trophies, or the tinkering, or the horsepower. For me, the boat is the means. The boat gives me the excuse to be on the dock at the exact same time as the heron, or the sky full of snow geese, or the ball of fire sinking in the western sky. It gives me an excuse to curl up in the V-berth wrapped in the boat quilt and read a sailing yarn cover to cover without the guilt of undone laundry on the closet floor. "But the means to what?" you say. "All means have an end" The end for me is to sit in my rocker when I'm too feeble to sail any longer, and know that I experienced more than the three walls of my cubicle. And if doing that requires a rough weekend in freezing, icy, wind gusts, then bring it on, Old Man Winter!

Projects

There was a light sprinkle or two last night. It is hard to describe just how satisfying it is to lie snuggled under the quilt while listening to the rain hit the overhead hatches. If you have ever spent a night dry and warm in a tent while the rain fell outside, you know the feeling. Now add the gentle movement of the boat, a line or two slapping lightly in the wind, and the creaking of fenders against the dock, and you get a hint of just how well we slept.

This was a good day after a good night, though we spent it at the dock. Engine work filled most of it for me, putting stores on board was on Deb's "to do" list. We also ran up the main sail for a clean and check, mounted the Bimini, ran a couple of lines and straightened up the dock box. (Dock boxes are like garages. No matter how hard you try they fill to overflowing with stuff you think you need but never seem to use!) Tomorrow I hope to run the engine and start hunting down coolant leaks.

A few others are working on their boats as well, but for the most part the marina has been a quiet place this weekend. I am looking forward to the friends and fun of summer, but if there is a better way to celebrate the first weekend of spring then having a marina mostly to yourself with a boat to sleep on at night and play with during the day, I can't imagine what it would be.

Firsts

This is the first official day of spring. (Yay!) This is our first night on the boat for this season. (Yay again!) This is also the first time I have actually made an entry on our blog while sitting on the boat. (Ain't wireless neat?) I only wish I could say we were rocking gently at anchor where the water is blue, the beaches are white, the air is warm and I am sipping on a frozen margarita. But we are securely tied to our slip where the water is brown, the beaches are mud and the air is cool. As for the frozen margarita, well, a Rum & Coke on ice will have to do; as soon as I find a little Rum, a little Coke and a little ice.

Still, I am lucky enough to be on Nomad with Deb this weekend, which makes me lucky enough. The week just past was unexpectedly hard, even harsh. Those to come make no promise of being easier. But being on a boat helps me put things in perspective. The larger world of water and gulls, breezes and open skies, reminds me that all of us who share this little planet face similar challenges, shared hard times, common sorrows, and unexpected hurts. We take our turn in the drama of living. When a bit of luck comes our way we need to remember to smile and appreciate the moment. Cheers.

Road trip

This weekend Deb and I celebrated our anniversary by making an impromptu road trip to check out some sailboats. Such trips have been a staple of our 34 years married. Part of our family lore is having bags packed and at the ready, and nearly any excuse is good enough to get us out the door. This weekend we had a couple of excuses that were better than average; anniversary, nice weather, and a Gozzard 36 for sale at a place we had never visited. Green Turtle Bay is a very nice resort / marina a few miles south of Paducah, on the Kentucky and Barkley Lakes. It is deep in the area devastated by last winter's ice storm and we were stunned at the damage done. I have never seen anything quite like it; thousands of trees just knocked over by the weight; thousands more with limbs sheared or trunks simply splintered. For hundreds of square miles roads, rail roads, camping areas, homes, backyards, and fields were covered with uncounted millions of tons of debris. The songs of chain saws filled the day Saturday and will fill many, many more before the work is done. Even then it will be years before the forests recover.

The area around the lake, though equally damaged, is still a very pretty place. Pretty but a bit odd. It turns out Kentucky Dam lies in a dry county. (Two massive lakes in a "dry" county. Ours is a very strange language.) There is something fundamentally uncivilized about a place where you can't buy a Rum & Coke to go with dinner.

The Gozzard is (as regular readers here know) on our short list of mono-hulls. But we have never actually set foot on one so the chance to step aboard a real live example was not to be missed. As often happens with such trips serendipity played a part and the owner, (who actually lives only 5 miles or so from our house in St. Louis) was in KN this weekend as well. He was only too glad to give us the grand tour and share his stories of cruising the Gulf. It turns out he used to belong to the club in Boulder and one of his old boats, a 30' Catalina named Paradise, is tied to a slip not far from Nomad.

Details are details but the Gozzard may well be on a short-short list, though Deb and I both agree that 36 feet is about as small a mono-hull as we would like to consider for full time living. Even though a tad short it was a very cool boat with a myriad of well thought out little details and first rate workmanship. And "tad short" applies to just the inside. With a 6 foot bow sprite and dingy divots the overall length of the Gozzard 36, stem to stern as they say, is just shy of 50 feet!

 

After a night in a very nice one-bedroom condo overlooking the marina we headed back to St. Louis via Boulder and some time spent on Nomad. (We didn't mention the Gozzard while on board.) The winds were howling today, at times gusting past 40 knots. All the boats still in slips heeled over in unison; leaned on by the enthusiastic breeze. Halyards were set to clanking all over the yard. A friend's home-made boat box lid proved no match as it was pried open, ripped from its hinges and sent spinning into the water between the docks. I fished it out with a boat hook as it floated by since it has some sharp metal edges and I'd hate to see it gouge another boat. I'll return it later.

Deb and I did the normal stuff to care for Nomad while being careful to keep hats (and bodies) from taking a similar dip. Working around a rolling boat with lines strung all over to hold on covers; it would be easy to miss a step or catch a toe and end up wet, cold and embarrassed (or worse). At the end of the afternoon we kind of crashed in the v-berth for a while. It was pleasant indeed to be curled up together, safe on board while the winds whipped overhead, feeling our little boat rock against her lines and bump her fenders against the dock. In fact it felt like home.

Closer every day

...the season, that is. The Boulder Marina "No Boat" party was last Saturday at a hotel far from the docks. It was a good time for seeing everyone we have missed seeing at the marina over the winter. Lots of laughs, lots of stories, lots of cheer and maybe (just maybe mind you) some small indulgences in a bit of alcoholic beverage filled the evening.

Sunday morning I made the run out to the boat. As it turns out I was the first official "customer" of the new boating season which, (so I was told) starts on March Uno each year. March or not I was dressed in 5 layers and it was still a bit too cold to spend a lot of time on the dock. As usual I checked the dock lines, charged the batteries, fired up the heater to drive out a little moisture, checked the bilge, and generally poked around while listening to a little Eric Clapton on the CD player. Though it was too cold, it was kind of nice to be on the boat without having to brush away spider webs, dodge dive-bombing wasps, or slap away hungry mosquitoes. Warm(er) weather is promised by the end of the week and it can't get here to soon for me.

When we first bought Nomad she seemed small inside. As the season went on, our little boat grew a bit bigger each time we were on her, finally growing to just the right size. Back on her last Sunday she seemed a little small again. My guess is in a few weeks she will be just the right size once more. Last season we only did two "nights out" on the boat, both raft-ups. This year I hope to make it a regular habit of sailing away from the dock Friday night or Saturday morning and not tying back in until Sunday afternoon. I also hope to do our first solo night sail this year. Just for learning's sake Deb and I also want to take a turn at "single handing" the boat; forcing the other to sit and watch while we try to sail Nomad by ourselves. (Deb may have to lock me in the head!) It should be a fun year.

Winter's cold

"Winter's cold," can be interpreted a couple of different ways. "Winter is cold," is one. "Winter's cold," is another, taken that the chilly temperatures that belong to winter are being shared with us. And then there is the "winter's cold" that includes a stuffed up head, sniffling and constant cough that just won't go away. Around the St. Louis branch of the Akey clan all three takes on "Winter's cold," are equally valid.

This morning Deb had to run up to spend some time with Melanie so I was free to clunk around the house, run out to the airport, or go visit little Nomad to see how she was doing. The first thought was the airport, it isn't that far away and there are folks there I like to see. But Nomad has been on her own for a couple of weeks now and temperatures in the teens have returned for night time lows. I convinced myself I was feeling pretty good this morning so I headed out to Boulder.

The marina was completely empty, as in not a single soul anywhere. The ice has crept back into the dock area and several boats are completely encased. Even surrounded by bubblers Nomad's stern has ice against it. The boats with bubblers have ice whiskers growing off the hulls right at the water line where cold water gets splashed. Fenders are growing frozen stalagmites that trail onto and hold in place perfectly round little ice islands. Bubbler and ice noises are the only sounds. With just enough of the cover open to gain entry and the heater on, Nomad's little interior warmed up pretty quickly. It also seemed like a good idea to put a top charge on the batteries and I turned on all the interior lights to chase the gloom away. There was a little ice in the bilge so I dumped in the last of our anti-freeze, checked all the dock lines and poked my head into both cockpit lockers looking for trouble. Everything looked shipshape so I retreated back into the warmth of the cabin.

Inside I managed a quick repair on the toilet seat (there is always something to fix). But once again I had overestimated my personal energy state. Though I was hoping to putter around the boat for a good part of the day it was clearly better to head for home. The drive was a long one. It isn't even officially winter yet but I will be glad when "Winter's cold" starts to give way to felling better and getting warmer.

Playing Hooky

Yesterday was spent getting the jet squared away for a long week of flying after the holiday. (For all you folks that are enjoying bashing corporate flying, I wish you would stop. Large, highly competitive corporations can no more do without airplanes than they can fax machines and computers.) Tomorrow will be spent doing a little more work on the airplane at the hangar. So today was spent working on Nomad. (I had my phone on me, they could call me if they needed me.)

There were just a few people at the marina today; the owner and his full-time mechanic / welder / engine and all-around-fix-anything guy...and me. Its going to be pretty cold during the nights and we will be away from the boat for about two weeks so I really needed to get the engine winterized. In addition the battery charging thing was just bugging me. (Airplanes, motorcycles or boats I have the same expectation, EVERYTHING needs to work.) Things got done. I understand a bit more about how the boat works and the wiring improvement is good.

The lake reflected blue sky, the seagulls were squawking, it was just cold enough to be comfortable working and the wind wasn't blowing too hard. Toward the end of the day I kind of ran out of steam, (this flu is a tough one) flopping down on the settee for a few minutes to keep from falling down. With the heater running Nomad's cabin was warm and the easy motion of the boat at rest rocked me just short of being asleep. I laid there gathering up enough energy to finish cleaning up tools and closing up the boat, fuzzy headed with aching body, and was maybe the most content person on the planet. Warm summer days and sandy beaches are the dream, but a cozy cabin after a day well spent was a pretty good reality. I have an idea. Instead of giving untold trillions of dollars to every corporation with their hand out, why not give every family in America a half a mill, step back, and let us see what we can do with it? I know what I would do with mine.

Ice in the Drink...

We drove to the marina yesterday (actually Tim drove and I rode the bike after picking it up at the shop where it had been for the last 2 weeks undergoing a major recall inspection) and when we crossed the bridge right before the entrance to the marina where you can look left off the bridge and down the creek all the way to the docks, we were a little shocked to see that the whole creek was frozen over. It's been uncharacteristically cold this November, hitting 17 degrees 2 nights in a row. This was a little discouraging since we hadn't had a chance to finish winterizing Nomad 2 weeks ago due to the family events and a rather unexpected date with the flu. We were greatly relieved to find that the head had not frozen but the batteries were dead so we weren't able to finish winterizing the engine fresh water circulating system. Fortunately it's warming up this week which will give us a few more days to tackle the problem.

After spending a few hours tending to all of this, hanging out in Nomad in the darkened cabin (the winter cover is over all the hatches) with the heater on, and traipsing back and forth from the dock to the clubhouse to retrieve things, I discovered that a marina in the winter is a very noisy place. A good bit of the water in and around the docks was frozen, not too thick but probably 3/4" or so, and it turns out that when you walk on floating docks that are surrounded by ice it puts pressure on the ice and makes this very eery high-frequency twang / crack noise that travels along the ice and then echoes into the air, reminiscent of some sci-fi flick. The wind was blowing at a pretty good clip as well, so the rigging of the few boats left in the water was clanging pretty good against the masts. 

Then there was the sailor trying to move his boat a little closer to the main dock who was grinding through the ice to make the slip of his choice. Some of the ice had managed to break free from the slips that open onto the channel, so those pieces of ice were banging against the boats on that side of the dock. Dominating everything though was the sound of the few bubblers that some had already installed. Noisy creatures they are. It was an unfamiliar place, one that Old Man Winter surely ruled, and I felt a little displaced. Since I was on the bike and needed to get home before the sun set and the thermometer dropped into unacceptable riding range (At 34 degrees I realize that's up to interpretation), I took off and left Tim to continue battling the charging issue. I rode the whole 67 miles home thinking of white sandy beaches, warm blue water, and ice in its proper place, floating in fruity drinks with little umbrellas, feeling quite resentful that Old Man Winter had kicked me out of my favorite place to be. It was my first experience with winter in a marina and I have to tell you, I'm not too impressed.