Ups and Downs...and ups.

Kintala is safely holed up in Boot Key, riding out a blow expected to include wind gusts up to 35 knots. There are a lot of boats crowded into the safe spot, all on short rodes, so the next 36 hours should prove interesting. Protected or not, boats have been known to saw through their mooring lines or drag an anchor to rampage through the rest of the fleet. Yet we are very content to be where we are.

The anchorage at Boot Key Harbor

Just a few nights ago Kintala was not a happy boat. Lying to a poorly set anchor while trying to figure out a place to ride out the upcoming blow looms as a pretty big deal when everything one owns is at the end of the decision making list. Boot Key was the only real option within a reasonable reach, but it was rumored to be full with boats anchored outside waiting for a spot. And “outside” would be a terrible place to ride out this weather. The original thought that it wouldn't be that big a deal had disappeared. To quote Marine Weather for the area of Boot Key, “Monday: West to Northwest winds 25 to 30 knots. Seas 9 to 11 feet...building to 10 to 13 feet.”

One of the worst beating we have taken was in Fox Town, where the seas were every bit of 6 feet, maybe a bit more, lasted nearly 6 hours, broke over the bow...and we broke the boat. Winds gusted to 50 knots, blew steady at 40, but we did have a little protection. Waves twice as high and lasting twice as long while sitting out in the Florida Straights? That's the kind of thing that can bring an end to cruises.

Had Boot Key proved to be full, we would have anchored north of Marathon, which would leave us bare faced to the weather when the front passed and the winds swung to the west-north-west. Marine Weather again, this time for the bay north of Marathon.“Monday; West to Northwest winds 25 to 30 knots. Bay Water extremely rough.” Not sure what “extremely rough” means, but it sounds better than “10 to 13 feet.” Not a good time, but perhaps no worse than Oriental, Charleston, or Fox Town. Still, 3 days of little sleep, little food, and seriously uncomfortable motions (aka; taking a beating) is not a happy thought. That became our last, and not very good, option. You know some bad calls have been made when the options list is reduced to one.

A Marina stay could have been an option, the cruising kitty somewhat flush from the summer's work. A four night stay could be had for a little more than a week's worth of after taxes pay. But marinas in this part of the world are pretty full this time of year, and many have approaches that will snag a 5 foot keel. Calling around made it clear that a slip for our Tartan just couldn't be had. Even if one could be found in Boot Key, the transient slips are pretty exposed, lying right at the inlet. Those folks are going to have an ugly weekend, dock or no.

Back in Factory Bay I had pulled up the latest Prog Charts and saw what could be a bad-looking possibility playing out. Marine Weather and the GRIB files didn't go out enough days to offer details on the coming cold front, but it looked like a lot of isobars were fixing to gather over Florida, and the winds were going to be fierce. Deep in the reptilian part of my brain, that bit mostly tasked with self preservation, I wondered if staying in Marco Island for a few days to see how things panned out might be wise. And it would have been. But, clearly, I am not that wise.

Now the do-do was getting deeper, with options being reduced to Boot Key or taking a thrashing.

So we left Little Spanish Key just after dawn, picked our way through an absolute nightmare of crab (or maybe lobster) pots hiding in the rising sun, and made the Moser Channel well before noon. That gave us enough time to backtrack through the Channel and head to the north side of Marathon should Boot Key be stuffed.

It wasn't. Tight? Yes. Stuffed? No, or at least not when we got here Friday. It is Sunday now, the blow arrived last night, and the place is pretty stuffed now. (Why do these things always arrive at night? This one forecast to last through today, tonight, tomorrow, and into tomorrow night. So last night was night one of three.)

Before the weather arrived we had a chance to visit with friends from Carlyle lake. Dennis and Petra own the marina where we started this little adventure. They spend part of every winter living in a picturesque spot at one of the nearby keys. After getting settled in, we dumped the Ding into the water and putted down near the channel entrance for a happy hour meet.

Riding back through the bridge into the anchorage after our happy hour visit with Dennis and Petra

So I wasn't concerned when I should have been, got concerned when it was too late to do anything but came up against poor options, and ended up sitting pretty safe with only minor concerns after all.

Ups, and downs...and ups.

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.

Just for the fun of it

Fresh water levels on Kintala were getting to the extremely critical level this morning so we reluctantly weighed anchor from our newly appointed favorite place in the Abacos, the Munjack/Crab Cay anchorage and headed to Green Turtle. We needed to wait until nearly 4:00 in the afternoon to have enough water to get in to Black Sound through the shallow entry, but we sailed out of the anchorage at about 11:00 in the morning to see if the forecast 8 knots of wind was really there and if Kintala could coax enough juice out of it to ghost her way down to Green Turtle. As we rounded the corner, the wind picked up to nearly 12 knots and, with just her jib flying, Kintala pointed her nose South across the bay for the beginning of what turned out to be one of the best days of sailing we've had in awhile.

The bay around Green Turtle is one of the best places to sail around here. It's wide, free of any obstructions or shallow places, the water is crystal clear, and the wind is pretty steady. We tacked back and forth, sometimes ghosting along at only 2.8 knots when the wind began to die down after lunch. It returned slowly and we were once again sailing, right up until the point when the tide was high enough to attempt the channel.

Deck Monkey's day off

Too often, cruisers get a case of get-there-itis, making their way from one anchorage to another with a time schedule. I admit that we've fallen prey to this condition on occasion, especially when we have to beat incoming weather or darkness, but it was nice to spend the day just sailing today for the fun of it like we used to do at our lake in Illinois. Sure, we had a place to get to, but it was the only job we had for the day and it was only five miles away. I was at the helm most of the day while the Deck Monkey enjoyed a rare day off from endless rigorous sail handling and I spent the whole day reminiscing about our years sailing on Carlyle Lake. Other than the fact that the water is clear here and a startling turquoise color, the size and shape of the bay is almost exactly the size of Carlyle, giving us the notion to name our newfound favorite anchorage cove Coles Creek, Bahamas (Coles Creek was our favorite cove to anchor in on the lake). It was an unbelievably pleasant day which ended with some nice conversation over a shared drink with our fellow dock dwellers here at Donnie's Docks. This is a place we came last year and it was a very weird sensation to realize that we've now been doing this for enough time to be coming back to places again. What a difference a year makes in how it feels. I'm looking forward to coming back again and again.

The anchorage at Munjack/Crab Cays, our new "Coles Creek" in the Bahamas

Green Turtle, Abacos

 

A house along the shore across from Green Turtle. Someone's living life large...

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.

The Magic

Magic is that thing that happens when something pretty amazing happens but no one is really sure why or how it happens. A collection of circumstances, none of them particularly spectacular alone, flow together with some inner state of mind and somehow, everything in the entire freaking universe fits together just like it should.

Magic.

Daughter-who-lives-with-us has a friend visiting from Cape Cod, yet every bed in our little house has some one's name on it. So Deb and I allowed as we would offer her our sleeping place and head to the lake a day early. (Pretty slick, yes?) Once at the lake we decided to cove out for the night, something we have not done near enough of this season. Leaving the pier it seemed like a good idea. A couple of hundred yards from the inlet, mmm...not so good. Hoards of corps bug enveloped Kintala and her crew like some sort of Biblical plague. The starboard side of the hull was literally coated from water line to toe rail. We were motor sailing behind the jib, which itself drew a liberal coating of these nasty little creatures. They squished under hand with every grab on anything, flew into our faces, got tangled in Deb's hair and my beard (the only hair I have) and made hideous splotches of goo everywhere they died. As soon as the anchor sank into the mud we abandoned topside, retreating in the face of overwhelming numbers to the screened-in protection of below. Pretty much the opposite of magic.

Fed, showered and snug in the V-berth, the corps bugs faded from memory, and the magic started to fill the boat. Though all of her hatches are missing and the holes filled with plywood, and though there was nary a hint of a breeze, somehow Kintala shed the warmth of the day like a white beach on a clear night. Temps in our berth were perfect for cozying up under the quilt. It was still and quiet and I slept like a dead man; the best night's sleep I have enjoyed for countless weeks.

If there was a more perfect place on this little planet than Coles creek come this morning, I can't imagine where it could be. Apparently there was more magic than could fit in the boat so it flowed out to fill the cove. Fish jumped, birds circled, and the wind started to build from the ESE; a perfect direction for sailing off the hook. So we did.

That same wind must have blown some unused magic out on the lake proper. Over the next 7 hours or so Kintala romped under perfect winds of 10 to 20 knots, yet the waves on the lake never built to anything more than cat's paws. Hard on the wind, beam reach, broad reach, run - from Coles Creek to the dam to Tradewinds, back to near the dam, back to the cove, to the inlet for our marina, then to and fro across the width of the lake one more time just for the shear joy of it all. Kintala covered more than 30 miles today, every inch some of the best sailing we have ever known.

We are back on the pier now. Deb is working on a sail project for a friend, dinner is in the oven, I am fumbling around this keyboard; pretty much an average day when we are on Kintala. But the glow from the magic still fills the boat.

By tomorrow even the glow will fade, leaving only the memory of a perfect day. But that is the way of magic. It is a rare thing and no ones knows the recipe for making it. We all get a bit of it now and again, though sometimes I suspect it goes by unappreciated - a missed opportunity if you will. And it seems to me there is just enough of it going around to keep all of us from going stark raving mad. However it works, the touch of it swept over our little piece of the world today. Maybe it is headed your way tomorrow?

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.

Short visit

I had a few hours after getting the truck estimate done so I headed out to the lake to check on little Nomad. (One bad thing about living in the city, the truck got broken into for the second time in about six months.) As the pictures in the previous post show, the lake looks like the frozen tundra; ice locked, snow covered, windswept and really cold! But in the marina, even with a cockpit full of snow, Nomad was nodding contently in her slip. The ice shelf was being held at bay just a few feet from her stern by the various bubblers around her.

As before, I checked the lines and the water line in the bilge, put a top charge on the batteries and just generally looked around to be sure there was no water where water shouldn't be. While the batteries were getting the last of the added electrons stuffed in them I stretched out on the port side settee. For a little while I just enjoyed being on the water, feeling the boat's gentle motions as she noodled between the bow and stern lines. Lying there I began to wonder if Nomad could be an ocean boat. After all, people uncounted had sailed boats as small and even smaller around the world. She would need new sails of course, and something would have to be done with the bitch of a engine she carries. (How can a tiny motor of two cylinders and 9 HP be such a constant pain in the ass?) All in all it could be done.

Of course it came time to head home and as I got ready to leave I had to admit that I could live on Nomad, in fact I would live on Nomad if the choice was between that and not making it to a boat at all. But I doubt that will be the path we take. The economy is a bad as most of us alive have ever seen. But the land isn't going anywhere, or the water, lakes and sea. People still need to live and we will figure out a way. The sun keeps rising, the moon goes though its phases, already there are hints that the birds know spring is near so they are getting ready to head north. This time of trouble shall pass like they all do. Then we will be onto the next thing, the next crisis, the next war. And maybe, someday, we will learn to build the next peace, the next bit of prosperity, take the next step toward a society that is good for the many and not just the few. One thing the future is sure to bring is warmer days and sailboats being on the wind yet again.

Identity Crisis

After being off the boat for 2 months, I find I'm suffering a bit of an identity crisis. I'm discovering, much to my dislike, that during the winter one must do all the things that one has not accomplished over the boating months - cleaning closets, tending to the piles of paperwork on the desk, holiday busy-ness, home repair, car repair, bike repair, body repair (see holiday busy-ness)...the list seems endless and as the weeks of list-tending go on the boat identity seems to be fading and the non-boat identity is becoming entirely too familiar. It leaves one a little disoriented, a little "disconnected" as Tim put it today when one is living one life but one's heart is in another. Winter isolates most of us in our homes, but I feel particularly isolated since most of our friends are marina friends. We do get the once-a-month social events but they sometimes only serve to accent the weeks till Spring. As Tim mentioned a few posts ago, we went out to the marina last weekend to check on things and I breathed a sigh of relief as we sat on the boat and visited with friends. An odd thing, this. I'm sure the more I think about it (she says with a sly grin) that the only solution to save me from this identity crisis is to move to the boat full time.

An empty winter marina

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.