Miscellaneous Pics Underway

Just a few miscellaneous pics I had on my camera for your enjoyment this Saturday evening.

Our friends' Bristol 38.8 Skimmer leaving the anchorage at Middle River

Sunrise at Middle River as we left the anchorage to head for No Name Harbor

A section of the almost continuous skyline between Ft. Lauderdale and Miami

We were heeling so hard that I was looking way up in the sky from the low side of the boat.

One of several races along the coast. This one was just north of the lighthouse by No Name Harbor in the background.

Miami skyline from our mooring ball at Dinner Key

On the move again

Our last night in Middle River -Perfect!

Kintala unhooked from Middle River this morning and now sits in South Lake, about 11 nm … well … south. Including a stop to get diesel, gas, water, and a pump out at the Hollywood Marina, it took about eight hours to do the trip. And yes, that is an average speed of less than 1.5 nautical miles in a hour.

Kintala's happy engine speed is just wrong for making the staggered bridge timing along the ICW. We could flog the old WesterBeast, would still miss the next bridge opening by a couple of minutes, and end up doing circles while we wait. Or we could let the Beast rumble slow and easy and plod our way through. I trust not the Beast, so plodding is the choice when sailing is impossible.

We came down here because we are convinced we like this place. Not sure why. Three times we have been here in two different boats. Three times we have run aground hard enough to stop the hulls dead in the water. Today we were creeping along showing 20 feet under the keel and looking for a little less water in which to pitch the hook when “THUMP”, the boat twisted to starboard and stopped in its tracks. Off the starboard side of the boat I could not reach the bottom with our long boat hook. Off the port side we could see the bottom in about 5 feet worth of water. Clearly the powers-that-be dredged vertical cliffs in the bottom, underwater topography that is not reflected on the charts I updated just yesterday afternoon.

Worse, we picked a Friday afternoon to anchor a bare hundred yards or so off the ICW. Stupid power boater tricks have already started and some of the wake hits have been impressive. Even better the weekend is just getting started...yay! Still, the sunset is spectacular, the temperature perfect and, having run the engine most of the day, there was hot water for a long shower. Which I needed since this morning started with scrubbing about 50 feet of green snot out of the anchor chain. I smelled like a dead swamp thing.

I don't know that South Lake is still on my favorites list. Even if we don't come this way again I am glad to be here tonight because it means Kintala is back among the world of “boats that move”. Last night we worked well into the evening scraping barnacles off the bottom of the dink and this morning was the swamp snot. Even in a place as nice as Middle River sitting too long is bad for the constitution of boats, dinks and crews. We will not be tempted to stay that long in South Lake.

Not too bad ...

This morning's inside boat temperature was hovering around 50 degrees. Jeans and sweatshirt to go with the morning coffee, the wind hasn't picked up yet, the sky is brilliant blue and reflects off sparkling water. Boats are leaving Middle River with others stopping by for a day or a week, the insurance company thinks that the hurricane season is over, and Deb's book has been published. This past summer has finally receded into memory. Most of what we recall now is the good stuff (so long as we don't look at the bank account); having Daughter Eldest and family close at hand, boat chores with little helping hands, singing "BOOM" back at the sky. We made many good friends we hope to run across in time yet to come and places far away, as cruisers are wont to do.

In a week or so Kintala will be heading south to Biscayne bay for no other reason than to play around for a couple of weeks. Come December the plan is to pick up a mooring ball, close up the boat, and head to St. Louis for the arrival of baby girl grand-kidlet latest. It has been a long time since Daughter Middle, Daughter Youngest, and Families were within hugs reach...too long. Then it will be time to wait for a weather window and follow friends east, across the Gulf Stream and back to the Islands.

Even though we are still in the States this, right here, right now, is what we worked so long to achieve. While not the first time we have found it, during our first year of cruising the "finds" were glorious but fleeting. There was a day here, a couple of days there, a few weeks in the Islands. But when I factor out the nearly four months spent tied to a pier working on broken boats, the ratio doesn't seem too bad for beginners. We knew the first year out would expose gaps in our boat prep, and sometimes things like The Bear just happen. Which has me wondering.

We know, and have heard, of people pulling the plug on their cruising life after a year or so. I will admit, during our first year, to having a bunch of thoughts of "this is not fun" myself. And while I have no doubt that they are doing the right thing for themselves, I also have little doubt that our second year is going to be noticeably different from our first. The outside jump to Miami is a day sail now, having done it enough times to know what to expect. The jump to the Island the same. We will wait for a weather window we like with little thought as to how long it takes or who else might go when we don't, or doesn't go when we do. The most pressing thought right now is looking forward to trying out the new furler rig for the staysail. In the mean time, we will explore the southeast coast of Florida with a bit of ease and confidence we did not know last year.

Not a lot more, as we are still newbies who have also learned that the ocean is big and sometimes plays a little too rough for us tiny human beings and our itty-bitty boats. (Think Pee-Wee players in the Super Bowl.) Still, it is pretty nice to be in a good place, looking forward to the next year.  And it only took us (roughly) 2,649 days to get here.

Dropping, stepping, and setting

A friend from my aviation days called. We flew little tail-dragging airplanes together back about the time his corporate flight department was being closed. Which was a couple of years before mine did the same. He flew for an "All American Company" that decided they could add a few tenths of a cent to the stock price by pushing the more experienced Captains out the door and replacing them with cheaper, less experienced airplane drivers. My friend was one of those being pushed. A short time later the "All American Company" traded red-white-and blue for black-gold-and red, selling itself to a foreign manufacture. I heard it described as one of the biggest sell-outs in American history.

The stock holders took the money and ran. The new owners laid off a few thousand workers and closed the flight department entirely. A little bit later they discovered that America is a big country with domestic airline service that sucks. Last I heard they were starting a new flight department; smaller, less capable, and none of the original crew were invited back. (The last TV add I saw for the company still touted its "All American" image.)

Anyway, my friend wanted to know if I was still in the St. Louis area, unaware that we had moved onto a boat and sailed away. When I told him that we were just starting our second year as cruisers, his response was,

"Oh, you dropped out."

Actually, I was thrown under the bus of corporate America during a Board fight of egos, got a hold of a bumper to keep from getting run over, spotted a soft spot to land, jumped, and managed the timing well enough not to get too badly bruised. The fact is, we were already standing in the aisle and reaching for the "Stop Requested" cord. We landed a bit short of our original destination (meaning we had less money on the bank than we wanted) but at least had an idea of where we were going.

There are a lot of different reasons for being "out here". Some, as I suggested a few days ago, are near the end of their financial rope. A cheap boat parked in a free place is better than living under a bridge. Since they are marginally mobile there is a spark of hope that things can get better. And I really believe that moving onto a modest boat might be the best way to stretch minimum dollars into maximum living. Those doing so are, maybe, some of the best of us who are out here. We have met such who are endlessly creative, capable, and at least as happy as most land dwellers we have known. I love that we can share an anchorage with such fine excuses for human beings.

Others are more like Deb and I. Retired, maybe with a little less, funds wise, than we would like, but doing okay and learning our way around. Our boats reflect more of what we thought important than just what we could find cheap. For all of our struggles, Kintala has also been a bit of a "hobby boat". On land I had airplanes, motorcycles, a work shop, built things, fixed things ... hobbies. Kintala fills that roll now, sometimes too much so, but still keeps my hands calloused and gives me things to do. She looks, and works, as good as I feel like making her look and work. In any collection of cruiser hulls there will be a few that are clearly providing someone with an excuse for staying out of trouble. And yes, I admit to being one of them.

Others quit land exactly when they wanted, with the funds they wanted, on the boat they wanted, and do anything that they want wherever they might be. We don't know too many of those folks personally, but their boats can be seen pretty much anywhere. People like this are important to the cruising world. They take the "shine" off of a boat and, when they move on, some of the rest of us can afford to move in. They spend lots of money when they stop somewhere, making the rest of us look good to the business owners who have a big say in our access to places. And, one must admit, a lot of them are running really, really beautiful boats. I am not talking mega-yachts, but 35 to 50 foot cruising boats that sparkle in the sunshine like jewels. It is a pleasure to have one anchored nearby.

Of course there is nothing at all wrong with the well traveled cruiser. In fact, they are some of my favorite boats to have anchored close by. Every one of their nicks, scratches, stains, and faded bits were clearly well earned far out of sight of land, baked in the sun and soaked in the salt. There is a dignity to such boats, maybe just a slight aura of arrogance. Of all of us "out here", they are the ones who have been "out there". They, and their owners, carry the thousands of miles covered with a self-assurance that cannot be bought, only earned the hard way. I like when they are around, though sometimes I feel like a kid with his plastic toy tools walking through a truck maintenance shop and pretending to be a grown up mechanic.

Are we all "drop outs"?

Maybe, but I like to think that we all just decided to play a different game, take a different path, or see the world from a different place. Not so much quitting, but changing the rules to something that makes more sense for us. Less dropping out, more stepping up...

or just setting out.

Rocking and Rolling

Kintala has always been a skittish boat at anchor. A tall mast and soft turn at the bilge makes for a top heavy, funny shaped bowl sloshing around in the water. With our staysail now set on a furler there is even more stuff up high for the wind to get hold of. We have been rocking and rolling since yesterday afternoon.

Since this is the only place our Mantus anchor has ever failed to hold, last night was a kind of unofficial anchor watch. We have been set for more than 3 weeks and haven't moved, but with the wind gauge occasionally registering gusts near 30 knots, neither one of us slept much. Add the unaccustomed motion to the lack of sleep, and by this morning I was feeling decidedly sketchy.

One of the great things about this life is, when one is feeling decidedly sketchy in the morning, one need not get up and go to work. There is no need to stuff one's self full of medications and shuffle off to the office. There is no need to sit miserable through a day hacking away at some task barely in focus, willing the clock numbers toward quitting time. I took my bare-footed and sketchy self out to the cockpit, settled in with a warm mug, and watched thick clouds hurry across the sky. I was a happy man, not having to report to an office on this particular morning.

All of the boats in Middle River were scalloping around, dancing in the wind and the current. More than one crew could be seen going forward to check that they were still firmly holding onto the river bottom. But outside, with a cool breeze blowing and a solid horizon just a couple of hundred feet away, all that motion wasn't bothering me much. I was pretty content though feeling a bit detached and not completely "with it".

A loud "clank" reverberated from the bow. The boat lurched backwards, banged against the anchor chain, and lurched again. Surely we were loose once again on Middle River. Brain still not fully engaged I jumped up and headed forward, slamming a naked toe into the starboard side winch. Pain jolted up my leg and into my brain, but we were loose and the shore was close by. After a moments hesitation to limp and curse, I headed forward once again.

We have this giant "C shaped thing Mantus sold us to hook the anchor snubber onto the chain. It is a solid chunk of kit that, once engaged, there appears no way for it to get forced off the chain. I'm still not sure how that could possibly happen given the load it was under, but it did. And it came free with a bang. Kintala had fallen back against the extra chain played out to keep the snubber taut, fetched up against the anchor windlass, rebounded, and fallen back again. She had moved as far as she was going to.  (I always keep the anchor chain on the windless with the locking paw engaged and the clutch set tight.  It is a suspenders and belt kind of thing that worked in our favor this morning.)

The snubber went back on just like it should and I laid out a few more feet of chain for good measure. Then I limped back down the deck careful to not put any pressure on, or touch in any way, a badly bruised and stoved in toe. A toe that was promising to make for a pretty miserable day. I went below, stuffed myself with medications, and shuffled out to the cockpit.

Anniversary muse, muse ...

I started thinking about this "part two" as soon as was "An Unexpected Anniversary Muse" was published. That post was incubated in the aftermath of having gone into night waters as Deb mentioned. The person needing a little help falls into the category of young, poor, somewhat trapped, with few options and an uncertain future. On that night she chose to cope by drinking it all away. For just a few brief minutes that choice put her at a serious amount of risk. Though the risk to me was slight, and I was glad we were around to offer a hand, I wasn't expecting to go night swimming in a tidal river to pluck a person I had talked with exactly once, out of the waves. It kind of put the whole issue of people struggling to get along on the front burner as her situation is by no means unique or unusual "out here". But I knew there was another side to the story I would have to wrestle with, for this life is different than others and labels are slippery things when soaked in water.

Over the course of our summer here in southern FL we have made friends with more than a few in the same boat as our night swimmer. (Sorry.) Actually, they were spread out over four or five different boats. All of them are good people. All of them willing to help another in any way they could, yet all of them struggling to keep going themselves. They talk of how hard it is. They are tired and frustrated, not sure where or how some particular problem can get handled. They are often ill, some with chronic symptoms unresolved since health care is a real issue for much of the cruising community. I can't help but think of them as living poor, because they are. But I suspect they would shy away from that label. "Broke" might be their choice. "Hurting a bit" if you ask how they are doing. Most will admit to having to "fill the kitty" before they can go any further. (That means flat broke, by the way.) To me "poor" is an economic label, having nothing to do with the spirit. But maybe to others it means something else.

I never really expected this to be such a large part of the cruising community, and it may not be as large as it looks to me. For the obvious reason marinas and mooring fields have noticeably fewer struggling boats hanging around. It is the same in the Islands. Here, in America's anchorages, are where those hanging near the edge hang out the most. It is where Kintala hangs out as well and many struggling through each day are friends of mine now. Come out here and they will be friends of yours as well. At least they should be.

But then things get a bit more complicated. Most of the cruisers that we know (including ourselves) are people with very few belongings. We get tired and frustrated, and are sometimes not sure how some particular problem can get handled. We have no permanent address, live off the power grid, dwell the fringe of normal society, mobile and uncommitted with, it must be admitted, our own collection of eccentricities. There is very little difference between the way my poor friends live, and the way we live.

But we are of the Kings and Queens in the world. There is no desire for belongings or a permanent address. We don't need the power grid and are committed to living light and free. We wander at will through whatever part of the world we fancy. As for eccentricities, we revel in them. We are not really like “normal” people, and that is more than fine. And my friends, those whom I think of as living poor, who have described themselves as just "hurting a bit", would say the exact same thing. They would like to not be "hurting a bit". But if that doesn't happened they are still of the Kings and Queens in the world. They are still cruisers. And they are still friends.

Not hurting as much might mean trading up to a slightly nicer boat, maybe new solar panels, a water maker, some new rigging, an additional sail. They might get an engine fixed or a refrigerator running, maybe add a bit of new navigation gear. Or maybe not. Mostly they would not be worried that any given day might be the day that they lose their grip and fall into the abyss. Smiling would come a bit easier with problems a lot less daunting. And that, to me, is the difference between poor and not poor. It is the difference between being able to move and move safely, or not being able to move at all. It is the difference between worrying about how to keep the boat functional, and just keeping the boat going as a matter of routine. Is is the difference between feeling threatened, and feeling capable.

So I'll let my previous post stand as is. There are a lot of struggling people “out here”, and they are very, very exposed. Being that exposed is a tough way to live. They know it. They live with it. They would rather they didn't have to, but they take a fierce pride in managing it as well. If one comes this way and finds themselves "hurting a bit", but lacks that fierce pride? The edge is going to be very hard to hold onto.

Veterans and young people do seem to have an especially difficult time keeping ahead of the poverty curve. Should they venture this way they need to be especially careful to be prepared. But, at the same time, the standards are different for those "out here" than for those living as land dwellers. "Poor” means a different thing to people who care mostly about what they can do, where they can go, and what they can experience. And care little about the things they might own.

If one is lucky enough to come this way without much of a struggle, be pleased. It takes a lot of work, a lot of planning, and a bit of luck, to pull that one off. Anyone who has done it can take their own bit of pride in choosing a different way. The beaches, sundowners, clear waters, and warm temperatures are well and truly earned. It is a good life.

But it doesn't always work out that way.

A year in review

October 19, 2013 we were pulling out of Oak Harbor Marina in Pasadena, MD for our first ever day of cruising. One year ago today. Anniversaries always beg for summing up and analyzing, and I had grandiose plans of  giving you this great list of all the places we went this year, and how we spent 170 days in marinas (ouch), 73 days on mooring balls, 122 days on the anchor, and prior to leaving we spent 69 days in boatyards.
But then we found out that the Publix very close to here has a Redbox and we haven't watched any movies in forever since we never have enough bandwidth to actually use our Netflix.

And then we found out that watching movies in the cockpit with the sunset behind the screen is actually pretty cool, especially when accompanied by a Coconut Rum drink. And then...

...our more than slightly inebriated neighbor in the anchorage fell off her boat with no ladder to get back on and was in the process of drowning which required a slight break in our movie-watching so Tim could take an early evening swim.

Yup. Happy one year anniversary.

Yearly vacation ...

Kintala has been sitting in Middle River for a bit longer than two weeks. A span that, in my old life, amounted to a normal vacation. After this summer it feels a like a vacation hard earned. But we are slowly working our way back into the cruising life.

Vacation or no, at the moment I'm feeling a bit lost, struggling while trying to reset my days. There is still boat work to do. There is always boat work to do. But none of it is set against a deadline or threatening to do us in. Some days I don't do any boat projects at all, and it feels like playing hooky. A new part for the Merc showed up two days ago and still remains un-installed! (The old part is zip tied and working fine...does that even sound like me?) We take walks, listen to tunes, swim, work on Spanish, read and write, and watch the sunset blaze across the sky. We mosey over to Starbucks for coffee and Wi-Fi, can catch the $1 bus to the beach. Instead of boat work chewing up every ounce of energy I have to spend in a day, I'm back to doing boat workouts; resistance bands and isometrics in a gently swaying cockpit, breathing ocean air. How sweet is that? A cold front eased through. It is cool enough for sleeping under a light cover and drinking hot coffee in the morning.

How sweet it that!?

Via Facebook and blogs we are watching the herd make its way down the ICW. I have to admit to being glad we are not a part of the parade this fall. It is much better sitting here than it would be facing the Ditch and running from the cold. Our southbound friends should not be jealous though. If even a single hurricane or tropical storm had found its way to southern FL this past summer, it would not have been so good to be here, And we are not out of the woods quite yet. Hopefully our luck will hold just a couple of weeks more. If it does we will be sitting pretty just an easy day sail away from Biscayne Bay. As soon as the season is truly closed we will be heading that way. I'm feeling the need for some water I can see through while setting the hook in a white, sandy bottom. I needs me some time in No Name Harbor and some days spent with all of Kintala's canvas catching wind. Just the idea of spending several weeks sailing around the Bay, a place we know and are comfortable with, has me smiling.

This is the lifestyle we were looking for when we set off to go cruising. Unfortunately I'm still looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next impending disaster to darken the sky. There is no telling how long those shadows will linger. Maybe, given the relentless challenges that have filled this first year, shaking off the feeling that some new threat to our cruising life is lying just over the horizon, will take a long time. Knowing that we have managed each one that has come along so far, from the boat taking on water at Oak Harbor to the tussle that was The Bear, is kind of encouraging. But that knowledge is tempered by our being battered, bruised, and still not sure how much longer we can manage to keep going.

But right now we are living the good life. I plan on milking it for all it is worth for as long at it lasts.

Cheers!

We've been endlessly entertained by this guy practicing on a flyboard right in front of our boat the last 2 weeks.

The fix is in ...

Fixing things is a good thing. Maybe not as good a thing as designing a new thing to handle a thing that needs handled, but fixing is a good thing. I like fixing things. I like it more when I know what I did to fix a thing.

The tale has been told how the Merc for the Dink wouldn't merc at all, and right when the need to get off the dock was getting urgent. Flogging it over the course of two days included taking the carburetor off three times. Each time said carb was disassembled, cleaned, and carefully reassembled. After the third time the Merc struggled back into the land of the functioning. It wasn't doing a full merc, but it would merc enough to move the Dink, and that was all that was required to get Kintala off the dock.

So off we went.

Here in Middle River the Dink dock is some 400 yards or more from where the anchor is set. The only way to traverse that 400 yards, particularly against a flowing tide, meant getting the Merc running. That was a witch's brew of full choke, pull 'till it fired, WAY too many revs, no choke, shift, half choke before it died, add throttle - just a  little to WFO - no telling what would be needed, and hold on. An average of three tries was needed to get it all mixed together just right and end up with motivation, and the motivation would come on in a rush. (The reason to hold on.) It was better than paddling and far more exciting, but clearly additional fixing would soon be required.

I put off taking it apart again by hoping that running a tank full of gas juiced up with Sea Foam would chase away what ever little gremlin was still swimming around in the fuel system. I've never actually fixed anything by adding the magic potion, in spite of the claims on thousands of magic potion bottles. (STP, Octane Boost, Bars Liquid Aluminum and - my personal favorite - Marvel Mystery Oil.)  Give the snake oil salesmen their due and besides, avoiding having much needed bits fall to the bottom is more challenging when bouncing around in the middle of Middle River than it is when tied securely to a dock on New River. And if you think about it, hacking away on a Dink motor while bouncing around in the middle of an anchorage is a bit like sawing away at the branch on which one sits. Screwing up too badly means swimming to the parts store. The magic potion couldn't hurt. Maybe it would work.

Things did improve slightly over the course of a couple of days. Sometimes one could get to a partial merc with only two tries at the witch's brew. Clearly half-fixed wasn't fixed enough. We needed a full merc and the magic potion wasn't going to get us there.

This morning the carburetor came off for the fourth time. Once on the bench the same things were seen that were seen the first three times. The same things were done that were done the first three times. And during assembly the same things were checked. I would have loved to have seen, done, or checked something different; but it is a tiny, simple little carburetor with only so many parts.

The Merc is running as well as it has ever run.

Beats the hell out of me what I did to fix the thing.

But I'm glad I did it.

Normal ...

There appears to be serious fault in the world of mathematics, a breach if you will, a gap in our understanding of something as basic as simple addition. All along we have believed that if you add things together, there will be more. It was thought to be a universal law with the only possible exception of Black Holes, where all the laws of physics are thought to break down. But we need to add another place in the cosmos where even simple math can't survive … the hull of a small power boat. For today, demonstrated clearly for all to see, was the fact that if one adds 5 single cylinder minds together and puts them in the hull of a small power boat, there is still only a single cylinder mind available to run the boat. 1+1+1+1+1 = 1! (There is a Nobel prize in here somewhere!)

Eighty plus feet of mini-mega-yacht is sharing the anchorage. It is easily the biggest boat we have even seen drop a hook close to Kintala. The 5 picked a spot just about 50 feet off the bow of the yacht to pitch a hook (pretty much right on his rode) and start fishing. Fishing, it appears, is a very difficult activity requiring one's complete concentration, particularly if one is operating with only a single mental cylinder. The hook, as is normal for small power boats, couldn't find a purchase in the same mud that was holding the mega-yacht fast, and immediately started to drag. Since lures had already been cast and thus absorbing all of their mental capabilities, none of the cylinders on the power boat noticed. Only when their stern nudged to a stop on the yacht's rode where it came out of the water, did it occur to them that something was amiss. Added moments later, perhaps, by words being flung their direction from the crew of the yacht.

So they picked up the hook, powered up, and moved to the exact same spot from which they had started. You already know what happened next. The second time they fetched up at the mega-yacht they decided to try something different. And you already know what that was as well. Their third try at anchoring commenced about 30 feet off of Kintala's bow. It too was a failure, but at least they noticed right away that they were still under way. That bit of mental power might have been added by the fact that both Deb and I were staring right at them and talking somewhat loudly about stupid boater tricks. They pulled the hook again and motored off down the river, the evening's entertainment drawing to a close.

On a different note … Though neither Deb or I are overly fond of FL, particularly in the summer hurricane season, both Kintala and the Dink are now official residents here. Since Kintala is more than 30 years old and still houses her original engine, she is considered an antique. (How little they know.) Total registration cost for both Boat and Dink was around $50. I don't mind being legal so long as it doesn't cost too much.

Its been a few days and got off to a rough start, but life on the hook is starting to feel normal again. The first glitch appeared the day we did our anchoring practice. After 5 months of inactivity our manual anchor windless wouldn't wind, or less. Next time remind the Deck Monkey to clean, lube, and test the thing before pitching the heavy chunk of metal and a long length of chain into the water. (Sometimes my brain doesn't fire on all cylinders either.)

The boat makes different noises when she rides to her anchor, but I have forgotten what some of them are. My eyes pop open in the wee hours of the morning while my fuzzy brain tries to remember what that “clunk” or this “clang” means. And it is taking an effort to get back in the habit of checking the weather, the RADAR, and the batteries several times a day. Living on the hook means living far closer to the edge then anyone living in a building, or even on a dock, can imagine. Paying attention is required, a skill grown rusty sitting cocooned in a web of dock lines. But, like I said, it is starting to feel normal again.

Today the wind shifted to the NE. It was a bit cooler and the humidity dropped into the 60s instead of the being in the 90s. Clouds tamed the infrared from the sun, a near perfect day. So what came to my mind? Varnish! And by the end of the day the first coat was laid on both the helm and the cockpit table.

Dragging power boats. Official paperwork. Brightwork. Yep. Normal.

Calibration

Kintala has been anchored in Middle River for a couple of days now.  Actually, she has been anchored, re-anchored, and anchored again (for a total of six times).  I would like to say we were just practicing as it has been months since the last time I pitched the hook off the deck.  The truth is we are out of practice at visualizing how all the boats will move with the wind and the current.  And it didn't help that, right in the middle of what is after all a pretty tight area, one boat set both stern and bow anchors, and so doesn't swing.  That kind of messes things up for everyone else.  Eventually we settled back into a place just a couple of boat lengths from the first place we tried.

A few hours after settling into that last / first place, storms rolled through that got a little gusty.  While Kintala held fast, a friend's boat pulled free and ended up settled neatly against a dock.  All is well, but they moved on to a mooring ball for a while.  Maybe Middle River kind of likes sailboats.  This is were Kintala dragged last fall and ended up sitting peacefully tied to a dock at the end of a canal.  It is all good when a boat drags and nothing gets damaged and no one gets hurt.

Deb and I, but mostly me, fell into a kind of fugue state almost the moment the anchor hit the bottom for the first time.  For hours I just sat in the cockpit and watched the world swing slowly round us.  Several times the idea of doing a post floated by, was ignored, and floated away.  Thoughts of doing some easy boat work, trying to get the dink running better, or even just splashing around in the water to fend off the heat, were equally unsuccessful in prodding me into motion.  It was like the tension that has been holding me together was suddenly released, and I wasn't sure what to do without it.  For months now, literally since the day after we got back from the Islands, needs and difficult decisions have driven each day right to the limit of what we could do.  It was relentless and became our "new normal".

We are back to our normal normal, and it is taking a bit of adjustment.

Count down ...

By this time tomorrow the plan is to hanging on the hook in Middle River. At least two other boats, Happy Dance and Jade, are planning the same thing. We have been on the dock for so long that it almost feels like heading out for the first time again. I keep running things through my head, what have we forgotten, what should we have done that we didn't do, what kind of problems might we have getting off the dock and through the bridges … all stuff that was old hat when we left the Islands, all stuff that feels like new hat again. Yet we are only going a few miles and will still be in the heart of Fort Lauderdale when we get there. But once there the distance between us and land will be too far to step over. And for some reason that makes all the difference in the world.

It is likely different for those who have been doing this a long time; a few months on the dock in this part of the world, then a few months on a dock an ocean away on the other side of the world, all part of the life. But we are still short of being out a year, just barely getting comfortable with being cruisers when The Thing, The Bear, and The Dock nailed us down for nearly 5 months. Yep, that means half our cruising life hasn't been cruising at all. Still, there is hope that the learning curve will not be nearly as steep this time around, that in a few weeks we will be back to the comfort level we knew crossing the Gulf Stream for Biscayne Bay. At the moment though, I am feeling like a newbie once again.

Deb is out taking care of a few last details, the most frustrating of which is the Hack that caught Home Depot also caught us. (You guessed it, Home Depot for boat parts … gotcha!) Like a lot of gypsies the few bills we do have are auto pay, to a credit card that no longer exists. So we are living on the little cash we had stashed away while the plastic gets straightened out, and at least it didn't happen while we were out of the country.

The dink in on deck, the Merc coaxed to life and now hung on the aft pulpit. (Friend Robert has an interesting comment on my last post about the Merc. You should check it out and see if you agree.) The Beast has been warmed up once more and all fluid levels checked. The bilge is as dry as the bilge ever gets. Even the lazarette is mostly under control, and there is some more room in there since we unloaded the sails we were never going to use.

The foredeck is, well, I think is is about ready. The truth is it has been a while since I set it for being under way, and there are a lot of details up there. But the next few weeks will be easy, short trips and a good shake down for an out-of-practice crew. I'm feeling pretty good about our chances of getting going again.