A Sad Goodbye

I've said it so many times before, that the cruising community was the best part of the years that we've lived on the boat. The friendships that we've made cruising have run the deepest of any friendships we've ever had. I've often wondered why and, in the end, I suppose it's that we all share that same longing for wandering and voyaging and nature and community.

One of those friendships was with Mike and Anja Boyd of This Rat Sailed. They were one of the first people that we connected with on this journey and we hit it off immediately. Over the years comments have flown back and forth between our blogs and we have shared time in various ports, over a hardtop build for their catamaran, over hurricane prep for Joaquin, over Ubiquiti Bullet frustrations, over Tim's cardiac arrest and my broken wrist.

But this week...this week was not supposed to be something we had to share, that no one should ever have to go through.

This past Sunday, as Mike and Anja explored the area around Staniel Cay in The Bahamas, a speedboat up on plane approached them in their dinghy. Mike tried every maneuver he could to avoid the boat but in the end he was unable to do so. The boat hit their dinghy and both Mike and Anja were thrown into the water. They were pulled out and taken to the local medical center where Anja was pronounced dead. Mike was critically injured with broken bones, and an even more broken heart.

How do you process such a needless tragedy? How do you account for the cost of another's recklessness? No words will suffice.

So hug your loved ones today, and count the blessings of each of those you call friends. They are a treasure of immeasurable value.

Tj:

If you are very lucky in life you will have a small collection of friends for whom you will do anything they ask without question or comment. My list of such friends included Mike and Anja. The challenges Deb and I faced less than a year ago were made much more bearable with Mike and Anja nearby. Deb had faced losing me. I was terrified when I heard her hit the concrete, sure that she was seriously injured.  As we worked our way through those events Mike and Anja were there. Whatever we needed they offered. No question. No comment. But what does one do in the face of such a loss? All I could do was sit stunned, not holding back the tears, as Deb relayed the news when I walked through the door, just home from work. No words suffice, but all of us can imagine how brutal life has become for Mike. Anything. Without question. Without comment. 

Ed Note: We have set up a GoFundMe to help Mike with medical, transport, and funeral expenses. Mike is completely overwhelmed and your kindness will go a long way to helping him heal.

https://gofund.me/160740c8

It's All About The Peeps - The Longterm Peeps

Winter on land has felt interminable, even though the cold weather snap in St. Louis was relatively brief and the spring temps are rapidly climbing. It has given me a good amount of time to prepare for our upcoming trip to try to get First Light the rest of the way to St. Louis. It also gave me the time to do the printed blog books, which led to a whole lot of thinking about the cruising life, our travels, and what it has all meant to me.

Image courtesy of Alex Rooker

I've said it many times on this blog, but it bears saying again—the best thing about cruising for me is the cruising community. The friends you meet along the way become lifelong friends even though you might go years in between seeing each other. The relationships run deep, the trust true, the kindness flows freely. Some we met in passing and never saw again, but some became the Longterm Peeps—friends who we still keep in contact with, the friendships that lasted well through our 5 years on land building up the cruising kitty, that lasted through our transition from sail to trawler. One such relationship is with Alex and Diann of S/V Yacht-a-Fun.

We first became aware of Alex and Diann through the blog. We each visited the others' blogs and chatted back and forth, but it wasn't until January of 2015 that we actually met in person. They had their Gemini catamaran parked on a mooring ball next to ours in Dinner Key in Coconut Grove, and we finally got to meet them for sundowners and discussions about our shared Westerbeke pains (They have a Westerbeast in their Gemini like we did in Kintala.)

Over the years we continued to run into them periodically. They eventually bought property in New Bern, NC and kept a more or less permanent slip for their boat there. When we found First Light in New Bern in 2021, we had the opportunity to see them more often.

Alex is a tour guide par excellence. Everywhere he travels he makes it his business to find the best places to eat and historical places to visit. His brain is a virtual cruising guide, one that we have benefitted from on more than one occasion. He took us on a tour of New Bern in October of 2021 shortly after we bought First Light, pointing out the historical landmarks and taking us and a couple other friends to the best bars with live music, topped off by a visit to a classic ice cream store. Diann is a kind and gentle soul, one that makes you feel instantly comfortable. Her smile is constant, and rounds out the day with a pleasant softness. It was a terrific day.

Image courtesy of Alex Rooker

But it was our contact with them in 2023 that stands out. When Tim had his cardiac arrest, I contacted them on the way to the hospital. They dropped everything they were doing and met the ambulance there. Even though the hospital wouldn't let them in the waiting room with us, the fact that they dropped everything and came meant more to me than I can possibly say. We got to see them quite a bit while we remained in the area for Tim's recuperation and my later recuperation from my broken arm. It's odd that in all the times we've been together—for meals and walks and coffee and boat maintenance—we've never managed to get a selfie with the four of us together. So I confess that I robbed these few photos from their blog.

Alex and Diann, many thanks for your continued friendship, laughter, and support. It's folks like you that make the cruising community such an amazing place.

Yes, It's Still the Peeps

Back in 2015 we put Kintala on the hard at Oak Harbor Marina so we could go back to St. Louis and get our condo ready to sell. The renter had moved out and we were ready to be done with the trouble. When we came back to launch the boat, we were fortunate enough to have a group of friends close by to spend some time with. It's the one thing cruisers say over and over again, the fact that you can meet someone cruising then not see them for months or even years, then pick up just like you never left off.

This past week we had an opportunity to see some friends we haven't seen in eight years. They live close to where we were docked at Kent Island and they braved the traffic to come see us on the boat. It was like we saw them yesterday. Stories were exchanged, food was shared, and laughter abounded. It's still the one thing that has been the most important to me about this lifestyle—the peeps we've met along the way. I'm looking forward to having the boat in St. Louis near home, but I admit to realizing that I'll miss this part of the lifestyle.

Me, Tj, Wayne and Sue circa 8 years past

Wayne, Tj, Sue, Me and Roo circa 2023

Gremlin hunting

Getting the Dink lift system squared away slowed the project work on First Light to a crawl. Most of our days are filled with taking long walks in a beautiful space and practicing music on a variety of instruments. Which, one has to admit, is a quality of life most of the people sharing this little planet with me can't even imagine, let alone enjoy. Having access to life-saving technology expertly applied is another gift I'm not sure I deserved, but I am deeply grateful and clearly on the mend. We are not on our way North yet, but that is okay. Life unfolds as it will.  

During our walks we touched bases with new friends who were also trying to get underway. Their delays have all been mechanical rather than medical. With no projects underway on First Light and no longer being completely inoperative myself, pitching in on their projects offered a chance to be a little useful. One project was helping finish up a wiring project to improve their Dink lift system. Theirs is one of those boats where the Dink rests in a cradle up on the Fly Bridge deck. It is a big lift and having electrical winches providing the grunt was nigh onto necessary. If there is a better way to spend a nice day in a pretty place than helping out a friend with a fun project, I don't know what it might be.

The project went so well that the next afternoon they left the dock to anchor out, intending to head north early the next morning. The next morning, we watched from shore as the Dink lift system was put to its intended use. (They had towed the Dink out to anchor.) Then we helped out as they motored back to the marina and settled into a slip to address generator, charging, and bow thruster problems. It turns out a “dry run” out to anchor is not so much a misnomer as it is a good idea. I was already standing there so I offered a hand and a half of support. Once upon a time I was a reasonably good troubleshooter. They had a few problems that definitely needed shot. A few hours later and a fuel leak in the generator had been reduced to minor weeping. Still not fixed, but good enough to get the genset up and running so we could hunt down the surging problem and then the charging glitch. Those took just a little longer to corner than had the fuel leak, but soon enough both of those gremlins had been dispatched to gremlin heaven. And so we started hunting for the bow thruster gremlin.

It appeared all the wiring was okay, connections tight and correct. Given the fact that it had seemed to work the evening before, some thought was given to the gremlin having shoved something into the impeller. There was also some reasons to suspect the motor as the culprit, so it was pulled to be taken to the shop the next morning for a bench test. Come morning it passed with flying colors. No gremlin hiding there. Once reinstalled, additional searching commenced with a diver added to the hunting party. The impeller was unimpaired and the gear box spun freely. The controlling relays were checked and rechecked. Wiring was wrung with ohm and volt meters. But the Thruster Gremlin remained unscathed. Every part of the system had been throughly inspected, motor, rotor, wiring, connections, battery charge, control circuits and relays, all were checked and rechecked with nothing being found that was amiss. Yet the motor would barely come up with enough speed to push the bow. As the search went on a tickle, somewhere in the back of my rusty mechanic's mind, demanded attention. I knew I was missing something obvious but could not, for the life of me, come up with what it was. Any mechanic who has ever been armpits deep in a problem they couldn't explain will know exactly how I was feeling.

Thoroughly puzzled, and (perhaps) a bit frustrated, I pulled the covers off of the battery boxes and, as expected since they had been checked at least twice already, found nothing wrong with any of the connections. Voltage across the two batteries wired in series showed the expected full charge of 27+ volts. A reading verified by the app on the DC to DC charger tasked with keeping those batteries topped off. But something was wrong. The tickle turned into a mental head smack. I was looking right at the gremlin and still could not pick him out. (Those of you who figured out the problem a few sentences ago can now take a bow.) Not knowing exactly why, I brought the volt meter into play right at the power connection into the control box and had the system activated. The 27 volts immediately dropped to 5. The bell finally went off in my brain. Of course! What had been bothering me all along was simply the sound of the thruster made when the system was engaged. It was that of a DC motor struggling with too little juice to get the job done. How many hundreds of times have I heard that sound over the years? And how, pray tell, had I not recognized it during a full day of troubleshooting? 

I looked the batteries over again, this time with a jaundiced eye. The top of one appeared to be slightly distorted and freckled with fluid. A sticker on both batteries said "J6". A quick search by my parts guru suggested those were date stickers; Oct, 2016. Seven year old AGMs in a bow thruster install, and a motor trying to push the bow around with only 5 volts of shove available? The gremlin was now squarely in our sights. Purchasing and installing new batteries pulled the trigger and said gremlin was no more. The next morning we gathered at the slip for final goodbyes and to toss lines. The bow thruster growled with purpose and my friends were on their way North. I am as pleased with their successful departure as I will be when we eventually follow.

That is still a month or more away. Maybe, in the next couple of weeks, we will do a short “dry run” ourselves. Just motor a couple of hundred yards toward the bridge, drop the hook, spend a day or two, and see what mechanical critters come creeping out to play. Then head back to the dock to hunt them down and chase them off. 

Throwback Thursday - The "Why we do this" Series

If asked what the best thing about our nearly six years of cruising was, I would immediately respond, "The Cruising Community." I admit that when we dreamed of doing this, that would not have even hit my radar, but in these years of cruising we have met more life-long friends than we did in the 57 years before. This post captures the very best of it all. And here are photos of the ones who made it possible:

David and Nancy to the right - October 2013

Wayne and Sue on the right - Dec of 2015

The Talking Pumpkin

Posted by TJ

Wednesday October 21, 2015

Halloween was a big deal in the neighborhood; a suburban enclave where our "baby boom" generation was born and lived its early years. Hundreds of kids would go door to door in costume, collecting enough candy to keep a sugar buzz going clean through to the New Year. Houses were in costume as well, some modestly with just a pumpkin on the doorstep and maybe a sheet thrown over small shrub as a welcoming "ghost". Others were more elaborate; family members in full scary makeup and costume, garages and lower levels turned into haunted houses, off-key dirges playing in the background, and lighting to fit the intended theater.

Our house fell somewhere in the middle, but still managed to be the talk of the neighborhood. Each year we would find the biggest pumpkin we could, hollow it out, carve a scary face, and set it in the window by the door. Hidden inside the pumpkin was a dim light to set the scary face aglow, and a speaker. Hidden in the darkened room with microphone in hand was my Dad, the voice of the Talking Pumpkin.

It was a pretty innovative use of technology for the early 1960s, which turned into a kind of neighborhood staple. As the years went by people would drive in to introduce their kids to the Talking Pumpkin, little ones giggling but also looking around, not exactly sure what to make of the mysterious voice.  It was all good fun.

Pops at our eldest daughter's wedding in  2005

On Sunday, October 18^th, 2015, late in the afternoon, the Talking Pumpkin fell silent. The news came via the tiny speaker held in my hand, the voice of Brother Youngest telling me that our Father had passed away suddenly, fallen by a massive heart attack.

Kintala was anchored at the edge of the grid, waiting out some weather. It took more than an hour of broken communications and dropped calls to get the news to Daughters Three. The logistics of finding a safe place to dock the boat for several weeks, then finding our way to PA as quickly as possible, looked to be nightmarish.

But then...

Two years ago, on our first trip down the ICW, the Beast sprung a massive fuel leak forcing us to spend a month in Oriental, NC. We were there over Thanksgiving, our first away from family. Chris and Sherry were also away from family, working to get their own cruising plans together. We shared Thanksgiving dinner at a local eatery that caters to the cruising tribe, and they became some of the earliest of our cruising friends. As it turns out they bought a slip in Oriental but their boat is currently on the hard. Seeing us heading south they had gotten in touch with us once again, enticing us to stop in Oriental with the offer of a free slip and a chance to catch up.

Oriental was a day's sail away when we got the news, and they offered us the slip for as long as we needed. We arrived after a glorious day of sailing to be met by Friends Mizzy and Brian. After a couple of days of buddy boating they had beaten us to Oriental by a few hours and so were on hand to help ease Kintala safely onto the dock. Over dinner that night their gentle conversation and obvious care helped ease our hearts as well.

A week or so ago Friends Nancy and David cut their Seaward 32 loose from Oak Harbor and pointed the bow south, leaving their car behind as they normally do. A car free for us to use if they could work out a way to get it to us, or us to it. So they did. Currently in Hampton and having already made plans to rent a car for a day to do some chores, they left at O-So-Dark-Thirty the next morning and drove to Oriental. After a quick coffee with the Gang from Oak Harbor (Mizzy, Brian, Nancy, David, and us) they loaded us aboard the rental and headed north. At about that same time other members of the Gang from Oak Harbor, Wayne and Sue, themselves just two days away from dropping the lines and sailing off, got in their car and headed south.

The two vehicles met at a truck stop somewhere south of Richmond. Deb and I were handed off for the next leg of this Pony Express of Kindness. By late afternoon we were back at Oak Harbor loading up. Barely 36 hours after picking up Kintala's hook in the remote waters of the Pungo River and unsure of how we were going to get where we needed to be, we were pulling into the driveway of family with all transportation worries behind us.

There are no words big enough or deep enough to describe people who step up like that, utterly careless of their own plans and time; not expecting, indeed rejecting, any idea of getting something in return. They had friends in need and that was all that mattered.

If a person be very lucky in life they will accrue debts like these. Debts that can never be repaid.

Debts that can never be forgotten.

Pops and his brother Gene

We will be away from the boat for a few weeks. Kintala will sit quietly, as will this blog. Fathers die. Sons and Daughters lay them to rest, struggling with a world that is somehow, fundamentally different than it was. Then we look to our own sons and daughters.



And the journey goes on.

Pops and Tim and our eldest daughter at their 50th wedding anniversary in 2004

Changing Landscapes

When we left in 2013 we were part of what my good friend Paul (of S/V Kelly Nicole) has taken to calling "The Class of 2013." There were a group of us taking off then from various places: Paul and Deb from New York, and Bruce and Tammy (of Dos Libras) from South Carolina, and us from Annapolis. We met and tag-teamed that first few months, but Paul and Deb and Bruce and Tammy opted to go on to places farther than we intended to go. We split up physically, but always kept in touch. We consider them to be some of our best friends. Two years later, overachievers Bonnie and Craig both known from our aviation years in our home port of St. Louis, MO, decided to skip a few grades and move into the Class of '13. They left from Annapolis as well and quickly hop-scotched past us to join Paul and Deb.

The years passed, the friendships grew stronger (thanks in large part to social media,) but Paul and Deb pushed on to Granada, Bruce and Tammy bounced around the Gulf, Bahamas and Caribbean, we did the north in the summer/south in the Bahamas thing and Bonnie and Craig settled in the area around Puerto Rico. A year in to their cruising, Bonnie and Craig bought an RV. They sailed the boat in the winter, and traveled in the RV in the summer while the boat was on the hard for hurricane season. Flash forward to today: they just listed the boat for sale.

You hear it all the time: the most difficult part of cruising is the goodbyes. You meet cruisers in anchorages, on docks, at the dinghy dock, in cruiser hangouts, or on the radio underway. You form these deeply connected friendships in an unbelievably short time. No need to find out what you have in common, because you're coming from basically the same experiences and share the values of the cruising life. You skip all the small-talk niceties, and delve right into the meat of the relationship. Then a few days later, you're all headed different directions and have to say goodbye.  You know you'll likely see them again, and when you do you'll pick up just where you left off, but the landscape changes.

For the Class of '13, the landscape has changed pretty significantly. Tammy and Bruce bought a condo in Puerto Rico and are transitioning from Dos Libras to land, we've had to return to land (albeit temporarily) to make more money, Bonnie and Craig are moving off the water to their next adventure, and we're all living vicariously through Paul and Deb as they travel the Caribbean. While I have a completely different view out my window than I did out Kintala's port in 2013, it's the change inside me that matters most. The richness that these folks have brought to our lives, the shared experiences, the shared commitment to a life well-lived, are all something that I will always carry with me. Nowhere else in my life have I developed friendships like the ones in the cruising community, not just those in the Class of '13, but entirely too many others to list in a blog post. So no matter how much the landscape might change, the foundation of this magical life with the sea remains.

So if you're looking to join the cruising landscape, I can tell you that this catamaran is a very well-maintained one worth your consideration. Bonnie and Craig, both coming out of the aviation community, are just as anal as we are about maintenance and care, and the PDQ 36 has long been recognized as one of the better sailing catamarans. And if catamarans aren't your thing, keep in mind that Kintala is still for sale, recently reduced in price to $74,900, so Class of 2019 step up to the plate!

S/V Odin PDQ 36 on Yachtworld

Motionless blues

It seems likely Kintala will ride out the rest of the hurricane season in Beaufort, SC. It isn’t really a plan, just the way life seems to be unfolding at the moment. There are days when I get restless to the point of distraction, but there is much to be said for being here. Blowin' In The Wind remains on the next ball over. Good friends Paul and Deb stopped by for a visit on the way to time with their own grandkids. Having just of few of the people you love most in the world nearby is far better than having none, though you are constantly reminded of those still far away. We are slowly getting around to boat projects that really need done, and there are writing projects in the works. Writing, for Deb and I, is a craft; something we do for the shear joy of word-smithing. Occasionally, we manage a project that other people appreciate, which still amazes me. On the rare occasion where the appreciation is expressed with a few shekels coming our way, well, that's okay too. Sitting leaves some time for writing.

When one is motionless like this, there is much good to be said about being tied to a dock. For the most part, the boat is as safe as it can be while still sitting in the water. Shore power is available so air conditioning is an option. Not only does it make for better sleeping at night, dry air in the boat helps in keeping an upper hand on the war of the mold. Keeping the water tanks full is easy and quick. There is often a long, hot shower just steps away, greatly easing the burden on the water tanks. And, most convenient, getting on and off the boat is almost as easy as walking through the front door of a dirt dwelling. But docks are expensive. Unlike our stays in the Tampa area, the money flow here is all one direction, out.

So we are in the mooring field. It is often just on the far side of being comfortable with the sun, heat, and humidity. Battle with the mold is, at best, a stalemate. Filling the water tanks will consume much of a day’s effort. And getting on and off the boat requires the Ding.

I don’t know much about horses and have certainly never relied on one as the primary mode of transportation. But it seems the Ding and a horse have a lot in common. The Ding needs constant care. To get going in the morning the fuel needs checked, the night’s rainfall needs pumped out, and some air will likely need pumped in. It has to be tied up whenever left to its own devices, otherwise it will wander off. Sadly, unlike a horse, it will never find its way back to the barn all by itself.

The Ding’s little motor is, at best, temperamental. I swear the thing has the equivalent of moods; best described as manic / depressive. Sometimes it starts on the first or second pull. Sometimes it doesn’t start until the last pull before you give up and start taking it apart. Sometimes it idles too fast to shift, requiring momentary use of the cut-off / safety switch to get into gear without a damage inducing “thud”. (Some really old airplanes used ignition interruption instead of a throttle, which is where the idea came from.) Sometimes it will not idle at all. And sometimes it will putter away as if it was the most well behaved engine human kind ever invented. (Okay, that doesn’t happen very often.) And when the Ding and motor need cleaned it is a smelly, dirty job.

The worst it's ever been - Stuart, FL  in 2015

In barely a month, the menagerie of critters, creatures, and botany that lurks in these waters will accumulate to where the little motor struggles, the Ding wallowing through the water like a small horse carrying a Sumo wrestler up a steep  hill. Worse, the critters are literally disassembling the Ding from below. They worm their way past the cement seams of repair and reinforcement patches, peeling them back so water leaks in and air leaks out.

I have serious concerns about the dingy davits on a lot of boats. But having them just to keep the little boat out of the water when one is on an extended stay is now on my list of “good things to have.” Kintala’s stern is far to narrow and crowded for such things. Once upon a time we tried to come up with a way to lift the Ding on a halyard every night, more out of deference to thieves than to critters. But we couldn’t come up with a system that worked very well, relying on a stout cable and hefty lock instead. We are going to give it another try lest the Ding be utterly destroyed before it is time to leave this place.

That doesn’t happen when one is on the move. The Ding stays in the water for a week or less at a time. Each time it comes up on deck in preparation for the next departure, what few critters and little slime has accumulated get wiped away, often in less than an hour. There is no damage done and we are on our way. Sometimes when we stop for a day or three, anchored in some remote place or waiting out some weather, the Ding never gets wet. Instead it is hoisted up like a breeze catcher, high enough to open the v-berth hatch while keeping the foredeck in the shade.

The Ding on its better days

Occasionally, when on the move, stops coincide with docks. For a night or two the boat will be plugged in. The water tanks will get filled regardless, the holding tank usually emptied as well. Getting off the boat is an easy step. A long, hot shower may be just steps away.

And the Ding stays safe on the deck.

A friend goes East…a friend goes West

It could be argued that our first year of cruising was our best year so far. An amazing confluence of coincidences gathered several people from Carlyle Lake, 800 miles to the west, in Oak Harbor Marina near the tip of the Chesapeake Bay. They became our first “cruiser clan,” helping us in uncountable ways as we struggled to get Kintala cruise-worthy and us launched into this new lifestyle. John was in that group, a solo sailor and new cruiser himself, working his way down the ICW for the first time in Ellida; his Hallberg Rassy 31. His wife, Mari, was completely supportive of his adventuring but open water sailing in a small boat was not her cup of tea.

John, Deb, Tim, Nancy, David  (The Tradewinds East Gang)
before we all took off from Oak Harbor Marina in Pasadena, MD

John leaving Oak Harbor in October 2013

John managed to drop his Oak Harbor dock lines several weeks ahead of us. We kept in touch and he became a kind of emotional scout, breaking the trail as we bumbled our way south that first time. Kintala caught up with Ellida in Biscayne Bay where we shared tales of mistakes made and near disasters avoided, feeling pretty good about making it all the way to Florida still in one piece. John was determined to continue on to the Bahamas but Deb and I were less sure of ourselves. Managing our Tartan 42 had proven more of a challenge than we had anticipated, even along the protected waters of the ICW. Our first open water / overnight jump from Charleston to Fernandina Beach had been both exhilarating and magical. It had also underlined just how steep a learning curve we had yet to climb to being a competent short-handed crew sailing a 42 foot boat far out of sight of land, and at night. We had decided a more modest approach to cruising would be prudent. Biscayne Bay, the Florida Keys, and maybe the “Just Like the Bahamas” waters of Florida’s Great Bend would be our first year’s cruising grounds.

John was determined to make it to the Islands but, being a new cruiser himself, wanted company. Our company. Particularly our company on what would be his first overnight, open water jump from Biscayne Bay to West End. He began a subtle campaign to lure us east. His argument, like his approach to nearly everything, was easy going and quiet. The Islands were far closer than the West coast of Florida and a much easier sail. (He couldn’t possibly have known that to be a fact but the years have proven him completely correct.) We would spend less money living and sailing in the Islands for a few months than we would living and sailing in the States. (The cruising kitty had already taken a beating from delays and broken boat bits on the trip south.) And, well, we were cruisers and real cruisers went to the Islands for the winter. (It turns out that real cruisers do whatever they want, can afford, or can get away with; but we had not learned that lesson yet.)

John as we headed out of the channel from No Name Harbor in Biscayne Bay, FL

Waiting out water spouts off West End Bahamas

In the end he won us over and on Feb 21st Kintala and Ellida weighed anchors, headed out the channel south of No Name Harbor, and set sail for West End, Bahama. Ellida made much better time, John blasting through the storms that we elected to sail around. He was waiting at the dock at old Bahama Bay, greeting us with a huge smile. We had sailed to the Islands, how about them apples? We waited out some ugly weather then headed off to explore the Abaco Islands. Getting there meant our first passage through Indian Rock Passage north of West End. Kintala led the way right up to the entrance of the pass, where I chickened out in the face of breaking water to both port and starboard in the narrow, shallow cut. I had visions of us ending our cruising life right there.

John and Ellida heading to Mangrove Cay after going through Indian Cut in the Bahamas

John figured if everyone else could do it, we could do it too. Though Ellida was smaller than Kintala, she drew a bit more water. So long as she didn’t hit anything Kintala should be okay. John happily took the lead and I followed him through so tense I could barely breathe.

We passed with no problem at all.

Later that day John took the picture of Kintala that is at the top of the blog; sailing alongside us in the waters north of Grand Bahama Island. It was one of those magical sails, and one of the best we have ever had. The two boats stood nearly upright yet hard on the wind, ghosting over placid water so clear we could watch the bottom pass under the keels.

We traveled together for many weeks after that, anchoring together in various Cays, waiting out weather, and exploring our first Bahamian towns. It was every bit the adventure that we had hoped cruising would be. That trip set the tone and the goals, established the life style that we have been working to keep up with ever since. John left Ellida in the Islands after that trip, putting her on the hard for the hurricane season and returning home to Mari until autumn. We sailed back to the States, living aboard and sailing Kintala, working to match the joy and adventure of that first trip abroad.

We crossed paths with John several times over the years, as cruisers are wont to do. But we never sailed together after that. The last time we saw him was over lunch, he and Mari, Deb and I, at a restaurant near the Dinner Key mooring field.

Our friend John passed away a couple of days ago. His struggle with failing lungs had been evident from the first day we met, but he never talked of it much, made an issue of it, or let it stop him from realizing the dream of sailing his boat over the horizon. His quiet dedication to living life on his terms had a deep influence on our path, Our adventure would have taken a much different turn had John not lured us to the Islands that first year. Given some of the set-backs we have endured since, it isn’t beyond the realm of possibly that we would never have made it at all. And yet the impact of John’s quiet but unshakable determination, his indomitable heart and courage, went mostly unnoticed - right up until I sat down to write this post.

Unassuming and dedicated to minding his own business, he would have taken quite a bit of pleasure in that.

Fair winds John, and thank you.

Ellida at Sunset, Great Sale Cay Bahamas

Sunrise off Great Sale Cay

John blowing his water bottle horn in the shortest St. Patrick's Day parade, Green Turtle Cay Bahamas 3-17-14

Friends Across Oceans

By Anushmita Mohanty

We had a chance to get together today with our cruising friends Paul and Deb of Lat 43 fame. We haven't seen them for nearly two years since they watched Kintala for us at Dinner Key while we went back to St. Louis for a visit.

It was like we just saw them yesterday.

This is one of the mysteries of cruising friends. We say hello at an anchorage and one or the other of us may depart early the next morning without even saying goodbye for places unknown, yet two years later we'll run into them and be laughing in the cockpit over beers within minutes. It's an amazing community, a sustaining community, and one I'm incredibly glad to be a part of. When we first explored the idea of retiring onto a sailboat, the cruising community was not one of the benefits we anticipated. As we close out our third year and embark on our fourth, the cruising community is the number one benefit. A true global network, a global family, a society of some of the most amazing people we've ever known. Thanks Paul and Deb for reminding me.

Good and Perfect

A good day on a boat is:

• Any day nothing breaks
• Any day the weather treats you kindly
• Any day you get to sleep in with a 70° breeze wafting in through the V-berth hatch
• Any day you spend with other cruisers
• Any day you sail more than you motor
• Any day you aren't in a gray cubicle on a Monday morning

But Sunday? Sunday was the rare perfect day.

Tom and Lesa on Panacea

Our friends Tom and Lesa on Panacea texted to see if we might want to go for a short sail Sunday afternoon. (Need you ask?) By 2:00 we were out of the basin and hoisting the main and the jib. We sailed all the way to Egmont Key in 12-15 knot winds and the Island Packet trimmed nicely into it, yielding a steady speed in excess of 6 knots. The breeze was comfortable - not too warm - and the water a deep blue. As we all had plans in the evening, we tacked just before the shipping channel to the Gulf, and headed back to the Manatee River on almost exactly a reciprocal course. Four hours of perfect sailing.

The Mary T, a Morgan 38

It was an elixir, and it would have been enough all on its own, but earlier in the day some folks whose blog we follow contacted us to see if we had time to get together Sunday evening. Although landlocked in Bradenton at the moment due to a family emergency, Ken and Amy on Mary T have traveled from Florida to Isla Mujeres and then on down to Rio Dulce, Guatemala, a trip that holds some interest for us. We wanted to pick their brains. After a short tour of Kintala, we headed over to the Riverside Grill for dinner. We had a wonderful evening trading stories and laughing. All of us have been separated from other cruisers for some time and it was good to remember one of the things we enjoy most about this lifestyle.

Perfect sailing and new cruising friends? Yeah. A perfect day.

The lighthouse at Egmont Key in Tampa Bay

Do You Remember?

Pascagoula Run's empty slip

This morning, coffee in hand, I headed down the dock two slips to our friends Joel and Emily's boat Pascagoula Run to crew for Joel as he made the first 22 mile run of his cruising adventure. It was sunny and warm, the sky azure, punctuated with cotton puffs and Osprey. The water was a deep navy blue with light ripples dancing across the surface, beckoning.

Tim wistfully looking on

Joel, his dad and I cast off the lines as a wistful Tim looked on from the dock before heading off for his day as Worker Man. Fenders were stowed and lines coiled. Tracking was started, routes up and running, and Pascagoula Run's bow was pointed out the ever-so-narrow exit from the boatyard's basin.

Bow pointed out the exit of the boatyard

Two opening bridges later, we entered Sarasota Bay, a smallish piece of sailable water in the ICW, a rare treat. Electing to roll out just the headsail for the short run down the bay, Pascagoula Run tracked right down the rhumb line at a respectable 4.7 knots, close hauled. Rolling up the sails 4 miles later to pass under the Ringling bridge, the engine back online, we turned eastward and picked up a mooring ball at Marina Jack's. Within minutes the dolphins showed up to lend their seal of approval.

It was a good day. It was good to be reminded of how far we've come these last few years, to remember our first opening bridge with our halting radio communications, to remember our nervous nailbiting as we approached our first fixed bridge and refused to see how our mast could actually fit beneath it, to remember the first time we picked up a mooring, complete with audience. It was good to see how completely this life has become ours, and to realize again that this is life at its best - full, rich, zesty, not without risk, and deeply poetic. Thanks Joel and Emily and Happy Sailing.

Checking the charts near the shallow spot

Dad's turn at the tiller

First opening bridge

A floating billboard

Look Ma! No engine!

No way is this going to fit...

Are you SURE it's going to fit?

One happy boat on the mooring

One happy captain on his boat.