A whisper from the past

I walked away from aviation when we moved onto Kintala. Something that, for most of my life as a pilot, I could never have imagined doing. (Aviation was, at least for my generation, more of an affliction than a career choice.) For the first several months I looked up whenever I heard a motor of some kind overhead, usually able to name the class of aircraft, and often the exact model, just from the sound. As the years of cruising passed, those looks up grew ever less frequent. Being a pilot was something I was once, a period of my life that had ended.

Life unfolded as it will, and we ended up back in St. Louis, me collecting shillings by working in a full flight simulator for one of the world's most sophisticated civilian jet—a simulator bolted solidly to Mother Earth. No medical was required and all the associated paperwork needed to gain permission to teach aviation once again was handled by the company. After a couple of years the idea of doing a little contract flying in the jet came up. With a First Class medical in my pocket, once again I did a couple of flights. It felt good to be back up in the Flight Levels, but it was also just part of the job. I am a better instructor for having flown the actual aircraft in its designed environment and, at the same time, a few more shillings got added to the bank account. But that is as far as it went. First Light had been acquired and real plans had started coming together for getting back on the water. Indeed, less than a month remains before I hand my flying "stuff" back to the company and head east for big water once again. Flying, simulated or actual, will not be a part of that life. Something that is of little consequence. I am far more concerned with the idea of being away from grand kids than I am with being away from the Sim and a little contract flying. 

But then one of the grand sons started talking about, maybe, getting a pilot's license to go along with his anticipated Coast Guard Captain's license. Grampy T is a pilot and a flight instructor; any chance an introduction ride in a light airplane could be arranged before we headed off again? 

And so it came to pass that I found myself sitting in the left seat of a two-seat Cessna 152 belonging to a local flight school. Next to me was one of their instructors who, I suspect, was not particularly pleased to find himself sharing a cockpit with a dinosaur lugging log books showing 12,000+ hours of flying time and holding a couple of  licenses festooned with multiple ratings. Old pilots have a well-earned reputation of being a bit cranky when it comes to taking flying advice from those half their age. There is no doubt I now fit that description. 

But I wasn't convinced all that time and all those ratings would matter much to the little Cessna. One thing this old pilot has learned is that no one is the ultimate expert in anything. Everyone has something to teach and, more importantly, everyone still has something to learn. More then a decade has passed since the last time I taxied a light, single-engine piston banger toward a runway with the intent of taking flight. Worse, I had not really thought about actually going flying this day. We were just out checking options. Absolutely none of the prep work involved in any kind of flying, even just a short hop for fun, had been done. I had nary a chart with me and I had to ask for the proper radio channels to get the current weather as well as taxi and tower clearances. As we went through the pre-flight procedures I was as clear as I could be with my instructor.  I was beyond rusty. He could not hurt my feelings or make me mad in any way, and that I expected some honest criticism about my performance as I expected to deserve it. He relaxed a bit after that and off we went.

As we started moving out of the parking spot, it was suggested that I do the run-up on the ramp before calling for taxi clearance to the active runway. Run-up? That's right, magnetos, carb heat, gyro headings, suction, engine oil pressure and temperature; all need to be checked and/or set before attempting flight. We don't do run-ups in the jet. It doesn't have magnetos, carb heat, or suction. The gyros align themselves via GPS satellite signals before the engines are even started. And all of those engine parameters are monitored continuously by a multitude of computers on a continuous basis, said computers sending a visual and/or aural warning message to the pilots if something goes awry. 

I also needed some additional information on proper speeds for lift-off, climb, and cruise. The numbers I got were ridiculously low to my jet-a-fied ears. Lift off at 50 knots, climb at 60? At 50 knots I can't even get the jet's nose wheel off the ground. (If I happen to be following a SouthWest 737 down the taxiway, we are likely going near that fast just getting to the runway.) The jet's auto-brake function for an emergency abort doesn't even arm until 60. Then I asked for the proper flap setting for departure, sparking an odd look from my instructor. The little Cessna doesn't use flaps for departure...something I once knew many, many moons ago, but had forgotten.

I managed to find the end of the runway without being embarrassed, though it was odd to feel the little airplane shudder and sway in the light wind. Once cleared for departure I pushed the tiny (and only!) throttle knob toward the instrument panel and watched the airspeed slowly build. The jet stores a bit more than 7,000 pounds of thrust in each engine. The little Cessna has all of 110 ponies in its single stable. Acceleration in the jet will push you back in the seat and spill any unattended drinks. The Cessna? My grand kids accelerate faster on their scooters. Eventually the airspeed indicator showed the required number and I attempted to leave Mother Earth, finding the control force needed to lift the tiny nose wheel clear of the ground far higher than that needed on the side stick of a full fly-by-wire 38,000 pound jet. I pulled a little harder and...Yee-Haw! Skyward! Just a second or so later I even remembered that the yaw forces involved with levitating little airplanes are controlled with one's feet pushing on the appropriate rudder peddle. A task that remains throughout all regimes of flight. The jet, once airborne? Put your feet on the floor as they will not be needed until landing, unless one needs to walk to the head or to get some fresh coffee. 

We flew south for a little while and did all of those things pilots do in a new-to-them (or long forgotten) airplane. The rust started to flake away as the little airplane showed me steep turns, aerodynamic stalls both power on and power off, and a simulated engine failure / power off approach to a suitable farmer's field. This is not something we practice at the job. If both engines fail in the jet, one is having a very bad day. Setting it down in some farmer's field without doing considerable damage to both the jet and the farmer's crops is unlikely. We do fail both engines in the simulator at 5,000 feet or so after takeoff, simulating a massive bird strike reminiscent of Captain Sully and First Officer Skiles' splash down in the Hudson River. In the Sim, gliding back to a runway is the challenge. Landing in a corn field? Not. All of those maneuvers seemed to go well and I am pretty sure the grin on my face gave away how much fun I was having. Ah, but then it was time to return to the airport and put this little soap-box derby of an airplane back on the ground.

Approach and landing speed were as ridiculously low as those for departure and flight. The visual picture in the traffic pattern was odd. Not only has it been more than a decade since I flew a single engine airplane, this one has the wing on the top, and I was not sitting in the pointy end. Every way I looked had airplane parts in the picture. Check list complete, we turned final and I started searching for the ground.

The first landing was nothing to write home about. I am not used to sitting that close to the tarmac and misjudged the height in the flare by a fair amount. Not enough to have the instructor next to me grab the yoke, but I saw his hand twitch. The second landing went better. And the third? That was the one I was looking for. The little airplane rewarded my efforts with the stall warning horn whispering in my ear just as the mains rolled onto the tarmac. (Stall warning horn? The jet says "LOW SPEED - LOW SPEED" in a scolding female voice and, if one doesn't reduce the pitch attitude, the jet will do it for you regardless of what you do with the stick.)

With two "Okay" landings and one squeaker under my belt, we called it good and taxied back to the ramp. My young instructor allowed as I could take grand kids for a flight without putting them at risk. Back home I logged a "Single Engine" flight for the first time in more than ten years. It is hours later and I am still smiling at flying that little Cessna. I guess there is still some "pilot" lurking in me after all.

Legacy 550 from Embraer, the plane Tj instructs in

Throwback Thursday - The True Cost of Cruising

We get a lot of questions about how much it costs to cruise. For specific answers to that question, we keep a list of blogs in the right sidebar that post their cruising costs, ours included - although I'm way behind in updating it, I confess. This post, though, is about a different kind of cost you pay when cruising - that of missing family and friends. If you're in the planning stages of cruising, this is definitely a cost that needs to be considered.

The True Cost of Cruising

Posted by TJ

August 29, 2013

The five grandkids are now eleven...

Daughters and five grand kids . . . today was the day we said the rest of the hard good-byes. I was doing okay right through the day, playing, reading books, explaining to the two oldest girls why we were staying at a marina they had never visited and then explaining about travel lifts and trucks. But at the end of the day, just when it looked like I might hold it together the youngest, with no clue what he was about to do to my heart, crawled to my feet, held his arms up to be lifted, then tucked his face into my shoulder . . . 

There is no explanation for the wanderer's soul. There is no cure for wanderlust. I have been unhappy being in one place since (so I am told anyway) my first day of first grade. Less than an hour of being penned in one room and I had had enough. The twelve years that followed, all in the same school district, were pure misery. It showed in my grades, in my list of detentions, in the fights and the brushes with police. I was that kid none of the other kids were allowed to hang out with. Quite literally, they let me out after my Senior year because no one wanted to see me there again.

The two years of technical school were a slight improvement; partly because I was the kid right out of high school in a class mostly made up of people recently out of the jungles of 'Nam. They were a tough lot, several more than a little crazy, many of whom took a liking to the combative kid who (I now suspect) reminded them of themselves before someone started shooting at them. It also helped that only half our day was spent in a classroom; the other half we spent out in the shop. Still penned in, but better than a desk. To this day, no one knows how often I dreamed of just walking away from that place and how close I came to doing it . . . the future I hoped to share with Deb being the only thing that kept me going back.

They let us "graduate" a few weeks early to fill jobs rebuilding B-52s. Deb and I headed west and never looked back. We spent 4 years in one place, 14 in another, 2 in a third, then landed in St. Louis. But we wandered constantly: me as a pilot, both of us as bikers. And no place ever felt like a "home," just a town with a job.

Now, finally, we are on the verge of heading off again; this time for a wanderer's dream come true. No place is home, but anywhere can be our front yard. The challenge of new skills to learn, the lure of new places to see, experiencing life in a way unsuspected just six years ago, and no one can tell us we have to "stay here and do this." But the dream has a price just shy of being too high . . . a price no one but a wanderer would even think about paying.

We like to say that there is no choice, that the wanderer wouldn't be the person he or she is if they could stop. Perhaps that is true. We are going, after all. But I like to think that the price will be a fair one. That in the end the people we love who don't wander with us love us anyway; that they share our adventures and find a larger view of the world. That, in the end, the stories of our lives will be full, even if the main characters in our hearts are not written into every page.

For that is the true cost of cruising.

Settling in...again

The carriage house companionway
with a view into the cockpit

The move is mostly done. It will be a few weeks yet before everything finds its place, though the grand kids have settled right in. So long as only our screen door is closed they know they are welcome, and walk right in. If the main door is closed they knock, then walk right in.

There is a regular parade of kids including, once in a while, friends of grand kids. It has taken away much of the sting of having had to leave the cruising life for more mundane waters, though there is still many things to get used to. We have two rooms now. That is one less than the boat’s v-berth, salon, and aft cabin, though Kintala’s rooms were cabins of course, and much smaller. So it all still feels too big, and a bit clunky. In fact all of land living feels a bit clunky. Traffic surges and stops. Houses and buildings are mostly squared off blocks arranged in bigger (and rightly named) blocks, which are bordered by squared off streets. Sometimes it reminds me of old video games filled with squared off people riding in squared off cars and walking their squared off dogs.

One good part having our own squared off front room is that it has been filled up with all of the instruments, plus one, that we had stored away all over the boat. Two “bucket drums,” various percussion instruments, a kind of Lute, a flute, my Uke, and a guitar Deb has been learning to play, (the “plus one.”) As soon as some bonus money lands in our account we hope to add two more, a somewhat smaller guitar for Deb, and a somewhat larger Uke for me. One of the reasons grand kids drop by is to practice on the drums. Daughter Middle’s house has a piano, guitars, and a whole collection of Ukuleles, including one of ancient solid wood that makes the most mellow tone you have ever heard…so long as it stays in tune. Something that it isn’t prone to do with its older style pegs. But Grampy T is the drummer of the family and kids like drums.

I like that the house is often full of music, even if its one of the kids trying to learn LLLL RRRR LLRR LLRR LRLR LRLR LRLL RLRR, or my still more than modest attempts at finding a song hiding in the strings of the Uke. It reminds me of the boat where, even without our contribution, nature often filled the day with music of her own. There was the water slapping against the hull, the winds whispering through the rigging, the thump and splash of jumping rays and the puffs of broaching dolphins. (Who would have thought that one could miss the sound of dolphins this much?) Somehow the sounds of cars, ‘choppers, jets, trucks, and garage door openers just doesn’t come across as music. (Well, maybe… if one thinks really bad, out of tune music.)

And let's not forget barking dogs. Being surrounded by dolphins broaching and puffing is magic. Being surrounded by dogs yapping and barking and scratching is just down-right annoying.

At the shop I have finally cleared the initial qualification hurdles and start working with client crews next week; GFS and Simulator only. Classroom qualification is several weeks (at least) away yet, and awaits a week long trip to Dallas for additional training. Clearly the clunk who coined the phrase, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” never taught people to fly jets. Getting type rated in the Legacy was the easiest part of learning this new job. To fly the jet takes “X” amount of knowledge and skill. To teach others to fly the jet takes X times 10. It’s no wonder than when people go looking for an airplane driver they often raid the training centers. Which is the reason we get a bonus for staying, and that will let me buy another Uke.

The Boat Hammock still getting used with lots of laughter

Some beauty from the local park. Anyone know what this tree is?

And yes, still some water fun thanks to their other grandparents' farm pond

TwinkleStar

Two written tests are done and dusted. Two check rides remain. One, the FAA ride, includes a two hour oral exam. Those still lie a couple of weeks in the future. The GFS, a training aid that is a bare bones but accurate representation of the actual flight deck, is the focus of this week. Since hiring on, I have spent a bunch of days sitting in the thing, trying to get back up to speed. Hours were spent learning switch positions, running through checklists, rehearsing flows, and practicing procedures. Other hours went to learning to load the computers with flights plans, performance numbers, weight and balance data, instruments approaches, and holds. Then, of course, one has to figure out how to get the machine to actually do the stuff that has been loaded. All of it I kind of blundered through on my own, books in one hand while poking at switches, buttons, and curser controls with the other.

Now I am working the thing under the tutelage of an experienced Instructor, who will undoubtedly point out places where I taught myself the hard way to get something done. A nice thing is the EASA requirements insists that an additional GFS session actually be done in the Sim instead. Given training for two rides, there should be plenty of time to make friends with this new machine before the next round of tests. Though things are working out really well with the job, there are still rough moments to this. Some come from trying to scrub the rust off of pilot skills long neglected. Other bumpy moments happen while trying to fit into land living again. But the hardest are ones that I call “TwinkleStar” moments.

When we were on the boat with Daughter Eldest and Family nearby, Granddaughter Fourth would often climb up into my lap to help me play her a tune on my Uke. "TwinkleStar” was her name for whatever we played. (I'm sure you have already figured out where the name came from.) A few minutes here, a few minutes there, but those moments are the definition of what it means to share love. There were others, “Wizard Walks” with the grandsons, sitting in the park whittling shapes out of small branches, bird spotting, and cheering on the dolphins when they played nearby.

Once in a while, without warning and heedless of where I might be or what I might be doing at the time, one of those memories will flood through my mind, bringing a storm of both joy and hurt all jumbled together. The blow to the heart is enough to put a catch in one's breath, but there is an equally deep understanding that such moments are why we are here in the first place, that they are rare and wonderful. The memories should be cherished and celebrated as evidence of a life being well lived. The storm usually passes quickly and I go about my life knowing this is right where I should be at the moment, doing exactly what I should be doing. Daughters Middle and Youngest live near by, along with the grandkid Gang of Seven. New memories are already being added and, the truth is, if they weren't here we wouldn't be here either; great job or no.

It can be very confusing, being where I should be, where I want to be, doing something that is both challenging and worth my best efforts, yet being nowhere near where I long to be - playing “TwinkleStar” and watching the dolphins play.

Somehow we are fitting it together.

Delighted

More than a year ago Deb spotted a tiny pin hole in the metal exhaust pipe connected to the exhaust manifold. We were far from anywhere repairs could be made, so we wrapped it and clamped it and basically forgot about it. I noticed it again when I started to mount the new heat exchanger and decided this would be the perfect time to do a more permanent repair. The first thought was to replace the 5 inch bit of tube with one that didn't have a hole in it. That thought faded away when it was discovered that the shop didn’t have any such thing in stock. The offer was made to weld a patch over the bad spot, something that would take about an hour and leave me with the possibility of getting the boat done by dinner.

Sold.

Pipe welded, JJ, Christopher, and I set about reassembling the Beast. It went pretty well right up until we filled the new parts with coolant. When bright green liquid starting dripping past the newly installed flange gasket at the base of the exchanger, we set about disassembling the Beast. New new gaskets replaced the old new gaskets, different and more robust hardware in the form a larger washers replaced the original, and a layer of gasket sealer was added to the install. By then Grampy T was well and truly spent. The reassembled unit was left on the bench to be hung on the Beast the following day. My young crew was delighted at the prospect of having another day of “real engine work” to do.

Come morning the Beast was assembled once again. Part of the fun of this install is the four nuts that help support the exhaust manifold. The only way to get the them started on the studs is to uckum sticky them to a long thin screwdriver, hold them against the stud end, and try to get them started using the edge of another long, thin, screwdriver. It is actually a pretty standard technique for working around an engineering wonk, but not exactly “boat mechanics 101.” All was going well until the very last nut to go on got started a little cross ways, buggering up the stud threads. So we had to back up a bit, removing the manifold to reach and dress the stud. Count that as having to do half of a removal.

The boys were delighted.

Stud threads dressed, the manifold was set in place for the third time. The boys insisted that they could handle the screw driver trick and wanted to give it a try. I’m not sure you could call it a true solo flight, but they got most of the way around the pattern; much to my delight.

Engine buttoned up, this time with the coolant system full and not drooling, Deb prodded the Beast to life while the boys and I looked for leaks. Almost immediately water started flowing from a set of clamps at the tube that was welded. A quick shut-down and some additional torque would cure the minor glitch, no problem. On the second start the clamps held tight but, a few moments later, water and mist could be seen seeping enthusiastically out of the weld repair. Problem. We would have to back up and start all over.

The boys were delighted. Grampy T? Not so much.

For the third time on this repair, fluid was drained and hoses undone. For the fourth time on this repair, the exhaust manifold was unbolted and lifted off the Beast. The boys insisted on trying to remove the nuts and washers, employing a magnet to catch all the bits as they came off the stud, thus avoiding having them cascade down the engine and into the engine pan. A pretty standard technique but not exactly “boat mechanics 101.” Nine and five years old, they handled it with little trouble, and were delighted with their prowess.

The heat exchanger / exhaust manifold assembly is at the shop waiting on a new chunk of exhaust tube to be delivered and installed. Since I am no longer an official employee of the yard and it will likely take a blow torch to get the parts apart, I suspect no one’s insurance would be happy with a DIY. Besides, the boys would likely insist that they could handle the torch, so this is an “out” for Grampy T.

When it comes to puttting the thing on for the fourth time though, I may just sit back and let them have at it.

They would be delighted.

Trying to get going

So there we were, within 36 hours or so of pulling the hook out of the Manatee River and heading off. There was a last day to be spent getting the mast lights on Blowing In The Wind squared away, and getting some play time in with the grand kids. I had long dreaded that last day of play, knowing the heart break that would come with those final hugs before we took the Ding out to Kintala. Best guess was that it would be three days of tears and at least another week of shaking off a grey cloud of wondering just why we needed to be away. After that there would still be intermittent bouts of the grey, bouts that would fade as the months wore on, though never going completely away. But, as it turned out, they were not thrilled at the idea of seeing us sail off over the horizon while they stayed tied to a dock, and so decided to leap in the cruising life themselves and come along.

How cool is that?

Because Kintala can’t fit through the Okeechobee, and Blowing In The Wind’s Captain and Admiral wanted to have a little easer “first go” than running through the Gulf of Mexico to the Keys, the two boats will be taking different paths for the first few weeks. After meeting again in Stuart our little family flotilla will head north.

Kintala was due to leave first with the plan of spending a few days hanging out in places we like to hang out, and meeting some people we would like to meet. So there we were, within 36 hours of pulling the hook out of the Manatee River and heading off.

Right up until we did the morning’s routine battery check. The check doesn’t amount to much, just running through the monitor menu to verify each battery’s voltage. The fancy Xantrex monitor does a whole bunch of other stuff as well, all of which I review, and none of which is very useful. Individual battery voltage displayed on a digital read-out to the hundredth off a volt will tell you everything you need to know about battery health. In the five years these batteries have been in Kintala the morning voltage checks have always been within a couple of hundredths of a volt of each other. This morning…

Battery 1 =12.16v.

Battery 2 =13.23 v.

Rats.



The first step in troubleshooting is to verify what one thinks is wrong actually is wrong. In this case that would mean opening up the battery box and putting a volt meter on each battery. Alas, since we had been working on BIGW’s mast lights yesterday and left the tools on that boat for today’s efforts, my volt meter was back on the dock and not with Kintala out here in the anchorage. A quick run in to say “good morning” and grab the meter ensued. Sure enough, checking with an independent meeter confirmed, battery 1 was down an entire volt from battery 2.

Five year old batteries on a full time cruising boat. One really can’t complain. We started making plans to replace the batteries, figuring we could get back on the dock for a couple of days. Better to do it now than face the music somewhere along the East Coast. But…

Deb kept asking, “Why?” Why this sudden drop. Why today? And I kept answering, “Everything works right up until it breaks.” We are trying to get going. This is a boat. Of course it is broken. Boats are always broken. It is just a matter of how broken.

The second rule of troubleshooting, after verifying the problem actually exists, is to figure out the most likely cause of the problem. And, when it comes to the most likely cause, one might as well start with the last thing someone touched that might have something to do with the system wonk now messing up the day.

Since I wasn’t aware of anything being done that would jostle the electrical system into a wonk, and since the batteries are five years old, and since we trying to be on our way; I just fell into the conclusion that the batteries had decided this was the perfect day to file for retirement. But clearly Deb wasn’t convinced. Even while using the internet to check the prices and availability of various batteries she kept asking, “Why now? Why today?” After a bit she disappeared in the aft cabin and started poking around.

“Found it.”

Found it? Found what?

Working on BITW’s electrical system had her rummaging through all of the various bins and cubby holes on Kintala yesterday. Places where we stash all kinds of do-dads, like wire and connections and tools not often used. Stuff needed to fix BITW’s lights. It is a bit of a pain. Actually, it is a major pain, not being able to just reach into a tool box or easily accessed storage cabinet to get something. I often claim that, should I ever loose my mind and move back on shore, it will be to avoid having to spend 20 minutes digging though cubby holes for the stuff needed to do a five minute job.

Kintala’s battery master switch is located in one of those cubby holes. We rarely touch it. In fact, it probably hasn’t been moved in a couple of years. In the process of searching for stuff Deb had bumped the battery master select switch with a box full of cable, moving in from “BOTH” to “ONE”.  It was late. It had been a long day. She was tired. And the cubby hole was dark and stuffed. As a result last night’s entire electrical load had been sucked out of just one battery.

Of course it was low. We had selected it to be low. We just didn’t know that we had selected it to be low come morning.

So, here we are, within 36 hours of being on our way.

Wake me not

Friday evening after work Blowin' in the Wind, home for Daughter Eldest and Family, dropped its dock lines and joined Kintala in the anchorage for the weekend. There may be, somewhere in the world, something better than having a family boat raft up that includes a gaggle of grand kids, but it is hard to imagine what that might be. Little ones scampered back and forth between the boats (with close adult supervision), there was that special, little one laughter over pelican antics, and the adult conversations centered about how much joy could be found just a few hundred feet off shore. The weather was quiet, the sky clear, and the water placid. It was a perfect evening and the start of what promised to be a wonderful weekend.

Saturday morning arrived cool and quiet, right up until the powerboat brigade started. The designated anchorage was off Pt McKay on the Manatee River, not very far from the boat yard. Anchoring there, as it turned out, was like pitching a tent in a perfect little meadow on Friday night, only to discover on Saturday morning that little meadow was smack in the middle of a Rally Car track. Within minutes the two boats were periodically banging into each other as an endless parade of wakes surged past, ricocheted off the shore, and struck from the other direction.

Now some might think that a newly minted Coast Guard Captain would have anticipated such a situation. After all, the Manatee River is pretty much a boat highway from multiple marinas to the Tampa Bay playground. I have been in such conditions many times before and should have known better. But, as the saying goes, “If I was perfect they would have to pay me more.”

We stuck it out by tying the boats tightly together with a solid layer of fenders in between. It worked, though a couple of hits were dramatic enough to be a bit scary. Not for the kids. They were hooting and calling out “Wake Hoe!” when spotting the bigger swells rolling through. The adults kept cautioning the little ones to hold on and sit down.

I try to be a live-and-let-live sort of person. Well, maybe it is more that I get as far away from most people as I can. That way they can live however they want without being much of a bother to me, and I can do the same without being much of a bother to them. The power boaters were just out having fun. Some were going fishing. Some were heading to a beach somewhere. And some were thrashing around just to thrash around. Nothing really wrong with that. We used to thrash around on massively overpowered motorcycles just for the shear exuberance of it all. I suppose the same can be said of powerboats. On the other hand…


After repeated bashings it was clear that there wasn't near enough space between Kintala and the power boat parade.  My imagination started seeing the blunt, weird looking shapes zooming by in a less than flattering light; loud, smelly, and banging across the water with the apparent haphazardness of those not caring much about anything except being loud, smelly, and banging across the water. There were no dolphins in sight. I hope there were no manatees about, they would have had little chance to survive. Pelicans and  cormorants fled the scene. At one point I took the little ones into shore so they could ride bicycles rather than get tossed around the cockpit.

Things settled down come evening. Pelicans and cormorants returned to do a little fishing. There might even have been a puff or two as dolphins nosed around to see what kind of damage had been done. It was a bit surreal that this was the same place it had been just a couple of hours before. It  seemed the wise decision to pull out first thing in the morning, before the Sunday madness erupted.

I was on Blowin' In The Wind when the lines were tossed, riding along for a run to the pump out station a couple of miles up the river. It was only their second time getting on an unfamiliar dock so having an extra pair of adult hands on board, just in case, seemed like a good idea. It turns out I was completely superfluous, unnecessary baggage. The grandsons (nine and five) are excellent line handlers and soon after leaving the pump out, Blowin' In The Wind was secure in her own slip. Deb picked me up in the Ding, we loosed Kintala’s hook from the river bed, stopped by the pump out as well, and returned to our old slip. (That the new head configuration pumps out so much quicker and easier than the old was was a pleasant surprise. It shouldn't have been. The new hose run is about half as long as the old one, with about 270 less degree of bending.)

Today it was back to addressing the few minor items, like the 2.5 inch hole in the foredeck left after removing the deck fitting that is going to find a new permanent home in a different spot. Right after laying down some glass Old Boss Not So New called to see if I could make a road trip to check the rigging on a boat. (The yard is pretty busy.) The long and short is that the "road trip" ended up being done in a 300 HP center console fishing boat.

So there I was skimming along the Bay with Old Boss Not So New's Boss at the helm, doing close to 30 knots, and leaving a pretty good wake behind my sailboating self. Since the whole purpose of this trip was to get somewhere to fix something before the weather moves in tonight, not to mention that two of us were on the clock at a combined rate north of $100 / hour, such speed seemed totally reasonable.

Live and let live.

Redemption

For any of you who have read the years past of this blog, you may remember the travails of our oldest daughter and her family and the Little Boat That Couldn't. It was a time in both their and our lives we try not to think about much. It was as hard as hard gets.

Today we were finally able to put that chapter to rest as we motored out the gate of the boat yard in their new-to-them Ericson sailboat and headed into the river for its maiden voyage. Everyone had huge smiles on their faces and there were a few whoops and hollers from the bow as the kids urged Papa on at the helm.

Thanks to the excellent care given to this particular Ericson by the previous owner, and his graciousness in allowing them to buy it at a fair price, the family has once again found a home on the water, a life that few but us can understand, a life that resonates with them, a life that brings joy. It was indeed a day of redemption.

Ever try to get three kids to smile at the camera at one time? Then you'll understand this photo

Grandbaby #10 spent most of the first sail of her life sleeping

Lucky man

Several years ago two of my grandsons sat alongside me under one of the picnic pavilions at the marina in Middle River, Ft Lauderdale. We were hand sanding a new part for Kintala’s interior, they being way too young for power tools. It remains one of my favorite “I am a grandpa” memories. Time rolls on, grandsons grow, and boats like Kintala always seem to have something that needs sanded and refinished. It is a kind of cosmic regenerating circle work, like the grass growing in the yard. Between that time and now they moved to Indiana, then Missouri, and now live on a boat just a few slips away from us. They have also grown up enough to tangle with palm sanders.

And they loved it.

Sanding in 2014

Fortunately we have three aboard. Yeah, I know. We have also moved all of my tools off of the work golf cart and back into our the aft cabin’s work bench area. Ye Old Tartan now lists about 3 degrees to starboard even in dead calm winds. We really should go through and “down size” the tool collection again.  We thought about it, then just found cubbies and holes to stash the ones we don’t use that often; like 3 or four of the 7 3/8’s drive ratchets we have aboard. There is the short one, the normal length one, the long one, the one with a swivel head, the one with a 3/8s on one side and 1/4 on the other side, the main one that is a Snap-on unit I have had since my days in tech school, and a cheap-assed one that serves mostly as a hammer. There is actually an eighth one that is part of a metric 3/8s set that rests in its own box. It stays with the set. (Along with the 3 and 8 inch extensions, of which we also have several floating around.) Going to sea with a retired mechanic has its challenges.

So the dock box at the end of the pier was turned into a work table for Grampy T and two sheets of wood were laid on the ground for the kids.  Extension cords were run and the five teak parts taken off the cockpit seats and companionway were parsed out to my “worker men.” There was a little trepidation to go along with their excitement since they hear constant warnings about how easy it is to get hurt with a power tool. Palm sanders are likely the least dangerous power tool of all, but still…these boys are nine and five respectively. A sanded finger would make me very unpopular with Mom.

Proper technique was reviewed. Sand the piece, don’t scrub at it. Keep the sander moving when it is touching on the wood. Go with the grain. And sand old varnish not newly exposed wood. They fired up, their little faces scrunched up in that particular way kids have when they are concentrating, and the dust started to fly.

It was pure magic for Grandpa.

I was an instructor for the first hour or so, watching carefully as they got to know the work. At times I would put my hand over theirs on the sander, adjusting the cadence and length of their stroke or letting them know that they didn’t need to lean so hard on the tool. They are quick learners and were soon flying solo.

It was a popular show for some of the other crews hanging around the boat yard, doing their own projects in preparation for heading out. One passer by made the comment, “You are a lucky man.”

I suspect he doesn't know just how right he is.

And then there were Ten…

Grand Daughter Newest made her debut early Friday morning. It was perfect timing on her part. There had been much concern that the drive to the Birth Center would happen during one of Florida’s nightmare rush hours. It seemed a good bet that, this being child 4 for Daughter Eldest, such could well lead to a delivery happening on the side of the road somewhere, sans any professional help. There was also the issue of the tide. Low tide would turn just getting Mom off the boat and to the van into a huge hurdle (forgive the pun). There was also the issue of getting the rest of the family, Dema, Grampy “T”, and children eldest, middle, and little, to the event; and what to do with the family for those first couple of post-birthday days when Mom and new baby could use some easy, quiet time to get acquainted and settled into some kind of routine.

Hotel rooms close to the Birth Center were reserved as the due date approached and, as each day passed, the reservations changed as required. A rental car took up residence off of Kintala’s pier, providing enough seats to get everyone where they needed to be while adding a bit of flexibility to respond to transportation needs. Bags were packed with the essentials and placed strategically, ready to be grabbed quickly. Phones were kept charged and checked periodically to make sure the ringing would be loud and unmistaken as the call to action. All of this excellent planning, by the way, being done by Dema; Grammy “T” just going to work each day while trying not to forget the assigned minor parts in the impending proceedings.

The starting gun for our part of the scramble went off at 0210, with the tide closer to high than low. A few minutes later we were at Blowing in the Wind, boat home of Daughter Eldest and family of soon to be another. Mom and Dad headed off to the Birth Center with Son Eldest who, it turned out, became a kind of Master of Ceremony at the actual birth. (More on that in a moment.) Even in Florida there is no rush hour at 0210, so long as there isn’t a hurricane inbound. (Now there is a thought sure to induce shudders of dread.) Mom, Dad, and Brother Eldest made it to the Birth Center with time to spare. There, Brother Eldest, just a couple of weeks short of his own 9th birthday, not only attended the arrival of his Sister Littlest, he held onto Mom’s hand, encouraged her through the last of the contractions, actually handed his new sister to his Mom for the first time, and cut the umbilical cord when the time came. An amazing display of poise and maturity that floored the professionals in attendance. So taken were they, that Big Brother is actually listed on the official paperwork as one of the doulas in attendance. (How cool is that!?) Future boyfriends are going to have a serious hurdle to clear when it comes to Big Brother, one that will likely surpass even those raised by Dad and Grampy “T”.

While all the serious stuff went on at the Birth Center, the rest of the family settled in at the hotel awaiting news. Brother (little) and Sister (soon to be not the littlest), having already been real troopers though awakened in the middle of the night to find Mom, Dad, and Brother Eldest long gone, being loaded into the rental car, and enduring the drive and settling into the hotel, faded off to sleep. The approaching dawn brought news that Little Alexandria Francesca had arrived safely in our midst and that Mom was doing well. A few hours later, the family reunited at the hotel where introductions were made all around and the stories were shared. That unique feeling of joy, mixed with relief, and seasoned with the wonder and love that the newly arrived bring with them into this world, infused the room.

Some people claim the mantel of “born to be a sailor”. Alexandria, if she so desires as she grows, can actually make the claim of having been born a sailor. Her first home is a sailboat, one that was (fortunately) floating on a high tide when the time came. How her life will unfold is a story yet to be told, but she is off to a unique start.

Welcome aboard Little One.

Quiet morning

One of the best parts of this cruising life is the (normally) quiet start to a day. Alarms, the blaring of TV news, traffic, and the bustle to make a schedule are not a part of most cruising days. Some time spent sitting in the cockpit sipping from a warm cup and easing into another day is more our speed. 

Kintala lies quiet to her mooring this morning; really, really quiet. Most of her crew for the last month caught the pre-dawn ebb tide of traffic and motored off into the fog for places north. And though one would think that being back to her normal crew of two would make the boat feel bigger, it just feels empty.

At least some of the empty will get filled with final preparations for finally getting off the dock. The romping Bird-Day sail sprung a fuel leak and showcased the need to tighten up the side stays a little. While cleaning the bilge of fuel we discovered that the bilge pump “auto” function wasn't working. Part of the work just passed included installing a new, high tech, “field sensor” equipped, low profile, pump that would suck the bilge nearly dry. Which it does, so long as the high tech “field sensor” part of the pump is squeaky clean...in a bilge. Add a regular cleaning of the bilge pump to the routine maintenance list, and take that pump off the “good idea” list. A really good idea would be a bullet proof pump and a simple float switch that works, slimed up and smelly, after weeks of sitting in a dark, damp, and dirty place rarely visited. (The fuel leak turned out to be the gasket under the tank sending unit. An easy fix, and now we know about the weak link in our bilge pump system. Not a bad deal.)  

There is a fan that needs changed, the oven is acting up, and we need to change the filter on the holding tank vent before the tank starts getting filled up once again. Stores need stored and some needed general clean up of the deck and cockpit testify to having had seven people living on the boat for the past month.

It looks like a passing cold front will keep us on the dock for the weekend, bringing storms, wind, and much cooler temperatures starting this afternoon. There will be plenty of work to keep us busy while we wait for a break in the weather. And though I freely admit that the relentless effort needed to keep a boat safe and operating is not one of the things I enjoy about cruising it will, for this weekend anyway, make it easier to get used to quiet mornings again.

Best Day Ever!

Grandsons (2) were pretty impressed with Grampa T riding the crane to the top of the mast. They were even more impressed when, once the job was done, Boss New let them pull on the levers that folded in the hydraulic support legs. If you want to see the biggest smiles in the universe, let a little boy run a real live crane. When he does, (and then gets his favorite dish for dinner) he will loudly proclaim that this has been the "BEST DAY EVER!" Who knows, maybe he is right. Maybe, in the sum total of everything that happened in the whole cosmos in the last 24 hours, this was the best day ever. 

By the end of the day I was sporting a pretty good smile myself. Kintala's new inner forestay and much better furling system for the staysail are in place. (Thank you again Mizzy and Brain!)The furling line is run, and a new halyard is rigged and spliced, waiting to hoist the sail. I've done a couple of dozen line splices but, for some reason, went into total brain fade when trying to do this one. After botching several tries (and wasting some brand new line) it was time to take a break and figure out what was wrong with my hand / brain connection. Ditching the written directions and watching a video helped, and the next try ended in success. By the time it was all done the wind had picked up into the low 20s. I was feeling a bit beat in spite of the smile, so decided to wait until this morning to bend on the last of Kintala's normal sailing suit. Everyone on the boat is, more or less, on the mend. Some more. Some less.

The plan is for next week to be my last week of working on the clock for this season. Then all attention will turn to final prep to get on our way. There are still a few minor items to clear; a new bit of exhaust hose and some rework on the throttle will finish up the Beast. The Dink is inflated but the Merc hasn't been run in months, and it isn't likely to run without some TLC of its own. 

Though it is tempting to feel that we are close to getting back to our cruising life, the more years I put in the less likely I am to talk about things that haven't happened yet as if they are inevitable. Arabic speaking religious people, Muslim, Christian, and Jew, share a saying “Inshallah”; “If god wills.” Though I have no god belief I find a good bit of wisdom in the sentiment. We are creatures of the moment. The past fades rapidly into uncertain memory, the future waivers between a guess and a plan.

There might be another bit of wisdom lurking in “Inshallah”. We often choose to do a little bit of evil in the moment with the idea that it will bring a lot of good in the future. And it sometimes works out that way. But I'm beginning to think it works out that way much less often than our fuzzy memory likes to suggest. It may be best to avoid doing the little evils, even with the best of intentions, if at all possible. And if this moment brings a chance to do any little thing that will bring on a smile big enough to light up a universe, well, that is a chance that should always be taken.

Soooo....

Just hours after writing the above I headed out to the deck to hoist Kintala's last sail. Grandsons (2) were excited about helping. We unfolded the sail, ran the sheets, hoisted it aloft, and tugged on the furling line to wrap up this last big project. Tugged on the furling line. Tugged. 

Something was jammed at the top of the sail. Yesterday's BEST DAY EVER ran away laughing as my mood spiraled down, down, and then down some more. We dropped the sail back to the deck and I retired to the v-berth, mostly to ignore the need to come up with a plan. I was just done.

A little later Deb, who was away at the store when all this happened, called from the foredeck. Dragging my cough racked body up the companionway was as big a chore as I have faced recently. It appears a serious downer will give a waning flu a new burst of life. Going forward I found Young Steven, a rigger here at the yard, and Deb deep in debate. He believed he could fix the problem pretty easily, and do it aloft. Just minutes later he was in his climbing rig and headed up the mast, tool bucket in tow. It turned out the fix wasn't as easy as he thought but that didn't matter. He kept at it, spending more than an hour aloft, then dropping the stay where he could get a better grip and angle on the problem. Then he went back up the mast to re-rig the stay. By early afternoon we were exactly were we had intended to be by the end of the day, stay secure and the last of Kintala's working sails in place.

Young Steven lives on his boat part time though, with schooling his primary goal, cruising is just a thought for later. But I think I'll nominate him for honorary cruiser status. His dogged efforts may not have turned today into another BEST DAY EVER, but he came pretty close. 

Last Soldier Standing

Hiding in the tupperware cupboard is the best game ever

The plan was to put the boat back in the water on Thursday, December 1st, drive to the airport in Tampa and begin a 10 day vacation visiting our 9 grandkids. It went so smoothly, right down to getting the TSA Pre line at security. During visits with Daughter Youngest and Daughter Middle, cookies were made, good meals consumed, games played, crafts crafted, son-in-laws ordained into the priesthood, (did you catch that last one?), and the visit culminated with a trip to our favorite ice cream store, Ices Plain and Fancy. It just couldn't get any better, except that Granddaughter #1 was sick. She spend a couple days on the couch sleeping, and within a day Granddaughter #2 was showing the tell tale signs.

Saturday morning we packed up Daughter Eldest's van with enough stuff for them to visit the boat for a few weeks. We took off toward Florida a mere 1/2 hour after planned departure (amazing feat with three kids under 8) and had a great time playing peek-a-boo through the headreast of the seat with the Granddaughter Littlest and Lego Star Wars games on the iPads with the two boys. They were wonderful and the time flew by. Round about the late afternoon, while we were looking for a hotel to spend the night, my throat started burning. Uh Oh...

I was the sickest, with a vicious sore throat, high fever, and deep, racking cough low in the chest. Tim soon followed, succumbing after an attempted first day back at work on Monday. He spent the next 36 hours in bed and, although he left for work this morning, I expect him back by lunch. Kristin and Brian and two of the little ones were downed yesterday, leaving only the middle one standing. He devoured dinner and we thought he just might bypass the wrath of this bug. Within an  hour of going to bed he was awake, screaming. The Last Soldier had fallen.

Over the summer when people asked us what our cruising plans were and we spoke of having our Eldest daughter's family on board for a few weeks over the holidays before heading to the islands, the universal response was, "What, are you crazy???" "Seven people onyour boat?" They've visited before and, being boat people, they get the constraints of space, water, and power. We get along well and enjoy each other's company. Dealing with this bug with seven of us on the boat has perfectly illustrated the necessity for kindness, caring, patience, and a sense of humor that living in small spaces requires. This kind of living requires mindfulness: choosing to be kind and caring, a polar opposite of the cold, spiteful, political climate we find ourselves in right now. And if it takes a vicious virus to help me remember that, I guess that I can live with that.

O530 in the morning...

A walk in the park at Emerson Point

There are only two reasons to be up at 0530 in the morning, weather and departures. Kintala is still tied securely to a dock making it generally unnecessary to get up because of weather. But Daughter Eldest and Family have a long drive ahead of them and wanted to get off before the morning rush hour. Final bags and trip snacks were secured in place and, after a last round of hugs, sleepy little ones were as well. The van's engine hummed to life, interior lights were switched on so the last waves good-bye could be shared, and off they went into the darkness.

Departures are a part of life. Some are easier than others. This was on of the “others”.


It has been two years since Daughter Eldest and Family had been with us on the boat, two years since the summer in Ft. Lauderdale and The Bear. Two years is a long time in the life of little ones, but the boys quickly remembered the rules of boat living. Still, four pairs of adult eyes kept a sharp eye out as they came and went. Kintala was a new experience for Grand Daughter Youngest and, like grand kids before her, climbing the companion way stars to the very top was her new favorite thing. Even though four pairs of adult eyes were trying to keep her in sight as well, at least twice she made it without anyone noticing she was in full climbing mode. A good way to get four adult heats beating quickly.

Seven on Kintala is a full ship load. (Somehow the younger a person is, the more room they take up on a boat.) At night the v-berth and salon were full of the sleeping. For most of the week there was one less during the day, Grampy T being at work. In the evenings there was coloring and book reading and story telling. Rambunctiousness of all kinds would break out without warning. The weekends were for drum circles, train rides, visits to the beach, and Grampy T's best birthday party...ever.

Kintala is a much quieter boat this morning. Another work week will start in a couple of hours, the routine falling quickly back into place.

Departures are a part of life. Some are easier than others.

This was one of the “others”.

Land magic

Deb and I are spending the days getting the condo ready for market. It has been rented, fully furnished, for the last 2 years. The renters took some of the stuff with them when they left, but try as we might, we could not get them to take it all. So we had a condo full of stuff that needed to go away, far, far away. Daughter Middle and Deb came up with a plan, and today we had a “Free Sale”.

Now I know what you are thinking. “Free” and “Sale” are mutually exclusive terms. If something is free then it is not for sale. And if something is for sale it is, most definitely, not free. Putting those two word together makes absolutely no sense at all.

But, apparently, if one does put those two words together and then casts them into the cosmos via “ReUseit” and Facebook, they become a potent magic spell. Wafting out across the city the words will provoke, compel, and seduce all kinds of people into action. Soon texts were flying and phones were ringing. People wanted to make appointments or put things in reserve. Used things, things they had not even seen, and some of the things built specifically to fit into this one condo and our specific kind of living.

The Free Sale was supposed to start at 2 pm. By 2 pm virtually everything was spoken for. By 3 pm virtually everything was gone. Two items were left, and tomorrow someone is coming to collect them.

Unbelievable. I am a well known skeptic of all things wooish, but how else to explain a house full of used stuff disappearing like a field of wheat under a cloud of locusts? Even better, one of those looking at stuff got to looking at the condo itself. More than an hour later she left empty handed but with the contact information for our broker. Now that would be some special magic indeed, though I would be surprised if any woo has that much power.

With the place now empty enough to echo, the last push is upon us. With any luck we will be done by the end of the week and the condo can go on the market. Now all we need is to find the magic that leads to the words, “Under Contract”.

It would be fun to have the house done that quickly as we have other things vying for attention; the most important of which is the arrival of grand baby number 9. Little Sophia made her way into the world yesterday morning. She and Mamma and the rest of the family are just a few hours drive away. Grampy-T is feeling the need to gather up the new little one and say, “Hello!”

Joy

One of the things I like about cruising is that it restores that wonder that we had as children. You just can't see striking sunsets every night and float in 20 feet of crystalline water where you can see the bottom without being rendered speechless. Yet even with all of that, the grandkids are still able to focus me on joy in a way that nothing else can. While visiting Tim's parents at the nursing home in the first few days of our travels, I took one of our granddaughters to see the large bird cage full of finches that resides on another floor of the facility. She could stand there for hours watching them, fascinated. 

The white one was her favorite.

And the laughter . . . they never cease to catch me completely off guard with their fresh, untarnished view of things. We were cooking hot dogs over a campfire in the back yard of my eldest daughter's house in Indianapolis and the fire was smoking quite a bit from the hot dog grease dripping into it. My grandson Julian remembered that his dad had a respirator in the garage for dealing with stinky paints and within minutes he handed off his hot dog stick to me and returned all prepared to deal with the smoky fire. If you ever needed a laugh, this is one you simply can't resist.