Real life

Kintala and her crew have been on the move, trying to escape the confines of the shallow waters and crab pot mine fields of the Gulf of Mexico and the west coast of Florida, though it has had its charms. A day out of Factory Bay we set the anchor just outside of Shark River. There was no need to venture further inland as the winds were light and variable. It was the first time since getting to Snead Island months ago that we enjoyed a place dark and quiet, far away from the light and noises of modern society. Venus and Mars were glowing bright enough to leave their own reflections in the placid water while the silence was so complete that one's ears hurt, trying to find a purchase in the unfamiliar quiet. I couldn't help but wonder. With nearly half of America's population now living in cities and suburbs, just how many of my fellow citizens ever experience a place where human kind is so obviously unnecessary to the workings of the world or the history of the cosmos? And if more of us did, would that make us a different kind of people than we have turned out to be?

The sun reflected in the water off Kitala's side in a rare moment without crab traps

It was a special evening set in the middle of some not-so-special days. Truth to tell, if I were a full time live-a-board cruiser whose only cruising choices were the west coast of Florida and the eastern Gulf, Kintala would have a “FOR SALE” sign hung on her bow and we would be looking for an RV. Two full days of picking our way through crab pot haven, and finally getting out of the Gulf, have left us anchored up near Big Spanish Key with poor holding, little protection, and nowhere else to get to before night fell. Crawl Key was the anchorage we had been aiming for after coasting over the shallows of the Big Spanish Channel (even at near high tide the depth gauge read “0” at places). But it was completely covered in crab pot markers. With some daylight left, we moved on and ended up here, a place with a bit more swing room. Which is good. Even the Mantus couldn't find a purchase in the few inches of sand covering coral, and we are lying to its 65 pounds of weight and more than 100 feet of chain. It will likely be enough to keep us in place, but it will also be a night of restless and troubled sleep. The night's forecast of light winds has already proven to be in error, and we are currently bouncing and bumping against the anchor chain. Two different anchor alarms are set and, should it turn out that we need to move and attempt a re-hook, picking out the crab traps will be nigh on impossible in the darkness.

Pulling into the anchorage at Shark River on the very last of the sunlight after 10 hours and 40 minutes and 59.7 nm

This is only my second time sailing through this part of the world, but I am failing to understand other people's enthusiasm for the place. Still...

Dolphins have been nearly hourly visitors, rather than a rare treat. We have seen more big turtles in the last two days than we have seen in the last two years. We even saw what we think was the fin and wake of a large shark, off the port side, doing whatever it is large sharks do in the Gulf of Mexico. (I know, pretty much anything they want to do.) That makes a kind of sense since we were heading for Shark River at the time.

Tomorrow we hope to gain Boot Key, though it may be too full for us to find a place to hind from the cold front due Sunday / Monday. Winds of 35 knots are forecast, along with thunderstorms. Should there be no room for us in the inn, at least the anchorage outside has good holding. After riding out a 50+ knot storm in Fox Town a couple of years ago, and with an additional 50+ feet of chain to lay down if necessary, the front should offer nothing more than a couple of days of discomfort and another night or two of little sleep. While in (or near) Boot Key, we hope to address a couple of minor mechanical issues. The brand new remote oil filter we installed last summer has an oil leak. And the
brand new water pump we also installed last summer, (which has less than 50 hours of run time on it) has developed a water leak at the front seal. (The same issue that caused us to replace the old one.)

Welcome to the real life of a full time cruiser.

Of course, another part of the real life of a full time cruiser is the Abaco Islands. With any luck we will see them again before too many more weeks have passed.

As daylight waned, the horizon became indistinct

Backing down on the anchor as the last light fades

The sunset at Little Pine Key

On the move, slowly.

This morning Kintala nodded to the rising sun from Factory Bay, Marco Island. We stopped here on the way north and, except for bumping the ground on our first attempt to gain the anchorage, liked the place. There were no such dramatics getting in this time, “previous tracks” are a marvel of modern navigation.

Leaving Charlotte Harbor

Where we did bump the ground was exiting the canal in Punta Gorda two days ago. “Bump” isn't really the right word, “stuck fast” is a better description. Trying to get away early in the morning on a falling tide maybe wasn't the best choice. But there was a long day's sail ahead and, well, stuff happens. So after paying four years' worth of premiums to Tow Boat US, we finally got the opportunity to try out their service. Barely an hour after fudging to a stop in the soft and sticky mud (and providing the morning entertainment for those walking and fishing in the park), Kyle had pulled us free and out into deep(er) water. No harm, no foul, and excellent service all around.

If you sail the ICW, don't leave home without it.

We had been giving longer, outside runs to the Keys serious consideration. Two or three nights worth of passage making would have had us there already. Assuming, of course, one didn't get tangled up in one of the hundreds, if not thousands, of crab pots polluting the water even miles off shore. I know, crab fisherman need to make a living, and people like eating crab. But the crabbers have effectively confiscated the west coast of Florida for their own use. Picking one's way through in the day is possible, though in bigger waves than the ones we have seen so far it would be difficult. Trying it at night is a pure crap shoot. Maybe next year we will try the “sail 50 miles west during the day then turn north or south as appropriate and be on your way” approach. For, truth to tell, the combination of crab pots and shallow water is getting rather tedious.

Great Blue Heron in the Venice Inlet

Still, we are in Factory Bay, on the hook, and it is sure good to be back to our chosen way of living. We even had sundowners with newly met friends, who are also new to cruising. We met on Rascal, their 42 foot Jeanneau DS. Good folks on a sweet boat. Reasons to come this way.

There hasn't been a lot of sailing going on yet. Yesterday, just after leaving the channel off Sanibel Island, we saw a glorious hour of reaching, starting out with the two reefs in main left over from the last romp with Daughter Eldest and Family. (Yep, its been that long since the main was put to serious use.) We had to heave-to for a few minutes at first to reconfigure the auto pilot from “tiller pilot” to “wind vane” mode. That is every bit as much of a pain as it sounds, but that's what happens when one layers back-yard engineering onto marginal-in-the-first-place equipment. It all works and we have learned to live with it. In fact, I am a bit proud of how well it seems to work most of the time.

As the winds faded, we shook out first one reef, then the other, hanging onto the sailing as long as we could. Eventually though, it was clear that night would fall on the lurking crab traps long before we would gain the entrance to Marco Island. No need to heave-to for the auto pilot reconfiguration this time. Kintala was effectively drifting in placid water.

Figuring it out as we go. Stumbling a bit once in a while. But still making progress. Not too bad. Not too bad.

Thanks, Dave for teaching me that this was an Aninga not a cormorant.

The duplicate of the Vietnam Vet Wall located in Punta Gorda, FL

The Captain is happy to be on the move again.

Because I believe every day should have some dolphins in it.

Hard Starting...

Not the Merc on the Ding, that starts pretty easily. It is getting it to idle that is difficult. What proved hard was getting back to cruising, getting off the pier.

A manatee showing us how to relax

Friday was the initial start day. Daughter Eldest and Family departed before sunrise. The plan was to have Kintala underway shortly thereafter. A blustering cold front made leaving the dock problematic, and the oven was having ideas of its own. Ideas that included fluttering, popping and puffing flame balls. Ditch the idea of leaving the dock. Heading out with an oven that was threatening to turn into a hand grenade would be pure lunacy. There is enough of that in the world without my contribution.

There were other small tasks that needed done as well. Good thing, since the oven gremlin was elusive and persistent. It took until Sunday to root him out and send him on his way, with many thanks to Todd at Sure Marine for his troubleshooting help.

Sunday. Oven was fixed. Water tanks were filled. But man was it cold. Monday would be good. We could leave early in the morning. And with that thought in mind Deb went out to check all of the boat's exterior lights. All of which worked except for the bow navigation lights. I am a boat spark chaser, we are sitting in a boat yard that has, and can get, parts. It seemed kind of silly to head off with something like the navigation lights not working. Still being hooked to shore power meant we could at least fend off some of the cold with our little space heater. Monday was planned as a work day. Departure day to be determined.

Monday. Monday morning a water leak was evident by the regular cycling of the pump. Deb found it in less than five minutes. I went to work on the navigation lights. It was just a burned out bulb. Snead Island had the right one in stock. Fixed.

The now properly repaired jib pole didn't fit in its improperly installed brackets any more (thank you previous owner). Since we were (still) in the boatyard I pulled the aft bracket and remounted it to the deck in a place so the pole would fit. It is better than lashing said pole to a stanchion. And the missing battery voltage at the helm charging plug wasn't missing after all. The adapter(s) we kept trying were shot. Get a new adapter and all is well with the world.

Monday afternoon. The days of delay have left us a little short on provisions. Deb borrowed a car to make a run (thank you Nice Man at the Marina). Our bikes went north with the kids, better than leaving them down here to slowly rust into a pile of dust. When she got back it was still just early afternoon. The winds had faded, the sun was out and warming the air, and there didn't seem to be any reason to stay any longer.

While Deb sorted the last of the provisions I topped all the water tanks and started undoing the snarl of lines and power cords that had become Kintala's nest. It all became a bit surreal, but finally, after 285 days of sitting at a dock, we gathered in the lines (instead of leaving them attached to land) and motored out of the basin.

We didn't go far, just out to the anchorage in the Manatee river. Barely a quarter of a mile off of the beach and maybe a mile from the dock, the anchor went over and took a good set. Yet, somehow, the little distance traveled was enough to find an entirely different universe. How can that be?

The sky is clear. The air is cool but the setting sun warms my sweatshirt and reflects off of blue water. Cold front winds have settled down to a gentle breeze, though Kintala swings to the incoming tide. And I am a bit stunned. How could I have forgotten how good it is to be swinging to the hook, with so little care as to what the rest of the world is doing?

A new view out the galley window

There is no telling what the next few hours will bring, let along the next few days or months. But at this moment, though there may be people in the world as content as I am, there is no one more so. Kintala is free of her restraints and on her way once again.

And so am I.

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.

Happy Bird-day

Grandson eldest turned eight yesterday. His little sister talked about his “Bird-day” from start to finish. The start was kind of early since the main thing the Bird-day Boy wanted for a present was to go sailing. The rest of us were glad to oblige.

Winds were forecast in the 10 to 20 knot range. Since there were no plans to set speed records nor anywhere in particular we needed to go, two reefs were set in the main with the plan to fly the staysail most of the day, should the wind forecast prove accurate. The crew hurried a bit to get Kintala off the dock while the morning doldrums lasted, which also gave us a chance to try and reset the wind indicator in mostly calm conditions. It was the second effort. Deb took over the button pushing part while I just steered the boat as instructed. As usual when a woman is doing something, the nearest man (me) kept offering completely useless advice. And, again as usual, tactfully ignoring said advice was the only way to get the job done. In this case finishing the job resulted in our wind indicator actually working for the first time in over a year.

“Mostly calm” still meant 10 knots or so of wind being available to get down the river and out into Tampa bay. It was easy sailing mostly off the wind. With just the jib flying, Kintala nearly steered herself, so the “Bird-day” boy was given the helm and tasked with us down the channel safely. Our eight year old Captain did an excellent job, making Grampy T a proud Grampy indeed.

Gaining the bay, young Captain and the rest of the crew wanted to sail under the Skyway Bridge. Being tighter on the wind, the main went up to help balance the helm, though I'm sure we looked a bit odd with a double reefed main flying behind a fully deployed jib. It worked out okay and we headed for the bridged doing close to 5 knots, Grandson Eldest reluctantly giving up the helm in the more challenging conditions.


Nearing the bridge the winds started to falter, requiring some tacking to manage the clearing. On the far side of the bridge there was a bit more wind, making for an easy turn to start the sail back to Snead Island. Going under the bridge for a second time it became clear there was more wind everywhere. A lot more wind. Kintala heeled up on her “go fast” lines and we romped off, still flying the big jib. It would take a couple of long tacks to make the river, which was okay with everyone. Daughter Eldest used the heel to settle under the dodger, Granddaughter Youngest snuggled in her lap, both of them nodding off for a much needed nap. Yes, we were heeled hard over and bashing our way down the Bay, but Mothers of two-year-olds everywhere will understand.

The next tack saw us rolling in the big jib and flying just the staysail, the thought being to settle the ride just a little. That didn't really work so well. Without the power of the big jib we bounced over the waves instead of blowing through them. The jib went back out, along with the staysail, and off we romped once again. Now I'm sure we looked really odd, both head sails flying full with two reefs in the main. But ye ol' Tartan was happy and the helm was only moderately loaded, so we let it be.

Besides, we were running comfortably at well over six knots. If it works, don't fix it.

The next tack would have us gaining the river, so the big jib was rolled in. Hard on the wind we where showing nearly 30 knots of breeze flowing over the deck. Even falling off didn't completely unload the sail. The Deck Monkey struggled a bit at the furling line, but the jib rolled in so tight it looked like a toothpick on the forestay. I wish I could get it to look like that every time.

Working the wind, taking advantage of every lift and occasionally pinching up a bit, Son-in-Law (wanting his own time at the helm) worked us through the narrow part of the channel and into the open part of the river out from the Snead Island inlet. The staysail rolled up (not looking as good as the jib) while the shorted main fell into the lazy jacks with little effort.

We gained the dock with just a little bit of a stumble, caused by (you can guess) who thought he was grabbing the upwind stern dock line when, in fact, it was the leeward line in his hand. Kind of useless for keeping the wind from blowing the stern askew. The rest of the crew stepped up to keep things from getting ugly.

All in all Kintala covered more than 34 nm in 8 and a half hours of raucous sailing. Afterward the “Bird-day” Boy got his pizza dinner and chocolate cake, (complete with a matchstick for a candle) and opened a couple of presents.

I'm pretty sure my eighth “Bird-day” wasn't anywhere near that cool. I suspect Grandson Eldest and the rest of the family will remember it for many a year.

It was likely the last sail we will take with Daughter Eldest and Family before they come back for the summer. The rest of the week will be taken up with provisioning runs and errands, the last minute details for getting them back to St. Louis for the next semester of school, and us back to cruising.

Happy Bird-day indeed!

Redefining Christmas

When we were raising our kids, I openly admit that we fell victim to the holiday guilt trip. We were shamed into spending money we didn't have on things we didn't need, most of which would be discarded within a few short weeks of Christmas, and all of which would get the axe when we downsized after the kids moved out. We were part of the corporate culture, good spenders trained well. But as keeper of the Christmas List, I was miserable, tired, stressed.

As we began to reassess "stuff" prior to moving onto Kintala full time to go cruising, holidays were one of those things that endured careful scrutiny. In order to assure that we had enough money to care for ourselves and not burden the girls at the end of our retirement, spending was going to have to be curtailed to an extreme measure. By that time we had seven grandchildren and, between birthdays and Christmas, we would have spent our entire monthly cruising budget on gifts and cards. I struggled with guilt and feelings of inferiority for a long time. We had a lifetime history of holiday giving and had succumbed to the propaganda that if you didn't spend a few thousand dollars on your kids and grandkids every Christmas, that you didn't love them.

As we began to log the cruising miles, it became apparent that we might have something to give after all. The experiences we were living, the stories resulting, and the future possibility of having the kids on board to share in them, all became a growing reality. We might not be able to buy the multiples of hundred dollar Lego sets, but we could share in the laughter at the antics of the dolphins.

On December 10th we left St. Louis in Daughter Eldest's van headed for the boat where they intended to spend a month as a trial for a summer with us in 2017. That month, which spanned Christmas, is rapidly drawing to a close (much to my daughter's dismay), and it has left me with a renewed appreciation of the benefits of the cruising life and the way it has changed our outlook.

It all started with Christmas morning. The kids had gone to Mass at the local Catholic church in Palmetto and, while they were gone, I placed a few small Lego minifigures wrapped in tiny packages on the back of the settee. They were met with delight, smiles, and a bunch of giggles. I had worried that they were too small, too insignificant, too inexpensive, to impress them, but my fears were unfounded. They were thrilled and spent the next couple hours assembling them and playing with them. Later that afternoon we went for a hike in the local part, Emerson Point Preserve, followed by Christmas dinner of roast chicken on the boat. It was a perfect day. There were no hours of opening mounds of presents, no boxes of leftover wrapping paper and ribbons to store, and no credit card bill to pay in January. There was only a sleepy, "This was the best Christmas ever!" heard from the aft cabin. The Legos will never be remembered when the kids are 40 and having their own Christmas with their kids, but the memories of Christmas on the boat will endure.

I recently heard of someone who made an Advent calendar that had little cards tucked into each pocket. On Thanksgiving afternoon, they filled out the cards, selecting someone for whom they would do something special, or to whom they would give a small gift or write a letter. It culminated for this family in delivering a basket of gifts to their local fire station on Christmas day. It takes unbelievable courage to step from the Lemming Stream, but there's probably never been a more important time in history to do so. Next Christmas, try to give the gift of experiences rather than gifts. Hug rather than buy. Dare to define your love through some other means than money.

I promise you it will be the most rewarding thing you do

Close, oh so close.

Daughter Eldest and Family have been visiting for a couple of weeks, enjoying life on Kintala and a break from the winter weather gripping the midwest. We have played games, worked coloring books, hung out at the beach, and gone for rides in the “Ding”, grand daughter youngest's word for the dink. (I think it is going to be permanent.) The little ones all love going for rides in the Ding, something Grampy T hasn't learned in going on four years of living on the boat. With the Merc-on-the-Ding running acceptably again, power rides rather than oar rides are the new highlights of the day.

One thing we had not managed to accomplish was getting the whole crew out on Kintala for a sail, something we finally managed a day or so ago. The forecast was for very light winds, but the day was warm, the boat ready, and sometimes just heading out is enough, even to drift around for a while.
We did a bit better than that.

Clear of the river my internal wind sensors suggested there was enough of a breeze to hang out some canvas. Our newly installed wind indicator didn't agree, but it turns out there is a calibration routine needed when you mount a new breeze stick on the mast, and we haven't done that yet. And, opposite of what they drill into hard-core instrument pilots, the years on the water have taught me to trust what my body says is going on with the weather and the boat. Things like wind sensors and GPS maps provide supplementary, and sometimes suspect, information.

Deb swung the bow up and the main sail went aloft as smoothly as it ever has. There was just enough wind to give it shape as we fell away to a close reach; Kintala surged to a killer speed of a knot or so. The jib spun out without a hitch and the sheet pulled in tight. Speed went up to two plus, then a touch over three. We ghosted along that way for a few minutes, heading to drop the anchor at Egmont Key for lunch. After a few minutes I decided to spin out the staysail as well. There was no reason to think that it would help much, but the boat looks cool with everything flying. And why miss a chance to look cool? With its sheet pulled in equally tight both head sails started pulling in near perfect parallel. Even with the apparent wind hovering around a bare 10 knots, speed flirted with 5 with just a hint of heel to port. Whatever shortcomings our old Tartan offers as a full-time live aboard cruising boat, they get forgotten when she is sailing fast on little wind, fully dressed for the dance.

There are people who love bashing into the waves, spray flying and the boat galloping along at full song. And there are times when I like that as well. There are people who prefer to be running before 20 knots worth of breeze, boat running at near hull speed with just 15 knots or so left ruffling the deck. And there are times I like that as well. When running offshore for a couple of days (or weeks for the true sailors among us) it is best to love whatever is happening at the moment, for the choice of what kind of sail we are having is not ours to make.

But sometimes the choices - boat, crew, and weather - add up to nothing short of pure magic.
The winds faded as we approached the anchorage, which turned out to be completely potted over with crab buoys. Without bothering the Beast we dropped the hook in deeper water than we had planned and much further from the beach than we had hoped. Lunch was low key and clean-up a bit of a trial given the rolling. Though the wind really had faded, we chose to drift off the anchor. It was also pretty good conditions for trying out the rebuilt jib pole, though the fact is I am still not comfortable with the thing. (Yes, I have read all the articles and watched all the you-tube videos. So far something hasn't sunk in so I am still working on it.)

We drifted down wind at a knot or two for a couple of hours, poled out jib doing what it could in the zephyrs. With the day fading away and the river mouth in sight, the Beast was poked awake to get us home before dark.

Crawling into the v-berth, boat secure and kids happy, it was easy to feel that getting back to cruising is tantalizingly close.

Another good-bye

Last Friday was the last day of working at the yard for this season. Being the start of the Christmas Holiday it was also a half-day, with lunch provided by the owner. Afterward I stopped and talked with the Boss Boss for a few moments, thanking him for having had me around for the summer and voicing the hope that it had worked out as well for him as it had for us. He allowed as it had. The project boat on which I had done much of the electrical system rebuild, had not been projected to be a project near as involved as it had evolved into being. (He didn't put it that way.) He seemed to think I was a good fit for a job he had not planned on having to do during my interview. Even better many of the people I worked with seem pleased to hear that Kintala will be heading back this way sometime in the spring. I am secretly kind of proud about that. One of my specific goals for this summer was to be as “user friendly” as I could manage. While that may come natural for most people, I don't have an innate talent for playing well with others. Deep in the south, surrounded by a culture I don't always understand that has some, how shall we say, “quirks” that I find problematic, I suspected being a kind of puzzling loner was the best I would do. Instead I found people I am proud to call my friends.

So, as the sun rose over the still waters of the basin, with our old Tartan rocking gently to her mooring lines, I was a bit ambivalent about leaving here. It isn't that I am not looking forward to cruising once again, getting back to the life we worked so hard to get to in the first place. But there are people here I am going to miss seeing nearly every day, and the “say good-bye” that is part of cruising is my least favorite part.

In addition, I spent much of my life around technicians, pilots, and mechanics. By and large, they are people who know, somewhere deep in their soul, that each day working for someone else costs a little more than it pays. A knowledge accepted with a casual shrug, for that is simply the way that it is. I missed being a part of that clan, one marked by a tough edge, a hard earned expertise, and a deep feeling that being good at what they do matters. It is a clan where it is  easy to tell the difference between those who can and those who can't. They live in a world with few excuses. The judgment of who-is-who doesn't come from opinion poles, twitter followers, or even elections. The job gets done, or it doesn't get done. The machine works as it should and goes away, or it doesn't and comes back to get done right. It was good to spend time in a place where the residents are comfortable with that kind of clarity.

Big open water brings that kind of clarity as well, sometimes with an even harder and sharper edge. Those of us who venture that way often gather and share stories of the experience. But for the most part we go out as single handers, in pairs, or small crews of friends or family. We also do it in intense little bursts of days or sometimes weeks. It isn't (usually) a day in, day out kind of thing shared by a select group working together. As much as I am looking forward to living that way again, the time spend here was good time, and I am glad we came this way.

There are people who get the week between Christmas and New Year's Eve off from work, some with pay, some without. For me the first Monday after Christmas was the first day of my (temporary) re-retirement and transition back into the cruising life. The first steps in that transformation included getting Kintala off the dock, motoring up and across the river for fuel and a pump out, and then a few hours spent sailing to work all of the stuff that makes a sailboat a sailboat. Since it was also the first serious shake-down cruise after months of being on the dock doing a lot of re-fitting, Daughter Eldest and Family waved us off from the shore. Little ones do not belong on shake-down cruises, no matter how benign or low key.

As it turns out Deb and I were kind of glad they weren't around, as any claim of us being any kind of serious sailors would have been put in serious doubt. We got off the dock okay, even found our way to the Twin Dolphin Marina and settled onto the fuel dock without drama. (Nice place by the way, with good and friendly hands willing to help anyway they can.) Unfortunately we had to get off of the fuel dock and get turned around in a tight basin, with a cross wind. 

It didn't go well. 

At least I have learned that going slow is the way to go, making sudden stops more a “bump” than a “crash”. After multiple tries, with real sailors giving us advice from the bows of their boats to “back into the wind”, and a bit of luck, I managed to get Kintala turned around and back out on the Manatee River. Though I don't envy the maintenance bills that come with a bow thruster, I sure wished I had one. 

I didn't actually bump anything, let alone crash. A small balm for my battered pride. People haven't yelled advice to me from shore since our days back on the lake in IL but, truth to tell, I earned it. Years ago, in one of the first posts on this blog, I said something about sailboats handling like a loaf of bread. Some things haven't changed.

Once back out on the river we turned downwind, let the jib fly, and gave the Beast a rest. For the first time in too many days we were sailing on our own boat once again. It should have been glorious. And it was - sort of. But neither one of us is really healthy yet, and the pure effort it takes to rig sails, stow lines and fenders, and keep the deck and cockpit of any sailboat under way under control, was taking its toll. Turning back toward Snead Island we came up tight on the wind, tacking our way up the channel. Flying the main would have been the right choice, but Kintala does pretty good on just her head sail, and handling one sail was enough.

Actually, it was more than enough. Lines snagged, blocks experienced minor jams, and our timing was off. Even tacking just the staysail went less than smoothly. In reality everything on the boat pretty much worked the way it should, except for the crew. We were just ham fisted amateurs, off the water and away from the demands of sailing Kintala well for way too many months. 

Only one mechanical task lies between us and dropping the dock lines for real. The little Merc is not happy, refusing to idle even after a good sonic cleaning of its tiny carburetor bits. Last time around it took several tries to get the idle jet clear and it looks like a repeat performance. I can't really complain though, the poor thing has hung on the stern rail for months, completely ignored as other tasks filled the days.

It is tempting to hope that all of the summer's work will pay off with an easy winter of sailing in the Islands. But it also has (to me anyway) value all of its own. Kintala is arguably in better shape than she has been since we bought her, safer, and much more user friendly. And it is safe to bet that both Deb and I have vastly expanded our knowledge base of boat repair and maintenance. Regardless of what the next few months bring, I think we can rest easy in the knowledge that we have done a lot of hard and necessary work, and made the best choices we could.

Now all we have to do is knock off a little more rust, and hope that our sea legs return soon.

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.

Mud on the anchor

Kintala splashed without incident. The Beast fired right up with shift and throttle still working smooth as silk. The Engine Guru suggested we go out into the river and run for a bit to polish in the new dripless seal, so I ghosted back out of the haul out pit, swung the bow to port, and eased between the pilings marking the yard's basin out into the Manatee.

We were making nearly 4 knots at 1800 rpm, the Beast rumbling smoothly along. Amazing what a new prop, shaft, cutlass bearing, and a properly aligned engine will do; though I resisted the temptation to run over the nearest crap pot just because I could. (Not really, those things still look like tiny little mines to me, tuned to sense fiberglass, and just waiting to go off whenever we get near one.)

Just a few hundred yards out into the river the engine temperature started to spike. Disappointing but not completely unexpected. We had drained part of the cooling system getting the lines to the water heater out of the way for access. Like every older boat I have tangled with, bleeding that part of the cooling loop on Kintala isn't easy. With the first thought being to not hurt the Beast we shut it down to cool off and tossed the anchor off the bow. It was like stepping through some kind of time portal.

Wow, this is why we came this way. It seemed like forever since we rode quietly to anchor, the boat nodding gently, swung into the wind. The temptation was to spend the rest of the day right where we were, maybe even the night as well.

But there were other needs pressing on the day so, after a while, we stirred ourselves back into “get it going again” mode. As expected, the coolant level was fine. It doesn't take much air to lock up the system. (Something I still don't quite understand. The boat's water system pump doesn't have any problem pushing the bubbles out of the way, and I have never heard of anyone air locking the cooling system on a car, truck, tractor, or motorcycle.) Kintala has a valve that will bypass the water heater. With that open and the engine temp falling back to 160, we cranked the Beast awake and putted back to the marina with the temp seeming to settle somewhere near normal. I managed a near perfect landing back in the slip, something that rarely happens when pilings are involved.

Tied to once again, the main item pressing on the day came to the fore: catching a plane that evening that would take us to St. Louis, kids, and grand kids. Which was about the only thing that could get me to pull up the anchor and head back in.

Though there is a couple of more weeks of work left once we return, both in the yard and on Kintala herself, we are on the verge of getting back to the cruising life. Soon having mud on the anchor will be the norm once again.

It will be good to be home.