White Satin Gloves

How long will it last, this peace I have found at sea?

2011-10-08T14:05:00.000-07:00

It is all of life that I contemplate-sun, clouds, time that passes and abides. Occasionally it is also that other world, foreign now, that I left centuries ago. The modern, artificial world where man has been turned into a money-making machine, to satisfy false needs, false joys. - Bernard Moitissier

I am currently reading Robin Lee Graham's account of single handing around the world in his 24 foot sloop Dove. He regularly refers to his frustration with the way he and his voyage were depicted by press coverage. This started my own reflection on the way our own little sailing trip was perceived and represented with a baffling degree of cynicism after we wrote and released a handful of songs documenting the experience.

Never once had I seen a sailboat before that day in early January when Patrick and I left Denver for Ft. Lauderdale and took a bus to the coast. As I watched, for the first time, a small ship's sails unfurl and billow in the wind, I was largely unaware of the prevailing association of sailing yachts with the wealthy leisure class, or of the tendency for the word "yacht" to leave a bad taste in one's mouth. My impression of sailing was shaped by what I had seen or read in the forms of Robinson Crusoe, The Island of Doctor Moreau, or The Old Man and the Sea. I thought of the ocean as a lovely and terrifying entity experienced only as a matter of necessity. I thought of it as a rite of passage, one that elicits our potential greatness and exposes our frailty. In this way, an encounter with the ocean of my own seemed more essential than frivolous.

So when our undertaking was referred to by one journalist as a "cozy excursion" of the middle class angst variety, it made me think only that what we tried to do isn't attempted enough, otherwise so many people would not feel affronted or bewildered by the idea of it.

In some ways this seems like a problem of shared experience. Different presuppositions and perspectives tend to recast meaning and significance. The most personal concepts or events stand to lose the most. I am sure I am not the only one who tends to interpret the vision and accomplishments of others in a suspicious and defensive manner. I wonder what it might imply about my own life and resent it for being intrusive even after it is clear that it has nothing to do with me, that I am merely a by-stander.

Why did we go sailing? I can tell you it had nothing to do with self-indulgence, as some might like to think. It was not motivated by arrogance. It was was an attempt to create meaning where there would otherwise be none. What is the harm in that?

When Bernard Moitissier, poised to win the first non-stop single-handed race around the world, decided to forfeit and carry on around the world once again without returning home, it was not to belittle his competitors or the lives of those he left behind on land. It was to protest prescribed meaning, and to create his own. There is no inherent value in sailing or the sea, nor is there any inherent demarcation of status or ability. Sailing is only a means to an end and that end is not the same for everyone. Everyone has their own ocean. The purpose of this blog, if it even has one, is to encourage others to seek it out and pursue it bravely, like the sailors who came before us.

You Can't Have Nice Things

2011-04-27T08:52:00.000-07:00

(The only cat I like enough to pet despite my allergies)

At least we can't. Since purchasing our classy new dinghy, it has become the permanent latrine for all duck passerby. Each morning, before clambering into our dinghy to go ashore, we thoroughly scrub the interior of it's...contents. In the history of our cruising, this never happened with our old dinghy. Apparently it was not even good enough for a duck to shit in.

(this woman knew she was jogging through our picture)

Monday evening, while leisurely making dinner, we noticed a squall line forming southwest of us. At first we thought it might blow over, but in the course of fifteen minutes it became clear that a menacing storm was building behind it and we were directly in its path. The usual storm-preparation ensued: cabin cleared, sensitive items properly stowed, cockpit secured, lines cleared, keys in ignition in case of a sudden need for the engine, foul weather gear made ready. By the time we had finished, a light rain had begun and lightning flashed every thirty seconds. The sky looked so threatening that we felt giddy in response. When we finally felt the full force of the storm, our anchor drug slightly but immediately fetched up. All of the shore was obscured from view, the combination of thunder, rain and wind erased all other sounds and we had to shout to be heard. Fortunately, that was the worst of it and the storm blew over within half an hour. We filmed the leading edge of the storm hitting us with our terrible yet water proof camera. Weather is so fascinating when it has actual power over you.

Once the weather cleared, Patrick finished making an excellent meal based on Kevin's crab crakes that he makes for us when we are in town. We only had canned-tuna, which is clearly not the same, but Patrick--who is a genius at combining bizarre, incorrect ingredients to emulate an actual recipe made something delicious. The final product:

(tuna cakes)

On a perfectly clear, warm afternoon I lay in the cockpit working on my first (and possibly last) Virginia Woolf novel, when Patrick suggested a sail. We were snug at anchor, and we had plans to meet Sean and Meredith soon. Since we had drug anchor in the thunderstorm the day before, I wasn't enthusiastic about resetting the anchor just before leaving the boat for the evening. While in the middle of saying, "no, I'm too comfortable here and we know the boat is secure" Patrick smiled devilishly and threw up the mainsail laughing, "you won't have to lift a finger." Which is of course, not true. He then hauled in the anchor himself and started tacking out of the anchorage, still laughing at me. He looked so cocky. "Don't get up, Alaina. I've got it." I didn't get up, except to make a mint julep.

I watched bemused as he single-handed the boat, tacking through buoys and ship traffic for an hour in a perfect 15 knot breeze. He then beam reached back into the anchorage. He perfectly timed furling the jib, and eased the mainsheet to de-power the boat to one and a half knots before heading up into the wind and releasing the mainsheet entirely. We came to a perfect stop and I went to the bow to drop the anchor while Patrick pulled down the mainsail. We have never anchored under sail for fun, and we have never sailed out of an anchorage before. It all went so smoothly, and Patrick only needed my help when the anchor needed to be released. I couldn't help feeling proud of how much we are improved...so improved that I am becoming unnecessary.

(me, useless)

After rowing ashore to make our way to Sean and Meredith's for the evening, we noticed this lovely woman working on a painting of the harbor. Swift Ranger was depicted happily tugging on her anchor, so we asked to take a picture.

It's been good catching up with Sean and Meredith. They always take us somewhere awesome when we are in Baltimore, like the divey bar Bad Decisions, which has an amazing name, and is known for it's specialty cocktails. Meredith says, "you can literally point to something someone else is drinking, order it, and not be disappointed."

(Meredith, Sean and their very well socialized Shiba Inu, Venkman)

We Have Intentions, Not Plans

2011-04-21T09:09:00.001-07:00

Late this afternoon, Patrick sat watching me spend several minutes swatting away a wasp that dove about the cockpit torturing me. Once I was aware of being watched, Patrick burst into laughter commenting, "I am so glad I married you. Best decision." His reaction was a bit baffling. But whatever his reasons I'm not complaining, as long as seeing me at my most ridiculous only reinforces his decision to share a very small living space with me.

We are feeling particularly nostalgic. This is the first time we have traversed the Chesapeake since the conclusion of our first sailing trip together two years ago. We were on our way to Baltimore from the west coast of Florida to get married and start a new life. Two years later, things have turned out rather unexpectedly.

Nothing about our current lives resembles our original plans, except for the part that includes each other. A fair amount of confusion and frustration have been present throughout this, but I feel glad that our futures were unpredictable. Fate gave me something better than what I had originally dreamed for myself. Seeking the new and unexpected resulted in unexpected things being seemingly drawn to me. Reflection on my past offers no elucidation of my present, and no indication of my future; to the effect that I now hold the things I want loosely. I cannot control the circumstance in which my dreams unfold, only yield to them without relinquishing my desires. I have become mutable without allowing my essence to be altered.

This is why sailing has been so significant a theme in Patrick's and my life. The lessons we have learned on the water are simple, self-evident and were discovered necessarily. It just so happens that there is a myriad of other applications for these revelations. Every time Patrick and I return to the "real world" from time spent on our boat, we feel wiser and abler.

We took a day off at Solomon's Island before mustering up the courage to strike out once more for Annapolis. Fifty nautical miles later, safely in Annapolis, we indulged in marinas, mooring balls and in the company of Kevin and Jan. It took a lot of work and all of our resolve to get here. Kevin and Jan made it feel exactly like a homecoming.

A gale swept through the evening of our arrival. We spent two days at the marina because the winds were too high to attempt to get out of our slip. The boat rocked so violently at the dock that we grew seasick every time we went below and were forced to take our meals ashore with Kevin and Jan (oh, the misfortune!). The northeasterly wind blew excess water into the Severn River and at high tide the docks and neighboring streets flooded about six inches. I have never seen a flood before, so the ankle deep saltwater bode apocalyptic for me. In reality it was a non-event. None of the locals seemed to notice or care.

Our last stop (which will complete the sentimental journey) is Baltimore. We leave tomorrow, weather permitting, to catch up with the only friends we made during our three-month stint in Inner-Harbor, Sean and Meredith.

More then from your marauding friends.

You'll Get There When You Get There

2011-04-14T09:26:00.001-07:00

(A Stowaway, one of many that were forcibly relocated)

Elizabeth City, NC to Solomon's Island, MD:

We left Elizabeth City in an irresponsible frenzy. To do lists were incomplete, tasks were unfinished. We needed to be on the move again. We retraced our trip up the dismal swamp without a hitch. It's still early in the season and we only saw one or two other boats before arriving in Portsmouth. The isolation was good for us and the only conversation aside from our own was with the occasional bridge tender.

We took a day off in Portsmouth for some repairs. Our GPS had broken the morning we pulled out of our slip in Elizabeth City. It seemed like a bad omen at first but it was actually really nice to get back into the habit of old-school navigation. Steering compass courses and using navigation aids is far superior to a screen that relays satellite transmissions. While in Portsmouth, I caught up with an old friend of mine who brought some friends over for cocktails on the boat. Unfortunately I didn't anticipate everyone else getting seasick from drinking alcohol on a rocking (albeit gently rocking) boat. I felt like a rather bad host, inviting friends over and making them ill. Next time we will just meet a bar like regular people.

I felt apprehensive about leaving Portsmouth for Deltaville the following day. It's a sixty nautical mile stretch and the forecast indicated heavy winds and a small-craft advisory warning for the lower Chesapeake Bay (although I am convinced those warnings are for flat-bottom fishing boats). We hadn't even raised the sails in over three months. Despite being forced to reef, double reef, shake out reefs and douse the sails entirely over and over, we had a fantastic day of sailing. The wind was too strong most of the time and scared the shit out of me a couple of times, but it was an exhilarating day all in all. We anchored in Deltaville, exhausted, only to discover that our alternator was broken and our batteries weren't charging.

The following day's forecast entailed a nasty cold front, so we decided to stay put and work on the engine. This meant hours of torment, with Patrick deep in the bilge of the boat, black with grease and nervously claustrophobic. I tried to be helpful, passing him tools, and then fishing them out of oily bilge-water when he would drop them. It made us really wish we weren't so reliant on our engine...but we are. We are no where near good enough to do without it.

The early morning was warm and clear. I made tea and we sat in the cockpit watching sparrows and hawks hunt over the water. We heard the shrimp running with the tide. Sparrows darted in and out of our rigging nipping at moths and flies while the hawks made dramatic grabs for fish the size of their bodies. They were nesting along the waterfront and we could see their little chicks peeking out to watch their mothers hunt. It was a perfect, yet incongruous prelude to a day full of thunder and rain squalls.

The forecast for the week was terrible for sailing to the north Chesapeake. Cold fronts swept through every other day, and the the high pressure systems that followed them boasted strong northerly winds that would make sailing impossible. We decided to take a risk and motor sail through moderate westerlies on a day that would at least be free of thunderstorms. We hoped for a close-reach, and planned to arrive at Solomon's Island, MD in 10 hours or less.

(view from a portlight)

The morning started easily enough. We motor sailed in a light breeze with favorable current and averaged 6 knots for the first two hours. The barometer had fallen but the weather seemed more benign than anything.

By 1100 we neared the Potomac River and conditions deteriorated in a matter of seconds. The wind increased and shifted to our exact heading. We had to drop our sails which decreased our speed to a pathetic three knots. The waves then built to a nasty chop with opposing wave patterns that collapsed in on each other. The Cape Dory was taking a serious beating. You could feel her lunge forward then collide with a wave and shudder to nearly a complete stop. Suddenly our ten thousand pound boat was catching air, flying off the top of one wave just as another would catch us on our beam. With no sails to stabilize us, the motion was terrifying. The sky was completely obscured by thick black clouds and I began to think we might be sailing into a thunderstorm after so carefully trying to avoid one.

I knew that the huge Potomac river was creating a counter-current and that conditions would likely improve north of the river. But the mouth of the Potomac is nearly ten miles wide, and we were barely making three knots. Patrick didn't think the engine could hold out. We started to wonder, would we make Solomon's before dark at this pace? Could we tack into strong headwinds, against the current all the way to an anchorage if the engine failed?

It took three hours to get north of the Potomac. We watched grumpily as bigger boats with more powerful engines passed us without a struggle. At Point Lookout the wind lessened but the wave action was still miserable. We considered falling back to another anchorage but the nearest one was almost as far south as Solomon's Island was north. Thanks to some encouragement from Kevin who knows the Chesapeake intimately, we decided to carry on and hope that some natural force would turn in our favor before nightfall.

Twelve and a half hours after setting off, we finally dropped anchor in one of Solomon's sheltered creeks. I felt like crying in relief, the day had been so wretched. We were frozen, our bones hurt from the jarring motion, and we had been seriously afraid that our boat couldn't handle the pounding. Rounding the spit into the sheltered Patuxent waters we were greeted with the happy sight of Sailboats racing with full-spinnakers. The sun emerged for the last half-hour of daylight and it's rays filtered over Solomon's Island as though lighting the way to refuge. I don't know why we put ourselves through that day, but it's over now, and we are only fifty miles from Annapolis. I don't know where we plan on leaving Swift Ranger for the summer, but I can guarantee it will not be on the other side of the Potomac, aka Little Gulf Stream Bitch.

We Were Meant To Explore

2011-04-06T19:33:00.000-07:00

Returning to Swift Ranger feels uncannily like a family reunion. We are nervous, we only vaguely remember the in's and out's, and desperately want to impress each other but end up bickering self-consciously.

Immediately upon arrival Patrick and I revert to this bizarre routine. Somehow I am doing something I am totally unqualified to do, like chopping wood and splicing rope, while Patrick re-wires the boat without any of the proper tools. Small explosions of blown fuses mixed with the sounds of our intermittent arguing as we trip over each other, distract each other, and give incorrect advice remind us that we have partially forgotten how to do this.

Something about being in a marina creates a race-against-time mentality, and every idle moment seems like one that is waisted forever. As long as Swift Ranger is tied to a dock rather than free with her sails open to the sun it all feels wrong. In a mere twenty four hours we have repaired a water tank, patched wood, mounted new hardware, re-provisioned our food stores, scoured mold from every darkened corner and launched a new dinghy. Fortunately this frantic pace only lasts for a few days before we "get our groove back" as we like to say.

Unrelatedly, we bought a loaf of cinnamon raison bread today from a company called "Grandpa's Oven"...we couldn't believe it wasn't called Grandma's Oven. When is Grandpa ever in the kitchen? And this brand available exclusively in the South!

Anyway, we plan on having every project completed and Swift Ranger ready to set sail by this Friday. The highlight of today was the arrival of our new dinghy and oil lamp. The dinghy is, by far, too classy for us. She's unsinkable, with sleek lines and wooden trim. We made a point to document our first moments together in a terribly boring video that I attached below. The oil lamp is beautiful and transports us to an arcane world of dangerous wonder. If only we could find a place that supplies kerosene! Asking for kerosene while shopping today made me feel like a character in Oregon Trail. I am out of oil for my lamp and my sister has a snake bite!

The plan--this always ends up being the plan--is to head for Annapolis, homeland of our patron saint John Rousmaniere. More importantly, Kevin and Jan (from Pearl of Eastport) will be there for the next two weeks and we can't wait to see their smiling faces as we row up to them in this little number:

Soon enough, Swift Ranger

2011-03-26T16:04:00.000-07:00

Patrick and I have been traveling with our band. We have been to so many places in the last few months that when we finally reunite with Swift Ranger in two weeks, we might be too exhausted to pick up anchor even once.

We spent November and December jaunting up and down the East and West coasts. We spent January in Europe--our first time abroad together. Immediately upon returning we made a huge loop of the US over February and March. This included an exploration deep into the South, and a trip as far North as Montreal in Quebec. Traveling by car is not nearly as rewarding as by sailboat, and we are anxious to return to our preferred mode of transportation.

Even though this is a sailing blog, so much has happened since the last time we were on Swift Ranger, I feel like I have to at least mention it. After all, it's not like time stops when we aren't sailing...although Patrick sure acts that way.

Here are a few pictures! My next update will be from the water.

Patrick in Edinburgh, Scotland

Me in Amsterdam

Patrick and some of our dear friends in San Fransisco

Patrick in the Rocky Mountains

Patrick and I with a friend in Austin, TX

East River, Chesapeake Bay to the ICW

2010-12-27T13:16:00.000-08:00

After relaxing for an evening in Portsmouth we set off at 0800 for the intra-coastal waterway. It had been over a year since we had traveled its picturesque, wandering waters. It felt odd to be so excited to pass ICW marker #1, after emphatically swearing off the ICW only a year ago. But we had gained so much confidence over the last year that re-entering the ICW brought only feelings of happy anticipation. We even decided to take the shallower but more scenic dismal swamp route south, rather than the virginia cut we had taken previously. A choice well rewarded! The dismal swamp was a place of tranquil beauty, boasting unusually high water and not a single navigational challenge aside from occasional floating debris.

We went through several locks and bridges that were actually rather enjoyable. I derived so much pleasure hailing bridge tenders on the VHF radio again. I can't emphasize enough, that I was back in my element. I love radio protocol. I wish phone conversations were as formal. The only hiccup throughout our two day leisurely jaunt to Elizabeth City, North Carolina was a brief confrontation with--you guessed it!!--a power boater.

He had anchored in front of a lock waiting for it to open, whereas we timed our arrival perfectly with its opening. I hailed the lock operator and he gave me the go ahead so we motored straight into the lock. Meanwhile the power boat (who hadn't even hailed the lock operator to announce his arrival!) was frantically trying to get his anchor up. As we passed him, he angrily motored his anchor up and drove right at us trying to cut us off. Being a sailboat, we can't stop or turn that easily so we just held our course and he used his bow thrusters to back down. He ran to the bow and started shouting at us, "You must be really anxious to make that lock! Are you scared? You had to cut in front of me, huh? Well go ahead if you're in such a hurry!" I was really confused at this point. The lock was open, his anchor was down, so we just went on in. I didn't really know what else we were supposed to do, motor around in circles waiting for him to get ready saying, "oh no, after you, sir." We've never been in a situation where you are allowed to anchor in front of a lock or bridge, so we didn't know what protocol was. I yelled from the cockpit a sincere and confused apology and he shouted back, "oh no you're not! You're not sorry at all." I responded, "um...I actually am sorry, we didn't mean to be rude." But by this point Patrick had heard enough and called him an asshole, very loudly. This really undermined my apology so then I started yelling at Patrick, while he yelled at the power boater, while the power boater yelled at me. Then we entered the lock, tied up RIGHT next to each other and awkwardly travelled in tandem, through every lock and bridge all the way to Elizabeth City together. SOOO weird.

(inside the lock, they raised the water 10 feet!)

He never looked at us or spoke to us again, even when in the next lock, all the other boats were introducing themselves to each other and cracking jokes, this guy acted like we didn't exist. That will teach you, always be nice on the ICW!!! There's no escaping each other.

All in all, the trip was a dream! We left Swift Ranger looking like a dapper dandy, putting all the other boats to shame (except of course Pearl of Eastport, elegant as ever!) at the Pelican Marina. I felt like we were handing our pride and joy over to a foster care program. We still feel like bad parents and plan on moving her somewhere else no later than March.

I will leave you with a short, sloppily done video we threw together of the last couple days of our trip.

Amateur camera work: Alaina

Amateur editing: Patrick

Original score recorded on an old 4-track: Tennis (Patrick and Alaina)

Southing

2010-11-12T16:26:00.000-08:00

We had to wait one day for a massive cold front to pass through. A severe thunderstorm pummeled northern Virginia with tornados, violent wind, and lightning. Swift Ranger rolled so hard at the dock we kept watch, worried she might be ripped from the pilings.

By Thursday morning the storm had passed and left fog, and rainsqualls in its wake. At 0900 we traded goodbyes with Colin as he caught a returning flight to Denver and we set off for Deltaville, an easy thirty-mile jaunt south of Reedville. The wind was brisk and off the beam and reached a long at six and half knots for three hours. Lingering fog blotted out most of the horizon, slowly dissipating only to be succeeded by squalls.

Soon we were met with that familiar wall of white, the leading edge of a squall that looks like an ominous vanishing curtain, devouring any vessel or creature that enters. It took only a few minutes to reef the main, douse the jib, clear the decks and don our foul weather gear. It felt good to have our old rhythm back!

Ten minutes later we were still waiting for the first squall to hit. They were moving so fast that would form, advance before us and then vanish before we were near. An hour later the weather had cleared and not a drop of rain had hit the boat, we were a little disappointed.

At 1200 we were abeam of Deltaville. We were making incredible time, and the wind was still good so we altered course for Mobjack Bay, twenty miles further south. This would reduce our travel time the next day to Portsmouth from sixty miles to forty.

The wind veered later in the day and I got pretty wet hoisting and dousing sails while we beat into the wind. At some point in the day we passed through a strange stretch of coastal water where flies abound. I went below to prepare some lunch and was greeted by approximately thirty flies. They were swarming around the cabin in clusters. I hate flies. I hate any insect on the boat because there are too many hidden places where they can nest that I will never find. It disgusts me to think of various species colonizing deep in the bilge and crawling around while I sleep. Somehow the fly debacle escalated into full blown debauchery when I discovered most of them where mating. Somehow Swift Ranger had devolved into an ocean going brothel. Fortunately, the flies disappeared on their own after we had passed far enough south.

We rounded into Mobjack bay with two more hours of daylight. We had six miles of reaching left before we could tack into Eastern River and find an anchorage. The sun was just slipping below the horizon when we dropped the main, and then the anchor in the lee of the northern shore in anticipation of NW winds forecasted to pick up that night. The anchorage was so quiet we could hear the moving water of the ebb tide fluttering along the hull and little fish frolicking near the surface.

(entering Eastern River)

(sunset at anchor!)

By midnight the Northwesterly wind freshened to twenty-five knots. We weren’t used to the howling, a sound that perfectly casts doubt on your security. It’s like trying to go to sleep with the theme song from Jaws playing all night. Dear Patrick, ever vigilante, was up all night increasing scope and inspecting our holding. We were swinging so abominably we felt like we were back in the Bahamas with its raging counter currents. Suddenly Patrick remembered we had forgotten to lash the tiller and the rudder, open to the force of the current, had been steering us in circles for hours. After remedying our mistake, Swift Ranger rode much more comfortably to her anchor and we got a few hours of sleep.

We were up with the sun and casting off within fifteen minutes. Everything was carefully stowed, we confirmed the forecast (thirty knots from the north!), changed the fuel filter, rigged a second reef in the main and hauled anchor.

As soon as we left the shelter of Eastern River the wind descended with unmitigated force that increased but never diminished. It had been blowing thirty knots for over twelve hours by then and the Bay was a real shit show. I had never seen such big waves in only twenty feet of water! Suddenly routine tasks like tacking or dousing sails were an incredible challenge. I wasn’t nearly strong enough to reef the jib without Patrick’s assistance, thus making the day very tedious.

The course we had planned would have us running dead down wind. Swift Ranger doesn’t sail wing and wing very well in rough seas, and always feels like she might broach (although she never has—we are just worriers). The wind wasn’t consistent enough to keep the jib full anyway, and without a spinnaker pole it would have been a nightmare. We decided to broad reach on a port tack far out into the bay (way off course unfortunately) until we could broad reach on a starboard tack all the way to the Hampton Roads channel. We went fifteen miles off course in order to sail more comfortably with lots of sea room, and it was well worth it. Between the heavy winds and surfing down following seas we averaged over seven knots for six hours! A record for Swift Ranger! Patrick and I were rusty and nervous, but we marveled at the seaworthiness of our little boat. She rode the steep, closely spaced waves that are the bane of the Chesapeake with perfect ease. She felt light as a feather and seemed to skim over the tops of the waves with each gust.

I hate steering when we are broad reaching because I am terrified of an accidental jibe so Patrick was at the helm all day. I managed all the sails, and navigated the whole passage as a sort of apology for forcing him to labor with the tiller for hours. By late afternoon Patrick pointed out a small brown ball rocketing over the water. As it neared us we could see little wings—it was the tiniest bird, only a little larger than a hummingbird blown far out over the bay, completely powerless to fly back to land! Suddenly the bird landed on our bow to rest itself, but even then the wind threatened to blow him off the deck. I watched as he hopped between gusts towards the cockpit, clearly looking for more adequate shelter. He came to a stop below my armpit and huddled in the crook of my arm which was resting on the side deck. So tired and so fluffy. I wanted to scoop him up and put him in the cabin but I knew he would be scared away. He ended up riding on our boat for several hours until we were near enough to Norfolk for him to brave the wind again. Patrick and I felt like heroes for transporting a weary bird to safety! (video footage of this will come later!)

Sailing into Portsmouth/Norfolk is always a nightmare because of the naval traffic. We joke about the constant Naval and Coast Guard broadcasts over the marine radio, “Pon Pon Pon Pon” or “Securite, Securite” and then spouting off some horrible warning of danger like “navigational aid destroyed” or “now engaging in open fire.” Patrick was terrified of colliding with one of the many destroyers zipping in and out of the inlet at easily twenty knots. We still couldn’t use our engine and were intimidated having to sail around them, but we made it unscathed to the channel that cuts between Norfolk and Portsmouth.

We know about free docks in Portsmouth, and without a dinghy we had no hope of getting ashore without them. Unfortunately the docks only fit a few boats and we watched boat after boat enter the channel headed in the same direction. Patrick was determined not to let a boat take our spot, so we motored at full throttle with all the sails up until we were directly abeam of the dock. There was room for one more boat and another faster boat was catching up to us. In one perfectly pre-planned motion Patrick released the mainsheet, threw the tiller hard over, and in the time it took Swift Ranger to spin one full circle we had doused both sails and I was ready with the dock lines while he powered into the basin. A few minutes later we were snugly tied to the dock and heading into downtown Portsmouth for dinner and cocktails. We went over a hundred nautical miles in two days, one day in gale force winds. We were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves.

(docked at Portsmouth)

Back to Swift Ranger

2010-11-12T15:54:00.000-08:00

My return to Swift Ranger was long over due. In the year and a half I had spent away I had already forgotten the subtle curve of her up-turned forepeak, her cheeky bow and cozy teak interior. I had forgotten the way she rises stoutly to any wave, her gentle rocking at anchor, the clanging of the halyards lifted by the breeze.

(Reedville Marina at night)

Propped up on stilts in a boatyard for the last year had taken its toll on her. She was covered in a thick layer of dead vegetation, blown in by the woods that border the yard. Her teak had grayed and lost its luster. Her decks were grimy, her interior moldy. Heavily cob-webbed, bee-hived, and nested by cockroaches was our Cape Dory. It nearly broke our hearts to see our girl in such a state of disrepair.

(PJ hard at work)

Everything above and below deck was taken apart, sanded, scrubbed, sterilized, rinsed, painted and then reassembled. If it wasn’t for Colin’s help, we never would have finished in the two weeks had given ourselves for the job. It took the three of us every minute of daylight for five days to return her to her former glory. It took three days to return her to the water. Even then, almost nothing on board was functional. We had no water, no head, the v-berth cushions were too molded to be slept on, everything electric needed to be rewired.

The reward for our filthy exhausting work--work plagued by bees, hornets, horse flies, and no-see-ums, was sailing Swift Ranger again. We had two days of perfect sailing. We reached into the Chesapeake in a fresh breeze at a brisk six-knot pace. Swift Ranger leapt playfully through the little two-foot waves. The salty spray cleansed her decks and her water line, and she tacked back to the Reedville docks topsides glistening.

We spent two beautiful days sailing with our friend Ian. Inspired by Jean du Sud we shot some film footage of Swift Ranger on the water. I made lunch on our two-burner alcohol stove while underway. I had missed the challenge of cooking for three boys while heeled over twenty-five degrees!

After spending three days with us Ian returned to Brooklyn, and the first of several cold fronts settled over the Chesapeake. Colin, Patrick and I had wanted to sail to Annapolis but the weather was inhospitable so we opted to drive. We spent the whole evening with our old cruising friend Kevin Brooks bar hopping, swapping “and there we were” stories and catching up on our Eastport gossip.

(Kevin giving us a tour of Eastport)

It is always hard to leave Annapolis and our friends behind! We feel at home surrounded by boats, water, and feeling a part of the extensive maritime history.

(Kevin sharing fatherly/sailorly advice)

While visiting, Kevin advised us of a small marina in North Carolina that is well protected, fairly safe from winter freezes and inexpensive. It was a four to five day sail from Reedville, and if we left immediately we would have just enough to time to move Swift Ranger and make necessary preparations to leave her behind for another six months. This time though she would stay in the water, no more stilts for her. We longed for the excitement of a voyage, even if we never had to leave inland waters or go more than a few hundred miles!

Baltimore to night sailing with no lights

2010-05-23T21:32:00.000-07:00

It had been over 3 months since the last time I had stepped aboard Swift Ranger. It was mostly unfamiliar at first. The wood was sun bleached from the summer, the smell of old bilge water was almost unbearable, and lastly, there was no Alaina. I was about to move our boat 150 miles to "someplace cheaper, chesapeake bay."

A few friends from Denver happily joined me to help with the trip. Colin, an old friend that I have known from 100's of concerts and Brian, a relatively new friend that I met through my wife. Both great people. Both like beer.

We quickly got the boat back to its proper standing and purchased enough food and drink for the ext 4 days. We wouldn't have that much time to go shopping again. Turning on the VHF radio for the first time in sometime, I was overwhelmed with the familiar voice of the NOAA robot broadcaster. He feels like a father. "Don't go to sea today, it will be a shit-storm sonny." Just our luck, he announced in his usual monotone that there would be no wind for 4 days.

We cast the lines and motored out of our dock, looking out over the glass-like water, we sat back and relaxed as we steered by pinky. Nothing could be more lackadaisical.

We pulled into my nostalgic homeland euphoria - Annapolis - and rafted up to an old friends boat: Kevin and Jan on Pearl of Eastport. Two ducks in a row. The very second we stepped off the boat we were greeted with frosted "Natty Bo" and a warm smile. Kevin was preparing to show us the town a little more than Alaina and I previously were able to. The town tour consisted mostly of drinking at various locations. Thank you Kevin.

And of course, Clams

The next few days can be summed up very shortly: no wind. We motored our way to Solomon's Island and had a quiet night on the boat. Here Brian had to make his way out to the airport for a flight back to Denver, it was just Colin and I from here on out.

The daddy robot voice came on later that night, "Cold front moving in on Friday night, winds 30 gusting to 40 knots." We should be fine we thought, it's Wednesday. Only one more day to Deltaville, our final destination for this trip.

Again no wind. We motored and motored and made very little progress toward Deltaville. The current from the Rappahannock is absolutely terrible. Six o'clock quickly came upon us and we were still 4 hours out. "Should we just motor through the night?" Of Course.

The very second the sun went down the wind somehow increased and I proceeded to scare the shit out of my wife. We were motor sailing with a full job and full main and in seconds the leeward rail was in the water. In a few more seconds a wave came over the bow and knocked our crappy electrical out - my fault - and sure enough we are without navigation lights. The sun is down.

The wind continues to increase. I tell Colin to turn on the radio and check the weather. "Cold front has sped up and will be affecting the bay area tonight, winds 35 knots with gusts to 40" And this is how we are greeted. The bay is no place to sail with high winds. Between the current and the shallows, the waves become really short and sharp. Nothing like on the ocean side and by all means I would have rather been on the ocean side that night if we didn't haphazardly find an emergency anchorage.

Colin and I found a spot in the lee on Fleets Bay and we sat in shifts making sure our unplanned anchoring didn't fail. The morning came with another weather forecast. "Winds sustained at 35 knots throughout the day." We would have to sail straight into the wind for another 35 miles to make our final destination. This was not going to happen. With a little VHF talk and some chart study, we found a small cove in Reedville that hopefully would accommodate us. Sure enough, not only could they accommodate us, but there haul out fees and monthly rates were half the price of the marina in Deltaville. Perfect trip.

The Journey Ends...for now

2010-05-23T21:08:00.000-07:00

From North Carolina on it was non-stop traveling. Our goal was to reach Baltimore by June 1st, and somehow we did just that. Our dear friends Kevin and Jan on their Cape Dory "Pearl of Eastport" became our traveling companions from North Carolina to their homeport Annapolis. Sailing in the Chesapeake Bay was an unimaginable treat after all those days eeking through the shoaly channels of the ICW. For the first time in weeks hauling anchor and setting the sails became a laid-back endeavor, where I no longer needed to pour over charts and cruising guides for hours ever day. Only the occasional squall or naval zone could cause us any concern.

My ability to relax and enjoy myself undoubtedly made for a better experience for my sister Ashley, who was beginning to see sailing as one catastrophe after another including Patrick nearly biting his tongue off, constant squalls, and boats that anchor too close to us and then accuse us of hitting them. But from Norfolk on that all changed. We stopped in many beautiful anchorages, and Annapolis itself was as mecca-like as we dreamed it would be. I felt John Rousmanier's spirit guiding us into Spa Creek for the first time. I toasted him and the Annapolis Book of Seamanship for their invaluable assistance throughout our voyaging.

The morning we sailed into Baltimore's inner-harbor was surreal. Even though the last month of cruising was spent working towards this goal, it had never seemed obtainable. We never spoke of it, but Patrick and I had secret fears that our engine would just explode or we would run aground and do serious damage before our trip came to an end. I am happy to say, no calamity of the sort ever befell us. Our sail through inner-harbor was calm and beautiful, and the city towered before us, beckoning and majestic. Neither of us had ever seen Baltimore before so it was fitting that our first experience was from the water.

Unfortunately Baltimore had just experienced a massive fish kill due to an out of control algae bloom that spring. It smelled like absolute shit. As we motored into our marina the bow was literally parting through heaps of fish carcasses. It was so foul we could hardly stand to cook dinner and eat onboard Swift Ranger that night.

We thoroughly enjoyed being stationary for longer than a few days in so many months, and our marina quickly became home to us. Early on we befriended an incredible couple, Sean and Meredith who were Baltimore natives and planning their own cruising adventure in the next few years. We also began making wedding plans. Having survived so many months on a 30 footer together and still being on speaking terms with each other really confirmed this long debated option. We kept it as simple as possible, immediate family only, ceremony on a boat. We didn't even bother with invitations! Sailing taught us so many valuable lessons...(ie: cheapness)

One thing sailing didn't prepare us for was the unemployment rate in Baltimore. Desperate searching for over a month and a half didn't result in as much as a single interview between the two of us. Our college degrees and our can-do attitudes didn't give us any advantage over native East-coasters. We are just too mid-west for our own good. After 8 months of living off our savings we were completely desperate. We had no patience to continue job-hunting in a strange city for another month, so with much sadness, we left Swift Ranger behind and journeyed back to Denver, nearly a year after we had left.

We were both rehired at our old jobs within weeks of our return, and moved back into our old apartment, resuming our old lives as if we had never left. Even today, it sometimes feels like none of it ever happened. We have a series of photographs taken at various anchorages framed on our living room wall as a constant reminder of our accomplishments...but it's a strange ending to a strange journey for us. The greatest reward was undoubtedly the discovery that Patrick and I were meant to be together--that anyone else on the boat with us for more than a week started to grate on our nerves and wear down our patience, but no amount of time alone together on that boat made us wish we were apart.

I certainly lost some weight, but I gained a husband.

North Carolina

2009-06-27T07:50:00.000-07:00

After two days on the Waccamaw, the weather cleared up enough to get under way again. I was a little concerned, because the next 40 mile stretch sported no anchorages, and a lot of bridges. Several of the bridges won't open in 25 knots of wind or more, and it had been blowing that hard for the last two days. I did not want to get stuck in some cannel between two bridges that won't open in a storm. This was only the least of our concern, the foremost was a short stretch affectionately named "the rock pile," renowned for submerged rocky outcroppings lining the channel, waiting to sink the unwary boater. We were fastidious in our navigation. Of course, our fancy new GPS was off all day, and showed that our boat was actually traveling on shore instead of in the canal. Back to the old paper chart.

It was chilly, overcast, and dreary but we made it through bridge after bridge without a problem. After passing through the worst of the rock pile, we relaxed a bit, which allowed us to notice how exhausted we were. While passing through the last couple of bridges, we became nominally acquainted with a couple just behind us on another cape dory. We heard each other hailing the bridges tenders over and over, and then finally, they pulled up next to us, and the captain Kevin initiated a conversation with Patrick. It turned out that they were from Eastport, not too far south of Baltimore, and were on their way home. Kevin told us about a nice anchorage only 5 miles away, so we pulled over for the night.

A little more chatting on the VHF revealed that Kevin and Jan were on approximately the same schedule as we were, so we began setting off the same time every morning, and sojourning at the same anchorages. We were finally in North Carolina!!

After only a few days, our VHF radio courtship culminated in their inviting us aboard for dinner. We had a lovely time with them, and Ashley was certainly happy for the mix of company.

Thus began our latest sailing friendship with Kevin and Jan on Pearl of Eastport. Kevin had made the trip up and down "the ditch" several times, and his advice was invaluable. One afternoon, he and Jan clued us in to a free dock in the quaint town Southport. It was the first time we had been off the boat in almost a week.

From Southport we made the arduous trip up the Cape Fear River, making about 2-3 knots the whole way. It took us 8 hours to go 20 miles, and by the time we pulled over in Wrightsville beach were too tired and grumpy to explore.

The next day we made a longer trip to a relatively nondescript anchorage where we took the opportunity to raft after our boats began to wander restlessly on the hook during slack water. Swift Ranger had drifted so close to Pearl we only needed to reach out and grab her to tie up. Every night is different on the hook.

South Carolina

2009-06-27T06:56:00.000-07:00

Charleston was a mixed bag. The anchorage sported 30' of water, and was crowded with sailboats. We waited for slack tide to row across the busy channel to shore for supplies. Within minutes after striking out on foot, a kind man picked us up on the side of the road saying "you must be sailors, let me take you to a grocery store." We completed our errands, made a new friend, only to return to out boat in time to be accused by another sailor that our boat hit his during the tide switch. Coincidentally, no one was on board either boat when it happened. Some other boat, nobody knew, had accused us of hitting someone else's boat, and of course, their were no convincing signs of damage on anyone's boat. Patrick didn't sleep all night with visions of pawning our boat to pay for the alleged damage, but in the morning he asked us for 30$ and sent us on our way.

Scammed but better for it, we got out of Charleston and squeezed in around forty miles before stopping at some obscure creek, south of Mclellanville, that indirectly connects the ICW with the Atlantic. The current was terrible where we dropped the hook, and we swung in circles all night long, but we were so tired we didn't care. That morning we awoke to a short lived squall. As soon as it passed we hauled anchor and passed through our first stretch of genuine swamp land. We saw three alligators, beautiful birds, and Patrick was eaten alive by creepy things. We caught the outgoing tide and made no less than 6 knots all morning and made it to Georgetown so early in the day we continued on to the Waccamaw river.

The Waccamaw river is something like a 30 mile stretch of undeveloped, cypress dominated shoreline. The trees are ancient and towering, deep in the heart of the river, sunlight only filters in when it is directly overhead. It is eerily beautiful.

We had perfect timing with the tides that day. We were still averaging 6 knots motoring, and planned on going over 50 miles that day. About 5 miles shy of our chosen anchorage, we noticed a thunderhead forming south of us.

We were unconcerned but decided to keep an eye on it. Exactly 2 minutes later, the sky was black as far as we could see. I have never seen a storm develop so quickly. Before we had time to get out the foul weather gear it was pouring rain. The cypress trees provided shelter from the wind, so although the rain dramatically reduced visibility, we were confident that we could make through to Bull Creek. 1 minute later, the sky lit up with lightning and thunder cracked instantaneously with deafening volume. I was suddenly frightened. I watched a heavy white wall of rain astern of us, steadily overtake us. As it moved, everything in its path was shrouded with thick whiteness. Daymarks, trees, floating debris...we couldn't see anything in any direction but white rain. As the thunder and lightning continued to torment us, it became obvious that the storm would not be blowing over as quickly as we'd thought, and the lack of visibility or audibility of any potential obstruction, boat, tree or otherwise necessitated a quick decision. We would pull over to the side of the creek, as far out of the channel as we could with out getting to close to the cypress trees, and anchor. Let me tell you, how little I enjoy the task of handling 80 feet of chain when lightning surrounds me. At this moment, we came upon a small tributary, Prince Creek which is too narrow for one hook and excessively creepy. We anchored at the mouth of it where we would be safe from traffic, but have room to swing on one hook.

(that's the rain behind him, overtaking the boat)

We still intended to make it to Bull Creek after the storm passed, but it didn't happen. The temperature dropped a good 40 degrees, and the rain was freezing. For formed over the water and the wind picked up to a vigorous 30 knots. Of course, we had least protection in the direction of the wind, and it opposed the current all night, so we swung around in limbo, subservient to whatever force asserted itself the strongest all night. Everything was wet from the rain, all of our warm clothing, towels, etc. It was so cold that night we buried ourselves in our clothing for warmth.

The next morning, it was just under 40 degrees and our coats were still soaked. The wind blew with an angry howl, and frothed the fog around the surface of the river. We knew Bull Creek would be more sheltered, so suffered through 5 miles of cold and discomfort before dropping the hook in the most beautiful anchorage we had seen yet. There were five other sailboats hiding out in the creek, and we stayed in all day, drinking hot beverages and reading.

Poor Ashley was not having the time of her life. We wouldn't be off the boat for 5 days total. The weather was terrible, and the boat was beginning to feel smaller than ever. Fortunately, I have never been anywhere more beautiful than the Waccamaw. It was the perfect place to be stormed in.

Us vs. ICW

2009-05-15T15:48:00.000-07:00

After making it to Port Canaveral we (mainly I) couldn't even comprehend getting back on the boat so for the first time since purchasing the little Dory, we abandoned her and slept at Pat and Jen's place in Titusville for three glorious nights. We did normal things like laundry, dinner with friends, and running the dogs (Pat and Jen's). After overstaying our welcome and feeling pretty guilty about leaving the Dory alone one night at anchor (Pat: night terrors, midnight tears) we returned to our life of vagrancy, this time however on the Intracoastal Waterway.

For those of you who don't know, the ICW is a series of rivers and man-made canals sprawling rather indirectly along the eastern seaboard. Patrick and I usually run aground in the ICW and therefore don't prefer it, but after so many hours at sea we desperately needed a change. After regretfully parting with Pat and Jen, we left Titusville for New Smyrna which was quiet and charming. The next day we made it a whopping four bascule bridges and ten miles to Daytona beach where I blended right in with all the fake boobs and spray tans.

From Daytona we journeyed to St. Augustine where we quickly made friends with some kids who invited us to a no-pants dance party. Unfortunately, complications with our dinghy and the exceptionally strong tidal current kept us away, and our pants on.

Northern Florida, all in all, is really not worth mentioning. Sport Fishermen and nicotine stains are abundant and strong. For this very reason we will move on to Georgia.

Making it to Brunswick Georgia was a good moment for us. Nothing had gone wrong in weeks and we were really gaining confidence in our navigational abilities. After making is through what most sailors call "the most challenging parts of the ICW," (mainly narrow, tedious, stare-at-the-charts channels with power boaters waking you all across the bayou, so on and so forth, et cetera et cetera) we had our hats on backwards and our 90's tank tops on forwards. Brunswick is an industrial mega-complex that forces you to the neighboring naturalist retreat of Saint Simon's Island. S.S.I. was once the summer home of names like: Pulitzer, Goodyear, Rockefeller, Bell, and so on.

We met up with the Moore family in Brunswick in order to celebrate my 24th birthday. Due to unmentionable circumstances that mysteriously culminated in both of our dinghy oars missing, we were forced to dock our boat at a nearby marina rather than both swim to shore. We had an amazing weekend with my family, picnicing by the water, seeing the new Star Trek film, and eating at restaurants with names like 'Spanky's'.

On Sunday morning my family returned to Atlanta, but left behind a new crew member, Ashley. The very afternoon Patrick rowed Ashley to the Dory, we decided to sail overnight to Savannah. After listening to the weather we discovered that a cold front would hit Georgia by the following afternoon and if we didn't leave that night the coast would be inhospitable for 30 foot sailboats for the next several days. We took advantage of our window and left immediately.

We made it to Savannah by 11am and wound our way inland to the free city dock that was recommended to us by our friends Paul and Piper. After sailing all night we crashed the moment the docklines were secured. Only a few hours later a squall marking the leading edge of the cold front swept through and obscured the Savannah river with heavy rain. That very moment, the "city" dockmaster informed us that sailboats were no longer permitted to dock overnight and we would have to go somewhere else in the middle of the storm. We were contemplating relocating to the only anchorage which was six miles away when our dinghy Houdini'd itself from its lines and starting drifting away in the swift current. As the choice was precluded from me, Patrick had no choice but to jump into the greenish-reddish-yellowish-brackish-brown water full of crocodiles, stingrays, eels, and sharks in order to save the dinghy. Soaking wet, with nothing better to do but spend 100$ on a dock, we spent the night at the Hyatt's docks and got our moneys' worth by utilizing every possible amenity, included or not.

The following day we crossed the state line into South Carolina. We have been logging 6-7 hour days on the ICW every day since. Each afternoon we get stormed into the nearest anchorage. I have never seen weather like this. The thunderstorms form so quickly we can't keep track of them. Despite storms, poorly maintained channels, and an overabundance of biting insects, South Carolina is beautiful and dolphins still greet us every morning with British accents.

Today we made it to Charleston. It was hard work, including narrow cuts, and shallower water. At least three times we only had two inches of water under our keel. Somehow we have not run aground since Coconut Key in Western Florida. We have decided to count our blessings and if it does happen again, no big deal, it's muddy over here.

Ashley has quickly adapted to life onboard. She has learned the vernacular, and can already handle docklines and the tiller like a moderate amateur. She is a godsend.

--pictures to come the next time we have internet access--

Beach Bods Part II

2009-05-03T10:39:00.000-07:00

There and Back Again

2009-04-28T06:15:00.000-07:00

We spent a couple of days doing the kind of sailing that we had only ever heard fantastical stories about- island hopping. Up until that point we had only ever done 50-70 mile days, the length and arduousness of which tend to diminish the pleasurability of sailing. For the first time we were able to wake up casually around 8am, have breakfast and haul anchor by 9 then sail for 5 hours and arrive at another island by mid-afternoon. We had perfect wind and the protected waters of the Abacos' banks made for calm, stress free conditions. Patrick fished diligently and succeeded in catching two baby Barracuda which we released, and one giant something or rather that he lost before he could reel in. Luckily our friends Pat and Jen were catching some delicacy almost daily and supplied us with fish to our hearts' content.

The furthest we made it into the Abacos was Grand Cay. We all intended to go as far as Green Turtle Cay but our plans changed suddenly when we discovered that one of those highly sought after "weather windows" was approaching in a few days, and if we didn't take it it would be more than a week before we could attempt crossing back to Florida. Our friends Paul and Piper of Delphine were on schedule to meet Piper's brother in Marsh Harbor, but Pat, Jen and ourselves needed to get back, so after a couple of days of snorkeling, and family dinners we parted ways with Delphine and started making plans for our return trip.

Now, the night we met Pat and Jen on Madeline, we had just had our butts collectively kicked by the gulf stream. None of us were looking forward to crossing again, although we had gained confidence solely from the fact that we had survived once already. That being said we had initially planned on making the trip as short, utilizing as much upward thrust of the gulf stream, and doing as little of it at night as possible. So naturally we decided to leave from Grand Cay and sail straight through to Cape Canaveral, a total of 160 nautical miles (that's 240 statutory miles).

Why are we so irrational? I'll tell you, we were bullied. A few nights before we left Grand Cay, ten sailboats arrived all staging to return to the states. One boat 'Kokomo' was going to do the trip to Cape Canaveral, a couple of others were heading straight to Annapolis-a three day passage, and three others were sailing straight to Jacksonville which is a two day haul. With all of this talk about passage-making we started to feel like pansies. We were planning on sailing three days out of the way back to West End, just so we could make a 10 hour crossing, all in daylight. After a rousing dinner with all the sailors before they all parted ways for their respective voyages we were convinced. Cape Canaveral is where Pat and Jen store Madeline for the summer, and it would shave off a lot of time in the Florida ICW for us so, with much trepidation, we began making plans for our biggest passage yet.

Before leaving, we encountered another squall. I awoke early one morning to what I thought was thunder, but since squalls are so unusual in the morning I told myself I was just being paranoid having not yet recovered from the last experience. I looked out the window and saw thickening clouds on the horizon but they didn't seem to be threatening or advancing so I went back to sleep. Exactly five minutes later we were hit by a thirty knot gust of wind followed by torrential rain. Patrick was on deck checking anchors while I closed all the hatches and made the boat storm ready. There was a 40 foot island packet that had anchored next to us the night before and as the wind shifted we found ourselves suddenly close enough to hit. He was in his cockpit yelling at Patrick because we had two anchors out instead of one. Whether or not it is an inferior method of anchoring (which he was convinced that it was) it didn't change the fact that we were there first, with two anchors out first, and he was too close. Patrick adjusted scope, and dropped the second anchor entirely and we turned on the engine expecting the worst, but it didn't happen. Ten minutes later the squall had already blown itself out and was winding down to light but persistent rain. It ended up being one of those rainy sleepy days when you stay inside, drink tea and read.

Like anywhere worth going, the Grand Cay inlet is shoaly, lined with rocks, narrow and winding so we needed to leave our anchorage with plenty of sunlight. We decided to haul anchor at 5pm, and be safely past the major shoals and submerged rock piles that dot the banks before sunset. The weather window wasn't ideal. Essentially it was a lingering high pressure system, trapping dangerously strong winds, and most inclement weather to the south. Unfortunately, the winds were forecasted to be due East for 5 straight days, gradually increasing in speed. East winds aren't the best because we were heading west, and neither the Cape Dory or Madeline do well on a run, and sometimes even broad reaches can be sketchy if the seas are rough. So we decided to err on the side of caution by leaving on the lightest winds forecasted--10 knots, even though we knew it might force us to motor.

The night we left was so calm that the waters of the banks were entirely undisturbed. The only motion of the water was our own wake (which was unfortunately made by our engine), and for the first time in our sailing experience the evening sky was cloudless. We journeyed westward into the red sunset (red sky at night sailor's delight) while gazing into the pristine water catching glimpses of fish and stingray.

That night on the Bahama Banks was spiritual. I had never been so excited to go on watch. The rich darkness of the waveless sea brilliantly offset the stars. Every meteor was glaringly bright, and even the abrasive rattling of the diesel engine was unable to detract from the serene stillness of the night. It was much more like being in outer space on Voyager, than being on the ocean in a sailboat.

Despite being unable to sail we were making great time, and by 3 am we were nearing the shelf that cradles the Bahamas before dropping off to form the depths of the Atlantic. The shelf is usually the roughest part of the ocean, large swells squeeze up over the shelf becoming large and unstable. In anticipation of unruly waves, I closed up all the portholes and secured everything below. Two hours later however the Cape Dory hadn't so much as rocked meaningfully. I asked Patrick if we were off the shelf yet, and it turned out we were already well into the Atlantic. There were no waves. The Atlantic ocean looked like a lake. There was still no wind, and we had been motoring for ten hours already. Pat and Jen, who were right behind us, monitoring 68 on the VHF radio were as nervous as we were about running out of fuel, or engine failure in what was essentially a doldrum. It was so calm that the only distinguishing feature of the gulf stream was our sudden unaccountable speed- 7 knots--a speed neither of our boats can accomplish under power.

Patrick and I continued our watches, and I had been asleep for an hour when I heard him screaming at me to turn the radio to 16. I ran on deck, terror stricken (no one likes it when someone yells frantically on a boat in the middle of the night in the middle of the ocean) where I noticed a high beam spot light flashing on us in the cockpit from a quarter of a mile away. We switched to 16 and heard this: "Sailing Vessel, this is the United States Coast Guard, acknowledge and switch to channel 17." Patrick was still snapping out of his night watch stupor, when he responded. The coast guard immediately began interrogations. Who are we, where are we going, where did we come from, our vessel registration, are we smuggling illegal immigrants, do we have fruit on board, are you the owner of the vessel, what is the meaning of life? By the time we had answered all these questions it was nearly dawn, and the morning glow allowed us to decipher a great hulking shadow to our port side. The coast guard vessel was the size of a tanker and it ran with no lights at all, sneaking around US waters catching unwary boaters off guard and scarring them to death.

We only saw one other boat before morning. It was a huge freighter and it was obviously going to cross paths with us so I hailed it to announce our presence. As usual it didn't respond, but I was nervous of it hitting us so I diligently hailed it every minute until finally the coast guard came on saying, "Swift Ranger, the vessel off your bow is called Port Prince, try hailing with that name." Apparently you are not as alone on the big wide ocean as you might think.

It was a comfort when the sun came up and the calm conditions were unchanged. Unfortunately the wind continued to take a holiday and amble about at 4 knots from entirely the wrong direction. We were able to raise sails occasionally while motoring, but they would always start to luff after an hour or so.

The hours ticked by monotonously. It was obvious we wouldn't make port until just after sunset at 8 pm, so we continued napping, reading and eating in shifts, occasionally hailing Madeline to commiserate. I was rewarded in the afternoon by a pod of dolphins hunting a school of fish underneath the Cape Dory. They swam and leapt around our boat for more than half an hour. I know it's lame, but I still get excited every time I see a dolphin. Manatees on the other hand are the let down of a century. Not only are they indolent potato-reminiscent monstrosities, they surface wherever whenever they want like a lummox with no sense of courtesy and smash into our rudder, or nearly tip over the dinghy while I'm in it. For some unaccountable reason, Florida pours so much revenue into a save the manatee fund. They are imbeciles.

Finally, 26 hours from when we commenced, landfall. As we neared the Port Canaveral inlet, Jen hailed us on the radio, "We seem to be having engine trouble." Promptly, we both slowed down. Then they stopped altogether and began drifting slowly towards the jetties which were quite a distance off but still unpleasantly in the vicinity. Patrick motored in circles around them while we brain stormed as to what might be the problem. After a few guesses, the problem was discovered and it happened to be fixable-- but not before we all envisioned a number of dangerous scenarios that involved a coast guard helicopter rescue. We carried on, but warily, and a few more engine stalls later we were literally crashing into slips at the nearest marina. We cared for nothing aside from getting off the boat. Pat and Jen, being angels of mercy, took us back to their home nearby in Titusville where we could sleep in a real bed and shower--things we hadn't done since we bought the boat.

I'm still not sure how we did it, but we can officially check "sail yourself to tropical island and back in one piece" off of our mutual life to do list.

John Travolta and me

2009-04-26T08:35:00.001-07:00

Having other boats around us for “comfort,” we sat around dreaming of places other than West End. West End, Bahamas is a great place to lose your momentum. High dollar power boats, John Travolta mansions, fake sand, and angry locals working for even angrier Caucasian’s. 9:00am, I never thought I’d be able to see two men and a fake breasted – 44DD’s that faded into legs – wearing solid gold chains, hammering Coors’ Lights while yelling at a local about how bad “Yerz Inglish” is. The icing on the cake is 50 knot winds.

We sat watching clouds manufacture themselves over and over again. To this day, I have never seen clouds move so fast and become so gloomy. Alaina and I became anxious and stowed everything away; all I could remember is our uncle C.J. talking about squalls and how you needed goggles otherwise the rain would tear through your eyes. I didn’t hesitate to grab my snorkel and mask - I am glad I remembered that little gem, thanks C.J.

As soon as we situated everything on the boat a huge blast of rain came down cleaning everything off of our boat. The New Yorker I left in the dinghy was immediately maimed, castrated, then turned into a Star weekly. Absolute trash. We watched perched in front of our hatch, as the rain grew stronger and stronger. Out of nowhere, 50 knots of wind came without warning and tipped our boat over 30 degrees and threw us back dislodging one of our anchors. The wind held strong and I glanced out with my mask to see how close we were to our neighboring boats just to be met with rain cutting against my face. This was one of the most mesmerizing acts of nature I have ever seen. I was ready to run out and start the engine to motor away from the other boats in case our 2^nd anchor slipped, but I didn’t know what good that would do; I literally could not see 10 feet in front of me. We sat white knuckled, ready to jump towards the helm for the next 15 minutes, and after that, blue skies.

Squalls are entertaining; this is a terrible word choice. They last 10-20 minutes and make you and everyone around you pee their pants. They are sneak previews of hurricanes and slaps in the face. Luckily, for the rest of the night we didn’t see any other squalls, what we did see was a series of small thunderstorms all strong enough just to keep us up all night. When we awoke the next morning with baggy eyed headaches, we were pretty much done with West End. We packed up and headed out to the Abacos looking in every direction for our next squall.

It’s been almost 1 week since that experience and we are still anxiously pointing out every semi-dark cloud asking “is that going to destroy us?”

From West End we sojourned at Mangrove Key. As we approached the 15 knot westerly vanished into nothing. The surface of the sea was impeccably still. Not a ripple. You could make out the subtle features of the ocean floor up to fifteen feet below. After dropping anchors, all of us (Pat, Jen, their two dogs, Patrick and I) jumped into the water and swam until the sun tucked into the horizon. That evening we feasted on a freshly caught mackerel thanks to Pat and Jen, and sipped our cocktails while observing a spectacular lightning storm developing some twenty miles south of us. It was a rewarding night after the monotony of West End.

Currently, we are still in the Abacos awaiting our next weather window to pass back into the States. The people here seem to think Alaina and I are from Miami and have kiddy pools of money that we frequently swim in. It’s a lose lose situation. On a brighter note, the Abacos are beautiful and the snorkeling is amazing. Two other couples we met have been sailing around with us for the past week now; Pat and Jenn, and Paul and Piper. They are all amazing people and it has been a real treat getting to know all of them; their hospitality has been astonishing.

Right now we’re off to Grand Cay, Abacos.

Bimini Magic

2009-04-13T06:12:00.000-07:00

The Riley's and I had a fabulous time exploring Bimini together. For being so small an island, it offered a wide variety of things to do including a beautiful Atlantic beach and quaint little shops and restaurants, none of which escaped Karen's astute curiosity.

The touristy side of Bimini was conveniently isolated to the point of being quarantined on the northernmost part of the island hemmed in by a large gate, presumably to keep the poor locals out--or the rich yachties in. The locals who are all Caribbean immigrants were very welcoming to us. A perfect example is our experience at the local laundromat. On our second visit, the woman who ran the place recognized us. She noticed that my favorite white dress had an appalling stain that I had been unable to remove, so she took the dress herself saying in all seriousness, "I love whites, and I hate seeing them done improperly." She promptly treated, washed and dried the thing for me in fifteen minutes. My dress is better than new.

(Overwhelmed by the beach vacation stereotype, we took prom-esque pictures together.)

Karen, who could snorkel for days without tiring, gave us all the water bug and got me to do some introductory snorkeling, Patrick worked as my breathing coach. I kept forgetting that I could still breathe through the snorkeler when my head was submerged. Unfortunately every time I spotted something other than sand underwater, I would panic and climb back into the boat. It's about as fun to see underwater as it is in a scary movie when the camera finally pans and shows you who the killer is. Some things are better left unknown.

After several glorious days of feasting on conch fritters and drinking gin and tonics, the four of us parted ways. With Ed and Karen gone, along with our ticket to civilized living, we find ourselves dining primarily on baked beans out of a can and pancakes. Patrick only barely managed to lure me into a Bahamas crossing with promises of bountiful tropical fruits, something our pecuniary limitations have long deprived me of. Unfortunately no one told the Bahamian vegetation that an underfed, uninformed couple from the states were about to arrive with coconut dreams. There is never a coconut that hasn't already been mostly eaten, or a little gnawed on, or spoilt all together. Don't even get me started on the subject of fresh fish that we were supposed to be catching and eating in abundance. As it turns out even paradise isn't so paradisical.

We spent more than a week in Bimini. Patrick is neither used to or content with being stationary for so long, meaning we had overstayed our visit and it was time to head for another island. Of the plethora of islands and cays that comprise the Bahamas, we chose the least appealing and most touristy Grand Bahama. We decided to suck it up and make the sixty mile trip north because it would set us up at a great approach angle for our eventual return to the states. Also, Grand Bahama is a good staging point for the Abacos which is a chain of uninhabited islands tucked into the protected Bahama banks, surrounded by twenty feet or less of water with pristine beaches and coral reefs. In so many words, they are archetypal of the tropics.

Before leaving Bimini, which I had really grown fond of, we visited the local library. There is no attendant. The way it works is you bring a book of your own and trade it in for a book of your choice. We traded one of our books it for a sweet 'choose your own adventure' book. It's perfect for reading out loud to entertain whomever is taking his or her shift at the helm since its only about a 5th grade reading level and its interactive.

The day before we planned on leaving I came down with the usual case of nerves that precede any new voyage. We had just met a young couple in our anchorage who were planing to make the same trip as ourselves. Paul and Piper, on their 29 foot Columbia Delphine. We rarely meet sailors who are under 50, so we were pretty excited when they pulled up next to us. Paul and Piper had been living on Delphine for two years, and had several liveaboard insights to share with us. They called us to let us know that they had made it safely to Grand Bahama by leaving before sunrise and arriving half an hour before sunset. That is cutting it close. As I've said before, it is dangerous to enter any of these exposed ocean inlets at night. However, their boat is around the same speed as ours and they had light winds the day they left so we were pretty sure we could make it. Plus we were tempted by the possibility of keeping good company in the Abacos.

At this point I had grown so accustomed to lounging on the beach that 12 to 13 hours of being tossed around in the Atlantic seemed even less attractive than usual. So I did something that I rarely do. I made Patrick feel bad for whisking me all around the seas until he decided we would just stay in Bimini. Patrick even tried to alleviate my fears by distracting me with a dress I had been admiring in town as an early birthday present. I had my way, but that night going to bed I felt guilty. I didn't want to be responsible for holding us back from new experiences, or the Cape Dory from doing what she does best out on the water. I had a plagued nights' sleep and woke around 5am to a tranquil predawn stillness. I knew the inlet would be easy to exit in such conditions, even in low light. I knew what needed to be done. We were going to have to get back out on the Atlantic sooner or later in order to return home, so I had better gather my courage and face me fears. I woke up Patrick rather sheepishly saying, "It's 5am and we can make it to Grand Bahama if we leave now." Patrick responded by laughing out loud and saying that I was crazy. We ran around the boat prepping her to leave filled with excitement over our own spontaneity.

As usual, the forecast was wrong about everything except for the wind direction. It was southeast alright, but 5 knots instead of 15. We had to motor all morning and afternoon. Though modest for the ocean, the swells felt enormous and the Cape Dory didn't ride them as well as she could because we couldn't put the sails up. It was twelve grueling hours of surfing four to six footers coupled with the deafening grind of the diesel engine. We only averaged the minimum speed that would get us to the inlet before sundown, and that put a considerable strain on us. If anything went wrong or if slowed at all we wouldn't make it in time. By the time we could see land the sun was low in the sky and we were feeling pretty nervous. As we drew nearer to the shelf that gradually inclines to form the island the waves had doubled in size. Everywhere white foamy caps had formed on the crests and countercurrent caused rogue waves at regular intervals that would knock us over on our side. Patrick was lashed to the boat, and down below I was crashing from one wall to the other trying to read the chart. Patrick felt seasick when he went below so it was up to me to navigate into the inlet, something I had never done before. The depths diminished so dramatically as we drew nearer to land that the seas became tumultuous. We had our first exposure to ten and twelve foot waves. From the top of the wave you look down into a steep valley and feel as though you might topple off right into it. The Cape Dory performed marvelously for having to motor, but we were scared out of our wits. By the time we made it to the inlet, even the usual concern of running aground had diminished in light of the huge merciless seas.

(Pat was at the helm all day. He is wearing his safety harness and REI hat Ed left behind for him. Notice how he looks like one of those Zoo volunteers.)

All day long we had looked forward to a night at a marina in West End, Grand Bahama only to arrive and discover that their slips are 130$ a night, and there were none available anyway. The only alternative was to anchor. Now, there is only one possible anchorage at West End, and its pretty horrible. There is no considerable land mass that divorces it from the Atlantic, but so many shoals and sandbars that cut the swells down enough to give you a decent night's sleep if the weather's calm.

We came careening into the anchorage just as the sun was setting. As our luck would have it several enormous power yachts had arrived first and messed everything up by dropping one hook. As a rule, you have to anchor in the same fashion as everyone else so that you all swing the same way. Unfortunately, in this anchorage the tidal currents surge in and out so dramatically that no two boats lay on their anchor in the same way. Thus defeating the one-hook method of anchoring. Just before sunset two other small sailboats tucked in close to us, and one belonged to the couple we met earlier in Bimini. We were all a little wary of our anchoring situation and by midnight all of our fears were confirmed. The wind kicked up to about 20 knots with higher gusts and each boat was swiveling madly in incongruous directions. Everyone was on deck with flashlights calling to each other in an attempt to decipher whether or not we were going to drag anchor, collide, or both. Patrick and I were swinging so close to another sailboat, Madeline that we were able to chat without shouting to her Captain and Skipper, Pat and Jen. We needed to do a Bahamian moor to hold against the changing current. Patrick rowed out in the pitch blackness to drop a second anchor. I was terrified that he wouldn't be able to row against the current and each time he put down the oars so that he might drop the anchor he was immediately whisked away and lost the spot where he needed to drop it. A neighboring boat flashed a high beam light on him at intervals to make sure he wasn't being washed out to sea. He ended up throwing the anchor over in a less than ideal location, leaving me to pull in the rode at the bow. Before he could take up his oars again the current had already taken him as far as Pat and Jen's boat. He grabbed onto the side of their boat where they discussed at length what was the best option to keep them from swinging into us. Their inflatable dinghy wasn't inflated so they didn't have a good way to lay a second anchor, and they hadn't done a bahamian moor before anyway, so Patrick rowed out their anchor as well. We all felt more secure than before and the wind was beginning to settle. Patrick managed to row back, but not before inviting Pat and Jen over for coffee in the morning.

Let me just say that if you have not had to have a dinghy powwow with strangers in the middle of the night in order to keep yourself and your neighbors safe from the elements, you haven't lived.

By the next day we were all fast friends and we are making tentative plans to make our trip to the Abacos as a small, friendly flotilla.

The last few days of extreme adventure and more than a little danger have left me with a lot of material for reflection. My most profound insight however has been this. Sailing has rendered us unto a lifestyle that can only be described as soft barbarism. Over our dinner of tuna casserole, made exclusively out of canned goods, we realized that neither of us have had a proper shower in over a week. Saltwater seems to mask most smells but I think it does more to dilute our memories. We didn't remember that we hadn't been bathing until just yesterday. I haven't looked in a mirror in days. I haven't brushed my hair. We don't know what we look like and I think we have stopped seeing each other altogether. Our situation is entirely reminiscent of a Mad Max movie. Our can opener broke so we have to smash into our cans to get anything out. We eat meals straight out of the pot, wash our dishes in the ocean and wear bathing suits everyday so as not to dirty our laundry. Patrick quit shaving and I might have head lice. A piece of my tooth chipped off the other day so why not? These days we look suspiciously more like poor farm hands, or survivors of the apocalypse than anything else. And yet we are deliciously happy. I've been devouring books (Patrick is still stuck on Gravity's Rainbow, I don't know what he sees in Thomas Pynchon) naming fish, braiding my hair, and experimenting with new recipes based on four ingredients: rice, canned green beans, corn starch, peanut butter.

Here are some sample recipes:

"Crazy Corn Cloggers"

Prep time: 30 seconds

Cook time: 10 minutes

Jiffy cornbread mix sans all other cornbread-like ingredients

Polenta

Canned Corn

Corn Starch

Mix together in pot, heat up.

"Tuna Surprise"

Prep time: 1 minute

Cook time: 5 minutes

Rice

Canned Tuna

Salt

To the Bahamas

2009-04-06T18:20:00.000-07:00

After two nonconsecutive weeks at Jewfish creek, Patrick came down with a severe case of wanderlust. Comments like “we never go anywhere anymore, we do the same thing everyday,” and “I am so tired of waking up to the same view” were a good clue for me. So, although it was entirely unnecessary, as they could have easily taken a bus or a cab from Miami to Key Largo, Patrick and I made the day-long sail to Miami once more in order to pick up Ed and Karen in the Cape Dory ourselves.

More foul weather was predicted so we wasted no time getting to Miami. The morning we left Jewfish Creek, the wind was 25 knots. We started with a reef in the main but as we kept being knocked over by gusts, we dropped the sails entirely and Patrick put in the second reef for the first time. This made things much more comfortable and we found ourselves on a pleasant broad reach at 6 knots for most of the day until the winds died later in the afternoon. However by the time we were approaching Dinner Key, where we planned on anchoring for the next few nights, we had achieved a new state of grumpiness. The afternoon heat featuring 97% humidity was oppressive. All we wanted was to drop that anchor and get out of the sun. Naturally we were disappointed when we turned out of the channel towards the anchorage only to find ourselves in a near collision with a sunken ship. Patrick noticed the plummeting depths and had thrown the Cape Dory into reverse before we beached ourselves on top of a derelict vessel. Aside from a little bottom paint, nothing was lost.

We scooted back into the channel with no idea of what to do next. We had been sailing for close to eight hours at that point and really needed a rest. We stopped at the fuel dock simply for the sake of stopping and weighed our options. Slip prices at the marina were outrageous, and no one seemed to be able to tell us what the depths were for the local anchorages. We had no choice but to sail back out into Biscayne Bay where there was a good anchorage about an hour away. I was close to furious, but as it was no one’s fault I found no relief in expressing my anger at inanimate objects. As we pulled out of the fuel dock, we decided on a desperate hunch to try motoring behind a spoil island that protected the marina to see if there was access to the anchorage that way. A small sailboat had just entered the channel so we slowed down and I yelled to them that we needed to get into the anchorage without running aground first. The captain responded by pointing us towards a small creek through the spoil islands that led into a small stretch of deep water where we could anchor. We were so relieved. Within thirty minutes we had dropped two anchors and secured ourselves with a nice “Bahamian moor” which protects you from shifting winds and currents.

The anchorage was extremely sketch. It looked like everyone had either stolen their boats, or were waiting for their boats to sink out from under them. Occasionally, when I was in the cockpit adjusting lines or what have you, I would spot a pair of glowing, beady eyes staring from within the dark recesses of a barnacle-ridden boat. It was a little unnerving, so Patrick and I kept a careful watch over our boat and dinghy.

We had a day to kill at Dinner Key waiting for Ed and Karen’s plane to arrive. Unfortunately the weather was squally featuring perpetual rain and a late night display of lightening. The anchorage wasn’t very sheltered, and I was a little nervous as we bounced around in the building chop but we were snug all day and we squeezed in more reading than any other day up until that point. Patrick is nearly through with Gravity’s Rainbow and that is saying something.

(Relaxing just after a rain squall passed over us.)

The following morning, we scoured the boat (first impressions!) in preparation for Ed and Karen’s arrival. Patrick even “staged” the v-berth by arranging pillows and blankets in a Martha Stewart like fashion. The Cape Dory was fit for a very petite king.

We (and by that I mean Patrick, I tried to row once and we got caught in a rip-tide, but I thought I just had bad form, so I started beating the oar angrily on the side of the dingy…since then, I’ve been exempt from dinghy duty) rowed approximately 1.2 miles to the dinghy dock at Coconut Grove and wandered around the town in search of the local library. As it turns out, libraries are obscenely archaic. No one had the faintest notion of where it was. There were little signs everywhere of a stick figured man reading a book with an arrow, but when we would follow it we would end up at a dead end. At each dead end we would ask someone where the library was to no avail. We ended up at an American Apparel. For fun, I asked Patrick to go in with me and we could ask about the library there. After making my request to the two hip cashiers, one girl responded by staring at the flurescent lights repeating the word ‘library,’ slowly emphasizing each syllable as if she were trying it out for the very first time. The guy responded by showing off his colored “Tribe Called Quest” tattoo on his forearm. I thanked them and we continued on our quest alone. As it turned out, the library was on the same block as American Apparel, directly behind their building. If they had ever walked out the back door, they would have found themselves next to the entrance of the library.

Anyway. Ed and Karen arrived with full fanfare. We were very happy to see them and we had a fine time of dinghying back all four of us in our two person rowing dinghy without swamping or capsizing every time a powerboat passed. Since their arrival, Ed and Karen have been walking a mile in our shoes, literally. This includes rowing a mile, plunging a mile, and sleeping in three square feet in our shoes.

(Ed checking out the Cape Dory for the first time. Karen didn't let me take pictures of her.)

The four of us had an incredible sail from Dinner Key to Jewfish Creek where we planned on provisioning and waiting for the right weather to make our Bahamas crossing. We spent some time with our newest acquaintances Kim and Georgette, a cruising couple living on an enormous trimaran named “Calypso Poet” that Kim salvaged and had been rebuilding over the past several years. They had done a lot of sailing on Calypso including portions of Central America, the Caribbean and the Keys. They shared wonderful stories and kindly offered us much needed assistance.

Let’s turn our attention to the Gulf Stream crossing. The actual distance to Bimini from Florida is less than sixty miles. Theoretically is should only take our boat ten to eleven hours. However it is imperative that we make landfall in the afternoon while the sun is high overhead in order to navigate our way in from sea. Bimini doesn’t maintain its channel markers (nor does anywhere in the Bahamas) and they were washed away years ago. This means our piloting will be limited to our ability to read the water. Based on track record, this remains a poorly developed skill.

Thus we set our departure for early Thursday morning, between one and two. We would leave from the inlet Patrick and I had taken in from Hawk Channel several weeks ago. It was only an hour’s sail away from Jewfish Creek so after stocking up the boat, refueling and topping off water tanks, we made our way to the Angelfish inlet and ran the stretch carefully in daylight. This was going to be the first time we had attempted any trip that required careful navigation in darkness and I was filled with the sort of dread that arises from a mixture of acute pessimism and unchecked imagination.

We ran the inlet at low tide and took careful note of depths and terrain before anchoring inside one of the small tributary streams. The stream was fully enveloped by mangroves and boasted an array of sea life including stingrays, sharks and fish. The tidal current surged from the ocean through the little creek, sharply opposing the southerly wind. The two forces canceled each other out and we were held stationary in this isolated pseudo-vortex. This made it hard to maneuver the boat, and we were nervous about excessive shoaling. After noticing a curious whirlpool gurgling just off the bow we dropped anchor as a precautionary measure.

Patrick made fast use of his new crewmen by sending Ed out in the dinghy with the boathook to check out the depths. It turned out there was a two-foot deep bank lying in wait to welcome our keel into its grassy bottom. We needed to re-anchor in order to keep from swinging into it after the tide went out. Just as I was beginning to feel nervous, the swift current popped out our anchor before it had been given a proper opportunity to set. I held station by slowly throttling forward against the current. Meanwhile all hands were in a flustered panic. Pat and Ed rowed in vain against the raging current in an attempt to drop the second anchor in safe water. It was a fiasco. The oar was lost twice over and we had to scramble to retrieve it before it washed out to sea. We nearly lost the anchor overboard and at one point Patrick was convinced that we had in fact lost the anchor overboard. Overwhelmed by his theatrics, the rest of us were convinced that the anchor was lost, when in fact I had secured it only moments ago and knew otherwise. Karen was mutinous and I was feeling skeptical as to our ability to handle the Atlantic after being defeated by a saltwater stream. After a forty-minute struggle we had secured the cape Dory and settled down to conciliatory cocktails, dinner and a rest before embarking a few hours later.

Anchors were up by 1:30 am. We readied the boat for departure sans lights in order to develop our night vision. Unfortunately we were in remote enough of an area that I couldn’t even see from one side of the bank to the other, aside from shadowy amorphousness that I knew were mangroves. My confidence was quickly dissipating and even Captain Patrick seemed uneasy. As we exited the creek and entered Angelfish proper, nothing was intelligible. After studying the terrain in daylight I no longer had any perspective as to where we actually were. Kim and Georgette had given us a spotlight with which to pick out the few channel markers, but the majority of the run was unmarked and pitch black.

Slowly we picked our way through the milky blackness, winding carefully along the banks using the depthsounder to find the deep water. After fifteen agonizing minutes we rounded the final bend into the widening mouth of the creek opening up to the Atlantic. There is a very narrow channel that cuts sharply to the south east that was difficult to pick out in the darkness. I flashed the spotlight at intervals in order to preserve our night vision and while allowing us to angle into the channel. Ten minutes later we were clear and in the first gentle swells of the ocean.

The coastline of Key Largo is separated from the vastness of the Atlantic by a large barrier reef. We needed to head for a small channel marker a few miles south that would allow us to pass safely through the shallowest parts of the reef.

It just so happened that this course was dead into the wind so we were unable to raise the sails. Although the seas were predicted to be a mild two to four feet, the swells were growing larger and more unruly as we approached the shallower depths of the reef. The closer we were to the cut through the reef, the worse the seas became. The moon was completely obscured by clouds and it was difficult to see the waves until they were already breaking over the bow. The channel marker we were headed for was supposed to be a lighted beacon, but no one was able to spot its flashing green light. This was a frightening prospect. If the light was out, we wouldn’t be able to see the marker until we were right on top of it. In the rough waves it would be difficult to make any sharp evasive maneuvers. I stayed below plotting our course constantly with the utmost precision and we all held our breath as I plotted us passing directly between the supposed location of the marker and a submerged reef just to the north of it.

The waves had become violent. The Cape Dory was being tossed around unlike anything we had experienced before. We only had two harnesses so I stayed below while Patrick and Ed wrestled with the tiller in the cockpit. We were seriously considering turning back although none of us were thrilled with the idea of navigating back through the reef and into an inlet for the second time at night. Patrick believed that once we made it out past the continental shelf the waves would be friendlier. I wasn’t convinced that going from thirty foot depths to thousand foot depths would make the ride more comfortable, but I am not a quitter and Patrick’s the captain, so we continued on.

Within an hour we had entered the Gulf Stream. The waves unquestionably took on a different pattern. The current was so strong that while we were heading due east, we were making exactly as much progress northward as eastward. I have never been seasick since we moved onto the Cape Dory, however sitting below and trying to draw straight lines and exact points on a chart with the boat rolling and leaping in the sea challenged my stomach in new ways. It put carsickness to shame. At one point I had to give up my post and lay down for a while. With each wave I rolled off of the settee and I was considering strapping myself into bed when Patrick called me. We were passing through shipping lanes and he saw several large ships glowing in the distance. They move so quickly, and our boat is too small to show up on radar so we can’t waste anytime in announcing our presence or, if necessary, change course.
I got on the VHF and hailed the nearest ship. “Vessel over 50 meters, vessel over 50 meters, this is sailing vessel Swift Ranger over.” Nothing. I repeat my call. So I started doing a radio check. Ten minutes later someone responded that I was coming in loud in clear, but it wasn’t the vessel I hailed. Apparently they weren’t monitoring their radios. Ten minutes later it was clear we were on a collision course, so Patrick changed course entirely until we were well clear. After the mystery vessel vanished over the horizon we had one cruise ship after another to contend with. I would hail them, “Cruise Ship Cruise Ship” and give our lat and long. Nothing. So I started getting sassy. “Giant Pleasure Cruise, Giant Pleasure Cruise, this sailing vessel Swift Ranger. We won’t show up on your radar (I gave him our GPS coordinates and our compass course). We are going to alter course behind you so don’t make any sudden movements because we are slow and you will run us over.” No one ever said anything to that.

We continued being hammered by the Gulf Stream until dawn. Patrick and Ed still hadn’t put up the sails because is was so dark and rough. No one wanted to send Patrick forward where he might fall overboard while hoisting the mainsail. At dawn they gave it a shot. Patrick put one reef in the main and was doing his share of bouncing as the bow collided with waves. Finally the sails were set, the Cape Dory heeled over and then took off like a shot. We went from five to seven knots within moments. She cut through the waves like a champ under sail. Patrick regretted all those hours of discomfort just because we had been nervous to raise the sails at night. The Cape Dory is not meant to be motored. She needs the wind.

The morning was calm and bright. A pod of dolphins surfaced to say “good morning” to Patrick and Ed. The ocean was settled enough for Karen and I to clamor up from below and get some fresh air. We were only a few hours away from the Bahamas.

By eleven in the morning we spotted land. It was an exhilarating feeling. I imagined what it must have been like for early explorers to go days without seeing land, while facing the real possibility of never seeing it again. The deep ocean was a profound blue, unlike any water I had seen before. It was so clean and dark. It was hard to imagine it went down so many thousands of feet when it felt so close, immanent.

As we drew nearer to land into shallower water the color changed to a bright turquoise. The water was so clear and vibrant I could see the sand at the bottom. We all had a little apprehension about the unmarked inlet to Bimini. Fortunately, the sea was mild and we could easily spot the shoals that lined the entrance. Twenty minutes later we were docked and clearing in customs.

Our first international passage. We will stay in the Bahamas for the month of April. It’s too beautiful to leave quickly behind.

Water Birds

2009-03-26T16:40:00.000-07:00

We are currently nestled near a band of mangroves which comprises the eastern wall of Jewfish Creek. In light of the fact that most boats in this narrow anchorage are stationary and home to the most intriguing faction of northern Key Largo’s minimum wage work force, anchoring here demands an unusual proximity to one’s neighbors. Thus we find ourselves quite hemmed in with a houseboat to starboard, a trimaran off the bow, and two dilapidated monohulls off each side of the stern. The “coziness” of this area required a composite of our most scrupulous anchoring techniques, and more than a few disagreements as to whether or not when the wind shifted we would find ourselves swinging right onto the foredeck of another boat.

After some “problem solving”, and Patrick’s rowing twice out with the dinghy to re-lay our second anchor we seem to be quite secure and ready to ride out the next few days’ strong north-easterly breezes.

Four days of relentless northern winds are the precursor to the southerly that is our golden sun-bathed ticket to the Bahamas. In the meantime we have suffered more than a few sleepless nights, enduring the persistent howling of 25 knot winds that squeeze over the tops of the mangroves and catch the top of our mast, causing us to sway abominably and hit the halyards against the mast with a loud, rhythmic clattering. After so many hours, the howling, whistling and clamoring begins to grate on one’s nerves; i.e., reminiscent of a low-budget “Stomp” performance over one’s head.

To make things all the more insufferable, the springy nylon of the rode that attaches us to anchor works like a rubber band in strong winds so that we pivot from one anchor to the other bouncing back and forth. There is nothing more disorienting than waking up in the blackness of night and seeing the stars swiveling madly, or the city-scape suddenly replaced by a darkened wood.

However fate has smiled upon us, and sent us a guardian blowfish that Patrick named John Wayne Gacy to protect us from unfavorable winds. He lives in a nook between the two chains that lead off to each anchor. At night we sit on the bow illuminating him with a handcrank flashlight telling ghost stories (holy ghost stories of course) while he swells enormously with what I assume is pleasure. I love you, John Wayne Gacy, you celestial scaly orb.

We have learned a great deal from our month-long stint of living “on the hook.” Most importantly anchor watches, or the more extreme, abandoning the anchorage entirely because one has been blown out of it are not unusual circumstances. In fact these scenarios happen often, and the way one handles them is a distinguishing mark of an experienced sailor.

Surprisingly as my knowledge of the sea increases so does my fear of it. Conversely, the more I blindly embrace each passage or night at anchor the more confidence I gain. There is something about sailing that elicits a combination of intuition and naiveté along with a respect for the elements and an awareness of one’s limitations that seems to make a good sailor.

On the Run from Inclement Weather

2009-03-20T09:09:00.000-07:00

So the whole spring-break-Miami experience didn't pan out. The morning we left Blackwater Sound Patrick and I indulged in our usual routine of 30 minutes with NOAA's robot broadcasted weather radio report. A cold front was settling in, and I mean settling in, with no intentions of moving before punishing all of southern Florida's inhabitants with 5 days of inclement weather.

Despite the day's forecasted thunderstorms--not ideal sailing conditions--we didn't have the luxury of sitting tight on our anchor. Connor had a flight to make and he at least needed to get to Miami. We were intimidated by the prospect of sailing for the first time through lightning and torrential rain, but we were comforted by the small flotilla of Blue Water Sailing School boats (one of which was captained by Uncle C.J.) who were all on there way to the same anchorage in south Miami. We would be in visual range of at least one of their boats all day and could hail them at any time if had a serious problem. Because storms at sea are ultimately inevitable, we decided to take the chance and put our storm tactics to good use.

It was overcast with a 15 knot north-easterly wind so we were close-hauled all day, which means the wind and waves pounded us in the face the whole time. By mid-afternoon I could actually scrape handfuls of salt-granules off of my face from all the sea-spray making its way into the cockpit.

By late-afternoon, only 6 miles from our intended anchorage Hurricane Harbor, we noticed large amorphous heaps of cumulous clouds developing just north-east of Miami. From the water, you have the most incredible view of developing weather; the perspective allows you to see everything. I never realized how enormous and low lying storm systems could be, or how quickly they develop. It seemed like the sky was ready to cave in over Miami. Rather than continuing to heap up and form a thunderhead, the wind spread the storm system westward and within minutes a squall line had formed and as our good fortune would have it, it was originating directly over the anchorage we were heading for which provided the only good shelter within miles. At this point, scenes from films like The Perfect Storm and less relevant, but just as disconcerting, Jaws begin flashing through my mind and I am suddenly, deeply overwhelmed by thought of the Cape Dory being dashed to bits at sea.

With no alternative, we continued sailing tentatively onward hoping that it would have blown over by the time we arrived. Half an hour later it was obvious we wouldn't be so lucky. The squall began to join with every other cumulonimbus cloud in the general area until it had spread across the bay completely obscuring Miami. We were only a mile behind two of the other Blue Water Sailing School Boats, another mono-hull and a catamaran, and we watched closely to see what they would do. Suddenly the catamaran entered the outer edge of the squall and completely disappeared. From the surface of the water to the clouds, we could only see a thick impenetrable grey. Within minutes we would be overtaken ourselves and we were beginning to feel strong blasts of cold air.

We were only sailing with 75% of sail up as a precautionary measure for the hazardous weather. This came in handy when a sudden gust of wind knocked us suddenly over on our side completely submerging the port side deck in water. Patrick was at the helm while I let out the sails allowing them to spill all the air out of them so that we could right ourselves. We reduced our sails again and made the split second decision as we neared the southerly perimeter of the squall: adjust course and run away.

We sailed as fast as we could southeast, while the front moved southwest at shocking speeds. After only placing a mile between ourselves and the squall it had disappeared over coastal Florida. We fixed our position and plotted a new course for Hurricane Harbor. Ominous clouds were continuing to develop over the Atlantic and we did not want to try navigating into a foreign anchorage without good visibility.

We arrived without any misadventure and anchored amongst the Blue Water Sailing School Boats. I could help feeling show-offy to both the captains and their crew as we motored up nonchalantly after the squall and anchoring like it was nothing. Of course, Uncle C.J. knew better. He knew I had been terrified for the last 8 hours by the numerous phone calls I had made to him for advice throughout the day.

Shortly after settling in at the anchorage we discovered that the next three days would bring even worse weather, so much so that sailing at all would be ill-advised. However the storms would be hitting the worst over Miami so we didn't have the option of riding it out in Hurricane Harbor. We needed to get back Blackwater Sound before the following afternoon when the worst of the storms were expected to develop.

(Just after arriving at Hurricane Harbor)

Patrick and I made plans to drop Connor of at a Marina five miles across Biscayne Bay and head from there to Key Largo. We were gone the next morning at first light and dropped Connor of at a fuel dock by 8 am. We felt like horrible hosts dropping our guest off on an arbitrary dock in south Miami, tossing him his bags and leaving him to his own devices. His plane wasn't even scheduled to leave until the following morning. But Connor was a good sport and understood that we could be in some serious danger if we didn't make it to shelter soon.

(Connor as we left him to his own devices on some dock, somewhere south of Miami.)

From the time we pulled out of the fuel dock to the moment we dropped our anchor later that day in Blackwater Sound, we watched storm cells develop and dissipate cyclically from every direction. There was no course we could set that wouldn't eventually take us into a storm. Luckily there were no squalls and the worst storm of the morning hit Miami just as we were leaving it.

We did our best to dodge the foulest of weather. At one point two storm clouds converged upon us and reduced our visibility to approximately a mile. It rained hard and I was soaked through as it was my turn at the helm. Patrick of course got to navigate and remained dry below until the worst of it was over.

We were still wary of our near knock down the previous day so we sailed with only the Jib and the stay sail instead of using the main. We had to motor a lot but we maintained excellent speed and arrived at Jewfish Creek, a canal cut into the mangroves, which marks the entrance to Blackwater Sound.

I couldn't believe how essentially purposeless these two days were. After two laborious days of sailing we didn't even step ashore much less explore Miami with Connor. Ironically, once we had returned to Blackwater, a local sailor told us he was driving that day to Miami airport and would have taken Connor if he had known about it.

On the bright side, Patrick and I were able to spend more time with our favorite C.J., and became amateur meteorologists. Also, we were able to familiarize ourselves with the area from which we will likely be leaving from for the Bahamas which will be our next passage.

Hawk Channel

2009-03-17T10:04:00.000-07:00

Two days after Connor joined us in Marathon we exchanged the sheltered anchorage of Boot Key Harbor for the reef-lined waters of Hawk Channel. Hawk Channel is utilized almost exclusively by crabbers and cruisers whose draw too much to sail comfortably, or at all, through the ridiculously shoaled Florida Bay.

Our biggest concern with Hawk Channel was that once you enter it, you are fully committed. There are very few inlets once you leave Marathon and most of them are, yet again, too shallow for our boat to fit through (I don't know how Florida got its reputation for being such great sailing...).

The morning we left, Patrick and I were up at dawn to ready the boat for departure and retrieve the anchors. It was way too early for Connor so we didn't bother waking him. Hawk Channel was rough all morning. It was so hard to steer against the wind and waves that the hydraulic steering failed on our wheel, forcing us to use the tiller. The tiller, lacking the mechanical advantage of the wheel was too hard for one person to operate, so we had to steer for about six hours together muscling the tiller back and forth, one of us escaping occasionally to plot us on the chart. Sailing was exhausting. Meanwhile, our "crew member" Connor slept until 3 in the afternoon completely oblivious to the fiasco on deck.

After eleven laborious hours we arrived at Rodriguez Key, which is the only anchorage off of Hawk Channel. Unfortunately, it provides little to no shelter from winds over 10 knots. We were so tired when we pulled up, we didn't give it much thought but the moment we crawled into our v-berth to get some sleep the winds kicked up to around 20 knots. How perfect! Waves rolled right in from the ocean and flung the bow around all night while wind gusted until the boat was vibrating. Patrick and I were too worried to sleep, which was unfortunate because we had been up since 5 that morning.

Somehow that blessed anchor of ours held against the adverse elements over the night, however we awoke grumpy and bleary eyed after only an hour or two of sleep. We felt so uncomfortable at the anchorage we were actually relieved to be sailing in the open water again.

Despite our exhaustion, we were pleasantly surprised by strong favorable winds that morning. The Cape Dory sailed beautifully between 6 and 7 knots all morning and we arrived at Angelfish Creek, the first passable inlet by noon.

We had heard conflicting reports about shoaling in the area. Patrick was so nervous to attempt entering the poorly marked, narrow inlet that he made me decide. Either we attempt Angelfish Creek and risk running aground, or we play it safe and sail 40 miles out of the way and enter through Biscayne Bay. I was not in the mood to sail another day from sunrise to sunset so I decided to take the risk. We asked Connor if he would be willing to snorkel ahead and explore the inlet so we would know where the deep water was. When we made our approach however, the water was so clear we could see the shallow areas and made it through the creek in less than ten minutes. We were making such great time, and having so much success (ie: not running aground) we made it all the way to Blackwater Sound, the northernmost part of Key Largo which hosts a quaint little community of liveaboard sailors.

Within a day anchored in Blackwater Sound, we met another cruising couple our age living on a 21 foot sailboat. The Cape Dory looks like a luxury yacht in comparison. The don't even have a toilet on board; or they do, it's a bucket. This made us feel rich for the first time.

By Tuesday Uncle C.J. arrived with his class from Blue Water Sailing School. This anchorage was precisely the same stop we made with our sailing school only two months ago. It was an incredible moment sailing in to the same spot we learned how to sail on our own boat. C.J. has been an incredible help over the past couple months, and our greatest source of encouragement besides Ed and Karen. We have been looking forward to celebrating our inaugural sail with him at a favorite local sailors bar, Gilbert's.

Connor seems to have been enjoying himself, even though the Cape Dory is almost too small for him to stand up in, and just too small for him to stretch out completely when he lays down.

In an attempt to fully embrace the cruisers' lifestyle, we did our laundry by hand, soaking it first in saltwater and then rinsing it in a mixture of freshwater and ammonia. Reportedly this is an effective method, however after an hour of scrubbing, wringing and hang-drying, our laundry came out somehow dirtier than before and we were forced to row it all to shore and pay three dollars to use the laundry mat.

Tomorrow we are heading for Miami to give Connor a more authentic "spring break" experience. Hanging out with 50 year old sailors just doesn't seem to cut it for everyone.

From Cabbage Key to Marathon

2009-03-12T11:31:00.000-07:00

After spending two glorious days at Cabbage Key, Patrick and I were confronted with a tough decision. Do we continue south along the coast towards Marathon, which will require a night sail through the open ocean? Or do we cut east and take the Okachobee Waterway through numerous locks and bridges in order to get to the Atlantic side? The waterway would be less dangerous, cover a shorter distance, but be unsailable due its narrow channels and canals. The Gulf would be more beautiful, and allow us to sail, but leave us vulnerable to potential hazards that many more experienced sailors chose to avoid.

The evening was filled with intense deliberation, but finally we came to the conclusion that no matter what, Patrick wanted to cross to the Bahamas. This would in fact be more difficult than the crossing to Marathon. If we were unable to contend with relatively innocuous seas of the Gulf of Mexico, then we would have no business crossing the Gulf Stream. So the decision was made: Marathon.

We had originally entertained the idea of sailing straight from Cabbage Key to Marathon. We had the good fortune however of receiving the advice of an experienced friend, who explained to us the significance of "staging." Staging is when one strategically pre-arranges one's position in relation to one's intended destination. If were to sail straight from Cabbage Key, ten miles of that trip alone would have been spent exiting the anchorage and getting back out into the open ocean. When one plans a long passage such as ours, one must pick an anchorage based on its easy accessibility to and from the sea.

So we set a course for Little Marco Island, approximately 70 miles south of Cabbage Key. It was the most arduous journey we had made up to that point. The opening leg was a 20 mile stretch through narrow, poorly marked Intra-coastal Waterway, complete with the usual shoals and boiling tidal currents.

Patrick put his newly acquired navigation skills to the test over those 20 miles. There were a few turns in the channel that were entirely unmarked, thereby requiring him to keep a careful log of our speed, compass heading and time, in order to deduce where we were in the channel and predict at which point we should turn. My having to blindly steer the course Patrick demanded was maybe the biggest challenge in our relationship thus far. But the Captain came through! After a few nerve-racking hours we made it out of the ICW and into the bay waters of Sanibel Island.

It was several more hours of sailing from Sanibel to Little Marco Island. We were pulling into the inlet just as the sun was preparing to set. Patrick was at his usual place on the bow with binoculars and chart in hand, pointing out markers and directing me towards them. Once inside the channel, approaching a dilapidated pair of red and green markers, Patrick got that look in his eyes. It is a look that could be rightfully described as malaise. This is the look he gets when something isn't right and he is equally sure and unsure about the situation. Those 50/50's really get you. Either the chart is right and the markers on wrong, or the markers are right and the chart is wrong. Regardless, Patrick didn't know how to enter the anchorage...or even where the anchorage was. Meanwhile I am playing good helmsmen, and steering the original course which is now setting us dead into a jetty protecting luxurious shore-side condominiums.

"Patrick," I say. "I don't mean to be a 'nag' or anything, but when exactly should I turn."

"Do you want to be the navigator?"

"No. That's why I'm steering."

"Well then let me navigate!"

"So navigate then!"

At this point it was obvious that the chart was wrong. I decided to steer away from the condos. Using the depth finder, I navigated us into the deepest water we could find. There turned out to be a nice stretch of 12-14 foot depths perfect for anchoring. We dropped the anchor and settled back just in time to toast the sunset with a warm cocktail, that was mostly just a shot of tequila with water in it (isn't sailing glamorous?).

The plan was to spend the following day catching up on sleep, and preparing for the passage to Marathon. We would leave at sunset. We were both mildly apprehensive about getting back out of the anchorage because we could see in the strong afternoon sunlight that extensive shoaling had corroded the better part of the anchorage. In fact we could not tell if there was deep water that led back into the channel. As it turned out, we were lucky enough to arrive the night before at high tide, which was the only way we had managed to avoid running aground before we found the 12 foot depths. We plotted our course as normal however and shoved this fear into the backs of our minds.

(Relaxing at anchor off of Little Marco. Right after taking this picture, this kind man had to walk out into the knee deep water to pull us in our dinghy out of a rip tide we had been struggling in vain to row against.)

Around 5 o'clock that evening, we pulled up the anchor and prepared the sails. I started motoring us out of the anchorage, Patrick on the bow trying to point us towards the deepest water. I followed his directions until I noticed the depth finder plummeting. I immediately turned around and motored in the opposite direction. He tried a different angle, again depths went from 12 to 5 feet in half a boat length. I turned around again, but this time too late. We were run aground in seconds.

Tension already ran high between the two of us, with our collective anticipation for the looong night we had ahead of us. Running aground before we even started the trip did not help at all. Captain Pat decided right away to try kedging off. For back up, I called the tow boat to see how soon they could get to us. Apparently half the sailboats in that line of latitude had run aground late in the afternoon and they were so swamped no one could get to us for an hour. We didn't have time for that, we needed to be safely out in open water before dark. Kedging off proved to be difficult, as neither of us knew where the shoals ended and the deep water started. Patrick rowed around frantically dropping the anchor in three different locations before I told him to set the anchor back where we had come from originally. If we could just get unstuck we could hopefully start over...of course we were both skeptical.

After only slicing his hand open on the anchor twice, Patrick managed to set the anchor and feed me the line. Using mechanical advantage, I was able to winch the line in and gradually pull the boat into sufficient depths. Patrick got back onboard, pulled in the anchor, and we motored over to a local power-boater who used local knowledge to get us out of the channel. Apparently you had to hug the shore, like dangerously close, in order to remain in 10 foot depths. Thank you American marine chart makers!!! Overpriced, and inaccurate!

We had never been so relieved to be out in the middle of the ocean with no land anywhere. We were an hour late in leaving, but we made it onto our course line before the sunlight had dissipated.

The winds were predicted to be southeast becoming east, at 10-15 knots, with a nearly full moon. So naturally, the winds were dead south at 20 knots and the sky was completely overcast. The different between 15 knots and 20 knots is enough to make you not even want to sail, and south winds meant we couldn't sail at all because it was dead on our nose. Once again we found ourselves motoring instead of sailing and it is noisy, uncomfortable and inefficient. But we had no time to waste tacking back in forth in poor winds if we wanted to ensure daytime arrival in Marathon.

Meanwhile the clouds grew increasingly black. For a while it looked like a storm front was rolling in and I started listening frantically to the NOAA weather broadcasts. There were no updates about storms, but I was far from comforted. Within the next hour, the seas went from a light chop to 5 foot swells. It was too dark to actually see the waves. What I could see was the moonlight glimmering on the crest of waves off in the distance. Every once in a while I could see one crest reflecting light much higher than the others. I would sit at the helm and count down the seconds until the big one would hit. Within another hour the winds and seas had gone from surely to tumultuous. We were still unable to sail, and we were being bashed around by waves that were invisible until the broke over the bow of the boat and sprayed freezing saltwater into our faces. In the last two hours we had gone from wearing light sweaters and jeans, to full on foul-weather gear and long underwear.

Right when we thought the Florida weather couldn't be more incorrigible, it out did itself by becoming foggy. Fog! In Florida! By this point we were soaking wet, uncomfortable, and wondering whether or not we should turn around.

Finally, the western Florida coastal waters decided to quit being a vindictive child and obey the weatherman's forecast. The wind suddenly shifted from directly in our faces, to coming over the beam. An easterly at last! Patrick excitedly raised the sails and cut the engine. Within 30 minutes, the winds slowed to a comfortable 15 knots and we cruised at a very impressive speed of 5.5 knots for the next four hours. Patrick had the sails trimmed so precisely the Cape Dory actually sailed herself. All he had to do was point her on course and then lounge near the helm catching glimpses of stars through the billowing clouds.

We tried to sleep and steer in shifts, but it turned out to be too difficult. We were both nervous, sailing for hours and hours into pitch blackness was beyond unnerving. We actually had to reason with ourselves that our compass and GPS were correct, that we were too far from the confounding effects of the Bermuda triangle, that we were not going to collide with land, and that the sun would in fact rise again in a few hours.

We made it to Marathon by noon the following day. We dropped the sails on our approach and motored under the historic seven mile bridge. As we rounded up towards the west side of the island, delirious with exhaustion we were surprised to encounter more of the 5-foot breaking friendly/overbearing waves rather than increasing shelter which is what one would expect when one nears an anchorage. We were being tossed relentlessly by a confused sea, and our poor little engine that had been coerced all night long finally decided to call it a day. With no warning it sputtered and stopped. We were broad sided by the wind and completely vulnerable. Once again we were forced to recall that chapter in our sailing textbook, "when everything goes wrong and you wished you had stayed home that day." We used the genoa to gain enough speed for me to point the boat into the wind, then Patrick hoisted the mainsail while I furled the genoa. I was not in the mood to fully harness 20 knots of wind by throwing up full sails in a channel bordering an anchorage. Using the main only, we sailed into the anchorage and at the last moment I pointed the bow into the wind allowing the sail to flap uselessly in the wind while Patrick dropped the anchor. I did my best to drop the sail and steer the boat simultaneously while Patrick made sure the anchor had set. Fortunately, everything went smoothly and within a few minutes were sitting quietly at anchor as if the last 20 hours hadn't just happened.

We fell asleep instantly. Patrick was so tired, he didn't even indulge in his usual nervous routines of constant anchor checks. The following morning we discovered that an air pocket had made its way into the fuel line thusly killing the engine. Patrick consulted his books, and bled the engine himself. The engine was up and running again, however the batteries had died in the process of repeatedly started the engine. We were powerless, and it was too dangerous to sail into the harbor from where we were. Luckily there was enough cell phone battery to call a towboat who subsequently towed us to a local marina, Pancho's.

We were able to recharge the batteries, clean and refuel the boat and get some much needed rest. Our neighbors at the dock were amazing. One man, Marty, offered us two of his bikes within the first hour of our arrival enabling us to run our errands in two days instead of the usual four. When we tried to thank him by buying him wine, he somehow ended up cooking us dinner and giving us beer while introducing to two of his cruising friends also living on boats. We have had the pleasure of enjoying the company of salty seaman, wise and benevolent men. They are full of advice and anecdotes. Last night, we all took our dinghies into the middle of Boot Key Harbor to mourn the passing of the city bridge, which was supposedly legendary for the local boaters. There was a flotilla of over thirty dinghies, complete with conch-shell blowers and one bagpiper toasting the bridge and trading stories as the sun set.

(The early formations of the dinghy flotilla.)

The following evening, we were joined by one of Patrick's good friends, Connie F. He will help us crew the Cape Dory from Marathon to the Bahamas. We welcome the change of pace in our little microcosm of a life. Although I think Captain Patrick is already driving him crazy with rules about what he can and can't do on the boat. The power might be going to his increasingly blonding head.

(Boot Key Harbor Bridge.)

This should be a great trip. We spent the day provisioning, and set sail tomorrow. Thanks to all of you who check in. We will be back with more updates later this week from, we hope, the other side of Florida.

("Lovin' Life")

2009-03-11T11:16:00.001-07:00

Being an all time fanatic of Jimmy Buffet and his lifestyle, we figured Cabbage Key was a good place for us. For all of you uninformed idiots, Cabbage Key is where J.B. wrote Cheeseburger in Paradise. And just to be thorough, he also happened to have left his picture signed and framed on the wall. What a great man.

Apparently the Great Depression was pretty bad. One strong man swore he would never be without a drink. "I'm leaving this dollar here, on the wall, with my name on it and a small picture of a coconut tree. If I lose everything, I'm coming back to this place for that dollar and I'm buying a drink." So the story goes and for the next 80-90 years, people have been taking the same Applied Economics to heart and attaching dollar bills to the wall. Writing will never do this justice: there is over $70,000.00 attached to the walls of this settlement...

We have come to the conclusion that only we can dock our boat. We have our system, though unorthodox and clumsy, we have our system. The second any individual attempts to help us out, our system changes from unorthodox to full blown pit stains. Dockmasters will never suit us. You can fill in the blank from here, I've given you all the details you need; we didn't break anything though.

F. Scott Fitzgerald found inspiration in this very area. Sailing in we found exactly 341, million dollar "Gatsby" mansions. The islands are small here and the community is even smaller. The few people that live around Cabbage Key have tradition built into the soles of their shoes. Everything is hand-me-down or "my grandfather built that." In a sense, there hasn't been anything new here in 70 years. Faultless.

Our time here was good enough to postpone our perfect weather window down to Marathon (Florida Keys). We met a cruising couple and enjoyed the next couple of afternoons talking, learning everything we can from the experience of others. Patty and Bill gave us a lot of confidence and continue, to this day, to help us out with weather forecasts and good phone conversation. I can't help but question how many more good people we can meet; every sailor is your favorite uncle that just so happens to be extremely knowledgeable and into philanthropy.

Our last night was fading and our next day was making its way into our plans. Every sail, every trip takes at least 3 hours of careful planning; 10 if you want to sail comfortably. We look forward to the day we can tow all the good people we meet with out 30 footer and sail to the next cheeseburger in paradise.

Well, we gotta go, we just got a new Bruce Springsteen album and it needs to be played 4 times tonight.

"Time Crisis"

2009-03-10T13:36:00.000-07:00

After a long respite from the blogging world, due to a sudden and forcibly imposed few weeks of luddism, we are back with updates. Given that I have only half an hour to recount two weeks and six stops along the western Florida coastline, I will have to resort to short installations over the next few days. Allow me to begin at the beginning. Engine problems. Back at our marina we begged a mechanic to stop by on short notice. He and Patrick spent the morning covered in grease and surrounded by diesel paraphernalia. Patrick, being desperate, concocted a brilliant way to patch up the engine and together they had it running, against all odds in less than a few hours. It was a beautiful day and a cold front was scheduled to come through in the next two days. We knew if we didn't take the opportunity to leave immediately we would be stuck in St. Pete for the rest of our lives. So we took the chance packed everything up and were out in less than an hour, sailing our hearts out to our favorite, misnomered, near-byanchorage Manatee River. We had a beautiful night there and were up before dawn so we could leave the moment the sun rose.

(Double Moonset not unlike the one in Star Wars)

It was a calm beautiful morning, we made our way through the Bay and into a small unmarked channel called Passage Key Inlet where we would merge with the Gulf. We wanted to make it all the way to Venice that day, and it was a long haul if we wanted to make it before sunset.

Halfway through passage key inlet, our plans were forcibly changed. I couldn't help noticing as we passed between to small islands, the Gulf opening wide before us, that the depth finder was mysteriously decreasing rather than increasing. Within minutes it went from 14 to 6 feet. Before I could even say "Sweet Lord in Heaven" we had collided with a submerged sandbar. Being as used to running aground as we were, we refused to panic. However, this time was different as it was the first time we had run aground in exposed, unprotected waters. Rather than coming to a complete stop, big rolling waves from the gulf would sweep in, pick up the boat and then thump her violently back down into the shallows. It was terrifying. We tried to motor off but the incoming tide was far too strong. With no other choice, Patrick rowed out in our little dinghy and dropped an anchor that we could use to stabilize the boat and hopefully pull ourselves into deeper water. It didn't work. Within minutes we had washed so far up onto shore that half of the keel was exposed. We hailed Towboat US on the VHF actually begging someone to come help us.

Ironically (literally), the very same do-gooder who we were unable to pay who towed us the first time from Manatee River worked for Towboat US and was sent to our rescue. Being a miracle worker, he dragged us off the sandbar and had us back in deep water within 30 minutes. For once we had cash, and towing insurance. Not only did he get paid this time, we were able to tip him for being our hero.

This fiasco took two entire hours. It was clear by then that we wouldn't make it to Venice by nightfall, so we were forced to resort to our old nemesis LongBoat Key with its impassable bridge. Unlikely as it might seem the wind and current were actually worse than the last time we took the bridge we worked to cancel out the experience we had gained since then. It was just as ugly, and involved several frightened shouts, but we made into that tiny little anchorage by late afternoon. The cold front (compliments of Georgia) arrived that evening. We woke up early that morning expecting to change our anchors because the wind was forecasted to shift 180 degrees. I am not kidding, the second we emerged onto the deck with cups of tea in hand, the wind shifted, enormous black clouds rolled in and our anchor broke. I was right at the helm, motoring full throttle away from the power boat we were drifting into. The owner of that boat was on his deck fully expecting us to hit him. We powered away just in time, while Patrick frantically pulled up the anchor. The wind was a staggering 25 knots but we managed to reset the anchor at a safe distance from the other boats.

For some reason we gloated over our finely tuned "instincts" that led us to check the anchor right as it slipped, but we knew deep down it was pure luck. We proceeded to prepare the boat for "storm conditions" which entailed battening down hatches, securing sails, increasing scope etc. From 9am till 9am the next morning, the wind blew madly. Late at night it grew to such intensity that we could feel the entire boat vibrating against the strain of the anchor rode. Never has the howling wind been such a frightening sound. We set up anchor watches in order to allow one person to sleep at a time, but we were both so nervous we ended up spending 12 hours with our faces up against the port hole waiting for that moment when the wind might blow just a little too hard.

By around 5am, I wanted off that boat. I even cried a little but is was mostly out of self-pity. As it turned out, we had to reset the anchor twice that day, in gale force winds but all through the night we didn't budge. Those little anchors that were soooo expensive payed for themselves ten times over that night.

The next day the winds were dying off but there was still a "small craft advisory" in effect. Since we were delirious from "Anchor Crisis '09" we spent the whole day sleeping.

("Spending whole day sleeping")

We left Longboat Key bright and early the next morning planning to cover some ground by reaching Venice. I was nervous because we had to exit through that godforsaken bridge again. Patrick, who is becoming quite good at orchestrating bridge openings with the tenders managed to time it so that the bridge opened precisely upon our approach so I was able to steer directly out of the channel rather than do crazy figure-eights between sandbars.

As we motored out from under the bridge into the inlet that leads to the Gulf, we were greeted by a friendly but over-bearing array of 5 foot breaking waves. It looked like the continental shelf was rupturing, and I wouldn't have been surprised if a volcano emerged out from under the water. The waves came from every direction, each one doing its best to throw us out of the channel onto one of the 1 foot shoals that surrounded us. The traumatic experience at Passage Key Inlet was still vivid in our minds and I think I would have died of fright if there had been someone else there to steer the boat for me. Patrick was clinging to the bow frantically directing me towards the channel and in this way we made painstaking progress while I steered at right angles keeping us off the shoals.

Once clear and full of adrenalin we were disappointed to see that the waves in deep water were hardly improved from the violent shallows of the inlet. I was too traumatized to continue on at the helm so Patrick took over for the entire way to Venice. The wind blew hard but we made good time and Patrick enjoyed that challenge of maneuvering through the waves. By late afternoon we arrived at Venice inlet. I would like to take this moment to thank the city planners, who possessed the foresight to implement jetties into the mouth of the inlet in order to break the waves. Entering Venice was not nearly as unpleasant as leaving Longboat and it felt very good to be out of the gulf waters.

We had heard rumors of a public dock hidden somewhere nearby the Venice Yacht Club...but we weren't exactly sure how to get there. We asked the dock attendant at the local marina who gave us general directions. I was hesitant because we had no idea what the depths would be like at the dock and sometimes they can be absurdly shallow. But Patrick, forever the ambitious optimist refused to listen to me and spotted with his binoculars a vacant place at the dock. For the first time ever I had to "parallel park" a boat in an unfavorable current. This resulted in our learning the following bits of information. 1) I know that I cannot use reverse to make the stern of the boat swing to port (the left). 2) "Docking" means getting your boat to stop at a given location without breaking it. 3) When kind old men offer to help, don't let them because they will only make it worse by swinging the bow head on into the dock.

We scuffed the boat a little and it wasn't graceful, but it felt like success after being beaten around in the gulf all day. Once we were secured at the dock, I couldn't help noticing the depth sounder which read 6'. I knew we were at high tide so I consulted the tide tables to see what low tide would be: 2' less. This meant we would most certainly bottom out during the night. Patrick used tape to mark the boat hook and ran along the dock measuring the depths of the water. Of course, it was much deeper a few boat lengths behind us where a power boat which drew only 3' was docked. This was all very frustrating for me, as I agonize over docking and hate having to do it twice, or worse, find out it was all for nothing and we have to leave and go anchor. Patrick talked to a few cruisers who assured him that they had rested on their keels at low tides before and as long as you tie up properly there's nothing to worry about. We busied ourselves putting out fenders and strengthening docklines and then decided to go to town which we hadn't done in over a week.

As it turned out, for the very first time our naivety was to our advantage. After speaking with a few other sailors about the odious journey of the day, we found out that the winds were twice the forecasted strength and the waves were actually 6-8 feet. No one could believe that we had been brave enough to sail through Gulf-waters that day. It suddenly made sense why we hadn't seen a single other sailboat while we were out that day. We were pretty pleased with ourselves. Not only have we gained experience in adverse conditions, but we did so without even needing to be pushed to our furthest limit of discomfort. We are tougher than we had credited ourselves.

It felt like a christmas miracle to be on land again and Venice was charming. We were the only two people under 50 but since we spent most of our time hanging out with Ed and Karen back in Denver, this wasn't unusual. We found this great bar with an awesome cover band that reminded me a lot of Ed's band "Boo Daddy." Everyone was dancing their senior-discounted hearts out and we had a blast (sharing one beer of course, because of Captain Scrooge.)

------------------------

Alaina has outlined a wonderful night with Generation "Walking in Memphis", but it could not end without some hardship, confusion, or excitement. Strolling back from my future retirement community - still looking for a way to wear cardigans and slacks for the rest of my life - we happened to notice our mast was ever so slightly off center. We were happily sunk into about 12 inches of mud. Nothing to worry about, just something to disrupt anything we might have thought was normal about our night.

Waking up with crossed fingers, we placed bets on whether or not we were still embedded in good old Venice mud. We were free. It was time to prepare ourselves for our next journey down to Jimmy Buffet's paradise.

More Delays

2009-02-26T11:31:00.000-08:00

There is an important distinction between sailors and cruisers. Sailors take their boats out once a month on weekends for the afternoon. Cruisers are deeply involved with their boats and utilize them to the fullest extent, taking advantage of the ways in which a boat can increase one's quality of life. Most of them have crossed oceans, or spent months at anchor in a remote country. They are explorers who are self-sufficient and don't take modern conveniences for granted. They live exactly the way I've always imagined a gypsy would. More importantly, cruisers welcome the prospective cruiser into their community with kindness and generosity that is nothing short of the selfless benevolence associated with the early church as it was described by the apostle Paul in the book of Acts.

After living only a few weeks with these good-hearted people, Patrick and I are resolved in our decision that this is the community we should be apart of.

That being said, the engine is still not running. Furthermore, the previous owner who was contractually obligated to fix it has used ambiguous language as an excuse to exonerate himself from any further maintenance expenses. This means that Patrick and I are left with a faulty engine, that can be repaired but at a high price and in the meantime, the lease of our slip terminates in two days. We can't afford to stay in the marina, but we physically can't move the boat while the engine is out. A conundrum.

Spirits are thusly low on the little Cape Dory. We only have further expenses and delays ahead of us. I am trying to make the most of things which could obviously be worse, but that thought has never brought much consolation to anyone. Poor Patrick is devotedly studying charts of the Near Bahamas, hoping against all odds that the engine problems won't permanently delete them from our itinerary. I've already sworn away all food besides rice and the fish we had better start catching as a pledge of my unswerving commitment to making any necessary sacrifice in order to realize our sun-bathed, tropical beached goals.

This is only the first of many difficulties that we anticipated and were duly convinced that we wanted to brave when we planned this trip from the safety of our home back in Denver. I am proud of what we have accomplished. Mostly, I am proud of Patrick who has worked for this for years and was kind enough to bring me along. We have already done the hard part. Now we are only waiting for the right moment to set sail without having to look back.

You Can't Predict the Weather, or Engine Failure

2009-02-25T11:18:00.000-08:00

Yet again our plans have been foiled by unforeseen, uncontrollable circumstances. Apparently when it comes to sailing, itineraries are more like new years' resolutions than anything: nice ideas, but generally unachievable. We are supposed to be in Long Boat Key right now, preparing for the second leg of our journey to Venice. Everything was perfectly on schedule. We were amply stocked with provisions, the boat had been scrubbed from stem to stern including the unsightly underworld called "the bilge" from which Patrick actually relocated a veritable colony of marine-plant growth out from under our floorboards and back into the ocean.

For the first time ever, we were motoring out of the slip at 8:30 am, right on schedule. We had turned in our keys to the marina, said our goodbyes, and set our course for the Gulf. This lasted about 15 minutes. We had only just motored out of the harbor and maneuvering through the first set of crab-traps when the exhaust started spewing steam and the thermostat suddenly flickered up to 250 degrees. How very untoward.

Things honestly couldn't have been worse. Patrick hadn't even put up the sails because we couldn't head into the wind until we cleared the crab-traps. I had no choice but to kill the engine, leaving us at the mercy of a particularly nasty incoming tide and probably 17 knots of wind coming from the same direction. Even in the lee of the harborage the Bay waters boasted 2-3 foot rolling swells.

For those of you who have not sailed before, I will share a little information that should put the crisis we found ourselves in into perspective. In order to possess what is called "steerage way" one must maintain a certain minimum speed through the water. With no sails and no engine, one has limited to no maneuverability through the water. Luckily we weren't all that far off from the dock we had just left. However, getting back to the dock required several turns and each turn diminishes one's speed. With a current moving faster than the boat and a nasty tail-wind, I had strong doubts about our ability to keep our hull off of the jetties or any of the fancy power-yachts along the entrance to the marina.

We both allowed ourselves a self-indulgent moment of panic before we began formulating plans A, B and C (C being the most interesting: call the coast guard and request a helicopter, or my favorite, wait for a pod of dolphins to swim us in). Patrick frantically fendered the boat (I totally made up that verb "fendered") while I tried to make our approach at wide angles that would minimize our leeway (the amount the wind drives the boat sideways rather than forward) without bleeding off all of our forward momentum. We cleared the first jetty without a problem. Next we had to turn down a channel towards our dock that exposed us to the wind but utilized the current. The flood tide kept us drifting along at an impressive 2.5 knots. Finally we reached our dock but the worst was still to come. How to get into our narrow slip with unresponsive steering and how do I keep from being pushed by the current into the other boats? Luckily we had gained so much speed by riding the current that we were able to maintain a direct course even though it ran perpendicular to the tide. Patrick was ready with the docklines and I cranked the wheel hard over making a slow turn towards the slip. The wind came at a perfect angle and pushed the bow into the slip allowing Patrick to jump from the boat to the dock and tie us off.

This being done, we immediately busied ourselves with self-congratulatory exclamations and high-fiving. Our very first crisis! Docking with no engine. (I just learned that running aground is only a crisis if one runs aground on a reef, or rocks. Sand is nothing to write home about.)

In all of our text books in the chapters designated "When Things Go Wrong" (I did not enjoy reading them) diesel engine failure was the first thing addressed. It is an extremely unpleasant situation to find oneself in, but as it happens we have already conquered it.

This brings us to our next triumph, more Patrick's than mine really. Obviously, with a faulty engine, the grand voyage had to be put on hold. When we purchased the boat, we included in the contract that the seller would pay to do a once-over on the engine because it performed so poorly during our sea trial. Over the last two weeks he had been sending his close friend/mechanic who actually built the engine himself to take a look at it. Now, this man is without a doubt a lummox with an overblown sense of self-importance. He is incapable of any small talk aside from patronizing criticisms of our gear, our experience, our education, our common-sense, our ambitions, etc. After our bout with the engine, we had a different mechanic take a look at things since obviously the lummox hadn't fixed it. It turned out that this blathering imbecile who actually said to Patrick, "I have never made a mistake on this boat," had done nothing but replace a part that didn't need replacing and turn a few screws. Patrick, who was beginning to doubt this coxcomb's credentials and grow weary of his condescension was nothing short of exultant. If I were a little more forward I would call him up myself and say, "Listen you jackanapes. Patrick may be exactly as young as he looks, but there are qualities that make up for youth and inexperience, while there is nothing that makes up for arrogance and foppery!" But I think it would be better to prove him wrong by successfully sailing this poor neglected boat from the western coast of Florida all the way to Baltimore. Hah!

Anyway, if we can pull the engine together and prepare the boat for departure again by tomorrow morning, we will be off to Long Boat Key and resume our original schedule. It is honestly a mark of our good fortune that the engine failed when it did, right outside of the marina, rather than 5 hours later in the middle of a narrow channel. However all of our engine difficulties are serving to increase our desire to sail rather than motor. We are beginning to look forward to the ocean passages rather than dread them. Give me deep water over a narrow, poky channel!

This should be the last post for awhile, as we will have no internet access for around two weeks. The next post however should be a good one, with videos of Patrick and I taming manatees, making little shirts and hats for lobsters, spear-fishing, and drinking beers with one-eyed sailors.

Long Boat Key

2009-02-21T09:16:00.000-08:00

(The Little Dory at anchor)

After spending exorbitant amounts of money outfitting our boat, we are looking forward to leaving the marina and commencing our first attempt at pseudo-asceticism.

That being said, the pressure is on as far as basic skill mastery is concerned. Therefore we planned our most ambitious trip yet to Long Boat Key which is a good place to test your seamanship. We left early Monday morning expecting 15 knot winds, only to be met with 20 knots and even stronger gusts. Instead of its usual light chop, Tampa Bay looked like a washing machine for God's laundry (I haven't outgrown the tendency to analogize things in relation to God's hypothetical domestic use of them, ie: rain is still "God's pee"). For the first time ever, the wind and waves were too strong for us to steer our compass course, so we had to recalculate and tack back and forth along our course until the winds died down and we could steer more directly. We really got to know the Cape Dory. For only being 30 feet, she can hold her own in rough seas. My confidence in her seaworthiness increases daily.

After being pummeled for hours in Tampa Bay we decided to stop at a midpoint- our old stomping grounds- Manatee River for the night. Once we had anchored, Patrick settled down to do a little fishing. Neither of us expected to catch anything, so we were surprised when he had a bite within 15 minutes. Rather than going into detail here, I posted these videos below which do a much better job of explaining our collective shock and unpreparedness. And please, don't judge me for being so squealy. I've already confessed that I am mortified by aquatic life and prefer all encounters between such species and myself to take place on opposite sides of a layer of glass.

Day 2: Long Boat Key

There are two ways in and out of Long Boat Key. One takes you through a narrow inland channel on the Intra-Coastal Waterway, the other follows along the coast on the Gulf of Mexico. We decided on the latter because the elements were conducive for good sailing. After navigating along a 7 mile stretch of coast, we had to "tuck in" (sailor term for you) through Long Boat Pass to get to our anchorage. This required passing under a bridge that we couldn't clear unless it was open.

Allow me to regale you on basic bridge protocol: one must hail the bridge tender on the VHF radio and request its next opening. Patrick was at the helm so it was up to me to make our first VHF call. Drawing on years of voice lessons, employing my most articulate, captainly voice I said: "Long Boat Pass Bridge, Long Boat Pass Bridge, This is sailing vessel Swift Ranger requesting your next available opening, Over." (I can't tell you how silly I feel saying "over" and "roger that") The bridge tender promptly responded that he would open once traffic cleared, so Patrick and I start tentatively making our approach. Being novices in every sense of the word, we didn't think to plan our bridge crossing at slack tide, so naturally there was a strong current driving us straight into the bridge. The channel was so narrow there way almost no room to maneuver around the bridge while waiting for it to open.

The bridge pilings were coming steadily closer and the bridge had only begun to raise. We knew that we couldn't hold position against the current until the bridge was fully raised, so I got back on the VHF (feeling very embarrassed): "Long Boat Pass Bridge, we've been caught in the current and aren't going to make the opening." To this he replied, "Swift Ranger, circle around and I'll hold the bridge for you." "Roger that." By which point there was an audience of swimmers and fishermen gathered around the bridge watching our painstaking progress. At the peak of personal anxiety, I did as I always do at the most demanding moments: imagine a friendly dolphin swimming alongside us, taking a line from our boat in its little smiley mouth and towing us to safety. But alas. After placing a safe distance between ourselves and the pilings Patrick made the turn and slid through the bridge.

Safely through the pass, reveling in our combination of quick-thinking, fancy-maneuvering, and luck, we promptly misread a channel marker and slid into another sand bar. No tears this time. I know the drill. We got out the chart, mumbling things under our breath like "college degrees schmollege degrees" but before we even attempted to dislodge ourselves, a friendly Floridian in an inflatable with an outboard engine volunteered to nudge us out of the sand back into the channel. With punctilious attention and no small amount of self-loathing, we found our way into the anchorage practically flinging the god-forsaken anchor overboard, desperate to have done with the whole day. Patrick took his good boyfriend cue and started opening beers while we exchanged delirious confession-type apologies for everything we had blamed on each other over the last hour and a half.

-This quick aside: If anyone wants to test their relationship before they decide to get married, I could think of a few scenarios that will indubitably show you what your love is made of in less than a month.

One beer later, we were suddenly able to notice the serene beauty of Long Boat anchorage. It was quiet, with turquoise water. Pelicans were dropping out of the sky busy with their sunset fishing while dolphins surfaced intermittently along shoreline. After a quick phone call to Ed and Karen (Pat's parents), we were in the dinghy rowing to the shore-side restaurant Mar Vista for dinner compliments of the Riley's. From our table, we had a rewarding view of the Cape Dory, resting obediently at anchor.

(View from our table)

During dinner, we had the opportunity to observe another sailboat attempt to anchor nearby. It had run aground only a hundred yards off, and was towed into the anchorage by a little tugboat. The man at the helm proceeded to drop anchor way to close to a neighboring boat, and in the entirely wrong direction. The towboat actually had to go back, tell the boat to stop what it was doing and towed it into a new position at a safer distance that would allow it to anchor. This provided the perfect amount of consolation. We weren't nearly all that bad. We can at least anchor ourselves.

We crashed by 10pm only to be jarred awake four hours later by a strange new motion of the boat. The wind had shifted and increased speed dramatically. Patrick went outside to assess our situation. We had swung so that the stern of the boat was now facing the dock at Mar Vista, we had sufficient room between ourselves and the dock, however if the anchor was to slip even the slightest bit we would be driven into the dock before we would have a chance to correct ourselves. This being a terrifying possibility, we decided to put out a second anchor at a 45 degree angle to the other one. We loaded up the dinghy and Patrick rowed out a considerable distance against wind and current and tossed the anchor over the side. He rowed back to the boat paying out rode as he went. He passed the bitter end to me on the bow and I used a fancy sailor's knot to secure it to the anchor bridle. We didn't have a good way of "setting" the second anchor, so we went below to make some tea while we took turns checking the anchor hoping it would set on its own.

Let me tell you, this was all very unpleasant as we were sleep-deprived and still flustered from the events of the day. However it felt more like a sailor's right of passage than anything we had done up to that point. An hour later, it was obvious our second anchor was holding and the boat had stopped swinging as much. Problem Solving Challenge '09 had come to a successful end. Just as we turned off the cabin lights to get some sleep, we heard the power boat next to us fire up its engine. We peaked out of the window just in time to see it drifting dangerously close to the dock. It's anchor had slipped and they had to reset their anchor all over again. We were proud that we had taken the initiative to correct things before we were in any real danger.

We made the long, arduous trip through the Intra-Coastal Waterway back to our Marina in one leg the following morning, through two bridges without much struggle. For the first time ever, we were able to dock against strong winds without having to journey through the nine circles of hell first. We really are getting this.

Valentine's Day

2009-02-15T17:54:00.000-08:00

Valentine’s Day was spent treating and sealing all the exterior teak on the Cape Dory. It took about six consecutive hours but now our boat is officially the cutest on the block. So…happy Valentine’s Day, Cape Dory! Rather than romance, Patrick was overcome by a primal desire to hunt and slay our next meal, so he unilaterally decided that dinner on this special evening would be contingent on the fish that he would catch. I have never actually fished before. I have never seen a live fish outside of an aquarium and although I enjoy eating fish, I am in no big hurry to have one gutted next to me before it is tossed into my frying pan.

Armed with pliers, trashbag and deep sea fishing rod (which turned out to be overkill) we settled on a cement piling to prepare the bait. We used whole frozen shrimp—the most revolting creature known to man—but before the baited hook was even two feet below the surface, it was licked clean by at least two thousand swarming writhing scaly things. Patrick dropped the hook, reeled it in, re-baited the empty hook, and repeated this process around a dozen times. The whole scene was directly analogous to the free weekly dinners for the homeless back in Denver’s Civic Center Park. Overcome by the sort of ambivalence that is only experienced when one is simultaneously starving and nauseous, I insisted that we call it quits and head back for the Cape Dory.

In other news, we recently acquired a dinghy, which is a univocal necessity for anyone who intends to live at anchor. It is shocking how expensive dinghies can be. Those inflatable ones with an outboard engine? Over a thousand! We only had 200$ to work with, so Patrick decided we could forego the engine and resort to oars. I’m not so convinced, but he is confident that my discomfort with having to row everywhere will be alleviated in direct proportion to the increasing mass of his biceps.

Tomorrow we will put the dinghy to the test by taking a short excursion to Longboat Key which is around six hours south of St. Petersburg. We hopefully spend the week at anchor, to get a feel for what life will be like once we have left the comfort of the marina.

Money Tree

2009-02-12T17:50:00.000-08:00

We have our hands full with projects. Currently, we are searching for perpetual income; in this case we are selling a work out video. We made an income analysis chart and it looks like we will be able to support ourselves for the rest of our lives.

Manatee River

2009-02-10T06:33:00.000-08:00

The goal for the past week has been to improve our boat handling skills, and begin making small passages. The former requires vigilance, fortitude, and trial and error. The latter involves careful planning and navigation rather than making a few loops outside of our marina and calling it a day. The boat-handling skills, if they have been improving at all, have done so imperceptibly. For example, out of the 6 times we have so far docked and left the slip, 50% of those times have been near disastrous-- I have considered on occasion renaming the boat "Student Driver Keep Safe Distance" or "Caution: Amateurs at Helm". The other 50% of the time however, things go so smoothly as to supply us with a fresh reserve of optimism. I think it is a sign of improvement when your anxieties begin to branch out and become well-rounded. Rather than only being afraid of storms (which honestly can be carefully avoided) I am terrified of crashing into one of the children's dinghy-racing classes (there are literally hundreds of them!! Flailing about! Making erratic turns and then capsizing right in front of you! And where are there parents?!), or getting the propellor fouled in one of the ten million crab traps or, my new favorite: running aground.

Let me explain. We decided on our first mini-passage. The destination: Manatee River (for reasons that are so self-explanatory). Only around 30 nautical miles from our marina, we weren't expecting anything too demanding. A pleasure cruise really, culminating with a long-anticipated first night at anchor. The morning of the passage, we got started a little late (noon instead of 8am). We excitedly motored out into Tampa Bay only to be met with 4 knots of wind instead of the predicted 10. This means that our sails forego all intended purpose and become decorative banners, curtains really. Preferring the wind over motor, we stick it out for like 2 hours before we realize that even floating heaps of kelp are beating us to our midpoint the Skyway Bridge. We power up and start making up time, it's already late in the day and we're both getting anxious to make it to our anchorage before sunset.

(Going under Skyway bridge.)

Still relatively illiterate in the language of buoys and navigation aids, we found ourselves a little overwhelmed by the random smattering of barely visible green and red markers in the distance. Which one marks the entrance to Manatee river? What course are we on? Which patch of Mangrove is Rattlesnake Key? Meanwhile Patrick is concerned with getting the anchor and its respective parts in order so we can anchor as soon as we arrive. Before leaving, when we examined the charts we divided navigation responsibilities in half (I had three charts and he had one--the Manatee River chart). In other words, I was unfamiliar with the area. Out of the assortment of red markers, Patrick tells me to head for one while he tends to the anchor. Filled with nervous excitement, I make progress towards the marker. We are getting close, when suddenly I feel the boat jump. This is a strange feeling, because the boat weighs 10,000 lbs and shouldn't make sudden leaping movements. I look at the depth finder. The depth which was only a moment ago 15 feet is now 4'8", now 4'5", 4'2"--exactly the draft of the Cape Dory. Suddenly we bump to a complete stop, the propellor still spinning madly. I look over the side into crystalline water, the sandy bottom so close I can make out the individual granules of sand. How could this happen we exclaim! We looked at the charts...mostly...we promised ourselves we would never be one of those careless boaters who run aground.

(The sand bar that nearly claimed us.)

First things first: assess damage. Luckily we were in soft sand so there wasn't much to worry about there. Now we have to figure out how to get unstuck. At this point we are attentive enough to notice that there is a distinct channel cut out through this sandy shoal, which is what that smattering of markers I mentioned previously were all about. We watched in a state of utter humility as sailboat after sailboat safely and calmly drifted by, using the markers as we should have done. We were only 10 yards away from safe water. 10 yards!! If only we could slunk along the shallow ground enough to slip back into the channel. We tried this with methods of varied intensity and desperation for about 45 minutes. The sun was preparing to set. I started imagining us being stuck for weeks, run out of provisions, no water, and our batteries dead. We had such bad luck fishing I just knew that eventually one of us would have to eat the other.

Realizing we were defeated by shifty sand, Patrick said we would have to wait for high tide because we couldn't afford a tow-boat. As fate would have it, high tide was at midnight (7 hours away), which would require us getting back into deep water and then navigating back through the narrow channel at night and finding an anchorage and setting our anchor in pitch blackness.

So, I'm crying. Patrick, who hates tears sends me down below angrily vowing to "figure everything out, just go below and calm down". Then, a miracle. A tow-boat on his way to rescue another boat in a similar situation happens upon us and decides to tow us privately for a low price. Unfortunately we have no cash. This kind angel of a power-boater decides to tow us for free! In five minutes he had us safely in deep water. I was quaking with joy, Patrick actually bowed to the man from the bow-sprit and tipped an imaginary hat while I saluted him. That kind, brave soldier.

We made it safely and timidly through the channel and threw down the anchor in the first suitable spot just as the sun went down. It was a full moon and the water was still, glass-like. We were floating in a big pool of moon. It was exactly what you imagine when you fantasize about sailing.

Because we worked so hard to get there, we decided to stay at anchor for an additional day and do absolutely nothing but read, nap, fish and sunbathe.

The journey back from Manatee River was utopic. We had ten knots of wind coming right over the beam of the boat. We were speeding at five and half knots through gentle unruffled waves making incredible time. The sails were so perfectly trimmed we hardly needed to steer the boat. Patrick, exultant, did yoga on the bow-sprit. We made it home to Dock 3 Slip 106 in half the time feeling both successful and wizened.

We are in the marina now re-provisioning and planning the next trip.

Living Aboard

2009-02-05T18:01:00.000-08:00

Now that we have been living aboard for over a week, I feel like I have some merited comments to make on the subject. Imagine your home, apartment whatever. Go into your bathroom. Now imagine that your bathroom is your entire house. Think about where you will put every conceivable thing necessary for living. Not only do you need a functional kitchen, personal affects, somewhere to sit/sleep and eat, you need tools, replacement parts, fuel, extra lines, pillows and blankets, definitely a book or two...but where to store all these things? We have spent days attempting to cram items into every nook and cranny--no square inch of space has gone unused.

Unfortunately, a boat isn't designed for storing personal affects. It's all about function. Storage space under beds or settees? Nope, that's where the water tanks are. How about the cockpit?

Nope, it's full of batteries and ropes and personal flotation devices. Under the kitchen counter? Pots and pans? No, a diesel engine! Imagine squeezing every personal belonging into two small drawers. To make things more difficult, imagine all your storage area 'sweating' with condensation, or worse, leaking rain from outside. Every single thing mounted in, on, or around the boat provides one more possible hole for water to seep into. Every morning, I will open one drawer, or discover a shelf in which everything is soaked with water. Be it from our holding tanks or outside...a home that is completely submerged in water is bound to get wet somewhere on the inside. Nothing is safe.

Other boat-living difficulties include getting on and off the boat. I remember the days when I could just wake up, get ready and walk out the front door. Now the front door is a small hatch that requires excessive clambering, only to arrive at...a sidewalk? No. A huge chasm filled with water with nothing but a small wooden post and rope to get you across. Yes, you have to dangle precariously between a swaying, drifting boat and a just-out-of-reach dock. Try to do this with a large bag of laundry and a heavy bottle of detergent. Try to do this without drowning, or loosing everything into the water. Try to do this every morning without looking like an idiot in front of all the other boaters. Try not to feel embarrassed when you give up and call for help, with one leg on a wooden piling and another wrapped around the dockline of the boat.

These are just a few of the many challenges to life on a boat, none of which I had anticipated. However there are some perks:

-You're fishing (hypothetically) and you catch a fish but you forgot your fillet knife. No you didn't! Because your whole kitchen is just below your feet, and your fillet knife is in the drawer!

-You feel lonely and miss your boyfriend. Well cheerup! Because he is literally, 12 inches away from you, behind that little door!! Go get a hug!

- (If you are Patrick) A cute little net hanging in the galley stores all your produce and keeps it safe while you are sailing.

-You love cuddling at night, but your boyfriend is all macho and hates it. Sleep in a V-berth!! You have no choice but to cuddle because it is exactly the size of two fully grown children.

-You are tired of seeing the usual wildlife. Squirrels, raccoons, etc. Boring. How about looking out the window and seeing a dolphin? Or a manatee, or a shark while you are making breakfast?

- Beautiful curls. (no hair straightener.)

-Gadgetry (ie: GPS, depth-finder, alcohol stove, foot pump sinks, 'hideaway secret table', VHF radio (you can hail Cruise ships! "Ocean Dream Cruise, Ocean Dream Cruise, Ocean Dream Cruise, this is sailing vessel 'Swift Ranger' requesting you to change course and dump all your drunk passengers overboard. This is 'Swift Ranger' standing by on channel 1-6, over.")

The consequences of being boat owners

2009-02-03T11:48:00.000-08:00

Our first day out on the boat involved one anxiety attack, one fake-real fight, another anxiety attack, and one minor injury. Apparently sailing isn't the hardest thing about boats, it's docking. As we slid into the docking-slip at entirely too acute of an angle I last ditch resorted to cutting the engine while Patrick used his body to stop the boat (this somehow resulted in a severe cut followed by blood all over the deck).

I've been a little hesitant to try again since that episode. But Patrick is far too determined. Today was our second trial and it consisted of just as many mishaps, however the docking thing has been brought slightly under control. Because the sails and lines often demand more...muscular stamina, I have been permanently designated as helmsmen. This means that the girl who doesn't drive and has never had a car has to park a 30 foot vessel amidst, wind, current, waves...things you do not need to consider when parking a car! Inertia? Momentum? Trajectory? I studied philosophy of science, not science. I have to get out a freaking Physics text book every time I want to make the boat go straight. One minute we are 'into the wind' the next we are 'downwind' and before I can say "capsize" we are creating a miniature whirlpool from our own spinning. This is usually the point when anxiety attacks begin.

Luckily in my case giving up and sun-bathing instead is not an option (Patrick always makes me continue when I don't want to, and lies to give me false encouragement when I think I am doing poorly). The goal is to be comfortable enough with what we are doing to begin the trek down to the Keys by the end of February...so, yikes.

More generally, I appreciate comments I get from those of you checking in and I always try to respond, but because we are usually pirating our internet connection the signal never lasts longer than 30 seconds so I am going to start posting mass responses. Also, I am

posting some pictures from the going away party (internet connection willing) I'm s

ure some of you would like them. Jen, I am posting one of you and Misa too, its adorable. So if they don't show up with this post right away, keep checking I am waiting for the WiFi gods to give me an uploading window.

How we found the Cape Dory

2009-01-31T17:26:00.000-08:00

Finally, things have begun to slow down. Since sailing school began, each day has been a challenge. My experience could be described in terms of a high learning curve. It's been tough but believe me, I can ‘talk the talk’ now. You would never know I had been a ‘landlubber’ all my life (sailors actually use that expression).

Since Patrick and I completed sailing school with our respective certifications, we have had a succession of misadventures so ridiculous that they end up hilarious. Allow me to elaborate:

Misadventure #1:

The broker for the CSY (boat pictured in the first post) messed up the date of the survey, so we ended up with an extra day to kill i.e. no money, nowhere to go, etc. (we ended up sneaking back into the marina where our sailing school was located and secretly sleeping on one of their boats and disappearing early in the morning before anyone could catch us). So we ended up checking out some other boats for sale in the area just because we had nothing better to do…and found this little number:

The Cape Dory 30

Cute as a button, and in incredible condition for being over 30 years old. She was designed for crossing oceans so she is a stout sturdy little thing. If she was a puppy, I guess she would be a pug, if that helps at all. Overwhelmed by the desire to shrink her up, cut her in half and make a friendship bracelet out of her, we desired we had better terminate our contract on the CSY (which was a fixer upper and a half) and pursue the Cape Dory.

In the meantime we had nowhere to go, so we found the cheapest motel in America:

The Mosley Motel “Where Class Meets Economy”

It was advertised to have WIFI, but as it turned out, you had to bring your computer and sit in the lobby in order to get a signal. So we are checking our email in the middle of the lobby when the quintessential white trash woman walks in pointing violently at the black women at the counter screaming “All you (n-word)s are goin down!” Patrick and I are understandably in shock, as the front desk woman proceeds to do NOTHING, the white trash woman begins swinging a parking cone at the black woman’s head. Eventually they move to the parking lot where an all out brawl ensues. The front desk woman looks at us and says, “I’d like to tell you this never happens, but it’s actually pretty normal.” A man walks by with a 30 pack of Natural Ice.

Patrick and I decided on the buddy system.

Misadventure #2:

We decide to buy a car because Florida isn’t pedestrian friendly. We find a beater on craig’s list for 250$ about 30 miles away from our hotel. We make it there, purchase the car and go to the DMV to register it (because it had no plates).

Man at DMV: I need proof of auto insurance

Us: what insurance?

Man at insurance agency: I need a Florida license in order to insure you

Man at DMV: I need proof of Florida residency for a license

Us: Can we drive the car with no plates?

Man at DMV: If you want to go to jail.

...2 and a half hour bus ride back to the Mosley...

Total wasted time: 6 hours

Later that night, upon seeing us cold, tired and hungry, tenants at the Mosley taught us how to get food stamps.

Misadventure #3:

The sea trial and survey of the Cape Dory revealed a severe overgrowth of barnacles and other marine life on the hull, so much so that she can’t go back into the water without being scraped of parasites and repainted with super toxic “anti-fouling” paint that is essentially the destroyer of all life. I wish you could have seen the look on the shipyard workers faces when Pat told them that he was going to do the whole “bottom job” himself saying “it can’t be that hard, I got a book on it.”

So our first night on the Cape Dory was on stilts in a shipyard (a glorified construction site) with no electricity, no toilet (unless you count the one bathroom that never had any toilet paper and was shared by 40 filthy, toothless men) and worst of all no shower. Patrick worked diligently, no, maniacally…for four days so that the boat could be put back into the water as soon as possible. This included sanding the entire hull, patching up blisters with epoxy, and repainting. All of this involved working with so much toxic chemicals, that Patrick had to wear this suit and a respirator (not pictured):

On Friday afternoon the boat was finished. As of now, Patrick's long-enduring dream of living on his very own boat is a reality.

Motel Lobby Brawl, Incompetent French, Toothless etc.

2009-01-30T19:51:00.000-08:00

Pt. 1 Sailing school

We walked at least 8 blocks with 250 pounds of luggage properly separated into 8 different bags. Stumbling into a transportation issue, we took 3 different busses to get from our "Waves Apartment" (by apartment they mean 'we tried') to Blue Water Sailing School in Ft. Lauderdale. I happily injured my hip flexor which was accompanied by dehydration and extreme weight loss programs - I lost a few lb's. Anyways, we get to BWSS and meet our fellow students who are composed of one esoteric Indian surgeon, and one French high brow.

They sounds smart, but they were no better than Mormon housemaids. I don't think they ever got out, much less, existed. We had to teach each of them 3 times how to light a lighter for the propane stove. Fill in 482 blanks from here and you will understand their qualifications.

(You can't tell, but this is Alaina actually standing upright, that's how far the boat was 'heeled' or tipped over!)

Our first day sailing turned us into salty seamen. Our Dufour (french sailboat) was met with 30 knots (45 mph) of wind; the boat buried the side rail many times throughout the day due to excessive heeling or tipping over. But Alaina won the contest by not getting seasick and falling in love with sailing. Actually, the only 2 people other than our captain to survive unaffected was Alaina and I. Pretty exciting stuff.

Here is a picture of our first night at anchor just a few miles away from Miami

The next day we had hours of teaching the imbeciles what a sailboat was and how it floated on water. I've never seen such impaired people, glad to see one of the world's best plastic surgeons unable to pull on a rope or understand how a sail goes up a mast. Alaina and I had to fill in for the rest of the day.

The following days were spent again in high winds with record low temperatures. Sailing school was a good choice and gave us a lot of confidence or false confidence. Either way, we enjoyed our time in the frigid winds (well below 30 degrees) and got to meet a few liveaboard sailors and best of all, we inherited an uncle.

(this is Alaina steering the boat on the gulf stream stream--we had swells up to 8 feet)

But more on that later after I finish my pedicure

"Another day another dollar" -Patrick

2009-01-16T19:04:00.000-08:00

After 13 hours of flying and airports (thank you, Travelocity for the cheapest most conceivably indirect flights) Patrick and I made it to Ft. Lauderdale. Our Bon Voyage party the night before was, let’s just say, successful. With only 3 hours of sleep, excruciating headaches, and bouts of vomiting, Patrick and I suffered even more under the crushing weight of about 250 lbs of luggage. Of course, double the fun, we get “randomly selected” for extra screening going through security. All of our luggage was searched, half of our food was confiscated (even in my feeble state, I was able make a few good jabs at TSA, like “we were going to feed the homeless with that, but I guess it would be better for everyone’s safety if no one ate it and we threw it away.” Patrick was most upset when a petulant woman rifled through his underwear in front of everyone.)

We are staying in a rather uninhabited, unkempt area of south Florida. The only real perk of the area --besides the 50+ feral cats that I swear hunt lonely beach walkers at night-- is the beach itself, which is probably only 30 steps away from our hotel. I have never really been to a beach before, so day one consisted of me disproving various ocean-myths that I have ignorantly developed beliefs in over the course of my landlocked life: the waves, even in ankle deep water, have a fatal sucking force, sand crabs can materialize spontaneously and pinch your toes, etc.

Patrick and I spend our time lounging in the sand and reading our sailing textbooks. I never imagined that I would of my own volition spend an afternoon reading about diesel engines. Fortunately, I am learning other more interesting things. For example, even with recent technological innovation, navigation has remained relatively unchanged. Parallel rulers and a compass are all you really need, and they are what sailors have been using for more than a century. Real sailors, apparently, don’t trust the latest gadgets to do more accurately or reliably what they can do perfectly well themselves with a chart, two hands and a little math. Things like GPS are really there for the indolent, inexperienced, or perpetually anxious. In one book we’ve been reading, Voyaging on a Small Budget the author writes that safety cannot be bought, it is an attitude of mind. We could have the most advanced GPS and satellite phone and still find ourselves in a constant state of anxiety, or worse, in actual danger. In other words, taking meticulous care to be educated and prepared and keeping our boat in high-functioning order is much better than having a satellite phone to call someone to get us out of trouble. Prevention is better than remedy.

I am also adjusting to the simple, non-consuming life. I can’t believe how conditioned I am to buy something because it is on sale, or just cheap in general. You know, like, a breakfast burrito for 1.25$ or 2 flip flops for 5$, I have to force myself not to impulsively buy things because they seem like such a deal or because I’m simply bored and it seems like something to do. I truly desire the sort of contentedness that comes from the complete elimination of the consuming mentality. I long for a day in which it never once occurs to me what I might buy in order look, feel, seem or be more ______ than I was the day before.

Brief update on Patrick: his pale, Irish skin is perpetually sunburned and he has developed a perfect little outline of freckles around his lips for the combined effect of a pinkish, lip-linered appearance.

Inaugural Post

2008-12-30T15:38:00.001-08:00

Since you are probably questioning the relevance of our blogspot title (which there is very little of), White Satin Gloves sort of stands for our mutual desire to do things with class and extravagance. (Anyone who knows us can vouch for this fact.) Because aristocracy is always denoted by white satin gloves, we are merely classifying our social status publicly, so that others don't have to.

Which leads to our decision to sell all of our things in exchange for a little boat, currently named "Range" (which is intended to be renamed--"White Satin Gloves" or "Pharaoh's Gold" or "Mendicant Mercenary"--as soon as we can afford to have the hull gold-overlaid).

This 33 foot CSY cutter (pirate-killing fortress) will facilitate our desire to live minimally, spontaneously, autonomously, and grandiosely. We are nostalgic for the simple, subsistence style of living. Hence we aspire towards developing ourselves in the fields of celestial

navigation, deep-sea fishing, bartering/trading, and maintaining an intimacy with the unknown.

Step 1 will entail flying to Ft. Lauderdale to receive the proper certifications through the Blue Water Sailing school. After 8 days of intensive sailing with an instructor, we go to Tampa where "Range" waits for us, under contract. Range is in good condition but is nonetheless used, and will require some "sweat equity" before its ready for our big trip: replace rigging, replace cushions, re-varnish all wood,paint deck, repair sails, replace engine parts, swab poop deck, etc. We have our work cut out for us.

Ultimately, we are planning on sailing from Florida to Venezuela.

We will begin by crossing from Florida to Guncay (in the Bahamas), on to Turks and Caicos, down to the Dominican Republic, then on to Puerto Rico. We will sojourn in the Virgin Isles, then head south to Venezuela. This is the initial, tentative itinerary. We are not "locked into" any set plans.

As The Terminator once said, "I'll catch up to you later."