CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN: ALL EYES ON SANDY

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN: ALL EYES ON SANDY

Between our departure from Ft. Lauderdale in June, 2012 and now, Sunday, October 28, we have experienced two tropical storms on the Intracoastal Waterway. We are still in the middle of our “Sandy” experience. Sandy is the tropical “Frankenstorm” off the Atlantic Coast, which covers an area of 500 miles and which threatens to devastate the New Jersey seashore, as well as cause two feet of snow to be dumped in West Virginia. Sandy is BIG. And it doesn’t help that cold wind is blowing from Canada and a storm is coming in from the West at the same time. Did I mention that there will also be a full moon making the rising tides rise even higher in another day? These added attractions mean that Sandy will stick around through the middle of next week. For our part, nestled next to a floating dock at Seapath in Wrightsville Beach, we hear howling winds and watch the tide rise to cover some nearby islands (small and uninhabited). The torrential rains of last night have stopped for the moment. So we walked – were partially blown – to the ocean to check out the waves. It was a mile walk with the wind at our backs, but of course, all that wind smacked us pretty good in our faces on the way back to our nest.

This is the silver lining in the Sandy storm clouds for some Wrightsville Beach denizens. The big waves have brought out dozens of surfers to “enjoy” the fruits of Sandy. Never mind that the giant waves crash almost as soon as they form, and the surfers crash with them. We saw one surfer actually ride a big wave, rather expertly, but the rest were tossed about like so much driftwood. Still, they were fearless, maybe a bit reckless, but they were definitely not couch potatoes parked in front of HDTV watching eight hours of pro football. For the Admiral and me, it was a welcome antidote to cabin fever. Slow Motion is a warm, cozy, home on water, but nothing beats fresh air – even when it’s coming at you in 40 mile per hour gusts. This may be the biggest winds we get.

Sandy has moved farther off shore from North Carolina, as she plots her strategy for landfall on Monday somewhere near Philadelphia. Not that Sandy has a “brain”, but her “eye” is huge, so she can certainly see what she’s doing. And what she’s doing right now is scaring the living daylights out of most people in Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. She’s big enough and strong enough to continue to harass us and other North Carolina boaters with her winds of 40 to 45 mph for the next few days. Last night, one boat sank in our marina. It was aptly named “Watertight Alibi”. We watched the SEATOW crew pull it back up out of the water. Now the investigation begins. Was it the rain? Was it the wind? Was it something totally unrelated to Sandy? Moral to this story: Don’t put “watertight” in your boat’s name. That’s just throwing down the gauntlet for a whimsical God, who sees the irony in sinking your boat, rather than “Leaky Bucket” in the slip next to you.

Sandy has been relatively kind to us, so far, and I don’t want to jinx that kindness – knock on this teak table – but she has been the most unpredictable storm in decades. So until she dissipates, really stops swirling and whirling around along the Coast, we’re on alert. Our concern now, however, is for our family and friends north of us. Winds are supposed to be 60 miles per hour in densely wooded Lusby and Solomons Maryland. Thank God Janie and Mike got the big generator this year. Two feet of snow are supposed to fall in West Virginia, which is right next to western Virginia, which is where Gretchen and Jem and Kat live on a mountain. They’re used to snow, just not in October and not accompanied by big winds. My sister and her husband are flying to Philadelphia today, because Butch’s mother is gravely ill. She stopped eating and drinking more than a week ago. That’s her choice, and Hospice is helping her with those decisions. It’s an extremely difficult time for her and the people who love her, so please, Sandy, if you have an “ear” and are listening, give the folks in the Lehigh Valley in Pennsylvania a break. Go around them. And while you’re at it, leave my brother and his wife alone in the Poconos. And don’t bother my niece and nephew in New Jersey or my nephew near Wilmington. Finally, I’m assuming you have a “heart” too, and you will spare Barbara and her family your wrath, as they watch over Mother Sonia in her final days.

All righty then, now I’m talking to a tropical storm. Pleading with a tropical storm. And I think the Admiral’s nuts when he starts talking to “Felicia”, the invisible flea in our salon carpet. Last night he said he taught her to “sit” for the crumbs he dropped. Actually, the Admiral has a great imagination, which can be extremely entertaining. I can see his reasoning: “If we can’t have dogs on Slow Motion, at least we can have their fleas.” I don’t mind, so long as they remain invisible.

But Sandy’s real. And she could be devastating. Don’t turn your back on her. Brace yourself for her winds. Stay out of her rains. And play in her snow, if you can.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX: TROUBLING BRIDGES AND SHALLOW WATERS

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX: TROUBLING BRIDGES AND SHALLOW WATERS

We knew that the Intracoastal Waterway between Swansboro and Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina was a mind-bending challenge. Heading north last summer, I remember a lot of teeth gnashing by the Admiral as the depth reader went to 5, 4, 3 and 2 feet. I also remember that it was a long day on the water before we limped into “Dud”ley’s in Swansboro. As you may recall, we barely made it through the night at “Dud”ley’s, then zipped across the channel to Casper’s Marina early the next morning to save the life of Slow Motion. As the Bette Davis line goes, “What a dump!” That sums up “Dud”ley’s.

Heading south, we stopped at Casper’s again and enjoyed the hospitality of the dock master, Susan. We talked about books, a subject I can talk about for days and days. I gave her the Martin Cruz Smith (Wolves Eat Dogs) that I had just finished. And I was hoping to get “Canada”, which Amazon had shipped over a week ago to Casper’s. But no such luck. I have no idea where “Canada” is now, and I’m not happy with Amazon. I used to get books from them in a few days. Now they can’t get it to me in three weeks! Have they outsourced the shipping of books to India or China?

Back to the challenge of the waterway: The Admiral worked on his charts and calculations for hours to prepare for the 7 and ½ hours we would be on the waterway between Swansboro and Seapath at Wrightsville Beach. That’s if the circumstances were ideal, namely if we arrived at the low bridges in time to make their “opening”, and if we didn’t run aground. As soon as we left Swansboro at 7:15 a.m., we had to travel at a certain average speed to reach the Onslow Beach Swing Bridge, 12 feet vertical clearance for boats, before 9 a.m. – not at 9:02 a.m. and not a half hour before. If you get to a bridge too early before its scheduled opening, you end up going around in circles about 100 times, if you’re a sailboat. And if you’re a motor vessel like Slow Motion, you burn up that super-expensive diesel fuel just idling, going into reverse, idling some more, and trying to avoid the circling sailboats, who don’t always try to avoid you. Did I tell you that Slow Motion’s vertical is 19 feet? So for any bridge with less vertical clearance than at least 20 feet, we have to request an opening by the bridge tender. And these bridges of limited vertical clearance, let’s call them “troubling bridges”, only open once an hour, either on the hour or the half hour, or maybe twenty minutes after the hour. But you have to know which it is, or you end up idling, wasting fuel and dodging sailboats. And no matter what you read in the books about the opening times, you really have to call the bridge tender on the day you want to go through to get the scoop for that day. Most of these troubling bridges are very old and frequently are closed for repair.

So the Onslow Beach Swing Bridge, of course, had needed repairs the week before we started our grueling day, and it was closed for “just” three hours. Think about treading water in a swimming pool for three hours, while kids are bouncing all around you screaming and shouting. That’s what the circus is like when a bunch of boats, motor and sail, have to hang out in a very small area waiting for a bridge repair to be completed.  So I tried to call the Onslow Beach Bridge tender and the phone just rang, no answer. I called several times and there was still no answer. Since the bridge starts opening at 7 a.m., and I was calling after that, either the bridge tender was not taking calls that morning (Hangover? Diva? Antisocial personality?) or the phone wasn’t working. Not one to give up easily (and not one who likes to wait at closed bridges), I called the Swansboro/Emerald Isle Coast Guard station for an update on the Onslow bridge. Surprise, surprise. They couldn’t get through either. So they said they would keep trying and call me back. The Coast Guard came through and called back in about 10 minutes. The bridge was going to open all day! No repairs!

The Coast Guard officer asked what number I had used to call the bridge tender; I told him, and it turns out that the number in Dozier’s Waterway Guide is incorrect. The CG officer gave me the correct number and he suggested I call to let the bridge tender know we were on our way. So I used the correct number – and still the phone just rang and rang. Okay, we’re dealing with a Diva, I decided. The Admiral knew the Diva couldn’t ignore a call on the Channel 13, the channel for contacting all bridges, so as we got closer, he called on Channel 13, and the Onslow bridge tender truculently responded. Okay, I get it. The bridge is operated by the Marines. Troop morale is at an all-time low. But is operating a bridge so darned hard on the Marine chosen to open it on the hour that he chooses rudeness as the best way to relate to the boaters requesting an opening? I think not. This is not a bridge in Afghanistan, not even a bridge to nowhere. It strikes me as a plum job, way above KP for prestige and certainly way above most Marine assignments for safety.

We made it through Onslow Beach Swing Bridge with a number of other boats. One boat had started to pass us several miles before the bridge, but the Admiral pointed out to the captain that going faster would just mean waiting longer for the bridge to open. She saw the error of her ways and chose to follow us to the bridge. But once we got there, her inner “I want to be first” persona took over, and she told us, as she passed (shouting, not even using the radio) that she needed to be closer to the bridge. So she practically kissed the bridge before it opened, and when it opened she had to back up to avoid being hit. Yes, the bridges are troubling, but so are some of the boat captains. How many times has a driver roared past you to get to the red light first? That’s the insane mentality that is apparently carried straight from the roadways to the waterways of America.

Even before we got to the Onslow Beach Bridge, we were dealing with contradictory information about the shallow waters around Brown’s Inlet. The dock hand at Casper’s said to go around the two markers, 60 and 61, which were misplaced, according to him. The cruisers who blog told us that the markers had been placed correctly, and that you had to go between the markers, or risk running aground. One boat left before us from Casper’s and the Admiral asked the captain to radio him about this shallow area, when he got there. The Admiral had told the captain that our information contradicted what the dock hand had just told him, and that we were informed that the markers were properly placed, marking the true channel. About an hour after he left Casper’s, the other captain radioed the Admiral that a catamaran had run aground, when it tried to go around the two markers, but the captain went between the two markers, no problem. Moral of the story: Don’t take any dock hand’s word as the Gospel, even if his name is Matthew, Mark, Luke or John. Pray that some boater will go before you and let you know the real score, so you don’t suffer the fate of the catamaran, waiting for high tide to get you off the shoal you ran into.

The old saw is that if you haven’t run aground, you just haven’t cruised very much. True, all boat captains, no matter how prepared and experienced they are, will run aground at some point. The various inlets to and from the ocean are constantly causing shoaling, and no navigation charts or books can track them fast enough to give you current information. But if you check all your sources every day – the charts, the books, the other boaters tied up at the marina with you, the Coast Guard, the blogging cruisers, and yes, the dock hands at the marinas – then you’ve done everything possible to avoid grounding, short of just staying tied up in one place, never traveling on the waterway.

I was just remembering some of my first blogs, when everything was new, a lot of things struck me as very funny or just plain absurd, and every day something amazing happened that I had never expected. Now, as I reread this 36^th Blog, I see such a difference in content. And I realize how far I’ve come, in terms of “getting my head into the game.” Still, today when a boat engine repair specialist came to diagnose why our engine had overheated yesterday during the trip under the troubling bridges and through the shallow waters, I felt like a complete greenhorn again. We have two diesel engines, and they have so many parts that it’s unbelievable to me how they ever work. One of the engines, the one that overheated, was low on coolant – where had the coolant gone? What was this going to cost to get the answer to that question? And what was it going to cost to repair whatever had broken or clogged up or just grown too old to do its job anymore? Slow Motion is 18 years old, born in 1994, and she still has some original parts – hoses and such – which get brittle over time and need replacement. You may ask: ”What were those jokers in Ft. Lauderdale doing for more than six weeks, when they were supposed to fix everything on the boat?” I’m asking that. But the Admiral just takes in the diagnosis from the engine guru and decides what we have to do to solve the immediate problem (coolant leak). Good news – we did a sea trial after we found out what was wrong, and Slow Motion went faster than she has ever gone. She couldn’t even go that fast during the pre-purchase sea trial. So the Admiral is doing everything in his power to overcome the years of non-maintenance by the former owner. And Slow Motion is coming to life again! Hurray!

 

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX: TROUBLING BRIDGES AND SHALLOW WATERS

We knew that the Intracoastal Waterway between Swansboro and Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina was a mind-bending challenge. Heading north last summer, I remember a lot of teeth gnashing by the Admiral as the depth reader went to 5, 4, 3 and 2 feet. I also remember that it was a long day on the water before we limped into “Dud”ley’s in Swansboro. As you may recall, we barely made it through the night at “Dud”ley’s, then zipped across the channel to Casper’s Marina early the next morning to save the life of Slow Motion. As the Bette Davis line goes, “What a dump!” That sums up “Dud”ley’s.

Heading south, we stopped at Casper’s again and enjoyed the hospitality of the dock master, Susan. We talked about books, a subject I can talk about for days and days. I gave her the Martin Cruz Smith (Wolves Eat Dogs) that I had just finished. And I was hoping to get “Canada”, which Amazon had shipped over a week ago to Casper’s. But no such luck. I have no idea where “Canada” is now, and I’m not happy with Amazon. I used to get books from them in a few days. Now they can’t get it to me in three weeks! Have they outsourced the shipping of books to India or China?

Back to the challenge of the waterway: The Admiral worked on his charts and calculations for hours to prepare for the 7 and ½ hours we would be on the waterway between Swansboro and Seapath at Wrightsville Beach. That’s if the circumstances were ideal, namely if we arrived at the low bridges in time to make their “opening”, and if we didn’t run aground. As soon as we left Swansboro at 7:15 a.m., we had to travel at a certain average speed to reach the Onslow Beach Swing Bridge, 12 feet vertical clearance for boats, before 9 a.m. – not at 9:02 a.m. and not a half hour before. If you get to a bridge too early before its scheduled opening, you end up going around in circles about 100 times, if you’re a sailboat. And if you’re a motor vessel like Slow Motion, you burn up that super-expensive diesel fuel just idling, going into reverse, idling some more, and trying to avoid the circling sailboats, who don’t always try to avoid you. Did I tell you that Slow Motion’s vertical is 19 feet? So for any bridge with less vertical clearance than at least 20 feet, we have to request an opening by the bridge tender. And these bridges of limited vertical clearance, let’s call them “troubling bridges”, only open once an hour, either on the hour or the half hour, or maybe twenty minutes after the hour. But you have to know which it is, or you end up idling, wasting fuel and dodging sailboats. And no matter what you read in the books about the opening times, you really have to call the bridge tender on the day you want to go through to get the scoop for that day. Most of these troubling bridges are very old and frequently are closed for repair.

So the Onslow Beach Swing Bridge, of course, had needed repairs the week before we started our grueling day, and it was closed for “just” three hours. Think about treading water in a swimming pool for three hours, while kids are bouncing all around you screaming and shouting. That’s what the circus is like when a bunch of boats, motor and sail, have to hang out in a very small area waiting for a bridge repair to be completed.  So I tried to call the Onslow Beach Bridge tender and the phone just rang, no answer. I called several times and there was still no answer. Since the bridge starts opening at 7 a.m., and I was calling after that, either the bridge tender was not taking calls that morning (Hangover? Diva? Antisocial personality?) or the phone wasn’t working. Not one to give up easily (and not one who likes to wait at closed bridges), I called the Swansboro/Emerald Isle Coast Guard station for an update on the Onslow bridge. Surprise, surprise. They couldn’t get through either. So they said they would keep trying and call me back. The Coast Guard came through and called back in about 10 minutes. The bridge was going to open all day! No repairs!

The Coast Guard officer asked what number I had used to call the bridge tender; I told him, and it turns out that the number in Dozier’s Waterway Guide is incorrect. The CG officer gave me the correct number and he suggested I call to let the bridge tender know we were on our way. So I used the correct number – and still the phone just rang and rang. Okay, we’re dealing with a Diva, I decided. The Admiral knew the Diva couldn’t ignore a call on the Channel 13, the channel for contacting all bridges, so as we got closer, he called on Channel 13, and the Onslow bridge tender truculently responded. Okay, I get it. The bridge is operated by the Marines. Troop morale is at an all-time low. But is operating a bridge so darned hard on the Marine chosen to open it on the hour that he chooses rudeness as the best way to relate to the boaters requesting an opening? I think not. This is not a bridge in Afghanistan, not even a bridge to nowhere. It strikes me as a plum job, way above KP for prestige and certainly way above most Marine assignments for safety.

We made it through Onslow Beach Swing Bridge with a number of other boats. One boat had started to pass us several miles before the bridge, but the Admiral pointed out to the captain that going faster would just mean waiting longer for the bridge to open. She saw the error of her ways and chose to follow us to the bridge. But once we got there, her inner “I want to be first” persona took over, and she told us, as she passed (shouting, not even using the radio) that she needed to be closer to the bridge. So she practically kissed the bridge before it opened, and when it opened she had to back up to avoid being hit. Yes, the bridges are troubling, but so are some of the boat captains. How many times has a driver roared past you to get to the red light first? That’s the insane mentality that is apparently carried straight from the roadways to the waterways of America.

Even before we got to the Onslow Beach Bridge, we were dealing with contradictory information about the shallow waters around Brown’s Inlet. The dock hand at Casper’s said to go around the two markers, 60 and 61, which were misplaced, according to him. The cruisers who blog told us that the markers had been placed correctly, and that you had to go between the markers, or risk running aground. One boat left before us from Casper’s and the Admiral asked the captain to radio him about this shallow area, when he got there. The Admiral had told the captain that our information contradicted what the dock hand had just told him, and that we were informed that the markers were properly placed, marking the true channel. About an hour after he left Casper’s, the other captain radioed the Admiral that a catamaran had run aground, when it tried to go around the two markers, but the captain went between the two markers, no problem. Moral of the story: Don’t take any dock hand’s word as the Gospel, even if his name is Matthew, Mark, Luke or John. Pray that some boater will go before you and let you know the real score, so you don’t suffer the fate of the catamaran, waiting for high tide to get you off the shoal you ran into.

The old saw is that if you haven’t run aground, you just haven’t cruised very much. True, all boat captains, no matter how prepared and experienced they are, will run aground at some point. The various inlets to and from the ocean are constantly causing shoaling, and no navigation charts or books can track them fast enough to give you current information. But if you check all your sources every day – the charts, the books, the other boaters tied up at the marina with you, the Coast Guard, the blogging cruisers, and yes, the dock hands at the marinas – then you’ve done everything possible to avoid grounding, short of just staying tied up in one place, never traveling on the waterway.

I was just remembering some of my first blogs, when everything was new, a lot of things struck me as very funny or just plain absurd, and every day something amazing happened that I had never expected. Now, as I reread this 36^th Blog, I see such a difference in content. And I realize how far I’ve come, in terms of “getting my head into the game.” Still, today when a boat engine repair specialist came to diagnose why our engine had overheated yesterday during the trip under the troubling bridges and through the shallow waters, I felt like a complete greenhorn again. We have two diesel engines, and they have so many parts that it’s unbelievable to me how they ever work. One of the engines, the one that overheated, was low on coolant – where had the coolant gone? What was this going to cost to get the answer to that question? And what was it going to cost to repair whatever had broken or clogged up or just grown too old to do its job anymore? Slow Motion is 18 years old, born in 1994, and she still has some original parts – hoses and such – which get brittle over time and need replacement. You may ask: ”What were those jokers in Ft. Lauderdale doing for more than six weeks, when they were supposed to fix everything on the boat?” I’m asking that. But the Admiral just takes in the diagnosis from the engine guru and decides what we have to do to solve the immediate problem (coolant leak). Good news – we did a sea trial after we found out what was wrong, and Slow Motion went faster than she has ever gone. She couldn’t even go that fast during the pre-purchase sea trial. So the Admiral is doing everything in his power to overcome the years of non-maintenance by the former owner. And Slow Motion is coming to life again! Hurray!

 

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE: SUNDAY BOATING

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE: SUNDAY BOATING

Sunday boating is different from boating any other day of the week. Crazier, faster, rule breaking, more inattentive, less considerate – like Sunday drivers on the roadways. This morning we got a head start on the late risers by leaving River Dunes at 7:30 a.m. We didn’t run into the craziness until about five hours later. So here’s to all the Sunday boaters who sleep in! Keep doing it, please. We shared the quiet morning moments with porpoises who came at Slow Motion from both sides or swam in front of us or behind us. Some day I’ll be quick enough to make a video of their dives and re-surfacings. They make the waterway a special place to be, when they’re out there welcoming us and showing off their many talented moves.  Sure, you can see porpoises at Sea World or at some aquariums, but it’s not like traveling along with them on the Neuse River or Bogue Sound in North Carolina.

Today we had some courteous boaters – “Slow Motion, Sir Galahad behind you, and I would like to pass on your portside. “I’ll slow down so that there is little wake.” Really, a few cruisers actually said that, and they glided by at a low speed, so we were not rocked at all, not even one sideways tilt.  And we had the crashing boars again – but fewer of them, since the Annapolis Boat Show (October 11-14) monsters have already waked us. It’s October 21 and they’re probably in Rio or Buenos Aires by now. They know who they are, because once they “wake” one boat, the word goes out on the radio to watch out for the speedster who rudely passes at his highest wake capacity without any warning or apology.  So what is their reaction to hearing themselves described on the radio (Channel 16 -- heard by all boaters) as cretins? If they are really cretins, they’re probably chuckling and they most likely increase their speed for their next victim. But if they have one ounce of decency, maybe, just maybe, they slow down once or twice during the day when passing a slower boat. Nah – it’s that testosterone; it won’t permit a slowing down.

The Neuse River takes you past Oriental, a town we have yet to visit, and to a narrow channel on the way to Beaufort and Morehead City.  We got close to Oriental the day before, when we borrowed the “courtesy van” from River Dunes and drove to the one grocery store near Oriental called “Town and Country.” What a surprise and what a treat that store was! It was small in terms of square footage, but was packed with some items you just can’t get at any of the huge chain grocery stores. And the prices were amazingly good – not Wal-Mart, but damn close. This store had the Admiral’s Crystal Lite peach iced tea; it had Snow’s clams (nearly the same price as Wal-Mart); it had my Honey Crisp cereal, which I haven’t found anywhere else for a few years. And it had butterscotch Tasty Cakes. Sure, we got apples, raspberries and plums, and celery and carrots, but you can get those things at most stores.  Next time we stay at River Dunes, we’ll definitely return to Town and Country. A good grocery store is always a highlight for us, especially since we had to leave Publix behind in Florida and settle for sloppy seconds with Harris Teeter, Piggly Wiggly, Giant and “the Lion”.

One good thing about the narrow channel we traveled after leaving the Neuse River is that it’s too narrow for a big motor boat to pass, so they just have to travel at a sane speed, if they get stuck behind Slow Motion or another cruiser going a normal speed. I’m sure this rankles, but hey, they could have chosen to travel on the ocean. It looked pretty calm today. Even more than the crashing boars, the Sunday fishers were out in force – whole flotillas filling the Intracoastal Waterway Channel in some spots. Fishing boats are not supposed to fish in the channel – something about blocking traffic. It’s like having a bunch of car drivers park their cars sideways in both lanes of a two way highway to wash their cars. Maybe there are now “flash mobs” of fishing boaters, who get the call on Sundays to race out and clog the ICW lanes for a few hours, while pretending to fish. The Coast Guard is supposed to break up these fishing armadas when they block the ICW, but like most of law enforcement, their area is too big for the personnel they still have.  We reported a fishing boat that had tied up to an ICW navigation marker – a no-no that is pretty bold. We called the Coast Guard as soon as we passed this scofflaw, and an hour later, we saw their enforcement boat. They said the fishing boat was no long hugging the ICW marker when they went by. It must have been the disapproving look the Admiral gave the two fishermen, as we passed by, that drove them away.

Finally, about my progress in handling the boating duties assigned to me. As the Admiral constantly says: “You’ve got to get your head into the game!” I have to admit that sometimes I daydream, sometimes I read, sometimes I fall asleep while we’re cruising along. But when Nature calls the Admiral, I always take over the helm. Now that we’re on automatic pilot 90% of the time, this means looking for debris or floating objects in the water (dead bodies always come to mind – too many mysteries under my belt). I do a pretty good job watching out for these things, but sometimes the Admiral catches me looking at my I Phone when I’m on duty. He’s right – I need to give 100% when I’m called on to be Slow Motion’s surrogate captain and watchdog. Today I must report that I had a “lapse” when we were docking at Casper’s in Swansboro, NC. I had gone out to the bow of the boat, taken the forward spring line (not the bow line) and made sure it had no kinks or knots, but was ready to be thrown to the dock hand. As I was doing this, I realized that I had not prepared the stern line, which I knew was a knotty mess from when we tossed it back on to Slow Motion, upon leaving River Dunes. I did not have time to go back and smooth out the stern line. “Uh-oh”, I thought, but maybe I could get the stern line to the dock person without the Admiral noticing my poor preparation. Not a chance. I gave the messed up stern line to the dock hand, and he tied it around the post. It looked sort of okay to me. But then the Admiral came to the stern: “What’s that messed up stern line? Why is it wrapped around the cleat in the cockpit?” I mean, he wasn’t at the stern of Slow Motion more than a second before he saw my screw up. “You’ve got to get your head in the game”, the Admiral reiterated sternly (yes, pun intended). I vowed to myself, right on the spot, not to make this rookie mistake again. So please, if you write any comments to me on this Blog, remind me to straighten out all the lines and put them in working order BEFORE we pull up to the dock to tie up.

We are safely ensconced at Casper’s, a marina where we had to spend a few weeks in July because of constant threat of thunderstorms and high winds. This time we’re scheduled to stay two days – this lovely Sunday and tomorrow, when I mail my absentee ballot back to Monterey County from the Swansboro Post Office. Now if you were planning to vote for the one per cent, and you’re not even in the one per cent, think about that really long and hard. And if you have daughters, sisters, granddaughters, nieces, mothers, aunts, grandmothers, women friends, spouses – you get the picture – vote for our right to choose and for keeping government out of our bedrooms. I fought too long and too hard for reproductive freedom – one candidate has promised to “repeal” Roe v. Wade. Do not vote for him, please. I worked on the briefs for Abele v. Markle, Connecticut’s Roe v. Wade, and I wrote the briefs for Roe v. Maher, when Chief Justice Rehnquist (in 1976) denied poor women the same fundamental right to control their bodies that had been recognized in Roe v. Wade in 1973. Women worked for this change for more than a century. I worked for it throughout the late sixties and into the mid-seventies. We’re not going back to coat hangers – not on my watch. I respect all religious beliefs on this subject. I would like some respect for my right to privacy and to make my own decisions regarding reproduction without government interference. We have a clear choice for our futures – don’t muck it up.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR: AND ANOTHER THING

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR: AND ANOTHER THING

I write these Blogs at the end of a day of “cruising”, a word which connotes relaxation, but which in truth requires total concentration. The Admiral has it from the moment he wakes up. That concentration, combined with his intensity, makes him an extremely good ship captain. But once we get off the ICW and tie up at a marina, the Admiral finally can give his brain, his piloting muscles, his intensity, a break. I don’t have nearly the abilities of the Admiral, but throughout the day, there are constant challenges that wear you down and wear you out by the end of the cruising day. Take for example, the crashing, splashing boars -- they were there again today for the 40 plus miles between Alligator River and Belhaven.  When you see them barreling up behind you, the Admiral gets ready to steer into the humongous wake, while I run below and try to secure everything in sight. Then after we get “waked”, I have to check on what broke or was thrown to the floor. So with these Neanderthals, who can appear on the horizon at any time, we are in a constant state of anticipation and preparation for how to survive their boorish behavior.  (I know, it’s a toss-up whether to call them boars or boors – I like the pigginess of the word “boar”).

Today there were more crashing boars, but also a few very courteous power boats – My Marty comes to mind. He did what is expected of all boaters who are approaching another boat from behind and want to overtake that boat. He identified himself, told us his intentions, and then told us he would slow down as he passed so that we would not be “waked”. And we in turn told him that we would slow down, so that he could make the pass faster, even though he was reducing his speed. And guess what, no rough and tumble rocking and splashing! My Marty had to deal with one of the jerks who “waked” us going 30 miles per hour. Slow Motion averages 7 or 8 miles an hour. The speedster caught up with My Marty, who was going 28 miles per hour – not fast enough for El Jerko. So My Marty offered to speed up to 30 miles per hour, only after they both passed a slower sailboat. And My Marty made a point of telling El Jerko that My Marty was going to slow down to pass the sailboat, “as a courtesy”. That made absolutely no impression on El Jerko, who proceeded to pass My Marty within minutes. We heard this entire exchange on our radio. That’s the entitlement story of the day. This was another boat show boat, too new to have a name on the stern (conveniently) and too expensive to care about the “little people” on the ICW. On the other hand, My Marty did restore a little bit – a tiny bit – of our faith in the human race (actually, in the humans who are not racing).

Now about my ability to concentrate at the end of a long cruising day – last night I intended to write about an incident that occurred at Coinjock in the middle of the night. But my mind was too tired. So here it is. I’m up watching The Debate (cable worked in Coinjock) and the Admiral flies up the stairs from our cabin: “Ann, Ann, come up to the sundeck! Look at what’s going by! We ran up to the starlit sundeck and saw a very, very large barge, pushed by a tugboat, going past us about 10 feet away on the narrow waterway that runs by the Coinjock marina. If there had been any other traffic on that skinny channel, the barge and tug would most likely have hit it. But knowing how crazy many of the pleasure boaters are during the day as they speed south, the commercial craft have figured out that moving in the middle of the night is the safest, fastest thing for them to do. It was quite a spectacle, like watching a dinosaur up close, swimming past Slow Motion. This barge was huge. And the tug was all lit up, as it is required to be. They went by at a nice clip, no major wake, heading north. They had the waterway to themselves (lucky barge and tug). If you’ve never seen a tug pushing a barge that is 4 or 5 times longer than the tug, find a busy harbor and watch them at work. They are amazing boats, with the power to push or pull vessels that are up to 10 times their size and God knows how many times their weight.

And another thing:

Each marina we visit has its own aura, its own feng shui, its own strengths and weaknesses. Alligator River, for example, has the best fried chicken on the ICW (so long as Annette is making it). A weakness is that it has the oldest, rustiest washers and dryers. And the dryers don’t dry. Coinjock heralds its 32 ounce prime rib – you got it, a slab of prime rib that is the equivalent of 8 Big Macs or 8 Quarter Pounders. This is not a strength – who can eat that much meat? They offer a “first mate” dinner of 16 ounces of prime rib, but come on, wouldn’t you rather have a regular human sized 8 ounce slab of prime rib? That is not on the menu. A strength at Coinjock is their cable TV – brings in a gazillion stations, although we only needed one for The Debate. On the other hand, the water served at the table at Coinjock sucks, according to the Admiral. Still, the Admiral enjoyed a meal of fried clam strips and fried oysters that was perfecto. I had a too salty pork chop – The Admiral’s menu selection almost always looks better to me than what I ordered – except for the aforementioned fried chicken. The Atlantic Yacht Basin (Chesapeake, VA) offers a very good rate ($50 per night) and they’ve upgraded their bathrooms. Their marine store is the best. You just can’t get to a grocery store without a rented car. That’s true for all the marinas we’ve visited so far. Rebel Service Marina (Willoughby Spit, in Norfolk) has a very good bathroom and shower, a lounge with a television, almost always tuned to sports, and a very knowledgeable dock master in David the tugboat captain. On the other hand, it’s right next to Highway 64, not within walking distance to a grocery store, has no laundry facilities (you can go to the marina next door), and plays host to an interesting collection of locals, most of whom seem to smoke right outside the lounge.

The marina at Solomons, where we stayed for more than 6 weeks, had an antiquated bath house. The showers were relatively clean, but all the paint was peeling, things were rusting out, the floor was slimy until they covered it with a rubber mat. And someone smoked inside the bath house. So you never knew, upon entering, if you could breathe while showering or not.

 All of the bathrooms and showers since Solomons have been more modern and cleaner. The winner so far of the marina bathroom and shower prize is Belhaven Marina, where we are tonight. OMG, they not only provide a hair dryer (Hamilton), but also provide shampoo, hair conditioner, soap and lotion. AND, they provide towels and wash cloths, which they wash after you use them. In addition, the décor – it’s unbelievable. Every sea creature, except perhaps the giant squid, is represented on the walls of the bathroom.  Now you pay more for this luxurious experience, just like you pay more at a Hilton than at a Motel 6. But you are grateful to the dock masters for being so thoughtful and providing you everything you need for a pleasant shower experience. Yes, the hot water was hot indeed. The marina which is a close second to Belhaven in this category is Dozier’s Regatta Point (Deltaville, VA). They have a separate bath house, and each bathroom/shower combination is really clean, modern and equipped with a hair dryer.

Dozier’s comes in first among the marinas for down home hospitality. They have wine, cheese and fruit gatherings on Fridays at 6. When we were there a few days ago, we spent Saturday/Sunday night with them. And Sunday morning, the dock masters treated us to a scrumptious breakfast – this is a first for any marina we have visited. Eggs or waffles, sausage or bacon, toast, yogurt, orange juice – everything you wanted or needed – no grits, however. You were invited to make a modest five dollar donation. But to wake up on a Sunday, roll off the boat and wander up to the dock master’s cottage/office, catching a strong smell of bacon on the way – it was an unexpected treat. Good show, Dozier’s. The dock masters actually did all the cooking for that breakfast. Their follow up is also amazing – today, a few days after our one day visit, I received an email from the Dozier’s owners and dock masters thanking me for our stay and inviting us back to spend three nights, one night free. Other marinas can learn a lot from Dozier’s.

And one more thing: The Admiral definitely saw a bald eagle today. He wasn’t certain until we were able to confirm it from a picture online showing the white tail feathers not possessed by ospreys. I saw a porpoise the other day, and Slow Motion is being chased by a gaggle of sea gulls. As we churn up the water at our stern, the gulls take the opportunity to check for any fish that are caught up in the churning. While I have spent considerable space writing about the rude behavior of the 2% “entitled” boaters, let me assure you that our cruising days are still for the most part filled with quiet contacts with natural beauty, in the skies, on the water and on the land we pass by on the water. This morning, the sky was menacing, and that is always a wonder to behold. Then within an hour, the thick charcoal clouds parted, the sun shot rays through the clouds on to the water, and we were on our way. By the end of the day, we were cruising on mirror-like water. The sunset last night was every shade of orange, pink and mauve. Even as I walked gingerly to and from the laundry area, ever alert to any approaching alligators, I stared in awe at the setting sun. There are birds perched on every bridge, hundreds of them – cormorants, egrets, herons, gulls, and varieties of seabirds unknown to me. We have not had any alligator sightings, either on  Alligator River or on the Pungo River, nor have we dipped any bare toes in the waters to tempt them.

Perhaps the biggest difference in our lives is that we are governed totally by the weather. We read every weather report for the place where we are and the place where we are headed, and for every place in between. We read these reports at least 20 times a day, checking on the weather right before we go to sleep and as soon as we wake up. Of course, we not only read the reports, but we keep scanning the skies in all directions for any signs of change. We check out the direction the wind is blowing and what kind of clouds there are. This morning, for example, the weather reports had said the day would be sunny and warm, with slight wind. When we woke up, intending to leave at 7 a.m., as the sun rose, we saw black clouds everywhere, and particular in the direction we were headed. There was a fairly strong wind, and it felt like it was going to rain in minutes. We put off our departure indefinitely and kept checking the weather reports, which by 7 a.m. were starting to agree with what we were seeing with our own eyes. Then at 8 a.m. the dark clouds had moved into another part of the sky, no rain had fallen, and there was blue sky in the direction of our destination. So, weather permitting, we left the dock at 8:15 a.m. The thunderstorms that appeared to be inevitable did not materialize where we were. They probably struck along the ocean, not many miles from us. But we had a relatively calm day of weather, as we cruised on the Alligator River, the Alligator --Pungo Canal and the Pungo River. We guessed right – and that’s what it is, folks, a guessing game. I would not want to be a farmer. Being a boater makes me dependent on the weather, as to whether I can travel on a given day, but not dependent on the weather for my livelihood.

And one more thing (it is now Friday, October 19):

Today we had weather issues again in the early morning. The sun rises around 7 these days, and we rise at 6 to start checking the weather. The early reports showed scattered thunderstorms coming our way. As dawn approached, the sky was very dark in one direction and turning red in another. We cruise in rain, no problem, but lightning and thunder are dangers we choose not to subject Slow Motion to – especially the lightning. There are many times we are crossing a wide expanse of water and are the only boat around – lightning bolts love sitting ducks, and that’s what Slow Motion is much of the day. When the prediction is for thunder and lightning, we KNOW we will be the only boat around, because other boaters also want to avoid the disaster of being struck by lightning and fighting a major fire with a boat fire extinguisher – with no Coast Guard nearby to help out. In addition to checking all the reports and watching the sky, we watched what other boaters tied up at the same marina were doing. Steve from Duxbury, Mass. took off around 7 a.m. He travels 10 mph (faster than Slow Motion) and only intended to be on the water for 5 hours. He took the risk that the thunder and lightning would not find him. We did not follow him, because the sky still looked threatening at that time, not five hours later. We called the marina we were going to and asked about the weather there. They were expecting thunderstorms too. We waited more than an hour to see if, like yesterday, the storm would divide and we would conquer. Finally, around 8:30 a.m. the sky started looking more like just rain and less like thunderstorms. There is a difference that the Admiral can detect. I rely on his ability to do that. So we took our own risk at 8:35 a.m. and left the dock at Belhaven to travel down the Pungo, Pamlico and Neuse Rivers to River Dunes, 5 miles outside of Oriental, NC. Yes, it rained, and whew!, there was no lightning. We guessed right.

We traveled faster than we usually do, because the thunderstorms were still in the area. This meant more fuel consumption, expending a gallon of fuel to go 1 and ½ miles. You read that right. One and one half miles per gallon.  Eat your heart out, Prius. By the way, before you start extolling the “green” virtues of sailing, you should know that almost all of the sailboats on the ICW use their engines (fuel consumption), not their sails, to get to where they’re going. I didn’t know this when we started on our adventure, and I have to admit I thought sailors were superior to us motor boaters, because they didn’t guzzle gas. Now that I know they do too, I don’t feel quite so inferior. Still, when it’s raining, I know they’re much more out in the elements than we are in our isinglass and canvas covered flying bridges. And sometimes they do turn off their engines and sail. Plus, their engines aren’t as big as ours and don’t guzzle as much fuel. It’s kind of like the ranchers and the farmers, although there are a lot more cruising groups that include both motor and sail boats than there ever were before. Maybe ranchers and farmers are co-existing too, but I doubt it.

Bad boating behavior of the day: We’re cruising along at 8 or 9 miles an hour – yes, that’s 6 or 7 minute miles, slower than most people bike. And there is a catamaran in front of us, going considerably slower. The Admiral does the courteous thing. He calls the cat captain on the radio, announces his presence and asks permission to pass on starboard side. There is no response. The Admiral gets on the radio again and makes the same request. Again, no response. The Admiral takes his horn and gives it one short blast, as the navigation rules state for a starboard passing. That appears to get the cat captain’s attention. But what does he do, after not acknowledging the Admiral twice on the  radio? You may have guessed this – the cat captain guns his engine and speeds up! By this time we were about 20 to 30 feet to his starboard coming up parallel to his stern. We were clearly passing, and we had clearly been going faster. But when he speeded up, it showed a mentality of “You’re not passing me! If it’s the last thing I do, I will go so fast that you will never be able to pass me!” He even looked kind of angry. This is another example of too much testosterone on the waterway. Since the Admiral had started the pass, he had to speed up to complete it, and this seemed to make the cat captain even madder. I’m sorry to say, we “waked” him, but it didn’t have to be that way. All he had to do was keep going the speed he was going, and let us pass slowly, with little or no wake. After all, what was he going to do when one of the boat show boats going 30 mph came up behind him? He can’t go 30 mph. Would he just try to ram the boat if it tried to pass him? So the lesson of the day is that even slow boaters can display boorish behavior, when their manhood is ostensibly challenged by a boat trying to pass them.

Isn’t it interesting that all of the bad boater stories involve men behaving  badly? There are women captains on the waterway. I’ve seen them and heard them on the radio. Often they are trying to mediate between 2 male captains who are butting heads. They do things like refer both of the men to the rules. How novel – women captains suggesting that men captains play by the rules. I have not used the radio yet. I call the marinas on my cell phone to confirm that we are underway and to tell them when we expect to arrive. I call about the weather at the next marina. I ask to tie up on their face dock. I tell them if we need any assistance, and whether we want to tie up on the port or starboard side. And I call to make any schedule changes. But the radio is still something I must learn to master. The radio, and that pesky knot – what is it called? Oh yes, the cleat hitch. I know I’m overthinking the hitch. I also know that with practice, I will get it. But practice has to be on a cleat, so I can’t sit up in the flying bridge and practice the cleat hitch. Yes, that’s an excuse, not a particularly good one. You’ll be the first to know when I have mastered the hitch. For your information, I am getting much better at throwing the lines to the dock hands who help us tie up. Only once so far on this trip south did I throw a line in the water. I still say the dock hand could have caught it, but it wasn’t a very good throw. I’m also getting better at sitting in the captain’s chair and steering Slow Motion, whenever the Admiral needs to take a break. Fortunately for me, the Admiral takes a lot of breaks, and you would too, if, like the Admiral, you drank large glasses of diet peach iced tea all day every day.

I am not crawling around in the engine room, putting water in the batteries or replacing a hose. I am not drilling holes into the side of Slow Motion to attach metal holders for the fenders. I am not doing the pump out or filling up the gas tanks. I am not working every night on charts for our course the next day. I doubt that I will ever have all the skills that the Admiral has, but I am determined to improve in areas where I can. There will always only be one Admiral for Slow Motion, but I would like to improve to the point where I actually earn the title “Captain”. Little girls can dream – even big dreams.  And so to bed, to dream of tying the perfect hitch. There are fewer and fewer nights when I have a dream dealing with anything in the courtroom – can’t even remember when the last one was. So if you’re wondering if I miss being a prosecutor, the answer is “No.” I love what I’m doing now. Every day presents new challenges and nature keeps showering us with beautiful sunrises, sunsets, porpoises, pelicans, the occasional bald eagle, forests of fir trees, calm waters and a new cast of characters at every marina we visit. It’s no longer “The People versus (fill in the name of a criminal)”. It’s “we the people” are having a hell of a good time.

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE: THIS SIDE OF DELIVERANCE

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE:  THIS SIDE OF DELIVERANCE

If you’re from the South, please go on to the next Blog. With the dueling banjos playing in my head much of the day, I mentally scrolled through the Ned Beatty “squeal like a pig” scene from “Deliverance”. That scene made me very upset the first time I saw it, and somewhat surprisingly, as I recalled it from my memory, it still made me shake a little. Why does that ugly scene come back to haunt me now? Was it the confederate flag on the back of the motor boat we saw go past Coinjock Marina in Coinjock, North Carolina? Was it just that we entered North Carolina yesterday, and yes, there were hush puppies at the Coinjock Restaurant last night? Was it the lilting Southern accents at the next table? Was it the marshlands and woods we passed most of the day on the North Landing River, heading to Alligator River Marina? Or is it the remoteness of Alligator River Marina that starts the banjoes playing?

I’ve been away too long. There is nothing to fear in the New South, in the land of Duke and UNC and – ALLIGATOR RIVER!!! I had to take a break to get my clothes out of the 75 cents dryer about a quarter mile away, in the dark, on the dock next to and over the ALLIGATOR RIVER! They don’t call it that because it’s full of cuddly porpoises. So I armed myself with a very heavy flashlight – not really up for a mano a mano with a six foot alligator, but since I can’t outrun it, I needed the confidence that this flashlight gave me to get to the dryer and back. Why was it that every sound on the way and back was like an alligator climbing out of the river on to the nearby rocks, or slithering under the dock to grab my leg, as I passed by? As it turns out, I was not attacked by an alligator. And just as bad, the 75 cents dryer, which I thought was a great deal, did not dry my clothes. Fortunately, we have a dryer on board, so I carried the damp clothes back, with my flashlight ready to defend me – and with the added confidence that I could throw the clothes at the alligator, smothering it in soggy underwear and socks. Oh yes, woman warrior, up to the challenge.

Apart from the “Deliverance” revisit, today was a day for crashing boars on the water – people hired to transport million dollar yachts and trawlers to the owners in Florida, probably from the Annapolis power boat show, which ended October 14. Today, October 17, these “dickheads”, so named by the Admiral, came up behind us at the speed of sound, moved way over to pass, and never even announced that they were behind us and intended to pass. They don’t know what they’re doing (or do they?), so they don’t get close to us. Therefore, when they pass, they create a huge wake, with waves that come crashing into Slow Motion with the greatest possible impact, so we toss sideways and up and down, until nearly every secured item in the cabin has been thrown from its safe place on to the floor.  And the Admiral’s full glass of tea went flying all over the flying bridge. Thank you very much, Dickheads – to quote the Admiral on the radio to the troglodyte equivalent of reckless drivers who hit and run on land.  This grossly negligent behavior occurred three times today – three times – in a span of a few hours.

It is hoped that the dashing and crashing boars have all gone ahead of us now, and tomorrow we will share the ICW with only the most pleasant cruisers, who say things like: “Hello, Slow Motion. This is Summer Skis, coming up on your starboard. I would like to pass. Do you have a preference as to side?” And the Admiral responds: “Thank you for contacting me, Summer Skis. You may pass on either side, choose your side.” And the pleasant cruiser captain says: “I will pass on the starboard side and I will slow down as I pass, so that you are not tossed about by my wake.” And the Admiral responds: “Thank you, Captain, you are most thoughtful.” Really, this is the world of cruisers who know the boating rules AND who are civilized and live by the Golden Rule. These are the people who make cruising on the ICW so much fun.  When everyone knows the rules and plays by the same rules -- on the Waterway as well as with the tax code -- the safe, courteous boaters (and the middle class) prosper and thrive – and enjoy themselves too. End of Boat Courtesy Sermon.

You might wonder why we don’t report the reckless speedsters. Most of them are piloting yachts that are so new, they have no names and no registration numbers. Just like gangbangers’ cars – all means of identification have been either removed or never even affixed to the banging boats. Their only goal is to get the boat to the owner as soon as possible, no matter how much fuel they burn, because usually the owner has hired them to “fly” down the ICW, in order to save money. It’s much cheaper to pay a crew that runs your boat 12 hours a day for 4 days than for 6 hours a day for 8 days. So yes, the owners, the “job creators”, share the responsibility for this totally irresponsible behavior. They want their boats NOW. They don’t care how many boats of the 98% are tossed around to get their boats NOW. But that’s just part of being privileged, nay, entitled – after all, if they are rich enough to own these million dollar babies, then they believe they are entitled to get them delivered by the fastest means available. Are you familiar with this mindset? We’re doing great, but you 47% over there – stop acting like victims, like you’re “entitled” to government support, just because we outsourced your jobs. If you’re not rich like us, you must be a loser anyway, and I’m not going to worry about you. “Flood their boats!” “Knock them around on the waterway a little bit!” “Show them who really rules this country.” OMG, it’s class warfare on the water, and I just thought it was a few rude boaters in a hurry.

On the lighter side, if you like fried chicken (and I didn’t know that I did until recently), come to the restaurant at Alligator River Marina for Annette’s fried chicken. It’s lightly battered and seasoned to perfection. The chicken, both white and dark meat, is moist and tender. Start off with Annette’s fried onion rings, then go straight into the fried chicken, and your stomach will thank you. Seriously. I know, I know –we’re not supposed to eat “fried” anything – the cholesterol arguments are raging – but once in a while, when you sit down at the Alligator River Marina restaurant, you owe it to your taste buds to order and enjoy the fried chicken.  It is even worth overcoming your fear of alligators to treat yourself to this gustatory delight.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO: SHOULD WE GO, OR SHOULD WE STAY?

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO: SHOULD WE GO, OR SHOULD WE STAY?

Well, here we were at Rebel Marine in Norfolk, having arrived on a smooth mirror of water under a brilliant sun. The next morning, the mirror was broken into lots of choppy waves and the sky was red. “Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning.” Should we go, or should we stay? Severe thunderstorms were predicted for the afternoon – was that 12:01 p.m.? or 5:01 p.m.? That’s right, meteorologists don’t have to be precise, or even accurate, to keep their jobs. So at 7:00 a.m. we decided to decide at 8:00 a.m. And at 8:00 a.m. we were heading out of Willoughby Spit into the great unknown weather patterns – we were told to expect a lot of wind and a lot of rain sometime today. The forecast for Tuesday was a whole lot of wind – very scientific. So we picked the devil we thought we knew, because our experience heading north instructed us that it can only get worse.

Add to the weather uncertainty the crazy quilt opening times of the GILMERTON BRIDGE, THE STEEL BRIDGE, THE GREAT BRIDGE LOCK AND THE GREAT BRIDGE, not to mention the suddenly unpredictable railroad bridges that open and close by remote control on a whim or if a train is coming. The GILMERTON BRIDGE is a very low, old bridge that is being replaced in this century, perhaps even before October next year. In the meantime, boaters are at the mercy of the bridgemaster. Today she was merciful.  We only had a 10 minute wait, and there were only 4 other boats waiting with us. A few days ago, Michael reported to Jake that 29 boats had lined up to go through Gilmerton – what a logjam! So our five boat armada was nothing.  Once through Gilmerton, it was on to the Steel Bridge 3 miles away. Gilmerton opens every hour between 9:30 and 3:30 on the half hour. And the Steel Bridge opens on the hour. So you have to go a certain speed – slow – to get to the Steel Bridge 3 miles and 30 minutes away. The motor cat in front of us was like one of those cars which always zooms past you in the slow lane to get to the next red light ahead of you – so he/she can wait longer at the red light ostensibly. So Motor Cat charged off down the Elizabeth River to get to the Steel Bridge before us, and he/she was – surprise! – cooling his cat heels, when we approached.

Steel Bridge – again no problem. What were we worried about? Perhaps getting to the Great Bridge Lock, 2.5 miles away, and trying to figure out which side of the lock we wanted to tie up on. Did we need fenders, didn’t we? Decisions, decisions. And I bet you thought cruising was so easy: just put the boat on autopilot and read a book. Nosirree. The Admiral is always thinking, always planning for the next part of the journey. We had to go even slower to get to the Lock, which opens on the half hour. Naturally Cat Man/Cat Woman, charged ahead again, but he was slowed down by a tiny motor boat from Vermont that filled the narrow cut we entered a little before the Lock. The Lock is tricky, but very cool. Especially tricky today, as the Lock lady passed out Halloween trick or treat candy (yum). Vermont and Cat Man/Woman tied up on one side of the Lock, so we naturally tied up on the other, where we had to use our own fenders. The change in water level was slight today, just about ½ foot, according to our trick or treater. When we went through the Lock, heading north the change in the level was two feet. You don’t actually “tie up” in the lock; you give a bow line and a stern line to the Lock lady and she puts it around a cement post, and you hold on to the end and keep your boat next to the Lock wall. Then they raise or lower the water, as needed, and after that’s done, they open the gate at the opposite end to let you out. You feel like you’re in a big swimming pool when the gates at both ends are closed. I don’t know who invented locks, but they are neat, even if the water level change is only ½ foot.

I don’t suppose that Great Bridge Lock provides much preparation for the locks on the Panama Canal, or even the Erie Canal, but the principle is the same, even though the procedures for getting through those waterways must be far more complex. Imagine looking over and seeing an ocean liner or a commercial container ship across the way in the same lock with you. That would be eerie – or Panama – okay, one pun every 30 blogs is not too much to stomach.

One glitsch while we waited in the Lock. A sailor radioed that he was just 8/10 of a mile away, would the Lockmaster be so kind as to keep the Lock gate open for 10 minutes until his arrival? And this Lockmaster was. Hey, nobody asked us if it was okay to wait for this slacker. Okay, okay, that’s not the etiquette of boater friendliness we have been learning.  However, can everybody just be on time? All these schedules are posted everywhere. Even the Lockmaster got a little testy with the last minute request, pointing out that the sailor didn’t look like he was even trying to move fast. Still, we waited. And we’re better people for it. Not!

Fortunately, the Great Bridge waited for us, as we waited for the slowpoke sailor. And right beyond the Great Bridge is our marina in the tall pines, the Atlantic Yacht Basin, with the best little marine store this side of Ft. Lauderdale West Marine. The Admiral has hidden my credit cards, so I cannot buy any more specialized boat cleaners. Probably a good idea – there’s no more room in storage for cleaners. Right now the Admiral is cleaning the bird poop off the isinglass in the front of the flying bridge. See? I don’t have all the scullery work. When there’s a chance I might scratch the isinglass, the Admiral eliminates the risk by rising to the task. On the one hand, I wish I weren’t so klutzy (or perceived as klutzy). On the other hand, the Admiral cleaning bird poop? Priceless.

This marina has a long face dock, which is fixed, not floating. Since there is no noticeable tide, there is no need for a floating dock. There is a huge boatyard off the face dock, where lots of boats are stored and others are being repaired. But the transients, like us, pull up along the face dock, pretty boats all in a row. What’s a face dock? It’s a long dock, where you can “parallel park”, if you will, one boat in front of the other. I used to call it a “dock face”, but I’m learning these terms – partly through usage, and partly through embarrassment at saying the wrong term.

OMG – the Admiral is on a cleaning binge! I’ve got to check this out. And he says I’m OCD. One of the benefits of cruising for a half day instead of a full day is that you have time to do boat maintenance – or write a blog chapter. Will the Admiral get all the dirt off the canvas covering the forward windows? I’ll let you know in the next blog. Stay well, eat healthy, and don’t go out in thunderstorms.

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE: A DAY ON THE BAY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE: A DAY ON THE BAY

Today we tried our luck with the weather and the winds. We untied Slow Motion at our dock at the Calvert Marina in Solomons and headed out the Back Creek and Patuxent River to the Chesapeake Bay. Some friends – Jake and Nancy – waved goodbye. Jake is a Cardinals fan, so I haven’t heard the last from her. Oh please, dear Giants, don’t lose the first two NLCS games to the Cards. But the news of the day is that we’re on the move again! We’re heading south. This morning we were behind a veritable flotilla of sailboats heading in the same direction. We took the “Slow” out of Slow Motion and got her up to 14 miles per hour, and we motored past all the sailboats on the horizon. As it turned out, that was a good move. We eased into the dock at Dozier’s in Deltaville, Virginia at 3:40 p.m. Thereafter, 3 or 4 sailboats and a 55 foot power boat arrived at the same marina looking for space on the face dock. We had the prime spot at the end of the dock, easy on, easy off. And we were already dining on a fresh pot of beef barley soup on our sundeck when the other boats staggered in. The Admiral helped with the lines for the latecomers. That’s what boaters do. And we always get help in return. It shows that we are all interdependent, to an extent, and no matter what your station in life or the size of your boat or the number of new radar gadgets you have – or even what your politics are – you get help from other boaters wherever you go. That’s one of the finest attributes of the boating community.

Dozier’s has one of the best bathrooms and showers on the Eastern seaboard, so yes, within 30 minutes of docking, you know where I was. Hot, hot water – aah! And clean hair. The temperature was in the 60’s, with little or NO humidity. My days of sticky hair appear to be over for the year. Of course, the day wasn’t perfect. We started out with our warmest hooded sweatshirts with jackets over them in 40 degree weather, with a fairly strong wind whipping across the bow – nearly lost my Boat US cap. But as the morning progressed, a remarkable thing happened. The wind died down, the sun warmed the flying bridge and the 2-3 foot waves in the Bay smoothed out to zero. That’s right, a smooth, glass-like surface in every direction on the Chesapeake Bay from about 11 a.m. until we docked. It was such a treat to be motoring along with no bumpiness, getting warmer and warmer, enjoying the occasional pelican, reading a great book that Mary Jane gave me for my birthday (The Impeachment of Lincoln), and trusting in the Admiral to get us to our destination.

We had a wonderful time in Solomons, Maryland from August 23 to October 13. You can read about it in the blogs just before this one. But what a feeling comes over me, when we’re cruising along in Slow Motion, a feeling of adventure, freedom, anticipation – it’s very different from air travel (pain in the ass plane connections) or car travel (dealing with not a few a-holes on the road) or even rail travel (although the CP railroad trip across Canada was cool). You have a set course, but no particular lanes or deadlines. The Admiral knows what he’s doing, so there is no worry on my part about going off course. Watching the boat cut through the waves and leaving a wake behind is one of my favorite pastimes. Looking for crab pot markers can be a bit tiresome, but hey, the life of the Chesapeake Bay waterman is still pretty exotic stuff to me. I know there are fewer crabs in the Bay and fewer fish too, because somebody at some point took too many of the various species. But the waterman is not going to jeopardize his/her livelihood, and the environmentalists are looking over his/her shoulder to make sure that there will be crabs and fish and oysters and shrimp for future generations. May I just say, the Chesapeake Bay is the most amazing body of water I have ever had the pleasure of cruising on. Now, if we leave Dozier’s and get hit with chest high waves and 20 knot winds tomorrow, I may find a new favorite body of water. But for now, Chesapeake Bay, you’re number one!

Go Giants!

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTY: FOOD, CLOTHING, SHELTER

Food, clothing, shelter – what could be more basic? I had a friend named Susan, a writer, who had written a short story about ham and cheese sandwiches as the food of choice for a particular romantic liaison. This story was in “Bitches and Sad Ladies”, a compendium of short stories that I recommend to everyone. One time, Susan and I drove to and from my cabin in Vermont (in another life), and all the way up and back (4 hours total) we recalled moments in our past based on what foods we had eaten, or what clothing we had worn, or what kind of place we lived in. These sensory memories were so vivid. To this day, I remember people and places by what I ate, wore or where I stayed. I may not remember your name, but I remember what we ate, or what we wore. Other people can evoke whole events with the lyrics of a popular song of the time. The Admiral can do that, and he remembers the lyrics to every doo-wop song ever written.

So this time I’m writing about what I ate recently, what I wore recently and where I recently stayed, as I continued taking excursions on land, while Slow Motion remained tied up at Calvert Marina in Solomons on the Chesapeake Bay.

Food, glorious food! The reunion with my girlfriends at the Inn at Mitchell House, near Chestertown, was a gastronomical extravaganza. Let’s start with the perfectly crisp, golden brown French toast that Tracy, our innkeeper, prepared for our first breakfast, followed by the light, savory frittata she served the second morning of our brief stay. Especially after a brisk hour long walk, this breakfast fare was hearty, but not unhealthy. On our happily fully stomachs, we drove to Crumpton, where acres of things – furniture, paintings, linens, jewelry, farm tools – are auctioned off at a pace as fast as the front runner in the Kentucky Derby. The auctioneer careens down a field in a vehicle sort of like a golf cart, as he jabbers about each auction piece in sales-speak, making up filler words. “What am I bid, inevitable, for this, inevitable, bed frame? Inevitable, 40, inevitable, 50, can I get, inevitable, 60?” That’s what it sounded like, if you slur those words together and spit them out at 10 words a second.

Well, after trudging up and down the field of auction items about ten times, following the pied piper with the silver tonsils, we got a little bit hungry. One of the other attractions at Crumpton is the Amish concession stand, which runs the whole length of the large building full of auction items. Talk about comfort food. Yes, they had wet bottom shoe fly pie. But it was the fresh from the oven soft pretzels, dipped in mustard, which took your breath away. And then they had smoothies and “frappes” in exotic flavors (mocha caramel). They made crispy potato chips, low salt. Most of the bakers and cooks were in their teens – the next generation of Amish is in good hands, at least in the culinary arts. We completely lost interest in the auction going on inside the building, as we kept running back to the Amish stands for just one more snack. Yes, that was lunch – maybe not the most nutritious, but one of the most delicious.

The Bethlehem Babes (that’s our name) had enjoyed fine dinners in the Chestertown area, when we previously stayed at a bed and breakfast nearby. But this time, we ventured to different restaurants, upon the recommendation of our innkeeper, and the meals were outstanding. The first night at Brook’s Tavern, we had the home made pasta special with crab and mushrooms and garlic – and one other ingredient, probably ambrosia – no sauce, except for what was distilled from the ingredients. Carol V. had stuffed trout, which was one of the best meals of her life, she said. I firmly believe that the quality of food enhanced the quality of our discussions, although with this group of super-intelligent, extremely well-educated women, we can plumb the depths of a subject without a heavenly repast. Still, when great food and great conversation occur at the same time in the same place – ooh la la!

Which brings me back to the start of our two day discussion of the state of feminism and why so many women still do not speak up for themselves or speak up for other women in need of their support. This discussion began with our wine and cheese and chocolate chip cookies on the lawn, then moved inside to the drawing room, where all manner of snacks were introduced. But as we got more animated in stating our opinions, backed up by solid facts as well as personal experiences, the food took a back seat to our Important Thoughts. And I really mean that. Each of us in the group has been subjected to gender discrimination at some point in our lives. We all worked, and when we started working, women made 54 cents for every dollar earned by men. We’ve made progress in this area of discrimination – now women earn 74 cents for every dollar earned by men. Some of us have fought long and hard for women’s right to privacy, including the pivotal rights to reproductive freedom, to accessible contraception, and to keep the government out or our bedrooms. We lived through the tragedies of women dying at their own hands holding coat hangers or at the hands of illegal abortionists, and we said “No More! Not on our Watch!” If you ever wonder why a person would vote for a candidate because of his/her position on one issue – freedom of choice – think about women dying in alleys, in seedy hotel rooms, in faraway places, just trying to assert their right to control over their own bodies.  If you don’t have that right, you really don’t have anything. And Justice Antonin Scalia doesn’t get it, never will. Think about who you want to be the next president – one who appoints someone hell bent on taking your fundamental right away by overturning Roe v. Wade? Or one who appoints someone who respects women enough to know that we can and will make our own rational decisions about reproduction, contraception and abortion. And if you’re not going to have any more children, for God’s sake, think about the rights of your sisters, daughters and granddaughters. It’s not the economy, stupid. It’s our bodies we are fighting to keep and protect.

As I write this Blog, I have been served SOS, and omg, it’s divine. The Admiral has many talents besides piloting a fifty foot long motor vessel. One of them is maker and purveyor of fine meals – breakfast, lunch and dinner. He makes SOS with chipped beef or ground beef. This one was with chipped beef. The over easy egg on top was prepared to perfection, just the least bit runny to join the beef gravy on top of the crisp white toast. A belly warming meal on a dreary, rainy Sunday night. And the beefy smell fills the salon. When friends meet the Admiral and experience some of his obvious attributes – humor, wit, good listening skills – then I mention his meat loaf or stir fry, and they say “He cooks too?” This is said with just the slightest bit of envy, I believe.

Back to the smells and sights of the reunion. The second night we went to Baywolf, an Austrian owned restaurant in Rock Hall, located inside a former church – stained windows and all. This was predestined, as we had been talking the day before about the absurdity of requiring all high school students in our time to read Beowulf in Old English. The restaurant name is derived from taking the “wolf” from the owner’s first name, Wolfgang, and the “bay” from the Chesapeake. Some other time, we have to go back and enjoy their Austrian veal dishes and roasts. But on this occasion, it was “all you can eat shrimp”night, AND Wolfgang had just caught some rockfish the day before. So 4 of us had the luscious shrimp prepared 3 ways – steamed with old bay seasoning, stuffed with horseradish and wrapped in bacon, and splayed and fried and dipped in tartar sauce. The plumpest shrimp in the universe. This is not an exaggeration. They were served with a side of ratatouille. And they served 3 of each for starters. For me, that was also the end. So much for “all you can eat”. But we ordered more for those who had ordered the fresh rockfish. According to them, the rockfish was the best they had ever eaten. Add to these culinary delights the conversation that just kept flowing – it was a night for the ages. We all grew up together, so in between our heated political discourses, we played “where are they now?” about high school friends. And we remembered eighth grade English with Ms. Aldrich of the two dresses – one green and one blue, with matching belts that she daringly switched from dress to dress. So it’s like she had a wardrobe of 4 dresses, instead of 2.

This brings me to clothes. There are always great little clothes shops and jewelry stores wherever we hold reunion. We make no trips to big box stores. The locals get our business.  One year, at St. Michael’s, it was the most amazing blue stone ring that Carol V. scored. This year, it was the perfect weight of sweater for end of summer, start of fall, which Pat discovered in Chestertown. And we have changed sizes since our first reunion, some dramatically. Marlea used to hate to shop for clothes. Now that she’s a size 8, she will go into any clothing store and try on the 8’s, without too much encouragement by the rest of us. Last year, when I sadly could not attend, I missed the solo fashion show she put on for Pat and Mary Jane. Carol G. always wears the most amazing shades of turquoise blue. And Carol V. finds one of a kind shorts, tops, slacks, jewelry that we all salivate over. Of course, she’s petite and we’re not. I’m not a clothes shopper for the most part – and now that I’m a boat person with two shorts, two slacks, 4 tops, 4 shirts, even less so. But shopping for someone else, like my sister, can get my juices flowing. This year I found a royal blue pashmina for her that was cashmere soft – a little something to help celebrate her 50^th wedding (elopement) anniversary.

Shelter: You know about Slow Motion’s length of 50 feet. Did you know we have 3 staterooms, one with a king size bed, one with a queen size bed and one with bunk beds? We have two bathrooms. We have a salon (where I sit on the leather couch writing this blog), a galley, an enclosed sundeck and a flying bridge. We also have a cockpit and a swimboard. But the numbers don’t convey how homey Slow Motion has become. We bought a new rug for the salon – Persian style. And we got rid of some depressing old black and gray sundeck furniture, replacing it with sunny green and white chairs and a eucalyptus table that seats 4 and folds up. Sometimes the Admiral calls Slow Motion the “old tub”, but she’s not. She’s home. However, recently I found out that I am not comfortable here by myself – no locks on anything, no easy escape from my stateroom. The Admiral was gone for a few days, and I heard every little sound in the boat shed (we moved here to allow Kadey Krogens to stuff the marina for a half week). I could not sleep either night I was alone. This, after so many years of living alone in a house at the end of a deadend road, which has no protection against home invasion. But I had a dog, you see, so I was never really alone. So I have learned that my home is Slow Motion plus the Admiral on board.

For our reunion this year we stayed at a pre-revolutionary mansion. The foyer was filled with stuffed birds, including two huge swans caught in North Carolina. The kitchen had big heads (and half bodies) of elk and deer or moose. The drawing room, where we gathered after each dinner, had stink bugs flitting about on the ceiling and diving down to terrorize us. The stink bugs didn’t gather (or we didn’t notice them) until 10 o’clock one night. The night before we carried on our plans for gender equality until 11:30 p.m., without stink bug interference. But the second night, they showed up and drove us to an early end of discussion. Shelter, wherever you find it, should not include stink bugs. Or stuffed birds or deer, elk or moose, for that matter. Catch and release. Say it ten times – catch and release. As to deer, elk and moose, shoot them with a camera with a zoom lens. Photos show their beauty in a way that taxidermists can never capture it.

Food, clothing, shelter at the 50^th anniversary of my sister’s elopement, October 5: A week after the reunion where we renewed our Feminist Manifesto, the Admiral and I went to Chadds Ford to celebrate the 50^th wedding anniversary of Sue and Butch. As to shelter, we stayed at a serviceable Hampton Inn, which must have imported busloads of people from the area to crowd the breakfast room each morning. It didn’t seem like many people were staying at the motel. Yet, there were hordes swarming all over the one waffle iron and the covered egg serving dish. Sue and Butch and Dwight and Brett brought pizzas for dinner our first night. We had the “breakfast” room to ourselves for most of the evening. Some unfortunate people came into the room, two women and a child, and it looked like one was interviewing the other, as several of the grandchildren – the little boys, of course -- were screaming and racing from breakfast room to lobby and back. The adults gained control at one point, and we finished our pizzas in relative peace and quiet, as the louder kids went to the pool to swim. The Admiral had wanted to go to Romano’s, his favorite tomato pie, Stromboli and cheese steak joint in Essington, but that will have to wait until the next visit. This was a family weekend, and I had the chance to meet two grandnephews I had never seen, hug my DK, marvel at the height and beauty of Elena and Anastasia, and re-connect with Tanya, Dwight and David and their partners.

The next day Sue’s “bridesmaids” – she didn’t have any when she eloped October 6, 1962 – took her for a manicure and pedicure. She had a hair appointment to poof up her hair. And we treated her to lunch at one of her favorite restaurants, P. F. Chang’s. It was exactly what we would have done for Sue fifty years ago the day before her wedding – it was still fresh and exciting fifty years later. The bridemaids were me (her sister), Tanya (her daughter), Elena (her granddaughter), and Brett (her daughter-in-law). We shared a big bowl of wonton soup at Chang’s and Sue had honey shrimp. The waiter pushed Pad Thai hard, and Tanya enjoyed the special. Brett had Kung Pao, Elena had chicken fried rice and I had honey chicken. This was my second meal of the day, as I had blasted my way through the breakfast crowds to get a full sausage and eggs and bagel breakfast. As we left Chang’s, I noticed on Brett’s car the letters “OTP”. I asked her what they meant. And she said, “Ann, you know I’m Republican. That stands for One Term President.” Ouch. Just one week away from my reunion of women warriors, I find women in my own family who apparently have more pressing issues than protecting their right to privacy. Because Republicans, as a whole, and their current candidates in particular, are trying to get rid of Roe v. Wade and all the progress we made – at great sacrifice – for our generation of women and the generations after us. I was bummed out, the pleasant meal at PF Chang notwithstanding.

However, nothing raises my spirits more than a talk with my BFF, Janie, who reminded me that this weekend was devoted to a joyous celebration, not political discourse, and in the words of my dog’s trainer, I should “leave it”. Reluctantly, with control over my body in the balance, I “left it” and returned to preparation for the 50^th anniversary party at Dilworthtown Inn. This meant an emergency trip, through snarled lines of rush hour traffic on Route 202, to Macy’s, gripping my gift card from Sondra in my right fist. I had no shoes for the night, save the Sperry Topsiders and the flipflops I had been wearing on the boat. I had fifteen minutes max to find a pair of black heels and return to the maelstrom on the streets. I had promised the Admiral I would be back in an hour. The Shoe Department at Macy’s was a disaster, with women everywhere demanding more styles and other women waiting to pay – and one beleaguered shoe salesman in the middle. Help arrived with a woman and a walkie talkie, who was calling on all un-busy sales people to run to the Shoe Department to bail the guy out. Somehow I got his attention, he found a pair of black shoes (on sale), I tried one on, and he ignored the demands of about 10 other women and rang me up. I had suggested that I could go elsewhere to pay, and he said “oh no you don’t; I work on commission.” For the fashion conscious: these were 3 inch platform black patent leather pumps with open toe and sling backs, size 9 and ½. Comfortable enough, as the President would say.

Back to the motel room by 5 p.m. The gala began at 6. We were just 2 miles away. I put on the one dress I had brought on our boat adventure, a long black, sleeveless number, with slits on both sides and a burnt orange pattern of flowers and wave stripes forming the bottom border, with a few sequins here and there. I felt sort of glamorous in it and my new patent pumps, so I turned to the Admiral for inspection and comments. He said: “That dress looks like a sofa.” Glamor gone in two seconds. As I looked crestfallen, he noted that his “feng shui” made him say that. To a certain extent, he was correct, the dress had a design on it consistent with some upper scale sofa material. But that ignored the total appearance of the dress on ME, which he admitted was rather pleasing. The Admiral had pulled out a completely unwrinkled blue Oxford cloth shirt and a navy blazer to go with his khakis and preppy loafers. How does he do it? From boat bum to Ralph Lauren pinup in 5 minutes.

Did I mention that I had chosen a bronze nail polish for my fingernails and toenails, which absolutely matched the bronze/burnt orange in my dress? That’s why I needed the peep toe shoes (on sale). I felt great, and I knew that my sofa dress was perfect for the occasion. So off we went to celebrate Sue and Butch’s night.

The “shelter” for the party was a pre-revolutionary innkeeper’s house, directly across from the Dilworthtown Inn. We had the entire place to ourselves. There were about 30 of us, all eager to make this night memorable for Sue and Butch. Turned out they made the night memorable for us. Butch composed a little ditty about his first glance of Sue at a school dance wearing a tight black pencil skirt, his first dance with her (“here he comes; here he comes!”), and his falling in love with her at first sight. He was charming, endearing and amazing – hard to believe that four days before he had an operation to patch an aneurysm in his head. Sue was dazzling in her jewelry, some of which she had co-designed with a native American jeweler (that necklace is to die for!). She expressed her love for Butch, her soulmate, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place (except for maybe one brain dead waitperson). Their smiles told the whole story. They both glowed with their love for one another. They beamed! It was a wonderful sight to behold. Everyone in the room wanted some of what they have.

 

Other family members and friends gave testimonials to Sue and Butch. My brother, Rusty, described his little brother/big brother relationship with Butch, who taught him how to build and blow up airplanes, drove him up to the Poconos at 55 mph on the back of his Vespa, and introduced him to the marvels of chemistry through basement explosions. Mary Jane told us how she had awakened one morning in her house, as a teenager, and walked down the hallway, looked in her brother’s room and saw Sue and Butch sleeping in the same bed! Shocked, she ran downstairs to report this original sin, only to be let in on the secret that Sue and Butch were married. In those days, no sex before marriage, but after marriage, when you had the license from South Carolina to prove it, even your parents couldn’t stop you from canoodling in the upstairs bedroom.

We had a grand old time. We all sang some lyrics I had written to the tune of America the Beautiful (Oh Sue and Butch, Butch and Sue, God shed her grace on thee; Your love endures for fifty years, for it was meant to be.) Maybe I had written a few too many verses, but by the end everyone knew the refrain and lustily joined in to “bring it home”. The Admiral said he was ready with the hook, if I had any idea of singing more verses. We partied like it was 1962, when gas was only 20 cents a gallon. Then we went into the dining room for the most amazing meal. After the fresh salad of mixed greens, we all received perfectly grilled filet mignon, green beans and the crabbiest of crab cakes ever produced in any kitchen anywhere. All killer, no filler, crab cakes, lightly and even browned all around. The Admiral was impressed, and as you know, it takes a lot to get his stamp of approval when it comes to restaurant fare. I loved the food, but my stomach was still full of breakfast and PF Chang’s, so when the waiter came to take my plate, it still had some of the crab cake on it. He whisked it away, and THEN the Admiral said “I wanted to eat the rest of your crab cake.” Within 5 minutes of that plaintive regret, the waiter showed up with a complete crab cake, and with a flourish, placed it down in front of the Admiral. He was unfazed, as this is apparently the treatment that Admirals get used to.  

Boat bedtime is usually before 9 p.m., and we left the golden aura of Sue and Butch’s party at 9:30 p.m. – it was still going on, with people hugging and laughing and enjoying moments from then and now. But we boat people are in a different time zone all together. So back to our room to change out of Cinderella’s sofa dress and the Admiral’s gala gear. Too tired to even tackle a New York Times crossword puzzle, we crashed until morning, late morning for us. We made it to a few minutes of breakfast and goodbyes, then headed home to Slow Motion, our tried and true shelter from the storm. Back to boat clothes, back to meals whipped up in the galley, back to our crossword puzzles and our bed. Back to our future of boating adventures, as we prepare to head south for the next few months.