CHAPTER FORTY TWO: HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN

CHAPTER FORTY TWO: HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN

It’s cyber Monday, a term coined by advertisers to get us to buy billions of dollars of junk on line after gorging ourselves at retail outlets on Black Friday. What a country! I have not done my part on either day, not having gone to a single store on Friday and not having made a single purchase on line today. Take away my citizenship, if you must, but hasn’t the whole retail world joined Macy’s in having a sale every damned day of the year? Why is one day more “special” than the next? I figure if I wait long enough, the etailers will be paying ME to take their junk off their cyber hands. And I’ll hold out for a hefty sum.

Let’s see, this is a Blog about our travels in Slow Motion. So I will report that today the Admiral and I took Slow Motion from the dock where we have been tied since early November to a nearby dock at the same marina to “pump out” our onboard septic system. It was great moving on the water, if only for a few minutes. We still had to do the undocking and the tying up at the pump out dock, then the undocking there and the tying up back on the T-head we call home at the Ashley Marina in Charleston. We were expecting that the engine repair person would be working on the engines all day, but for reasons grounded in incompetence, he was not able to do the work, so immediately our thoughts turned to sewage. And there was no current today, which was a small miracle. So the engine repair has been postponed, but we can use our heads again without fear of overflow.

About the engine repairs, most of what the Admiral has decided to do is preventive work, putting in new hoses and clamps to replace the original ones that have been there since 1994. He gave a list of serial numbers to the engine repairman to order the parts. The engine repairman apparently gave the list to his parts manager at the Charleston Boatworks, a callow fellow who sent in an order for something – not what we needed for the most part. So when the repairman showed up this morning and opened the boxes of parts, it was like Christmas. Everything was a surprise, or didn’t fit, or was intended for another type of engine, and those parts that actually would work with our Cummins engines were too few. Somehow parts were ordered for only one of the two diesel engines. It would have been a comical scene, watching the repairman try to fit the various parts to our engines – picture the Three Stooges working in a widget factory. But these were our engines. They need their new hoses before we leave next week, and this was not acceptable. So we have provided the correct serial numbers, again, for the correct parts, again, and the Cummins parts dealer has sent the Boatworks parts manager 6 pages of diagrams of the Cummins diesel engine that we have, and the parts we need for it. Tomorrow, or the next day, we try again. We have “re-gifted” most of the previously ordered parts back to the parts manager to find a good home for them – on a boat with an engine where they can actually be used.  Does this type of thing happen in Japan? In China? In Germany? Just asking. Once, just once, we would like our boat service people to get it right the first time. Slow Motion deserves the best, and so do we.

Today was our first day out of the “Red Eye Fog”. We took a “red eye” flight from San Francisco to Atlanta, leaving at midnight and arriving at 7:15 a.m., then waited to take a 9:15 flight to Charleston. I don’t remember most of that day, especially once we touched down in Charleston. We got back to Slow Motion on Saturday in the late morning, and other than knowing that Penn State won (Yay!) and Notre Dame won (Boo!), Saturday has no meaning for me. Then yesterday, after trying to play catch up on Saturday, we found ourselves wide awake at 10:30 p.m., each doing “important” things on our iphones, wondering if we could ever get into a normal sleep pattern again. The Admiral did not get to sleep until 4 a.m. I think I nodded off before that, but at 7:30 a.m., a half hour before the boat repairman was supposed to arrive, there was no more sleep for the weary.

Yesterday we did take walk for a couple miles in hopes that the exercise would help us get to sleep, but to no avail. Today, I walked and rode my bike. It’s 7:45 p.m. as I write this Blog, and I think that tonight is the night to return to normalcy. I’ve got PBS on, and some fiddlers are singing Silent Night – OMG, it’s the Christmas season on November 26. While it’s true that I like to celebrate my birthday for the whole month of September, I have never tried to push the celebration into August. Christ, can you just wait your turn? So much for a return to normalcy.

If you’re wondering, our trip back to Salinas was well worth the airline delays and mishaps we suffered heading west on Delta. Zorro! He was wonderful – understanding, loving, reserved (sort of), forgiving – and he had put on just one extra pound and was full of energy for our hikes in the park. Ruby was very cool too. I’m happy for both of them. They are a great couple. I realize that Ruby is now number one in Zorro’s life, but I’m still in his inner circle. And that’s good enough. In addition to the reunion with Zorro, the Admiral and I got together with our neighbors at Brenda’s and Royal’s on Sunday night. What a lovely evening. The Admiral made his famous pulled pork, and Olivia made carmelitas and the neighbors brought delicious dishes from bacon wrapped shrimp to broccoli salad and everything in between. We ate, we talked about the new developments on Harper Canyon, we laughed, we cheered (Olivia is MVP of the water polo team this year! Bill was inducted into the Tennis Coaches Hall of Fame! Hurrah!), we ate some more, and we shared the warmth of our friendships.

The rest of the week, the Admiral continued on his cooking tear. He found a rib roast at Costco and made an excellent dinner of Roast Beef, Mashed Potatoes and Artichokes. That dinner will long be remembered at 84 Harper Canyon Road as one of the best all time dinners prepared for no special occasion. The rib roast and the pulled pork were preceded by the Admiral’s meat loaves, which awaited the Moore/Calkins family upon their arrival on Friday night. Since there were three meat loaves, this meant meat loaf sandwiches for the entire time we were home.

And we spent all but two nights at our home at 75 Harper Canyon Road, thanks to the generosity of our renters, the Pattersons. It felt weird at first, same home, but different furniture and décor. We didn’t bring Zorro back – he has too much loose fur, and we didn’t want to upset the balance he has in his life with Ruby at her house. So we were home, but he wasn’t with us. A couple times when we returned from our hikes in the park, Zorro went past 84 Harper Canyon and ended up in front of the front door at 75 Harper Canyon, waiting for me to let him in. It didn’t break my heart to re-direct him, but it was a little bit heart-tugging. And leaving him on Friday afternoon was hard on me. He’s fine, and that’s what counts.

Besides our amazing Harper Canyon neighbors, I visited with Marie and Chris and Alan and Louisa and Olivia, Abigail, Michayla and Ben. I also fit in 6 different doctor appointments, a salon appointment with Tonie and a massage with Tammy (that felt really, really good). All in all, it was a successful trip home. But then when we boarded our flight in San Francisco to return to Slow Motion, that too felt like a trip home. So the Admiral and I are officially bi-coastal. We have two homes, one with Zorro, where I pay taxes and vote, and one that takes me to places I have never been before and keeps me warm and dry, no matter what tropical storms cross our path. If you had asked me a few years ago when I was going to leave the DA’s Office and what I was going to do in retirement, I would have told you that I had no plans to leave the DA’s Office and no desire to retire. Then the Admiral re-entered my life and suggested that I could have a full, exciting life doing something other than prosecuting murderers, rapists and child molesters. Who knew? He was right, of course (thank God), and here I am traveling up and down the East Coast in a boat (!), blogging about it, and experiencing something new every day. I don’t consider this “retirement”. This is just the next phase of my life. So if you’re afraid to give up your day job because you have no idea how you would fill those hours, think about changing your life completely and doing something you may have only dreamed about. Re-invent yourself. Take a big gamble. Maintain some stability – keep your home – but get the heck out of Dodge and see the world! That’s my humble opinion. I know it worked for my sister and her husband, as they traveled around America for 2 to 3 years before settling down 3000 miles away from their Pennsylvania homestead. And so far, it’s working for me.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE: CAN YOU GO HOME AGAIN?

CHAPTER FORTY ONE: CAN YOU GO HOME AGAIN?

On the eve of our flight back to California, I feel more than a little trepidation.  What’s the transition from boat person to land lubber? I know the first few days I’ll be gripping the shower floor with my toes, still feeling a gentle rocking back and forth. But getting used to being on solid earth is the least of my concerns. And how solid is the earth in northern California anyway? Ever hear of Loma Prieta? No, it’s not the potential for earthquakes that gives me pause. It’s something much more personal. Will my dog, Zorro, recognize me? Will he be happy to see me? Even if there is an initial show of recognition and joy, will he later show resentment for my “abandoning” him?  Alan says that resentment is a human reaction, and fortunately dogs don’t harbor resentment. But they do know how to make you feel very guilty, I’m sure of that. Actually, I’m equally concerned that he is so happy living with Ruby and her family, he will be indifferent to my arrival. Or maybe he will intuit that this is just a visit and he will protect himself from a second “abandonment” by not getting too close. That’s way too anthropomorphic, even for a very smart dog like Zorro. Let’s keep it simple – I will be overjoyed to see Zorro, and he in turn will be happy to see me, so long as my presence involves long hikes and a few treats.

For the past few days the weather in Charleston has been rainy, windy and cold. That’s what is also predicted for Salinas from Friday through Monday of next week. So it’s time to turn on the internal sunshine. The Admiral suggested we race to a tanning salon today, so that our neighbors can see how brown we were during the summer months. We’re fading, it’s true, but that will make my dermatologist happy.  And if I never have to do another M.O.H.S. surgery again, it will make me very happy.

But, hey, you ask, what happened to your plan to enjoy the culture and cuisine of Charleston? We are doing that in fits and spurts. We’re docked at the Harborage at Ashley Marina. They have a courtesy van that takes you into Charleston. I also have a bike that gets me there. So far, I’ve ridden my bike into Charleston twice, once to mail bill payments at the main post office downtown and once to pick up a timer at CVS Pharmacy. Between the first and second time I bought a bike helmet and a rear view mirror. This is not a bike friendly city. That is an understatement. When I can get away with riding on the sidewalks, I do that, so that big trucks don’t rush by with just an inch or two between me and them. Worrying about getting knocked off your bike detracts seriously from enjoying the sights Charleston has to offer. Bike lanes – what a concept! In this otherwise progressive city, the bikers apparently are not organized to get the amenities that bikers need to survive in a big city.

After my first bike ride downtown, I also rented a car for the weekend. Call me a coward, but I’m still a wobbly bike rider at best, and I don’t want to end up as just another trophy on the grill of a Lincoln Town Car or Cadillac Seville – more than likely on a humongous SUV’s grill. Have you ever noticed that there appears to be a natural dislike for bikers by drivers of SUVs? And the bigger the SUV, the greater the dislike? I don’t know why. An SUV could crush me at any time. Maybe that’s why they don’t like bikers – they know they could crush us, but they realize that crushing bikers is frowned upon in genteel society. And they have to fight with their inner beast every time they see a biker in “their” lane – I only bike where there are lots of witnesses. I think the inner beast would win out on an isolated country rode, so I’m not tempting fate on that one.

When we had the car this weekend, I drove early Saturday to the Farmer’s Market at King and Calhoun. The vegetable stands were so photogenic. In fact, there were photographers everywhere taking pictures of the miniature eggplants and other exotic farm fresh veggies. They had CORN! This was the mixed white and yellow kernel sweet corn, and it was delicious. I met a woman who makes waffles on a stick. All organic, some weird kind of flour. You can cover your waffle with powdered sugar, chocolate or maple syrup. Naturally I chose powdered sugar, so that I could walk around the open air market with white granules all over my face and on my sweatshirt. There was only one sweet grass basket vendor, as compared with dozens of them at the city market every day. The day was perfect – warm and sunny (of course, I had a car). We’re enjoying the fresh broccoli tonight in a shrimp stir fry made by the Admiral. And I’m munching on a crisp cucumber, as I write.

Other car adventures included finding vegetable flavored Crunchmaster crackers at Harris Teeter and buying all but one bag; making two or three trips to WalMart, which is miles away from here; shopping for a specific tool at Lowe’s (Note to self: Do not ask for help at Lowe’s, makes the Admiral look bad); checking out yoga salons in the downtown area; running into a Publix for old times’ sake; and dining on the water at the Chesapeake Crab House. I ordered too much to eat, because I had forgotten how filling the heavenly hush puppies were and I ordered fried green tomatoes as an appetizer. When the stuffed shrimp came, they were the only thing that was stuffed at the table. The fried green tomatoes were cooked to perfection. They were little, very green tomatoes, fried in a light batter and still juicy and flavorful. I’m sure the bacon wrapped shrimp, stuffed with crab meat, would have been wonderful on any other occasion, but most of the dish went back to Slow Motion with us, where the Admiral did me the huge favor of eating my leftovers. The Admiral does not tolerate wasting food. If we bought it or ordered it, by God we will eat it. That’s why there is still a container of some brand of Greek yogurt in the fridge from 4 or 5 months ago. I bought it; I’m supposed to eat it. We’ll see.

On the literary side, I’ve been reading Nelson De Mille spy-action-mystery stories: Plum Island, Lion’s Game, Lion. I finished 4 or 5 Lisa Scottoline mysteries. She endorsed one of De Mille’s books with a back page quote. I finally finished Lacuna by Kingsolver and really enjoyed The Impeachment of Lincoln by Carter. The Admiral and I do our New York Times crossword puzzles, Wednesday through Sunday, going back to 2006. Wednesday’s puzzle is always an ego builder, but the ego gets torn down with every Friday or Saturday puzzle. If you want to feel really great, just do the Monday and Tuesday puzzles, but after a while they just won’t be challenging enough for you. I keep remembering Conroy’s South of Broad novel, which Kalah recommended. This morning, as the tide had risen so high it flooded the dock on the way to the parking lot and flooded several cars in the lot, I thought about Conroy’s depiction of the wrath of Hugo, when it struck Charleston with all its might. I have noticed that whenever it rains in Charleston, the streets flood. Charleston is either at sea level or below sea level, so the storm drains don’t stand a chance.

When we get back from Salinas, I will kickstart my cultural tour of Charleston, starting with the city market and going back to my favorite restaurant, Slightly North of Broad (that’s right, SNOB). But for now, I’m facing the eternal question: Can you go home again? I sure hope so, and I want so much to hold my puppy close again. We’ll be back in Charleston at the end of next week, so stay tuned. In the meantime, HAPPY THANKSGIVING! I’m thankful for everyone who reads this Blog and especially for the readers who actually give me positive feedback. I’m also very, very thankful that Barack Obama was re-elected and my right to privacy is safe, I think, for another 4 years.

CHAPTER FORTY: DELIGHTFUL DAYS AND NOISY NIGHTS

CHAPTER FORTY: DELIGHTFUL DAYS AND NOISY NIGHTS

The most thrilling part of this journey on the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW) is that each morning when you wake up, you are in for something totally new, stupendously beautiful, and knock-your-socks-off exciting. At least, that’s what you have to look forward to during the daytime hours, as you cruise south along the Carolina Coast. At this point, we’re enjoying the natural beauty of the South Carolina ICW. The birds are more plentiful – cormorants, pelicans, herons – I’ve listed them before. And they’re bigger and plumper than the North Carolina birds, like they had a much better fishing season or their water is better. The porpoises lead and follow Slow Motion through much of the day. When they appear it’s always a surprise – so we don’t have too many videos of them. They put on great shows, but if you’re not camera ready, you miss most of the fin and tail work.

On Friday after the “accident” at Myrtle Beach (39^th Blog), we cruised to our next stop at Georgetown Landing Marina along the Waccamaw River, which is in full fall foliage. The only thing that is not colorful is the Spanish moss (which, as you may recall, is neither Spanish nor moss). The Spanish moss has turned gray – that’s doing a disservice to what you actually see. It’s a very lacy gray, a hauntingly delicate gray, which makes the red and yellow leaves on the trees look even more vibrant. The Waccamaw River gives every boat a “tea moustache”, and Slow Motion still had hers from the trip north. So now she could really use a bleach job on her hull. We bought a few gallons of lemon juice, which we have been told will eliminate the moustache. During our month in Charleston we’ll have the opportunity to play with this chemistry and see if we can rid Lady Slow Motion of this manly accessory.

In the meantime, the Waccamaw is a treat that we are enjoying post-Halloween. Most of the ICW is narrow here, so you feel like you can put your arm out and a pelican will land on it, or you can shake hands/fins with a porpoise. We have been on the lookout for alligators, but despite the Admiral’s oft-repeated exclamation “Hey! Check out the alligator!”, when he points to logs in the water or on the shore, we have no confirmed alligator sightings to date (November 4). We saw alligators heading north, but I’m guessing that alligators hibernate or else they’re watching USC or Clemson football like everyone else in South Carolina (or dissecting the last game in a “study group”). The signs are still up warning us about alligators in the waters we are traveling, so I’m not about to dangle my toes from the swim board to try to prove or disprove my hibernation theory.

The weather is clearly fall, with a little bit of Indian Summer left. We started out from Myrtle Beach when the temperature was in the 30’s and we ended up 50 plus miles later in Georgetown, when the temp was in the high 60’s and we changed into shorts and flip flops when we got off the boat. Then today, we left Georgetown at 6:25 a.m., when the temps were in the 40’s (we lost an hour last night). And we arrived in Charleston some 66 miles later, where the temps were in the 70’s – again, once we tied up at the dock, clothes went flying every which way. Yes, it was a wild scene. But we stripped pretty quickly to summer wear. So even with the weather, it’s a surprise every day. Tonight, as I headed to find the bathrooms at the Harborage, I saw a little “heat” lightning in the distance. Not to worry, I thought, although thunderstorms had been predicted for this evening. Then a few drops of rain started hitting the dock and tapping me on the head and shoulders. Okay, not to panic, walk a little faster to the head. There will still be time to get back to Slow Motion before any deluge. These were my delusional thoughts. I made it to the head without being soaked. It took a while to get the combo to work (yes, 4 numbers can be very challenging). I hurried as much as I could. And when I got back outside to go back to Slow Motion (a walk across 8 different docks, connected in a maze of docks, maybe a quarter of a mile), score nature 1, Ann 0.

The thunder and lightning storm had parked itself right over my head and the rain came tumbling down, as the lightning lit my way back over the slippery docks to my shelter from the storm. I was drenched. Thank God we have a working dryer on the boat. The Admiral thought the whole scene was a hoot, as I ran in stripping the wet stuff off (we do a lot of stripping these days). He said naturally (and somewhat condescendingly): “You knew there was going to be a thunderstorm, didn’t you? You saw the lightning, heard the thunder, right?” I allowed as I had seen the lightning as I left Slow Motion – case closed for the Admiral. I’m just lucky he didn’t go into prosecution work, but not so lucky that he uses these latent, but highly effective, skills on me from time to time.

So tonight was pretty noisy for a time, what with the thunder and my wet screams. But that wasn’t our first noisy night after a serenely beautiful day (ignoring for the moment the occasional “dickhead” who tries to drown us in the wake of his testosterone driven speedboat). Oh no. Let me tell you about our noisy night at the Georgetown Landing Marina on November 3. The Admiral and I both have a sleep deficit from not getting in very many z’s last night. What happened was that a rogue boat with three rowdy young men – pirates or worse – headed for our dock around 8 p.m., when we were getting ready for bed. The Admiral went out to see what they were up to. Sometimes nefarious boaters “sneak” into a marina after hours, tie up, and leave early the next morning without paying the overnight transient fee. This appeared to be what they were doing. So the Admiral asked them what they were doing, and they quickly backed away from the dock and headed out again. Whew! We thought that was the end of it. But no! They returned to the dock, right across from us, just moments later, all three men shouting about who should do what with what lines. No one seemed to know how to dock. Whew! They won’t be able to tie up. The Admiral also told them that there was no electricity in the outlet, where they were aiming to dock. Undeterred, they bumped into the dock, and someone figured out how to tie a line to a cleat. And…welcome to the neighborhood.

Not more than 10 feet away from us three very loud men were yucking it up about something, maybe it was the booze or the weed. The Admiral asked me to call the dock master. He had obtained an after-hours number. I called and had to leave a message. The dock master called back in a few minutes and I asked him if he was expecting a late arrival, telling him also about the three knuckleheads that had just shown up and were making so much noise we couldn’t sleep. The dock master thought this was the boat that said it had needed repairs and would arrive late. He asked if I wanted him to come to the dock and tell the three guys to quiet down and/or to move to another location. There was plenty of space away from Slow Motion. I jumped on his offer, and he said he would be there shortly. I told the Admiral, who worried that the dock master would “blame” us for the noise complaint and raise the ire of the three revelers against us. So the Admiral went up to the office of the dock master to wait for him. He ran into a guy he thought was the dock master and asked if he had come to quiet the raucous, late-arriving crew. Turns out – oops – the guy he talked to was the “captain” of the pirates. They had a good laugh (heh, heh), and the captain said he knew exactly what we were talking about – one of his crew always talks really loud. The captain also said he would “take care of the problem”.

The Admiral came back to Slow Motion to report on his faux pas and his quick recovery.  He said the captain seemed reasonable. Then the dock master showed up and talked with the loud crew members for about 20 minutes. So much for getting to sleep. Turns out the dock master is himself a loud talker. After this lengthy chitchat, everyone seemed happy, including the Admiral, who returned to Slow Motion and told me we would be able to get some sleep. There would be no more loud noises.  Okay, I really wanted to believe this, and I really wanted to get some sleep, but the guys were too wired to stop partying right away. Still, I thought maybe things would die down in a half hour. The Admiral got up sometime later to use the head and came back to report: “OMG, they just welcomed 3 floozies on board!” Great. For the rest of the night, I tossed and turned, put my pillow over my ears, tried not to picture three floozies and three pirates ten feet away from me doing what floozies and pirates do. Nothing worked. It’s not that they were really noisy. It was just the anticipation that they could be really noisy, like when they first showed up, that ruined any chance of restful repose.

So as soon as we could get our tired bones out of bed this morning, at 6:25 a.m. (7:25 a.m. until today) we got the heck out of the Georgetown Landing Marina and cruised into another day of wonder and beauty on the ICW. More majestic birds, more playful porpoises, more lacy Spanish moss, more glass like water, more reeds and sweet grasses sharing the coastline with cypress trees and other firs. Even on little or no sleep, we fully appreciated these gems of the ICW. As we know, travel can be very enlightening, but sometimes, like today, it was enough that our travel down the Waccamaw River was extremely soothing for all of our senses. Tonight we hope to sleep like the logs we saw floating in the river, dreaming of soaring herons, diving pelicans, and acrobatic porpoises. And tomorrow we’ll greet Charleston with fresh eyes, ready to take in all the history, culture, and cuisine which this fair Pearl of the South has to offer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: CCRRASH!

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: CCRRASH!

There we were, just relaxing in the salon of Slow Motion after a 5 and ½ hour jaunt from Southport to Myrtle Beach, when suddenly a large boat appeared right next to our portside and CCRRASH! The boat turned into Slow Motion, hitting the portside and continued to go forward, hitting Slow Motion’s wood pulpit (where the anchor is stored). This boat, the Spirit of Whitby II, was coming into the dock at the Barefoot Marina to get fuel. Somehow the captain, Brian Orr, totally misjudged where he was when he turned into the dock, and he turned into Slow Motion instead. Even on her worst day Slow motion cannot be mistaken for a fueling dock. We raced out on deck to assess the damage and try to prevent any further damage.

The wooden pulpit was pushed out of position, and the right side of the board is split. The paint has been scraped off too. We haven’t been able to check out the portside, since we are tied up on the starboard side, but we hope that the small rubber strip that runs along the portside saved Slow Motion from any body damage. It looks like the wooden pulpit will have to be replaced. When you look at all the bolts that attach it to the fiberglass body and at the anchor stored in the middle, you start calculating the labor costs – and you’re right back at the definition of BOAT – Break Out Another Thousand – for any boat repair.

After assessing our damage, the Admiral and I went to get identifying information from the captain of the Spirit of Whitby II. The dock master came to us, as we went to the other boat. He told us that the captain of the other boat was clearly at fault. Once his boat hit our pulpit and anchor, the dockmaster tried to prevent further damage by pushing the boat away from our boat. He said the captain tried to blame him for “not telling him how strong the wind was.” With that statement, we knew we were not dealing with someone who takes responsibility for his own negligent actions. Nevertheless, we approached the captain, Brian Orr, a citizen of the U.K., and merely asked for identification. He was busy pumping gas into his boat, so he said “Go away. Come back in about 20 minutes, when you can be polite. Give me some space.” We had not been impolite, but we were perhaps a bit taken aback by the fact that Captain Orr had not offered an apology of any sort. And we were asking for his ID, because he had not even introduced himself. Naturally, getting gas into his boat’s gas tanks was more important to him than the damage he had caused to a fellow boater.

When you think about what could have happened if the Whitby Captain had just been civilized to us, what an opportunity was missed just to exchange information, report the matter to our respective insurance companies and go on our way. The dock master was stunned by the Whitby Captain’s rudeness. He told us that when there is an accident and the damage to a boat is more than $500 the accident has to be reported to the Department of Natural Resources of South Carolina. Twenty minutes later Dep. Chacana arrived and took statements from everyone. The dock master wrote a succinct statement placing the blame for the accident squarely on the shoulders of the Whitby Captain. This was sufficient for Dep. Chacana to cite the captain for negligent operation of a boat. The fine was $110.00, and this being South Carolina, it had to be paid in cash or the captain would have to go to jail. We don’t know the outcome, but the deputy did return to our boat after taking our statements to ask if we knew the location of an ATM nearby. I hope the captain can muster up $110.00. He was negligent, irresponsible and rude, but should not go to jail for what he did. Then, of course, if this captain did not insure himself against causing accidents to other boaters, maybe jail is where he belongs. We forgot to get his insurance information, or he “forgot” to give it to us.

What I did find out from Captain Orr while we waited for the DNR Deputy was that he has traveled 27,000 miles in Spirit of Whitby II. He has done the Great Loop. He has cruised on Lake Michigan, where in two weeks, he says, “they” had just 2 days of good weather. He has been up and down the Atlantic Coast, spent time around Boston and in the Florida Keys (2008). This winter he is headed for Gasparilla (?) near Ft. Myers and Venice, Florida. He had just cruised south to Myrtle Beach from Carolina Beach. He was basically extolling his credentials as a boat captain. However, as to this accident with Slow Motion, he admitted to me that he had misjudged the wind – he actually admitted fault. He said he had been steering from up above,  where he was able to judge the wind, but then he went below and he lost his ability to judge the wind (his words), and that is why he crashed into Slow Motion. He offered this explanation, but no apology. He noted that it was merely an accident, could have been much worse, and nothing to be very concerned about. He had shattered the center starboard window on his boat, when he crashed into the anchor and pulpit. But he said windows can be easily replaced. He did not ask about the damage to Slow Motion or whether we thought it would be “easy” to repair it.

Life is apparently simple for the Whitby Captain. Cause an accident, repair your boat, move on. There is no human factor in this equation, no understanding of how his reckless actions have affected other people and no inclination to apologize for his carelessness. Ever meet anyone like this? I’m sure we all have. In thirty years as a prosecutor, most of the defendants I met accepted no responsibility for their criminal actions and certainly had no empathy for the crime victims. Personal responsibility is not “popular” among the crooks, nor has it been embraced by the biggest wealth amassers in our society (exceptions: Bill Gates, Warren Buffet). Put people out of work to “leverage” a business, increase its debt, force it into bankruptcy – but make that humongous profit – that’s not “their” fault. That’s the free market at work. Right. Profit rules. Personal responsibility loses. That’s not a society I want to live in. We need a sense of community, where everyone feels responsible for the welfare of everyone else. We need responsible boat captains, just like we need responsible citizens in all walks of life. Accidents do happen, that’s for sure, but when you’re at fault, please just apologize and make it right. Thank you.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT: GIANTS WIN! (AND WE RETURN TO CRUISING ON THE ICW)

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT: GIANTS WIN! (AND WE RETURN TO CRUISING ON THE ICW)

As a San Francisco Giants fan since 1976, when I arrived in Northern California to start a new life, I am still not believing this team’s success this year, last year or in 2010. Once you get used to cheering for an underdog, it’s hard to make the transition to New York Yankee fan mentality – especially when your team wins by torturing its fans with “little ball” and specializes in come- from-behind one-run games, in extra innings. And more especially, when your friend, the Admiral, keeps calling your team “The Midgets”, a moniker that often sits well on their shoulders. I mean, I had a chance to bet on my Giants, a whole beer, and I turned it down, because I would never bet anybody that they would win anything. Somehow, I don’t think that’s how a New York Yankees fan, or even a St. Louis Cardinals fan, reacts to an offer of a bet. Where is the confidence that should have been building over the past three years? Is it shredded by the dreadful 2011 injury to Buster Posey, by the sudden demise of  the “Melkman” this year, or by the second Tommy John surgery on our closer, Brian Wilson, or by the inexplicable loss of form by two time Cy Young winner, “The Freak”? And speaking about loss of confidence, what’s with Timmy? He’s so focused in middle relief, but can’t start to save his life – do they give Cy Youngs to middle relievers? I think not.

It took an outsider like Hunter Pence (boy, was I mad when Philly got him last year, and the Giants didn’t even try to get him) to build this team’s confidence, to strengthen the heart of the team. It took another outsider like Marco Scutaro – thank you, A’s – to invigorate the bats, especially in the 1 through 4 positions. And we have a reliably hitting – young – first baseman in Brandon Belt, homegrown, who is only outdone on the field by another baby Giant, Brandon Crawford, the stunning shortstop. Remember the mid-seventies phrase: “You got to like these kids?” That was post “disaster Lemaster”. It was the beginning of Humm Baby (Roger Craig). Those kids hit more than 200 homers in one year, twenty at every position (even Brenly at catcher and Thompson at 2^nd base). This year, all of the Giants hit a grand total of 84 home runs, 37 at home in pitcher-friendly A T and T park. No one should predict that a team capable of hitting only 84 home runs in a full 162 game season would win the World Series. Not going to happen – BUT IT DID! And I’m so happy, so very happy. I watch the Wednesday parade photos over and over. I turn on the videos to hear the players answer the same stupid questions (“How does it feel?”). I revel in Sergio’s T shirt with the message “I Just Look Illegal”. And only in San Francisco would they call fans of Sergio “Romosexuals”. It must drive all the red staters crazy that San Francisco has won two of the last three World Series. And they must hate that the Giants came from behind (what other position would you expect in SF?) not once, but twice, to even get to the World Series. And talk about kismet – On Halloween the Giants’ victory was celebrated throughout SF, which was bathed in, naturally, black and orange. The freaks and geeks who support this team fit in perfectly. Those weren’t “costumes” – every day is Halloween at a Giants game.

So where was I when the Gigantes were sweeping Detroit in the freezing rain? Where was my best Giants buddy (since 3^rd grade), Alan? I was in North Carolina, hunkered down waiting for Sandy to pass, and Alan was winging his way to Shanghai to cover McElroy and Woods. Still, through the magic of texting, we shared a few of the Giants’ “un-f---ing” believable moments. Like the three run homer game of the Panda to start the World Series. I saw Reggie do this (on TV). I don’t remember watching Pujols – some day, mark my words, it will be revealed that he used steroids, human growth hormones and/or testosterone during his big stat years – because I don’t like him (or the Cards). But watching the Panda was different than watching Reggie. Nobody expected the Panda to hit one home run, let along three in a row – off the best pitcher in the Major Leagues. We have short memories, of course, since he did hit a bases clearing triple off the very same Master Verlander in this year’s All Star Game. What was so cool about watching Pablo (not Pedro, as he is often misnamed by non-SF sports media) was the look on his face – the sheer joy – of just hitting the ball hard. Pablo Sandoval makes me smile, even when he’s striking out, swinging at the most god-awful pitches outside the strike zone (almost outside the ball zone). And some of us have noticed that this year, with the help of none other than Marco Scutaro, Pablo has earned, really earned, more walks. Go Marco! If you can instill patience in free-swinging Pablo, anything’s possible. Maybe even another World Series!

For those of you who read this Blog for tales of the Intracoastal Waterway, I will now make a natural segue from San Francisco Bay on the Left Coast to Cape Fear River on the North Carolina Coast. Remember Nick Nolte and Robert DeNiro? “Counselor, Counselor, where are you?” I didn’t see the Robert Mitchum version; DeNiro was diabolical. Who can forget Blythe Danner and Julianne Lewis in their thankless roles as the terrified wife and daughter, respectively, of Attorney Nolte? If you haven’t guessed, Slow Motion arrived at the Cape Fear River entrance at Southport, NC today. It is sunny and still very windy. We cruised for four hours on the ICW from Wrightsville Beach to Southport, mostly without any other boating traffic. So we’re either ahead of the snowbirds, or they’re clumped together behind us. I suspect that many sun-seeking boaters have already reached Florida. This gives us a lot of peace and quiet as we motor along, watching the ibises, the herons, the pelicans, the egrets, the swans, the geese, the cormorants, the gulls, the ospreys, the terns, and all the birds we still can’t identify. They are so good at fishing, especially the pelicans who soar along, then “whoomp!”, crash into the water to snag a tasty noon time fish.

And those porpoises are back, so I’m running out onto the bow of the boat turning on the camera on my I phone, trying to catch some of their acrobatics. How graceful can one species be? Would I ever get tired of watching them? I doubt it. Sign me up, National Geographic, to a lifetime position of photographing porpoises. Their synchronicity is unparalleled. And they do it without makeup and costumes. Just saying, ladies, at the next Olympics take a few tips from the original synchronized swimmers. At least, try the routines without makeup. Ee-Yew!

What did we learn today on the 30 mile excursion from Mile Marker 283 to Mile Marker 311 on the ICW? We learned that you CAN steer Slow Motion too close to a green marker, to the point where the Admiral starts shouting at you to “move away from the green marker, now!” Never mind, that Slow Motion is still on the magenta line, which marks the middle of the channel on our Garmin electronic chart. You have to “use your eyes”, not just the chart. You would think that I had learned that a long time ago. Well, I did. But it wasn’t like I was going to hit the green marker, so there’s clearly a fine line between being too close to the green marker and not being too close to the green marker. I am bound and determined to learn where that line is. And not rely on the magenta line, or auto pilot, to make that determination for me.

We also learned that the Admiral continues to hone his skills at docking. Today, with strong winds and current affecting our docking at the South Harbor Village Marina, the Admiral smoothly pulled up to the dock, I threw out the forward spring line (like the lingo?) to the dock hand, and we proceeded to dock without scraping anything or letting any lines fall in the water. After the spring line, I threw out the bow line, then the stern line. The dock hand was proficient, so it wasn’t all the Admiral and me. However, I felt pretty good about this docking, until – until I later heard the Admiral shouting from outside the boat – “Ann, Ann, come to the bow!” Uh-oh – another chance to chide me for “not having my head in the game.” Sure enough, the bow line was not in its chock. My responsibility includes ensuring that the bow line is secured to its cleat on the boat, and also runs through a chock to prevent chafing of the line before I throw it ashore to be tied down to a dock cleat. I failed. There’s still room for improvement, especially on those days when I thought everything went perfectly. There is no room for smugness in boating. Some day, some day, I know it will come when I least expect it, I will handle every line and every fender with proficiency. That day will be reported in this Blog, and we will celebrate together. Then I would like some on-line comments like “Way to Go, Ann!” “We knew you could do it, Ann!” “It’s about time, you turkey!” Get ready with whatever sassy sayings you can think of, because that day will come, and we need to mark it with original celebratory phrases.

Tomorrow will be a tough day cruising. Lots of danger spots. This means shallow water, shoaling, underwater rocks, weird currents – every imaginable obstacle. Our goal is The Barefoot Marina at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, in our relentless drive southward. The Admiral spent several hours last night writing out all the danger points, with their mile markers or red or green water markers. We have a swing bridge that won’t open if it’s too windy. The whole day should test our seafaring skills. Thank God, the Admiral knows what he’s doing. I’m learning at the side of a master. While the learning curve is long and high, I see myself improving with each day on the waterway. I know I wasn’t born to be a sailor, but with the proper nurturing (and the Admiral is a good nurturer), I am getting the hang of steering 18 tons of fiberglass, stainless steel and diesel engines along the eastern coast. Did I want to be in San Francisco yesterday to cheer the Giants in person? Of course, but, on the scale of enjoyability, one day of cheering for my favorite team cannot compare to the days of cruising with the Admiral on the waterway. So here I stay, and I’m loving it.