CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE: OUR WINDOW (OF OPPORTUNITY) ON THE BAY

CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE: OUR WINDOW (OF OPPORTUNITY) ON THE BAY

It’s Wednesday, May 29, and we are safely ensconced at Calvert’s Marina in Solomons, Maryland on the Patuxent River, which flows into the Chesapeake. Solomons is about midway between the most northern point and the most southern point of the Chesapeake, on the western shore. We’ve been here before, last August through early October, and we know what to expect – very good rates, a genial marina owner with a dog who loves belly rubs, a fairly new floating dock with alongside tie up and very old bath and shower facilities. Just a little paint would help, but you get what you pay for. The setting is lovely, on a 70 acre finger of land that juts into Back Creek, just off the Patuxent. And we’re just a few miles from Solomons Island, which has a great maritime museum. Dear friends Janie and Mike have lived in this area for more than 40 years, having worked for the University of Maryland’s Institute of Marine and Environmental Technology on Solomons Island. They live in a house in the woods near a creek. I biked there one day last fall and we sat out on the deck and had a crab feast. Tasty memory.

Before I get ahead of myself, remember all the weather, current, and wind checking that the Admiral did to determine a good day to cruise from Atlantic Yacht Basin in Chesapeake, Virginia to Rebel Marine in Norfolk? Well, it paid off. It took us about 4 hours to make the trip, between 6 a.m. and 10 a.m., and the weather was perfect. There was virtually no wind, and the currents were favorable. This was indeed our window of opportunity, and we successfully seized it. It was just two hours later that the winds kicked up at Rebel Marine, the storm clouds came rolling in and the rain came pouring down on Slow Motion and all the other boats at Rebel. This storm lasted most of the day last Friday. And it was still extremely windy on Saturday. So we checked on our next window of opportunity to head further north, and the Admiral found that the Chesapeake was going to have waves of three to four feet through Sunday. However, the forecast was for a short break on Monday, with one foot waves and less wind. I say a “short break”, because the three to four foot waves were forecast to resume on Tuesday, May 28. It appeared that we had just one day for decent travel on the Chesapeake in the foreseeable future.

So the issue became: On Monday, Memorial Day, do we go to Deltaville some 45 miles from Norfolk and hole up there until the Chesapeake is calm? Or do we pull a “Marathon” Day (like our foggy journey from Marco Island to Marathon) and cruise 110 miles on Monday, all the way to Solomons? We knew that going 110 miles in a day would require a speed of 10 miles an hour or better to reach Solomons in 10 or 11 hours, and we knew we would burn fuel at about one gallon per mile. That’s right, ONE GALLON PER MILE. This is not a typo. This is life on a slow moving diesel trawler. On Monday morning at about 5:15 a.m., after checking the weather forecasts for the Chesapeake one more time, the Admiral said: “We’re going to Solomons, leaving in 20 minutes. We pushed off at 5:35 a.m. in calm waters, no wind blowing the SF pennant on the bow. Dawn was rising over the Hampton Bridge/Tunnel, as we motored out of the Willoughby Spit. For the next nine hours, we cruised on the Chesapeake at between 9 and 14 miles per hour. At the beginning we got a great boost from the current to push our speed so far about 10 mph. All the while, the Bay was flat – never mind the forecast of one foot waves. There were no waves. The Admiral turned on the radar to see how it was working, and it worked great! It spotted far off container ships in the commercial shipping channel and closer by sailboats and trawlers. It even picked up most of the buoys, which were equipped for radar detection. Most of the way we were on autopilot. We had to be vigilant for crab traps and boat traffic, but the Chesapeake was very, very good to us.

As we approached the turnoff to Dozier’s Regatta Point Marina in Deltaville, we called to cancel our Monday reservation. The dock master thanked the Admiral for the notice. Apparently, not all cruisers are courteous enough to call and cancel a reservation, and dock masters are often left holding spots and turning away business because of that boorishness. If you ever start cruising, I suggest that you make it a cardinal, inviolable rule to keep every marina posted, with whom you have made a reservation, to let them know about any change of plans. It’s the right thing to do, and they’ll thank you for it profusely. Plus, when you know you’ll be heading past these same marinas heading south and you may need to stay at them, it’s better to be greeted with a smile (“you’re the nice ones who let us know what you’re doing”) than a scowl (“you again, you rude bastard”). You also have a much better chance of getting a good place along the dock, if you have a good reputation and haven’t burned any bridges. Common decency and common sense, right? You’d be surprised how many boaters do not have those traits in any quantifiable measure.

The Admiral had predicted that we would arrive at Solomons at 4 p.m. on Memorial Day, at the earliest. Given the optimal conditions on the Bay and the blazing speed of Slow Motion (I kid, I kid), we pulled up to the floating dock at Calvert’s Marina at 2:40 p.m., nine hours after we had left Norfolk. Not bad for a 1994 Jefferson with a dirty bottom. We got help tying up from Randy and Cindy of Morningstar, whom we had met at Calvert’s last August. They’re part of the Kadey Krogen contingent that has a rendezvous at Calvert’s every October. And they’re both a great source of information about marinas and waterways and locks on the East Coast. They’ve been through the Erie Canal, and Cindy gave me sound advice about wearing gloves to handle the lines in the locks, keeping the fenders away from the grungy lock walls, and tying up for a few days at a city dock at the canal starting point to take time to visit places like Roosevelt’s Hyde Park and the Culinary Institute of America. Thanks, Cindy and Randy!

Yesterday, we went in search of a reliable boatyard repair place. We think (and hope) we have found one. I’ll let you know when we see the results. But reliable boatyards are hard to find – ones that give you a definite date for starting and finishing a job and give you an honest estimate for the cost of the work. This, at a minimum, is what we need. Our experience has been that we cannot simply put Slow Motion in a boatyard and leave, then come back in a week or two and expect the work to have been done properly, or even done! Here again, the squeaky wheel gets the boatyard grease. If you’re not there looking over the shoulders of the boatyard workers, you will be in for a big surprise, when you return to get your boat and pay the bill. Either very little of what you asked to be done was completed, and what was done will cost three times more than the estimate. Or you may be fortunate enough to have the work you wanted completed, but still at three to five times the initial estimate. There is a huge markup on parts – up to 60%. And the boatyards bill around $90 to $95 per hour for the labor. What share the workers get of that amount I don’t know. A good boat repair person is well worth his/her weight in diamonds, or plutonium. Bill, the guy who worked on Slow Motion in Charleston, was a good boat repair person. Actually, he was a great boat repair person. I wanted to take him on as crew for the rest of our journey. But for every Bill, there are nine folks who seem to know how to lure boats into their yards, but don’t know what to do with them once they’re there. We could sure use some more consumer protection in this area. Anyway, I’ll let you know if we have a good experience here in Solomons once we see the results.

In the meantime, the Admiral is at it again, installing a new water pump. He does virtually all of the maintenance work on the boat, and when a part gives out, he finds the exact replacement for it and goes about reading the teeny tiny printed instructions, twenty pages in length, for the installation of the replacement. I could read those instructions over and over and still not have a clue about what to do, because I do not have his background in electrical and plumbing work. Not that the Admiral loves this part of our journey, but he does it without complaint, and when the work is done, he knows it is done right. We have saved hundreds of dollars because of his skills. He claims that work on boats – electrical and plumbing – is completely different from work on houses. But somehow he figures things out and comes up with solutions. I am in awe of his talents. While he installs a new water pump, I don mask and gloves and use a strong smelling anti-corrosive spray to try to clean the white corrosive barnacles off the metal bars on the ceiling of the flying bridge. This is hard work too, but definitely not very skilled. Oh, the Admiral is testing the new water pump. I’ve got to check this out.

Happy Graduation to my neighbor, Olivia! May your windows of opportunity be big and wide!

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHTY: BACK IN NORFOLK, ICW MILE MARKER 0

CHAPTER EIGHTY: BACK IN NORFOLK, ICW MILE MARKER 0

Sipping lukewarm Good Earth tea on a cold, blustery Saturday, May 25, wearing my long pants and hooded sweatshirt – oh for the day – just a week ago – when I was slathering on the sunscreen in my shorts and t top. According to David, the Rebel Marine dock master, the weather these past two months in Virginia has been “unpredictable”, read: bad. Everyone at the marina has cabin fever. A couple on a trawler got their provisions to take a leisurely cruise up the James River this weekend. Then David and the Admiral suggested that 2 to 3 foot waves and a headwind of 20 knots might cut into the fun factor a bit. The levelheaded member of that team, almost always the woman, immediately revised the weekend plans, at least mentally, while the guy allowed as how it wouldn’t be that bad. Looks like their trawler is still here at mid-morning. How cold is it? It was in the 40’s this morning. We had heaters going in the salon and main bedroom. We ate piping hot breakfast burritos (five eggs!), and I’m about to put on gloves to write this Blog. Aw, quit your bellyachin’, right? It’s not like it’s Moore, Oklahoma. Moment of silence.

The AARP asked me for a donation to a relief fund for the Moore citizens affected by the mega-tornado. I get it that we Americans pull together in times of tragedy and everyone does his/her share, but if I had the power to direct the use of my tax dollars, certainly they would go first and foremost to emergency relief funds, then Planned Parenthood and the SPCA. I’m a bit tired of seeing most of my taxes go toward the purchase of weapons of war and destruction. Our defense budget is bigger than the defense budgets of the next fourteen countries behind us – together! Sequestration has just made a dent in this bloated. wasteful, inefficient bureaucracy called the Pentagon. I’m not talking about the troops – God knows they’re grossly underpaid and poorly outfitted, and we have never put enough money into veterans’ health care. I’m talking about all these war planes and war ships and drones and bombs and tanks and “state of the art” weapons. Fugedaboudit. It’s time for the Biblical commandment to turn swords into plowshares. Oh yes, if I ruled the world, there would be some major changes. Programs to combat global warming first and foremost – because the rest is not important, if we can’t live and thrive on Mother Earth any more.

This brings me to a regional election of national importance – the governorship of Virginia is up for grabs this year. One candidate, Attorney General Cuccinelli, thinks global warming is a hoax. Do you need to know any more about him? Oh, maybe the fact that he has taken “gifts” from businesses and not reported them, at least when he first received them. But really, all you need to know is that he is so stupid or unread, or just plain ignorant, that he can’t grasp the simple scientific facts that explain global warming. The more malevolent take is that he may know deep in his mind that global warming is a major threat, but he has been bought by the energy industry to spread the gospel according to Big Oil, Big Gas and Big Coal. Either way, this is not a person who is fit for any office, let alone the position of Governor of Virginia. Yet, he leads in the polls. His opponent, Mr. McAuliffe, has never run for office before, although he headed the Democratic Party, and that appears to be his main “sin” in the eyes of his attackers. Of course, as a Democrat, he must be a free spender looking for that 47% who are dependent on the government and will vote for a Democrat no matter what. Well, he’s not a “free spender” and he knows that global warming is real and that we must reduce our carbon emissions (finally hit the 400 mark – yippee!). Don’t even get me started on the “vaginal probes” that Republican legislators in Virginia spent nearly all their time in session last year trying to make the law of the Commonwealth. Just do what you can to stop Cuccinelli, that’s all. If it means an out of state donation, so be it. The League of Conservation Voters will be glad to take your money. Funny fact: A recent headline states that Cuccinelli has ordered a “probe” of the current Republican governor, McDonnell, for his habit of accepting “gifts”. One can only hope that this is a very penetrating “probe”, and when it is completed, an independent prosecutor will in turn do a “probe” of Cuccinelli. Give each of them a taste of their own medicine. Cuccinelli is the troglodyte who has called the birth control benefit included in federal health care insurance programs “the sterilization mandate.” Please defeat this guy – for your own peace of mind.

For those of you who enjoy only the travel portions of this Blog, and not the rants, here is what we’ve been doing in Slow Motion for the past week. We returned from our road trip late Tuesday, and the Admiral began checking all his weather, wind and current apps on the I Pad to see when we could continue heading north to Solomons, Maryland. He reported that we were going to have major thunderstorms, wind, and rain on Wednesday and Thursday – we did – but that Friday it was predicted to be clear and not so windy – in the morning. Now what this always means (“in the morning”) is that we plan to leave before dawn and reach our destination well before noon, before the winds kick up and turn Slow Motion into an amusement park ride. I called Rebel Marine in Norfolk and spoke with David, the tugboat captain and co-owner of the marina, asking whether we could tie up on Friday and Saturday at our “usual” space. We have been there twice before. Luckily, it was available those two days, but he expected a boater on the 26^th to tie up there for a month. Whew! This marina has very few transient spots. So if the forecast for Friday held, we knew we would have our spot.

Then we called the oh so popular Dozier’s at Regatta Point in Deltaville, where they serve you pancakes and waffles for breakfast, prepared by the dock master himself. This is Memorial Day Weekend, so I wasn’t optimistic about getting a spot with them. However, they are always so accommodating and they said they would “make room” for us this weekend, if we made it there. They even accepted our arrival date of “maybe Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, depending on the weather.” And finally, we had to find out if Calvert Marina in Solomons would have room on their floating docks for us on Monday. Greg gave us the okay on a Monday arrival. Now all we needed was a little cooperation from the weather.

On Thursday evening, the Admiral spoke with the Atlantic Yacht Basin dock master about getting fuel the next morning at 5 a.m. before taking off for Rebel Marine in Norfolk. He said “no problem” and wrote it down on the board for the midnight shift dock master to be prepared for us. At about 4:15 a.m. – yes, very, very dark inside Slow Motion, which was still inside the cavernous boat shed – the Admiral got up and found the dock master, who came back with him around 4:30 a.m. to help us ease Slow Motion out of the shed, without the use of the engines. This was easier than we had thought. Slow Motion is tall enough to nearly graze the wooden rafters that bow in from the sides of the roof, but there was no contact Friday morning, and we were stealthily creeping out of our cave and motoring toward the fuel dock on the waterway by 4:50 a.m. Slow Motion has an awesome searchlight, which led the way to the fuel dock. The dock itself is extremely well lit, eerily so, and we eased our way up to the pilings and tied up as quietly as a 19 ton behemoth can do this maneuver. I got the incredibly important job of “pumpout” – this means hooking up a hose to our sewage tank and sucking the waste out of it. Apparently this is one of the chief jobs of the Captain Aspirant. With my latex gloves and a clothes pin on my nose (gloves, yes, clothes pin, no), I did the dirty deed. Next we took on 200.9 gallons of diesel fuel for a mere $650.00. This is the best price on the waterway at the moment. Kudos to Atlantic Yacht Basin for staying competitive.

We were a couple football fields away from the Great Bridge, which has its first opening at 6 a.m. So we waited on the fuel dock until 5:50 and then headed toward the bridge, asking the bridge tender to let us pass at his 6 a.m. opening. Surprisingly, there were no other boats waiting for this opening. In the days we have spent at AYB, it is a source of entertainment to run to the side of the channel shortly before the hour to see all the big cruisers and sailboats jockey for position on both sides of the Great Bridge, as they wait impatiently for the opening. The 10 a.m. opening is extremely popular. The 6 a.m. opening not so much. The funniest exchange was heard between the captain of a medium sized cruiser (45 feet) and the captain of a tugboat pushing a huge barge: the cruiser captain radioed to tell the tugboat that he wanted to go through the bridge first. Silence. It wasn’t really an exchange. The cruiser captain said this about 3 times. No response. Seriously, do you expect a tugboat captain pushing a huge barge to try to hold his position until Mr. Upstart moves his dinky cruiser under the bridge? It didn’t happen. Chutzpah or cluelessness: it’s a toss-up. Just don’t mess with a tugboat pushing a barge.

With no barges in sight, not even a sailboat on an early start, we cruised through Great Bridge at the 6 a.m. opening and immediately headed toward the Great Bridge Lock, just a short ways further north. We entered the Lock by ourselves and tied up on the starboard side. This is the third time we have tied up in the Great Bridge Lock. I’m never going to take any part of this adventure for granted. However, it is so much easier, unbelievably so, each time we re-visit a place. We know what is expected of us. We know that in this Lock the water level drops a mere 18 inches, so we don’t need to have a death grip on the lines to hold us next to the side of the Lock. This third time was a piece of cake. We glided smoothly out of the Lock when it opened and headed for Steel Bridge two and a half miles away and its 7 a.m. opening. We were assured that if we arrived before 7, the bridge tender would let us through. This is a critical opening, because after this, the bridge is closed to EVERY BOAT from 7 a.m. to 9 a.m. In this 2.5 mile stretch, we had plenty of time to make the 7 a.m. opening, barring any unforeseen tree stumps attacking our propellers. This part of the waterway has a lot of things that stick out of the water, metal and wood, so you have to always be on guard. While watching for hazards, I also noticed that the cottony clouds from the sky were mirrored perfectly in the water and snapped a few shots of that phenomenally beautiful sight. The water was glass, so the trees were mirrored in it, the bridges, the birds, the sun – it was two worlds coming together at the water line. And you should have seen the giant blue herons that were flying behind us. You had to be there. Another amazing dawn, as the sun glimmered through the trees and rose above them as a huge golden ball.

The Steel Bridge is being replaced by a taller one, so there are barges and construction crews everywhere. But on this day, we had the pleasure of cruising through at the 7 a.m. opening, again the only boat on this part of the waterway. Maybe next year the bridge tender will be out of work, or will have moved on to another low bridge. That’s what has already happened with the dreaded Gilmerton Bridge, three miles north of the Steel Bridge, which was always being closed for repairs. Not anymore. The NEW Gilmerton Bridge has traded in the puny vertical clearance of 11 feet, sported by the OLD Bridge, for a generous 35 feet vertical clearance. No more requests for openings. No more worries about sudden closures. No more checking the schedule to see if it is closed from 6 to 8 or 7 to 9 or 3 to 5 or 4 to 6 or just plain closed for no reason at all. Did it open on the hour, the half hour, the quarter hour? Who cares? Slow Motion is 19 feet tall, and we don’t have to wait a single microsecond for an opening. Hurray! Maybe the third time is the charm, at least with the Gilmerton Bridge.

Once we got past the new Gilmerton Bridge, we cruised with some trepidation closer to the Norfolk Harbor, which is at Mile Marker 0 on the ICW. We listened for the radio traffic on Channel 16 and learned that a “warship” had entered the Harbor and announced its intentions of docking at Pier 14. I rushed to the charts to try to find Pier 14, so that we could avoid blocking its pathway. How silly – the notion that Slow Motion could block the pathway of a gigantic US Navy warship. Okay, more accurately, we wanted to avoid being made mincemeat by this battling behemoth. The docks we were passing were lettered, not numbered, so we did not find Pier 14 immediately, and no warship loomed in front of us. We saw a large cruise ship – “Carnival Glory” – how ironic. Recently the Carnival cruises have not been very glorious. We saw a lot of naval ships, carriers, destroyers “parked” at piers, with security boats flashing their blue lights to keep us 500 yards from the ships. The only problem with the 500 yard rule is that the channel is not even 100 yards wide, so it’s impossible to be 500 yards away. At any moment we expected to be yelled at over a loudspeaker to pull over for boarding. Besides the security boats, there were marine police zipping up and down the harbor waters. There were one or two other “pleasure boats” like ours trying to negotiate the harbor. But we saw only one big container ship, Hyundai, and we happened to be going in the same direction, so we fell in behind her. If any ship could stand up to a USN warship, this loaded container ship could.  

The container ship picked up steam, as the two tugboats – one on each side – peeled off from it. And we were left on our own. There was one other small boat like ours behind us about 100 yards. Then suddenly we heard on Channel Sixteen this booming voice: “Pleasure boat heading north, Captain, this is US Naval Warship 75 coming in to dock at Pier 7. Move to our starboard side, NOW.” We were already along the port side the warship, and we looked over to the dock on our starboard side. Sure enough, there was Pier 7. Did Warship 75 really want us to back up and move to her starboard side? We looked back and saw the other boat that had been behind us make a sharp maneuver to head to the starboard side of the warship, and we knew we were home free. Disaster averted – Warship 75 was talking to the only other “pleasure boat” in the area. We got past Pier 7, and we saw Warship 75 make its turn into that pier, crossing our formidable wake (yeah, sure). What is amazing is that we share the same waterway with these titans. We’re the Lilliputians trying with all our might to stay out of Gulliver’s way. This particular warship was lined with sailors all along the deck, ready to jump on to land as soon as the first line was secured. They must have been away for a long time. Welcome home, sailors.

Norfolk Harbor is one of the busiest harbors on the East Coast. I think they have the most naval vessels. According to Wikipedia, Norfolk is the largest naval base in the world. We cruised by at least a dozen enormous US Navy ships in their docks. I can sort of imagine the experience of crossing the ocean in a ship that size, because long ago I crossed the northern Atlantic, going to Europe and back from New York City, in the SS Bremerhaven, a floating hotel (check that, a floating city of hotels). But those crossings each lasted not more than a week or so. And we did not get involved in any “hostilities” with other nations. We had rough water, and everyone, including the crew, was throwing up on the way back to NYC. But no one was shooting at us from the air, the ground, another ship, or a submarine. All we Americans ever have to think of is Pearl Harbor and the USS Arizona and we know the dangers of serving on a military vessel. A salute to all who join the Navy and defend our country, here and abroad.

As we carefully weave our way through Norfolk Harbor, I wonder what it’s like in Baltimore Harbor, Philadelphia Harbor and New York City Harbor. I hope we can visit some or all of them this summer, and I’ll report the experiences so you can re-live them with us. Harbors are special places. You can really tell if a coastal city is prospering, or not, by the activity in its harbor. Norfolk looks pretty prosperous, Charleston less so. Defense dollars are still pouring into Norfolk, but for how long is anybody’s guess. Sequestration has caused some civilians working in the defense industry to take furloughs, but all the major contracts are still in place. It will take a few years to see the full economic effect of the sequestration cutbacks. And by then, we may be in another way. Iran, anyone? I’m not in favor, strongly not in favor, of going to war – with any country at any time. But our leaders seem to have this predilection to start a war whenever we need to boost our economy at home. Please remember, you guys and gals who get elected, the Bible says: Swords into plowshares, swords into plowshares. Peace in our time!

CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE: ROAD TRIP!!!!

CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE: ROAD TRIP!!!!

On Sunday the 19^th we went on a road trip: Destination – Land of Kisses, Hershey, Pennsylvania. The trip was planned around a visit to the LGL guru, Dr. Thomas Loughran, and his research assistant, Kendall Thomas Baab, on May 21 at the Penn State Hershey Medical Center. But what’s the point of driving straight through to Hershey from the Atlantic Yacht Basin and then returning right after the visit? Where’s the adventure in that? Besides, we have grown so used to our boat travel pace of 50 to 80 miles a day, it is hard to wrap our minds around moving 300 miles in just one twenty four hour period, air travel excepted. When we travel on water or on land now, we want to SEE things – bald eagles, pelicans, turtles, wildflowers, waterside and roadside attractions. And boy, did we see things on the road to Hershey.

Let’s start with the eastern shore of Virginia on the Chesapeake Bay. Did you know that this area’s claim to fame is not only the inhumane Perdue and Tyson chicken CAFOs (Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations), but more importantly – and hopefully more humanely – the aquaculture farming of clams and oysters. We had stopped at the Virginia Visitor Center and picked up a pamphlet on the highlights of the eastern shore. The one that caught my attention was the aquaculture for clams at a place called Willis Wharf. The Admiral was not keen at first on going off the roadway for this side trip. But I convinced him that the side trip was short and that you don’t see how clams are grown every day.

We followed the signs to Willis Wharf. After we passed through the one half block town, we headed toward the water. I spotted a guy walking among a bunch of large open cylindrical buckets or canisters, spraying water into the contents of each one from a hose. The Admiral suggested we ask him where they grow the clams. I walked up to Jim Kelly and asked him if he knew where the clam aquaculture was, and he pointed down into one of the buckets. He said “Do you see them?” I said I thought I did, as I peered down into what looked like a silty, muddy, sandy goop, where I thought clams were hiding. He said “Do you really see them?” I said I wasn’t sure. He said: “You’re looking at more than a million clams. That’s all clams in there, no dirt whatsoever, pure clams, each one three microns large.” I was gobsmacked. How could millions of clams be inside one oversized white bucket? Mr. Kelly explained that he and other clam growers (the Ballards and the Tuckers, who had been farming clams for a century) got together with the Virginia Institute of Marine Science and over the years, through trial and error, figured out how to grow millions of clams in the smallest space possible. From the buckets, these microscopic clams go to a safe bed in the water and are fed until they are the size of a thumb nail, then they are transferred to another grower (usually), who continues to feed them until they are ready for harvesting for market. The variety of clams that Mr. Kelly was growing were little necks. I asked about the cherrystone clams, and he said that the name is just a marketing ploy, a very successful one. One of the long-time clam families, perhaps the Ballards, lived and clammed on Cherrystone Creek, so they started marketing their clams as cherrystone clams. They’re the same kind of clams as the little necks; they just started growing in a specific creek. And the growers named their business, and the clams themselves, after the creek. After getting the impromptu Clams 101 lecture from Mr. Kelly, I googled him and found a Dr. Jim Kelly, who had worked for the Maryland Department of Agriculture in 2002 and gave a seminar on “Biosecurity in Aquaculture: What you need to Know”. Coincidence? I think not. Thank you, Dr. Jim Kelly, for introducing the Admiral and me to your clam aquaculture. I still can’t get over it – millions of clams inside one bucket.

We wanted to go to the ocean, so we headed to Ocean City, Maryland, the favorite summer spot of families within a 300 mile radius. My sisters and their families spent many summer vacations enjoying all that Ocean City has to offer. It was kind of a foggy day, but a Sunday, so there were plenty of visitors from Washington, D.C. still strolling on the boardwalk. I could see the Ferris wheel at the very end of the boardwalk. But around 9^th Street, where we boarded the wide wooden walkway, there were kites, kites, kites – and not surprisingly, a Mother Kite Store directly across from the high flying kites. The gray day was immediately obliterated by the profusion of colors carried by these kites of all shapes and sizes. Most people were flying multiple kites on one string – small, medium and the humongous dragon kite above them all. I spotted a candy store, the ubiquitous Candy Kitchen, and we loaded up on chewy Runts and banana and chocolate pieces of taffy. A road trip with candy to munch on is even sweeter. The beach in Ocean City is wide and long, with nary a piece of litter. The waves were crashing down – surfer alert!

Despite the many attractions of Ocean City, we decided to press on. We drove along the ocean and within a half hour, or so it seemed, we came to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Ah, Rehoboth, so dear to my heart for the many gatherings I have shared with the Bethlehem Babes at the B and B, At Melissa’s. The Admiral has a strong aversion to B and B’s, however, an irrational one, in my opinion. But we accept each other’s quirks for the most part. He doesn’t like B and B’s. I don’t like tunnels (actually, I fear tunnels as they arouse a strong claustrophobia). The upshot for this evening was that we went in search of another place to stay and found the Sands Hotel, right on the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk. This boardwalk was nearly empty. There were a few walkers. Our hotel room had a balcony, and you could step out on it to watch the ocean. The waves were powerful, bigger than I had ever seen during my October BB reunions. The hotel was definitely a little funky, but basically clean, and the mattresses were firm. We walked around looking for a place to dine. I saw Thrasher’s French Fries. I saw the place where I bought all my Fresh Produce Tees. I saw the jewelry stores and the other specialty stores where the BBs spent some, but not all, of our hard-earned money. The Admiral was not in a “fine dining” mood, so we looked for, oh for lack of a better phrase, a hole in the wall. Nicola’s Pizza fit the bill. It was crammed with locals and tourists who wanted their pizza or their spaghetti or the Nic-O-Bolis. Aha! What is that? Well, if you have ever heard of the Stromboli invented by Romano’s in Essington, PA, then you know that Nicola has created a knock-off of the Stromboli. The Admiral had to try it, his Philadelphia taste buds salivating at the aroma of sausage and cheese and tomato sauce. His Nic-O-Boli had all of that and a lot more – including anchovies. Eeeww! I had a meatball sandwich, with two meat balls, each the size of a beach ball. Next time it would be a good idea to heat the meat balls. I’m just saying….

It was odd to be in Rehoboth without my BBs, but staying at a different place and eating at a very different place made the experience stand on its own feet. Still, as we left Rehoboth the next morning, once again we passed all the shops where my BBs and I had contributed so mightily to the local economy. I remembered our great discussions, Melissa’s cookies, our laughter, our walks along the beach, our fantastic meals, and our lasting friendships. Rehoboth will always be special, both for my BB memories and for the new memories the Admiral and I fashioned in our one night sleepover.

As we left Rehoboth, we returned to our blue roads and headed toward the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal, more specifically toward a bridge to cross it. Some day, perhaps this summer, we want to take Slow Motion through this canal on our way north into the Hudson River Valley. It looked lovely from the bridge we crossed (Summit Bridge, US 301, Delaware). We shall return. After crossing the bridge, we drove past more chicken CAFOs and fields of grain. Delaware seemed much larger than depicted on the maps. Then we bumped into the Maryland border, and just as soon as we started getting used to that state, we were welcomed to Pennsylvania. I didn’t see any CAFOs along the roads in Pennsylvania. There were many old stone farmhouses and lots of pastures for horses and cattle. It’s refreshing to see “old-fashioned” farming, where animals are still raised and treated naturally. They get to feel the sun on their backs, eat real grass and hay, and they only get antibiotics if they get sick. Ah, but I wax nostalgic.

On a previous road trip in Pennsylvania, the Admiral had introduced me to the train museum in Strasburg, PA. It is really cool, not just for kids and retired train men. What I didn’t get to see on that visit was the working steam engine across the road. So we headed back to Strasburg to visit the “other roadside attraction.” As we got closer to the museum, more and more Amish horse and buggies came out on to the road from every feeder road of every farm in the area. This was a Monday, the 20^th, not Memorial Day, but apparently a very special day for this Amish population. For lo and behold, as we pulled into the parking lot for the steam engine, so did most of the Amish horses and carriages. There were already a lot of Amish families milling around the train tracks, and orange cones marked off their horses and buggies, so no one could miss them. Plus, most of the men and boys were wearing long sleeved, electric blue shirts that you could see from at least a mile away. What a contrast with the black slacks and vests! It was sunny and hot, so they all had matching straw boaters. Still, it was the bright, bright blue that emblazoned them in my memory. The Admiral said you could just see the sewing bee when the bolt of neon blue cloth arrived and all the Amish women were feverishly churning out long-sleeved shirts of all sizes, until the last remnant was used up. Hmm, wonder what color the underwear is – don’t go there. The women and girls had some color with their gray pinafores – purple or green—but not nearly as blinding as the men’s shirts.

Clearly, there were a lot of photo ops that presented themselves to us, as we approached different gaggles of Amish families. But can you really invade the privacy of other people, just because they look different from you? And their differences happen to be very photogenic? Let’s see. I remember when I was at Yale, a Japanese tourist approached me in front of the Rare Book Building and asked if I would pose for a photo. It seemed really odd at the time. I imagined he would label the photo “Average White Girl”. However, seeing no dark motive in the request, I willingly posed. With the Amish, it did not feel the same at all. As I left the bathroom, an Amish woman and her daughter were coming my way, and this woman glared at me with total disapproval. Come on – modest Bermuda shorts down to my knees? A jacket, a hat and sun glasses? Only skin below the knees visible? What was she so angry about? I didn’t even have my IPhone out. Nevertheless, I got the message that just looking at some Amish people could set them off, so I became very wary of taking any pictures. I approached three “parked” horses and carriages to take a photo of that, when I realized that the carriages still contained in their shadowy folds some Amish young’uns. I went up to the oldest boy and asked permission to take a photo of the horses and carriages. He said: “Not us.” I said: “No, not you, the horses and carriages.” And he gave me permission. I guess he’s in the photo, but it’s so dark inside the carriage that he has to be just a silhouette. The picture of the horses and carriages is great. The Admiral decided to take photos of the steam engine, which had started up and was waiting until 12 noon to take off for Paradise, a mere 4 and ½ miles from Strasburg. Somehow, every time he snapped the steam engine and the attached cars, some Amish families got in the way. Was that subtle enough? Apparently so, because no one confiscated his I phone.

There were dozens of children milling around the steam engine and going in and out of the toy store nearby. They were always with their parents or elders. There was no isolated bunch of teenagers. What was remarkable about the children was that not one child was heard to cry, or to whine, or to scream, or to have any kind of public tantrum. You would not know that children were present, if you had closed your eyes. No child glared at me. A few smiled shyly. I also did not hear one harsh word. No one was barking orders to the children. No one was telling them to shush. None of the elders was loud or boisterous. So indeed, by their elders’ example, the children have learned by osmosis at an early age how to conduct themselves in public. There may be hidden vices in the Amish community. Recent headlines from Ohio write about one Amish group seeking revenge on another Amish group by cutting off the men’s beards. That sounds pretty vicious, given the importance of the beards to this culture. But on this day in Strasburg, just 4 and ½ miles from Paradise, the Amish families were peaceful, harmonious, and out for some family fun on an old steam engine.

We landed in Hershey in the afternoon. We were staying, where else, on Chocolate Avenue. The oddest sign I saw was “Cocoa Urology”. Could you give this chocolate branding a rest, please? Those two words should never be right next to each other. Oh, it’s probably true that this business was on Cocoa Avenue, but still, that’s no reason to ruin the image of the best hot drink in the world. Aside from mis-namings, Hershey has a lot to offer.  As a school kid, I went on a field trip to Hershey to tour the chocolate factory. I still remember the overpowering aroma of chocolate – I think it was in my clothes after three washings – that I experienced walking past the vats of chocolate. Now I’m told that no one can visit the chocolate factory any more, except with some “virtual tour”. That’s not going to come even close to the real thing, but you can’t be too careful, when saboteurs lurk everywhere, just waiting to dump anthrax or another poison into the chocolate vats. Really, really? If so, how sad, Hershey, that you have to protect your supply of chocolate by keeping school kids away forever. That was my favorite field trip.

What Hershey had to offer me was a chance to re-connect with a friend from “the neighborhood” in Bethlehem, Joan Kettering (Terwilliger). She had moved to my street in the sixth grade, and we became good friends because of our similar nerdy interests in reading, school work, and more reading. I remember there was a movie about a teenager (Carol Lynley) who got pregnant and, I think, had an abortion. This was a movie we both wanted to see. I think it was Blue Denim. Our mothers seriously discussed whether we should be allowed to go to this show – was it over our heads? Would it turn us into wayward girls? After much hand-wringing, we were allowed to go. We felt so adult. Neither of us had the foggiest idea about how one gets pregnant – at least I didn’t. And neither of us was going to waste our young lives on getting pregnant and having a baby. How stupid was that, when you could be reading or enjoying some other intellectual endeavor. The movie was a tearjerker, as I remember, but it certainly did not make me want to have sex – then or in the next twenty years (or so I thought at the time).

Fast forward to Joan on May 21, 2013. She made reservations for us at Devon’s Grill. The waitperson walked us to the booth, where she and Bob waited. My God, from twenty yards away, it was Joan! She looked the same, except her hair was a little shorter. I had seen her at our twentieth high school reunion about 30 years ago, and she looked fresh out of Wellesley then too. I even remember that she was wearing a little black dress to the reunion. So Joan has not aged – at all. Her voice is still a rich alto; her wit is still very sharp. And she still reads! Yea! The Admiral was not looking forward to an hour of reminiscing about our childhoods in Bethlehem. And we really didn’t spend much time on the past. Joan revealed that she and Carol Hancock had gone to the Lehigh Library to pick up boys. But for the most part, it was a four way conversation, starting with the things we had seen, including the Amish in Strasburg, during our travels in Slow Motion and on the blue roads. The time went way too fast, and we had to leave after an hour or so, with a mutual promise to stay in touch. I hope so. Joan is great.

Alas, our return trip to Slow Motion was not nearly as adventurous as our two day excursion to Hershey. We opted for the big highways to try to make the trip in one day. After the abominable stop and go traffic south of Washington D.C., we limped back to Atlantic Yacht Basin around 8:45 p.m. We put Slow Motion in a boat shed, so it’s kind of like living in a cave (no bats, thankfully). It was already dark outside, so the cave aspect was not as pronounced as we climbed on to the boat and plunked ourselves down into the king size bed we call home. Falling asleep was not a problem. By this time, you’re probably falling asleep as you read this Blog. I hope not. I feel a rant coming on – just kidding! But I’ve only caught you up to what we’ve been doing, as of May 21, and I’m writing this on May 24. Friday, May 24, was a travel day – and what a travel day it was! But I’m saving that for Chapter Eighty. Come back and read me some time, y’hear? Chapter Eighty will be a good one.

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT: BE PREPARED!

CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT: BE PREPARED!

It’s Friday, May 17, in the evening at Coinjock Marina in “Where the Hell is Coinjock”, North Carolina. Sated by my fried chicken dinner, I’m having a hard time trying to focus so that I can pull out all the high points of our last three days on the waterway. I look across the table at the Admiral and he’s preparing for the bridges tomorrow between Coinjock and Atlantic Yacht Basin. The man is tireless in his preparation. He must be as exhausted as I am. He woke up at 4 a.m., got up at 4:30 a.m., and we left the dock in Belhaven this morning at 5:07 a.m. We crossed some of the shallowest, windiest, most treacherous waters today, namely Albemarle Sound (yikes!). We saw one very new, very expensive yacht run aground ahead of us. It had roared up behind us, and the captain with the highest, squeakiest voice on the waterway asked for a “slow pass”. No problem, said the Admiral, and he said he would slow down as well. Squeaky Captain asked how slow he was going, and he said down to 7.2 miles per hour. Then Squeaky slowed to the same speed and it took about ten minutes for her to get past us. However, once she passed in her shiny new boat, Sea Cat, she roared off ahead, and we thought we wouldn’t be seeing Beaucoup Bucks again. However, shortly after the swing bridge at Alligator River swung open for us, and we headed into Albemarle Sound, we noticed a boat, still, just rocking back and forth in the same place in the water a little bit ahead of us and to our portside. As we approached the location, Squeaky radioed to tell us that she had missed the green marker, and could we point it out. The green marker, a buoy was just ahead and to our starboard. The Admiral transmitted this information to Squeaks, and she said: “Oh, thank you very much.”

We continued on our course, and kept looking back to see if Sea Cat was going to follow us. This particular part of the Sound involves zigging and zagging around a series of red and green markers, if you want to stay in the narrow channel and not run aground. It appeared that Sea Cat had neither zigged nor zagged, but plowed straight ahead – and landed on a shoal. This can do serious damage to your propellers. We expected to hear Sea Cat put out a call for help. But no squeaks came over the radio. We looked back from time to time and Sea Cat was still “sitting” in the same place, rather low in the water. No call for help. No movement. This area is extremely isolated. There is no Towboat US nearby, nor are there very many boaters or land people around. Ever hear of Columbia, North Carolina? It was sort of near there. But Coinjock was 34 miles away. And the Admiral did not know of any place where a large boat could be towed out of the water. Sea Cat never put out a distress signal, and we continued on our way.

Perhaps thirty minutes later, a familiar high-pitched squeaky voice came on the radio: “This is Sea Cat on your stern. I’d like to make a slow pass.” What the ___? Sure enough, we looked back, and Sea Cat was charging through the waters about 20 yards behind us and twenty yards to our portside. The Admiral said: “Sure, come ahead, but could you please move a little closer?” You see, the experienced captains know that a CLOSE slow pass means fewer waves from the wake. A more distant slow pass still creates a wake, and you have to deal with 6 or 7 waves, rather than 1 or 2. Squeaky moved Sea Cat a little closer to us, but seemed tentative about the move. As she passed us, she thanked the Admiral for pointing out the green marker. And then she said: “Can you tell I’m new at this and just learning what to do?” The Admiral chuckled and said it would be a good idea to learn at a somewhat slower speed, and perhaps Sea Cat’s novice captain would then have time to find the markers. Squeaky allowed as how slow might be better, as she roared off again at warp speed. We did not see Sea Cat again. God bless this tyro. She had another person on board, sitting next to her in the flying bridge. He was apparently the teacher. Who knows? Maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing either. But imagine flying around at 25 miles an hour on a dangerous sound in a boat worth at least a quarter of a million dollars – a boat that must weigh about 20 tons – and not knowing what you’re doing!

When we started out last June on our own sea adventure, I certainly did not know what I was doing, and the Admiral had experience with smaller boats on known waterways. That’s why we do everything in “Slow Motion.” The Admiral is super careful about studying the charts and putting waypoints into our Garmin navigation system every night before our next leg of the trip. We don’t travel when there is a likelihood of thunder and lightning or when high winds are in the forecast. Every moment that we are traveling the Admiral “has his head in the game”. He’s scanning the horizon, both with binoculars and unaided sight. He’s checking the charts. He’s watching the waterway directly in front, to the sides and behind us. He asks me to report on any boats coming up behind us, their size and their distance from us, as well as their speed. He listens to the radio for communications from the Coast Guard, Towboat US and other boaters around us. Piloting a boat is a constant challenge to all the senses and it requires total concentration. There are crab traps everywhere that you have to avoid with quick action. In areas with trees along the shore, there are loose logs and lumber floating in the water. There is constant shoaling so that the depths on the charts are not reliable and you have to look for changes in color in the waters, watching for sandy areas just beneath the surface. You can’t even rely on the markers or buoys all the time, because they get moved or broken off. And when you have a depth finder like ours, which freaks out every time we go over a “hole” in the water that is much deeper or shallower than where it has just been, sometimes you have to be even more vigilant, because you have no working gauge of the depth of the water you are crossing.

All the preparation makes for a far more enjoyable experience. Even though you have to concentrate fully on the waterway and what challenges a particular body of water presents, if you are prepared and know the course you are taking on a particular day, then you can take the time to notice the deer munching on some grass at water’s edge as you glide by, or turtles sunning on logs near the shore, or pelicans and seagulls dive bombing full speed into the water to spear their next meal, or bears swimming across a channel in front of your boat. That last thing – the swimming bears – we have not seen yet. But our guide told us that bears have been known to swim across some of the channels where we are traveling, so we are ready to be thrilled by that phenomenon. Let me not forget the amazing dawns that have graced our paths. This morning, starting in the dark at 5:07 a.m., the earth was slowly rotating within view of the sun. And we got a spectacular light show between 5:07 a.m. and 7 a.m., as the colors went from pale mauve, to pale pink and gold, fringed by shades of blue and charcoal, then to the bright red rubber ball bouncing up into the eastern sky and rising through one series of clouds after another, spreading reds, golds, pinks, and lavenders everywhere. Okay, these words don’t convey the true beauty of the dawn this morning. You had to be there.

While in Beaufort, South Carolina last century (or was it last week?), I found a Pat Conroy piece of nonfiction, My Losing Season. I have enjoyed his Beach Music and South of Broad, and I watched with amazement “The Great Santini” movie with Robert Duvall, Blythe Danner and Michael O’Keefe. My Losing Season is about Conroy’s real life growing up as a teenager with his extremely abusive Marine father, who beat his wife and all seven children in the Conroy family regularly, from a very young age until they were able to get away. Mostly, the book is about basketball, and Conroy’s love of it. The “Losing Season” in the books is the Citadel’s basketball season in 1966-67, when Conroy was the point guard for the Citadel, alternating between being a starter and a member of the “Green Weenies”, the second team which regularly beat the starters in practice. I recommend this book, whether you love basketball or not, but especially if you love basketball. What I’m learning from Conroy, again, is how rich the English language can be. I get lost in some of his sentences. Sure, he’s a bit flowery and occasionally super-sentimental (okay, maudlin), but he turns words into emotions better than any author I have recently read.

I stopped writing this blog nearly a week ago. It is now Thursday, May 23, and it’s been a week filled with lots of adventures on land, as the Admiral and I headed to Hershey Pennsylvania from the Atlantic Yacht Basin in Chesapeake Virginia. We’ve been without the Internet most of this week, and today I’m catching up on emails in the marina’s parts store, as my neck and back ache from bending over the laptop. So no more for now. Tune in to Chapter 79 for the events of this past week. We’ll be in Solomons, with any luck – and weather permitting – on Monday, Memorial Day. Just a hint of what is to come: Aquaculture! Millions of baby clams! Rehoboth Beach! Nic-O-Boli! The Amish! Choo choo train! Joan Kettering! The Art of Fielding! Tempting, isn’t it? Check back in a few days.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN: OSPREY AND THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN: OSPREY AND THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

How do I love Osprey Marina? Let me count the ways. I love the price of their diesel fuel, which is the best on the ICW. I love their docking help, which is led by Gene and a well-trained crew of two. I love their orange creamsicles for 75 cents. I love their bathrooms and showers. The Admiral and I love their working Wi-Fi, a rarity with marinas we have stayed at recently. I love their setting back down a channel surrounded by woods. I love their turtles coming right up to you – to beg for food, course – but still, turtles swimming around your boat – what’s not to like? I love their transient dockage price of one dollar per foot and five dollars for electricity, for a total overnight of $55. I love their “inside” person, Lynn, who is charming and efficient, an unusual combination. I am not the first boater to love Osprey Marina. They were recently voted the Number One Marina no the Intracoastal Waterway. I may come to this praise party a little late, but I have made up for that lateness with my ardor. Did I mention that they give you a “goody bag” with two breakfast pastries, crackers and pepper jelly? The Admiral took to the pepper jelly immediately. It’s probably gone. The marina is also very, very quiet at night, even though it was chock full of transient boaters. Lynn said they had the busiest day of their entire lives operating the marina. Still, we fell sound asleep with no disturbances by loud music, drunken yacht crew members (Charleston), or docktail parties. Kudos to Osprey Marina. You’re doing everything right, and you’re such good people.

Let’s see, we stayed at Osprey last night, and it seems like it was a week ago. That’s because today was filled with enough activity for several days. It’s Monday, May 13, and we left Osprey at 6:40 a.m. heading for Barefoot Marina in Myrtle Beach. If you read the blog about the CRRRASH at Myrtle Beach last fall, yes, it’s that marina, which suffered the visit of the obnoxious boater who didn’t know which way the wind was blowing and thus crashed into the port side and bow of Slow Motion, destroying his starboard cabin window and the anchor holder on our bow. Does the name Brian Orr ring a bell? What happened today at Barefoot Marina completely erased that bad experience. We intended to stop there, so that I could get my weekly lab work done. I had rented a car from Enterprise, which was supposed to pick me up at 2:30 p.m. We anticipated that we would not arrive until the afternoon. Well, with the early start from Osprey, our projected arrival at Barefoot was moved up to 9:30 a.m. And we actually arrived at 9:10 a.m. This started us thinking that we could go farther today, like to Southport, North Carolina, if I were able to get the rental car sooner and get my labs done in the morning. I made a call to Enterprise, and the best they could do was move me up to 11 a.m. There was also the issue of whether we would have to pay two different marinas for docking today, Barefoot and Southport. We thought that we would have to pay Barefoot something for the hours we were tied up there, and for the assistance they gave us in tying up. And we decided that if the dock master decided to charge us for a full day and night, we would stay at Barefoot and not move on until Tuesday morning.

The Admiral sent me off Slow Motion to talk with the dock master, George, to explain my situation and see whether he would charge a full day fee. It turns out that George is an angel, and he said that we would not have to pay at all for our hours at Barefoot today. I had told George about my problem with Enterprise, and he said: “Oh they’re so snooty. They always talk down to you in a condescending manner. Here’s a card I just got from Hertz. They’ve moved into this area and they say they will pick renters up at the marina. Give them a call.” George, what a sweetheart! I called right away, and within fifteen minutes, I was riding with the Hertz agent, Rick, back to the office a few miles away. I was at Labcorp at 10:40 a.m. and I was back at the boat before noon, blood drawn, quick stop at Burger King for a smoothie, return of the rental car and a ride back to the marina. Wow! This was only made possible by the kindness of George, the dock master, who is a real mensch, and the quick actions of Rick, the Hertz rep, who said he would pick me up in ten minutes – and he did! He also charged me a very good price for the use of a very nice car for a little more than an hour. These two guys are amazing. They made my day, and I am extremely grateful to both of them for going out of their way for a complete stranger. BTW, I called and cancelled the Enterprise reservation I had made, a full 45 minutes before they were going to meet me. Of course, my history with Enterprise has been one of mounting frustration waiting for the pickup that is routinely late, while making several calls to the office to find out if and when the driver has even left the office to pick me up. This has happened in every state along the Atlantic Coast. I rent a car once a week, and after a while, it wears on you. That’s not to say there haven’t been exceptions, like the folks at Enterprise in Key Largo – a shout out to Leeandra – but I didn’t ever have to wait for a pickup because I walked to the office, which was just a half mile from our marina. Still, it’s good to know that Enterprise is finally getting some competition from Hertz for rentals to boaters. It should make both companies better.

Back to the events of Monday, May 13. As we left the Osprey Marina, the dawn lighting was extraordinary. I took dozens of photos of the pre-sun sky and of the sun rising. This sunrise was pink and gold and pale blue and white. I can’t do it justice in words. Just wake up early enough tomorrow to look at your own sunrise, and you will probably be amazed at its beauty. I hope so. After oohing and aahing over the dawn and sunrise, I got back to the business of navigating. That meant being on the lookout for fast boaters and getting the numbers ready for the low bridge tenders. We knew from the accounts of other boaters that the bridge tender at Socastee Swing Bridge could be a little churlish, just a little. The Admiral called him the day before and the bridge tender opined that he would probably be able to give us an opening at 7 a.m., but not later because he had a lot of school kids in their school buses who relied on the bridge being open between 7:15 and 7:45 a.m. The “probably” part was troubling, and I doubt that the Admiral slept very well. As we approached the Socastee (Sock-as-tee – emphasis on Sock) Bridge, we called on the radio. No answer. We called again. No answer. Ominous. It was 6:53 a.m. when we called, and we were hoping he had remembered that he said he would probably open the bridge for us at 7 a.m. But apparently he wasn’t even on the bridge 7 minutes before. Or he was just messing with us. I think he was just messing with us, because we called on the phone (yes, bridges have their own phone numbers), and finally at 6:58 a.m., the bridge tender answered. We asked for a 7 a.m. opening, and he just said, grumpily: Come ahead and we’ll see. So we were supposed to move our 19 ton cruiser closer to the swing bridge, not knowing which way it swung open, before we could get a firm answer whether the tender would open the bridge.

Fortunately, there were two sailboats, Night Cap and New Wave, who were also looking for that mythical 7 a.m. opening at Socastee Bridge. They called the bridge tender on the radio too, and after about the 4^th call, he actually responded to New Wave that if the sailboat was actually at the bridge around 7 a.m., he might open it. So there we were, three boats in a row, all waiting for the autocratic bridge tender to decide whether to let us through or make us wait until all the school buses had crossed the bridge for the day. Today was our lucky day: Shortly after 7 a.m., and before 7:15 a.m., we saw the bridge traffic stop behind lowered railroad crossing type bars, and we saw the bridge slowly swing open – away from us. The first sailboat captain (Night Cap) graciously offered to let us go first, since he believed that we might be traveling at a faster speed. And we jumped at the opportunity and followed the swinging bridge as soon as it was open wide enough to let us pass. I stood on the deck and waved at Grumpy and gave him a thumbs up, and a “Namaste” (hands together in thankfulness). I don’t know if this will have any effect on his demeanor, but it always feels good to thank someone, even if they’re “only doing their job”.

As we glided through the open swing bridge, we saw more of the beauty of the Waccamaw River before us, cypress trees on both sides growing right out of the water, brown tea-colored water (leaves an indelible “moustache” on the bow of the boat), and porpoises appearing to lead us through this greenery. Our special greeters today were a series of bald eagles, who have nests along this river and sit majestically in their trees, most likely watching over their young’uns. Seeing these national treasures never grows old. The Admiral still gets an excited tone in his voice every time he points one out to me. He almost always does the spotting and pointing out. He would tell you it’s because I always have my head in a book, reading rather than enjoying all that nature has to offer us each day. That’s somewhat of an exaggeration. I don’t always have my head in a book – sometimes I’m playing a card game on my IPhone. Kidding! At any rate, whoever is the first “spotter” of the natural gems we see each day, it is still a high point of every day of cruising to see the wildlife enjoying the day as much as we are. And it gives us some hope that the waterway waters are not polluted to the point that they no longer can sustain the bird, mammal and fish species that entertain us daily. That indeed would be a very sad day, if we cruised the waterway amid thousands of dead fish and saw pock marked porpoises trying to survive and looked up into the trees and saw no nests and no bald eagles. Thank you, riverkeepers and waterkeepers, for all the work you do day in and day out to protect our rivers and the lands next to them.

It’s been a relatively bug-free journey north – knock on wood. Two days ago we were assaulted by huge black flies that really enjoy biting the Admiral’s legs. Who wouldn’t? We found out that we need an industrial strength fly swatter for them, and we had the equivalent of a gnat swatter. Still, once we closed the side isinglass window on the flying bridge, the fly armada was stymied, and we were left to pick off the ones which had already entered our space. The battle with the flies took up about an hour of our time as we traveled from the Estherville Minim Creek Canal ( I do not make these names up) into the Winyah Bay Channel south of Georgetown. Once past Georgetown, as we headed up our beloved Waccamaw River, it was a cruise without insect attacks. And remarkably, despite its location in the woods, Osprey, dear Osprey, was a bug-free zone. This is May, however, and things could probably turn during the hot, humid, wind-less days of the summer months – which all flying, creeping, crawling, biting, stinging creatures love.

To end the day that went on forever, Monday, May 13, we continued along our bugless way to the South Harbor Village Marina near Southport, North Carolina, the land of Linda’s ancestors. This is an historic village that I plan to visit one day, but not this time. We arrived at our marina at about 5:30 p.m. and, much to the Admiral’s surprise, we were not offered a place on the face dock, inside or out. Instead the dock master directed us to a slip. Yes, a narrow, way back inside the marina, slip, next to a wide catamaran – and the topper was that we had to back into it. Remember, Slow Motion has no bow thrusters. So the Admiral does something magical with the gears for each engine, playing reverse like a symphony, and Slow Motion slowly turns around. The dock master and I kept yelling “More Port! More Port!” (akin to SNL’s “More cowbell!”). There was one piling that hemmed in the slip to about 16 feet in width, which stuck out into the water on the starboard side. The Admiral missed this piling admirably and then eased Slo Mo back into the slip. The dock master was effusive with praise for his backing abilities. The Admiral now takes this praise with a certain equanimity, but each time his first response to “We’ll put you in a slip” is still one of dread mixed with the love of a challenge.

I realize that I haven’t regaled you with tales about my line handling, er, mis-handling. Funny about that. I have finally developed a certain confidence about the task of managing the lines as we approach the dock. One of the things I learned at my women boaters’ seminar in January is that you really don’t have to stand on your tiptoes on the edge of the boat, or on the back steps into the cockpit, and start throwing the lines from 20 feet away. You can actually wait until you are within a few feet of the dock and “hand” the lines to the waiting dock persons rather than heaving the lines at them and watching them fall into the drink. Life has become so much more pleasant with this revelation. The lines stay dry, and the dock persons tie them up to the cleats in record time. And I can run from one line to the next to secure both the stern and the bow of Slow Motion before the wind blows us off the dock. This is actually getting to be one of the funnest parts of my day. No more “fear and loathing” as I leave the flying bridge to “man” my station on the deck holding the first line I’m going to “hand” to a dock assistant. If you had told me nine months ago that I would ever feel comfortable doing this, I would have called you a false prophet. But, by Job, or somebody from the Old Testament, that prophecy has come true! I can hand off a line with the best of them, all dry all the time. Now, I know this boast will come back to bite me, but I have made major strides in this endeavor and feel safe reporting it here. Don’t worry, you’ll continue to read about my directionally challenged navigation woes – when will I ever remember that the ocean is to the East of us here? I can hear Vivian laughing, as she clearly recalls our first morning on the road heading west in 1967, when we found ourselves blinded by the sunrise. Some things change slowly, or maybe never change.

Slow forward to today, May 14. What a difference a change of state makes in the quality of bridge tenders! The South Carolina Socastee tender could not have been more off-putting. But here in North Carolina, we’re greeted with the warmest hospitality – genuine, sincere, good-natured, helpful advice from the bridge tender at Figure Eight Island Swing Bridge. He even opened the bridge on time, and then kept it open for straggling Elizabeth, the wayward sailboat, to chug on through. We helped Elizabeth too by being ahead of her and keeping the bridge open just long enough for her to move into her highest gear to make the opening. We didn’t need an opening, as the vertical clearance today was 22 and ½ feet. But we arrived just when Mr. Charm School was opening for Bobcat and Morning Glory, so we fell in behind them. He greeted each one of us with a “Howdy! How are you today?” And he waved each of us through with good wishes for our day and smooth waters for our journey. His accent was dripping with honey. I had forgotten the strength of the North Carolina accent. It was years ago, whenever Agnew was Vice President and my sister, Sue, thought he was wonderful, that she lived in Greensboro, North Carolina for a time. She came home to Bethlehem for a visit, and I didn’t recognize her voice. She had been totally overwhelmed by the North Carolina accent and could not say even one word without drawling. It was amazing to behold. I thought it was her – that she had a really absorbent ear. But it is also the strength of the accent itself that gets you hankerin’ to drop your g’s and stretch out your syllables. It’s such a friendly sounding accent – you just want to return warmth with warmth, as you find yourself adopting the inflections of the good citizens of North Carolina.

It is amazing how one act of kindness by a stranger can elevate your mood for a whole day, even longer sometimes. Many of you have probably seen the film “Pay it Forward”, Haley Osment’s last kid film, about how one act of kindness to you by a stranger leads to your own act of kindness to a stranger who crosses your path, and forward and forward and forward. I have seen this work time and again. Lots of people have bumper stickers that call for “random acts of kindness”, but I don’t think these acts of kindness are random. They are all part of the Kindness Spiral, which keeps moving along, around and upward, lifting us all to a better place. Thank you, all you strangers who have enriched my life and continue to show kindness to me and my loved ones, even though you have never met us before. You won’t even remember me, but I will always remember your kindness.

CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX: THE OCEAN ALTERNATIVE DAWNS ON US

CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX: THE OCEAN ALTERNATIVE DAWNS ON US

Oh, we sailed the ocean blue today and it was exhilarating. What a natural high! The only other boats we saw were shrimpers plying their trade with their crane-like antennae sticking out from each side dropping green nets into the deep. I hope they got a lot of shrimp, so maybe it won’t be so noisy around the hull of Slow Motion tonight. Last night at Jekyll Island, there was a constant ratatat-tat  sound, which was actually the sound of hungry shrimp munching on whatever has grown on or stuck to Slow Motion’s belly. Maybe we won’t need that bottom pressure washing after all. Not!

This morning before dawn we prepared for our journey on the Atlantic. We were headed to Thunderbolt, Georgia – taking the outside route. In this way we were going to avoid the hellish Little Mud River, which has captured many an unsuspecting cruiser at low tide and the muddy Hell Gate, equally treacherous at low tide for those who haven’t read up on their ICW low points. And let’s hear an Amen! Amen! to not encountering either Scylla or Charybdis today. Check your Greek mythology – not a perfect analogy, but close enough for comparison with other very dangerous threats to boaters. So part of the natural high was knowing that we were not going to be eaten alive or handed our lunch by the present day Scylla and Charybdis of the Georgia portion of the ICW.

Instead we cruised on smooth waters, with a “mild chop” at most – less than 1 foot high waves – for the entire morning. Only as we approached Wassaw Sound, our entry point out of the ocean back into the ICW did the wind pick up and buffet us about. But by that time, around 1 p.m., we were still celebrating the “ocean alternative” to mud and hell, and a “moderate chop” was not going to spoil our day. Yes, there was the issue of the missing buoys, which confounded us for a few minutes. As I awoke from a wonderful snooze – it’s not all work during the cruise – the Admiral tasked me to find the green buoy that was supposed to appear. I grabbed my binoculars and scanned the horizon and lo and behold I found it at 10 o’clock, right where it was supposed to be. This was after I had successfully located a red buoy at 1 o’clock on the starboard side. We knew we were in business after that. And I discovered that I have another useful skill for navigation: I can spot buoys with my binocs, which are low to the water and miles away. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. I haven’t been very good at reading the clearance gauges on the questionable bridges (anything around 20 feet in height) in our path, not until we’re right upon the bridges, and the Admiral has already made out the digits. But apparently, my eyes and my binocs work great when it comes to spotting buoys, and for that both the Admiral and I are very grateful. Now if only I could learn to tie a bowline in a few seconds, or a clove hitch. So much still to master. But that’s the fun of this adventure without deadlines and with just a little nudge from the Admiral from time to time – okay, a big nudge.

We arrived at the Thunderbolt Marina a little after two in the afternoon, not nearly as drained as the day before, when we had zigged and zagged on the ICW and were “waked” a few times by, you know, those fatheads. I think that’s what the Admiral is saying as they roar past us. We docked rather effortlessly with the help of Josh, who is new to the marina part of Thunderbolt after working in the boatyard since he was seven. He looks about 16 now, but is probably in his twenties. We thought we had a problem with the starboard engine battery, and maybe we do, but since we had called ahead for a knowledgeable repair person to come to our boat to check it out upon docking, the dang battery appeared to be working fine. The starboard engine started without hesitation. This is the doctor’s office syndrome transferred to the marina. Let’s hope that the battery is aware that the repair person is still “on call” when we leave at 7 a.m. tomorrow. This morning at 6:05 a.m., the battery was acting up, and the Admiral wasn’t sure we would have the use of the starboard engine today, but finally it worked and we were off to enjoy dawn on St. Simon’s Sound, heading toward the Atlantic.

It’s a treat to have a few afternoon hours to do things, so I wasted only an hour playing around on the computer before I took the dirty clothes to the washer and took myself to the shower. The Admiral took a walk along the dock and was quite sociable with our neighbors in the sailboat, who spend their winters in the Bahamas and hail from Oriental, North Carolina. We’ve run into a few couples in the past few days who have spent every winter for the past three or four years in the Bahamas. It appears that there are no scissors and no razors – at least for the men – in the Bahamas.

Before I forget, let me try to evoke the hour-long dawn we experienced leaving Jekyll Harbor Marina at 6:05 a.m. Everything started out pale pink, the sky, the water reflection of the sky, the air, other boats. Everywhere, it was subtly pink. Then a golden orb rose on the horizon and smashed through the pink haze. Suddenly there was gold streaming across the water to Slow Motion’s starboard side. The water picked up the color in its full brightness, because it was dead calm. Then one of our favorite playmates dived out of the glassy water surface and dived right back in. The lone porpoise did this several times to our delight and awe. How can one animal be so graceful and have such impeccable timing? This was a dawn to remember. I kept snapping photos, but none does justice to what we actually saw. Words fall short too. Rest assured, however, this was a spectacular way to start the day. At times like this, I wish everyone I love were here to share the moments with us.

How do you end a day that started out with unparalleled beauty all around? We found a way. It doesn’t sound poetic, but Tubby’s Tank House did it for us. This Thunderbolt restaurant up the road from the marina is a piece of the Keys that has been transplanted here. There is a definite Georgia flavor to it, however, not just in the heavy regional accents of the wait people and the customers. With every entrée hush puppies are served – homemade hush puppies of varying sizes but uniform deliciousness. And my side dish for the steamed shrimp (seasoned perfectly) was a cinnamon basted baked sweet potato – a vegetarian’s dream meal. It was heavenly. The shrimp were plump and plentiful, and the Admiral thought there was a touch of sherry in the cole slaw. The Admiral had THE BEST fried oysters he has ever eaten, and one of them was the largest ever captured and fried. All in all, this was more than we had ever hoped for, particularly after our ordinary cheeseburger dinner last night at Seajay’s the restaurant on site at the Jekyll Harbor Marina. Before you start wondering what happened to the Admiral’s culinary skills, the night before that we finished the amazing fajitas the Admiral had prepared, which carried us through three “saboroso” suppers on board. We still enjoy the Admiral’s fare most of the time. These two nights out in a row are the exception. And the dinner tonight, for both of us, was exceptional. Thank you, Tubby.

It’s almost Mother’s Day. And I think of my mother a lot, how much she would enjoy this water adventure with me. And I believe she is here with me. She and my sister, Jean, are in the front cabin in the bunks. They were both much more than mothers, but as mothers they both excelled. My sister, Sue, is in their league, as is my sister in law, Lois, and my friend, Barbara. I know my BBs Marlea, Mary Jane, Carol and Pat are fantastic mothers too. Sondra is a great mother who unfortunately does not get the recognition she deserves. And those of us who are not biological mothers, like Carol, Louisa and I, are great aunts and “step” mothers (whatever that means) – and we are/were great daughters too. After all, it really gives you a leg up as a great mother if you have a great daughter or a great son to help you along the way to your pinnacle of motherdom. And when you don’t have that leg up, it’s all the more amazing that you continue to be wise and motherly, even when your child falls short in the empathy department. Yes, I’m babbling. But I am so grateful that I “discovered” the greatness in my mother when I was in my late thirties, so that I could get much closer to her than I had ever been as a child. Thank you, Lila Kramer, for helping me open up to my mother and for helping my mother share some hitherto hidden thoughts with me.  Before I start blubbering, Happy Mother’s Day to all of us.

CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE: THE JACKSONVILLE EXPERIENCE

CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE: THE JACKSONVILLE EXPERIENCE

Day Five in Jacksonville nee Cowford, Florida. See, it started out as a place where the “cows” could “ford” the St. John’s River. Now it’s the largest city in terms of acreage in the United States (over 900 acres) and its metropolitan area has a population of more than one million (1.3 million in 2010). One of its most famous native sons is Oliver “Babe” Hardy, who made his first 34 films here in the early 20^th century, when Jacksonville was the center of the film industry. Of course, Jacksonville also boasts of such native/adopted daughters and sons as A. Philip Randolph, Eartha M. M. White, Anna Kingsley, Alfred I. DuPont, Henry Morrison Flagler, Elizabeth Edwards, Bob Hayes, Nancy Hogshead, Chipper Jones, Tug McGraw, Tim McGraw, Ray Charles, and, okay, if I must, Pat Boone. There is the little known fact that the African American film making industry got its start in Jacksonville in 1916. Richard Norman (white) opened Norman studios and teamed with Oscar Micheaux (Black) and the Lincoln Notion Picture Company to make movies with African Americans on both sides of the camera, geared for an African American audience. While these movies were called “race movies”, they depicted African Americans in a positive manner. Micheaux is considered “the most successful African-American filmmaker of the first half of the twentieth century.” (Wikipedia). If this information wins you a lot of money on Jeopardy, I ask for only 10 per cent.

Jacksonville also has a past, a very long past, going back to the Timucuan Age, when native Americans known as the Timucuan tribe hunted the forests and farmed the fields from the First Coast (that’s what they call the coast in Jacksonville) to Orlando. They were here, doing quite well, when the Spaniards arrived and tried to subjugate them. There had been native American civilizations in this area for at least 6000 years prior to the star-crossed arrival of the Spaniards in search of, what else, gold and silver. The Timucuans were not only great farmers and hunters, but also great artists and artisans. There is an owl totem in the Timucuan Preserve Visitor Center which is the “largest wooden effigy ever recovered from an archaeological site in North or South American.” Unfortunately, they also had ongoing conflicts between various tribal branches. And this made them vulnerable to the onslaught of European fortune hunters.

But wait, what happened to the Seminoles, the most well-known Florida native Americans? They were actually very late arrivals to Florida territory. The Timucuans preceded them by centuries. The Seminoles did not show up in Florida until the late 1700’s, arriving from Georgia and Alabama – the first carpetbaggers. By the time the Seminoles arrived, the Timucuan tribe had been nearly decimated by the diseases brought to their settlements by European interlopers. So the actual, real, 100 percent native Americans of Florida are the Timucuans – how ‘bout that, “Noles?

The first Europeans to land in the area of present day Jacksonville were the Spanish. They naturally claimed all of Florida as their territory. They first came to Florida in 1513 and shortly thereafter set up missions to “convert” the native Americans. There were no Spanish settlements evident in this area in 1562, when a group of French Huguenots, seeking freedom of religion, came to the First Coast. Jean Ribault led a group of 150 settlers, who ultimately headed north and set up camp in Charlesfort (now Charleston). Ribault went back to France for supplies, but while he was gone, the settlers ran out of provisions in Charlesfort, left it, and moved south to set up a new colony on the St. Johns River, which they called Fort Caroline. Some of these French settlers did not move south, but built their own ocean craft and went back to France. However, according to the National Park Service’s rendition at the Timucuan Preserve, some of them did not make it, because they ended up being breakfast, lunch and dinner for their stronger, more cannibalistic colleagues.

The French Huguenots lasted all of twenty years in this area, but they made such an impression that our government and the Daughters of the American Revolution have seen fit to construct a “replica” of their Fort Caroline and to build a monument to Ribault. The French were not successful farmers, and the Timucuans had to bail them out repeatedly with provisions. The French were more interested in gold and silver, so the Timucuans gave them some of these precious metals too, while saving their lives with food and shelter. Ribault finally returned with provisions in 1565, but by then the French settlers had experienced three mutinies and were at war with some of the Indian tribes.

Enter the Spanish, for their second visit to this area. Pedro Menendez de Aviles had established St. Augustine 35 miles north of the French settlement, Fort Caroline. He intended to get rid of the French, and he succeeded on September 20, 1565, when his soldiers defeated the French at Fort Caroline. The French were only 200 to 250 strong at that time. The Spanish killed all of them, except about 50 women and children and a small number who fled. The Spanish renamed Fort Caroline – it became San Matteo. The French and Spanish fought again in 1568 over this fort, and it was burned to the ground. The Spanish rebuilt the fort, but left it in 1569 and moved up the St. Johns River to build Fort San Nicolas, which served to protect their settlement at St. Augustine.

The Spanish maintained missions and small settlements around Fort San Nicolas for almost two hundred years, and they busied themselves with converting the Native Americans to Catholicism and trying to live off the land. They too need assistance from the Timucuans and other Native Americans, who were better farmers and hunters. At the end of the Seven Years War in Europe and the French and Indian War, Spain got out of this part of Florida in 1763, when the Spanish gave this territory to the British. The Spanish took the remaining Timucuan tribal members with them when they left – how thoughtful. The British did not hold on to this property for long, giving back control of the area to the Spanish in 1783.

The British during their 20 year reign over this area are given credit for building plantations along the St. Johns River – wonder who worked on those plantations? That’s excluded from the history I have reviewed so far, but one can surmise that a certain ethnic group was enslaved to do the farming for cotton, indigo, rice and vegetables. The British took lumber to build ships and expand their navy. And they expanded the port on the St. Johns River. The Brits are responsible for the name “Cowford” for what is today Jacksonville. During the Revolutionary War, a number of British loyalists came south to settle in this area – the very first snowbirds.

When Spain got this land back in 1783, the Spanish were not successful in holding on to it. There were farmers from Georgia who wanted to get their hands on this fertile land. And the Spanish Empire was in decline. Then Andrew Jackson came riding into Florida on his horse, leading military raids against the native Americans, and finally, Spain said, essentially: “Take it. Adios.” Jackson became the first military governor of the Florida Territory, including this area, and he left a strong enough impression that “Cowford” was later changed to “Jacksonville”. But Jackson never stepped foot on the land where his namesake city is situated.

Spain turned over Florida to the United States in 1821. Shortly thereafter, the American settlers living on the north side of Cowford planned a town and named it Jacksonville in 1822. During the Civil War, Jacksonville shipped hogs and cattle to supply the Confederate troops. There is a very large statue of a Confederate soldier on a monument dedicated to the Confederacy in the center of downtown Jacksonville, across from the public library and Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA). This is definitely the Deep South – still. However, during the Civil War the Union forces took control of Jacksonville in 1862 and kept control until the end of the war. There were constant skirmishes around Jacksonville during the war, and the occupation by the Union forces did not sit well with the community. Nevertheless, the Reconstruction Age brought prosperity to Jacksonville, as this city and St. Augustine became very popular winter resorts for the wealthy. Yellow fever outbreaks in the late nineteenth century in the Jacksonville area put a big damper on the tourist travel, and the snowbirds moved further south in Florida, following the newly expanded railroad to even warmer climes.

The twentieth century in Jacksonville started with the tragic “Great Fire of 1901”, which destroyed the business district and left 10,000 homeless. Out of the ashes grew a more dynamic city, with the helpful vision of architect John Klutho and the influence of, of all things, “prairie architecture” of Frank Lloyd Wright. In the span between 1901 and 1912 13,000 new buildings were completed. This is also when the film industry grabbed its foothold in Jacksonville, and the city became known as the “Winter Film Capital of the World”.

With the buildup for World War Two, the U.S. Navy made its presence known in Jacksonville with three naval bases. As I wandered down to the ocean at Jacksonville Beach, I read a historical sign which reported on the attack by three German U-boats on the SS Gulfamerica on April 10, 1942, right off the Jacksonville Beach coast. I don’t remember reading about this in our high school history books. I never realized that the Germans came this close and actually attacked and sank a U.S. boat This boat was carrying 90,000 barrels of fuel oil and it had been equipped with weapons for defense. Do you think the Germans knew about the fuel? Jawohl, meine Damen und Herren. The seven naval armed guards that traveled with the ship, on its maiden voyage from New York to Port Arthur, Texas, were not sufficient to prevent the attack or save the ship. Nineteen crewmen died by drowning or from shellfire, as they tried to abandon the ship, as ordered by the captain. After this disaster, Governor Holland ordered a blackout of coastal areas “to prevent the silhouetting of passing ships.” (Historical sign).

The Navy still is instrumental to the economic health and welfare of Jacksonville. As we face the reality of sequestration, every day there is an article in the local paper that the Navy will remain in Jacksonville – how long, and in what numbers, remains to be seen. The Blue Angels, who are based here, are grounded by the cutbacks. This means no Blue Angels appearance at the Salinas, California Air Show this year -- or at any air shows for the foreseeable future. Oh well, at least the Congress members were able to fly out of Washington without having to wait in lines in the airport. Never has there been more of a display of “Me, me, me” than the show the Senators and Representatives have been putting on for us since the re-election of President of Obama. The only other mantra besides “me, me, me” is apparently “The poor? Who cares?” Add to that “The children? Who cares?” And “The elderly? Who cares?” Gabby Giffords is right about the cowardice of certain Congressional members, particularly on the background check vote. But their cowardice is clearly equaled by their avarice. The irony, of course, is that it is the arch conservative Tea Partyers who are slurping up everything they can from the public trough, while shutting off any faucets that used to provide public aid to the neediest in our society. Let them eat cake! Shame on you who wear a conservative cloak over your greedy, small-minded, stomach-bulging bodies.

Let’s see, Jacksonville. That’s pretty much its history. At the moment, as I visited the central city to catch the MOCA exhibit and a few of the documentary films they were showing, I noticed that the downtown is pretty rundown. Sure, it was raining hard most of the day. But it was Saturday, and there was little sign of life outside the museum. There were a few homeless men wandering around the park and huddling under the building overhangs. There was a coffee/book store that had a few patrons, but it had already closed – on Saturday! – when I went back to my car at 4:30 p.m. There was no sign of prosperity in the few blocks where I walked. This is in the shadow of the mammoth stadium built for the Jacksonville Jaguars, referred to as “the bottom feeders of the NFL” by a local sports columnist. Ouch! Come on, Jacksonville, you can do it!

How about a little stimulus money from the federal govern—oops! No can do, with the 60 majority requirement in the Senate and Paul Ryan and his Ayn Rand followers in the House. Sorry. You’re just too poor to get any help. Meanwhile, a few miles away, the Other World is gathering for the TPC (Tournament Players Championship) premier PGA golf tourney at Sawgrass this week. Beaucoup bucks pouring into the area for five days. There are probably a few worthy charities that will see some of that. But I doubt that the downtown area of Jacksonville will be revitalized by the revenue from this event. Some problems need government intervention. And for that, we need government revenue. And for that, we need more taxes. Yes, I said it – more taxes. As Nobel Prize winning economist Paul Krugman says over and over and over again in his New York Times column, you have to spend your way out of a recession. Pay down the deficit in prosperous times. Simple economics. You can’t use austerity measures to put people back to work. It has never worked, and just because a lot of wrong-headed people in Congress stamp their feet and insist on cutting, cutting, cutting, does not mean it will work. It won’t. Come out of your tanning parlor, Speaker Boehner, and see the natural light. Spend our way out of this recession. Put people back to work. The corporations are sitting on billions of dollars of cash. Let’s get some of it by taxes, and give back to the government its critical job-creating ability, since the private corporations prefer to sit on the sidelines, increase their profits and please their shareholders.

That’s the way I see it, especially after visiting another downtrodden American city in need of help from the government – now. The government money won’t work miracles, like putting the Jaguars in the Superbowl, but it just might alleviate a little pain, reduce unemployment and put life back into the Center City. That’s a start.