CHAPTER EIGHTY EIGHT: DELAWARE CITY -- A FORT, A CANAL AND A WONDERFUL MARINA

CHAPTER EIGHTY EIGHT: DELAWARE CITY -- A FORT, A CANAL AND A WONDERFUL MARINA

On Wednesday, July 24, the day before my tour of the New Castle courthouse, I took a 10 minute ferry boat ride from Delaware City to Fort Delaware. I did not know anything about this place until I arrived and received some bits of history from the men and women, some in Civil War uniforms, who “command” the fort. After my visit, I started reading up on the granite and brick structure that dominates Pea Patch Island, and my research was supplemented by the knowledge that NC Courthouse docent “Bill” (Blog Chapter 87) shared with me. According to my reading, Fort Delaware has been called “Alcatraz Lite”, “Gitmo North”, and “Andersonville North.” The reference to Andersonville at least places Fort Delaware on the right time line in history. Both are notorious prisons set up for Confederate soldiers during the Civil War. Andersonville still conjures up privation and death. The historians have been kinder to Fort Delaware, or perhaps they have just ignored it until recently. In 1994, Fort Delaware’s role in housing thousands of confederate prisoners in extremely crowded barracks was exposed in a documentary entitled Civil War Journal, a production of the A & E network, which filmed part of its episode “War Crimes: The Death Camps” at Fort Delaware.

A lot of sources start the history of this fort just before the Civil War. But the history actually begins with a French military engineer, Pierre Charles L’Enfant in 1794, when he was looking for a site to build a fort to protect American commerce. He happened upon Pea Patch Island, which he butchered into “Pip Ash”. Dr. Henry Gale of New Jersey laid claim to the island as his private hunting grounds, and he refused $30,000 from the U.S. military to hunt somewhere else. Undaunted, the Delaware legislature seized “Pip Ash” on May 27, 1813. Prior to that, there were efforts to fortify the island to defend Philadelphia during the War of 1812. A seawall and dykes were built, but no fort went up. The first known fort was star-shared and was under construction in 1817, with sandstone as the main building material. This fort was completed still underway in 1821, as the Board of Engineers said that “the fort on the Pea Patch Island and one on the Delaware shore opposite, defend the water passage as far below Philadelphia as localities will permit.” However, there were huge construction problems with this fort, with improper pile placements and the cracking of bricks. The first commander of Fort Delaware took control in 1825. The second commander took the reins in 1829, a Major Benjamin Kendrick Pierce, Dartmouth graduate and older brother of President Pierce.

In 1831, when Lt. Stephen Tuttle was at the fort to assess foundation issues, a fire broke out and the soldiers stationed at Fort Delaware were sent to the federal arsenal in New Castle until the fort was repaired and able to be occupied again. The fort was torn down instead in 1833. What was left of this first fort was used to reinforce the seawall around Pea Patch Island. The next Fort Delaware was designed as a polygon and was to be built in masonry, not sandstone. Work began in 1836, but it was halted when Dr. Gale’s descendant, Joseph T. Hudson, laid claim to the island, and 10 years of legal battles over title to the island ensued. Hudson finally won, but for his efforts the court ordered the government to pay him $1005.00 for the island. What a rip-off! His predecessor should have taken the $30,000 offer.

Finally, with ownership clearly in the hands of the government, a major fortress was built out of granite, gneiss, cement and brick between 1848 and 1859. It was shaped in the form of a pentagon. Most of it was completed before the Civil War, but work continued until full completion in1868. It took years and a lot of experiments with pilings to figure out how to build a foundation in the marshy soil that would support a massive fort. The pile driving was finished in 1851, and then gneiss and granite were hauled from Maryland, Pennsylvania and Maine to build the tall, thick walls and the stairways. Two million bricks were brought from Wilmington and Philadelphia to build the living quarters, cisterns, casemates, magazines and inner wall. Construction continued through the 1850’s and in 1861, before the start of the Civil War, a small garrison of 20 regular army soldiers were stationed at the fort under the command of Captain Augustus A. Gibson. As the war began, the focus shifted from fort construction to arming the fort, and 20 columbiad guns (they look like cannons) were mounted on the fort ramparts.

Fort Delaware was never attacked during the entire Civil War. The guns that were installed had a range of 3 miles, while the guns on most ships at the time had a range of 1 mile. Even if the Confederacy had been able to muster a respectable navy, its few ships would not have tried to attack Fort Delaware. So this mighty granite and brick fortress, by its sheer presence, warded off any efforts to attack Philadelphia and Wilmington. All the work in building this large structure did not go to waste, as the Union Army started housing Confederate prisoners of war at Fort Delaware. Also imprisoned at Fort Delaware were convicted Union soldiers and “political prisoners” and privateers. At first the prisoners were housed inside the fort, but as their numbers grew – and grew – wooden barracks were built – 53 of them – outside the fort, which ended up housing 33,000 prisoners during the course of the Civil War. At the peak of the war, after the Battle of Gettysburg, there were 12,000 to 14,000 prisoners housed in barracks designed to hold 200 prisoners each – three tiers of wooden slats for beds. These barracks were too hot in the summer and way too cold in the winter. Nobody said it would be easy being a prisoner of war. The food was horrible. Prisoners were given two meager meals a day – watery soup, a piece of meat and a slice of stale bread. Records show that Fort Delaware received more care packages than any other prisoner of war camp in the United States. Hmm, wonder who really got the contents of those packages.

At least one Confederate prisoner made out pretty good, under the circumstances. According to “Bill”, my New Castle courthouse docent, his soldier alter ego is a Confederate soldier who was offered the opportunity to join Captain Ahl’s Battery, the famous battery comprised almost exclusively of Confederate war prisoners, who had to swear allegiance to the union. Once they became a part of Ahl’s Battery, they had the dubious distinction of guarding the other Confederate prisoners of war. They were mistrusted and hated by both Union and Confederate soldiers alike. They were a necessity, since there were very few Union soldiers stationed at Fort Delaware, and someone had to try to prevent the Confederate soldiers from escaping. Attempts at escape were numerous. Some prisoners swam to freedom; some drowned. One prisoner is reputed to have ice skated to freedom one winter when the Delaware River froze over. “Bill’s” Confederate turned Union soldier (he wears both uniforms in re-enactments) first left Fort Delaware as part of the Dix-Hill Cartel. This was an agreement signed on July 22, 1862 to handle the exchange of prisoners between the Union and the Confederacy. It took a long time to reach this agreement for a variety of reasons – most of them based on each side’s distrust of the other. But just six months later Jefferson Davis suspended the exchange in protest over the execution of a New Orleans resident, William Mumford, by Union General Benjamin F. Butler. In retaliation Secretary of War Stanton ordered a halt to the exchanges of commissioned officers. Then, of course, the Confederacy refused to parole or exchange any African-American soldiers. They were considered “runaways” by the revolting southerners, who returned them to their “owners.” Boo!

“Bill’s” soldier did not get caught up in the suspension/halt of exchanges. He was duly exchanged, and apparently he went right back to war for the Confederacy. His freedom was short-lived, as he was captured at Gettysburg and was returned to Fort Delaware for a second stint as a prisoner of war. That’s when he seized the opportunity to be a traitor to all by joining Ahl’s Battery of prisoner guards. He must have been reliable enough at that job, because he earned a weekend parole to leave Pea Patch Island, with the understanding he would return. He did not. He kept going straight back to Cincinnati, Ohio and resumed his civilian life as a house painter. He was successful enough to hire his father to help with the business. And the war raged on without him. Apparently, there was not a huge effort to find Confederate deserters in Cincinnati either during the war or after. “Bill” escaped further incarceration and punishment as he happily painted homes along the Ohio River. Thanks to my courthouse docent for telling me “Bill’s” story. He just wore both his uniforms recently at the July, 2013 re-enactment to commemorate the 150^th anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg. This type of up close and personal history was sorely lacking from my American history books. Imagine how many more school children would be conversant about the Civil War if “Bill” or other folks who become individual Civil War soldiers were to appear in their classrooms recounting their firsthand experiences in battle. Maybe American history is just too passé, and the future belongs to the high tech industries. After all, you can’t make a  living pretending to be a Confederate or a Union soldier.

As one who believes we have to learn from our mistakes from the past, I find American history extremely relevant. We would not have a prison in Guantanamo, if we had not had these huge prisoner of war enclaves in the Civil War. We have a history of taking lots of prisoners of war and keeping them for very long periods of time, preferably on isolated islands (Dry Tortugas, Pea Patch, Cuba), away from the public eye. And most of the time with these prisoners, it’s “out of sight, out of mind.” They’re captured, they’re imprisoned, and often they die in prison. The number of prisoner deaths at Fort Delaware is listed at about 2500, half of whom died in a smallpox epidemic in 1863. Other major causes of death were lung inflammations, diarrhea, typhoid and malaria. Smaller numbers of prisoners died of scurvy, pneumonia and erysipelas (St. Anthony’s Fire, an intense bacterial infection). Five prisoners drowned and only seven died from gunshot wounds. (Source: Wikipedia history of Fort Delaware). The Government will correctly point out that 2500 deaths is less than 10% of all the prisoners who were held at Fort Delaware during the Civil War and after. But cold statistics don’t change the impact of these 2500 deaths on the family members and friends who never saw these soldiers again. The big picture is that war itself is the problem, and the inhumane treatment of prisoners of war is just a part of the insanity of war, but a very significant part in my opinion. How we treat prisoners of war is always a test of our moral character, a test we often fail. There is a recent book entitled “The Immortal 600”, which is about the 600 Confederate prisoners of war taken from prison at Fort Delaware in 1864 and placed in front of Union forts on Morris Island, South Carolina, as Confederate and Union artillery rained down on them. They were in effect human shields for the Union soldiers. Those who survived the “human shield” experience were taken to Fort Pulaski near Savannah, Georgia, where they were subjected to severe food rationing. Enough already. Naturally, this inhumane use of Confederate prisoners of war was said to be in retaliation for a similar number of Union prisoners of war, who were placed in front of Union guns in Charleston to protect the rebel soldiers. “They did it first!” is always such a worthy justification.

All right. Let’s lighten up a little. But before we leave Fort Delaware, be aware that there are a number of “ghost tours” which introduce you to some of the tortured souls of prisoners of war who never left Pea Patch Island. Don’t let me discourage you from visiting Fort Delaware. The volunteers who do re-enactments at the Fort are worth the price of the admission ticket ($10). It’s not every day you see a blacksmith making tools or a group of union soldiers firing a columbiad. It looks like a cannon to me. Whether you’re a Civil War buff or not, the tours and lectures that are offered are all enlightening. For the birdwatchers among you, this is the place to go for egrets, ibises, herons and the occasional bald eagles. They have established a huge foothold on Pea Patch Island, and now this little island has more wading birds than anywhere else, except Florida.

Do you know what else of historical significance is in Delaware City? The beginning of the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal. Right now, Slow Motion is tied up in the original canal near the low-lying drawbridge, which no longer draws. The original canal had four locks, one in Delaware City, and it was dug up by 2600 workers, mostly Irish-American and African-American, paid seventy five cents ($.75) per day to dig a ditch 10 feet deep and 60 feet wide. That digging and excavating went on for five years, from 1824 to 1829. It was funded privately by the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal Company. Once the canal was opened in 1829, it reduced the sea travel distance from Philadelphia to Baltimore by 300 miles. Mule and horse teams were used to help pull the vessels through the locks. One lock still remains here in Delaware City. It is extremely narrow – 22 feet across – and it is just for show. The Army Corps of Engineers did major improvements to the canal, when the government bought it in 1919 for $2.5 million. By 1927 ACE had moved the entrance of the canal to Reedy Point, two miles south of Delaware City. The locks were eliminated. The waterway was widened and deepened considerably. As we traversed the Canal last week in Slow Motion, its dimensions were 14 miles long, 450 feet wide and 40 feet deep. ACE kept widening and deepening the Canal over the years, particularly in light of the fact that between 1938 and 1950 8 ships had collided with bridges along the Canal. And high-level, stronger bridges were built in 1960 (Summit Bridge) and 1968 (Reedy Point Bridge), as part of Congress’s 1954 law authorizing further improvements to the Canal. Our excursion through the Canal was uneventful. We saw a few large barges being pulled and pushed by tugboats, but no large commercial ships. For most of the 14 miles the Canal’s sides are lined with trees. There is a swift current, which can help or hurt your speed, depending on when and in what direction you’re traveling. At the Chesapeake end of the Canal there are two marinas not worth mentioning – too much noise and too much current. At the Delaware end of the Canal, there is the jewel known as the Delaware City Marina.

How can we do justice to the Delaware City Marina? The Admiral is going to send a complimentary write up to Active Captain. Bottom line: This marina is run right, from top to bottom. The owner knows what he’s doing, is hands on, and has a great sense of humor as well. He has a boatyard as part of the operation, and the boatyard repair persons also serve as dock hands. They know what they’re doing. There is a current where we are docked, and they are experts at turning our boat around in the current. They told us as we docked that if we need any part for our boat, they would order it and it would be here by 5 a.m. the next morning. As it turned out, we needed a part for our dinghy, the Boston Whaler, and they picked it up for us. That’s only part of the story. The Admiral has been trying to sell the Boston Whaler for some time, because it is way too heavy for Slow Motion. It was sitting on the roof of the sun deck during our entire 3500 mile journey, and its weight was pressing down on the sun deck roof, making an impression in it. We did not have any luck with our previous ads to sell the Whaler. The Delaware City Marina owner wrote up an ad and posted it. Within two days, the tender was sold, for the asking price. Now that’s service way above and beyond what we usually get at a marina. The office manager is sooo efficient. The dock hands/repairmen are skilled. Let’s hear it for the owner and staff of the Delaware City Marina. Hip, hip hooray!

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHTY SEVEN: COURTING DELAWARE HISTORY

CHAPTER EIGHTY SEVEN: COURTING DELAWARE HISTORY

If you like American history, you’ll love Delaware, The First State. This small land mass is chock full of colonial and Civil War stories.  In the past few days, while Slow Motion has been tied up at the Delaware City Marina, I have taken the opportunity to walk around Delaware City, take the ferry to Fort Delaware on Pea Patch Island, and drive to the courthouse in Historic New Castle. It was at the courthouse that I met my lecturer in all things Delaware, a member of the Fort Delaware Society who volunteers to share the story behind the stately brick courthouse next to the New Castle Green, when he’s not busy re-enacting Civil War events. You see, he’s two people, the modern man who dispenses information in the well of the court and the nineteenth century man, who left Cincinnati, Ohio in 1861 to join the Confederate Army in Virginia, only to be captured and imprisoned at Fort Delaware for a few years. But that story has to wait – let’s start with the courthouse. I do not know this fellow’s modern day name, but his soldier alter ego is “Bill”.

“Bill” started my education with the surprising (to me) revelation that New Castle was first settled by the Swedes in the early 17^th century (1638), who named everything Christina (the river, the town, the fort) in honor of their young queen. The Swedes brought a mixed group to populate New Sweden, now the Delaware Valley from Wilmington south to New Castle. They included Swedes naturally, but also Finns, Dutch “and one African”, according to The New Sweden Center of Wilmington, Delaware. The Native Americans who preceded all Europeans were the Lenapes, a peaceful group who got along well with the European interlopers. New Sweden Colony lasted less than 20 years, 1638 – 1654, and then the Dutch became the top European group imposing their government and mores on the area. The Dutch Rule lasted nine years, 1655 to 1664 and then the English established their supremacy in 1665. The English remained in charge until 1776. And you know what happened then, right?

A brief word about the Dutch. There is a handsome house in Historic New Castle, the Amstel House, which is open to tourists until 4 p.m. to tour and learn something from the docents who are enjoying the air conditioning inside. After “Bill” finished his discourse on the courthouse and the Civil War, I asked if any other historic sights remained open past 3:30, when the courthouse closed. He directed me to the Amstel House to learn about the Dutch Rule. I walked over to this house, a very short walk from the courthouse, and I entered at about 3:30 p.m. A woman who had a little Dutch boy haircut (like the little Dutch boy in the paint ads) came rushing toward me and told me she was just about to close. I asked her if closing time were 4:00 p.m., as indicated on the door of the house. She reluctantly said: “Yes”, as she looked at her watch, willing the minute hand to move from the 6 to the 12. When I showed no signs of leaving, she said perhaps she could give me a “very brief” tour of the house, but it would be “very brief.” I thanked her profusely and walked forward to follow her around the house. But she put up a stop sign and said: “That will be $5.” I said: “For a very brief tour?” She said: “We charge everyone.” Yes, and I bet they get the full tour, and they’re not greeted at the door by the little Dutch boy with a broom trying to sweep them back out on to the street a half hour before closing time. I have never formed any stereotypes about the Dutch, and I have not heard before that they are stingy or miserly, but really, what nerve to demand five dollars after trying to throw me out! I believe I would have made an unsolicited donation to show my gratitude for the “very brief” tour. But I was not in the proper frame of mind to cough up five dollars to this rude woman with the 19^th century haircut, especially after I had just spent forty minutes learning about the history of the area from a gentle soul who made no monetary demands whatsoever. Fie on this Dutch woman. The Amstel House was not that handsome. And, by the way, Bill had already told me that the Dutch called their military outpost in this area Fort Casimir. Why? I don’t know, and at this point I don’t really care.

Back to the English and their courthouse. The building in which I stood was a replica of the 1732 courthouse, which was built on the remains of the courthouse which had been in operation since the 1660’s. This 1732 building served both as a courthouse and as the general assembly for the first legislature of Delaware. New Castle was the capital of this area – three counties which were part of Pennsylvania until June 15, 1776, when the legislature passed a resolution separating from both Great Britain and Pennsylvania to create the State of Delaware. The court itself was presided over by three judges. There is a jury box with hard wooden seats. Only men of wealth, title and/or property were entitled to be jurors. Only men. There is a small table at which the prosecutor and the defense attorney sit, small enough so that they can whisper back and forth to try to reach a plea bargain without the defendant sitting in the dock 10 feet away hearing about his fate. There is a clerk’s table, upon which rests the biggest, fattest, heaviest Bible I have ever seen in a courtroom. Witnesses did not put their hands on the Bible. They had to kiss the Bible before taking the witness stand. Those days witnesses actually stood behind a lectern the entire time they testified. Kissing the Bible was the equivalent of putting one’s hand on the Bible and swearing to tell the truth. If you kissed the Bible, you were promising to give only true evidence in the case. Kissing the Bible was carried over to presidential inaugurations. When U.S. Presidents took the oath of office, starting with Washington, they kissed the Bible as part of the oath. Except for that heathen, Franklin Pierce, who deviated from this practice and was never really trusted to tell the truth about anything. (This is my opinion, not historical fact, or is it?)

If a criminal defendant was convicted, he paid a fine, if he was lucky, because the other punishments were being placed in stocks, whipped or hanged on the public green, conveniently right next to the courthouse. A pair of wrist irons was sitting on the clerk’s desk, ready to be attached to the defendant’s wrists to haul him out to the green for the punishment meted out by the three justices. “Bill” told me that the “age of reason” for the English court was seven years old. All humans were believed to know the difference between right and wrong by the time they reached age seven. There was no such thing as a coddling juvenile court. This meant that kids were entitled to juries, but they also were “entitled” to grownup punishment like the stocks, whipping and hanging. I asked whether women were ever brought in as defendants, and “Bill” did not know. He thought that women could sit on the public benches along with men and children. The English provided public trials before a jury of twelve men. I asked where the jury deliberation room was, and “Bill” said there was none. He said that the jury deliberated in place. I suggested that this probably made for quicker verdicts, but still it would be hard to discuss the facts of a case with the defendant, defense attorney, prosecutor and three judges staring at you from a distance of 15 to 20 feet. I postulated that perhaps the judges took a recess and went to their chambers, sending the attorneys out of the courtroom too, and putting the defendant in a cell. But “Bill” said the judges did not have any chambers to retire to, so they would have stayed put looking down on the jury during their not so confidential deliberations.

The population was probably still so small in these three southern Pennsylvania counties in the 1600’s and 1700’s that everybody knew everybody else, and the jurors would have known a lot more about each defendant than what was merely presented into evidence. This type of “neighborhood court” or “community court” became very popular in Castro’s Cuba, where it was believed that a defendant received a much fairer trial from people who actually knew him well and could judge him based not only on the facts of the crime, but also on the kind of life he led up to committing the crime. By virtue of the sparse population in the three southern counties of Pennsylvania in the 1600’s and 1700’s, the court in New Castle was very likely the prototype for such neighborhood courts. So there was really not much need for lengthy deliberations. You knew the guy sitting in the dock, and you knew if he had a history of stealing or not. Case closed. Oh what perversity we practice today with jury trials! Our notion of a fair trial is that a juror must know absolutely nothing about the defendant and absolutely nothing about the crime in order to be fair. If he/she knows anything, or has even heard anything, or God forbid, has even read anything about the defendant or the crime, they are presumed to be biased. Not knowledgeable – no, no, no. Biased. Knowledge is not power in the courtroom today. It is a major liability for anyone in the jury selection process. Talk about the lowest common denominator. Anyone for a jury of “knuckle draggers”, as Deputy Public Defender Jerry Osmer used to call our jurors in Monterey County? “I know nothing. I have been living under a rock. I will make a perfectly fair (and pluperfectly ignorant) juror.”

While the capital of Delaware was moved from New Castle to Wilmington in 1777, less than a year after Delaware proclaimed statehood in September 1776, the courthouse remained open for business in New Castle until the late 19^th century. One of the more well-known trials held in this building was presided over by Chief Justice Roger B. Taney of the U.S. Supreme Court in 1848. Two defendants, Thomas Garrett and John Hunn, both abolitionists who worked for the Underground Railroad, were charged with violating the Fugitive Slave Act of 1793. “Fugitive Slave Act” – that’s one that perhaps John Boehner could get behind. Change it slightly to “Fugitive Illegal Alien Act” and it’s most likely a winner in the Republican caucus in the House this summer. Oh no, history doesn’t repeat itself. It just goes around in this Spenglerian spiral, coming back to the same hate-filled points time and again. At any rate, the “crime” of Garrett and Hunn was helping a “runaway slave family” – that’s how they are described in the Delaware history blog – escape from New Castle to Pennsylvania. They were convicted, but not hanged. Apparently they had property – “had” is the operative word. Their punishment included fines of thousands of dollars (think millions or billions today, more than BP), and losing their homes, businesses and personal property. At least their personhood was not taken away. Even with these severe economic losses, Garrett swore that he would keep helping those who were enslaved to travel to freedom, regardless of the personal cost to him. So on Thursday, I stood in the courtroom where Garrett was convicted and pledged to continue to fight the good fight. It was pretty cool.

Less than ten years later, Chief Justice Taney put an exclamation point on his racism by writing the majority opinion in the Dred Scott case in 1857. And get this: He had been a Jacksonian Democrat, but was described by critics as “[a] supple, cringing tool of Jacksonian power.” Those two were a pair, with Jackson committing genocide against the Native Americans in Florida and Taney legally denying personhood to African Americans. To be somewhat fair and balanced, I will report that Taney freed his own slaves – of course he was a slave owner – and he gave pensions to those too old to work. By the time he wrote Dred Scott, however, he said the opposition to slavery was merely “northern aggression”. And his decision was at least an indirect cause of the Civil War, in that it solidified Northern opposition to slavery and divided the Democratic Party geographically, weakening the pro-slavery forces. Taney died at 87, in near poverty, with many outstanding debts. He had lost his Maryland property in the Civil War – karma. He was despised by most people in both the North and the South at the time of his death. On the positive side, remember this name: Justice Benjamin Curtis, who dissented in the Dred Scott decision and resigned from the Supreme Court when the decision was issued. Bravo!

We’re just getting started here. So tune in to Chapter Eighty Eight for the skinny on Fort Delaware, known for the people who stayed there more than for any battles fought to control it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHTY SIX: WHAT’S THE BLOODY POINT?

CHAPTER EIGHTY SIX:  WHAT’S THE BLOODY POINT?

As the Admiral and I cruised northward on Monday from Solomons to the world renowned Bay Bridge (because a 22 year old woman was knocked off this bridge last Friday night by a Canadian semi truck driver, and lived to tell about the 40 foot drop), the Admiral suddenly turned to me and asked “What’s the Bloody Point?” As I prepared a profound philosophical answer to his existential question, he added: “You should look up the history of that place and find out why it’s named Bloody Point.” The Admiral loves the history blogs. So here goes another history blog about a place called Bloody Point on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay at the southern tip of Kent Island in Maryland. Enjoy, all you history buffs. This means you, Marlea.

There are at least four historical explanations for the naming of Bloody Point. At the end of this summary, you can vote on which explanation you find the most compelling, and if we come up with a clear winner, we’ll send it to the Maryland Historical Society and ask them to adopt it. Or we could ask Speaker John Boehner to pass a resolution in the House adopting it. This would be one of his greatest legislative accomplishments, right up there with his 37 acts trying to repeal the Affordable Care Act. But this resolution would certainly be his most positive contribution as Speaker.

Historical Door Number One: King Charles 1 was in the habit of gifting land in the colonies to noble persons. He was also quite a mischievous royal who liked to see a good battle, where lots of people kill each other. The story goes that he gave the southern tip of Kent Island and in fact, the entire island to William Clairborne, an early Virginia colonist, who was also the secretary of state for Virginia in 1627. Clairborne named the island Kent Island in 1631, picking the name from the area of England he came from. Clairborne set up farms and villages in newly minted Kent Island and provided for the island to have representation in the Virginia Assembly. Unbeknownst to Clairborne, Charles 1, that impish monarch, had granted title to the same parcel of land to George Calvert, the First Lord Baltimore. Upon George Calvert’s death, his heir Cecilius (most popular male name in 1632), who studied the maps of the lands the king gave his daddy and determined that the Baltimore clan owned what Clairborne named Kent Island. Both sides asked King Charles to resolve this land dispute, but he just stood on the sidelines and watched the Clairborne and Calvert factions verbally fight over ownership of the island. Finally, in 1635, the word war escalated to violence. Clairborne sent a sloop, the Cockatrice (too much testosterone?), and the Baltimores sent two ships, Margaret and St. Helen, and the Cockatrice crew was captured by the Maryland ship crews in the Chesapeake Bay right off the southern point of Kent Island. Three of the Kent Island crew members were killed. This was thought to be the first blood shed in the waters off the new Kent Island settlements. And, dear friends, this is how Bloody Point got its name. Or is it?

Historical Door Number Two: Prior to the bloodshed between the land barons, there was a widespread rumor that the first European settlers at the southern tip of Kent Island had massacred a group of Indians. This story is more in keeping with the history of our country. According to the “rumor”, a group of Native Americans were invited to an “interview” with the settlers who “slaughtered them without warning”, even as the Native Americans were still in the greeting stage of the “interview.” This unprovoked slaughter is said to be the genesis of the name “Bloody Point”, for all the blood shed by the Native Americans at the hands of the colonists. Or is it?

Historical Door Number Three: In the History of Maryland (1967) the writer, Thomas Scharf reports that a pirate was tried and convicted of overtaking and killing three crew members of a small boat. For these murders, the historian relates, the pirate was hung in irons and left to hang at the southernmost tip of Kent Island – Bloody Point. His skeleton remained hanging at the Point for several years. Do you trust this historian that the settlers named this point “Bloody” because of the blood the three murder victims shed at the hands of the pirate and the blood the pirate in turn shed when he was hanged? Is this the origin of the name Bloody Point? What do you think?

Historical Door Number Four: As recently as the year 2000, the last explanation for the naming of Bloody Point started getting “legs”. It was rumored that slave boat captains, who found that certain members of their slave “cargo” who were too sick to do the hard labor expected of them or who were, God forbid, rebellious, threw them overboard to their death in the Chesapeake Bay waters right next to the point now called “Bloody”. There are even some names for the offending slave ships. The French ship Rodeur in 1819 and the British ship Zong in 1781 are both documented to have thrown men and women intended for slavery overboard to their watery, bloody deaths in the Bay waters. This heinous treatment of human beings by these slave trading boats was portrayed in Spielberg’s Amistad and in Alex Haley’s Roots. The Zong travesty is included in Susanne Everett’s History of Slavery (1991). She writes that in September 1781 near the African Coast, Luke Collingwood, the ship captain, decided over the course of three days during the transatlantic crossing to get rid of 132 sick people he had taken from Africa to sell to slave owners. In Everett’s words, this callous captain had decided “to save the owners of his ship any unnecessary loss by throwing his whole cargo of sick wretches into the sea.” And he did just that. Adding a huge insult to a major act of mass homicide, the ship owners tried to get insurance as compensation for their “lost property.” But in the first ruling of its kind, an appellate decision reversed the initial decision awarding an insurance payment to the ship owners, based on the finding that “slaves were human and not just merchandise.” Is this most recent explanation for the name Bloody Point the most believable, the truest to the history of our nation? You be the judge.

So there it is – battling land barons, cretinous massacring colonists, a murderous pirate, or treacherous slave traders (are there any other kind?). Make your pick known in a blog comment or by email directly to me. They are all plausible in my mind, particularly the mass killings of Native Americans and of persons being sold into slavery. Unfortunately, our American history is overburdened with accounts of the mistreatment, abuse and murder of members of both groups. And that’s the Bloody Point.

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE: ROAD WEARIERS AND THE TOUR DE MARINAS

 CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE:  ROAD WEARIERS AND THE TOUR DE MARINAS

Since I last wrote, the Admiral and I have been to the Poconos not once, but twice: this past weekend for a hot minute and the previous weekend for three whole days with Doug and Lois. Okay, I call my brother Rusty, so it’s really hard to write “Doug”. I think I’m the only one who still calls him Rusty. As to the first visit, the weekend of July 12-14, we drove to Pocono Pines both out of necessity and a desire to spend time with Rusty and Lois and their extremely affectionate puppies, Hopi and Scout. We needed a break from the merciless heat wave that hovered over Slow Motion in Solomons. True, we still had working air conditioners in our staterooms (seaspeak for bedrooms). But the salon was hotter than a sauna and wetter than a steam bath. The cool mountain air of the Poconos beckoned. We were not disappointed. We actually used a sheet, a blanket and a quilt at night at my brother’s house. Yippee! It was probably in the 60’s. And during the day, when it broke into the 80’s, Rusty and Lois had fans everywhere, over our heads and on the floor, pointing at every part of our bodies. Yes, this was the change we needed. That first night in the mountains I don’t even remember climbing the stairs for bed. We had driven for 9 and ½ hours from Solomons to my brother’s a trip of about 250 to 300 miles, which was supposed to take 5 and ½ hours. I was exhausted. The Admiral did all the driving – his choice. But whether you’re sitting for nearly 10 hours in the driver’s seat or the passenger seat, the journey becomes an ordeal. Let’s add in a 3 hour traffic snarl starting in Washington, D.C. at about 3:30 p.m. and not ending until we were nearly at York, Pennsylvania.

Did I mention that the Admiral decided we should pick up our cooler at Sabina’s apartment on Mass Ave in DC ON A FRIDAY AFTERNOON? At that time, this diversion seemed reasonable to me. Washington was on the way to the Poconos. And how bad could the traffic be heading north? It’s not like we were going to be pummeled by the notorious Friday shore traffic. Oh no. Instead, we were battered and bruised by the equally menacing “head for the suburbs” drivers, all of whom apparently only work until 3 p.m. on Friday. We learned an important lesson: Do not mess with the Washington Baltimore Beltway ever, but especially do not travel this roadway any Friday of the year.

I was never happier to leave Maryland and head into Pennsylvania. We had left Solomons at 1 p.m. and we crossed the border at about 6:30 p.m. Yes, that’s the amount of time it should take to be at my brother’s, but we had 4 hours still to go. I don’t remember much of those 4 hours, except seeing the dome of the Capitol in Harrisburg and crashing into a torrential rainstorm as we headed into the mountains. The roads were not only slick, but in some parts, there was just one lane (construction at 8 p.m. on a Friday?). When you’re in the middle of a thunderstorm surrounded by huge semis weighing more than brontosauri, you just hope their brakes work and they’re awake enough to see you and stop before knocking you into the mountain laurel. I was not driving, but I can assure you that I shared every anxious moment with the Admiral at the helm. He’s a great driver, but his ability does not enhance the abilities of our fellow road warriors, many of whom seem hell bent on breaking as many rules of the road as are possible – starting, of course, with speeding. Tailgating has to be the next most popular bad driving habit. And with tailgating comes the dangerous maneuver of finally passing on the left or right, then moving into your lane right in front of you with only inches to spare, sort of a frontgating violation – equally annoying and equally likely to produce an accident. It’s road trips like this that almost makes me wish for a rude boater or two. They just “wake” you. They don’t try to play bumper boats with you.

My head didn’t hit the pillow until midnight at my brother’s. Bedtime on Slow Motion is usually around 9 p.m. So I allowed myself the luxury of sleeping in, not heading downstairs until 9 a.m. It’s odd not having the hours between 6 and 9 in the morning. Those are the only hours that you can get anything done in the Solomons heat wave. After that you slowly morph into a mass of melting jello. But in the mountains, it was still cool at 9 a.m. The rain had stopped, but the forecast was for more thunder showers all weekend. Who cares? We didn’t have to drive on the Beltway ever again. And we were not going back through the construction on Route 80. Plus, we had two days without any highway madness. Two days of total relaxation with Rusty and Lois and Scout and Hopi. We went for a long walk with the puppies down to Lake Naomi and checked out the beach, then over to see Rusty’s new Bass boat. It is a lovely, quiet neighborhood in the middle of trees and streams and very little traffic. It was our East Coast paradise, just as Harper Canyon is our place to leave the worries of the world behind – and watch baseball.

When in Pennsylvania, I become a huge Phillies fan. They were my first love – Richie Ashburn, Robin Roberts, Granny Hamner, Curt Simmons. My sister Sue always rooted for the Yankees, but I was true to my Phils. Nowadays, just like when I was growing up, the Phils test a fan’s loyalty just about every inning. We were watching them play the White Sox – and each game was longer than the next. Nothing is easy for the Phils, just like my Giants who torture their fans continuously. The Phils battled into extra innings, and I stayed up to try to bring them a win, but of course, they lost. There is only so much one fan can do – and it’s never enough. One definition of insanity must be rooting for the Giants or the Phils each year, knowing that they’re going to tear away another piece of your heart. Don’t get me wrong. My Giants have been thrilling in their astounding record of winning two world championships in three years. But have you been following them this year? What kind of special circle of hell is it to see the best starting pitching staff struggle game after game to keep the ball in the park, then watch the Freak bust out with a 148 pitch no hitter? True, he walked at least three and hit a batter, but no one got a hit. This means not even a single, let alone a home run. The Giants have their Lincecum, and the Phillies have their Cole Hamels, as well as a number of really bad fielders. You can’t really “hide” a poor defensive player in left field, can you, Domonic Brown? Still, both teams hold my attention every chance I get to watch or listen to a game, and even when I’m just following them on my Sportstacular App on the IPhone.

Back to the idyllic woods of Lake Naomi. This lake is a gem. There are no jet skis. Tada! There are no water skiers. There are no gas engine boats whatsoever. There are sail boats, kayaks, canoes, rowboats, and Bass boats with very tiny electric engines that don’t make any noise and don’t smell up the lake. You can swim in Lake Naomi and toodle around in your slow, motorless watercraft. You can fish in Lake Naomi, and you can walk around Lake Naomi. I recommend doing all of this. My brother and Lois searched for their dream retirement location for years, all along the Chesapeake Bay and throughout the lake regions in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. They also checked out places on the New Jersey Shore. When we were growing up, my parents took us every summer to Manasquan or Seaside Heights on the Northern Jersey Shore. They were not by any means glitzy places. I remember big houses with lots of trees, a wide beach, warm ocean waves, bamboo fishing poles and catching blue fish off the docks. I sort of remember the racy rides at Asbury Park, which we were allowed to visit once during our otherwise staid vacation. Alas, according to my brother’s investigations into Jersey Shore property, what we knew as the shore is no more. There are little box houses all built together crammed with weekenders. Maybe SuperStorm Sandy took them all out. But they are easy to replace. At any rate, Rusty and Lois did their homework and found that Lake Naomi is The Spot.

My brother and sister and their spouses treat me and the Admiral like royalty when we visit. They always serve the best food. We had grilled pork cutlets, homemade macaroni salad and green salad on Saturday night at my brother’s. The pork was lean, tender and full of flavor. The Admiral misses his grill probably more than any cooking instrument, and he was reminded again how much he misses it when we bit into the grilled pork morsels straight from my brother’s deck grill. But it’s not just about the food. Their guest bedrooms are immaculate. They provide everything you need for a bath or shower. Their towels are soft and thick. Their beds have firm mattresses. They let us sleep in, if we need to. They don’t overplan a visit. They let us take it nice and easy, maybe go for a walk, maybe take a ride. The Admiral had a lot of database work to do, so he set up his computer in the guest bedroom at my brother’s and worked away for hours, while I went to Lake Mineola with Rusty and Lois to see what was being done to Aunt Ruth’s cottage and to visit my sister Jean’s bench. It was a great weekend, but Monday we had to return to our plebeian status on Slow Motion in Solomons.

And Tuesday and Wednesday, Katie the Wonder Mechanic toiled away in 100 degree weather in our engine room installing the new salon air conditioner. I am happy to report she succeeded in her efforts, and by Wednesday evening we were on our way to Coolville in the salon. But this left us with some hard choices. Do we leave Solomons on Thursday, only to get caught up in the weekend boat traffic on the Upper Chesapeake and in the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal? Or do we wait until Monday the 22^nd to leave, giving ourselves a full week before hitting the summer murder of feckless (and reckless) boaters that come out on the weekends. We opted to wait until Monday to leave, because the Admiral came up with a grand plan rent a car to scope out marinas from Solomons to Northern New Jersey. Boy, are we glad we did that!

Here I sit blogging away at the Bay Bridge Marina, a marina that we had not considered because it appeared to be situated directly under the noisy Bay Bridge. However, as we started out on our Marina Tour last week, the first stop we made was at this marina. And guess what? It’s a lovely place to stay, far enough away from the Bay Bridge to make the traffic noise insignificant. You have to pay up front with your credit card for a reservation, but if you change your mind and don’t show on the reserved date, you have a “credit” to use at any time – forever – at the marina. Hats off to the Admiral for suggesting the Tour de Marinas. Our next stop was Rock Hall on the eastern shore. This is a favorite place for me, because my Bethlehem Babes and I have spent many an hour at Rock Hall during our yearly get togethers, either sailing or dining at Baywolf or cracking crabs at Waterman’s on the water. Turns out they have a number of marinas, all quite expensive, but fairly small and cramped. And Rock Hall is a tad out of the way for our sojourn to the C and D Canal. Once again, the Tour proved its value, because we had seriously considered staying at Rock Hall until we saw what the marinas had to offer, or not offer.

We pressed on to Lewes, Maryland, the terminal for the Cape May Ferry. There were no marinas of interest in Lewes – most cannot accommodate a boat the size of Slow Motion. But we planned to take the ferry to Cape May in the morning. This gave us a chance to re-visit Rehoboth Beach for dinner and lodging. Fuggedaboudit. Don’t ever – I repeat, don’t ever – go to Rehoboth Beach in July on the weekend. It’s a sardine factory. And the hotel where we stayed was charging three times what they had charged us in May for a room with a view of the ocean. We ate at a forgettable restaurant in Rehoboth, then re-traced our steps to Milford, Delaware, where a reasonably priced, relatively quiet motel awaited us. The next morning we were up at 6:15 a.m. to catch the 9:15 a.m. ferry from Lewes to Cape May. You read that right. The Admiral likes to be a little bit early in arriving at airports, train stations and ferry terminals. So we headed to the ferry terminal at 7:20 a.m. – it was a half hour drive. And when we arrived, the ticket taker asked us if we would like to take the 8:15 a.m. ferry? Would we, would we? We were the last car on that ferry. The Admiral asserted his bragging rights most of the day about how early arrivals really pay off big in the long run.

Here’s the thing: I love ferry boats. I love ferry boat rides. We rode every day on the ferry boat when we were in Hong Kong. It was one of the trip’s highlights. And here we were again, this time with our car, on a ferry boat carrying us from one beautiful place to another. This time we were crossing the Delaware Bay. This bay has porpoises, the playful kind who get in front of the ferry and dive in and out of the water in front of you. You don’t pay any more for this show either. The weather was perfect, especially in the shady parts of the ferry deck. The whole trip lasted 1 hour and 10 minutes, and every minute was filled with wildlife sightings and path crossings with other ferry boats and the romance of the open sea. This is no exaggeration. If you feel you’re low on endorphins, get thee to a ferry boat and ride back and forth between the terminals a few times, then walk off the ferry on air. I guarantee it.

Once we arrived in Cape May, we returned to the Tour de Marinas. Our first stop was Utsch’s. The two women in the marina office were both friendly and helpful. They promised us a slip we could dock at with no problems. They had not been damaged by Sandy, and they were in a channel that did not have a heavy current and did not allow for other boats to “wake” us. Utsch’s was a good find. Then we went to the Two Mile Marina on the other side of town and we found a very noisy restaurant. As we climbed the stairs to the marina office, a gent came puffing up behind us, the dock master, who asked if he could help us. He didn’t have much to offer, and the marina was just too loud. But the Admiral pointed out that this marina used to be called Cold Spring when he was a kid, and his uncle took him there to fish. It’s a lovely setting, without all the new buildings that have gone up since his childhood. The Admiral had a charmed childhood with a lot of uncles who loved to take him fishing and boating and exploring the waterways along New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Nostalgia aside, Two Mile was not the place for us.

Before we left Cape May, we visited Rhythm of the Sea, the B and B that I reserved for the Bethlehem Babes for our October reunion. I took photos and sent them out by email. Robyn, one of the owners, was there, but not her two dachshunds. Still, the Admiral and she shared their favorite dachshund photos for a few minutes. Bug, we miss you and love you!

I hated leaving Cape May, partly because it is so charming, but also because our next stop was Atlantic City. Not a big fan. We had two marinas to check out there. The first one was on the “bad” side of town, but it wasn’t so bad. There was a small aquarium and some artsy craftsy kiosks lined up along the waterway. New boxlike townhouses had been constructed in a semi-circle around the marina, blocking the view of “The Projects” for the many poor people who try to eke out a living in AC. We went to the dock master’s office – no dock master. Eventually we ran into a guy who identified himself as the dock master, and he was the quintessential laissez faire marina manager. “Sure, you can stay here, but then again, I don’t really care one way or the other.” We asked a simple question about whether he had 50 amp electrical outlets and he advised us that he had thirty amp outlets, but people with 50 amp needs could use two 30’s. The Admiral asked him if the two 30’s kicked out 240 volts, which is what we need to keep the air conditioner happy. The dock master responded: “How should I know? I’m not an electrician.” The Admiral allowed as this was a common question that boaters would have, SO THAT THEIR AIR CONDITIONERS DON’T BLOW UP! The putative dock master was unmoved, as he edged away from us in search of some air conditioning of his own. Did I mention that we were standing outside in 99 degree weather with no wind and no cloud cover?

I thought things were looking up as we headed to the Farley State Marina – a marina that I had every reason to believe was owned and operated by the State of New Jersey. Wrong again, naïve one. This is Atlantic City, New Jersey, where the State has pretty much turned over whatever power it has to the casino owners (Who are they, you might ask? Don’t!). So as we neared the Farley State Marina, we couldn’t help but notice that it was in the shadow of the Golden Nugget Casino, and as we walked up to the marina office, we also couldn’t help but notice that it was inside the casino. The marina is serviceable, and we’ll probably stay there for, get this, $3 per foot. We stayed at Calvert Marina for $1 per foot, but of course we didn’t have the opportunity there to gamble away our life savings once we docked. Atlantic City, what happened to you? What happened to your middle class? I’m not sure I can play monopoly ever again, knowing that all the hotels I would buy are casino hotels, which do not pay most of their employees a living wage. Maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised when we stay there, and maybe I’ll win big at a blackjack table or a slot machine – Not! The major changes in Atlantic City – from the days of my youth in the 50’s until now – are accurately and poignantly depicted in Louis Malle’s film, Atlantic City, starring Burt Lancaster (fantastic!) and Susan Sarandon. Rent it. You will not be disappointed.

We still had plenty of daylight after checking out Atlantic City’s marinas, so we continued northward to Manasquan. This place was special to me when I was a kid. As I mentioned earlier in this blog, our family went to Manasquan and Seaside Heights for vacations. What I don’t remember is that the Manasquan River has one of the swiftest, strongest currents of any river on the East Coast. Of course, I don’t remember ever spending any time at the Manasquan River. But that’s where the marinas are. And that’s where Sandy found them last October, when she destroyed most of them. Thus, as we visited Hoffman’s in Brielle, we saw all new pilings and docks and bright new buildings as well. The owner showed us photos of Sandy striking his marina and told us that the water had reached to where we were standing – and it was three feet high in that location! We were in the new marina office quite a distance from the river. We went out to check on how boats were handling the current, and we found that they were not handling it well. How in the heck can anyone dock a boat there? The owner assured us that his staff is trained to “get you on to the dock and get you off the dock”. They must take a course in calf roping, because it would take at least three of them to hold on to Slow Motion’s lines to try to keep us from being carried away by the current. We watched boats try to pass through a narrow railroad bridge, and it was scary. If they weren’t turned sideways as they passed through the bridge, they were turned around just after they got through and right before they had to line up for another bridge. Only if you live here on a full time basis could you ever get used to this. While the facilities are great, we just didn’t want to risk breaking Slow Motion’s hull on Hoffman’s dock.

Fortunately, the Admiral found an alternative, the Southside Marina in Pt. Pleasant Beach, which is just a little ways off the whirling dervish Manasquan River, but enough so that there is no driving current to turn your boat into splinters. And talk about “small world.” As we were driving to this marina, we saw four young boys – “Stand By Me” started playing in my head – standing on a bridge over a creek that runs into the river. And we watched as the first two jumped off, followed by the other two. This bridge is far less expensive than a water park or a zip line. But it turns out that it is not legal to do what they did. As the Admiral was talking to the dock master at the Southside Marina, the dock master got a call from the police that his son had just been picked up with some friends after they were seen jumping off a bridge. The police officer marched the boys into the marina office, and there were very stern adult faces, as the boys were duly admonished. That was such a refreshing vignette of life as is used to be at the shore and a welcome antidote to the plasticity of AC.

Manasquan was our farthest north point for the Tour de Marinas. So we had another hard choice – head south to Philadelphia and join the weekend shore traffic on a Friday night? Are you nuts? Or head west toward the mountains and find a place to sleep, then head to my brother’s for a quick second visit to pick up a doctor’s order that had been mailed to him. This was a no-brainer. And that’s how we got to see my brother two weekends in a row. That is also how I got to visit my beloved sister Jean twice in two weeks. The Admiral and I went back to Lake Mineola and we moved Jean’s bench back to the place where it belonged in front of my Aunt Ruth’s cottage. It had been moved, so that a Sandy-damaged tree could be taken down. And it had not been put back. Jean’s bench was languishing one cottage away on a slant, so that really no one could enjoy spending time on it. The Admiral helped me carry Jean’s bench back to the level spot in front of Aunt Ruth’s wall. This felt sooo good. I kissed Jean’s plaque and felt her aura, as I lingered on her bench for a minute or two. I miss Jean.

It was Saturday evening when we returned to Slow Motion, a bit road weary, but oh so much more knowledgeable about the next leg of our journey. And here it is Monday evening, and we have had an amazing day on the water again. The Chesapeake welcomed us back with no waves or one foot waves at most. While we saw storms in the distance and worried about what looked like fog ahead, we had a beautiful cruise today. The most disturbing sights were the dead striped bass that kept floating past us as we headed north. It has to be a fairly large Fishkill. Who or what was the pollutant this time? Or the bacteria that robbed them of the oxygen they need? Stay tuned. I’ll try to investigate. And in the next blog I shall report my findings, along with a short history on Bloody Point, Maryland. That’s right, Bloody Point. You won’t want to miss that story. As my friend, Janie, says: “Happy Trails to You.” Yeah, I know that was Roy’s and Dale’s signature song, but it’s still good today. And it’s far better than the prosecutor’s anthem “Happy Trials to You”. Aw, come on, lighten up, laugh a little. That’s better. Stick with me – we’re back on the water and the next blog will be coming your way soon.

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR: SIGNS UP, AIR CONDITIONER DOWN

  CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR: SIGNS UP, AIR CONDITIONER DOWN

The signs are up! Our neighbor, Jerry, emailed us with the unexpected news that the County had finally sent a crew out to post the no parking signs on our little road. He sent photos too. My cynicism has turned to gratitude, as I penned a “thank you” email to Bryan Flores, Supervisor Potter’s aide, for his help in getting this done. Now the neighborhood can be peaceful and quiet – and safe and clean – again. We can return to our dead-end street status, instead of being an illegal “trailhead” for errant hikers from around the County. You would not believe the number of legitimate trails that exist in our area for hikers. One new trail was just dedicated nearby in the Fort Ord National Monument. And trails abound from the public entrance into Toro Park on Route 68. So take heart, hikers, you still have plenty of oak-studded hills to roam for hours and hours, where there is sufficient parking and you don’t bollix up a small neighborhood on a tiny country road with your over-sized SUVs, unmanaged poopy dogs and forbidden bikes.

On the East Coast front, we still have no air-conditioning. But at the moment we are being “saved” by a mega rainstorm which brings cooler air. At eleven p.m. yesterday, just as the Admiral and Intellicast predicted, the thunderstorm struck and released tons of water upon Slow Motion and the waters around us. The rain continued through the night into this morning. The Admiral is preparing a protein-packed egg and sausage breakfast for us. It’s Thursday, July 11, and we don’t know when we’re leaving the Calvert Marina. K-K-Katie, the Wonder Mechanic, is coming back at 1 p.m. today to troubleshoot our kaput salon air conditioner. This is amazing, given that just yesterday afternoon she had her first shot ever by an anesthesiologist into her spine to calm the painful nerve next to the bulging disk that started bulging when she went out on a sea trial with a battling, bungling, screaming new boat owning couple. Short story: Husband in engine room screams at wife to turn on the engines. Wife pushes throttle to its max and turns on engines, and Katie, also in engine room, gets thrown around. Husband screams again to bring back the throttle, and wife puts boat in reverse, and boat lunges full power backwards, hurtling Katie and her back against hard objects and pulling out two pilings at the Spring Cove dock. Katie can’t stand up straight after this debacle, there are two fewer pilings at Spring Cove, and the couple says: “Hey, let’s get started on that sea trial.” Katie limped off the boat in a stooped position, telling them that the right thing to do was to report the destroyed pilings to Spring Cove immediately. Amazingly, some people, ostensibly adults, really need to be told to do the right thing.

While waiting for the air conditioner repair, I have devised ways to stay cool. On Tuesday, my pal Janie and I went to an air-conditioned restaurant for a long lunch, then to a very cool clothing boutique to browse. By the time I got back to Slow Motion, the worst of the heat had passed. Today, Thursday, the rain in the morning kept it relatively cool. Still, it was supposed to stop in the afternoon and the sun was supposed to be burning again, with high humidity of course. So an air-conditioned movie house seemed the way to go. Janie was up for The Heat, a girl buddy flick with Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy. Despite the moniker, this movie was very cool and it kept my pal in stitches. I really enjoyed it too. There’s an attractive “Girl Power” message, albeit delivered with a lot of F-bombs, a LOT of F-bombs. The two leads, one FBI and the other Boston Police, bond beautifully. There is a plot about drug dealing and a crooked cop, but there are a lot of laughs throughout, even as the dead body count rises. Thumbs up.

After the movie, we ran to the air-conditioned car and then drove to the air-conditioned Solomons Island art gallery of Janie’s friend, Carmen, who happens to be married to the Calvert Marina owner, Matt. Janie fell in love with a painting and its framing and asked Carmen about it. Lo and behold it was one of Carmen’s own works. Janie made Carmen very happy by purchasing the art work. If you see something you love, let this be a lesson to you – get it. Don’t fret about price (within reason). And when what you love is created by a dear friend, definitely do not hesitate. If I were wealthy, I would buy a whole lot more of Karin Rosenthal’s exquisite nude landscape photographs and many more works of Rob Barnes, who does breathtakingly beautiful photography/art compositions of western landscapes and anything else that attracts his imagination. They have both made significant contributions to my well-being, as I have gazed at the photographs and art works of theirs that I have been able to afford and hang on the walls in my home. I hope Janie gets the same rejuvenation and sense of wonder from her new painting by Carmen.

We returned to Slow Motion around 5 p.m. and Katie’s big yellow truck was still there. Katie was due at 1 p.m., so this was not a good sign. Sure enough, as I entered the salon, the Admiral had a worried, worried look on his face. Katie was talking about installing the new unit on Tuesday, and then I knew: Our salon air conditioner was not salvageable, and we had to buy a new one. Break Out Another Thousand – or two or three or four. This is all part of the boating adventure. I told the Admiral how “lucky” we were to have the air conditioner break down while we were in Solomons, where we had a great mechanic to install it. This scenario is certainly preferable to the alternative of cruising all day to an untested, untried marina in a new location in sweltering heat, only to find at the end of a long day on the water that we had no air-conditioning and that there was no boat repair facility within miles of us. If your boat is going to need a major repair, hope that this occurs when you are staying at a modestly priced marina like Calvert, which happens to be serviced by the Wonder Mechanic herself. Yes, the glass is almost always half full in my life.

Tomorrow we begin another journey, a road trip to Pocono Pines, the new home of my brother and his wife, Lois, and their loving puppies, Scout and Hopi. They don’t have air conditioning, but it’s a lot cooler in the mountains. Their fresh water lake, Lake Naomi, makes it seem even cooler in the summer time. So at least for this weekend, goodbye stultifying heat and clamminess, hello crisp mountain air!

CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE: PEREGRINATIONS FROM COAST TO COAST

CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE: PEREGRINATIONS FROM COAST TO COAST

When last I wrote, around June 10, I was looking forward to a deep tissue massage from Tammy Crees, whose business name is Rub Your Hide. And Tammy did not disappoint. If you have never had a deep tissue massage, get thee to Tammy in Salinas and get your hide rubbed. You will not regret it. It’s the best present you can give yourself. If you fall asleep on the massage table, don’t be surprised. There are no leaf blowers, no chain saws, no loud traffic noises, no barking dogs – just Tammy’s soothing music and her strong hands and arms working out the knots in your muscles. Mmmm, good. If I could afford it, I would get a massage at the beginning of each day, or the end of each day -- heck, why not at both the beginning and end? I just yawned, even as I remembered the pleasure that comes with sheer muscle relaxation – after a little bit of “good pain” working out the tension in the arms and legs. I had been hiking about 4 miles a day with Zorro and Ruby, and I was feeling really fit. My legs were not cramping at night, but some less-used muscles were feeling a little sore. The massage did the trick – goodbye soreness, hello nirvana. Hey, Tammy, that can be your new motto! No charge, if you want to use it.

Now, as I write on the last day of June under a rainy sky in Solomons, ensconced in Slow Motion’s salon, I’m trying to sort out all the mental “slides” of everything the Admiral and I have done in the month of June. This was our longest stint on land in a year, and I actually stopped gripping the shower floor with my toes after a week or so. Aside from our joyous reunion with Zorro, we accomplished quite a lot. The Admiral installed a new kitchen faucet for Brenda and Royal and fixed their laundry room light. We trimmed and watered the plants and cleaned up after the despicable cat, Tequila, who acts like he’s your best friend, then poops all over the house. We helped our neighbors get the May 2012 ordinance enforced, which should bring no parking signs to the end of Harper Canyon and restore some peace and tranquility for them, as well as make the road safer for our children and animals. Thanks to Bryan Flores of Dave Potter’s office for getting Public Works and Parks to put the signs up – finally. Apparently Public Works had ordered the signs right after the passage of the ordinance, but didn’t tell anyone about it. And the ordinance provided that the Parks Department was supposed to put up the signs, which they didn’t know or ignored. So Bryan got them talking, and the signs were found, and Bryan thinks that the signs will be placed “any day now”. A man called Ivan marked the location for each sign, so that is encouraging. But this is county government, so we’re cautiously pessimistic. At least the “hiking club” of some twenty cars, trucks and SUVs, which were clogging narrow Harper Canyon Road, got the word from the Admiral and others that our dead end road – with a PADLOCKED GATE AT THE END – is not a trailhead for Toro Park.

Other highlights of our California caper: The Admiral made one scrumptious dinner after another, starting with his heralded meatloaf, which is great when hot, but keeps on tasting great in cold sandwiches the next day. This was Zorro’s favorite food, if you don’t count that disgusting beef jerky that the Admiral offers him. The Admiral moved from meat loaf to pulled pork, or the other way around, to a rib roast, to spaghetti and meatballs, to chicken/shrimp/sausage gumbo, to scores of brownies. This was a high caloric trip. Fortunately, Zorro and Ruby wanted to hike at least twice a day, and so I was able to walk energetically about 4 miles a day to keep some of the pounds off.

In addition to the saporific home cooked food and the hikes, I took the opportunity to visit with my friends, Sondra and Barbara, and to celebrate my friend Chris’s birthday with her and colleagues from the D.A.’s office at Paraiso Winery deep in the Salinas Valley. Sondra and Barbara and I went to an indie movie at the Osio in Monterey and then had dinner at a new tapas place nearby. The movie was Before Midnight with Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke. What’s great about Delpy is that she has exchanged her girlish figure for wide childbirth giving hips and an overall softness not often seen in the leading ladies on screen. Watching this couple age has been rather entertaining. Before Midnight was all about their relationship and whether she still loved him or not. The next movie in this series is rumored to be Before the Early Bird Special – what? God forbid, it’s not a discourse about their various health problems, although a frank, intelligent discussion of the aging process could be enlightening. Zzzzzz.

Time with my friends is essential, and I hope they come to visit us on Slow Motion. Barbara is always on a different continent, it seems, and Sondra works to improve Monterey County for women, when she’s not enjoying the ballet, the opera and the symphony. I love to hear about their adventures. Barbara shared with us that First Granddaughter Olivia intends to be the first “girl President”. When standing outside the White House with her on a recent trip to the Capitol, Olivia announced that she would be living there one day. I had the same aspirations, and I still treasure my sister’s 3^rd grade photo, where she wrote: “To the First Woman President”. I was in first grade at the time. You get the bug early. And if elected, I would serve with distinction, but if it’s not in the cards for me, I certainly hope that my age mate, Hillary, gets her act together and wins in 2016. I’m tired of male leadership, correction: male failure at leadership. Are you with me on this, Sisters? Can even those of you who got all starry eyed over Barack Obama see the need for a real change? This is not about Republicans and Democrats. It’s much, much bigger. It’s the yin and the yang. It’s estrogen and testosterone. It’s Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair, Golda Meir and Ben Netanyahu, Indira Gandhi and Fill in the Blank. It’s time for women to lead this country, way past time actually, but let’s get this done before the 100^th anniversary of winning the right to vote. Hillary can be in her second term when we celebrate that.

Oh yes, back to highlights of California: One of the highlights was my side trip to Vail, Arizona to visit my sister, Sue, who proved once again that a little chemo goes a long way with her. She was supposed to get a 2^nd round of chemo in mid-June, but the first round in May was so strong and effective that she didn’t need it. Hooray! That’s the upside of being extremely sensitive to all medications. Sue was hale and hearty and ready for some fun. We went to movies in the heat of the day (100 degrees). Shakespeare did not disappoint in the latest version of Much Ado About Nothing. And Jennifer Lawrence was incredibly, palpably heartwarming in Silver Linings Notebook. Who knew that Robert DeNiro was in that movie? Well, of course, those of you who already saw it knew that. But Lawrence is the star. Brad Cooper is far better than expected. And putting this whole story in Philadelphia was the icing on the cake. Not that I’m a big Eagles fan, but that type of team fanaticism is endemic to the Philly Boo Birds. Then there was exhilarating dancing subplot. Not anything like the schmaltzy Dancing with the Stars. This was cool and realistic, especially when Cooper’s character had to do The Lift and ended up with a whole lot of Lawrence’s bottom on his face. Classic.

But it’s not only about going to movies. Oh no, my friend, we had to go to the nail shop for manicures and pedicures. And Sue had to make the perfect holupkies one night, and the best grilled steaks another night, with a visit to Sakura snuck in between. And we watched the giant Argentinian cactus bloom at midnight under the supermoon, the biggest full moon recorded in history. Anyway, it seemed like that. Sue also gave me reading material, like Dan Brown’s Inferno, which kept me awake until 2 a.m., then led to some interesting nightmares. Did I mention Sue’s homemade apple pie? Shame on me for leaving that out. We made a few meals of that delectable pastry. I packed on four pounds during my four day stay, easily and deliciously.

Blogus interruptus – it kills the momentum. I was writing the stuff above on the last day of June, and then it got late and I stopped. So here it is Monday, July 8, already past 9 at night, and I want to post a blog whether it’s done or not. One quick update I can give on the no parking signs on Harper Canyon Road – they are not up yet. Cautious pessimism is quickly turning to cynicism about the workings of county government. Two years since we started campaigning for them, and fourteen months since we got the ordinance passed to authorize them – no signs. Supervisor Potter, what’s up?

Our California interlude has been eclipsed by my niece’s visit to Slow Motion and our morning cruising around the Patuxent River and out into the Bay, not too far because of the 3 to 4 foot waves. That was a great Saturday, June 29. It was supposed to rain all day, but instead it was sunny and breezy and the half day on the bay was perfect, from osprey sightings to easy undockings and dockings (no wind). Gretchen and Jem brought some fresh peaches and cantaloupe and apricots. I added blueberries and we had a refreshing fruit salad. They also brought berry pies, which we barely had room for after the burgers and corn and chips. They were our first guests who actually had the thrill of going out on the water on Slow Motion and getting some sense of what we feel every day we cruise along the waterway or cross a sound or go out into the ocean. It’s exhilarating. We’re not going any great speed – at most 10 miles an hour, but you just enjoy the movement so much more profoundly than in a car or a plane, or even a train. It still feels kind of miraculous to be “walking” on water in a 38,000 pound boat.

We did not have a long time to savor the memories of Gretchen and Jem’s visit, as we packed up to drive to Durham, North Carolina on July 2, with the objective of getting all of Sandra’s apartment furniture and belongings out of storage there and taking it via a Budget rent a truck to her new home in New Orleans. Sandra, one of the Admiral’s twin daughters, had completed her graduate studies at Duke in 2012 and moved back to Kansas City and St. Louis to edit some articles for publication and apply for Ph.D. programs in literature/writing. She also applied to some law schools, inasmuch as her mother and two sisters are both attorneys, and they seem to enjoy their work. When she was admitted to the law school of her choice and offered a full stipend to attend, it was too much to refuse. So Tulane Law School now has a former Ph.D. candidate in its first year law ranks.

This explains why the Admiral and I were on the road in torrential downpours in a leaky truck last Tuesday, Wednesday, and yes, Thursday, July 4. What else would you do in a non-stop rainstorm besides drive along the interstate highways in an antediluvian truck which became more and more flooded as we ate up the miles? A mini-Niagara Falls was flowing down the back of the driver’s seat, and the Admiral was not happy. Fortunately, I had brought my very sturdy and extremely waterproof raincoat along. Once the Admiral put it on – as the sleeves stopped between his elbows and his wrists – we were able to divert the waterfall down the back of the jacket instead of down the Admiral’s shirt. That water was cold! I can’t give you a real tour of the places we passed, because we were literally just passing through. Where did we stay? At the Garden Hilton Hotel in various towns in the South. And memo to the North Carolina Governor: Do you call those washboards with interstate numbers drivable? Are you using those roads to get to work? I think not. Spend less time on restricting women’s rights and more time on improving your roadways, please. Same to you Nikki Haley of South Carolina – your roads get a D for maintenance. And not so fast, Governors of Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana – what did you do with your road maintenance budgets? Did you slash all the funds? Did you spend any money on fixing up your roads? You can attack Washington all you want, but next time the President introduces a bill seeking money for improving and modernizing infrastructure, it’s time for y’all to get on board. True, the Budget truck did not have the best springs, but the roads in these southern states are in really bad shape, whether you’re driving a Mercedes or a leaky truck. Why do the taxpayers in these states put up with this? Is this the definition of “small government”? Or is it the beginning of anarchy, with frequent traffic stoppages, multiple accidents, and no one making it to their destination in a reasonable time – think of the carbon footprint alone of stalled traffic gorging on gas and oil. Who does this situation benefit?

As Independence Day dawned, we had left Montgomery, Alabama for New Orleans, with an arrival time of 3:30 p.m. We were supposed to spend the night there and then unpack the truck in the morning. But Sandra called to ask if we could unpack the truck on the 4^th of July, in that the weather report called for, you guessed it, drenching rain on the 5^th of July. Having loaded the truck in the rain, we thought it would be great idea to unload Sandra’s goods under a dry sky. All she had to do was find a mover/loader to work at 4 p.m. on the 4^th of July, Enter twin sister, Sabina, who made a few calls, and suddenly “Dominique” was going to meet us at the NOLA apartment at 4 p.m. to unload. Sabina entered the picture, because Sandra’s car and phone both gave out between Memphis and Jackson. This was beginning to feel somewhat like a cursed trip – is that you, Anne Rice, pulling the strings? But buoyed by the promise of meeting the mover at 4 p.m., we pressed on. We arrived at Sandra’s apartment, and it was not raining, at about 3 p.m. I called the mover and told him he could come early. He said he was running late – all movers run late, as the day goes on. Don’t ever, ever arrange to meet a mover late in the afternoon. If you do something this foolish, expect to wait until early evening for the mover to appear. And sure enough, at about 5:10 p.m., the mover showed up. The Admiral had left to get something cold to drink, so I pitched in to help the two guys haul all the heavy items up a flight of stairs. By 7 p.m., as the skies parted and huge rain drops started pelting Loyola Street, the movers were carrying the last item, the mattress, into the apartment. The Admiral had returned at about 6 p.m. from a 2 and ½ mile trek to and from a grocery store, and he looked red as a beet for the entire second hour that the movers were working. If you have spent any time in NOLA in July, you know that it’s both the temperature AND the humidity that get to you. The rain was actually a welcome sight when it came, and all of Sandra’s property was safe and dry inside her apartment.

We got rid of the leaky truck and rented a waterproof car for the rest of our stay in New Orleans. The next day, after surviving a night at the Garden Inn Hotel next to the Pontchartrain Casino – huge, noisy fireworks and loud, rowdy celebrators – we returned to Sandra’s apartment and moved her desk into her bedroom. Then the Admiral allowed as we had enough time to see a little bit of New Orleans. I opted for a tour of the Garden District. This area is magnificent in its architecture. Who lives in all the mansions? Are they all subdivided into apartments? The grounds are immaculate too. The flowering trees – magnolias, mimosas, crepe myrtles – do they all start with the letter “m”? – are fantastic. I found a book store and bought Sonia Sotomayor’s autobiography for our budding lawyer. Once the tour was over, it was back to the apartment to meet Sandra and show her where we had put things and what we had done. By this time, the Admiral and I were both asleep on our feet, but somehow we found our way to the Doubletree near the airport, where we expected to crash until leaving for the airport the next morning at 7:30. We crashed, after ordering room service (inexplicably their restaurant was closed on a Saturday night), and I was expecting a quiet night, but a fellow in the same corridor started banging on the door of a room at about 3 a.m. – the banging continued for a half an hour. This intruded into our sleep time. The Admiral called the front desk to report the disturbance and was told matter of factly that the man had to bang on the door repeatedly, because apparently his son, who was inside, had fallen asleep and did not respond to requests to open the door. I’m sorry, but a half hour of extremely loud, uninterrupted banging would have awakened anyone who was inside. Did I mention the yelling? This hotel charged $200 per night, despite the fact that it had no restaurant, the toilet was stopped up and there was no rest for the weary because of constant door banging. Remember the name: Doubletree near the New Orleans Airport.

Things started looking up on Saturday morning. We had been informed that our seats were upgraded to first class on Delta, the sun was shining, and there were no lines at the security check-in at the airport. This meant, of course, that the TSA agents had nothing better to do than to rifle through the Admiral’s carry-on luggage repeatedly, ripping at the electrical cords and electronic equipment inside it. We were the only “show” at 8 a.m. at the Delta check in line, and it took 15 minutes before the two TSA agents who mauled the Admiral’s bag were somehow satisfied that he was not carrying an explosive device or, God forbid, more than 4 ounces of lotion, in his bag. That was the final insult, after the first insult by the TSA person at the front of the check-in line, who looked at the Admiral as he started removing his shoes and told him that people who were 74 or older did not have to take off their shoes. The Admiral is generally not sensitive about age issues, but come on, 74 or older? Unable to remove one’s shoes? Even the Admiral’s hackles were raised over this tactless comment.

Then we left the ineffable TSA troops behind, as we soared into the air for Atlanta, with the pilot advising us that there would be turbulence the entire way. There wasn’t – either he’s a much better pilot than he thought, or the turbulence report was over-rated. We glided through the Atlanta airport and made our connection for BWI in plenty of time. Take a step back for a moment: before the TSA debacle in New Orleans. I espied a place in the airport that served beignets, my most favorite pastry in the entire world, the reason for New Orleans to exist. I ordered one serving, which contained about 5 beignets, and the Admiral and I got white powder in big rings around our mouths, as we devoured these incredible puff pieces. So, the Garden District and the beignets – this is what I choose to remember about our visit to NOLA in 2013.

At BWI our luck kept getting better. We were met by Sabina and Bryan, who whisked us away to Calvert Marina in Solomons in their air-conditioned carriage. Sabina’s mini dachshund, Violet, who worships the Admiral, would not stop kissing him, and when she wasn’t sitting on his lap, she was sitting on mine, looking at the Admiral adoringly. This girl is simply crazy about the Admiral. We got back to Slow Motion about 5:30 in the evening on July 6, and it wasn’t raining. This was a new phenomenon for us. Everyone had fresh corn and pulled pork – too full for ice cream, thanks to Sabina’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. After many walks with Violet, the dog with the tiny bladder, we went to our air-conditioned cabins. I think I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow. It was great to be home. The next morning, Sunday, we took Sabina and Bryan for a ride on Slow Motion, out to the Calvert Cliffs and back. It was sunny and breezy. There were a lot of boats criss crossing our path, but the short cruise still felt great. Upon our return, the Admiral made a mega-omelet – more like a frittata – so big that we couldn’t eat it all. The key ingredient was the diced potatoes, which enhanced the eggs, cheese, onions, ham, peppers, and God knows what else.

We bade farewell to  Sabina, Bryan and Violet at 12:30. I crashed. I don’t remember much more, except that I talked with Sondra and Andy Murray won Wimbledon. I knew that this coming week we had a lot on our plate. Our air conditioning stopped working Sunday morning in the salon. We can’t expect to survive this summer without it. So we added that to the list of things we needed to fix on Monday, today. Into our lives on Monday morning strode Katie, the Wonder Mechanic, and she has changed the oil, fixed the oil leak and figured out what is wrong with the air conditioner. She is a genius with boat equipment repairs. She also changed the zincs, where it would have been difficult for the Admiral or me to do the work. Katie is not exactly tiny, but small enough to fit into places on boats that are not fit for you or me. And once she gets there she knows what to do! Let’s hear it for Katie, who is worth much more than her weight in gold or platinum or diamonds. We were supposed to head north on Tuesday, July 9, but we’re waiting for the part to fix the air conditioner, which should arrive tomorrow or Wednesday. So in the meantime, we stocked up for the trip, had a WaWa dinner and I settled down to finish this blog. There, I’m done!