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.