CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX: FALL LEAVES

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX: FALL LEAVES

We’re only half way through autumn and we already have a whole pile of leaves. First, I took leave of blog writing for the past three weeks to give my shoulders, arms, wrists and hands a rest from computeritis. One great massage (Ms. Vaughn, Kingston, NY) and one pretty good massage (the Wellness Center, Cape May) later, my left shoulder and arm still hurt (I didn’t stop playing the free cell solitaire on line – curses!), but fall is quickly leaving us and there was/is so much to blog about.

So here goes. My second leave taking was departing from New York City by train on October 3 after spending three days and nights with Barbara and Sondra at the Belvedere and trying to cram Broadway shows, museums, restaurants and shopping into our short stay. The highlight was the New York City Ballet corps performing black and white works choreographed by George Balanchine. Each piece was exquisitely designed to fit the musical composition, whether by Hindemith or Stravinsky. And the dancers were unbelievably flexible, engaging and downright talented. How does one decide to be a ballet dancer? It has to be one of the most physically punishing careers known to man or woman with a degree of difficulty off the charts. Yet, each dancer has to perform his/her movements effortlessly. This sounds like an impossible task, but I’m an eyewitness to more than 20 individual dancers leaping, twirling, falling, carrying and being carried around a large stage with the utmost artistic discipline and style – it was mesmerizing even from the balcony. I could have watched them for hours. Having read a few autobiographies of ballet dancers (Gelsey Kirkland), I am fully aware of the pain they endure throughout their training and their performances. But they dance with such joy and abandonment, it’s easy to forget that probably their toes have been broken multiple times, their backs ache and they pull hammies just like the best athletes. I know there are a lot of unnatural moves in ballet, so that the dancers never showed their back to the King of France. However, Balanchine’s genius is in putting thousands of natural moves into The Dance to complement the basic positions. Wow!

The ballet was the “meat” of the NYC visit, sandwiched in between a Night with Janis Joplin and Cindy Lauper’s musical version of the film “Kinky Boots”. Also inside this deli sandwich were a visit to MOMA to see Hopper to O’Keefe and “Starry, Starry Night” (the original) and a walk from one end of High Line Park to the other. Barbara and I went to Ground Zero – hard to believe there wasn’t divine intervention in the saving of St. Paul’s Chapel, less than 100 yards away from the Twin Towers. That place was so critical to the volunteers who worked non-stop to assist the survivors and the cleanup crews. It felt good to be inside a church where so much good was done after one of the most evil acts in history.

Thursday morning I took leave of my friends in NYC and headed to Penn Station to take the train to Wilmington. The night before we had seen a so-so play, “Betrayal”, with real star power in the married couple of Daniel Craig and Rachel Weisz – what a waste of talent! This is a Pinter play about a seven year affair by the married woman – played backward from the end to the beginning – and Mike Nichols directed. Save your money. Even great playwrights and directors can have a dud from time to time. Fortunately, it’s a limited run of 14 weeks, so it won’t ruin anyone’s career. Later Thursday morning I was back on Slow Motion, and we left the beautiful Delaware City Marina before noon. The Admiral had a hard time parting with Astro, his adopted hound dog, but we knew we would return. We traversed the Delaware Bay – not nearly as choppy as our trip up to Delaware City – to return to Cape May for my get together with friends from kindergarten and high school.

Utsch’s Marina in Cape May kind of grows on you. It’s not quite as homey as Tim’s place in Delaware City, but it’s certainly home to a lot of Utsch family members, many of whom live and work on the premises. It’s been in business for more than 100 years. We were given Slip One again, the slip right next to the office and ship’s store. The only down side is the loud radio playing ballads from the 50’s and 60’s, which one of the workmen uses to inspire his boat repairs. And he repairs boats on the other side of the finger pier next to Slow Motion. Still, he’s gone at 5 p.m. and it’s very quiet for us at night, except for the occasional late arriving ocean fishing boat. The mornings start early with the fishing boats heading out before dawn, but it’s great to start the day with a hot shower, which is conveniently located next to Slip One, one floor up.

Cape May has a lot to offer. One day I went to the Audubon Society house at Cape May Point. The place was crawling with bird watchers (duh!). This is the time of year for massive migrations – herons, egrets, geese, monarch butterflies, raptors – you name the bird and it’s most likely migrating to or from Cape May in October. I drove to Cape May Point Park, where the lighthouse is located, and decided to stroll around on the trails that go out to ponds that all kinds of birds love to visit. As I walked up to one pond, some avid bird watchers were leaving: “Let’s go. There’s nothing here but a blue heron, a green heron and some swans,” they said. All right! I was thrilled to see these creatures. I don’t ever think I’ll get jaded by the sight of any of them. I had previously visited the Wetlands Institute in Stone Harbor, north of Cape May, and I saw mostly gulls there, although I did see one snowy egret and I attended a program on the horseshoe crab. This is the place where the monarchs were supposed to come on October 5. I missed that event. After reading Kingsolver’s Flight Behavior about the monarchs who mysteriously migrated to Appalachia for a summer/fall/winter, I have total respect and awe for this insect. BTW, if you want a book that will lift your spirits by the sheer power of the words, read Flight Behavior.

Cold Spring Village is north of Cape May. It’s an assemblage of buildings from the nineteenth century which have been moved from various locations in Cape May County to this specific “Village” site, so that tourists can get an idea of how villagers lived in the mid to late 1800’s in this neck of the woods. Actually, the goal of the founders of this Village is quite lofty. A sign in the main building of the Village reads as follows: “Historic Cold Spring Village is an outdoor living history museum that interprets farmwomen’s domestic life in the mid-19^th century as part of its activities and exhibits. While men struggled to raise crops and care for animals on the small farms once found in abundance in Cape May County, their wives and daughters faced long days of hard labor in the home. Household tasks that now can be done in no more than an hour or two were once all-day projects. Washing a family’s clothes required filling enormous iron cauldrons with water, starting a fire beneath them and stirring the clothing with a large wooden agitator. Cooking meals was done with heavy iron cookware in a fireplace where the threat of burns was a constant danger. There was also sewing, spinning and, of course, caring for the children. Before the advent of domestic labor-saving devices in the 20^th century, it was often said that “a woman’s work is never done.” Women of the Early American era would undoubtedly agree.” The only statement that seems to be a bit “off” is the one that restricts crop raising and animal husbandry to men – not likely. Come planting time and harvest time, the entire farm family would have had to devote long days to the crops – women and girls included. And just as today and throughout history, not all farms had men around to raise crops and care for the farm animals. Think “Places in the Heart.” There was no rigid division between women’s work and men’s work on the farm when it came to the “outside” work. I agree that the “inside” work was almost exclusively done by women, but one reason their work was never done was that women had to contribute to every phase of farming. A small quibble, but an important one. I don’t like a project that aims to highlight the role of women in farm life to try to marginalize them by just depicting the traditional “women’s work” aspect of their much fuller lives.

The display boards in the main building of Cold Spring Village had some great information on the history of the area beyond life on a 19^th century farm. One board entitled “Slave and Free” got my attention, given my ongoing interest in our despicable history of slaveholding. The information on this board was completely new to me: There were slaveholders in New Jersey! Yep! According to this informational board, “[T]he first record of slaveholding in Cape May County dates to 1688 when Daniel Coxe wrote, “I have either at Cape May or Burlington four stout Negroes.” In 1745 the county had a population of 1,136 free white residents and 52 enslaved African Americans. Free black residents first appeared as “taxable residents” in 1791, when “Prince Negro” was taxed in Lower Township in Cape May. It was not until 1786 that New Jersey outlawed the importation of slaves and authorized their “manumission” under certain restrictions. “Manumission” is the act of a slave owner freeing his or her slaves. And it was in 1804 that the New Jersey State Legislature passed a law that provided that children born of slave parents after 1804 should be freed when the female reached 21 and the male reached 25 years of age. What largesse! As a result of manumission, free black communities (i.e., segregated communities) started growing in the Lower and Middle Townships of Cape May County, then later in West Cape May. In 1901, long after the end of the Civil War, a “syndicate” (beats me) founded Whitesboro – named after a Black legislator and lawyer, George White, who was from Washington, D.C.

And here’s the Harriet Tubman connection to Cape May. As you know, Ms. Tubman was born in Maryland around 1820. She was born a slave. That really happened in this country. But in 1849 she escaped to Philadelphia and became involved in the Underground Railroad, the secret organization which helped others who were still enslaved escape to freedom (of a sort, in a northern segregated community). Ms. Tubman was a “conductor” on the UR, leading people out of their positions of slavery from Maryland to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and northward to Canada, where they felt a tad safer. In the 1850’s, before the Civil War, Ms. Tubman spent her summers in Cape May working as a chambermaid in the resort hotels to earn money to finance her UR activities. She must have been a great chambermaid and earned some big tips because she used that Cape May summer money to finance 19 trips from Maryland to Canada between 1850 and 1860, freeing more than 300 people from the despicable bonds of slavery.

Decades before Harriet Tubman earned the money in Cape May to get hundreds out of slavery, in 1819 Jarena Lee, an African American woman born in 1783 to free Black parents in Cape May became the first woman minister of the African Methodist Episcopal Church. It took her years to achieve that goal. First, she had to marry a male minister. But she was not about to live her dream through another person. So she persisted until eight years after she first asked to preach, Bishop Richard Allen of the AME church told the congregation that when she first asked, he had refused, but finally he believed that she was “called” to preach as much as any of the other preachers in that church. This revelation came to him one Sunday when he was preaching and words failed him, so Jarena Lee stepped up to the altar and began to preach to the congregation. Hallelujah! She was a hit with Bishop Allen and the congregation, and from then on she was “allowed” to preach. Not that being a preacher was easy for her – she was, after all, Black and a woman. So she faced a lot of hostility. As a result, she became a traveling minister, staying one step ahead of the haters. In one year she travelled more than two thousand miles and preached 178 sermons. She wrote two autobiographical novels, The Life and Religious Experience of Jarena Lee, and an expanded version entitled Religious Experience and Journal of Mrs. Jarena Lee. In her own words, Jarena Lee described the day when Bishop Allen relented and gave her permission to preach:

“I now sat down, scarcely knowing what I had done, being frightened. I imagined for this indecorum [standing up and taking over for the Bishop] I would be expelled from the church. But instead of this, Bishop [Allen] rose up in the assembly and related that I had called upon him eight years before, asking to be permitted to preach, and that he had put me off; but that he now as much believed that I was called to that work, as any of the preachers present.”

Seize the moment, if you want to be a pioneer in any field. Persistence pays off. That’s what I keep telling Hillary. Just kidding. I’ve never talked to her. Besides, I still hold on to the dream of being the first woman President of the United States. I’m starting my write in campaign here and now.

But I digress from the leave-taking theme. After exploring Cape May for several days, on Monday, October 7, I left Slow Motion on my bicycle and rode to the Bed and Breakfast, Rhythm of the Sea, to meet Mary Jane, Marlea, Carol V., Pat, and Carol G., my friends from Bethlehem. Pat has dubbed us the Bethlehem Babes and we have been getting together for a three day love fest every year for 10 years. We’ve met at B and B’s near Chestertown, Maryland, at a B and B in Rehoboth, Delaware (At Melissa’s), and at a B and B in chi chi St. Michael’s, Maryland. This year we wanted to be on the beach and Cape May was the consensus choice. I have selected the B and B’s over the years – pretty chancy, because I made my first selections while still living and working in Salinas. I had never been to the Chesapeake Bay area, and I can’t remember ever staying at a B and B. Somehow, I got lucky with the first choice, Great Oak Manor near Chestertown and Rock Hall, which we visited twice. And I got very lucky with At Melissa’s, a place we visited 3 or 4 years in a row. Recently, my selections have not been home runs – the Inn at Mitchell House (2012) sported some damned fine stuffed swans in the entryway (yikes!) and was the gathering place for all manner of flying insects at night in the salon where we were settling the affairs of the world.

And don’t get me started on Rhythm of the Sea. Okay, if you insist. The photos on their web site gave the distinct impression to me and to all of us that this B and B was Right On the Beach, and that it was the ONLY B and B in Cape May that was Right On The Beach. It appeared to be secluded and surrounded by beach dunes and grasses. There was an inviting porch on one of the bedrooms that appeared to be Right On The Beach. Well, come to find out, ROTS is not Right On The Beach. It’s right on a busy street, Beach Avenue, and it’s scrunched in between other commercial buildings and/or beach rentals. Right down the street are some standard beach motels. The beach is across the street – close by, for sure. But there was no seclusion, no sense of being by ourselves on a beach front property with nothing but sand between us and the ocean. We knew that the prices we were paying for rooms were high, but we figured that this place was so unique – Right On The Beach – that the prices reflected that uniqueness. Not so – the prices are just high. This is a “nice” house with lovely furniture and furnishings, which could be anywhere. It happens to be more than a mile from the center of Cape May, which has many B and B’s a lot closer to the shopping area. And it has a small front yard, no back yard to speak of, a small parking lot, neighboring buildings very close on both sides, and a wide two lane street right in front of it. By comparison, one of our previous B and B’s, Great Oak Manor outside of Chestertown, is located on acres of beautiful lawn that runs down to a private beach on the Chesapeake Bay – no street between you and the Bay, and there are no neighbors within shouting distance. Did I mention that GOM also has an indoor pool? Of course, ROTS has a pool TABLE – not a match.

Fortunately, our get togethers are about us and not the place we stay. When all six of us show up healthy and ready to share our deepest, innermost thoughts, as well as photos of grandchildren, that’s a successful reunion, whether the B and B is a winner or not. This year was fantastic from that standpoint. Pat is the latest to have a grandchild to brag about – Carol V., Carol G., Mary Jane and Marlea all preceded her. And I have quasi-step-grandchildren to show off, when time permits. But this summer Pat was blessed with her first grandchild, and she is a beauty. We had to do something to mark the occasion, so – PARTY! And it was a surprise that we were able to keep hidden from Pat until the moment she walked into my room filled with balloons and pink crepe paper draped over the ceiling fan, the lamps, the dressers, anything that could be draped. We had the richest, tiniest, chocolate and white cake, which was supplemented by Pat’s annual Bethlehem Babes sheet cake. And we had presents galore for Pat and Annabel. But the greatest gift was the love in the room we all shared for each other and our families. Every year something memorable happens when we assemble, and I for one will always remember Pat’s grandbaby shower as the 2013 event to remember.

My “sisters” (Pat made us all her honorary sisters at the shower.) wrote to me that they will cherish another highlight of our 2013 reunion – the homemade clam chowder lunch aboard Slow Motion. The Admiral had invited us all to dine on Slo Mo during our stay in Cape May. And he offered to make clam chowder – white or red. Everyone opted for red, except Janie, who thought we were asking about wine choices. Never mind. We had the hottest, spiciest, clammiest clam chowder on the East Coast. Carol V. and others asked for seconds, and this made the Admiral so, so happy. They also asked for the recipe, which the Admiral proudly and generously shared, along with a dash of his original humor. I must say it was very cozy on Slow Motion as we slurped our soup. The conversation was a spicy as the chowder. It was a rather dreary day outside (perfect for shopping), but inside Slow Motion’s salon the atmosphere was sunny with a big chance of laughter. One thing I always remember for weeks after our get togethers is Pat’s laugh, and every time I hear it in my mind, I have to laugh. That’s another gift that keeps on giving. And kudos to the Admiral for unobtrusively providing us this pluperfect venue for a chatty chowder chow down. Did I mention that we had key lime pie for dessert? Tiny slivers, but deliciously tart and creamy. (Thanks, Sabina and Bryan and Sonja and Michael.)

There was a lowlight of our reunion, but now it’s a distant memory. The housekeeping person hired by ROTS, a loyal employee for 4 years and a surrogate daughter to the owner, stole my purse and jacket when we all went upstairs to put away luggage. I left my purse on a sofa in the great room, because we were going to lunch in five minutes. This is a B and B in Cape May, where the marina staff told me that no one even locks their bikes. It’s so safe, I was told. Of course, after the Great Purse Caper other members of the marina staff told the Admiral that it’s great sport to walk in off the streets and take things from guests at B and B’s. That was not the case with the theft of my purse and jacket. And the Admiral knew this was an inside job, as soon as he arrived and learned the details of the disappearance. The purse and jacket were left alone in the living room for no more than 10 minutes. Aside from the Bethlehem Babes there were only two people in the house, the innkeeper and the chambermaid. So it wasn’t the butler in the library with the lead pipe. The Admiral said it was likely that both my jacket and purse were still on the premises. I had already called the police, and they had showed up and taken a statement and left. But after they left, we started searching the B and B, room by room. There is a tiny alcove with a 4 foot high door under the stairway to the second floor. The innkeeper looked inside, then lifted the top of a small waste can, and – there was my jacket! Now what are the chances that someone off the street would have found this hidden alcove in less than 5 minutes? The chambermaid had already left for the day, when we found my jacket. Some thought that she may have been carrying my purse on her arm, concealed by a sweater, but the innkeeper said he tried to look and did not see anything under the sweater.

We kept searching the rooms of the B and B – what a fun time this was! I went into the dingy basement and practically crawled inside a huge freezer to search for my cold cash. No luck. The innkeeper searched the attic. Zippo. The Admiral still believed that my purse was on the premises. The suspects had been narrowed down to two. All the Babes were on the second floor for about 5 minutes, and the innkeeper and chambermaid both had access to my purse and the opportunity to take it during that short time. But who had the motive? The innkeeper informed us that the chambermaid had been complaining bitterly all morning that the B and B owner had failed to pay her the tip money she was entitled to for working the weekend before, when the inn hosted a wedding and reception. The chambermaid kept telling the innkeeper that she really needed the money and she couldn’t wait another week for the innkeeper to pay her. MOTIVE! I called the police and told them we had found my jacket and we had learned of a motive the chambermaid had to steal my purse. The police told the innkeeper to let the chambermaid come to work the next morning and they would show up (surprise!) and take her to the station for questioning. By the way, the chambermaid had all the combinations and keys to all the locks at ROTS. So I got to spend my first night in the B and B fully awake worrying that she or her parolee boyfriend would return to take what she missed the first time – or just to terrorize me.

See what I mean about this being a lowlight? Bottom line: the chambermaid confessed. She told the police where to find my purse. She had stuffed it down a vent in the attic. A police officer came back to the B and B and the innkeeper and he found my purse. Everything was there but the cash (about $400) and a bottle of Advil. Yes, if this tale of thievery isn’t trite enough, how about adding drug addiction as the driving force behind the chambermaid’s theft? Percocet or Percodan is her drug of choice, apparently. Maybe she stole my Advil to take the edge off the harder stuff. Naturally, when the police interviewed her, she did not have any of my money, except my fake million dollar bill that she couldn’t palm off on her drug dealer/bill collector. And I should be grateful to have recovered so much. However, it’s about those hours of mind-numbing phone calls to credit card companies, Social Security, banks, the Department of Motor Vehicles – first to report the theft and cancel everything, then the callback the next day to report the recovery of my purse, wallet, cards, checks and license – too late. Everything had to be destroyed and I had to await the arrival of new cards. I’m getting tense all over again just writing this. So enough! You have probably all had your wallet or purse stolen, so you know the special hell you live in for days trying to re-create your life before the theft. And as for restitution, well, according to the Cape May prosecutor, maybe they’ll file charges in about 6 weeks and then maybe I’ll hear from a victim advocate about restitution – or maybe not. Thank God for the highlights. On top of every other kindness my sisters showed me, they took turns paying for my meals. I’ll never forget their support and love – another highlight pulled from the jaws of the only lowlight. Hurray.

On Wednesday, October 9 my sisters took leave of Cape May, and I returned to the Admiral and Slow Motion. We had planned to leave for Delaware City the next day. But the nor’easter which roared into town had other plans for us. We hunkered down through gale force winds and sheets of rain pounding Slow Motion in Slip One for the next 5 days. On October 15, when we finally set sail across the Delaware Bay, we were ready for a change of scenery. Just not what the Bay had in store for us – four foot waves and winds of 20 knots rocking us all over the place. The toaster fell to the floor and pieces flew off it. My bathroom looked like a typhoon hit it, with lotions, toothpaste and toothbrush strewn all over the floor and bath. The blinds were swinging and clanging perilously until we raised them. It reminded me of running the rapids on the Colorado River in a small raft – being raised up 4 or 5 feet, then plunging down 4 or 5 feet into a hole, then rising up again with spray flying all over Slow Motion’s bow and decks. I loved riding the rapids with Arizona Raft Adventures, so I just treated the monstrous waves like rapids and happily rocked up and down, over and around with each rolling wall of water. The Admiral, on the other hand, was not happy. The weather report was wrong again – this was not the 2 to 3 foot waves that had been predicted. Every time something else that had been dislodged from its place on the boat made a big sound, the Admiral grimaced and I went running to find it, secure it and save it if possible. This was a true test of whether either of us was prone to seasickness, and we both passed that test. Queasy? Yes. Seasick? Negative.

All righty. Here we were at Delaware City Marina for the umpteenth time, in the middle of October, trying to plot our journey to Charleston, arriving October 30, just 15 days away. The good news was that there were no tropical storms or hurricanes on the horizon. Remember Sandy? She arrived right around Halloween last year. And the bad news? That we had to travel virtually nonstop from Delaware City to Charleston without any periods of rest, just one marina after another, 50 to 80 miles per day, good or rotten weather, 9 hour days on the waterway, low bridges with limited opening times, and a semi-hostile armada of sun-seeking boaters crowding the entire route from the Chesapeake Bay to the Cooper and Ashley Rivers. For the most part, other boaters are pleasant, informative, and entertaining – for most of the year. But when the mass migration south begins, that means the formerly friendly boater has to fight you for a place in the marina of your/their choice, always has to be first in line getting to the closed bridges, and rarely has time to make a courteous “slow pass” by your boat. In other words, autumn boaters heading south are infused with water “road rage”. There are a lot of frayed nerves at the end of each day – sometimes you end up at the same marina as the boats that “waked” you and didn’t look back to see you shaking your fist at them. Suffice it to say, this is not the best time of year to travel. Last year, although we were traveling at just about the same time of the month in October, we missed this crazy crush. We also avoided the mad dash north this spring by being the last boat to leave Florida. But this fall has been different – there is constant chatter all day on Channel 16 (the emergency radio channel) between boaters, until they’re reminded that Channel 16 is for emergencies, not drivel. Some of the conversations are hilarious, but most are mundane (“Where are you staying tonight?” “Your boat is good-looking.” “Radio check, radio check.” “Will you tell me what the waves are like on the Sound when you get there?”)

And the marinas – don’t get me started. But what happened to customer service? Talk about the formerly well run Bay Bridge Marina. I used the ladies room and found out the hard way that all the toilets are stopped up. I reported this immediately to Erica in the office who reacted with total indifference: “There are bathrooms in all four buildings”, she responded. It used to be: “I’ll call the plumber immediately. I’m so sorry. Can I give you a refund?” Not anymore. I told Erica I intended to take a shower and hoped that the showers still worked. She showed no interest. Still no call to a plumber. I went back to take a shower – silly me – and of course none of the water went down the drain. I had to stop showering within a minute or so, as the piled up water starting spilling out of the stall onto the floor, which was already puddled from the toilets. I returned to the office to report the non-working shower drain to Erica. Could she have been more blasé? I doubt it. She still did not make a call to anyone. And she gave me no apology whatsoever. Forget about a refund. And forget about Bay Bridge Marina. At least our next marina, Calvert, was warm, friendly, customer-oriented – as usual-- despite the fact that they had just survived the annual invasion of 40 Kadey Krogens and were probably all dead on their feet. Thank you, Matt and Brandy for your bonhomie and gentle treatment of transient boaters.

We moved on to Dozier’s Regatta Point in Deltaville, which had been a top notch place when we previously visited. Not this time. We were told beforehand that we would be tying up on the face dock, on the south end. We prepared our lines accordingly. As we approached, the new dock master frantically waved us off the face dock and told us he was putting us in a slip in a shed – what? He said he needed the face dock for a big boat that was coming in. Okay, you can’t put any brakes on, so the Admiral rolled with the new assignment and headed for the covered slip, which looked far too small for us. At the last minute the dock master said perhaps we could tie up outside next to the shed. So we tried that and it worked, sort of. We were tied to some pilings at a rickety dock, but it was just for one night. This was a huge comedown from our previous Dozier’s accommodations – and so sloppily handled. But wait, it gets worse. The dock master tied off the last line, and the Admiral asked him when he found out that another big boat was taking our place on the face dock. Suddenly, the dock master blanched as he realized that we were in fact the big boat he was waiting for. Yikes! Talk about your scattered brain. So he offered to help us move our boat to the south end of the face dock. We gladly accepted, and we moved. Then he rushed off to do something else. And we were left to find the electric outlet. The stanchion next to us had a hole where the 50 amp outlet should be. So we moved on to the next stanchion. We put our power cord into the 50 amp outlet. And then the madness began. Lights all over the boat started blinking on and off. There was a flash in the microwave. It smelled like a wire was burning. The Admiral called for help. But damage had already been done.

We kept reminding ourselves that Dozier’s was a first class marina, and that everything would be all right. As I went off to do the laundry, the Admiral found Jack Dozier, the owner, who was about to join the local yacht club for a crab feast, and Jack called an electrician to find out what had burned. Meanwhile, we had to move Slow Motion a third time to get next to an electric outlet that did not fry our wires. Jack’s electrician showed up – it was Friday evening. That was impressive. He determined that one of our battery chargers (the one that is part of the inverter) had fried. The Admiral reported the damage to Jack, who by this time was elbow deep in crabs. Jack suddenly turned on his loyal customer – “not my problem”, he said. The Admiral reminded him that it was the marina’s outlet that had burned out our lights and probably fried the battery charger. Jack relented, wanting to get back to his crabs, and agreed to pay the electrician for his work up to that point – but no more. So we were left with getting the electrician back on our dime on Saturday morning – overtime – to actually fix the problem. Sorry, Dozier’s, the thrill is gone. You’ve lost your elite status. Every marina should have safe, working electric outlets, and if those outlets blow out something on a transient’s boat, every marina should be responsible for the damage. Case closed.

Okay, this was not the way we had planned our trip south. We wanted to move in and out of marinas effortlessly, partake of their electric and water outlets (and Wi-Fi and cable TV, where available), shower and do laundry – no fuss, no muss. We wanted to arrive by 4 pm and leave by 7 am. We were a marina owner’s dream. We paid full fare and used their facilities for a minimal period of time. We needed very little help docking, when the docking was straightforward, and we needed no help leaving in the mornings, while everyone else was still asleep. And for their part, the marina pocketed $100; maybe a dockhand spent 5 minutes helping us tie up and an office person spent 5 minutes taking our money and giving us the Wi-Fi code. This was easy money for every marina we visited. All we asked in return was that their utilities and facilities actually worked. Oh, and one more thing, we really expected them to follow through on whatever representations they made when we made our reservations with them.

This brings me to Harbor Village, where we are spending tonight, October 25. On Monday of this week I called and asked to make a reservation for Friday. I told Mike that we had stayed on their face dock earlier this year, right in front of the office. He said unequivocally: “That’s where you’ll go again.” I said: “Same place?” He confirmed that we would be tying up on the face dock again. There are only two places on the face dock, so I felt very fortunate to have called early enough to reserve one of the two places. This is why the Admiral and I try to make reservations in advance, so that we can get places on a marina’s face dock or T head. These spaces are the most coveted. Every boater asks for them. But our experience has been that when a marina tells you that they have reserved a space for you on the face dock or a T head, the marina actually follows through and puts you there. Not so, Harbor Village. Oh no. I called twice today to confirm our reservation and to give Mike the courtesy of telling him our estimated arrival time. This is not something all boaters do, but it only seems fair to give the marina owner or dock master a heads up on the day of your arrival regarding when you will need help tying up. Mike took both calls. I made the second call about one half hour before our arrival, just checking on the day marker that is closest to the marina entrance. Neither time did Mike tell me there had been a change in our assignment. So we pulled into the channel and headed for the face dock. Suddenly, a young man standing on a slip to the left of us motioned for us to come into the slip. We saw two other men next to the face dock and assumed the young man had the wrong boat. But then these two men also told us we had to go into this slip. What the heck? The Admiral tries to work with everyone, so he backed into the slip, without any directional help from the young man (who had been operating a leaf blower just prior to our arrival).

Once we were in the slip, the Admiral asked the young man why we weren’t tying up on the face dock. The young man said that he just works here, but Mike had said that a 65 foot boat, which can’t fit into any of their slips, was going to tie up on the face dock later today. The young man said that Mike had tried to call me about the change, but couldn’t reach me. I said that was odd, because I had spoken with him twice today, and he made no mention that he had decided to give our face dock reservation to someone else. The young man said that I had to talk to Mike about this. The Admiral mentioned to the young man that this marina seemed pretty “fucked up” not to honor a reservation. The young man did not disagree, just referred us to Mike. This entire conversation was in a civil tone in a normal tone of voice. No one was shouting. It turns out that this slip we were forced into at the 11^th hour was about a mile from the office. The young man had come out to it using a golf cart, and he offered to drive me to the office to pay. So I hopped in, and we rode over hill and dale to the office. He said that Mike can be very accommodating and that he might lend us a golf cart to use during our stay. He told me to be sure to ask. I entered Mike’s domain and I asked him why he had given up our space to another boat. He said that the 65 foot boat couldn’t fit into a slip, and we could. I asked when he first got a call from this 65 footer, and he allowed that the big boat driver had just called after my second call today – and it was lucky that he did, or we would have been tied up on the face dock – and then what would he have done with the 65 footer? Obviously, this man has no clue what a reservation is. We had a little more discussion, where he espoused his theory of accommodating everyone and not turning away anyone. Yeah, I bet. He could not or would not wrap his mind around the fact that he had broken our reservation when a bigger boat – read more money – called at the last minute and he just gave our space away to it. Is this any way to treat a customer? Not one who you want to return. I asked Mike how I was supposed to get to and from the office, and he suggested walking (yes, really) or riding a bike. I asked if he had a bike to lend me, and he said “no”. I took the young man’s suggestion about asking to use the golf cart, and Mike emphatically said “no” – it wasn’t his, he said.

Within a few minutes of the young man returning me to Slow Motion, the Admiral and I went out to hook up our hose. A trawler had come into the marina and was being tied up in the slip right next to us. And Mike was there to help. No, he hadn’t walked or ridden a bike to get there from the office. He had used the golf cart – not his, of course, but something he apparently has full use of. The Admiral told Mike that he could use some training in customer service. And Mike said that he had received a call from someone who lived in a condo some 100 feet from Slow Motion, who, he claimed, reported a man shouting the word “fuck” thirty one times. No kidding – 31 times is what Mike claims the lady said. I was present when the Admiral was talking to the young man. He was not shouting, and he did not say “fuck” once. He said the marina was “fucked up” – not loud enough that someone 100 feet away would hear. The Admiral told Mike that we would report this poor treatment to Active Captain, and I really believe this is why Mike retaliated with his trumped up “fuck” complaint. Truth tell, Mike does not appear to accept criticism well. Somehow, in his mind we were in the wrong to ask him to honor his commitment and place us on the face dock. After all, he rationalized, he had to make room for all boats, and if a bigger boat came along, then too bad – the smaller boat would have to move to a slip. All the Admiral asked of him was to tell us this when he made that decision – before we entered the marina – tell us simply that he was reneging on the face dock reservation. Then we would have moved on to the next marina (at 2:45 p.m.). Is that so hard to do? Apparently, yes. It’s easier to pull us into the marina on a false promise, bait us with the face dock, switch us to the slip – then, and only then – at 4 p.m. – offer us a refund so that we can go off and find another marina – AN HOUR BEFORE CLOSING! Tsk, tsk, Mike, this is not the way to treat a customer. Shame on you!

So tomorrow morning, very early, we will gladly take our leave of the Harbor Village Marina. And what we will cherish from this day – before Mix and Match Mike tried to ruin our day – are the porpoises in Bogue Sound who swam to the front of Slow Motion and raced us down the Sound, until one of them raced directly in front of Slow Motion and did a graceful leap forward completely out of the water, then sped away. But before leaving, he/she made our day. No dock master, no matter how surly, indifferent, rude or boorish, can take that image away from us.

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