CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TEN: WHERE THE BOYS ARE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TEN: WHERE THE BOYS ARE

Do you remember the 1960’s, or have you read about it in your history classes? Yes, this is the 50^th year since the assassination of JFK in Dallas. And it is also more than 50 years since thousands of college kids put Fort Lauderdale on the map by coming here for spring break. In 1960 the movie, “Where the  Boys Are” came out, along with the most popular hit, same name, of the year, sung by Connie Francis, who was in the movie. Also starring in this important piece of Ft. Lauderdale history were Dolores Hart, Yvette Mimieux, George Hamilton, Paula Prentiss, Jim Hutton, Chill Wills and Frank Gorshin. So if you win the Jeopardy Tournament for Seniors with this trivia, let’s split the $100,000. Contrast the history of Rome where it all started with the wolf twins, Romulus and Remus, going back to a prehistoric time of mythical proportions, with the history of Ft. Lauderdale where its current prosperity all started with a B Movie going back a whopping five decades. Rome or Ft. Lauderdale – which would you history buffs rather visit at this time of year? Oh sure, Pope Francis makes the Rome trip more interesting these days, especially if you’re homeless and get invited to have breakfast with him. But are they showing the “Book of Mormon” in Rome? It’s playing in Ft. Lauderdale as I write. That’s the history of God, through the South Park eyes of the Latter Day Saints. Compared to the One who created Earth, Rome doesn’t seem so ancient now, does it?

To be fair, Ft. Lauderdale has a history which predates George Hamilton’s tan. As with the rest of the East Coast of Florida, it goes back to aboriginal people in prehistoric times – the Tequesta lived in the area in south Florida between Ft. Lauderdale and the Keys. I previously wrote about the Timucua people, whose civilization is featured in a Preserve in Jacksonville. The Timucua go back at least to 5000 BC, and the Tequesta can be traced back to 700 BC based on ceramics which have been found in the area. I can’t find a link between the Timucua and the Tequesta yet, but I’ll keep looking. Like the Timucua, the Tequesta did not fare well after the arrival of Europeans, first the Spanish, then the English. First, there was all that disease the Europeans brought with them and transmitted to the Native Americans, killing them off in droves. And if the germs didn’t get them, the missionaries did. The Spanish, like the Mormons, wanted to convert everyone to their religion, Catholicism. They thought they could do this best with the Tequesta by forcing them to move to Cuba for indoctrination in the Catholic faith. This policy was started in 1704. Most of the Tequesta who were uprooted from Florida and carted off to Cuba died in Cuba. The remaining survivors were returned to Florida – not sure if they had been Catholicized or not. Spain ceded Florida to England in 1763, and the Tequestas who had survived the Spanish rule were moved, again, to Cuba.

In the meantime, the Creeks from Georgia, who became known as the Seminoles in Florida, kept migrating south and settled in the Everglades and along the East Coast around Ft. Lauderdale. Just like Spain, the new American government decided it was best to remove the Native Americans from Florida and transplant them -- this time hundreds of miles away from their homes. To achieve that end, the Indian Removal Act was passed in 1830. The Seminoles took serious exception to this racist law. While staying in Ft. Myers last winter, I blogged about the First, Second, and Third Seminole Wars. The Second Seminole War hit the Fort Lauderdale area the hardest. This War lasted from December 23, 1835 to August 14, 1842 and resulted in a government “victory”, namely that they succeeded in moving 3800 Seminoles to “Indian Territory.” (And you thought “Redskins” was bad – which it is.) But before that removal, in the first major battle of the Second Seminole War Native Americans killed more than 100 soldiers under the command of Major Francis L. Dade on December 28, 1835 – this is called the “Dade Massacre”. And there was a second major Seminole assault nine days later on January 6, 1836 on the New River in what is now Fort Lauderdale. This is called the “New River Massacre.” Why is it that when the government wins, it’s a “victory” and when the Seminoles win it’s a “massacre”? Okay – this question answers itself.

In fairness to the Seminoles, here is the background of the so-called New River Massacre: A group of Creek Indians had moved in the early 1800’s from Alabama to join the Seminoles in their settlements near the New River. In 1835, white settlers killed Alibama, a Creek chief, and burned his hut. Why, we don’t know. But no good reason was advanced. The Seminoles and Creeks demanded justice. The Justice of the Peace was William Cooley, one of the first American settlers, who had acquired land on the New River in 1823. In fact, Cooley jailed the settlers who had killed Alibama, BUT they were released after a hearing at the Monroe County Court in Key West, allegedly based on insufficient evidence. The Creek blamed Cooley for the settlers’ release, claiming that he had withheld necessary evidence of their guilt. After their success in the battle with Major Dade’s soldiers, the Seminole and Creek warriors attacked Cooley’s settlement. Cooley and most of the adult men were away trying to salvage a wrecked ship, the Gil Blas. In his absence, the Native Americans entered his house, scalped the tutor and shot Cooley’s wife and infant son as she tried to flee with him. Cooley’s 9 year old son and daughter were also killed. Cooley’s house was torched. It was the only house in the entire settlement that was attacked by the Seminoles and Creeks. Thus, it appears rather clear that this attack was in retaliation for the murder of Chief Alibama and the unjust release of his killers.

Whatever the reason, Cooley was able to convince the government that the settlers needed forts built along the New River. One of the forts erected on the New River in 1838 was named Fort Lauderdale, after Major William Lauderdale, who commanded the soldiers who built the first fort on the river. There were actually three forts built that were named Fort Lauderdale (talk about leaving a legacy) and all of them were built along the New River. None of them was used for very long. They were abandoned in 1842, as the Second Seminole War was ending. The war succeeded in driving out both Native American and white settlers, so that there was very little population in what is now Fort Lauderdale until the 1890’s, when Frank Stranahan arrived to start a ferry business across the New River. The Florida East Coast Railroad (Henry Flagler’s baby) was completed in 1896 in this part of Florida. Both the ferry and the railroad started bringing people and goods into the New River region. One of the first structures built to welcome the new settlers and visitors at the end of the 19^th century was the New River Inn, commissioned by Philemon Nathaniel Bryan and erected by Ed King. It still stands today along the New River, having survived many ferocious hurricanes which destroyed the buildings near it. Philemon Bryan had been enticed away from his position as Mayor of New Smyrna by Henry Flagler to build the portion of the railroad near the New River settlement. Bryan brought his sons, Tom and Reed, and 400 African American workers to the New River in 1894 and completed the railroad in this area two years later, when the first train arrived in town February 22, 1896.

The New River Inn is where you go to start your own personal history tour of Ft. Lauderdale. That’s where I met Vanessa on Thursday, and she gave me a one woman show and tell of the founders of modern day Ft. Lauderdale, which was incorporated as a city in 1911. We left the New River Inn and walked next door to the King/Cromartie House. (It wasn’t always next door. It had been moved from across the river by the Stranahan House -- more later-- to its present position.) Edwin built this house for his wife and kids, even as he was completing the Stranahan Trading Post for Frank Stranahan and the New River Inn for Philemon Bryan. Edwin King had a lot of kids and he and his wife needed a school teacher for them and the other kids in their new settlement. He contacted the Superintendent of Education in Lemon City (now North Miami) to get a school teacher, and 18 year old Ivy Cromartie, the star of her teacher’s college, was recommended to him. In 1899 Ms. Cromartie came to New River and started teaching nine children in a one room school house, also built by Ed King. The class grew in size to 15, but Ms. Cromartie only taught for a year in the school house. In 1900 she was swept off her feet by town father Frank Stranahan, 16 years her senior, married him and then turned her attention to just about every worthy cause on the planet. According to Vanessa, she was a “suffragette” – come on, it’s time to get rid of that diminutive word – use “suffragist”, please. In addition to seeking the vote for women, Ivy Cromartie Stranahan started teaching Seminole children, whose parents came to trade at Stranahan’s trading post. She dedicated her life to trying to improve the lives of the Seminoles, and she and Frank both testified on their behalf before Congress in1917. She founded “Friends of the Seminoles”, a group that helped many Seminole families settle in the “reservation” that is now Dania, Florida, in order to prevent their removal and in an effort to provide them stability with their own land.

The Stranahan/Cromartie union was prosperous and full of good deeds. Despite the age difference, Cromartie exercised considerable influence over Stranahan’s decisions, including his decision not to sell or buy any alcohol or any product containing alcohol, even vanilla extract. Cromartie was a member of the WCTU and she insisted that her husband not sell liquor, or even patent medicine. Stranahan’s businesses flourished even without the sale of alcohol – until 1926, when a horrific hurricane hit the area and thereafter, the land owned by Stranahan and others decreased significantly in value. Stranahan had established a bank, and it folded. He had mortgaged all of his property and so he had huge debts. Another huge hurricane hit the area in 1928, and that was the last straw for Stranahan. On May 22, 1929 Stranahan tied a sewer grate to his waist and jumped into the New River, drowning himself. Ivy Cromartie Stranahan had recognized that her husband needed psychological treatment and had supported his 10 day stay in a hospital shortly before he killed himself. He wrote at the time: “My wife gave me much encouragement but I can’t seem to grasp it.” After he committed suicide, Ivy carried on, rescuing most of the businesses and becoming a statewide leader in the fight in Florida for women’s right to vote. She was a force in Ft. Lauderdale and Florida until her death in 1971.

Now, back to the King/Cromartie house – it was so named because Ivy’s brother, Bloxham Cromartie, moved to the New River settlement and fell in love with Louise King, daughter of Edwin. They married and Edwin King gave them the house he had built for his family. Edwin King died a hero in 1928, when he tried to rescue two children in Lake Okeechobee during a hurricane, and he was hit by flying debris and killed. Meanwhile Louise King Cromartie and her husband had built a second story to the house in 1911 and the King/Cromartie clan kept this house in the family until 1968. Louise, sadly, did not live very long, succumbing to yellow fever in the 1920’s. Naturally, or should I say, supernaturally, her ghost has been seen at the house on so many occasions since her death that the house is officially haunted. According one website on this house, Louise “is an affable, benign spirit, who likes to watch people from the second story window of her bedroom.” I was inside the house and I went upstairs and stood in the bedroom. I did not see any apparition, benign or otherwise. Louise must have taken a “sick day”, or maybe she was watching me as I went back to the New River Inn with Vanessa.

Now you know as much as I do about the first years of Ft. Lauderdale. The hurricanes of 1926 and 1928 pretty much destroyed the economy and drove Ft. Lauderdale’s economy into depression where it stayed throughout the 1930’s. But there’s nothing like a World War to perk up an economy. And so, when World War II started, Ft. Lauderdale capitalized on its location by becoming a major naval base. A Coast Guard base was also established nearby. When World War II ended, the soldiers who had served in the Ft. Lauderdale area returned to live there. The population grew fast. Between 1950 and 1960, the population grew 230% to 83,548. That’s a lot of boys for Connie Francis and her girlfriends. And you know the rest of the story. People kept coming for the climate and the boating culture – “Yachting Capital of the World” is one of the monikers for Ft. Lauderdale. Still, it’s a medium sized city of less than 170,000 in a county (Broward) of 1.7 million in a state of 18.8 million. But no matter how small compared to its Latin neighbor, Miami, Ft. Lauderdale offers the best barbecue on the East Coast at Li’l Red’s on Route 84. And the city docks are kept in pretty good shape, given the limitations, which include noisy, dirty bridges near them, a strong New River current, a group of homeless people trying to get into the locked boaters’ baths and showers, and a homicidal duck that went on a killing spree right next to our boat at Cooley’s Landing. Yes, that’s right. Mama Duck gave birth to 12 of the cutest black and yellow ducklings, but Homicidal Duck had murder on his mind, so he set about picking off any and all ducklings that strayed a bit too far from Mama. By the time we left, Mama Duck was down to 7 ducklings. Don’t think there weren’t lots of people trying to save the ducklings, because there were. We and other like-minded duckling lovers would throw sticks and rocks at Mr. Murder, and that would keep him away for a microsecond. Then when we had to do other things – like eat or sleep – Mr. Murder continued with his cruel population control campaign. The Pope himself could not have stopped this mayhem.

We have come full circle – Rome or Ft. Lauderdale – you decide. Actually, if you have the time and the money, you should visit both.

I would end this chapter at this point, BUT we are now docked at the Marina del Mar in Key Largo, it’s Christmas Eve, and Slow Motion has been spruced up for Christmas Day. We spent the whole morning swabbing down the decks, brushing away the green mold and wiping all the grime off all the surfaces in the flying bridge. We even did the windows AND the isinglass. Slow Motion’s bottom needs a thorough cleaning, but that requires a diver, so we’ve concentrated on beautifying her pearly white decks, floors and tops. The Admiral and I have both sweated off about 5 pounds each; it’s not only hard labor, but the sun is brutal today. Well, not brutal, because we love the sun, but very, very hot, and the sky is cloudless. There is very little wind to dry all the sweat that builds up on my brows and every place else that sweat glands exist. Now THIS would have been the perfect day to cruise on the Ocean – no wind, no waves, no chop. However, we chose to leave Grove Isle Marina yesterday for Key Largo, when the Ocean was still pretty rambunctious. Nothing broke during the 7 hour cruise, and we only ran aground once – for less than two seconds – as we were leaving the Grove Isle Marina. We made it through Angelfish Creek (depth meter blinking on and off) without another grounding experience. The Admiral had charted our course meticulously, and as usual, his preparation paid off. He said we would arrive at the opening to the channel into the Marina del Mar at 1:45 p.m. We arrived at 1:43 p.m., as the last commercial boat was coming out the channel.

It’s wonderful to be back in the land of turquoise water, where you can actually see through the water to the bottom. It’s great to have a meal at Mrs. Mac’s. Their fried clams are the Admiral’s favorite, while the vanilla milkshakes always rejuvenate me after a rollicking ride on the Ocean. I must say that I never dreamed of ever spending the Christmas holidays in Key Largo, but when I hear from my brother that he’s enjoying a walk in 20 degree weather in the Poconos in Pennsylvania, all things considered, Key Largo is a good alternative to freezing your fingers and toes. That’s why, of course, we’re taking off for Tucson, Arizona tomorrow. Seriously, family calls – my sister lives there and my nephew and his wife and children. And isn’t Christmas the one holiday that is all about family? Sure, presents are cool, especially if you’re a kid and Santa is real for you. And the Bowl Games, some of them anyway, can be very entertaining. But when you get right down to it, you remember the Christmas traditions – the tree, the egg nog, the fresh rye bread and German cold cuts, the kiffels – and sharing them with the people you love. Merry Christmas!

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINE: RACE LIKE A DOLPHIN, SOAR LIKE A PELICAN AND GIVE UNTIL IT HURTS

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINE: RACE LIKE A DOLPHIN, SOAR LIKE A PELICAN AND GIVE UNTIL IT HURTS

We blew into Titusville, that is, a cold north wind of at least 20 mph blew Slow Motion into the Titusville City Marina today at 1 p.m., and the Admiral was told to back into a skinny Minnie slip between big old wooden pilings and next to a concrete and wood finger dock. Ho hum. The Admiral’s nerves were raw about this one. The nearly gale force wind was relentless, and as always, the visibility looking from the flying bridge back to the stern was zero. So I was on the stern shouting “more to port!” or “more to starboard!”, as the case called for it, in order to avoid smearing Slow Motion’s starboard side on the concrete. The Admiral appeared to be hearing me, as he guided all 38,000 pounds of fiberglass, metal, wood and diesel fuel back into Slip 63 without even brushing a piling or the dock. Afterwards, the dock master said he thought we were communicating with headphones, because the Admiral’s backing went so smoothly. At this point, the Admiral owned up that he didn’t hear a word I was shouting. Chalk this up to another pre-Christmas miracle – the immaculate docking. This was another harrowing experience, but the grinning manatee who came to watch as we were struggling with getting the lines looped around the pilings was clearly enjoying the show. The manatees here are huge. They’re more like sea hippos than sea cows. They just don’t compare to the porpoises/dolphins on the cuddly chart. And I have never met a manatee that didn’t want something, either food or water. They are unrepentant panhandlers, ruined by their contact with humankind.

Porpoises, on the other hand (or fin), are still free spirits who do not hang out at marinas begging for a handout. They are expert corralers and catchers of fish. They work together in teams to surround their prey and then, when a shore is near, they keep pushing the fish to shore, where the pickings are so easy – like fish in a barrel, yeah. When they are not hunting for their own food, they keep an eye out for us trawlers, and when one of us approaches, the fun begins. It’s been at least three times in the past week that one or more porpoises have spotted Slow Motion, then made a bee line for the bow of our boat and – they’re off to the races. I rush down to the bow from the flying bridge with my IPhone camera and try to capture them swimming on both sides of the bow, turning sideways to get a good look at the mammal who is whistling and singing to them (me), then leaping out of the water and diving back in, keeping pace with Slow Motion, whatever our speed. This is exhilarating every time I do it. I think they have as much fun as I do, probably more, knowing that they’re racing a giant and always staying just ahead of the giant’s body (hull). Why isn’t this sport in the Olympics? Porpoises are the bomb! Yes, I’m talking about dolphins, but once I learned about the dolphins or dolphin fish that populate the Keys and are caught and served in restaurants as mahi mahi, I thought it would be less confusing to refer to the amazing mammalian dolphins as porpoises, who should never be caught or eaten by any person, ever. I’m not sure that I like the idea of porpoises in captivity at all, especially at places like Sea World, where they perform with seals and whales to the delight of thousands. When you see them in their natural habitat, you quickly realize that Sea Worlds are anathema to the way they really live and entertain themselves.

While I’m extolling the virtues of the porpoise, I’ve also got to give a shout out to the peripatetic pelicans, who also amuse us every day we travel the waterway. They travel alone and in squadrons. I like the low flying squadrons that are doing recon for their morning fish feed. I also like the sleeping pelicans on the bridge fenders. And I especially like the pelicans who dive bomb into the water from a height of twenty feet or more. Oy veh, what a headache! We have seen whole islands teeming with pelicans in the past few days, as we have cruised from Jacksonville Beach to Titusville, Florida. And they come in different colors. The all white ones are striking, but the brown ones with white heads and under feathers are also very lovely. Whatever shade they are, pelicans have the most expressive faces, with their very long beaks and darks eyes looking down their beaks at you, as though barely tolerating their human admirers. And when they spread their wings and soar, they convey such a lightness of being. Like the eagles we have seen recently, and the great herons and egrets, pelicans explain why the Wright Brothers and other mere mortals wanted to learn to fly. Just lifting our feet out of the clay and imitating the soaring, whooshing, gliding and diving of our avian friends gives us a much deeper sense of freedom. The adrenaline rush is pretty good too.

While the rest of the country is in the grips of a severe cold front that has brought snow and ice and record low temperatures, we on Slow Motion have been relentlessly heading for warm weather. Most of the time really warm, sunny days have eluded us so far. We have battled dense fog between Hilton Head, SC and Jekyll Island, GA, and more recently we have been buffeted by strong winds, which have raised white caps on the rivers and inlets and rocked Slow Motion to the core. But sometimes, as we arrive at a protected marina, like Delegal Creek in Savannah, GA ( Dock master Lola said it was too hot to be Christmas time) or Hidden Harbor in Brunswick, GA, the wind abates and the sun surrounds us with warmth – and we are so, so happy to be in the Deep South. Purely for meteorological reasons – the politics of this part of the country is not its drawing card. Raise your hand if you have extended Medicaid to more poor citizens in your jurisdiction, as encouraged under the Affordable Care Act, -- not so fast southern states. I guess your leaders believe not only that the poor will always be with you, but also that this is a good thing, not something to ameliorate with government assistance. But do the poor also have to be unhealthy and unable to get medical care? Sooner or later a healthy rich person crosses paths with a sick poor person and spreads the diseases of the poor through the upper class. Do we really want a nation of sick people? The preamble to the Constitution says that the Founding Fathers (yes, I know, all white males and many slave owners) chose our form of democratic government “to promote the general welfare”. That’s not the welfare of generals, or even admirals, for that matter. That’s the welfare of everyone. And right now, we’re not promoting everyone’s welfare, as the rich 10 per cent commandeer 50% of all the income and assets and let it “trickle down” to their offshore bank accounts, but not to the poor in their own country who need a living wage, or just even a job.

In December most charitable organizations receive 50% of their income from donations. We are a giving populace – to a point. As individuals we respond to the bell ringing and the letters and emails from the ASPCA, Planned Parenthood (some of us, anyway), the Red Cross, any charity for poor children, and we make donations. But as a recent Op Ed writer for the NYT said, we are not giving until it hurts. We give, and we are still comfortable. We are not redistributing the wealth by any means with these modest donations. Not even Gates and Buffett and their billionaire buddies, who are giving away millions, are making much of a dent in our growing income equality. The federal government was always intended to be the Great Equalizer, not private rich people. This is not hard to grasp. Revisit the FDR years with the advent of Social Security, the Fair Labor Standards Act, the New Deal, the Civilian Conservation Corps, the minimum wage – all that was necessary equalizing “to promote the general welfare”. We were not intended to be the oligarchy we have become. We will not survive as a democracy if we continue to pursue the path of oligarchy.

So what do you say? Let’s get those unemployment benefits extended for those who lost their jobs in the Great Recession. Does Sarah Palin really think that Christ would turn his back on the poor, especially at this time of year? Let’s stimulate this economy with money for highways and other major infrastructure – new jobs, more jobs, good paying jobs. Let’s help those who are obsessed with the national debt get the therapy they need, while the rest of the country goes back to work – and surprise! The national debt will take care of itself as “all boats rise” with the rising economy. Paul Krugman won his Nobel for a reason. He’s smart, he’s sensible, and he’s right. We have to spend our way out of this recession – this is Economics 101. And what better time to start than Christmas, when we are reminded in the Gospel that a rich man will have an extremely difficult time getting into heaven. Stop amassing and start spreading the wealth, rich men. Life is short. And since you can’t get to heaven if you’re rich, you might as well start now by eliminating loopholes in the tax system and paying your fair share of taxes. That will cut into your fortunes a bit. Then join the billionaires’ Club for Giving and start pouring money into Detroit and Newark and the public education system in Mississippi. Use your imagination. Look around. You will find so many great things to do with all that wealth. And guess what? You will feel good. You will soar like the eagles and pelicans and herons. You will glide like the porpoises and dolphins. You will feel warm inside. And you will get to heaven (which, by the way, has no class system, no ranks and no preferred seating.) You might as well start rubbing elbows with poor people on earth – making their lives better, bringing them into the middle class -- as they will greatly outnumber you in heaven. Joy to the World!

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT: BROKE DOWN BUT NOT OUT

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT: BROKE DOWN BUT NOT OUT

Well, here’s a first for Slow Motion. We were calmly cruising along the ICW, having left Port Royal Landing Marina in South Carolina at 8:30 a.m. to continue our excursion down the beautiful Beaufort (Byoo-fort) River heading to Thunderbolt Marine in Georgia. This was supposed to be an easy day. The sun shone above, the wind was “variable”, but mostly negligible, and the miles we had to cover were easy peasy – 40 miles. We planned to arrive at Thunderbolt no later than 2 p.m. But as we approached Hilton Head, something happened for the first time ever in our 18 months of travels on Slow Motion. The engines – both engines – died. They just quit. It became awfully quiet. There was no warning, no flashing lights, no buzzers going off (that happens when a little water enters the bilge). We were moving along at a nice clip – 9 knots an hour – and then we were not. Even more amazing, when the Admiral tried to start up the engines, there was nothing, no grinding of the ignition. More quiet. It was 10:15 in the morning and we were done for the day. We saw other boats approaching from fore and aft, so the Admiral started lowering the anchor to keep us in one spot, rather than drifting into another boat or in among the grasses that lined the western shore. There was room for another boat to pass us, but this was not by any means a wide area of the Beaufort River.

Now if this happens in your car, you call Triple A or your insurance company. The Triple A of the boating world is Sea Tow. The Admiral put in a call to them – the number we had been given was no longer a working number. The Admiral espied a marina less than a mile away from our breakdown location, and we identified it as Skull Creek Marina, part of Hilton Head Plantation. The Admiral called the Marina and told the folks we were dead in the water, and we got a more current number for Sea Tow. The Marina folks also said that we could be towed to their docks for repairs. So we had a plan and a safe haven was in sight. We called Sea Tow, and the fellow said he was close by and would be at our location in 20 minutes. What service! Now if it had been raining and storming and at night time, I guarantee you the wait would have been hours. But this was a lovely, clear day – mid-morning – and right next to Hilton Head, the second home of so many CEOs and Important People who are not used to waiting. Sea Tow probably has a very good record in this area for getting to stranded boats quickly. And the tips – OMG, were we supposed to tip? – are probably very good for this prompt service.

Did I mention that we had never used the anchor before? So the first question when the Admiral pressed the release button for the anchor chain was: Will it unwind? It did! It’s really rusty and it threw out pieces of rust all over the bow as it lowered the anchor into the river, but the anchor sank into the bottom and held like a champ, so what’s a little rust when you’re trying to prevent a collision of 20 ton boats?

The Admiral took this breakdown in stride, showing a strong curiosity in the cause of the engine failure, but remaining very analytical. Not an ounce of panic or even mild anxiety was noted in his demeanor. I followed his lead and while not exactly nonchalant, I kept my cool and listened to the Admiral posit his theories for the sudden loss of both engines. The fire suppression system was a prime suspect, since it has the power to shut down the engines completely under certain circumstances in order to prevent or suppress a fire. We didn’t have any fires on board – none that we were aware of – so if this system had shut down the engines there had to have been some type of malfunction in its controls. As the Admiral was still in the first stages of pondering the reason for the breakdown, a bright yellow Sea Tow boat came racing from the south toward us. There was one operator, who looked all of 17. But he was efficient and knew his job well. He hooked his tow ropes to Slow Motion, asked the Admiral to straighten out the rudder, and proceeded to tow us to Skull Creek Marina. This took maybe 10 minutes, and when we arrived there were about 5 guys on the dock ready to take our lines. The current runs very swift at this marina, and it was running off the dock. So the lines helpers used all their might to haul us close to the dock. The Sea Tow rescuer had done a masterful job of pulling and pushing us up to the dock to the point where I could easily throw the lines to the dock crew. This great job cost $350, so the Admiral’s membership in Sea Tow for something less than $100 per year is well worth it. Sea Tow pays the bill. No deductible.

The only thing that would have made this breakdown and tow even more memorable would have been if the porpoises that we had seen popping up all over the Beaufort River had decided to escort us into the marina. But that only happens in fairy tales and Disney movies. Still, there was one porpoise who swam into the marina very close to Slow Motion and stayed around the marina, swimming from piling to piling, while we were there. Although he/she was probably there for the fish, I have to believe that our welfare was a concern too. I know that’s anthropomorphizing big time with a porpoise, but if any other mammal can show empathy with humans, it has to be this species.

The Skull Creek Marina, like many marinas, is owned by a bank, so nobody’s job is safe. This doesn’t lead the staff to go out of its way to please the transient boater. On the contrary, since all the dock workers could be unemployed tomorrow with a new owner, they are just biding their time, going through the motions – bank ownership of a business in financial trouble does not inspire confidence or loyalty in the employees, nor does it make them productive or boost their morale. Still, the dock master recommended a boat repair service, Marine Tech, which turned out to be a good referral, all things considered. By that, I mean the good boat repair people are few and far between. One doesn’t expect to find the best of the lot in Hilton Head, but rather in hotbeds of boating activity like Ft. Lauderdale and Charleston.

The owner of Marine Tech, John Torrens, had already retired from his manufacturing business in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, when he moved to Hilton Head. He quickly found, as he told the Admiral, that if you can do two things well, you can start a successful business in Hilton Head: answer the phone, and show up when you say you will. As you will find out later in this paragraph, he defies his own tenets by not showing up when he says he will. However, one thing he did well was diagnose the problem that caused our engines to stop. He determined that (and this is where the Admiral takes over) one of the relays in our automatic fire suppression system control had melted, because it was incorrectly wired so that 17 amps of current to power two of the engine room ventilation blowers would flow through the relay, which was rated at only 10 amps. Why it had not failed a long time ago (at night in the shipping channel in New York harbor perhaps?) remains a mystery, but one of the blowers malfunctioned and it drew even more current than the routine 17 amps, causing a meltdown of the relay. The meltdown caused the "Fire boy" (that’s what they call it!) control box to "declare an emergency" and shut down fuel to the engines. The engine shutdown bypass in the Fire boy would not work because it was "fried" as well. This diagnosis meant we needed parts and a redesign of the wiring to include adequately sized relays. John had arrived after 4 p.m. (we had been told at 12:15 p.m. that he would be there in 45 minutes). He called his daughter at the office to ask her to order the parts for delivery the next morning. They thought it was possible to get the parts that soon, but if the delivery truck had already been loaded for the day, we were going to have to wait another day at the laconic Skull Creek marina.

So our engines stopped on Tuesday morning, December 3. We finally left Skull Creek on Friday morning, the 6^th. The critical parts came in on the 5^th – in the morning. The Admiral asked when the repair people would arrive with the parts to do the work. Oh gosh, we were given a reasonable time, and then another reasonable time. Then all bets were off at 5 p.m., and I expected to have to languish at Hilton Head through the weekend, when shortly after 6 p.m. two guys from Marine Tech showed up with the parts. One guy was working on three hours sleep, and the other guy said he didn’t know exactly how to make the repairs. Fortunately, the Admiral had his diagrams for the “Fire boy", and he had taken photos and sent them to the Marine Tech office, so John the owner did not have to operate from memory. After a few phone calls with John and excellent coaching from the Admiral, Sleepy and Happy (said with total respect and affection) installed the new control unit for the fire boy and put in the correct 20 amp relay, so that we don’t have a recurrence of current overload on the blowers. I thought this fixfest might go until midnight, when they first got started, but surprisingly all the work was completed by 8:30 p.m. This meant we could still leave on Friday. Oh yes, the blower we had ordered had not arrived, but the Admiral had carried an extra blower on Slow Motion (you know, for that fateful day when your blower blows a fuse, melts the fire boy control box and shuts down the engines). Some day the blower will catch up to us. Right now we’re waiting with bated breath for the bill for this repair. I think this will be considerably more than Break Out Another Thousand (BOAT). Hey, you idiots who installed the fire suppression unit with the wrong amperage on the relay, care to step up to the plate and pay this bill for your negligence? Thought not.

What did we do on Hilton Head while waiting for the not so prompt Marine Tech folks? Of course, we did a Walmart run. Hilton Head’s Walmart, like all of its commercial places, is painted in earth tones, has a tasteful earth tone colored sign planted at a low level and is nestled in among some fully grown trees. You hardly recognize it. Inside it’s not even so full of mayhem as, say, the Walmart closest to Key Largo in Homestead Florida. Now that is true bedlam. This Walmart was comparatively quick at the checkout counter, even with the pre-Christmas madness. This does not mean that I am a convert to Walmart. However, their peach yogurt is the best, bar none. It leaves Activa and all those fancy Greek named yogurts in the dust. So now, once a month, against my better judgment, I have to go to Walmart to get this yogurt. Could these big box stores just lower their ceiling lighting a smidge, so that light iris eyed folks like me don’t get a headache when we walk into the store? Don’t worry, I’m getting around to the wage and benefits issues – it’s time to pay a decent wage, Walmart, and stop discriminating against women in management.

In addition to grocery shopping, I found time to get a massage. I didn’t realize this would be a trip through a time machine as well. The massage therapist I found, Jan, was famous long ago for putting a flower into the business end of a rifle of a National Guardsman at an anti-war demonstration in Washington D.C. She was thrilled to learn that I had gone to the Woodstock music festival at Max Yasgur’s Farm in 1969. She had a thousand stories from the sixties, and during the hour she worked diligently on my sore muscles and entrapped nerves, she shared a few. Dizzy Gillespie was one of her heroes. The Admiral and I had seen a statue of him blowing his bent horn in Cheraw, South Carolina, his birthplace. Jan had befriended Dizzy at a jazz club in Washington, D.C. Her first words to him were: “You take my soul away.” His response: “You take my breath away.” Her life story is in the works. Should be a good read. If you ever need a massage in Hilton Head, do not hesitate to call Jan Rose, Hilton Head Massage Therapy Associates. Be advised, however, that Jan is a rolling stone and is currently searching for a holistic community that is not so homogeneous as Hilton Head.

Let’s see – Hilton Head is famous for golf. Sorry, there is not a golfing bone in my body. And the last time the Admiral golfed was when he was seventeen years old. Hilton Head may have some of the best golf courses on the planet, but its Burger King has to be one of the worst in the chain. The Admiral likes their tater tots, so we ended up there one morning for breakfast. It was terrible. The employees were yelling at each other from the counter to the dining room. Buzzers kept going off, and they kept going and going, as no one bothered to stop them. The person at the counter who took our order got it wrong, because he was talking to someone else. The coffee was lukewarm. The oatmeal was nearly cold. There was a person sleeping at one of the tables, who knows for how long. At least I think he was asleep. It took forever for them to make three French toast pieces, and then they forgot the syrup. Got the picture? The Admiral wrote to Burger King about this poor representative of the brand. Burger King HQ contacted him and asked which Burger King on Hilton Head. Duh – there’s only one. So much for HQ knowing anything about their business.

Enough about that mediocre fast food chain. I certainly cannot fail to mention the two trips to the Emergency Room at the Hilton Head Regional Hospital. They pretty much filled two afternoons in a row. You may not remember our ER visit in the Ft. Lauderdale area back in June, 2012, when the Admiral nearly sliced off a fingertip. This was déjà vu all over again. The Admiral was helping a transient boater move his boat (another gripping story), and when he released a line, he brushed against the piling covered with barnacles (think razor sharp shell) and opened a big gash on the back of his right hand. The Admiral takes aspirin every day. He bleeds profusely when he gets a cut. Off to the ER we must go to stop the bleeding and prevent infection by God knows what marine bacteria. On our first visit, when the Admiral suggested a stitch or two, the young ER doctor said they had moved beyond stitching to glue. She proceeded to glue the wound shut. Unfortunately, she had not thoroughly cleaned the wound before applying the glue. So the next morning there was significant swelling all around the glued gash, and the area was also reddened. Infection? We raced back to the ER and saw a different doctor, who believed we should have an X ray to determine if there were any barnacle pieces inside the wound. The X ray was negative, but the doctor also believed that a thorough cleansing of the wound was in order, so he removed the glue and washed out the wound. This is where the Admiral’s stoicism in the face of pain comes in handy. There was no screaming in the ER, just in the Admiral’s mind. This second doctor also believed that a stitch would hold the skin together as the wound heals, so this required injecting (read: large needle) the area with a local anesthetic. More pain, more stoicism. I winced, a lot. Once the area was numb, the doctor artfully sewed a stitch where it was needed. Never mind that the wound now looks like the cross that Jesus was crucified on. This led Sabina to the opinion that the Admiral may be the Second Coming. All together, this second trip to the ER was well worth the two plus hours it took. And now, December 8, the wound looks good – no redness, no swelling, no pain. The Admiral still bears the cross, however, until the stitch is removed. Hallelujah!

I know, I know. Bad things come in threes. So I have to mention that I crushed my finger in the door to the salon. No ER visits, a lot of tears, a band aid, and here I am blogging, so it’s fine. But it was the third misfortune to befall us this week. That and the cold shower at Hidden Harbor Marina in Brunswick. Come on, Active Captain, did you really write that they have the best bathrooms on the waterway, better than what you have at home? Doesn’t your bathroom at home have hot water? And how about some privacy? The Hidden Harbor shower is all transparent glass, with shower curtains on two of the four sides. Yes, the folks on the lawn can see quite a show. This would not be noteworthy, except that the Admiral and I had both put off showering because he had read about the excellence of the bath facilities at Hidden Harbor and we were so looking forward to long, hot showers streaming down on to our aching muscles and our injured extremities. The Admiral got about 15 seconds of cool water, and I opted for our galley sink, heating water on the stove. Today I got a full shower at the Amelia Island Yacht Basin, and the water was plenty hot. It’s the shower curtain rod that disrupted my pleasure by falling down repeatedly, every time I put it back up. No, it’s not like home. It’s like camping every night at a new camp site. You just hope the place is clean, the water is hot, and you get a little privacy. Not too much to ask for really. Oh, and a shower curtain rod that stays in place.

You’re just going to have to wait to read about our close encounters with porpoises in the South Carolina and Georgia waters. It’s late and we’re leaving before dawn for St. Augustine. Thank you so much for reading this blog and sharing your comments with me. Good night.