CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN: HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE THE LOST H BOMB

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN: HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE THE LOST H BOMB

We’re in Charleston! The Admiral is doing what he loves to do – helping another boater get safely off the dock. All up and down the Atlantic Coast there are grateful boaters, from proud owners of 100 foot yachts to equally proud owners of 25 foot fishing boats, thanking the Admiral for helping them with their lines, as they ease off, fly off, or crash away from, a marina dock. We get a lot of help from other boaters too, and from great dock staff at certain marinas. The Hollywood Marina Horror and the untrained landlubbing staff at Vero Beach are rare exceptions, thankfully. Generally, the dock hands that greet us at a marina are prompt, competent, and friendly. That has been our experience since leaving the Jekyll Harbor Marina, where the help getting tied up was great. We expected to collide with the dock, since the wind appeared to be blowing on to the dock, but what a pleasant surprise! As we approached the dock, there was little wind, and we eased on to the face dock without any drama whatsoever. We needed to have a diver check the bottom of our boat to find out if we had snagged a crab trap on the way to Jekyll. So Rusty Whiting, the husband of the dock master, Terri Collins, obliged. He did not find any crab pots under Slow Motion, and he said the bottom looked pretty clean. The shrimp and sheepshead, however, still found some algae to munch on, and we fell asleep to the rat a tat tat of shrimp chowing down and the “borking” sound of hungry sheepshead. So now we’ve had the trifecta of underwater eaters: manatees, shrimp and sheepshead.

We followed through with our ocean voyage from Jekyll to Thunderbolt (Savannah). The wave predictions were wrong, but this time they were wrong in the right direction, if you catch my drift. There were no waves, just a very light chop – almost a smooth ocean – all the way to the Wassaw Sound and the Wilmington River. As we neared the entrance to the Wassaw Sound, around noon, the two foot waves that were predicted finally kicked in and gave us a pretty good thrashing until we reached the Wilmington River with land on both sides to serve as a buffer. So we had about 20 minutes of being tossed around instead of the 7 hours it took us to cruise on the Atlantic from Jekyll Creek and St. Simon’s Sound to the Wassaw Sound. Indeed, the Atlantic was very kind to us on this leg of the journey.

For history buffs, and I’m one of them, Wassaw Sound is the location of a hydrogen bomb “lost” by a B-47 Stratojet bomber in 1958. This “lost” nuclear bomb is called the Tybee Bomb. Tybee Island is right next to the Wassaw Sound. The Tybee Bomb is still “lost” somewhere at the bottom of the relatively shallow Wassaw Sound. And we were worried about tiny little crab pots and their lines attaching themselves to Slow Motion. Imagine a diver checking out Slow Motion’s bottom and coming up to report that we picked up an H Bomb in our travels. How did our B-47 pilot “lose” this bomb? Here is the story from Wikipedia:

“On the night of February 5, 1958 a B-47 Stratojet bomber carrying a hydrogen bomb on a night training flight off the Georgia coast collided with an F-86 Saberjet fighter at 36,000 feet. The collision destroyed the fighter and severely damaged a wing of the bomber, leaving one of its engines partially dislodged. The bomber's pilot, Maj. Howard Richardson, was instructed to jettison the H-bomb before attempting a landing. Richardson dropped the bomb into the shallow waters of Wassaw Sound, near the mouth of the Savannah River, a few miles from the city of Tybee Island, where he believed the bomb would be swiftly recovered.

The Pentagon recorded the incident in a top secret memo to the chairman of the United States Atomic Energy Commission (AEC). The memo has been partially declassified: "A B-47 aircraft with a nuclear weapon aboard was damaged in a collision with an F-86 aircraft near Sylvania, Georgia, on February 5, 1958. The B-47 aircraft attempted three times unsuccessfully to land with the weapon. The weapon was then jettisoned visually over water off the mouth of the Savannah River. No detonation was observed."

Soon search and rescue teams were sent to the site. Wassaw Sound was mysteriously cordoned off by the United States Air Force troops. For six weeks, the Air Force looked for the bomb without success. Underwater divers scoured the depths, troops tromped through nearby salt marshes, and a blimp hovered over the area attempting to spot a hole or crater in the beach or swamp. Then just a month later, the search was abruptly halted. The Air Force sent its forces to Florence, South Carolina, where another H-bomb had been accidentally dropped by a B-47. The bomb's 200 pounds of TNT exploded on impact, sending radioactive debris across the landscape. The explosion caused extensive property damage and several injuries on the ground. Fortunately, the nuke itself didn't detonate.

The search teams never returned to Tybee Island, and the affair of the missing H-bomb was discreetly covered up. The end of the search was noted in a partially declassified memo from the Pentagon to the AEC, in which the Air Force politely requested a new H-bomb to replace the one it had lost. "The search for this weapon was discontinued on 4-16-1958 and the weapon is considered irretrievably lost. It is requested that one weapon be made available for release to the United States Department of Defense (DOD) as a replacement."

The bomb was again searched for in 2001 and not found. A new group in 2004 headed by Derek Duke claims to have found an underwater object which it thinks is the bomb, but the US Army Corp of Engineers discounted the claim, saying the radioactive traces detected by the group were "naturally occurring".”

All righty, then. Anyone want to form a search party for the Tybee Bomb? I’m very glad to have learned this information after we successfully crossed the Sound. I wondered what that loud bump on the bottom of Slow Motion was when I took the helm momentarily as the Admiral checked on something down below. Just kidding. This area has to be safe, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s not cordoned off. There are no warning signs like “BEWARE – UNDETONATED H BOMB ON THE LOOSE.” And as recently as 1996, throwing caution to the wind, the organizers of the Atlanta Summer Olympics used Wassaw Sound for the Olympic sailing contests. Still, it’s a bit unnerving to learn that you are sharing the waters with an apparently active nuclear weapon, a hydrogen bomb, described as “by far the most destructive weapon that humankind has ever invented.” (Google search).  

We arrived at the Thunderbolt Marina, between Savannah and Tybee, at 2:30. The dock hand was waiting for us and helped us tie up at their seawall during a fairly swift current. But the Admiral had that figured out ahead of time, and he expertly maneuvered our 19 tons of fiber glass, wood and metal into the small area designated for us. The dock hand tied the lines in the order we asked, and no other boats were damaged during the docking of Slow Motion (again). During our ocean travel to Thunderbolt I did my tai chi exercises and movements, preparing for the delivery of 6 freshly baked Krispy Kreme donuts to Slow Motion at 6:30 a.m. the next day. Sure enough, these sugary waist expanders showed up on time. And they were gone in the first half hour. Thunderbolt was an eating orgy. The night of our arrival we went to Tubby’s Tank House, and the Admiral had plump, recently caught oysters (fried) and I had a sirloin steak sandwich with real garden tomatoes as garnish. Let’s hear it for the few restaurants that serve vine-ripened, flavorful tomatoes! With those meals at dinner time, yes, it was a bit overindulgent to eat a half dozen Krispy Kremes the next morning. But there’s only one Thunderbolt Marina on the way north, and we always try to play to a marina’s strengths. Thunderbolt offers these two great eating experiences, PLUS really clean, private showers and reasonably priced washers and dryers.

But the real reason we stop at Thunderbolt – you’re not going to believe this – is Cheek’s Barber Shop. This is a little house painted red white and blue like a barber’s pole, located on Route 80 on the way to Fort Pulaski. We discovered it on our first visit to Thunderbolt, and every time we return, the Admiral starts talking about getting his hair cut by his Tybee barber about a week before we’re even near Thunderbolt. The first time a fine gentleman barber cut the Admiral’s hair, and the haircut lasted a good six months. This time, the shop owner did the honors. She was as skilled as the gentleman, who had just retired. I am so happy that the Admiral has opted for haircuts by professionals. And don’t get me started on the ridiculously low cost of a man’s haircut. These cuts require great precision and, as I observe the barber’s deft use of scissors and electric razors, I am in awe. For this artistry, the going rate is still around $15, and that’s on the high end. So let me see if I have this straight, men pay much less for haircuts, much less for dry cleaning their shirts, and much less for their clothing – but women still earn much less than men? What kind of a cockamamie society do we live in? Do you think that electing a woman president will eliminate these inequities? I’d rather have the Equal Rights Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, but having a woman president in my lifetime has to be a small step in the direction toward equality. Just once, I would like to pay $15 for a really, really good haircut, or $2.50 for dry cleaning a shirt/blouse (instead of $5), or get a 100 percent cotton T shirt for under $5 – like guys do every day. That would be my platform, if I were running for President. Oh, and equal pay for comparable work.

Speaking of women, our next stop on the ICW after Thunderbolt was Lady’s Island Marina, a new destination for us. We had previously stayed at the Downtown Marina of Beaufort and I met Kayla’s brother and his wife and toured the historic downtown of Beaufort, South Carolina. This marina has the wickedest current of any marina on the ICW. I can still picture Slow Motion flying up to the dock and the dock hand running along the dock trying to catch a line from me, then trying to rein in Slow Motion before we ran out of face dock. I mean, that current is swift. That is one of the reasons we wanted to try Lady’s Island Marina, which is up a narrow channel directly off the Waterway, so that the current is not nearly as strong. Another reason is that the reviews of Lady’s Island on the Active Captain website all give this marina five stars. And perhaps the most important reason is that Lady’s Island is priced much more reasonably than any other marina in the area. This marina belongs to the Buck a Foot Club of marinas, which includes the Atlantic Yacht Basin in Chesapeake, Va. and Marineland in Florida. After you have paid up to $2 per foot for an overnight stay for your 50 foot motor vessel, a buck a foot looks really, really good. We had been on the phone with dock master Steve of Lady’s Island, and he had offered us a T Head for tying up. That sealed the deal – the slips did not look very large. When we arrived at Lady’s Island on a brilliantly sunny afternoon, Steve greeted us at the T Head and took the lines that I handed him, tying each one to the proper cleat (little details like this mean a lot when docking). Steve is everything you would ever want in a dock master – hands on, knowledgeable about boating and about the area where his marina is located, helpful, and funny. We had missed the $10 steak dinner at the Fillin Station, a nearby bar, by a day. That’s the special on Friday. We arrived Saturday, when it’s back to being just a bar. But that’s a very good reason to return. Steve has two courtesy bicycles. I used one to ride to Publix a half mile away. And when a barking dog on a sailboat nearby started invading our space around dinner time, the Admiral called Steve, and he contacted the owner, who eventually silenced the barking dog. Most dock masters would have been long gone from their offices when the Admiral made the call, but Steve was available. He is worth every one of the five stars awarded to him and Lady’s Island Marina in Beaufort, South Carolina.

Steve was sure that we would find an excuse to stay more than one night, and under any other set of circumstances, we probably would have. But we had our sights set on Charleston and wanted to arrive there before the predicted thunderstorms hit on Monday. And so, we pulled away from the Lady’s Island Marina T Head at 6:10 a.m., as the sky was just showing some pink flares, and we headed inland for the Harborage at Ashley Marina in Charleston. We have spent two months at the Harborage; our last stay was the month of November, 2013. I have biked and walked all over downtown Charleston and I feel like I still have so many places to explore here. But before I start extolling the many virtues of Charleston, again, let’s spend a few moments on the waterway between Beaufort and Charleston. This has to be the most winding, curvy stretch of waterway – just as you hit a short straightaway, you have to start preparing for a 90 degree turn to the right, or left. Or you travel a serpentine route on the South Edisto River. Much of the time you’re heading south or southeast – this makes no sense, as Charleston is north of Beaufort on the chart. But that’s the way the South Carolina inland waterway rolls – and that means facing into the glare of the sun for much of the cruising time, trying to read day markers and safely pass slower sailboats safely. As if that weren’t enough to demand one’s attention, those darned porpoises and pelicans kept rearing their lovely heads and racing under and over Slow Motion. I had to keep putting on my life jacket and running to the bow of the boat to greet the porpoises with squeals and squeaks. And just as another squadron of pelicans glided low over the waters, the Admiral urged me to get a photo – too late again. What a life! Really! What a life we have cruising with Nature’s air and water wonders! What will I do when I’m no longer getting a daily dose of dolphins? A day without dolphins is a day with less beauty, magic and grace. For now, I’m enjoying every porpoise sighting like it was the first one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN: FROM PORPOISE ACCESS TO MILITARY EXCESS

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN: FROM PORPOISE ACCESS TO MILITARY EXCESS

Big yawn – not! Just another incredible day on the intracoastal waterway. You guessed it – a porpoise came to race with Slow Motion, at a speed of nearly 10 miles an hour, almost as fast as the Boston Marathon winners. This porpoise was huge, very strong and definitely an endurance swimmer. Eat your heart out, Diana Nyad. I took several videos of this natural athlete, as he/she swam to the starboard side of the bowsprit, coming toward the center to rise up out of the water and show off his/her rippling swim muscles. Every time he/she surfaced, I screamed in a high-pitched voice, hoping to emulate dolphin-speak. The porpoise turned sideways once near the surface to get a good look at me, then kept on racing. He/she was determined to beat Slow Motion to St. Augustine. I know a lot of places in Key Largo advertise that you can pay them to swim with the dolphins, but on Slow Motion, for no charge at all, you can race with the dolphins. It’s reason enough to visit and cruise with the Admiral and me. In a word, it’s exhilarating.

From the exhilarating to the exasperating: Just when the Admiral thinks he has seen the dumbest maneuver another boater can make, a new boater (or boaters) comes along and does something even dumber. Today, for example, as we approached the Crescent Beach bridge, which is listed in the Waterway Guide as having a vertical clearance of 25 feet, we saw not one, but two boats – a sailboat and a sailing catamaran – ANCHORED IN THE CHANNEL IN FRONT OF THE BRIDGE. I put this in caps, as it bears emphasizing. I mean, their anchors and anchor lines were firmly planted on the bottom of the channel, their anchor chains were extended out in the channel and their boat hulls were IN THE CHANNEL. They had set up camp in the middle of the channel. This is so stupid in so many ways, and so wrong in so many ways. It’s a crash waiting to happen with the next boat that comes along in the channel, expecting that no boaters would be dumb enough to plant themselves in the middle of it. As we approached the bridge carefully, gauging whether there was enough room left in the channel for us to get past Dumb and Dumber safely, we heard the Coast Guard announce that this particular bridge was closed “indefinitely” for maintenance. That explained why the boaters had stopped right in front of the bridge – both of their vessels had masts that were much higher than the bridge clearance of 25 feet. And to a certain extent, it explained their bonehead maneuver of parking themselves in the middle of the channel – kind of a two year old mentality that says: “If I can’t get through, then nobody will get through!”

Well, we squeaked past them without being hit by either boat and we passed easily under the bridge, since our highest point, without antenna raised, is 19 feet. Then the Admiral got on the phone and called just about every federal and state bureaucracy that has anything to do with Intracoastal Waterway regulation enforcement. Talk about buck-passing! Each agency said another agency was responsible for enforcement in this situation. Never mind that it was a dangerous situation that needed a remedy as soon as possible. The Admiral just got bumped from one official to another without getting anyone who claimed to have any authority to tell the illegally anchored boaters to move out of the channel. Some of the bureaucrats appeared to be helpful. One guy gave the Admiral the number for the local marine patrol. The Admiral called and the number was disconnected. Yes, a desk jockey can be that out of touch with the waterway, even a Coast Guard or a Fish and Wildlife Commission desk jockey. After his flurry of phone calls – at least 6 – every agency that SHOULD be involved in keeping the waterway channel safe was duly notified of the hazard. We did not hear any reports of a collision next to Crescent Beach Bridge on Channel 16, so maybe all those who said they could not do anything actually did something. Fortunately, the bridge was opened the next day. Here’s hoping the petulant “anchor-in” of the two selfish boaters did not harm any other boaters while the bridge was closed.

Eight times out of ten the boaters you meet are law-abiding, courteous, adventuresome folks. Today the trawler “Widget” made a slow pass on the portside, after radioing us his intentions and getting permission. That’s the way it’s supposed to work, not like yesterday when this huge boat came flying by us, within 10 feet of our portside – no advanced notice whatsoever, no slowing down during the pass. This is usually the M.O. of a “Paladin” captain – hired gun to transport a boat from Port A to Port B. It’s all about making time, not making friends, not even enjoying the trip – just getting the boat to its destination as quickly as possible and moving on to the next job. For fun they probably drive monster trucks over mounds of dirt at rodeo grounds on the weekends. Or they go someplace where they can crash large vehicles into other large vehicles. I’m trying to think of one instance in the past two years of boat travel when we were “waked” by a woman captain ferrying a fast boat on the waterway. And I can’t. I do not subscribe (any more) to the notion that all women are morally superior to all men. But in my experience when a woman is captaining a motor vessel or a sailboat or a catamaran, she is courteous and knows the rules of the waterway. There are exceptions, like that neophyte who flew past us, but came to a screeching halt moments later when she grounded her vessel, then waited 40 minutes for the tide to rise and flew by us again an hour or two later. All she had to say for herself as she passed us the second time was: “I’m new at this. Can you tell that I don’t know what I’m doing?” Her remark was somewhat disarming, but when you’re trying to protect your 19 ton boat from other heavyweight vessels on the waterway, “disarming” doesn’t cut it. Competency is the minimum basic requirement – in steering, navigating, going the proper speed for the circumstances and making slow passes with prior notice. Oh, and for all of you boaters who hog the center of the channel as another boat approaches from the other direction, would you please consider moving over a scoche, just a little bit closer to your starboard day marker, as we pass on our respective port sides? You will still be in the channel, and you won’t be forcing your fellow boater to go outside the channel. As you know, often the water outside a channel is very skimpy. God, I hope just one center channel hugger reads this and changes his/her behavior.

For the past week, the Admiral and I have been wearing long pants and sweatshirts, and in my case, my warm rain gear and gloves. The temps dropped to the mid-sixties, and we were no longer acclimated to such “cold” weather. Call us wusses; you’re right. But the winds rarely went below 20 miles an hour, and they added immensely to the feeling of coldness. It also rained most of the time, and the sun did not appear until the end of the day. However, the past two days, April 22 and 23, have been sunny and the wind is dying down. This morning the water was a sheet of glass at the Amelia Island Yacht Basin. I’m back to shorts, still wearing a long-sleeved T, just in case. We reached the docks at Jekyll Island marina before noon today, and the temps just kept climbing. It’s 84 degrees. The sun is blasting the galley with heat rays. The Admiral is below in the stateroom with the fan running. Shorts weather is back! Tomorrow we’re set to go out on the ocean. It may be another day like the Sunday we left Key Largo. At first the prediction was intermittent fog as well as two foot waves. Now the fog alert is gone, but the waves are still at two feet. We’ll just strap everything down, eat very light, and gird ourselves for an arcade ride – up and down or sideways roller coaster. If the waves are less than two feet, hooray! If more, we can always turn around and go the inland waterway route through Little Mud River and Hell Gate – or maybe not. The tides are not favorable for us to try to skim through Little Mud River’s shallow waters or to maneuver around the ever-growing shoal areas at Hell Gate. So, hello Atlantic Ocean, we’re coming your way. Please be gentle with us. Show us how “pacific” you can be.

For all you dolphin lovers, this has been a magical trip so far. Every day the porpoises show themselves to us and more often than not, they race to the front of Slow Motion to guide us along the waterway for a mile or so. This is so much fun for us, and it must be cool for them too. It’s not anything I ever expected in my wildest dreams. These mammals know how to engage you at the funnest level. They are so gregarious. And they always do something we have never seen before. Yesterday, after two porpoises raced with Slow Motion for a time, they went over to the shoreline and both of them were flying through the waters, one chasing the other. The Admiral thought it was part of a mating rite. It surely looked like both of them were enjoying the chase. I have never seen dolphins move as fast as they were going. They looked like flying fish, with most of their bodies on top of the water, as they sped along the shoreline. Porpoises rule!

As we head up the Intracoastal Waterway for our third time, we are constantly reminded of the military strength of the United States of America. Today our reminder was the naval submarine base at Kings Bay on the border of Georgia and Florida. We saw a submarine painted black, with a black “cocoon” resting on top of it. The Admiral said this is a vehicle that a Seal team uses when the team is doing a “special op” from the submarine. Given the color of the sub, it’s relatively small size, and the Seal vehicle on top, the sub was definitely designed for some sort of stealthy spying or recon operation. Most of the subs at this base carry Trident missiles, so there are huge warehouse like buildings where the Tridents are loaded on to the subs. And the security around this base is rather impressive. We had our own “escort”, a military police boat, traveling our speed parallel to us the entire length of the Kings Bay station. Then when we were beyond their boundary, the military police boat went back to do the same tracking with the next trawler or sailboat. For your information the Trident missile is “a submarine-launched ballistic missile (SLBM) with independently targetable reentry vehicles (MIRV).” (Source: Wikipedia). According to this same source, Trident missiles are carried by fourteen active US Navy Ohio-class submarines, with US warheads, and four Royal Navy Vanguard-class submarines, with British warhead. Lockheed got the lucrative government contract to develop and build these missiles. The first Trident missile was deployed in 1979. Are you ready for the cost of these weapons? According to Wikipedia, the total cost of the Trident program “thus far” came to $39.546 billion in 2011, with a cost of $70 million per missile. Is anyone else creeped out by the fact that the amount went to the thousandth decimal? How about “more than 39 and ½ billion dollars”? Representative Paul Ryan, hello? You can cut food stamps until you’re blue in the face, and you can hurt a lot of people that way, but still not make much headway in reducing the deficit. Why not make a few cuts in the Trident missile program instead? You can watch the national debt shrink before your very eyes, without causing pain and suffering to thousands of hungry children.

Let’s end on this positive note: The Giants beat the Rockies in 12 innings – grand salami by Sanchez – so they can now skulk out of Denver with one win and two losses. Torture!  I said it was a positive note, not a happy one. Cain is still looking for his first win of the year. I love/hate this game of baseball – Go Giants!   

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN: EASTER SUNDAY MUSINGS

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN: EASTER SUNDAY MUSINGS

Jesus Christ is risen today. A – a – a – a – a – lay- ay –loo -oo –yah. Every Easter no matter where I am or what I’m doing, this hymn streams through my unconsciousness without fail. And usually I bring it to my conscious self, singing it at the top of my lungs, or at a whisper, depending on my surroundings. Today, it’s a whisper here inside Slow Motion, tied up at the Aquamarina Dock in Daytona Beach, just next to a Chart House Restaurant full of Easter eaters. I used to play this hymn for Sunday School at Edgeboro Moravian Church on Easter Sunday, this hymn and every other one in the songbook that related to the resurrection. Miss Wilson, my high school German teacher for three years, would lead us all with her healthy, but thin, soprano. That was after I zipped up the unzipped part of her dress – she lived alone, except for Fritzy the Dog (another long story). We arrived before the congregation, and I always checked the back of her dress – no need to embarrass her in front of a hundred stout Moravians, who were there for religious worship, not to giggle and point at the lady leading us in song and scriptures. I always say the Moravian Church was a good place to go when I was growing up, because it was all about the New Testament and peace, love and forgiveness – none of that Old Testament revenge stuff. We had Love Feasts on a regular basis, and at every communion we turned to our neighbors in front, back and to the sides and greeted them warmly and shook hands. Before communion we were supposed to forgive anyone who had wronged us in any way – or not take communion. I remember one congregant who got up and left church right before the start of the communion ritual, and I thought immediately that she had realized that she could not forgive everyone, so she had to forego communion, until her ability to forgive came back. She probably just had to go to the bathroom or turn off the roast in the oven. Nevertheless, forgiveness was the cornerstone of our beliefs – you were not required to forget the bad things that people did; after all, you had to learn from those experiences how better to protect yourself – but you were definitely expected to forgive the sinner, transgressor, evildoer or bungling idiot who wronged you.

Now as we are less than 24 hours away from the 2014 Boston Marathon, I have read about the attitudes of survivors of the bomb explosions and their families to the Tsarnaev brothers’ acts of evil. Understandably, some of the survivors’ relatives want the remaining brother to be convicted and put to death. That’s Old Testament justice, and there’s a lot to be said for it. When you break your pact of civility with your community by murdering one or more members of it, you have forfeited your right to live, in my opinion. Even if you should beg for forgiveness, and even if your murder victims’ surviving family offer you forgiveness, that doesn’t address the severity of the breach. And so, forgiveness, yes, but not in place of punishment. Oftentimes, crime victims or their relatives say they are trying really hard to forgive the criminal who wronged them – it’s not worth it. If you can’t forgive, move on. Don’t feel badly about not forgiving them. It doesn’t make you a lesser person. Maybe you don’t take communion, but there are worse things in life. If you can still love, then love the ones who remain, the ones who have not harmed you, and express that love in good works. That’s New Testament. Leave forgiveness to God – that’s Her job, whether She likes it or not. Live the best life that you can live, free of evil, full of love. The rest will take care of itself.

End of Easter Sunday sermon. Can I have an “Amen”?

Back to boating: Today it was murky dismal (to quote the Admiral) almost all day. The wind churned up the Indian River, turned Mosquito Lagoon around like it was in a blender and brought water crashing against the bow of Slow Motion most of the 7 and ½ hours we were on the intracoastal waterway. While Mother Nature was expelling all the air she had in her lungs, she was also entertaining us with diving porpoises, meandering manatees, and whole islands full of pelicans and egrets performing the rites of spring. Oh yes, She threw in some awesome ospreys and their young in nests high atop the highest house along the waterway or resting precariously on top of one of the waterway’s day markers. We saw no alligators, only a sign warning of their presence at the park in Titusville. We left just as dawn was cracking open over the Titusville Municipal Marina at 6:45 a.m. and the skies were charcoal gray down to the horizon. When we pulled into the Aquamarina dock at 2:15 p.m., the sun came out of nowhere and the high rise condominiums along the channel suddenly blocked the fierce wind that had been tormenting us all day. It felt like Florida weather again. I even took off two of my four layers of clothing in celebration. Yes, we’re spoiled. When the temperature is 64 degrees and we run for our long pants, socks, hats, hoodies and storm jackets, we know we have been in Key Largo too long. I alone was wearing the four layers, not the Admiral, who toughed it out with a shirt and a sweatshirt. Did I mention that I was wearing gloves too? I know there’s not a dry eye in the head of anyone reading this paragraph – from laughing, not crying.

Slow Motion has so many parts that can act up. Today, as just about every day, the depth finder was on again, off again. When we get into really, really shallow water, just as we are about to run aground, the depth finder goes berserk, printing the depth number five times larger than usual and sending an ALERT – DON’T RUN AGROUND – or the equivalent. But just before then, and most of the rest of the time we are cruising, the depth finder blinks on and off with fairly random numbers which are totally useless for guidance as to the depth of the waters we are plying. We have to get the depth finder fixed, we keep saying. When it works, it’s a thing of beauty, knowing how deep the water is beneath Slow Motion. What a treat! On our list of things to fix on Slow Motion, the depth finder has to be close to number one. However, today a new number one may have reared its head – the automatic pilot. This is the best device on the entire boat. This allows me to “steer” Slow Motion by just tapping an arrow in one direction or the other. No cranking of the steering wheel at all. No wide zigs and zags down the waterway, about which the Admiral always complains – rightly so – when I’m at the helm and not using the auto pilot. Well, today, the auto pilot was acting like me. It would start veering on one direction off the “magenta line”, then make a huge correction to jerk the bow toward the other direction. I know this pattern well, having done it too many times myself. So has Auto Pilot been following my movements too closely, or is there something mechanically wrong with it that needs fixing? There is, of course, the theory of the manic manatees, which not only chewed all the algae off the boat bottom, but also somehow screwed up Auto Pilot during their feeding frenzies. Whatever is the cause of this aberrant behavior of Auto Pilot, it is such a vital part of our daily boat operation that I have to push the depth finder issue aside and put Auto Pilot number one on the list of repairs.

The Admiral made shrimp stir fry last night. Tonight he added General Tso’s chicken to the mix, and the stir fry was even better. Yes, I admit it, I’m spoiled by the Admiral’s cooking. The night before last I prepared my own gourmet meal – grilled cheese and ham sandwich, with two kinds of cheese. See what I mean? Spoiled by the Admiral. The bell peppers – red and green – that we have been getting are so flavorful. Add the broccoli, carrots and celery. Cook it all with hoisin sauce and some other Asian sauces that the Admiral has accumulated through the years, and you have a very tasty, nutritious concoction to ladle over rice. Uncharacteristically, you are not hungry one hour after this entrée. And the side benefit is how healthy you feel – and righteous – for eating something that has no cholesterol, very little fat and lots of vitamins. The Admiral warned me about the cadmium in my rice, but I can only process so much bad news about food at one sitting. I love rice, but of course, now I have to research the danger of cadmium infiltrating these delicious little grains. And what does cadmium, in excess, do to a human being’s body? Life used to be simpler before everything became polluted.

Tomorrow we head to the oldest city in the United States, St. Augustine. It will always be wedded in my memory with Tropical Storm Debby and the sinking of the trawler two slips away from us at the Municipal Marina in June, 2012. That first visit it rained almost nonstop. I remember walking in water on the cobblestones that was above my ankles. Rain is not likely during this visit; we plan to stay just one night at River’s Edge Marina, a funky little place up the river where you can get a diesel fuel truck to come to the dock to re-fuel. And the price is lower than any other place in Florida at this point. Somehow the price of diesel fuel is always lowest at the Atlantic Yacht Basin in Chesapeake, Virginia. But we can’t wait that long to take on fuel. So we’ll settle for the best that Florida has to offer tomorrow. So there you have it, from my thoughts on the death penalty to the price of diesel fuel – these are my musings on Easter Sunday, 2014.

 

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN: MANATEE GRAZING AND MARINA GETAWAY – IT’S GREAT TO BE BACK ON THE WATERWAY

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN: MANATEE GRAZING AND MARINA GETAWAY – IT’S GREAT TO BE BACK ON THE WATERWAY

It’s Good Friday Eve and we’re holed up in Titusville at the Municipal Marina, the Manatee Mecca of the World. This morning we were awakened to the very loud sounds of gnawing on the bottom of Slow Motion. Apparently the Key Largo diver did not clean all the manatee food off the bottom, or we picked up a lot of grasses plowing across the ocean for two days and cruising on the Intracoastal for the past two days. Who knew the Indian River was so fecund? The manatees did. They were having a feast! It must have been a whole family grabbing their Easter dinner early. Remember the sounds I described of the shrimp rat-a-tat tatting as they munched on Slow Motion’s hull? Well, the manatee sounds are not so fast or manic. Rather, they scrape off whatever is affixed to the bottom of the boat with their big buck teeth. It’s almost a sawing noise, persistent and relentless. You’re pretty sure that the next minute a manatee’s head will pop up through the floor of the boat asking for seconds, or thirds. I dreamt of walking off Slow Motion this morning and looking at a circle of manatees holding tin cups begging for more. There are signs everywhere at this marina warning you not to feed the manatees – and not to give them any fresh water either (they love, love, love fresh water). But will we be fined for the manatees feeding off Slow Motion’s hull? That would add insult to injury – no sleep because of their raucous munching noises AND a big, fat fine for not diving under the boat to chase them away! It’s not even safe to wash one dish in the sink at this marina. As soon as you turn on the tap water, manatees come waddling from all four corners of the marina to get a sip. I wish I had a camera under the boat to catch them in their acts of stealing water and munching away on the hull. Just picture big walruses with hippo heads and huge overbites digging into Slow Motion’s “skin” – erase that image, it’s too graphic.

Let’s move back to the very cute baby ospreys in their nest. We saw them yesterday on the waterway as we cruised from Vero Beach to Titusville under threatening skies. Both Mom and Dad were with them, feeding them. We also saw baby porpoises out on their own food hunting expedition. They have the good manners to search for food in the open waters, not to rip it off our boat’s hull. Every day the mammals, fish and fowl of the Intracoastal Waterway entertain us with their ordinary daily activities. There was a whole squadron of pelicans flying low across the whitecaps, then rising up in a V formation to soar over the waterway. The Admiral caught sight of a deer on shore, but it quickly ran back into the woods. Even though we have traveled this waterway along the Florida Coast four times before, I assure you every trip is exciting and full of the lives of the regular denizens of the rivers, inlets and sounds we traverse.

When not marveling at newborn ospreys and porpoises, the Admiral and I amuse ourselves in many ways. Yesterday we passed Honeymoon Lake, and the Admiral fell to one knee before me, mumbled something about our dating each other for a long time and was about to say – who knows? – because he cried in pain and stumbled to his feet before he could say anything else. There is only one Honeymoon Lake on this trip north, so the moment has passed. I see more dating in our future. The Admiral was laughing the whole time he pulled this stunt, so I wasn’t worried that he was getting serious on me. It’s amazing that we shared a light moment at all, after the grueling dock leaving we endured at Vero Beach just hours before.

There we were in the tiniest slip to ever hold a fifty foot boat with a 16 foot beam. It was 6 a.m. The wind was roaring through the marina. There was a fast current running every which way too. Should we leave, or shouldn’t we? If we stayed, we would probably have been forced to remain 4 days or more to sit out the thunder and lightning storms predicted through Saturday. If we left, we ran the risk of crashing into at least 3 sailboats on the way out. You couldn’t pay me enough to make this decision. Fortunately, the Admiral was up to the task. At 6:30 a.m., he decided we would leave Vero Beach. All we needed was the help of Don from Annie’s Song, the sailboat next to us, to hold on to the stern line and pull the stern close to the finger pier as the Admiral tried to turn the bow of Slow Motion to the right far enough to avoid hitting the boats directly in front of us. It was not just that our slip was narrow, but the fairway leading to the slip was also incredibly skimpy, so that the bow of Slow Motion was nearly kissing the sterns of the boats across the fairway from us. The Admiral stationed me on the stern, so I did not have a view of how close we got to those boats, but the Admiral said Slow Motion's bow was just a foot away from one of the three sailboats, as she finally turned the corner to head out into the channel. Whew! In the meantime, Slo Mo’s stern was busy grinding against a piling or two. Actually, one of the fenders gave its all, as the piling smushed it into Slo Mo’s stern near the swimboard. I wasn’t sure we could save the swimboard, but it narrowly escaped “death by piling”, and we were on our way! I waved to the crowd that had gathered – everybody loves a potential disaster – and this hardy group of boaters just stood on the dock with stunned looks on their faces. “How did they get out in this wind without hitting another boat?” I’m sure they’ll be talking about the maneuvering skills of the Admiral for a long time to come.

Note to self: Do not go into a slip built for a skinny sailboat at Vero Beach Municipal Marina ever again. What made this narrow escape even more harrowing is that, as one of the live aboard boaters told us, no one who works at the marina is trained to help boaters dock or leave the dock. We learned that firsthand, when an older gent with a walking aid came out to the dock upon our arrival the day before. I handed him a stern line, and he wasn’t exactly sure what to do with it. Furthermore, even if he did know what to do, he was not physically capable of bending down to reach the cleat to secure Slo Motion’s stern. Sailboater Don came to the rescue and took the line out of his hand and secured it. Then the municipal employee asked us how we were going to get off the boat. He was staring at the 4 feet between the rim of the cockpit and the dock, totally ignoring our steps off the side of the boat, which was hugging the finger pier. It may have been the first time he was ever out on the docks. Needless to say, we did not ask for his assistance in leaving the next morning. Of course, since this is a city-run marina, no one arrives until 8 a.m. and we were gone before 7 a.m. Second note to self: Do not return to Vero Beach Municipal Marina, unless there are no other options.

The good part of the stay at Vero Beach was that we met Maggie May, an Australian cattle dog rescued by her owners, Don and Ann, who stay on their sailboat, Annie’s Song, during the winter months. Maggie May has a bark that is so much like our dog Zorro’s. When I first heard her, I thought I was channeling Zorro, but then the Admiral told me to come quick and see Zorro’s sister. Maggie May is 9 years old, and she started her boating life at 12 weeks. This is the only life she knows and she loves it. She has gone through every possible major surgery – “the most expensive rescue dog in the world”, according to Don. She has the “Bentley” white mark on top of her head. Her eyes match and her tail is not nearly as fluffy as Zorro’s (his Husky genes), but she is super smart and a stickler for schedule. She knows exactly when it is time for her walks, and she will not be denied. If Zorro had been a puppy when we moved on to Slow Motion, I imagine he would have made a fine transition from herding cattle dog to sailing mate. But after his years running up and down the canyons and herding the cows and their calves – and looking like the happiest being on earth – we could not take him away from that. He’s still thriving with our Harper Canyon neighbors, and I had 5 glorious weeks of hikes with him in February and March, often two times a day. He’ll be six in September, and with any luck he’ll join us this year, when we return to land somewhere and prepare for our next adventure.

The manatees have left us alone for the past few hours. New boats have arrived, perhaps with more grass hanging from their bottoms than what we have left, after the manatee grazing. The winds have not let up. The Admiral says it was a real circus at the marina, as boaters tried to dock this afternoon, narrowly missing hitting other boats and the seawall. We have a neighbor on the T Head, a trawler with the Great Loop gold flag, and the neighbor is terrified that the new paint job on his boat will get ruined by the dock if the fenders don’t hold up. The marina folks lent him a couple of huge fenders to keep his boat even further from the dock, so it is much less likely that his new paint will be scraped. Still, I’m sure he’s worried. You have to Break Out more than Another Thousand to get your boat painted. However, if you want to keep it in perfect shape, put it in dry-dock. Don’t cruise on the waterway or the ocean, where the water, the wind, the birds, the rain, the marina pilings and docks, and just about every other element you encounter is ready to do some kind of damage to your beautiful boat. Slow Motion is not beautiful. She badly needs paint on the cockpit transom. Her bottom is obviously in need of a thorough cleaning. And a wax job on the entire body of the boat would really make her glow. All of this will have to wait until our cruising days are coming to an end, and we need to dazzle potential buyers. For now, Slo Mo with all her superficial imperfections is carrying us safely through the waters, no matter how choppy – function over form at this point. And the Admiral has the engines purring – knock on wood. So if you’re asking, I’m telling you we’re just glad to be back on the water, battling the winds, the thunder and lightning storms and trying to keep our boat and ourselves in one piece as we enter and leave the marinas. It’s good to be back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN: KEEP IT DOWN!

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN: KEEP IT DOWN!

Seriously, how do you get to be a meteorologist? By making a lot of mistakes on your spelling tests in grammar school? By reading tarot cards? By not being smart enough to read the news on TV? This question came up again, as the Admiral and I struggled to keep our stomach contents in place during a wild and woolly ride on the Atlantic today. The Admiral kept reminding me that all the weather reports – from NOAA and other so-called reliable sources – promised, PROMISED, waves of 0 to 2 feet today between Hollywood and Palm Beach, Florida. If I had seen a wave of 2 feet during our five hours of tumult, I would have jumped overboard and kissed it. I was ready to jump overboard anyway, figuring that it would be no rougher for me in my life jacket in the ocean as it was in my life jacket on Slow Motion’s flying bridge. When you reach the point of wanting to throw yourself overboard, consider that you might be a tad seasick. With grim determination (is there any other kind?), however, I kept my mouth shut (good thing) and refused to give in to the 4 foot waves that were pounding Slo Mo from the side. The Admiral asked me how I was doing, as if the green coloring on my face, neck, arms and legs were not a dead giveaway. Of course, as he later told me this evening, he was close to retching much of the way too. That’s why he uncharacteristically stood most of the time, trying to get into the rhythm of the waves. You couldn’t exactly call it a rhythm – more like a relentless slamming against the sides, bow and stern of Slo Mo, shaking our fillings and just about every item not nailed down in the salon and our stateroom. There was no splattering of hot sauce all over the floor and carpets this time, but every item (about 20) on my bathroom sink went flying to the floor, and a plastic glass from the galley counter hit the floor so hard it broke. My bike nearly flew off the back of the boat. And God knows what other things were making the crashing sounds that came with each new round of white caps. Oh no, they weren’t just white “caps”, they were full blown white “gowns”, rising up from the ocean to smack us around. If I ever find any of the meteorologists who told us the ocean would offer 0 to 2 feet waves today, all day, I can think of only one appropriate greeting. Yep. I’m saving my bile up for him/her.

Yesterday, as we set out from Key Largo, the ocean was beautiful, much calmer than predicted (by another redundant “inaccurate meteorologist”). But the farther we went north toward our destination at the Hollywood Marina, the more roiled the seas became, and we had a good (read: bad) hour of almost cookie tossing toward noon. The Admiral assured me that this often happens the first day back on the ocean, and he further assured me that, while I might feel a little seasick this first day, I would have my sea legs the second day and not have to worry about throwing up. Okay, the Admiral has a lot of trust in weather reports, and when he made this reassuring comment, he actually believed that the second day – the one I am writing about – would provide calmer waters. With his assurance, I started out our journey from Hollywood pretty confident that I had “weathered” the worst of the waves. I had the bounce back in my step, and as I trotted up and down the steps between the flying bridge and the sundeck, I felt good. The Admiral was right again, I thought. Today I can eat a Little Debbie and not feel like upchucking. Still, there was this tiny little lingering concern, based on how sick I felt the day before, which led me to stop at a small cup of yogurt. Why tempt fate? Besides, I couldn’t really look at a Little Debbie this morning without getting that queasy feeling back. No offense, makers of Little Debbie, but your cinnamon breakfast buns are just not made to withstand heavy seas with waves over three feet.

Fortunately, as the seas slammed into Slow Motion from the side, we had a distraction from our unease: a water spout. This is a tornado on water. We looked up into the clouds and saw it forming, a picture perfect funnel of swirling wind and water. Then we heard a trembling voice come on the radio, Channel 16, calling the Coast Guard to report seeing the water spout. That reporter was about two miles south of it and had a clear view of its formation. We were directly opposite it. It was to our east, but these natural phenomena move very fast and this spout could have soared across the water toward us in seconds. We watched the spout actually touch down on the water, and then held our breaths. Then, unceremoniously the spout rose back up into the cloud from whence it emanated. Even as the woman was reporting the spout, while still on the radio, she also reported that it had disappeared. Once before I had seen a water spout dance across the water right in front of me on the Cooper River, as I was being carried by a big ferry from the mainland in Charleston to Fort Sumter. It is a sight to behold, as long as it’s not coming straight at you. So this was my second spout experience, a little farther away, thank God, but still so unpredictable that the Admiral and I did not take our eyes off it until it withdrew back into the cloud.  

As we approached the Lake Worth Inlet, keeping our mouths closed and standing and rolling with the punchy waves, another major distraction grabbed our attention. A distress call came over Channel 16 from the Island Breeze 2, a “casino boat”, that a passenger had had a seizure and passed out, then regained consciousness, only to pass out a second time after a second seizure. We focused completely on the drama that unfolded on our trusty radio, as the Coast Guard was contacted and immediately asked such trenchant medical questions as “About how old is the victim, er, patient?” I am not kidding. We followed the Island Breeze through the Inlet, as a Coast Guard boat provided an escort on the port side and a police boat took a protective position on the starboard side of this floating casino. By the time Island Breeze reached dock and the waiting ambulance, their captain reported that the patient was alert and had reported having seizures on a fairly regular basis, several times a month. And when we got through the Inlet ourselves – where the current was super strong and a sailboat directly in front of us kept tacking back and forth like a yoyo – we finally reached calm waters. By the time we entered the marina at Old Port Cove in North Palm Beach, my skin tone had lost its greenish tinge. And the Admiral was able to sit down to bring Slow Motion to the T Head, where we are spending the night.

 About the T Head, this is the most desirable place for Slow Motion, because as we learned again last night at the Hollywood Marina, there is no such thing as a “wide slip” and there is always something wrong with the pilings on both sides of the slip. The Admiral is extremely adept at maneuvering Slow Motion, but you can be the best boat captain in the world and still have some anxious moments backing into an unknown slip in the middle of a torrential downpour with no marina dock hands in sight to help out. Did I mention crazy, swirling winds and a strong current as well? And let me not forget to describe the sea wall which we were backing into – where the water was at low tide, and Slow Motion’s stern could have slipped right under the wall, pinning us to it and/or ruining the entire cockpit on the stern. My role in getting us safely into the slip, without destroying our boat’s back side, was simply to throw a line around the middle piling on the starboard side of the ship. It sounds simple, but when you fling the line backward to get momentum to throw it five feet over the back of the piling, which is sticking up high in the water, way above your head, the first thing the line does is hit the side of the boat, then it falls down in front of you. Meanwhile, the Admiral was not enjoying this scene of ineptitude, so I kept flinging the line toward the piling, and it caught on top. Then Slow Motion miraculously swung closer to the piling and I was able to reach up and pull the line down around the back of it. Oh my God – I felt like I had climbed Everest. I think this is the first piling I have been able to wrangle a line around. And none too soon, as Slow Motion’s stern was heading toward the barnacled sea wall.

Today at Old Port Cove, somehow the Admiral arranged to get the last T Head in the marina. I wasn’t there when he talked to the dock master’s office on the phone, but he said he had told the woman that we had been promised a T Head. He thought this was the case. It wasn’t. But he believed this, and when the woman said there was no T Head available and we would have to “slip” into a slip, the Admiral made an unpleasant noise, he says, and he hung up. Unbelievably, when he called back as we entered the marina, the same woman told him that she was wrong and there was in fact one T Head available for us. I had just finished preparing the lines for docking and returned to the flying bridge to find the Admiral actually smiling, as he reported that we were docking on a T Head. Lordy, Lordy. This was the best news all day. Suddenly my stomach went back into the middle of my body, and I looked forward to docking. But after four months of lounging around on Slow Motion in Key Largo, from late December until 2 days ago, I had forgotten certain basic rules about docking. First, if the Admiral says we’re going to dock on the portside, and I get all the lines and fenders ready for a portside docking, then almost invariably at the last second, the Admiral with change his mind and decide to dock on the starboard side. The second rule I forgot is that when this last minute change of plans comes, I have to put the fenders down on the starboard side. The third rule I forgot is that I have to be forceful with the dock hand and tell him to take the spring line from my hand, not to start with the bow line and let the stern fly out away from the dock. The fourth rule I ignored in my haste is never to put a line over the railing. All lines go under the railing to be secured; otherwise, the somewhat fragile railing bears the weight of the boat, not the body of the boat itself.

So it’s back to remedial deck hand classes. What happened to my two years of experience at docking? This is NOT like riding a bicycle. You have to practice, practice, practice and have your “mind in the game” and be “in tune with the boat” – you guessed it, some of the Admiral’s frequently used words of inspiration. I can see making one rookie mistake after the long layoff, but three mistakes all in one docking? That’s just sad. However, as I write about this shameful performance, I am not nearly as disappointed as I was at the time. I know there is room for improvement – hah! And besides that, the Admiral made the best Philly cheese steak sandwiches in the world for dinner. Everything looks better once you’ve eaten thinly sliced beef, provolone, red and green peppers, onion powder and ketchup on a fresh, squishy roll. Fortified with this delicious blast from the past, and determined to do better, I know I will acquit myself at the Vero Beach Marina tomorrow, unless of course, they tell us we have to shoe horn ourselves into one of their puny slips. One big change tomorrow –we’re not going out on the ocean – at all. No matter how stiff the wind, how strong the current, the Intracoastal Waterway will not offer a serious challenge to our stomach muscles. And that calls for a resounding “Hooray!!!”

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN: TAI CHI, BLESSED VISITS AND ANGRY BIRDS

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN: TAI CHI, BLESSED VISITS AND ANGRY BIRDS

April in Key Largo – maybe not as famous a melody as April in Paris, but pleasing nonetheless. The sun is shining, a tropical breezing is wafting over the marina and eyes are watering everywhere, as the Everglades dumps all kinds of allergens into the Florida air. Okay, the watering eyes are not so pleasant, but considering the alternatives – gray snow, driving sleet, drenching rains, slick roads, colds and flu – I’ll take Key Largo in April.

Tai chi classes start up again tomorrow – hooray! We had an open house yesterday, and it was packed with the Taoist Tai Chi Society members and new recruits. Tai chi is about energy, balance, meditation, patience, relaxation, and getting rid of the monkey mind. Yes, the monkey mind, or the emotional mind. Taoists believe we have two minds, a mind of wisdom and a monkey mind (or emotional mind). The monkey mind is always nagging about something – “Did I pay the water bill?” “What are we having for dinner?” The beauty of doing tai chi is that when you focus fully on the movements, the monkey mind disappears. And you have a full hour without trivial, non sequitur thoughts invading your brain. Too bad I can’t do tai chi lying down, when I want to go to sleep at night. That’s when the monkey mind is at its strongest. Just when you think it’s safe to go to sleep – monkeys start flying from limb to limb in your brain. I’m hoping that when I fully integrate tai chi into my everyday life I can minimize the monkey mind. It’s time for the mind of wisdom to expand and drive out the distracting monkeys. I see my tai chi teachers still struggling with their monkey minds (“When should we take a break?” Have we done this move three times?”), so I know this is going to be a long process. In the meantime, I’m reaping all the other benefits of tai chi.

The Admiral and I had a great visit this past week from Sonja, his oldest daughter, who is our most frequent visitor to Slow Motion. These visits may have something to do with living and working in Chicago, but more than likely it’s about the strong father/daughter bond that is between them. It’s fun watching them interact – the Admiral spends half the time soliciting sympathy from Sonja, who loves to dote on him and pamper him. This visit was laid back with no go-go-go, no travel to Key West and back in a day, no sightseeing, just sitting and talking and enjoying each other’s company over a delicious cup of coffee made in the Keurig machine which Sonja gave to the Admiral. We ate healthy, even at Mrs. Mac’s Kitchen, where we celebrated both Sonja’s and the Admiral’s birthday with be-candled key lime pie sliced. The staff joined in with a round of “Happy Birthday”, much to the Admiral’s chagrin. And by the way, if you’re in Key Largo on a Wednesday night, order the prime rib dinner at Mrs. Mac’s – soooo good.

Last week Jake and Michael visited for a day, and they brought news of a lot of changes in our small transient boating community. A bunch of us bonded in October 2012 at Calvert Marina in Solomons, Maryland. Jake and Michael were there in KiKeKo, their 49 foot catamaran, and about 40 Kadey Krogens were there. Cindy and Randy Pickleman were in their 36 foot Morningstar. Seth and Judy were in their gorgeous Kadey Krogen, which had been fitted with lifts and other amenities to help Seth get around in his wheel chair. On this recent visit, Jake and Michael reported that they sold KiKeKo – it took less than a week – and they bought a condo in North Myrtle Beach. Now they have two homes, the new South Carolina one on a golf course and the Oregon house on the Pacific Coast. And they are getting their RV refurbished so they can drive across country at the end of April to go to La Jolla for a seminar that Jake is teaching, then up the Coast to their Oregon home for the summer. They had been living and traveling on KiKeKo for 8 years, so this is a very big change in their lives. I think their journey across the Gulf of Mexico and back last winter may have entered into this decision to travel by land for a while. They were on their way to the Panama Canal, but got held up – literally and figuratively – by Mexican officials demanding payments for phantom infractions they discovered every day that they boarded KiKeKo, when it was at Isla de Las Mujeres. That was such a back experience that they turned around and came back across the Gulf to Marathon, where they spent last winter. Most of this winter they holed up at Lightkeepers Marina in North Myrtle Beach. Here’s something I learned from them about Myrtle Beach – it’s the reunion capital of the United States. Families from all over gather there on a regular basis to update their family trees, or whatever else they do at reunions.

Jake and Michael also reported that Cindy and Randy sold Morningstar and they are now traveling on land in an RV. I didn’t see that change coming. They have owned boats for so many years that I thought they would always be traveling on the water. They had switched from sailboats to their Kadey Krogen, which was the biggest 36 footer you could ever imagine. Cindy and Randy had outfitted Morningstar so that it appeared to be extremely roomy. Slow Motion is 50 feet long, and Morningstar seemed to have the same living space as Slow Motion – minus one bathroom. At any rate, Godspeed to Cindy and Randy in their land travels. Another Kadey Krogen from the October 2012 rendezvous, Sequel, was sold by its owners recently. I didn’t know those folks very well. We shared a few stories at the Calvert Marina docktail parties, but went our separate ways after that.

I was hoping to visit with Judy and Seth in Miami – Jake and Michael had just stayed with them a few days before visiting us last week. But we’re heading north next week, weather permitting, so there’s much less time to make social visits to Miami or anywhere else, as the Admiral starts preparing Slow Motion for travel on the ocean and the ICW. The Admiral noted today that he’s already feeling a little pressure that comes with putting Slow Motion back to work. On Tuesday, Slow Motion is having some work done here at the marina to make her sea-ready again. The Admiral is checking the wave forecast every day for the next week to see when, or if, there is a day of 1-2 foot waves maximum on the ocean between here and Miami. And before we leave, our beloved California neighbor, Brenda, is coming to a three day conference at Coral Gables on April 8, so we have to figure out a way to get her to see Slow Motion in person during her brief stay.

Look out, Charleston! Here we come again! But first we have to slog our way along the Florida Coast for a week or longer. I enjoy some of the marinas in Florida immensely, like Titusville, where the manatees hang out next to your boat. And I really liked most of our forced week’s stay at the city marina of St. Augustine two years ago, brought on by Tropical Storm Debbie, which sank the trawler two slips away from us. That was a tragedy. The good part was the opportunity I had to tour St. Augustine and learn of the history of that part of Florida. Even though St. Augustine mistakenly claims that Ponce de Leon landed there, I don’t begrudge them their efforts to make a few bucks off a so-called Fountain of Youth. And their Ripley’s Museum is a gas! Their black and white swirled lighthouse provides a panoramic view of the rivers, the inlets and the ocean, and the steps to the top are a stellar aerobic workout.

Right here in Key Largo I visited the Wild Bird Refuge again, and I lucked out, because most of the birds were being fed. That is, most of the birds except the pelicans and egrets. However, when food is being dished out, pelicans and egrets are not above begging and pushing themselves in front of the door where the feeder has to exit, once he has fed the birds in the enclosure. I was walking toward the bay, when suddenly I was surrounded by pelicans beating a path to that door, and whipping my legs with their wings, as they motored speedily past me to reach the feeder before he left. Pelicans generally waddle on land, but these birds were so motivated that they half flew to their positions, waiting for the feeder to walk out with the food container. When the pelicans first started flapping their wings and hitting my legs as they raced past me, I was a bit concerned, but the feeder told me that they wouldn’t bite me (only other pelicans) or hurt me. The egrets are not nearly as pushy, and they don’t get nearly as much of the leftovers as the pellies, who push and shove each other as they dip their long necks over the rim of the container to get the dregs in the bottom. None of them looked like they had missed a meal recently, and remember, this is not even their food that they’re fighting over. Once again, they showed the difference between the German words “fressen” (eat like an animal) and “essen” (more refined eating). This was definitely a “fressen frenzy” that I witnessed.

As I was leaving the Refuge, I stopped by the enclosure (cage) of an all-white toucan-like bird, with bright yellow top feathers. He flew over to the wiring of the cage and started climbing down it right in front of me. I moved to the other side and he came over there and started the most godawful screeching, which attracted all the rest of the bird refuge visitors, who apparently thought it was a car alarm (but it was much worse). One of the visitors said: “He must not like you.” But I knew it was his only way of communicating his disdain for his surroundings to me, as he knew I was the most sympathetic human in the area. Birds know that about me. Dogs and cats too. It’s a curse, especially when you’re sitting at a friend’s dinner table and their pets are parked in your lap begging for scraps. As to Screecher, his piercing sounds were finally drowned out by a low flying helicopter, which stirred up all the trees and the ground, scattering leaves and dirt everywhere. No, I don’t think it was another visit by the President, but maybe a dry run for his next visit to the one per center resort he’s fallen in love with, the Ocean Reef Club. Boy, some of the Republican residents of that resort were really put out by the POTUS visit a month ago. That’s not what they pay their handsome dues for. You would think it was Selma all over again, and Obama was trying to integrate Ocean Reef. As Groucho Marx said, “Don’t belong to any club that would choose you as a member.” Just infiltrate the clubs that don’t want you.

Just to let you know that the trip to the Wild Bird Refuge was educational, here are some facts about barn owls that are new to me: “Barn owls have asymmetrical ear openings on their skull; the minute time difference that sounds of prey arrive to each of their ears enables them to zero in on prey by judging sound position and distance. Their heart-shaped facial feather discs act like radar dishes capturing and directing more sound to their ears.” And we thought our snazzy GPS devices were sophisticated – ain’t got nothing on the anatomy of a barn owl. And one more thing: Screech owl babies are “unflighted”, which means that they get hunted and killed by outdoor cats. They are also prone to poisoning, as they eat the poison that people put out for mice. And they get stuck in uncapped chimneys and can’t escape – so please cap your chimneys.

When not visiting the Wild Bird Refuge and hanging out with the Admiral and Sonja in the past week, I have been reading. I finished an Elizabeth George mystery – a British tour de force in which she uses words like “tenebrous” to describe the sky. This is not your “Get Shorty” type of writer, not even the alphabet mystery writer, Sue Grafton. I agree with one reviewer that George writes mystery novels, and they are chock full of descriptions of the countryside, the houses involved, the cast of detectives and suspects, and of all sorts of forensic research in the field of criminology. If you like mystery, and you enjoy fluid writing, you will not be disappointed by any Elizabeth George mystery novel. Now I’m reading Donna Tartt’s number one best seller, The Goldfinch, which Janie sent to me. I had no idea what to expect, and I was shocked by the huge explosion in the art museum which practically opens the story. Scattered bodies and body parts and glass and concrete pieces are not generally a good way to involve the reader – especially the squeamish reader, who has enough of a problem watching the explosions and aftermath at the Boston Marathon this past year. I’m going to continue reading the Goldfinch, in hopes that the shock value wears off and there is actually a well written story that follows this tragedy. Clearly, a lot of readers think so, as this book remains on the best seller list. Stay tuned, and I’ll complete my review when I finish the book. Thank you, Janie, for adding to my library. I knew that after finishing Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer I would have a hard time finding a writer of her caliber and a book that is as entertaining and informative as that one. Thanks to Cathy for that gem of a novel.

Which brings me to my visit with Cathy and Rob in Reno right before I returned to Florida. I drove up through the Sierras – beautiful sunshine, dry roads – and arrived at their fashion plate townhouse on Friday evening. We had a super meal prepared by Cathy, then watched the first of our movies, Nebraska. What a show! Bruce Dern is the star of the film by far, but Bill Hader, who plays his loyal son, is wonderful in his support of his father’s quixotic pursuit of One Million Dollars from a Publisher’s Clearinghouse type mail fraud gimmick. Contrast the greatness of that road movie or buddy movie with the film we saw on Saturday night, Inside Llewyn Davis, and there is no fair comparison. There is no likable character in the Davis movie (Coen brothers production) – not one. Fortunately, Rob had insisted that I watch The Incredibles, and this animated film was top notch, erasing the blah-ness of Llewyn Davis. Rob has an amazing media conglomerate in his upstairs living room and downstairs studio, and he treated me to one of his own recent features on the Reno art scene. I love visiting Cathy and Rob, because their walls are covered with Rob’s masterpieces. Everywhere I look there is a stunning landscape, both inner and outer. The slot canyon photo/painting was new to me. It reminded me of our camping trip in Utah a few years ago. Cathy and Rob have a full plate of medical appointments for Rob, and that is a major concern. However, they are so together and upbeat about the future that it’s not about the medical issues, it’s about their lives together. Go Team Berkley Barnes!

Ah! The strong stench of oil permeates the salon as AJ is working in the engine room, presumably changing the oil. It is perhaps the hottest, most humid day of the year. AJ could have made this job a lot easier by showing up at 8 a.m., but after several phone calls by the Admiral about his arrival time, AJ showed up at high noon. And now the work is smelly, sweaty, yucky, sticky. This is the start of getting Slow Motion seaworthy again. Right now the waves on the ocean are between 4 and 6 feet – not something we would ever venture out on. And the spring winds have really kicked up – not enough to chase away the humidity, but plenty to stir up the ocean waves. In the meantime, we’re working on the engines to prevent another sudden cessation of power on the ocean or the waterway. The fire suppression unit has been fixed, but we’re still finding problems caused by Dozier’s marina’s faulty electric outlet, which fried more pieces of equipment than we were first aware of. The Admiral just started the engines – and they both work, for now. One is running very rough, however. It’s always something – the Admiral says air got into the line and that’s why the engine’s having trouble running. On the positive side, a Coast Guard Auxiliary member inspected Slow Motion last week and gave us another certificate, good for a year at least, that we have all the safety features on the boat working properly. It was a very thorough inspection this year, plus the chap offered that Slow Motion is a “beautiful boat”. Yikes, here we go again, trying to start the engine – no luck at all this time. Amazing what a little air can do. I’m going to keep you in suspense right here. Tune in to the next blog to find out if we can start our engines.