tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33295367596472067792024-03-15T21:12:49.362-04:00Bubba the PirateBubba, a vagabond sailor and occasionally published writer wanders the East Coast and Bahamas aboard sv Ruth Ann, a Bayfield 29.Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.comBlogger176125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-8862066173994186942024-02-08T09:00:00.028-05:002024-03-14T12:03:26.241-04:00Stumbling Into An Odd Job<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOHcbkkqi6FJRFPvnKah4H-TtLrpiufU8DuikrC1BzuiZWQz9zfDLHqEY6oLn0g5oobs6NIbbHFI9NWkEaWgSAgS8C3tAvgHG0bqW3ewUMIO-eLZRGlnfR3EpnzEcYo0rMybwzNAW8P1HKEVtHW7TYHJMvAMqEMJqduIg8XUcfbdE1z_eixAqdOzy3Qbu/s4096/IMG_20240126_174850501.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOHcbkkqi6FJRFPvnKah4H-TtLrpiufU8DuikrC1BzuiZWQz9zfDLHqEY6oLn0g5oobs6NIbbHFI9NWkEaWgSAgS8C3tAvgHG0bqW3ewUMIO-eLZRGlnfR3EpnzEcYo0rMybwzNAW8P1HKEVtHW7TYHJMvAMqEMJqduIg8XUcfbdE1z_eixAqdOzy3Qbu/s320/IMG_20240126_174850501.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Squint Close for Egrets</td></tr></tbody></table><br />It was going to be one of those wonderful Florida winter days; just barely overcast, but with enough sun to make you reconsider not using sunscreen on your face. I was well up the North Fork of the St Lucie River at a place called Kitching Cove. After a few days reuniting at anchor with some dear friends, I was going to make my way back to civilization. Groceries and laundry were looming chores. Four or five other boats were in the cove but we were the only cruisers living aboard. The cove is separated from the St. Lucie River and the boat traffic by a long strip of mangroves with just enough solid ground to support several palm trees and the occasional oak. Along the opposite shore were some condos, a yacht club, and a resort, but it was a quiet, peaceful spot. The plaintive cry of an osprey regularly echoed across the flat water, and at evening, a flock of egrets would fly across the face of the mangroves, their bright white feathers a stark contrast as shades of black oozed across the green of the mangroves in the dissolving light of the day.<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiShlq6joHViI84m_KcCzZ1tJAmI0vFy5E7mIZzpfl8YyWAI3lCV8KvrCiUGvXcpYR39XJb3BdCqrdI6FjLQhU9J3fkL1GFpVlPBlVfjYEBiOgBHPmNp9PU8j0B9VKFiLmUfesQv86KKTE8TJdYa1IUBimtHF9jkzLLAxhSn_C0fd37jhQnxOCPKoNGYEQh/s4096/IMG_20240126_174908800.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiShlq6joHViI84m_KcCzZ1tJAmI0vFy5E7mIZzpfl8YyWAI3lCV8KvrCiUGvXcpYR39XJb3BdCqrdI6FjLQhU9J3fkL1GFpVlPBlVfjYEBiOgBHPmNp9PU8j0B9VKFiLmUfesQv86KKTE8TJdYa1IUBimtHF9jkzLLAxhSn_C0fd37jhQnxOCPKoNGYEQh/s320/IMG_20240126_174908800.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitching Cove Sunset</td></tr></tbody></table><p>While I had looming chores to take care of, I had also picked that day because it appeared the wind was just right for sailing all the way back to the anchorage in town. Ruth Ann was upwind from Mollynogger, my friends’ boat, but there seemed to be plenty of room to drift back in the gentle wind once I had hauled the anchor. I prepped to first raise the main, then haul the anchor, and to be able to raise the jib after I had started. The last choice was whether to have the engine idling just in case I needed … or not. </p><p>I left the engine off and went forward to raise the anchor as the main sail lolled from side to side in the breeze. Twice I paused to check my bearings on Mollynogger and another nearby boat. All was well, so I kept hauling. Once we were free, Ruth Ann fell away to the south as I walked back to the helm. It wasn’t that early, but I quietly whistled a bird call as goodbye to my friends as I ghosted by. </p><p>I had my chartplotter on, but the charts were purportedly not accurate in that area. My inward track was only in my head but I attempted to follow it out. Ruth Ann crept along but I had all day and we were already doing two and a half knots in the enclosed area. We glided through the cove’s narrow entrance and passed a sailboat languishing nearby. After the cove, there is an open spot just upstream of the resort’s marina. A couple boats were anchored there, including the catamaran where a party was hosted the previous Friday night. I recalled that I was told to pass near the end of the marina docks, so I aimed Ruth Ann there. The river began to open up but was still shallow in spots. I watched the water and eyed my chartplotter. At one point, the depth sounder was showing that I had gotten into some skinny water, so I steered hard to starboard toward deeper water indicated by the potentially less-than-accurate chart. We passed near the Red 10 marker and the lower part of the North Fork opened up. We had lots of water before us and all the way down to Stuart. </p><p>Sailboats don’t go in a straight line, so I had a basic plan to crisscross my way down the river. By the time we were approaching the western shore, we were regularly sailing along at three or three and a half knots. It was wonderfully pleasant sailing on a broad reach and Ruth Ann was as ecstatic as I was. We got close to some docks and tacked back out into the river. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQC6CxEX5u26mjDfqZSmF5VJutfIUGEy2OjgxtK8XrCSKoi1ZVOwwHNOd3tF2T9uMMd4G17-YxI5cwLEOEVK-54KvI0W7vBYZ1cUP2X_r8ddSGbiAxBgwhpUlisuclK_LbQMY2VboIBDbdad3izmMMN8ehBf-o7k7jvQc1auPBFtxArp7dHEbKoV_i5gBY/s4096/IMG_20240201_115009624.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQC6CxEX5u26mjDfqZSmF5VJutfIUGEy2OjgxtK8XrCSKoi1ZVOwwHNOd3tF2T9uMMd4G17-YxI5cwLEOEVK-54KvI0W7vBYZ1cUP2X_r8ddSGbiAxBgwhpUlisuclK_LbQMY2VboIBDbdad3izmMMN8ehBf-o7k7jvQc1auPBFtxArp7dHEbKoV_i5gBY/s320/IMG_20240201_115009624.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sailing!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The longest leg was another nice broad reach the other direction as we made good progress down the length of the river. We were hitting four and a half knots and more. I don’t race and I’m not (knot?) really concerned with my speed, but it was satisfying anyway to know that we were going nearly as fast as we would have if we’d been motoring!</p><p>After a jaunt down past the Red 6A marker, we were pointed right at a small group of docks just past Britt Creek. There was lots of depth up to the shore, so I kept us speeding right at the docks for a good long time. Once we got within a couple feet of rubbing the keel across the bottom, I tacked us back to the south. I had been eyeing my windvane and expected to run downwind from there. The wind had been a little fluky all morning, but after we came around in a gybe and traveled several yards, we were still reaching. Ruth Ann just loves a good beam reach and she danced across the waves toward the neck where the river makes a bit of an ‘S’ curve just before the North and South branches join and go under the Old Roosevelt Bridge as one. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB5lLwgw5x5LrClusy7McsyoFbBcRMP1xeZEaECoK7bCpUUD8MtquWh-xQMF2WZJsOVO6S3wJSJ2ecClWQWu3WKTDrrvMhovqmZR_VVy6wy9y31nrJmRINj15BH98v0ev2qvjomM7ML1CcYo3d1jG_jWR_KE7vvVKTRdEMguoJC4XDSMGyfFw2tbdZoKtU/s1080/Screenshot_20240201-212201.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="1080" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB5lLwgw5x5LrClusy7McsyoFbBcRMP1xeZEaECoK7bCpUUD8MtquWh-xQMF2WZJsOVO6S3wJSJ2ecClWQWu3WKTDrrvMhovqmZR_VVy6wy9y31nrJmRINj15BH98v0ev2qvjomM7ML1CcYo3d1jG_jWR_KE7vvVKTRdEMguoJC4XDSMGyfFw2tbdZoKtU/s320/Screenshot_20240201-212201.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sketch of Ruth Ann's Track</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The channel is marked for bigger, deeper boats than Ruth Ann and after taking a look at the chart for the waters ahead, we gybed again and cut both corners of the curve to head straight at the South Fork. At the confluence of the river’s forks, we sailed right at the boats tugging at their moorings at the Sunset Bay Marina. There is another curve to get into the South Fork where the Pendarvis Cove Anchorage is. I had to get Ruth Ann far enough south to make it inside a buoy marking a shallow area. We got as close to the moored boats as I could stand and tacked to the west. There was a little traffic around but it was a weekday, so no obnoxious weekend warriors with their wakes and their misappropriated glares. </p><p>Just ahead of us was a large sailboat, they turned into the anchorage ahead of us and, of course, they turned toward the area I was aiming for. We sailed past the anchorage to let them decide what they were doing and I doused the jib, started the engine, and dropped the main. I set Ruth Ann to wallow in a slow circle as I went forward to tie up the sails and prepare for anchoring again. When we turned around, the bigger boat had picked a spot and they were already backing down on their anchor. I entered the anchorage and slid through the many boats and up near that bigger boat. Just past them was a Canadian boat that I suspected might be staging to cross to the Bahamas, so I anchored just past them. I row to shore, so I wanted to sneak into a spot as close to the dinghy dock at Shepard Park as possible. </p><p>With that, I was in; I was back ‘home.’ Nevertheless, I prepared to go ashore. I had found a new upscale market, a good hike further than the nearby Publix. Publix is getting pretty pricey these days and I don’t like how their produce guy minds his department. Sprouts Farmers Market is another bougie grocery market, but it seemed less expensive and less cult-like than Trader Joes or Whole Foods. To their credit, and the reason I hiked a six mile round trip to get there, was that they have a great bulk foods section, including raw cashews and nutritional yeast (look who’s bougie now). I needed some freshies and some galley staples that are not available at the little downtown Publix. In addition to my bulk stuff, I found some tahini, a purple yam, some zucchini, onions, a head of cabbage, and some good raisins. </p><p>Halfway back to the boat, I realized that all that fresh air I’d been consuming all day long was going to make me mighty sleepy. I had stopped at the liquor store to renew my tequila stock and ended up with a bag of Voodoo potato chips as well. I stumbled into the very Publix that I had meant to avoid and bought a Cuban Sandwich and some tabouleh for supper. Their tabouleh is actually quite good and I’ve had homemade Lebanese Grandma tabouleh in my life. The Cuban on the other hand, hit the spot but was only adequate. And I was just bragging online about being a Cubano connoisseur. The Publix Cuban is a decent attempt and they probably had the capacity to ‘hot press’ the sandwich for me, but I didn’t bother. Without being pressed the bread seems like too much. The cheese, pickle, and sauce are good; not great but good. Also, the pork is sliced deli meat. A proper Cuban has deli sliced ham, but small chunks of roast pork. By the time I had rowed back out to Ruth Ann, after sailing all morning, and hiking all afternoon, the Publix Cuban was just fine. I enjoyed it along with some Voodoo chips, but I saved the tabouleh for the next day. </p><p>The following day, I could feel the big hike to the bougie market in my legs, but I mustered the gumption to go back into town to do laundry. While I was folding my clothes, I struck up a conversation with the guy who had introduced himself as the new owner and I ended up with a part time job. This is actually just what I needed. So far, I have really enjoyed his approach to people and business as I have witnessed it. I think he is going to be a great guy to work for and the job is pretty casual; some work but a lot of time. I’m sure I’ll have laundromat stories for you in the future. </p><p>Now I’ve got to go add ‘Laundry Clerk’ to my encyclopedic list of odd jobs, which is <a href="https://www.bubbathepirate.com/2012/10/a-bucket-of-jobs-list.html">here</a>. </p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-57970121068595069662024-02-05T09:00:00.002-05:002024-03-14T12:03:02.057-04:00South To Stuart<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghnqrmiAz7zNkcDoYUjA-Nsnn5JPDx_xL59J4q2F5dVJqIhMolgYRYu2jyubLR8dKHzTdy1Jub2I3v11r-2tJdjiLMyMRCgPpPWGhXweFKxG8Evl3BXSgg_vxm-iZHKDaBo9zcpKSgsq978oCD5aKlwIEhjMH5vwHjllIlductlStaFKfSNWiP5MuQCb_/s4096/IMG_20240125_180251612.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghnqrmiAz7zNkcDoYUjA-Nsnn5JPDx_xL59J4q2F5dVJqIhMolgYRYu2jyubLR8dKHzTdy1Jub2I3v11r-2tJdjiLMyMRCgPpPWGhXweFKxG8Evl3BXSgg_vxm-iZHKDaBo9zcpKSgsq978oCD5aKlwIEhjMH5vwHjllIlductlStaFKfSNWiP5MuQCb_/s320/IMG_20240125_180251612.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pendarvis Cove</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I was bombing my way south to get out from under the cold weather that often reaches into North Florida in January. And I was watching my diesel consumption and wondering if I had enough to get far enough. Then a friend ‘sponsored’ a jerry jug of fuel and I had a few more options. As I sailed down toward Melbourne, I was also watching the weather. Stiff winds were in the forecast again, this time out of the northeast. Ruth Ann and I ended up going all the way down to the Melbourne Causeway, the southernmost bridge in town, because it offered the best protection from the wind. <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjodzUX_g0uG9bf-d11YUoKhfb_6NKeNyI0izm88TF4fMr9Xs0nq_0SVg32Z3wThqIL_4gIKmR19Czdna0JWfpM3hnSTHxPiiaCuWHpeqiTfMmg4NgcJK9kxtmf_xw9SUlfaUn9i2gh0xOYbPnvIMnvfnC_by2g3hakp0zawQu9lDx7L4qykDHz2El7ffZV/s4096/IMG_20240124_070242563.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjodzUX_g0uG9bf-d11YUoKhfb_6NKeNyI0izm88TF4fMr9Xs0nq_0SVg32Z3wThqIL_4gIKmR19Czdna0JWfpM3hnSTHxPiiaCuWHpeqiTfMmg4NgcJK9kxtmf_xw9SUlfaUn9i2gh0xOYbPnvIMnvfnC_by2g3hakp0zawQu9lDx7L4qykDHz2El7ffZV/s320/IMG_20240124_070242563.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Melbourne Causeway</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Passing through Melbourne, I determined that it was not a place to find work either. The Indian River is also fairly wide open through there and all the anchorages were similarly exposed to lots of fetch. Fetch being the distance that wind can travel unimpeded over the water. Lots of fetch means lots of choppy waves when the wind comes from that direction. I scratched Melbourne off my list. It was also easy just then, because I had realized that Stuart was now less than two days away. I spent a couple months in Stuart last winter and I knew that the access to shore was excellent; groceries, water, and trash all readily available. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6q8XmZbMTrI2qRAH7y9jpFjoOhNCLxsKhrFPL2eNajVJv0SjxFLsyxarI3F5E4c_7NDTrz_2UAF2vlTe7QLRDCrQXrsKBoFy1pFeqvilqJJvoxIyA8OX54HNRXI5-Db6zgL6xlfhwgCOUpInuQP36YOIAXPC4Ao3Gy92BaHqrvdF1PNde0P34BiBnorSA/s2818/IMG_20240124_142719115~2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2818" data-original-width="2723" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6q8XmZbMTrI2qRAH7y9jpFjoOhNCLxsKhrFPL2eNajVJv0SjxFLsyxarI3F5E4c_7NDTrz_2UAF2vlTe7QLRDCrQXrsKBoFy1pFeqvilqJJvoxIyA8OX54HNRXI5-Db6zgL6xlfhwgCOUpInuQP36YOIAXPC4Ao3Gy92BaHqrvdF1PNde0P34BiBnorSA/s320/IMG_20240124_142719115~2.jpg" width="309" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shepard Park Dinghy Access, Stuart</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Ruth Ann and I stayed where we had tucked in behind the causeway for the next day as well. The second day’s forecast was iffy, but I decided to make a run for it anyway. After we got down past Sebastion and under the Wabasso Bridge, the mainland and the beach islands drew together and the wind would not affect us so much. It was blustery, but not bad; not the worst we’ve seen by far. </p><p>After Wabasso, was Vero Beach and then Fort Pierce. The tidal current is quite strong through Fort Pierce, so my next hurdle was to try and time the tide. Further, Vero Beach was as far as we could likely get that day, but it is also a popular spot with cruisers and I was concerned that the anchorage there might be crowded. I decided to stop a bit early at the Pine Island Anchorage; another of my favorite stops. </p><p>Once again, I left a favorite spot with the first light. We had to get moving to be able to time the tide at Fort Pierce and get beyond there that day. Down past Vero Beach, the anchorage didn’t look too crowded but we had had a peaceful night where we’d been at Pine Island. Vero is nice, but I don’t understand why so many cruisers, especially those with sailboats, stay there. They even call it “Velcro Beach” because it is so hard to leave. But Vero is far away from waters that are open enough to sail in. Of course, that only highlights how few sailors are actually sailors, but whatever. </p><p>Ruth Ann carried me down to the North Fort Pierce Bridge, where we had to wait a couple minutes for the top-of-the-hour opening. After getting under the south bridge, we entered the last “lagoon” of the Indian River on the way down toward Jensen Beach and Stuart. My next challenge was the weather again. The wind was on our nose and was going to be out of the southeast through the next day. It was forecast to stiffen overnight and I was concerned about the anchorage I was aiming for. Last year my friend Nancy and I had sailed all the way in off the ocean, around a corner to the ICW, and into the Marriott Resort Anchorage without using the engine! However, the anchorage was wide open to the southeast and would likely be very rolly that night. </p><p>I got to Jensen Beach and decided to take a look at the Marriott Anchorage anyway. Ruth Ann and I passed under the Jensen Beach Bridge as I watched the wind, the waves, and the boats bobbing in the municipal anchorage. The Marriott Resort is just under the next bridge and about halfway there I decided that I didn’t want to anchor there in that weather. The Jensen Beach mooring field is on the southside of the bridge’s causeway, as exposed as the Marriott anchorage, but on the northside of the causeway there is an anchorage with some protection from south and southeast winds. The boats anchored there looked more peaceful than the boats in the mooring field. So I turned around. </p><p>After anchoring on the northside and having a comfortable night, I arose again and finished the trip up the St. Lucie River to the Pendarvis Cove Anchorage where I stayed last year. Earlier, my wonderful friend had actually given me a bit more than I needed just to get five gallons of diesel; I could have bought fifteen or twenty gallons perhaps, but I had held out. The morning after arriving, I rowed to shore to get a few basic provisions to tide me over. I was very grateful. </p><p>And then the most wonderful, funniest thing happened: my sister called. </p><p>In order to tell this story, I need to start in about 1975. When our family moved into Charlotte, the woman who had been in the house before us, left us kids three stuffed characters on the mantle of the fireplace. They were more than dolls, literally two feet tall and almost like muppets. There was a hippie, an indian, and a witch. I got the hippie and it might have affected my whole life; at least my outlook. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3ZrulbWVQDxrLTC8GuoDhcRGr4pxAOyQwdch70xYaOzaKEU3LnGAT3GMIkgD84XJOzGRi48DmVag0ICwakwV1llddCmvSsO2AZgKtdsC9FcwtpW0YmCrUAQsaWXkq31wpD4OHciK1ox8GCE-8znyTCXxDtvE5RXPxG2EGQRUJbWC1QuCd_PjvtnO5lBa/s640/IMG_20240131_161509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3ZrulbWVQDxrLTC8GuoDhcRGr4pxAOyQwdch70xYaOzaKEU3LnGAT3GMIkgD84XJOzGRi48DmVag0ICwakwV1llddCmvSsO2AZgKtdsC9FcwtpW0YmCrUAQsaWXkq31wpD4OHciK1ox8GCE-8znyTCXxDtvE5RXPxG2EGQRUJbWC1QuCd_PjvtnO5lBa/s320/IMG_20240131_161509.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hippie Abides</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Fast forward to 2019, I was still driving a truck for boat money when Trump sent out a last check for $400. I don’t even remember the rationale behind that odd amount. Regardless, my check went to my parent’s address where I had last filed my taxes. My sister had called to tell me that it had arrived and suggested that she cash it and save the money for some time in the future when I might really need it. I was making good money on the road and didn’t have any reason to argue. Sure, sounds good, do it, I had said. She cashed the check and stuck four one hundred dollar bills in the pocket of the tie-dyed shirt of my hippie which she is “keeping for me” in her basement guest room. A hippie has never had so good actually. </p><p>In the meantime, we both completely forgot about the four bills. </p><p>Hilariously, after I had gone to shore with the last money I had to my name, my sister called that evening to tell me the story of remembering the hippie’s money. She had told me that she had just deposited it for me. Now, I had been living on cabbage, onions, lentils, and rice for a couple weeks. About all I could afford when I went ashore was some more onions, some garlic, and a cabbage; along with some grapefruit and a couple zucchini that were very special treats. I was a bit overwhelmed and exceedingly grateful after the phone call. I could live for several weeks on $400 and just that had taken a lot of pressure off my situation. I no longer had to take any job right away. I had some time; the most precious commodity. </p><p>Shortly after that call, some dear friends invited me to a party the next night, up the river. In the morning, I bought some more diesel and got some water at a nearby marina, but didn’t manage to get ashore again for any provisions. You can take the boy out of East Lansing, but you can’t get East Lansing out of the boy. There were friends to hang with and a party to be had. I went running. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkDfTFSwjsyvd6TtuYLwDR05nHEi8aSLs6CyJ4ut8NHOjLSbVJ1f7bOiIN4yuQRjxpQib_-mb0eMpFrl7uPrH2HELsj-ABUnmoc0fxkY_rf_yBkmBeZafJyK_M2dNV8dIJHcgQu2T2ojhsFkICSzEyw7lz7MlDN_KGTLKIED6ri2SLSztmOlZDiolCU45/s4096/IMG_20240126_122015161.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkDfTFSwjsyvd6TtuYLwDR05nHEi8aSLs6CyJ4ut8NHOjLSbVJ1f7bOiIN4yuQRjxpQib_-mb0eMpFrl7uPrH2HELsj-ABUnmoc0fxkY_rf_yBkmBeZafJyK_M2dNV8dIJHcgQu2T2ojhsFkICSzEyw7lz7MlDN_KGTLKIED6ri2SLSztmOlZDiolCU45/s320/IMG_20240126_122015161.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">sv Mollynogger next door</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I’ve been hanging out with my friends, the Sail Bums, aboard Mollynogger, ever since. They are great people, fantastic musicians, and good to me. (Thanks again!) </p><p>The party was fun and the next night was hours of deep thoughts and deep tracks, crowned by Stan Rogers’ rousing “Barrett’s Privateers” about 03:00 am. Later that same morning, we were all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed by 10:30 for their regularly scheduled “Cockpit Coffee” live on Facebook.</p><p>Life is good. Good friends. Good old boats. Rum and conversation. </p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-57310726013346115792024-02-01T09:00:00.005-05:002024-02-01T09:00:00.145-05:00Another Little Squall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahj9eRopPy_qUKMeGoL1HeqLz_mtdHJqLh3AKC9mkyJ30Y3YIs7KyrKxd4RHnsdVrGexXfAaYeU0T9Lg-wteGcSnd2OJP3oK4cy1R01qk9EcZAVHCJPmVYDPqP4tICNNxH7JEO36uLHx1bJfuBKSTRelO9_IyZbuqwVRebeaXCKB-rB3tP6M1p2BlhRn3/s4096/IMG_20240119_101056541.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahj9eRopPy_qUKMeGoL1HeqLz_mtdHJqLh3AKC9mkyJ30Y3YIs7KyrKxd4RHnsdVrGexXfAaYeU0T9Lg-wteGcSnd2OJP3oK4cy1R01qk9EcZAVHCJPmVYDPqP4tICNNxH7JEO36uLHx1bJfuBKSTRelO9_IyZbuqwVRebeaXCKB-rB3tP6M1p2BlhRn3/s320/IMG_20240119_101056541.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I had bugged out of Green Cove Springs when I realized that fully half of the 10 Day Forecast called for 30’s at night; mostly high 30s but a couple nights reaching down toward freezing. Ruth Ann is not a cold weather boat and she had become a “neglected terrarium simulator.” The cold weather caused tremendous condensation in the cabin. And without being able to open up the portlights or hatches, the dankness had taken over life aboard Ruth Ann. Water literally dripped from the ceiling and the walls. The edges of the cabinetry started to bloom with mold and mildew. Every day, I was wiping down as many surfaces as I could with a rag and a spray bottle of vinegar and eucalyptus oil. It was more depressing than disgusting and I had to make a change. </p><p>I stopped at the City Pier to plug in and top up my battery bank before we ran down the St. Johns River, through downtown Jacksonville, and south on the ICW to anchor, still in Jacksonville, next to the Atlantic Boulevard Bridge. I had calculated that I had enough diesel aboard to make it down to at least New Smyrna Beach or even to Cocoa, but it might be close. Once I got into some open areas of the ICW, I was planning to sail some and save fuel. If I kept moving, I might only get hit with one night in the 30s on my way south. </p><p>The next day, I had made it down past St. Augustine to the Fort Matanzas anchorage. It’s one of my favorite spots, but I was up and moving with the first light and made it down to Halifax Lake, north of Daytona. One more day and I had made it all the way down to New Smyrna Beach. </p><p>New Smyrna was one of the spots I was considering to stay for a while. I likely needed to find some work to keep feeding myself. Unfortunately, Smyrna is so close to the Ponce Inlet that the tidal current buzzes through town; peaking at about 2 knots in one direction or the other every six hours or so. This was not conducive to rowing ashore in all weather for a job, so I had to move on. A friend had offered to get me a slip in a marina to hide from the cold, and I bargained for them to sponsor a jerry jug of diesel instead. It was a truly sweet offer and well timed boost; a buffer against my dwindling diesel supply. </p><p>I rested in New Smyrna where the weather wasn’t too cold. It was good to have a day off after crashing my way south all day for four days. On my ‘rest day,’ I motored over to the New Smyrna Marina to get that jerry jug of diesel. The next morning, I left early and got back on my way. </p><p>I’m not a New Year’s Resolution kind of person actually, but I had pledged to myself that I was going to sail as much as possible. However, south of New Smyrna, the ICW goes through a narrow patch down past Edgewater, Bethune Beach and Oak Hill. After the usual vacation homes along each shore just south of Smyrna, there are some real Old Florida places along this stretch; some mobile homes and some old-school fish camps populated by RVs and fishing skiffs. Finally, the waters opened into the Mosquito Lagoon, just north of Cape Canaveral. It is deceptive, because the wide water to the east is very shallow. The ICW channel hugs the mainland to the west all the way down to the Haulover Canal. At Haulover, the ICW cuts across an isthmus to enter the Indian River; a huge lagoon of brackish water that stretches 121 miles down Florida’s coast, from Haulover to the St. Lucie River at Stuart. </p><p>I turned into the canal and called the drawbridge that blocks the way in the middle of the canal’s length. The tender opened the bridge perfectly and I passed through without even slowing Ruth Ann. East of the canal is another large open stretch of shallow water. We motored across the expanse and aimed at the NASA Railway Bridge. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8OhR1fMZAo31DL3PSGQEu9TnjNHBwYkuLcNw4C2MhKacTGDnKlHMOLlYoDkCJ9fVHAx_jBaNYo2mSjpgonU6EJPODerGqSoy2w04_RPadhtkoxrUrA6JYsm8YaG9um4UJHUtCMysr9yyxuOTBoCISxlN8fnP8nbMg-dnSpgODFdH_cC-eLsNGyHYmqbd6/s4096/IMG_20240119_101721665.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8OhR1fMZAo31DL3PSGQEu9TnjNHBwYkuLcNw4C2MhKacTGDnKlHMOLlYoDkCJ9fVHAx_jBaNYo2mSjpgonU6EJPODerGqSoy2w04_RPadhtkoxrUrA6JYsm8YaG9um4UJHUtCMysr9yyxuOTBoCISxlN8fnP8nbMg-dnSpgODFdH_cC-eLsNGyHYmqbd6/s320/IMG_20240119_101721665.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I had seen some vagabonds sailing down the ICW. It is tough work but they appeared to rely solely on their sails. One boat had their dinghy ‘hip-tied’ and ready to use, but must have been rationing their gasoline supply. They were young sailors out here doing the life and I respected their mettle. They also inspired me. I had pledged to sail and even though I could have just continued motoring along after it was no longer necessary, I developed a plan.</p><p>South of the NASA Railway Bridge the Indian River remains a large expanse of water but the shallows recede toward the shore and there is a lot of room in deep-enough water. I slowed Ruth Ann as we approached the bridge and then ducked in behind it after we’d passed. I dropped the anchor, killed the engine, and prepared to sail. TO SAIL! </p><p>There was a nice fresh breeze as we lolled at anchor in the protection of the bridge’s causeway. Just to make it interesting, I decided that I might as well sail off the anchor again. With a jib hanked on and ready, I uncovered the mainsail and raised it. The anchor came up as the main rattled around in anticipation. Once we were free, Ruth Ann started to fade away from the bridge and slowly turned her bow to the south. The jib was still tucked in a sail bag to keep it out of the wind until I had secured the anchor chain. Once we were drifting south, I grabbed the sail bag and yanked it off the sail before I walked back to the cockpit. Back at the helm, I steered us onto a broad reach across the westerly wind, sheeted the main, and then raised the jib. </p><p>Glory. Glory. </p><p>We had begun to sail and it was just fantastic; as usual. This is literally what I have lived for most of my life. </p><p>South of the NASA Railway Bridge is the town of Titusville. There were houses scattered along the shore as we approached and we passed a large marina just before another bridge. A fishing boat zoomed by as a handful of sailboats bobbed in the marina’s mooring field. Under the bridge there were a dozen anchored sailboats on each side of the canal. Titusville offers a dinghy dock at a park on the west end of the causeway. The town was also on my list of possible stops but the available anchorages were all wide open to winds with either a southerly or northerly component. Not conducive to rowing a daily commute.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyq6tyhGyEwYHpMz0CMMZ7EmsG_QxD2NoCjtLZpQuG0oiGjmwiCTfuEMS_cIvh7Q_H8_hn-SMTWFOdIOBXsKg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">[ Note: if you squint, you might be able to see the </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">ghost of a dolphin under the surface as she played</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">in our wake. The dolphins were very camera shy. ] </div><p>We sailed along on a glorious day, continuing south from Titusville. Camera shy dolphins were swimming all around Ruth Ann. Without the engine on, as Ruth Ann’s belly cut through the water, I think the dolphins considered us some kind of distant cousin and several came by to check us out and say hello. We passed under the Addison Point Bridge and I was watching two things. There were some dark clouds over my shoulder to the northwest and the wind from that direction was having me reconsider the anchorage I had been aiming for. </p><p>I checked the weather on my phone and even though it belied what I was seeing with my own eyes, I couldn’t leave the frolicking dolphins and the sailing was so good. I kept watching the clouds and hoped that they would stay north of us. We now headed to a closer anchorage; one that had protection from the northwest wind. Another forty five minutes or so of sailing and we could pull into the Power Plant Anchorage, just north of Delespine. </p><p>And then I looked over my shoulder at the clouds again. </p><p>The storm clouds that had been hovering off to the northwest had expanded and were suddenly looming over us. Just as I had started to think of dropping sails and turning on the engine, the first gusts from the advancing squall hit us. The wind shifted toward the north and Ruth Ann leaned heavily to port letting the cleated mainsail shove us around to the west. We were out in the middle of the wide channel but now we were pointing toward the western shore rather than the waters to the south. I struggled to steer but the mainsail was in charge. After I was finally able to let the sail out and regained some control, I pointed us into the wind to depower the situation. </p><p>I always rig a downhaul on my foresails for times just like this. In the chaotic wind and waves, I simply loosened the jib halyard and hauled in on the downhaul to douse the sail. The jib rattled in the strong winds as it collapsed onto the bowsprit. I leaned down and started the engine, then let the main halyard go and went forward with a couple sail ties to secure it. As I gathered the main sail, I was standing atop the cabin, hugging the boom as Ruth Ann rocked side to side. After tying up the main, I paused to look around from my high vantage point. There had been a channel marker nearby and I had to make sure the wind wasn’t pushing us toward it. </p><p>I stepped back to the cockpit, checked the depth gauge, and grabbed a couple more sail ties. All the way forward at the bowsprit, I bunched the jib and tied it to the bow pulpit rail. The sails no longer rattled free in the wind, but the wind was already starting to abate. Back at the helm, I steered us into the channel and toward our anchorage. Soon the squall had passed and I kind of kicked myself for not holding on. After the short chaos of the squall, we could have sailed some more. </p><p>I was good and exhausted by the time I dropped the anchor just behind the jetties of the power plant. It was a little rollier than I might have liked but it was going to do that night. Back in the warmth of the cabin, I made some supper and quickly fell into bed. The rolling continued and It was not a real peaceful night. Nevertheless, the next anchorage south, where I had planned to spend the night, was completely open to the winds out of the north. In the morning, I passed a boat in that very anchorage and I knew that I had had a more peaceful night then they had. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyiq-Y5UuU58PXH1hfcK3k-sRNZJXyd2Rab5bA-MT5DcJaORXnSIRNLbWHGLOK23Ebx-ADZmGnAwdbOXHecdykqmJ1QGZyYqbwQBbv0sB33fzur4NeCZpik7G2eHqyCXP3ektQFz8PK4plrcxJTuC06xz6EMgY6o8In868i2UrZ4YrzLXm08kU1oXhG11J/s2818/IMG_20240124_142719115~2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2818" data-original-width="2723" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyiq-Y5UuU58PXH1hfcK3k-sRNZJXyd2Rab5bA-MT5DcJaORXnSIRNLbWHGLOK23Ebx-ADZmGnAwdbOXHecdykqmJ1QGZyYqbwQBbv0sB33fzur4NeCZpik7G2eHqyCXP3ektQFz8PK4plrcxJTuC06xz6EMgY6o8In868i2UrZ4YrzLXm08kU1oXhG11J/s320/IMG_20240124_142719115~2.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><p>I headed south toward Melbourne to check on another possible stop. Each time I moved on, I started looking at jobs online in the next area. I had already mostly escaped the cold weather, so now the quest was to find a good spot, with decent access for a guy rowing a small dinghy. </p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-32377482496949193462024-01-14T09:00:00.002-05:002024-01-14T09:11:22.057-05:00New Year's Revolution<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13dHJfqqAzw-Ofx8za1C-G0bCxQiYE0jvEEc7CJCII9a1yg75n8Pl6r1O6iS465OQlWLWouk8SjBWQiq2qNRECEYsZle6MKwZTUw83-OOkKKnHJ9hEFMR1Kqku4kZ_HujF9kwFLZ1VW0Cglbtz1LOhFlalb4QbRrXgDsj49uyTHJydhT84HS0veeWAGXd/s765/IMG_20231130_155427.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="519" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13dHJfqqAzw-Ofx8za1C-G0bCxQiYE0jvEEc7CJCII9a1yg75n8Pl6r1O6iS465OQlWLWouk8SjBWQiq2qNRECEYsZle6MKwZTUw83-OOkKKnHJ9hEFMR1Kqku4kZ_HujF9kwFLZ1VW0Cglbtz1LOhFlalb4QbRrXgDsj49uyTHJydhT84HS0veeWAGXd/s320/IMG_20231130_155427.jpg" width="217" /></a></div><br />I am a conservative sailor. I like it that way, but I have been leaning into that to rationalize chickening out. My New Year’s Revolution is to correct that. I’ll not be abandoning my cautious seamanship but I will be pushing myself. I am a sailor. I sail. I am so tired of burning diesel and will do my best to default to sailing. I could use the joy in my life. Twice in the last five days, for the challenge of it, I have sailed off the anchor without using the engine and had great days of sailing. I pledge to continue. <p></p><p>As reported in the last post, I battled my way south through a bunch of fickle weather and three major storm systems. Now I have finally made it into Florida to Green Cove Springs, up the river from Jacksonville. I got here a few days before Christmas to take a break from the windy weather I’d been in but it has been cold! </p><p>The boat has been shut up for over a month between the rain and the cold and condensation has been a huge problem. When the weather gets below 45 degrees, water starts dripping from the portlights, the walls, and the ceiling. When it’s cold enough to light my little propane heater, it just gets worse as burning propane kicks off a lot of water vapor too.</p><p>My stowed clothes got damp and moisture was everywhere down below. Mold and mildew started appearing on the edges of the cupboards. My surfer straw hat may never recover from the vegetation in the weave. </p><p>And then it warmed up the week between the holidays and I could open some hatches. Usually by midafternoon the temperature was just high enough that I could stand opening up for a couple hours. What a difference! Just trading the stale moist air for fresh started drying the boat out and making it livable again. </p><p>I set about to clean all of the dank surfaces with a spray bottle of white vinegar, water, and eucalyptus oil. I was also cleaning up because my friend, Nancy, was coming for a visit. Nothing like company to cause a bachelor sailor to clean up. </p><p>Nancy and I have known each other since we were about nine years old. She’s one of my oldest friends and it was great fun to hang out. I cooked up a bunch of dinners and breakfasts that will soon show up on a cooking channel I'm developing. Watch for Two Burner Life on the social platforms.</p><p>The first couple days after she arrived were going to have wind out of the east and make the anchorage uncomfortable, so we motored across the river to Hallowes Cove. It is a beautiful little spot with just trees and wildlife; and protection from the coming wind. Nancy had just bought a kayak and tried it out from Ruth Ann. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimnyDur6qW74bpSA8qm2CLZjdPbhWMTEn93-TWx-MGSj9FKuCJMGQflgreVhTbai-2VfgVYEgkjiqRlAIionacdj_RpZb48IUVupMWm08nbSuu0mjZFGV-W8JqHwxkxYqA8wg1lgQD1Bs4uturGFlTu6XcjMZP078Pr43tqAwSYUR_RO7FUhMAANBi-Bnt/s4096/IMG_20240104_134344462.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimnyDur6qW74bpSA8qm2CLZjdPbhWMTEn93-TWx-MGSj9FKuCJMGQflgreVhTbai-2VfgVYEgkjiqRlAIionacdj_RpZb48IUVupMWm08nbSuu0mjZFGV-W8JqHwxkxYqA8wg1lgQD1Bs4uturGFlTu6XcjMZP078Pr43tqAwSYUR_RO7FUhMAANBi-Bnt/s320/IMG_20240104_134344462.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Nancy is also a sailor, so it was inevitable that we would watch the weather for a good day to sail. That day came on Friday. It had been a terribly long time since I had actually sailed, so I set about to get Ruth Ann ready. Whenever Nancy is around, I am inspired to challenge myself, the boat, and my crew. After the fore sails were bent on, I told her my plan - we were going to sail off the anchor without using the engine. </p><p>We hoisted the mainsail and I hauled the anchor while Nancy steered us to starboard. If we leaned that way as the anchor came aboard, we would slip easily into the wind once we were free. When the anchor clanged into the bow roller, we were off without a hitch. Ruth Ann trembled with anticipation as we started sailing again. Finally, she sighed. </p><p>We sailed out of the little cove and Nancy steered us south and then west across the shoal to get out into the St. Johns River. On the way, I raised the staysail and Ruth Ann romped toward deeper water. Out in the river, I raised the yankee and we headed north down the river. With a little help from the current, Ruth Ann was galloping along. She seemed as happy as we were. </p><p>It was a glorious broad reach in the wide waters of the St. Johns. After a couple hours of great sailing, I relieved Nancy at the helm; boat and skipper were reunited! My skipper mojo was coming back and it was simply soul-enriching to be sailing again. Ruth Ann danced across the waves as if to thank Nancy for getting me to sail her again. </p><p>It.was.so.good. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaQpW4ksV0I8BKEv1dERFsJ1NqkJzX_lhfkw7tN9I_oD5eza4zzUYEnKZSZxhLweC3zrBXHbktPfpohPEWUXwquiebwrz7QqvbkJAlHOU3VSyH2gdgPHDQSwzl8_rmhOiS-7rIxaCl7n10LBtyXzW2zCmoxYXYZTde1HtB4hyQSMnhg8pIPhXA3RUSKEJT/s1600/IMG_20240105_170120.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaQpW4ksV0I8BKEv1dERFsJ1NqkJzX_lhfkw7tN9I_oD5eza4zzUYEnKZSZxhLweC3zrBXHbktPfpohPEWUXwquiebwrz7QqvbkJAlHOU3VSyH2gdgPHDQSwzl8_rmhOiS-7rIxaCl7n10LBtyXzW2zCmoxYXYZTde1HtB4hyQSMnhg8pIPhXA3RUSKEJT/s320/IMG_20240105_170120.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>After a time, we chicken-gybed all the way around and headed back toward Green Cove Springs. We didn’t even lose much speed now heading upstream. At one point, Ruth Ann was so excited she let a gust of wind put her rail right down in the water. It was raucous sailing joy! </p><p>We made it most of the way back on a strong close reach. After tacking back toward the east, we tacked again and headed straight down toward the City Pier and the anchorage. Just before arriving, I started the engine and had Nancy steer while I dropped the sails and tied them up. The next day was forecast to be gusty again, so we found a good spot to ride out the squall and dropped the anchor. After a nice pasta dinner, all that fresh air and excitement caught up with us. It was a great day followed by a quiet sleepy evening. </p><p><br /></p><p>The day that Nancy left, I motored over to a little cove I had spotted to ride out a storm front that was supposed to pass. It was a bumpy afternoon yesterday, but could have been worse. Ruth Ann and I were well protected from the worst of the wind and I have a lot of faith in my oversized anchor. We didn’t even budge. </p><p>This morning I decided to keep the momentum going and set up to sail after breakfast. I was going to sail off the anchor again too, but this time solo! As I was getting the sails ready the wind gusted strongly a couple times, so I decided to idle the engine just in case things got sideways. There was shallow water and land downwind of me. After waiting for a pause in the wind gusts, I hoisted the mainsail, started the engine, and then raised the anchor. Ruth Ann drifted back and gradually pointed her bow toward the river. I got back to the helm, steered her away from a couple nearby anchored boats, and never put the engine in gear. I raised a jib and we were on our way. With our destination off to the northwest and the apparent wind was just west of north, it was hard work to get there, tacking five times, but it was wonderful!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJOat8MWfQI1RpoIXLbY5d4P0y0AlMQy-nPzOjPpUrYwbpDT_0ne4uPBAXWtwYTGkMSkg2n_FF27Z8uJmvGGh6BWdP-IdsieJQC6giGEqRdZNU8F3ToCMS_JrU_sM7xPMwd97AbswAtFUHzFFntXJXun34mCMkYgvKIjCQpGV7zDlwA5YTUOUXg_aHokTP/s879/Screenshot_20240110-143011~2.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="879" data-original-width="846" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJOat8MWfQI1RpoIXLbY5d4P0y0AlMQy-nPzOjPpUrYwbpDT_0ne4uPBAXWtwYTGkMSkg2n_FF27Z8uJmvGGh6BWdP-IdsieJQC6giGEqRdZNU8F3ToCMS_JrU_sM7xPMwd97AbswAtFUHzFFntXJXun34mCMkYgvKIjCQpGV7zDlwA5YTUOUXg_aHokTP/s320/Screenshot_20240110-143011~2.png" width="308" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I was flying a jib I hadn't used before. About 15 months ago, I traded some soft shackles that I had made and some boatwork advice for a sail that I had offered to buy from my boatyard neighbors. It is larger than my yankee jib and seemed to balance the boat quite well. The shifty wind was blowing about Force 4 and we were flying much of the time. I often have Ruth Ann on a broad reach where we both like it but today we were primarily close hauled. She points so well it is easy to start pinching the wind. I had to remind myself to fall off a bit and get our speed up. We sailed pretty hard today; harder than I have previously. I am so happy. What a way to start the New Year. It’s not a resolution, it’s a New Year’s Revolution: sail, don’t motor; in fact, sail your ass off.<div>===</div><div>Image of Ruth Ann and I by my friend Kurt.</div><div>Image of me at the helm by Nancy. </div><div><span style="text-align: right;">===</span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div>If you enjoy this blog, you can leave a tip at the Paypal link above; even a buck or two is a great help! Or become a Patron at Patreon! Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag, excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more.</div></div></div></div></div>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-50495061883706742202023-12-23T09:00:00.014-05:002023-12-23T12:56:07.875-05:00I Have Failed To Sail<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTj7SkFT0eVEKZIa100cI9qOpNYfjngaa5IYOMba-3Nd1EXvnqr71FEQ1UJRkHG99wQwZ-gz3fMCd38ypYwE9N6jtYN9zd1E6KbanRHr7pS91rKX2P26SGDVUWBtwYP2vui3zkUFR9Jj7GOEcCyUVjeeSZ1Yu-nsnAeeIS1kHT8aPQxPRyCdDwFD8sIMs6/s4096/IMG_20231123_081158242.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTj7SkFT0eVEKZIa100cI9qOpNYfjngaa5IYOMba-3Nd1EXvnqr71FEQ1UJRkHG99wQwZ-gz3fMCd38ypYwE9N6jtYN9zd1E6KbanRHr7pS91rKX2P26SGDVUWBtwYP2vui3zkUFR9Jj7GOEcCyUVjeeSZ1Yu-nsnAeeIS1kHT8aPQxPRyCdDwFD8sIMs6/s320/IMG_20231123_081158242.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />[ Note: It has been an embarassingly long time since I posted to the blog. This post may explain some of why I've been distracted. ]<p></p><p>Well, I have failed to sail. My passage south for the winter has been almost exclusively motoring … again. In my last post, back in October, I proclaimed that I was going to sail as much as possible on the way south. Turns out that has not been possible. Mostly, it’s because the weather this time of year is fickle and stormy. I knew that. Nevertheless, I had an opportunity to hang out with my friend, Vic, in Beaufort, NC and make a little money. Besides doing a bunch of boat work, I did bonfires, beach volleyball, and pub crawling with a bunch of new friends, most half my age. It was a blast. I have no regrets. </p><p>I left Beaufort in mid November and made it down to Mile Hammock Bay, a semi-protected cove adjacent to Camp Lejeune. On the way there, a gale warning was posted for the waters just offshore of my position. I dropped the anchor and hunkered down for what ended up being three stormy days. When the storm was over, my house bank batteries were very low. I ended up getting a slip for the next night at Swan Point Marina in Sneads Ferry to plug in. </p><p>Charged up and itching to get back on my way south, I left Swan Point at first light and made good progress on my way south. I was gunning to jump offshore, but every time I was near an inlet to go out, the weather was not cooperating. Most tempting then was the jump from the Cape Fear River to Charleston, but that stretch only has a couple inlets safe to enter if I had to escape from the weather. We managed to make the short jump from the Cape Fear over to the Little River in South Carolina on a windless day, but a change in the weather was looming. </p><p>I had also been trying to meet up with Kurt, who runs the Sailfar forum. His post in 2019 about a boat for sale had led me to Ruth Ann. I have thanked him, of course, but I wanted to finally meet him and shake his hand. He is in Georgetown and if I had gone outside, the safest route there would have likely been to enter Charleston Harbor and backtrack to Georgetown. In the end, running down the inside put me right near his marina where he had arranged for Ruth Ann and I to stay. We enjoyed four nights plugged in and warm during a cold snap. I had a great time hanging out with Kurt and his watermen friends. </p><p>From Georgetown, I aimed to get down to Beaufort, SC in order to watch the weather and plan a jump from there to Brunswick, GA or Jacksonville, FL. I was back in Factory Creek where I had stopped on my way north. There is a dinghy dock at a town boat ramp and good access to groceries, hardware, and some restaurants. Also on my mind, the consistently overcast weather had taxed my house bank again and I was keen to absorb some sun and bring them back. </p><p>A tight weather window appeared in the forecast, but I didn’t feel I could risk going offshore with such low power in my batteries. I navigate with charts on a tablet and if I was out on the ocean and lost the ability to power or charge my devices, I would have been in trouble. I let the window pass. </p><p>In Factory Creek, I chanced to meet a couple sailors: Gavin on Disconnect, who took the weather window and got to Brunswick with a little excitement near the end. And Doc on Aait Verdan, who I enjoyed hanging out with for a few days. We had dinner aboard his boat, later pizza in town, and several pleasant conversations. </p><p>The next chance to consider sailing offshore was down near Savannah. With no favorable weather in the forecast, I left Factory Creek and headed south again. It took a day and a half to get down to Thunderbolt, outside Savannah, and by the time I had arrived a major storm was brewing and I needed to find a place to hide. </p><p>My original destination was the Herb River, just past the marinas of Thunderbolt, where I had anchored before. However, the forecast called for the winds to swing around during the storm and the narrow river was too small for swinging on anchor. I ended up in a fairly open spot on the Skidaway River. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYfHfY9azZuGqaciSM4TBfQM24ZlGQ03WcS92WaKLt7-xJdN6g2AU_QnU795kzoajU43sURmCTZd-vrRp8OcZ_Nz5TtKQwCLCyMCbw57DKa89_MqjpLCP3fln_l3d18aVPZkqtGStWIwfiwd7052euk6Wn6Pv6aGRlRE7SzeoKVY4CufRfokF6dk10-re/s1259/Screenshot_20231210-051143~2.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1259" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYfHfY9azZuGqaciSM4TBfQM24ZlGQ03WcS92WaKLt7-xJdN6g2AU_QnU795kzoajU43sURmCTZd-vrRp8OcZ_Nz5TtKQwCLCyMCbw57DKa89_MqjpLCP3fln_l3d18aVPZkqtGStWIwfiwd7052euk6Wn6Pv6aGRlRE7SzeoKVY4CufRfokF6dk10-re/s320/Screenshot_20231210-051143~2.png" width="275" /></a></div><br />The coming gale was going to start with winds out of the south and just before the peak, a shift into the northwest. My storm strategy had to also include that the tides in Georgia are more than 6 ft. Taking this extra depth into account, I ended up with 220 ft of line and chain out in a spot where I could swing all the way around the anchor if need be. <p></p><p>As the storm approached, I could see lightning over the City of Savannah. Huh, I hadn't had to think about lightning in a while. I am not certain what would happen if Ruth Ann was struck by lightning. Her mast is a 40 ft tall aluminum spar that I re-rigged with Dyneema, a synthetic rope that does not conduct electricity. I started to imagine the possibility that a lightning strike would come straight down the mast and blow a hole in the boat. A sailor has to think a few moves ahead like a good chess player. I decided that if water started to rush into the boat after a lightning strike, I could fairly quickly cut the lines that held my dinghy down on deck and flip it into the water. Of course, I would have to grab the oars for that option to be effective. The oars were hanging from a couple lifeline stanchions on Ruth Ann's starboard rail. In order to keep them from banging around while underway, I had also tied them tightly to the stanchions. The ties would slow me down in an emergency, so I went forward just before the storm and untied them.</p><p>I also put my wallet and passport in a dry bag and placed it by the companionway. Just in case.</p><p>When the edge of the front rolled through about suppertime, we were slammed with very high winds and torrential rain for about 20 minutes and then it went quiet. Later the wind began to build again and by 10:00 pm we were getting regular gusts into the high 20s. By midnight the gusts were reaching 35 according to the weather app on my phone which was reporting from Savannah about 7 miles up the river. Chances are that I had more wind in my spot nearer to the ocean. At the height of the early storm, I heard one of the oars fall out of the loop that held it on the stanchion. I was afraid I might lose it during the storm, so I climbed out of the companionway and stumbled forward in the wind and rain to pull both the oars back into the cockpit and secure them. Losing even one oar would have been like losing the engine to a car. </p><p>I had managed to sleep a little but by the time the storm reached its peak, I got up again, put on some wind pants and sea boots, and just sat reading and listening to the howling wind. I needed to be ready to go help Ruth Ann if she needed me. The gusts must have been approaching 40 by then. </p><p>The difference between a Squall where the winds are steady but high, and this kind of a storm with massive but intermittent gusts, is that as the boat wallowed around at anchor, a blast of wind would often catch Ruth Ann from the side, beam on. She would lean over, healing as if we were sailing; a somewhat disconcerting feeling at anchor. Ruth Ann probably never got further than 10 degrees off of vertical but when you're sitting inside with all the hatches closed, in the howling wind and rain, any sudden lean feels quite large.</p><p>It's amazing what you can sleep through after 3 hours of gusts over 35. By 2:30 or so, the winds had dropped and the gusts were back into the mid 20s and I slept at least 4 hours. When I finally woke and got out of bed again, the gusts were still reaching the high teens, but I made breakfast and knew that we had, and would, survive. At 10:30, I dressed, went forward to haul enough anchor line to undo the bridle, and to collect the kellet that I had deployed. A kellet is a weight on the anchor line about halfway toward the anchor. It helps the anchor hold and dips the anchor line below the keel when the boat is swinging around. Once that was all aboard and the lines coiled, I started the engine, hauled the rest of the anchor line, and began my trip south again. After a rocky night at anchor, I knew the seas offshore were going to be rough for at least another day, so I continued down the ICW on the inside. </p><p>Two days later, I had thought I was running from some more weather in Georgia. I dropped anchor behind Jekyll Island to stop for a couple hours to time the tide going across St. Andrews Sound. When I checked the weather, I suddenly discovered it was now going to be worse in Florida. I spent the night there in the precarious spot where I hadn’t planned to stay, but made a reservation at a nearby marina for Saturday and Sunday, the worst of the coming storm. Another storm system with another windshift, but I had anchored in a spot that wasn’t safe enough to be long term. </p><p>The next day, I moved my arrival at the marina up to Friday. As Thursday wore on, the weather continued to build, the forecast changed rapidly, and I realized I needed to move. I called the marina to see if they had a spot for me that afternoon. When they did, I set to work. </p><p>With wind in the 20s and gusts pushing toward 30 knots, I went forward to haul the anchor by hand; I have no windlass. After dragging us a few yards, I went back to the helm and put some forward throttle on. With that help, I managed to wrangle the anchor back aboard and started moving toward the marina. The dock attendants were talking to me on the radio. We were headed to a slip on the inside of their facedock. I had hoped for some wind shadow from the trees and buildings around the marina, but I managed to swing Ruth Ann into the slip in the stiff breezes anyway. We bumped the finger pier lightly on the way in, but I wasn’t worried about grace or showing off. With that the marina guys helped tie us up and we were safe.</p><p>The next day, the marina requested I move over one slip to make room for a catamaran, also hiding from the storm. After the move, I disconnected my flexible solar panels, lowered the dodger, and tied everything down. The dinghy got an extra strap of line and I tied some extra dock lines. We were as prepared as we could be. </p><p>At one point, the forecast had called for gusts toward 50 knots. In the end, we probably had no more than forty there. The biggest impact was the changing wind direction, again. The wind started out of the east and backed around to the northwest. If I had stayed in that first spot, we’d have surely been blown up onto the gravel beach there. I was stuck at the marina for five days. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9RbREAHt_AfrQAODczOaN166ENv3BuuDJny3q8Q8GZ0WiTH8LTVON3KKCmq6Mt4ZNtncVbZlWKOUPAZVCG7OIxRzVVgkN9CyEnciYS3CFoXvC49qsFLLcCfhyphenhyphenAIiWpoFCIWaik9oyrJ0lIG4PyxqrCy_pZzkMs6FX2Y-oE0V_0k6zH0OzjT9u1y7gFJw/s3264/IMG_20231212_131117200_HDR.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9RbREAHt_AfrQAODczOaN166ENv3BuuDJny3q8Q8GZ0WiTH8LTVON3KKCmq6Mt4ZNtncVbZlWKOUPAZVCG7OIxRzVVgkN9CyEnciYS3CFoXvC49qsFLLcCfhyphenhyphenAIiWpoFCIWaik9oyrJ0lIG4PyxqrCy_pZzkMs6FX2Y-oE0V_0k6zH0OzjT9u1y7gFJw/s320/IMG_20231212_131117200_HDR.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />I am done. I have no more patience for this weather and I think January will be similar. My plan now is to run down to Green Cove Springs, upriver from Jacksonville. I’m going to stay a few weeks for the fickle weather of this transition season to pass. Once the weather settles, I’ll plan to get back out and head further south. Hopefully, I’ll finally be able to actually sail. <p></p><div>===</div><div>Postscript: I am uploading this from the free dock at Sisters Creek, east of Jacksonville. I was going to sleep in this morning because it was going to be cold. It hovered around forty degrees all night. At 3:30 this morning the wind changed direction and we were getting rocked around. I ended up making breakfast before sun up and as soon as it was light, I started moving. It was too fitting not to include. </div><div><br /></div><div>===</div><div>If you enjoy this blog, you can leave a tip at the Paypal link above; even a buck or two is a great help! Or become a Patron at Patreon! Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks for your support</div>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-79293307591465661062023-10-15T09:00:00.001-04:002023-10-15T09:00:00.142-04:00I Pledge to Sail! <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuoSG9I-hfDUbUgGowsEI1Qd9AqOQ7ExzD-I8xe1WxiQtWNYZFHkDYN3i1cPFFWfYB-kbGjuxfAIPDlm1ZtzZpGgYo8esDgdyCV0fZsGTPBk9tkzS-Wue1f6zUErsKXp3A2GGRg1AGJIEM68szz194GXCqajwLi2od6jXfaFIxbmYpSWXMkMO_-zZRz8QL/s1323/Screenshot_20231012-174423.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1323" data-original-width="952" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuoSG9I-hfDUbUgGowsEI1Qd9AqOQ7ExzD-I8xe1WxiQtWNYZFHkDYN3i1cPFFWfYB-kbGjuxfAIPDlm1ZtzZpGgYo8esDgdyCV0fZsGTPBk9tkzS-Wue1f6zUErsKXp3A2GGRg1AGJIEM68szz194GXCqajwLi2od6jXfaFIxbmYpSWXMkMO_-zZRz8QL/s320/Screenshot_20231012-174423.png" width="230" /></a></div><br />Sometimes it is hard to motivate myself. Wednesday morning was a case in point. I had been anchored in Greens Creek, near Oriental, NC for almost two weeks. I’ve mentioned before that I was there in order to volunteer at and enjoy the Ol’ Front Porch Music Festival. I had hung around the historic fishing village that is now a mecca for sailors of all types and especially vagabonds like me. I met some interesting people, did some writing in a coffee shop (one of my favorite things), and got some boat projects done. After the festival, I had planned to begin my wandering way south for the winter. <p></p><p>I have pledged that I will sail most of the way south to make up for motoring all the way down last year as I ran from the cold weather. My next stop was Beaufort, NC. The way there from Oriental is across the expansive Neuse River and down Adams Creek which is the IntraCoastal Waterway (ICW) route. The route cuts across the peninsula between the Neuse and the Atlantic coast at Cape Lookout. My destination lay just before the ICW meets the coast again in Town Creek on the backside of Beaufort. My thought was to do some sailing on the Neuse, but I wasn’t motivated. Probably, I’d gotten a little lazy hanging out in Oriental. </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUQ6xeF2p_KD6YplM2wFfAsONuNArAEKM5zwWhv1nqsFNZkqwtile1eQIrBZ8kPfGWx3LbGX3b_EV_7CP5TUOlUKQkhMwjWTcb4m2FDp1m_wG2dqnz_us_7s8E68dM5JPs-lV6Eq9AKeZdCvcNgkYICL6sToGsoGkVVnoXOOwkchi4EbSrC1VpHXKXOIn/s4096/IMG_20231010_064705271.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUQ6xeF2p_KD6YplM2wFfAsONuNArAEKM5zwWhv1nqsFNZkqwtile1eQIrBZ8kPfGWx3LbGX3b_EV_7CP5TUOlUKQkhMwjWTcb4m2FDp1m_wG2dqnz_us_7s8E68dM5JPs-lV6Eq9AKeZdCvcNgkYICL6sToGsoGkVVnoXOOwkchi4EbSrC1VpHXKXOIn/s320/IMG_20231010_064705271.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bridge at sunrise</td></tr></tbody></table><br />As I prepared to leave Greens Creek, I was already concocting excuses. The trip down to Beaufort was going to take most of the day, but if I motored across the river to the creek I could probably save an hour. Plus, even though preparing to sail only takes a few minutes more than preparing to motor, that would be time saved, right? Did I feel like sailing? Was there enough wind? Too much? Should I wait until tomorrow? Etc. Etc. </p><p>I’m really not such a slug. In fact, I spent 16 years of fairly hard work to get where I am. This is just an honest reflection of the thoughts that were brewing in my head. </p><p>Also, killing the morning’s vibe, when I decided that I should first clear my sink by doing the dishes, I discovered that I had nearly run out of water. I didn’t have time to both get some water and get down to Beaufort in one day. I decided that there was enough water to slake my thirst along the way and I could fill up after arriving.</p><p>I got dressed and stepped into the cockpit to observe the actual conditions. </p><p>Sometimes it just takes a challenge. Often, I end up supplying my own challenge. Whatever is holding you up, you too can supply your own challenge. </p><p>As I looked around the anchorage, gauged the wind, assessed my boat and myself, it began to occur to me that the wind was blowing in just the right direction that I could probably sail out. What a fantastic challenge; haul the anchor under sail, sail down the creek, under the bridge, and out across the river to pick up the ICW. It was on! Now I had some motivation. </p><p>I checked the fluids in my engine and my fuel level; my usual list. Then I went forward to unbag the jib and check that the halyard, the sheets, and the downhaul could all run freely. I then stepped to the mast and uncovered the main sail.</p><p>Just down the creek, west of the village of Oriental, Greens Creek joins Smith Creek to flow into the Neuse River. The bridge that crosses the creeks is 45 feet off of the water; fairly low by ICW adjacent standards. Ruth Ann was just able to sneak under the bridge and into the creek. However, the bridge is not perpendicular to either creek, so the way under is on a funny angle. For that reason, I decided that I would start the engine and leave it idling in neutral just in case I got into a jam as I approached or ducked under that bridge. </p><p>The wind was steady but light as I raised the main and then headed forward to haul the anchor. I dipped the chain back in the water several times to agitate the mud to fall off. I was mostly successful but mud still managed to splatter the deck, my pants, and my bare feet. I always wear ‘work’ clothes to haul the anchor in the muddy rivers of the Carolinas. </p><p>The anchor clanged into the bow roller and I knelt to hook the hawse cover on the chain and close it. Ruth Ann drifted backward and began a graceful spin as the wind pushed at her bow. I walked back to the helm and sheeted the main. The wind was blowing us toward the bridge and after Ruth Ann’s bow had swung downstream, I let out the sail to catch the wind. We weren’t moving fast, but we were sailing and it was glorious. </p><p>The geography of the place was going to allow us to run before the wind down to the intersection of the creeks and then, turning toward the river, we would fall into a beam reach to head under the bridge. All I had to do was hold my course until we were on a good angle to head through the bridge. </p><p>I had to grit my teeth and wait for the opportune moment to make that turn. Holding our course, I checked and rechecked our position against the wind vane at the masthead. Turning too soon, the wind angle might make it difficult to hit the bridge entrance. Too late, and our drift downwind could push us past the bridge. I finally chose the moment and swung the bow to the south. About 15 yards before the bridge, I was so confident that we were on the right heading that I went ahead and turned the engine off.</p><p>Silently and slowly, we ducked under the bridge and drifted as much as sailed into the river. The only sound was the rattle of the cars crossing over our heads.</p><p>As we passed the village and the entrance to Oriental Harbor, my next puzzle to solve was the dogleg in the channel to the Neuse. The wind was steady out of the west. The channel was going to take us across the wind, then into it, and finally on a run off the wind and out to the river. I checked the depths around me on the chartplotter. Luckily, because Oriental is still a working fishing harbor, the channel is marked for the bigger vessels that often pass. There was lots of water around the channel deep enough for Ruth Ann. </p><p>As we left the village behind, I steered Ruth Ann a little closer into the wind to keep to the marked channeI. When the channel turned back to the east, I cut the corner to fall back on a beam reach. I thought that I might be able to sail just behind the last marker to get into the river, but the wind angle was going to take us into shallow waters. I didn’t want to get too far out of the channel nor into waters too shallow obviously. I have crewed a few times for a captain who likes to say “there are less surprises in the channel.” I fell off the wind and made a run for the ‘right’ side of the last marker. </p><p>We were only making about a knot and a half through the water. Off to the west was Wiggins Point; a spit of land that was shadowing our wind. I decided that if we got past the line between that marker and the point without gaining any speed, then I would start the engine to motor across the river. Sailing is one thing, but making a two day trip out of a six hour run doesn’t make a lot of sense. </p><p>Just before that imaginary line, I could feel Ruth Ann perk up. Suddenly, we were consistently making more than two knots. With the chartplotter zoomed out to see across the river, I turned us toward Adams Creek and we fell back into a beam reach; with the wind blowing straight across her beam. I had left a reef in the mainsail because I hadn’t completely shaken the laziness of the morning. Further, in wind as light as it was, I should have raised a larger jib, but we were well balanced and Ruth Ann could sail herself for several minutes while I attended to other things. </p><p>Out in the Neuse River with the light wind holding, I decided to shake the reef out after all. The extra sail would gain us a bit more speed. After going forward to unhook the reef ring, I began to haul the main halyard to raise the sail, but the aft end of the boom was being lifted as well. I checked the reefing line and found that it had fallen off the sheave and gotten jammed. So, I let the halyard go, rehooked the reef at the ram’s horn, and settled back into our beam reach with mainsail reefed as it had been. </p><p>Sailing along, back on course to Adams Creek, I pondered the jammed reefline and inspected the boom end above my head. There are two reefs in the main, each with a reefing line that runs through the boom, and exits on either side of the boom end fitting. When I had reefed the sail last month, coiling and tying the excess sail at the foot, I had let the coil fall to the port side of the boom. The jammed reef line exits the boom end on the starboard side. The weight of the coiled sail had apparently pulled the reef line off its sheave. Had I rolled the coil the other way, the line would likely not have jammed. I made a mental note and went back to enjoying the sail. </p><p>Approaching the south shore of the Neuse River, Ruth Ann was pointed too far east to make the channel at Adams Creek. I tacked back the other way to gain some ground, thinking that I could tack again a little further upriver, and get a better heading on the channel’s marker. After we had tacked, however, we were nearly pointed straight back at Oriental. That just wouldn’t do. After sailing a while the wrong way, I tacked back for the channel. </p><p>The wind direction was such that we would have had to tack back and forth for a couple hours to get high enough to sail into the channel. We were also limited by another shoal on that side of the river. I decided to sail up to the shoal and then just start the engine to motor across the edge of the shallows and down the creek. Again … sailing is one thing but practicality and seamanship demanded that I make better time toward our destination so that we could arrive before dark. </p><p>As the river began to shallow and the wind softened, I turned the key to start the engine … and a friend called. I joked that she had saved me from ending my sail. For a few minutes, while we chatted, Ruth Ann took up the challenge and did her best to sail strongly in the falling breeze. Nevertheless, not long after I had hung up the phone, we were back to struggling along at about a knot, so I reached for the key. </p><p>We motorsailed across the edge of the shoal and into the creek. The wind was much more fickle in the narrow geography. About half way down the creek to Beaufort, the jib had become more trouble than it was worth, so I doused it. Ruth Ann was holding her course fairly well, so I went forward with a sail bag and stowed the jib on the bowsprit as we headed south. After making it under the Core Creek Bridge, I also lowered the main and tied it up. A tug was pushing a large barge the other direction as Ruth Ann weaved around while I was distracted at the mast, but we straightened ourselves out long before we had to pass next to the barge. </p><p>There are so many goofy tools that we can take advantage of in these digital times. Ruth Ann and I had made good time and as we approached Town Creek almost two hours of daylight remained. My one concern was whether there would be any room in the small anchorage. Most of the way down the creek, my phone had had no reception. But as we neared Beaufort, back in the “civilized” digital world, I Googled for “Town Creek Webcam” and found that the marina on the north shore had a camera pointed right at the spot where I had anchored last month; and it was clear. We were a half hour away and could head right in to drop the hook. </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0J_Hfklo0TbDp5qdK4-BFgm-1HDyxUPhQIjHUWl228IC6DicLtqNqIizAUmnUkcO5fw5S_fHTJrZMhpgUY8IBDoXQcSlRSEP9lGe33vMU1Y1MRZYwbCslKvQ5Y08P13T3lLALwskhpMwzLVzfnlFjjd0yYO-eVGuztvGSIQXnHEJr03SnTzHMq-oJLpt3/s1080/Screenshot_20231011-162731.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1041" data-original-width="1080" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0J_Hfklo0TbDp5qdK4-BFgm-1HDyxUPhQIjHUWl228IC6DicLtqNqIizAUmnUkcO5fw5S_fHTJrZMhpgUY8IBDoXQcSlRSEP9lGe33vMU1Y1MRZYwbCslKvQ5Y08P13T3lLALwskhpMwzLVzfnlFjjd0yYO-eVGuztvGSIQXnHEJr03SnTzHMq-oJLpt3/s320/Screenshot_20231011-162731.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from the marina webcam</td></tr></tbody></table><br />As I write this, another boat has anchored near us. They chose a spot at a respectable distance, so we’ll be fine. There might be a little weather passing on Saturday, but my neighbors are likely just passing through on their way south and won’t stay long. Essentially, I am also passing through, but I’ll be here for several days or more. My friend, Victor, is in a marina here and besides offering me the use of their laundry and showers, Vic and I are going to work together on a couple projects on each of our boats. In addition, we may swap dinghies, but that’s a story for another day. </p><p><br /></p><p>===</p><p><br /></p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting my project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support</p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-89510714162707619892023-10-13T09:00:00.000-04:002023-10-13T09:00:00.142-04:00Front Porch Music, Part Two<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTw4ftnsavMHIWk8SqaeBIpg8HUyOQh0m2169IRTBeSqRIowvFX5R4STa8kYWl7q6NSMth3XG9hM0BaDQEfkNzUMss1i-RkYpx8z5VBGpuw2QgNwuw17RFnNFAi_4uEycOfLViNxB1obH7FZKQsv-5DGeWAHp2cwEn16GaiKYjU0NbYM2vBDEI9eeT2-P/s800/the.bean.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTw4ftnsavMHIWk8SqaeBIpg8HUyOQh0m2169IRTBeSqRIowvFX5R4STa8kYWl7q6NSMth3XG9hM0BaDQEfkNzUMss1i-RkYpx8z5VBGpuw2QgNwuw17RFnNFAi_4uEycOfLViNxB1obH7FZKQsv-5DGeWAHp2cwEn16GaiKYjU0NbYM2vBDEI9eeT2-P/s320/the.bean.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bean</td></tr></tbody></table><br />When we last left our hero, OK just me, I had allowed myself to get talked into a meeting at nine o'clock in the morning on a Saturday. A meeting to discuss another writer and his writing, supposedly. If you haven't seen Part One, you should read it first. <p></p><p><br /></p><p>The Bean is an Oriental institution; a coffee shop right across the street from the Town Dock. They have all the ubiquitous espresso coffee options, plus brewed coffee, smoothies, iced tea, bagels, brownies, muffins, and other treats. During the weekend of the festival, I suspected they might be busy, but I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived just before nine. I hadn’t eaten, so I got an Americano and a bagel. By the time my coffee was ready, a table had opened up. </p><p>Being that I was slightly skeptical, and that I had planned to spend the whole day ashore at the music fest, I had come prepared. After eating my bagel, I got out a notebook (a writer always has a notebook) and started writing. I didn’t really have a plan, but one of the pieces of writing advice I had already given my curious friend – was to just start writing. Write about something, even if it is writing about the frustration of having nothing to write about. </p><p>I’m a glutton for punishment and just to prove it -- I have three blogs. This blog about my sailing and misadventures around boats, a blog with my non-boat writing, and a blog about my journey into Buddhism. I wrote several pages for the oft-ignored Buddhist blog and then began writing this very piece. As a famous local institution, The Bean was busy on a Saturday morning; ever more so on the festival weekend. Most of the morning there were always a few customers in line. Luckily, nearly all of them were grabbing a coffee and heading out for their day. The tables were never all occupied, but there were a few of us there enjoying the space and working or conversing. </p><p>My less than intrepid writer friend never showed. And the rest of my whole day in town, I never saw my ‘friend’ who was so desperate to get some writing advice; regardless whether I was actually an appropriate source for that.</p><p>After a couple hours of good writing, I was ready for a break. Inspired suddenly, I packed up and walked across the street to the Inland Waterway Provision Company; another local institution. The IWPC is a unique store that reminds me of some others that I have found in remote locales, like the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. They have a wide variety of things because of their unique position far between bigger towns along the IntraCoastal Waterway. The store has souvenirs and knickknacks, t shirts and hats, sailing gear, books and charts, craft beer, gourmet snacks, as well as a good selection of boat parts, resin and paint, fishing gear, safety gear, and maintenance items like oil and fuel filters. I knew that I could find a couple Oriental, NC postcards there as well. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTjgDuzc-Q7uI0KfykO4KyY4p88vh8Zst5hiWXJ7YBmZBrLCig88PHgrEXgLbphFREBzp1QugbAM_l7cfQ9ms8c-EO6NT44iV3uZijuHYnblNne4Crcj4-Bz4E4vcKhjZT7YFpBczxHHYbdC2hijfLVdLagw7IZn3jrQ-mpHb7ylu7Ln8AqUSEr9eFrm0U/s4096/IMG_20231006_185314879.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTjgDuzc-Q7uI0KfykO4KyY4p88vh8Zst5hiWXJ7YBmZBrLCig88PHgrEXgLbphFREBzp1QugbAM_l7cfQ9ms8c-EO6NT44iV3uZijuHYnblNne4Crcj4-Bz4E4vcKhjZT7YFpBczxHHYbdC2hijfLVdLagw7IZn3jrQ-mpHb7ylu7Ln8AqUSEr9eFrm0U/s320/IMG_20231006_185314879.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Downtown" Oriental</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Postcards in hand and lots of time before the music started, I walked over to the Post Office. On their counter, I wrote a note on each card and then bought a couple stamps. I was starting to know my way around Oriental, so I was able to cross Broad Street, the main drag, and cut through the neighborhood over to the festival stage. I was still a little early and had worked up an appetite writing and walking around. One of the food vendors was offering Cuban Black Beans and Rice which sounded delicious. After securing a bowl, I sat at a picnic table by the river and dug in. <p></p><p>The first music of the day was Christie Lenee, who I had seen talk the day before. She is an extraordinary finger-style guitar player and a beautiful singer. Her set was a mix of instrumentals, singer/songwriter craft, and perceptive stories. It was a great way to start the day.</p><p>The Ol’ Front Porch Music Festival is a unique music fest. First, Oriental is a very small town and to organize a two day festival with a half dozen venue locations – and keep it free – is incredible. Second, is the variety of venues. There is the main stage, called the Riverfront Stage, that is set up in a village park on the river. Every two hours, a one hour performance occurs there. On the odd hours between main stage performances, sets are performed in other locations around town; at the church I mentioned, at a brew pub, at a bed and breakfast, and at several private houses with front porches big enough to hold a small band and their equipment. The music ranged from bluegrass and traditional Appalachian, to gospel, folk rock, Americana, a local ensemble of ukuleles, and even some jazz. I couldn’t have been happier just wandering around and listening to music. Twice I happened to walk by someone telling the story of the incredible piano performance from the church the day before. </p><p>At some point, I got an odd feeling that I should check on my dinghy. It had been tied up at a small boat dock at the state boat ramp for most of the day. I’ve developed an eerie sense for the welfare of each of my boats; Ruth Ann, the mothership, and my dinghy. I walked back across town to the dock and, sure enough, the wind had picked up and changed direction. The dinghy was now getting bonked against the dock, nothing too serious but the wind had started blowing harder than was forecast. I decided to row out to check on Ruth Ann as well. There was one more act that I had wanted to see. Damn Tall Buildings, from Brooklyn, NY, was the Saturday headliner to close out the festival, but I needed to check on my girl. </p><p>There was a North Carolina Marina Patrol boat getting pulled at the boat ramp. A teenager in a kayak near the ramp’s dock appeared to have been talking to the officer. I wondered if he had been towed back in or rescued somehow during the strengthening winds. It seems likely that that was true, because as I rowed away from the dock, the officer walked over to watch me from the high side of the parking lot. He didn’t gesture or seem to want to stop me, but his body language revealed that he had some concerns. Two creeks come together right near the ramp and it was hard rowing to get across the first creek as the wind blew straight down it, but once I got into Greens Creek, where Ruth Ann tugged at her anchor, the wind was mitigated by the trees and homes along the shore and I was fine. </p><p>Once I was back onboard, I wasn’t sure that I would bother to get back to the festival. The safety of Ruth Ann and the dinghy is actually more important than music. Nevertheless, after an hour or so, the winds seemed to have fallen off. We were a half mile up the creek from the boat ramp and going back meant twenty minutes of rowing – each way. Yet the music tugged at my heart. </p><p>I had been napping a bit, but with the wind softening I got up and stood in the cockpit to judge my situation. It wasn’t still but nearly so. Back down in the cabin, I called up Damn Tall Buildings on YouTube and twenty seconds into the first song, I was committed. I was going back into town. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcl63Lp3ScxlcC2JCqDKDJfG7dU4_xd-Jd9-CXGMdhNLiJl75ZO56fMAFUf2pM81ycmVSNkdMi7kA_kJ1Vj7s8-2dqcy9N0pcsv18VOvwt1HNpGHXFi8i1b7ueMr8xrAI36XPx50ZJkVEvz_BVHcgG3jIPXlFVbLYIQSwy7oigmF6UrWqqwuYi-cUNLBee/s1981/IMG_20231007_184253770~2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1981" data-original-width="1885" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcl63Lp3ScxlcC2JCqDKDJfG7dU4_xd-Jd9-CXGMdhNLiJl75ZO56fMAFUf2pM81ycmVSNkdMi7kA_kJ1Vj7s8-2dqcy9N0pcsv18VOvwt1HNpGHXFi8i1b7ueMr8xrAI36XPx50ZJkVEvz_BVHcgG3jIPXlFVbLYIQSwy7oigmF6UrWqqwuYi-cUNLBee/s320/IMG_20231007_184253770~2.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Damn Tall Buildings</td></tr></tbody></table><br />The Boston Globe described Damn Tall Buildings as "Old Crow Medicine Show meets Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros meets Flatt & Scruggs meets Nickel Creek, with a dash of Avett Brothers and a sprinkle of Johnny Cash. What they might have missed was the Patsy Cline and Janis Joplin erupting from their powerfully singing bass player. <p></p><p>I changed my clothes into something slightly warmer and rowed back. It was exactly what I needed. Damn Tall Buildings are tremendous musicians and so much fun. They are a couple, Sasha and Max, plus Avery on the fiddle. Sasha plays the bass and has an incredibly powerful and versatile voice. Max is a bit of a kook, another great singer, and a really good guitar player; especially bluegrass and bluesy stylings. Avery is a helluva fiddle player and versatile harmony singer who has quite a shimmy under his fiddle and beard. They had driven all the from Sisters, Oregon, from a similar sounding festival, to close out their seven week tour at the fest in Oriental, NC. They were headed home to Brooklyn after their set and I was so glad that I had caught them.</p><p>Afterward, we all helped put away the folding chairs that the fest had rented for the main stage area. Then I walked back through town as it got darker and darker. When I got back to the dinghy dock, there was just a sliver of sunset in the clouds. Luckily, I had brought a lamp to be somewhat legal after dark. After taking the requisite sunset picture, I lit the lamp, put it in the bow, and rowed back out to Ruth Ann. </p><p>What a weekend!</p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX6Zv7a0moZ4XLihemn0sbjvVvWINZ-Wg2IcdZ5CDjxUZ_42pT17O_b1l0tENKTEJZke_ggVDHTPh17lNX8KDwjEyldV4Y0z1E9DdeRjo3VzgXIu5BUTA_4TaRWE29jdlFK3V7_00bZgoc85uTbf8avUlBaWdcNAJ7P9rHQSj5lSLCuErOTE0Z2iaeHRZx/s4096/IMG_20231007_193541334.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX6Zv7a0moZ4XLihemn0sbjvVvWINZ-Wg2IcdZ5CDjxUZ_42pT17O_b1l0tENKTEJZke_ggVDHTPh17lNX8KDwjEyldV4Y0z1E9DdeRjo3VzgXIu5BUTA_4TaRWE29jdlFK3V7_00bZgoc85uTbf8avUlBaWdcNAJ7P9rHQSj5lSLCuErOTE0Z2iaeHRZx/s320/IMG_20231007_193541334.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dock after dark</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p><p>All the images are mine except The Bean photo which I stole off of Flickr.</p><p>===</p><p><br /></p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting my project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support.</p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-17922441884487577222023-10-11T09:00:00.000-04:002023-10-11T09:00:00.146-04:00Front Porch Music, Part One<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXf2rGlLQNn0iCJt5L_j5VBQn37tVroYfxD76CD2I3kiD-o9dtwcZ5hjluVF0LTiCf1R5HZiX3c0GeVy_2VXfEDbd5U3Xtx53E0fIQ3Ac6XudD81KqDEUMimQjHYgbA4IlJc9bEYRszAYyvvg-UJTYtjcL6il-rqf54QaKix8BNM8-zHMY-IbxMk66YX8/s4096/IMG_20231006_143852786.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXf2rGlLQNn0iCJt5L_j5VBQn37tVroYfxD76CD2I3kiD-o9dtwcZ5hjluVF0LTiCf1R5HZiX3c0GeVy_2VXfEDbd5U3Xtx53E0fIQ3Ac6XudD81KqDEUMimQjHYgbA4IlJc9bEYRszAYyvvg-UJTYtjcL6il-rqf54QaKix8BNM8-zHMY-IbxMk66YX8/s320/IMG_20231006_143852786.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riverfront Stage</td></tr></tbody></table><br />My time in Oriental, NC has been much less dramatic than <a href="https://www.bubbathepirate.com/2023/10/a-little-dinghy.html" target="_blank">my voyage down here from Washington</a>. I had come in order to volunteer at the Ol’ Front Porch Music Festival. A volunteer orientation meeting was on Saturday, the day after I had arrived. The rest of the week I worked on some computer stuff and did some boat chores. I had anchored Ruth Ann past the bridge and into Greens Creek, a peaceful spot near enough but also far enough away from the quiet bustle of the tiny town of Oriental; which is still a working fishing village. <p></p><p>There is a public dock a half mile from Ruth Ann. After rowing over, it is just three or four blocks into “downtown” and just six blocks to the park where the main festival stage was set up. Friday afternoon I enjoyed some music and that evening did my shift as a golf cart shuttle driver. </p><p>As a part of their festival appearance, some of the artists give small seminars. I was lucky enough to have caught one by Christie Lenee, Guitar World’s “2020 Best Acoustic Guitarist in the World Right Now.” She spoke about creativity in general and her approach to creating music. From her I learned about Elizabeth Gilbert’s book called Big Magic and of earlier times when creativity was considered a gem to be discovered inside someone rather than the modern idea that some people are talented while others are not. We all can be creative geniuses if we are open and receptive to that possibility. It was absolutely sublime to sit in a small church sanctuary with just thirty people and witness such an amazing musician and open-hearted human. </p><p>Ms. Lenee had been stuck in traffic and arrived a little late to the church. While we waited, the Emcee had told us about the grand piano. The former organist at the church was the sister of the current mayor of Oriental. When the organist sister passed away, she had donated the piano to the church. It was a wonderful, small town story, but I could just see the top of the piano behind the front row of pews. I have no idea what kind of piano it was, but it must have been special for it had attracted the eye of our musician as soon as she arrived. After her talk and having played her guitar, as the Emcee called time and solicited one last question, Christie asked if she could play the piano. She gushed that she could not resist the beautiful instrument. The Emcee shrugged and casually deferred to someone in the audience who must have been connected with the church. No one said “no,” so Christie snuck over to sit at the piano, lifted the cover, and began tinkling at the keys. </p><p>Just as when she had started a tune on her guitar, Ms. Lenee first seemed to just explore the keys, searching for what song might be hiding inside the instrument just then. Soon she seemed to catch the wisp of something and began an ethereal rendition of Joni Mitchell’s “River.” I don’t think anyone in the sanctuary drew a breath until she had finished. It had been an amazing hour and my heart had swelled as I left the church. Auspiciously, right outside the front door was the festival’s transportation hub where my volunteer shift was about to start.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRxjt_0AJd0CKJyxpq9MW5V5GAh5APNzkNLXgvamuHHn6ZSoobjEL0M89FGXmyWOW7DgtwjSaf8cCFjZ7mokgM-OpKzpo9rWJ_s6CcPHWK9g0lKYtxbBHQqKicokM85WFoMu4MR0R_u0a7xr4sdf0VjDFc73dlDyffRhhS2bIhWc4BeVe4eJOVzUU-8ByS/s4096/IMG_20231007_184314314.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRxjt_0AJd0CKJyxpq9MW5V5GAh5APNzkNLXgvamuHHn6ZSoobjEL0M89FGXmyWOW7DgtwjSaf8cCFjZ7mokgM-OpKzpo9rWJ_s6CcPHWK9g0lKYtxbBHQqKicokM85WFoMu4MR0R_u0a7xr4sdf0VjDFc73dlDyffRhhS2bIhWc4BeVe4eJOVzUU-8ByS/s320/IMG_20231007_184314314.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset on the river behind the stage</td></tr></tbody></table><br />During my afternoon at the festival, I had run also into a local guy. The Carolinas are full of military bases and therefore lots of retired military as well. I had been standing near the river and the main stage; passing time, listening to the music, and observing. My hands were behind my lower back and my feet comfortably below each shoulder. I often stand that way; basically standing at ease as we were taught in marching band. The local guy approached and, with a slight reverence, asked if I was ex-military. I answered that no, my father and brother had been, but that I had not.<p></p><p>He said that he had noticed the way I had been standing and thought that I was maintaining some kind of militaristic situational awareness. Besides dodging any further discussion of the military or my lack of it, I said that I was a writer and that people-watching was an occupational hazard. </p><p>“A writer!,” he exclaimed, “so am I. I am working on a novel.” </p><p>He proceeded to tell me that he had a project that had been approved by Random House and that it was going to be the best novel ever. His story was a love story that takes place in part along the IntraCoastal Waterway and in the various local cultures. The novel was apparently not getting onto the page easily. He asked me about my writing and expressed that he was kind of blocked. Perhaps I could talk to him about writing and about his novel. He wanted to know how good I thought it was or was going to be. Of course, he wanted me to sign a non-disclosure agreement before discussing it in detail. I feel I can tell you all that because I did not sign, nor ever saw, any kind of agreement.</p><p>Another guy had been hanging nearby, a friend of the local guy apparently. I think this friend was mostly motivated by the twelve pack of cheap beer strapped to the rack on my new friend’s electric bike. “Stay right there,” the local guy told his friend. </p><p>And then he proceeded to tell me all about the plot of the novel that I was going to have to sign an NDA to hear about. It sounded interesting; definitely fertile ground for a novel in the right hands. At one point, he even said that he wasn’t looking for a ghostwriter, but that he really needed some help. I told him that I was going to be around for a few more days, that I would be happy to talk to him about writing, and I gave him my card. </p><p>“What are you doing tomorrow morning, nine o’clock at The Bean,” he said all in one breath. </p><p>I consented to meeting at The Bean at nine. </p><p>By this time, I had doubts. I couldn’t really discern if my ‘friend’ was actually a writer, a run-of-the-mill crazy person, or perhaps just the town drunk with a good story about a story. </p><p>My plan all along had been to spend Saturday at the festival. The music didn’t start until noon, so I would have had lots time in the morning, but now I had agreed to be at a coffee shop by nine. </p><p>To be continued ...</p><p>===</p><p><br /></p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting my project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support.</p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-75888272684358980422023-10-04T09:00:00.016-04:002024-03-14T12:02:12.540-04:00A Little Dinghy ... <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7Uou0ql4tlUKUNrHjw2fhUGxtEtyrcQ24Mg8ZbJuAcyMipEvNOI8rxkxK0SJG1oY3Y6pG1KpWQ59tGMOe2kUhLnmAjeJ2jPXEPVc-ReaaS_U8AfO0a_llPSe0UheFpQ2kovKqpUYCzqOOIw13F8dg76S8onWUwzkbbwkYitHhvv5EpySn5sYoMsFciVX/s4096/IMG_20230906_162450415.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7Uou0ql4tlUKUNrHjw2fhUGxtEtyrcQ24Mg8ZbJuAcyMipEvNOI8rxkxK0SJG1oY3Y6pG1KpWQ59tGMOe2kUhLnmAjeJ2jPXEPVc-ReaaS_U8AfO0a_llPSe0UheFpQ2kovKqpUYCzqOOIw13F8dg76S8onWUwzkbbwkYitHhvv5EpySn5sYoMsFciVX/s320/IMG_20230906_162450415.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />This is not a curated blog with rainbows, sunshine, and umbrella drinks at the beach. This is real life, honestly portrayed. I really thought that I might never post this story but perhaps someone, somewhere can learn from the mistakes I made. It wasn’t one bad decision but a stretch of inattention and assumptions that got me into a jam. I survived and feel sheepish, but here it is anyway: <p></p><p>[ and, sorry, it’s a little long ]</p><p><br /></p><p>Thursday started like one of those days I had dreamed about. I needed to head down to Oriental from Washington, NC where I had spent a few weeks. Washington is a great little town with an awesomely cruiser-friendly Waterfront, but I had volunteered for the Ol’ Front Porch Music Festival happening in Oriental the first weekend of October. There was a volunteer orientation meeting this Saturday. I had spent my last couple nights at the free dock on the Waterfront and Thursday morning I motored out of the ‘lagoon’ just after sunrise to beat the closing of the railroad bridge. </p><p>After motoring through the narrow stretch at the top of the river, I let Ruth Ann drift in the open water as I raised the sails. This was a big step actually. I had set up the sails to be available but I had been making excuses all morning. I didn’t feel well. The rig was a little slack in the cool air. I had left a day later than planned; maybe I was in a hurry. Etc. and Etc.</p><p>I laughed at myself knowing how much I would regret it if I continued to motor. So I turned into the wind, and with the engine in forward at idle speed, I raised the main. Then turning away, I raised the jib in the main sail’s shadow and turned off the engine. I knew right away I had finally done the right thing. Ruth Ann leaned into the waves and lifted her skirt to skip along. It was glorious. My lungs felt clearer than they had been in over a week and my stuffy head was gone. We were sailing nearly as fast as I had been motoring anyway. </p><p>We sailed on a beam reach nearly all the way down the Pamlico River. I started the engine again near where the ICW heads down the Goose Creek channel through Hobucken and into the Bay River. It would have been nearly impossible to sail in the narrow channel anyway, so I doused the jib. However, I had a mind to keep sailing once we were through, so I left the main up. The wind was straight behind us and pretty light in the twists and turns of the channel. After a while, I sheeted the main in tight so it could just flop from one side to the other as the wind angle changed behind us.</p><p>I had my eye on a couple anchorages where Goose Creek emptied into the Bay River, but once I got there I didn’t like the looks of them. Also, it was still fairly early and I never like to stop with plenty of daylight left. The wind had picked up a bit and I didn’t want to stress my slightly slack rig, so I dropped the main sail and kept motoring. At first, I was just going to cross the river and anchor in a creek on the other side. But once I saw how close that creek was, I decided to continue on into the Neuse River and see if I could get all the way to Oriental. By and by, the route calculator on my chartplotter told me I would arrive just after sunset. I had been to Oriental before but I didn’t want to get all the way under the bridge and into Greens Creek in the dark. It was also very overcast and the moon wouldn’t have been any help either, so I picked a nearer creek as my destination. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjOw4WMC4WmmTQpcwKkYY_UFW9J6d3yXauKHqnc3NOI6QPTluDo128JvplZ0a8jN57XM_mzXfQ11ZVU0deJlJKoyoMcvqhSIVRW2le2AjW46SXsC00SxUFb6UimcaJNIYj5o6zNOkcFqv0ymqOF3EjTrkEvuYruBDywmubXIRnvpElrRgIOS2sSoZLyFaY/s1092/Screenshot_20231001-193720.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1092" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjOw4WMC4WmmTQpcwKkYY_UFW9J6d3yXauKHqnc3NOI6QPTluDo128JvplZ0a8jN57XM_mzXfQ11ZVU0deJlJKoyoMcvqhSIVRW2le2AjW46SXsC00SxUFb6UimcaJNIYj5o6zNOkcFqv0ymqOF3EjTrkEvuYruBDywmubXIRnvpElrRgIOS2sSoZLyFaY/s320/Screenshot_20231001-193720.png" width="316" /></a></div><br />The wind had picked up even more and the seas had grown confused, but I was still feeling confident. I knew where I was headed and I had sailed these waters before. Nevertheless, at that moment, I had briefly thought that maybe I should just turn around and head back to that original creek. Alas … but I didn’t. <p></p><p>I had imagined that I was just doing some river sailing that day. Down the Pamlico, through Goose Creek, into the Bay River, and then on into the Neuse. I hadn’t really looked at the whole area on a <a href="https://casualnavigation.com/large-scale-vs-small-scale-charts-whats-the-difference/" target="_blank">small scale chart</a> but the confluence of the rivers and the Pamlico Sound is actually a huge expanse of open water. Further, my weather app later confirmed that I had dropped into the Sound right at the peak of the wind gusts that afternoon. After dealing with wind 8 to 10 knots with a few gusts to 18 all morning, I had suddenly found myself in winds that were steady at 20 and gusting regularly to 29. </p><p>Now, I must tell you that I was towing my dinghy – again. A day or so of casual river sailing was what I had pictured, but now I was motoring in gusty conditions and fairly large seas. The winds out of the north and northeast were blowing unmolested across 50 miles of open water and, after stirring up the waves, they were blasting me from behind. I thought about turning around again, but turning around by then would have meant bashing into the wind and waves instead of running before them. I was stuck with the choices I had so casually made that morning. </p><p><br /></p><p>Look closely at your intended route and all possible weather conditions; it has been said.</p><p>It wasn’t uncomfortable as much as it was chaotic. Ruth Ann had taken care of me before and I was quite sure she could handle more than I. Rather than holding a steady, straight-line course, I was angling back and forth to keep the waves rolling more comfortably underneath us. Rolling side to side in heavy seas is a prescription for seasickness at least, and possibly some worse disaster. It was then that I noticed that the dinghy was yanking at the painter (the line towing it). The painter squeaked with each pull and made me a little concerned for the chock that the painter ran through at Ruth Ann’s stern. However, it seemed solid as I laid my hand on it. </p><p>It is notoriously hard to judge the size of waves you are sailing in. Those sweeping under us were probably just three to five feet with bigger rogues coming occasionally. Ruth Ann would rise at the stern, shimmy a little at the top, and then wallow back down as her bow rose and the wave passed under her. Then the dinghy painter would squeak as it was pulled taught. The real struggle was the short wave period; how close the waves were together. I had about 45 minutes to the pylon marking the shoal off Piney Point where I could turn in toward the northern shore to get to Broad Creek, my new anchorage for the evening. </p><p>Somewhere just before the marker, I heard a curious noise from the dinghy painter. I knew that sound right away and when I turned to look, Ruth Ann was dragging a stainless steel eyebolt through the water as the dinghy drifted free behind us with a ragged new hole in the bow. Now I was in trouble. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwmh_WNQJD9TUAZzNoFL0oFXpqg2-Bcd86ghxHs-FAvyo97c0TFMemAKImsYhlllsscKXfCzE5QUsBPxo_rDN0AW94IadE6-4hvWMw3_BG1BRYguxfziE3i624mQ_p0X0anDwtVowhXU9z6T9indj_aEmOKI20MMIWlsSdnjM2I77WRRRiLiH7pEXdZCFI/s4096/IMG_20230930_082707452.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwmh_WNQJD9TUAZzNoFL0oFXpqg2-Bcd86ghxHs-FAvyo97c0TFMemAKImsYhlllsscKXfCzE5QUsBPxo_rDN0AW94IadE6-4hvWMw3_BG1BRYguxfziE3i624mQ_p0X0anDwtVowhXU9z6T9indj_aEmOKI20MMIWlsSdnjM2I77WRRRiLiH7pEXdZCFI/s320/IMG_20230930_082707452.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />I have spoken before about the dinghy that I bought. It is a Spindrift 11, a nesting dinghy that rows and sails. I had been looking at building a Spindrift myself when I found this one on Craigslist for about 2/3 what I might have spent on materials alone. Nevertheless, I probably would have built the 9 foot version instead. The 11 is a little big for Ruth Ann but it breaks into two halves that stack together nicely to stow on deck. We are dealing with it. I have also expressed that I would have done a few things differently. The builder was a retired shop teacher and he immediately garnered much of the respect that I have had for shop and industrial arts teachers in my past. That might have been premature. <p></p><p>My first inkling that things were not as robust or done with the care that I had assumed was, ironically, the eyebolt at the bow. I had bought the dinghy in Fernandina Beach, FL and towed it down to Green Cove Springs; about two days on the water. When I arrived, I discovered that the bow eye had been held with only one nut. As I towed the dinghy and the painter naturally spun during the trip, that one nut had loosened itself about three quarters the way off the bolt. Another day of travel and I would have left the dinghy floating behind me; curious foreshadowing. There are a few other areas that I am keen to reinforce or bring up to my own personal standards. I am just waiting to have the money to do the fixes I have envisioned. One of my main complaints is that I don’t know how closely the builder followed the directions, because I have not seen the assembly instructions. <s>To my eye, there was less fiberglass cloth used than I would have expected</s>. [Note: see below (*)]Nevertheless, I bought the dinghy sight unseen without any guarantees, so it is partially my own fault. </p><p>What I had learned in the waves off Piney Point on Thursday was that there was also no reinforcement behind the eyebolt. It was hard to see when I was adding a locking nut to that bolt under a small deck, but I had assumed that I was looking at a backing block behind the fender washer. I was not. The ragged hole on the bow as the dinghy drifted behind me, showed that there was nothing there except an epoxy fillet where the two ¼” plywood panels met at the bow. I shouldn’t have been towing the dinghy in heavy seas. However, the dinghy was empty and dry, there was no extra weight beyond the ‘stitch-and-glue’ plywood hull itself. I have towed the dinghy for months by that eyebolt, so the hull might have been weakening over time. <s>If the entire hull had been encased in a layer of fiberglass cloth (as I might have expected), I suspect the hull would have been considerably stronger</s>. </p><p>(*) CORRECTION: As of 10/18/2023, I have sanded the paint off the hull as a part of a deal to swap dinghies with a fellow boater. There is, in fact, a layer of glass on the entire outside of the hull. Some wooden trim and the contours of an extra layer of fiberglass tape on the seams gave another impression. The wave action and 5hevpower of Mother Nature were apparently enough to tear the eyebolt out of the bow. </p><p>None of these design and build complaints mattered while I was staring at my dinghy floating free in the confused waves behind me. I had a fair amount of money invested in it – and – the dinghy is my sole method of getting ashore when Ruth Ann is at anchor. I had to retrieve the damn thing! </p><p>I turned the boat around and headed into the waves back toward the dinghy. After grabbing my boat hook, I rounded up toward the smaller boat. Luckily, I had kept another painter tied to the dinghy’s stern. While the waves knocked the two boats together, I was able to hook the line, but now what? The dinghy was not made to travel backward, but the attachment point at the bow was gone.</p><p>The dinghy rides fairly high in the water and it didn’t look bad at first. So I tried slowing the boat and dragging the dinghy backward. Unfortunately, the stern is just flat; straight up and down. It soon became obvious that as the dinghy drifted toward the bottom of a wave behind us, water was splashing up over the stern and into the boat. Not a lot of water, but enough that over time it was going to fill up and be swamped.</p><p>I circled around to get next to the dinghy again and dropped into neutral. It was a bit like the chasing a puppy or something because I was trying to get next to the dinghy while also dragging it by a line. So I could get close but then it would get pulled behind me again. All the while, we were still in the mix of wind and waves. As I pulled the dinghy in toward me, it was banging on Ruth Ann and colliding with my windvane; a rugged but precision instrument I didn’t want to damage. </p><p>I leaned out over the water and grabbed at the dinghy. If I could get to the bow, there was a hole for a mast in the small foredeck. My plan was to get a line through that mast hole to be able to tow the dinghy forward again. In the waves, the boats danced out of sync. The dinghy started below me at arms length, then flew up in my face, and then fell down and out of my reach, then back to arms length; over and over, up and down. I had to keep the boats from damaging each other while watching that I didn’t get my fingers smashed between them. I pulled at the small boat trying to reach the bow. Then a wave would yank it out of my grasp and send it off in another direction. I couldn’t get to the bow before reaching the end of the painter on its stern, so I let out more of that line. Twice I stood too high on the cockpit bench and nearly got thrown into the water next to the dinghy. I had to stop. Also, Ruth Ann had settled into the waves, beam on, and we were getting rolled violently from side to side. Even properly stowed items down below were getting thrown about. I put the boat back in forward and towed the wallowing dinghy; still backward. </p><p>After a few minutes I was ready to try again. It was all the same struggle and at one point I untied the dinghy and held on to the stern painter with one hand while I hung over the side and tried, one-handed, to shimmy the dinghy close enough for me to thread a line through that hole. First, I had too much slack in the line; then not enough. Another time, I nearly had it but behind me I was kneeling on the line and couldn’t get enough through hole. Then one last time, so close, the line hung free in the hole, but I struggled to grab it. In one final lunge, I let go of the stern line, missed the grab at the new line, and a wave pushed the dinghy free. Now I was back to square one – standing in the cockpit watching my dinghy drift behind me in the waves. I took a deep breath and doubled back. </p><p>I felt like just letting it go. F**k it. I was sore and tired. Then it occurred to me that the Coast Guard or the sheriff would likely find an empty small boat on its own and a search and rescue operation would commence. As desperate as I was, I didn’t want any of that mess. </p><p>After reaching the dinghy again, and grabbing the stern line - again – I looked around to make sure we weren’t drifting onto the shoal or into someone else’s way. There was no one else dumb enough to be out on the water that afternoon. Maybe I could actually just tow it backward after all. I was getting tired and the struggle was using up my daylight. It was already after 6:00 pm and it would take at least forty five minutes to reach the anchorage in Broad Creek. We slogged ahead for a few yards, but I could tell I’d end up losing the dinghy if it filled with water stumbling behind me. I dropped the boat into neutral again. </p><p>I had been avoiding leaving the cockpit in the confused seas. My harness and tether were below but I hadn’t taken the time to fetch them or put them on. I decided that the only way to attach some line through the hole at the bow was to get the dinghy secured alongside Ruth Ann somehow. I untied the stern line again and walked it forward trying to swing the dinghy well away from my precious windvane. I stepped with one foot out of the cockpit, just far enough that I could run the stern line around a stanchion base. Back in the cockpit, I secured that line to a cleat. The waves were still juggling the two boats up and down. I had leaned out over the water so many times, leaning on my torso to keep both my arms free, that I could feel every notch in my rib cage where I would have a bruise in the morning. My arms and shoulders were aching, but I leaned out of the cockpit again, over the water and into the dinghy, and finally managed to string the line through the hole and grabbed the free end with my other hand. It was almost impossible to think that I had finally done it. </p><p>I tied the new line tight and freed the stern line, coiling it haphazardly, and tossed it into the dinghy as it drifted by on its way behind us – bow first. As we started moving again, the dinghy followed comfortably through the waves as it was meant to, and we were finally doing slightly better than before.</p><p>The new line was not pretty. It looped through the mast hole and over the dinghy’s gunwale near the bow and attached to Ruth Ann in two spots like a bridle. I had to watch to make sure that it wasn’t chafing on the little boat’s edge. We managed to sally forth and got “behind” the shoal, but it didn’t make much difference to the waves. On a slightly different compass angle, I had to play the same game running back and forth on a course dictated by the sluicing through the waves rather than where I wanted to head. We were making slow progress, swinging 30 degrees too low and then 30 degrees too high to crab walk our way toward Broad Creek. </p><p>Finally, we got a bit behind the land at Piney Point and I could steer straight at the creek’s entrance. We were rolling a bit but the diminished waves were tolerable. Two fishing boats floated at anchor right at the trailing edge of the shoal, bouncing raggedly up and down but pursuing some valuable catch. I saluted them. If they had been close enough to see, they would have wondered about the dinghy bouncing behind me on strange looking reins. </p><p>We hugged the shore to the east of the creek and came in the lopsided channel. A green marker to port, then a red marker to starboard and then there was peace. We ghosted through flat water for the first time in about three hours. It was then that I checked the weather app and learned that I had slogged through the strongest winds of the day. The weather had moderated but the wind would continue to blow out of the north and northeast, so I tucked Ruth Ann into a small cove near the northern shore of the creek. There were some houses and plenty of woods there to shield us and I dropped the anchor. </p><p>I checked that the dinghy was alright, backed down on the anchor to secure us, and then went below to clean up. All I really wanted was a strong drink, but I didn’t have any booze onboard just then and I needed to clean up. I picked the fallen things up off the floor and re-stowed them. After straightening up the galley, I started to make some supper. I knew I was going to sleep well that night. </p><p>Late the next morning, I bagged the jib and covered the main. I was only two or three hours from Oriental and after getting beaten up the day before I had decided that I would just motor. There were a half dozen sailboats on the river with us that day (Friday) and only two had sails up. It wasn’t as gusty but the wind was up and the day was thickly overcast and gloomy. After reaching Oriental, I snuck past the crowded anchorage, under the bridge, and into Greens Creek where Ruth Ann and I are on our own in a wide and peaceful stretch of water. There is an occasional wake, but most everyone around here is respectful. Even just now as I type, I could hear a powerboat slow as it approached and then speed up again once it had passed us. </p><p>Saturday morning, I attended the volunteer orientation meeting, met some really nice people. The Ol’ Front Porch Music Festival is well organized and completely free. It seems like quite an amazing feat for such a small town; literally population 896. The music is a fairly wide range from traditional Appalachian and Bluegrass to some more modern “Americana,” some gospel, and even some Jazz. I can’t wait to see a band from Brooklyn called “Damn Tall Buildings” that is closing the fest Saturday night. I’ll be here through the weekend before heading down to Beaufort again to start planning my trip south. </p><p>I remain your humble correspondent, learning as I go, and becoming a better sailor one goofy day at a time. </p><p>===</p><p><br /></p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting my project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support.</p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-22393810371610924312023-09-13T09:00:00.010-04:002024-03-14T12:01:17.585-04:00Straight, No Storm Chaser<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8OlQrwvMl-tQH-wN57I_tTqic4_KkU-nCgF4wDSyJeVz02PH4t87WYAW6QarjbxSEqHU2xt7myB-VdzEfUwrCZyi1q0vnACduBdbKM4PZbHCPYs-t7jWHKBLhRb7sedOgBqMnj8VyEPK1afmBgJmb6nSvDNFH605hmKHnRt16Bs3o_a3qFBygijgxPMRc/s4096/IMG_20230906_162450415.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8OlQrwvMl-tQH-wN57I_tTqic4_KkU-nCgF4wDSyJeVz02PH4t87WYAW6QarjbxSEqHU2xt7myB-VdzEfUwrCZyi1q0vnACduBdbKM4PZbHCPYs-t7jWHKBLhRb7sedOgBqMnj8VyEPK1afmBgJmb6nSvDNFH605hmKHnRt16Bs3o_a3qFBygijgxPMRc/s320/IMG_20230906_162450415.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">sv Ruth Ann @ Washington</td></tr></tbody></table><br />A good sailor thinks several steps ahead and plans for the unexpected. It gets weird when you have to think about what you would do if your anchor let go in a tropical storm. First, I put my wallet and passport in a dry bag and clipped it near the companionway; my exit. If the anchor let go, Ruth Ann would have been pushed toward the shore and likely would have run aground long before reaching the woods along the creek bank. I figured even fighting the wind and waves I might be able to crawl and swim toward the houses nearby. But what then? <p></p><p>A few minutes later, I dug out a bigger dry bag and packed a couple changes of clothes in case the Coast Guard or the Sheriff had to drop me off at a motel somewhere. </p><p><br /></p><p>But that is getting way ahead of my story. </p><p>After a glorious offshore sail from Fernandina Beach to Savannah, the weather had been fickle and I was stuck motoring up the ICW. I made it through Beaufort (Byew-fert), South Carolina, Charleston, Georgetown, and Myrtle Beach. Then on to the Cape Fear River, through Wilmington, North Carolina, and motored up to Navassa to the boatyard where I had done all the work on Ruth Ann. It was nice to see the folks at the yard and to catch up with a couple old friends there. </p><p>Back down the river and headed north again, at Wrightsville Beach, I shared an anchorage with another friend who also owns a Bayfield 29; a mini Bayfield Rendezvous! Then I continued up to Beaufort (Bo-fert), NC to hang out with a couple friends up there. Two years before I had helped Victor get his boat from the same old boatyard up to Beaufort. This time, he had arranged with his marina that I could use their facilities even from the anchorage; laundry and a real, unlimited water shower! Hurray!</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcopNc3qeHmwkDwhg7m3f5OX_1UgictgsnA8OrLC6Vl8OASuGug7YVWI7bLyEE6L6DMrXH_TrX3N3tVEe60VlAioRxKZJOfiRlRo-W7R8pXsa2jtnuGE4FfrQqGa1NKzP9x4GXQPgtCykUOnq6hEi6sbLYMIJIOS72-AxxvdRCSoPRNjlGN-tTSi5WpLMR/s4096/IMG_20230827_064823168.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcopNc3qeHmwkDwhg7m3f5OX_1UgictgsnA8OrLC6Vl8OASuGug7YVWI7bLyEE6L6DMrXH_TrX3N3tVEe60VlAioRxKZJOfiRlRo-W7R8pXsa2jtnuGE4FfrQqGa1NKzP9x4GXQPgtCykUOnq6hEi6sbLYMIJIOS72-AxxvdRCSoPRNjlGN-tTSi5WpLMR/s320/IMG_20230827_064823168.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oriental Sunrise</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>Then we decided to buddy-boat up to the Neuse River to do some exploring. His mother, who had fed us very well on the previous trip, came along too. It was uneventful until Cheryl tried to throw a ziploc bag of watermelon chunks to me. The bag landed in the water just short of Ruth Ann’s deck, but I circled around and managed to retrieve it with my boat hook. I love watermelon! We reached the broad waters of the Neuse and found a brisk west wind with a clear fetch all the way from New Bern. The wave action got a little uncomfortable, so we opted to head into Oriental. We squeezed under the bridge and spent a peaceful night in Greens Creek. I made tortillas aboard Victor’s Willard trawler, Bubba, while Cheryl cooked up fixings for Fish Tacos. It was all delicious. </p><p>The next morning, the beautiful Willard left to return to Beaufort as Victor and Cheryl each had to work on Monday. </p><p>I had intended to stay up in Oriental where I had yet another acquaintance to meet up with. Carl is a member of an online sailing forum where I have hung out online for fifteen years or so. In fact, it was through a post on that forum that I found Ruth Ann! It was good fun to meet Carl (and his wife Joan) in real life. The dock behind their house was only a few minutes of rowing from where I had randomly anchored. They took me to dinner one night with a stop at the grocery store and the next day I got to sail in a regatta on Carl’s boat! Afterward, there was a grand social and potluck for the Sailing Club of Oriental.</p><p>And then the weather turned against me. Hurricane Idalia had crossed the Florida peninsula and was headed up the East Coast. Luckily, she had lost some strength and was only a tropical storm as she approached the Carolinas. I was watching the forecasts and had started to think that Greens Creek wasn’t as good a spot to ride out a storm as I had hoped. An east wind from the storm could come all the way up the Neuse River, under that bridge, right into the creek, and over Ruth Ann. I had a full day to get further away before the storm arrived. </p><p>I motored down the Neuse and followed the ICW to the Pamlico River where I continued up toward Washington, NC. Washington is a bit bigger than Oriental and I had decided that it would be a better spot to try and drum up some web design business. That day, I was aiming for Bath, a couple hours closer than Washington, but as I approached a long line of thunder squalls, unrelated to Idalia, was headed right over Bath Creek. Up the river, I could see blinding rain and could only guess there were strong breezes as well. I didn’t want to have to anchor in an unfamiliar creek in strong winds and low visibility. So I turned around to backtrack a bit and took a marked shortcut across a shoal to get into South Creek.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOe9ky29ABeqIRfMVRNIjgXIgoCj5Gn9sI9-Xn-7Nu4J_M5zXnp6UnXnvirN1_9hZl5qHA75vJG-Iu70ELRkVZUihNcFBISkzAv4i_OKOSxgbZZ_K05wVgYPBllHVw7zp-MdfP0esog_1wDR1WZeBLx6J4kbJlPGIgflrrpJDymUB_vQIlOuxcpNpeZzTK/s4096/IMG_20230904_192904808.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOe9ky29ABeqIRfMVRNIjgXIgoCj5Gn9sI9-Xn-7Nu4J_M5zXnp6UnXnvirN1_9hZl5qHA75vJG-Iu70ELRkVZUihNcFBISkzAv4i_OKOSxgbZZ_K05wVgYPBllHVw7zp-MdfP0esog_1wDR1WZeBLx6J4kbJlPGIgflrrpJDymUB_vQIlOuxcpNpeZzTK/s320/IMG_20230904_192904808.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">South Creek</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>The rain was holding north of my track and I motored up the creek past large stands of hardwoods along the shore and very few houses. Unfortunately, there was a boat already in the anchorage I had picked on the chart, so I kept going upstream. At a sharp bend where another creek came in from the south, flanked by a small group of houses, I anchored in a place called Duck Blind Pass. I would have preferred to have anchored near the northern shore. However, there was an abandoned wharf and a bunch of decrepit pilings marking the old channel there and I didn’t want to anchor in their midst. I could see on the chart that behind the wharf and the trees were great man-made ponds with straight edges and hard corners. I learned later it was a huge Nutrien fertilizer plant of some nature; a major employer in the area and probably a major polluter too. </p><p>I dropped the hook in a wide spot along the south shore, near the smaller creek. The forecast indicated that the strongest winds were going to come out of the east and then the northeast during the storm. Ruth Ann and I were well protected from those directions. I prepped for the storm; pulled the bagged jib and the anchor float off the bowsprit and opened the dodger to let the wind blow through it rather than against it. I thought we were ready for just about anything. </p><p>And then the forecast changed a bit. </p><p>I made some supper after my prep work and managed to sleep a little. As the storm got closer, the path of the eye actually veered a bit offshore. Nevertheless, Idalia was a huge storm and her impacts were wide. About 2:00 AM, the outer edge of the storm reached South Creek. As the storm turned offshore, the wind direction had changed; blowing straight out of the north. We had much less protection than I had counted on. South Creek was just wide enough to let some chop develop as the wind crossed to us. Ruth Ann was “hobby-horsing” in the short, choppy waves; her bow rose and fell in a regular rhythm. I didn’t sleep much after it all started. I don’t have a wind gauge but the forecast then called for steady winds in the low 30s with gusts just over 40 knots. </p><p>I hadn’t really planned on the hobby-horsing and it made me slightly concerned about my anchor line. Yet it was already too late to do anything about it. I checked the anchor alarm app on my tablet often and could tell that we were not dragging … yet. I laid back down but did not actually sleep. It was just more comfortable to shake with Ruth Ann in a prone position than to lurch around while standing or sitting down. I finished a book I had been reading about our government’s finances in the founding era.</p><p>It was then that I started to think that I should probably at least prepare for the worst. What would happen if the anchor line let go? I didn’t expect any storm surge so far from the ocean, but in the steady stiff breezes, the danger was chafe on the anchor line or the anchor itself dragging. When the sun came up, I crawled forward in the wind to check the anchor line. Everything looked fine, but the line was as tight as a guitar string and any further adjustment would have been dangerous. It was up to Davy Jones at that point. </p><p>Then I put my wallet and passport in a small dry bag and clipped it next to the companionway where I could grab it on my way out. A few minutes later, I was pondering what it would actually be like if all hell broke loose and I had to abandon ship. The houses along the shore were probably close enough that I could swim and crawl toward them. I could bang on someone’s door and beg for shelter or help. Worst case scenario, the wind might blow us into the forest along the edge of the creek directly downwind. Then again, as long as Ruth Ann was at least some measure more vertical than horizontal, I could probably survive aboard until the storm had passed. </p><p>I was starving and made some pancakes while rocking in the galley.</p><p>I read some more; a new book about Secular Buddhism.</p><p>The earlier forecast had indicated strong winds until Friday evening, but, about midday, the wind began to fade. I did all my checks again; anchor position, anchor line, water depth, distance to shore, etc. And all was good. </p><p>I slept all afternoon and into the evening. </p><p>I had plenty of food and water, although the morning after the storm I emptied the water jugs stored on deck into Ruth Ann’s tank. I’d have five or six days before I needed to find some more water. It was then that I realized that it was Labor Day Weekend. My plan had been to head on into Washington and use the city’s free dock to fill up on water and run some errands. I could have used some fresh veggies by then and I had to find a FedEx outlet in order to return a part I had ordered incorrectly. I was low on diesel for my engine as well. But there was no sense in heading into town to fight the holiday crowds and traffic. </p><p>I stayed in the creek until Tuesday morning. </p><p>The houses along the creek were not palatial, but probably a fishing version of the gentleman farmers I was familiar with in Michigan. They must have been wondering about me and how long I planned to stay so near to their fine trimmed lawns and expensive fishing boats hanging on dock lifts. Saturday morning, after the storm, we had been buzzed by a private helicopter. The pilot just kind of stared at me as he hovered over Ruth Ann. He didn’t even wave, so I didn’t either; just another rude rich guy. Nevertheless, I didn’t stay too long, and Tuesday morning I sorted myself and Ruth Ann, checked the engine, and hauled the anchor. </p><p>The Pamlico River is also quite broad and it was a pleasant day heading up into Washington. The wind was right on our nose, so I motored – again. We passed clusters of houses and docks, passed a huge Nutrien Employee Center on the water, and had lots of room and lots of water to make our way north and mostly east. Nearer to Washington, the river starts to get a little shallow and the last few miles are a narrow, marked channel. </p><p>At Washington, there is a railroad bridge with a unique schedule. Many railroad bridges are “usually open” and only close when a train approaches. The Coastal Carolina Railroad bridge here closes each morning at 7:30 for a northbound train and stays closed until the same train returns around 10:00. If the train is more than fifteen minutes away, you can request the bridge to open for you, but otherwise the bridge stays open after the train has made its southbound return. I would bet the train and its schedule are related to the Nutrien plant somehow. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWT_ftSnDt2xTdBI0tkLKc5Tn9X0DiFKkl4vvdXyo5PzJi910GI5mBZFvsLs3OR22lhmosLYQ9i3jLwCDFbCRPrpE7sYOw41nszCNLTzBThMJnnAAgT_hOpMdtMAtsIr888HFBFRekb3awkEbbWUcNegF8usPipbZu2lSqlk294B-fRFaDCn2d6hf9iTH/s4096/IMG_20230905_171249311.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWT_ftSnDt2xTdBI0tkLKc5Tn9X0DiFKkl4vvdXyo5PzJi910GI5mBZFvsLs3OR22lhmosLYQ9i3jLwCDFbCRPrpE7sYOw41nszCNLTzBThMJnnAAgT_hOpMdtMAtsIr888HFBFRekb3awkEbbWUcNegF8usPipbZu2lSqlk294B-fRFaDCn2d6hf9iTH/s320/IMG_20230905_171249311.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washington Waterfront</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Washington, North Carolina is called the “Original Washington.” The settlement was established in the 1770s by James Bonner and was first called Forks of the Tar. After Bonner had returned from the Revolutionary War, having served as a colonel in the Beaufort Regiment, he changed the town’s name to honor General Washington long before the District of Columbia or any of the other Washington locales. During the war, while Savannah, Charleston, and other nearby ports were under siege by the British, Forks of the Tar had been an important supply port for the rebels. </p><p>Today, Washington is a very pleasant medium sized town with a very nice waterfront. The City runs the Washington Waterfront Docks where slips are available as well as free transient dockage. The transient docks are free for forty eight hours and include access to showers, laundry, and even a couple bikes with baskets. There are many, many restaurants within walking distance of the docks. I’ll be here for a few weeks. Then the first weekend of October, I am scheduled to be back in Oriental where I will volunteer at the Ol’ Front Porch Music Festival. </p><p>There is another, even bigger storm, passing by the Carolinas later this week, but Lee will not get very close to the coast. Life is good. </p><p>Hope all is well with all y’all.</p><p>===</p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting my project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support.</p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-67118338278189862502023-08-01T09:00:00.016-04:002024-03-14T12:00:14.436-04:00Welp ... That Was Stupid<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJD5s5tQaG5Tc53bLyc9EaTSEzYUo5EkKNWgfUYi5MBobycojE9bdJ6qcyeEUaAUu35uh4uW-y3yFpNnNUXyx8zIU328LTf9nAB6isaao9J__u4D1RbGsw44JUjJco46NvIXLWsjHEEn7nxDWWOQk4OMWOrCW2mPX9LS3GnkdakjklfV7mZU3rWRdkzz2g/s4096/IMG_20230720_201943459.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJD5s5tQaG5Tc53bLyc9EaTSEzYUo5EkKNWgfUYi5MBobycojE9bdJ6qcyeEUaAUu35uh4uW-y3yFpNnNUXyx8zIU328LTf9nAB6isaao9J__u4D1RbGsw44JUjJco46NvIXLWsjHEEn7nxDWWOQk4OMWOrCW2mPX9LS3GnkdakjklfV7mZU3rWRdkzz2g/s320/IMG_20230720_201943459.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rabbit Island Anchorage</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I made a terrifically stupid mistake last Wednesday when I had not prepared well enough for all possible contingencies. When I read “The Black Swan” by Nicolas Nassim Talib a few years ago, it was very influential on my thinking. The book is a thick read, packed with analysis and wisdom. Talib consistently applies his ideas to economics in the book but makes it clear that those ideas have wide applicability. The gist of the book is that we don’t evaluate risk from a broad enough perspective. For instance, while some individual component in a system might only have a two percent chance of failure, if that failure would be catastrophic for the system as a whole, then that individual risk is actually not small at all as it relates to the system.</p><p>Several of my choices with regard to fitting out Ruth Ann were analyzed from Talib’s perspective. Last week, however, when I decided to continue to tow the dinghy, I had let my guard down and wasn’t looking comprehensively at all the risks. I was frustrated with the weather and wanted to keep moving, but I should have paused. I should have stowed the dinghy on deck, but now I’m getting ahead of my story. </p><p><br /></p><p>I don’t usually raise a sail when I’m motoring in tight spaces like on the ICW (Intra Coastal Waterway), but I found myself on a long stretch in the same direction with the wind just off my starboard quarter and I couldn’t resist. Motorsailing in the bright sunshine of one of the hottest days of the year was sweaty but simply rapturous. I would have rather been sailing offshore, but the fluky weather had kept me on the inside, on the ICW. I had to jibe a couple times to keep the sail filled and follow the channel, but I was having fun.</p><p>Something had changed with the dinghy. While rowing the week before, my butt got wet a couple times from water splashing up from inside the centerboard well. That had not happened before. Worse yet, as I was now motoring, and motorsailing along, I noticed that a fair amount of water was splashing into the forward half of the dinghy from the well. I was keeping an eye on it .. that is until I discovered that I was in the wrong channel. </p><p>I was having so much fun helping the motor by flying the jib that I wasn’t paying enough attention to my track. I had started following the wrong set of markers. As I looked around just then, I was getting into more open water; which wasn’t right. After checking and rechecking my chartplotter, I realized that I had gotten into the St. Helena Inlet and was headed out toward the Atlantic. My destination had been the Raccoon Island Anchorage which was marked on my chart. Wondering if I would still have time to get there, I had the chartplotter recalculate the route. We had already turned around, but the new route showed that we could go up the Ashepoo River rather than backtracking all the way to my missed turn.</p><p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgidC6HsA9Q-xXcnK03RhzGqh0Id7Y-n_gIT6-eP0jcU0Z0DWvlD7Z4CwhLXkJv2EFbadCRISlaUrgBdQSF8vjdNIigFiikqs2DswIjCy2SvTgblVAMGHiNyhe9pw5bNGRGocsAzoRXgsUysY1G0-ol_zQqh4-6JrN71s3ZJtzgo3dhhnHTJb9ie165ZMa5/s4096/IMG_20230514_165217843.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgidC6HsA9Q-xXcnK03RhzGqh0Id7Y-n_gIT6-eP0jcU0Z0DWvlD7Z4CwhLXkJv2EFbadCRISlaUrgBdQSF8vjdNIigFiikqs2DswIjCy2SvTgblVAMGHiNyhe9pw5bNGRGocsAzoRXgsUysY1G0-ol_zQqh4-6JrN71s3ZJtzgo3dhhnHTJb9ie165ZMa5/s320/IMG_20230514_165217843.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oars on the thwarts</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>It was then that I noticed that the dinghy was really quite full of water. The larger swell in the inlet had made the splashing much worse. The dinghy wallowed way below her lines with the waves nearly reaching high enough to fill her from the top. When the dinghy came down a wave, the water in it would slosh to one side which caused it to lean sickeningly close to turning over each time. The oars were loose, as usual, riding on the thwarts which would have been fine for gurgling along on the ICW, but was not great since we’d gotten so close to the ocean. I slowed Ruth Ann to mitigate the dinghy’s motion. We had been steering around a shoal that extended from the southern point of a large island. The Ashepoo River lay just beyond the shoal where I had hoped there might be some protected water where I could slow the boat or anchor to bail out the dinghy. </p><p>Then I heard the clunk. </p><p>Anyone who has ever paddled a canoe or rowed a boat would recognize the ringing tone of the hardwood oars as they banged against the dinghy which was suddenly completely swamped. I watched the oars float away free in the ragged ocean swell as we bobbed in the wide inlet. The dinghy had become like a sea anchor with hundreds of pounds of water in it, creating tons of resistance, and straining against the painter -- its only connection to the boat. </p><p>The dinghy is my car. Without it I could not get to shore from Ruth Ann at anchor. Losing the oars would be like losing the engine of a car. We were not in a good spot. The swell was coming in straight off the Atlantic and rocked us mercilessly. Nevertheless, it was critical that I collect the oars and with the swamped dinghy dragging behind, it was not going to be easy. </p><p>I had been cutting across the shoal in water just deep enough for Ruth Ann and now the fugitive oars were being pushed by the swell into ever more shallow water. My initial pass at the nearest oar failed. I hadn’t gotten quite close enough to reach it with my boat hook. As I turned around to try again, the depth sounder briefly displayed three dashes, not some number of feet below us; meaning nada, zero. My stomach dropped as I realized that I was already brushing the keel along the bottom. </p><p>I turned toward where I thought deeper water would be but had to circle back for the oar. As I got closer and closer, dashes flashed again. I hadn’t felt the bottom, but I knew that we were on the verge of running aground. If we had run aground, amidst the swell coming in from the ocean, there’s no telling how much damage Ruth Ann would have sustained before we could be rescued. The waves would have picked her up and dropped her, again and again; banging her incessantly on the bottom. </p><p>But I had to try. </p><p>The first oar came alongside again and, that time, I grabbed it. Amazingly, I was able to lift one end high enough to grab it with my other hand. I grinned grimly and turned the boat again; guessing where deeper water might be. The second oar was twenty or thirty feet away and this time I knew just how close I had to get. I jumped from the cockpit to the rail and leaned out over the water, hanging by a shroud, stretching the boat hook as far as I could. The hook dipped into the water just short of the oar on the first lunge, but I lunged again and was just able to grab it. A wave must have bumped us just enough for me to reach the oar. I stashed that oar on the side deck next to the first and climbed back to the helm. I spun Ruth Ann around and hoped that Neptune would let us make it out of the shallows. </p><p>I tried to head directly toward the Ashepoo River and the route out of there, but I was still on the bottom; all dashes again. I turned out toward the ocean, “downhill” on the shoal, and watched as the depth sounder finally began flashing 1.2, then 2.7, and finally steady at 3.5 for a good stretch. Near most of the inlets along the Southeast United States, the Coast Guard marks the channels with buoys which can be moved as the sandbars shift in the tidal currents or from a storm. Thankfully, if we were on the bottom, that bottom was just sand; sifted not packed hard. However, I had never felt us ‘bottom out,’ so it was likely that we had stirred up the sand and the depth sounder had interpreted the excessively cloudy water as solid ground. Either way, we were very close to grave danger. My heart did not slow until I started to see double digit depths below us. And then I was finally able to turn toward the river.</p><p>It was one of those oppressively hot days with the moist air so thick that it felt as if I was breathing through a wool scarf. And I needed to drink some water. The oars were aboard but my work was not done. The dinghy still lurched around behind us, completely swamped and if I didn’t bail it soon, it could be lost. </p><p>Once we were in about fifteen feet of water, even though we were still in the swell of the inlet, I dropped the anchor and let out just enough chain to hold us temporarily. I had first tried to get in the dinghy after bringing it alongside, but, full of water, it was extremely unstable. When I started to step aboard, the water sloshed toward my foot and the dinghy wanted to go right over. I decided that the only way to bail effectively was to get in the water next to it.</p><p>I pulled the dinghy across Ruth Ann’s stern and tied it from each end. After crawling down the swim ladder, waist deep in the water, I hung on to the ladder and the dinghy with one arm and bailed with the other. I had gotten really tired in the heat, yet I had no choice but to carry on. Once most of the water was out, I managed to climb into the dinghy and bailed the last of the water more quickly. Finally, the dinghy was nearly dry and safe to tow again. It would not have been possible to ship the dinghy in those rolly conditions. I finally got some water to drink and paused for a couple precious minutes to catch my breath. </p><p>After double checking with the recalculated route, I went forward to haul the anchor. I don’t have a windlass, so after all that work retrieving the oars and bailing the dinghy, now I had to pull in the anchor by hand while the ocean swell pushed the boat against the chain. I hauled and hauled; stubborn, slow, and steady to get the anchor raised. </p><p>With the anchor up, Ruth Ann bobbed joyously in the swell and gently turned toward the river with the help of the wind and waves. I secured the anchor chain and walked back to the helm. The engine had been idling and I pushed the lever into forward gear. We were finally free and moving toward our destination again. According to the chartplotter, I could probably get the anchor down before the sun set. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-ftAeyWmc2fJjlKR3GS8uOKbbR5TaFsNMZUqFb-RugAkOAVW9f05_A7CIkII5y2BskFs38yE_UkzKplmh7o7sSGsgeMPqVfZk5VH4Bq4l0d0fyZkBBePw-HbxeEnEPx2c6mKuNyofcIrWJvA70LY8kO0W2aBkvcMPtsjwVTuNe2u4rQjoZZCPds012wA/s4096/IMG_20230720_191018574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-ftAeyWmc2fJjlKR3GS8uOKbbR5TaFsNMZUqFb-RugAkOAVW9f05_A7CIkII5y2BskFs38yE_UkzKplmh7o7sSGsgeMPqVfZk5VH4Bq4l0d0fyZkBBePw-HbxeEnEPx2c6mKuNyofcIrWJvA70LY8kO0W2aBkvcMPtsjwVTuNe2u4rQjoZZCPds012wA/s320/IMG_20230720_191018574.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Firehose Installed</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Epilogue:</p><p>It was not a great idea to travel towing the dinghy but it was especially bad in open water. Leaving the oars loose was just lazy, but I had been getting away with it up to then. The oars would have been fine if I hadn’t left the calm waters of the ICW. When planning to go offshore, I always tie the dinghy down on deck. The next day, I stowed the oars properly and installed the centerboard in order to close off the top of the well. While the dinghy stayed dry, it swayed harshly from right to left as the board caught the flow from one side and then the other, yanking the painter at each turn. After a couple hours, afraid that the painter would chafe through from the repetitive shocks, I pulled into a creek to anchor and try something else. I had some expired office building firehose (really) onboard to use as chafe guard material. I cut a couple pieces the length of the well and stuffed them into the top. It worked great and has been working fine in protected waters. </p><p>As long as I don’t get lost again, I’ll be OK. </p><p>As per usual, I’d rather be lucky than good, but that was pushing it.</p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-19326429550449556462023-07-26T09:00:00.015-04:002024-03-14T11:59:48.004-04:00An Offshore Sail ... finally<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5CG62zKIUEXFy6MNza7wEkh13C1DUa8NPWKUl_LCZ7096IHKISuptWuXEN6IReG3zEXog5Li9xHah9YqmDj1y6d_O0nNy-lXyiZ-C3XGPu5okMlCvtXLBSOById3BeZ7t9TL0PYyg5D4gCqdYTxF33T6ETNH3WMXbpqyNKbGxJC_fHGC2oNuskmRyPjPV/s4096/IMG_20230711_142903034.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5CG62zKIUEXFy6MNza7wEkh13C1DUa8NPWKUl_LCZ7096IHKISuptWuXEN6IReG3zEXog5Li9xHah9YqmDj1y6d_O0nNy-lXyiZ-C3XGPu5okMlCvtXLBSOById3BeZ7t9TL0PYyg5D4gCqdYTxF33T6ETNH3WMXbpqyNKbGxJC_fHGC2oNuskmRyPjPV/s320/IMG_20230711_142903034.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The vane of the windvane</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Previously, I had made my way to Fernandina Beach from Green Cove Springs, finally moving north, but caught by a heavy squall just as I entered the anchorage. This story picks up the next day; a day of preparations. <p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Despite the gusty winds on Monday, I had re-secured the dinghy, tightened up my rig, and worked on prepping Ruth Ann to go offshore. I was still contemplating my actual strategy. The winds were forecast to be quite light for most of the morning on Tuesday. I was concerned that I might get out on the ocean and get stuck out there without any wind. The choice was to either jump offshore or to continue motoring up the ICW. Ultimately, I decided that if I took the ICW I would have to motor for sure, but if I went offshore, I could motor all day long and not be any worse off ... but ... if the wind picked up, I would be sailing. Worst case, if the wind never showed up, I could pull in at St. Simons Sound, and head up through Brunswick to get back on the ICW. </p><p>Sometimes, I can get bogged down overthinking and procrastinating, but I pushed through it and Tuesday morning, Ruth Ann and I left the Fernandina Beach Anchorage, turned toward the ocean on the St. Marys River, and we were on our way. The mainsail was already raised, with the flying jib and the staysail hanked on at the bow and ready to be hoisted. After only a couple hours, the wind had filled in and I raised the head sails. A short while later, I pulled the engine stop, and peace returned to my world. It is always such a magical moment when the engine is turned off. For a short while, the missing rumble of the engine makes the silence even more magnificent.</p><p>I began sailing right toward my destination, Port Royal Sound just into South Carolina, north of Hilton Head Island. It was so good to be sailing again, and ocean sailing to boot! We were on a broad reach, the fastest, yet most comfortable point of sail. The wind was blowing across Ruth Ann, perpendicular to our heading. On a broad reach, a boat is flatter in the water, not healing over, and the sails are at their most efficient. It was glorious! </p><p>I had ordered a windvane from South Atlantic in Argentina. It had been hanging on Ruth Ann’s transom since 2022 and I finally had a chance to fiddle with it. It is a servo-pendulum windvane which means that the windvane does not steer the boat, but its rudder actuates a pair of control lines which steer the helm using the boat’s own rudder. It is a bit like when you stuck your arm out the window of a car when you were a kid, raising and lowering your arm using your hand like an airfoil. The same force that moved your arm, pulls a control line and turns the wheel. </p><p>I had made a couple beautiful control lines out of dyneema, because I have a lot of it around. However, dyneema is a very slippery material and my fancy control lines kept sliding out of the clamps on my ship’s wheel. Ruth Ann’s long keel allows her to carry on without me for a couple minutes anyway, so I went below and grabbed some standard line. Sailors always have extra rope around. </p><p>With the less slippery control lines, I got the windvane working for the very first time and had it steering Ruth Ann for a few hours. My newfound freedom allowed me to wander around the boat and enjoy the ride. I also checked my running rigging and other gear for chafe or wear. It was completely soul-enriching to be out on the ocean, on my own boat, while she steered herself. We were all simply joyous. </p><p>I also got to catch some cat naps. After passing Brunswick, there wouldn’t be any big ship traffic until Savannah. As the windvane steered us toward South Carolina, I took twenty minute naps down below. What a feeling, being confident enough in my boat, her systems, my work, and the universe that I actually slept as we sailed toward our destination. </p><p>After lying down for twenty minutes, once my alarm sounded, I would get up to have a look around outside. Twenty minutes is a good round number, but it is also about the length of time it would take a freighter to come over the horizon and get close to us. After a half dozen cat naps, I stayed in the cockpit for a while enjoying the night. The sunset had been wonderful, but the stars were amazing once it got dark. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQyjHF8poqyWO9TKOK3vU9CzPNm9PG3lGdnG8-PhhH2sCLYigpYRlS3y7u8WbWbqNxYRjwJUtywczkclDqqWfOz43J78zcLL8Epk5LEa2yE__9gFwKYRM3BK6Nlrsq2syOGjsyvJ0ALlJAUhSQETqke9JyDr530HHWyC605O8-2ZifxS5-ijv2jESus-n/s4096/IMG_20230712_055254751.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQyjHF8poqyWO9TKOK3vU9CzPNm9PG3lGdnG8-PhhH2sCLYigpYRlS3y7u8WbWbqNxYRjwJUtywczkclDqqWfOz43J78zcLL8Epk5LEa2yE__9gFwKYRM3BK6Nlrsq2syOGjsyvJ0ALlJAUhSQETqke9JyDr530HHWyC605O8-2ZifxS5-ijv2jESus-n/s320/IMG_20230712_055254751.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise at Sea</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>We were sailing about ten miles offshore, far enough from any other light source that the sky filled up with stars. Landlubbers would hardly imagine how thick the stars actually are. Words like ‘million’ and ‘billion’ are just a little easier to comprehend when all the stars are allowed to shine uninhibited by local light sources. The Milky Way was a huge, bright river of stars running all the way across the sky. It was magical.</p><p>And then it started to get weird. </p><p>Sailing in the dark, I could hear the waves around me, but I couldn’t see them. While listening to the waves, I tried to guess what they looked like and what they were telling me. A strange slap on the waves caused a glow of bioluminescence. I assumed that we were running through a cross current or something that had changed the texture of the waves. Then a strange line lit up a couple feet below the surface for nearly the length of Ruth Ann. Suddenly, there were little spots lighting up; randomly at first and then in short rows.</p><p>And then a huge crashing splash on the other side of the boat. I had been looking the other direction, but when I turned toward the sound, a whole patch of ocean was lit up. Soon there were splashes all around me. One splash, just to starboard, caused a bright enough glow that I could see the dolphin thrashing around under the surface. There were several dolphins and they must have been feeding on something. </p><p>And then the dumbest, most movie-cliche thing that has ever happened to me … happened. </p><p>A flying fish came soaring out of the water! And I had just caught the motion out of the corner of my eye when it hit me square in the chest and fell into the cockpit. It flopped around and then fell into the slot between the cockpit wall and the hatch that is the cockpit floor. She was much bigger than I would have expected; probably ten inches long and nearly as big around as my wrist. When I tried to grab her, she rattled around in the slot at the edge of the cockpit. I had heard that flying fish have a distinct smell and I will not forget her oily scent, like opening a can of sardines that had gone off. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yboGgVUB6dXQE9q0AH_P1CiNXUuJC4-dl8Y2rciiyKEa3i3njQ_Vq6tiz40xoqbHl1IegiqRAewAsKEKz5cP0lwH1PGTnrvk2HxX602DjfmCMkla-VJBR5ZkZQQF-IP8FBBaHtlwaw0D_9kEEE8NUFLEp0LUwHSE6nUF0ltcZ-K3CUf76gAZrzrRjhba/s1600/1600px-Flying_Fish_(5800263376).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yboGgVUB6dXQE9q0AH_P1CiNXUuJC4-dl8Y2rciiyKEa3i3njQ_Vq6tiz40xoqbHl1IegiqRAewAsKEKz5cP0lwH1PGTnrvk2HxX602DjfmCMkla-VJBR5ZkZQQF-IP8FBBaHtlwaw0D_9kEEE8NUFLEp0LUwHSE6nUF0ltcZ-K3CUf76gAZrzrRjhba/s320/1600px-Flying_Fish_(5800263376).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Mike Prince, <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en">Creative Commons</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>And then it was on. I was almost embarrassed at the rambunctious and reckless feast the dolphins were having. Flying fish began jumping all over; eight or ten of them landed on Ruth Ann’s deck. I tried to save them all and a couple were so startled by my big bright flashlight that they writhed around, jumped a little higher, and went over the side. It took me so long to find one of them that when I threw it back, I wasn’t sure it would survive. And I didn’t find one sad, small guy until the next morning. </p><p>Dolphins and flying fish and bioluminescence all together was completely surreal. It was amazing how far the fish can leap/fly. And coated in the glowing seabound cousins of fireflies, they looked like LED encrusted drones flying around. I saw them dart through the water, kicking off little glowing trails and I saw the dolphins in hot pursuit painting the ocean in huge arcing brushstokes of a strange green light.</p><p>And almost as abruptly as it started, the glowing was gone and the crashes and slaps went silent. </p><p>Soon after, when I was twelve miles or so off Savannah, the wind just died. I had made it into Wednesday, but the wind was gone. The sails hung loosely and flopped back and forth, slamming against the sheets and blocks – from the rolling waves, not from any wind. It was time to change the plan and I fired up the engine, deciding to head toward the coast and into the Wassaw Inlet, just south of Savannah. The inlet was far enough away from the port that I wouldn’t have to deal with any ship traffic. It was, however, going to be three or four hours before I got back to the coast. I switched the control lines of the windvane for the belt of the autopilot and went back to napping. It was about three thirty Wednesday morning and I had been on the water since nine o’clock Tuesday; up since about six that morning before. Every twenty or thirty minutes I got up and looked around but there was no one else. </p><p>It was light out by the time I could see the coast. The Wassaw Inlet is a little tricky and shallow, I had to be on my toes to make it over the bar and safely into the Wilmington River. There was one anchorage on the chart not too far inland and not much else that looked inviting. Another option turned out to be just a wide spot next to the ICW, but I was keen to return to the Herb River. That was where I had been the week before Christmas when a winter storm was blanketing most of the Eastern half of the United States. Five nights in a row it got down into the twenties after I had found a dock nearby. It seemed poetic to arrive at the same spot while sweating. </p><p>By the time I got to the Herb, I probably could have motored all the way to South Carolina. It was about three hours to get back to shore and then almost four hours to get all the way up the river to Thunderbolt, Georgia. I ended up staying there for two days to rest and recover, and to figure out my next move. I was so far from the inlet I had entered, it didn’t make any sense to go back out that way. It would be shorter to head to the Savannah River and go out that way, or just cross into South Carolina on the ICW; either way it was plenty hot and I needed to keep going north.</p><p>===</p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting my project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support.</p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-21932215915340742922023-07-19T09:00:00.001-04:002023-07-19T09:00:00.135-04:00Catching the Squalls<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBuMMTRDw5am8UoaklYUCPwEY5qCl4151lI28FndCWplY0csp2NsJuWJEo7ve-WLfxRDSDaMQjM3OjdUdOmf-U3g5tYujLKBLw7MTaDdSv3rc0Zfbid1bxOriqo_8kc_0zx6DBOYSrmtogegw0G0NzVx9OpyEZkyFPZEYy--gncRu_XyAGWHw-3HEwN5G/s4096/IMG_20230708_201657746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBuMMTRDw5am8UoaklYUCPwEY5qCl4151lI28FndCWplY0csp2NsJuWJEo7ve-WLfxRDSDaMQjM3OjdUdOmf-U3g5tYujLKBLw7MTaDdSv3rc0Zfbid1bxOriqo_8kc_0zx6DBOYSrmtogegw0G0NzVx9OpyEZkyFPZEYy--gncRu_XyAGWHw-3HEwN5G/s320/IMG_20230708_201657746.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gunnison Crossing Sunset</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>I spent about seven weeks in Green Cove Springs, Florida to be near my mail service. There it was convenient to order parts and be able to pick them up rather than paying again for shipping. I did a bunch of small projects on Ruth Ann and attempted, yet failed, to see either a dentist or a doctor. Routine checks would have been nice at each, but they will have to wait until I return in the fall. I cleaned up and organized the cabin, actually got rid of some stuff that I don’t use, and got in the water, with a mask and fins, a couple times to scrape the barnacles off both Ruth Ann and the dinghy. </p><p>Nevertheless, it was way past time for me to get out of Florida. Hurricane Season had started June First, but I had been distracted by the momentum I had established finishing the many projects on my list. So, I was late in leaving the Carolinas last December, and was now late to leave Florida this summer. My aspirational philosophy is: “If it’s too cold, move south. If it’s too warm, move north.” It’s been HOT the last few weeks! I will do better next year. </p><p>My planned departure day from Green Cove Springs was last Saturday, so Friday night I moved over to the Public Pier. For twenty bucks, I spent the night at a dock where I plugged in to fully charge my batteries and filled up on water. Late that afternoon, despite a clear forecast, a big, strong storm moved through the area. I don’t like being at a dock generally, but I especially don’t like being at one in a storm. </p><p>The Green Cove Springs Public Pier is a very nice facility. The floating docks at the end of the pier include five slips for medium-sized boats and a face dock that can accommodate much bigger ones. On most days, floating docks are very convenient as the boat and dock will rise and fall together. You don’t have to allow for the tide when tying up your boat. However, in the wave action of a strong storm, because they are different lengths and buoyancies, the dock and the boat can get out of sync. This sets up a nasty shock load each time the dock is falling as the boat is rising and vice versa. The dock lines yank at the cleats with brutal force at the apex of each cycle. </p><p>Unfortunately, I also had the dinghy in the slip with Ruth Ann. The dinghy is a nesting dinghy which means that it comes apart into two halves that nest together to stow on deck in a small space. I had planned to take the dinghy apart just before leaving in the morning. More than once during the squall, I stepped off Ruth Ann to adjust her lines and the lines to the dinghy to prevent any damage to either. Keep in mind that this “stepping off” was happening while the boat and the dock were slamming around out of sync. </p><p>When the storm had finally passed, it was still daylight and I needed a beer.</p><p>I hadn’t planned to go out that night but I went back to La Casita, a little Mexican place just up the hill from the pier and one of my favorites. A couple nights before I had had a wonderful dinner at Roger That Wings and Things. It was a little expensive, but the blackened mahi sandwich was exquisite, the fries were uniquely crunchy, and the coleslaw was divine (of all things), but the crowd was a little bougie for me and the staff was tolerably nice but somewhat aloof. At La Casita, the waitresses are all like everyone’s favorite aunt and the staff is cheerful and helpful. After you are seated, a runner brings out a basketful of fantastic house-made chips, with a bowl and a small carafe of salsa. They smile and pour some of the delicious salsa into the bowl while assuring you that someone will be right with you to take your order. The little carafe and the personal attention are such nice touches; typical of their attention to detail. Every item I have tried there is wonderful and absolutely authentic. Friday, I had gone back for my regular: a couple shrimp tacos and a Negra Modelo draft or two. Once satiated, I returned to Ruth Ann and went back to work on my Departure To Do List.</p><p>In the morning, I was preparing to take the dinghy apart and load it on deck when my neighbor from when I was in Governor Creek showed up. He asked what was going on and I told him I was headed out. </p><p>“Oh, darn,” he said, “I was going to ask you to crank me up my mast. My friend is coming to tail the winch, so he could lower me and you could leave as soon as I’m at the top.” </p><p>That sounded more than a little sketchy, but Doug is a good man and a real sailor who struggles with a degenerative nerve condition. I agreed right away to stick around long enough to crank him up his mast. He left to go get his boat back at the creek and bring it down to the pier. </p><p>I had disassembled the dinghy and set up the rack which I had built for it on top of Ruth Ann's cabin. I was cranking the halves up on deck and cleaning them off. I’ve only lifted them a couple times and almost dropped the aft half, scaring a couple who had wandered down the pier for some pictures. He offered to help, but I was fine -- just clumsy. A few minutes later, Doug’s friend showed up to tell me that Doug was stuck in the creek with an engine problem and didn’t want me to have to wait. I was free to go. </p><p>My main concern that day had been to get to Jacksonville before another afternoon storm. The storm pattern had seemed to have established itself and I didn’t relish getting caught out on the water in the wind and rain of a Florida Summer Thunderstorm. I decided to put off tightening the rig because I could do that in Jacksonville before I headed offshore. Ruth Ann was mostly ready, so I checked her fluids, cranked the engine, untied the lines, and shoved off. </p><p>The trip down the river was uneventful. In fact, the afternoon storm had not yet appeared. I was watching the sky and checking the radar on my phone. At Jacksonville, we passed under the I-295 bypass, then I-95 itself, a railroad bridge quickly followed by the Acosta Bypass bridge, and then I had to call and ask the Main Street Bridge to open for us. Amazingly, there was still no storm brewing. I decided to go past the free docks at the Municipal Marina and head to the next anchorage. </p><p>Well east of Jacksonville and down the St Johns River, I went under the Napoleon Bonapart Broward Bridge at Dames Point, got past the Port of Jacksonville, and still no storm. [BTW - N.P. Broward was a river pilot turned Florida governor in the early 20th Century] The anchorage I had picked was just past the port in an oxbow around Blount Island. The weather was still clear when I arrived, so I just kept going. I was making more headway than I had imagined that I could. </p><p>About halfway between the Port and the Atlantic Ocean is Sisters Creek on the northern shore. The ICW crosses the St Johns there and a nice anchorage is just off the river. My original plan, that I thought I was still on, was to go straight down the river, out into the ocean, and head for Port Royal Sound in South Carolina, just north of Hilton Head Island. </p><p>I got to Sisters Creek and realized it was Saturday evening. There are two parks and three large boat ramps on the creek right off the river. I had planned to use the anchorage across from the ramps, but the ramps are always busy on the weekends. Further it looked like a fishing tournament was going on and the cops had some boat detained on the face dock. I decided to keep moving. There was a beautiful and quiet anchorage, where I had been in January, an hour and a half or so up the creek. I didn’t even slow down. </p><p>I wrote before about the difference, but south of the river, as the ICW cuts through Jacksonville, it is very urban. However, north of the river and past the boat ramps is wilderness; a huge marsh with seagrass and little sandy islands almost as far as you can see. Some of those islands nearly disappear at high tide, others are well higher than the tide line, and some even support small hammocks of trees. There are seabirds of all kinds as well as osprey and eagles. Ruth Ann and I gurgled back past the river intersection where <a href="https://www.bubbathepirate.com/2023/05/the-summer-wind-was-blowin-in.html" target="_blank">I last saw the Summer Wind</a>. As we came around a long curve, the last half mile before my destination, I could see a fishing boat sitting right where I wanted to put Ruth Ann. The little anchorage at Broward Creek only has room for a boat or two and I wasn’t about to nudge in there to drop my anchor while they were fishing. Now it was getting critical. There was another anchorage ahead but I was running out of daylight – and what if I found another fishing boat?<br /></p><p>As we made our way along the creek, I was checking behind me to see if the fisherman ever left Broward Creek. As the daylight faded, my only choice was to keep rolling along. Just before Sawpit Creek and my anchorage, a woman in a fishing boat went screaming by and in a long arc – went into the creek. Oh, hell. </p><p>When I arrived, however, she was down at the end of the creek where there was another boat ramp but at this end my destination was clear. It was a beautiful spot called Gunnison Crossing on the chart, but I couldn’t find any information about the name or its history. I’m always poking around online for local history. I followed along the south shore of the creek as recommended on Active Captain and found a broad space with room for a half dozen boats. I got the hook down and went below to start supper. </p><p>That evening, I sat in the cockpit and enjoyed the birds. A lone egret stood stoically in the shallows waiting for her supper to swim by. A beautiful sunset lit the sky and made the clouds to blush. It was a nice respite. I was also looking into the weather and the tides. Not only had I made more miles than I expected that day, but because I had kept moving after the Sisters Creek boat ramps, now I was a third of the way to Fernandina Beach off the St. Marys Inlet. That inlet would have a gentler tidal current than the St. Johns River. Further, the anchorage at Fernandina would be a good place to tighten my rig and ‘ocean proof’ the cabin down below. I decided to head to Fernandina the following morning and then head out the inlet the day after.</p><p>Fernandina was only about four hours away, so I had a good casual breakfast and got moving by mid morning. I didn’t plan on going ashore for anything, so I would have lots of time to finish my boat chores on arrival. The forecast seemed benign that day, but I was concerned about the strength of the wind on Monday when I meant to be offshore. There was the potential for it to get a little sporty. </p><p>Sunday early afternoon, as I neared Fernandina, my radio beeped with a NOAA Marine Weather Warning. Off to the west, the sky had darkened and the National Weather Service was warning of a powerful thunderstorm moving east at thirty five miles an hour. It was already chasing me, but I was hoping against hope that I could get into the Fernandina Anchorage before it hit. There wasn’t anywhere else to stop anyway, so I kept moving. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjXCWB9Z0UqGt0XWb5FQL5NmUxeAiLtglrdEeog4z3yFxfyngPedd3trc3sJFqMf8iSxRZJO2GvfKn7E97pCHo-hPEmieoR5TzYYxf8W0aKMiKREQytETByzi7uzxNUdxjTKGh87-Z89UaycHR8hBJCuYSlWHKqaA06GOcfaR6IExYbeI_WBbFAgtq7ai/s4096/IMG_20230709_130253855.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjXCWB9Z0UqGt0XWb5FQL5NmUxeAiLtglrdEeog4z3yFxfyngPedd3trc3sJFqMf8iSxRZJO2GvfKn7E97pCHo-hPEmieoR5TzYYxf8W0aKMiKREQytETByzi7uzxNUdxjTKGh87-Z89UaycHR8hBJCuYSlWHKqaA06GOcfaR6IExYbeI_WBbFAgtq7ai/s320/IMG_20230709_130253855.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Looming Storm</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>As I got near Fernandina, I was on the Amelia River which makes a hard turn to starboard and then curves to port in front of the downtown. I was very close, but the storm was already looming over me more than just chasing me. Just before the townm, I passed a small anchorage and considered steering quickly out of the channel to drop the hook there. Nevertheless, the spot was completely open to coming wind and a couple of suspect-looking boats were already there. These boats did not looked occupied, or even well taken care of. Who could know the quality of their anchor or the chain. I did not want to have to keep track of other boats besides my own in a storm. Through the marina mooring field just ahead was the main anchorage where I wanted to drop my anchor in the larger area there. </p><p>But I was too late. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6z5SKJWDWNuGuhkJzwEtrfXKP4dKlwZ2ftGXI38g4k8V-97UGa2qGHFx8Zwqam6Q8xT3dX4-x8abd7RqhD0ZmlwRtWeruOjDG2Gg7uPSFdHJXD5Nyc7MFmZLx0DG-fs2sZtzX-B6Qdb_tTrYpgqyjRmH26W_8l9U0vPcA4Ya3eubYa0-tzfrXNJooEkGj/s4096/IMG_20221231_174031697.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6z5SKJWDWNuGuhkJzwEtrfXKP4dKlwZ2ftGXI38g4k8V-97UGa2qGHFx8Zwqam6Q8xT3dX4-x8abd7RqhD0ZmlwRtWeruOjDG2Gg7uPSFdHJXD5Nyc7MFmZLx0DG-fs2sZtzX-B6Qdb_tTrYpgqyjRmH26W_8l9U0vPcA4Ya3eubYa0-tzfrXNJooEkGj/s320/IMG_20221231_174031697.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mill @ Fernandina</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>Just as I passed the big sawmill and the commercial fishing docks, the wind arrived. It was a blast of cool air with a few drops of rain like rubber bullets, but the worst was right behind it. By the time I got to the main anchorage, the storm was raging. It would have been exceedingly dangerous to attempt to anchor by then. My normal procedure would have been to find a spot, put the boat in neutral, walk to the bow, and drop the anchor. However, with the boat in neutral, and the wind pushing and shoving at Ruth Ann, I could not control the drift or even guess at where we would be headed. I don’t have a windlass either, so whenever I drop the anchor I am using my hands on the chain and rope. Further, there would be a tremendous yank when the anchor finally bit. Dropping the anchor right then would have endangered Ruth Ann, her anchor, the chain, my hands and fingers, and all the nearby boats. </p><p>Thankfully, I had looked at the radar and knew that the storm was a line of showers. Terrifically strong, but a line that would pass quickly and all would soon be over. I just had to circle around in the anchorage until the howling wind and rain finally stopped. Luckily, there weren’t many other boats there. I had to hide behind Ruth Ann’s dodger, peeking out occasionally to keep from hitting anything. The wind was screaming, the rain was horizontal, and it was impossible to keep my eyes open for long outside the protection of the dodger. I kept Ruth Ann’s bow into the wind as much as possible but I had to turn around several times to stay in the anchorage area. She rolled wildly when we were beam to the wind, and we went careening ahead when the wind got behind us. </p><p>And then it was over. The wind had suddenly faded. I was soaking wet from head to toe, but I could finally see where I was going. The sun started to peek under the clouds in the west and I circled to find a spot to anchor. Anyone who was watching must have thought that I was drunk. There was an obstruction on the chart, likely a sunken boat, and another boat at anchor near where I wanted to be. It took several passes to get into a spot in between the anchored boat and the sunken one to drop the anchor, but I finally did. With a sigh of relief, I went below to find some dry clothes and start cleaning up. </p><p>Remember that ‘ocean proofing’ the cabin on my To Do List? Before I go offshore, I stow some things away and move others into lower, safer positions in the cabin to keep things from flying around when the ocean swell rocks Ruth Ann. How was I to know that I needed to ‘ocean proof’ the boat before heading down the creek and into Fernandina?!? Stuff was everywhere. </p><p>It turned out that another storm was forecast for the next day, Monday. Some of the strongest wind was going to be in a squall between Fernandina and South Carolina; right where I would have to sail. I decided to put off my departure until Tuesday. The schedule change also gave me time enough to clean the boat up that night and then prep her for ocean sailing the next day. </p><p>The wind was gusting strongly on Monday as I worked on tightening the rig and setting up the windvane. Now the forecast was looking a little light for Tuesday! Would I get caught offshore with no wind? Should I try sailing or just motor up the ICW? Which would be more fun? Which would be safer? </p><p>Find out next time. </p><p><br /></p><p>===</p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting my project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support.</p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-82319802033633799932023-06-08T09:00:00.021-04:002023-06-08T12:31:49.463-04:00My Little Cove <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.jacksonville.com/story/news/2015/07/08/green-cove-springs-officials-restoration-historic-spring-park-go/15670577007/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Spring Park, Green Cove Springs" border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="660" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Aj20j8SytQw0NGqN1XH6aZygooGcY4YR4_LtRo0wkkK-VY1PO-ry8y4462q_59atYSTj0jdU-oy-eOPe39-aHc1RVePjZlZcWOsXmKaPQJ5Sn1O-PFBM-7jKTF4X0CWabOYgj4G7Mrpb2-PmSI5gSp_UnX01dJ-xztIJfhKQ6hRt0KP3fDizP1RrkA/w320-h240/spring.park.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring Park, from Florida Times-Union</td></tr></tbody></table><br />There is a little cove across the river from Green Cove Springs, Florida. I have crossed from town and back twice in the last week. I find it hard to imagine why so many boats stay in the anchorage by the City Pier no matter the weather. <p></p><p>It began last Wednesday when I had been in Green Cove Springs for a few days already. Not only was my mail service in this charming little town, but I had good access to a hardware store, groceries, and a little storefront Mexican Restaurant. La Casita has really good shrimp tacos and a little bodega section near the front door. Besides lunch one day, I picked up some guajillo peppers which I stock in my pantry and a couple bags of Cacahaute Japones (Japanese Peanuts are some of my favorite Mexican treats). </p><p>I first anchored at Governors Creek on the north side of town. There is a county boat ramp there and right across the road is Hagan’s Ace Hardware. St. Brendan’s Mail Service is a bit further north of town and pretty handy as well. However, the docks are fixed which makes them inconvenient at low tide when they tower above the water. Further, with even a gentle wind out of the east, my new dinghy was tempted to bang against the dock pylons. After running some errands ashore, I hauled the anchor and moved Ruth Ann down to the City Pier Anchorage. Green Cove Springs’ City Pier is quite a nice facility with a small pavilion and some benches about halfway out and eight boat slips at the end. An overnight slip is just twenty dollars and includes power and water. Quite a deal, but limited to 72 hours. The floating docks are always at water level and there is ample room to tie up a dinghy as well; which is free. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTPbmMjY4XJ62TnXsL_9WuSqwngETBakg6YfrmL6MgpsTvJrC8GiwlJmwsmgWaeTT0ummeFVv0Q_0Dtu0My9s56ejWz83Wqzf7yqXIcnULXw5hQn3EeYvI-MJl54gedGmJYabxCuO14zmnLJ2Ud9bsSrXIjEZ_1lONZD2HTQohwb1y_xB0fF05PFNMg/s600/GCS.pier.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="City Pier" border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTPbmMjY4XJ62TnXsL_9WuSqwngETBakg6YfrmL6MgpsTvJrC8GiwlJmwsmgWaeTT0ummeFVv0Q_0Dtu0My9s56ejWz83Wqzf7yqXIcnULXw5hQn3EeYvI-MJl54gedGmJYabxCuO14zmnLJ2Ud9bsSrXIjEZ_1lONZD2HTQohwb1y_xB0fF05PFNMg/w320-h213/GCS.pier.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">City Pier, from the City's Website</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>I anchored Ruth Ann near the pier and went ashore for some more errands. My driver’s license was expiring, so I legally declared my domicile at the mail service, got a Florida license, and registered Ruth Ann in the Sunshine State. I found a bike at a pawn shop. It was $45 and barely worth that, but the three plus miles from the City Pier to St. Brendan’s or the store will be quicker and easier. The lock and cable, which I’ve had for some time, are way more valuable to me than the junky, but adequate bike. </p><p>The Saint Johns River is the longest river in the State of Florida. It actually begins in a marshy area near Vero Beach and wanders up to Lake Monroe on the east side of Orlando. Continuing north, the lazy, slow-flowing river goes through Lake George in the Ocala National Forest, passes Palatka and Green Cove Springs, then flows through downtown Jacksonville, and on into the Atlantic. Green Cove Springs is on the western shore where the river is about two miles wide. An east wind across all that <a href="https://forecast.weather.gov/glossary.php?word=fetch#:~:text=Fetch,the%20direction%20of%20the%20wind." target="_blank">fetch</a> can kick up a pretty good chop. After an annoying evening bouncing lightly as I made supper, I vowed to move across the river for protection from the wind. There was an anchorage on the other side marked on the chart.</p><p>A windy forecast was in the offing for late in the week and through Labor Day Weekend, so I got up early on Tuesday, hauled the anchor, and motored across to Hallowe’s Cove. Anchorages marked on charts can be hit or miss. It can be crowded because it’s marked and everyone goes there. Or the anchorage might have worked for someone else, but in the end will not meet my criteria for safe or comfortable. There are a great many different boat designs with different depths and different behavior “on the hook,” so not every anchorage will work for every boat – obviously.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJ8MxSHVV5AtwdI8Lxb0ZwnrhdRnXMIMVah4IJM_kHNzevDd6Ti7fOpqp1eImLRptepE8wBqyMWz8CZHr96y3cTqGedSlR9kMLeSTqEFwRh8AcT-K0dIsppKsyiihPnh1MPO1x5DTIIxqD_8K8lNxc9XVtoUTVVdfltkEmAYms7DNhIjpgV0uT2_tDQ/s4096/IMG_20230602_153950209.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The long dock NW of Hallowes Cove" border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJ8MxSHVV5AtwdI8Lxb0ZwnrhdRnXMIMVah4IJM_kHNzevDd6Ti7fOpqp1eImLRptepE8wBqyMWz8CZHr96y3cTqGedSlR9kMLeSTqEFwRh8AcT-K0dIsppKsyiihPnh1MPO1x5DTIIxqD_8K8lNxc9XVtoUTVVdfltkEmAYms7DNhIjpgV0uT2_tDQ/w240-h320/IMG_20230602_153950209.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NW of Hallowes Cove</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived at Hallowe’s Cove and we were the only boat. There are no services of any kind and no place to land a dinghy, but that wasn’t why we were there. The shore is an uninterrupted stretch of oaks, pine, and cypress shielding Ruth Ann and I from three directions; most importantly from the coming east wind. At night, the forest literally comes to life; buzzing insects, croaking frogs, and a whole choir of other wildlife. During the day, fish jump and osprey soar. Somehow I had found a small nook along the riverbank where no houses were visible. There was long dock off the point to the northwest and after the sun goes down only a few lights show through the woods to the east. The next dock is more than a half mile to the south. It was so peaceful and just what I needed; on several levels. <p></p><p>We settled in for the holiday weekend. A couple other boats eventually joined Ruth Ann and I at polite distances. It was hard to imagine why more of the boats in the City Pier Anchorage didn’t come over for the storm. Many of them probably aren’t set up to move much anyway. Just forty five minutes of motoring and what a difference! There were no persistent little waves causing us to “<a href="https://www.pbo.co.uk/nautical-almanac/glossary-of-nautical-terms/hobby-horse-to-9242" target="_blank">hobby-horse</a>" and even at the peak of the storm, I could hear the wind more than I felt it. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicWR4z0L4U5i36BQQKt0sJocMXQOJkOFqU4CjXxZ1-2TqxWzH8LA0akrpy6cl2JxMyLbU7VLO1xvWXtXAmashmVxbg3mp5d1IDSGLjhTgLGlEsJ5fadR0qmsBgVQom0eQPSToSwqHPY4v2q93VTts_cBVfw3EuJxHTYPp7xkbQRQ4kLWehSDgnlU_rBg/s4096/IMG_20230602_063017262.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Hallowes Cove Sunset" border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicWR4z0L4U5i36BQQKt0sJocMXQOJkOFqU4CjXxZ1-2TqxWzH8LA0akrpy6cl2JxMyLbU7VLO1xvWXtXAmashmVxbg3mp5d1IDSGLjhTgLGlEsJ5fadR0qmsBgVQom0eQPSToSwqHPY4v2q93VTts_cBVfw3EuJxHTYPp7xkbQRQ4kLWehSDgnlU_rBg/w240-h320/IMG_20230602_063017262.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hallowes Cove Sunset</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>By Sunday after the squall, I was running low on fresh food and knew that I would soon need some more water for Ruth Ann’s tank. After calling to confirm the holiday hours at Winn Dixie, I headed back across the river to Governor’s Creek on Labor Day morning. I hiked up to the store and back, rowed out to stow my groceries, and then returned to hit the hardware store. Back in the plumbing aisles at the Hagan Ace, I was doing some “redneck engineering” and picking through various parts to design and redesign a system for Ruth Ann. </p><p>Tuesday morning I hiked back up toward Winn Dixie where I grabbed a couple grocery items that I had forgotten the day before, but I was there because my mail service, which wasn’t open on the holiday, is in the office park right behind the store. I’ve used St Brendan’s Mail Service for many years now. When I was truckdriving, if I was headed south through Jacksonville in the afternoon and knew some mail was waiting for me, I’d jump over to US-17 on the bypass and sneak down to Green Cove Springs. The first couple times, I pulled into the Winn Dixie, snuck around the store, and staged my truck to pull right back out on the road. However, the alley behind the store is pretty skinny, and I soon realized that I could get caught back there; blocked by the Hostess guy or a beer truck that happened to park in a tight spot. I started to simply pull over on the shoulder of US-17, just past the Circle K, and walk up to get my mail with the truck’s four-way flashers going. Not likely completely legal, but I never got caught. So this is almost like “home” to me. </p><p>That was a lot of walking in two days for a crusty old sailor and I got lazy. My original plan had been to haul the anchor and head back down to the City Pier Anchorage yet on Tuesday afternoon. There is no water available at Governors Creek and I knew I was getting low. I don’t have a gauge on the tank, so I couldn’t know how low. Labor Day Monday and Tuesday had been peaceful with the town blocking the west wind, but the forecast called for the wind to clock around into the east by mid-morning on Wednesday. I decided that I could get water at the pier in the morning and head back across the river before the wind arrived.</p><p>Unfortunately, it was just 6:00 pm Tuesday when I already felt the wind shift. Now, my little anchorage at Governors Creek turned uncomfortable with a strong wind over a long fetch. We were hobby-horsing again. Ruth Ann’s bow was bobbing up and down and it was hard to work on the computer while my whole world dipped to the left, then to the right, back to the left, and on and on. I hadn’t even started making any supper yet. Further, with the wind clocking around unexpectedly, I couldn’t be sure about the safety of where I had anchored. If anything went wrong, the wind would blow Ruth Ann toward the seawall of the county park. I checked my watch, checked the times for sunset and the tide, to learn that if I hauled the anchor right then, I’d have just enough daylight left to get back across the river. So I stowed my laptop and checked that the cabin was mostly set for getting underway. Usually when I start Ruth Ann’s diesel, I always check the belts and fluids, but this time, since it had just run the day before, I jumped for the start button in the cockpit. The little Yanmar growled to life, the exhaust had good water flow, and I went forward for the anchor. In five or six minutes, we were motoring into the chop and headed back across the river as storm clouds brewed to the east.</p><p>I got the anchor down in the fading light and set about to make supper. In the galley, after only a couple pulls on the hand-pump faucet, I got the airy, gurgling sound of a nearly empty tank. It was no emergency, just annoying, as I could head back in the morning to get some water. The forecast, however, was calling for several days of east wind which meant that back across the river was back to the ‘wrong side.’ </p><p>The weather had changed quickly because a squall had come in off the Atlantic. Before I had even cleaned up from making supper, the storm had passed, the wind had abated, and everything was peaceful again. It was then that I noticed that my batteries had not recovered well. During one of my long days ashore, I had left my fridge on and there hadn’t been enough sun in the days since to top my batteries back up. The coming weather was going to limit the available sunshine for several days. I am completely reliant on my solar panels for power and was in a pinch. Such a situation can make me doubt my solar set up, but subsequent data collection reaffirmed that my array is normally enough to cover my needs. One habit that I haven’t established well is to only run the fridge two or three times a day when the weather has been overcast for more than three or four days. </p><p>The next morning, I had just enough water left in my filter pitcher to make coffee, so I had a luxurious breakfast before I hauled the anchor and headed across to the pier. On the way, I decided that if there was room, I would just tie up to the face dock at the pier, grab some water, and head back out. I rarely use a dock, preferring to anchor or moor, but when I remembered that the City docks were supposed to be inexpensive, my plan started to evolve. </p><p>Another sailboat was, in fact, on the face dock when I arrived. While I had hoped to do a touch-and-go stop on that dock, my new plan was to stay the night in order to fill up on water and use the electricity to charge up my battery bank. With the wind behind me, I coaxed Ruth Ann into one of the shore facing slips on the pier and tied up. I got rid of some garbage, plugged in, and began filling up with water. My list of chores had been revised to take advantage of a night in a slip. Up the hill from Spring Park was a Shell Station, so I loaded up my empty diesel jug and carted it up the hill. On the walk, I spotted La Casita a couple blocks away. It was too much a temptation, so after tying down the now full jug, I walked back up the hill for a late lunch; shrimp tacos and a couple Dos Equis. </p><p>I also spotted my bike still locked to the bike rack where I had left it a few days before. So that was good, so far. </p><p>Back at the boat, I cleaned up, did some digital nomad work, and then the wind picked up again. If I had planned more thoroughly, I would have swung Ruth Ann around the City docks and used a slip that would face the wind. Instead, the stronger wind was now slapping waves up against the overhang of Ruth Ann’s transom and the dinghy banged against the boat as it was tied behind. I moved the dinghy inside the slip next to Ruth Ann, and adjusted the dock lines to make room. I cut my hair, took a shower, and made some supper. The wind kept blowing and I was increasingly less comfortable with the dinghy beside the boat. The waves continued to slap up against Ruth Ann’s transom and now the dinghy pitched wildly with a line grunting against the cleat each time it yanked to the top of a wave. I went out again to adjust the lines and eventually moved some fenders forward to tie the dinghy against Ruth Ann’s bow in the forward space of the slip. </p><p>I was up several times to check my lines; cursing myself that I had stayed there. Nevertheless, I was plugged in and it was critical to get my battery bank fully charged for the stormy, overcast days ahead. All through the night, the waves slapped, the dock lines groaned, and the lines to the dinghy yanked and grunted against the cleats. I didn’t sleep much.</p><p>In the morning, I had a full water tank, ten more gallons in jerry jugs on deck, and a fully charged battery bank. I was up with the sun to get back across the river to my peaceful little cove. I had managed just a couple hours of sleep. Mornings are usually calm, but the wind had barely eased overnight. The slaps weren’t as angry but the waves still came in off the river, bumping Ruth Ann, and bucking the dinghy. Aft and to port of Ruth Ann was a seawall as a breakwater and I was going to have to maneuver backward, into the wind and waves, to head between the breakwater and a clutch of pylons off the end of the pier to starboard. Moreover, the bowsprit was hanging over the dock very near to the dock pedestal with the power and water connections. The last thing I wanted to do was tear that off the city dock with my bowsprit. I also had to mind the dinghy. If it was close behind us again, it would be in the way. If I let the dinghy painter out too far, the line could get wrapped on the prop. If the dinghy got between the boat and the dock, or the pylons, or the breakwater, I could easily crush it. </p><p>I walked around the slip, plotting and planning all my moves. I let out some bow line to be able to pull back on the spring line. The anchor was then behind the pedestal and as we backed out it would be pulled away from trouble rather than toward it. I left the dinghy tied to the bow, started the engine and let go all the dock lines save the spring, which I had looped against a single horn of the dock cleat. The spring line went from a midship cleat aft to the dock cleat and then to a cleat in the cockpit, forming a long skinny triangle. When I backed out of the slip, the spring simply fell off the cleat’s horn and I pulled it aboard quickly keeping it away from the prop.</p><p>Ruth Ann has one propellor and “single screw” boats have “prop walk” in reverse at low speeds. The propellor spins so slowly that the blades of the propellor “dog paddle” the stern of the boat to one side as much as driving it backward. I knew that Ruth Ann’s prop walk was to starboard and used that to my advantage. We started out of the slip slowly, I grabbed the spring line as above, and then gave more throttle in reverse holding the helm with the rudder centered. As Ruth Ann gracefully backed away, the prop walk danced her in a shallow arc toward the seawall swinging her bow to port. When the bow was pulled past the clutch of pylons, I eased the throttle and put the gearbox in forward to steer into the anchorage and open water. In steering to port, the dinghy, still tied to the bow, had drifted to the starboard side. It had spent the night on the port side where I had deployed a couple fenders to protect Ruth Ann. So when I was clear of the dangers near the pier, I slowed the boat, put her in reverse briefly, and then steered around to starboard to get the dinghy to the other side of the bow and against the fenders. Out in the river proper, I set the autopilot and went forward to untie the dinghy and put it behind us where it belonged.</p><p>Back in my peaceful little cove, I anchored Ruth Ann and made some breakfast. It was so good to be back in my little slice of paradise. After so many errands, all the provisioning and bureaucratic chores, I set about to start working on my list of boat projects. I have a new piece of equipment that I have wanted for some time and will write about that later, but the unit is now mounted in the head and I have most of the pieces and parts I need to hook it up. The dinghy had been in the water for a couple weeks, so I undid the hull sections and hauled them aboard for a good scrub. Also, the dinghy won’t collect any of the coming rain if it is upside down on deck. I sealed a couple leaks and cleaned up around the boat; inside and out. In the next few days, I’ll do an oil change and service on my engine, work on some dinghy modifications, polish the stainless, oil Ruth Ann’s teak, and more. </p><p>That first night I was back was the night before a full moon. Out on deck after dark, I was dumbfounded by the beauty and just plain grateful to be alive and to be right there, just then. The river was completely still but for a gentle rippling as if a canoe had just passed. The moon was not yet smoothly round and hung in the blackness, misshapen like an ancient coin. The reflections on the water danced like hundreds of diamonds being scattered over black velvet. The Shands Bridge to the south seemed to only exist when taillights made the lazy trip across the open space in the dark. Even the wildlife seemed to be awed by the spectacle. I don’t remember a sound as we all stared with thankful wonder at the world before us.</p><p>Much to my chagrin, there was not enough light in the sky to capture that moment on a camera. I tried with my real camera as well as my phone camera to no avail. Then again, it is somewhat delicious to have such a moment captured only by eye and just for me. </p><p>The next day a couple boats had joined us in the cove. That night the full moon splashed silver shards onto the river where two neighboring boats floated in the mess as if they had landed on and shattered a mirror. I knew there were other sailors probably sleeping aboard those boats, but it seemed like I was the only soul to witness the grandeur. Sights like that shrink the boundaries and I feel less and less separate from everything; and especially from the beauty of the universe. </p><p>May all beings be peaceful.</p><p><br /></p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting my project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support</p><p>=== </p><p>Notes from Todd’s World:</p><p>1) Hagan Ace Hardware is a small local chain in Florida. Six or seven years ago, when I was hauling sod, I used to deliver to several of the Hagan stores.</p><p>2) Where the St. Johns River flows through Lake George in the Ocala National Forest, I got one of the largest bass I’ve ever caught when my first wife and I stayed at a cabin on the river.</p><p>3) Literally, a couple dozen times I have stopped on the side of the road with a full semi to walk up and get my mail. Hilariously, the ladies at the counter at St. Brendan’s would have had no more idea that there was a semi down the hill than they might realize recently that I had walked a few miles with a little dock cart to get my mail; sometimes forty or fifty pounds of boat parts. </p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-79776799350416800982023-05-25T09:00:00.010-04:002024-03-14T11:58:59.163-04:00The Summer Wind Was Blowin' In ...<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGXW4C8HuyX_IJjaarv-2brAwrakSvqCWDpnqERTjp9TaQUoh-QxtLF797NoPTKvEgmCAC1KYCHVYkxBwIA9LTkTRxLgpQ78EG_B3k13iB54iMxCyagaBBjuGEKleyb-UBbitWgKZuHaLp2mpr-1UzbgrTZOMyuSCBaB_rj7bxrPcQmI8NrycfxR4BQ/s4096/IMG_20230513_202811324.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGXW4C8HuyX_IJjaarv-2brAwrakSvqCWDpnqERTjp9TaQUoh-QxtLF797NoPTKvEgmCAC1KYCHVYkxBwIA9LTkTRxLgpQ78EG_B3k13iB54iMxCyagaBBjuGEKleyb-UBbitWgKZuHaLp2mpr-1UzbgrTZOMyuSCBaB_rj7bxrPcQmI8NrycfxR4BQ/s320/IMG_20230513_202811324.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset at Broward Creek</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Somewhere back in the day when karaoke had exploded onto the American scene, I found myself in a bar during a karaoke session. There were places then, especially in Japan where it all started, that existed as dedicated karaoke bars. In my experience, however, in the States, typically a DJ would show up at a regular bar with a karaoke machine; often on a regular night during the week. I vaguely remember being dressed up for some occasion, but it was a long time ago. I think my friends and I were there for some other reason, but karaoke was also happening in a large bar. <p></p><p>“You should do it! Get up there and sing!” someone said. </p><p>After the third or fourth “Come on, man!” I said “No way, the only way that I would get up there and sing a song is if they had “Summer Wind” by Frank Sinatra and I’m sure they don’t.” </p><p><br /></p><p>Au contraire, mon frere ...</p><p>Of course, one of my so-called friends snuck over to the DJ’s table to paw through the pile of 3-ring binders. There were racks and racks of karaoke music CDs. The friend found the binder full of songs beginning with the letter “S” and, sure enough, that bastard DJ had “Summer Wind.” My friend came bouncing back to our table, and with a wicked smile, informed me that “my song” was, in fact, available. </p><p>In my memory, I just wasn’t drunk enough to get up on stage and try to sing like Sinatra. I am pretty sure that I continued to refuse. </p><p>“Summer Wind” is still one of my favorite Sinatra songs. I had seven or eight Sinatra albums on vinyl in my collection, mixed in with jazz fusion, new wave, punk, straight up jazz, and a whole pile of other music; weird and wonderful. </p><p>There was, in fact, one time that I did get up on stage and sing karaoke. I thought sure that I had told this story before but I can’t find it in any of my blogs. It may be in the unfinished book that I’ve not worked on in a while. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGRPWNXfOGW0IfG7A_De7gyJUCxnEH-eQxOlyM3cWTyZSKIk9lp_kgwDj5bQgR8Cyg4ixhLFkHbbRvxvaEsSdpiqb-PY5NMVd3oR-2oOSzLbRfIwglFGOqzqChArVjSaWtZoi3y4H5ljPDKxFHGz9vszQxREFk34LUI_2oQkruaZ-FPOoYCM4AdekoVg/s656/Screenshot%20from%202023-05-21%2012-12-46.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="656" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGRPWNXfOGW0IfG7A_De7gyJUCxnEH-eQxOlyM3cWTyZSKIk9lp_kgwDj5bQgR8Cyg4ixhLFkHbbRvxvaEsSdpiqb-PY5NMVd3oR-2oOSzLbRfIwglFGOqzqChArVjSaWtZoi3y4H5ljPDKxFHGz9vszQxREFk34LUI_2oQkruaZ-FPOoYCM4AdekoVg/s320/Screenshot%20from%202023-05-21%2012-12-46.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boarding house, courtesy of Google Maps</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I was living in a boarding house in Bay City, Mi where I had found my first “escape” boat. There were a whole cast of characters in the house and one of them, as near an Irish Traveler as I’ve ever met, convinced me to go out one night. We ended up in a neighborhood bar on the north side of the river; the White Goose Inn, I think. My friend was desperately trying to impress a woman; I think he had arranged to meet her. But that very woman spent most of the night explaining to me why she had to cut herself to feel alive and showing off the little scars on her upper arm; like weird sergeant stripes or scratches from some B movie monster. The Traveler had been relegated to talking with the cutter’s reticent and humorless friend. He and I each had reluctant conversations over the din of karaoke. We both probably drank more than necessary to dilute the strangeness of the night. I barely remember getting up on stage to sing a Brooks and Dunn duet with my housemate. At some point, we each concluded that we should just head home and leave the cutter and her grumpy friend where they sat at the bar. </p><p>In the morning when I stumbled down to the kitchen, somewhat hungover, there was an important looking summit going on. One of the guys in the house lived in a room just off the kitchen. He was a strange bird, but seemed to work very hard; cleaning and waxing the floors at the local Kroger five or six nights a week. When he had returned home that morning, one of his guitars and a pile of cash, meant to pay his next rent, were missing – and the Traveler was long gone. The other guys in the kitchen wanted to know everything that I knew about the missing housemate. I didn’t actually know much and wasn’t even sure why I had agreed to go out drinking with him. The floor guy related sadly that he had just shown off his guitars to the Traveler and might have absentmindedly revealed his rent stash by adding a twenty dollar bill to the pile as he spoke to our missing friend. He held no malice toward me, but I was the last guy to have been seen with the Traveler and thus had been slightly stained by association in some of my housemates’ opinion.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">+++</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3xE6ErCtVRq5QWPrPbNwESts5GNFK0VVwjD5Smp_4xx6mLBvfIacFkjDgKZWFY0rNSb02XEDCa9XblnoBRY5nWobB3qYX6nGxgqhY8hfI7ZMxBB88Iub0dNVhGOhxrMrXfTtRObKuQljODbEQ20m9k6_TLoNpw5-cn7d9S91Eow6upvwA59oAEPU0TA/s668/Screenshot%20from%202023-05-21%2012-16-11.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="668" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3xE6ErCtVRq5QWPrPbNwESts5GNFK0VVwjD5Smp_4xx6mLBvfIacFkjDgKZWFY0rNSb02XEDCa9XblnoBRY5nWobB3qYX6nGxgqhY8hfI7ZMxBB88Iub0dNVhGOhxrMrXfTtRObKuQljODbEQ20m9k6_TLoNpw5-cn7d9S91Eow6upvwA59oAEPU0TA/s320/Screenshot%20from%202023-05-21%2012-16-11.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The salt marshes northeast of Jax</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Summer Wind returned to my life last week in the form of a boat. As I entered the St. John’s River from the ICW, headed north, a boat called from behind to let me know he was going to overtake me and pass on my port side. The captain and his wife waved enthusiastically from deep under their bimini as they went by. That boat was the Summer Wind, from Clinton Township, outside Detroit, back ‘home’ in Michigan. The boat was a low-slung powerboat of a decent size with an inflatable stowed sideways up against the transom. It was getting toward the end of the day and I was aiming to reach a particular anchorage. When the Summer Wind and another sailboat turned to continue up the river toward Jacksonville, I was took some comfort. I was crossing the river to reenter the ICW at Sister’s Creek. As those other boats headed west, that meant that there were two less boats competing for whatever space was left in the anchorages ahead.<p></p><p>Inside Sister’s Creek there were a couple boat ramps and a free dock. It was Saturday evening and lots of boats were racing back to the ramps to haul out and go home. In contrast to the urban ICW south of the river, I was back in the wilderness. There were scattered clumps of trees on little hammocks and seagrass in every direction. Once I was far enough away from the traffic near the ramps, I began to enjoy the peace of wilderness again. </p><p>And then my radio crackled to life. It was Summer Wind. </p><p>“We got lost, so I’m passing you again.” </p><p>“No worries,” I replied. </p><p>Very soon after passing me, the Summer Wind turned up the Fort George River. I just had the inkling that he would have wanted to continue on toward Fernandina Beach where I was headed. However, I checked my chart and there was a marina, and a couple anchorages down that way. I wondered what his wife was thinking as I again continued past another turn they had just made. He wasn’t my responsibility anyway, so I carried on. In the fading daylight, I was pushing to the farthest anchorage I thought I could reach. </p><p>A half mile later, I passed the two ends of an oxbow created when the channel was cut through. The next wide spot was where Broward Creek flowed into the channel and that was my anchorage. The radio crackled again. Summer Wind was calling a Pan Pan (one step down from Mayday), they were aground somewhere down the Fort George River. The Coast Guard quickly answered and asked if they were alright. With no one in danger, the Coastie asked if Summer Wind had commercial tow coverage. </p><p>“Yeah, but I’d rather not use it,” came the bizarrely naive reply. </p><p>I was beginning to understand that Summer Wind’s captain was not an experienced boater. As I approached my anchorage and circled around before dropping my hook, the Coast Guard and Summer Wind were having a strange, and even strained, conversation. I was trying to ignore them until I got anchored.</p><p>As I started prepping my supper, the Coast Guard was calling after Summer Wind who was not answering. I was a bit shocked that they would just ignore the Coasties, but I think it confirms their lack of experience; lack of seamanship for sure. A while later – honestly, I don’t remember if it was that evening as it grew dark or the next morning – a boat slowly made its way past Ruth Ann and me with an engine that sounded half defeated. There was a dinghy hanging strangely off the transom and I think it was Summer Wind, but I couldn’t see the boat name and they didn’t call again. Regret and frustration hung in the air like a fog. I have a feeling that the captain had roared back and forth until he got his boat free, and may have done some damage to his drivetrain; let alone to the poor flora and fauna underneath wherever he had grounded his boat. I never saw nor heard from the Summer Wind again. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCD9idnz-eH1yypStHMaXBEN9R-tL_Da_tZGw7uMx-KaPza_4Cgp1Cd2tDx4Me-JUzmnF9UPuS1fkM_-pmeF1lWSDbdsoKFy5w3pUJfEPVcv_IWW_7l4CukSZq6IStRjQzV0oa1fkwz3Lks16Hx2SuPEDQOeI0tW7kcPMIAeYhtfrjDU9cG63jJoaNwQ/s4096/IMG_20230514_115754115.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCD9idnz-eH1yypStHMaXBEN9R-tL_Da_tZGw7uMx-KaPza_4Cgp1Cd2tDx4Me-JUzmnF9UPuS1fkM_-pmeF1lWSDbdsoKFy5w3pUJfEPVcv_IWW_7l4CukSZq6IStRjQzV0oa1fkwz3Lks16Hx2SuPEDQOeI0tW7kcPMIAeYhtfrjDU9cG63jJoaNwQ/s320/IMG_20230514_115754115.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fernandina Mooring</td></tr></tbody></table><br />The next morning, with a bald eagle supervising me majestically, I hauled the anchor and finished the last few hours of motoring to Fernandina Beach. There I spent a couple nights on a mooring ball for the convenience of getting back and forth to shore. It was from the Fernandina Harbour mooring field that I picked up my new dinghy and gave away the deflatable. My new life rowing a hard dinghy rather than messing with an inflatable and an outboard has been liberating. I love my new little boat. <p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpppKYnOBc9sPldzyvQwciILWd_K-enX767GIqqhA26d1lqmJFvPKGLz-YtkQ85u-DEgUuiIcbPiwLLEIDbMHOQ0D2DFdKqHoo1EqIT0if7EDLctYxA2TG1-z9mIY1CUyoIz8XgczJggGitGw5yadsWJMNESdC2_SovfTG-bhtRCv3lTqXCmNCv5ChQ/s4096/IMG_20230514_081143795~2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpppKYnOBc9sPldzyvQwciILWd_K-enX767GIqqhA26d1lqmJFvPKGLz-YtkQ85u-DEgUuiIcbPiwLLEIDbMHOQ0D2DFdKqHoo1EqIT0if7EDLctYxA2TG1-z9mIY1CUyoIz8XgczJggGitGw5yadsWJMNESdC2_SovfTG-bhtRCv3lTqXCmNCv5ChQ/s320/IMG_20230514_081143795~2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Eagle Friend</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Besides picking up my dinghy, I did some laundry, had a hot shower, and got some provisions there. On the third day, I headed back down toward Jacksonville and Green Cove Springs. I have some bureaucratic chores and a few boat projects to do. GCS is the home of my mail service, my permanent mailing address for many years, and soon to be my official domicile. I’m getting a Florida Drivers License and registering the boat here. <p></p><p>Retracing my route back toward Jacksonville, I couldn’t help but think about the Summer Wind and her poor captain. I’ve made up a whole story about him, his wife, and his boat. My story is a generalization of course, but I’ve met plenty of men like my vision of him. A man like that might never recover from embarrassing himself in front of his wife. There’s a better than even chance that they will sell the boat in a few months and head back to Michigan never to speak of boats or rivers again. </p><p>Or they might have gotten good and drunk in Fernandina, and blown off enough steam to have called a mechanic in order to carry on; perhaps a bit wiser or more humble. </p><p>As I passed the stretch of water where I had last seen the poor captain’s boat, I couldn’t help myself. I searched up “Summer Wind” by ol’ Frank on Google Music, connected my good Bluetooth speaker, cranked it up, and bellowed along as Ruth Ann and I covered the last few miles of Sister’s Creek. </p><p><br /></p><p>“The summer wind</p><p>was blowin’ in, </p><p>from across the sea.” </p><p><iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8DopzOCeKJc" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe></p><p><br /></p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting my project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunset images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-20925356121088021662023-05-18T09:00:00.026-04:002023-05-18T09:00:00.254-04:00The Newest Member of the Fam<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTxHW4fUFg9dbqPQuHWoSsEI5HpMDrovzbA2pMJgnOqRVUZ9a0t1mY8W-t8CnYeAlyz6wvDArrck0nWK6p_0q7PImlnxGldHR6R5bBFlHeBM-HiXG-MSwUTsQZtHyUUp21mwRLX-QkknJia86vr4L7VIQtBvX1RHRrERglBuy3HZScbM416bDeWGU8A/s4096/IMG_20230514_165217843.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTxHW4fUFg9dbqPQuHWoSsEI5HpMDrovzbA2pMJgnOqRVUZ9a0t1mY8W-t8CnYeAlyz6wvDArrck0nWK6p_0q7PImlnxGldHR6R5bBFlHeBM-HiXG-MSwUTsQZtHyUUp21mwRLX-QkknJia86vr4L7VIQtBvX1RHRrERglBuy3HZScbM416bDeWGU8A/s320/IMG_20230514_165217843.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div>My love/hate relationship with my inflatable dinghy had turned to mostly hate. I was having to inflate it every morning and even after going ashore, I’d often have to blow it up some more before going back out to Ruth Ann. In addition, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving the outboard on the dinghy too long in case it lost enough air to risk sinking. Plus it was so damn heavy, it was hard to move around. I would end up leaving it in the water and after 10 or 12 days I’d have a couple hours of work to remove the barnacles. <p></p><p>And then the outboard stopped wanting to cooperate. </p><p>The ‘deflatable,’ as I had come to call it, was a 9.5’ Achilles dinghy; a great little tender. I bought her from a Canadian couple in Ft. Pierce about 7 years ago. A captain I had crewed for and myself had ended up in the same marina and he brought the Canadians to me saying “This is a great deal. You should buy this.” So I did. </p><p>The Achilles had an aluminum slat floor so that it could be rolled up when deflated. But that floor was incredibly heavy. Also, the aluminum had already started to corrode when I bought it. Several years in storage while I worked on my last two boats probably didn’t do the floor any good. The ends of the slats get tucked under the port and starboard tubes when the tender is all blown up. This put the jagged corroded ends of the slats dangerously close to the skin. I had had the Achilles blown up in the boatyard in NC last fall, but it was January before it was unrolled and inflated for use on the water. In the process, two air leaks had developed; one each port and starboard. The proper kit to repair an air leak in a hypalon inflatable is pretty expensive and my budget has been squeaky tight for most of the beginning of this year. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwT99RIlc_V_yDfN4k29XC4hIW4cLCLfa8pjbLKhvrrTSwotRUgWZ27gpH7gHTcayePrwNQzmqmUnvHiDhkXek443PWbCezzbAR_hP1AXH_oDNH2VL8wWbSW02kLYkmm_xvDrs47ICWMBzB8spoy-mVqIDgLAwHN8TixFx1jpcMzMgTSUv1iObdcykSA/s1080/Screenshot_20230514-200952.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="1080" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwT99RIlc_V_yDfN4k29XC4hIW4cLCLfa8pjbLKhvrrTSwotRUgWZ27gpH7gHTcayePrwNQzmqmUnvHiDhkXek443PWbCezzbAR_hP1AXH_oDNH2VL8wWbSW02kLYkmm_xvDrs47ICWMBzB8spoy-mVqIDgLAwHN8TixFx1jpcMzMgTSUv1iObdcykSA/s320/Screenshot_20230514-200952.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the Spindrift Webpage</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I started looking around for some options. I looked at dinghies and kayaks on Craigslist and on Facebook Marketplace. I knew I was headed up toward Jacksonville, so I was looking around here. I also looked at buying plans to build my own. The best part about D.I.Y. building a dinghy is the option of building a nesting dinghy. Nesting dinghies come apart and store in a small bundle with the bow section inside the aft section. But nesting dinghies are unique to cruisers and there is no market. No one makes and sells a nesting dinghy. I actually bought the plans for one dinghy and then found a better version but hadn’t bought those plans yet. That better version was called a Spindrift and the plans came in four sizes. Nevertheless, a Spindrift build would take nearly $3000 in materials alone.</p><p>In the last week or so, I had found a Glen-L 8 Ball dinghy on Marketplace. Glen-L is a boat plans business that was a mainstay since the 1950s in the classified ads of Popular Mechanics, Wooden Boat Magazine, the Small Boat Journal, etc. It was not a nesting dinghy but at eight foot long it would just fit onto Ruth Ann’s bow. The seller said that it had been his childhood boat and was “mid-refinishing.” I have done enough boatwork that ‘mid-refinishing’ was not a red flag, but it made me curious. The downside would be that I’d have to find a space where I could finish the refinishing. That would mean renting some space somewhere, somehow. Ruth Ann would also have to be kept somewhere. An ideal solution would be a dock or a mooring at a boatyard where I could keep Ruth Ann while working on the 8 Ball. But now the unknowns were starting to add up to an unknown cost. The 8 Ball was only $500 and I was researching my options for space. If I built something like a Spindrift, I’d need to find some space for that as well; likely for a longer period of time. Plus, my budget was still squeaky tight. I had no near term solution for financing any of those projects, but I was going through repair kits and had already worn one air pump out. The Achilles was like an unreliable car and it frustrated me on a daily basis. If it suddenly went completely bad, I’d have no way to get ashore; no way to get groceries. </p><p>And then Dad decided to send all us kids a check as a gift/distribution from the estate/funds that he and Mom had saved up over the years. I suddenly had some options. Thanks, Dad!</p><p>I went back to the Marketplace ad for the 8 Ball and noticed a line at the end that said “Currently located in Myrtle Beach.” What!?! I don’t know if I had missed that before or if it was new information. Facebook had served up the ad while I was looking inside a 25 mile radius around Jacksonville. I messaged the seller to ask and he said “Yes, I’ve relocated.” I still don’t know if that had just happened or what. His seller profile shows a bunch of boat stuff that had sold, that was located in Jacksonville. His About Info on Facebook still shows that he works in Chicago(!), so who knows when …</p><p>I told him that I would be passing through Myrtle in several weeks and I would check to see if the 8 Ball was still available then and went back to my search. </p><p>There were lots of kayaks for sale around Jacksonville, but Jacksonville is a large place and I don’t have a car. I might be able to get someone to deliver their kayak, but that added another wrinkle to the process. I went back to the Jacksonville Craiglist to check for a dinghy again. Right at the top of the search results was a boat I had seen before. The cover photo was a wide shot of the side of the boat and it looked large. It also looked like a dinghy racing boat, not a tender dinghy. There are many classes, called one design racing, where people all race the same model of a small boat. Those boats are often called dinghies as well. I had seen that same ad at the top for days while I was searching. It just didn’t look like the kind of boat I was looking for so I hadn’t really ‘looked.’ On Thursday last week, for some reason, my eyes slowed down just enough to ‘see.’ </p><p>Spindrift! Wait … what! </p><p><br /></p><p>The dinghy I had been ignoring was a Spindrift; my best case possibility. What!?! </p><p>I clicked on the ad to learn that not only was this pretty little boat a Spindrift, it was a nesting version of the Spindrift and it was already built. The price on that boat was about 2/3 the cost of materials! I tried to call, but got no answer so I sent an email. </p><p>This was the day I was leaving New Smyrna Beach. I had intended to go out the Ponce Inlet and sail up to Jacksonville. In fact, I had told the seller that I might be out of phone signal for a few days but that I was very interested. If you saw my social media post last week, as I was headed out the sketchy, narrow inlet, a dredge ship did a couple U-turns right in front of me with no warning, no hornblasts, no radio announcement or anything. As I was turning around and heading up the ICW, away from the dancing dredge, my phone, down inside Ruth Ann, was ringing. </p><p>Well, they’re just going to have to wait, I grumbled to myself as I watched the buoys and markers ahead and piloted my way out of one channel and into the ICW. </p><p>Then I remembered that I had left a message for the Spindrift seller! I set the autopilot and dove below to recover my phone. </p><p>I indeed had a pleasant voicemail from Don, the builder/seller of the Spindrift. Leaving Audrey, the autopilot, in charge, I stepped forward of the dodger to get out of the engine noise in the cockpit. I sat on the starboard side of Ruth Ann’s cabin and called the seller back. I gave him a brief description of the dredge in the inlet and we talked about the Spindrift. It was still available. He had a guy coming to look at it on Wednesday, but “he’s kind of a jerk and I don’t really want to sell it to him.” </p><p>“Do you do Paypal?” I asked, “I’ll send you the money right now if we can do the deal.” I could hardly contain my excitement or keep from talking too fast. </p><p>“Sure,” he said. And we made the deal. </p><p>I returned to the cockpit where I could keep a better eye on the channel and the traffic. With the autopilot minding the wheel, I transferred some money with my credit union’s app and as soon as Don emailed me his Paypal address, I sent him the money and changed course for Fernandina. I had just bought my dream dinghy. This was going to be life-changing. </p><p>It took me three days to get all the way here, and I could hardly stand it. I started working on the project in my head. Don’s Spindrift was the 11. I probably would have built the 9 foot version if I had built one myself. The Spindrift 11 is a lot of boat for Ruth Ann, but because it comes apart and nests together, it takes up less space on deck than the 8 Ball would have. I did have a slight panic when I started thinking about all the dinghy components that I’ll have to store. It was too late to do anything but sally forth because I had already sent the money. I had lots of time to think as I gurgled up the ICW. This was almost exactly the dinghy I had always wanted. Just get it done.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sO88uiHvdfwFnI0YqVAzIJkb1iHqkgOaf2WA0dnKBt35Lr-MffK48IysGvmwwan47DJDkWo4-GlkSZ3Z5Vj2U6ANrI7Va44aLp6L595ajmbRIn5UChCy3mhApL1whnBZ8RRMvkSq5Oss6SNP35vMBWK0Y1rA8dNut88ZgGP2O623nAnCHYFWn3eoEA/s1425/Screenshot_20230514-201125.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1425" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sO88uiHvdfwFnI0YqVAzIJkb1iHqkgOaf2WA0dnKBt35Lr-MffK48IysGvmwwan47DJDkWo4-GlkSZ3Z5Vj2U6ANrI7Va44aLp6L595ajmbRIn5UChCy3mhApL1whnBZ8RRMvkSq5Oss6SNP35vMBWK0Y1rA8dNut88ZgGP2O623nAnCHYFWn3eoEA/s320/Screenshot_20230514-201125.png" width="243" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sistership</td></tr></tbody></table><br />The Spindrift has a sail rig, so I can sail her in addition to rowing. I will no longer use an outboard. My experience over the last several months living on the water confirms that I can live without an outboard. There will be compromises; there always are in boats as well as in life. There might be a few days now and then when I can’t go ashore because of the weather. There might be areas where I can’t stop because it would be such a long trip ashore (but only in the most unusual wind conditions). <p></p><p>I met Don this afternoon here in Fernandina Beach. He delivered the Spindrift right to the marina where I got a mooring ball earlier. We slid the boat out of the back of his pickup, he wished me well, and was off. I sent him the straight amount in Paypal and told him that I would cover the fees when I saw him. He wasn’t worried about it and might have had some family commitments on Mothers Day. The sail for the dinghy is being made up on Cape Cod and won’t be available until June. I’m headed down to Green Cove Springs to do some bureaucratic chores and some boat projects. I’ll likely just stop here on my way up north to pick up the sail. Don is supposed to email me his address so I can cover his Paypal fees, but otherwise I’ll do it when I return for the sail. </p><p>The main feature is that the Spindrift will split into two pieces and store in a small space. Moreover, because the boat is light and easy to move the two pieces around, I'll be able to bring her on deck at night not only for security's sake but also to prevent barnacles from having time to grab on. Way less clean up! </p><p>So far, I love the way she rows! The hull is a very efficient V-bottom shape and the oars are proper rowing oars. The sailing rig includes a daggerboard, rudder, and boom as well as a mast which comes apart into three sections for ease of storage. ‘Ease of storage’ is a thing because Ruth Ann is a small boat. However, while sailing up here I developed a plan. I’m going to lay in a supply of Starboard or similar material to make some chocks that the nested dinghy will fit into when tied down. Speaking of ‘tied down,’ I will add some padeyes near the chocks to securely and tightly tie her down. I will also fabricate some similar individual chocks to tie down the two oars, the three mast sections, and the boom. These parts will stow parallel with the boat along the cabin roof. The rudder and the daggerboard will fit into the port cockpit lazarette where the inflatable thwarts and oars were stored.</p><p>Speaking of the inflatable … err, deflatable ... I’ve already given it away. In the next few weeks, I’ll either tune up my outboard and try to sell it … or punt and give it away as well. </p><p>I am so excited to have eliminated a fossil fuel powered mode of transportation. I’ll probably always have the diesel auxiliary engine inside Ruth Ann, but now it is no longer necessary to also buy and store gasoline for the dinghy outboard. </p><p>I can’t wait to sail the Spindrift. Even in the Bahamas where it might be a couple miles from an anchorage to a settlement or a good bar, in all but the most inclement weather, I will be able to sail ashore from Ruth Ann and back out again. </p><p>Life is so damn good. Speaking of good: I'd still rather be lucky than good. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUz0UgBuMkSBvW-n78hlsXPhcqpqAAP8li2ZCbSYL9R0EQspxHsxmcWLjo-n6WkDKFUVZj1LCl46qzTNpEDtYSaO3Xm9TcCUH0CZTpsEmY-IHMo3JlrFRLg_U89wwkFRsXVjgaEGVrug95iKycA9GbVC6qpKSJClwTSzrBEzd_Ukn0WJm8rVLGWMLTAQ/s4096/IMG_20230514_203849150.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUz0UgBuMkSBvW-n78hlsXPhcqpqAAP8li2ZCbSYL9R0EQspxHsxmcWLjo-n6WkDKFUVZj1LCl46qzTNpEDtYSaO3Xm9TcCUH0CZTpsEmY-IHMo3JlrFRLg_U89wwkFRsXVjgaEGVrug95iKycA9GbVC6qpKSJClwTSzrBEzd_Ukn0WJm8rVLGWMLTAQ/s320/IMG_20230514_203849150.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tonight behind Ruth Ann</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p><br /></p></div>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-54232238624498546272023-04-24T09:00:00.017-04:002023-04-24T19:52:05.798-04:00Rookie Mistakes<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwW80RNQFX4xZT-yedEGHw-GwfTGnR3DK0Jn4tmEfx2i7E_SBQOxQpEODouUGsKOhdAqeKTYUyn34v3mYFCg6lofKic_7LlypkDLtSizCcXcn0Ft89ACu9I58T8e-FKm2zIaBb1jVdLTolB5euA3fwBuoRLs0-TeNVwIg2t2_LXj2vj_gA1Dt22zR8g/s400/ST-LUCIE-INLET.arrow.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="400" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwW80RNQFX4xZT-yedEGHw-GwfTGnR3DK0Jn4tmEfx2i7E_SBQOxQpEODouUGsKOhdAqeKTYUyn34v3mYFCg6lofKic_7LlypkDLtSizCcXcn0Ft89ACu9I58T8e-FKm2zIaBb1jVdLTolB5euA3fwBuoRLs0-TeNVwIg2t2_LXj2vj_gA1Dt22zR8g/s320/ST-LUCIE-INLET.arrow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Wednesday was going to be glorious. I had sailed Ruth Ann enough to be quite confident as a sailor again. My personal and business calendars were cleared to take advantage of a weather window. And I had stocked up on provisions, moved down the river, hauled the dinghy aboard, ran the jacklines (safety lines), and made some pasta to eat along the way. <p></p><p>And then I made two rookie mistakes. Even worse, I also failed to heed previous advice from two salty sea captains; ironically both from the nautically rich State of Massachusetts. </p><p>First Rookie Mistake: In my planning, I had become fixated on how good the winds were going to be on Wednesday and Thursday for sailing north. I had looked at the waves and swell patterns in the early planning stages but had not checked again nearer to my departure. I had done a lot of planning and preparation, but I had let me focus get too narrow. </p><p>Second Rookie Mistake: Along the same lines as the first, I failed to recognize a potential hazard in my plan. The East Wind was going to be great for sailing once I had gotten out into the ocean and I was timing my departure so that the tide would carry Ruth Ann and I out; rather than flowing against us. The cardinal sin of that logic was to ignore what can happen when the wind is pushing against a current; tidal or otherwise. </p><p>Both mistakes are basically the same mistake. Getting busy planning in a very narrow sense rather than being open, purposefully open, to a wider range of possibilities. It was a perfect example of what Nicholas Nassim Talib calls a “Black Swan,” an unexpected event that had out-sized effects on the full situation. </p><p>In the image above, we started from the Marriott Anchorage which is just out of the frame in the upper right corner. Ruth Ann and I backtracked down the ICW to the St. Lucie River and turned out toward the Atlantic. As we meandered down the shifting channel of the inlet, I could begin to see some waves crashing on the shore. The inlet is not very wide and there is significant shoaling on each side. By the time I got to the oddly shaped jetties, I knew I was in a bit of trouble. </p><p>The main flow of water is down the channel, of course. There is some water sluicing off through the shallows, but the main volume follows out through the jetties. All that water meets the ocean – and the east wind that day – right where the jetties pinch together. The waves were amazing and stood straight up as the flow collided against the ocean and the wind.</p><p>A full third of Ruth Ann’s hull was out of the water several times. Not from our speed (obviously) but from the violence of the steep angry waves and the short period between them. Ruth Ann would climb up a wave and hover in the air before crashing down, not into a trough but on top of the next wave as they were so close together. A wave or two later and the bowsprit went skyward again and crash downward all over. In such violently confused seas, it would have been near fatal to try to turn around in the small space inside the jetties. Turning around meant that at some point Ruth Ann would have been side to the waves which were big enough to just roll her over. There were a couple boats fishing in the wind shadow of the jetties and they must have thought I was either a salty son of a bitch, or stupid or crazy. I’m quite certain it was one of the latter two. My only choice at that point was to gun the engine and push through. </p><p>We made it through the jetty gauntlet and into the ocean. </p><p>Outside the jetties I had hoped for relief, but the problem was we were still in the flow from the river and tide. The waves had mitigated slightly but were still quite big and close together. I couldn’t turn sharply out of the flow for Ruth Ann could still get in danger when side to the waves. It was a fight to keep from getting physically thrown around by keeping Ruth Ann headed into the waves. I angled her as gently as I could to the ENE and slowly fought our way out of the flow. Turning around was slightly less dangerous outside the jetties, but turning around meant going back through the roller coaster. I did not want to turn back but I especially didn’t want to go back through that maelstrom. The inlet was sure to settle down, but not until the tide changed which was five or six hours from then. There was really nothing to do but to ride it out and try to make some way north. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>A few years ago, I wrote an article about marine consignment shops for Good Old Boat Magazine. In doing so, I met Capt. James Corbett in Salem, MA. I’ve mentioned the good captain several times over the years. His sage advice was “You’ll remember all your sins at sea.” I “heard” him and hear him still, but need to heed him.</p><p>I love my little boat, but if I had actually recognized the intricately designed French mast and rig, I might not have ever bought her! When I converted the rig from stainless steel wire to Dyneema rope, I was confronted with stem balls. Stem balls are a highly engineered flexible terminal on the upper ends of the stays. They were not obvious to me because they were at the top of the 35 foot mast. I had already decided to rig Ruth Ann in Dyneema and had, in fact, already bought the rope before I saw the stem balls. It took good deal of research to find stem ball terminals that could accommodate Dyneema, but I finally did and they work great! They did, however, cost me a couple months in the boatwork process.</p><p>My last post described a beautiful and angry squall that tore through the Stuart anchorage last Sunday. In the aftermath of that storm, Ruth Ann’s boom had disconnected from the mast. The boom is the spar (“stick”) that holds the bottom of the mainsail. It attaches to the mast by a swivel called the gooseneck. When I removed the boom to take the mast down last year, I recognized that the gooseneck was unusual, but I did not stop to study and understand it. Huh. </p><p>While cleaning up from the storm, I lifted the boom with a halyard and topping lift and fit it back on the gooseneck. It seemed to click into place and I never thought about it again -- until after the roller coaster ride through the St. Lucie Inlet. After crashing and crawling our way out into the Atlantic, Ruth Ann’s boom was hanging limply by the sail rather than the gooseneck. My sin was thinking, or accepting, that the gooseneck had fixed itself when the boom seemed to click into place. Capt. Corbett came back to remind me. And now I remember. Don’t cut corners. Don’t make assumptions. Don’t let stuff fix itself without explanation. </p><p>We were out of the river flow but it was still pretty rough. I was doing all I could to keep Ruth Ann pointed into the waves, but there were two wave sets about 30° or 40° apart. I contemplated trying to fix the boom, but when I set the autopilot into one set of waves and held on for dear life as I crept forward, by the time I reached the mast, the next wave set was nearly abeam and Ruth Ann rolled so violently from side to side that she was likely to throw me overboard. Now I knew, whether I accepted it yet or not, that I was going to motor all the way to Fort Pierce and pull in for repairs. </p><p>My fate was sealed when I checked the tides at Fort Pierce and my arrival would time quite well with a tide to carry us in. There was no sense in burning up diesel and hoping against hope that the seas would abate. I’ve come in at Fort Pierce before and know it well. Although the tidal current is very strong there, the Ft. Pierce Inlet is wide without any pinch points to cause surprises. I only had to hang on for four more hours or so. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaQ9c7pxHrLm0hRwYkeLCGI_mQYIgsv7IeT3QgWVEhXnOvg27vfeNLCeA4oUr-ri_H9fI-aIdoBiDXXgS-8e-l_TFfRX-KfYDDPnW0Mel0fp6p1rZxE_cxFxfFqEY0IxaJk9YPWgtfwrUHdwB555v_vBsus6Nk7Evy9d8ueNl8vTMSNAZnnveUFqJ0BQ/s400/Screenshot%20from%202023-04-20%2011-29-13.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="353" data-original-width="400" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaQ9c7pxHrLm0hRwYkeLCGI_mQYIgsv7IeT3QgWVEhXnOvg27vfeNLCeA4oUr-ri_H9fI-aIdoBiDXXgS-8e-l_TFfRX-KfYDDPnW0Mel0fp6p1rZxE_cxFxfFqEY0IxaJk9YPWgtfwrUHdwB555v_vBsus6Nk7Evy9d8ueNl8vTMSNAZnnveUFqJ0BQ/s320/Screenshot%20from%202023-04-20%2011-29-13.png" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>And that brings me to the other Captain I did not heed. Hanging out in the Stuart Anchorage, I had the pleasure of meeting Capt. George and his family. At some point, George made an ominous reference to the sea state off the coast of Florida in an east wind. I remember hearing it but forgot about it in the time since. There is basically nothing between Europe and Africa to interrupt any winds out of the east. I remembered Capt. George for sure, when I got out into the Atlantic with a stronger than forecast east wind, having to fight to keep my boat and me afloat and alive. Whenever Ruth Ann got more than 45° off the waves, the next one knocked her into a strong roll. I had to concentrate on the waves as they approached while trying to judge the changing wave sets and how to steer into each subsequent change. From time to time, I snatched a glance at the compass, and knew that we were headed mostly due east straight offshore. I thought that the waves would settle down if I got into deeper water. Ruth Ann and I wrestled our way at least four miles offshore and got into sixty feet of water with no discernible change in the wave action. I had to change tactics and just concentrate on getting in at Fort Pierce. </p><p>When I finally turned toward the shore, Ruth Ann rode the waves much better when they were coming in under her stern quarter than when we were crashing into them head on. However, we needed to make our way north, so I was holding our heading tight; right at the edge of comfort and chaos. When it became dangerously rolly, I would head back out to sea for a while and later turn in again. We zigged and zagged in the changing wave sets, and I pulled every foot of “north” I could hang on to as we rollicked in the waves. Hilariously, my SPOT satellite tracker only pings every 10 minutes, so our course looks like a pretty direct path toward Fort Pierce rather than the drunken line that it was. </p><p>I was hungry and tired and holding on for dear life. It only took a few seconds of distraction to miss that the next wave set would hit us badly. Ruth Ann would twist and roll and I would hang on to the wheel with a death grip. Thankfully, out on the ocean the waves were a little more spread out. Though some of the troughs were surprisingly deep. We would suddenly crest a wave and then float down through space in infinite time until the bowsprit buried itself in the next wave. It was sickening and exhilarating all at the same time. What a ride!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY4slKsB1gFjE1-0bWTbImbHcuXO6mLB28vkmI0I8emsQfYg7tjIdy0wxP2WRD0ixeGg1ByTZjnjJsqhdD8q3q-FDC6SM1UjOYCZ8pmuxhNwUaVvEehZICZxArbWLegfbVJdx2ZYkjxmXerfQUqNVeU1XAIEvWj4BL1eUsJXmwiu2TSTpT5VzVws08sw/s533/IMG_20230419_144418377.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY4slKsB1gFjE1-0bWTbImbHcuXO6mLB28vkmI0I8emsQfYg7tjIdy0wxP2WRD0ixeGg1ByTZjnjJsqhdD8q3q-FDC6SM1UjOYCZ8pmuxhNwUaVvEehZICZxArbWLegfbVJdx2ZYkjxmXerfQUqNVeU1XAIEvWj4BL1eUsJXmwiu2TSTpT5VzVws08sw/s320/IMG_20230419_144418377.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Along the way, I thought I saw a sail. It was comforting that I might not be the only fool out there. But as I got closer and noticed the depth was decreasing, the chartplotter finally showed me that the odd triangular shape I was seeing was not a sail but a buoy marking a shoal. I was, indeed, the only fool. Well, me and a ship so large they weren’t even feeling the waves, but only one. <p></p><p>Then a dolphin swam by. At first my brain only noted that a large living creature was in the water next to the cockpit, but just before I might have panicked I recognized it was a harmless and friendly mammal. It was a pair of dolphins actually, and they played in Ruth Ann’s bow wave for thirty or forty minutes in the semi-clear waters of the Treasure Coast. </p><p>I passed the nuclear power plant, the trees where I knew the Blind Creek Nude Beach was, and finally approached some buildings I could recognize as the north end of Hutchinson Island. I was getting close finally. A large ship, actually the one I mentioned above, came out of the inlet so I could judge exactly where I needed to go. I was still steering in toward the beach, riding the waves, then out toward the ocean again and back. It was still amazingly violent. I don’t know how else to describe it. I rocked back and forth with the boat as we careened over waves and fell into troughs. I would still get caught occasionally by the next set and had to hang on while Ruth Ann rolled side to side and I leaned each opposite way like I was riding a mechanical bull. But now each time I swung her bow through to the other heading, I could see the sea buoys marking the entrance to the inlet. </p><p>Finally, we arrived at the channel markers, but had to go just north of them before turning into shore in order to ride the waves comfortably. And as soon as I turned … peace and quiet came back. The waves would gently lift Ruth Ann’s stern, she’d do a little shimmy at the top before dipping as the wave passed underneath her. It was such a contrast to the maelstrom we had come from, it felt like rowing on a pond. Nevertheless, I had to mind our heading and keep the waves coming under her from a tight angle. Off to the north, a catamaran was coming in as well. After several glances, I could tell that we were on a collision course and that they had the right-of-way, so I cut our speed slightly. The catamaran eased into the channel just ahead of us and we were out of the ocean. </p><p>Here's the calm part, after the turn into the Ft. Pierce Inlet:<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/i1yMIYX3T6w" width="320" youtube-src-id="i1yMIYX3T6w"></iframe></div><p></p><p>On the way in, the Jetty Park was off to port. I spent many hours there a few years ago. When I had a boat project here in Fort Pierce, I would head out to the jetty after a long day or sometimes for lunch if I had run into town. I sat there and watched the boats going in and out and dreamed of sailing my own. It was then that I recognized how strong the current was and I was glad to have the tide with us rather than against us. </p><p>After coming all the way into the inlet, I circled around the big spoil island to check out the anchorage below the North Ft. Pierce Bridge. There is a less current there, but it was fairly full, so I pulled in just behind the same spoil island and dropped the anchor. </p><p>What a day. I was disappointed that we had only made it to the next inlet, but I was exhilarated as well. My little boat had brought me in safely. She had gone wherever I had steered her; even in the worst seas that I have ever experienced. We fought together for more than six hours and hadn’t turned back. It wasn’t as far as we planned but it was forward, toward our destination. We had not turned back. Ruth Ann is strong and seaworthy and I trust her now, even more than I had before. I made supper, did some research online about my fancy French gooseneck, checked the anchor again, and went to bed. </p><p>==</p><p><br /></p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting the project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunrise/set images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support</p><p><br /></p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-23851602655461210382023-04-21T09:00:00.002-04:002023-04-24T19:51:11.814-04:00Sunday Squall<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzG-naEz-nmxB2bgNS0z3ScnC_TezNeHxKpC1n61EFE63D46BvaF2KIgYuGt73qjJBCbqE-aljm6zwhxvxRJLcNzBsxcNvfEibUfJWCBiCZm5_TGINQOklXYdPIA8JGqhZXtz4LIFECNvfD8FtcFRdVubwPA8se1BCPZUabe4KsBzwGvWFHOd4l-32xQ/s4096/IMG_20230416_175548311.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzG-naEz-nmxB2bgNS0z3ScnC_TezNeHxKpC1n61EFE63D46BvaF2KIgYuGt73qjJBCbqE-aljm6zwhxvxRJLcNzBsxcNvfEibUfJWCBiCZm5_TGINQOklXYdPIA8JGqhZXtz4LIFECNvfD8FtcFRdVubwPA8se1BCPZUabe4KsBzwGvWFHOd4l-32xQ/s320/IMG_20230416_175548311.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>I promised bliss from now on. This post actually is about bliss but of a kind that many people, especially landlubbers, might not understand. It's about the difference between scared and prepared; and the freedom of the latter. </p><p>By way of completely jinxing myself, I posted on Saturday a reel of some lightning off in the distance and typed, “Rain tomorrow here, but not a storm (... I think).” That day, I had moved the boat back down to the Stuart anchorage. On Sunday, I made three trips ashore and got 25 gallons of water and hit Publix for a big batch of provisions. I had gotten an early start because the wind was supposed to pick up (again) in the late afternoon. The outboard conked out but got me to shore the last time. Nevertheless, I had to row back out with all my groceries. </p><p>The outboard quit running and needs some TLC, but I was out of time in Stuart. There is a good weather window for me to head offshore to get north on Wednesday. I really needed to do some laundry and the uncooperative outboard was putting a wrench in the works. I checked the weather and decided that Monday morning, it would be calm enough to row back to shore to hit the laundromat. </p><p>And then the fun began. </p><p>A bit later on Sunday, there was a bunch of lightning off to the northwest and because I had just spent a week hunkered down for weather, I posted “WTH is up with the weather this week.” </p><p>Soon after a huge ominous cloud was looming over the entire western horizon and the wind started gusting. I was working on my laptop, sitting at the drop leaf table that surrounds the mast (foreshadowing). Lightning was, once again, dazzling the clouds to the west. Then the rain hit and the winds came in earnest. </p><p>It was an amazing display of raw natural power for three or four hours. The rain spewed horizontally like the firehose of the gods and the wind howled like a crazed beast. There was lightning all around me; some quite close. I stood in the companionway, soaked from the spray, and watched in awe at the pure beauty of Mother Nature’s power. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafWif-Ct0F1WALZjjAmbfLjfW6dHgcwpheYyzFvEydqSPlEfvlOUqYK-9ag41ykCXpokM7pf8gg80fxOLMGkLbpVvvVBWaBK3yKXifK_aj1sNUAXQQk1ezuRtmezFtYsgCyjWGZ_gAVUNoPGkTozQgfpRo-VR_Zb49Y5S0_mOmpOwHl27E7xh5edxlg/s4096/IMG_20230416_183719999.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafWif-Ct0F1WALZjjAmbfLjfW6dHgcwpheYyzFvEydqSPlEfvlOUqYK-9ag41ykCXpokM7pf8gg80fxOLMGkLbpVvvVBWaBK3yKXifK_aj1sNUAXQQk1ezuRtmezFtYsgCyjWGZ_gAVUNoPGkTozQgfpRo-VR_Zb49Y5S0_mOmpOwHl27E7xh5edxlg/s320/IMG_20230416_183719999.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Then I noticed Ruth Ann was getting really close to Murphy’s Law. The Murph is an old fishing boat that had been left in the anchorage, likely for many years. She rarely moved much in the wind or tide and I suspected that she sat on the bottom at low tide. In the midst of the squall, I was amazed at how much anchor chain she had out when it got stretched. A big heavy workboat will react to the wind very differently than a little, lightweight sailboat like Ruth Ann. With a squall blasting, however, all our anchor chains were taut. I squinted into the wind and rain to evaluate the situation. After getting soaked to the bone, I assured myself that we would not get any closer. </p><p>Then I started thinking more about the lightning. </p><p>At times, I have contemplated what would happen if Ruth Ann got struck by lightning. Mostly, I'm a bit fatalistic about it. When a boat, any boat, gets hit by lightning all hell breaks loose. Most of the electronics aboard will be fried and there is a good chance of a fire and/or a hole getting blown through the hull under the water line. Nothing good would ever come from a lightning strike. Another wrinkle in the story is that I re-rigged my boat with Dyneema, a synthetic rope. Most sailboats have stainless steel wire rope holding the mast up. My rig is a synthetic rope made of ultra high molecular weight polyethylene; think if milk jug material had a second cousin who was a weight-lifting, steroid-swilling wrestler. My aluminum mast is keel-stepped; meaning the mast comes through the cabintop and rests on the top of the keel inside the boat. Bottom line is my mast will conduct electricity but my rig will not. Not only is this different from other boats, I have no idea what difference, if any, it would make in a lightning strike. </p><p>I have done a little bit of research on boats and lightning, and less on lightning and dyneema, so I have no idea if Ruth Ann is a bit safer, or a bit more fragile. Regardless, if 30,000 amps hits my boat it’s either going to really suck or really suck a bit less. Just the same, Sunday evening I had to start thinking that I’ve never been closer to getting struck by lightning. </p><p>Well … there was a time when I was a kid. The family had made a huge trip car-camping out west and stopped at the Rocky Mountain National Park. Dad, brother Tim, and I hiked up to a spot that was supposedly the highest point in the park you get to without hiking in; a casual walk uphill from a parking lot. There were fifteen or twenty people up on this peak and a ranger who was talking to us. I’ve always been fascinated by sunrises, sunsets, and the sky in general. I can still vividly remember the angry dark clouds creeping across the ridge on the opposite side of the valley. We watched the shadow of the clouds move down the side of the mountains. The rain under the larger clouds, was thick and obscured the land behind and beneath it.</p><p>And then my brother (we’re all geeks) said “I smell static electricity.” </p><p>Dad and a few people turned to look at him and saw me standing there, apparently with my hair standing on end. I couldn’t see it, but I raised my hand and thought that I got a shock … from myself. The ranger stepped through the small crowd and body blocked me to the ground, shouting, “Run back down to the parking lot and keep your head as low as possible as you go!” </p><p>Imagine what my Mom and sister thought, standing next to the car down the hil, and suddenly I am running like a mad man with sciatica; loping down the hill and ducking as I went. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgth0_cyuabxIZrThzWKl59_Csa-NnbD_OvT8eStCEnX0iH6JWXSkq7VbLcomdPTzoRiWesp8jnCXRkL6iyT9lcOP6NMpprrmJU92zBjtrAEEDLmkeay62BhUE_5-6NO1JVB8KSkL4HuG0cWvKKjKOQCeUNvF8nc-2pyZrGnb1WbxoXp7cmtVUKwRsJEg/s1788/Screenshot_20230416-182204~3.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1788" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgth0_cyuabxIZrThzWKl59_Csa-NnbD_OvT8eStCEnX0iH6JWXSkq7VbLcomdPTzoRiWesp8jnCXRkL6iyT9lcOP6NMpprrmJU92zBjtrAEEDLmkeay62BhUE_5-6NO1JVB8KSkL4HuG0cWvKKjKOQCeUNvF8nc-2pyZrGnb1WbxoXp7cmtVUKwRsJEg/s320/Screenshot_20230416-182204~3.png" width="193" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br />Back to Ruth Ann and the squall, I couldn’t decide if I had had my close call with lightning back then or whether I might actually attract it. <p></p><p>It is already getting warm in Florida and for a few weeks now, I’ve been knocking around the boat in nothing but a pair of swim trunks. I had to consider the possibility that we could get struck. There was so much thunder and lightning, whether my new rig was going to help or not, whether I attracted it or not, was less meaningful than the fact that it was crashing all around us. </p><p>There was nothing I could do but prepare – just in case – and perhaps not sit at my laptop right next to the mast. An amazing wave of peace came over me and I got into a forward cabinet to get a dry bag. A dry bag, of course, is a waterproof gear bag. I got my wallet and some clothes. I dug out my passport and the boat’s registration, and stuffed it all in the sack. I set the bag, still open, in the galley so that I could stash my phone at the last moment.</p><p>And then I watched the storm some more. It was beautiful. I wasn't scared; I was prepared. That was enough. That was all I could do and all that was necessary. </p><p>I’m a midwesterner (or was) and all I could think of was snow snakes on the highway. It doesn’t take much wind to send the wispy snakes of snow crawling across the road, but this squall was pulling spray up off the water, atomizing it, and sending snakes of spray running all through the anchorage. I don’t have a wind gauge, but a couple miles away friends measured 53 knots of wind, that’s almost 61 mph! And I forgot to mention the tornado warning that night. </p><p>The squall gradually passed, I finally made some supper, and all was well in the world again. Monday morning early, I rowed (without the outboard) back to shore with my laundry and a water jug. While my clothes were drying, I bought some more beer rather than hiking the extra couple miles to get some bourbon. I don’t drink at sea, but a sailor needs to celebrate arriving at port. I got back to Ruth Ann with clean clothes, clean sheets, beer, and another five gallons of water. </p><p>It’s now Tuesday afternoon, I am back in the Marriott Resort anchorage right near the St. Lucie Inlet. Late morning tomorrow, I’m going to head offshore and try to get to the St. Johns River and Jacksonville. There are a couple spots I can pull in if I’m tired or the weather changes, but it looks good for sailing north. </p><p><br /></p><p>==</p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting the project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunrise/set images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support</p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-8857784261260074672023-04-06T09:00:00.008-04:002024-03-14T11:58:12.734-04:00Happy Sailor's Heart<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSagIaY9-2nwj08dV3Phc7XEz5j50I73YSKtlel78-FGdcPw95rcWdis1e41GxH9TFaiedPvyZfnInx0RaerccRj2uJ5bBjcAGQPPX7vqggpjSNZ0vwEWXf6ji_KJDpNGGUqCbx5U7pxr-1hhZ_0iGqK4tXNdBkbtY0lrEgwKQ5E0n-nxrsoKM18Fp7A/s4096/IMG_20230326_070259704.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSagIaY9-2nwj08dV3Phc7XEz5j50I73YSKtlel78-FGdcPw95rcWdis1e41GxH9TFaiedPvyZfnInx0RaerccRj2uJ5bBjcAGQPPX7vqggpjSNZ0vwEWXf6ji_KJDpNGGUqCbx5U7pxr-1hhZ_0iGqK4tXNdBkbtY0lrEgwKQ5E0n-nxrsoKM18Fp7A/s320/IMG_20230326_070259704.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />I have felt a little funny about some of my recent posts. In reporting on real-life-on-the-water, I kept feeling like I was being negative or telling stories about drudgery rather than the blissful days that I had expected; perhaps some of y’all had expected too. Well, bliss has arrived and will be emphasized in future. <p></p><p>My last two project boats kept me off the water for several years; far too long. As a result, when I got back on the water aboard sv Ruth Ann, I was feeling like a rookie again. It didn’t help that winter weather was chasing me down the coast when we first started moving. On top of all that, I had installed the new-to-me engine and re-rigged the boat’s mast myself. Once we were moving, I had to learn all the creaks and groans of my boat while trying to determine which noises were normal and which needed attention. I was kind of on edge and Imposter Syndrome was hitting me hard. </p><p>When I finally arrived in warmer waters and could slow down, it occurred to me that I had just traveled about 900 miles and put nearly two hundred hours on the engine that I had installed. I must have done alright or something would have slowed me down or stopped me along the way. </p><p>And then I finally started sailing. </p><p>It took some doing to combat the inertia of just hanging out and rationalizing with my discomfort, but I gave myself a mental shake and set the boat up for sailing. The anchorage where Ruth Ann and I have been is in the South Fork of the St. Lucie River and there is a nice, wide open area in the North Fork not far away. I got out and started sailing!! I can’t explain how important that was. </p><p>The first day, I only hoisted the jib. There was plenty of wind and it was good practice to tack the jib between the forestay and the staysail stay on Ruth Ann’s bow. Soon after, I was sailing with jib and main. The North Fork reminds me of the three sections of Thornapple Lake in Michigan where I did much of my early sailing as a kid. There is a small patch of water separated from a wider area by a point that pinches the river from the north shore. Beyond that point is a large expanse of water, deep enough out to its edges for some really good sailing. I got lots of practice. </p><p>And then my friend Nancy came for a visit. We motored up the North Fork of the river so that I could introduce her, in person, to some friends that she had introduced to me online. After hanging out for Cockpit Coffee with <a href="http://sailbumsmusic.com/" target="_blank">The Sail Bums</a> on Sunday morning, Nancy and I were going to sail back down the river. The wind was a little boisterous that day and had I been by myself, I could have easily rationalized my way out of sailing, but I was too proud to wimp out in front of an old friend. Turns out, it was a great afternoon of sailing! My confidence got a boost.</p><p>Watching the weather, we adjusted our schedule and decided to hang out on Monday for a day of rest and then go offshore on Tuesday. The weather gods had decided to shine upon us. We got up and had breakfast, stopped by the neighborhood marina for some fuel, and headed down the river to the ocean. I thought I had gotten away from obnoxious and clueless drivers when I got off the highway, but a lot of those fools own boats and traffic is traffic. But the day was so nice it overshadowed the other boats. We got down the river, through a couple curves, and past the Manatee Pocket Channel. After crossing the Intra Coastal Waterway (ICW), we motored out the St. Lucie Inlet, got past the last channel marker, into the ociean, raised the sails, and turned off the engine. </p><p>It is always a pleasure to turn the engine off and start sailing. The first moments are so wonderfully silent by contrast to the rattle and hum of the diesel. But to have had that peaceful moment after stopping the engine and see only water before us … was just plain magical. In fact, as we headed out, because the Florida peninsula leans toward the southeast, the water surrounded us from well west of north all the way around to nearly straight south of us. There was nothing between us and the Bahamas.</p><p>Such a good feeling. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWO6jRXDqW22GI6iz9Exz9xST5AqMbZ7_UARbKEDeh_lJ7AC6uE947uM8muEQUNx3-EqqXiDH8qlWF9ODlw-y7Pxmd7hxBWA_VPOGtLqHImSxwSvcJcbrVY0ERc5RaL4VpPGBBSQtm586D4ku3kMnsO7WiE-ESmBprXZGBZCkgJC4eFbJRQUGJ2Z9BQ/s4096/IMG_20230328_175610713.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWO6jRXDqW22GI6iz9Exz9xST5AqMbZ7_UARbKEDeh_lJ7AC6uE947uM8muEQUNx3-EqqXiDH8qlWF9ODlw-y7Pxmd7hxBWA_VPOGtLqHImSxwSvcJcbrVY0ERc5RaL4VpPGBBSQtm586D4ku3kMnsO7WiE-ESmBprXZGBZCkgJC4eFbJRQUGJ2Z9BQ/s320/IMG_20230328_175610713.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />As on Sunday, I was letting Nancy steer and call the tacks to share the experience and what little knowledge I could offer. She has been sailing a while now and was doing great, but Ruth Ann was in her glory. I love my little boat! She is just right for me and loves to sail. We meandered off to the northeast watching the time to determine when we should turn around. There was a little more than three hours of daylight left, but neither Nancy or I, nor especially Ruth Ann, wanted to turn around. <p></p><p>Eventually, we did tack out to the east and then again southwest toward the inlet. On the way in, we <a href="https://youtu.be/FfugtVNEjRY" target="_blank">tacked</a> twice more to aim our course right at the outer St. Lucie buoy. The wind was straight out of the south and steady; not strong but just right. </p><p>Once we got close to the outer buoy, I had an idea; a challenge had occurred to me. I told Nancy that I wanted to take over the helm and attempt to sail all the way into the inlet without turning the engine on. </p><p>From the ocean, the St. Lucie Inlet begins almost straight west toward the shore. About halfway in, there is a dogleg to port and then a gentle curve to starboard as the inlet approaches the ICW. The south wind had eased but was nearly perfect. We were on a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Point_of_sail" target="_blank">beam reach</a> to the dogleg, and then a close reach swinging to a broad reach as we got around the curve. I assured my crew that I wouldn’t do anything stupid, but I wanted to keep the engine off. I thought that I could turn up the ICW and run with the wind behind us, but I planned to start the engine as we approached our destination. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuDwMbdeKD5z-tE6LZvxUdOpTsvtWXZLAAlReube4VGv2lsnOjD9VRdke24pftoEUOgZp2bYaem5tqtntcrFXB8vfxwUdkaQbs6S1z9ZpaRf_e5JSNYUMP5q8y8iNBD4yNE0urXEemRLAlbHRymoEc0I9400bQYg83IFwWB3IE3O56uCvC9MriPp9fg/s2000/Marker%2030_repaired_2-20-20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuDwMbdeKD5z-tE6LZvxUdOpTsvtWXZLAAlReube4VGv2lsnOjD9VRdke24pftoEUOgZp2bYaem5tqtntcrFXB8vfxwUdkaQbs6S1z9ZpaRf_e5JSNYUMP5q8y8iNBD4yNE0urXEemRLAlbHRymoEc0I9400bQYg83IFwWB3IE3O56uCvC9MriPp9fg/s320/Marker%2030_repaired_2-20-20.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />When I glanced at the water sluicing past a channel marker, I realized that we were going up against the outgoing tide. The gentle wind was just enough to push my beautiful boat up current. We were doing less than a knot (about 1.15 mph) much of the time. At least twice, I saw our speed bottom out to zero, but we made it through the spots where the tide was rushing and sallied forth. Basically dead ahead of us, the sun was going down in the west and it was beautiful. I was so full of joy I could hardly stand still. That was just what I needed; just the right challenge to break the crust off my neglected sailor’s heart. <p></p><p>We <a href="https://youtu.be/dMb6UEZ0pvE" target="_blank">jibed</a> and headed north with the wind behind us, angling out of the channel, across some open water, and cutting the corner toward the ICW. I was beaming and so excited! We were ghosting along, but it was just after sunset and almost no one else was on the water. Once we had the wind behind us, we were sailing wing on wing for a time and I had to be very careful to mind the sails and not let the boom crash across the boat. </p><p>It was getting quite dark, but we were headed toward the Stuart Causeway where the bridge was all lit up. Many of the channel markers along the way were unlit day markers, which I occasionally flashed with a powerful flashlight to eye the channel. Approaching the bridge, it was about time to consider turning on the engine. To get to the Marriott anchorage, I had to turn east into their channel and then south again just past the first pair of private channel marks. And then the wind shifted! Just a small veer in the wind opened up the possibility of sailing on without the engine!! </p><p>Right near the marina channel, I had drifted to port while observing the changing conditions and Nancy called out “Depth says two feet. Two point four!” I quickly steered back into the ICW and aimed for the private channel. That would have stopped us in our tracks, but luckily my temporary depthsounder is measuring the water under the keel, not the depth of the water around us. Ruth Ann draws three and a half feet, so 2.4’ on the depth display is actually almost six feet of water. </p><p>Unscathed, we sailed toward the Marriott Resort, a huge golf and tennis complex with a marina full of fancy fishing boats. Their channel markers were unlit, of course, so I shined the flashlight toward the bright lights of the resort and picked up a pair of marks in the water a dozen yards or so off the ICW. With the veering wind behind us, I could easily turn out of the channel and into the anchorage on a broad reach again. We came in past a mast-less sailboat that I saw the last time I had been in that anchorage. There was another small cruiser near the entrance, a catamaran further back, and another boat I could just make out in the darkness. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlunT3DwiyuNsZ1OXfyOEv4pDu3J3d9wUjebD_HYADzpfwGxScFs7Zkd4GA_1bfdcgfm-1VsFjH5ZmkBXIBmYWr4sqMZ2-buJyVuidP7AhKot7dH6Ily_yMtgvDFE3ZTv1GQSwcxQ_cpMMc-2oZfw24X54DK8tDLHOuLV9PN49Blu0rstFYi441YVTw/s2560/Screenshot_20230328-214819_Boating.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2560" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlunT3DwiyuNsZ1OXfyOEv4pDu3J3d9wUjebD_HYADzpfwGxScFs7Zkd4GA_1bfdcgfm-1VsFjH5ZmkBXIBmYWr4sqMZ2-buJyVuidP7AhKot7dH6Ily_yMtgvDFE3ZTv1GQSwcxQ_cpMMc-2oZfw24X54DK8tDLHOuLV9PN49Blu0rstFYi441YVTw/s320/Screenshot_20230328-214819_Boating.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our route off the ocean (yellow line)</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We had made it from out on the ocean all the way into the anchorage – under sail alone!!! My happy sailor’s heart could have burst open! Most importantly for me, my confidence in myself and in my boat, had skyrocketed. I was suddenly my old sailor self again. I had been reborn! <p></p><p>Then I made a small strategic error. I was trying to decide if I should go past the catamaran or turn into the wind before I got there. My initial plan was to sail astern of the catamaran, to where there was lots of open water behind them, but also another boat. That other boat was lying differently in the light wind than the catamaran. At the last minute, I decided that I should turn before the catamaran and avoid getting near the other boat off in the darkness. Turning straight into the wind is a way to nearly stop a sailboat. There was a little tidal current, just a breath of wind, and Ruth Ann started to drift toward the catamaran; a boat probably worth more than all I had made in the last five years. My sails were already hanging limply and I could not get Ruth Ann to steer. If there is no water moving past the rudder, the rudder will not steer the boat. It was time to start the engine. </p><p>Aaaarrrrrgggghhh! </p><p>I fired up the Yanmar and we moved about fifty yards -- less than five minutes of motoring -- to anchor safely west of the boats that were already there. I don’t even count those five minutes. We had patiently sailed for almost four hours, roughly four miles, squeezing every foot out of each breath of wind. We had gotten all the way into the anchorage that was our destination. I will take that as a win!! </p><p>Wow! What a glorious day of sailing!! I will be bragging about it forever more. Plus, I had a friend with me, I had a witness, I can claim it! That <a href="https://www.bubbathepirate.com/2019/06/nailed-it.html">has not always been the case</a>.</p><p><br /></p><p>==</p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting the project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunrise/set images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support. </p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-76798182188613171812023-02-26T09:00:00.098-05:002023-02-26T12:27:05.461-05:00The Cost of Being A Boss<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXp68T1LczcK3B30T2TZ-T6eJwRlJDgEpjCragbwJhW1TY1HNkILMQci2oG35UhOKqYi-djGhVb6Ns8-kn_LTyIwVRs5lqMxL8sUumNJbM_1wut1ky_wICgl-HEGKzsuo5Z6uDO8Ik-CVJoJ1rTyuUi6eafJ3W4fkMcMbD4FJ92NipC4ub3PwaE4PVw/s667/IMG_20230219_063104037.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXp68T1LczcK3B30T2TZ-T6eJwRlJDgEpjCragbwJhW1TY1HNkILMQci2oG35UhOKqYi-djGhVb6Ns8-kn_LTyIwVRs5lqMxL8sUumNJbM_1wut1ky_wICgl-HEGKzsuo5Z6uDO8Ik-CVJoJ1rTyuUi6eafJ3W4fkMcMbD4FJ92NipC4ub3PwaE4PVw/s320/IMG_20230219_063104037.webp" width="240" /></a></div><br />I have learned that it is important to listen carefully to the way I speak to myself. Whenever I “hear” myself start to say “I’ll just …” or “It’ll be alright …”, I try to stop whatever I’m doing or thinking, and take a closer look. “Just” is a sneaky word in that context; it is a warning that a corner is about to be cut. Whenever I recognize those phrases I know that I am about to do something that I don't think is exactly proper. <p></p><p>I was chatting with one of my sailing pals about the fact that I don’t have a windlass on Ruth Ann. A windlass is a type of winch that will raise an anchor off the bottom; some are manual but most are electric. Ruth Ann doesn’t have room near her bow for a windlass. Right now I am enjoying the workout. Wade’s conjecture, however, was that without a windlass a sailor might be tempted to stay anchored in a less than perfect spot just to avoid hauling the anchor by hand. At the time we were speaking, I had actually just hauled my anchor to move to a better spot shortly after having dropped it. I made it my mission to act like I had a windlass and not ever be that sailor who lets it slide. </p><p>However, both of these concepts are getting ahead of my story. Hang tight, last Friday was a day to remember. </p><p>I had promised myself that I was going to sail on Friday. It is somewhat hilarious that after three years of work to get a sailboat in the water and finally launching her the first week of December, it was February and I hadn’t sailed her yet. It’s a complicated story, but doing all the work myself to replace Ruth Ann’s engine had taken a bit longer than I had planned. Once we were actually in the water, it was a race to get down the coast before Winter closed in. The mad rush south and some goofy weather had caused me to motor all the way from Navassa, outside Wilmington, NC down to Florida. </p><p>True confession: it wasn’t just the weather; I was getting in my own way as well. </p><p>I had a boat in the water and was headed toward warmer weather for the winter; the life that I had literally been working for fifteen years to accomplish. And yet I was wallowing in feelings of inadequacy. I was panicked. </p><p>I had to show up; had to demonstrate that I was the guy that I had been trying to be all this time. Imposter syndrome was hitting me hard. Even with a lifetime of sailing experience because the last few years had been more about boatwork than sailing, I felt like a rookie again. The <a href="https://www.bubbathepirate.com/2022/12/perhaps-worst-day-part-one.html">trouble I had had that first week on the water</a> had increased my doubts. I am proud to be a thoughtful, conservative sailor and the weather had really been against me for weeks. Yet I still felt like I wasn’t living up to my sailor facade. There I was motoring down the coast on my own boat powered by a diesel engine that I had installed myself and yet my pea brain had invented a facade and was accusing me of hiding behind it. Objectively, I was a damn sailor but I could hardly convince myself to think so. Hence, my promise to go sailing.</p><p>I knew I just had to start moving and everything would fall into place. My preparations had begun on Thursday; checking the rigging and the sails. Friday morning, it seemed a little windier than I had expected, but I pulled the outboard up onto the stern pulpit, hanked on the yankee (my high cut jib), and uncovered the mainsail. I looked around the gusty anchorage and went below to procrastinate. I made some lunch and sat. Finally, after a good mental shake, I got to work again. I started the engine, hauled the anchor, and left the anchorage. I was moving. Finally.</p><p>Just north of where Ruth Ann and I had been anchored was the junction of the North and South Forks of the St. Lucie River. The anchorage was in the South Fork and we headed north to turn into … wait for it … the North Fork. I engaged the autopilot and wandered around the deck running my jib sheets and making my final preparations. Approaching the elbow where the river opens up into a long stretch wide enough for sailing, I raised the yankee and cut the engine. </p><p>It was so good, just soul enriching to feel Ruth Ann surge through the water without hearing the engine. I started to feel like I was back. The real me had begun to peek from behind the crust I had been accumulating. The wind was indeed a little stronger than I had anticipated and we were already doing more than half her hull speed with just the yankee. I was feeling good and we were stepping out. I could have raised the main and really put us through our paces, but it was not necessary to test us on that first day back. </p><p>I had a glorious afternoon tacking back and forth on the North Fork practicing the timing of my jib tack. Ruth Ann is a cutter, so she has two stays at the bow. My jib was going to have to squeeze between the forestay and the staysail stay each time I tacked. I have sailed a cutter before but practice is never a bad thing. I pretty much got the hang of it. By holding the active sheet on the winch until the jib started to bulge between the stays and then hauling hard on the lazy sheet, I could get a consistent tack. Late in the afternoon, the wind got a little fluky so I started the engine and pulled down the yankee (jib). Back through the junction, I was in the South Fork again approaching the anchorage. </p><p>The spot where I had originally anchored was fairly close to the channel. I was keen to get deeper into the anchorage to be less affected by the wakes as large boats went by. After slowing the boat, we gurgled into the anchorage and I watched the depths as we passed around the other boats. There was a large powerboat that might have been sitting on the bottom and I didn’t want to anchor too close to it, but there was a nice spot nearby. I circled around and aimed for the spot. The wind had strengthened again and it was blowing me off my chosen spot as I walked forward to drop the anchor. After a couple tries, the anchor was finally down and Ruth Ann drifted backward as I gradually let out some chain. Then when I walked back to the cockpit to set the anchor, I noticed that I was a little close to another boat. I wasn’t obnoxiously close but I felt a pinch about it. </p><p>It’ll be alright, I thought. That guy will probably not know any better and I’m going to go out again on Monday. I’ll just fix it when I come back again. And I went below. </p><p>Do you recognize those phrases? It took me a few minutes, but I had begun to feel my own discomfort. I knew that I should move, but moving meant hauling the anchor again – with the wind pushing against it. Recognize that? That’s exactly what I promised myself that I would take care of. Reluctantly, I pulled a shirt on and climbed back into the cockpit.</p><p>I started the engine again and hauled the anchor. The anchor line and the chain were covered in a slimy mud from the river bottom which splashed all over the deck and all over me. I pulled the anchor into the bow roller and headed back to the helm. After another couple circles, I dropped the anchor again, this time much closer to where I had originally intended. Ruth Ann fell back on the chain as the wind pushed her and I let out the anchor line. We were in a much better place.</p><p>Back at the helm, I glanced at the dinghy and dropped the engine into reverse to pull on the chain. I heard a whimper, then a squeak, and I knew exactly what I had just done. For two months, I had backed down on the chain with the dinghy floating behind Ruth Ann without incident. Regardless, the whimper was the line getting pulled taut by the propeller which yanked the dinghy against the hull where it squeaked on the fiberglass. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. </p><p>[ insert your favorite string of appropriate pirate cuss words ]</p><p>I didn’t understand how it had happened. The line may have gotten saturated or weighted down by algae growing on it … or I might have let out a couple more feet than normal. I don’t know (it’s called confirmation bias, people). What felt like a rookie mistake was actually a mistake made by a sailor who was letting it slide. You can almost hear me say “It’ll be fine …” or “I’ll just leave that back there like I usually do …”</p><p>Now, after a pretty full afternoon of sun and fresh air, right when I would have liked to have had a drink, made supper, and relaxed for the evening – I was going to have to get in the water. </p><p>I dug out my mask and flippers, stripped down to my skivvies, and lowered the swim ladder. This was going to suck a lot less than <a href="https://www.bubbathepirate.com/2022/12/perhaps-worst-day-part-one.html">when I climbed down into the Cape Fear River</a> last December – but it was still going to suck. The bridle on the dinghy’s bow was too long. I had spliced that bridle before I had ever had the dinghy in the water. There was also a long painter, but when I got down under the water it had been the bridle that had caught the propeller. The bridle was nearly always in the water lately and the white three strand line had become a dirty greenish brown. I managed to untangle a good amount of it in three or four dives, but there was a stubborn bit that had been squeezed tightly against the prop shaft between the propeller and the cutlass bearing. Luckily, I had learned from the Cape Fear story that my old fashioned two blade prop was very stout. Further, I was barely out of idle speed when I had heard the sounds and popped the gear selector back into neutral. There wouldn’t be any damage, so I climbed out of the water. </p><p>Aboard Ruth Ann, dripping wet, I dug out a serrated knife; not my good one, but one that I wouldn’t regret losing if I lost my grip. On the way back to the cockpit, I tried to find a scrap of line or twine in my ropework bucket for a lanyard, but wasn’t patient enough to spy anything that would work. </p><p>Back in the water, I reached over Ruth Ann’s transom to retrieve the knife and plunged back toward the propeller. Under the surface, I was weightless, of course, which meant that pushing against the knife sent me backward as much as it applied any force to cutting the rope. It took a couple tries to figure out how to get some leverage. I ended up in a funny chair-less seated position so that my thighs were under the rudder and my head and shoulders were level with the propeller. With my left hand around the other side of the propeller and holding onto a loose end, I cut through the line with the knife in my right. I could feel it coming loose and kept cutting. Bubbles rushed above me as I began to exhale. Just … one … more … slice … and the line popped loose. I had learned to surface while aiming behind the boat at an exaggerated angle. The swim ladder and the windvane were more than happy to tap me on top my head if I came up for air too close to Ruth Ann. </p><p>One more dive to check that I had gotten all the line and I finally climbed out of the water. Earlier in the day, I had banged my head hard enough to draw some blood. On top of that, I only wear shoes in town and the day before I had cut one of my toes climbing around the boat. The river water was dark and I had to wonder what I had been swimming around in. Landlubbers and politicians cling to conspiracies about vagabond sailors polluting the water, but municipal run-off is a huge, mostly ignored problem. Five or six years ago, this very area was engulfed in a nasty algae bloom because of the fertilizer polluted water that had been released from Lake Okeechobee. It’s not us vagabonds. I won’t bore you with a rant about sailors and clean water, but the people blaming boaters never seem to consider that we live in this water. Even a dog won’t shit where it sleeps.</p><p>I took a shower … and I cleaned my toe with some peroxide. Whether it’s run-off, big agriculture, or even my neighbors, it felt good to rinse off anyway. </p><p>I was finally able to make that supper and later I slept like a baby. It might have felt like a rookie mistake in the moment, but it's just life on the water. I can make that life a little easier by paying attention to my seamanship, but stuff happens. Further, I fixed my own problem in less than an hour while getting some exercise and having a nice swim. I can deal with that.</p><p><br /></p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting the project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunrise/set images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support. </p><p>===</p><p>I tried to grab the sunrise this morning and ended up with this blurry but cool, moody image.</p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-70845665575329219492023-02-05T09:00:00.001-05:002023-02-05T09:00:00.218-05:00Living the Life<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVd-LMZxzL9PqMbh2uX5GSGLYD5R8zjFUDss-cYnjM4EQ-e5q7jW4LhXuBSaEg8mO5cJ8gYgjj44h4suixoNdBYaiFVOnAhDJ5DxzuXG-l116nGoMrhfQ4xDgji11YX1sRUcIMCVKtwZ7NgjwsMxKqTANWeR0nc0iIARaP2XBCJD5aJRtT98MYIugEcw/s667/foggy.barge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVd-LMZxzL9PqMbh2uX5GSGLYD5R8zjFUDss-cYnjM4EQ-e5q7jW4LhXuBSaEg8mO5cJ8gYgjj44h4suixoNdBYaiFVOnAhDJ5DxzuXG-l116nGoMrhfQ4xDgji11YX1sRUcIMCVKtwZ7NgjwsMxKqTANWeR0nc0iIARaP2XBCJD5aJRtT98MYIugEcw/s320/foggy.barge.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="color: #241e12; font-family: system-ui, Roboto, sans-serif;"><p><br /></p></span><div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>This is the Final Post of a four part series detailing my voyage down the East Coast in search of warmer weather for the Winter.</p><p>Editor's Note: When we last left our hero, he was anchored above the Atlantic Blvd Bridge inside the city limits of Jacksonville.</p><p><br /></p><p>I had been trying to get down to New Smyrna Beach to meet up with my sailing friend Wade, but ever since Fernandina I had been fogbound each morning. The night before, Wade and I had determined that I wasn’t going to make it to his dock before he had to leave to catch a flight back to work. I awoke to thick fog again.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The pressure was off my schedule but I was still frustrated having to wait for the fog to lift each morning. The Atlantic Blvd Bridge was less than fifty yards away but I could not see it that morning. I decided that when at least half of the bridge was visible, I would start moving. Earlier, I had seen a parade of three construction barges ghost by in the fog. I did not want to be out there with them in the limited visibility. It was almost noon before I could see the eastern half of the bridge, hauled the anchor, and got moving again. As disappointing as it was to miss meeting a friend on the water, my schedule had loosened and I began to look at interesting anchorages rather than the farthest one. I had my eye on a couple anchorages near Pine Island, north of St. Augustine. Passing through more salt marshes, scrub pine, and now also palm trees with much more sand along the shore, I glided through the Florida wilderness. Gulls floated on the water and osprey soared in the sky. I had always planned a backup anchorage or two in case the first was full of boats and I passed one possible anchorage on the approach to Pine Island. </p><p>Pine Island was a heavily forested, medium-sized island, which had been formed when the ICW was cut straight through where the river had made a large bend. I turned into what had once been the Tolomato River and cut my speed to gently pass a fishing boat. The description of the anchorage that I had read said that it was a bit shallow on the way in, but had plenty of depth inside. I gurgled past the fisherman and part way around the first bend but kept seeing slightly less depth under Ruth Ann rather than more. It was a beautiful spot and very peaceful I am sure, but I wasn’t comfortable. After hanging on just a little longer and finding no deeper water, I decided to abandon the anchorage and try the next one. I didn’t really like the looks of the next anchorage on the chart as it was just a wide spot next to the ICW. I wouldn’t be turning off the waterway so much as just nudging my way out of the channel. </p><p>Curiously, at the moment I was exiting the anchorage, my VHF radio crackled to life with a weather warning from the Coast Guard. I couldn’t really understand much of the fuzzy voice but I thought that I had heard the phrase “dense fog.” Just then, I looked to my south and was astounded by the bank of fog enveloping the trees along the eastern shore beyond the anchorage where I was headed. Now it was a race to see if I could get the anchor down while I could still see the water around me. I pushed Ruth Ann a bit harder and concentrated on the next channel marker to keep my bearings in case the fog beat me there. </p><p>When I arrived at the Red 30 marker, the fog was closing in on the opposite edge of the channel. There was, of course, a maze of crab trap buoys, so I circled slowly, watching my depth, and chose a spot where I might not interfere with the buoys. The crabbers weren’t going to be coming out this evening in this fog anyway. After dropping the anchor and backing down on the chain, the fog almost obscured the marker that I had just passed on the way into the anchorage. </p><p>And then the big trawler came by. </p><p>A large trawler paused in the channel, just visible in the fog. When they started moving again, I was a little relieved as the anchorage seemed tight and shallow, especially closer to the western shore. I was inside a curve where the straight channel cut across in front of me. There were lots of crab trap buoys and enough room for a couple more boats; a couple more boats about the size of Ruth Ann, not that behemoth. </p><p>Then the trawler started circling around in the channel. They came into the anchorage between me and the near invisible R30 marker. As they circled around behind me, I waited to hear the sound of their shouts and the revving of their engine as they got stuck on the bottom. I wondered how deep the keel was on such a large boat. I hadn’t gone anywhere near as close to shore as they did. Nevertheless, their anchor chain rattled as it dropped and they settled into a spot plenty far from me. I suppose they didn’t have a choice as the fog had already rolled in. There was lots of chatter on the radio as other boaters panicked realizing they suddenly needed a place to stop. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1EaoU7YJqhQNtHNBGzvQ-DPAlUK8e7Uuw61FXK3LeMZLCR8Enu7lT_UyEcQOlg4sKdp24XiIov-f9z302bRB4smiNAj4rZZOoxIoMNAEgvWB0ExqspYuCHlEcP_MqGaUKjmD2fOIyHUb_UFTHDO3lO21m2f7KtoNNHY-yFEMCQ5qGeUQ88jRHYjYQ9g/s667/St.Aug.sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1EaoU7YJqhQNtHNBGzvQ-DPAlUK8e7Uuw61FXK3LeMZLCR8Enu7lT_UyEcQOlg4sKdp24XiIov-f9z302bRB4smiNAj4rZZOoxIoMNAEgvWB0ExqspYuCHlEcP_MqGaUKjmD2fOIyHUb_UFTHDO3lO21m2f7KtoNNHY-yFEMCQ5qGeUQ88jRHYjYQ9g/s320/St.Aug.sunset.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>I was only a couple hours north of St. Augustine where I planned to stop for laundry and some fresh provisions. There was also a great marine consignment shop there and I had a mind to sell a couple winches that I had pulled off the boat that Ruth Ann’s engine had come from. The winches were just a bit too big for my boat once I had them aboard. Nevertheless, after the novelty of evening fog the day before, we were back to morning fog again. It was after 11:00 before I could see well enough to haul the anchor and get back on the move. While I was waiting, however, I had reserved a mooring ball at the Municipal Marina. </p><p>I’ve always liked St. Augustine and I was keen to experience it from the water. I made my way into town and under the Bridge of Lions where I picked up a mooring. I went ashore to register with the marina and had a late lunch across the street at the A1A Ale House. There I had a Midnight Oil, an excellent oatmeal coffee stout from the Swamp Head Brewery in Gainesville, and the Fisherman’s Platter, which was a little too much fried food all at once, but it was so good. I definitely recommend the A1A Ale House which is immediately southwest of the bridge and right across the street from the municipal marina. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlUgv4s9n1T1uSvScE7GzDBtmxptt9ze6Vdiq3SmhT5DciiUPXgSkDdP97DpKwSX-jxKL0brHYyynPO0wwWrFLKVVzrtOh91iyx5zQE7AcZKordzYLANNECQv5tsml-WdctzpfpaCkS5283OOqRPx0s2Vk5ggkTvqC0RXyxE65sbSs3oKWh1gl4UZVA/s500/winches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="500" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlUgv4s9n1T1uSvScE7GzDBtmxptt9ze6Vdiq3SmhT5DciiUPXgSkDdP97DpKwSX-jxKL0brHYyynPO0wwWrFLKVVzrtOh91iyx5zQE7AcZKordzYLANNECQv5tsml-WdctzpfpaCkS5283OOqRPx0s2Vk5ggkTvqC0RXyxE65sbSs3oKWh1gl4UZVA/s320/winches.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The next day was busy; full of chores. I took my laundry into the marina. Again while my clothes were in the dryer, I took a shower. After taking the clothes back out to the boat, I loaded up my bike, some boat parts, and headed back to shore. At the Sailors Exchange, the marine consignment shop, I offered the winches and a nice brass clock and barometer set. Amusingly, they were more excited about the clock than the winches but bought them all. I left with a couple parts that I needed and a couple hundred bucks. After the Exchange, I biked to an Asian market in a fruitless search for dried soy sticks (kind of like tofu) and then hit a Winn Dixie on the way back to the marina. <p></p><p>In the morning, I got rid of some trash, acquired some diesel and water, and untied from the mooring before noon. I wasn’t going to go far that day as anchorages between St. Augustine and Daytona Beach were few and far between. I stopped a little after 3:00 pm at the Matanzas River Inlet. There is an Eighteenth Century Spanish Fort, more an outpost really, and a peaceful little anchorage. Peaceful, that was, until another boat anchored right on top of me. He was so close, that I didn’t even have to raise my voice when I poked my head out of the companionway and asked “Are you serious?” </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYOezV5H4ZXrKRoQhLG3xhDqZ2koKyUiG3qjWanlo5q3j4PuejvortH3gtqQae2Bypnc9etCuWLe4gnsQZJKLWfR_akt0hWf5UG-XRVLd8ZQ9jDCh2vVvP8aadQjmyWGOuz0BMhy9PuygArWTJZCW3jikdXXcu32KgRlwQ3CBWSDE_q46q4Pn6fX9AA/s667/Ft.Matanzas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYOezV5H4ZXrKRoQhLG3xhDqZ2koKyUiG3qjWanlo5q3j4PuejvortH3gtqQae2Bypnc9etCuWLe4gnsQZJKLWfR_akt0hWf5UG-XRVLd8ZQ9jDCh2vVvP8aadQjmyWGOuz0BMhy9PuygArWTJZCW3jikdXXcu32KgRlwQ3CBWSDE_q46q4Pn6fX9AA/s320/Ft.Matanzas.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>He made some noises about having not seen me right there and oh, I’m sorry and blah blah blah. With a dismissive wave, I went below to finish my supper. It hadn’t sounded like he had done much or moved at all to fix the situation. However, in the morning I was up fairly early and he was already gone. We never bumped into each other in the dark, so he must have done something. </p><p>The next day I was on the move with the first light and made it to Daytona Beach. It was sad how many wrecked boats I had already come across on my way through northern Florida. Daytona is only about a quarter of the way down the Atlantic Coast and I had spotted a dozen or more boats up in the marshes or on the rocks; even a surprising number of powerboats. I anchored south of downtown Daytona after circling below the Red 44 Marker. I could see four wrecks nearby from where I sat at anchor. </p><p>The next day was a pretty full day and as the sun set, I anchored just below the NASA Railway Bridge at the edge of the Kennedy Space Center. I checked the launch schedule but it was going to be more than a week before another rocket lifted off. I was stopping at a friend’s dock in Melbourne anyway, so I hauled anchor in the morning and continued on. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhJKwUACIw6Ud3X2bw_PsZQUxNCfCi0DrYztWSFmL8AVK08EUm8fFpd_9LHdvbCEnxOTJpl_cs1oOPbkA1i6yhreS6sJRYLtRb3pD4sOPJmiI8gZW1llnHzbsBlRTsSLbake_aAJRyzrw2h7AhMQI67XmfucqWKT4sAmTJjSHMRMdq7-GIFWj3OeUQw/s667/Ruth.Ann.Dock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhJKwUACIw6Ud3X2bw_PsZQUxNCfCi0DrYztWSFmL8AVK08EUm8fFpd_9LHdvbCEnxOTJpl_cs1oOPbkA1i6yhreS6sJRYLtRb3pD4sOPJmiI8gZW1llnHzbsBlRTsSLbake_aAJRyzrw2h7AhMQI67XmfucqWKT4sAmTJjSHMRMdq7-GIFWj3OeUQw/s320/Ruth.Ann.Dock.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>I spent a week at that friend’s dock in Melbourne. They were friends of friends actually, and also former cruisers, so they treated me quite well and it was a joy to get to know them a little better. I did some boat projects, scouted around for some web design business, and plugged Ruth Ann in at the dock to survive another cold front. During my stay, I had a couple suppers with them up at the house and on Thursday evening we went out to a local seafood joint for mussels and a jam session of local musicians. It was great fun. <p></p><p>I had finally gotten far enough south that it was mostly warm with the occasional cold front. The next planned stop was Fort Pierce. I had spent three years on a boat project in a local boatyard there and had adopted the town as one of my ‘neighborhoods.’ I knew several people, and a few who were business owners, so I was hoping to drum up some business there as well. </p><p>At this writing, I am still in Fort Pierce. It is different here on the water than it was by land, of course. There is a very strong tide where I am in the inlet; strong enough to be occasionally frustrating. I may be on the move again soon, but in the meantime, my outboard needed some attention and I am waiting on a part ordered through a local Yamaha outboard dealer. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqisaY0uYqgovn_o3gR2Nxsw5f6roDBGrDbeJlSiwMK1kw3hVrrNK_aB4nxXV7sxwslWp-DHavZwzn6fh1d7eoBbYqNM4UVzo-DMWBo0jIirEi8uDxHRbIDEF0GnkhUMN0yeF9ElPIE_xi30feHYZayaXFVFfXOzCyWZjwJrQemvIuXSJgsewGzNp15A/s667/Ruth.Ann.Ft.P.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqisaY0uYqgovn_o3gR2Nxsw5f6roDBGrDbeJlSiwMK1kw3hVrrNK_aB4nxXV7sxwslWp-DHavZwzn6fh1d7eoBbYqNM4UVzo-DMWBo0jIirEi8uDxHRbIDEF0GnkhUMN0yeF9ElPIE_xi30feHYZayaXFVFfXOzCyWZjwJrQemvIuXSJgsewGzNp15A/s320/Ruth.Ann.Ft.P.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>Nevertheless, it has been good to be back here as well. I hit the wonderful Farmers Market on Saturday and stocked up with freshies. </p><p>This is the life that I have been striving at for fifteen years. It is just finally settlting in that I've done it; I have achieved what I've always wanted. I have had some distractions this week with the outboard, but also spent some time organizing Ruth Ann's cabin to be more livable, and finishied some outstanding projects. My main goal next week is to sail -- just sail. I can't wait to get more familiar with this beautiful, wonderful little boat. </p><p>I might yet get down to the Keys for a little while or maybe even to the Bahamas. </p><p>Thanks for your support. </p><p>Stay tuned. </p><p>++</p><p>If you have enjoyed this blog, please consider supporting my work. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier: sunrise/set images, BtP swag. excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support. </p></div></div>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-88408084785655806622023-02-04T09:00:00.002-05:002023-02-17T07:59:52.798-05:00Finally In Warmer Waters<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5mNHCGPMlHHzmQWt1LCJJCed7TFvrInV6008vZKLO-TFpspLqyR7rzKCAdTxuEA5-6EypBQUfVFFk9Dt0T33u1FlV8THY6H4kVY1T91Pehn3xksOeWV07TZt2IzAYN2dsxl0X4VLlhO27Rmcg2wk9dYDJQtQuxaiZ4RPzHRqPsKfR2Akh8jbgAnOdKw/s667/Bubba.Fernandina.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5mNHCGPMlHHzmQWt1LCJJCed7TFvrInV6008vZKLO-TFpspLqyR7rzKCAdTxuEA5-6EypBQUfVFFk9Dt0T33u1FlV8THY6H4kVY1T91Pehn3xksOeWV07TZt2IzAYN2dsxl0X4VLlhO27Rmcg2wk9dYDJQtQuxaiZ4RPzHRqPsKfR2Akh8jbgAnOdKw/s320/Bubba.Fernandina.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>This is Part 3 of a 4 part series detailing my voyage down the East Coast in search of warmer weather for the Winter. </p><p>Editor's Note: When we last left our hero, he was just leaving Savannah after having hunkered down for an icy cold Winter storm. </p><p><br /></p>Ironically, a couple hundred miles from where I had started near Wilmington, NC, I was now on the Wilmington River. The Wilmington empties into the Atlantic south of Savannah, but the path of the ICW turns up the Skidaway River. There were little patches of houses along the shore and more wilderness. Georgia wilderness is slightly different from the Carolinas. The same acres of salt marshes, but more hammocks of scrub pine and oak; perhaps more areas of "solid" land than wetlands between rivers. It was actually hard to tell passing by at sea level. <p></p><p>I thought I had gotten to Hell Gate and watched a catamaran just ahead of me steam right through. In the channel, Ruth Ann was unperturbed. The water was quite low, but we only need four feet of water to pass comfortably. I had to check my chartplotter to be sure, but we had, in fact, just passed through the gate; quite anticlimactic actually. </p><p>It’s hard to keep track of river names on the ICW. The Skidaway River had become the Moon River without any obvious geographical reason, then the Moon dumped into the Vernon, which emptied into the Little Ogeechee River. Hell Gate was actually a cut between the Little Ogeechee and the Ogeechee River. After crossing the wide expanse of the latter Ogeechee, I turned in behind Ossabaw Island onto what felt like another river, but it was simply called Florida Passage. The Passage is a natural path of water, definitely not man-made, but somehow never earned the moniker “river.” Just over the top of Ossabaw Island I found Redbird Creek and pulled in to anchor for the night. It was relatively warm, clear, and calm that evening so I took that opportunity to change the oil in my little Yanmar diesel. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0t9xZifI2oFFC15DrgvQsNNQ2fr8UtedU1VqN13oEsctFxaEE1Ye_e2St7lkCt0XQ21UZRchyeOvXogJytsgX7rYW-6jcMCGuJoGVAFJaf1ALHJz4-jVpnnCX1_JzpRgJQ12a_sD-ZSCxvWMDYDOH1hPWEwFNWRsPv0T2TCWat8dGGOlVM2VEUB38Q/s667/Crescent.River.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0t9xZifI2oFFC15DrgvQsNNQ2fr8UtedU1VqN13oEsctFxaEE1Ye_e2St7lkCt0XQ21UZRchyeOvXogJytsgX7rYW-6jcMCGuJoGVAFJaf1ALHJz4-jVpnnCX1_JzpRgJQ12a_sD-ZSCxvWMDYDOH1hPWEwFNWRsPv0T2TCWat8dGGOlVM2VEUB38Q/s320/Crescent.River.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>The next morning, after the temperature eventually climbed back up to 45 degrees, I hauled the anchor and continued south. If you look at a map of the Georgia Coast, huge swathes of it is green; signifying the land is a park or wildlife refuge. I made my way past Ossabaw Island, crossed St. Catherines Sound, past St. Catherines Island, across the Sapelo Sound, and halfway by Sapelo Island without seeing more than two or three other boats and nearly no houses or docks at all. That evening, I passed a powerboat anchored in the mouth of the Crescent River and anchored Ruth Ann a comfortable distance beyond them. It was getting a little warmer each day, each mile I trekked further south, but after hours of standing outside in the cockpit steering the boat, it was still chilly by the end of the day. I always appreciated closing Ruth Ann’s companionway and warming myself and the cabin by making supper.</p><p>Beyond the Crescent River anchorage, I blasted out of the wilderness, and into civilization again. Brunswick, GA is a coastal boating community that also has a large port. Many import cars, both European and some Asian, come into the Eastern US through the Port of Brunswick. After crossing St. Simons Sound, I ducked behind Jekyll Island and found a spot to anchor just south of the island’s one bridge. It was a bit crowded but I found a spot about 20 yards off a gravel beach. Just over the berm behind the beach was a water treatment plant, but somehow there were several people and some kids walking along the shore. After so many nights in a lonely creek by myself, it was disconcerting that suddenly people were close enough that they sounded like they might have been talking to me. </p><p>That night I was texting with a sailing friend of mine and he described a fogbound trip around the end of St Andrews Sound; part of my next day’s route. So, of course, you know what happened. The ICW route goes all the way out to the last inland buoy of the sound before turning back toward the East River and winding it’s way behind Cumberland Island. Wade, my sailing friend, had mentioned that he had always thought about jumping offshore from there, but never had. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWtoIngtFAAX1SCsWW99MgnvGibjDYItAmCD2VeF4OUQsjMsk8pAAGzDkQX95WewiXXuU62A9iWRHQrOXKTi0Mmo3iLbmOmSUU729PU0OU1-RinCstb40ggXuotSZugwLbDbsVzkG2Wc2qpOiNppsbe0fg0yt-bvfQwGndy0XUumQdsZF3B6tQq9H0eg/s667/Buoy.Birds.1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWtoIngtFAAX1SCsWW99MgnvGibjDYItAmCD2VeF4OUQsjMsk8pAAGzDkQX95WewiXXuU62A9iWRHQrOXKTi0Mmo3iLbmOmSUU729PU0OU1-RinCstb40ggXuotSZugwLbDbsVzkG2Wc2qpOiNppsbe0fg0yt-bvfQwGndy0XUumQdsZF3B6tQq9H0eg/s320/Buoy.Birds.1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>That next day, the closer I got to the last buoy and the turn on the ICW, the fog thickened right on time. I took a picture of some cormorants on a buoy, and five minutes later another picture in the same direction (both shown). That same buoy is almost invisible in the second picture. Besides the fog, my charts warned that there was shoaling all around the buoy that I was struggling to find. The fog was obviously the effect of the cool ocean air flowing over the warmer, shallow water of the sound. If Wade and I had both encountered fog there at different times of the year, it was likely a regular feature of this section of the ICW. It occurred to me that if I was going to motor all day anyway, I might as well motor offshore as the fog would probably clear faster over the waters of the Atlantic than along the shallow waters of the sound. When another buoy loomed out of the fog, I checked that it was the right one, and steered Ruth Ann to port to head out of the sound. <p></p><p>It took a while to get out of the fog. Luckily, the depths of the sound turned south, exactly where I wanted to go. I couldn’t see much for while but I followed the depth contours and watched little sandbars go by. At the mouth of the inlet there were sandbars on each side with waves breaking less than 50 yards away both to port and starboard. After cleanly exiting the sound, the swell evened out and Ruth Ann savored being in the ocean again. It was like coming home for me. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdbm6HvpNYEOVoupJdiwrMhPqWIQW9wflu7fESAURbpzL_8H0oX0mbx1jIpBxz4CTkvlZMMnkHJwfXQp5la3b2BON9j0jkyhgJRkkXJbE_JDWNVQo620KIy8bCje3UeOMvvWd1_sfvkip8q1FA0bwIueQDD7x37xOVU4J_s3elLOIkUuQzoOSXZ_CKw/s4096/Buoy.Brids.2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdbm6HvpNYEOVoupJdiwrMhPqWIQW9wflu7fESAURbpzL_8H0oX0mbx1jIpBxz4CTkvlZMMnkHJwfXQp5la3b2BON9j0jkyhgJRkkXJbE_JDWNVQo620KIy8bCje3UeOMvvWd1_sfvkip8q1FA0bwIueQDD7x37xOVU4J_s3elLOIkUuQzoOSXZ_CKw/s320/Buoy.Brids.2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>The offshore route was about half the miles compared to winding down the ICW. However, what I hadn’t planned on was the angle of the swell. I’ve crewed on boats where the captain was adamant about running the rhumb line (the planned route) without much regard for comfort. As skipper, I am a firm believer in angling into the swell, not only for comfort, but with less swinging and banging around it is also easier on the boat, the rig, and anything stowed below. Ruth Ann and I ran away from the shore for a few miles, then turned inward for a time, then outward again, etc. We were headed for the St. Marys Inlet where St. Marys, GA is up the river, but Fernandina Beach, FL is just inside to the south. A couple huge industrial towers loomed over Fernandina and made it easy for me to judge my southward progress and heading as we went along. </p><p>My zigging and zagging got us down to the offshore buoys of the inlet and we turned in toward the mainland. After such a peaceful jaunt across a little-used patch of the Atlantic, it was a shock to be back in traffic. There were fishing boats and pleasure boats buzzing around, there was a good size cargo ship, and I was just waiting to see the upside down wake of a submarine. The Navy's Kings Bay Submarine Base is north of the inlet and submarines regularly come and go. I had been warned about the power of the underwater wake of a sub. Luckily for me there were no submarines and once inside the inlet, the Amelia River was soon to our port. Up the river, just past an industrial complex and a small commercial port, was the Fernandina Anchorage, the day's destination. I was finally in Florida waters! Florida is not such a nice place anymore for vagabonds at anchor like Ruth Ann and me, but arriving in the state simply meant a warm winter to me. That was the goal. </p><p>It was clear and calm when I anchored across the river from downtown Fernandina Beach. It was mid afternoon, it was warm, and I had survived the cold weather. Lots of fresh air and arriving at a milestone stop had made me feel tired, and after a quick supper, I went to bed pretty early. The next morning, I organized to go into town – twice actually. At first, I was just going to get some diesel and some water, but after returning to Ruth Ann with the lunchtime smells of local seafood still wafting in my nostrils, I gave in to temptation and headed back. The marina dockmaster had given me a recommendation but that place was packed. Around a corner, I found the Crab Trap and had a wonderful blackened Mahi sandwich and a beer. After lunch, I found the hardware store despite having no connection to cellular data – in town! </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAsPa0D1wvC-Bi2R2D2TcYlsXAwg5nNekoRD8Uu9wV0Plsah1K86DHHF91mN3o0f0G17quPCGyg_S0vbGUXMtrqURA2G54UwsRYacmactTpJy9UhWxYuZhuF9-08AKBYK3kqBK9szPyYA93Gx7a43ZoYERi-R7AXdl9OgW4JgYhIF5ygIOmXftH6YPDw/s667/Fernandina.fireworks.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAsPa0D1wvC-Bi2R2D2TcYlsXAwg5nNekoRD8Uu9wV0Plsah1K86DHHF91mN3o0f0G17quPCGyg_S0vbGUXMtrqURA2G54UwsRYacmactTpJy9UhWxYuZhuF9-08AKBYK3kqBK9szPyYA93Gx7a43ZoYERi-R7AXdl9OgW4JgYhIF5ygIOmXftH6YPDw/s320/Fernandina.fireworks.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>It was New Year's Eve. I made a snacky supper after the late lunch and watched the Fernandina fireworks, which were pleasantly early. I did not stay up until midnight and there wasn’t even enough noise as the clock struck twelve to have woken me up. <p></p><p>On New Year's Day, I got up reasonably early, hauled the anchor, and started moving again. Around the second curve of the Amelia River, I got hailed by a powerboat coming up behind me. He was so pleasant and considerate that I slowed for them to pass. Unfortunately, I was also giving them room by steering toward the starboard side of the river. Just as that powerboat, and another behind him, were passing me, I felt Ruth Ann bounce off the bottom. I quickly steered back toward the center, but soon we came to a slow stop; stuck in the mud. It was almost exactly the bottom of low tide, so there was no reason to call for a tow. If I was patient enough to wait, the tide would come back in and we’d be free. </p><p>Another sailboat came around the bend and I hailed him on the radio. Even though it looked like I was in the center of the river, Ruth Ann was sitting on the bottom and I warned the other boat that the channel was in the narrow space between me and the eastern shore. He thanked me as his boat was bigger and deeper than Ruth Ann. We chatted on the radio as he approached and he told me what he was seeing on his chartplotter. I had been ‘lucky’ enough to have found a small island of shallow water right where I had tried to get back to the channel. Of course, just before he got by me, an obnoxious powerboat had to come flying down the river, snaked around the other sailboat, and buzzed by me without slowing; kicking up quite a wake. </p><p>“That might bounce you out of trouble,” the other sailboat called on the radio. </p><p>I scrambled to restart the engine and was already in forward gear when the powerboat’s wake hit us. The waves lifted Ruth Ann and set her down strongly a couple times ... and we started moving! My theory was that each time we dropped back down, we made a slightly deeper groove in the mud helping to set us free. I hate to give the schmuck in the powerboat any credit but I got unstuck a lot sooner than I might have just waiting for the tide to rise. </p><p>After getting free from the mud, we continued down past the end of Amelia Island, seeing the ocean again, but under a bridge that was too low for us. The ICW makes a sharp right turn to continue down Clapboard Creek. We passed through the Timucuan Ecological and Historical Preserve. The Timucua were an indigenous people of Northern Florida and Georgia. They numbered about 200,000 when the Europeans arrived in the 1500s, but by 1800 there were none left and not much is known about them or their culture. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7g4_tYrRzb2DtOC5j2iHe9zkX0N0ZwXB36fKDwyQFPRxHUgqEvuKrdsvzyCfCY1hVS5g-ifdg1cmvnNiJwLyPi6NLJp1dgbR-5wiczCoGLM8FomboSZtr11xccjstBDvCmuGvMnbB6AEmFwQPOfkls-lj-otqMaDiByvrzfwn5sgEFMx4WRCRxlCzYQ/s571/Ruth.Ann.ICW.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7g4_tYrRzb2DtOC5j2iHe9zkX0N0ZwXB36fKDwyQFPRxHUgqEvuKrdsvzyCfCY1hVS5g-ifdg1cmvnNiJwLyPi6NLJp1dgbR-5wiczCoGLM8FomboSZtr11xccjstBDvCmuGvMnbB6AEmFwQPOfkls-lj-otqMaDiByvrzfwn5sgEFMx4WRCRxlCzYQ/s320/Ruth.Ann.ICW.jpg" width="280" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pic by Two Down Crew</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Clapboard Creek winds around the inland side of Fort George Island and empties into the St. Johns River. Just outside the creek is a boatyard working on a half-covered US Navy vessel. Another boater, a bit ahead of me, strayed too close and was being assailed on the radio by a security detachment patrolling the area in a RIB. I gave the boatyard a wide berth as I entered the river and watched for ship traffic. Jacksonville also has a big port; just up the river from where I crossed. The river is wider and I was slightly more familiar there than I was at the Savannah River, so I hadn’t checked for ships. It was New Year's Day and there was almost no traffic to speak of; except for me, that other boat, and the security guys. </p><p>I had planned to stop early as there aren’t very many anchorages in the stretch of ICW after Jacksonville, but with the delay from running aground, I had arrived at a good spot just before sunset. I anchored behind a little island just north of the Atlantic Blvd Bridge. The noises of the city were less bothersome than I expected, but I was waked several times by local yahoos and their powerboats; including a couple boats who had purposely steered closer just to rock Ruth Ann and me. Nevertheless, after the locals went home, there was a lovely sunset as appetizer to my supper. </p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting the project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier sunrise/set images, excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support. </p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-31256063046480056512023-02-02T09:00:00.047-05:002023-02-02T09:00:00.173-05:00Down the Coast<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2lA2Pr9K-tMYHBNum1rGlxMeGxuWlJB2IEcXUjnIU0tPkIiBwf_JlDfIJ41zeYOJyv253f42XIgTPKzyuziHOGM0rzwiHgwHboudGq4-BtWiE8UQC4P-sYLu5dtt9XjLD8QKi6Y9So1ysEKd8tBIQ_pOZyFICDLaFseJwbaH-K9xwL85R3ZGYkLuKw/s667/duck.creek.morning.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2lA2Pr9K-tMYHBNum1rGlxMeGxuWlJB2IEcXUjnIU0tPkIiBwf_JlDfIJ41zeYOJyv253f42XIgTPKzyuziHOGM0rzwiHgwHboudGq4-BtWiE8UQC4P-sYLu5dtt9XjLD8QKi6Y9So1ysEKd8tBIQ_pOZyFICDLaFseJwbaH-K9xwL85R3ZGYkLuKw/s320/duck.creek.morning.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>This is Part 2 of a 4 part series detailing my voyage down the East Coast in search of warmer weather for the Winter. </p><p><br /></p><p>The day after the storm, other than a glimpse at McClellanville, we were still in the wilds of South Carolina. Osprey soared overhead and egrets stared intently in the shallows waiting for lunch to swim by. There were clumps of scrub pine, cedars, and oaks draped with Spanish moss among acres and acres of salt marsh. My little Yanmar hummed below my feet and the miles gurgled by. Then suddenly we were in Mt. Pleasant. I have been to Mt. Pleasant many times, but only sneaking across Charleston in a semi to get to the port across the river. I didn’t recognize this coastal side of town. Just before the ICW spills into Charleston Harbor, Inlet Creek meanders off to the north. Supposedly there is a wreck up the creek that can tangle an anchor, so I anchored just off the ICW in the creek’s mouth. A catamaran slowed as it went by, deciding something, but they continued on.</p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKL4Im110rjGdLecOQlptqkDuVMtlgP6agIrb6sVI_vh4Hi9Z2vt1rio15OjUDeHmg7D6Oe3-Iz7WHFKkUTT96xcwOp5cfsLU0vXhWbhNu7I6bqbmUsiQ11g-7rByGqw6KVf1Le2fMpKR5wP7xrmR3KkJE4zV1_JAIsKT7J8Jve4KAtUx5JhGWrB8qQ/s667/rocket.launch.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKL4Im110rjGdLecOQlptqkDuVMtlgP6agIrb6sVI_vh4Hi9Z2vt1rio15OjUDeHmg7D6Oe3-Iz7WHFKkUTT96xcwOp5cfsLU0vXhWbhNu7I6bqbmUsiQ11g-7rByGqw6KVf1Le2fMpKR5wP7xrmR3KkJE4zV1_JAIsKT7J8Jve4KAtUx5JhGWrB8qQ/s320/rocket.launch.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>I was getting desperate for laundry and I was low on fresh veggies. My plan was to stop at St. John’s Yacht Harbor just past Charleston. The trip would involve getting through Wappoo Creek, yet another spot with notorious tidal currents. I checked the weather and the tide schedule, and decided I could sleep in the next morning. While cooking supper, I snapped a couple sunset pictures and suddenly realized a rocket launch was streaking across the sky. I checked the schedule at Kennedy Space Center and learned that it had been the latest SpaceX launch. The camera couldn't pick it up, but I could see one of the lower stages dropping away as it zoomed by.<p></p><p>After a leisurely morning with a heaping breakfast, I left Inlet Creek, motored under the Ben Sawyer Bridge after it opened, and entered Charleston Harbor. I’d been here a couple times by water. Charleston is another favorite of mine. As I made my way across the bay, despite my calculations, I was going to be early. Ruth Ann and I turned around and made a big oval in the harbor; backtracking and catching a better glimpse of Fort Sumpter. Our timing was better when we got back into the Ashley River on the west side of Charleston’s peninsula.</p><p>The Charleston City Marina was on the bank opposite the entrance to the creek. I had spent a couple days in the marina in 2015 when I crewed on a Westsail 42. On my own boat, especially since I would be the one paying, we didn’t stop there. Along the creek was a bridge that needed to open. The creek, the bridge, and the current all went easy on us and in no time we were entering the Stono River on the other side. I had made a reservation at St. John’s Yacht Harbor where I had stayed while crewing on another boat. I knew they had nice facilities including laundry and showers. I had already located a grocery nearby, and the marina’s website said they even had a loaner car. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm8Sm35JiU5268GWu0XoxYYINLHuxiCwo9HjVNRHAFVyonsaHz-QUQZwpm1veTOHIFM6GSN64JUZ8yjQ5CNN9dBfu8cY-DKtkrk5HngciQ2NB-LkOVVrP5vKqL07FqjQwjw5tffg_QrW4AKw3t_Tt9op8Ziu9iS48H-ql9ZEQelH6vAE0PjUXuWvogfQ/s667/Ruth.Ann.St.Johns.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm8Sm35JiU5268GWu0XoxYYINLHuxiCwo9HjVNRHAFVyonsaHz-QUQZwpm1veTOHIFM6GSN64JUZ8yjQ5CNN9dBfu8cY-DKtkrk5HngciQ2NB-LkOVVrP5vKqL07FqjQwjw5tffg_QrW4AKw3t_Tt9op8Ziu9iS48H-ql9ZEQelH6vAE0PjUXuWvogfQ/s320/Ruth.Ann.St.Johns.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Even after sleeping in a little, circling around Charleston Harbor to time the tides, and making it all the way to Johns Island, I had arrived fairly early to the marina. I hit the dock running and borrowed the loaner car. Food Lion did not have propane cans, so after grabbing some groceries I got some propane at an Ace Hardware just down road. Stocked up with food and gas, I dumped that payload and grabbed my laundry. While my clothes were drying, I took a shower. Then I splurged and ordered Chinese delivered. Back at Ruth Ann with my Veggie Lo Mein, I put away my clothes and my groceries. The marina had put me on the end of a T dock, not near any other boats, so I snuck and ran my little propane heater that night.<p></p><p>I still had a good amount of diesel, so the next morning I shoved off and continued on. I spent a night in the Raccoon Island Anchorage, north of Beaufort. I had recently noticed that way back during the anchor drama in Navassa, we had damaged the 3-strand rope part of my anchor rode. There was a long stretch of heavily abraded line just after the 120 foot tag and in one place one of strands was actually severed. Previously, I had been anchoring in such shallow water that I never had to rely on that section of line. However, I was sure to anchor in deeper water soon enough, so it needed to be fixed. I spent a good part of that peaceful evening by Racoon Island cutting and splicing the line. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCHd14jK1pxmChec1-mj5ETRIPKMV9oUpN_u59g8v6icbaNLwBGBzm1DKZUgFKSKZ66XxaU35mkSsqA7L5zVxEGnMY8jZ2EIhtlix7c4e8um88eatLxBe6XFLRfcIWtmZGroyMJxhekF8OVMW-LDv_pGDlRJwpp83fSJQPzQSwZg4KHLKmrF_oR9hyw/s667/rode.splice.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCHd14jK1pxmChec1-mj5ETRIPKMV9oUpN_u59g8v6icbaNLwBGBzm1DKZUgFKSKZ66XxaU35mkSsqA7L5zVxEGnMY8jZ2EIhtlix7c4e8um88eatLxBe6XFLRfcIWtmZGroyMJxhekF8OVMW-LDv_pGDlRJwpp83fSJQPzQSwZg4KHLKmrF_oR9hyw/s320/rode.splice.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>The next town of any size was Beaufort, SC, which is Byew-fert as opposed to Beaufort, NC which is Bow-fert. The straight line distance is not far, but the ICW winds around through several rivers to get there. It was almost frustrating, but the scenery continued to allure. On the curving route into Beaufort, the tide pushed against us. When I finally arrived, I needed to stop for fuel. There was a Safe Harbor Marina right downtown on the main river. When I pulled up to their fuel dock, the current was deceptive and I didn’t make it on the first try. The patient dockmaster let me know that I wasn’t the first to have had a little trouble. No harm, no foul. I got some fuel and headed south out of town. With plenty daylight left, I picked a different anchorage, a little further south. </p><p>When I pulled into Cowen Creek, it was idyllic. There were some fancy shoreside homes on the southern bank just at the entrance, but as I steamed up the river, the homes were more modest. The edge of the little anchorage was littered with crab trap buoys, but after weaving through, I carefully dropped the anchor behind them. I didn’t want to get tangled in the traps but also didn’t want to cause any trouble or damage for a waterman/woman. I was in about 12 feet of water, the wind was steady but would slow overnight and I was already using the repaired section of anchor line. </p><p>I had Ruth Ann moving again in the first light of the next morning. The weather I had been watching was getting ominous and the more I did the math, the more obvious it was that I was going to get caught. It was already cool and overcast. After a chilly ride across the windy Port Royal Sound, we ducked into the protection of Skull Creek, a deliciously piratical name. There was still plenty of wilderness as we neared Hilton Head Island. Rustic fish camp resorts gradually gave way to more touristy developments. And then it began to rain. </p><p>Cold and gradually more damp, Ruth Ann and I crossed the Calibogue Sound and we braced against the wind coming in right off the ocean. The resorts were slightly more rustic again as I passed Daufuskie Island, but it seemed only a facade. As I got closer to the Georgia border and the Savannah metro area, there were more and more palatial homesteads along the waterway. Let alone their fancy boats, most of their docks probably cost many times what I paid for Ruth Ann. </p><p>As we came around a tight bend near Turtle Island, we were surrounded by patches of cloudy water; a sure sign that manatees were feeding nearby. I quickly dropped my speed and ghosted warily around the curve. Manatees feed on bottom grasses and as they munch and paddle to stay in place, they stir up the muddy bottom. </p><p>Around a couple more bends was the Savannah River, the biggest obstacle of the day. Still connected to the interwebs, I checked the Marine Traffic website to see if the river was busy. Marine Traffic displays the AIS data from ships. All large commercial vessels are required to have AIS transponders which broadcast their vessel details, speed, and heading. Savannah has a busy port and lots of ship traffic. It was a Tuesday, but the Tuesday right before Christmas, so I didn’t know what to expect. A couple AIS signals would require my attention. The most confusing was a very large barge just upriver from where I would cross. Its AIS signal showed that it was not moving, but I wondered if that was accurate.</p><p>With more rain and a bit more wind, I slowed Ruth Ann as we approached the river. The air was cooling and as I got closer, a pall of fog diffused the horizon and the details of anything more than a quarter mile away. I checked the barge again but it appeared to be stationary. The ICW crosses the river near a bend, so Ruth Ann and I would have to go upriver a bit to find the other side. I checked the tides on my phone and they seemed to be with us, rather than against. </p><p>As we crossed, the fog obscured the river in both directions. I sped up and kept looking each way, but didn’t see another soul. Then, just as quietly as it had started, we were across the Savannah River. I had made it to Georgia! I would have celebrated but I was cold, damp, and miserable. There was plenty of daylight left and the anchorages through coastal Savannah were scattered, each with their own peculiarities, so I hadn’t yet chosen a place to stop. I passed a group of marinas at Thunderbolt, GA, a mainland suburb to starboard, with White Marsh Island to port. Thunderbolt Marina is a large complex on the mainland as that stretch of marine facilities gives way to salt marsh again. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzL53iP2Zb55lqJckWXxyRoa6ZYeRzElvdi7joSpmgBIcpxUo8Pm_6J366wPH8MX-iNyGG2P1xjGI_Sy4c6wDoQ-DfH19Shojy9-Q7NXUVCcFdIqI4p1kRz7Isf69blG9HQIWDA0li6xH3HhGbX5C31twcPaswxAaaINOwiyJpWXC-EbWW4-_-Udx_5Q/s667/herb.river.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzL53iP2Zb55lqJckWXxyRoa6ZYeRzElvdi7joSpmgBIcpxUo8Pm_6J366wPH8MX-iNyGG2P1xjGI_Sy4c6wDoQ-DfH19Shojy9-Q7NXUVCcFdIqI4p1kRz7Isf69blG9HQIWDA0li6xH3HhGbX5C31twcPaswxAaaINOwiyJpWXC-EbWW4-_-Udx_5Q/s320/herb.river.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>The first anchorage I had determined as viable was just around the bend. I could have gone eight or ten more miles, but I was damp and cold, so I turned up the Herb River. We motored past a few houses, and dropped anchor just around a bend in an area without much development. On the way in, I had spotted a Heavenly Twins Catamaran careened on the edge of the marsh, right next to someone’s dock. The Heavenly Twins is a unique catamaran design that I’d been attracted to for sometime. There didn’t appear to be much damage, but it was going to take some work, and some heavy equipment, to pull her back into the water. It was sad to see her languishing there. This was the first of many boats that I would encounter that had been swept to their peril by the recent storms; Ian in late September probably did the most damage along my route. <p></p><p>I had arrived on the Tuesday before Christmas and there had been a gale forecast to arrive that night. The winds were quite strong out of the Northwest into the following afternoon. Those winds preceded an exceptionally strong winter storm that was set to arrive toward end of the week. Most of the country was going to get hit by the gigantic storm. This is the weather that I had known for a couple days that I wasn’t going to be able to escape. I had hoped to push Ruth Ann and myself to get close to Jacksonville, FL. Recent forecasts, however, were showing that it was going to be just as cold deep into Florida, farther than I could hope to get before the storm closed in on me. It was already getting cold in Savannah. </p><p>I spent Thursday at anchor as it got colder and colder. People who had been following my voyage were checking in on me. I posted the story of my Christmas miracles <a href="https://www.patreon.com/posts/haunted-ground-76302534">here</a>. Suffice it to say that my family and friends, and two important people who I had never met, helped me tremendously. The start of that help was to get me thinking about how dangerously cold it was actually going to get. And finally, to convince me to move to a marina so that I could get an electric heater to survive. Further, many of those beautiful people helped me to afford that option. I had steeled myself to try to survive at anchor and was being stubborn about it in my own head. The truth of that matter was that even with a stash of several propane cans, I would not have been able to get through the five day storm without rationing my fuel supply. It would have been uncomfortable for hours at a time, and potentially dangerous. Ruth Ann is a warm weather boat. She is comfortable and cozy much of the time, but the berths are right next to the fiberglass hull and the cold seeps through quite efficiently. I moved Ruth Ann to the Savannah Bend Marina back in Thunderbolt. The people there were very nice; even as they were all getting ready to have the holiday weekend off. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-4yfmyzjrNVH4bgzKOGs_5RD5gareEyEAbzsh68I3w6TmWZWc4tOoYjPejwrRgDWqNOeAtfoHeBctJ-2T1x4tMf9sshNi3rDNOtrsNf0BTzeiRDJjxqm7_qZM5mONHOre0dLy4SLZg72CBepn2Ol72NCzCrBrKhegVFxw70L3YzUNrYWLqZ4YdRHnw/s667/Savannah.Bend.Sunset.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-4yfmyzjrNVH4bgzKOGs_5RD5gareEyEAbzsh68I3w6TmWZWc4tOoYjPejwrRgDWqNOeAtfoHeBctJ-2T1x4tMf9sshNi3rDNOtrsNf0BTzeiRDJjxqm7_qZM5mONHOre0dLy4SLZg72CBepn2Ol72NCzCrBrKhegVFxw70L3YzUNrYWLqZ4YdRHnw/s320/Savannah.Bend.Sunset.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>I got yet another Uber ride into town to get a shore power cord and a little space heater. I stayed hunkered down in Ruth Ann for most of my time there. I did get some laundry done just before they shut off the water to protect the pipes from freezing. I also had two visits from a friend of a friend of a friend with care packages of fruit and food; including some excellent home-grilled barbecue!</p><p>When the weather had passed -- most importantly when the nights that dropped into the twenties were over -- I untied the dock lines and pushed off. Just twelve miles or so down the ICW was another obstacle called Hell Gate, a small pass between rivers with very strong currents. I couldn’t time the tide very well starting from Thunderbolt, so I decided to just head there and check it out. There were a couple anchorages nearby, so that if the current looked too hairy, I could turn around and wait for slack water. Between the tidal schedule and the hours of available daylight, if the current was too strong for Ruth Ann, we’d probably lose most of that first day waiting for the slack.</p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting the project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Patrons get early access to the blog, and depending on the tier sunrise/set images, excerpts of my coming book, Live Q&As and more. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support. </p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-14200938758136194542023-01-27T09:00:00.013-05:002023-01-27T09:00:00.194-05:00Finally Getting South<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd85sqhLKP4N0ig1yOjHQg35LkiUp3leSkYymg_QH4HNGryIqVl4MGmjFn0InwNKPvGhM3Mf6Xs2fdSrxGXrIGqZZMi6_bk5mNNzYGD8RMbHNckUztXjfa-5wlRXjXJ2VymYdoL18gewEKVV7uzTdzf2Dt3AvXMyGchM8eFr9EebGepc_89HcWh58DHA/s858/IMG_20221210_174624.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="858" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd85sqhLKP4N0ig1yOjHQg35LkiUp3leSkYymg_QH4HNGryIqVl4MGmjFn0InwNKPvGhM3Mf6Xs2fdSrxGXrIGqZZMi6_bk5mNNzYGD8RMbHNckUztXjfa-5wlRXjXJ2VymYdoL18gewEKVV7uzTdzf2Dt3AvXMyGchM8eFr9EebGepc_89HcWh58DHA/s320/IMG_20221210_174624.jpg" width="186" /></a></div><br />To arrive at Saint Augustine and write my last post about living the life, I had to trek down the East Coast and make it from my dismally embarrassing first week aboard to the intrinsically satisfying stay in America’s so-called oldest city. It wasn’t easy, occasionally tough, but it was a soul satisfying trek through the Carolinas, Georgia, and into Florida. Here is the first part of that story: <p></p><p>After nearly sinking on Monday, fixing a hole in my keel Tuesday, relaunching Wednesday, and wrapping a line on my prop Thursday, things began to look up on Friday; everything is up from the bottom. A professional diver just happened to show up at the dock Friday afternoon, saving Ruth Ann and I from having to wait our turn on the travelift. He untangled my propellor and retrieved my anchor that afternoon. It finally seemed like Ruth Ann and I might actually be able to leave the boatyard. Nevertheless, the tide was turning and the sun hung low in the sky, so it really didn’t make sense to leave until Saturday morning. </p><p>Saturday was a big day with a certain amount of pressure because I hadn’t been able to leave yet. When the tidal current finally began to ebb, I prepared to leave. My boatyard neighbor, Grace, came down to see me off and take a couple pictures; including the main picture here. Everything went without a hitch and I was gurgling down the river preparing to call the CSX Navassa Railroad Bridge. </p><p>The railroad bridge was about a mile downstream and needed to open for me to continue down the river. I had had some trouble contacting the bridge on my way upriver three years ago. The bridgetender had never actually answered my radio calls. I circled below the bridge, calling again, until, without a word, the bridge finally started to open. This time, however, I got an answer right away and as soon as he could see me, the tender began to open the bridge. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzvpqVvFghbrLlFZrbO5p6653FPqDIYuYHEP5f6Lvz0rgLdNzyI4VbtyPRkXRPjsnxeDSeNb3kzF4DWhDT5TLpKzZ3l8HiR-cF5CqYlLZGnpBWqzibervRJH7VrdYUgaOP3oYjBKE98ev5bH6g5MwitQI8SuCi6TQ8J1ynf665zZOoRBIKSNJjYENTw/s500/IMG_20221210_114019257_HDR.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzvpqVvFghbrLlFZrbO5p6653FPqDIYuYHEP5f6Lvz0rgLdNzyI4VbtyPRkXRPjsnxeDSeNb3kzF4DWhDT5TLpKzZ3l8HiR-cF5CqYlLZGnpBWqzibervRJH7VrdYUgaOP3oYjBKE98ev5bH6g5MwitQI8SuCi6TQ8J1ynf665zZOoRBIKSNJjYENTw/s320/IMG_20221210_114019257_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Ruth Ann and I had started our journey in the slack water just prior to the mid morning high tide. That meant that we didn’t get started until almost 11:00 AM. However, that set us up to ride the ebbing tide all the way down the river. At times, Ruth Ann was gaining more than a knot and a half of speed over the ground as the current pushed us. In no time, we got to downtown Wilmington and turned south. Below the city is the Port of Wilmington which wasn’t so busy on a Saturday. Beyond the port was vast stretches of spoil islands and wilderness. At a certain point, the river is so wide that it was hard to even notice the few houses along the shore. The hours on the river were wild and wonderfully solitary. </p><p>It’s about thirty five miles from the boatyard all the way down to Southport, NC where the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW) turns in behind the islands of the coast. I had been debating whether I was going to jump offshore or not. I was itching to sail Ruth Ann, and itching to get offshore again, but I am a conservative sailor with a mind to the importance of seamanship and there were a few projects on the boat that were not yet finished. </p><p>I had to get moving south as winter was closing in on North Carolina. That meant that Ruth Ann was mostly seaworthy and safe, but also lacking in a few areas. Her rig is Dyneema, a material that is affected by temperature in the opposite way of most other materials. It shrinks in warmer temperatures and sags in the cold. The cooler weather had made my rig loose. It could be tightened, of course, but I would have had to loosen it again when I reached warmer weather. Further, I didn’t have my lifelines installed yet. There were (and still are at this writing) a couple of stanchion bases that need to be replaced before I restring the lines along the outside of Ruth Ann’s deck. Not to mention that my engine installation was less than a month old. The engine, the stern gland, and all the components from the fuel tank to the propellor had not been running together for long. If I had gone offshore and had trouble with the rig or the sails, I would have had to rely on the untested propulsion system to get back to shore. So after my trip down the river, even though I could smell the ocean and longed to traverse her expanses, I turned down the ICW. </p><p>Ruth Ann and I had made excellent time down the river, but it was getting near to sunset by the time I was passing the quaint little town of Southport. I like Southport a lot and I’ve been there a few times by land just to wander her streets. The old seaside houses and the small streets are a pleasure to enjoy by foot. The tide was also changing, but when we left the Cape Fear River we no longer had the current with us. The current that had been pushing us toward the ocean had diminished, but turning away from the ocean meant turning into the current. </p><p>As I passed Southport, I peeked into the basin there and watched as I passed the marina where I had stopped on the way up to the boatyard. Just west of town was a creek with an anchorage that I had been aiming for. As the sun got low on the horizon, I hoped that I could make it before I lost the daylight. </p><p>I turned up Dutchman’s Creek and made my way about a quarter mile to a small lagoon by a county park. I was following the navigation instructions from Active Captain online, but had not ever anchored Ruth Ann other than in a panic the week before. Approaching the anchorage, I saw that there was another boat in the deeper southern end. After making a circle to check the depth around me, I politely dropped my anchor a good distance from that other boat. It had been quite a day; finally some success. All the fresh air and concentration had made me quite tired. After a simple supper, I checked my anchor chain and went to bed. </p><p>Several years ago, I had interviewed a salty Salem Massachusetts sea captain for a magazine article I was writing. One of the pearlescent gems of wisdom that he dropped on me that day was: “You’ll remember all your sins at sea.” By that he meant that all the compromises you’d made, and the corners you had cut would come back to haunt you once you left the dock. I had one already. I had not replaced my depth sounder though I knew that I should have. It was likely the original one installed in 1984 when the boat was built. The display was a little frosted from the sun, but I had told myself that once it was lit up and operating, I’d be able to see it just fine. Not only could I barely read the display, the numbers were jumping around. The depth would read several dozen feet, then it read hundreds of feet before settling on a reasonable number for a short time, and then jumped around again. I had decided that it usually paused on the correct number but I had no way to tell. It was a ridiculous idea to head down the ICW without a functioning depth sounder. All along the coast there were areas where sandbars shifted with the tidal currents or from recent storms. I had to figure something out. I wanted to figure something out that didn’t require me to haul Ruth Ann out of the water yet again. </p><p>In the morning, the other boat was already gone when I hauled the anchor and made my way back to the ICW. This stretch was vaguely familiar, though three years before I had done a fair bit of it in the dark (almost as stupid as having a bad depth sounder). I made my way down to Calabash Creek, did some poking around, and anchored just upriver from the ICW. Once I was anchored and battened down for the evening, I made supper and started doing some research. The diver who had saved me and my anchor was nearby but I did not have his phone number. I was looking for some dock space to run to West Marine in Myrtle Beach, but I didn’t want to pay a marina. Finally, my googling led me to a day dock at Barefoot Landing, a large shopping and dining complex right on the ICW in Myrtle Beach. Docking was only allowed during the day, but it would allow me to stop. </p><p>The biggest challenge of that third day was the Rockpile; a long section of the ICW from Little River, SC down through Myrtle Beach where the channel had been blasted out of solid rock. Along that stretch, outside the channel is shallow and the bottom there is solid rock. If you happened to drift out of the channel, the ledge of rock could eat your boat. … and I was headed through it without knowing how deep the water was under my keel. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyaeb1nf7nD1zIKwUIFIuItU4TfEQo5LsWtEbVbB_FS4D49MQ1Kd5IVAlf2urE33KJz-eMjMfZcJ74bp4juHx0E3bmeADfmG1ceJ6dEyGBp3kurQ-ouKWOiHjyubz5c-GqENE4UyRbJUDNJ0ejBbnpk6PJZoTXB5zzLV7Fz3zY3yK3uUAFTb76fbL7vw/s667/IMG_20221212_123929417_HDR.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyaeb1nf7nD1zIKwUIFIuItU4TfEQo5LsWtEbVbB_FS4D49MQ1Kd5IVAlf2urE33KJz-eMjMfZcJ74bp4juHx0E3bmeADfmG1ceJ6dEyGBp3kurQ-ouKWOiHjyubz5c-GqENE4UyRbJUDNJ0ejBbnpk6PJZoTXB5zzLV7Fz3zY3yK3uUAFTb76fbL7vw/s320/IMG_20221212_123929417_HDR.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />It went fine anyway and I made it down to Barefoot Landing without incident. The dock was on the left side of the channel, so I circled around, slowed the boat, and approached the dock. It was a beautifully executed, nearly effortless, perfect docking maneuver. I tied up right in front of the Greg Norman Australian Grille thinking that I had triumphed. As I tied up, I could hear the cacophony of the lunch crowd; people shouting over the din, people laughing at dumb office jokes, and generally enjoying their three-martini, end-of-the-week, Friday lunches. It seemed that not one of them could have cared to notice my pro level docking. Ah, well. I had a mission. I grabbed an Uber and headed to West Marine. <p></p><p>I had done my research and, according to their website, the West Marine in Myrtle Beach had two HawkEye depth sounders that can read the depth through a fiberglass hull. It was critical that I found a depth sounder capable of exactly that so I could perform the ‘field repair’ that I was planning. The clerk made me a little nervous when we couldn’t find them at first, but they finally appeared. I bought the HawkEye, some emergency epoxy, and stepped outside. There was a Panera Bread across the parking lot where I got a sandwich and a drink, and then Ubered back to the dock. </p><p>Where Ruth Ann and I sat, we had made it two thirds of the way through the Rockpile, that crunchy section of rock-lined channel. I didn’t have enough daylight left to make it to the next anchorage and barely enough to make it back to Calabash Creek, where I had spent the previous night. The last thing I really wanted to do was go back through the Rockpile, only to have to return the next day. I made some calls and found a marina a couple miles further south. I didn’t want to spend the money, but it was a strategic move out of necessity. </p><p>Once I got to the marina, I was regretting that I left my little space heater in my trailer at the boatyard. I wasn’t going to use marinas very often, so I didn’t bother to bring it. Also, if I was cold at anchor, an electric heater wasn’t going to do me any good anyway. It was already colder than I had hoped with the forecast looking grim for the following week. I needed to keep moving but I needed to stay warm too. I fired up the Uber app again. </p><p>Another Uber came and took me to a nearby Lowes hardware. I bought a little Buddy propane heater, supposedly safe indoors, and several green cans of propane. After Ubering back to the marina, I set about to install the depth sounder I had bought earlier. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6yN-SiON-miURuQwSCyneDSDTZWpg2b1vngWQGrJIV26Gn-tlVgJ5ob3iP2QFUA6dtQyvz5DMaGe8rVQbVT1Po8nKNxe6XZ5LfRCjCUJWXUDhxtZqibMnSMGCnCXvS2do-Hg0PD21QVF4aVbHm53gmHLdyE29c6xoNXZOBV-sLXaRSfnLK1RglVBsfw/s500/IMG_20221212_181736882.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="500" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6yN-SiON-miURuQwSCyneDSDTZWpg2b1vngWQGrJIV26Gn-tlVgJ5ob3iP2QFUA6dtQyvz5DMaGe8rVQbVT1Po8nKNxe6XZ5LfRCjCUJWXUDhxtZqibMnSMGCnCXvS2do-Hg0PD21QVF4aVbHm53gmHLdyE29c6xoNXZOBV-sLXaRSfnLK1RglVBsfw/s320/IMG_20221212_181736882.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I had some white plastic panels that I had purchased for covering access holes in Ruth Ann’s ceiling and interior liner. The original depth display was nearly 4 inches in diameter, the new one about two. I removed the old display, cut a square cover from the white plastic, cut a hole for the HawkEye, and installed it. To my dismay the instructions specifically stated that only a slow cure epoxy should be used to glue the transducer inside the hull; no 5 minute epoxy and no emergency epoxy. I had the wrong stuff. However, the transducer seemed to work fine just sitting on the bottom of my bilge. I dropped a weighted line between Ruth Ann and the dock to confirm the measurement on the new display and it was working perfectly. As I write this, three weeks later, the transducer is working fine and is still not glued down. </p><p>The next morning, I was going to need to keep watch for somewhere to buy fuel. The swanky marina where I had spent the night had fuel but it was not handy to get to their fuel dock from where Ruth Ann was tied up. We had miles to make anyway. The weather was changing and we needed to get south! After motoring all morning, we were nearing Bucksport Marina out in the wilderness of South Carolina west of Myrtle Beach, at the edge of the Waccamaw National Wildlife Refuge. As I pulled up to the fuel dock, the old man asked if Ruth Ann was a Bayfield. </p><p>“She sure is a Bayfield,” came a call from down the dock. A woman approached as I tied off near the diesel pump. She and her husband sail a Bayfield 36 and she asked if I had anchored in Dutchman’s Creek a couple nights before. It turns out that they were that other boat I had seen. She had recognized Ruth Ann as I pulled into the marina. So my very first night at anchor, after finally getting my Bayfield 29 into the water, we stopped right next to another Bayfield. That feels pretty auspicious to me. </p><p>The Waccamaw River is a wild section of the ICW in South Carolina. Lots of wilderness, teeming with wildlife, and many little creeks to pull into. I made it down to Sandhole Creeek deep in the wildlife refuge. There was another boat a little further up the creek, but I found a spot just inside to drop anchor. </p><p>The next day, all I could see was wilderness as I wound my way through more of the wildlife refuge, but I knew that I was passing Pawleys Island, an exclusive golf resort area. The riffraff and the tourists visit Myrtle Beach and think they are in golf country but the well-healed and the well-off know that the palatial golf resorts are south of Myrtle on Pawleys Island. Just beyond the island is Georgetown, SC, one of my favorite little coastal towns. Sadly, it was pretty early yet when I passed and I didn’t feel I should stop. There was also some weather coming and I didn’t want to stop early and then get stuck there. <span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p>I was trying to do about 40 miles a day. Georgetown was only twelve miles or so from where I had anchored in Sandhole Creek. South of that little stretch of civilization, I turned out of Winyah Bay and was back in the wilderness. This time the Yawkey-South Island Reserve. Just down the ICW from the bay is a barge fashioned into a ferry/bridge to get from the mainland to the reserve. I don’t know if the catch was crab or crayfish or what exactly, but there seemed to be a lot of independent watermen working the waterway through here.</p><p>I felt like I was in the wilderness, but I was never far enough “out there” to lose my connection to the cellular data network. While I checked the weather and the tides in various places, I was also looking for my next anchorage and the conditions near it. I found that I was approaching the North and South Branches of the Santee River and that the river was going to get above its flood stage as a coming storm went by. The town that the flood warnings mentioned was a fair distance upstream from where I was going to cross but downstream from flooding didn’t sound like a good thing. Even without nearing flood stage, the Santee River is known for having pretty strong currents where the ICW crosses each branch. I looked for an anchorage somewhere before the Santee. </p><p>It was hard to distinguish Duck Creek from the North Santee River on the chart, but it had good reviews on Active Captain, an interactive map online with community input. I dropped my anchor just before sunset and settled in for some weather. The forecast was for winds gusting over 30 knots that night and through much of the next day. We were anchored south of an oddly triangular island in a stretch of creek tha arced lazily to the northeast. Ruth Ann was kind of protected from the wind out of the west but I was concerned that we might be exposed to some strong breezes sneaking along the creek from the southwest. I figuratively and literally battened down the hatches. After cooking supper and catching up on a good book I was reading, I went to bed as the winds began to muster with the coming storm. </p><p>It was a good test for the anchor, the boat, and me. We had gusts that must have been approaching 35 knots (about 40 mph). I never felt like we were near any trouble. The anchor held, Ruth Ann pulled at it strongly but she didn’t buck around, and I slept through the night. The storm carried on into the next day. It was late afternoon when the weather finally settled, so it didn’t make sense to haul the anchor and try to get anywhere. The weather reports had simply stopped talking about the flood stage danger upstream. I presumed that it either hadn’t gotten as bad as they feared or that the danger had passed. The next morning, I hauled the anchor and we set off again. </p>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3329536759647206779.post-44096714692850169072023-01-11T09:00:00.003-05:002024-03-14T11:55:58.586-04:00A Day Like a Day I've Dreamed Of<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz96Z1ub7z3S1sXwBMGqBftMuSX00Nfc1lTvFuZnUXD629J_t5_l45ObYoR4HlsoXMf1uIyp4qr7aqPyVll1gJHlSxbxrnACVm9eWwsenSBw-jvi3Dsy98AGX5aFJEJ4vHqI8oBdzaED7TU4FwVL5s7E9hVB7C-vKunZuIkVwzp8FnpUORjnkV7Vk32A/s4096/IMG_20230103_132544245.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz96Z1ub7z3S1sXwBMGqBftMuSX00Nfc1lTvFuZnUXD629J_t5_l45ObYoR4HlsoXMf1uIyp4qr7aqPyVll1gJHlSxbxrnACVm9eWwsenSBw-jvi3Dsy98AGX5aFJEJ4vHqI8oBdzaED7TU4FwVL5s7E9hVB7C-vKunZuIkVwzp8FnpUORjnkV7Vk32A/s320/IMG_20230103_132544245.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Today was a day like a day that I have dreamed about for many years. Just a mundane life on the water day. <p></p><p><br /></p><p>I’ve been on a mooring at the St. Augustine Municipal Marina since Tuesday afternoon. It was time again for laundry and a run for basic fresh provisions. I had done some research online and decided to opt for the mooring rather than anchor out. The City has taken over much of the good anchoring ground for their three mooring fields. I have learned on the St. Augustine Cruiser’s Net on Facebook that boats occasionally drag their anchors in the two anchorages north of the Bridge of Lions. Often some poor sailor’s boat drags across the anchorage, knocks into other boats, and sometimes even collides with the bridge. The first anchorage south of the bridge is a long dinghy ride from the downtown dinghy dock. Further, boats there are actually anchoring between two submerged cable areas. A post on Active Captain claims that ‘no boater has ever snagged a cable’ in the area, but it seemed sketchy to me. Then the furthest anchorage south of town has actually had some crime against boats while they were unoccupied. Also, it costs $12 a day to use the dinghy dock anyway. So for $28 a night, I have a mooring, in a more secure area, with no cables to worry about, and just a short trip by dinghy to the dock. </p><p><br /></p><p>I don’t have lights on my dinghy, so I don’t use it after dark. This morning, I got up before the sun, had my coffee and pancakes, and got ready for a day of errands. Nearly as soon as it was light, I packed my dinghy and headed to the dinghy dock. I had laundry, shower supplies, and the pee tank from my composting head. I got my clothes going in a washer and then went back to the dinghy for the tank which fits nicely into a reusable grocery bag so I can carry it discreetly. After emptying the tank, I returned it to the dinghy, and headed back to get the clothes into the dryer. While clothes were drying, I went across the hall to take a shower. The facilities are very nice at the Municipal Marina. </p><p><br /></p><p>After folding the clothes, I took them back out to Ruth Ann and grabbed some boat parts I meant to sell. When I bought the other boat in order to get the engine, I also scavenged some other parts before we chopped that boat up and sent it to the landfill. I had two nice self tailing winches that I decided were too big for my boat and a nice old fashioned brass clock and barometer set. Besides needing to do laundry and get some fresh veggies, one of the reasons I stopped in </p><p>St. Augustine was the Sailor’s Exchange. Sailors all up and down the Southeast Coast know about the Sailor’s Exchange; it is a little marine consignment shop with a huge selection of used gear. I was hoping that they might be interested in my parts and I was looking for a couple things too. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhg8ia7FuUsxXLsIFUhnd1n1ibfN9EwmaXi-qvswfqdBTcWNRApIwhXzHnLkkIZXVPGaouhPUc53nDUpxr4QVOTPGNVuNALUX51xUrO7HtzV47PE1w7VRPBXtJXF9tTB4fEPjzP-dFmWPrSFb-3WKLNO7Hdb4RzNXCTxNuJ9oldMCLzKAVMfb7S1iWiA/s4096/IMG_20230102_203715584.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhg8ia7FuUsxXLsIFUhnd1n1ibfN9EwmaXi-qvswfqdBTcWNRApIwhXzHnLkkIZXVPGaouhPUc53nDUpxr4QVOTPGNVuNALUX51xUrO7HtzV47PE1w7VRPBXtJXF9tTB4fEPjzP-dFmWPrSFb-3WKLNO7Hdb4RzNXCTxNuJ9oldMCLzKAVMfb7S1iWiA/s320/IMG_20230102_203715584.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>A further requirement for the day was my bike; my folding bike. It had been tied down in front of the mast since I left Wilmington. I lifted the boat parts and then the bike into the dinghy and headed back to the dinghy dock. It was a test for the bike. I’m already a little too heavy for the bike and today I added about seventy pounds of boat parts. Gingerly pedaling through the beautiful streets of St. Augustine, I listened for signs of strain but we did alright. It was about a mile to the Exchange where I traded for a couple parts I needed and a little cash. I had had them listed on Facebook marketplace, but got nothing more than a few tire kickers and one guy who wanted to know if I would find a way to ship sixty pounds of boat parts to Ireland. </p><p>From the Exchange, it was another mile and a half or so to PJ’s Asia One Market. I was looking for dried soy skin (also called tofu skin) which is very useful for living with limited refrigeration. Alas, they didn’t have any but they had tetra packs of shelf stable tofu as well as dried mushrooms and some other Asian treats for my galley pantry. From there, I went to a Winn Dixie that was on my way back to the marina. Fresh veggies, some apples, and some extra hot sauce were the main things I needed. I didn’t have room for much else, but I was still much lighter on the bike than when I was hauling boat parts. </p><p>It was 3/4 of a mile to the grocery and about another mile back to the marina for a four mile day, give or take, on my little Dahon/Ford Taurus folding bike. After another trip back to Ruth Ann, I offloaded my groceries and checked the status of my batteries. It was barely past noon.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCChE60Tw77O_z5M1YOLVrd5qrfhjoKXdcJaR_T0LsqJnNwv-ASX4Ju5nX9Xj2sWGk-MTHJ4aTt-efpO_K2YyVPv8RqRdcPHJzSszxDNa0CuEigBdAIsQkiIHmcKP4uWF1MOmHNehVWXJa2X4os56NAw7me6afeOkcX-qTBFe2qWaTuy113hQ9fUpzQ/s4096/IMG_20230104_140915006.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCChE60Tw77O_z5M1YOLVrd5qrfhjoKXdcJaR_T0LsqJnNwv-ASX4Ju5nX9Xj2sWGk-MTHJ4aTt-efpO_K2YyVPv8RqRdcPHJzSszxDNa0CuEigBdAIsQkiIHmcKP4uWF1MOmHNehVWXJa2X4os56NAw7me6afeOkcX-qTBFe2qWaTuy113hQ9fUpzQ/s320/IMG_20230104_140915006.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />In a rash move, I fired up my outboard and went back to the dinghy dock. I had left my bike locked to the marina bike rack anyway. My friend, Tiffany, had suggested that I visit the pirate museum. What the heck. After pedaling through downtown again and up past the fort, I had some pirate fun wandering through the St Augustine Pirate and Treasure Museum; even with a couple groups of wild children. I poked around and got to read some history, and see some cool artifacts; real silver, real gold, actual pirate era coinage, tools, weapons, and other interesting bits and bobs.<p></p><p>After all that, I’m back on aboard Ruth Ann tonight, with my bike stowed on deck again. Tomorrow, I’ll get some diesel and water, and then be on my way. The outboard is still on the dinghy and there’s a bit of other prep work to be done before I can shove off. </p><p>The elephant in the room is that I am finally living the life I’ve been striving at for fifteen years. I can hardly express how I feel. It is momentous but I don’t yet have the words. The reticence is, in part, that it has been somewhat difficult to get this far. It was quite chilly for the first week and a half or so. Then I got clobbered by the icy weekend in Savannah. Today, I was in a t shirt and shorts the whole day. The sun has been down for almost two hours already tonight, but it is still 66 degrees. This is where I belong. </p><p>I made a reel on Instagram where I said that it was “so good to be back home.” People might think that I meant Florida, but I actually recorded that in the ocean off the coast of Georgia. The ocean is the home I spoke of. I am not enamored with the State of Florida, I just want to be warm this winter. I was on the East Coast, and so ‘warm this winter’ meant Florida and maybe the Bahamas. St. Augustine is definitely Northern Florida and it’s going to get cool again around here by the weekend, so I am still headed south. I’ll explore some work options when I get to the Fort Pierce/Stuart area, but I may end up in the Keys for a couple months just to guarantee that I am as warm as I would like to be for January and February. </p><p>If you enjoy this blog, please consider supporting the project. There is a link to become a Patron at the top of this page and just below that is a Paypal link for one-time donations. Even a couple bucks can help a lot. Thanks for your support. </p><div><br /></div>Bubba the Piratehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03593942474798301746noreply@blogger.com0