True Confessions of the Ill Prepared

This is Part Three of a series.

See the others: 

Part One

Part Two

Part Four
Part Five

Friday night wasn’t a bad night; a little sticky but no bugs. I woke Saturday morning and had a can of brewed coffee, a Larabar, and an apple. As I continued prepping the boat, a neighbor came by in his boat after some early morning fishing and paused to chat for a moment. He figured I must have bought the boat since he’d noticed that I spent the night. He was happy the boat would have some new life and told me that Don had always seemed to take good care of her.

I had been up with the sun and was considering keeping the boat at a dock there in Little River rather than sail for the Cape Fear Inlet. In poking around her the day before, I had found a couple things that I didn’t like about the rigging. Nothing terribly serious, obviously not dealbreakers, but enough to give me second thoughts about sailing offshore as the first trip on a new-to-me boat. I’ll be writing a more specific post about the boat; why, how and where to from here.

At 8:00 the marinas were open and I started calling around. First call was to a place that had space for me when I called a week ago. They could not rent me a dock for a few months now because they were full up for Labor Day weekend. And every other place nearby was either full or wanted an annual contract.

In addition to a complete lack of available docks, the main problem with staying in Little River was hurricanes. Don had lived there a while and thought that they were in an OK spot for a small hurricane,

Picture from the ad

but I wasn’t so sure. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to sleep in Michigan if a hurricane was threatening my boat in the Carolinas. Full marinas confirmed my original plan that I should get her up the river and out of the water. If I didn’t want to sail offshore to the Cape Fear Inlet, my other choice was to motor up the ICW (Intracoastal Waterway). Prepping for that option was about the same as what I had already started that morning.

I had lost a day not getting on that original standby flight and needed to be back in Michigan and back at work Tuesday night. Don was excited to be able to use his dock and I was starting to feel the time pressure. Nevertheless, I should have got in the water while the boat was at the dock to check the hull and the propeller. There wasn’t much growth along the waterline and I got lazy. I would pay for that later.

“You’ll remember all your sins at sea.”
      Captain James Corbett

Little River Swing Bridge

For better or worse, I was ready to depart later Saturday morning. The motor started right up and purred along as Don and I untied the dock lines. He gave the boat a push and I was off. The boat was new to me, with wheel steering rather than a tiller, I was getting used to how she felt and how she responded. I waddled down the channel and out into the ICW. The first business was to call the Little River Swing Bridge to get an opening. I struggled to figure out the VHF radio; I couldn’t quite figure out the buttons. The radio was a strange wedge shaped thing; like a prop from a 1960s French Art Film. It was also down below, so as I struggled to watch the traffic and steer, I had to jump down the companionway, hail the bridge, listen, and run back up to steer clear of docks, other boats, etc. The radio didn’t seem to stay on channel 9 either. Each time I tried to contact the bridge tender, I was talking on the wrong channel.

I was not yet completely aware of my problems. In desperation, I called Don from my phone. I was hardly more than five minutes from his dock when I asked him if he could call the bridge. He called back in a minute to say that she was keeping the bridge open for me. It was excruciating how long it took me to get under that bridge.

My plan was to motor up the ICW until evening and anchor for the night somewhere along the way. As I began to play with the throttle and got used to how the boat handled, I realized that the hull must have been a lot dirtier than I suspected. It was obvious there were barnacles all over the propeller and the hull.  Without smooth surfaces on each, my speed would be greatly diminished. This was going to be an ordeal.

I motored out of the town of Little River, past the marinas and tourist restaurants hanging over the water, and into a stretch of wilderness. I was re-exploring the boat in my memory, but I was quite certain there was nothing like a scraper on board. I wasn’t going to be able to stop and clean the hull. My travel plans included a tentative flight out of Wilmington, NC on Tuesday afternoon. That gave me about three days to gurgle my way to the haulout I had arranged at Cape Fear Boat Works. It was worth a try.

And then I reached the Little River. The Little River is a river north of the town of Little River. Up ahead was an intersection where the river crossed the ICW. My original plan was to sail offshore from the Little River Inlet to the Cape Fear River, but I decided not to go offshore on a boat I’d never sailed, with a rig that wasn’t quite as safe as I wanted. The schedule was the same but I was staying “inside” on the ICW. I left the dock on about the same schedule as the offshore option, that meant the tide was going out when I got to the Little River. The tide had been pushing me along as I approached the river, but as soon as I crossed “the intersection,” the same tide was running against me; headed out the inlet from the other direction.

Fishing boats were coming in from the ocean. Powerboats of all kinds were buzzing around enjoying a Saturday afternoon in late July. I looked to my right and saw a tree along the shore. Then I went back to dodging traffic and driving hard against the current. I looked again and that same damn tree was still right there. My real trouble was apparent. I couldn’t go more than about three knots. I wasn’t sure I could get up the Cape Fear River if I couldn’t beat the tide at the Little River.

I turned the boat around. We picked up some momentum going with the tidal current and crossed the intersection going the wrong way. The tide that had been with me now bogged me down. I turned again, stalled again -- and turned and stalled and turned. I was going in circles in the intersection. I tried going up the river; same tide, same story. Then I tried the inlet; maybe I’d just go offshore after all. Unfortunately, the wind had piped up and was blowing hard off the Atlantic funneled by the trees -- right up the inlet. I was trapped. In three directions the tide was holding me back; in the fourth, going upwind wasn’t going to work either. I was stuck right there in the intersection with traffic buzzing all around me.

Savior in Safety Orange

I needed a tow. One of the troubles going in circles in heavy traffic is trying to time jumping down into the cabin to use the radio while no one was steering the boat. After several attempts and a few near misses, I gave up on the calling for a tow over the VHF. I tried using the Towboat/US app on my phone, but between the bright sunlight and the limited data reception that idea wasn’t going to work either. I got my wallet out to find their 800# on my member card. Then I saw Don’s Adventure Craft houseboat coming around the curve. And then I spotted the bright red Towboat/US boat coming from the other direction.

Don was calling me on my phone, but I was desperate to flag down the Towboat/US guy. A wave of relief washed over me when they waved back and came alongside. I told them my troubles and asked if he could tow me to a marina. We bobbed together in the intersection while I called the two nearby marinas he recommended, but they were full up.  He ended up towing me a mile and a half or so past the intersection to where the current wasn’t so strong. He got an emergency call, probably more lucrative than towing some fool up the ICW, so he left me to go help a boat that was aground, but arranged to check in with me on the radio.

He dropped me about half way to Sunset Beach. I continued to gurgle along past all kinds of tourists and weekenders, powerboats of all sorts, a few sailboats, and the sheriff’s boat lurking under a bridge. A strange, narrow, old sailboat, with an outboard on the stern, buzzed by. I went by Jenks Creek, the Shallotte River, Ocean Isle Beach and Holden Beach. There was a strange, ramshackle building on the left with a sign that said “Free Overnight Docking” but there was very little room at their dock (duh). I was mostly past it anyway, before I could make a decision. With the trouble I was having maintaining speed, I wasn’t sure I could turn around and get back to the dock; let alone maneuver into a tight spot. Along the way, the TowboatUS captain did check in with me on the radio, but I was doing as well as expected.

At one point, as dusk was playing with distance and contrast, a tugboat was coming at me from the other side of a bridge. He wasn’t pushing any barges but I was concerned he had a tow. It was just the two of us on the ICW, so I just kept moseying along. He came under the bridge just before me; I only had to lean toward my side of the channel. I was living on lukewarm water, larabars and apples all day; all that I had within reach. Whenever I finally stopped all I could look forward to was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and more water, but it was going to be fantastic.

I pressed on as the sun went down and dusk turned to dark. Only a fool would be out on the ICW after dark. The channel is marked with day markers; basically reflective signs, most without lights. The surrounding water is shallow. Luckily, there was only one fool out there and the area from Shallotte to Southport is well developed. All along the way, there were docks on at least one side; often both. There were porch lights, lit-up houses, and lights at the end of docks. I just kept it there in the middle; between all the docks. I wanted to make Southport, NC where there was a good full service marina. I really needed to clean the propeller and the hull.

It was surreal as I pushed on through in the dark. At times flashing the next marker with a high powered flashlight. Mostly I was guessing where the channel was, my heart in my throat, knowing that at any moment, any mistake, and I’d be hard aground.

I went under another bridge and passed a well lit marina on the left; which I was pretty sure was the South Harbour Village Marina. Southport had to be close. I crept along through another stretch of wilderness - no docks, no lights, but I thought I could start to see the lights of Southport. Then finally, I could see the marina, but not as well as I thought.

The next morning

I had a mental picture of the marina in my head. I approached slowly, but was really getting tired. My seven hour trip to the Cape Fear River had taken almost 13 hours. Some luxury yacht right out front was all lit up having a party. It was about 1:00 in the morning. I spotted what I thought was the entrance and turned in.

In the last few feet, I could see the breakwater - LAND! Hard to starboard!! But it was too late. I ran hard against the berm-like skinny stretch of sand. I knew it was there, but didn’t realize how far it went across the front of the marina. In the dark, distracted by the lights and the booming music, I got stuck. Really stuck. The wind and the current pinned me against the sand. I tried backing out, but I wasn’t going anywhere.

I evaluated my situation and I could suddenly see the unlit marina sign looming off to my right - 20 feet further down the ICW. Two bouys marking the entrance bobbed and struggled against the current with the moon splashing around them in the wavelets. I blew it, by less than 50’  -- but I had made it to Southport.

Time to call Towboat/US. That towing insurance I bought was the best money I’ve ever spent. Soon I could have that peanut butter and jelly.

===

This is Part Three of a series.

See the others: 

Part One

Part Two

Part Four
Part Five

The Travelling, Part I

First Impressions

This is Part Two of a series. 

The Other Parts:

Part One
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five

It’s an occupational hazard of a vagabond sailor to be travelling when you can’t really afford to. I was headed to South Carolina to buy a boat. My camper van is up for sale to pay for the boat, but Dad fronted me the proceeds so I could grab the deal … and I didn’t have a lot of travelling money. Further, I was taking a cousin up on her offer to help me fly standby. Sherry and her husband Ed had been longtime employees of an airline and got me on their ‘buddy’ program.

Thursday morning I headed to the airport in the wee hours of the morning. After I checked in with the agents at the gate as one of their standby passengers, I watched the room fill up with people. A flight had been cancelled the night before making this plane packed with people; frustrated people. I sat nearby and watched everyone board the plane. Then I watched a ridiculous family of four get turned away. They had arrived so late that the jetway was closed and locked. When I asked the agents if I would just get rolled to the next flight, they just looked at each other. I realized then that if I had been hovering near the gate, acting annoying, I might have gotten on that flight. They switched me to the next morning. Same flight. Same time.

Bro & his kids with me on Muskegon Lake

I talked to my cousin on the way home from the airport. The next morning’s flight was tight but looked OK. Suddenly, I had an extra day off, so I went to see my Grandma; who is 101 and a half (and two thirds practically), sharp as a tack and a pleasant conversationalist. I hadn’t seen her in a little while because I was sailing a lot up at Muskegon Lake. Later I chatted with Dad too, but soon went to bed anticipating another early morning.

Some time after midnight, I rolled over, awakened and checked my phone. I never check my phone in the middle of the night. Sherry had tried to call and sent a couple texts. I work third shift and sleep during the day, so my ringer is almost always off.  Friday’s flight had tightened up and it was looking grim to be able to get out of Grand Rapids in the morning; just a few hours away then. I shook myself awake and got online.

I found an amazingly cheap flight yet that afternoon, out of O’Hare in Chicago. I booked the flight, checked the South Shore Rail schedule, and was out the door by 02:30. At 03:15, my alarm went off and scared the hell out of me. I was already 45 minutes down the road before I had actually planned to get up.

Carroll Ave Station

I hit Michigan City and jumped on the second South Shore train of the morning. We rattled into Millenium Station and I walked outside onto the streets of Chicago into a beautiful Midwestern Summer morning. Five blocks or so later, I hopped on the Blue Line out to O’Hare. It had been a blur of rushed contingencies, but there I sat; at the gate, with a ticket, munching on some tropical trail mix, with 45 minutes to spare.

After touching down at Myrtle Beach International Airport, I grabbed a Lyft ride up to Little River, SC where the boat was gently rocking at the dock behind Don’s house. The driver and I had to get buzzed in at the island’s gate, so Don was waiting in his drive when we arrived. The house was a gorgeous, perfectly tropical-looking home, all stone and spanish tile, on a canal with a jeep in the drive and a hot rod pickup in the garage.

We chatted a bit and went out back to see the boat. Don was eager to answer any questions I had but let me crawl around the boat; to peek into all her nook and crannies, check the rig, the deck, the bilges, and whatever else I needed to check before making my decision. He’s a low key guy like me and we got on well right away. Don gave me a Danforth anchor and some lines out of his dock box. We started the engine and listened to it purr.

At Don's Dock

Like any other used boat in the universe, she needed a little more work than my online rose-colored glasses had thought. Totally normal. Yet, I could tell that the boat had been well taken care of and -- most important to me -- she was basically ready to sail. This was not a project. My boat project in Florida easily has 8 or 10 more months and $8,000 or 10,000 to invest. Don’s Bayfield -- now mine -- needs just a bit more than basic annual maintenance work; and some updates and personal preferences like some solar panels and a new VHF radio.

Some money changed hands but Don was asking so little he was basically giving me the boat. I spent more last year on boatyard storage. He really just wanted to find the boat a good home and only asked that I not flip her right away.

I was prepared with a bank check and a home-brewed Bill of Sale. We walked back to the house to do the paperwork; past the perfect South Carolina ICW backyard deck with gazebo, pool, etc.  Don’s girlfriend, Deborah, with the precise timing of a wonderful hostess, came down from the main level with a couple bottles of ice cold water; just what we needed! We each signed both copies of the Bill of Sale and I handed him the check. The last detail remaining, Don and I had to run to the bank to get his North Carolina title notarized.

We had talked about Latitudes and Attitudes Magazine back when we first talked on the phone. Both of us had read it and appreciated regular guy perspective, absent of any yacht club pretensions. As we drove to the bank, Don asked me if I had written for the magazine. He had noticed my BubbaThePirate.com signature block on my emails and was remembering the regular Bubba Whartz columns. I assured him we weren’t the same guy, but that the column had originated in Sarasota where I had lived. I had been reading Bubba Whartz long before it was in a national magazine.

Don, being low key, let me tell him that I was going to organize the boat and then walk over to the grocery store and maybe to West Marine. I was planning on heading out in the morning. It was a really hot week in the Carolinas but I went to work cleaning up a bit and organizing the lines and spare equipment.

Then my phone rang.

“Is this Bubba the Pirate?” a now familiar voice asked me.

“Yes.”

Deborah’s charming southern accent cascaded over me. “You are NOT walking to the store. It is too hot. In fact, you can take a shower downstairs when you’re done and then we know of a nice place for a steak or some ribs. After that we’ll go to the store, so you can get whatever you need. You just let us know when you’re ready.”

With an offer like that, it wasn’t long and I was ready. They took me to a popular spot in Myrtle Beach where Don & Deborah are regulars. We got a good table overlooking the ICW; their regular table, it seems. I imagine some of the people out front with their little blinking buzzer restaurant-waiting-alarm-things, wondered how we got in so fast.

We had a great meal and a nice chat. Afterward, at Walmart, I grabbed some toiletries that I couldn’t carry on the plane, and provisions for a couple days on the boat; including four gallons of water. With all that and my sailing dreams rolling around in my head, I prepared to sleep on the boat. It was a sticky Carolina night, but I drifted off, dreaming about red and green buoys, seagulls and pelicans.

===

This is Part Two of a series. 

The Other Parts:

Part One

Part Three 

Part Four
Part Five

Changes and Chances

The good ship s/v Eleanor in 2015

This is Part One of a multi-part story. 

The Other Parts:

Part Two
Part Three
Part Four

Part Five

Four years ago, I was travelling on a boat with a guy who was writing a script. His beautiful story was, in part, about an older gentleman wanting to find a good home for his boat. In early July, that same basic plot happened to me. Some money changed hands, but so little he basically gave me a boat.

When I decided that I would stay in Michigan through the summer this year, I bought a daysailer and have been keeping it at a dock on Muskegon Lake. As soon as that boat was in the water in late May, I was sailing as often as I could; reconnecting with sailing. Twelve years ago, when I planned my escape from the rat race, I meant to spend my time sailing. Instead, I have been working on boats. The first boat was a project, the second sailed but was a little small, and the third, my Westsail in Florida, was a major project. Sailing the little daysailer here in Michigan had returned me to the simple, robust joy of wind and water.

It had been a hard winter and spring and sailing was my therapy. I came back to Michigan in October to help Mom and Dad through some health issues. My sister is right nearby as well; I just came to help as much as I could. Mom lost her fight in April and since then we’ve all been trying to get our bearings again; especially Dad. I had committed to being here until the fall before going back to my boatwork project, but I was looking at my life in a different way.

The Bayfield 29

I’ve been hanging around a non-commercial small boat sailing discussion website for at least fifteen years. The last week of June, Kurt, who runs the site, posted about a boat that could be had cheaply. The key paragraph stated: “local fella, getting older, doesn’t use boat anymore, looking for someone who’ll give her a good home and usage to take her away.” I ignored the ad for several days. I had enough going on with a big boat project in  Florida and a little boat in Michigan; the last thing I needed was another boat.

The Fourth of July holiday was to be an epic sailing weekend. My camper van was set up and I was headed to the lake to just stay up there and sail and sail ... and sail. That first day out I sailed all morning long.

And I kept thinking about that “local fella” and his boat.

If I could work into a deal where I had a boat that was almost ready to sail, one I could polish up, set up how I wanted, and start the vagabond sailing life I wanted -- why wouldn’t I? How could I not?

The Florida Project

The boat is a Bayfield 29. It is not near the badass ocean boat that the Westsail is. And while I think that what makes a boat a bluewater boat is 40+% the skipper, the Bayfield is not a boat to take around the world. The Westsail could, and has, gone anywhere a decent skipper could take her. I decided that I could handle that compromise if it meant I’d be sailing sooner rather than later. The U.S. East Coast, Caribbean and Central America are all still comfortably at play. I really want to voyage to Ireland and Scotland, and I think that after some experience sailing her, the boat and I could consider making that trip too.

I sent a message to Kurt just before the Fourth saying “If that boat is still available, I’d like to talk to your Bayfield guy.” Before the weekend was up, I got Kurt’s reply that he was checking with his guy. Just a few hours later, I had the owner’s contact information.

I talked on the phone a while with Don, and had a good feeling from the start. He figures, in the last 12 years or so, he’s got $30,000 in the boat. After talking about his boat, and boats in general, I asked him what he needed out of the boat and how creative he wanted to be. He named his price; less than what I spent last year on boat storage. Any less and he thought he would feel like he was paying me to take it. I had a quarterly bonus coming and I could sell the camper van I had just inherited, but Don wanted to be able to use his dock. He had three boats but just two spots on his dock; one taken up by the sailboat that he didn’t use anymore. I wasn’t going to be able to leave her there for long. My plan to cobble the money together wasn’t going to work.

The chance to leapfrog over a bunch of boatwork and start sailing many months sooner I thought I would was too enticing. I checked with Dad if there would be any hard feelings if I sold the camper van that I had so recently inherited. And then he and I worked out a deal to front me the proceeds from selling the van so that I could grab the boat deal before it was gone.

All along I had some days off on the calendar to go to Florida and check on my project boat. Instead I was headed to South Carolina to pick up another boat.

And that’s when the adventure really began …
===

This is Part One of a series. 

The Other Parts:

Part Two

Part Three 

Part Four
Part Five

Nailed It

There’s an old joke about a preacher who loved golf. After a couple rainy weeks, he was itching to get back out on the links. When he realized that the first nice day in weeks was a Sunday morning, he faced a quandary. Ultimately, he decided to call in sick and have the head lay speaker take his place. As punishment for this transgression, God gave him a hole-in-one on each hole. So, of course, he couldn’t tell anyone about his glorious round of golf.

I faced a similar situation on my second day out on Lola. The first day out involved some tribulation that I’ve written about but will submit that bit to a magazine (I’ll keep you posted).  When I went out again on a Sunday, I was out to redeem myself. The wind was light and the weather was just warm enough to enjoy the day. I readied Lola’s lines and sails and pushed her out of the slip. Lola had only a canoe paddle for auxiliary propulsion at that time.

In mid afternoon, I paddled out of the marina basin and set about to raise the main. Lola is still new to me so I haven’t perfected all the little bits, like raising the main. As I fiddled with the main and got the sheet tangled with the tiller, we drifted a little close to shore; a point that juts out between marinas. So I paddled some more and then managed to get the main most the way up, but not quite tight.  I ended up sailing slowly back across the front of my marina with a little slack at the clew.

This wouldn’t have been so bad, but for the two race crews that were coming in off the big lake. These big, sleek boats ghosted by as I tried to sail myself out of trouble with a sagging main. The crews, in their matching shirts and expensive watches, barely deigned to glance in my direction. I smiled and sailed on in a boat that cost a fraction of what their boss spent on rope -- or shirts.

I like to think I don’t wear my ego on my sleeve and I was just out enjoying myself. Lola got past the marina and all the hazards sticking out into the lake, to a spot where I could fix the main and raise the jib. From the far southwest corner of Muskegon Lake, I turned Lola’s bow toward the city and we had a glorious afternoon sail.

We sailed east toward the Milwaukee Clipper ship museum, then back toward the State Park on the north shore and down into the corner again. In Bluffton Bay, I dropped the main well upwind of my dock, flaked it roughly and tied it to the boom. In the gentlest of wind, we sailed downwind under just the jib directly toward the east basin of Torresen Marine.

In the basin, I untied the jib halyard, hooked it under a horn of the cleat and sat at the tiller keeping the jib taut. We crept along the pier ends until we arrived at mine. I let go the halyard and doused the jib with the downhaul. Lola traced a long, round circle and just as she nosed into her slip, I walked up to the bow, grabbed the bowline and stepped onto the dock. In my head it was like nailing a landing off the uneven bars at the Olympics. It was beautiful. Effortless. Graceful.

And as I looked about, ego smack dab on my sleeve  …  there hadn’t been a soul there to see it.

That evening I went for a sail, by mistake.

This is a placeholder for a post that is being submitted first for publication. You'll see it here, second.

Reboot the Blog

Emma where I found her

I am working on restarting my blogging. My current plan is to stay in Michigan until the fall, helping Dad get his bearings after we lost Mom in April. I have a small sailboat on Muskegon Lake as a part of my own reboot and recovery.

First, before I start sailing, I need to thank some amazing friends - two couples in Florida and a friend in Michigan who made my day - nay, my month - a couple months ago.

Emma waiting for me

All the way back before the first of the year, between the holidays and within a week of each other, Brenda and Gary as well as Carla and Tim, bothered to stop in at Riverside Marina, trudge back to where Emma lies and snap a few photos just to reassure me. It was a wonderful relief to see her sitting where I left her, waiting for my return, with tarps that were still in pretty good shape. Thanks all of y’all, you’re the best.


Despite my plan to stay in Michigan, I am taking a trip down to see Emma and all those special people in July or so. I can assess how the boat is doing, perhaps clean her up a little, and replace the tarps.

Not a good picture, but I was moved

A couple months ago, I visited a friend at his new office. Another friend and I actually used his conference space to touch up my vagabond, handpoke tattoos. Dave has renovated a beautiful, old building in Grand Rapids. His new office is open and spacious with a new wood floor, a cluster of desks in the front with a conference table toward the back in a corner full of windows. Out front, a couple of his degrees were hung with a small pile of other professional stuff in frames ready to hang. Dave was eager to show me a large frame hung on its own in the conference area.

Bella rounding the Muskegon Channel jetty

You see, Dave had been my crew bringing a sailboat, Bella, across Lake Michigan from Milwaukee, Wi to Muskegon, Mi, without a working engine. I could never have pulled it off without his help or that of my ground crew, Nancy. I had brought them both a crew certificate in appreciation of their help - mostly on a lark.  Nodding to the frame, he said that’s a better story than all those frames up front. It was humbling but also so good for my vagabond sailor heart to feel how special the trip, and therefore the certificate, was for Dave. It was an incredible trip for me too. Read about it in three parts starting here.

I realized immediately I needed to purchase another certificate. Pete, another sailing buddy, had helped me move my current big boat, Emma, from Miami to Fort Pierce -- with no engine (apparently that’s a thing of mine). Back when we did that second trip, I was pretty broke with a pickup truck that was falling apart; and that was broken into the night Pete and I sailed north. I got online right away and ordered a crew certificate for Pete. The story of that trip starts here.

Pete at the helm on Emma

Dave and I will have a reunion cruise sometime this summer. I’ll have to let Pete know that if he’s near Lake Michigan, we could go sailing too. I am keeping Lola, the Gulf Coast 18 I bought, at a dock in the same marina where Dave and I arrived five years ago next week aboard Bella, an Albin Vega. As for Brenda and Gary or Carla and Tim, I will be bringing Lola with me when I return to Florida in the fall. We’ll definitely do some sailing down there before Emma, my Westsail 32, is back in the water.

Thanks, Dave. Thanks, Pete.

Cheers everybody. Life is OK. 

Hiatus

I am in Michigan for several months, helping the family. Emma is buttoned up and waiting for me in Ft. Pierce. Here's hoping that there are no major storms through the end of the hurricane season.

Thanks for your support. See you soon.

Suspiciously Superstitious

I am not a superstitious guy, but it has been really hard to not think the universe is sending me some kind of message this past week. I started driving again for a company where I had been before. The first truck I was assigned lasted two and a half days before I took into the shop and it didn’t come back out. Then I drove 350 miles in a second truck only to have it die under me. I've always seemed to have had bad luck with International trucks.

On Tuesday, July 3rd, I picked up a load at a Savannah, GA warehouse. I took the back roads around to a small Pilot Truckstop to weigh the load. The fuel desk lady said, “Just a minute” over the intercom, so I turned the truck off because idling is discouraged. After she came back on and we did the scaling routine, the truck never started again. I spent a couple hours stuck right on the scale itself, in everybody’s way. Eventually, I got towed off the scale and to the International Trucks dealer in Savannah. It was mid afternoon the day before the July Fourth holiday when I arrived, and despite being plenty busy already, they ran the computer diagnostics right away. Their computer told them the same thing that the truck’s computer had been telling me; there was an electrical fault somewhere, perhaps near the ABS module. There was a short, somewhere, but all the fancy computers were not equipped to say exactly where. There was no simple fix or replacement. This, the latest in my troubles with International Trucks, is pretty bad timing for trying to get ahead on the money for Emma’s refit.

It was the winter of either 2014 or 2015, I was delivering truckloads of office furniture which often went to the Northeast; especially New York City and New Jersey. Whenever I had a load to Brooklyn or the southside of Manhattan, my load back to Michigan was usually huge rolls of paper from a mill on Staten Island. Many times before I had spent the night at the end of a cul de sac on Staten Island surrounded by the papermill, a defunct landfill and a power plant. That night it was about eight degrees and the bunk heater was just not keeping up. I started idling the truck, turned the heat up and fell asleep. About 3:00 AM, the truck woke me by dying. It would not start again. I called our road service people and they began looking for a roadside technician in New York City on a Saturday night.

The mechanic finally showed up, took a look under the hood and declared that the truck could not be fixed on the street but needed to get to a shop. Now my company had to find me a tow truck and another tractor to take the load home. Eventually, after I had been stuck with the whimpy bunk heater for eleven or twelve hours, a tow truck showed up towing a day cab. He dropped the cab, and pulled the dead truck out from under my trailer. I dragged the paper load back to Michigan with a motel stop because I didn’t have a sleeper. A month or so later, I came into Ohio from Pennsylvania in another International trailing a long line of grey smoke like a skywriter. That one couldn't be fixed outside a shop either.

After four days, me in a hotel and the truck in a shop, road service declared my truck dead for now. Parts are on order, but it will be out of service a good while. This morning I await a ride from another driver back to Florida to get a third truck -- third truck in 8 days! He just called to tell me that his truck won’t start and is waiting on a road technician. Our company has Macks, Internationals and a few Freightliners. I have my suspicions what kind of truck he drives.

I Can't Do This Anymore!

Well … I can't do it *this*way* anymore.

I got off the road last October and took what I thought was a part-time job. Turns out that we weren’t using the phrase ‘part-time’ in the same way. They called me PT because they couldn’t guarantee me 40 hours. However, if they needed 50 hours, they expected that I should be able to do that for them. They needed that a lot. That story is here.

So, I quit and went back to a small company that I had driven for in the past. I knew how they ran, so I asked beforehand, quite specifically, if they were on electronic logs yet. Oh, yes, they assured me. Their drivers use a logging app on their phone. I took that at face value, but after a couple weeks on the road, and a hundred dollar ticket, I figured out that they didn’t actually have the app properly hooked up to the truck. My initial hopes for this new gig is here.

A Paper Log Example

When I drove for them back in the paper log days, they ran my ass off and expected me to make it look legal afterward in my logs. That was exactly what I was trying to avoid, but the temptation of a flexible part time schedule clouded my judgement. Their drivers are doing the same fix-it-later thing as before; now with a sexy phone app to give the appearance of compliance. Many of the drivers probably appreciate that they can run as many miles as they’d like, but I can make plenty of money and do it legally. I don’t mind running hard; I’ve done it. I just don’t want to have to think so hard to cover my tracks. In addition, there are so many crazy drivers out there. Even a minor fender bender with one of those crazies would be a massive, expensive hassle if I was found to be running outside my legal hours.

I have run on electronic logs for a long time and can squeeze every drop, every mile out of my available legal hours. In fact, when I inquired about going back to the last bigger company where I’d been, my former dispatcher immediately and unequivocally wanted me back in his fleet.

Which brings me back to the "this way" part of “I can’t do it *this*way* anymore." My holy quest to find a lucrative part-time position has failed. I was already living hand to mouth, paycheck to boat parts, when I got the large bill for my engine installation. Money was tight by design but had become a constriction. Summer is upon us here in Florida; August and September can be brutally hot especially working inside the boat. If I was working part-time, it would be August before my cashflow recovered. All of these factors have led me to make yet another change; third time since October I’ve quit a trucking job. It sucks but I'm going to concentrate on getting ahead financially. Instead of trying to do both at the same time, I'm going to earn the money and concentrate on boatwork later. 

Boatyard Basin

One of the dangers of living in a boatyard in Florida, is getting bogged down in the boatyard lifestyle. It is easy enough to live this way. In an out-of-the-way place like Riverside Marina, you can exist in this purgatory of almost being ready to re-launch your boat -- for decades. These boat projects can be a bit like a tide. The tide of positive energy and forward motion comes in sometimes with great strength, but diminishes as it approaches slackwater. Just at the turn of the tide there is almost no energy before it ebbs and starts to go back out; backward motion. The boatyard trap is that slack moment when it is so quiet that you don’t realize the tide has turned against you. In the yard right near Emma, guys and their boats who have been *almost*ready* so long that they don’t even know they are getting less ready every week. They are drifting further and further away from being ready. I consider this job change a preemptive strike against the boatyard life. In order to make it to the Sailing Life I aspire, I must not get caught up in the boatyard life.

Most of last year, and a good part of 2016, I had a pretty stress-free trucking gig. If it wasn’t for my ill-conceived quest for less hours, I’d still be there. So, I’m going back

because I need the money. I’m going to cover the boat up, work full-time for 6 ot 7 months, scrimp and save and then get back to boatwork in cooler weather. Come January or February, I will have a good nest egg and I can concentrate on boatwork. This way I can drop all my current stress about miles, eLogs and the little time or money I have for the boat. Emma and I are stuck where we are for this hurricane season, but we can get back in the water before the next.

I can do just what I want and still get what I need. Why should I accept someone else’s BS?

Oof - Breaking Free is Hard.

Sometimes I have to re-read my “I Really Don't Give A …” manifesto just to keep doing what I do. Some people may suppose that I have some kind of tenacity to still be working on this project after all this time. The truth is that I am a bit too stubborn, but mostly too dumb to quit at this point. And yet some days are not so easy.

When I started this journey I came up with a slogan. It began a bit of a joke, but solidified into the underlying philosophy of my vagabond life.

“Eat When You’re Hungry.
Work When You’re Broke.”

I haven’t fully escaped on a boat yet, so the slogan hasn’t been fully implemented. It has, however, guided my life. Even now, where I thought I was going, and where I wanted to be are subject to changes wrought by this guiding philosophy. After months of wrangling at one job and ultimately switching jobs just to get to a part time schedule, last week I negotiated to become less part time already. My vagabond philosophy turned me around and changed what I thought I was doing.

It will help to start at the beginning of my current situation. In January 2016, I bought my boat, s/v Emma, sight unseen from Michigan because she was exactly the boat I wanted. She was also one that I could afford because she had been neglected ... and had no engine. Buying the boat and moving to Florida took most of the money I had at the time. I went to straight to work near the boat to get back to flush. Soon after, I found a lovingly rebuilt engine at a great price and was able to jump on the opportunity. It was several thousand dollars and most of the boat money I had accumulated by then. I am basically earning the funds to refit Emma as I go along.

My poor engine sat in a shed at the marina for 14 months and through two hurricanes; not exactly Plan A. It came together last month for the normally-very-busy marina mechanic to have time to align and install my engine. I am doing as much of my own work as I can, but the prospect of aligning the engine was keeping me up at night. It was a critical project that was not going to be easy and -- today --  I am still not a very good diesel mechanic. When it became possible to have a pro do it, I jumped at the chance. Walton came up with a project plan which I approved without a formal quote. I know … I know. But the work had to be done and a window opened to have it done professionally. Not to mention that the meter had been running all along and I was paying for engine storage in the shed.

My boat had a couple metal rails in the engine space where an engine had been. The engine I bought was not the same as whatever engine had been there. The work that needed to be done included lowering the engine into the boat, marking and then removing the rails, modifying, strengthening, and re-installing those rails, aligning the engine and driveshaft, replacing the cutlass bearing and then bolting everything down. Even if I had been able to successfully complete all those steps, it would have taken me months of trial and error and learning by doing to accomplish.

After I said ‘do it', in a moment of panic, I ran to talk to the ladies in the office and made my bargain. I had said, “I’ve approved Walton’s plan, but I don’t have any idea how much it’s going to cost, it may take me a couple months to pay for it all. If that’s not OK, then we need to slow him down and run some numbers.” Beside the normal interruptions of being the one on-site mechanic, Walton's work never stopped.

Last week, I came home from the new gig on the road and saw the driveshaft sticking out Emma’s stern tube. This is great news … and not so great. When I paid my boatyard rent for June, I got the bill for all of Walton’s work. I really never had any idea what it might cost. Occasionally, I thought it would be fairly inexpensive; other times I just didn’t want to think about it. The bill was actually almost twice the highest number I had worried about. Oh, boy. 

That brings us back to “less part time already” from above. My new trucking gig is with a small company that I had briefly driven for before. My new schedule was going to be one week on, one week off. I had visions of huge numbers of boat projects getting crossed off my list. That schedule lasted exactly one month. To pay the marina off in a reasonable time, most of each paycheck would have to go to them for a while. I’ve had a couple weeks like that and it isn’t much fun to have to lay low without the funds to do much boatwork. I decided to take the initiative and pick up some more time at work. So, I went from every other week to three weeks out and one week home. I’ll still get a little bit done in the short term, but more importantly I’ll be able to pay my bill and keep the marina fairly happy.

I don’t mean to be coy about financial numbers, I just felt they would be clumsy in the narrative above. I am doing this project on practically no money, but that was the basic plan anyway. I want to show that a big dream can be accomplished with small cashflow. I bought my boat for $6000; and then moved to Florida. The engine I found was $4000 and the storage, plus labor and miscellaneous parts to install the engine was another $5000. Beside this $15,000, I have about $2000 in other parts that I had previously purchased. By the time I dress up the interior and get some electronics and other equipment, I will probably spend another $8000. Importantly, I will have done so much of the work myself that when I’m done I will have an intimate knowledge of my boat and her systems. This will help me keep future maintenance costs down.

The week I moved to Florida back in 2016, a Westsail 32 only a couple years younger than Emma, but painted, polished and ready to sail, was listed near me for $52,000. Now, they weren’t going to get their initial asking price, but they likely got between 25 and 30 thousand for her.

Even if we get in the water and I hate it, I can sell her without losing my shirt.

Don’t worry, I won’t.

Oriental to Charleston, Part II

Aletheia in her glory

This is Part Two of the Carolina Trip. Part One is here.

When we last left our heroes, they were having an epic dinner aboard Aletheia lying at anchor at Wrightsville Beach.

Both the captain and I really wanted to do some offshore sailing and yet among our many compatible aspects -- we are both fairly conservative sailors. Neither of us would make the jump offshore in adverse conditions just to say we had done it. In addition, though we spent the night right at the Masonboro Inlet, the Frying Pan Shoals extended well out into the Atlantic between us and Charleston. We would have had to sail fairly far offshore before we could turn to the southwest and make for our destination. In fact, many sailors traversing the East Coast will come inside between Masonboro and Cape Fear just to avoid having to go out and around those shoals.

As keen as we both were, it didn’t make a lot of sense for us to go offshore from Wrightsville. We

Wrightsville Beach Anchorage

hatched a plan to run inside down to the Cape Fear River in the morning, and if the weather and the tides were on our side by then, we’d jump offshore from there to Charleston. We had to have the outgoing to tide with us at Cape Fear River and then the in-going tide at Charleston. Otherwise, it would be dangerous to creep along against the flow with the potential for traffic; especially ship traffic.

We left Wrightsville Beach early on Sunday morning and ran down to Snows Cut. The Cut crosses over to the Cape Fear River and is often a difficult stretch. At one narrow point, again against the tide flow, we were maxed out and creeping along barely more than a knot over the ground. We had a little help from the sails and got through it - ever so slowly. After the cut, the ICW angles across some shallows to join the Cape Fear River. On the river, midday Sunday, there were no ships in sight, but we finally sailed through ship infrastructure; range marks, bigger bouys, and a large natural gas terminal.

One of the last bouys outbound

At Cape Fear, the ICW goes most of the way out toward the ocean before it turns to starboard at Southport. Approaching that intersection, we already knew the tide with us and we were going offshore! My vagabond heart soared and called from the clouds like the many osprey we had seen along the way. I was … we were …  going to get some sea time!!

It would be twenty five hours or so across to Charleston, we set the auto pilot and decided to take three hour watches once it got dark. Often an auto pilot won’t steer a sailing course because it can’t read or react to the wind. Our wind held steady though, and the autopilot steered all night. Our timing was tight and the Captain wanted us to stay within a half mile of the rhumb line to avoid a bunch of extra sea miles. Holding close to the rhumb line though precluded sailing for comfort and my watch at dusk was really rolly. For three hours the boat never stopped moving for a second. We were rolling heavily from side to side plus the normal forward and back motion. I began to feel a little green around the gills. When Wade relieved me, I went below to nap and was down there about 15 seconds when I climbed right back up and leaned over the rail. I don’t remember ever being sick on a boat before. Any way, bless the fish, here’s my supper. I posted 4 mini videos on YouTube of our time at sea here.

The sea moderated and it was a beautiful sail overnight to Charleston. Somehow all along the entire trip, our timing had always been good; just when we needed it most. We hit Charleston Harbor just as the tide turned in our favor. We sailed dead downwind up the channel as the Monrovia-flagged Primavera container ship passed us. We had talked with someone on the ship’s bridge, and promised to stay well to starboard as she past.

All along our trip we were often stared at and photographed. Aletheia is a distinctive beauty. Her junk

The Primavera

rig is curious with it’s batwing sails and two unstayed masts; one of which is nearly in the bow. People in passing boats waved, called to us, and took pictures. It was amazing and hilarious to be a part of such a spectacle. Even the crew of the Primavera must have been watching for someone stepped out on the small deck adjacent the huge ship’s bridge and snapped some pictures. Later, @zhirov_sergey ‘liked’ my picture of the ship on Instagram. I like to imagine he was the guy on the deck that day.

Once in the harbor, we had to make for Elliot Cut to get over to the Stono River and the St. Johns Yacht Harbor, Aletheia’s new home. One bridge on Elliot Cut doesn’t open for boats during rush hour for commuters. To wait it out, we anchored across from the City Marina, the very marina where Wade and I had met three years ago on another boat. After waiting, we hauled anchor and slogged our way through another channel with a squeeze point and a current against us. The marina had closed before we could get there, so we anchored just down river from them, under another bridge. The sun was just going down Monday evening as we made supper and anticipated our formal arrival the next day.

St. Johns Yacht Harbor under the bridge

In the morning we contacted the marina, casually motored back under the bridge and tossed our docklines to the helpful staff. Wade checked in and we straightened up the boat. The Captain is a bit like me -- once we’re moving we’d rather just keep going to get things done. We had had a good night’s sleep the night before at anchor. Wade’s truck was up in Oriental, where we had started. I had made a lunch date with a former suite-mate from Michigan State for Wednesday, the next day, but had also offered to help Wade retrieve his truck. We decided to rent a car right then, Tuesday afternoon, and go get it. Road Trip! Five hours up and a few more than that back.

We had made an epic run from early Sunday morning to sundown Monday: left Wrightsville Beach; down to Cape Fear; out into the ocean; sailed all night; arrived at Charleston Monday afternoon; waited for a bridge; and finally anchored right near the marina. Then Tuesday settled in at the marina before an eleven or twelve hour road trip into the wee hours Wednesday morning. After a nap, we took the rental car back and had returned to Aletheia about an hour before my buddy, Brian, called to say he had arrived for lunch.     Badass.

Wednesday evening I had a pleasant dinner with Wade and his Charleston friend, Nat, whom I had first met with Wade when they stopped by s/v Eleanor three years before. Thursday, we ran some errands around town and Wade dropped me off at the Greyhound station for my trip back to Florida and my boat, s/v Emma. The trip was just what I needed to recharge my vagabond soul. I am working my to-do list with increased vigor. My new trucking gig is seven days on, seven days off; good for getting on with the boatwork. In addition, while I was away, the marina’s mechanic was aligning and installing my engine! My boat project is way ahead of where it was when I left! What a time! Good sailing with a good friend on the good ship, Aletheia. Life is good; so good. How many good’s can fit into one paragraph?

That good. Thanks, Wade.

Aboard Emma with my Aletheia Hat! 

Oriental to Charleston, Part I

The creek at Sea Harbour Yacht Club

Note: This is Part One of Two Parts. Part Two is here.

I was crewing on a delivery of a Westsail 42 down the East Coast when I met Wade. He had crewed on the famous W42, Fiona, and was keen to join us for a time. The boat wasn’t departing for a couple days and he was spending some time in the city, but he stopped by with a Charleston friend at the City Marina to introduce himself. Wade is a very interesting guy. We became fast friends between Charleston and Melbourne, FL, where the trip ended prematurely.

sv Aletheia

In the time since that voyage, Wade had purchased Aletheia, a 36 foot Allied Princess that was converted to a junk rig and repowered with an electric drive. He had found her in St. Petersburg, FL and subsequently moved her to Oriental, NC. I was busy on the road saving money for my own boat project and could not help during that move. However, as Wade prepared to move Aletheia from Oriental down to Charleston, he asked if I could help. I happened to be changing jobs and it worked out that I could sneak two weeks off between them to join him.  Basically the fourth time I quit a job for a sailboat. Two days after leaving the first job, I was on a Greyhound bus excited to be headed North Carolina to go sailing!

After a day and a half of minor boat projects, prepping and provisioning, all was well, hale and hearty. We departed early on a Wednesday morning, silently pushed by the electric motor out of the marina creek and into the Neuse River. Gosh, it was such a pleasure to be back on the water. My boat and I are stranded on the gravel of a Florida boatyard for several more months. The Neuese is a wide enough river I could get used to the versatile junk rig sails and learn the details of the electric motor, the battery bank and power generation. I had seriously considered an electric motor for my Emma, but had found a great deal on an impressively rebuilt Perkins diesel.

It was a pleasant leg up and across the Neuse to Adams Creek. At the creek, we were greeted by stronger than expected wind and current. The inlets and outlets between the sea, the rivers and the ICW prevented me from ever being able to predict the direction or strength of the tide flow. Suddenly, Aletheia was having trouble holding her own. We were making very little way and I was having trouble tacking her; really feeling out of control. I can’t remember why I was steering just then, but poor Aletheia was going back and forth across the channel in the midst of some powerboat traffic. As I tried to tack I only got blown over the other way. I called from help from Wade! The captain may have noted in the logbook that his crew was having a pucker at the lower end of his alimentary canal.

The junk rig is elegantly simple but just different enough from the fore and aft rigs that I have sailed that it took some time to get used to working those beautiful batwing sails. Aletheia has two masts each with a similarly shaped sail. As different as the sailing was, when trying to tack -- turning into the wind for you land lubbers -- I needed to think of the forward sail like a jib on a sloop anyway. Once Wade had me releasing the sheet of the forward sail as I came about, I could manage a proper tack.

Sunset on Adams Creek

The sailing handling was straightened out but we still could not make any headway against the wind and current; something else was wrong. The Captain decided we should backtrack to an  anchorage he knew. Perhaps in an hour or two we could try again. Soon, however, we realized that we would miss time the tides at Beaufort. The original plan had been to go out into the Atlantic at the Beaufort Inlet and anchor at Cape Lookout, supposedly one of the most beautiful anchorages on the East Coast. From there we could decide to continue offshore or duck back into the ICW, the Intracoastal Waterway. We ended up staying the night at the anchorage at the north end of Adams Creek.

The next morning, we were up with the sun and started down the creek in the stillness of the morning. And … we still couldn’t make much way.  There was no wind and very little current, but we were struggling to creep along. After circling back the the anchorage, we decided the propellor must be fouled. Wade prepped to jump into Adams Creek … in April. I changed into my swim trunks as well, just in case. Luckily for me, after his initial shock, the Captain, a regular resident of Alaska, decided the water wasn’t so bad. He quickly found the prop was, in fact, fouled -- not fish line or rope on the shaft -- but barnacles on the blades. I dug out a putty knife and the Captain had our prop clean after several dives. We raised the anchor a second time and headed south. The clean prop made all the difference! We later learned that the marina we’d left had suffered a barnacle bloom.

That second day, even with a false start, was a good run. It was so easy to motorsail with the junk rig.

Sailfie

The full length battens and the unique parrell rigging kept the sails from flogging. When the sails weren’t much help we simply snugged up the sheets and ignored them. When they could help, the sails were already up and ready for adjustment. With a fore and aft rig like mine, the sails would have gone up, come down, gone up again, come down etc. Chances are, rather than fool with them, my sails would have stayed down and I’d have just motored the whole way without getting the occasional help from the sails.

We motorsailed down to Beaufort and then stayed on the ICW as the forecast and the tides precluded us from going offshore. We were near enough to civilization that we usually had cellular data and could check the marine forecasts and tide info, or download GRIB files. We anchored for the night off the ICW just above Swansboro.

The next morning we were off early and continued down the ICW. After some time, silently, electrically plying the ICW, the channel had turned and we decided to raise the sails to take advantage of our new angle on the wind. Unfortunately, we were approaching the New River Inlet, a confused delta below Camp Lejuene. The occasional roar of military jets added to the milieu as I worked to raise the sails. Just as we were moving into an area of bouys that are regularly moved to mark the shifting sands, Wade was steering as I was hauling lines and halyards. Every time he leaned one way to check the position of the channel, I would move to block his view; oblivious of the scattered bouys he was trying to decipher. Where the main part of the New River crosses the ICW, the channel had not simply shifted -- it had changed dramatically. Suddenly a bouy we needed to keep to our right was well to our left … and we ran aground.

If you go down the ICW without running aground once, you’re lying. We lost about an hour, calling Towboat/US and waiting on their arrival. They were super nice guys and had us off in no time. The tow captain said, “Yep, you’re right in the middle of where the channel used to be.” Even with the grounding, we made a good distance Friday. The last few miles, however, were a mighty slog into the wind and current. We were creepping along only a knot or two over the ground and fought our way into a ‘V’ between two channels to anchor for the night near Sloop Point.

I must say it was a luxury cruise for me. The last delivery I crewed on, I cooked about ⅔ the meals (I was happy to do so, cooking is one of my pleasures). This time, however, Wade cooked and fed me like a king. We had steaks for dinner and with our eggs a couple mornings. There were wonderful lunches - often cold cuts and cheese with whole grain bread. I cooked one meal the whole time -- mostly because I wanted to at least once.

In hindsight, trying to make time on a delivery run on the stretch of ICW between the Figure Eight Bridge and Wrightsville Beach -- on a weekend day -- was a strategic mistake. Not only were we fighting the wind and current, and the limited manueverability of a large sailboat, we also had the weekend crowd and their swarming powerboats. No one aboard those little buzzing boats seemed to know why we were making slow circles in front of a closed bridge. They wouldn’t have undertood that we were not only limited by our height but the channel for our four and half foot keel was a lot narrower than it appeared on the surface.

All the while we were calling Wrightsville marinas wanting to tie up for some fuel and a run to the grocery store. Nobody wanted to accomodate our provisioning on a weekend. And once we got under the Wrightsville Beach Bridge and near those marinas, we didn’t want to try and make our way through the maddening crowds just to get some fuel anyway. We decided to anchor at Wrightsville and go ashore in the dinghy.

Wade made contact with a resort hotel and gained permission to use their dock. For some reason, I was steering again, but I got us off the ICW, down toward the Masonboro Inlet and into the anchorage just fine. As we piled into the dinghy we joked about two big lunks, our trash, and four jerry jugs fitting aboard. Just then we realized that three years before, in an identical dinghy, he and I had rowed ashore at Melbourne, FL for fried chicken.

We made it across the choppy bay and pulled up to the dock at the Blockade Runner Resort. The guy

Sunset at Wrightsville Beach Anchorage

Wade had talked to was not around, but since we knew a name, everyone was very nice and accomodating. We tied up, grabbed our jugs and trash, and hailed an Uber ride. Jeanette was super nice and turned her Uber off to concentrate on escorting us to the Harris Teeter grocery and then a gas station. She was as patient as a saint as the ethanol-free gas just trickled out of the gas pump.

Once we got back to the resort, we had four full jerry jugs of gasoline and several bags of groceries to fit, with us, in the dinghy. Nevertheless, we made it back out to Aletheia. Even if we hadn’t been famished from all the day’s activities, dinner would have been epic; ribeyes on the grill, baked yams, and a huge salad from our leftover lettuce, fresh veggies and chopped fresh cabbage.

Stay tuned for Part Two. It will be available in a few days right here.