That Was Fun

Sweet Pea settles in to her new home.

I'm headed south for the holidays. No surprises there. It is the pact Anita and I keep. We will cruise. I will single-hand at times. I will be there for the holidays, no matter what. Oh, honey, I'm home.

Sweet Pea, in contrast, will be lingering in Oriental, NC, for a while. How long? Ah, isn't that always the question in life and in cruising?

I had expected that remedying the misaligned bearing, adding unworn parts heroically delivered from New Jersey by UPS and adjusting a screw here or there would lead to the finale in this Yanmar melodrama. I fully intended to give Deaton Yacht Service a standing ovation as I pulled out of the slip.

How naive. How undramatic. I should have realized that the first act included at least two smoking guns. The principle of Chekhov's gun applies and the curtain has risen on yet another act. This perplexing saga is turning out to have more episodes than a telenovela.

Strong performance by Eric.
Yanmar, not so much.

First, I must give full credit to Eric Pittman, who is stellar in the role of diesel mechanic. He heroically wrested a gun out of the villain's hand. That misaligned bearing that appeared in an earlier scene, standing too proud and misleading the governor into wrongly killing the idle revolutionaries? Totally not a problem anymore. The engine now purrs like a kitten at 850 rpm, roars like lion at full throttle and sounds ready to go.

If only. Unfortunately, it puffs black smoke on acceleration. Goose the throttle and it spits gobs of soot, as if someone had tucked a hearty pinch of snuff up inside the exhaust elbow. This second smoking gun appears to be the injection pump, which has twice been rebuilt by Mack Boring.

Now that everything else is exactly right -- new parts, new adjustments, new focus -- senior support technicians, including Mack Boring's own, opine that the pump is delivering too big a gulp of diesel, though now at exactly the right moment and with the correct pressure. Prior to now, it had been anyone's guess as to what might be happening since so many other things were wrong.

This big gulp could explain the thick black mustache -- it is much darker than her sisters; they all sport a shadow above the lip -- the carbon buildup inside cylinders, leading to too much compression, the coked up exhaust elbow and the choking sooty clouds I've left behind when I panicked the throttle. Once at Samson Cay in the Bahamas I glanced back after gunning away from the dock against a stiff current. Onlookers were fleeing what appeared to be a volcanic eruption enveloping the shore.

John Deaton and Eric want to pursue this until it is explained and fixed. They are appalled at the situation and want to make it right. I agree with their goal. Why rush off, only to limp from boatyard to boatyard with severe engine indigestion?

The schedule is uncertain as the players sort out who does what and as importantly who picks up the check for this entertainment. My cruise is on hold. I have failed in my mission to stay ahead of the frost line. Burr.

But, oh yeah, Jay Ungar's tune Fiddler's Elbow? I have had lots of time to work on that one. After hours and hours of goosing its throttle I can now move along at 150 bpm. My fingers smoke as they dance across the buttons. No cause for concern.

More than the Sniffles

Yanmar, off for a brief visit to the doctor

I keep telling myself that the cruise is what actually happens rather than what I want to have happen. There I was, heading south and thinking of Jekyll Island. My main concern was whether I would get an interesting collection of day sails along the way. Instead I got to stay put in Oriental, NC, for the last month.

Ron and Jayne, who have a house in Oriental, have been incredible, stopping by to chat and commiserate, driving me here and there, sharing eat outs, inviting me over for bottles of wine and dinners, providing a personal laundromat. Cruising really is about the people. I met them in the Bahamas long ago when we first ventured across the Gulf Stream and have treasured thirty years of their kindness and friendship.

I never imagined that inquiring into my rebuilt Yanmar's oil leaks would tie me to Deaton's dock for this long. Black snot dripping from its nose turned out to be the least of its problems. This has become a bit like going to the doctor with the sniffles and ending up on the operating table, getting a heart transplant.

John Deaton said that they would make things right. They haven't flinched. Eric has relentlessly pursued various mysteries while the engine sheds more and more parts. They are determined to make sure that we leave here actually cured.

An early puzzle had to do with incorrect settings for the governor and timing of the diesel injection pump. Eric adjusted those to factory spec, replaced several parts, fixed the the oil sniffles and fired her up. It ran perfectly.



Well, almost perfectly. At idle it would eventually lug and die. How disappointing. Eric had seen this once before in a six-month chase to nail down a problem with a different Yanmar. He knew where to look. Off came pumps, flywheels and housings to reveal gears and shafts that are normally quite private.

And there, hidden away, was the smoking gun. Sometime in the past the bearing that supports the front of the crankshaft was pressed into its housing with a bit less than the required vigor. It stands about a millimeter proud of where it should be and doesn't quite align with the surface that holds the governor assembly. The governor arm has been doing a mad dance as its forked fingers followed that misaligned bearing's sleeve.

Ah, those incorrect settings for the governor and timing of the diesel injection pump? I now believe that they were a maladjustment to compensate for symptoms caused by the underlying mistake of that proud bearing. This could account for all sorts of problems in governance, or whatever one might call the nuances of feeding exactly the right amount of fuel into the beast’s maw at precisely the moment to make things happen.

The tolerances are tight. Uneven wear on the tips of the governor fork's fingers meant being intolerably out of specification. Even more serious problems would eventually occur. Sort of like acid reflux I suppose, painful and ominous.

Having found this, we're now on hold for parts. The replacement comes from New Jersey. In the end, hurricane Sandy is affecting me, too, though I understand that this delay is absolutely nothing compared to Sandy's real effects.

Although the schedule is uncertain, I have hope. Perhaps the clouds of black smoke that have followed me around will finally be behind me. The Yanmar will purr with pleasure. The engine sump will stay pristine. Sweet Pea will once again leave a wake as the scenery slides past.

Fiddler's Elbow

Meanwhile, when I'm not hanging out with Ron and Jayne, my cruise consists of chasing Jay Ungar. Jay is a prolific composer, well known for writing Ashokan Farewell, a lament that Ken Burns used as the theme tune in his 1990 documentary The Civil War.

On Jay and Molly's album Waltzing with You, they play Fiddler's Elbow at a brisk 150 bpm. Alas, on this tune my melodeon's governor is still topping out at a sluggish 130.

Perhaps I should ask Eric to look at my fingers for signs of wear after a thousand or so practice runs. Nah, I don't want to be the one that's on hold for parts.

Customer Care

John Deaton cares about customers.

"From a customer's point of view, thanks for making the right decision." I was relieved to be able to say this to John Deaton, the owner of Deaton Yacht Service in Oriental, NC. He had agreed to yank my malingering engine and fix its lingering problems.

He astutely pointed out that it was the right decision from his point of view, not just from the customer's. If I wasn't happy with the outcome of their service, Deaton would make it right. That's the sort of company they are.

Whew. There for a while I was afraid this would turn into a meeting of the checkbooks rather than of the minds. I was already rehearsing scathing rejoinders to hurl as I stalked out. But then suddenly I was totally disarmed. Customer care can do that.

Over the past three years I have called at Deaton Yacht Service twice. Each time with the same problems: oil leaks and hard start. This after paying Deaton once to have them fixed.

Back in November '09 I was headed south and found oil in the antifreeze. I wanted a fix pronto so I could reach the Bahamas before the frost reached me. Deaton counseled that their own mechanics were fully scheduled, so they would subcontract the rebuild to Mack Boring, which is a name familiar to Yanmar owners. Before long my Yanmar was yanked like a bad molar, leaving an empty sump while it traveled to New Jersey for rejuvenation. It came back looking ready to go.

The dribbled results of an unacceptable rebuild

As soon as sea trials ended, I took off. I did make it to the Bahamas but arrived with a growing sense of dismay. Along the way and then as I cruised from the Bahamas to Cape Cod, there have been a series of unfortunate discoveries about the quality of that engine rebuild.

Fixing Aboard includes the gory details of how our trusted Yanmar turned on us to become a dreaded zombie that stalked as we fled from boatyard to boatyard.

Had I stuck around for a year I am certain that Deaton would have responded to my series of unfortunate events with alacrity, but I didn't give them the chance. Sweet Pea's home port is most anywhere warm enough or cool enough, depending on the season. I heard that the '09 winter was particularly brutal and included, of all things, a blizzard in New Orleans, giving new meaning to the phrase "when hell freezes over." The Bahamas saw nary a snowflake.

Sweet Pea slipped at Deaton Yacht Service, again

Now, three years and 750 engine hours after that rebuild, warranty wasn't in question. Mack Boring's warranty against leaks is an astonishingly short thirty days, so no warranty to worry about: zilch, nyet, nada.

Besides, warranties only function to limit liability. In contrast, customer care is a much more strategic marketing game, played over a much longer time. I wanted to know whether Deaton Yacht Service cared.

There was no way I was going to pay Deaton twice for one fix. I wanted to know what John Deaton would decide to do if Mack Boring (Deaton's subcontractor) denied any responsibility for making it right. Would he decide to make me whole or leave me broken? Forget the distraction of Mack Boring's response. I wanted his answer now, on the spot.

Having already invested in this gold standard,
I should be cruising rather than tied to the dock.

In my mind, two questions apply to any boatyard's service. First, did they do it right? Second, did they do it right if they didn't do it right, first?

Here I'm using "they" to include the boatyard's employees, subcontractors, suppliers and anyone else invited to the game. But for me, my they is the owner, the general contractor who sits at the top of a pyramid of other "theys."

Complex projects always involve surprises. While it is tempting to believe that the answer to the first question should always be "yes, they fixed it right, the first time", my experience is that it is sometimes "no, not really" even though the most highly qualified resources tackled the job using the best parts available. Stuff happens even to professionals. Projects include risk, unanticipated outcomes that can't always be known in advance. I know that.

Eric, tracking the zombie

From Deaton Yacht Service, I now have a partial answer to the second question. They intend to do it right the second time, by doing it themselves. They have re-assigned their most highly-qualified resource from his normal role as service manager to that of ace zombie hunter.

Eric has already found some underlying contributors to the hard start, having to do with incorrect governor and injection timing settings. I'm impressed by his methodical approach to diagnosing the problems and have a growing confidence in this second fix.

Eric does things by the book. What a refreshing change.

This next winter in the Bahamas I'm sure that I will be asked whether I would recommend Deaton Yacht Service.

I will think of John's answer in yesterday's meeting and my response will be, "Sure. I'd recommend them without reservations, especially if you are a cruiser on the go and may not be back in thirty days. They took care of me." Can't say better than that.

Dress for Dinner

The first sentence in The Riddle of the Sands, Erskine Childers' 1905 tale of espionage and cruising adventure, says it all.

"I have read of men who, when forced by their calling to live for long periods in utter solitude . . . have made it a rule to dress regularly for dinner in order to maintain their self-respect and prevent a relapse into barbarism."

It is clear that for Carruthers, the young English gentleman who voiced that sentiment, dressing for dinner required substantially more than simply putting on a pair of clean boxers and perhaps a shirt with fewer stains. 

I fear that I am in danger of relapsing into barbarism on this cruise. No top hat, no tails, no evening toilet. Just whatever clothes are at hand, canned beans, warm beer and pretzels. Hearty but not terribly elegant.

When Anita is aboard we establish two common denominators: most cautious and least slovenly.

It's always barracuda

In the Bahamas when I want to continue trolling as we enter a narrow cut and she demurs, in comes the lure, no questions asked. Her position is based on having repeatedly endured my trying to deal with some truly annoyed barracuda when I should be paying attention to real hazards. She keeps us off the iron shore by being far more cautious than I, though we do catch fewer fish as a result.

She also raises the bar for tidiness, nutrition and ice cubes. In her presence we have fresh vegetables, meat, lots of cookies and cold drinks. The refrigerator hums away pulling calories out of ice trays and various libations. 

When I'm aboard alone the contrast is stark. The fridge sits open, its silent maw holding cans of evaporated milk, baked beans, an odd assortment of pickle and mustard jars and some beer bottles. In return, the refrigerator doesn't swig down all those amp hours. I can anchor for days without having to charge the batteries. 

Sans butter

Fortunately water, flour, salt and yeast don't mind being at ambient temperature. Going warm even seems acceptable -- I understand that Brits think cold beer an abomination -- though I do miss having a pat of butter to slather on my hot out of the oven loaf.

Between my occasional fits of pickup and cleanup, dust kittens play about the saloon floor and the cockpit accumulates a patina. If Anita were aboard, the social contract would remain intact and Sweet Pea would revel in being continuously clean and tidy.

Single handing makes me realize that, while I am perfectly capable of dressing for dinner, I need to be part of a team to find the motivation. The indolence of being alone might mean more fish, but the risk of barbarism becomes reality.

Dew Diligence

Before leaving Eastham Creek I diligently wiped the dodger's fogged windshield with a damp chamois. This is a morning ritual these fall days. The chilly nights encourage the previous day's humidity to condense on every exposed surface, providing a fresh water rinse in the salt marsh. It should be wiped away before it evaporates and a chamois is ideal for this little chore.

Fred Roscoe Jones 

When I lean across to swipe the windshield I almost always picture my grandfather's Texaco filling station with a melancholic sense of nostalgia. Grandpa Fred was an enormously important figure to me though I didn't realize it at the time. The filling station was a magic place, full of busy men, exotic equipment like hydraulic lifts, treats of soda pop and peanuts, and the chance to feel important.

Grandpa would occasionally let me wring out a chamois. These fascinating objects lived in the tub of an old wringer washing machine, slithering around like eels in the murky water. My job, when the stars and planets all aligned, was to fish out the corner of one of these strange and slippery things and gingerly insert it between the rubber rollers, all the while heeding instructions to watch out about my fingers. Someone cranked -- perhaps my older brother, I was way too short to reach the top of the handle's arc -- and the wringer spit out a nearly dry chamois. I had helped.

Jones' Texaco in Shawnee, OK

The reward was a nickle for a soda pop. I recall leaning into the red Coke case and studying the bottles, Nehi Orange, Grapette, Dr. Pepper, Coke, and 7 Up, among others that were trapped in an elaborate system of rails with only their necks projecting. To get a flavor you tugged the bottle along the tracks to one end of the case where a special compartment swung open. The system was cleverly arranged so that only one bottle could be pulled out for each nickle. The choice of which flavor was agonizing, but for the life of me I can't remember drinking the soda or even which was my favorite.

When a car pulled in it ran over a hose hooked to a bell. The sharp ding-ding triggered a reaction that was much like tapping a wasp's nest. The staff boiled out to swarm over the car, checking oil, tires, pumping gas, and wiping the windshield with a damp chamois. Grandpa supervised it all and rang up the sale on an enormous cash register that made more noise than a fire engine.

Then to celebrate a job well done he might dole out a treat. His roughened hand would touch my much smaller one to deposit salted peanuts that he got from a machine that stood by the cash register.

Daniel Roberts
Able Bodied Crewman

I don't know what my grandfather would think of me now. But I would love to be able to find out.

I would drive Sweet Pea into the Texaco and hear that bell's ding as her keel ran over the hose. As his crew wiped her down I would ask him whether he thought I was doing as good a job with my grandson, Daniel, who has crewed many times and is partial to York Peppermint Patties.

Messing About on the Albemarle

The wind was barely a whisper, leaving Sweet Pea nearly dead in the water. It had been a forty-mile jaunt across the Albemarle Sound and up the Alligator River in near perfect conditions, until the wind went light and then even lighter. Until then it was one of those two dozen day sails for which I had hoped.

Much of the fleet hustled off the docks at first light, as if there might be free food at the destination as there had been in Elizabeth City.

The town goes all out to welcome boaters and make it easy to decide to do the Dismal Swamp route rather than the alternative, which bypasses their hospitality.

eCity -- in honor of their providing free high speed WiFi at the docks --  even invited all the cruisers into a big tent where they plied the whole bunch with drinks and snacks and talked about a future project to provide a bathhouse while we quaffed wine and lime margaritas and munched on cheese and chips. They do thoroughly understand cruisers.

Plus, dockage at Jennett Brothers, a company that supplies restaurants and the like, was at no charge, other than a pledge to eat at a locally-owned restaurant. What a terrific idea. I looked at it as paying $10 for the slip and then getting an absolutely free meal at Quality Sea Food Market, where they served me an excellent platter of flounder, which I couldn't even begin to finish. So for a very modest docking fee, I got two free lunches. I think that tends to disprove the no free lunch thing.

Being chased prior to being passed

Leaving eCity quite early is a good idea since you never really know what the Sound will kick up. Initially the breeze slept in but by the time we had cleared the Pasquotank River it arrived, ready to go to work: on the beam, gusting to 15. Sweet Pea does love that soldier's wind. I was careful to avoid whistling, since more would have been much more than enough.

That was a day sail to file away in a mental folder that holds that rare confluence of wind and destination. It was a romp on a reach across a notoriously nasty stretch of the ICW. Despite having no current to run against the wind, the relatively shallow Albemarle can kick up a chop that will make your teeth chatter and make the far shore seem impossibly distant. But all was well on this day.

Then, ten miles short of the journey, the breeze pooped out, despite having slept in. It was tempting to reach down and punch the starter, but I was curiously reluctant to end so fine a sail and listen to the engine for a couple of hours. Instead I hauled out my button box and waltzed while Sweet Pea ghosted along, well out of the channel.

Boat after boat growled by, heading for a twist in the river that marks end of day. Getting there becomes irresistible, and rightly so. Hot showers, drinks and dinner beckoned.

I was totally surprised when the breeze returned. Within several puffs it built to its former vigor. I hustled below to stow the buttons while Sweet Pea put down her shoulder and took off after the herd. I won't say I passed anyone who had left me behind, but I did manage to keep most of them in sight.

I must say, sailing that last hour was a pleasure and left me feeling giddy with accomplishment. Ah well, it doesn't take much.

One day-sail and one day-motor closer to Jekyll

I paid for those pleasures, though. Today the engine droned on endlessly as the wind hid its face. Now that I've anchored in distant Eastham Creek, a breeze is starting to waft down the hatch, teasing me with its whisper that really, I could have sailed today's last hour or so if I had only slept in rather than heading out for the Alligator Pungo Canal at first light. Ya just never know.

Duck Soup

Lots of chunks under the garnish

The Dismal Swamp Canal looked like a hearty green soup, complete with root vegetable chunks that tapped against Sweet Pea's keel. It was a duckweed stew. Definitely not the most appetizing concoction for a day's motor to Elizabeth City, NC.

Sweet Pea was lead boat in a flotilla of four. I had met the others at the North Carolina Welcome Center where we rafted four deep, forming a peninsula that nearly blocked the channel. The 150-foot dock wasn't that crowded. But despite some urging, a number of smaller vessels, who had arrived earlier and were spaced one deep along the rest of the dock, were curiously disinclined to raft up.

I could understand that since we four were leaving early to catch the first lock opening and the rest of the bunch wanted to sleep in. Still, rafting has always been a tradition at the Welcome Center. I hope that graciousness will persist rather than falling victim to using the right of first arrival to cling to the cleats.

Being perfect gentlemen we, of course, tiptoed out at 0700 to avoid any disturbance of slumber. Yeah, right. Varoom, varoom, varoom. Humm, engine sounds warmed up. "HEY, YOU READY? LETS GET A MOVE ON!"

Twitch marks the spot

I set off from the Welcome Center without too much thought about whether being the lead dog was a good idea. The Army Core of Engineers was said to have recently removed snags, deadheads, logs and other chunks, so what could there be other than water?

Well, there might be, perhaps, the odd SUV. Several years ago a boat hit a submerged vehicle that had been rolled into the canal the night before, just for laughs. That could hardly be the Core's fault. They weren't even invited to the party.

Now, for the first time in my four canal transits, I kept hitting things that felt substantial. I suspect it was only my keel doing the knocking but I was concerned about whether more sensitive parts were at risk. After each strike I would twitch the wheel to mark the spot in my duckweed trail and radio an alert the rest of the fleet.

In a previous trip the green soup had also contained a filamentous algae, which clogged an engine's raw water strainer as effectively as stuffing a pillow down a toilet. Every so often the lead boat would radio to announce a pause, punctuated by the scream of a temperature alarm. We would slowly pass the former lead as they threw green stuff overboard, leaving them to ride drag in a choking duckweed dust. Fortunately, this season's chef skipped the algae.

I was pleased that Sweet Pea's engine kept right on chugging until I reached Elizabeth City's free docks. I'll cling to these cleats until I get exactly the right weather to cross the Albemarle Sound.

2005 Crossing the Albemarle in exactly the wrong weather

Two-Dozen Day Sails

In sight of the dock

I'm eyeing the chart, the calendar, cold fronts and Nadine, searching for two dozen day sails that will take me the seven hundred miles from Norfolk to Jekyll Island, GA.

I need to arrive in time for the holidays while keeping Sweet Pea well ahead of the frost line and totally away from those storms with names. What a pleasure to contemplate.

When I was a boy, sailing on small lakes in Oklahoma, there was plenty of wind but it was hard to go far. Other than exploring Elmer Thomas Lake's one crooked arm, I would mostly zig-zag in sight of the dock and dream of someday voyaging so far that I couldn't see where I started.

Two-dozen day sails should just about do it.

I sometimes hear cruisers complain about the chore of doing the ICW ditch or the boredom of miles of low country salt marsh. I can understand that feeling but don't share it.

I'm looking forward to the luxury of cruising in protected waters, spiced by an occasional daylight dash on the outside. With any luck I'll be able to sail a good part of the way, leaving each morning's anchorage well out of sight.

Hello mile zero, goodbye Chesapeake.

Chatter Box

Allison  listened graciously

"How has your day been?" I knew she was talking to me since I was the only person in Social Pie and Pub.

It was 4:45 and though no yardarm was in sight, the sun was well above Baltimore's nearby Cross Street Market. It seemed a reasonable time to see what was on draft but the pub was curiously deserted, other than a young woman tending bar while busily tapping away on her phone.

Be careful when you ask a single hander about his day. Thirty minutes later Allison knew all about my day, my week, my month, my summer. I jabbered away, enjoying the sensation of talking to someone other than myself. She revealed that she was flying to Nassau to visit an aunt. Well, wasn't that a coincidence since I am headed there, too. We had a jolly time talking about beaches.

It had been a mostly silent sail from Havre de Grace. I try to avoid extended conversations when no one else is there, though if the topic is really interesting I am tempted to hold forth. NOAA weather radio is an exception. I find myself chatting with Tom -- he's a synthesized male voice and can be so full of himself -- and expressing doubts about his view of the future. "15 knots, yeah, right. That's what you said yesterday. It was dead calm." Donna -- the other voice -- doesn't get as much air time and may be new at her job. I don't want to hurt her feelings, so we're not quite so close.

Ron and I gave lots of advice
 on Chris Parker's call-in show.

This chatting with the radio started in the Bahamas a couple of years ago when Ron and I headed off, leaving our girlfriends behind.

Around six AM he would stir and I heard the scrape overhead as he rigged the antenna for the Yachtboy, a shortwave receiver that let us listen to single sideband. I made a pot of coffee and served each of us a cup and then we settled down to listen to the weather.

Ron graciously donned headphones to tune the radio and in the process eavesdropped on some good old boys who ran a breakfast call-in SSB club. He would chuckle now and then and occasionally share a comment like, "They're talking about refrigerators" or chain saws or whatever. If it was a particularly spirited debate he turned on the speaker to reveal voices with a twang that would corrode titanium and a fascination for the trivial that nearly rivaled that of George Town cruisers.

Then Chris Parker came on the air and we would incline toward the radio and quiver like bird dogs who have scented a covey of quail. The reception came and went with squawks, bleeps, and other electronica while Chris discussed the week to come in general and then focused on each section of the Bahamas. When our section came by Ron made cryptic notes. Then the fun started.

Various sponsoring vessels contact Chris to say where they want to go and Ron talked back to them, "You want to go where?" or "Give up now," or whatever seemed appropriate, often contradicting Chris' polite replies. After a while I would chime in -- really, it is an irresistible sport -- and we conducted a spirited debate with those poor souls who only wanted a little advice about the wind and seas. Fortunately, we had no microphone so no one in the anchorage approached with an awkward question as to whether we were those two jerks who keep stepping on the weather.

Then the wind came up and I . . .

There are only so many beaches in Nassau. When Allison's eyes glazed over I knew it was time to head off to dinner at Matsuri, a nearby sushi place. The chef didn't have much to say but I knew he was listening since he nodded a lot as I held forth.

In the Fog

Leaving behind Manhattan, The Bronx, and Staten Island ,too

That teasing promise of a leisurely jaunt down the Jersey shore turned into a continuous push. Not what I had imagined. The wind and moon gods beckoned, promising that if I just kept going they would help by pushing me along. Ignoring their siren call would have meant head winds and foul currents, turning the jaunt into a rough slog.

Rather than heading into Barnegatt Bay the first afternoon, I sailed by as the wind window slammed shut. Instead, I dropped the hook half way up the Delaware in the Cohansey River 150 miles and 30 hours later. So, it actually was a dumpster fire fought in a fog of fatigue.

The romp from Sandy Hook to Barnegatt Inlet was delightful. The stiff breeze had just enough westerly slant to tame the wind waves. The hurricane's leftover swells were imperceptible. I arrived by mid-afternoon with perfect conditions for running the inlet at the start of flood. I love it when a plan comes true.

Well, mostly true. The forecast for the next day's winds was hedging its bets. Rather than light airs it was updated to be on the nose and building throughout the afternoon. Within three days everything would be flying about in the gale. It was time to think seriously about where to be by then.

Dawn, yawn, on the Delaware River

The prospect of hunkering down in Cape May or Chesapeake City wasn't appealing. Neither anchorage is my first choice for serious southerlies. Still Pond, a well-protected Chesapeake anchorage, was in reach but short on amenities. I chose Havre de Grace, MD, which has become one of those places that I find hard to avoid. This let me dodge west and then north after rounding Turkey Point. It seemed preferable to slogging into building southerlies.

The Delaware River was calm after a night's sleep.

Getting to Havre de Grace involved sailing most of the night to Cape May in fading northerlies, motoring the Cape May Canal in inky blackness, and heading up the Delaware River to catch the flood before dawn. By noon when the Cohansey River was abeam, I had entered the zone: numb tiredness where you do everything twice and talk about it aloud, just to be sure.

I'm too old for these single-handed overnights. But sometimes a hard thing is easier than the alternative. I'm way too old for the alternative.

That gale was everything they promised and more. By then Sweet Pea was lashed to the dock at City Yacht Basin and I was having a delicious oyster po' boy at Laurrapin's.

Wind tide from gusts in the 40's at Havre de Grace

More Is Never Enough

" ... a little less fun things, and a little more maintenance, repairs and attention to properly securing things IMO ..."

As it turned out more maintenance
caused more maintenance.

That comment, written by a reader of a cruising blog, has been echoing in my thoughts. Point well taken. It is an appealing idea that a little more effort and attention would prevent cruising mishaps like steering gear failure, dragging anchor at night and having a dinghy come loose. So really, is cruising's to-do list finite or infinite?

IMO the comment is symptomatic of dreaming near the dock rather than living that dream beyond the horizon. More maintenance, repairs, and attention might change what happens, but out there, stuff happens. More is never enough, not even close. The list is infinite.

Quixotically, more maintenance and repairs can lead straight to even more maintenance and repairs. I may adopt the mantra: if it ain't broke, don't fix it and if it is broke, leave it alone unless there's water over the floor boards.

I recently had professionals replace an aging cutlass bearing and subsequently had the propeller shaft try to jump ship. Had it been successful, the resultant hole would have quickly sunk Sweet Pea. More maintenance might have revealed a hidden bolt that had been sheared, but I doubt it. Stuff happens to the pros and certainly to me.

Of course, the mantra doesn't apply to things like adding oil to the engine and replacing a defective bilge pump. That type maintenance is de rigueur. But, sometimes going looking for trouble can be counterproductive.

Prior to my departing for the Bahamas a couple of years ago, the insurance company required a survey. The surveyer reminded me of myself. Washed up old dude with little hair and an air of expertise. The only major finding was the rigging had to be replaced. Not because there were any flaws but because it was 20 years old and near the end of its servicable life. 

This led to a discussion about how that would apply to him and me. We were both near the end of serviceable life and clearly need to be replaced. He tacked away from that lee shore and amended the finding to recommend a rigging inspection prior to any major ocean voyage. Point well taken. But I feared the potential failure cascade of untested new rigging or, for that matter, a new skipper. Both the rigging and I made it back intact, which proves nothing, I suppose. The Bahamas is hardly a major ocean voyage.

I would agree that most of the stuff that happens out there could have been avoided by more maintenance, repairs and attention, but only in retrospect. It requires the unique perspective of hindsight to re-prioritize an infinite to-do list.

Good enough to go

Now that I have maintained my drinking water filter so coffee doesn't taste uukk, repaired my teak by slapping on a new coat of magic juice and paid more attention to securing my button box, I think I'm ready to take off for Cape May. Perhaps I always worry about the wrong things, but I do love the way that teak shines, if only for a couple of days.

I also rigged the jack lines so I can clip in and packed an abandon ship bag -- thanks,Anita, for making me promise.

Everything else I'll leave to fate, plan, or Pachinko, though I do wonder about that rigging.

Waiting for To Go

The delivery was exactly right for our northbound hop

My needs are simple, my wants few. For my offshore run from Sandy Hook to Cape May I want an order of north westerlies, not too strong, not too weak, just right.

Part of that order did arrive several days ago. I could hear the north part moaning in the rigging, way stronger than I had in mind. A complication -- and in cruising there's always something to make life interesting -- was paired hurricanes off the east coast kicking up southeast swells that only surfers could love. The net result was five-foot wind waves running across these swells. With the wind directly behind, Sweet Pea would roll and yaw like a dog enjoying a dead fish.

I also wondered whether Barnegatt Inlet, the half-way point between Sandy Hook and Cape May and my intended overnight anchorage, would be a total dumpster fire? I'm too old to find out. (But not too old a dog to learn that new phrase from Mathias Dubilier's excellent blog le grand voyage.)

Now a weak wind at Atlantic Highlands, NJ

Instead, I huddled behind the breakwater at Atlantic Highlands, NJ, and bounced in the chop. Occasionally a high-pitched shriek was accompanied by a lurch as Sweet Pea tacked abruptly at anchor. That was enough sailing adventure for me.

Now I'm waiting out a week of little wind, punctuated by afternoon southerlies, which would be right on the nose. As the cruisers say, look at the arrow on top of the mast, which always points where you want to go. Yep, I just checked and it's pointing south.

I could do an overnight motor down the coast, starting after the breeze dies down. But, she's a sailboat, yes? Plus, motoring single-handed through fish-trap floats in the dark is for kids in their forties. I used to think nothing of it but now I'm too old for that.

When I was younger I would have ventured out
 instead of sheltering in Pipe Creek, Bahamas.

On our first Bahamas cruise we had cocktails in Chub Cay anchorage with a couple who had cruised those waters for decades. I described our plans to push on to Nassau the next day despite having to beat into 20-knot winds. We were meeting crew and felt we had to honor a schedule. They looked thoughtful and said, "We too old for that. We'll leave it to you youngsters."

We got the snot beat out of us. Anita lay on the saloon floor, saltwater-drenched and retching. All the stuff that had tumbled out of the lockers slid back and forth as Sweet Pea leaped about. At a critical moment a bowl whizzed by and she managed to grab it for her offering, so all was not lost to the bilge. We still refer to that passage as the ooze cruise and translate too old to mean too experienced and youngsters to mean too dumb to know better.

Waiting for the right wind delivery at Cave Cay, Bahamas

So I'm waiting for the next front and its promise of delivering the wind that I ordered. If Amazon can get it to me by next day, why does it take NOAA a week? After all, this isn't the Bahamas.

Finally, groan, were Vladimir and Estragon waiting for a to go delivery, too?

Jonah

Stripped for Irene

Long Island Sound can be really interesting in September. Last year I was fortunate enough to be in Northport, NY, for hurricane Irene. I say fortunate because it is one of the few really sheltered harbors in the area. I checked Sweet Pea into Britannia Marina, which is surrounded by high ground, and consulted my charts to find a 100 foot hill should the storm surge be ferocious.

A couple of days before I had met Rick and Sylvia who were strolling the town dock. They offered a spare bedroom and fed me a delightful dinner and breakfast, all well above any conceivable high-tide line.

Dinner and breakfast with new friends

I escaped unscathed and very well fed, with new friends. Sweet Pea did OK too.

Yesterday, as if to to mark Irene's first anniversary, NOAA weather was stridently warning that I should, "seek immediate shelter on the lowest level of my building". Port Washington was in the path of a tornado. What is with this weather? I think of tornado alley as being well inland of the Bronx, Queens, and Manhattan. Even so, Doppler radar showed angry red rotation, the same movie we often watch in Atlanta. The one where you think, run, run as the slasher approaches.

There goes the tornado

Sweet Pea's lowest level is the bilge, but rather than trying to squeeze in under the water tanks, I decided to make do with the main saloon. Taking off in the dinghy seemed madness, given the advice that one should never attempt to outrun a tornado, even with seven-foot oars.

Plus, now that the myth of sheltering under a highway bridge has been debunked, I wasn't sure where I might go anyway. The prospect of lashing myself to the dinghy dock as cows whirled by made staying aboard seem attractive.

As it turned out the worst of the blow passed by to the north and we didn't drag our extra-heavy-duty mooring. But there for a while, it was a spectacular show.

Last year's flood in Havre de Grace

I'm wondering whether I'm a Jonah and all this is my doing. As soon as things settle down, I'm out of here for the Chesapeake. I'll take last September's flood at Havre de Grace, MD, over a tornado, anytime.

I do hope I'm not greeted by a mob, swimming by torch light in pouring rain and determined to throw me overboard. No whales in the Chesapeake so it would be sink or swim.

The Things Wives Say

"So it's parked out front and I say to her . . ."

"Don't spend more than $100," she said as he headed off to see what might happen at a local auction near Cranston, RI. In my experience wives say these things, thinking that really you shouldn't spend a dime, much less a dollar. But if you must, then here's a pittance. Had he come back lugging a moose head, it would be just another comedy trope.

Out with the old

Instead, Frank O'Niel is busy restoring a 1970's 27' Tartan. To hear him tell it -- here I must say that Frank is quite the raconteur and he does thoroughly enjoy telling it -- he positioned the trailer in front of his house and invited his wife to come out and see. The price? Exactly the sum she specified, not a penny more. Well, perhaps not at the auction, but since then he's fudged a bit.

In with the new

Frank hasn't an unfilled moment on his hands since he sold his architectural molding company and ventured into retirement. I met him at Port Edgewood Marina where he was putting the finishing touches on the Tartan's interior and turning his attention to the deck and rigging. He is a cabinet maker who has been around boats and yards forever. He mentioned Ted Hood and Shannon as just a few among many and offered me a tour of Infinity's cabin.

It is a work of art. Much of the wood he had salvaged from office buildings on which he worked, replacing flooring with something more trendy or a better match for the color scheme. In his hands this commercial jetsam became the best match for building a gutted interior from scratch.

He's thinking of heading south to revisit Florida. He and his family explored the Keys in the 60's and he hankers to see them again from this old boat's new deck.

Infinity on the way to beyond

I mentioned that Infinity would be perfect for venturing beyond and hopping across to the Bahamas. She draws three and a half feet with her board up and is as solid as a stone.

His eyes lit up but then he asked whether pirates would be a problem. I could only advise that the further he got from those marauding bands of big-city bankers, the safer he would feel. I hope to see him in Georgetown this winter.

Single Handed Mutiny

The crew says we were in the Thimbles yesterday.
I have pictures to prove it.

When I'm sailing solo I think of the various electronic gizmos scattered around the boat as my crew. They tell me where we are, worry about depth, collisions and voltage and remind me when I'm about to screw up. Best of all, they totally ignore my wishful thinking and dispassionately report their own version of reality. It's like a Greek play where I have the gods watching over me, discussing things among themselves via SeaTalk.

When Anita is aboard she leads this crew. We run Fugawi on an LCD monitor below, displaying our little ship's position on a chart. She busies herself, knitting or whatever, but keeps an eagle eye on our progress. Like a deus ex machina, her words waft up the companionway, solving some intractable problem such as my heading for a shoal or having wandered off the waterway.  She is, after all, our world-class worrier.

Batteries disconnected as ordered, Sir.

Recently she's been single handing the house in Atlanta and I've been the one worrying over why the starter battery always has the same voltage as the house bank. The West Marine Combiner is responsible for joining all the batteries into a single bank when a charger is pushing enough electrons to raise the voltage above 13.1 and disconnecting them when the voltage falls below 12.8.

It uses an LED to say whether the banks are combined or separate and reported that it was faithful in fulfilling its duties. Still, the voltages should have diverged between charges. When I demanded to know why the voltage is always the same across all banks, it had nothing to say, the dog. I realized that its mechanisms were failing but its tiny brain either didn't realize this or was making up a story in desperation.

Sailing from Providence, I've been listening to an unabridged audio of James King's stunning first novel, Bill Warrington's Last Chance. Synapses in Bill's brain are in the throes of early dementia. He fills in the gaps to cover his growing inability to determine what has just happened and to recall names and facts.

Like Bill and myself, that combiner is getting along in years. It has faithfully cycled its relays thousands of times. Alas, at some point one relay snapped shut and stuck, refusing to budge despite repeated combiner commands to do so. The combiner knew the voltages but didn't puzzle over why they were always the same. Instead its LED reported that all was well. The implications of voltage are above its pay grade so I suppose it was doing its job to the best of its ability.

Rather than a flogging to serve as an example to the rest of the lot, I kindly rearranged its wiring to avoid the sticking relay. Once again the LED means what it says. It has been rehabilitated, without my having to let the cat out of the bag.

If only it were so easy to fix all those aboard. These days I find myself monitoring the congruity between my external world and my internal awareness of that world. I ponder my growing inability to determine what has just happened and to recall names and facts. Is it age-driven brain wear and nothing much to worry about for now? Or are my own synaptic relays sticking shut? Am I filling in the gaps? Is this actually Duck Island Harbor outside my port or not?

Duck Island Harbor, yeah.

So rather than simply believing the stories I make up, I'm relying on my electronica to keep me on course and off the shoals until Anita rejoins me in a couple of weeks. Then her voice will again float up the companionway.

The GPS is certain that we're where I think we are. Even so, after Anita looks at this picture of the place and agrees, I'll know for sure.

The Cruise is Dead, Long Live the Cruise

Meeting with the crew

Every cruise ends sometime. Years ago when we first started I had imagined that we would cast off the dock lines and go forever. Instead we came back within months rather than years. Obligation's short leash tugged at our plans. If only we had had a longer leash we could have pushed further, seen more, walked on emptier beaches. That was so naive.

Looking back I now understand that those years would have melted away whether we came back or not. Our first venture would be over, no matter how long that leash. Fortunately that first Bahamas venture was only the first chapter in a much longer sailing novel.

This summer's Cape Cod adventure can only be remembered. A winter's journey starts from here. I'm single-handing for a while, indulging in the bittersweet feeling of being alone under way.

Learning a new tune

I can work on the same tune a thousand times without wondering whether this might be getting a bit repetitive. Crew meetings are short. No compromises, no adjustments for others' needs.

And, alas, no one to clink a celebratory glass on landfall. It cuts both ways and I find that solitude makes companionship a precious contrast. I shall miss her terribly.

The Bahamas beckon. Long live the cruise.