Pushing the Right Buttons

It exhales such a wonderful scent.

I have a new -- new to me that is -- diatonic button accordion, a Castagnari Sander G/C.

The Button Box, in western Massachusetts, is a purveyor of all sorts of button boxes, so I suppose their name is well chosen. They couldn't have been any more accommodating in arranging shipment. I explained that we were on a sailboat and the schedule was uncertain. Margaret said, "No problem". I explained that I wanted two matching straps and leather buckle protectors. Margaret said, "No problem". It was music to my ears.

Margaret said, "No problem".

I had a week to decide whether to send it back -- I can just imagine its humiliation at returning to the accordion orphanage after being tried out and rejected -- but I fell in love the first day. So, it is aboard as crew rather than guest. I don't know its provenance, but when I hold the air button down and give an affectionate squeeze it whooshes a heady aroma, as if it resided for years in a library and spent its time inhaling fumes given off by leather-bound volumes and snifters of brandy. Surely this will inspire my playing. 

Plus, its buttons are nearly silent, except for sounding a note, that is. What a delight it is to play this fine instrument after having clacked along on my Pokerwork for the last four months. Not to disrespect my Hohner 2815, but in addition to playing the tune it sounded like a barrel of china rolling down hill, without much padding.

It's a G/C/# in melodeon speak
and a work of art.

I had thought the Hohner would be just the ticket to have aboard, having said a sad goodby to my best box before heading off to the Chesapeake and Sweet Pea. The Gaillard gets to stay at home. No inhaling salt air for it. Instead it sits in a glass-front case with a pack of other instruments. No doubt it has to listen to the English concertinas sniff that it isn't even chromatic, despite all those accidentals, and it is French. At times, they can be so condescending. Fortunately the shelves hold a bunch of Anglos and Duets who are more sympathetic.

Swiss craftsmanship rescued from a flea market
was my first melodeon acquisition symptom.

I liked the Pokerworks enough to have acquired three of them before breaking down and purchasing a more pedigreed box. My first, I found long ago in a dusty booth at an outdoor flea market, my second was thrown in for good measure -- the seller added it and a case, but only if I would buy another that he had on hand -- and my third, a durable box made in Germany in the 70's. It turned out out to be the only one of the three that is playable and it has been along on this voyage.

Someone on melodion.net described Pokerworks as the pickup truck of diatos. Like many of the parts that make up today's pickup trucks, Hohner's manufacturing has been outsourced to China. The name is still German but that's about all.

If you watch enough melodion videos on YouTube -- and who isn't addicted to such fantastic fare? -- you'll eventually see someone playing a Pokerwork with rubber bands protruding from its metal grill, making the poor thing look like it has orthidontia, the kind that includes colored elastic rings to tug those reluctant canines into position. Sprouting rubber bands is a sure sign that today's springs, the ones that make those buttons leap back up, are not what they used to be.

As a result, the vintage Pokerworks made in Germany or Switzerland are sought out. While their springs may be long in the tooth they often play and clack along merrily without needing a pack of rubber bands in the musician's kit.

Like both of its kin, my third Pokerwork featured its own built-in percussion section caused by the keyboard mechanism, which is really quite primitive (compared to a Gaillard or Castagnari) but affordable (compared to a Gaillard or Castagnari). I have been trying to learn how to reduce the clack by pressing in just the right way so that the treble buttons don't disappear down their holes in a syncopated version of Whack a Mole.

Some claim to be fond of the Pokerwork's distinctive sound. I suppose clacking is an advantage if your intent is to sound like a one-man band. Others have posted detailed accounts of declacking and otherwise souping up a Pokerwork. I should tackle just such a project some winter when I'm in Atlanta, someday.

Two accordions on a boat are too many -- actually some critics would claim they are two too many -- so in a moment of insanity I put the Pokerwork in the Castagnari's case, resealed the sturdy carton used by the Button Box, and dashed off to the post office. Without really thinking it through, I added insurance. I've grown fond of my Pokerwork and wanted it to be shown proper respect on that long trip home. Big mistake. 

Insurance required that I have a resident there to sign for the package. When? "Next Monday at the time of day you normally get your mail," I was assured. Instead I should have been told, "When ever a postman happens to show up", which is best described as someday sometime. I kept going online and requesting no earlier than 3:30 only to hear that the postman was long gone before my resident person got off work no later than 3:00.

This hearkens to those forgotten days of Leave It To Beaver when Ward could call, "Honey, I'm home," and expect an answer, 24 by 7. Nowadays, no one is home. They are either working or cruising. Well, mostly working. Actually given the recent economic unpleasantness, mostly out looking for work or standing in line. Anyway, it appears that the post office is still living in a long ago era, perhaps when Hohner still made those accordions in Germany.

After many phone calls in which various representatives said, "Too bad, nothing I can do," or slightly more polite words to that effect, I reached an unnamed co-conspirator, who took pity on me and revealed the secret formula: have someone sign the slip, add a note saying to put the parcel on the porch, and deposit the slip in your mailbox.

Ah, the PO just needs a signature, who or how isn't all that important. I get it. Before acting I did reread that bit about perjury and under penalty of law printed right on the picture of the slip that my granddaughter had emailed. Whatever. Someone, no names here, did the deed and voila, a neighbor reported the box had arrived. Big success.

This wax still works.

I hope it still clacks when played and doesn't clack when shaken. On EBay this is the critical question asked of a seller about a vintage accordion. If it sounds like it is a Hohner when shaken, the wax holding the reeds has failed and lots of parts are drifting around inside, pecking out the accompaniment to a tune that will never emerge, at least not without significant restoration.

I'll know more this fall. I wonder about that insurance . . .

Harbor Fever

According to this wind sock, Nantucket
 will be a beam reach from Providence. 
Yeah, right.

We're leaving Providence today, probably. Already the prospect of parting from these known conveniences is incubating like a virus, the kind that starts with a slight tickle in the back of the throat and blossoms into full blown harbor fever. It will be a close thing whether we cast off the lines or cling to the familiar and settle in for the rest of the summer.

For us the lure of unexplored places is often balanced by wondering whether pushing on is a good idea. The guide book does its part by making anywhere we might go sound incredibly challenging, rife with hazards that require local knowledge, policed by rules and regulations about anchoring, full of pot markers, beset with monster tides and currents, and probably menaced by giant whirlpools or boiling geysers. Like the 24 by 7 news channels, cruising guides thrive on creating drama: watch out for this, avoid that, don't even think of going there.

As the guidebook warns, Northport, NY, tides are gynormous.
Falling onto your boat would hurt. So use the ladder instead.

This summer's cruise has been a repeat of places we've been. That gives it its own rhythm. While this is not actually boring it is a bit subdued. Returning to a place is so different than arriving. You only get one chance to make a first impression and vice versa.  So far we've been confirming previous impressions and being bemused by cruising guide descriptions. It's like a steady diet of comfort food but lacks a certain dash of adventure. 


In Northport, NY, we had already learned to cope with big tides by climbing the ladder rather than just leaping off the dock and hoping to land feet first. Plus we mastered the fine art of tipping the dock master to adjust our lines. Where's the adventure in that?

We have talked about spending an August in Nantucket ever since I called there years ago as crew on OPB (Saber 42 by Ron and Jayne) and brought back a lighthouse basket that Anita uses as a knitting accessory and treasures as a work of art. Now we're off to see whether we can get there on our own boat. As is typical, the cruising guide book shrieks about the hazards, warning about dramatic nest-egg shrinkage. This may not be such an exaggeration after all.

A Taste of the Azores

We ventured into East Providence in search of the Azores.

This O Dinis wall reminded me of Texas

The potatoes were creamy beyond belief

O Dinis restaurant is Portuguese fare touched with the spiciness of the islands. Well, that's what our firecracker of a waitress said when she heard us wondering about the difference between the food of the Azores and Portugal.


She helped us sort through the lunch menu, suggesting the daily specials as being absolutely fresh. I thought the tripe soup interesting but decided instead on the fish of the day: fresh cod. I've been sampling cod at several restaurants recently and wanted to see how they did it. The cod was OK and it came with a side of boiled potatoes, which were a delightful surprise. I was thinking they would be like New England boiled dinner, bland and white. Instead they were creamy and formed a tasty base for the fresh onion sauce recommended by our server. 

Prawns in shrimp sauce

Anita tried the prawns, since she knows she likes shrimp. She discovered this on a fall cruise through the low country when I got into casting for shrimp. At every opportunity I would head off in the dinghy to twirl my net in the hope that it would be a pancake rather than a lump. 


I saw lots of boys aged five or six who could make that odd contraption of mesh and lead weights float out onto the air to form a perfect disk that landed on the water, just so. They clasped one of the weights between their teeth, gathered the bulk of the net in one hand, and gave it a twirl with the other. How hard could it be? 


Harder than it looks, for sure. I think having a big gap where two front teeth were growing in must have been the secret. After lots of practice that included stepping backward off the dinghy a couple of times I could occasionally rake in enough shrimp to return with a partial bucket, which we would immediately devour. 


Then one day as I eyed my net, we both said enough. Fresh shrimp had become too much of a good thing. We found the prawns most tasty, given the passage of lots of time since my last cast.

Laundry Aboard

No nap until the dryer finishes

Today is laundry day. We've been putting it off for a while, holding the chore at bay while we explore Providence and entertain friends. A sniff reveals that we've been delinquent in attending to those dank sacks of tee shirts et al and they are beginning to announce a protest movement.

At home, this isn't so much of an event because Anita runs a continuous laundry service, keeping the washer and dryer running on a treadmill, poor things. She and I do contend for one key surface: the kitchen cart's butcher block. It's where I chop or she folds, depending on who gets there first. Usually we manage to interleave our schedules but sometimes I notice her standing beside me draped in a towel and a long-suffering expression. That's my signal to take those onions elsewhere so she can get on with it. Dinner may be important but laundry is sacred. Having been my own laundress before I met her, I can certainly understand that.

Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full in
Northport, NY

On board we have several favorite laundry ports, places where it's relatively easy to tote the bags back and forth, friends who offer the convenience of their house, or a laundromat that meets Anita's exacting criteria. Well, actually, that last hasn't happened yet but one or two might have come close to meeting her standards. Who else takes a spray bottle of cleaner and a rag to wipe down the folding table in a laundromat? When we're someone's guests, using their appliances, the spray bottle does not appear, of course.

Dapple and Eeyore ready for the next trip

Occasionally we treat ourselves to the luxury of a rental car. There's nothing like four wheels to make beating upwind to the washer-dryer less of an effort.

However, most of the time we're on two wheels each. Dapple and Eeyore (both sired by Dahon and able to fold like contortionists) are the perfect cruisers' burros. They never object to being burdened with provisions, parts, or over-ripe bags of trash or laundry, in addition to their humans. For weeks at a time they stable in the quarter berth and consume only a bit of oil, grease and compressed air. At a marina they get a change of scenery, gazing out of their bikeport on the foredeck, tethered to the rail. It's hard to find a carbon-based crew member so patient or willing. 

Four squirts feels inadequate

In contrast to our bikes, laundromats gorge themselves, demanding a steady diet of detergent and quarters. Recently they have developed an enormous appetite for coins even as their soap consumption has, in theory, markedly diminished. 


Jennifer off Phoenix, whom we met at Tidewater in Baltimore, gifted us with the ultimate use-only-four-squirts-a-load brand of soap. We follow the instructions, but really it is a giant leap of faith to believe that all that boat filth will be defeated by just a tiny amount of detergent. When I was a kid they made me swallow spoons of cod liver oil that were giant-sized in comparison. Usually, for good measure, I sneak in a couple of extra squirts when Anita is distracted by having to shovel loads of quarters into the maw of the beast. [Editor's Note: Okay, that explains why the bottle is almost empty. I've been doing the same thing when he's not looking!]

After piddling away at the current laundry chore, interspersed with eating out, riding the bus to sight-see and taking long naps, we're down to the last couple of loads. This is the marina with the lights on a timer. The one where Anita did aerobics, waving her leg to activate the lights as she folded. The difference this year is that we noticed a small slider on the bottom of the light switch that selects between Auto and On. Well, duh. Now the room stays bright, almost as bright as our clothes, what with all those extra squirts sneaking into the washer. We're probably using the equivalent of a gallon of soap per load.

Books Glorious Books

A diversion on a venture

Cellar Stories was one of those unexpected finds we sometimes stumble across on a venture with a totally different purpose. We had set out to find a new issue of a new magazine, well new to Anita. On impulse I smart-phoned "nautical bookstore", hoping that there might be a replacement for Armchair Sailor, which sadly no longer welcomes browsers to their brick and mortar shop in Newport. They are still on the web, but no longer offer the rocking chairs in which to wile away the time while perusing a stack of new acquaintances.

The best used book store ever.

Google told us to walk a couple of blocks from the Kennedy Plaza bus complex to find the best used book store either of us has ever experienced. That's saying something since we search out used books at every venue: thrifts, yard sales, trader shelves in marinas, and aboard other boats. 

It's almost like a disease. We try to be not too obvious when invited to go below on OPB (Other People's Boat) but we always size up the books to see if they are our sort and might want to trade a few. Come to think of it, OPB is a dual purpose acronym that stands for books too. The wrong kind of books cast doubt on whether this would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Years before on a trip through the Bahamas we arrived in Georgetown at the height of the season, just in time for Cruiser's Regatta. On a leisurely cruise through the Exumas we had read everything aboard, leaving the book locker completely bare except for leftovers we had already enjoyed once. On the morning net, Anita organized a book swap on the beach, creating an impromptu used book market. She tucked her best friends into her back pack (Anna Quindlen, Alice Munro, Anne Tyler, Gail Godwin, Anita Shreeve, among others) and hopped in the dinghy. 

What a disappointment. Mostly the participants swapped Harlequin Romances, leaving Anita without a ripped bodice to her name when she came back aboard, though I recall that her bosom heaved in frustration. Only a few people showed up with the sort of authors she enjoys and she'd already read them all. Unrequited book love is so tragic.  

Plus, no one ever takes the best to a book swap or a marina shelf. Gresham's Law applies to every economic activity: bad books drive out good. Swaps quickly devolve to the lowest common denominator with everyone hoarding a few truly awful examples to drop off in return for something of higher value.

Cellar Stories was an exception to Gresham's Law. People brought their best rather than their worst, hoping to sell. What a difference a reward makes. We browsed nautical and craft books that neither of us had ever seen before.

I left with an early Tony Horowitz in which he recounts touring Arabia before everyone knew all about it from the headlines and a Lynette Chaing travelogue about going solo in Cuba. Anita scored a philosophy of knitting tome full of stories and attitudes. 


Books, glorious books. It is simply delicious to anticipate devouring such good fare. Please, Sir, I want some more.

Steak to Salad

Heart stoppingly good
cheese steaks.

We've been indulging in Providence eat outs and so far we've lucked into a couple of delightful experiences.

The first venture was back to Edgewood Market, a pizza and deli place that is a couple of blocks from the marina. A year ago we had gotten hooked on their cheese steaks. We would hop off the #3 bus and do takeout for dinner aboard. A year later they are still terrific. The local police eat there, which I take as an accolade, much like seeing long-haul truck drivers walking into a roadside diner.

One surprise on this latest visit was that the guy who took our order and vanished into the kitchen immediately reappeared at the cash register to sell Lotto tickets to several customers. I was thinking that the sandwiches would be delayed or, even worse, overcooked, when he walked back out of the kitchen with our subs, neatly wrapped in white paper. Identical twins, how confusing at first glance.

Edgewood Market is favored by the local police force.
Always a good sign in my book.

The decor is minimalist but features wonderful pictures from thirty years ago or so, showing the brothers standing in front of the market in a blizzard, bearded and shaggy. Plus the walls host newspaper clippings detailing crimes -- I saw the policeman at the next table pictured in one of these -- and other local happenings. It is definitely not your typical chain eatery. I'm so glad that it's still there a year later, though I suspect that a neighborhood treasure like this has been there for many years and will be there for many more.

I'm in love with RITA

The second venture was more surprising. We had taken the bus into Providence and then hopped on the #13 back out to Garden City Center, an upscale shopping center in Cranston.

Anita was pursuing a copy of Anthology magazine. Several months ago I had impulsively bought her a copy at Trohv, an eclectic shop in Hampden, a neighborhood near Baltimore. She was hooked. Anthology punched all her buttons: decorating with flea market finds, re-purposing vintage paper and cloth, and featured interesting travel stories that focused on art, style, thrifts and markets. How they knew to customize the content just for her I really can't imagine.

After stumbling on one copy I had expected that it would be widely available. I could use it as my go-to-gift for most any occasion. Not so. Had we lived in California we might have had some luck. On the east coast the pickings were sparse indeed. Now we were in pursuit of a happenstance. A shop called Anthropologie was listed and happened to be on a Rhode Island Transit Authority bus route. Coincidence or fate? Actually the statistics of small samples was at work once again.

Unfortunately, they didn't know that they carried the magazine. The clerk that we approached had never heard of it. To assuage our disappointment she kept trying to convince us to take a glossy catalog, undoubtedly full of stuff every cruiser needs.

Might serve as an anchor

I had eyed a hand-painted Original Still Life Bag showing a horizon above a choppy sea -- I estimated a half knot current was running against about 15 knots of wind with a three-foot swell, about like on the Delaware River -- but decided that Sweet Pea needed a new Rocna anchor and 100 feet of chain instead. It would have been considerably less expensive than that canvas bag and much more useful when the current really does run against the wind, making us circle like a junkyard dog.

While Anita browsed I circled back and, on a hunch, inquired of another shop person, explaining that we had sailed from the Bahamas just to find this magazine. OK, I'll admit that this might have been a bit of an exaggeration. But I had started from there three years ago and we had arrived here on Sweet Pea.

She must have been impressed because as I was preparing to launch into a detailed account of our cruise, she immediately produced two issues: the one I had found in Baltimore and another that Anita hadn't yet pored over. Quick as a wink it was wrapped  in tissue, slipped into a gift bag, and hidden in my back pack. The clerk never did get to hear about the time I was trying to haul anchor in Cape May and ...

It might have been a Rocna in the bag but wasn't.

I do love springing surprises on my love. Although that last surprise on the Delaware River was quite unpleasant, I had a feeling that this one would be much more to her liking. 


After the grand unwrapping, I studied the bus schedule and realized that lunch would need to be quick. Fortunately, we had noticed Cafe Luna and decided to chance it. Its terrific service and unusual salads made it a delight. My favorite was a cold mix of sweet potato, peppers, and pineapple in a lime vinaigrette. Anita had a slice of pizza rather than venture into the delights of salad dressing. Note the lime slice holding down the fizz on my Corona. What cafe thinks to have a plate of serve yourself lime slices, just in case you pluck a long neck out of the cooler? My kind of cafe, for sure.

Anthropologie carries Anthology
and that's more than a mouth full.

Plus they had a charming court yard just steps from the bus stop. Normally I think of shopping center restaurants as being unlikely to be more than laminated menus and uninspired offerings. This place was surprising and pleasantly so.

Now I'm looking for an authentic and tasty Portuguese restaurant. I read that East Providence is the place to find such fare. Isn't it fate that the #3 bus also goes that way?

Studio On the Go

Studio transformation

Dealing a new hand

In addition to being a tidy, a thrifty, and a whiz -- well, that's how one of our granddaughters summed up her own impression of her gram -- Anita is a yarn aficionado and a fabric fanatic.  Underway she's always fondling needles or hooks, decorated with multicolored string. At anchor her creative side blossoms and she transforms Sweet Pea's saloon into a sewing studio. If you're wondering how she manages to cram all her stuff into our small sailboat, just remember she is talented in tidiness, thriftiness and wizardry.

A tidy box that lives inside one of the tubs

It starts in the quarter berth with two bins that hold supplies and tools, categorized by her own unknowable algorithms. When she dives into her bins and plucks out smaller and smaller boxes each organized by color or content, I'm reminded of nesting Russian dolls. Now and then I'm called on to contribute by lugging the bins into the saloon where she shuffles the stuff like a deck of cards and draws a new hand. This tells me that a new project is on the horizon and soon we'll be plucking a different color of thread off the upholstery.

Janome tackles a baby quilt at anchor in Three Mile Harbor

Janome spits out a new pillow

Her Janome Gem Gold sewing machine is a marvel of engineering, compact but powerful with all sorts of cryptic symbols for this stitch or that. It hums along, powered by the inverter, so no shore power is required. I've borrowed it to restitch a sail and do some canvas repairs and can attest to its adaptability. The throat and the stitch length are both a bit short for big projects but it certainly seems willing to learn a new trade.


Her kit also includes an iron -- funny smells drift forward when it heats up -- and plastic rulers in all shapes and sizes.

Sunbeams on a project with Biscuit hiding in the corner

Her killer tool is a rotary cutter, as sharp as broken glass and as dangerous as a rattlesnake. Early in our cruising life she was sitting cross-legged in the cockpit, cutting strips for a quilt when a small slip put a lifetime gouge in the cockpit locker's cover. Occasionally I eye it, 22 years later, and shudder at how close that came to doing real damage. Now she restricts her cutting up to a real cutting mat on the saloon table. No slips with that and she still has all her fingers.

Biscuit is still aboard.
One of my favorite pillows by Anita.

For years we had an Airadale Terrier who went from puppy to grand old lady aboard our previous sailboat. Biscuit considered herself fully part of the crew but liked to jump ship at every opportunity, especially if the stench of dead fish wafted aboard from a nearby beach. After a romp and roll she would swim back, expecting to recover from doing her duty by snoozing below for a while. At the command, "hard alee" she would sigh mightily and change settees before drifting off again. I suspect the sound of spinning winches were her clue but she never missed a tack. Now, despite being long gone, she still sails with us but she always sits on the starboard settee, even when we come about.

Anita Kinnears the Harvey Gamage

We've finally found a way to bring our knitting and cruising worlds together. In the knitting world "Kinnearing" is to have a celebrity – well, really, any recognizable brand-name person – hold up a pair of hand-knitted socks while the knitter captures the triumph in a photo. It is a bizarre celebrity sighting sort of thing, the name of which (as I understand it) derives from Greg Kinnear, who was apparently the first celeb to be sock stalked.

In my cruising world the true celebrities are the vessels. While I loathe celeb sighting announcements, I must point out that in Essex the Harvey Gamage, an ocean classroom that I first saw in Bequia, was anchored near our course. I consider any ship with such graceful lines to be famous and Wikipedia agrees. Anita Kinneared the Harvey Gamage, forever tying the loop of our passions. Snazzy socks, eh?

A Plague of Moorings

One boat to fifty moorings.

We're in the land of empty moorings. Every protected anchorage since Cape May has been infected with this bothersome plague, which makes anchoring like trying to squeeze into the space behind the head to tighten that last bolt, the one that's impossible to reach but has to be snug to stop the leak.

Tonight we carefully threaded our way through Potter Cove, which was littered with unoccupied white balls. After snooping around a while we found a mysterious gap in the random pattern and dropped the Bruce, our own portable mooring. I say mysterious because sometimes those empty spaces hide sunken boats, uncharted shoals, or other hazards. Here my mind goes blank as I try to think of what else might be a problem other than too little water or too much junk. Maybe methane seeps or giant whirlpools or reversing tidal falls. Well, whatever. And, sometimes those holes just indicate that they ran out of moorings before they managed to fill in every last gap.

At high tide this spot carries probably 17 feet and the height of Sweet Pea's bow makes that 20 feet above the mud. I'm on mostly chain with a bit of nylon and like 5:1 ratio, so there's a 200-foot circle that we'll sweep when the wind changes. Around three AM a mooring ball will probably come calling, knocking like a thief who wants to know if anyone is at home.  Depending on the tide I might bring in enough rode to escape this sleep thievery or just pull out my shotgun and dispatch the ornery varmint, putting the rest of the gang on notice that I don't respond well to stealing my anchoring space. A strong reaction perhaps, but perfectly justified.

The alternative, which is to pick up an unoccupied mooring, isn't at all appealing. Then the sleep thief who comes knocking in the middle of the night is probably the owner, back from the cruise and somewhat surprised at having to raft up with so little notice. Even worse, the implied security of being on a stranger's mooring is only implied. Even a pristine pennant is no guarantee of sound tackle. I know how much, actually how little, my CQR and Bruce weigh. In contrast, for all I know, the mooring ball's pennant may be its heaviest part and the chain a rusty ghost of its former self.

A free town mooring with a sturdy chain
 but the do-it-yourself pennant is problematic.

We occasionally use a free town mooring in welcoming places like Port Washington, NY or Wickford, RI. I've always thought this was safe enough. We went through a squall last night in Wickford Harbor which made me wonder whether this is always such a good idea. The forecast was dire but it was nothing compared to the sky which was beyond ominous, one huge purple bruise to the southwest that created a hazy yellow twilight.

We had rowed some distance into the town dock to meet friends and provision. I've noticed that town moorings are almost always at the edge of the harbor where no one else wants to be and make for a lot of strokes. A notable exception to this pessimistic rule of thumb is Port Washington where they are front and center in desirable real estate. Now that's a free town mooring to like.

Setting a leisurely pace in a more carefree moment.

On the trip back I kept eyeing the sky and sniffing the wind, expecting at any moment, that first cold gust, which would turn sweat to ice water. Fear does that. Anita wondered aloud what we might do if it hit before we gained the shelter of Sweet Pea's stern. My first thought was to knock on someone's door and hand them the dinghy painter, but I didn't voice this. Instead I quickened the stroke and spoke reassuring promises about how we were almost there and we had plenty of time. In retrospect, it would have been prudent to hand out the life jackets rather than chance outrunning the squall line.

A bit overweight at 18,000 lbs.

Before the whirlwind hit, I had time to double the mooring pennant and ponder the meaning of the "850 lbs" painted on the ball. Surely they must be referring to the weight of the mooring itself rather than that of the vessel. Tidewater's Travellift had recently weighed my baby and she came in at 18,000 lbs. So we were a bit over specification if they meant the boat. Nah, it had to be the mooring. Who would cruise in a canoe with a balsa wood hull?


After the 50 knot winds had come and gone, staggering us like a prize fighter who takes a knockout punch but doesn't go down, the harbor master came by to check on the damage. We told him that one of the cruisers in a 42-foot cat had dragged their mooring until it was next to the sea wall. At that point they high tailed it out of there, zooming by us as if we were standing still. Fortunately we were.


I learned that the "850 lbs" on the ball refers to the concrete block that terminates the chain. The harbor master mentioned, as a casual aside, that in the water the block was about half that weight. Ah, a practical application of Archimedes Principle. How interesting. Well even so, that 450 pound heavyweight should be able to beat my 35 pound Bruce bantamweight with one hand tied behind its back.


Tonight it's the Bruce's turn to prove its worth. I hope I didn't hurt its feelings. I think I'll let out a little more scope.


Next morning update. The mooring that swam to our stern when the wind clocked was labelled USCG in bold letters and sported a red, white and blue motif. Perhaps this is an acronym for Use with Super Caution in Gusts, though it looked sturdy enough.

And They're Off

Three Mile Harbor in the mist
where a provisioning crisis develops.

Really, our problem on this cruise has been too many opportunities and too much time.  What a dilemma. How can we possibly choose between Block Island, Mystic, Nantucket, Maine, Wickford and other delightful ports? Stay south of Cape Cod or transit the canal and gunkhole north? Linger down east until September or maybe October? This has us completely flummoxed and whining about not being able to decide what's next. We're worse than a kid standing in the candy aisle with a hand full of money, sobbing in frustration. 


I found myself wondering why we even do this. The ugly thought that perhaps it was time to fly home crept into my head. This listlessness of having no plan was making me totally irrational. I mean really, had we been on a one-week charter, the decisions would have come bang, bang, bang. Instead we found ourselves caught in an endless loop, circling around a decision like an old dog trying to find exactly the right spot for a leisurely nap. We must have asked each other, "Where would you like to go?" a dozen times. 

Give us today our daily jolt.

Then we realized that the coffee locker was bare. Yikes, what had I been thinking in Baltimore when I loaded only a half-dozen packages of Coffee Arabica into the cart? That I would no longer be addicted to an early morning jolt to kick my liver in gear? Plus we're short on cookies. Well, not actually out of cookies since there are plenty of Marias and a few bags of P'Farm in the locker. But we are out of an exquisite cookie that Anita really likes, Jules Destrooper Ginger Thins. In the face of these twin crises, the dither window slammed shut with a bang. 

Years ago when we first went to the Bahamas we provisioned from a list, having carefully calculated how much to buy, using this formula. Consumption Rate multiplied by Duration equals Quantity. So, X rum punches each day times Y days equals Z tins of pineapple juice. When we started loading Z in the cart it looked like an awful lot, given that we seldom drink the stuff at home. So we added another factor to the formula (C, the chicken out factor) and put back half of the cans. This gave us the chance to sample many new brands of pineapple juice throughout the Bahamas as we searched at every chance for that elusive and expensive elixir.

Riding out a cold front in  Pipe Creek, 
in the Exuma Cays with lots of pink protein aboard.

Our Bahamas lesson was that we should always stick to the formula. The next year before we headed across the Gulf Stream, we provisioned as old hands, knowing what we liked and what was available in the Out Islands. We had enjoyed a small tinned ham on that first trip so we filled a locker with the calculated number of cans. 


The first dozen hams were terrific. Then they began to be less so. With a month left on the cruise, twisting the little key to open yet another of these pink, salty, hunks of protein was an act of courage. In the face of a mutiny where the captain sided with the crew, we traded dozens of tins for paper backs, spare parts and fishing line. Invited over for a sundowner, we would bring along a thoughtful gift, tied with ribbon to make it harder to refuse. We returned to the states with only two tins in the locker, proving that the formula works, since we didn't run out. As for those last two hams, it was like tomatoes in August. No one would take them, ribbons or not.

Now in East Hampton we did have one ham in the locker -- of recent vintage since twenty years later the sight of a tinned ham invokes nostalgia rather than revulsion -- but we were envisioning how we would make do without the really important anchors to our day: a dark brew to start and sweet munchies before bed. 

Anita stows for our departure.
I've learned to include her in the decision.

An hour prior we had been lounging around, thinking we had days to get ready to depart. Instead, we charged out of Three Mile Harbor in a lather, lashed on by the ebb in the channel, the prospect of riding a favorable current in Block Island Sound, and hoping to arrive at Salt Pond on the flood. The winds were light -- aren't they always in an emergency -- so catching the current was everything.

We find a relatively deserted anchorage
in Salt Pond, Block Island, RI

We're off to Narraganset Bay, via Block Island. That will put us in the land of the big plenty, where we can fill the lockers with all the stuff we put back on the shelf just a month prior when we thought we knew how to provision. I intend to apply the provisioning formula to coffee and cookies, without chickening out. I certainly hope these items will be easier to trade away should the need arise. Who could possibly refuse a box of Jules?

After all that decision-making we learned that Ron and Jayne, friends that we met years ago in the Bahamas happen to have made a trip to New England. They have graciously offered to join us in Wickford, RI, and will arrive by car.

Here's the plan. We'll do lunch in town and then it's off to Stop N Shop for us. They, being cruisers, know the importance of coffee, cookies and candy so they'll be patient while we grab the essentials.

Wickford, RI, Town Dock.
Tendril is ready to receive our gifts.

A side effect of having finally decided to move ahead on this cruise is that we've regained our vision of what's to come. We'll head up Buzzard's Bay and see what happens. That's about as definite as our cruising plans ever get. We'll have to make the details up as we go along.

Shake or Bake?

Three Mile Harbor prior to the heat wave

We're still at Three Mile Harbor, caught between a dither and a hot place. Last evening we found ourselves poring over the weather forecast, looking at the charts, and trying to decide whether to stick around Long Island Sound to bake in sultry, but only hazy air, or push north of the Cape Cod Canal and risk shivering in fog. We've become such babies, wailing anytime the heat index wanders away from the mid-seventies and the sky is anything but brilliant blue.

That's not like it used to be, that's for sure.  If our girls or their kids were here to listen, I know I couldn't resist launching another of my ongoing attempts to make them appreciate how easy they have it. It always starts with, "Why, when I was a boy.." here Anita would roll her eyes, already knowing what's ahead, "...we didn't even have an air conditioner and we lived in Texas." (Or Oklahoma or whatever dusty army base floats into my mind.) "Back then it got hot. Not like now, when a high in the 90's causes panic. This heat wave is nothing. I can remember lying in the dark with sweat trickling down your ribs, arms spread out on the sheet like you were trying to make a snow angel. Now that was hot."

Totally absorbed in one of my stories
despite the headphones

I love how impressed they all are at this point. Well, they would be if every listener's head wasn't down, thumbs dancing over a tiny keyboard, the clicks barely audible over the tinny beat escaping from ear buds. They're so good at multi-tasking. I really must remember that. Otherwise I might feel ignored. Even Anita's knitting needles click away, hinting that she's listening to the beat of a different drummer. "We love your stories, Doc," she says absently, all the while counting stitches and then leaning over to pencil a check mark next to a pattern instruction that is as cryptic as assembly language or early Cobol. "It's just that we're," here a pause while she straightens the loops, carefully recounts them, and looks intently at the pattern, "a little busy right now."

Headed for East Hampton Town Dock

Yesterday, in a panic about Wednesday's forecast of a broiling 89, we rowed into the local marina where I inquired about renting a slip, with electricity. I mentioned that we were motivated by the heat wave headed our way. In retrospect, letting them know that we were desperate was a big mistake.

This place was not exactly a resort marina, but I had thought it might do. Several years ago in Solomons, Maryland, our alternator started fussing and we checked into Spring Cove Marina, which is really quite toney. The entrance sign proclaimed it to be a resort marina and listed all sorts of things that most marinas feature.

After that experience, Anita declared herself to be a resort marina kind of woman because she appreciated clean showers, a pool, friendly service people and a dock that wasn't coated with a thick layer of bird droppings. That last item made her list because we had just spent three days getting a propeller fixed, while tied a dock where we waded through ankle deep guano to get to the filthiest showers that I've ever seen. And, oh yeah, no pool.

The not resort marina on the Potomac that lacked a pool

In the face of our current heat emergency, the manager said that renting slips was their bread and butter and whipped out a reservation form. When I asked the price he pointed to the form and explained that it depended on which marina we chose. The prices ranged from eighty-five to one-sixty-five, printed in those tiny fonts that contracts use when stating price. At Sweet Pea's thirty-five feet, even the highest price wouldn't be too bad and surely they would have a pool for Anita. I squinted at the high end of the list, doing the math, and then noticed per month printed off to the side. These were long-term contract prices and there was no decimal point. They were talking dollars per foot per month. Wow. Hello, East Hampton.

I explained that we only wanted to stay one night or maybe two, not the rest of the year. We both laughed at the confusion. I sobered right up when he said it was $5.40 per foot plus $30 for electricity. They had plenty of room, and now I knew why. How many nights did I want to sign up for? I told him I'd have to decide after an updated weather forecast. Desperate, yes. But not that desperate.

Port Edgewood Marina in Cranston, RI,
where we air conditioned
and laundered for a week in 2011

It doesn't always go that way. Last year in July we fled to Providence on a similar forecast. In that marina, we were quoted two dollars a foot, which we thought not too bad, given that we were only a couple of miles from the big city. On arriving I inquired about whether there was a price break for a longer stay, until then we had only asked about one night. The friendly woman behind the desk mentioned that a week was $75. I stumbled through a series of queries: per foot? No? per day? She kept repeating “seventy five dollars”.

In stark contrast to East Hampton, here was the deal. One night was $2 per foot. One week was $75, no matter how big the boat, electricity included. They had empty slips and as the web site said, “Inquire about our special summer pricing. " Well, yes, definitely do that for sure. We signed up for a week.

They didn't have a pool but they did have a washer and dryer. The first time Anita chucked in a load of stuff, she discovered that the laundry room’s light was motion activated and had a really short fuse. There she was, folding while waving her leg around to find that one special spot near the center of the room that caused the lights to come back on. To make up for the lack of a pool, I should have bought her a kid’s toy to hop about so she wouldn't be in the dark.

As for Maine, we decided to wait and see just how hot we're talking here. I mean, how bad could it be? I tell you, when I was a boy, we wouldn't have let a little heat like this bother us.

No Sugar, Pleeeeze

Ladies Village
Improvement Society
thrift.

Today we called on the thrift store run by the Ladies Village Improvement Society. We've been there several times in the past and Anita remarked that their stock was odd for a charitable thrift: books and clothes only. Well, it is East Hampton after all. We supposed that they didn't deign to display the stuff that we see in her normal type of thrift shops: old TV's, broken sofas, exercise gadgets of every description, mismatched forks, and chipped glassware. Well all that plus extraordinary finds of vintage fabric and sewing notions. It's the treasure hunt in which she delights.

I was thinking that we must usually visit the thrift shop equivalent of trailer parks because this East Hampton example was clearly in a different league. Where else can you find the collected works of every east coast literati, signed by the author, and thoughtfully shelved by topic. (Actually you could have found exactly this in the remainders pile of any Borders and often at a lower price but they went bankrupt, whereas LVIS is going strong.)

We rode the bus to town rather than biking from the dinghy dock and it made all the difference. The bus fare is only $0.75 for those who've achieved 60 but even this was a stretch since the bikes are free and we cruisers pride ourselves at being cheaper than dirt. Or perhaps it should be cheaper than water, but more about that later.

No sign but it is a bus stop.

In a moment of giddy extravagance we found ourselves standing on the spot where we thought a bus might stop. Grace, whom we had met in the marine store across the street, kindly walked us outside the store, pointed vaguely across the parking lot, and explained that we should cross the street because the bus runs only one way.

We arrived at this preported bus stop to find no signage, no convenient bench and no one else waiting. It took a giant leap of faith to stand there, especially after we stopped a walker who seemed surprised that there even was a bus in his town. Clearly it is not the transport of choice for most of East Hampton residents, who tend to favor the Mercedes and the Lexus rather than the Suffolk County Transit. To our relief, the bus arrived only slightly late and we were swept along on an extensive tour of the approaches to town with stops now and then.

As for the oddity of it stopping only on one side of the street, the route is a loop so the bus really does only go in one direction. That Grace. Not only does she know her bolts but she's one of the few locals I've ever met who know anything about their buses.

Last year during a Narraganset Bay heat wave we stopped at Port Edgewood Marina, near Providence. After plugging in our little window-unit air conditioner, which lives in the cockpit locker most of the time but gets to peek into the cabin from the companionway now and then, we stepped over its humming coolness and wandered out to a local market – pizza - cheese steak - spaghetti place and indulged in Philly’s to go.

While we waited for our cheese steaks, I struck up a conversation with another diner who was sitting at a battered Formica table next to our similarly vintage example of late century modern. This in turn led to introductions to other tables. The place was chock full of local characters, all friendly and opinionated. We inquired about the bus and they thought it safe enough but full of odd people – as if they weren’t.

It appears that locals never ride the bus but have lots of trepidation about who does. As we strolled back to the boat we both commented on the fun of getting back in touch with neighborhood institutions rather than the boring chain restaurants we have at home. Those Port Edgewood buses allowed us to explore odd eateries from Pawtucket to Warwick, what a treat. Plus, I hope we added to the lore of the odd people you might see on the bus.

After asking the driver, "Get off here for downtown?" at the East Hampton's railroad station and then at another place along the way, we finally pulled up at the head of Main Street, where everyone got off. It couldn't have been plainer than that, which may explain why the driver kept eyeing us. Confused oldersters dressed in tattered clothing are two of the five danger signals, no doubt. Terrorism is on everyone's watch list.

Four thrift stores in one as evidenced by the
obvious signage. 

We cut through a gigantic parking lot -- its size explained by the fondness for brands other than Suffolk County Transport -- and approached the LVIS from the back. To our astonishment they had expanded dramatically adding all sorts of boutiques that specialized in furniture, textiles, glassware, and rugs. Wow. All this is since last year. They had been busy.

The goods smuggled
to Sweet Pea

As Anita exclaimed over fabric and sewing notions and scored a really good embroidery find, I chatted up the thrift lady. She claimed that the shops had been there for years. She explained that the front door led only to the shop that specialized in books and clothing and everything else was here or in the barn.

What a relief to learn that LVIS was just like all the others, though they do draw the line at electronics. Alas, no TV's with rotary channel selectors, no giant CRT monitors from the 90's, no VHS tape players. But plenty of mismatched forks. We'd not been slumming elsewhere after all.

All that thrifting left me famished and we set out to find the ten dollar lunch for two in this enclave of chic shops and five dollar bottled waters that featured NO SUGAR. It seems strange to advertise that a brand of H20 doesn't include sugar. Well it doesn't contain fence posts or beach balls or all sorts of other stuff, but I saw these very words painted on the side of a truck that specialized in delivering bottles of just, water. The copy hastened to add that it included hints of truly exotic flavors like watermelon and sage brush, which made it so much better than plain NO SUGAR water.

I suppose it might even be so, but still. The stuff that gushes out of the hose at the dock and into Sweet Pea's tank is good enough for us. However, as the truck suggested, I think I'll continue my practice of not adding sugar when we take on water.  As for cramming some weeds or watermelon rinds down the deck fill, it might be cutting edge but seems like way too much trouble. I do like the idea of naming our water, though. I wonder if our guests might be impressed by our offering a tumbler of iced Sweet Pea? Perhaps not.

Lunch was two slices and a pinwheel at Fierro's pizza, across from the Waldbaum's grocery store, all for eight dollars. Anita thought the pinwheel, an unlikely looking thing shaped like a cinnamon bun but without the frosting or the cinnamon, a waste since it was mostly dough and no sauce. She helped me finish my second slice, which was quite generous in size and covered with satisfying stuff. No subtle hints of pepperoni and sausage on this pie. They had layered it on thick. It was most filling and left an impressive orange puddle soaking into the paper plate by the time we finished that last morsel. Even better, they had our beverage of choice: water, no sugar. We can be as trendy as anyone in East Hampton.

Tucked away in a corner of the
Mercedes Jeep parking lot.

Indulging in dessert on our eat-out budget was more of a challenge. Rather than hit the gelato bar at $4.50 a scoop I suggested a Latin market that I had noticed on the outskirts of the shops. As we had passed earlier, a fellow had emerged with what was clearly a frozen confection and a satisfied look as he bit into it.

This place was a real possibility since it might avoid all of my five danger signals for an eatery: has a cutesy name, is part of a chain, has laminated menus, accepts credit cards, and the servers introduce themselves by name. Those places are way too tame to be interesting. But a place named Latin Express could be a gem.

Our first whiff wasn't promising. A gem should be redolent with tantalizing smells of spice, cooking meat, or fruit oils. I detected the acrid bite of chemicals overlain by artificial floral hints of shampoo and conditioner. This place smelled like a hair salon. Ugh. Not exactly what I was hoping to find.

Actually it was a hair salon that also offered banking services, bags of snack food labelled in Spanish, and phone calls to South America, among other things. Neat as a pin and clean as a whistle but definitely not a grocery market or an ice cream shop. However, one wall featured a rectangular white chest that reminded me of the freezer we used to have out under the carport when I was a kid.

Inside that freezer of my youth was an assortment of white paper packages labelled steak or ribs or hamburger. Back then we bought our beef on the hoof and paid to have it butchered. Today, that's probably not so prevalent but for my parents it was a cheap way to get lots of hamburger punctuated by an occasional roast. Mother strongly objected to eating all the good stuff first but even so, that last frost-bit layer was always nothing but hamburger. Lots of chili and meatloaf in that.

Lots of colors from which to choose
and red might have been bubble gum.

The Latin Express freezer contained an assortment of frozen cone shaped objects on sticks, each neatly wrapped in its own plastic bag. No ingredient labels. In fact, no labels at all other than the one taped to the front, declaring the contents to be, "Naturalmente Ecuarorianos". Each was undoubtedly laced with sugar. Perfect.

I debated coconut versus mango or lime or red, a flavor of uncertain pedigree, and coconut won. It was a frozen concoction full of juicy shards of coconut meat and sweetened with plenty of nature's own organic sucrose, totally natural and most likely dumped straight out of a 100 pound Domino bag. Simply delicious. 

Perhaps they're called Ricco's
in Ecuador. 

I asked the woman tending the counter what these were called, waving my selection in front of her. She gave me a pitying look and replied, "coconut". First the bus driver and then her. We'd better clean up our act and fast.


At two dollars this find brought us in under budget, sort of. Well it would have had Anita not demurred and gone the more traditional route.

She emerged from Waldbaum's grocery holding a tiny cup of main-stream ice cream, labelled with a cutesy name to suggest Denmark, but manufactured in New Jersey. The carton looked to be laminated and she probably paid with a credit card. Go figure.