A Long Ago Voyage or The Next Best Thing

The next best thing to sailing is telling sailing stories.  This is a long one, so settle in.  I may even have to tell it in installments, so bear with me.

Sometimes in life, your choices are clear.  You make decisions and the predictable happens.  Other times you seem to be on some mysterious road that winds around until you begin to wonder where the heck you’re going.  If you’re like me, you just hang on and enjoy the wild ride.  

I had no idea where I was going when I gamely volunteered at a fundraiser for an organization that provided art classes to adults with physical disabilities.  Along with the other volunteers, I stood in a line as we took turns holding up the items while the auctioneer called out for bids.  I held up a vacation stay at a bed and breakfast, an oil painting, a hand built clay vase.  It was a jovial group and we were having fun watching the dollars rack up for the organization.  In front of me in line, a young girl of about ten turned around and asked me what item I had.  It was a piece of jewelry.  She admired it.  I asked her what she had and she slowly turned her card around.  It was a glass blowing class.  I smiled and said how fun that would be.  She looked me in the eye and said in all seriousness, “You should buy this.”  I laughed and said I wished I could, but I couldn’t afford the five hundred dollar price tag.  She was adamant.  “You should buy this,” she said very firmly.   

Her insistence made me uncomfortable and I was relieved when it was her turn to climb onstage.  The auctioneer started the bidding at $500.  A hush fell over the auditorium.  No bids.  The auctioneer raved about the school, the art of glass blowing, the fact that the instructor had been an assistant to world famous glass blower Dale Chihuly.  She lowered the starting bid to $400.  Silence.  The little girl turned her head and looked at me.  It was too much, there was no way I could pay that much, no matter how cool it was.  I averted my gaze.  The opening bid came down and down and down until finally it was just a hundred dollars.  The little girl glared at me.  Incredibly, there were still no bids.  I cleared my throat, raised my hand and bid.  Uncontested, I won that class for a hundred dollars.  And, the little girl was right.

But it turned out that this was a just little detour on the trail.  I fell madly in love with the instructor, who taught us to wear socks on our arms to prevent burns and whose sweaty t-shirt made me swoon.  But, alas, he did not fall for me.  He did, however, have a friend, and he was anxious to set us up on a blind date.  Disappointed, but curious, I agreed to meet Darrel next to the big brass pig at the Pike Place Market.  He was surprisingly attractive, with a shock of dark hair falling over his forehead and a bubbling energy.  And he liked me.  On our second date, he confessed that he had a boat and I was thrilled.  Then he said it was for sale.  I protested.  I nagged and cajoled until he took me to see her.  It was all over then.  I was smitten.  Her name was Skybird and she was a CT 37(similar to a Tayana) with a sexy dark green hull, warm teak decks and brass-lined portholes.  She was thirty-seven feet of fiberglass magic that could take you anywhere.  After a few weeks, I persuaded Darrel to let me pay off the mortgage with my divorce settlement and we made arrangements to move her to Bainbridge Island where we could happily live aboard.  I would keep my job in Seattle and commute on the ferry.  I had never been happier.

We scrimped and saved and worked on Skybird for two years and then finally threw off the dock lines and headed for the Strait of Juan de Fuca.  We had timed the weather perfectly and enjoyed a single tack to the southwest, which took us two hundred miles offshore.  I was in heaven.  We saw no other boats, no sea birds, nothing.  It was our little boat, the sea and the sky and that’s all.  The wind was steady and we made easy headway.  The sea was relatively calm, so one day when I was off watch, I went below for a quick shower.  I was just rinsing off when Darrel called out with great excitement.  He said there was a plane coming and I thought that was very odd because the planes we saw were at forty thousand feet, nothing but a vapor trail.  Darrel called again very urgently, so I hauled my dripping naked self up on deck without grabbing a towel, just as a Coast Guard plane cruised very slowly past about 200 feet over us.  We gaped.  I could almost see the face of the pilot as he went by.  We stood there in our little cockpit, stunned, as the plane made an abrupt turn and headed back our way again.  I ducked below for a towel, but that didn’t stop the Coasties from make two more passes.  Darrel and I laughed and laughed.

Several uneventful days later, we came in sight of San Francisco Bay.  The weather had held and it was clear and a bit hazy, but there was no fog.  We were as thrilled to be making landfall as we’d been to get away from land.  As we headed toward the opening to the bay, we saw something big in the water ahead.  It looked like a rock sticking just out of the water.  Darrel shook his head and said it couldn’t be a rock because we were too far from shore.  It looked like a mostly submerged Volkswagon Beetle.  A few seconds more and we saw a head poke up and the whole thing disappeared.  It was a turtle, an unbelievably large sea turtle.  We reverently thanked it for the welcome and sailed on into the bay, under the Golden Gate Bridge (no small thrill!) and into Sausalito for a quick stop to re-provision before heading out to our next stop, San Diego.

Even Winter Has Her Charms

Bonner Bay Sunset

Eric and I have been having a discussion about how cold is too cold to enjoy being on the boat.  He seems to have more tolerance for it than I do.  There are factors other than temperature too, like cloud cover, wind and how far we want to go.  This week was on the edge.  It was barely fifty degrees and blowing 20-25kts, but the clear skies and sunshine made it bearable, that and the fact that we were finally going to try to make Oriental, some forty miles from our home base in North Creek.

But winter has her charms too, like no mosquitoes and when the hot flashes hit, I just strip off a few layers and feel the blessed coolness.  It’s also migration time for the sea birds and we were treated to many a swooping gannet, and a few new birds, like the dashing red-breasted mergansers that greeted us in Oriental harbor.  Their wild hairdos reminded me of the black-crowned night heron we saw in Morehead City a few weeks ago, perched on a piling right there on the wharf.

The wind in winter is both a blessing and a curse.  In summer, the wind is more variable, gusting like crazy around thunderstorms and dead calm in between.  In winter, it tends to be steadier and also stronger, such as the 20-25kts we had this weekend.  A steady breeze like this means we can set a course and sail like crazy at four or even five knots in a given direction.  And the NW wind this weekend was perfect to blow us right down to Oriental.  Well, except for when we made the turn to go up the Neuse, directly into the wind.  But that’s what we have Trusty for, he got us there, no problem.

In Oriental we were greeted at D and Don’s private dock by D, Don, our friend Anne and Mo, who with her partner, Drake, were preparing to venture north, eventually to Iceland and Ireland.  (Check Mo’s blog here.)  We missed the going-away party, but delighted to give her a hug and wish her fair winds and following seas.  Then we were treated to a marvelous hot pot roast, which let me tell you, after freezing our tails off sailing south all day in fifty degree weather and a biting twenty knot wind, was about as good as it gets.  There was wine too and a rousing game of dominoes afterwards.  Oh, so fun.

Sunrise at D and Don's

The next morning we enjoyed further treats of taking a row in the little dingy named Enid, for British author Enid Blyton, which our friend Anne Siddons (no relation to the author Anne Rivers Siddons) built with her own two hands, something she had never done before, nor will again.  She’s a sweet little craft, much like her maker, and we had fun rowing around the frosty docks of the marina.  Afterwards, her husband Doug made us espressos before we cast off.  Ah, the good life.

Somewhat miraculously, the wind shifted around to the south as predicted, and we sailed downwind and then a fine reach back into Bay River.  In the ICW, we watched a loon go fishing and warmed up as the trees blocked most of the wind. Neither of us minded motoring at this point, I was just happy to feel my feet again.  As soon as we got through the cut, we explored Upper Spring Creek and anchored far back in, a very solitary anchorage, just like we like.  The sunset was yet another wonder and the smiley eyelash moon seemed happy for the company of all those stars.  Eric carefully scanned the sky for a comet that is supposedly visible to the naked eye, but never found it.  What a pleasure to bundle up, lie back in the cockpit, and watch the stars come out without being tormented by mosquitoes.  In the cabin we cranked up the little propane heater and were soon toasty warm.  Thank you, Eric!

All those amazing sunsets, fine sailing weather, the company of such amazing friends and a shooting star every night might seem hard to top, but what a surprise we found waiting for us back at our little marina in North Creek.  We were considering supper when we heard the sound of heavy machinery behind the marina-owners’ house.  We postulated a few theories about the source of the noise until one of Eric’s theories came true and a gigantic Trac-hoe came crashing through the trees toward the house.

They had come for a forty-seven foot party barge that had been washed up in the yard by Hurricane Irene, some eighteen months prior.  We watched in abject amazement as they attached a rope bigger than Eric’s arm to the boat and proceeded to drag her toward the water.  A small crowd gathered and we all cringed at the terrible sound of crinkling aluminum accompanied the dragging.  Small trees were cast aside.  The men put the rope on her stern and we gasped as they succeeded in turning her bow toward the water.

Supper was forgotten as the boat owner and the marina owners joined us to watch in horrified fascination as the boat neared the creek.  The Trac-hoe driver backed toward the water’s edge as it pulled the boat closer.  The skids came right to the edge.  We held our breath.  The driver moved forward again to more solid ground.  We breathed.  Then he got hold of the rope again in prehistoric-looking metal  jaws and pulled again, backing toward the water.  We held our breath as he backed down, right to the edge of the marsh grass and just a little further and then the skids began to sink in the mud.  We breathed a collective, “Oh, crap.”

After a tense few minutes of digging himself in even deeper, the driver realized his folly and abandoned the machine.  An hour later a bulldozer arrived in the darkness, and after some ado, managed to pull the boat out of the way and pulled the very muddy Trac-hoe free of the marsh.  The bulldozer pushed the boat right to the edge of the water and there it stayed.  But what a show we’d had.  We are sorry to miss seeing her hit the water, but apparently, that has to wait for a towboat.

So we managed to have our usual fine time, in spite of the cold.  I think I’d rather have the mosquitoes, myself.  But it was worth it.  So worth it.

It's Christmas Time on the River

25 December 2012

Last year we stayed at the Bath Marina and Hotel on Christmas night while we were looking for a place to keep Willadine.  This year we decided to take her out, even though the weather is looking sketchy.  Eric changes the oil while I make the bed.  We found Hannah’s down comforter at the farm and brought it, so after I tuck the sheets into the V-berth, I throw on the wool blanket and the down.  Should be warm.

At Potter’s it’s comfortable, about 55 degrees, warm enough that I need to shed a layer while we’re launching her.  It’s blowing pretty good and we feel nervous about the predicted storm, but we head out into the river anyway.  We briefly consider reefing the main, but abandon the idea and it’s just as well because the wind slacks to just 5kts by the middle of the river.  A bird sails by skimming the water; it’s very big, goose-sized with remarkable wings, half black at the tip and the rest white.

I dive into the cabin for the bird book.  “Duck-like?” I ask Eric, referring to the classifications in our Audubon Society Field Guide.

“Gull-like,” he says firmly.

I think he’s wrong, but I look in the “gull-like” section first.  Sure enough, right away I spot it.  It’s a Gannet, a bird that lives in Nova Scotia and Quebec and winters in coastal waters south to Florida.  This lovely bird merits an entire page in Audubon about its elaborate breeding customs.  The only northern member of the Booby family, this strictly maritime species can often be seen plunging headlong into the sea from as high as fifty feet.  Interconnected air sacs under the skin of the breast protect it from the force of the water.  I love my bird book.

Since the wind is easterly, there is no way we can make Goose Creek, which was my first choice, so we head straight across the river, for South Creek.  We pass a flock of gulls that stretches from one side of the mouth of the creek to the other at least a half a mile across, an astonishing number of birds.  As we make the turn into Bond Creek, another large flock appears in the mouth of Muddy Creek and more fly in from the SE.  More and more appear on the horizon, silently gliding overhead as we glide silently over the water.

As we approach the anchorage, we disrupt another flock of seabirds.  They are floating very low in the water so they look like black balls on the surface.  As they fly off, I grab the binoculars and note the white collars and very small size.  Later, I struggle to identify them, guessing possibly Goldeneyes (but all female) or maybe Dovekies out of their usual northerly range.  There just don’t seem to be dark birds with white collars and white spots on their wings.  It’s a puzzle.  Later I decide they must be Grebes, probably the Horned variety, which ironically do not have anything resembling a horn.

We set two anchors in preparation for the predicted gale.  Eric spends a lot of time sorting out the snarled rode on the big anchor, but we get them both down and set before dark, about 5:30.  We light the new red lantern and enjoy its heat and warm glow while sipping tea and soup.  A song comes to mind, with minor modification:  “Let it blow, let it blow, let it blow!”  We’re tucked in safe for whatever storm comes.

26 December 2012

The storm didn’t amount to much overnight, just a few little gusts and a few showers.  We stayed warm under the wool and down in the V-berth.  We had hot tea with milk for breakfast and homemade chicken and rice soup for lunch.  Then, it started to blow.

Eric had turned on the radio and we heard a tornado warning.  Fortunately, it was headed offshore and not towards us.  It blew so hard I got nervous and started frantically stowing things.  Eric’s eyes were wild.  Willadine heeled over and shuddered in the gusts.  We spent a tense few hours until it began to let up.  By sunset, it was clear, still very windy, but clear, with fewer strong gusts, a great relief to us both.

The birds were wheeling around us, four Gannets moving very fast, Pelicans in a group with their slow easy turns and one adorable little Grebe, bobbing in the chop and looking at Willadine with deep suspicion.  The Horned Grebes are a small seabird, with a racy white slash across their faces and a petite sort of cuteness.  I tried to get a picture of this little fellow, but by the time I got the camera aimed, the picture was nothing but water.  And, mind you, as a former photojournalist, I’m pretty quick on the draw.  I got the feeling the little bird considered us rather dangerously insane and felt it safer to be on the bottom grazing for crustaceans.  According to the website linked above, “In Blackfeet lore, the trickster Old Man tricked several ducks into closing their eyes and dancing while he killed them one by one.  The smallest duck looked and alerted the others.  This "duck" was the Horned Grebe, who became the first to notice trouble.”

The sunset was rather spectacular, as often happens after a storm.  It made us very happy to see the sun at last. 

Sunset Bond Creek

Although the forecast called for an ongoing gale warning, we went to bed feeling as though the worst was over, but were awakened towards midnight by another round of heavy gusts.  We were glad we didn’t attempt our harebrained scheme to night sail to the Pungo.  The moon was so bright in our faces through the skylights, it was hard to sleep, but we managed.  At least it was warmer outside and we were tucked in cozy.

27 December 2012

Although it was warm in the V-berth we could feel the turn in the temperature on our faces when we woke up.  It’s cold, not terrible frost on the sail-cover cold, but much colder than yesterday.  Eric looked at the thermometer in the cabin and reported 43 degrees.  And the wind is still moaning in the rigging.  The gale warning continues for gusts to 35 knots, which really isn’t that bad in the scope of things.

Out in the Aleutian chain in February, fifty knots blows every day, no big deal, especially not a big deal in a 200-foot freighter.  But here on the Pamlico in our little 23-foot water-ballasted sailboat, 35 knots of wind is enough to heel her over and make us a bit nervous.  Not sure if it’s enough to keep Eric from sailing.  We’ll see.  It’s a bit formidable for me, combined with the cold.  If it were warmer, I’d be sailing anyway.  Eric says we’d break something in a 35-knot gust, but I think we’ve sailed in that much wind before.  He’s out in the cockpit right now girding himself for it.  I think he’d like to be off sailing, but for now, he’s content to putter.  He started Trusty (cranked right up!) to charge the battery and he (brrrr) washed the dishes over the side.  I’m thinking about a bigger boat with a proper galley, hot/cold running water, etc.  I washed my hands out there earlier and my hands did not like it.  It’s cold.

Just for reference, I am wearing long johns with two layers of pants, three shirts and a jacket.  I have on socks and slippers, a scarf and fingerless gloves.  I’m sure my Northern friends are laughing their heads off, thinking 43 sounds right balmy, but my blood is thin.  I *hate* cold.  I think I’m tolerating it pretty well.  Hot tea helps.  Eric made grilled cheeses for breakfast (hence the dishes) and that was nice too.  Warm food is good.  Now, if I can just get my feet warm.  Maybe I should go putter around deck with him in the wind.

I can’t help thinking that this would all be so much more fun if it were twenty or thirty degrees warmer.  But at least there are no bugs and we have the stove and a cozy wind-free cabin.  Eric says he’s having fun.  I agree, for the moment.  Out on deck, six American White Pelicans glide by in a Vee.  They are not supposed to be here, preferring to winter in Florida, but I swear this is what they were.  Our usual Brown Pelicans are, well, brown, not snow white like these were.

About three o’clock we screw up our courage; emboldened by the relatively flat water in our safe little anchorage and frankly bored with being holed up for so long.  Eric gets the big anchor up pretty easily, but it takes some time to get the little one up.  Eric says it must have been buried three feet into the muck.  I want to sail out, so I set the reef in the main ready to go because it’s still gusting a bit.  Luckily, Eric convinces me to motor on out, partly to clean off the anchor, which is completely covered in mud.  As we cross the mouth of Bond Creek, we can see it’s far too rough to sail.  White caps are everywhere and there is a nasty two-foot chop coming out of South Creek, along with a steady 25-knot wind, gusting to 30 or 35.  As soon as I see how it is, that we were deceived by our protected anchorage into thinking we could sail, I’m ready to head back in, but Eric wants to see how it is on the river, which is not much farther.  Unfortunately, to get out there, we have to pass the shoal coming off the point and since it is only a few feet deep there, the chop increases to 3-4 feet and the wind is powerful.  Trusty overcomes the wind with no problem, but it’s daunting conditions for Willadine.  

We duck back into Muddy Creek and are amazed at the slacking of the wind and greeted by a large group of Grebes, who appear to be rather put out at our appearance in their creek.  We clumsily set the anchor and end up a bit too close to the lee shore, but it’s soft marsh grass and we are too tired to reset it.  Eric pulls up the rudder, just in case.  The sun presents us with an astonishing show of color in the west, which we admire while Eric grills sausages and broccoli from the farm. 

Sunset, Muddy Creek.  Photo does not do it justice, at all.

Just after sunset, he goes below and I call him back because the full moon is rising through the trees.  The world is pure magic.

Moonrise, Muddy Creek