You'll all be happy to know, I'm sure, that I finally got the boat to conform to my idea of an acceptable environment in which to exist. "Whipped it into shape", as my mother would say. Under the pile of crap at the left (this pile was for real-- not artificially created) turned out to be our navigation station, which you can now see pictured at the right. It doesn't always look this nice, but it usually looks pretty close. Photo just below is a view from the bow of the boat; I'm standing in our berth, looking through to the galley. The navigation station is opposite the galley, to the left and out of sight in this picture.
Photo below is the galley. The last two shots are taken from the stairs at the companionway visible at the left in the photo above, the one with me in it. The blur of light above the stairs is the cockpit. She's a pretty boat, and has a very open, airy feel inside, compared to most older sailboats. 
We spent most of last week at the marina that we sailed into on Monday morning. It seemed to me that the challenges of actually dropping the anchor for the first time in the little cove for which we were ultimately bound, and learning the ins and outs of life “anchored out”, plus the challenges of having guests visiting all week, plus the challenges on the part of said guests of having also to adapt, for however short a time, to the ins and outs of life “anchored out”, including, not insignificantly, being ferried back and forth to Kalliope in a 10-foot dinghy by either of two very raw dinghy pilots, added up to far too many challenges, coming right on the heels of the challenge of sailing down here to begin with. I cried when Bob even broached the subject, so that’s how I knew for sure I had had it, for a while, with challenges.
We spent the two days before our guests arrived preparing for them, as well as preparing for “anchoring out”. One thing we needed to do was practice using the dinghy, which is the major form of transportation for all boats anchored out – it’s what gets you back and forth to other boats, as well as to land, where you tie it up and walk to go get groceries, do laundry, and buy new walking shoes. So on a to-do list for Wednesday, under something like “clean everything”, I wrote “go for a dinghy ride.” Easy enough thing to write. This is how you do it: First, the dinghy must be lowered down to the water from the davit—or davits, I’m not sure which-- (that being the stainless steel tubular-type structure on Kalliope’s stern onto which, during sailing, the dinghy is firmly, almost irrevocably attached, by a mysterious but precise tangle of ropes and pulleys). This took forever. It took a much longer time, however, to lower (via another tangle of ropes and pulleys) the 10,000 pound motor and get it safely attached to the transom of the dinghy. Since I was the one standing in the dinghy at the time, with the motor being lowered onto what I perceived to be the top of my skull, there was a mutiny to be quelled, and different arrangements for motor-lowering had to be made.
When the engine was finally in place on the dinghy, there was a key to be found. My understanding, at first, was that this key was absolutely necessary to the operation of the outboard motor, but we never found it, and it turned out that vice grips could, just this once, be substituted. It took another long while to get the engine started --the hose for the gas supply was damaged, and we had to find a replacement. Nice though that we had one, and that we could find it, thanks to all our time spent going through cubbies and rearranging and cataloging every last thing on this boat.
All in all, hopping into the dinghy for the first time and taking a little tour around the anchorage took about three hours. But it- was- fun! Partly because of the long frustrating process leading up to it, surely, but more because A) it was a warm sunny day, with land within an easy swim should we have to abandon ship, or if (more likely) ship should abandon us, and B) we were finally in a boat that was easy to maneuver (more about this later), fairly indestructible, and more importantly, practically incapable of destruction, itself. It bounces right off docks, boats, bridges even, like a big overgrown, out-of control beach ball.
Bob drove first. Out in the anchorage, we spotted a sailboat with people moving about on deck and before they could duck out of sight, we headed toward them—we wanted to get their thoughts about a good spot to anchor. We made three huge circles in the water beside their boat, in a vain attempt to come close enough at a slow enough speed to actually grab hold of some part of it, and stop and chat. Each time, as we roared away, I would hold up my finger, smile charmingly and yell “We’ll be right back!” They finally sat down on their cabintop and waited, apparently enjoying the show. When we finally got close enough and slow enough to throw them the painter (boat talk for the rope at the front of the dinghy), we found out that they didn’t actually know much at all about the anchorage—they were there for only one night, and were leaving in the morning for the Bahamas, as was most everyone else. But we had a nice chat anyway. Eventually we roared away from them, leaving them to their own, probably much more sedate, dinghy ride to their friend’s boat for dinner.
Bob took us as far as the dinghy landing spot, where he and I switched positions, and I drove from there. I ran into the bridge immediately, twice, (it was a tricky spot for a beginner) then finally got out into the open water and began to get the hang of it. Now, I’m not complaining, because it turns out I love driving this dinghy, but the operation of it is completely anti-intuitive, if you ask me—you push the tiller to the left when you want to go right, right when you want to go left, roll the handle toward you when you want to go faster, and away from you when you want to go slower. All wrong. But I decided early on to try to keep my brain out of it, and just let my arm talk to the tiller, and that worked okay, in big sweeps, but the fine points of pulling up slowly to a specific spot still eluded me. I kind of crash-stopped at a second boat, also unfortunate enough to have people visible above-decks, and we had an amusing and informative conversation with the owners about many things, including good spots to anchor out in the cove. This conversation lasted a while though, and in the process I moved to a more comfortable spot in the dinghy. Now when it came time to leave, and I again took up a position at the tiller, I was unfortunately, and unbeknownst to me, now on the opposite side of, well, everything. When I wanted to head right, I was heading left, and when I wanted to head left I was (you guessed it!) heading right. This little problem might have been manageable, except for the fact that slow had now become fast. I made several huge crazy circles completely around this second boat, all four of us belly-laughing the whole time, before I figured out the problem.
So that was our first dinghy ride. And we are no longer, as the folks we visited called us, “Dinghy Virgins.” We had great visits with our guests, who enjoyed the boat, the food, the drink, the fellowship, and, as several of them admitted, the fact that they didn’t have to go on dinghy rides to get to it.
Bob has taken to saying, lately, that the difference between an adventure and an ordeal is whether you’re a man or a woman. So when you’re 60 miles out at sea and the engine on your boat dies suddenly, for no apparent reason, filling the immediate area with huge quantities of thick steam that look, initially, a heck of a lot like smoke, and the diesel mechanic is seasick, as is the Captain, and the boat is pitching and rolling and the sails are flapping hard in the wind and nobody is telling stories or jokes anymore, but in fact have gotten very quiet, barking at each other in short terse bits if at all, that’s an adventure. At least that’s what the sailor boys tried to tell me when it was all over. Oh, did I mention it was at night? 8:00 at night, as a matter of fact; about as far away from daylight and the illusion of safety as you can get, this time of year. Adventure my ass.
Dolphins swimming in the water with the boat, sea turtles paddling peacefully by, the big sparkling ocean with absolutely nothing else in sight but the sun and the moon, sunrises and sunsets, moonrises and moonsets; all that was unquestionably lovely. Cooking below, in the cabin, was sometimes fun and rewarding (the sailor boys were always wonderfully polite and grateful for even a cup of hot coffee); but sometimes cooking was too hard—the movement of the boat too crazy and unpredictable for hot sloshing foods. The sailor boys were happy for real food when it appeared, and fine with foraging when it didn’t.
But for the ultimate difference in world views between the men on board and I, I offer the experience of my first shower at sea. We were two and a half days into the trip, and two of the sailor boys had already crossed back over into the world of personal cleanliness, bragging about how nice they smelled, how bad the rest of us did, etc. I saw the possibility of landfall in the next day or so, and thought I should prepare for it by getting clean as well. But here again we come up against the adventure/ordeal thing, because the two men who had gone before me on this quest did not think it significant enough to report that a shower at sea is best performed with four arms: two to brace oneself firmly into the walls on either side of the head, one to hold the shower nozzle (which is really just a vegetable sprayer from a kitchen sink, after all) and one to do the actual washing, which, if you don’t concentrate, you could easily forget is, by the way, the reason you’re in this situation in the first place-- to wit, wet, naked, your feet soapy and slipping out from under you, one good wave away from careening through the flimsy louvered door you’ve wedged your elbow against and flying out into the main cabin of a sailboat full of “adventurers!”
The statistics: the trip was a few hours less than four days; 485 nautical miles. We averaged 5.16 knots, about 6 MPH. The temperature when we left North Myrtle Beach, SC was 25 degrees, and today in North Palm Beach, FL, it's 78. We are very grateful to Kevin, Frank and Bob, aka the Sailor Boys, for their knowledge, patience, good humor and willingness to help us stay safe on this sailing adventure, and to our friend Steven, who has helped us find our new temporary home and made us feel welcome in Florida.
PS The unidentified legs in the photo above belong, once again, to Bob-- Captain and seasick mechanic, one and the same, looking for a replacement part necessary to make one of two crucial engine repairs needed during the trip.
Just wanted to let you all know we're safe and sound, arrived this morning to our new home for a while, a lovely little Florida cove. The trip was wonderful and awful and everything in between; I will try to write about it when I get time to do so at leisure. Thanks for your good thoughts.
Question: How many men does it take to get a sailboat 23 miles down the ICW?
Answer: More than five.
Sylvie and I gleefully made up that joke yesterday as we drove to meet the (five) sailor boys at a marina halfway to their planned destination, 23 miles down the ICW (Intra-Coastal Waterway) from our "home" port. Our "home" port is a difficult place from which to get out to the ocean-- the inlet there (or should I say "outlet") is shallow in lots of places, in an ever-changing and wholly unpredictable configuration, therefore it's an easy place for sailboats in particular to "run aground." We know; we've done it several times. The ICW itself has, unfortunately, these same qualities. The biggest effect on the depth of the ICW is the tide, which rises and falls there just as in the ocean, varying tremendously depending on location. Our boat "draws" 5'6", which means that we need to be in water at least that deep, or we will run aground. Where is that deep-enough water? In the ICW, you can never be sure.
Yesterday, en route to the planned destination (a marina in North Myrtle Beach from which we expect to sail on Wednesday), the sailing boys arrived at a pontoon bridge which had to open in order for them to pass, and which opens only on the hour. I wrote the sailing log yesterday, but Bob dictated it. Read this in a deep voice: "Arrived Sunset Beach pontoon bridge approximately 1:30 PM. Bridge opening scheduled for 2 PM. Circled in waterway approach to bridge for 28.5 minutes. Ran aground 1.5 minutes before bridge opening.* Unfurled headsail, heeled boat to starboard 22 degrees. Tide dropping, mud rising every minute. Called Towboat US**. Towboat US arrives from south, awaits 4 PM opening of pontoon bridge. Towboat US heels boat 25 degrees to port. Everything in cabin falls from starboard wall to port wall.*** Eventually gets boat free. Tide is now too low for bridge to open, bridge will not be able to open until after dark. We backtrack 2 miles to Ocean Isle Marina for the night."
Sylvie and I drove to meet them there (cackling and making up jokes the whole way); she drove the sailor boys back to Holden Beach Marina and their cars, and Bob and I stayed on Kalliope for the night at Ocean Isle Marina. This morning two sailor boys and Sylvie came back, and we motored the rest of the way to our present slip at North Myrtle Beach Marina.
* The sailor boys swear that this spot where they ran aground was a spot they had circled over many times, in the 28.5 minutes of waiting for the bridge to open. How can this be, that there was not some warning of some kind beforehand (a soft touch on the bottom, for instance, the kind we're used to and can deal with, without the help of Towboat US)? Sylvie and I will never know. We do know, however, that alcohol was not involved, since she and I had all the beer with us where we were sitting on the dock at North Myrtle Beach, sipping, snacking, chatting, awaiting the arrival of the sailor boys who never came.
**kind of a AAA for boaters-- we have wisely chosen the unlimited option-- this tow, otherwise, would have cost $780.
***Things were not yet stowed for an ocean voyage, which could possibly involve a total swing of 50 degrees, though if it does, you can find me in my bunk, under the covers, sucking my thumb.
You may be wondering why we need five people to do these little jaunts-- we don't. (We're perfectly capable of running the boat aground ourselves). The guys were along to familiarize themselves with Kalliope before The Great Sail to Florida, and Sylvie's boyfriend was there to get more experience with the waterway-- their boat draws over 7 feet!
You'll all be happy to know, I'm sure, that I finally got the boat to conform to my idea of an acceptable environment in which to exist. "Whipped it into shape", as my mother would say. Under the pile of crap at the left (this pile was for real-- not artificially created) turned out to be our navigation station, which you can now see pictured at the right. It doesn't always look this nice, but it usually looks pretty close. Photo just below is a view from the bow of the boat; I'm standing in our berth, looking through to the galley. The navigation station is opposite the galley, to the left and out of sight in this picture.
Photo below is the galley. The last two shots are taken from the stairs at the companionway visible at the left in the photo above, the one with me in it. The blur of light above the stairs is the cockpit. She's a pretty boat, and has a very open, airy feel inside, compared to most older sailboats. 
