Just some pics

Wish in One Hand...

Bob took a picture of me fishing a few days ago. I didn't like it, of course. But, ever confident of my photography and computer skills, he said, well, you can Photoshop it, can't you? Absolutely, I said. And here it is. Now I know, some of you are going to think "But that baseball cap has obviously been altered!" and I'll admit, that's true. But that's just what you call "artistic liberty", and anyway, I did it to make a point. See the picture on the top? Well, that woman loves auctions, swimming in the ocean, hiking, marbles, cooking on the grill on her sailboat, lying on a beach in the sun, reading, her husband, her son, her family and friends, and a thousand other things. She does not, as yet, love sailing. For that reason, when this odyssey ends in about a week, she is going to fly back to Charlotte, while her beloved husband (together with three of his newest sailing buddies) brings the boat back North. This does not mean she will never sail again. It certainly does not mean she didn't have a wonderful time on this trip, for the most part. It simply means that she has had all the sailing fun she can handle, for now.
See the woman on the left? She's going to sail back with the men. She's going to catch fish, fillet and grill them. She's going to bake bread every morning, keep the coffee fresh, hot and plentiful, wash all the dirty clothes in lye soap and seawater. If the sails rip, she'll mend them. If the GPS fails, she'll steer by the stars. At night, she'll play the harp and sing sea chanties.

Will she ever be frightened? No. Will she ever cry? No. Will she ever wish she were somewhere else, anywhere else but on this boat? No way! Look at her hat! She loves sailing!

Bob and the boys will sail April 4th, weather permitting. The trip should take 3-4 days. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm assuming you won't be especially interested in my plane ride...

Ahhh.....

The view from Kalliope

I’m sitting at a table in a picnic pavilion, in Key Biscayne, Florida. My view is of the pale blue-green, endless bay, framed at the bottom with sea grass, and at the top with a chalk-blue sky. Our laundry is in the washer, just around the corner in this same little building. The family that was here for lunch has gone; I took some nice group shots of them before they left. Now I have the place all to myself.

Thanks to the anchor dragging because the prop shaft was moving because the boat was in gear because of a surprise malfunction of the shifting mechanism when we tried to start the engine yesterday, we have re-anchored. Now we’re tucked against the edge of the cove, in a private little spot where we can see the glorious bay, as well as watch all the various boats that come and go, which was extremely entertaining over the weekend, especially since we're already anchored, and they're not. Nyah nyah.
We hung out in the cockpit all yesterday afternoon, enjoying the breeze, watching the action, reading and napping. It was wonderful. Kalliope is clean and orderly, and pleasant to look at, inside. Outside is another story. There’s a pump-out right here, and we were all too seasick to do it on the trip down, so Bob and I planned it for this morning. It was quiet in the cove; just a few sailboats left after the wild weekend festivities, so I elected to drive the boat over. I did pretty well on the way, didn’t even hit any other boats or anything! but then there was the unfortunate point where I had to bring Kalliope to a stop, against the concrete wall, and I did—well beyond the pump-out, and firmly into the wall. Que sera. It’s only paint.

Last night, Bob and I went to the little restaurant overlooking the cove, for dessert and coffee. We sat at the railing, and watched the porpoises diving in the water and the Space Shuttle take off from Kennedy Center. Really. I thought it was a bottle-rocket at first, pink and coral in the sunset, just over the hill. It was the shuttle, 200 miles away. It was gorgeous. And we ended up with three desserts, instead of just two, owing to a little language mishap with the waiter. But they were all good.

Now I am alternately writing this and reading a not-even-too-old People magazine I found by the washer, getting caught up on what was going on with Britney Spears a few months ago, and watching the occasional boat go by. Bob is back on Kalliope, happily “fishing”. Later, we’re going to walk over to the beach for a swim. Ahhh. Clean boat, clean clothes, a lovely breeze, a spectacular view, the promise of a swim.

A woman just bicycled past the pavilion and commented on my “nice office.” Little does she know my home is here, as well. For now!

Key Biscayne, Florida

But before we go to Key Biscayne, here's a too-cute shot of Bob's Aunt Marie and Uncle Danny "dinghying over" to the boat for lunch, March 4, Lake Worth, FL.

We sailed Thursday from North Palm Beach to No Name Harbor, Key Biscayne, with the help of our newest sailor boy, Brian. This is Brian. He loves sailing. Arrived Friday and fell into bed, exhausted. The trip down was tough-- we were wailing against the wind and the Gulf Stream, wind stronger than predicted, Gulf Stream further inland than stated in weather reports. Makes for a rough, wallowing kind of trip. And if you weren't prepared for it, as we weren't, you might find yourself wondering whether you have time to stow the wine bottles before you barf, or if you even care about the wine bottles any more. Or wine. Or anything but getting off this boat, as soon as possible.

A photo of the walk to the beautiful beach here. We of course are the shadow-people:
Don't know these people; just like the shot

Don't know why that line keeps underlining itself, either.

Okay, so I was just about to write a little about this anchorage, which is crazy and fun on weekends with many Cuban powerboaters and kids and music and dancing and good food smells... we took a walk around the natural areas to the beach, then decided to walk to the Winn Dixie for some ground beef so we could grill out and join in the fun. Winn Dixie turned out to be quite a walk-- maybe 2 miles, and I had only "short-walk-to-the-beach-type sandals" on-- I need to start wearing "good sturdy walking shoes" everywhere I go, and I will, as soon as I find some "good sturdy walking shoes" that don't look like "good sturdy walking shoes". Okay, so that was yesterday. We had a great dinner, though not a grilled one; it was too late for that by the time we got back to the boat, but we'll have it tonight. We were going to go anchor out (free, and peaceful, as opposed to noisy, albeit entertaining, and $15 a night) but now it seems we'll be here at least another day. Bob just started the engine to charge the batteries, run the refrigeration (where tonight's dinner resides) etc., and, surprisingly enough, the fuel filter assembly that was supporting the vice grips that keep the propeller shaft from turning when you're running in neutral fell off. Just a little problem that caused us to drive forward rather suddenly and I got my third look at the world outside the cockpit coming too close, too fast. And a huge egg on my shin from where I almost fell off the boat trying to fend off the other boat. So now our anchor has dragged, in this crowded little cove. We almost hit the boat in front of us, and every couple of minutes I have to fend off the boat behind us. It's a little white sailboat, and it has a blue eyeball embedded in the bow that makes it looks like it's floating over toward our boat with vengeance in its heart. I'd take a picture if I had any time. More later, from warm, sunny, anything-but-boring Key Biscayne!

You know how to whistle, don't you?

There’s so much to tell, so much to say, and I keep not doing it because there’s too much, but then that doesn’t solve the problem at all, of course, because then there’s more. Like:

Riding the bus, going to a Greek Festival, staying too long at Lowe’s, missing the last bus and walking home six miles in the dark.

Going with friends to the Indian Festival, and dinner.

Grounding ourselves at low tide in the dinghy.

Grounding ourselves at low tide in the boat.

Stress, challenges, fear, conquering fear.

How your boat talks to you.

“Everyday” life on the boat. Not that there is such a thing, so far, for us….but there are common elements to most days.

Fun stuff. We do have fun, too. Actually lately, it’s running about 50/50, for me, between panic and fun. Last Monday is a good example of this. The day was full of challenges, some of which were actually planned. Contemplation of these alone caused me, in the morning, to confess to Bob that I felt like throwing up. If only I had known how the day would actually go, I probably would have gone through with that urge. But it’s hard to tell. Because if I’d known how the day would actually go, I would know that, by sunset, all would be well, and we would be peacefully at anchor, me in the cockpit reading a book and drinking a glass of wine, Bob down below taking a nap. So here’s the day, as planned:

1- Weigh (that is, haul up from the mucky lake bottom) the anchor, for the first time, on our own.
2- Motor the half mile to the fuel dock at the marina (also first time) and have our holding tank emptied.
3- Motor back to the cove by ourselves (first time), and drop anchor again (ditto).

We made all prudent preparations for all foreseeable challenges. We reviewed procedures. We tied on fenders. We got docklines handy. We “cleared the decks”. We called ahead to the marina, to tell them we were coming. We got our headsets out.

On a sailboat, the primary use of headsets is for communication during anchoring, when one person is at the helm and the other relatively far away, at the bow. Add in wind noise and physical obstructions (masts, dodgers, furled sails) and communication can be difficult at this rather crucial time. Our headsets came with the boat, and, like so many other things that came with this boat, are not the kind of thing we would normally even consider buying, especially since there is a perfectly good alternative (yelling) that is free. Headsets are also the kind of thing, I suspect, that others regard with derision. I mean, you’re just dropping an anchor from a sailboat, and you’re all rigged up like you’re landing a 747. We don’t care. We love them. They enable us to talk to each other in a normal speaking voice, from anywhere on the boat. The alternative, as I have mentioned, is yelling, or sometimes screaming if there’s a lot of wind. We have heard of one man who trained his wife to respond to a series of whistle signals. You know, like a dog? A more humane solution is hand signals, which some people use and swear by. But speaking of swearing, when it comes to that, there just never seem to be enough hand signals, and even the signalers resort to yelling at times.

Headsets enable Bob and I to say things like “Go to port now. A little more, a little more, okay, do you realize which side of the boat is the port side?? Okay, yeah, I’m sorry, I see now that you were trying to go to port, yes, it is really windy out here. You do see that catamaran we’re drifting toward? Yeah it is a cool shade of blue. More like turquoise maybe but still a nice color.” Stuff like that.

We discussed (not via headsets, actually, but face-to-face) weighing anchor with the man and woman in the “conventional positions”—who knew? But I had never actually driven the boat much before (the woman’s job, normally, in weighing anchor), and was not excited about the idea of learning that task now, so I elected to be up at the bow, with the resulting responsibility of hauling up the 80 feet of rope and 35 lbs. of chain, together with 35 lbs. of anchor. And I did okay too, right up until the end, when I just plain old could not break the anchor free from the muck. 

There being only two jobs available on the boat at the time (the breakfast dishes had already been washed), I ended up driving the boat after all, while Bob hauled and secured the anchor. Once the anchor is up, though, you can’t just sit back and congratulate yourself, no matter how much you might like to, because the boat will start drifting, on its own, in perhaps dangerous directions, so we were off to the marina, with me still at the helm. I know you think something bad is going to happen here but it didn’t—I handed the boat back over to Bob in time for the actual docking which went well, actually. He made the wide turn into the marina, where the dock hand waiting for us there was such a beautiful sight-- all youth, strength, knowledge and nonchalance. He took lines from me as we came sliding up, and we docked rather gracefully, for a sailboat.

Pumpout accomplished, we spoke a while with a friend, and I took a minute or so to sit in a chair at the marina office and decompress, something I do every chance I get lately.
Our next challenge was to get out of the marina without incurring losses--- mental, physical, or financial. But this is not easily accomplished, in a big, slow, hard-to-get moving and then even harder-to-stop sailboat. The most obvious method of egress would be to simply back up, and then go straight out, the way we came in. Bob was in favor of this, but its success unfortunately involved participation from me, doing yet another thing I have never done before, which was to “warp” us off the dock with a line from the boat. I told him that I would try, but I was, meanwhile, more than a little concerned about the fact that, as far as I could see, this plan brought into very close proximity three things: our dinghy, bobbing innocently directly behind Kalliope, our swim ladder, attached to her stern, and that huge metal pillar at the end of the dock (how do I warp around that?).

Our departure went badly. Several attempts, a long scratch down the side of the hull, lots of anxious communication, (no need for headsets, we’re practically tripping over each other now) lots of luck in not actually running into the million dollar yachts all around us, or the docks, or that huge metal pillar. The upside is that we now have a horizontal line all the way down the port side of our boat, which, if we wanted, we could label “hang fenders here next time.”

We motored back to the cove. This time I drove nearly the whole way, thus doubling my driving experience. We picked out what looked to us like a suitable anchor spot, donned our headsets and went to work, once again, in an unconventional arrangement—women apparently usually drop anchor (it takes no strength, but some finesse), while husbands drive. But Bob was at the bow and had already dropped the anchor when I was given the command to put the boat in reverse, which I did (for the first time), but for some reason, Kalliope started making very tight backward circles, which scared me, confused Bob, and no doubt amused everybody around us who happened to be watching. I found too that I could not read (because of too much sun on it, I know now) the indicator which says where the steering wheel is turned to, and I was, by now, not only unable to center the wheel, but for some reason could not make the thing move, at all.

This is where the headsets came in really handy. I was able to speak into them, without actually raising my voice (albeit in a rather strained, high pitch, between clenched teeth): “Get back here and steer this boat, NOW.” Bob returned surprisingly quickly to the cockpit, worked his magic on the wheel just in time to avoid hitting the boat nearest us (the occupants now possibly not quite so amused as previously), and I departed for the bow. But when we finally dropped the anchor and payed out the 100 feet of line that Bob insisted on, we were crowded in too close to the boats behind us, a situation that I found intolerable.

Choosing the correct spot in an anchorage is, as far as I can see, completely comparable to deciding where to put your towel down at the beach. You arrive, you survey the scene, you find the two encampments furthest apart, you take up occupation in the middle of these two encampments. The next arrivals once again split the distance between the two furthest apart, and so on, until the beach fills up with towels, blankets, half-naked bodies and blaring radios. At the end of the day, everybody goes home, the beach gets quiet, and the next day it starts all over again.

What we had done, with this anchoring, was to take our beach bags and towels and sandy feet and go sit in the laps of some random, unfortunate family of vacationers. Okay, maybe not exactly in their laps. Maybe just on their blanket. Still, not good etiquette. So after a little while and much bugging, I was allowed to haul in some of the 100 feet of rope, and get us closer to our anchor, and further from our fellow beach-goers. Boats. Whatever.

Twenty minutes or so later, when the wind started blowing rather seriously, I glanced up from belowdecks towards the cockpit where I saw Bob sitting in the captain’s chair, happily absorbed in a book, while directly behind his head loomed the very large, getting larger all the time, way too large side view of the rigging of a sailboat. We were dragging anchor.

I flew up the companionway stairs, yelling the whole way "start the engine, we’re about to hit this boat behind us! (the one with the guy in the cockpit, waving his arms in that desperate pantomime. If only he had those nice headsets like we have! ) Bob calmly (too calmly for my taste) turned around, surveyed the situation, started the engine and put the boat into gear. Simultaneously, at our side appeared a dinghy with a man in it bearing the now-old news that we were dragging anchor. Would that we were happily camped out on someone else’s blanket, now, at the beach.

Bob drove the boat forward, well away from the panicky boat owner, and, engine idling, we attempted to calmly discuss our next step. Meanwhile, dinghy guy continued on his merry, carefree way to a nearby boat to chat with friends (possibly about the wording of the petition they were working on, to get us out of the anchorage). When he appeared to be about to depart from this other boat (petition in hand?), I called him back to our boat, and asked him, ever so nicely, if he would do us the honor of advising us as well as participating in our next attempt at anchoring, as I had pretty much had it, for the day.

This carefree Canadian, Rick was his name, was happy to help, and hopped aboard, bare feet and all ( anchors, anchor chain, bare feet—yikes) refusing the opportunity to go back to his boat and get shoes as well as the offer of a headset. So I stood with him at the bow and relayed (via headset) information between him and Bob, who was once again back at the helm.

Things went well until the anchor, on which Rick was hauling, came to an abrupt, muscle-jarring stop. We had snagged a mooring of some kind, apparently attached firmly to the center of the earth, and marked only by a dirty floating empty oil jug. With the help of the wind and the current, our anchor chain had become wrapped around this thing’s rope. Or chain, or whatever it was; it was hard to see. We stared at it for a while, dumbly, until Bob, on the headset, wondered aloud if a boat hook might be a useful tool for this situation. Rick liked this idea, and a boat hook was soon employed, and soon involved in the overall tangle, and before you could say “Let’s sell this boat!” Rick was leaning as far over the bowrail as he could, in a desperate attempt to maintain his dwindling hold on the boat hook, meanwhile imploring me in a small, choked voice to ask Bob to pull forward a bit. I did, Bob did, and I am happy to report that we were able to save both Rick and the boat hook! Quite a coup!

A few minutes later, the anchor, rogue rope and boat hook all three simultaneously disentangled, without human help, and we were able to drive the boat forward past the problem area towards a nice big comfortable spot, where Rick dropped the anchor, the chain and 70 feet of rope. Then all three of us sat on the bow, for as long as it took to drink a beer and feel fairly confident that the anchor was now actually holding. We thanked Rick for his help, and he got in his dinghy and motored back to his probably really boring life on his really boring boat, no doubt wishing he was still learning sailing and having all the great adventures we’ve been having lately.

So this is how I came to be up in the cockpit on anchor watch, drinking a glass of wine and reading a good book (not about sailing, thank you very much), and looking up every sentence or so, then after a while every paragraph, and then maybe every half page, to make sure that we were where we were supposed to be, and not drifting slowly, silently, malevolently into the lap of another boat. When Bob came to call me for dinner, and I told him I was hesitant to leave my post, he said “See these boats all around us? They’re watching us, every single one of them. We don’t need to watch a thing.”