Lobster

15 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by in the boat, Trips

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A funny thing happened today. First thing in the morning, at about 6:30, I had just woken up about 10 minutes earlier. Sleeping in – after being out all night the night before that – more on that next time!

But this morning I was waking up in a small shallow cove just inside Dyer Bay, which is a little bit east of Schoodic Peninsula, which is just east of Acadia. It’s beautiful. A small lobster boat was hauling traps right nearby, and I decided to try for a lobster. They came over, and dropped a nice sized lobster in my bucket. I handed the skipper $10, which is pretty seriously overpaying, especially when the price he quoted was “a couple dollars,” but it makes me crazy how hard the lobster folks work for such minimal gain, when the lobsters cost so much retail. This friendly older guy with a tremendous Maine accent said that was too much, looking a bit distressed, but I said hey, you delivered to my boat! He offered me a second lobster, so I said okay, and he had his crew guy pick out a smaller one, which was tossed unceremoniously on top of the one already in the bucket. We talked for another minute, and off they went.

I looked at that second lobster, and thought about my slightly complicated lobster cooking arrangement, and plans for sailing off this morning. Before I went back in the cabin to finish waking up and do morning things I told the second, smaller, lobster that it was going to go free, and have a chance to go grow up a little more.

Later, ready to properly start the day, I was having some second thoughts about turning lobster number two loose, thinking that it might be really nice to have a nice big lobster meal. But then I thought, well, I told that lobster I was going to turn it loose, and that would be lousy to go back on that, especially considering the consequences for the lobster. And I thought about my cooking arrangement, and that what I really need is a pair of tongs, if I’m going to cook more than one of these creatures.

For cooking, I use a small propane stove with a gimbaling arrangement so things won’t spill when the boat rolls. It doesn’t hold a broad pot, so I have a narrow somewhat deep one. It turns out that for lobster, if I do in the lobster first and then separate the claws and tail from the body it will all fit, just. An inch of water in the bottom of the pot is enough to steam it, and the whole business comes out really good. I think it’s tastier actually, compared to boiled in salt water which is more the standard. But for two lobsters, it’s going to be complicated… the pieces are very, very hot, when it’s time to get them out of the pot, and only one lobster will fit at a time.

And then there’s that I made that promise. So when I was getting ready to go, out came lobster number two, rubber bands snipped off its claws, and over the side. I hope it knows enough not to run right back into another trap! Lobster number one stayed in the bucket, with hopes that it would hang in through a few hours of sailing.

As it turned out, it took until about three o’clock to get to where I am now – Northeast Cove at Dyer Island (which, oddly enough, is not in Dyer Bay, but a couple of bays over.) As I was anchoring in this truly beautiful spot, which is much better protected than last night, there was one other boat, a fairly small powerboat on a mooring, and a skiff with several people on shore. When they came back to their boat we had a little fun chatting about who was from where – most of them were from North Carolina, and the boat skipper said he brings people out here for lobster cookouts on the beach. Just before they left, next thing you know they said that they had two lobsters left over, and would I like them? Two lobsters, already cooked!

Now I’ve had dinner – two lobsters, served intact. What a gift, especially after what turned into six hours of sailing! Lobster number one from this morning was looking like it wasn’t doing so well after the day in the bucket, but now that the boat is stationary I was able to get out the wire mesh fish basket. Lobster in basket, over the side, and an hour later it’s looking quite feisty again.

So this has been my day – I reluctantly let go of the idea of two lobsters for dinner, turned that little one loose, and set off. And ended up having two lobsters for dinner, with one left over for tomorrow! Miraculous.

Mount Desert, The Long Way Around

11 Sunday Aug 2013

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Yesterday morning (Friday, August 10) I set out from Mackerel Cove with the idea that I would go east. West wind, directly behind, unhappy autopilot, traffic in the form of power mega yachts, and me thinking “there has got to be a better way.”

So on the theory that the autopilot would be happier, which makes me much happier – constant steering uses up way too many stamina points in a given amount of time – I turned north into Blue Hill Bay, on the west side of Mount Desert Island and Acadia National Park. I was grouchy about this, and frustrated that, because of timing related to an outside world commitment, I did not continue sailing two days before when the wind was perfect and easy. That day there was not even any traffic, with the lousy weather forecast and obvious rain coming. Given a similar choice in the future, I’ll be sailing!

However, I’ve been having quite a bit of fun, regardless. Sailing up Blue Hill Bay wasn’t so easy, because the wind farther up the bay was northwest, instead of west or southwest down where I first turned. But it was fascinating watching the transition. I even got faked out and turned back south, thinking that the wind had shifted northwest everywhere. Shortly I was back in the west/southwest area… turning north again. First I thought that the lobster boats would think I was a little crazy, but then I decided I would just look like a daysailor, even though that’s something I almost never do (daysailing – who knows what I look like!) Then it was back to tacking north, struggling to turn the corner past Moose Island.

That night – after a long day of fussy sailing – was spent at the north end of Bartlett Narrows, which was quite pretty and fairly peaceful. The goal was Mount Desert Narrows, for a little wild fun going the long way around the island. The vertical clearance for the highway bridge that crosses the Narrows is 25 feet at high tide, and quite a bit more when the tide is down. This boat only needs 20, so that looked fine. No information on the current, in either the current tables or cruising guides. And mention in one of the cruising guides that the shallow channel is entirely unmarked. Oh, I said, they probably have sticks or something put out by the local people… but just to be on the safe side I waited for half tide, rising, to give it a try. The chart shows about 1 foot of water in the channel at low, and surrounding mud flats as well as rocks (this boat needs a little less than 2 feet in order to stay floating). Half tide would mean about 6 feet of water in the channel, and likely water over the mudflats. I figured if worse came to worst and I stuck on one of the mud flats, perhaps with current problems, I would just let the anchor down and wait for another hour or two of water to arrive.

As it turned out, I scooted through without mishap, but it was fascinating. No local markers. In the wide entrance before the bridge, no current. Under the bridge, about 2 knots running westbound, but I had a good breeze behind me. Actually, it was nice to have the opposing current, which helped slow the boat with the wind directly behind. The bridge pylons aren’t very far apart, so it was nice to go at a more moderate, controlled pace. I had considered reefing ahead of time, but was worried about losing the wind under the bridge and having to deal with whatever current I was going to find in that tight space. So too much sail felt like a better option than not enough – bridges are notorious for completely blocking the wind while you are under them, which can get very stressful if current starts pushing you toward the pylons.

The trickiest part with the channel issues in Mount Desert Narrows is on the east side of the bridge, and the water isn’t as clear as most of the coast. At one point I saw weeds about a foot down, indicating a rock just below that… mostly through cosmic grace, no other rocks materialized so close, and I never did see the mud. I took my best guess at the more southerly channel, swinging around toward the shore and staying away from the big rocks in the middle. No current on the eastern side either – just in that tight little squeeze under the bridge where the Narrows are practically dammed off for the highway, with just one little gap that’s an actual bridge.

So that’s my adrenaline story for the day! Then several more hours of fussy sailing, with the wind shifting all over as it moved around the thousand foot mountains of Acadia. It actually would have been less hand steering to have just sailed west from the beginning – but I’ve had a great adventure! I don’t think I’ll go around this way again, but it was really fun to do once.

Now I’m near the north end of Frenchman Bay, in the Eastern Harbor at Sorrento. Thank you Kent, for pointing out this harbor! I’m anchored in a small bit of a cove on the south side of the harbor, right underneath my own personal steep rocky cliff! The light wasn’t right for a picture, but maybe in the morning. It’s very, very beautiful. Tonight a meteor shower is forecast, so the anchor light is going to have a vacation, and I’m hoping that the clouds and the fog hold off. It’s a tossup about tomorrow – maybe a day of rest!

Tools for Well-Being: EFT, TRE, and Yamuna Body Rolling

10 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by in How Does This Work

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Besides all the technical details of planning, provisioning, sailing, etc., doing something like this kind of trip involves a good bit of work on how you get yourself through it, body and spirit. It’s often just plain fun, which does the trick just fine at those times. But being out, particularly for so long, is also challenging, both physically and in terms of how it feels emotionally. I have a small but sturdy collection of tools that help keep my personal well-being reasonably in order, on both counts.

On the body front, along with basic things like regular exercises and attending to sore muscles, including carrying a “thera-cane” on board to be able to easily and effectively work on back and shoulder muscles, I’ve also been working with a variation on Yamuna Body Rolling (thank you Joanne!) Ordinarily this version of bodywork self-care involves using a soft ball about 10 inches in diameter, but the small boat version is scaled down, with a firmer ball about 5 inches in diameter. It works well for following muscles, using one’s body weight to apply gentle pressure from where the muscles begin to where they attach at the far end, helping them release and let go. This helps not only the muscles but nearby nerves, connective tissue, etc. That’s a tiny description of a more involved process, but if anybody is interested it’s easy to find out more at: http://www.yamunabodyrolling.com I’m particularly fond of the book Body Rolling: An Experiential Approach to Complete Muscle Release, by Yamuna Zake. Though this book is directed toward bodywork practitioners, it’s a gold mine for anybody who’s inclined to really get into the subject, regardless of background.

The bottom line, on the body front, is that along with good food and a moderate collection of favorite supplements, quite a bit of time doing bodywork has been really helpful. Days in quiet harbors are a real treat for this, and have made the difference between this whole boat project being doable and simply not.

And then there’s the inner work. I do a lot of this anyway, at home, in the process of working through old history. But I’ve been surprised to find that the same tools I’ve come to for working on old issues have been very, very useful for the more immediate strains of sailing/cruising. The two from which I get the most mileage are EFT (Emotional Freedom Techniques) and TRE (Trauma Releasing Exercises).

EFT involves tapping on a series of acupuncture points, while focusing on the particular issue at hand. The theory is that this releases blockages in the energy meridians, leading to more ease and comfort, both physically and emotionally. One of the lovely things about it is that there is no need to force a dividing line between physical and emotional experience – whatever seems primary, whether it’s fear of the rocks, or pain in a shoulder, one can go through the EFT routine focused on that issue, and allow the strain to move, and change, following and tapping one’s way through, and out the other side of, wherever it leads. Surprisingly often doing this makes a real difference, creating ease where before there was anything but.

There’s a lot of material on the Internet about EFT these days, some of it better than others. The book that I like the best is The Promise of Energy Psychology, by David Feinstein, Donna Eden, and Gary Craig. It’s coherent, and low on hype, and does a good job of explaining some of the more detailed levels of what’s going on and how to best use this tool. On the Internet there is https://www.emofree.com/eft-tutorial/tapping-basics/how-to-do-eft.html which is the website run by Gary Craig, who first worked out and continues to develop EFT. Free tutorials are available on that site, both text and video, and with a bit of time one can very effectively teach oneself how to work with EFT and begin using it. (I’m probably going to say this about a million times on this blog – I’m not affiliated with any of these folks, and I’m not getting anything for making any of these references. I just like their work, and I’ve gotten a lot from it.)

On the sailing front, I have used EFT for everything from fear of leaving a harbor to mortification over discovering that when I anchored at 9 PM in the dark in a small, unfamiliar harbor I ended up square in the middle of the channel, which became obvious at six in the morning when just about every lobster boat in the harbor was squeezing by about 3 feet away. EFT is great for mortification…

It’s a broad subject, potential topics for EFT work while sailing, but I’ll leave it there.

There are also things that happen while sailing/cruising that can be really, really scary. Sometimes this is because present events resonate with old ones, and, hopefully not often, sometimes this is because a present event has had the potential for real catastrophe. For these situations, I start with EFT – sometimes during, if it doesn’t interfere with appropriate action in the moment, and almost always after. And a funny thing can happen in the time when it’s safe to relax after the event is over, and one has the space to settle in with what’s going on internally. Bodies have a way of releasing fear, tension, and stress, by shaking it out – the kind of shaking that many people have experienced after something like a car accident. The technical term for this shaking is “neurogenic tremors.” Trauma Releasing Exercises are a technique for accessing those body tremors, but I’ve found that once one is familiar with what’s going on it’s easy enough to just let them happen, and run themselves out, with no need for specific exercises. There is fascinating work, done by David Berceli, on this subject.

Berceli has written a couple of books and produced DVDs based on his work, which has been done primarily with survivors of war trauma and survivors of extreme natural disasters, particularly the big earthquakes in China, and I believe with the tsunami that did so much terrible damage a few years ago. Unfortunately you can’t just get all the information on the Internet – but one can understand that a person needs to make a living! It’s just a little less convenient to have to actually order the book or a DVD (my how times have changed!) I found the shorter book, titled Trauma Releasing Exercises (TRE): a revolutionary new method for trauma/stress recovery (2005) really useful.

Anyway, the technique of actively choosing to shake out the effects of seriously scary situations has been really, really useful to me. It’s so simple, is grounded in what other mammals on the planet do routinely, and is incredibly effective for moving beyond difficult experiences.

People bring up with me fairly often this subject of fear, when it comes to being out and about this way, sailing a good distance from home. And of course I get scared, or worried, or significantly stressed about one or another aspect of being out on the water. I’m a person who’s prone to worry anyhow, and there are, after all, significant concerns, given weather, rocks, equipment issues, and the multitude of judgment calls involved in sailing. The real answer is yes, it can be scary – or embarrassing, or a number of versions of distressing, or sometimes simply infuriating (for exactly how long is that wind going to NOT blow?) – but it’s just a bit more of a compressed version of everyday Life. It’s the tools for moving through these everyday events that make it doable. What I love about being off in the boat is that being out here also provides space for moving through everything that doing this brings up in the first place. And the more one moves through, the more peaceful the whole business gets. It’s a fascinating process, and that fascination is part of what keeps me so engaged with the whole undertaking.

I used to do this kind of distance sailing without most of the above-mentioned tools. And of course I found other ways to deal with the very same strains. But I like it better this way. There’s nothing like the right tool for a job.

Progress Report

09 Friday Aug 2013

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Now that the Internet is relatively accessible again, I’ve been gradually posting the entries that had been accumulating during the Internet lull. There are still a couple more of those, but it seems like a progress report is in order!

I am writing this in Mackerel Cove, on the north side of Swans Island. Swans Island is a big one, alongside the open sea, within nearby sight of Acadia National Park. A couple of days ago I went into Burnt Coat Harbor, on the south end of Swans Island, and had the great pleasure of visiting with Bill Cheney. A lot of south wind was forecast for the upcoming days, with rain and thunderstorms, so Bill’s end of the harbor – the north end of a harbor on the south side of the island – didn’t seem like such a good spot to settle. After a peaceful night and that lovely morning visit, when the breeze started to come up around noon I headed off.

Swans Island is very, very beautiful. Rocks, trees, and I was surprised to find on the west side, a perfect white sandy beach, with small dunes and green salt grass growing on the top – like something you’d see on Cape Cod – tucked in between all the pink granite that comes out from the shore at either end of the beach. And the fir trees growing down almost to the high tide line.

Continuing around the northwest corner of the island there are more coves, gradually more sheltered from the south and west. I spent one night in Buckle Harbor, hugely enjoying the peacefulness after all the flurry of lobster boats and the big annual folk festival in Burnt Coat Harbor. The south wind was beginning though, and although perfectly safe, I wasn’t wild about how directly the wind fed across the low land and stretch of shallow water to my spot. It wasn’t going to be so fun when that wind picked up another few notches.

So at 6 the next morning it was anchor up, sails up, and a nice little exploring trip around the corner into Mackerel Cove. It was hugely tempting to make it a big sailing day – once around the corner from Buckle Harbor it was a straight shot past Mount Desert Island, with the outlying islands on the other side of the path, and the most perfect wind direction to sail easily toward the outside of the farthest visible point about 10 miles away to the east. It was forecast to rain, and the thick dark clouds were piling up to the west, but it looked perfectly nice and cheery up ahead, with the sun shining through gaps in the much lighter eastern clouds. Looking behind, you could see rain falling two or three miles away…

I debated right up until the last second where a turn was required for the harbor option. Complicating the question was that I had a once every three weeks phone meeting due to take place at 5:30 that evening. And phone connections are not guaranteed in every nice harbor. Never mind nice protection from the upcoming weather.

It was a real shame to pass up that lovely wind – the autopilot hates it when the wind is off the stern, which it will be when this weather clears out, and it was so perfectly, easily content with how things were going. And being rained on is no reason not to go sailing. But all in all, with the balance of everything, it was probably the best choice to go in. It took another hour to tack into the south end of Mackerel Cove, and for a while the breeze half died, reminding me for the zillionth time that sailing and schedules are not a good combination. As it turned out, after the boat was anchored and settled and various chores taken care of, the rain began and I fell sound asleep for a good couple hours. So I guess a little rest was in order, rather than sailing all day!

Now, the next day, it’s blowing about 15 knots in the harbor (more rain, and thunderstorms), and I’m quite delighted to be tucked in here. Anchoring plan A didn’t work out, in the bight along the west side of Mackerel Cove – 11 (ELEVEN!) other boats had had the same idea about the weather and that spot – but I saw a couple of masts farther down, and as it turns out the next little cove around the corner is just perfect. Hills with trees to the south, and the bottom sloping enough that I was able to get reasonably close to the shore. And a phone connection, and that connection strong enough to support the Internet gizmo. And then for an extra treat, a visit from one of Bill’s friends, who recognized the boat and rowed out in his dinghy to say hello. All pretty nice!

Tomorrow the weather is forecast to clear out, with a west wind of 10 to 15 knots, so I expect I’ll be off. It’ll be fun to see the mountains in Acadia come out of the clouds.

Thoughts on Rescue

08 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by in Why Go Sailing

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There’s a thing that happens in boats, that has really caught my attention. You get out onto the water, and suddenly an enormous number of total strangers care about your well-being. I am fascinated by this, and am studying.

The basics are pretty simple: you do your very best to stay out of trouble, taking care with everything from knowledge to equipment to weather, tides and currents. Your judgment develops with each passing experience, whether it goes well or not quite so much. And all the time, people on the water are looking out for each other. It’s even in the law – the requirement that if a boater is able to provide assistance to another boater in distress without placing her/himself at risk, one is legally bound to do so.

There are all manner of safety equipment and distress signals carried on board: radios, EPIRBs (Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacons), flares, flashing lights, distress flags, dye markers, signal mirrors, and more. Items strapped to lifejackets, and the lifejackets themselves. If you float longer, there’s a better chance that somebody (including yourself) will be able to fish you out of the water.

I carry most of these items, but I draw the line at the EPIRB. This is because I question whether I am willing to set off a signal like that. Not put to the test, I think that if I get myself into trouble, I should get myself out. And even more importantly, I should not invite other people into trouble in order to solve a problem I made for myself. Though I do have a satellite phone and GPS, so the door is not entirely closed. And I am very aware that even thinking about this as a question is a luxury of sailing alone.

On the broader plane, there are so many too many people on the planet presently, with the Earth utterly overburdened by our expanding presence, and our incredibly extravagant use of resources. So although I like it here, and it would, I know, be personally sad to the people with whom I am connected, one more person leaving the planet, honestly, does not seem worthy of ships and helicopters and enormous effort and materials just to stave off (postpone) that end. Never mind that in other situations the powers that be are actively trying to do people in, for one reason or another (thinking drones in Pakistan, for example.) The question is: why does going to sea suddenly make one person’s well-being so incredibly valuable, and important?

This is the voice of an abuse survivor. Total strangers talk with me intently, obviously caring about the outcome, encouraging me to be safe and well, in this time on the water. It is perfectly clear to me that if the boat were sinking they would instantly come to my aid. And that’s a good feeling, but it leaves me asking: what about before? Child in the hands of people who should not be so entrusted. Why is it that suddenly, you go out on a boat, and everybody cares. They will move mountains in order to rescue one little person who has, even stupidly, with poor planning, preparation, or judgment, gotten themselves into trouble. But on land, children, people with poor health, all those who have “fallen through the cracks,” are so terribly, terribly on their own.

I lived for many years, as a child, at the bottom of one of those cracks, and then it happened again, as an adult, as a result of combinations of poor health, finances, and a learning curve for dealing with life changes that was beyond my capabilities at the time. They were long, long emergencies, which I guess is exactly the problem. Eventually things changed, probably in both cases because of aging and developing maturity, and now here I am, sailing the salt water. But I look at those emergencies, and I look at people on the water so quick to respond, and I ponder. Child inside asking, “where were you then?” And even more important, in this present, “what about the children now?”

So this is the big question: how is it that our society is so carefully, and effectively, structured for ocean rescue, while in so many settings people live or die, suffer, unaided.

But before I rush to judgment, thinking about family members, neighbors, who hesitate to intervene, to perceive, officials who don’t understand what’s happening, or worse, are part of the problem, I have to look directly at myself.

Nowadays, I am blessed with the resource of a comfortable amount of cash. Abundant enough that if I’m careful, and pay attention, I can do pretty much whatever I want (fortunately I have no interest in fancy cars, fancier houses, or quite a few other things that could make a decent amount of cash look small.) Anyway, I have more than enough. And here’s the tricky part: not everybody does.

So how do I address the long emergencies of so many people I know. Not to mention the broader community on the planet. What happens to relationships when you “simply” share. What happens when you don’t. I have tried this so many ways, and the gift from this terrible question has been understanding my past. And coming to some kind of answer about the question of ocean rescue.

I think that ocean rescue is so well set up because it’s easy. The resources aren’t easy, and the tasks aren’t easy. But it’s immediate, it’s anonymous, and it doesn’t last. If I died tomorrow I could leave money to 10 different people, perhaps helping. Or perhaps not helping, which is another one of the ironies of money, and of attempts at help in general. But if I’m living, and offering that help, it is endlessly complicated. And nowadays, I am much slower to do it, for those reasons.

Ocean rescue, it seems to me, is so successful because it deals with the other side of the same issue. So many of us so intensely want to help, in so many situations. But in so many situations the action of help is utterly fraught, and leads to outcomes that do not necessarily inspire doing it again. On a boat on the water, “helping” is so much simpler. People are free to care, and they embrace that freedom, with intensity, and with commitment. They rescue small boats, they rescue small people – and big ones. Nobody asks questions when somebody is floating in their life jacket, and nobody hesitates. They pull them out of the water. It’s the same dynamic as a land emergency – fire, traffic accident, some natural disasters – but on a boat, in the everyday non-emergency, this care for other people’s well-being seems to be more routinely expressed, in that intent look, and wishes for staying safe.

So now the challenge is this: how do we translate that enormous triumph of spirit, that unconstrained caring, to our everyday lives, once again on solid ground. How do we translate “helping” into a community standard, so that falling through societal cracks elicits the same response as somebody on the ocean tumbling out of a boat. I’m continuing to study…

Fungus Gnats!

06 Tuesday Aug 2013

Posted by in Sailing the Farm

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A few weeks ago the farm suffered a setback – fungus gnats! After all that care with the “pathogen free” potting soil and everything. The containers in the cabin all had them, as did the containers with deeper soil that generally stay in the cockpit, at that time with chard and chickweed.

On the bright side, I knew what I was looking at. Over the next two days I had a feast on all the sunflower and broccoli and pea sprouts that were inside the cabin, and the soil went into a sealed plastic bag. The cockpit plants got to keep going, since at least the gnats were outdoors (rather than buzzing my face), and Suzanne and I had a shore-support meeting planned for about a week later. The almost immediate harvest of the indoor plants staved off the annoyance of fungus gnats flying all over the place, since their population had not yet really gotten into gear, and because I knew what I was dealing with I didn’t start any new indoor containers while the cockpit population was still present.

Before the gnats issue surfaced, Suzanne and I had already planned to swap cockpit containers. She was bringing a new one that she had started with lettuce plants a few weeks before, and I would be giving her back the one with the chard, which was having issues with its cockpit location. Since the chickweed was especially infested, when Suzanne came she took that container away also – I was sad to lose it, but have some ideas about how to do this better, collecting seeds from the chickweed plants at home rather than digging up plants and soil. Chickweed – so often weeded out rather than harvested – is incredibly nutritious and quite tasty, as well as being a good laxative, and thrives when the weather gets cool and moist, as it does when one goes up the coast and fall comes around. Suzanne also brought a yogurt container with a lovely, thriving parsley plant. At home I eat a lot of parsley, not really as an herb, but as a leafy green. It’s loaded with things that are good for you, is strengthening for bladder issues, and I’ve developed a real taste for it. It’s been a treat to have such a nice, big plant.

For most of the last couple of weeks since Suzanne’s visit I didn’t do any new indoor planting, allowing a bit of a quarantine period for the new containers with the lettuce and parsley, even though they were originally staying mainly outside. No gnats in sight, so about five days ago, in clean containers, I got to plant some more seeds for the cabin racks. Sunflower, buckwheat, and chard, one container each. No worm compost this time – it’s not labeled as “pathogen free,” and it seems like a possible source for the gnats. It’s also possible that the cockpit chickweed container was the gnat source, and being flying creatures, some of them moved indoors, so the idea is to rule out various possibilities one by one. So far so good.

Lately the parsley seems happier indoors, and I’ve taken to moving the lettuce container inside whenever I am sailing, even when there is no obvious spray. Little brown spots on the leaves have looked like more spray than is apparent is getting to the plants. They go out for the coolness in the night, and for days in harbor, and seem to do well with the rain and fog we’ve been having. The lettuce had been starting to bolt already when it arrived, what with that intense, ongoing hot weather that was all over southern New England in July, but since things have cooled off it does not seem to be shooting right up, so I’m hopeful that I’ll have it for another while. The parsley is growing fast enough to replace the sprigs I’ve been picking every day or two, which is very encouraging, and it makes a pretty kind of house plant here in the window. Still no gnats in sight, even with the deep-soil containers coming indoors.

So now the sunflowers are sprouting, as they do so readily, and I’m happy to say that both the chard and the buckwheat started coming up a few days ago. The buckwheat is particularly energetic, so I guess the reason it wasn’t working before had to do with old seeds. When Suzanne came to South Freeport she brought fresher ones – I’d had the other batch in the cupboard for longer than I should have, probably two or three years. None of these were seeds for planting, just raw buckwheat, from places that sell raw foods. The ones that are doing so well came from Raw from the Farm, an Internet store by that name, but it’s very possible that any bulk buckwheat groats from the natural food store would do just as well. It’s probably good to get the kind that still have their hulls.

So that’s the latest on the farm. I’m really liking how well the yogurt container with the parsley is doing, and am thinking that two or three more yogurt container plants, with more substantial soil than the little sprouts containers, might work out just fine. If the tiny chard sprouts grow well, then in addition to harvesting small leaves, one or two of the plants might work as transplants in yogurt containers, intended to grow larger for picking big leaves.

The broccoli from the previous batch of planting started off with very leggy little plants, so I started putting the container outside for full light when it was convenient, and harvested the really long skinny ones. The next ones that sprouted were behaving better (all before the big gnat-inspired harvest). Some time with outdoor light may be necessary for the chard also. So far the buckwheat, which sprouting resources refer to as “buckwheat lettuce,” seems to be growing properly with the available indoor window light, with broad little lettuce-like leaves, though the plants are still only about an inch tall. The sunflowers always get a bit tall, but they have nice thick stems, and the stems are just as tasty as the leaves, so it feels like a perfectly fine way for them to grow. And they love the heat inside the cabin, so they just get to do their thing in here.

That’s about it for plants excitement. What with lots of recent visiting, folks have been bringing me everything from blueberries, microgreens, and a new supply of romaine lettuce, to garden lettuce, zucchini, and foraged seaside greens and flower petals, which have all been a huge, enormous treat. Thank you, thank you, Patsy, Polly, and Reilly! With the farm still being in development – and then round two of the fungus gnats – it’s been a real treat to have an abundance of vegetables from off the boat!

Kneeling Camel

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by in the boat

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Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Last week I tweaked something in my arm, and a substantial rest, of at least several days, was in order. This situation may have had something to do with the ladder, and swimming. We’ve had an enormous run of hot weather (now changed, I’m happy to say) so I was really hoping to do some more swimming, but minus the ladder.

At this time, I was anchored in the outer cove on the east side of Little Whaleboat Island in Casco Bay. This is a beautiful, beautiful spot, and as an overnight stop it’s ideal. As a place to stay for days it’s not quite so exciting, because there are an enormous number of lobster pots in the nearby water, and the boats tending those pots, and charging along between locations, make for an enormous number of boat wakes. Getting knocked around by boat wakes – especially at anchor – is one of my least favorite aspects of this entire boat undertaking…

Meantime, there is a narrow cove around the corner from the spot where I was anchored. At high tide this island is two islands, and at low tide the two are joined by a substantial sandbar across the west end of the slot between the islands, and they are also almost connected by a more moderate sandbar across the east end of the narrow channel. A shallow pool is formed in the middle between the sandbars, during each low tide. I had my eye on that spot with the pool.

A boat with a long shallow keel, like this one, is well-suited to letting the tide go out underneath it, so that it rests about halfway over on its side on the sand or the mud. I had done this by accident last year, but it had been on my mind to try it again with more planning. One of the good things about letting the boat go down on the bottom is that the low side of the cockpit allows for stepping right off the boat – no ladder needed! And another good thing is that you don’t get a lot of company nearby because of the shallow water, which is perfect in a crowded summer bay.

Not every sandbar or muddy cove is ideal for doing this drying out thing. It’s important that when the boat is making the transition between floating and not floating that there are no big waves or boat wakes heaving it up and down, causing hard landings. That cove at Little Whaleboat is so inviting because of the two sandbars and because there are also protecting outer rocks at the entrance to the cove. While one is floating, virtually no boat wakes make it all the way inside. Heavenly. As I’m writing this in Potts Harbor, it’s boat wake city, reminding me of just how special a quiet piece of water is!

For all these reasons, going into the inner cove at Little Whaleboat looked like the perfect thing to do – out of the wakes, not to mention any actual wind waves, absolutely, stunningly beautiful, and an ideal setting for experimenting with letting the boat go down on the bottom. And besides, it really was time to stop for a little while.

The tide was low around noon, so at about 10 in the morning it worked out just fine to pull up the anchor and go around the corner. The lobster boats were hard at it, so there was loads of inspiration. Just that little sail made it very apparent that stopping to rest was pretty much the only choice – nothing like necessity to help in a decision-making process! So into the cove it was, anchored in the deepest spot I could find in what was going to be that central shallow pool.

It was a lot of fun to watch the boat settle, and even more to step off into 6 inches of water. Nice sand would have been a treat – but why be fussy! The only tricky part was the shells mixed in the soft mud. I tried water shoes, but the ankle-deep mud just sucked them right off, so it was back to bare feet. I have the knicks to prove that boots would be a good idea. My friend Anke, who sails, and is familiar with grounding out for extended periods of time, in southeast Alaska, brought up the subject of boots last year when I was talking about doing stuff like this, and she was so right. I’m going to work on that. In the meantime, nearby there was just enough water to swim/float, which was a nicer way to get around.

The boat stayed down for about two hours, resting at a little less than 30° off from level. This adventure inspired me to finally install the gizmo called a clinometer, kind of like a level, that shows degrees of heel on a boat. Better than television for entertainment… and useful for understanding what’s happening in more detail. The boat went all the way down, and then a little while later it came up again – no big fuss, just like it was a regular day, even though the boat had managed to drift back over its anchor and came down with the forward part of the keel resting squarely across it. Part of the mud adventures involved taking a second anchor out the other way to prevent this happening again…

When everything was once again upright the whole process seemed pretty doable, so I decided to stay. The tide is low roughly every 12 hours, so at midnight we did it all again, minus the swimming, and with the second anchor keeping the boat from coming down where it shouldn’t. The interior of the boat was rearranged so that nothing would fall, and my berth had every soft thing available – pillows, fleece blankets, and most of the clothing – moved into the long, low corner between the berth and the side of the boat, in order to make a surface that was reasonably level while everything else was over at 30°.

As it turned out, I did this for three days and three nights, through six cycles of low tide. It was pretty much a clinic on letting the boat dry out. Anchors were adjusted, small but undesirable rocks were avoided with further anchor adjustment, interior stowage of things prone to falling was refined, the nicely exposed bottom of the boat was cleaned, and my case of nerves about going through this particular exercise was vastly reduced.

By the last round, low tide #6 in the middle of the night, I thought it had really been quite enough. But the issue was more that I didn’t want to go through the production, rather than that I was worried about it. What a nice change! And during that last round I tried something different with the berth arrangement that worked particularly well, and slept through two hours of the boat being down. The moon had gotten full over these three days, making for much higher and lower tides, so the last round left the boat truly high and dry, and over on its side for more like four hours rather than the original two. But I was sleeping for a good part of that, which was just great.

All in all this exercise was a success. I did set out to try the beaching legs on the second day – these are special boards that go in brackets on the sides of the boat, and if they work, the boat stays level, resting on its keel and kept from tipping over by these stilt-like legs. They use these in Great Britain quite a lot, and I’ve been looking for the perfect opportunity for a test. Sadly, the special boards, and probably the brackets themselves, have all swelled up, what with being out to sea and all, and the boards were too tight to go into the brackets. But I learned a lot about trying to set the legs themselves, and about details to do with the square plywood boards that go underneath the legs so the legs won’t sink in the mud. Now I’m full of ideas about how to make another version of legs, and am looking forward to getting to try this again. There’s nothing like being over at 30°, repeatedly, to inspire further thought on keeping the boat level!

There are some interesting details that came up through all those drying out repetitions. Twice, the boat didn’t go over so far. When it was resting on its side it was at something more like 18 to 20°. Because of the anchoring arrangement it came down in somewhat different locations each time, and must have found the perfect spot to let the keel down a little lower, and to support the side of the boat a little higher. This is consistent with when I went over by accident last year, when it was at more like 15°. Looking at the photograph from this current experience, (likely to be added later, when I have a stronger Internet connection) one would think that if the boat was lying toward the beach rather than away from it that all this would be explained. But it’s not so simple – on the last night it worked out to have the boat go down toward the beach, but it was at its familiar 27 or so degrees regardless.

If a boat beaches in a storm, it’s crucial that it lies down toward the beach – otherwise, when the tide comes back the waves will come toward the low side and the boat can be flooded before it has a chance to come up. There are sad stories about this. In this little cove I wasn’t so worried, and indeed wanted to see if lying away from the beach would make much of a difference. As it turns out, because of the shape of the hull this boat begins to float beautifully very early in the process of coming back up, so it doesn’t feel like a worry in a protected setting. But it was nice to confirm that. Either way, the bottom of that little pool is pretty flat, so it wasn’t such an issue. On more of a slope I’d be careful to encourage the boat to go down on the preferred side.

Another of the interesting bits that came out of all this is how mobile the boat is even when you would think that it was down for the duration. In one of the daytime rounds, when I really wanted the boat down on its port side so I could clean the starboard hull, I waited to do something in the cockpit that involved me moving onto the starboard side of the seats, staying on the port side until after it seemed like the boat had settled with that side down. As I finally scooted over to sit on the starboard bench, up came the boat, and it settled over to starboard! I quickly zipped back to the other side and miraculously up the boat came again and back down to port. This was a real surprise given the angle of heel. I don’t have a measurement for that, but it was fairly significant. It’s good information to have in case of a less-planned situation, when one might assume that it isn’t even worth trying. It’s a real surprise to feel the boat come right up like that – it doesn’t match one’s intuitive sense of the physics.

Which brings me to another funny thing about boats over on their sides. For one thing, it can make you feel really seasick, which is ironic considering that the time when you feel most seasick is when the boat is solidly immobile on the ground. But it’s like a funhouse – one of those roadside attractions when you drive across the country, advertised on billboards for 100 miles beforehand, saying come see the Anti-Gravity House. All the angles are wrong, and marbles (appear to) roll uphill. With the boat on its side, most especially inside the cabin, and even more especially in the dark at night, visual cues are completely skewed. The curtains hang at the most bizarre angle, and it takes time to feel for where to brace yourself to actually move around. The second night I rolled all the curtains up beforehand, and put away the hanging washcloth and towel, which made things look a lot less alarming. It really felt like being on the set for a supernatural movie. Something about the stillness of being aground really contributes to this – it’s never felt like an issue while sailing, even when the angles can get just as severe. For one thing, in such a small boat, while sailing it’s always a very changeable situation, though I imagine on a big keelboat it could be different. Either way, solid on the ground and the curtains hanging like something in Star Trek took real getting used to.

It’s extraordinary how visual cues on familiar objects are so important to one’s sense of equilibrium, as well as to one’s sense of “everything being okay.” The brain science folks must have a field day with this, but I really didn’t expect it. It’s as if going on the ground turns the boat into a house – rooted to the earth, suddenly it matters desperately that vertical objects stay vertical, and that frames of reference maintain their place. It was literally impossible, for me, to find the true horizontal plane just by feeling for it. After awhile, sometime into all those repetitions, I spent some time entertaining myself by eating pistachios in the dark with the cabin light, dropping the shells one by one, watching their angle of fall to see the line of true vertical. It still makes my head go buzzy just thinking about it, but it was an absolutely fascinating experience.

For now, I’m thoroughly enjoying sleeping through entire nights with a regular, right side up boat. But I’m glad to have expanded my familiarity with going aground. It’s a useful thing to be able to do for so many reasons: access to quiet coves; safety in big storms, grounded out up a quiet creek; access to the bottom of the boat for cleaning or repair; and, like my friend Dave first described it, a route on and off of the boat without a ladder – like a kneeling camel. A friendly camel, who really looks after you.

The Internet Afloat

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by in How Does This Work

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Friday, August 2, 2013

My Internet access has become extremely limited as this trip has progressed along the coast of Maine. This is because the Internet gizmo that plugs into the USB port of the computer relates to a company that does better farther south. That would be T-Mobile.

So now, an upgrade is in progress. I never used to care terribly about not having e-mail while sailing, and it became a treat to not use the computer for a week at a time. But now I have a blog! And I’m enjoying the process of writing, and up until the Internet connection stopped working well enough, I was enjoying putting things up in a somewhat regular way. Now, several posts have been written, and are waiting their turns. This one is by way of explanation, so that when things eventually work out, the sudden collection of posts will make some kind of sense.

Presently, myself and boat are anchored by Birch Island. This is in the small archipelago that defines the Muscle Ridge Channel, south and a little east of Rockland, Maine, on the west side of Penobscot Bay. “Muscle” is actually spelled that way in this case – according to the cruising guide, that’s the archaic spelling for the small blue shellfish. Any way around, it’s a lovely spot, with a sandy beach on Birch Island, and extraordinary quarried granite on islands on the other side of the anchorage.

The quarrying history has its sadness – in a 50 year flurry of people and machinery, many islands in this region were terribly torn up, their granite hauled to Boston and New York for historic buildings, and the islands left lower, with piles of broken rock tailings and giant rectangular blocks made into wharves that were used for loading the ships during the original quarrying process. It’s a mixed history, but those granite wharves are pretty amazing to see.

The other especially attractive thing about this anchorage is that it’s the home base for Mainstay Provisions, a business run by a woman named Reilly Harvey. Each evening around five o’clock she brings her specially outfitted workboat around the anchorage – cooking lobster! Boatside service, with lobster, sometimes steamers, sometimes chowder, and all manner of baked treats and salads. Particularly because I don’t get off the boat very much, this is my idea of perfect heaven! It’s the ideal place to stay for a few days.

Which brings me back to the Internet process. Yesterday Suzanne went to Best Buy (thank you Mike for tracking down the best way to do this!) and got a new gadget, which is now in the mail to my Aunt Patsy who lives on the other side of the Muscle Ridge Channel. The gadget is a Verizon “jet pack” – apparently also called an “air card.” The idea is that it uses a signal from a cell tower to make a little Wi-Fi hotspot.

I originally set out to get a smart phone – I’ve been resisting these things for a while but the idea is that they too can make their own little Wi-Fi hotspot. Then the fellow in the store said oh, well if that’s what you want it for, how about this thing – the jet pack – which is cheaper, has a $20/month plan for 2 GB of service, and according to him provides a better Internet signal. So I said yes, and it’s on its way. We’ll know if it works by if anybody besides me gets to read this post right here!

This undertaking was not without its complications. Suzanne had to become an authorized person on my phone account in order to set up the new gizmo in the store, which meant that I had to reach a real human being at Verizon, which is no small feat, and then call Suzanne and the salesperson back in the store to let them know that was done. Explanations of the myriad equipment/plan choices happened between me, Suzanne, the salesperson, and on and on.

None of this would have been a big deal if I had not been sailing at the time that Suzanne was in the store finding all this out! And talking on the phone while sailing would not have been a big deal if the wind had blown a little more, or I had more understanding of the current dynamics in the channel out of Seal Harbor, or I had the good sense to postpone either the phone calls or the departure from the harbor. As it was, phone calls were interrupted – priorities being the way the current was sweeping the boat directly toward the rocky point on the north side of the harbor entrance. You would think that the current would divide around the point, and sweep the boat either to one side or to the other. No dice. Straight toward the rocky point. No giant breakers or anything, but really too close. So I caved and started the motor, with some significant exasperation, mainly at myself for getting into this situation. “Needing” the motor, in the way that I’ve been using it, is a scorecard that indicates room for improvement, in one way or another, whether in planning, or preparation, or decision-making along the way.

There were several lessons from this experience. First, and most obvious, it doesn’t matter how important whatever is on the other end of the telephone seems – if there is the least question on the here and now sailing front, the phone has got to go. The motor worked, there was no terrible danger, the outcome was fine, but an example of good seamanship it was not. If I had been paying full attention I would have continued making tacks in the tiny breeze as I saw the boat entering the stream of the stiffer current. I had been actually making progress, using this strategy, gradually making headway toward getting around that point without mechanical means, though it was a question whether the flooding current was going to increase too much for the failing wind even with careful attention. Anyway, we won’t know, because I was busy on the phone, and not giving the here-and-now situation my full attention.

As it was, I got off the phone anyway without having resolved things, ran the motor, got the boat around the point and into the main stream of the current going north, shut off the motor and went back to sailing. Once things were completely calm, the phone process was picked up again and also resolved. I am absolutely, perfectly delighted to have made this much progress with the Internet gizmo – but the biggest lesson I am taking from this experience is to improve my decision-making on the mix between sailing and phones.

It’s easy to take phone use while sailing for granted, because unlike cars, on a fast day this boat is going about 5 mph, and on a day like yesterday about 1, and “traffic” often means you can see another boat passing about a mile away. But still… better lines need to be drawn. And in the face of competing priorities, the here and now needs to be first. Funny how electronics can be so seductive – if the person on the other end of the line was in a crisis and my participation could make a difference, I would still bend towards staying on the phone, but I’m going to be much, much more alert for the simple non-crisis priority questions.

Now, at the end of all this, the gizmo is in the mail, due to arrive across the channel either tomorrow (Saturday) or Monday. One way or another it will make the last bit of travel connection, and we’ll see if it works! Here’s hoping. Meantime, this is a great place to sit in the rain and the fog, watching the beautiful islands.

Winter modifications, now in use

15 Monday Jul 2013

Posted by in the boat

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We did so many projects over the winter of 2012/2013. It’s tremendous getting to try them all out, some of them getting everyday use. Gradually the boat is getting more and more workable. Here’s the short list, with some descriptions following:

– More plant racks
– tricolor navigation light and anchor light at top of mast, with a two-way toggle switch (on-off-on) to control them
– AIS – Automatic Identification System – besides the unit itself and its wiring for power, this involved installing a VHF antenna at the top of the mast and a GPS antenna on the top of the cabin, with associated wires. This is the gizmo that, among other things, tells you where the ships are in the fog. Life-changing.
– yuloh and yuloh post – there will be an entire entry devoted to this, after a bit
– port berth leecloth – mesh fabric that works like a hammock on the side of the berth to prevent falling out in big waves
– port berth seatbelt – extra insurance against falling out of the berth while sleeping in big waves, or in stray rowdy boat wakes
– cockpit padeye for safety tether (for when you’re out and about in the cockpit in big waves)
– repair charcoal stove door gasket and latch
– second anchor roller, port side of bowsprit
– modify bronze roller furling rod (welding job) – one more roller jamming opportunity removed…
– new gasket on forward window – no more leaking in big waves!
– gaskets in footwell hatch (eliminating significant water entry in heavy weather sailing – MAJOR improvement)
– installed 6 gallon freshwater tank for wash water and plants – so nice to no longer be dodging gallon jugs in the cockpit!
– installed 3 gallon waste tank – there’s a story that goes with this, which will get its own post
– mizzen rotation stop – sounds small, but makes such a difference. No more mizzen mast twisting when it shouldn’t.
– installed high-capacity manual bilge pump (may we never need it!)
– painted several new coats of e-paint antifouling on bottom – I love this stuff, even though it’s a bit fussy. No worries when you touch it, or when it touches your favorite sandbar.

After launch we did a couple more things, including finally installing a charge controller for the solar panel. Huge improvement, both in charging performance and in removing the daily tasks of “human charge controller.”

That’s the biggest stuff we did. Below, I’m copying my “working list” from our projects, for anybody who would like to see how it really went, in more detail. Looking back, the amount of work seems ridiculous, but living with it now, it feels enormously worthwhile. Once again, so very many thanks to everybody who contributed to this process: Suzanne Jean, Theo Fadel, Henri Jean, Pat Bennett, Carolyn Meher, Michele Meher, and Tom Potter, who all worked specifically on various aspects of this list. What a nice outcome!

Winter Projects

things to be done (items moved to “done” category when complete):

–leak test forward window
–dock lines ends
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS///////////////////////LOAD BOAT!!!!!!!!!!!

. cargo boom (later?)
. design and build junk mainsail (not now)
aluminum mast tab for lightning ground –not now
. storm anchor cradle and tiedowns
. depth sounder

Shemaya
order and splice new dock lines and mainsheet – done

Epoxy List

various holes:

top of rudder – no
battery cable clam–not now

Completed epoxy (these are holes and cutouts, each sealed with epoxy)

Yuloh eyebolt hole – done
yuloh post – done
rudder stop – done
mizzen rotation stop – done
antenna cable clam – done
pump mounting – done
rounded eyebrow corners – done
yuloh pin hole in motor mount – done
GPS mount–done
yuloh eye strap–done
deck fills–done
safety tether tiedown–done
rudder post –done
head tank vent–done
GPS antenna–done
Port cockpit locker water tank tiedown–done
starboard cockpit locker water tank tiedown eyestrap–caulked
name boards mounting holes–done
yuloh post–done

Painting List

tabernacle bracket for battery navigation light?
… forward window–done
… motor mount–done
… rounded eyebrow corners–done
touch up toe rail–done
Bottom paint perhaps??–DONE!

In paint shop
yuloh–done
yuloh post –done
rudder stop – done
mizzen rotation stop – done

Completed
… Theo… round off downhaul tube – done
Epoxy slide board – done
… Theo… tabernacle chewed place – address this – done
… Theo… new plant racks (2, with four holes each), two brackets for new plant racks – done
… Suzanne/Shemaya… mizzen work – remove sail; lash on reefing line ring; check luff straightness – done
… Theo… measure dock lines and main sheet – done
place order for tri-color and bebi – done
… Theo… drill hole for mast lights wire alongside locker divider – done
… Theo… smooth grommets in mizzen sail – done
make motor mount thinner – done
… Theo… forward locker cover modifications – cut, add cleat to narrow piece, drill and countersink narrow piece, drill big piece for rope handle – done, needs installation – done
.. stainless mast pin – done
… Suzanne/Shemaya… wire ties on trailer, check battery – done
order double pole double throw switch for tricolor light – done
order AIS, antenna, cable, connectors – done
rudder stops on outside of hull – canceled (replacing with cockpit rudder stop)
. change out cup hooks – canceled (replacements not small enough)
… Theo… Install plant rack brackets — done
… rudder post epoxy–done
… Theo… round off eyebrow corners–done
… Theo and Suzanne… install cable clam for antenna wire–done
figure out parts for bilge pump — done
– drill for GPS antenna?? –done
drill for yuloh eye strap–done
drill for deck fills — done
drill for safety strap tiedown–done
… install mizzen rotation stop–done
… install bilge pump — last hose connection –done
–install deck fills –done
— order gasket–done
Carolyn
–install cockpit safety tether tiedown–done
–install yuloh eyestrap–done
attach port locker wires–done
… Suzanne… paint motor mount, epoxy and paint rounded eyebrow corners –done
bow eye–make backing plate, install–done
. wash algae off of boat, at stern–done
–install yuloh eyebolt–done
… install rudder stop–done
– Mast – Finish antenna mount–done
…berth seatbelt padeyes–done
…install vhf antenna cable deck seal–done
… Shemaya… get welding done on boom roller rod–done
… mount radio license inside boat –done
install mast antenna wire connectors–done
… AIS vhf antenna – research and order, install on mast–done
install deck plug cylinder –done
— remove incorrect gps ant.–done
… install new gps antenna–done
… lug rig adjustments – photograph rig, remove curved roller furling rod, weld on tab for lift shackle, reassemble everything–DONE!
… reassemble boom roller rod–done
… paint yuloh–done
repair/modify mainsail head–done
…make holes for name and place boards–done
… Theo… repair stove latch–done
adjust yuloh post–done
… interior mounting bracket for AIS–done
Shemaya – order bilge pump strainer–done
… make leecloth–done!
address window leak–done
Theo… Sort out yuloh storage–done
–seizing on yuloh–done
.. finish rubbing strakes — make, install –done
… eyestrap for stern anchor–done
. install water tank–done
. install starboard cockpit locker tiedown brackets–done
… install leecloth–done
. splice and mark anchor rode–done
… Install name board–done
..footwell hatch gasket–done
… Theo – place board bolts–done
put in footwell hatch–done
… eye straps for life jackets on starboard overhead–done
cut out watercatcher fabric–done
receive and install replacement masina light–DONE!!!
–connect mast wire, anchor, and tricolor lights, again–done!
…install water tank vent–done
fold/roll packraft –done
sewing – mesh anchor bags–done
test water pump–done
registration stickers on boat, trailer–done
Birthday cards for nieces–done
nav light brackets – screw or tape onto tabernacle, tape onto top of existing stern light–done
Finish assembling head tank–done
leather on yard–done
put yard back in sail, tie in–done
drill for double busbar mounting–done
pack spare anchor rode into blue bag–done
install head tank–done
finish seatbelt installation–done
put working anchor onto boat–done
load spare anchor rode into boat – Port cockpit locker–done
fill 20 peat moss bags–done
pack peat moss into boat – starboard cockpit locker behind and over water tank–done
– load packraft in starboard cockpit locker–done
put bronze roller rod back into boom–done
organize charts–done
fill charcoal bags – 20–done
load charcoal bags into boat–done
sewing – water catcher–done!
stern anchor line into green mesh bag–done
load rain gear bag onto boat, head end of starboard berth–done
load and tie in forward port black organizer–done
bedding: 2 sheets –done
blue fleece blanket, shiny fleece blanket, green cocoon from daybed, purple sleeping bag (stuffs behind forward black organizer over chicken pies) 4 down pillows, one polyfill pillow–done
heron fleece, purple bed fleece, green bed fleece, red daybed fleece–done
load canvas pockets bag, forward–done
load galley gear, forward end of starboard berth–done
red first aid kit, purple kayak cushion, behind forward black organizer–done
yellow kayak lifejacket, forward of forward black organizer–done
kayak dress-up canvas bag, forward of forward black organizer–done
inflatable lifejackets head of port berth –done
beaching legs–done
awning, 2 boathooks–done
load charts onto boat – starboard berth underneath all cushions–done
organize clothing–done
load clothing into boat–done
drinking water–fill, load–done
load books/cruising guides onto boat (alongside yellow water organizer)–done
check autopilot socket wires – done
… assemble ais power cord – done
install interior antenna wire and connectors – done
.. sew watercatcher udder – done

Stage Harbor to Stage Island Harbor

07 Sunday Jul 2013

Posted by in Trips

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The clever naming wasn’t planned, but it’s kind of fun that it turned out that way! Departed Stage Harbor, Chatham, Massachusetts (at the lower right corner of Cape Cod) first thing on a Tuesday morning. The idea was to go around the outside of Cape Cod, going north, and then see what happened next. Possibilities were Provincetown, Cape Ann, Portsmouth New Hampshire, and Biddeford Maine. The weather forecast for the next several days involved south, southwest, and possibly west winds, with variations on 10 to 20 knots and times with higher gusts. Just fine for an adventure!

The hardest part was getting out of Stage Harbor and Nantucket sound, which all involved tremendous amounts of tacking. It was, however, satisfying to maintain the “motor as decoration” status of the electric outboard, and once into Nantucket sound the motor isn’t sized for that kind of job anyway. Arrived at the south end of Monomoy Island (10 miles south and eight hours later) about an hour after the tide got going outbound, which was good enough to make it work. I have to say that I’ve never seen a tide rip anything like that – it pretty much redefines the term. But it was fascinating. Recreational fishing boats were both using this passage routinely, and hanging out in the middle of the rip, fishing. Seeing that they were doing this without mishap made me feel like it was within the bounds of reasonable prudence for me, now with a nice solid beam wind, to do the same thing. Well, not fishing, but passing around that end of Monomoy close in, rather than going to the west of enormous Handkerchief Shoal. For one thing, tacking the extra 5 miles around the shoal could well have meant missing the outbound tide, which would have involved an immense change of plans as there are no nearby harbors.

So through the tide rip it was! And in a testament to Phil Bolger’s Chebacco design, sitting in the cockpit I didn’t even get wet. And things felt stable enough that taking pictures was an option. Extraordinary. Among other things, the sound was amazing, with all those foaming waves, roaring. My uncle Wright used to take me fishing in a Boston Whaler in the reefs off of Watch Hill, Rhode Island, when I was a kid. Huge breakers on Catumb Rocks, and us right there, fishing rods in hand. I thought of Wright the whole way through that rip.

And then it was out the other side, and a few minutes later through Pollock Rip, which was mild by comparison, probably partly because the tide was not yet in full gear at that spot around the corner. The fog came in, and I never did see Cape Cod’s outer beach from the water. My goal was to go east until outside of the New York to Boston shipping lanes, since I knew that I would be out all night and wanted to get some reasonable rest. This worked out, and as it turned out the AIS never showed a single ship – I’m thinking that this had to do with the upcoming Fourth of July holiday, which was great.

The coolest thing that happened was WHALES! In the fog, about a half a mile of visibility, about 10 miles east of Monomoy Island. I was in the cabin resting, and there was a loud unidentifiable sound coming up from behind. I was thinking “that boat’s awfully close to have snuck up that way.” Once out in the cockpit, it happened again, about 50 feet in back of the boat – whales! With big, deep breaths. No spouts, just the sound, and their backs. The small sort of irregular dorsal fin, on enormous bodies, makes me think it was humpbacks. The wind had died back and the water was almost glassy, so it was perfect for seeing them. First they crossed the stern going north, and then they crossed the stern going south – a total of at least six or seven breaths, and at least two whales that I saw at the same time, one bigger and one smaller. What a lovely, lovely visit.

Night came, more wind, reefing issues and a course change, now turning north well outside the shipping lanes. The boat had been perfectly happy flying along at 5 knots going east – it was a real shame to upset that nice equilibrium, but I felt like I would’ve been really headed for Scotland if I went that way all night!

Eventually a new balance was struck, that the autopilot could live with reasonably reliably. During that process I was thinking “Yup, I’ve advanced to my level of incompetence – again.” But you learn so much during those experiences! Still, while I felt perfectly safe, I was thinking that this “go outside of Cape Cod” idea might not have been one of my best. Comfortable it was not.

Then, back inside, back in my dry PJs, leecloth up on the berth (and seatbelt for good measure) it suddenly didn’t feel the same – I found myself thinking “oh, this is nice!” Now that was a surprise!

The mainsail had two reefs, which is my standard for a fairly stiff wind, and our course would now stay the same for ages, so that was it for sail fussing for the night. The wind was forecast to continue from the southwest, which it kindly did. By morning the fog had cleared, and it was just extraordinary. The wind had died down about when it got light, and after a nice nap I was feeling pretty good.

From the south end of Monomoy to where you would turn for Provincetown is about 40 miles… but in that nice daylight, making that turn seemed downright silly. So on we went, with Cape Ann generally in mind, but I was keeping a course that was actually the straight shot from the outside of the shipping lanes to about Biddeford, Maine. This put the boat substantially east from Cape Ann, which was perfectly doable, but added significant mileage and time if Cape Ann was to be the destination. And what a nice day it was! Mild, comfortable wind and seas, and then, as if that wasn’t enough, hanging out in the cockpit in my accustomed spot relaxing, looking out the stern, thinking about this and that, there off in the distance, directly in back of the boat, an enormous whale breached. It must’ve been well over a mile away (maybe two?) – tiny in the distance, but perfectly clear, arching up silhouetted against the sky. All but its tail came out of the water, and then a couple of beats later, after it was down again, you could hear the boom. Extraordinary.

So that was it – time to stay out where all the fun is. Another night, again with stronger winds, but reefing before dark was much, much nicer. And then in the morning I just had to decide exactly where to come in, somewhere south of Portland. Stage Island Harbor is nice, and so is Wood Island Harbor, in Biddeford. I had hopes of seeing a couple of friends, and some confusion about which harbor was ideal for visiting (it would really help if I would talk with people before arriving places!) But Stage Island Harbor was nearer, and a truly beautiful, special place. At 20 miles out I heard the first boat motor in the last day and a half, and at 15 miles out the tuna boats were a regular occasion. By 5 miles out, Fourth of July on a hot sunny day, everybody was out… The wind had eased off in the morning, so it took until about 4:30 in the afternoon to come into the harbor itself, anchored and all. By evening the jet ski people had gone home for supper (how do you say thank you in 10 different languages??) and the rocks, and the tide, and the sky were perfectly lovely.

Overall, I’d say this first effort at a longer passage came out pretty well. The leecloth worked, the AIS worked, I got reasonable amounts of rest, the stars, so far away from any outside light, were fantastic. And I would do it again, which is the true test of whether or not something really was such a good idea. It was special, and I’m so glad to have had the opportunity.

Best of all, just like that, now I’m in Maine! It’s still hot, but the water is about 60°, so the cabin sole is cool, and last night the inside temperature actually made it below 70. Since arriving in Stage Harbor, and spending one night, I’ve been to Wood Island Harbor for one night, and now at Jewell Island, in Casco Bay. Hoping to stay put for a bit, rest and tinker, and wait for the cooler weather.