Chilling in NC, watching for a weather window, dreaming of warmth...

(Written December 24)

Yesterday started out with great wind and nice temperatures, then winds picked up to around 35 knots from the NW and temperatures plunged.... as did water levels. I've never seen water levels so low: winds from the NE cause high water, but this NW wind just sucked it away, leaving various boats in the marina a bit tilted. 

A project boat anchored off the marina dragged anchor or broke free and is sitting on it's side. I sure hope the drain for the sink is closed or that boat is probably full of water and will sink when the water returns. (It is floating! Hooray!)

Temperatures are supposed to be around 17degF and water to the docks has been shut off. 

Cold? YES! I've never seen foam freeze like this:

I've borrowed a heater from a friend and plugged it into dock power, so that keeps me around 50degF.... but it DOES suck to be in this cold. I have a car-seat heater warming my back and butt and Monty insists on spending a lot of time in the cockpit, but at least is willing to burrow under a sleeping bag I gave him. He also is quite willing to snuggle to get comfort from the noisy storm and cold.

Anyway, winter brings nasty storms, high winds, headwinds, big waves.... I'm looking for a decent weather window to head south as it does NOT pay to be foolish. Heck: I've already read about two catastrophic cruises this fall, one ending when the two fellows (who, inexplicably, CHOSE to go into the open just north of Cape Hatteras and then round it) were rescued after drifting ten days and another young and inexperienced fellow single handing who simply disappeared with his boat after nasty winds south of Long Island. I want to tell stories, not be the subject of one. A friend of mine once said that good planning and preparation should make for uneventful cruises and I'm just fine with telling people about shooting stars and whales rather than about getting dismasted or rolled or injured.

I thought about departing on Christmas, but sailing at 20degF sounds pretty lousy, so I'm looking at Tuesday when temps will be above freezing. It looks like I can get out into the open and start sailing by that evening, then make Charleston area within a few days, sailing a bit slowly due to low (but nice) winds. Then I'll wait for another window...

Anyway, stay warm, my friends, and let's count our blessings.

Happy Anniversary, Monty!

On December 3, one year ago, Monty came into our lives. Now that he is no longer as food-aggressive and we understand his growls (after all, he IS 45% growly, stubborn Shih Tzu rather than sweet Cavalier), most of our relationship issues have been solved. What a wonderful little friend he has turned out to be!

Night sailing

I often love night sailing, especially when conditions are good: open ocean, minimal traffic to worry about, clear dark skies, nice wind, phosphorescent water, comfortably warm.... but there are other times, too.

In July, about 18 months ago, I wanted to head from Bucks Harbor to Bar Harbor, ME to meet Cynthia's flight. Weather forecast was for hurricane remnants dying off by dark, then decent but dying winds all night.... and then unfavorable winds until after Cynthia arrived. So.... I headed out at sunset and set sail down Eggemoggin Reach. As the light diminished, the wind increased.. and increased... and increased, well above forecasts, as the eye of the storm passed and the wind returned. Fortunately, I had dropped sails just after dark when I wondered about increasing winds and we raced along under half of the jib. 

By the end of the Reach the wind had died down and I raised all sail... and found that NONE of the buoys in Maine seem to be lighted! No worries: I have good charts, GPS, and AIS... and it means that very very few random high-speed idiots are out at night.

The moonless skies had cleared to reveal sparkling diamonds of stars for the first time that foggy summer as I sailed along using my GPS to tell me where the invisible buoys, islands, rocks, and ledges lay. At one point I sailed over a bar (at least ten feet deep) and the sudden change in wave, current, and accelleration would have revealed the subsurface ledge even if my chart had not... and a bell buoy and gong buoy told me I WAS where the map claimed and that I was moving rapidly past them. We depend so much on vision that it is delightful to use other senses to investigate my surroundings in the pitch darkness!

Another night found Cynthia and me sailing into Beaufort Inlet in the dark, keeping a sharp eye out for obstacles. A storm was approaching and time was short, so it made sense to enter this wide and easy harbor and drop anchor.... and any boats or other obstacles legally had to be lighted... but we turned sharply when a dark thing loomed suddenly ahead. Some huge item of dredging equipment was anchored and the red lights on board had burned down to being barely visible at 100' rather than the mile or so required. Anyway, "all's well that ends well".... 

Sailing north in the spring I ran into a line of storms at night and tried to figure out where the lightning cells were going so that I might be able to adjust course to avoid them. I find that worrying about storms is often worse than being in them. Anticipation of sudden gale-force gusts and lightning leaves me terribly anxious: I actually did far better once I had decided how the thunderheads were moving and set a course, and even better once the winds struck and I could sail along through building waves and whitecaps, hands on the wheel to fight the forces trying to head me up into the wind, trying to hold a bearing through the trackless dark. 

Another night on our first sail in the Bahamas, Cynthia and I were struck by a squall and found ourselves unable to figure out how to sail in the shifting wind, unable to keep a straight bearing. I can't recall if we jibed or tacked or what, I don't know if we sailed in circles or the wind shifted, but I recall noise and shouting and swearing. Something very similar happened when I was helping transport a boat from FL to the Virgin Islands: the crew on deck had trouble with steering a straight line, although there wasn't a storm. Now that I'm far more experienced, I would just heave-to and let the boat sit like a duck in the chaotic wind: much much easier and safer.

Long ago, a friend helped me sail from NC to MA and we tried to run downwind at night in very windy conditions. My friend wanted to make as much progress as we could, so I fought the wheel and tried to keep things safe and stable, nearly damaging the boat in the process. Finally I told myself to quit being stupid and heaved-to, reducing speed from 7.5 knots to 5knots and reducing our situation from dire to unpleasant-but-fine. FAR more relaxing than attempting to sail, even if the occasional "BANG!" of a crashing wave striking the exposed bottom startled me. I've heard about folks actually losing spars or sails trying to sail through this sort of weather rather than being wise and patient...

Avoid all this? Well, maybe.... but I think that the high points in our lives are often defined by the low ones, that happiness is defined in comparison to it's opposite. The lows are very fair payment.

BTW, the photo is a long exposure taken with my cell phone in Sonoma in early November rather than on the boat, but gives a darned good idea of dark sky views from the boat. 

I'm delighted to discover the excellent night photos my cell phone takes: I can even see the color of different stars and the nebula on Orion's sword!

Sailing south: Cape Cod to Lookout Bight

 A couple weeks back, Cynthia and Lucy and Monty and I finally raised our sails, dropped the mooring line, and headed south. 

The moving parts of life dictated that I leave the boat in NC or FL for a month while visiting CA and that Cynthia and Lucy fly out of Norfolk. Wind and waves dictated that we stop in Delaware Bay for a couple days to wait out a storm.

Moving along, we entered the Chesapeake around dawn, actually needing to motor a bit across the glassy water. 

Monty eagerly sniffed the air and looked at the shore, obviously aching for sandy beaches. Lucy, as usual, relaxed in patience, probably cuddled up beside me or Cynthia.

The Chesapeake is BUSY around Norfolk, full of active military bases and commercial shipping and recreational boating. Even has some crumbling old forts: here is Fort Wool: 

The fort is cool; but I dislike the crowding, the developed shorelines, the giant container ships and tankers, and (especially) the military vessels that are all over the place with no AIS to show up on my instruments. Sailing here requires constant attention, somewhat like sailing in Maine with a sailboat that snags lobster pot lines: not pleasant.

SO, once Cynthia and Lucy had taken a taxi to the airport I found myself aching to head to the open sea AT ONCE and did so, despite low wind forecasts. I made it into the open, a few miles off Virginia Beach, before the sun set and the wind died to nothing. 

What to do? So I heaved-to and cooked and took photos.

At around 10:00pm, with little traffic showing, Monty and I crawled into bed to await the forecasted wind. And at 2:00am the boat heeled over slightly, the boat movement and noises changed, and I rose from bed to raise the sails; leaving Monty tucked into the blankets.

Gentle wind moved us along nicely through the dark (I saw two shooting stars!) until sunrise, made unique by clouds and contrails.

Waves built up during the day as I headed for Cape Hatteras and the deadly shoals that extend out for many miles. This is one of the many places where I feel a great gratitude for modern charts and GPS, letting me know where I am at all times... although I have seen plenty of issues with charts, especially in Cape Cod where shoals move often. Anyway, I am always concerned going around Cape Hatteras as the Gulf Stream clips the end of the shoal, causing the north wind I typically ride on my trip south to kick up far bigger waves than in more normal conditions..... and this time I would be rounding the Cape around 1am with winds around 20kts....

In the darkness, I tried to get little naps, hoping to be better rested for the shoals. Wind picked up and overpowered the autopilot, so I had to go out on deck a few times to adjust things... and this was complex. You see, Monty kept wanting to come out and pee; so I would put on my harness, set him on deck while blocking any access to the non-netted sections of the boat, lift him back into the cockpit, zip down the enclosure so he would be OK, then CAREFULLY make my way to the mast, never moving without a secure handhold and timing my steps with the boat motion. Once at the mast, I clip my harness to a secure point, do my work, and then unclip and head back. 

My movements made me think of a sloth, moving along slowly and deliberately, never rushing. When I had a construction business I would tell new employees that no item is worth an injury and sailing is the same. And a nightmare scenario I've often seen in my head is myself in the water, watching the boat sail away unmanned. This has recently gotten even WORSE: now I imagine Monty on board, alone and helpless. And I think this is a good thing to think of as it really really increases my caution.

Along with these thoughts, as I stood at the mast I noticed the shock of two small waves slapping the hull, the roar of the bow wave as I slid down a rushing wave, the whiteness of a large cresting wave behind the boat, the vibration of the propeller turning to a judder as our speed reaches 7 knots or so as we surfed down a wave. And I noticed that this is one of the times I feel most alive, most in tune with the universe. I MISS this badly when I live in a house!

Anyway, we rounded the shoal, avoided the unseen unlighted marker that may exist only on the charts, and headed for Cape Lookout Shoal, another 12 hours sailing in pretty good waves. 

Another several hours (upwind: ugh!) took us to Lookout Bight at sunset.

We dropped anchor, took a walk, and fell asleep.

Monty LOVES this place!

Geology

 I've been musing on geology. Since spring, Monty and I have sailed up the Chesapeake Bay, down the Delaware Bay, through the Cape Cod Canal, and up to Maine a few times.... and are now in Cape Cod again. I grew up sailing Cape Cod and thought that a loose mix of rock... from silt to sand to gravel to house-sized boulders... was normal; but it is simply the result of a glacier scraping a huge pile of debris ahead of it and leaving it as it retreated. We call this heap of debris Cape Cod.

This was driven home to me as I sailed and, especially, anchored in the Chesapeake Bay and Delaware Bay. Everything there has been washed down slow rivers and particles range in size from silt to sand, so any larger rocks are rare, brought in by people. Ironically, this is the only place that I've ever snagged a boulder with my anchor, clearly one shipped in as ballast in a ship or for part of a breakwater. 

And up in Maine we have the remains of rock after the giant glaciers scraped over it leaving smooth surfaces or weathered surfaces where the rock has crumbled since the glaciers departed. 

And the weathering has produced rocks and sand since the glaciers departed. I love seeing different patterns in the metamorphic or igneous rock, 

some looking like wood grain, 

even some mica crystals flashing in the sun, remnants of bits of rock that cooled slowly and formed large crystals. Here I am pointing out the edge of the largest mica crystal I've found:

My son, Cody, and his partner, Katrina, have been traveling around the country and creating a video blog of their adventures and misadventures. You can google "Second Nature", I think, or watch them on youtube at https://youtube.com/channel/UCOeSUYMdZjpDBllr2KS0C8Q. I'm sure they will have one that shows them sailing with me up in Maine...

So, what next? I am waiting for Lucy to recover from surgery and get her stitches removed, then Cynthia and I plan to head south, assuming weather cooperates. We may stop in to the Chesapeake or at Cape Lookout in NC or may make it all the way to FL. Then time for me to visit CA, then off to the Bahamas or Virgins....

Stay well, my friends!

Driving my boat down a gravel road for a quick bottom job....

 

August 23: I had an opportunity (weather and time) to get my boat into a nice DIY-friendly boat yard in ME for a week. The fee they charge covers pulling, cleaning, launching, and two months in the yard.... And this was the morning we had arranged to pull the boat. 

Every time I've pulled the boat to date has used a travel lift, a big crane that lowers slings under the boat and lifts it. The only part of the machinery that gets wet is the tremendously strong cloth sling...but the machine requires a level surface. That changed today as they used a completely different sort of machine, one that can handle rather steep hills...

First, I climbed aboard the boat and motored it up to the submerged machine and gently nosed into place, then kept it in place with gentle forward propeller while they gripped it with the hydraulic arms. Then I turned off the engine as they pulled me out, a cable helping pull them and my 30.000 lbs up the ramp...

Once up off the ramp and on reasonable roads, they disconnected the cable and motored through the woods to the boat yard.

There, they installed jack stands, pressure washed the bottom, and left me to work. 

After my repairs in FL in early 2020, I had planned on pulling and painting in the next year, but one things leads to another and I forgot that I had only put on a single coat of bottom paint over a significant area, leading to some serious crusty growth on that area. Whoops! So, I was eager to take care of this and had two gallons of paint, figuring I would give the bare area at least three coats and the rest at least one, as well as spraying the propeller with zinc and giving it some other protection. 

I spent hours preparing the bottom, a job made harder by the fact that the yard well pump was failing and I had just a trickle of water to work with: OK for pressure washing, but not enough for hand washing the boat. Still, patience did the trick.

I planned to take days, but the sun was hot and the area I needed to paint most dried fast, so I painted it twice in a couple hours, then did a third coat over the whole boat, the whole thing still releasing fumes, but dry by nightfall. I walked Monty, then fell exhausted into my bed.

Morning came with heavy fog. I moved the jack stands (first boat yard where they allow this!), scrubbed those bits, dried them off, and painted them. The yard launch schedule was open, so they agreed to launch me! ONE day and splash! 

Anyway, a very satisfactory job, even if pricy on a per diem basis.

Observant folks may have noticed the nice bottom paint as the boat is being put into the yard. This is because those pics are actually the boat being launched since I was on board for the pulling and couldn't take those pics. Same views, just a nicer bottom...

Stress!

(Written Saturday 9/3/2022)

I hear many folks are having issues with stress these days and I have some words of advice from my own experience that help you, especially after misplacing my phone Friday evening and still being unable to get it, 12 hours later...

First of all, read or watch the news. This really helps with stress: I find I just can't build up that internal anxiety and tension without reading the latest news or at least thinking about it. Being cut off from it is highly destructive to my distress levels.

Avoid dogs! Especially playing free on the beach! After all, their joy and in-the-moment existence, let alone an affectionate smile at you as you scratch a back, takes one from thinking about future and past and puts one in the present. Here is a photo of Monty crashing a stranger's stress: 

Do NOT talk to strangers! Striking up a conversation with strangers, ESPECIALLY if it quickly degenerates to smiles or even laughter, has been shown to damage one's feelings of stress.

Avoid all physical contact, especially hugs. Even brief hugs can lead to damage to the stress edifice. Don't risk it!

Make sure to sit still and think about all your troubles, all the ways that things may go wrong, all the things that you have avoided on your lists. Do not sit still with your coffee and watch the glory of a sunrise. 

Anyway, I hope this advice is helpful. I'm afraid it may be too late for me, however. Monty just hopped into my lap and went belly-up for attention 

I've misplaced my phone and can't get the news, I NEED to go ashore for Monty's beach time and will undoubtedly watch dogs and meet strangers (although I'm getting to know them, so they aren't really strangers now). AND I even get occasional hugs, as I did when taking my friends Mike and Denise out sailing yesterday! My stress may be doomed (unless I find my phone soon): save yourselves from my fate!

More Monty plus a travel update

When Cynthia found Monty, he was listed as a Cavalier/poodle mix, a reasonable guess given his appearance. We sent swabs in for testing and it came back around 46% Shi Tzu and 54% small poodle, so very similar in behavior etc. We also get notices about other dogs who are closely related to him. Closest (genetically) is a 23% and a 29% match, the rest are in the teens and below.

Monty lets me do a bit of scissor work on him to remove mats and cool him down and so that he can see out, but won't let me work on his face much, especially with power clippers. So he ends up looking like this:

A professional can do a beautiful job and Monty looks far cleaner and his face does not itch so much. 

Since my last post, Monty and I have sailed up the Chesapeake Bay,

down the Delaware Bay, through the Cape Cod Canal, and up to Maine

and are now approaching Cape Cod again. I plan on staying on the Cape for a bit, then heading back up to Maine around the 4th. As I write this we are approaching the Cape Cod Canal and it is about 1am and I aim for entering the canal at 8am and tucking into Onset for some unfavorable weather.

Chesapeake Bay adventures

As of 5/28, I am anchored at St Michaels, ten miles or so east of Annapolis. 

Monty and I left the anchorage behind Cape Lookout and headed up the coast, starting out by beating south into the wind. The constant jolting of the striking waves made Monty completely empty his stomach, but by noon we had rounded Cape Lookout and were gliding along pleasantly, well on our way to Cape Hatteras (a most dangerous shoal in the days before GPS, lighthouses, and marker buoys). Before dark a pod of around fifteen dolphins joined us, frolicking around the bow. I brought Monty out and hold him while he noticed the dolphins with increasing interest and attention. One dolphin often tail-slapped the water, causing Monty to flinch, and the puffing of their breath also drew his glance. 

On that first night, Monty felt practically soggy, his soft salty fur absorbing moisture from the steamy air above the Gulf Stream. I finally had to give him a rinse bath in the sink and he felt FAR more comfortable and pranced around the cockpit happily.... but still no interest in eating or drinking. 

I decided to ride the Gulf Steam for another ten or fifteen miles past Cape Hatteras to get a nicer angle for sailing down wind, and at around 3am we jibed-over, turning our course north. Then, safely clear of shipping and shoals, wind and waves comfortable, we snuggled up in the cockpit and fell asleep. 

The next day Monty recovered his appetite and the day and night went by uneventfully, other than a lot of traffic as I neared the Chesapeake around sunrise, so I ended up with a sleepless night, other than catnaps. I finally found a slightly sheltered spot a half mile from marshy-sandy shores and islets, dropped anchor, rowed Monty to a tiny island for exercise, then rowed back and loaded the dinghy aboard. I'll let a slightly younger me tell the rest:

"Here I am, sitting on the deck of the boat at 2:00 a.m, my dog and coffee by my side, sailing across the Chesapeake Bay (well, a "little" side bay called Mobjack Bay) in anticipation of changing wind. The six-knot, warm & humid, wind blows us north at around three kts over nearly flat water while the crescent moon shines low in the east among glowing wisps of cloud: absolutely delightful. Perhaps not as many stars as we would get in the open ocean, but very very pleasant.

"I anchored yesterday in a spot that was sheltered from the south west wind, planning on moving at first light, before the north wind picked up and fell asleep around 4pm. Waves woke me after midnight, and the forecast had shifted to predicting a fairly strong breeze by sunrise, so I decided to move in the dark. New cruising ground, darkness, unknown anchorage: what could possibly go wrong?

On a different subject, for a dog who is scared of the dark and strange noises, Monty is doing very well as a boat dog. I'm quite pleased.... Oh dear, now what is he whining about?

......

"3am: Made it to my planned anchorage where I will doubtless annoy passing fishermen returning home in the dark, but I'll light the boat well so they won't have trouble seeing it: standard regulations require a bright white light on the top of the mast, but I find the bright light is hard to distinguish from lights on shore and the brightness interferes with me seeing the boat. I prefer to have a bright light that shines on my masts and sails so that anyone approaching can easily see the boat."

6am: Monty enjoying our first Chesapeake sunrise...

Back on the sea again!

 After a long winter ashore, I'm finally back at sea, although mostly anchored.

Last Wednesday, Monty and I said goodbye to Gypsy, his best friend in the marina,

motored out of the marina in Bridgeton, and set about 1/2 of the jib in strong and gusting north winds.

Cloudy, cold, stormy, occasional strong periods of wind causing things below to slide to the cabin sole: what a wonderful day for Monty's very first sail! OK, I'm being sarcastic, but he did darned well and climbed into my lap for comfort and safety rather than leaping from the boat and striking out for shore, although I had him leashed and safety netting strung onto the lifelines to prevent him succeeding, had he tried.

Mostly, he relaxed...

Winds were strong enough that, for the first time ever, I sailed all the way from New Bern to the bay inside Cape Lookout without needing to run the engine. We ran it only to get out of the marina and again at the end for a few minutes to place the two anchors I prefer, especially in these strong winds. We then relaxed and waited for winds to die down enough to launch dinghy for shore, Monty showing considerable patience and using his shipboard toilet facilities for the first time: what a good dog!

In the days since, we have walked the shores of Shackleford Island and visited the wild horses and found a burrowing crab, 

then moved to the south end of the bay (before the wind switched to south) and walked two to three hours every day on Cape Lookout. Monty showed concern the first time he saw me don wetsuit etc to swim under the boat to handle maintenance, but the next day simply relaxed in the dinghy with complete unconcern while I completed the tasks. He does like to keep an eye on me...

And on the boats, birds, and porpoises around us.

Monty's joy is walking the shore, wading in the tidepools and shoals, and exploring. I find delight in his happy exploration of his new life and in his adaptation to boat life.