Oriental to Charleston, Part II

Aletheia in her glory

This is Part Two of the Carolina Trip. Part One is here.

When we last left our heroes, they were having an epic dinner aboard Aletheia lying at anchor at Wrightsville Beach.

Both the captain and I really wanted to do some offshore sailing and yet among our many compatible aspects -- we are both fairly conservative sailors. Neither of us would make the jump offshore in adverse conditions just to say we had done it. In addition, though we spent the night right at the Masonboro Inlet, the Frying Pan Shoals extended well out into the Atlantic between us and Charleston. We would have had to sail fairly far offshore before we could turn to the southwest and make for our destination. In fact, many sailors traversing the East Coast will come inside between Masonboro and Cape Fear just to avoid having to go out and around those shoals.

As keen as we both were, it didn’t make a lot of sense for us to go offshore from Wrightsville. We

Wrightsville Beach Anchorage

hatched a plan to run inside down to the Cape Fear River in the morning, and if the weather and the tides were on our side by then, we’d jump offshore from there to Charleston. We had to have the outgoing to tide with us at Cape Fear River and then the in-going tide at Charleston. Otherwise, it would be dangerous to creep along against the flow with the potential for traffic; especially ship traffic.

We left Wrightsville Beach early on Sunday morning and ran down to Snows Cut. The Cut crosses over to the Cape Fear River and is often a difficult stretch. At one narrow point, again against the tide flow, we were maxed out and creeping along barely more than a knot over the ground. We had a little help from the sails and got through it - ever so slowly. After the cut, the ICW angles across some shallows to join the Cape Fear River. On the river, midday Sunday, there were no ships in sight, but we finally sailed through ship infrastructure; range marks, bigger bouys, and a large natural gas terminal.

One of the last bouys outbound

At Cape Fear, the ICW goes most of the way out toward the ocean before it turns to starboard at Southport. Approaching that intersection, we already knew the tide with us and we were going offshore! My vagabond heart soared and called from the clouds like the many osprey we had seen along the way. I was … we were …  going to get some sea time!!

It would be twenty five hours or so across to Charleston, we set the auto pilot and decided to take three hour watches once it got dark. Often an auto pilot won’t steer a sailing course because it can’t read or react to the wind. Our wind held steady though, and the autopilot steered all night. Our timing was tight and the Captain wanted us to stay within a half mile of the rhumb line to avoid a bunch of extra sea miles. Holding close to the rhumb line though precluded sailing for comfort and my watch at dusk was really rolly. For three hours the boat never stopped moving for a second. We were rolling heavily from side to side plus the normal forward and back motion. I began to feel a little green around the gills. When Wade relieved me, I went below to nap and was down there about 15 seconds when I climbed right back up and leaned over the rail. I don’t remember ever being sick on a boat before. Any way, bless the fish, here’s my supper. I posted 4 mini videos on YouTube of our time at sea here.

The sea moderated and it was a beautiful sail overnight to Charleston. Somehow all along the entire trip, our timing had always been good; just when we needed it most. We hit Charleston Harbor just as the tide turned in our favor. We sailed dead downwind up the channel as the Monrovia-flagged Primavera container ship passed us. We had talked with someone on the ship’s bridge, and promised to stay well to starboard as she past.

All along our trip we were often stared at and photographed. Aletheia is a distinctive beauty. Her junk

The Primavera

rig is curious with it’s batwing sails and two unstayed masts; one of which is nearly in the bow. People in passing boats waved, called to us, and took pictures. It was amazing and hilarious to be a part of such a spectacle. Even the crew of the Primavera must have been watching for someone stepped out on the small deck adjacent the huge ship’s bridge and snapped some pictures. Later, @zhirov_sergey ‘liked’ my picture of the ship on Instagram. I like to imagine he was the guy on the deck that day.

Once in the harbor, we had to make for Elliot Cut to get over to the Stono River and the St. Johns Yacht Harbor, Aletheia’s new home. One bridge on Elliot Cut doesn’t open for boats during rush hour for commuters. To wait it out, we anchored across from the City Marina, the very marina where Wade and I had met three years ago on another boat. After waiting, we hauled anchor and slogged our way through another channel with a squeeze point and a current against us. The marina had closed before we could get there, so we anchored just down river from them, under another bridge. The sun was just going down Monday evening as we made supper and anticipated our formal arrival the next day.

St. Johns Yacht Harbor under the bridge

In the morning we contacted the marina, casually motored back under the bridge and tossed our docklines to the helpful staff. Wade checked in and we straightened up the boat. The Captain is a bit like me -- once we’re moving we’d rather just keep going to get things done. We had had a good night’s sleep the night before at anchor. Wade’s truck was up in Oriental, where we had started. I had made a lunch date with a former suite-mate from Michigan State for Wednesday, the next day, but had also offered to help Wade retrieve his truck. We decided to rent a car right then, Tuesday afternoon, and go get it. Road Trip! Five hours up and a few more than that back.

We had made an epic run from early Sunday morning to sundown Monday: left Wrightsville Beach; down to Cape Fear; out into the ocean; sailed all night; arrived at Charleston Monday afternoon; waited for a bridge; and finally anchored right near the marina. Then Tuesday settled in at the marina before an eleven or twelve hour road trip into the wee hours Wednesday morning. After a nap, we took the rental car back and had returned to Aletheia about an hour before my buddy, Brian, called to say he had arrived for lunch.     Badass.

Wednesday evening I had a pleasant dinner with Wade and his Charleston friend, Nat, whom I had first met with Wade when they stopped by s/v Eleanor three years before. Thursday, we ran some errands around town and Wade dropped me off at the Greyhound station for my trip back to Florida and my boat, s/v Emma. The trip was just what I needed to recharge my vagabond soul. I am working my to-do list with increased vigor. My new trucking gig is seven days on, seven days off; good for getting on with the boatwork. In addition, while I was away, the marina’s mechanic was aligning and installing my engine! My boat project is way ahead of where it was when I left! What a time! Good sailing with a good friend on the good ship, Aletheia. Life is good; so good. How many good’s can fit into one paragraph?

That good. Thanks, Wade.

Aboard Emma with my Aletheia Hat! 

Oriental to Charleston, Part I

The creek at Sea Harbour Yacht Club

Note: This is Part One of Two Parts. Part Two is here.

I was crewing on a delivery of a Westsail 42 down the East Coast when I met Wade. He had crewed on the famous W42, Fiona, and was keen to join us for a time. The boat wasn’t departing for a couple days and he was spending some time in the city, but he stopped by with a Charleston friend at the City Marina to introduce himself. Wade is a very interesting guy. We became fast friends between Charleston and Melbourne, FL, where the trip ended prematurely.

sv Aletheia

In the time since that voyage, Wade had purchased Aletheia, a 36 foot Allied Princess that was converted to a junk rig and repowered with an electric drive. He had found her in St. Petersburg, FL and subsequently moved her to Oriental, NC. I was busy on the road saving money for my own boat project and could not help during that move. However, as Wade prepared to move Aletheia from Oriental down to Charleston, he asked if I could help. I happened to be changing jobs and it worked out that I could sneak two weeks off between them to join him.  Basically the fourth time I quit a job for a sailboat. Two days after leaving the first job, I was on a Greyhound bus excited to be headed North Carolina to go sailing!

After a day and a half of minor boat projects, prepping and provisioning, all was well, hale and hearty. We departed early on a Wednesday morning, silently pushed by the electric motor out of the marina creek and into the Neuse River. Gosh, it was such a pleasure to be back on the water. My boat and I are stranded on the gravel of a Florida boatyard for several more months. The Neuese is a wide enough river I could get used to the versatile junk rig sails and learn the details of the electric motor, the battery bank and power generation. I had seriously considered an electric motor for my Emma, but had found a great deal on an impressively rebuilt Perkins diesel.

It was a pleasant leg up and across the Neuse to Adams Creek. At the creek, we were greeted by stronger than expected wind and current. The inlets and outlets between the sea, the rivers and the ICW prevented me from ever being able to predict the direction or strength of the tide flow. Suddenly, Aletheia was having trouble holding her own. We were making very little way and I was having trouble tacking her; really feeling out of control. I can’t remember why I was steering just then, but poor Aletheia was going back and forth across the channel in the midst of some powerboat traffic. As I tried to tack I only got blown over the other way. I called from help from Wade! The captain may have noted in the logbook that his crew was having a pucker at the lower end of his alimentary canal.

The junk rig is elegantly simple but just different enough from the fore and aft rigs that I have sailed that it took some time to get used to working those beautiful batwing sails. Aletheia has two masts each with a similarly shaped sail. As different as the sailing was, when trying to tack -- turning into the wind for you land lubbers -- I needed to think of the forward sail like a jib on a sloop anyway. Once Wade had me releasing the sheet of the forward sail as I came about, I could manage a proper tack.

Sunset on Adams Creek

The sailing handling was straightened out but we still could not make any headway against the wind and current; something else was wrong. The Captain decided we should backtrack to an  anchorage he knew. Perhaps in an hour or two we could try again. Soon, however, we realized that we would miss time the tides at Beaufort. The original plan had been to go out into the Atlantic at the Beaufort Inlet and anchor at Cape Lookout, supposedly one of the most beautiful anchorages on the East Coast. From there we could decide to continue offshore or duck back into the ICW, the Intracoastal Waterway. We ended up staying the night at the anchorage at the north end of Adams Creek.

The next morning, we were up with the sun and started down the creek in the stillness of the morning. And … we still couldn’t make much way.  There was no wind and very little current, but we were struggling to creep along. After circling back the the anchorage, we decided the propellor must be fouled. Wade prepped to jump into Adams Creek … in April. I changed into my swim trunks as well, just in case. Luckily for me, after his initial shock, the Captain, a regular resident of Alaska, decided the water wasn’t so bad. He quickly found the prop was, in fact, fouled -- not fish line or rope on the shaft -- but barnacles on the blades. I dug out a putty knife and the Captain had our prop clean after several dives. We raised the anchor a second time and headed south. The clean prop made all the difference! We later learned that the marina we’d left had suffered a barnacle bloom.

That second day, even with a false start, was a good run. It was so easy to motorsail with the junk rig.

Sailfie

The full length battens and the unique parrell rigging kept the sails from flogging. When the sails weren’t much help we simply snugged up the sheets and ignored them. When they could help, the sails were already up and ready for adjustment. With a fore and aft rig like mine, the sails would have gone up, come down, gone up again, come down etc. Chances are, rather than fool with them, my sails would have stayed down and I’d have just motored the whole way without getting the occasional help from the sails.

We motorsailed down to Beaufort and then stayed on the ICW as the forecast and the tides precluded us from going offshore. We were near enough to civilization that we usually had cellular data and could check the marine forecasts and tide info, or download GRIB files. We anchored for the night off the ICW just above Swansboro.

The next morning we were off early and continued down the ICW. After some time, silently, electrically plying the ICW, the channel had turned and we decided to raise the sails to take advantage of our new angle on the wind. Unfortunately, we were approaching the New River Inlet, a confused delta below Camp Lejuene. The occasional roar of military jets added to the milieu as I worked to raise the sails. Just as we were moving into an area of bouys that are regularly moved to mark the shifting sands, Wade was steering as I was hauling lines and halyards. Every time he leaned one way to check the position of the channel, I would move to block his view; oblivious of the scattered bouys he was trying to decipher. Where the main part of the New River crosses the ICW, the channel had not simply shifted -- it had changed dramatically. Suddenly a bouy we needed to keep to our right was well to our left … and we ran aground.

If you go down the ICW without running aground once, you’re lying. We lost about an hour, calling Towboat/US and waiting on their arrival. They were super nice guys and had us off in no time. The tow captain said, “Yep, you’re right in the middle of where the channel used to be.” Even with the grounding, we made a good distance Friday. The last few miles, however, were a mighty slog into the wind and current. We were creepping along only a knot or two over the ground and fought our way into a ‘V’ between two channels to anchor for the night near Sloop Point.

I must say it was a luxury cruise for me. The last delivery I crewed on, I cooked about ⅔ the meals (I was happy to do so, cooking is one of my pleasures). This time, however, Wade cooked and fed me like a king. We had steaks for dinner and with our eggs a couple mornings. There were wonderful lunches - often cold cuts and cheese with whole grain bread. I cooked one meal the whole time -- mostly because I wanted to at least once.

In hindsight, trying to make time on a delivery run on the stretch of ICW between the Figure Eight Bridge and Wrightsville Beach -- on a weekend day -- was a strategic mistake. Not only were we fighting the wind and current, and the limited manueverability of a large sailboat, we also had the weekend crowd and their swarming powerboats. No one aboard those little buzzing boats seemed to know why we were making slow circles in front of a closed bridge. They wouldn’t have undertood that we were not only limited by our height but the channel for our four and half foot keel was a lot narrower than it appeared on the surface.

All the while we were calling Wrightsville marinas wanting to tie up for some fuel and a run to the grocery store. Nobody wanted to accomodate our provisioning on a weekend. And once we got under the Wrightsville Beach Bridge and near those marinas, we didn’t want to try and make our way through the maddening crowds just to get some fuel anyway. We decided to anchor at Wrightsville and go ashore in the dinghy.

Wade made contact with a resort hotel and gained permission to use their dock. For some reason, I was steering again, but I got us off the ICW, down toward the Masonboro Inlet and into the anchorage just fine. As we piled into the dinghy we joked about two big lunks, our trash, and four jerry jugs fitting aboard. Just then we realized that three years before, in an identical dinghy, he and I had rowed ashore at Melbourne, FL for fried chicken.

We made it across the choppy bay and pulled up to the dock at the Blockade Runner Resort. The guy

Sunset at Wrightsville Beach Anchorage

Wade had talked to was not around, but since we knew a name, everyone was very nice and accomodating. We tied up, grabbed our jugs and trash, and hailed an Uber ride. Jeanette was super nice and turned her Uber off to concentrate on escorting us to the Harris Teeter grocery and then a gas station. She was as patient as a saint as the ethanol-free gas just trickled out of the gas pump.

Once we got back to the resort, we had four full jerry jugs of gasoline and several bags of groceries to fit, with us, in the dinghy. Nevertheless, we made it back out to Aletheia. Even if we hadn’t been famished from all the day’s activities, dinner would have been epic; ribeyes on the grill, baked yams, and a huge salad from our leftover lettuce, fresh veggies and chopped fresh cabbage.

Stay tuned for Part Two. It will be available in a few days right here.

Gratitude with the Stars and Moon

Note: Many of you know that I recently spent some time in the Carolinas helping a friend move his boat.  I am working on a full report of this epic trip. In the meantime, here is a reflection on life in the boatyard. 

Gratitude runs in surplus aboard sv Emma. Even as I lay a bit low this week, not wanting to spend much money for I have a bill of some unknown heft coming from the marina. Still, I sleep every night under Emma’s forward hatch. The stars peak from behind clouds in a nightly game of hide and seek with the moon. The summer heat and humidity have not yet come and each night a soft, cool seabreeze caresses my cheek. It is lovely. It is relaxing in a way that I cannot begin to describe. 

One of my favorite things is to leave the hatch open even as rain is due to approach overnight. I can’t

remember a single instance of an abrupt downpour soaking me. Little, shy drops of rain, who seem embarassed to have to wake me, will drop one by one ahead of the storm. It only takes a few and I awake to the coming rain. There seems to always be time enough to rise, close the hatch, check the rest of the portlights and the companionway. Crawling back into my still warm berth to resume my rest seems a decadence for which I couldn’t possibly qualify. 

Last night most all the above procedure went off without a hitch. A few discreet drops on my forehead and I arose. The forward hatch came down -- I set the little bracket that allows me to leave open just a crack. I walked aft to make sure that my portlights were closed and checked if the wind was pushing rain into the companionway. I don’t have dropboards yet, just a piece of plywood cut to fit. Many nights this board is not closed; just leaning against the opening to allow a bit of air to flow. 

A fan was running so I squinted to check the amps left in my battery bank. The amps are displayed on the charge controller which is mounted in a cabinet next to the companionway. As I leaned a bit over the counter to make out the unlit display, something wasn’t quite right about the board in the companionway. It was one of those all-too-human moments when you’ve seen something but it takes a bit longer than usual for the perception, or a clear enough perception of that thing to soak into your brain. Simultaneously, I realized both that something was sticking up on what should have been the flat top of the board AND that I was being watched!  

Florida has lizards. Even if you’ve only vacationed here once, you've probably seen our little lizards scurrying around. They seem to thrive at the edges of landscaping and in other shady spots. Here, they run around among the shadows of boats on the rocks and the cement of the boatyard. For some reason, one of these ubiquitous lizards was checking me out in the middle of the night. The lizards have a pulsing stance. I suspect it’s their breathing, but it might just be a tense awareness. I could just see the top of this lizard’s head, bobbing slightly. He seemed larger than his local brethen I’ve seen. We stared at each other a moment; his head bobbing slowly as the gears of my brain rattled and ground.  Then I gently bumped the board and he or she ran off. I’m not sure what their intentions are but I’m not really looking for a summer roommate. 

Sistership

The Westsail Sistership next door

They parked a nice looking Westsail 32 right next to Emma and me last week. Today a marine surveyor showed up to do an inspection for the new owner's insurance.

“I don’t know if they set it right there to inspire me or to taunt me,” I said.

“Well, yes, she’s a pretty boat,” he replied, “She’s a Westsail 32.”

“Yeah,” I smiled, gesturing toward Emma, “ … same hull.”

“Oh my goodness! Would you look at that.”

Emma was neglected enough that I could afford her and lately I've been sanding 3 or 4 mysterious

layers of paint off her hull. I don’t blame him for not recognizing her. He went on to tell me what a solid ocean-capable design I had - very rugged boats he said. I explained that I had found her in Miami with no engine and brought her here because I knew the marina and the people who ran it.

“How did you get her up here,” he asked.

“We sailed her -- about 120 miles; overnight. It was a glorious sail.”

“With no engine! Gosh, that’s brave,” he exclaimed, “You’ve got to have a certain confidence in yourself and your boat. Well done.”

I didn’t tell him that it was the first time I had ever sailed her. It is only unusual to sail a boat with no engine because most skippers wouldn’t do it. It is not so brave; not some heroic endeavor. People were sailing boats without engines for thousands of years. It had to be done and Pete and I did it.

He inquired what engine I had bought for her and raved when I told him it was an old Perkins 4.108.

“That’s perfect; a wonderful engine for her,” he said.

And as if by magic, just as we were talking, the marina guys pulled up with my Perkins engine to drop it in the boat for a dry fit. The surveyor had a couple Westsail questions for me during the afternoon and we chatted a few more times. I helped him find the other boat’s fuel tank and took a good overhead picture from up on my boat for his report.

I can’t wait to get Emma back in the water. We are going to be one hell of a team.

The venerable Perkins 4.108

Aveling & Porter Steamroller

Frank Perkins and Charles Chapman were working on a high speed, lightweight diesel engine at Aveling and Porter, a British agricultural engine and steamroller manufacturer when the company went out of business. The two engineers were convinced of the potential for diesel engines - a new technology in the early 1930s -- and started F. Perkins Limited in June 1932. The company became Perkins Engine Company Limited, is still producing diesel engines today and is now a subsidiary of Caterpillar.

After World War II, Perkins found they needed to make smaller engines to fit the smaller post-war cars of Great Britain. They successfully began a period of development and technical advancements in the 1950s that led to their engines running a variety of cars and delivery vans; even an Alfa Romeo. The venerable 4.108 engine came along in the latter part of that decade and found success in the agricultural equipment sector. At one point, a 4.108 was installed in a VW Transporter leading to a three year contract for a slightly larger engine while VW developed their own.

In the 1960s the marine business discovered the 4.108 and the engine’s real legacy was established. Between 1958 & 1992, 500,000 4.108s were made; many tens of thousands found in medium sized sailboats of the era. One Perkins powered Francis Chichester’s round the world Gipsy Moth IV; the first solo

Chichester & Gipsy Moth IV

circumnavigation along the old Clipper Route. The last contract Perkins filled for the 4.108 was for auxiliary power to run the air-conditioning in British Tanks during the Gulf War.

Used everywhere from tractors and agricultural pumps to British tanks and sailboats, the Perkins was known for its rugged durability and reliability. I crewed on a boat where the owner had spent nearly half again as much as he had paid for the boat to resurrect the boat's Perkins engine rather than replace it with a newer one. We pushed that engine hard all the way down the East Coast and it never even hiccuped. I kind of joined a cult on that trip. I now own the same brand sailboat and I found a Perkins 4.108 to power her.

When I found the Perkins it was too early for my project, but it had been lovingly rebuilt as a hobby project. It was torn down, cleaned up, individual parts painted or replaced, and rebuilt with new gaskets and seals. All that and it was only $1500 more than the rusty, dusty Perkins I’d have had to rebuild myself. And I suck as a diesel mechanic. I jumped on the deal and arranged for the engine to be stored here at the marina. At the time, I thought it would only be several weeks before I could get at the installation.

Fourteen months and two hurricanes later, we are measuring the engine bed to finally get my Perkins 4.108 installed. The poor thing started out just in the door of one of the shops here, but was then moved out under a carport-type of shed. We had no direct hits last season, but hurricanes Irma and Maria came close enough to strongly affect our weather. I had been stopping by infrequently to oil any bolts or fittings that had got the stain of rust on them. There was a panic when I had removed the transmission thinking it was best stored onboard Emma for the time. Luckily, I had told one of the ladies in the marina office so when the marina guys started puzzling about the missing trannie she settled them down. My engine hadn’t really been “put up” properly. Life got in the way and circumstances beyond my control caused a much greater delay than I had imagined.

Part of the delay was that Emma’s engine space had been stripped and used for storage. I had to purchase, install and plumb two fuel tanks; purchase and install thruhulls; buy a sea-strainer and all the

plumbing bits for raw water, fuel etc. But Emma and I are nearly ready. Recently, I had tried turning the engine [reminder: I don’t know what I’m doing] and was nearly distraught that it felt stuck. I didn’t [and don’t] have any idea if there is a spectrum between “stuck” and “siezed.” I had gotten a great deal, but had still spent a pretty penny on the engine. Many depressing thoughts of expensive repairs or starting over with a new engine were spinning through my brain. The marina folk had a simple idea: we should start this engine of yours before you spend the money to install it in your boat. Brilliant. However, the marina mechanic was backed up and it took nearly a month to hear from him. Just enough time me to start thinking that the reason I wasn’t hearing from him was that the news was so bad.

The best possible news has come!! This last week, Walton, the engine guru, started my 4.108 just fine and ran it for half an hour. He replaced a couple minor parts and has a plan which I have approved. The projects that were giving me the most nightmares all relate to installing the engine. Walton is going to

Engine Bed

measure the bed for an adapter, install and align the engine, test the driveshaft for length and straightness, and find me a proper propeller. Yes, it’ll cost more money than if I tried to do more of that myself, but it will be way less time. And rather than learning by trial and error, I will be learning by hanging out a bit with Walton as my engine gets installed. I will plumb all the raw water and fuel lines and wire up the control panel, but I’ll have him come check my work.

My #svEmma project has felt like it was caught it in the doldrums, not moving forward, but now with some positive news and proper forward motion I am super excited and just feel much better about everything. Life is frikkin good.

Positive Friction

My former self would just not understand. I used to be a Live Music Addict. My life was coordinated for maximum enjoyment of watching good people play good music. Many times, my pursuit of that rush of watching music made came at the expense of most everything else in my life -- budget, health, etc. I don’t regret any of it; it was almost always fantastic.

I had a ticket to see Donna the Buffalo last Friday night but decided not to go. DtB is on my see-before-you-die list, but I chose to go to bed early in order to get up Saturday morning and get back to my boatwork. My former self would be pissed.

The money I spent on the ticket was long gone; didn’t matter. I actually bought it months ago when the show was first announced (It was a band on my list playing just 45 minutes away). Yet, I had work to do and decided to keep at it. Surely, I didn’t need to spend more money on drinks and food at the venue.

Boatwork on Saturday was a little frustrating as I knew it would be. Part of my motivation to stay in and get to work was to finish investigating the strange patches I had started to uncover the weekend before. As I was sanding on Emma’s starboard side before, I had run in to a couple spots that appeared to be some kind of repair using expanding spray foam.

This weekend, I sanded the stretch of topsides that included those two patches. They must be some old storm damage -- poorly repaired. In fact, what looked like foam was a layer of some kind of caulk that had reacted strangely with the paint over it. This layer was a couple millimeters thick and peeled right off as it had not bonded to the layer below it. The lower layer is more solid but had not been sanded before the mystery layer was applied over it. I believe neither repair is structural, just really bad cosmetic repairs hidden, probably purposefully, under the thick, cheap ass paint I’ve been sanding off for two weeks.

I bought the boat from a Miami lawyer. I bought her sight unseen, as is, where is. Even if I had an issue with this latest find -- and I don’t -- I’m sure the lawyer covered his bases well. It's even possible that he was not aware. I've come to disbelieve two-thirds of the legend he told about the boat. I bought Emma for $6000 and expected some surprises; even a heartache or two. Nevertheless, these two spots are really the first ugly surprise. Indeed, there have even been several very pleasant surprises. I got a hard dinghy in the deal and many sails in decent condition. Further, I knew she had no engine, but I didn’t know what was done where the driveshaft exits the boat. Whoever took care of this did a wonderful job, saving me a lot of frustration and even more money.

Emma is my girl. We’ve already been through a lot together. I’m still working on keeping all the promises I've made her. No one should expect that a relatively minor setback would change my mind or give me second thoughts. Emma is a Westsail 32, exactly the boat I wanted. For whatever reason, I found this W32, she found me, and I’m committed to her. She’ll soon be a lovely girl again, all by my own hand.

Now for the cynics out there who read that last paragraph and chuckled, this is not bluster, not some overly romanticized prattle just to cover my ass for regretting my purchase. For those cynics, here are some practical facts: I found a strong, ocean-capable vessel that needed some love -- and an engine. I have already done a lot of the work needed and I have an engine. In fact, the marina engine guru is working right now to adapt Emma’s engine bed to my engine and begin the installation. I have only some body-work type repairs to do, some painting, the inspection and replacement of rigging components and a few minor projects before Emma can splash back in the water. Emma and I will be sailing sooner than I could start over with another boat.

I could sell the running engine, put Emma on the market as a half done project and go back to work. “Back to work,” however, means slipping back into the matrix; modern wage slavery. The more time you spend in the system, the harder it is to see how stuck you really are. I am not yet totally free, but I’ve spent the last eleven years taking the red pills. I see the system for what it is and want no part of it. Emma is my third “escape” boat. I know that starting over would mean a minimum of two more years. Even with this minor setback of a couple new spots to repair, I will have Emma back in the water and sailing in less than a year. I'm not saying that she will be perfect and pretty by then, but she will be safe and seaworthy and we will be off.

Life is good; as good as before.

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Epilogue: For those of you keeping track, “in less than a year” is way past the May 1, 2018 that I had ‘committed’ to last year. For some time now, I have not been using that date in my own plans. The lucrative, so-called part-time job that I’ve had since October was no where near part-time. This has cost me a couple months, at least, which means I can't get out of Florida before hurricane season; too much yet to be done. To fix that problem, I am switching to a 7 days on, 7 off trucking gig this month.

The good is that rather than rushing toward a goal that I naively foisted upon myself, I have downshifted and will have time to do what I'm doing well and complete a few additional projects between now and sometime after hurricane season. Emma and I will both be in better shape for it. I no longer speak in terms of dates on the calendar. Emma will let me know when she’s ready. She’s as impatient to get back to sea as I am.

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In the meantime, enjoy 'Positive Friction' by Donna the Buffalo: 

Better Than Homeless

Riverside Marina is really a boatyard. That sentence could have ended -- ‘really just a boatyard,’ but boatyards are important to sailors. For a vagabond like me, Riverside is an inexpensive place where I can do my own work. Often at a capital-M marina, there is only a small category of work that a skipper can do on his own. Most boatwork must be done by hiring marina staff or approved contractors.

There are a couple hundred boats here. Many are here for major refits like my Emma. Some, on a schedule, are here for a few short weeks of intense work and then go right back in the water. Many Canadians spend winters in the Bahamas and store their boats here each year for the summer hurricane season. The property used to be a cement plant and boats languish in the back of the lot, in the gravel, with fading For Sale signs swinging hopelessly from the lifelines. Many more poor, neglected boats here will never get back into the water. Some are literally rotting into the ground.

The “marina” part of Riverside is a man-made cut into the mainland north of Fort Pierce. This cut is lined with docks and, before hurricanes Irma and Maria, docks extended out into the water on each side

Before the storms

of the privately maintained channel. The remaining docks are occupied by a hodge-podge of boats, power and sail, in varying degrees of seaworthiness. Deep in the marina are a couple rough boats tied to the wall. Each day I walk by and marvel that they are still afloat.

Both boats are occupied by gentleman who would probably otherwise be homeless. Apparently, however, they are paying the slip fees and have enough to eat (and drink). One boat appears to be a Dreadnaught, a first cousin of the Westsail 32 like Emma. I actually haven’t seen that guy in some time. The other boat is a 1970s production boat with some curious modifications and no mast. I’ll call the guy that lives on the second boat Dan. I used to park just above Dan’s boat in the lot. At the time, I was coming and going at all hours of the night. I’m not sure he always appreciated that, but whenever I saw him during the day we would wave. I’d say “Good Morning” and he’d answer “It’s a beautiful morning” with special emphasis on the ‘bee’ of beautiful. I never heard many other words from Dan.

After Irma & Maria

A couple days ago, I was just starting a boatwork day, when I realized that I needed more gloves. There is a fiberglass supply shop very nearby. I grabbed my trash (always multitasking) and hiked out of the boatyard toward the dumpster and then my car; perhaps a hundred yard circuit. The last leg took me along the main driveway and past the two sad derelicts. Dan was sitting in his cockipit in the morning sun. He was the vision of a certain archetype Floridian: boonie hat, nicotine-stained mustache, old t shirt, ragged shorts and flip flops.

“Good Morning.”

“It’s a bee-utiful morning.”  And then unexpectedly, “Are you going by AJ’s?”

I’m not sure I had ever heard two sentences right in a row from him. After the jolt of it, I presumed that he meant the little gas station up the road.

“Sure,” I said, “I’m off to buy some gloves. I can take you that far.”

Just then I stubbed my toe on an uneven board in the dock. With a two-step and a twist, I managed to remain standing. Dan was struggling to stand up and step out of his boat on the same dock.

“I’ve been looking for that nail sticking up.” Dan said.  As he slowly joined me on the dock, I got the

The basin

idea that he was already half in the bag that morning. There was an empty case of Bud Light on the floor of his cockpit, but he was walking, so I assumed that couldn’t have all been from this morning.

At my car, I moved the sunshade to the backseat and grabbed a couple loose bottles off the floor to make room. Dan folded his lanky frame and joined me in the car with an awkward, hesitating motion. As the wind blew through our open doors, I got a pretty strong shot of dry sweat, stale urine and maybe that last beer or two. I had assumed he was living on the edge, but poor Dan was living more roughly than I thought.

On the way toward the store, Dan asked how my boat was coming along. He asked if I was getting gloves for fiberglassing and chuckled when I said I was stripping paint. He knew what that was like from helping friends with their boats.

I took the back way on Old Dixie Highway and drove up the hill toward U.S. 1. Dan corrected my navigation as I wasn’t quite right about where AJ’s was. I use the little gas station across the highway coming home from work, but AJ’s is the party store on the other side; nearer to the boatyard.

Couple hundred boats

Dan climbed out of my car and stood on unsteady legs. “Well, I would wish you a wonderful day,” he said with a smirk, “but with all that paint stripping, I know you’re not going to."

He marched toward the store with a carefully clumsy, day-drinking stumble that kept perfect time with his uneven coughing laughter.

I couldn’t help but smile myself that a guy like Dan, just barely better than homeless, was enjoying a laugh thinking that he was going to have a better day than I.

Out of Gas

One day last week, I had gotten up early enough to make a big breakfast. Dispatch had flipped (flopped?) my schedule to afternoon. My start time was 11:45 AM, eight or ten hours later than usual. Breakfast was going to be one of my favorites; a chickpea scramble with a skillet full of veggies.

Every good day starts with coffee, but especially a big breakfast day. I poured four cups of water into the pot and lit the burner. Next I turned on the inverter and set up to grind my beans. After a couple of buzzing pulses in the coffee grinder (one that I had found on the boat when I bought her), I sloshed some water in the french press and dumped yesterday’s spent grounds into the chopped-open milk jug that serves as my sink -- sink drain actually. Finally the fresh ground beans went into the press to wait on hot water.

I got my veggies organized; onion, mushrooms, zucchini, poblano pepper. For some reason, the sight of a half zucchini on my cutting board prompted me to immediately chop it up -- way out of sequence. Getting back to my routine, I started measuring the chickpea flour for the scramble. I’m really hooked on this simple recipe. It is what I think is proper vegan cooking. The scramble becomes a familiar context but avoids the contradiction of plant-based foods trying to replicate the texture and flavor of an animal-based food. If you’re going to avoid animal products but cling to the forms like scramble eggs or hot dogs or hamburgers -- have you really accomplished the switch?

As I was measuring a quarter cup of chickpea flour, the reverie of my slow-paced, peaceful morning was interrupted by a familiar sound.  The tone of the flame under the coffee water shifted. The slightly more airy, less roaring sound meant that I was running out of propane. There are several boat projects ahead of the galley on my list, so I am still cooking on a two-burner campstove fueled by those little green propane canisters. I can get 8 or 10 days out of each container, depending on how and how often I cook. But when I hear that particular sound, I know I have about three minutes of reduced heat before the flame goes all the way out.

Standing in the galley, in pre-coffee stupor, I remembered that the two gas canisters I had just bought were still in my car. It was late morning but on a morning after a cold snap. Not only was more gas about 100 yards away, I wasn’t dressed yet and it was in the low 50s outside my cozy cabin. The breakfast plan had to change.

I gathered the chunks of zucchini into a container and tossed it in my cooler. It was time for “boatmeal.”

Not mine. 

In about five minutes my bowl was layered with old-fashioned oats, banana slices, cinnamon, flax meal, raisins, apple slices, pepitas and a few dried blueberries. I had just enough coconut milk in the cooler to pour over the bowl and let the oats soak. With some coffee and the soaking oats, I sat down to breakfast.

There is nothing new about boats and interrupted meal plans for me. Twenty-five years ago, I had decided to celebrate a good week while I had been scrimping and scraping starting a business. On the way home from work I picked up a couple cans of beer, some pasta, a jar of sauce, a nice little loaf of bread and even some parmesiano-reggiano and a little grater. I drooled in anticipation as I rowed out to my home, the boat I was living on in the anchorage off downtown Sarasota. It was when I climbed aboard with my provisions and settled in for the evening, that I realized that I didn’t have any water on the boat. My two empty jugs still sat on the floor next to the companionway steps so I would remember to take them to shore with me that morning. I wasn’t going to be making any pasta that night.

Rowing back to shore for water at the end of a long, hard week was just not in the cards for me. I drank my beer, tore chunks off the loaf and dipped them into the sauce in the jar. All the while the sun had been going down over Lido Pass. Before my improvised supper was done, the stars began to twinkle over the lights of downtown as the dusking of the day faded into black. The worst part of the evening was that I could have used one more beer to go with all those stars.

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Images used without permission.
First image from here.
Second image from here.

Rhymes with Part-Time

Man(!)  ...  it’s hard to break free of 'the system.' Just getting and maintaining a decent part-time job is not easy.  So it turns out that the dispatch office at my current gig and I were not using the phrase “part-time” in the same way. I’m a “lease driver,” basically like a temp; because I’m not guaranteed 40 hours a week, they call me “part-time.” Which would be OK, except in their minds, I am available to work as much as they need me to. I’ve been working 45 or 50 hours a week since Thanksgiving. It is a pretty lucrative gig for part-time, so I was hanging on, thinking that it would get back to part-time; my idea of part-time. I kept talking about wanting to get back to part-time, but they either didn’t understand or thought I was crazy. 

Finally, I got with the lease/temp company and re-asserted that I was only available three days a week. This created some confusion and consternation with my local dispatch. At first, I was told that part-time was not available. Nevertheless, I didn’t blink and eventually they decided that they’d rather have three days a week from a guy they know is reliable and capable, than five days from someone they don’t know. This was a big deal for me. Nineteen bucks an hour is a pretty good gig for a vagabond sailor. 

In the meantime, I did get a little bit of boatwork done in the last couple months. I’ve been part time a week and a half and the boatwork has accelerated. Here’s a quick review of the projects finished in December and January. 

Built Battery Boxes

And lids

Wired batteries in new space

Grinding coffee with inverter

Drilled a couple big holes

Installed seacocks

Reinforced some shelves

Replaced a rotten shelf

Installed solar ready vent

Practiced thermos cooking

Sequel to Five Crows, an Eagle, etc.

This strange afternoon on the road was the perfect sequel to my recent post: Five Crows, an Eagle, a Skunk and an Umbrella.

I was having a pretty normal work day. My route that morning took me to a store in Fort Lauderdale and two in Plantation. I was done and heading back to Vero Beach when I passed a car carrier as he came down a ramp onto the highway. Those carrier guys are all a little crazy, so in short order he was passing me.

He had just got into the right lane ahead of me, and a couple cars were already working on passing us, when an eagle flew up out of the median and across the left lane. As it was headed into the path of the other truck, I subconsciously chanted “no, no, no!”

Right at the last moment, the eagle jerked back over the cars, but seemed to drop something. In the

spastic course change, he even looked over his shoulder like “Damn, man. I dropped it!”

In a matter of seconds, I drove by a fish lying right on the dotted line of Florida’s Turnpike. I haven’t been a fisherman in a long time, but it was a nice looking fish, if I could make such a determination at 65 mph.

So, if you get where you’re thinking you’re having a bad day, remember my friend the fish. First, she was snatched out of some peaceful pond by an eagle, determined to eat her. Yet instead, she gets dropped onto a major highway, where she’ll bake in the sun on the crummy pavement until some car runs over her. Poor fish.
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Road fish image from here.
Fish drop image from here.

Boat Rich, Cash Poor

Moon over the boatyard.

Long ago, I decided that I'm not interested in getting ahead, I just want to break even. It's a good thing because I tried to go broke -- again. It's okay, it's part of my plan but I got caught up short; shouldn't have but I got distracted. First confession: I took too long to adjust my lifestyle from full time to part time. Worse yet, full time life on the road is different than just full time. Life out there is more expensive and less convenient. Because of all that, it's harder to recognize that you're eating out too often. I love cooking for myself but more than occasionally, while I was running here or there, I rationalized stopping at one of my favorite spots.

Earlier this month, I had a plan. My overarching philosophy is to spend whatever I need to spend, to continue the boatwork; while holding back enough for next months rent.

I have a fairly large check coming -- drivers escrow. The last company I worked for held back 50 bucks a week, up to $750, to cover minor damages to company equipment or their deductible in the event of something more serious. If all went well, the driver gets the escrow back upon leaving me company. I don't know if I'm getting every nickel back but I have a receipt from when I turned my truck in that shows the initial inspection was fine. I'm hoping, of course, for the entire balance.

In my memory of the drivers handbook, I was supposed to call 45 days after my termination to request the return of the escrow. Forty five days was the Monday of Thanksgiving week. I decided the Payroll Office would be busy enough that week that I would call the following week (I am too nice to a fault).

Two things became excruciatingly important a couple weeks later. One: I had counted on the arrival of the escrow monies in my plans. And two -- of course -- I forgot to call that next week.

Everything was going along fine. I was buying boat stuff and preparing for the engine install. I made a new dropboard for the companionway out of some decent plywood. Then I had to think about paying my rent. Wait a minute!! According to my plan, I should have had a lot more in my accounts then I did just then. The escrow!

When I called, I found out the escrow return would have been automatic but an email they had sent me, the day after I quit, was missing a letter in my email address. Its all straightened out now, just needs to be processed, but in the meantime I am squeaking by.

This is actually the plan. When I bought Emma, I basically spent all the money I had

Home Sweet Boatyard.

on her (she was that important). When I quit my Midwest job, the last two or three paychecks were just enough for me to move and get established in Florida. I had a job in Fort Pierce before I left Michigan. That Florida job paid for her mooring, and then storage, while I was saving up for the refit.

I bought a 50 horsepower diesel engine, new fuel tanks, and all the bits and pieces to install all of that. And in October, I switched to part time. I have a great gig that is going to fund the rest of the refit. It would all be going swimmingly if not for the couple grand I spent at the dentist in the last 4 or 5 months.

To twist an old saw for my own purposes: I'm boat rich and cash poor (this month). This is just exactly where and how I want to live. I continue to doggedly pursue my righteous cause. Don't worry about me, find your own cause.