There was a beautiful breeze today on the Delaware River. It blew from the north, which in our location means that if you went for a sail, you would be on a beam reach and could choose to sail either with or against the current. A couple of boats from the Red Dragon, a block away, were off their moorings when Thelma and I took a walk in mid afternoon.
Monica and I are planning to visit Robin for the holiday weekend. It will be our first time aboard since just after I delivered her to Cambridge in early August. We've been away so long, we might find that animals have selected her for their lodging.
If the weather permits, we will sail to St. Michaels on Saturday. That is a trip of perhaps 35 miles. From Cambridge, which is on the Choptank River, you can get to St. Michaels in only about 15 miles of sailing. This involves taking one of the Choptank's tributaries -- Broad Creek -- to a smaller creek and then anchoring on the south side of the peninsula upon which St. Michaels was settled. It's called St. Michaels back door.
There is a hazard in this approach. The town dock on San Domingo Creek is occupied by commercial fishing boats -- mostly crabbers. And the creek itself is one of their favorite places to trap the crustaceans.
Once we anchored in the creek, oblivious to the fact that a crabber had strung his "trot line" -- a line baited with chicken necks, I'm told -- right under the place where our boat floated. He knew where his line was, but he didn't set any buoys to mark it so we had no idea it was there until, at sunrise, he banged along the side of our boat with a barrage of profanity that could have awakened the dead.
That's not why we're going to St. Michaels the other way. In fact, we've returned many times to San Domingo, a picturesque little creek.
But some friends are planning to sail down the Miles River to the front door of St. Michaels and so we are hoping to rendezvous with them.
Frankly, there are a lot of better places on the Chesapeake to sail. St. Michaels is good for cute shops, a maritime museum and restaurants. Nearby Wye River is good for remote marshes and snug anchorages.
But the trip to St. Michaels could be a great sail, especially if the wind is from the southwest and is as fresh as it was today on the Delaware.

There is in the spiral of my dna a twist that causes me to seek fulfillment in the completion of tasks. At times, the drive is extremely helpful in maintaining good domestic relations. Now that I am not otherwise employed, I can expect to find a handwritten list of chores each morning on the granite-topped island in the kitchen. I dutifully cross off each item when I believe I have executed the instrucitons faithfully.
At other times, fulfillment comes only when I am pursuing a task that has presented itself to me independently from external sources (Monica).
This week, I have mown the lawn, built a retaining wall to keep the mulch from washing down the gully behind the house in a downpour, baked some cookies and, most significantly, cleared the top of my desk, (Monica.)
But I have also visited numerous boatyards (my dna). The purpose of these visits is to locate an O'Day Mariner that might be had for a song. Thus far in my quest, I've found three boats, any one of which would, for the right price, work.
My first boat was a Mariner, a 19-foot fiberglass boat with a centerboard (or swing keel, depending on your preference.) These boats and their forebear -- the Rhodes 19 -- are self-righting, which means that when a strong gust hits your sail and knocks you flat, the boat will come back up rather than capsizing. (I love the Rhodes 19, which lacks the Mariner's cuddy cabin but may have a taller mast and more sail area. I'm not certain. I'd take one if I found one, but they are rare in this region.)
It occurred to me after Monica told me that she will retire after she has logged two more birthdays that we probably could get a lot more sailing in if we had a Mariner moored at the end of the street on the Delaware River.
Our recent excursion in the 420 lasted only 15 minute or so (see an earlier blog) and convinced me that we are much too mature for that boat.
So it's not so much a matter of needing another boat -- the question Monica asks is "Why do we need another boat?" -- but of profiting from replacing one of the boats we now have. A Mariner is much easier to sail, will take four out for an evening on the water with ease, is forgiving, durable and generally pleasant to sail.
So today I visited a couple of boatyards that I hadn't explored recently. Neither had a Mariner, and the hunt goes on. If you know of one that might be available, let me know. This is a task that I'm taking very seriously and a potential source of serene fulfillment once the job's completed.

The appearance in Cambridge of a sailboat named Sea Scout with a hailing port of Amsterdam helped me discover the source of a malaise that had settled upon me recently.
Sea Scout was docked along the T-head at the end of H-dock, where Robin sits in her slip. I had walked to the end of the dock, curious to see if there were any unusual vessels in the slips, and so happened upon her. The tide was low so I was looking down on her. I guessed her to be 27 to 28 feet long but beamy, with what I thought was a European flair. She had a small transom on which was mounted a Navik windvane. Her decks were clear, save for a curiously long piece of bamboo about three inches in diameter.
There was a paddlock on the companionway hatch and, although the day was hot, the cabin vent was closed. I guessed no one was home.
I walked to the far side of the marina where Chautauqua, the Morrison's boat, is berthed. She was riding nicely in her slip, so I called John to see whether there was anything he wanted me to do and to let him know his boat was fine. I asked him if he was familiar with Sea Scout. He wasn't.
Later in the day, I went back to the T-head to take another look at the little boat. Now the companionway was open, but no one responded to my greeting, so I inspected the boat further. Most boats that have windvane self steering also have some history, and now I was imagining a crossing of the Atlantic from Amsterdam aboard this pretty little boat. I still didn't recognized its make.
I paid particular attention to the Navik windvane, since Robin's vane was damaged coming back from Bermuda and might need to be replaced. The Navik seemed to be a simple device, easily mounted. It had a trim tab on the paddle that rides in the water. I was attempting to visualize how the gear worked when the owner arrived. I introduced myself.
His name is Geert van der Kolk, Dutch of course. I asked whether he had sailed across. No, he said, although the prior owner had. He said he kept the hailing port on the boat to reduce complictions a while back when he and his wife sailed to Cuba.
Very interesting. I knew there would be a story attached to Sea Scout.
Geert explained that his boat is a Dufour Arpege, 1968, a 30-footer and the first Dufour model made. When we exchanged business cards, he saw my Soundings logo and told me he wrote for a Dutch sailing magazine. But that isn't his occupation, he said. He is a novelist. Indeed, one side of his card is filled with the covers of ten novels he has written, all in Dutch. No English translations yet.
This all was fascinating to me, but as I ended my brief interview, I realized that I had no place to tell this little story.
For the first time in 41 years, I am disconnected, against my will, from any institution that, on a daily basis, wants my work. (I can freelance for Soundings or anyone else who might take my stories. But that is different from being a part of a team.)
It is this unwelcomed separation that has been eating at me, this elimination of the purpose that directed my days for so many years. It will take some time for the experience to no longer be unsettling.
Geert and his wife, whom I didn't meet, live in Washington, D.C. for reasons I never learned. His card carries phone numbers in Haiti and Holland. His web site is www.geertvanderkolk.com .
By the way, the long bamboo pole on the deck is an emergency boom Geert made in the islands when the boat's aluminum boom was broken in an accident. It worked fine, he says.

The month of August is no time to be aboard a boat on the Chesapeake Bay. The only exception would be for a boat with air conditioning.
In August, summer condenses its worst qualities -- extreme heat and humidity -- inside boats. Sitting exposed all day under the direct rays of the sun, any boat, be it wood, fiberglass, steel or aluminum, absorbs radiant energy. A boat cabin becomes an effective oven. Add to this the fact that a boat is sitting on water!! and the potential for 100 per cent humidity becomes a probability.
Back in Bermuda, we found that Robin's air conditioning didn't work. It was not a problem there. We were able to get good nights of sleeping in June. But I was in no rush to return Robin to her home port in Cambridge, Md., without a way to moderate August's wrath inside her cabin.
Still, the move had to be made. So when John and I docked Robin in her berth there, getting the AC repaired was my top priority.
Last week, I paid a two-day visit to our lovely, having arranged for a diver to be at the Marina on Wednesday to replace her sacraficial zinc, which had fallen off the prop shaft during the Bermuda race. I also, with the help of Scott, the dockmaster at the marina, contacted an air conditioning repairman and told him I'd be in town until Thursday. He said he would be available and asked me to let him know when -- or if -- I wanted him.
I was certain I'd need his help. I'd tried three times to fix the AC myself. Then, on the four-day voyage from Connecticut to Engineer's Cove in Chesapeake City, I'd had my friend Curt Michael, an excellent all-around mechanic, on board. Mike had stroked his chin, mumbled a few syllables and attempted a repair, without success.
The symptoms were these: There was no air coming out of the AC vent even when the switch was turned to "Fan" only; and although the AC made noises, it never pumped any water through its plumbing and overboard, as it should have
The way the AC works is that a pump located in the engine compartment sucks seawater into the boat through a seacock and pumps it into the heat exchanger in the AC unit, located at the bottom of a locker next to the chart table. The heat exchanger draws heat out of the air in the cabin and transfers it to the seawater, which -- heated -- is pumped overboard.
This process can be disturbed when you are under sail and the boat heels because the water falls out of the seacock when you are on a port tack. It is necessary, before the AC is turned on back in the slip, to make sure there is water in the seacock. This is called priming the AC. I had done this three times by opening a small strainer in the line and allowing seawater to flood into the bilge.
I arrived in Cambridge at about 10 a.m. on Wednesday. There was no sign that the diver had arrived yet so I decided to try my hand at fixing the AC one more time before calling the technician.
I turned on the switch and, just as before, when I put my hand in front of the AC duct, I felt no air moving. Then I climbed outside the cabin and looked overboard. No water was pumping out the side of Robin's hull.
Back in the cabin, I opened the door to the locker and looked at the AC unit. There was nothing visibly wrong with it. I decided to follow the duct work from the unit to the vent where the cold air should have been blowing into the cabin.
Voila! The duct had been torn loose, probably when Robin was rocking out on the Atlantic in those June storms. I replaced the duct and, sure enough, I got a breeze from the vent.
Now I dove into the engine compartment and, one more time, let sea water flood into the bilge before I returned the strainer to its place.
I did not have great faith when I went back to the control panel and once more tried turning the AC on. But when I went outside and looked overboard, there was a stream spewing from Robin's side strong as a garden hose. And in seconds, cold air was blowing into the cabin.
So it looks as though we will be able to visit with Robin even on the hottest days as 2009 winds down.

I have been staying home, finishing my writing projects, so there is nothing to report from Robin. Last night, I got a call from John Morrison, my sailing friend whose boat, Chautauqua, is moored on the far side of the Cambridge, Md., marina from Robin. He offered to let some air out of the dinghy on Robin's foredeck in anticipation of a couple of days with blistering heat. I accepted.
Yesterday, I finished an expansion of my book An Irresponsible Adult that I hope makes it even stronger. I've sent it on to a friend, Joel Plastridge, who is good friends with a literary agent to whom he plans to introduce the book. I'm crossing my fingers.
At the same time, my children's book, Leaving Harwich, is in the hands of another agent and I'm holding my breath. If either of these projects bears fruit, I will not have to get serious in my job search and for a time I'll be saved from settling for work that is less ideal than my last job at Soundings.
I had a wonderful four years at Soundings, working with some great people. I set my own hours -- usually cramming nearly 40 hours into three days while holed up in Robin's cabin. I really enjoyed the freedom to write when I wanted, whether that was first thing in the morning or midnight, and to gather stories wherever I was. It would be difficult to return to the sort of work that most of us normally have, sitting at an assigned desk in some office. I'm afraid it would make me very claustrophobic.
I've never heard back from Lyons Press in Connecticut where the editor had begun looking at my third book, Swimming in the Shadow of Death, last winter. I understand it has been a particularly brutal time in the publishing business, so I haven't pushed the issue. Still, when you've produced a product, you want to see it sold.
Until the contacts I'm making now with the two agents are completed, I won't be sending Swimming on any other voyages. But thanks to the Cavanaughs (who are members of this blog) I have a couple of new prospective publishers to approach when and if the time arrives.
Later this week, after the heat wave, I'm planning to head to Cambridge in the hopes of fixing some issues aboard Robin. I'm not sure when she will sail next, but I hope it will be soon.
Thanks for checking in.

The highlight during the delivery of Mrs. Campbell's boat, Robin, from Connecticut to Cambridge, Md., had to be the bluefish dinner prepared en route by chef Curtis J. Michael, known to some of his friends as The Old Mike. We were off of the New Jersey coast and had been trolling with little success when we switched lures to a neon fake squid. Soon we had the corpses of four "harbor" blues aboard and Mike dove into the galley.
It was Thursday afternoon. We had left Old Saybrook, Ct., on Tuesday morning and now we were headed for Cape May and maybe even farther. It depended on the conditions.
Mike fileted the little blues, sauted some canned, sliced potatoes with onion and heated some canned peas. The aromas steaming up from below started two bellies groaning in the cockpit until we were provided with plates heaped with a wonderful meal.
The lowlight of the trip happened the prior afternoon on a day that had started with the promise of making Cape May overnight.
Tuesday, we had reached Manhassett Bay on Long Island Sound by 9 o'clock at night and anchored easily in that convenient harbor. We were only eight miles from Hell Gate, the place where the East River and Long Island Sound conspire to create havoc if you arrive there at the wrong hour. We had pushed all day to get to Manhassett. The current changed direction in Hell Gate at 4:40 a.m. on Wednesday, so we wanted to be close enough that we could reach it at slack tide without having to travel too far in the dark. Up at 2:50 a.m., we left Manhassett at about 3:30 and reached Hell Gate after first light but before sunrise, a time when the current was mild.
As we motored south on the East River, however, there was a hint of that which we might expect later on. Moisture hung in the air between the Manhattan skyscrapers. The knot that had tied itself into my stomach on Tuesday as I worried about making our schedule -- that knot that always seems to arrive at some point during these long passages -- tightened.
The concern was justified. We saw the Verrazano Narrows Bridge through the thick fog only by looking up when we were directly under it.
I had run down the channel from New York Harbor two years ago in just such conditions. That time, I was alone. I cannot remember how I ever made it. I recall coming upon fools in small fishing boats who would appear out of the fog 50 feet away and then, like spirits, disappear.
It was much nicer to have two others on board with me this time. One of us stood watch, one steered and one focused on the radar screen.
At one point, we got one long, loud blast from a ship passing up the channel. But we found the buoy we had plotted for our first turn that would lead to a safe exit from the channel, and we made that exit and stayed on course until we were out past Sandy Hook, the tip of New Jersey.
At that point, the fog lifted gradually and we appeared to be in for a pleasant and productive day. The forecast had been consistant for Wednesday: Southwest winds 10 to 15 knots. That was not what we would have liked, but I thought we could manage it.
But as the morning wore on, the wind, blowing in the same direction as the adverse current into which we were motoring, built up an increasingly difficult chop. By about noon, we were averaging less than three knots of speed over the ground. Robin's bow was slamming into the chop and then bouncing to one side or another, making use of the autopilot impossible. I began hand steering and hoping for the best.
By this time, both John Morrison and I were feeling queezy. My discomfort only increased as I was forced to stare at the compass constantly to keep Robin on course. We were about five miles north of Manasquan Inlet, the first passable inlet on the New Jersey coast, when the chop became impossible. I considered turning around and running back to the protection of Sandy Hook. But hard-gained ground is difficult to throw away, and Mike had to be home by Saturday afternoon. So we pressed on.
It took two hours to make the five miles to the inlet. By that time, I had called the Shrimp Box restaurant in Point Pleasant Beach to see if they had space at their dock. I'd already called several marinas looking for a slip for the night and had found nothing.
The restaurant had space, though, so we pushed forward, hoping we could convince Nick, the owner of the Shrimp Box, to let us stay at his place for the night.
Our docking there at 2:30 p.m. went smoothly. We all changed shirts, faking respectability, and paraded into the restaurant. Nick said if we wanted to come back at 9 p.m., we could stay all night. But he needed his dock free during the dinner hour.
I went back to Robin and got the Waterway Guide, where I'd used the table of marinas to make my earlier calls. I had only one marina left to ask -- Hoffman's -- and could tell that we were in deep trouble. There is no decent anchorage on the Manasquan Creek because the banks of the two channels are shoal.
To our surprise, however, Hoffman's put us up at their fuel dock. We secured Robin, got showers and went to a nearby restaurant for dinner.
But the forecasts for the next three days or maybe four were all the same -- 10 to 15 knots from the southwest. It looked like we'd have to stay at the fuel dock -- and pay the $120 a night -- forever.
On thursday morning, we rose to find a light westerly wind blowing over the Manasquan River. But anglers in small fishing boats who had ventured out to the inlet were returning and reporting six to eight foot seas. I was extremely worried, but I thought it would be worth taking a look ourselves. My concern was that should we leave the dock, the marina owner might not let us return. Then what would we do?
So I went to him and asked what our options were. He said we would be welcomed back this night -- Thursday -- and we could even stay Friday night. But at 5 a.m. Saturday, when the weekend fishing crowd arrived wanting fuel, he would kick us out.
So at 9 o'clock, we cast off and headed for the inlet.
What we found were some large, smooth swells outside the jetties and a little westerly wind. We headed south and by dinner time had caught enough blues for a meal.
We kept on motoring into the night, and at 12:30 a.m., we entered the Cape May Inlet. By that time, we had checked the currents in the Delaware Bay. They would be with us from about one o'clock until at least eight in the morning and maybe more. Much though I don't like traveling on that bay after dark, I realized that at least for the first four hours, we would be far from the shipping channel, the source of my fear. So we planned to shoot through Cape May Harbor and Canal non-stop.
As we entered the harbor, we were nearly blinded by two halogen lights near the Coast Guard dock. I assumed we were seeing a cutter moored there and so I steered appropriately.
Only when we had passed the direct glare of the lights did we realize that in fact the vessel was a dredge in the middle of the channel and, only when it was about 50 feet ahead, did we see the dredge pipe floating on the surface.
It took some time and we experienced a lot of confusion between the bright dredge lights and the pitch blackness of the night, but eventually we escaped the harbor and the canal, caught the current and rode it at 7 knots all the way to the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal. We arrived in Chesapeake City at 10:30 a.m., a record run up the bay. We survived the electrical storm that blew up the canal later in the afternoon. (Two other sailboats in the anchorage dragged their anchors. We manned R0bin with the engine running, but despite the 30-knot winds and sheets of driven rain, we didn't budge.)
Saturday morning, Monica arrived and we said goodby to Mike. Then, at 7 o'clock, John and I left Engineers' Cove and, at 9:30 p.m. docked Robin in Cambridge.
More than ever, I am convinced that for sailing to be fun, it has to be free of schedules. And I've learned the sad lesson that another factor shaping one's enjoyment of boats is the adequacy of the resources available to keep the boat in shape. There are many items on Robin's to-do list. Sailing her will not be much fun until they are done. Fortunately, in my current state of employment, I have the time to work on her, if not a lot of money.