Indeed, Andrea Dollins, the searchfor a boat is at least half the fun. When you consider the down side of actual boat ownership -- maintenance, slip fees, dry storage -- maybe it's more than half. Like courtship vs. conquest, perhaps.
But in the case of the Mariner quest, there is this to anticipate once a boat is acquired. On Oct. 17, should we have a Mariner, we can enter it in what amounts to our local "race of the year" -- the Burlington Island Race.
The Red Dragon Canoe Club holds this race every year in October. Any boat that does not use an engine can enter -- sailboat, canoe, kayak, row boat, racing shell, you name it. Most years, one of the paddle boats wins because the winds on average are inconsistant.
The last two times I've entered in our 420, sailing singlehanded, I've capsized in heavy winds, once having to be towed to shore after a half hour in 52-degree, hypothermia-inducing river water. I was glad for the opportunity to understand how hypothermia works -- and for the tow home.
The race starts on the Delaware River in front of the Red Dragon and heads upstream, rounding mile-long Burlington Island about four miles upstream and returning to the starting line. First boat over the line wins. There is no handicapping.
A Mariner, even one without a name yet, stands a good chance to win if the wind is northerly and the race is a reach in both directions. Mariners can, with enough wind, plane.
Of course, there are two other Mariners at the Red Dragon, so there's no telling which one would be fastest.
Then there is the perennial favorite among sailors -- Rich Vishton and his beautiful red sailboat.
So I'm hoping to consumate a deal soon on a Mariner so Monica -- I'm always thinking of her, you know -- can have a shot at the glory.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
An update on the boats and building fronts.
This weekend, we're traveling to Vermont for a college reunion and making a detour to Massachusetts to look at a Mariner. Will this one have a solid steel centerboard? Will the trailer it sits on run well on the highway? Will Monica finally have the other boat she doesn't realize she needs?
Meanwhile, the cupola pieces are unassembled in the basement. Today I will cut the notches in two sides so it can straddle the ridge of the roof. Then I'll paint some more. When that's done, I'll be ready to fabricate the metal for the roof.
The other day, Bill Haldeman, my sailing friend and carpentry and piano guru, stopped by to inspect my progress on the cupola. He analyzed the sheetmetal work required. (He had brought over his spare metal brake earlier. That's the device you use to bend metal. If you don't know what it is, I guarantee you have seen many of them on the vans and pickup trucks of people who do metal and vinyl siding.)
Bill showed me many neat tricks and explained the pitfalls I'll face constructing the metal for the roof. He suggested that I make a practice roof out of aluminum before I try it in copper. For one thing, aluminum is much cheaper than copper, so mistakes are less costly.
Later, bill pointed out an aluminum cupola roof in the neighborhood -- red, this one -- and suggested that would be a nice alternative to copper. I'm considering his thoughts. I think if I went the aluminum route, I'd like green reather than red, though. It's more in keeping with the understated nature of our little home, I think.
This weekend, we're traveling to Vermont for a college reunion and making a detour to Massachusetts to look at a Mariner. Will this one have a solid steel centerboard? Will the trailer it sits on run well on the highway? Will Monica finally have the other boat she doesn't realize she needs?
Meanwhile, the cupola pieces are unassembled in the basement. Today I will cut the notches in two sides so it can straddle the ridge of the roof. Then I'll paint some more. When that's done, I'll be ready to fabricate the metal for the roof.
The other day, Bill Haldeman, my sailing friend and carpentry and piano guru, stopped by to inspect my progress on the cupola. He analyzed the sheetmetal work required. (He had brought over his spare metal brake earlier. That's the device you use to bend metal. If you don't know what it is, I guarantee you have seen many of them on the vans and pickup trucks of people who do metal and vinyl siding.)
Bill showed me many neat tricks and explained the pitfalls I'll face constructing the metal for the roof. He suggested that I make a practice roof out of aluminum before I try it in copper. For one thing, aluminum is much cheaper than copper, so mistakes are less costly.
Later, bill pointed out an aluminum cupola roof in the neighborhood -- red, this one -- and suggested that would be a nice alternative to copper. I'm considering his thoughts. I think if I went the aluminum route, I'd like green reather than red, though. It's more in keeping with the understated nature of our little home, I think.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
It was a little after noon when I arrived in Easton, CT, responding to an advertisement for a 1975 O'Day Mariner. I was pretty certain my quest was over. I had cash in my pocket.
The ad seemed fairly honest. It said, in part: "The boat is in sailing condition with no leaks, but as expected for it's age can use a little attention. It is a sturdy vessel though and a great sailor."
I had made one wrong turn on the 150 mile ride from New Jersey and then had sailed past the correct exit on the Merritt Parkway because Googlemaps had given another exit number. But once I discovered my mistake, I found the boat on its trailer in a tree-shaded development where each house, probably built in the 1960s, seemed to have an acre.
The first and most obvious error in the advertisement -- that the boat had an "aluminum" trailer -- escaped me as I got out of the car and approached the bow of the Mariner. (It was a galvanized steel trailer, not quite so light as an aluminum one would have been.)
The second problem did grab my attention. One of the tubular braces that keeps the trailer axel in the correct position -- the one on the port side -- seemed to be bent. I made a note to check the brace on the starboard side to see if it had the same shape.
Circling the stern, I noted that there was no tiller in the rudder, which was mounted on the transom. When I tried to lift the rudder off its gudgeons to inspect it, it was stuck. By now, the seller had met me and he banged the rudder off of the gudgeons. Not a big problem, I thought. I then proceded up the starboard side, having thus far spent no more than a minute inspecting the boat.
Cosmetically, the hull looked in okay shape. There were some scratches in the gelcoat, and the O'Day insignia on the cabin trunk had been painted sloppily. But I was not yet focusing on the boat itself but rather the trailer.
Now I bent over to inspect the brace on this side and saw that it was straight, not bent. Not a good sign.
I squatted beside the trailer wheel to improve my view and noticed a wedge of what appeared to be pressure treated lumber jammed into the suspension. I might have asked the owner to explain had my eyes not been distracted by a more serious issue.
The centerboard had been lowered to rest on the trailer, and enough of it was exposed that I could see it was rusted. I reached under the hull to feel the centerboard, and my fingers disappeared under a thick layer of rust.
I peeled off a chunk of the centerboard, stood and looked at the owner and said: "Well, that's a killer. I won't be buying this boat."
In less than two minutes, my visit was over and I headed home. Somewhere out there, there may be a "sturdy" Mariner "in sailing condition." This was not such a boat.
The ad seemed fairly honest. It said, in part: "The boat is in sailing condition with no leaks, but as expected for it's age can use a little attention. It is a sturdy vessel though and a great sailor."
I had made one wrong turn on the 150 mile ride from New Jersey and then had sailed past the correct exit on the Merritt Parkway because Googlemaps had given another exit number. But once I discovered my mistake, I found the boat on its trailer in a tree-shaded development where each house, probably built in the 1960s, seemed to have an acre.
The first and most obvious error in the advertisement -- that the boat had an "aluminum" trailer -- escaped me as I got out of the car and approached the bow of the Mariner. (It was a galvanized steel trailer, not quite so light as an aluminum one would have been.)
The second problem did grab my attention. One of the tubular braces that keeps the trailer axel in the correct position -- the one on the port side -- seemed to be bent. I made a note to check the brace on the starboard side to see if it had the same shape.
Circling the stern, I noted that there was no tiller in the rudder, which was mounted on the transom. When I tried to lift the rudder off its gudgeons to inspect it, it was stuck. By now, the seller had met me and he banged the rudder off of the gudgeons. Not a big problem, I thought. I then proceded up the starboard side, having thus far spent no more than a minute inspecting the boat.
Cosmetically, the hull looked in okay shape. There were some scratches in the gelcoat, and the O'Day insignia on the cabin trunk had been painted sloppily. But I was not yet focusing on the boat itself but rather the trailer.
Now I bent over to inspect the brace on this side and saw that it was straight, not bent. Not a good sign.
I squatted beside the trailer wheel to improve my view and noticed a wedge of what appeared to be pressure treated lumber jammed into the suspension. I might have asked the owner to explain had my eyes not been distracted by a more serious issue.
The centerboard had been lowered to rest on the trailer, and enough of it was exposed that I could see it was rusted. I reached under the hull to feel the centerboard, and my fingers disappeared under a thick layer of rust.
I peeled off a chunk of the centerboard, stood and looked at the owner and said: "Well, that's a killer. I won't be buying this boat."
In less than two minutes, my visit was over and I headed home. Somewhere out there, there may be a "sturdy" Mariner "in sailing condition." This was not such a boat.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The weather was perfect for the last weekend of Summer on the Chesapeake Bay. The air was crisp, the temperature in the 70s and the wind was light -- but present. Just add water for a perfect sail, right?
We were delayed getting to Robin. Thelma, our beautiful girl, had been chewing her feet and Saturay morning, one foot was too tender for her to step on. We got an emergency appointment at the vets, and I came home with antibiotics and steroids. Our pet sitter, Terri (who also works at the vets,) knew what to do, so we felt comfortable leaving Thelma at home with plenty of visits during the next two days.
So it was a bit before one o'clock in the afternoon when we reached Cambridge. For once, we had packed light, so the boat was loaded as soon as we stepped aboard.
I went below and turned on the battery switch, and when I went back on deck, I heard the splashing of bilge water coming from the side of Robin's hull. Apparently -- although I've never tried to follow the wiring, the bilge pump cannot come on unless the battery switch has been turned on. Normaly, the pump is wired directly to the battery so that it can operate regardless.
Monica and I moved quickly, getting things ready to get under way. This meant a few trips back and forth from the car. It was now that I realized the the bilge pump was still running and that the bilge water was still splashing into the marina water there on the port side of the cockpit.
By now, the bilge should have been empty. So we both became conscious of the extended run as we finished our drill to get sailing on this beautiful day.
But the pump ran and it ran. And perhaps after ten minutes, when it finally stopped, Monica said she didn't feel good about leaving the dock when we didn't know what had put so much water in Robin's belly.
I had to agree. I also had to find the cause.
Obviously there were two possible sources of water. It could be water from the onboard freshwater tanks leaking into the bilge. Or it could be outside water coming aboard somehow.
My first choice was a leak in the tanks. There are two tanks mounted beneath the cabin sole, each with a capacity (I think) 0f 50 gallons. I was pretty sure one of them had run dry on the trip from Connecticut to Cambridge back in July and early August. I did not know how much water was left in the other tank.
To look for a leak, I had to lift two heavy trap doors in the cabin sole. Each has a little lifting ring mounted in it, but the doors are so heavy you usually need to slip a screwdriver blade through the ring to give yourself enough of a grip to lift.
When I did this, the first trap door didn't budge. In fact, it felt as though I was going to bend the ring out of shape. So I tried the other trap door. Same problem.
Finally, using a hammer, I drove the screwdriver into the crack between one of the doors and the sole, and then I pried.
With a lot of effort and some minor damage to the sole, I finally got both doors up. But I could see no problem. Next, I examined all seven through-hull fittings and the hoses attached to them. There were no obvious leaks.
Finally, I started the engine and put it in gear. Robin's propeller kicked up a current in the slip as she strained against her dock lines. With my head in the engine compartment and a flashlight in my hand, I looked for water spraying from some part of the engine cooling system. Again, nothing.
But as I was leaning from the galley into the engine compartment, I placed a hand on a piece of foam insulation inside the compartment -- and it was wet. This insulation was on the back of a board that was directly under the companionway hatch. Suddenly it struck me that the outside water might have come from the sky.
Two weeks earlier -- or a bit less than that actually -- there had been a non-tropical storm with high winds and much rain. Maybe the winds blew directly against the companionway and the deluge from above managed to get insided the cabin by the spaces around the hatch.
I felt a rug inside and it was wet. Now this began to make sense.
Perhaps the rain flooded the cabin floor and sat there. Now that I thought about it, Robin was sitting in the water nose down because her fuel tanks -- which can hold over 500 pounds of diesel and are mounted near the stern -- were nearly empty. If rain streamed through the companionway and landed on the floor, it could have sat there, unable to reach the drain near the companionway, causing the trap doors to swell before the water slowly seeped down into the bilge.
There is a third trap door that opens under the companionway ladder directly into the bilge. I lay on the floor looking down into that pit for some time and the level of the residual water in the bilge that the bilge pump could not expel didn't seem to change, nor did there seem to be any small streams trickling down the sides of the bilge as would happen were there a leak somewhere else in the hull.
So we watched a bit more and stayed at the dock for the night and Sunday morning, when Robin hadn't sunk overnight, we cleaned the cabin and then went for a little sail. The wind was light as a baby's breath. We used only the genoa because it wasn't going to be a long sail. But the breeze, light as it was, was nevertheless steady and kept the genoa filled and we made 1.5 knots and 2 knots and even 2.5 knots once and the rounded tip of the tiller pressed against my palm, trying to round Robin up into the wind, even when I pushed back gently. The tiller pressed repeatedly, like a child testing your resolve, testing the limits, all very gently, and for an hour we sailed until it was time to go back to the slip.
When the dock lines were once again secured and we had reversed the process of the day before, taking stuff back to the car, we had one more surprise. The bilge pump started again and there was that splashing -- nothing like the amount on Saturday, but enough to make us wonder. Was it the rain?
We were delayed getting to Robin. Thelma, our beautiful girl, had been chewing her feet and Saturay morning, one foot was too tender for her to step on. We got an emergency appointment at the vets, and I came home with antibiotics and steroids. Our pet sitter, Terri (who also works at the vets,) knew what to do, so we felt comfortable leaving Thelma at home with plenty of visits during the next two days.
So it was a bit before one o'clock in the afternoon when we reached Cambridge. For once, we had packed light, so the boat was loaded as soon as we stepped aboard.
I went below and turned on the battery switch, and when I went back on deck, I heard the splashing of bilge water coming from the side of Robin's hull. Apparently -- although I've never tried to follow the wiring, the bilge pump cannot come on unless the battery switch has been turned on. Normaly, the pump is wired directly to the battery so that it can operate regardless.
Monica and I moved quickly, getting things ready to get under way. This meant a few trips back and forth from the car. It was now that I realized the the bilge pump was still running and that the bilge water was still splashing into the marina water there on the port side of the cockpit.
By now, the bilge should have been empty. So we both became conscious of the extended run as we finished our drill to get sailing on this beautiful day.
But the pump ran and it ran. And perhaps after ten minutes, when it finally stopped, Monica said she didn't feel good about leaving the dock when we didn't know what had put so much water in Robin's belly.
I had to agree. I also had to find the cause.
Obviously there were two possible sources of water. It could be water from the onboard freshwater tanks leaking into the bilge. Or it could be outside water coming aboard somehow.
My first choice was a leak in the tanks. There are two tanks mounted beneath the cabin sole, each with a capacity (I think) 0f 50 gallons. I was pretty sure one of them had run dry on the trip from Connecticut to Cambridge back in July and early August. I did not know how much water was left in the other tank.
To look for a leak, I had to lift two heavy trap doors in the cabin sole. Each has a little lifting ring mounted in it, but the doors are so heavy you usually need to slip a screwdriver blade through the ring to give yourself enough of a grip to lift.
When I did this, the first trap door didn't budge. In fact, it felt as though I was going to bend the ring out of shape. So I tried the other trap door. Same problem.
Finally, using a hammer, I drove the screwdriver into the crack between one of the doors and the sole, and then I pried.
With a lot of effort and some minor damage to the sole, I finally got both doors up. But I could see no problem. Next, I examined all seven through-hull fittings and the hoses attached to them. There were no obvious leaks.
Finally, I started the engine and put it in gear. Robin's propeller kicked up a current in the slip as she strained against her dock lines. With my head in the engine compartment and a flashlight in my hand, I looked for water spraying from some part of the engine cooling system. Again, nothing.
But as I was leaning from the galley into the engine compartment, I placed a hand on a piece of foam insulation inside the compartment -- and it was wet. This insulation was on the back of a board that was directly under the companionway hatch. Suddenly it struck me that the outside water might have come from the sky.
Two weeks earlier -- or a bit less than that actually -- there had been a non-tropical storm with high winds and much rain. Maybe the winds blew directly against the companionway and the deluge from above managed to get insided the cabin by the spaces around the hatch.
I felt a rug inside and it was wet. Now this began to make sense.
Perhaps the rain flooded the cabin floor and sat there. Now that I thought about it, Robin was sitting in the water nose down because her fuel tanks -- which can hold over 500 pounds of diesel and are mounted near the stern -- were nearly empty. If rain streamed through the companionway and landed on the floor, it could have sat there, unable to reach the drain near the companionway, causing the trap doors to swell before the water slowly seeped down into the bilge.
There is a third trap door that opens under the companionway ladder directly into the bilge. I lay on the floor looking down into that pit for some time and the level of the residual water in the bilge that the bilge pump could not expel didn't seem to change, nor did there seem to be any small streams trickling down the sides of the bilge as would happen were there a leak somewhere else in the hull.
So we watched a bit more and stayed at the dock for the night and Sunday morning, when Robin hadn't sunk overnight, we cleaned the cabin and then went for a little sail. The wind was light as a baby's breath. We used only the genoa because it wasn't going to be a long sail. But the breeze, light as it was, was nevertheless steady and kept the genoa filled and we made 1.5 knots and 2 knots and even 2.5 knots once and the rounded tip of the tiller pressed against my palm, trying to round Robin up into the wind, even when I pushed back gently. The tiller pressed repeatedly, like a child testing your resolve, testing the limits, all very gently, and for an hour we sailed until it was time to go back to the slip.
When the dock lines were once again secured and we had reversed the process of the day before, taking stuff back to the car, we had one more surprise. The bilge pump started again and there was that splashing -- nothing like the amount on Saturday, but enough to make us wonder. Was it the rain?
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Obsessiveness can get things done. It can also keep you from doing things.
I've been engaged in a major project at home -- building a cupola for our house, the design of which is meant to resemble a Victorian carriage house. The cupola, if done well, should be the finishing touch in that illusion. (The house is a modular that now is 4 years old.)
I wanted the house to have a unique cupola, so I eschewed (what a lousy word that is. Can't I find a better way to say this?) the ready-made cupolas that every Amish vendor around here offers. Instead, I visited several of the New Jersey towns in suburban Philadelphia, driving their back streets and studying carriage houses and their cupolas.
I learned at some point along the way that to be proportionate to the structure, the cupola's length should be at least 1/10 of the length of the ridge of the house. This means that I needed to build a cupola that was about 5 feet square.
The half-finished project is in the basement. There are windows on four sides, fully installed and caulked. Today I applied the white stain on the trim. (The walls will be unpainted cedar shake, just as is the exterior of the house below.)
I was glad it rained last weekend because that meant I could stay home from Robin and work on the cupola. But the coming weekend looks promising for sailing. How sick am I? At a level very close to the surface, I wish it would rain again.
The carpentry proceeds very slowly because I'm inventing the design as I go along. One detail that has been solidly in the design from the beginning is the copper roof.
I is 11:39 p.m. I went to bed nearly three hours ago, but I couldn't sleep because I kept trying to visualize how I would apply the copper to the roof. I got up and have been searching the Internet for more than two hours, looking for the answer. I've made drawings, none of which has totally eliminated places where overlapping copper sheeting leaves small gaps where rain could get below.
Tomorrow, I'll visit one of those places selling the Amish cupolas and inspect their copper work. I won't be thinking about sailing, I can assure you.
But if we indeed go to Robin this weekend, you can be equally assured that I will be thinking about the cupola.
I've been engaged in a major project at home -- building a cupola for our house, the design of which is meant to resemble a Victorian carriage house. The cupola, if done well, should be the finishing touch in that illusion. (The house is a modular that now is 4 years old.)
I wanted the house to have a unique cupola, so I eschewed (what a lousy word that is. Can't I find a better way to say this?) the ready-made cupolas that every Amish vendor around here offers. Instead, I visited several of the New Jersey towns in suburban Philadelphia, driving their back streets and studying carriage houses and their cupolas.
I learned at some point along the way that to be proportionate to the structure, the cupola's length should be at least 1/10 of the length of the ridge of the house. This means that I needed to build a cupola that was about 5 feet square.
The half-finished project is in the basement. There are windows on four sides, fully installed and caulked. Today I applied the white stain on the trim. (The walls will be unpainted cedar shake, just as is the exterior of the house below.)
I was glad it rained last weekend because that meant I could stay home from Robin and work on the cupola. But the coming weekend looks promising for sailing. How sick am I? At a level very close to the surface, I wish it would rain again.
The carpentry proceeds very slowly because I'm inventing the design as I go along. One detail that has been solidly in the design from the beginning is the copper roof.
I is 11:39 p.m. I went to bed nearly three hours ago, but I couldn't sleep because I kept trying to visualize how I would apply the copper to the roof. I got up and have been searching the Internet for more than two hours, looking for the answer. I've made drawings, none of which has totally eliminated places where overlapping copper sheeting leaves small gaps where rain could get below.
Tomorrow, I'll visit one of those places selling the Amish cupolas and inspect their copper work. I won't be thinking about sailing, I can assure you.
But if we indeed go to Robin this weekend, you can be equally assured that I will be thinking about the cupola.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
If you look at the comment on the last posting, you'll see that Andrea Dollins and her husband live aboard their Westsail 32 in San Diego. Andrea, I'd like to know more about you and your boat. For example, what's the boat's name? How long have you lived aboard? Do you get away from the dock often and what sort of sailing do you do? Where do you go?
There's a lot that I can learn from people like Andrea. S0 much to know even on a boat that's only 32 feet long.
I wonder if anyone has ever counted the number of different pieces that it takes to make such a vessel. It must be in the thousands. And if you are going to truly be self-sufficient and practice good seamanship, shouldn't you know each piece intimately?
I keep discovering things on Robin that I didn't know existed, even after five years. I would guess that full-time living aboard teaches these lessons quickly. And that is why it's great to hear from Andrea.
So, Andrea, I hope you'll share some of your own experiences and help educate me.
Thanks.
There's a lot that I can learn from people like Andrea. S0 much to know even on a boat that's only 32 feet long.
I wonder if anyone has ever counted the number of different pieces that it takes to make such a vessel. It must be in the thousands. And if you are going to truly be self-sufficient and practice good seamanship, shouldn't you know each piece intimately?
I keep discovering things on Robin that I didn't know existed, even after five years. I would guess that full-time living aboard teaches these lessons quickly. And that is why it's great to hear from Andrea.
So, Andrea, I hope you'll share some of your own experiences and help educate me.
Thanks.
Friday, September 11, 2009
I've received a couple of suggestions concerning posting comments. The comment on the last blog is a test from my cousin, Carol Bostock, who, though she claims to lack computer literacy, has apparently figured out how to crack the ice. I'll paste her email to me below. In it, she explains what she did. I hope it helps others who might want to join the fun.
I've been puzzling over the comment portion of the blog and decided to try again. It was the Profile that was causing the problem and maybe for other folks too. I think the choices given are more specific to programs that other more computer literate people use...and that's not me!!! I decided to choose Name/URL and when the box came up with Name, I put my whole email address in and left the URL box empty. It went through. Maybe others will be able to use this method too. Of course the 'comment' that I posted is just a 'test' to see if it would go through. I hope this works for others who want to post a comment.
Thanks and good luck with this. I enjoy reading others comments so I hope this will help.
I've been puzzling over the comment portion of the blog and decided to try again. It was the Profile that was causing the problem and maybe for other folks too. I think the choices given are more specific to programs that other more computer literate people use...and that's not me!!! I decided to choose Name/URL and when the box came up with Name, I put my whole email address in and left the URL box empty. It went through. Maybe others will be able to use this method too. Of course the 'comment' that I posted is just a 'test' to see if it would go through. I hope this works for others who want to post a comment.
Thanks and good luck with this. I enjoy reading others comments so I hope this will help.
I've had two readers tell me they were unable to post comments on this blog. I ran a test some time ago and my comment got through, but that may be because I'm signed up for the blog.
Anyone have answers? I'd appreciate hearing from you at mondoug@verizon.net . In my experience, it's the comments that make a blog work. Without them, it's pretty one-sided.
I would welcome comments of any sort -- positive, negative or on an entirely new topic.
Anyone have answers? I'd appreciate hearing from you at mondoug@verizon.net . In my experience, it's the comments that make a blog work. Without them, it's pretty one-sided.
I would welcome comments of any sort -- positive, negative or on an entirely new topic.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
BREAKING NEWS!!!!
Lyons Press, an imprint of Globe Pequot , has made an offer to publish Swimming in the Shadow of Death. This is the story of the loss of the US submarine Flier in the Philippines in World War II and the survival and escape from enemy territory of eight of its crew members, the only shipwrecked submariners to evade capture during that conflict.
Publication date is fall 2010, assuming everyone signs where they are supposed to.
Lyons Editor Keith Wallman was a fledgling editor at Carroll & Graf in 2001 when he was assigned to handle my first book, The Sea's Bitter Harvest. So it will be a reunion of sorts for us. I found working with Keith back then to be an enjoyable experience, as I'm sure it will be this time.
Keith was working on that book in Carroll & Graf's offices near the New York City financial district on September 11, 2001, and was walking down the street to work that morning when the first of the jets hit the World Trade Center. He later described the scene of thousands of others whom he joined to walk, stunned, back to Brooklyn (I think) across one of the East River bridges.
I had sent the Flier manuscript to another editor at Lyons almost exactly a year ago and heard little from him. About a month ago, I tried to find out what had happened. (Six months earlier, that editor told me he liked what he had read but had been side-tracked.) I learned that that editor was no longer with Lyons. But the person who responded to me said that Keith would like to look at the manuscript.
I'm eager to sign the contract and get working on presenting this great story to the public, 56 years later.
I'll keep you updated.
Lyons Press, an imprint of Globe Pequot , has made an offer to publish Swimming in the Shadow of Death. This is the story of the loss of the US submarine Flier in the Philippines in World War II and the survival and escape from enemy territory of eight of its crew members, the only shipwrecked submariners to evade capture during that conflict.
Publication date is fall 2010, assuming everyone signs where they are supposed to.
Lyons Editor Keith Wallman was a fledgling editor at Carroll & Graf in 2001 when he was assigned to handle my first book, The Sea's Bitter Harvest. So it will be a reunion of sorts for us. I found working with Keith back then to be an enjoyable experience, as I'm sure it will be this time.
Keith was working on that book in Carroll & Graf's offices near the New York City financial district on September 11, 2001, and was walking down the street to work that morning when the first of the jets hit the World Trade Center. He later described the scene of thousands of others whom he joined to walk, stunned, back to Brooklyn (I think) across one of the East River bridges.
I had sent the Flier manuscript to another editor at Lyons almost exactly a year ago and heard little from him. About a month ago, I tried to find out what had happened. (Six months earlier, that editor told me he liked what he had read but had been side-tracked.) I learned that that editor was no longer with Lyons. But the person who responded to me said that Keith would like to look at the manuscript.
I'm eager to sign the contract and get working on presenting this great story to the public, 56 years later.
I'll keep you updated.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Up at 4 a.m., we arrived in Cambridge, Md., Saturday at 8 a.m. and had Robin out of the slip by 9:30. We would have been quicker had it not been for the effect of nearly two months of stagnant air inside Robin -- mildew. We had to wash down the entire interior before we could start.
The goal was to get to St. Michaels, where we hoped to meet our friends the Morrisons and, perhaps, the Davises. The wind had been from the north and northeast for several days and it remained that way on Saturday, what wind there was. So the voyage of perhaps 30 miles was traveled entirely under power, with maybe an hour of motorsailing along the way.
We anchored outside the St. Michaels harbor, one of about 100 boats that had arrived during the day. Fran and John dinghied out from the dock to Robin for hors d'oeuveres and then ferried us ashore in their new tender. We had dinner in the Carpenter Street Pub. It was after dark when we headed back to Robin. The masthead achor lights of 80 or 90 sailboats in the harbor looked like a closeup of the Milky Way.
We awoke Sunday to find a cool breeze blowing across the Miles River. It was enough to fill the sails, so we weighed anchor and beat north on the Miles until it was time to turn to port down Eastern Bay. What had been a delightful sail now became a very slow run. We raised the asymmetric spinnaker and, over the next two hours, made about three miles.
Having decided to spend the night in Annapolis, we eventually turned on the engine. The Chesapeake below and above Annapolis was filled with sailboats engaged in several races on as many race courses. As we picked our way around these fleets, the sky darkened.
Turning northwest onto the Severn River, we found ourselves in a fleet of another sort -- cruisers streaming toward the state capital, all seeking docks or moorings.
We knew we had no hope of renting one of the city moorings, but we headed into the mooring field anyway. To our surprise, there was one mooring ball lying vacant. We swung to port, rounded up to the ball and Monic grabbed the pennant with the boat hook.
Just as quickly, the Harbormaster's boat pulled up beside us, informing us we had the last mooring in town and collecting the mooring feet.
We never left the boat but sat under the dodger as showers passed, watching the scene and inspecting the surrounding boats.
The wind blew during the showers and blew all night long and in the morning, we had enough wind to sail all the way to Knapps Narrows on Tilghman Island, a distance of about 15 miles. It was a perfect, silent, stable sail. But the closer we got to Knapps Narrows, the more questionable the sky looked.
It had been our plan to pull in on the Tred Avon River at Oxford, where we would anchor temporarily and have lunch before returning to Cambridge. But the numerous passing showers -- frequent enough to prompt us to engage the radar should we be caught in a squall -- encouraged us to sail straight home.
The chili Monica had prepared in advance was just the thing on a drizzly evening, and we turned in early and slept late today before heading home. All said and done, it was a relaxing, pleasant holiday weekend.
The goal was to get to St. Michaels, where we hoped to meet our friends the Morrisons and, perhaps, the Davises. The wind had been from the north and northeast for several days and it remained that way on Saturday, what wind there was. So the voyage of perhaps 30 miles was traveled entirely under power, with maybe an hour of motorsailing along the way.
We anchored outside the St. Michaels harbor, one of about 100 boats that had arrived during the day. Fran and John dinghied out from the dock to Robin for hors d'oeuveres and then ferried us ashore in their new tender. We had dinner in the Carpenter Street Pub. It was after dark when we headed back to Robin. The masthead achor lights of 80 or 90 sailboats in the harbor looked like a closeup of the Milky Way.
We awoke Sunday to find a cool breeze blowing across the Miles River. It was enough to fill the sails, so we weighed anchor and beat north on the Miles until it was time to turn to port down Eastern Bay. What had been a delightful sail now became a very slow run. We raised the asymmetric spinnaker and, over the next two hours, made about three miles.
Having decided to spend the night in Annapolis, we eventually turned on the engine. The Chesapeake below and above Annapolis was filled with sailboats engaged in several races on as many race courses. As we picked our way around these fleets, the sky darkened.
Turning northwest onto the Severn River, we found ourselves in a fleet of another sort -- cruisers streaming toward the state capital, all seeking docks or moorings.
We knew we had no hope of renting one of the city moorings, but we headed into the mooring field anyway. To our surprise, there was one mooring ball lying vacant. We swung to port, rounded up to the ball and Monic grabbed the pennant with the boat hook.
Just as quickly, the Harbormaster's boat pulled up beside us, informing us we had the last mooring in town and collecting the mooring feet.
We never left the boat but sat under the dodger as showers passed, watching the scene and inspecting the surrounding boats.
The wind blew during the showers and blew all night long and in the morning, we had enough wind to sail all the way to Knapps Narrows on Tilghman Island, a distance of about 15 miles. It was a perfect, silent, stable sail. But the closer we got to Knapps Narrows, the more questionable the sky looked.
It had been our plan to pull in on the Tred Avon River at Oxford, where we would anchor temporarily and have lunch before returning to Cambridge. But the numerous passing showers -- frequent enough to prompt us to engage the radar should we be caught in a squall -- encouraged us to sail straight home.
The chili Monica had prepared in advance was just the thing on a drizzly evening, and we turned in early and slept late today before heading home. All said and done, it was a relaxing, pleasant holiday weekend.
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