The weekend is over and a great one it was. We visited Snow Island in Maine's Casco Bay for Dodge Morgan's annual Bang-and-Go-Back "Regatta", a spoof of sailboat racing by one of the all-time greatest singlehanded sailors. Dodge invites a few score of people whom, apprently, he thinks are sufficiently off-the-wall to appreciate his skewed sense of humor. Then he watches as you mingle with assorted fellow oddballs. To keep you fueled, Dodge feeds you. Lobster for those who like to be present for the killing of their meat. Hot dogs for those who are chicken.
Snow Island is a big chunk of real estate -- I have forgotten whether it is 30 or 60 acres. It is in the middle of Quahog Bay, has a swamp in the middle of it, a good anchorage on its east side and, at times, bald eagles.
It is coolest to arrive by boat -- I should say, your own boat. Actually, the only way to arrive is by boat, except for marathon swimmers. We arrived at his mainland dock by car and were transported with others to the island by Dodge's great friend, Don Friend, on the powerboat Wingnut. Aboard when we arrived were a couple of guests, one of them Bruce Schwab, the first American to complete a circumnavigation in the Vendee Globe race. We'd never before met Bruce, although one time I was aboard his Open 60 yacht Ocean Planet for a delivery that never left the dock, so it was interesting to put a personality with the name (and the accomplishment).
Among other guests were Dodge's first and second wives, Lael and Manny, and his son and daughter with Manny, along with at least one former and one current female partner, all of whom had what appeared to be a great time, as did we.
We were enjoying a long walk around the island when the assembled boats, from a kayak and a sailing dinghy to a couple of 50-foot yachts, cast off for the regatta. The rules are these: When the first cannon shot is heard, begin sialing out toward the ocean. When the second one goes off, sail back toward where you started.
There is less mayhem than would be expected, perhaps because at least those of Dodge's guests who bring and enter their craft are substantially less mentally disturbed or challenged than you expect.
I am lousy with small talk, and a picnic such as this is no place for me, especially when I really would like to spend time talking with Dodge. He is a fascinating individual with whom I have so far spent many hours talking, and party talk with him seems pretty trite. So it was almost sunset before I tackled him -- he had constantly been the center of small clutches of guests -- and explained my predicament. I didn't want him to think I didn't appreciate being invited. Monica and my sister, Janet, with whom I attended, were having a great time as was I.
But with this little opening, Dodge managed to keep a pleasant little conversation going, during which I learned something about fiberglass construction and something else about his future in boats. (He sold his 52-foot Little Harbor Wings of Time to the incoming commodore of the Annapolis Yacht Club and is looking for a simpler vessel. I didn't, due to the shortness of time and my desire to not monopolize Dodge, learn in what directions his search for the replacement might take.)
Nor did I engage him in the most pressing question I had for him. Three years ago, he told me that one of his current goals was to find an interesting way to die. Since then, he has fought off what, apparently, he found an unintersting way to die -- cancer. But his current lady friend, Mary Beth Teas, instructed me shortly after I arrived that that subject of interesting deaths was forbidden conversation at the party. It will have to wait until I get Dodge alone, perhaps on a deserted island.
Tomorrow, John Morrison and I take the NJ Transit and Amtrak trains to Connecticut and on Tuesday morning, with Curt Michael, we begin Robin's next voyage, toward the Chesapeake. I hope to blog from along the way, but it will happen only if the wireless gods are kind.

You have to have goals or you rust into the ground, even if you're not old as dirt. When you are that old, dirt -- or soil -- becomes a dirty word. It can be gravely disturbing, if you see what I mean. So the acquisition of goals becomes all the more important.
Three years ago, I set three goals for myself, as you will discover when you read An Irresponsible Adult, the book that I hawk without guilt lower on this page. I've accomplished all three with the completion of that book.
So now I needed new goals. One of them was sort of an expansion of one of the first three -- sailing alone to Bermuda. The subsidiary goal was to sail there and place higher in the race.
But that wasn't something new, technically. So the new goal, never before tried, is crossing the Atlantic in Robin. I've met several folks who have done it. One couple who did it recently were participants in this year's Bermuda One-Two. We talked with them a bit about their experience.
My only concern regarding this goal is whether I will get to it before the dirt intervenes. My challenge is to convince Monica to retire, thus freeing us to set a date for the crossing.
Crossing the Atlantic once doesn't seem to require too much of a commitment. You can make it from the East Coast to, say, Ireland in about four weeks, with luck. But if you don't want to leave your boat on that side, making the complete trip by returning across the Atlantic seems to take closer to a year.
I'm looking for suggestions of creative ways to either make the trip manageable in small chunks of time -- or of creative ways to persuade one's spouse to chuck it all and come along.

No boating news today, unless I choose to report that on Saturday, we went out sailing in the 420 on the Delaware River. If I avoided telling that story, it would be because of the outcome of that voyage, so to be honest, I guess I have to come clean.
We sail the 420, a small (about 14 feet long) racing dinghy about once a year. I hadn't even set the mast before we arrived at the boat club on Saturday. It took a good 45 minutes to untangle all the lines and rigging and figure out what they were for. Then, when the mast was stepped, we still had to get the sails in place and wheel the boat on its trailer down to the water's edge.
The beach at the club is small to medium sized rocks worn smooth over the centuries of tides going up and down twice a day. There is a modest slope to the beach. The tide is about six feet here on the river. We caught it falling at something higher than mid tide.
The wind was brisk -- maybe 15 knots -- which made significant the fact that in the last year, the hiking straps had rotted away.
Monica held the bow line after we had slid the boat off the trailer into the river. I tried to get the boat lined up so we could jump in, lower the rudder and the centerboard as we floated into deeper water and get sailing.
Instead, the boat got sideways to the wind and I wound up on my butt sitting on the river bottom.
The second try we got it right. Instantly, we were tacking north toward the Pennsylvania side of the river. We didn't go that far but came about and tacked downstream, into the west wind. For the next ten minutes, we tacked constantly, maybe once every minute. And every tack proved a struggle. Keeping the 420 upright was a bear.
Eventually, I decided to run with the wind. But that meant I had to straddle the centerline in a crouch. Otherwise, if both of us were on the windward rail, we might have capsized into the wind.
The bottom line: the sail lasted about fifteen minutes. I'd had it with all the athletics and was ready to get back aboard dear Robin.

I just returned home from visiting Robin. She was in good shape, I'm happy to report. I loaded non-perishable provisions for the trip to the Chesapeake from Connecticut next week. Getting out to her proved a bit of a challenge, however.
I knew that Curt and Barbara Michael, who own the mooring Robin is occupying, were on a cruise with their local club around Long Island Sound, so they wouldn't be available to give me a dinghy ride out to Hamburg Cove, which is at least a half mile from the nearest semi-public dock. But I phoned Mike anywy and left a message on his cell phone. I said I was in Essex, CT, and if there was some way to hitch a ride to Robin, I'd stock up the larder.
I had to visit the Soundings office because Collin Dehnert, the computer fixer there, had promised to bring my laptop up to speed. Once I had handed the laptop off to Collin, I drove over to the boatyard where Mike and Barb keep their Egg Harbor 40 when they are not using it. But the boat yard was busy and there was no way there to borrow a boat or get a ride.
I was just heading back to New Jersey when the phone rang. It was Mike, and he had a suggestion. Barb's sister, Janet, has a Carib 33 moored near Robin and she has a dinghy docked at the local yacht club. Mike said he was contacting Janet, but that I could certainly use her inflatable, a blue Achilles with an outboard mounted on back.
Great, I said, so I turned around and went back to the club dock, not far from the boatyard, and sure enough, there was the one an only blue Achilles I've ever seen -- Robin's egg blue, no less. I announced to a lady at the club who I was and what I was doing.
After I had heard from Mike, I had visited the local Stop & Shop supermarket. I had cases of bottled water and of green tea. I had boxes of cereal and cans of soup and green peas and sliced potatoes. I had bags of trail mix and packages of crackers and cookies and more cans -- of chili and beef stew, along with some mayonaise and some mustard, the All-American yellow kind.
When I had all of the provisions loaded in the dingy, the sky had turned from sunny to overcast and it felt like rain. I tried to start the motor but couldn't get it to kick over. But there was a pair of oars mounted on the dinghy, so I untied from the dock and began rowing.
I think I mentioned in an earlier blog that to get to the cove from the inner body of water where the club and the boatyard are located requires passing through a narrow strait. I'm guessing the entire distance from the dock to Robin was about a half mile.
I had been rowing only about three minutes when I realized I was building up quite a sweat, so I removed my T-shirt. The kids from the yacht club sailing school came by in three Boston Whalers. They had moored their Optis out in the outer cove and were coming ashore for lunch.
Once through the strait, my phone rang. It was Monica. I told her what was happening with a "Mission Accomplished" tone in my voice, no doubt.
At about this time, a young couple paddled by in a canoe heading toward the inner harbor. A bit farther along, when I was in the cove proper, I saw a whaler coming in my direction from the inner harbor. A blond boy was steering. Sitting before him, facing toward me, were a couple. All three were looking at me. I thought: Gee, maybe they will offer me a tow.
But when they got closer, I realized I probably wouldn't get a tow. They pulled up not far off beside the dinghy and began gesturing and looking concerned. It appeared that they were questioning my right to be aboard the blue boat.
I had met Janet only once before, but once I heard her voice, I realized who the dinghy police were. I smiled and explained that Mike had told me it was okay to use the boat.
"Are you Doug?" Janet said.
When I said yes, she instantly relaxed, realizing that I wasn't precisely the thief she had thought I was. Then she said something to the effect: "I want to see Robin." Seems she had followed our adventure in the Bermuda One-Two.
Janet then climbed into the dinghy and with a mighty yank started the outboard. She then graciously took me to Robin, where she helped me transfer the provisions.
I gave Janet a tour of Robin and discovered a note attached to the companionway. It was from Bob Rupinsky, who crewed on Robin on the trip up to Newport in late May. He had made his own ocean voyage from Keyport, NJ, to Block Island and in his note said that he had moored in Hamburg Cove next to Robin.
Small world. Can't wait to hear from him about his adventure.

So sorry. The home computer, having seen what the laptop accomplished in terms of time off the job, decided to quit. It was a slow process, beginning about two weeks ago. Just about the time I got the laptop fixed -- but still didn't (and don't yet) have an Internet connection, the desktop computer began to quit. The experience was much like looking at the slow motion film of a car crash. First a hubcap comes floating off as the car goes airborne. Then, dreamily, some parts fall off beneath the car. When the vehicle actually makes contact with some fixed object, doors swing open lazily, revealing the horror-struck occupants whose faces contort as they, too, view their imminent demise slowly.
First, we couldn't open email attachments. Then we could get on the Internet, but we couldn't go from one web page to another. And so on.
Fortunately, I found Herr Kaspar Staub in the yellow pages. He both gave and he took away. He gave me back both the laptop and the desktop, so now I can blog again. He took away my built-in excuse for being such a klutz with digital things -- my age.
Mr. Staub is 83. He walks with a cane and watches Jeanette McDonald and Nelson Eddy black-and-white films in memory of his lost wife. And he fixes computers. He left Switzerland when he was 25 and moved to New Jersey, where a relative got him a job. He retired 17 years ago as a purchasing agent. For many years, he traveled to Asia on the job and for many years, starting in Switzerland, he was an equestrian. He was actually in the Swiss Cavalry for a while, I think before World War II. During the war, his assignment was to help out in the local hospital.
Kaspar told me, in German, an old Swiss saying which translates: If you spend your life with horses and children, you will never grow old. I guess that explains why he is digitally competent and I am not. No horses.
In any case, it's good to be back to the blog.
Robin is still in Connecticut, but Curt Michael has installed her new autopilot. A week from Monday, I'll be heading there with another friend, John Morrison. The three of us will depart CT on July 28. We hope to go east to Montauk Point and then cross a corner of the Atlantic to Cape May, NJ. The direction of the wind will have a lot to do with whether that plan works. Northerlies and easterlies would be good. Southerlies and westerlies not so good. We'll see.
In the down time during the last two weeks, I completed work on the youth novel, as I'd hoped. Now it's time to see whether anyone thinks it's worth showing to kids. I had a great time writing it, and I was treated to several surprises in the story along the way. If nothing else, writing it kept me out of most trouble for fourteen days. (I did manage to leave an entire package of skinless, boneless chicken breasts out of the freezer during the same period, and the subsequent stink in the house was enough to drive away even dead animals.)
So I guess it's time I got back on a boat.
But first, we get the pleasure of attending Dodge Morgan's Bang-and-go-Back party on Quahog Bay, Maine, next weekend. In addition to being held on Dodge's private island with its spectacular coast-of-Maine scenery, the party attracts about 140 guests, so there's no shortage of new people to meet and new victims to tell your old stories.
Now that we're back blogging, I'm hoping that I won't miss too many days.
And since this blog site is also a means by which I'm attempting to sell books, I would be grateful if you'd pass it along to potentially intersted parties. I'll do my best to find ways to entertain. You can respond to blogs, too, and take me in your own direction.
Thanks,
Doug

Curt has received the auto pilot and had found that it seems to be a simple replacement project. He visited Robin with the new unit on Friday on Hamburg Cove. He tells me there is only one minor complication that will easily be solved.
Hamburg Cove is a beautiful place. It is a bay off of the east side of the Connecticut River. On each side, the ground rises rapidly on what appear to be rock formations covered with a thin layer of soil, on which dense forests grow. There are houses in these forests, particularly on the waterfront, because the cove is in the densely-poplulated northeast corridor, Only six or seven miles north of Interstate 95.
I don't know the legal geographic limits of the cove. I know it extends through a narrow passage to another, shallower body of water where the Hamburg Cove Yacht Club is located, along with a classic boatyard. If you want to get to public access to a road, you must dinghy or take your boat through that passage to the boatyard dock.
The first time I entered the cove in Robin, I thought that I was supposed to go to the dock. I think I probably sucked in my breath when Robin squeezed through the passage. The depth meter read close to zero all the way in. But when I got inside and followed the well-marked, twisting channel toward the boatyard, I realized there were no moorings there. Somehow, I managed to get Robin turned around and back out to the main cove without grounding.
There are some rental moorings in the main cove, which is reached from the river by traversing another well-marked channel from which the wise sailboat skipper does not stray. Then there are the private moorings, such as the one Curt has loaned to me.
Near that mooring when I arrived was an exquisite canoe-stern wooden sailboat the pedigree of which I do not know and the name of which I don't remember. There were one or two other special craft on moorings that day.
This much is true: If a hurricane were headed toward me and I wanted to find a secure mooring, I'd head for Hamburg Cove if I were anywhere that I could make it there before the storm hit.
With a falling tide, you can make it to Long Island Sound in much less than an hour, as long s the railroad bridge south of the I-95 bridge is open. On this latest visit to the cove, I had to wait about half an hour before the railroad bridge opened. It was rush hour -- about 6:30 a.m.

I got confirmation today that Robin's new autopilot has been shipped to Connecticut. Maybe by the end of next week, Robin will be ready to head to the Chesapeake. That will depend on the availability of crew. I won't make that trip alone, not this time.
Sailing alone offshore has its challenges. The greatest of these is managing your sleep so that you can both keep an honest watch for other vessels and keep your body and mind intact. Beyond that, solo offshore sailing is fairly simple if physically taxing.
Sailing solo close to shore, however, is filled with danger. First, there is traffic density. Compare a dead end country road with the New Jersey Turnpike and you have an idea of the difference.
Close to shore, there are freighters and tankers, barges and tugs, huge powerboats on autohelm and sailors blinded by their sails.
There also are buoys (and offshore buoys can be enormous) and breakwaters and, if you are sailing along some coasts like those in Maine, rocks or reefs.
There is no sensible way to sail day and night close to shore. In the 20 minute nap you might take offshore, you could run across all of the above within sight of land or even a few miles farther out.
I've had enough close calls in years past near shore to know that this is true.
So whenever a voyage requires sailing (or motoring) for 24 straight hours or even close to that, I won't do it without help. This may not be macho, but is the only fair way to treat your fellow boaters.

We're away from Robin but not far from the water. I just took a break from my current project to walk down to the Delaware River, a bit more than a block to our northwest. The wind was blowing the treetops here, but on the front lawn, surrounded by Monica's hydrangeas, now turning antique pink, it was blazing hot and still. I found Zippy, the cat, under some of the shrubs and gave him a pat and a few words. Then I struck out for the river.
I noticed that the sky was filled with clouds, some billowing white and lit brightly by the afternoon sun, but some -- to the north and west -- dark as a windowless closet with the light off.
It looked as though fat raindrops might fall any minute to splatter in the hot lawn and driveway dust.
But it's a short walk to the river -- actually the Delaware estuary -- and when I arrived, I saw that both the wind and the water were flowing upstream. This meant no whitecaps, as the wind, apparently 12 to 15 knots, flattened what waves there were, giving the surface downstream, where the sun in its orbit now hovered, a look of hammered gold.
The wind sock on the boat club pier just downstream was stretched full of air, and the river water was nearly up to the ramp, now horizontal, that leads from the pier to the floating dock. Out on the river, eight boats from 19 to 27 feet rode tamely on their moorings, some pointing down into the current and wind but those farther west, and closer to the sea, apparently beginning their semi-daily rotation as the early fingers of the ebb tide tugged them sideways.
A power boat closer to the far side of the river made its way upstream. Standing on the near shore above a stone bulkhead, I was shaded by a sprawling oak, and the breeze was cooling and carried the smells of fresh water.
I only lingered a minute, not long enough to be bothered by deep thoughts, only the time it takes to be thankful for water and for boats that float on it.

Robin is sitty happily on the mooring off the Connecticut River, although she has had to deal with her owner's mistakes. When I secured her, I did as I always do when on anchor. I attached two dock lines to the mooring line, the idea being to create a bridle that would keep the mooring line from chafing against the bob stay that rises from her stem to the bowsprit to keep the sprit in place. Such chafing can wear through any line over time.
Unfortunately, the penant between the end of the mooring line and a small pickup float was too short to bring on deck once the bridle was let out. So I left the float in the water.
Curt Michael, whose mooring Robin occupies, emailed me that while she is in good spirits, he had to modify my mooring arrangement. It seems the penant, left in the water, got snarled and wrapped around the mooring chain, causing a mess, indeed.
Curt fixed the problem, and my mistake was not enough to cause him to withdraw his offer to install the new Autohelm autopilot when it arrives. Curt is a mechanical engineer by training, a meticulous fellow by temperament and I have happily entrusted the installation to him.
To find a new autopilot, I did the very thing that has put in jeopardy such fine publicaitons as Soundings Magazine. I went online.
Through an online store in Navesink, NJ, I was able to purchase the auto pilot for about $200 less than at any other location. The auto pilot will be shipped directly to Curt. And once the instalation is completed, I will schedule a time to retrieve Robin and to sail her back to the Chesapeake Bay. I'm hoping that Curt will be able to come along for the trip .
Meanwhile, I'm 6,000 words into the youth novel that I had scheduled myself to write during this period. I got the laptop fixed by a local retired fellow for a reasonable price. Today, I'm taking the desktop computer to him because it, too, has begun to show symptoms of the stress that is created for computers when they are burdened with working with me.
Got to get back to the manuscript. Stay tuned if you like.

My work at Soundings Magazine is done. The economic malaise has hurt every segment of the marine industry, and marine publications are no exception. Soundings, although it is what I consider the best boating publication in the nation, is not immune. For me, the consequence was a permanent layoff
Still, my relationship with editor Bill Sisson remains strong, and I will no doubt contribute to the magazine on a freelance basis. But first, Monica, Robin and I have to deal with the current situation. So I'm looking for a source of income to replace what I've lost at Soundings.
In the course of reporting stories for Soundings, I was fortunate to meet a sailor who is also a very successful author of youth novels and other literary books. I'll call him Gary of the West, because he normally shuns publicity. Eventually, his name will become known when my profile of him appears in Soundings.
In any case, Gary became familiar with my writing and thought enough of it to encourage me to take up his sort of work. As a result, I have begun writing my first youth novel. Like working for a boating magazine, writing a youth novel is great fun. Monica in time will decide that it is not work at all because I love what I'm doing.
I already know what my second youth novel will be about. I will probably start that one next winter. It is about a grandfather who sails singlehanded to Bermuda in a race and there takes aboard his 14-year-old grandson as crew for the return leg. During that voyage, the grandfather's health fails, and it is up to the grandson to bring them both back alive, if he can.
As you may have surmised, there will be a bit of autobiography in the story.
I am hoping, of course, to make money on the youth novels so I can continue to afford sharing time with Monica aboard Robin.
At the same time, I will be attempting to find publishers for the two non-fiction books I've already written -- An Irresponsible Adult and Swimming in the Shadow of Death. Please look below for more information on these books and how to order them.
I had finished An Irresponsible Adult following the 2007 Bermuda One-Two race, which serves as the dramatic thread for that memoir/reflection. It was a thin book of about 75,000 words. Now, following the 2009 Bermuda One-Two, I intend to update the book with the story of the singlehanded leg in which Robin finished not next-to-last but second in class and third in fleet on corrected time. I thought it was a good book before. Now I think it will be an even stronger story which I hope you will buy and enjoy.
I'll be checking in here from time to time to let you know what is happening aboard Robin. Please stay tuned.