I need help from anyone who has sailed east around Cape Cod. I've looked at the charts and consulted with Capt. Mr. Lou Lagace and understand the dangers in sailing outside over Nantucket Sound. On one chart, the area is clearly labeled unsuitable for passages.
There is an alternative. I could once again travel north through the Cape Cod Canal. That is the most direct route from New Jersey to Maine. No question about it.
There are two reasons not to go that way. One is traffic. Shipping out of Boston that is not headed for the Canal cuts directly across the route -- often, as I have discovered, at high speed.
The second reason is the timing of such a trip. You have to pass through the canal when the current is going in your direction -- at last in a sailboat that avarages about 6.5 knots. Otherwise, the current can push you backward.
I can deal with each of these issues. But I'd rather make a trip where no schedule is dictated, and I'd like to make a long offshore passage. By my estimate, a trip from Cape May, NJ, to Penboscot Bay would be about 500 miles.
So my question is what types of experiences sailors have had going outside. I know that there are channels through the Nantucket Shoals. The alternative seems to be to avoid the shoals altogether, sailing east and then north once the shoals have been passed.
If you've gone that way, what w0uld you recommend?

Just got back from Hawaii. Went sailing there. Capt. Dan's boat, a 1980 Hunter 33. It wasn't exactly Gilligan's cruise. No, this was a four-hour cruise out of Hilo to mingle with the humback whales.
I was visiting daughter Nancy and her family, and I brought her husband, River, and their oldest son, Kua for the adventure. It had been raining since I arrived on Tuesday, March 16, when, on Sunday, we followed Dan's directions and drove down the street behind the Nissan dealer. There were no signs. Nancy had thought Dan said to turn in the driveway with the blue and white lion. We didn't see such an animal. Then we realized he was talking about a blue and white polypropylene "line" hanging from a post.
It was a short distance from the line to the water, where Dan's skiff was hauled up between te lava boulders at low tide. The lava was shiny black in the mist and drizzle.
A lengthy article in the Hilo newspaper, written by Capt. Dan's first mate, had lured us here. It explained a little about Dan's cruising business. When we called, Dan didn't exactly flesh out the picture of either his operation or what we could expect. Communications is not high on his resume, apparently.
Dan loaded us into the dinghy and walked it out past the nearest boulders, through which the tide was sluicing, and then rowed us to his yact.
The closer we got, the less yacht-like it appeared. There was an absence of either paint or varnish on the woodwork. Indeed, the boat appeared to be well-used, to be polite.
But Dan was talkative and friendly, and with the Yanmar diesel thumping away, we motored along the lengthy seawall built to protect Hilo from tsunamis, two of which in 1946 and 1960 killed scores of residents.
Rounding the seawall's tip, we encountered good long swells eight to ten feet high but little wind. Quickly, though, we saw whales a mile ahead, breeching.
We motorsailed out to sea, rising over the swells. Kua, who is 10 and enthusiastic, steered for a while and River did as well. I, with my one good hand, was busy hanging on as the boat rocked.
In short order, we were near several humpbacks. Several had calves by their sides as they arched up toward the surface, their breath gusting out of their blow holes. Snorting out.
Then the mist intensified, and while Capt. Dan offered us the use of two foul weather jackets, none of us used them -- probably because we already were soggy.
The wind came only once we had retreated back behind the seawall. River handled the helm on two long tacks. and Kua manned the fishing rod that the captain had provided and with which Kua had been trolling most of the afternoon.
In the end, I think both Kua and River were pleased with the experience. Kua said he wanted to bring all his friends back
Looking around the boat, I wasn't certain that I'd want to recommend the experience to others, however. Perhaps I'm a bit of a snob. I didn't like the captain's insistance that every0ne remove their shoes onboard. On Robin, we require people to keep their shoes on to avoid to-jamming injuuries that could cause crew to lurch overboard. And it took him until we were half way out along the seawall to mention things like life vests. And he assured me that there was a vhf radio on board, but in truth I never saw it.
Still, I can now say I have sailed in the Pacific -- if I really must.

Robin is a lady in seeerious need of some loving. Wrapped in her tattered brown plastic tarps on a grim noon in late winter, she cries out for tenderness. Today, I removed her dodger frame and delivered it to Skip, the canvass man.

At the same time, I fetched some charts to study for the summer trip to Maine. I took two musty and damp cushions from the V-berth. And I removed a quart of red bottom paint for the Mariner's centerboard.

By the way, we think the Mariner's name will be Bluebird, to carry on the theme of local bird names. She has a blue cabin trunk, which is our excuse for the name.

In the slip behind Robin and looking much more perky is Fran and John Morrison's boat, Chautauqua, a 32-foot Allied Seawind II which they have sailed twice to the Bahamas.

Robin would like to go along next time!!!

Well, if this works, 60 Minutes, who just did a piece on an idiot savant piano player, may be visiting to do another piece on a computer idiot who managed to get a photo into his blog.
As you can see, the planks used by the crane to lift the cupola to the roof are still attached. I have to remove them and do a number of other things before the cupola is completed, with its copper weather vane mounted atop.

A dodger is a canvas bonnet draped over a metal frame to cover the companionway of a sailboat and give some protection against spray that flys back when the bow punches through waves. Robin's dodger is a good one, giving lots of protection. But it is worn, and that's why we asked Skip Lippincott to make a new one.
Yesterday, John Morrison and I went to visit our boats in Maryland, and I removed the dodger canvas from Robin and brought it home. I though that's what Skip had asked me to do.
Turns out he meant the whole dodger, canvas and frame.
So I get to make another trip to Cambridge before the work starts. For a person who deals with words, I some times get confused by them!
It felt like early spring on the Choptank River, not like the winter I found on the last trip, when there were snow drifts on Robin's decks.
Next week, I'll be visiting daughter Nancy and her family in Hawaii. So the dodger business will be postponed until my return.
By then, perhaps the weather will have warmed enough that I can begin projects on the boat during the week.
One aspect of Robin's design that I thought of when I was there is the arrangement of settee cushions in the main cabin. There are three seat cushions and three back cushions on each settee. This makes access to the storage beneath and behind the settee quite easy. But sleeping might be more comfortable were there but one long seat cushion and one long back cushion. I'll have to see what other similar boats have and weigh the trade-offs.
When I was in Skip's shop, I was reminded of this issue. He does all sorts of canvas work, including upholstery. Maybe it is time for Monica's boat to have new cushions. One time several years ago, we indeed thought this would be a good upgrade for Robin, and we rushed out and bought a sewing machine.
I think we have used it about six times since then, but never for cushions.

John Wendler, who operates the crane that, in fall and spring, fetchs and launches the docks at the Red Dragon Canoe Club, brought his big machine to our place today and, within an hour, had the cupola sitting atop the ridge of our little cottage.
There remains a lot of work to do: Remove the lifting beams I had attached to the sides; install the synthetic lumber trim and the cedar shakes on the sides; bolt the whole thing down to the roof and wire it for a light.
Once again, Mr. Morrison was on hand to oversee my foibles. He guided Mr. Wendler, whom I couldn't see because a dormer came between the crane cab and me, straddling the ridge to guide the cupola home.
I am pleased to report that the structure fit. In my judgment, it looks pretty good, too.

John Morrison brought the six-inch sander/polisher and I brought the angle grinder. We met at the waterfront, John with his two good arms and I with my left arm in a sling.
Guess who did all the work on the Mariner centerboard!
But after a couple of hours, John had the offending shims ground away completely, so the centerboard should fit back in its trunk, sufficiently slender to move freely. And most of the rust is gone, too.
On Wednesday, he and I are heading to Maryland, and when we come back, I'll have a quart of bottom paint with me for the centerboard.
I'll also have Robin's dodger canvass. Today, Skip Lippincott said he doesn't need to visit Robin to measure if I bring the cloth to him. Initially, he said he couldn't do a good job of fitting that way. But today, he said it could be done because we are getting the hard plastic windows rather than the flexible clear vinylwindows.
I don't know how this will get done, but I know Skip does good work, so I'll trust him.
With all this progess, can sailing season be far away?

The calendar page flipped on Monday. It is now officially time to think about sailing, and so there are some developments to report.
First, I'm thinking seriously about getting down to the waterfront and grinding the rust off of the Mariner's centerboard, in preparation for reinstallation. Once that's done, I'll have to fiberglass over the through-hull in the cuddy cabin where I took out the head. Then I'll have to bottom paint both the centerboard and the bottom, because our as yet un-named boat will be spending the summer on a mooring.
That's another item on the boating to-do list: Secure a mushroom anchor.
On a more active level, I contacted Skip Lippincott, whom we have asked to make a new dodger for Robin. He said he may get down to Cambridge this coming week to measure. If he does, I'll go down to help out as much as I can.
When I'm aboard Robin next -- whether with Skip or alone -- I need to gather some charts. Monica has agreed to a two-week Maine cruise this summer.
The way it will work is a modification of past efforts. I had said after my last delivery of Robin from Connecticut to Cambridge that I would never do that again, and I won't. I will not set myself up for a tight schedule. It sucks all the enjoyment out of sailing.
Rather, either alone or with crew, I will head for Maine well in advance of Monica's arrival.
With only minimal stops, it is a seven-day trip. This time, I'll go no farther in a day than makes me happy. It may take two weeks or more, but when I get there, I'll be ready for Monica's arrival and for a leisurely cruise through the islands and thoroughfares that make Maine so enchanting.
I am almost certain of one thing regarding that trip. Rather than sail from Cape May, NJ, to Buzzards Bay and through the Cape Cod Canal, I will sail outside, going directly from Cape May to Rockland, ME. That would be a minimum of four days at sea, and it would cover ocean bottom where I've never been.
So I need to bring home the charts and begin studying.
Then, with the first warm weather, I'll be aboard Robin, doing all the maintenance that the winter has made necessary, along with some improvements already on the list.

Crocus time has arrived. In the past week, the leaves -- yellow-green splinters -- have jabbed up through the snow remnants and the old mulch and the dead lawn grass. Now, the blossoms have arrived. Soon, above the floor of the woods out back and the English ivy along the gravel driveway, lavender clouds will spread like a thin fog above a pasture, a million flowers blending into the first cheery breath of spring.
Just after sunrise, with the low light slanting above the ground and igniting the crocuses on which it fell, Thelma and I went up the driveway for our first walk on a day that promises some springtime warmth and a perfectly blue sky. At the street, we turned toward the river. Ahead not 100 feet was a gray lump on the pavement. My first thought was: dead cat.
We had left Zippy shut in at home with Monica because I didn't want him to follow us and risk the fate of the animal ahead of us.
Upon closer inspection, I saw this was an oppossum. Maybe he was only playing dead.
Thelma approached the form with caution and sniffed. The palms of the little, white rear paws -- with their opposing thumbs -- faced the sky, along with the little animal's furry belly. It was pretty clear his "death", probably practiced many times before and certainly ingrained in his genetic code, was, this time, not a fake.
And I thought: Some folks really are born victims, no matter what the self-help people say. A reminder to avoid judging others.

Yesterday, Gene Smith, a professional photographer who is a friend, did me the great favor of making a portrait of me for the cover of Eight Survived. The G-man, as we (and he) call him, worked wonders, given the limited material available.
We drove across the Delaware River into Philadelphia and stopped at Penn's Landing, a city riverfront park. There are three ships there on permanent display. The Moshulu is a square-rigger that was a grain carrier and is now a restaurant.The Olympia was the flagship of Admiral Perry. (There will be a quiz later, I'm told.) And the Becuna is a World War II submarine.
You have to pay to board the Olympia and the Becuna. But I talked to the nice lady at the gate and she agreed to let us in so Gene could take his pictures.
I stood on the deck of the Becuna, in the shadow of the conning tower. The sky was brilliant blue and the sun was sliding down the afternoon ramp, so the shadows were already long.
But it was breezy and cool, and the beige LL Bean barn coat I'd worn thrashed in the wind.
That wasn't a problem for Gene. But my bulky sling with its foam bolster was an issue. The coat was draped over the left shoulder. The sling propped the coat's fabric in a way that made it look like a tent. Gene said that, with the bulky garment, I looked as though I was pregnant with twins.
When we returned to Gene's studio, he manipulated the images on the computer. It was like magic.
I hope he gets some business through his work yesterday. He made me look respectable, which itself is a serious accomplishment.