I am in Robin's saloon with nautical chart No. 13003, Atlantic Coast, Cape Sable (Nova Scotia) to Cape Hatteras (North Carolina) opened on the table before me. I have located the point where, in about three weeks, Robin should make a left-hand turn of 100 degrees -- 40 degrees 20 minutes north, 69 degrees west.
John Morrison and I will leave Cambridge on July 18. Tom Gilmore will join us the following night in Chesapeake City and the following evening (weather permitting,) when we have reached a point about three miles offshore from Atlantic City, we will strike a course of 80 degrees (true). In about 260 miles -- which could be from two days to much longer -- we will reach the turning point.
I selected those coordinates because they are well south both of the Nantucket Shoals and of the shipping lanes going from New York to Europe.
When we reach that point, we will tack to true north(about 17 degrees magnetic) and run straight to Penobscot Bay and Rockland Maine, another 260 miles away.
If we have wind all the way, the whole trip will take seven days. I've allowed 13 days, trying to eliminate the rushing that accompanies most of these voyages.
Normally, we would sail to the Cape Cod Canal and then across Massachusetts Bay and the Gulf of Maine to get to our destination. That would involve two overnight passages and a couple of day sails.
Instead, we've chosen to make it an offshore passage, just for a change. I'm looking forward to the adventure, but we still have a lot of preparation ahead of us before we cast off.
This is actually almost the reverse of the first offshore trip John and I ever accomplished (I think that's correct. it is for me if not for John.)
Several years ago, we crewed for Tom when he brought his boat Kelte home to New Jersey from Rockland. We made that trip in two shots, in a lot of fog and in some good wind.
That voyage was a lot closer to the coast. This time, we'll be rounding the shoals and Cape Cod and sailing by the famous fishing ground, George's Bank, and the ominously named Ammen Rock (very close, if we are on course.)
We will keep you posted.

Took the boating test in Ocean City, NJ, on Saturday morning while Monica went to the beach. I passed. Enough said. They didn't give out scores, but now I'm legal to sail the Mariner on the same body of water where I first began sailing, in a Mariner.
I joined Monica on the beach after the test. It was blazing hot in the sun and cool under the beach umbrella, where I stayed. At about 11 o'clock, we went up to the boardwalk so Monica could buy a book. There was a silver-haired orator in blue oxford button-down with sleeves rolled neatly above his wrists. He was decrying, through a bullhorn, society's dependance on fossil fuels and was exhorting a gaggle of onlookers to seize the Gulf Disaster moment and work for renewable energy sources.
Some time later, after a woman with a waist-length blonde braid and the bullhorn had accompanied a tall young man with a television camera to the edge of the ocean near my umbrella, there were, suddenly, one hundred or more individuals in street clothes gathered, along with the silver-haired orator, near the wet edge of the retreating tide. No sooner could you say peaceful protest than the folks gathered by the sea joined hands in a block-long line, with the orator urging them on.
And then the bizarre happened. Out of the midst of these descently earnest individuals appeared a man with a black and white Hawaiian shirt, black-lensed sunglasses with large, white frames -- and the bullhorn. In an Elvis voice, he began singing "I can see clearly now, the rain must fall . . ."
His pompadour was black and his sideburns were long but there appeared to be either a bald spot at his crown or a malformed skull for there was a dent up there.
One of two silver-haired bathers with Fortune 500 teeth and tans who were standing behind me commented that it figured "Elvis" would be a liberal.
Having completed his vocals, the Elvis impostor joined the hand-holding line at its center, looking from my vantage point under the umbrella as if he were being stretched between the left and right wings of the protest line.
In time, the demonstration, apparently filmed for future reference, dispersed and the "Elvis" man posed with some of the participants for photos.
Odd.

Where was I?
Bluebird was on the mooring. Still is. Her engine was in trouble. Now it's in a shop in a falling-down old warehouse in North Philadelphia, awaiting a death-or-survival diagnosis. A shop closer to home wouldn't even take a look at it because it has three sheared bolts.
So I've been working on other chores. I just finished taking an on-line boating course, a requirement in order to get a New Jersey boating certificate, without which I cannot sail Bluebird on the Delaware River. I'm hoping to take my final exam on Saturday in Ocean City, while Monica goes to the beach.
Next up -- working on the rewrite of the second youth novel attempt. The agent who looked at it called it "very promising" and then did a line edit that will require a few weeks of concentrated behavior on my part. I welcome the notion that, at my advanced age, I may be able to learn something new in the process.
Monica and I went paddling with a group from the boat club on Saturday. The course was on Barnegat Bay. The wind was strong from the southwest. We paddled for two hours. I was impressed with Monica's ability. I think this was her first prolonged trip in a kayak and she did great, particularly considering that for half the trip we were paddling into the wind.
The outing may have proved that it's time to replace my old Folboat. It is 17 feet long and I struggled with it in the wind. It is a two-seater and I really needed another paddler up front.
I just finished a magazine piece that Soundings says they will run. It's the story of my 2003 trip to the Philippines to research the submarine book (Eight Survived, to be published in October by Lyons Press.) I'm hoping it comes out around the time the book is pubished and generates thousands of sales!

Bluebird is on her mooring -- and I'm holding my breath. The launch went well and there did not seem to be any water where it shouldn't be. We shoved her over the edge on the launching cradle, and she rode down the rails and into the river. The 35-year-old Evinrude started and powered her to the dock where I left her for a couple of hours to see whether there were leaks.
There were none, and so I started the engine to begin the trip to the mooring. That's when I noticed that there was no water coming out with the exhaust. That, I suspected, could mean overheating.
So I spent the rest of the afternoon (once Bluebird was safely on the mooring) trying to understand the motor. It seems pretty certain that it needs a new water pump impeller or maybe the whole pump. The parts are available. It's the mechanical work that I'm not sure I'm up to.
Maybe I'll find a shop that can fix it.

Bluebird remains on the launching cradle at the boat club, but she is completely prepared to get her bottom wet. The registration numbers were being applied when the first randrops splashed her topsides. I found a turnbuckle in the assorted boat gear in the basement that fit the backstay. That allowed me to put the boom and the mainsail on and to cover them with the cockpit tent.
Tomorrow morning, as soon as possible, I hope she will slide down the rails -- and float! That will be her first real test as she emerges from retirement.
Bluebird was manufactured in 1964, the year that several of my good friends graduated from college. She has some interesting bronze parts. Her acne (blisters) will be treated next year. For now, it's time to sail!

Bluebird, the Mariner, is poised on the edge of the Delaware River. She would have been launched today except for a part about 1/4 of an inch in diameter.
Two friends, John Morrison and Bill Van Keuren, came to the boat club to help with the expected launching. It took a regretable trip to West Marine to get another piece of stainless steel wire rope for the centerboard -- I had botched the job and messed up my first piece of wire. But now the centerboard is apparently in working order.
There were then a few assorted items to clean up before launch, including plugging the hoses left inboard when I dispatched the perfectly good ceramic head to the Dumpster. I used wooden bungs and hose clamps. And there was a bit of bailing in the cabin to get the rainwater level below the pivoting pin of the centerboard.
Then, as John spread high pressure duct sealant over the two ends of the pin, Bill and I sorted out the rigging, getting the shrouds attached on either side and the backstay fitting properly pinned.
With John an I in the cockpit supporting the mast, Bill pulled on a long rope off the bow and we raised the mast.
But as Bill was pinning the forestay in place, John noticed that the turnbuckle holding the backstay to the stern had broken.
So Bluebird sits on the launching rails, awaiting a turnbuckle. That will happen tomorrow or the latest, by noon on Thursday, because there is another boat -- another Mariner -- scheduled to launch then.

We buried 0ur good friend Thelma on Friday. When we got up in the morning, it was the last thing I thought I would have to do -- to end her life. But over the course of the day, I came to believe that it would be cruel to let her go on another day. Her legs collapsed several times when she tried to walk (although she made it to the river and back one final time. )
Three years ago, we had to end the life of her sister, Louise. It was heartbreaking that we kept her with us to the point that she would have to ask us to stop the pain. She stopped eating several days before she finally collapsed and couldn't get up. I only believed it was over when the vet said it was.
So we buried Thelma beside Louise in the back yard, and the two of them are now our reminder of the definition of true love. Louise was a scamp who would steal a stick from Thelma when she would fetch it by swimming out in the river. Louise would wade in to her belly and wait and then snatch the stick as Thelma approached the shore. Then she would deliver the stick near us but then play keep-away, making us chase her.
Thelma would then chase the next stick as it flew over the water, and the game would go on and on.
I think Louise loved Thelma the most. She always wanted to be with her and constantly sought her attention.
Thelma, on the other hand, loved us -- unquestioningly, thoroughly, despite the long weekends when we would leave her at home (with visits from a pet sitter) so that we could go sailing or visit relatives.
Friday morning, as usual, she was excited when I picked up her leash and the poopy bag. She walked slowly, haltingly but insistently to the end of the street and looked out on the water before she would consider turning for home. The same was true later in the day, but by that time, I was crying openly because I knew where the day would end.
She died in our arms.