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Friday, July 29, 2011

There has been no opportunity, since July 18 when John Morrison and I departed Cambridge, MD, aboard Robin, to check in. A lot has transpired since then, however.
At the moment, I'm sitting in a motel room in Manchester, NH, awaiting Monica's flight to arrive just up the road. John left here for home on an earlier flight. I shook hands with him and thanked him for sharing the experiences of the last 13 days. He said I will have lots to write about. I know he will have many stories to tell, some of which perhaps will not enhance my reputation as a sailor.
The primary feature of this voyage of about 550 miles to Rockland, ME, was engine trouble. It began when we departed Cape May, NJ, on the evening of our second day.
I had a plan to sail all the way once we had left the Delaware and Chesapeake Bays behind, and after we had motored out of the Cape May inlet through a boistrous chop and steered north, we began sailing with the Genoa alone, doing a solid six knots over the bottom with the wind on our starboard quarter.
In no time, we were passing along the buildings of Wildwood Crest, a couple of miles north of Cape May, and we turned the engine off, settling in for a long, dark evening of quiet and the motion of strong swells over shallow water. We both had on our harnesses, tethered to the jackline, when I decided to go below for something. The autohelm was steering and John was seated on the high, starboard side of the cockpit.
I dialed daugther Joy, who was vacationing with her family in Wildwood, so that they could go down to the beach to see us past. We were traveling so fast that I was concerned we might just blow by before they could react. She said they'd try to gather the kids and get to the beach.
I'd just stepped through the companionway opening a few minutes later and had a foot on the ladder when John noticed a "Low Battery" message on the autohelm screen. This surprised me since we'd been motoring for two straight days and, the night before, had plugged in to shore power in Chesapeake City.
I checked the volt meter above the chart table. Both batteries registered less than full readings, with the No. 2 battery -- the house battery which was now running the steering -- quite low.
I reached up into the cockpit and turned on the engine, then rechecked the volt meter. What I should have seen was the needle jumping up into the green realm of the gauge.
But there was no change. We were running on our batteries alone. For some reason, the alternator was not charging the batteries. In time, if we fed off the batteries without help from the alternator, they would go dead. We'd have no juice for our instruments, our running lights or any other electrical equipment.
So we turned Robin around and, with the engine running -- a diesel engine will run as long as it has fuel without need of any electrical current -- we headed back for the Cape May Inlet.
By the time the inlet came in view, it was dark. The furious chop was still filling the entrance, but now we faced an additional problem. We could see the green light on the end of the southern jetty, but against a backdrop of a dozen or more red lights ashore, we could not find the red light marking the tip of the northern jetty.
Now I became confused, forgetting for the moment the old saying "Red on right returning". For some reason, I had the green light to starbaord, meaning we were about to go on the wrong side of the southern jetty.
With perhaps 150 feet to go, I saw the reflection of the jetty stones below the green light and turned sharply to starboard.
But our mutual confusion continued, prompting desparate questions about "Where the hell is the red light?"
Eventually we saw the light -- a dim glow behind Robin, which had already entered the inlet safely.
We anchored in the dark amidst a half dozen other boats and left it to the morning to unravel the mystery of the low batteries.
It would take eleven more days to solve that probelm, a span of time during which we would have many more adventures, some of which sailors actually anticipate with eagerness.
More to follow.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

I was thinking ahead to the voyage that begins in less than twenty-four hours, and a scene of a landfall came to mind, a pleasing scene when, after a long night at sea, you see in the early light the coast and, as the sun rises, you draw near your destination, with wind filling your sails and pride swelling your chest, and I thought: This is the metaphor for all of life's achievements, not an evening landfall, but an early one, because like all achievements, the landfall at sunrise comes after long, lonely hours, often filled with struggles, despair, self-doubt, and when you finally reach your goal, rather than being the culmination of a beautiful day at sea with warmth and hope, the landfall washes away all the imperfections of the night before and you can savor the accomplishment.
An evening landfall, when you beat the sunset into port, brings a quiet end to your travel, the way desert after supper prepares you for sleep at the finish of an unremarkable day.
A morning landfall stimulates you, despite your fatigue, and spawns shouts of exultation. Yes! We've made it!

Friday, July 15, 2011

The replacement outboard worked fine. Everything is now loaded on or in Robin. Tomorrow at noon, we drive south to Cambridge, where John and I will say goodby to Monica and Fran early Sunday morning and aim generally north. Then the adventure begins.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

The Forester is squatting on its springs. Inside are the outboard motor; a large suitcase containing my essential clothing for six weeks, minus a few items; a large Rubbermaid tub in which are collected basic, non-perishable groceries for two weeks; a 35-bottle case of spring water; two 12-bottle cases of green tea; three first aid boxes; four new flares; a book of tide and current tables, and a guitar. I'm just waiting for Monica, who is now home from work, to assemble her clothing for her two-week stay aboard Robin and then the packing will be complete.
The plan is that I drive to Cambridge, MD, in the morning and store all this gear aboard Robin before returning home. Saturday morning, we and the Morrisons will drive back to Cambridge, and early Sunday -- just after first light -- John and I will be on our way.
That's the plan.
I also plan on knocking on some nearby wood. About a cord's worth.

Monday, July 11, 2011

We discovered on the July 4 weekend, when we prepared to visit another boat in our dinghy, that our outboard motor, now about 15 years old, couldn't be started. I've never taken good care of it, so there was no surprise. Indeed, the great surprise was every previous year when the little 4 horsepower Evinrude actually started.
Today I picked up a replacement motor from our friends Bill and Debby, who had moved up in status from their 2.4 horsepower Yamaha to an 8 horspower motor that causes their new dinghy to get up on a plane.
The 2.4 is in the car now and today or tomorrow, John Morrison will bring an inflatable dinghy to the boat club and well try out the engine just to see how it pushes two men in a boat. Then I'll take the motor -- and a lot of other supplies -- to Robin later in the week in preparation for our annual cruise. As we did last year, Monica and I are going to Maine.
Actually, John and I are going to take Robin to Maine. We're the delivery crew. Robin will be met in Maine by her owner, Monica, just as she was last year. (You can read about that trip in the August issue of Soundings Magazine.)
My plan is to point Robin's bow northeast when we reach Cape May, New Jersey, and, with the wind as our engine, sail as we might to Martha's Vineyard, where we'll stop and wait for a favorable current around the outside of Cape Cod. Once clear of that cape, we'll sail straight for Maine.
The trip involves, then, two offshore legs, each of which, with good wind, could be accomplished in two days but which may take a total of eight days or more. I've set aside plenty of time for the trip, so we should not squander any petroleum products.
There is still a lot to do before Robin will be loaded with all her supplies for the two-week stay in Maine. My goal this year is to go as far east as we can in those two weeks and to see some unspoiled waters close to Canada.
Some time in mid-August, I'll steer southwest and head back to the Chesapeake. So far, I have no crew for the return leg. But that's okay. I'll just take my time.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

I went out to Bluebird on the Delaware River yesterday afternoon, readied her for a sail and then motored back to the dock at the Red Dragon Canoe Club where, once the dock lines were fastened, I took out my cell phone and called Monica. In about three minutes, she was coming down the gangway onto the floating dock.
It was a perfect afternoon. The wind was from the northwest, and since the river here travels from southwest to northeast. that meant that we would have a beam reach. We restarted the outboard, and with Monica at the tiller, I shoved Bluebird's bow toward midstream and hoped for the best.
Since I bought the O'Day Mariner two years ago, Monica has had some disparaging comments about our need for "another boat". I had hopes this sail would result in some fondness in her heart for this particular vessel.
The jib was already up when Monica steered on a slant toward the shipping channel while I raised the mainsail. Then she steered upriver, toward the Burlington-Bristol Bridge, about a mile and a half away.
Bluebird behaved splendidly. In light gusts, she skimmed the surface, always stable and tracking perfectly.
After a bit more than a mile, we came about and sailed downstream, with the current of the falling tide, and in no time we were offshore from the riverfront mansions of Edgewater Park.
Monica by now was remarking on what a great sail we were having, and what a really nice boat Bluebird is.
The sail lasted a bit less than two hours, I think. But the feeling was timeless. You sit low in Bluebird's cockpit, never needing to hike, with the coaming as a backrest. Your feet rest on teak floorboards, under which rainwater slops. I think of her as an old-fashioned boat and of the sailing arrangement as very traditional.
Monica thought her new boat was perfect.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

In the morning, when one eye struggles to open from a night of sleeping aboard your boat anchored in a Chesapeake Bay cove or tributary, the first sound you'll likely hear will be that of a V-8 engine in near-idle or of an outboard motor, either one passing near the other side of the hull of your vessel. It may take a few minutes for your other eye to open. The sound will still be there. Should you go to the companionway before visiting the head and look out, you will probably see this fellow, or one who shares his purpose.



This fellow, aided by his black Laborador retriever, was passing Robin on July 4 at 6 a.m. A radio was playing aboard his Johnboat as he worked his trot line, harvesting blue crabs. For those unfamiliar with a trot line, it is a long -- up to several hundred yards long -- line onto which are knotted at regular intervals pieces of bait -- often chicken necks -- that are allowed to settle to the muddy bottom of the anchorage. (In our case, the average depth at low tide appeared to be around 10 feet.) One end of the line is fastened to a small buoy. It could be a plastic antifreeze jug.
The crabber -- or trotliner -- has a pulley mounted on the side of his or her boat. He or she lifts the end of the line onto the pulley and then motors forward, hoping to see a crab, its claws gripping a hunk of meat, each time a bait comes up to the pulley.
The crab is not hooked, only holding on to its meal. A trotliner waits with a net on the end of a pole and, if experienced, sweeps the net under the crab just as it lets go of the bait. The movement of the net can be graceful, tracing a shallow arc just above the water and then lifting up over the boat's gunwale where, with a twist of the crabber's wrist, the hooped end rotates and the crab falls into a waiting five gallon plastic bucket and the dog wags its tail, congratulating his friend on another fine catch.
I have been reading James A. Michener's book Chesapeake and had on Sunday just read a passage describing the lives of the Canada geese that migrate from the Arctic to the Chesapeake. Late that afternoon, as I stood in the cockpit looking to the west where a cove indented the shore to my left, I saw the head and shoulders of a Canada goose swimming out of the cove, close to its bank, toward me. He was followed by another goose and another, and his companions followed him as he turned toward my right, still hugging the wooded bank.
I counted twenty-eight geese in that line by the time they had all rounded the corner. Each one followed the bird before it. No one strayed from the line. Their progress was quiet. I heard no honking from my position on the boat about 150 feet from the birds. It was a sight at once curious and pleasing.