Sandy, be she a hurricane when she arrives or a tropical storm or a mere meteorologic event, prompted me yesterday to visit Robin in Maryland. In a small breeze, I removed her Genoa, took the staysail in its bag off the foredeck, stripped the dodger frame of its canvas, bound the mainsail tightly inside its sail cover, removed all loose obects from the deck, checked the dock lines and shrugged.
About 60 years ago, when my family was camping in Baxter State Park in Maine, a storm that had been a hurricane was approaching. The water it later dumped on Mount Katahdin rolled huge boulders down Katahdin Stream and washed out a crib-work dam in the campground.
The campground ranger, Fred Pitman, a tall, lanky man probably in his 60s -- tall and strong enough to lift over his head a 55-gallon steel drum filled with trash to empty it in his pickup -- was talking with my father about the impending natural disaster. My father remembered for the rest of his life what Fred said, words to the effect: "Hurricanes, storms, blizzards. Ain't much you can do 'bout 'em. No point worrying 'bout 'em."
That's where we are today. Letting Sandy come. I hauled Bluebird from the river on Friday afternoon. She's strapped on her trailer, mast down.
A strong enough wind visits Maryland or New Jersey, things can happen.

Right now, we've brought Zippy, the cat, indoors, much to his displeasure. He's washing his paws in a yellow wingback chair. Lexi and Samantha are on the livingroom couch. Monica is watching the pre-game show on ESPN, preparing herself to knowledgeably watch football, and I'm going to catch up on some reading and watch the wind rise. I hope everyone else is secure and ready to enjoy the storm.