There is a terrific old lumber yard a half mile from our home. Two brothers, probably in their 40s, struggle to run it efficiently. At times, their management of the yard drives me to The Home Depot.
But at other times, I return, knowing that only they will have the special lumber I need. When I started the cupola for the house, I knew that a big box store wouldn't do.
Paul, the brother who works in the office, persuaded me not to buy cedar. He steered me to a much cheeper wood that looks like mahogany. Nearly two months ago, I finished building the cupola in the basement and reassembled it in the yard, ready to have it hoisted by crane to the roof.
Then it rained. And then the faux mahogany bled. Reddish-brown stains came through three coats of solid white acrylic stain and streaked like rust over the white.
The only solution, I learned, was to cover the mahogany with a synthetic lumber. (Stain sealers apparently won't hide it.)
So I returned to Paul and asked what he had in faux lumber. He had some 5/4 inch that he could rip to 3/8 inch, he said. That's great, I said. Let's do that.
That was some time in early December. He promises I will have it by Friday, Jan. 22. If it takes much longer, there will be no more frost in the ground to support the crane.
This is the sort of problem that sends customers away from Paul and Dave. But the alure of their lumber yard keeps us coming back.
There are planks of every imaginable species of wood in their long, rambling shed-like building. (They just recently completed renovations that, while not altering the ancient ambience of the place, keep out the rain.) There are sheets of plywood in every possible grade, old paneled doors and casement windows. There are moldings of types last used in the early 1900s, perfect for repairing a home built at that time. There are wooden columns, railings, balusters -- and many things, I'm certain, that I've never seen.
The cupola roof went on when Monica helped me bend the deep red, PVC-coated aluminum. When I assembled it outside, my carpentering/piano guru, Bill Haldeman, gave the cupola high (explative) marks.
So I'm looking forward to Friday,l when I can complete the job.

Perhaps I've taken enough time off that there are no readers left. If so, that frees me to write randomly, which in fact may be nothing new.
I have been cramming. I had a January 15 deadline for finishing work on the submarine book, Eight Survived. By that time, it was necessary to incorporate editor Keith's suggestions into the manuscript; to develop a list of sources, by chapter; to compile a thorough bibliography, and to write an acknowledgement section.
Cramming never was a strong suit in my days in school. I learned slowly that you had to have actually opened the books at some point in order to cram.
In this case, it had been nearly six years since I'd written about Flier. Although I still had all my files in a cardboard carton large enough ro raise a litter of puppies, such a litter birthed in there the last time I looked at any documents would now be middle-aged dogs.
Almost immediately, I discovered that some documents were missing. Then I found there were folks I'd interviewed whom I didn't remember.
I asked for a month more to finished the job, and Keith reluctantly said yes.
My fear of failure was misplaced. The work was done by the deadline. There must be a lesson in that experience.
One fact that helped is Keith's light touch as an editor. I probably mentioned before that he edited my first book for another publisher.
Now I wait to hear of any further effort necessary to get the book into print in the fall.

We got 14 inches of snow here along the Delaware River last night. The boughs of the evergreens are heaped in white. The air is quiet, and when it moves, it sweeps with it small clouds of sparkling crystals.
Walking in unbroken drifts, you feel the snow shoved cold up along your shins inside your trousers and weighing on the toes of your boots when you lift them.
In the neighborhood, there are the sounds of shovels scraping on walkways, the cheeps of birds swarming feeders, the soft crunch of tires on the plowed street.
It would be a great time to be aboard Robin. There is nothing more cozy than the cabin of a snowed-in sailboat, where the light strains to reach the portholes through a slope of drifted deck snow. The companionway hatch becomes an igloo entrance. The blankets on the berths -- in Robin's case, on the port and starboard settees -- are inviting. Put a cup of warm coffee or cocoa on the saloon table and stack a couple of books there. Make sure there are some seasonal cookies within reach. Then settle back and rock with the wind in the quiet of your snow-muffled cavern.
For now, we imagine this scene. Robin is all alone on the Choptank and we are here, cozy in our cottage in the snow.

A brief note after three weeks off:
Robin is winterized and in her slip in Cambridge, Md. Her fuel tanks are filled, there is biodegradable antifreeze in her raw water system and plumbing, the water tanks have been drained and the seacocks have been closed. I put one tarp over her dodger and main cabin, but she needs a couple more to keep her dry inside. Otherwise, she's snug, with extra dock lines to handle the winter winds.
On Wednesday I had cataract surgery. The difference is remarkable. It is as if someone just got done Windexing the windows. Everything shows in sharp detail.
I'm working on the editing of the submarine book, now called Eight Survived. The editor, Keith, asked me to provide thorough source material, chapter by chapter, to back up my writing. So I've been going through the hundreds of documents I collected starting in 2001 when I began research for the book. I've found stuff that I didn't remember I had. It's been entertaining at times.
And An Irresponsible Adult is being looked at in the office of a Boston literary agent. The agent's assistant emailed me yesterday asking for the manuscript after a proposal I sent them intrigued her. I'm hoping for the best, of course.
More important, I'm taking this opportunity to wish all of you the best in the holiday season and beyond. I know I'm going to be entertained in the new year, and I hope you will be, too.

The title and subtitle for the work I called Swimming in the Shadow of Death have been selected by the marketing folks at Lyons Press. There seems to be a consensus that they are good choices. Here they are:
Eight Survived: The Harrowing Story of the U.S.S. Flier and the Only Downed World War II Submariners to Survive and Evade Capture.
In two weeks, we should have the editing wrapped up (The contract requires it.) Then it will be another seven or eight months before publication. You can expect the book to be available in September, I think.
Meanwhile, I'll be studying youth fiction in an attempt to hone the prose in Leaving Harwich. I've already finished a couple of youth novels and am re-reading them as part of that study. This is actually fun. Brain-stretching can be entertaining.

A cluster of pale yellow leaves still clings to a skinny gray-barked maple up near the end of the driveway, the last remaining foliage of autumn here, the final excuse to cling to the sailing season. But in truth, my mind has for a long time been on other endeavors.

I recall a point in May, when I should have cleared my mind of all thoughts not dealing with preparations for sailing in the Bermuda One-Two, when all I could think of was the distant season for downhill ski racing.

Last week, I emailed Todd, the former US Ski Team member who has agreed to tutor me in downhill technique. I wanted to make certain we would schedule a session on a New England mountain as soon as there is snow. And we will.

It was Todd who sold me a pair of brand new downhill skis last winter. I have been imagining riding those skis ever since -- all the way to Bermuda and back.

Skiing has remained one of my passions even though, in recent years, I have devoted resources to sailing instead. Three seasons ago, I decided that I wanted to return to skiing by commiting my self to competing in downhill races.

That first season -- 2006-2007 -- I had trouble finding a downhill race to enter. I did find a Super-G race, the other discipline considered a "speed" event. But I managed to crash in practice, injuring a knee. A month later, I'd found a downhill race and entered it, only to have it postponed due to too much snow.

What I learned is that amateur downhill races seem to come in two varieties. In one class of downhill, there are a lot of gates that keep the average speeds rather low. You are lucky if you can exceed 70 miles per hour.

Then there is a pure speed event. Some times, the only gates are the starting and finish gates and you simply ski in a straight line and see how fast you can go. In one event, the racers at times exceed 90 miles per hour.

In 2008, I entered a downhill with lots of gates. I enrolled in a training camp prior to the race. I misunderstood the instructions and attempted to ski with a technique that seemed foreign. It turned out it was the exact opposite of the technique the instructor was espousing. Blame it on my inadequate understanding of modern skiing vocabular.

in 2009, I was still trying to accomplish this odd skiing technique -- a style that made me extremely slow despite my honest labor. It was only after the only race I ran in 2009 that I learned how badly I had misunderstood the instructions.

That prompted me to engage Todd as my tutor. My hope is that when I finally get in the starting gate of a downhill race in the upcoming skiing season, I'll be doing things correctly.

I don't care if I win or place. I simply want to go as fast as I can on skis. I'm expecting it to be thrilling.

Now I go to sleep at night visualizing the course that I've now run twice. In my imagination, the skis are carving through turns and, when I let them run straight, they slip over the snow barely touching. It is a wonderful fantasy.

This will be the last entry from An Irresponsible Adult. Then it will be back to blogging. Please consider leaving your comments (if you've been reading) at mondoug@verizon.net . It would be helpful.
Thanks


It is Wednesday morning, just before 7 o’clock. At 11:40 a.m., I will have completed four days at sea. In the last eight hours, Robin has covered only 17 miles. She was making as little as 2 knots of headway during the night. With daylight at 5 o’clock, I went forward to inspect the damage to the genoa. What a relief it was when I found that the snap-shackle that holds the tack of the genoa to the boat had simply popped open. I snapped it back into place, and now I’m sailing with the genoa and the mainsail and making 4.2 knots in 6 to 8 knots of following breeze. It was an adventurous night all around. Moments ago, I wrote this blog.

The importance of keeping a 20-minute watch was brought home last night. You look at the vast Atlantic and wonder how a collision between two needles in this haystack is possible. You then consider that most traffic is going to and from a handful of destinations. Now it becomes a 12-lane freeway of sorts, where anyone can hop on any lane in any direction.
After I doused the genoa last night and was making less than 3 knots, I was keeping my watch between naps. Sometimes my dreams seemed to follow me into consciousness and plead with me to return to them immediately. But every time the egg timer rang, I managed to get to my feet and walk around.
It was sometime after 11 o’clock when I noticed white lights ahead of me to starboard. I got on channel 16; gave Robin’s name, her coordinates and my course of 120 degrees; and asked for a reply from the vessel eight miles ahead. I had checked the radar to get the miles.
A voice answered and told me that he would alter his course to starboard and give me a wide berth to my port. The eight miles were consumed in less than a half-hour. Twenty minutes between watches was a bare minimum.

The gentleman in command of that ship spoke perfect English with an accent I could not identify. Perhaps he was Greek, but he might just as well have been Russian. He definitely was polite. His voice was resigned, almost grave. When I thanked him for changing course – imagine a huge ship stepping aside to let tiny Robin pass – he demurred that he was only obeying the international shipping regulations. I got a lump in my throat as I watched his lights pass two miles to my east and disappear over the northern horizon, leaving Robin and me alone once more.

I am alone now, but to get here I have been helped by many, some of whom could never have known where their kindness of a moment was leading. Two people come immediately to mind as I stand beside the nav station. On the tabletop where I spread my charts, a small harmonica is pushed off to one side. A fiddle – a raised edge on the table – keeps the harmonica and the charts from sliding off when Robin heels. There is a second harmonica in the top drawer below the table. (This is the “junk” drawer. The second drawer down is the galley drawer, where the knives, forks and spoons are kept. The lowest drawer of the three is the chart drawer, where I keep the charts I’m currently using, along with the dividers, plastic triangles and other apparati used in plotting my course.) The harmonicas are gifts, prompted by a couple of lines in blog that I wrote back in Newport.

I tried to find a harmonica, since I read in Jan de Hartog’s book that it is the purest nautical musical instrument and I want to serenade the tuna out there. In all of nearby Newport, I have yet to find a mouth harp.

I wrote that on Thursday, June 7. On Friday, the first harmonica arrived, sent by one of my talented Soundings editors, the musically-inclined Michael Labella who in each issue does his best to preserve my writing dignity. Then before the race started Saturday, my sister, Janet, arrived with the second instrument. Offshore, I have played them alternately. They have been a great comfort to me, helping to occupy me in the long spans when Robin, steering herself, has no need of me.
These acts of thoughtfulness are among the most recent. My enjoyment of sailing can be traced back 47 years, to the summer following my graduation from high school.
I had, during most of my summers growing up, spent a full month vacationing on or near water, although almost never near an ocean. My parents were outdoors folk, and our recreation involved camping, hiking and fly-fishing. My father’s employer shut down for the month of July, and from the time I was about nine years old, we headed to the forests of Maine almost as soon as school let out.
Even then, I knew I wanted to be on a boat. Occasionally, we would come upon a pond where someone had left a wooden rowboat. The ones that were not chained to a tree were waterlogged. My good parents would not let me use the chained boats. That left me confronted with attempting to make the waterlogged craft float. Since that, of course, did not work, I resorted for navigational purposes to the occasional log raft that we would find in the tundra-like vegetation that grew as a beard along the banks of these remote ponds. The ponds themselves were shallow, the deepest perhaps eight or ten feet deep. The rafts were ancient collections of cedar logs lashed together to cross-poles. They were maneuvered by pushing on long, branchless cedar poles. To anchor a raft, you would jam the pole down between the logs and into the bottom of the pond.
We caught a lot of trout on wet flies like the Coachman and the Royal Coachman, flies that we bought pre-tied at the L.L. Bean store on the drive north from Massachusetts. I spent most of four weeks with sneakers that were wet from standing on partially-submerged log rafts. I learned to move one of these craft against the cold summer wind blowing down from the surrounding alpine landscape and whipping the pond into whitecaps. I never learned to like the taste of trout, and I never lost my desire to sail a real boat.
My best friend, Joel Plastridge, the classmate with whose family I had spent winters skiing, had been raised sailing. In high school, he built a Sunfish out of plywood. We took it one day to a nearby pond, but on a hot summer afternoon there was no wind, so we did not sail. Another time, I had gone with his family to a trailer they kept on a sand spit between a freshwater pond and some tributary to Buzzards Bay. We launched a fiberglass daysailer in the pond, but again there was no wind.
Then Dan Plastridge, Joel’s father, asked me to drive the family sports car – a black Triumph TR-3 – from the coast north of Boston, where they had left it when they had boarded a bareboat charter, to Buzzards Bay, where they had sailed the 28-foot wooden ketch. My payment – in addition to being given the keys to the sports car – was a night aboard the ketch and a day of sailing on the bay.
The scenes that I remember from that experience fueled a fantasy that would live in my heart for many years to come. I awoke in a creaking hammock in the main cabin, sunlight from the bronze ports racing across the cabin wall as the boat rocked, the aroma of bacon and eggs frying in the galley filling my nose. And then, as the ketch sailed in an afternoon southwesterly, I rode on the bobstay – the cable that runs from the front of the bowsprit down to the stem at the waterline. I can still see the bow wake splashing white beneath me. Dan’s gift to me has lasted a lifetime, first in memories and now, alone, offshore, far beyond the Gulf Stream on my way to Bermuda.