The Bermuda 1-2 race begins in Newport, Rhode Island, a week from Friday. There's a lot that I will miss when Robin is absent from the starting line.
There is the camaraderie with the other sailors, several of whom have become friends since we first began competing in 2007. The regulars are a wonderful mix of personalities, the same juicy social concotion you'd find in any group of very active people; local legends and borderline lunatics, egomaniacle boasters, nearly shy wallflowers, the pretentious, the extremely competent and always the funny and the fascinating. I can't think of one of them I've not enjoyed, and so of course they will be missed.
I'll also not get to sail back from Bermuda with the best crew anyone could have -- Monica. Those two trips, in 2007 and 2009, were filled with adventure and were, in truth, the most intense sailing she and I have done together in our lives. First time it was eight days, and we arrived back in Newport at 3 a.m. under a moonless sky. The second time, we'd come through a storm that took our self-steering devices (both the windvane and the electric autopilot.) We arrived in about six days, under power and out of the race. But still, it was an incredible six days with the one I love.
But while I'll miss both of those components of this race, I've just recently understood that what I'll miss most -- since you can have both of the above when you're ashore -- is the wonderful, prolonged solitude that a singlehanded race affords.
You make a decision to sail singlehanded six hundred plus miles offshore with the knowledge that you are doing something with risks and that you, alone, are responsible for avoiding those risks.
The first time, you decide to go and hope that you have the knowledge, the skill and the good sense to reach your distination safely. The second time, you know you have those qualities, and you smile as you await the starting gun, welcoming the undisturbed days you are about to spend, prepared to find your way to fit into the rhythms of the sea and of the days and nights, ready for the blowing rain, the lightning, the crystaline pinpricks of stars on an otherwise black night where the heavens above reach down to embrace you, to take you in as one of their own.
I will miss all of that very much. It couldn't be this year, but 2013 will arrive soon enough and by then, Robin will, we hope, be eager and ready.

The photos above (I think) are of work that was in progress last week aboard Robin. One is of the bulkhead repair in the V-berth. The other is of repairs to the caprail and the rub-rail. Looks pretty butchered. The finished product looks marginally better.
I'll probably be continuning with cosmetic work in the V-berth this week as I await, the following week, the arrival of the engine mechanic to address the problems in the heat exchanger. Robin will be the prettiest non-functioning boat in the marina.

The white petals of the black locust trees along the driveway have fallen like blown snow, strewn by a breeze on the gravel as if to prepare for a celebratory arrival. In the full mass of the bordering shrubs and plants are pink blossoms and purple. One large white peony, too weighty for its stem, leans out over the lawn, more fragrant than an aging woman, insistant, demanding notice.
And it rains.
Except for a coat of paint, the boat sits by the river, ready to sail, eager to show that its leaks are healed, confident in its now centerboard winch, its repaired cleat, now held in place by a half-square-foot backing plate.
And it rains.
Robin sits at her dock, her V-berth repaired and painted, her rails fixed. She waits for a mechanic, who cannot visit until June.
And it rains.

The unexpected comes in many forms. On Thursday, when an overly high tide caused the electricity in the marina to trip off, that meant that no work could be done with power tools, unless the battery-operated drill didn't drain its charge. But that wasn't the unexpected that thwarted my progress on Robin.
I had made an arrangement the afternoon before to have an electronics company look at Robin to give me estimates on three jobs: Recharging the refrigeration, installing the single sideband radio and replacing the several electrical switch panels with one modern one. I had to be at the company's dock between 7:30 and 8 a.m.
John Morrison was on board at 6:50 to help. I'd completed my morning run, taken my shower and was just finishing breakfast when he arrived.
We set about casting off the dock lines, and when we had only three still attached to the pilings, I started the engine.
It is a habit to look over the port quarter when the engine first fires to see whether there is water coming out with the exhaust. There should be. That's the cooling water that is sucked up from under the boat, passes through a radiator surrounded by the onboard antifreeze mixture, absorbes heat from the antifreeze and then gets pumped out the exhaust. The radiator is called a "heat exchanger."
I saw water spurting out as I looked over the side, but just then I saw a stream of water also coming from the bilge pump -- a stream like a garden hose turned on full.
Then I glanced back at the exhaust and only a sputtering of water was escaping. I mentioned the fact to John just as the bilge stopped draining, and then I kept looking at the exhaust.
Normally, water should come out in spurts. That's fine. But the spurts should be rhythmical. These were puny and only occasional.
Then another strong stream shot out of the side of the boat from the bilge.
What the . . .?
Then the combination of evidence that I was witnessing started to suggest the problem.
I dashed down the companionway ladder, flung out the boards and ladder steps to open up the engine compartment, and there I saw it: Water shooting out of the heat exchanger and spraying all over the engine and the engine compartment.
I reached up to the cockpit and turned off the engine. When I examined the heat exchanger more closely, I saw that a bolt had fallen out of the front end, allowing the water inside to escape.
I found the bolt. It had broken off at the threads, which meant that there was still part of the bolt inside the heat exchanger. That meant I had to dismantle the device, find the broken bolt, clean the heat exchanger once I had it apart and then reassemble it.
If I didn't run into anything more unexpected.
But I did.
To service the heat exchanger, you have to drain the antifreeze from the engine by means of a petcock on the lower side of the engine. When I went to use the petcock, I discovered that it had fallen off, apparently from corrosion.
The engine isn't seven years old yet. This never should have happened. In fact, when I called Beta Marine, the company that made the engine, their representative, Farren, told me he'd never heard of a petcock corroding off.
I will not blame Beta for the problem. There has been more corrosion in the engine compartment than I would have expected, and I guess it must have something to do with Robin other than the engine.
In any case, I canceled the visit to the electronics firm. I didn't really have a choice. I attempted then to clean the heat exchanger, but there was too much corrosion to get it apart. So I called Farren back, he gave me the name of a Beta dealer in Cambridge, I drove to that boatyard and arranged for a professional to look at Robin.
I did get the V-berth bulkhead painted, and I did complete repairs on the splintered rubrail and caprail.
So two steps forward and one step back.

Yesterday I worked on Bluebird, today on Robin. It appears I've found a new vocation, if not a new job.
Both boats are in a state of disrepair as I work through the list of repairs needed to make each seaworthy. Yesterday, there was more done to try to keep the water on Bluebird's outside and to make it possible to winch up the centerboard. Today, I slathered epoxy and caulk, both in the effort to rebuild a bulkhead and to keep the water outside.
It is a gorgeous evening in Cambridge, MD. The sun is just now setting behind a large sycamore and the temperature is sliding back down from the mid 70s. John Morrison just bought me dinner in repayment for his ride here to his boat. Tomorrow we'll share the two meals that Monica prepared at home and that are now in the cooler on board Robin.
With luck, I'll finish all the carpentry here tomorrow and then will begin the painting that will make Robin spiffy for the new sailing season. If I get that work done, the holding tank is ready to be reinstalled. But as I was shown last week, some unexpected occurance -- a broken tool, an unforeseen flaw in my installation plan -- could cause me in a later visit to try to finish the work I'd hoped would be done today. This is the joy of boat maintenance. Monica thinks we'd be better off chartering a boat a couple of times a year. I think we'd be better off being filthy rich so we could pay someone to do the work.

The bulkhead work never got completed this week. It rained, and I'm thankful it did.
On Tuesday evening, I was prepared to awaken the next morning, put some fiberglass cloth in place and reinstall the holding tank. The next step would be painting the V-berth.
But it was raining -- hard -- and water was dripping in at the pump-out deck fitting that I had re-caulked during an earlier visit to Robin. I'd have never known that and would have buttoned everything tight if the rain had not come.
So next week, I'll return, inspect the fitting, pour water over it and, if I can get the leak fixed, then proceed with the completion of the bulkhead project.
I had the wood and stainless steel trim ready to fix the splintered caprail and rubrail, but due to the downpour on Wednesday, I ditched that plan and went home.
Weather stalled my work, and at the same time made it more likely that it will be done correctly. I'm not complaining.

Twenty-four hours later but the same cool breeze. A half hour ago, before the sun settled to the treetops, I was at a picnic table, eating the delicious bowtie pasta with meatballs in red gravy that Monica cooked and froze for me on the weekend. Out on the Choptank River, I saw a familiar boat motoring closer, the Nonesuch Serenity that berths at the outer end of my dock. I followed her progress as she drew near.
And then something stirring happened. Perhaps it is only stirring to a sailor, or only to a sailor eager for his next voyage.
When Serenity neared the zig-zag entrance to the marina, all but the upper half of her mast was blocked from my view. But there was majesty in that spindly pole as the vessel marched purposely up the fairway, heading for her slip.
The mast took aim at the bulkhead to my right without slowing. You didn't need to see anything else to be aware of the vessel's presence. The mast alone, slipping by and through the forest of masts of one hundred or more docked boats, was like the authoritative voice of an unseen leader. Enough to hold one's attention so that, at the end of a productive day, he yearns and is stirred.
The plywood is in place in the V-berth, epoxied and held by screws until the glue dries. Tomorrow, I'll add fiberglass cloth soaked in epoxy, and if I think it's appropriate, I'll re-install Robin's holding tank. I have the wood and the stainless steel strip to repair the rubrail and caprail that was splintered by the winter winds. That bit of carpentry should be completed before I leave some time after noon, ending this week's work on Robin.

It is eight o'clock on one of those rare spring evenings when the breeze is soft, refreshingly cool and, just after the sun has settled in a layer of clouds over the
Chesapeake Bay, blowing from the south, according to two American flags still flying nearby.
The day was spent cutting three-quarter inch plywood into two pieces and fitting it to an opening in Robin's V-berth bulkhead. The rot seemed to be contained in one sheet of plywood of the two that comprised the bulkhead, so that removing only that piece will, I hope, restore the structure without the necessity of more drastic surgery.
Tomorrow I'll clean the flakes of rotted wood and the accumulated dust from where the old wood was and then, after slathering a generous amount of epoxy, bang the two pieces in place and fiberglass the joints between the new wood and the existing bulkhead.
Then I'll re-install the holding tank and Robin will, in future sails, demonstrate whether my boat carpentry skills are up to snuff.
Should I finish that project tomorrow, I'll be able to start on the repairs of the cap rail and the rub rail that were splintered in a wind storm during the winter.
I am scheming to become filthy rich so I can pay someone to do all the boat maintenance and repairs. Like the bumper sticker says, I'd rather be sailing.