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.

The first sail of the season was on Sunday. We left Cambridge in mid morning and sailed about 13 miles west, tacking into a northwest wind, making between 2 and 5 knots until, close to the south tip of Tilghman Island, the wind faltered, our sails fluttered and, shortly, we turned on the engine.
Ours was better luck than our friends, the Morrisons, whose boat Chautauqua wouldn't go forward once they'd backed out of their slip. Around noon, I began calling them on the radio, trying to figure out where they were on the water. We had planned to rendezvous with them and another couple on Trippe Creek, east of Oxford, where we would anchor for the night.
But as I was calling Chautauqua, I got a call on channel 16 from the vessel Sequel . I responded, letting the caller know that while the boat name seemed familiar, I had no clue who was calling.
Later, we learned that the Morrisons were still in port. That was shortly before we turned to head back to our slip. But just about then we saw a white sloop approaching us from the east.
It was Sequel, and I recognized the boat and its occupants, Mark and Rita, by sight at some distance.
We got some good photos of them and their boat, and then+ we motored back to Cambridge.
By the time we were docked, John Morrison had figured out his problem: A fouled propeller. In a shortie wet suit, he had descended into the marina water and scraped a winter's worth of scum and barnacles from the prop blades, and today he and Fran went out for a successful jaunt on the Choptank.
As for Robin, after enduring weeks of my carpentry, she passed inspection when Monica boarded.
Next up: A fresh coat of paint for Robin's entire interior.

It is 2:30 in the morning. The air conditioning is on aboard Robin, and I can't sleep. I think the pint of ice cream I ate earlier is the problem.
In any case, out of boredom, I did a Google search for Eight Survived and, to my surprise, found several entries for the book, the proofs of which I'm still correcting.
I guess that's some sort of milestone, appearing through Google.
The publisher, Globe-Pequot Press (Lyons press, an imprint of GP, is the actual publisher) hasn't selected a cover yet, apparently. At least none was shown on the sites where it was offering the book for pre-ordering (in India, if I read one entry correctly.)
But there you have it. Book number two finally about ready to be purchased by the masses. Better reserve your spot in line at Barnes & Noble, you masses.

My friend and sailing instigator, Tom Gilmore, bought a Bristol Channel Cutter recently. This is a boat that you can order new today for about $300,000. I am not at liberty to mention the ridiculously low price Tom paid, but I think some refrigerators cost more.
Tom is the original bargain hunter. He lives aboard a Creekmore 46 that he built from a bare fiberglass hull, and he built it with scavenged teak (wood used for dunnage in a ship) salvaged bronze portlights and rigging and a truck engine that he converted for marine use. He has sailed this treasure to Maine and back several times, and I have had the privilege to make some of those trips with him.
The Bristol Channel Cutter is a legendary boat built in California originally. It is 28 feet on deck, with a very masculine bowsprit and a plumb stem that gives it the appearance it is thrusting its chest forward.
This BCC, which as yet has no name, has a sorry history, Tom says. It has had two other owners. The first one sold it but never was paid when the buyer took the boat from the west coast to Florida, where it was abandoned. The second owner (not the one who absconded with it) bought it unaware that it had suffered severe water damage while abandoned.
So Tom has a "project boat." But at the price he paid, why not? He sailed it from the Chesapeake Bay to his home in New Jersey last week and said it sails beautifully. His brother made the trip with him. Tom, the ever-thoughtful sibling, made a bunk for his brother in the gutted cabin by laying three or four two-by-eights athwartship on the bare fiberglass hull.
There are no head, no galley, no bunks, no engine (Tom mounted a 15-horsepower outboard on the transom) and no navigational equipment.
Tom is the one who introduced me to the Bermuda 1-2. He sailed it in 1979. He also crossed the Atlantic twice in a 13-month voyage a bit later.
I would like to cross the Atlantic, myself.
I would not like to do the work Tom faces with the BCC, however, in spite of the fact she's a pretty little ship.