We sailed across Albemarle Sound on Friday, jenny up and full of wind. The water was turbulent,waves choppy and relentless. It rained off and on, and we had solid gray skies all the way. We haven’t seen the sun since…. can’t remember! We motored up to the Alligator River Bridge and called the bridge tender. He ignored us. Half a mile later, he finally answered: “Stand by five or ten minutes, cap’n, til we finish greasin’ it.” Apparently, the swing bridge has to be greased before it can open.

I love the North Carolinian accent. Every native speaker sounds as though he is making a joke of it, doing imitations of Ron White – “ya cain’t fix stupid.” I had trouble understanding the bridge tender, but I imagine that goes both ways. Cinderella and Seneca finally caught up to us at the bridge and we crossed together.

The Alligator River swing bridge, which needs to be greased before it will swing.

Our anchorage Friday night was a little too rough to allow us to raft up, so we dropped the anchor on our own. Phil got out the grill and the last of the charcoal, and we grilled Italian veggie sausages. It was a dark night, no moon, with fully overcast skies. The anchorage was near the Alligator River Wildlife Refuge, so I listened for wolves. Zoo-born red wolves were re-introduced there, after a period of total extinction in the continental U.S. There are now estimated to be 60 wolves, but they were quiet that night.

The view from our anchorage. It is looking brighter. Definitely.

Saturday: Skies are gray again on Saturday as we make early coffee and prepare to get underway. My optimistic outlook on weather – “I think it’s starting to get brighter!” – has become a running joke. It looks more like dusk than morning as Phil gets ready to pull the anchor and start the engine. Cinderella and Seneca pull theirs and head toward the Alligator River-Pungo River Canal, the 22-mile ditch we will take to Belhaven.

Have you ever had a car that wouldn’t start after it rained? It cranks up and never catches, just whirrs without a spark. Phil turns the key to start the engine, and Catmandu refuses to start up. To be precise, it’s not Catmandu who refuses to start, but the Atomic-4 gasoline engine that powers her. Our friends radio back and we send them on, sure it will fire up in just a minute.

An hour later, despite all of Phil’s tricks (and he has a lot of them), we are dead in the water. It’s time to call TowBoatUS. Meanwhile, Seneca is trying to raise us on the radio. He can’t hear our replies. Cell phone service is almost non-existent on the Alligator River. I have one bar on my cell service, and Phil has none at all. We send instant messages to Cinderella and Seneca, but they have no cell service either, and won’t get the messages until twelve hours later.

Throughout the long day of sailing here, and all the way down the Alligator River, I am struck by the lack of homes along the water. In New Hampshire, these long waterfront stretches would be dotted with summer cottages. Here, there is nothing but wilderness. There are no electric wires, no telephone wires and no cell phone towers. As far as we can see, it is Earth as she was created.

Phil has an app on his phone to call TowBoatUS, and it transmits our exact position. With the spotty cell service, he has to stand on the highest point of the boat to get a weak signal, but finally manages to talk to TowBoatUS long enough to get our call in. The connection doesn’t last, though, so we aren’t sure if they are coming. It is 9:30am. We are completely alone in the anchorage.

“Phil, if we take away everything man-made in this place, what would be different?” I ask, looking around at water, trees, birds, and the steel-gray sky.

“Catmandu would be gone,” he says. But that’s all.

Saturday morning: looking brighter?

An hour or so later, we get a radio call from the Coast Guard. “Sailing vessel Catmandu with a Phil Decker on board. This is the US Coast Guard.”

Phil answers, and they ask if we are in any distress. “No, we are safely at anchor.”

TowBoatUS had called the Coast Guard, to check on us. The call had gotten through and help was on the way. At around 11:30, we get a text message from TowBoatUS, but it didn’t make it through the cell phone hole. An hour later, Phil is on the computer balancing his checkbook and I look out the window to see a bright red boat approaching. “They’re here!” We are rescued.

TowBoatUS, towing us for a couple hundred yards. Our rescuers!

Not so fast. After they put a bridle on Catmandu and drag her off the anchor, we notice their engine is cutting out. We are towed a total of no more than 200 yards and their engine quits altogether. “Fuel pump,” says J.W., a local man with that Ron White accent. His co-captain, Rich, drops an anchor and J.W. starts to take the outboard cover off. “I’m gonna need some tools,” he says.

“What kind of tools?” asks Rich, looking in the tow boat’s tool box. “We have screwdrivers, screwdrivers and screwdrivers.”

“I have tools,” says Phil.

“Do ya’ll have a 11mm socket wrench?”

Not only do we have the tools, we also have a spare fuel pump. After checking the old fuel pump, and determining that it can’t be repaired, J.W. takes a look at our spare pump. It won’t work. Both men are now on their cell phones, with the limited service, they call for friends to bring a fuel pump. No one seems to be around, or just are not answering.

“Let’s just call the police,” Rich says. “People usually answer the door for them.”

This is an advantage of living in a small town. They know many people with boats who can bring the part they need, and they know the police, who can knock on doors and raise someone to help us. It works. J.W. gets a call back and gives instructions for finding an outboard fuel pump, next to the trailer, in that old outboard with the hole in it.

Now that help is on the way, we four look at each other, all floating on two broken boats, hanging on to one small anchor.

“So,” J.W. says to me, “Whut’s fer supper?”

It was a joke, but it is five o’clock by the time a spare fuel pump arrives, and with Catmandu’s tools, J.W. installs it in the huge outboard. The older man who came on the second rescue boat says something unintelligible to us. He pulls out a fishing pole and casts a line into the water. I’m guessing he said, as long as I’m here, and my wife is in Greenville (I got that much), I might as well fish.

Anchor up, we make our way toward the entrance of the Alligator River-Pungo River canal at dusk. The towboat engine is running, but it sounds a little rough to me. It is dusk when we enter the narrow canal. We have a few anxious moments when a large tug and barge seem to be playing chicken with the towboat. It passes safely.

View off the stern, being towed down the canal.

We see a great blue heron in a tree, and a few minutes later, a tree full of hawks or vultures in the dark. The moon comes out as we make our way down the dark waterway behind the towboat. We can only go about 6.5 knots, so it will take four hours to get to Belhaven. As phone service comes back to my phone, we try to find a boat mechanic at a marina that will take us. No luck.

Dowry Creek Marina – Paradise on the Pungo – can take us, but have no repair services. Phil decides he will try to fix the engine himself, so we arrive around 10pm as the towboat engine starts to hesitate and cut out. Our friends are there at the dock, along with Nick, the marina owner. Docking with no engine is nerve-wracking, and I’m shaking as I crawl up to the bow in the dark. It’s my job to release the towboat bridle and cast the bow line to Nick at the end of the dock. Thirty feet from the dock, the towboat engine quits.

There is enough momentum to make it, so I release the bridle and we float silently toward the dock. As soon as we are close enough, I toss the line and we are secured to the dock. The poor towboat manages to float in behind us, and they tie to the dock as well.

I have cash tips for these men who have been with us all day, suffering the same problems we are. “How are you going to get home?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m home now,” J.W. says. “I can call any number of old boys to come and get us here.” He hands back our 11mm socket wrench and wishes us luck. The towboat engine is running again, and we watch them pull away. J.W. is in back, pumping fuel by hand with a plastic bulb. I think they are the ones who need some luck.

Tuesday: Epilogue

We are still at Dowry Creek Marina, and boat repairs continue. We have had advice from Nick, from forums online, and on the phone from Moyer Marine, the gurus of the Atomic-4. The weather has been miserable. Rain, high winds, and more rain. Cinderella took advantage of one good day and headed south to Oriental. Their one message caused some excitement on Catmandu: “Dolphins!”

We talk endlessly about the engine. It cranks, it sounds healthy, but will not “catch.” We discuss the spark. It’s what we lack, and Catmandu needs it. We do test after test, following the spark. I update our many friends on Facebook: “Catmandu has lost her spark.”

Today, leaving the autoparts store on the third day of engine repairs, we are optimistic. The tests have revealed that perhaps, the points are not sparking as they should. We go to one auto parts store and they can order, but have no parts for us. A second store has the part we need. As we are leaving the parking lot, Phil looks up at the gray, drizzly sky.

“Looks like it’s getting brighter!” he says, and I laugh out loud.

Back at the boat, new points installed: Catmandu fires up. I am so happy to hear this engine, I text our friend Jean-Luc: “Do you hear that beautiful noise? It’s Catmandu!”

Phil is elated, understandably proud, and pours a little rum. Even the boat seems happy. Tomorrow, we will continue our journey. It is definitely looking brighter.

The front we’ve been watching for three days finally arrives on Monday afternoon. As I sit in the cockpit, I see the first light sprinkles of rain making their spreading circles on the water. Then I hear an unfamiliar sound, a kind of whirring noise that seems to originate in the top of the 50-foot yacht across the creek. Then the eerie singing starts all around me and I realize what it is: Wind in the shrouds. All the boats in the marina have these taut metal lines that hold up the masts, and they are all being strummed at once by the wind.

With boards across the companionway, we are tucked away inside Catmandu while rain pounds the deck and the cockpit. Catnip is just outside, filling up with rain water. Phil has torn apart the electrical panel to replace a switch. I am continually amazed by his ability to fix anything. He has an engineering brain and enough knowledge and confidence to tackle any malfunction. “Or,” he says over a spaghetti pile of red wire, “I’ll just jerry-rig it.”

Definition of cruising: Working on your boat in exotic locations.

Tuesday, October 9: We think it’s time to leave Greatbridge, not because the weather has improved vastly, but because we simply want to get going. It has been five days, waiting for Tropical Storm Karen and then a cold front to allow us passage to the next anchorage. We check local weather and think we can make it, with cloudy skies and 17mph north winds.

Land showers done (I will never take a hot shower for granted again), we set out alone. Cinderella has to stay behind for delivery of an important package, and Seneca decides to wait with them. We are alone going through the first bridge, and I hear the bridge tender call ahead to the second bridge: “Sending you one sail.”

Maybe it should have seemed strange to us, having the river to ourselves. The wind is picking up, but the protected waterway seems calm as we make our way south. There are no buildings on either side, just grasslands and pines as far as we can see. My very favorite places on earth are wild and natural, so I love this landscape and let Phil do the driving. It’s too narrow and shallow to use Otto.

Phil spots the ospreys first, wheeling and crying far above us. What did the chart guide say? Excited ospreys are a sign that…

“Eagle!” he says, and I see the first bald eagle of the day, perched on top of a dead tree next to the river. It is not bothered at all by the ospreys. It is still, implacable, regal. And I can’t find the camera.

A half mile later, we spot twins: two huge, healthy male bald eagles sitting in the same pine tree on the starboard side of the river. Their huge white heads are unmistakable, and their eyes are the only parts moving as they scan the water for fish. It would be an impressive photo, but now that I’ve located the camera, I can’t coax it to turn on.

I guess this isn’t going to be a photo-journal. But here is an idea of the landscape we are traveling through, taken a few miles south of the eagles – where the savannahs remind me of photos of African grasslands and I imagine giraffes in the distance.

It is wild, unspoiled and flat as far as we can see. The waters are calm here, but not so farther south. North Landing River, looking west.

We have been traveling south on the North Landing River, and the wind is building as we turn slightly right and enter a wider section of the water. As we leave the protected waterway, two motor boats come up behind us and request a slow pass. This is a courtesy given to sailboats. In exchange for us slowing down and keeping to starboard, they will slow down and pass without leaving us to rock and roll in their wake. They are soon far ahead of us. One more sailboat, First Light, passes a short time later, and we are alone again.

Crossing the widest part of the river is, as Phil puts it, like motoring through a washing machine. The water is whipped up by heavy gusts, and white caps dot the surface. The tops of the waves are blown off by howling winds. I look like the Gorton’s Fisherman in my yellow foulie jacket, and Phil is bundled up in his red one. The sky is dark gray and lumpy. I notice that our flag, attached to the stern, has been flying out straight all day.

“Is this 17mph winds?” I ask Phil, who is now reminded of sailing in the rough waters off the coast of Maine.

“No,” he laughs. “More like 25 or 30, gusting to 35.” My eyes widen, but I’m not scared. It is a bumpy ride across a great expanse of churned up waves. Far to the east, I can see a narrow string of land. According to the chart, I’m looking at the western side of the Outer Banks at their northern tip. I’m thankful we are on this side of the “Graveyard of the Atlantic.”

It’s too rough to go below to make lunch, with the boat lurching and pitching, so we hold off until we can make our way to calmer waters. Around three miles north of Coinjock, NC, we enter a calm, narrow passageway and the wind and waves calm down. Since we are on our way to an anchorage south of Coinjock, there is a decision to be made as we eat our peanut butter sandwiches. Do we really want to be on the anchor in 25 knot winds?

Coinjock Marina is our answer. With our northern winds pushing us along, we’ve made over 37 statute miles in 7 hours, impressive speed for Catmandu, considering that we had to wait for two bridges. The marina is nearly full, but there is room at the dock for us to squeeze in between giant motor yachts, and we tie up for the night. It was a great decision. As I write this, the winds are howling to gale force and the rain is falling sideways. Our companions wisely stayed at Greatbridge and message us that gale warnings for Coinjock will keep them there one more day.

Kay, blogging, safe and dry inside Catmandu. Note – The propeller head!

Weather delays are part of the fun, right? Our progress has been stalled by a tropical storm, a violent cold front, and now the remnants of the same tropical storm. In the last six days, we’ve put just 37 miles behind us. But curled up in the salon with Phil, eating hot pea soup, sipping wine and watching a movie on the laptop, it is somehow comforting to hear rain beating down on the decks and to have winds howling through the shrouds.

Writing from Great Bridge, Virginia

When we arrived here on Thursday afternoon, and I stepped off the boat onto the dock, I realized it was the first time I had touched solid ground since Sunday. The previous three nights, we had been rafted up with our friend-ship Cinderella, hanging on to her larger, heavier anchor in the quiet coves and creeks along the western shore of the Chesapeake. We stopped at Solomon’s Island, then Deltaville, and then Fort Munroe – across the Elizabeth River from the Norfolk Navy Yard, home of aircraft carriers and war ships of all descriptions.

Early evening in Deltaville, a glamor shot of the lovely Seneca.

Deltaville to Fort Munroe: Wednesday, Oct. 2nd, is to be our longest day of the journey. We anticipate ten hours on the water, motoring at 5.5 knots almost due south. It is hot and sunny, with very calm seas. Textured and green, the surface of the water is broken only by occasional crab pots and seabirds. We see more pelicans. As we look back for our companions, they seem to be in a bank of yellow-gray mist, their hulls barely visible.

We use the auto-tiller to keep us on course, which Phil affectionately calls “Otto.” It is a sort of auto-pilot that attaches to the tiller and holds a certain bearing, which we get from our chart plotter. It allows us to relax a little in the cockpit. The Chesapeake is so wide at the southern end that we can barely see a ribbon of land to the west, and nothing but water to the east. It is a curious magic trick that makes the distant water blue-gray, while the water around the boat is a translucent moss-green.

Toward the end of the day, I note on the chart that we are passing the Plum Tree Island Bombing Range, followed by the Plum Tree Island National Wildlife Refuge. I want to tell all the animals there to duck, but hope the bombs are directed toward the shallow water off to the north. Still, it’s a strange juxtaposition of aggression and compassion. As we point the bow farther west, we pass a beautiful stretch of beach with a string of large, luxury beachfront homes. No tiny summer cottages here.

Waterfront homes along Buckroe Beach, just north of Fort Munroe.

Just as we are turning into the Elizabeth River, Seneca and Cinderella catch up to us and cut to our starboard. We have been helped by an impressive southbound current out of Mobjack Bay, and had reached speeds of 7 knots to keep ahead of them. We slowed down to let them pass, and felt proud that Catmandu had been able to stay ahead all day.

We followed this sailboat all day, and as we headed into the Elizabeth River, they hailed Cinderella. It seems Cinderella is famous in these parts, from Jaye’s presence online.

Our anchorage Wednesday night is not the quiet, rural setting of the night before. A busy interstate bridge on one side, and the military buildings of Fort Munroe on the other remind us that civilization exists beyond these boats, beyond the water that has held my attention these past few days. If I needed any other reminder of the outside world, I certainly get it the next morning as we cross the very busy channel at the mouth of the Elizabeth River and head upstream past the Norfolk Naval Station.

Seneca in sunshine, passing us in the channel Thursday morning.

Fort Munroe to Red Nun #36

Our first encounter with a large vessel is this Coast Guard cutter. It looks huge on the horizon and towers over us just to our stern. We are four boats crossing the channel, having picked up a catamaran named Sea Quest. Jaye hails the Coast Guard ship to let them know we would be staying just outside the channel and out of the way. They replied, unlike several container ships we’ve hailed. They would cross our stern and pass on the starboard side. Since my father was a career Coast Guard officer, I felt a surge of pride in this gleaming white ship as it passed.

U.S. Coast Guard Ship in Elizabeth River, just passing us after we crossed the busy channel.

Our view of Navy ships on our port side at Naval Base Norfolk.

Navy warships dominate our view for the next hour. Some of the largest military vessels in the world are docked here, and we pass aircraft carriers and destroyers and unidentifiable ships with pyramids on top. We are passed by a large container ship that doesn’t answer us, just steams past these tiny inconsequential pleasure boats. It is our job to get out of the way. It is likely that those merchant mariners, perched high on the ship’s bridge, can’t even see us anyway.

Giant container ships like this one often don’t answer when they are hailed. It doesn’t matter. Just get out of their way.

Phil is at the helm, steering by hand today. Otto is blind and can’t react to giant obstacles quickly enough to be safe in the busy river. Gigantic cranes and commercial buildings pass by on either side. The size and scope of these enterprises are impressive, but I would prefer some lush greenery and some birds. I still haven’t seen a dolphin.

It is Thursday morning, Oct. 3, and to this New Hampshire native, it feels like mid-August. The sky is brilliant, and the warm breeze doesn’t cool us enough as we push southward through a strong current. I know there is a marina with a hot shower waiting for us this afternoon, but in my mind, the water is cold and refreshing.

We are keeping an eye out for Mile Zero. Somewhere in this part of the river, we will officially enter the Intracoastal Waterway. We know it is marked by red buoy number 36 and keep watching the numbers count down on the starboard side. Then, unexpectedly on our port bow, we spot the buoy. It seems out of line and we pass it on the wrong side with camera and cell phone raised.

Mile Zero of the Intracoastal Waterway

We may be outside of the channel, but we are definitely in the waterway.

A wonderful bird is the pelican
His bill will hold more than his bellican
He can take in his beak
Food enough for a week
But I’m damned if I know how the helican.

– Ogden Nash

 Oct 1, 2013 – Solomon’s Island to Deltaville, MD

We started out early on the first of October, heading east into a brilliant sun. As we turned south we found something unexpected: wind. Enough wind to sail. We hoisted both jib and mainsail and turned off the engine. It’s a wonderful silence at first, and then you realize it’s not silence at all, but the sounds of wind filling the sails overhead and the water splashing the bow as we cut through the calm waters. We are doing a very respectable 5 knots when we first spot our two companion ships sailing behind and to the east of us. They are pale twins in the distance, side by side like graceful dance partners.

Cinderella and Seneca, off our port stern.

Waking up this morning next to Phil in the V-berth, I remembered the first-of-the-month ritual. I whispered “rabbit, rabbit” to ensure a month of good luck. I don’t know where I picked up this weird custom, but it has to be the first thing out of your mouth on day one of a new month. I forget most of the time. But as we sail south on this perfect day, I am overwhelmed by my good luck. I couldn’t dream up a better partner, better friends sailing the boats behind us, or a better time. I don’t need rabbits this month.

When Phil sailed south from Maine, he said the pelicans started showing up around Cape May, New Jersey. To him, they were a symbol of the south, or at least of the migration south. So I am on the lookout for pelicans throughout the morning. I have never seen a dolphin in the wild, and constantly scan the blue-gray water for dorsal fins. Our friends tell us they have seen dolphins in this part of the Chesapeake, but we can’t seem to find them. On the radio, we hear a captain hailing the Coast Guard. They want to report a dead dolphin floating in the bay, and give their position. I am hoping my first sighting of a dolphin in these waters is one of a smiling, jumping, Flipper in very good health. I have read that dolphins are suffering from a flu-like virus.

Cinderella, in front with the mainsail up, and Seneca following, motoring as the wind dies down around mid-day.

Our friends, in their faster boats, motor-sail by us. They are headed for Deltaville, and want to get there first to help us navigate the very strange entrance to the anchorage. We watch them sail by, and shortly after, the wind dies down and we have to start the engine. With the engine on, we can make six knots. My attention is on the water. The sun is so brilliant, it is painful to remove my sunglasses. I take them off anyway to avoid the raccoon look in my developing tan.

Then Phil spots one sitting on the water just off the port bow. It is unmistakable. A little farther on, we see groups of them in the air. First one, then two soar past us majestically, slowly like pterodactyls with their prehistoric beaks. Pelicans, our symbols of migration. We imagine palm trees in the distance, and still scan the water for dolphins. But here, there be pelicans.

Pelicans, on the starboard beam. We saw many more, soaring and wheeling overhead, but this photographer was not up to the challenge!

I landed at BWI Friday afternoon and called for the GO shuttle. The van driver was really quiet at first but when we hit traffic, he opened up. As we left the main highways and then the residential roads, he wondered out loud if he should trust his GPS. We found the sign to Camp Letts and headed down a narrow, winding road into the woods. The pavement ended and we continued down a dirt road. Finally we saw a sign that said, “Only one more mile.” He laughed at that and asked if I was sure I wanted to go on. I did. Phil called and said, “We are in the big brown building.” The driver said, in his Filipino accent, “But miss, there is no buildings!” I had to give him an extra tip when we finally arrived at the Gam.

What’s a Gam?

I remember my grandfather saying my grandmother Elinor had the nicest looking gams in all of Connecticut. I think he was referring to her lovely legs. A gam, according to the Seven Seas Cruising Association, is a gathering of cruisers for the sharing of knowledge, experience, and friendship. On the old whaling ships, when two ships came within sight of one another, they would heave-to and exchange greetings and news over their rails.

I was introduced as the newest “cruiser” (I had been a cruiser for an hour) and as such, most of the seminars were a little advanced for me. The weather seminar, no pun intended, was way over my head.

Other seminars covered sailing concepts (how to trim your sails), how to find “a-buck-a-foot” marinas on the Intracoastal Waterway, and all the best guides for the trip south, thanks to Dan and Jaye Lunsford, our boating buddies.

It was explained to me that a cruiser was not a weekend sailor who went out in a sailboat for a couple of hours on a perfect Saturday afternoon, but one who lived on his sailboat and traveled from place to place, good weather and bad, a part of a community of people who have left the work-a-day world to live on the water. It is a simple, beautiful kind of life, dependent on wind and weather; a life where brilliant sunsets and morning fogs are more significant than meeting the next deadline.

There were more than 200 cruisers at the gam, all members of the SSCA. After a buffet dinner, we heard a keynote speech by Beth Leonard, who talked about her trip around the world on an aluminum-hulled sailboat. The trip took her and her companion through the southern ocean, an unforgiving environment for the most skilled sailor. It took them around the bottom of South America and up the coast of Chile. She said that after the trip was over, she realized it had re-defined who she was. She had become, simply, a sailor and a writer.

At the end of the Gam, there was some excess beer to be consumed. Phil found it.

We had a quiet Sunday anchored out on the Rhode River, where we did a few boat chores like replacing the flag halyards and tying a second line on Catnip. You might remember how that little dinghy likes to escape. We made sure everything was stowed, the groceries organized and put away, and the ship was ready for sailing. We also met up with friends for a bon voyage rum, courtesy of Jody, a fellow cruiser.

After the Gam, relaxing with rum on Jean-Luc’s beautiful new Beneteau, Seneca. On the Rhode River, just south of Annapolis.

Monday morning, we got up early and left before our two companion boats, Cinderella and Seneca. We are a little slower so we assumed they would pass us along the way. The day was brilliant and the bay was calm. We didn’t have much wind, and what we had changed direction often. It was a perfect seven-hour cruise, all motoring, down to Solomon’s Island, MD. Only once did a BHS (Big Honking Ship) set up a wake that sent our boats rocking and rolling. If you haven’t seen them, you can’t imagine how huge these container ships are.

Our companions, Cinderella and Seneca, catching up to us.

Tonight, we are rafted up with Cinderella, our friends and companions for our trip south. It’s the second anchorage of the night, since we were kicked out of the first by a police officer who thought we were obstructing boat traffic (we weren’t) or too close to the middle of the channel. It’s a better place here. It is a secluded cove in Mill Creek, and it’s quiet on the water as the sun goes down. Now we can hear crickets and night herons in the nearby woods. We are sipping rum drinks and Phil is setting our course for tomorrow as I write this. It’s amazing how quickly this has become my life. So, I wonder, what will I be after this trip south on the ICW? I hope I will be a cruiser, and a blogger. And of course, a gammer.

We B Gammin. I have a matching T shirt. We are that corny.

Getting the Boat Ready to Sail

Ships carry boats. Since little Catnip the Dinghy follows us around everywhere we go, does that make Catmandu a ship?

Catmandu is a 1982 white-hulled Catalina 27, tall rig, with a striking royal blue dodger and sail cover, and a trusty inboard Atomic 4 gasoline engine. She is equipped with a gps chart plotter, depth sounder, new VHF radio with … and yes, a broken cassette deck. She has been in the water in Back Creek, Annapolis, MD for three years without a haul out. There were just a few things to do before we could sail south.

Hull – If you haven’t had your breakfast, you might want to look away. This picture shows what happens if you neglect your bottom and leave it hanging in the water for three years. Even the barnacles had barnacles. After a haul out, power wash and vacuum sanding, her bottom got three coats of bottom paint. It looks beautiful, as Phil says, if you don’t get too close.

Depth Sounder – The depth sounder started dozing off several months ago, usually when we were in shallow water and really needed it. The helpful readout would look like this: – – Occasionally, it would wake up in the middle of the Chesapeake and register something around 434 feet. With the boat’s underside exposed during her haul-out, it was easy to see why the instrument was so confused.

Zinc – I am not sure what this part is for, but I can see clearly that Catmandu needed a new one:

Engine – The inboard Atomic 4 and I have a history. This particular model of gasoline engine has stranded me four times in the past six years. Once in Narragansett Bay, twice just northwest of Block Island, Rhode Island, and once in the Severn River, Maryland. Two of those malfunctions involved the oil pressure safety valve. It’s a safety feature, so I am grateful that the engine didn’t start, burst into flames and sink the boat. In all cases, there were no fatalities and I ended up home safe. All the engine needed this week was a tune up, a water pump and some new spark plugs.

Mind the Gap…

VHF Radio – The new radio is equipped with Digital Selective Calling (DSC) which allows it to transfer information in digital format to the Coast Guard in case of distress. Part of the alert is a nine-digit Maritime Mobile Service Identity (MMSI) number that identifies the boat. I had never heard of a MMSI number before, but I’m so glad now that we have it. MMSI is pronounced “mimsy”, as in, “All mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe.”

Joker Valves – When Phil said he was replacing the joker valves in the head, I told him it made me feel like I was being laughed at every time I went in there. He assured me they were there to make the laughing gulls laugh. Another UGH picture, and then I’m done:

Before-and-after joker valves

Dinghy – Every once in a while when we are underway, Phil looks astern at the dinghy and says, “Try to keep up, Catnip!” Once, Catnip decided to let go in the middle of the Chesapeake. Impulsively, the captain jumped overboard to recover the wayward dink, forcing the first mate to slow the boat (ship?) and circle back to pick them up. Catnip has been firmly attached ever since. The backup oars and the thwart have a new coat of varnish, and the little outboard motor purrs.

Route from Back Creek to Camp Letts

Catmandu is equipped and ready to go next week. Friday morning, Phil will weigh anchor and sail solo, eleven miles south to Edgewater, Maryland. I will fly from New Hampshire to BWI, catch the GO Shuttle at the airport and try to catch up with Phil and Catmandu at the Seven Seas Cruising Association Cruisers’ Gam. It’s the beginning of an adventure with an uncertain destination, unknown duration and a fluid timetable that is dependent on weather, water depth, tides and wind. But we know Catmandu is ready to sail.

Okay, Catnip, you can come, too. Hold on tight.

It must have been Winter when he first started talking about moving south. He was a sailor who lived on his 27-foot sailboat in Annapolis, Maryland. I could understand wanting warmth, year-round sailing, sunshine and palm trees. But I had to overcome feelings of sorrow and loss. He had already moved 500 miles away and now it would be 1200 more.

I promise that’s the last sad thing you’ll read here.

Maybe it was my enthusiasm for sailing or the dreamy-eyed look I got at the boat shows, but he decided I was sailor material and asked if I’d like to come along.

“I won’t be much help,” I said.

“Yes you will. You can cook, do dishes, do the laundry and clean the head.”

(No, he didn’t say that! He doesn’t see boat chores in blue and pink.) He wanted me to take a safe boating course, learn to tie basic knots, and be able to plot a course on a paper chart if all electronics failed.

It didn’t seem much like sailing weather when I started my once a week course in boater safety. It was March in New Hampshire. Luckily, this was all classroom work and I loved it. I learned about PFDs and fire extinguishers, what to do if your boat is burning (call for help, don your pfd, then jump!), what to do if a humungous barge is bearing down on you and you are the stand-on vessel (get out of the way – it takes him a mile just to slow down and two miles to stop).

The geek in me couldn’t get enough of charts and straight edges and angles. I got a small length of rope and practiced knots. Even now, there’s a perfect bowline around my bedpost (stop thinking about that) and a clove hitch securing the salt shaker. I got a 98 on the final exam, and it would have been 100 except for my laziness in reading all the answers:

Q:  When is the appropriate time to wash all vegetation off of your powerboat?

a. As soon as you get home
b. Right before you enter another body of water
c. It depends on the type of boat you have
d. As soon as you pull away from the boat ramp.

Okay, I thought (a) was right and I didn’t even read (d). But 98 is very respectable and a few weeks later I got a shiny plastic card saying I’m certified. It doesn’t mean I’m a sailor. It just means I know the rules and the markers,  and I won’t embarrass my captain on the radio. (I will probably embarrass him in so many other ways!)

Being a marketeer by profession, I’ve had a fair amount of sales training. In every sale, a good salesman anticipates the objections and has an answer for each of them. In order to sell myself on a five-week journey on a sailboat, I had to overcome a few objections: what about my job, who will feed my cats, and the big one: will I be able to afford it?

My son and I were talking about this as we wandered along Hampton Beach, weaving in and out of beach shops with t-shirts and towels. It was a hot summer day and we had gone to see the sand sculptures. As we made our way back to the car, we saw a bright yellow t-shirt in the window of one crowded little shop. It said simply, YOLO. I looked at Anthony. He gave me the “what cave have you been living in” look, and said, “You Only Live Once.”

I asked for a leave of absence from my job at a small manufacturing company. It seems no one had ever asked before. I said, think of it as maternity leave, and I got it. My other son Donald will drive for an hour two or three times a week to feed the cats. “You have to do this trip, Mom,” he said. And out of the blue, I got a check from my 85 year old mother who didn’t yet know I was thinking of sailing south. “My tax adviser tells me I should start giving some away,” she said. Objections? Gone.

And so, in a few short weeks, we will sail Catmandu under the bright yellow banner of YOLO and out into the Chesapeake, heading south.