the best laid plans

It really doesn't get cuter than ducklings. Well, unless it's baby bunnies. I never see bunnies here... I think all the foxes get them. Growing up, I had pet ducks and a rabbit. Plus mice, a rat, a chameleon, and many fish. I think I've always preferred non-human animals to people. I suspect I'll be better suited to an anchorage full of wildlife than a marina full of people, noise, rickita-rackita, gossip, and uninvited advice. Four months into an annual contract at this marina and I regret it. If only I had followed my own advice to never, ever sign an annual slip lease again.

The plan was to fix the engine controls last weekend but things didn't fall in place. I crawled down into the engine room a few weeks ago to water the batteries and luckily the stamp on the transmission cable was somewhere I could get to to read it. I ordered new control cables, 9 and 12 feet, and upgraded from "red jacket" to Teleflex "extreme." The big difference: the extreme can tolerate a 4 inch bend radius rather than 8 inches for the red jacket. I don't want to put any tight turns in the cables but knowing they can handle a little tighter curves is nice. Yesterday the diesel mechanic I've befriended came by to help me install the cables.

The thing that is both incredibly frustrating and interesting is that these sort of projects are puzzles about how to put all the pieces back together. I had a cup full of screws that had come out of the binnacle and steering mechanism, but couldn't tell you which one went where. I was trying various screws on the housing that holds the cables tight inside the binnacle, and we discussed why each one would or would not make sense. Then I was digging around inside the cup and "eureka!" a big, short screw and washer with remnants of white paint. Clearly, this was the one that had been on the binnacle when it was painted. One section of the puzzle solved. Off to a good start! The mechanic was not expecting me to be much help so I think he was surprised when I had grease up to my elbows and shoved my (conveniently smaller) hands down the binnacle to wiggle pieces in place while he pushed the steering column back in.

It became even more of a two-person job when my greasy, slippery little hands managed to lose ahold of the string tied to one of the chains that runs to the steering cable. It was one of those slow-motion moments when all you can do is stutter... no... no... no... and down, down, down it went into the dark recess of the binnacle. We spent what seemed like an eternity trying to hook the chain with a wire but ultimately had to disconnect the steering cable and use the slack to push the chain far enough up the binnacle that I could see it to catch. I held onto it with both hands and didn't want to let go! We had to call it a day, but next Saturday we should be able to get it finished up and get this poor boat out of her slip! And whereas I learned nothing about the steering system and engine controls when they were disassembled, now I know exactly what is going on inside the binnacle and will be better prepared when I need to troubleshoot or repair these parts down the line.

A friend of mine dropped by for a couple beers and made the mistake of getting drawn into conversation with an overly loquacious kid from a boat passing through. The kid never stops talking and takes your presence in the cockpit as an open invitation to chat. He also likes to keep one foot on the dock and put the other on the boat. I realize he's just a kid, but one would think a liveaboard kid would have decent boat etiquette not to touch others' boats without permission. The dad doesn't do anything, but gratefully the floppy-haired guy who appears to be crew rescued me and cut the kid off this morning and took him to their boat. But this evening, no rescue in sight and the kid just kept yammering. I guess it's hard being a liveaboard kid without regular school friends and such. As he kept chattering on I was saddened to see how early the stereotypes develop. He asked where my friend was. I said he's back at his house where he and his girlfriend live. He asked where the guy who owns the boat is. I looked at him quizzically. "What boat?" I asked. "This boat," he said, "where's the guy who owns this boat?" Sigh. "This is my boat. I own the boat. It's me, the dog, and the cats." He looked sort of confused. We mermaids sure are a rare breed; and dumb guys all too common.

I was planning on working right up to my departure. The project I'm working on might last this next week, but fingers crossed it will continue as close to my departure date as possible. I've got to cover bills while gone and would like to be able to enjoy myself a little. If I can scrape enough together I may get the GoPro I've been wanting so I can get some action shots and video to keep you all posted on my journey. I'll be out of contact during passages but should have access to Internet here and there to upload posts.

A friend is going to boat and cat-sit while I'm gone and I think pup dog will go to another friend's house for "sleep away camp." I know they aren't human, but they are still my "kids" and they are closer to me than any people in my life. I just hope the "sitters" can show them compassion and attention, because they hate being separated from me and from each other. Look at how adorable they are holding paws while napping. I think my friends are worried I won't come back, but even if I were in paradise I couldn't leave my loyal pack behind. But to give everyone a little peace of mind that I'll return, at least for a bit, I've got my return ticket in hand. So, two weeks from now I'll be on a plane heading for sailing, snorkeling, fishing, and most importantly, adventure. 

on the move

With no particular reason to head south or budget to do so, I needed to find new digs in the area. Since I learned too late that my last marina was too shallow and too boisterous for me, I have repeatedly sworn not to sign another annual contract. I figured I would find transient slips, move every few months, and just see where things go. As usual, my life is in flux, and I’m just fine with that. What I have never been good at is being trapped, tied down, locked into anything.

My understanding was that my slip had been leased out as of March 1, so I was feeling under the gun to find a new slip and get moved. One key problem I faced was most of Back Creek was frozen. Every sunny or warmish day I would stand on the bow staring at the ice and praying for enough of it to melt to let me out.

I spoke with the dock manager at a sought-after marina on the Spa Creek side of Eastport hoping to find a slip for March and perhaps April. I dropped by a couple of days later to check things out… which slips might be available, the laundry and bathhouse facilities, and find out details about what would be included in the rate. To my surprise, I was offered an annual liveaboard slip, for which there is often a lengthy waiting list. I was caught off-guard by that choice, and had to give it some thought. I crunched the numbers, mulled it over a bit, and knew it was the right thing to do. The problem: the entire annual payment is due up front and I live hand-to-mouth even in the best of times. I managed to rustle up a loan for the slip, and then anxiously awaited the arrival of the lease in the mail. Once everything was signed and official, I celebrated (duh!) and then I studied the upcoming weather to find the likeliest date the creeks would be thawed so that I could move.

Four or five relatively warm days were coming, culminating this past Sunday. Friday I filled the water tank. The ice was looking softer and receding, but still impassable. I also urgently needed the pump out boat to be able to get to me because the tank was completely full. Thankfully they were able to make it around the remaining ice so I had the boat pumped out and flirted with the hottie pump out guy I’m still crushing on. (Saw him briefly at the pub on Friday night, but he otherwise remains elusive despite regular texting for several weeks. Sigh. What's a mermaid gotta do to catch this one?!) Saturday I also had a second ammeter installed (love it!), finally got the propane line routed off the aft rail (yay!), and got a lesson on changing the oil and filters on my Perkins 4-108 diesel engine (double yay!). So, after a highly productive Saturday, Sunday was moving day.

A liveaboard friend offered to help me move the boat over to the new marina. I know I could handle her by myself, but it never hurts to have another sets of hands to assist when coming into a new marina, where I don’t know the quirks as to wind, current, and depth. The ice had floated further out into the cove and we dragged some alongside as we slowly crept along. Once I was past the ice I tried to throttle up, but the shifter didn’t want to move up any further. The engine was only hitting 700 rpm. We kept puttering along slowly, but I was surprised and concerned about the throttle not working since I hadn’t had any problems with the engine the day prior as we changed the oil, oil filter, and Racor fuel filter.

My friend and I were brainstorming what the problem might be and I was studying the instrument panel, when I took a green day mark a couple feet to the wrong side. I promptly went from 8 feet of water to 4 and ran aground for my first time. I could have easily backed right off of the shoal… if I had any throttle. I hit the BoatUS app on my phone and it automatically sent my GPS coordinates to the tow service. A boat went by and my friend kept signaling to them that it wasn’t his fault, it was all me. Ha! Yep, it was my bad. It was a beautiful sunny day, I wasn’t in any particular rush, and we were just nudged into mud, so I didn’t see any reason to worry. Everyone runs aground; that’s just part of boating. The wind started kicking up and blew the bow off 90 degrees. At the same time a gentle wake came and lifted us just enough. I saw the depth sounder go from 3 feet to 5 to 7 and quickly put her in reverse. Even if I couldn’t throttle up, I wanted to at least try to back into the channel. And just like that I backed her up, did a 360, and headed out. I let the tow captain know I was no longer aground but opted to go ahead with a tow due to my lack of maneuverability from the impaired throttle. The wind on the Severn and on Spa Creek was much friskier than on Back Creek. There were also gobs of little sailboats out for the Sunday afternoon frostbite races. Because I’d be motoring, they would have right-of-way and would be zig-zagging all over right where I needed to go. But if I was under tow… well, they would all have to give way to me. Knowing your COLREGS comes in handy! Naturally, it was the same tow captain who towed me last September and then towed a friend’s boat when I was aboard helping him move it for a haul out. I’ll admit it’s a little embarrassing to be on a first-name basis with the local tow captain. C’est la vie.

I got tucked into the new slip. I had planned to dock stern-to but the neighboring liveaboard warned that the slip would get shallow at the far end and that gawkers in the spring and summer would be able to look right down into my boat if I didn’t come bow in. I hadn’t considered the latter issue, but the new marina can definitely have a fishbowl feel, so I’m glad I took his advice. Pup dog is having to adjust to jumping from the deck to the dock at the boarding gate amidships, rather than using her ramp, but she’s been a trooper and adapting with less fuss than I expected. The cats are peeved that I haven’t let them outside yet, but I’m scared they will get lost or hurt in this much more commercial marina with a large parking garage. (It doesn’t help that this morning my neighbor said there has been a dead cat floating around the marina since January and to let him know if I see it so he can fish it out. He said it’s black; I would’ve thought it was Max and freaked out. The whole thing makes me sad.)

So, how are the new digs? Well, let me just say I love bottomless hot water even more than bottomless mimosas! At the old spot there was 15 minutes of hot water, then it went completely cold. I have long hair and long legs, so I could never both shampoo my hair and shave my legs in the same shower at the old marina. And after a run in the frigid cold I would need 15 minutes of hot water just to be able to feel my fingers and toes again. So, I am loving having all the hot water I want, with great water pressure, and facilities that are cleaned daily—by someone other than me! There are two shower stalls, which are separate from the two bathroom stalls, as well as two sinks with shelves, electric outlets, and a courtesy hair dryer. So, yes, I’m feeling I made a serious upgrade.

I also have laundry at the new marina so now I can toss in a load whenever rather than having to drive to a laundromat and pay a lot more than the marina charges. I also have covered, card-key-access parking and generally get a spot right next to my slip. The dock management team are very nice and gave me a welcome bag with a t-shirt, floating key chains, wine key, baseball hat, bathhouse key, and my parking card. Another, and likely the biggest, benefit of the new marina: water under my keel so I can go sailing! I’m even closer to my local haunts, so that’s nice, too.

Oh, and did I mention that ELECTRICITY IS INCLUDED?! So, although I’m paying a mere $17 more a month at the new marina than I was before, I’m actually saving at least $100 a month because I don’t have to stress about whatever mysterious astronomical electrical bill will arrive every quarter, or randomly a month later. My electric had averaged about $85 per month all year until this winter. The bill for the last four months: $615! Since I was freezing my ass off on the boat and trying to run the heat as little as possible, I can only assume I am being charged for the ice eaters that benefited all the boats and the docks. Very, very glad I won’t have to worry about that anymore.

More later about the engine and such, since the mechanical matters deserve their own post. But really pleased to be moved to my new spot. Many thanks to everyone who helped me get her ready and be able to move into our new slip. I'm very hopeful we'll be happy there and that we have fair winds ahead.

bienvenidos a miami

It's been a hectic couple of weeks since my last post. A project took me on short notice back to my old home: Miami. I had to get packed and make arrangements for the pets on the fly. I quickly called my local vet to see about boarding the cats since I wouldn't be able to leave a heater running to keep them warm while gone for several days. I'd be departing the next day, and the vet's office said they'd be open until 7PM, so I'd drop them on my way to the airport. Pup dog would stay with a friend. I didn't want to leave so much stuff visible in the car while it was parked at the airport, so I brought several items aboard, including a black ballistic duffel I planned to use on another upcoming trip.

I packed frantically, somehow fitting everything for five days in a little roll-aboard and satchel, with room to spare. I was running late, of course. As anyone with cats knows, catching them and putting them in carriers is an art. I managed to get them in their little black carriers, loaded my suitcases in the car first, and then went back to collect the cats. I set the carriers on the deck and locked up the boat. When I picked up one carrier I said to myself, "Gee, this is really big; how is the cat filling up this entire thing?" Then, "$hit, f*ck, f*uck, f*ck! It's a suitcase!" Yep, I left one cat carrier below and was about to drop off a black duffel bag at the vet. Of course the lock was a hassle to get back open and when you're in a hurry everything takes ten times longer or at least feels that way.

OK, cats in the car, on the way to the vet. Breathe. I'm running late but it'll be OK. Breathe. I race to the vet and pull up in front. I scramble out of the car and set the carriers down on the sidewalk. I look at the door and my heart sinks: Closed. Hours, Saturday 8AM to 1PM. It's 3:40PM. I have a 5PM flight. I now need to be at the airport in 20 minutes, but am a 30 minute drive away, have to then get from the parking to the terminal, and... I still have CATS!!! I started hyperventilating. The cats will freeze to death. I will miss my flight. Arrggghhhh! I call the friend who will be watching the dog. He agrees to feed the cats daily. I drop them back on the cold, unheated boat. I had a light bulb on top of of the engine block but plugged in some other lights for the cats to maybe let off a bit of warmth. I tell them I am so, so sorry.

I raced to the airport. My flight was departing at 5PM. I arrived at the parking lot at 4:22PM. I told the shuttle driver that I was having a panic attack, that my flight leaves at 5PM and I don't know what to do. He tried to keep me calm and rushed us to the terminal. I ran in frantically yelling to the gate agents to just tell me what gate I need. I run to the security line. Of course I forgot that this is BWI, not MIA. There are only about 3 people in line instead of 100. I get through security and run to my gate. I look at my watch: 4:30PM. Miraculous. People were just coming off the plane, so it'd still be 15 minutes before they even board. After an hour of heart palpitations I ended up being the first person on the plane; I relaxed in primera clase and enjoyed a couple glasses of wine.

On less than 24 hours notice my awesome friend Heather (pictured below) fetched me at the airport. We went to Catch of the Day for dinner and drinks. It's a great super-Latin spot with cheesey singers and people dancing on the outside deck. I had baby churrasco with chimichurri, black beans and rice, fried yuca, and some delicious tostones. I do miss Miami food.

I was back in my old stomping grounds in Coconut Grove, where I lived much of my many years in Miami. Breakfast on Sunday morning was right by my hotel at Berries in the Grove; I love the wraps there but somehow didn't end up having a wrap either time I went on this trip. Well, change is good; right? The Sunday afternoon crowded craziness in the Center Grove hadn't changed a bit since I left. Heather met me at Scotty's Landing, where I had a nice big Rum Runner, we watched the boats, and enjoyed the breeze. Scotty's is a nice locals spot right on the water. My one complaint is that they actually say on the menu that they aren't responsible for well done orders; so, I avoid the burgers there and stick with mozzarella sticks, chicken fingers, and the like. (I refer to this style of food as "deep fried crap in a basket," but that's not to say it isn't good.) OK, my other complaint is that the live music was often Jimmy Buffet cover band stuff. I may be a boater, but I'd rather chew glass than listen to Jimmy Buffet. We saw a bunch of jellyfish at the adjacent fuel dock; I rarely saw jellyfish when I lived there, though they are abundant in Annapolis.  Scotty's is also next to City Hall, where I spent so much time my last several years in Miami. So, some interesting walks down memory lane.

I took a 4 mile run that felt like 6 because of the heat and humidity. But it was so beautiful running through the Grove and right by the water. A route I have run countless times before. Passing over a wooden foot bridge I looked down and saw lots of needlefish; they seem to be everywhere there. On my run I passed a cute floppy-haired guy walking his dog; maybe there's potential in Miami to find a floppy-haired sailor who wants to go adventure on the seas with me. We'll see.

One night I spoiled myself with dinner at Le Bouchon du Grove. I stuffed myself on a basket of amazing bread and drank half a bottle of rosé from Provence. When I asked the waiter to tell me about the Chicken Fricaseé he was clearly enthusiastic about it, saying it was the best item on the menu. But it has bones. I don't like to deal with bones. I asked about the filet mignon in a green peppercorn sauce. His reaction was lackluster. I know from personal experience if your server tells you to order something, trust them. They see what gets devoured and what gets left behind. So I "lived on the edge" and got the chicken. It was delicious, served with a creamy cheesy risotto. Easily enough for two to share. I tried my best to finish it but just couldn't. The waiter offered to wrap the rest to go. A while later he returned to my table and looked at me quizzically; where was my chicken? I said it never came back. He looked for it but it had disappeared. It really wasn't a big deal, (and turns out I did not have a mini fridge in my hotel room as I had convinced myself), but he gave me a complimentary glass of lovely dessert wine nonetheless.

Despite this post being filled with my gustatory conquests in Miami, I was there to work on a project and work I did. People have this image of Miami as a vacation hotspot where everyone is on island time and lazing by the pool. The reality is that people who would be "rich" in many American cities, the doctors, lawyers, and accountants, are the Miami middle class. And the hours they work are New York hours. Intense, fast-paced, long hours. Locals don't have tans because they spend their time running from air conditioned house to air conditioned car to air conditioned glass office building, day in, day out. That Monday I worked from noon until 4:15AM. Got to sleep at 5AM. Back up at 8AM. Out the door to catch a train downtown at 9AM. When our meeting wrapped at 6:30PM it would have been nice to call one of my friends working on Brickell to grab drinks. But no chance any of them could slink out of the office before 8:30PM, so I didn't even try.

When I was walking from the Metrorail to the meeting that morning some guys were walking just behind me and I hear "Hey, fancy-dress lady, you erasing that tattoo?" "Yeah," I explained, "but it won't all come out." His friend says "Yeah, you can't have that now you're in the Brickell life." I looked at them and laughed, "Oh, no, I left all this bullshit behind," I said, waving at the skyline of awful glass towers. "All these people," I told them "they work too hard to buy shit they don't need." The friend says "Oh, you live off a lot of savings now." "No, no; I'm just poor." He seemed to think that's bad. "Being poor is good," I explained, "it keeps life simple."

Miami is so many things, so many contradictions. So fake. So focused on money. Everything is about shopping and conspicuous consumption. No one can ever have enough. But then there is all the natural beauty. The tree canopy. The water. The needle fish and wild peacocks and iguanas. When I lived there balance was impossible to find. Values become warped. I love Miami. Its beauty, its vibrancy, even its seamy underbelly. But it is a place one has to fight every minute to maintain balance, a grip on what is real and important.

These little Cars2Go are all over Coconut Grove

Tropichop and fried yuca from Pollo Tropical... yum!

I had been planning to crew on a major Pacific passage and had the opportunity while in Miami to catch All is Lost, about a singlehander lost at sea in the Indian Ocean. When the movie ended Heather grabbed my arm and said "Don't go!" The couple sitting next to us said, "We're not going sailing tomorrow." I enjoyed the movie and Redford, but there are 100 or more things any serious sailor would've done differently. We debriefed about the movie over eats and drinks at a new-to-me spot in the Grove that Heather recommended: Lokal. Definitely worth the trip. Burgers are their specialty, but the blue cheese wedge salad was amazing.

Sailboat Bay view from Coconut Grove Sailing Club

Sunset on Spa Creek

Totally unrelated to seeing the movie, I did pass on the Pacific trip. It's not the right trip right now. Other opportunities will arise. Nonetheless, I am likely casting off shortly. Despite the cold and blustery weather, I am trying to mentally, physically, and financially prepare myself to head south for a while. Trying to rustle up some crew to help me make the trip. Trying to get various equipment installed and little fixes taken care of. So now I am consumed with trying to figure out marinas, mooring, a reliable dinghy, moving, and boat insurance that will triple if I stay south of latitude 36 come June 1.

It doesn't have to be forever. I won't ever let myself be tied down, it defeats the purpose of living on a boat. And I can't go back to the Miami grind. But it's time for some adventures, a change of scenery. I feel ready to move on from Annapolis for a while. It was a necessary stop, a respite where I could heal and center myself. And there are so many things I love about Annapolis. But "home" will never be a metropolis or a village for me; home just means something very different to me now that I'm aboard; my boat is home, and so home is anywhere, and everywhere. My boat is this vast potential to call "home" wherever the wind and sea allow.

Annapolis sunset on Spa Creek

A chilly 22 degrees in Naptown

Hard aground

It was 45 degrees on the boat when I got home. Chilly, to be sure, but certainly survivable, particularly with cuddle cups to curl up in. But the cats wouldn't even look at me the first few hours I was back. Nonetheless, it wasn't long before they both crawled on my lap for a snuggle and all was forgiven. At least now I know I have someone who would stay aboard with them so I wouldn't have a repeat of the stress about whether they were OK.

Following up on my last post, kudos to my local True Value, which readily swapped the oil-filled radiator for a new one, despite my not having a receipt, box, et cetera. Unfortunately, the replacement heater died within 30 minutes. Rather than try for a third, I returned the replacement and used the credit toward a DeLonghi oil-filled radiator, which is keeping the boat toasty warm. (It actually got up to 75 last night and I had to turn it down because that is too warm for me!) The heated mattress pad continues to be fantastic; highly recommended for anyone wintering aboard. I have also been gifted a heated blanket, but haven't broken it out yet.

This past Saturday a fellow liveaboard on the other side of Eastport called me: "The pump out boat is running. It's heading under the Spa Creek bridge right now." I quickly got on the radio to hail them. The buildings between us made the connection spotty and they asked me to call on their cell. They put me on the list to visit as soon as they came to Back Creek. Yes, I clapped and jumped for joy because the pump out boat is running in winter! It's a liveaboard thing.

When I'm very stressed I tend to have these recurring nightmares that I'm surrounded by sharks. I've never actually seen one in the wild, but I have a paralyzing fear of them. I can't even swim in a swimming pool without looking behind me to make sure there aren't any. Seriously. Sometimes the sharks are circling and I have to get the cats, dog, and myself to shore from a sinking dinghy. Gratefully, I haven't had the shark nightmares in a while. But lately I'm having a new set of recurring nightmares. We're on the boat and awaken to find that someone has untied all our lines and set us adrift. It's too cold out to get the diesel engine started. I'm trying to navigate the boat adrift in a maze of a marina without colliding with anything. Who would be so cruel to us to set us adrift this way?

one year

One year aboard. Happy liveaboardaversary to me. I only wish I had moved aboard twenty years ago and taken off around the world. But at least I got off the wrong path; better late than never. Living aboard is definitely not for everyone. It presents its own set of challenges and compromises that many would consider far too inconvenient or burdensome. One is either called to it or not. I do it for the love of boating and being on the water. For the love of being rocked to sleep by the sea. For freedom.

Despite my stubborn ability to do whatever I set my sights on (other than financial success), despite jumping into life aboard and making it through the challenges of winter aboard and pets aboard and all the quirks of this lifestyle I have embraced, I am still plagued by guys a fraction of my age acting like I don't know anything about boats and talking down to me. Sigh. I was already a back-up depth sounder hanging over the deck of a 54-footer in the Keys when those boys were in middle school. Every boater, power and sail, still has something to learn to the day they die. I guess I have to stop being so polite and just tell guys who think they are old salts to STFU.

I think the frequency of snobbery and know-it-all attitudes is the biggest drawback to being a liveaboard. Those who take their boats out often look down on the "dock queens." The cruisers think they are better than the liveaboards who either choose to (or have to) live and work in one place. There is so much sizing-up over length, gadgets, miles under keel, et cetera it can be nauseating. It's bad enough in the forums, but I can easily avoid them. It's much harder to avoid the folks who come and go at my marina every day. I definitely won't ever enter another slip lease that ties me down on more than a monthly basis. There's no point to being aboard if I can't change my view and my neighbors quickly and easily.

The process of divesting myself of furniture and other "stuff" ashore continues. I am eager for the stress and expense of it to be over. Adding to the strain, my sister launched some mission to find a place to store my hope chest that I had told her would either be sold, tucked away at a friend's, or chopped up into a boat project of some kind. So I had to respond to unsolicited emails about storage to tell them I hadn't asked for any storage and didn't need any. I figure everyone has enough of their own problems that they don't need to butt into mine or create new ones for me, but I guess not.

But yesterday I made progress, selling the beautiful huge dining table, a credenza, and... the hope chest. They are going to a local artist. I know they will be going to a good home, will be enjoyed and cared for. My grandfather built the chest for my grandmother for her 24th birthday, and she gave it to me for Christmas when I was four years old. I have loved it and lugged it all over the country for decades now. My grandparents wouldn't want me to be held back, anchored down by a piece of furniture. I have the memories of them. I value what the hope chest was and stood for. It has gone on to a new home, where it will be an interesting conversation piece, where it will be cared for and used. Sentimental things are in your heart and your mind, they don't need to be in your house or a storage locker. Letting go of all those "things" is hard, but that is the cost of freedom. A small price to pay.

So, what unsolicited advice would I give new or prospective liveaboards now that I'm a year in? First, never, ever, ever sign an annual slip contract. Yes, you save money doing so. But you lose the freedom the boat is all about. And if you look around and see any empty slips at the marina, you can likely negotiate to get the annual rate even if you are just a monthly transient. Second, just get rid of all the furniture and other trappings of life ashore. All that money spent storing "stuff" is far better spent on equipment for your boat or a great boatwarming party. Yes, it is hard to let go of all those things that once meant and cost so much. But that painful purging is part of the experience of moving aboard and it is better to just rip the band-aid off and be done with it. Finally, trust your gut, your instincts, and bring all your other life experience to bear when tackling challenges. About half the advice others give you will be useful and valuable, and about half will be incredibly stupid, perhaps even dangerous advice. Just because someone has been doing something for half a century doesn't mean they've been doing it right. Trust and believe in yourself and your boat; if you love her, she will love you back.

don't drink and dink

Be forewarned, this is a serious post. "Don't drink and dink" sounds cute and tongue-in-cheek, I know, but drinking and boating is something people just don't take seriously enough. Please read on. I'm not going to judge you for drinking ten Painkillers and being ridiculous or silly, I promise. I just want us all to get home safely and be able to enjoy the water (and roads) without getting hurt.

When I discuss potential marinas in Annapolis folks always suggest a couple that are lovely, but a drive away from everywhere I want to go out. I explain I don't want to drink and drive, and I also don't want to cab it. I would rather just live in walking distance of my watering holes. The standard response is that I can just dinghy back across the creek so I won't have to drive. Really? Somehow I think that driving a dinghy home drunk at 2AM involves as many if not more perils as driving a car home drunk. Yes, one is less likely to get caught... but my concern is not just that spending a night in jail rather sucks, but I also want to arrive home safely, without hurting myself or anyone else.

So, what inspired this post? Maryland legislator Don Dwyer can't learn the simple lesson not to operate motorized vehicles when inebriated. After a drunken boating collision a year ago on the Magothy River, he just got arrested for DUI and over a dozen other charges after driving home drunk from Baltimore. Read the Capital Gazette article here and Washington Post article here. Naturally, Dwyer blames his drinking on marital problems (hey, idiot--it's the other way around, I promise you).

Apparently--and this actually turns my stomach--prosecutors in the drunken boating case have reached a plea deal that involves no further jail time. Seriously? Seven people were injured in that boating accident. Dwyer himself had to be hospitalized. This is NOT a situation where he had a couple hefty glasses of wine with dinner and then blew .08. His BAC was three times the legal limit. Read the Washington Post article on that incident here. Both boat operators were charged in that collision and apparently both failed to follow rules-of-the-road, but only Dwyer was charged with alcohol-related offenses as well. This guy shouldn't be operating motor vehicles on or off the water, period. When prosecutors just give a slap on the wrist they are endangering my life. It terrifies me that I am sharing the Bay with an idiot like this, not to mention the countless others who are only emboldened by the laughable "punishment" being doled out.

At my marina, at least two, (probably more), boats come back to their slips with virtually every person aboard trashed. Always loud and obnoxious, with volumes of beer cans in the recycling that actually shock me (and, trust me, that takes a lot). But sometimes staggering and slurring right when they step ashore. Who exactly was at the helm? And, no, these are not just power boaters. It scares me that I'm out on the water with these people.

I admit I have come back to the boat, both on foot and on another's dink, with little recollection of getting back aboard. I'm not proud of it, but it does happen to most of us now and again. And I am not judging folks who party to the maximum, and I'll just brush it off if others want to judge me. But we can and should judge behavior that objectively puts others' lives at risk.

Unfortunately, there is such a taboo around DUIs that virtually everyone denies that they ever drive when they shouldn't. I think that is usually just lying to ourselves, but it is also partly that people simply do not understand BAC (blood alcohol concentration) or how many "drinks" for BAC purposes are really in every "drink" you have. It isn't the most beautiful or easy-to-read BAC chart, and uses too many European measurements, but the one from Wikipedia doesn't have any axe to grind, as do most sites posting BAC information. (I am absolutely not a fan of MADD or other temperance movements.) This chart is much easier to work with, but comes with the message that any alcohol in your system makes you unsafe to drive.

For their own safety, everyone should know their BAC table. As a woman, I can have two drinks the first hour and one drink an hour thereafter and (theoretically) be just under .08. (And I really don't think you want to be anywhere near .08 and get pulled over lest you plan to spend the night in jail.) If I'm flabby, my BAC will be higher; if I'm muscular, it will be lower. Yes, the fat guys we would think could handle their liquor actually get drunk faster than the lean, muscular, fit guys. I rarely drink liquor when out if I'm going to be driving because no bar in Annapolis pours a drink with 1.25 ounces of liquor. Think two or three times that. Not many wine pours are only 5 ounces, and the volume is very difficult to judge because of the diverse wine glasses used in different restaurants. And a pint of beer is not one drink. A 12 ounce beer is one drink, so a pint is 1.33 drinks. I actually count my drinks very, very carefully if I am in a position where I will be driving.

When I took friends out for a cruise Saturday before last I did drink. It isn't illegal to drink while underway and I don't think it's irresponsible per se. But how much did I drink? Six drinks spread out over eight + hours, and with plenty to eat. Food does not prevent alcohol from reaching the bloodstream, but the right food (fat and protein) does slow it down. My BAC was probably about .04. Some people will take the view that anything over 0 is too much. I understand their reasoning, but I think that is extreme. But I do take my responsibility at the helm seriously. The safety of my friends and crew (including my pets) depends on it. It's good seamanship. I want to have fun on the water and hope everyone can, but, yeah, it's better not to drink and dink.

taking it day by day

I love this quiet, serene view at my marina.

Unfortunately, it can sometimes be a loud, boisterous place strewn with empty beer cans and trash now that the boating season has arrived. If dinking around with the dog weren't such a hassle and I could live off solar power, I think I'd rather live on the hook than in a marina. Well, if I didn't need to leave the boat often and had a very squishy schedule. Having tight schedules and living on the hook might get to be rather frustrating.

I think my priorities for my next marina will be (1) a deep enough slip that I'm never aground, (2) privacy / quieter dockmates, and (3) laundry on site. Lacking those things right now is a real drag. Note the low tides that continue although it's spring.

At the bottom left of the photograph is the toe rail around my deck. Although the top of the toe rail gives me a few more inches, it can be very slippery to step there rather than the deck. I share the narrow finger pier with the boat you see in the background. When the tide is low like this I have to climb onto the finger pier on my hands and knees, basically hugging the pier to pull myself up. Then I steady myself on the white pedestal, (the shore power and cable connection), to stand up, turn around, and walk down the pier to shore.

But the current spot does provide a somewhat safe environment for the pets to wander off the boat under supervision; I know they will all miss that in a more commercial location. Max enjoys rolling around in the sun on the warm shuffle board court. Nonetheless, I would definitely move if I weren't in an annual contract right now.

Buttercup loves to swim and fetch large pieces of driftwood at the pocket park beach at the tip of Horn Point.

managing expectations

The past ten days since my last post have been rather a flurry of activity, though without some of the activity I most hoped to get to. With most things it seems, relying on others is a recipe for disappointment. I guess I need to manage my expectations more conservatively and then find myself happily surprised when something gets done. And just do as much as I possibly can myself, which is always my preference anyway.

Lining up boat labor is a challenge between schedules, weather, finances, and the propensity in Annapolis for many folks to begin drinking early in the day. Scheduling a haul-out to get work done appears to be a pipe-dream until Spring. The yard I thought would be pricier, but more professional, reliable, and accommodating was anything but. I was told that they were too busy hauling boats for the winter and my boat would be "in the way." The girl said she would check about scheduling and call back; naturally that call-back never came. Annapolis is a small town and as soon as I began to share my story of how difficult it is to get scheduled for a haul, (frustrating when I'm trying to spend some money in our local economy, here), several folks immediately knew which girl was a problem and apparently loses a lot of business for that yard (presumably unbeknownst to yard management/ownership). So, on both sides of Back Creek the customer service was sorely lacking and I'll likely take my boat south of Annapolis to get the work done. Although this was very important work I wanted to get done forthwith, a haul is now unlikely to happen until Spring because the temperatures are coming too close to freezing at night and I'm not winterizing systems on the boat--thus, I need the insulation of the warmer water to keep engine, water tank, and holding tank from freezing.

On the upside, I am now docked in my new marina! Happy to have a beautiful view, a bathhouse virtually to myself, and a large grassy yard for pup dog to play ball. The first night was a drama as I elected to dock bow in and that necessitated removal of lifelines so that pup dog could board. The couplers on the lifelines did not want to unscrew and I had to elicit late-night assistance. (Many thanks for always coming through!) It was also the frostiest the decks had gotten, and both pup dog and I had close calls coming down the side deck--not sure if the lifelines would keep us from falling overboard, but they do give me something to steady myself. Here is the frost aboard on our first morning waking in the new marina.

The view at the new marina is so serene...

Before I could even get settled into my new slip I had to hop in the car for a road trip to Virginia Beach and Norfolk. Woefully undertrained, I decided to go ahead and take a stab at my 50K trail race, the Seashore Nature Trail 50K put on by the Tidewater Striders. (For those not obsessed with these things, a 50K is 31.07 miles, about 5 miles more than a marathon, though in many trail races the mileage may be more like 34 to 38). Every race is an exercise in managing expectations, but particularly when one is feeling unprepared. Real training was to be four-and-a-half months of intense training, often running a painful 10-miler the day after a 16, 18, or 20 mile run, with a marathon three weeks before the 50K. Training pretty much fell apart as my days were filled with boat shopping and then moving aboard. I think I managed a few 14-milers (sometimes with a 10-miler the next day), a couple of 16s, an 18, and a 20. I was very sick leading up to the NCR Trail Marathon I had hoped to run, and had to pass on it. But in recent weeks I had had some very good runs, having re-found what I love and need from running: my alone time, my meditative time, a space to let my mind wander, work through problems, and try to let go my troubles. With a cut-off time of 8.5 hours, I mostly set my goal as coming in under the deadline, but my primary goal was to finish in around 6.5 hours. The race was well-organized, volunteers were very friendly and encouraging, and the course was quite beautiful. The course wound through woods, bogs, and wetlands, and had us running on packed dirt, leaves, pine needles, wooden footbridges, and sand. I was grateful to have worn my Dirty Girl Gaiters and kept the sand out of my shoes! The Spanish Moss hanging from the trees in various sections of the course was just gorgeous. Some sections of the trails had many tree roots to trip on, often hidden beneath the leaves covering the trail; although I had a few trips and twists, I never fell.

As I began running, just kept going, and then reached the first aid station 5 miles in, I managed to make two important commitments that got me through the race with a time I can be pleased with and feeling that I finished strong, not beaten down. First, I decided I would not walk one inch of the race. I stopped at every aid station, used the porta-potty, stretched, ate PB&Js and potato chips, drank lots of Mountain Dew (a/k/a ultrarunner fuel). But as soon as I left the aid station, I was back to running. I may have shuffled along slowly at times, but I never walked. Second, I decided I would not stop except at aid stations. Stopping and walking often seem like a needed and logical respite for sore legs, but they allow the pain in one's legs to flow up into one's mind and undermine the necessary resolve to keep going. My Achilles tendons were burning, one knee was getting cranky, soles of my feet were begging for squishy insoles. But despite those protestations, I knew deep down, and repeatedly told myself (yes, often mumbling aloud) that "your legs know what to do, just let them go; stop thinking about it and just let them do the work." Distance running surely benefits from training and strong legs, but in the end, it is a mental sport. Until one is there, it is hard to imagine how difficult it is to control one's mind in the face of pain and exhaustion, but that is the true challenge to the sport: the ability to turn off one's mind, let it trust in the auto-pilot, and just let one's legs "go."

I finished in 6:40:27, sprinting in the last little stretch. An average pace of 12:53 per mile. And while I was, of course, sore the next couple of days, I was already going down the stairs forward (not backward) the day after the race! Undertrained, did not carb-load or hydrate as much as I should have in the days before the race, but a personal record for 50K and feeling good.

Reaffirming to myself that the well of my mental and emotional strength runs deep was especially important as I face the first Christmas since my father's death, still missing him terribly and breaking down just about every day, and as I tend to the heartache of missing my floppy-haired sailor guy and not knowing if he misses me. What I lack in physical strength and mechanical skill, I know I make up for in resilience, empathy, and stick-to-it-tiveness. I'm counting on those qualities to keep my heart going in the ultramarathon of love and life.

making moves

A terrible cold side-lined me for a week, causing me to miss a marathon (which was also to serve as a final long training run for the upcoming 50K). Friends warned me to be particularly careful about the cold now that I live aboard; being in a cold, damp boat can turn a cold into "a quick cab ride to pneumonia" as one friend put it. Now that I feel mostly recovered, I am under the gun to catch up on the many, many projects before me.

One useful exercise I did work on while nursing my cold was a list of all the fixes and upgrades I need or want to make on the boat. There are over fifty entries on the list so far (from small items like changing to LED light bulbs to larger projects like removing and re-bedding all the chain plates). Project Gitrot is in a holding pattern at the moment due to a few wet days and considering whether the rot is simply too extensive to fill and a new mahogany threshold should be installed instead. Only a few days away from two months' aboard, I would really like to have my propane stove and oven up and running as soon as possible, and will try to push that to the forefront in the next couple of days. It seems like a simple enough exercise, but never having even used a gas grill before, I have a healthy fear of making any mistakes with the propane, so this is a project I want some help with.

So far this week has brought some big changes. On Monday I sold my Honda Element. It was, as the floppy-haired sailor had put it, my only asset of any real value. It is very hard to be in such financial straits that I have to sell my car to pay the bills, eat, and make some core boat repairs. But such is life. I reconciled myself to it, and was lucky to have a friend who helped me get through the process quickly, maximize my sale price, and move on.

On Tuesday I signed the lease for my new slip. I am very excited to move! I have the slip as of January 1, but am hopeful the owner will let me come over a little early and get settled in. We'll only be four blocks from our current marina, so still able to enjoy being within walking distance of so much and still have the sense of neighborhood Eastport offers. No long icy docks to walk down; just a short stroll to the bathhouse; currently no competition for the bathhouse; nice grassy lawn for pup dog to play (and piddle); a longer finger dock that may allow me to use the actual boarding gate rather than tying the lifelines back; a better shore power set up; almost certainly an easier in and out of the slip so I can use the boat more; a quiet, scenic view.

On Wednesday I bought my new-to-me car, a clay-colored Buick Century. Where my Honda was hippy-dippy, covered with bumper stickers, and let everyone in town know where I was, the new car is entirely under the radar. I am already loving the car. Big comfy seats, an easy, smooth ride. A huge trunk to use as a dock box. I had the car detailed so I'll feel like I am starting fresh. Now I need to remove the couple of stickers on it with a blade and some WD-40, load it up, and cover the back seat for pup dog to chill.

Today I have a friend coming by to look at some boat issues and hopefully help me identify parts I need to purchase. Tonight is the marathon training group party; it will be great to see some friends I haven't seen much of (or at all) in the past couple of months, but bittersweet that I missed my marathon on Saturday.

Here's another of my neighbors. He hung out all morning catching fish.

Life aboard is very different than being ashore. But at the same time, it is often just different versions of the same things we once had on land. Instead of deer and fox in my yard, I have heron and otters. Instead of mowing a lawn, I scrub the decks. And, to my great chagrin, instead of the damn gumballs from the sycamore all over my deck and yard, I have bird poop all over the deck from those damn birds perching on my spreaders.

poco a poco

Little by little, I think we will get settled in.

The stairs into the cabin remain a serious challenge for the pup dog. Friends got her below last night. I managed to lift her and give her a push up the stairs this morning. When steak chunks were not enough to tempt her down the stairs tonight I created a makeshift moon bounce down the stairs with my sail bags and then lifted her onto the first step to get her going.

A week at the marina and already a few days ago I began planning to find a new location. I love being walking distance to so much, so I hope to find something else nearby. Although I want to be in a marina with some other liveaboards for help and a sense of community, I dislike being docked right next to the other liveaboards. Coming from a house with a yard and no abutting neighbors, I would prefer not to feel so much that I have to be quiet and tiptoe aboard coming home late. Fences make good neighbors, and a couple of non-liveaboard boats between the liveaboards likely would serve a similar purpose. My major qualm is not being allowed to let the dog piddle on the grass. In the cold, rain, and snow, (or just any time really), it is very inconvenient to have to walk an extra block to get the dog someplace to relieve herself. And when she's got to go, she's got to go. It's not easy to keep her from using the first patch of grass she finds. For me that really is a deal-breaker in a marina; if it weren't there's a spot full of rules and regulations where my dockage would be half what I'm paying.

The list of projects is long and I am trying not to get overwhelmed. Feeling a small sense of accomplishment that I pulled the icky carpet out this evening, bagged it up, and put it out with the trash. The wood interior will be incredibly beautiful with a bit of cleaning and care. Tomorrow I will tackle removing cushion covers and evaluating whether cushions can be saved (one had to go today). The initial cleaning battles are mold and smells. Definitely must flush the water tank several times as the water has a color reminiscent of Mountain Dew; yikes!

Still, she is mine and I know that with some love and elbow grease she will be a fine boat and a fine home.

maiden voyage

Completed the maiden voyage yesterday and the boat is now in her slip at our new marina. A friend generously gave up a long 12 hour day to help me bring her across the bay.

The journey began with a rather nerve-wracking bridge clearance; the drawbridge was raised and waiting for us, but as we came within a few feet of the fixed bridge it seemed we would not clear it and abruptly turned about. These are the times you want to know the height of your mast off the top of your head! In the end we cleared it with a few feet to spare.

The weather was beautiful for a day on the water and some John Brown's Body jamming in the background provided the perfect soundtrack. 

Should have finished moving out of the house yesterday but all the loose stuff and kitchen remain to be moved out. It will be a long, busy day but tonight will be our first night aboard.

where, oh where, will my little boat live?

Round and round I go trying to settle on a marina. I have toured several marinas, gathered information about slip rates, liveaboard fees, pump-out facilities, winter water, cable television, laundry, shower/head facilities, dog-friendliness, et cetera.  One marina I likely would have gone to took 72 hours to get back to me and still hadn't answered all the clear and simple questions I posed. In general, I could pay about the same amount and either have very nice amenities and facilities and large liveaboard communities, but be a little longer drive from nightlife than I am now, or I could forgo the amenities, have far fewer faciltities, but be walking distance to almost any nightlife in Annapolis (though I still frequently face driving to Baltimore for music). I would very much enjoy not having to drive when I go out, not having the worries about drinking and driving (though drinking and walking down docks is a very dangerous matter, too).

Heard from an acquaintance living aboard that his marina is nice, has facilities. Called the marina Tuesday to see about a slip and rates. Price and location are good, but no liveaboard spots available. I tried pleading my case that I know someone there who will be sailing off to the islands, so shouldn't that spot come open soon... Was told lots of folks say they are heading to the islands and we will have to wait and see; the owner takes my number to get back to me if something changes. I head to the local watering hole to meet up with a liveaboard for advice. Also hoping I might see the acquaintance and find out his travel plans and what I might do to get in the marina. Upon arriving at the pub I learn the acquaintance, a young and seemingly fit guy, had had a fatal heart attack Sunday. So young, so many dreams of sailing off to the islands; life is too short to waste, indeed. The next day the marina calls back; yes, a liveaboard slot is open--he had not wanted to break the bad news to me not knowing if we had been close or not. And so I have a sought-after liveaboard slip only due to the untimely death of another liveaboard. What dark happenstance. I hope he is resting peacefully and we will give him a special toast when we tie up there.