this is not a sailing blog

Apologies for the long gap between posts. I don't have any good excuses; sometimes life just gets in the way. 

A couple months ago I was reflecting on my dissatisfaction with work and financial aspects of my life. I decided to try writing down the things I enjoy and the things I am good at. Unfortunately, the overlap between those lists is slim. Pretty much writing and cooking. There are other things I'm good at, but I don't enjoy like arguing and lawyering. There are plenty of things I enjoy, but am not very good at like singing and snorkeling.  I don't know that I'll be able to limit my work sphere to writing and cooking any time soon, at least not if I want to put food on the table, but I think I do need to place greater focus on finding a path that may eventually lead me there.

I also started writing down the things I don't enjoy and the things I'm not good at. At the top of both lists: sailing. I don't know if I don't enjoy sailing because I'm not good at it, or whether I'm not good at it because I don't enjoy it. Probably a mixture of both. But it was a relief to let myself acknowledge that reality and stop forcing myself to do it just because everyone expects me to. I love being out on the water. I enjoyed heading out fishing before dawn, the water glassy, hardly another boat to be seen. I enjoyed the days in Miami when I just threw lines and drank rum runners, took sun on deck, and snorkeled a bit, with no responsibility for navigating or taking the helm. But far and away most of my pleasant boating memories are from power boating. I can't say I have ever enjoyed sailing; sailing is something I suffer through to get from point A to point B or because I feel pressured to learn and try. 

I understand that many people are passionate about sailing and can't imagine life without it. For me, taking the boat out is about the last way I want to spend my sparse, precious free time. Particularly because I live aboard and have all the stuff of life strewn about, (cue the sailors looking down their noses at me for still owning more than two pairs of shoes). Getting the boat ready to take out involves hours of preparation and then hours getting things settled upon return. Taking the boat out means a day of stress; I can't relax, can't enjoy some cocktails, have to be on constant guard not to run aground, not to tangle up in crab pots, not to draw the attention of the Coast Guard or DNR, having to make sure guests know where flares and fire extinguishers reside, and making sure there are PFDs to go around. All of that is "work" in my book; it is not play, or fun, or relaxation. If other people enjoy it, that's all well and good; I wish them fair winds and following seas. I enjoy running but I don't expect everyone else to think it's the cat's meow or somehow "better" than anyone else's chosen hobbies.

The boat is my home, the only home I have ever owned. I do love her and she has saved my life in many ways. I plan to stick with living aboard for a while more to save money and, with hope, save up for a down payment on a house. From the outset this blog has been about how the world is not enough. It's a blog about a girl rebuilding her life, the challenges of pets, being broke, the ups and down of love and loss, and now and then it's about making boat living work. I hope the story here continues long after Ambrosia has found a new captain to sail her away to bluer seas. But this has never been a sailing blog.

winterizing

New Year's Eve the surfer took me to DC to see a funk band from Brooklyn, the Pimps of Joytime. I love dancing with the surfer and the music was fun and groovy. Definitely my first NYE being kissed at midnight by someone I love. We danced the night away and then spent New Year's Day walking all over DC and through the National Zoo. 

Our first date was five months ago today. It's definitely a challenge nurturing a relationship in the small confines of a boat, where the only way to "take a break" when there is a disagreement is to take a walk. Not every day is a cakewalk for us, but the good outweighs the challenges and I wouldn't want to be with someone who always agreed with me or expected me to always agree with him.  Ups and downs, this one has my heart and I hope I have his.

After an unseasonably warm December, winter arrived. Initially I'd only seen one brief bit of snow, which didn't stick, but we've had some cold nights/mornings, even down into the high teens. And typical winter aboard... we've had north winds blow water down the Bay, leaving us a couple feet below the dock. Pup dog doesn't like it when the cabin top is level with the finger pier. Those are the days that I'm in the galley and the port light looks out under the pier.

Just a few days later we were high above the dock, but it's just about as difficult to board (other than being able to at least move the boat closer to the pier since we aren't stuck in the mud). I would have had a very difficult time getting pup on and off the boat during the high tide, especially as the winds were howling (we were under a gale warning). So thankful to have the surfer here with us; where I would struggle to lift the dog, he can lift the pup with relative ease and doesn't have my fear of falling.

Pup and I both seem to have a fear of falling. I have to keep telling her she's brave, that she has to just "puppy up" and deal with it to get on and off the boat, get down stairs. I don't expect her to be fearless, I'm certainly not. The surfer seems to think I'm silly and scared of everything and I admit, the list of things I'm not afraid of might be shorter than the list of things that terrify me. But being brave is not being fearless; being brave is being scared as hell and doing something anyway. I'd rather be brave than fearless and it's probably my fears that have kept my recklessness in check so that I'm still alive so much longer than I ever would have expected. I just have to remind myself not to give up when things are hard, or sad, or frustrating. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm braver than I know and I can get through anything.

Here are some photos of the very high tide we had in early January.

The water didn't overflow the docks but was ankle deep in portions of the parking garage.

Water was rushing into the parking garage. We moved our cars to the back wall. Luckily it never rose too much or made it all the way to the back of the garage or my storage locker would have been swamped.

Lots of snow on deck after the late January blizzard.

One Saturday, the surfer and I played disc golf out on the Eastern Shore and pup got to spend most of the time off-leash wandering the wooded course. At some point she found something especially interesting, not sure if it was deer poop or a dead animal. Then at a party that evening she and another Lab decided to tear open several bags of garbage and have a party. I thought for sure her being sick the next day was related to one of those excursions, but it seems it was just a boring old urinary tract infection. Nonetheless, we were worried because she was shivering, listless, drinking copious amounts of water, and peeing excessively. She had to take an urgent trip to the vet that Monday and was on antibiotics for a few weeks. Naturally, her need for urgent medical attention coincided with me having less than $10 to spare after setting aside just enough cash for my commute to work for the week. Luckily, the vet let me float the bill until I got paid the next Tuesday. Even when I knock myself out to get hours at work, nothing seems to make a dent as the bills just keep rolling in. Alas, I didn't hit the Powerball numbers. But the surfer took good care of pup dog while I was gone long days to work so that gave me some peace of mind that she wasn't sick and alone. 

With more bitter cold on the horizon I couldn't take the risk of damage to the engine so I had the mechanic winterize the Perkins diesel. It means staying in the slip until Spring, but odds were that would happen anyway, and the peace of mind that I won't have a cracked engine block is well worth the $75 bill from the mechanic. Unfortunately, I still have to keep a 60 watt bulb going in the engine room (and sometimes run a heater in there as well) to keep the bilge pump from freezing up in the cold. 

The blizzard that came through the third weekend in January dumped two feet of snow over most of the Annapolis area. I made the tough decision to leave the boat, board the cats at the vet, and hunker down with the surfer and pup dog at the surfer's parents' house. We spent a few days snowed in, during which I fretted over the fate of the boat, but gratefully dockmates kept an eye on her lines and shoved some snow off when the weight of it, combined with the strong winds, had her listing to port. The entire cockpit was filled with snow upon our return, but the only damage was the loss of a fender--it must have become trapped between the pier and the boat and the line snapped (the line is still securely tied to the lifeline). A week later I noticed a fender floating into the adjacent slip and we grabbed the net to fish it out. Lo and behold--it was the very fender we had lost in the storm, come back home on the tide.

So... I quit school. I lost all respect for the massage therapy program at Anne Arundel Community College after seeing how they handled the creeper in our class who was repeatedly inappropriate with class members and could hardly identify any muscles other than the gluteus maximus on which he was quite focused. Despite his inappropriate behavior and his dangerous lack of knowledge of anatomy, he got to skate through the semester getting free massages and groping girls he would never otherwise be able to even buy a drink. I just couldn't get excited about having to be massaged by relative strangers every week and I definitely do not wake up and want to have to massage whatever random client may end up on my table. It'll also be nice not to have every guy I know "volunteering" to let me practice on him. Ugh. Anyway, relieved not to be spending money on tuition and not have school as an impediment to getting in hours at work. I am sick of jobs that require licensing in every different jurisdiction and massage would have just been more of the same, and more throwing licensing and membership fees into the wind. Time to move on.

The entire cockpit filled with snow.

While my running has slacked off to nothing of late we have been playing disc golf as often as weather and schedules permit. I got to try a new course, Rockburn, which was challenging, but a nice change of pace. I'm still far from being competitive with the surfer, but every once in awhile I even win a hole, and more and more often I manage to make par on a couple of holes during a game. I just bought a putter and another driver to add to my fledgling disc collection and replaced a lost "Nuke" for the surfer. I ordered the new discs from Amazon and there was no guarantee on what colors we'd receive. I like the funky green Mantis and the pale pink putter, but I'm jealous that they picked a bright pink for the surfer's Nuke when I'd love that color and he'd probably prefer anything else. C'est la vie. It'd be nice if there were more courses nearby. I probably most enjoy that playing disc is a way for the surfer and I to be out together without phones, television, or other distractions coming between us; it can be so hard to find that quality time when people can truly connect.

Pup dog adventuring while we played the course at Tuckahoe.

New discs; woo hoo!

Work is, as usual, draining, monotonous, and of uncertain duration. The latest I've heard is that the project will last until the end of February--which means I may be out of work in less than three weeks. Naturally, my budget cannot handle that sort of hiccup, so I need to cross my fingers they roll me onto another project and redouble my efforts to secure more lucrative, meaningful, and reliable income. In my heart of hearts all I want to do is write. I would love to be able to travel the world, experience all the different sights, sounds, flavors, wildlife, and cultures. But I think I would be happy in a little farmhouse in the middle of nowhere if I could support myself writing and have the privacy I crave. 

I've certainly been having a bit of an existential crisis with respect to being aboard. While I love being rocked to sleep by the sea and love to be out on the water, I do not enjoy sailing. Sailing is a means to an end--travel, getting to an interesting destination--and is not something I enjoy in and of itself. I suffer through it because I don't really have a choice anymore, but I wish I had bought an old VW camper van back in 2012 and driven around the country having adventures, seeing new sights these past few years, instead of being stuck in one place, never able to cobble together the funds needed to fix up the boat and take her places. Being at the helm is a chore; it means a day of being the responsible one, worrying about running aground, having safety gear at the ready, not being able to relax and have a cocktail. I can't really fathom why someone would want to spend precious free time that way. I certainly don't. I want to get somewhere and then enjoy myself. I fear that on a boat it just isn't going to happen, at least not anytime soon. But the boat did save my life in more ways than one and she keeps me from being homeless, so for now, home is where the boat is. Whether aboard or ashore, I just want to find some peace, joy, and prosperity with my pack around me. Home and family are so incredibly important to me and I guess home is wherever my pack and I manage to land. I can hardly wait for spring to come, with warmth and light and hope.

waves

The past month has been marked by waves. Waves upon waves of sadness, but there have also been waves of joy. Water, life, they ebb and flow, bringing bad tidings and good, but ever changing. Knowing that a high tide will come and wash the tears, blood, muck, and hurt back out to sea makes the low tides of my days survivable. 

First things first, I owe you photographs of my beautiful new battery box. The wooden box was custom fabricated and epoxied. It holds my house bank of four 6V "golf cart" batteries and the black box in front is the group 31 dual purpose start battery. The bottom photograph shows the water pump relocated forward near the engine rather than laying loose atop the batteries as in the past.

I finally removed the stand-up portable air conditioner and returned it. It never condensed any water and just operated as a glorified fan. The boat is actually cooler without it! I have the window unit running over the forward hatch and it keeps the v-berth frosty and the rest of the boat comfortable enough. 

I had to finish sanding the brightwork. Here are snaps of the brightwork, before, during, after, and one of me after the final 8-hour day of sanding. I haven't finished the hatch, but can't currently afford the mural I want painted on it, so I figure it's better to leave what varnish is left as protection until I can tackle that project properly.

The new batteries and wiring didn't solve my engine problems, so the electrician removed the starter and took it up to Best Battery in Baltimore for testing. It failed the test so they did a rebuild. Before and after:

In the midst of all the repairs, the electrician had to disconnect and reconnect the water pump frequently to access the starter. Something must have jiggled loose at some point and the pump ran continuously, dumping half my water tank in the bilge. Below is the icky old automatic bilge pump that wasn't doing its job. Now there is a beautiful new automatic pump running well (donated by Doria, thanks!). It gives me peace of mind when I see the red light come on the electrical panel and the pump gurgle for a few seconds to clear the bilge (while my galley sink drains overboard, the head sink drains to the bilge...so the bilge is always getting a fresh influx of water when I wash my face or brush my teeth, yuck.)

I received a lovely bottle of port from a reader. Thanks! (Also pictured a bottle of Italian red I haven't opened yet, a gift from a dockmate). 

The electrician installed the rebuilt starter and miracle of miracles, the engine started right up. Of course, I had 45 gallons of old diesel in the tank I was worried wouldn't cooperate, but I gave it a good dose of tank cleaner and haven't had a problem. (Knock on wood.) Friday the new starter went in and Sunday the boat was out of the slip for the first time since the end of February 2014. 

A friend came to help me on the adventure--a trip down to Thomas Point Light, anchoring out a few hours, and then the hardest part--docking! Coming out of the slip we had our first big surprise. I had the wheel hard a-port but the boat was heading hard to starboard. I freaked out, backed her back in the slip, and fretted a bit. My friend hopped off to look at the rudder and indeed, the steering had gotten reversed. Apparently when my old mechanic and I installed the new engine control cables a year ago and the chain slipped down into the binnacle, we lost the twist in the chain that is needed for the correct steering. We didn't let it stop us, though it made for stressful moments when dodging shoals, crab pots, other vessels, and when docking. 

We went almost to the lighthouse and then headed back north looking for a spot to anchor. Everything shallow enough to be feasible was a minefield of crab pots but we managed it. We anchored out for a few hours, had lunch, and enjoyed the sun and breeze. Enjoying some waves of joy getting my beloved Ambrosia away from the dock at last.

We took some decent waves right on the beam--unable to turn into them quickly enough due to crab pots-- which caused the mini-fridge to tip open and spill its contents everywhere. The fan on top of it tumbled to the floor, pulling the power strip and the computer monitor connected to it to the floor as well. Luckily, nothing was broken, but since every surface on the boat is cluttered, I have a lot of work ahead of me to clear all those surfaces and secure appliances and such with shock cord to prevent mishaps in choppy seas or when heeled over. This was, however, the first cruise when no cats puked. I put them together on a towel in a pop-up dog crate so they wouldn't be able to get sick in some remote locker unbeknownst to me, and so they would be safer from falling objects. It was a good plan that worked out well.

On the way back north we opened the jib and got an extra knot and a half. Naturally, the furling line got fouled beneath the drum rather than wrapping onto it, so I had to go forward and unwind it while carefully jumping back whenever there was slack since the sail would take the slack and fill, spinning off the furler with force. Yes, that is my lovely hatch A/C in the photo. It is too much of a hassle to remove it so we just let it be. And, yep, below you can see the ratty weathered bungee cords keeping my main halyard from slapping against the mast. Don't judge me.

Docking was a major challenge and I freaked out quite a bit. I really don't want to hit another boat so I get very trepidatious in close quarters maneuvering; this is a tight docking situation and a slip I'd never docked her in before. The reversed steering situation didn't help. Gratefully, the dock master was waiting on the pier to throw lines and give advice and we eventually made it in unscathed. But I think next time I will try backing all the way down the fairway and into the slip. I really need someone very experienced to come help me spend three hours going in and out of the slip over and over until it's in my muscle memory and my crocodile brain. But all in, a great trip, a huge relief to get out on the water, and some much needed waves of joy and relaxation.

Here's a nugget of truth to remember: bad tippers are bad lovers (and bad bosses, friends, ...). People who are stingy and selfish in one area of life, like money, are often also stingy in other areas of life--in bed, with their affection, and with their time. The same goes for people who cut in line, cut people off in traffic, and generally seem to have missed the message about the Golden Rule.

I've been running a fair amount, though not back up to my desired 30 miles per week. But I am trimming down, building muscle, and getting faster. Running is my meditation, my church. I listen to Matisyahu, take in nature, feel the connection of my body, mind, and spirit. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by grief and have a panic attack and hyperventilate. But it happens less and less now. So many days I just want to stay in bed, don't want to head out on that run. But I always feel better that I did it, even if it was slower or shorter than my goal. I need to focus on taking better care of myself physically, emotionally, and financially. In a sense, my body is all I have and I have to make taking care of it, making it the best it can be, my priority. 

I started school this past Monday. It seems crazy to be going back to school yet again, but at least this path (massage therapy) feels like it has potential both as something I can do while traveling and that is actually in demand (which is not the case with law). And after many years of lawyering and hating it, it will be nice to do something that reduces the level of stress in the world rather than increases it. Law is just a soul-sucking endeavor and I feel like I need to do something with a far better karmic balance. And it turns out that colleges are full of cute, young guys...so that's not so bad, either. I am juggling only being able to get in 30 hours a week of legal work in DC, so that's a $1,000 a month less income when I need it most. So, I need to make a better push to find something local and lucrative that will accommodate the school schedule for this next year.

But more seriously, I am nervous about whether I will be any good at massage, because if I'm not great at it I won't succeed. But I am also nervous about getting through Anatomy and Physiology, which will be the toughest course in the program and I am taking right now along with Swedish Massage. I've been a professional student, had an amazing memory, was a test-taking machine. That's how I got through law school, an MBA, three bar exams, and into a couple Ph.D programs I abandoned along the way. But since all that I've had two serious concussions. My memory has never been the same. The effects of a traumatic brain injury are so cruel and unpredictable. There are times I look at close friends and for the life of me, I have no idea what their names are. So, more waves. Waves of sadness at the loss of a skill I was very good at, at the loss of memory, at the effects I may never shake, but waves of joy at the potential for a new life, at some new chance to find a purpose, meaning, bliss.

counting the days

Almost three weeks after Hunter's surgery, he's healing up nicely and seems to be doing well. I started him on a daily "calming treat" with L-Theanine, the compound in green tea that is relaxing and also an ingredient in my melatonin sleeping pill. I'm hoping it will help him relax and not lick that bald patch on his back. The fur actually does seem to be growing back some. The vet didn't really think he'd let them take his stitches out, based on what a terror he was the day of the surgery. But last Thursday I gave him a little morphine cocktail to take the edge off and with me there telling him how brave he was, one tech holding his scruff and legs, and another carefully cutting the sutures, they got them all out without a single hiss. So, now it's just a wait-and-see on whether the cancer is still lingering there and flares back up.

I've been making some progress aboard on interior organizing--and even found the duffel that I searched high and low for the night before I left for the Cooks last summer--but never quite as much progress as I feel I "ought" to be making. When the days are cloudy or rainy I don't want to do much but curl up and vegetate in front of the television. I'm trying to replace that with reading. An interview on a new-to-me podcast I started listening to, The School of Greatness, suggested having a "screen curfew" (yep, smart phone, iPad, and TV) of 8pm if you want to get to sleep at 10pm, and a "caffeine curfew" of 2pm for a 10pm bedtime. Not easy, but I'm trying. I don't usually drink coffee in the afternoon, but the green tea tends to flow all day so now I'm overdosing on the one herbal tea I have right now. Can't wait to have some moolah and stock up on rooibos at Capital Teas.

Of course I've been applying for jobs day in and day out, walking around town handing out résumés at restaurants and applying online for various legal and other "professional" gigs. As usual, I've hardly had any nibbles. But miracle of miracles I went to open interviews for a restaurant slated to open late next month and within a couple hours of my interview they offered me a full-time bartending position. If I make the cut through training and all goes well, I would be able to get benefits after a few months. I'm excited to have a job on the horizon, to be part of something new, and to be behind the bar. Now I'm counting the days...training starts in two weeks, and it will likely be another two weeks before making any tips.

While I'm grateful to have the job, I am sad that it means I won't be able to cast off the lines in April and sail away. But all I can do right now is take things day by day to try to get on my feet. Batteries and solar panels are at the top of the "to do" list, but I also have to save enough for fuel and dockage while I head down the ditch and there are myriad other projects, large and small, that I need to tackle aboard. Right now I have a whopping $14, (unless I can save myself $57 and get out of my storage unit by Saturday), but bills are paid until about a month from now and I've probably got enough food aboard to get by, even if it eventually means eating pancakes three meals a day. I've done it before and I'll find a way to pull through. (Fingers crossed my last jewelry that's worth anything sells on consignment quickly and nets me some decent coin.)

I am certainly tired of just surviving instead of thriving, but life has its ups and downs and I just have to ride the wave back up. Actually, that sounds far too passive. Some people just let life happen to them and others act upon the world. I'm definitely in the latter camp. But sometimes knowing how to tuck your head and fall safely is critical to being able to get back up and dust yourself off. Anyway, despite all the crap life has thrown my way lately and being broke, I'm not broken. I'm building my running mileage back up, 20 miles week before last, 23 last week, targeting 25 this week, and then 28 the next. Once I'm back to a solid 30 miles a week my energy will be up and my figure will slim down and I'll be feeling better all-around. I'm working on some freelance writing that won't pay much but will be something and help me build my portfolio. I'm trying to get focused on some bigger writing projects, as I've had a couple of book ideas swirling around for years but never forced myself to sit down and focus. If I'm going to tend bar to cover the nut, then I need to be focusing on moving other projects forward for the long term, like finding ways to support myself through writing and support myself working remotely. I do not want to live my life in one place or tied to the dock. I ordered the passport with extra visa pages for a reason--I want to fill it before it expires.

two year liveaboardaversary (and postscript on sleazy captains)

Thursday marked two years since the pets and I moved aboard. I've heard most liveaboards only last a year and a half before they give up, frustrated, and move back ashore. I feel like I should be so much farther along on all the projects, but nonetheless it doesn't occur to me at all to move ashore. Ambrosia is the only home I've ever owned, the only place that has been truly mine.

practicing my sugar skull makeup for halloween

So, what next? I am somewhat loathe to state any plans because people relish pointing out when one doesn't achieve the deadline or follow the stated plan. But I'm just drawing really broad brush strokes right now and I don't owe anyone apologies or explanations if they change. In the most general sense my plan is that of most every liveaboard I've met: to sail off to that mythical destination called South. For some that's the Carolinas. Or St. Augustine. Perhaps it means Ft. Lauderdale, Miami, or the Keys. For many it also means the Bahamas and the Caribbean. In my case I can see myself heading home to Miami for a bit, on to Key West to look for work fishing or slinging drinks. Ideally, taking a few months to hop around the Bahamas; if I find remote work, perhaps the island-hopping is indefinite.

While I have a few close friends in Annapolis there is nothing to hold me here. I don't know that the prospects for work are any better anywhere else, but they are very meager here, so "career," whatever that is supposed to be, certainly doesn't tie me down. In the end, I'd like to leave the US entirely and for good. I think it will take some time to find a job overseas and secure a visa that lets me emigrate, but this is no longer a land of opportunity and I need to find someplace else to get a chance to start over and build a life. In the meantime, I may as well take advantage of having a slip that includes electricity until Spring. I have work to do on the hard, but don't expect to have the funds to get hauled before winter sets in here. Thus, my thinking is that I'll leave Annapolis and initially head for an area where yard rates are more reasonable and spend a bit of time on the hard making repairs and upgrades before continuing down the ditch, heading South, wherever that is. 

I had thought I'd have contract work in DC for the next few months and while it's a terrible grind commuting four hours round-trip, I would just try to keep my head down and save money. I need to save up a lot for the repairs and upgrades I need aboard, and more urgently the pup dog needs an $800 surgery to remove a rotten tooth. But of course the project I was working on that was slated to last two to four months instead lasted just seven working days. It gets tiring being down to the last penny all the time, but at least I'm not trapped in a horrible marriage or slaving away in an evil law firm. Though I'm poor and have little hope of that ever changing, I'll take the strain of poverty any day over the life I was trapped in before.

As the situation quickly deteriorated on my trip to the Cooks, I didn't dish all the details in real time. So, here's the postscript on sleazy captains and the sordid tale of my brief visit to beautiful Aitutaki.

Regrettably, I doubt I will be willing to crew for any single guys for quite a while. I have been too trusting and too generous in thinking guys who are wildly outside of my age-range and/or seriously not my type understand that and won't be sleazy. And even if a guy is of an age I might consider, that doesn't mean I'd have any interest in sleeping with him. What part of the 30-second rule is so hard to understand? I guess I just have to be rude and tell guys bluntly as soon as I meet them, "Dude, I am never going to sleep with you. If you still want to have a drink, hang out, sail, fine, but you have been friend-zoned, period." Perhaps I'd be willing to crew with a couple making a passage, but I've even had bad experiences (though not yet when sailing) with what appear to be swinger couples with an agenda just like the creepy solo guys. Maybe I have to find a nice gay couple to crew with so I know the guys really don't have any agenda with me. I still want to be able to work on a fishing charter, but after the last charter gig I will definitely have to bluntly tell the captain that he'll lose a hand if he lays a finger on me. I know there are decent guys out there, but the sleazebags sure do give all guys a bad rap.

As for the recent trip, I absolutely never thought the captain had any expectations since he's plainly too old for me, so incredibly not my type (which I also explicitly told our mutual friend), and he knew I quit the fishing boat because of the handsy old captain. I wasn't sure if he was either trying to or did hook up with our mutual friend, but he referred to her as an "ex" to someone in conversation, which surprised me. In the Cooks he was constantly trashing her and her boyfriend, saying how jealous the guy was that he was there, and how it was a nightmare staying with her, what a disaster it was staying on her boat. This from a guy with zero personal hygiene and no working head on his boat; ugh. But he'd definitely like to get his hands on some of her boyfriend's money since the captain is broke, in debt, and living off credit cards. He was scheming how to get the boyfriend to invest in his daysail / fishing charter in the Cooks; hopefully the guy will steer well clear of the captain and not get scammed. 

So, how did the trip unfold?

When I arrived in Aitutaki on Monday and we got to the house, the captain showed me a little twin bed, which he said I could use, then showed me the big bed where he sleeps, and said I'm also welcome to sleep there. I actually laughed out loud at that suggestion and made it clear I'd be on the twin alone. That was such a ridiculous proposition that I mostly took it as a joke but that was the first indication that he might have expectations beyond the crew and cook role I had signed on for. It was cool at night in Aitutaki and I asked about a blanket. The captain said there was only one blanket so if I wanted to use it I had to sleep in the bed with him. I said that's nonsense and took the blanket. He bitched and moaned the next evening about how cold he was and wanted the blanket back. I argued that there couldn't seriously be only one blanket in the whole house and to find something. He took the good blanket and gave me a light bedspread he found in another room. Fine. Being old and highly unattractive is unfortunate, but not a character flaw. Being a manipulative sleazebag is a serious character flaw and pretty much sums that captain up.

Tuesday we had to run all over the island with a borrowed pick-up buying groceries and hauling things to the boat. He was supposed to return the truck the night before and when we ran into the owner of the truck the guy was pretty pissed off and told the captain to move all his stuff out of a house where he was storing things. The captain ended up just bad-mouthing the guy the rest of the day and decided to keep the truck all day and not move out his stuff. How he would have ever fit all the junk he has onto that catamaran anyway is a mystery and he certainly was no where near being ready to sail to Tonga. 

The captain only appeared to have three "friends" on the island after some six months: (1) the American ex-pat guy he borrowed the truck from, who didn't exactly seem to like the captain; (2) a Samoan guy married to a local but who was out of town for an extended trip; and (3) a local auto mechanic who always looked very annoyed by the captain any time we went by there to borrow things or use his shop. The captain would put on a front of being buddies to anyone we came across and as soon as they were gone he'd be bad-mouthing them or gossiping about them. The actual locals never seemed genuinely friendly to him and likely the only people who really tolerated him were outsiders who had happened to marry a local.

It must have been Wednesday morning when the Samoan guy's son told the captain that they had a plan to get the island council to approve him to stay. The plan was for the captain to sign half his boat over to the Samoan and/or the son and be partners in the business so the council would consider the application to be made by a local. Personally, I'd think that was a steep price, giving up half your business and boat to be able to stay. But I guess if it's the place you really love and want to be, it'd be worth it. Ah, but it turns out the captain has a different plan. He said that whatever paperwork they did in the Cooks saying he'd signed anything over would be irrelevant because he wouldn't be changing the ownership documentation with the US Coast Guard, so after a few years he'd just sail away and the locals wouldn't get anything. So, one of the few people he was supposedly friends with and he'd happily screw him over once he got what he wanted. Maybe they were both planning on screwing each other over, but it was pretty clear the captain had no moral compass whatsoever. I feel so sorry for Aitutaki if the island council approved him for a business. He'll just milk the place and the tourists for everything he can and then move on. 

On Wednesday the captain was being pissy and I suspected perhaps he was mad that I wasn't sleeping with him. He would constantly be in my personal space and trying to touch me, which I really hate. When he came back from lunch on Wednesday he left me on the dock when he took the dink to the boat, and that was just the beginning of the snippy, petulant behavior. It was Wednesday or Thursday evening that he cornered me, put his arm around my waist, and said he "wasn't opposed to some female companionship." Eewwww. I pushed him away and told him he was totally in the friend-zone, which definitely pissed him off. Thursday evening I was going to try to watch the traditional dance at the Tamanu resort, but the captain's inability to ever stop talking or invading my personal space was too annoying and I called it a night by 9:00pm. 

It was pretty clear by Friday that the captain planned to stay in Aitutaki so I had been trying to find another boat to join to sail on to Niue and Tonga, or even Auckland if possible. Unfortunately, not having a cell phone and very limited Internet access made it too difficult to connect and coordinate with the few other boats in the harbor. Friday night we went to a local bar, Crushers, with a little dance floor inside and picnic tables in the sand outside. As obnoxious as the captain was, I had just been trying to slide away from him whenever he got in my space and just bit my tongue for the sake of being peaceable. Walking to Crushers, however, I had had it. He kept touching me, goofing off, rambling on, and doing anything he could to get attention. I finally told him that being around him is like babysitting an 8-year-old, to please just shut the fuck up and walk. 

Naturally, he was all piss and vinegar but once we were at Crushers he was acting nice because he wanted people to think we were together. I did whatever I could to not have to sit next to him and was relieved when Mary and Patrick, a couple from another boat in the harbor, arrived and I could chat with them. Mary clearly felt bad for me being stuck with the captain. Mary and I were on the dance floor and a local guy came up and asked if I "was the girl running on the island [that] morning." Yes, indeed, the one and only runner on the island, that was me. When I was dancing the captain came up and was trying to dance with me and I kept evading him and finally had to just yell at him to get the fuck away from me. The owner of the bar invited Mary, Patrick, and I up to a rooftop deck where a few other people joined us and we hung out for hours having an impromptu jam session. Thankfully, the captain didn't know where I was and went home. I ended up crashing at a friend's, a few houses down the road from the captain's rented house. How nice to have indoor facilities and a good night's sleep!

Saturday morning I strolled in and said good morning, but the captain was chilly. He left to work on the boat shortly after I arrived. I took some time to actually enjoy the beach a bit and then investigated the Internet access at the nearby resort, (where I met Carol and Nikki, both of whom ended up generously opening their homes to me in Aitutaki and Papamoa Beach, respectively). I figured it was going to be very difficult logistically to find another boat to join and researched flights to get to Auckland. It's much pricier to get from Aitutaki to Auckland than to get there from Niue or Tonga. Even though the captain was a scumbag, I would most likely have suffered through a passage if it looked like he was actually going to relocate. I wouldn't travel half-way around the world and leave someone hanging. But it was pretty clear at that point he planned to stay in Aitutaki. And while I wouldn't want to leave anyone short-handed, I don't know that I'd have felt safe trapped aboard with him for any length of time. 

When I got back to the house Saturday afternoon the captain had a total hissy fit. He said that it wasn't working out and he didn't think I was ready for 1000 miles of open ocean sailing. Complete bullshit, of course, which I told him. I've got more mental and physical aptitude in my pinkie than he'll ever have. (And it'd be 800 nm consisting of one day sail plus two 36-hour passages, but whatever.) But I agreed that we should definitely part ways as soon as possible. He said he thought I should fly out on Monday. He lied about the cost for a ticket to Auckland and belly-ached about it, trying to push it off on me. He said I should just make something up to qualify for the travel insurance to fly back to the States early. He explicitly told me to commit insurance fraud. Wow. I told him I'm obviously not going to do that.

I headed back to the nearby resort for happy hour and some more Internet access. Nikki asked if I'd found a boat and when I said I hadn't, she generously invited me to stay at their house in the Bay of Plenty when they got back to New Zealand. The locals were insistent that the captain had to pay for my ticket to Auckland and seemed pretty disgusted that he was trying to push it off on me. I asked about a cheap hotel for the following night, but Carol invited me to stay at her home instead. I dreaded going back to that house with the captain, but thankfully it was the last night I had to put up with him.

On Sunday morning the captain was under the gun to move out of the little house and onto his boat. I told him that I just needed my plane tickets to Auckland and I had a place to stay that night, so we could just part ways as soon as he handed me the tickets. He was clearly pissed off at me, and then the real reason he wanted me gone came out. He went into a tirade about how it was totally "disrespectful for me to be sleeping with someone else when I was living under his roof." I burst out laughing. How completely ridiculous. We were roommates, period, sharing a little rented shack. I'm an adult American woman, no one makes rules for me and no one owns me. Even a really stupid American guy should know that. He was acting as if we were married and I'd had an affair. This guy is seriously disconnected from reality. There's not a universe in which I would have ever dated him but somehow he created that little fantasy world in his head. He went on about how all the locals are laughing at him and talking behind his back about it, blah, blah, blah. And the really funny thing about it: I didn't actually sleep with anyone there, though I certainly could have. He stormed off on his little scooter to get online and find plane tickets.

I packed all my things up and hid out at the resort. I obviously wanted to minimize the amount of time I had to be around him. I managed to just pop back to the house and get the flight confirmation numbers from him and when I returned later to get my bag he had left. Naturally, he got me the very most inconvenient flights possible just to be a jerk. Oh, well. The girl who arrived to clean the house said that last time he left it was "very messy," but I told her I had cleaned the kitchen and swept the floors, so it shouldn't be too bad. Carol picked me up and her family welcomed and spoiled me and made sure I got to the airport the next morning. 

Hopefully karma will deal the captain the hand he deserves. Although one very ugly American did his best to ruin my trip, I met countless amazing people, saw great sites, and enjoyed the adventure that presented itself, even if it wasn't the one I had planned. And in the end, I still think the world is my oyster. But perhaps it's best if I'm "the captain of my own ship," as my friend Mike likes to say, so I don't have to worry about any more sleazy captains.

we definitely haven't come a long way, baby

The daily grind, on the commuter bus stuck in DC traffic. The days are long with a four-hour round-trip commute. The work is mind-numbingly dull and soul-sapping. I try to just keep my eye on the prize: fixing up the boat, sailing away somewhere, escape, freedom.

Once upon a time I had a job. On my second day my boss said my tank top was making it hard for him to keep his hands to himself. I was shocked and creeped out at the comment, both because it was so patently inappropriate and because he was easily old enough to be my grandfather. Being caught off-guard by the comment and in dire need of the work, I basically ignored the comment and never wore that top to work again. But looking good is a major factor in good tips--if anyone thinks good service alone cuts it they are kidding themselves. Beauty is rewarded in our society and I have to use my assets as best I can. But that means look, don't touch, and if you have to be told that then you need to be smacked upside the head, or worse.

There are respectful ways to appreciate beauty and there are creepy, inappropriate, and illegal ways. There is a great New Man Podcast episode on how to appreciate women without being a creeper. Really, a must-listen for men and women. Looking someone over approvingly with a smile is very different than leering or catcalls. So, yes, I do think it is OK to look, to compliment respectfully, but not to leer and definitely not to touch. Us girls check guys out all the time (uh, you think girls watch football for the game...sorry to disappoint you, but the tight uniforms don't hurt...) but we sure don't smack waiters' asses or catcall guys walking down the street. I confess I expressed my disappointment to a scuba diver who was out of his wetsuit but putting on his t-shirt too quickly... it was a nice show; and I confess I'll probably hire him to clean the boat bottom because he was a hottie. But I didn't get "handsy" with him. It wouldn't even occur to me to invade someone's personal space that way.

Despite banning that tank top from my work wardrobe, things just got creepier. He gave me this pathetic nonsense about his girlfriend having died and being alone and really needing a hug. So I was cajoled into hugging him every day at work. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. Figured he's just a grandfatherly old man. But it was very creepy. And when you really need the job, you can't say "No, I think I'll pass on the hugging nonsense." (And, gee, that's why there are lots of seminars and lawsuits and such related to this topic.) Then I got guilt-tripped into having dinner at his house on the (likely bullshit) pretense of teaching me how to make the fishing lures. When I was sitting in a chair and couldn't get away he leaned over and tried to kiss me. Thankfully, I'm pretty skilled at turning quickly enough to make sure it just hits my cheek. But seriously?! What insanity has to be going through a guy's head to do that to a woman half his age who works for him. I mean, it's not like I'm flirting him up or something. Jesus. I feel like it's rude to just tell every guy I meet "Dude, you know you're in the Friend Zone, right? You know I will never, ever sleep with you, right? Because if you didn't know that, you know it now." That just seems rude to me. Guys should just assume that is the case unless I explicitly tell them, "Hey, wanna fuck?" Ugh. But being ever-too-forgiving I tried to just brush it all off and keep at the work of fishing. Then one day when I was forced into another hug his hand was firmly planted on my ass. I was, truly, just stunned that someone would do that. It's so beyond the limits of what is acceptable in our society that I honestly didn't know how to react. It's like I was outside my body looking down, saying, wow, is his hand actually on my ass? No. Fucking. Way. My skin crawls just thinking about it. I think I worked three more times. I would show up as late as I possibly could to avoid spending any time around him alone and similarly race off as soon as I could. Just so incredibly creepy, disgusting, disappointing. As if I needed my lack of faith in humanity renewed.

But, wait, it gets worse...

I happened to mention the "handsiness" to my mother. Well, apparently I'm really out of touch with reality because I "learned" that she had weeks ago seen this coming because...and I quote...I send out all kinds of sex pheromones so of course this would happen. And I shouldn't be burning any bridges. I should just politely say "I'm sorry, but this can't happen" and not hurt his feelings. As if it was some forbidden mutual attraction. Wow. Yes, I'm actually choking back vomit. Pray you never get her on your jury if you're a rape or sexual harassment victim because, ladies, it's your fault. And this from a woman who wants to dump all her unwelcome emotional baggage on me instead of her children she is actually close with or, more appropriately, a professional therapist. The scariest thing: that is not the most horrible thing she's said to me. Just, wow.

Here's a mother who will protect her babies. Does it get any cuter than ducklings? Make way! (Unfortunately, just about every day there is one fewer duckling in the parade... it's a dangerous life for those little ones.)

I'm trying to be a better mom to pup dog. I just finished reading Inside of a Dog and really appreciated her insights from both a scientific and dog-owner perspective. I need to focus less on "training" and "obedience" and more on the richness of our relationship, how I can afford her more opportunities to smell the world around her, bond with me, play, and enjoy the all-too-brief time we have together. I tell her I'm going to work harder to be a good mom and to understand her perspective on the world, to try to understand her umwelt. All these years we've been out walking with her dilly-dallying behind sniffing things and eating goddamn berries, and I've been yelling at her and tugging the leash: "We're on a WALK, dammit! We're not on a SNIFF!"

Well, it turns out that all this time we were on a sniff.

She was too kind to tell me how silly all this rushing around walking is when all we have to do is shove our noses in the grass and smell the world around us. Well, and swim; that dog just isn't any happier than when she's swimming back to shore with a nice, big stick. Because I've been getting up at 4:30am or earlier, last week we snuck in a couple of walks off leash, since few others are out walking at 5:00am.

I'm really itching to go have some adventures. I want my freedom so very badly. That's the only reason to have money, the freedom it buys. You just have to make sure you don't need the money; otherwise you're just a slave to the stuff it buys and the constant bills. I only wish I didn't have so much hanging over my head. And, of course, the biggest snag to my adventuring is the pets. I could easily circumnavigate as crew on others' boats, just hop-scotching my way around the globe, if I didn't have the pets. But I made a commitment to them for their lifetimes and I can't reneg on that. They have stuck with me through all kinds of craziness, moving all over Miami, moving all over the country, moving aboard. They kept me going when my father died and I just lost it completely. In so many ways I owe my life to them, so although it holds me back, I have to keep my commitment to them. And I don't resent them, they're my pack--that's for whom you make sacrifices.

But right now I'm so grateful it's just me and the beasts. We are our pack, all for one and one for all. Conversations with others can be such a drain, a drag. Everyone has some judgment to pass on my life or unwelcome suggestions to "fix" it, usually involving getting a cushy government lawyer job--the odds of which are longer than winning the lottery. It just gets so tiring, having people try their damnest to make me fit into their ticky-tacky-house world. But I can't do it. Won't do it. I refuse to live some sheltered, prepackaged life, all safe and risk-averse. Instead, I go to crappy neighborhoods (I recall some friends thinking I was seriously nuts looking at an apartment in Dru Hill in Baltimore--and they were right on that one!). I go to travel-warning countries. I ride the local bus. I eat street food. And, yes, I got dengue fever. But I'll take that any day over a white picket fence in suburbia or a [insert whatever brand] cruise ship vacation. So I'm going to keep tempting fate and taking risks. Sailing barefoot. Eating street food. Living.

I don't have all my ducks in a row yet. I still have to make various arrangements for the pets. Still need to work my ass off and make some moolah. But last night I bought a plane ticket to the edge of the world and a month from now I'm going sailing well beyond the Bay.

through my fingers

Thanks to the Grog Knots app (very worth the $4.99) and the related free website (www.animatedknots.com) I can finally tie a bowline! The bunny rabbit comes out the hole, runs behind the tree, and then back down the hole. Voilá! I really want to learn how to tie the Ashley Stopper Knot but I'm still befuddled. I cut this nifty 3-foot piece of line to carry around and practice knots. Much better way to waste time than Facebook.

In other good news, I've been special ordering Full Sail Session Lager from my local liquor store. A great Oregon craft beer and the groovy little bottles fit perfectly in a koozie. And it turns out I am very good at grilling. I know, hard to believe she's single, right? Bahaha!

I worked a full-day charter, up before dawn, waiting out quite a thunderstorm but with rain gear at the ready. Planer boards were replaced by six rods with buck tail lures with pork rind. I baited the hooks, sent out the lines, and brought lines in now and then to clean off the lures. This time the fish were really biting, and we caught several fish, five of which were keepers. I was glad to see the guy having a birthday actually land the biggest one. It's nice to see people happy about their catch.  Slippery little fish kept fighting to get through my fingers, flopping on the deck as I tried to get a hold of them and measure them. I got skewered right through my heavy gardening gloves a couple times by dorsal fin spines, and tried to remove hooks quickly and humanely. I've learned the hard way that any run-ins with dorsal spines or hooks have to be treated quickly with peroxide and alcohol because the germs in the bay infect quickly and aggressively. I still can't really understand torturing and/or killing nature for fun and continue to be surprised at how many people find it entertaining. Nonetheless, because I truly want to do the best job I can, I was actually looking forward to the opportunity to filet those five fish and get practice. But that, too, slipped through my fingers.

One woman complained to the captain that she didn't like how I was fileting the fish, so I got demoted to the helm and the captain had to clean the fish, which he doesn't like to do. I understand wanting it done well and I certainly want to maximize the amount of meat on the filets. I'd only fileted half a fish before and just needed a chance to figure it out. Having several people watching doesn't exactly make it easier. But guys are always more kind, give tips here and there but usually let you learn. Women are mostly awful to other women, hypercritical and always looking for a chance to cut each other down. I tried to just put on my game face and suck it up at the helm.
 

I spent a couple of days really soul-searching, worrying I couldn't cut it for this job because I went from a tip over 22% on my first charter to 12%. I've got a lot to learn but know more than most folks and have good sea legs. It seemed like a good athletic outdoor job, getting out on the water and making use of my ability to make small talk. It's a sacrifice since I had sworn I'd never piss in a cup for a job and don't think government or employers should be monitoring my personal life. As long as I'm sober on the job what I do in my free time shouldn't matter. But any way the government can weasel into our lives nowadays it will. (This also resulted in an argument at motor vehicles about not having a street address if I decide to anchor out... they insist they must have a land-based address in case the police need to contact me in an emergency... I call BS... they just don't want to do their legwork to serve warrants.)

Anyway, a couple days later I had two half-day charters. Now of course I was really nervous about the fileting. The first charter was a group of young residents from Hopkins. They each wanted to filet a fish, dissected them, and passed around organs. The surgeon was also a fisherman from Florida so he was very sweet and patiently stood by and walked me through it with tips from a surgeon's perspective. But what a riot to have a group tip me very well and want to do the ickiest part themselves! At least now I was better prepared for the pressure of fileting up the afternoon catch. But one of those guys was a chef in Florida for 12 years and wanted to try one himself! So he gave me tips on where to cut to find a little more meat behind the head, etc. I did three, he did one, and another guy tried one. I think especially because most charters never let guests do anything but crank they really like getting to learn how to do things.

Well, I hadn't done as many as I planned, but I had gotten good tips from both surgeon and chef perspectives. Now I'd be ready to impress Monday's charter... But they said "We're Chinese; you know we take the fish home whole!" Ha! Well, I'm not going to complain about not getting the practice on those ones since he tipped me very well and before we were even back to the dock. The next trip out I finally had a group with no desire to do it themselves. I was too nervous to do it underway, but knocked out all five at the dock. I went with Riverboat Bob's style where the skin is never cut clear through at the tail, which gives me a bigger "handle" when skinning and wastes less meat. They were happy with their filets and pleased to leave that task to me.

The next day I did all three while we were underway. They were clearly impressed to see me setting up my cleaning station while we were still trolling (something only charters are allowed to do). I did the first one and the guy watching commented about what a nice job I was doing and was telling the other guys to watch. I thought maybe he was joking but they were just impressed. I laughed and told him I fileted my first fish just two weeks before! No way they'd have ever guessed I hadn't been doing it for years. So from now on maybe I'll tell them I've been doing it since I was a kid.

One Sunday I had a group of six and we limited out, plus since it was now June, we kept a boat fish, too. My first time having four lines with fish on at once! I fileted all 13 while underway. I was kind of traumatized that one of them wasn't quite dead as I fileted him, so I really need to learn exactly where to put an icepick in their brains to pith them humanely. Here's a video of me fileting a fish under way.

Tips have usually been 20% or more, and guests seem to be pleased with the service, despite initial surprise to see a girly-girl as their mate. I'm not paid by the boat at all, so my tips are all I make; that is the standard arrangement for a mate. I scrub the deck, set up all the rods, land the fish, filet them up, risk getting stabbed, hooked, and cut, play tour guide, take out the trash, et cetera. I've studied oceanography and marine biology and share a lot of marine knowledge with guests who want it. I don't have health insurance or paid vacation or the ability to collect unemployment when work dries up. On Father's Day I did get majorly screwed on my tip. As soon as I saw the group coming I knew I was F'd, but every time I hold out hope that the stereotype won't be true and I give them 110%...but in all my time waiting tables and bartending, only twice have these folks tipped appropriately despite being ridiculously high-maintenance. $20. Yep, $3 an hour to get up at 4:30AM, catch these guys the biggest fish they'd seen in their lives, and have to clean a couple in a more complicated way than our usual fileting. Next time the tip will be in my hand before I leave the dock or I just head home and sleep in. If you aren't prepared to tip 20%, just don't go out. Don't go sportfishing, don't go to bars, don't go to restaurants. Keep your incredibly bad karma and spare the rest of us who are working to make a living. (OK, rant over. But never to be forgotten; I've been screwed one too many times.)

Now that the hot weather is here, the stingrays are out in the bay. Although a lot of captains call them skates, they are actually cow-nosed rays, a type of eagle ray. (Rays and skates are not the same; skates tend to be rounder and have wider tails and do not have a stinging barb.) We've hooked four while I've been aboard. I got one up to the transom to cut the line but gratefully he flipped the hook out. The others managed to break the leader...the last one was a big guy when we saw him come to the surface about 40 feet behind the boat. The rays often swim at the surface and their wingtips will break the water. We had seen a few and some charter guests were pointing to what they thought was one but when I turned to look it was a dolphin surfacing, and another dorsal fin was right beside it. Dolphin are sometimes spotted as far north as Baltimore Harbor, but it is definitely rare to see them north of the Bay Bridge as we did a few days ago. Very cool.

I've gotten much better at grabbing fish by the lip, which does just miraculously seem to paralyze them, and at getting hooks out, though I've had a couple tough ones with the hooks. Now whether I can learn how to do this with Florida fish... that weigh as much or more than me and have scary teeth... not sure, but that'd be nice. Florida charter rates are about double those here and I'd enjoy going south for the winter to do that. Even though I'm allergic to seafood and sort of a hippy chick who doesn't want to hurt nature, fishing is the first job in my life I really like. And I actually seem to be really good at it. I just have to show up on any new boat with my K-Bar strapped to my thigh the first day and make it clear that I don't fire warning shots...the first time the captain's hand touches my ass is when I start cutting off extremities. It really sucks that this is the kind of world we still live in.

Now that I've gotten pretty good at the job, charters have slowed down for me. The captain gives a couple charters a week to someone else and there aren't enough leftovers for me to survive on. One charter for me this week and one scheduled for the next. So I'm going back to the dark side and taking a project in DC doing low-end legal muckwork. The project is slated to last three weeks, but they easily end early, so there's really no predicting. I can't even afford the $21 per day it would cost to drive, park, and metro in, so I'm going to try walking to the commuter bus that would be $8.50 round trip, but has limited hours it runs. The car is a piece of shit full of grelims, so I'd be nervous to rely on it for a 40 mile daily round trip to the nearest metro station anyway. The days become long, because an 8-hour workday can easily become 12 with the commute time. That will be tough on the dog in the hot boat with temperamental air conditioning, but I'll try to find a dockmate to give her a quick break midday and check that the A/C hasn't frozen up. She handled even longer days when I used to commute to Georgetown from Annapolis, but did have a whole house to roam (she actually just sleeps all day with the cats) and reliable A/C to keep her cool. Fingers crossed it works out and enough projects arise for me to cover my bills and start getting the boat repaired so I can actually take her out. One thing I've definitely learned the hard way, with the exception of a few close friends, any guy who wants to help me on my boat has an ulterior motive. From now on things I can't tackle all by myself will simply have to wait until I can pay a professional to help me. No more "favors" because those guys all seem to be angling for "favors" in return.

361 days ago was the denaming ceremony for the boat. It was also the day that Max learned how to swim. This evening as I was heading to take pup dog for a quick piddle before bed, Max wanted to follow us. He was getting ready to jump under the life lines and I told him that wasn't a good idea. The boat was far from the dock and the angle wouldn't be good. I was grabbing pup's leash and heard a splash. I guess you knew where this story was going... a dockmate saw it happen and yelled "cat overboard!" as I scrambled to get the fishing net. But before I could even get the net he was already on the dock. Amazingly enough that cat swam to the piling at the bulkhead and climbed right out. He stood on the dock for a while looking sort of confused and then ran inside. I grabbed a towel and dried him off a bit. Always an adventure with pets aboard.

Hunter has now very deliberately peed outside the box three times in the last month. Today it was on the settee. Now I'm very worried about him. The last time he was so pointed about it he was going through puberty and although no one believed me (because he'd been snipped as a kitten), I knew he was telling me something was wrong and I could see him getting the tomcat characteristics. It turned out that my instincts were spot on; one testicle hadn't dropped and was hidden inside behind his intestines. Now he has a growth (the vet said tumor and then tried to revert to "growth" so I wouldn't freak out) on one ear. There isn't any fluid inside, which is a bad sign. Tumors, or uh, growths, on cats are much more likely to be malignant than ones on dogs. I couldn't afford to send the cells for analysis. I couldn't afford the heartworm prevention for the cats and dog. I'll have to save up and see about sending him for surgery to remove as much of the tumor as possible, but it's a difficult location and I imagine they could say he'll lose the ear. My beautiful, loyal, regal King Great Jaguar Paw.

I'm definitely regretting staying in Annapolis. Only three months into an annual slip contract and I'm kicking myself. If I stay until November then the rate would end up being about the same as if I'd been a monthly transient. If I'm not doing yacht brokerage or mediation or something else lucrative that requires establishing oneself, then there's not much reason for me to be here. There's nothing for me here, nothing tying me here, no sense that I belong here. But there isn't any other place I'd be going to either. There just isn't anyplace where I have roots, feel "home." I guess I probably won't ever have that feeling. I definitely wish I had a dinghy and skill at ferrying the dog ashore because getting away from the noise and activity at the marina would be a blessing. I just wish I could've gone on a secluded mooring somewhere. I need some peace and quiet. What a waste to spend so much money on an annual slip contract... all that money and I'd have solar panels, a new battery bank, all my basic repairs and simple upgrades done, a great dink, and be able to live on the hook or on a ball. I need to get my butt in gear and get the boat in shape to at least go on some short three or four day trips around the Bay, get comfortable anchoring, and just get prepared to go... somewhere, anywhere. I just need to go. Before the chance slips through my fingers, again.