Whisper seems forlorn wedged tightly into her frozen winter berth ashore. This morning as I climbed the ladder to her deck, exposed to a frigid nor'easter, the warm days of our summer cruise seemed distant. Yet the view of Casco Bay afforded me created a certain warmth.
Portland has taken on the mantle of Christmas, replete with good cheer and commercial grumpiness. Or maybe I'm the grump........It could be genetic. Which brings to mind my readings on the psychology of happiness.
You would think that this revolutionary 'new' school of psychological inquiry had discovered some great biochemical truth. In reality, it is little more than recapitulation of what our grandmothers taught us. Simple truths like: Smile, do nice things for others, and give thanks every day........whether to God, the cosmos or just thanks for its own sake.........The simple act of giving thanks creates a flood of endorphins.
Today brought snow, although we did not receive as much as our neighbors to the west in Boston and New York. (Remember the New England coast goes more east - west than north - south.) The marine forecast was for a full storm, winds of 45 kt (53 mph) with gusts to 60 kt (hurricane force) and seas to 30+ feet.
For my warm, secure berth on dry land I give thanks.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A Fall Cruise of Casco Bay
Autumn is near its peak, warm (sort of) days and chilly evenings and brisk northwest breezes, perfect for cruising the Maine coast. With my friend Chuck from Wisconsin aboard, Whisper set sail from her Portland berth for a cruise of Casco Bay.
Casco Bay is not the DownEast of Penobscot Bay, Mt. Desert Island and Roque Bluffs. Yet, within a few miles of Portland Harbor, are islands as wild as they were a century ago, pristine anchorages and coastal villages whose only economic driver is fishing.
Chuck had promised his colleagues in Wisconsin lots of photos so, with camera at the ready, we wended our way through the islands past Portland Head Light before reaching off towards Halfway Rock, a lonely lighthouse outpost out to sea.
From Halfway Rock one is able to set course for anywhere in Casco Bay. Destinations are chosen by favoring winds, and there are dozens of fine anchorages to choose from.
Being chilled to the bone, we chose West Harpswell and the Dolphin Marina restaurant. A bowl of their famous seafood chowdah, my mother's all-time favorite, awaited. Warmed to the core by this rich broth loaded with haddock, clams, bits of crab and lobstah Whisper transited the narrow, hairpin channel into Merriconeag Sound.
Whisper played lobster pot slalom en route to Harpswell Harbor, a gem of a Maine coast harbor protected from all winds with excellent holding ground and SCENERY!! Ahhhhhhh........this is what I came for.
Saturday brought rollicky breezes so we adopted the time honored Maine tactic of sailing under the lee of the innumerable islands. Tacking out through Potts Harbor, we reached off down the east shore of Whaleboat Island, around the Goose Islands staying well clear of the Goslings, tacked up through and reached through to the lee of Chebeague Island. In all we sailed 15 miles through the water, only 4 miles as the crow flies and exchanged one spectacular anchorage for another. THIS is Maine sailing at its best.
Dawning clear and cold, Sunday demanded our return to Portland. Adopting the previous day's tactic, we sailed under the lee of the islands until off southern Maine's yachting capitol, Falmouth Foreside, Whisper bore off on a starboard tack and roared all the way to Portland......and the end of her sailing season.
Is there still time to head south? Oh, the temptation! Is that snow I'm seeing? Damn, it is!
Casco Bay is not the DownEast of Penobscot Bay, Mt. Desert Island and Roque Bluffs. Yet, within a few miles of Portland Harbor, are islands as wild as they were a century ago, pristine anchorages and coastal villages whose only economic driver is fishing.
Chuck had promised his colleagues in Wisconsin lots of photos so, with camera at the ready, we wended our way through the islands past Portland Head Light before reaching off towards Halfway Rock, a lonely lighthouse outpost out to sea.
From Halfway Rock one is able to set course for anywhere in Casco Bay. Destinations are chosen by favoring winds, and there are dozens of fine anchorages to choose from.
Being chilled to the bone, we chose West Harpswell and the Dolphin Marina restaurant. A bowl of their famous seafood chowdah, my mother's all-time favorite, awaited. Warmed to the core by this rich broth loaded with haddock, clams, bits of crab and lobstah Whisper transited the narrow, hairpin channel into Merriconeag Sound.
Whisper played lobster pot slalom en route to Harpswell Harbor, a gem of a Maine coast harbor protected from all winds with excellent holding ground and SCENERY!! Ahhhhhhh........this is what I came for.
Saturday brought rollicky breezes so we adopted the time honored Maine tactic of sailing under the lee of the innumerable islands. Tacking out through Potts Harbor, we reached off down the east shore of Whaleboat Island, around the Goose Islands staying well clear of the Goslings, tacked up through and reached through to the lee of Chebeague Island. In all we sailed 15 miles through the water, only 4 miles as the crow flies and exchanged one spectacular anchorage for another. THIS is Maine sailing at its best.
Dawning clear and cold, Sunday demanded our return to Portland. Adopting the previous day's tactic, we sailed under the lee of the islands until off southern Maine's yachting capitol, Falmouth Foreside, Whisper bore off on a starboard tack and roared all the way to Portland......and the end of her sailing season.
Is there still time to head south? Oh, the temptation! Is that snow I'm seeing? Damn, it is!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Rolling Home - The Last Leg
After two months and nearly two thousand miles, Whisper was finally in New England waters. Familiar sights hove into view as we reeled off the miles down east.
With a "frisky" northwest breeze and a 6 - 8 foot Atlantic swell, Whisper tacked downwind from Narragansett Bay to Buzzard's Bay. Sailboats cannot sail directly into the wind so they must tack, sailing at 45 degrees to the wind first in one direction and then the next to go upwind. This is called 'beating'. Beating into wind and sea, spray flying, can be wearing on both crew and gear.
When sailing downwind, the fastest course between any two points is often not a straight line but sailing at an angle to the wind. This is known as reaching. Jibing from reach to reach is 'tacking downwind'. For a cruising sailboat this is often the most pleasant of sailing, fast and easy. In chilly autumn breezes it is also the warmest way to sail.
Thus Whisper made any easy day of it, making the western end of the Cape Cod Canal just as the favorable flood current was changing to the adverse ebb.
Again, one does not attempt the CC Canal against the current, so Whisper dropped anchor in that absolute jewel of a town, Onset, MA, a perfect harbor basin ringed by white sand beaches and, beyond the dunes, a quaint Cape Cod town. There we found groceries, a cheap and cheerful breakfast and that most precious of all commodities to the cruising sailor, a hot shower.
Rested, clean and cheerful, I pointed Whisper's bow next day into the flood current of the Cape Cod Canal. We transited the 8 miles of the canal in less than an hour, being delivered into a rollicking Cape Cod Bay.
With west winds of nearly 30 kts, I opted to hug the Massachusetts mainland, enjoying flat seas in the lee of the land and arriving, like the Pilgrims, at Plymouth Rock near sunset. There were no Indians waiting with corn on the beach however, just a collection of boats heading south for the winter as Whisper headed north. I was greeted with "What? Are ya nuts?" from skippers of several boats anchored nearby.
But we persevered, little Whisper and I, making sail early the next day for a run to Gloucester. The Gloucester harbormaster, being a helpful, friendly sort let Whisper tie to his dock for an hour while I went uptown, led by my nose to a mess of fried clams.
The only problem of the evening was the room kept swaying back and forth, rising to meet seas that weren't there, causing me to miss my mouth and smear ketchup on my cheek several times. The waiter was becoming concerned about my sobriety even though I was drinking soda.
Morning dawned clear and cold, with a brisk northwest breeze. Whisper motored to a mooring in the outer harbor where I prepared her for sea for the last time while we awaited a favorable current. Among the routines that have established themselves is a quiet, slow way of putting things into sailing trim. There is satisfaction in doing simple tasks with confidence.
Entering the Bay at the first of the ebb current, my calculations put Whisper at the Portland, Maine sea buoy at approximately 0400 the next day. Reality was somewhat different.
Whisper, sensing our destination, took a bone in her teeth and ran with it. Sailing at 7+ kts on a favorable current we covered the 80 miles in half the estimated time, arriving at the sea buoy at 2230h (10:30 p.m.)
This created the problem of entering Portland in the dark of night on breeze of wind. While this is not a difficult piloting problem, fatigue and out of date charts caused me to rethink my plan. So I hove Whisper to, made a cup of tea and settled in for a night at sea.
Heaving to is a proven technique for putting a boat in "park" in rough seas or when the crew needs rest. It involves backing the jib, sheeting the mainsail in hard and lashing the helm alee. Simple! Effective!
Whisper spent the next 8 hours jogging off to the SE at less than a knot while her skipper napped, coming to every 15 - 20 minutes for a look around the horizon, a check of our position and a "mug up" of hot tea.
In the chill of pre-dawn, Whisper made sail, turning her transom to a glorious sunrise. By 0800 Whisper was abreast of the most photographed lighthouse in North America, Portland Head Light. I added my own photos to the millions taken of this picturesque symbol of strength, endurance and constancy.
As the morning warmed I shed layer upon layer of clothing until, mid-morning, we arrived in Portland Harbor, the skipper in shorts and a tee shirt in Maine in October! I was at once relieved and nostalgic at the end of my personal epic. It was all a bit anticlimactic
How have I grown? How will my life be different going forward? These questions will only answer themselves in the fullness of time. Here's what I know:
I miss my many friends in Wisconsin. The Racine Yacht Club and the Western Lake Michigan Star Fleet is a community of great people and excellent sailors.
I'm glad for the familiarity of the Maine coast, looking forward to sailing adventures down east and beyond in years to come.
Living in Maine is referred to as "poverty with a view" so career and life decisions are imminent.
At the bottom line, I have had an extraordinary adventure. My writing skills are not equal to the task of sharing with you what I have experienced.
Thus I encourage you all, at least once, to shake off the "surly bonds of earth" and make your own flight. When you get back we'll have a lot of fun comparing notes.
Cheers,
Don
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Off Topic - Health Care Reform
This post is completely off topic, but I cannot remain quiet on this issue. As some of you have deduced, there is a reason behind my occasional sniping on health care reform.
As someone with a potentially life threatening illness that requires constant surveillance and long-term chronic care, the fact that I have gone from a health care "have" to a health care "can't get" makes this a deeply personal issue for me.
The truth of health care and its reform has become obliterated by the hyperbolic rhetoric from all parties to this debate. There are some simple facts that any critically thinking person cannot ignore regardless of where they sit on the political spectrum:
As someone with a potentially life threatening illness that requires constant surveillance and long-term chronic care, the fact that I have gone from a health care "have" to a health care "can't get" makes this a deeply personal issue for me.
The truth of health care and its reform has become obliterated by the hyperbolic rhetoric from all parties to this debate. There are some simple facts that any critically thinking person cannot ignore regardless of where they sit on the political spectrum:
- 47 million people, that's almost 1 in 5 of all Americans, are without any form of health insurance.
- We ALL pay for the emergency room delivery of health care to the uninsured. This is far more expensive than devising a system of delivering basic health care to all people regardless of socioeconomic status.
- 18,000 people with chronic diseases, like me, die every year in America, the richest nation on Earth, because they can't get health care. 18,000 people is 6 (SIX) times the number of people who died on 9/11/2001. The U.S. has spent over a trillion dollars on the war on terror. The state of American health care is a FAR GREATER threat to the long-term economic health and physical security of our nation.
- If you believe in pure capitalism, as the right wing of the Republican party claims to do, there is nothing pure about the brand of capitalism practiced by the insurance industry. If, as the Public Option would seek to do, the supply and demand equation was restored to the insurance industry we would ALL benefit economically.
I do not want to go on a diatribe. I do not want to contribute to the hyperbole. If, as the richest nation on earth we cannot deliver health care to all our citizens, shame on us all.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
A Fall Cruise of the New England Coast
Fall weather on the New England coast is often challenging. The first hints of winter winds chase away the pleasant summer breezes. The prudent mariner will try to keep a safe harbor at his lee, somewhere to duck into when wind and sea get up. Patience is the watchword. Having plenty of boat projects, good food and books to read is essential. Waiting for a "fair chance along" as the schoonermen of old used to say. Thus Whisper remained pinned down at Block Island for an extra day.....Darn, what a place to be stuck! :-)
On leaving Block Island, Whisper found herself addled by light, shifty breezes and the unpredictable current patterns of Point Judith, RI. Several hours of tacking back and forth (remember, a sailboat can't go straight into the wind) with little headway frustrated Whisper's skipper. As the wind died completely, I gave in and cranked up the diesel breeze.
We crossed the mouth of Narragansett Bay in time to watch a large fleet of America's Cup yachts racing off Newport. As the light of day began to fade, I pointed Whisper's bow towards sheltered anchorage near the mouth of the Sakonnet River.
The last time Whisper entered the Sakonnet River was at night, in a snowstorm with a crew of dead tired, seasick, smelly guys. It was at this point we encountered a tugboat towing an unlit barge. Had it not been for the radar seeing through the snow what our eyes could not this story would not have been written. The river looked far more inviting on a warm autumn afternoon.
As the night progressed the wind shifted from west to east, leaving Whisper on an exposed shore. Anxiously I checked our position relative to the shore and other boats through the night. The wind built to near gale force making the motion aboard hellish, but also making the weighing of anchor and moving to better shelter a near impossibility. So we hunkered down and waited for that fair chance along.
The next day dawned bright and breezy with wind favorable for a dash up Buzzard's Bay formed by the SE Massachusetts coast and the islands including Martha's Vineyard. Buzzard's Bay has a well deserved reputation for challenging sailing and this day provided no evidence to the contrary. But, with the wind and current behind us, Whisper fairly flew to the western entrance to the Cape Cod Canal where we waited for a favorable current the next day.
On leaving Block Island, Whisper found herself addled by light, shifty breezes and the unpredictable current patterns of Point Judith, RI. Several hours of tacking back and forth (remember, a sailboat can't go straight into the wind) with little headway frustrated Whisper's skipper. As the wind died completely, I gave in and cranked up the diesel breeze.
We crossed the mouth of Narragansett Bay in time to watch a large fleet of America's Cup yachts racing off Newport. As the light of day began to fade, I pointed Whisper's bow towards sheltered anchorage near the mouth of the Sakonnet River.
The last time Whisper entered the Sakonnet River was at night, in a snowstorm with a crew of dead tired, seasick, smelly guys. It was at this point we encountered a tugboat towing an unlit barge. Had it not been for the radar seeing through the snow what our eyes could not this story would not have been written. The river looked far more inviting on a warm autumn afternoon.
As the night progressed the wind shifted from west to east, leaving Whisper on an exposed shore. Anxiously I checked our position relative to the shore and other boats through the night. The wind built to near gale force making the motion aboard hellish, but also making the weighing of anchor and moving to better shelter a near impossibility. So we hunkered down and waited for that fair chance along.
The next day dawned bright and breezy with wind favorable for a dash up Buzzard's Bay formed by the SE Massachusetts coast and the islands including Martha's Vineyard. Buzzard's Bay has a well deserved reputation for challenging sailing and this day provided no evidence to the contrary. But, with the wind and current behind us, Whisper fairly flew to the western entrance to the Cape Cod Canal where we waited for a favorable current the next day.
Whisper Returns to New England
After a coupe peaceful nights in Mamaroneck, NY, Whisper made way on a quiet, windless morning. I pointed her bow between two moored boats toward the outer harbor, completely oblivious that the channel marker to starboard should be to port. It was this big, red, pointy thing known as a nun buoy. The mnemonic for the U.S. Lateral Buoyage System color scheme is red right returning, which implies red left leaving. Sure enough, Whisper skidded to a stop in unseen mud.
My immediate reaction was to reverse the engine, to no avail. The mental calculus thereafter was: is the tide coming in or going out? and has anybody seen me? Thankfully the tide was rising, floating Whisper free in a few minutes. With tail tucked tightly between my legs, I very very carefully motored out onto a mirror calm Long Island Sound.
LI Sound lived up, or down as the case may be, to its reputation for light winds and strong currents. Being anxious to be in New England, we motored down sound to the eastward. It wasn't until day 2 that the breeze filled in from the southwest giving Whisper favorable wind and current for a race towards The Race where LI Sound meets the open Atlantic. Currents over The Race can reach 4 knots which, for a small sailboat, means you must go with the current to make any headway.
As the day was getting late with inclement weather closing in, I opted for Fisher's Island Sound and a night in Stonington, CT. As it happened, both night and rain descended simultaneously making our approach to Stonington, in confused currents, a rather tenuous affair. Finding a spot to drop anchor amongst the hundreds of moored boats at night was a bit of a trick, but with the anchor finally down I dropped into my bunk for the sleep of the dead.
At first light, with favorable current, we exited Long Island Sound between Fisher's Island and Watch Hill, RI. The eastern end of Fisher's Island is named Wicopissett Point, known to generations of Down East mariners as "Wicked Pissah Point". The path through rock and reef is known as Lord's Passage, no doubt a reference to a particular prayer uttered by many of those seamen, as this is a particularly thorny little patch of water. Judging by the number of shipwrecks noted on the chart, either those seamen were not praying earnestly enough or God was busy doing something vastly more important like making sure those heathen Democrats didn't get health care reform passed.
Short of sleep and feeling the broad Atlantic swell for the first time in 3 years, I set course for that most beautiful of out islands, Block Island. A tourist zoo in summertime, early autumn is a most pleasant time to be at Block. As the next day turned out to be "frisky" in the monotone parlance of the National Weather Service automated marine broadcast, I enjoyed an extra day of island life, rowing the dinghy through the Great Salt Pond's estuary and walking to the far corners of the island.
My immediate reaction was to reverse the engine, to no avail. The mental calculus thereafter was: is the tide coming in or going out? and has anybody seen me? Thankfully the tide was rising, floating Whisper free in a few minutes. With tail tucked tightly between my legs, I very very carefully motored out onto a mirror calm Long Island Sound.
LI Sound lived up, or down as the case may be, to its reputation for light winds and strong currents. Being anxious to be in New England, we motored down sound to the eastward. It wasn't until day 2 that the breeze filled in from the southwest giving Whisper favorable wind and current for a race towards The Race where LI Sound meets the open Atlantic. Currents over The Race can reach 4 knots which, for a small sailboat, means you must go with the current to make any headway.
As the day was getting late with inclement weather closing in, I opted for Fisher's Island Sound and a night in Stonington, CT. As it happened, both night and rain descended simultaneously making our approach to Stonington, in confused currents, a rather tenuous affair. Finding a spot to drop anchor amongst the hundreds of moored boats at night was a bit of a trick, but with the anchor finally down I dropped into my bunk for the sleep of the dead.
At first light, with favorable current, we exited Long Island Sound between Fisher's Island and Watch Hill, RI. The eastern end of Fisher's Island is named Wicopissett Point, known to generations of Down East mariners as "Wicked Pissah Point". The path through rock and reef is known as Lord's Passage, no doubt a reference to a particular prayer uttered by many of those seamen, as this is a particularly thorny little patch of water. Judging by the number of shipwrecks noted on the chart, either those seamen were not praying earnestly enough or God was busy doing something vastly more important like making sure those heathen Democrats didn't get health care reform passed.
Short of sleep and feeling the broad Atlantic swell for the first time in 3 years, I set course for that most beautiful of out islands, Block Island. A tourist zoo in summertime, early autumn is a most pleasant time to be at Block. As the next day turned out to be "frisky" in the monotone parlance of the National Weather Service automated marine broadcast, I enjoyed an extra day of island life, rowing the dinghy through the Great Salt Pond's estuary and walking to the far corners of the island.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Anchored in the Lee of Liberty
On the first full day of fall Whisper is steaming into New England waters for the first time in 3 years. I am sitting in the cockpit letting the autopilot steer its erratic course down Long Island Sound as the Manhattan skyline receds astern. There is not a breath of wind to disturb the Sound’s glassy surface, only Whisper’s wake.
We are closing with the Connecticut shoreline seeking a more favorable current while wending our way through a fleet of fishing boats. I must keep a lookout both ahead and astern as a tug with barges is closing with Whisper.
Yesterday I enjoyed the hospitality of the Orienta Yacht Club’s rear commodore. Two nights in the quietest of anchorages, hot showers, a friendly launch service and a wealth of NY delis in town. Whisper’s larder is stocked with some real treats.
So.......what has happened in the past week.
Along the Erie Canal I made the friendly acquaintance of Dave and Ellen aboard the vintage sloop Cordelia. She and Whisper are both products of the dawn of fiberglass boat building, massively constructed, heavy and seaworthy. Dave and Ellen darn near convinced me to join them in the Bahamas for the winter.
We arrived in Castleton on Hudson together and spent a day helping each other rig our boats, bend on sails and clean off layers of Erie Canal lock slime. Then we played hopscotch down the Hudson River passing each other several times along the way.
I had anticipated a fairly dull motorboat ride down the Hudson. I was in no way prepared for the beauty, both spectacular and sublime the awaited me. From the quaint, historic town of Athens to being docked across from West Point, from mountains to a slalom through the canyons of the middle Hudson, every turn of the river. Working with currents as strong as 5 kts, Whisper fairly flew the 150 miles from Troy to Manhattan.
My second night on the River was spent in Poughkeepsie where my daughter works. She and her partner took me to ‘the best diner in all New York’. I will vouch that their meatloaf with mashed potatoes and fresh cut veggies was not only a massive portion, but utterly wonderful. The crew of Whsiper (that would be me) finished the entire meal and licked the plate.
The third night on the River Whisper docked in the picturesque town of Garrison, directly opposite West Point Military Academy. WP is an imposing fortress where the best and brightest of America’s future military leaders are being trained. It is awe inspiring to say the least.
Kit and Erika brought me a bounty of fresh produce from their farm share. We fired up Whisper’s grill and ate like royalty while Annabelle, the hairy beast, begged piteously. Kit is nothing if not a stern mother.
During dinner I commented on the number of classic Dutch craft making their way upriver. There were botterjachts, the famed canal barges of Holland. There were reproductions of small ships from the 15th century. There were schooners and rowing craft. Kit informed me that the whole summer has been a celebration of the quadricentennial of Henry Hudson’s voyage of discovery in 1609.
Day 3 had Whisper sluicing further downriver with wild mountain scenery rising on both sides. Kit had asked me to keep a lookout below the Bear Mountain Bridge, perhaps the most scenic bridge in eastern America, for a group of kayakers. Among them was her boss showing potential donors a parcel of wilderness mountainside they ope to preserve.
I sent a text message to Kit that Whisper had narrowly avoided the kayaks. Her reply ‘look behind you Dad, and up. That’s what I do.’ I urge you to visit the website http://www.scenichudson.org/. They are dedicated to preserving the natural beauty and accessibility of the Hudson River Valley. It is incredibly gratifying for a parent to know that your child is doing well by doing good.
As we worked our way downriver, Whisper’s keel tasted salt water for the first time in over 3 years, the salinity gradually increasing as we rode the torrent into New York Harbor.
I was prepared for boat and ship traffic to rival that of the streets of Manhattan, and NY Harbor did not disappoint. We had to do donuts while a Carnival Cruise Line ship embarked from its pier with a load of happy passengers. A speeding tugboats wake sent a wall of vvater over Whsiper’s decks, giving them a much needed cleaning. Ferry boats and water taxis scurried past. And megayachts from around world passed stately by.
Humble little Whisper had joined the fray.
The transition from the wild, scenic river to ultra urbanity took her skipper somewhat aback as did the $4 per foot price for dockage. The fuel dock attendant, perhaps thinking that Whisper looked out of place amongst the multi-million dollar yachts in her dock suggested I sneak around the Statue of Liberty into a hidden, almost secret anchorage. Directly off the harbor, this anchorage was a gem. Whisper found safe refuge in the Lee of Liberty, as did her poor and addled skipper.
On Sunday we were to transit the East River through the infamous Hell’s Gate, known for its giant eddies and whirlpools, standing wave and overfalls. Being armed only with current tables, I put a call out to my nephew, Andy, chief mate aboard a New York based tugboat and veteran of many trips ferrying petroleum laden barges through this awe inspring spot. He advised me to have Whisper at the Battery, the southern tip of Manhattan by 0630. According to Andy, there is no such thing as slack water at Hell’s Gate. The current is either flowing one way or the other and you had best be flowing with it.
Andy’s advice caused me to have the anchor up and Whisper under weigh before the sun had made itself known. My reward was to see the Statue of Liberty in the first pink light of pre-dawn. That was an experience few ever have, and it was followed by the spectacle of seeing NYC shaking off the dark of night, emerging into a gleaming new day.
Riding the current up the East River, achieving > 10 kts over the bottom, I was treated to the sights of my old haunts, Rockefeller University, Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center and Cornell Medical College. I have spent many days plying my trade in these institutions and count them as happy.
Whisper was also treated to a Homeland Security escort past the United Nations. Not only was there heightened security for the UN General Assembly being in session, but President Obama was due to arrive and the previous night 3 terror suspects had been arrested.
The heavily armed gunboat shadowed Whisper while I chatted amiably with their crew. They allowed me to take their picture and wished me a good day when they broke chase. Homeland Security in the form of the US Coast Guard is very much in evidence all over New York Harbor. I find this oddly reassuring.
After all that anxiety, we found ourselves in Hell’s Gate at 0730, a quick trip upriver by any estimate. I supporse there are times when the Gate is much more ferocious, but Whisper made it through with almost no fuss. It might have been a very different story had we shared the narrows with ship traffic. As it was, Whisper had that stretch of early morning river all to herself.
So what did I learn in the past week? I will be years answering that question. Suffice to say that a week I had expected to be somewhat tedious was in fact most advernturesome. Perhaps the greatest adventure of all was having wonderful visits with a daughter who has grown into a happy, productive young woman already making her mark on the world. I am inspired.
We are closing with the Connecticut shoreline seeking a more favorable current while wending our way through a fleet of fishing boats. I must keep a lookout both ahead and astern as a tug with barges is closing with Whisper.
Yesterday I enjoyed the hospitality of the Orienta Yacht Club’s rear commodore. Two nights in the quietest of anchorages, hot showers, a friendly launch service and a wealth of NY delis in town. Whisper’s larder is stocked with some real treats.
So.......what has happened in the past week.
Along the Erie Canal I made the friendly acquaintance of Dave and Ellen aboard the vintage sloop Cordelia. She and Whisper are both products of the dawn of fiberglass boat building, massively constructed, heavy and seaworthy. Dave and Ellen darn near convinced me to join them in the Bahamas for the winter.
We arrived in Castleton on Hudson together and spent a day helping each other rig our boats, bend on sails and clean off layers of Erie Canal lock slime. Then we played hopscotch down the Hudson River passing each other several times along the way.
I had anticipated a fairly dull motorboat ride down the Hudson. I was in no way prepared for the beauty, both spectacular and sublime the awaited me. From the quaint, historic town of Athens to being docked across from West Point, from mountains to a slalom through the canyons of the middle Hudson, every turn of the river. Working with currents as strong as 5 kts, Whisper fairly flew the 150 miles from Troy to Manhattan.
My second night on the River was spent in Poughkeepsie where my daughter works. She and her partner took me to ‘the best diner in all New York’. I will vouch that their meatloaf with mashed potatoes and fresh cut veggies was not only a massive portion, but utterly wonderful. The crew of Whsiper (that would be me) finished the entire meal and licked the plate.
The third night on the River Whisper docked in the picturesque town of Garrison, directly opposite West Point Military Academy. WP is an imposing fortress where the best and brightest of America’s future military leaders are being trained. It is awe inspiring to say the least.
Kit and Erika brought me a bounty of fresh produce from their farm share. We fired up Whisper’s grill and ate like royalty while Annabelle, the hairy beast, begged piteously. Kit is nothing if not a stern mother.
During dinner I commented on the number of classic Dutch craft making their way upriver. There were botterjachts, the famed canal barges of Holland. There were reproductions of small ships from the 15th century. There were schooners and rowing craft. Kit informed me that the whole summer has been a celebration of the quadricentennial of Henry Hudson’s voyage of discovery in 1609.
Day 3 had Whisper sluicing further downriver with wild mountain scenery rising on both sides. Kit had asked me to keep a lookout below the Bear Mountain Bridge, perhaps the most scenic bridge in eastern America, for a group of kayakers. Among them was her boss showing potential donors a parcel of wilderness mountainside they ope to preserve.
I sent a text message to Kit that Whisper had narrowly avoided the kayaks. Her reply ‘look behind you Dad, and up. That’s what I do.’ I urge you to visit the website http://www.scenichudson.org/. They are dedicated to preserving the natural beauty and accessibility of the Hudson River Valley. It is incredibly gratifying for a parent to know that your child is doing well by doing good.
As we worked our way downriver, Whisper’s keel tasted salt water for the first time in over 3 years, the salinity gradually increasing as we rode the torrent into New York Harbor.
I was prepared for boat and ship traffic to rival that of the streets of Manhattan, and NY Harbor did not disappoint. We had to do donuts while a Carnival Cruise Line ship embarked from its pier with a load of happy passengers. A speeding tugboats wake sent a wall of vvater over Whsiper’s decks, giving them a much needed cleaning. Ferry boats and water taxis scurried past. And megayachts from around world passed stately by.
Humble little Whisper had joined the fray.
The transition from the wild, scenic river to ultra urbanity took her skipper somewhat aback as did the $4 per foot price for dockage. The fuel dock attendant, perhaps thinking that Whisper looked out of place amongst the multi-million dollar yachts in her dock suggested I sneak around the Statue of Liberty into a hidden, almost secret anchorage. Directly off the harbor, this anchorage was a gem. Whisper found safe refuge in the Lee of Liberty, as did her poor and addled skipper.
On Sunday we were to transit the East River through the infamous Hell’s Gate, known for its giant eddies and whirlpools, standing wave and overfalls. Being armed only with current tables, I put a call out to my nephew, Andy, chief mate aboard a New York based tugboat and veteran of many trips ferrying petroleum laden barges through this awe inspring spot. He advised me to have Whisper at the Battery, the southern tip of Manhattan by 0630. According to Andy, there is no such thing as slack water at Hell’s Gate. The current is either flowing one way or the other and you had best be flowing with it.
Andy’s advice caused me to have the anchor up and Whisper under weigh before the sun had made itself known. My reward was to see the Statue of Liberty in the first pink light of pre-dawn. That was an experience few ever have, and it was followed by the spectacle of seeing NYC shaking off the dark of night, emerging into a gleaming new day.
Riding the current up the East River, achieving > 10 kts over the bottom, I was treated to the sights of my old haunts, Rockefeller University, Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center and Cornell Medical College. I have spent many days plying my trade in these institutions and count them as happy.
Whisper was also treated to a Homeland Security escort past the United Nations. Not only was there heightened security for the UN General Assembly being in session, but President Obama was due to arrive and the previous night 3 terror suspects had been arrested.
The heavily armed gunboat shadowed Whisper while I chatted amiably with their crew. They allowed me to take their picture and wished me a good day when they broke chase. Homeland Security in the form of the US Coast Guard is very much in evidence all over New York Harbor. I find this oddly reassuring.
After all that anxiety, we found ourselves in Hell’s Gate at 0730, a quick trip upriver by any estimate. I supporse there are times when the Gate is much more ferocious, but Whisper made it through with almost no fuss. It might have been a very different story had we shared the narrows with ship traffic. As it was, Whisper had that stretch of early morning river all to herself.
So what did I learn in the past week? I will be years answering that question. Suffice to say that a week I had expected to be somewhat tedious was in fact most advernturesome. Perhaps the greatest adventure of all was having wonderful visits with a daughter who has grown into a happy, productive young woman already making her mark on the world. I am inspired.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Flushed Through New York
With apologies to all......Encapsulating the experiences of the past week will require reflection........LOTS OF IT!!
......... from turning Whisper into a sailboat again after transiting the Erie Canal, to a magic carpet ride down the Hudson River;
......from celebrating the qaudricentennial of Henry Hudson's voyage up the river in 1609 (not much has changed) to a wonderful visit with the daughter who is working to preserve the river's natural beauty;
.......from encountering mighty ships and tugboats with barges and megayachts and ferry boats and water taxis and all the hustle and bustle that is Manhattan to having a spinchter tightening moment when a group of kayakers decides they have right of way over everyone......YIKES!;
.......from anchoring behind (right behind) the Statue of Liberty, seeing Lady Liberty in the last rays of sunset and the first pink light of dawn, watching Manhattan shake off the dark of night of night;
........From being swept up the East River through Hell's Gate at >10 kts on the mighty flood current to entering the broad waters of Long Island Sound, waters I have not sailed in almost 15 years,
..........IT HAS BEEN A WEEK!
I promise to give narrative and photographs to all of this. Right now, words fail me.
..........AND WHAT A WEEK IT HAS BEEN!
......... from turning Whisper into a sailboat again after transiting the Erie Canal, to a magic carpet ride down the Hudson River;
......from celebrating the qaudricentennial of Henry Hudson's voyage up the river in 1609 (not much has changed) to a wonderful visit with the daughter who is working to preserve the river's natural beauty;
.......from encountering mighty ships and tugboats with barges and megayachts and ferry boats and water taxis and all the hustle and bustle that is Manhattan to having a spinchter tightening moment when a group of kayakers decides they have right of way over everyone......YIKES!;
.......from anchoring behind (right behind) the Statue of Liberty, seeing Lady Liberty in the last rays of sunset and the first pink light of dawn, watching Manhattan shake off the dark of night of night;
........From being swept up the East River through Hell's Gate at >10 kts on the mighty flood current to entering the broad waters of Long Island Sound, waters I have not sailed in almost 15 years,
..........IT HAS BEEN A WEEK!
I promise to give narrative and photographs to all of this. Right now, words fail me.
..........AND WHAT A WEEK IT HAS BEEN!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
River Travel as a Metaphor
I am coming to see river travel by small, slow sailboat as a metaphor.
There is limitless beauty, grand and subtle, for eyes open to see. There are hazards to be negotiated, some for which you can prepare, others you cannot.
You learn to work with the currents and to find safe haven when currents are adverse.
Conscious thought must be given to the impact of your boat's wake on denizens of the river, and what your boat leaves in its wake, both the products and byproducts of life.
Discovery awaits at every turn. Small towns time has passed by and residents happily protecting a way of life. Friends yet to be who welcome with open smiles and helping hands.
And ultimately you will be delivered to the great, salty sea, infinitessimal in its vastness , with boundless possibility, overwhelming vulnerability.
Yet I am reminded of the world's great and pressing commerce racing by on all sides by truck and train and automobile, and I give thanks for these moments on the river and for the eyes given me to see to sea.
There is limitless beauty, grand and subtle, for eyes open to see. There are hazards to be negotiated, some for which you can prepare, others you cannot.
You learn to work with the currents and to find safe haven when currents are adverse.
Conscious thought must be given to the impact of your boat's wake on denizens of the river, and what your boat leaves in its wake, both the products and byproducts of life.
Discovery awaits at every turn. Small towns time has passed by and residents happily protecting a way of life. Friends yet to be who welcome with open smiles and helping hands.
And ultimately you will be delivered to the great, salty sea, infinitessimal in its vastness , with boundless possibility, overwhelming vulnerability.
Yet I am reminded of the world's great and pressing commerce racing by on all sides by truck and train and automobile, and I give thanks for these moments on the river and for the eyes given me to see to sea.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Searching for Bargains
Many, perhaps most, sailors are workaday folks always looking for new, better, less expensive ways to pursue their passion. This is especially true in the cruising community.
The boating industry operates on the assumption that we are all bottomless pits of cash. So, whenever cruisers collect on the docks to compare notes the subject of ways to economize is a conversation topic.
Among the great bargains in the boating world is the New York State Canal System which charges a mere $37.50 for a 1o day pass through the locks and $75 for the whole season. For sailboat owners, getting the mast down and back up again is a major source of anxiety.
Oswego Marine, adjacent to the Lake Ontario entre to the Canal System charges a mere $2 per mast foot to step and unstep masts. You do most of the work yourself, but an experienced crane operator makes it possible for one person to do the job.
The really great bargain, however, is the Castleton Boat Club in Castleton On Hudson, NY. A mooring costs $5/night and $50 gives you use of the crane, albeit a slow, creaky affair but it works, and the docks for rigging work. This is a cheerful place with friendly, helpful people and hot, clean showers. By coordinating with fellow cruisers, we arrived as a group and helped each other set up their rigs.
Castleton on Hudson is one of those towns time has passed by. The main street is a collection of crumbling architectural gems on the riverfront. Several times each hour, Amtrak trains come roaring through at frightening speed. But a little vision and input of capital could pull this town back from the brink. Do we need another tourist destination? Maybe an artists colony?
Today we motley group of sailors resumes our downriver journey, able to sail when wind and water favor it, all glad to have reclaimed our status as sailboats.
The boating industry operates on the assumption that we are all bottomless pits of cash. So, whenever cruisers collect on the docks to compare notes the subject of ways to economize is a conversation topic.
Among the great bargains in the boating world is the New York State Canal System which charges a mere $37.50 for a 1o day pass through the locks and $75 for the whole season. For sailboat owners, getting the mast down and back up again is a major source of anxiety.
Oswego Marine, adjacent to the Lake Ontario entre to the Canal System charges a mere $2 per mast foot to step and unstep masts. You do most of the work yourself, but an experienced crane operator makes it possible for one person to do the job.
The really great bargain, however, is the Castleton Boat Club in Castleton On Hudson, NY. A mooring costs $5/night and $50 gives you use of the crane, albeit a slow, creaky affair but it works, and the docks for rigging work. This is a cheerful place with friendly, helpful people and hot, clean showers. By coordinating with fellow cruisers, we arrived as a group and helped each other set up their rigs.
Castleton on Hudson is one of those towns time has passed by. The main street is a collection of crumbling architectural gems on the riverfront. Several times each hour, Amtrak trains come roaring through at frightening speed. But a little vision and input of capital could pull this town back from the brink. Do we need another tourist destination? Maybe an artists colony?
Today we motley group of sailors resumes our downriver journey, able to sail when wind and water favor it, all glad to have reclaimed our status as sailboats.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Whisper Touches Tidewater
After the dash through the Erie Canal an entire group of cruisers tied above Lock 3 in Waterford, NY for a day of rest, repair and taking advantage of the Tugboat Rally.......Who doesn't love a tugboat?
This morning, almost en masse, this same group of cruisers locked the rest of the way down the mountain to the Hudson River. After having most of the Erie locks all to myself, I was faced with having to keep her from ramming multi-million dollar power yachts handled badly.
Powerboats are proof positive that there's no correlation between money and brains. All you need is a well padded checkbook, full fuel tanks and an ignition key. Not to proselytize, but when a powerboat stops in the lock exit to take in his fenders when poor little Whisper, sans brakes, is struggling to maintain steerage. Bitch bitch bitch.........
But Whisper made it through safely, more a testament to luck than any boat handling skill on my part. And with a huge sigh of relief we exited the last lock into the broad, deep waters of the Hudson River. Hence there aren't many pictures. I was too damned busy.
We are now holed up downriver from Albany waiting our turn in line to get Whisper's mast up making her a sailboat again.
This morning, almost en masse, this same group of cruisers locked the rest of the way down the mountain to the Hudson River. After having most of the Erie locks all to myself, I was faced with having to keep her from ramming multi-million dollar power yachts handled badly.
Powerboats are proof positive that there's no correlation between money and brains. All you need is a well padded checkbook, full fuel tanks and an ignition key. Not to proselytize, but when a powerboat stops in the lock exit to take in his fenders when poor little Whisper, sans brakes, is struggling to maintain steerage. Bitch bitch bitch.........
But Whisper made it through safely, more a testament to luck than any boat handling skill on my part. And with a huge sigh of relief we exited the last lock into the broad, deep waters of the Hudson River. Hence there aren't many pictures. I was too damned busy.
We are now holed up downriver from Albany waiting our turn in line to get Whisper's mast up making her a sailboat again.
Friday, September 11, 2009
So Near Yet.......
Whisper was underway at first light this morning, her skipper filled with anticipation of a hot shower and ice cubes for his libations from the Waterford, NY Maritime Visitors Center. Alas, it was not to be. A tugboat rally in Waterford, at the intersection of the Hudson River has closed the Visitor's Center docks to pleasure boats. So here we sit at Lock 3, the skipper feeling pretty gamey.
Lock 3 is 2/3 of the way 'down the mountain' in a series of 34' "flight locks". They are called flight locks because it is like going down a staircase, one lock right after the other. The locks must be synchronized in such a way that walls of water from the upper locks don't overwhelm the lower locks.
At least the rain is washing some of the accumulated lock wall slime from Whisper's decks. I may go stand out in the rain, nude with a bar of soap. Maybe I'll wait till after dark to do that.
Below are some pictures from the last few days of canal travel. Enjoy.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Eastern Erie Canal
September 9
Eastbound on the ‘downslope’ from the Oneida region the character of the Erie Canal begins to change. In this area the canal becomes confluent with the Mohawk River. The natural river meanders on and through the canal.
Among the hazards to navigation are trees, some quite large, in various stages of submersion which one must be alert for. Hitting a submerged log, known as a deadhead, end on could do significant damage to a boat.
Other hazards include shoaling causing dredging crews to be at work constantly. The dredges themselves can pose challenges as was the case today when a small cruise ship was maneuvering upbound as Whisper was threading the needle downbound. Guess who won!
As the canal descends into the Mohawk Valley there are a number of places where the canal is above the surrounding landscape, requiring locks to raise and lower boats in steps. The biggest step is Lock 17 which, at 40’ elevation change, rivals the locks of the Welland Canal.
Approaching Lock 17 the canal becomes a channel through solid granite, traversing a mountainside above the city of Little Falls. One begins to appreciate the elevation change when you go from 4 – 5 story buildings whose ground floors are at canal level to seeing over the rooftops of similar sized buildings downstream.
Another feature of Lock 17 is that its east door raises up, allowing you to pass under, instead of opening and closing like a set French doors as at other locks.
Speaking of French, my traveling companions today are from Toulouse, traveling towards the Caribbean on a multi-million dollar Beneteau motor yacht. They speak very little English, creating problems for the lock masters and for me as I maneuver around them. Whisper is not the most maneuverable of boats which they did not seem to appreciate. But they redeemed themselves in the form of a pleasant glass of wine and limited conversation, my French being worse than their English.
Deeper into the Mohawk Valley the canal and the river become a single broad highway, the hills rising higher on each side. This would be truly lovely except that one side of the narrow valley is dominated by the NY State Thruway while the other side is a major east-west rail freight corridor. The sounds of traffic and trains echo from the hillsides destroying the illusion of peace and serenity.
To put things in some perspective: The cars on the NY State Thruway can travel in 5 minutes the distance Whisper travels in an hour. In an hour, those same vehicles will have traveled farther than Whisper can travel in a long, hard day underway. But I am seeing the things they miss. I am being given a lesson in American history and geography the likes of which few ever experience.
The railroad must be a major east west trunk line, as every few minutes heavy freights pass, going in both directions. Some of these trains are several miles long carrying containers stacked 2 high. On the highway opposite is an endless stream of 18 wheelers, a disproportionate number being Wal Mart trucks. Recessionary times do not seem to have slowed the wheels of commerce.
As Whisper approaches the intersection of the Erie Canal and the Hudson River she is faced with the Flight Locks, a series of 5 locks that, in less than 2 miles will drop her 190 feet. This is the highest drop over the shortest distance of any canal in the world. I will admit to being intimidated. But after transiting over 30 locks without mishap, I suspect we will survive these as well.
From there it is on down the Hudson River and a visit with my daughter Kit. That will be a most welcome interlude.
Eastbound on the ‘downslope’ from the Oneida region the character of the Erie Canal begins to change. In this area the canal becomes confluent with the Mohawk River. The natural river meanders on and through the canal.
Among the hazards to navigation are trees, some quite large, in various stages of submersion which one must be alert for. Hitting a submerged log, known as a deadhead, end on could do significant damage to a boat.
Other hazards include shoaling causing dredging crews to be at work constantly. The dredges themselves can pose challenges as was the case today when a small cruise ship was maneuvering upbound as Whisper was threading the needle downbound. Guess who won!
As the canal descends into the Mohawk Valley there are a number of places where the canal is above the surrounding landscape, requiring locks to raise and lower boats in steps. The biggest step is Lock 17 which, at 40’ elevation change, rivals the locks of the Welland Canal.
Approaching Lock 17 the canal becomes a channel through solid granite, traversing a mountainside above the city of Little Falls. One begins to appreciate the elevation change when you go from 4 – 5 story buildings whose ground floors are at canal level to seeing over the rooftops of similar sized buildings downstream.
Another feature of Lock 17 is that its east door raises up, allowing you to pass under, instead of opening and closing like a set French doors as at other locks.
Speaking of French, my traveling companions today are from Toulouse, traveling towards the Caribbean on a multi-million dollar Beneteau motor yacht. They speak very little English, creating problems for the lock masters and for me as I maneuver around them. Whisper is not the most maneuverable of boats which they did not seem to appreciate. But they redeemed themselves in the form of a pleasant glass of wine and limited conversation, my French being worse than their English.
Deeper into the Mohawk Valley the canal and the river become a single broad highway, the hills rising higher on each side. This would be truly lovely except that one side of the narrow valley is dominated by the NY State Thruway while the other side is a major east-west rail freight corridor. The sounds of traffic and trains echo from the hillsides destroying the illusion of peace and serenity.
To put things in some perspective: The cars on the NY State Thruway can travel in 5 minutes the distance Whisper travels in an hour. In an hour, those same vehicles will have traveled farther than Whisper can travel in a long, hard day underway. But I am seeing the things they miss. I am being given a lesson in American history and geography the likes of which few ever experience.
The railroad must be a major east west trunk line, as every few minutes heavy freights pass, going in both directions. Some of these trains are several miles long carrying containers stacked 2 high. On the highway opposite is an endless stream of 18 wheelers, a disproportionate number being Wal Mart trucks. Recessionary times do not seem to have slowed the wheels of commerce.
As Whisper approaches the intersection of the Erie Canal and the Hudson River she is faced with the Flight Locks, a series of 5 locks that, in less than 2 miles will drop her 190 feet. This is the highest drop over the shortest distance of any canal in the world. I will admit to being intimidated. But after transiting over 30 locks without mishap, I suspect we will survive these as well.
From there it is on down the Hudson River and a visit with my daughter Kit. That will be a most welcome interlude.
Wildlife
Wildlife – September 9, 2009
One of the joys of traveling by sailboat is intimate contact with wildlife. You travel slowly and quietly, with natural movements allowing both proximity and time to appreciate. The Great Lakes and connecting waterways are a paradise for birders, fishermen and wildlife lovers in general.
Among the perquisites this trip has delivered is learning the language of ducks. In particular, the morning voice of mother ducks trying to round up their ducklings for the day’s training, getting their ducks in a row if you will.
At first light, the mother duck will begin with a quack reminiscent of army drill sergeants. It is a basso profundo quack with a definite grumpy quality, repeated at 5 -7 second intervals until the troops are in formation.
If that doesn’t work, said mother drill sergeant will let fly a flurry of expletive quacks starting a high C and ending with a B flat, emphasis on FLAT. This will be repeated with much flapping of wings and general complaining until the ducklings have moved out as a unit with military precision.
Then there are the geese. Canada geese, like fungi, are ubiquitous in northern waters. It’s difficult to believe they were once on the endangered species list. These noisome creatures are notable for their effluvium, making mockery of boater’s marine sanitation devices. Goose excrement, like geese, is everywhere.
And if, as many paleontologists believe, birds are descended from the dinosaurs, one would deduce that herbivorous dinosaurs were NOT the benign, placid creatures of the Pleistocene. If, like geese, they were aggressively territorial, one can only assume that T-rex had his claws full trying to get a meal.
Maritime visitors included a bumblebee who dropped to Whisper’s deck about 8 miles from land, poor little fella. Exhausted, he curled up in a ball and went to sleep. For several hours he didn’t exhibit any signs of life. In fact I thought he was dead. I had to exercise great care moving about the deck to not disturb him.
After what seemed an eternity he stirred, first one antenna, then a wing, then he shook himself off and stood up. After giving me a good look up and down, he rose into the air, circled once as if to say thanks and took off for God knows where. I worried for his safety. Could he have reached land? Doubtful, but what could I have done for a bee at sea?
The canals have provided ample wildlife encounters as well. As mentioned in other posts, floating wood debris are a hazard in the Erie Canal. One stick, however, seemed to be moving contrary to the current. As Whisper turned, the stick turned too. I went forward for a closer look, my first thought being water snake or perhaps eel. What I saw was a squirrel, eyes bulging in terror, swimming with all his might across the canal. What would motivate a squirrel to cross the canal? Is one side more desirable than the other? Was there something, a Mrs. Squirrel perhaps, that he was trying to escape? Whisper slowed, letting the squirrel pass ahead, no canal kill for dinner.
An overpowering message of this trip is the ability of nature to recover, to overcome the insults of man. The environmental movement has certainly helped to rid the Great Lakes of pesticides like DDT and other forms of pollution. Control of development has allowed reclamation of vast areas of shoreline. Nature herself is a powerful force and, if given a chance, she can heal the earth from wounds we have inflicted. If only we will allow that.
One of the joys of traveling by sailboat is intimate contact with wildlife. You travel slowly and quietly, with natural movements allowing both proximity and time to appreciate. The Great Lakes and connecting waterways are a paradise for birders, fishermen and wildlife lovers in general.
Among the perquisites this trip has delivered is learning the language of ducks. In particular, the morning voice of mother ducks trying to round up their ducklings for the day’s training, getting their ducks in a row if you will.
At first light, the mother duck will begin with a quack reminiscent of army drill sergeants. It is a basso profundo quack with a definite grumpy quality, repeated at 5 -7 second intervals until the troops are in formation.
If that doesn’t work, said mother drill sergeant will let fly a flurry of expletive quacks starting a high C and ending with a B flat, emphasis on FLAT. This will be repeated with much flapping of wings and general complaining until the ducklings have moved out as a unit with military precision.
Then there are the geese. Canada geese, like fungi, are ubiquitous in northern waters. It’s difficult to believe they were once on the endangered species list. These noisome creatures are notable for their effluvium, making mockery of boater’s marine sanitation devices. Goose excrement, like geese, is everywhere.
And if, as many paleontologists believe, birds are descended from the dinosaurs, one would deduce that herbivorous dinosaurs were NOT the benign, placid creatures of the Pleistocene. If, like geese, they were aggressively territorial, one can only assume that T-rex had his claws full trying to get a meal.
Maritime visitors included a bumblebee who dropped to Whisper’s deck about 8 miles from land, poor little fella. Exhausted, he curled up in a ball and went to sleep. For several hours he didn’t exhibit any signs of life. In fact I thought he was dead. I had to exercise great care moving about the deck to not disturb him.
After what seemed an eternity he stirred, first one antenna, then a wing, then he shook himself off and stood up. After giving me a good look up and down, he rose into the air, circled once as if to say thanks and took off for God knows where. I worried for his safety. Could he have reached land? Doubtful, but what could I have done for a bee at sea?
The canals have provided ample wildlife encounters as well. As mentioned in other posts, floating wood debris are a hazard in the Erie Canal. One stick, however, seemed to be moving contrary to the current. As Whisper turned, the stick turned too. I went forward for a closer look, my first thought being water snake or perhaps eel. What I saw was a squirrel, eyes bulging in terror, swimming with all his might across the canal. What would motivate a squirrel to cross the canal? Is one side more desirable than the other? Was there something, a Mrs. Squirrel perhaps, that he was trying to escape? Whisper slowed, letting the squirrel pass ahead, no canal kill for dinner.
An overpowering message of this trip is the ability of nature to recover, to overcome the insults of man. The environmental movement has certainly helped to rid the Great Lakes of pesticides like DDT and other forms of pollution. Control of development has allowed reclamation of vast areas of shoreline. Nature herself is a powerful force and, if given a chance, she can heal the earth from wounds we have inflicted. If only we will allow that.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
14 Days on the Erie Canal
After transiting the Welland Canal with the help of experienced crew I had nightmares about tackling the Oswego and Erie Canals by myself. But the locks are smaller, the lifts and drops gentler and there aren't any massive ships to squish little boats like Whisper. That said, I was grateful when a friend from Maine who had always wanted to travel the Erie Canal volunteered for part of the trip. It made getting Whisper stopped on the lock walls ever so much easier.
I have been struck by how rural the Erie Canal is. Passing through large towns like Rome and Utica, there is very little evidence of humanity. The canal's bygone commercial vitality has receded into the forest, replaced only by pleasure craft.
A pleasant feature of canal travel is the geniality of the lockmasters. Each lock is tended by one person. Most of them are cheerful, only too glad to have someone to talk with.
There is free tie-up at most of the locks and in some towns, but services are limited. Tie-up is usually to a concrete wall. Electricity is available at some piers, but drinking water is scarce and showers even harder to come by. Whisper's skipper is about ready to jump in the canal with a bar of soap. I may just spray myself with cologne and adopt a French accent.
Whisper has come up and over the peak of the Erie Canal and we are now locking down towards the Hudson River, some 85 miles to the east. From there, as a sailboat once again, Whisper will transit some 150 miles of the Hudson River with planned arrival in NYC in the 3rd week of September.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Arguing with God
As most of you know by now, this voyage was undertaken to clear my head of accumulated trash, replacing it with higher order thought. To that end, God and I have been arguing quite a bit. Rather I've been arguing, God hasn't been saying much. Or maybe I'm just not hearing.
Now I come from a family of arguers. If arguing were an Olympic sport there would be multiple medallists in my lineage. And, in case the IOC ever recognizes argumentation as an athletic discipline, we have steadfastly maintained our amateur status. There's not a lawyer in the whole damned bunch!!
Heaven forbid that any of us become professionally trained in argument, e.g. litigation! No, we wouldn't want to sully ourselves with filthy lucre in that way.
In fact, filthy lucre, or wealth of any kind seems to have pretty much escaped the grasp of me and my siblings. That was fine for my parents' generation. Most of our forebears were teachers or preachers, professions where poverty carries a certain dignity, almost a cache'.
But I digress.
Thoreau was likely correct when he said "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation." I, on the other hand, have chosen a more active form of desperation. When everything is going just fine, I'll find a way to upset the apple cart. At least it keeps life interesting.
But then, Hank (Henry David Thoreau) didn't take the advice of his buddy Wally (Ralph Waldo Emerson) who kept saying 'Hank, too much solitude ain't good for a guy' or words to that effect. They talked funny back then.
But solitude, lack of internet access and not one shred of NPR news for a month or so really does clear the mind. Mine is now a blank slate, fertile ground for inspiration. Let's hope it's inspiration that strikes. Remember what Ben (Franklin) said: "An idle mind is the devil's playground."
Now I come from a family of arguers. If arguing were an Olympic sport there would be multiple medallists in my lineage. And, in case the IOC ever recognizes argumentation as an athletic discipline, we have steadfastly maintained our amateur status. There's not a lawyer in the whole damned bunch!!
Heaven forbid that any of us become professionally trained in argument, e.g. litigation! No, we wouldn't want to sully ourselves with filthy lucre in that way.
In fact, filthy lucre, or wealth of any kind seems to have pretty much escaped the grasp of me and my siblings. That was fine for my parents' generation. Most of our forebears were teachers or preachers, professions where poverty carries a certain dignity, almost a cache'.
But I digress.
Thoreau was likely correct when he said "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation." I, on the other hand, have chosen a more active form of desperation. When everything is going just fine, I'll find a way to upset the apple cart. At least it keeps life interesting.
But then, Hank (Henry David Thoreau) didn't take the advice of his buddy Wally (Ralph Waldo Emerson) who kept saying 'Hank, too much solitude ain't good for a guy' or words to that effect. They talked funny back then.
But solitude, lack of internet access and not one shred of NPR news for a month or so really does clear the mind. Mine is now a blank slate, fertile ground for inspiration. Let's hope it's inspiration that strikes. Remember what Ben (Franklin) said: "An idle mind is the devil's playground."
The Skipper Spills His Coffee
Yesterday, September 4, Whisper became a motorboat. Actually we had had to motor from Sacket's Harbor, that bastion of 1812 glory
, to Oswego as, what little wind there was, was smack on Whisper's nose. That said, the mast was still up and sails were still on. She was still, technically, a sailboat. Now her mast is lashed on deck, her sails stowed and her only means of motivation is diesel fuelled.
, to Oswego as, what little wind there was, was smack on Whisper's nose. That said, the mast was still up and sails were still on. She was still, technically, a sailboat. Now her mast is lashed on deck, her sails stowed and her only means of motivation is diesel fuelled. Ever eager to make distance east, I was up before dawn making final preparations to enter the Oswego canal en route to the eastern portion of the Erie Canal.
Promptly at 0700h I radioed the Oswego lock master to 
let me through lock 8. His response: You'll have to wait while I empty the lock. So I put Whisper in a circle, motoring dead slow and we wandered just outside the main channel.
let me through lock 8. His response: You'll have to wait while I empty the lock. So I put Whisper in a circle, motoring dead slow and we wandered just outside the main channel.Suddenly Whisper stopped dead in the water with a thud, spilling my coffee and shattering my morning calm. The depth sounder read 13 feet under the keel. So my first words of the new day, spoken rather LOUDLY, were "What the f*#k?" Good morning Oswego!
I had checked the chart the previous evening for depths on the seawalls looking for the best place to tie up. What I didn't see were those tiny little stars, mid-harbor, that signify rocks......a whole string of them. My eyesight just ain't what it used to be!
Fortunately Whisper slid off easily. There were no sounds of crunching fiberglass and no water entering the hull. So I continued through the Oswego Canal. With apologies to Matt Maurer who did such an amazing job fairing Whisper's bottom and keel in 2008, I'll do a proper damage assessment when I find water clear enough to swim in.
As I write this, Whisper is docked in Phoenix, NY adjacent to all the yachtsmen enjoying Labor Day week-end on the river and a genial Canadian couple making their way south for the winter.
Tomorrow Whisper enters the Erie Canal at the junction of the Oneida, Oswego and Seneca Rivers. From there we transit the length of Lake Oneida and 160 miles to Troy, NY.
The leaves are just starting to turn color, but I do not think we'll see fall in its full glory on the Hudson River. It's almost enough to make me stop and wait a couple weeks, but reality is starting to assert herself. The push is on.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Crisis at Sea
Oh my God!!!! The worst has happened!!
It was bad enough when the ice ran out. Then the limes ran out, followed shortly by the tonic. As we drink the cheapest of vodka aboard Whisper we were just NOT enjoying this. But as sailors will, we made do. Think of it as drinking VERY dry martinis.
But then the unthinkable! Whisper's larder ran out of ketchup!!!
Had you grown up on my mother's cooking, a la spaghetti from a can, you would know that food is merely a vehicle for ketchup.
The only truly inspired moment of the Reagan years was when ketchup was deemed, for school lunch programs, a vegetable.
Ketchup is one of the four major food groups, the others being pasta, alcohol and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
On arrival in Oswego, Whisper's skipper immediately set out to remedy the grog and ketchup situations........What did he find instead? A farmer's market with tons of fresh produce!
Go figger! When the skipper wants fresh produce he finds liquor. When he wants liquor he finds fresh produce. So what did he do? He bought corn and tomatoes and peaches and plums and onions and peppers and goat cheese and ..............
If we are to be denied ketchup at least we'll feast!
Life aboard Whisper is good.
It was bad enough when the ice ran out. Then the limes ran out, followed shortly by the tonic. As we drink the cheapest of vodka aboard Whisper we were just NOT enjoying this. But as sailors will, we made do. Think of it as drinking VERY dry martinis.
But then the unthinkable! Whisper's larder ran out of ketchup!!!
Had you grown up on my mother's cooking, a la spaghetti from a can, you would know that food is merely a vehicle for ketchup.
The only truly inspired moment of the Reagan years was when ketchup was deemed, for school lunch programs, a vegetable.
Ketchup is one of the four major food groups, the others being pasta, alcohol and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
On arrival in Oswego, Whisper's skipper immediately set out to remedy the grog and ketchup situations........What did he find instead? A farmer's market with tons of fresh produce!
Go figger! When the skipper wants fresh produce he finds liquor. When he wants liquor he finds fresh produce. So what did he do? He bought corn and tomatoes and peaches and plums and onions and peppers and goat cheese and ..............
If we are to be denied ketchup at least we'll feast!
Life aboard Whisper is good.
A Week Of Milestones
Thank you to those who e-mailed expressing concern for Whisper's safety (and mine) and for the kind words of encouragement.
The north shore of Lake Ontario east of Cobourg is very rural. There was neither cell phone access nor internet connectivity for much of the time Whisper traversed those waters. But what a time it was!
Starting with Cobourg, which bills itself as "Ontario's Feel Good Place": I found a town that has revitalized itself, though on a Sunday morning it was pretty sleepy. The coffee shops didn't even open until 9 a.m. But the marina management stationed a young man with a coffee pot at the dockhead, and he gamely sat there in the rain dispensing the elixir of the gods.
From Cobourg, Whisper made way for the tiny outpost of Presqu'ille at the outlet into Lake Ontario of the Trent Severn Waterway, a system of rivers, lakes and canals connecting Georgian Bay (Lake Huron) to Lake Ontario. I would have loved to take that route, but the limiting draft is 5 feet and Whisper draws 6. It's a paradise for powerboaters.
Presqu'ille is the third such named town on our route. Whisper also anchored off Long Point one night and a different Long Point the next. Two of my favorite place names were the Palen Bank and Penninsula Point. Of the former, I thought it apropos to name a hazard to navigation after Alaska's now deposed governor......I suspect there are some Republicans who would agree. For the latter, enough said. It seems the fur trappers and lakes traders were not too imaginative when it came to place names.
Whisper's tour of the Thousand Islands region culminated in Sacket's Harbor, NY famous for its battle in the War of 1812 and now a small outpost of tourism at the outlet to the St. Lawrence River.
The Thousand Islands (I didn't count them) region is rich with opportunities for exploration and beauty befitting its reputation. This is a sailor's paradise. I could happily have spent weeks exploring.
It was with great regret that I turned Whisper's transom on the St. Lawrence and headed south to Oswego, NY and our entrance to the New York State canal system. Whisper has transited the Panama Canal, the Suez Canal and now the Welland. She will now add the Erie Canal to her list of waterways.
As for milestones this week:
a) We (Whisper and I) celebrated 1 month underway from Racine. A wistful celebration at best.
b) We passed the 1000 mile mark on our eastbound course.
c) We have now exceeded 1400 miles total travel......Sailboats often cannot go from Point A to Point B in a straight line, and sometimes cruising sailboats must go by way of Penninsula Point.
d) We weathered our first major crisis......but that's another post.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
There Be Dragons
During my brief stay at the Olcott Yacht Club I was given a guided tour of the St. Lawrence Seaway to the Atlantic Ocean by people who have sailed that region. The distances alone were awesome, but the tales of fall weather in Gulf of the St. Lawrence gave me indigestion.
On the strength of their advice, I chose to take the southern route via the Oswego River to the Erie Canal. This bought some time for cruising the north shore of Lake Ontario into the Thousand Islands region. As we had raced past the North Channel and Georgian Bay portions of Lake Huron, I was eager to partake of Lake Ontario's gems.
As if to make the point for prudence, Lake Ontario delivered a roundhouse punch. The forecast, on leaving Olcott bound for Cobourg, Ontario was for 20 kt winds, gusting to 25 kts with seas of 1 - 2 meters. What we experienced was winds of 25 - 30 kts with seas of 2 - 4 meters, breaking.
Breaking waves are what surfers dream about. They are a nightmare for sailors. Waves break when they become steep, a la nearly vertical.
For 8 hours Whisper fought to make headway into these monsters under double reefed mainsail and a fraction of her genoa. Her skipper came to regret the breakfast of greasy eggs and toast as he tried to find safe harbor on the north shore of Lake Ontario deep enough to accomodate Whisper's 6 foot draft.
We have been working east for this entire trip, and every mile made good has been work. It broke my heart to ease sheets and make off for safe harbor in Oshawa, Ontario, losing at least 20 miles of easting.
The weather gods had spoken. Whisper's skipper had hit a wall. Good seamanship and common sense dictated seeking safe shelter.
Oshawa is a tiny, industrial port. But it has deep water and a sheltered anchorage. We were only too glad to drop the hook and wait for a fair chance along.
On the strength of their advice, I chose to take the southern route via the Oswego River to the Erie Canal. This bought some time for cruising the north shore of Lake Ontario into the Thousand Islands region. As we had raced past the North Channel and Georgian Bay portions of Lake Huron, I was eager to partake of Lake Ontario's gems.
As if to make the point for prudence, Lake Ontario delivered a roundhouse punch. The forecast, on leaving Olcott bound for Cobourg, Ontario was for 20 kt winds, gusting to 25 kts with seas of 1 - 2 meters. What we experienced was winds of 25 - 30 kts with seas of 2 - 4 meters, breaking.
Breaking waves are what surfers dream about. They are a nightmare for sailors. Waves break when they become steep, a la nearly vertical.
For 8 hours Whisper fought to make headway into these monsters under double reefed mainsail and a fraction of her genoa. Her skipper came to regret the breakfast of greasy eggs and toast as he tried to find safe harbor on the north shore of Lake Ontario deep enough to accomodate Whisper's 6 foot draft.
We have been working east for this entire trip, and every mile made good has been work. It broke my heart to ease sheets and make off for safe harbor in Oshawa, Ontario, losing at least 20 miles of easting.
The weather gods had spoken. Whisper's skipper had hit a wall. Good seamanship and common sense dictated seeking safe shelter.
Oshawa is a tiny, industrial port. But it has deep water and a sheltered anchorage. We were only too glad to drop the hook and wait for a fair chance along.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Yacht Clubs
One of the great, Corinthian traditions is reciprocity among yacht clubs wherein the facilities of the club are made available to visiting yachtsmen in transit.
This has been a godsend to Whisper along our way. We have enjoyed the hospitality of some truly fine yacht clubs, but none better than that afforded us by the Olcott Yacht Club in Olcott, NY.
Upon arrival at sunset Whisper was directed to a secure slip by no fewer than four members who took lines, fended off, made fast and, with a hearty handshake invited the skipper for a drink.
As it turned out, a member at Olcott was a former member of the Racine Yacht Club. We enjoyed a fine evening getting him caught up on the comings and goings in Racine. In turn, he and his colleagues at the bar gave great advice for cruising Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence Seaway.
Like RYC, Olcott Yacht Club is a hands on kind of place. Without the hard work of the members the club could not exist. With that hard work comes true ownership. The club is not just a place to go, rather it is a place to "be". And in company of Olcott Yacht Club's members I found myself among friends. A pleasant interlude in a solitary cruise.
This has been a godsend to Whisper along our way. We have enjoyed the hospitality of some truly fine yacht clubs, but none better than that afforded us by the Olcott Yacht Club in Olcott, NY.
Upon arrival at sunset Whisper was directed to a secure slip by no fewer than four members who took lines, fended off, made fast and, with a hearty handshake invited the skipper for a drink.
As it turned out, a member at Olcott was a former member of the Racine Yacht Club. We enjoyed a fine evening getting him caught up on the comings and goings in Racine. In turn, he and his colleagues at the bar gave great advice for cruising Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence Seaway.
Like RYC, Olcott Yacht Club is a hands on kind of place. Without the hard work of the members the club could not exist. With that hard work comes true ownership. The club is not just a place to go, rather it is a place to "be". And in company of Olcott Yacht Club's members I found myself among friends. A pleasant interlude in a solitary cruise.
Canadians
I have observed that Canadians are a generally affable lot, friendly, polite, helpful. They seem to enjoy life.
Or, maybe, after a month at sea (or lake as the case may be) I have become more affable.
One hopes for both.
Or, maybe, after a month at sea (or lake as the case may be) I have become more affable.
One hopes for both.
Welland Canal
Today, August 26, finds me content letting Whisper loaf along at 3 kts on a broad reach up the NY shore of Lake Ontario. Off the starboard beam is the mouth of the Niagara River, the plume of the Falls rising above the distant hills. Ahead and to starboard is a sea of sails, the Shark Class world championships, a far cry from the leisurely sailing I am enjoying.To port and astern is the skyline of Toronto, beckoning me with its cosmopolitan modernity to abandon my days in the wilderness of North America's commercial shipping lanes. But I will not be tempted!
Dammit! Darn! Geez that all looks inviting.
Yesterday we transited that engineering marvel, the Welland Canal, built to convey ships up and down the Niagara Escarpment, a vertical drop of some 275 feet over 23 miles. I had entered the Canal at 0630 on the 24th with visions of Whisper being squished like a bug against some concrete berm by one of the steel leviathans that ply these waters. It felt like leading one of my children to the gates of hell.
Instead we waited! And waited! And waited some
Yesterday we transited that engineering marvel, the Welland Canal, built to convey ships up and down the Niagara Escarpment, a vertical drop of some 275 feet over 23 miles. I had entered the Canal at 0630 on the 24th with visions of Whisper being squished like a bug against some concrete berm by one of the steel leviathans that ply these waters. It felt like leading one of my children to the gates of hell.Instead we waited! And waited! And waited some
more as one ship after another transited upbound and down. We waited while technical difficulties, the result of interfacing 21st century electronic automation with 19th century hydraulic engineering, were sorted out. And we waited for the capricious controllers of the system to decide that these pesky pleasure craft could have a turn.
Finally, at 1430 we were underway. I had had to hire a crew for the
transit, a jovial Canadian, retired GM worker who supplements his income by helping shorthanded sailors like me through the canal. Norm Samuel is a wonder of patience, good humour, advice and, most of all, knowledge of the canal. This became invaluable as day turned into night and the maze of lights became a blur.
Finally, at 1430 we were underway. I had had to hire a crew for the
transit, a jovial Canadian, retired GM worker who supplements his income by helping shorthanded sailors like me through the canal. Norm Samuel is a wonder of patience, good humour, advice and, most of all, knowledge of the canal. This became invaluable as day turned into night and the maze of lights became a blur.
He also turned out to be an expert line handler, ensuring that Whisper held her place as each lock dropped us nearly 40 feet. It is quite a strange thing to see the top of your mast below the level of the lock walls, the walls stretching skyward as a concrete and steel canyon.Finally, after 19 hours of waiting and transit time, Whisper docked against a rough concrete quay. Her skipper perfunctorily checked mooring lines, set fenders, secured the decks and fell into the sleep of the dead.
Under a torrential downpour, Whisper's daybreak
was punctuated by roiling turbulence as two giant Lakers (Great Lakes freight hauling ships) churned the channel mere yards from Whisper's dockage. One upbound, one bound down, their only concern was for avoiding each other and the canal bottom. Not a thought was given to Whisper or her bleary eyed skipper.
So, in the rain I came topside to reposition Whisper, ensure all was well on deck before retiring to a gallon of coffee, a good book and a breakfast of eggs scrambled with onions, peppers and cheese.
So, in the rain I came topside to reposition Whisper, ensure all was well on deck before retiring to a gallon of coffee, a good book and a breakfast of eggs scrambled with onions, peppers and cheese.
By noon it had begun to clear with a light breeze from the NW. Gingerly Whispere poked her bow into Lake Ontario where I, too tired to make full sail, set the genoa, put her on a reach for the NY shore and retired below for more coffee.
Time for another scan of the horizon. Are we on course? Yes. Are we clear of all obstacles? Yes. Good. All is well as Whisper makes her way east.
Evening found us in search of safe harbor, one deep enough for Whisper to tuck into and protected from the easterlies predicted to blow in tonight. A lee shore is no place to lie exposed. So we tucked into Olcott, NY at sunset only to be met by the pleasant and hospitable folks of the Olcott Yacht Club. More on that later.
Time for another scan of the horizon. Are we on course? Yes. Are we clear of all obstacles? Yes. Good. All is well as Whisper makes her way east.
Evening found us in search of safe harbor, one deep enough for Whisper to tuck into and protected from the easterlies predicted to blow in tonight. A lee shore is no place to lie exposed. So we tucked into Olcott, NY at sunset only to be met by the pleasant and hospitable folks of the Olcott Yacht Club. More on that later.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Niagara Wines
After another night of anchor dragging in a too shallow, hole in the wall harbor, I weighed (raised) anchor only to find we had an ample harvest of bottom grasses. These made a nice Neptune's beard for Whisper, but fairly broke my back as I wrestled the anchor aboard.
The day was warm, the wind was light and the seas were down. We reached off across Lake Erie toward Port Colborne, Ontario and the entrance the the Welland Canal.
The Welland Canal was built to take ships up and down the Niagara Escarpment, the major elevation change between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario and the geological formation responsible for the falls of storied romance and tourist kitsch.
Mid-Lake Erie Whisper encountered a pair of landing craft. My first thought was 'the Canadians are invading! Quick, lock up our healthcares system!' Then I realized these strange were American flagged, the Army Corps of Engineers off to divert yet another waterway.
Needing a "lay" day for rest and resupply, I decided to check out the region's wineries. Like many, I had held on to the stigma attached to wines of upstate New York, made a generation ago from Concord grapes. That notion was quicklly dispelled. The Niagara region is justly famous for its world class wines.
Another thing this region is famous for, aside from honeymoon hotels and wedding chapels, is its fruits and vegetables. After the dearth of fresh produce experienced of late, Whisper's skipper fairly gorged himself on heirloom tomatoes and corn and peaches and plums and pears and and and and......... Perhaps U.S. Customs will forgive me for contraband fruit. Or maybe I'll just stay out in the lake eating myself into a happy stupor before embarking stateside.
By week's end Whisper will have transited Lake Ontario and THEN THE BIG DECISION!!! Do we take the northern route out the St. Lawrence Seaway as originally planned? Or do we take the southern route via the Oswego River into the Erie Canal and the Hudson River.
As the season is getting late and personal business needs tending to, I'm favoring the southern route. A fall cruise down the New England coast to Maine sounds far more pleasant than bashing our way across the Gulf of the St. Lawrence in October gales. Is it the cowards way out or merely common sense? Then again, it's an awful lot of river travel with the mast down and underpowered.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Stormy Seas
To all whose e-mails I haven't responded to, please forgive me. The urgency to put miles under Whisper's keel has preempted almost everything else. The normal pleasures of cruising have been subsumed as has good seamanship. To whit:
Yesterday Whisper departed Cleveland mid-morning with a 20 kt SW wind. Perfect for getting "down east". The wind stiffened to 25 kt as the morning wore on, and seas were getting up a bit, but all was well aboard ship.
In mid-afternoon a line of thundersqualls blew threw. I shortened sail and we rode it out comfortably.
Later in the afternoon another line of squalls appeared astern. Again I shortened sail and battened down. Suddenly the wind dropped, veered to the west and a train of huge, slab sided waves rolled in from the northwest, confusing the already big SW waves into a froth.
When the wind returned it did so with a vengeance. Whisper, wearing only 30% of her genoa, was stood on her beam ends and stayed down. Waves as big as 12 feet were breaking everywhere.
Then I saw something I had only ever read about. The wind was tearing the tops off these monster waves and hurling them sideways as horizontal water cannons.
Lightning was striking all around and close! Visibility was zero. All I could do was hang on and wait.
Slowly Whisper righted herself. Slowly the storm abated leaving a huge, confused sea in its wake. We arrived in Ashtabula, OH well after dark, shaken but OK.
Early this morning, with a more moderate forecast, Whisper made way. The cruising guide only mentioned one suitable anchorage east of Erie, PA, that being Barcelona, NY.
After a relatively easy sail Whisper had to find her way into a keyhole entrance, with submerged breakwaters on a moonless, dark night. That was a real nail biter. Once inside, the anchorage turned out to be much smaller and shallower than I had expected. Desperately needing sleep, I will take a pillow and blanket on deck tonight in case any trouble occurs.
Early tomorrow Whisper crosses Lake Erie for the second and last time as we make for Port Colborne, Ontario and the Welland Canal.
As for milestones, we have now made good 750 miles on the journey which mean over 1000 miles through the water.
G'night all.
Don
Yesterday Whisper departed Cleveland mid-morning with a 20 kt SW wind. Perfect for getting "down east". The wind stiffened to 25 kt as the morning wore on, and seas were getting up a bit, but all was well aboard ship.
In mid-afternoon a line of thundersqualls blew threw. I shortened sail and we rode it out comfortably.
Later in the afternoon another line of squalls appeared astern. Again I shortened sail and battened down. Suddenly the wind dropped, veered to the west and a train of huge, slab sided waves rolled in from the northwest, confusing the already big SW waves into a froth.
When the wind returned it did so with a vengeance. Whisper, wearing only 30% of her genoa, was stood on her beam ends and stayed down. Waves as big as 12 feet were breaking everywhere.
Then I saw something I had only ever read about. The wind was tearing the tops off these monster waves and hurling them sideways as horizontal water cannons.
Lightning was striking all around and close! Visibility was zero. All I could do was hang on and wait.
Slowly Whisper righted herself. Slowly the storm abated leaving a huge, confused sea in its wake. We arrived in Ashtabula, OH well after dark, shaken but OK.
Early this morning, with a more moderate forecast, Whisper made way. The cruising guide only mentioned one suitable anchorage east of Erie, PA, that being Barcelona, NY.
After a relatively easy sail Whisper had to find her way into a keyhole entrance, with submerged breakwaters on a moonless, dark night. That was a real nail biter. Once inside, the anchorage turned out to be much smaller and shallower than I had expected. Desperately needing sleep, I will take a pillow and blanket on deck tonight in case any trouble occurs.
Early tomorrow Whisper crosses Lake Erie for the second and last time as we make for Port Colborne, Ontario and the Welland Canal.
As for milestones, we have now made good 750 miles on the journey which mean over 1000 miles through the water.
G'night all.
Don
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
A trip or a journey?
Several readers of this blog have, correctly, pointed out that I am taking a trip instead of making this the journey of discovery it was meant to be.
Please don't misunderstand, I am 'discovering' plenty. My physical strength is returning. My confidence in the boat and my ability to sail her is returning. I am seeing the American heartland in ways never imagined.
But am I discovering my 'place' in the universe? How does one know?
No, I am not experiencing the places I'm visiting. And, sadly, I have had to race past some of the finest cruising grounds in the world because the season is pressing on.
I am worried about finding myself rounding the Gaspe' Penninsula and crossing the Gulf of the St. Lawrence too late in the season. I don't have the stomach for fall gales in the North Atlantic......I have no desire to experience the Perfect Storm firsthand.
The southern route, via the Oswego River into the Erie Canal and the Hudson River presents a highly viable alternative. Maybe I will take time to explore the Thousand Islands region, another crusing gem of the Great Lakes and head south.
What I can say is, the trip and the journey are inextricably intertwined, but the journey may last far longer than the trip.
Please don't misunderstand, I am 'discovering' plenty. My physical strength is returning. My confidence in the boat and my ability to sail her is returning. I am seeing the American heartland in ways never imagined.
But am I discovering my 'place' in the universe? How does one know?
No, I am not experiencing the places I'm visiting. And, sadly, I have had to race past some of the finest cruising grounds in the world because the season is pressing on.
I am worried about finding myself rounding the Gaspe' Penninsula and crossing the Gulf of the St. Lawrence too late in the season. I don't have the stomach for fall gales in the North Atlantic......I have no desire to experience the Perfect Storm firsthand.
The southern route, via the Oswego River into the Erie Canal and the Hudson River presents a highly viable alternative. Maybe I will take time to explore the Thousand Islands region, another crusing gem of the Great Lakes and head south.
What I can say is, the trip and the journey are inextricably intertwined, but the journey may last far longer than the trip.
Homeland Security - A Study in Contrasts
Upon exiting the Detroit River into Lake Erie, Whisper found herself battling into a stiff chop (seiches) and making little progress toward the south side of Lake Erie. The best choice was to bear off on a close reach toward the Pelee National Park. Not wanting to bear off that much, needing to make easting, I pointed Whisper towards the inviting Island of Pelee, some 16 miles offshore.
On arrival I called Canadian Customs. The genial agent asked me where I had been, where was I going and, oh yes, did I know about the nice winery on Pelee Island?
That set the stage for a pleasant confluence of cruisers from the U.S. and Canada all piling in a rickety old taxi and making the 8 mile trip across Pelee to sample some pretty respectable wines. Oh Canada!
By contrast, my arrival in the U.S. required hunting down a videophone at Cleveland's 55th Street Marina with which to submit to U.S. Customs and Border Protection inspection. The marina, at 10 p.m., was largely deserted save for a dive bar at one end of the parking lot.
The dive bar was replete with a pit bull guarding the door. At least it was a friendly pit bull. And there, in the corner between the ice machine and a video game was the U.S. CBP videophone.
The Customs agent was at least, for 10 p.m., genial. And, upon presenting proper documentation, he inquired as to my itinerary and how many times the yacht intened to cross back and forth into Canada. Sadly, my answers to the simplest of questions didn't quite satisfy him.
He asked: Where are you going? My reply: East.
How long will it take you? .......I don't know.
When do you expect to arrive?........Arrive where?........Where you're going.........You mean east?........Yes, east.........Well, I'll be east of here tomorrow.........You mean your trip ends tomorrow?.........No, I'll be east of here tomorrow..........But you said you were going east.........Yes, and the day after tomorrow I'll be even more east.
This finally seemed to satisfy him, he realizing that I am not smart enough to represent a threat to homeland security.
His closing comment was "My, aren't we having just the best little tour of the Great Lakes!" upon which he bade me goodnight.
I spent today in a taxicab getting all the paperwork done for the I-68 form which will enable me to call U.S. CBP, much as I did Canadian Customs, and get recommendations on wineries in upstate New York.
On arrival I called Canadian Customs. The genial agent asked me where I had been, where was I going and, oh yes, did I know about the nice winery on Pelee Island?
That set the stage for a pleasant confluence of cruisers from the U.S. and Canada all piling in a rickety old taxi and making the 8 mile trip across Pelee to sample some pretty respectable wines. Oh Canada!
By contrast, my arrival in the U.S. required hunting down a videophone at Cleveland's 55th Street Marina with which to submit to U.S. Customs and Border Protection inspection. The marina, at 10 p.m., was largely deserted save for a dive bar at one end of the parking lot.
The dive bar was replete with a pit bull guarding the door. At least it was a friendly pit bull. And there, in the corner between the ice machine and a video game was the U.S. CBP videophone.
The Customs agent was at least, for 10 p.m., genial. And, upon presenting proper documentation, he inquired as to my itinerary and how many times the yacht intened to cross back and forth into Canada. Sadly, my answers to the simplest of questions didn't quite satisfy him.
He asked: Where are you going? My reply: East.
How long will it take you? .......I don't know.
When do you expect to arrive?........Arrive where?........Where you're going.........You mean east?........Yes, east.........Well, I'll be east of here tomorrow.........You mean your trip ends tomorrow?.........No, I'll be east of here tomorrow..........But you said you were going east.........Yes, and the day after tomorrow I'll be even more east.
This finally seemed to satisfy him, he realizing that I am not smart enough to represent a threat to homeland security.
His closing comment was "My, aren't we having just the best little tour of the Great Lakes!" upon which he bade me goodnight.
I spent today in a taxicab getting all the paperwork done for the I-68 form which will enable me to call U.S. CBP, much as I did Canadian Customs, and get recommendations on wineries in upstate New York.
Sailing, Motoring & Motorsailing
Sailors have long looked down upon powerboaters for many and varied reasons. One of the reasons, perhaps, is that we envy the motor powered vessels ability to go where it wants at great rates of speed. And magazines devoted to powerboating always feature the most glamorous of women lounging about on deck as the captain drives his steed forward, leaving we poor sailors wallowing in his wake.
Such was the case upon exiting Detroit to flow down the Detroit River. Aided by a 2 - 3 kt current Whisper made good time for a slow, old sailboat. Whisper covered nearly 40 miles in 5 hours anchoring in the late afternoon while Sunday afternoon revelers sped about creating chaotic seas and shattering the natural calm. But we must be tolerant, I muttered to Whisper as she creaked and groaned in protest, not feeling very tolerant myself.
Afternoon morphed into evening and with it the Motor City boating public took their loud, expensive toys and went home to prepare for the work week. With smug satisfaction, I claimed the anchorage all to myself.
It was an admittedly nervous anchorage as, drawing 6 feet, Whisper could not drop the hook in spots more protected from wind and current. But we were well out of the channel and away from traffic......or so I thought.
I had set my alarm clock to wake me hourly to ensure the anchor wasn't dragging. We did NOT want a repeat of our earlier going aground. And, because there were fishermen about, I kept Whisper lit up like a Christmas tree. Prudence abounded.
Suddenly, during my fitful 2 a.m. sleep, I became aware of a jet fighter screaming overhead. Banging my head as it exited the forward hatch, I was greeted by the sight of a powerboat, easily doing 50 kts, passing within less than 10 feet. Was her skipper drunk? Did he not see Whisper? My tolerance for powerboaters hit a new low. Profanity and a stiff belt of Glenfiddich (supplied by a sailing friend with a similarly slow, old boat) ensued.
So, on less sleep than I would normally enjoy, Whisper made an early escape from Hole in the Wall. I think to myself: River current, out into the lake, piece of cake. WRONG.
The wind had been blowing out of the SE for two days creating a counter current. When the Lake Erie current met the Detroit River current a square wave pattern known as a seiche (French for square, I think) set up. Whisper, with her tiny little diesel engine, barely clawed her way out the channel. As soon as the water outside the channel was deep enough we bore off on a reach, sail and engine = motorsailing.
Thus we exited U.S. waters for the southernmost port in Canada, Pelee Island, Ontario and my ensuing wrangle with U.S. Customs.
Such was the case upon exiting Detroit to flow down the Detroit River. Aided by a 2 - 3 kt current Whisper made good time for a slow, old sailboat. Whisper covered nearly 40 miles in 5 hours anchoring in the late afternoon while Sunday afternoon revelers sped about creating chaotic seas and shattering the natural calm. But we must be tolerant, I muttered to Whisper as she creaked and groaned in protest, not feeling very tolerant myself.
Afternoon morphed into evening and with it the Motor City boating public took their loud, expensive toys and went home to prepare for the work week. With smug satisfaction, I claimed the anchorage all to myself.
It was an admittedly nervous anchorage as, drawing 6 feet, Whisper could not drop the hook in spots more protected from wind and current. But we were well out of the channel and away from traffic......or so I thought.
I had set my alarm clock to wake me hourly to ensure the anchor wasn't dragging. We did NOT want a repeat of our earlier going aground. And, because there were fishermen about, I kept Whisper lit up like a Christmas tree. Prudence abounded.
Suddenly, during my fitful 2 a.m. sleep, I became aware of a jet fighter screaming overhead. Banging my head as it exited the forward hatch, I was greeted by the sight of a powerboat, easily doing 50 kts, passing within less than 10 feet. Was her skipper drunk? Did he not see Whisper? My tolerance for powerboaters hit a new low. Profanity and a stiff belt of Glenfiddich (supplied by a sailing friend with a similarly slow, old boat) ensued.
So, on less sleep than I would normally enjoy, Whisper made an early escape from Hole in the Wall. I think to myself: River current, out into the lake, piece of cake. WRONG.
The wind had been blowing out of the SE for two days creating a counter current. When the Lake Erie current met the Detroit River current a square wave pattern known as a seiche (French for square, I think) set up. Whisper, with her tiny little diesel engine, barely clawed her way out the channel. As soon as the water outside the channel was deep enough we bore off on a reach, sail and engine = motorsailing.
Thus we exited U.S. waters for the southernmost port in Canada, Pelee Island, Ontario and my ensuing wrangle with U.S. Customs.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Pilotage, Or An Old Argument Anew
Sailors who remember the days before GPS chart plotters, coincident with dinosaurs roaming the earth, worshipped their magnetic compasses. The compass, a delicate precision instrument, was often encased in a finely crafted mahogany box. It was cleaned and polished with every sail. In short, it was the sailors' lifeline home.
The syllabi of the generally excellent safe boating courses offered by the U.S. Coast Guard Auxiliary and the U.S. Power Squadron included long treatises on the care, correction and piloting by the magnetic compass. The Mnemonic universally taught was: Can Dead Men Vote Twice where:
C = Compass bearing
D = Deviation (difference between compass bearing and actual magnetic
bearing
M = Magnetic bearing
V = Variation (difference between magnetic north and true, geographic
north
T = True (geographic) north
I would argue for another form of compass error beyond Deviation and Variation. I will call it, for sake of argument, Argumentation.
Argumentation is the difference between my compass course and the course over ground (COG) reported by my GPS chart plotter. If, after all the careful calibration and correction applied to my compass reading there is still a variance between my calculated course and what the GPS reports, I am prone to argument.
Those who know me will agree that I can argue, loudly and vehemently, on almost any subject. My expertise in said subject is relevant only in that, the less I know the louder I become.
One advantage of being a singlehanded sailor is that I can argue, loudly and vehemently, with my compass, my GPS and all other navigational tools at my disposal and nobody, absolutely nobody, gives a damn.
Which brings me to a story: At my Dad's funeral, one of the attending ministers decided to tell Harold stories. He started off with "With Harold ya pretty much always knew where ya stood!" It went downhill from there.
Apparently, during discussion of a particularly contentious issue within the church, and elderly parishioner had said "I've been talking to God and He is very worried about this." Apparently Dad's reply was something to the effect of "Well, I've been talkin' to God too and He don't give a damn!"
Yep, that sounds like Dad.
Sadly, like father like son.
The syllabi of the generally excellent safe boating courses offered by the U.S. Coast Guard Auxiliary and the U.S. Power Squadron included long treatises on the care, correction and piloting by the magnetic compass. The Mnemonic universally taught was: Can Dead Men Vote Twice where:
C = Compass bearing
D = Deviation (difference between compass bearing and actual magnetic
bearing
M = Magnetic bearing
V = Variation (difference between magnetic north and true, geographic
north
T = True (geographic) north
I would argue for another form of compass error beyond Deviation and Variation. I will call it, for sake of argument, Argumentation.
Argumentation is the difference between my compass course and the course over ground (COG) reported by my GPS chart plotter. If, after all the careful calibration and correction applied to my compass reading there is still a variance between my calculated course and what the GPS reports, I am prone to argument.
Those who know me will agree that I can argue, loudly and vehemently, on almost any subject. My expertise in said subject is relevant only in that, the less I know the louder I become.
One advantage of being a singlehanded sailor is that I can argue, loudly and vehemently, with my compass, my GPS and all other navigational tools at my disposal and nobody, absolutely nobody, gives a damn.
Which brings me to a story: At my Dad's funeral, one of the attending ministers decided to tell Harold stories. He started off with "With Harold ya pretty much always knew where ya stood!" It went downhill from there.
Apparently, during discussion of a particularly contentious issue within the church, and elderly parishioner had said "I've been talking to God and He is very worried about this." Apparently Dad's reply was something to the effect of "Well, I've been talkin' to God too and He don't give a damn!"
Yep, that sounds like Dad.
Sadly, like father like son.
Boat Shoes
Anyone who has spent time around watermen has experienced the redolent pleasures of boat shoes. The salient characteristics of boat shoes are:
a) People who wear them want to look salty.
b) Real salty people's boat shoes are almost always wet.
c) They are NEVER worn with socks.
Despite ministration of odor eating powders and frequent washing in buckets of disinfectant infused water, boatshoes take on an aroma akin to the a hog farm in high summer.
The only known cure, NEW boat shoes, is too terrible to contemplate.
Thus, the truly salty, associate the scent of boat shoes with the joys of summer sailing much as the salmon finds the stream from which he spawned.
Flushed Into Lake Erie
Today was a short day, motoring 4 hours into a stiff headwind. The wind partially offset Whisper's progress, but with 2+ knots (nautical miles per hour) we average 7 kts for the ride.
Photos will follow showing the state of America's industrial heartland...... depressing and worrisome are words that come to mind.
On the upside, the waters of the Detroit River are far cleaner than I expected them to be. At the opening into Lake Erie people are swimming and taking full advantage of the recreational possibilities.
We are anchored off the main ship channel in a tiny spot called, appropriately, Hole in the Wall. It is literally a hole in the manmade berms flanking the dredged channel. Whisper is being tossed to and fro by current and wind and boat wakes, but the "good" anchor is well set and we are secure.
Check back in a day or two for the Detroit River Photo Gallery.
Photos will follow showing the state of America's industrial heartland...... depressing and worrisome are words that come to mind.
On the upside, the waters of the Detroit River are far cleaner than I expected them to be. At the opening into Lake Erie people are swimming and taking full advantage of the recreational possibilities.
We are anchored off the main ship channel in a tiny spot called, appropriately, Hole in the Wall. It is literally a hole in the manmade berms flanking the dredged channel. Whisper is being tossed to and fro by current and wind and boat wakes, but the "good" anchor is well set and we are secure.
Check back in a day or two for the Detroit River Photo Gallery.
Fresh Produce and Thoughts on America's Digestive System
On my early morning rambles about Port Huron in search of an ATM, a cup of coffee and groceries I realized that, not only has shopping been exported to the suburbs, but banking is no longer a Main Street business. After much searching I located an ATM and, with cash in pocket, headed off to locate the other commodities.
Many Great Lakes bulk carriers have the wheelhouse forward and the engine room aft. This is not a form of segregation between deck and engine personnel, rather it gives pilotage an advantage when transiting locks and other close maneuvering. That said, the coal freighter on the right executed a perfect 180 degree turn in little over its own length, something I cannot do with my little Whisper.
There being no grocery or convenience stores in downtown PH I was heartened to see tents set up a la farmer's market. As it was right across the street from the marine supply store (boat's, like kids ALWAYS need stuff) I resolved to come back at 9 a.m. Upon arrival I learned that the chandlery lacked the boat bits I needed and the farmer's market was a flea/junk market, not a tomato to be seen!
With a deep longing for salad and fruit unfulfilled, I cast Whisper off in the great alimentary canal of America. Immediately upon exiting the harbor what should I see off the starboard bow but a HUGE farmer's market right on the river's bank. ARGGGGH!
I have come to see the series of rivers and lake connecting Lakes Huron and Erie as an American digestive system. Clean, clear waters enter the mouth with Port Huron as lower jaw and Sarnia, Ont. as its upper and, as this photo shows, these sister cities represent a bad case of periodontal disease.
Speeding down the esophagus named the St. Clair river, all you must do is aim between the channel markers and avoid hitting any of the numerous powerboats or being hit by any of the numerous 'big boys'.
Many Great Lakes bulk carriers have the wheelhouse forward and the engine room aft. This is not a form of segregation between deck and engine personnel, rather it gives pilotage an advantage when transiting locks and other close maneuvering. That said, the coal freighter on the right executed a perfect 180 degree turn in little over its own length, something I cannot do with my little Whisper.
Exiting the St. Clair river, one finds oneself in a "stomach" of sorts, the shallow Lake St. Clair. One of the 'boat bits' I had been in search of was an electronic chart for my GPS. It turned out to be totally unnecessary as the channel is so well marked it could be navigated by a blind squirrel swimming underwater at night.
Lake St. Clair empties into the Detroit River which I liken to the intestines, large and small, leading to the colon, just below Detroit. What does that make we who are Lake Erie bound?
Saturday, August 15, 2009
From a Friend
I've been keeping this blog lighthearted and topical on purpose. But I have been truly moved by how many people really get what I'm up to here. The following from a friend in Maine says it all in ways I never could.
Ithaca
When you start on your journey to Ithaca,pray that the road is long,full of adventure, full of knowledge.Do not fear the Lestrygoniansand the Cyclopes and the angry Poseidon.You will never meet such as these on your path,if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fineemotion touches your body and your spirit.You will never meet the Lestrygonians,the Cyclopes and the fierce Poseidon,if you do not carry them within your soul,if your soul does not raise them up before you.
Then pray that the road is long.That the summer mornings are many,that you will enter ports seen for the first timewith such pleasure, with such joy!Stop at Phoenician markets,and purchase fine merchandise,mother-of-pearl and corals, amber and ebony,and pleasurable perfumes of all kinds,buy as many pleasurable perfumes as you can;visit hosts of Egyptian cities,to learn and learn from those who have knowledge.
Always keep Ithaca fixed in your mind.To arrive there is your ultimate goal.But do not hurry the voyage at all.It is better to let it last for long years;and even to anchor at the isle when you are old,rich with all that you have gained on the way,not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.Without her you would never have taken the road.But she has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not defrauded you.With the great wisdom you have gained, with so much experience,you must surely have understood by then what Ithacas mean.
-K. P. Kavafis (C. P. Cavafy), translation by Rae Dalven
Ithaca
When you start on your journey to Ithaca,pray that the road is long,full of adventure, full of knowledge.Do not fear the Lestrygoniansand the Cyclopes and the angry Poseidon.You will never meet such as these on your path,if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fineemotion touches your body and your spirit.You will never meet the Lestrygonians,the Cyclopes and the fierce Poseidon,if you do not carry them within your soul,if your soul does not raise them up before you.
Then pray that the road is long.That the summer mornings are many,that you will enter ports seen for the first timewith such pleasure, with such joy!Stop at Phoenician markets,and purchase fine merchandise,mother-of-pearl and corals, amber and ebony,and pleasurable perfumes of all kinds,buy as many pleasurable perfumes as you can;visit hosts of Egyptian cities,to learn and learn from those who have knowledge.
Always keep Ithaca fixed in your mind.To arrive there is your ultimate goal.But do not hurry the voyage at all.It is better to let it last for long years;and even to anchor at the isle when you are old,rich with all that you have gained on the way,not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.Without her you would never have taken the road.But she has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not defrauded you.With the great wisdom you have gained, with so much experience,you must surely have understood by then what Ithacas mean.
-K. P. Kavafis (C. P. Cavafy), translation by Rae Dalven
Friday, August 14, 2009
Scurvy and the Sphincter of Lake Huron
The last grocery store within walking distance of a harbor was over a week ago in Mackinaw City......an IGA with usorious prices, a pitiful selection and 'the only grocery store in a 15 mile radius'.
Since then, the closest thing to fresh produce has been limes from the ubiquitous liquor stores. Ah well, if they were good enough for the British Navy.....
But I consoled myself thinking 'Port Huron is a big city. Surely there will be markets close by.' Wrong!! Again, the closest thing to produce came from yet another liquor store.
I want a salad, dammit!
Arriving in Port Huron was somewhat jarring. After the peace and quiet of these past two weeks' cruising, Whisper was at the confluence of ALL upper Great Lakes ship traffic, Canadian and American pleasure boaters and more jet skiis than I have ever seen in one place, taking advantage of the waves created when lake and river currents and ship wakes and powerboat wakes all collide to achieve startling airborne feats.
My quiet little ship was beset!
Which brings me to a point: All of the upper Great Lakes drain through the St. Clair River, Port Huron being at its nexus. PH is emblematic of the crumbling American manufacturing sector. Downtown is largely boarded up, for sale signs in every direction. The Canadian sister city, Sarnia, presents a wall of oil refineries.
I deem this to be the sphincter of the Upper Great Lakes! I can't wait to get out of here, except that Detroit, that great American city of yesteryear, awaits. This too shall pass.
The Most Scenic Power Plant Ever
I am not sure where the boundary between Upper Lower and Lower Lower Michigan is, but I'm pretty sure than when you sail 'round the thumb' that forms Saginaw Bay you are in Lower Lower Michigan.
After an overnight sail from Presque Isle the only harbor with enough depth of water to get Whisper into was Harbor Beach, a hopefully named town whose main features are a power plant and a Dow Agrosciences plant. But the people of Harbor Beach are very excited that their neighboring town, Bad Axe (I'm not kidding), has a Super Wal Mart.
The marina staff, fully aware that Whisper draws 6 feet, directed me to an inner slip. After 24h of hard sailing I was desperate for a shower and the charms of shore power, ice cubes in my drink and a good cup of coffee. It was not to be.
Making the turn into the slip Whisper plowed her keel firmly into the silt, stopping short of the dock by a good 10 feet. It was only with the mighty heaving and hauling of several dock neighbors that we got her into her slip.
Early the next morning I set off in search of a wi-fi connection, Sprint not having discovered this part of the world. As it turned out, the marina had wi-fi, but the signal didn't reach the docks.
Needing to transact some important business via the web (like updating this blog), I parked myself in the shade on hard concrete next to a bait storage freezer so I could use the only 110v outlet at the marina.
My business required several phone calls while on the internet so, with the bait freezer humming loudly in my ear I dialed.
It also turned out to be the day that all the Harbor Beach fire trucks were getting their hose pumps tested. So bait freezer humming, fire trucks pumping I sighed and tried to do my business. At which time, the maintenance crew decided to mow the lawn.
There I sat, on a concrete sidewalk, laptop on lap, cell phone in ear, bait freezer humming, fire trucks pumping being sprayed with grass clippings at ever pass of the mower.
Somehow I maintained my composure until, when needing to use the restroom, I discovered that my feet had gone to sleep. So, on hands and knees, I crawled off toward the restrooms hoping some semblance of lower leg control would be reestablished before my arrival.
I was only too glad to pull Whisper out of her slip, with much heaving and hauling, stirring up silt all the way, and repair to deeper water where we anchored for a sublime sunset of purples and lavenders and pinks and golds and the most scenic power plant ever.
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