Thursday, May 26, 2016
South Coast Community Receives Grant for First Underwater Maritime Welcome Center
South Coast
Community Receives Grant for First Underwater Maritime Welcome Center
A South Coast Community is
celebrating receipt of a government grant to proceed with plans to develop the
first ever underwater maritime welcome center. The property chosen is widely
known for providing equal access by land or by sea, including all areas of the
building's first floor. This fine estate includes a deep water dock, featuring
at least 2' of draft access at high tide, and a stunning view into the second
story windows of the other property structures. The swift currents running past
the property make it ideal for the sort of "tough love" Darwinian
kayak and sailing program for area youth that the town wishes to develop. Potential
mold and mildew problems inherent in such structures are no worry to a town
that has been had its entire police force huddled in a refugee camp for years
as a result of such issues.
When asked about the project,
Town Administrator Dante Crustacean touted the initiative's foresight in offering
the world's first unisex underwater bathrooms. "Sure, everyone is buzzing
about unisex bathrooms, but no one else if looking toward the future and
offering them under water." said Crustacean.
Some parents have expressed
concern about the choice of a site so near to the main marine traffic channel,
the bridge, and barnacle covered boulders, but project proponents were quick to
point out that these risks were offset by the potential to offer indoor
swimming lessons on the first floor. Upper levels will be used for
administrative offices. According to Mr. Babbling Brook, a town official of
some sort or other, " I can just see myself with my feet up on that
railing, looking out over this unique facility." Public access will be
offered by the world's first below to above sea surface elevator system, not
yet developed, but certain to be available within the budget before project
completion. Indeed, opposition to the project from neighbors, boaters,
engineers, and others has been largely dismissed as coming from
"NUMBY's", or those who do not want to see such a facility under
their back yard.
And speaking of the budget,
Mr. Crustacean pointed out that it would be foolish not to take advantage of
this free money and spend it, apparently several times over. When challenged by
a town father that grants were not "free" but tax based, Crustacean
replied "Yes, but it's not our money until we spend it." Indeed it is a magical grant in that it grew
some 70% just in discussion, with several of the needed property improvements
to be paid for with the same money. The true cost of the project remains
somewhat murky, but then all of the best government works suffer from this
challenge. One town member suggested that perhaps enough of the dirt excavated
from the "big dig" could be acquired at discount to create some above
water parking on the site. Crustacean
countered that since this was an underwater welcome center, car parking would
be irrelevant. "Every summer we have countless guests visit our town
underwater. They are underserved to the point we don't even know they are here.
This will fix all of that."
As to the potential revenue
generating use of the development, the town is currently reaching out to the
Cousteau society and retired Navy SEAL organizations. They point out that this
facility will offer a unique venue for meetings and fundraising events for such
groups. It is presently under research as to whether the town can issue an
underwater liquor license to make such use more attractive. A public safety
officer for the town, Mr. Dorsal Gills suggested that such a license might be
possible as soon as town officials were convinced that underwater imbibers were
not going to be drinking like fish and getting tanked. "Swimming home
through those bridge pilings is no mean feat sober," he said. "We
can't have them doing so drunk." Additional revenue is anticipated from
expanding the already thriving aquaculture project in the primary structure's
crawl space.
The prescience of this
project is inspiring. While the world bickers about climate change and rising
seawater levels, here is a community ahead of itself in every way, particularly
fiscally. The future is underwater, no matter what we do at this point, so why
not begin developing municipal access accordingly?
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Can You Hear Me Now?
Yup. Probably loud and clear if you’re in a dinghy with an outboard.
There’s a phenomenon virtually unknown amongst the 2 day a
week summer boating crowd. It is simply that every word spoken in a motorized
dinghy that is audible to the person sitting 3 feet away in the same dinghy, is
also quite audible to someone outside of the dinghy much further away. Now I
know that sound diminishes in relation to the cube of the distance traveled,
but this clearly relates to a different effect.
And speaking of principle how is it that things one would
never think of saying directly to a stranger have become such fair game for
dinghy conversation? Perhaps it’s the feeling of immunity that comes from
thinking the dinghy motor creates a magic orb of inaudibility. Or maybe it’s
just some primitive need to show the other person in the dinghy the extent of
one’s non-existent nautical knowledge. Either way, you hear some mighty strange
babble on Saturdays and Sundays in June and July around here.
An example from just last weekend: “There’s that guy on the
black boat. They say he actually LIKES living aboard!” Yes- usually I do,
except when the rude folk dinghy past. Then I wonder if I couldn’t have picked
a more congenial neighborhood. Say perhaps the desert.
I used to get a fairly steady stream of commentary wondering
what “all that stuff” was for. I remember one guy making some comment about it
looking like the West Marine catalog on the aft deck. He clearly was
unacquainted with my feelings on the marine box store Goliath and the extents
to which I would reach to acquire said “stuff” from any other source. But these
days even kids know what a solar panel or wind turbine is for. Mostly the
parents have fallen silent on this end of the boat for fear of being upstaged
by a child in the dinghy.
Children are seldom the problem. They, at least, are taught
that one should not say rude things to strangers. I remember meeting a boat
owner whose kids would just stare without saying a word as they passed. “You’re
the guy with the black boat,” he said when we met. “My kids have a whole series
of stories they’ve made up about the pirate on the black boat.” My response was, “let’s not let the truth
spoil a good story.”
But to date, the best dinghy gaff of all came from 2 bozos
(I believe one of them was actually wearing one of those Gilligan’s Island skipper caps,) shouting to each other as they
passed, “Look at all that stuff! Bet he didn’t leave anything home!” My reply
was loud and clear. “I am home you idiot!” The look that passed between them
was priceless. It was, I believe their awakening to the dinghy voice travel
phenomenon. I wonder how long they spent wondering how many other rude boat
comments they’d made in full hearing of their occupants.
In the interest of making the coastline a more congenial
place for 8 weekends a year, I have some ideas. 1. You could get in touch and
have me build you a solar skiff so you can whisper to your passengers and be
heard. If you haven’t previously hurled insults at me from your gas dinghy, I
might oblige you without a third mortgage. 2. You could go buy one of those
electric outboards from the big box store. But then you know how I feel about
that place. 3. You could just pretend that the same rules of etiquette apply on
the water as say, perhaps, in Chicago,
where saying the wrong thing to a stranger could have negative consequences.
No, I won’t mug you, but don’t be surprised if I don’t exactly warm up to you
at the bar either.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Count Vac-uular
I think everyone has at one point or another encountered
their own personal “perfect storm” of human negativity. You know- the sort of
person whose arrival at a party causes at least two positive personality humans
to vanish before your eyes? Well, cruising being a sort of running party in
some ways, has these personalities too. This is the story of one boatload of
human negativity so intense; it actually resulted in dense isobars of
positive energy surrounding its cloud radius.
I’ll use Joe and Edna for pseudonyms. Joe being the Lil’Abner
cartoon jinx with the cloud over his head. The notable exception here is that where
the cartoon Joe was a jinx, the sailing Joe seemed to vacuum up all of the
negativity around him and carry it off, leaving some pretty good luck in his
wake. Think of a street sweeper. It comes in on a somewhat dirty road. It makes
a racket and a huge cloud of dust. And when it’s gone, the road is actually
cleaner than it was before.
I think it was in Philipsburg that we first met. I had
Charis alongside at Bobby’s marina and had to pull the engine, change the
mounts, and get it re-aligned in less than a week before Christmas since my
brother and his wife were flying in. “Never happen” said Joe. He rattled off at
least 15 supporting arguments (turns out he was a lawyer in a past life.)
Having no choice I pushed ahead. At times it did seem like it wouldn’t get
done. But in the end, with some do-it- yourself, some scrounging and
re-purposing of materials, and some genuine talent from unexpected quarters,
the job was done and done well.
At the very end I saw Joe again. He was amazed that we got
the work done, but “Boy were we in for it” on the bill he assured us. So just
before Christmas, fully expecting to eat Ramen noodles for the rest of the
winter, I headed off to the office to settle. $160 was the total. For the first
and only time in my life I argued that a boatyard bill was too low. No- the
mechanic (whose alignment was perfect) was an apprentice charged out at a ridiculously
reasonable hourly rate. The steel plates were scrap. No charge. No charge for
using the machine shop to cut, drill and tap since I did the work myself. No
charge for dockage since they were working on the boat…
The cruise budget being saved, and with a bit of mad money
left over to boot, I decided some new Bose cockpit speakers were in order. I Ran
into Joe on the way to the cruise ship electronics district. “No deals to be
had here. All tourist trap scams – fake products… high prices. Forget it.” Having
begun to see a pattern, I wanted to thank Joe, but headed off quietly assured
good things were about to happen. And so it was that wonderful sound came to
Charis’s cockpit for far less than I would have spent at home. I still think of
Joe whenever I enjoy those speakers.
Christmas day arrived. As this was pre-refrigeration (a.k.a.
ice-capade) days on Charis, my brother and I headed out in search of a bag or
two of cubes to keep the chilly bin cold and for Holiday
mixed drinks later. We found Joe ashore under his cloud. “You’ll never find ice
today. Holiday….Stores closed….restaurants
will charge you a fortune…” After a somewhat in vain happy holiday wish to Joe,
we headed off, now assured of success beyond our wildest dreams. And so it was,
that shortly after, two fools were seen staggering down front street each under
the load of a Hefty 40 gallon trash bag full of ice cubes. We had inquired at
Mickey-D’s and when the counter girl said that they didn’t usually sell bagged
ice, but she guessed for a dollar a bag it would be OK. Better get 2 we
figured. That was before we found out that the only plastic bags they had were
trash bags, and they meant $1 for a full bag. We hit every cruising boat we
knew (including Joe and Edna’s on the way back to Charis, dispensing ice like
some sort of tropical Santas, minus the red suits, sleigh and reindeer. Most were
pleased to take some free ice, but Joe seemed a little hostile.
We headed off to St.Barts for the New Year celebration. Joe
and Edna were there too. This was my first “smart “ year of cruising and I had
warned all visitors that they needed to plan the cost of a hopper flight into
their trip budget as I was not going to beat up boat and crew to meet an
airline reservation. And so it was that our guests finished their trip on a Liat
hopper to Guadeloupe for their flight home.
Just before they left, we saw Joe ashore. I explained that we were going to sit
tight until we got a north east shift in the trades and then sail down to
Deshaise. “Never goes north of east here in January” Joe assured us. Shortly
after he and Edna bashed out into a strong southeast tradewind for their trip
to Guadeloupe. I waited. By the following morning
the wind had dropped to 10 -15 out of the north east. With the wine bilge
packed to the hatches, we set off and enjoyed probably the nicest overnight
sail I’ve ever had in the Caribbean. Steady
gentle winds and a perfect starlit sky made the 23 hour run seem too short. But
then we had sort of expected this after our own little “ill fortune vacuum” had
cleared the way for us.
We arrived in Deshaise to the smell of the wood fired oven
bakery ashore and anchored just astern of Joe and Edna. Joe came on deck and
fired over an “I told you so” about the weather. They had arrived about 4
hours previous. “Horrible trip. Beating into gale winds for 2 days…” “By the
way, when did we leave Gustavia?” “23 hours ago,” I responded. Little did I
know that this response would kill the goose that laid the golden eggs.
To explain, it didn’t exactly “kill” the goose. Joe remained
very much alive. But for the rest of that cruise – all the way down the island
chain to Grenada
– we were to see Joe and Edna in many more harbors. Trouble was they refused to
talk to or even acknowledge our existence after that. Without Joe to suck up
all the negativity around us, from then on we had to settle for the usual mixed
run of fortune – some good, some bad, but none spectacular. Oh well. It was
nice having our own little jinx vacuum while it lasted!
Still wish I’d tailed that guy through a casino or three….But
then I’m not a betting man.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
God Looks After Drunks and Fools….
Is something we’ve all heard. Well, sometime prior to the events of this story he
expanded this coverage to include bi-polar seasick chemical dependent sailors,
apparently.
This is an absolutely true story. The type of story that no
one will believe who hasn’t been “out there.” And the type that most who have
been “out there” could up the ante on.
But this isn’t a story about God. It’s a story about
Calamity Jack. (Names may have been changed to protect against the litigious.)It’s
a story about full circles and the crazy way some people have of weaving
through our seemingly straight ahead paths in life.
Before my first trip south with Charis I invested in the
services of a weather router. He earned his keep that year and we had a good
passage. Many who arrived in Bermuda just before us were still licking their wounds
when we arrived. We settled into the
pack in St. George’s
pretty quickly and it was a great start to the cruise. Among the cast of
characters we met there was a single-hander I call calamity Jack, for reasons
that will present themselves as we go along. He was on a Halberg Rassy 35. This
is a boat I always respected, but ended up in pure awe of, again, for reasons
that will unravel with this yarn.
Through the rounds of dinghy club sundowners, cricket
matches, and other various cruiser events, I socialized a bit with Jack. He had
an interesting trip to Bermuda, including
being boarded for a time by an owl, of all things. As if to prove the sagacity
of these creatures, the owl left and Jack stayed on. Sort of. He admitted he
was sick for the entire 2 weeks it took him to get from Massachusetts
to Bermuda. Couldn’t take seasick meds because
they might interfere with his bipolar prescription. And he didn’t know how to reef. And his
autopilot failed. And several other calamities I have since forgotten. In the
end, he was found drifting about in the vicinity of Bermuda
with inoperative engine, sails in a shambles, and little or no food or water
left. He was towed in by a good Samaritan.
Some time along into our stay, a strong front was forecast
to hit Bermuda, so being also at the time, a single-hander (between crew let’s
say) I felt it appropriate to offer to help Jack move his boat off the concrete
wall in his lee and set an anchor. No-can –do he replied. I don’t have a
dinghy. My reaction, not truly knowing Jack yet, was “wow, I heard you had a
rough ride, but your dinghy got washed off the deck?” “Not really,” he
admitted. “I was towing it.” From New England. Yup, you got
it right. He was going to tow his dinghy to Bermuda.
The image in my mind was old Dan Stromeyer, the dean or our yacht club for ages
and ages. In showing me over his beloved Concordia Yawl one day he was very
detailed in his deck dinghy arrangement description, because, as he said,
towing a dinghy was a “lubberly thing to do.” Amen. You taught me well my old
friend. But I digress.
This conversation took place in Jack’s cabin. Strewn about
were dozens of bags from “Andy Cap Pub Fries” and a few empty water bottles.
The place was trashed. There was nothing to indicate that someone lived there
and a lot to indicate that a frat party had just ended. Jack got beat against
that wall pretty good when the weather did arrive, but his boat, being a good
one, pulled him through. Again.
I lost track of our protagonist for some time after that.
All I knew was that he was headed next for Puerto Rico
to meet a lady friend. In fact, it was
well into the winter cruise when I next saw Jack settled into what was known as
“boat trash” corner in Road Town, Tortola. The story from others was lucid, in stark contrast to his own. Jack
was 23 days from Bermuda to Tortola. Except
had not been headed for Tortola. Seems that a week or so out of Bermuda, another voyager had stumbled upon Jack’s boat
wallowing with the sails on deck and the engine inoperative. He was half dead and completely out of food and
water. After he topped up in Bermuda he
eventually figured out that his engine wouldn’t drink the water he’d put in his
fuel tank, and he couldn’t drink the fuel he’d put in his water tank. Add to
that, somewhere along the way he flooded his bilge and mixed his gear oil with
seawater. Point of fact, I was going to name him Emulsification Jack, but
Calamity had a nicer ring to it. So, as true sailors will, this kind stranger sorted
Jack out. He drained and oiled his transmission, gave him jugs of fuel and
water as well as food for several days, and went on his way. .
Another week went by and Jack was reported overdue by his
friend in Puerto Rico. Notices were broadcast
and a search was conducted. It was a search that never stood a chance because
he was actually drifting around north of Tortola at the time. Someone else
found him and dragged him in half dead.
When I saw Jack next, his lady friend had joined him.
Together they were bolstering the illegal drug trade in Tortola in a
magnificent fashion. Jack asked me to help him figure out why his rudder was
jammed. He blamed the hydraulic steering. He claimed he’d just returned from,
get this – the Galapagos. I know it was
the crack talking, but this served to highlight just how far gone Jack was. The rudder problem, I
learned later, was nothing but a barnacle colony between the rudder and the
keel since his boat hadn’t moved in months. I was only too glad to put Jack out
of my mind as I sailed down island and, I though, out of his sphere forever.
The rest of that winter was the usual mix that cruising, and
life in general will tend to be….Great times, good times, some bad stuff and lots of
just pretty OK stuff. I don’t think I thought once of Calamity Jack.
I was on my way home to New England
that June. The trip to Bermuda was a mixed
bag, with a turbulent and fiery finish in the form of severe electrical storms
that kept us hove to outside of St. Georges overnight. We arrived safely and
congratulated ourselves at having brought the ship in safe when others arrived
broken and battered. Such is Bermuda. My mate
stuck around until she had to return to work. I was sad to see her off.
My first morning alone on board was grey and overcast, which
matched my mood exactly. I was lounging in my bunk late, reminiscing and
replaying the events of my first sojourn. I was getting back near the beginning
and had for the first time in months, though of Calamity Jack. I wondered if he
would ever get out of the Virgin Islands.
Plenty of other chemically dependents never did. After all, they had found a
place where everything was acceptable. Why leave? Anyway, as I was lying there
wondering, there came the sound of a diesel at close quarters. My only thought
was how inconsiderate some people could be – interrupting a lazy rainy morning
that way. I went back to my book. For all of 30 seconds. The Diesel sound was
back, but even closer. I jumped up angry and looked out a porthole. I will
never forget that image. It was the bow of a Halberg Rassey 35 Aimed square at
me and coming on fast.
Now folks, I’m not one to freeze up in a panic. For that
matter I’m not one to even slow down long enough to put his pants on in a
panic. And so it was that I found myself seconds later in the dinghy, in my
underwear, along side Calamity Jack’s boat, looking at a guy who was Not Calamity
Jack, and who clearly had not slept in days. There wasn’t time for questions. On
the other quarter of Jack’s boat was another cruiser climbing aboard from his
dinghy. Jack’s boat was racing along in circles full ahead, but with its anchor
on the bottom. Other cruiser guy went forward to retrieve the anchor. I
instructed Not Calamity Jack to steer anywhere away from our boats. I dove into
the bilge to figure out why Jack’s engine would not respond to the throttle,
gearshift, or fuel cutoff. It didn’t take long to figure out. None of those
controls were connected to anything. Neither was the fuel filter. The engine
had been jury rigged to run forward and full speed. Nothing else. These are the
days that try mens’ marine engineering
training. I went to the injection pump and told the others to aim for a clear
anchor spot and be ready. I ripped the jury rigged fuel hose off the injection
pump. A few seconds later all was quiet. The anchor was set. Three strangers
sat down in the cockpit for the next sordid chapter of the Calamity Jack tales.
The mystery zombie crew was in fact two days plus without
sleep. He was crew on a race boat outbound from Bermuda.
A day or so out, they had come upon Jack’s boat in its native state, wallowing
with sails on deck and engine off. Jack was starved nearly to death and
dehydrated. As usual he was out of food and water. The race boat was skippered
by a doctor who assessed Jack’s condition as sufficiently critical to require
evacuation. He notified Bermuda Harbor Radio and they dispatched their only
rescue resource – the St George’s
Pilot Boat. Jack was taken off and to the hospital in Hamilton. The mystery man volunteered to take
Jack’s boat back to St Georges’ for him. Little did he know what he was getting
in to. The race boat crew got Jack’s diesel running and pointed their mate off
in the right direction. Then he came along and popped out of my dream state
like some sort of diabolical Jinni.
Well, Jack eventually got out of the hospital looking more
skeleton than man. I still don’t know if it was withdrawal or starvation that
did it. It was a while later before I got the prologue from another cruiser.
Seems he eventually patched up that old boat of his and headed home for New England. Got rescued
from that leg too, so I’m told. Then he got home and hired a lawyer to sue the
pants off the manufacturer of his EPIRB, on the basis that it failed to notify
the satellite constellation and bring him timely rescue on his last leg. The
saddest part of all is that, having now been more than once on Jack’s boat, I
knew that Jack didn’t have a satellite EPIRB. He carried an old, outdated 121
MHz VHF FM EPIRB. Didn’t slow the lawyers down much though I guess.
The moral of the story of Calamity Jack, from where I stand,
is never, ever, ever allow yourself to think of people like this once you have
left them in your wake. Use hypnosis, booze, meditation, or beg your crew to
bludgeon you if necessary. But DO NOT take the chance of conjuring them up from
your past.
Now excuse me while I go set out some fenders…just in case.
I drive a really old truck....
So old, in fact, my nephews
needed instruction on how to put the windows down. “whadayamean crank?”
There are a lot of reasons for this. Most assume it’s an
extreme manifestation of parsimonious behavior. I’ve found that when people
start assuming everything you do is financially driven, it’s best to let them
and then simply downgrade the credit rating of their opinion into the negative
range.
Actually, an old truck is an interesting thing. For one, it
has no computer telling it what to do. So, for example, when I take my foot off
the gas, there is no artificial intelligence to debate whether the stupid human
behind the wheel actually wants to slow down. I like that. I get annoyed when
Windows asks me 3 times if I’m sure I want to do something.
No computer means I can fix my truck the way I learned to
fix things. Take them apart and look for the piece that does not look quite
like the others. Replace said piece and reverse the process to put back
together. This is just how my brain works. Now I know some prefer the modern
method of plugging a computer into the car’s brain and asking it what’s wrong.
But given my normal interaction with computers, I’d fully expect a snide answer
or for the computer to lock up. Yes, I’m pretty sure I’d spend more time trying
to make the software work than the hardware.
I’m old fashioned. I open doors for ladies and the elderly.
I used to run and let people know if they forgot to turn off their lights. I’ve
had to drop the last from my repertoire after several times when I thought I
might be committed for not knowing that all new cars turn on and off their own
lights after the computer has completed the internal debate over whether you
are actually done with them or not. At least I no longer have to search my
brain to remember my plate number when they announce a vehicle left its lights
on at the store. They don’t do that anymore. It’s just assumed the computer
knows best, or someone has hit the auto-start button from 6 positions back in
the check out line.
I hate cars that cluck, beep, or flash as their owners walk
away. I won’t have one. I’d rather own something no one in their right mind
would ever steal. My truck, being a relic of the last fuel crisis is so
marginally powered that it offers the additional advantage of being able to be
overtaken in a chase scenario by a bike cop. And those little key fobs that
make modern cars cluck and beep are tentative at best. When your commute starts
with a dinghy ride, the chances of that little beeper thing taking a swim are
actually pretty good over time. And clickers are pretty useless after a swim.
Besides, I like my keyfobs to look like nautical ropework, not mini TV remotes.
A friend of similar driving philosophy had to put down his
old truck last year. Terminal frame rot. It was sad. He got a newer used
truck.. Last week he was helping me return to water depths exceeding my draft
in his dinghy when he successfully proved the adage “no good deed goes
unpunished.” In this case with an inverted dinghy dunking. Thankfully, I was in Thalia, and 3 feet of water, so he was able
to stand up while laughing it off. Then I got pretty concerned about his car
keys, what with a shiny newer truck waiting on the beach. No problem though –
he had searched long and hard and found one of the last of the pre-click-storic
trucks. No clicker. No problem driving home, except for the wet butt.
I know, we are all supposed to want auto start and electric
locks and back-scratchers and A/C and monster V8 engines… Oh wait. That was in
1960. No matter. Easiest thing to do is just keep jamming the crap down our
throats. Saves money since actual progress is expensive. In fact, if I were to
replace my old truck with the nearest new model, I would loose 5 miles per
gallon. Made it so I couldn’t even consider the “cash for clunkers” program
with a straight face. But I’d get power everything and more horsepower to go
with it.
A friend bought a Prius when they first came out. Cool car. It's got a clicker, so I won't own one, but it is at least looking in the right direction. This friend was very excited when he showed me the Prius. "Gets 60 miles per gallon." he said. "Your 1976 VW Rabbit diesel got 60 miles per gallon." I responded, clearly less impressed than hoped. "But this one's got air conditioning!" came the hopeful reply. "Great. 30 years of automotive engineering to get air conditioning worked into the deal." This ended the conversation. Now I know that there's more to it than that. Safety, emissions, comfort, performance....All I'm saying is why can't someone work toward the same goals with simplicity as a feature? Probably because the profit margin would suffer.
The real trouble is I don’t like driving. So I’d rather keep on not
wanting that stuff and go sailing instead of driving. I used to like driving.
Then I came back to the US
one trip and people were all twiddling their thumbs (texting as it turns out)
or holding cell phones in one hand and gesticulating madly with the other
behind the wheel of car brands I’d never heard of. Add to that the fact that
after several thousand miles at 5 knots, 50 miles per hour is like being in Space Mountain.
I hate roller coasters. I am that guy up ahead you assumed was 80 years old.
I’m not that old. But I’ll be off the road and back on the water just as soon
as I can. So please don’t beep. Or at least put down the cell phone if you do
so you still have one hand for the ship (car.)
Friday, August 10, 2012
Happiness is a New Deck Brush….
As long as you didn’t get sucked into buying it at W#@$
Marine.
In fact, I did not buy a deck brush. I bought a roofing
brush. What one normally uses a roofing brush for, I cannot say. I live under a deck,
so roofing is alien to me. But this I do know. A “deck brush” will set the
cruising budget back some $30 or more. A “roofing brush” will fly off the shelf
at your neighborhood mom & pop hardware store for $4.50. I guess the
concept is that if you take shelter under a deck, you must be rich and
therefore ripe for the plucking, but if you need to fix your own roof, you
deserve financial mercy. Actually. I don’t know that anyone has thought it
through that way. I only know how it looks from my vantage point.
And please don’t take this the wrong way , but I have to
admit that I feel pretty intense pity when I see the modern “well dressed” weekend
crowd with the ubiquitous oval “W” logo on everything from the dinghy to the
purse dog life vest. After you’ve been out a while, it really does sort of
become the calling card of the sheep led to slaughter, except the sheep would
be smart enough not to brag after being fleeced. Now I’m not rallying to
boycott the mega stores. I’m just astounded that it’s taking so long for them
to fall of their pedestal and I don’t think it speaks well of the overall
awareness of the boating demographic.
Am I the only one who's noticed that the retail kingpins in both the general merchandise and marine retail markets start with "W"? At least general shopping public has been sucked in by the relatively honest tactic of selling low grade stuff for low prices. Baffling that the marine "W" has been so successful at selling lower grade for higher price.
Anyway, It’s not that I derive pleasure from swabbing the
decks. It’s just that I feel a little less put upon doing so with a $4 brush
than I would with a $30 one. So if you see me pause my swabbing to watch the catalog poster dinghy
go by, I’m not shaking my head in disapproval so much as true sympathy.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
On Anchors….And Religion
For a long time I’ve had a theory about similarities between
ground tackle choice and religious bent. When my trusted 45lb CQR dragged in a
squall in Newport
earlier this summer, the resulting shock waves revealed the cracks in the
foundation of my ground tackle temple….
I was asked at a presentation I did aboard Charis once, why I had so many
anchors and why they seemed so large for the boat. I answered that I liked to
sleep soundly. I reasoned that the difficulty of retrieving heavy ground tackle
occupies but a tiny percentage of the time one spends secured to the bottom
with it. But I know there was more to it than that. Having different types and
sizes of anchor is recognition that there is no universal truth in the matter.
It’s an admission that perhaps each has its strengths and hence weaknesses. It
is a sort of nautical Universalism.
Part of this theory has evolved along the way as a reaction
to the frequent cruiser discussion topic known as the anchor. Time has taught
me that the more dogmatic someone is in their gear choice, chances are, the
less technically versed they are in it. My reaction, having always been sort of
an obstinate human, is doubt in direct proportion to dogma. The best of these
conversations are with other techno-types who leave behind the superiority
complex and delve straight into the actual features and functions of each
anchor type. There needs to be an element of admission of failure to validate
the claims to success. This is sort of sermonizing that one can learn from. And
really, learning is the key, because it really all boils down to this:
Worship not thy anchor. It is nearer human than deity in
that each one has its strengths and weakness. Every one will prove fickle if
you do not handle it sensibly. Some will serve well in one situation but
abandon you in others. Some will inspire your faith and be your rock of Gibraltar. Some will inspire less confidence. Just
remember, even rocks move sometimes.
So go forth….and stay put. Especially if you’re the boat
upwind of me. Not that I mind you visiting. I just prefer you arrive
in your dinghy.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
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