Raven's Cruise Log

2011-10-31T07:25:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up with the Cold Dreads. You may be familiar with them – they are the chattering list of all the things I need to do, finish, start, master, mail, decide, and pack before April 2012. We have drawn a line in the sand to push off then. April seemed a long way off when we made that decision, but the dates are rushing by and my list is longer now than it was three months ago. Land life keeps interfering with prep – you know: work, friends, Christmas, family, laundry, Wal-Mart, car maintenance…and all the stuff that needs fixing, maintaining, adding, cleaning, stowing, etc. on Raven.

I am a victim of adult ADD, and find myself rushing in six different directions, accomplishing a little here and a little there, but finishing nothing, which drives me to distraction. Hence the Cold Dreads. Because, that monkey mind insists, if you don’t do, finish, start, master, mail, decide, and pack, you will DIE.

Fortunately for me, I have been through this process before and I know how truly ridiculous it is. I well remember leaving our home, just for a long road trip, about eight years ago. You would have thought we were heading off into the wilds of Africa, we were so stressed. Leaving the dock in 2006 was the same. It will be the same this time, too. If I can just remember that once we push off (and I mean within the first 8” of clearing the dock) all this chatter stops and falls away and it’s just do the next thing, whatever that is.

Meanwhile, please excuse me. I have to work on that list.

Grinding toward Plan A

2011-06-13T13:45:00.000-07:00

[Hilde's log]

Yes, this is my first post on this log in three years! To see why, visit my other blog: http://www.unedame.blogspot.com/.

David took the week off this last week for vacation. I use the term loosely, because we didn’t go anywhere and he worked the whole time. I did my regular work for various clients, but took off Friday and Saturday for a long weekend. David worked on boat projects, and that makes him happy. Makes me happy, too! I now have two shelves in one of my storage cabinets, which lets me actually see what’s in the cabinet without fear of causing an avalanche. We also now have two dry storage spaces in the v-berth for off-season clothes. We bought some (supposedly) air tight storage bags at Wally World yesterday, and I plan to put my winter stuff and land shoes in them and see what I can store. (I threw away two pairs of shoes….aaaaauuuugh.) We want all our personal items out of storage and on the boat, and off-season clothes have been a problem from the get-go.

We’re also getting the bimini, dodger, and mainsail cover replaced. They’ve gone from worn to shabby in the time we’ve spent here and it will be a relief to have them replaced. Once the dodger was off, I realized we needed to do the teak that it covers, so we’ve started on that. It’s hard, since summer is upon us and it’s 97 during the day. During the “vacation” we could put in an hour or two in the morning and another couple in the evening. It’s a slow go.

In fact, that’s what David remarked on, is how slowly projects go. He felt as though he hadn’t accomplished much, but I feel as though the barge has started to move, which is a good thing. We have a plan and we’re inching toward it. Before this past week, we had a plan that changed fairly regularly and had made no progress at all.

We have gone back and forth over staying or leaving. Our original plan was to come back to land, get good jobs, fill up the cruising kitty…so we came back to the worst recession in my memory, found $15/hr jobs and stayed even, more or less. We’ve gotten rid of probably 85% of our possessions. The last 15% is the killer. I spent 3 weeks scanning photos from 6 photo albums to clear out one more box.

David saw a story in one of the sailing magazines that started off “…so we sold everything and moved aboard.” What?! It’s taken us 8 years to get as far as we’ve come. Either they are lying through their teeth or they have no sentimental attachment to anything. Maybe their house was furnished in early Wal-Mart. It’s letting those cords to possessions die off that takes so long…I think I’m finally there. Well, I’m there until we go to storage and I see the This or the That which is irreplaceable and belonged to my mom. Ha.

But we’ve agreed to keep one smallish storage unit, 10 X 15, half for “garage stuff” (tools, etc.) and half for the oriental rugs, the silverware, the two end tables from the Middle East, the Arabic screen, etc. that I refuse to part with. Eventually, someday, we will be on land, due to being too old to get on the boat. Or eventually family members will settle down and want these priceless (to me) things.

But the rest goes. One. Thing. At. A. Time.

Catching up

2008-10-15T05:26:00.000-07:00

Hi! Everyone:

No, we haven’t fallen off the face of the Earth. Establishing ourselves in Corpus Christi (CC) has been frighteningly difficult and time consuming.

When Raven was in Clear Lake we dodged Hurricane Dolly that crossed the coast south of CC. We took our small travel trailer home to Canyon Lake, about 100 miles north. The winds shook us about some and it rained like crazy, but it wasn’t too bad.

I went to Clear Lake to work on Raven and was there for Tropical Storm Edouard, which turned out to be a non event.

Finally, Bill arrived from Dallas and we took Raven to CC. The forecast was for unsettled weather, but there were no storms in the offing, so we went. We caught the wind and tide just right for an easy passage through Galveston’s jetties, then turned SW. The port close reach was good sailing, but towards evening the winds dropped and would not keep the sails filled in the considerable chop that is frequently found along the north Gulf coast. The motor fired up fine, we dropped sails and settled in for the night.

Bill made a lovely salad for supper and we both chowed down eagerly. A little later I started to feel ill, then sick. I spent a miserable night and all of the next day with severe headache and nausea. I tried to pull my weight with boat duties but in any position except horizontal I was violently ill.

Just as quickly as it started, around 2200 hours the illness departed and I felt fine. I was ready to work and to eat. It was a miraculous recovery.

Poor Bill dropped into the bunk and caught up on some well-earned sleep. He kept things going when I was out of it and I greatly appreciate his help. Without him I would have had to heave to in a region of water where there are tens, if not hundreds, of oil platforms. This experience has re-framed any ideas I had about single-handing.

By the time I recovered, the wind had piped up and Bill had all sails flying. Raven was tearing along on a close reach. I kept things going through the night and by dawn we were off Port Aransas Pass. Rather than enter in the dark, we killed an hour reaching back and forth close the outer marks.

At first light we headed in and had a long but uneventful chug along the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway, past the Naval Air Station at Ingleside, to Corpus Christi.

It is impossible to disagree with Bill’s description of this experience as “the trip from Hell”. Still, he is ready to sign up again. The next trip just has to be better …

The trip down the coast loosened the rudder post stuffing box to the point that no further tightening stopped the inflow of water. The bilge pump was going off every five minutes. It was clearly time to properly fix this problem that Robinhood Marine in Maine was paid to fix two years ago. Once hauled out, I discovered that the stuffing material was old and fully compressed. Given this opportunity, I also replaced the obviously original 4” diameter rubber tube between hull and stuffing box. It was not leaking (yet!) but the rubber was perished and flakey.

North Shore Boatworks in Ingleside was a pleasure to deal with. They encouraged me to do the work myself and offered to help if I needed it. While they added new bottom paint, I fixed the stuffing box and serviced three seacocks. I should have done them all but it was extremely hot on the hard.

For some ridiculous reason I had been afraid to service seacocks. That two of them were seized added to my fears. Once the locking nuts were eased, a large hammer helped to free up one seacock and a tube slipped over the handle gave me enough leverage to free up another. Obviously I was careful not to apply too much muscle.

Dunking the parts in a muriatic acid solution cleaned of the scale and grime. I then lapped all valves and lubed them with Lucas “Red and Tacky” grease. I tried to get the recommended grease but NAPA no longer sells it. They recommended this as a replacement.

I quickly discovered that it is easy to over-tighten seacocks. In doing so the grease is squeezed out and lost, leaving metal-on-metal. In the end I abandoned all wrenches and used only my fingers to tighten the seacocks. I expected that they would leak upon re-floating and require tightening. They did not. So far, they are still easy to turn and have not leaked one drop.

The latest repair is to the 30A socket for shore power. The wires had become loose and had been arcing. We were lucky that they didn’t catch fire. This work is in progress. I have bought an extra 30A socket that is for only the heat pump. The 8AWG-3 wire is huge and perhaps overkill for the job. I am considering using #10 instead. More later.

Best regards to you all.

Captain Dave

Life in the old dog yet.

2008-08-14T15:14:00.000-07:00

Hi! Everyone:

Mister P is running again. Initially, the idle was high (around 1200 rpm) but was easily adjusted to 750 rpm. The shop manual recommends 650, but I see no point in having the engine shake its mounts at that low speed.

It took several attempts to start. I bled air out of the fuel system but I was ignorant of the second bleed screw on top of the injector pump's “anti-stall device”. Raven’s pump is a hybrid of the two drawings in the shop manual, and neither showed this type of bleed screw. After talking with two other Perkins owners, I decided to loosen this screw.

But first … I had to modify an Allen wrench to fit between the screw and the heat exchanger. Have you ever tried to hacksaw through even a small Allen wrench? After twenty minutes I had barely scratched its surface. Friends on Brendan bailed me out with the loan of their Dremmel. (Mine is in storage, of course.) Unable to get any Allen wrench to fit, I had to guess which one to cut ¼” off. Third wrench was a charm.

Bleeding out the air was becoming second nature. Eventually, one cylinder fired, then another … Once all four were firing, I shut down the engine and opened the raw water seacock. I had closed it to keep from filling the wet muffler with sea water while I was repeatedly cranking a reluctant engine. Thankfully, I remembered to open it. In Bellhaven, NC, two years ago, I was so elated after effecting an engine repair that I forgot to re-open the raw water seacock, causing the engine to overheat, the cabin to fill with sweet-smelling steam from boiling antifreeze, and Hilde to go in search of Raven’s fire extinguishers.

When they are running well, diesel engines at idle sound like they have a heartbeat. It was almost as if I had breathed new life into some living beast. (Steam engine enthusiasts will easily understand this.) Naturally, I am very happy that there seems to be life in the old dog yet.

CD36 owners with the 4.108 engine and the one-piece, aluminum, Bowman casting that is a combined exhaust manifold, heat exchanger, and antifreeze header tank on the engine’s port side might be interested to know that this assembly can be removed and reinstalled without removing the injectors and the high pressure fuel lines. (Write me for details.)

Raven’s heat exchanger was designed with no zinc, so I added a bushing and pencil zinc at the rear of the casting. (On the right in the picture, just below the lazarette hinge.) It is easy to reach to check and replace, if necessary. I don’t know if I did it right, but the corrosion on the heat exchanger indicated that some sort of sacrificial zinc was necessary. (Write me for details.)

The exhaust goose neck, from the rear of the manifold to the wet muffler was heavily rusted. It is made of standard 1½” galvanized plumbing pipe, elbows, and connectors. It has worked flawlessly for 24 years, so I can’t knock the design. To remove the rust, I first tried Naval Jelly. It did only “OK” so next I dipped it in muriatic acid, diluted 1:5 with water. This is nasty, nasty stuff. I was my first experience of it and, I hope, my last. For all that, it worked wonders on the exhaust pipe, removing the rust and calcium so that the original pipe threads are again visible. After neutralizing the acid in a bath of water and baking soda and allowing the pipe to dry, I wire-brushed it vigorously. The Houston air was so damp that surface rust began forming almost immediately, so I painted it with Ospho to stabilize the surface. The final coat is Duracolor’s high temperature, ceramic-based paint. It is rated up to 1200°F and sprays on like chromium plating. It was very satisfying to see the exhaust pipe shining like polished silver. I have run the engine over an hour already and the pipe is still shiny.

Diesel Parts Sales on Canal Street in Houston did an excellent job of rebuilding the pump and atomizers, and refurbishing the heat exchanger. They took the time to answer my questions patiently and willingly shared their encyclopedic knowledge of Perkins engines.

Now that all that is behind me, I hope to bring Raven to Corpus Christi next week. Watch this space for our progress.

Best regards,
Captain Dave

Re-entry

2008-08-02T03:02:00.000-07:00

Hi! Everyone:

No, we haven’t disappeared. Re-entry to landlubber life has been chaotic and exhausting. Our belongings remain scattered in four Texas cities and seem to defy any attempts to gather them all in one place. I’m embarrassed to admit that our large storage unit was so full that when I opened the door stuff fell out. Now we have another, small storage unit so that I have some breathing room to shuffle stuff around and pack yet more into the main space. Sigh!

Raven has been taking a well-earned rest and demanding some TLC. She brought us safely to Clear Lake, TX, but stopped me in my tracks when I attempted to move her to Corpus Christi. Maybe she knew that Hurricane Dolly was coming and didn’t want to deal with that.

A friend had driven from Dallas to help me move Raven and all was going well until we were about half way out of the marina. Mister P (our workhorse Perkins diesel) began to run away. This is a technical term for “Oh, My God! Pulling the stop lever hasn’t stopped the engine.” I quickly ran below and cut off the air supply at the intake before the revs got very high, so at least it didn’t race at high rpm. TowBoatUS earned themselves the easiest tow they’ve ever had by taking us 700 yards back to the slip.

That was mid June. One month later, the injector pump and four injectors have been rebuilt. ($1250) The heat exchanger is being refurbished. (Probably another $200.) I’ll add details of the repairs in a later blog.

In the meantime, I’ve repaired the air conditioner ($400), so my life on Raven is again comfortable. I had spread awnings over the deck and tried to live without a/c, but when the outside air is in the nineties and still, it is miserable below deck. Cooking is out of the question and sleep is next to impossible.

Until the heat exchanger is ready for pickup, I am cleaning up the engine, the fuel lines, and the exhaust gooseneck. Final assembly should begin this weekend.

The plan is still to take Raven to Corpus Christi. The next full moon is August 16th and I hope to have all repairs finished well before then. A night sail along the coast can be a delightful experience. The oil platforms are surprisingly beautiful. They are compact, isolated cities at sea, brilliantly illuminated, and bustling with life. NOAA’s vector charts show all of these obstructions, including the enormous, unlit mooring buoys used by the service boats. The full moon adds an extra level of safety.

Captain Dave

Weeeee're Back!

2008-06-23T10:22:00.000-07:00

Photo #1: Sunrise on the Gulf, one of the rewards for taking that 2 - 6 a.m. watch.

Photo #2: Beautiful afternoon clouds, one of the rewards of taking a daytime watch.

[Hilde’s log]

I am sitting below decks mourning the death of our air conditioner. It passed away quietly our last day in Pensacola, and brother do I miss it. It’s 11:00 a.m. and 93 degrees. We must be back in Seabrook!

We had a challenging and beautiful passage from Pensacola to Galveston. If I were to title the trip, I’d call it Thunderstorm Alley. Four of our six days out were plagued with storms: huge, monstrous, glorious, terrifying, and beautiful. In addition to the thunderheads and lightening, we saw several water spouts. For contrast, two of the days we were out, it was just flat calm in all directions. We hardly sailed at all the entire trip and I was so glad we thought to add two extra cans of diesel fuel to the deck. We ended up using our entire tank, plus all we had on deck, and cruised into Galveston with 8 gallons left.

All the way across the Gulf from Pensacola our days were spent playing dodge ‘em with the mountainous thunderheads and our nights were spent playing dodge ‘em with lightening bursts. We were lucky, only coming close to one big storm. That was scary enough, as the black clouds converged on our position from two directions, churning five foot seas in every direction. With life jackets donned, we alternated between sitting on the cabin sole (me praying nonstop) and sticking our heads up to see what was going on. It was more scary looking than actually dangerous (other than the lightening), with top winds of only 34 knots. The lightening, though, was ferocious for the entire trip.

Cloud to cloud lightening would light up the sky for miles, illuminating the storm clouds and the sea. The “bad” lightening was the cloud to ground sort, enormous bolts visible for miles that stabbed the sea in sudden bursts. We measured the position of the night time storms from the cloud to ground lightening, and once we determined which way the storm was headed, we went perpendicular and ran like hell. You know the saying “There are old sailors and bold sailors, but no old bold sailors.” We intend to get old.

Out of Pensacola the storms chased us south so far that we totally gave up on the fairways and just headed out to deep water. It’s so much better far off shore anyway, because it takes a lot of wind to stir up deep water. The sky was magnificent, full of the Milky Way. Most of the time we seemed to inhabit a charmed circle of clear sky, with thunderheads all the way around us. All day long I’d watch them build and collapse, like soufflés in a nautical oven.

The most appalling storm was the one we encountered when we were about 100 miles out of Galveston. The sky in front of us (landward) was dark, featureless gray, like a gray blanket over the entire horizon. At sunset and we couldn’t see the sun at all until it touched the ocean, and then it was a vermillion fireball for a few seconds before disappearing. NOAA radio reported a huge thunderstorm galloping out the ship channel from Houston to Galveston to parts SW at 30 miles per hour. I was so glad we had made such slow progress across the Gulf; otherwise we might have found ourselves in the middle of that storm coming in. It was a huge system, spewing lightening from one side of the horizon to the other. We were relieved to watch it pass to the SW as predicted (we were headed NW) and we never even had any rain from it. Another storm threatened our starboard quarter for most of the night, but it eventually faded away to the NE. I have yet how to account for the movement of storms relative to the wind direction on the boat.

Thanks to our Fugawi charts (the best charts, as far as I can tell) we knew to follow the shipping lanes (called the fairways) along the coast once we passed South Port, Louisiana, and so it was easy to stay away from the oil wells, the supply boats and the truly enormous mooring balls used by the supply ships (easily the size of a Hummer). The wells are really beautiful at night, lit up like casinos – provided they are lit up. There are occasional wells that are not lit, and those are the scary ones. That’s one reason we have made both our Gulf crossings under a full moon. We saw two unlit wells this trip.

The fairways are like sea going freeways, and are used by the commercial ships as they go to and fro. They are great to follow, because when you see a big ship coming, you pretty much know which way it is headed. We had one oil tanker cut behind us and two cut in front of us, but other than that they all behaved themselves and chugged down the road. The commercial traffic on the Gulf is terrific when you are within 100 miles of shore. We had forgotten! It was a lot like driving through a well populated country area on a highway, with the lights of the farm houses scattered all around and the lights of the 18 wheelers going up and down the road with you. Many of the captains are not native English speakers, so when you are trying to listen to the traffic on 16, language can be an issue. Actually, language is an issue when you listen to the barge traffic on the GIWW. Those men all speak with a weird southern patois/good old buddy accent that I am hard pressed to understand, and I’m from here.

Photo #3: This is what the lit oil rigs look like at night...

Photo #4: This is what they look like in the distance during the day (see that little spot?)...

Photo #5: This is what they look like up close...

Photo #6: And this is what they look like when I am not paying attention on watch and we get too close! Note the supply boat at right. That boat is enormous and it is dwarfed by the rig.

All the way across I was thrilled to be back on the Gulf. I grew up in Houston, and the Gulf is “home.” The sky looks right, the water looks right, the oil rigs look right – well, you know how home is, warts and all; there's no place like it. The Gulf is also one of the most beautiful places on earth, whether you are dodging oil wells near shore or are out on the flat expanse of blue that opens up about 150 miles out.

It was great fun to come into Galveston, despite our grueling passage in. Contrary wind and current made the water rough and because the blasted self steering died about 30 miles from the outer mark, we had to hand steer, one hour on and one hour off, for the next 12 hours. The good news is that it was blessedly cool from all the storms that passed through before we got in. We motored down the gauntlet of at least 50 ships at anchor on either side of the fairway, waiting to be called in to the Port of Houston. Raven reached the jetties about 7 a.m. and caught a rising tide into the bay. We had the yankee out and the engine on and she scooted through the jetties at 8.3 knots, past the anchored tankers and into the anchorage at Teacup, where we pulled into the closest marina for fuel. There were a couple of fishing boats tied up as well, and the fishermen and women were cleaning a catch, surrounded by a screeching cloud of gulls, pelicans, and cormorants. The birds were busy catching and eating the culls from the catch (which looked like eels), literally pulling them out of each others’ mouths.

Photo #7: Three of the over 50 anchored ships we passed just off the fairway near Galveston in dawn's early light.

Once we filled up with diesel we eased back out into the anchorage at Teacup and David checked the oil. Then we headed north up the channel for four hours to the anchorage at Red Fish Island where we spent a very hot afternoon and evening. Then this morning we came in, and our first slip at Watergate was awful. They are obviously waiting for the next storm to take out those docks, which were old, narrow, fixed, wooden, and full of splinters. Ick. David got us moved temporarily to the new floating docks, which is a much better location and easy step on-off to Raven's deck.

Photo #8: Boats anchored at Red Fish Island. The island is man-made (spoil) so there is no vegetation, no shade, and no bugs. You do have a great view of the channel traffic, as you can see. The wake from these huge ships washes over the island like the surf over the rocks on the West Coast!

It was so much fun to sail (no, motor, the wind never did cooperate) up the channel and into the bay and under the Kemah bridge. All that trip used to just terrify me and it was fun coming in and recognizing everything and not being a bit scared. Just hot. It is, after all, Texas in June.

Photo #9: Oh my gosh! It's me, steering Raven across the bay and I actually know what I'm doing! Notice the kerchief - it's soaked in ice water. It's hot.

Photo #10: then we see the Kemah boardwalk... (new roller coaster there!)

Photo #11: under the Kemah bridge...

Photo #12: Where it all started, two years, two months and 8 days ago. Our slip was opposite "Tres Amigos" here in Seabrook. Unfortunately, they were full, so we are docked at Watergate, just up the way.

Heading Out

2008-06-16T19:23:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log]

We’ve enjoyed Pensacola and the splendid hospitality of our friends John and Cookie, who showed us the sights, fed us, introduced us to new friend Joyce, and even made a loan of their second car. Such luxury! It’s hard to leave friends and a lovely city and wheels, but go we must. Raven’s air conditioning bit the dust last night, and I must admit that makes it easier to push off. It was a Turkish bath in the cabin as I cooked a few meals for us to take as we head out into the Gulf tomorrow and we’ve been hanging out in the cockpit waiting for it to cool off enough to go to bed…maybe soon. It’s still 84 down here.

We will be travelling on the outside as we make our way back to Texas, down the shipping lanes, a journey of about 500 miles. Hopefully we will be chugging under the Kemah bridge in about six days. We will have a full moon and a good weather window, so we hope for a pleasant journey. We’ll be staying at the Watergate Marina at Clear Lake for about a month, and then we anticipate a move to Corpus Christi Municipal Marina, so if you pass our way, let us know. Until then ~ here’s to your dreams.

Weather Report

2008-06-13T21:01:00.001-07:00

Photo #1: early morning in Pensacola Bay

Photo #2: Bridge over the entrance to Tampa Bay

[Hilde’s log]

We’ve been at the dock in Pensacola for a couple of days now, time enough to do a lot of sleeping, a lot of visiting with old friends Paul, John, and Cookie, and some grocery shopping. We’ll be here a week for R&R and then head on toward Texas. We go back and forth about whether to brave the barges, tankers, freighters, mosquitoes, and unfriendly rivers on the GIWW (Gulf Inland Waterway) or to head back out in the Gulf and do battle with weather, oil wells, and lots of inbound heavy traffic. The big draws for the Gulf crossing are cooler weather and a quicker transit. The big draws for the GIWW are more sleep and… well, that’s it, more sleep.

Photo #3: docked in downtown St. Petersburg

We spent a delightful three days in St. Petersburg. What a lovely, cosmopolitan city! The city marina is right downtown, and downtown St. Petersburg has something for everyone. There are a number of museums (all accessible by 25 cent trolley ride), an aquarium out on a long pier where you can feed the pelicans, beautiful parks, shops, café’s and restaurants, and even a Publix, all within walking distance of the marina. My cousin Jan lives there and she was a wonderful host, taking us to local landmarks and sharing the pool at her beautiful condominium complex. I don’t think I exaggerate when I say St. Petersburg is like a tiny Paris on Florida’s west coast and a great destination for any cruiser.

The 300 mile passage from St. Petersburg to Pensacola took three nights and 30 gallons of diesel. We motored most of the way, as the winds were light when we had them at all, and mostly dead astern. We struggle to find something to do on passage. It’s far too hot to cook anything, and we lose our appetites about two days out anyway. No one wants to be out in the sun on deck, regardless of how benign the water and wind are. Again, it’s far too hot. So we end up in the cockpit either reading or watching the weather.

Gulf clouds are endlessly fascinating, even on shore. Offshore they are simply mesmerizing, enormous, ever-changing, and guaranteed to develop into thunderstorms every afternoon. I can spend hours finding shapes in the puffy clouds; one afternoon we were surrounded by “bears”, either swimming, chasing butterflies, or floating on their backs. The clouds vary in shape, color, thickness, from wisps to scattered sheep, to high, icy veils of lace, to towering arctic mountains. In the dawn or at sunset, they seem to be illuminated from within, filled with incandescent light.

The storms are beautiful as well. Naturally, we much prefer that the storms stay well away from us. It’s hard to figure out which way a storm is moving and how fast. Sometimes they light up the sky on the distant horizon and stay there; other times they chase us. Being chased by a huge Gulf thunderstorm is absolutely no fun at all. We had a close call with a mammoth storm that developed over Tampa Bay the day we left St. Petersburg for Pensacola. By the time the storm developed it was about 5 p.m. and we were about 15 miles off shore. It started as they all do, with a large, white cauliflower cloud sailing in a clear blue sky. Ever so gently, this cloud grows, drawing to it and absorbing nearby smaller clouds. Then the mass begins to swell, upward and outward. As it grows, it absorbs heat. From time to time, all afternoon, jets of steam spurt from the cloud, it collapses, and then rebuilds. By late afternoon, it has climbed upward for thousands of feet and spread out laterally for miles. Then it drifts offshore and at some point dumps its rain on land or into the Gulf and then the clouds thin out and dissipate.

Photos below: a storm cloud cycle, captured over Pensacola Bay (same cloud, photographed over about an hour or so)

The thunderstorm that pursued us from Tampa Bay pretty much followed this pattern. The towering mountain of cloud began to collapse over the bay in the early evening, which occasioned a rare National Weather Service Alert due to high winds and torrential rain. We could see it easily from the cockpit. As the cloud collapsed, it metamorphosed into a dense, dark mushroom (like the photos you see of an atomic bomb blast) that flattened out in a circle about ten miles in diameter, dragging heavy curtains of rain in its wake, spiking lightening and high winds in all directions, and rushing toward us like a freight train at 20 knots. The procedure here is to get the hell out of Dodge at an angle perpendicular to the storm. It was daylight, so we could see, and the National Weather Service confirmed, the direction the storm was headed. Mr. P chugged hard to port and the storm swept by to starboard, thinning, finally, about 20 miles out from shore.

That night on watch I was entertained by a huge lightening storm behind us that lit up small sections of the sky in violent bursts that reminded me of films I’ve seen of night time sea battles. Huge prongs of lightening stabbed the water from the boiling clouds that were illuminated briefly with each burst. Thankfully, the storm was so far behind us I couldn’t hear the thunder. We took down the canvas anyway, so David could sleep undisturbed. Other storms popped up around us in the early hours of the morning, but most had cloud to cloud lightening which was of much less concern to me.

Although we were surrounded by scattered storms, the sky above Raven was crystal clear. I leaned back out of the cockpit, away from the bimini, and watched the Milky Way streaming above the swaying mast. I could keep track of the storm clouds by noting those sections of the horizon that blotted out the stars. The Big Dipper hung in the sky off to starboard, handle raised into the sky and dipper poised over the water. Sometime around 4 a.m. the dipper finally brushed the surface of the sea. The sky was so bright with stars; it was easy to see all sorts of constellations. I don’t know any of the classic constellations and so had fun naming my own. The brightest were a couple of crawfish clawing their way up to midheaven.

The last night out we dodged two storms, both of which started on shore near Pensacola and Mobile and headed our way. Both were “sea battle” lightening storms that produced jagged lightening and grumbling bursts of thunder. We managed to avoid both of them, although the second storm, moving almost as slowly as we were, wandered into Pensacola Bay in front of us as the sun rose behind us. Yet another storm cooked itself into being as we approached and we snapped photos of it as it built and finally burst into steam. Both these storms produced water spouts (tornadoes) that snaked their way toward the water from the distended bellies of the storms and smoked across the water for a number of minutes before being reabsorbed. Water spouts are really scary and we were grateful that they showed up in daylight where we could see them and move off in another direction!

Our approach continued across the milky calm water of the bay. We turned off the motor for awhile so David could check the oil and were joined by about 15 dolphins. They swam right up to the boat, and the early morning silence was broken only by their huffing breaths and the slight disturbance of the water as they dove and circled, hunting their breakfast. Some of them looked quite small; I am guessing it was a family group with some youngsters in tow.

Yet again, we have been amazingly lucky. The only affect on Raven’s crew from all these thunderheads was a wash of cooler air left by the rain and the chance to take some amazing photos.

Cayo Costa, June 3, 2008

2008-06-13T20:48:00.000-07:00

Photo #1: Sunset at Cayo Costa

[Hilde’s log]

Cruising attire has become a lot more casual since we arrived in Florida from the Bahamas. When we’re close to others in an anchorage or marina we suffer in shorts and t-shirts and sandals. The instant we manage to elude our fellow humans, all those clothes end up in a heap in the laundry basket. Folks, it is hot. For example, it is almost 8 p.m. as I write this in the cabin and the thermometer (at which I try not to look) shows 88. It’s probably 8 to 10 degrees cooler in the cockpit, where David is milking the sunset for enough light to read his book. We hope we are anchored far enough from shore to be invisible to the insect life out here (just off the ICW channel close to the island park of Cayo Costa).

Amazingly enough, “hot” is uncomfortable only if I (i) wear clothes or (ii) go into the cabin. As long as I am in the fresh breeze with little or nothing on, I’m quite comfortable. Yesterday we spent the day at Ft. Myers Beach, Florida, in the city mooring field. David finished some boat chores, and when he was done, I was determined to clean up a bit below. While he worked, I sat in the cockpit in civilized attire and read. It was about 90, but a breeze was blowing and Raven’s cockpit curtains kept the sun off while allowing the breeze to waft across the boat. I was perfectly comfortable. The instant I went below, the heat became stifling and I lost all the water I’d drunk that day (a considerable amount) to perspiration. Who am I kidding? It was sweat! Running in rivulets down my back, under my arms, and even off the end of my nose! Needless to say, as I swept and damp mopped the cabin floor, I became more and more irritable. I barely managed to last until we loaded the dinghy with laundry and bath items and took off for the bath house and laundry room maintained by Matanzas Marina.

What a glorious feeling to step into the air conditioned laundry! Marathon is a great place, but they have no air conditioning, and bathing in their showers in the summer is a lot like taking a Turkish bath, even though all my showers there were in cold (read: tepid) water. At Ft. Myers, the laundry and the bathrooms are air conditioned. The bathrooms look like hotel bathrooms, with tiled floors, sinks, and mirrors. Both of them were sparkling clean and one of them even had a tub! You can get dressed in comfort, without every piece of clothing sticking to your body. Again, a huge contrast to Marathon. The baths there are filthy. No algae or anything, but plenty of dirt tracked in and left on the floors and years of dirty hand and fingerprints on the walls, as if every boater there had changed engine oil before coming up to bathe. Marathon mooring balls (off season) were $20 per night. Ft. Myers was $13. Go figure. Perhaps it has to do with Marathon’s brand new mooring field, which is quite impressive and regularly inspected. It can’t be the facilities. I loved Marathon, but I must admit, Ft. Myers is my new favorite Florida port.

Ft. Myers has a great mooring field as well, less than two years old. The balls are especially welcome due to the strong current that runs there, turning the boats 180 degrees every six hours. Across the channel from us and on the other side of a large sand bar were about 20 shrimpers. They stayed tied up while we were there, which was a bit of a disappointment. I wanted to see them leave in the early morning. Perhaps there is a season on shrimp. It’s a working port, with large and small work boats and a Coast Guard station, as well as lots of private fishing boats and pleasure craft. The Gulf side beaches were covered with happy vacationers, but there are no over large hotels or other obvious tourist spots in Matanzas Pass, where the mooring field is located. Instead there are several live music tiki bars and one great band played under the roof of a huge open air aluminum building that looks as though it earns its way as a commercial fish market during the week.

The mooring field is also home to many snub nosed gray dolphins who came in each evening and morning to feed or maybe just to hang out. They floated close to the surface of the water with their dorsal fins exposed and moved slowly up and down the river, huffing noisily as they took deep breaths. They’d pass within ten feet of us, singly or in groups of two or three, like people out for an evening stroll. We had a terrific rain last night and afterward, as I lay in the v-berth enjoying a beautifully cool breeze, I listened to the dolphins huff and puff their way up and down beside the boat.

We ate out our first night in Ft. Myers, just to get cooked food in a cool room. We’ve had to motor a lot the last few days, and motoring bakes the interior of the boat until it’s well over 90 at night when we stop. Even after opening all the port lights and hatches, it takes a long time for it to cool down because the hot engine continues to radiate heat through the hull. The heat effectively discourages me from doing any cooking. We aren’t hungry for the most part, anyway, until we walk into an air conditioned space. When we are able to sail, we’re still out in the heat all day (under the bimini, of course) but there is very little engine activity to heat up the cabin and the breeze keeps us comfortable.

Photo #2: Thunderhead across our anchorage at Cayo Costa

The thunderstorms help. A big one swept by us to the east this afternoon as we approached land. None of them have bothered me at all for a long time, but this afternoon was different. As I watched the storm develop, my hackles went up and I seriously did not want to turn east and head toward it. About the time we approached our turn, the Coast Guard announced that a water spout had been sighted near our location. A water spout is a tornado on water, and not anything anyone wants to be near. The Coast Guard announcer, some young woman, rattled off the coordinates in such a rush that even though I had pen and paper to hand, I couldn’t get all the numbers. I was some kind of angry. I hailed the Coast Guard on 16, told them there was no way I could write down the numbers when she spoke them so quickly, and asked her to repeat the coordinates. About a minute later, she did. Sure enough, those water spouts were right about where we are anchored tonight!

But about 10 minutes later, my feelings of foreboding disappeared and the storm moved off slowly to the east, taking its water spouts with it. As we approached the cut, we moved through a fleet of small fishermen and clouds of sea birds who were all doing their best to catch the hundreds of fish that were shoaling in the cut. Not one of them moved a foot for any silly storm, water spout or not.

Up the West Coast of Florida

2008-06-01T05:50:00.001-07:00

Photo #1: Raven heads into the Gulf, under Seven Mile Bridge, just west of Marathon

[Hilde’s log]

May 31, 2008

What a lovely surprise we had our last day in Marathon. We checked in on the cruiser’s net as a departing vessel, and who should hail us but Matt and Linda on Worth W8N4! We hadn’t seen them since Coco Beach, back in January. They settled in at Marathon in January and loved it so much they’ve decided to stay for the long term. We enjoyed dinner together and then Linda took me with her to Bingo night at the local VFW hall. I had a great time stamping my sheets, and came close in four games, but never managed to win. Rats. Another first, for my life’s “firsts” list. Many thanks to Linda and Matt for a lovely evening. And to think, we’d been there a week and had no idea they were there. All the folks at Marathon have gone out of their way to be friendly and helpful, from the City Marina staff to the bridge tender. I’m glad we visited and equally glad we visited in the off season. From photos we’ve seen, the harbor is completely full of boats in the winter and the dinghy dock is three and four deep in dinghies, all of which is a testament to Marathon’s success in luring cruisers. It’s the Velcro Beach of the Keys.

We’re wending our way up the west coast of Florida, pausing tonight in an anchorage off the channel in Gordon’s Pass, a bit south of Naples. We crept in about 4 p.m., fighting a one knot current in a narrow passage with shoaling and shallows to contend with. David cleverly thought to call Boat U.S. on VHF 16 for local knowledge about this anchorage and they provided us with exactly the information we wanted: keep very close to the west side of the channel and expect shallower than normal lows at low tide. Raven is floating in a canal type subdivision, among some beautiful and expensive homes with boats parked at the “curb”. We’ve been entertained by all sorts of canal traffic, including a sailboat, a dinghy, a hundred foot yacht, a sightseeing boat, and a huge catamaran with about 30 people on board. Perhaps we were part of the sights they were seeing – two hot, sticky people enjoying snacks and a cold drink on deck. Dark skies have hovered around us all afternoon, but so far we’ve had only a bit of cool wind and no storms. It’s quiet now, and close, and hot, so we may get one yet.

Photo #2: our anchorage at Little Shark River

Our suburban anchorage tonight is an extreme contrast with the anchorages of the last two nights. Both nights we were snuggled up to the edge of the Everglades National Park. Our first night’s anchorage was just inside the bend of Little Shark River. I could see we were approaching a river, because the turquoise water changed to dark olive and we felt the current pushing us back. The half circle cove sheltered another sailboat, and that was all the company we had, all night. Despite the lure of the tree lined river that slipped off into the distance, we elected to drop anchor as near the mouth of the river as possible, due to our expectation of being eaten alive by mosquitoes. It was hot and humid and we were hungry and thirsty from our long day on the water, so I made us a couple of shandies (and English drink of ½ beer and ½ ginger ale or other light soda – sounds awful, but it’s a great drink). We slammed those down and the next thing we knew, we were napping. About an hour later I woke up and made the quickest dinner I could think of, we slammed that down, and then darn if we didn’t pass out again. I think it was about 8 p.m. at that point and I didn’t stir until about 7 the next morning. I haven’t slept that hard in months. I think it had partly to do with the profound quiet that surrounded us. For miles and miles on every side there was only mangrove forest and sea and the critters that call the Everglades home. No electricity, no motors, no voices, just silence and old trees and a few dolphins chasing fish in the shallows.

We were right about the mosquitoes – the next morning there were about 30 on each port light screen, clutching the mesh, drooling at the prospect of such a tasty breakfast. We wore our long pants and shirts and applied Skin so Soft liberally on all exposed areas before climbing out of the cabin, and wasted no time in setting out into the insect free gulf. About a dozen enterprising fellows found their way into the cabin as we emerged and enjoyed me thoroughly the next night.

Photo #3: Thunderhead behind us (note the rain dumping into the Gulf)

The next night found us in the midst of the Thousand Islands part of the western Florida coast. We motored into an anchorage at Indian Key about three steps ahead of a large thunderstorm. We’d been dodging storms for two days. When I’m travelling in the day time, storms are interesting. Since they are visible, they are mostly missable, or at least we don’t get snuck up on. We watch them build all day. In the early morning, there is a ruffle of white cloud that parallels the land. As the morning moves along, the clouds get larger and puffier, building into an impressive white bank of cumulus clouds. The clouds are magical, making the most fantastical shapes, and I entertain myself for hours, seeing all sorts of animals evolve and fade away in the bright blue sky. Then about 2 p.m., the clouds begin to roll off the land and over the water. By now, they have built themselves into towering white mountains, the tops of which are constantly exploding like very slow popping popcorn. Finally, they begin to go gray and black underneath, the darkness builds up into the sky, and then the torrential rains spill to the earth. The thunderheads drag the rain in sheets behind them like long skirts. From the water we could see probably four to six storms at any one time as we sailed along the coast. A couple of times we hove to and waited, but the storms we were expecting swept by us to starboard or to port with just a gust of wind and quick shower to mark their passing.

We had successfully ducked every one of them by yesterday afternoon, and I made the mistake of saying “I’m so glad we’ve been able to duck all these thunderstorms, aren’t you?” Red flag to a rain god, who promptly defied NOAA and sent his storm north, rather than west (all the others had grumbled their way west, as if they were on a lead). By the time we realized this storm was going to get us, we were chugging up the outflowing river into the Everglades against a really strong current. I had the throttle wheezing at 2500 rpm and we staggered along at 4.5 knots, not only fighting current, but also 18 knot winds. It was like hurrying in slow motion, or one of those dreams where your arms and legs are too heavy to lift as you try to run for your life. It didn’t help to watch the local fishing boats streak past us, engines blazing, as they raced upriver toward Everglades City and shelter. As we came around the bend to the anchorage, the black sky covered us, and we could see a thick curtain of rain advancing toward us across the water, completely obliterating the scenery behind it. The storm nailed us just as David dropped the hook, and we got soaked. Actually, once I realized there wasn’t any lightening, the rain was truly refreshing. I did freak out a bit, as Raven remaining beam to the wind, instead of feathering up, but that turned out to be the current. No one else was out and we had the anchorage to ourselves so we didn’t worry much on a 10 to 1 scope.

Photo # 4 and 5: our anchorage in Gordon's pass as the stom develops and then arrives

We were close to Everglades City, but weren’t even tempted to explore (mosquitoes again). We agree that a return trip in the depths of January is a distinct possibility, because the area is simply gorgeous.

Sweltering in Marathon

2008-05-25T07:05:00.000-07:00

Photos #1 and 2: down Government Cut, past the cargo ships, to Miami

Photo #3: Now that's a fender...

[Hilde’s log]

Ah, mangroves, heat, and no-see-ums. We must be in Florida! Raven is back in the Florida Keys, after two years. It took persistence to get here. After an overnight from West End to Miami, we pulled in to Mia Marina, close to the Port of Miami where we had to check in with the powers that be to re-enter the US legally. Fortunately, they gave us 24 hours to show ourselves. The minute Raven slid into her slip and the a/c was hooked up, her crew started sleeping. We were simply exhausted. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep from the overnight; it was riding the constant motion of three to four foot cross-hatched swells and wind-driven waves as we bumped past Bimini and then across the Gulf Stream. David likened it to riding a mechanical bull for 15 hours. The ocean pitched us, tossed us, and threw us up in the air without respite, from Bimini well into Government Cut.

The overnight was interesting, aside from the rough ride. We enjoyed a beautiful full moon, which helped me to miss a huge tanker that crossed our bow. I was half asleep and staring stupidly at the tanker’s port light expecting it to pass to starboard (I really was asleep with my eyes open) when suddenly the moon illuminated its length as it rose up in solid silhouette in front of us. It was a “David!!” moment. We were never in danger; it was just a close encounter that jolted me awake with a start. A couple of hours later, just east of the Gulf Stream, a spotlight suddenly illuminated the cockpit and we were hailed by the Coast Guard. After reading them passport numbers and certificate numbers and giving names and other personal information they wished us a good night and left us to lurch our way to Miami without further ado. I’m so glad they decided not to board us to check for life vests or something; in that sea they’d have knocked holes in the gel coat, fenders or no.

The morning after our arrival in Miami, we took a taxi to the Port of Miami building, dressed in our best and sporting the ship’s papers. Finding the office was the hardest part. A bored official took our papers, looked at our passports, handed them back, and turned to another task. They didn’t stamp our passports, and although we both had to report to the office, no one even looked at me. I guess if you show up, they figure you’re okay. Quien sabe?

We enjoyed the part of Miami that was near the marina. After a Starbucks, we wandered an open air market admiring all sorts of goods on display before settling down to lunch at a dockside café. Late in the afternoon we set out for an anchorage close to Hurricane Harbor in Biscayne Bay, where we parked for two nights while we rested. It was ridiculous: we’d get up, eat something, do very little for about two hours, and then go back to sleep. We must have had ten naps between us over the weekend we were there. David did manage several boat chores during the hours he was awake; I didn’t manage a thing. The air was hot and hazy and several times we were really bothered by thick smoke that poured over the bay from the wild fires in the Everglades.

Photo #4: Miami skyline from Biscayne Bay. It was gorgeous at night, with all the lights.

Other than sleeping and watching David whack at the boat, I spent my time looking out at over a hundred (mostly power) boats that anchored near us. Both Saturday and Sunday morning, they appeared like magic about breakfast time and then they disappeared again as the sun began to dip over the horizon in the evening. Teens, families with kids, and boats full of adults came to anchor out and play on and around the shallow waters covering a nearby sandbar. The kids spent all their time leaping from the swim platforms into the water, the teens zoomed by in small power boats or on jet skis, and the old folks lay back in the shade with a cold drink and watched their progeny or else sat their with fishing poles out, looking hopeful. We had the place to ourselves from dusk until dawn, and it was beautifully empty when we pulled out Monday morning early to head down to Rodriguez Key.

Photos #5-7: Stiltsville, beside Biscayne Channel

The most interesting thing we saw on that leg of the trip was a place the chart called “Stiltsville.” As its name implies, Stiltsville is made up of maybe ten houses built on stilts, scattered along a stretch of the southern channel that leads from Biscayne Bay to Hawk Channel on the Atlantic (Biscayne Channel). The houses looked abandoned for the most part, with windows boarded up. Some of the foundation piers looked well cared for, but others looked as though a good blow would send the house straight into the bay.

Stiltsville was about it for entertainment on our trip south other than the colors of the water in Hawk Channel. I saw the same beautiful dark blue and turquoise striped water that I’ve been used to seeing in the Bahamas, as well as an equally beautiful jade and evergreen Florida variation. Those strips of clear, jewel-colored water were surrounded by regular green ocean in many places. I have no idea what causes the colors of the sea to change, and especially cannot guess why the neon colors are blue and turquoise in one place and then jade and evergreen just a short distance away. The trip to Rodriguez Key was 40+ miles pretty much straight into the 15-20 knot wind. We motor sailed with the staysail at 30 degrees to the wind when we could, but still arrived minutes before sunset after a 13 hour trip. Silver moonlight bathed the open vista to the east as we sat in the cockpit with a well earned drink, and I decided that was my idea of a night passage: at anchor in a still lagoon under a bright moon with a drink in my hand.

The next day we soldiered on to Channel Five, tacking back and forth over a 25 mile route. It was a terrific ten hour sail, Raven heeled with all her canvas out. All that tacking added a lot of distance to the trip and we arrived at the anchorage at sunset yet again. The last day of our march to Marathon was a slog, motoring straight into 16 knot wind most of the way, with a couple of hours of motor sailing thrown in. We paused at the Marathon Marina fuel dock to tank up with diesel and water, and then we nabbed a mooring ball in the sparsely populated mooring field and celebrated our arrival with rum and coke. It was pretty warm the whole trip, mid 80s making the breeze welcome, and the heat baked us but good once we tied up here. Both of us are glad to see the sun go down. It’s hard to remember how much I hated the cold up north!

We rented a car for three days, so in addition to luxurious meals in the local (air conditioned) diners, trips to the (air conditioned) Publix supermarket to re-provision (read: find David a bag of potato chips), and the usual laundry and showers, we have also visited the (partially air conditioned) Turtle Hospital and the (partially air conditioned) Crane Point Museum and Nature Center. You can find out about the Turtle Hospital at http://www.turtlehospital.org/ and about the museum and nature preserve at Crane Point at http://www.cranepoint.net/ . Both are well worth a visit and these sites have lots of photos.

Photo #8: One of the turtle patients, in a separate tank

Photo #9: Two bubble butts in the big pool. You can see a weight on one's back.

Photo #10: In hopes of a snack from the tourists...

The turtle hospital was my favorite. I got to see about 40 huge sea turtles up close and personal. Some are permanent residents, because of the nature of their injuries, but most are thankfully just passing through. The staff treats everything from tumors to fishing line entanglements (please, please, if you are fisher-folk, be sure to retrieve all your line – floating filament causes terrible suffering for the wildlife that runs afoul of it) to shark attacks to a really weird condition that results in the turtle having excess air forced into the space between its body and its shell. The large bubble of air keeps the turtle from diving. It’s as if they are wearing a floatie. The staff call these unfortunates “bubble butts” which is a funny name for an un-funny condition, usually caused by a collision with a boat. The trapped air means these turtles have to be lifelong residents of the hospital, because they can’t dive for food. The staff can’t drill holes in the shell to let the air out because a turtle’s spine and skeleton are pretty much welded to its shell. For now, the staff attach weights on the turtles’ shells, so they can dive a little and have a more normal life. The bubble butts all live in a large salt water pool with fish and other maimed turtles, but it’s not much like having the run of the sea. You can’t imagine how huge some of these turtles are. The loggerheads have heads the size of softballs and larger. These are the turtles we saw in the Bahamas.

We should be here through next Wednesday. Then, always depending on the winds and weather, we’ll be off up the west coast of Florida, headed toward Ft. Meyers, Tampa/St. Petersburg, and Pensacola.

Great Sail from Great Sale Cay

2008-05-14T05:38:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log]

May 13, 2008

One of the great things about Raven – no, the greatest thing about Raven – is the way she sails. She is at home in the water, regardless of the conditions. That came home to me, yet again, as we made our way from Hawksbill Cay to Great Sale Cay day before yesterday. The morning dawned with a gentle 10 knot breeze that gradually strengthened over the course of the afternoon to 18 and 20 knots. We sailed much of the way, which I like to imagine makes Raven happy. She’s like a dog running free on the beach, just bounding along with her canvas flying. It’s like riding a magic carpet. The sail was a smooth one until we reached Carter’s Cays, at which time the three and four foot seas began to stack and the waves began to bounce into each other. The rough water didn’t affect Raven at all, except for slowing her down. This is the same rough ride we experienced going the opposite direction over this stretch of the bank when we first arrived in the Bahamas. I wonder if perhaps that corner of the bank is where a couple of undersea rivers run into each other. A bit farther on we made the turn to port to approach Great Sale, lost our angle on the wind, and had to proceed under power.

Mr. P (the Perkins engine) responded well to the challenge, proving that the overheating issue is behind us, and we trudged forward, beating into 20 knot winds at a snail’s pace. I steered into the wind for about two hours, making little headway. David had time for a nap after we made the turn and we had barely passed Little Sale Cay when he woke up to relieve me. I got my book, settling down for the rest of the trip which looked to be a long one. David interrupted my reading to say, “I think we’re going to have some weather.” I really hate it when he says that, and I really hated it a lot when I got a look at the storm clouds that were approaching. They covered the sky to the southwest, although it looked like we might squeak by the major part of the system. We hurried to secure everything and put on our life vests. There’s no way to know how hard “weather” is going to blow. Raven chugged ahead on auto-pilot (there was no sea room to heave to) and the leading edge of the storm spread over the sky like a dark blanket.

I was mesmerized by the clouds. Thick and dark with a ragged edge, they produced the most fantastical shapes. At one point, the edge of the foremost black cloud folded over itself, like a hood, and then the face of a beautiful woman appeared in the hood, staring down solemnly at the water, her face seemingly only inches from its surface. She slowly dissolved into other shapes as the darkness poured over us, blotting out the blue sky. We never manage to have the camera ready when something amazing like that happens, but David did get a few photos of the clouds.

Behind the first line of black clouds were sheets of rain, hiding everything behind a gray curtain. Heavy rain peppered us for only about five minutes, as the wind gusted to the low thirties, and the turquoise water around us rose up in steep six to eight foot waves, each crested with white foam. As we hoped, most of the storm passed by to starboard, and we only caught its tip. The rain and wind lasted about 20 minutes and we proceeded safely to the anchorage at Great Sale in choppy seas.

The amazing thing? If I had closed my eyes, I wouldn’t have been able to tell we were in any sort of weather at all from the motion of the boat. Raven simply kept on going under the auto-pilot as she had been going for the last few hours – she didn’t shudder, change course, or change her position on the water in the slightest. I felt perfectly safe, and I am a huge chicken.

We anchored in some stiff wind, letting out around 130 feet of chain. The wind howled all night (another night of anchor watch), from 25 to 35 knots, and we were grateful that there were only seven boats at anchor with us. Nobody dragged, which was amazing, considering how hard it blew and the fact that the wind changed direction from south to west over the course of the night. The next day it kept blowing, not dipping below 20 knots until well into late afternoon. Amazingly enough, two boats elected to leave the anchorage in the strong (28+ knots) west wind. They must have had a heck of a ride, with the way the water was churned up. Late in the day, the wind died altogether, and this morning as we left Great Sale for West End, the sea was flat, the breeze light, and we had to motor sail to get here in one day.

And Raven? Why, she just took it all in her stride, as usual. She’s at the dock tonight, dozing and dreaming, her sails furled and her decks washed with fresh water.

Birthday Boy and Other Tales

2008-05-07T07:26:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log]

Yes, that’s right, David had a birthday yesterday, May 6th! We celebrated by taking on water, so we could clean up for lunch at Mangoes. We’ve been being very careful with water for about 10 days, and extremely careful with water for the last three days. The charge here is $20 per 100 gallons or less, so we wanted to be as empty as possible before filling up (we carry 80 gallons in the tanks and another 18 gallons on deck). In addition to being cheap, we wanted to give David’s hand a chance to heal before exercising it too much. All went well at the marina dock, David didn’t strain his hand, we filled up, and then we celebrated with baths and shampoos. Once we were slicked up (I even wore make-up) we enjoyed lunch at Mangoes and then spent the afternoon in the cockpit listening to a CD of Calypso music and recovering from having eaten fried food. It is pathetic when your sundowner is Alka-Seltzer and you enjoy it.

The latest equipment crash is the Garmin chart plotter, which has suddenly developed wavy lines over half the screen. There is a friendly and efficient electronics store in Marsh Harbour called Merlin’s (yellow building, second story, north side of the harbor). David took the Garmin there and was told it often takes 10 days to three weeks for a repair to be effected. That’s pretty discouraging. While waiting for Merlin’s to contact Garmin and get back to us, David has been using the internet connection to look for less expensive alternatives. It’s no fun to shell out $100 for each unlock code on our 2006 Garmin CD. Not only are we paying a lot, we’re paying for two year old maps. He found a very interesting site at http://www.earthnc.com/ which has the latest in marine maps/technology powered by Google. If you click on the site, you can watch a YouTube promotional video. I think you will be amazed and delighted at the possibilities. For example, we spent about an hour zooming into the Houston ship channel where we not only saw all the real-time commercial boat traffic (powered by AIS), but also discovered that they have mapped the hundreds of oil wells out there.

While we sit here at anchor, we spend a lot of time talking about modifications to Raven that would reduce the degree to which life on board resembles camping. My major gripe is not lack of space for provisions. We can pack enough food for three to four months in the space we have. So far, we have never been away from land for more than 10 days, so other than the cost of re-stocking in a place where food is more expensive (like the Bahamas), food storage does not seem to be a problem.

Personal storage, on the other hand, has been a problem. We have two hanging lockers near the bow of the boat. One of them functions pretty well, holding jackets and foul weather gear and David’s trousers with no difficulty. The other one is far too shallow. Even though the front part of the locker is deep enough, the back part is the sloping shape of the hull, which means that the tails of my shirts, etc., get crammed up and wrinkled. Both of us have clothes in the open shelves that line each side of the v-berth, but that is an inconvenient and messy arrangement. Even if I didn’t have too many clothes (I over packed tops, like I over packed food), they are just sitting there on the open shelves. My side looks messy and disorganized (because it is messy and disorganized). David’s side is neat as a pin and all his clothes are folded in plastic boxes, but I don’t like looking at his side, either. It’s like living in a pantry. So for the re-fit, I want my locker converted to shelves and I want closed compartments on either side of the v-berth so I don’t have to look at the items stored there.

Then there is (drum roll) the bed. Gee. What can I say? It’s v-shaped. That means you better like snuggling feet at night. The cushions that came with the boat were inadequate in the extreme. One hip or the other always ended up resting on the wooden frame of the v-berth insert and the cushioned part got flatter and flatter. In New Bern we bought memory foam, made a cover for it with a sheet, lay that on top of the cushions, and covered the whole area with another sheet. It’s much more comfortable, but the foam tends to wad up in the middle and it’s really a pain to access the v-berth storage areas where we keep tools, etc. Our friends on Anastasia sprang for a custom mattress for their v-berth and they told us it was absolutely worth the hefty price tag. We still aren’t sure how to pamper our old bodies and still have access to the storage area. A hinged mattress? Wouldn’t I still end up in the seam?

I’d also like to put sliding doors on the port and starboard storage areas in the saloon. The port side (mine) carries spices, extra meds, Kleenex, books, magazines, etc. The starboard side (David’s) carries his books, the (really small) stereo speakers, maps, sailing books, and bits of wire for hooking up this and that. Again, the open storage makes it feel as though I am living in a pantry.

David came up with an ingenious solution to the counter space issue in the galley. Imagine having to prepare your meals on top of the ice chest that holds all your fresh food and you will understand why I need more counter space. He proposed a hinged door between the sink and the nav station that you could fold down and secure when not in use. Genius, no? So far, no workable ideas present themselves to solve the fact that the refrigerator is just an electric cooler. Viking Rose has a real fridge with shelves. Sigh.

And finally, we have got to replace the seat cushions. Poor old things, they are just flabby.

Great ideas for a refit. But first, we need to find a small oil well to pay for it. Talking about refits, etc. leads us to the conclusion that perhaps there is a big difference between a cruising boat and a live aboard boat. A cruising boat is designed for trips with a foreseeable end, somewhere between a weekend and a couple of years. A live aboard boat means you don't go home, you are home, permanently. We'll cogitate some more and get back to you.

Mired in Marsh Harbour

2008-05-03T19:05:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log]

We’re still in Marsh Harbour and I’m beginning to feel about it the way I felt about Vero Beach, Florida. We’ve been here ‘way too long to suit me. There have been some bright spots, like meeting up with long time cruising buddies Jeff and Peggy on Moonstruck and enjoying simply superb weather, but mostly it’s been on the frustrating side – as frustrating as leisure in a pretty port can be. David was kept busy a few days with our engine. While he clattered and clanked under the hood, I did mundane chores and volunteered a couple of days at a local charity.

“Buck a Book” is a local charity that support the “wild horses of Abaco.” Descended from the time of Columbus, if the more glamorous claim is true, these horses have been here at least a hundred years, and probably a lot longer. They are a distinct type of horse not found anywhere else, “a sub-group of the Spanish Barb breed,” and some of the local folk are trying to keep them from disappearing altogether. It’s a difficult task – while they roam wild on the island, they are confined to a nature preserve and must be looked after when natural disasters occur (fire and big storms) and they must be preserved from local poachers. There are only eight of these horses left, four stallions and four mares. For some reason, the mares are unable to bring their pregnancies to term, so there have been no foals for some time. To help finance its efforts to protect the horses, the non-profit runs a used book store. They take donations of books and DVDs from cruisers and the local community. They resell the books for a dollar apiece, and they rent the DVDs for a dollar apiece. They pull in about $200 - $300 a week, using only volunteer help. If your interest is piqued, look them up at http://www.arkwild.org/. They’ve had a rough week, as all the pasture for the horses has burned in a rash of wildfires.

On the theory that anything is more fun than watching David fix the engine, I volunteered to run the bookstore for a couple of days. The store is housed in a container, something along the order of a pod, that’s about 20 x 15. Like a pod, it opens only at the end. It’s lined with bookshelves and DVD racks and I guess they have about 1,000 titles at any one time. It’s a boon for the cruising community, because most cruisers devour books at an alarming rate. One of the perks of the job is getting to make the Buck a Book announcement on the morning “cruiser’s net” – kind of a cruisers’ radio show on VHF 68. So I got to write a little script and read it on the air two days in a row. I’ve now had 4 of my allotted 15 minutes of fame. It was fun – anyone know of a radio station that needs an announcer? And in there somewhere, David and I had a wonderful 8th anniversary.

The second half of the week kinda went downhill. Despite the excitement of fixing one problem with the engine and deciding the other one would hold for awhile, we started really worrying about our time window and our cash flow and the overall state of the boat. Things got kind of depressing around here as we talked over our options. It’s a great idea to keep moving when you are cruising, because the minute you stop, all your worries catch up to you and start yammering. I think I have conclusively proved that worries travel at less than 5 knots.

While we were tussling with real world problems, David came down with a painful bout of tendonitis in his left hand. Being here at Marsh Harbour, it was not difficult to find a doctor. The doctor prescribed cortisone and anti inflammatories and “bed rest” for his hand. When you stop to realize that David uses his hand for everything, and that we use David for everything related to sailing or moving the boat, you will see that this is a huge difficulty. We get to shore and back with me steering the dinghy, but there’s no question of moving Raven or going snorkeling with his hand out of commission. (Snorkeling involves taking the dinghy out, mooring it to a ball, and getting in and out of the dinghy, so there is a lot of “hands-on” to it.) Hopefully, it will be better in a few days – it is already much less painful.

However – I don’t want to take any protracted sails with my cap’n in anything less than really, really good shape. I rely on his strength and coordination to manhandle the boat while I steer (as in sails, lines, anchoring, dock work). It’s one thing when you are puttering around the ICW and a whole ‘nother beast when you are out on Big Water.

So – it feels kind of like the last straw. We are regrouping and thinking of going home for a couple of years. Raven needs repairs and upgrades and the cruising kitty is really, really low. And our seasonal window is almost gone. I don’t want to hurry or be on a forced march or be worried about money for the next six months. As of today (check back at the end of the week when, if we have not killed each other from being trapped on the boat for a solid week) we may have a different plan. For the moment, we are reading, listening to podcasts, eating junk, and glowering at the view since all we can do right now is look at it.

We will have fun going home, as we will go back to the Florida Keys and travel up the west coast of Florida and across the Gulf Coast states, which we have not done before. For those of you who don’t know, we went straight across the Gulf from Seabrook to Key West when we left two years ago. I don’t want to repeat that trip because we were so tired when we got to Key West – going the other way, we’d be in the oil fields when we were really tired and that would be really scary. So there are a lot of adventures ahead. But like any road trip, it’s never as much fun when you’d headed back.

Lynyard Cay, Abacos

2008-05-03T18:33:00.001-07:00

Photo #1: The beach!
Photo #2: For want of a better term, this was a nest of hermit crabs - there were probably 50 of them in a pile. We noticed them because they were scrabbling around, leaving the small depression where we found them and headed off somewhere else. They were all sizes. This is one of the big ones. The little ones were about the size of the tip of my little finger.

Photo #3: Another section of beach - you can just see the site of a campfire on the right where people have come ashore for good times. This is where I hopped off the boat and swam toward the beach.

Photo #4: The islands are covered with thick scrubby brush. You walk from one side to the other on the trails other people have made. There was a lot of trash on the ocean side of Lynyard Cay, mostly plastic rubbish.

Photo #5: In the background you can see smoke from some of the wild fires. It's very, very dry here right now and the locals are waiting for the summer rains to soothe the land.

Engine woes

2008-04-30T14:22:00.000-07:00

Hi! Y’all:

Fair warning to those whose eyes glaze over during technical talk. That’s what this post is all about.

Two engine problems have occurred this year: fuel system and cooling system.

A fuel leak developed between the high pressure fuel pump and the flange for the return (to fuel filter) line. The neoprene gasket had lost its resiliency and needed to be replaced. While I dithered for several days, first making one, then deciding to use a $1.50 factory replacement, the fuel system was open to the atmosphere. Once I’d installed the gasket, I started the engine to test for leaks (there were none), let it run for 30 minutes, then shut it down. I didn’t use the engine for several more days. Before departing Vero Beach, I checked the engine oil level and discovered it was very high on the dipstick. I pumped out nine quarts of fluid (c.f. five quarts), a combination of engine oil and diesel fuel; thankfully, no water. I replaced the engine oil and we continued our journey.

Over the next several weeks, Mister P (P for Perkins) performed flawlessly. The unintentional engine flush with diesel-thinned oil had “cleared out the sinuses” and removed the long-standing clatter from the general direction of the engine compartment. Mister P was at his peak.

A week ago, I noticed the oil level was again high on the dipstick, although only slightly so this time. I had added a pint of oil only the night before, so I couldn’t be sure that I hadn’t overfilled the engine. I resolved simply to observe. I also sought advice on the cruisers’ net here in Abaco. Two people assured me that the fuel pump diaphragm had ruptured. One offered me his spare, if I needed it. That was extremely kind. Due to (Raven’s previous owner) Clyde’s forethought, there was a spare fuel pump on Raven. I fitted it, made sure that the engine would run, then opened up the old pump. The diaphragm was good. So, now I must again wait and watch.

The cooling system problem has been building slowly. Basically, the running temperature has been rising. During long periods at fast idle, charging batteries, the temperature remained at its normal 180°F. Underway, depending on load, it had been as high as 195°F, but sometimes it would run at normal. I checked the intake, the strainer, the impeller, and the hoses. All were OK. That left the thermostat and heat exchanger to inspect. I didn’t want to do this job, dragged my feet, looked for other causes, and denied there was any problem at all. On our way from Hope Town to Lynyard Cay, a 20 mile motor-sail before the wind, the water temperature rose to 200°F. This was beyond my comfort level. We were heading to more remote areas of the Bahamas and this problem was getting worse. I knew I’d have to solve it. Reluctantly, we returned to Marsh Harbour, backtracking 22 miles. It was worth it to have access to marine supplies and a FedEx office, in case I needed special Perkins parts flown in.

The NAPA store had a new thermostat but no gasket. I made one. I also dug out the special Perkins/Bowman heat exchanger rubber end caps I’d bought in Seabrook two years ago, also from NAPA. To gain clearance to lift the thermostat housing off the long studs, I had to remove the hose that carries antifreeze to the header tank. Ah ha! Lodged in the 90° elbow was a red worm, about 2’ long and ¼” diameter. Bits of rust and other debris had collected around it, cutting flow to about 5% of normal. The red worm turned out to be flexible gasket material that someone had been far too generous with during a previous repair. After reaming out the elbow and associated 2” pipe, I changed the thermostat, and exposed the heat exchanger core. It wouldn’t come out for cleaning but I easily passed a 1/8^th inch wooden dowel through every tube, so the raw water flow was clearly unimpaired. During reassembly, I replaced the end caps, one other rubber elbow, and one almost-broken-through worm drive clamp. I’ve learned that not all stainless steel clamps are made equal. Take a ceramic magnet with you to the store when you buy one. The best stainless steel is non-magnetic. Also, the clamps with pressed threads, rather than stamped-out threads, are usually of better quality.

Once all the clamps were tight, I topped up the antifreeze and then let everything sit overnight. I wanted to give the hoses and clamps time to settle in. Next morning, before starting the engine I checked all clamps for tightness. The engine started first crank, as usual, and came up to temperature – just below 180°F. I let it run for 30 minutes but never under load. (We are anchored out.) The temperature didn’t budge.

And so, the present crisis is over. Now, we are waiting for our mail from Texas and enjoying a little down time. Even allowing for unexpected problems, Raven’s maintenance list is slowly shrinking. If you think it’s tough to keep a car running, try a boat. Wear and tear takes its toll, as can be expected, but the environment is relentless in its attacks on the boat and everything on board, particularly the mechanical and electrical systems. It’s as well that cruising’s payback exceeds the work involved in staying afloat and underway.

Best regards,
Captain Dave

St. George and the Dragon(s)

2008-04-27T10:41:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log]

It’s much easier to describe the places we go than it is to give any idea of what it’s like to live on a boat from day to day or to describe how living on a boat affects my psyche. As I’ve mentioned before, we are our own little floating universe, Planet Raven. Most of the time that’s good, but periodically I am subject to loneliness, homesickness, and fear, just as I was on land. Whatever I am feeling, there’s not a lot to block it out, not much in the way of distraction. There is certainly nowhere else to go.

The good days are wonderful. The scenery is different and mostly beautiful, the people are friendly and often fascinating. Sailing is fun, now, but still plenty challenging enough to be interesting. David and I get along well, for the most part. The jobs we do are repetitive, but probably not any more onerous than jobs on land (I do fantasize about a dishwasher). Some days are more interesting than others. Sometimes we’re bored. On the good days, that’s all okay. The bad days are awful. I find myself subject to all sorts of fears and my imagination runs riot. I know when things aren’t going well for me because I read nonstop, pulling myself as far away from the boat as I can get. This is not a new behavior – I did it when things were going badly on land, too. I stock up on books the way other people lay in medicine.

As we left Hope Town last Thursday morning, one of our new friends expressed surprise when I told her we were always nervous going out. “You mean it doesn’t go away?” she wailed. And for me, the answer is “No.” Usually, the fear I feel when leaving port is just garden variety dock dread, which goes away almost the moment we get underway. This last week, it was a different beast altogether.

We’d been in Hope Town harbor, on a mooring ball, for four nights. Practically the entire time we were in Hope Town I’d been suffering from a higher than usual level of anxiety, waking every morning with every disaster imaginable stomping across my waking consciousness. When we last left Marsh Harbour, our plan was to leave the Abacos, stopping in Man O’War Cay first, then Hope Town, then Lynyard Cay, then across to Royal Island at the northern tip of Eleuthera. The trip to Royal Island is a long one, about 60 miles, which for Raven probably means leaving in the afternoon and sailing overnight to arrive in the early morning. None of this is anything we haven’t done before. But for some reason I just got more and more anxious. I told myself it was bad dock dread and it would go away.

After we left Hope Town, imagine my chagrin when it got even worse! And to top it off, it wasn’t just me. David was having quite a case of his own. By the time we got to Lynyard Cay and had anchored in the lee of the island, we were both in a state, dredging up everything we hate about cruising, from the space issues to the constant maintenance to our inability to just relax and be in the moment and have fun. I was ready to chuck it all in and go home, and I mean the next flight out of Marsh Harbour. If we’d have had internet at that anchorage, I might well have booked the ticket. The emotional tornado just kept swirling and reached a peak the morning after we arrived at Lynyard Cay. David had finally decided that we simply had to go back to Marsh Harbour to take care of two engine issues (the heat exchanger and the fuel pump) which have been hanging over our heads for weeks. I was in an awful funk, scared spitless by the ocean, the boat, and life in general. I was determined to go home, as in Texas, period. I focused that fear on being afraid to get in the water and go snorkeling. Snorkeling is one of the reasons for this trip for me, so the fact that I couldn’t make myself get in the water was huge. I just sat in the cockpit and cried and felt afraid until I got furious enough at being a wimp to jam myself into my wetsuit and jump over the side. To his credit, David didn’t push me.

Once in the water, plowing along toward the beach, all the emotional turmoil of the past five days was carried away in the gentle current. Anyone watching from the boat probably saw a gaseous green cloud lift off my head and float away. I paddled along past fish and grass and sand dollars and suddenly started having a great time. I picked up pieces of all sorts of shells, alternately floating and paddling. By the time David picked me up in the dinghy, maybe 45 minutes later, I was back in the present, centered, and happy as could be, as in cheerful. I had faced down my fear of getting in the water and was feeling victorious. Somehow that small action cleared the rest of the storm. I was ready to head off to Tahiti.

This is a pattern that tends to repeat itself with me and it’s bloody exhausting. I wish I didn’t get scared or feel insecure or get angry. I wish I didn’t have to face down whatever negative thing pops up. I’m glad that when I finally do, it leaves me for a while and I can be present. I’m glad that so far I have managed to stick it out and have not turned tail and run. Sometimes it’s close!

My favorite theory is that out here there is nothing between me and all the emotional crud I have stuffed over the course of my lifetime and with the lid off it just bubbles up apropos of nothing. I read once about an American woman who decided to become a Buddhist nun. The interviewer asked her what that had been like for her. She said, surprisingly, “Well, for the first two years all I did was cry.” She was spending time in a monastery, isolated from all distractions and meditating. The lid was off and all her grief floated to the top. After two years, the emotional storm cleared and at the time of the interview she was serenely happy. I live in hope.

It is possible, since this time both of us went through such a storm, is that it really wasn’t safe for us to go out with these engine issues going on and our subconscious selves knew that and raised a ruckus.

Who knows? That’s just the way it is sometimes. Maybe it doesn’t happen to people on vacation, because they’re on vacation. But we live here. Wherever you go, and all that.

The sail from Lynyard Cay to Marsh Harbour was lovely, just fantastic, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I sailed a lot of it at the helm and did a darn good job. Those of you who know what a total waste of space I was on the boat just two short years ago know what a feeling of accomplishment I have. It was fun to come back in here, where it is so familiar. This morning we got up and watched the Sunfish and Optimist regatta, with about 30 Sunfish and 20 Optimist Prams flitting over the water like so many butterflies. We had a ring side seat from the cockpit. Who needs tickets to the Olympics? The stereo is happily pumping out oldies (the soundtrack from Empire Records, so we aren’t completely lame and out of date). We had pancakes for breakfast, our old friend Jeff on Moonstruck is due in harbor in a couple of hours, David is fixing the engine, and life is good. And, oh, by the way, I have a great tan.

Views of Hope Town, Abacos, Bahamas

2008-04-23T19:27:00.000-07:00

Photo #1: Hope Town

Photo #2: resort garden

Photo #3: cemetery overlooking the Atlantic

Photo #4: private backyard w/ golf cart

Photo #5: part of the harbor

Sea Hunt

2008-04-20T10:46:00.001-07:00

Photo: This is the little cove where we snorkeled.

[Hilde’s log]

We finally went snorkeling today. There’s a little cove on the Sea of Abaco side of Elbow Cay (Hope Town), right under the lighthouse, that looked just right to us beginners. It is shallow and is ringed with a nice sandy beach. That meant that I could stand up in the water in the shallows and get myself back into the dinghy, not something I can do in deep water. I don’t fancy being towed back into the marina like a sack of rocks, so I was happy to find this place. We dinghied out into the bay in our wetsuits, wearing our Joe Cool sunglasses, looking like we knew what we were doing.

The depth in the cove varies from a few inches near the shore to about 10-12 feet near the entrance. The bottom is covered with rough grass, about 6-8” long, with sandy patches scattered throughout. We anchored the dinghy in the shallows, donned our flippers and masks and snorkels, and hopped over the side. I abandoned my flippers almost immediately. They felt so weird on the ends of my legs, heavy and awkward, and I was panicking enough about breathing through the tube of my snorkel. After I took off the flippers, I felt much better about the whole thing. I discovered I could float along, propelling myself forward with my arms at a leisurely pace, and not run out of air.

I’m nearsighted as can be, but I could see everything very clearly through my mask.

The first creatures I discovered were cream colored, spongy, and puffy-round with scalloped edges. They had ruffled slits in their sides, like pita bread, and were rhythmically sucking water in and blowing it out as the water flowed past them. There were a lot of these little beasties scattered over the sandy areas. Some were small, 3-4” across, and others were more like 6-8”.

There were schools of teeny little striped fish, about 2-3” long, that darted this way and that in the grass. They were clear with brown stripes and blended in completely with the light glinting off the waving grass.

There were schools of really tiny little clear blue fish, maybe an inch long, zig-zagging through the water near shore.

Close to the entrance, in about 8 feet of water, I saw a really big fish, maybe 25-30 pounds, floating along sticking its head in the grass every once in a while. It was a non-descript grayish color with big yellow eyes. I paralleled it, moving slowly and trying not to look hungry. It kept a big yellow eye on me, but wasn’t overly alarmed. It moved off toward the bay and I was too chicken to follow it.

We saw a big, squishy cylindrical fellow with loose, rippling skin, yellow with purple markings. It wasn’t a fish or a jellyfish and no discernable parts – a sea slug, maybe?

There was also a very large sand dollar, the puffed up kind, not the flat kind.

The fish with the most personality was about 4” long, yellow and purple. It was hovering above a rock with some craters in it. When I came upon it, the fish was pecking at the craters, eating something invisible to me. It stayed right there on its rock, even when I moved away and came back with David.

The biggest and brightest find of the day was a huge sea star, about 15” across, light orange with dark red markings. Sea stars look like they would be so soft to touch, but it’s like petting rough concrete. I know that from touching one in the aquarium in Seattle a few years ago.

I looked in vain for the turtle we saw yesterday from the dinghy when we first discovered the cove. The turtle was after minnows and it zipped this way and that, scooting along just under the surface of the water at a high rate of speed. I really want to see one of those fellows close up in the water. No luck today.

We weren’t out that long. Even in the bright sunshine and the shallow water, we felt chilled. I bought bottled water and some snack crackers with us and we munched those and stripped off the wetsuits. Once we were dry and the gooseflesh had gone down a bit, we motored back to the anchorage. I sat astride the bow of the dinghy with my feet dangling into the water, laughing, as we bumped over the swells. The water is so clear, it’s like a gigantic swimming pool. I could get used to this place.

Internet at last: photos from the last 3 blogs

2008-04-19T06:55:00.000-07:00

Photo #1: island home and teeny road leading to the beach, Man O'War Cay

Photo #2: Atlantic Beach, Man O'War Cay

Photo #3: our dinghy tied up at low tide next to the ladders I keep having to scale, Man O'War Cay

Photo #4: Meander, leaving Marsh Harbour the other morning

Photo #5: "Yellow Submarine" and captain, bobbing in Settlement Harbour, Great Guana Cay

Photo #6: interior of island ferry, heading from Marsh Harbour to Great Guana Cay

Man O'War Cay

2008-04-19T06:38:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log]

April 18, 2008

What a picture perfect day we have had! After a brief stop at the fuel dock to replenish her diesel supply, Raven set off for Man O’War Cay about 9 a.m. It’s only 6.5 miles from Marsh Harbour, so even though we had to motor into what little wind there was, we got here about 10:45 or so. The channel is quite narrow, with rocks and sand jutting out either side, so we eased our way in, glad for the high tide. We are in the eastern anchorage, and it is crammed with boats. Most of them look unoccupied; I think most of the cruisers anchor out in front of the main town dock and marina to the west. It’s pretty shallow in here. As in so many other places (everywhere but Marsh Harbour so far) the water is like glass, completely clear.

David dropped the anchor in about 8 feet of water, over a sandy patch. He decided this was the perfect place to “dive on the anchor” for the first time. Diving on the anchor is exactly what it sounds like. You dive down to see if your anchor is set right, and if not, you set it by hand. Well. First of all, the water is still quite chilly. David donned his wetsuit and went over the side. When his bottom hit the waterline, he climbed right back out with a few choice remarks about the temperature. He’s such a cat, he really doesn’t like to be in the water in the first place, and he really doesn’t like to be in it when it’s cold.

I’m a fish, so I said I’d do it. I donned my wetsuit and dropped down in the clear water. Then I bobbed to the surface with quite a few choice words of my own about the temperature. Wo! It was glacial. Of course, I think anything less than 78 is glacial, but still. By the time I swam to the anchor, following the chain by looking through my snorkel mask, I was plenty warm enough. The chain snaked all over the place, but I finally found the anchor. It’s our CQR and it appeared to be lying on its side, with one of the flukes buried and the other visable. Upon that report, David backed Raven down and the CQR buried itself deeper, but still a bit on one side. It was fascinating to watch it dig itself in, like a large iron sea creature. David wanted to see for himself, so he dinghied over and leaned over the side, wearing his snorkel mask. Finally he decided he wanted to dive down and see if he could set it more firmly. He dropped into the water, fins and snorkel in place, which prevented me from hearing all the bad words that steamed up his mask. He flippered down a couple of times, but couldn’t get a purchase on the dratted thing. But there is always more than one way to skin a cat. He put the Danforth in the dinghy and motored out in front of Raven and set that anchor too.

Once we warmed up again with lunch and tea, we took the dinghy into the town dock. I climbed yet another ladder (I’m getting really good at that) and we spent the afternoon walking all over this lovely cay. Friends fussed to us that there isn’t much to do here, but golly I don’t know what else you’d want. Perhaps it’s just that Man O’War Cay doesn’t cater to tourists – there aren’t lots of places to shop, or eat, and no bars. The island is very pretty, covered with beautiful Easter egg colored houses, graced with a long Atlantic beach on one side and lots of boats and boat-related businesses on the other (also two gift shops, a shop that makes canvas bags and hats, two bakeries, a grocery, an ice-cream/snack/light dinner place, and a lunch place). It is criss-crossed with tiny one-lane roads, and the locals zip around, up and down, back and forth, in golf carts. We found real ice cream and each enjoyed a cone. We beach combed, took lots of photos, stopped in at the local grocery for (bountiful heavens!!!) a cold Dr. Pepper for me and a cold Diet Coke for David, and then ate dinner at outdoor picnic tables for a very reasonable price. We both had fried fish fingers made from actual fish (as opposed to the frozen square variety you find at home); David had enough French fries to satisfy even him and I had Bahamian peas and rice, which is exactly what it sound like. It’s a bit like fried rice with peas and crisp bacon mixed in, and is one of the national dishes.

Once back on board, we had a sundowner and relaxed, watching the sun set in the west and the full moon rise in the east, and listening to the cheerful song of birds. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed birdsong. We saw sparrows and woodpeckers and a big heron and I’m sure we heard wrens as well.

I found shells on the beach, we watched schools of fish swim by in the clear water, we had two dinghy rides, we walked all the way down the beach (which nearly killed me in the deep sand) and looked in all the tide pools, we watched the breakers smash against the rocks, throwing a fan of salty lace four feet in the air, we looked out over an ocean from the last land between here and Africa, and marveled yet again at the neon colors of the sea and the rushing line of breakers that stretched all the way along the island. May there never be anything else to do on Man O’War Cay.

Anchor Watch

2008-04-18T03:29:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log] April 16, 2008

There are days on board that are just plain tedious, and most have to do with bad weather when I am safe enough not to be scared, but am required to keep watch to make sure things don’t get interesting. They can get interesting in a split second.

A few days ago, I was knitting in the cockpit. The wind had kicked up a bit and I knew I needed to put the knitting down and take a look around, but I was within 10 stitches of the end of my row and wanted to finish. I have a tendency to make weird mistakes if I stop before the end of a row and weird mistakes usually cost me hours of frustration. The next thing I knew, our air horn went off by my head with a deafening blast and David was flying out of the cockpit as though he had been launched. “Boat dragging!” he yelled, and that got my mind of my knitting, which I thrust to the side as I leaped up. Sure enough, there was a 35 foot sailboat about 6 feet from our starboard side, its crew frantically trying to start the motor. “Get me a fender!” David hollered at me, so I scrambled to the stern, unhooked the closest fender and hurried forward toward the bow, where David was standing. He was leaning over the lifelines, pushing the standing rigging on the dragging boat, which was now about 2 feet from us, fending her away from Raven’s starboard side. There was no time to attach a fender. The dragging boat’s dinghy and big outboard motor were hanging from davits from its stern, which was even with our beam. I scooted amidships and leaned over the lines myself and pushed with all my might against the pontoons of the inflatable dinghy and then against the motor. It is amazing to me that the average puny human can cause a 20,000 pound boat to move just by pushing on it. The captain got the motor going in no time (although it seemed like hours) and they moved away, barely missing catching their rudder on our anchor chain. Later in the afternoon, he came over to apologize. He said he’d been in his engine room and noticed that another boat was dragging. Then he realized the other boat was dragging forward…then he knew his boat was dragging! It’s such a scary feeling. We were totally sympathetic, and as I told him, “If you haven’t ever dragged, you’ve spent all your time at the dock.”

All of which is to say, when the wind is high and you’re anchored out with other boats, you keep an anchor watch (1) to make sure you’re not dragging and (2) to make sure no one else is headed your way. I was so grateful the incident above happened in daylight. In Taylor’s Creek, Beaufort, NC two summers ago, I watched two boats fend off from each other in a raging thunderstorm in the middle of the night for a couple of hours. The creek was too crowded and the boats anchored too close together and when the wind came from a certain direction they “kissed”. Those two crews had a long night. In this last blow, we had friends on a mooring ball in Fisher’s Bay, and the mooring ball tether broke in the wind. They escaped without incident, but I’m sure it raised their blood pressure. You have such a (false) feeling of security on a ball.

Yesterday morning about 3:30 a.m. the strong winds that were forecast arrived in a huff, increasing from about 5 knots to about 20 knots in a matter of minutes. David and I got up and went above to check on our holding. We had moved Raven down the harbor almost to the farthest end in search of a viable wi-fi connection (no luck) and we hadn’t been in any sort of wind since we moved. We sat up and watched our bearing lines, drank hot tea, and muttered about the way weather systems always seem to arrive in the wee hours of the morning. I went back to bed about 5 and got up about 8, feeling as though I’d been kicked in the head. The wind blew like stink all day, without letup, between 20 and 25 knots. It blew right down the channel of the harbor, instead of over the land, as forecast, churning up two foot waves in the harbor that slapped this way and that. Boats streamed back from their anchors like ribbons pinned to surface of the water, some pulling straight along their anchor chains and others dancing side to side with the gusts, a field of water-bound kites in the strong wind.

Other than keeping a wary eye on things, there was nothing to do but read and listen to the wind. David fought with the computer, hoping to pin down a viable wi-fi signal, to no avail. I made bread. We snacked and let the dirty dishes pile up. We wandered the 20 feet from the hatch to the v-berth and back again. I flopped on the settee for awhile, then crawled up the companionway and sat in the wind awhile. Raven bobbed and sloshed and danced around on her chain, “sailing at anchor”. The boat in front of us, which looked awfully close, turned this way and that on her chain, bucking like a frightened horse. Even had you wanted to slosh your way to land in the dinghy over the rough water, you’d have been too worried about the boat to have any fun. So we stayed on board and daydreamed about rv-ing, and how when the weather is bad you just go to the laundry or to the movies or to a coffee shop. On a boat, you stay on the boat.

After blowing steadily all day, the wind got down to business about 9 p.m. and howled along at well over 25 knots. Quite a number of long gusts were in the low to mid 30s. I took the first watch and played endless games of mahjong and free cell on the computer, popping up regularly to check my bearing lines and the magnetic track on our Garmin to make sure we were still holding firm. About 12:30 a.m. the wind dropped off to “only” 20 knots, so I crawled into bed and died, telling David he didn’t need to get up. Of course, never one to let you actually get any rest, the wind came back about 2 a.m., and David got up to watch. I felt him leave the v-berth and then crashed back to sleep. I roused from time to time and feebly asked if everything was all right. About dawn, David came back to bed and he’s in there now, dead to the world at 8 a.m. It’s blowing about 15, and I really, really, need a cup of tea.

Boats and More Boats

2008-04-18T03:27:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log] April 14, 2008

Can’t get a good wi-fi signal on a bet, so I’m posting this via email. I can’t post photos this way, but maybe I can update the posts later if we ever find a good signal.

Just when I think I’m getting pretty good at this, along comes another cruiser to put me in my place. Not on purpose – they’re just amazingly good. We were sitting in the cockpit yesterday watching all sorts of boats come into Marsh Harbour, when a little ketch floated by under sail. She was about 30 feet, with red sails, a couple of white haired folk on the lines and under sail, not motor (she didn’t look as though she even had a motor). She floated through the anchorage, red sails taut, jibing this way and that on a dime, as her crew looked for a likely spot. When they found it, they dropped anchor and calmly went forward to strike the sails. She is Meander, from Devon, England, and her crew is amazing.

On our trip to the birthday party at Guana day before yesterday David and I took the ferry. Ferries here are all called “Donnie” plus a number. We were on Donnie XI. They are ungainly looking craft, basically floating buses with enormous engines. We puttered out of the harbor and then VRRRRRRROOOOOM, off we took churning white water behind us as we thumped our way across the Sea of Abaco. I was reminded of our ferry trip to Seattle several years ago. I was enthralled by the view and the sunset and the whole experience, but around me tired commuters were balancing checkbooks, reading novels, and napping. It was the same on this ferry, with tired shoppers hanging on to their groceries and cranky children fussing. No one was into the view but us, the touristas. It was great to do the crossing in 20 minutes, rather than 2 ½ hours, but the noise and the shaking were tremendous. On the return trip, the ferry beat all the way across the Sea and somehow the diesel smoke got trapped in the open cabin with us. That pretty much cured me of riding the ferry.

While waiting for the return ferry at Guana, we saw what appeared to be a cartoon submarine off the pier. Just big enough for one person, this little yellow submarine (yes, we sang a chorus of that at the top of our voices – we had a great time at the party and it was still showing) had rounded wings and tail and nose, and was shaped just like a ballooned cartoon of a real airplane. A man was inside – we could see him wiping steam from his breath from the inside windshield – and he steered toward the pier and away, alternately submerging and floating up for air, water spurting rhythmically from holes in the cabin. He evidently knew the ferry pilots, because once they’d docked and the passengers had loaded, he came up right at the stern, slipped out of the sub through a door in the bottom, and crawled up to sprawl on the nose and chat. He drew a crowd of Bahamian workers, plus the passengers on the ferry, all of whom gawked and cracked jokes about his little craft. As the ferry pulled away, we watched him floating off through the mooring field, a little yellow airplane submerged in the clear blue water.

Today is April 14, 2008. Two years ago today, Raven sailed away from Seabrook on the way to Florida. On board were one terrified (me), one resigned (Schnitzel), and one excited (David) sailor, off to see what we could see. Happy anniversary, Raven!

at home in the Abacos

2008-04-12T06:57:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log]

Raven is back at anchor in Marsh Harbour. We came back to pick up a wi-fi bridge (a kind of antennae) so we can hook back up to the net. Our old antennae croaked abruptly about 10 days ago. Another cold front is due Monday, so we’ll be here until probably Thursday, when we will head on to Man O’War Cay and maybe Little Harbour, the southern end of the Abacos.

While we were waiting for the antennae to come in, we sailed back to Great Guana and picked up a mooring in Settlement Harbour for a few days, then sailed across the Sea of Abaco to Treasure Cay (about 7-8 miles across) to wait out a weak cold front. To our chagrin, we sailed right into the squall line as we made our way across, and got properly drenched for our bad timing. It was an interesting experience, though, as we watched a very well defined line of dark clouds lumber toward us over the water. Several boats were making the trip and we kept an eye on the one about half a mile in front of us. When it suddenly began to heel, we took in the sails. About two minutes later, we were smacked with 30 mile an hour winds (I swear I saw 35 on the wind meter for one gust) and slopping waves. The wind lasted only about five minutes and then everything settled down to a drenching rain as we struggled forward under power. David was at the helm all suited up in his yellow slicker, dripping like a melting icicle, while I sat in front of the companionway, helpfully offering him dry clothes to wipe his streaming face. And yes, the bimini was up. Big help it was! We hadn’t pulled it tight enough, so water pooled in the saggy places and dripped on us, while the rain blew in under it, and the seas sloshed up from the gunwhales. I worried about going into the dock, but by the time we reached Treasure Cay (about 3 miles from the place we met the squall line), it was sunny and calm. Inside the marina, it was flat as a pancake and the wind was about 7 knots.

Once we were tied up at the dock, we took a look around at a genuine resort. The docks there are fixed, so I had to time getting on and off the boat, as the dock rose and fell about three feet over the course of six hours. Our biggest priority was a hot shower, so that came first. Then we stretched out on beach chairs by the pool, watched the palm trees sway, and did absolutely nothing for about thirty minutes. A quick exploration revealed a poolside bar and restaurant, a line of shops (hardware, laundry, grocery, etc.), and a beachside bar and restaurant overlooking a crescent shaped bay. I slept like a dead thing that night, for ten hours. I think as long as we are on the hook, or even on a mooring ball, part of me keeps “one eye open”. At the dock, all systems relax and that is the end of me for hours and hours. Needless to say, the next morning I was so relaxed I could hardly dress.

Our next priority was laundry ($8 to wash and dry one load, again), after which we came back to Raven and lay around in the cockpit reading until about three. We finally forced ourselves out of the cockpit and over to the beach; after all, we were paying through the nose for this experience, so we had to do resort-y things. The water at the beach was cloudy with sand and you couldn’t see like you could at Great Guana. It was also still a bit chilly from the front and the wind was whipping along so wind chill was a factor. After about 20 minutes we decided it was too cold, so we went and lay around on our plastic beach chairs drying off. The walk from the beach had coated us in a thin layer of white sand. Sugar dusted and sticky, we peeled ourselves off the plastic chairs after about half an hour, dried off, and then packed our bags and headed to the pool to wash off the sea water. The pool water was even colder!! I swam about 3 lengths, stayed cold, and got out. David wisely opted for a hot shower. More reading in the cockpit. We wandered back to the beach that night for the advertised beach bonfire (there wasn’t one) and congratulated ourselves on having eaten well on the boat, since the beach fare was $14 barbequed hot dogs (that’s $14 each).

Bottom line: we failed miserably to become resort patrons. The hot showers and laundry were huge draws, but the rest of it couldn’t live up to being on the boat. People there were like people at any hotel, friendly but distant. We couldn’t afford the food and didn’t find any place that was as nice as our own cockpit to enjoy a beer. We cast off the next day (after a farewell shower), and headed back to Settlement Harbour. It was a beautiful, if lumpy sail. In the marina, we couldn’t tell if the wind was strong or not, we were so protected. But once out on the Sea of Abaco, the seas were still churning, so it must have been a pretty good blow. We sailed for about two hours, and then motored up to our old mooring spot at Settlement Harbour, coming in about three. The next morning we dinghied in and went walkabout over much of the island, looking at neighborhoods with pretty pastel houses, peeking in at Grabber’s, the other watering hole on Great Guana, and finally returning to Nipper’s for a quick lunch of boiled shrimp and fried onions rings, and, luxury of luxury, two Cokes. I bought a conch necklace for a souvenir, and then we cast off for another lovely sail to Marsh Harbour. The sailing here is just fantastic. I cannot imagine anything more wonderful than gliding over the clear pastel water with the sun on my shoulders and the soft wind in my face.

Now we’re at anchor for a few days. This part of boat life is boat and personal chores – grocery, cutting hair (I cut mine yesterday and it’s about 2” long), baking bread, cleaning up below, and putting on a new coat of teak oil. We have one more day of leisure, though. Later today David and I are taking the ferry out, headed back again to Great Guana to attend a birthday party. It’s a 20 minute ride for $20. The ferries zip past, up and down the Sea of Abaco, like rectangular white water bugs. It will be fun to go so fast.

A day at the beach

2008-04-07T16:09:00.000-07:00

These photos are from the Atlantic side of Great Guana.

photo #1: enjoy a rum something at a Nipper's picnic table, overlooking the Atlantic

photo #2: at last, palm trees!

photo #3: looking up from the beach to Nipper's

photo #4: at the edge of a very big ocean

photo #5: we had the beach to ourselves - 5 miles of it

Back at Great Guana, April 4, 2008

2008-04-07T15:52:00.000-07:00

[

photo #1: "Buck a Book" sells you paperbacks for a dollar and donates its profits to benefit the wild horses of Abaco, descended from Columbus' time, and numbering only 8 horses at this time

photo #2: interior of Java, my favorite coffee shop in Marsh Harbour

Hilde’s log]

Raven is slopping quietly at anchor at Settlement Point, Great Guana Cay. We returned to Great Guana after several days in Marsh Harbour, where we stocked up on groceries, got rid of our trash, and visited with friends. My favorite stop is a little coffee shop called Java, where I enjoyed an iced chai in a lovely non-air conditioned setting. Although the islands are warm (lower 80s most days), the constant sea breeze keeps everything comfortable and only a few places have air conditioning. This makes me very happy, since the air conditioning at home smells stale and is always set at right about freezing. At Java, the front and back doors are always open and the breeze sweeps through, taking the aroma of the coffee right out on the porch. There is art on the walls for sale, a table of books for exchange, tea and coffee for sale, couches and chairs for those who want the shade, and comfortable plastic tables out front for those who want more light.

Although Marsh Harbour is one of the “big” towns (you can get there by plane), it’s pretty easy to walk to what you need. The grocery store, Maxwell’s, has just about everything you’d want. The prices are quite expensive, reflecting the fact that just about everything is shipped in, but when you’ve lived on canned food for awhile where no produce is available, price is insignificant and availability is everything. David and I stuffed our purchases into our little wheeled plastic carts and lugged our booty about four long blocks to the dinghy dock. I felt as though I were some old horse dragging a wooden cart. There are few sidewalks and Bahamians drive on the left, so traffic was also an issue. It took us three separate trips to the store to stock the boat because we could only carry so much at a time. We also resupplied with propane and gasoline. We’ll fill up with water and diesel later in the week when we stop in at a dock (trash pickup, hot showers, dockside laundry…what luxury!).

The promised winds did come through, but much less strongly than anticipated. Marsh Harbour is a great foul weather port, protected on all sides with great holding. Larry and Barbara, on Laura May, told us of one fellow who rode out a hurricane in that harbor – on the boat. No thanks!

Today we made a quick hour and a half trip back to Great Guana Cay. We took a mooring ball at Settlement Point and went ashore to find Nipper’s, one of the two local watering holes. A passing golf cart gave us a ride right up to the gate. Nipper’s has a fresh water swimming pool, an open air bar, a restaurant, and guest lodges and sits on a sand dune overlooking a long stretch of Atlantic beach. What a glorious sight! This was the view I kept seeing on all the brochures – five miles of unspoiled beach trimmed with sandy cliffs and palm trees, white-crested rollers breaking over white sand, deep neon-blue sea to the horizon. There is a reef about 75 yards off the beach where you can snorkel, plenty of places to jump the breakers or body surf or just sit in the sand and roast. Children dug sand, adults alternately played with them or leaped in the breakers, couples strolled down the beach, small dogs played endless games of tag with anyone who showed the least interest. We watched it all from the shaded edge of Nipper’s porch, listening to island music and the surf, a cold beer in hand. Tomorrow we will make our own foray to the sand. David has just ruined Galveston for me by bringing me here. I mean ruined.

laundry day at Marsh Harbour

2008-03-31T10:33:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log]

Just back from doing our radioactive laundry at the marina laundry facility. $16 for three washers and one dryer. Needless to say, I’ll be drying most of our things on the lifelines today. We’ve been in Marsh Harbour for two days now, waiting for high winds that have not yet materialized. It’s supposed to blow 30 knots, but we haven’t seen anything over 23 so far. The water in the harbor is a bit choppy, but we made it to the laundry without getting sloshed. It was a bit of a challenge when we arrived, as I had to climb up a five foot wooden ladder to reach the dock. Heights (even five feet) give me the willies, but I made it up and down. Everest is next!

While I did the clothes, David got out his sewing machine and restitched the mainsail cover. Now he’s digging around in the port lazarette, working on an adjustment to the rudder post stuffing box. I’m about to continue with hanging out the clothes and making bread.

Not much to report, except a marvelous trip from Fisher’s Bay at Great Guana Cay to Marsh Harbour through perfectly clear water. We took turns sitting at the bow, watching the sandy bottom roll by. We saw one fish, probably 20 star fish (with short, stubby little arms), and a number of sea slugs (some of them are bright red!). Once at anchor here in the harbor we saw several sea turtles, which was a big thrill for me, fan of turtles that I am. The harbor water is cloudy so we can’t see the bottom (probably just as well), but the turtles floated to the top and looked around at everyone before diving again. They were probably 18” to 2 feet across, with big yellow heads. I finally saw what I think are tropic birds at Great Guana Cay. They look a bit like sea gulls, having large, white bodies, but their tails are like scissortails back home and they don’t scream like gulls do, but rather call with more of a chirp. Four of them played above us in the breeze as we lay at anchor, chasing each other in dips and glides, obviously with romance on their minds. It is spring, after all.

We met up with Viking Rose here in the harbor, and heard from Gerda and Jack on Sadie A on the VHF. They are snorkeling at Great Guana this week. Richard, Penny, David, and I all walked up to Marshall’s grocery and were delighted to find that this local grocery is loaded with food – even produce. We plan to go back to Great Guana later in the week and take a mooring ball in order to leave the boat without worrying about dragging, so we can roam that island, enjoy the beach, and do some snorkeling. Then we’ll turn around and come back here on our way south.

We met Tony and Kris from Ticketoo, who are returning to the States after three years in the Caribbean. They came aboard and visited with us last night, and had lots to tell of ports we hope to visit, especially lots of information about Luperon in the Dominican Republic, which is our goal for June. They have wonderful photos on their website at www.spaces.msn.com/members/ticketoo. We met them because they came up to the boat in their dinghy and announced they were the cake fairies. Company they had expected were forced to cancel their trip, so Tony and Kris were handing out slices of the chocolate cherry cake they’d made for the company to their neighbors (it was just wonderful). If that wasn’t enough, Barbara and Larry on Laura Mae, our neighbors to port, sent over some fresh coconut bread. After so many years in cities, where neighbors have uniformly ignored us (and, to be fair, we pretty much ignored them), the friendliness of people on the water just astonishes and delights me.

As we were barreling along yesterday in the dinghy, exploring the harbor for dinghy docks and boats we’d met before, we saw Ru’ah, a boat that routinely checks in on the cruisers’ net. When we approached to make introductions, we were warmly greeted by Helen, a lovely English lady who spends her time travelling the world crewing on other people’s boats. She had the widest, happiest smile, told us of some of her more memorable moments travelling, and simply insisted we go to the South Pacific. Helen has been travelling for over 20 years and has friends everywhere. We've finally learned that to meet people while cruising, you have to go up and say "Hi." Everyone we've ever introduced ourselves to has been happy we did and many of them have become friends. We just got an email from the nicest fellow we meet in Green Turtle Cay, GW on Serenity, who had dinner with us and more new friends, Ken and Maria, from Duet. The dinner was an imprompu affair over pasta and brownies, was the highlight of our stay at Green Turtle, and came about because we dinghied over to Duet one morning and said Hi. Amazing!!

Clear view

2008-03-29T05:18:00.000-07:00

This is a view from the side of the boat, looking down into 12 feet of water. No wind this morning (can it be possible??), which allowed this photo.

Leapin' Lizards, we're in Great Guana Cay

2008-03-28T17:45:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log]

Another first for Raven: we successfully navigated Whale Cay Passage, a channel from the Bahama banks to the Atlantic, then travelling about a mile off the islands in the Atlantic, and coming back to the banks through Loggerhead Channel to anchor at Great Guana Cay. These cuts must be travelled carefully, when the swells coming in from the Atlantic are low and the wind and current are in accord. We hadn’t planned to take that route today, but the cruisers’ net on VHF 68 reported very good conditions, so we rushed around and secured everything, heaved the dinghy up on deck, and headed out.

The conditions were good, as reported, and we could see why you’d be idiotic to try the passage in anything less than good conditions. The sea and wind were both on our nose, which makes for slow going. The swells, though “only” of the two to four foot variety made the transit a bit lumpy as they tended to stack up and come in at a fairly rapid pace. The passage saw a small rush of traffic as boats passed us headed north to Green Turtle and sailed with us toward Great Guana Cay and farther south. The cruisers’ net has proved invaluable, as they broadcast “eyewitness” weather reports from the local islands. Needless to say, a weather/sea report from a boat on site is a whole lot more accurate than NOAA could ever be.

The sea was its usual (for here) astonishing self, jewel-deep aquamarine streaked with navy blue, almost black, and stunning neon green, all of it blindingly brilliant under the sun. We anchored in Fisher’s Bay about 1 p.m. and congratulated ourselves on a good day’s work. It was exactly the amount of sailing I like to do – four hours. I fixed a big, late lunch, after which David took a well deserved nap and I buried myself in The French Lieutenant’s Woman. He woke up about an hour later, groggy until he looked outside and noticed we’d dragged about 200 yards. That got everyone moving! Fortunately, we were at the edge of the bay with no one behind us. We went out into the cockpit, upped anchor and reset, dragged again and reset. The reset was complicated by the fact that the anchor chain clumped up and jammed belowdeck after about 60 feet, so David had to run up and down from the bow to shake it loose.

While we were resetting, the wind blustered from 20 to 23 knots. Trying to point into a strong wind is a challenge, because it catches Raven’s bow and blows her around like a top when we aren’t moving forward (you have to stop to lower the anchor). NOAA had forecast 10-15 knots for today. I shouldn’t have been surprised at the discrepancy. We have a friend who says that to get the NOAA wind forecast to be accurate, you have to add 10 knots to the wind speed and assume it will blow opposite to the direction forecast. That’s probably a little exaggerated, but it’s how we end up feeling!

Once we set, David hauled the remaining 150 feet of chain up on deck to inspect and untwist it. This is a dirty operation, as the chain has rusty dust all over it, which instantly muddies the deck (my beautiful used-to-be clean deck) and gets on your hands, your feet, your clothes, whatever lines may be around, and of course the dinghy, which was still fastened to the foredeck. The wind frisked happily all blinking afternoon and we were afraid the anchor would pop up again (although with 120 feet of chain out the second time, that seemed unlikely), so I sat in the cockpit and stared forlornly at the beach and the tiki bar and all the trappings of civilization I thought I’d get to sample today, but can’t because of the wind.

I was picturing a mild breeze and a lazy afternoon on the beach. I realize this is just another case of being blindsided by expectations, but I am getting a bit testy on the subject. We’ve been in the Bahamas two weeks today, and I’ve been ashore exactly three times, and have yet to sit on a beach under an umbrella. For some reason I have it in my head that if I do this, the trip will have been a success. Well, there’s always tomorrow. For today, I am licking my wounds (a splinter in my finger, a bruised ankle, and a kitchen cut) and waiting, although I am not waiting very patiently.

Our destination tomorrow is Marsh Harbour, where we hope to meet up with Viking Rose, friends we have not seen since Vero Beach. They are due in tomorrow as well. We can still explore here a bit, as the distance from here to there is not far and, hey, the wind will be blowing only 10-15 knots. NOAA says so.

Green Turtle Cay, Abacos, Bahamas

2008-03-26T18:04:00.000-07:00

photo #1: early morning ferry

photo #2: marina

photo #3: David on the beach

photo #4: White Sound (Green Turtle Cay)

photo #5: island cove

Glimpses of New Plymouth, Green Turtle Cay, Abacos, Bahamas

2008-03-26T17:41:00.000-07:00

Glimpses of Green Turtle Cay, Abacos, Bahamas

2008-03-26T17:20:00.000-07:00

photo #1: beach combing

photo #2: Atlantic beach

photo #3: bougainvillas

photo #4: the resort

photo #5: island transport

The colors here are unbelievable - neon! The photos do not do them justice.

Great Sale Cay - again! March 19th, 2008

2008-03-25T11:03:00.001-07:00

Hi! Everyone:

We left Great Sale Cay this morning bound for Fox Town, about 25 miles away, but before we could get half way there the winds had built to 28 knots and the waves on the Sea of Abaco were an erratic 4-6 feet. Raven sailed close hauled all morning with the main double-reefed and the head sail rolled in. The staysail was out to keep us moving as we fought our way into the wind. Raven’s cabin floor was covered with anything that wasn’t nailed down. We couldn’t open the door to the head even if we could have reached it. And so … we turned around and ran before the wind under staysail alone, back to Great Sale Cay.

Here are today’s lessons:

1) Never, never leave safe harbor without the latest weather forecast. I failed to set an alarm for the NOAA forecast at 0530 and so slept through it. I had the forecast from 2330 the previous night, but something changed overnight. I tuned into the 1130 forecast, which came in loud and clear on shortwave until someone started a data transmission right as the reader got to our section of ocean. By then, we were two forecasts behind. I tuned in again for the 1730 forecast at 1750, intentionally missing two northern regions usually read before our region, except NOAA changed the order of things and our region had already been read. By then we were three forecasts behind, but safely tucked into Northwest Harbour. Lessons of this story: always get a forecast when I can; listen to every forecast from the beginning, even the northern regions. (There are no shortcuts at sea.)

2) Learn to make Raven go to weather in reasonable comfort in a blow. The main was double-reefed with the staysail fully out. This was clearly too much canvas for the 20-25 knot breeze, causing too much heeling and weather helm. The wind vane couldn’t cope, nor should it have been able to with such an unbalanced helm. After dousing the mainsail, Raven rode more upright but couldn’t go to weather. We sailed back and forth along reciprocal courses, losing way to wind and current. In other words we were going backwards.
This problem was solved the next day. In a good blow Raven goes to weather nicely with (Yankee cut) jib and staysail set. The main stayed under wraps. With this combination, Raven was able to boil along at 6-7 knots at about 60 degrees to the (apparent) wind. The helm was balanced and the wind vane kept us on track.

3) Biminis are incompatible with sailing. I cannot see the mainsail shape or the leech telltales to trim the sail. I cannot reach reefing lines when they jam. I cannot tie gaskets onto a reefed main. I cannot see the jib or staysail telltales or see the flutter along the leeches or the distance of the sails from the spreaders.

4) The diesel and water jugs and propane cylinders on the side decks were inadequately tied. The rail is too high. Their bases slid inwards, they lay on their sides, then tried to slide overboard. The rail is OK but another, low down is needed. Alternatively, a rope might work, so long as it doesn’t ride under the jugs.

5) Below deck, stow everything like we mean it. Assume at least 30° heel and a bumpy ride. Remember to pin the settee seats.

6) Tie down the anchors so they cannot unship.

7) Keep cockpit seats and floor free of anything that’s not attached: folding chairs, ropes, shoes, boxes, cans, etc. Also, keep cabin roof (winches) clear of similar clutter. These are work areas. Handling of the ship and personal safety are compromised by clutter.

8) Safety harnesses hinder as much as they help. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em. I have no solution to this right now.

9) The wind vane needs some new shock cord on the adjustment wheel, which slipped as the vane pendulum banged against the stops.

Following these rules, the next day’s sail from Great Sale Cay to Crab Cay was one of the best ever. Belowdeck was tidy and a refuge from the wind when one of us needed a break. The seas were less confused than the day before, but they were far from flat. When moving along at a good clip, Raven shoulders waves aside very nicely and gives us a comfortable, fast ride.

We live and learn, hopefully.

Best regards,

Captain Dave

at anchor in White Sound, Green Turtle Cay

2008-03-25T09:35:00.000-07:00

photo: another hard day at anchor

[Hilde’s log]

I am about half asleep, sitting at the computer at midnight, on anchor watch. The latest cold front is blustering its way through with winds in the high teens, I’m guessing. Raven is anchored in White Sound, Green Turtle Cay, with about 20 other boats. It’s nice to have the company of other cruisers, but neither of us feels secure enough about our anchor set or anyone else’s to sleep during our first blow at this anchorage. We passed a lovely evening with new friends Ken and Maria on Duet and they introduced us to a Cuban rum drink called a Morida (rum, sugar, mint, lime, and soda) which we enjoyed, but which I am now regretting as it is making midnight seem a lot later than it is. David had two, so he has priority sleeping privileges.

We left Crab Cay Saturday morning for a quiet motor trip into light easterly winds, making our way to Green Turtle Cay in about four hours. David negotiated the twisting, narrow, and shallow entrance to the harbor, and after about four tries we managed to anchor in tight quarters next to our friends Dick and Libby on Tarwathie. We were excited to see them and surprised that we managed to be at the same place at the same time. We drowsed in the cockpit awhile and then I went below to make another loaf of bread and also to experiment with making cinnamon rolls using that same bread recipe. It worked like a charm and I was the proud mother of twelve big steaming cinnamon rolls, which I took to Tarwathie as our contribution to the feast Libby prepared for us. We four had a good time catching up on the news and talking about our plans.

Tarwathie and about four other boats pulled out at high tide the next morning around 9:30 on their way north and back to the States. They travelled into some really wicked looking black clouds which rolled over us later in the day and did nothing but soak us with rain. David and I took advantage of the suddenly roomy harbor to reset Raven in a better spot and then we hunkered down in the dismal weather. I felt lower than a snake’s belly, complaining to myself that when the weather is good, we travel, and when the weather is bad, we hole up in the boat, and we don’t get to see the places we work so hard to get to! To avoid doing just that, we’ve decided to stay here at least until the end of the week to take advantage of the nice days to explore the island, walk the beaches, visit the local shops, and unwind. Even after we decided that, I stayed in a rotten mood for the entire day and buried myself in a good potboiler of a book. Although I didn’t feel fear at the time, I had a delayed reaction to our rough day on the banks. My imagination fed off that delayed fear reaction and had a ball presenting me with a string of “what ifs” to worry with, dredging up all sorts of disaster scenarios around our plans to move south for the summer. Finally talking about my fears with David put them to flight – that and finally getting off the boat for a while today.

We dinghied in to shore, tied up, and took a short walk on the island. The islands here look dry and desert-like from the water, but this one is covered with thick, tropical vegetation and smells like a mixture of honeysuckle and freesia. A big gray bird lit on a tree limb about three feet from me and made a funny grating sound. Then he produced an altogether different sound as he called to another of his kind. He was gray on top, with a creamy breast and salmon tummy, a big fellow altogether and not a bit timid. The energy of the island is incredibly calm and quiet and I am looking forward to our exploration tomorrow.

We hurried back to the boat as the black clouds rolled in and then disappeared below for more rain. The good news is that we have trapped about 15 gallons of rainwater in the dingy. We emptied our jerry cans of Florida water into the tanks and then filled the cans with rainwater. This means I can do lots of laundry and avoid the $4 washer and $4 dryer…and we can wash dishes and take guilt free baths. Abundance! The first thing I did was rinse the underwear and washcloths we washed in salt water to get the salt out of them. They are now draped all over the head and in the saloon and on deck, which does nothing for the décor. Tomorrow, I plan on a shampoo and bath first thing. Fresh water is a wonderful thing.

For those of you with a map or Google Earth…here we are --
Latitude: N26° 46.7’ and Longitude: W 77° 20.2’

at anchor in Crab Cay, Abacos, March 21

2008-03-24T11:31:00.000-07:00

photo: rain at Crab Cay

[Hilde's log]

I haven’t set foot out of the cabin all day. After a ripping seven hour sail yesterday, I found that I was simply exhausted today. We had talked about sailing the 20 miles to Green Turtle Cay, where our friends Dick and Libby, aboard Tarwathie, are anchored, but I just couldn’t face it. Even now, after resting and/or napping the entire day, I am tired just from making dinner.

Raven sailed from Great Sale Cay to Crab Cay yesterday, a distance of about 40 nautical miles, in about 7 hours. She boot-scooted along at over 6 knots the entire way, most of the time between 6.5 and 6.8, rigged with the yankee and staysail. The wind was from the south almost the entire trip, at 15 to 22 knots, and once we turned the northern corner above Great Sale, we sailed on a single starboard tack the entire way, varying from our course only a few degrees with a gentle nudge or two to George’s wind vane control lines to correct our angle. Raven rocked along like a hobby horse, and other than being covered in salt spray and buffeted by the wind all day, it was an easy trip. However, I found that I came the last few hours on adrenalin, because once we anchored, I just collapsed on the settee. I roused once when an enormous black cloud rolled in with a cold front from the north about an hour after we arrived, dumping rain which washed Raven’s salty decks and cooled off the air ten degrees. We had beans and Rice o’ Roni for dinner, and I had to drag myself up to make that and clean up. David fell asleep on the settee about 8. I had promised myself a bath, so I slopped around in the head for 30 minutes and he never stirred. He woke briefly to shut off the anchor alarm and join me in the v-berth, where he promptly fell back asleep and I lay there, too exhausted to sleep, watching the full moon break through mottled black clouds out the starboard porthole. I finally donned my earphones and listened to my sole CD, a weird little Tony Bennett disc of duets with other famous singers that I picked up for free at a sailors’ exchange. It put me to sleep by the middle of the disc.

We had tried to make the same trek from Great Sale Cay to Crab Cay on Wednesday (the day before our successful journey) but turned back about two hours into the trip. We had anchored on the NW side of Great Sale, alongside a beautiful beach, and enjoyed gently lapping water and blue skies. David forgot to set his alarm and missed the 6 a.m. forecast, but the weather looked okay, so we decided to give it a shot. Alas! The wind was from the East, and once we turned into it north of Great Sale, it blasted us with 24 to 28 knots, setting up such a violent motion that the starboard settee (which we had neglected to pin) slid completely out into the cabin passageway, blocking the head (major catastrophe, necessitating the use of our bucket in the cockpit), and the printer did a back flip out of its home by the nav station and landed on the galley floor. David wrestled with the sails, I wrestled with the helm, both of us swore at the chop, and when we discovered that we could make little headway to our course and were mostly tacking back and forth, we gave up and bumped our way back to our little cove, chastened. Back at the cove, we had blue skies, 12 knots of wind, and gently lapping waves – because we were protected from that strong east wind.

David tried and failed to get the noon forecast (someone was sending a fax over that frequency!!) and the 6 p.m. forecast as well because Iron Mike broadcast the forecasts out of order. (Iron Mike is the computerized voice of NOAA for offshore weather broadcasts; Perfect Paul is the NOAA’s voice for coastal reports – who thinks up this stuff?) I was astonished that it was possible to miss three forecasts in a row. David wrote up a lovely, concise description of the whole misbegotten trip, including lessons learned, that I hope he will post. We decided to chalk the whole thing up as a learning experience and it certainly put the following day’s sail in a perfect light, tiring or not.

So here we are, waiting for the beautiful weather forecast for tomorrow, when we plan to chug down to Green Turtle and enjoy the benefits of civilization, which we hope include email access and another pina colada.

at anchor on NW side of Great Sale Cay, March 18

2008-03-24T11:14:00.000-07:00

[Hilde's log]

Great Sale Cay is wishbone-shaped. Imagine it hanging from the north, with its two legs dangling toward the south. For the last two nights, we have been in the inside curve of the wishbone, being protected from the N and NE winds generated by the norther that came through Monday. This afternoon about 2 p.m., we motored outside and up to the NW curve of the wishbone. We have good protection from the change in wind direction (now blowing E and later on SE). Tomorrow it is supposed to be SE and then S. That will be a good direction for us as we head north, away from Great Sale, and then east toward Fox Town, on Little Abaco Island. When we get to Fox Town, we’ll be in the Abacos proper; we will have arrived at our first string of islands.

I’ll be glad to actually get somewhere. Today has been a bit dismal, with the cold front bringing not only winds but overcast skies most of the day and 10 degree cooler temperatures, which made swimming sound like a truly bad idea. So we cleaned house. You can make a career out of cleaning a boat; I have never seen anything get dirty so fast.

David swabbed the decks. I dusted and then swept the floor, disinfected the galley and head, and mopped the floor with a pine-sol solution. David shook out the rugs and took everything off the starboard rail. I deep cleaned the starboard quarterdeck with lacquer-thinner. I cleaned the stainless portion of the binnacle (where the depth meter, GPS, wind meter, etc. stand, and where the wheel is mounted) and swept the cockpit. The boat felt a lot better, and more importantly at some point I killed something that was smelling. It may have been our radioactive laundry, which I took out of the hamper and stowed in a laundry bag. In any case, two hours of work yielded a lot of results. Our only other activity before heading out (other than eating leftover pasta for lunch) was to study Spanish.

Once anchored on this side of the island (an hour’s trip), we broke out the wine, cheese, and crackers and listened to a Spanish station, trying to pick out words we learned today. I fixed a nice supper of mashed potatoes, tinned beef, and fresh sautéed cabbage, but we had been such hogs with the crackers and cheese we couldn’t finish. Leftovers for lunch. Now it is dark, and I am so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open (ojas abiertas?) so I am going to crawl into bed and hope for sunshine tomorrow. I am astonished at how my mood deteriorates when it is cloudy.

Happy birthday to me, Great Sale Cay, March 17

2008-03-24T11:10:00.000-07:00

photo #1: approaching Great Sale Cay
photo #2: perfect birthday bread
photo #3: laundry at sea

[Hilde's log]

This is certainly the most unusual birthday I have spent. Raven and crew have been tethered to the anchorage all day as the wind honked past at 20-25 knots, just as forecast. My accomplishments for the day: two loads of clothes! David also washed one load (read, large bucketful). It’s an interesting process: for the stinky stuff, we first soaked them in a bucket of seawater and pine-sol for 30 minutes. Then we washed them in Joy detergent, then rinsed them, then rinsed them again with clothes softener (all in sea water – the clothes softener is supposed to get the salt out). The proof will be in the wearing. They’ve been flapping in the wind and sun all day, making us look like real cruisers. One of our neighbors dragged anchor about mid morning, and he and our other neighbor ended up pulling up their anchors and motoring across the anchorage to set their hooks nearer shore. David and I laughed that they probably wanted to upgrade the view, not being taken with our unmentionables flapping on the lifelines. Several of the other boats left this morning and others have come in this afternoon. There are 10 of us here, but no one is anchored near the underwear boat. Fine!

I have also made a loaf of bread. It has dutifully risen to twice its size, I’ve punched it down, and now I am waiting for it to rise again before baking it. David is down to his last 6 pieces of bread, hence the baking operation. There just aren’t many 7-11s around here! Now when we run out eggs, we’ve got a problem. I used the recipe Judy from Anastasia gave me and I am anxious to see how it turns out. It will be my birthday cake. David gave me a lovely birthday card, but that’s all the evidence there is that it's my big day.

I studied my Spanish for about 2 hours this morning, which was lots of fun. I am determined to have some kind of vocabulary by the time we get to the Dominican Republic in June. My goal for this year is to learn to speak passable Spanish. Hopefully, with six months in the DR, it will be even more than passable.

So that’s what I’ve done today: study Spanish, wash clothes, cook breakfast and lunch and wash up after both those meals, make bread and wash up, read out of “Your First Atlantic Crossing” (David’s book, not mine! I just want to cruise the Bahamas, thank you), have tea, and now I’m working on this entry. And that took the whole day. I will be glad when the blustery wind settles down a bit, so we can continue on. Tomorrow the plan is to leave around noon and anchor on the NW side of the island, outside the basin, and then the next day continue on eastward to Fox Town or environs when the wind clocks around to the south again and before the next norther roars down on Thursday. I’m really glad we stayed here today; such strong wind is tiring.

And that’s about it – I’ve requested a movie tonight, so the generator is running to charge the batteries so we can do that. There’s the alarm to preheat the oven – cross your fingers for the bread.

PS: Bread turned out! Underwear did not - stiff as a board. Will rinse in fresh water when it rains and we can collect some in the dinghy.

at anchor at Great Sale Cay, March 16

2008-03-24T11:05:00.000-07:00

photo: good day on the water

[Hilde's log]

What a lovely day! We had a leisurely start, about 9 a.m., after listening to the net. We heard Viking Rose check in as they headed north from Georgetown, and I think I heard Tarwathie check in from Green Turtle Cay.

Other than an hour to charge the batteries in the morning and another 30 minutes to come into the anchorage and drop the hook this afternoon, we sailed the entire day. One reason was that Mr. P (the engine) was running hot yesterday and we didn’t want to overtax it, and the other was that we desperately wanted to sail. Our journey today was a short one, about 20 miles, so we could take our time. That’s important when you are sailing at a leisurely 4 knots as we did most of the day. The wind was westerly, directly behind us at an average of about 10 knots, so we flew the jib and ran before the wind, making great swooping tacks about every 6 miles. When the wind is behind you, you can’t even tell it’s blowing, so it made for a calm, if somewhat rolly polly ride.

The sky was alternately overcast and clear as clouds rolled by. Sometimes the sun shone through the cloud cover, making a spotlight on the water. George the wind vane steered, so David and I sat in the cockpit mesmerized by the clear turquoise water and the sounds of Harry Christopher and his choir “16” sing Thomas Tallis on NPR. It was simply sublime, rolling gently over a blue crystal world, listening to achingly beautiful 16th century plainsong and other choral compositions by one of my favorite composers.

Raven sailed up to the anchorage about 3 p.m., to find four other boats at anchor. All of us are taking refuge from an expected cold front blowing in from the north this evening, with predicted winds of 20-30 knots as it passes. This cay gives us protection from the north, east, and west, so although the winds may howl, we won’t see much chop on the water. After we anchored, another three boats showed up, so we are eight tonight. There are five sailboats, one catamaran, and two power yachts.

After celebrating our arrival with a couple of cups of hot tea and some muffins, David attached the swim ladder and we took our first swim in the ocean. It was a bit colder than we expected, but “cold” is a relative term. It was about 75 I guess. It was a bit scary, too, going over the side for the first time, and I made David promise not to leave me in the water if I got stuck. It turned out to be easy to swim, and no current, so after a few tentative strokes holding on to a safety line, I let go and dog paddled around a little, getting used to looking up at our suddenly very steep hull (Raven actually has a pretty low waterline). David got in as well, with much gasping, and we both tread water for a bit and then decided that was enough for a first try. I didn’t want to tire out before hauling myself up that ladder and it’s a good thing I didn’t because I certainly weighed a lot coming up. Once back on deck, we washed our hair with Joy detergent, which is supposed to lather in sea water (ha!) and then rinsed off with about a cup each of some warm fresh water we had heated up in the sun in the camping shower. I went below and rinsed off some more with about ½ cup of vinegar and fresh water with a wash cloth so I wouldn’t be sticky, while David stripped off and scandalized the neighbors by sunbathing au naturel. I was a big chicken and put on some underwear and a top. The temperature was perfect and it was just a lovely afternoon.

We ate baked beans and scrambled eggs for dinner in the cockpit, followed by a glass of wine, and then secured the deck and cockpit for the coming blow. We’re below now, nice and cozy, with David hunched over the macerator pump, mumbling to himself as he figures out why it ran for 30 seconds and stopped, and me writing this log entry. We think we will be here at least two days. I hope it is not too windy to do some more swimming. I want to try my snorkel and mask! The wind has started to come up, which makes it nice to be snug below.

PS: macerator update - broken impeller paddle, no extras of that particular kind, so no macerator pump til we find a functioning hardware store

at anchor in Mangrove Cay, March 16

2008-03-24T10:58:00.000-07:00

photo: beautiful turquoise water!

[Hilde’s log]

Raven is bobbing at anchor in seven feet of water, about a quarter of a mile off Mangrove Cay. Mangrove Cay is a scrubby oblong of land surrounded by aquamarine water and blue sky, out in the middle of the Great Bahama Bank. Its claim to fame is that it is about half way between West End and tomorrow’s destination of Great Sale Key. We are anchored on the northeast side of the island, which gives us protection from the waves churned up by the southerly and westerly winds. The little wavelets rushing by lap at the hull and are barely strong enough to rock us gently.

It should be a quiet night, assuming the wind behaves itself and blows according to the forecast. There was a fishing boat anchored here when we arrived about 5 p.m., but they took off about a half hour later, blasting off toward West End. With those engines, it’ll take them about an hour, rather than the four and a half it took us to get here.

We left the dock this afternoon about 12:30, after showers and a farewell cup of coffee with Jay and Luisa on Airborne who are staying on at West End waiting for the arrival of their son on Tuesday. David wanted dead low tide to pass, as we took the Indian Cay Channel and parts of it are a bit shallow (5.5 ft, and we draw 5, but still). The water on the banks is gorgeous shades of turquoise and the surrounding deep ocean is dark blue. The sea is actually striped – blue, turquoise, aqua, and an almost neon greenish blue on the horizon. The waters here are very shallow – the Bahamas are a large mesa sitting in the much deeper ocean, with hills on the mesa sticking up above the waterline as islands.

We motor sailed the whole day, with the jib out, making about 6 – 6.5 knots over the clear water. I could see the bottom most of the way, either sand or clumps of grassy stuff on sand. A couple of dolphins rode our bow wake for a few minutes, but they didn’t linger and other than a sole cormorant, that was the extent of the wildlife. We have heard a few birds call on the island. No bugs so far, praise God.

We saw Mangrove Cay from about 5 miles out and also what appeared to be the mast of an anchored sailboat. It turned out to be a large marker, which we think is warning of the shallows between it and the island. We approached the island cautiously, as it is surrounded by 1 to 2 foot shallows.

Once anchored, we broke out two bottles of beer and some Triscuits for our anchor drink/snack, and kicked back in the cockpit enjoying the cool of the evening and our unimpeded view of absolutely nothing but water and sky (the island is behind us, on the weather shore). Utter contentment.

It’s dark now and we’re listening to a Bahamian radio station, which you can’t tell until the commercials and the djs break in with their lovely island accents. Pretty exotic! So far, all the music is American and English – Christopher Cross, the Spice Girls, and Rod Stewart so far, plus a current hit by someone I can’t name (“You’re Beautiful”). I'm off to the dishes.

West End, Grand Bahama Island

2008-03-15T08:11:00.000-07:00

photo #1: flying the quarantine flag
photo #2: West End, Grand Bahama Island
photo #3: dockside paperwork
photo #4: official! Flying the Bahamian courtesy flag

[Hilde’s log]

Good morning from the Bahamas! It’s about 8 a.m. and I’m waiting for the tea to steep. We’re at the dock at the Old Bahama Bay Resort at West End, having finally arrived yesterday afternoon at 5 p.m. after almost two years with this in mind (we left Seabrook, Texas on April 14, 2006). The waters here at the dock are the cloudy turquoise I remember from our stop in the keys. Coming in yesterday, close to the island, it was clear enough to see the dolphins playing on the bow wake.

Raven left Hillsboro Inlet about 7 a.m. yesterday, at first light. The inlet is a tricky affair, mostly because of the strong current that can run around three knots when it really gets going. It’s not a straight exit, as you have to dodge some shoaling, so it’s not an exit you want to use in high winds or strong current. David maneuvered Raven through on a weak current and no wind. As much as we like southern Florida, we were both thrilled to watch it recede into the distance.

The Gulf Stream behaved itself after 12 hours of a light east wind and although it was a bit lumpy we made great time, most of it 8 knots or greater. Our GPS log last night showed a top speed of 8.9 knots, which is quite something for this old girl (Raven, not me!). Once across the stream, we unfurled the sails, hooked up George, the Monitor the wind vane, and enjoyed a fantastic three-hour sail toward our landfall at West End. Along the way, we passed a number of Portugese Man O’War jellyfish, the sun glistening on their clear, pink-tinged “sails”. I was amused, thinking of this tiny armada advancing on the unsuspecting Florida coast.

The deep ocean waters were as beautiful as I remembered, and changed color all day. The blues ranged from india ink dark to turquoise, not to mention what David called “Plato blue” (being the blue of perfection). The little medallions of golden seaweed drifted by and I felt like I was seeing old friends from the Gulf crossing two years ago.

Later in the afternoon we sailed through flights of flying fish. Shooting up about an inch above the waves, these little fighter jets of the sea scoot at high speed for about 100 feet, wings in a flurry of motion, before exploding back into the water like so much buckshot. From the deck, you can’t tell much about them – they look silver and fast. But I remember the one we saw in Beaufort, NC, floating near the top of the water. It was all colors, mostly purple and gold, about 10 inches long. I knew it was a flying fish from the shape of its “wings”, but I never expected the beautiful, shimmering colors.

I had a great crossing, but poor David suffered miserably from a tension headache and tender stomach most of the day. We both fared much better than we did when we first pushed off from Galveston two years ago. That trip started off with three solid days of seasickness for both of us. I was very, very grateful we didn’t have a replay of that experience. I think it helped that neither of us used those darn patches. I think they made us sick! It also helped me that I wasn’t terrified, like I was two years ago. My heart was light as a feather and I couldn’t help squealing “Isn’t this great? Isn’t this a beautiful day? What a great day! Look at the sea!”, etc., until I am quite sure my not-so-happy husband was ready to push me overboard. Fortunately he wasn’t feeling well enough to do that.

The last hour of the day was the most challenging. We furled the sails and motored toward Grand Bahama Island (West End being, appropriately, on the western tip of the island). The sea was simply churning, with three and four foot rollers heaving Raven side to side as we approached the jetties. I have taken a number of lopsided photos of our approach, holding the camera over the gunwhales as I wedged my foot in the hatchway to keep from sliding to the other side of the boat. David took her in, me relieving him at the helm for a bit so he could fix the yellow quarantine flag to the pennant jack (de rigeur for entering a foreign port – this was our first foreign port!).

I did donuts in the small turning basin right outside the marina while David attached our docklines and then David slid us into the marina and into our slip. We were met by a friendly Bahamian dockhand who helped us tie up, we filled out a sheaf of paperwork, David took that to the powers that be, they stamped us in and relieved us of our cruising fee, and we were in. David put up the Bahamian flag on the pennant jack and we clambered up on the docks and joined our friends, Luisa and Jay from Airborne (we last saw them at our anchorage on Prince’s Creek, off the Waccamaw River, SC, in December), for that long desired pina colada at the bar on the beach – as the sky opened and a torrent of rain fell for about an hour.

The resort here is really beautiful and tasteful, with all the amenities. There are beach chairs and umbrellas lined up on the crescent shaped beach, there’s an open air bar, and a beautiful heated swimming pool in the lushly landscaped interior courtyard. I wouldn’t mind staying for a few days. But we’re on a mission, so we’ll fill up with water this morning and take showers, and then we are headed off to Mangrove Cay, up the Indian Key Channel, to anchor out tonight. Tomorrow we’ll head to Great Sale Cay where we will stay at anchor for a few days til the coming norther comes and goes, and then we will head for the Abacos Islands. No wi-fi for awhile, so no posts or email replies until we find another place with amenities.

Always something new

2008-03-12T08:06:00.000-07:00

[Hilde’s log, March 11, 2008]

One of the things I really love about the boating life is that I never know what’s going to happen from one day to the next. For the last week, mostly what has happened is a big nothing. We left our sloppy anchorage at Hillsboro Inlet in 20 knot winds Friday morning and came south about four miles to Lake Santa Barbara, a small lake off the ICW ringed with homes and private docks. The water is blessedly calm and the boats that come in and out are very polite, cruising at idle speed and making no wake for the most part. We’re waiting for the elusive weather window (moderate winds blowing from the south) so we can cross the Gulf Stream in relative comfort and safety, and are hoping to cross Friday. I’ve been to this altar before, so I’m not holding my breath. The forecast has held for a couple of days now and I’m allowing myself to feel hopeful. We will have to move tomorrow, as this place, like so many in Florida, has a 24 hour anchoring limit. We’ve been here three nights, but the sheriff just found us. So we will move across the ICW tomorrow morning and anchor at Lettuce Lake (I am not making up the name), and then Thursday head back to Hillsboro Inlet in the hopes of going offshore on Friday.

As we’ve waited at anchor, we’ve done some long neglected chores. I holy-stoned the galley, the stove, and the head, David repaired a faulty valve on the stove and polished the isenglas on the dodger. He installed a lock on the head to keep the Coast Guard happy. I knit, and then un-knit, about 15 rows on my current project. We read. I found computer chess on the computer and wrestled my way to a couple of draws. I made pineapple upside down cake again and we ate most of it. We read some more. David cleaned out the oil sump. I thought about attempting laundry on deck. You get the picture.

Then, as it so often does, up popped the unexpected. I was sitting on deck growling at my un-knitting late in the morning, when a small power boat came up close to us. We’ve been passed by umpteen boats while anchored here, so I didn’t pay it any attention. The skipper yelled across “Where are you from?” I replied “Texas.” “We’re from California,” he called and pulled the boat closer. The boat held two couples, out for an afternoon on the water. They invited us to join them for lunch, and although we declined, we suggested they drop by on their way home for a chat. Off they went and I went back to my un-knitting. They returned in an hour or so and rafted up alongside. Bill and Astrid, newlyweds, are from California. Kermit and Jeanie are from Minnesota. Both come to Florida in the winter and all were taking advantage of a perfect day to take a spin in Bill’s boat. They came aboard to see Raven and the next thing we knew, they had invited us to go with them down the ICW a few miles, just to see the sights and enjoy the day. We didn’t hesitate long!

The trip was such fun. We alternated between a sedate pace in the “idle speed only” zones and then zoomed along like a big jet ski in the open zones. Bill’s boat makes next to no wake at high speed, so it was guilt free flying. The wind whipped our faces and we whooshed over calm water and thudded into wake at what seemed like 100 miles an hour. We dipped under the umpteen bridges David and I have negotiated coming south and covered in a couple of hours the same ground it takes us all day to accomplish. I admit, I had engine lust. Kermit and I took turns at the helm while Bill and Astrid waltzed around the deck to loud music from the cd player. We even saw wildlife – huge, torpid iguanas sunning themselves on the lumber of a bridge fender and an exotic fish-like fellow that Bill thinks may be a black angel. This creature, about the size of a man’s shoe, swam a bit like a manta ray, by raising and lowering two flowing “wings”. It looked like a black silk handkerchief as it languidly moved through the water.

About sunset, Bill docked the boat at a canal-side restaurant. That was a bit of an adventure in itself, as the dock was a good six feet above the deck of the boat. The others clambered up, helped by a couple of men who caught our lines. I just stood there looking up, thinking, “Oh, right,” and imagining them passing me a sandwich from the dock, when the two guys told me to come on, they’d lift me up. I’m not exactly a bantam weight, so I had huge reservations about the whole thing, but by golly if they didn’t just take hold of my upper arms (I’m standing on the boat railing at this point) and lift me right up onto the dock, like a two-man human elevator! It turns out these fellows didn’t even work for the restaurant, they were just fellow diners. I guess I will have to re-evaluate my opinion that Floridians aren’t very friendly.

Unfortunately, they left before we did, so I had to trust to Bill, David, and gravity to board again. Clutching the frame of the console awning (David clamping his hand over my arm and Bill ready to catch my hair if I missed the side), I dropped down onto the side and then to the deck of the boat. As usual, not graceful but effective.

On our return, we boarded Raven, windblown, full of fish sandwiches, and warm with good feelings for our newfound friends. You just never know what’s going to happen next. Thanks, guys!

Oh well

2008-03-07T04:04:00.000-08:00

[Hilde’s log]

Well, God does not appear to be willing. I woke this morning to the slapping of a halyard about 4:30 a.m., 30 minutes before our official wake up call, to find the wind blowing like 60 and Raven tossing at anchor in the dark. David looked up the forecast and sure enough, it was for south winds (good direction) at 20-25 knots (just at the top of our acceptable tolerance – for us, not for Raven; nothing bothers her) and seas to 11 feet. Not so great. If we absolutely had to go today, we could make it just fine, but we’d be whipped by the time we arrived in West End after 10-11 hours of roughish weather and it wouldn’t be fun. This is supposed to be fun! The remaining forecast for the next four days shows strong northerly winds. We decided, after much teeth gnashing, to go on to Ft. Lauderdale later this morning and hole up for the next window.

The good news is that after our practice run at getting ready (and finding so many things that weren’t) we are now really ready, and when that next window appears we can go for it. We also learned about windows – they really are short and unpredictable. Monday it looked as though we had a four day window, but that turned into two days and then one day pretty quickly. We have been told to go on the first day of a window and now see the wisdom in that. Had we been able to leave Wednesday, the first day of the window, we’d have made it with no problems. Thursday and Friday and on into the weekend, the forecast deteriorated rapidly, day by day. Sometimes the weather holds and sometimes it doesn’t, so go on the first day and let the rest of the window take care of itself.

It’s interesting from a psychological aspect, how I get so wound about going, creating artificial deadlines for myself and then stressing when I miss them. At least now I see myself doing it. Somehow I have decided that we are “late” that we are “missing the opportunity”, that we will have to rush the trip – the voices in my head are loud and urgent and ridiculous. I have not yet managed to relax into a long horizon, but I am getting a lot of practice at going with the flow, with letting everything be all right, regardless of what we do or don’t do, whether we go here or there or stay put, and regardless of what other boaters are doing.

Waiting

2008-03-05T18:13:00.000-08:00

[Hilde's log]

Raven is still bobbing at anchor at Lighthouse Point, Florida (Hillsboro Inlet). Sigh. Today would have been a great day to cross, but we found ourselves snafued by a few important details we had forgotten -- copies of ship's papers, for example, that you have to present to the Bahamian government when checking in. It's just as well, I guess. We have a new Lifesling on the rails (the cover to the original finally rotted, after 20 years), a new anchor snubber to replace the old, frayed one, some new chafing gear. But heavens above, it was hard to watch this window close. The forecast tonight is not favorable, even though the forecast this morning said Thursday would be great. So we'll see what the forecast is later tonight and hope for a turnaround.

Waiting takes its toll. I passed the day cleaning the deck. David did the necessary errands. Boats went in and out of the inlet, including a sailboat that was taking on water and was shepherded under the bridge by two Tow Boat U.S. runabouts and a Coast Guard boat with nothing better to do. Later the bridge went up for a huge black Coast Guard cutter that looked too big for the bridge opening, but steamed through, massive outboard enginges churning up stiff white boiling wake that set us lopping.

David and I made Raven ready, clearing the decks and bringing the dinghy on board. On passages, we flip the dinghy upside down on the foredeck and secure it with lines. We spent a slimy hour scrubbing the dinghy bottom, scraping and brushing off algae, barnacles, white wormy things (eeew), and flat round brown things (eeew) with old tupperware scrapers. They work great, by the way. We read from the Bahamas cruising guides as we ate dinner. We watched the ocean disappear into the dark of evening and watched the lights pop out all around the anchorage and out at sea (markers and distant ships' lights).

The beam from the lighthouse periodically rakes the sky above us and flashes into the top stories of the condos behind us. It's calm and mild tonight. The pelicans and gulls are screeching from their roosts over by the lighthouse and I can faintly hear the surf at the breakwater. Raven is floating easily in the calm water and I hear David in the cockpit shifting a few last minute items for better storage. And we just wait and hope that tomorrow's weather cooperates.

Waiting gives me a lot of room to worry about everything under the sun, from our level of preparedness (you'd think we were headed to darkest Africa) to speculation on what we will find when we arrive. It takes some effort on my part to take the waiting in stride.

God willing, my next post will be from West End.

Florida views

2008-03-03T18:12:00.000-08:00

Photo #1: Lake Worth (North Palm Beach)

Photo #2: yet another bridge (our record is 12 in one day)

Photo #3: fixer upper

Photo #4: pretty waterway neighborhood - Venice on the ICW

Photo #5: Cap'n Dave blinds 'em with fashion (those are my favorite suspenders!)

Bahamas Bound

2008-03-03T18:01:00.000-08:00

Photo #1: Hillsboro lighthouse; view from Raven's deck tonight.
Photo #2: David making lists for tomorrow
Photo #3: We'll be slipping out the right hand side of this inlet into the Atlantic in the wee hours of Wednesday morning if the weather holds

[Hilde’s log]

We’re within 36 hours of crossing the Gulf Stream and heading to West End, in the Abacos (northern Bahamas). At last. Raven is anchored near Lighthouse Point, Florida, just inside the Hillsboro inlet. We spent three nights anchored right off the ICW at a private dock made available by Bob and Angela from Shining Star. They have a co-op apartment that faces the ICW, and the docks belong to people who own other apartments in the same complex. I’ve been swimming twice in the past three days, in the beautiful private pool that the residents keep at a luxurious 85 degrees. The pool is outdoors and not much used, so I flashed back to the days when David and I had a private pool in our backyard. I was ready to hand over the cash necessary to buy one of the apartments – except that we’d have to go back to work to pay the fees and taxes, etc. Not only that, they don’t take pets and we have two. Oh, but it was a fine dream while it lasted! Many thanks to Bob and Angela, who were great company, ferried us to the grocery, to church, and to various marine spots (for propane, last minute West Marine purchases, and the like) and shared good food and good conversation and good advice on cruising the Bahamas, not to mention Bob’s special scotch and Angela’s melt in your mouth yankee pot roast. What a great send off!

Raven is rolling gently and David is making a list of “must dos” for tomorrow. There are all sorts of things to be stowed for the sea (things that sit quietly in their places on the flat waters of the ICW will tumble all over the cabin once we push off into the Atlantic), the dinghy has to be secured to the deck, everything in the cockpit has to find a home and be lashed down, the weather has to be double checked and the waypoints entered for the first leg of our journey.

David and I have both had a severe attack of nerves today, since this is another new adventure. We kept reminding each other that it’s just like every other trip, taking one day at a time, learning as we go, and gradually gaining confidence in different conditions. This is our first venture out of US waters and we are both chomping at the bit, nerves or no nerves. I’m not sure how easy it will be to post on the internet once we are in the Bahamas – I guess it depends on how settled the islands we visit will be. But we will continue to post when we have the opportunity.

Tonight I am adding photos of the views along the southern Florida ICW, a trip I wasn’t really looking forward to, but that I really enjoyed. The big obstacle to this stretch of the waterway is the bridges, which are numerous and most of which have restricted passage – that is, they open only at certain times, usually on the half hour. For a power boat, that presents few problems, but when you’re in a slow poke like Raven, you spend a lot of time holding station and waiting for the opening. But the views are amazing, even for someone like me who usually doesn’t like the Parade of Homes stretches of the waterway.

Next post will be from the Bahamas – see you then.

Engineering Log - Stuart, FL

2008-03-03T17:39:00.000-08:00

Hi! Everyone,

I'm a little overdue with this post. All of these mechanical “challenges” occurred before we left Stuart, FL: diesel fuel in the oil pan, dead depth meter, and oil pressure gauge reading 80 psi whenever the ignition is on, engine running or not.

The night before we were due to leave Vero (a.k.a. Velcro) Beach I decided to get ahead of myself and check the engine oil level. The dipstick came up all wet, with no visible demarcation between wet and dry. I wiped it off and tried again. Same! In order to find the level I had to leave about five inches of the dip stick out of the tube. Hey ho! What’s going on? The oil appeared very thin and smelled of diesel fuel. There were no signs of water in the oil. How had diesel fuel gotten into the oil pan, how much was in there, and did I have enough empty containers to get it all out? I sacrificed one of our new six-gallon water jugs and proceeded to fill it with about nine quarts of sump “liquid”. Hmmm! There wasn’t anything to do but put four quarts of fresh engine oil into the engine, run it up to temperature, and check the level in the morning. I’m sure our neighbors weren’t thrilled to hear our motor at 11pm. Oh, well! Next morning the oil level was fine. It has remained OK even after three days of motoring from Vero Beach to Stuart. I still don’t know what went on, but I have three possible scenarios, none of which satisfactorily explain the symptoms. In Vero, I replaced a leaking neoprene gasket between the top of the oil injection pump and the flange for the pipe that returns fuel to the secondary oil filter. About one week passed between my removing the old gasket and my installing the new one. During that time the fuel system was open to the air. Did diesel fuel somehow drain or siphon itself into the sump? (Five quarts of it?) After this repair, I ran the engine to temperature then shut it off. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to reconnect the return spring to the stop lever on the injector pump and it was slightly off the stop for about two weeks. Again, did diesel fuel somehow drain or siphon itself into the sump? (Five quarts of it?) I still don’t know what happened. Ironically, during the thirty minutes I ran Big Blue with very thin engine oil the engine oil galleries were thoroughly flushed clean. It runs sweeter than ever, with none of the clatter that has annoyed me for four thousand miles.

The depth meter has been reading erratically for a long time and since leaving Vero Beach it showed mostly “all segments lit”, the digital equivalent of “full scale deflection”, I suppose. Coming into Stuart, the digits disappeared, leaving only MSD showing down the left side of the display. I think is means “Maximum Sounder Depth”, but that’s only my guess. There seem to be no existing documents for this old Datamarine S200DL unit, not even courtesy of Google. I ordered a Moor Systems depth meter from Hamilton Marine, which I was told should work with the old Datamarine transducers. This was important since the (unused) transducer in the thru hull is epoxied in place, the (unused) transducer lying in the same locker had no receptacle in the hull to slide into, and the suspect transducer in the bubble (containing mineral oil) was glued in place. I paid for UPS to air freight the unit overnight (ouch!), so that I could work on it over the weekend. Normally, the depth meter is a “luxury” instrument, but in the Bahamas and in the ICW it earns its keep and becomes essential information. Our departure to the Bahamas was off until I could get the depth meter working again. Needless to say, none of the old transducers worked with the new display head. I freaked out with visions of hauling Raven to enable me to install the new transducer, which was too short for Raven’s thick hull, etc. And we’d have to find somewhere to live. And we’d have to rent a car. Ka-ching! Ka-ching! Ka-ching! I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly. I took a break and visited our new friends on Anastasia, also ex-Seabrook cruisers. (Lindsay and Judy White) Lindsay suggested (no, insisted) that I connect the new transducer to the old display head and hang the former over the side. Hey! It worked. The old display head was OK. Lindsay also suggested firing the new transducer through the hull. No go, but nor had we immersed it in any liquid. So, I set about removing the old transducers, figuring I’d be able to epoxy the new head directly to the inside of the hull, thereby removing any attenuating air bubbles. As I was coiling the coax wire on the old transducer, about half way along it was as stiff as a pencil, for about 15”. Clearly, it was corroded on the inside. Perhaps the casing had been damaged and water had entered the core. I cut off the suspect wire, soldered on a new RCA connector, plugged it into the display, hung the transducer over the side, and fired it up. Bingo! It worked. All it needed was good wire and good soldered connections. Duh!

The oil pressure gauge has read full scale since somewhere off the Carolinas. I didn’t notice any precipitating event. I just assumed a wire had come off or the sending unit had broken. In Vero Beach I hunted down a sending unit and installed it. No change! In Stuart I ran a test wire directly from the sender to the gauge. No change! I put an Ohm meter directly on the sender: 220kΩ with the engine stopped, 2kΩ with the engine running. Could the gauge itself be bad? It’s unlikely that the needle would move at all if the gauge was broken. I wondered if it was a weird grounding issue in the rat’s nest that is the instrument panel wiring. I tore it all out and rebuilt it (using ABYC color codes and appropriate AWG sizes) but it didn’t fix the oil pressure gauge. So, I still don’t have this one resolved. It’s not a show stopper. The oil low pressure buzzer works OK and that’s much more important than an oil pressure reading.

Best regards,
David

Stuart, Florida

2008-02-25T18:28:00.000-08:00

photo #1: Stuart mooring field
photo #2: bridge over the St. Lucie River
photo #3: looking toward the marina office from Raven's stern

[Hilde’s log]

Another beautiful day in Florida. After a dawn of soft grey air and overcast skies the day has opened up to bright blue skies and brilliant sunshine. David has gone ashore to return a widget to West Marine and I am listening to the hum of the generator and trying to talk myself out of cleaning the locker under the sink. It reeks of mildew, but I am sort of hoping it will clean itself while I am writing.

We’ve had a couple of days of upheaval, caused by the untimely demise of the depth meter. The death of any instrument seems to require that all lockers be emptied, all stores unearthed, all closed spaces opened. That’s because you have to dismantle the boat to get to any of its systems, and because all spaces are crammed with what you need to live - everything from extra clothes and food to tools and lubricants. Day before yesterday was the Bad Day, which found me huddled in the stern of the boat surrounded by mounds of stuff from the cockpit lazarettes and David alternately below or crammed like Gumby down in those same lazarettes trying to figure out which part of the depth meter had croaked. When not hiding on the stern, I cleaned mildew off seldom seen bulkheads and longed for the desert.

As implied by its name, a depth meter tells you how deep the water is. That’s really important when you are in shallows and don’t want to get stuck. The waters of the ICW and the rivers, etc. of Florida are shallow and of course the Bahamas waters are also shallow, so we have to have a working depth meter. I now know that a depth meter has three parts, a “head” (the part that you read), a transducer (the part that sticks to the bottom of the boat and takes the measurements), and a wire between the head and the transducer that goes from the cockpit down into the bowels of the boat to be connected to the transducer. I will spare you the details, but after hours of testing and sliding in and out of the lazarette and removing wires and going to West Marine, and more testing, David figured out that the problem was not in the head ($$$) or in the transducer ($$) but in the wire itself, part of which had corroded (no $). So we now have a working depth meter and all it cost was our sanity for about 36 hours. The boat is put back together and life is once again good.

We celebrated by having friends Lindsay and Judy from Anastasia over for dinner. They are from Ft. Worth and know Clyde, Raven’s previous owner (they are the couple that knocked on our hull when we first came in to Stuart). We spent hours over dinner, comparing notes and talking about boats and ports and delivery jobs, and all sorts of things that interest only fellow boaters. They have been very kind to us, taking us to West Marine and the grocery store, and we have thoroughly enjoyed their company.

David and I also managed a walk around Stuart. There is a boardwalk that runs along the St. Lucie River, and when that peters out you find yourself in downtown Stuart (or at least the scenic downtown), on a main street full of galleries, junk shops, clothing stores, etc. Once we found the ice cream store, all was well. I had cappuccino chocolate chunk, which was frozen bliss. We enjoyed window shopping and peering into the river to catch sight of minnows and larger fish in pursuit of the minnows. Now that the repairs are made, we will be leaving tomorrow for Lake Worth, and then from there to Lighthouse Point (I think) where we have been invited to take a mooring by friends we met in 2006 in Maine. After we say goodbye to them, we will head for Port Everglades and (God willin’ and the creek don’t rise) we’ll cross at the next weather window. Finally!!!

I will keep that goal in mind, now, as I empty the shelves under the sink and see what is really there. Not the fun part of boat life, trust me.

Vero Beach to Stuart, Florida

2008-02-21T14:20:00.000-08:00

[Hilde’s log]

Stuart, Florida, at last! We had several “last days” in Vero Beach before we actually managed to get away. I really thought we’d leave Tuesday - we even turned in our bathroom key. The food and supplies were bought and stowed, the rental car was returned, the laundry was done, the cockpit and the cabin roof were clear, we’d had our farewell showers, the income tax return was finished and ready to be mailed, the norther blew in and out, the sun was shining, and yet we sat another day. Why? The engine, of course!

After dinner the night before we were to leave, David decided to check the engine oil, to make sure all we had to do in the morning was crank the key in the engine. To his astonishment, the oil pan was full of diesel! He pumped it out, ending up with about 8 quarts of black, thin diesel mixed with oil that we poured into a sacrificial jerry can. He deduced that the diesel seeped through when he was fixing the injector and inadvertently left off a spring (later replaced, but evidently not soon enough to stop the seepage). Those high oil levels were a fairly traumatic find. He pumped out the diesel and oil and filled the pan with new oil, telling me if the level held when he checked the next morning, then we were fine; if not, we were stranded until he found out what on earth the problem could be. Funnily enough, when we ran the engine after draining the diesel and refilling the oil, it ran more smoothly than it ever has, a bass hum replacing the usual clatter. Seems we did a flush and made Mr. P very happy. We turned in late (1 a.m.) and although I slept like a dead thing, David woke up at three hearing a light rain and by the time he’d taken care of open portholes and stuff in the cockpit, he was wide awake.

The next morning the oil level was fine and that was good, but David had to take the bus in to Wal-Mart to get new jerry cans for water, this after only two hours of sleep. So when he returned, frazzled from the bus and chilled from the cool air we decided to wait another day so we could leave in peace and quiet after a full night’s sleep. David went back to bed for a long afternoon nap and I spent the time baking a pineapple upside down cake. The oven warmed the chilly cabin nicely, and when David woke up we took the rest of the day off, drinking coffee, eating cake, and watching a movie.

The next morning I took the bus to the post office to mail our tax return (how is it that you can make no money and still owe tax??) while David stowed stuff on the boat, checked the engine oil level, and otherwise got us ready to leave. We took another set of farewell showers when I got back from the post office and pulled away from the mooring about 11 a.m. David decided he wanted to check the oil level again, so we paused at the anchorage at Ft. Pierce, just past the bridge, about 15 miles from Vero Beach. The depth meter was also on the fritz, proclaiming a uniform depth of 18.8 feet every inch of the way, so while the engine cooled, David tore into the depth meter, the wiring, and the sensors to diagnose the problem. He finally decided that the unit itself had to be at fault. The good news was that the engine was behaving itself. The bad news was we would have to order a new depth meter for David to install. We spent the night at the Ft. Pierce anchorage, lopping about as the large boats sloshed by, eating soup, and getting a good night’s sleep. We figured we’d head to Stuart today in order to get and install a new depth meter. We both spend a lot of time shaking our heads over how much time David spends fixing things on the boat. Imagine that every time you drive to work, the muffler falls off your car, or a tire goes flat, or the odometer gets stuck, or the radio conks out. I joke weakly that it will be fun to be in the islands for my birthday (in March).

Stuart is about 35 miles from Ft. Pierce, a good day’s travel. It’s not on the ICW, but up the St. Lucie River about seven miles. It’s been a chilly day, as we’ve motored into stiff wind the entire way. NOAA confidently predicted 5 to 10 knots; we haven’t seen less than 15 all day. The rain finally caught up with us at the mouth of the St. Lucie and we wound our way westward with rain splattering the bimini, pooling in the cockpit, and fogging the isinglass of the dodger. Fishing boats of all sizes crowded the inlet, headed up and down the river, most of them churning heavy wake and making a convoluted entrance more difficult. Some day I suppose I will get used to the thoughtless way some people motor their boats, but it hasn’t happened yet. I bet they live their lives the way they motor their boats, just bullying their way along and the hell with everyone else. I am glad I don’t have to live with them; I wish they’d find another hobby so I didn’t have to boat with them.

The St. Lucie is a pretty river, lined with the requisite Florida mc-mansions crowded together on zero lot lines. The city marina at Stuart is large and boasts 80 odd mooring balls at a very reasonable $10 a night. Stuart is a very popular stop for the cruising community, with easy access to stores, groceries, and community activities. We’ve heard ugly rumors that a developer has taken a 50 year lease on the waterfront and plans to install dockage, reduce the mooring field, and hike the prices. It’s a shame, but I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s all part of the gentrification of the waterways. I wish I knew of a compromise;– after all, there’s nothing inherently superior about older facilities. It’s just that the improvements are so often Disneyesque and they are always priced in a way that excludes those of us who must cruise on a budget, not to mention the locals who own boats but not gold mines. They also exclude people who have made their living on the water historically and who can’t manage the taxes or the rentals on the suddenly high priced waterfront. Sigh. Let’s see if I can find a way down from this soapbox…

I managed to steer the boat close enough to the mooring that David could catch it without bodily injury, for which I (and he) was very grateful. We got settled in just before a hard rain began to fall, and retreated below for cookies and a rest. The new depth meter should be here tomorrow (ordered from Hamilton Marine, a wonderful mail order supplier of marine merchandise should you need any) and we’ll spend the weekend getting that installed, buying some fresh produce, strolling around Stuart, and enjoying my favorite land side activity, hot showers.

A couple in a dinghy just hailed us. We went topside and were greeted with “But you’re not Clyde!” Clyde is Raven’s previous owner, and this couple recognized the boat. We will get together later to get acquainted and trade stories. I'm always astonished by the number of ways you meet folks on the water!

Still in Vero Beach, but not for long!

2008-02-14T20:03:00.000-08:00

[Hilde’s log]

We’re back on line! After a number of phone calls to progressively higher up employees of Verizon, we’ve managed to get our old plan reinstated and get the awful overcharges on the bill removed. This means that as long as the cell phone works (i.e., as long as we’re connected to the US shore) we can post from Raven, instead of slogging to the library.

I’ve just come off about ten days as Raven’s Captain. David went to Texas to take Schnitzel to my sister’s house in Tyler (and incidentally to pay a visit to our dentist) and I was left in charge. It was hard to see Schnitzel go – she’s such a great little dog, and we have literally not been separated since she arrived at my house as a tiny black puppy almost 12 years ago. But we just didn’t feel right about taking her – too many unknowns, too many different governmental restrictions from too many places, too much heat, and the ever present threat of her being under “boat quarantine” in foreign ports and unable to go ashore to take care of business. Despite or because of the fact that she’s a pretty smart cookie, for a dog anyway, she has refused to believe that it is okay to relieve herself on the boat. This refusal has resulted in our needing to take her to shore twice a day, which is not a problem when we are travelling on the coast. But offshore, it means she thinks she has to hold it, which she does for sometimes as long as two days before finally giving in. The waiting is painful for her and for us, both literally and figuratively. So she has gone to Aunt Carol’s to live with Oreo, Buster, and Napoleon (a Shitzu, a Wire Haired Terrier, and a Yorkie, respectively) for a few months. We hope she will be so busy establishing herself as Queen of the pack that she won’t be too traumatized by being booted off the boat. Carol says so far all is well – Schnitzel is enjoying cow hoofs to munch on, a big yard to run around in, and unlimited pee time.

Anyway, during the Texas trip I stayed in Florida to mind the boat. I have finally learned to start the outboard motor on the dinghy. It isn’t pretty, but I can do it. So while David was driving like a fiend, I was puttering back and forth to the dinghy dock, trying to run errands on the bus. Errands on the bus take hours, literally. One trip to Target to buy a new rug for the cabin took 5 hours – 2 at Target (I ended up with more than a rug) and 3 getting from the boat to the bus to Target to the bus to the boat. The rest of the time, I read, cleaned the boat, started the generator at least once a day to top up the batteries, rigged a tarp to keep rain from dripping down the forward hatch, and ate as much junk food as possible. I was so happy to see David return yesterday!

I have a few more errands to run tomorrow and am trying to schedule a medical check up in Stuart for early next week. After that – we’re off!!

You won’t be able to reach us by phone once we’ve left, but we will be checking email and posting to the blog whenever we manage to find a cyber café. We’ve been told they are all over the place, so here’s hoping.

Engineering Log - Vero Beach, FL

2008-02-07T19:23:00.000-08:00

Hi! Everyone:

True to its nick name (Velcro Beach), we have been unable to peel ourselves away since arriving here January 4th. Still, why cruise unless one can live without a schedule? We are currently waiting for deliveries of spare parts: new bug screens for the port lights, a seacock maintenance kit, and a special wrench for adjusting the rudder post stuffing box. With luck, they’ll be here soon and we’ll have no more excuses for lingering.

The mooring field here is extremely well protected, so I have had a stable platform for completing some repairs. The engine was weeping diesel fuel from a pipe flange on top of the high pressure injector fuel pump. The gasket had shriveled up with age or, perhaps, a tankful of diesel fuel containing ethanol, which is not friendly to very old gaskets, fuel lines, and tanks. NAPA had some neoprene of the right thickness, so I made a new gasket using the old one as a pattern. Eventually, I chickened out of using my homemade gasket and bought a manufactured one for $1.50, tax included. My homemade gasket will stand by as a spare. So, the diesel leak was taken care of.

During our first week here, I re-plumbed the head. I knew it was going to be a slog and had planned to replace one length of sewer line at a time, so that I could stop at any time and the head would still be operational. Well … the first line, from seacock to vented loop, wouldn’t let go without my raising the vented loop, which required removing another line, from vented loop to the Y-valve. Like dominoes, one fell, then the rest. Before too long I had removed the entire head: outflow pipes, inflow pipes, commode, and all. This job was every bit as ugly as I had expected. Given the potency of the smells, I was very glad that Raven was standing still. It was not the time to succumb to sea sickness.

After thoroughly cleaning the head, the installation of modern, white, plastic hoses was a pleasant task. I moved the Y-valve from the cupboard under the sink to the wall behind the commode. It is much more accessible now and, being closer to the head, will benefit more from the vinegar we use to minimize salt build-up. Also, the run from commode to seacock is about four feet shorter.

When the head was finished, I took several days off. I felt like I had earned a break. With labor costs at $60+ per hour, I knew I had saved us a few hundred bucks.

Another long-postponed job was a major overhaul of the galley range. One of the three top burners would not stay lit when the valve was released after the obligatory warm up period. The manufacturer told me that replacement burner (thermocouple) parts were no longer available. Instead, I’d have to purchase retrofit kits for the two small and one large burners. The prices were reasonable, particularly when compared to $1500 for a new stove. The installation was straightforward but after a couple of days one of the burner control valves began to leak and I had to order a new one. That’s the way it goes.

Dirty gasoline continues to haunt the Honda generator and outboard. Both would stall unless I applied half choke. Not wanting to be stranded in the dinghy, I once again rebuilt the carburetor on the outboard, this time removing and cleaning the jet. The fuel tank appeared clean but the inline filter was dirty. This motor now runs well,

Cleaning the fuel system of the Honda generator was educational. Indeed, the fuel tank was dirty, as was the inline filter. Getting to these parts required splitting the clamshell case. At one point I wondered if I’d be able to get it all back together. I did, and there are only two parts left over. Clearly, they are not critical as the generator now runs just fine.

I have been testing a fiberglass polish made by Starbrite. It appears to work well. Two applications are recommended, followed by a pure polish. I found it best to apply liberal amounts of polish with a rag, spreading it with light pressure. I let the polish do the work, allowing enough time for the solvents to soften the surface film. There appears to be no abrasive paste in this product, which makes me happy. After I removed the dried haze with a second rag, the chalkiness was gone and I could see the beginnings of a nice shine. I am encouraged to continue the process.

Other cruisers tell similar stories of non-stop repairs and maintenance. Someone remarked, “While you’re sleeping, your boat is falling apart.” Work on board is never finished. I have four lists of jobs: (A) broke, (B) almost broke, (C) routine maintenance, and (D) a wish list. My spirit dictates what gets done first, so the lists help match my mood to the work. This is the best way I know to minimize my resentments around what appears to be a non-stop battle with entropy. Even so, I much prefer working on this boat than doing similar work on a house or car. A common definition of cruising is “working on your boat in exotic locations”. The hardest job is to keep moving towards those exotic locations.

Best regards,
Captain Dave

2008-01-31T09:43:00.000-08:00

Some shots from Vero Beach - (1) Good friends Penny & Richard from Viking Rose share a drink with me at the nearby bar; we can take the dinghy and tie up at their dock and then enjoy a great happy hour. (2) a cold view of a cold beach on a cold day (3) rainbow in the mooring field, taken from Raven, (4) the facilities here at the city marina.

[Hilde's log, January 31, 2008] Yes, we are still here, despite all efforts to the contrary. In between errands, repairs, transporation logistics, and difficult decisions about where we're leaving from, how long we're staying, and where we will ultimately go, we are having a frustrating time here in paradise. We are making progress -- the boat repairs are made, we have a tentative plan of travel, and we think we know what needs to be done in the next couple of weeks as long as we can work around the transportation logistics if we can just wade through a couple of difficult decisions. We want like everything to be out of here this weekend - cross your fingers!

Vero Beach, Florida

2008-01-16T08:33:00.000-08:00

[Hilde’s log, January 13, 2008, posted 1-15-08 from the public library at Vero Beach, FL]

I have to date this log, because goodness knows when I will get to post it. I was lying in bed, minding my own business (sleeping) about 1 a.m. last Sunday when I heard muffled shrieks and curses from the main cabin. David often gets up really early and putters on the computer, so I thought nothing of his being up, but the distress seemed all out of proportion to the circumstance. “What is it?” I mumbled, trying to readjust and go back to sleep. “Our Verizon bill!” he spat, “It’s $760!!” “WHAT?!” That got me up. It turns out that Verizon has yanked a service we have used for years, connecting to the net through a modem in David’s phone. The calls were billed as regular minutes, meaning we could surf the net, check email, etc. whenever our plan gave us free minutes (after 9 and on weekends) and being on line cost nothing. Provided we could get a cell phone connection, we could access the net. Verizon decided to close that loophole some time ago, and for a number of years you haven’t been able to get a phone with a modem. No problem for us – David just kept his original phone. But heaven forbid those few of us with antiquated phones should have access without paying through the nose – Verizon has discontinued net access through a modem, closing that loophole with a bang and leaving lots of folks with humongous phone bills. Fortunately, we were able to get the excess charges taken off the bill, but we are without access to the net unless we stumble across free wi-fi…which we will have done if this gets posted.

We’ve been in Vero Beach for about a week, arriving on the tail end of a cold front and just in time for 82 and sunny. It’s just as nice as we’ve heard, with reasonable rates for mooring balls, a friendly and clean marina, free city bus service, good car rental rates – everything you need when you’re a cruiser. It’s a beautiful anchorage, basically a very large creek lined with mangrove bushes, with the ICW at one end and several small mangrove islands at the other. There’s lots of wildlife to admire, mostly a large assortment of birds. We’ve seen dolphins fishing along the banks, and one acquaintance says she saw sea otters at the island end of the creek. Pelicans regularly fish around us and we had a close up view of a pelican’s lunch about 50 feet from the boat. In case you are wondering, they swallow the fish whole, alive, and wriggling, and their necks ripple for sometime after the unfortunate dinner is swallowed. In fact, the dinner fought its way right back up and partly into the pelican’s beak before being swallowed again with a big gulp of water. Eeew. Right next to us, on shore, is a “free play” dog park that is popular with locals and cruisers alike, where dogs can romp off leash and plunge into the water after balls, sticks, and each other. There is a lot to see from the cockpit while sunning if you can tear yourself away from your book (Eleanor of Aquitaine, Hotel Pastis, and The Widows’ Adventures so far). Venturing on shore, there are pretty, unpretentious houses and luxuriant tropical landscaping in walking distance of the marina. All the upscale houses, and there are zillions of those, require a car. The Atlantic Beach is about a mile away, available by bus or on foot. As a result of all these amenities and the great weather (most of the time), Vero is an extremely popular anchorage, and lots of people spend the winter. It’s so easy to stay here, its nickname is “Velcro Beach.” It does have its downside – the mangroves are full of “no see ums” (flying chiggers) and I am poxed with bites. David, blast him, hasn’t been bitten once.

On the way down from St. Augustine we stopped in Fort Matanzas, Daytona Beach, Titusville and Coco. Fort Matanzas was a quick hop from St. Augustine, an open and sloshing anchorage thanks to the fishing boats and touristy boats headed for a look at the fort. For some reason we were just whacked by that short trip. There was a lot of traffic on the ICW, which makes it about as much fun to travel as a main highway. The anchorage was too open for my taste and we weren’t sure of our holding, and then of course the sloshing we took from each power boat that went by made the afternoon uncomfortable. Daytona Beach was better – good holding and very close to a public park. We pulled in at dusk and admired the view across the water, which was lined with city lights. Unfortunately the anchorage was also very close to a sewage treatment plant, so pulling up the anchor was no fun.

The trip to Titusville was better – we popped out into Mosquito Bay from the canal and got away from the endless fancy homes that crowd the banks along the canal. In some places the waterway is a solid Parade of Homes show, which bores me silly, especially as there are no people outside on those fabulously expensive lawns and porches. Mosquito Bay is shallow and spreads out into an enormous expanse of water full of islands. The ICW canal is a narrow dredge, deepening the Bay from its natural one to five foot depth down to ten and eleven feet. The Bay is a popular fishing area and there are several fishing camps on the shores leading up to the entrance of the Bay. Numerous small boats were anchored in the shallow water with people bent intently over their rods. Just before Titusville we hooked a sharp right from the Bay into a narrow artificial canal and found ourselves sailing between two banks of fisherfolk, lined up with their pickups, picnic supplies, and fishing gear.

We anchored off Titusville for one night and then went into the marina to plug in the heater as a cold front arrived and dropped the night time temperatures into the 30s. Raven was boxed in by huge trawlers to each side and in front, a garage of big boats that kept the wind from tossing us until it clocked around to the stern. Once that happened, we bounced and jounced and slopped with the rest of them. While there, we met the fine folks on a neighboring trawler, Second Chance, who have been to the Bahamas numerous times, and we spent two pleasant days in their company, enjoying their stories and their two friendly and mischievous Portuguese water dogs. They generously let us share the car they had rented, so we were able to make a Wal-Mart run. We were so grateful – thank you, Chris and Vivian! The only grocery store within walking distance of the marina was quite small and quite vile, even for people desperately in need of bread. Our trips to Wal-Mart let us see some of the town, as well. Titusville seems to be waiting for a renaissance or to be swallowed by Daytona Beach. It just looked a bit tired and shopworn. Finally, before we had a chance to completely lose our minds from cabin fever and cold, the winds died down, the temperature crept back up, and we headed for Coco.

Coco's pretty anchorage butts up against a lovely oldish downtown full of small shops. We walked to the bank, found an ice cream parlor, and bumped into our friend Matt from Worth W8N4 in the hardware store. When we walked over to their slip in the marina later in the day, they told tales of their experience with the stiff winds we had weathered in Titusville. The wind blew right up their stern the whole time, with no protection to speak of, and they spent the bad weather slapping up and down about three feet, the boat’s stern spanking the water and threatening to strike the pilings on either side. The “breakwater” behind the transient slips consists of a split rail fence, wholly inadequate to break any of the water or wind rushing against the boats. Not only that, they had company on board at the time!

From Coco it was a long day’s motoring to Vero Beach. A few rain showers found us, but most of them circled the water. The sun shone sporadically, sunlight piercing sheets of gray water falling from patchy black clouds on the horizon. At Vero we rafted up with another boat for the first time. Thankfully our new neighbors were home and they came out on deck and caught our bow and stern lines, securing them to their own cleats. Once rafted, two or three boats just drift together as one. It’s fun having neighbors so close. We found out David is from Dickenson, Texas and Becky is from Jacksonville, Florida. They have a little Pomeranian, Ginger, who negotiated the entire length of their boat fearlessly, stepping daintily from cabin roof to deck before curling up for a nap in the cockpit. She and Schnitzel exchanged obligatory growls and then settled down to the occasional bark. David and Becky buy repossessed boats, fix them up, and sell them, so their boat YoGo was new to them. They move two or three times a year onto another boat and make enough of a profit to maintain their cruising life. They used to run a campground in Mississippi, and had lots of tales to tell of good tenants, crazy tenants, and Hurricane Katrina. They continued their journey after about three days and we’ve surely missed them.

David and I also had the chance to work a power boat show in Stuart Beach for a couple of days. Our friends on Tarwathie, Dick and Libby, told us about the opportunity. We drove down to Stuart with them and another couple, Stefan and Laurie, having no idea what to expect. Everyone was friendly and pleasant and not at all dismayed at our lack of experience. We were given mustard colored t-shirts, name tags, and grunt jobs. I opened and closed an access gate and David directed traffic in a parking lot. I worked 9 hours and David worked about 7. Then he went back the next day and worked another 9 ½ hours doing the same thing. My job was stolen by Boy Scouts, so I stayed home and read and thanked God I wasn’t opening and closing a gate. It was fun and it will pay for our mooring here in Vero, but I’m glad I don’t do it every day. Lots of cruisers work the boat shows to help fatten the kitty, but boy, is it hard work. David and I were both wrecked by the end of the first day. I have no idea how he managed to do it again the next day. We had to get up at 5:30 a.m. to dress and take Schnitzel to shore, take her back to the boat, and turn around and get back to the dock by 7, so we could drive for an hour to get to the show by 8:30, then work 9 hours, then drive back, then dinghy back to the boat, get the dog, back to the shore, back to the boat, eat something and DIE.

For the rest of our stay, we’ll be doing boat jobs and errands and enjoying the warmth. David has already rebuilt the head (I’ll let him tell that tale) and I think that was the worst chore on the list, so the rest should be relatively stress free.

Christmas in St. Augustine, Florida

2007-12-28T20:00:00.000-08:00

[Hilde's log]

Tomorrow we leave St. Augustine for parts south, but not far. We will be aiming for the Matanzas River, about 15 miles from here. Anchorages are not plentiful between St. Augustine and Daytona. One was close, one was far – so we just decided to take it easy and go to the closer one tomorrow and the farther one the day after, rather than making a forced march to the farther anchorage.

The weather has finally relented and turned beautiful, after about three days of cold, oppressive, overcast skies, and strong winds. How dismal it was for me to be trapped below on the lunging boat, with the wind shrieking in the rigging. Depressed and grouchy, I was no fun to live with.

We did manage to dinghy in to shore in the dark for the 7 pm Christmas Eve service at the local Episcopal Church. It was a lovely, if cold, ride across the anchorage. I sat in the bow, holding the flashlight and looking at the liquid reflection of the lights on shore spill across the black water. The dinghy doesn’t have a mast with a steaming light, so I hold the flashlight and pretend to be a mast. We joked that we must be the only people we knew who were taking a dinghy to Christmas Eve services. The church was full of people and poinsettias and the hymns were familiar, but I surely did miss the warmth and friendliness of Christ Church in New Bern, which has been our church home for the last year.

Christmas was celebrated with a big meal made from the last of our fresh vegetables (roasted carrots, brussels sprouts, and parsnips), plus mashed potatoes and gravy and a can of potted beef. Dinner was topped off with a dessert of packaged cake that I bought at Big Lots back in New Bern. All we lacked was the Yorkshire pudding, but it’s too much trouble for too little reward as far as I’m concerned.

Finally, the weather turned and we were able to get out for more than the soggy slog to shore to walk the dog, walking all over the “ancient city” (St. Augustine is the oldest city in the U.S., established by Spain in 1545), up and down narrow cobbled streets past all sorts of architectural marvels and past every sort of shop. There are cathedrals, mansions, forts, European style homes with their outer walls flush with the street, and all sorts of inns, pubs, and bed and breakfasts. The greenery is tropical, with palms and St. Augustine grass (!), not to mention enormous trees draped with beards of Spanish moss. In short, it looks a lot like Old San Antonio. We enjoyed a sampler of local brews at an ale shop and wolfed down English pub fare (and more ale) at a pub. We walked over two miles to the Sailor’s Exchange, a store we have wanted to see since our first stop in Key West almost two years ago – only to find they were closed for the holidays. I found Caitlin’s birthday present at an alpaca store full of clothing and rugs. We dodged tourists from all over the globe. Mostly these long walks were doggy walks, since Schnitzel’s idea of a good time is to sniff and leave p-mails all over town.

We anchored in the river and paid $10 a day for the use of the city marina facilities – dinghy dock, trash disposal, showers, and laundry facilities. These reasonable rates gave us access to really nice facilities. The monthly fees here for a slip at the docks are not cheap ($13.50 a foot), but then it is St. Augustine, which is both right on the Atlantic and right on the ICW. We’ve met a few folks here this week, but not a lot. We’re in a city again, and I’m no longer used to folks ignoring each other as a way of life. It’s not cold, it’s just indifferent, and very weird after a year in friendly New Bern.

Tonight we have pulled out the boxes in the quarterberth to examine the country flags given to us by Raven’s previous owner, a very well traveled gent. We found 16 different flags, which was exciting, even though at the moment we only plan to use one of them (the Bahamas). I can hardly wait to run a courtesy flag up the rigging by our tattered old Texas flag as we slide into port. My guess is that we will have to fly the Texas flag a bit lower or risk insulting folks who don’t know Texas’ history as a sovereign nation. I don’t want to annoy people whose language I don’t speak. We’ve also come across a cruising guide to the tropics that covers such things as coral reefs and tropical climes, so I think we’ve found our bedtime book for the next month.

On the outside, Beaufort, SC to St. Augustine, FL

2007-12-21T21:18:00.000-08:00

[Hilde's log]

Raven has arrived safely in St. Augustine. She wove her way through the channel yesterday about noon, after a great passage on the outside from Beaufort, SC. We were blessed with calm, warm weather, light winds, and mostly clear skies for the entire 36 hour trip. We got up in the dark Wednesday morning, indulged in a cup of tea, and took Schnitzel ashore for a farewell pee before pushing off just after dawn, about 6:45. Raven flew down the Beaufort River and Port Royal Sound at over 7 knots, with the help of a three-knot current, popping out into the Atlantic around 10 a.m. The sea was flat and blue, the skies clear, and the wind nonexistent, making for good motoring and no sailing. Actually, that was a good thing, saving us from wind chill. David and I enjoyed so much being out in the “big blue circle” again, after a year inside. “Just the right amount of trees,” I remarked, glorying in being able to see to the horizon in all directions. The trip was so tame, I was able to cook almost as well as on the ICW, though “cook” is stretching it. Let’s just say I am getting really good at combining cans.

Tip for those of you out there who are stuck eating canned vegetables (ick, ick, ick): if you drain the can of vegetables and add the drained contents to some good soup, the taste is overwhelmingly of soup, and the vegetables add their bulk to stretch the servings. I remain unconvinced that canned vegetables add any nutrition to one’s diet, but maybe I am just a taste snob. Actually, after a cold morning’s run, we don’t fuss about what kind of food is available, as long as it’s hot and there’s enough of it. We eat at such weird hours on a passage. Wednesday we had tea at 6 a.m., breakfast sandwiches about 8, soup at 11:30, stew at 3, and soup again around 7, with chocolate bars, oranges, apples, tea, coffee, crackers, cheese, and hot punch scattered throughout the day. It’s a wonder we don’t weigh 300 pounds each!

The hot water bottles saved my life on my overnight watches. It really wasn’t cold, temperature-wise, hovering in the high 50s and low 60s as we drifted south. But I have found that even moderate cold can seep into my bones over the course of the night, chilling me dangerously close to hypothermia, so I am really paranoid about staying warm. This time, I had good foul weather gear (Gill) over 3 layers of clothes, and my feet were snug in rubber boots. The hot water bottles alternated between my back and on my lap and kept me toasty in between hopping up to check the horizon. David and I tried one hour watches which worked well for me. Late in the evening we did a couple of two hour stretches so each of us could catch more than 30 minutes’ shut-eye down below. We enjoyed being able to stretch out in the v-berth for those longer naps. On our voyage last year the v-berth was crammed with boxes; this year we have stuff stowed all over the place, but the v-berth remains our bedroom and that’s a huge improvement. In the calm water, it felt like sleeping in a cradle, rocking gently, with the slop, slop, slop of the waves against the hull. We’ll see what it’s like in rougher water…I may migrate back to the saloon in questionable weather.

The scenery was spectacular during the night. First came a glorious sunset as the sun spilled pink and gold bands across the surface of the dark green water (see photo). A mist rolled in from the edges of the horizon, purple at the surface of the water. The moon shone through the mist above us, looking like a bright headlight in thick fog and unfortunately having the same effect on visibility. Later in the night, we were followed by an enormous “God’s eye” filling the sky above us – the moon at the center of a crystal clear circle of night sky rimmed by a ring of frozen ice crystals. As she set, about 3 am, she passed through layer upon layer of dark clouds, weaving in and out of them like a bright shuttle on a weaver’s loom. After moonset, the clouds dissipated and the stars took over, glinting above us in the black sky. I was on watch at my favorite time of day, when the morning star rises just before dawn, trailing a pale shimmer of starshine over the water.

The coming of day is a joyous occasion! Mysterious lights resolve themselves into fishing boats, tankers, and shoreline and I can put away the binocs and the bearing gun and relax behind the wheel. Daylight showed us the busy outline of Jacksonville, FL to starboard and sunrise to port. We had coffee and comforted ourselves that the entrance to St. Augustine was fairly close and we’d reach it in the daylight. Circling all night in front of an entrance that we’ve timed badly is not something we like to do, as you can imagine.

We dropped the hook in the harbor and put on the tea kettle, ecstatic to be baking in the sun – yes, baking! Just then, we saw friends from New Bern motor by, headed to the fuel dock. We hailed Cygnet on the VHF, amazed that we’d see someone we knew just minutes after arriving. Not ten minutes later, we were hailed by a dinghy carrying friends we had met at Pipeline Canal on Worth W8N4 (Worth Waiting For). We spent a lovely evening with them on their boat before returning to Raven to snatch a bite to eat and fall into bed.

Alas, it was not to be. The y-valve to the head broke off and David got to spend an hour doing some very smelly and messy plumbing. We finally made it to bed about 9, but were awakened at 2 a.m. by strong winds and rain thundering through in an unexpected storm. It wasn’t bad, as storms go, but our anchor chained rubbed hard against the bow roller, sounding a lot like someone dragging a very heavy desk over cobblestones, making it impossible to relax, much less sleep. So we got up, David to check the anchor and me to wash the dishes I’d left out when we had collapsed into bed earlier. We got back to sleep around 3:30, and woke this morning about 8 to bright blue skies, gusty winds, and NOAA’s promise of high 70s later this afternoon and winds decreasing to 5-10 knots. Ha. The clouds rolled back in, the temperatures remained in the 60s, and the wind has rattled the rigging for hours now, at about 20-25 knots.

We dinghied in to shore this afternoon, Schnitzel crazed with excitement to be on land again after three long days on board. We walked some of the downtown, window shopping and people looking. St. Augustine has some beautiful Spanish style architecture downtown, and the Episcopal church bells were belting out seasonal hymns, making us feel at home. We plan to do some sightseeing on the tour coach while we’re here so cross your fingers that the sun comes out.

Here’s a reason to celebrate – it’s the Winter Solstice, and from today forward the days will be getting longer and longer, minute by minute. Add that to the warmer temperatures we are anticipating and you know things are looking up for Raven and crew.

By the way, thanks so much to our friend Paul who offers the spelling “coaming” for the…uh…coaming. He’s ex-Navy, so I’m going to go with his spelling. Microsoft spell check thinks he’s nuts.

We send our best wishes to all of you for a blessed holiday season and the very best of new years, bringing each of you your heart’s desire.

views of Beaufort, SC

2007-12-17T17:11:00.000-08:00

The photos are of (1) one of the beautiful mansions in the old part of town, (2) a tree shrouded in Spanish moss, (3) view of a marshy inlet from a residential neighborhood, (4) downtown Beaufort, and (5) Raven at the dock in the marina in Beaufort - she's the white boat with the little dinghy tethered alongside.

at the dock, Beaufort, SC 12-17-07

2007-12-17T07:28:00.000-08:00

[Hilde’s log]

I must confess, I am happy to be plugged into the electricity at the dock this morning. The cold front finally arrived, ushered in by strong winds and rain, and the temperatures dipped into the lower 30s late last night. Other than being splattered occasionally from the condensation dripping off the forward hatch, it was very pleasant to lie in bed and not see my breath before my face. I thoroughly enjoyed going to bed clean last night and not having to wear a hat and socks and other garments that make me look really ridiculous. When we got up, we crowed happily when the thermometer told us it was 34 outside and 69 inside. Yes! Schnitzel is still waiting for her morning walk. I’m not going anywhere until it hits 40. I distracted her by making pancakes, a breakfast I only make at the dock or in a calm anchorage.

We will be shoving off early, early Wednesday morning, having at least a 4 day window to travel. We hope to go straight from here to St. Augustine in one hop, so we need the good weather and some decent wind to make landfall in the daylight. David tells me St. Augustine is 150 miles from here, so that’s about 1 ½ days, hopefully only one overnight. If we get slowed down too much, we can always duck into Jacksonville, which is 130 miles. In any event, we will be spare the tortuous Georgia ICW, which adds 100 miles to the trip. If it weren’t for the chronic low water and shoaling on that stretch of the waterway, I’d love to see the area, but it’s no fun to slowly bump your way along, panicked that you will run aground.

We are both happy with our travel plan and happy to stay in Beaufort at the dock while it’s cold. For one thing, Schnitzel had a bout of respiratory illness when we first left New Bern. Poor thing, she just lay in her bed and wheezed for several days. Fortunately, I had a full course of doggy antibiotics on board and after taking all of them she is her old self, playful and alert, although hoarse as can be. Her usual yodel is now a gruff, raspy bark, making her sound quite ferocious, which I’m sure pleases her. Anyway, we don’t want any more cold aggravated illness and want to make sure she is fully recovered before we venture out. Of course there is always laundry (our dirty clothes are so gross, they mumble in the laundry bin) and we are pretty much out of fresh fruits and veggies so a trip to the grocery store is in order. The marina has a courtesy car, which is a boon. I’m sure we’ll also duck into a hardware store for whatever gadget David has on his mind, and we need to fill the propane tanks. Add to that finishing the teak and enjoying some walks here in Beaufort, and that will fill our days quite nicely, just in time to catch the good weather and head south once more.

Here’s the silly part – when we listen to the cruisers’ net on the SSB in the morning and hear all the boats calling in from Florida and the Bahamas and then the last few boats here in the Carolinas zip on past, we feel such a tug to push off and rush after them. Such lemmings we are! I feel like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, hopping around looking at the calendar and squeaking, “We’re late! We’re late! Oh my ears and whiskers, we’re late, we’re late, we’re late!” Hold on…no we aren’t, we’re just where we want to be. Such a vortex pulling me to join the exodus, when I don’t even want to. The urge to rush after everyone else must be a survival mechanism not attached to one’s thinking brain. Let’s see, which is better, freezing to death in my smelly clothes in an open cockpit or eating pancakes in my clean jammies, enjoying a second cup of coffee and knowing that I can have a hot shower tonight? Cake or death? (borrowing from Eddie Izzard) Cake, please.

On the hook at Beaufort, SC 12-15-07

2007-12-15T11:47:00.000-08:00

[Hilde's log]

And what does one do on the hook in a strange harbor? Depends entirely on the day! Our first full day here, yesterday, was sunny and warm, so we took advantage of the weather to enjoy a walk along the waterfront and through the small downtown to stretch our legs and Schnitzel’s. We peeked into the shops lining the downtown, peered at a few gorgeously preserved Southern mansions, and sat on a bench watching a big traffic jam on the Lady Island Bridge. Then back to the boat. We knew bad weather was coming, so we decided to do some overdue work on deck while the temperatures were mild and the sun was out.

My first chore was to swab the deck with a bucket of water and a brush, dislodging the mud that trickles into the cracks and crannies from the anchor and chain whenever we drop anchor in a muddy spot. So far, I can count on one hand the number of anchorages that have not been muddy, so swabbing is a recurring sport. I even wiped off the deck with a wet rag, and it looked great until Schnitzel came trotting down the side to admire my efforts and left little doggy footprints everywhere.

Swabbing complete, I started in to strip teak. I began stripping teak the first week we were at the dock in New Bern, in October, 2006, and I’m still stripping it. I finished the port handrail, bowsprit, the “eyebrows” (the little strips of wood down the cabin roof over the portholes), and most of the port and starboard toe rails before winter showed up in 2006. In the month or so before we left November 30, I stripped the rest of the toe rails, the stern, and the cockpit combings. As I finish any area of wood, David follows along behind me with teak wash and brightener, and then once the wood is dry we brush on several coats of teak oil and sit back to admire the result. It’s beautiful!! It is my dearest wish never to strip another inch of wood, so let’s hope the teak oil stands up. So far, two weeks into the trip, it has done just fine.

I have no idea how to spell “combings” and neither does Microsoft – sailing words are often spelled completely differently from the way they sound, such as “gunwales” which is pronounced “gunnels”. So pronounce “combing” and you will know what the word is, if not how to spell it.

Yesterday I stripped the starboard handrail, and this morning, before the rain blew in, I stripped the sides of the sliding hatch pocket (the raised bit on the coach roof that the hatch slides into when you push it open). We are going to take a slip at the marina for the three days of forecast cold weather, having had quite enough of freezing our little tushies off at Pipeline Creek. We will have access to fresh water, so David can clean, brighten, and oil the teak I just stripped. When we’re done, we’ll have renewed all the wood but the winch blocks, the Dorade vent blocks, and the companionway.

While I was hacking away at the teak (I started out last year worrying so about the grain of the wood and was I pushing too hard, etc., and have ended up whacking at it and yelling “come OFF!” to the leprous old varnish), David was polishing the stanchions with Collinite, which is, hands down, the best stainless polish we have come across. Raven must feel as though she has been to the spa. The old girl looks like she’s just had a dye job and a manicure!

Chores done, we cleaned up (which is the thing you do after everything – get up, clean up, make tea, clean up, eat, clean up, do a chore, clean up…) and dinghied into shore with Schnitzel for the evening run and then enjoyed a couple of beers and a can of nuts while reading our latest Sue Grafton mystery to each other. Then dinner (clean up) and I am embarrassed to admit I was in bed at 8:30 p.m. Which is how I see all those sunrises.

And thus passes the day on the hook, for those of you who were wondering.

Awendaw, SC to Beaufort, SC 12-11 to 12-13, 2007

2007-12-15T10:15:00.000-08:00

[Hilde's log]

Some places on the earth are so serene, so quiet, so still, I can hear the blood beating in my ears. It’s hard to get away from the sound of motors. Cars whosh, wires whine, lawnmowers growl, outboards putter, boats chug. On the boat, the chugging gets to me after a while, but there’s no alternative on the ICW. It’s far too narrow and far too shallow for any sailing, so we chug, chug, chug like the African Queen down the canals, watching the scenery pass by. Not that that’s unpleasant. It’s quite like sitting on your porch on a sunny fall day, as the world rolls past the steps. But the constant noise makes the silence of anchoring very, very sweet.

Four nights ago we dropped anchor in Awendaw Creek. There is an Awendaw, SC, which you can find in your atlas. The town is not far from this anchorage. You’d never know it, though. The ICW passes between two national parks right before you get to Awendaw Creek, the Frances Marion National Forest and the Cape Romain National Wildlife Refuge, so there’s a lot of scenery blessedly empty of human construction for several hours before you turn south into the creek. The creek is the size of a river in Texas (the size of the rivers in the Carolinas continue to astonish me), maybe 400 yards wide, a crescent of blue water bordered by gold and russet marshland, opening out into an even larger body of water that looked like the sea. By the time we’d taken care of the anchoring and the trip to shore (“shore” being a euphemism for mussel shoals, gooey, sticky mud, and acres of slough grass) for the dog, it was evening, darkening into night. The shoreline was fading away into mist and fog. The air and water were so still the stars were reflected beneath us.

The stillness lingered through the morning, as the night’s fog slowly burned off under the rising sun. Raven looked like a toy boat glued to a mirror. Her mast and hull, the surrounding marshland, the deep blue sky, and the last shards of dark grey fog were reflected perfectly in the water. As we motored toward the inlet, our wake creamed the water’s reflection into rolling fragments. And then, amazingly, we turned the bend and emerged from the wilderness next to a beautiful little waterfront community, with houses, trees, boats, and a camping area. The air was as crisp and sweet as a green apple, spiced with the scent of woodsmoke from the outdoor fires at the campground. What a perfect time to be outdoors and on the move.

That perfect sunny day melted into the next as we wandered down the waterway, which was sometimes perilously shallow, sometimes amazingly wide, sometimes populated, sometimes barren. The borders of the waterway were all marsh, rough yellow grass shot through with small inlets or streams stretching back to more solid ground covered with forest. In the foreground were live oaks, their branches twisted in fantastical shapes, then palms, their fronds light green pinwheels against the darker background stands of pines.

As we approached each populated section of the ICW, houses would appear on the landward shore, each house with its own 300 foot pier, long strands of wooden walkway ending in a boat house or a gazebo or both. Some of the gazebos were furnished for the next dock party with dock boxes, hammocks, freezers, fish tubs, lawn chairs, and ice chests. Others were empty, waiting for summer to roll around again. Birds roosted everywhere, but seemed especially happy to congregate on long private piers. Segregated by species, they seemed content to sit and watch us motor by. We’d pass clusters of four or five isolated pilings, in upright groupings like candles on a drowned cake, each piling topped with its own large bird. I wondered if the piers and pilings were safer roosts for the birds than spending the nights in the wild. Surely a bird sitting in the marsh grass would tempt any predator to pounce. As we passed the curve of these waterfront communities, the piers slipped by like the fingers of a hand. Then they’d be gone, and we’d be back in the marshes.

We motored across Charleston harbor, pointing happily at the places we remembered from our two week stay two summers ago. After a night parked in front of some beautiful and very expensive homes just to the west of town we journeyed the next day through the same warm, blue sky. No one could bear to go below for more than a few minutes before popping back up for more of the heady air and clear sky.

The last few miles of our day found us creeping carefully through some pretty shallow water at dead low tide, so we were thankful to turn off the waterway at last to the deep and serene South Edisto River. Anchored in 16 feet of water, we spent another silent night under a sharp black sky studded with fiery stars. The morning brought more fog, but it burned off quickly and we were underway for Beaufort, SC by 9 a.m. today.

That day’s trip took us across an absolutely enormous river, the Combahee, which had to have been five miles across. I say that because I was at the helm for over an hour at 5 knots, our course was almost a straight line, and when I surrendered the helm to David after my hour we were still on that river. Raven sped across the blue prairie in the stiff wind while I gloried in the view. The water spread out in all directions almost to the horizon and it was all I could do to turn away from the Atlantic outlet and head toward Beaufort. It was a quick travel day. We passed under the Lady Island Bridge in Beaufort at 2:30. Three o’clock saw us anchored. We took an evening stroll down the waterfront and then spent 30 minutes on deck admiring the harbor, the lights of the city, and yet another gorgeous sunset. I am amazed at how many sunrises and sunsets I have missed in my life. I was always getting ready for work, or driving, or fixing dinner, or something, but I was not seeing the sun rise or set. On the water, I hardly ever miss either, and I remain fascinated.

Wishing you lots of sunrises and sunsets and moments to savor!

Raven - Charleston, SC

2007-12-11T19:17:00.000-08:00

[From Captain Dave]

Hi! Everyone:

It was June 2006 when Raven was last in Charleston, SC. We had made a long trek “on the outside” from Jacksonville, FL, and were so glad of an opportunity to rest that we anchored for two weeks in the Ashley River. Today, as we followed a reversed track from Winyah Bay down the ICW into the east side of Charleston harbor, we felt much more at ease than we did one year ago. Dare I say that we are getting the hang of this cruising life at last?

Tonight we are at anchor in Wappoo Creek, just off the west side of the harbor, again in the ICW. We arrived around 1530, in plenty of time to set two anchors, ready for when the current turns 180 degrees in this narrow channel. We are expecting dense fog again, tomorrow morning. It socked us in this morning at Awendaw Creek in Cape Romain National Wildlife Refuge. This is now one of my favorite anchorages. There is nothing around for miles but marshes. I stepped outside last night and easily saw the Milky Way. All the stars of Orion were mirrored in the still water, so clear that there were in effect two Orions visible, one on top of the other. The fog began to form around 2200, the glow from the anchor light being reflected back down to the deck. Animals on the marshes rustled and called. Something with large lungs yawned loudly, stimulating images of alligators. If animals think at all, they must wonder if they will survive the night. It used to be that way for humans, too.

On the run from Georgetown to Awendaw Creek we were passed by only one boat, a motor trawler who hailed us to request us to slow down to let him pass. In return, he went by with minimal wake. Like so many trawler owners, he opened his cabin door close the steering station to come outside and shout greetings. We were so impressed by the compactness of his craft that we hailed him for a short chat on the VHF. Turns out it is a thirty year old Pearson motor cruiser that he’s had for over twenty years. It is powered by two, 4-cylinder John Deere tractor motors, each burning 1.3 gallons per hour. To our eyes, it was a sturdy, unpretentious vessel. So many that we see are huge and extravagant, conspicuous consumption afloat. Still, compared to Raven’s 0.6 gallons per hour, it is horrendously fuel-hungry.

At Georgetown, we stayed at Georgetown Landing Marina. We took on fuel and water. We deposited trash and black water. Service here was excellent and the rates very reasonable. We walked about a mile into town. Schnitzel was as delighted to be stretching her legs as we were. Our mission was to find Ice cream, which we did. Front Street was quiet (Sunday Afternoon) and very picturesque. I took many photos and we enjoyed walking the boardwalk along the river’s edge, wondering what it might have been like to anchor in such a narrow channel. By the time we returned to Raven, we were all dragging our feet.

Next morning, before leaving, we walked to the BP gas station and bought the essentials: milk, bread, and potato chips. The only bread available was Wonder Bread, an appropriate name because we wonder if it is really bread at all. Nearby is Schofield’s hardware store. This is an Aladdin’s Cave for all sorts of boat parts: galvanized shackles, funnels, hose connectors, propane cylinders, etc. What a barn of a place.

Tonight, I remembered to check Raven’s engine oil while the engine was still warm. Engine oil just doesn’t flow well in the morning, when it is cold. (I sympathize. I’m the same way.) My other chore tonight was to clean the paddle when on the knot meter sensor. I am always reluctant to do this because when I remove the sensor from the keel, a 1.5” column of water rushed into the bilge, until I insert the blank plug into the hole. I am always fearful of dropping something and sinking Raven on the spot. The reality is much less trouble than my fears predict. The Neuse River growth was like hairy mud, containing tiny barnacles. The cleaned sensor is now back in place and for the first time in weeks, we shall be able to compare our speed through the water and our speed over the bottom. Why bother? To determine the effects of current on Raven’s progress. In still water, both readings should be the same. A difference in readings indicates current, either helping or hindering our progress.

The warm, calm weather is very welcome. The cabin remains warm at night, even at anchor, when we cannot run our heat pump. Heat in these conditions comes from a small Coleman propane heater. It is rated at 1000 BTU, which is little better than a single candle might emit, or so it feels sometimes.

In two more days, we should be in Beaufort, SC, where we shall reprovision and make ready for the hop “on the outside” to St Mary’s, GA, close to the GA-FL state line, and Fernandina Beach, FL.

Best regards from Raven.

Pipeline Canal, NC to Awendaw Creek, SC

2007-12-10T21:11:00.001-08:00

Greetings from anchor in Awendaw Creek, about 60 miles from Charleston, SC. It’s been the most gorgeous day of the trip, 80 degrees and bright sunshine all the way, although the breeze made it feel more like 70 on the water.

We left Pipeline Creek early Friday morning. The sun was bright, but cold, and we were grateful that there was no wind. Our trip through the last bit of North Carolina was a bit like travelling through Venice on a huge canal. We passed through neighborhood after development, home after home, in all styles and price ranges, from double wides to mansions. To our amazement, as we crossed the South Carolina line, the houses suddenly stopped and we were treated to empty, tree lined shores. Further along we passed more development, but it wasn't the wall of homes we left behind in North Carolina.

Around sunset we turned off into Calabash Creek, anchoring to the side of the creek with four other boats. We knew the couple aboard Mon Isle, as they were neighbors for a short time on the docks in New Bern. They, in turn, had befriended the couple on the boat behind us, Airborne. Mon Isle invited us over for strawberry shortcake, and we accepted, eager to make new friends. After a quick trip to shore to walk Schnitzel, we enjoyed the company of our fellow boaters for the evening. We especially admired Mon Isle's dinghy, a Portland Pudgy (I didn't make that up.). Sturdy and squat, it is rated as a lifeboat as well as a dinghy. Like our Walker Bay, it has a sailing rig. Unlike the WB, though, you can stow the paddles, sails, and masts in the dinghy itself. That's one of the interesting things that happens when we meet fellow boaters -we get to admire their equipment and get new ideas about gear that would be useful to us.

Saturday turned into a trail ride. We were one of five boats that motored down the ICW in a long string, bunching up quickly as we approached bridges and then stringing out again once we left the bridges behind. Bridges on the ICW come in two types, namely those that are high enough to pass under and those that aren't. The low bridges all open, some on a schedule and some on demand. Everyone tries to time the scheduled openings as closely as possible in order to avoid having to hold station with a gaggle of other boats while waiting for the opening. We've met a lot of bridge tenders on the VHF and I wonder what that job would be like, watching for boat traffic, coaxing all the boats toward the bridge, so that it will be open as short a time as possible, and then working the mechanisms that lower the caution railings, release all the catches, and cause tons and tons of steel and concrete to swing out over the water.

In the afternoon the ICW left the canal and wandered into the Waccamaw River. It's a wild place, mostly cypress swamp, that winds along the coastland. Occasionally a small marina or a cluster of houses was visible through the trees, but mostly I could pretend I was along in a wilderness (as long as I didn't look at the boats behind us). The forest was a real Hansel and Gretel forest, dark and strange, with the trees perched on their bulbous root system in the dark mud. We turned off the river into Prince Creek, a horseshoe shaped tributary about a third the width of the main channel. We anchored in 25 feet of water, surrounded by forest and marsh, floating on the black water of the creek.

Airborne and Mon Isle joined us in the anchorage and we made a cozy threesome. I made pasta and invited the other two crews over for dinner. Airborne provided hot, fresh bread and a bottle of Haitian rum; Mon Isle brought cheese and crackers. Six people made just the right compliment for the cabin and we spent the evening getting better acquainted, telling stories, and laughing a lot. It was simply delightful.

Airborne is relatively new to cruising and earlier in the day, when we had decided to go to the same anchorage, David helpfully suggested they rig up a trip line since we were anchoring in the swamp. A trip line, for those of you who don’t know, is a float tied to a line that is in turn tied to the anchor. The float lets you know where your anchor is, since the boat has a lot of rode laid down between it and the actual anchor and drifts away from the point where the anchor is set. When you are pulling up the anchor to leave, the line also lets you pull the anchor from a different angle since it’s attached at a different point on the anchor than the chain, thus helping you get unstuck from tree roots and other underwater obstructions. Airborne agreed to rig up a trip line, taking our advice no doubt because we are experienced cruisers and know what we’re doing. Hoo, boy.

Raven reached the anchorage first. David fastened the trip line to the anchor, lowered the anchor…..and watched the float sink. We hung over the side in astonishment and chagrin, having no idea what had happened. We’ve dropped a trip line so many times before and it has never sunk! Airborne arrived just in time to watch the entire exercise and enjoy our clueless expressions. We had to haul the anchor up, very carefully, without putting the engine in gear (so the line wouldn’t foul the prop). Once he examined the float on board, while I held station at the helm, David decided that the new weight he had attached to the float was too heavy for it. We added an empty vinegar bottle to the end of the line as a second float and this time when we lowered the anchor the float actually floated. We managed to set the hook just as the sun set. So much for anchoring gracefully and competently.

The next day Mon Isle left before we did and Airborne left afterward, so we had the water almost to ourselves as we journeyed down the Waccamaw River. Our destination was Georgetown, SC which sits at the point where the Waccamaw River joins the north end of Winyah Bay. The ICW was so broad – imagine a twelve lane highway made of water – thickly lined with leafless grey cypress trees. The forest/swamp was dusted with autumn colors from the leaves of other bushes and trees and the broad sweep of water in front of us was speckled with floating clumps of green leaves. I thought at first that they were floating branches but then discovered as we passed by that they were some sort of broad-leafed plant, a kind of succulent that seems to live exclusively on the water. I so enjoyed being alone on the river, pretending to be a valiant explorer, and was quite disappointed when a sailboat appeared on our horizon about two hours into our day and preceded us all the way to Georgetown.

Georgetown is a charming place, a working town with two large factories (steel and paper mills) that has made the most of its waterfront to give tourists a pleasant destination. Our marina was about a mile from the downtown area (Georgetown Landing Marina – we highly recommend it), so David and Schnitzel and I walked in through the businesses that line Hwy 17, and then through the old residential part of town where vintage homes are framed by classic gnarled oak trees and buckled sidewalks. All sorts of businesses, cafes, and art galleries border Front Street, the main drag, and behind Front Street is the city marina and harbor with a boardwalk crowded with restaurants and gift shops. We quickly located the ice cream parlor and then enjoyed our ice cream while sitting by the water. In additon to our afternoon of sightseeing, we took care of the chores that had brought us to shore, namely fueling the boat, getting a pump out, topping up the water tanks, doing the laundry, unplugging a sluggish sink, taking the trash ashore, and picking up a few supplies and tools at a nearby convenience store and hardware store.

Back on the water this morning, we sped south, enjoying a strong current that pushed Raven to 7 knots across the bay. We covered 30 miles in about 5 ½ hours, really good time. The scenery has been perfect. Because it is marshland and park area, there are few houses or other manmade structures. At times we were surrounded by land that spread its golden crewcut of rough marsh grass for a mile in every direction. I felt as though we were floating across the prairie. In other places there were bushes and trees, sometimes crowding the banks, but mostly growing sparsely and well back from the waterway. I spotted a bald eagle in one tall tree and that made my whole day. We saw a pair of bald eagles in Maine in the summer of 2006; this is only the third one I’ve seen.

Our anchorage tonight is on the other side of an island that borders the ICW. One other boat shares the spot with us; other than that it is just us and the stars and something in the marsh that coughs occasionally and makes the roosting ducks squawk and flap in the tall grass. Maybe an alligator?? Or a cougar? We pulled up the boat ladder, just in case it can both swim and climb… There’s a new moon tonight, and the sky is very, very dark except for the glow of distant cities to the west and north. The Milky Way is splattered across the sky above us, from horizon to horizon, and I amused myself for awhile renaming various star clusters. There’s the Arrowhead, Woman with a Basket, and a Scorpion (David assures me it’s not Scorpio, but it looks like a Scorpion to me). A deep fog is seeping its way toward us over the islands next to the sea, and it is so profoundly quiet my ears hurt.

Tomorrow we will make more progress toward Beaufort, SC, past Charleston, right on the border with Georgia. Hopefully the good weather will hold another few days. Once in Beaufort we’ll see what the weather is like and then decide when to pop outside for an overnight down the Georgia coast. We have heard over and over again that in addition to adding 100 miles to the trip because it is so winding, the Georgia stretch of the ICW is shallow because of the drought they’ve had all year and poorly maintained to boot. So we’ll wait for the next bit of warm, clear weather and bypass the whole issue.

On the road again, sorta

2007-12-10T20:21:00.000-08:00

[Hilde's log from December 5, 2007]

Ahoy, y’all. I’m sitting at the nav station aboard Raven enjoying a couple of days of R & R at anchor in Pipeline Canal, a small anchorage just to the west of Southport, NC, off the Inter Coastal Waterway (ICW). For those of you who don’t know, David and I have failed miserably to adapt to land life and have once again set off on Raven, this time heading south. We are aiming for St. Augustine, FL for Christmas, and after that will take a big breath and plunge eastward to the Bahamas. It’s not a new voyage for Raven, who spent three years in the Bahamas and Caribbean with her previous owner, but it’s a new trip for us. David bare boated in the BVIs in the 80s; I’ve never been to that part of the world at all.

One lure is the warmth – neither of us was looking forward to another winter on Raven in northern climes. When the weather is mild, you can sit out in the cockpit or on the cabin roof, you can read or do chores or wander around town if you feel like it. But when the wind pipes up and frosts your nose, you tend to become a badger, burrowing down in the cabin for warmth. Cozy as a badger hole is, it’s also dark, small, and claustrophobic after a few days.

When you’re underway, the cabin is just cozy and a welcome shelter after several hours at the wheel. Unlike some boaters, we have no enclosure for the cockpit, so when it’s cold, our noses turn bright red, our eyes water, and we drink gallons of hot tea. We also wear layers and layers and layers, and look a little bit like Robbie, Ralph’s younger brother in A Christmas Story, who looked like the Michelin man in his snow suit and couldn’t get up if he fell down. I routinely wear 5 layers on my torso, 4 layers on my legs, and a couple of hats, rubber boots, etc. If I ever took my hats off, I’d probably be appalled by “hat head” but they only come off when I wash my hair!

David bought a little propane heater before we left New Bern, and it keeps the cabin tolerable at night. We turn it off when we go to bed and the temperature drops rapidly. Schnitzel is curled up on the settee in her dog bed, wearing a sweater and covered in her blanket and often my jacket. David and I crawl into the v-berth on top of memory foam (ahhhh) and under a light blanket and our trusty sleeping bag, opened to make a full sized cover. We take with us a hot water bottle that toasts our feet. It gradually makes its way north to my stomach and keeps us warm all night. Our breaths frost the air in the morning, and David bravely makes a run for the propane heater to take the ice out of the air in the morning. We’re the comic sight, holding our clothes over the heater to warm them up as we wrap up for the coming day. As I said, warmth is a real draw!

This is the 6th day since we left New Bern on November 30th. We’ve wandered down the ICW the entire way, traveling through some beautiful marshland, large rivers, and narrow, shallow channels lined with houses. Those last are a bit like sailing down a city street and certainly aren’t my favorite byways. I was actually grateful for the military at Camp LeJeune because the land there is left wild and undeveloped, a peaceful and beautiful passage of marshland, scrubby shrubs and tall pines, lined by sandy banks and punctuated with big grey herons who hunch on the sand and look into the water, considering the possibility of breakfast. Of course occasionally the military is shooting the place up on maneuvers but they are kind enough to post that kind of activity and fortunately they were standing down as we passed.

We pulled in here to get out of the 25-30 knot winds (although we did get in some great sailing coming down the Cape Fear River) and the choppy waters. We’re trying to take it easy as we wander southward, and to rest a couple of days a week at a conducive anchorage. Tomorrow we up anchor and head for South Carolina, which I hope is at least 5 degrees warmer. It was actually quite nice this morning, and I sat out on deck for about an hour, putting another coat of teak oil on the port toe rail. We enjoyed a dinghy into land and a longish walk, with Schnitzel even getting to run off leash. But then the temperature took a dive, so I came in and made a casserole to heat up the boat and my guess is we’ll pass the afternoon reading, knitting, chart-plotting, and washing up (always washing up).

I’ll send an email periodically to those who would like to get it – if you get this one, you’re on my list. If you don’t want to receive these emails, just reply with “remove” or some such in the subject line, and I’ll take you off. No problem! Also, let me know if sending photos with the message makes the message to large for you - I can send the photos separately.

David also sends out an email; he’s sending one about the same time I send this one, so if you don’t get it and want to, let him know at davidalark@yahoo.com. His current email talks a lot more about the trip down to this point; more adventures and less weather report!

If you reply to any of these emails, I’ll send you a personal letter back, pronto. I love hearing from you – we’re like kids, checking email from family and friends. I want to know the scoop from you – what you’re doing, how your family is, what you are thinking about, the whole enchilada.

Pipeline Canal - Southport, NC

2007-12-05T21:32:00.000-08:00

[From Captain Dave]

Hi! Everyone:

It’s been over one year since you received tales of our travels on Raven. We are on the move again. Just reply “Remove”, or something like, if you don’t want to receive any more emails. I hope to set up a blog some time soon, but I seem to have a mental block in that regard.

We arrived in New Bern, NC, in October 2006, in time for the Southbound Cruisers’ Rendezvous. After six months of living aboard and over 4000 miles under the keel (from Galveston, TX, to Islesboro, ME, and back south to North Carolina) we were exhausted and ready for a break. We became enchanted by New Bern and early in 2007 decided to settle there. Our vision included part time jobs and time to sail on Pamlico Sound. Reality became more and more like the life we had left behind: long hours, no time off, and this time for little pay. When the Sheraton Marina doubled the dockage fees, we would have had to give up downtown living and add a commute to our lives. Enough! We began to convert Raven from live-aboard mode to cruising mode. Stuff had to be sorted, pared down, and stored. Maintenance that I’d ignored for too long had to be done. We got it all done just before the rate increase came into effect. We left Friday, November 30th, 2007.

The trip down the Neuse River was in sunshine but very cold. The air temp was 58 °F and the chilling effects of a 15 knot breeze easily penetrated our clothes. We toughed it out, enjoying the brilliant colors and the familiar scenery. Raven’s cabin was still a shambles, with clutter everywhere. All those last-minute “essential” supplies that hadn’t yet found permanent homes were scattered on settees, the vee berth, and the cabin sole. I knew that we’d sort it all out eventually – or heave them all overboard.

We turned into the Adams Creek Canal and settled into Cedar Creek for the night. One boat was already there and two more followed us in. It was wonderfully quiet, almost too quiet, causing our ears to ring. The familiar traffic sounds from Highway 70 had disappeared, replaced with bird calls and the gentle slap of water against the hull. We slept deep and hard.

We woke with the sun and got under way first thing. We find that having breakfast at anchor makes for a disproportionately late start. We prefer to get going, then enjoy breakfast as a warming snack as we travel. The air is always chill on the face at this time of year, so a hot cup of tea or coffee heats us from the inside.

Adams Creek Canal is relatively undeveloped compared to much of the Intracoastal Waterway. Other sections of the ICW are about as natural as Disney World. Large houses lie side by side, each one challenging Snow White’s Castle for grandeur. Many of them appear to be unoccupied; the yards are bare and no lights burn inside.

We negotiated Morehead City, passing under Highway 17 and past the large silos and warehouses. Both landmarks had become familiar to us on road trips to Beaufort, a town as charming as New Bern.

Just before dark, we turned into the harbor at Swansboro. We anchored between red #4 and the road bridge, per cruising guide instructions, but I doubt that we were out of the channel, as suggested. The waterfront buildings reminded me of Rockport, MA. At night, the windows were lit like a decorative Christmas village. We didn’t look too hard, instead preferring to hover over our little propane heater below. It was mighty cold.

We left Swansboro on Sunday morning at 0730, surprised at that hour to be the last of three boats to leave. We had no good plan for an anchorage that night. The closer of two possibilities was Sloop Point, which on the chart looked like swamp in the middle of nowhere, with a narrow, tricky, poorly marked channel. Further on was an nice looking anchorage at Wrightsville Beach, at the end of Motts Channel, which appeared to be narrow but well marked. It would be a late arrival, after dark. That became one element in our running aground.

Early that day, we managed to bump the keel at Green #61A. It was a temporary mark that indicated shoaling from an inlet. We found a way through about two boat lengths from the mark. It was, apparently, positioned in shallow water. S/v Gem, one of the two boats at anchor overnight in Swansboro was kind enough to hail us with a warning while they waited for the Onslow Beach Bridge to open. Their warning allowed us to slow to a crawl, so backing off was easy and I just gently tried different spots until Raven eased through.

After Surf City Bridge, which we timed to perfection, we came upon Sloop Point. It was as uninviting as we had feared, so we pressed on to Wrightsville Beach, undeterred by an arrival after dark. By setting waypoints for Figure Eight Island and Wrightsville Beach bridges into the GPS, we were able to arrive at each just prior to their scheduled openings. At the latter, I was already concerned by how dark it was, in spite of the city lights. Only a few hundred yards after passing the bridge I made the left turn into Motts Channel. I don’t know if the current carried us faster than I anticipated or if I was confused by the chart plotter being set to show “track up” instead of “north up”, but I made the turn at Green 25 too wide and put us hard aground. I could swing Raven to port or starboard using the rudder in forward, but she wouldn’t budge in reverse. We were broadside in the channel and clearly a hazard. I called Tow Boat US on the VHF and thirty minutes later we were secure at Dockside Marina and Restaurant, a mere 100 yards across the ICW from our grounding.

I can’t speak too highly of Tow Boat US, or of Boat US insurance. Each year, we cough up $120 for unlimited towing insurance. It is one of the few bills I don’t mind paying. I try not to use it, of course, but I was glad of it on this occasion. The bill for thirty minutes work was almost $600: time, gasoline, wear and tear for towing, and a premium for Sunday evening, I expect. The operator was cheerful and, more to the point, skillful. He passed me the one-inch polypropylene line, with instructions to attach it to something substantial. On Raven, that meant through a bow chock to one of the 8” bronze, foredeck cleats. Everything about a Cape Dory is “substantial” but I was momentarily worried when Raven tipped to twenty degrees or so as the bow was pulled around.

We enjoyed a couple of beers each in the restaurant bar, then walked back down the ramp to the fuel dock where Raven was dwarfed by a 70’ motor yacht tied within ten feet of her transom. Hilde rustled up some wonderful hot food and we were soon asleep, from too much excitement and good living.

Some early Monday morning rain arrived with very mild air, although the breeze was strong. We checked the weather forecast and decided it was better to travel when the air is warm and take our lumps with the gusts. We topped up the water tanks and dumped our trash. Neither diesel nor a pump out was available, but we were not desperate for either. We had been cruising with (our engine) Big Blue turning at only 2000 rpm, burning only half a gallon of fuel every hour. Just before we shoved off, Chris, a friend from New Bern, passed by on m/v Victory. He yelled greetings to us and we chatted on the VHF. Shoaling was bad at Masonboro Inlet, where Chris ran aground and was rescued by Tow Boat US. I got Raven through with one minor bump. My muscles were taught as bow strings, my dreading having to be rescued by Tow Boat US two days in a row. All was well until Carolina Beach Inlet, where Raven hit hard on the shoaling, marked by a temporary red buoy #152A, that forced us into the blue shallows of the chart plotter, far from the magenta line that indicates center channel. I was horrified, fearing my nightmare was coming true by the minute. This time, Raven backed off OK and I tried going by on the wrong side, closer to the magenta line. No go! I could see the shoaling across the supposed channel. I tried again, leaving the mark to starboard. No go! Was this an ICW mark or a returning channel marker for the inlet? There was no yellow reflective patch denoting an ICW mark. The reflective patch was red, which on a red buoy didn’t make any sense. Finally, with the red buoy about a boat length off starboard, Raven seemed to bump her way through. We touched several times, sometimes feeling like we were atop two sand ridges. It was not a good time, although I was hugely relieved once we were though.

We selected Pipeline Canal, just past Southport, as our anchorage for Monday night. It is “dog friendly”, according to the cruising guide and we didn’t want to force (our Schnauzer) Schnitzel to “explode” as she’d had to on Sunday. The current in Swansboro had been too strong for my dubious rowing skill, so Schnitzel had had to “bottle it” for over twenty-four hours. Our outboard motor had croaked our first night out. The fuel contained water and sludge. I managed to remove and clean the carburetor on the bridge deck, while we were under way and the weather was warm. I was delighted when the motor roared into life.

The cruising guide also mentioned a submerged dam at the entrance to Pipeline Canal. By this time I was phobic about running aground, but I was encouraged by our estimated arrival exactly at high tide. We entered the canal with three feet under the keel and discovered a beautiful, protected anchorage. Protection was a high priority since it had been blowing a steady 25 knots all afternoon, with gusts over 30. Although it was the peak of high tide, the flood was still running west into the ICW against the strong west wind, causing two feet tall standing waves that all but stopped our progress as we chugged west along the channel, with Big Blue spinning at 2500 rpm. Our run down the Cape Fear River from Carolina Beach to Southport had been a thrilling motor sail into the wind. The staysail helped us against the flooding tide but caused Raven to heel 20 degrees. At least on this stretch the wind and current were running together. It was huge fun to use the many lighted range marks, just like the big ships.

We had terrible trouble setting the anchor in the basin. After five tries with the CQR, we abandoned it in favor of the Danforth. It, too, refused to set, even with careful lowering by hand. Finally, I added twenty feet of chain between rode and shank. The extra weight kept the shank low and we haven’t budged since.

Tuesday, December 5th, 2007, we stood down and relaxed. We took Schnitzel ashore mid morning; the dinghy motor worked great. We walked the shoreline of the canal. We took the dinghy up the canal for a joy ride.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007, we again took Schnitzel for her morning walk along the canal, ending up at the entrance from the ICW. We stood in the still-brisk breeze and watched three motor yachts and one 40 foot plus sailboat chug their ways westbound. So far, so good!

My salient memories of the trip from New Bern so far must be the multiple groundings, more in the last few days than in many years of sailing. It is an inevitable part of the experience and usually not life-threatening. Nonetheless, my neck and shoulder muscles are still tense from hours at the helm, willing Raven safe passage through obviously dubious channels. It has convinced us to avoid Georgia’s ICW, especially since the entire state is under severe drought conditions. Weather-permitting, we shall hop from Beaufort, SC, to St. Mary’s River, on the Georgia-Florida state line.

Best regards to you all.