Charlie and the Pirate Factory

We managed to back our boat into a slip at the Beaufort City Dock thanks to protection from the screaming south winds by an 80 foot mega yacht tied alongside the outside on the outermost pier. This marina is the only marina in the historic district (all small towns are historic nowadays) and close to the Post Office where we are expecting general delivery mail (thanks to daughter Jacqui).

The trip from Oriental was uneventful. We simply crossed the Neusse River and proceeded down Adams Creek followed by the Adams Creek Canal which brought us to Beaufort.

Charlie called soon after we docked and said that he would come down to the boat at about 6:30 pm. He said he might bring a friend or two. At 6:50 pm --Charlie is notoriously behind-- Charlie and eight boat yard rats showed up with gallons of booze and a bag of chips. We sat on the boat exchanging "Charlie stories" for a while. Mandy and I have hospital stories and his friends have boat yard stories. Later, we all went to the local waterfront pub and had a bite and more libations.

Charlie led us all down a street leading away from the waterfront. We turned behind a few old buildings to a backstreet bar that has been in business for forever, I think. We stepped back in time to the days when local musicians brought their guitars, banjos, mandolins, and fiddles then commenced to have a hullaballoo (or was it a shindig?) just like back in the 60s. Soon after having yet another brewsky, we came back to the boat and crashed.

This morning we cast off lines and took Foxglove out into the harbor to anchor for the night. We would have stayed another night in the marina but at about $80 per night we decided that an anchorage made more sense. We'll hook up with Charlie again tomorrow morning for a while then we will continue south. We plan to go into a marina in Surf City on Saturday and find a Halloween party at a local bar.

Verizon's New Policy

It's been about six days since I have written an entry. That's because I upgraded my Verizon Wireless Program. When I finished the download, a vicious, hate full popup warned me that I had surpassed my 5 gig limit and that I was paying 25 cents per Megabyte for each meg over my 5 gig limit. I had already used 6115 megs. 1024 megs comprise a gig. It's a binary thing. You would think that a thousand megs make a gig but a gig is a power of two (2 to the ninth power of 2 in this case) that is 4,8,16,32,64,128,256,512,1024. At 6115 megs, I was already about 1000 megs over which calculates to $250 in excess fees. When I purchased this packaged, the salesman didn't warn me about any such limit.

As the next few day passed I called Verizon repeatedly and listened to a variety of reports of how my bill had inflated from simple binary math to astronomical differential equations. I received a wide variance of answers from "All is fine, don't worry about it" to "At your current rate of usage, you will owe over $1000 just for this month alone".

So now, we are trying to find marinas that offer free WiFi access. We are now in Oriental North Carolina where the Oriental marina offers free cable and free Internet.

But my last post left us in Whilloby Bay in Norfolk where the high school cheerleaders practice their chant; "We don't smoke, and we don't drink. Nor Folk, Nor Folk, Nor Folk." Nice clean girls here in Norfolk!

We weighed anchor that overcast morning (red skies at morning; sailors' take warning) and powered out towards mile zero of the ICW-- the intracoastal waterway-- just 10 miles south of Whilloby Bay.

We followed the Elizabeth River until we entered the entrance to the Dismal Swamp Canal. It is named by the men who lived in disease and misery to build the canal many years ago.

It was a 28 mile drive that simulated driving through a forest except that I was driving on water instead of a road. Tall trees lined the sides of the narrow canal and deposit their leaves in the canal. The water is so rich in tinin, the ingredient in tea leaves that makes tea black, that the canal water is as black as tea.

At mile 28 all boats stopped to tie up to the North Carolina Visitor's Center. There is room for only three boats so the remaining 10 rafted off of the three moored to the bulkhead. This makes for a large drinking party as boaters climb over each other's boat to meet new arrivals. Many of the boaters knew each other from previous fall travels down the ICW.

The following morning, we broke up the raft at 7:15 am to head for the second of two locks in the Dismal Swamp Canal. The canal passes over ground that is higher than sea level so boats must pass through locks that lift them to a higher level, then after about 32 miles, another set of locks lower them back to near sea level.

The next stop was Elizabeth City where we spent two nights because I needed to plug into shore power to finish some jobs that required power tools. During our stay, the stainless steel wire that secured the dinghy to the back of the boat snapped and the dinghy set out in search of a new home. A dock neighbor snagged it and directed it to the beach where Mandy and I rescued it and hauled it back to our transom where it belonged. I secured new towing rings to it and scolded it for going astray. It cursed back at me. I lost my temper and struck it with a screwdriver. It hit me with an oar. I retaliated with a hammer. It pounded me with the trolling motor. Insults were hurled. Feeling were hurt. The dinghy and I now live within the confines of a pouting truce, eager to find a middleground where we can both live in harmony. Damned dinghy pissed me off!!!

The next day, (I'm lost in the seven day weekend so I don't know which day) we set out under strong north winds southbound down the Pasquatank River to the open ravages of the Albemarle Sound. We received a proper thrashing from the Sound. Wind driven waves hurling down the river collided with waves driven by winds from the open Albemarle Sound created wild and confused seas of six feet and more. We sailed under full main and jib for most of the day then finally turned into the Alligator River anchorage, a place that can only be described as the only lunar anchorage on the East coast. The trees are so damaged by gales and hurricane force winds that they have no leaves and few remaining branches.

The following morning we motored down the Pungo Canal then turned toward Belhaven North Carolina. There, we topped off our fuel and took a walk through the tiny southern town. All restaurants were closed but we found a pool hall where we could get a beer and a bag of chips for dinner. A local patron modeled his Halloween costume for us all; it was a large cardboard box with the number '1' on the back. He wore the box over his body with his head popped out through a hole cut in the top. Above his head was a lamp and on the top of the box next to his head was a TV remote and a paperback novel. "I'm going as a 'one night stand', he said.

Today finds us in Oriental North Carolina. It's a cutesy town where tourists stay in B&Bs and wander the shops in search of nautical curiosities to display in their rec rooms. The tourist season is over now. Most shops and restaurants are closed til spring. We managed to find a blue-cheese-burger in a locals spot and then had a drink at the tiki bar operated by the marina. The locals have no gas station where they can hang out like Mayberry or Lost River so they hang out at the tiki bar.

Tomorrow, we're on to Beaufort to visit Charlie Baldwin and his band of sea-borne desperadoes. Can't wait!!!!!!!

Moving South

Last night we powered into Deltaville Virginia. Deltaville is not like most small Chesapeake villages. Instead of shops, marinas, and restaurants all huddled around the waterfront, Deltaville is built on both sides of route 33 which serves the small side roads that conduct traffic to various parts of the convoluted waterfront. This means that none of the many restaurants and marinas are within walking distance of each other. All transients, that's what we are, must trudge out To 33 and start walking.

But wait. We lowly transients are not only valued in this community of boat builders and boat experts, we are also in the company of southern hospitality. As Mandy and I walked along Rt 33 heading for the nearest eatery/drinkery, we decided to call a few joints to be sure that they were still open for business. Low season is here and many restaurants shorten their hours during the late fall. I talked to Joe at Kokomo's Bar and Grill. His place was closed Sunday through Wednesday but he offered to drop what he was doing to pick us up along the highway and drive us to his competitor's restaurant. We declined his generous offer but promised to return in the spring for a visit to his fine establishment.

I called a place called 'The Galley' to see if someone could drive us back to our marina if we ate there. Of course, no problem!! If the staff was too busy a local would put down his beer and drive us home. Holy crap! Is there a catch?

We walked the two and a half miles to 'The Galley' and had a fine meal at the bar. The barmaid/only waitress/part-time cook, Ellen, assured us that our glasses would never be empty on her watch despite running the lively place alone. When we were ready to leave, I mentioned that someone said that we might be able to get a ride. Within seconds Ellen produced an eager, friendly young man.

I know a little about southern hospitality so I said to the young fellow as he pulled to a stop in our marina, "This money isn't for you. It's for the kids' soccer team or cheerleaders' outfits." I threw a fiver on the dashboard.
"I couldn't accept it," he said as predicted.
"As I said, it's not for you. It's for your church."
"I couldn't......"
"It's for your mother's Christmas fund."
No further response. We said another thank you and he thanked us yet again.

This morning at 7:30 we cast off our lines and motored out of the marina into the Rappahannok River. We ran due east long enough to clear Stingray Point Light before turning south. Four hundred one years ago in 1609, Captain John Smith ran his trusty vessel aground on that very reef. While waiting for the tide to rise and lift him off Captain Smith decided to do some fishing. He caught a most unusual fish. He caught a cow-nosed stingray. Unfamiliar with the species, Captain Smith mishandled the tail of the animal and was stung by the poisonous barb. His hand and arm swelled for the afternoon but the ship's surgeon remedied the painful injury with a mysterious salve and the captain was well enough by suppertime to vengefully eat the beast that caused him such grief. The captain declared that the reef shall forever be named Stingray Point as it is to this day.

Tonight we are anchored in Willoughby Bay in Norfolk Virginia. It's one mile square, large enough to hold hundreds of boats. Tomorrow, we will enter the Dismal Swamp Canal enrout to Elizabeth City North Carolina where we plan to rest for a couple days as a front passes.

About Vera

Vera's White Sands Restaurant sat on a bluff overlooking our John's Creek anchorage last week. I wanted to comment about Vera and her restaurant but I wanted to find a particular photo of her first. In this photo, taken about 8 years ago in her restaurant, Vera is seated in a wicker chair that she probably brought back from some far flung destination in one of her many world wide trips. Behind her is a portrait of her as she posed with her jewels and adornments. For the photo, she dressed down in a saffron gown, riddled with diamonds. She wore only meager number of necklaces and rings. A headband reminds us that she was of Native American descent.

We had the pleasure of meeting Vera a few times at her restaurant. She had been married to an optometrist who worked for the Hollywood crowd. He was know as "the optometrist to the stars". His wealth allowed him to dabble in real estate and in the 50s, he purchased 800 acres of land where Vera decided to open a sandwich shop to pass the time while her husband flew about the country meeting celebrities and making real estate deals.

Vera loved the glamorous life and soon decided to convert her place into a fabulous yacht club. She had the restaurant built with a patio that came to a point at the junction of the two creeks that bordered her property so that patrons would have the feel of dining on a ship. She decorated the interior with a Tiki flare. The bar was covered with a grass roof and bamboo seemed to be a structural part of every corner of the building. She placed Easter Island’ looking carvings and statues everywhere. Then, to bring elegance into the mix, she placed a baby grand piano by the bar where her friends who were patrons and guests of the club would gather to dance and sing the songs from the American songbook.. Some years later, her husband passed away and the membership declined. Vera opened her yacht club to the public.

Mandy loved Vera for her grace and style. I recall an afternoon when Mandy ordered a ‘Vera Martini’ and sat drinking with Vera at the bar. Vera’s signature martini was similar to any gin martini except that her martini was served in a jumbo martini glass. She always had a milk chaser nearby. Sometimes, Vera wore a jeweled crown while she drank. She was affectionately known as the ‘Queen of the Chesapeake’ and therefore needed the crown.

After Vera died a couple years ago, a new owner took over and is slowly changing the demeanor of the club into a party place for the younger patrons. The docks have been rebuilt and elegant motor yachts have been replaced with muscle boats. The beach, where couples once lusted under the moonlight, is now covered with beach volleyball nets. And the bamboo is almost all gone. The baby grand and the stone carvings have been hauled away. But Mandy and I feel lucky to have met Vera and seen her in her element. And even though the years of Sinatra and Martin were long gone by the time we visited the White Sands, we feel lucky to have been swept back in time, listening to a tuxedoed pianist play the songs that Vera loved as she sat by the piano reminiscing.

Five Days of Rain

The photos above are of Mandy at the helm as we finished anchoring the boat in John's Creek, Foxglove at Spring Cove Marina, and a view of the marina.

We motored into John's Creek on Tuesday afternoon under partly sunny skies and 15 mph wind from the NNW. To see where we are anchored, use any map program and type in zip code 20657 or type Lusby, MD then search for Vera's White Sands Beach Club. When you see Vera's on the map, we will be anchored just to the east of the restaurant in a small cove. If you click on "more info" on the Yahoo site, a photo of Vera's will come into view. Our anchorage is beyond Vera's in the background. Vera is gone now. She died last year at about 90 years of age. Mandy loved Vera for her glamor and queenly demeanor. Vera was know as "Queen of the Chesapeake". Mandy now claims that title despite not having a crown on board. More about Vera tomorrow.

It started raining as expected, at 9:00 pm on Tuesday and it hasn't stopped since. Today is Friday. The rain is expected to continue through Sunday for a total of five days of continuous rain. But we're happy here in our little floating home. Mandy makes popcorn and we watch movies and tv shows on HULU on the Internet. We can watch almost every show that we watched at home but a day late and for free. Not bad, eh?

Yesterday, the rain slowed to a drizzle long enough for us to watch five deer wander down to the creek's edge for a drink and to snack on the tall grasses. The osprey that we usually see here have gone. A blue heron is occupying their nest.

Our anchorage feels like being in the center of a small stadium. Tall trees on steep hills are all around us protecting us from the strong north winds. The shoreline is completely wooded except for the yards of a few homes. The trees are starting to turn the colors of fall.

Today, we plan to sail back to Spring Cove Marina on Solomons Island to pick up the mail that Jacqui, Mandy's daughter, forwarded to us. We also hope to see more old friends. We'll spend a couple of nights there then anchor Sunday night nearby. The weather is supposed to clear on Monday and we will continue south to another anchorage south of the mouth of the Potomac River. We hope to be in the ICW at Norfolk by next weekend. We also hope to be in warmer weather within two weeks.

This is contingent on the hurricane status. The Atlantic is quiet for now but a tropical depression that could spawn a hurricane could still develop. But this is an El Nino year and this lessens the probability of tropical storm development. If we get started down the ICW and a hurricane threatens, we'll turn around and run back to Norfolk to have the boat hauled out until the storm passes.

I forgot to mention in a recent blog when I wrote about the boat show, that we observed a younger man and an older man, who were walking opposite directions, accidentally collide because neither was watching where they were going. They both apologized and the younger man said that he had become separated from his wife and was looking for her. The older man said that he also was looking for his wife. "What does your wife look like?" the older man asked. "We can both keep an eye out for her." "Well," the younger man said. "She is blonde and she is wearing a white halter top and she has rather large breasts. She is wearing short white shorts and has long tanned legs. What does your wife look like?" The older man replied, "To hell with my wife, let's look for yours."

A Day at Spring Cove

Today we are still at Spring Cove Marina on Solomons Island in Maryland. We did some cleaning, laundry, topped off the water tanks, and visited with our former dock neighbors. We came in yesterday, late Sunday afternoon, after many sailors had gone home for the weekend. So we were surprised to run into Charlie and Marty who sail to the Bahamas most winters and who gave us some good advice about getting there.

We also saw some of our Scottish friends such as, well, Scotty, whose advice when having our transmission rebuilt was invaluable. Scotty and his wife used to make regular trans-Atlantic trips, under sail, back to Scotland. Perhaps they still do.

We saw John, who used to live alone aboard his boat, now happily married with a new son. John gleams more now than he used to.

Brian, the go-to guy around here, is as pleasant as ever as is the rest of the staff.

We were sad to have missed our great friends, Bruce and Wynne aboard Seahawk. They were great company for Mandy a couple years back when I did some time away to visit family.

We have a few tasks and shopping to do tomorrow before we depart. Tomorrow, the meteorologists say, will bring mostly sun with temps into the 70s but the rest of the week will be rainy. Yesterday I saw sirus clouds, the wispy ice clouds high in the sky, that predict an approaching cold front. Also, the winds had shifted around from the east. Anytime you see clouds in the sky and the wind comes from any easterly direction, rain will likely come soon. We plan to anchor in nearby St. Leonard Creek, a tributary to the Patuxent, and use the rainy days to continue fixing things.

We had an unusual occurrence today. Not long after we arose for the morning, while I checked e-mail and Mandy read her Kindle, I heard noises on the deck. I popped my head through the main companionway to find a rotund Ralph Cramdon and his narrow companion, Norton, casting off all of our lines.

"Oh, somebody is aboard," Cramdon smiled. "Are you Mr. Pearson?"
"No," I replied. "And what are you doing?"
"We're towing your boat to Zanheiser's Marina for repairs."
"This boat is our home. It's not going anywhere."
Ralph studied his notes carefully. "Your boat is in slip C9 and that's the boat that we're supposed to tow out."
"I don't think so," I shot back. "Call your boss.
After a few words were exchanged over the phone a light seemed to illuminate in Ralph's head.
"Oh, it's C9 at Solomons Island Marina not Spring Cove Marina," he repeated to the voice on the phone.
"This is the wrong boat," Ralph shouted to Norton who had already removed both of our bow lines. "The owner is not named Pearson, the boat is made by Pearson."
Cramdon turned to me. "Sorry for any inconvenience. Wrong marina."

We were lucky. If we had decided to go for an early shower we would have returned to find our boat, our clothes, our stash of cash, our passports, our food, and everything we need to sustain life utterly and completely gone. We would have been instant street urchins with little cash and no change of clothes; our only option would have been to call the Coast Guard and report a stolen boat. Our boat, meanwhile would have been towed into Zanheiser's marine travel-lift and hauled ashore to be dropped and blocked in a corner of their massive yard where we might have spent weeks wandering the Solomons Island marinas in hope of finding our missing boat despite the likelihood that it had been stolen and sailed out to sea enroute to a drug runner's lair.

But I find it difficult to hold Ralph and Norton at fault. They are Chesapeake people. Chesapeake people are interesting folk. They are more trustworthy than they should be. It seems to be in their nature. On many of the small islands here, no property deeds exist. A handshake and a smile seals many deals here.

Mandy and I meet many of the descendants of the old Chesapeake Bay culture. We not only see it in their friendly faces but often in their names. A fellow named Meade Breeze is my sailmaker. In Rock Hall, Reverend Nancy Mariner was recently the pastor. Captain Schooner, years ago, pulled my little 21 foot sailboat off of a beach after my motor quit when approaching a harbor. Capt. Schooner was assisted by Captain Johnny Shore. Also, we recently read about the winner of a fishing contest here on the bay. His name is Jimmy Oyster. We meet these people day after day. They are the color that brings life to this area of our country. They are the Chesapeake people.

We're off tomorrow but I hope blog again soon.

Also, I realize that this blog has no contact link. If you wish to contact us, our e-mail is captmaxmiller@gmail.com.

Rocking and Rolling at the Annapolis Sailboat Show

On Thursday morning we left our slip at Piny Narrows Marina on Kent Island to sail to Annapolis to attend the 40th annual Annapolis Sailboat Show, a venerable institution in the world of sailors. It's here that I have met my sailing heroes such as Herb and Nancy Payson, Don Street, and numerous authors of Cruising World Magazine articles.

We arrived in Annapolis Harbor at about 3:00 pm and felt lucky to have found a place to anchor our little 32 foot boat among the Goliaths. Next to us was a 50 footer from Norfolk. The skipper of this boat, like most skippers of the other boats anchored near us, had two anchors down on massive lengths of heavy chain. We have two anchors but I set them on one line with a puny 50 feet of chain. This works out well for me since I don't have a windlass, a winch that automatically raises the anchor from the bottom like the big boats have. I have to haul the anchor hand over hand along with the 50 feet of chain. If I tried to raise two anchors with 130 feet of chain on each, you would be reading my obituary instead of my blog.

As our boat swung close to our neighbor's boat, I saw the skipper cast a worried eye my way. "How much rode do you have out?" I asked. "130 feet on two anchors," he replied. I had 80 feet out. I let out another 50 feet and we backed down out of his sight.

Most boaters drop a 7 to 1 ratio of anchor line to water depth for good holding. We call it 7:1 scope. That is, we check the depth of the water beneath us and multiply that by seven. We put out that much anchor line so that our anchor lies flat on the bottom. This minimizes the chance that the anchor will drag. We were in 15 feet of water so I needed to lay at least 105 feet of line (called the rode). I often don't lay out that much because I have two anchors at the end of my rode, a danforth followed by 12 feet of chain followed by a Bruce anchor followed by 50 feet of chain. I have never had my anchors drag with this setup. But I was intimidated by the skipper who let out 130 feet on two anchors.

All of the boats around us sat still on their position. They couldn't move much because the weight of all of that chain held them fast. Our boat, however, wanted to roam around the anchorage, perhaps to visit with all of the other boats. We would swing unnervingly close to the boat on our starboard side. Just as I was about to make an adjustment to the anchor rode, we would swing unnervingly close to another boat.

This went on all night. I frequently squirmed from my berth to pop my head through the V-berth hatch to assure myself that we weren't about to collide with any of the other boats in the anchorage.

Then at about midnight, the wind started up. I knew that the wind was supposed to pipe up to about 15 mph but I never thought that that little bit of wind could kick up such large waves. But it not only kicked up some large waves, it kicked up some waves large enough to make us feel as if we were pieces of popcorn in a Jiffy-Pop pan. By 3:00 am, I was hoping for an early sunrise so we could weigh anchor and go.

At 7:00 am, Friday morning, with Mandy at the helm, I tried to haul the boat toward the anchor, hand over hand. The wind was too strong so Mandy motored slowly forward so that I could haul the chain aboard as we moved. Soon, as we approached another boat from astern, I realized that our anchor was under that boat. The captain realized my dilemma and motored his boat to one side so I could retrieve my two anchors. Once we were over the anchors, I cleated the chain to the cleat and Mandy motored hard in reverse to break out the anchors and back us out of there.

An hour later we were again anchored but this time in quiet Weems Creek. We would have no water taxi to pick us up and drive us to the boat show. We would have to set up our dinghy and row to a nearby landing then walk two miles to the old town area of Annapolis where the show is held.

The show was fun. We boarded a few of our favorite boats and scoped out new products. We drank a couple pain-killers and joined a few drunken sailors at Armadillos Bar. We somehow spent $100 and didn't buy a single thing. All of the time we had to contain our party spirit because we realized that we had to make our way back to the dinghy landing and row ourselves back to Foxglove.

We spent Friday night anchored in Weems Creek. Mandy cooked and I continued to work on the shower problem. On Saturday,we listened to the OSU vs Wisc football game on Sirius radio.

This Sunday morning, we made our first real move south. We weighed anchor at 7:30 am and headed 45 miles south to Solomons Island where we had kept our boat for two seasons. It was kind of like going home since Spring Cove Marina, where we are now tied up is our favorite.

We'll be here for a couple days while I continue to solve boat problems, do laundry, grocery shop, and walk the streets of Solomons reminiscing.

The photos are taken of friends and neighbors' boats, while passing under the Bay Bridge, and Mandy popping out of the cabin.

Long Day on my Knees

We came back to Piney Narrows which used to be our home marina yesterday to avoid the gale force wind predicted for today and to do some work to solve the shower dilemma. I got this picture of Mandy relaxing in the cockpit before weighing anchor.

The winds came as predicted blowing 25 to 35 mph with gusts over 40. It was a good day to be settled in at a marina. It was also a good day to work on the boat.

I started by dismantling the leaky shower faucet. I decided that it needed new faucet washers. Phil had earlier offered to drive me to the hardware store to pick up what ever I needed so I would finish that project later.

I then tackled the thermostat replacement which required that I remove everything from the port cockpit locker including four group 31 batteries and removing the partition that separates the locker from the aft end of the engine. Phil came by with his metric tools and wiggled his 260 lb (my guess), 6'4" frame into the tiny space. Phil replaced the thermostat and we fired up the motor fully expecting to see the temp gauge rise to 160 degrees. It didn't. I had purchased a faulty thermostat. I re-loaded the locker with batteries, sails, lines, and tools.

I set my sights on fixing the shower drain which had refused to drain. Success!!

After a trip to the hardware store to buy some faucet washers, I rebuilt and reinstalled the faucet. It still leaked. We repeated the trip to the hardware store and bought a new faucet.

We stopped for dinner at a restaurant where Rose from "Golden Girls" waited on us. We gave an order for drinks and some crab dip.
"So that's a wine for the lady, a Margarita for him, (Phil) and a coke for you." (looking at me). And I'll put your appetizer order in right away."
"I didn't ask for a coke, I hadn't ordered a drink yet."
"So you changed your mind. What would you like?"
"I didn't change my mind and I didn't order a Coke," I stammered in my Bob Newhart voice. "I didn't order anything."
"I'll get you some water," she said with a smile as she turned to walk away.
"I would rather have a vodka with grapefruit," I shouted.

I had been on my knees all day, dismantling, repairing, and reinstalling. I was ready to step out of the booth and again drop to my knees just to beg for a drink.

"Oh, OK a Vodka grapefruit," Rose repeated as she walked away. "And I'll put in your order for Tumbleweed Onion Crisps right away."

"Crab Dip," I pleaded. "Not Onion Crisps."

Prince Charles and Dolly of Swan Creek

Tuesday morning finds us back at Swan Creek. We could have chosen a different anchorage and a change of scenery but we know this anchorage. All we have to do is motor up to the spot we anchored before and plop the anchor.

When I motor into a new anchorage I first choose a spot to drop the hook. I don't like to have boats windward of mine because I don't know how well anchored they are. We've had the experience of having a boat drag down on us at 3:00 am and I'm not willing to repeat it. After I choose a spot I check the chart to see the composition of the bottom. Mud and sand are good for holding an anchor. Weeds, rocks, and gravel are not. I check the depth of the spot by motoring over it and watching my depth sounder. If it's deeper that 10 feet I'll move on. When the time comes to leave, I don't want to haul a 40 lb anchor (we call it weighing an anchor) and 50 ft of chain any more than I have to. After finding the best place to drop I motor a circle around the spot where my boat might swing. If I find a shallow area where my boat could go aground if the wind shifts I again look for another place. I avoid all of this by simply anchoring where I have anchored before.

This spot has a couple of resident seagulls who greet every boat that enters the anchorage. They are an odd couple being that she (we are guessing at her gender) is a short but chesty Herring Gull which are common here and he (again guessing gender) is a stately looking Ring Billed Gull which are not common here. Ring Billed Gulls sometimes winter here in the Chesapeake Bay having flown from the icy waters of Alaska and the Labrador area. A Chesapeake winter is like a vacation to Key West to him.

These two gulls, engaged in what seems an unlikely romance, are never far apart. Dolly takes the lead. She swims with her tail feathers high in the air. This is because her chest weighs her down so that she looks like a tug boat that has been overloaded in the bow. She plows the water, squawking a shrill call, demanding food. She believes in entitlement programs for needy gulls. Never mind that this creek teems with fish, crab, turtles, and eel. She doesn't want to work. Hunting for food is for the dumb gulls.

Prince Charles is never far behind her. He swims in a stately fashion with his head high in the air. He never lowers himself to begging but if a child (like Mandy the sucker) were to toss a few chips his way he won't turn his beak up. When Prince Charles looks your way, you might think that you are looking at the head of an eagle. His head is not roundish like Dolly's but structured like a bird of prey. His eyes amaze me. They are human-like. Unlike Dolly's round black dots, Prince Charles's eyes are, well, shaped like people's eyes. They have an iris and a pupil which have color like my own. Prince Charles's eyes are greenish to me, yellowish to Mandy. When he swims close by and looks at me, I feel a little freaky. "Holy crap grandpa!! Did God send you back as a seagull?"

It's curious to me. These two critters are of different species but the same genus. Are they the same gender and if not will they mate? Can they mate? I'd have to ask my friend Tommy Thompson who wrote "Birding in Ohio". He knows about all birds.

But if all gulls can and do mate, why aren't they all homogenized by now into one mutt-like gull? Over the thousands of years of their existence they must have resisted inter-breeding among species otherwise there would be no distinct species anymore, just one genus of mutt-gulls.

This makes Dolly and Prince Charles even more curious to me. We have anchored here four of the last five nights and we see them together everyday. Maybe I should quit analyzing them and just let them be what they are; mates, play-mates, gay-mates. Not for me to say.

Crabs Aplenty but no way to shower

On Saturday, October 3rd, we tried our luck at crabbing. The process isn't difficult. It's easy as long as there are crab lurking beneath the boat. That's where the luck comes in.

We tied half of a raw chicken wing (easier to find in the grocery that chicken necks) to a string and dropped the wing with a small weight to the bottom. We put down a total of four lines. We can usually tell if a crab is nibbling on the wing by movement of the string which I tie to the lifelines that circle the boat like a fence. When Mandy slowly raises the string to the surface, I scoop him (a jimmy) or her (a sook) with my trusty net. Then into the steamer they go fighting all of the way.

The problem Saturday was that there were seemingly no crabs to nibble on our wings. Then a young waterman passed near us working a trotline. To use a trotline, a crabber stretches a line on the bottom with bait attached about every 8 feet. The 50 to 200 foot line is anchored and buoyed at each end. The crabber picks one end off of the bottom then slides it over a roller that he has mounted on the side of his boat. As he motors slowly along the line rises to the surface on the roller, hopefully with a crab attached to the bait, and the crabber nabs the crab with his net. With luck, a crabber can fill a bushel basket with crab in 30 minutes.

Mandy hailed the young crabber to see if he would sell us a few crabs. He came alongside and said that he was doing just OK. He only wanted only to catch enough that day to feed his family but he would give us a few anyway. He passed a basket over with six jimmies locked together in crab warfare. We offered money. He wouldn't accept it. We told him to offer it to his church. He still declined. We told him that we would donate it on his behalf. He smiled and motored away.

We caught three more crabs that morning for a grand total of nine jimmies (new laws dictate the we throw back the she-crab because of declining crab population). I separated them with pliers and Mandy steamed them up. We put the pot of crab on the bow along with some beer and picked our lunch from their shells.

All was right with the world until we decided that we should take a shower. We heat our shower water from the 50 gallon tanks by running the engine. A diverter in the hot water tank circulates fresh water through the engine to heat it. But, Surprise!!, after a half hour of running the engine the water was still refreshingly cool. Must be a thermostat problem. We'll just take a cool shower. Surprise!! The new shower pump, which worked fine last month, wouldn't come on. I bypassed the new pump. Surprise!! The shower faucet exploded with water flooding around the handle instead of out the spigot. The water collected on the floor of the shower where a drain pump filters the hair out of the water and sends it over the side into the sea. Surprise!! The pump came on but the water never receded. In frustration, I soaped up and dove into the cold Swan Creek water. I felt refreshed and clean but I might need a pull-through operation to restore my manhood.

So,yesterday, smelling of sweat and crab guts, we motored down to nearby Rock Hall where we tied up in a marina with hot showers, ice, and restaurants nearby. This Monday morning, our batteries are recharged, we are iced up, fed and watered, and ready to move on. We plan to get to a nearby grocery and pick up a few items before we shove off. We'll need to make a plan to fix the thermostat, replace the shower faucet, clean the drain, and fix the shower pump.

Wow!! Retirement!! Welcome to the seven day weekend.

Underway Finally

We kicked away from the dock yesterday at 13:00. Fuel and water are topped off. The holding tank is pumped out. Libations and food are in the refer (boat talk for refrigerator). It was a sunny day with a high of 67 which, once out in the open Chesapeake Bay with a west wind of 10 mph, felt like 37.

We sailed north for a few hours to an anchorage that has become a favorite for us. The anchorage is called Swan Creek. It offers protection from wind and waves from all directions and scenery beyond description unless I use the word bucolic and I hate that ugly sounding word. ("Grandma had bucolic again last night!").

You can locate Swan Creek on any online map by typing in Gratitude, Maryland and looking further north for a creek that turns in from the bay at the town of Gratitude then dog leg's to the north. The map might incorrectly call it the Chester River. We are anchored near the small marina a ways up stream. Today's agenda is to re-disorganize. We have bags and boxes of summer and winter clothes, canned food, and sundry items. "A place for everything and everything in its place" we sailors always say unless we get started drinking.

Our neighbors and friends, Chris and Beth, rode along with us from Columbus to drive the van home to spend its winter resting in the parking lot. The four of us and dock neighbor Phil hit a few waterside bars on Tuesday and Wednesday. Beth had a cute little 20-something interested in her at "The Jetty". She graciously discharged his testosterone charged, love-struck cuteness and sent him gently on his way.

We didn't get to see any of our other dock neighbors since we arrived on a weekday. We had hoped to see Tom and Barb whose powerboat is berthed next to our Foxglove. Even though Tom and Barb are older than us, we find them to be enormously interesting people. They live as full of a life as any rich couple but they do it on meager terms. Tom is a master with his chain saw. He built their home in Lost River, West Virginia and their cabin somewhere in the mountains of Pennsylvania. He felled the trees, notched them for construction, and gathered local stone to build the fireplace. Tom is an outdoorsman and has hunted with every kind of weapon possible; some that he made himself. He affords a nice boat by caring for it himself and when he goes fishing ,the tide always seems to be going his way which saves on gas. After Barb cleans and cooks the fish Tom saves the inedible parts for chum which he sprinkles around the marina. After a while, bait fish come around to feed on the chum and Tom catches them to use for bait to catch larger fish when he takes his boat out later in the day.

One day last month, Tom and I sat around the swimming pool at our marina watching Barb and Mandy swim. Tom told me about hunting and preparing raccoon. "Tastes like lamb if you fix it right," he told me. "And you can take in some good money by selling the pelts." Meanwhile in the pool, Barb and Mandy were carrying on like sisters even though they are a generation apart.

Tom told me about the time that a few of his coworkers came to him asking to take them hunting. "Mr. Tom! Will you take us coon hunting?" Tom said, imitating their voices. Tom told them to meet him at the gas station after work and he would bring his dogs for a hunt. I guess all Mayberry sized towns have a gas station where the men gather. Lost River is probably no different.

The hunters met at the gas station and the hunt was on. The dogs treed a number of coon and the hunters brought them down to feed their families and profit from their pelts. As dusk came on them, the dogs had lagged behind a few hundred feet, barking and playing instead of hunting. Tom, a man who stays aware of his surroundings, suddenly noticed the outline of a raccoon against the fading blue of the sky as the critter perched on a branch high in a nearby tree. Tom decided to have some fun.

"I'm tired of waiting on those dogs to sniff out a coon. I'm gonna do it myself," he told his companions. As the huntsmen stood watching in awe, Tom began sniffing one tree after another. When he sniffed on the tree that he knew had a fat coon lazing above, he whispered, "There's a coon in this tree, shine your lights up there." Tom's companions shone their flashlights up into the tree and to their amazement a pair of beady eyes reflected back down at them. The huntsmen stood frozen in time, awestruck by what they had witnessed. But while they stood, Tom already had the butt of his gun to his shoulder. A blast of gunpowder brought the animal to the huntsmen's feet. They turned to each other then turned toward Tom. Their eyes were as big as a harvest moon. "Mr. Tom don't need no huntin dogs," they said to each other. "Mr. Tom can sniff out a coon with his own nose."

The next day at work, the huntsmen told everyone about how Mr. Tom can tree a coon without dogs. I suppose soon after the word spread throughout Lost River West Virginia that Mr. Tom was the greatest hunter since Davy Crockett.