Taste the Joy in Stopping the Hopping

There is far more substance to island-hopping in a sound vessel than mere hopping. For example, stopping is a source of great joy and unmatched tranquility, much as the subtleties of a fine wine delights the palette and whets our appetite for autonomy.

 

 The hoarse whisper of our charcoal sky grew to a cantankerous growl. The relatively stretchy one inch diameter nylon rope that was our anchor snubber creaked wearily as it expanded and contracted its ten foot length over the bronze bow roller. It visibly protested the escalating wind’s insistent strain. As I checked the chafing gear that kept this line, which attached our absolutely inflexible one hundred twenty feet of deployed anchor chain to the boat from wearing through, that line, essentially our anchor’s shock-absorber, was warm to the touch from its recurrent stretching and contracting convulsively, not unlike how a steel coat hanger becomes hot to the touch from bending it one way and then the other in order to break it into pieces.

 

Of course, we did not want our snubber to break into pieces! Looked fine, for at least a few more hours. If it did let go, we’d know, but the boat still wouldn’t go anywhere since we also secured the chain itself to the boat’s strongest point in parallel to the snubber. Our Plan B.

 

Turns out, we’ve learned, that galvanized anchor chain grinding against a bronze roller is a most demonstrative-sounding alarm to alert us that the snubber has let loose!

 

We were settling in for another night on the hook in another desolate anchorage. With the weather decaying, I’d have to check that snubber a few times during the course of the night, probably when I’d emerge on deck for the occasional self-indulgent leak over the leeward lifeline. Ahhhh… Objective? Replace it just before it fails. After all, snubbers aren’t free! I do keep a few spares at the ready, mostly made of lengths of old dock lines.

 

Down below, the prismatic lenses of the low voltage electric ceiling cabin lights partnered with the flicker of our oil-fueled trawler lamp. This combination of shipboard illumination set fanciful reflections and evocative shadows to dancing about the warm teak walls. The heavenly smell of grilled onions drifted up from the galley. While Kay labored over stove and microwave, I took care of other ship’s business.

 

First, I checked the oil level in all our lamps, along with whether any wicks required trimming. Thought I’d crank up the trawler lamp’s wick a fraction of an inch from just a nice buttery glow to also take the crisp edge off the cool evening.

 

I took my time filling out the day’s log, carefully recording latitude and longitude of this anchorage (in case we ever want to precisely located it again), daily miles travelled and total cumulative miles for this voyage so far, water depth including any tidal notes, engine hours from the trusty old “Hobbs Meter” and from that, calculating and logging the day’s engine run time along with total engine time for this trip thus far.  

 

I inspected the breaker panel in the pilothouse and made a quick visual inspection up top to ensure the anchor light was burning brightly at the top of our fifty-four foot mast. Copied from the day’s deck log notations of other vessels sighted, weather and sea conditions, engine RPMs employed, fuel levels so as to calculate consumption and speed made good “over ground”, which is one way the GPS records speed on the chart plotter. 

 

After starting our trusty six kilowatt generator to charge the house batteries for the night, and to enable the use of a few household-type convenience appliances like the microwave, I awaited, with great anticipation, for another one of Kay’s delectable meals.

 

All of this minutae was a big part of why cruising on a boat held such appeal for us. We controlled our own little ecosystem, and could do so wherever and whenever we pleased.  The fact that so few people ever even envision living such a dream, much less actually doing so, has made this lifestyle even more appealing to this humble captain and crew. From hour to hour and day to day, we manage our own water, power, waste, fuel, location, inventory of spares, food and, of course, our own fitness and safety. The feeling is almost, well, God-like, at the risk of sounding a tad pretentious. 

 

And there’s nothing like nurturing a conservationist heart from within a conscientious mind. When the bucks begin to behave again, we’d like to go “greener” with a wind generator and/or solar cells to replenish our precious energy reserves, and do so more silently and with less of a demand for petroleum. Plus that additional redundancy yields not only peace-of-mind, but fosters longer term cruising and anchoring possibilities for the live-aboard vagabond.

 

While the genset hums away down in the storage hold, burning approximately two liters of our precious diesel hourly, we sometimes leverage its excess energy by watching a movie while we eat. That’s how I was brought up – eating the evening meal in front of the TV. Not terribly classy, but we enjoy old movies like Sherlock Holmes with Basil Rathbone and Charlie Chan with Sidney Toler. Why not? And what a great contrast to sitting on deck later, assuming no rain, howling at the moon while the wind howls back! 

 

As the sky got grumpier, and the water lumpier, and the wind tugged at our bows more and more assertively, Kay and I glanced at each other amusingly at how our Mother, Nature, could be such a drama queen at times, or such a genteel lady when she was on her best behavior, which was more often than not. Our knowing glance seemed to casually observe that captain (yours truly) and crew (otherwise known as “the Admiral”) were in tune with both our two favorite sweethearts – the ship we know as “Sojourn”, and the sea upon which she and we sail.

 

We well knew that each could be moody, loving to the well-prepared sailor, but seldom forgiving of the foolhardy one. That kept us on our toes. The strangest notion to some is that we wouldn’t have it any other way. 

 

Like most longer-range voyagers, as has often been observed, we too found that our underway time was often hours, days or weeks of boredom, punctuated with moments of joy or sheer terror. Our time at anchor, on the other hand, unless we were simply moving the boat, found us in wonderful locations of our own vicarious choosing, where we would customarily be mesmerized by the regular but sometimes surprising motion beneath us that almost hypnotically lulled the senses into a relaxed meditative state. Yet, we would delight in our vigilant state of situational awareness that sharpened senses and nurtured mental acuity. It was, and is, a wonderful thing. 

 

After just a few thousand miles of cruising, we’ve come to the realization that voyaging can be exciting or boring. Visiting marinas is a delightful venue for meeting new and interesting fellow voyagers, but “hangin’” is our true passion!  It’s tragic to us that too few voyagers seem to really relish that the varietal flavors of anchoring are every bit as eclectic as enjoying a plethora of fine wines. 

 

Laced between bow and stern anchors, precariously perching us at the very edge of a narrow and winding river channel is to sip something dry and crisp, with moment-to-moment subtleties toying with your taste buds. With our little vessel tucked between around-the-clock forty-two barge tows ‘n tugs steaming past our starboard side and aromatic twilight wood fires at the shoreside edge of a campground seventy five feet off our port beam, we might encounter anything from the tang of a Smoking Loon Merlot to the precocious embrace of a Fat Bastard Red Zin(fandel), but definitely something bawdy and red. 

 

Anchoring in a crowded mooring field yields the ribald and robust assault on the senses that you might expect from a bold but well-rounded Pinot Noir. Always something happening, always something surprising, sights and sounds and smells that tease the back of your tongue with something delightfully fruity or with a hint of bitterness. Just depends. 

 

Hanging on the hook fifty yards off a secluded tropical beach, however, rewards the knowledgeable palette with the subtler nose and smooth finish of a light-bodied French Chardonnay, best enjoyed after shedding one’s skin to welcome the evening’s warm and breezy embrace. That is, until Mother flangs a squall our way at two in the morning, distilling the need to check the hook but probably without the joy of peeing to leeward – those back-eddies will splatter you every time!

 

Even though we no longer consume anything with alcoholic content, we relish tasting the boldness and the sublties of our next anchorage! Yes, indeed… life aboard a soundly found vessel stalwartly anchored is best sipped with your soul-mate close at hand, and perhaps boastfully shared with your soul-friends or other strangers-cum-friends anchored nearby in their little ships.

 

“Absolutely dinghy over, gang, so we can assemble on the foredeck with a brownie in hand to howl at the moon together!”

 

  Life is good, and with every anchorage, becomes even tastier. 

 

With pen in hand,

Gene

    

 

A Rocky Shore

Beauty sustains our life in the round,

A rocky shore becomes paradise found,

Though twilight danger may chase the dawn,

Toward those rocks we’re profoundly drawn,

Afternoon sky roughly chafes us before

Evening’s gentle caress, on a smooth and rocky shore.

 

Fantasy Sleep Walkin’

Palms on fire, floating toward a gun-metal horizon…

where flame takes flight and melts onto the tropical night…

a neon omega sketched on obsidian… a predictable moth flirts with a mythical flame…

 

there’s nothing left, and so much more – sleepin’ on it, maybe another walk tomorrow night…

dreamin’

Erotic Brightwork Exposed – The Beginning…

Based on my post earlier today, and after working on some of our boat’s brightwork today, I’ve become smitten with the concept of metaphors. So I thought I’d run with it for a bit…

Perhaps you’re not aware that beautifully finished wood is a passion for me, especially beautiful old finished wood that woefully cries for tender loving care, and particularly when that wood is on anything that floats.

Upon conferring obsessive care to bring out its winsome allure, I become devoted, constantly and desparately trying to carve out the time and effort required to preserve that beauty once consummated. The deserved endurance and humility has never been a bother to me once immersed in the process. 

Maybe this is a metaphor having context in other fractions of my life. This is also, no doubt, why our boat bears such captivation for us, particularly for me… almost like a living, loving member of our extended if not immediate family.

Specifically, the really interesting facet of brightwork, usually referring to varnished wood on a boat, yacht or ship, is that it begs for a compelling relationship. You don’t own brightwork, you work with it and for it. I prefer to think of it as a partnership with performing art. You provide the regular and frequent fastidious diligence, and it provides form and function, beauty and utilitarian subservience. But neglect it, and it will exact retribution. You’ll spend abundantly more time, energy and money bringing it back from a state of inattention, if that remains possible, than successfully engaging in and regularly investing in the relationship. 

Let me share a few images with you, and maybe you’ll better understand. Then again, maybe not. This is very a intimate notion.

For example, who can deny the mathematical and artistic symmetry that flows across the eye and hand, as well as serves with generous and tenacious vigor:

In this ship, for example, a multiplicity of shapes, textures and bold strength are harmoniously at work, bearing scars of age and adventure that, together, tell an intriguing story (actually the plot baseline for my current novel) …

in a little ship crafted with character born of the minds of long-deceased but highly-esteemed international craftsmen.

All this brightwork virtually begs to be caressed, demands to be loved, and sternly but clearly admonishing those who would forsake it,

but rewarding those who unselfishly shower love and respect upon it…

And the best part? When you own it, nobody can tell you not touch it – a guilty pleasure that you will have earned, to be sure!

Sufficiently sultry, don’t you think?

I love the expansive interior and exterior wood on Sojourn, and will share with you more of her beauty, up close and personal, as I bring her back to her former glory - with one small working relationship at a time.

Yet to come: hand carvings in doors, railings and fiddlery throughout custom crafted by world-class coffin makers and furniture builders of thirty years ago (there were no shipwrights in Formosa in 1981 and 1982!

With pen (and camera) in hand,

Gene

Pumping the Portfolio Iron

Hey, gang. I continue those activities that advance skill in any craft, including writing - study, practice and soliciting feedback. 

The latter, honest critical feedback, is the hardest to get. Friends and relatives don’t enjoy delivering criticism. I guess that’s why writers hire ruthlessly impartial editors and agents. I suppose you, for example, figure you’re no writing expert (like me), so what entitles you to levy criticism, right?

Well, I’ll tell you what entitles you, my friends and neighbors. You and others will eventually be my customers, once I grow tired or bored of writing for more than just one reader (myself). You are the ones that will buy my stuff or not (assuming the rubbish I write ever gets published). So if fear of hurting my feelings is stopping you from giving me constructive feedback, get over it! Now if you’re just lazy, or unwilling or unable to make this a priority in your busy schedule, or generally not interested, that’s OK and I understand all those reasons completely. End of sermon.

After diving, ever deeper into this abyss called writing for just a short while now, I will share with you that once constructive criticism is triumphantly in hand, it can be damn difficult to incorporate it, but if it were easy…

If you haven’t checked my www.writing.com portfolio lately (within the last twelve minutes, for example), there’s some new stuff there as I continue my “work out” as a writer. Check it out if you’re so inclined.

Perhaps a simile would be useful to illustrate how I feel about this process of learning how to become a serious writer (plus, I need the practice): my writing is like this block (pulley): currently a work-in-progress, obviously rough around the edges, only loosly assembled, wanting for a good measure of spit ‘n polish, perhaps functional, perhaps not, reluctant to be seen in such a condition, yet yearns to be improved, and even put into some light duty service, hoping it is up to the formidable pressures of the task for which it is intended:

 

But in the fullness of time, to use a metaphor, my writing will become this block–more finished in detail and form, robust in appearance, more of a pleasure to look at, with minor imperfections and those idiosyncrasies that make it unique in all the world, yet imminently functional and dependable with just a capricious hint of unpredictability (yes, kids, it is a VISION!):

But if I stretch this absurdity even further, perhaps beyond the limits of your generous patience and my ability, in the spirit of illustrating the creeping madness that is infecting more and more of my psyche, allow me to indulge in an allegory (this is far more advanced stuff, kids, so I’ve a ways to go here).

That humble piece of hardware in the picture above is a block recruited to raise one of the sails on my boat. It is central to successfully navigating potentially deadly seas in comparative safety. Too much sail, and the boat tips over. Not enough sail, and you get nowhere, which can be equally deadly if you need to get clear of a life-threatening storm path or hostile shore. Without this piece of equipment doing what it’s supposed to do, sails don’t go up or down. That block represents a pivotal element in an important activity that can serve as both an avocation and an activity that yields adventure and excitement. Put to inappropriate use, or should it fail, lacking the necessary strength and acuity to succeed, the results can range from embarrassing to disasterous to dangerous. Much like a writer who hasn’t maintained the necessary tools of the craft, or who has negelected to acquire the knowledge to use and maintain those tools effectively. See my deepest, darkest writing fears peeking over my shoulder at you?

Like  I said, needs work! As in pumping iron (strength training), you go too far to achieve the strength, then you back off some, and are stronger for it – or so they tell me.

With (digital) pen (still) in hand (and right brain flexing feebly),

Gene

Shrink Wrap Murder

Another scene from the current novel, still obviously unfolding – one scene at a time. The plot is still writing itself with each newly completed scene, but one thing is certain – at the heart of this particular mystery floats a boat named ”Sojourn”.

Purchase of that vessel by Captain Jack and Kate Germain in 1995 would later prove to be a pivotal event for them, impacting the direction of their lives forever.

The following scene introduces two new characters, but only one will survive to be a key player in scenes to come. Sound sinister? Read on, faithful readers, and as always, I’d love to hear what you like or don’t like, and don’t forget to check out the preceding scene in the previous post below… The author retains all rights to this material.

  

Baltimore, November, 1995 

Sometime during the final ten or twelve beats of his heart, Ash Dunwoody wondered, but would never know why or how he had become the unwitting victim of his own murder. Something heavy and hard on the back of his skull, a ten foot fall to the tarmac, just another sad boat yard statistic. Happens all the time.

 

Ash was a contractor. Among other things, he was frequently hired as a shrink wrapper–making custom single-use air-tight plastic covers over boats with sheets of special plastic, shrinking it to fit with a special heat gun. That might seem like a silly job to some, but he liked it since the jobs turned around fast, and the pay was pretty fair. Especially when he got paid twice on the same job, like this one.

On Monday, some dummy from Minnesota had paid him, through some lady agent from Anapolis Yacht Sales, over a thousand bucks to wrap a newly purchased thirteen year old boat in preparation for shipping it fifteen hundred miles over land by truck–to Minnesota, of all places. Job complete. Then today, less than forty-eight hours later, the agent called back.

“Cut it off again please, Mr. Dunwoody. Turns out somebody screwed up. Maryland D.O.T. says something called a tabernacle sticks up too far and has to be laid down on deck before the truck can roll. That means the plastic has to come off in order to get to the part. I know, I know. Oh, and it pays another hundred. Interested”.

“Weird, but what hell yeah, I’m interested. Stuff comes off fast and easy. Guy wants it off, it’s off.”

“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Dunwoody. It has to be done tonight, OK?”

“Yeah, why not. Consider it done, Ms. Holcroft.”

So there he was. Had only been a twenty minute drive in his new fire-engine read Ford F150 pickup, which he found any excuse to drive anyway. He hadn’t bothered to stop by his house to pic up a ladder since he was confident he could find one at the yard. He spotted the boat which had been moved from the jackstands up against the eight foot cyclone fence where he had done the original job. It was now loaded on a specially modified low-boy eighteen wheeler trailer, propped up and secured for the road by jacks, blocks and straps, ready to roll, except for the tabernacle, whatever that was. Sounded like a church to Ash. He noticed on the back of the boat that it was from Corpus Christi. He thought about that, and then wondered what the name, “Sojourn” meant? Journey, maybe? Whatever.

But he also wondered who that big guy was, hanging around the yard– at ten PM, no less, which was the only time he could squeeze this dumb gig in between a late supper with the wife. No sweat, though, since the spaghetti dinner with the wife had been a disaster anyway. Seemed to Ash that she was always bitchin’ about too many beers, or not enough romance.

He asked the big guy what his gig was with this boat. The guy mumbled something about being the broker’s watchdog on this deal. OK, Ash figures, another schmuck with no night life and takin’ a percentage. “But this boyo’s different. Mean eyes, not your typical suck-up kiss-ass broker’s agent”, Ash ponders.

To himself, “Them and realtors make the crack of my ass itch, but a job’s a job.”

To the big guy, “So buddy, wanna lend a workin’ stiff a hand? Hold this frickin’ ladder for me, ‘kay? Thanks.”

Next thing Ash knew, the guy is up the ladder right behind him, and he’s so close Ash wondered if the guy could tell that he hadn’t changed his jeans for a couple of days. “Ever hear of depth perception, Jumbo?”, he thought.

Then stars, the heavy hand of gravity, and Ash is bent and wet. Dim. Job unfinished…

The big man with the mean eyes thought, “Sorry, dipshit, just doing my patriotic duty… and my job.”

　

With pen in hand,

Gene

“I Want This Boat!”

Well, it’s high time I started sharing with you with the rough draft of a few scenes excerpted from my work in progress, a novel whose title is currently “The Secret of  Sojourn”. Over the next few weeks, I’ll include a few more, in no particular order, as I’m treating them as individual essays that will flow into a hopefully coherent plot, as the drafts are refined further.

For now, I’m focusing more on character development than plot development, although the plot clearly centers around a central figure in our own real lives, the boat named “Sojourn”, the name itself is very meaningful to us (which loosely means”journey” or more specifically, “a place of  rest, safety and shelter while on a journey”). This would become more than the name of a boat to us. It would become prophecy with a twist of irony.

Note that this is the genesis of a work of fiction, but a with good dose of  frequent fact. Let me know what you think!

  

Baltimore, September, 1995

“Sell the freaking house, Jack. I want this boat!” This was typical of Kate Germain’s demure demeanor.

AT five PM, it was ninety-two degrees and humid on the pitted and scarred concrete pier at the Tidewater Yacht Service Center located in the heart of Baltimore’s inner harbor. Just across the way, the silhouette of the Orioles’ new stadium, Camden Yards, with that wonderful red brick retro look, stood loud and proud against the late afternoon hue. Kate was bone-tired and “glistened” profusely.

It had been three long days of crawling through a dozen boats with Anne Holcroft of Annapolis Yacht Brokers, who suggested they drive up to Baltimore to look over a unique motorsailer. And yes, it was more than slightly beyond the strict price range they had mandated, but definitely worth a look.

“You guys have been working hard here,” Anne had gently admonished, “now take a break and check out Baltimore Harbor just for the heck of it. I’ll hook you up with a great guy at Tidwater, and all it will cost you is gas up and back. Besides, I need a break too. Game?”

An hour or so later, they had found the yard. Now they were standing on the deck of a boat that seemed absolutely massive compared to their last boat, a thirty foot Catalina, known as the biggest thirty around. This forty foot Island Trader had a length overall of fifty-one feet and a beam of almost fifteen feet. This was one big boat that had costly features and long-range voyaging upgrades that Jack had never even dared imagine owning.

Kate was determined to just say no to every boat Jack drooled over, and they’d get to go home without writing a check they clearly couldn’t afford. They really had looked at some nice boats. Every single one was beautiful in Jack’s dreamy blue eyes. The big dope was ready to make an offer on every one that Annie had shown them.

Kate liked Annie and could really relate to her – young, aggressive, an avid boater like Jack and herself, obviously had some hard miles under her keel, like herself. Sadly, Annie had lost her soul mate, Jerry, and that just sucked. Now she was making the remainder of her voyage solo, and a single mom to boot. Gotta respect that.

Jack was dumbfounded. “What? Really? You serious, Babe? That’s great! She’s a stunning beauty, but can we afford this?”

“Well, not really, but let’s talk about it. And we obviously need to make sure we have a place to keep her back home. Let’s call the marina to see if there’s room for a boat this big out there”, which meant the small town with a big marina in Lake City, Minnesota.

The name on her transom was “Sojourn”.

Her interior was an invitingly cool seventy-two degrees. Outside, it was a steamy ninety-two. The local agent that Annie had hooked them up with was no dummy, and air conditioning on a boat was a novel and luxurious notion to Kate and Jack.

The mesmerizing effect was amplified by a warm glow cast by sculpted wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling teak joinery work that was a delight to behold. They were particularly enchanted by the hand carvings in the teak stateroom and head doors, the curved fiddles and pin rails gracefully embracing every horizontal surface, and the omnipresent teak parquet flooring. She was equally sumptuous outside.

She boasted lovely traditional lines and more glossy teak trim everywhere. She pleased the eye with a provocative upward sweep of her spacious foredeck, as it gently rose from amidships, foreward of the predominant pilothouse, to peak at the root of an impressive six foot bow sprit, the end of which housed two massive anchors poised no less than seven feet above the water on heavy bronze rollers, as their chains led back to an electric windlass designed to effortlessly raise and lower them.

This was one substantial little ship.

He wanted this boat too. “God, could this actually work?”, he dared to hope. It would absolutely be a wet dream come true!

“We can only afford to offer a hundred thousand, Jacko, and that will be a helluva stretch. If he walks, he walks, and frankly, who could blame the good Doctor? If it were me, I’d walk!”

That night, sitting on the slightly lumpy double bed at their oh-so-affordable motel located less than six blocks from Annapolis’ famous town dock, after the seventy-five minute drive back from Tidewater, Jack and Kate tortured themselves, earnestly discussing doubts about whether to counter with another offer they really couldn’t afford, if the owner increased their initial ante.

If they only knew then that when (not if) they closed the deal on this boat, it would change their lives forever–irrovocably, precipitously and dangerously.

 

With pen in hand,

Gene

 

 

Drunk & Dirty Passage

Here goes: a one thousand word fictional essay based on mostly facts. Heard the guts of this story from another skipper in the boat yard today. I felt compelled to embellish. Call it fiction practice. I’d like to think we have here a nice collection of characters doing their respective jobs–some more capably than others–and reacting to circumstance. Enjoy. And please comment if you like it, don’t like it, hate it, or have specific suggestions for improvement. But please do comment! All rights retained by the author.

“Is that container ship bearing down on us? Holy God! She’s less than fifty feet away and closing! This can not be happening in the Panama-freakin’ canal, can it? If that monster so much as touches us, we’re done. Captain, don’t just lay there–tell us what to do!”.

 

It seemed like the improbable nightmare, and Nelson knew he needed to do something to save his precious “Renaissance”, a mature forty foot Swedish-built sailboat, but what would make this frightening scenario better in the next five seconds, not worse? It seemed equally improbable that he had just entered this dream seemingly gone very awry less than sixty short minutes ago…

 Imagine waiting for six steamy days, sweating in an inky anchoring field swatting mosquitoesand other airborne mystery pests, along with hundreds of other boats – itinerant sailboats, freighters of dubious provenance and private motor yachts ranging from crewed glossy to half-floundering shabby - waiting to enter the “Atlantic” side of the Panama Canal.

 

Tepid waters here reeked from several inches of greasy floating bunker oil and other dubious artifacts of countless freighters’ ballast water pumped overboard. The stuff that pools in this anchorage would surely send a toxicologist into a fit apoplectic horror.

 

Nelson had heard the stories. Some of the more notorious skippers would furtively evacuate hundreds or thousands of gallons of bile from the bowels of their foul ships during the darkest of night – that time equidistant between sunset and sunrise known as “la hora en la que incluso el diablo duerme” (“the hour during which even the devil sleeps”). Prying eyes would be dead asleep then. By sunrise, it would be impossible to ascertain the source. The wind and waves would have become unwilling allies.

 

So Nelson hired the mandatory Panamanian captain and two handlers. He was told that four total would be required, but since he and Margorie were both able-bodied, they only needed two more. They had dinghied ashore to the colorful port captain’s office to make these arrangements, paid their fees to a grumpy forty-something administrator named Rosa, and promptly motored back to “Renaissance” to wait for notification that they could proceed.

Finally, after nearly a week of wincing at the VHF marine radio almost constantly squawking at hundreds of vessels a day, Nelson finally heard the all-important call to proceed to the port captain’s dock to pick up his captain and crew. On their arrival, three tired-looking locals stood in a half-slump on the pier. The shortest appeared to be Captain Rudolfo. That’s what the papers said his name would be. He was, shall we say, rather under the weather, in rare form, and all that. He actually experienced no small difficulty boarding, even with the help of Perez and Oruzco, all the while declaring no help was necessary, and even unwelcome. Apparently, they were also accustomed to handling their captain.

“Are you… OK?”, Nelson reluctantly asked Captain Rudy at Margorie’s let-there-be-no-doubt urging.

“Si, si.”, came the impatient but understanding reply. These gringos are such Boy Scouts, as the Americanos are so fond of saying. A quote from some Hollywood movie, he was sure. He liked Hollywood movies – the best in the world.

“OK, Captain, the ship is yours” came the reticent reply from Nelson, the owner, certainly not from the owner’s wife, who continued to harbor serious doubt at this local captain’s true proficiency. She went below to tend to her ravioli on the alcohol stove. In seconds, they were underway uneventfully, en route to the first lock in the canal.

 

Perez and Oruzco seemed capable enough as they moved around the deck like they were now truly in their element. Nelson would find himself grateful to have not only the extra hands, but the reassurance born of experience that all is “Está bien!” during what seemed like at least one bizarre event that would occur during the ensuing hours. Their reassurances were particularly comforting when it was necessary for “Renaissance” to raft alongside three other boats inside the first lock named “Gatun”.

Captain Rudy observed the goings on from his mostly horizontal repose in the cockpit, silently exhibiting his best know-it-all and I-really-am-mostly-sober demeanor. Not having spoken a single word since boarding, he appeared to continue that trend during this particular event, and as it turned out, for the rest of the all night passage. So be it.

As the thousand foot long Gatun lock began to surge with the onslaught of fifty-two million gallons of water, gravity fed from the nearby lake, it filled the lock in something just shy of eight minutes via culverts through which you could effortlessly drive a locomotive. It seemed inevitable that their tiny craft, even tied ever so securely, although immediately behind a huge container ship, were in dire peril.

There they were… in a blender, set for puree, or was it frappe?

As all the vessels surged hard at different rates, their spider webs of mooring lines creaked and sputtered in protest. Had it not been for the assurances of their experienced handlers (of boat and captain, and of owners, it seemed!), Nelson most certainly would have panicked, and perhaps done something stupid, even dangerous. Margorie was panicking wildly, almost uncontrollably, but she was admirably keeping it to herself. Nobody knew except her.

Down below, tending to her late supper, Margorie knew that they were most certainly now being sunk by a giant sucking whirlpool. She only prayed that she’d be able to complete her prayers before her last living breath. The hapless ravioli in a primavera sauce continue to burn black while she stared blankly. Nelson would not learn of her inner panic until much later, when they were alone again. That was not to be a pleasant revelation for him, she vowed then and there.

With only two more turbulent locks at Pedro Miguel and Miraflores, and after only about ten hours of total elapsed time in the grasp of the canal, “Renaissance” popped out at the Pacific end at Panama City, just under fifty miles from where she had entered.

After uneventfully dropping off their captain and crew at their bus in Panama City waiting to ferry them back so they could do it all over again (they never did hear Captain Rudy utter a single syllable), Nelson wearily navigated his way clear of the the canal while Margorie caught a brief morning de-stressing catnap.

Nelson sought out a suitable anchorage nearby to make what would be a vain attempt to scrub the grimy hull sides clean again. The canal crud had creeped up to more than a foot above the waterline. After the Danforth anchor was firmly down, out came the stiff scrub brush head attached to his extendable boat hook handle. Leaning over the side long enough to force way too much blood to his brain, Nelson finally gave up just short of his next severe headache. Lots of effort, no joy. This tenacious brew would not let go. What was that stuff?

So after a relaxing afternoon and evening swinging at anchor, and a night of sleep to recalibrate their body clocks after having been underway and under stress the entire previous night, they made their way north up the coast to a marina in Puerta Vallarta.

Once there, again at Margorie’s urging, of course, Nelson felt compelled to have the boat pulled out of the water to clean the hull. Even then, it was a daunting task, but like so many jobs aboard ship, you do what needs doing, no matter how dirty or how difficult.

After all, after safety comes cleanliness, especially after a dirty passage with a drunken captain!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With pen in hand,

Gene

Draggin’ ‘n Droppin’ This ‘n That…

For me, writing is an inscrutable and frustrating endeavor. This blog is bred of a notion to collect and collate thoughts, characters, ideas, published and unpublished works in a manner that invites review, comment and criticism. So read on, if you dare, and share your thoughts with me. I treasure them as much or more than my own!

To get my own juices flowing, a few recent treasured images evoked a few simple thoughts that hopefully will provoke others, perhaps even educe metaphors of deeper significance. I’ll get better at this over time. I promise. Until then, lets try to flex a long-atrophied muscle for some of us - the  ole left brain…

There is purity in simplicity of expression within a tangible medium…

There is simplicity in the purity of contemplation in a peaceful place…

There is often simple and satisfying wonder in an otherwise mundane back yard…

and there is often unspeakable clarity rooted in wondrous and delicious confusion…

Sorting it all out in an interesting way, and sharing it with others, is a source of pure and simple satisfaction for this humble scribe. Bear with me while I sort this all out for you, and hopefully with you!

With pen in hand,

Gene