Motor Vessel Skinwalker

Red Sky

2011-03-12T13:03:00.000-05:00

Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. We did. We battened down as scuttling slabs of hard darkness slid close over us shutting out the sun, setting our houseboat neighbor’s sundeck chairs skittering across the deck and tripping over the rail into the water in the 35 knot gusts of needle driven rain. It has taken seven years, but finally, it seems, perhaps we have learned to secure all decks as the wind buffets and rips, looking for a loose strap or edge of canvas to exploit. The looser lines on the Bluewater Yacht next to us allow the flat bottom boat to horse around its slip bucking, twisting, and bouncing, like a bronco coming out of the chute. It reins up suddenly as it hits the end of its springy nylon line then slingshots back the other way only to spring forward once again as the line takes up. If not careful, while watching this other boat out our pilothouse windows lounging back and forth, my visual sense can confuse and trick my brain into believing it is Skinwalker moving and not the other vessel. It is an easy elusion to have. When the rain halts I will attempt to share with our neighbor how to keep his furniture on the boat and to secure spring lines to keep from surging fore and aft and prevent his boat from twisting like soft licorice rope from side to side.

The storm intensity has slowed. The rain is now a soft patter. Water trickling off the decks is a sweet tinkling as it splashes like musical notes into the bay. The dirty humidity of the early morning is cleansed; the air is now cool and feels inexplicably dryer than before the storm. In all its complicity nature is simple. There is nothing stronger. There is nothing more beautiful. It is neither forgiving nor vengeful. It takes no captives and has no friends. Weather is not a creature or a god. Weather is a constant. If we must humanize weather it is the muscle of Mother Nature.

Monday, OMG already, Monday we depart, northbound for Baltimore. The winter of being done to by physicians is over. Body parts prodded, pinched, cut, replaced, repaired and inspected in general, should provide another fifty thousand miles of unwarranted service.

We are leaving earlier this year so that those we have forgotten, ignored or have not met on our quick downhill trek in October will be enjoyed as we flow north gauging our progress by the receding edge of a nasty winter. We urge those of you on our Intracoastal path who wishes to share a flagon of grog or a plastic cup of cheap box wine to put an email in our box. Cruising, after all is said and done, is about people.

Monday. Hmmm. Come to think of it, all the necessary oils and waters of our girls in the engine room, Leila and Liela, have been tended and they are happy. The ship stores have been replenished. (Read rum, box wine and “tator tots”.) What the hell. I think, to keep the crew from getting complacent, we will leave tomorrow, Saturday Morning.

Bones

Urban Pirate Ship Fearless

Aka Wayne Flatt

MV Skinwalker

Its morning in the marina

2011-02-04T18:27:00.000-05:00

Its morning in the marina. The sun has already warmed the pilothouse. We open the doors and windows.

The sounds of the marina are clear through the quiet wet air. Water is gurgling from the shower sump on a boat next to us. The cruisers in a boat on the other side are congenially sharing pieces of news to each other from the local paper over coffee. He burnt his lip on the edge of a ceramic cup, she giggles the admonishment of caring. The dragging scrape of filp-flops along the dock announces Hojo, in her flannel jama's with shower kit in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, reluctantly easing her way to the shower room for morning ablutions. Sometimes she stays in the little room longer than others would like. Ray, the owner, brings out the leaf-blower and lays it down, probably realizing it is too early for the noise. He walks the docks instead checking lines and angle of boats in the water looking for hints of danger or a bilge pump not working properly. The burgler alarm at the tiki bar next to the boat next to us goes off suggesting the first employee has arrived to set up for a busy day of serving beer and food to those sitting out on the deck in the warm sun cooled just right by a zephyr of a breeze that the air pressure overhead will not allow to build today. Small fish break water next to the boat, a comorant greedilly ducks beneath the water seeking what comorants seek, while a lone Brown Pelican glides on a pressure wave created by pinching air between him and the water only inches below him, his wing tips dimple the water on the down stroke. Unseen runners on the road behind us hidden by the stand of mangroves talk in passing with little bumps in their voice when a heel hits the pavement. A scratchy throated dove coos in response to the vulgar grind of a garbage truck mashing its load with its compactor. The man on the back whistles to the driver and the intermittent backup warning tone attempts to imitate the dove. Lynn tells me it is time for me to help color her hair.

Nothing is happening this morning, but morning.

Bones

Home is where the heart is...

2010-11-21T14:17:00.000-05:00

Home is where the heart is....or maybe it is just where there is a cold beer, a greasy burger and a beach. We are the second boat in from the bar, but thats ok, we need the excercise. The beach is across the street, (we have a private section of the beach), and surf fishing there or walk down to the pass for other fishing or if too lazy we just fish off the dock. Manatee was next to our slip when we got up yesterday. We hear the music from the bar on weekends, usually island, Florida theme with some old time soft rock in the weekend evenings. Haven't gotten my grouper sandwich yet, but it will come. Plan to spend a few evenings watching for the ever elusive green flash, which I have seen twice at this beach.

Here is a picture to prove I am not telling tall tales.

Bones

Content in Paradise

MV Skinwalker is safe!

2010-04-12T14:42:00.000-04:00

The boat, our boat, our home is off the sand bar and safe with no apparent damage. We have tested the running gear, trannies & props no problems. No new vibrations or overheating.

In this type of grounding according to TowBoatUS there was a 50/50 chance of loosing the boat. It was technically a salvage operation, but this boat us owner did not treat it as salvage but as a challenge. It took two two boats with great effort to save our home. These guys were terrific, sympathic, friendly and so very, very professional. TowBoat US insurance took care of the hours and effort of the first boat and two men and we paid for the second boat and driver. I am so proud of Lynn so handled everything with her normal aplomb--until we finished and reached the dock.

We have spent the last few hours cleaning up what fell to the other side of the boat and several gallons of water intrusion through a leaking porthole, as we laid on our side, we think. The bilges are dry again and the pumps not coming on and off. We believe all is well.

When we finish cleaning up we are going to find a burger, several beers and a very long nap.

Thank you all for caring. We have not read your emails yet, but will after we put our shatter egos and nerves back together.

We are both still shaken, but now relieved.

We will be leaving in the morning back to our northbound efforts and anticipate no significant loss of time.

Bones & Capt'n Lynnie

MV Skinwalker in peril

2010-04-05T07:00:00.000-04:00

Skinwalker Log, Monday, April 05, 2010, 0700 hrs

Calabash Creek Anchorage Near Little River Inlet on the AICW

My whole body is quivering with tension. Lynn is in shock. I am in shock. I did something stupid and dangerous. Our vessel is in some peril. But, now, we are not, only the boat remains in jeopardy. Jeopardy, we have learned is not just a game show. We sit safely in a marina. Brian of BoatUS brought us here to his marina in Little River. Skinwalker is lying on her side hard aground. Six years, 25,000 miles and it has come to this, taking our chances on a rising tide.

Yesterday afternoon we anchored close to shore giving two sailboats who were already anchored there plenty of room. It is always shallow here, but we were in closer to shore then usual at low tide. Occasionally the boat would bump into the mud bank then back off by itself. The tide started coming in and I felt more comfortable as Skinwalker floated out in the current a little way from shore. I monitored the tide closely aware of our proximity to the shore for a while then went to bed marking in my head that high tide would be at 0130 hours and that I should check our swing at the turn of tide to make sure we swung away from shore not into shore. I awoke at 0330 to find the boat listing to port. During the rising tide it had turned and stretched out its anchor chain to the flow, but it had not swung out and around on the change to an outgoing tide. Skinwalker instead had caught and settled onto a sand bar near high tide.

I started the engines an attempted to wiggle off with no success as the boat continued to list. I called Sea Tow and during the course of them launching a captain and boat we all discovered our coverage had lapsed in January and Lynn had only renewed with a check by mail less then a week ago.

Lynn called the national number for BoatUS our other towing service and we got the runaround very much like people feel when they call the coast guard with the subsequence asking of many questions, while germane, are not reassuring that anything is being done expediously. The boat heeled more. In frustration I called out on the VHF radio for BoatUS who answered promptly in a calm reassuring voice. They dispatched a boat immediately—the boat listed further. It was 20 minutes the beautiful red boatUS vessel showed up and calmed us with a soothing voice on the radio even as the boat heeled more onto its beam. Then the captained probed here and there with bright flood lights, examining looking for damage and generally evaluating the situation.

We could walk a few feet to shore if we needed to, but we were not positive the boat would survive sitting on its side as it now was. Adrenaline kicked our minds into warp drive and that brought fear that we contained to nervousness as we struggled to master that fear with a veneer of calm. We couldn’t walk around the boat. A bench was now lying on the recliners, the refrigerator was straining, bulging out of its cabinet trying to wrest free of its restraints. Everything took five times longer to do because we were walking on the corner of the rooms where the floor meets the walls, the floors not allowing us purchase and the walls a little to steep to walk on. Our home had turned into the a scary fun house where up seem sideways and down the other sideways. It was disorienting. Finally Skinwalker stopped its sideways fall at 45 degrees.

However, water was seeping in a seal porthole and the master was taking on water so Lynn tightened the hatches further still. Lynn & I were both disoriented. We closed seacocks, hatches, loaded up clothes, money and one computer. We made a rope fast to horns on the aft cleat and used that to pull or lower us up and down the back deck then used it to climb over the starboard rail and with great effort lower us down past the end of the swim platform and down further into the towboat. One at a time we both made our way down into the towboat. I turned around and there in front of me was Skinwalkers starboard rudder and prop high in the air. The keel reflected light off its bright green bottom paint. “Look how clean the bottom is” was my first thought, while my second thought marveled in disgust at the innocence of the first. The boat was mammoth tipped on its side. The severity of the situation soon became clear. Stupid, stupid, stupid, how incredible stupid can I be for allowing this situation to occur.

The towboat captain has brought us to his marina as I have said. We sit here now waiting for the tide to float the boat, perhaps, later today. High tide is going to be lower then it was night. Chances are we will get off, but that is uncertain at this time and in the darkness of my mind strange and horrible things are happening just now. I am still shockly. Who would think such a small thing would have such a great effect both physically and mentally. Our home is not our home at least for a few hours, Then, ever hopefully, it will be again.

I can’t throw up again. I can’t go to the bathroom one more time. Now it is sit, worry, wait worry and worry hope two towboats can get us off a few hours from now. I am frightened, yet strong, yet not as strong as I should be. Lynn is holding it together.

There wasn’t much chance of dying, unless dying of fright is really possible. We will return at high tide and see if our home, our precious home is still there and able to re-float. It is likely all will be well, but even the small thought of it not being well is more chilling then I would have ever thought. We are helpless, but alive.

More to come this afternoon after we workout what needs and can be done to save our home. Bones & Capt’n Lynnie

Lumbering around the Whale with 2-3 foot swells

2010-03-11T07:58:00.001-05:00

Skinwalker Log, March 11, 2010, Thursday, 0758

Black Sound, Green Turtle Cay, Abacos, Bahamas

26.45 N
76.19 W

It was a lovely day yesterday and the day before.  After waiting for almost two weeks we lumbered around the Whale on Tuesday with 2-3 foot swells out of the NE and 4-5 foot swells out of the SE, a full ten seconds apart.  As we made the turn past the Whale into the pass we surged, surfing into Whale Passage on the relatively robust, yet gentle swells.

Our intentions were to leave Marsh Harbour on or before March 1^st and tour the Northern Abacos for the month.  That is not to be.  The spring winds have been annoying, brisk and cold, as it has been all winter.  The water has been too cold even for Canadians to swim in.  That left the social life of Boat Habour for us to endure with an extended variety of activities with the same people every day.  That, and old demon rum, a very old friend of mine, provided ample afternoon and evening entertainment most days, by way of engaging others who often became touched in the head during a few hours of excess.  For those who don’t quite get the picture there was always someone drunk on their ass to laugh at or ridicule, depending on the nature of the observer and his memory of the last time he was in the bottle. Occasionally someone put together a pool betting on how much the rummy of the day would remember the next morning.  I never won.

Since arriving at Marsh Harbour we were viewed as newbies, which we were to the Bahamas.  It is odd that being new to the Abacos meant to others we are inexperienced cruisers.

This newbie concept led many others to share their experience regarding rounding the Whale assuring us that with their experience we could safely follow their lead.  I almost believed them for a bit.

We finally recognize a potential window to pass the Whale and we follow two boats to Guana Cay to stage for the passage and leave the next day, It was a suspicious day by all accounts for making an open ocean passage, yet my colleagues assured me all would be well despite the small craft warnings issued by the Bahamians.  I was frank with the two captains suggesting they could be the sacrificial lambs and I would hang back in third position to see how they did.

As they bound enthusiastically into the main of the incoming seas we were a distance back at the edge of the crossing entry behind coral reefs.  We started rocking and rolling in 3’ to 5’ footers of a tight period of 4 seconds.  There is no word from them.  I like comfort.  This is not comfortable so we turned around wondering what mistake we had made and how they can do it and we cannot.  Soon we hear terse tones from the two boats attempting to convince each other it is not too bad out there.  Soon, nothing is heard.  I could sense they were too busy to talk.

We chugged back toward the marina confused, hearing yet others state the Whale is doable and wonder what we have missed and how--trying to reconcile what we had just experienced and what we were hearing.

A short while later the other two boats conversed.  The captain of the lead boat in a tone of tense relief mixed with residual concern and the other captain bordering on barely suppressed fear are surviving 6’ to 8’ swells not far apart.  The captains are not happy—they sound fearful, but would deny it if confronted.  Their crew by admission are very unhappy, likely fearful and downright mutinous.  I have witnessed it all before first hand.

It is hard to fault another’s decision, we all must make our own.  This day mine was right for us.  The other two boats will be back in the states a week or more before Skinwalker.  But at what cost?  Lynn & I will still be speaking to each other with grace and perhaps engaging comfortably in sex this week.  I don’t think those captains will be getting any for a while.  I think their crews are really angry.

The desire to get somewhere is overwhelming and contorts reason.  Egos and macho displays of manhood can drive decisions further off the correct course.  I almost got caught up in the adrenaline of desire and the testosterone of manhood, yet experience grabbed me by the shirttail as I was about to step off the contrived cliff of desire and jerked me back to the reality of reason.  I want to be angry. I have tried to be angry at those captains for luring me into complacency.   It is not their fault.  It is my problem.  If anything, I should have warned them from the beginning.  I knew the forecast and that it bode bad for a crossing.  When I arose that morning the water was trembling in the harbor and I told Lynn it was not a good portent for a safe passage, yet I was driven.

No harm no foul?  If accepted that platitude will allow me to attempt a similar error in the future.  I almost made two classic mistakes.  Perhaps flogging myself will beat enough sense into me to cement the need for clear thinking underway at all times, for unemotional decision making, for using the right head and not following my manhood around like I had a leash being held by my ego.  One of these days I am going to get it right without the preamble of stupidity slowing me down.

We are currently holding in Green Turtle with no current prospect for a weather window for the Gulf Stream.  Heck we may be here forever if the weather doesn’t break in our favor.  But, not to worry.

We will share our time with locals at Sundowners, Pineapples and McIntosh liquor store that also doubles as a restaurant, bar and local gathering spot across the street from the small wharf where the supply ship comes in twice a week.  Might even take in Bee’s for the original Goombay Smash.  Currently docked at Black Sound Marina. While not the only boat, we are the only ones on a boat here and it is quiet, peaceful and almost lonely.  The manager, Mr. Carroll Sawyer, stops by once a day and finally, finally I say, has provided us with the wifi password that he had to get from the owner in the states.  We have been here three days with no method of comm’s except our boat radios and we have felt utterly isolated except when we go to Pineapples and visit with the pretty young owner or one of the other small bars that we have come to know intimately.

For those who have not been here, the streets in town are golf cart narrow like on Tangiers in the Chesapeake and the local anglos have a very similar dialect as the fishermen of Tangiers.  It is a charming place with great vistas and a wonderful laid back attitude complimented by the gracious people.  We don’t care how long we have to wait.

The day we left Florida our navigation computer took a coffee bath and I sent it to Father Phil to bless it.  He did and got it back to us in the Bahamas.  The day we left Marsh Harbor the same computer went TU due to a dead battery.  Phil saved us once again by emailing a patch so I could get the nav system working on the other computer.  I hate confusers.  I cannot tell you how many times Phil has save our butts with computer fixes.  Phil, thank you ever so much.  We owe you dinner when we get there.

I am proud to announce, as a minor self proclaimed partner of the Silver Foxes Vegetable Car Racing team, that our vehicle won.  Well, really it is Jims team and car. But never-the-less, I will be attempting to collect prize money for my verbal contributions given to Jim one rummy evening.

Lynn & I look forward to returning to the states when it is safe and comfortable to do so.  When ever that might be.

Bones & Lynn

Abacos: a landscape etched on the fabric of time

2010-02-26T21:09:00.000-05:00

Abacos

Mother Nature, the masterful artist of our world, employs her earthly medium to create the wonders of the Bahamian cays, a landscape etched on the fabric of time. The breath of Mother Nature, the wind, wields its modeling tools of ocean and sea with precise repetitive tics and, by turn, creates, shapes, changes, re-creates, as if seeking the perfect element for its creatures.

This is a place where harvested conch shells waste at the water’s edges, where lobsters live in underwater condos as man occupies those edging it. The colors of the Abacos are shades of greens & blues, often reflected off the bottom of soft clouds floating in from the Atlantic. A place where fish replaces beef and fermented cane-squeeze lords over whiskey and the crawfish are huge. Here reef sharks out-number the gentle stray dogs or “potcakes” as they are known and blue holes replace swimming pools. Where the red sand in stone comes from another time and the Sahara. Where African beans fetch up on island beaches. The dead coral of the cays supports life for the ragged, scruffy landscape as the living reefs give contrast to the vast plains of underwater desert of the Abaco banks.

Just now a sweetness about the place struggles with itself. There is a vacant quality that rings empty like a furnished house with no people. The islands, long ago stripped of their indigenous wealth of flora and fauna now replaced by the poverty of low lying coral skeleton scattered with sand and plant detritus too thin to plow, renders farming a foreign concept here and industry non-existent.

The locals, no longer aboriginals, but descendants of slaves and the remnants of crown Loyalists from the original American colonies, supplement the current tourist economy as hunter-gatherers from that which provides for all—the ocean waters. As in many poverty venues the people make do and develop their own system of trade and barter, and, as in many modest tropical settings, they do so slower than more plenteous cultures. The Bahamians recognize their exotic home is their primary product through tourism and understand they must share its virtues. They do so without complaint; yet I believe their mellow demeanor is more than understanding. Why is it that poor countries often seem to engender gentleness in their people? Is it the tropical clime, the need to work collectively or the commonality of life’s struggles? The Bahamian people are nothing if not genuinely nice people.

The government of the Bahamas is typically third world with nepotism and cronyism being an adjunct of the weak political system, which wields power whimsically, often with tepid results. Yet they continue to try and that is good.

It is hard not to like the Abacos especially when cruising the family islands and smaller settlements away from Marsh Harbour. The real Abacos is placid and laid-back with a familiar softness that is comfortable. It is a serious cruiser’s paradise with each cay releasing its own beguiling virtues leisurely and its waters captivating although cool just now. My favorite are the placid anchorages off a quiet beach, backed by a tiki bar shrouded in the shade of curved swaying palm trees overlaid with the soft grating of rake and scrape music wafting from a distant venue. There is nothing for it. The Abacos is seductive, its charm delicious and a recipe for a walkabout on the Skinwalker as the winds abate and the water warms.

Winter in Bahamas

2010-02-02T06:30:00.001-05:00

Skinwalker Log, February 2, 2010, Tuesday, 0630 hrs

Boat Harbour, Marsh Harbour, Abaco, Bahama

Some may say, after this log, that I don’t like winter in the Bahamas. Not true.

Tom Conrad, a fellow scribbler, brings it close to the truth, with understatement, as he admits his expectations were not the same as the reality. Tom sees the good in everything. The next time we meet I will remind him that angst is the seed of literature.

I believe a bit of enlargement pushes a yarn along. But in this log to prevent damage to others’ expectations, hyperbole perhaps should be hobbled. This log should be a factual narrative like weather reports or world news. Well, maybe not the news. News is historical after all and only the survivors write history. Come to think of it, news readers are pretty good at taking a circle of facts and with a practiced twist make a pretzel, still the truth, but different. So it is with the Bahamas.

This archipelago of islands tricks you with its stunning variations of water color and gorgeous sand beaches fringed with sets of coconut palms and scrubby mangroves. The many hues, shapes and sizes of reef fish are exciting and the local cuisine differs enough to elicit interest, but same enough to enjoy. So what is the problem and how can I justify whining that perfection is not perfect?

I hasten to remind all that I am an Arizona boy, and a Florida resident and, quite frankly, I don’t do cold. Never have and never hope to embrace the weather systems that bring the cold. Besides, if I enjoyed cold I would be with my ex-wife. Now there is cold. She was so cold I wore insulated pajamas to bed to prevent freezer burn. Yes, I know cold. Cold is when you can’t pee in the woods without fear of losing body parts. Cold is when you can’t make love in a field with, oh, never mind.

The wind blows in the Bahamas, sometimes less than others. But almost always it blows and blows. There have been five days in two months that the wind did not blow. We are not sailboat people. We like them well enough, but we do trawlers--don’t need and don’t want the wind. Wind makes waves. Sometimes wind moves boats not so well anchored in the shallow sands of the Abacos. That is no fun.

The water is cold. Even with a wet suit the water is cold after the first few cold fronts. It takes effort to enjoy snorkeling when the water is cold. You have to want it to spend an hour in the water. On occasion, the water will warm enough to enjoy a day, but be mindful and ready to go.

We are staying in one of the largest marinas in the Bahamas. The resort is simply beautiful, with heated pool, tennis courts, beach, fine dining, all nestled in lush landscape in a keen locale. It could be a resort in any southern beach town in the US, which is part of the problem; we are in the Bahamas. While a wonderful place, there are so many North Americans here that it doesn’t feel Bahamian. Marsh Harbour loses some of its charm by being a primary supply hub for the family islands in the Abacos and so follows Boat Harbour Marina, too big and too busy to properly exhibit that delightful syrupy slowness, that laid back attitude which prevails in armchair musing of the Bahamas.

I am not a group person--big surprise there. Boat Harbour is for people who enjoy group activities of every ilk. Yes, you can enjoy other couples in more intimate settings, but there is always significant pressure to be a member of the larger group events. It is easy to relegate ones self to outcast status. There is a balance each person must find and hold close on the social titter-totter.

Aw, but the real Bahamas is only a scratch away. The water may still be cool, the breeze a bit brisk and anchoring indeed can pose its challenges, but the Bahamas are what they are and once understood you file your expectations and enjoy what is offered. Part of that offering is the tiki bars—another big surprise, yes?

I enjoy Saturday, steak night at the Jib Room in Marsh Harbour and listening to subtle Bahamian melodies such as “Who Put the Pepper in the Vasoline” best performed by a Rake n’ Scrape duo. That a person occasionally falls off a dock or down on the dance floor isn’t a problem. The challenge is not to step on them while dancing or allowing them to sleep in the water.

I love the Sunday afternoon pig roast at Nippers on Guana Cay. The food is Bahamian, the Frozen Nipper strong, the bikinis enticing and the crowd noisy.

Grabbers nestled in the palms down the hill is set on a Polynesian-like lagoon that is postcard picture perfect and a nice respite from the rancor at Nippers.

Elbow Cay offers Captain Jacks that hangs over the Hope Town harbour. The small, protected mooring field is studded with cruising boats loosely packed as sardines. The red striped lighthouse on the hill maintains a one-eyed vigil over it all. Sea Spray Marina is down island from Hope Town.

Down south is Pete’s Pub in Little Harbour. It can be treacherous in some regards to get there. But you pick a good day and go. Pete’s I hold dear. An overhead deck is the roof for this wall-less bar, the floor nothing more than a sand beach that trickles down to the water’s edge. Oddly it reminds me of a lonely Mexican Cantina in the middle of a Milagro bean field. It is comfortable, local and quiet. Don’t beach your dinghy at high tide. You know what I mean? They serve Blasters here. Make sure your dinghy knows how to get back to the mother ship before getting Blasted.

Oh, there is so much more than the tiki bars to explore yet they seem to be a part of each day whether you are snorkeling an inner reef, making your way through the shallow tidal flows of Old Robinson Bight, diving for conch off Johnny’s Key, searching the grass edges for lobster condos, or fishing a pass.

It is expensive to enjoy the offerings of the tiki huts. Bar food sandwiches range mostly from twelve to eighteen dollars and drinks seven to ten dollars each—rather like New York City. But there is nothing to do for it, so after a while you simply spend the money. Wiling the afternoon away can easily lighten our load by a hundred dollar bill, so we pace such events as we can.

The wind will moderate for the next couple of days allowing us to explore either by dinghy or mother ship or both. We look forward to a bit of adventure away from the marina.

I do like the Bahamas with its isolated places along the road less traveled and it exceeds my expectations in that regard. When the wind holds us captive we cannot explore nearly as often as desired. The cool curtails daily underwater curiosity. Yet, the ripe roundness of the conch horn sounding each day home leaves a mellow contentment to settle over us, a feeling that is uniquely Bahamian.

Tomorrow we taste more of the Bahamas. I think Man-o-War Cay.

Bones

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Consulting my personal A.D.D

2009-12-10T05:31:00.003-05:00

NOTE: This was a personal email to Friend Fred Meyers who among many accomplishments wrote and published cruising guides on the Tombigbee, Tennessee, and the Cumberland Rivers. This personal email during construction morphed into whatever it is now. I am sorry Fred, but it simply took off, got out of control and took a hard jog to avoided sublime and ensure the ridiculous. You of all people should understand how this can happen and how it blindly takes us to unknown spaces.

Dear Editor Fred,

How are you my friend? How good to read from you. You’re right, I have not been writing on the book as diligently as we had previously discussed.

Soon, I hope, writing chapters instead of stuffing the email eggplant with filler will be the order of the morning. You are correct, Baltimore pirating with all the pretty horses is a massive distraction. Course the Bahamas has its own way of claiming attention. I now understand and pity the child with Attention Deficit Disorder.

(a few minute pause thinking about how one might get distracted)

I was just consulting my personal A.D.D. inside me where it resides, roams freely and continues to be an acquaintance of mine. I have concluded there is a positive side of A.D.D. and upon a more intimate review, I discovered some odd yet undeniable facts. When you spend a little time on it, there may be more good than bad, and have you ever noticed it is only males who are so categorized. Wow. I think I’m on to something here. If a male child cannot stay focused and on task for very long he may be considered having a deficit condition. If it is a young girl the behavior is defined as a primary learning tool for a lifelong adventure in multi-tasking. If male and in your sixties and exhibit the same behavior your retired and having way too much fun or as Lynn likes to explain it about me , “…he has simply failed to grow-up…”. Adult women mask the scourge of flight hither and yon by insisting: “well, someone has to do the work around here”. How do they get away with that stuff? Oh, yeah, I temporarily lost my senses, women are always right. How could I have forgotten?

I submit to you that A.D.D. is an excellent development tool that sets up young men to be aggressively curious and causes them to stick their fingers in so many pies that sooner or later they will pull out a plum they find so delicious they decide to mine that fruit for all its worth.

In fact I bet that is how you got to be my editor and I am happy for your opportunity to bake up a sinfully good experience for all to sample. A collection of musings hot and sweet yet hints of tartness with full-bodied taste on the front end that slims to a fairly light aftertaste drawing you back to the fruit for another taste. (Barf, I’m gagging)

Because of the delicacy of this half-baked wonder, you could not possibly abuse this fruit by canning it, could you now?

Oh, by the way, did I tell you about the Conch Salad they have here? Today’s adventure will be searching not for the lost shaker of salt, although that is a continuing theme, but seeking the perfectly shaped full-lipped conch with color shading to a ruddy pink interior. Fortunately Conch do not, as a rule, have A.D.D. Can’t you just imagine this huge snail hauling his conch butt across the Sea of Abaco with this big sand trail rooster tailing up behind him or streaking through the sea grass on the bottom with his tail on fire, flames streaming behind him or would it only be steam?

Soon as we find the conch, mon, we be off seeking the big bug lobster. Not sure when, but I promise to send you the next chapter real soon. Hey, look. Is that a school of snapper hanging under the boat? Editor Dude, I got to go, there are things that need doing.

Bones

Getting to the Bahamas

2009-12-06T14:10:00.001-05:00

I am sitting here at one of the Abaco Beach Resort & Marina swimming pools. I am patiently waiting for the bar in the middle of the pool to open. I don’t think it opens until 0700 hrs. But I am, as suggested, a patient man when waiting for rum. I smell the cook house. It smells good, but I do not smell the rum, so I wait. In fact there was a party here last night with two-for-one drinks. The place, of course, was flooded with cruisers. So many cruisers it took me 20 minutes to get my two expensive rum punches and then I forgot to get Lynn’s wine. Patience is a virtue and a hell of a lot easier when I have rum punch in each hand. I went back for her wine, very happy to wait.

This week I have been fearful of just about everything. Nervous about our crossings of Okeechobee, the Gulf Stream, Little Abaco Bank and crossing from island to island in the Sea of Abaco in our dinghy and concerned about anchoring and the mooring ball and afraid of getting lost again in the dinghy in the night after several Sundowners, a rum drink. Never mind that I got lost at Green Turtle Cay between Settlement Point and Black Sound entrance, a matter of a 100 yards or so in a straight line. Few would understand that challenge unless they had several Sundowners also, which is why Lynn didn’t even know we were lost I suspect.

I have been frightened of everything except my morning coffee. Then the day before we left for the Bahamas the darn cup full of coffee took a running jump at my computer and did a cannonball in the middle of the keyboard. I sat transfixed as the coffee, in slow motion, wobbled to the edge of the cup then concentrated all its energy back to the middle of the cup and exploded up and outward in a starburst of smoothness that then descended on to the keyboard several feet to starboard. Every key, except “Esc” and “Control”, held an opaque, golden tan pool of former goodness. It is odd that those keys were spared, since I couldn’t escape and had no control of anything. If I could drown in a cup of water (I haven’t yet, which is why avoid water and stick to rum), I guess it is reasonable to understand the demise of my computer in a partial cup of coffee. Father Phil of Curmugeon, a computer security pro, is currently performing the post-mortem. So, now I even fear my coffee.

It started last Monday. (Oh crap, a coconut just landed next to me and scared it out of me. Hmm, I should put lime in da coconut ‘n shake it all up. I’m beginning to like this place). As I was saying, last Monday 0’ dark thirty, we were in Stuart, Florida staged and ready to depart for the Bahamas. The day before we had scouted the pass from the ICW to the St. Lucie outer marker. Piece of cake.

We were up at 0330 and underweigh using our computer cookie trails from the day before to help guide us out channel across the ICW and out the pass. To be candid it was a darn sight easier the day before in the daylight. As we departed Manatee Pocket, I suddenly switched into panic attack function (OMG), where up is down and down is sideways and radar is wrong and the course line doesn’t stay under the little ship-like cursor of my charting system. Lynn sensed my disoriented state and stepped up or perhaps sidestepped into her Zen mode as she stood outside with million candle power beam seeking out our next mark, secure in her ability, and confidently, in a calm knowing voice, guided me ever so nicely out of the channel and on to a mud flat. But at least she did it with panache and it was skillfully accomplished. I was very impressed. We got to the outer marker at about the same time we would have if we had left at first light, but who cares. Really, it is the adventure that counts. Yeah, right.

Now for those of you that have made this crossing you know all the feelings and the wonders it provides so you may want to move on to another person’s blog, but for those who have not done this or simply want the visual of my green pants turning brown stick around. I can only revert to one of my pirate crews’ text expressions: OMG,or Oh..MY…GOD…. In my case it is often interchangeable with OS or Oh, Sh-t!

As we cleared the St Lucie outer marker we turned 45 degrees south for a 16 mile jaunt down and out to the Gulf Stream rather then head due east to the stream only 10 miles off-shore. We do this because, as our boating friends know, the Gulf Stream runs 2-4 knots north and, hence, rather than fight it the whole way across we can go south before we get to it then point straight east and end up in the right spot due to the current pushing us north as we motor east across the stream. (Deedra forget it. Its not that important.)

Being a Nervous Nelly and knowing the fickleness of the Stream and the capricious weather of the Florida Strait we choose weather like elves choose cookies. Both must be uncommonly good. For us a crossing, any crossing (except crossing a Street to a bar) forecast, must be 2’ or less for the seas and under 10 kts for the wind, and, oh yes, it must be out of the south for this crossing to prevent beating against the standing waves created from wind blowing against current. We like this very conservative forecast because, most of the time, just when you get to depend on a forecast being accurate, it is OMG/OS much worse and you die or at least wish you had. This day we were lucky, the seas are as forecasted and the sun spun up once again and turned the calmish seas the color of a peeled blood orange after the first bite.

So the Gulf Stream is really a river in the ocean which doesn’t make a lot of sense until you get to there, because that is exactly what you see - a river in the ocean. We got to the edge of the Gulf Stream and it was as if we were standing on the shore at the river’s edge. OMG. There was a line of color change, but more so a distinct change in the water shape. The wind blowing out of the south was going with the stream and this day the water in the Gulf Stream river was flat and so where a few yards before it was rougher and ruffled from the 5 mph breeze it was calm and flat in the river and the color, the color I have never seen before in nature. It was a rich, creamy, cobalt blue with endlessness to the colors depth that said, “I am deep, I am strong, I am the Gulf Stream”.

The Stream itself only takes us about six hours to cross from Florida to the Little Bahamas Bank. We knew that when we crossed onto the Bank we would have a depth change from 2,000 ft depth to 13-foot depth. OMG, we didn’t know it was going to happen in about one boat length. As we approached the bank we could see it by the color change about a mile away. As we crossed on to the bank the depth went so very quickly from 2,000 to 300 ft and then it seems like in one boat length we went from the color of deep space Cobalt blue to the sharpest, brightest, purist Arizona turquoise that we have ever seen. It was brilliant, almost blinding, as we skittered across into 13 foot of water of the White Sand Ridge onto the Bank.

We trudged on across the bank for 25 miles and as the earth churned the sun into a hot buttery set we dropped anchor and enjoyed the solitude and the quiet contrast of sunset and darkening azure six inch seas—in the middle of the Little Bahama Bank--aka nowhere. Nowhere was the perfect anchorage this evening as a full moon towed by the sun on a long leash shed its grace on Skinwalker. We have arrived in Paradise—now where are those 72 virgins we have heard about so much lately?

Being a master of a pirate ship

2009-11-29T18:34:00.000-05:00

Friends,

Many people do not understand why I enjoy being the Master of the FEARLESS the Urban Pirate Ship in Baltimore. I don't truly understand it myself, therefore one day I held a "focus group" of natives in a one on one and group meetings to help me come up with the hard answers.

Bones

Loving my life: Music, manatees, and phosphorescence

2009-11-06T17:18:00.000-05:00

To the sounds of a DJ playing spinning 60’s tunes the sun is steadily tugging cover of night from the east over the SKINWALKER. There is a seriously overweight manatee floating in peaceful slumber 50 foot from the boat bobbing like a gray cork in the Manatee Cove Marina basin. Once every few minutes it slow raises its ugly head exposing his nose to breath and more frequently raises its tail to pass gas. Have you ever in your life encountered a worse scent than a manatee fart? Three tight body soldiers, female, tight jeans, tight shirts, head for the tiki bar to pick up a man for the night or perhaps longer. An unknown group is covering “I can’t help falling in love”, while two airmen attempt to sing along. An enlisted Mom in uniform escorts her two kids along the dock. Two staff Sergeants un-tip two plastic pipe chairs and pull them up to the plastic table to the threads of a Hawaiian slide guitar piece while the wind complains moderately overhead. The manatee farts again and the very slight current slowly draws the sleepy creature closer to our boat. It is 76.6 degrees and the low puffy clouds explain the barometer is rising. The slide guitar morphs into a quick island tune with the steel drums attempting to keep up with the fast paced vocals of a Jam’ mon. Forest fatigues flood the tiki hut and a girl with huge breast and a tight knit V tee draws their attention as she walks up—with a guy. I can almost hear the disappointed groans wrenched from the fatigues of whom most will not get laid tonight. The DJ sits stoic, bored with his sloppy and ill-prepared set of ancient music nobody really cares much about except those already drunk. Big breasts and her beau come by and chat up Lynn, who is sitting on the back deck, as the band in the box sputters out a medley of old Christian tunes promising this Little Light of Mine, Swing Lo Sweet Chariot, The River is Deep and Wide and others. The DJ’s play list is eclectic if nothing else.

Tonight the water will sparkle with phosphorescence as I urinate into it or a mullet jumps or the manatee farts sending up a mass of bubbles that excite the creatures that glow. I sneer in disgust, yet happy for the manatee in that its flatulence excites something. Red, Red Wine accompanies the slow sensuous bootie rhythm as a woman moves it gently back up against a sergeant that pretends to ignore her. Jimmy Buffet laments his lost shaker of salt followed by Eilene Quinn doing an unorthodox version of What do You do With a Drunken Sailor.

Hot damn, I love my life,

Bones

No see’ ums in the heart of lowcountry

2009-10-24T19:00:00.000-04:00

Beaufort South Carolina, heart of the Lowcountry

There is a softness to the ambient glow of sunlight in the Lowcountry. One senses, but cannot see, a hint of amber that comforts in the slightest of visual caresses. It’s the same feeling one gets from tanned skin on an attractively dress person. It is the sense of a perfect homemade loaf of bread. It’s the wonder of a tide washed beach that glistens warmly. It is the elusive light one cannot easily capture in photos, but yet it is there and affects every view. The light compliments life like an amber ale does a warm lazy afternoon. I often wonder if it is the soft glow of light that encourages southerners slower speech and the penchant for enjoying a laidback lifestyle.

The light entrances me. I love its hypnotic effect on the endless flow and ebb of tidal waters. I find contentment in the early sun grazing the top of marsh grass. The light is majestic as it holds court in the tops of the full, strong oak tops and dances under them, weak and with modesty.

It is not just the light of course; it is the people, their attitude toward life founded on a comfortable blend of tidal bays and creeks complimented by islands of forested green melded together with the grandeur of the lowcountry marsh. It is the blend of creatures and croplands that allowed for a simple peaceful existence with plentiful living, but one not easily acquired.

But no paradise can take full measure of itself unless it has a standard against which to measure. For every ying there is a yang.

No see’ ums. They are those little flying jaws of full bred evil. Annoying little bastards. Off-spring, no doubt, of frivolous mosquitoes and biting black flies; and more of them than grains of sand on the beach, more than leaves of marsh grass, more than raindrops in a thunderstorm. They cloud the sky, they get in your hair, they enter your mouth, they climb in your ears. These flying piranhas are the great equalizer. You get used to them or you don’t and that makes the difference between loving Beaufort or failing to see the light.

So in late afternoon the snapping hordes of jaws gather and we adjourn from our afternoon tea on the aft deck, spray all the screens and sequester ourselves with beverage and book or congenial talk about the man eating bugs coating the boat windows. The buggy population will largely decrease in volume with the setting sun and we can turn our thoughts to the restaurant up the hill with scent of beans baking on a tray under the ribs cooking and dripping goodness of the flavored juices and small pieces of meat joining with the beans. What is on your plate for dinner?

Tribute to MV AVALON

2009-10-22T12:00:00.000-04:00

This log is for Joanne & Mark aboard the MV AVALON. We had the honor of sharing a couple of days with these seasoned cruisers who have not previously experienced the Atlantic Intra-Coastal Waterway.

The doe was alone. Dipping her head to lap up water, raising it to measure SKINWALKERS intent, lowering to the water once again. She lives in the Waccamaw River plain where land and water often seem never to be one or the other; where there are no edges to define the threshold of either . It seems a mystical place where common creatures of the earth might feel the presence of a unicorn without wonder. Man is invading and with him corruption of the natural wonders to fit his image of what nature and creature comfort should be, but that is digression.

The Waccamaw, with ancient talents, holds its own, maintaining a syrupy beauty. The adaptation of flora and fauna to the infirmity of the land and the thickness of the water is unique. To me the area between Socaste Swing Bridge and the high rise bridge before Georgetown, SC is a delicious cornucopia of natural delights. The silence of the night is enriched by the occasional owl call, a soft trill of another bird, a small fish breaking into the air and quiet rustling in the reeds of unknown origin—perhaps the Unicorn. Perhaps during the day you will enjoy the purple haze of the now wild rice growing at the edges and the hand dug ditches some lined with wood and poles and the eagles posted high as if a sentinel offering safe passage for each passing cruiser.

The Waccamaw is the northern end of South Carolina’s Coastal plains speckled heavily with wooded islands and areas of marsh grass that are islands at low tide and shallows at high tide. This is the Lowcountry with its thick muck that is, in fact, older then dirt. It’s the home of gentle people and exquisite foods, where cooked beans can be a delicacy and pulled pork a treasure.

I think you’re going to like South Carolina as you come along the waterway.

Bones

Freezing my butt off

2009-10-18T03:30:00.000-04:00

The bitter darkness outside lacks sunlight and warmth. The darkness inside reeks of something mean and sharp edged, heartless. You can sense its power to rend jagged holes in your psyche by creeping across your skin and through your bones. It slices at my sense of adventure while taunting and molesting my sensibility. It is what I dislike and run from at every opportunity—It is cold weather.

I am frigging freezing my butt off, friends.

We skittered out of Baltimore like a blowing leaf in autumn and landed first in Solomons then juked down the bay to Portsmouth attempting to clear the Chesapeake before the winds stuffed us into a hidey hole. Instead we traveled in the protection of the Dismal Swamp to Elizabeth City to take refuge only to find a week of projected winds and cold so we took a chance on the sometimes treacherous crossing of the Albemarle Sound in 15 knots of wind chasing us with 2 ft seas combined with a 2-3 ft swell on our beam which produced a snotty corkscrewed roll for two hours and finally hit the Pungo Canal where we now lie in the Pungo River safe, tired and FRIGGING COLD.

I don’t like being cold and swathed in three and four layers of clothes. I don’t like the ripping hard-bladed wind cutting at my face and hands. People are not designed to be cold. They are built to be naked and comfy warm. (no visuals, please)

My world is bitter cold and gray. The sky flint colored with mean short stubs of layered clouds, the water an oily gray and the nights dark and windy. My world is presently Bleak. Desolute. Colorless. Misery loves company and we have a buddy boat, AVALON with Mark & Joanne to share our whining and wine. But they are from Maine and not all that sympathetic with our plight. Never-the-less good company.

But do not cry for me. I can whine for myself easily enough. Besides, soon enough I will be basking in the sunny goodness of a Bahamian beach front bar while many of my friends will continue to sulk in the cold north wind.

Extremes are the way of cruising, one day of indescribable light and goodness another day one whining about living in a scene from Cormac McCarthy’s dreadful imagination. Wonder if its above freezing in Oriental, NC our stop tonight.

Door on Baltimore is closing

2009-10-10T18:23:00.000-04:00

There’s an empty barge being pushed toward the inner harbor no doubt heading for the dry dock. The forward lookout, hands jammed into his pockets, hunches into the unseasonable sharp edged breeze.

Two trawlers with southing in mind chug their way toward the Key Bridge. Each captain is allowing hope for calm seas to overwhelm the reality of the weather forecast. The adrenaline rush of getting underway has clouded their judgment as it does even experienced cruisers. They might get their ass kicked, but will find a gentle anchorage and sit it out having completed the task of getting underway.

The chilling air fosters a stirring within. It brings a rush of mental checks that winds through a pre-departure list of things to do, culling, sorting, and deleting items now less important to the goal of leaving. The urgent mental lists vaporize and reform like puffy white clouds into an emotional yearning. The yearning flows out of my soul and, in transit, evolves as a physical desire in my feet to move on. My feet are itching. The door on Baltimore is closing even as the sun breaks the horizon. The piratical urges to be aboard the FEARLESS are dwindling rapidly.

My feet are feeling the sands of the Bahamas. I want that tee shirt.

Capt. Bones

USS FEARLESS

AKA Wayne & Lynn Flatt

MV SKINWALKER