I was just watching the infernal TV tube, the news (which is about all I watch these days) and learned of the most recent faux-pas by our insidious jerkoff-in-chief, most blatantly comrade obama, and his utter disrespect and embarrassing treatment towards Great Britain’s’ PM Brown. For those who haven’t heard, the new boy in the white house snubbed our closest ally in several reprehensible ways.

First, as is customary with a new president, symbolic and valuable gifts were exchanged with our greatest supporter, England.

PM Brown presented the Untied States the usual cadre of priceless and thoughtfully chosen gifts including a first edition of one of Churchill’s books, and a pen holder created from wood of the Resolute’s sister ship…..in response, it seems our newly elected joker presented our closest friends with a set of 25 DVD’s of American “classic” movies (including ET and Psycho), which unfortunately are not able to be played in GB due to recording incompatibilities. In addition he returned a bust of Winston Churchill that was given the US on 9-11 as a gesture of the solidarity between our two nations.

And, to add insult to injury, PM Brown was even denied a formal state dinner here (no $100 a pound Kobi beef for you sir….we have to reserve that for dignitaries like Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson and Louis Farrakan….).

Real classy moves obongo….

So, I am posting this rant to apologize to all of you in Great Britain, our Mother Country for this utter undiplomatic and undeserved slap in the face. I am thoroughly disgusted, ashamed and embarrassed of my government, and want you to know that I in no way support their abominable behavior. Many of us see this president and his gang of thugs as a colorful (but pathetically dangerous) version of the Beverly Hillbillies  (another American classic and one our esteemed president would do well to take note of).

There are many of us who resist him with all the defiance that this nation is still capable of mustering.

Of course, you probably already have gathered that if you read any of this stuff that gets put here on this site….You know that I am well aware of where our sailing blood here in the “colonies” originated, the very blood that courses through my veins. Our history is forever entwined, and we will always be inseparable as people. We are brothers of the sea, bound together by that element. No governments shall come between us!

My admiration and awe of ya’ll borders on reverence, and as Americans we still have a great deal to learn. …

You know, there’s projects for the dead, and there’s projects for the living,

Though sometimes I must confess….I get confused by that distinction

-So I just throw myself into the arms of that which would betray me.

Jim White, Still Waters

Janice Called D and asked her for antibiotics.

They weren’t for her, they were for Dockboy2 who it turns out had been ambu-vaced earlier in the day after having almost severed several of his fingers in some sort of “tool accident”. This new incarnation of Dockboy is living aboard a derelict Buccaneer 26 with two dogs and zero employment at Pelicans Point nee Anchor Marina.

I couldn’t help but wonder to myself about this latest incident.

I have seen the same scene repeated over and over throughout my years on the water, many Dockboys, in many different forms. It is the same dance, and only the faces change. This latest incarnation of Dockboy is no exception. Content with sitting under a moldering tarp in the filthy cockpit of his boat, drinking tall boys and smoking pot, he rarely has funds for extravagant things like slip rent, transportation, human and dog food. I have thought of being benevolent and suggesting that he eat his dogs, even further cutting down on expenses. Then he could afford more tall boys and pot…

I have no trouble with Dockboys as long as they do not impinge on my personal space. Unfortunately and by design that is exactly what they do.

Take for example the case of Junkie Joe.

Many years ago, in another life (and seemingly on another planet), I had escaped to Kodiak Alaska to lick my wounds. I had every intention on working, but because of a fisherman’s strike, we were tied up in town. Hell, I couldn’t even get on a boat for awhile. Fortunately I got the chance to babysit a forty foot salmon seiner, the Shane.  It was a cold winter, and commodities were at a premium. No work in the canneries, no work at sea, no work anywhere, and everybody was hungry.

Right after Thanksgiving, I ran out of diesel fuel, having no money to replenish the tank, and the diesel fed stove / heater went cold. To top it off I got a case of flu which turned into some kind of pneumonia, and for weeks on end I just lay hacking and coughing, bundled up in my mummy bag, watching my breath freeze in beautiful patterns on the portlight next to my bunk. Fortunately, I was not alone in the community and friends periodically checked on me to make sure that I had not died.

As I remember the strike lasted a long time, and as I got well I visited boat to boat, imposing on their kindness for a bit of food, which for everybody was at a premium. To this day the smell of a pot of spaghetti evokes memories of good friendship, games and most of all, music.

Having been a musician most of my life, it was the least I could contribute to these hard times, and more than one night would find me in the wheelhouse of some big old crabber, playing a borrowed guitar or banjo, jamming with the handful of other musicians intent on making their livings from the sea.

Junkie Joe lived somewhere in the bowels of the harbor,  probably wherever he could find a place to pass out. He was the local cocaine addict, and I have the impression of him showing up one night aboard the Shane, which was crowded with other fishermen and musicians. I had gotten a little money in the mail and promptly bought some diesel, firing up the stove and brewing a magical pot of boat coffee… He just stood there, blood streaming down both arms as he stared around the crevices of the little seiner. It gave me the creeps, but he left without a word, and later the party broke up and I went to sleep in a warm and cozy nest, wind howling a full gale outside, the boat pitching and rolling at the dock on her side tie.

Not long afterward, the guitar and banjo that I had borrowed went missing from the unlocked Shane. Nobody thought about locking boats in those days in that harbor. We all knew each other, and we all knew that all we had to do was ask to come aboard. Trust was implicit. It had to be, you had to trust your life to these folks when the ocean piped up and started playing hard ball.

I knew who had stolen those precious instruments.

I circulated the word among my friends aboard the other boats, the big high-liners and the dirty scows. It soon became evident that a rash of thefts had been occurring, and fingers were collectively  pointed at Junkie Joe.

The harbor takes care of its own, but even so, the local constabulary was alerted, and they made their compulsory investigation. No hard evidence was found. Sometime after that though, Junkie Joe was seen leaving a local boat in the middle of the night, a boat that was not occupied, so that was all the  confirmation the harbor needed.

In typical fishermen’s justice, everybody in the harbor got together and pitched in what they could (I had maybe a dollar and some change, which I gladly contributed), and we bought Junkie Joe a one way ticket on Wien Air to Seattle. Two of the biggest baddest Mankato boys escorted the guy to the Kodiak airport and left him waiting there for his flight out.

It was almost immediately afterward that the strike broke and the season opened up. I went to work aboard the Express, and the first several trips I made went to pay off the stolen instruments. Hell yes I thought about it out there. Every time a big boiling wave washed over the rail as I stood aching, coiling line, doused in ice cold, mind numbing water I cursed Junkie Joe and myself for not locking the Shane, for tolerating a malignant Dockboy, for allowing him aboard in the first place.

When we returned from the Shelikof Straights, from the Semidi Islands, Kodiak Harbor was abuzz. It seems that Junkie Joe had cashed in his ticket and decided to return to the harbor.

Toots Laraway told me how Junkie Joe had been found floating face down in a slip on the first finger, having apparently tripped and fallen in the freezing water. An unfortunate accident.

End of problem.

My infernal cell phone rang Monday. It was The Commander. “Hey man…guess what the latest victim of the George Bush Administration is?” he said with a snicker.

I knew he was jerking my anchor rode.

“I can’t begin to imagine” I said.

“Boaters World” he continued with a note of incredulity in his voice.

I could tell he had been crying.

After all, (Motor) Boaters World is the closest thing we had down here on the third world-third coast to a marine supply store. Certainly no Wal-Mart of a place like the big West Marine stores up in Kemah, but still, it filled the bill. Now we are in a place where everything must be ordered, or at the very least a road trip to the Blue Water Ships Store, West Marine or Boaters Worlds in Corpus Christi would be in order…..

“ROAD TRIP!” I interjected jubilantly.

The tide of the Commanders’ somber tone turned and he returned to his former optimistic self. “Yea….this could actually be a good thing” he mused.

“After all” I continued, “We have amassed, and are about to amass substantial mitigation credits”. “Right” he agreed. “Hey what’s going on with your shifter cable?” he asked…..

Last Friday I was moving ECII to a new slip due to the fact that the marina is finally getting it’s act together and repairing the Hurricane Dolly damaged infrastructure, the twisted and mangled docks that we have all had to negotiate as obstacle courses since that little chubasco back in July. Personally, I have found the obstacle course of angular planking and general offset to be rather challenging, especially after an evening uptown..

In the process, as I moved the old girl to her new temporary digs, the transmission shift cable, which apparently became bound up at the gear shift end, bent the stainless steel rod, and consequently I was left singlehanded aboard, stuck in forward heading directly for the dock. Fortunately the wind had not yet piped up, and I reached down, killed the engine and drifted rather unceremoniously into the slip, with no subsequent harm to either the boat or the dock.

A couple of days later I called Wes Thom, one of the only boat doctors around and explained the problem. He said he’d send his guy, Manuel over to get the cable number and length. He said that he was “real good”.

So after lunch on Wednesday I met Manuel over at the boat. Manuel is about seventy, and seems to be sort of locked into his own world. Aren’t we all?

I explained the problem, noticing that all he had for in the way of tools was a flat screw driver, and a pair of needle nosed pliers. Wes had told me Manuel would bring all of the necessary tools and a mirror to check in those inaccessible areas for the part number. The first thing that he asked for was a flashlight. I asked him if he had a mirror, and he responded “no”. So, after borrowing a mirror from my neighbor on the Endeavour 37 next door he set to clearing out my carefully organized starboard side locker, tossing folded third world bimini, assorted parts and other items unceremoniously into the cockpit, burrowing down to the locker bottom like a giant gopher. He wedged himself into the space, but decided it was too tight to do anything in. I explained to him that the port side locker has more room, and he could perhaps get to the tranny connection from there. So now he sets about taking off all of my carefully coiled dock lines from their hooks in the port side locker over my protests that I leave them on whenever I stuff my bigass down into that space. Now my cockpit looks like the interior of the marine resale shop up in Houston as he disappears down into that hell hole.

Almost as soon as he goes down there, he re-emerges saying that he needs “things” to work down there.

Great.

By this time I am busy doing the Houdini thing on the starboard side, having gotten my head down there and seeing that the shifter end has numbers, and spying the bent rod in the process.

Once down there I realize I need tools too, maybe I can temporarily fix the thing, so I instruct Manuel to get my tool bag from behind the settee on the port side, down in the house. I hear him rooting around down there, and after an exchange that went something like this:

Me: I need a 3/8” open end wrench and a flat screw driver from that grey canvas bag…

Manuel: I don’t see it….

Me: Where are you looking? Its right there under the tool roll…

Manuel: What tool roll, I don’ see no tool roll…

Me: Where are you looking?

Manuel: In the yellow box on top of the grey bag…..

……We get everything straightened out, and I get the tools. I secure the cable where it had come loose, but according to Manuels’ confused and vague observations and the general feel of the shifter (which I am operating from inside the locker), I determine that I cannot straighten out the rod, and set about disconnecting the cable.

Oh Lord, I need more tools, so I extract myself from the locker, blood streaming down from various lacerations caused by protruding hardware, knife like house clamps and sharp edges, wade through the mess in the cockpit, and as I descend the ladder I see disaster in the interior of El Caribe II….Tools scattered everywhere, bags upside down, cushions askew, a locker door with a broken dog, hell it looks like we just had a serious knockdown, or maybe a hurricane has moved through leaving behind a wake of immolation.

For now though, I just descend down into the bowels of the starboard cockpit locker again, and after some disconnect, the offending cable is free, and Manuel has it in grimy hand. He goes shoreside, stowing the thing in Wes’ truck, returning long enough to throw my (formerly) neatly coiled lines, spare mainsail, washdown bucket, third-world bimini and other assorted gear into the lockers stating that he will “soon be back”, so after all, there’s no sense in putting them back neatly….

In a whirlwind he takes leave and I tiredly remove the mess from the lockers, stowing things back neatly where they belong, before descending back into the house to do likewise, hoping that the re-installation of the cable won’t produce the same results….

Where am I?

Some of you here know, those of you in distant areas may not. For the time being I am still here. Olivia has sold, and El Caribe II is getting readied for the process. I just purchased a Navtex reciever, and am looking at solar panels for the final upgrades. And, oh yea - get that pesky oil leak taken care of on the main engine. 

I moved the old girl recently and in the process the shifter cable bound up, and came disconnected, necessitating its replacement. A warning sign that I haven't been mobile enough with her lately. Well at least in preparation I had the hull and prop cleaned and the center board trunk cleaned out......

It has been a funky winter with one cold front after another slamming into us....none real large, but just aggrevating enough to turn the Gulf into a seething chocolate mikshake, a pounding beat 'em up ride.....one I've sought to avoid.

Other changes.....hmmmmmm. Think I'll leave those stories for later. And I have amassed a few stories... Things are OK (except for the state of the economy, the state of the nation, the state of the state, the state of the world....).

Oh yea.....if you don't find much new stuff here try the Eye of the Hurricane blog (it allows me to use a bit more -ahem- creativity....There's a link to it on the sidebar.

You’ve got to go slow below the surface….and easy through the waves, you’ve got to make a stand….while you still can

-Dan Fogelberg:  Slow Below the surface

You can really tell who cares about  you when the bad times come. Right now I am sitting in the (warm) cabin of El Caribe II as the storm outside and inside rages.

I am alone.

Please though do not feel sorry or embarrassed for me. This has only hastened my resolve to clear out of this ugly winter port and go somewhere else, somewhere warm.

Christmas is an ugly time too, but I wish for all of who have things to lose to consider that and take it to heart.  Perhaps I did not do so soon enough. Perhaps I found it hard to trust the direction of the wind, or the song of the sea or the fact that I did have a few things worth staying for. In retrospect perhaps the child in me did not see that.  

Perhaps.

It will soon be time for me to learn to singlehand, to put things on the shelf and to search for stories godknowswhere.

It was a fun ride, and one that I would not trade, only make a few better choices than I did.

I am thankful though for what I had and what I have.

In the end a person has only themselves.

If I have disappointed any of you, please forgive me.

Below is the comprehensive log of the ketch Olivia, as she made her way north from Port Isabel  to Rockport. The journey was  accomplished over the three days spanning October 10^th to October 12^th, 2008 covering a distance of 154 miles through the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway (GICWW).

The GICWW is narrow and treacherous in places. Definitely somewhere one doesn’t want to travel after dark. A poorly maintained channel was initially dredged to 16 feet, but storms and recent budget cuts to the Army Corps of Engineers have relegated this inland passageway to a low priority item.

Mostly barges navigate this area of the ditch with a very few large pleasure craft thrown in for good measure. And it is constantly crisscrossed by small bay skiffs, scooters with powerful outboards in hopeful pursuit of trout, redfish and flounder, blasting through the various shallow embayments; Redfish Bay, Baffin Bay, Corpus and Aransas Bays. From here to Corpus Christi it is virtually unpopulated by humans except about thirty miles to the north, at the town of Port Mansfield. In addition to large barge traffic, there are many fishing shacks built on the spoil islands or sometimes built on pilings along the channel, and some even built on floating platforms, towed out by boat and anchored in place. The only access to any of them is by water, so weekends can be a very crowded place along the way.

The weather window looked pretty good over the period we selected and so I began work last Wednesday getting everything cleaned up, checked and ready. By Friday I felt we were ready.

Date: 10.10.08 / Depart: 0910 From: Port Isabel Modern Venice complex / Arrive: 1850,Landcut  / Wind: SE 8-16 mph / Skies: Clear / Water: Blue / Tides (PI): High: 0212, 2.06ft Low: 1823 0.99ft/Water temp: 82 deg F

0910 After a late start, we load enough provisions and items to make a decent passage to Isla Mujeres. Outside the channel, the winds are light, the skies are breathtakingly clear, the day is warm. As soon as the Westerbeke warms up I pop out the mizzen and we set the main and 135% jib as we turn north up the intracoastal near the causeway underpass. A throttle setting of a little over 2000 rpm combined with the three sails and a light wind keeps our over the water speed a little better than five and a half.  We busy ourselves with sail trim and a general tidying up. Near the entrance to the Three Islands area a consort of six ‘Possum cop patrol boats head south, roaring along until they get near. They cool the throttle, then accelerate once again as they clear our stern. Probably a bunch of rookies out training. Keeping us all safe from licenseless lawless criminals….

1305 Passing the Arroyo Colorado (N 26 21 790 W 097 19 536 / 22.9M) and all of it’s attendant spoil and confusing buoyage system. Briefly we bump as the GPS course shows the channel outside the green marker on our starboard side. We pick up a small pod of dolphins and they guide us safely to the other side where we are once again on our own. We pass Green Island and a multitude of fishing shacks, some several stories with satellite antennas for TV, solar and wind generators as well as the big diesel that powers everything from the lights to the air conditioners. I guess they really rough it out here…

1315 Pass six pack tow vicinity of marker 203. Advises us to pass on the one whistle (port side to port side)

1500 Aground in the GICWW near marker 159. West side of channel appears silted in with heavy clay. We are stuck fast, and no backing or wiggling will budge the boat, so I change into surf shorts, grab the big heavy 35 lb danforth storm anchor on the stern rail and go over the side. Finding the channel only about twenty feet from the stern, and sufficient water to float just several stinkin’ inches, we winch from the port sheet winch and finally ‘Div begins to budge. I jump aboard after setting the anchor out again, and with a combination of winch and reverse we are once again in the ditch and heading north.

1530 Passing Port Mansfield to the west (N 26 33 543 W 097 24 392 / 37.5M). I am momentarily tempted to pull in and make it a short first days run, just  try and make up for it the next two days, but the wind is now piping up and we are doing an easy seven, so we continue on in the golden bay on a golden day. There is no other traffic in sight, not even a fishing skiff.

1850 Beginning of the land cut, about a mile or so in we find a dock that looks OK, right near dayboard 21 on the east side of the channel (N26 49 432 W 097 28 391 Daily total miles = 56.4 total miles = 56.4). There are what appears to be a couple of guys and their sons at the next cabin to the south so I holler over and ask if they think that it would be OK to tie up to the next dock, which looks like it has been unused for some time. The house is falling down, and there are no signs of humans. They tell us it’s fine and there’s plenty of water underneath us. I make several passes as we get it lined up in the wind and current, finally getting tied off and shut down. We clean things up and spray on mosquito repellant as the sun sinks and the swarms begin. A good breeze is blowing so I shove the windscoop down the forward hatch and we relax a bit with a beer and some tunes before going below and eating a dinner of chicken pasta salad. After dinner I hang a tiny powerful lantern from the mizzen and it lights up the entire cockpit, bringing in moths now as well as cinch bugs to join the pinche sancudos. I hope the light will let any oncoming barges know we’re this close before they are on top of us. We are asleep by 2100 to the drone of our neighbors generator as they light up the whole landcut for hundreds of yards with fishing lights, waiting for the speckled trout to show up. During the night at approximately 0030 and 0200 we are passed by two different tows pushing barges both southbound and northound. Only on the GICWW southbound is called westbound and northbound is called eastbound.

Date: 10.11.08 / Depart: 0710 From: Landcut / Arrive: 1930, Port Aransas  / Wind: SE 4-30 mph / Skies: clear to rainy / Water: blue  to offcolor/ Tides (CC): High: 0154, 1.99ft Low: 0847, 1.57ft, High 1034, 1.59ft Low 1827, 0.77ft/Water temp: 81 deg F

0710 Underway after cleaning up, adding 6 gallons of fuel,  making engine checks and getting things ready. Turn on the Spot, the GPS the VHF, fire up the engine and glide out onto an early morning void of wind and cloud, and soon the only sound is the pulse of Olivia’s iron heart. We glide along the landcut, down the channel, setting the big main and mizzen sail at the first hint of breeze. There is a following current and we make a good six and a half along the ditch. Along the eastern horizon the sun is hidden behind distant dark clouds so the clear sky morning is tinged with subdued gold, heavy blue and velvety grays under the long morning shadows

0800 Passing tow on two whistles as we hug the west, the red side. The skipper thanks us for communicating with him telling us that we are a rarity among small boat mariners out here. On the port side we see the field of wind generators that are being constructed along the shoreline, hundreds of them. Far from detracting from the landscape, they lend a surreal beautiful presence. Clouds are gathering, thick and menacing from the east. The wind is beginning to pick up from the southeast.

0930 Passing tow MS Vecturian on one whistle. We wish each other a good day. I am hoping so.

1025 Exiting the first marker to the landcut in the south end of Baffin Bay (N27 06 650 W 097 26 465, 21.9mi., 78.3 total miles). Later we spot the platform JW2 and I tied up to what seems like an eternity ago as we delivered this special boat south. There are many fishermen out, zipping around the bay among the myriad of fishing shacks. We are soon joined by a contingent of playful bottlenose dolphins, and one especially playful one shadows our starboard side for more than ten minutes, intent on soaking everything in the cockpit with her exhalations. We continue on at an average speed of 6.5 SOG. We are in and out of overcast skies, and the wind is steady. It appears as though we have a following current as well. Lunch is pocket bread stuffed with ham, roast pork, Swiss cheese and hummus. Yummy.

1430 JFK causeway in sight. Civilization ahead.

1605 After an interminably long time with the span of the JFK looming ahead, we overcome the strong current on our nose which at times has us down to 5.9 SOG at a throttle of 2200rpm with sails still set as we finally pass underneath the causeway (N27 38 096 W 097 14 391 59.3mi, 115.7 total miles), past Snoopys and out into Corpus Christi Bay. Wind is up to around 20 to 25mph and as we exit the shelter of the spoil cut ‘Div lurches out into the generally nasty deep bay studded with production platforms. I am no fan of Corpus Christi Bay, and today is no exception. Although there is still over two hours till sunset, gathering clouds pregnant with rain create mist and obscure the view. Pitching and rolling along we are averaging better than 6.8 SOG. Ahead looms the “Eye of the Needle”, a dangerous intersection where traffic ranging from super tankers and barges to small craft like ours funnel together to either transit west towards Corpus Christi Port, eastward past Port Aransas and offshore or continue northbound along the shoreline past Ingleside, Portland and Aransas Pass. We reach the Eye around 1800, and turn north towards Port Aransas, dead into the wind. The big main begins to flog, and D gets beaned. I am immediately worried remembering last years Harvest Moon race when Gene, the commanders dad got so badly hurt by an accidental jibe, but thank goodness, she is OK, and so we douse the canvas without delay. We are drenched as closely spaced swell after closely spaced swell slam the bow creating breaking waves into the cockpit. Why does it have to be like this? Finally the car ferries come into sight and we are near the shelter of Port Aransas harbor.

1930 We enter the harbor (N 27 50 402 W 097 03 771, 81.1 mi., 137.6 total miles) and pull into a slip that I remember was transient dockage last year. I ask a sportfisherman cleaning his boat alongside, and he tells us that the transient is now “over by the boat ramp….new docks…..real nice” so we back out and head over there. Lo and behold, there’s Night Magic (sans Rocky), so we tie up several slips away. When we jump out onto the docks, a sign greets us saying that these slips are by advance registration only and all others will be towed away thank-you-very-much. So now we get on the phone and call ITJ (who had just been there several weeks earlier), and he tells us that the transient docks are in front of the pavilion, side ties. Back aboard once again, we steam over there and tie up as the skies let loose with rain. We briefly consider a hotel, but after talking with a harbor resident who lends us his key to the showers, we feel better, and tiredly walk around the harbor and to the first eatery we see, Fins. A humongous margarita, beer and crab burger later we stumble back to the boat and pass out. The rain has stopped and the wind pumps cool air down the hatch thanks to the wind scoop. Delicious sleep is instant, deep and black.

Date: 10.12.08 / Depart: 0835 From: Port Aransas / Arrive: 1130, Rockport  / Wind: SE 15-25 mph / Skies: clear / Water: blue  to offcolor/ Tides (PA): High: 0208, 1.92ft Low: 0759, 1.31ft, High 1422, 2.07ft Low 2031, 1.39ft/ Water temp: 81 deg F

0835 After settling up with the harbormaster ($20, no electricity used), making the engine checks we are under way and by 0900 are in the Lydia Ann Channel. There are sailboats anchored and people in pleasure craft everywhere, exploring the islands. Accompanied by more playful dolphins (and another one determined to flood the cockpit with his exhalations), we enter open Aransas Bay by 0930 (N 27 53 663 W 097 02 981, 4.2 mi, 141.7 total miles). The wind is on our stern, but we keep the sails on the boom. Just tired today. Anyway we are making over 7 SOG at a throttle setting of 2000rpm, so we just motor on toward Rockport. I call Art and he graciously finds us a slip and is waiting there as we turn west and roll toward the harbor entrance. The bay is rough and things are flying around down below as we turn along the jetty watching the seas overtop it now and then. There is the smell of food and the sound of lively music and people. Alongside the harbor, Sea Fair is taking place, Rockports’ largest annual event.

1130 Secured to mooring at Rockport Municipal harbor (N 28 01 479 W 097 02 919, 16.2mi., 153.7 total miles, 24hrs 55 minutes running time, 18 gallons total fuel used)

And Jimmy there's still so much to be done.....

-Jimmy Buffett, Last Mango in Paris

Can you begin to believe the course of events lately?

Like many, I am glued to the meanderings far from here which will ultimately give the nod for what’s about, or not about to happen.

Of course, like everybody that’s even half awake in our society, I’m keeping close to the vest, and trying to increase our level of preparation…..

Right now I am aboard ECII, taking care of genset fuel filters, and other details on this boat, contemplating the big ticket items, davits, wind generator, solar panels and of course their subsequent requirements for installation so this little country can exist comfortably off the grid for however long necessary…..call me a loon if you will…..

Unfortunately, and due to the widening apparent fiscal concerns here in the land of E Pluribus Unum we are going to pass Olivia on to someone else who appreciates the sheer artwork, stoutness and reliability of a vessel such as this, it’s has all of the potential of an escape vessel, a magic carpet in itself. Sadly, with growing twins we outgrew the very comfortable living space she has provided us and so if the weather remains favorable through this coming Friday, D and I will deliver her back to Rockport, back to where she originally was restored by our now dear friends, the Smiths. He will sail her, care for her and watch over her where she will be listed for sale there at the Rockport Harbor (which has a better exposure than here at Latitude 26, Port Uglyville). I will be spending time aboard this week getting everything ready to say goodbye. It is not without strong emotion.

She represented a different stage in the process, and I (and certainly D) became a much better sailor because of her, and the various canvas she could carry. Within the confines of the pages here are a wealth of stories, that was our association with this fair lady.

Every boat one sails or sails upon is a different entity.  Every boat has it own unique descriptionn and sailboats by virtue of what they are, even more so.

For example, I was recently shanghaied by the owner of the 28 Alerion that sits two silps over from me. He handed me the tiller as we exited the Brazos Santiago Pass and for the next several hours I flew this boat along over three foot swells like a thoroughbred horse. At times we were doing almost six knots in nine knots of wind…..she was as light as a feather.

Olivia handles like her design looks….stable and solid. Because of her larger replacement engine, she has power to muscle out of bad situations. Although not fast, she stiffens up under a good breeze and sails a classy line. Laurent Giles and Westerly certainly produced a fine boat.

The boat turns heads wherever she goes, and there were so many times people would walk fom across a finger or down the dock just to get her story.

These rants are, and will always remain, Olivias Journey. She will continue to journey as long as I do.

She will continue to turn heads wherever she goes.

I just ran across this remarkable explanation regarding the difference between houses and boats, felt obliged to pass it along:

"Houses are but badly built boats so firmly aground that you cannot think of moving them. They are definitely inferior things, belonging to the vegetable not the animal world, rooted and stationary, incapable of gay transition. I admit, doubtfully, as exceptions, snail shells and caravans. The desire to build a house is the tired wish of a man content thenceforward with a single anchorage. The desire to build a boat is the desire of youth, unwilling yet to accept the idea of a final resting place.

It is for that reason, perhaps, that. When it comes, the desire to build a boat is one of those that cannot be resisted. It begins as a little cloud on the horizon. It ends by covering the whole sky, so that you can think of nothing else. You must build to regain your freedom. And always you comfort yourself with the thought that yours will be the perfect boat, the boat that you may search the harbors of the world for and not find."

-Jonathan Cape

The ocean environment is generally unfriendly to anything made of metal, but the lower Laguna Madre of Texas, here at Port Uglyville is even more so.

Structures rot away, roofs weaken and are blown off by the first category two hurricane to come along in years. Cars and other metal machinery, by virtue of powerful dissimilar metal corrosion become one gigantic galvanic battery, consuming the all too precious ions day in and day out as they operate in or travel from one salty locale to another,  ultimately becoming thinner and thinner until they disappear Houdini like into the salty ocean mist. Nothing escapes the ravages of rust, corrosion and rot in one form or the other, and out here the process is intensified and hurried along by the super saline salt that permeates the land and the air.

 A heavily galvanized boat trailer can simply crumble to dust in just several years time, and even with the proper care, fresh water washdowns every time and other maintenance lavished upon them, they all too soon fade from ones grasp to be returned to the elements. The first sign is when the nylon on the winch becomes sun embrittled and the stitching gives out with a tired and sudden rip, parting at the already rusting bow hook on the front end of the trailer.

After that, it is only a matter of time.

I have viewed many a carcass of once proud and mighty boat trailers reduced to a thin pile of unrecognizable corrosion, the only piece giving it identity, the relatively immutable rubber tires.

We are of course currently in the cone of uncertainty for a visit by Hurricane Ike. All current indications suggest a more northerly landfall, but we are not letting down our guards….Preparations must be undertaken. Yesterday I helped ITJ get a few of those done before he had to take off today out of town, not expected back till just before the storm reaches the coast.

Going through phase one of the drill, we pulled out his 21’ fishing skiff over at the boat ramp across the street. We were in the process of tying it down and washing it thoroughly before taking the thing over to DoLittles in Los Fresnos for storage. Tightening up on the winch, the strap let go with a pop right at the hook, the first warning sign……

I was thinking about this, washing the underside of the trailer when I saw a pair of purple crocs approaching from the other side of the boat. This of course would be Douglass, the new Dock Boy. I could hear him asking ITJ if he could give him a hand pulling out his dingy with a car…..

Now I was momentarily confused as I knew this dink was a little wood vessel not more than about 6 or 7 feet long. I stood up and ask him “Hey isn’t that thing fulla water?” “yea” he quipped back “that’s why I need your help….it’s too heavy to lift out of the water.”

By now I am thoroughly confused.

I suggest he just bail the thing out, then it will be easy to get out of the water. He goes back in a circular way and says of course he can’t do this because it has too much water in it….

I throw up my hands in frustration and figure that maybe it’s sprung a leak that is prohibiting it from being bailed – water is just coming in too quickly. Then I have the vision of a salvage job. Ohhhh Lord I groan, lets go look at it.

He has the thing tied off to the walkway alongside the ramp and it appears to be only about 2/3 full, and sure enough he had paddled the it full of water from his boat on the other side of the peninsula to the ramp using a kayak paddle. 

The three of us pulled it up onto the ramp till we can go no further than ITJ  goes and finds an old ice chest that the guy can use to bail it out which he sets about doing…..as he nears the bottom of the murky water forward the thwart, there is a big plastic barrel pump. ITJ asks him if he knew it was there. He says “yea” and ITJ asks him how come he doesn’t use it?

He replies “It doesn’t work that well”…..

Over his shoulder Jim tells him, “Well, just use it” as we walk away, to more important tasks.

When we return the boat is on the hard, propped up by a stick, like some sort of giant mousetrap.

I suggest that maybe he’s trying to catch that errant big fender that Janice lent him before Dolly, the one that got away during the storm never to be seen again.

ITJ just glares.

Everyone is making preparations today. Some boats have moved out of here, some have moved from the periphery into slips like this one.  Those boats staying are doubling lines. The tide is already inches from covering the walkway on this finger.  I will evaluate the next several forecasts and then make a decision. If the storm stays as far away as currently projected I will most likely stay here, stay aboard and monitor the lines. If it looks like landfall will be south of there, I will move over into the PI Harbor, probably up against the CityDock, kedge out with bow and stern danforths, put up some fender boards on the dock side and ride it out.

Olivia is fine, in a protected slip with tide risers.

Looks like Ike could be a big one. I am hoping it spares Rockport, and my friends Art, Valerie, Olivia and August.

The Old Anchor Marina was sold last spring to a rather shady individual who allegedly financed the operation through a rather lucrative business. Buying and selling radioactive Rolexes and other jewelry items of questionable parentage up in the Houston area. And of course speculation has it that the place could be a laundromat of sorts...

First thing the new owner, a swaggering, rotund little fella, did was immediately rid the place of all the vermin that had been accumulating there during the prior regime, dispersing them to the four winds. Some moved to other area dives and hovels, trailer parks and ramshackle housing, to be ultimately scattered once again after Hurricane Dolly flattened and transported all but the most well built and the lucky.

Dock Boy abandoned Sea Lyin', and she sank at a dock where they moved her surreptitiously one night.......

....Jack and Barb (Sea Shack) moved to another, friendlier finger, and Mark roared off in his motor home, first finding haven a few days in the Wal Mart parking lot before moving on to the Travelers, eventually picked up by his parole officer and the constabulary, landing in the big house again to serve the remainder of his sentence.

Who knows what happened to the rest.

Next, the newly named  Pelicans Point Marina (doesn't that inspire confidence in a boat owner....yea, I'm gonna want to take my boat to a known Pelican haunt....jeez, Wilma wouldja just take a lookat the size of that turd pile on our bimini?) began the process of siezing, evicting and "disappearing" the collection of mostly derelict and abandoned vessels that were remaining in the slips. 

The new owner got the idea that he wanted to build condominiums where the old trailers sat, condos that would hang out over the already crowded public waters in the turning basin of the fingers. He decided that then they would just close off and gate the cul-du-sac at the end of Tarpon street.

We attended that planning and zoning meeting when this rather revolutionary and assinine idea was presented to the city.

The Pelicans Point representative showed up with a huge attitude, and of course the ruling infrastructure of Port Uglyville, not one to be challenged (never mind the host of other legitimate concerns surrounding this) immediately nixed Pelicans plans......

In retaliation Pelicans Point raised both their slip fees and trailer park fees to ten dollars a foot.....cut off the cable TV and chained the boat ramp.

That'll show the bastards.

So the public began to exit the new Pelicans Point Marina, South Padre Island (someone should give them a geography lesson) like rats off a sinking ship, and now it is a virtual ghost establishment, clean restrooms, deep water slips (yep, some are more than five feet deep) and all.

They even got sideways with me when they tried to levy dock fees for the plundered SJ28.....Of course I only purchased the plunder rights from Mark.

And of course I told them they could take the bill and quite carefully place it in a part of their posterior anatomy where the sun just does not shine.

As surely as we watched the fall of the House of Anchor, we will just as quickly (perhaps even more so)  get to see the implosion of Pelicans Point. They have alienated the community, and the community has likewise turned it's back on them. Not too good of a success plan.

Word travels fast in little coastal communities

On day one of the delivery of Island Time from Isla Mujeres to Port Uglyville (Cabrone County) Texas, in the narrow Yucatan Channel we were privilidged to three different encounters with Whale Sharks.......here is a video from encounter #2.

BTW we arrived a little after noon Thursday ton an otherwise uneventful passage. The lowlight was getting stuck in the Port Uglyville fingers channel...

Rum and Coconut water....you cannot get it in America

-Harry Belafonte, Rum and Coconut Water

I am sitting on Island Times back deck. It is Tuesday evening August 4^th around 1800 local time. Island Time Jim is below having s short nap, and I am minding the autopilot (for all the minding it needs, just an occasional tweak of a control knob). We are about two hundred and thirty five miles from Port Isabel, henceforth christened by ITJ as Port Uglyville. That’s approximately 2/3 of the distance to be covered. If all goes well, we will be hitting the Brazos Santiago Pass around mid afternoon Thursday.

Island Time is a stout boat and all that I figured she’d be. An Island Packet 370, she is a sailors dream. Plenty of lines and controls, and the layout is oh-so-thoughtful. Vangs, outhauls, travelers and cars-  each in a precise place, each with a precise purpose. Down below the galley is laid out perfectly, and there have been several five star dinners cooked down there during this trip. Hell, we even got showers yesterday, something foreign and strange to me….

We have had a lack of wind and it continues today. The breeze is intermittent and moderate from our stern quarter (about SSW), just funky and not really enough to sail on. The iron genny is running, and we are hoping fervently the water pump impellor stays together long enough to get home since there isn’t a spare aboard. However, I’m pretty confident ITJ could rig something up, and he disclosed a worse case scenario plan using the 110 volt pump which powers the A/C unit in a pinch to circulate raw water….pretty damn inventive if you ask me. I am thankful to be sailing with someone of this character. Makes me a lot better sailor too. When given the opportunity to sail with a master – go.

Last night the breeze came up around 0230 or so. We had been sailing under stay’sl and main with the engine going, when I noticed that the wind was about 14kts off our starboard beam (SSW). Almost delirious with excitement at the prospect of pure sailing (something we only did a little bit on day one. Just not enough wind) I effortlessly popped out the big genny.

Of course it wouldn’t set right, so I woke up ITJ.

Of course I had taken out way too much sail.

Of course we had to struggle for about 30 minutes to get everything set and balanced again, gently taking out a bit more sail, tweaking with this, toying with that a little at a time, which is of course the way it should be. Lesson learned.

I am learning to sail downwind, the most difficult point of sail

Seas have been mostly pretty calm- one to two feet maybe.  Today we had a little larger for awhile, but they are now calming back. Skies have been mostly clear. We had a hint, just a hint of light sprinkle for maybe two minutes late this morning. Currently the water depth is more than four thousand feet deep, and we are making about five and a half knots (VMG).

We have just the slightest bit of a northbound current.

Okay. Enough of the technical log.

ITJ keeps the boats up to date and I will surely plagiarize some if it for my own memories and records . I have beaucoup videos and photos, and will try and put some stuff together when we return.

By the way, he suggests if you need a high quality gaff hook dive the following coordinates: 22 18 North 88 12 West. (directly from the log book expletives deleted)……

Since day one we have caught a Cero mackerel and a Yellowtail Snapper trolling a silver lure through the azure water.

We have run across whale sharks on three occasions (all down along the Yucatan), slowed down watching them feed slowly across the surface not more than 25 feet from this stellar craft.

We have seen pelagic birds, seldom seen from Terra firma, Boobies, jaegers and shearwaters, there have bee pods of spotted dolphins playing off of our bow. There have been blooms of jellyfish and flying fish have accompanied us in every other wave it seems., flying fast and low over the endless peaks and valleys. Nights have been black with every star in the universe up there in the sky, the Milky Way lighting up the water all around, piercing the black of night.

And it has been hot. Plenty hot. By about 1430 you find yourself madly searching for just enough shade to curl up in and have a narcoleptic coma, trying not to roast. And I suppose I could moan about not having the wind. But that’s all subject to change on a minutes notice. Out here there are few constants. The only constant is the sea itself. And so we are headed towards that dreaded “N” word. No, I am not a bigot, at least not concerning people. And I am yearning to see my family (and friends) up there, but now……I have seen the light. (insert church choir here).

I believed in my Country.  Still do. Always will. But what it has become  is painfully evident down there. We revel in our own odious offal and expect the world to tolerate our behavior. We love having our own noses rubbed in our trash and excrement, wrongdoing-r-us.  We are failing, stumbling, blind and terminally wounded. And the sad part is, we don’t even realize it.

 We just keep fiddling away while the whole place burns down around us.

We are judged by our government, which I confess is pretty lame these days, and it’s not lookin’ like it’s going to get a whole lot better. Our permissive society has bred successive generations of crass individuals, all looking for instant gratification. It was evident in the tourists in Isla Mujeres. Mostly kids abusing the credit card to the max, behaving badly like it’s the Last Mango in Paris. Those are just a few of the things that make the “N” word disgusting and ugly.

Jim just got up, he was an hour late making a log entry. I am going to secure here. If the weather remains this placid, I will try and update again (obviously for later publication) before we make the jetties.

I'll let ya'll be the judge of the above provisioning "how to"....

We cleared ou this morning (Island Time Jim says it's the Clearout-cha-cha-cha), finished our provision shopping, bought a few last trinkets, took the dingy over to north beach for fish tacos (dingy problems though, lots of leaks), stowed the dingy and motor, harvested a couple of coconuts to bring back (27), washed the deck and we're pretty much done. Topping off water tanks, and maybe a couple of other small chores ("anything that can fly....will).....

Early light dinner, shower and bed.

Weather window looks good and we should be on our way in the early morning.

Stay tuned. See ya'll in a few days.

Welllll.....on second thought...nah.

Don't help.

I am writing this from Island TImes salon at the El Milagro (Miracle....and it is!) Marina in Isla Mujeres Mexico, getting ready to deliver her back to Port Uglyville Texas.

We just returned from a dingy ride aboard Tender Time, back from town where we ate Mayan style fish washed down with a couple of mojitos, and yes, I saw the Southern Cross for the first time tonight.

Earlier we dove an old barge for lobster and snapper, and I almost lapsed into a state of ecstatic rhapsody over all of the coral, tunicates, sponges and other marine life encrusting the old wreck.

For breakfast we feasted on Tuna roe, Tuna steaks and Rainbow Runner, all grilled to perfection served with a wonderful habanero-avacado salsa and fresh steaming corn tortillas....

Lunch consisted of a grilled chicken soup in a base of capers, olives potatos and who knows what else followed by a coconut right off of the palm, cool water slakeing my tropical thirst , with the meat as desert, as sweet as candy and the consistancy of butter, definately NOT something I have ever before experienced. In fact it was so good that I stumbled back to the boat, passing out in a profound narcoleptic coma, finally awakened by the late afternoon sun playing hide and seek with Island Times gigantic bimini.

We did manage to fix the windless, a true feat in a place such as this.

Yes Jim, it is paradise, and it is just the tip of the iceberg, and I have a notion that El Caribe II won't be long in coming here, as well as points further south.

I will try and update again soon, but of course we are in those latitudes, so I might not be able to, things can be just a bit different in the tropics...... Anyway, watch for the SPOT to start moving in the next year or two (well maybe a day or two.....)

Until then....

I am sitting in the commanders living room after a wonderful meal of blackened fish, stuffed squash and other warm and tasty treats. We are all laughing and talking, happy and secure. Thank you for your friendship David, Kim and Savannah.....

A mere 20 miles away we are still without electrricity and there is carnage all around. We are living under generators, eating meals cooked outdoors and being thankful for how we were spared.

Times like this are the glue that holds the fabric of our lives together.

As Island Time Janice says, it is a natural winnowing effect that sorts out the wheat from the chaff. Our communities and lives are welded together by things like this.

WInds on SPI were clocked at over 146mph making it an (unofficial) cat three storm. I have never seen the power of the wind manifest like last Wednesday. It was perhaps, one of the longest days of our lives.

In short, both Olivia and El Caribe were battered, but survived with almost no damage to speak of. More importantly, we are all safe and sound. We are hoping that utilities are restored in the next several days......weeks at the most.

Yep Morgana, we kissed the boats tenderly before holing up to weather the storm, but would you believe it, some choose to stay aboard!

We are at present staying aboard El Caribe II in Island TImes slip. She is our refuge and comfort as we clean up the devistation which became our house.

I will post more, including photos (some heartwrenching) as soon as I get long term connectivity.

I just wanted you all, my extended family of sailors and friends to know that we are OK.

God bless you all, and thank you for your prayers and support.

Looks like we're gonna get pounded. Wouldntcha know it? Needless to say I did not go to Isla Mujeres (yet) but have stayed here to help prepare for this thing.....Spent the day getting boats secured, things moved and people situated. And Jimmy, there's still so much to be done.

I ate the last mango in Paris........

Total Distance traveled offshore: 187 miles, Time: 42 hours.

Perhaps it is better to start with the end. Or impressions at the end.

Last night the moon was full, and we were coming down our rumb line as the wind continued to push us along at five to seven. We had simply and quite easily slipped into a three on and three off schedule.

A boat underway, in passage on the open sea is not the same as a boat underway anywhere else. The meaning of time, the relevance of it are lost along the rhumb line. It is simply a matter of speed, current and heading. There is an abstract suspension of time as the vessel slips along under the most primordial and basic emotion in the world.

The power of the wind.

One suddenly is drawn into a small intimate world akin to a return to the beginning of life. A return to the womb. Without engine, the sounds are drawn as though one were sitting in the midst of a finely tuned Japanese garden, and you are able to tune in and tune out the various sounds at will. The timbre and volume are consonant and resonant, complimenting one another in a symphony of endless motion translated to fluid poetry.

There is the gurgle of water in the scuppers and drains, exiting the stern and alongside in a rush of bubbles the same as the champagne we now sit and drink in quiet contemplation of something only a sailor can understand. There is the cymbal crash as the bow hobby horses up and over the swell, proud and graceful. There are small creaks and groans as the boat leaps ahead on its course like a stallion with a bit in its mouth, spurred on not by metal gouges, but by the ancient and unseen wind. The wind that has blown long before we arrived on the scene, and will continue to blow long after we are gone.

And then there are the voices, heard every so often in the quiet of the task.

The commander asked me at dinner tonight as we shared stories, drink, laughter and friendship about the voices.

“Did you hear them?”

“Yes of course” I replied. And therein we launched into a protracted discussion about the mechanics of the voices. Scientifically I guess they could be described as a combination of the various sounds together which produce a certain range that the human ear is tricked into thinking are voices…..

I think though that maybe they really are voices. Voices of those who have gone before us.  They are not speaking to us. They are speaking to the wind, to each other to the sea. They are not meant for us to hear and understand. They simply belong to the entity we call our boat . They do however comfort us and tell us we are not all alone out there.

At dinner the commanders commander, Kim with a genuine curiosity asked D if she felt confined, claustrophobic out there. After all 35 feet is pretty infinitesimally small in a giant nothingless ocean.

The sailor nee former Port Captain weighed the question with careful thought. She replied (as anyone who has overcome the demons that tie us comfortably to shore); “no….not at all”. She explained that the boat becomes a world all in itself, and the sea instead of being a big open nothing place is filled with wonder and things only someone who goes there can understand. It never crosses your mind. How can one be confined in the open ocean?

At 0630 this morning we crossed into the Brazos Santiago Pass and the rhythm and roll of the sea shifted to a glassy blue Laguna Madre. The smells of land permeated the air and we were once again transformed into terrestrial beings. For me the communion was over for the time being. For D it had just begun.

She too had heard the voices.

Have you?

"Diesels love their oil like a sailor loves his rum"

-Captain Ron

As those of you who so faithfully tracked the delivery of El Caribe II know by now, we safetly arrived at Port Isabel this morning, a little over an hour ago.

It was a long, fun trip with the last 48 hours culminating in an offshore passage that was quite rewarding . I have many, many stories pictures and information to share over the course of the next several weeks....

But first.

I've got to get prepared to fly South this weekend and help Island Time Jim deliver her back from Isla Mujeres......

Of course the spot tracker will be going along too, so stay tuned.

Until then.....thank you all for your prayers, well wishes!

See you out there.