06/30 - 07/04 2006
We spent Friday night aboard, cool and comfortable with the air conditioner. Visited on the docks for awhile with Barb and Jack on their houseboat, discussing recent events like the deterioration of the owner of the Marina, who is on a highway to hell with a crack pipe. Unfortunate. Things are weird around here. He has cleaned out the office, and the office manager has had to hide the checks and destroy the plastic. He no longer has any accounts, or even any employees, choosing instead to hole up in his house with cheap women and white powders. I wish we weren’t stuck at this Marina, but moorage is so scarce, that it’s about the only option we have. There is a constant flow of lowlife traffic up the steps and into his house above the lift slips. His car was missing, but returned several days ago with a whiskey bump on the side. He has recently started taking his boat out to avoid the law, which has been showing up over there with more and more frequency. I really feel sorry for his office manager, who has now been diagnosed with cancer, but is working anyway. I think she must be truly concerned for him. Or truly nuts herself.

Additionally, just in front of us in a trailer that has a leaky sewer tank is Adam, a certifiable schizo. He floats around the docks sometimes smoking pot, sometimes pissing on himself, or showing off his wiener. I got into it the other night with him, telling him that if any more pot smoke wafts into my boat I was gonna call the cops. That’s all it took, he got real hostile, telling me how dope has saved his life for the last ten years. He said he eats it like a cow eats hay. What kinda’ insane asylum am I in around here anyway?

On Saturday during the day, I work between the boat and the chopsaw, cutting knotty pine tongue and groove to trim out the forward bulkhead, between the hanging locker and the V-berth. I take my time, savoring each cut out behind Adams trailer, knowing that it will piss the **** out of him. Sure enough out pops the stupid ****er three or four times, before he charges off up to the office to complain about the noise. I also know that the owner of the Marina is up there, in a foul, paranoid, drug induced semi rage. Within minutes, out pops Adam, fleeing to his truck, leaving the cul-de-sac. He has been evicted. Instantly. Finally.

Winds have been light out of the northeast to east, and there has been some rain. We have a late night What-a-burger and a couple of cold beers before turning in with the anticipation of sailing on Saturday.

Sunday morning dawns overcast and somewhat calm with the winds less than 10 mph out of the south-southeast. After a quick shower, I rig up the mizzen sail, baby stay sail and 135 genny, with the intention of going to get a quick taco and a cup of coffee before heading out. By this time it is about 1030 or so. Adam has returned and is trying to get his trailer on the hitch of his truck. He takes the next hour to inform everyone that he is “moving to the beach”….north of highway access 5 , primitive, no water, sewer or electricity, like Robinson Crusoe, as primitive as can be….Good. I make a mental note to alert my friend, the Lieutenant, “EL Primo”.

Problem is, now we can’t get out to go get breakfast. In the meantime, I have fielded a Q & A with “Captain Ron”, a 70 year old sailor who has made countless singlehanded trips to the Western Caribbean in a swingkeel 23 footer. He wanted to know all about the Olivia, and I wanted to know all about his adventures. He went and got a cruising guide which he used, selling it to us for the sticker price (35 bucks); after examining it, I knew it was a good score. I will devour said cruising guide cover to cover, memorizing long passages about long passages and dreaming of our escape. So anyway, Adam gets out of his trailer, and goes through that exaggerated stretching routine that we have seen over and over, but this time adds a new twist. At the completion he groans loudly and exclaims: “Ohhhhh….rigor mortis”….

After a bit of indicision, I decide screw it, low tide is at around 1630, so if we want to get any sailing done we better get out there. I check the engine, fire it up, we cast off lines and head out the channel. Jack snaps a few photos as we motor out past the fingers. South of 17 we raise the main and jigger, motorsailing under the causeway. On the other side, D hoists the 135 and we are off on a Port tack beating down towards the island in about 12-15 knots of wind. The sky is overcast, and there are two parasailors and a couple of tour boats around.. I miss the first tack, backwinding the jib, bow cruising through onto the reach. We spin a circle and pick up the tack to the west. I turn through on closehaul, near the channel, and fall off towards the island again. Next tack, same thing, but I am getting the feeling of coming through the wind with all the canvas up, so the next tack works well, as does the one after that. We sail balanced for the rest of the afternoon. Finally, we broad reach back to the causeway overpass, then put her wing on wing through, before returning to a broad reach on the way back, Near 17 I spin it around, light the engine and we douse the canvas. It takes a while to put it all away, and we are passed by a little classic Hereschoff Ketch well heeled on Jib and Jigger. Back in the Marina and there is an open view in front of our slip…..Adam has finally left, we tie off, unbend the canvas, wash the boat and head uptown over to Marchans for all you can eat fish and many glasses of ice cold ice tea. Saturday evening we went to the Pizza Joint where I took a huge ration of **** for my red eared northerner look, an unfortunate sunburn (complete with sunglasses, raccoon look hat line etc.). We get back to the boat around 2300 and immediately crash out.

Monday, July 3rd, and we are expecting CB to show up to go out for a sail I repeat the routine of bending on the Mizzen and 135 jib. Winds are a bit stronger today, south-southeast around 15-20 mph, perfect for powering up the jib and jigger. I leave the main under the cover. CB shows up around 1130 and by noon we have untied and are heading out the channel. Low tide is around 1800, so I plan on doing some more practice tacks South of the Causeway, maybe poke our nose out the pass and sail outside for awhile.

We hoist the Mizzen and motor sail under the bridge, where we hoist the 135 and pick up a port tack. We come about, missing the tack, but picking it back up, heading SSE towards the powerlines with the intention of heading over to the BSP. Earlier we had been invited by the Yacht club to attend their annual beach party, so I am thinking about stopping over at Barracuda Bay when suddenly there's a noise like a shotgun going off, and I see a snaking mass of cable pile to the deck. At first I think maybe a mizzen shroud has failed, but within a second realize that it is the backstay, the cable arrangement that keeps the main mast from toppling forward. Serious situation. I instruct D and CB to douse the jib as I swing the bow into the wind, and D uncleats the working sheet. I put the engine into idle gear, and tighten the mainsheet a bit. Tossing a piece of line onto the coachroof, I tell CB to take it around the mast about six feet up, through a step and I tighten it around the port stern cleat, adding a bit more aft stability to the big stick. That mast ain't going anywhere now.

Good teamwork and cool heads save the day

We motor back in, and as we do I examine the fallen standing rigging. It has failed inside a swaged fitting between the mast head and a radio noise suppressor, probably from corrosion.

Inside the channel we pass Night Magic and the Hereschoff we saw yesterday, both in their slips, and their masters start to give us the business about coming in so soon, but when I hold up the broken stay and point to the masthead, they get concerned. Back at the dock we tie off and I lead all of the halyards aft and additionally rig the babysheets up high routing them to the winches. The mast is now temporarily secure until I can fabricate a new backstay.

I silently give thanks for the day, the avoidance of tragedy, give thanks for Art for so thoroughly providing the boat with tons and tons of replacement gear, his thoughtfullness and attention to detail make new ownership a joy. From below, I dig out a huge coil of new cable plus a couple of norseman fittings to re rig the broken stay.

Then drained, we go swimming for a while with the twins, before heading back to the boat. CB leaves, and we get a bucket of chicken, and settle the girls in the quarter berths with a DVD, and we crawl up forward, falling into an exhausted sleep. Someone topsides has certainly watched out for us this day.

Tuesday July 4th. I don’t give a damn about the forth of July. I just want to get the problem with this stick taken care of. I have a seriously sore left arm (remember, it’s been about a year since I had elbow surgery, and now something’s coming back to haunt me, I can’t quite straighten out the forearm, and there is some weakness in the hand), and on top of things, I have developed quite a case of acrophobia (fear of heights) in the last twenty years or so, and dread the idea of going up the stick, even with a bos’ns chair and steps. I measure the broken stay, and assemble a norseman forked fitting on one end of the new stainless steel wire, but need to get the broken end off of the stick in order to get an exact measurement to cut the wire to the right length.

D’s worthless little brother volunteers his services, but I know better. No, he is more interested in partying and barbequing, and backs out when we call to ask him. Shit.

We head to LV where we eat and rest through the hot part of the day. Around 1800 we head to the marina, I am trying to psych myself up for shimmying up the mast.

Once there, the girls fish, and I happily bait hooks and unhook a million piggy perch waiting for the tide to go low so Olivia sits on the bottom, and I can climb the mast without rocking even more in the 20-25mph wind. Around 1930 the boat is on the bottom.

I go there leaving D and the twins to fish, and I rig up the bos’ns chair, step on a mast winch and ascend about two steps to see how it feels. My hands are sweating and I am sweating cold in the 90 degree heat. D comes and mans the winch and I shimmy up to the spreaders, looking up at the frayed broken wire so close, yet so damn far. I can’t go on anymore. My body is overcome with a profound tingling weakness. I shakily climb down, standing on the deck, cursing myself. Cursing my inability to get the hell up there. Cursing my lack of self sufficiency in this area. After years of flying in the military, climbing rocks and mountains as a young man, I can’t make myself go vertically 35 feet into the air with steps and a secure seat. I am depressed and angry. Boats are clearing the public ramp and harbor to line up to watch the fireworks on the island. All I can think about is that damn broken cable at the mast head.

D and I briefly argue about her attempting to go up there. Finally she convinces me, and I man the winch as she creeps upstairs, one rung at a time. Past the spreaders, she just goes right up there! Once at the top, she struggles for about 10 minutes with the cotter pin, finally getting the clevis bolt and cable/eye out, putting it in a bucket and lowering it to the deck. Within two minutes she is back on deck grinning and whooping. Mission accomplished. I am speechless, awed and impressed. I know I have a perfect partner for the dream.
(TO BE CONTINUED)