December 22, 2013 – Five Coats Before Christmas!

January 30, 2014anniedike

That was our mantra. We kept saying it over and over, as we woke up early every day and headed out to the boat at 6:00 a.m. to coat the wood, or came back late and shut her down at sunset in those chilly winter days. “Five coats before Christmas.” We started coating the wood the week before Christmas, and we were planning to leave on the 22nd for New Orleans to spend the holiday in that glorious culinary heaven. “Five coats before Christmas.” We wanted to at least get five on before leaving so the wood would have a good varnish base to withstand any rain that may fall in our absence. I can tell you it was quite a chore. When people say their “blood, sweat and tears went into it,” I can safely say our snot went into ours. I mean, when it’s lows in the mid-teens with highs in the upper 30’s and your hands are clad in latex gloves and coated with sticky varnish, wiping the dribble isn’t really an option. Nope, it goes right in. Just smooth it out with another stroke. “Five coats before Christmas.”

And, I’m proud to say we did it. All it took was a little gumption, lots of long johns and tissues, and some ridiculously cheesy holiday songs to move us along:

On the first coat of varnish, my Captain said to me: “Make sure you get down and paint underneeeath.”

On the second coat of varnish, my Captain said to me: “Nice, lo-ong strokes,

and make sure you get down and paint underneeeath!”

On the third coat of varnish, my Captain said to me: “Easy around the rails,

nice, lo-ong strokes, and make sure you get down and paint underneeeath!”

On the fourth coat of varnish, my Captain said to me: “Don’t forget the hatch,

easy around the rails, nice, lo-ong strokes, and make sure you get down and paint underneeeath!”

On the fifth coat of varnish, my Captain said to me: “FIVE COATS TO GO!”

“So, don’t forget the hatch, easy around the rails, nice, lo-ong strokes, and make sure you get down and paint underneeeath!”

See? How easy it can be? When you throw your ego out the window and sing embarrassing songs along the way? “Five coats before Christmas!” You’re darn right. Go team. Now – who’s ready for some N’awlins?

December 20, 2013 – Thirsting For It

January 27, 2014anniedike

Well hello there. You’ll be thrilled to know I’m back. LASIK certainly was an adventure. One that I thought you might enjoy from m(eye) point of view. The funny thing is it took all of twenty minutes and it was done. Finished. Finito. My vision repaired instantly. The science fiction of it all kind of baffled me. Like I could stand in front of some laser wizardry machine and have all my ails cured, my imperfections fixed instantly, in a snap. I mean, I really did let them clamp my eye open and shoot a laser into it … But, thankfully, I did not become that one person that goes completely blind from it. I’m proud to say the surgery worked brilliantly. And, Phillip was nice enough to document it for your viewing pleasure. Why? Because I look great in a hairnet. That’s why.

See? Great, right? That’s the only word that can describe it.

The only real downer about the surgery was that I was grounded for a month. No water-sports, which meant – no kiting. Bollucks! But, the day before my surgery we were grateful to find the wind blowing so we got out and hit it hard.

I even caught Phillip in a nice jump series:

Nailed it!

Since I was benched and the weather was chilly, we decided to buck up and tackle a major project on the boat. One of the most fundamental, visually appealing items. The thing that gives the boat its breathtaking, classic look. I’m talking about the finest material of all, the tree of life, the great provider. THE WOOD.

We had been meaning to do it for quite some time and we had finally run out of excuses. While we will never tire of sailing, having just returned from our big Thanksgiving voyage, we at least had enough of a ‘fill’ to tide us over for a while. And, with no other trips on the agenda until NOLA for Christmas, we knew we would be in town for a few weeks, so we had a perfect window of opportunity. Window of opportunity … Ran out of excuses … To-MAY-to. To-MAH-to.

So, back to the wood. Thankfully, on our boat, we feel we have just enough wood to really accent the classic lines of the Niagara, but not too much to require excessive maintenance. The exterior wood items on our boat consist of the following:

1. Hand rails and eyebrows on the deck that run the length of the cabin:

2. A grate that sits beneath the helmsman’s feet in the cockpit, as well as the cockpit table and drink holder:

3. Teak steps on the swim ladder (six) and a strip beneath the stern rail.

4. And, the companionway passage:

Ahhh … the Dasani bottle transmission fluid catch. You remember those days.

After doing some research and talking with a few of our fellow boat buddies, we decided to go with varnish. Keep it au naturale. While there are some synthetic products out there (Ce tol and the like) that are easier to apply and – reportedly – require less maintenance (i.e., re-application), we wanted to keep the natural beauty and hue of the teak. So, varnish it was. Upon recommendation from friends (and because it was the varnish our previous owner had used on the boat), we went with the Interlux products, specifically Schooner gold.

And, upon recommendation, we also decided to really bite the bullet and apply ten coats. Yes, ten. Assuming good weather and the time (daily) to do it, that translates to roughly one coat a day, so we knew “the wood” was going to be a two-week project, at least. Hence, the delay, and the many excuses.

Some of the items, however (the steps, table, drink holder and grate) we could remove from the boat and bring them back to the condo to prep and varnish, which was nice because we could keep coating them regardless of the weather. But – it also meant our guest bedroom looked like an eighth grade shop class for a few weeks.

Although I think anyone who has owned a boat understands the necessity of a ‘project room.’ I do think we did a pretty nifty job, though, of rigging the steps on a string so we could do a complete coat every time. It was the season, so, instead of stockings, we had steps hanging ‘by the fire with care.’ Thankfully, the guest bedroom/wood shop made the ‘indoor’ items fairly easy to prep and paint on a daily basis.

It was also highly gratifying to put those first few coats on and immerse the soft, dry, sanded wood in a slick, wet coat of varnish.

Ahhhh … shiny, wet wood. Is there anything better?

The wood on the boat, the exterior wood, however, was not nearly as easy. You see, all of the wood had to be prepped first before we could even think of applying any varnish. That meant sanded down completely, every last speck of varnish off, grinded down to soft, bare wood. Every inch of it. The steps and grate and such were fairly easy because we could at least detach them from the boat and sand them by hand. The handrails, eyebrows and companionway on the boat, though, were an entirely different story. Our friend, Bottom-Job Brandon, recommended we use a heat gun to remove the old varnish. Blast the old varnish with a little heat (20 seconds or so) and then it scrapes off pretty easily. Video demonstration here. While the heat gun certainly made it easier, the handrails were a real chore. All those friggin’ nooks and crannies! Me and my bloody knuckles and sore fingers cursed them every step of the way.

And, the more crap you scrape off, the more crap you have to clean up! We broke out the ole’ shizz vac and finally came up with a pretty good routine. Phillip with the heat gun, I with the scraper, and stopping every ten or so minutes to suck up the mess.

We made a day of it, though, and finally got her all sanded and cleaned up. And, then we started coating her!

Psych! You thought it was that easy. Tssk, tssk. It’s never that easy. We spent the next day taping her up for the varnish job. Little blue strips around every stinking hump and pedastal of those handrails, all along the eyebrows, and the stern rail.

But, she was finally ready. Sanded, prepped and primed, dry as a bone, and thirsting for that first wet coat of varnish. All that work, and now we would get the gratifying rush of that first stroke. The wet, slick finish. The wood glistening and glimmering the sun. Can you just imagine it? Smell the varnish? Feel the glossy teak under your fingertips? Smooth as glass?

Good. That’s right where we want you. Just like the wood. Thirsting for it.

More to come!

December 12, 2013 – The Eye of the Beholder

January 22, 2014anniedike

I know a lot about Annie. You could say I’ve seen it all. She was a real rough-and-tumble kid.

Always running into things and knocking me around. A little sloppy with the food,

and a little pushy when things didn’t go her way. Especially when it came to her brother. They were always shoving each other around.

And, lord was she dangerous–always jumping over things,

and off of things.

And, that didn’t seem to change much as we grew up. Still with the jumping.

And, as much as it scared me, I was always there for her. To help her spot her landings,

and land her jumps.

See? Still with the jumping.

I was always there. We were lifelong friends, childhood buddies. We’d grown up together, learned together, and I was always there to help Annie see things in the best light. I was good to her. But, things started to fall out between us in her mid-twenties. The once strong connection we had started to get a little fuzzy and Annie was struggling to find her way. We went to see a licensed professional, for a while, to try and salvage things, and she wrote me a prescription. I wasn’t happy about it, but I know I needed it, and I dutifully took it, when Annie forced it on me daily. But, I felt like it was just a patch, a cover, not a real solution to our problem. When I wasn’t under it’s spell, things between us were still strained and unclear. It was just a band-aid. Annie agreed. We knew we had to do something more. We sought professional help again and drastic surgery was recommended. One we were going to have to do together. And, while I can speak freely of it now, as time has passed and healed the wounds, I must tell you, at the time, it was the most invasive, frightening thing I have ever experienced in all of my thirty-two years. I have never felt so violated and exposed. I have included graphic images to help accurately convey the explicit nature of the procedure, but please, I implore you, be mindful of the children and view at your own discretion.

On December 12, 2013, Annie and I woke early, packed a few things and headed straight to the surgery center. They called us back, ran some tests on us, checked the lab work and gave us some sedatives. Annie was told to lay down on an operating table, while he doctor loomed over me and began to tell us what all the procedure would entail. Although she did explain to us there would be a brief point where I would lose vision, nothing could have prepared me for the blackness that ensued. She shoved a large machine over the operation site that projected an enormous image of me on a screen above us.

I felt magnified, exploded, exposed to my very core. The doctor then applied some drops to numb me, and I lost all sensation. I was still functional but I could not feel anything. She touched me with several different instruments to be sure. I had never been poked in such a manner! The doctor then pulled my lid open by my lashes and taped them back above my brow. She then wedged a steel device in that forced me open. Open!!

I was terrified and vulnerable, and Annie was just laying there, letting it all transpire! The nerve! The machine then started purring and whizzing to life above me, and the doctor told me I would feel a slight bit of pressure, to which Annie responded, “Okay.” Okay?!? This is nowhere near okay! I have a lid for a reason! I’m not to be touched! I couldn’t possibly understand what Annie was thinking. Why was she letting them do this to me?? The ‘pressure’ came and I was compressed, squeezed, smashed to my very limit, thinking I would explode. Then everything went dark.

Black as night.

My vision, my power, my very purpose, I thought, was never to return. I’m thankful, now, that I could not feel and I could not see, because I have since learned the most graphic of atrocities occurred in that darkness. The doctor sliced me open,

and pulled back a flap on my retina, only to proceed to burn layers off underneath with a laser.

I could smell my very flesh burning in the dark, and all I could think about was the fury that was welling inside of me for Annie. Why was she permitting this? What had I done?? Sure, I had been straining and struggling for a while, but I had stuck in there. I was always there for her. Why was she letting me be massacred this way??

But then, the pressure started to ease up, and I started to see something — a pulsing red beam of light before me. The doctor told me to focus on it and, although I was frightened and confused, I tried, as hard as I’ve ever tried anything, thinking this doctor was my only lifeline at the time, my only hope of restoration. Annie had clearly fed me to wolves. This was not the surgery I had envisioned. Perhaps I was being excavated and transplanted into someone else’s socket. I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell. I was numb, held captive in a steel trap, able only to focus on a blinking red light and the doctor’s voice. But then the machine was removed, the doctor appeared before me, clear as day and she brushed me gently, cool, soothing strokes, and she gingerly pulled the steel device from my lid and released my lashes. I opened and closed a few times and welled up as a strange sensation began to overwhelm me. I could see! Clearly. Crisply. As sharp as the day Annie first blinked me open and wailed to life. I could see every pore on the back of Annie’s hand, every strand of hair that fell over her shoulder, every inch of the room, in explicit detail. I could see! Even without the patch! I had been hiding behind those clear contraptions every day for ten years and now, totally free of them, exposed and bare, I could see!

Annie rose and touched around me lightly and began thanking the doctor. As did I! Thank you! Thank you! And, I’m sorry for all the hurtful things I said about you when I thought you were killing me! Thank you! The doctor seemed to hear me as she wrapped one arm around Annie’s shoulder, looked right into me and said “Now smile for the camera!”

Ahhhh … LASIK … What a marvel!

And, I’m proud to say, I’m all healed up now — 20/15 — (both me and Leftie next door), and Annie and I have never been better. No more patches, no more straining, no more fuzzy sunrises. It’s all crisp and clear now! Let’s hit the high seas!

November 29, 2013: Last Day – The Places You’ll Go

January 16, 2014anniedike

With that succulent bird basking before us, it didn’t take long before plates started clanging, corks were popping and knives were pulled from their sheaths. Yes, we keep them in sheaths. We’re sailors, remember?

See? She is totally a sailor. … Totally.

I whipped my sea-gull carver out of its holster and went to town on that turkey.

I severed every single morsel I could off of her while the crew hauled the patio table in from the balcony (very classy) and set us a royal feast.

We snapped a few fun shots on the deck and toasted the sunset while the last of the Thanksgiving goodies were baking.

And, I can assure you none of us was donning anything that could be remotely considered a “skinny jean” for this meal. Calories don’t count on Thanksgiving – or so I’ve been told. Only stretchy pants and elastic waistlines would do for this crew. And, if what they say about turkey is true, it certainly worked on Phillip and I:

ZZZZzzzzzzzz

Within fifteen minutes of dinner, we were out. (Although, it seems the turkey myth has been busted! Apparently, they now believe it’s actually a combination of booze, bad conversation and boatloads of carbs. Well, we had all of that too, so … who’s to say). We were sleeping soundly, with little wishbones and sweet potatoes dancing in our heads. And, John Besh. He was definitely dancing through mine. It was a great meal, spent with a great group and was a nice change of pace from the quiet little dinners Phillip and I had been cooking up on the boat during the voyage. But, we were – as always – ready to get back on her. We spent one more night on the pull-out at the condo, ran eight more loads of laundry (including the curtains) and started readying the boat the next morning for the last leg of our Thanksgiving Voyage.

We waved goodbye to our sail groupies, tossed the lines and headed back out toward Wolf Bay.

Dinghy in tow.

The wind was blowing about 25 knots that day, though, and it was some tight maneuvering through the ICW, so we couldn’t raise the sails for the day’s jaunt. We had to motor, but I shot some Pulitzer-worthy footage of us braving the wind and weather that day.

Video here. A Chilly Happy Holidays!!

The sun was out, though, which meant the temp was decidedly tolerable, and we weren’t suffering from frozen phalanges and snotsicles. This time. We motored from The Wharf back to Fort McRae and decided to drop anchor at one of our typical haunts, Red Fish Point (just west of Fort McRae), to enjoy one more peaceful night on the hook.

We curled up with some books and a few choice cocktails and took in our last sunset of the trip.

Great view of the pink horizon from inside the boat:

Although we had been out there ten days, it seemed to fly by. I couldn’t believe the trip was coming to an end. Getting a bit sentimental, I even made Phillip suffer through a shamefully embarrassing “selfie” to memorialize the event.

And, for those of you unfamiliar with the term:

Selfie:

A picture taken of yourself that is planned to be uploaded to Facebook, Myspace or any other sort of social media networking website. You can usually see the person’s arm holding out the camera, [or a shadow of the camera itself] in which case you can clearly tell that this person does not have any friends to take pictures of them so they resort to find internet friends on whose pages they can post pictures of themselves, taken by themselves.

Ouch. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that doesn’t apply to us. All evidence to the contrary (i.e., me, posting a selfie on the blog), we do have a few real friends. But, the term was apparently awarded the high honor of word of the year in 2013, with the best selfie shot going to this chick:

Who totally earned it with that heroic display. Click!

It even appears our esteemed president finds himself in the ‘selfie’ mood on occasion.

Perhaps Nelson Mandela’s memorial service was not the right occasion (even Jon Stewart says tssk, tssk), but if the president does it, then I don’t feel so bad about it.

After our selfie shoot wrapped and the sun set, I got creative and baked us up one last Thanksgiving treat – some fresh homemade pumpkin bread.

A box mix is still considered homemade, right??

It was delicious regardless and we savored the setting, the silence of the evening and the sanctuary of our last night on the boat. And, as it usually happens, the best is somehow inexplicably saved for last. The very last day of our 10-day ‘voyage’ turned out to be the best sail we’d had since the last leg of the Gulf Crossing. And, I’ll bet when I start to say “another great day of sailing on the Plaintiff’s Rest … ” many of you glaze over and check out, and while I get it. I do. At the same time, I hate it for you. I know it’s just because you don’t know how freeing sailing really is. I hope, with this blog, and my meager words, over time, I can change that. I can give you a glimpse of what sailing means to us. At the very least, I can try to take you along with us, transport you, plant you right there in the cockpit beside us, one hand gripped tight around the Jenny sheet, the other wiping a splash of salt water from your face, as you watch the sails pull taut and get that roller coaster feeling in your gut when the boat heels over. Hold on to your drinks kids, we’ve got plenty in store.

November 28, 2013 – (yes, still): Besh Turkey EVER!

January 13, 2014November 20, 2017anniedike

With Kristen foraging our lead, the hunger games commenced. I was loaded up like a pack mule carrying the turkey, wrapped up in a foil tray, a bottle of wine, two glasses and Kristen’s purse, I believe, while she made her way to the dumpsters. Once that nutty, buttery smell hit her, she turned to me, slack-jawed and raised her eyebrows. I gave her a look of I know, right? I was glad she got to really take it in. We both summoned an image of a juicy, brown, buttery turkey,

and the scent motivated us, like predators on the hunt. Kristen rounded the corner so hard she slammed the door against the wall with a bang and sloshed some wine onto the dumpster. I was afraid, we’d blown it with a sloppy entrance, but, the boys weren’t there. The table bore only one lonesome throw-away foil tray, a used vinyl glove turned inside out and a pair of oily tongs. The vat wasn’t bubbling anymore, but it was still warm. We walked around a bit, saying “Hello?” “Hey guys?” and Kristen even belted out a “It suuure smells good out here!” I shirked around behind her to check the level on the propane bottle and the temp on the oil vat, thinking, if need be, I could crank it up and drop the turkey myself. Better to ask forgiveness, right? But there was one door by the table that we had yet to open. I lightly tugged on the handle. It would open, but I could feel some resistance and didn’t believe a hard jerk was in order. Kristen apparently felt otherwise. She came up behind me and belted a “Hey boys!” as she jerked both doors wide open. I scooted back behind one of the doors, tucking both wine glasses behind me like I was stealing from the liquor store.

Kristen stood before the open doors, dumbfounded, as if she were staring at a man on the pot with his pants around his ankles.

Excuse me?

She immediately started apologizing, fumbling, stuttering and tucking hair behind her ears. I really thought she’d opened up the door on something slightly obscene. The smaller of the two, Guy Harvey, came out. Eyed us both and asked us “Nice ladies” what we were “in need of?” Kristen struggled and apologized, and just started snickering. I didn’t think the skinny jeans were going to carry the day at that point, so I just blurted out “Turkey.” He looked at me.

“Turkey.” I said it again. I don’t know why. “We would … ” I fumbled. “We were wondering if you would help us … if you’d like to … fry up our turkey.” I let the question linger because I didn’t know what else to do. The wine glasses came from behind my back almost instinctively, slowly as I extended them towards him, a hopeful, pathetic look on my face, and apparently that sealed the deal. “Sure, he said. You ladies bring some more drinks down, and we’ll throw the bird in.” Score one for the skinny jeans. We were getting our turkey fried!

And, here’s the real kicker, Guy Harvey, known locally as Frank Schmancy, turned out to be the head chef at a fairly new restaurant there at The Wharf — The Louisiana Pantry. And, the larger guy (the one who had given up on us during the ‘elevator conversation‘ – again, I can’t blame him), was none other than celebrity chef Tom Wolfe.

Rising Star Chef Tom Wolfe

Wolfe’s of New Orleans
7224 Pontchartrain Boulevard
New Orleans, LA 70124

Frank told us Tom had studied under Emeril Lagasse and opened up a restaurant in New Orleans — Wolfe’s of New Orleans — before making his way over to The Wharf. He was actually standing there texting John Besh while Frank injected our turkey. John Besh … My total celebrity chef crush. Little did he know. I actually had the privilege of meeting the infamous Besh at a book signing he did in Pensacola for his latest cookbook, Cooking From the Heart, and I, in typical Annie style, acted like a completely smitten, love-sick teenager – a total goober – the entire time.

Got a first edition ready for Besh himself to sign? CHECK!

Rocking the stiletto boots to be sure to get his attention? CHECK.

Ahhh … Annie Besh … Sure has a nice ring to it.

Why, Mr. Besh … you, you … certainly do look stunning in that button-down.

Phillip? … Phillip who?

Oh THAT Phillip … Okay, I guess he can be in the shot.

In all seriousness, though, we do love the book, and have cooked up some seriously delicious dishes from it. But, Besh?!? This guy – Wolfe – had studied under Lagasse, owned a restaurant in New Orleans, and knew Besh personally? This is the guy who was going to be frying up our turkey behind some dumpsters at The Wharf? Ain’t it funny where life takes you some times.

But, Frank dropped her right in, regaled us with tales of learning the great southern dishes (collard greens, grits, etc.) from an old black cook at his grandmother’s restaurant in Mississippi. The key, he said, is to use as much fat as possible. Go figure. Perhaps he did the same with our turkey, but we all agreed it was the best darn turkey we had ever had the privilege of eating. I mean, the thing had brined overnight in our complex trash bag/cooler set-up all night, then Guy Harvey injected it, and he told us it was the last turkey he could fry that day because the oil was getting “too dark.” But, ‘dark’ apparently did the trick. That turkey was incredible.

Roll that fancy footage!

Absolutely delish! Happy Thanksgiving!!

November 28, 2013 – Day Nine: “And May the Odds … “

January 8, 2014anniedike

After we saddled up with the poor chum at the fuel dock who preferred to refer to me as a dude, we headed over to our slip at The Wharf to tie the boat up, secure her for the night and let the ole’ Rest rest.

Then we started snatching and grabbing everything on the boat that could use a good washin’ (which was just about everything). I seriously debated taking down the curtains. Like I said – eight days at sea. We had sack fulls – clothes, trash, bottles, you name it. Phillip and his eskimo sidekick looked like a ratty bag couple hauling all of our junk off of the boat. We felt kind of sorry for Phillip’s folks when we kindly knocked on their condo door asking ever so politely to use their facilities.

I mean, were we really going to barge in, start washing every stitch of clothes we brought with us and eating everything in sight?

Of course we were! “Pull up a chair Irene.” (Although I have to admit, I have no idea if her name was really Irene. It seems fitting, but Cousin Eddie shone so brightly in that bit, I don’t think she was ever even anointed with a name – at least not one anyone would remember).

We started running the washer immediately, tore into the fantastic spread that was laid out on the bar and started jockeying for position in the shower line-up. While we had heated some water on the boat and enjoyed a nice warm rinse-down several times during our trip, those “showers” had been brief (water conservation is always a concern) and a little cramped in the stand-up shower stall on the boat. Now, with the full use of a regular-sized bathroom at our disposal and an endless supply of hot water on our hands (or so it seemed). Phillip and I each took our turn and gave ourselves the royal spa treatment from head to toe before curling up in the main room to regale the groupies with our tall tales at sea.

Ahhh … that’s better.

We decided to get out that night and catch the new Catching Fire movie at the theater at The Wharf. For the holidays, they put on a light show every night where the lights, which cover every inch of the palm-tree lined main drag, pump and pulse to holiday music, and that was pretty awesome. Or, psychedelic at least.

But, the best part was the complimentary movie! Or so we thought. As we started to walk into the theater, the ticket booths outside were all empty. No lights were on, no tellers were standing behind them. There was no one there to whom we could tell which flick we wanted to see and pay them for the appropriate ticket.

“One for Catching Fire, please.”

A little stumped, we walked into the theater and, again, there was no usher standing at the little podium by the door, asking for our ticket to inspect and tear. We started to look around and wander, but there was even a second podium before the entrance to the west bank of theaters with, still, no usher, no teller, no one in sight. Phillip started to saunter toward the red sign reading Catching Fire 7:15 and we all kind of made a collective decision to saunter along behind him and not say a word. And, so we did. And, we walked right into that theater and sat our happy selves down for a complimentary movie, deciding they must have just decided to allow free showings for the holidays. Lucky us!

Until Phillip’s sister, Kristen, came rumbling in. We had apparently lost her during our saunter to the smell of butter, salt and the melted yellow plastic they drizzle on the tortilla rounds they call nachos at the concession stand. She was loaded down with two nacho packs, the BIG BAG (patent pending) of popcorn and two large sodas as she shuffled and crinkled her way toward our seats. She chucked a few popped kernels back and mumbled, “Man, these movies are expensive,” to which we all responded with raised eyebrows. Expensive? Kristen looked back at us with an equal stare of confusion. “At the concession stand,” she said. “They charge you at the concession stand.” Whoops. Figuring we’d settle up later, we curled up to enjoy us a mighty fine pitter show.

And, after the show, we went immediately to the concession stand to pay for our movie. Naturally. What kind of people do you think we are??

When we got back to the condo, Phillip’s mom started rushing to the back porch to get at the turkey. Earlier in the day, Phillip and his mom had dunked the turkey in a cloudy bath of salt and spices, sacked it up in a Hefty trash bag in an over-sized Igloo and set out on the back porch. Phillip said we were “brining it,” which I had never heard of before. Growing up, our Thanksgivings involved the thawing of a pre-cooked turkey and a Wal-Mart run for a jar of jellied cranberry sauce, the kind that sloshes out onto the plate with ring imprints on it, an exact replica of the can it came from. Phillip’s “brining” looked, to me, like he was baptizing the turkey in a bath of murky salt water and Joe’s seasoning, but, with my canned-garnishes background, I wasn’t one to judge. I was along for the ride either way. But, apparently, they hard forgot to take the gizzard and some other little bag of giblets out of the turkey before baptizing it, so Phillip’s mom engaged in a rousing bout of what I like to call turkey wrastlin’ which I, naturally, filmed for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy!

Video here. And, you gotta love Paul’s comment at the end: “Now, Mary, go wash your hands.” Priceless!

With the turkey officially violated, we set her back out on the porch to continue brining for the night and Phillip and I curled up on the sofa bed in the living room (agreeing through whispers that our v-berth was far more comfortable), but we knew we’d soon find ourselves back on the boat. So, the sofa bed it was.

We woke Thanksgiving morning to a beautiful sunny day. We decided to get out and putter around in the dinghy a bit and check out some of the boats in the marina at The Wharf.

But, we never expected what we encountered on the way back. As Phillip and I were walking back from the boat, the smell captured both of us immediately. We turned to each other in silence, eyebrows lifted and a mischievous grin growing on both of our faces. It smelled like nuts and oil, cinnamon and butter, like pie but more savory. Like a syrupy piece of pecan pie drizzled with rich turkey gravy, a symphonic concoction of scents, like an exorbitant feast of dinner, dessert, nuts, bread, oil and gravy, all laid out at once, a delectable cloud rolling into us. I describe it like it was laid out as an endless bounty, a full Thanksgiving spread with all of the fixings, because that’s what it smelled like, but when we turned the corner, we found only two pot-bellied men, standing near some stained dumpsters and a rusty door that read “Employees Only.” The men were leaning over a white fold-up table, with throw-away foil trays littered about and a couple greasy pair of tongs and were bundled up and staring into an over-sized steel vat of oil, bubbling and sputtering, and emanating that savory, succulent smell that had overwhelmed us.

They were frying turkeys. Although a relatively new culinary phenomenon – I think the whole turkey frying revelation started about 4-5 years ago, it seems quite mainstream now. You drop the whole dad-gum thing into a vat of peanut oil, completely submerged, and let that oily fried goodness soak through every pore of the turkey until it is utterly saturated, unable to hold a single more drop of fatty, peanut-drenched nectar. A fried turkey is the best turkey. Period.

Phillip and I salivated, swallowed, wiped our mouths instinctively and tried to make mindless small talk as we walked by. “So. You guys frying turkeys?” I mean, really? I was even embarrassed by the question. The guys should have responded, “Nope. We’re just standing around a vat of oil on Thanksgiving to fry us up a batch of Ore Ida crinkle fries.” It was one of those “small-talk” questions that you regret later, but you can’t think of anything else to say in the moment. Like when you’re on the elevator with someone you know lives in your building and while you have absolutely no inclination to talk to the person at all, common courtesy tells you have to say something, so you open with, “ Boy, it sure is getting cold out there.” The weather. That’s equivalent to commenting on the obvious. Of course they were frying turkeys.

The larger man gave us a light nod and walked back inside. I can’t blame him. The smell had obviously brought us in, and he wanted no part of the lame elevator conversation that was about to ensue. That left Phillip and I with the thick, stocky, corn-fed boy that remained, donning a long-sleeve Guy Harvey shirt stretched taut around his mid-section and a baseball cap shoved down over a shaggy, dishwater brown mop that fell around his ears. But the guy was friendly, thankfully, and seemingly looking for a distraction. “Yep. We’ve fried up several this morning.” It was a kind answer, a patient one. Phillip and I had sort of stopped, if only to bask for a moment in the nutty aroma, but once the mystery scent source was confirmed, we didn’t have much else to go on, except the weather. So, we gave him one quick “Well it smells delicious. Happy Thanksgiving,” and went about our way. Guy Harvey held up some tongs and said, “Thanks. Y’all too.” We walked just a few steps in silence, thinking the exact same thing. Damn, I wish he’d fry up ours. “Ours” was currently swimming in the Hefty trash bag on the back porch, looking anything but appetizing.

We cracked the lid of our turkey cooler when we got back and stared down at the goose-pimpled skin of our white, veiny bird, trying to conjure the warm, nutty scent. Phillip finally broke first, with what we’d both been plotting since we’d walked by that oily vat, “We oughta ask him if he’ll fry up our turkey.” I hesitated for a minute. Gave him a skeptical frown and shoved my hands in my pockets. But Phillip had an idea brewing and there was no stopping him. “I’m serious. You and Kristen put on some lipstick and go sweet talk ‘em.” I laughed, a little too casually, and wondered if Kristen had heard him. Then, from down the hall, I heard a “Oooh, I’ll wear my skinny jeans too!”

My eyes widened as a sly smile spread over Phillip’s face. This was happening. I gave Phillip a quick wink and headed back to hustle up Kristen and all her accouterments. I found her squeezing into a pair of dark, midnight denim pants and slipping a soft, purple cashmere sweater over her svelte figure. She whirled around to face me with a devilish grin. “What do you think? Wait … what are we doing?” I loved it. The girl had no idea what we were about to be hustling, but she was ready regardless. And, she looked flawless. Thick, chocolate brown hair cascading around blue eyes and porcelain skin. “What am I asking for?” I couldn’t help but laugh. It was clear Phillip had sent her on many a-similar errand and she easily jumped to the task. But, she looked impeccable. I started to think we stood a chance. If she could entrance the two corn-fed boys near the oil vat long enough for me to blurt the request in or, if need be, throw the damn turkey in myself, we were going to be in business. She looked at me with a frown, though. I was still semi-eskimo, bundled, my hair having been smashed under a toboggan all day and donning jeans, a work shirt and still in my rubber rain boots.

Kristen had her work cut out. She started in on me, throwing a sweater on, ratting and poofing my hair and smudging several different pink, powdery substances on my face. I had to chuckle as I watched the rest of the clan stand around us, salivating and admiring Kristen’s handiwork. The masses were hungry and she was making me over like Katniss herself to win over the boys at the Vat Capitol. We were catching fryer.

Phillip packed up the turkey for us and a bottle of wine, intended as an easy sacrifice if needed to seal the frying deal, and sent Kristen and I out the door with a mischievous “And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

November 27, 2013 – Day Eight: “What’ll It Be, Sir?”

January 3, 2014anniedike

I have to admit our night with the riff raff ended in a cloudy fog that I cannot adequately capture with written words (mainly, because I can’t remember it). I only know we made it back to the boat at some point and fired up the heater without burning any blankets or appendages because we woke up there, alive and surprisingly warm, despite the temp drop to the mid-30s that night. We blinked and squinted our way back to the ole’ Cove mid-morning to meet our buddy, the infamous Mitch, for a greasy cheeseburger (perfect hangover cure) and were pleased to learn from the friendly Cove Crew that Pirate’s Cove is reportedly the place where the reigning Parrot Head himself wrote the smash hit Cheeseburger in Paradise.

I have to say I’d agree with him. The cheeseburger was first rate.

I also found this fun review of the place, which I think confirms my rendition of the riff raff we found at the Cove:

“Cheeseburger in Paradise!”

Reviewed February 21, 2013

“Best burger north of Sea and Suds. This is a locals hangout-don’t come here if you are in a hurry, have an attitude, or are an overbearing Yankee – you won’t like it!”

http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g30502-d825250-r152726759-Pirates_Cove_Marina_and_Restaurant-Elberta_Alabama.html

I think the same rings true for sailing in general, so the Cove was an easy fit for Phillip and I. We certainly enjoyed our time with the riff raff. Plus, being tied up to the dock near running water and restrooms is nice. We spent a few hours the first morning hauling several one-gallon jugs of water back and forth from the dock to fill our water tanks on the boat and by the fourth or fifth trip, one of the Cove Crew told us: “You know you can just pull around here and use the hose.” They really are a great bunch. We stayed a day or two at the Cove, but we knew we had a front coming that was going to bring some strong northeast winds (30 mph gusts were predicted), and we did not want to be tied up to the dock, banging around, when those winds hit. So, on Sunday, November 24th, we tossed the lines and headed over to Ingram’s Bayou to spend a few nights on the hook.

Several local cruisers had told us about Ingram’s Bayou and described the little inlet as a well-kept secret, preserved and pristine, like camping on some tucked-away river. That sounded perfect to us. We donned our sailing gear and headed west.

But, sadly, we were not able to do any sailing. It’s a tight, short passage on the ICW from Pirate’s Cove to Ingram’s Bayou so we had to motor. And, it was pretty chilly. So much so, we kept our hands tucked away in warm places and steered with other body parts:

Knocking me out with those American thighs!

Now, after the anchor fiasco at Fort McRae, we were prepared to drop 150 feet of chain this time if necessary. We were going to shoot for a 10:1 ratio – at least. I started layering on the Gorton’s fisherman outfit as we took a lay of the land, made some rough eyeball calculations of our swing radius and prepared to drop anchor.

Before it was all said and done, we had laid out about 165 feet of chain. We were not going to find ourselves jumping up and down again all night, watching the shore and worrying about our anchor. Or so we thought. Feeling firmly planted, we did what we do best when we drop anchor – made cocktails (some Oohh Shiiiiit!s) and toasted the sunset.

That last pic is about as good as Lyden’s Swan over a Crack – in my humble opinion. But, it’s easy to capture such brilliant shots when you have such an exquisite backdrop. Ingram’s Bayou was indescribably beautiful.

But, our first night there, the front came through and we experienced some of the most powerful, horrific winds ever to whip over our boat. Laying in the v-berth, we could hear the wind howl over the deck, the halyard lines would shimmy and vibrate and the anchor chain would groan and creak until the boat finally shifted resulting in a thunderous pop of the chain. It sounded deceivingly destructive from below, like the boat was surely cracking at the seams. But it was not. We checked several times during the first couple of hours that night and, although we were swinging around wildly, facing north one minute, and hurling around to the south the next, we were decidedly not moving. Our 165 feet of chain was holding fast. And, we had added some extra chafe guards to our snubber line that were doing their job as well. We were secure. And, thanks to Mr. Heater, we were warm, too. We hunkered down for three brutally cold and windy days in Ingram’s Bayou, with friends and family constantly checking in: “You guys okay?” “You staying warm?” “Are you still out there?”

We were definitely out there. “Out there” is where we always want to be, cold front of not. We spent three of the most quiet, relaxing, peaceful days I have ever spent anywhere bundled up in Ingram’s Bayou, reading, napping, cooking, eating and just enjoying the serenity.

Oh, and drinking. It appears we did a bit of that, too. We tend to. Reading was the favorite past-time, though. I polished off Gillian Flynn’s other novel – Dark Places (a deliciously twisted follow-up to the infamous Gone Girl) breezed through David Sedaris’ Me Talk Pretty One Day (an entertaining perspective from a gifted satirist) and dove right in to Garth Stein’s Art of Racing in the Rain (a dog-lovers’ dream – a true treat of a book). Phillip entertained me with hilarious, hearty sea stories from Frank Papy’s Sailing: Impressions, Ideas, Deeds, before he really dug into Wally Lamb’s I Know This Much is True, which he devoured and described as one of the most engaging, honest renditions of the human condition he has ever encountered. It’s on my list.

We did venture out into the cold on occasion to check the depth of our swing radius and explore the little inlets and sunken treasures in the bayou.

My Gorton’s fisherman outfit continued to layer and grow with each outing.

The jacket doesn’t zip, so I strapped on a fanny-pack style pfd to hold it all together.

High fashion.

We had a slip reserved at The Wharf for Thanksgiving, so we pulled anchor Wednesday morning (November 27th) and headed over that way.

We were going to have to stop first at the fuel dock to pump out before we could tie up at our slip. It had been eight days on the boat, folks, think about it. The wind was really howling as we neared the dock so I bundled up some more (yes, more) and prepared to jump off to secure the boat as fast as possible. We were not going to have another Annie docking debacle. Not that day.

As Phillip inched the bow up next to the dock, I jumped off (line in hand this time) and clamored around furiously cleating lines off to keep the boat on the dock. It was a bit of a scramble but we did it.

But, when the fuel boy came out to see what we needed, the first thing he said to me was: “What’ll it be, sir?”

I can’t imagine why …