Chapter Twelve: The Final Storm

The sunrises at Port St. Joe have been some of the best we’ve seen.  The last time Phillip and I left there the year before, it had been at sunrise, the boat was bobbing along in slick, pink water toward the ditch with pelicans just grazing the surface.

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As we motored away from the Port St. Joe Marina in Mitch’s Nonsuch the day seemed no different (although we were headed offshore this time as opposed to up the ditch), but the sky was still stained a pastel pink behind the marina, and the air felt crisp and cool as we tidied up the dock lines and prepared the Nonsuch for her last offshore passage on her way to Pensacola.

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While the winds were very light in the marina, Mitch did a good job of de-docking the boat and easing us away from all those treacherous pilings and docks.  (Marinas can be a very dangerous place for boats you know!)  Phillip and I could both tell Mitch was getting more and more of a feel for the boat the more we made him single-hand it (with us aboard as make-shift “training wheels,” mind you), but he was still virtually cruising along on his own without too much help from us, which was fun to see.

As we pulled out of St. Joseph Bay and back into the Gulf, it seemed the winds had decided it was not our lucky day to sail.  They were right on the nose, initially not enough, then too much.  We kept the motor going for momentum, but it was sail up, then sail down (to reef it), then sail back upkind of frustrating, particularly with the big Nonsuch sailbut we were still technically sailing across calm waters, so we had little to complain about.

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After seven hours of light winds and unfavorable tacking, though, Phillip finally decided to give it up.  Poor thing, he’d been wanting to sail for days on this trip and it just wasn’t happening.  While we never wanted rough seas and heavy weather, some nice sailing would have been, well … nice.  But, alas.  Such is life.  When we saw we still had 30 hours to go to make it to Pensacola and we had been going 7 already (on what was supposed to be about a 24-26 hour trip total), we decided it was time to drop the sail and just crank on again, relying solely on the Westerbeke to help chug this vessel home in hopes that she would someday do some great sailing in Pensacola Bay.

We were still out there in blue waters, enjoying the vast horizon and the calm surroundings.  Absent the fickle winds, it really was a beautiful day out in the Gulf.

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A little after noon, we heard a distress call come over the radio.  We had been monitoring Channel 16 for any distress calls and this was the first time we’d heard something significant come over.  We always find it incredibly interesting to listen to these types of calls: a) for learning purposes (as we learn more about how to respond to an emergency aboard our vessel) and b) because you often only hear one side of the conversation─that of the Coast Guard’s because their VHF reach is further.  We have heard such conversations before play out as follows:

USCG:  “How many aboard your vessel sir?”

       No response.

USCG:  “Where did the leak begin?”

       No response.

USCG:  “Are you able to bail water faster than the intake?”

*gulp*

Yeah … not really the conversation you want to hear out on the water.  What was the first cackled inquiry we heard from the Coast Guard this time?

USCG:  “Where did the fire begin?”

       No response.

At first we didn’t hear anything. We didn’t see anything on the horizon.  Then we saw a big sport fishing boat cross our bow a few miles ahead and the radio crackled back to life.

Fishing Boat:  “We’re approximately 10 miles from the burning vessel.”

The Coast Guard swapped him over from Channel 16 to 22─where we (of course) swap over as well to listen─before responding:

USCG:  “Sport vessel, if you are able, please respond to the vessel in distress, assist as needed and report back.  We’re an hour and a half out.”

All three of us perked up and began looking around the horizon.  Then, faintly after a few minutes, the tiniest cloud of grey began to appear on the horizon.  It then deepened in color and began to billow toward the sky.  It was right there.  We could see it!  A vessel on fire!

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I’m not sure I can imagine much worse on a boat than a fire aboard.  Thankfully─after ten pretty intense minutes─the fishing boat finally arrived to the scene and reported several people adrift behind the vessel in a life raft and others swimming in the water.  Finally the captain of the burning vessel got on the radio and told the USCG: “I’m the Captain of the vessel.  I’ll bet you want to speak to me.”  Ummm … yes!

Thankfully, the Captain reported that all the crew aboard were safely evacuated, including his eleven year-old son, but the vessel was a total loss.  *sigh*  Can you imagine??  Thankfully they were all safe, but what a sad thing to watch your boat burn on the water.  I don’t even want to think about it.  That said, while Mitch, Phillip and I were not thrilled to be motoring across the Gulf, we were certainly counting our blessings knowing our vessel was intact and chugging along safely toward home port.  Sometimes a little perspective can change everything.  When fire was the very real alternative, motoring wasn’t so bad.

We were also trying to get Mitch’s boat back to the dock in Pensacola by 4:00 p.m. the following day so we could avoid bringing his boat back into a new port and new dock in the dark.  We cruised along into the afternoon, cleaned up in the cockpit around dusk and settled into a nice evening routine.

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But, that’s where we made our mistake.  We let our guard down.  Just as we got settled into the evening, we’d divied up the night shifts and decided we were going to have a nice, easy night motoring along, that’s when Mother Nature decided just the opposite.  Once again (I swear to you, we were haunted by thunderheads on this trip), big ominous clouds began to billow and build to the north of us and it was just after sunset that we saw our first slither of white against the sky.  It was lightning.  Again.

It mostly stayed at bay but we decided to put the bimini back up just in case it rained during the night and get our foul weather gear ready.  [One side note, I do love that the bimini on Mitch’s boat drops like a convertible.  While I know we can’t do the same on ours both as a matter of design and now, because of the solar panels, of which I am a huge fan, I still envy the ease with which Mitch’s boat becomes a cool, topless cruiser at the drop of a hat.]  But this was not going to be the night for us to cruise gently underneath the stars.  There would be no dancing on top of the coaming, belting out some incorrect Lorde lyrics.  None of that.  Not this night.

 

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This would be the night that the storms finally found us.  All of those evenings we watched as beautiful storm clouds brewed in the distance, enchanting us with sparks of lightning left and right.  

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This was going to be the night she decided to squat right on top of us.  Mitch woke me for my first night shift around midnight as he headed to the vberth to get some rest.  We still had hard winds right on the nose so we were still motoring along fine but the clouds to the north continued to build and blot out the horizon.  There was no longer sky and sea to starboard, it was just black.  I eased us off a little more to the west in hopes of avoiding it but it seemed to be bent on chasing us.  When it was time for me to wake Phillip for his shift at 1:30 a.m., it looked like it was about to drop on us at any moment.  I stayed up with Phillip until 2:00 a.m. to see if it would stay at bay or so I would be ready on deck to help him if it did not.  

Phillip and I were both hunkered down by the companionway.  While Mitch’s boat does have a huge bimini, it does not have a dodger so the only place to really hide from the spitting rain was curled up under the height of the companionway.  The auto-pilot was holding at the time and Phillip and I were keeping a constant look at the horizon.  Phillip would step back behind the helm every ten-or-so minutes to check the instruments and readings and then would come back and hunker down again with me.  I watched his face every time, as his eyes darting from instrument to instrument─comforted by the lack of change in his expression, which told me everything was running smoothly.  But just as I shifted my gaze back to the horizon, I heard him say it.

“The GPS is out.”

I blinked back at him through the rain.  “The what?” I asked, although I knew exactly what he had said.  I had heard the words.  I knew what they were, but I just couldn’t quite get my mind to comprehend to put them together and tell me exactly what that meant.  The GPS is out … 

“It’s out,” Phillip said again.  “It can’t seem to find our location.”

My gears finally started to turn and knock some rust to the floor.  “Is the compass still lit?” I asked, recalling during our passage in the Niagara across the Gulf that the compass light had flickered a time or two and I thought to myself at the time: What if both the GPS and the compass light went out?  I’m sure worse has happened to many out there, and I guess you could get a head lamp or flash light to keep the compass lit, but you don’t really ponder these things until your instruments start dropping one by one.

“Yeah, we’ve got a heading and the auto-pilot is holding,” Phillip said, “but the storm must be so heavy on us, we can’t get a satellite signal.  The GPS can’t pick us up.”

I just frowned at him. What else was I going to do?  The best person to be sitting in front of that gismo trying to make it work was Phillip.  I didn’t have any brilliant ideas other than restart it─like a goobered up computer.  Just re-boot it.  But, Phillip knew that was my go-to.  There wasn’t anything I could tell him he hadn’t already thought of or tried.  

“Well,” I said.  “I’ll keep a good lookout,” I told him, knowing the worst part of a lost GPS was the fact that we couldn’t see upcoming obstacles on the screen─bouys, markers, towers, and the dangerous like.  It was hard, though, to see anything on the horizon with the clouds and rain on us.  I could barely differentiate the water from the sky, but I kept squinting out, keeping my eyes level with where I thought the horizon was in case anything could stand out.  Phillip’s shift played out like this for another thirty minutes until he sent me down to get some rest around 2:30 a.m. 

I heard him rustle Mitch a little before 3:00 a.m.  I looked at the clock to note the time and figured everything was fine as it was just time for Mitch’s shift.  Then I heard Mitch and Phillip speaking loudly in the cockpit, likely to be heard over the rain and likely because Mitch is just a loud guy and was clearly worked up.  When I heard my name, I stuck my head out of the companionway to see what was going on.

“Good, get up here,” Mitch said as he grabbed one of my elbows and started to pull me into the cockpit.  I looked around and then back at Phillip to get some reassurance.  The storm was still rolling and churning on our starboard side.  Closer now, but no more intense than when Phillip and I had been watching it some thirty minutes earlier.

“No,” Phillip said.  I didn’t know what they had been arguing about so I just stood still for a moment to see what Phillip wanted me to do.  Then it dawned on me.  This was Mitch’s first time, on his boat, in a storm.  The clouds had been ominous when he had gone down below around midnight but they hadn’t been this threatening.  Phillip and I had watched them build and Phillip and I had sailed through worse so, for Mitch─and particularly for the first time facing something like this on his boat─this was a bit frightening.

“If the storm’s going to hit, we should all stay up and weather it together,” Mitch said.  I remained silent.  While I didn’t mind staying up another shift if it was needed, I wasn’t sure it was and Phillip’s was the cue I was going to follow.  In situations like this, it always is.

“Why are you going to do that, huh?” Phillip said to Mitch a little sharply.  “You’re going to keep us all up and exhaust us all so that no one is fresh and ready to take over the wheel when your shift is over?”

Mitch sat kind of still for a moment, just blinking and looking at Phillip.  I knew he was a little frightened.  This was going to be a pretty big notch in his sailing belt, handling his own boat offshore in a storm.  I completely understood why he wanted help.  But, Phillip was right.  If we all stayed up, we would all be exhausted.  If the boys could handle it, they should, so that I could sleep and take over fresh the next shift.  I just looked at Mitch, pulled my elbow gently away and told them I was just a shout away if they needed anything.

“We’ll let you know,” Phillip said.  “Put the electronics in the oven and shut the companionway up on your way down in case it starts to rain.”

As I did, I watched Mitch watching me.  His eyes were kind of pleading like a dog who doesn’t want to be left outside.  A part of me felt bad for him but a bigger part did not.  This was just part of it.  It looked to be a pretty tolerable storm, but there’s nothing you can do but be as prepared as you can and then just be as smart as you can, which includes ensuring your crew is as rested and well-managed as possible.  Phillip was taking one for the team by staying up with Mitch during his shift, and that meant he would really need me to be fresh when my time rolled around.  Besides, I knew if the storm hit at the end of Mitch’s stint, my 4:00 a.m. shift was going to be hell on black water so rest was the best thing I could do for myself.  I closed the top to the companionway and tucked back down on the settee as I heard thunder rumble in the distance.  I hadn’t heard Phillip mention anything to Mitch about the GPS being out and I was pretty sure he just wouldn’t tell him.  Mitch didn’t need anything else to worry about right now.

“Annie!”

I heard his voice straining through a little crack in the companionway.  It was Mitch, which didn’t mean I was not worried, but had it been Phillip’s I probably would have sprung out of bed and busted through those little companionway saloon doors in two steps.

“Yeah,” I said as I sat up on the settee.

“It’s your shift,” Mitch said.

I hate to admit but I’m sure my shoulders kind of fell and I know a little huff found its way out of me.  I was just tired.  I’d gone to bed around 10:00 p.m., woke around midnight to hold my shift, gone back to bed close to 3:00 a.m. and now it was just 4:00 a.m. and I was about to be back on deck till likely sunrise.  Now I know, when it comes to hearty tales of boats at sea─leaking all the way across the Atlantic with a crew that has to stay up around the clock for three days pumping water and holding the helm just to get the boat home─that my little “I’m tired” spiel this particular night means nothing, but at the moment it meant a lot to me.  It’s just honestly how I felt.  Like I wished I could have rolled back over and just kept sleeping.  But when I blinked myself awake and really took in my sights and sounds my adrenaline started to wake me up.  I could now see Mitch’s head was dripping into the companionway.  His hair was wet and I could now hear rain outside on the deck.  I hear a gust of wind rip through the cockpit and I heard Mitch’s feet scramble as he balanced himself over a wave.  I then thought about Phillip who had been up there since 1:30 a.m. and I cursed myself for entertaining my little pouty tired spell even for one minute.

I peeked up through the crack Mitch had made in the companionway opening to see Phillip still at the helm, which I’m sure he had held the entire time.  The man does not like the give up the wheel in a storm.  He was eyeing the storm still to the north of us and guiding the boat through 3-4 foot rollers.  I pulled myself into my sweaty foul weather gear and made my way topside.  Mitch seemed to be keen on the “crew needs rest” idea─now that it was his turn to go below─and he passed me with a quick, “Holler if you need me,” on his way down the companionway, which was fine.  It was his turn to sleep, but I was worried about Phillip, who was now going on his third shift in a row.

“I’m fine,” he said, anticipating my first inquiry as I settled into the cockpit, followed by, “it’s not too bad,” anticipating my second.  “It’s just spitting rain at us and pushing the boat around a little but, really, it’s not too bad.  I think it will pass in a couple of hours.”

I nodded at him.  “Oh, and the good news,” he said.  “The GPS is back up.”

Ahhh …  I had almost forgot, which sounds terrible but Phillip had just been manning everything so well it was kind of easy to forget.  Feeling guilty, I tried to get him to go below to get some rest but the man is stubborn, particularly in a storm.  He agreed to let me keep primary watch, although the auto-pilot was doing pretty well, while he sat and rested his eyes a bit with me in the cockpit.  We both kind of hunkered down across from one other, tucking up close to the companionway where it seemed to be the most protected and driest.  We were lucky it was the end of June and warm out there.  Had it been cold wind and rain spraying us, we would have been miserable.  It wasn’t fun, but it was intolerable and I guess Phillip and I could say this was just the type of experience we were hoping to get volunteering for another offshore passage.  We were definitely out there, battling the elements and facing Mother Nature head on.  That was part of what we wanted to get out of this trip, so in a sense we were getting just what we’d asked for.

For the most part it remained like that, just stinging rain and an uncomfortable sea state.  There was about a twenty-minute spell of hard, driving rain that made Phillip and I both a little uneasy.  We could barely hear each other shouting through it, confirming no obstacles were visible on either side (although confirmation was a bit shaky with visibility being so poor).  And the GPS went out again during this downpour, but it passed pretty soon, the GPS came back again and the storm seemed to ease up a bit afterward.

We woke Mitch up at 5:30 a.m. to hold his shift.  While it was still spattering and pushing us around, it wasn’t too bad at that point and Phillip and I both decided Mitch needed to get a feel for the boat in such conditions.  I stayed up in the cockpit with him, while Phillip crashed hard on the settee below.  Mitch was a little jittery at first but after twenty-or-so minutes behind the helm (just monitoring the auto-pilot mind you but still “second in charge”) and the storm easing off, his nerves seemed to calm and he was handling the boat well.  The true champions that night, though, were the engine and the auto-pilot.  That night would have been far more intimidating and exhausting without them.

I was in and out of sleep in the cockpit until the sun rose.  The storm had dissipated by then and we were all grateful to finally once again be able to differentiate between the sky and the water.  Ahhhh … the horizon!  

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And, it was nice to see something recognizable in our sights.  There’s Destin!

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Phillip woke around 7:15 a.m. and decided we should cut the engine to check the fluids.  Good idea boss!  We were all surprised to see they were in fine shape.  Somehow we hadn’t burned near as much oil the evening before as our last two passages.  We chalked it up to knocking the rust off, brushing off the cobwebs and getting the Nonsuch dialed in a bit tighter.  This is what she was meant to do─travel!  And, she seemed to be liking the adventure.  As the crew neared the Pensacola Pass, spirits were soaring!  We had done it!  Brought another Hinterhoeller safely home across the Gulf of Mexico.

Some egos were getting bigger than others:

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But these two were pretty proud as well.

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We were thrilled to see Mitch’s Nonsuch make its way to the dock and be tied up for the first time in Pensacola.  He had done it.  Really done it.  Mitch, While-You’re-Down-There, Roberts had bought a boat.  And here she sat─having chugged her way across the Gulf to her new home─ready for new adventures in our local anchorages.

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While watching Mitch learn the ropes (literally) and learn to handle his new boat on passage, Phillip and I knew the real show was about to start, i.e., watching our friend become a new-boat owner.  Open your wallet and let the fun begin!  I’m pretty sure half the reason we agreed to make this trip with Mitch is so we could have full teasing rights anytime he started griping about boat projects, because there were plenty in store.  When you have a friend that gets bit by the boat bug, often your first instinct is to try to steer them away: “It’s too much work, buddy.  It’s going to cost you a lot of time and money, and did we mention the work?”  But, if they keep fighting you and pushing for it, a seeming glutton for punishment, a small part of you starts to develop a little sense of pride and kinship with them because you know they’re just like you.  No matter how costly or time-consuming the project, having a boat that can take you to blue horizons will always be worth it.

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“Believe me my young friend there is nothingabsolutely nothinghalf so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.  In or out of ’em, it doesn’t matter.  Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it.  Whether you get away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you’ve done it, there’s always something else to do.”

─ Kenneth Grahame, author of Wind in the Willows

 

Thanks to my Patrons who help me share the journey.  Get inspired.  Get on board.

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Chapter Eleven: Some Much-Needed Shore Leave!

CRACK!  There went another.  I’m telling you, I like to watch lightning.  I think it’s beautiful.  I’m not sure I ever need to see it again from the cockpit of a boat, though.  

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Big thunderheads seemed to loom over us every time we sailed away from the shore.  We had the handheld electronics piled in the oven and Mitch, Phillip and I were curled up, tethered in in the cockpit and we watched as the storm in Apalachicola Bay thankfully (knock on teak!) skirted around us.  Once the storm eased off a bit, so did we, and it was all smiles and “whews!” as we motored our way in to take some much-needed shore leave in Apalachicola.

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We called ahead to see if we could get a slip at the Water Street Hotel.  When Phillip and I sail to Apalachicola we usually try to snag a spot at the City Docks.  You may recall the lone sign there that says “Call Chief Bobby Varnes for dockage.”  But, the house batteries on Mitch’s boat appeared to be running low (although the eMeter was a little confusing).  We just weren’t 100% confident in their capabilities, so we figured a nice, air-conditioned, rejuvenating night in a slip would be a welcomed reprieve for this tired crew.  Also, Mitch has much less draft than we do (4’11”) so he can creep further up the river than we can in our Niagara (5’7″).  

We made Mitch handle the docking strategy and tell us what lines to tie off in what order (again so he could practice coming in single-handed) and he did a pretty good job.  He had everything planned out right, he’ll just have to work on which side is starboard and which side is port (but I goober those up all the time too, so … “No, the other starboard.”).  In all, it was nice to see the boat tied up and secure with the longest offshore passage behind her.

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Now it was off to the showers for this crew!  See ya!

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It seemed our marina shower luck had run, though.  Back in Clearwater, we’d had hot water but no AC in the shower rooms.  What did I call it?  “It wasn’t a shower, I’d say it was more of a steam spray.”  The minute you stepped out of the water stream you started sweating.  Well, this time, in Apalachicola, we had nice, chilly AC in the shower rooms, but no hot water.  I’d call this one an Arctic rinse.  My lips were turning blue and my teeth were chattering by the time I got out of there.  I’ve never been so thankful to step into the humid Florida air and feel beads of sweat start to form on my skin again.  Ahhhh … nice and muggy.  Once we were spruced up, it was time to hit the town.  

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Phillip and I love the old sleepy Florida feel of Apalachicola.  It’s like it’s been frozen back in time.  Everyone moves a little slower.  They talk a little slower, too, and I kind of like it.  We decided to go Up the Creek for dinner (literally).

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[WARNING: Foodie pics coming.  I hope you’re not already hungry.]

The grilled conch cakes we’d had there when Phillip and I were making our way back from the Florida Keys last year was, we decided (and it was very hard to make this decision but we finally settled on it) one of the best meals of our entire Keys trip.  They are incredibly rich and drizzled with a honey lime sauce made from local Tupelo honey.  Words simply cannot describe …

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The boys got some fish dishes with fries that were good but not good enough that I can even recall them next to my conch cakes (oh, and a side of brussel sprouts – love me some greens!)

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We had a good chat during dinner about the trip.  Mitch confessed that his worries were finally starting to ease now that we had brought the boat on the other side of the Big Bend.  This was definitely the home stretch of the trip and the Nonsuch was still intact and performing well. We decided to take our time motoring “the ditch” the next day over to Port St. Joe so Mitch could experience it.  Phillip and I had often described it to him as a jaunt down the ole’ Mississip’, as if Huck Finn would pull up right next to you on his rickety raft.  The Westerbeke was chugging along really well and departure from Port St. Joe on the other side of the ditch would give us a nice jumping off point to make the last overnight run to Pensacola.  We came back down the creek after dinner to find Tanglefoot plugged in and chilled for the evening, and we all got a much-needed solid night of sleep on the boat.

The next morning, though, I found myself facing a kind of peril I have never encountered in all of my cruising: Killer Bees!  I kid you not.  Around 6:00 a.m., I stepped out of the boat to stretch my legs and make a little trip to the ladies room (so as not to wake the boys on the boat) and as I was walking along the sidewalk along the dock behind Water Street Hotel, about every five or so feet on my path there was a bee sitting on the sidewalk.  At first it didn’t bother me, there was just one.  As I walked by he started to buzz around so I walked a little quicker, but then I encountered another and another and another.  By the time I got to the restrooms I was flailing and swatting and batting them away.  I jiggled on the handle but it was locked and I felt like I already had a swarm on me.  Screw the bathroom!  I decided to run.  I was jumping and sprinting and yelping all the way back to the boat and (seriously) hitting a bee with every arm stroke.  Those things were on me!  The boys got a big laugh about it but I saw them swatting and yelping a little too when they made their own trek to the men’s room.  The bees in Apalachicola are no joke.

We decided to head over to Cafe Con Leche for breakfast.  It’s a quaint little shop Phillip and I had stumbled upon last time but didn’t have the chance to eat breakfast there.  They have books and magazines and local art and fresh homemade arepas (baked corn cakes stuffed with all kind of goodies–peppers, ground beef, cheese, etc.–you pick).  Phillip and I split the Picadilly arepa and it was scrumptious.

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Mitch turned his nose up at the arepa (mistake) and got a plain old ham croissant.  You can get those anywhere, Buddy!  Boring!

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We walked around Apalachicola poking in all of the quirky little shops and B&Bs.  

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What are you looking at?

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Mitch was huffing and puffing everywhere–hot as a pregnant cow.  He was cracking Phillip and I up flinging every door open with an overly-dramatic sigh and a gulp of the AC.  That man is not meant to cross deserts.  We found some diesel engine oil at the marina by the City Docks so we stocked up on that as well as transmission fluid to replenish our leaking fluids before motoring the ditch over to Port St. Joe that day.  Like clockwork, the storms started brewing on the horizon the minute we started to think about tossing the lines.  I swear those storms were chasing us!

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We hunkered down in the boat to let the rains pass.  While they look pretty intimidating, the summer storms were usually intense but very brief.  They would rumble and flash and dump some rain and then the skies would clear.  We spent the stormy hour battened down in the boat replenishing the fluids.

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Yes, that’s my “work suit.”

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It didn’t take long for the storms to pass and the clouds to part.  We had put over a half-quart of oil in the engine and, while she didn’t emit the monstrous “black blob” that had shot out of her the last time we cranked, there was still a little bit of black discharge that floated behind her this time.  It was probably a product of us running her harder than she’s been ran in quite some time, but she really was performing like a champ.  Captain Mitch handled the de-docking plan and managed to get all of his ports and starboards straight this time as we tossed the lines and started puttering up the ditch to Port St. Joe.

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Cute little house boats docked along the river.

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And the not-so-cute …

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The storms stayed on our horizon but never did anything more than sputter and sprinkle on us as we enjoyed a nice, easy day motoring the ditch over to Port St. Joe.  

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Phillip and I (totally exploiting our role as crew) started talking up Joe Mama’s Pizza and the big, lavish Italian dinner we were hoping for once we got to Port St. Joe.  They have great wine flights there, incredible sauceless chicken wings, a HUGE family size salad (made table-side) and decadent thin-crust pizza.  Aren’t you hungry now?  We love Joe Mama’s!  Mitch really didn’t have a choice in the matter.  

We stopped in first at the fuel dock at Port St. Joe to fuel up for the last leg of the trip and, I have to say, Mitch’s docking skills really were improving.  He did the whole thing–docking and de-docking at the fuel dock–on his own.  Phillip and I could tell he was really getting a feel for his Nonsuch, which is a fun thing to watch.  Now, did he bump a piling or two when slipping up next to his dock for the night?  Sure, but who hasn’t?  You have to get a feel for that too, because it’s just going to happen.

Once we were docked, our first mission was to make a Piggly Wiggly run to get some provisions for the last passage of the trip.

ARRRGGGHHH!!

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Mitch was killing us over this Arizona Green Tea.

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Yeah, that stuff.

He had brought two gallons of the stuff for the trip (that and eighteen, give or take, single serviecs of Gatorade–the man cringes at water). Mitch had burned through his two green gallons early on in the trip and now needed more.  He meandered the Piggly aisles back and forth with no success and finally enlisted one of the fine red shirt-clad Piggly people to help him on his hunt.  When she couldn’t find it in thirty seconds, however, he enlisted yet another.  I swear, Mitch had two little red helpers following him all over the store looking for his beloved tea.

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I’ll tell you, there is never a shortage of stories when it comes to Mitch.  He is walking entertainment.  Sadly, the red broads came back empty-handed and Mitch had to make do with just the Gatorade.  Sorry Buddy.

After our store run, we spruced up for a night on the St. Joe town!

Aren’t they dashing?

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For Phillip and I, that usually kicks off with a pre-dinner drink (or three) at the Haughty Heron.

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I think he’s trying to pat his head and rub his stomach there.  Not sure.

It was fun to chat with the owner there–Wade, I believe it is–because he said he remembered Phillip and I from when we came through on our way down to the Keys last year.  Probably because we had spent a couple of days kiting in the cove at Port St. Joe and drew a pretty good gathering of lookie-loos!  Kiting tends to do that.

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The Heron folks were great, though, and even gave us a drink on the house.  Then there was no stopping us.  Phillip and I had pretty much forged the deal while we were motoring the ditch that day.  We had been craving those succulent chicken wings, that tangy salad dressing and the cheesy, meaty goodness of a perfectly-cooked thin crust pizza all afternoon.  We didn’t even let Mitch vote.  It was Joe Mama’s or bust.

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I know.  Yum, right?

We ordered the “La Roma” pizza–pecan pesto sauce, pancetta, tomatoes, basil and two eggs baked on top.  It reminded us of John Besh’s restaurant, Domenica, in New Orleans.  Just great quality dough cooked in a stone oven.  So good.  

Our server was quite the character, too …  Get this.  

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She was making small talk with us while dropping some linens and plates down, moving pretty quickly, obviously trying (as a good server should) to get us drinks, then appetizers, then the main course.  We weren’t having it, though.  This was a highlight of the trip for us.  We were going to do it like the Europeans: nice and slow.  We told her we were happy for her to take her time with our dinner.  

“We want to enjoy the AC in here,” Phillip explained.  “Because ours is out.”  

“Oh, in the truck or the trailer?” she asked.  A good ole’ country girl.

“Neither.  The boat!” we all said heartily.  I’m not sure what that makes us, but we got a pretty good laugh out of her.  Dinner was such a treat.  While we don’t want a lavish fine-dining experience every night, the occasional splurge is worth it.  Especially after a couple of salty, tiring days at sea.  We definitely indulged and it was great of Mitch to treat the crew.  Thanks Buddy!

I don’t recall much about the walk back.  There were lots of replays of the Arizona tea fiasco and the lack of AC in the truck/trailer, I know that.  I know there was some bumping of elbows and backsides as we all brushed our teeth as quickly as we could over the kitchen sink and scrambled to our respective bunks.  And I also know the crew slept nice and soundly that night.  Maybe a little too soundly … 

“No more two bottles of wine for you guys!” Mitch croaked when we woke the next morning.  “Phillip snored all night.”

Phillip just smiled and rolled over, which made me smile too.  It had been a fun couple of days ashore.  But, the Gulf was calling us back.  It was time that day to ready the boat and head offshore again to make our last twenty-four hour run from Port St. Joe to Pensacola.  We woke to a crisp sunrise and, for the time being, clear skies.  The coffee was brewed, the beds were made and the crew of s/v Tanglefoot prepared to make way.

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Chapter Ten: Everywhere We Look … Lightning

So … accidental jibes?  Apparently not much fun on a Nonsuch (and probably not much fun on any such).  After assessing the minor loss of the outboard tiller extender and choke, we were able to get that big ass sail settled over to starboard and get on a nice downwind run.  That also meant we could finally kill the engine, which was a relief.  She’d been running another twelve-or-so hours since we’d turned her off the evening before to check the transmission fluid and Phillip and I were eager to let her cool so we could check the level again to make sure she wasn’t bleeding out.  

While Mitch’s Westerbeke isn’t super loud, it was nice to have that industrial rumble gone.  It was still dark out, still cloudy, but just more serene with only the sound of the wind in the sail and water gently lapping along our hull.  It was almost 6:00 a.m. by then and the sky to the east was starting to bloom into a bright pink.  We knew the sun was about to rise.  Sleepy or not, there is no reason to ever miss that.  It marks the start of a new day, a new canvas for adventure and─in our case─another safe night passage behind us.  We were getting that boat closer and closer to Pensacola.  

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Neither of us said much as we watched this blowing pink ball start to peek over the horizon.  It seems slow when you’re staring right at it but if you look away just for a minute, to another point on the horizon, or some spot on the boat, or your own body, whatever, when you look back, you notice it has changed.  The vast expanse that was once a brilliant yellow-pink is now fading to purple and then blue.  It’s happening right before you and always quicker than you want it to but you can never stop it.  Time.  She just keeps passing right before you.  

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My Lorde-inspired “not done sailing” shift that night and the Mitch-silencing sunrise the next morning were probably some of the most memorable moments for me on this trip.  They’re just sights and feelings I have no way of replicating so I just have to remember them.  I think we all felt we had kind of made it over a hurdle that night, probably because we had.  This offshore passage was definitely the longest of the trip and the furthest offshore, not to mention the same passage that had cost Phillip and I a dinghy, an outboard and some busted davits the last time.  Let’s just say it was good to get those particular nautical miles behind us and wake to a new day with all equipment working and all signs pointing to the Florida panhandle.  Getting the boat across the big bend of Florida was certainly an accomplishment and now─just five or so hours out of the East Pass─we were getting close to achieving it.  

But (how many times have I said this?) just when you start to sigh and let your guard down, Mother Nature likes to scooch across the floor in socks and zap you.  Then she laughs about it.  Just as we started to settle in for coffee and a nice morning sail, the winds started to kick up, some gnarly clouds started to bubble up to the east, then we saw it.  A white crack of lightning across the sky.  

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“We need to crank soon,” Phillip said.  With the way the weather was building we knew we were going to have to drop the sail soon.  Yes, the big huge one that we had not thirty minutes ago raised.  Sailing is such fun.  The engine was still a little warm but I was able to get the transmission fluid dip stick off in order to get a peek.  She had a nice pink coat on the bottom of the stick, so we were fine there.  The oil was a little low but not dangerously so.  Phillip decided to forego topping it off this time so we could get the sail down in case the storm jumped on top of us.  

We were ready to crank.  Phillip tried once, twice, three times a lady, but no dice, which was baffling because she had been running solid for hours, days even, on end.  Phillip was stumped, irritated, frowning at the ignition.  He didn’t want to try again and have it not crank for fear of pulling in too much raw water and overflowing the intake.  

“I don’t think I can kill it again,” he said.  Crank? I thought.  You mean you don’t think you can crank it again?  But, it must have been a fortuitous Freudian slip because just as the words tumbled out of his mouth, Phillip’s face lit up in a bit of an “Aha!” realization and he lifted the lazarette lid to check the kill switch.  We had done this before many times on our boat─accidentally left the kill switch in the up position, so it prevents the engine from turning over.  It’s not a hard thing to do.  Like leaving a light on when you leave a room.  And, Mitch’s boat was still somewhat new to us and the accidental jibe had left us all a little flustered.  That definitely did the trick.  Once the kill switch was down, the engine roared to life and I jumped topside to get the sail down.  Yes, the big one.  (If it wasn’t already apparent, I, personally, am not a huge fan of the huge sail on the Nonsuch.) 

The winds were blowing a good 15-18 by then and it was definitely pushing us around as we turned into the wind to drop the sail, which pointed us right toward the storm.  I could see the boys back at the cockpit trying to sheet the sail to center.  It was clear they were having trouble.  Right when I saw it, I knew.  It was my fault.  I had put it there.

“The chafe guard!” I hollered back as I made my way to the cockpit.  The sail on the Nonsuch is so big the main sheets actually run behind the bimini.  When we had first got the sail settled far out to starboard on our downwind run, I noticed the main sheet lines were rubbing hard on the corner of the bimini frame.  Worried about chafe (which I’ll grant myself is a legitimate concern), I had wrapped a towel around the lines at the chafe point and duct-taped it (a very unique method, patent pending).  But, lesson learned: do not put the chafe guard on the line, which needs to move, put it on the immovable fixture, which does not.  I should have put something on the bimini corner if I was worried about it because where was my chafe guard now?  After our accidental jibe, the heavy winds, the flapping around of the sail during our turn-around?  It had slid down the line and was now jammed in the pulley at the base of the cockpit.  I tried scooching it up the line enough to allow us to sheet in and get the sail centered but she wasn’t moving fast enough.  As I mentioned, we’d had the sail waaay out to starboard so there was a lot of line to pull in.  

“Get me a knife!” I shouted to Mitch and he grabbed the utility knife we kept near the companionway, for this very purpose I suppose.  I started sawing away on the duct tape and─for a brief moment─felt a bit like I had been transported back in time.  Back to that fateful night when the three of us were hacking the drowning dinghy off the back of mine and Phillip’s boat.  Phillip had been at the helm then, too, and Mitch had handed me a knife and watched as I sawed through lines.  I was struck by a strange reminiscent feeling.  Maybe I need a new sailing nickname: The Hacker or something like that.  

But, I finally made it through the layers of terry cloth and freed the line.  Like I said, it had been my fault for putting the guard on the line, so I deserved to deal with the aftermath.  Many lessons to be learned in sailing.  With the sail centered and another hack job completed, we were finally able to drop the sail.  Putting the sail cover on, though, was a bit challenging in the heavy winds.  She’s just massive!  Running from the mast back to the cockpit, I guess that must make her thirty feet at least, with a grommet and toggle about every two feet.  I was sure after Mitch got the strong track put in on the mast to make raising the sail easier, the very next thing he was likely going to want would be a stack pack to make lowering and covering the sail easier.  If you give a mouse a cookie …

When it was all done, the three of us fell into a heap in the cockpit and kept an eye on the storm.  I swear every time we seemed to get offshore in that boat, there was a lightning storm on our horizon.  I’m serious, they were everywhere!  Maybe it was the time of year (late June) or just that part of the state, but I can confidently say there wasn’t a day that went by that we did not see lightning.  Thankfully, though, it seemed this one was content to just eff up our sunrise sail and then back off.  It left us little wind, however, that was─of course─right on the nose, which meant we had to continue motoring.  

It was more favorable once we turned toward the pass so we raised the sails around 1:00 p.m. in order to kill the engine (remembering this time to push the kill switch back down) and check the fluids again.  Yes, those pesky things.  Trust me, if you see anything dripping out, you need to keep a close eye on them.  Recall the oil had been a bit low when we cranked right before the storm.  Well now, five-or-so hours later, it was really low.  And, so began the adventure of adding oil to the Nonsuch.  We had yet to do this and─this may sound crazy─but when Phillip and I first looked at the engine, we were a little unsure of how exactly you would go about it.  The oil cap is literally back about a foot and a half from the front of the engine with maybe ten inches between it and the ceiling of the engine room.  It would be difficult to get a funnel in there, much less a bottle of oil above the funnel to pour in.  We all kind of scratched our heads a bit then I offered up the one thought that always seems to pop in my head when we talk about catching, pouring or saving fluids.  

“Maybe use a water bottle?”  

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The boys seemed to be on board with this, so I began cutting the bottom end off of a water bottle.  Mitch insisted he could do it and Phillip and I decided he would need to get used to doing it at some point, so we handed him the water bottle oil bin with about a cup of oil in it.  I can’t tell you how many times we asked him: “You got it, Mitch?”  “You sure?”  “Can you see the opening?”  “You sure you got it?”  

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“Gees guys, would you shut up already.  I got this,” Mitch finally said.  And, turned out, he did.  I was a little surprised, but he displayed some real finesse wiggling into that position and gingerly dumping bottle after bottle of oil in.  We kept checking the fluid level and determined she looked decent after we had put about a half quart in.  Certainly a good bit.  The transmission was still slowly dripping around the shifter arm and we put a dash more transmission fluid in there too─for safe measure─then deemed her fit to travel.  The wind was still steady enough at the time, though, to allow us to keep sailing and, with all of us sweaty, sticky and dirty from the fluid ordeal, Phillip decided it was time for a dip.  

I have to say, I have never (knock on teak) fallen off of a sailboat when it was under sail, but nor had I been allowed to float behind one while it was under sail.  What a rush!  With the wind pushing us along at about 4 knots, Phillip tied a throw line behind the boat and we took turns letting the boat drag us along by that or the ladder.  

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It felt just like a roller coaster ride.  I cinched my wrist in right and tight in the line and let it tug me along, sometimes slowing so my body would ease toward the boat as a wave rolled under, then pulling me hard and fast with a swift tug as the boat coasted down the front of the wave.  I was all giggles and “Wheees!” the whole time.  It felt so good to let the fresh cool water wash over you.  I had never done that before and I was so glad Phillip had the idea.  

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But again, it was short lived.  I tell you, Mother Nature had some real fun with us on this trip.  As soon as we got dried off, we saw some big thunderheads rolling up on the horizon.  We were close enough to shore for cell service now and the radar showed a big green pile of crap coming toward us.  It was time to crank and get that big ass sail down again.  Yes, again.  

“What the heck was that?” Mitch asked right after Phillip cranked.  He was leaning over the back stern rail.  I’m going to presume he was checking to make sure raw water was coming out as we had taught him (points for you Mitch), but he also pointed out, behind the boat, at a huge blob of black floating behind us.  It was maybe two feet in diameter, with a rainbow-like sheen to it.  Obviously oil.  And, since we had just cranked, it had obviously come from us.  Now we knew where all that oil we had replaced went.  I can’t say I know exactly what happened or why such a big blob blew out but we didn’t take it as a good sign.  We made a mental note to pick up some more oil (along with transmission fluid) once we docked in Apalachicola.  But, at the time, we needed to keep motoring in order to get the sail down for yet another impending storm.  

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I could feel it in the air by then.  Fifteen minutes prior I had been hot, sweaty and thrilled to death to dip and be dragged in the cool water behind the boat.  Now, in my bikini, goose bumps began to form on my arms and my wet hair began to turn chill on my head.  The temperature drop was palpable.  I’m sure if the barometer on the boat was working, it would have shown a drop as well.  We all donned our foul weather gear and prepared to drop the sail.  Mitch insisted we all put on our life jackets as well.  Oh alriiight.  I’m not terrible about wearing mine, I’m just not super eager.  But, he was the Captain this go-round, so Phillip and I did as we were told.  It was probably for the best, too, because that particular sail-drop was the worst we’d endured.  Coming into the East Pass, the water was churned up and the Nonsuch was bucking and kicking over 2-3 foot waves, which made the sail flop and misbehave.  The wind had picked up too and was batting her and us around.  

“Hang on!” Phillip shouted from the cockpit, “but tie her good!”  Okay.  “I’ve got winds over 30!” he said.  Oh shit.  It seemed to have come up so suddenly, but that seemed to happen often with the storms we saw on this trip.  Mitch and I clung to the flinging sail, hugging her every 2-3 feet and working a sail tie around.  The salt from the sail ties filled my mouth as I clenched them in my teeth and gripped the sail.  After Mitch and I got them all tied, we decided to forego the thirty-foot, 15-grommet sail cover for the moment.  You can imagine why.  

And, two small gripes here about the Nonsuch as well, because I think it’s good to share.  There is a row of pointy nubs around the perimeter of where a dodger would go if there was one.  There is not, so that just leaves little spike-like stickey-ups (yes, that’s what I’m going to call them) along the top of the companionway placed just perfectly to step on if you’re trying to wrestle and tie the sail down, particularly over the bimini.  For barefeet, they’re worse than Legos.  And, while we’re on that─Gripe No. 2─the sail is really hard to reach in the center of the huge-ass bimini.  I’m a pretty sporty gal and even doing an acrobatic tiptoe on things I shouldn’t be standing on, I still couldn’t reach it.  Mitch, with some difficulty can, but he’s 6’4”.  Not all sailors are!  The big sail is just a bit awkward to man-handle.  That’s all I’ll say.  

With the sail finally contained, though, the crew thoroughly pooped, we hunkered into the cockpit and watched a wicked lightning storm brew to the east of us.  Lightning seemed to bubble up and percolate, until the cloud would finally boil over and a shocking white streak would jet out.  We watched in silence, and probably within just a two-minute time span, as three big bolts broke free and stabbed the ground.  Phillip told Mitch and I to go below and put all of the handheld electronics in the oven (another helpful trick he’d learned from his vast cruising/sailing resources).  If you do and the boat gets hit by lightning, it at least won’t zap your phone, laptop, GPS, etc.  He’s a smart man that Phillip.  It was strange to think not one hour prior we had been swimming and frolicking on a joyous sailboat amusement ride and now we were geared up in foul weather and life jackets putting the electronics in the oven.  It was shocking how quickly things sometimes changed.  But, we felt prepared.  The sail was down and lashed.  The engine was running strong and we were all tethered in.  The three of us sat in the cockpit and watched as the sky to the northeast grew a dark grey and wicked cracks of lightning continued to spear the shore.

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Chapter Nine: Just Me and the Stars

“At first there was none such.  Then there was one such.”  This such.  Mitch’s Nonsuch.  I hope you all enjoyed the retro soft-core seventies Nonsuch videos last time.  They certainly had us rolling during our tiki masala dinner while we were making our way across the Gulf from Clearwater to Apalachicola.  

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Everything seemed to be chugging along just fine (and I do say chugging because we were still motoring, twelve hours hard at it) until we noticed the transmission fluid leak.  It was almost uncanny the things that were repeating themselves from mine and Phillip’s trek across the Gulf in our own Hinterhoeller the previous year.  The leak seemed to be minimal (one drip every two minutes) so we weren’t too concerned, but Phllip (prudent as always) decided to kill the engine before the sun officially set to let it cool and check the transmission fluid level one last time before we motored through the night.  

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And it’s a good thing we did, because you know where it was at?

The bottom of the stick.   

There was just one tiny little pink drop at the base of it.  *gulp*  We dug out the transmission fluid to top her off.  She downed a quarter of a quart and insisted we keep the bottle tipped up.  In all, we put a half-quart in and were shocked she took that much.  Thank goodness we had kept an eye on her.  We cranked her back up and put her under load to monitor again.  Still one drip every two minutes.  I tried to mentally calculate the minute-drip-math but I’m afraid to say I don’t know how many “drips” are in a quart of transmission fluid.  I tried to Google it but … alas.  In all, we felt a half-quart would at least get us the rest of the way across the Gulf to Apalachicola where we could top off again or repair if necessary.  That pink nectar’s important!

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Once we were puttering back along again at five knots, talk turned once again to the divvying up of our night shifts.  It was decided the two-hour shift formula we followed last time spanned too early into the evening and too late into the morning.  I mean, none of us were really ready to hit the sack by 8:00 p.m. and none of us (well, aside from Mitch that once) were sleeping in until 8:00 a.m.  Shorter shifts are always preferred.  Unlike last time, there were three of us now.  More hands to do the labor so we decided to ease up a bit.  We settled on 1.5 hour shifts beginning at 9:30 p.m.  I also decided to deal Phillip a better hand and take on the “shit shifts” this time (the two that fall right in the middle of the night).  Yes, this gave Mitch another gravy shift, a second time in a row, but he played the age card and called it.  

Yes Mitch played that card, not us.  He played it often.  “You guys have to remember I’m an old guy,” he would say as he handed me a screwdriver and sent me down into a cubby, or picked up some pillows leaving Phillip to lug two bags of ice.  The funny thing is, though.  He’s not.  Not at all in my opinion.  I can’t remember the exact number, but he’s like 58 years young or someting like that.  But, he still gets out and kitesurfs for crying out loud.  He paddles.  He sails.  He rides a Harley (or whatever kind of bike – it’s like Coke, they’re all Harleys to me).  And, now he owns a boat and sails.  He’s easily the coolest 58-year-old I know (although we’re meeting more and more folks that are even older and even more active than him the more we cruise).  But, he kind of drives me nuts when he says that.  Here it is.  For the record.  You’re only old if you say you are, Mitch.  So stop saying it!

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Rant aside, while my lawyer self was sure his use of the age card was some form of reverse age discrimination, I let it go.  Night sailing can really be an incredible experience and we had agree to make this trip with Mitch for two reasons: 1) to help him get his new boat home safe (sure), but 2) to get some more offshore experience and have another adventure!  Night sailing certainly falls in that category.  So, it was decided:

  • 9:30 – 11 Mitch
  • 11 – 12:30 Annie
  • 12:30 – 2 Phillip
  • 2 – 3:30 Mitch
  • 3:30 – 5 Annie
  • 5 – 6:30 Phillip

And, I have to say I’m actually so glad I decided to take on two middle-of-the-night shifts that night because they were some of my most memorable shifts I have ever held at the helm of a sailboat.  There was once again a gnarly thunder storm behind us, stretching the entire expanse of our horizon.  It looked very far off, when it was just black billowing clouds.  But when an electric white bolt would break through and shoot out in five different directions, it looked very close.  Too close.  It was beautiful but still a little frightening and also thrilling.  

One thing I do love about Mitch’s boat is the ease with which you can drop the bimini.  While I suppose we could make this modification on our boat, we now have the solar panels mounted up there so that’s now out of the question.  And, while I love solar power (I’ve even thought about adding more on the dodger), it was cool to be able, with just a few snaps and maneuvers, to drop the bimini and literally have nothing between you and the stars.  Mitch has a huge bimini, too.  Because the Nonsuch has a huge cockpit.  I’ll have to check the videos again but I’m sure no matter how many you’ve got in there, “there’s always room for one more.”  So, dropping it really makes a drastic difference─like stepping out from a tent into the night air.  

With the bimini down, the motor performing perfectly (knock on teak) and auto-pilot doing all the work my only real job was to monitor the instruments and the horizon.  Seriously.  Sometimes it is that easy.  Sometimes.  You pay for those times when it’s not at all easy.  When you’re man-handling a weather-heavy helm in twenty-knot winds, crashing through waves, listening for things that might break, snap, pop, tear.  Some nights are like that, which is why I had no guilt in savoring the night that I was having.  

The coaming around the cockpit in the Nonsuch has this wide, fat strip of teak on it that feels like it was meant to touch the soles of barefeet.  Even tethered in, I could step up on it, holding onto the sail for support and walk (and dance) along it with an unfettered 360-degree view of our horizon.  Yes, I said dance.  There is often dancing involved in my night shifts.  I usually pop a head phone in one ear for some tunes and leave the other tuned to the boat and sails, and I found the perfect accompaniment to my starlit stage that night: Lorde’s A World Alone.  Go on, let it play in the background … you have my blessing.

Funny, though.  You’re going to laugh at this.  You may not have known this (but I’m sure you could have guessed).  I am notorious for belting out the wrong lyrics to songs.  I sing what I think I hear which is often not at all what the artist intended.  It’s like the “pour some shook-up ramen” syndrome or something.  Seriously, check out this bit.  What I did think Toto said in their famous Hold the Line song?  [Some raw footage from one of our night sails where I show off my infamous lyric-bending talents]:

Golden eye!  Yep.  That’s what I sing anyway.  And, on Lorde’s song?  I thought she said “Raise a glass cause I’m not done sailing.”  I did.  Seriously.  You may think that’s strange.  Why would Lorde bust out all of a sudden with a lyric about sailing when that’s not at all what the song’s about.  Silly you.  You assume I know what the song is actually about.  Again, that would require the ability to hear actual lyrics─a talent I clearly do not posess.  I like the sailing lyric.  I’ve determined to keep it and I like the song for sailing now for that very reason.  I played it 16.5 times during my shfits that night, standing up on tiptoes on the coaming, breathing in the cool night air and belting it out.  “Cause I’m not done sailing!”  The music seemed to beat in my chest, my rib cage thudding with the drum.  It was a perfect, crisp night and the lightning, while frightening, was still beautiful.  I wondered what it would feel like if a bolt zipped all the way across the sky and just pricked me.  Not enough to stop my heart or anything but just enough to give me a little zap.  These are the kinds of wondrous things I pondered during that shift.  Night sailing can sometimes be like that.  

Sadly, during my 3:30 shift, it was not so serene.  Clouds eased in around us and the stars faded to blackness.  The motor was still pumping along [insert groan here].  I hate to see her work that hard.  But with zip wind, there was no other choice.  At least it wasn’t storming on us.  For whatever reason, I found this shift paired better with some Simon & Garfunkle, Crimson and Clover and I sang that one “over and over!” to help bide the time.  I hate to say I was glad to hand the helm over the Phillip at 5 but I was.  I know, I know, we’re supposed to be on this big adventure, soaking up every second, savoring every minute, but I was just tired that night.  I savor sleep too, you know?  

Well, I didn’t get to that night.  Just about the time I had dozed back off─around 5:30 I’d say─I heard Phillip hollering down to me.  I roused kind of quickly, because it just wasn’t like Phillip to wake me unless he needed to.  “Go wake Mitch,” he said as I popped my head up the companionway.  “The wind’s picking up and I want to raise the sail.”  Again I hate to say it (man, sometimes I’m a terrible sailor) but a HUGE part of me wanted to just politely decline.  “No thanks.  I don’t think we should raise that big ass sail right now in the dark.  Let’s just keep on motoring and sleep.”  My sleepy self said that, internally.  But, it was just for a quick minute.  Once I started to get moving and get some night air in my lungs, I knew it was a great idea.  Phillip was right.  The wind had kicked up.  It was blowing ten, maybe twelve, right on our stern.  Perfect for the big ass sail!  And, it was certainly time to give our engine and needed break.  “Raise your glass cause I’m not done sailing!” said Tanglefoot.  

After the act of Congress it took to get Mitch up, we were soon all three top-side getting ready to hoist the sail, for the first time in seventeen hours.  I was at the mast again helping pull the halyard down.  While I could muscle it about 75% of the way up, I was useless the last twenty-five.  There was just nothing I could do but watch as that halyard stretched as taut as thread (it seemed) and yelped out with every crank on the winch.  Phillip had already told Mitch one of the first things he should do after we brought the boat back was have a strong track put in to make raising the main easier, he said it again.  “You have got to get a strong track Mitch,” as he cranked again and again on the winch, each round ending in a wicked squeal from the halyard.  But, we did finally get it up and clocked it out to starboard to catch the wind.  

The belly of the sail stretched and pulled taut when she found the wind.  I have mentioned that is one big ass sail, am I right?  Boy is it.  It’s like hoisting a barn door up into the wind.  This was our first time to sail downwind on the Nonsuch and, man, does she like to be pushed!  

“I’m gonna wake your asses up to do some sailing!” Phillip hollered when we had the sail full and were finally moving along by the power of the wind.  Mitch was fiddling with the choker and watching the body of the sail.  If you’re not familiar with a cat rig, wishbone boom (believe me, at the time, I sure wasn’t), the choker moves the boom forward or aft to stretch the sail or give it some bag.  It pretty much operates like the outhaul.

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As I mentioned, this was our first time sailing downwind, so the boys were really wanting to fiddle with the sails and see what responses they could get from the boat by making tweaks here and there.  [Daytime pictures here for fun but know that we were still in the early-hours dark.]

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I was still at the mast from having helped raised the sail and while I started to see it happen, it just happened before I could even get a word out.  Mitch is cranking in on the choker.  Phillip was talking to him about it, both of them watching the belly of the sail.  We had it full out to starboard to catch the wind coming over the port stern.  The sail started to luff a little, the boom started to creep toward the center of the boat and then … WHA-BOOM!

Accidental jibe.

In a boat with a sail this big:

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Can you imagine?  It snapped to port with a thunderous clang.  Thankfully the boys had ducked so we didn’t lose any heads but we did suffer one casualty–the outboard on the stern rail.  Or, the PVC extender arm on the tiller at least, and the sail caught the choker on the way over and yanked it out, too.

Now you see it:

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Now you don’t:

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Mitch said he was sure Phillip was just trying to make sure he took out Mitch’s outboard on this trip since Phillip and I had lost ours the last time the three of us sailed across the Gulf together.  A good theory, but just a theory.  Phillip said he was just focusing on the choker and accidentally let the boat point a little too far to port and then BOOM.  First downwind lesson learned: Nonsuches do not like the accidental jibe.

After that thunderous wake-up call, we finally got the sail settled back over to starboard and settled in for a nice downwind run.  We were just a few hours outside of the East Pass and the crew was excited to make landfall.

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Thanks to my Patrons who help me share the journey.  Get inspired.  Get on board.

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Chapter Eight: Nonsuches Never Foul

CYBER MONDAY DEAL – Hard Copy Keys to the Kingdom$20.00 $15.00

Alright kids, the Keys manuscript is in the hands of my trusted graphic design gal so she can work her magic and make it all one-click uploadable to Amazon and Kindle (because I would totally botch that for sure).  I should have it back within the week and will have hard copies in-hand very soon.  Like I said, I’m looking at a Dec. 11th release date.  Clear your entire day!  Cyber Monday deal is $15 (marked down from $20) for a hard copy signed book.  I will handle shipping and mail to you anywhere in the U.S.  Email me your address and inscription request and consider it done.  In the meantime, let’s get back to Mitch’s Nonsuch saga shall we?  If you’re not caught up, start from the beginning (Chapter One), or get a little refresher of the last segment (Chapter Seven).  

Now, where was I?  Let’s see …

“So, is there like a lot of sailing in it?” Mitch asked.  I was pitching my new book to the boys while we were making our way out of Clearwater and back across the Gulf.  

“Yesss,” I said, an eye roll followed by a somewhat indignant huff.  “I told you.  It’s a lot like Salt of a Sailor, in that it covers a particular passage on the boat but has flashbacks to stories from my past, except this book will cover mine and Phillip’s trip to the Keys last year.  Keys to the Kingdom, get it?”

“Okay, but not too many old stories, right?” Mitch asked.  

Why do I always get that?

In all, they were pretty receptive.  Both Mitch and Phillip liked the idea of the two plot lines as long as the sailing plot was bigger!  It was pretty calm in the Gulf so I spent the morning hunkered over my laptop writing.  Nice view from the office, huh?  Yes, this is where most of the initial framework for my new book was created─on the Nonsuch trip with this brilliant, blue-water view.  You gotta love my new work environment.  

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Sadly we were still motoring because the wind wasn’t blowing hard enough to disturb a dandelion, which is not the ideal situation because we love to sail but it’s still acceptable when your engine is running like a champ and you’re chugging across crystal blue waters.  But, because the engine was doing all of the work, we definitely wanted to keep an eye on it.  Phillip had spotted a spot (no pun intended) of pink on the oil pad underneath the engine (the “engine diaper” I like to call it as it catches all of the engine’s crap) but we couldn’t recall if it was there when we first started out back in Ft. Myers or if this was in fact a new spot.  For that reason, Phillip had left the engine access open while we motored that day in order to keep an eye on it.  

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After a few hours of motoring, he decided the drop was new.  I almost couldn’t believe it.  The parallels were a little too uncanny.  Here we were, the three of us, traveling once again across the Gulf together in another 1985 boat, another Hinterhoeller, and we had another transmission leak?  It was starting to get creepy.  The thought ran through my head to check and make sure we had saved some extra Dasani water bottles in case I needed to whip up another duct tape fluid-catching contraption (patent pending).  Such measures didn’t seem necessary (yet) as we were only getting one drop of hot pink transmission fluid about once every two minutes.  Not a huge amount but certainly something we wanted to keep an eye on in case it increased.  It was coming out from under the shifter arm just like it had in our boat, probably because we were working the transmission much harder than she had been run in a while and that same ninety-seven cent gasket on the arm was giving out.  The good news was we could confidently tell Mitch we knew exactly what was happening and it was a super easy fix.  Ahhhh … the benefits of been-there-done-that syndrome.

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Later in the afternoon we decided to make the chicken tiki masala for dinner.  This would be the infamous dish that gave Mitch such fits during the provisioning phase of this saga:

“What’s naan?” he had asked, claiming he had inquired the same of three different clerks in Publix yet they responded they’d never heard of none such like it, which is why Phillip and I ended up providing the Naan for the passage and making it for Mitch on this night.  Turns out, Mitch loved it.

“This Naan is great,” he mumbled between bites.  “Where do you get this stuff?”  

“Publix,” we replied.  

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It was over this dinner, though, that Mitch really regaled us.  Friends, I hope I can only begin to capture this for you─the wondrous world of Nonsuch videos that are out there on YouTube.  (YouTube, what is this Tube of You of which you speak?  Don’t knowHERE is a good place to start.)  As we were about to set into our second night passage, Mitch got to talking about this whole Gulf crossing we were doing and some of the fears that had gripped him our first night out in open waters.  And, as funny as it sounded, he told us one thing that made him feel better about the boat were some of the clips that had come to mind from the many Nonsuch videos he had watched while shopping for his boat.  Now, while I mentioned the boat porn and the many hours friends who are shopping for a boat spend scrolling through boat listings, boat write-ups, boat reviews, etc., the one thing I did not think of (I guess just because Phillip and I didn’t do it when we were shopping for our boat), were YouTube videos about boats.  Frankly, before Mitch and the Nonsuch (and that was a measly five months ago – times they are a-changin), I didn’t know they had YouTube videos on boats.  Apparently Mitch’s variety of internet scouring involved videos because while on the hunt for any and all Nonsuch information, he had stumbled across a treasure trove of Nonsuch video classics, and he started re-enacting them for Phillip and I as we motored into the evening:

“Nonsuches never foul,” he said, waving his finger at us in this haughty regatta announcer voice.  “They might make slight indiscretions,” he said with an exaggerated shoulder shrug, but they never foul.”  

“Come on.  Really Mitch?  They really say that?” I wasn’t quite buying it.  Mitch claimed, however, this was pretty close to the actual video transcript (and it turned out he was right).

“Nonsuches love to sail.  They’re so easy to handle and light to the touch,” he continued now in a bit of a enamored infomercial viewer.  “It’s like they’re always anxious to get underway.”

I tell you folks, the things I do for you.  When we returned, I found these sacred videos for you and─while Mitch was right about the “Nonsuches love to this and that” quotes─the one thing he failed to mention about these videos is that while they were, yes, a version of boat porn, they practically qualify, however, as actual, soft-core seventies porn themselves.  I kid you not.  It’s like Joey Tribbiani and “grandma’s chicken salad.”  

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Virtually everything the narrator said seemed to have a sexual undertone.  “There’s always room for jello.”  Perhaps we were just acting like fifth graders when Phillip and I finally found these videos on our own and found ourselves snickering and doubled over just about every two seconds.  But, see what you think.  Here are some I-kid-you-not actual excerpts:

  • Looks like a cat boat, moves like a leopard.
  • She makes you feel at home just thinking about her.
  • Everything is easy.  It’s like she was anxious to get underway.
  • When Nonsuch meets Nonsuch a kind of happy magic happens.
  • “So,” he says.  “Are you going to the regatta?”  “You bet,” she says.  “Want to go together?” she asks.  “Sure.  My Nonsuch or yours?”  “Mine, but I’ll race you home for privilege.”  (What does that even mean??  Who’s privilege?)
  • Like a dolphin ballet.
  • Just as much fun to do as to see.  (Translation — you can just watch, that’s okay.)
  • There’s a kind of silent bugle blowing when Nonsuches come together.
  • It’s the call of the wind and the sea, and just a hint of champagne.
  • Come on in Nonsuch, there’s always room for one more.
  • When Nonsuches race, they race in a civilized manner.  It is very unsuch to protest.
  • While Nonsuches might occasionally commit slight indiscretions, they never (ever!) foul.

And please, do not underappreciate s/v Rainbow Rita’s rocking poof ‘do or Nonsuch Ned’s seventies porn stache as well.   

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For your viewing pleasure, straight from HaveWindWillTravel vault, I give you — The Nonsuch Navy, Parts One and Two.  Enjoy:

Good stuff, right?  The three of us spent the last minutes of daylight, watching the sun drop out of a feathered pastel sky, repeating the Nonsuch mantras back and forth as we continued our way across the Gulf.  

Our favorite quote: “We also call her Nonsuch because there isn’t anything like her or the people who sail her.”  (That about sums up Mitch and his boat. One of a kind.)

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Thanks to my Patrons who help me share the journey.  Get inspired.  Get on board.

Pat4

 

Chapter Seven: “Slow Down Buddy. Slower Than That.”

Magic Eraser rocks.  It does!  The last few hours we were underway toward Clearwater I busted one of those magical white blocks out and went to town on the cabin of Mitch’s Nonsuch.  The interior really was in such great shape.  Was it moldy, dirty and grimy?  Yes!  But did the Magic Eraser fix all of that?  Of course!  

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And maybe I’m a little partial to Mr. Clean because of the resemblance … 

A little elbow grease and some magic, though, and the Nonsuch looked like a completely different boat down below.  We had spent most of our time during this initial passage inspecting and learning the systems, hoisting the sail for the first time, trying the reefing lines, checking the fluids of the engine, etc., but once we felt all of the primary systems were running fine, it felt nice to finally get in there and do some cosmetic work.  While you always want your boat to run and perform well, making her look good is always high on the list as well.  I wiped just about every surface with Clorox wipes and came back with the Magic Eraser for the stuck-on stains.  

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I was making good progress until I made it to the head.  The floor there was thoroughly stained ….

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but it was no match for the eraser!

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I was also excited to find the holding tank was backing up into the bowl.  Yippee!  It appeared the joker valve on the head was failing and allowing about three inches of holding tank goodness to eek back into the bowl and slosh around for the ride.  I dumped a little bleach in and that seemed to help but the crew was greeted with a little pond of bleached sewage every time they lifted the lid.  Overall, though, the boat was cleaning up extraordinarily well.  Mitch had found a real gem.  With still unfavorable wind (light and right on our nose) we were still motoring, though, which made the clean-up job a bit of a sweaty endeavor in the stuffy cabin.  I was definitely looking forward to a nice, refreshing shower in Clearwater.  

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After all of the motoring we had been doing, we definitely needed some fuel so we pointed Mitch in toward the fuel dock at Clearwater.  Only his second time docking and, I have to say, he did a pretty good job.  The man loves that throttle though.  I don’t think he realizes how fast he’s really going because he tends to barrel in.  It was clear the team was going to have to work on this.  And we tried!  When Mitch was making his way from the fuel dock into the transient slip for the night, Phillip kept trying to ease him back: “Slower, buddy.  Slower than that.”  Mitch was flying into the slip with Phillip and I trying to catch pilings to slow us down.  “Mitch!” Phillip shouted back to the cockpit and Mitch hollered back: “I’m not giving her any gas!”  [Insert frown here.]  

Thankfully, we had a few dock hands come up to help us and they held the bow off the dock but I’ll have to give Mitch a B- on that one.  When we got her tied off and secure, Phillip walked back to the cockpit, looked at Mitch, pointed to the shifter and said: “Neutral.  Reverse.”  It’s easy to forget, though, if you don’t drive a sailboat often.  It’s not like a car where you can just step on the brakes, but you do have options.  If you’re going too fast, even in idle, you can throw it in neutral to slow her down or reverse and throttle her a little if you need to really need to put the brakes on.  After a docking lesson or two and a few gentle reminders from Phillip, Mitch started to do this on his own.  It just takes a little time to train your brain.  Once we got the boat buttoned up and gave the boat a good rinse down, the crew immediately set their sights on a shower.  I was coated in salt, sweat and Magic Eraser filth.  It was still a steam bath outside and we were all sweltering walking toward the shower, dreaming of that first icy drench.  However, the swelter outside could in no way compare to the sauna inside.  

The AC was out in the women’s bathroom and it felt like a muggy 100 degrees in there.  I had to kick and flail out of each sticky scrap of clothing I had on.  While the water was cool, the minute I stepped out of the stream, I started sweating again.  I mean the very minute.  The thought of dressing in there seemed absurd.  Whatever I did in there─I’m not sure you could call it a shower.  Maybe a sauna rinse?  A steam spray?─I was nowhere near clean when I came out, my clothes wet and sticking to every part of my body, my face completely beaded up and dripping.  Only because I didn’t think a nude streak to the boat would have been appropriate did I dress in there.  Mid-June, in the middle of Florida, and it was cooler outside than it was in that blasted shower room.  I was at least soothed by the discovery that the men’s bathroom suffered from the same AC dilemma.  We all had a good time regaling our individual streak contemplations and sweaty dressing struggles.  Funny, each of us decided to brush our teeth and hair (well, those that had hair) and do all of that post-shower potions-and-lotions stuff back on the boat.  I swear, the minute you stepped out of the stream, you could not get out of there fast enough.  We all bolted back to the boat.

But, you know where we were guaranteed to have AC?  On Tanglefoot!  Mitch was blessed with such amenities.  Although he about froze me out our first night on the boat before we left Ft. Myers, now I wanted to freeze.  I welcomed it.  I would have savored every shiver.  We all huddled up in the cool boat, changed out of the clean-but-now-sweaty clothes we had just put on, got into some fresh dry clothes and cranked the AC up.  Mitch even sat in front of the vent by the nav station with a fan directing the blow at each of us intermittently like an oscillating fan.  It was only around 5:00 p.m., though, and the crew was absolutely beat.  

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Two-hour nights shifts always seems exhausting the first night but your body just has to adjust.  After the second night of two hours on, two hours off, I usually feel like I’ve acclimated a bit and I’m not near as tired on the third day.  But that second day is always a killer.  We were trying to stay awake because we knew a “nap” would turn into a near-coma.  We wanted to at least stay up long enough to get some dinner and then really get a good night’s rest that evening so we could sail out of Clearwater fresh at first light and make it to either Apalachicola or─if things were going really well─all the way back to Pensacola in one passage.  We knew this was the “real jaunt.”  The passage from Ft. Myers to Clearwater had been a pretty much parallel to shore.  And, once we got to the Apalachicola area, the rest of the trip would also be, pretty much, a hug of the shore.  This passage, however─from Clearwater to Apalachicola─would be the true Gulf crossing.  This is where we would find ourselves on our longest leg of the trip and the furthest from shore.  Let’s just say if Mother Nature sensed any opportune time to jack us around, this would be it.  And, this is the exact time, last time─when Phillip, Mitch and I were bringing our boat back from Punta Gorda, FL to Pensacola─that she decided to really see what we were made of.  The last time the three of us made this passage we found ourselves in the middle of the night, in the middle of the Gulf, sawing our dinghy off the davits in 4-6 foot seas that had sheared every bolt we had left to hold her.  If there was any part of this trip to really be concerned about, this was it.

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We checked the weather, for the forty-fourth time that day.  The winds promised to be variable and light.  Kind of annoying.  It might mean more boring motoring.  If that prediction held.  And the sea-state looked to be calm.  It definitely appeared to be a good window.  We deemed it safe to go and decided we would leave the next morning as soon as we woke.  But, we needed a good night’s rest.  Our eyes were drooping we decided to venture out for an “adventure dinner” to wake ourselves up.  It was fun seeing the old “big boobs diner” we had eaten at the first time Phillip, Mitch and I stopped in Clearwater when we were bringing our Niagara home back in 2013.  

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We decided this time to saunter over to Frenchy’s Saltwater Cafe for dinner and even opted for the early bird special, without shame.  

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I could tell I was tired when the only thing I felt after two stout rum drinks was sleepy.  Exhaustion is a total buzzkill.  We ambled back to the boat and cuddled up in our frozen palace to get a solid night’s rest before shoving back out into the Gulf the next day.  

“Mitch,” I said shaking his shoulder a bit.  Phillip and I had snoozed through the alarm twice before finally rolling out of bed and Mitch hadn’t yet moved.  After his first night holding solo shifts on an offshore passage, I’m sure that was the most tired he can remember feeling.  And, we’ll be nice and say that’s a testament to his state of exhaustion not his memory.  “Mitch!” I shouted giving him a solid shove.  He finally flinched to with a snort and looked at me in total shock, as if he didn’t know where he was, who I was and why the hell I was shoving him awake.  I stood there with a raised eyebrow for a minute and he finally decided to check back into reality and started rustling out of bed.  He said he couldn’t even remember laying down the night before.  We had all just about felt that way.  But after a good ten hours of sleep we were all feeling pretty rested and ready to get underway.  We readied the Nonsuch and started talking about a plan to de-dock.  Again, we made Mitch make all the decisions and simply tell us what lines to release when.  Now, I’ll give him a solid A on the plan but a B on the execution.  As soon as he put the boat in reverse and started to throttle her up, instantly the stern started kicking over to port.  Sharp too.  I was on the port side and pushing with all of my might near the beam but her stern continued to pivot around.  

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I looked over at Phillip on starboard but he’d already let off the bow line per Mitch’s instruction and didn’t have any way to control the nose of the boat.  The further she kept turning, I watched with clenched teeth as the finger dock we had been using to get on and off the boat on the port side began to jut in through the lifelines.  I scrambled toward it, braced my back against the cabin top and tried to push it out with my feet.  

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It was inching out  but not fast enough.  As the boat continued to move backward, the finger pier made contact with the stanchion post and I was afraid she was going to snap it over like a weed, ripping a hole in the deck in the process.  I hate docking.  Have I said that before?  Well …  And de-docking too.  It’s always so stressful to watch your precious boat inch closer and closer to sure peril.  But!  Mitch saved us!  With some instruction from Phillip but still─he did the right thing at the right time.  Mitch threw her in forward, gassed her up and steered her right back into the slip.  I was so glad to see the finger pier ease out from the lifelines and back away from the boat.  Lesson to be learned here: check the rudder before you begin backing out.  Mitch forgot to make sure it was lined up straight before backing out.  Again, an easy mistake to make that could have cost him hundreds in damage.  I don’t man the helm often and I can’t say I would remember to do that every time.  Sailing.  No one said it was easy.  

Once we got the boat secure again, Phillip headed back in the cockpit to help Mitch re-group.  I was still up on deck tying a line when Phillip so Mitch probably didn’t think I could hear.  “Do you think I can handle this boat, Phillip?” Mitch asked and my ears perked up.  I did feel for him.  After a scary experience like that, you start to doubt yourself.  “Of course,” Phillip immediately responded, which you may think sounds like he was placating Mitch but he wouldn’t.  It was the truth.  He could.  Like any new boat owner, Mitch just needed to make the important mistakes while help was around.  With the simple fix of lining up the rudder before backing out, Mitch handled the second attempt flawlessly.  Seriously, Phillip and I let off the lines and he slipped out without any assistance.  Even after that heart-pumping first attempt.  I would have congratulated him but he didn’t even relish in the moment.  He was all business.  The minute he eased her out, Mitch clocked her around, put her in forward and started heading toward the channel.  Phillip and I watched him silently for a minute like proud parents.  He was doing it all by himself.  

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But as soon as we were all smiles and cheer for him he had us cracking up again with one of his Mitch’isms.  He was watching the GPS trying to steer his way out of the channel and I’m sure he was a little shook up from our docking debacle and the whole adventure in general but he kept weaving back and forth in the narrow channel.  We let it slide a time or two but after a few back-and-forths we had to ask.  “What’s going on buddy?” I hollered from the deck.  Mitch was quiet at first.  Then he started muttering a little and finally said, “Oh, now I get it.  I’m the long line.”  Phillip and I exchanged a raised-eyebrow look.  “You’re what?” I asked.  “The long line,” Mitch repeated.  “I couldn’t tell on the GPS which line was the heading or me.  But, I get it now.  I’m the long line.”  

Mitch.  He’s like a gray blonde sometimes, and so cute about it.  We still joke about the long line.

But, as tired as we had been the night before, it was (and is always) so invigorating to get back out in blue water.  Nothing but a blue horizon in every direction.  Water meets sky and that’s it.  

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It’s stunning, mesmerizing.  Some may find it frightening to not see shore, to not─without the assistance of charts, a compass or (nowadays) a GPS─know which way will lead you back home.  Some fear this detachment.  We love it.  Phillip and I sat on the deck all morning just staring at the blue infinity stretched out before us.  It felt so good to be back out in the Gulf.  It was strange to think it was the same body of water that had rocked and tossed us last time, submerged and swallowed our dinghy because it now looked so calm.  Big thunderheads began to build on our stern again in the afternoon but we motored on, ready for whatever adventure she had in store.  

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Chapter Six: Man Overboard

Lightning is beautiful.  It really is.  When it’s far away and you can just watch it and wonder about the illusive static forces that are causing such shocking white streaks in the sky.  

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Just wondering how it occurs is fun.  Wondering whether it’s going to come right up over your boat, however, is not.  When I turned in for my first sleep shift around 10:00 p.m. our first night on passage from Ft. Myers to Clearwater on s/v Tanglefoot, the lightning storm was just that: beautiful and far away.  Mid-way through my 2:00 a.m. shift at the helm, it started clocking around our port side and getting closer.  

Mitch cracked me up when he finished his 12-2 shift and woke me at 2:00 a.m.  I guess having sailed with Phillip for so long there are just some routines, some mutual unspoken courtesies that we fell into that Mitch apparently wasn’t privy to.  But I guess that’s our fault.  This was his first offshore passage with solo night shifts and we didn’t tell him.  When Phillip or I are approaching a shift change, we generally go rouse the man coming on about ten minutes before our shift is over to give him time to wake up, get some water, brush his teeth.  Whatever it is he feels he needs to do feel fresh and alert for his shift.  Then we usually sit together for a bit, discuss the conditions, give a report of any notable events, sightings or observations and fill out the cruising log together (the time for which usually corresponds with the shift change).  In general, we just have a routine of helping ease one another from dead sleep to alert watchman.  It’s not anything Phillip and I talked about or planned out, it was just a pattern we flowed into.

But Mitch?  He shook me awake on the starboard settee at 2:00 a.m. sharp, said “Annie, it’s your shift,” and started stripping gear off and heading back to the vberth.  “Auto’s on.  All’s clear right now.  Holler if you need me,” he said on his way back.  I blinked a couple of times trying to rouse myself quickly.

“Phillip’s on next, though,” Mitch was sure to remind me.

Thanks buddy, because I might have forgotten that part.  But man I wish Mitch had the shift after me.  I would have loved to have woken him in the same fashion: “Hey, buddy!  Snap to.  The helm’s unmanned.  Get up there.”  Now, to be fair, Mitch had not been indoctrinated in our slow-and-smooth method (patent pending) for shift changes and, technically, he had every right.  It was my shift.  My turn to hold watch.  I needed to get up there.  But … I was going to educate him next time.  I like my ten minutes.  I need it to clear my sleep fog.  But, it was a minor transgression.  Mitch had held his first solo shift─without complaint─and had done a good job of it.

It didn’t take me long, though, to ease into the atmosphere in the cockpit.  It was so crisp in the Gulf, the moon lighting every little chop on the water, like the water was prickling with energy.  The stars were so clear against the black sky.  When you’re out on the water they don’t have to compete with any man-made light.  It’s like everything is clicked into high definition.  A view that was once hazy is wiped crystal clean and you can see, now, that all of the stars you could see on land actually have fifteen equally bright stars between them and five more little sparkling ones between each of those.  It seems impossible to find a patch of pure black.  I wish we could have dropped the bimini during the night but we still had the lightning storm on our stern, although it was far off in the distance─just a mesmerizing natural wonder to watch and wonder about.  I hated that we were still motoring but the wind was still so lightblowing maybe five knots─right on our nose.  The motor on the Nonsuch was chugging right along, though, impressing us all.  And Mitch was blessed with a linear-drive AutoHelm 6000 on the Nonsuch.  That thing held in twice the weather as the little wheel-pilot AutoHelm 3000 Phillip and I have on our Niagara.  We had already been talking about upgrading our auto pilot for the past year but this trip on Mitch’s boat served as a stark awakening that we needed to stop talking and do it already.  The autopilot on the Nonsuch was our champion on the trip.  With the autopilot and the Westerbeke purring right along, the first hour of my shift was pretty easy.  

Around 3:00 a.m., though, the beautiful, bewildering lightning storm that had stayed on our stern all night now started to drift over to my port side.  Every once in a while I would see a crack of lightning out of my peripheral on the left, then every once in a while became every few minutes.  With only the iron sail pushing us along, we had pretty much free reign over what direction we wanted to go.  I picked the one that would take us away from the lightning storm.  I clocked us over about thirty degrees east to try and head away from it.  I hated to take us off course but if there was a lightning storm on our previous heading, an earlier arrival time was a sacrifice I was more than willing to make to avoid a storm.  When I roused Phillip around 3:45 a.m.─yes, with the obligatory ten-minute wake-up routine─I let him know the status and he remained on my east heading as I fell back into the dead zone.  

It seemed the Gulf just wanted to toy with us this time, though, because the lightning storm never fell on us.  The crew woke to still waters and a stunning sunset off the starboard side.

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Mitch seemed to be faring pretty well.  Whatever queasiness had come over him the night before seemed to have subsided.  We all had fun talking about the evening and the unique experiences we had during our solo night shifts.  Mitch told us with the lightning storm threatening us from the stern and only the chugging engine capable of pushing us to safety, he admitted he was a little worried, a little scared.  Which is justifiable.  If the engine quit for whatever, a hundred totally possible reasons, we wouldn’t have been able to sail away from that storm with the light wind on our nose.  The engine was our only ticket to safety and Mitch told us he just sat in the cockpit checking the engine temp and patting the the coaming saying: “Tanglefoot.  You got this.”

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It was cute.  And totally understandable.  But, Tanglefoot proved herself steady and true, chugging us right through the night, away from the storm and into a beautiful streaking sunrise.  It had been a slightly frightening but also awe-inspiring first night on passage.  The only bummer was the motoring but that engine, I’ll tell you, was solid as a rock.  Never a hiccup, never an issue (that wasn’t a result of operator error).  Thankfully, the breeze freshened up around 9:00 a.m.  We hoisted that huge ass Nonsuch sail (again with the same halyard explosion threat but we did finally get her cranked up) and finally were able to sail without the engine.

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There’s just something about moving through a vast body of blue water by the sheer power of the wind.  It sparks a soothing at-oneness with the world around you.  We all kicked back in solace and just appreciated what the boat was doing.  I will say the ability to easily drop the bimini on the Nonsuch was nice.  It makes you feel so open and connected with the salt air and sky.

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Sadly, it didn’t last long.  If I said the breeze was fresh around 9:00 a.m., it had grown a little stale and flat before noon.  And, without the wind, it was scorching under the hot, overhead sun.  We knew we were going to have to re-crank but Phillip wanted to check the fluids before we turned the engine over again.  All told, she had been running a little over twenty-four hours straight through the night before we shut her down.  Having experienced a rather unfortunate engine failure on our own boat due to lack of fluids after a solid thirty-hour run, Phillip and I were a little sensitive about the fluid situation.  Again we made Mitch do most of the heavy lifting in checking all the fluids to be sure he knew how to access each one and identify issues.  And, do recall all three─transmission, oil and coolant─are located in three separate areas on the boat.  I’m not saying I could check them all in under five minutes but I will say it wouldn’t take me a damn hour!  Oh, alright forty-five minutes but still.

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Mitch did check them all himself, though, and assured us we were ready to re-crank and carry on.  But, first things first.  I did mention it was hot!  We decided it was time for a quick dip.  We dropped the sails and let the boat bob for a minute so we could go for a swim.

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My God the water felt good.  It was just the refresher we needed.  And there must have been some strong current outside of Clearwater because we were still doing 1.8 knots with no sails and no engine.  Mitch was struggling a bit to keep up with the boat so we threw him a line and all got a big laugh out of his “Tanglefoot!” re-enactment.

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I was using the swim break to rinse our breakfast dishes and that current must have been stronger than I thought because when I looked back to make sure Mitch was still lassoed behind the boat, it seemed the water had sucked his britches clean off.  We had a man overboard minus his drawers!

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Oh, alright.  He didn’t actually lose his britches.  It sure looked like it, though, seeing him splash around in drawers the distinct color of bare bottom.  And I wouldn’t have put it past him.  After a quick, refreshing bathing-suit-clad dip, we piled back in the boat, cranked her up and set our sights on Clearwater.  We were just a few hours out and this crew was ready for some shore leave!

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Chapter Five – Great Light in the Gulf

AC on a boat … I’m still not sure that sits right with me.  It just de-acclimates you.  It took me a good ten minutes to thaw out topside after our first night on Tanglefoot.  My toes prickled as I walked the deck, leaving my first dewey footprints on the boat.  

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Mitch must have slept about as soundly as I did because he wasn’t long behind me.  6:12 a.m. and the man is up, fiddling with things, looking again for his flashlight.  I’ve never seen Mitch up so early but I’ve never seen him so excited either.  He would ask me a question: “What was that last thing we needed from the store?”  I would respond: “Trash bags.  I already added it to the list.”  And not five minutes later it had already slipped his mind: “Oh, here’s the list.  What was that thing we needed?”  He was like a kid with a new train set.  He couldn’t wait to get the track all laid out and watch her go!  But he would always forget the batteries.

Our plan that morning was to get the dinghy off the davits and secure her on the foredeck.  We’d learned a hard and expensive lesson, the first time the three of us crossed the Gulf in our Niagara, in not securing our dinghy to the foredeck for offshore passages.  There would be no clanging davits this trip, no hacking off of the dinghy mid-Gulf.  Not again.  While davits are a convenient, easy way to lower and raise a dinghy on a boat that’s cruising around in protected waters, they are not─in our opinion─secure enough to hold a dinghy for an offshore passage, no matter how heavy duty they may claim to be.  The dinghy that came with the Nonsuch was an eight foot Walker Bay with a 2.5 hp outboard.  Although an eight foot dinghy would generally seem plenty big enough for a 30-foot boat, for some reason, it still didn’t seem big enough for Mitch.  But he got in there anyway, ass-up, and cleaned out the rainwater so we could flip her over on the deck.  

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I have to admit, at this point I was thoroughly impressed with Mitch.  It had been an early rise, with some pretty hefty chores to conquer before 7:00 a.m. and Mitch was taking them all on with a smile, some light-hearted jokes and only the occasional “Okay, now hang on a minute.”  So far, he was really stepping up … until it was time to check the fluids.  I have said many times how glad I am that our Niagara is laid out and designed the way that it is─with the easy pull-back sink compartment that allows impressive access to the engine and all fluid check-points:

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But when we began to tinker around the Nonsuch and locate all of her fluid bins, I was reminded yet again.  

To check the fluids on Mitch’s boat, we had to access three different tight compartments.  You have to remove the companionway stairs to access and check the transmission fluid.

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The oil must be checked (not re-filled, though, mind you, just checked), by opening a storage compartment on the starboard side of the companionway stairs and then opening another access door in that compartment that allows you to reach the oil dipstick.  But wait, there’s more!  Once you’ve buttoned up all that mess, head up to the cockpit and the coolant bin is located down in the starboard lazarette.  It can be checked (not filled) by leaning in upside down with a flashlight.  

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Filling it requires you─or your trained monkey─get all the way down in the lazarette and be sitting upright in order to pour coolant in.  

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I won’t say it was ridiculously inaccessible, but the fluid check-points were a bit tedious, particularly for a large man like Mitch.  While he and Phillip were checking the fluids, I broke down all of our provisions (taking food and products out of their cardboard boxes and packaging) and took a load of trash up to the marina trash can.  That whole process took about forty-five minutes and when I came back, Mitch was still checking the fluids.  I’m sure he’ll get quicker at it over time.  But─like I said─he did impress me by crawling into every tight hole, albeit it with some grunting, moaning and just a few more snaps: “Now, hang on a minute.”  But he did it.  

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Once the fluids were checked, we headed out to make our store runs and grab those “last few items” we had jotted down while inventorying the boat the night before.  The plan was ACE hardware for all that kind of trash bag-type stuff (cleaning brushes, sponges, shop towels, dust pan, hand-held broom, etc. along with propane), Publix for our perishable food items and West Marine for some back-up fuel filters.  We had planned to grab our store goods and just eat breakfast back on the boat and go.  I mean, why else had we hassled Mitch about buying all of that food the week before?  But, it started to become comical when every store we pulled up to (ACE, Target, Publix) didn’t open until 8:00 a.m.  It was just a few minutes after seven then so we deemed it a sign: Breakfast Break!  We drove the main Ft. Myers strip a time or two looking for a Starbucks or Bagelheads or something easily recognizable as a standard commercial breakfast and, surprisingly, came up empty-handed.  Our inability to find a Starbucks in a three-mile radius particularly surprised me.  What kind of Americans are we?  But each time we made a pass we kept eyeing this greasy-spoon diner with a packed-out parking lot and the savory scent of sausage enticing us in.  “Marko’s Diner,” Mitch read the sign aloud as we pulled in.  Being a traveler and an adventurer like us, Mitch loves to check out the local stuff when he’s in a new place.  He wants to eat where the regulars eat, shop where they shop and do what they do.  And, it always feels good to support local businesses, so Phillip and I were on board.  “Marko’s it is,” we agreed.

I don’t know if she was in fact Mrs. Marko but this plump, vivacious, loud Greek woman clad in a shoulder-padded bedazzeled sweatshirt, her hair sprayed out on either side in sticky, jut-out wings was greeting customers the minute the bell on the door dinged.  Most folks she greeted by name: “Hey Jim.”  “Morning Claire.”  But the newbies you could tell she spotted immediately and really put on a show for them.  

“Well aren’t you a tall drink of water,” she said when Mitch walked in.  “That’s what they tell me,” Mitch said running a hand through some pretend James Dean hair.  That was all she needed to pull the rug out from under him.  “Is it now?  Well I’m glad you’re here Big-and-Tall.  You made it just in time for the early bird senior special!” she said as she laughed, pulled one of many-a-pen from her hair and nudged her way by him with a pot of coffee in hand.  

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You have to love a woman who can hold her own, particularly a hefty, big-hearted Greek one.  Mrs. Marko was great though, making sure us “out-a-towners” got good service, the whole schmorgas board (eggs, tomatoes, biscuits, grits, gravy) and hot piping coffee.  It was just what we needed to fuel us up for the day.  After our Marko’s feast, the store runs were quick and expertly executed.  Three three of us took on ACE then the boys dropped me at Publix while they went to West Marine for the fuel filters.  We were back on the boat and packed for passage by 10:00 a.m.  With the fluids already checked, all we needed to do was crank and go!  This was it.  The big moment.  

“Be sure to hold it 15-20 seconds,” Phillip said to Mitch as he got ready to warm the glow plugs and crank the engine.  I was sitting next to Mitch and had to smile as he pushed the button in and started an actual, audible “one one-thousand, two one-thousand” count.  He was so careful it was almost cute.  But apparently cute wasn’t going to cut it.  The engine tried to turn and sputtered a few times but would not crank.  Mitch tried three times to no avail.  Phillip was worried if he tried to crank one more time without the engine turning over we would pull too much raw water in and it would back up in the engine, so we took a moment to investigate.  I had watched Mitch hold the glow plugs plenty long enough so I knew it wasn’t that.  Phillip looked at the fuel filter which didn’t looked clogged or dirty and the fuel gage read three-quarters of a tank.  Then he asked about the starting battery.  Mitch had thought it was on, but it was clicked only to “house,” not “both.”  Aha!  Always takes a little time to learn a new boat.  Once that adjustment was made and we gave it a bit more gas she fired right up.  The crew let out a collective breath.  For a moment, it had seemed our big adventure was about to putter out at the dock.  

But she was running great now, purring actually.  Mitch was a little anxious about backing out of the dock, but we told him to configure a plan (which lines would be released in what order) and we would execute it.  We were there to help Mitch get the boat home, for sure, but we also wanted to let him get as much hands-on, solo-sailing experience as possible because he would essentially be handling the boat on his own once he got her back to Pensacola.  So, as often as possible, we would have him do everything with us there merely to step in only if he was getting into some real trouble.  Think of it like training wheels that don’t touch unless you start to tip over.  Right out of the gate, Mitch got a great lesson in steering his boat in a tight marina.  

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We wanted to fuel up, pump out and fill the water tanks before jumping out into the Gulf so we planned to stop at the fuel docks.  Of course, as luck would have it, there was a line and Mitch had to circle around a few times, back up, pull forward, turn around again.  It was a great lesson in getting a feel for the boat’s reaction time.  There was a good bit of “easy, gentle, wait for it, slow down!” as Mitch leaned a little too hard on the throttle but─with Phillip’s instruction─handled the whole three-time turn around and first fuel docking himself.  

I set about filling the water tanks and handling the pumpout while the boys fueled her up.  The water was no problem.  While she did take on a good bit, we got the tanks filled to the brim and the caps secured back down.  The waste, however … was causing some real issues.  

“I need a hammer,” I told Phillip as he walked up on the deck to see what I was struggling with.  I could not get the cap off.  No matter how hard I turned and groaned and grunted.  That one little sliver and a boat key was just not going to cut it.  I was starting to imagine what this trip would look like if we started out with a mostly-full holding tank and no way to pump out.  While I was sure they had checked the macerator during the survey/sea trial, I would rather not be the first one to actually try it out.  What if it didn’t work?  What would we do then?  Things could get shitty.  These were the thoughts that were running through my mind as I’m beating on the back end of the screwdriver, the head wedged into that stupid little sliver when the cap finally clicked free.  My guess is the previous owner just never went on the boat (I envy the fact that men can easily piss overboard) or never pumped out at the dock because it felt like the waste cap had not moved in a decade.  Luckily, though, she finally spun free and were able to pump out.  Whew.  While I was glad to help Mitch sail his boat back to Pensacola, I was secretly hoping that offer would in no way involve head repair or maintenance.  

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Finally, with all of our chores done, it was time to get out of the marina and get that boat moving.  As we were making our way through the channel, another boat─Miller Time─came along side us and hollered over: “Is that Wade Alexander’s boat?” (The previous owner).  “Yeah!” Mitch hollered back.  “I just bought her!” he beamed.  “Oh, congrats!” Miller Time shouted back.  “Have a great trip.”  It was clear Mitch was going to get a lot of looks with the cat rig (and that he was totally loving it already).  

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Once we made it out of the channel Phillip decided it was high time we threw up this big ass sail on the Nonsuch.  I stationed myself at the mast, pulling the halyard manually, while Phillip set up on the winch and Mitch held the wheel.  While it was difficult to pull by hand at first, it was moving along until we got to the reef points.  Unfortunately, the last time the boat had been sailed─on the survey/sea-trial─they had practiced reefing her to make sure all the lines worked properly.  Recall Mitch’s eloquent description about the monkey and the football.  That meant the sail was still reefed as we were trying to raise her which always makes it tougher.  Our first time raising the sail, we got a crash course on the reefing lines, which one was reef one and reef two as well as their particular hang-up and pinch points.  Once we got all the reefing lines loosened, though, we still had another three or four feet to go to fully raise the sail.  That’s when the real fun began.  

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I was working the halyard at the mast while Phillip was cranking on the winch back in the cockpit, but I had done all I could do on my end.  The rest of the sail just had to be muscled up using the winch and─my God─that thing shrieked and cried with every turn.  I watched as the halyard grew tauter and visibly thinner before me.  I gave it a light tug a time or two to see if it still had some bend but after five or six cranks on the winch it wouldn’t budge at all.  It was as tight as a steel cable and we still had another two or so feet to go at the top of the mast.  I hollered to Phillip to keep cranking and the winch continued to wail.  I didn’t dare touch the halyard after that, I thought just my light fingers on it and the whole thing might explode.  I couldn’t stand the sight or sound of it anymore.  I backed away from the mast and just stood near the cockpit, my hands ready to come up and protect my face if there was an all-out halyard explosion.  Mitch was watching from the helm, staring at the top of the mast to see when the sail finally made it to the top.  “Keep going,” he shouted to Phillip who looked to me topside for confirmation.  

“It’s still got some bag in the bottom, but who cares?  We’ve got plenty of sail up.”  I was not in any way inclined to push the gear any more than necessary.  I was literally afraid to go anywhere near the mast with that much tension on the halyard.  We had squealed her to her limits.  Phillip gave it just one more crank and said, “That’s good.”  Mitch looked up through the bimini window and started to say something but I heard Phillip’s voice over whatever he tried to mutter out: “It’s good.”  

Thank God, I thought.  This may sound silly, but it’s the truth: raising that sail was frightening.  

But it was now up and we were finally sailing!  Motor sailing but that still counts.  We were making 6.2 knots.  

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We were surprised the boat pointed as well as it did.  I guess with the massive surface area of the sail that the wind has to travel around, it’s got more suction into the wind than you would think.  I will say, though─just as Mitch had predicted─tacking the boat was astonishingly easy.  What do you do?  You turn the wheel.  That is all.  The sail handles the rest.  Not that letting the Genny out on one side and cranking her in on the other is super exhausting, but it can be a bit of a chore in heavy winds or when you’re trying to kick back, eat grapes and read a book.  On the Nonsuch, though?  You just turn the wheel.  That’s it.  You could tell Mitch was getting a real kick out of that.  He tacked far more than he needed to that morning just because he was having such a good time doing it.  It was fun to watch him enjoy his new boat.  We had a nice day motor sailing.  The sea state was nice and smooth.  It would have been perfect for sailing had the wind not been right on our nose.  For that reason, we kept the iron sail going to make headway but even with the motor running, we were only making 3.8 knots trying to tack into a light headwind.  

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We were still debating whether to point toward Venice for a sooner stop or just push on through to Clearwater.  With the motor running solid and the sail and rigging all fairly tested and proving seaworthy, the crew decided to just keep trucking to Clearwater.  Everyone was in good spirits and enjoying the passage so far.  We figured we might as well capitalize on our fresh morale and cover a good bit of a ground our first offshore passage.  We dropped and secured the sail (a bit of a chore with the cat rig) and throttled her up to 5 knots.  That put us on a heading to reach Clearwater the following afternoon so we divied up the night shifts:  

         Me:   8 p.m. ─ 10 p.m.

         Phillip: 10 p.m. ─ 12 a.m

         Mitch:   12 a.m. ─ 2 a.m.

         Me: 2 a.m. ─ 4 a.m.

         Phillip: 4 a.m. ─ 6 a.m.

         Mitch: 6 a.m. ─ 8 a.m.

With three of us, it was going to be nice to get at least one solid four-hour stint of sleep.  The first and last shifts we called the “gravy shifts” because everyone is usually up with you during those times so you’re not alone at the helm.  Phillip wanted to take the short straw this first leg of the trip and get his two-crap-shifts night over with right out of the gate.  Looking back on it, it was a smart move─take the worst leg while we were all still fresh and excited on our first passage.  But Phillip must have played us well, because Mitch and I happily signed up for one gravy shift and only one solo shift during the night.  With that settled and entered into the log book (so there could be no debate later), we decided to put the bimini down and enjoy the sunset from the cockpit.  We watched the sun turn into a hot pink ball on the horizon.  I love when it does that.  Blazes so bright you can hardly look at it but you can’t look away either, as it drops down beneath a denim blue horizon.  She put on a stunning show.  

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Phillip and I cooked up a hot batch of red beans and rice and salad for dinner and dished out some hearty portions for the crew.  We watched Mitch curiously, though, as he merely pushed a few beans around, ate a sprig or two of lettuce and then said he was full.  We didn’t want to say it (because sometimes just saying it makes it happen) but we suspected Mitch was getting seasick.  Recall during our first offshore passage with Mr. Roberts he got monstrously seasick and was put down for twelve hours after taking some allegedly non-drowsy Dramamine.  Phillip and I were hoping, for our own sakes so we wouldn’t have to man the helm as much, that wasn’t happening this time.  We didn’t want to say it, though.  It’s like a jinx.  We just asked: “You getting tired, buddy?”  

“Yeah, tired.” Mitch said, seemingly thanking us for our courtesy pass and taking it straight to bed.  “I’m just going to get some rest for my shift,” he said as he headed down the companionway stairs.  Phillip and I were hoping we weren’t going to lose him again to seasickness, but if so I certainly wanted to be fueled up for a more trying, two-person only offshore trip.  I grabbed his unfinished bowl of red beans and rice and scarfed it right up.  

Phillip sat up with me during my first night shift.  You see?  Gravy.  Phillip and I were breathing and basking in the feeling of being back out on blue waters with an unfettered horizon, crisp night air coming in.  God it felt good.  But, just as she starts to sense you getting all comfortable and cozy, she likes to remind you whose in charge.  Right after the sun dipped we heard an ominous rumble behind us.  Phillip and I turned around to look out from the stern and saw big, rolling thunderheads on our horizon.  

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We watched in silence for a moment more, expecting our suspicions to be confirmed.  She rumbled a time or two again, then we saw it: a shocking white crack of lightning that branched out and traveled the sky.  There was no denying it now.  But there was no point in saying it aloud either.  It was clear.  We had a massive thunderstorm on our stern, chasing us into the Gulf.  

 

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Chapter Four – Tanglefoot

“Tanglefoot,” she said over the loud speaker.  Phillip and I kind of eyed each other curiously.  “Tangle-FOOT!” she said again, this time with more emphasis on the “foot.” That’s when we really found out how serendipitous this whole boat-shopping venture had been for Mitch.

It was June 19, 2015 and Mitch, Phillip and I were heading down in a Beverly-Hillbilly style packed-out rental to Ft. Myers to help Mitch sail his recently-acquired 1985 Nonsuch back home to Pensacola.

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Didn’t bode too well that I suffered my first “boat bite” (or I guess this would be a “rental car bite”) the very minute I stepped into the car.  

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Don’t ask me how.  There were flip flops and a floor mat involved.  That’s all I remember.  But it was a bit of a bloody mess we had to deal not our very first mile into the trip.  Leave it to me …  But the boys got me doctored up and we continued our trek south.

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We stopped in for some lunch at Panera in Tallahassee and that’s when we first heard the name: Tanglefoot.  The third time the little Panera chick said it over the intercom Phillip and I started to look around to see who was going to respond to that calling.  Then we saw him─Mitch─bouncing up to the table with our food trays in hand.  “What do you think?” he asked, looking at us as if his question made sense.  Phillip and I kind of sat there dumbly: What do we think about what?  

“Tanglefoot,” Mitch said again.  “That’s the name of the boat.”  

You see what I mean?  6’4” Mitch Roberts finds a damn-near perfect boat, in great condition for a great price and it’s named the only single thing in the world I could imagine to be more fitting for his vessel name than “While You’re Down There.” 

“Tanglefoot,” Phillip and I repeated him chuckling.  It was almost too perfect.  Plus, Mitch has no poker face. He holds nothing back.  If he’s thinking it, you’re going to hear it. He kind of tumbles over his words sometimes they come out so fast, so Tanglefoot-in-Mouth works just as well. And it wouldn’t be long before we would actually be setting foot on the infamous s/v Tanglefoot ourselves.  It was a long haul (approximately nine hours) to make in one day but we got to the docks in Ft. Myers around 10:00 p.m.─just in time for our first Tanglefoot adventure!  

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Stopped at the Barrel in Ft. Myers for dinner.  Annie loves “Country Fresh Flavor.”

 

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The boat was docked in a gated community with water access and slips.  Mitch said the owner’s broker was supposed to have called the security gate to let them know he would be coming that day to the boat.  Of course that didn’t happen and here it was─10:00 p.m.─and we find ourselves being held hostage by the little gated-booth police because we don’t have clearance for admission.  Mitch tried calling the broker several times while the gate guards watched us.  Mitch’s impatience was visible.  “I can’t believe these knuckleheads are serious,” he told Phillip and I, thankfully behind a rolled-up window so the guards didn’t hear. After three failed attempts to reach the broker, he then tried the owner, which I thought was a long shot because it was so late and─I mean─the man is, according to Mitch, “older than molasses,” which we took for mid-eighties.  But, I guess I have to admit I’m ignorant to the night life of eighty-year-olds because the owner picked right up, sounding cheery as a nun on Sunday and was able to get us clearance through the booth.  For whatever reason, though─even after the phone call─there was still some very important paperwork shuffling and “processing” to be done in the almighty gate booth.  You should have seen these three rent-a-goobers, wheeling around on their whirly chairs, shuffling papers back and forth, writing things down like they were solving the mystery of global warming.  Mitch kept trying to roll down the window to say something to them─something Phillip and I were sure would get us banned from the place forever─and Phillip kept rolling his window back up to contain him.

Then─in an apparent effort to entertain us while the all-important “gated booth processing” procedure was completed─one of the uniformed security blokes comes out to chat with us.  He pulled his pants up a few times, Barney Fife style, and leaned into the driver side window.

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“Evening all,” he said tipping his hat to us.  

“Evening,” we all mumbled back kind of awkwardly, keeping our thoughts to ourselves: What in the bloody name of gated booths was taking so long?

“You come here to stay on the boat tonight, huh?”  

“Yes, sir,” Mitch said back, trying to be patient. I was proud he’d changed the “knucklehead” to “sir.”

“What slip are you in?” Fife asked.  It seemed like he was trying to be cordial.

“I don’t know,” Mitch said, a little embarrassed, but more irritated than anything.  Who gives a crap?  Let us in!

“Well, what dock?” Fife followed up, now a little suspect.  

“I don’t know,” Mitch barked back, now noticeably irritated.  “I just know how to get to the boat.  I don’t know which dock it is.”

“Well, there are only five docks,” Fife snapped, giving us a stupid, how-can-you-not-know frown. 

“I told you … ” Mitch started to fire back and reach for the door handle.  I thought he was about to step out of the vehicle and blow our chances of ever getting to the boat that night but, thankfully, he was cut off.  Fife No. 2 stuck his head out of the booth, waved some papers in the air and said, “You all have a safe night, now,” as the gate buzzed and the arm finally started to lift, allowing us through.  Fife No. 1 hiked his pants up again, because I’m sure there had been some slippage in the “which dock?” exchange and gave us a scowl as we drove by.  The three of us were laughing about it─now that we had gotten in─but those rent-a-Fifes were unbelievable.  How important is the maintenance of the gate log and documentation of thru traffic in a quiet gated community in Ft. Myers, Florida?  I mean really?

Mitch held true to his word too.  He had no idea what dock the boat was on but he knew exactly how to guide us to it.  Here it was─our first time to see Tanglefoot.  

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Man, did Mitch get lucky.  She was a sound, solid, well-built boat.  Dirty as all get out but with just a few swipes of a Clorox wipe I could tell she was going to clean up incredibly well.  

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And, it was shocking how big the boat felt.  At thirty feet, Mitch’s boat is a good five feet shorter than ours but it feels five feet bigger in every direction down below.  It looked like you could line up three ballerinas in the saloon and have them each do pirrouettes and they wouldn’t hit each other.  It was like a floating condo.  

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And, the companionway blew my mind.  The entry-way is like four feet fall, with two measly steps down to the cabin floor and Mitch could stand tall and straight most everywhere in the cabin below.

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No wonder Mitch said he felt comfortable on this boat.  It’s like it was built for him.  The cockpit is massive too.  I think the fact that beam of the boat is carried so far forward and so far aft is what makes it feel so much bigger than ours.  The Nonsuch is probably a little squattier in that regard (I like to call those “fat bottom girls”) which can make them a little less comfortable to sail in heavy weather, but it certainly makes them super comfortable to cruise around coastal waters and spend the weekends in.  Phillip and I were both really impressed with the layout, look, feel, build and quality of Mitch’s boat.  You done good, Buddy.  You done good.  We started poking around and tidying things up a bit and discovered some interesting eighty-year-old man finds.  There was a complete drawer of canned Buds in the vberth.  Think like eighteen cans in one drawer and a mounted can crusher by the companionway stairs.  

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It was gross─all grungy and moldy with years of dirt caked on.  That was going to be one of the first things to go.  But, modifications and thorough clean-up would come later. For now it was time to settle in─get all of our provisions on-board and stowed away and the boat put in a somewhat functioning condition for sleeping that evening so we could rise early and make sure she was ready to head out tomorrow morning for the passage.  

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Mitch was so excited showing us around the boat he kept dropping things and losing his flashlight.  I can’t tell you how many times he had to ask Phillip to borrow his.  We decided we were soon going to have to put a head lamp on him permanently.  Or maybe a chest-mounted push light that you could just click on whenever he came near.  That would have been helpful.  

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But, you couldn’t blame him.  He was just excited.  This was his boat!  His very first sailboat!  Tanglefoot!  And this was his first time to have friends aboard and get to show her off.  And (and!)─even better─we would soon be shoving her out of the slip and sailing her out into blue waters.  That’s some pretty good stuff.  Definitely worth a couple dropped nuts and bolts and forever-missing flashlight.  I’ve never seen Mitch so giddy.  Since he was all smiles and giggles we decided to give him his little Captain’s gift then─a log book and a waterproof accordion folder for all of his manuals.  Pulling from experience, we know how important it is to keep those handy and organized.

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After a couple of hours unpacking, cleaning and stowing, though, this crew was beat.  It was well after midnight by then and we were planning to make one more provision run in the morning for perishables and then toss the lines around noon and start making our way north, toward either Venice or Clearwater.  Venice was going to be a shorter trip, more paralleled to the shore.  We were keeping it open as an option in case we suffered some equipment or engine failure or other likely catastrophe on the first leg of the trip.  If things were going well, though, we were hoping to make it all the way to Clearwater right out of the gate.  Talk didn’t last long, though, as the crew’s lids started to droop.  It had been a long day.  Phillip and I folded down the table in the saloon to set up the double bed on the starboard side for us, while Mitch prepared the vberth for him.  The amount of room in the cabin of the Nonsuch is astounding.  Phillip and I felt like we were sprawled out in a five-star suite! 

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Then Mitch cranked up the AC.  Yes, a boat with AC.  This would be a new luxury for Phillip and me.  Whether it was the chill or the new sleeping digs or just the excitement of spending our first night on Mitch’s boat knowing we were going to sail it out into the Gulf tomorrow, none of us got much sleep that night.

Personally, I blame Mitch and the AC.  He has got to cool it─no pun intended─with the AC because that about the coldest I’ve ever been in my damn life.  I was tugging and grunting and trying to get every body part covered with Phillip and I’s shared sheet but it still wasn’t enough.  I was barely groggy and froze-toed when the alarm went off at 5:45 a.m. the next morning.  The first thing I did was step out into the cockpit to the much-welcomed muggy warmth.  My feet prickled back to life as I walked the dewy deck with a smile.  We were sailing today!

 

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Chapter Three – Amateur Kretschmers

“Now what is this ‘none’ stuff?”

“Naan.”

“Okay, fine. Naan. What is that? A snack?”

He was big on the snacks.

So, no surprise here I’m sure: Mitch got the boat. At 6’4″, if you’re in the market for a boat and you find one you’re, in his words─”comfortable on”─you get it. Not to mention this boat was well-made, by a dependable builder, in fantastic condition, had passed the survey/sea trial with flying colors needing only minimal repairs and was going for half the asking price. Half?! Pssshhh … There’s really no way Mitch could say no. He let the time lapse on rescinding the offer and on June 14, 2015 Mitch became the proud new owner of a 1985 Nonsuch. All he needed to do was sail it home from Ft. Myers, FL.

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All that required was willing crew.

It’s probably no surprise here, either: he asked Phillip and me.

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I don’t know, though. Would you trust these two?

Seems Mitch was keen on cashing in the favor chips he had racked up when he helped us sail our Niagara 35 from Punta Gorda, FL to its new home port in Pensacola back in 2013. But, the irony of it was almost comical. Not only were the three of us about to make just about the same trek again on a sailboat, but (BUT!) we were going to do it again on another 1985 model boat and (AND!) another Hinterhoeller. Shut up. I’m serious. The symmetry of it was kind of wild. Can you say: Salt of a Sailor the sequel! We hoped this time, though, we wouldn’t have to hack off any critical parts of the boat, string a puke bucket around one of the crew member’s necks, suffer a man down to (allegedly) non-drowsy Dramamine or endure any other significant equipment failures like last time. (If you haven’t read Salt yet, I hope you’re intrigued now.)

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We all hoped for a safe and prosperous delivery of Mitch’s new boat from Ft. Myers to its new home port in Pensacola, FL. But─maybe it was just Phillip and I although something tells me Mitch maybe a little too─we were also hoping for a bit of an adventure. You don’t ever want anything to go wrong during a passage across blue waters, but you know it can always happen. No matter how hard you prepare, plan or tread cautiously, a lot of it’s just luck. Sometimes it’s just your time for shit to go wrong. We didn’t want that to happen to Mitch, but if it was going to, we wanted to be there to help─and experience and learn from it.

Now this time thankfully I was a bit more sail savvy than last time. I didn’t ask at least─with big, blinking doe eyes: “When are they going to deliver your boat, Mitch?” I knew we were going to have to sail her home, and Phillip and I were excited to head out on another blue water passage. We’re always up for a blue water passage─Phillip especially. That man loves nothing more than to stand behind a helm and look out on a blue horizon.

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Okay, lay.  He likes to lay behind the helm too.

Mitch really didn’t even have to ask. It all seemed a given from the moment he started looking for a boat in south Florida. He had been there for us and he knew we would do the same for him. Hell, we were happy to. We set a date that worked around everyone’s schedule─June 19, 2015─and started planning and provisioning. If everything went well, we were expecting the entire trip to take seven days but we cleared ten just in case. My only concern was the Bahamas. I was set to fly out of Pensacola to Ft. Lauderdale on July 2nd. Honor of a lifetime: I had been asked by a friend’s parents to crew with them on their boat in the Abacos Regatta. After reading Salt, seems they thought I would be helpful to have on board─or entertaining at least. The Bahamas saga will be coming up next on the blog. Be excited!

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So, June 19th to July 1st was the time slot. The Mitch trip was going to be a tight fit, but it did fit. And we figured if something happened and we had to leave the Nonsuch somewhere─like, say, I don’t know … Carrabelle─we could leave her and drive the rest of the way home. We hoped that wouldn’t happen (again this time). We wanted to sail her right into the Pensacola Pass our first time out but there was always the possibility the wind, weather and whatever sailing karma is out there would see otherwise. Whatever the case, we were up for it.

What cracked me up, though, was Mitch. He always does. I love that guy. It’s fun to watch a new friend sort of walk up to the boating ledge, look over, kick a little pebble off then just fall, head-over-heels and tumble all the way down. No matter how many times you tell said friend it’s going to cost a lot, things are going to break often, and then it will cost a lot to repair them, it’s like they just can’t hear you. You continually try to warn them: You’re going to have to buy a lot of boat crap. Then you’ll start using all of that crap and discover what other boat crap you really want and then you’ll have to buy all of that too. It’s just a process. But when you finally get your boat dialed in─just the way you like it─it’s totally worth it. And, after having endured that entire process, you’ll really have fun watching friends go through it after you. I have to admit. I was having a hell of a time watching Mitch.

The naan was the least of his worries. After going through the list Mitch made when he was on the boat for the survey/sea trial of equipment already on board, we made another list of items he would need to purchase for the three of us to safely make the passage on the boat. The amount of stuff baffled him.

“Towels? What kind of towels?” Mitch asked, bewildered.

All kinds dude. Dish towels, bath towels, work towels. The three of us are essentially about to move onto your floating home and live there for a week, while we’re sailing and working on it. We might need to─I don’t know─bathe on occasion. Wash our dishes. Wipe our hands. I mean, maybe. If you don’t think so, though, nix the towels. He was funny. And some of the costs really put a thorn in his side, like the EPIRB.

“Do we really need that?” I remember him asking Phillip. 

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“Only if you want the Coast Guard to come if we’re sinking,” Phillip said.

But, I get it. I mean, those things are like $400. It’s not an easy pill to swallow. I had to laugh, though, when we started talking about a hurricane haul-out plan for his boat. And, again I agree. If $400 for the EPIRB gives you heartburn, you’re really going to take it on the chin with the $1,500 price tag on the haul-out. Mitch was understandably trying to stop the bleed:

“So, it’s $1,500 to haul out, if need be, for a hurricane?” he was trying to get Phillip to confirm.

“Well, it’s $1,500 for the year,” Phillip replied.

“Oh, okay, so if they don’t haul out, then that carries over next time, right?”

“No, it’s $1,500 a year.”

“Even if they don’t haul you out?!”

Sorry buddy. Boats are just expensive. But, like I said, Mitch had got the Nonsuch for an exceptional price so he, thankfully, had a little wiggle room left in his budget. Still doesn’t make it any easier to write those checks. He was a good sport about it, though. Better than I ever expected. Mitch really stepped up. Phillip and I gave him a pretty extensive list of things we would need for the trip─stuff for him to buy, stuff for us to bring and stuff for him to bring. It was good practice for Phillip and I to go back through that thought process of readying a boat for passage, except this time we kind of felt like yacht delivery people, like very amateur Kretschmers. But, some of the tips and tricks Kretschmer had mentioned when we attended his seminar at the Miami Boat Show back in February did seem to trickle through.

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The whole idea of sitting down to make a list of items and equipment we would need to bring a boat across blue waters just gave Phillip and I a little tingle. It was exciting to think we would soon be back out there, in the Gulf of Mexico, looking out on a vast body of water with nothing on the horizon but a sun sinking into blue denim.

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Thankfully, we had kept a digital copy of the list we had made when we were preparing to bring our Niagara 35 back home across the Gulf. We dusted that off and modified it a bit to suit Mitch’s boat and needs. In case any of you find it helpful in preparing for a passage, or a Kretschmer like yacht-delivery (yeah!), here ‘tis: our Provisions List.

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We went through it with Mitch, item by item, making sure he had each one. And he did. He had bought it all, even some extra goodies for the two of us─little treats for us for agreeing to make the passage with him. Like I said, he was big on the snacks.

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We were set to leave the following week and the only thing Mitch got stuck on was the naan.

“It’s not a snack. It’s bread, like a soft fluffy pita. We’ll eat it with the tiki masala.”

“The what?”

“Masala. Tiki masala.”

“Malasalla?”

Yeah that. We’ll get that one buddy. See you in a few days.

 

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