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Change.  Uncertainty.  Creativity.  Perseverance.  2020 taught us many things.  For Phillip and I, it was truly a wake-up call, in that we have always been committed to traveling as far and as broad as our work, lifestyles, and incomes allow, but we never dreamed the end-goal that we are committed to (international travel) could simply disappear, be shut down, like the flip of a switch.  *click*. “Sorry we’re closed,” said The World.  The pandemic showed Phillip and me many of the things we thought would always be there—open ports of call, the ability to travel anywhere as long you have a passport, the freedom of it all—just might not be there tomorrow.  What a revelation.  As I’m sure it was for many of you with all of the things you had planned to do: start a business perhaps, start cruising, finally take that trip to Jordan, or South Africa, or Peru, take your kids overseas, finally attend that once in a lifetime concert, go to a Super Bowl game, finally make that trip you’ve been promising for years to visit a friend or family member who lives abroad.  We all thought we would have plenty of time to do those things.  But, with the change and uncertainty that 2020 brought to those plans, it also pushed us all towards creativity and perseverance. 

Out of COVID, I was delighted to see people dig deep creatively and start creating art they had been holding back for a lifetime.  People got creative in businesses and services they offered.  Entrepreneur opportunities they felt they never had time for before—when their world was full to the brim with all of their regular, everyday “stuff to do”—now people suddenly had time and a mad desire to finally tackle those things way down on their list.  It was inspiring to watch many people shift and change direction under the pressure.  Like diamonds forming, I saw brave, new artists and musicians emerge.  People who had never really written before were now finally trying to write their first book (and coming to me for self-publishing advice) or finally starting that blog they felt they always had in them.  People built new structures, created new products, took up new hobbies, and designed new systems and solutions to problems they had previously always faced but never—in the mad swirl of life as normal—had time to try to address. 

It all reminded me of an observation the dockmaster, Steven, in Great Harbour Cay in the Berry Islands, Bahamas pointed out to Phillip and me when we were keeping our boat there for hurricane season 2019.  If any of you have traversed the Berry Islands in the last few decades as well as more recently, you have surely noticed the sad atrocity that has become of Little Stirrup Cay, now known as Carnival Cruiseline’s “Coco Cay.”  It is an absolute circus.  A monstrosity of money, forced distraction, and shallow entertainment.  It is USA’s version of the typical American “vacation” on steroids.  Where there was once untouched, pristine Bahamian beauty to explore, enjoy and use creatively, entertainment is now shoved in your face on a platter. You don’t have to put any thought into how you spend your time. Just slide down the stories-tall, super-powered water slide, go for a hot air balloon ride, thump to ear-busting electric music, down five sugary Coco Crash drinks, alongside a pile of processed, fried some-kinda fish (we think), and then lie down and bake on a crowded, loud beach … with 2,000 of your closest friends.  Then head back to your enclosed, air-conditioned cabin on your oil-guzzling cruise ship so big it blocks the sun.  Sign me up.  NOT!

Seeing the very visual transition from untouched island to multi-colored madhouse makes me think Coco Cay is a metaphor for the world—a wild, distracting circus that has consumed its own resources.

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While I will readily admit the “circus” is good for the tourist economy of the Berry Islands, and it certainly employs hundreds of Bahamians who live around Coco Cay and who ferry over every day to “clock in” and man the monkeys, when I asked Steven how he felt about Coco Cay, he was very candid.  “It sucked da creativity outta da locals,” he said.  Steven explained those who had been bringing in lobsters or other fish to sell, weaving palm frond baskets to bring to the market, playing live music for tips, braiding hair in their own home-built pop-up salon, cooking and selling their homemade heirloom recipes to cruisers or marina transients simply stopped when they all found work at Coco Cay.  “Now dey jus get up, go to Coco, work ‘n come back.  No time for anyting creative.  Too busy on the clock,” as he tapped his watch with a frown and a shrug.  That really stuck with me when Steven said it (back in 2019, mind you, well before any of us had ever heard the word “Coronavirus” or “social distancing”).  Then, when I saw what COVID did globally—shutting down the Coco Cay employment factories of the world if you will—I was reminded of Steven’s words as I watched people find their creativity again and find new methods to express themselves and earn an income.  That part of COVID was actually very cool.  The creativity and the perseverance that resulted. Where previously, the world, functioning normally, simply handed us all a platter of things to do everyday without any room for choice as to how we were actually spending our time. Once COVID hit, many of us found all of this time now available to make a more conscious, intentional decision as to how we spent it. And, in that space, many of us got creative and far more careful about how we spent our time.

All of that said, 2020 definitely made Phillip and I scrutinize our own future plans through a much different lens, basing our decisions now on the possibility that everything could change in a moment.  Because we now know it can.  In 2021 or the years to come ports could shut down, borders could close, travel as we knew it, pre-COVID, may not always be as open as we had always simply expected it to be.  With that mindset, Phillip and I started asking ourselves some really intense questions about how we wanted to spend our time over the next 5-10 years (probably our best, healthiest remaining cruising years) and what we would need to do to make that happen, particularly in the face of a still-lingering, and perhaps re-igniting, pandemic.  Our simple answer:

IT IS TIME TO GO.

WE NEED TO GET THE BOAT READY TO TRULY SHOVE OFF AND TRAVERSE THE WORLD.

To do this, we needed to prepare the boat to make the long voyages we have always dreamed of, and enable her to stay off the grid as long as possible (because the grid may be shut down from time to time), while allowing us to work comfortably aboard as that is now easier than ever to do post-pandemic.  In essence, it was time to finally make our boat all that we had dreamed her to be when we first bought her and start making concrete plans and goals to get us to the point where Phillip and I could cross the Atlantic, just the two of us, and begin cruising all over Europe, to Spain, Portugal, back to the Azores, France, the UK, the Med, Italy, Greece, all of it.  As far as the boat could go, capably and comfortably, became our immediate goal.

With all of the change and uncertainty it brought to the world, COVID taught us: It is time to make our own future and go. 

Hurricane Sally, having survived her, told us—pandemic or peril—we would persevere, if we got creative.

And, so we now begin the telling of the tale that will turn the page in our scripts, as 2020 did for many of us.  The year of the pandemic and the hurricane that brought us to the brink set Phillip and I spinning on a new trajectory.  Next, we’ll start sharing with you the creation of our Atlantic-crossing, live-aboard list, the needs, the wants, the desires, the headaches, the worries, the fears.  We were contemplating a re-power, a water maker, a new auto, more solar, more tankage, satellite wifi, heat, AC?  There were only a thousand things to consider and start tallying up.  It is an exciting new chapter, followers, that we are chomping at the bit to share with you.  And, it all ignited as a result of the change, uncertainty, creativity, and perseverance that sprouted out of that weird, wild year.  Stay tuned and, tell us, what did 2020 teach you?

Got a question for you.  How many times have you started a story with: “Remember that time I did everything right?”  Not many, I would assume.  The best stories, mine at least, typically start with: “Oh man, remember that time I screwed everything up?”  … I’m pretty good at that.  But, as my buddy Bob Bitchin wisely reminds me, a screw-up can be one of two things: an adventure or an ordeal.  The only thing that moves that toggle switch one way or the other is your attitude.  So, in line with the ultimate purpose of this blog—to share the reality (which includes the mistakes) of cruising—let me share this fun little Annie “adventure” with you.  My first post-Sally engine crank … FAIL!

February 21, 2021:

Our boat has been on the hard for almost five months.  Five months.  That’s way too many months!  But, we were grateful to have her safe and in good hands and undergoing repairs.  Considering what she had been through in Sally, we were lucky to have her intact.  So, a slow repair process at the mercy of the insurance company, albeit frustrating, was not entirely intolerable as long as she was coming back together.  And, Plaintiff’s Rest certainly was!  Her damaged rudder had been dropped and shipped off to Foss Foam, with a new one being shipped back to her shortly.  Her extreme dock rash and other bumps and gouges had been repaired, and polished, and her chewed-up jib cars replaced.  Plaintiff’s Rest would soon be ready to splash!  Ready to sail!

In honor of this upcoming momentous moment, the boys at the shipyard were getting everything put back together to prepare her for her first sail since Sally.  I was at the yard that day overseeing operations and had asked the boys if they would hook up a hose so I could turn the engine over to make sure everything was running smoothly for the day of the splash.  Westie (our 27A Westerbeke) had not been cranked since September 23, 2020, almost five months to the day.  He’d been up on the jacks, sitting idly, just waiting.  Personally, I hate to have an engine sit.  I imagine all of the little rubber gaskets and things inside getting super dry and crumbly.  That thing is meant to run, get warm, stay lubed up, GO!  I was eager to turn him over for the first time.  I imagined hot, viscous oil pouring happily into all of his nooks and crannies and hearing him purr in gratitude.  (Yes, Westie, when happy, purrs.)

Having been five months since I last did it, however, I found I was embarrassingly rusty.  There were several Perdido Sailor crew members in the cockpit waiting for me to get my act together to turn the engine over.  I checked the fluids, as Phillip and I always do before we crank, although I found I had forgot (momentarily) where we kept the blue paper towels to do that job.  I forgot I needed a flashlight to look up in the corner where the coolant overflow bin is located.  I forgot to jiggle the oil dipstick one more time so it didn’t drip a bead of oil into the bilge. I was just … off my game, you know?  Have any of you ever felt that way about a procedure on the boat that you haven’t done in a long time?  Plus, all of the guys were watching and waiting on me.  All evidence to the contrary, I distinctly do not like to be watched or, much worse, waited on.  So, I was kind of … fumbly.  (Yep, that’s a word today.)

I did remember to grab the key as I hopped up into the cockpit, ready to crank.  Last minute, I remembered to check that the kill switch was down, that we weren’t in gear, and I gave her a little throttle.  But, right before I was about to crank I remembered.  Darnit!  The battery.  “Just a sec,” I told the guys as I hopped down below and turned on the start battery.  Pop back up and I’m ready for action.  Are any of you thinking I’m missing something right now …  

I press the glow plugs for my usual fifteen seconds (which felt like an eternity with all of the guys there standing in silence – although I know the thought of their stares was only in my own head).  Then I pressed the start button and voila!  Westie turned right over!  It felt therapeutically good to hear him running.  Brandon and I had a quick debate about how much throttle to give him to start (he thought it should be less, I thought more, as I hate to hear Westie rattle and sputter).  About fifteen seconds had gone by, when I finally (because fifteen seconds is typically a looonnngg time for this) remembered to look back over the stern to make sure water was coming out.  I typically do that right after I crank, every time, even though I can hear the water pumping.  It’s just habit.  But, what was I distinctly “out of” that day?  Habit! 

“There’s no water!  Crap!  Brandon!  I didn’t … There’s no water!  I gotta kill it.” 

I killed the engine and sat there stewing.  Had I really, after all these months, all of these extensive repairs on her, all of this babying of her, and everything she had done to hold on at that ragged dock then thunder her way to the shipyard, and I had just cranked my boat DRY?  (Something I have never done by the way.) That was the “thanks” I paid to Plaintiff’s Rest after all of that?!

Turns out, yes.  I had.  I was furious with myself.  For whatever reasons—being nervous, out of habit, out of the water—it just hadn’t dawned on me to … say it with me …

MAKE SURE THE SEAK COCK WAS OPEN.

Dag nabbit!  I mean, we weren’t floating.  It just didn’t feel natural. 

To his credit, Brandon was doing a very good job of playing my therapist that day as I cursed and beat myself up over it.  He said it had only been a short time, that it was probably fine, that if I turned the engine back over and water came out, I shouldn’t wouldn’t worry about it.  That he wouldn’t worry about it (and Brandon is our ultimate gage of whether we should worry about it).  Although I couldn’t help but worry about it, there was nothing I could do about it.  I stomped down the companionway stairs, opened the sea cock (while calling myself a colossal dummy) then we cranked the engine again and I was overwhelmingly thrilled to see water coming immediately out of the exhaust. 

While I may have thrown a flange off of the impeller, I took comfort in the fact that I knew replacing the impeller in our raw water pump was already on our “short list” so I could chase that guy down and remedy that problem, assuming I caused it, then.  I did find supreme comfort in knowing, even though I had just royally screwed up, that I knew exactly how to fix it. 

As a result, I was immediately comforted and reminded of an anecdote that brought me supreme peace—a delightful … attitude, if you will—in that moment.  It is the reason I shared this story.  Some good friends of ours (Stephen and Beth, if you’re reading : ) told us a while back, when they were nervous to begin some remodeling and repairs on their house, thinking they might “screw everything up,” Beth’s father, an accomplished carpenter, had told them: “There ain’t anything you can screw up so badly that I can’t fix it,” as he handed Stephen a hammer.  In that moment, I felt that way.  I had reached a point on my own boat that there wasn’t any system I wasn’t willing to dismantle and troubleshoot, because I was confident I could either fix it, or learn how to.  In essence, there wasn’t anything on that boat that, if I screwed it up, I couldn’t fix.   What a supremely perfect attitude, no?

So, let me hear it folks.  Have any of you ever accidentally cranked with the sea cock closed?  And, if so, did it turn out to be an ordeal or an adventure?

Isn’t solar power just awesome?  Using pure sunshine, something that is entirely free, that we all have access to, and that doesn’t cost us a dime to charge our little boat batteries and keep us happily floating and going?  I care none if this makes me appear the quintessential sun nerd.  It just warms my heart (get it ; ) to be able to operate the electronics on our boat from a source that is not only eco-friendly for our poor ailing earth, but that is also super affordable and … (drumroll) easy enough that Annie can install it!  Win.  Win.  Let’s dig in. 

So, as many of you know, our brave little boat survived a hurricane!  Whaaaattt?  Say it isn’t so.  So.  These things happen.  And, while thankfully she pulled through not too scathed, the solar panels on her bimini did not.  (And I know many of you are thinking: What the heck were you doing leaving your bimini up for a hurricane?  Because we didn’t know until hours before that it was going to be a hurricane and we thought the solars might be necessary to power the bilge pumps if she did, God forbid, start taking on water.  Were we right in this thinking?  Likely not, but I can only say that with the beauty of hindsight.  Sally just caught us all off guard.)  Including our solar panels.  Here is a quick run-down of our pre-Sally set-up. 

We had three panels (one 100W and two 50Ws) Velcroed and stitched (for good Annie measure) to our bimini providing us with 200 watts total of solar power.  We combined the wiring for the panels into one heat-shrunk tube, affixed it to our bimini frame and then ran it into the deck on the starboard side via a gland that Brandon with Perdido Sailor helped us install. 

(Phillip and I were too scared back in 2014 to cut holes in our deck without supervision.  Thankfully, that’s long since gone to the wayside since I have become quite the proficient 610-hole-filler as needed.  Annie get your gun.  Pow!).

Once inside the boat, the solar wires then ran hidden in various lockers and cubbies down to this area beneath our aft-berth where we installed two MPPT controllers.

If you are curious what MPPT controllers are, in Annie-speak, they decide how much solar power the batteries need.  Our wet-cell bank has three stages of charging: bulk, absorption, and float.  I like to think of it as slowing down when coming up to a stop sign. You don’t go from 20 mph to stopped, instantly do you? I hope not. Typically, you first slow pretty rapidly (consider this bulk), then more slowly as you get closer to your stopping point (consider that a full battery) so the car doesn’t jerk at the end (that slower charge toward the end would be absorption), and then you’re sitting idle at the stop sign with the car ready to go once traffic is clear (that’s float).  I hope that helps some.  As a woman cruiser who tries (very hard) to be an equal to her male counterpart, I find I have to learn things at my own pace, in my own way, and find metaphors and analogies that make things *click* for me as sometimes (unfortunately many times) the way Phillip explains it just sounds like Hebrew.  I’ve often thought about writing a fun Your Boat, She-Splained book for women that helps explain systems that often seem overwhelming, though once you understand them, you find they are quite the opposite and totally manageable.  Ladies, let me know what you think of that idea (as I unapologetically digress).

Back to the solar.  Along with the MPPT controllers under the aft-berth, we also installed switches that allow us to turn the solar panels on and off.  For whatever reason, our battery charger did not seem like it when the solars were putting in at the same time as the charger was receiving shore power.  The charge would get funky.  So, we always turn our solars off before we plug into shore power and, just to avoid any other interference, when putting in juice from the alternator on the engine and simply turn them back on after we’ve killed the engine for the day.  It seemed the easiest fix. 

So, with the panels, switches, and MPPT controllers, it was a pretty simple set-up.  On a good sunny day, Phillip and I could generally put in 6-8 amps/hour at peak sunny hours, which translated to roughly 30-40 amps in a day.  With Phillip and I using approximately 40-50 amps on a typical anchor day, the solar panels would allow us, usually, to lose less power each day. Although we did still lose, not gain, we did so at a slower rate than before we installed the solar.  With the solar, we were able to stay on anchor for 3-5 days, depending on the sun, without having to crank the engine to charge the batteries.  It was honestly quite perfect as, after about four-or-so days, we either need to get back to the dock to work and/or re-provision, or, when we’re on an extended cruise, Phillip and I are ready by then to crank the engine, weigh anchor, and go scout out a new anchorage for the next few days.  While Phillip and I were perfectly content with this set-up (and quite honestly we liked that the panels were generally out-of-sight, out-of-mind) after Hurricane Sally we knew we would need far more solar! 

Why?  Shore power was in no way guaranteed, anywhere!  There wasn’t a dock, it seemed, in Pensacola that hadn’t been completely mangled by Sally, and those that had survived had been scooped up immediately by any limping boat that had weathered her and was desperate for a home.  Phillip and I had no idea what new dock Plaintiff’s Rest might call home once she splashed back after her repairs or, quite possibly, whether we would have to just leave her on the hook in a bayou and dinghy back and forth to her.  Knowing that latter option was a very likely scenario for us, we wanted her to be as powered-up as possible in case anything happened (a small water leak or other issue) while we were away and she was off shore power.  That was our initial reason to go from 200W, previously, to 380W.  But after Phillip and I saw how much power we could have been indulging in with the simple (and easy) addition of a 170W panel on the dodger, Phillip and I are now kicking ourselves for not having installed one there sooner.  But, c’est la vie. 

So, how did we come up with the plan for the new install?  This is my right and proper cue to introduce to you my Solar Savior, my Sun Sensai, the one, the only: LYALL with Sunpowered Yachts.  He came highly recommended by my good friend and exceptional sailor, Pam Wall, whose recommendations rarely disappoint.  Lyall certainly did not.  He was there for me every step of the way, answering my many tedious questions, sending me diagrams and photos and wiring instructions, even immediately shipping new parts when I had ordered the wrong ones (the blonde is real).  If you are going the solar route, save yourself infinite time and headache by letting Lyall be your first call.  He’s also got a lovely British accent that I can just never get enough of.  (This girl’s a sucker for an accent, can I get an “Amen!” from the ladies? : )

With Lyall’s help, we decided on two 50Ws on either side of the iso-lookout as we’d had before on the bimini, a 110W forward of the lookout on the bimini, and a new 170W on the dodger for a total of an impressive 380 watts.  While Phillip and I did debate the aesthetic of the huge, somewhat sci-fi-looking panel on the dodger—as we often stand and look out over the dodger while sailing so it would now become a major part of our “view”—we decided the extra power and security and safety it offered was worth the minimal diminution of our “pretty view” to the bow and the overall look of the boat. 

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Lyall recommended this corrugated plastic material to install underneath them for extra support. You can get it at any Home Depot or Lowe’s.

Lyall walked me through the amperage parameters on the two EPSolar MPPT controllers we already had and determined they would work to regulate the new panels, although we discussed upgrading to new Victron contollers if that would be necessary.  Thankfully, it was not.  So, as long as the wiring running to our bimini was still good (meaning only the panels were damaged in Hurricane Sally, not the wiring), the install was really only going to require affixing the new panels to the canvas on the bimini, wiring them to the old wiring running up the bimini frame, installing one deck gland for the wiring of the new 170W panel on the dodger, and running that wiring down to the MPPT controllers.  It honestly was quite simple and Phillip and I were thrilled to find—when we brought the panels to the boat and hooked up the bimini wiring for the first time—that the wiring was working perfectly.  We were ready to install!

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My only hang-ups were (and I do this often but can rarely remember the lesson) I ordered a length of wire from the dodger down to the MPPT controllers below that was too short.  Yes, I measured (but that’s never an offensive question) but I always forget that when you start running wires behind things they may not always be able to go the direct straight route you measured as they have to take funky turns and can only come through in certain places.  You know, it’s a boat.  Nothing’s easy.  But, the minute I told Lyall this in an email, he immediately shipped out the longer length of cord, without even charging me, saying he’d figure out when I shipped the other back.  I mean … can you even find customer service like that anymore? 

The second little glitch was the wiring of the two 50Ws on the bimini in parallel.  Lyall recommended this over wiring them in series as this would increase the amperage of the panels without increasing the voltage.  This was beneficial as we would be wiring the 110W and the two 50Ws to the same MPPT controller.  Lyall explained it would be better to combine the two 50Ws and 110W on one MPPT controller with the 170W by itself on the other MPPT controller because of the big disparity in the 50Ws and the 170W, claiming combining those two on the same controller would really bring the 170W down.  Lyall explained it as “you’re only as strong as your weakest player” which made total sense to me.  The wiring in parallel, however, did require two additional Y-branch connectors, which Lyall was happy to send me.  See diagram below and the need for the connectors. 

Phillip and I did have to make some extensions here and there as the length of wiring that comes on the panels (roughly 17”) was not long enough in a couple of locations to reach to the bundle of wires on our bimini frame (that could not be extended).  But, here is where mistakes sometimes make the happiest of accidents.  The “too-short” wire I had ordered ended up working beautifully for this purpose as we could easily cut it and re-attach the fittings to create the necessary extensions.  So it was kind of a blessing in disguise that I’d goofed.  (Reminder to all to not be so hard on yourself when you do that, sometimes you’re just setting up for a happy accident … ride it out before beating yourself up over it).  Installing the gland on the companionway roof wasn’t terribly hard either, just one drilled hole (for the wire to run through), pilot holes for the screws to mount it, and some butyl and we were in business.  Installing and mounting the switch below the aft berth and inserting the wires into the MPPT controllers took less than half an hour.  Once those tasks were knocked out, Phillip and I were ready to plug the new panels in, turn their switches on, and watch the juice pour in! 

And boy did it … not.  Unfortunately it was a very cloudy day the day Phillip and I first turned them on.  So initially we blamed it on that.  But, then the sun came out yet the input was still very disappointing until we realized … duh, the batteries were already full.  We’d only just turned off shore power less than a half-hour before and had hardly ran anything.  Dummies.  Once we figured that out, though, we came back on a super sunny day with the batteries needing juice, and we were tickled pink to see our new 380W bank putting in almost 14 amps an hour! 

My mind immediately began calculating.  We spend about 50-60 amps a day.  14 times 6 peak hours equals … 84 amps?!  Meaning, on a good sunny day, we would be putting in MORE than we used.  Meaning, adding “cushion” for cloudy days.  With this much solar, Plaintiff’s Rest could, in theory, stay on hook as long as she wanted.  What an incredible thought!  Needless to say Phillip and I were thrilled.  Feeling a little dumb that we hadn’t installed a big-ass panel on the dodger years ago, but hey, we’d never felt super power-starved before.  And, now, we were power rich baby!  All thanks to the sun.  And Lyall, my Sun Sensai!  If you go with Lyall at Sunpowered Yachts, mention Pam Wall’s boat Kandarik for a 10% discount.  You’re welcome! 

Overall, this entire solar panel project I think cost us around $1,000 including the panels, wiring, gland, and other little tidbits.  A very affordable price in our opinion to add such a critical and valuable component (more power supply) on the boat.  I hope many of you start planning your own solar panel install projects soon!  Next up, I’ll share more of our Hurricane Sally repairs.  You’ll be surprised to see the transformation of our rudder.  Stay tuned!

I can’t tell you how many times Phillip and I have left Palafox Marina, whether it was headed out to our favorite anchorage, Ft. McRee, or just for a day sail, or sometimes to shoot all the way out into the Gulf and head south to the Keys, Cuba, the Bahamas, or beyond.  There was always a sense of thrill, however slight, when we would turn the corner around the jetty, point into the wind and hoist the main just as we were leaving the marina, a scent of adventure always in the air.  It has been a bit bittersweet to say goodbye to Palafox Marina, at least for the time being, and perhaps indefinitely. We just don’t know. But, whatever may come, Palafox Marina will always be an important chapter in our boat’s story as it was her primary home since we got Plaintiff’s Rest in 2013.  That’s seven years of memories at that marina! 

We’ve done dozens of boat projects at Palafox Marina. 

It’s where I first learned to dock the boat (and that bumping the dock is not the complete and entire end of the world).  It’s also where we put on our solar in 2014. 

It’s where we first installed our working jib in 2017. 

It’s where Phillip (we believe) will someday grow a third eye because he had to dive in the marina (yuck!) to retrieve part of our dinghy assembly that he dropped into the water.  Down you go, Phillip!

It’s where I got my heart-shaped “boat bite” from a heat gun.

Palafox Marina just houses so many memories for us.  But, now it was time to leave Palafox Marina, perhaps indefinitely, because it just couldn’t offer us shelter anymore.  What once looked like this. 

At the time looked like this. 

It was just … time to go. 

Plaintiff’s Rest was docked safely on the sea wall to the west, directly across from her former slip where she had bucked and heeled and held on for dear life. 

Now, our day had come to move her to the shipyard to be hauled out so we could finally assess the full damage to her rudder from Hurricane Sally.  I had mentioned, during my previous burst-of-a-post ; ) that Phillip and I were worried to turn or move her rudder in the unknown condition it was in after the storm because we were afraid something that might have been magically lodged might become un-lodged and that she might start taking on water.  For this reason our initial move of Plaintiff’s Rest, from her ravaged slip to her temporary spot on the sea-wall, had been done under sheer man- and tow-boat power as we did not want to move the rudder until the day we were hauling ass to the shipyard in case she started taking on water. 

Well, today was that day.  And, it was Captain Annie again answering the call of duty. 

September 23, 2020, 2:00 p.m.:

“I need you to pull me off at the hip as best you can!” I shouted to our buddy, Cap’n Jack, who had graciously offered to come that day to help in case Plaintiff’s Rest had issues with steering or some other problem once we started operating her and we needed a tow.  Honestly, I was overwhelmed at the response I got from many friends we had asked for help:

“I’m not in town, but I’ll tell you where the keys to our fishing boat are.  Anyone can drive her.” 

“I can come with the dinghy.” 

“You’re welcome to my boat.”

“I’ll be there.  Should I wear a cape?”

These were just some of the responses we received.  It really was heart-warming to feel the effect of such an outpouring of help, even from those who had lost their boat in the storm.  It seemed all sailors, no matter what has happened to them or their boat personally, want to see any other boat possible survive.  It’s like shaking a heavy fist at nature.  You didn’t get us all.  Not this time. 

We ended up having a friend (shout-out to Bill Wein – I sure wish I could have seen you in the cape!) who was going to come in his 10-foot rib on Thursday (Sep. 24th), when the shipyard had us slated to haul at 3:00 p.m.  As you can imagine, dozens upon dozens of boaters, damaged and scattered throughout Pensacola, were itching to haul, so we were advised, if we were given a pretty early slip to not miss it, as it might be weeks, maybe even months before the opportunity would come again.  This is why Phillip and I were feverishly asking for quick help.  But, the shipyard called on Tuesday and said Wednesday would be better, could we do that?  Off went the round of texts and calls again, trying to line up help for the new, day-earlier time slot.  We finally ended up with Bill’s rib, to be driven by another friend, Cap’n Jack, who was available Wednesday.  It was a hodge-podge rescue team, but I was thrilled to have help.  Phillip was on-board, but just in case of emergencies, as he was still fielding his own onslaught of work emergencies that had not let up since the storm struck.  We had another good friend, Keith, on-board to help as well, but I was once again in charge. 

Cap’n Jack had me tied a few different ways to his rib hoping he could pull me off of the wall (as, of freaking course!) there was a steady E/SE wind pushing me onto it, with not much room to maneuver off.  And, I had absolutely no clue how much maneuvering, if any, I was going to be able to do.  This was the first time we had cranked the engine (thankfully, Westie turned right over) and tried to steer the boat using the rudder since the storm.  Here we go, I told myself as I signaled Keith to let loose our last dock line to shore.  As I started to move the boat I could feel her responding to the rudder, which was overwhelmingly comforting.  But, as we started to pull away from the dock, unfortunately, Jack’s bridal and the force of the wind had grabbed my bow and turned me completely perpendicular to the dock.  Worried I would lose control of her if she started to spin in a circle, I made the tough call. 

“RELEASE!” I shouted to Jack, which we had discussed before would be my “safe word” if I felt things going sideways and I wanted complete control of the boat.  I’ll admit I was just a little terrified, but thankfully after several years honing my piloting and docking skills, I did feel comfortable I would be better able to navigate her than a tow-boat.  All lines fell off the boat and she was free.  By that time, she had turned completely to the north with her stern facing the direction we needed to go, toward the marina exit to the south.  But, thankfully, I had seen Phillip pull off this bass-ackwards maneuver (I can literally call it that) before.  I threw her in reverse and throttled her up hoping I could get enough momentum to steer her nicely, albeit in reverse, toward the exit. 

Phillip watched me attentively, but he did not step in.  He was on call.  I was Captain.  That had been our deal.  Mercifully it worked.  Whatever shape our rudder was in down there, she was fully capable of steering our boat.  I was able to back up to the exit and manuever her, finally after that tragic ordeal she had suffered there, out of Palafox Marina.  Cap’n Jack snapped this pic of Plaintiff’s Rest underway, all of our wayward, flat bumpers still tied on, with Captain Annie at the helm, but damn if we weren’t making way. 

Plaintiff’s Rest was going to make it!  Phillip and I locked eyes and gulped a big knot down our throats realizing the momentous accomplish our boat had just achieved. 

And while our plan had been to travel as gently as possible in the Bay so as not to put any additional pressure on the rudder, of course it was blowing 22+ out there.  We were heeled over without a lick of canvas up, but she seemed to be tolerating the conditions just fine as we made our way into the channel to Bayou Chico.  Cap’n Jack was running recon in advance of us making sure there weren’t any sunk ships or other large debris in our path, as many boats had been smashed and wrecked and met their fate, too, up in the Bayou. 

Phillip had me laughing as we were both looking ahead and he was pointing out the slip where I would pull in and tie to the dock so the shipyard crew could then man-handle us into the straps to be lifted out. 

“Well, this should be the easiest docking you’ve ever had to do.  You don’t have to worry about scratching her at all.” 

I have to admit I really needed that gigantic dose of humor in that moment.  He was totally right.  There was nothing I could do to her now, as far as a hull-bump, that would make any hill of beans.  Plaintiff’s Rest was already scratched and marred to high heaven.  But, she was floating and going!  Those were two big blessings right there.  Unfortunately, we didn’t get lucky with a third.  While this would have dawned on me had I had a little more fore-thought, but I’ll just have to admit, I was in my own little “Save Plaintiff’s Rest” bubble that I hadn’t thought to consider the state of the docks at the Travelift slip.  In my mind they had appeared pristine.  A safe haven for our baby girl once she made her harrowing journey across the Bay. 

What was I thinking?

Almost every dock in Pensacola was wrecked by Sally.  Of course the Travelift docks were wrecked too.  We could see it immediately as we passed by them.  I knew I had an E/SE wind pushing me and, when that is the case—i.e., both momentum and wind charging me toward a slip—I am always inclined, if space allows, to pass the slip and come at her with the wind working against my momentum to give me better control.  So, I had already planned to pass the slip initially, but when I did I saw what terrible state it was in.  Both sides of the dock were thrown cock-eyed from the storm.  Phillip was trying to communicate with Brandon ashore to determine which side was the least damaged so we could tie to it. 

“Starboard,” he hollered back to me from the bow as I was making my turn into the slip, but I could tell the wind already had too strong of a grip on me, and I wasn’t going to be able to make the slip, particularly not with a starboard tie.  It would more likely be a port slam at that point.  So, I backed out and circled again.  My hands and legs were shaking.  I was sweating, although the wind had me chilly.  But, as I started to come toward the slip another time, Phillip was hollering with Brandon and I didn’t know what the status was.  “Neither side!”  Phillip shouted back to me, which just struck me dumb.  Neither side?  Phillip jogged from the bow back to the cockpit and doled out my terrible fate that day: Both sides of the dock were unusable.  I had to motor straight into the straps, no mess-ups. 

I backed out again and was trying to make another circle but the boat didn’t seem to want to respond.  I throttled up, but she couldn’t seem to get her bow around.  “Throttle more,” Phillip said watching me struggle, which I did to no effect.  I was honestly afraid I had lost the rudder and was about to send Phillip down below to look when he asked: “Are you in gear?” 

Gulp.

What can I say?  I was nervous.  I was anxious.  But, I was definitely not in gear.  Get yourself in gear, Annie, literally! Thankfully I had the wherewithal not to throw her immediately into gear, at full throttle.  I’ll give myself that.  And, I didn’t pee.  There’s that, too.  But, once I throttled back, shifted her into gear, I was then easily able to turn and maneuver and by some miracle of grace I then motored her directly into the straps.  You want to talk about not much room for error.  I was so relieved when it was done that I clapped for myself.  I seriously did.  In the cockpit. All on my own. I didn’t care who thought it was weird or silly.  But, the guys at the yard were super nice about it and congratulated me on a great entry.  They said they’d had many boats come charging in and get all goobered up coming into the Travelift, so thankfully I had saved them some extra work. 

And, then it was time.  Time to finally haul our hurricane-ravaged beauty and see what carnage we would find beneath.  Phillip and I gave each other a little hand-squeeze as she started to emerge. Surprisingly, her bottom job looked pretty good.  Gouged in a few spots but nothing too terrible.  That boat that had sunk behind her, although it had damaged her stern rail, hull, and rudder, had likely saved her from other boats that had tried to come at her like a spear.  The rudder, however, was definitely chipped and cracked on the bottom, which meant she was also likely water-logged, too. 

Although we did not yet know the full state of repairs that awaited us, Phillip and I felt simultaneously exhausted and exuberant to have that day behind us.  Our baby girl had been plucked from the wreckage and finally sat in safe hands now on her jack stands at the Pensacola Shipyard.  She was safe.

It was a strange feeling, though, not knowing where she would go next, where her new home would be, and what might become of Palafox Marina.  As I write this (February 1, 2021), Palafox Marina, while it has been cleaned and a few docks rebuilt, remains largely empty with no activity occurring.  We have no idea when the rebuild might begin, how long it might take, or whether Plaintiff’s Rest will ever call Palafox Marina home again.  It’s been sad to see such a beautiful marina go, and while we don’t know what exactly lies in the future for Plaintiff’s Rest, we know she had a great time of it at Palafox Marina.  To our many memorable years there.  Cheers!

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the boat

Not a spot in the bilge was oily, all freshly painted with bilge-kote;

The sails were bagged cleanly in the lazarette with care

In hopes they’d soon be hoisted and filled with fresh air;

The halyards were nestled all snug in their bags

With visions of zizzing fast ‘round a winch without any lags;

For the boat and crew, 2020 had proven quite a challenging year

Bringing months of fear, growth, change, but also cheer;

Plaintiff’s Rest had been bruised and battered in Sally’s unrelenting wrath

But she held fast and was mercifully reunited with her beloved owners in the aftermath;

Now, as she sat patiently on jacks, awaiting her rudder and other repairs to begin

She dreamed of the day she would finally be back out in the water and wind;

After a list of amazing places she would one day sail in her mind had been tapped,

Plaintiff’s Rest was all settled in, silent and humble, ready for a soothing night nap;

But just as her eyes closed, up on her deck, she heard an unfamiliar clatter

She swore she could hear someone clambering up her swim ladder;

But whatever was tiptoeing above her was nimble and fast

For everywhere she looked prints and traces of its movement didn’t last;

Out her portlights, Plaintiff’s Rest thought she saw a person jump and scamper

Then a noise trickled in through the dorade and she thought she heard banter;

“Shh … ” a muffled voice said, “we’re not supposed to be here at night.” 

Then through the lee boards, shoes and pant legs caught her sight.

Worried Plaintiff’s Rest was, the clatterers had come aboard to steal like a vixen

She was about to ring her old ship’s bell in the vberth in hopes it would blitz them;

But, there on her marvelous teak, where it had once hung so proud

Now sat a bare wall so Plaintiff’s Rest could not make a sound loud;

How it had been removed without her knowing did make her wonder

But she had been quite occupied with all of the tinkering and repairs she’d been under;

Before she could process it, she heard once again the clink-clink of her ladder

So she flew to the lee boards to look in the cockpit and see what was the matter;

And, there, sitting cheerily near her binnacle in a basket of ribbons red and green

Sat a shiny new ship bell, so bright she knew she had never seen anything quite so keen;

It was a gift so lovely and so perfect for her Christmas this year that she let out a whistle

And there beside it, sat a note with bold letters nestled next to a sprig of toe, mistle;

Plaintiff’s Rest read the scrawly letters she knew to be her owner Phillip’s, alright

It said “Merry Christmas to you girl, you put up one helluva fight!”