gulf crossing – Page 3 – Have Wind Will Travel

October 10, 2013 – To See a She-Man About a Boat

December 3, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

Now, I don’t really consider a dinghy a “boat.” I mean, I guess it’s a watercraft. It floats and carries people. You can paddle or motor around in it.

Okay, I get it. But, if our sailboat and the dinghy were tied up together in a slip, and someone said, “Hey, nice boat!,” I wouldn’t say, “Thanks, she’s a 2001 six-seater Caribe with matching oars.” I would, assume, like the rest of the world I would hope, that he’s talking about the sailboat. The real boat. (And, I will tell you, I was going to include a fun little Webster’s or similar dictionary quote here to prove my imminent brilliance, but every definition I found started with “A small boat that … ” — Bullocks!).

Apparently, the boys in blue are equally correct in their definition of a “boat.” After a nail-biting ten minutes in NYC, Detective Whazzisname from the Pensacola Police Department finally called us back and told us they had been trying to track Phillip down back in Pensacola on behalf of the Fort Walton Police. Turns out it was the Fort Walton guys that wanted to talk to Phillip “about his boat.” A very important piece of information Sergeant So-and-So could have told us that wouldn’t have left us imagining Plaintiff’s Rest smashed into a pile of paint and epoxy at our dock back in Pensacola. But, apparently, he wasn’t at liberty to disclose such vital information. Phillip started to suspect then that it could be about the dinghy, although I was a little skeptical. I mean we cut her off in the middle of the Gulf …

I believe you all remember the “harrowing debacle.” When we had to literally hack the dinghy off the stern during The Crossing to save the boat:

“Afterward, we all fell into a heap in the cockpit, drenched and shaken, but feeling more alive in that moment than we had the entire trip. I doubt Mitch could even comprehend nausea at that moment. Our bodies were feasting on adrenaline. We sat there, our chests heaving in unison it seemed, gathering our thoughts and wondering if what just happened had really happened. Phillip shined a light out into the sea as it to confirm our collective inquiry and there it was. The dinghy. About 50 yards away from the boat, lines floating around her like spindly fingers reaching back for the boat. She was truly out there, detached from the boat and floating away. We had really done it. Cut her off. The damn dinghy.”

Now, what do you think happened to that dinghy? I imagined it floated along, finally free as a blue-jay, frolicking with the dolphins and dorados. Much like the wide-eyed cat in the psychedelic cat food commercial batting at little fish-shaped pieces of meat leaping about, as happy as happy can be.

Like when the family pet passes and you tell the little ones “No, honey, Brisco didn’t die, he’s living on a great big farm, chasing squirrels all day.” I envision it that way because that’s not the image I was left with when we sawed the dinghy off and watched her float away from the boat over big, murky waves, existing only in the single beam of our flashlight — until we clicked it off and turned our backs on her. And then what?

Then our dinghy floated herself all the way to Fort Walton Beach that’s what. Her journey had to look something like this:

I’m starting to think our dinghy looked less like the doe-eyed, frolicking kitten in the cat food commercial and more like this:

Cut me off of the boat will they? I’ll get those heifers!

Our dinghy wasn’t having it! She wasn’t going to let us leave her out there to drift aimlessly in the ocean. The cat came back! And, as fate would have it. Having floated freely across the entire Gulf, the minute she touched dry land, she ended up here:

Apparently she didn’t think to grab her papers before we cut her loose. Them’s the breaks!

Someone had apparently found her in the woods and brought her in to the station. Thankfully, we had registered the dinghy in Phillip’s name before setting off on The Crossing so they were able to track her back to us. But, they sure weren’t in a hurry. We learned the dinghy had been sitting there, staring sadly through a chain link fence, waiting for us to come get her, since July. July!? Yes, three months, sitting in a parking lot, out in the sun. But at least she’d made it back.

Phillip met with a stocky Fort Walton lady-officer of about this size and stature:

I heart you Melissa McCarthy.

She unlocked the gate and let us have a look at her. She had some nautical miles on her, but it was definitely our dinghy.

The outboard was nowhere to be found, but I’m sure that thing was toast well before she reached the shore. I remember when it crashed into the water from the davits, oil and gas flowing out of it like lava. I doubt it was salvageable. As we hoisted her into the trailer and strapped her in, I started to wonder what stories our dinghy could tell us about her adventure.

Perhaps she floated past Robert Redford in an ailing life raft, or an Indian boy and his tiger, adrift at sea. Or maybe she hallucinated the entire time and did bat at leaping, neon goldfish. We’ll never know. But, I couldn’t believe she had come back to us. All that way. The damn dinghy.

May 27, 2013 – Home Again, Home Again

October 14, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

Tired as dogs! We sat there on the dock for about a half hour, re-living the “best sail of our lives” and re-enacting some of the more ‘harrowing’ and hilarious moments from the initial crossing, in awe, really, that we had finally brought the boat all the way from Charlotte Harbor to Pensacola. It was almost surreal to see her there, glistening in the sun, at the dock in Pensacola. The dockmaster came around 8:00 a.m. and put us in a transient slip for the night. Once she was secure, we started unpacking the boat and looking for a hot shower and a warm meal. And, of course, what every sailor wants after a big hearty trip?

You’re darn right! We were in desperate need of a big hearty drink. It seems we had adapted quite well to the salt life. Rum now ran in our blood, calling us the minute we set foot on shore. Okay, while that’s not entirely true (that gives me the image of a grimy sailor busting into a run-down old wash house, snatching a bottle off the shelf and ripping the cork out with his teeth before he chugs it down), we probably would have done that, had there only been an old run-down driftwood bar at the dock.

That’s right, pass it this way Sparrow.

Honestly, though. We just couldn’t stay away from her. We didn’t quite get that “Ahhh … we’re finally home!” feeling. It was more like, “Hurry, get cleaned up quick so we can go back and check on the boat!” We invited some friends over to meet us in the cockpit for drinks and to check out the boat as a ridiculous disguise, but Phillip and I both know we would have spent the evening on the boat friends or not. We just couldn’t stay away. So, we headed back down to her, rum drinks in hand.

Can I get that to go please?

Rum Runner recipe

1 oz Dark or spiced rum
0.5 oz creme de bananes
2 oz orange juice

We like to add a little splash of juice from the maraschino cherry jar to give it that red cherry color, then add a toothpick with cherry and orange slice on top for garnish. And, the umbrellas are certainly fun. I got like 500 of them on a buy-one-get-one-free special at Party City months ago so we now find any excuse to stick an umbrella in our drink. I sometimes stick one in my morning coffee and tell myself I’m sure that’s how they do it in the Islands. But, I wouldn’t recommend you try it. Few can really pull that off.

Finally back to tell our story, and now with friends nestled in the cockpit, captivated, begging for tall tales at sea, Phillip and I re-lived our docking in 20 mph winds in Clearwater, our hacking off the dingy in the middle of the Gulf, our 16-hour tack from Panama City to Pensacola, the heroism, the hangovers, the hooker, everything! And, our tales probably got a little taller on round two (and were probably not recognizable as the truth on round three), but we had a great time telling them. And, it may have been the nostalgia of home or the rum or a little bit of both, but I honestly think the sun called in a special setting to welcome us back to Pensacola that evening because it was absolutely stunning:

We all toasted the sunset and enjoyed a wonderful evening on the boat, and Phillip and I knew home was never going to be “home” again if our boat wasn’t there.

May 25, 2013 (yes, still!) – The Crossing Finale – Total Domestication

September 18, 2013May 23, 2014anniedike

Once we got the “recycle” system in place, we could finally take a breath and kick back and enjoy the passage, intermittently at least. The drip was pretty steady and Dasani bottles just aren’t that big,so they were filling pretty fast. And I’ll tell you one thing duct tape adhesive does not like. That’s heat. The hotter it got down there near the engine, the gummier and gooier and less ‘adhesive’ our adhesive. And, the more I kept sticking pieces in the same place, the less they stuck. So, the catch-bin needed constant monitoring when the engine was running. About every thirty minutes or so we had to cut the engine to let her cool, so I could pull out the Dasani bottle and check the level.

Yep, she’s full!

Then pour the ‘caught’ fluid back in the transmission and pull the dipstick to make sure she was nice and coated.

Yep, all pink!

Then tape a new, empty catch bottle back up and start the whole process again. And, I guess because the engine just happened to be in the kitchen (well, under the sink) that job fell on me. That’s right, Phillip had me right where he wanted me, cooking, cleaning and fluid-catching in the kitchen.

“Make sure you change the oil down there too, honey, before you start dinner.”

“Yes, dear!”

Yep. Phillip had me all domesticated right and proper, handling all of my domestic obligations in the kitchen, including engine duty, like a real ladies maid. Emily Post would be super proud!

Screw Emily Post. We all know what Annie really does in the kitchen …

That’s right, make sure the wet bar is fully stocked and throw a rum drink together, stat! In all of my checking and changing and taping and sticking, I still found time to throw us together some hearty sea drinks.

We have actually named this particular drink the Oh Shiiiiit! (yes, with five “i”s) in honor of Phillip’s knee-jerk, expletive reaction when he had his first sip.

For those 14 and over (at least that’s when I started) – mix as follows:

1.5 ounces Malibu Coconut rum

1 ounce dark Meyer’s rum

1 ounce pineapple juice

0.5 ounce orange juice

And a splash of Coco Lopez (optional – it makes it a little heavier but gives it that real island flavor)

Drink responsibly.

Trust me, we did. Only one (each). Captain’s orders while on passage. And, always with food (everyone needs a good soaker layer). What do you think goes best with rum drinks??

Chips and salsa. Of course!

Complete with fancy salsa clip bowl, too, perfectly suited for a sloshing, sailing, salsa feast!

And yet I still manage to miss my mouth.

It’s a real talent. But, you know, if you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to want a glass of milk to go with it. Turns out if you give a sailor some chips and salsa, he, too, is going to want a sammich to go with it.

Yum! “Now save those Dasani bottles!”

The wind even started to pick up after lunch and we were finally able to kill the engine. My God what a glorious feeling. She sputters and rattles to a stop and then it’s just quiet. So … quiet. All you can hear is the wind whistling through the sails and the splash of the water on the hull as the boat moves through the Gulf. We had a great sail that afternoon. The wind was blowing around 12-15 mph, more south, southeast now, which helped ease us around Cape San Blas

mostly on a broad reach. (No, that’s not when a hooker goes for your wallet. It’s an official sailing term, but I’ll save that little nugget for another day).

But, as the wind always does, she started to really blow (I told you she was a bitch!). She picked up to about 18 to 20 as we sailed into the night. The sea state was 3 to 4 foot waves, and the boat was cooking. We were doing about 6.5 knots all night, with spurts of 7 and 7.5, particularly while I was holding the wheel. I couldn’t imagine you could get tired holding the wheel of a sailboat, but it took some real muscle to hold our course.

Thank goodness I’d been hitting the gym! Ain’t that right, Sonnie??

We decided to reef the Jenny in (that is, roll her back up a bit so there’s not so much sail exposed to catch the wind) about half-way through the night. In all, it was a bit of a rough sail, but nothing like the initial Crossing from Punta Gorda so we weathered it fine. Phillip even fell asleep a couple of times, this time withOUT one eye open, but still right next to me in the cockpit. I was thrilled to see him sleeping, finally, but pissed that he’d left the radio on the freaking Delilah show. Don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking about. All you closet 94.1 fans. That all-time lover of love.

De-liiiiiiii-luuuuuhhh!!!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9v2-q_byiY

All. Freaking. Night. Long. Okay, for just like an hour and half, but it was the longest hour and a half of my life. But, with Delilah in our corner and all her sappy love song dedications to keep us entertained, we made it through the night. Having fought the wind all night, we were pretty beat the next morning. While trucking on to Port St. Joe was an option, we decided to set our sights for Panama City and stay a night at the marina to get a good, not-so-Eagle-eye, night’s rest. The wind turned right on our nose as we were coming into the pass so we had to do some motoring into Panama City, which meant more engine work for Annie. But we pulled into the pass around 9:00 a.m. and got ready to dock her.

Now, I really was nervous this time. This was only our fourth time docking our boat. The first time was in Clearwater. The wind was blowing around 25 mph off our stern then and I missed the stern pole but luckily we had two corn-fed hosses holding us off the dock. The second time was in the Carrabelle River. The water was glass and we had Mitch. The third time I’m not sure you would really even call it a “docking,” per se. That was when the engine cut out in the River and we had to throw out an anchor and throw the Catamaran guy a line and he walked us around to a dock. That doesn’t really count. This time was going to be a true ‘docking,’ and it was just Phillip and I. No Mitch, no hosses, no corn (if that would help). Let me just tell you, docking is super stressful. Phillip has told me before, if you really want some entertainment, watch a couple try to anchor or dock. There’s usually tons of shouting involved, finger-pointing, perhaps some dock or boat wreckage, all sorts of excitement. That’s because it’s stressful! One wrong move, one missed cleat and your boat, your beautiful, glossy, water-tight boat goes crashing into the dock or worse, the million dollar yacht next to it. Not something you want to screw up. I think this little gem pretty much sums it up:

Very informative. But, there we were, our first time docking together. Phillip had given me the best instruction he could. “Watch the wind to see which way it’s pushing the boat and catch a cleat on the leeward side.” Yes, that’s the best instruction Phillip could give. He can sometimes be a little ‘stern’ when he’s barking orders from the stern. But, he’s stressed. I get it. He’s driving the boat in. He needs a first mate that just knows what to do, not one that requires hand-holding. Thankfully he has that now, but I’m here to tell you he did not have that then. I couldn’t tell for the life of me which way the wind was pushing the boat, if there even was wind, and I had no clue which side was leeward. Leeward? Really? I had barely wrapped my heard around port and starboard at that point.

I was freaked. Phillip had the wheel and I had about three lines tied to different cleats all over the damn boat, ready to tie her any which way. Phillip started to pull her into the slip and I, ready as ever, Little Mate that Could, jumped off the boat prepared to tie anything. Tie … anything. TIE. Damnit! I had jumped off the boat without a line in hand. Brilliant! I stood on the dock knowing I had just royally screwed up. Phillip shouted “Okay, now tie that bow line on the … ” but as the words came out of his mouth he looked up and saw my empty, useless hands, holding not a dock line, a beautiful, woven, boat-saving dock line, but rather, merely held up, empty, in the most apologetic of shrugs. I guess Phillip needed to check the flowsheet to see what to do when: Mate stands helpless as boat drifts off.

All I could see were the whites of Phillip’s eyes as I stood there helpless, useless, while the boat continued her steady, forward creep toward the dock.

May 25, 2013 – The Crossing Finale – Duct Tape and Dasani

September 10, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

There we were, with fluid dripping out of our brand new transmission like a leaky faucet and we were two hours from Carrabelle, two hours from Apalachicola, at least two hours from any port. It was like a geographical oddity.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tw_YryVgLOg

We were two hours from anywhere!

And with only a half-quart of transmission fluid to go on. Having run her completely out of transmission fluid the last time, did we think to pick up more to have on board in case we needed to add more to the new transmission. Of course not! That would be way too effin smart. Nope, this was the same half-quart the infamous Mitch tried to hand us when we were topping off the fluids the morning she locked up in the Carrabelle River (You remember the Irony! http://havewindwilltravel.com/2013/07/29/april-29-2013-oh-the-irony/). I’ll bet his greasy fingerprints were still on it. I can just see Mitch now, leaned back, fingers steepled, his body racked with the bellowing “Muuuu-ha-haaaa” laugh of an evil villain.

Okay, so I couldn’t find a picture of Mitch arched back in “villain mode.” Every picture I have of him he looks so sweet and blue-eyed. Mr. Innocent. But I know better. That Mitch is an evil, dynamite-laying, mustache-twirling villain. Deep down. A real Boris, that man.

And I just have to point out the “irony” of this Boris-comparison because Mitch’s real-life “Natasha” is not nearly as … vertically inclined.

You see. Gorgeous? Yes! Tall? … not so much. But, we love Michelle. You’ll see more of her soon, I can assure you.

But, Mitch and “Natasha” and all other evil transmission villains aside, we had really found ourselves in a bit of a pickle. Every drop of fluid that splashed to the bilge put us one drop further from home, and we had a long way to go. Let me put things in perspective for you. Here’s the trip we had yet to make to get our boat from Carrabelle to Pensacola:

Yeah, that’s right. Quite a ways to go. And, the first leg of the passage, from Carrabelle to Panama City:

is about 90 nautical miles, roughly a 22 to 24-hour trip.

Then the last leg, from Panama City to Pensacola:

is another 24 hours, easy. Like I said. Quite. A ways. To go. Hence, the pickle. The transmission drip was kind of a big dill. (Mmm-hmmmm … that’s right. Pickle jokes. Man I’m on fire today!)

Remember, we had very little wind that morning. It might have been blowing 3 mph. Maybe. But it was blowing out of the southwest, right on our nose, so it certainly wasn’t working with us. We weren’t going to get anywhere sailing even if I jumped up on the deck myself and blew into the sails.

And I’ve got a mighty set of lungs!!

Chill folks … That’s just me blowing up a rockin’ marshmallow number for Halloween last year. You remember ole’ Stay Puft??

Damn that was a great costume!

Okay, back to the tranny. Fortunately we still had cell reception so we called Mechan-Eric to see if he had any brilliant ideas. UN-fortunately, he didn’t answer his phone and we had to leave a message. You can just imagine the agony of the next few minutes while we watched little tiny pink drops fall to an untimely death in the bilge, one after the other, while I constantly checked my phone.

Slide to unlock. Click. No messages.

Tick, tock.

Click. No messages.

Drip, drop.

Then. Finally! My phone shimmied and vibrated on the nav station, like a happy little bee. Such a glorious sound. I clawed and clamored and clicked that thing open faster than I ever have before. It was Eric calling back with what he said was “good news.” If you recall, the guy we bought the new transmission from had bought it brand new for his own project boat, that he, as many men often do, couldn’t seem to find the time for. So, the transmission sat on a shelf for over a year. Eric said he had seen that happen before, when a new engine component sits for a while the little rubber gaskets inside dry-rot and have to be replaced. Eric was sure that was it, just a simple little 97-cent gasket. An easy fix. “Just keep pouring more fluid in and you can replace the gasket when you get home,” he said. “Good news, right?”

Wrong Eric. Very wrong. As you know, we didn’t have that much “more” to pour in. (Cue the evil Mitch laugh again).

I explained our half-quart dilemma and Eric must have been on fire that day, too, because he did have a brilliant idea. Catch it. Capture it. Find a way to save those little pink drops of gold and pour them back into the transmission. Reduce, reuse, right? I nodded slowly and gave Eric the old “mmm-huh” as my inner gears started spinning. I relayed the news to Phillip, who responded with a blank, mind-boggling stare. “Do what??”

Thankfully, for Phillip, for the boat and for that damn transmission, I grew up country.

That’s right. Country. As a child, I “summered” on my Grandma (aka “Big Mom’s”) farm. In Alabama.

With cows.

And dogs.

And a four-wheeler!

Man, farming’s exhausting …

But, if there’s one thing I learned on the farm, if you can’t get there in mud boots or fix it with duct tape, it’s probably not worth it.

So, my country instincts kicked in.

“Phillip, I’m going to need that Dasani bottle.”

“And some duct tape.”

I cut the top off of the Dasani bottle and flipped it over to make a funnel into the bottle and taped it on.

Real high-quality engineering. Then I taped her up under the shifter arm of the transmission where the drip was coming from.

The drip was coming from the base of this bolt here and would then fall into the Dasani funnel:

The fluid would then pool in the bottle and voila!

We’ve now successfully “captured” the transmission fluid and can pour it back into the transmission as needed. See? Nothing to it. Just takes a little country ingenuity is all. … And some duct tape.

With the ability to recycle the fluid, we were then able to keep on trucking across the Gulf. We set our sights on Panama City and never looked back.

May 24, 2013 – The Crossing Finale – A Trail of Tears

September 3, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

We woke Thursday morning to the sound of gerbils. Angry, evil, little warbley gerbils. (Yes, that’s a word. If it in any way conveyed the throat-rattling, turkey gobbler-like sound they made, it did it’s job. It’s a word). You might think gerbils are these cute, cuddly little creatures, all soft and innocent, but I’m here to tell you they’re not.

They’re loud, mangy, annoying little boogers that woke us up at 5:15 on Thursday morning. Or, whatever it was sure sounded like gerbils, at least how I would imagine they would sound, if four of them were stuffed in a sock together, all wrestling and rabid. For your benefit, I tried to capture the lovely sound that morning so you could truly understand. Listen very closely:

http://youtu.be/1J0GBY2HB4A

And I would apologize for the language, but it was early and they were annoying and we are sailors, so … I make no excuses.

Okay, so you have probably figured out by now that they weren’t gerbils. They were birds. Angry birds.

I’ve since learned this particularly noisy breed tends to inhabit lots of marinas and they like to wake you up at four in the friggin’ morning with their warbley, sock-wrestling mating calls. Effin gerbils!

And, just as an interesting aside (so you get the benefit of all my hard blogging work), every time I Googled for images of gerbils, Richard Gere kept popping up. Yes. The actor. Richard Gere. I mean, every time! There were even pictures of him with gerbils.

I know … creepy, right? Which is why I decided to look into it. And, you gotta love Google because I found this little gem. Enjoy:

http://urbanlegends.about.com/od/celebrities/a/richard_gere.htm

Richard … you old dog, you! And, to add icing on this glorious cake (and this will be my last mention of ole’ Richard, I swear), Phillip got a big kick out of the fact that I had never heard this “gerbil rumor” before and had to conduct an independent investigation. I guess my age is showing. As several of you reminded me after my last post, I am, in fact, younger than MTV (http://www.cnn.com/SHOWBIZ/Music/9807/31/encore.mtv/).

So, the angry birds did deny us a nice, leisurely rousing that morning, but it wasn’t too much of a sacrifice as, if you recall, we had planned to wake up early and get under way before sunrise. Gerbils, or birds or angry roosters, we were ready to jump out of the v-berth regardless and get our beautiful boat a-goin’.

We checked the fluids: gas, oil, coolant and transmission fluid (of course!). Like I said, we will never again, until our little sailing hearts stop beating, NOT check the transmission fluid before we crank the engine. Whether it’s been a half hour or four days, we want to see that dipstick coated in sweet, pink nectar before we’ll even thinking about turning the engine over. So, with the fluids in check, we readied the sails and tossed the lines and headed out into the Carabelle River. We puttered along (knowing full well this time which side of the river to stay on http://havewindwilltravel.com/2013/07/08/april-17-23-2013-the-crossing-chapter-seven-right-of-the-river/) and made it out into the Gulf right at sunrise. And it was like she rose just for us:

Or it seems that is how sailing can make you feel sometimes. Like the world is spinning just for you.

And, this time it was just Phillip and I. Me and the captain, off on our first couples cruise. I was feeling like one incredibly lucky gal. I mean, could life really get any better?

Perhaps just a little, with a warm mug of heavenly hazelnut coffee I suppose, but just a little.

We brewed up some coffee and enjoyed the sunrise, and the sail, and the feeling of finally having her back out there in blue waters, headed home. There wasn’t much wind, so we were motoring most of the morning, but I could have spent all day in that cockpit, holding the helm, or curled up with a book (or my laptop!) just watching the water float by. I was perfectly content. But, that’s why I’m only the first mate and Phillip is the captain. Thankfully, he had the wherewithal to think to check on the engine. I mean, she had been sitting for a month, she just had a new transmission put in, and we had been running her for about an hour and a half.

Phillip gave me the helm and went down below to see how things were looking under the “hood,” which in our boat, is akin to looking under the sink. In order to access the engine on the Niagara, this “L-shaped” piece that houses the sink pulls back to give access to the engine, like a-so:

In place:

Pulled back:

And, the cool part is the sink hoses are all long enough and run in a manner that doesn’t require any unhooking, etc. to pull the sink back. You just pull it back, lean it gently against the table (we put a pillow in between to cushion it), do your business under the “hood,” then tilt her back down gently in place, and the sink is none the wiser. It’s really quite handy and, unlike many other boats which require removal of covers, plates, hatches, screws, etc. to get to the engine, this little “flip-top” contraption makes for very easy access when you’re underway. I tell you all of this because it was a feature we were about to become incredibly familiar with and incredibly thankful for.

As I held the wheel, I could hear Phillip down below pull the sink back, set it against the table and click on a flashlight to take a look at the engine. I saw his light moving in and around the engine and I could hear him wiggling some things and tinkering around. I wouldn’t have thought much of it had his silence not continued for just a little too long. Minutes passed and he he didn’t pop his head up and give me a thumbs up, or say “Everything looks great,” or “Good to go,” or anything like that. He was just quiet. Too quiet. I wanted to ask him how everything was going, but I knew he’d tell me when it was time, and a part of me didn’t want to know. I was perfectly content to sit up there at the wheel, watching the water dance by, pretending we didn’t even have an engine, or fluids, or any of that.

Engine? What engine? I’m just sailing along up here. Doop-de-doo:

But, Phillip finally raised his head in the companionway and gave me the exact look I was fearing. Something was wrong. He told me to put on the auto-pilot and summoned me down. I came down the stairs, and he handed me the flashlight without saying a word, which worried me even more. Although after the initial leg of The Crossing, I was certainly far more familiar with the engine than I was before, I was no diesel mechanic. If the problem was obvious enough for me to SEE with my naked eye, it was probably bad. And … it was. Underneath the engine and slithering on down to the bilge was a bright, pink trail of fluid.

Phillip and I were hoping it was just some of that famous Westerbeke Red paint Mechan-Eric had sprayed on the transmission to make it match the rest of the engine.

No, big deal. Just some paint. Surely that’s it. But, as it always seems, life can never be that simple. Having run the old transmission slap out of fluid the last time, we were all too familiar with that pink viscous liquid to be pretty darn sure what was trickling out of our engine was more likely than not transmission fluid. Phillip showed me what he had found during his wiggling and tinkering,

The leak:

Little red drops kept forming, one after the other, under the shifter arm, and falling to a grey grave below in the bilge. There was no denying it. Our brand new, bright red, painfully expensive transmission was leaking. We were two hours from Carrabelle, twelve hours from our next stop, with little wind and only a half quart of transmission fluid to get us anywhere. I felt like I could have cried too, a little red trail of tears right down to the bilge.

May 23, 2013 – The Crossing Finale – Oysters and Beer

August 29, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

The day finally came. May 23rd, and we were headed back to Apalachicola to finally bring our boat home. We hitched a ride again with our sail groupies – you remember these guys – Phillip’s fabulous folks:

We loaded up the truck again with all the tools, supplies and food (aka, the “provisions”) we would need to make another passage.

I also had the pleasure of opening a few little gifts on the drive over as it seemed yours truly had a big “day” coming up.

That’s right, I saw fit to grace this world with my presence during the early morning hours of May 28, 1982.

“Delivers only the best … ” You’re damn right they do!

The gifts were great. I certainly do enjoy birthdays. I couldn’t help but notice, though, they were all different versions of soaps, scrubbers and other self-cleaning products. Perhaps Mary was trying to tell me something?? She’ll be glad to know I put them to good use on that trip. For five minutes after each of the 1.5 showers I took during that 5-day passage, I was fresh as a daisy!

We stopped back in Apalachicola before making our way over to Carrabelle to check on the boat and spent a delightful afternoon walking around downtown, poking our heads in quaint little shops and, basically, just smelling the roses.

We came across some neat old relics:

Some creative artwork:

And some fitting words of wisdom:

That Ben Franklin sure was a smart guy. Alcohol always makes me happy!

But, we had a lot to do to get the boat ready for the last leg of The Crossing, so it was off to Carrabelle to check on her and get her all packed up.

How’s that cockpit looking Mary? “It’s ready to go!”

How about the crew Paul? “I don’t want this one to go!”

As I look back through these photos, it seems Phillip did most of the “checking” while me and the groupies just engaged in a fun photo op. Sorry Phillip!

Yeah, that’s me, doing wildly inappropriate things behind Phillip. Very mature …

We did meet with Mechan-Eric to take a look at the transmission he had put in and saddle up, of course. Funny thing how they want to get paid after doing work. I mean … Eric was great, though. He had done a good job for us and had finished up the job just in time for us to sail her home. He walked us through what all he had done and cranked the engine. It was the first time we had heard her turn over in a month. She grumbled and sputtered and started purring! I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more glorious sound. She was running! Eric showed us the transmission, which he had painted a bright, cherry red to match the signature color of the engine, and shifted her through the gears (drive, neutral and reverse) so we could see the transmission at work. Everything looked great. We gave it the old Roger Ebert and we were ready to go!

We decided to celebrate and polish the evening off with some oysters and beer (is there any better way?) at Eric’s family’s salty sea bar across the river – Fathoms. And, I tell you, I’m not really an oyster fan. I mean, they look like snot rockets in a shell, but I have to say, these were the best darn oysters I’ve ever slurped down.

Not snotty at all!

The oysters, that is. These two here are pretty snotty!

We ate our fill and admired our boat across the river.

Yep – that’s her!

I swear I could see her little stern wagging. Like a sad-eyed puppy at the pound that had finally been picked! We were going to scoop her up and take her home with us! First thing in the morning, too. And, I do mean first thing. Phillip and I were planning to get up and going before sunrise, so we needed some rest. We bid our sail groupies adieu, enjoyed one last Carrabelle sunset in the cockpit and shut her down for the night.

May 20, 2013 – Play Some Skynyrd!!

August 23, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

So, the last leg of The Crossing. The final push. The last mile. The home stretch. This was it. After a month sitting stagnant in the lonely waters of the Carrabelle River, we finally got word our boat was ready to come home. Mechan-Eric called on Monday to let us know he was expecting the transmission on Tuesday and would be installing it on Wednesday. “That’s great,” we said. “We’re coming Thursday.” And so the feverish planning began. Phillip and I had talked to some friends about helping us make the last leg of the passage back, but it seemed no one could get away for another 5-6 day trip … Except ME!!! I felt like Gladys at the Senior Citizen’s Dance – just dying for Phillip to Pick me! Pick me!

I’d learned a lot on The Crossing and felt like I had really earned my stripes. I was ready. Put me in coach! As true as that may have been, I had certainly proven myself sea-worthy on the first leg of The Crossing (or so Phillip told me while he gave me an “atta girl” pat on the head), the sad truth was I was the only one available. I was his only hope, so I got the position by default:

Fine by me. That meant I was going!

So we started planning. We decided to leave on a Thursday (May 23rd), via a ride from our ever-faithful sail groupies (aka Phillip’s folks), enjoy a final leisurely stroll with them through downtown Apalachicola on Thursday afternoon, crash on the boat that night and get up Friday morning to make the first passage to Panama City, about a 24-hour run. We were going to decide then whether we wanted to stop in PC for the night or just keep trucking across the Gulf to Pensacola.

We started making another provisions list (you remember the beast of a list we put together for the initial Crossing: http://havewindwilltravel.com/2013/05/19/april-12-2013-purchase-and-pork-planning-and-provisions/), planning out our meals, checking our inventory of equipment. Making lists and checking them twice, basically. Since we were a little more comfortable with the boat (and figured with just the two of us, minus one mouthy second mate, it would be a bit quieter this time), we planned to bring a few more leisure items this time – books, the Kindle, the ukes, etc.

Wait. Record scratch. Errrhhht. The whats?!?! You heard me. The ukes. Ukeleles.

Little four-stringed guitar wannabe instruments that are great for the beach or the boat or just about anywhere your little uke-ing heart desires to play them. You’ve heard them, I’m sure, in many Jack Johnson numbers, but I think Eddie Vedder really gave them that rock star sizzle.

Oh, and there was also that Hawaiian guy with the rainbow song:

Whatever Iz name is. Ha ha. I kill myself some times.

My blog, my cheesy jokes. I get to laugh if I want to.

Phillip actually got a uke first after several of his friends started bringing them to the beach to pick around on while waiting for the wind to blow. Turns out, picking on a uke is much better than picking gnats and flies off each other while you’re sitting around waiting for the wind to blow. Once he got one, I was destined. We started out with some Mraz:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XoHw-hqiJHA&sns=em

Then graduated to some classic rock:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dp-F7nWZGmw&sns=em

I mean, who doesn’t like Marshall Tucker Band? Seriously? I can tell you these classy folks right here do.

We hit the town for some post-uke session drinks after the filming of that fine Marshall Tucker number. We were the ones in the back of the bar, PBRs in hand, shouting “Play some Skynyrd!”

Yep, real classy.

Phillip and I are certainly not headed for a record deal anytime soon, but we don’t really care. We just have a good time plucking and a-playing.

Besides my heart’s still set on Broadway. I think my pal Lucy and I got a real shot!

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=4992095483331

Ahh … the things I post on the internet for your sheer entertainment. You can thank me later – or better yet, thank Lucy. She rocked that number!

So, with the ukes and our musical ambitions on board, we set our sights on Apalachicola and getting our boat home. Finally. The big trip was just two days away and we were beyond excited! I mean, could life get any better??

April 17-23, 2013 – The Crossing: Final Chapter – Did He Say Curly Fries?

July 16, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

We all stood helpless, watching the boat inch closer and closer to the Catamaran. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth (the only thing I knew to do at the moment) while my mind conjured horrific images of boat crashes:

Okay, not deadly, fatal crashes, but pricey ones all the same. I was sure the boat was going to come out of it looking something like this:

If not worse:

But, just as I was bracing for the worst, I felt a tug on the anchor line. It had caught. Finally. I gripped hard and shouted to Phillip. We didn’t want to yank it up so he said it was best to let some line out and let it dig in a bit. A dicey proposition when your boat is headed straight for one three times the price, but it wouldn’t help anything if the anchor slipped. I let some more line inch through my hands as the boat slowed. Finally. We eased up to the Catamaran with just enough room for the guy to push us off of his glistening gem. We handed him a line and he helped us walk our boat over to an empty spot at the dock and tie up. The relief of having the boat stopped and secured made us forget momentarily about the engine. At least she was tied up and not going anywhere. (Ted Bundy would be so proud!).

The Catamaran guy was a big help, though, and quite understanding. Turns out he had also had a boat that was broke down on the other side of the river. It seems engine problems are common in the boating community.

Boat humor with a legal spin … man I’m on fire today!

We joked that there must be something in the water, but that was actually a legitimate concern. We checked the fuel pump to see if it was clogged and preventing fuel intake or wasn’t separating the water from the fuel, but it seemed fine. We checked the impeller (where the boat pulls in sea water as a coolant for the engine) to make sure it wasn’t clogged, which could have caused the engine to overheat. But, no dice there either. We simply had no answers. We had checked and filled the oil that morning, checked the coolant, gassed up, and she had cranked fine. She was running fine, up until the moment she wasn’t. We felt like the guys on King of the Hill, just standing around scratching, and drinking, and wiggling a wire here and there, with no real progress.

A lawn mower focus group if you will.

We tried to crank her a couple more times at the dock but she wouldn’t even turn over. It was almost like she had a dead battery, but we knew that wasn’t the case because the house batteries were full and running fine. We were at a loss.

So, Phillip had me get on the phone and try to find a mechanic that could come out and take a look at the engine. The bad news was most of them were located in Apalachicola – a good 30 minutes away – without the resources or time to make a special, emergency trip to the Carrabelle River to check us out. But, thankfully, after a handful of calls and some groveling and pleading, we were lucky enough to find a willing victim. Turns out he worked out of a marina just around the bend in the river from where we had docked, which he had been operating out of for over twenty years, and his family owned a local restaurant on the Carrabelle River. In those parts, he was the diesel engine guy.

Coincidence? I think not!

The mechanic’s name wasn’t Bailey, though, it was Eric. And he looked nothing like Will Ferrell, in case you were wondering. He had a big job on a barge to get to that day so he told us he’d stop by on his way out to see if our problem could be fixed quickly and he could get us back on our way that day. Eric arrived within the hour, and he was super sharp. He immediately began tinkering and turning bolts and troubleshooting and crossing items off of his differential diagnosis. We were glad to see him roll up his sleeves and go to work so quickly, but not pleased with the fact that he, like us, kept coming up empty-handed. We continued our super-helpful practice of standing there, watching, scratching … and drinking, but apparently it wasn’t enough. Eric came up greasy, sweaty and shaking his head in defeat. He was going to have to take the engine apart to figure it out, but he had to get out to that barge. He said he would send his guys back out in a couple of hours to get to work on it.

Unfortunately, we were approaching high noon, a very hot high noon, and we were tired and drained and just … weary from the passage. Phillip and I sat on the dock, baking in the heat, frustrated with the situation, waiting for the engine boys to come back, both of us thinking of any place we’d rather be than stranded there on a hot dock with a broke-down boat.

Perhaps lounging in soft hammocks on the beach:

Enjoying cocktails at sunset:

Or back at the helm of that beautiful boat, a gentle breeze blowing over us:

Anywhere but there. But we had a tough decision to make. It was already noon, on Tuesday, and we had at least another 48 hour passage ahead of us, assuming the engine could be fixed on the spot. The possibility of even making it back to Pensacola by the end of the week looked grim. We talked it through and decided we had to call it. We were going to have to leave the boat at the marina in Carrabelle and make the four-hour drive home by car. We were truly disheartened. Phillip and I wanted to make this passage, to bring our boat back to its home-port, once and for all. Make the dream a reality. But we just didn’t have the time to spare, especially with the status of the engine currently a complete unknown, and any solution hours, days, maybe even weeks away. We hated the thought of leaving her there, alone, miles away from home, without any answers, and we hated the thought of coming back to Pensacola in some crappy rental car, when we were supposed to sail in on crystal green waters, in our shiny new boat. Phillip and I sat somberly on the dock, one apologetic hand on the boat.

Unfortunately Mitch, however, wasn’t sharing in our mood. He bounded up to us like Tigger at the circus, all giddy and goofy, and said, “You know this restaurant here opens at noon. Do you think they’ll have curly fries? I could really go for some curly fries.”

Phillip and I exchanged a pointed look: Did he really just say curly fries?

I swear, if we didn’t get that rental car soon, I was going to shoot him.

April 17-23, 2013 – The Crossing: Chapter Seven – Right of the River

July 8, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

We didn’t reach the mouth of Carrabelle River until around 9:00 p.m. on Monday night. It had been a very long day (and an even longer night). Nerves were worn and it was clear we were trying not to snap at each other but anything that had previously come across as an easy request or friendly suggestion (“Hey Mitch, can you had me that line?”) now seemed like a personal attack and was responded to in kind (“I was just about to give it to you” with a snare). We were just exhausted. We’d been at sea for about 36 hours, and the dinghy incident had really drained us. And, we were hungry. Which didn’t help matters. All we wanted to do was dock, shower, eat and rest. In that order.

We were able to find the entrance to the river on the Garmin, despite the sad excuses for markers. I mean, it’s usually pretty easy to see the red and green blinking lights at night, they look like Christmas trees on the horizon, but these must have been the Charlie Brown version.

They were blinking once every four seconds, at best, and were barely eeking out enough light that it you squinted and turned your head to the left, you could just make them out. We were like George Costanza without his glasses – spotting those dimes!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5gxLzoK2-Rc

But, spot them we did and began making our way into the river. Phillip asked me to find a marina on the river, whatever was closest that had fuel, water and pump-out, get directions in, and get us a transient slip for the night. Sounds like a tall order, and for me, it was. That’s a lot to ask of a blonde (I mean, directions? Are you kidding?). But, remember what I said about the personal attacks. Phillip was in no kind of mood for questions. I just started Googling and hoped for the best. I got another Harry-Dick-Lou character on the phone. He was with The Moorings marina on Carrabelle River. And, I swear to you, these are the exact directions he gave me:

“Just stay ‘right of the river’ till you get around the bend, then you’ll see our fuel sign.”

Now remember who I’m dealing with – your average, everday dockmaster:

I asked several times for clarification (knowing this probably wasn’t going to suffice Phillip), but that’s all he would give me: “Just stay right of the river and you won’t have any problem.” Right of the river. I have to admit I was a bit confused. I was sure he meant stay on the right side of the river. Surely that’s what “right of” meant. But, I’d never quite heard it put that way (and mind you, I know a good bit of ‘country’ directional terms: up yonder, down yonder, past the ditch, up a ways, etc.) But, I guess I’ve never been introduced to nautical country, and I was clearly struggling. I came up to the cockpit and relayed the directions to Phillip, watching his face closely for what I was sure was going to be disapproval. His shoulders dropped and he looked me dead on and asked, “Right of the river?” He had the same reaction as I did. What exactly did that mean? Well, I tell you, we were about to learn.

We started into the river, trying to stay on the right side as much as possible, but Carrabelle River is about 100 yards across in some places, pretty narrow for a sailboat. The left bank was marshy and overgrown, and the right bank was littered with docks and piers and homemade sea walls. There were also plenty of boats docked up on the right side, jutting out and forcing us more toward the “middle” of the river, than the “right.” It was also hard to see in the river at night. There were just a few little pier lights and street lights casting a light glow on the water. We found a great spotlight on the boat only to find the DC inlet it plugged into wasn’t working. So, we relied solely on the ‘Costanza squint’ and kept checking the depth gage every few seconds. Mitch saw some other sailboats anchored up ahead on the left side of the river, which gave us some comfort, but apparently too much. Mitch was pointing and we were all looking ahead, trying to make them out, when the boat came to an immediate, gut-halting stop. We all lurched forward as a thick, muddy sound erupted from the river.

We had run aground.

I couldn’t believe it. I had spent hours (yes, hours, probably – all told) watching that depth gage and calling out readings to Phillip. I knew it was a concern. I knew it was a possibility, but it’s like I didn’t believe it could actually happen. Surely the boat doesn’t go that deep …

Apparently it does. I thought that was it, we were through, that was the absolute worst thing that could happen. Images of the boat looking like this the next morning flashed through my mind:

But, thankfully, it seems if you’re going to run aground, the best place to do it is in thick, soft river mud. Phillip threw her in reverse and she lurched out, with a loud, muddy smack. We all let out a monstrous sigh of relief and started looking around, apparently with new clarity, because it wasn’t until then that we noticed, right in front of our faces, was a string of red day markers (no lights), forming a line beyond the middle of the river, showing us how far out the shoal came, leaving only a narrow channel between the markers and the docks on the right side that was deep enough to travel. Lou really meant right of the friggin’ river. Phillip rolled his eyes and shook his head, but kept on.

We made it to the marina and, this time, docked with ease. The river was protected from winds and we were a bit more experienced at bringing her in. We got her tied up and buttoned down and hit the showers. If I had to describe them, I would call them … semi-functional truck-stop showers.

Although some ‘stalls’ had flimsy, torn curtains, most had none at all, so they were pretty much like gym-class community showers, but at least I didn’t have as much to worry about as the boys.

Truth is, though, we were exhausted and smelly and dirty and salty. Any rusty spicket that dribbled luke-warm water on us would have easily been deemed the best shower we’d ever had. It’s funny how uncomfortable conditions can make you truly appreciate the smallest amenities of your everyday life. A hot shower … it was like a Christmas miracle.

I was second back to the boat. I climbed on board, every muscle and joint aching, deep, purple bruises forming on every bony prominence and just thoroughly exhausted, and I find Mitch stretched out on the settee. I mean laid out, the full length, arms behind his head, ankles crossed, totally kicked back and he asks me, “So … are you going to make that sausage for dinner?” It was a record-scratch moment. Time stopped, at least for a second. I wish I could have seen my face when he asked me that. Because if this is what Mitch was thinking:

Here’s what I was thinking:

I didn’t even know what to say. Thankfully Phillip walked in and I didn’t have to (because I don’t think Mitch would have wanted to hear it). I turned my back to Mitch, looked at Phillip and told him I was going to go check the dock lines while he got the sausage started for Mitch for dinner. I bit my lip and threw up an eyebrow as I passed him on the way out. I don’t know what conversation ensued while I went topside to emit some hot fumes but when I came back down Mitch was setting the table and pouring me a glass of wine and we all made dinner together and never mentioned it. There wasn’t any need. We were all tired, we were all hungry and I’m sure it was just his caveman instinct kicking in. “I am man. Feed me.”

Except this guy is way better looking than Mitch. Ooohhh … burrrnnn. Okay, now I feel better. (We’re even Mitch).

We inhaled our food, eyelids drooping and heads bobbing, and went straight to bed. I don’t think I’ve slept that hard since my last college bender. (Okay, my last bender – we all know it was well after college). We woke up a little disoriented and groggy, each blinking and looking at each other suspiciously wandering where exactly we were and why we felt like we’d been run over by a Mac truck. But, we rallied quickly, cracked some jokes about community showers and started readying the boat for the last leg of the passage. It was Tuesday morning. We were about a day and a half behind schedule, but we had crossed the Gulf. Our plan was to cruise along the coast to Panama City for a quick stop, overnight if necessary, before making the last leg of the trip into Pensacola Pass late Wednesday evening. We all moved with a little more spring in our step as we fueled up, pumped out and filled the water tanks. Phillip checked and filled the oil and we cranked her up and started back down the river.

I went down below to start some coffee and breakfast for the boys, making some light joke about sausage. But, just as I started to fill the kettle, a deafening blare filled the galley. It was the sound the engine makes when you turn the key just before starting it, and it was a somewhat familiar sound (in that I heard it often during the trip) but it was usually one sound in a series of several familiar sounds that ended with the cranking of the engine: click, beep, rumble, crank. This was just the beep. A shrill, lonesome, ear-piercing beep. Then it dawned on me (I know, I’m brilliant, try to keep up) that the engine wasn’t running. That’s why the beep seemed so loud and persistent. I heard footsteps pound overhead on the deck and Phillip shouted “Mitch, go get the … ” something. I couldn’t make it out, but the tone in Phillip’s voice was urgent. I climbed the stairs to the cockpit and saw Phillip looking frantically about, his hands on the key and ignition. Mitch shouted back to him, “Did you try to re-crank it?” Phillip looked at me and rolled his eyes. It was a legitimate question, but I mean, really?? Nope, I’m just sitting back here watching the wind blow. I could tell by now that we were having engine trouble, but I have to admit, as a sailing newbie that didn’t worry me immediately. So, the engine won’t crank. What’s the big deal? I know what you’re thinking. Remember, you heard it from me, first. I’m brilliant.

Then I looked out and the gravity of the situation set in. We were floating helplessly along the river. The narrow, shallow, expensive-boat-lined river. And, without the engine, we had no way to stop ourselves from crashing into any one of these options – the bank, the bottom, the half-a-million-dollar Catamaran that we were drifting effortlessly toward. It then dawned on me why Mitch had run up to the bow. He was trying to drop the anchor to stop us.

And, I know you boating enthusiasts and avid sailors are getting a big hearty laugh right now at my ignorance. Go ahead, laugh it up, seriously. Looking back on it now, I do too:

Golly jeepers Cap’n. The engine won’t crank? Are we in a pickle?

I was an idiot. I know this.

Phillip scrambled in the cockpit and asked me to help him get the other anchor out of the lazarette. We were both grabbing and throwing lines, jamming our hands in as fast as we could to get everything out because of course (of course!) the anchor was on the very bottom. I tore a huge chunk out of my knuckle in the process that I only discovered later by following the blood trail back to the lazarette. We finally got the anchor out and chunked it overboard. We fed out line frantically, hoping she would catch. We looked up to see where we were drifting and the owner of the half-a-million-dollar Catamaran, who, before, had just been gingerly polishing his boat, wiping away any small, unwanted spots and specks, was now watching a 35-foot, 15,000 pound unstoppable sailboat head straight for it. I gripped the line to the anchor and watched as the Catamaran guy stood up and stretched his neck tall like a crane, his hose now hanging aimlessly, splashing water loudly on his deck, and his eyes opening wide as we inched closer. There was nothing we could do. We were going to hit him.

April 17-23, 2013 – The Crossing: Chapter Six – Never Trust a Non-Drowsy Drug

July 1, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

After the dinghy incident, Mitch’s “non-drowsy” Dramamine kicked in again and we lost him to the settee (the boat’s version of the couch) for another 8 hours. Phillip and I stayed up at the helm through the night, enjoying the now smooth feeling of the boat heeling left to right and the pleasant swish of the hull rolling back and forth in the water. Don’t get me wrong, it was still spitting rain and we were chilled and soaked, clinging to the helm like a wet cat on the edge of the tub. But, without the screeching and banging of the dinghy on the back, what was once about as pleasant as the dragging of hooks across sheet metal now felt like a summer afternoon on a sun-drenched porch swing. I curled up next to Phillip at the helm, laid my head on his back, closed my eyes and let the movement and sounds of the boat engulf me. Although serene, the night was a bit eerie in the sense that we could not, had not, seen the horizon since sunset and there was not a sign of any other vessel that night, no other ship, boat, plane, train or automobile anywhere to be seen. We were still in the middle of the Gulf, completely alone, with stinging rain and cold winds. But, we bundled up and hunkered down at the helm.

The boat performed beautifully that night. The waves were still 4-6 feet, but she climbed them effortlessly and without complaint. It was as if the dinghy was the one bloody thorn in her heel and now that we had pulled it out and rubbed the wound, she embraced us with gratitude and carried us through the storm. Phillip, too, was a rock that night, holding the helm for about 8 hours, without complaint, despite the steady heeling and rough waves.

Once the sun came up on Monday, and we could finally see the horizon and the waves and assess our state of affairs in the daylight, my survival instincts sauntered to the background and my initial, adventurous tendencies returned. I whipped out the camera to begin, once again, documenting our tale. While trying to capture Phillip in photo at the helm, I inadvertently took a short video clip. Funny thing is, I scolded my phone at the time for going rogue but clearly she had the right idea as I wish I had recorded another 10 seconds to give you a real feeling of the waves we had been scaling for the last 24 hours. But, alas, as it always rings true, my “smart phone” is, indeed, smarter than I. I give you the clip regardless:

http://youtu.be/SDeP9-LlZIc

I fear, much like a third of a gopher, that video would only arouse your appetite without bedding her back down.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2qw6Hon013E (Complete with spanish subtitles for your viewing pleasure).

No, no. Only a whole gopher village will do for my faithful followers. Here you’ll find some much more fulfilling footage of the friendly, finned ambassadors that welcomed us that morning into the Pass at Apalachicola.

http://youtu.be/wYOXuOrBMkk

We’d been out to sea for approximately 27 hours (Phillip and I having spent about 24 of those in the cockpit or at the helm). A slightly-less ghastly Mitch finally woke to the light of day and joined us in the cockpit.

We finally made it into the Pass around noon and spotted land. The shelter from the shore also gave us some relief from the wind which, for the first time since we had left Clearwater, was finally pushing us along toward our destination as opposed to beating us broadside and making us fight for every nautical inch. But, most importantly, we were finally on the “other” side of the Gulf. We had done it, crossed it, conquered it, put it behind us and we all collectively breathed a sigh of relief having simply achieved it. Being in the Pass, in the sunlight and comfort of familiar shores, definitely put the crew and captain in good spirits.

We were eager to get to Apalachicola, get the boat secure and get ourselves to a hot shower. We finally regained cell signal and called the Bottom Line guys to check in. Although we learned later we had not actually lost radio contact the night before. The main unit below simply wasn’t working because the handheld had gone out. Once we disconnected the handheld, the main unit worked fine. But, that was certainly not the understanding the night before and, regardless, that revelation came a bit too late because it turns out the Bottom Line crew had been trying to hale us on the radio throughout the night and, after hours of no contact, had reported to the Coast Guard that they had lost contact with us. They were just getting into Apalachicola (about 3 hours ahead of us) and were glad to hear we were safe. We contacted the Coast Guard to let them know we had made it safely, albeit minus one dinghy. Looking back, that was a small price to pay.

We expected to get into Apalachicola around 3:00 p.m. and we motored along the Pass, enjoying the sights of land, other boats, a bridge, all the soothing signs of civilization around us. The Bottom Line guys had told us the bridge into Apalachicola was 65 feet, so we wouldn’t have any trouble getting under. One little lesson about sailing (a very obvious, but easily overlooked one – or at least I over-looked it) is that you can’t go under a bridge that’s too short for your mast. The mast on Plaintiff’s Rest’s is 50 feet, which is definitely on the high end of the spectrum and something we considered at length when we were thinking seriously about buying her. But, you learn, over time, that every option and feature on a boat is a trade-off. While a Sloop Rig, like ours, with a taller mast means less sails to deal with:

shorter masts (usually two – like on a Ketch Rig pictured here) means more sails to wrestle and wrangle:

I stand behind my original analogy in that finding the right sailboat is like finding the right mate. Any sailboat is never going to be absolutely, 100% perfect. There’s always going to be things about her that you have to work around or deal with, it’s just a matter of deciding which “flaws” you can live with and which ones you cannot. Our mast height is one we decided we were willing to live with. But, “living with it” means we have to check and double-check each time we come to a bridge. So, Phillip got the guy at the marina in Apalachicola (another Lou, Bob, Dick, Harry type) and asked about the bridge height. He told us he thought the bridge was 50 feet but that he wasn’t certain. Thanks man, real helpful.

This troubled Phillip to no end. And, for good reason, because I’ll tell you, the time to learn your mast is too tall for a bridge is not right when you come up on it.

As much as we may curse our mast on occasion, we never want to see her laying down on the deck like this:

So, Phillip pulled out the paper charts Jack had left on the boat to check the bridge height. Sure enough, the chart said it was 50 feet, which meant this Plaintiff was not going to be Resting anytime soon, and particularly not in Apalachicola. We began looking for another marina where we could come in to dock for the night and we found we had passed the inlet for Carrabelle River about eight miles back. (Funny, I’ll bet you’re thinking, like I used to – eight miles, that’s nothing, whip around!). Let me drop some knowledge on you. Our optimal speed in the boat is about 4-5 miles/hour. So, “eight miles back” translated to another two or so hours backtracking in the Pass (against the wind) and then another two to three hours to get into the river and get docked and it was 2:00 p.m. already. But, considering the dilemma with the bridge, it was the only option. The crew was a bit disheartened as we turned around and started steering away from Apalachicola. It was just there on the horizon, within reach it seemed, but we were now turned, steering away, putting more distance between the boat and land. Mitch and I stared back like two kids leaving Disneyland. Thankfully, though, the weather had died down at last, Mitch had regained color and we were moving along smoothly. We looked forward to getting to Carrabelle. Little did we know what was waiting for us in the River.