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

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

Jimmy-Buffett

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

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

“Cheeseburger in Paradise!”

4 of 5 starsratingtripadvisor_rating   Reviewed February 21, 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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Knocking me out with those American thighs!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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High fashion.

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

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

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

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

I can’t imagine why … 

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November 21, 2013 – Day Two: Another Dinghy Debacle

Heeding Phillip’s shout for help, I scrambled out of the companionway hatch in my skivvies for a quick, chilly look-about, and he was right.  We had definitely moved.  The anchor light of the ‘nice and tight’ boat that had come up on us around sunset, which had once been inline with our cockpit, was now inline with our bow.  Gulp.  And, although it was dark, we could both make out the shoreline in the moonlight and it looked to be about ten feet closer than it had been when we had settled in for the night.  Apparently, the 5:1 ratio we had dropped wasn’t enough.

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You see the chart here where it says “too short – anchor may not hold.”  They’re sugarcoating it.  It should say, “you didn’t lay out enough rode, you dumbass – you’re screwed.”  At least that’s how we felt.  It was clear the boat was inching back toward the shore.  We were going to have to pull the anchor up, motor forward and drop her back down.  Snot was already freezing to my face, so I scrambled down below and started snatching every item of clothing I could find and throwing it on.  I probably looked like a bag lady when I came up.  I had on my long johns, Phillip’s t-shirt, leggings under pajama pants, a couple of scarves wrapped around my neck, a Christmas sweater, a tobaggan, my foul weather jacket and rain boots.  But, I’m sure I made it look super sexy and smoking hot.

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High fashion.

I refuse to believe I actually looked like this:

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“Hey-haaay Cap’n!  Let’s drop us an anchor!”

In the blistering cold, the black of night, we did it.  We pulled the anchor up.  Now, if you recall, Phillip has told me before that two of the most entertaining things you can watch a couple do are dock and anchor.  Either is sure to be a catalyst for whatever tension might have been building between them during the trip.  The process usually involves a lot of shouting, subtle (or not so subtle) insults and accusations and eventually name-calling.  I am proud to say that Phillip and I have become pretty adept at it, and our process involves only hand-signals and code.  Particularly after this trip, where we gained a good deal of anchor experience.  Me, in particular, who works the bow.  On our boat, we’ve got a windlass which pulls the anchor up by motor.

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It’s a nice luxury to have since our rode is entirely chain, with the anchor alone weighing approximately thirty-five pounds.  We also have a deck wash that hooks in at the bow and pulls in sea water to spray the mud off of the chain as the windlass hoists it up.  From the first time he used it, Phillip always said “The deck wash is king!”  And, while I agreed it was a handy little device to have when you’re pulling anchor, I wasn’t quite as enamored as he.  Until, I had to learn the hard way (it seems that is the only way I truly learn) when the deck wash got clogged one time, and I had to hoist approximately 20-30 bucketfuls of seawater up to the bow to wash each link of that retarded chain off via bucket slosh, cursing it the entire time.  Covered in sweat and my biceps and lower back screaming at me by the time I finished, I trudged back to the cockpit where Phillip made me reiterate it again.  “The deck wash is king, right?”

Yes, the deck wash is king.

But, the only bad thing about the deck wash is that it sprays water everywhere.  Particularly when the wind is howling and you’re spraying right into it, as we were that night.  While my “bag lady” look was warm when dry, it was anything but when wet, and I got soaked.  By the time we moved forward and re-dropped the anchor (100 feet plus this time, and nothing short of it!), I was frozen through.  My fingers were barely functional and I couldn’t even feel my toes.  I swore the next time we pulled anchor, I was busting out the Gorton’s fisherman outfit.  Head to toe.  And I did!

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Misses Gorton ain’t got nothing on me!  I rocked that number.

With our anchor secure, we woke the next morning to find the shore at a nice, safe distance.IMG_5114

Whew!

With 100 feet+ out, and a clean swing radius, we felt good about the anchor and decided it was time to go toodling around in our dinghy to explore our anchorage.  Now, while you all are familiar with our downtrodden dinghy that made it’s way back to us from the middle of the Gulf, while she was making that wayward trek, we had a very generous boat buddy, Bottom-Job Brandon, give us an inflatable dinghy we could use in the meantime.  The thing is awesome.  It packs down a little bigger than my stand-up paddleboard and fits nicely in the aft cabin on the boat for passage.  Once we anchor, we break it out, put the floorboards in, air it up – and GO!!

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Like Daffy Duck and the Abominable Snowman …

Bunny

“I will love him and pet him and call him George.”  And, for those of you with too much time on your hands – video HERE.

all summer long, Annie loved on the dinghy, rubbed on it, cleaned on it, fixed it up and made it her own.

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We even got an outboard for her right before the November trip.

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Vrooom!

After some research and debate, we decided to go with a 3.5 horsepower, water-cooled Tohatsu.  It weighs about 45 pounds and we lift it(by hand) from the dinghy up to a mounting board on the stern rail.

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Outboards are not cheap and if dropped in the water, I’m sure they sink right to the bottom, either irretrievably so or, even if retrievable, they are likely forever ruined in the process regardless.  So, you can just imagine our first nervous, wobbly-kneed hand-off from Phillip up at the stern, to me down bobbing in the dinghy.  It was hairy and there were a lot of “You got it?”   “You got it?”  “You sure you got it?” ‘s that were exchanged back and forth – but thankfully we got her down safely and mounted firmly on the transom of the dinghy.  I don’t think I’ve ever gripped anything so hard in my life.  My knuckles were white and my fingers were gnarled tight around her.  I was NOT going to be the one who dropped the engine.  But, it’s now a fairly routine exchange and we manage it fairly easily, without all the nerves and tension.  Still a death grip, though.  The death grip is key.

With the sun just rising on our first morning of the trip, and our boat now securely anchored, Phillip hopped in the dinghy and fired her up for a morning ride.

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We cruised on over to Fort McRae first and poked around.  The fort is no longer standing, but there are some old barricade walls and tunnels to explore, and it does feel pretty empowering to stand up at the peak and look out onto the Gulf knowing this was one of three spots where massive barricades were erected so many years ago to protect Pensacola’s shores.

Fort McRae

We then dinghy-ed back across the chilly waters to Sand Island to go exploring.

Sand Island

It really is gorgeous there.  Pristine and untouched.  We frolicked along without a care in the world.  Like a goofy couple in a Kay Jeweler’s commercial.  Hands clasped blissfully together, we skipped back to the dinghy and patted her gently as we nestled in.  We both smiled warmly at the outboard and commented on how shiny and pretty she was and how well she was running that morning.  How well she was running.  She WAS running.  Had been anyway.  Phillip pulled the cord, had to have been 20 or 30 times, but she would not start.  Refused to start, or even to try.  That bitch!  She had turned on us.

We sat in the dinghy looking out across the water at our boat, and I know what you’re probably all thinking.  Stop your whining Nancy and row!  Sure, we could row.  Assuming the wind was light enough.  But, we still had nine days to go on our trip and plenty of little inlets and places we wanted to explore — in our dinghy — and we bought an outboard for a reason.  This was America dammit and we’d spent our hard-earned U.S. dollars on that foreign motor.  I wasn’t having it.  I shoved Phillip aside.  Let me at her!