nonsuch – Have Wind Will Travel

Chapter Eleven: Some Much-Needed Shore Leave!

December 21, 2015anniedike

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are you looking at?

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

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

Yes, that’s my “work suit.”

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

Cute little house boats docked along the river.

And the not-so-cute …

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

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

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

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

ARRRGGGHHH!!

Mitch was killing us over this Arizona Green Tea.

Yeah, that stuff.

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

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

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

Aren’t they dashing?

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

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

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

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

I know. Yum, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Ten: Everywhere We Look … Lightning

December 14, 2015December 18, 2015anniedike

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe use a water bottle?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Nine: Just Me and the Stars

December 7, 2015December 11, 2015anniedike

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

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

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

The bottom of the stick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accidental jibe.

In a boat with a sail this big:

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

Now you see it:

Now you don’t:

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

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

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

Chapter Three – Amateur Kretschmers

October 12, 2015December 11, 2015anniedike

“Now what is this ‘none’ stuff?”

“Naan.”

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

He was big on the snacks.

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

All that required was willing crew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it’s $1,500 a year.”

“Even if they don’t haul you out?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The what?”

“Masala. Tiki masala.”

“Malasalla?”

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

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

Chapter One – The Bug

September 28, 2015December 11, 2015anniedike

We’ve all had it happen to a friend at one point or another. They see you’ve got a boat. They come and hang out a time or two on said boat. They start asking you questions about maintenance, where you keep it, how much this costs, how much that costs. Then it happens. It’s inevitable. They get bit. They want to a sailboat too.

Then they drive you crazy. It’s all they can think about. All they can talk about. They drive their spouses mad. They spend every free minute, even to the early hours of the morning, poring over listings on craigslist, yachtworld, broker sites, even eBay─trolling their fair share of ”boat porn.” They should have a support group for the addicts. The hunt is consuming.

Now usually these friends don’t actually take the plunge. It’s easy to shop, compare, research, ask hundreds of questions but when it comes time to actually choose a boat and put in an offer, most of these “bitten” friends find the urge is not quite strong enough. They talk a big game, but when it comes time to actually sign up with a broker and put in an offer, well … But, while they are “seriously shopping,” I’m curious─what do YOU like to do? Encourage these poor boating newbies because you want to watch the show? “Of course you should get one, Jim. Sailboats are awesome. They’re fun 100% of the time and they never give you problems,” you say through a slick, devilish smile.

Or, do you really try to help them? Wise them to the realities of boat ownership? “Now, it’s a lot of hard work, Jim. It’s going to be very costly in the beginning and will continue to always cost you more than you expected. It also requires a lot of time and labor. It needs to be your biggest time and money commitment. Are you sure you’re ready for that?” You might do the latter because you’re a good person and you really care about poor Jim and his continued financial and marital stability. Or you might do it because you know if he does get a boat and it does in fact give him problems─shocker!─the first person he’s going to bring those problems to is you. You’ve got your own boat, remember? Your own daily host of boat problems. You don’t need his too. But, sometimes, no matter how hard you try to talk Jim out of it─ease him back from that ledge─he takes the plunge anyway. He’s getting a boat dammit! If that’s the case, you might as well jump on the bandwagon and help him. You know, at the very least, it’s going to be one hell of a show.

That’s where we were. After Phillip, Mitch and I made the initial epic Gulf crossing bringing our Niagara 35 from Punta Gorda, FL where we bought her to her home port in Pensacola, Mitch really did swear he would never get back on the boat with us to cross anything. And he didn’t. Never again for a passage. But, he did get on our boat again a time or two when we invited he and his family out for the occasional weekend to enjoy the brighter side of cruising─life on the hook. Hourly dives off the bow into warm crystal-green waters, grilling burgers in the cockpit, eating dinner under a smattering of stars, falling asleep to the sound of the wind and water lapping at your hull. Then it happened. Then it really was inevitable.

Mitch got bit. He wanted a sailboat too.

Look at him, all kicked back, Havana day-dreaming. He was a goner.

Oh boy. At first, Phillip and I kind of scoffed at the idea and laughed it off. While Mitch is a good sailor, he is still─as I outlined in critical detail in Salt of a Sailor─a screamer, a slapper and certainly a big person to fit on a little boat. We didn’t think it would really come to fruition. But he proved us wrong by going out and buying a boat all on his very own─a very small boat, however, for his not-small stature. It was a Sea Pearl 21─a trailerable open day sailer. A very cute little boat and one that he picked up for a helluva “I’ll-pay-cash-now” deal but it was a tiny little rocky, rolley thing for he and his family.

I even struggled to keep that thing from tipping and Mitch’s lovely lady, Michelle, reportedly wedged herself in a far corner like a wet cat pretty much every time they sailed. In fact, the story we heard was the last time she went out with him on the Pearl, they darn near tipped over and she’d vowed to never set foot on that boat again. With that ultimatum, I guess Mitch really didn’t have any other choice if he was going to bring his lovely lady out with him on the water.

The Pearl was just the wrong boat for them, but Phillip and I were not yet convinced any boat would be.

Mitch, however, was still succumb to the delirium. He sold the cute little rocky-rolley boat and did what those bitten do. He started scouring listings, shopping online at midnight, looking at boats in marinas around town. It was all he could think about. All he could talk about. Phillip and I tried, initially, to talk him back from the ledge. “It’s a lot of work buddy. A LOT of work.” Every time he talked about getting a boat we would warn him again about how much it would cost, how much time it would take to maintain it, how hard it would be, how tough sometimes, how much it would cost (yes, again). But none of it stuck. He waved us off time and again. Our words seemed to strike him like little pebbles and clatter uselessly to the floor. No matter what we said Mitch persisted. Until finally his persistence won us over. It became clear Mitch was going─hell or high water─to get himself a boat. It was kind of inspiring. Even in the face of stern advice, it was like he knew he wanted this. It seemed he needed it. We couldn’t stop him. So we joined him.

“We might as well help him get a good one,” Phillip finally conceded and we were officially enlisted as Mitch’s trusted boat counsel.

Mitch’s number-one concern was a boat he could easily single-hand. While his significant other is a fun, bubbly, attractive lady, a sailor she is not and does not desire to be─which is fine. It’s not for everyone. And, at ten years old, Mitch’s son─while he may someday become a great sailor─doesn’t yet have the knowledge or strength to truly help Mitch handle a boat.

Initially, it would be Mitch manning the entire vessel, so his primary concern was a boat that was large enough to fit them all comfortably, including his sizeable 6’4”, but that he could also handle and sail alone.

He also wanted a boat that was essentially “turn-key”─just toss the lines and she’s ready to go. Mitch did not have the time, knowledge and money to dump into a fixer-upper. Oh, and he had a very tight budget─as we all do. Mitch is a savvy businessman and wisely frugal. In all, it was a bit of a tall order but the man is irritatingly lucky.

One of the first boats Mitch considered was a Nonsuch. It’s a cat rig boat with a very simple set-up. Think one big sail. Seriously, that’s it. Once you hoist the sail, there is nothing more to do than trim it. How do you tack? You turn the wheel. That’s all. The boat handles the rest. It was a great idea for a single-handed sailor. And, it was a Hinterhoeller─the same make as our boat─so of course Phillip and I gave him a thumbs-up there. And, it was Hinterhoeller’s flagship model. Compared to the number of Nonsuches they produced, the Niagaras were a mere fraction. But, it’s not a very common boat. I had never seen one before. And the first sight of it from the pictures Mitch sent made me do a double take. It looks awfully funny─with that big tree-trunk mast at the very, very front of the boat and no stays. Not a one. That huge, hulky mast stands of its own accord, like a pine in the wind.

I’d be curious if many of you have seen a Nonsuch sailing around in your parts. We certainly hadn’t, which made it a bit hard for Mitch to find one close to home to set foot on. Most of the ones he did find that were even worth a look were hundreds of miles away. So, he honed in the hunt to boats closer.

Mitch sought the trusted advice of our Broker-Turned-Boat-Buddy, Kevin with Edwards Yacht Sales, to run a few seemingly potentials by him that Mitch had found himself among the numerous local listings. Because Mitch was working on a tight-belt budget, Kevin offered to help give him a little guidance and insight at no cost. I’ve said it before, but─I don’t care, it’s my blog─Kevin is a fantastic broker. Thankfully, he was able to steer Mitch away from some real dogs─boats that needed a ton of work or had real problems (termites, deck rot, you name it) perhaps not visible to the novice sailor’s eye. Then Mitch stumbled upon a late-eighties Hunter 34 located in Pensacola. Kevin’s colleague actually had the listing so he was able to coordinate a look-see for Mitch. (Real technical term in sailing─you look at the boat and see what you find.) Phillip signed on for the look-see and what he and Mitch found was that Mitch didn’t fit. It was a good boat, in good condition for its age─as Kevin had said it would be─but Mitch literally hung head-and-shoulders off of the vberth bed. While this alone was a tell-tell sign (no sail pun intended), overall the boat just didn’t feel right. You just know when you step on a boat if it “feels right” to you.

For whatever reason, all roads kept leading Mitch back to the Nonsuch. There’s just none such like it. (Don’t worry, that will not be my last Nonsuch joke. Get ready.)

Seeing as how it’s a Hinterhoeller, Phillip and I highly approved. We knew, at the very least, the boat would be good build quality and a dependable boat for our insatiable new sailboat buddy. Once he’d set his sights on it, it was a done deal. I mentioned the savvy part. Mitch searched high and low and finally found one within suitable range. There was a Nonsuch down in Ft. Myers that had been on the market for quite some time. It was a 1985 like ours. (I know, kind of eerie.) And it appeared to be in good condition. The man who owned it sailed it often. Reportedly all systems worked. No big repairs, overhauls or major modifications were needed. The selling broker told Mitch the boat was just as it appeared in the photos which─minus a little elbow grease and Simply Green─it appeared pretty effin fantastic. He also told Mitch the owner was motivated.

“If you put in an offer half the asking price, I think he’ll go for it,” he told Mitch.

Half?! I was annoyed at the thought of it. I mentioned the irritatingly-lucky part. But, it made us all skeptical. To be such a good boat in such great condition for such a great price? It sounded too good to be true. On Phillip’s recommendation, Mitch made the offer contingent on a satisfactory survey/sea trial to be sure, and that way he would find out if the owner was serious. It was a smart move but still a little bit of a crazy one in my opinion. An old Nonsuch sitting down in Ft. Myers, and Mitch While-You’re-Down-There Roberts puts in an offer. Sight unseen.

Oh boy …