November 9, 2013 – “When Are You Going to the Islands?”

Isn’t that what you’re all thinking?  At least that’s what I get asked three times a week.  (Yes, I’m talking to you Bleeke!)  Soon, people.  Soon.  Stick with me.  But, I’ll tell you, even when we do get there, it’s not going to be any more beautiful than this:

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And, when we cook up a meal in the galley off the coast of some remote island in the Keys or Bahamas, it’s still going to look like this:

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Adventure is relative and can be found anywhere.  Usually, it’s the act of getting there that’s the real “journey,” not the destination itself.

But, you want to see us on a passage.  I get it.  So do we, minus the transmission fluid catch this time.  Although I’m sure you want to see some equally entertaining minor disaster occur that we have to resolve in true MacGyver fashion with bubble gum, nail polish and sheep shears (all of which we keep on the boat for just such an occasion).

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I’ll see what I can come up with.

Trust me, we were ready to get back out there, too.  With the summer pretty much behind us and all of our major boat chores done, the rubber gloves finally came off,

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and we set down to plan our trip.  Which we, of course, had to do over wine and dinner – a whole roasted snapper, anyone?

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Between work, family and my obligatory appearances on the rodeo clown circuit, we had about two weeks to work with in November.  Yes, we do plan to go longer and further later, but that will have to come later.  All evidence to the contrary, we do have to work.  I can’t stress to you enough how expensive boats can be.  Now, let me remind you how far the actual Keys are:

To the Keys

I think even MacGyver’s scruffy eyebrows raised with that one.  It’s about a four-day passage offshore, if made straight.  That’s 96 hours of solid sailing, which means someone always at the wheel, even with auto-pilot, you still need to keep a lookout and stay close to the helm, particularly at night.  This means, for four days, you only get to sleep in one-to-two hour snatches.  It’s fun, don’t get me wrong.  There’s a certain sense of freedom, adventure and accomplishment when you finish a passage, but it is also a very tiring stint at sea, even in the best of conditions, exhausting and harrowing in the worst.  If we made the four-day passage straight to the Keys, we would need a day or two to rest and recover and that would leave us about one day to enjoy the Keys before we had to start meandering back, two or three, perhaps, if wanted to make another four-day epic passage back across the Gulf.  But that would put us on a tight schedule, and we learned the hard way during The Crossing that you can never be on a tight schedule when sailing.  You have to build in a cushion for the weather.  It’s just part of it.  We hated to push the Keys trip back, but it had to be done.  Trying to squeeze it into the tight travel window we had this winter was not going to allow us the time we wanted to truly enjoy the Keys.  Plus, there were plenty of places we wanted to cruise locally and enjoy.  We decided we would make the trip to the Keys in the spring (after skiing season – of course – that’s a must!) and stick around these parts in November.

Phillip and I decided to head East to Carrabelle.

Carrabelle

That’s about a two-day passage straight.  Forty-eight hours, assuming a good weather window.  If you recall, our boat spent some time over in Carrabelle when the transmission went out, and we really enjoyed poking around the sleepy little mariner towns around there, which feel like they’ve been preserved in time, when sea-faring sailors roamed the streets, rum bottle in hand.  We wanted to head back and spend a couple of days immersing ourselves with the old salts and eating some of the best fresh oysters I have ever let slither down my throat.

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We then wanted to take our time heading back inshore, protected along the Intracoastal Waterway (as much as we could … we would have to pop out into the Gulf for several stretches where our mast height (50 feet) won’t allow us under the bridges).  We pulled out the charts–and the snapper–and started plotting our passage.

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And, what meal is complete without fresh homemade bread and salad?  … None we know of.

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The plan was to hope for good weather, so we could head straight for Carrabelle, spend a night or two there boozing with the locals, then mozey our way back to Apalachicola for some local fare, another night or two to booze again and get our fill of fresh oysters.  Then, we thought we would check out Port St. Joe, a great littler marina there, Cape San Blas (lots of cool anchorages there, too), head back to Panama City in hopes of catching another sighting of our Lady Legs-a-Lot (you remember those heels!), then make the twenty-four passage offshore back to Pensacola.

November trip

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Even with a few extra days’ cushion for potential bad weather, this trip, even taken leisurely, would still easily fill two weeks.  We planned to leave November 15th and return on the 29th.  This was going to be a significant passage for the two of us – heading offshore for a four-day passage.  While I may have proven some creative gumption and gusto in surviving the dinghy debacle and transmission fiasco during The Crossing, this was going to be my first true offshore voyage as First Mate.  I started glossing over our old sailing books again, working expletives back into my everyday conversation, upping my rum tolerance and practicing my knot-tying skills on empty wine bottles.  Oh, and watching weekend-long MacGyver marathons.  That helps too.

A two-week passage in the blistering winter?  Done.  I was packing all my gear.

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Aside from the mullet, MacGyver ain’t got nothing on me!

May 11, 2013 – Such Great Heights

After the bad news from Kevin about the batteries, we tried to call the marina in Carrabelle several times to get Mechan-Eric or a technician, anyone, on the phone to make sure our boat was plugged in and getting a charge.  I finally got a woman on the line who said she’d “look into it” but I got the impression she was less than enthused and not nearly as concerned about our boat as we were.  Or, scratch that, not nearly as concerned I felt she needed to be.

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It sounded like she was writing my name and number down while painting her nails and twirling her hair, planning to leave them on a flimsy post-it note on the desk of someone who was already gone for the day.  I was less than pleased with her response.

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But it was Thursday.  And, whether I went postal on her or not (which I didn’t – thinking she could light a match to the boat if she wanted to – best not to piss off the caretakers), we were not going to feel comfortable about the batteries until we went down there ourselves to see what kind of charge they would hold, if any.  When we got back to the boat on Friday night, she was plugged in but only had about three (out of four) bars.  That meant she was not yet fully charged but she was taking a charge, which was a good sign.  When we had left her the weekend before she had NO bars – nothing, zilch, nada.  So, some bars were good.

Now, I think it’s time for a fun little battery tutorial, don’t you?  Because I now know way more than I ever want to about marine batteries and if I had to suffer through it, alas, so do you!  So, shall we?

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This is our E-Meter which shows four different readings for the batteries (these are the four circles under the “18.3” reading) from left to right:

1.  “V” for Volts:   Our battery bank is wired for 12 volt output.  Meaning, the volts reading should ideally show around 12.5 – 12.6 volts (at max charge – a little over 12).

2.  “A” for Amps:  This reading (which is lit) is showing 18.3 amps are going into the battery because it’s plugged in and receiving a charge.    This reading indicates the flow of amps either in (a positive number when the battery is receiving more charge than it is discharging) or out (a negative number when there is more discharge, like when we use it to run the fridge, lights, etc. while not simultaneously charging it).  Much like a tank of gas, the batteries have a capacity to hold only a certain number of amps (i.e., gallons of fuel).  Ours holds 450, so when we’ve burned 50 amps off and don’t re-charge it, we’ve only got 400 left, no more.

Knowing this, you start to get real familiar with just how many amps certain appliances are going to “cost” you.  For instance, the fridge pulls about 4-5 amps/hour, the lights and fans another 1-2/hour, and these are purely luxuries (you can always bring ice and use flashlights).  As you can imagine, it’s easy to start getting real “Scrooge-ey” with use of electronics on the boat.

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Turn that light off would ya?  It ain’t Christmas!

But, Scrooge or not, there are some things you simply HAVE to run whether you like it or not: a mast headlight so other boats can see you when you’re at anchor (1-2 amps/hour), navigation lights (bow, stern and mast) so other boats can see you when you’re under way at night (2-3 amps/hour), etc.  Hence the all important “Ah” amp hour reading.

3.  “Ah” for Amp Hours:  This reading shows you how many “amp hours” you have pulled off of the battery, much like the needle on your fuel gauge.  If the amp hours are showing roughly half of your 450 amps (around 225) remain, you’ve used about half of your tank of gas.  Which begs the question: how long can I go on a half tank?  That’s where the time reading comes in.

4.  “t” for Time:  This is the total time you have left on the batteries based on your usage and is akin to the number of miles you can go on the remaining gas in your tank.  As you know, the faster you go, the less miles you can travel on that tank.  Similarly, the more appliances you use, the less “time” you have left on the batteries.  And, just as you don’t want to suck up all the rusty junk floating around in the bottom of your fuel tank, you don’t want to let your batteries get down below 50% because it’s not good for them.  So, when you near the half-way mark, you should really try to give the batteries a charge (either by running the engine or plugging in if you have access to shore power).

See?  All very interesting stuff that you can impress your friends with at cocktail parties.

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Oh Bob …  Your amp hour calculations are so exciting they make my head spin.  Ha, ha ha!  

Trust me, everyone is dying to know about marine batteries.  I promise, just ask them.  If they say they’re not, I would just walk away.  They’re clearly boring people.

So, we let ours charge up fully and then unplugged her and kept the fridge and some lights running to see if she would actually “hold” a charge.  It wouldn’t help anyone if she showed four bright shiny bars when we set off into the Carrabelle River only to drop down to nothing the minute we got back in the Gulf.  This is what Kevin told us can happen when batteries are completely drained and re-charged.  But, we were apparently lucky – this time.  We watched her for two hours and she held a steady charge, which gave us hope.

With the battery situation now put to rest, we set our sights on the Genny and getting her raised back up on the forestay.  (Recall that’s the wire that runs from the mast to the front of the boat that the Genny furls around).

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Well, I’ll tell you we learned a very valuable lesson that day.  “Don’t let go of the halyard!”  That may mean nothing to you, but you’re about to see why it’s so darn important.  It’s something terribly basic but easy to forget.  Like the sailing equivalent to “Don’t crowd the mushrooms!”  Such brilliant advice.

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Thanks Julia!

So, the halyard.  On a boat, that’s any line (which, remember, is a rope) that is used to raise a sail.  On our boat, there is a clamp on the end of the halyard that pulls the Genny sail back up the forestay.  After we had dropped the Genny halyard from the top of the mast down to the bow of the boat to lower and take off the Genny, we promptly pulled the halyard right back up to the top of the mast, thinking “What a nice, safe place for it.  I’m sure it’ll drop right back down when we need it to … ”

We were dumb.  So dumb.  Julia herself should’ve slapped us.

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BAM!

Because I’ll tell you what didn’t happen.  That halyard didn’t drop.  Wouldn’t drop.  We shook and banged the line, hoping the clamp on the end of the halyard would vibrate and wiggle down, but it wouldn’t budge.  So, I remind you again, “Don’t let go of the halyard!”  Now, how does this all translate to entertainment for you?  Trust me, it does.  Because guess whose happy little ass had to climb that 50 foot mast to get the halyard down.  Uh-huh …  That’s right.  Yours truly.  Albeit a bonehead move and not one I think we will make again anytime soon (let’s hope), that little mistake of ours took me to such great heights:

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And there she goes …

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Annie are you okay?  Would you tell us?  That you’re okay?

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I’m okay!

That is one tall mast let me assure you.  And, you may be wondering how the heck you climb a thing like that.  Years of training with Tibetan ninjas, that’s how.

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But I think I’ve enlightened you enough for one day.  I’ll save that post for another.  I’ll tell you, though, it really did feel incredible up there.  Every tiny little rock of the boat is magnified and it feels like you’re swaying from side to side like blowing with the wind in the top of a tall pine (when the boat below appears to be standing perfectly still).  Funny thing about climbing a mast, though.  It seems to attract a crowd.  A bunch of old salts, who clearly had nothing better to do, started to gather around as I ascended, telling Phillip “Woman like that oughta have a sister!

I do.  She just didn’t get the looks in the family so we don’t really like to acknowledge her.

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Poor thing.  I don’t know what she’s made of herself.  Probably nothing nearly as cool as a sailor-slash-blogger.  Not nearly.

The good news is I made it down safe and sound and the boat was looking ready to go.  We emptied out the fridge and turned off all the electronics so she would stay juiced up no matter the “plug” situation.  Mechan-Eric told us they were expecting the new transmission to arrive the next week and then they would drop it in there.  All seemed right with the world, so Phillip and I headed home to start planning the last leg of The Crossing – over drinks and dinner of course!  Phillip made us his famous pan-seared grouper and mushroom risotto with sauteed spinach to celebrate the big climb:

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Because he’s just kind of amazing that way.

April 26, 2013 – Comfort Food

We spent the day Friday working (despite all deceptive blog content to the contrary – we do, in fact, have day jobs, which we certainly needed to keep in light of our impending boat-related bankruptcy) and recovering from our kite session the day before.  (Kiting has a tendency to make you sore in places you didn’t even know existed!).  Particularly when you master tricks like this:

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Which I can assure you I did NOT.  I’m about 834 lessons away from it though (and still sore all the same).

We finally got a call from Eric the mechanic in Carrabelle with some good news and bad.  Doesn’t it seem that’s always the case.  He had taken the engine apart and it didn’t seem the problem was with the engine.  A big whopping “Whew!” from the Plaintiff’s Rest crew!  He initially had thought that water on the heads was preventing the engine from turning, but he had taken it apart and found no water.  He then found  what he thought could be metal shavings in the oil filter which he told us was a particularly bad sign.  That meant something in the engine had likely failed and locked up.  He examined the entire engine, top and bottom, but nothing.  That left the transmission, which he planned to take apart and have a look at in the next few days. 

We were a bit relieved that it wasn’t the engine.  Replacing those puppies can be very expensive with the cost of a new engine running in the $10k range.  Of course, that’s just the cost of the engine, not the labor to put it in and actually install it (we’re talking thousands in labor).  Anyone know a good bankruptcy attorney?  (I do!)  Not a small chunk of change, and not a price anyone is happy to pay, particularly so right we had just shelled out some serious change to buy the dang boat.  But, we were not pleased to hear about the metal shavings and likely failure.  The repair was likely going to require a rebuild or replacement of whatever part had failed.  We knew we were going to have to put up some more dough. 

Depressed and downtrodden, we did exactly what I did when I didn’t get asked to prom: made some comfort foods and ate our feelings:

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Yum!  I’ll have three please, but with a Diet Coke … I’m trying to watch my weight.

We did make some dough of our own, though (pizza dough) and put together some killer home-made thin-crust pizzas. 

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The trick is to keep pressing and spreading it until it’s paper thin, almost see-through, to get that great crispy thin crust.

One grilled chicken and home-made pesto with mozzarella.

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The other – fig, prosciutto, arugula and bleu cheese.

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Un-friggin-believable.  Trust me.  And, with plenty of wine, of course.    

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Hottie McToddie!

Ruin this savory Italian feast with a Diet Coke?  Please!  We settled on a nice pinot and didn’t stop until the bottle was empty and every morsel was devoured. 

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We relished the feast, toasted the sunset and called it a night

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We hoped for some “good-er” news about the engine next week.  We were all bad news-ed out.