Schooner Musings - It's not all palm trees and sunsets

Sailing Vessel Denis Sullivan – January 2005

The Denis Sullivan is a 137 foot wooden three masted topsail schooner built in 1998 as the flagship of Wisconsin. She is currently operated under the auspices of Pier Wisconsin as a sailing school vessel. She spends her summers on the Great Lakes, primarily near her home port of Milwaukee, doing multi-day educational trips for middle and high school students as well as some tourist daysails.

Ship’s Company

Captain: John
First Mate: Sinker
Second Mate: Hugh
Third Mate: Dan
Other Mate: Carlos
Cook: Wendy
Engineer: Beth
Education Officer: Meredith
Deckhand: Emily
Deckhand: Kate
Deckhand: J.R.
Technologist: Chuck
Slacker: Hannes

Student Crew: Tom, Patrick, Don, Paul, Dick, Wendy, Patricia

January 21 Afternoon/Evening

Arrived at the S/V Denis Sullivan, berthed next to the American Airlines Arena in Miami. Third mate Dan greeted me and showed me to my coffin sized berth where I was to spend many a waking hour over the next week. I was coming aboard as student crew on their annual weeklong adult adventure tour. I thought ‘adult adventure’ might imply the presence of ladies of the night but the only ladies I saw at night carried rigging knives and marlinspikes. Other students straggled aboard throughout the afternoon and we slowly met each other and the crew. The captain told us we were on our own for dinner and that we would clear customs first thing in the morning and head across the Gulf Stream to the beautiful Bahamas.

I hooked up with a couple other students and had dinner at the nearby Bayside outdoor shopping mall. While munching on some mediocre fish I looked over the marina and realized that I had finally designed the Perfect Sailboat in my mind. It would have ketch rig to get under the intracoastal bridges, a pilothouse to ward off the cold and bugs on long passages, powerful engines for speed on windless days and a cabin big enough for very comfortable seating. Much to my surprise, as I later walked along the docks, I actually came upon exactly the boat I had just devised! In my mind’s eye it had wonderful proportions and excellent sailing characteristics. In reality, it was an abomination! The hull was pretty enough. It ran about 45 feet long and had high bulwarks for safety and spray deflection. The hull shape looked like a reasonable compromise given the motorsailing duality. Unfortunately, the cabin looked like it had been cut right off the hull of a Grand Banks 36 and just glued on deck. I have no idea how you reef that kind of windage. The superstructure, and it was quite super, even had a full flybridge. The main boom was set so as to clear not only the flybridge but also any tall person at the helm. This meant that the gooseneck was more than halfway up the mast! The mizzen boom was set at the same height. From the looks of it, this boat was designed from the start to do nothing well. So much for my career as yacht designer.

After an obligatory stop at Hooters (with the waitresses buried under layers of sweatpants and sweaters to ward off the cold – good thing we were only there for the chicken wings), we returned to the ship for our first exciting night aboard. It was cold. And noisy. Berthed right at the Arena, we were treated to a loudspeaker play by play of the Miami Heat’s game against some unknown team. Someone won the game eventually and they mercifully shut down the speakers. It was still cold - that damp, raw kind of cold that really makes you uncomfortable. The adventure had begun.

January 22

0800 - 1300

All hands mustered for the captain’s introduction and assignment of watches. We were told that we could participate as little or as much as we liked in the operation of the vessel. One passenger, a former first mate on the Sullivan, stated that he expected to do as little as humanely possible. To make his point, he laid back, covered his face with his hat and immediately went to sleep. Everyone else was gung ho and ready for action so the first mate assigned us to three watch teams and laid out the duties of each watch.

Watch rotation:

0800 - 1300: Sail the vessel, perform hourly boat inspections, clean soles and bowls (floors and toilets), clean up after lunch

1300 - 1800: Sail the vessel, perform hourly boat inspections, watch the sun set, clean up after dinner

1800 - 2300: Sail the vessel, perform hourly boat inspections, take unbridled joy in waking up the next watch at 2245

2300 - 0300: Sail the vessel, perform hourly boat inspections, wish for the release from duty that only death offers, drag the next watch topside kicking and screaming at 0245

0300 - 0800 : Sail the vessel, perform hourly boat inspections, clean up after breakfast, accidentally knock overboard anyone who appeared bright and chipper in the morning

With three watch teams, you were set to be on for one watch and then off for two. That sounds like a lot of time to rest. It never seemed to turn out that way because you were either up for meals or in your berth trying to force yourself to sleep before your night watch. Fortunately, most people were able to force themselves to sleep. Unfortunately, the sleep generally came about 10 minutes before it was time to go on watch.

Of the night watches (all of which were bad), the 0300-0800 always seemed the worst. Getting up at the dying hour and functioning well IMMEDIATELY was tough enough. Watching the sun slowly creep up would seem to help but, in reality, the sun always seemed to roll over and hit the snooze button before actually rising to shine straight into your bloodshot eyes. After everyone else had eaten breakfast, you’d stumble below to find a sink full of dirty dishes and a pot with some final scrapings of cold, congealed oatmeal. Thinking it was just one more dish to clean you’d put it in the sink before realizing that it was actually your breakfast. After finally putting away the last dish, you’d stumble to your bunk. On the verge of unconsciousness, you’d devise new methods of torture to pay back those non watch standers who were practicing Irish jigs on the deck immediately above your bunk. Then the call ‘All hands!’ would ring out and you’d crawl on deck looking to do violence upon whatever fool had decided to change sails. Other than that, it was a lovely watch.

All of that knowledge was in the future. First we had to actually get under way. The crew managed to dodge all the ‘helpful’ students and get us away from the dock without incident. I got my first taste of labor as they hooked up the inflatable boat to the davits. I was standing next to the davits so I grabbed the hoisting line, took a couple turns around the davits winch (the only winch on board as it turns out) and hauled away. I immediately had one of those sweet and sour moments. Sweet reflection on my forethought to bring aboard sailing gloves. Sour realization that they were in my bag as I handled the too small line with my tender office worker paws. How heavy can an inflatable be? I’m not sure but the two big gas tanks and the 25 horses sitting on the transom sure didn’t help. By the time I was done, I was quite out of breath and I thought ‘That’s odd, I’ve been exercising so vigorously for months and a little lifting knocks me out like that?’ Hmmm...

No time to reflect on my frailty as there were ten sails to set. Outer jib, inner jib, standing jib, staysail, foresail, main, mizzen, raffee, main topsail and mizzen topsail all went up. I grabbed the foresail throat halyard and gave a mighty heave. Fire ripped through my chest as the halyard moved a foot. I held on but was mighty grateful when a bemused 90 pound deckhand came over to supply the real muscle. I helped set the remaining sails and burned more calories in 15 minutes than I had in 15 days at the gym. By the time we were done, I knew something was not right with me. I’m simply not that out of shape.

Before a moment’s rest could be had, we went through man overboard, abandon ship and fire drills. Each drill required major sail manipulations and, of course, my duty station for each drill was sail handling. Ouch.

The drills finally ended and lunch was served. My first watch came to an end an hour later and I headed below for victuals and clean up.

1300 - 1800

Off watch. Had fun watching a couple of the real crew struggle to take in all the topsails. Those guys and gals seem real comfortable in the rigging so I’m not inclined to spoil their fun by offering to go up the ratlines myself. Took longer to take in the topsails than the time we actually had them up and drawing. This is the last we’ll see of the mizzen and main topsails but the raffee isn’t quite finished with us.

Deck starts to roll in a nice, comfortable rhythm. Comfortable as long as you don’t have to move about too much. I’m happy because this is the motion I was longing for when I signed up for the cruise.

After dinner I head below to try and sleep before my 2300-0300 dogwatch. Read a bit, slept too little, time to go to work.

2300 - 0300

Beautiful, moonlit night. Nice little swell running. Wind abaft the beam. All lower sails set and drawing well. Best kind of schooner sailing you can imagine. A little cool but I’ve got plenty of warm clothes.

There are three students, a watch leader and a deckhand in my watch team. There are three duty stations: helm, bow watch, boat check. The fourth person is idle and ready to help out where needed. We switch stations every hour. An hour is a long time to stand in one place. By the end of the week, I’ll be redefining ‘long time’.

I take bow watch first and it’s wonderful. Looking for ships and making sure everything is cool. No worries. Irritating noise above me. The raffee has come loose from its bindings and must be secured before it flogs itself to pieces. I report this to the watch leader. He thanks me and heads aloft in the now dark, swinging rigging where he spends nearly an hour trying to calm the beast. It will be the end of the watch before the sail is finally put away for good.

I switch to the helm and find that the wheel gives little feel and you must constantly watch the compass. Fortunately, the compass is a nice one - large and well light with a red night light. Much better than the last time I crossed the Gulf Stream with a little bobbing white light on a tiny, bouncing compass.

Generally, you stand in front of the wheel and steer with your arms behind you. Odd at first but you learn to lean on the wheel to take the strain off your feet. Constant attention needed or you will find yourself 20 degrees off course.

Switch to boat check on the next rotation. This involves checking the five watertight bilge compartments, the engine room and all the instruments. Everything is logged. Boat check is good because you get both a chance to rest your feet and the opportunity to move around a bit. The only downside is that you have to stumble around in the dark a bit without waking the off watch crew as you check the bilges. Going into the engine room is a bit of hassle as well because it is hot and incredibly noisy. No engines on now but the generator is going full steam.

Rotate to idler. Ah, the good life. Time to partake of the fresh baked snacks the cook has left out for us. Getting tired but it’s a good tired. Start coughing a little. Odd as I haven’t had so much as a cold in three years.

0300 - 0800

Off watch. Fitful sleep. Lungs starting to fluid up a bit. No worries, just a little too much exercise and salt air.

0800 - 1300

Off watch. Breakfast feels good. Weather starts to deteriorate. Wind picks up, whitecaps all around, pretty strong swell running. Been in worse on lesser ships. Realize on this watch that there is literally no comfortable place to sit on the ship. Nowhere to lean back and ease the strain on both back and feet. Too many sharp edges and hard surfaces.

The nearly new outboard on the inflatable dinghy stopped working right before we left Miami. The captain and various other dignitaries are puzzling through the problem. I offer some sage advice that works as well as anyone’s. The outboard never runs again.

1300 - 1800

Time to go on watch already?

Trailing two fishing lines in the water, we are rewarded with simultaneous hits by smallish tuna. I’m not real comfortable with the concept of catch and release fishing but I hold my tongue. Wise choice as there is no intention to release the fish. First mate cuts them up into sushi. Tuna looks at me as if to say ‘Well *I* certainly prefer catch and release to THIS!’ Half the crew tries sushi for the first time. Half of them also try it for the last time and soon offer it back to the deep.

Rain starts, wind continues to build. Time to reef and all hands seem to have disappeared. Our watch reefs down on its own. Exhausting work. One person on a line under strain sure is a lot tougher than having three on the line. At least I’m always wearing gloves now.

After reefing, I go to bow watch and end up coughing uncontrollably for 15 minutes. Just can’t catch my breath. Soaked through with both salt and fresh water. Cold. Beginning to wonder whether I really liked sailing to begin with.

At least I have kept my feet dry. Wet feet would be too much to deal with. Just before I reach the companionway, a big wave sweeps the deck and soaks my shoes.

1800 - 2300

Off watch. Still have to clean up dishes. Feeling miserable, wet, cold. Finally make it to bunk and strip off wet clothes. Shivering. Can’t sleep. Miserable.

2300 - 0300

Off watch. Ship is rolling so bad that you have to constantly brace in the bunk to avoid being thrown out. Slamming into waves broadside six inches from my head. Wondering why captain didn’t want to power up in the afternoon for an hour and make port instead of standing off shore all the miserable night. No sleep.

0300 - 0800

Turn out for watch. Would rather turn out for own funeral. Hate sailing. Never going to do it again after this trip. No point to the stupid sport. Lungs full of fluid, wrenched knee, painful feet. Can’t bend over low enough to get through companionways. Harnesses on.

Driving, stinging rain. At least smart enough to turn out in foulies with seaboots. Wore swimsuit under pants to prevent overheating. Good idea - like I’m going to overheat in this cold. At least I stay dry and I’m not nearly as cold as others.

Worst part of the watch - and there are many horrid parts - is that we are five miles out and just tacking back and forth, marking time until sunrise. I suggest that we at least go to a broad reach on each tack to stop the slamming and help those below get some sleep. Request denied. That’s ok - I hate those who are below. And I’ll still have to clean their dishes at breakfast.

Sunrise. We strike sails and head into port. The undead appear from below. The holds reek. We reek.

We finally tie up at the ugliest port I have ever beheld. Sunken boats poke through the water, trash on shore, no facilities whatsoever. This is the beautiful island the crew has been telling us about?

Cold oatmeal for breakfast.

0800 - 1300

Off watch. Everyone off watch. Sleep for two hours. Can barely move when I wake up. Realize I am seriously ill. Heavy fluid in my lungs, shortness of breath, muscle fatigue. The coughing is incredibly painful but I feel so much better after hacking for awhile that I realize I need to keep it up, otherwise I’m not getting the oxygen I need. Vow not to lie down again because I’m seriously afraid I won’t be able to struggle through the fluid again. Shoulder and leg muscles starting to cramp severely.

1300 - 1800

Off watch. Third mate lived on Andros Island for a year two years previously as a diver and assistant at field research station. Gives us a fantastic tour of the island and its people. Andros is 100 by 60 miles but has only about 8000 residents. Nearly all residents live at subsistence level. Some sponge fish or harvest conch. Others help out at bonefishing camps. Many used to run drugs but that seems to have disappeared. Go fast boats lie rotting in the weeds.

Andros’ greatest asset should bring it riches beyond compare. It is the only significant source of fresh water in the Bahamas. Six million gallons a day are shipped to Nassau for distribution to the rest of the islands. But Andros receives nothing in return.

Islanders come primarily from two displaced peoples. A few Seminole Indians escaped the white man’s wrath by paddling over from Florida in canoes. Shortly thereafter, a few African slaves escaped from ships that had stopped on their way from Africa to freshen them up before auction. Glad they escaped. Wish they all had. None of my relatives arrived in the New World until slavery and Indians were gone. Even so, I still can’t quite shake the shame of it.

We meet some descendants of these brave escapees at the little village of Red Bays. Scrap Iron is a strapping man of 75 or so whose claim to fame is his hunting of wild boars by hand. Now he sits by the road and weaves baskets to sell to the rare tourist who might get lost and wander by. Very rare. The baskets are quite nice and our group buys quite a few. He sells a few sponges as well but then gives them away to the girls who didn’t buy one. What he’s really selling are his stories and they’re worth the price.

We walk down the street to meet Miss Jones, the town’s 86 year old matriarch and medicine woman. It’s difficult to understand her patois but our mate helps. She proudly shows off a collection of community awards for all her years of service. She used to be the midwife for the island but the new government won’t let her continue. Now there is no one. She keeps a garden of all her medicinal plants growing and offers us her 21 Gun Salute mixture if we would like. Bahamian Viagra. No one accepts but some of the women look wistful. I wonder if she has something to cure my ills but I’m a bit leery of folk medicine especially from a woman who has two grapefruit sized goiters. I’m sure some of her treatments work but I’ll tough it out.

There are more baskets, truly beautiful ones, for sale in a village common house.

As we are about to leave the village, Scrap Iron comes out and insists on giving another basket to someone he says didn’t bargain hard enough. I guess $5 was just too much to pay for a week of his time.

Red Bays is not a tourist town. There are no tourist facilities on the entire island. The town is more like an anthropologist’s dream scene. Hardscrabble life, nearly unaltered for many years. Poverty, as we define it, like you have never seen before but the people seem happy and all take time to smile and talk with us.

Next stop is the home of Henry Wallace, a woodcarver who supposedly has some pieces in the Smithsonian. The pieces we see are pretty rough and Henry’s not at home anyway.

Andros is also the site of blue holes. Some of the holes are inland and consist of a layer of fresh water on top of saltwater that is fed in through caverns that reach the sea. We stop for a swim at Uncle Charlie’s Blue Hole. It’s Uncle Charlie’s because the good uncle is still in there. He tried to SCUBA out to the ocean. He didn’t make it. Divers recovered him and his gear but his family asked them to put him back as that is where he would want to be. Not sure if Charlie agrees but that’s where he is now. Rest of the group swims while I nap in the van.

One more blue hole stop. This one is slightly offshore. The water runs two feet deep until the bottom suddenly drops out and the hole appears. Too cold for anyone to swim out there today.

Drive through a very small settlement of well kept German cottages. Germans started settling here ‘for some reason’ in 1945. Not many around permanently now but their modest cottages get some use during the winter.

Final stop for conch and beer. I let the rest of the gang eat slugs while I nap again in the van. I am not getting better.

1800 - 2300

Off watch. Back at the ship we have dinner and then watch an ocean salvage tug try to pull a fuel barge off the beach. The barge went ashore during the last hurricane and we have a nice high spring tide to help so the tug gives a mighty effort. With help from a large bulldozer, the tug finally floats the barge and secures it very close to our bowsprit. Deft hand on the wheel that put it that close without crushing us. Tug looks familiar.

Captain says he left a bonfire all ready to go last time he was here but it rained. Nice night tonight so we walk down the beach to it and have a good time drinking warm beer, roasting marshmallows and mis-singing sea chanteys. No bugs. Too cold. Fire feels good.

2300 - 0300

Off watch. Real sleep for the first time in days.

0300 - 0800

Off watch. Blessed sleep.

0800 - 1300

Back on watch and preparing to leave. Didn’t drink all the beer so captain offers it to the tug crew. They graciously accept and ask us all aboard for a tour. Tug looks really familiar.

Massive seagoing salvage tug. Three giant propellers. Winches the size of Rhode Island. Crew helps us aboard and shows us around. I had expected a bunch of rough roustabouts but they are very well spoken, polite and quite young. They seem very happy in their work and tell us all about it. We come to the bridge where a wildhaired, kind of rummy looking old man is staring at us. He roars ‘I can navigate the world with my eyes shut and pull any ship off any reef but I can never find my goddamn shoes!’ He decides to stay barefoot while telling us his story. As soon as I hear his name, I realize it’s a story I’ve read before. This is Captain Latham Smith. I’ve read a book about his exploits and he’s quite the daring mariner. He built the tug himself back in the 60s and his first mate is a neighborhood kid who wouldn’t go away when the boat was finished. The captain is not quite as gruff as he first appears and the mate is always chipper and smiling, Nonetheless, I look around and realize, not for the first time on this trip, that the mariner’s life is not for me.

Almost ready to go but three more stops remain on the island tour. We walk a short ways into the trees and find a small twin engine plane that must have come down within the last two years. The plane has been accordioned to about half its normal length. Next stop is Morgan’s Bluff where the good Captain Morgan used to lure ships onto the reefs with false lights. Final stop is his cave nearby where he kept the plundered goods.

Back on board and ready for sea. Second mate does a masterful job of taking us away from the dock with engine controls alone. There was no room to spare and he still left change behind. The first mate, second mate and one of the deckhands are all schooner captains in their own right. They are just along for this trip and perhaps another. Filling time while their boats wait for spring in Michigan, Maryland and Maine.

My watch takes us to sea again. We are the only watch that will end up on duty for each departure and arrival. Luck of the draw. We also wash more dishes than any other team. Unluck of the draw. In truth, other than the one self announced slacker aboard, everyone works whenever needed. Even the slacker, though nimble in the face of approaching work, will pitch in for any task directly requested. He’s running from something but he hasn’t figured out what yet and he tells good stories. The crew and the passengers are good - every one of them. Throughout the trip there is never an angry or short word spoken. Never. The crew is unbelievably patient and never criticizes a mistake or brushes off a suggestion. The captain, who appeared gruff at first, is actually quite jovial and sensitive to the needs of everyone aboard.

Aside from the full time schooner captains and a water taxi driver from Chicago, the rest of the crew is recently out of college with degrees ranging from marine biology to mathematics and business. They are in that wonderful stage of life trying to figure out what they want to be when they grow up or even if they want to grow up. I advise them all to be wary of The Man and stay free as long as possible.

The passengers range in age from about 23 to 65 with careers ranging from trucking to engineering to teaching to firefighting to ‘I’m retired and I don’t remember what I used to do.’ Two of the passengers came on together, the rest are alone. The ‘couple’ is a pair of retired men who bicker with each other so much that I finally ask how long they have been married to each other. ‘Longer than we have been to our wives’ is their simultaneous reply.

I would go to sea with any of these people again. A wonderful collection of good-natured, hardworking people.

Back to sea. Make sail. Lungs are regressing again but the muscles respond better to the weight of a line. I’ve lost vitality but gained muscle in just a few days.

Dishes. Always dishes.

1300 - 1800

Off watch.

We ghost offshore at less than a knot the whole afternoon until we spot several whales on the surface. The captain powers up at last and heads over for a closer look. We watch the whales spout dozens of times before we get too close and get a goodbye wave from a fluke. They have served their purpose, they caused us to start the engines. Blessed be the whales.

Catch another tuna. No more sushi. This one ends up in a casserole.

1800 - 2300

Off watch.

Feel like dying. High fever, shakes, cold sweat, fiery throat. Can barely stand. Can only croak in response to questions. Finally decide I have a duty to report my condition to the captain. I find him in conference with the first mate and a passenger who is a part time paramedic. I am already the topic of conversation which is good because I can barely croak a yes or no in response to questions. Captain offers to get me off the boat with an unscheduled stop at Nassau but I refuse and say I’ll make it the last couple days. Don’t want to let down my watchmates. Don’t want to end up dropping a spar on them either so I’m going to have to be real careful. As we are talking, the watch leader shouts ‘Ready about!’ so I excuse myself and stumble forward to help bring the jibs over. When it’s done I am nothing more than a heap of sweating, gasping former human. I wedge myself into a corner of the deck and pray for a fast passage.

Eventually I struggle below to my bunk but I can’t sleep. It’s unhealthy lying down but for an hour I cannot get the energy to even lift my head. I keep thinking that a shower would make me feel better as it has been days since I have been clean and fresh. With a half hour to go before dogwatch, I pull myself into the shower and do the best I can.

2300 - 0300

On watch.

Shower was great therapy and I’m suddenly feeling better than I have since I left Chicago. The air is fresh, the seas are calm, the wind is light and the moon colors everything in silver and shadow. I eat everything I can find and feel my strength returning. I could stand two watches.

I make the mistake of looking at the charts as I pass through the pilothouse on my way to boat check. Something doesn’t look quite right. I ask the watch leader why we are headed away from Miami and he tells me the dreadful news - we are to tack back and forth through the night holding our position east of the Gulf Stream. The next day will be more of the same until we finally start the crossing the next evening. 24 hours without a mile of course made good. By design. It saps the strength out of me.

On bow watch I think long and hard about this sailing nonsense. I am truly glad I came on the trip but I have no desire to ever do it again. I’m not sure that I ever want to sail again at all. These thoughts on a beautiful night with a comfortable ship underfoot and good crew all around. I am not a passagemaker.

Some will think I am weak and indecisive. That I don’t have the right stuff. Let them think it. As for me, I think I am being honest. Only a fool or a liar would send himself out again to do that which he knows he will not enjoy. I came on this trip for one particular feeling. I wanted the surge of the ocean swell passing under a heavy displacement schooner. The trip has been blessed with hours of that feeling and I did enjoy it. It felt exactly how I wanted it to but that’s past and there’s no desire to ever repeat it. It’s not that I hate the sailing, it’s just that I have done it and am ready for something else.

Before I came on this trip, I entered into preliminary negotiations to buy an established schooner business in Maine. I planned to bring the ship to the Great Lakes in a year or two and run it as a mostly absentee owner. This is a plan I’ve worked seriously on for years and the right ship at the right price at the right time at the right location finally became available. Everything was in place except for this last trip to really get a feel for the whole thing.

I was so fortunate to stumble onto a ship with not one but four active schooner captains. They all shared their experiences openly and told me the good and bad sides of the business. I asked each of them what made a good absentee owner and they all had the same answer: lots of money and the good sense to not tell the captain how to spend it. Perhaps they were biased.

This trip was a working passage - not a windjammer pleasure cruise. Having a professional crew take you into a snug anchorage beside a quaint little town every night and serve you gourmet meals three times a day sounds wonderful. Maybe it is and maybe the business could still work for me. I doubt it. After all, buying a schooner is fueled by passion, not logic. The passion is gone. It is good to know that before you throw away all your security, all your common sense. It could work for someone else. It could have worked for me several years ago. Not now. I am glad I found that out and I can finally close the book on that dream based on knowledge rather than frustration or disappointment at chances not taken.

It’s true that these thoughts gelled while I was suffering pneumonia at sea but they really finalized on that perfect night when I was feeling so much better. It was a point of clarity, not despair. I also realized that I was really too old for this type of trip. At 43 that is absurd so I am dedicating myself to becoming younger. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. I’ll keep up the exercise and add yoga to it in order to get myself limber again. I’ll go on the long term diet that stresses healthy eating over weight loss. I’ll come home when the workday is done and give time to my family instead of my job. I’ll sleep – oh, will I ever sleep. In return for all these good deeds to myself, I will buy myself the most comfortable easy chair I can find and read and write about my new activities. Kayaking, biking, home repair. Most of the boats will be sold. I don’t use them anyway. Besides, I have lots of good friends with nice boats.

Fresh baked raspberry granola bars left as the night snack. Yummy. Nice cook.

0300 - 0800

Off watch.

The new watch crew came on deck looking cold and tired. I offered to stand an extra watch so they could each catch an extra hour of sleep. One of the crew said I was obviously delirious and needed some serious rest.

Read a little, slept a little, rose for breakfast. No dishes - my favorite kind of meal.

0800 - 1300

Off watch.

Tacking back and forth, back and forth. Going nowhere, just waiting for nightfall.

Health started deteriorating again and coughing became very painful. Started coughing up quite a bit of junk. Wrenches, nails, spare car parts - stuff like that. Felt like I must be getting better if I was coughing. Either that or dying.

Nice day. Flying fish all over the place. Caught a wahoo, let it go.

1300 - 1800

On watch.

Motorsailing now but still no destination. Waiting for evening to start the crossing.

Homeland Security requires 48 hours notice of a vessel arrival and in a port like Miami you have to come in when you say you are going to or you’ll end up in Security Hell. We’re scheduled to arrive at 0800.

Bored to tears. Not even Twain can keep my interest. Want to endow the boat with deck chairs when I return home. Something for future crews to appreciate.

Dishes.

1800 - 2300

Off watch.

Beautiful moonrise.

Crew member shows me the sparkling lights of photoplankton.

I know the dreaded early morning watch is on the way and I need to sleep but I lay in my bunk wide eyed. Then I hear movement on deck and I slowly turn out to see if I can help. By the time I get there, all the sails are down and tucked away. There was no call for all hands as many were still on deck after dinner. This means we’re turning towards Miami.

2300 - 0300

Off watch.

Can’t sleep. Four hours spent looking at the ceiling six inches from my face. One more watch to go.

0300 - 0800

Last watch.

Tired but oh so glad this is the last watch to turn out for. Miami is off the bow and ships are zig zagging all around us. Keeps me busy as bow lookout. Busy is always good on a night watch.

Health is bad but mind feels good until a seemingly small thing intrudes. When you stand watch there are certain unwritten rules and you follow them religiously. You NEVER show up late for watch change because you know that no matter how tired you are, the guys on deck are more tired. They’ve been standing for four or five hours counting the minutes until you arrive. You simply don’t show up late and no one ever did on the trip. Likewise, on your own watch, you do whatever is necessary and you help each other without being asked. You NEVER take advantage of your watchmates. Not for a minute. Ask for help and they’ll all give it. But you HAVE to ask if it’s not offered. Like I said, a small thing but it gets under your skin. During the afternoon watch, the movie ‘Around Cape Horn’ was being shown in the galley. I immediately offered to stay on deck because I had seen it. Weather was good, nothing was going on so we went short two people on our watch for the duration of the movie. Freely offered.

After the movie, my two movie going watchmates stood around talking for awhile with others. Not unusual at all as the boat check and idle watch member have a lot of spare time. But. But I had been at the wheel well over an hour and I really could have used a rest. Then a navigation course was offered and the same two (who are truly wonderful, giving people) elected to attend. After three hours at the wheel without a moment’s rest, I am finally ready to step down when my relief says she’ll be ‘just a minute’ while she fetches some tea for herself. A small thing. A nice day. A sick me. I let it pass.

Now on the night watch I am at the wheel ready for relief. I have counted the minutes. The hardest thing of all on watch is to not look at your watch. We all do. It can’t be helped. I’m coughing, my nose is running, my legs are cramped. No matter. The ONLY thing that matters is that it is finally time for my relief. I have stood bow watch and helm in succession without a break which means someone else had idle and boat check back to back. I’m looking forward to that sequence myself. I won’t go belowdecks but at least I can sit for a few minutes.

One of the afternoon movigoers finally shows up five minutes late (a lifetime on deck at night!) and says ‘I didn’t realize how cold it was! I’ve been below so long. I’ll just run along and get a sweater.’ I try to say I’ll get it for her but I cough and she’s gone before I can say anything. Not to return for ten minutes. A small thing. I finally get ready to turn over the helm when I’m called to the bow. Again? The other watchmate has gone below for a few minutes. I’ll stand his rotation too.

I like these people, I really do. They would have stood all my watches if I had asked them too. If I had said I was sick they would have put me in my bunk for the duration without a complaint. Everyone knew I was sick but they also knew I had not once asked for relief, had never missed a sail set or a tack, had never slowed down. They knew it was my decision and not to intrude unless I spoke first. I respect that.

But on a night watch, small things get under your skin. I wonder what I did to irritate my watchmates? That’s the thought that kept the small things from coming out. I had never shown up late or taken a lazy rotation. I offered help at every turn, always tried to be aware of when they were tired and needed a break. Still, you know there was probably something I did or failed to do that annoyed them. A small thing. That they kept to themselves. As I did on this last watch.

Sunrise. No words to describe how that felt on this last watch.

We finally made the entrance marker and started up the channel. I stood on foredeck in the freezing wind wondering when the sun was going to add a little warmth. No matter, only a few minutes more.

Suddenly a port security boat comes screaming down on us and the agent has a brief heated discussion with the captain. We are religiously following all the rules and we are exactly on time. No matter, you have to exercise your power. It seems that the security gurus are convinced that terrorists will attack a cruise ship. Apparently these terrorists are so sneaky that, instead of doing it on the ocean outside the harbor where there is no protection and a high likelihood of people dying, they prefer to do it in port, next to land, under the eye of about 18 federal agencies. Probably with a wooden schooner. As I watch the exchange back at the helm, I look past the patrol boat and see tens of thousands of uninspected cargo containers on the docks. Bin Laden owns several shipping companies. To the best of my knowledge, he does not own any traditional sailing vessels manned by people from Wisconsin. We are escorted to our dock and boarded by a truly astounding number of agents. They leave disappointed in our perfect paperwork.

We are home.

Let's Go Someplace Dangerous - Newbie Scubie

Sand. Endless, undulating waves of sand. Alone with nothing to keep me company but a thirst powerful enough to drop a camel.

Escaping Chicago as the first storm of winter prepared to shut down airports, I had looked forward to sunny beaches, bikini clad lasses and underwater delights advertised on colorful websites as “like nothing you have ever seen before!” I’ve seen sand before.

How did I end up in this desert? More importantly, how was I going to get out?

Chaos, they say, starts with the flapping of a butterfly’s wings. With me, chaos usually starts with a broken synapse. One little electrical misfire in my cranium and somewhere down the line I find myself in an adventure that might be of my own making but seldom of my own choosing.

Last January I came up with the bright idea of escaping Chicago’s chilly embrace with a weeklong sail as working crew aboard the wooden schooner S.V. Denis Sullivan, home port Milwaukee, winter port Miami. Nothing like hard, physical labor in the humid heat of South Florida and the Bahamas to whip myself into shape and beat the winter doldrums. The reality was a bit different. The thrill of standing night watches in chilly, wind whipped rain soon wore off. With little else to do aboard as we sailed pointless circles, I contracted pneumonia to add variety and entertainment.

However, pre-pneumonia and still dreaming of tropical loveliness, I had recalled that my list of lifelong dreams included becoming certified in SCUBA diving. As I tick items off this dream list I cannot shake the feeling that I have somehow swapped my list for someone else’s. Somewhere out there is a fit, active, strong young man who is wondering why his lifelong dream list consists solely of finding a comfortable easy chair in front of a widescreen TV.

As I researched SCUBA – all right, let’s stop this nonsense right here. Yes, SCUBA is an acronym for Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus and yes, acronyms should be capitalized but capitalizing SCUBA all over the place seems pretentious and unnecessary. Besides, I can’t type that well so SCUBA will hereafter be referred to as the unpretentious, everyman sport known as scuba. Ahhhh, that feels much better.

As I researched scuba, I discovered that dive shop owners long ago determined that diving without certification is an extremely unsafe activity. Imagine the lawsuits that could endanger the livelihood of scuba professionals if they gave air and gear to untrained vacationers. You could have more lawyers than bodies popping up on tropical beaches. To mitigate this risk, the professionals created a whole slew of certification agencies to provide a buffer between the recreational diver and the dive boat/shop/tank professional. If, along the way, some new divers actually learned a few things, well so much the better.

Seriously, the training regimen could be quite good but it tends to be customer driven and customers want results NOW so what used to be slow, step by step, experiential learning is now as easy as a quick weekend book and swim session. As I have the attention span of a gnat, I signed up for a weekend quickie course. While that sounds easy, it was actually difficult to find a local shop that would let me pick up the pre-course material on a Thursday night with the promise that I would be all read up and ready to go Saturday morning. Most shops thought that was pushing things a little too far but I finally found one with a more relaxed attitude. I read the book Friday night, attended class on Saturday, bought some basic gear and headed to the pool on Sunday for a five hour training session.

Five hours in a pool is a long time. Especially when you can’t swim. I can’t swim. How DID I end up with the wrong dream list?

Somehow I passed the various in-water tests (I backstroked through the swim test and floated on my back for the treading water test) and, with my handy dandy referral card in hand, I headed to Florida where I would complete my four Open Water Certification dives in the Keys after my schooner folly.

Diving with a cold is unwise. Diving with sinus congestion can be dangerous. Diving with pneumonia is what I wanted to do. Even after the schooner captain discussed medevacing me off the ship at one point, I was still determined to dive when I got back to Miami. One throaty call to the dive boat captain nixed that. I believe his words were “I really hate doing body recoveries.”

So scuba faded into the background, where it belonged, until the end of summer. Having nothing else to do one weekend, I decided that strapping on 80 pounds of gear and wading into a murky, cold, flooded quarry sounded like fun. I called the dive shop to set up my certification dives but they told me they were full for the weekend. Scuba certification drifted away again and common sense looked like it might actually win a round for once.

Unfortunately, on a simple drive through the countryside one fine autumn day, I happened to pass the scuba shop. I stopped in to ask how long my pre-certification training was good for and they told me that I had to complete the open water dives within 12 months of passing my written and pool tests. I hung out for awhile and looked at all the cool equipment. Ignoring the fact that most of this equipment was designed to try and keep you alive in a decidedly hostile environment – IF you used it correctly – I thought it all looked cool. I also thought that I never wanted to go through those pool sessions again because they were so tiring for a non-swimmer such as myself. What I did NOT think was “Why do you, one who is so uncomfortable in the water, even CONSIDER diving? Do you really need another dangerous, expensive sport?” No, I didn’t think that.

So I signed up for a refresher course in the pool (no swim test!) and planned my diving getaway. I dreamt of all sorts of lush, tropical islands. I could see myself relaxing poolside after my cert dives, regaling the lasses with stories of shark battles and sunken treasures.

I ended up in Ft. Lauderdale instead. A city consisting entirely of equal parts concrete and mildew. Fortunately, there were many bikini clad lasses. Unfortunately, they were forty years my senior and I’m no young pup myself.

This trip was all business. Mostly business for the dive shop that outfitted me with an absolutely amazing amount of gear. Given my newbie scubie status, I did not have the experience to separate the hype from the helpful. I bought a lot of hype. Pretty good gear too. At least that’s what the brochures and dive magazines said and if you can’t trust them then who can you trust? Besides, I needed the best. I was planning to actually go under the water on the open ocean. Why? I have no idea.

On one of the last flights to leave Chicago before a storm shut everything down, I paged through several dive magazines and discovered that I could become a professional diver. Of course the good jobs were in industrial diving. Low pay, high risk – that’s the life for me. With a lot of hard work, I could actually trade the stress of sitting comfortably behind a desk all day for the pressure of 200 feet of water on my body. Maybe not.

As we flew over the Everglades, I marveled that some people actually claim to enjoy exploring that fetid wasteland. Upon arriving in Ft. Lauderdale, I could understand the attraction. Give me gators and bat sized mosquitoes any day over the concrete and noise of one of America’s favorite retirement destinations. Scratch that. After a day wandering around Pompano Beach, I am convinced that people do not go there to retire. They go there to die. Slowly.

The rest of my party of divers had arrived a day early so they could get in some deep dives without a newbie slowing them down. I met them early that evening after they returned from their dive. Walking into a reeking hotel room littered with spent bodies and wet gear, I met my new buddies. After listening to their tales of zero visibility and 8 foot surface swells, I returned to my room to see if I had receipts so I could return all my gear. This did not look, smell or sound like the glossy brochures.

In order to protect the reputations of the innocent, I could change everyone’s name. In this story, however, there are no innocents. Just a bunch of gnarly scuba dudes. I will, nonetheless, change their names because they all carry big knives and my regulator hoses are not made of Kevlar.

First up is our fearless instructor. With over 2000 dives under his weight belt, he’s seen it all – although his mask was so foggy underwater that I wonder how he sees anything at all. We’ll call him DDD for Deep Diving Dude.

Next is a dashing young man who became certified many years ago but has just recently taken up the sport again. He has a military background and seems well prepared for any eventuality. His judgment can be measured by his preference for camping outside, up North, in the winter. We’ll call him Captain Snowman.

Every team needs a comely lass so we had one of those as well. More than just eye candy, this lady comes from the U.S. Navy and has experience in sandy locales, if you know what I mean. She’ll be Miss Wave to us.

Rounding out the cast for this adventure is Scubie Doobie, a social animal forever in search of the next narcing experience whether it be from nitrogen or other (legal) chemicals. Doobie is the kind of guy you want by your side in a bar fight because he’s one tough customer but also because he’s so darned friendly that no one wants to fight him. He also knows every barkeep in the country.

Miss Wave, Scubie Doobie and Captain Snowman were all down in Florida for some advanced certifications which included, I believe, deep diving, wreck diving and Nitrox. Doobie was definitely disappointed when he found out that Nitrox is not nitrous oxide.

I was to be joined by three or four other Open Water students but they were unable to make it out of Chicago when the storm hit. I could dig the resulting one to one student/teacher ratio. Triple D wasn’t so happy about all those instructor fees getting snowed on in Chicago but he got over it. Until he realized that this second job was snowplowing and would not exactly benefit from his absence.

We went out for dinner Thursday night so I could meet my buddies and listen to all manner of improbable tales. I also witnessed first hand the hunger that diving apparently generates. Whoa.

The next morning I rose bright and early for our 8:30 boat boarding. Doobie and Captain Snowman decided a nice hearty breakfast was more important than a silly dive boat schedule so we hung out at a restaurant overlooking the marina for awhile until the dive boat captain had turned a nice rosy shade of rage at our lateness. We gathered our gear and climbed aboard. The dive boat captain entertained us with a long list of things he was not responsible for and then we were off.

As this was my first dive with my spanking new gear, I very carefully assembled it. Triple D then unassembled it and put it back together in a more standard configuration. What’s happened to the spirit of innovation?


DDD also reminded me that I might want some weight in my integrated BC. I wish I could remember things like that. He suggested 12 pounds, I suggested 24 pounds and we settled on 20. I wasn’t real comfortable with this because I had corked in the pool with 22 pounds and a 7 mm suit. Now I was in salt but with a 3 mm. suit. I figured I needed more but I deferred to my more experienced pals.

In addition to our motley crew, there were two lobstermen aboard. They went off first, quickly followed by Scubie Doobie, Miss Wave and Captain Snowman. They all headed down to the so-called reef while Deep Diving Dude patiently explained that this first dive would be a get acquainted session wherein I could show him my degree of comfort in the water. Yeah, well, my degree of comfort is darned near zero!

Triple D stepped off into the three foot swell and I immediately followed with a graceful giant stride. No hesitation, no nerves, no worries. Until I hit the water. Then I started bobbing like a cork with my feet annoyingly kicked up near my head. I saw the boat drifting away. Hold on just a minute here! Why am I off the boat??? Years of solo sailing had taught me the importance of staying ON THE BOAT and here I was floating free! Not good, not good, not good. I actually thought about swimming back to the boat until I saw the dive platform surging up and down. Well forget that! Just get me underwater!

I let some air out of my BC but I am one buoyant dude and my feet absolutely refused to go down. Who would have thought that my problem would be NOT sinking? My instructor quickly analyzed the situation and suggested “Bend your legs DOWN.” Hey, it worked! I still had muscle control. Very cool. As air hissed out of my BC I slowly sank into the tropical loveliness of the sea.

The heck I did! This was Ft Lauderdale after a strong East wind. I sank into MURK. No pretty colors, no flashing fish. Just gunk in the water and visibility of about an arm length. Lovely.

After gracefully settling to the 45 foot bottom (hey, a thunk can be graceful!), DDD checked to see if I was ok. Surprisingly, I correctly gave him the “ok” sign rather than the far more natural and sensible “thumbs up.” This reminded me to check my air to see if I had run low yet. Nope, still good after 2 minutes.

I must have looked very comfortable because DDD immediately went into the skills tests. On the other hand, maybe he was hoping for an early flunk out. I flooded my mask and cleared it. I removed my regulator and replaced it. I did a few other scuba type things to entertain him but he soon grew bored and started making humorous hand signals.

Once I realized he was trying to communicate with me, I started paying attention. First he pointed at himself and then gave a thumbs up. Well, yeah, I guess you are cool but you don’t have to advertise it. The he pointed at me and put his hand flatly horizontal. But I don’t feel like lying down. I’m not really that tired. Oh wait a minute! I get it. You are going to the surface and you want me to stay here. Makes no sense to me but, hey, you’re the pro. I ok’ed him and waved goodbye as he swam off into the murk.

I let some more air out of my BC so that I could comfortably settle down on my knees in the sand. I looked around awhile, checked my air, blew bubbles and waited. And waited. And waited. I looked around.

Sand. Endless, undulating waves of sand. Alone with nothing to keep me company but a thirst powerful enough to drop a camel.

Ok, this must be some kind of test. Don’t panic. Just chill out. I had air. I checked again. Yup, I had air. I could stay here a long time. No problem. No problem at all. Still got air? Yup. Everything’s cool. Hmmm, I don’t remember this test listed in the book. Must be designed to weed out the nervous nellies. I’m cool though.

Kind of hard staying in one place with all this current. Little more air out of the BC. Ok, I haven’t moved more than a foot. The instructor must be lurking just out of sight. Except that I can now see quite a ways and there’s nothing for him to hide behind. Just sand.

All right, enough of this. Why’d you leave me down here? Huh? You think I would panic? Not me. Cool customer.

Not much to look at. Just sand. No fish. Well, I guess I can spend my time productively by playing with my fancy dive computer. Let’s see what all these buttons do. Well look at that – lot’s of nice displays. Still got air. Still got 15 minutes of bottom time. Even the date and time are correct.

15 minutes!?!?!?!?! How long have I been down here??? I should have had about 60 minutes of air to start with. Even taking into account my newbie breathing rate (which was starting to accelerate), I should have been good for 45 minutes. I only had 15 left? I better start thinking of Plan B – like surfacing!

Hold on, settle down. You’ve still got 2000 psi. That doesn’t make any sense. I started with 3150. Oh! I’ve been DOWN 15 minutes! I still have plenty of time. Good.

Hum de dum. Ho de do. La la la. No worries. Except for the darned current. It’s not pushing me anywhere but it sure is going to make it tough for ol’ Triple D to swim back. Real tough. This doesn’t make any sense. How does he expect to find me in the sand with no navigational clues, a strong current and low visibility? Uh oh.

What the heck is that noise? Sounds like Daffy Duck but far away. Maybe a dolphin. That would be cool. Wait, what if that’s the recall signal? The skipper didn’t tell us about a recall signal. Don’t they just bang on the boat hull? What the heck is up with Daffy?

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Now THAT’S close!

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Wait, that sounds like it’s right here. I bet my computer has some fancy alarm on it. Sure enough, look at that. It’s telling me that I have only 1500 psi left. That’s thoughtful of it.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Wow, this could get annoying. Let’s press a few buttons and make that noise go away. Much better. I wonder where that silly instructor has gone to? If he doesn’t get back here by the time I get down to 750, I swear I’m going up by myself. Of course the boat will have probably drifted a mile or so away in this current. At least I’ll be up top in the air. And the swells. All by myself. Lovely.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

What now?

“Surface dude. You are getting low on air.”

My computer can talk? I must be narcing. Wow, even at just 45 feet.

“Might be wise to ascend now.”

Nope, DDD told me to stay here and that’s what I’m going to do.

“Get up there, you newbie!”

I can’t heeeeeaaaarrrr you.

“Your warranty is now void. My warranty is fine and the diver who finds me will be entitled to a full year of free service. You, on the other hand, are toast. Shark bait. Bottom blubber. Goodbye.”

I will not ascend uncontrollably. I will not ascend uncontrollably. I am not gripped by panic. I am not gripped by …AHHHHHHHHH! Holy mackerel! Something’s BITING my arm. OMIGOD! OMIGOD! Where’s my scissors? AHHHHHHHH! Oh, it’s just Deep Diving Dude. Whew.

My instructor looked considerably more panicked than I. He immediately requested an air check. I was fine at more than 1000 psi. Plenty of time.

We swam around a bit and actually arrived at what passes for a “Beautiful Tropical Coral Reef!” in the Ft. Lauderdale brochures. Looked like a lump of mud with a few disconsolate fish to me.

DDD signaled for us to ascend. I actually remembered how to do this! Left hand on the BC pressure hose, right hand overhead. Let out air as I go up. As I go up. Um, I’m not going up. C’mon now. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Nope, not going anywhere. Lovely. DDD is already halfway up but he turns and sees me and comes back down. Gives me the “what’s up?” signal. I jump around a little to show him that I’m stuck on the bottom. He rolls his eyes and makes little feet finning motions with his fingers. Right.

So we SWIM up as I let air out of my BC. DDD signals for a three minute safety stop at 15 feet but I’m going pretty good now. I dump all the air out of my BC but I’m still on the up elevator and there’s no stopping at the 15th floor. Zoooooooom! Right to the top. I felt it coming so I gave a huge exhalation all the way up but there was no stopping this underwater freight train.

As soon as I cleared the surface, I completely filled my BC with air so I wouldn’t sink and drown. Right, like I could have gone underwater if I wanted to. That nearly empty AL80 on my back was acting as a nice life preserver as I bobbed around.

I swam back to the boat and actually got out of the water without embarrassing myself. (A miracle!) My instructor immediately followed and before I could say “Where the heck were you?” he asked “Where the heck were you???”

“Right where you left me dude.”

“No,no, no. I wanted to you to swim along underneath me while I surfaced! I was looking for the reef.”

“Um, the reef is on the bottom DDD. That’s the best place to look for it. How was I supposed to follow you when the visibility was 10 feet and you were going 40 feet above me? Besides, you didn’t make that little swimming motion with your fingers. You just signaled ‘stay down’ not ‘follow me’.”

“Oh my god. You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

“Nah, I’ll just post it on the Internet. No one’s likely to see it there.”

He sat down with his head in his hands and then looked up said “Wait a minute.”

“Yeah I know,” I preempted him. “After losing sight of my buddy for two minutes I should have searched for one minute and then surfaced.”

“That’s right. You don’t just sit down there for 15 minutes.”

“20 minutes.”

“Whatever. You should have surfaced. I was looking all over for you. I was even recalling you with my quacker.”

He was right of course. That would have been the sensible thing to do. I’ll remember that next time. The good part of all this was that I never came close to panicking. I just played around with my computer, relaxed and told myself that I would ascend when my air reached 750 psi. I should have surfaced earlier but at least I didn’t do anything actually bad, stupid or dangerous – and I can usually be counted on to hit two of those three. I felt pretty good about it. After a surface interval of 45 minutes, I added another 4 pounds of ballast and followed DDD off the transom. This time my feet assumed the normal position and I had no problem whatsoever descending. I even achieved a nice neutral buoyancy at depth and learned to drop the stupid low pressure hose and rely on my breathing instead. We went through a whole bunch of skills tests without a hitch. I was actually having a good time.

On this dive we came down on what passes for a reef off Ft Lauderdale. Still muddy brown from the prior day’s wave action and not exactly teeming with life but we did manage to spot a lobster. He didn’t look anything like the big, robust lobsters of Maine. Maybe they come to Florida to retire and wither into nothingness like the humans.

I ascended completely under control and hovered at 15 feet for my safety stop. When I finally surfaced I was feeling pretty darned proud of myself. I had successfully completed half of my open water certification dives without a mishap. Things were going uncharacteristically smoothly for me.

Little did I know what fate held in wait for me the next day!

Oiling The Dog

The following story originally appeared on the Trailer Sailor Bulletin Board, otherwise known as the TSBB. If you would like to see me mocked in third person as opposed to first, feel free to head over to the TSBB at http://bbs.trailersailor.com/forums/trailersailor/index.cgi where you will find the world’s most knowledgeable group of individuals on Absolutely Every Topic, nautical or not. If they don’t know the answer to your question, they’ll make one up and promptly forget that they made it up.

One of the denizens of the TSBB stands out because a) he is included in the following story and b) he actually knows what he’s talking about. That would be Charlie Jones, master carpenter, seaman, axe thrower, fisherman and all the other things that all men and most good women wish they were good at. I consult Charlie on a regular basis whenever I attempt a mechanical repair. As I never do recall what he tells me, these consultations are more for his amusement than my edification.

My daughter and partner in adventure, Emily, has been known since birth as the L’il Pirate.

On to the story…

______________________________________________________________________


When most of you face an unexpected mechanical problem, you rely on a combination of hard earned experience and intrinsic skills to overcome the difficulty. I must rely on other methods.

Typically I will try and fix the problem myself with whatever tools happen to be around and a lot of very innovative approaches. After several hours of bruised knuckles and colorful language I seek refuge among virtual friends at the TSBB and politely ask for suggestions regarding how to undo what I have done.

So it was with my reluctant auxiliary – the typically reliable Honda 4 stroke, 2 horsepower, air cooled, lightweight piece of perfectly useless stern ballast that hangs from my transom. (To those unacquainted with such nautical terminology, I am referring to a small outboard engine.) Apparently this little piece of engineering got jostled a bit while sailing and it just threw a fit at the outrage. First, the cursed centrifugal clutch would only clutch at high speeds. This led to a particularly exciting docking maneuver I am not planning on repeating. Apparently out of embarrassment, the engine then cried tears of petrochemicals all over the lake and refused to start. In fact, even with my mighty muscles, I was unable to budge the starter cord although with one particularly mighty heave I did nearly send the engine off its mount, over the cabin and into the next county.

Extensive on-line consultation revealed that a) the shear pin had been shorn, b) there was oil in the cylinder, c) the lower unit had fallen off, d) I should take up knitting as a hobby, e) the piston and cylinder had welded themselves into a solid mass, f) I should pack up the engine and send it far, far away and g) I should learn how to scull.

Taking last things first, I headed for the backyard pond and my trusty Walker Bay dinghy. Sculling is the ancient art of propelling a watercraft with the use of one long oar. Invariably, the sculler is a distinguished gentleman looking thoughtfully off into the distance. Innocent observers of this obviously knowledgeable, skilled, anachronistic mariner are impressed with peaceful artistry of the single oar sweeping gently through the water. I, on the other hand, know that I’m just looking at a stupid sailor who dropped his other oar.

I rowed myself to the middle of said pond in the normal fashion, shipped the extra oar and began to scull. Following some excellent directions provided by TSBBers, I actually succeeded in sculling my way all over the pond. Unfortunately, not once did I go in the direction I intended. Charlie Jones had told me that sculling required practice so I immediately gave it up and whistled to my dog for a tow home.

Bailey, the Brainless Beast of Bull Valley, decided, finally, that it was time to get in a boat for the first time. I really wished she had decided that when the boat was ashore. One thing led to another and soon the canine and I were splashing around together in the water. Relying on her inbred instincts to save her drowning master, I called to the beast and she responded with amazing alacrity. As I attempted to float on my back, she attempted, quite a bit more successfully, to press me under the water by standing on my chest. Good doggie.

I finally got a half nelson grip on the stupid fur ball and flipped her off of me. I then grabbed the scruff of her neck as she attempted to flee the scene of the attempted murder. Her flight continued with master in tow and she didn’t stop until I was properly beached. She then immediately rediscovered the joy of digging in the sand and shoveled gravel into my open maw. Nice doggie.

Satisfied that I had practiced enough, I headed for the lake with nothing but my wits since I had left the oars at the pond. I decided that, while I was now an expert sculler, it might be better in certain situations to have a slip with direct access to the lake rather than the meandering path my current slip required. As luck would have it, a slip fully exposed to wakes, party barges and suicidal ducks had just opened up so I plunked down my cash and upgraded. All I had to do to complete the transaction was move the boat down aforesaid meandering pathway into the open water and around the marina to the new slip. Lacking both wind and engine, I was forced to resort to the two short paddles aboard Big Windy. Good thing I brought along a couple of crewmates for the muscle work.

While I steered and supplied encouragement in the form of lashes, my diminutive crew attempted to paddle through the maze of drunken boaters attempting to dock at the local roadhouse for a refill. Since those short little arms combined with short little paddles failed to reach the water, I reluctantly gave up my position and relinquished the helm to the L’il Pirate.

I paddled like a crazed waterwheel for a good 20 minutes before exiting the hundred yard long slipway and bade farewell to the astounding line of powerboats awaiting my exit. Another 50 yards and a thousand calories found Big Windy snug in her new berth.

Exhausted, I admitted a setback in my human powered plans and returned home to stare at the engine. Nearly 30 years ago I took a small engine repair class in school and actually got an A. With that kind of education I should certainly be able to resurrect the ailing engine. I remembered how four stroke engines worked and mentally pictured all the components. Piston, piston rings, cam shaft, cylinder head, carburetor, crankcase, fuel lines – heck, this should be easy, I thought as I conveniently forgot that I had never repaired any engines outside of class.

I reviewed the official TSBB instructions and determined that, no matter what was wrong with the engine, everyone agreed I should buy a new sparkplug so I headed off to the local Farm and Fleet with the part number for the plug all too temporarily memorized. On the way I explained to Emily that the engine didn’t really need a sparkplug but that everyone else would feel better if I got one. Trailer sailors seem to love new sparkplugs more than they love their boats – certainly more than they love their spouses. You all think a shiny new spark plug will solve all the world’s ills. Fine, I’ll get one.

Now while the Charlie Jones’ of the world may be able to disassemble a Boeing 757 with nothing more than a pocket Leatherman and while Charlie and I are often mistaken for each other, I freely admit I am no Charlie Jones. I needed a few additional supplies. Over the course of three trips to various retail establishments, I acquired the following crucial items:

1. Folding work table
2. Saw horses
3. Quart of oil
4. Fancy measuring oil spout
5. Bag of rabbit litter and bedding
6. Bucket
7. Big screwdriver
8. Bigger screwdriver
9. Truly massive screwdriver
10. Lumber
11. Rags
12. Nuts, bolts and nails
13. Funny looking bladed drill bit
14. Three foot socket wrench extension
15. Fish hooks
16. Two orange street hockey balls
17. Japanese pull saw
18. Garbage bags
19. Bandages

As I left each establishment, the L’il Pirate reminded me that I had forgotten the sparkplug.

My supply list may seem a bit short for the task at hand but I only acquired what I truly needed. Before I could begin working on the engine, I needed an engine stand and I figured it was easier and cheaper to build one than to buy one. The dog would need amusement whilst I worked, thus the need for the orange balls. I have no idea why I bought fish hooks.

After an hour spent assembling the work table, I was both exhausted and inspired. This little table had an integrated vise with (I am sure) very durable plastic threads. Why not just throw some lumber into the vise and mount the motor on them? Why not, indeed.

With the motor precariously balanced, I began surgery. I removed the sparkplug, examined it closely and determined that there was distinct evidence that it was, indeed, a sparkplug. I filed away this information for later use. I then decided the best way to rid the cylinder of oil was to simply turn the engine over.

No, I did NOT turn the engine upside down.

As I pulled on the starter cord I was amazed at the ease with which one can turnover an engine without the plug in. I will design a compressionless engine while waiting for the orthopedist to realign my shoulder.

I am not a real fan of oiling tools. I think this age old practice tends to leave the tools a bit…well…oily. Nonetheless, I oiled all my tools rather vigorously as I yanked on the starter cord and oil flew all over the garage.

As the rust protectant was applied to all tools within range, I noticed a sad gurgling noise emanating from the cylinder. At first it sounded like oil to me but then my prime time television training took over and I realized that the patient needed an emergency tracheotomy. I lunged for a knife and attempted to slice the oil line but, failing to find such a line, I was powerless to do anything but standby and watch the engine wheeze and ease her way to a better place.

Once the gurgling stopped I figured I could do no more harm to the little machine so I put the plug back in and pulled the starter cord. And pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled. Then I attached the sparkplug wire and recommenced pulling. Dripping with sweat, I moved the throttle from off to start and yanked mightily for a while. With nothing better to do on a sunny afternoon, I pulled out the choke and pulled until my arm hung uselessly at my side and the motor hung at a rakish angle on my makeshift mount. Lying on the floor in a pool of precious bodily fluids, I looked up and saw the fuel cutoff switch. I painfully pushed it to the on position and feebly gave the line one last tug.

The resultant smoke and roar terrified the neighbors, excited the dog, worried the coyotes, shifted the magnetic poles and filled the garage with noxious fumes. Lost in the smoke was the wildly spinning propeller which made a valiant effort to get the motor out of the garage and into clear air.

As the improvised motor stand started skipping towards the door (that’s a sight that will give you nightmares), I lunged for the throttle and twisted it down to idle which idled the motor rather effectively by shutting it off.

I knew that my TSBB Council of Advisors would want a thorough analysis of the situation before advising me further so I decided to give the beast one more try so I could record all the colors of smoke and oozes of fluid that resulted from starting the little import. Seriously out of breath, I gave a half hearted heave and lackadaisical ho and lo and behold the engine roared back to life again!

Leaning over the table to keep it semi-stationary, I looked for telltale signs of mechanical trouble. First, there was smoke. I dimly recalled that the color of smoke mattered so I noted that white, blue, black and gray smoke all emanated from the machine. I tried to see where it was coming from and decided that “everywhere” was a fairly adequate description. Smoke poured from the lower unit, the exhaust, the general area of the carburetor, the recoil line, the crankcase, my ears and the throttle handle.

Next I noted fluids. Thin oily stuff was dripping, streaming and flowing from every orifice and from additional places as well where no known orifices existed. Gas was coming from who knows where and a strange, ominous looking black sludge crept out from near the anti-cavitation plate.

Sounds, well, the sounds were too horrible to describe.

The Little Engine That Could shut down again with a mighty heave, a heartbreaking clatter and a hissing sigh.

I wondered if she was ready to go back on the boat. When I briefly decided the engine was in fine working order I realized that carbon monoxide must be seriously impairing my judgment so I rather belatedly opened the doors and windows. Life giving air rushed in along with the life threatening dog who seemed to appreciate the mess I had made and quickly stepped in every noxious mixture she could find.

I sat down to contemplate my next innovation. For such a cool day, I seemed to be sweating buckets. I limped over to the engine and realized it was hot too. That sent a cooling shiver up my spine. What if this really was water cooled or at least intended to be water cooled? I hadn’t seen a cooling water intake but, honestly, would I have recognized it if I had? I grabbed the manual and while it didn’t specifically mention anything about water cooling, it did warn against running the engine out of the water. I suppose that unimpeded prop rotation could also have unhealthy effects.

Realizing that I was now simply one step from finishing my engine repair, I grabbed a handy bucket, filled it with water and dragged it back into the garage. While I was spilling all the water out again while tilting the bucket under the engine, Emily wandered in, shook her head and went out. A minute later she returned with the business end of the hose and refilled the bucket while it sat under the motor. Hmmmm….takes after her old man I guess – always thinking.

With an audience now present, I checked all the connections, switches, knobs, hoses and other things before rearing back on the starter cord. Just as the engine turned over, I was struck with a nasty thought. This happened simultaneously with the striking of the bucket on the dog’s head, the shrieking of children and even more chaos than the last “successful” test.

Even if the engine hadn’t been water cooled to begin with, it sure was now because there was water everywhere. Steaming, greasy, oily, slippery water. Well, I reasoned, that takes care of that. The engine runs, it needs more water and I’m tired of breathing fumes. Time to take it to the lake. And yet…..I vaguely recalled an important thought I had before the bucket prop walked into the canine’s cranium. Something about danger, heat, seizing, explosions. What was it?

Oh yeah! The smoke! The smoke had to be the result of something burning and what was more likely than oil? And if it had been burning, leaking and expelling oil all day…well, might it be down a little? I knew that was not a good thing so I fetched my quart of oil from the beginning of the season and promptly poured 24 ounces of Arabian gold into an 8 ounce crankcase. Hey, if a little oil is good then a lot just has to be better. Besides, at the rate I was burning oil, I was going to need all I could get.

I decided to try one last start before heading to the lake just to make sure the engine was up to my standards. With a strength that comes only from knowing a job is well and completely done, I threw my shoulder into a classic starting pull and ripped that engine right off the vise and onto my foot.

Too much oil is a bad thing.

At least I knew what to do next. I removed the spark plug and gave another cleansing pull. Oil shot out of the cylinder, past the rabbit litter, beyond the garbage bag, onto the dog, across the road, down to the pond and (some of it anyway) all the way back to Arabia.

Ever seen a yellow Labrador with a black head? I was really building up my store of future nightmares.

Fortunately, most of the oil was new. It had only traveled through the crankcase, into the cylinder, down the valves, into the lower unit and out the exhaust so it was still fairly clean. So clean in fact, that the only oil I saw was on the dog because she had taken an early, dirty headshot. The rest was on the floor mixed with the litter, water and other debris. How do I know this? It was a lot easier to see when I was flat on my back and staring at it.

Once again, let’s remember, too much oil is a bad thing.

I knew what had to be done. I grabbed the biggest screwdriver I had and tried to unscrew the oil drain plug. No luck. It was jammed, seized, welded into place. How come the filler plug can be a cheap plastic thumbscrew but the drain hole a piece of aircraft quality tungsten? I went to the store and bought a bigger screwdriver. I tried again and again and again. I started to swear mightily at the offensive little screw and reached for my hammer. Just then, Emily scootered in, skidded to an oily stop and grabbed me by the lapels.

“Dad! Stop it, stop it, stop IT!!!! Just call Charlie!”

Oh.

So I did.

Charlie immediately diagnosed my problem as too much oil in all the wrong places. Yes, the dog’s face was definitely the wrong place. He suggested I remove the drain plug and empty the crankcase. Yup. He then suggested I use an impact wrench to remove the screw.

Huh?

While I paged through the yellow pages looking for a place that would rent me an impact wrench, Charlie explained that this particular tool was NOT the same kind used to put on lug nuts at the tire store. No, this was a hand tool that you struck with a hammer. It would get all torqued up and twist that screw out without a problem.

Charlie even suggested that if he were nearby he would use his very own impact wrench. Personally I think he just would have unscrewed it with his fingers but I think he was trying to make me feel better.

Well, at least I now had a clear vision of what needed doing. I had seen these hammer powered tools before and always wondered at their purpose. Now I had the opportunity to own one of my very own and be the object of definite neighbor tool envy. I headed for the Ace hardware store.

I soon found what I was looking for but the end really didn’t look like it would fit the slotted screw head. I puzzled over it awhile before the helpful hardware man ambled over and asked if he could help.

“Yeah,” I drawled knowledgeably, “I need some bits for this.”

“Bits? You mean cartridges, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course that’s what I mean.” I would have spit tobacco out if I had had some – that’s how manly I was feeling.

“Well, here you go,” he said, handing me a package of unlikely looking things.

“That should do the trick,” I confidently assured him without having the faintest clue as to how these would solve any problem. Heck, Charlie said it would work so I was willing to give it a try.

“Are you sure this is what you want? Do you know what this is used for?”

Now I was feeling a lot like the kid at the pharmacy counter in Summer of 42 trying to buy condoms for the first time.

“Of course I know what it’s for! Everybody knows what an impact wrench is for!”

“Sure but this is an impact hammer,” he explained as if to a child.

“That’s what I meant! Hammer, wrench, whatever.”

“How are you planning to use it?”

“I am going to loosen a screw on my outboard, ok?”

“Really?”

“Yes. I know I look strong but this screw is seriously seized.”

“Well, there’s no doubt this tool will do the job.”

“I know that.”

“Yup. As soon as you hit this with a hammer, the enclosed .22 caliber gunpowder shell
will explode and send that screw right out. Right out through the crankcase, through the cylinder wall, through the cylinder, through the other cylinder wall, through the carburetor, the fuel line, the cowling, the wall board, the siding AND, if you are lucky enough, through the head of an unlucky deer thus supplying you with meat for the rest of the year!”

“Well, I AM on a low carb diet,” I whimpered.

“Just be careful because a lot of deer hereabouts have that chronic wasting disease that addles their brain along with the brain of anyone stupid enough to….hey, you been eating a lot of venison lately, boy?”

“You don’t think it’s a good idea to use this tool, do you?”

“I think it’s a fine idea IF you want to drive hardened steel bolts straight into concrete. For your job, I would use a screwdriver instead but, given your puny arms, I would suggest an impact WRENCH like I did in the first place!”

He then handed me a much less dangerous looking tool and shooed me out of the store.

I strode into the garage armed to the teeth (although not as well armed as I would have been with the .22 caliber hammer) with proper tools and determination. I lined up that wrench on the screw head and gave it a mighty WHACK with the hammer.

The dog tilted her head at me.

WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK

Nothing.

I sat down and began innovating again. I figured that I could rather easily turn the engine from a four stroke into a two stroke by whacking off a few knobs from the camshaft. Then my problems would be done. After all, I was getting pretty good at whacking things.

As I noodled this latest idea I idly played with my nice new useless tool. Then I broke it. For such a sturdy looking piece of steel I thought it cracked rather easily. The top slid freely and then got stuck halfway around. Great. Broken AND stuck. I looked at the base and saw an arrow now lining up rather beguilingly with the word “Reverse”

Hmmmm….

WHACK!

Black gold! Texas tea! I started humming the Beverly Hillbilly’s song as I danced a West Texas wildcatter’s jig and unscrewed the drain plug. Oil flowed, oil pumped, oil nearly gushed! Ok, it dripped.

I emptied the crankcase, the cylinder, the lower unit and all sorts of cracks and crevices. I wiped down the engine and carefully poured in eight ounces of pure sweet 10W30. I then replaced the drain plug and poured in another eight ounces.

Now an experienced small engine mechanic, I turned the engine over a few times to void the cylinder of residual oil. I placed a 30 gallon garbage can full of water under the engine in place of the 5 gallon bucket with the Labrador head impression on the side. I turned on the fuel, set the throttle, adjusted the choke and pulled with supreme confidence born of hard earned knowledge.

And then I pulled again. And again and againandagainandagainandagain.

Emily suggested I place the sparkplug in the engine. Brat.

Started on the first pull.

Water flew around, smoke swirled, the dog barked and the engine ran and ran and ran. I ran it idle for awhile, I ran it at ¼ throttle and the prop engaged as designed. I ran it at ¾ throttle and the roar announced my success to all the residents of the valley. Coyotes howled, deer danced, raccoons watched and birds of prey swooped low to behold the sight. I ran her up to full throttle and the garbage can tilted and went whack a whack a whack a. I shut it down.

The smoke cleared and there stood my engine. My self REPAIRED engine. With the swelled chest that comes from a job well done, I untied the starter code to put the cowling back on and at the last second – and I mean the LAST second – the cord slipped from my mighty grip and shot into the recoil spring.

Half an hour later, following sprung sprockets, flying cams, inebriated springs and a lot of creative use of single syllable words, I reinstalled the starter cord assembly and put the cowling on.

Now I know that the cord hangs a little loosely and I know that the creature will smoke for a week and I know that I will probably drop her in the drink when I try to hang her on the transom but, by golly, that engine WORKS!

I never did need the sparkplug.

I Got The Music In Me

The woman lying in the grass under the tree smiled sweetly at me as I asked her for directions. A man asking for directions? Now there’s a rare occurrence.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to hit on you or anything. I really just want to know how to get over to the east side.”

Her smile vanished as she scowled, “Why don’t just jump on the highway and play in traffic?”

Apparently, I’m not real good at reading body language.

I was once again out looking for the real New York on a beautiful, sunny day. Spreading happiness and joy as I pedaled along the river with song in my heart (where, as you will see, some people wished it would stay).

Having no real itinerary today other than to see something new, I hopped on the ferry to Manhattan and headed north towards the George Washington Bridge. Which, come to think of it, really wasn’t anything new since I’d been up there two weeks ago. That was on the Jersey side anyway and there was an incident with law enforcement and national security issues so let’s just wipe that slate clean.

The George Washington Bridge, known as the GWB to locals, looked surprisingly small to me today. I don’t like big bridges but small ones are fine so I thought it just might be possible to bike across it and return down the New Jersey side.



A half hour later, the bridge still looked small and it didn’t seem to be getting closer either. I think it was all the joggers passing me that slowed me down.



I stopped looking at the bridge and everything else as well and focused on the strange red hot burning sensation in my legs. Who put these hills out here? Don’t we have bulldozers or something to flatten things out a bit?

Just as I was sure I was about to die from exertion, I decided to stop for lunch. No sense leaving this earthly life with an empty belly. Unfortunately, I then came upon a building that had an uncanny resemblance to the processing facility in the movie Soylent Green.



Soylent Green is … well, I don’t want to ruin the movie but let’s just say it ain’t chicken. I decided to forego lunch in that particular neighborhood.

I rode in the blessed shade under the highway for awhile. Up until this point, the path along the river had been part of a very nice park, full of people. Everything neat as a pin too. Very un-New York. As I rode under the highway, I noticed everything getting a little scruffier. However, I smelled woodsmoke and some wonderful cooking so I earnestly rode towards lunch.

I rounded a corner to find another park just as full of people but with a few differences. First, every group was cooking and it smelled GREAT. Second, everyone who wasn’t cooking was playing sports. Basketball, football, soccer and baseball.

Ah, this felt like home! Not my home but a home I sort of adopted, briefly, quite a few years ago. Not a home really, more like a family. I was flat broke and living in Chicago after college graduation. One day I was riding my bike through Lincoln Park and came upon a similar scene, Back then, I was young and in shape. Not a good shape but at least not my current shape. In any case, I was living under the illusion that I could play soccer. I figured there were dozens of people at this one particular family picnic and it was unlikely that everyone knew everyone else so I sort of joined the family and just started playing, figuring that I would get a free meal in return for my spectacular athleticism.

Let the record show that I did, in fact, get a free meal or at least half of a meal that day. I thought I blended in quite well but not well enough apparently because the patriarch of the family came up to me and said something that to this day I do not understand. Partly because it was in Spanish and partly because I took off running with a taco in hand when one of the sons appeared, backed by his brothers, and asked, “Whose bastard are you?” You just got to know when to make your exit.

So here I was, older, wiser but still hungry and the food smelled great. I figured I would just sort of blend in and grab some victuals. Nothing like home cooking and I hadn’t had any of that in a long time.

All the happy family noise suddenly stopped.

CLICK!

I looked around. My blending plan didn’t seem to be going well.

CLICK! CLICK!

A lot of people seemed to be looking at me.

CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

Ok, everyone was looking at me. So I looked back. I saw a nice cross section of New Yorkers like you see everyplace. Young, old, fat, thin. It’s a diverse city and I love that. This particular park had people representing every conceivable color of the rainbow with the exception of one. Ultra bright white. Which just happens to be my persistent hue.

Ok. No problem. Just passing through. I looked over my shoulder as I turned to continue along the path and immediately ran into a mountain.

The Largest Man I Have Ever Seen.

Surprisingly, even at that size, he hadn’t an ounce of body fat. I could tell that because my eyes were level with his bare chest. Which I had just bumped into and bounced off of.

CLICK!

I looked up and saw he had sunglasses on like everyone else.

CLACK! He took them off.

“Ow!” he shouted.

CLICK! Sunglasses back on.

“Hey YOU!”

I think he was talking to me so I didn’t bother to look around.

“Yes?” I bellowed. Or maybe squeaked, a little anyway. Had something in my throat you know.

“Listen!”

I was, quite closely.

“You either get a tan or put on some pants. Those fleshy white things coming out of your shoes are hurtin’ our eyes!”

“My sculpted steel calves?”

“Your what????”

Now I’ve been to many a heavy metal concert and sat way too close to the speakers but I have never heard anything like that giant bellowing with laughter. It about blew me right out of the park and into the river.

“Thank you for your suggestion, sir. I’ll work on that tan,” I promised as I mounted my bike.

“Go with the pants would be my suggestion,” he advised.

CLACK! CLACK! CLACK!

The sunglasses came off as my shining whiteness rode on.

This little cultural encounter had done nothing to sate my hunger so I, perhaps unwisely, decided to try to blend in again. Fortunately, I saw my opportunity under the bridge in a place that just makes me feel comfortable. A field of athletic endeavor. Or, in this case, court rather than field.



Oh yeah, I got game. I can put it in the hoop. I dismounted and prepared to join my fellow athletes. I started stretching and bouncing around a little, waiting to be called onto the court.

Then I looked down.


Ahhhhh, darn it! I had my lightweight running shoes on. I can’t play ball in those. No way I could pivot on the asphalt without some sidewall support.

Hoop dreams die hard. Not my dreams of course. Those are still vivid. Those poor young men on the court though, I feel for them. They never had the chance to see my moves and maybe learn a thing or too to help them take their game to the next level. Here I was all ready to show them the famous Parrent Hook as passed down from my father. It’s a crying shame they had to miss that.

With a combination of decreasing speed and increasing pain, I pedaled on towards the bridge. I was looking forward to finally riding across a suspension bridge and banishing my fear of heights, swaying bridges and certain, screaming death. I came out from under the trees and suddenly there it was – my nemesis, my enemy, my … God!



I ain’t going over that bridge.



No way. Never.

So I went under it. And bumped into a lighthouse. A lighthouse? Who needs a lighthouse when you have this MONSTER bridge all lit up and flaming cars and screaming people tumbling off of it?



Apparently, they built the lighthouse before the bridge in order to warn mariners of Treacherous Waters. Not a particular rock or sandbar or anything. Just Treacherous Waters.

“Hey navigator, what do the sailing directions say about that lighthouse?” the captain asks.

“Treacherous Waters, sir.”

“Aye. Very well. Prepare the men for death.”

And to think I was considering sailing through this very section of the river tomorrow. Good thing there’s a lighthouse to warn me off.

On the upstream side of the bridge lies beautiful upstate New York. Wilderness. Mountains. Lakes. Adventure. Unparalleled beauty.



But there was no bike path, so I turned around.

Having been foiled in my plan to transit the Hudson by way of the no longer small GWB, I must have been off my game a little. That’s the only explanation I can conjure up to explain my apparent social awkwardness with the comely lass under the tree.

What to do next? New Jersey was out of the question given the Death Bridge over Treacherous Waters. My alternate plan to cross Manhattan at tis northern end was untenable give the complete lack of useful directions from the young lady.

I hadn’t brightened enough people’s day yet so I decided to head for Central Park where New Yorkers gather in the hopes that someone entertaining, like me, will happen along.

Riding back through the West Harlem park, I waved at my mountainous friend and deeply inhaled the aroma of food that I would never eat. I’m still trying to figure out why I can’t blend in.



One of the nice things about the Hudson River park is the looming cliff just inland. Noisy Manhattan sits up there somewhere and the river park is left quiet and peaceful. One of the not so nice things is that looming cliff. I should get a guide book because I just could not find the elevators. I was left to ascend the heights in the old fashioned way – low gears, screaming pain and crying like a baby. It got me there.

The bike path abruptly ended where the park spilled into the city. I rode on the sidewalks for a bit until old ladies starting swatting me with umbrellas. I then returned to my proper environment – the Streets of Manhattan. No problem, I’d done this before. For a couple of blocks. Downtown where that’s not so much traffic. On flat streets. Oh boy. A long ride through the heart of the city, uphill, against traffic in places (sorry, officer!) with a rumbling belly and useless calves of sculpted steel.

I made it.

While the river had been nice, Central Park was spectacular. The wide, smooth, shaded road through the park is closed to vehicular traffic on the weekends and, because I had entered at the north end, most of it is downhill. Bliss! Except for those traffic lights every few hundred yards. While I can claim ignorance as a newcomer, I don’t know what everyone else is thinking. If you stop for a red light so pedestrians can cross, you are rear ended by Lance Armstrong (and there’s a lot of him). If you zip through a light, some unreasonable mother will start screaming at you just because her baby carriage tipped over. Wear a helmet, child!

I chose the perfectly reasonable compromise of stopping at every other light and blasting through the others. That way, everybody was equally, um, happy. Yeah.

When you’ve had a good day, sometimes you should just go home. After all, I hadn’t been beaten to mush by Mountain of a Man. I hadn’t been slapped by Comely Lass (you need better hand speed lady). I hadn’t fallen screaming to my death from the GWB. Time to pack it in and go sit on the couch.

Nahhhhhhh.

Time to entertain some folks.

What happened next started off perfectly innocently – as it always does. And then … yeah, as it always does.

Riding along, leaving a perfectly acceptable amount of carnage in my wake, I heard the dulcet tones of a songster. Sweet serendipity! I had considered finding musical entertainment this weekend but neither the Sick Puppies nor Papa Roach were in town. I pulled over for a listen.

The musician, the view, the crowd – all perfect.







The singer, David Ippolito (www.thatguitarman.com) had a nice voice, an easy manner and an encyclopedic knowledge of popular music. If the crowd had even read a volume or two of that encyclopedia, what happened next could have been avoided.

After listening for an hour and a half to this impromptu concert, I was feeling pretty groovy. I was in sync with the music. I was …

Ok, there was this musical incident several years ago in Greensboro, NC at a Theory of a Deadman concert that I don’t really like to talk about. Technically, I have not been banned from Greensboro but they haven’t exactly offered me the keys to the city either. I try and find shortcuts around the town now.

I should have learned from that incident. Now, I don’t know much about grammar and I can’t name different tenses and conjugations and voices and all that but I can tell you that “should have learned” is not the same as “learned.”

So David is entertaining us and pauses for a few minutes because there is a wedding ceremony going on just around the corner in the park. After we hear the matrimonial applause, he asks us to get things moving again by singing along with him.

“Sing it loud folks! Sing it so loud that they can hear you at the wedding. Sing it loud enough so they can hear you on 5th Avenue!”

I really wish people knew more popular music lyrics so that I would not have to always carry the tune by myself. They heard me at the wedding. They heard me on 5th Avenue. I think they heard me in the West Harlem park.

I am a man of the world. I’ve done my share of traveling so I understand the subtle cultural differences amongst people better than most folks do. Even so, I am not quite sure which culture shows their approval and joy with a certain slack jawed, wide eyed look combined with complete and utter silence. But I can tell you that wherever those people are from, their bus must have just let them all out at that particular spot in the park. I think the singer was from that tribe too based on his reaction. One of the bridesmaids also, who happened to come running around the corner as I finished.

I took their adulation in stride, mounted my bike and rode away.

Another perfect day in New York City.