Time To Take This Dog Swimming
Like many people in these pandemic times, I bought a boat. Unlike many of those buyers, this was my 24th boat purchase. This one is going to last, I just know it is – just as I’ve known the others would last too – including the one that I bought just seven months ago.
I like dogs just about as much as I like boats but now is not the right time for me to take on a puppy so I christened my boat Rover, a whimsical reference to the dog I wish I had. I prefer Labrador Retrievers. I don’t know why. They are large, dirty, expensive, high maintenance, prone to roving here and there until lost and always getting into trouble. I trust none of that will happen with Rover.
My puppy is a 2009 Nordic Tug 37. Like a Labrador, the Nordic Tugs are stout, strong, well tempered, all weather and loyal. Unlike Labradors, Nordic Tugs are reliable. Or so the broker told me. A seller’s broker would never lie so I’ll have to go with his description as long as my signature on the purchase documents is still wet.
Rover’s previous owner took spectacular care of the big hound. Everything was clean and well maintained. However, it’s always wise to have a qualified marine surveyor check over a boat. Being both cautious and experienced, I had two of them look over the pup. After four hours of work, the diesel surveyor rendered his opinion.
“You might want to clean the air filter. That’s all I’ve got.”
The boat surveyor chimed in with, “Well, that’s a lot worse than what I found – which was nothing. This is a two year old boat made 12 years ago.”
With such glowing results, I figured all I had to do was fuel up, turn the key and head to sea. First, I stopped by West Marine to gloat at my luck having found a boat that literally needed nothing.
I walked out with two full shopping carts and a maxed out credit card.
Two days later, I returned to West Marine with half the stuff I’d bought since by then I had found most of the same items already nicely stowed on Rover. I dragged all of my stuff to the counter where the cashier rang it up, or perhaps rang it down since it was a return, and told me the good news.
“You’ll be getting a credit of $597 on your card sometime in the next year or so. Whenever we get around to it.”
“That sounds great! Can you net it against a few things I have to buy?”
“Sure. I’ll hold it here.”
I went through all the aisles but held my impulses in check and bought only what I absolutely needed, which was some additional rope. I returned to the register and plopped down my cordage.
“Ring it up!”
The cashier waved his magic wand around, there was lots of beeping and the verdict was announced.
“That’ll be $602.”
“What?!?!? That’s impossible! It’s just some rope!”
“First, it’s line, not rope. Second, it’s marine quality line.”
“Listen up whippersnapper, it’s ROPE because I haven’t purposed it yet and there’s no difference between marine quality and, what, terrestrial quality?”
“That logic was invalidated when you walked through the door. $602 for the marine quality LINE.”
I grumbled as I pulled a $5 bill out of my pocket and handed it over.
The cashier looked at the bill, puzzled.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
“The ROPE. I have a $597 credit and you highway robbed me for $602 so the net is $5.”
He started laughing so hard that tears started rolling down his cheeks.
“Funny guy, skipper! Netted out, indeed. I already accounted for the credit. It’s $597 additional.”
Needless to say, I was not laughing as I handed over a new credit card.
Inventory Reduction Sale!
Following the West Marine robbery, I had to drive from Essex, Connecticut up to Burlington, Vermont to sell my other boat in order to cover what were sure to be mounting debts. Four hours up, four hours back and maybe an hour haggling with the buyer.
The haggling lasted eight hours.
When I finally returned around midnight, I noticed Rover was floating a little higher than when I left him. That’s certainly better than floating lower but it was a curious sight nonetheless. Even more curious was the two feet of water that the rising tide had deposited in the parking lot. Ah, the boating life!
Practice Makes Perfect
The selling broker had been very accommodating right from the start of the boat buying process. Once I closed the deal, he let me keep Rover at his docks for a couple weeks until I could drive from my home in North Carolina up to Rover in Connecticut. He even offered to give my some boat handling and docking lessons. As my very first trip was to be a five day voyage to Burlington, I needed all the practice I could get.
After several delays, the day of instruction finally arrived. I’ve done a lot of docking, occasionally successfully, but never with a single engine trawler. Opinions may differ but my opinion, which is the correct one, is that sailboats are easier to dock, even without thrusters. That big rudder really helps at low speeds. I used to singlehandedly dock my big sailboats daily with nary a mishap (that could be proven in a court of law anyway). Nonetheless, I was a bit nervous taking Rover out for his first swim. I just didn’t know how he would react, especially with all the tides and currents swirling around the docks. We outlawed tides in the Great Lakes eons ago. I don’t know why others haven’t done the same.
My instructor revved up Rover and had me take in the lines. He said the currents were swirling so he would take the boat out of the slip and then hand the helm to me once we got to clear water. We would be coming back into a more easily accessible slip so I’d get my practice there.
We headed out but had to quickly divert to the fuel dock because Rover was as hungry as a Labrador at dinnertime. He slurped up a thousand dollars of juice and we headed out into the river.
Once clear of all obstructions, I finally took the helm. I thought I was doing fine, not hitting anything above or below the water, avoiding the wildlife, paying attention to other boats…
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? No, no, NO! Don’t do that!”
Honestly, I wasn’t doing much of anything at that point so I wasn’t sure how to stop doing it.
“THAT’S NOT HOW IT WORKS! You’ve got to stop it now!”
I looked all around to see if I had hit something or dragged up a collection of crab traps or plowed through a sandbar. Nothing. I finally looked over at my instructor and saw him shouting into his phone.
“You just need to stop that now! Ok, call me back when it’s done.”
Quite the lesson there. I continued cruising along, failing to get into trouble for a full ten minutes before he said we should return to the dock. I was glad to hear that because I really needed some close quarter maneuvering practice. Upwind, downwind, cross current, alongside a wall, into a slip, picking up a mooring – I wanted to practice it all before heading out on my own.
Before any of that happened, the broker said, “Looks like things are a little busy at the docks. Let me take it in. I think you’ve got the hang of it now.”
And that was the end of my lesson.
The United States Coast Guard got wind of my upcoming adventure and issued a low key alert to nearby boaters.
Notice to Mariners: A Nordic Tug 37 captained (and we use the term very loosely) by Tugboat Tommie will be docking somewhere between Long Island Sound and Lake Champlain during the next week. The captain has zero experience maneuvering a single screw trawler. All mariners are advised to take shelter immediately and deploy extra large fenders to guard against damage. Any tides, currents or light breezes in the vicinity of the docks will undoubtedly befuddle the captain, thus leading to risk of substantial property damage and potential loss of life.
Interesting. I’d never before seen “befuddle” in a Notice to
Mariners.
Medical Emergency Threatens to Scuttle Voyage!
I normally sleep exceptionally well on boats. The gently lapping waves, the unidentifiable noises in the night, and the sore muscles and strained tendons that accompany a typical day of boating just knock me out like a baby. Not that a baby should be knocked out. In any event, the night before the day before the date of departure (it’s complex math, figure it out), I woke like a baby in the middle of the night, crying. I wept tears of joy that I was finally about to live my long delayed dream of cruising. I wept tears of fear that I would crash into other boats and sink at the dock before even getting underway. I wept tears of remorse for all those I was leaving ashore. When I thought I had nothing more for which to weep, I wept anyway. For hours I was inconsolable. Halfway anyway, as I appeared to be crying from only one eye.
One quick diagnostic look in the mirror convinced me to turn off the light and not look again. Having packed everything nautical except a pirate’s eye patch, I resorted to placing towel over my bad eye and looking for an ophthalmologist who might be open on a Sunday morning at 4 AM. Finding none, I searched for an urgent care clinic as having a distended, weeping, painful eye 24 hours before departing on a major sea voyage certainly seemed like an urgent matter to me.
Four hours later I presented myself at the medical facility only to find that I needed an appointment. Who makes appointments for urgent matters? There were also some fairly strict COVID protocols in place and apparently you were supposed to call in and then wait in your car until summoned. Obviously, I was going to have rely on my good looks and charm to get treated promptly. I walked into the lobby and approached the desk. The receptionist was not pleased.
“Sir, you need to read the sign and follow the instructions.”
“I can’t read the sign. I can’t see!”
“What do you mean you can’t...ewwwww! Your eye!”
I’m no medical professional but that didn’t sound good.
They hustled me back to an exam room where a reluctant physician’s assistant came in with a scrunched up face and a tendency to look anywhere but in my eye.
“Eyes are , hmmmm, complicated,” he said, boosting my confidence. “Let me put these drops in and, oh my god, I can’t look at that any longer!”
The drops immediately stopped the pain and my dreams of blue water bliss returned right until the PA told me that I couldn’t have any more of those drops because they would, like, make me feel better. Apparently they were some sort of powerful eye paralyzing anesthetic. That sounded fine to me but he just prescribed some other drops that he said probably wouldn’t work and strongly suggested I see an ophthalmologist the next morning. He said that was “medically inadvisable” and then asked me all about my upcoming trip.
“Let me get you an eyepatch.”
“Will it help my eye heal?” I asked.
“No, but at least the dolphins won’t be as scared when they see you.”
While I was no better, medically speaking, than when I entered the clinic, there was a certain lightness in my step as I left, due no doubt to my wallet being considerably thinner after paying a West Marine size bill for essentially no treatment. Guess it must have been a marine quality diagnosis.
I zigzagged my depth perception-less way back to the boat to finish preparations for a completely unsafe departure.
Forecast Failure Dooms Departure!
Fortunately, the weather was in my favor. Nothing but clear skies and calm seas in the forecast. One less thing to worry about as I took out Rover for his first romp in the water. Having wrapped up all the other odds and ends, I slept as soundly as a one eyed, unpracticed mariner can and looked forward to the morrow.
I’m not quite sure what the precise nautical definition of “clear skies” is but I’m pretty sure dense fog is not part of it. Yet that’s what I woke to.
Having threaded through the mooring field a couple days earlier, I knew that there were 75 to 100 boats out there. I could see one of them. I briefly pondered worst case scenarios on a new to me boat in thick fog on an unfamiliar waterway with tides and currents and sandbars. Then I pretended to check the engine, started it up and dropped my docklines.
On my way through the mooring field, I didn’t actually hear any smashing or crunching. The engine noise covered that well enough. Soon enough I was somewhere other than where I had been. For me, that’s a successful start to a voyage!
I had a long day ahead of me, travelling nearly the entire length of Long Island Sound. With that in mind, I immediately figured out the basics of the autopilot and let Rover off his leash to do whatever dog tugs do.
I plotted a course for the Norwalk Islands, which a local had suggested as a lunch stop. To my utter surprise and amazement, I actually arrived at said islands! I anchored without mishap (the day was full of surprises), set the anchor alarm and immediately went below for a nap.
A restful hour later, I weighed anchor and prepared to finish the so far uneventful day when ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE! A klaxon started blaring, instruments started beeping and my life flashed before my one good eye.
Remember to turn off your anchor alarm before weighing anchor. Just a suggestion.
Professional Baseball Dreams Resurrected!
I made my towards Manhasset Bay where I intended to pick up a mooring for the night and stage myself for an early morning run through Hell Gate.
Manhasset Bay is known for it’s well protected water, attractive urban vistas and reasonably priced mooring field. It also happens to be reasonably close to both Citi Field, home of the New York Mets and Yankee Stadium, home of the you-know-whos. Few people connect these boating and baseball facts but I’m not few people.
As I came into the bay, I found dozens of mooring balls of all sizes and colors. I knew there was a public field set up for transient boaters but I didn’t know which one it was. The setting sun wasn’t helping my one eyed search either. Adding to the mix at the end of of a very long day was the fact that I had never actually moored a boat before. I know HOW to moor a boat but then I know how to do many carpentry and mechanical projects too. Knowing how is not the same as being able to.
After calling the water taxi for directions to the proper mooring, I crept up on an unsuspecting ball and made a grab for it with my boat hook. The ball scooted away. Mooring Ball 1. Tugboat Tommie 0.
I came around again…and again…and again. Mooring Ball 4. Tugboat Tommie 0.
Darkness was rapidly favoring the mooring ball (as if it needed help) but through determination, nautical skills and dumb luck, I crept up slowly on a ball while it wasn’t looking, throttled back and snagged the mooring ring! All I had to do now was haul it up high enough to thread a dock line through it and over to another cleat, all while not dropping anything and I’d be set. I hurried to the bow with the ring still snagged by the boat hook and began to pull mightily to bring it up.
Tide, current and the Fates themselves were arrayed against me. Rover drifted back. I held on with all of my considerable strength to fight nature’s forces. As veins popped and tendons tore, I looked over at the other moored boats. They all bobbed peacefully with slack lines. I must have been caught in a tremendous local (very local!) marine weather system because my conditions were vastly different. I finally hauled the ring up, quickly ran a line through and cleated it off.
I then walked back to the helm and took Rover out of reverse gear. Apparently dogs will always find a way to pull on a rope.
You may be wondering how this relates to baseball. Well, I play first base and the extra four inches I added to both arms will give me a tremendous advantage in snatching wayward throws as I resume my pursuit of a major league career.
Hell Hath No Fury!
Long Island Sound, the Harlem River and the East River all meet at Hell Gate, graveyard of hundreds of ill fated ships. Opposing tides whip the water into a fury with standing waves at times topping six feet. Adding to the entertainment are dozens of large submerged rocks, numerous bridges and tug boats pushing and pulling large barges.
Hell Gate stood between me and the peaceful waters of Lake Champlain far to the north. There were only two ways to avoid Hell Gate and still make it to Burlington.
First, I could go back out Long Island Sound, up through New England, past Maine, Nova Scotia and the Bay of Fundy, into the treacherous North Atlantic, up the St Lawrence River and down though the canals to Lake Champlain. Travel time: three months (not counting months waiting for fog to clear in Nova Scotia)
Second, I could go back out Long Island Sound, down the coast to Delaware Bay, through the Chesapeake, down the entire length of the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway, around Florida, across the Gulf of Mexico, up the Tennessee River, down the Ohio River, Up the Mississippi and Illinois Rivers, through Chicago, around the Great Lakes, through the Erie Canal and up the Champlain Canal. Travel time: nine months (not counting years recovering from hurricanes and ill advised island romances in the Keys).
I plotted out these options and decided to brave the Gate. Expected travel time: two hours (not including salvaging the sunk boat and recovering in the hospital from the trauma)
I plotted 174 waypoints into two independent GPS units, wrote out every turn with expected arrival times, turned on two VHF radios and updated my last will and testament (still having a problem with that “of sound mind and body” part).
The key to successfully transiting Hell Gate is to time your passage for slack water, that brief period occurring twice daily when the currents all pause as the tide prepares to reverse. Miss that window of opportunity and say hello to Davey Jones’ locker. Of course I had consulted the tide tables months in advance so I knew that slack water would occur at precisely 7:34 AM. My course and speed were designed to put me at the Gate at exactly that time. Out of an abundance of caution, I decided to check additional sources of tidal information.
By the time I was done checking, I had three different estimates of slack tide with a two hour span! For most mariners, this would be a problem. Fortunately, I am a professional statistician so I averaged the three times, added a random factor and made a wild (one) eyed guess. I dropped the mooring line and headed out.
The rivers were spooky calm as I made my way under the bridges and around the rocks. For most of the trip, I was the only boat on the water – which concerned me. This is one of the busiest waterways in the country. Where were all the tugs and barges and ferries and tour boats? Maybe they hadn’t applied the statistical skills I had and were therefore doomed to fight the Furies. I calmly passed through Hell Gate and into the Harlem River.
There remained one, somewhat ambiguous, obstacle to my escape from New York City. Rover was short enough to fit under all of the bridges on the Harlem River except for the Spuyten Duyvil Amtrak railway bridge. It’s actually harder to pass under that bridge than it is to pronounce its name (which is saying something) because it only has five feet of clearance. Furthermore, it is often under repair and inoperable. Making matters worse, there was no way for me to know ahead of time if the bridge would be open or even operable when I got there. I’d just have to cruise along for two hours and see. If I could not make it through, I’d have to go back the entire length of the Harlem River, through Hell Gate at decidedly un-slack water, down the East River and back up the Hudson.
As I turned the final corner of the Harlem, and saw the bridge closed, I wondered about the wisdom of my “short cut” through Harlem. I hailed the bridge tender on VHF. No response. I called the bridge tender on the phone. No answer. I called the NYC Bureau of Bridges (yup, that’s a thing) and they told me I had to call yet another number. I called that and got a typical New York response.
“Yeah, whaddyawant?”
“I’m the Motor Vessel Rover requesting an opening of the Spuyten Duyvil bridge.”
Click. He hung up on me!
Resigned, I made a slow turn and prepared to head back to Hell Gate.
Speaking of Hell, a demonic screeching and moaning rent the air. I looked over my shoulder and saw the bridge very slowly start to turn and open. I swear pieces were falling off it as it wobbled open, leaving me a few feet of clearance on either side to squeeze through right before it began to close again.
I had made it to the Hudson River. Surely there would be nothing but smooth sailing from this point forward!
Rocking the Docking!
With Hell Gate behind me, I had a pleasant cruise up the beautiful Hudson River. With beautiful weather, no boat traffic and the current in my favor, I enjoyed the views of the increasingly rural landscape. Small towns punctuated the green hills that came down to water’s edge on both sides. The Bear Mountain Bridge welcomed me to true cruising grounds, away from hustle and bustle of New York City. I respectfully saluted West Point as I passed and salivated at the thought of stopping at the imposing Culinary Institute of America for a meal. Decrepit castles and beautiful lighthouses receded as I continued north, following in the wake of Henry Hudson, who had explored these waters in his search for the Northwest Passage to China. If I succeeded where he failed, I would have made a serious navigational error.
I thought about stopping several times as it had been a long, somewhat stressful day but I pushed on, driven not by any particular sense of purpose or boundless energy. Rather, I was simply avoiding my next test of seamanship – docking.
I admit I was more than a bit nervous bringing Rover in to a dock for the first time. Although I have docked many boats, some successfully, I had never maneuvered a single screw trawler in tight quarters. I called ahead to the dock master, who assured me that he would be there to catch my lines on an easy side to face dock. He failed to mention that there was a boat directly behind my spot and another directly in front. I saw that as I made my final approach. Parallel docking. In a river current.
While the dock master was nowhere in sight, there were plenty of tourists lined up on the quay to watch my singlehanded attempt. I checked the wind, the current and my liability insurance policy as I very slowly approached, remembering all the things I had never been taught about handling this boat in these conditions. Rover then slid into the space and the fenders gently touched the dock.
With my well documented lack of agility, I less than nimbly hopped from the boat to the dock. This simple act, performed routinely by thousands of boaters every day, literally rocked my world. Yes, literally. Was it the sense of accomplishment at checking off another significant first in my boat adventure? No, it was the fact that the dock sections were very loosely attached to each other and barely attached at all to the wall. With my hips swaying like Elvis and the dock line in my hand whipping around like the veils of a middle eastern dancer, I fought to regain my balance as Rover the tug broke out in song.
I ain’t nothing but a hound tug
Rocking at the dock
I ain’t nothing but a hound tug
Rocking at the dock
Well, debris in the Hudson
Ain’t no friend of mine!
The crowd cheered! Ok, maybe not. Mostly they turned away, disappointed that no YouTube worthy damage had been done for their entertainment. I cleated off the lines, gave Rover an affectionate pat, asked him to stop singing and finally saw the dock master ambling down the gangway. I had arrived.
Brotherhood of Tugs – Duel on the Hudson!
Following a well-earned, if not entirely nutritious, breakfast of hot, fresh, made to order donuts (I need no GPS to find the bakery in every town), I prepared for departure. Even though it was early, my dockmates had already left, perhaps out of fear of my dockside acrobatics. I loosed lines, stepped aboard and floated gently into the river with nary a bit of drama. I credit that not to my superior seamanship but to the lack of early morning observers. I only perform for a crowd.
With many miles to put under my keel, I eagerly headed towards the Hudson, only to fall in behind a group of small sailboats being towed by an inflatable dinghy until they could get to the clear wind of the wide river. The sailboats looked like little ducklings following their mother as they slowly made their way along. Very slowly. I did not want to wake them while passing by but I did want to make it to the river ahead of the giant tugboat I saw steaming up the Hudson with barges in tow. Getting ahead of him was crucial if I was to make my schedule for the day.
The ducklings slowed down. I slowed down. Even at idle speed, passing the little boats would have been impolite so I drifted along as my schedule blew away in a wind that was apparently not strong enough to power the sailboats.
I finally made it to the river mouth just in time to see the tug pull by. The captain took a long look at me as he passed. Seeing who I was, he ordered the crew to put out two rows of tires as fenders to protect his topsides. Talk about impolite!
The tug was going just fast enough that passing him would have taken me awhile and I would have been bouncing in his considerable wake as I struggled to get by. I settled in for a long, slow day following his lead.
When our little convoy finally reached Albany, I figured he would stop as there really wasn’t anywhere else for him to go upriver. Sure enough, the radio crackled to life as he announced his intentions.
“Securite, securite, securite. This is the tug Slow Going, preparing to come alongside the big industrial complex…”
At last!
“…just as soon as I pivot in the turning basin, detach the barges and reattach in a side tow configuration.”
He might as well have added, “which could take hours.”
I sat mid-river and watched his slow, very slow, pirouette as the sun sank and my stomach growled. Once he was turned around and rearranged, I realized it could take another hour for him to inch alongside the pier and tie up. I picked up the microphone.
“Tugboat Slow Going, this is the motor yacht Rover just south of you. I would like to pass port to port as soon as it is safe to proceed.”
“Rover, it is now safe to pass port to port. Don’t jostle me with your wake,” the comedian replied.
The day’s slow progress had nixed my plan to make it through the Troy Federal Lock and tie up at the Waterford wall, which was free, easy to access and full of boaters happy to catch my dock lines. Now I would have to tie up at the Troy municipal wall, about which I knew nothing, IF they had room. I radioed ahead to ask for space.
The dock master responded, “Well, I might be able to fit you in. Let me see if I can shuffle around some boats. Come in slow for a starboard side tie up.”
“Slow I know after today,” I replied, wondering what chaos I’d be plowing into with untold numbers of boat, a tired hand on the wheel and that ever present growling stomach.
Mechanical Failure Imperils Boat!
Responsible mariners stay in tune with their vessel at all times. Every change in engine pitch, every variation in wave slap, every creak and groan supplies vital information indicating adjustments or maintenance tasks that require attention. On my first day out, I dutifully recorded all the operating characteristics of Rover every hour. Engine temperature, oil pressure, fuel consumption rate and myriad other metrics filled a neatly laid out matrix kept near the helm. Any unusual variation would immediately alert me to trouble. The log extended a full three hours into that first day before I tired of vigilance and tossed it aside.
Nonetheless, I did follow a strict regime of pre-departure mechanical checks. I even had a checklist I followed. I squeezed myself into the engine room each morning and dutifully checked oil, transmission fluid and coolant levels. I also noted whether water was flooding the boat or if anything unusual was on fire.
On Thursday, even though I was anxious to make time and get through the Troy Federal Lock as early as possible, I still completed the checklist before departure. After all, engine failure while locking through could spell disaster - or at least annoy my fellow boaters with delays.
Everything seemed normal as I chugged away from the dock for the half mile trip to the lock with no unusual sounds, smells or vibrations. I happened to look down at the engine gauges and saw the engine temperature at 165. I thought that a bit unusual as I recalled it being considerably lower when I first set out from Essex three days earlier. I was sure it would go back down once the cool river water circulated through the engine. After all, I had checked to make sure that cooling water was flowing before I left the dock, right? I glanced at the checklist and noted that I must have forgotten to check off that one item because surely I must have looked over the stern to see the water flowing out of the engine. I told myself to focus on the approach to the lock and worry about checklists later. After all, there were islands and bridges to avoid. The engine would be fine.
While narrowly avoiding said islands and bridges, I glanced at the gauges again. Engine temperature was increasing. When it hit 170, I shuffled through a pile of paper to find the operating log from my first day. Engine temperature had started at 75 and then increased to 95 before leveling off when the log ended. Current temp was now 175. I don’t know what the boiling point of lubricating oil is but I knew that my engine was in imminent danger of failure, resulting in explosion or melting of the engine block. Either outcome could seriously impact my schedule and result in at least a trip or two to West Marine.
Drawing upon my vast mechanical knowledge, I surmised that coolant flow had likely been obstructed, probably by a clogged raw water strainer. That would be a wee bit difficult to fix while underway, especially with islands, bridges and locks competing for my attention. I made a command decision to return to the dock.
As soon as I was tied alongside, I dove into the bilges with a fist full of tools, intent on saving poor Rover from a fiery death. Somehow, the location of the raw water strainer had eluded me and had also failed to make it on to my pre-departure checklist. I looked high and low and even tried to see behind this large cylindrical thing that kept getting in my way. Since the engine designers had obviously forgotten to include a raw water strainer, I was going to have to strip down the engine myself and jerry rig something. I looked at the tools in my hands and recalled a conversation I’d had with my son a few weeks earlier. As I was assembling a comprehensive tool kit, I told him that my tool bag should really only have a cell phone and credit card in it as anything else was more likely to cause a problem than solve one.
I reached for my phone and hit speed dial.
“Good morning Tom,” my long suffering (three days already) mechanic answered. “Everything going fine?”
“Rover is on fire! Well, not fire like flames but the engine is seriously overheating!”
“Oh no! Which alarm went off?”
“I didn’t need any alarms to go off. I was watching the engine temperature and it’s off the charts. Way too hot compared to my log. I guess the alarms must be broken as well. Probably melted.”
“I’ve never seen that happen. What is the current temperature?”
“175! It started in the 160s but began climbing right away. I came straight back to the dock and shut it down as quickly as I could.”
There was a long pause as, I assume, the mechanic was feverishly flipping through engine manuals looking desperately for causes and solutions. Oddly, I didn’t hear any page flipping, just silence.
“Um, the normal operating temperature on that engine is 175-185.”
Oh.
I looked at the operating log again and replied, “But I clearly recorded temperatures under 100 when I first departed.”
“Right, but the boat had been sitting in cool water for weeks. How long did you record the temperature?”
“A little while but that’s beside the point,” I mumbled. “Let’s get on to more important things. The engine doesn’t appear to have a raw water strainer.”
“Really? It doesn’t have a large, clear cylinder right at the front of the engine compartment?”
“Well, other than that one.”
“Shine a flashlight through the plastic cylinder. What do you see?”
“Salad.”
“Ok, that’s not ideal. Here’s how you go about clearing it…”
Before you cast aspersions my way, I must point out that Rover did not, indeed, have a raw water strainer. It had three, all of them hiding in plain sight where I was least likely to stumble across them, except for when I had to step around them each time I went into the engine room. Who knew that there were strainers for the engine, the generator and the air conditioner? Not me.
With a somewhat longer checklist and a diesel purring away at a steady 175 degrees, I once again left the dock and headed for the imposing wall of the Troy Federal Lock.
Disaster in the Lock!
Hundreds of boats go through locks every day all over the world. Very few mishaps occur because mariners have learned the most effective methods of safely locking through.
I’ve never taken a boat through a lock. So, of course, I decided to innovate. After all, progress would never occur without the courage, guts and ignorance of people like me. Not that applying courage and guts guarantees progress.
Having done my homework, I knew three things about the Troy Federal Lock. First, Rover and I would be going up in the lock. Second, this particular lock has vertical pipes around which you lead a line to hold the boat close to the wall. Third, the locks walls are dirty, oily and rough.
Most boaters use two long lines, one at the bow and one at the stern to hold the boat in place. Obviously, I’m not most boaters. I figured that a single, short line, attached amidships would be much more efficient. First, I can’t be at both the bow and stern at the same time. Second, a short line would not get in the way because it would be, in a word, short. Finally, my most gnarly dock line happened to be short. No need to get my nice, new, long lines all dirty and oily.
None of this would matter if I didn’t first get Rover close enough to the wall so that I could step out and run a line behind the post. Much to my surprise, I accomplished this with no drama whatsoever. Just cruised in, laid up against the wall, stopped the boat and threaded my short line behind the pipe.
As Rover was the only boat in the lock (had others been warned off?), I allowed a smug expression to settle on my face as the lock gates closed and water began to fill the lock. As the water came in from the bottom of the lock it didn’t create a regular current in one direction or another. Rather, it just sort of churned in the lock, creating gentle, random movement that is easily countered by a tug this way or that on the line holding the boat near the wall.
If the line is long enough.
With my innovative short line, I had to pull this way and that with all my strength to keep my hands from being drawn into the pipe that was just waiting to break my bones. Being a brawny, if somewhat dull-witted lad, I was able to wrestle against the forces of evil right up until the explosion occurred.
As I fought against the pipe, wall and line amidships, a loud bang sounded at the stern. Good thing I wasn’t back there like more experienced boaters would have been! I leaned over to see the shredded remains of my largest ball fender hanging ineffectually alongside the boat, leading some to think that perhaps holding tightly to a rough wall with a short line can have unintended and, I claim, unforeseeable, consequences.
My short line decided this was a fine time to stop moving up the pipe with me, Rover and the water. It snagged on something. The boat continued ascending as my hands descended towards the deck. I could clearly see the deck cleat on which I would soon break all my fingers moving up towards my digits.
I dug into my deep mental archives of arcane nautical knowledge and quickly executed the most efficient and seamanlike maneuver possible. I dropped the line.
Now a dropped line still attached to a boat is a dangerous thing because it can be swept into the propeller, stopping all intentional motion and allowing all sorts of unintentional mayhem to ensue.
That’s only if you drop a line long enough to reach the
propeller. I had wisely chosen a short line. With a jaunty wave at the
lockmaster, I smugly powered out of the lock and on to my next misadventure.
As soon as I cleared the lock gates and left the tidal Hudson behind, I breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing but sweet, fresh, tide free, low current water ahead of me. As a northern, freshwater boater, I finally felt at home.
And then everything went dark.
Ok, not everything but the most important thing: the GPS chartplotter. The screen showed a blank expanse. I was now in uncharted waters. I’d cruised out of civilization and over the edge. For all I knew there be dragons in these parts. I would have to survive on nothing but my wits and the wisdom of traditional navigational methods I had acquired over the years. Good thing the next two days involved going straight up a 50 foot wide canal with no intersecting waterways. I couldn’t get lost even if I wanted to.
Next time I’ll buy the GPS chip ahead of the trip.
Storm at Sea Nearly Sinks Boat!
It rained hard. By my wits and wisdom, I survived.
The Champlain Canal, on the other hand, did not fare so well. Floodwaters, deadheads (floating trees, not fans of the Grateful Dead) and wicked currents wreaked havoc on the waterway and the locks started shutting down.
The locks act as both boat elevators and flood control dams at times. However, when the water is too high, there’s apparently a problem operating the locks. One of the lockmasters explained the process to me. I sagely nodded while comprehending not a bit of the details.
My carefully planned schedule blew away on the winds of misfortune, as schedules tend to do on boats.
One of the benefits of being stuck on a boat in the hinterlands (other then the pure joy of being stuck on a boat) is that you get to broaden your horizons and enjoy some local culture and cuisine. Both were on the menu at Ye Olde Fort Diner in Fort Edwards, NY.
After an unplanned but thoroughly pleasant night at the free town dock, I ambled over to the diner for some breakfast. From the outside, Ye Olde Fort Diner is not appealing. Where there is paint, it is peeling. Where there is wood, it is rotting. Curb appeal was lacking. Once I stepped inside, however, well, I wanted to step right outside again. The place was a bit rough, shall we say. A broom, mop or wet cloth might have helped a bit but apparently they’d all gone walkabout decades ago.
Nonetheless, the breakfast aromas wafting from the kitchen had awakened my appetite and my stomach told my brain to get over it and order some victuals.
While the chef worked his magic on my eggs and hash, I was updated on local events by colorful residents who stopped by. This is apparently a town with no secrets because all the folks there told stories about everyone who wasn’t there. They made sure to include me in the conversation.
“You know Thelma, right?”
“Er, no.”
“Well, anyway, as you know, she’s been darkening Johnny’s doorstep lately but those boots under her bed look like Fred’s and Frank sure had a surprise when he stopped by with Myrtle. You know Frank and Thelma are still married, right?”
“Er, no.”
“Sure you do. Anyhow, you remember when there was that little accounting ‘irregularity’ at the bank? Well that was Suzy – yep, Boozy Suzy. So she was …”
This went on long enough for my eggs to arrive. As I started to eat, I realized this was the best breakfast theatre I’d ever been to. The food was lip smackingly delicious and the entertainment was over the top hilarious. It only got better when none other than Boozy Suzy arrived, appearing a bit disheveled and mumbling about the bank’s books. I got the strong impression that this was just another normal day at Ye Olde Fort Diner and I know I’ll be stopping by the next time I float through town.
As I slowly led Rover down the rain swollen canal, I had plenty of time to contemplate one of life’s boat mysteries. Boats and bugs go together like corned beef hash and town gossip. Spiders are the star performers, weaving huge, beautiful webs every night for the unwary boater to discover on the first step outside to see the sunrise. Nothing like web in the face to greet the morning.
Today’s mystery, however, involved the less artistic flies. Regardless of how well you seal up your boat, you’re going to have flies get in. It’s a natural law. However, you will often find that there is only one fly. At displacement speed in a flooded canal, I had plenty of time to get to know the current fly’s personality and habits. Some flies buzz all around, dive bombing the helmsman and making great loops through the cabin. Others just continually buzz into the glass, knocking themselves senseless time and again. Each fly seems to last about 20 minutes before I’m able to swat them. Then, mysteriously, a replacement fly appears. A resurrection if you will. Never a swarm of flies, just the one replacement. It makes a mariner wonder about what other mysteries might exist in the universe.
Arrested Outside Prison!
There was no mystery when I arrived at Lock 11. It was closed tight. Over the radio, the lockmaster told me to tie up to the wall as flooding had closed the canal and I might be stuck for a few hours. I deftly pull alongside the wall and lassoed a bollard on my first attempt. After tying up, I strutted confidently towards the lock for an update. My docking skills were becoming admirable, even if I was the only one admiring them.
The lockmaster came out and said, “Guess you had a bit of trouble there, eh? How much damage did you do?”
I whipped my head around to see what mischief Rover had been up to but he was peacefully napping alongside the wall.
“What do you mean?”
“Heard you knocked down your radome, antennas and arch. That’s gotta hurt the old wallet.”
I looked again at Rover. Everything looked in order. Had I missed something while musing about flies?
That’s when it struck me, but not as hard as it struck my dockmate in Fort Edwards apparently.
“You must be talking about the boat behind me. He left before me this morning but then I saw him tied up to shore halfway along. Did something happen?”
“Nothing much. Apparently tried to take a 22 foot high boat through a 17 foot clearance bridge. Some of the boat made it through.”
Ouch.
We chatted a bit but my Olde Diner breakfast was wearing off so I asked the lockmaster if there was anyplace within walking distance to get lunch. We appeared to be well into the middle of nowhere but I figured a local would know secrets that could help out a roving boater.
“Sure! There’s a place about two miles over yonder. Great big cafeteria. I haven’t eaten there myself but I know people go back every day. Only drawback is it’s in the state penitentiary. You know what they say, you can check out anytime you want but you can never leave…”
I returned to Rover and had an energy bar while waiting for parole from my arrested voyage.
Waylaid in Whitehall!
A few hours and a nap later, the governor apparently granted me clemency and the locks opened. I was free to go, but not too far. Only one lock remained between me and the wide, deep water of beautiful Lake Champlain.
As I floated into Whitehall, I pulled up behind a couple other boats tied to the town wall. Turns out the lock was closed and might not even open the following day. I was getting used to delays by this point and didn’t mind them a bit. The only thing that waited for me at home was a pile of work. It would be there whenever I returned so I enjoyed a walk around town and conversation with my new dockmates.
I was at the upstream end of the wall, with power pedestals just beyond the reach of my shorepower cables. I didn’t really need the power but one of my new friends suggested I untie and pull the boat in between his boat and the other one on the wall. I’d like to think he made that suggestion out of neighborly concern for my comfort but I suspect he was just bored and needed some entertainment after being stuck in Whitehall for a few days.
I unleashed Rover and let him play in the flood driven currents while trying to parallel park a 40 foot boat into a 38 foot space. How I failed to hit the wall, the boats or the mountain is yet another mystery to contemplate. I scolded Rover for bad behavior off leash and took him back to the original spot on the wall. He whimpered a bit until we all ended up moving the boats by hand to make room for him at a power pedestal. Rover slept soundly that night, dreaming of running free on Lake Champlain the next morning.
Someone Saved My Life Tonight!
Finally free of the Champlain Canal, I entered my new home waters of Lake Champlain. Deep, clean, freshwater, tide and current free and completely devoid of locks – just the way all waterways should be. The only thing between me and my snug slip at Burlington Harbor Marina was eight hours of top speed running to beat sunset. I taped over the engine temperature gauge and revved up for the ride home.
The lower reaches of Lake Champlain are stunningly beautiful with mountains on both sides and picturesque marshes ringing the waterway. The Coast Guard even decorated the water with lots of festive red and green buoys, most of which I could ignore because I was now in deep, clean, fresh and all that other stuff. I sat back to enjoy the sights, including an increasing amount of wildlife. Eagles, herons, cranes, osprey (ospreys?) and egrets flew to and fro, occasionally dipping down for some very fresh sushi. Even the common seagulls added to the bounty of life.
I came upon one particular gull determined to float right in my path until the last possible moment as they often do. I’ve boated through lots of gulls before. Well, not THROUGH them but near them. They always get out of the way in time. Always. Never hit me a one. This gull was pushing his luck.
As I got closer, I admired the birds’ peaceful, if somewhat quizzical, countenance as it stared at me, unblinking, still as can be, all cute there on tiny little legs and…
TINY LITTLE LEGS?!?!
I threw the helm hard over to port and chopped the throttle, sending my large wake towards the still unperturbed gull who stood, yes stood, still as the first wave washed over, revealing in its trough the large log upon which the bird was perched. A classic snag wherein a tree trunk breaks loose and floats until one end snags on the bottom, leaving the other end, usually awash, ready to punch holes in unsuspecting boat hulls.
As I sweated profusely and tried to get oxygen back into my lungs, Rover, once again, broke into song, channeling Sir Elton John
Seagull saved my life tonight,
Seagull saved my life tonight!
And seagull
saved my life tonight
Evil snag, evil snag
You almost had your trunk in me
Didn't you log?
You nearly had me poked and holed
Bottom bound, upside down sweet freedom
Whispered in my ear
You're a seagull bird
And seagull birds are free to fly
Fly away
High away
Bye bye
Rover typically sings with a deep diesel bass but I noted an emotional whine, rather high pitched. Was the old pup tug going soft on me? I hoped he wouldn’t start crying technical fluids all over the engine room.
The whining increased in volume and pitch. I detected a very clear Doppler effect, which could only mean…
Bass Boat Bingo!
Approaching around a blind bend, three bass boats ripped into view making well over 50 MPH. They went by in a flash, apparently chasing fish of very fleet fins.
Time for a little lesson in fluid dynamics.
Boats leave wakes. Generally speaking, big boats leave big wakes. Rover is large enough (and I suspect he is getting larger by the minute after drinking down so much high calorie diesel) to leave quite a wake. Here’s what happens. At speeds up to around four knots, Rover leaves a very gentle wake. Just little wavelets lapping along. However, as the pup picks up some speed, his wake increases exponentially, maxing out around 10 knots when his hull begins to lift a bit out of the water, thus reducing the wake a bit from that point up until his max speed of 12 to 14 knots.
Once we got past Jonathan LiveOnALog Seagull, we had throttled back up to 12 knots. At that speed, our wake immediately astern the boat runs at least three feet high.
A three foot wave can wreak an amazing amount of havoc in narrow waterways. I’m legally and, more importantly, morally responsible for any damage or discomfort caused by my wake. (Rover claims no responsibility, leaving it all on my shoulders) Both because of that responsibility and because I was raised to be gosh darn polite, I am very conscientious about slowing down well before I enter an area where my wake might cause aforesaid damage or discomfort.
Narrow waterways, shorelines with docks, marinas, sailboats, kayaks, swimmers, fishing boats all give me reason to slow down and savor the peacefulness of being on the water. I don’t care if I’m in a hurry, I refuse to rock someone else’s boat.
Now let’s talk bass boat fluid dynamics. A bass boat is nearly flat bottomed and has a HUGE outboard engine. At planning speeds, a bass boat barely touches the water and thus often leaves little to no wake so long as they stay at a reasonably constant speed. I do not have a problem with their wakes. Pudgy old Rover barely feels them.
However, two things happen when a bass boat suddenly slows down. First, the hull drops into the water creating a large but brief wake. Second, the fleet finned fish get away. For these two reasons, mostly the second I think, bass boats seldom slow down.
Now if I slow down suddenly from full speed to no wake speed, I will throw a very large wake as Rover’s hull squats back into the water. If we slow down too quickly, there’s even the chance that our own wake will catch up to us, dumping water over the transom leading to more misadventures than I want to write about. So I slow down carefully and slowly in the presence of other boats.
When I see them coming.
It’s hard to see a boat coming around a blind corner when he’s doing 50+ MPH.
If I had not heard that Doppler whine and chopped my speed as they approached, those fishermen would have run smack into my large, muscular wake.
I sped up again. More bass boats came roaring into view.
I slowed down again. Then I sped up again. More boats. More slowing.
I assure you this was even more annoying to experience than it is for you to read about. Nonetheless, as a responsible boater I had to … where the heck did HE come from?!?!?
Coming around the corner at ultra high speed, the boat was on me before I could react – and to make matters worse, he was aiming to pass within a couple feet of me! If I cut the throttle, I’d throw a huge wave and swamp him for sure. I maintained my course and speed, that being the safest choice for everyone. At the last second, he veered off into shallower water and skirted my wake.
Relieved, I rounded the bend he had appeared from and faced a full battalion of bass boats, all at full speed, all aiming directly at me. I slowed down but it takes time for a wake to dissipate and they weren’t giving time to anyone or anything. Flying by at full speed within inches of me, on both sides (a major faux pas in a channel) they headed into the wake I had generated long before I saw them and They. Went. Airborne.
Flying fisherman.
As I looked astern, I was sure they were going to flip and crash. The boats came clear out of the water, wobbled dangerously and then slammed back down without ever slowing.
I looked forward and saw more headed at me. They had to see me, they had to know there was residual wake behind me. They just didn’t care. One after another they rocketed past and went airborne.
I considered slowing down to no wake speed for the next 70 miles but I never knew when these buzzing boats were going to appear, if at all. Given their apparent lack of concern, lack of courtesy and, apparently lack of fish since they had to chase them, I resumed full cruising speed and watched as the occasional flying fisherman did aerobatics behind me. I always thought fishing was supposed to be relaxing and dull.
Battle of Burlington Harbor!
At long last, I arrived in the wide open stretches of Lake Champlain. No more bass boats and remarkably few boats at all for a beautiful Saturday afternoon. I steered well clear of the few sailboats and put some miles under the keel, already sweating over the last major challenge of the voyage – docking in a tight slip, next to a very shiny, very expensive boat.
As the miles clicked by, I thought about all the factors involved in successfully docking my boat without damaging anyone or anything. While I had successfully docked six times and more or less successfully come through 12 locks, all of those had been what are known as “side to” docking where all I had to do was come alongside a wall. I had yet to pivot Rover in a tight fairway and come into a slip with another boat sitting there, looking all shiny and nervous.
Compounding the difficulty of coming into a tight space was the wind. It was picking up and blowing from the west, which would cause me to drift away from my dock and into that shiny boat.
My preparation for this final act of seamanship consisted of putting out lots of fenders, arranging lines all over the place (long ones this time) and calling ahead on the radio for assistance from the dockhands. Unfortunately, I was calling on the wrong channel so they failed to answer. Oh, and I sweated. A lot.
I then recalled one other prudent step I had taken a week earlier to make things easier. I had warned my slipmate. He had plenty of time to get out of the marina and hide somewhere in the islands of Lake Champlain until Rover was safely tied up.
I had wind, inexperience and dog tiredness going against me. For me, well, I guess I’d have to count on luck.
It’s not that I am inexperienced with docking boats. I practiced constantly on my sailboats until I ended up giving docking lessons to other sailors. I have docked all manner of sailboats, up to 70 feet long, usually singlehanded, sometimes under sail!
Rover is not a sailboat. I won’t bore with all the details because there are a LOT of details but power boats, especially high windage, single engine power boats, behave completely differently than sailboats. How differently? I have no idea, because I had no experience in them.
The sun began to set.
Given the lack of response on the wrong channeled VHF, prudence dictated that I should pull alongside the fuel dock, pump the kids’ inheritance into Rover’s tanks and ask for assistance from every dockhand at the marina and perhaps a few Coasties from the station next to the marina.
As I approached the fuel dock, a large sailboat (under power) cut directly in front of me and then swung around in a circle to take my spot at the dock. He safely came alongside with the help of three dockhands and four crew members while I was left rocking in his wake. Rude.
Hogging the middle of the dock, the sailor had left only a very tight piece of dock open behind him. About 40 feet. Rover is 39 ½ feet long. I put that dog in the kennel with inches to spare and stepped onto the dock without drama or assistance. The sailor finally noticed me and said, “That’s mighty close there, mate.”
“I only took what was left for me. Someone cut me off on my way in.”
A dockhand came over and started pumping approximately 16,000 gallons of diesel into Rover. He slurped it all up. Rover, not the dockhand. That would just be weird.
Once Rover was full and emitted a sulfurous belch, the dockhand took my credit card and rang me up.
“Do you want your receipt?”
“Good god, no! I don’t ever want to see how much I spend on boating! I could, however, use a hand, a lot of hands actually, in docking the tug.”
“Sure! I’ll gather up everyone. Which slip are you in?”
“D-3, right over there next to the red Sabre that…wait a minute. He’s out! Quick! Grab everyone and let’s get Rover tied up before he gets back!”
Fortune had finally smiled on me, rewarding me at the end of a long voyage for all my hard work and preparation. I hurriedly began untying as the dockhands scurried about. I looked up to see how much light I had left and the light flashed in my eyes.
Red light. Shiny red light. Reflecting off of a shiny red Sabre yacht just coming into the marina.
Fortune, you fickle devil.
I ran down to the end of the fuel dock and shouted to my slipmate.
“Yo, Doug! You mind waiting a few minutes for me to get in the slip first? Wind will be blowing me off so I could use some extra room. It’ll take me just a minute.”
“Not gonna happen!”
“Well, it’s your gelcoat, brother. If you’re that anxious to get in, I suggest extra fenders.”
“No. You’re not going into your slip! I talked to the dock master about it and he says you need to move. It’d be too tight with both of us.”
“Move where?”
“Far away from me. I mean, I don’t know. Have to check with Bob when he gets back in a couple days.”
The sun slowly sank below the horizon.
I was tired, I was hungry and I had a 14 hour drive ahead of me. I wasn’t going to be back in Burlington for at least two weeks. I didn’t think the staff would be too happy with Rover sitting at the fuel dock the whole time.
One of the dockhands said, “I think Bob is still around. We’ll go find him and figure this out.”
Bob was finally located but in the meantime I had lost all my energy, what little remained of my confidence and my bad eye had swelled up. Hey, who needs depth perception anyway when docking in tight quarters?
Bob came over and took a look around. “Well, we’re gonna have to put you in this tight little slip here for the time being. Right on the end so you’ve go no room for error. Miss it and you’re in a world of hurt. Don’t hit that face wall.”
I looked at the tight little slip out of my good but tired eye. “I’m not sure I can squeeze Rover in there.”
“Sure you can. Just bring it around, spin it 180 degrees in this tight little fairway and back it in.”
“Back it in? One eyed. In the dark. With the wind blowing me towards the wall.”
“That about sums it up. Easy peasy. I’ll give you hand signals.”
These are the situations that define who we really what, what we’re made of.
“Say Bob, what do you think of bringing it in yourself? You know, showing me how it’s done by a pro.”
“Get in the wheelhouse, you ninny!”
“I’m not sure anyone knows exactly what a ‘ninny’ is, but in these woke times it’s probably inappropriate to…”
“MOVE THE BOAT!”
“Yes, sir!”
At the end of the day, it’s only fiberglass. And wooden dock planks and metal rails. And bones and muscles and other stuff that might get in the way.
“Muster the troops. Let’s get this done. My insurance is Geico, just in case I don’t make it through this.”
“That’s the spirit!”
I hopped aboard, turned the key and Rover growled to life, wagging his tail in the wind. I pulled away from the fuel dock, headed into the tight confines of the marina and locked onto Bob’s hand signals. My boat, but his marina. Presumably he had more to lose. I have to admit, Bob was darn good at directing me through a very tight circle and then, oh and then…
Remember that one fly that always appears after you’ve swatted the one that always buzzes around? He was back. He landed on my glasses. In front of my one good eye. I had one hand on the throttle, one hand on the bow thruster and one hand on the wheel. I was already short one hand and had none to spare to deal with the fly. Couldn’t see a thing – except for my life passing before my eyes.
I listened to Bob.
“Little forward throttle. Neutral. Back a touch. Stop. Port thrust. Reverse. Stop. Wheel hard over to starboard. Forward. Stop. Rudder neutral. Reverse. Stop. Touch forward. Stop. That’s it. Shut her down.”
I swatted the fly away and looked around. Dockhands were making fast the lines. Rover floated gently in the slip six inches away from the dock on three sides.
Good dog.
