Monday, November 25, 2013

Ode to a Sailor...

Ode to a sailor…


Over the many years in our travels, we have had the pleasure of meeting many different men and women; only occasionally do we meet other families.  You see, families aboard a boat are a rarity and always have been.  I wonder now, looking back, if that was why I was picked out from the many other boaters?  I wonder now, looking back, if that was why he liked me?

It is not to say this old sailor wasn’t a friendly man.  He was.  I saw him sit on other boats and enjoy a beverage.  He would say ‘hello’ to any that passed him by.  If you needed an extra pair of hands on a project, he would be there in an instant.  But for some reason, this old sailor seemed to take a special interest in me.  One day he told me, in his typically quiet voice and cocked smile, “I would like to show you some pictures… when you have time."

‘Time?’  I had a lot of things, but time was not one of them.  We were trying to get out of Saint Petersburg.  Our window was closing for our run to the Bahamas or places further south.  We were pinched between life, reality, and dreams – with each taking a higher priority depending on the moment and the project.  Days passed, then weeks.  I dare say a month or two went by when one afternoon, while I was hanging upside down from my solar panels, I looked out and saw him standing beside the boat - a picture album in hand.

“Are you busy?” he asked.

“No,” I lied.  “Come on aboard.”

This old sailor opened his well-worn album and began showing me a series of grainy photos.  He showed me a boat he had made with his own hands.  He showed me his wife and his children steering a course in tall seas.  He showed me remote islands across the pacific, bananas given to him by a distant tribe, and his kids running along some exotic shore or swimming an uncharted reef… few of which I had ever heard the names of.  Yet the old sailor knew them all, especially the tribes and locals that took his family in as one of their own.  These cracked pictures were the exploits of a cruiser over half a century earlier.

He did this without a color chartplotter.  He did not have a GPS.  There was no radar, no watermaker, no IPOD or Satellite phone.  He didn’t even have a life raft.  There were no such things back then.  He sailed across the ocean using the stars and sun to guide him.  He read old maps by lamplight, if he had the map at all.  He got his drinking water from the clouds and prepared for the storms by studying the barometer.  And while this achievement alone was remarkable, that he took his young family with him was extremely exceptional.  Why?  Because when you go to sea with your family around you, the tiller in your hand holds everything precious in life.  There is no, ‘I am sorry’.  They pay for your mistakes with you.  So a father who takes his children beyond the safety of land must know his boat, he must know his capabilities, and he must know himself.  It is a thing hard to explain to those who have not done it, yet he had.  Not only had he done it, he had done it in a time and in a way few others dared to try.  It is a mark of seamanship beyond the stretch of most of us today.  Certainly my pitiful little accomplishments and life raising children afloat did not scratch the surface of what he had achieved.  It never would.

Yet, all things come to an end and as the afternoon waned, so did the pages of time.  He stepped off the boat and thanked me for letting him share his past – and I quickly corrected him that it was I who was thankful.  I don’t know why, but he walked down the dock with a curious spring in his step, as if the conversation had somehow given him new energy or lightened an invisible load he carried.  I watched him walk away with a new found respect for the quiet sailor who accomplished so much but spoke of it so little.  That was almost a year ago.

A few days back I heard the news:  the old sailor, whose cocked smile and picture album I will never forget, had died.  He now sails through a sea of stars towards the wife he so badly missed.  It is a destination we all make alone, through an ocean whose only boundaries are those of our memories, to an island whose shore is filled with those that went before us.  Yet back here, where that sea still rages wild, I wonder how many more old sailors sit quietly by the wayside - their exploits in life spectacular but unheralded?  Behind all their eyes is a photo album waiting to be opened.  And while their camera may no longer take the same breathtaking shots, I plan to see more of those pictures before they have completely faded.


Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Trials of a life afloat...

There are days that living on a boat will absolutely test your ability to stay sane.

I certainly had one of those yesterday.  It started the same as every other day.  We got up and began our commute in the station wagon (ie, tender) stuffed to the gills with computers, trash, toiletries for four, fourteen different text books, etc, etc, etc.  Note, Kris and I aren't even aboard yet!  This is what it looks like on a typical day (not even a 'full' day):


Fine.  Always challenging, but fine.  Visions of soccer moms making their neighborhood stops before dropping off the kids at school came to mind, so do we really have it worse than anyone else?  Nah.  It's all perspectives.  We headed to the 'barn' (what I call the common area at the municipal marina) and began our day.

About an hour later, I headed back to the boat by myself to put our turkey into water (yes, we bought a turkey for the night... Thanksgiving early!).  A brief mention about turkeys for boats:  any interest you have in buying the 747 sized Butterball is a exercise in futility.  It simply won't fit in the oven.  Instead, pretend you are Tiny Tim's father and shop for a turkey about the size of a chicken.... I mean a poor, half starved, scrawny looking foul.  With the help of your foot, that's what will fit in your oven.  But I digress...

I hopped off the tender, filled the sink with water and dropped in the sparrow.  Great.  Exciting.  Is going to be a great dinner that night (with a bit of imagination).  I went back out to the tender and stared down at it with my mouth hanging open:  once again, I lost my bow light.  They are a glue on light that makes us legal and cost about $35.  Well guess what, this is the fourth light this year.  FOURTH!!... and the year ain't over yet.  They make the lights float, but I long ago realized that was just to add salt to the wound.  Under the premise that you will find it, you spend an hour or two travelling the waterways and laying out strategic search patterns that even the United States Coast Guard would be proud of.  The end result is always the same though: $20 of used gasoline and still no light... all the while your face gets redder and your language gets fouler.  I told myself after the last light and a tank of gas, I wouldn't look for a light again.  I lied.  I always do.

Two hours later, and highly perturbed, I get back to the barn (with no light).  I no more sit down than Kris reminds me I need to turn the turkey.  Fine.  Turn the turkey. I get back in the tender and halfway there, run out of gas.  No wonder, I spent it all looking for the stupid light.  By chance, my spare was full.  Not thinking, I jam the connector on and spray myself with gasoline.  Ugh!!  I will clean up at the boat.  I am heading there anyways.

Get to the boat, turn over the turkey, then began to wash up when the water pump runs high.  I am out of water.  Classic (and with soapy hands and arms).  I wipe the soap off on my clothes and head out to fill the aft tanks.  Oops.  No water left in the jugs.  Really?  Throw the jugs into the tender and head back across the harbor.  I fill said jugs and go back to the boat, hauling up 4- 5 gallon jugs (that is 160 pounds at forty a piece) and fill up the tank.  By now, it is time to put the turkey in the oven.  Wash up and place the poor thing into the oven.  Lights up fine.  All is well.

I return to the barn, and still smelling like gasoline, go take a shower up at the facilities.  By the time I return,  it is 'suggested' by my wife (also known as 'instructed' to those who are still married) to take the wet towels and toiletries back to the boat so it will be an easier commute that evening.  I mumbled something slightly audible under my breath which thankfully was ignored, and begin yet another track back to the boat.  Hang up the towels, put up the toiletries, and wait... why don't I smell the bird? Even that miserable little thing should have some kind of smell.  Open the oven and sure enough... out of gas.  Of course, I could have used the gas from the grill, but it ran out of gas the night before too (yes, readers, the night before in the middle of my ribs). Now I begin pulling everything out of my propane locker and busting up my knuckles, finally get the tank out and back into the dink. What the heck, I might as well take the tank for the grill too.

Back across the harbor, load it on the bicycle (we don't own a car), and one tank at a time begin the trek to the gas station to fill the tank.  The typical propane guy is not working.  It is 'Maria' (not her real name) who, as she will tell you, "I notta speak-a good English ."  She is a Cuban gal, who though quite sweet, moves at a snails pace and ain't the sharpest tool in the shed.

"Well, I need propane," I tell her.

"You wanna propane?"

"Yes.  Where's the other fellow?"

"Yes, yes, I getta propane."

Well that was new.  Last time she didn't know how.  I pulled out the tank for the grill and she immediately filled it.  Amazing.  "Hey, uh, I have to brig up my other tank too.  Can you fill a horizontal?"

"You wanna propane?"

"Yeah, but in a different tank.  A horizontal aluminum tank.  Do you know how to fill it?"

"Yes, yes, I getta propane."

Who was I to doubt her now?  $25 dollars later, I am heading back across Marathon to the tender, replace the old tank, and grab my horizontal tank (which my boat uses).  Sweating profusely, but seeing the day drawing to a close with a feast, I get back to the store and after waiting nearly twenty minutes (Maria is the only one working), she comes out to fill my tank... or so I thought.  Hands on hips, she stares down at the tank and mumbles something that sounded a lot like, "Blah blah blah blah blah (in a great cuban accent though)."

"I don't speak Spanish.  What?"

"I notta fill that before."

"I just asked you, before hauling this thing across Marathon, if you knew how to fill it."

"I notta fill that before."

A smart man would have just left.  But I wasn't smart.  I was desperate.  I had a half-cooked turkey in the oven.  I had already bought eggs, potatoes for mashed potatoes, and green beans for green bean casserole plus all the other food for the night.  I wanted my turkey dinner.  I bloody deserved my turkey dinner!!  As such, I watched Maria as she found an adapter for the tank and unscrewed the bleed-off nearly all the way, all the while mumbling under her breath.  She then turns on the gas and we both watch as propane spews out into the atmosphere.

Every time it was the same process:  fill the tank until it spews out, turn around and fumble for the switch that turns off the propane, slowly turn around and stare at the propane still spewing out, all of a sudden remember that you have to flip the lever to turn off the propane too, stare again at the tank still spewing propane (albeit slower now), try and remember where you just put the screw driver, fumble with said screw driver on bleed-off valve while staring at the sky (righty-tighty or lefty-tighty??), then stop and look at the tank with a not so bright expression... trying to figure out why it was almost empty again.

Once the meter read 5 gallons used (and my tank holds two if dead empty) I told her that was good enough.  By this point, there was a hole in the ozone above us and I quite frankly couldn't remember what the limit was on my credit card.  Not to mention, I had visions of someone in Key West lighting a cigarette and half of Marathon blows up.  I know many of you would have argued the charges, and it crossed my mind too, but I only speak Redneck and Pig Latin.  I don't speak Spanish and she doesn't speak Redneck, so it would have been a pointless argument.

I grab the tank (which still has a sheet of ice surrounding it and is hard to hold because it is so cold), throw it in the bike, return it to the dink, haul it back across the freaking harbor, bust my knuckles again putting it in, get the turkey cooking yet again, and look at the time... now I gotta go pick up Kris and the kids.  It is at this point I am in a very bad mood.  I begin to question my sanity.  I think about all the people with their houses and cars and ice cream that isn't melted before they get it home. I think about all the electricity I could want, endless propane or natural gas, a turkey that doesn't look like road-kill, and lights that don't pop off four times a year.   I pick up the kids and wife, bring them back to the boat (not saying a word to anyone as it would be foul anyways), and turn to see this out of my cockpit:



I watch as my wife and kids turn to enjoy it too:


And that night, we cooked that turkey.  That night we had green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, and giblet gravy... and for some reason, it tasted better than I could remember.  The harder things in life probably make you all the more appreciative.  I guess it has me too.  I woke this morning ready to battle another day aboard - greeted by a sunrise most will never see from their houses.  Maybe that is why we do this... I don't know.  But I will take the battles and the band-aids for these few moments in time that can be taken but never bought.



          

Friday, November 15, 2013

A Disappearing Treasure...


Egmont Key


A Disappearing Treasure






As you enter either the south channel or ship channel to go towards Tampa Bay, You will find Egomnt Key.  It is in essence the large barrier island that separates the two channels and also separates Tampa Bay from the gulf.  

This island is absolutely filled with history.  There have been few places we have gone in our cruising years where, when we stepped onto the sand, we felt we stepped into the past.  This island has seen Spanish Conquistadors.  It has seen captured Indians from the Third Seminole War. It has seen a great fort built across its shores to protect the gulf from the Spanish in the Spanish-American War.  It has had a president stationed within its walls and seen brother fight brother in the Civil War when it was captured by the Union.  Even today, the fort serves as a reminder of our past.  As I mentioned before, it was one of the few places we have been where we walked and felt like we have stepped back in time.
It does not take a lot of imagination to see the forts past.  Old roads and ruins are literally everywhere and run throughout the island.  THey are well marked with very descriptive pictures of what once stood there.  This alone was simply amazing.  The roads and ruins, many of which are still standing, are filled with what was once a very active complex (Fort Dade).  But what we found especially interesting was the bombardments on the eastern shore.  Many of those you can still walk through and climb over.  When you stand on the top of them, you can look out well into the gulf.  Since the only way into Tampa Bay was to cross by the island (most likely from the north as the southern channel is a bit more shallow), it was pretty obvious that an armada would risk its fate trying to land the shore.  By controlling the island, you control Tampa Bay which is a fairly deep water port and very good place for providing supplies in/out of Florida and the surrounding area.
As you climb the walls, you can still the links and rails used to move the cannons and later, the rifling guns.  You can crawl below these heavily fortified walls where the armory and powder room would sit.  If you stand back and look at them, you will notice that there are sharp angles to the walls and  narrow slits.  This is because during a time of war, you would station riflemen inside those areas where they could easily pick off anyone trying to take the battlement.  They are strategically situated so that each rifleman has only a small area he has to protect, while others beside him protect the other areas.  Also of interest is the powder room.  Look closely and you will see that it has only one door in and out.  Intimes of war, the men manning this room would be locked inside with guards on the outside.  They wore special uniforms, originally of wool wool, which hopefully would not give off a spark.  They would pass these through small slits to runner who took the powder up to the cannons/guns.  Now why were they locked in with guards posted?  Two reasons:  The obvious reason was they wanted to protect the powder room.  If you take the powder room, the fort will most likely fall.  But there is another more prominent reason shared to us by the ranger:  to keep the men manning the powder room from trying to escape!  Yep, it was often considered the worst job to have in the fort and certainly the most dangerous.  Why?  If you are an invading armada, the powder room is your key target.  How would you like an entire armada with every cannon aimed at you??
As you pass the armaments and walk the western shore, you will see the falling ruins of the fort.   At on time, these were actually long, concrete piers which had guns placed atop.

  But storms, erosion, and lack of care have allowed them to fall into the sea.  Little
 remains of those anymore except pictures.  Even the shore you see here were once much longer and extended well out into the gulf.  But the loss of sand from the beach and rising sea levels have taken their toll and killed many of the trees on the western edge of the shore.  You can still see them standing like long lost sentinels watching out over the gulf.

Sadly, this island is disappearing.  Every day a little more of it falls victim to time.  At the ranger's station, we found a drop box and flier which asked for help to save the island and its heritage.  We put ours in and left the island with the knowledge that while our money probably will not stop the island from disappearing, at least we got to see it before it did.  I urge everyone else to stop there too before it is gone.

More of this post and many more picture can be found on my website at:  www.brianmistrot.com

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Of Captains and Admirals...

Of Captains and Admirals...

I have been sailing (on my boats) for about 20 years. You would think I would know better; you would think I was beyond poor decisions; but, apparently not. Er hmm...

Woke up this morning to winds sustained at 30-35 knots (and over at times) with much higher gusts. We were under a Gale Warning. That was all the more reason to get off the boat and to the "barn", which is what I call the common area at the City Marina. Well the seas weren't very pretty, as you can imagine. My wife stood beside me, we both looked out to the spray, and she expressed her concern to me about making that trip and how she didn't want to get wet. I explained to her that we weren't going to be able to work on the boat very well with it blowing like that... not to mention the power needed to keep up all the computers without any solar going. I spoke with conviction, she spoke with uncertainty. Conviction always wins.

Being a very thoughtful dad and husband, I decided that the best thing to do was to load the boat down with everything we needed so I didn't have to make that trip twice. Once was going to be bad enough. So we did as I commanded. We loaded: Four different backpacks and computer bags filled with various computers, hard drives, power cords, phones, legal pads, etc. We then loaded in another large bag filled with a dozen text books, writing pads, workbooks, etc. We then loaded in all of our clothes so we could take showers up at the barn - including towels, rags, jackets (it was cold!), etc. 

At this point, the tender was looking a bit like Sanford and Son's truck. The seas were getting higher. The spray was getting stronger. I looked out and realized that I really didn't want to make that trip twice (not sure if I mentioned that, but I did to her, twice now). I was certain of my judgement. As such, and against my wife's growing concerns, we loaded in all of our shower stuff (good Lord women carry a bunch of cosmetics), my bag of toiletries, the kids bags, etc. We then began loading the bag with Fatty's food (our English Bulldog), her toys, her blanket, her bowls, etc. Remember, I did not want to make this trip twice.

It was at this point, our tender no longer had any seating and no longer resembled Sanford and Son's truck - it was more like one of the garbage trucks that picks up limbs and trees, with items bellowing over the top and sides. I began to hear some unusual rumblings on the wind that sounded like my wife's voice, but I was certain it was simply sirens in the spray. I know this because I asked her, "You say something, Honey?" She stares at me a moment, then looks at the tender. "Uh, no. Carry on, Captain, but I think this is a bad idea. I don't want to get wet. You sure we shouldn't make two trips?" 'We' was 'me', by the way... a point I was quick to express.

You know, as the Captain of my vessel, the man of my house, I really resent it when my decisions become repeatedly questioned. It makes me doubt myself. So I reached down, grabbed Fatty, and tossed her (against her growling wishes) into the tender. I pointed at the kids and told them to crawl aboard. I stepped on, confidently. I instructed my wife, who insisted she didn't even have a place to sit, that she could sit on top of the junk just like everyone else. 

It is important to point out that our tender is exactly ten feet, two inches long. Dry, it has a freeboard (the distance between the water and the water coming over the top) of about twelve inches. The tender now has a freeboard of about two inches and is listing badly to starboard (where my wife was sitting, which was very coincidental, so that you know). I released the painter and we were off!

It took almost one second before I realized I might have made an egregious error: The first large spray broke over the starboard side. Then my wife, who blushes when she says "dang", said a word I am not sure I have ever heard her say before. It was a critical moment in time and I was not sure I felt comfortable with my children hearing such language (from her that is, I say it all the time). Of course, I could have turned back. We were only a few feet from the boat, and the barn was about a quarter mile away. But if we did turn back, that would have meant defeat for me. It would show that she was right and I was wrong. Such things do not boost the morale of your crew, they do not instill confidence. Visions of George Washington standing on the bow of his boat, pointing across the Potomac, came to mind. His men supported him! What if he had turned back? What if MacArthur had? History is filled with leaders doing what is right, instead of what is easy. I shared that thought with my wife and she mouthed another very uncouth word. Diplomacy was quickly coming to an end.

I explained to her that the problem was we were sitting too flat. We needed to get the bow up. It would block the spray. We simply needed to go faster. My wife began to call out insults in my direction, but I looked away and punched it. 

Now some would think this was egregious error number two. It was not. That comes later because technically I was right. The bow did block the spray (on the port side, where I sat), but unfortunately the now lower stern took on the seas, not spray, to the starboard side (where she sat). The first one washed aboard, and the foul language that my wife was screaming out, came to a halt. She turned to me and stared at me: lips pursed, eyes narrowed, hair dripping wet. Even as the next many waves came aboard on our trip, she never quit staring at me. It felt unnerving, really, like those horror movies when the werewolf is watching you from behind but you don't dare turn towards it. And like a werewolf, she never spoke another word. She took it. She got tough. As we pulled up to the dock, I decided to break the awkward silence and I told her I was proud of her. THAT, dear readers, was egregious error number two.

I am happy to say that my wife is again speaking to me. She has said many things like, "Have fun with the kids," "Hope you don't mind sleeping in the cockpit," "Guess who's washing all the wet clothes?" 

Me, I have realized that being the captain of a boat comes with many challenges: Crew, morale, hard decisions, and the grim reality that every captain has an admiral... and I have mine.

Brian

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Starting Over

Back to getting the blog up and running.  I have been so busy with different writing projects and the website that this took a back seat.  I put a lot of stuff on Facebook though, simply because it is easy to use from the phone.

Blowing stink here today in Marathon.  Sustained winds 20-25 and increasing to gale force.  Makes the boat roll - though truth be told, we don't get seasick.  Just makes you be really careful where you sit that glass of water (ask me how I know!!).  On a positive note, I sleep like a baby when the boat is like that, so looking forward to a nice night tonight.

I finally got the web site up and going today (assuming it really does publish with the many errors GoDaddy has given me).  That is a huge accomplishment for me as it is a LOT of information.  I am not done with it yet, but several friends and my wife urged me to just get it out there and update as we go along.  I conceded.

On a boating note or two, we have had some fantastic sunsets and sunrises.  Gorgeous stuff.  I do love living on a boat 99% f the time.  But that 1% can really be a killer!!  Here are a couple of pics from last night and this morning. If you look close, you will see a huge American Flag flying in the sunset.  Picture perfect moments.