22 Jan 09
The intrepid crew of Elice II has made it through our first night. I’m pretty sure we are in the Bering Sea even though we just passed Boca Grande Pass about an hour ago. The winds are light and we are motor-sailing. Everyone is still speaking. Hope you are all doing as well as we are. Love and hugs all around……. Elice II

23 Jan 09
Hey everybody! We are safely tied up for the night at the Marco River Marina. Tomorrow we leave for Little Shark River on the edge of the Everglades where we will experience our first real loss of cell phone coverage so, if you wanna talk to us by phone, tonight is the last night till we get within range of Marathon the following day. Having a great time and everyone is still speaking. Hope everyone is getting along well. Hugs to all from Elice II.

24 Jan 09
We’re leaving Marco Island for Little Shark River. After a great night’s sleep, the weather is beautiful. Wish you were all here! Hope we can get another letter out tonight, but with the connections I’ve been getting at night, don’t worry if you don’t hear from us. Have met several other boats heading there today, so we will have friends and lots of help if needed. Fair Winds…Elice II

Location of the EliseII

We made it!!! We are safely anchored in Little Shark River with about 12 other boats. We had a great motor sail with perfect weather arriving at 6:00 pm. No phone coverage here but we send out all our love. We should be back in cell range tomorrow afternoon. We are all still speaking but the Skipper and Admiral have staked out some of the same territory. I should be capable arbitrating and keeping them separated. Tonight our thoughts are with you all as we settle in here in the Florida Everglades. Elice II

— No mail, apparently the Elise II is crossing the Gulf Stream towards the Bahamas—

27 Jan 09
We have arrived safely and are all still speaking. No internet connection yet, we are hopeful. If not we leave here tomorrow and travel the 8 miles to Bimini and will try again. Love and hugs from Elice II
28 Jan 09
Hello Folks! We have made it to Bimini and are at the Bimini Blue Water Marina. We had a beautiful sail up from Cat Cay, the water is beautiful beyond description. Yes, they have internet wifi here. It’s down until Batelco gets back online. The most definite answer that we got on getting it fixed is “try again later mon.” As we and more importantly they, are on island time, I don’t know when we will have real internet. We are planning on staying here about 5 more days. I hope everything is well with you all and we will keep in touch. Also for those that keep pestering us, our danged latitude is 25 43.5 and longitude is 79 16.5. We are having a great time and are still speaking at the time of this transmission. Love to all…. Elice II.

http://marinas.com/view/marina/9545
29 Jan 09
Hey LA!!! I’ve been so busy underway or so exhausted from a passage that I’ve not had much time for anything but navigation. We are going to be here in Bimini for a few days for a frontal passage so I will catch up and get you an email. It’s pretty as usual over here and water, indescribable. I think about you often. Give Sheree a big hug for me and as soon as Batelco gets internet back on the island I will send you something. Love,,, Nat

http://www.geographia.com/bahamas/bsciin01.htm
1 Feb 09
Everybody knows we’re sitting here in Bimini drinking rum and waiting for weather. Life is rough here in paradise. Well, gotta run, Skipper wants to go eat again…. Nat
3 Feb 09
News Flash! We are underway. We liked what we saw in the latest weather forecasts and left the dock at 0800. It was pretty rough outside Bimini but as soon as we crossed onto the banks at Turtle Rocks it calmed out to almost no waves. We are sailing East at 6 to 7 kts and it looks like a lake out here. The Skipper is hungry again, so I’m going to fix him up something. 5 boats are leaving behind us so we will have plenty of company if they can catch us. Hugs to all… Elice II
Editors note:
Nat’s emails are coming to me via a ham radio link which requires them to be short, and without photos. Believe me, I’ve made all the standard threats concerning lots of photos of this adventure, and will post them when I get them. He needs to be at a location that has a normal internet connection before he can include them in an email.
And last but not least, I’m jealous as hell! Nothing beats a great adventure in beautiful pristine waters-

Click me twice

I told you not to read this, that it would be boring! What are you doing here?
Just a few points of interest. Note the 3 pairs of underwear. Ellen embroidered them as “January, February, March” so that I would have a system. In light of that, we pause for a commercial break.

For all of your embroidery needs, City Stitchers is your best choice! No job is too large, no job is too small. For the best quality custom embroidery, contact CITY STITCHERS! For all of your embroidery needs. Now back to our regular scheduled program…

Can’t you just imagine the conversation on the dock with Marlin tomorrow morning? “Waterline, we don’t need no stinking waterline!”

And for a new development, Marlin’s lovely daughter Stephanie is going to be leaving with us and going at least as far as Bimini, or until she can’t stand us or the smell any more. As a really sharp lady and a Cracker Jack sailor, she will be a real asset and as Admiral, will provide the discipline and structure that we are in desperate need of.

Packed and ready to go...

Enjoy the ride!

Larry Annen / Editor
Two Years Before the Mast – From Skipper to Gilligan

In the days of the tall sailing ships, common sailors were housed in the forward part of the ship, “before the mast” while the ships officers were housed aft. Richard Henry Dana Jr. wrote an excellent book of that title which I highly recommend as reading material.

Marlin the Captain of this adventure...

His epic tale will surely pale in comparison to mine though as I’ve decided to give up the lofty position as Captain of my ship and sign aboard as crew on a sleek Catalina 47 for a cruise to the Bahamas and maybe back under Skipper Marlin Brigman, a hard, strict man. Leaving port the ships compliment will be the Skipper, an Admiral (his daughter), and the deck crew (me). He assures me that there will be plenty of floggings handed out amongst the crew (me).

I will, as always, tell this tale in the format of our esteemed leader, Jimmy Buffett (hat removed, head bowed in reverence), as a work of fictional facts and factual fiction. As a work of fiction, I am free from having to verify all facts and assure complete accuracy. In other words, if I don’t remember what the wind speed was, I can guesstimate. Being able to adjust the facts also makes for better reading and flow. For instance, “The Captain stood in the companionway with giant waves breaking over him, yelling down to me for help as I cowered in my bunk, afraid to respond” might read something like “I stood rock steady at the helm as the waves crashed over me bringing the ship through the storm with my skill and determination.” See? It’s a true story in that there was a storm at sea, I was on the boat, there were breaking waves, and my pants were wet!

This story will be told in series as I get an internet connection to send Larry what I have so far. The next chapter will be nothing but the list of personal effects (crap) that I’m taking with me, so don’t even bother reading it as it will be boring.

We will be shipping with the tide on Monday the 19th, in 2009 in the year of our Lord. May the seas be kind and the heads remain functional.

I don’t know how long, for months, a plan has been rattling around between the Captain of Velella and myself of roasting a leg of lamb.  After many conversations at the Tiki Bar and numerous ‘false starts’, we finally got serious and made the plans final and binding.  Not wanting to be involved in a conspiratorial faux pas of the marina, punishable by lashes of the tongue, as well as wanting the extra push of inspiration and motivation, we decided to enlist the help and guidance of Pirate King, Bill.  He volunteered to supply the rum and drink and wisely advised the mileage to be gained by inviting the wenches and added our relatively new pal, Martin to the entourage.

Now the wheels were in motion, much like a runaway train.  No more false starts.  Battle plans were drawn.  Logistics and support all worked out.  Today at 1500 zulu, 1100hrs, 11:00am, 6 bells in the morning watch, I crossed enemy lines, low crawled past the sentries, and made my rendezvous with Lenny who met me with his tank (Lincoln Towncar).  Off we headed for Publix like a stampeding herd of turtles.

It might be time to mention that Lenny is not a teeny little non-noticeable guy, being close to the same size as me.  We walked into Publix looking like two giant Ogres seeking human victims to feed upon.  Grabbing a grocery cart, we began our shopping spree, looking quite out of place performing such a domestic function that we drew lots of stares, but no comments from the normal dirt dwellers also haunting the aisles.  In short order we had gathered the makings for our feast.  The PETA people need to go ahead and log off now, for us, PETA stands for ‘People Eating Tasty Animals’.  The meat manager told us that we were purchasing two legs of lamb, but they looked suspiciously like dog.  No matter to us, we were salivating in anticipation as we left the supermarket.

Then it was back to the marina where Lenny began his masterful preparation of the feast and I assisted him with the pre-drinking phase of the operation.

Just when I thought that we might be in trouble, Bill showed up with a wagon and cooler full of drinks and ice, followed closely by Lenny’s wench Marietta, Bills wench Earlene, and Marty who couldn’t trick his wench into coming.  After hors d’oeuvre of little bourbon marinated hot dogs, cheese and crackers, and a salad, all prepared fresh from scratch by Lenny, we lit up the grill and watched while he created a gourmet feast of lamb, baked vegetables, and Lenny’s own garlic bread.  A better feed I cannot remember.

Without slighting Lenny’s culinary genius, what really made the night such a pleasure was the warm camaraderie of bright, entertaining friends with interesting and colorful stories to share.  As the ladies retired, and the rum flowed, the stories ranged on toward the midnight hour.

It was with regret that we succumb to the ravages of age, time, and alcohol while trudging the docks back to our own boats and empty bunks.  I for one am hoping that last night is an event that we will be able to repeat many times.  For now, fair winds and following seas.    Nat

Leg of Lamb?

By: Nat Manning

Now that we arrive at the boat, the danger really begins. The deck of a sailboat is a virtual cornucopia of hazards that come in all colors and flavors. Hey, you remember “cleats”? Well, they are generally sprayed onto a sailboat and then bolted down where-ever they land. For fun, add some steel wires with barbs called “meat hooks”. Cotter pins, bolts, clamps, toe rails, and various sundry items are placed throughout for you to conveniently hurt yourself.

So far we have focused on doing damage to your knees and feet. It just wouldn’t be right to ignore the other important and equally sensitive areas of your body. Let’s take a minute to talk about fun with rope.

There is a lot of rope available on a sailboat for you to hurt yourself with. Sailors call this stuff “line” by the way. The key to hurting yourself with rope is for it to have a lot of force attached to one or both ends of it. The first technique is one that you can all practice. Take the rope (line) and hold it tightly in your hand as the load comes onto the other end. As the rope travels through your tightly clenched fist rapidly, temperatures will suddenly go from ambient to over thirteen thousand degrees. The smell of burning flesh should be enough, but you just have to look at the raw meat that used to be your palm. Imagine how much fun simple chores are going to be for the next week or so. There are other ways of having fun with rope, but require more finesse to accomplish. Step in a coil in the rope just before it comes under load and you get to travel to places aboard that you would otherwise never visit, like halfway up the mast. Sometimes injury can be accomplished more simply by pulling very hard on the rope when the load suddenly comes off the naughty strip of nylon braid. As you advance to more sophisticated methods of injuring yourself, try holding a rope as it enters a block or runs under the wing of a cleat!

Bimini tops and hard tops are strategically located for you to crack your head on, but to bring up a really nice knot, things called “booms” are readily available for your use in hurting yourself. They are heavy wood or aluminum horizontal posts that swing back and forth across the boat, teaching you that “duck” has nothing to do with a migratory water foul. This is a lesson that has to be learned at least once per day.

Going down into the cabins below, not every part of your body is sore or damaged yet. Not to worry, boat designers have thought of everything. The “ceilings” of the cabins are built slightly shorter than the average person. This causes you to bend your head slightly forward. This is a clever set up that casts your vision downward. With you looking downward, beams are placed at intervals along the ceiling close enough together to provide generous opportunity yet far enough apart to allow you to achieve maximum speed before knocking part of your scalp off.

Boat designers have finished all of this off with the strategic assistance of inertia. Down below, the motion of the vessel is not detectable visually. This results in the tendency to fall down with unexpected motions of the boat. Rather than just fall down, lots of counters, benches, table corners, etc have been provided to cause bruises in all the places that haven’t been already addressed. The next time you see a sailor look for the ‘boat bites’. Just because you don’t see them, it doesn’t mean that they aren’t there.

In conclusion, I would like to thank everyone who assisted me by injuring themselves on and around boats. I finish this scientific study as I nurse my bruises and scrapes from my last experience aboard.

Typical Boat Bite

Boat bites are painful, non critical, non debilitating minor injuries that occur on and around boats. Take note that I referred to them as injuries, not accidents. I have been studying this phenomenon and am somewhat convinced that the injuries are by design and not the result of accident, carelessness, or ineptness of the victim. While trying not to sound like a JFK, UFO, 911, or Faked Moon Landing conspirator, I believe that I have sound reason to suspect that boats and docks are created through a sinister and ingenious design for the particular purpose of hurting people, and more specifically… me. Lets examine some of these snares, carefully crafted to cause damage to my otherwise unmarred hide.
It starts upon arrival at the marine environment. The parking lot. While unloading all of the supplies and equipment (crap) that is desirable to take on your much anticipated adventure, we encounter the first of the obstacles designed to inflict the pain needed to put you in the proper frame of attitude. They are heavy, hard, concrete posts laid horizontal and nailed down to ensure that they have no give. They are falsely referred to as curbs and are billed as devices to prevent travel of vehicles into undesired areas. In reality, they are placed as a result of study and research in such a way that ensures that you will inadvertently kick and trip over them, scraping your bare knees on the rough asphalt, which by the way, is also part of the design.

Evil Dock Gate

The next obstacle you will encounter is the dock gate. Please do not be afraid. The dock gate is really not as dangerous as it appears. Yes, there are lots of sharp edges and chain link fence spikes, and various other snags incorporated into the design, but the gate really does not qualify as a “booby trap”. What generally happens at the gate is that you arrive with both arms and hands laden with (crap) and need to negotiate the gate “barrier” that requires you to manipulate a key and lock while in this configuration. This inevitably results in dropping the heaviest item you are carrying on your foot. As you struggle with the lock, eventually, everything you were carrying ends up on the ground around you. Now that your hands are free, you can easily unlock and swing the gate open and pick up your stuff (crap). In order to increase the difficulty level, the gate is equipped with a very powerful spring that is not really meant to close the gate, but to press against you very hard as you try to pick up your (crap). In short order, this aggravation creates the reaction of pushing the gate open with hard force, causing it to swing away from you, setting you free to try again to pick up your stuff. The spring mechanism is specially designed to allow the gate to swing open far enough and hang long enough for you to forget about it as you begin to gather your precious belongings (crap) from the ground, then build an incredible amount of speed and force as it swings back toward you in your vulnerable position. I don’t think it’s necessary to continue describing the trials associated with the gate.

Having cleared the parking lot and negotiated the gate, you are finally on the dock, limping, but not really bleeding all that much. Within ten feet of the gate, you begin encountering tricks that the dock has of it’s own. Docks are also often adorned with electrical cables and water hoses, use your imagination. The most prolific of these are toe-breakers are called cleats. These are low profile, winged, steel obstacles bolted stoutly to the dock and placed strategically where they are not only convenient for breaking ones toes, but also provide an excellent opportunity to trip and fall off the dock. This, by the way never happens at high tide when the fall to the water would only be three or four feet, but at low tide when you fall and fall and hit the water from a great height with the resultant additional calamity and greater difficulty of getting back out of the water. I would like to stress two points before leaving the subject of cleats. The first point is that boats utilize these cleats to secure themselves to the docks, although this is completely unnecessary as witnessed by a more than adequate number of pilings that they could tie to.
Oh crap… I don’t remember the second point as I have a newly arrived injury to tend to…
Part two in a few days… give me time to heal, I just got back on the boat.

Editors note: Subscribe to this site for the next update… over there ~ on the right ~ just do it already

Princess Kay and Captain Jim Fudge

I have to express my apologies and concede that though a fair weaver of stories, I’m a poor action reporter.  I was right on scene on the afternoon/night of the 21st and now it’s the 28th and I still haven’t submitted an article outlining the events of that ill-famed night.  I’ve just apologized, but I would like to convey reasons, not excuses as to why I’ve been so remiss.

Try to picture the morning after, tongue swollen in my mouth, squinting at the screen through my bloodshot eyes embedded in the front of my large aching head, hoping that I would not be exposed to any loud noises or motion of any kind.  Trying to penetrate the fog in my brain, I place my fingers on the keyboard, close my eyes, picture last night in my mind, and let the words flow down through my fingers through the keyboard and onto the computer screen.

After about 10 minutes, I open my eyes to assess my progress.  Imagine my shock at seeing some kind of coded unknown and undecipherable language.  As rapidly as my impaired facilities allowed, I came to two revelations.  One, my fingers were not placed on the keyboard in the proper position and two, I was not in any shape to attempt any kind of intelligent communication.  This is just not going to work out.

I pulled my cleanest pair of dirty pants and shirt on and crawled through the hatch to squint into the blinding pre-noon sunlight.  Seeing my obvious distress, Pirate Princess Kay on Ocean Lady hailed and implored that I come over for treatment. Boat ramps and finger piers are very treacherous places during times of impaired facilities and unsteady gravity, but with a fearlessness I am known for, I made it from Snap One to Ocean Lady with a minimum of excitement.  Shortly after I was assisted to a seated position on a stable perch aboard the sizable pirate yacht, my fingers were wrapped around a glass containing one of Princess Kay’s infamous bloody Marys, and I knew everything was going to be alright.

Kay’s bloody Marys are known all along the coast for their awesome taste, unique secret ingredients, unusual dill pickle and onion garnish, and incredible healing properties.  They have been known to revive people from near death hangovers in surprisingly short times.  I sat there savoring the tart red drink as my funk lifted and found myself basking in the warm friendship of other patients of Dr Kay whose presence I wasn’t aware of when I arrived.  The closer I got to the bottom of the glass, the better and more human I felt.  By the time the drink was gone, I was able to smile, talk, and much enjoyed the light, clever interaction of the other survivors.

Grog Master Earlene and Pirate King Bill

Much too soon, it was over, and I found myself on the dock helping to cast off the lines and watch Ocean Lady and the other pirate ships cruise stately from the dock and out, returning to their respective home ports.

Standing alone in the Florida sun, watching everyone leave, sweating like a leaky sponge, I decided that I needed to take care of myself, so made my way back aboard Snap One and crawled into my bunk to sleep till better times.  Better times did not come.  I was awakened by the telephone sometime in the afternoon and informed that the mother of a good friend had passed away.  I packed all my perishable food and within an hour was on the road and headed to a land of no internet.  It’s odd how the sadness of a passing is tempered by the pleasure of spending time with friends cherished but seldom seen.

So, a week later, what can I report about the Talk Like a Pirate Party?

Trying to impress Regina

For me, it started with dress rehearsal at home, supervised by my very understanding wife, Pirate Admiral Goddess Ellen.  She gets credit for my entire ensemble, much of it fabricated or gathered by her.  I stand like a mannequin while she makes sure that clothes, hat, cutlass, coat, and earrings are squared away and authentic.  I am very proud of the earrings as they cost me a buc-an-eer….. haha, get it?  OK, Sorry, that was really bad.

Lenny

Then comes the trip over to the boat, looking like a weird oddball kook freak nut engaged in a bizarre attempt at drag.  Upon arrival at the marina, try walking through the Tiki Bar dressed like this.  I had to pull the cutlass and back off a few advances. I did get a phone number from a big guy with a tattoo.

Next comes getting the boat dressed out with pirate flags followed immediately by serious sessions of “pre-drinking” which is necessary in order to make that all important “first pirate impression.”  A little word of caution about “pre-drinking”.  Three and a half hours of “pre-drinking” may be a bit much for the faint at heart and can’t be good for the brain.

Tatooed Wenches

By the time the sun is low, the pirate boats from other marinas start arriving, the keg of grog comes out, other costumed pirates begin congregating on the dock, and the party begins, I’m out there with my camera but so $#!% faced that I’m not completely capable of operating it.  I have a weak start going up to people going “brawk brawk, Polly wanna quacker!” with the result of strange looks.  Then it occurs to me that this is actually “Talk Like a Pirate Day”.

The grog, specially and secretly formulated by Pirate Princess Earlene, has been known to cause blindness, stupidity, flat feet, and projectile vomiting.  Everyone knows not to drink it however, everyone drinks it anyway because it tastes so good, and I set about to empty the keg.  As might be expected, the night digressed into a dizzy blurr of pirate stories, flirting with wenches, blurting out of random nautical and piratical statements, and much overuse of the letter “arrrrr” all spoken with a raspy voice.

I don’t remember all that much of the night, but at some point I was honored with the presentation of the “bung”, the greatest recognition any drunken seafarer could rise or sink to. Now, before you jump to the conclusion that presentation of the “bung” is something demented, perverted, or homophobic, let me explain that the rum aboard ship is stored in a wooden keg that is assessed by a tapped hole that is plugged by a wooden “bung”.  An empty keg certainly denotes one hell of a good time and an empty keg really doesn’t need a “bung” so why not give it to some deserving soul as a prize?  So yes, I am bragging about getting the “bung”!

How bout this crew?

Back to the reporting.  Nobody fell off the dock.  Nobody threw up on the dock.  Nobody got pregnant on the dock.  A whole bunch of people were there.  A good time was had by all.  The food was really good.  The grog was wonderful.  Pirate King Bill Lemmer did a spectacular job organizing and administrating the whole affair.  We are all looking forward to next year already. We need a real reporter to do this kind of reporting.

Crud separated from the fuel

Once I got into the project, I found an unused pickup tube for the fuel tank. I should have figured it was there. I don’t have an auxiliary generator, which is what this fitting is for. There is a return line port there as well. Thusly, I have a leftover conglomeration of two diverter valves, four extra 3/8” barbs, some extra fuel line and a few left over SS hose clamps.

The utilized parts include one free salvaged Racor filter body, one purchased Racor filter, about $28. I bought the fuel pump (new) on eBay. It’s a 4-6 PSI 100GPM 12v inline pump for about $35. The fuel lines were around $12 and the miscellaneous end cap plug for the Racor, two 90 degree elbows, some hose clamps, three Band-Aids and 2 Boddington Cream Ales, brought the grand total to around $90.00US.

This is considerably less than what I found at the boating supply stores and on-line magazines.

The original problem, a leaky fuel deck cap, fixed with a new O-ring.

I wired the pump into an unused 10amp breaker. Having plumbed the fuel-polishing pump totally separately from the engine fuel system, means I can polish the fuel with the flip of a breaker. Yep, one more way of making my life easier! The toughest part is draining the lower element and walking up to the waste oil containers.

Could be the source of the water...

I’ll not repeat the previous fuel contamination adventure in the narrow part of the ICW again. The night before I depart will only require the throw of a breaker for a couple of hours to ensure peace and happiness as I escape from the dock.

s/v AbbyGale

So we finally got all the little bad things done. Everything that was keeping me at the dock was dealt with in some form or another. Got beer, got food, got water, got to get going. The weather was finally going to cooperate with me for a few days. It’s time to get to the sunken treasure ship and see what is there. Everything is ready.

Yea, right…

So we get the boat ready to go to sea, put all the stuff where stuff is supposed to go, make the coast guard happy, make the GPS Gods happy with modern navigation gear, everything is ready. The tide is high and everything is in order. One tap on the ignition and the Yanmar is running smoothly, just a few puffs of blue smoke that we have never seen before. I tie us back to the dock to check the engine. Everything looks fine. No reason for the smoke, engine running good, hummm… might be just from sitting for a month or so.

Untie, and pull away from the dock, life is good…

Yea, right…

So we get out of the fairway and into the shallow narrow channel and the wind starts to kick up. Moving the throttle forward delivers less power, the engine is starting to die. The Admiral jumps on the helm while using our forward momentum to keep us in the narrow channel. I go below for a quick look. The engine is still running, just will not deliver power much over idle.

Oh-oh… got to be a fuel problem. One of the Racor filters is full of water. I switch to the secondary Racor. The engine rpm’s increase, we got power. We will make it out of the narrow shallow spot.

Yea, right…

I’m back at the helm, coming around the corner and into a little open area prior to getting back into a narrow channel again, with more wind. Loosing power, going slower, slower… oh crap… Would the Admiral report to the helm again, and quickly!

I jump up to the bow and open the anchor locker. I get the Danforth kicked off the bow roller in into the water and 20’ of chain goes before the rode. The boat is still moving at 2 kts. The Danforth sets behind us and starts to yank more rode from the locker where I’m standing, in the middle, with my left foot and then, oh crap. The rode takes a turn around my left ankle and I envision myself as a cartoon character getting pulled to the depths with the anchor.

The boat starts to spin 180 degrees as the anchor sets with my ankle. I reach down and get it unhooked just before the bone crushing snap. I get the rode wrapped on the cleat as the AbbyGale tightens the rode and comes to a halt.

Cough, sputter, die… the engine stops completely.

Time to assess the situation.

One Racor filter is full of water. The other, that I switched to, is not. The engine died. That has got to mean that water went past the first Racor and into the engines primary filter. After switching Racors I was still putting water into the system from the secondary filter. Damn.

Time for a cup of coffee and just sit for a while as we wait for BoatUS. Getting towed back to the dock is never pretty, or manly, but back at the dock we are.

Time to find out where the water came from, order new filters on line as the local marine stores don’t have them, and build up a fuel polishing system.

So there you have it. Yesterdays adventures and today’s repairs where so far I almost have the fuel problem fixed, I almost have all the parts to fix it, I almost had enough new fuel line, Home Depot almost had the right ¼” connectors, they almost had a new O-ring, but will order more, almost got lucky last night…

Boating is so much fun! I’ve discovered that you don’t need very much water in the tank, just enough to fill the filter is all you will almost ever need.

As a past observer of this important event, I am astutely aware of it’s importance and propriety in today’s world.  I’m not making this up, and not messing with you, look it up.  There is even a web site dedicated to the worship and observance.  This may have started out as a small cult, but it’s been growing year by year and as it grows, so does it’s gris gris.  (In Vodoun, or Voodoo, gris-gris resemble charms or talismans which are kept for good luck or to ward off evil) Therefore, it’s becoming increasingly important to observe this special day, no matter who you are.

Captain Bill Pirate King

Not sure just what all the rules and cosmic laws are regarding International Talk Like A Pirate Day, I went next door to confer with Bill on Falcor II.  Bill is the Sensei, the Guru, the Head Cheese, the Master at Arms, the Pirate King of the dock.  He advised that it’s really not that big a deal.  Though the official day is September 19, you have until midnight the last day of September while the moon is still aligned with Pladeas and all you have to do is publicly talk like a Pirate.  If that simple act is not performed, bad juju will wrap it’s self around you and bad things will happen until the vernal equinox.  Bill wasn’t specific about the “bad things” but implied that appendages may rot and fall off, hair loss, pimples, digestive malfunctions, lice, and a host of other plagues would most likely identify the nonbelievers who didn’t participate.

Captain Bill Consulting with Pirate Ghosts

With this in mind, lets all jump aboard and make sure that we fulfill our obligation to the brethren departed.  It’s really not that difficult.  The only letter of the alphabet you need is the letter “aaRRR”.  As a matter of fact, that’s the answer Bill gave to a lot of the questions I asked.  Remember to talk with a rasp from the back of your throat and kick in some nautical terms if you know any.  The website is a great resource of phrases to use.  Besides warding off bad juju, people will think you have lost your mind, and how could that be a bad thing?

This Saturday night, at the dock, we are having our annual Talk Like a Pirate Party to celebrate and comply with the dictates of the law.  The party always features a “grog” that everybody with any experience warns polliwogs not to drink, but everybody drinks it anyway and it’s always fun to see who throws up first and who can throw up most like a pirate.  I will send a report of the event,  presupposing that I survive.  Practice a little in private and then get out there and…….

Talk Like A Pirate

It starts in the middle of the night, about eight or nine years ago.  He and I are partners sitting in a little kitchen area, me doing as I’m supposed to be doing, which was attentively staring at a red “Bat” phone with my hand hovering over the receiver, eagerly awaiting the call from Commissioner Gordon for help in Gotham City.

Larry, on the other hand, is demonstrating his customary inability to cope with inactivity, and has a personal project of his spread out all over the table, rendering it unusable for anything else, like maybe eating.

The “Bat” phone does ring.  It’s not Commissioner Gordon but dispatch requesting air support for the Haines City Police Department.  Not Gotham City, but kind of close.  Seems some local officers went in pursuit of two people in a stolen car and they opened fire on the officers with unknown type and caliber firearms.

Like the Top Flight Crew that we actually were for a string of years, we bolted for the door and in as short a time as you can get the turbine lit on a jet helicopter and a few essential systems online, we were screaming through the black Florida sky.

Top Flight Crew PCSO

Always a day late and a dollar short, before we could arrive, the bad guys had wrecked the car and after backing the pursuing cops off with gunfire, had escaped on foot.

Shortly after arriving on scene, Larry located one of the suspects using a thermal imager running through an orange grove, feeling safe in the protection of the darkness and probably making plans for later that night when he got back to town.  Quietly directing ground units into position, the suspect turned a corner in the rows of orange trees and almost ran right into a police car and into the awaiting arms of some officers who probably weren’t in  the most sunny of dispositions.  The capture was text book and would have made a great training tape.  That one was not the reason that I told this story.

With that one in custody, Larry located the other one, also with the thermal imager as it was a black night.  This one though, was in a large marshy swampy part of Lake Lowery making remarkably good time away from the ground troops in waist to chest deep water and muck with sawgrass higher than his head.  An assessment of the situation determined that it would take hours to get a ground or marine asset to this area, and we didn’t have that much fuel.  Rather than let this armed violent person get away Larry said “Get me down there!”

Being obligated to comply, I set the helicopter up to do a low, slow pass over the guy while checking for helicopter snags (poles, cables, lines, dead trees, etc).  Then I would roll into a sharp left descending turn and roll out into a hover just five feet over the target.  Did I mention that Larry and I often have a problem communicating with one another?  As I made my low pass, intently scanning for obstacles and danger, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and the helicopter lurched violently as Larry bailed out.

I watched in horror as Larry fell,,,, and fell,,,, and fell,,, and splashed down right next to the bad guy like a Mercury space capsule splashing down in the Atlantic, only without the chute.  Rolling into my planned maneuver, I kept my eyes riveted on the point of splashdown as I came to a complete stop.  After what seemed like a long time and much to the surprise of the bad guy as well as myself, Larry popped up from the black water and muck and grabbed the guy by the throat, and the fight was on.

Alone in the helicopter, I helplessly took on the roll of a three quarter million dollar street light, illuminating the bizarre scene below. It only lasted a few minutes.  I don’t think Larry actually won the fight, I think the guy just decided that Larry was soooooooo insane that nothing good could come from further resistance, and allowed Larry to drag him the quarter mile to shore to the awaiting officers bristling with questions as well as weapons.

“Air 1, did you misplace a flight officer?  I think we may have one down here!”

Are you beginning to get a clear picture of what kind of nut Larry is?  The above narrative is a prelude to telling you that I landed and picked him up dripping and smelling like a sewer and flew him back to the airbase.  As we walked back into the ready room there, still spread out all over the table in about ten pieces, was Larry’s gun in the process of being cleaned.

To preface the story, about two miles offshore from Apollo Beach is a small spoil island called Pine Island that the locals affectionately refer to as Beer Can Island. On the weekends, it is very popular with recreational boaters and takes on a kind of carnival atmosphere. During the week however, the masses of young, useful, productive denizens are conspicuously absent and Beer Can Island takes on the persona of a remote deserted South Pacific island located right here on the East side of Tampa Bay.

Beer can island

It was on one of these weekdays that I dropped the sails, headed up, and dropped anchor right in the little bay on the East side of Beer Can. I was pleased that I was the only boat and person in sight. I was also pleased to have placed the anchor so that I was in no danger of going aground, yet was only two boat lengths from the beach. This was shaping up to be an awesome week.

Upon referring to the Ships Standing Orders issued by the Captain (me), when anchoring close to shore, the crew (me) is required to perform an anchor watch for the first several hours to verify a good anchor set. This is accomplished to the accompaniment of Jimmy Buffett music blasting from the cockpit speakers while the crew attempts to rehydrate following the brisk activity of getting the sails secured and the anchor down and set. Rehydration is accomplished through the use of various liquids, all of which are very unpalatable, made potable by adding copious amounts of Sailor Jerry Spiced Rum.

Anchor watch duty was almost over when I decided to go out on deck and straighten the foredeck up a bit. I’m not really clear exactly what took place, whether the boat suddenly lurched, or if the deck was struck with an eddy in the gravity field, but I found myself falling, although not toward the center of the boat. Frantically, I grabbed the un-cleated jib sheet which provided a degree of support which could only be detected with sensitive scientific instruments. I noticed how pretty the sky was just before it disappeared, being replaced by the blurry murky underwater world of Tampa Bay.

Did I mention to you folks that I am an overweight, relatively inactive, and a retiree??? Luckily, I’m still a fairly strong swimmer. I came up spitting and sputtering with what I would imagine was a very surprised look on my face. With the keen situational awareness of which I am gifted, I quickly swam the four feet to the side of the boat. What now? I reached up but couldn’t even come close to reaching the deck of the boat. The smooth hull offered nothing to hold onto. I swam down the side of the hull to the familiar ladder that I had used to board the boat from many times. It was resting securely out of reach. I continued around to the stern where the dinghy is stored. From there I can use a step which is mounted on the transom to hopefully step up onto the deck. Well, a partial solution was achieved. I could reach up and grab the step! No problem, from this position I could hang onto the stern of the boat for three or four days if I needed to. It probably took my alcohol impeded mind longer than it should have to reach the conclusion that this wasn’t all that great of a solution either. I finally let go and swam completely around the boat looking, but not finding a solution of how to get my derriere back on board. By now I was getting tired and the island was beginning to beckon me. I swam till I touched ground and then slogged ashore dropping face first in the sand, half in and half out of the water.

I don’t know how long I lay there but when I pulled myself up onto my hands and knees, my hair and beard had grown out and I looked just like Tom Hanks. I started assessing my situation and completed a mental list of what I needed to do. First, find a source of fresh water. Second, build a shelter. Third, create fire. And finally, find a source of food. In my spare time I’ll map out the island, gather all my resources, signal for help then locate and befriend a soccer ball.

So much for plans. What I actually did was walk around the island picking up pretty shells and sand dollars. I splashed around and played in the water. But what I spent most of the day doing was sitting in the shade of a pine tree looking at my boat anchored serenely and stately just off the beach out of reach. One thing Tom Hanks didn’t have to deal with was being confronted with a boat full of iced beverages just waiting to be consumed. A large steak was on the ready and prepared to sizzle on the rail mounted grill. All that food, television, a shower, a nice clean bunk, there it was, all in plain sight just out of reach.

Walking a beach

Neither Tom Hanks nor those young pretty people on survivor had to worry about the humiliation and embarrassment of being rescued and answering the inevitable questions that I was faced with. My wife, my friends, even soccer balls would disassociate themselves from me. The shame would last longer than the years I had left in me. It would turn out that I would be saved from all this by my brilliant, cunning innovation and cleverness.

I saw my chance when a pontoon boat rented from MacDill Air Force Base pulled up with some partying young folks with close cropped hair. My plan materialized as I watched them playing on the beach. As they began loading up preparing to leave, I sauntered over and acting like it didn’t really matter one way or another, asked them if they would save me the swim back out to my boat by giving me a lift. They were happy to oblige, and my ordeal was over. That night I dined on fresh grilled steak and sipped my favorite adult beverage to the happy beat of island music. I can assure you though that the boarding ladder is now down, as it always is, as soon as I get anchored.

What lessons can I leave you with?

Always deploy the boarding ladder as soon as you get anchored.

Try to get marooned on an island that already has a soccer ball in residence.

Be prepared to make up a lie that will cover any ridiculous situation that you might put yourself in.

Never go out on deck with your cell phone in your pocket.

Fair winds and following seas………………Nat

Since this is my first submission to Larry’s blog, I’ll introduce myself.  My name is Nat and I used to have a life of adventure and excitement.  Then I retired and the most exciting thing in my life now is eating enough fiber to keep my system functioning with some amount of regularity.  I have a little story to share with you and it starts like this…

Captain Nat

As sleep slipped away, it was replaced by awareness.  This did not happen suddenly as with an alarm, but more like the way summer blends into fall.  The wind was howling in the rigging, rocking the boat gently but insistently, reminding me of the hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico that had just came off Cuba and was churning slowly toward Texas, causing us in Tampa Bay to breath another sigh of relief.  The sound of water lapping against the hull told me that the wind was from the East.  Here at the dock, this would seem like a very normal day, but that was not the case.

Today, the air was charged with electric energy.  As the peace of slumber slipped away and the awareness settled in, excitement flooded my mind as I remembered that today was to be marked by a road trip!

Bill, on Falcor II a couple of slips over, had invited me to go along to Don’s Marine Salvage Yard in Largo with him and Mike!  I rolled out of the bunk and proceeded to get ready to go with an unaccustomed sense of purpose.

Falcor II

Out in the cockpit, I made an odd discovery.  The basin had three or four more feet of water in it than is normal.  With a sense of dread, I recalled that my hose connection was leaking and during the night must have filled up the basin, Tampa Bay, the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic, and raised the ocean level world wide. A lot of people were going to be pretty unhappy with me.  And it was only a drip that had done so much damage.  OK, wait a minute, there’s no way.  I then correctly surmised that Hurricane Ike churning offshore, though not coming here, was close enough to provide a mild storm surge along with the howling winds and overcast skies.  I still should fix that drip!

Climbing down the almost vertical ramp from the deck to the dock with a fishing pole was no easy feat for an aged overweight retiree, but I managed to scale down it like a mountain goat with no serious injuries.  I had about an hour to fish, casting my lure as close to the pilings as I could before Bill emerged and it was time for our adventure to begin.

High water in the marina

Mike was waiting for us at the 4 door Chevy Malibu and after initial pleasantries, we cast off and were underweigh with Bill at the helm, Mike sitting aft, and me up front beside Bill.  I was paying close attention to the navigation but was soon completely lost as our voyage consisted of many, many, course changes as we wound our way through down town Tampa.  It was interesting; watching the young pretty people all dressed up, some scurrying along the sidewalks from office to office, and others, seemingly maintaining station at the intersections watching the light signals changing from little walking men to an open hand.  Old memories came back to me of times long gone when I sometimes interacted with such people.

Eventually, almost as if by magic, we were on the Howard Franklin Bridge and with a view of the water, I immediately regained my bearings as I looked longingly out across the open uncrowded expanse.

With our return to the land, my navigational awareness again departed and I just enjoyed the rapidly moving sights until Bill announced that we had arrived.  I was almost disembarked before the car was completely docked.  The sight I was beholding would entice any sailor to jump ship.

I had never even thought of an auto salvage yard for boats.  But here I was, confronted with the enormity of it all.  Bill, Mike, and I, were quickly separated and only occasionally crossed wakes as we cruised amongst the rows of junk and the buildings, sheds, trailers, and racks of more junk.  For a guy, this gigantic place of junk was as beautiful as a sand bar with a palm tree.  Whatever any boat anywhere needs, it’s there among the rows and rows of stuff.  You might never find it, but it’s there!

Several hours later we met back up at the car.  Bill had a spinnaker slide track and a hat full of stainless fittings and bolts, screws, etc.  I had a plastic thru hull that cost me $2.50.  Mike was just puffing on his corncob pipe, empty handed but with the look of someone just emerging from a burlesque show.  I don’t know how to measure our success, but it would require a philosophical approach to do so.

We loaded up, cast off, and pointed our bow toward home, but didn’t make it all the way.  The toil of working the junk yard had taken it’s toll on us and we ended up having to strike our colours and pulled into a Wing House.  Besides the several beers apiece and my grilled grouper sandwich, we managed to render a flock of chickens flightless.  Our waitress, Lisa, had a most interesting hull.  With a bulbous bow and racing transom, she was one of the fastest sloops in the place.  I was proud to sign the papers adopting her and may now have to return to the work force to put her through college.

The absolutely necessary spare part for something

Reluctantly, we climbed back aboard and put the Wing House astern.  The rest of the trip was rather quiet, yet it seemed only a short while later I could see the masts of my beloved boat and home.  The tide may have gone out, but the water had not.  I climbed up the steep incline of the ramp reminiscing of the fun day of adventure ashore and wondering what the hell I’m going to do with a small plastic thru hull.

I hope you enjoyed the road trip with us and may the wind remain abaft your beam.

Nat