Last days...

At long last, we are finally leaving Gloucester. After my dehydration episode of this morning we are both anxious for a change of scenery. We’re going to the Isles of Shoals, a place Rick is clearly looking forward to. One drawback about the place is that the bottom is very rocky and kelp-covered and thus difficult to anchor in so the ideal plan is to take a mooring there. Rick is all business today, mostly because we are off to such a late start and he’s worried that all of the moorings will be taken by the time we get to our destination.

We motor over to the opening of the Blynman Canal which will take us through to the other side of Cape Ann. The start of the canal is punctuated by a bridge that is much too low for our mast to clear. The normal procedure here is to contact the bridge man on the radio. Rick has what he calls a “handheld,” but what I have come to think of as “the weather radio” because he gets the marine forecast through this device. It also happens to work as a handy CB radio. But just when he needs it most it is, of course, out of battery. I don’t know why in this day and age you can’t just call the guy with a cell phone. It turns out that Tortue has a built-in radio, but it is inconveniently located down below. Rick leaves me to steer us to the bridge while he talks CB language to the bridge man. “Blynman bascule bridge, Blynman bascule bridge, this is Tortue, do you read me, over!” Rick finally makes contact and the bridge starts to open. We have to wait for the line of boats from the other side to pass before we can go through.

This canal is much narrower than the other ones we’ve been through on this trip. The boats move along in single file, very similar to the traffic on a two-lane country road in a no-passing zone. We come to another drawbridge but this time there is another sailboat already waiting so thankfully we don’t have to repeat the CB routine. The “Trinity” has a very cautious captain, and we are stuck behind her for the duration of the canal trip.

When we reach the end of the canal and hit open water, the shore is completely filled with people trying to stay cool on this extremely hot day. Rick motors us out of the boat traffic and we go for a quick swim ourselves. There is hardly any wind which seems to be par for the course on our travel days, and we will have to motor to our destination if we are to have any hope of getting there tonight.

I’m still feeling a little shaky from this morning and the sun is just too strong for comfort, so I spend most of the afternoon down below. Rick calls me up periodically when he sees a whale. All the whales we see today are grey in color and very big; Rick estimates them at around fifty feet long. We see a group of at least three at one point, their spouts sending up water like geysers. They are all frustratingly far away when we see them and Rick tries to head in their direction but they are much too fast for our boat. Rick maneuvers the boat in a zigzag pattern to try and mimic a whale in distress - he was able to attract a group of whales this way a couple of years ago but these whales are too smart to fall for his ploy. At least he doesn’t try singing again…

We pull into Isles of Shoals as the light is fading and sure enough, all the mooring balls are taken. We cruise several times around the area, looking for a place to anchor. On top of having a weedy bottom, it is also a bit deep for anchoring and Rick is having a difficult time deciding which spot will give us the best chance at a relatively worry free night. We finally settle on a spot, and then one of the other sailors tells us that our particular spot actually has a muddy bottom and that we’ve lucked out. Our old friend the “Trinity” pulls in while the sun is setting, and we watch while her captain tries to find a place to anchor in the dark.

 

The Shoals are a charming set of small rocky islands eight miles or so offshore from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I can see why Rick likes them so much. One island has what looks to have been a huge resort hotel, but the entire island has been bought by some religious group and the buildings are used for some kind of retreat compound. The moorings, quite a number of them first-come-first-served moorings maintained by the Portsmouth Yacht Club, are all in a protected little area between the islands, and there are a great number of motor cruisers who have rafted up, some no doubt to party, but many simply to share moorings which are in great demand tonight. Some motor cruisers have a nasty habit of running their engines all night in order to fuel their generators. I don’t know why their batteries aren’t  full from all the motoring they did during the day to get here. Maybe they need it for their AC or their televisions. In any case, it is completely obnoxious behavior in close proximity to other boats and sure enough, we have one such offender just a few boats away. One sailboat owner finally gets fed up and gives them a what-for. We hear angry phrases like, “This is shared space!” and “Just turn it off!" and finally the engine is off. After a brief few moments of silence the place erupts in spontaneous applause.

In the morning the wind is up and we head out for what promises to be a great day for sailing. We’ve done a lot of motoring on this trip so I’m very confident in that department, but setting the sails is something I still don’t know about and Rick uses the perfect conditions today as an opportunity for teaching. He talks me through the process but makes me do everything myself, and eventually all of the tasks are completed and we are under sail! It’s a pity that it took most of this month-long trip before I got a chance to learn.

We are on a very comfortable point of sail for almost the whole day, and Rick and I spend much of the time up on the foredeck. We don’t see any whales today, but we see many seals. One seal is lounging at the surface right at the bow of our boat, and he nonchalantly lets us pass, not more than a few feet away from us. One very frustrating thing about wildlife sightings on the water is that the animals make lousy subjects for picture taking. You only get a moment to snap a photograph, and unless you have your camera ready to go and happen to be focused on the very spot in which the critter appears out of nowhere, you will undoubtedly miss the shot. When this seal is so accommodating by basically sitting still and even looking up with his big warm, shiny eyes I think, “This time, I’ve got him!” The trouble is, even though the seal isn’t moving, we are. I can’t get the camera to focus amid all of the bouncing, and yet again, no photo. David Attenborough would be very disappointed in me.

Near the end of the day we pull in to the Wood Island harbor at Biddeford Pool. This is a lovely little anchorage and we enjoy one of our last on board cocktail hours sitting at the bow and watching the sun go down. There is a bittersweet feeling to our time here because we know that our voyage is almost completed. We have spent almost every moment together for a month, and have spent the vast majority of that time exclusively in each other’s company. We've been a couple for more than eleven years, and yet we've never spent this much undivided time together. Some of the experiences we’ve had have undoubtedly been difficult, but we’ve developed a level of intimacy through those experiences that makes it hard to see our time on the boat together coming to an end.

Early the next morning it is foggy and still, charming in its own way, but by the time Rick wakes up it is clear and sunny. We have one last music making session, this time outside in the cockpit – modesty be damned! Rick does a certain amount of solo practicing first while I putter around, and by the time we play our duets together he has perfected his part and we actually sound pretty good!

We both know that today is an ending of sorts because this is the last small anchorage we will stay in. After a good long look around, we pull up the anchor and motor out of the harbor, on our way to Portland.

My Perfect Storm

It’s Saturday morning and I wake up choking. I am coughing and I have a momentary feeling of panic when I can’t immediately catch a breath. The room – or in this case the forward cabin where we sleep – is spinning. I reach over to Rick but by the time he is fully awake I’m fine, although somewhat embarrassed that I woke him up for a coughing fit. He settles back in for a bit more sleep while I get up to get a drink of water.

Once in the main cabin I begin to feel VERY strange. I try to stand at the galley but the world is moving all around and I feel like I’m going to pass out. I’ve often heard the phrase, “light-headed,” but this feels more like heaviness. Everything is closing in and weighting me down. I take a deep breath but that seems to make it worse. This time I’m really panicking and I call for Rick who comes bounding out of the forward cabin. I tell him that I feel really bad, but I can tell that it doesn’t make sense to him. What does it mean to say that everything is moving when you’re on a boat? Everything is ALWAYS moving when you’re on a boat.

Rick thinks maybe I’m a little dehydrated, so he gives me some water and makes me drink it. I don’t feel any better, and in fact the water makes me a bit nauseous. By now I’m shivering and breaking out into a cold sweat. I sometimes get shaky from low blood sugar, and normally you treat that with some protein/carb combination like nuts, but I figure this is an extreme situation and I need some actual sugar. Rick feeds me some candied fruit and I think I feel a little bit better momentarily, but it doesn’t last.

Rick helps me back into bed where I try to think through our options. It’s a Saturday. We’re on a boat. We’re in Gloucester where we don’t know a soul. Friends in Boston are at least an hour away.

Oh my God.

What is wrong with me? Can you OD on scopolamine? I peel off the current patch just in case. Earlier in the week I had spoken with my doctor about a swollen gland I had found behind my jaw. He didn’t seem concerned about it and said it would probably go away on its own in a few days. It’s actually bigger now and very sore - is this related to what’s going on now?

Rick puts a call through to my doctor, knowing that it’s a Saturday but hoping we can talk to SOMEBODY. He gets the answering service for the practice and they promise to page the doctor on call. While we wait for the doctor Rick is tightening up the boat because, wouldn’t you know, a storm is brewing.  I am still up in the forward cabin, and even though I’m horizontal the heavy/dizzy spells keep coming in waves. I’m afraid I’m going to lose consciousness and then they’ll have to air-lift me off of the boat. IF they get to me in time.

Where is that doctor?

I feel like I can’t wait any more, and I tell Rick I want to go to the hospital. I’m not sure I can make a dinghy ride to the dock, but it seems like a better option than passing out on the boat and leaving Rick with an even bigger problem.  I hear Rick making phone calls, talking to the harbormaster, trying to figure out how to get a taxi to take us to the nearest emergency room. Somehow amidst all of this, he keeps pushing glasses of water on me, and even makes some oatmeal on the theory that I need something in my stomach. He pulls up anchor and motors Tortue into the harbor to anchor there, closer to the dock, and I get some clothes on and wait below until he’s ready for me in the dinghy.

Just as Rick has set the anchor the doctor finally calls. It takes her only a few minutes to understand the situation; I’ve been on a boat and using scopolamine patches for three and a half weeks, it has been extraordinarily hot, we’ve been entertaining friends on the boat and drinking alcohol – I’m clearly severely dehydrated. The lump under my earlobe is a clogged salivary gland, a sure sign of dehydration which has probably been building up over some time. Scopolamine tends to dry everything out which just makes the situation worse. The doctor mentions that some people suffering from this have trouble swallowing, and when Rick tells her that I woke up choking she responds with, “Well, there you go.”

She says to keep pushing the water, but also to try and eat some salt. SALT! Of course! No wonder all that water I've been drinking has been going right through me and doesn't seem to make any difference. I feel somewhat foolish that the solution is so simple. The doctor gives us a great tip for dealing with the clogged gland too. You take a slice of lemon and stick it up in your cheek beside your back molars and chew on it for a while. When I try this treatment I get the strangest sensation of a little lightning bolt shooting across my cheek straight to that gland. Now I’m doubly grateful for the bag of lemons that Josh and Laura brought us yesterday.

Even with the new salt/water treatment, it takes a couple of hours for me to feel well enough for us to pull up anchor and leave Gloucester. I tell Rick that this was all just an elaborate ploy to get out of having to do the dishes. I’m not sure how amused he is by this – I know he was very worried. This is clearly an experience that neither one of us would like to repeat. The only good thing to come out of it is that I get to completely indulge my passion for salty popcorn – Doctor’s orders!

"Glawster"

We’re off to Gloucester. For some reason, the name of this town is pronounced “Glawster”.  Will everyone in the world eventually pronounce my home city as “Balmer” the way the locals do? Just the word Gloucester reminds me of an ad campaign from my childhood, and I can’t get the jingle out of my mind. “Trust the Gor-ton’s Fi-sher-men."  This is the town that lost the crew of the Andrea Gail in 1991, the story of which became the basis for the movie “The Perfect Storm”.

The wind is weak again today, but Rick says we can set the main and motor-sail. That way we can sit up on the bow together and watch for whales. We’re going to be pretty much out of sight of land for most of the day, and he’s seen whales before when he’s sailed these waters, those of the Stellwagen National Marine Sanctuary just north of Provincetown. This sounds like a great idea, but after two hours of seeing nothing I fall asleep, and Rick leaves me up there to snooze by myself.

By the time we are about five miles from Gloucester we have yet to see anything, even a dolphin, and Rick is saying that this is the first time he’s made this particular sail without seeing at least one whale. Not thirty seconds later we see the black shiny skin and the funny little dorsal fin of a whale, maybe fifty feet off the starboard side of the boat (that’s the right side for all of you neophytes). When you see something like this, dolphins, seals, etc., you really only get a momentary glimpse because the animal is just getting some air before diving back down. We scope the water, hoping this whale will resurface. Rick thinks he sees a disturbance in the water right behind us, and sure enough, the whale surfaces again, this time on the port side and just as close as before. We wait breathless in hopes of one more sighting and he doesn’t disappoint.  Rick sees him coming up behind us, a black shape beneath the surface, white pectoral fins shining like headlights.  He breaks the surface on the starboard side, just twenty feet from the boat. Rick tries singing to him on the theory that whales communicate by singing, so why not? Unfortunately, he chooses “The Star Spangled Banner.” Maybe that’s why we don’t see him again. Rick thinks he is a young whale, maybe 30 feet long (the length of Tortue). He was clearly checking us out; our engine was off at the time and our boat with its trailing dinghy probably looked like a cow and her baby from below the surface. An older whale would have likely known better.

We come into the harbor at Gloucester and anchor in a pretty little spot behind Ten Pound Island. It has been a very hot day and we go for a quick swim to cool off. We are surrounded by boats, but none of them appear to have anyone on board so we really have the place to ourselves. We might as well get comfortable because we’re going to be here for a few days. Rick has some friends who live in Boston and they will be coming up to see us and also to hopefully get out of the heat.

The next morning Rick decides that we need to get a mooring in the harbor proper because it is supposed to be very windy today and tonight and he doesn’t want to be on an anchor in those conditions. We move the boat and then take the dinghy ashore to get some ice and supplies. It’s striking how much hotter it is on land than on the water. We take a short hike over to the Walgreens and fill up our backpacks. It’s not a very scenic walk; unlike the resort towns we have been in, the harbor here is not very pleasing to the eye. It is of course a working harbor and prettiness is just not the priority.

Late in the day, we meet up with Rick’s friend Deb and her daughter Nell at the dock. Deb was a student when Rick first started teaching in graduate school, and she became a close family friend and babysitter for Rick’s son. In previous summer voyages Rick has visited Deb and her family at their cottage on Vinal Haven Island in Maine, but this time they have come to us. Deb presents us with her homemade Vinal Haven jam, along with a few other contributions toward dinner that we couldn’t get ourselves. We go for a quick evening sail and give Deb a try at the helm. Back at the dock, we pick up Deb’s husband Tommy who drove up separately, and motor back to our mooring for dinner on board. It’s too bad the setting isn’t as beautiful as some we’ve been in, but the company is great and the wind makes for a cool evening.

Friday morning we meet up with more of Rick’s friends; Josh and Laura. Josh is an old friend from Rick’s Yale days, and Rick was best man at his wedding with Laura. It is extremely hot all along the east coast, and a day on the boat will hopefully be a real treat for them. They bring all kinds of goodies for us – besides the salmon for dinner and sandwich stuff for lunch, they bring a variety of fresh fruit for which we are extremely grateful. Life on the boat can get a bit thin in the fresh produce department. We spend some time on Ten Pound Island, swimming and exploring, and then go out for an afternoon sail.

Rick puts all guests on the boat through the torture of steering, and Josh is no exception. Laura sees what we think is probably the blow-spout of a whale, but we never get a full sighting. There is a little extra excitement when, in 250 feet of water and the boat underway, I jump overboard for a swim but can’t grab a hold of the trailing line. I do manage to catch the dinghy before it goes by, and hug it for awhile until Rick can slow down the boat and I can get back on board. Neither Josh or Laura seem all that interested in swimming behind the boat after that – I don’t know why…

Back at our anchorage again, Rick and Josh set up the “barbie” for grilling the salmon. We don’t get a completely vibrant sunset but it’s still pretty nice, and Rick pulls the table out into the cockpit so we can have a civilized dinner al fresco. It has been a great day, and we send Josh and Laura home with big smiles (along with our recycling).

"Not that there's anything wrong with that..."

We’re headed for Provincetown.  After a quick goodbye to our friend Tim we motor out of Onset Bay on our way to the canal, the entrance of which is announced by an enormous bridge. This bridge has the look of a majestic gate, as though it guards the entrance to the Emerald City or other such place. It is actually a railway bridge that lowers the track to ground level across the canal, and otherwise keeps the track high in the air to provide enough height for tall ships passing through.

Once through the canal, Rick sets the sails and we plot a course across the Cape Cod Bay. The weather forecast has been calling for some severe thunderstorms this evening, and we are hoping to get to Provincetown before they hit. Now that we’re under way, we can see a storm brewing up ahead and it looks as though we are going to run right into it. Rick uses this opportunity to reassure me about how rare it is that sailboats get hit by lightning (thanks, I wasn’t even thinking about that), but that - just in case – I might want to stay out of the head during the storm. The head is pretty much directly under the mast which makes for a pretty nice lightning rod. In the end, there are several storms up ahead but they all move off to the North and we miss them all.

It is mid-afternoon when we make our way into the harbor at Provincetown. The skyline of this little fishing village is distinctive for the 252 foot Pilgrims’ Tower that can be seen for miles away. Built in the early years of the 20^th century, it commemorates the landing of the Mayflower. Apparently, the Pilgrims landed here at the northern end of this giant sand bar called the Cape Cod Peninsula before moving on to Plymouth where they found better soil for farming.

Rick and I are hungry even though it’s not really dinner time yet, so we take the dinghy in and join the other tourists for a walk on the main drag while we look for someplace to grab a bite. The street is not a pedestrian walkway, but it is so clogged with people that cars have a hard time getting through. I know very well that P-town is a famous resort destination for gays and lesbians so I’m not surprised to see a lively mix of shops and characters. There are families with children and couples holding hands, doing what tourists do; a large percentage of them just happen to be openly gay. The shops are mostly typical – the obligatory fudge and saltwater taffy shops, souvenir emporiums and the like – but right next store you will also find shops like the Cock and Bull Leather shop, or the Spank the Monkey Jewelry store. There is the occasional transvestite or transgendered person mixing in with everyone else. We are almost immediately accosted by a handsome, shirtless young man passing out flyers and advertising the evening’s entertainment of “Naked Boys Singing!”

We stop into The Squealing Pig for a substantial snack of their signature dish, smokey fish chowder and beer. This is unbelievably good and we vow to try and imitate this soup when we get back home to Baltimore.

When we have finished our soup, the storm that was promised appears to be materializing and we race back to the boat. Rick is really looking forward to this storm. He loves the coziness of the cabin with the sound of rain hitting the deck above, and the homey smell of dinner cooking on the stove. We get the dinner but, alas, the predictions are wrong again and other than a few sprinkles of rain there is no storm. We make an early night of it so we can be fresh for a day in town tomorrow.

We have no real agenda for our day ashore, but with one exception - to climb the Pilgrims’ Tower. We wander over there first and make the climb. The stairs go up in a sort of square spiral and the granite walls are periodically polished and engraved with the names of various towns and Mayflower organizations, who I assume have contributed money for the building and upkeep of the Tower. The view from the top is stunning and we stay for a little while to enjoy the breeze. It strikes me as a bit ironic that the pride and joy of this little town is a memorial for Puritans. I’m not sure what their stance on homosexuality would have been, but since they hung people just for being friends with Quakers, I kind of doubt that they were all that tolerant.  This tower is absolutely embraced by the gay community though; during Gay Pride week the tower is lit up with purple lights, creating a giant purple phallus. Ya gotta love it.

We spend the rest of the day investigating the shops along the main street. There is a thriving artists’ community here, and there are a number of shops and galleries displaying local work. We completely fall in love with the work of one local artist who, among other things, creates small boxes, somewhat in the style of Joseph Cornell. We can’t resist buying one of the boxes, and now we just have to figure out how to store it on our already overstuffed boat.

The doors are open at the Unitarian-Universalist Meetinghouse, and we can’t resist a little peek inside. At first glance, the sanctuary is elaborately carved  but on a closer look it turns out that it’s all paint! The walls are actually simple and flat in that typical New England style, but they’ve been done up in a very convincing trompe l’oeil.  Someone is practicing Bach on the wonderfully real pipe organ upstairs.

We have dinner at a little farm-to-table rooftop restaurant very appropriately called Tiny’s. On the street below, a faaaabulous six-foot-four transvestite in evening attire is trying to drum up an audience for her karaoke show that is about to begin. Visitors to P-town can partake of a wide variety of entertainment options with varying degrees of flamboyance. There are Whale Watch dinner cruises and the Whydah Pirate Museum for families, and at the other end of the spectrum there is “Debbie Does Dallas, the Musical”.  One notable summer production in years past was called “Willy Wanker and the Hershey Highway”.

As a straight person, it is definitely a different experience to be surrounded by so many gays and lesbians. The sight of gay couples being openly affectionate is so rare practically everywhere else that I don’t trust my perceptions, and would hesitate to guess the actual percentage of gay to straight. One thing is very clear; all kinds of people feel completely at home here. There is a wonderful sense of freedom and acceptance – wouldn’t it be nice if the rest of the world felt that way? The sign in front of the Universalist Meetinghouse pretty much says it all: “Come as you are. All are welcome.”

Sailing to Timonium

That is no country for old men…

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

                        “Sailing to Byzantium” – W.B.Yeats
               

Well, it turns out that Martha’s Vineyard is a pretty nice place when you are properly medicated. Who knew? This is the last day of the Regatta, and we watch the parade of boats from our perch in the cockpit of Tortue. This afternoon, we are planning to do a relatively short sail to Onset Bay, just at the opening of the Cape Cod Canal, and meet up with Rick’s friend Tim who is anchored there. Rick says there isn’t enough time for us to visit Nantucket, and since I know very little about the place other than what I’ve heard in limericks, that’s fine with me.

Rick spends some time studying the tidal charts, and then we stage yet another brief concert of violin/viola duos. We have been pretty regular with our musical sessions and we both can see a definite improvement, especially since we’ve started playing during the morning hours. Rick has noticed that he plays better before he’s had his evening scotch  – surprise, surprise – and I’m pretty much a morning person anyway so moving our duet playing to the a.m. suits both of us very well. We confine our playing to inside the boat. Even though the companionway is open to let in some air, the sound is somewhat contained and we can fool ourselves into thinking that none of the other boats can hear us.

After a swim and a shower, we motor out past the returning fleet of the Regatta and head towards Woods Hole, a narrow cut through the long finger of the Elizabeth Islands. The wind is crazy strong today; in Rick’s vernacular, “It’s blowin’ like snot!” We forgo the mainsail entirely and set only a partially furled jib. Even close-hauled (sailors’ lingo for pointing very close into the wind) we are still doing a good seven knots (though Rick reminds me that two of those knots are probably from the current). Tortue heels way over and the tension on the rig is palpable throughout the boat. I’m not at all sick (I’m patched up today) but I find these sailing conditions to be very frightening. I had begun to think of the water as my home with its familiar rise and fall, but this is a very angry sea.  It is engrossed in its own power, massively indifferent to our presence. The waves are enormous and we are being tossed around like flotsam and jetsam. I feel completely insignificant.

Rick actually loves this kind of sailing. He stands in the cockpit, constantly balancing himself as the boat rocks and sways, sporting a toothy grin on that bearded face. I, on the other hand, have wedged myself into a corner and I am not moving!

Once through Woods Hole we're flying up Buzzard’s Bay, basically sailing into the armpit of Cape Cod. The wind is still just as strong here, but we can sail at a slightly different angle and take slightly less of a beating from the waves.  Rick points out a particular house he likes on the shore and I want to get a picture of it, but that would mean going down below to get the camera and I meant what I said – I’m not moving. I envy Rick for his nimble-footed freedom on the boat. I know it’s a psychological problem I have with moving about a fun-house boat at all the wrong angles, but I just can’t force myself to do it. Rick leaves the tiller in the care of his self-steering wind vane and pops down below to get the camera.

Here's the scene inside the cabin; notice the angle on the gimbled lantern and the hanging towel on the port (left) side:

Does this remind anyone of that Fred Astaire movie where he dances on the ceiling?

After an hour or so, I decide that this trip would go a whole lot faster if I could sleep through some of it, so I brave my way below to the forward cabin to take a nap. With each roll and knock of the boat, I find myself more and more paranoid that Rick will fall off and I won’t even know that I’ve lost him. Rick is trying to take some video of the boat under way, and I keep calling up to him to make sure he’s still there.


"Please don't fall off the boat!"

At long last, we motor in to Onset and find Tim on his big beautiful Tartan 37. Tim is a long time friend of Rick’s and a fellow member of the philosophy department at Loyola University in Baltimore. During the school year, Rick and Tim have regular boys’ nights out playing pool at the Dead End Saloon where they are well known to the regular clientele as “the Professors”.  Note the bad-boy beard – apparently de rigueur for a philosopher-turned-sailor.

We raft up our boats and then Rick and I go for a quick swim to cool off. We have a regular swimming routine where we swim laps around the boat, just to make sure we get some kind of exercise. I’m not sure that twice around is really that much of a benefit, but it feels good anyway.

After showers and a change of clothes, we board Tim’s boat for some drinks and conversation. We have quite a lively talk about Nietzsche and Wagner – what else would two philosophers and a musician talk about? -  and then climb into Rick’s dinghy for the trip into Wareham for dinner. The dinghy has lost some of its air over the last few weeks, and with all three of us weighting it down the trip is a mighty soggy one, and we make it ashore boasting wet behinds along with our appetites.

We take a short walk over to Mark Anthony’s – a funky little place with a great deal of local color. This is a diner extraordinaire with a huge menu of burgers, club sandwiches, and Italian specialties, but the real reason to go there is for the pizza and the steamed clams. The place is haphazardly decorated with Red Socks memorabilia, pizza boxes and pictures of Elvis, and the sound of Rat Pack crooners coming from the juke box competes with the yells from within the kitchen. We order two buckets of steamed clams and start right in while we wait for our pizza. The kitchen staff announce pizza orders with the phrase, “You’re all set!” and the repetition of the phrase provides a background for all conversation. We end up waiting a long time for our pizza because in the ever-present confusion our box was mistakenly picked up by someone else. A fresh pizza is made for us, and we finally get the satisfaction of hearing, “Tim, you’re all set!”

After dodging the family of skunks that lives in the little park overlooking Onset Harbor, we dinghy back to our boats in the dark.  It’s been great to see Tim – it’s too bad we need to leave so soon, but our deadline is looming large and we need to catch the morning tide through the canal for Provincetown.

Hitting the Wall

Well, it was bound to happen. I’ve been just too darned happy. You can’t tempt the Gods that way; they don’t like it, and they’ll make you pay.

The problem really started when we left Block Island and I chose to go without a scopolamine patch. Rick knows a number of sailors who suffer from seasickness and they tend to adjust after a week or two. We have both wondered if that might happen to me; the big question is whether using pharmacological seasickness aids would interfere with my ability to adjust. We’ve been on the water for two weeks now and I’m ready for an experimental sea-trial. Besides, I figure if I run into trouble I can always take a Zofran.

We motor out of the harbor at Block Island and set our course for Cuttyhunk, the westernmost of the Elizabeth Islands. I set to work washing dishes. Rick and I have a fairly traditional division of labor aboard the boat – he does the heavy lifting and the mechanical business of sailing and I do more of the tidying up. This is not because Rick is above such things, but rather because I am somewhat limited in my ability to contribute. I’m learning more about sailing every day, but I’m still not that strong or knowledgeable, so in the meantime I pitch in by doing the dishes.

I stay up on deck for the duration of this 8 hour trip because I’m very aware that I am patch-naked and I don’t want to set off a bout of seasickness by going below. When we start out it is sunny and lovely, with a light breeze behind us, and we fly the spinnaker for a good half of the day. I am amazed at how “normal” I feel – perhaps a bit dull and dimwitted compared with my usual self, but definitely not sick. As we approach Cuttyhunk, the sky begins to cloud over and the wind poops out so we motor the rest of the way into the harbor.

Rick actually doesn’t want to stay here; the boats are really packed in tight and it feels like a waterborne RV campground. We’re really only here to get oysters and clams from the Raw Bar boat – Cuttyhunk’s version of the muffin man, except that instead of peddling baked goods it’s seafood they deliver. To our great disappointment, they are sold out of oysters, so we have to content ourselves with clams and some expertly cooked shrimp cocktail.

There are some interesting boats here. We are temporarily anchored next to a brand spanking new, forty-two foot Hinckley – the Cadillac of traditional sailboats, and VERY expensive. We watch their kids dangle from the mast, one in the bosun’s chair and another in a similarly rigged up sling. We presume that the owner, who is from Andover according to the stern of his boat, must be a snooty, self-important jerk, probably a lawyer, and we are humbled and embarrassed when he turns out to be an utterly sweet man. From the short conversation we have with him, it is clear that while we suffer from a bit of boat envy for the size and sophistication of his craft, he, on the other hand, is quite wistful for the simplicity and freedom of our small boat. 

After scoring our seafood from the Raw Bar we set out for Nashawena Island, just a short hop away, and anchor close to shore. We are the only boat here, and other than seagulls, cormorants and a pair of seals who poke their heads up periodically, we have the place to ourselves. I feel like we have established pretty clearly that I have adjusted to the motion of the water and that I am no longer in need of medication – a red letter day to be sure. I am a bit more tired and flat than usual, and I probably should be at least a little concerned about that, but I figure after a good night’s sleep…

In the morning we take the dinghy in to shore. Nashawena is a privately owned island, and we know we’re really not supposed to land there, but the landscape looks like Ireland and we just can’t resist. We don’t see any people or houses, so…  We hike through the bay bushes and make it to the top of a bluff where we have a look around. Suddenly, Rick sees what looks like a dog, or maybe a coyote or similar dog-like wild animal. Rick knows that there are cattle on this island so it’s not much of a stretch to think that there might be a dog around to keep strangers out, though this critter really doesn't look or act like a dog.  Rick searches around for a rock or two that he can use as a weapon if we get attacked, but the place is littered only with large boulders and cow pies and he comes up empty-handed. We see the animal eyeing us from a fair distance, its large pointy ears making a forbidding silhouette against the morning sun, and we hightail it back to our dinghy.

Safely back on Tortue, we decide it’s probably time to leave. We start up the engine and motor through Quicks Hole on our way to Martha’s Vineyard. The wind is finally up – way up - and Rick happily sets the sails for an engine-free afternoon. As soon as the sails are up, the boat heels to one side – a familiar phenomenon to sailors, but a rare occurrence on this Baltimore to Maine voyage. We have done precious little actual sailing, and while it’s very true that I am adjusted to the motion of the sea, I am adjusted to it from the perspective of a basically horizontal motor boat. As soon as we are heeled over I start feeling very, very bad. Rick gets me a Zofran, which dissolves on my tongue and I immediately feel better. Almost just as immediately, I fall dead asleep – I completely check out.

I wake up just as Rick is pulling down the sails; we are entering the harbor at Vineyard Haven. I am fine, although still a bit groggy and feeling more than a bit defeated by the events of the day. After anchoring, Rick suggests going into town and I am all over that idea. Anything to get off that boat. We stop for ice cream – something we can’t have on a boat with a simple ice box – and do a little walking around.

That's MINE on the right!

It’s regatta weekend at the Vineyard and there is a huge assortment of sailboats in the water. The line of competing boats stretches well out into the Sound. The schooners are particularly impressive with their big gaff-rigged sails and their multi-man crews.

I wish I was more into it.  At this point, all I want is to be magically transported home where I can take a real shower, put on clean DRY clothes, curl up on the sofa, and watch Ally McBeal reruns in a house that doesn’t move. Is that just too much to ask? Rick allows that maybe we could break our “no Netflix on the boat” rule, just this once, and I find a particularly vacuous romantic comedy for us to watch. I would have loved to have popcorn too, but my stomach just isn’t up for it. That alone is a clear indicator of just how badly I feel. Less than half way into the movie, Rick is getting restless – my philosopher husband needs something a bit more challenging, so we switch to some BBC Masterpiece Theater production of an E.M.Forster novel. We can hardly hear the dialogue due to the practically nonexistent volume coming out of my computer speakers, and who really cares anyway since we can’t decipher the strong British accents. The whole thing is a bust. I love Rick very much, and I know he is very secure about my feelings for him, but right now, I really want to be alone. Easier said than done on a little sailboat.

At the very least, I’ve learned that I need to use the scopolamine patch all the time while on the boat. The patch really does counter seasickness, where Zofran only deals with the nausea. Sleepiness is a symptom of seasickness, which is why I basically passed out for the entire time we were under sail today. It really is kind of silly to try and go medication-free when the only side effect of the patch is a little dry mouth. So I sound a little like Lauren Bacall…  All right, sometimes it’s more like Jimmy Durante, who cares?  I slap on a patch and go to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day, I’m certain of it…

New Kids on the Block

We leave the Thimbles early and head out into the Long Island Sound once again. Today is almost an exact duplicate of yesterday, minus the loss of a valued crew member of course. The heat, the lack of wind, the flies; it’s enough to drive one insane. We rig up a pasta pot with some line to use as a bucket replacement – we’ve been calling it “Mrs. Wilson”.

We enter the Race near the end of the afternoon, and it is wild. Of rather short duration, the Race is a spot towards the end of the Sound where the depth rises quite suddenly from 200 feet or so to around 100 – half as much. All that water is pulled by the strong tidal current over a much smaller space, and the surface boils like a pot of soup. We whip around in the mess, but we’re prepared for it this time.  When we left Barnegat Light that early morning last week we neglected to batten everything down; no wonder there were pots and pans and other things flying around inside the boat. We are wiser and safer now of course, but maybe things are a little less exciting too…

Once through the Race, everything changes – the water is a deep blue, the air is cool and smells of the ocean, and the flies almost magically disappear. Rick considers this the turning point of the trip; in fact we are about halfway in every sense, having been out two of our four weeks and having come 250 miles or so.  We are now officially in the northern waters. We sit together on the bow and watch the approach to Block Island.

Block Island is a sort of pear shaped mass of land with a natural round harbor in the middle called Great Salt Pond. Arriving is real cause for celebration, and Rick surprises me with champagne and my favorite snack in the world – popcorn!

We plan to have dinner at the little marina restaurant, but a storm is brewing and Rick is worried about our anchor holding, so we stay on board. The storm is impressive, with heavy winds, lightning and plenty of rain. In the end our anchor is fine, but some unlucky boat fairly near to us comes loose and the emergency tow boat has to come out and haul it away before it does damage to the other boats. Who knows where the owner of that boat is, but they’re in for a rude awakening when they get back from dinner…

We awaken the next morning with the sound of someone yelling. It turns out to be Aldo, the muffin man – a bakery owner who sells pastries and croissants out of his boat. How incredibly decadent! I think I’m going to like it here.

We decide to take the day off from traveling and spend the day exploring Block Island. This is the first day off since Cape May, and I am really up for a day on dry land. We take the dinghy in, and rent bikes for the day. Rick shows me a map of the island and we choose a route that follows along the coast. I purposely choose this route because I’m assuming it will be mostly flat; boy am I wrong! It’s a rolling landscape with periodic views of the water, and while I love the New England cottagey feel to the island, I wish it is an easier ride (or that I am in better shape). Some saintly entrepreneur named Zoe has set-up a self-serve roadside lemonade stand at the southern end of the island, “Zoe’s Zesty Lemonade,” and we take full advantage.

Our intention is to ride around the circumference of the island and end up at the marina for the dinner we missed last night. When Rick has visited Block Island in the past, he has always eaten there; the food is OK, but the real attraction is the setting if you can get a table outside. Rick is of course leading the way on his bike as I struggle up the hills, and when we pass by a big beautiful inn he can’t resist checking it out. The Spring House is a big white Victorian affair in the grand style of seaside resorts of the day. It reminds me a great deal of the Grand Hotel on Mackinaw Island, MI, with its white façade, wrap-around porch and angle towards the water. It’s quite a bit smaller than the GH, but clearly the same vintage.

We decide to stop for drinks; I don’t know if this is a good idea since we still need to balance on top of our bikes for the rest of the ride home, but what-the-heck, we’re on vacation. The other guests on the porch are casually, but stylishly dressed in that preppy, yachty (snooty) way that only those who don’t fit in will recognize. I still have on my trusty baseball cap, because underneath it I have a wicked case of hat-hair.  Both of my calves are literally covered in bicycle grease, and my hands are both black from the handlebars. All the same, the staff treat us like VIPs, and the view from the porch is so wonderful, we decide to stay for dinner after all.

Just a word about Rick’s beard – It is getting quite out of hand! Beside the fact that it is very grey and contrasts with the hair on his head, it obscures the handsome, boyish face that I love. He’s past the prickly stage, so I guess I can deal with a furry face, but it’s starting to feel like kissing Santa Claus. I’ve been calling him, “The Most Interesting Man in the World”, after those Dos Equis commercials from a few years ago.  We still have almost two weeks to go, and by then he’s going to look like Rip van Winkle.

Here's a clean-shaven Rick on the shake-down cruise, three weeks ago:

And here's... what can one say:

We move to the other side of the Spring House for dinner which is unbelievably good – it’s a bit pricey, but absolutely worth every penny.  By now definitely tipsy, we get back on our bikes with just enough time to race back to the marina before dark. We pass through the village proper where they have erected a statue of “Rebecca”. We learn from a local  that, ironically enough, she was a prohibitionist heroine of some sort.

It is well after dark when we climb into the dinghy, but the full moon on the now still water lights our way. Back on our boat, I have to say that I love Block Island. Can we just stay here?