Having made it through Manhattan, the next leg of our trip is the one-hundred-plus mile trek Northeast up the Long Island Sound to Block Island. The Sound is a tidal body of water – Rick describes it as a giant piston that surges back and forth with the tides. It is, of course, helpful to try and go with the current if possible, but not completely necessary until you get to “The Race” at the Northeast end of the Sound. The Race is a sort of bottle neck at the upper end of the sound that accelerates the tides to 4 knots or so. A small sailboat like ours just can’t compete with that current. It will take us several days to reach Block Island, the exact number to be determined by the wind.
Before leaving Manhasset, we take the dinghy ashore to replenish our supplies at the local Stop and Shop. We end up buying much more than we had planned – it’s a case of our eyes being bigger than our dinghy. Among the extra items is a small sun umbrella that is intended to clamp on to the back of a beach chair. I am hopeful that we can rig this up somehow to help me in my perpetual search for shade on the boat.
On our way back, we come across a sailboat that has spectacularly run aground right there in the Marina. Sailboat operators have to constantly watch the depth under their boats because, unlike motor boats, they have a keel that descends a number of feet below the water line. The “Meander” obviously meandered onto a sand bar and stuck there. Then the tide went out and left the boat lying on its side. This is a very embarrassing spot to be in for a sailor. Rick really feels for the guy, because he’s been there himself with Tortue. Hopefully, when the tide comes back in, the water will help the boat to right itself, and he’ll be able to float off the sand bar.
The wind is up and there are a lot of sailboats out today. We up anchor and head out into the Sound. The sun awning that we rigged up so happily in the Chesapeake is not usable when we are under sail because it utilizes the boom as part of its frame. If the mainsail is up you can’t use that sunshade; that’s where the newly purchased umbrella comes in. I don’t think Rick is very fond of the thing – it adds a clownish look to an otherwise serious looking boat – but he tolerates it for my sake, and I love him for that.
There are an astounding number of enormous estates that line the shore of Long Island. These homes do not look like summer cottages, and a great many of them have obviously been around since the turn of the century, or soon thereafter. There are others, however, that are much more recently built, and they seem obscenely ostentatious to my eye. Some people have apparently done very well in this recession.
We head into Oyster Bay to spend the night. There is a pair of swans swimming nearby, and Rick comments that he has never seen swans close up. I grew up in a small town in Michigan that had a flock of swans; we used to save our bread crusts to feed them. I know that if you look like you are throwing something into the water, they will come over and see if there is anything edible. These swans are clearly OK with people, because as soon as we mime throwing something, they make a bee-line for our boat. These swans look so sweet and elegant, but in real life I find them kind of scary. The male is very aggressive about getting our bread crumbs, and when we aren’t throwing crumbs fast enough for him, he rears up on his legs and hisses at us. The ungrateful coot! I’m really afraid he is going to launch himself right into our boat. When the bread runs out we can’t get rid of them. We end up doing what we usually do at Halloween when we run out of candy – turn out all the lights and pretend we’re not home.
The next morning the swans are gone. It is swelteringly hot, and dead calm. We want to take advantage of the current, so we decide to leave fairly early. After a quick morning swim, we retrace our steps out into the sound, and make our way to our next stop – Port Jefferson. Rick whips up a dynamite breakfast while under way – eggs, fried potatoes and corn salsa. I don’t think I’m going to lose any weight on this trip…
We pass some oystermen fishing with some very long poles.
Now here’s a guy after my own heart!
Port Jefferson is a little waterside village with industrial roots – it apparently has a long history as a shipbuilding village. I wouldn’t describe the dock area as quaint; there are a number of big commercial vessels either docking or on their way out, and the whole scene is dominated by the three giant smokestacks of the local power plant. We need to fill our fuel tank, so we pull in to the dock just behind a pleasure cruiser the size of the Queen Mary.
I don’t really like the feel of the place. Too big and busy. We decide to keep our distance and anchor just inside the entrance to the channel. Of course, after no wind all day, once we are anchored the wind comes WAY up, and we get bounced around a bit. We watch a set of sailing school students racing around in their 14 foot centerboarders and then settle in for the night. Maybe we’ll venture into town tomorrow….
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