Hurricanes and Hidey-Holes

Manhasset, NY

Many parts of our country and the Caribbean have been hit hard recently with a whole series of hurricanes. Harvey, Irma, Jose, Maria… My heart goes out to all those who have lost loved ones, property, livelihoods. I’m horrified by what’s currently happening in Puerto Rico, and the indefensible neglect by our government in its pitiful relief effort there.

As frightening as all of these awful storms have been, life is actually pretty boring here on Valkyrie. Hurricanes have been known to come as far north as Maine, but very rarely; once hitting the cooler northern waters most storms weaken or die out altogether. The season for these colossal storms goes from June first to the end of November, and we were well aware of this when planning the itinerary for our year away. As much as I have not enjoyed the cold climate of New England in September, I am thankful that we have managed to stay relatively safe.

Even so, some of these storms can still wreak havoc long after having been downgraded from hurricane status. The remnants of Jose passed through our neck of the woods last week, and Maria’s distant spinoff will likely impact us a bit tomorrow. What does a live-aboard sailor do during one of these events? We search out unusually tight, safe harbors – “hurricane holes” in sailor speak – and hunker down, preferably on a mooring or in a slip.

Rick and I had spent a lovely few days on Block Island where we enjoyed the eerily deserted off-season anchorage and beach, but with the threat of Jose looming, we up-anchored and headed for Greenport, NY, inside the Long Island Sound. Walter, the man who sold us our boat, is the yard manager at Brewer’s Boatyard, and he secured us a slip to keep us safe from any strong storm effects. The marina was all aflutter with pre-hurricane activity, the yard crew adding extra fenders to various yachts, securing lines and dinghies, moving boats around.

Once in the slip, we had to figure out what to do with our dinghy. This is one of those times when an inflatable would have been much more convenient. You could get away with leaving one of those in the water as along as it was securely tethered inside the slip. But a hard dink could do serious damage to itself by knocking up against the dock, even with fenders. You’re really supposed to lash your dinghy to the deck of your boat, inflatable or not, but Yalma weighs about 160 pounds - almost twice as much as an inflatable would. How do you get her up there?

 

Yalma was really dirty!

Lucky thing about sailboats, there are a myriad of lines and pulleys (they’re called blocks) and things that you can repurpose to do all kinds of jobs. We used the main halyard and winch to pull the dinghy out of the water and onto our cabin top. Jeff, the manager (boss) of the marina, suggested that we remove the two headsails from their rollers as well. He actually gave us a copy of the marina’s home produced list for “Hurricane Preparedness” that included taking down all of your sails and removing your outboard motor from the stern rails. Rick thought all of this was overkill, since Jose was no longer a hurricane after all. All of the northern boaters’ hysteria surrounding this storm reminded me a lot of Baltimoreans when the weather forecast includes one or two snowflakes and the whole town goes nuts emptying out the grocery store shelves. Mysteriously, toilet paper is always the first item to sell out. I've seen people coming out of the store toting twenty-four roll mega packs of TP, barely fitting them into their SUVs. God forbid, you might have a power outage lasting a whole day and then run out of toilet paper!!!

On the other hand, a few years ago Rick and I witnessed what can happen if one of your sails gets loose from its furler. Baltimore had a derecho blow through – a short but intense storm, 70 knot hurricane force winds, very rare – and a neighboring boat had their headsail shredded when it came loose. I knew we’d probably feel stupid if we took extraordinary precautions and then Jose didn’t really amount to much around here, but I also knew that we’d feel really stupid if we did nothing and then suffered damages. I mean, if you’re going to feel stupid either way, I’d rather feel stupid with my equipment intact. We ended up leaving up our mainsail, but putting on extra ties. We completely removed our two headsails from their rollers.We took down our bimini, but left the dodger.

In the end, Jose ended up being a giant dud. We didn’t even get more than a light rain, and the winds, while strong, were just not that bad. But hey, we were in a marina so we got to use the showers and laundry facilities – a complete luxury! We also got to see our wonderful boating friends Rick and Lynne who entertained us with two night’s worth of dinners and companionship in their home near Greenport. No one’s complaining here!

After three days at a slip, we were ready to be off on our own. The winds were still pretty strong though, too strong to sail, so we motored over to anchor near Shelter Island – a great storm hole, hence the name. We stayed there for a few days, waiting out the weather. It was mighty crowded inside the cabin because those sails were still down below, folded up but heavy and very bulky, along with the dinghy inserts and cockpit cushions. Rick and I each had one little place to sit. The internet and phone connections were terrible there too, so boredom and cabin fever quickly set in. No, we didn't run out of toilet paper. 

The View - with Yalma lashed down

Thankfully, after three days, the winds had died down enough to motor down to Manhasset where we grabbed a mooring ball and were finally able to put up our sails and re-launch the dinghy. Now we’re just waiting out Maria.

Trying to get out of the sun and away from the sound of the engine

Mannhasset/Port Washington is a great place to hang out though – access to a great grocery and liquor store, movies and restaurants. There’s been no wind at all, and we’ve been enjoying the Indian summer with temps in the 80’s. Our plan is to leave tomorrow for Sandy Hook, and then do an all nighter for a Cape May arrival on Saturday. No. More. Hurricanes. 

Please.

Never Put Off 'Til Tomorrow...Or September

It turns out that if you wait too long for something, it might just be gone by the time you get there. We’ve been experiencing that lesson a few times over now that the short summer season of the north is over and September has arrived. With our calendars cleared of our usual school and orchestra commitments, we were looking forward to enjoying a few leisurely weeks along the northern coastline with cooler weather and the absence of tourists. We definitely got that cooler weather (see previous blog post here), and also a more thorough understanding of why the tourists have all gone home – it’s f***ing COLD up here!

We’ve made seeing family and friends a priority, but it’s rather embarrassing to admit that our close-second priority has been to visit all of our favorite eating spots. We had yet, for instance, to indulge our craving for fried clams and steamed lobsters at Holbrooks before leaving Maine. We’ve been salivating over the memory of our last visit, now fully three years ago. We made a plan to meet up with Barb and Jeff at the seaside restaurant, the perfect way to kill two birds with one stone.

After an extremely rough passage from Boothbay to Harpswell that left me sick as a dog and clutching a bucket for hours, we pull in to Holbrooks, only to discover that they are closed. CLOSED! For the SEASON! Not that my stomach would have welcomed fried clams right then, but hey, it’s the principle of the thing!

Rick quickly made friends with the guys on the lobster boat that pulled in nearby, and bought bugs for us to cook in our galley. Rick tends to get back a little of his Maine drawl when he’s up here, particularly after conversing with the locals for any length of time, and his accent was strongly in force that night (can you say “lobstah and cawn”?). Barb and Jeff stopped at a grocery on their way to join us, and we ended up having a fine meal anyway; they even brought steamers (clams). They are family of course, but they are also great friends, and it’s tough to leave Maine knowing that we probably won’t see them for an entire year.

Hoping to get south as quickly as we can, we leave the next morning for Onset Bay in Massachusetts. If we do an overnight passage off shore we can cover one-hundred-and-forty miles in just over one day, and bypass Portland, Provincetown and Plymouth. It’s a cold, bumpy passage, and even though I don’t need the bucket this time, I’m still not up to helping out with the sailing duties. Rick is on station for the entire bone-chilling trip.

Much as I’m looking forward to getting down to more temperate climes, I’m sorry to be missing Provincetown. Maybe we could have gotten fried clams. But at least we had a few days of fun there on our way up in early August.

During that visit I insisted on taking in a matinee movie at the little theater in town, always a great excuse to feed my popcorn habit (You know that scene in The Wizard of Oz where the Wicked Witch is casting an irresistible spell over Dorothy and her compadres, saying, “Poppies, Paaaahpeees”? In my world she’s saying, “Popcorn, Paaaahpcooorn.”). The film we chose to see was The Big Sick, a true story about the relationship between a Pakistani-born comedian with a traditional family, and a Caucasian woman he falls in love with and can’t quite bring home to meet the family. No spoilers for those who haven’t seen it yet, it is definitely a comedy, but there were parts of it that brought me to tears. Maybe it was a result of video deprivation from more than a month on the boat, but I found myself weeping onto Rick’s shoulder.

After the movie, we stumble out onto the street. Blinking from the sudden sunlight (and some leftover tears), we are unprepared for the crowds of people milling around the main drag. Out of the blue, I see Scarbie, the local drag queen who rides around town on her pink bicycle, selling tickets to her show “Lipschtick”. We’ve never seen her show, but she is a regular feature in Provincetown, a real local celebrity, with her signature tall hats and heels. She happens to be right in front of us, posing for pictures with some fans. I get the bright idea to get my picture taken with her too.

I waltz right up to her, but the minute I try to open my mouth to say something witty, I’m suddenly aware that I’m wearing grubby foul weather clothes (it had threatened rain earlier), no make-up, I have wicked hat hair, and I can’t remember if I put deodorant on. Here I am approaching this totally made-up diva in flamboyant colors, probably wearing perfume, and much more feminine than me. I’m completely tongue-tied. I’m sure I’m coming off as a blubbering idiot.

Scarbie is completely unfazed by my plain-janeness, and even graciously whispers instructions for picture posing (“Hand on your hip, put out your leg and point your toe, etc…”). Jeez, putting on a femme persona turns out to be a lot of work, which is probably why I don’t do it very often, or even very well. I thank her profusely, laughing nervously and becoming ever more embarrassed by my self-consciousness. Rick tells me right afterwards that I had popcorn in my teeth (Paaaahpcooorn).

We bought tickets for the next evening’s performance of “Lipschtick”, and laughed our heads off at Scarbie’s gender bending humor. She loves to poke fun at LGBT stereotypes, and the best parts of the show were the audience participation jokes and the ad libbing that ensued. I made sure to wear something at least a little less boaty/sporty but I don't think I made any better of an impression. I'm pretty sure my teeth were clean though.

We fully intended to revisit P-town on our way back south, but I wonder how many of our favorite places would have gone the way of Holbrooks and closed up after Labor Day. As it turns out, even Onset has gone quiet with abandoned beaches and empty parking lots. Rick took a brief nap after anchoring (he’d been up for twenty-six hours), and then we dinghied in for the ritual pizza and clams at Marc Anthony’s. Alas however, we are again too late; clam season is over. We had to content ourselves with just the pizza. 

 

You can't see it, but one hand is on my hip and my toe is pointed..

Cold, Colds and Colder

In all of my daydreams and fantasies about living on a boat, I always pictured myself as strong and healthy (and of course young and thin, but that goes without saying…). Somehow, I never considered what it would be like to get the flu or some other malady while living in this cramped space, surrounded by water, and with all of the inconveniences that involves. We didn’t even have any cough medicine on board. Yeah. My bad.

I came back to the boat from a two-day trip to Baltimore with a slight but annoying cough. Oh well, a summer cold, I thought. It’ll be short-lived in the heat. I’ll probably barely notice it. We had friends scheduled to visit us in Rockland with their two young teenaged boys, driving over from Vermont for a weekend of fun and sailing.  “Sure, come-on ahead,“ I said.

Beautiful - but freezing - Penobscot Bay

Meanwhile, the weather had gotten colder. The days were still nice, sunny even, but they were cold enough to no longer be shorts and t-shirt weather, and the night times were downright frigid. By the time our friends arrived, my cough had turned into a dry hacky rattle, and I really felt like dirt. They had already planned to spend their nights in a hotel, but the thought of hosting even these best of friends in our little abode for meals and sailing made me want to crawl into the bottom of my sleeping bag and never come out again. How awkward when the source of entertainment you have to offer is also your bedroom. Or in this case, sickroom, cesspool, etc.. It didn’t help that I was also in desperate need of a shower.

I made Rick meet them on shore and try to keep them entertained there. They spent the entire weekend going to museums, parks, restaurants and movies, all things I would have loved to do. Instead, I was left alone on the boat to drown in my own phlegm, binge watching The Handmaid’s Tale and hacking up a lung. On the last day of their visit, Rick went in early to meet our friends for breakfast before their long drive back home, and before he left I made a request that he bring me back a scone or muffin or something. I’d been living on peanut butter sandwiches and was deeply longing for something more palatable to eat with my tea, as long as I didn’t have to hover over a stove and make it myself. I also wanted to feel like I got something even remotely fun out of the weekend. When Rick returned with nothing (he forgot), I acted just like the five-year-old I really am and cried.

That night, Rick tried to lift my spirits by taking me in for the ultimate boaters’ date – a shower and dinner ashore. Unfortunately, the showers at the public dock required tokens, and the person who sells the tokens had already gone home. We went to dinner anyway, Rick looking handsome and wonderful (he had taken a shower at our friends’ hotel), and me with very dirty hair, no makeup, a red, raw nose, and a noisy, ugly cough. Of course, the waitress spent a good deal of time flirting with Rick. This is a somewhat usual occurrence – a natural consequence of marrying someone more beautiful than myself – but on this particular evening it was unusually deflating.

I did get slowly better over the next couple of days. We even managed to go in for a movie at The Strand (the BEST vintage theater EVER!) and got Rockland lobsters to steam on the boat.

Now we’re at Southport Island, near Boothbay, laying over for a few days while parts arrive for some work we need done to our engine. My wretched cough is unfortunately still hanging on, but at least Rick hasn’t come down with it. You’d think that being south of Rockland would give us warmer weather, but the cold seems to have followed us down here. The last few days have hovered in the low sixties with big winds and some rain, but the nights have gotten down to the mid-forties, cold enough to pile on all of the extra blankets. Thank heaven for our little propane heater.

Definitely time to head South.