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?

Wilson is Dead

It is a sad day aboard Tortue. Wilson is no longer with us.

But more about that later. The day started out well enough…

It is a sunny Tuesday morning in Port Jefferson. We putter about the boat, performing our morning routines. The latest plan is that we will spend the day here because the tidal charts and the weather predictions point to Thursday as the day to go through the Race and land on Block Island. It will take us two days to get there, and the wind is supposed to be very strong from the wrong direction today, so we will head out tomorrow, probably for Duck Island. Neither of us is enamored of the harbor here, but the town is supposed to be nice, and we just might change our minds about the place if we spend a day in town. I do some research about museums, movies, etc..

As the morning progresses, the wind is actually favorable for leaving today. Rick keeps checking the predictions, but they don’t jibe with the actual. He finally decides that we need to leave now, and head over to the Connecticut side of the Sound to the Thimble Islands, skip Duck Island, and arrive at Block on Wednesday night. Apparently, this kind of last minute plan change is a big part of cruising. I have had to completely change my attitude about plans since the start of this trip; I am someone who thrives on predictability, and when plans change, I tend to sputter and whine for a while before accepting the new plan. Rick is a natural for cruising – he basically never considers any plan a done deal, and can pivot from pretty much any point. I must be evolving, because today’s back and forth doesn’t faze me in the least; I’m ready to go.

The wind is light and directly behind us, which is not great for sailing. It’s a bit counterintuitive, but for good sailing you really need the wind to be coming across your boat at an angle; you can then adjust your sails to fill with air. For most boats, sailing directly downwind is the least efficient, which is why we have… spinnakers. These sails always remind me of hot air balloons, with their typically bright colors, and their large bulbous shape. When you see one, you usually see a lot of them, since all the boats out on a given day are dealing with the same wind conditions. Ours is a bright red and white sail, and it’s beautiful against the blue sky.

There’s not a lot to do on a day like this. Now that my seasickness is under control, I can read or even go below if I want. I decide to do a little hand sewing on a quilt project that I brought along. Some months ago I went through a particularly obsessive EBay period, looking for a hand crank sewing machine that I might take on the boat. I wanted to work on quilts and other sewing projects while Rick was reading and doing academic work. A sewing machine that worked without electricity seemed a great thing for the boat, and I finally settled on a small German machine. In the end, we decided not to bring it because, although it takes up relatively little space, it’s very heavy; you don’t want a thirty pound sewing machine rolling around in the bottom of a sailboat in a big storm. Also, in my excitement about a self powered sewing machine, I forgot that I would also need an iron to press seams with – that takes a LOT of electricity. In the end, I decided to bring a little sewing kit and do some hand appliqué.

It is very hot, and a swim would be very welcome, but we would have to slow down the boat by lowering the spinnaker, and that will only add more time to our trip. Rick enjoys a number of seawater dowsings instead, using his faithful rubber bucket to gather up the water. He treats me to a couple of bucket showers as well; the water is cold, cold, COLD! I scream every time, but immediately ask for more.

This bucket is like an old friend for Rick; it has accompanied him to Maine and back for the last five years, and is useful for many purposes about the boat. We use it for gathering water for doing dishes and cleaning the decks, and for cool-off dowsing sessions on hot days. Rick has spoken lovingly about this bucket several times on this trip – it’s the perfect size and weight, it’s made out of a good quality rubber, the handle is perfect for boaters’ purposes, and it is expensive ($18 – I guess that’s expensive for a bucket).

We are only going about 4.5 knots, but even that moderate speed feels like nothing on the boat because the wind is behind us. The air actually feels pretty stagnant, and we get inundated with flies. These are the annoying little beasts that bite hard, mostly around your ankles. I don’t know how they find us; it’s as though the word got out that there is a meal to be had on our boat, and the flies come in a steady stream. Luckily, Rick has an assortment of fly swatters on board, and we while away the hours competing for the honor of Most Prolific Fly Killer. We start out feeling a bit sorry for the poor critters, but after experiencing a few too many painful bites, we become murderous fiends with exclamations like, “Take THAT you little f…ers!” and, “Die suckers, DIE!” The cockpit floor ends up covered with fly carcasses, and has to be watered down periodically to temporarily erase the carnage.

As we approach the Thimble Islands, the wind changes and we pull down the spinnaker and set the jib. Occupied with this sail change, we forget that the bucket is still perched on the afterdeck, and when we are hit with a sudden big gust of wind, the boat heels sharply, and over it goes. Rick sees it floating momentarily before it goes under the dinghy, and we make as quick a turn around as we can in order to try and retrieve it. We retrace our steps as carefully as we can, hoping against hope, but alas, the bucket is gone.

Rick is very sad over this loss; of course he knows that it is only a bucket, but he feels like he’s lost a member of his crew, and almost worse than that, he knows that he is responsible. It’s like that movie Castaway, when Tom Hanks’ character loses Wilson –  a soccer ball that becomes his alter ego, friend, compatriot and tether to sanity during his years alone on a deserted island. We take to posthumously naming the bucket Wilson, and make bittersweet jokes about the poor fellow for the rest of the day.

The Thimble Islands are an aptly named set if tiny islands, basically rocks with some vegetation on them. Some of the islands are “The Little Prince” sized rocks, with one little house perched on top, and maybe a tree or shrub as well. Others have a number of little cottages squeezed in together and a bit more greenery. I immediately fall in love with the place – some of the cottages are indeed large, but the whole set of islands has a strong community feel to it. I imagine that the inhabitants all know one another, and that the children grow up together summer after summer. I may be quite wrong about this of course, but I like the fantasy, and will keep it until proven otherwise.

We have a delicious swim in the water, and then make our dinner. The light at the end of the day is quite magical, and we sit on the deck of the boat and watch as the light slowly fades. It would have been a perfect day, but for Rick's poor, lost, beloved Wilson…

Luong Giland Sound

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….