The Long Way Round

Wending our way up the Jersey coast. We haven’t done this trip in this particular way for years, opting instead to take a thirty-six hour shortcut directly from Cape May to Block Island. This time, this last time, we had decided to go slowly, to draw all the enjoyment possible from each stop along the way. The weather gods seem to be doubling down on that decision, forcing us to stay in some places even longer than we would have chosen to.

Approaching Atlantic City

We are hoping to get up to Manhattan in three quick hops; Atlantic City, Barnegat Light, and Sandy Hook. The first stop, Atlantic City, goes according to plan, but heading out the next day for Barnegat, we encounter some fog. 

A pod of dolphins accompanying us

I’m not sure we would have chosen to travel today if we had known how thick the fog would become. But by the time it turns into a real problem, it’s too late to turn back. The visibility is terrible; we can see only a few feet from the boat before we are enveloped in a thick gray soup. Rick has to rely completely on the chart plotter, the boat’s GPS system, which shows buoys and channel markers, but cannot tell him if there is another boat nearby. We really cannot see those buoys until we are right on top of them. At the entrance to the Barnegat Channel, two coast guard boats come suddenly into view, ghostly apparitions, hanging in the water, very close to our boat. I had a momentary thought that they were going to board our vessel, or that they were going to tell us we couldn’t go into the channel. But they pretty much ignore us. 

We turn into the channel, and Rick tells me we should be seeing the lighthouse on our port side. I stare off into the fog, not seeing a thing, until suddenly, there it is, a huge towering structure taking shape out of nothing. I am pretty freaked out. Rick keeps his cool, and tells me to keep my eye on the depth sounder. I’m not sure he really needs me to do this, but he knows I need something to keep my mind occupied. Without seeing the chart plotter, I feel very out of control. But Captain Rick knows what he’s doing; he safely guides the boat through the channel and into a good anchoring spot. 

The fog mostly lifts the next day, but the winds are very strong, and combined with a string of thundershowers, we are stuck in Barnegat for most of the week.

While we’re here, we try to stay true to our “squeeze that lemon” approach to our trip. We go ashore for dinner, visit the lighthouse up close and personal, and go to the beach almost every day. The water is way too cold for swimming, but the walks we take are very rejuvenating. 

Finally, on our last night, the winds moderate just enough for us to enjoy our first cocktail hour on the foredeck, reminding us of what we most love about cruising. Cheers!

Outta Here!

Cape May at last. We are retracing our steps from last year’s aborted voyage, and Cape May looms large as a barrier that we just couldn’t seem to get beyond. This year, the boat is in better shape, Rick is better rested, and I have proper anti-seasickness meds that are up to date. You would think our confidence level would be high, but both of us are wary of what conditions we might encounter out on the big bad ocean once we leave here. 

 Rick has been noticing that the old tried-and-true weather patterns he has relied upon for years of sailing north have changed somewhat. The winds along the Jersey coast are still reliably south-westerly. What’s different is the intensity of those winds. The “sweet spot” for us are winds in the eight to fourteen knot range, and not too much chop in the water. What seems to be happening now are days and days of much heavier winds, too much for us, and then when the wind finally moderates, there is not enough to sail on. Is climate change the culprit? Or is Rick’s preference for lighter wind a product of aging, becoming less daring, more cautious, more aware of his own mortality? 

 Whatever the answer to that question, we are stuck here for the better part of a week. One of our favorite Chinese restaurants has closed, no doubt a casualty of the pandemic, but we manage to get a wonderful seafood dinner at The Lucky Bones, which is still going strong. We rent bikes and visit a nature preserve, spend some time on the glorious beach, and even take in the Fourth of July fireworks from that beach, instead of the usual distanced vantage point of our boat. 

 Cape May is indeed enjoyable, but both of us feel the need to get going, and we seem to be just killing time before we can head north. When a day finally arrives without those incessantly strong south-westerlies, what do you know, there is virtually no wind at all. “Perfect!” I say. “We are outa here!” 

 I slap on a patch, and off we go, motoring into that beautiful blue water. We have officially crossed the Rubicon.

The Artful Dodger

I love sewing. Everything about it; the fabrics, the machinery, the design choices. Years ago I developed an obsession with vintage sewing machines, which I indulged by buying numerous old Singers on Ebay and Craigslist. I have pared down my collection somewhat, but I still have an army of them, including three hand cranks and a treadle. I also have a set of machines that I actually use; two industrial machines, three computerized modern machines, a serger and a giant long arm for quilting. Altogether, I have fifteen machines. There's probably a support group out there for people like me... 

So what does sewing have to do with sailing? True, older machines weigh enough to be used as boat anchors, but no, that’s not it. In addition to the obvious - sails! - boats require a LOT of canvas work. The marine environment with water, salt and UV rays is extremely punishing on all parts of the boat, so there is great need for cushion covers, sail covers and the like. Those UV rays are punishing on the boat owners as well, so shade must be created with metal frames and canvas covers. The two canvas covered structures found most often on all boats, not just sailboats, are called dodgers and biminis.

The dodger is basically a wind shield for when you are underway, and it requires windows that one can see through. Some dodgers are made of metal and plexiglass, and they are called “hard” dodgers, while the canvas and flexible plastic versions on a metal frame are called, unsurprisingly, “soft” dodgers. A bimini is a cabana or sun shade for the captain, and if possible, the crew. Neither dodgers nor biminis are technically essential for boating, but the vast majority of boats will have a dodger. Biminis are more optional.

Captain Rick under the bimini

Our boat came with a beautifully made soft dodger, but was absent a bimini, and being fair-skinned and freckle-prone, I convinced Rick a few years ago that we needed one. Rick enjoyed the uninterrupted view of the sky from our cockpit, so it was a major concession to agree to such a big change. He designed a stainless steel frame that fit on the stern side of the cockpit, and I made the canvas cover, using online videos and instructions off the internet. I used one of my ancient Singers - the older ones are very heavy duty - and made a simple bimini that does the job, saving a great deal of money by sewing it myself. Despite Rick’s initial sputtering about the need for a bimini, he has completely come around and is now its biggest fan!

After owning our boat for thirteen years, the dodger had gotten pretty beat. Before we could leave for this year's summer on the boat, that dodger needed to be replaced. While I am quite proud of the work I did on the bimini, a dodger is a whole different kettle of fish. It must fit tightly, no flapping around, and it is more three dimensional than the bimini and therefore more difficult to conceptualize, as well as to sew. Marine canvas making is an art, requiring skills learned in canvas-making schools, and it was a bit ballsy of me to think I could just skip all that schooling and sew myself a great dodger. I bought a specialized sewing machine, better suited to canvas work, and while that is helpful, owning the proper equipment is less than half of the battle when it comes to making a dodger. You actually need to know what you are doing. I was pretty intimidated by the prospect, and even though I had bought all the materials a year and a half ago, I kept putting off the project. I suppose I wanted to continue to bask in the success of the bimini, and not have to face the real deficiencies in my skill set.

Part of my problem was that the online site with instructions uses a design that I don’t like, a simplified dodger with windows only in the front. As a person prone to seasickness, I need to see the horizon at all times, and a panoramic view while underway is extremely important. I need a design with zippered side panels that are basically windows. I couldn’t figure out how to duplicate the dodger we already have without cutting the old one all apart, rendering it useless if I failed to make a workable new one. But time was finally running out. I had no choice but to begin.

My basement sewing studio, in utter chaos

OMG - What am I doing?

Very quickly, I realize I am in way over my head. It turns out there is a good reason people go to school to learn how to do this. D'oh! Every step of the way is a struggle. Since I am trying to duplicate our old dodger, there are no directions to follow. I have to come up with my own order of operations, and sometimes my guesses are wrong. I am using special “forever” thread that refuses to cooperate with my machine. I put the zippers in the wrong direction and have to rip all of the stitching out and start over. I run out of material and have to order more. And different zippers. And more binding. Each new day brings a new revelation that the materials I had bought so long ago are not exactly right, or they are in the wrong amounts for my particular dodger. Every day I make a new order, paying extra for fast shipping, not realizing that the next day I will be doing it again, and then again. Sometimes the company I am buying from runs out of my color and I have to go looking elsewhere. My struggles during the day are starting to invade my dreams. 

Completely Crazy Canvasmaker

In the end, I produce what I think is a close replica of the old dodger. My biggest worry is that it will be too big for the existing frame, a typical amateurish look, saggy and baggy. If that is the case, I hope I will be able to take it in. After a month and a half of work, the day of what dressmakers would call, “the first fitting” arrives. We take the thing down to the boat to try it out on the frame, and my worst fear does not materialize. No, it is way worse than that.

How is it possible that I made it too small? 

Rick and I pull the thing backwards and forwards, side to side, hoping we can stretch it into submission. It reminds me of trying on clothes when my weight is on an upswing. Surely. I. Can. Button. These. Frigging… Ugh… Jeans! 

And almost immediately, a bird pooped on it. Of course.

 
It is no use; the dodger I made does not fit. I am really panicking now. I should have just made the simpler-but-inferior version I had found on the internet. Maybe I should just do that now? There’s still time, if I pay a ton of money to rush the shipping of new materials. Or better yet, take some money out of my retirement funds and just hire someone to make it for us. Rick reminds me that it is much too late in the season to hire someone now. Anyone worth hiring is undoubtedly booked up until at least September. 

Rick has made friends with many of the other boat owners down at the marina, and one of them happens to be a canvas maker, as well as an all around nice guy. “Let’s just call Avery, and see what he has to say.” I am resistant at first, embarrassed to have a professional look at my shoddy workmanship. But in the end, I acquiesce.

Avery Boyer

Avery is my hero. He swoops in, looks over the situation, and says, “Oh yeah, this is going to work.” What did he just say? Avery sends me home with an assignment; I need to shorten (!!) the bottom edge by a half inch, and then he will meet us at the boat tomorrow and put in all the snaps that will fasten the dodger to the boat.

The next day, Avery works his magic, adjusting the frame and stretching the canvas until it’s perfect. Even with a friend’s discount, Avery’s time is expensive, but well worth every penny. My God, it looks so good, you’d think I really knew what I was doing - I'm a genius!

The Tempest

Three nights in the Bohemia. How luxurious! The water is cool and clean and perfect for swimming. We put up the sun shade that connects the bimini with the dodger, and we have a lanai, right on our boat. Swimming, reading, writing, bird watching; we take full advantage of this idyllic spot in the upper Chesapeake. 

Until…

Rick had warned me that there was a chance of thunderstorms on our second day here. It has been hotter than Hades for a week, and there’s a cold front coming our way which will likely create some storms.. We’ve been through numerous storms on this boat, some while underway, and most while at anchor, so we know the routine. Once we can see a storm coming, Rick lets out a lot of scope with the anchor chain, we close all the ports and hatches, and we settle in for a little squall. Rick loves to watch lightning shows from the companionway, and since there isn’t room for two on the companionway ladder, I have to find another place to hang out inside the boat. The biggest danger for a sailboat during a thunderstorm is a lightning strike to the mast. Our mast goes all the way through to the bottom of the keel, making it a centerpiece in the main cabin. Rick reminds me to stay away from it during the storm. Truthfully, I was very blasé about the whole thing. Been there, done that, ho hum, no big deal. I take my Kindle up to the v-berth (bedroom) and tune out the storm. The boat rocks and rolls a little, as one would expect, but I feel perfectly safe.

All of a sudden, the boat violently heels over. This is not normal, even in a storm. There is a loud rhythmic pounding sound, the whole rig is straining, and I am immediately worried that the anchor chain might snap.

Then, just as suddenly, our boat rights itself, as if nothing had just happened, and that ominous pounding is gone, with only the sound of rain on the cabin top remaining. 

I scramble out of the v-berth to find Rick at the companionway, watching the storm pass over. He tells me that the bimini canvas, caught by the wind, had ruptured part of the metal frame, leaving everything dangerously flapping. Afraid we might lose the entire thing, he had rushed out to reset the arms of the frame, if only temporarily. While he was tending to the bimini, a sudden blast of air, like a micro burst, caught the dinghy, raising it into the air and then flipping it upside down. Now, dinghies can and do flip over from time to time, but usually this happens when the waves are exceedingly high. What just happened was very strange; it appears that the wind alone caused the one-hundred-twenty-pound dink to flip.

Rick’s best guess is that we just got whacked by a tiny tornado. 

The storm is over pretty quickly, and the sun emerges from behind the dark clouds. Upon closer inspection, the canvas on the bimini has not ripped as we had feared, and Rick tightens up the frame so we’re good as new. The dinghy presents more of a problem. Rick dives into the water and tries to right the little boat, but it just will not roll back over. A vacuum has formed inside which is keeping the boat from budging. We’ll need to get creative.

Rick hooks the bow of the dinghy to the main halyard - the line used to raise and lower the mainsail - and he uses the winch to pull the boat upwards. My job is to hold the dinghy off of Valkyrie so neither boat gets damaged. As Rick is winding, I can hear the squeaks and groans of the halyard, and hope it’s strong enough for this job. The dinghy is quite resistant, but eventually we hear the “pop” of the vacuum seal being broken, and from there it’s a relatively easy task. Rick pulls the boat up, turns it, and then lowers it back down. There’s still a good deal of water inside which will need to be pumped out or hand bailed. A slight problem emerges though - the hand pump along with the bailer had been inside the dinghy before it rolled over, and now they are AWOL. Oh well, Rick uses the bucket we have on Valkyrie, and all is well.

There were more storms coming our way, all in a line, with very active lightning, but they all acted like “normal” thunderstorms which we weathered just fine.

Farewell Tour

The last hurrah. The final chapter. Whatever you want to call it, Rick is coming to the end of his twenty-six year relationship with sailing, and we are embarking on our last big adventure aboard Valkyrie. 

After our aborted voyage last year, we have both done some real soul searching. Rick’s enthusiasm for these trips has been waning for some time, or at least the long, hard, expensive burden of maintaining the boat. Without his enthusiasm, sailing loses most of its draw for me as well. And having had last year, the worst seasickness episode ever, I would welcome the idea of never having that experience again. 

But, like childbirth, the bad memories fade, leaving the good memories to take on an almost mythic status. I will miss many aspects of cruising on our boat, the wildlife, the constantly changing scenery, the people we’ve met, the excursions ashore, and the self-contained freedom to go anywhere. I’ve talked Rick into one last summer aboard, a chance to savor the good things about sailing, and to say goodbye.

Valkyrie needed some work before we could even think of another voyage. The drive shaft problem that ended our trip last year turned out to be an easy fix, but there was a long list of other things that needed attention. That list seemed quite doable initially, but just before Christmas, Rick missed a step at the bottom of our staircase and tore his quad-tendon, right off the kneecap. Surgical repair was necessary, and it has been a long recovery. He is expected to be fully functional eventually, but for the moment, crawling into extremely tight spaces to work on the engine or replace the hot water heater are excruciatingly painful. 

Rick and our friend and fellow sailor Tim - "Wait, what goes where?"

Always a do-it-yourselfer, it has been hard for Rick to relinquish complete control, not to mention relinquishing funds from his bank account, and simply hire someone to do the work for him. But it turned out to be less expensive than he had feared, and certainly worth saving his time and his knee to pay for some help and get these tasks done. 

Our son Dewey wrestles with the dinghy

Rick still did most of the work himself, and Valkyrie is now fully equipped with a new head (toilet), a new hot water heater, a new dodger (windshield), new macerator pump (yeah, don’t ask), new lenses (plexiglass) for all the ports (windows), a new screen for the forward hatch (skylight), and a new carburetor for the outboard motor. Rick is finally getting enthusiastic about the trip, exclaiming over and over again, “ This boat is in the best shape it’s ever been!”

Our plan was to leave sometime in mid-June, but as usual, we fell behind. Getting the boat in the water was one challenge, due to weak high tides, and then once finally in the water, the engine had some trouble, so we were stuck in the well for a few days while trying to get it fixed. Rick’s friend Eric the mechanic came to our rescue, and now we are good to go. 

Eric Dickerson, Mechanic Extraordinaire

We load what seems like a year’s worth of non-perishables onboard, along with clothing, shoes, hats, pillows, computers, kindles, etc. By now, we know exactly what to bring. One last trip to the grocery store for perishables, and we are off. 

We spend our first night anchored just a quarter mile from the dock, hardly what might be called an epic departure. But we're on our way!