Monthly Archives: July 2012

20 July: The In-Laws

So it’s gettin’ close to ten and theah we ahh – me, Dave O’Brien and Joe Castiglione – just the three of us, commiseratin’ the way the Sawx can’t BUY a hit when it counts and now, last o’ the ninth, looks like anotha loss.  And Dave Oh, always resuhved, says…

“…and the pitch, Ross swings.  Lifts a high fly ball towards the wall, and…and it’s headed back, it’s GONE!  A three-run homer!  The Sox win!  Ross with a walk-off home run and…”

And what a way to wind up the first night on Boston’s South Shore, or as Joe and the locals say, Shaw.

Anyway, that was last night.  There was an early call this morning from the mooring ball.  A lack of wind let the boat ride up on the plastic ball and  it was  caressing — well, banging on, is more like it — the hull at 0500, right by the skipper’s bunk.  But that’s okay.  There was scientific research to be done, as in, why isn’t the water pump pumping cooling water to the engine?  Huh?  Why?

After checking the usual suspects – intake strainer, impeller, heat exchanger – one does what one always does in such situations, i.e., call Bill Burry.  Fortunately, Bill’s still within cell range, just over in P’town, and suggests — I am not making this up — disconnecting the intake hose and blowing on it to “make bubbles under the boat.”  Whatever, something worked and on a re-start, Ms. Wes maintained her cool for a full hour, no problem.  Looks like we’re good to go tomorrow.

But first, there’s the requisite visit to the in-laws.  So, clean-up, go ashore and–as luck would have it–as I walk down the street, Gov. Bradford is standing right there!

Checking in with the colony’s first governor who, as you can see, is not as tall as he looks in the movies.

Besides being the man who pretty much held the Plimouth Colony together in the early years, the Gov is Kate’s great-great-great-who’s counting-grandfather, scion of the Bradfordss of Kentucky (and elsewhere).  So paying respects was a requisite of the trip.

A leisurely stroll along the Plymouth waterfront disclosed much the same scene as in Newport: boats moored on one side, while on the other are seen tourists in shorts and flip flops shopping for tee-shirts.  Except here there’s a replica of the Mayflower.

The Mayflower replica is on a pier just west of the Plymouth Yacht Club whose moorings lay beyond.

And there’s Plymouth Yacht Club where, so far, the staff couldn’t be nicer.  It’s a set-up ashore much like the more familiar Hampton club, with pub-style dining upstairs, dressier on the first level.  Quite nice facilities, all around.

And a strong signal from WEEI, “the voice of the Red Sox” again tonight.

Steadfast, out. Go Sawx!

21 July: Make Room

“Scituate Boat Club,” the woman’s voice betraying the fatigue of a long day on the water.  “This is Dolphin’s Wake standing by at number eight.”  No response from the Boat Club.  At 2030, the sun nearly down, the crew of Dolphin’s Wake wants more than anything to hear that the club still has one mooring unspoken-for and that it’s a mooring in more than six-feet of water, DW’s draft.

Scituate is a popular harbor, it appears, and so crews keep steering their boats here even at this late hour.  But even with 800 moorings bobbing on its sheltered waters, there isn’t always one for every boat that enters.  And because it’s jammed with mooring balls, there is no place to anchor!

But with a light easterly the forecast, Scituate also would be a relatively easy run up Massachusetts Bay from Plymouth so that was the destination of the day.  First, though, there was the matter of the six-mile Plymouth Channel just to get to the bay.  There were just the few clumps of fluffy clouds hanging here and there along the horizon of an otherwise sun-drenched azure sky.   Free of the mooring line at 0940, then bucking the flood tide’s one-knot current, Ms. Wes kept her cool and chugged along smartly.

Seas were two-to-three on the beam as the heading shifted to 000 and, with all sail set, Steadfast pushed north on a beat, then a reach, at about 4 knots.  It being Saturday, there were many sails underway.  The lobstermen don’t get the day off, though, and were working pots that seemed always to be, yes, dead ahead. (How do they do that?)

By 1440, the wind had begun to lay down and with Scituate just four-miles off, Ms. Wes went back to work and pushed Steadfast past the breakwater and into harbor at 1525.  At that hour, “No problem, cap” was the yacht club’s quick response to the many inquiries for moorings.  “Follow me.  I’m in the launch.”

An impressive breakwater lines the entrance to Scituate Harbor.

Then tidy the boat, on deck and below; head ashore for a stroll along the waterfront, then back on board for dinner, during which the plaintive call was heard once more.

“Boat Club?  Dolphin’s Wake.  Standing-by at red eight for a mooring?”

The mooring master finally responds.  “Comin’ out to meet you in a minute and take you to your mooring.”

Her simple answer, “Excellent,” which could also describe the entire day.

Steadfast, out.

22 July: Cape Ann

The approach to Boston’s Logan Airport has many planes flying over Massachusetts Bay.  It’s a good bet that at least someone on each of those leaned toward the window and remarked on the boats sailing below.  There weren’t many, though, for some reason.

Sunday dawned clear and cool, 58-degrees in Scituate, MA, with a light westerly funneling down the harbor.  A post-breakfast check of fuel filter was clear, too.  For the second day in a row, no water bubbles.  A few fronds of grass were cleared from the strainer and Steadfast slipped her mooring lines at 0936, making 5 knots at 2200 rpm as Ms. Wes did her thing.

An hour later, she took a break, all sail was set for what then was a light so’easterly and, the day being so glorious, a heading of 025 was set to carry to Gloucester, MA (anyone for Cape Pond Ice?).  A bit more ambitious than Marblehead but it was still early and at 4 knots-plus, what the heck!

By 1230, Mass Bay was half behind her, her speed building with the wind and seas.  From mere ripples earlier, the occasional white caps now appeared off the starboard quarter and speed over the bottom–now 212 feet below–was pushing 5.  Amazingly, there was little traffic: one lobsterman was passed and eight or nine sets of sail were seen around the horizon.  That’s it!

Twenty-minutes later, her speed was holding better than five and by 1330, the genny was reefed and still she was surfing down the back side of 5-foot rollers at better than 6.5 knots!  At 1400, it was time to fur the genny altogether and the last five miles to Gloucester were made under main alone.

Running before the so’easterly at 6 1/2 kts. made for a challenging ride across Mass Bay.

“The approach to Gloucester is littered with lobster pots,” says the cruising guide, and it ain’t kiddin’.  A particular challenge today, what with them playing hide-and-seek behind breaking waves and the quartering seas doing their best to push Steadfast off course.  The outer harbor was made at 1450 and, once inside the relative protection of the breakwater, Ms. Wes sprang into action , the main was doused and a mooring grabbed at Eastern Point Yacht Club, a stunningly beautiful lay-out with a panoramic view of the ocean, bay and harbor.

Eastern Point Light with the sea beyond as seen from the yacht club on a breezy afternoon.

NOAA promises the 20-knot winds will lay down overnight and maybe the harbor won’t be so lumpy.  Right now, it’s a lot like being anchored in front of the Cooper Island Beach Club when the northerly swells are running, i.e., lumpy enough to lie athwart ships in the bunk to keep from rolling around tonight.

But this is what New England’s supposed to be like in the summer.  This is the kind of wind for which Steadfast has been yearning since the middle of June and this day, she showed her stuff.

From that plane into Logan, travelers saw only a handful of boats under sail and, by golly, Steadfast was one of ‘em!  Arrrrrrrrrrgh!

Steadfast, out.

23 July: Fried Clams, Anyone?

There’s a steady industrial-sort of hum emanating from the block-long gray box-of-a- building across the north channel of Gloucester’s inner harbor.  But this city’s industry is, as it always has been, fish.  So it should come as no surprise that the company generating that steady drone is Gorton’s Seafood, each package proudly displaying the image of the Gloucester fisherman’s monument.

Tourism’s important here, too, a big boost coming when Hollywood arrived a few years ago to film “The Perfect Storm.”  You now can board a mock up of the Andrea Gail, the boat that took George Clooney and crew to their doom.  It’s moored in the parking lot next to the real Cape Pond Ice Company, “the coolest guys around,” made famous in the book and movie, too.

But Gloucester, MA, has always been and very much remains a working fisherman’s town.  This is not Newport or Annapolis.  Boats here work.  Fun boats, yachts, are welcomed but they are in the minority.

Yachts take up the mooring field but work boats predominate along the piers that line Gloucester Harbor.

Steadfast laid-over in Gloucester for a couple of reasons today.  One, the forecast was less than favorable although the day turned out to be lovely: mostly sunny, 78 degrees (and 78% humidity) and a fairly steady so’westerly that cooled the harbor.  The big reason for staying, though, was the wind last night that blew two-foot seas around the breakwater at Dog Bar and rocked the mooring field ’til dawn.  Rolling first to port, then back to starboard, does not make for a good night’s sleep.  Odds are much more in our favor tonight, tucked in as we are in the northern most reaches of the inner harbor.  There’s still a breeze.  The boat still swings.  But it’s nothing like out there by the breakwater.

And, there’s something somehow restful knowing fried clams are being frozen and packed for all of America just a few hundred yards away.

Bon appetite!

Steadfast, out.

25 July: The Sixteen-Hundred Club

The cockpit has a good view of the homes that line Mt. Pleasant Street, Atlantic Avenue and the dining room at Ellen’s Harborview Restaurant, about 50-feet away.  The reverse is true, too, so there is a sense of being in a fishbowl.  But mainly to enjoy the harbor view for ourselves, cocktails move to the foredeck.  Almost immediately, a sturdy voice bellows across the water.

“Com mon ovah-riff you wahn.  Join us!”

Ocean Reporter is a black-hulled steel vessel of some 40-feet or so, one whose fit and finish defy description.  It’s clear she’s a working vessel of some sort but her mission is not easily discerned.  What better way to find out than to join those assembled on her aft deck.

There are many workboats in the tiny harbor at aptly-named Rockport, Massachusetts.  The Atlantic waves wash over the granite boulders that line the shores of Cape Ann.  Rock jetties flank the narrow entrance to the harbor whose rock banks lay bare at low tide.  This is the panorama that greeted Steadfast on her arrival Wednesday evening.

Vessels of all sizes and shapes surround the much-photographed Motif #1.

The wisdom of the decision to lay-over another day in Gloucester was affirmed when Tuesday turned out to be all that NOAA predicted with an afternoon storm punctuated by high winds, heavy rain, thunder and lightning.

A boisterous but brief thunderstorm rocked the harbor in mid-afternoon.

NOAA also foresaw gusty winds Wednesday but the morning sun made Rockport worth a try so mooring lines were slipped at 1027 and Gloucester harbor was cleared 20-minutes later.  The nor’westerly wasn’t nearly the 10-15 knots of the forecast but, for awhile at least, enough to warrant wearing sail, close-hauled toward Thatcher Island.  Once round Thatcher, the remainder of the 12-miles into Rockport Harbor was under power.

Reprovisioning took the greatest part of Thursday (Rockport’s one grocery closed last year so it’s not easy).  Friday morning was for laundry.  Then Kate arrived on the midday train from Boston.  So by cocktail hour, it already had been a big day!  Then, the invitation to board Ocean Reporter.  Wow!  We like this place.

After climbing up from the dinghy, we were made welcome by Capt. Bill Lee and introduced to Dave, Bob and Jim.  Roy and Jane couldn’t stay but Midge and Alan came aboard before too long, after which Bob and Wanda joined the crew, too.  Oh, and Steve was there, with Karen expected shortly.  A most congenial group.  These and others, we assume, form Capt. Lee’s “Sixteen-thirty Club,” which convenes many–if not most–evenings on the Reporter’s ample aft deck and adjourns promptly at 1800 hours.

Her big diesels wake each morning at 0530 as Bill goes off to set moorings, repair docks, splice rope, retrieve disabled boats and, it seems, whatever else the waterfront of Rockport wants or requires.  He’s a popular guy, which becomes all the more apparent when he serves Saturday as chauffeur and tour guide for two sailors from Virginia.  You may know them.

“Notta problem.  Glad ta do it.  Now ta-mahra, don’t fah-git–coffee an’ pace-tree zat the yot club, oh-nine-hun’red.  See ya theyah!”

Rockport’s a special harbor for many reasons.  The rocky shore.  Snug harbor.  Quaint waterfront town.  But mainly for the people who live here.

Steadfast, out.

16 July: Onset

Chris and Bill brought Plover, their 41-foot Dickerson ketch, north from Delaware on the offshore route and, after sailing straight through–including the storms Sunday night–sent an email that they’d turned into Buzzards Bay before dawn Monday, headed for Onset, MA.  It seemed reasonable in contrast to bring Steadfast the 30-or-so miles east from Padnarum to meet them.

In the process of so doing, today’s profound thought occurred, i.e., tools work far better when used for the purpose for which they were intended.  Example: a straight blade screw driver works quite well as an ice pick but not nearly as well as it does turning slotted bolts.  Likewise, many auxiliary powered sailboats motor quite well but never as well as they handle under sail.  Monday provided further proof of the latter.

A light nor’westerly followed Steadfast out of Padnarum at 0730, mainsail set to try–not altogether successfully–to keep her on an even keel with the two-foot seas running off her starboard quarter.  Once turned toward Onset and headed east, though, the genny was unfurled, Ms. Wes took a much-deserved break and we sailed.  Honest.  Here’s proof.

In what proved an unusual experience, wind filled her sails and Steadfast beat up Buzzard’s Bay.

It took a few minutes–not much of this has been done on this trip, after all–but we both settled into our respective roles and Steadfast began to behave in the manner to which she was born.  Ten knots of wind had her heeled 12 degrees and doing a smart five knots.  Not as quick as under power, mind you, but much more comfortable.  She likes to sail, by golly!

Onset lies just off the channel leading into the Cape Cod Canal, a handy place to stop and wait for a favorable tide.  Currents through the canal run about four knots so it’s best to have it running with you, ebb west or flood east.  And its quite a lovely little village, just a good 15-minute stretch of the legs from the mooring field.  There’s beach all around the harbor, more akin to the Cape than the rocky shores west of here, with handsome Victorian-era homes standing proudly among the more prevalent and modest weekend retreats.

The harbor at Onset is sheltered from virtually all directions

It was good to visit again with Chris and Bill–our wakes last crossed in Annapolis–and, indeed, we dined together tonight, charting the planned transit of the canal tomorrow afternoon to coincide with the favorable tide as we head into Cape Cod Bay.

Steadfast, out.

18 July: Sandwich

“That’s a really beautiful boat. What kind is she?”  Which is what any skipper loves to hear but that’s not what endeared Tom to me this evening.  No, Tom was…well.  I get ahead of myself.

Plover took on fuel early this morning as planned.  The rest of the day was spent waiting for the much-discussed “favorable tide” to carry us through the Cape Cod Canal.  The max is something over 4-knots so, in a boat that makes five or six at best, you want to have the current with you.

Fifteen hundred was the designated hour, about thirty minutes before slack tide.  Eldridge Tide & Pilot Book–the seaman’s Bible up here; don’t leave home without it–said that’s when to go so that’s when we went.  This despite the forecast that carried a severe thunderstorm watch.  But, hey, you know what that’s like.  Maybe yes, maybe no.  In fact, NOAA described it as a 50% chance.

The canal is just a 9-mile ditch, basically, a hundred feet across with 30-plus feet of water and rip-rap stacked on both banks.  Worst case, were a storm to hit and visibility shrink, just follow the east bank ’til you get to an opening, turn right and you’re into Sandwich Town Marina (not unlike Cape Charles Town Marina, by the way; nothin’ fancy, lot of work boats, and a Coast Guard station right there).  It’s the only place to tie up within 20 miles.  Given the late start and the forecast, I’d called this morning to make a reservation.  (Plover’s crew, intrepid as they are, never wavered from their stated intent to make Provincetown tonight.)

Not long after passing under the railroad bridge that greets eastbound traffic first, the temperature started to fall out of the 90s and the sky to the west darkened.  As the speed-over-ground picked up–5, 5-and-a-half, 6, eventually 7-plus knots–there was reason to hope Steadfast could be tied up before the storm hit.  Not confidence, mind you, but hope.

It was just starting to spritz when the Sandwich Marina appeared to starboard and the turn was made.  The dockmaster stood on the fuel dock and motioned to an open slip.  “Do you want me to come around to help or do you have it?” he shouted over the then rising howl of the wind.  It appeared there’d be no need as Steadfast slid gently between the pilings and slowed to a stop.  Sort of.  Right then, the wind shifted a bit more to the north and a gust swung her sideways across two (fortunately empty) slips.  And that’s when Tom left the snug cabin of his 35-foot fishing boat to grab, first, the bow rail and, when offered, a stern line.  A bit of a fire drill as it turned out but Tom was most gracious as he stood in the spritz and offered his previously mentioned assessment of the boat.  “Well, she sure is pretty,” he added.

We chatted further as docklines were secured and the dinghy made fast.  And just then, BOOM! an impressive jagged bolt discharged about a quarter mile to the west and the heavens opened.  Others bolts of lightning followed, all around, and briefly the boat bent to the gusting wind, heeled at 10 degrees in the slip.

It was done in a few minutes, of course.  With any luck, it may have missed Plover altogether.  We wait to hear.  But for the moment, Tom is my new best friend and this is by far the best Sandwich in a long time!

Steadfast, out.

19 July: Providence

A pair of sockless, ‘Sider-shod feet are seen through the port over the galley stove.  “Hey, Bill?  My brotha Jawj and I ah gonna go get some breakfast.  Wanna come?”  The voice is Tom’s.  You remember Tom, right?  He of the impeccable pre-storm timing?

Breakfast out wasn’t in the morning’s plan but, sure, what the heck.  And into Jawj’s (that’s George’s) cah we go.  “I’m givin’ ya the nickel toowah,” says George as he drives through the village.  “That’s the steeple that Christopha Wren designed.”  Tom’s home is Falmouth, on the other side of the Cape but George lives here in Sandwich.  Lovely village, Sandwich, and one which would’ve remained unseen were it not for George.  Or maybe Tom.

Tom, you see, discloses that “I’m not even shewa why I came in heeyah last night.  I thawt I was goin’ home to Falmuth but, for some reason, just came in heeyah,  I don’t know why.”

The tour ends at The Marshland diner where the bench out front is full of hungry would-be patrons.  “Don’t wawry,” says George assuringly.  “It won’t take lawng.”  He knows, of course.  Three seats soon open at the counter and breakfast arrives shortly thereafter: the Poppy Bagel McNagle – toasted bagel with a cheesy omelet on one half, the other smothered in mushrooms, onions and diced tomatoes.  No need for lunch today.

When learning of the need to re-provision, “I don’t mind takin’ ya thayah.  Tha Stop-n-Shop isn’t fah.”  And it goes on.  “I can pick ya up, too.  I insist.  Glad to do it.”

After giving a boost to the local economy, stowing provisions and saying goodbye to Tom–he decides to head home–Steadfast re-fuels and ventures into the remaining few hundred yards of the Cape Cod Canal at 1300, then turns north toward Plymouth for what has all the signs of an uneventful 20 miles.  Then – no warning – Ms. Wes starts breathing hard.  She doesn’t feel well, it’s clear.

Steve Blake, in Newport the other night, told a story about snagging such a big wad of sea grass one time that the prop jammed.  Steve’s remedy – revving in reverse – was tried but to no avail.  That story, though, prompted a thought: could there be more grass in the water intake strainer?  After shutting down, the quick inspection showed, yes, indeed – a wad that’d choke an elephant!  Once cleared, Ms. Wes was happy again and back making 5 knots-plus.

Seaweed became an on-going problem, clearing the Perko a morning routine.

Then, right at the turn into the Plymouth channel, it happened again.  This time, there was no clearing the problem so the genoa was deployed on a dead run into the first leg of the 5-mile-long channel.  The Harbormaster responded to an FYI call–no engine, under sail, just want you to know–by sending a boat to check.  He continued to check in the rest of the way and, two hours later, the Plymouth Yacht Club launch came along side.  “The Hobbah Mastah told me to give you a tow into yaw mawring,” reported Gary, the launch driver, and the day was done.

Could be coincidence, Steve Blake telling his vignette about the seagrass a few nights ago.  Could be serendipity, Tom being on the pier last night just in time to help Steadfast tie up before the storm hit.  But remember, he’s not even sure why he was at Sandwich Marina.

The reason seems clear to me: providence. Providence in Newport, Plymouth and Sandwich that made for a truly memorable day.  A darn good breakfast sandwich, too.

Steadfast, out.

10 July: Block Party

“Sheesh! Wair-YOU comin’ from – long sleeve sheuht and jeans? It’s a beautiful day!”

The New Shoreham harbormaster has a good sense of humor, as many Ro-di-landahs do. Good thing: he’s a busy man, especially this Tuesday afternoon when, for some reason, the town’s mooring field is chock-a-Block full. So he’s hustling about Great Salt Pond escorting each new arrival to a vacant private mooring for the same wonderful $40 fee.

And how did Block Island become the day’s destination, you ask? The temptation is to write about treacherous seas, the challenge of making passage in the deep Atlantic. In truth, it wasn’t hard.

Topped off the fresh water tank, scrubbed three week’s worth of scum off the bottom of the dink (easier to tow, maybe?) and, of course, drained the fuel filter. Ms. Wes fired again like a well-behaved lady eager for a day’s work and we cast off from Mystic Downtown Marina at 0925.

Without doubt, that was a delightful stop – the managers, Jack & June; the location, close to Main Street; and the ambience, including fresh herb garden.

There was a 10-minute delay for Amtrak to cross the Mystic bridge, then the hour motor downstream to Fisher Island Sound. It seemed a shame to waste such a lovely day–bright sun, clear skies, flat seas and 70-degrees. So once through Watch Hill Passage against a knot-and-a-half current, the decision was made: Newport would be more than 35 miles but the entrance to Block beckoned just 12 to the southeast, and was made at 1419. Getting here from Watch Hill is easier than finding Anegada from Virgin Gorda. On a day like this, Block you can see…all the way!

Not much wind but what the boat made use of, averaging close to 5 knots for the total 24.5 mile trip. Those 5 knots of apparent wind in the shade of the Bimini awning made it quite comfortable with sleeves and jeans, hence the harbormaster’s inquiry as he eased Steadfast up to her mooring for the night.

You get to know your neighbors in Great Salt Pond, with boats on all 400-or-so moorings and in the snug anchorage.

Interestingly, there was virtually no traffic coming across to Block, yet it’s packed in here. And they’re still coming in. One can only imagine what it must’ve been like for the Fourth.

Good thing the harbormaster has a sense of humor.

Steadfast, out.

12 July: Early Out

They rise early here in Great Salt Pond. Not everyone, mind you, but apparently those who want to be sure of riding on a town mooring.

It would be two hours before the anchorage would be roused by the rhythmic cries of “Ahndi-AH-mo. Ahndi-ah-MO!” from Aldo the baker motoring between boats in his red and white skiff. All seemed still and quiet while the coffee brewed at 0530. Then, the first cup only half gone, a hull was seen to leave a ball in the coveted town mooring field. Then a second a few minutes later. Ah, says the wily skipper, “I’ll snag one of those before the rest of the anchorage even knows they’re open.”

Wrong. Before I could even cast off, an inflatable dink zoomed through the mooring field and its pilot grabbed one. A 40-foot sloop swooped in to take the other and the party began. The 90 town moorings, you see, are at a premium. The same forty-bucks for the night BUT you can stay as long as you like. No reservations accepted; all first come, first served. As a result, the mooring field stays full.

But the skipper of a 25-foot Wellcraft sport cabin–Early Out of Noank, CT–was just sitting down to his first cup in the cockpit when Steadfast completed her first failed try at a mooring ball. He confirmed they’d be leaving in an hour or so. “Would you be willing to give us a call? Steadfast.” An hour later he did, the exchange of the mooring pennant was made and Steadfast was secure. Early Out, indeed. 0715.

Others continued to school like sharks ready to strike. Competitive, these yachtsmen. Your intrepid skipper, however, used the succeeding hours first to drain more water from the fuel filter (just a couple of drops) then, since we’d motored through a good bit of seagrass the last few days, check the filter for the engine cooling water intake.

Good thing, it would appear.  Once the filter was cleared and all once again stowed, it was time to row ashore, walk the mile or two to Old Harbor and lunch at Rebecca’s.  Good stuff.  There was a stop to reprovision at Block Island Grocery, another on the pier for a bag of ice, then back on board to restock the ice box.

A quintessential New England town, New Shoreham (Block Island) is a photographer’s delight.

Ashore, there’s a photo op in every direction.  Block is highly recommended to those who enjoy a cool ocean breeze and a generally laid back atmosphere as stated eloquently on the tee-shirts for sale at Payne’s Marina: “This doesn’t suck.”

Early out? Not when you come to Block. You gotta stay at least little while.

14 July: Honey, I’m home!

For such a busy and popular harbor, the day starts quietly in Newport. The gulls are laughing, of course. Watermen chat over coffee on the commercial wharf, waiting to head out. But after a night of sampling the entertainments on Thames Street, it appears the yachtsmen start their day slowly.

A striking contrast to the raucous scene on arrival in mid-afternoon. After motoring among kids in the sailing camp’s dinghy fleet, dodging the high speed ferry to the Vineyard and giving way to several large motor yachts, this was the harbor that opened after rounding Fort Adams.

Kids at sailing camp, tourists on a classic 12-meter, lobstermen with the day’s catch, all of Newport seems underway.

Annapolis, eat your heart out! THIS is the sailing capital of the US. From a 10-foot hydrofoil with Kevlar sails to classic 12-meter America’s Cup veterans and 100-foot schooners loaded with tourists, all manner of craft make way through the harbor…under sail!

For Steadfast, the crossing from Block was uneventful–the preferred status, by the way–but not nearly as relaxed as the trip over. In fact, once out of Great Salt Pond at 1028, it was not relaxed at all. The Pond was still, the sun hot, so there was no expectation of sailing.  Despite the light so’easterly, the ocean swells outside quickly built to 4-feet and a parade of passing motor yachts left it confused with their wakes. There was no stepping away from the wheel. The helm demanded two hands at all times, so no photos out there.

But about noon, the beam seas began to moderate enough to suggest unfurling the genoa. That worked so well that three miles south of Point Judith, the main went up, too, and–are you sitting down?–Ms. Wes took a break. We sailed. In the deep Atlantic, and Steadfast settled into an easy motion on a broad reach making 4-to-5 knots.

That was carried almost to Brenton Reef–the southernmost point of Newport (Aquidneck) Island–where there just wasn’t enough wind to make the more northerly run into the harbor. Rounding Castle Hill light gave a good view of several stunning estates including Hammersmith Farm, where young Jackie spent summers learning to a horsewoman.

The famous Hammersmith Farm is one of the many stunning properties on the Newport shore.

Making Block Island felt good. It is part of my native state, after all, and there are childhood memories of trips over on the ferry with Dad. But boats in harbor and cars on the roads are mainly from New York or Connecticut. Everywhere you go, Rhode Islanders seem in the minority.

Certainly tourism abounds in Newport but there’s no mistaking, this is Ro-die-lan. One need not explain the Red Sox cap nor preference for Sam Adams. And having spent a good bit of the college years with friends in Newport, it was special to be at the helm today coming into the harbor.

“Honey, I’m home!”

13 July: Little Bitty

Venturing into the Atlantic swells, coming across Block Island Sound, 27-feet seems a small hull, indeed. Steadfast does not gain in stature in Newport Harbor, passing the vintage sailing yacht with uniformed crew of six or mega-motor yachts the size of the shoreside hotel. As Larry the Launch Skipper says, “Ya gotta have at least a 60-footer ta stand out in Noopawt.”

Steadfast did stand-out in one way, however, that being her ability to secure the last available mooring Thursday evening because, yes, she’s only 27 feet and could squeeze in among a handful of daysailers on the harbor’s north end.

Friday the Thirteenth began with breakfast at Benjamin’s, one of the few remaining local hangouts among the chi-chi shops and myriad tee-shirt vendors on Thames Street.

The raw bar is open for breakfast at the Thames Street landmark Benjamin’s.

It then morphed into a layover day. The deciding factor was not superstition, mind you, but a further lack of tolerance for the state of the cabin. After four weeks at sea, there was sprucing up to be done: minor repairs to hatches and rails, and, polishing the bronze ports (but I don’t do windows). Amazing how much better she looks.

There are eight of those guys to maintain, if one is so inclined. There’d be more, of course, on a 40-footer. It’s further proof of the wisdom of the well-known philosopher of song, Alan Jackson: “It’s alright to be little bitty…”

Steadfast, out.

14 July: Wind!

There’s a reason Newport is a center for sailing. This part of the world is well-known for the so’westerlies that typically blow 10-15 knots, all day, all summer long. But Saturday’s forecast was not quite as encouraging–light winds early, not building ’til late in the day–and an early spritz gave way to a thick but bright overcast.

No matter. Two days is about the limit in any one harbor so the mooring was cast off at 0945, the island’s southern point, Brenton Reef, cleared an hour later and somewhere off in the haze on a heading of 115 was Buzzards Bay. The main was up but mostly as a steadying sail with the three-foot seas on the beam.

With this sky and from two miles off, photos of the coast would not show much.  So you won’t see any shots from the morning. By noon, the light southerly freshened enough to coax out the genoa which helped pull her along at 6 knots with Ms. Wes turning just 2000 RPM.

From there, the log is sketchy at best. Just know that NOAA was prescient, the wind continued to build, Ms. Wes took a break and by 1230 we were sailing a broad reach making a steady 5 knots.  Not bad.

Turning north into Buzzards Bay meant the wind was dead astern, not the easiest point of sail to handle, especially with the following seas. It became moot, though, when the skipper of a tug towing a half-full fuel barge announced his intention to use the Buzzards Bay channel, too. Discretion in this case meant Steadfast altered course ’til the tug passed and once again could head north.

Some thought had been given to maintaining the earlier heading straight out to Martha’s Vineyard. The decision to head, instead, into the Bay proved more prudent as the wind kept building. By the time the call for a mooring was made to New Bedford Yacht Club, it was a steady 15-18 and gusting in the 20s. The anxious moments that followed, hoping a mooring would be available, were wasted. There reportedly are more than 800 moorings in Apponagansett Bay. And access to the moorings means using a tender of some kind, some kinds quite colorful and traditional.

Dinghies describe a colorful palette while owners are ashore at New Bedford Yacht Club in Padanarum.

A late start to the morning, an hour’s stroll around Padanarum, home to the well-known Marshall catboat, and skies threatening thunder storms all conspired to keep Steadfast on the mooring for another night. But this being the second day, she’ll want to be underway again tomorrow, seeking those so’westerlies again.

Steadfast, out.

1 July

There’s a faint zephyr across the harbor, the sun descends and the dinghy rides quietly a few feet off the transom.  That’s the kind of day it’s been, i.e., low excitement quotient and that, mates, is just fine.

The introvert in me enjoys a quiet Sunday afternoon sailing alone.  The daily routine of cruising solo–plotting routes, sail handling, piloting, mooring and meals–adds enough challenge to deliver an entirely different experience, a new puzzle to be solved every morning.

Even the best puzzles need to be set aside once in a while, though, and so it’s always a pleasure to welcome aboard affable crew.  Certainly that was the case those days when Bowe was aboard, especially for the trip across New York Harbor and up the East River; and likewise when JB helped with the trip Sunday from City Island around to Stamford, Steadfast’s first real venture into Long Island Sound.

For all the warnings and words of wisdom, the run from Atlantic Highlands into Long Island Sound was without incident.  There was one close call: getting the crew aboard at low tide can be a trick.

It’s a long first step: the tidal swing at Atlantic Highlands, NJ, can make boarding a challenge.

Once underway, and not knowing what to expect about the East River and Hell Gate, we secured a dock line to the dink as a safety. ( There’d be no retrieving her if the pennant should let go!)  Then Steadfast rode the tide and gradually gathered speed, from her normal 5.5 knots to 7 or so past Governor’s Island ’til topping out at plus-11 (!) through Hell Gate.  Now that, pardon the pun, is a rush!  You’ll understand why we didn’t get a lot of shots of the shoreline: we were just trying to hold on!

Northbound with the current past Brooklyn and lower Manhattan.

Once past Throg’s Neck, we were into LI Sound.  A call to Barron’s Boatyard secured a mooring for the night and, after getting Steadfast all tidy, Bowe headed back to the City and I rode with JB ashore at her home in Darien.

A neighbor was nice enough to drive us from JB’s house in Darien to the mooring at Barron’s.  Fred gave us the quick ride out to the boat and then, well, not much.  The engine wouldn’t start.  But, hey, it’s Sunday.  She’s been working hard these couple of weeks.  Ms. Westerbeke wants to sleep in.  And, indeed, after a few more shakes, she was roused and we were off.

There wasn’t a lot of wind but enough, it turned out, to tack up the Sound most of the way to Stamford, and it was good to have the sails up and full and, for those three hours or so, not be dependent on the diesel.  Sweet.

She fired when asked to help get us up the channel to Harbor House Marina, just inside the hurricane barrier (which wasn’t needed that night but it was good to know it was ready just in case).  Tying up turned out to be a classroom session under the tutelage of Stuart, a bronzed, shirtless sixty-something wharf rat and professor of all that is nautical.  At least, in his own mind.  Stuart barked orders to the dock hand, JB and me and basically did everything but climb aboard and take the helm!  Stuart seems to have compiled a resume.  When signing in at the office, the dock hand advised, “Ignore him.  He’s just a know-it-all.”  And will remain in the annals of cruising tales for some time.

From there, shoved off Monday morning and headed again eastward.  When the wind died, and being basically equidistant between two shores, I elected to motor an hour into Huntington Harbor where the channel is guarded by this stately ol’ girl.

A handsome granite light marks the entrance to Huntington Harbor on Long Island’s north shore.

Topped up the fuel tank and took a mooring at Huntington Yacht Club for the night.  This morning was spent rowing ashore, walking to town for breakfast and then stopping at the supermarket.  (Man does not live on bread alone but you can’t make a sandwich without it!)  Once back on the boat, time to get underway, except…

Remember that little problem with the diesel Sunday?  She just flat quit today.  A check of the fuel filters showed why: water and sediment in both.  Not good.

Those were changed out in less than two hours and I was ready to go.  Ms. Wes still was not, however.  So a call to Zimmerman Marine in Deltaville–which did such great work on Steadfast over the winter–proved invaluable.  Adam got Chad to the phone and Chad first talked me through the steps to bleeding air from the injectors, then stayed on the phone as I went through each step.  And–ta-da!–it worked just as he said it would.  She fired, ran for an hour and–when shut-down–re-started like a champ!

So at 1600, cockpit straight again and tools all away, the decision was made to sit here for another night.  I’m just sorry there wasn’t crew aboard to take photos of the whole operation.

Steadfast, out.

4 July

Bursting with new confidence in Lady Westerbeke, ready to cast off to yet another romantic and far off landfall, Wednesday offered a wet and windless greeting that suggested something else.  The drizzle started about 0600 and continued through coffee, at which time it seemed prudent to go ashore and find some more fuel filters.  You know, just in case.  The tide was low and, though Steadfast seems well off, the water in the foreground (below) would not dampen your knee.

The mooring field off Huntington Yacht Club is a long row from the town dock, in turn a good stretch of the legs from the retail district.

Once back on board, filters in hand (as well as a new ensign to celebrate the holiday), the sky had cleared and the Sound beckoned.  Ms. Westerbeke obliged and we did, indeed, cast off at 1138 to become part of the steady flow of vessels in / out of Huntington Harbor, nearly transom-to-bow, as it were.  The hope was to make a harbor back on the Connecticut side.  That would be easiest to meet Dylan when he flies in from LA Friday morning.

An inquiry to Milford Yacht Club regarding reciprocal privileges–as they say, “Mathews Yacht Club: membership has its privileges”–yielded the hoped for response that dockage was available.  Leif Erickson probably sailed in here without a hitch but, I’m tellin’ ya, there are a lot of green 1s and red 2s on Long Island Sound.  Were it not for the little 99 dollar Etrex GPS, I’d probably have been in Stratford tonight.  But the Milford jetties were right where they were supposed  to be and, at 1655, the club pier looked most accommodating.

It’s an interesting lay-out in Milford Harbor.  There are the piers, of course, but then two rows of floats run right down the middle of the harbor, below.  These “moorings” are anchored to the river bottom and serve a boat on either side.  When a bad storm is in the offing, the three Milford boat yards haul them all out.

The “moorings” in Milford Harbor are a series of floating piers down the middle of the channel.

The club launch offered a ride up to town and, after a wonderful dinner of lightly fried whole belly clams, a ride back in time to enjoy a spectacular display of fireworks just behind the trees.

5 July

Maybe all the commotion kept Ms. W from getting a good night’s sleep.  Maybe she resented having to work on the Fourth.  Whatever, she did not want to get going this morning.  When the filter change – fuel line bleeding ritual failed, the word “Uncle” was heard (along with others) and the call went out to Milford Boat Works to send a mechanic.  He proved a better blood-letter than I and for him she responded (of course, he’s younger than I, also).  But by then, the day was all but shot so here we sit again tonight, again surrounded by the echoes of fireworks all around.

With luck, Dylan’s train will be on time, he’ll be on it and Ms. Wes will be ready to go tomorrow (she gets to sleep in; if on time, Dylan won’t arrive ’til almost noon).  Or you’ll receive another installment of “Zen and the Art of Diesel Mechanics.”

Steadfast, out.

Into the Mystic

MetroNorth pulled into the Milford Station on time Friday afternoon and–after the red-eye flight from LA–Dylan was awake enough to recognize it as his stop.  The MYC launch brought us back to the boat, Ms. W fired and we shoved off shortly after 1300.  Winds were–duh–light meaning another day of motor sailing, but hey, ‘s all good on the water.  Besides, Chris-the-dockmaster at Brewer’s marina in Westbrook assured us, “No problem, we’ll have lots of room for a 27-footer.  Just call when you get here.”  This despite it being the second Fourth-of-July weekend.

The afternoon was–to quote a renowned golf analyst–“just a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, BEAUTIFUL day.”  Falkner Island provided another iconic New England image as we slid by, the current pushing Steadfast at nearly 8 knots.

Even on a calm day, the current’s enough to set the buoy to listing off Fisher Island.

Brewer’s, of course, had more business than Chris had expected and slipped Steadfast into the one remaining space of more than 250.  There was no electrical hook-up and the pump-out station was conveniently situated outside the cockpit.  When asked later whether the aroma was included at no cost, the dockmaster offered to discount the night’s charge.  Much appreciated.

Saturday morning, of course, Ms. W gave an opportunity to practice the fuel line bleeding process–I am gaining some measure of facility at this–then fired and we headed east to Mystic, hoping to get in before the expected showers / thunderstorms.  Having left 4 hours earlier than the day before, the current now was not favorable, the wind light and–with the frequent wakes of motor yachts–it turned into a real slog through a 2 foot slop most of the way.

It was all worth it, though, to grab a mooring at Haring’s in Noank, at the mouth of the Mystic River.  That was a short dinghy ride across the busy channel (an adventure in itself) to dinner at Ford’s on the pier.

As is the case with the neighboring Abbott’s and Costello’s, Ford’s is BYOB.  But Universal Package Store (or UPS) is just up the hill so, after provisioning with a couple of six-packs, it was back to Ford’s for lobstah rolls and beyah.  Yum!

The diesel fired first try Sunday but with winds again light, we motored up river an hour to the Downtown Marina (which had just lost power to its pier so dockage was half-price!) and a stroll around town.

Just a couple of blocks from the US1 bridge, the convenience of Downtown Mystic Marina is worth the long motor up river.

The train station is just a few blocks away and Dylan will catch the 11 o’clock tomorrow to head to RI to spend time with family there.

It’s hard to see Dylan go, especially having done no “sailing” at all, but Mystic is a lovely town, one we’ve visited many times before by car, and has been a perfect place to spend time together.

Steadfast, out.