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When I left Young Endeavour a youth crew member signed a farewell card saying how she was sure I would prove old Robert Burns wrong. Boy, have I ever disappointed her, and the year thus far has only tended to uphold O'Flarrety's law - the one that says Murphy was an optimist But then Will Rogers said, "Plans get you into things but you got to work your way out." (Just found that one.) Who the hell was Will Rogers anyway, sounds like a cowboy? Back in February things were looking pretty sweet. I had arrived in Brazil after a great trip through the Mediterranean and another Atlantic crossing. I had a delivery lined up from Brazil to the States, I had organized a competent crew and was expecting to earn a nice little sum which would help put a comfort margin between me and poverty. But things soon started to go "a-gley". Our time in Salvador was fun, I got a taste of Carnival but have to say I was disappointed. The carnival itself consisted of semi-trailers loaded with amplifiers, enormous speakers, and a DJ and/or band, followed by the entourage dressed in the group's uniform. You have to pay to be a member of the group and you get issued your uniform as a ticket to the group. The uniforms are pretty simple, modern printed affairs, nothing like what you see in the tourist brochures and the sound levels issuing from the trucks are unbelievable. I knew I just would not like this sort of scene so I did not bother to get involved except for one short period, I think I lasted all of 40 minutes before I found myself trying to find some peace and quiet on a secluded stretch of beach below. Danny, our skipper on the other hand, followed the procession for most of the night and subsequently suffered significant hearing loss for the next several days during which we literally had to shout at him to make ourselves heard. I was glad I left when I did. I know this sounds a bit negative, I understand that the carnival in Rio is more authentic, but I did enjoy the lead up where things were on a smaller more "intimate" scale, much more suited to my introverted nature. Here it was fun walking around the crowded streets in the ancient part of Salvador, the Old Town. Around every corner among the cracked and faded facades of aging basilicas, shops and public buildings a new surprise would reveal itself: small parades of glittering colorful costumes complete with band, the highlight of which was a group of men and woman wearing almost nothing but huge feathers and silver spray paint, a piazza with a stage full of constant entertainment, street restaurants, stalls, jugglers, fire eaters, acrobats and other assorted entertainers were dispersed amongst the street and squares. Around one corner a cobbled alleyway revealed a drum band of miniature musicians, some barely able to hold the bass drums without the occasional assistance of an adult to help prop them up, rat-a-tat-tatting out a fast staccato rhythm, passers-by such as I stopped, entranced to watch and listen. In the piazza one could buy a beer from passing hawkers while continually slapping off none too subtle pestering pick-pocket hands, reminding me of flies at an Aussie barbecue, they just never stopped. Every now and again a large hole would miraculously appear in the crowd, how such a crush of people could make an instantaneous circle of empty space intrigued me, there would follow a mysterious jostle off to one side and moments later a file of khaki uniformed, be-battened soldier police would hurry through, like Roman Soldiers out of "Life of Brian", pursuing their invisible quarry. On one evening Danny was mugged in a public urinal, nothing serious fortunately but a caution to be careful. Despite these incidents my overall impression was that the risk of being hurt was pretty low. These were not violent people, only poor, looking for a way to make a few extra bucks. The obvious Caucasian targets were just too tempting to be denied. "Thou shalt not steal" is an edict one can only proclaim without hypocrisy when you have ensured all your citizens have food, shelter, and the opportunity for meaningful work. Globalization is supposed to benefit all mankind but the reality I see is a far cry from this ideal. Rather I see the elite of a system justifying itself for growing fat while too many live a beleaguered existence in an environment rapidly approaching exhaustion. But: "As my friend's grandfather always said, "So . tossing poetry and points of view
around The delivery job I had lined up was for a catamaran being built in a place called Aracaju, which the Lonely Planet Guide described as the Cleveland of northeast Brazil. Shortly after our arrival in Brazil I received advice from the owner that the launch of the boat had been delayed by several weeks due to timber work problems. I decided that I did not want to hang around Brazil by myself for that long, I had left Sylph on the hard in Trinidad for much longer than intended already, if I now spent a further five weeks or so in Brazil then another five weeks delivering the catamaran, goodness knows what shape she would be in on my return. As it was my departure had been very rushed and I had not exactly prepared her for long term storage. So I decided to visit the boatyard in Aracaju, drop off some gear and then fly back to Trinidad where I could spend some time working on Sylph. I booked a return flight, much cheaper than two one way tickets, hoping that the revised forecast completion date would be somewhere in the ballpark. Thus it was that I returned to Trinidad by way of Aracaju and the Miami boat show. I decided to make a stop over in Miami because the boat show was on, and it was an opportunity to meet up with Phil Berman, the broker who is the US agent for the catamaran I was to be delivering. In Miami I met with Phil's offsider, Dennis, who sold multi-hulls based out of Florida. Dennis was a classic type B extrovert, a lot of fun to be around but so relaxed and casual it was amazing anything got done at all. My impression of Florida, at least what I saw of it, was of one huge concrete car park with roads connecting them and a few buildings in between. And every bar, restaurant and other establishment designed for people to commune in has at least three television sets, all on different channels. If you drive anything smaller than an SUV - sports utility vehicle (or 4WD in Australian parlance) you have no chance of seeing more than a few feet around you because you will be boxed in by all these monstrous tin blocks on wheels. Or to quote Umberto Eco's description, "Florida . a series of bridges suspended over inlets of the sea and proceeding along water-level highways that link two cities across a bay as marvelous as it is useless for human beings without a car, boat and private marina, ..." The SUV phenomenon in the US is an interesting example of how people get used to things over relatively short periods, for it did not take me long to feel strange driving anything smaller. So of course, the cars get even bigger, monster SUVs and trucks with incredible jacked up suspension and Hummers prowl the streets, macho status symbols presumably replacing the more primitive but slightly less costly penis sheathes of the New Guinea highlands. Here bigger is better in everything, and the concept of refinement or taste seems lost. To eat out every meal is oversized. I guess they have to do something with their prosperity and the message is clear, consume more, of everything. The Great Gatsby lives. Back in Trinidad a semblance of sanity returned. I was right to have returned. Sylph was grey and dreary, blackened with mildew inside and grime and rust stains outside. I spent hard days in the hot sun chipping rust, cleaning, sanding, painting, and varnishing. I had also taken on the task of removing six of Sylph's eight windows to treat the rust that was creeping out from under them, a big and messy job. Most evenings after a long cold shower I would retire to a nearby bar for a few ginger ales if I was by myself or, if I was to meet with some convivial company, a few beers. One character who had hauled in while I was gone was a big outgoing Australian by the name of Cameron. He was making money working on microwave towers and had just sailed single-handed from England. Clearly born with the gift of the gab, on the night I met him he rattled off an impressive alliterative sentence I found hard to follow. But I picked up on the word obstropulous and, in good humour I hope, quietly commented that I think he meant obstreperous. He in turn cheerfully challenged me a bet, 50 pounds sterling, that there was such a word. I was pretty confident but clarified the bet, "So if obstropulous and obstreperous are both words then its even, yes?" He agreed, I knew I couldn't lose. I was not to see him again for several days and as each day passed I felt more confident that the next round of drinks was going to be on me. When he did turn up to my boat one morning he arrived with a big smile, nothing unusual for Cameron, and hands me a piece of paper, he had done an internet search and found his word: "obstropulous, a slang version of obstreperous" from the dictionary of vulgar expressions. Well I couldn't argue with that. The weeks passed and the work on Sylph slowly progressed. Most of it was hot, tiring lonely work, far removed from the days Ann and I would spend in cheerful union working on what was then our cherished project. But when the day arrived for me to board the plane for Aracaju I felt proud of how much I had accomplished. Sylph stood clean and tidy once again, just waiting for a coat of anti-fouling on my return. I arrived in Sao Paulo airport at 8 am after an overnight flight and as I had a considerable wait for the connecting flight to Aracaju I decided to check my email. There, to my utter dismay, I found an email from the boatyard, the catamaran had been further delayed, apparently a rival boatyard had recently started up and shanghaied a third of Dolphin's workforce. Also I received news that Dennis had been killed in an accident involving his cherished motor car. I will admit I was close to tears. Remember O'Flarrety. After a brief discussion with Phil back in Philadelphia I decided to return to Trinidad yet again. If I waited the further five weeks or so for the boat to be completed it would be well and truly into the hurricane season in Trinidad and Sylph would be trapped there for another northern summer. Back on a plane, the next day I was back at the boat and straight into anti-fouling. Three days later we were back in the water and on our way, next stop Florida. Well with such a hasty departure I could not but expect to pay a few penalties, I was certainly taking a few tokens out of the seaman's black box, and the first day out was rough, wet and miserable, the jib sheet jammed, the steering was extremely tight and the self steering wouldn't self steer. Oh, and to top it off a dollop of water found its way in through a dorade vent and into the keyboard of my faithful old laptop. Scratch one computer. Bugger! But I am anything if not determined, i.e. pig-headed, and a few days later after wading through a short bout of depression, something I am now recognizing as a pattern, I settled once more into the sea routine. And, apart from that first 24 hours, the passage soon settled into an easy sail, despite light winds and some periods of drifting through calms over the Grand Bahama Banks, we made good progress and two weeks later I pulled into the Loggerhead Marina, Hollywood, Florida. It was now April 27. The first person I was to meet was Michael, Dennis's replacement, we hit it off straight away. A retired photographer he had sailed his 32 footer single-handed down the great Intra-Coastal Waterway and had lobbed up in Florida in the need of some work, so decided to try his hand at yacht brokering as the opportunity was thrust his way. A short break of two weeks in Florida and I was back on a plane for Aracaju. But it seems obstacles were still being thrown remorselessly at me. Now with sea trials complete I am told the boat has cleared customs and must be on its way in 48 hours. What! My crew doesn't even arrive for another two days, this piece of information would have been handy earlier. Well a delay for sailing was sought and obtained and I tried to see if my crew could arrive any earlier. Andy, a Canadian, was coming from Toronto, he had been waiting patiently for the crewing opportunity since January, the other crew member, Gesine, a German lady, was coming from Salvador, but contrary to expectations Andy adjusted his arrival no problems and when I called Gesine, she tells me, "Oh sorry, I went to the Doctor yesterday, I need surgery and won't be available for a month." Shit! Well various options were explored, none of which were very satisfactory, it looked like I was going to have to take on a Brazilian crew and drop them off along the way, as US visa problems appeared insurmountable, and I was going to have to pay for flights, my profit margin was looking very thin indeed. Then two days prior to departure I got an email out of the blue from a young Belgian named Chris now in Salvador who had just completed an Atlantic crossing on a catamaran and wondered whether the crew position I had advertised on the internet might still be available. You beauty! But before I could tell him where to find the boat or any other contact information he was on his way and incommunicado. I felt the stress mounting. About his time the boatyard manager says "Oh, by the way, we have a bit of cargo for you to take, I think you should put it here." Well I am not used to being told how to stow my boat so will admit to having my nose out of joint a little but when he showed me the cargo, it was so large, two great icemakers, it was clear there really wasn't any choice as to where it would go. "And what about the paperwork for customs clearance?" "Oh, no need." This did not smell good to me. "Does the owner know about it?" "No, he does not need to know." "But the owner is joining us in Bermuda, how am I to explain, 'Oh, by the way, the forward half of the starboard hull is totally inaccessible due to some last minute cargo.'" I was really pissed off. Well tensions mounted but fortunately, and I am grateful for the calming influences of Andy, all was eventually resolved. The owner was informed of the cargo, some paperwork for customs was written up and Chris, the Belgian crew, arrived late that night, the day before we are required to sail. Ahh, relief at last. Well it wasn't all over. Customs and immigration took quite a while to clear at the local airport, exacerbated by language problems. It turned out our paperwork was not all in order and it took another 24 hours and some money to resolve. And to top it off a driving incident where I made an improper U-turn almost had me arrested. But on May 19, 2005 I started a log for Casa de Verao (Portuguese for Summer House) and noted: "1120. Slipped berth Dolphin Catamaran Co. pontoon, Aracaju. Course and Speed as req'd to clear river." We were underway at last. Now surely I will be able to say after all this that it was smooth sailing but of course, it wasn't. Things started well, Andy and Chris were excellent crew. We all got on fine, particularly Chris and I, as we both shared a philosophical and analytical bent, while Andy provided a much more down to earth practical frame of reference. Only later in the voyage did our personalities cause some problems. One afternoon a discussion about starting the day in the log with the time 0001 (a Navy custom) somehow led to a discussion between Chris and me on negative and positive zeroes, the nature of infinity versus zero and some other stuff of similar ilk. This had gone on for about 20 minutes when Andy pipes up, "For God's sake would you two stop bickering." Chris and I look blankly at Andy. I respond, "We're not bickering, we're enjoying an interesting discussion." "No you're not, you're bickering." Now this discussion went on for some time without resolution and eventually. I said to Andy, "Now this is bickering. You know Andy, I've learnt something today." "Yes, what's that?" "That Chris and I shouldn't carry on our philosophical discussions in your company for too long, it upsets you and is inconsiderate of us." Now Andy is a really nice guy and of course objected to us modifying our behavior on his account but I pointed out that if we didn't he would bottle up his annoyance and it would find _expression_ at some other time, quite probably in an inappropriate non-constructive way. Yes we appreciate his tolerance, but better he express his annoyance openly when our discussions are too much so that we can all live together happily. Chris and I need to be tolerant as well and appreciate that our respective personalities are simply different. Such are the joys of communal living in a small boat for lengthy periods. Funny, some people hate these sorts of problems, but I actually enjoy them; refrains of Young Endeavour. But it wasn't just to be personality issues. God I love boats! Two days out we pass some fishermen in a small boat waving frantically. I decide to close them for inspection. Through sign language they intimate that they want water (either that or alcohol). We throw them a four liter jug of water and continue on our way. May 26, eight days out, at 2315, Chris calls me, a squall has hit us and we are surfing at about 12 knots. We bare away to reduce the relative wind and start to put a reef in but just as we are doing so the wind increases further to about 35 knots, now we are doing 16 knots, truly surfing down the waves. We put a second reef in the main but on completion I look up and see that the top three mainsail battens have shattered. There is no choice but to drop the sail completely, we continue under full jib alone. May 29, 11 days out, 05.30, I am in the main salon picking up a weather fax on the SSB receiver. We are lolling along at an easy four knots with the spinnaker up. I look out the salon window and see that the foot of the spinnaker is lower than it should be. We had only dropped the spinnaker two hours earlier with a slight wind increase but no sooner had we done so than the wind dropped off again, so back up it went. I actually thought the wind had died again which was causing the bunt of the sail to droop but when I went on deck I discovered the spinnaker rent its entire width about a third of the way up and torn along the luff tape from this point almost all the way up to the head. Once more that famous Australian _expression_ entered unbidden into my consciousness, "Bugger!" May 31, 12 days out, 10.30 a loud crack is heard to emanate from the port hull. That did not sound good! We check the bilges, no water coming in. We look on deck, nothing seems untoward up there. Chris looks over the side, there's the problem, the port dagger-board is waving about underneath the boat like its on hinges. We furl the jib and motor to put the dagger board on the windward side to reduce the risk of damage to the hull. Initial efforts to retract the board are unsuccessful. Well I'm the boss so guess who gets to go for a swim. I don mask and fins, safety harness and tether, and into the deep blue briny go I. Inspection reveals that the port side of the dagger-board has separated completely and the remainder of the board is cracked where it exits the hull, but there seems no good reason why the board should not retract if we time it as the board swings vertical. I supervise from the water to coordinate hoisting the board and it doesn't take us long to get the thing stowed. Now is definitely the time for a very stiff drink, good thing I didn't have any on board. I was certain my venture into delivery work was just about kaput. June 3, 19.30, after 15 days at sea, we anchored in Tank Bay, English Harbour, Antigua. We'll clear customs in the morning, right now I'm going to the 'Drop Inn' for that stiff drink, well a few beers anyway. Communications with owner, broker and builder ensue, and I am pleased to say I was not immediately sacked. Replacement battens were purchased and the spinnaker repaired. We lifted the dagger-board out of its casing to inspect it, but there was no clear evidence of any collision damage and the reason for its failure remains a mystery. There is not much we can do about it anyway so we place the board back in its casing and decide we will just have to make do with one. After a welcome five day stop over to effect these repairs we are back underway, next stop Bermuda to pick up the owner who will sail with us for the last leg to Long Island. The sail to Bermuda is without incident. Here we pick up Dan, the owner, and Chris leaves us, finding another boat to continue his way back across the Atlantic and closer to his home shores. The leg from Bermuda to Long Island is mostly motoring and finally, after 30 days and 4,329 nautical miles we pick up the mooring at Dan's yacht club in Centerport. Andy leaves the next day and I remain for another two weeks to fix some minor warranty work and a few other jobs that Dan wants me to do. On the way back to Florida I stop over in Annapolis to visit a friend, Ryan, I made when I was here last year. I stay for a very enjoyable week. Back in Florida I came to the conclusion that this is not the city for me and decide to continue north with Sylph. A few factors brought me to this decision. The hurricane season was upon us, the heat was oppressive, Michael was moving on, I had some friends in Albemarle Sound to whom I needed to deliver a hiking stick (for those who have been following my travels it is the one I had collected way back in the jungles of the Caribbean the year prior), the Annapolis Boat show was coming up in a few months where I could get a little work, Ryan was in Annapolis, and the Chesapeake Bay looked like a great place to explore. So I added that all up and on 11 August let go all lines and started to motor the two miles up the canals from the marina to the ocean. And 15 minutes later I was at anchor. In my three month stay the prop had become so fouled I was barely crawling along and the engine wouldn't go past 2000 rpm at full throttle. I half suspected this might happen but I wasn't going to dive on the prop in the marina, the things one saw floating past each day were disgusting. So clear of the marina away from embarrassing eyes and in slightly less murky water I went for a swim and after much duck diving had removed a bunch of very obstropulous oysters. Once on the ocean the trip started well, I set the wind vane and trimmed the sheets and Sylph was off on a close reach in the light easterly breeze. I looked approvingly at my trusty wind vane, she was steering the boat perfectly, I was confident that my recent bit of maintenance must have worked wonders, but three hours later I realized I had forgotten to remove the locking pin. The vane wasn't steering Sylph at all. I love these old designs, with the wind forward of the beam it is just a matter of trimming the sheets and with a little breeze Sylph finds her course fair and true. In fact when I pulled the pin out the vane started to throw her about erratically and it took a bit of fiddling with string and rubber bands to get her all balanced again, but for an investment of only $400, and after seven years and some 20,000 ocean miles it's doing pretty well. By 4 a.m. the next day the winds had once more deserted me and I downed sails and drifted. This proved the pattern over the next several days making for a slow trip, either light winds or no winds and I ended up drifting quite a bit, it took me seven days to sail just over 700 hundred miles, but I'm not complaining, no hurricanes and the seas have been relatively smooth. I don't mind drifting or sailing slowly but I hate rolling and slatting sails. On Michael's recommendation I stopped in St Augustine for two nights as it is the oldest settlement in the US. I arrived in the middle of the night and as I was unfamiliar with the small entrance I tacked offshore waiting for daylight. A light steady wind blew, my sheets were taught, eased just a little, the ship heeled, and I sat on the leeward cockpit coaming, alone but not lonely, as the bows swished quietly. The stars above, the sea below. It was perfect. The silhouette of the jib in the now moonset, moonless night, a perfect curve bending the wind to my purpose, I am going nowhere but it doesn't matter. The moment is enough. And the next day, now at anchor, I explore St Augustine and feel more lonely than ever. Umberto Eco's observations in "Travels in Hyper-Reality" sum up my feelings (though I am still trying to work out what semiotics and philology are all about), America's confusing fusion of reality, facsimiles, fakes, and pure fantasy presents a montage which only serves to isolate and disorientate the visitor from both the past and present. But I did find a great second hand book store. Sylph's waterline continues to creep ever closer to the gunwale. The next leg to Beaufort Entrance and thence back into the ICW was more of the same with the addition of an awesome display of lightning one afternoon, to the extent that I decided to alter course to try and avoid it, but to no avail. One cannot but empathize with the ancients who saw such displays as the handiwork of the gods, there is no doubt that it evokes the feeling of being surrounded by a living and implacable presence. But to the rational modern mind it is but a frontal condition, and as I entered it the wind backed into the north, picked up to 20 plus knots such that I double reefed the main, and it rained. I joyously donned a t-shirt, track pants and foul weather gear, the first time since the Mediterranean, the temperature was actually cool. Unfortunately it didn't last long and by morning the clouds and rain had cleared, the wind was back in the south and I was broiling naked under the sun again. From Beaufort Entrance it was some 30 odd miles of motoring through the ICW before I was back into the sailing waters of Pamlico River. My next stop was Colorado, Virginia to visit my friend Cheri on the gallant little Gallivant. My determined efforts to sail there were thwarted however. I went east to go via the large body of water called Pamlico Sound but after the better part of a day's sailing and a close study of the chart I realized my path was obstructed. I had to get around Roanoke Island to get into Albemarle Sound and to its west there was plenty of water but the bridges were too low for my mast height. And to the east they had some nice big bridges but the minimum depth went down to 4.2 feet. I couldn't believe it, that's just crazy! I studied the chart, looked up alternate sources of information, hoping something miraculously would change. I contemplated forging on, maybe a local could solve my problem, maybe they would dredge a channel for me, maybe pigs might fly. After about an hour of this I came to the conclusion that the earth's geography wasn't going to change over the next few hours, all my sources were consistent and the only one at fault here was me, I had been lazy. Still, no big deal, it's all attitude (though I admit to cursing just a little) so I turned around, made the best of it and in the end enjoyed a very pleasant night sail tacking back up the Pamlico River and coming to anchor up the Pungo River at half past midnight where I fell into the V-berth for a sound sleep. Underway again at 10.30, after a short stop at a little place called Belhaven for fuel, I resigned myself to the rest of the day motoring up another 30 mile stretch of the ICW taking me from the Pungo River to the Alligator River. Another night at anchor in some mangroves with F14s using me for target practice, the next morning I was able to get into some relatively open water and sail, albeit with a head wind, which involved quite a bit of tacking, but it was fun. Anyone who tells you a cruising boat doesn't need to go to windward is an utter idiot, is simply making excuses for owning a crap boat and, in my opinion, they are missing out on some of the best sailing to be had. So after a great day with a near perfect breeze, I sailed through the narrow channel at the entrance to the Scuppernong River and was finally forced to drop my sails, the wind dying as the beautiful timbered shoreline closed in around us. I motored the remaining couple of miles to Colorado where I tied up alongside the town dock and found the gallant Gallivant next door in the small marina. Here I found Cheri and the stick has at last been returned though I strongly suspect that the stick I have "returned" is not the same one Cheri left in the jungles of Dominica, Cheri would not openly say that it wasn't but as I said to Cheri it might not be the same one but it must be the right one because it's the one I found and which Sylph has carried some 2,500 odd miles to deliver to you. Cheri and I enjoyed each others company enormously and we had some great discussions, for the moment at least filling in some of the empty space in our respective lives. Unfortunately Cheri's partner, Will, is away in the mountains working so I didn't get an opportunity to catch up with him. Cheri introduced me to some local ladies, sisters Willa and Charlotte. I enjoyed a very pleasant evening in their company. They were both lovely and very interesting people. Willa dominated the conversation, a retired truck driver with the gift of the gab, despite her slowly failing eyesight she has a wonderful sense of humour. I regretted not having a tape recorder with which to save some wonderful oral history. Willa, who introduced herself as Billy because everyone has difficulty remembering her name, had been a very attractive petite woman in her day, and while her looks might have left her, her outgoing cheerful personality had not. Clearly feminist issues were not an obstacle. She took her truck driver's test and left the examiner marooned some 20 miles from town to make a point, and still got her license. One time she was under her truck fitting a nickel with a small hole in it to her fuel return line in order to over-ride the speed governor when a stranger came up and slapped her quarters and told her it wouldn't work. She spared no gentle words for this fellow trucker's advice. Then when she went back to the dispatcher's office she was told she had to go to California that day and she had a co-driver. And who should it be but of course the same fellow who had slapped her posterior. Out came her six inch skinning knife which she lays on the seat between them, "You put a hand on me and I'll cut it off, is that clear?" "Yes ma'am!" And so her stories went. They drove many miles together and one time her co-driver Rob says that when they get back to Colorado she has to buy a dress because they are going to a wedding. A long and colorful story involving finding a dress and shoes ensues. Eventually she ends up in the church and asks where is the bride at which point Rob says "It's you." Willa is furious, "Why didn't you ask me?" "Because if I did you would have said no," was the obvious reply. "Too right I would have said no! OK, for now I will go with the flow and go through with this charade but tomorrow we're getting an annulment." "OK" says Rob. More fun and antics follow but of course 28 years later they are still married and from what I could gather they love each other dearly. What a strange thing love is, I wonder whether I will ever work it out. Charlotte, a much more demure soul and clearly a carer, was preparing herself to look after her sister for as long as was needed. Unfortunately Rob was out on the road for the duration of my visit which was over all too soon but, as I have some potential work awaiting me, after three very short days I had to say farewell to Cheri, Willa and Charlotte and be on my way. The next leg was more motoring through the ICW, this time up the Pasquotank River and through the Grand Dismal Swamp Canal. Say it slowly and morbidly . . . "The Graannd Diz-mooooll Ser-wumm-puh Car-narghl . " It sounds like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe story. You would expect a sign as you entered, "Abandon all hope ye who enter here", for the sun to go into total everlasting eclipse, the sky to turn leaden grey, broken by distant flashes of lightning, a deadening silence fading in and out of slow rumbling thunder, for dank stagnant murky waters to give way to foul black mud, dead grey trees with bare contorted branches stark on rotting hollow trunks and everywhere the stench of decay and corruption. A solitary blue black raven crawks, "Nevermore." (Well I enjoyed writing that bit.) I was certainly intrigued as to what to expect but I hardly expected the fairy tale scene we entered. The canal as it gradually narrowed into a winding avenue bordered by tall healthy trees and rich thick verdant growth, full branches overhanging such that Sylph's shrouds occasionally brought down a leafy shower. Scores of dancing purple dragonflies escorted us as we made our way north, the occasional bright orange butterfly or large black beetle respectfully fluttering or buzzing amongst their ranks. A fine layer of tiny soft pale green leaves covering the water's surface muffled our passage, Sylph's bows gently pushing them aside, opening a narrow trail of dark clear water reflecting silver sunshine, as I cast my eye astern I sighted a dragonfly momentarily surfing the crest of the wind wave generated by Sylph's low undulating wake. It was simply magical. I stopped for a night alongside a visitor information centre and the next day the Dismal Swamp Canal eventually gave way to the Albemarle/Chesapeake Canal. Sylph's motor has had a good workout and now we worked our way through the naval shipbuilding heart of the USA. I counted no less than 15 Aegis Cruisers tied up alongside as we passed Newport News, I didn't bother to count the carriers and assault ships ("they" might think I'm spying). One little FFG looked completely lost among all this fire power. Then all of a sudden I am into the Chesapeake Bay. After all this motoring I treated myself to a stop over in the Hampton Public Marina but with the scent of Annapolis in my nostrils after a night's rest we were underway again. The Chesapeake Bay is huge. Annapolis is still some 140 miles from the entrance of the bay. Again I met a variety of conditions, ended up anchoring one night on Wolf Trap Shoal waiting for some wind which came early in the morning, on the nose again, so at first light we weighed and punched our way north for another 130 miles, this time without stopping and 30 hours later Sylph came to anchor in Back Creek, Annapolis, here arriving Saturday 3 September 2005 to discover the next chapter in Sylph's Sailings. To a Mouse On turning
her up in her nest with Wee, sleekito, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, sleek O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' brickering brattle! I wad be laitheo to rin an' chase thee loathe Wi' murd'ring pattleo! plowstaff I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth borne companion, And fellow mortal! I doubt na, whileso, but thou may thieve; sometimes What then? poor beastie, thou mauno live! must A daiman-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' with the laveo, remainder And never miss 't! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! Its sillyo wa's the win's are strewing'! feeble An' naething, now, to bigo a new
ane, build
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o' mice an' men
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When I left Young Endeavour a youth crew member signed a farewell card saying how she was sure I would prove old Robert Burns wrong. Boy, have I ever disappointed her, and the year thus far has only tended to uphold O'Flarrety's law - the one that says Murphy was an optimist But then Will Rogers said, "Plans get you into things but you got to work your way out." (Just found that one.) Who the hell was Will Rogers anyway, sounds like a cowboy? Back in February things were looking pretty sweet. I had arrived in Brazil after a great trip through the Mediterranean and another Atlantic crossing. I had a delivery lined up from Brazil to the States, I had organized a competent crew and was expecting to earn a nice little sum which would help put a comfort margin between me and poverty. But things soon started to go "a-gley". Our time in Salvador was fun, I got a taste of Carnival but have to say I was disappointed. The carnival itself consisted of semi-trailers loaded with amplifiers, enormous speakers, and a DJ and/or band, followed by the entourage dressed in the group's uniform. You have to pay to be a member of the group and you get issued your uniform as a ticket to the group. The uniforms are pretty simple, modern printed affairs, nothing like what you see in the tourist brochures and the sound levels issuing from the trucks are unbelievable. I knew I just would not like this sort of scene so I did not bother to get involved except for one short period, I think I lasted all of 40 minutes before I found myself trying to find some peace and quiet on a secluded stretch of beach below. Danny, our skipper on the other hand, followed the procession for most of the night and subsequently suffered significant hearing loss for the next several days during which we literally had to shout at him to make ourselves heard. I was glad I left when I did. I know this sounds a bit negative, I understand that the carnival in Rio is more authentic, but I did enjoy the lead up where things were on a smaller more "intimate" scale, much more suited to my introverted nature. Here it was fun walking around the crowded streets in the ancient part of Salvador, the Old Town. Around every corner among the cracked and faded facades of aging basilicas, shops and public buildings a new surprise would reveal itself: small parades of glittering colorful costumes complete with band, the highlight of which was a group of men and woman wearing almost nothing but huge feathers and silver spray paint, a piazza with a stage full of constant entertainment, street restaurants, stalls, jugglers, fire eaters, acrobats and other assorted entertainers were dispersed amongst the street and squares. Around one corner a cobbled alleyway revealed a drum band of miniature musicians, some barely able to hold the bass drums without the occasional assistance of an adult to help prop them up, rat-a-tat-tatting out a fast staccato rhythm, passers-by such as I stopped, entranced to watch and listen. In the piazza one could buy a beer from passing hawkers while continually slapping off none too subtle pestering pick-pocket hands, reminding me of flies at an Aussie barbecue, they just never stopped. Every now and again a large hole would miraculously appear in the crowd, how such a crush of people could make an instantaneous circle of empty space intrigued me, there would follow a mysterious jostle off to one side and moments later a file of khaki uniformed, be-battened soldier police would hurry through, like Roman Soldiers out of "Life of Brian", pursuing their invisible quarry. On one evening Danny was mugged in a public urinal, nothing serious fortunately but a caution to be careful. Despite these incidents my overall impression was that the risk of being hurt was pretty low. These were not violent people, only poor, looking for a way to make a few extra bucks. The obvious Caucasian targets were just too tempting to be denied. "Thou shalt not steal" is an edict one can only proclaim without hypocrisy when you have ensured all your citizens have food, shelter, and the opportunity for meaningful work. Globalization is supposed to benefit all mankind but the reality I see is a far cry from this ideal. Rather I see the elite of a system justifying itself for growing fat while too many live a beleaguered existence in an environment rapidly approaching exhaustion. But: "As my friend's grandfather always said, "So . tossing poetry and points of view
around The delivery job I had lined up was for a catamaran being built in a place called Aracaju, which the Lonely Planet Guide described as the Cleveland of northeast Brazil. Shortly after our arrival in Brazil I received advice from the owner that the launch of the boat had been delayed by several weeks due to timber work problems. I decided that I did not want to hang around Brazil by myself for that long, I had left Sylph on the hard in Trinidad for much longer than intended already, if I now spent a further five weeks or so in Brazil then another five weeks delivering the catamaran, goodness knows what shape she would be in on my return. As it was my departure had been very rushed and I had not exactly prepared her for long term storage. So I decided to visit the boatyard in Aracaju, drop off some gear and then fly back to Trinidad where I could spend some time working on Sylph. I booked a return flight, much cheaper than two one way tickets, hoping that the revised forecast completion date would be somewhere in the ballpark. Thus it was that I returned to Trinidad by way of Aracaju and the Miami boat show. I decided to make a stop over in Miami because the boat show was on, and it was an opportunity to meet up with Phil Berman, the broker who is the US agent for the catamaran I was to be delivering. In Miami I met with Phil's offsider, Dennis, who sold multi-hulls based out of Florida. Dennis was a classic type B extrovert, a lot of fun to be around but so relaxed and casual it was amazing anything got done at all. My impression of Florida, at least what I saw of it, was of one huge concrete car park with roads connecting them and a few buildings in between. And every bar, restaurant and other establishment designed for people to commune in has at least three television sets, all on different channels. If you drive anything smaller than an SUV - sports utility vehicle (or 4WD in Australian parlance) you have no chance of seeing more than a few feet around you because you will be boxed in by all these monstrous tin blocks on wheels. Or to quote Umberto Eco's description, "Florida . a series of bridges suspended over inlets of the sea and proceeding along water-level highways that link two cities across a bay as marvelous as it is useless for human beings without a car, boat and private marina, ..." The SUV phenomenon in the US is an interesting example of how people get used to things over relatively short periods, for it did not take me long to feel strange driving anything smaller. So of course, the cars get even bigger, monster SUVs and trucks with incredible jacked up suspension and Hummers prowl the streets, macho status symbols presumably replacing the more primitive but slightly less costly penis sheathes of the New Guinea highlands. Here bigger is better in everything, and the concept of refinement or taste seems lost. To eat out every meal is oversized. I guess they have to do something with their prosperity and the message is clear, consume more, of everything. The Great Gatsby lives. Back in Trinidad a semblance of sanity returned. I was right to have returned. Sylph was grey and dreary, blackened with mildew inside and grime and rust stains outside. I spent hard days in the hot sun chipping rust, cleaning, sanding, painting, and varnishing. I had also taken on the task of removing six of Sylph's eight windows to treat the rust that was creeping out from under them, a big and messy job. Most evenings after a long cold shower I would retire to a nearby bar for a few ginger ales if I was by myself or, if I was to meet with some convivial company, a few beers. One character who had hauled in while I was gone was a big outgoing Australian by the name of Cameron. He was making money working on microwave towers and had just sailed single-handed from England. Clearly born with the gift of the gab, on the night I met him he rattled off an impressive alliterative sentence I found hard to follow. But I picked up on the word obstropulous and, in good humour I hope, quietly commented that I think he meant obstreperous. He in turn cheerfully challenged me a bet, 50 pounds sterling, that there was such a word. I was pretty confident but clarified the bet, "So if obstropulous and obstreperous are both words then its even, yes?" He agreed, I knew I couldn't lose. I was not to see him again for several days and as each day passed I felt more confident that the next round of drinks was going to be on me. When he did turn up to my boat one morning he arrived with a big smile, nothing unusual for Cameron, and hands me a piece of paper, he had done an internet search and found his word: "obstropulous, a slang version of obstreperous" from the dictionary of vulgar expressions. Well I couldn't argue with that. The weeks passed and the work on Sylph slowly progressed. Most of it was hot, tiring lonely work, far removed from the days Ann and I would spend in cheerful union working on what was then our cherished project. But when the day arrived for me to board the plane for Aracaju I felt proud of how much I had accomplished. Sylph stood clean and tidy once again, just waiting for a coat of anti-fouling on my return. I arrived in Sao Paulo airport at 8 am after an overnight flight and as I had a considerable wait for the connecting flight to Aracaju I decided to check my email. There, to my utter dismay, I found an email from the boatyard, the catamaran had been further delayed, apparently a rival boatyard had recently started up and shanghaied a third of Dolphin's workforce. Also I received news that Dennis had been killed in an accident involving his cherished motor car. I will admit I was close to tears. Remember O'Flarrety. After a brief discussion with Phil back in Philadelphia I decided to return to Trinidad yet again. If I waited the further five weeks or so for the boat to be completed it would be well and truly into the hurricane season in Trinidad and Sylph would be trapped there for another northern summer. Back on a plane, the next day I was back at the boat and straight into anti-fouling. Three days later we were back in the water and on our way, next stop Florida. Well with such a hasty departure I could not but expect to pay a few penalties, I was certainly taking a few tokens out of the seaman's black box, and the first day out was rough, wet and miserable, the jib sheet jammed, the steering was extremely tight and the self steering wouldn't self steer. Oh, and to top it off a dollop of water found its way in through a dorade vent and into the keyboard of my faithful old laptop. Scratch one computer. Bugger! But I am anything if not determined, i.e. pig-headed, and a few days later after wading through a short bout of depression, something I am now recognizing as a pattern, I settled once more into the sea routine. And, apart from that first 24 hours, the passage soon settled into an easy sail, despite light winds and some periods of drifting through calms over the Grand Bahama Banks, we made good progress and two weeks later I pulled into the Loggerhead Marina, Hollywood, Florida. It was now April 27. The first person I was to meet was Michael, Dennis's replacement, we hit it off straight away. A retired photographer he had sailed his 32 footer single-handed down the great Intra-Coastal Waterway and had lobbed up in Florida in the need of some work, so decided to try his hand at yacht brokering as the opportunity was thrust his way. A short break of two weeks in Florida and I was back on a plane for Aracaju. But it seems obstacles were still being thrown remorselessly at me. Now with sea trials complete I am told the boat has cleared customs and must be on its way in 48 hours. What! My crew doesn't even arrive for another two days, this piece of information would have been handy earlier. Well a delay for sailing was sought and obtained and I tried to see if my crew could arrive any earlier. Andy, a Canadian, was coming from Toronto, he had been waiting patiently for the crewing opportunity since January, the other crew member, Gesine, a German lady, was coming from Salvador, but contrary to expectations Andy adjusted his arrival no problems and when I called Gesine, she tells me, "Oh sorry, I went to the Doctor yesterday, I need surgery and won't be available for a month." Shit! Well various options were explored, none of which were very satisfactory, it looked like I was going to have to take on a Brazilian crew and drop them off along the way, as US visa problems appeared insurmountable, and I was going to have to pay for flights, my profit margin was looking very thin indeed. Then two days prior to departure I got an email out of the blue from a young Belgian named Chris now in Salvador who had just completed an Atlantic crossing on a catamaran and wondered whether the crew position I had advertised on the internet might still be available. You beauty! But before I could tell him where to find the boat or any other contact information he was on his way and incommunicado. I felt the stress mounting. About his time the boatyard manager says "Oh, by the way, we have a bit of cargo for you to take, I think you should put it here." Well I am not used to being told how to stow my boat so will admit to having my nose out of joint a little but when he showed me the cargo, it was so large, two great icemakers, it was clear there really wasn't any choice as to where it would go. "And what about the paperwork for customs clearance?" "Oh, no need." This did not smell good to me. "Does the owner know about it?" "No, he does not need to know." "But the owner is joining us in Bermuda, how am I to explain, 'Oh, by the way, the forward half of the starboard hull is totally inaccessible due to some last minute cargo.'" I was really pissed off. Well tensions mounted but fortunately, and I am grateful for the calming influences of Andy, all was eventually resolved. The owner was informed of the cargo, some paperwork for customs was written up and Chris, the Belgian crew, arrived late that night, the day before we are required to sail. Ahh, relief at last. Well it wasn't all over. Customs and immigration took quite a while to clear at the local airport, exacerbated by language problems. It turned out our paperwork was not all in order and it took another 24 hours and some money to resolve. And to top it off a driving incident where I made an improper U-turn almost had me arrested. But on May 19, 2005 I started a log for Casa de Verao (Portuguese for Summer House) and noted: "1120. Slipped berth Dolphin Catamaran Co. pontoon, Aracaju. Course and Speed as req'd to clear river." We were underway at last. Now surely I will be able to say after all this that it was smooth sailing but of course, it wasn't. Things started well, Andy and Chris were excellent crew. We all got on fine, particularly Chris and I, as we both shared a philosophical and analytical bent, while Andy provided a much more down to earth practical frame of reference. Only later in the voyage did our personalities cause some problems. One afternoon a discussion about starting the day in the log with the time 0001 (a Navy custom) somehow led to a discussion between Chris and me on negative and positive zeroes, the nature of infinity versus zero and some other stuff of similar ilk. This had gone on for about 20 minutes when Andy pipes up, "For God's sake would you two stop bickering." Chris and I look blankly at Andy. I respond, "We're not bickering, we're enjoying an interesting discussion." "No you're not, you're bickering." Now this discussion went on for some time without resolution and eventually. I said to Andy, "Now this is bickering. You know Andy, I've learnt something today." "Yes, what's that?" "That Chris and I shouldn't carry on our philosophical discussions in your company for too long, it upsets you and is inconsiderate of us." Now Andy is a really nice guy and of course objected to us modifying our behavior on his account but I pointed out that if we didn't he would bottle up his annoyance and it would find _expression_ at some other time, quite probably in an inappropriate non-constructive way. Yes we appreciate his tolerance, but better he express his annoyance openly when our discussions are too much so that we can all live together happily. Chris and I need to be tolerant as well and appreciate that our respective personalities are simply different. Such are the joys of communal living in a small boat for lengthy periods. Funny, some people hate these sorts of problems, but I actually enjoy them; refrains of Young Endeavour. But it wasn't just to be personality issues. God I love boats! Two days out we pass some fishermen in a small boat waving frantically. I decide to close them for inspection. Through sign language they intimate that they want water (either that or alcohol). We throw them a four liter jug of water and continue on our way. May 26, eight days out, at 2315, Chris calls me, a squall has hit us and we are surfing at about 12 knots. We bare away to reduce the relative wind and start to put a reef in but just as we are doing so the wind increases further to about 35 knots, now we are doing 16 knots, truly surfing down the waves. We put a second reef in the main but on completion I look up and see that the top three mainsail battens have shattered. There is no choice but to drop the sail completely, we continue under full jib alone. May 29, 11 days out, 05.30, I am in the main salon picking up a weather fax on the SSB receiver. We are lolling along at an easy four knots with the spinnaker up. I look out the salon window and see that the foot of the spinnaker is lower than it should be. We had only dropped the spinnaker two hours earlier with a slight wind increase but no sooner had we done so than the wind dropped off again, so back up it went. I actually thought the wind had died again which was causing the bunt of the sail to droop but when I went on deck I discovered the spinnaker rent its entire width about a third of the way up and torn along the luff tape from this point almost all the way up to the head. Once more that famous Australian _expression_ entered unbidden into my consciousness, "Bugger!" May 31, 12 days out, 10.30 a loud crack is heard to emanate from the port hull. That did not sound good! We check the bilges, no water coming in. We look on deck, nothing seems untoward up there. Chris looks over the side, there's the problem, the port dagger-board is waving about underneath the boat like its on hinges. We furl the jib and motor to put the dagger board on the windward side to reduce the risk of damage to the hull. Initial efforts to retract the board are unsuccessful. Well I'm the boss so guess who gets to go for a swim. I don mask and fins, safety harness and tether, and into the deep blue briny go I. Inspection reveals that the port side of the dagger-board has separated completely and the remainder of the board is cracked where it exits the hull, but there seems no good reason why the board should not retract if we time it as the board swings vertical. I supervise from the water to coordinate hoisting the board and it doesn't take us long to get the thing stowed. Now is definitely the time for a very stiff drink, good thing I didn't have any on board. I was certain my venture into delivery work was just about kaput. June 3, 19.30, after 15 days at sea, we anchored in Tank Bay, English Harbour, Antigua. We'll clear customs in the morning, right now I'm going to the 'Drop Inn' for that stiff drink, well a few beers anyway. Communications with owner, broker and builder ensue, and I am pleased to say I was not immediately sacked. Replacement battens were purchased and the spinnaker repaired. We lifted the dagger-board out of its casing to inspect it, but there was no clear evidence of any collision damage and the reason for its failure remains a mystery. There is not much we can do about it anyway so we place the board back in its casing and decide we will just have to make do with one. After a welcome five day stop over to effect these repairs we are back underway, next stop Bermuda to pick up the owner who will sail with us for the last leg to Long Island. The sail to Bermuda is without incident. Here we pick up Dan, the owner, and Chris leaves us, finding another boat to continue his way back across the Atlantic and closer to his home shores. The leg from Bermuda to Long Island is mostly motoring and finally, after 30 days and 4,329 nautical miles we pick up the mooring at Dan's yacht club in Centerport. Andy leaves the next day and I remain for another two weeks to fix some minor warranty work and a few other jobs that Dan wants me to do. On the way back to Florida I stop over in Annapolis to visit a friend, Ryan, I made when I was here last year. I stay for a very enjoyable week. Back in Florida I came to the conclusion that this is not the city for me and decide to continue north with Sylph. A few factors brought me to this decision. The hurricane season was upon us, the heat was oppressive, Michael was moving on, I had some friends in Albemarle Sound to whom I needed to deliver a hiking stick (for those who have been following my travels it is the one I had collected way back in the jungles of the Caribbean the year prior), the Annapolis Boat show was coming up in a few months where I could get a little work, Ryan was in Annapolis, and the Chesapeake Bay looked like a great place to explore. So I added that all up and on 11 August let go all lines and started to motor the two miles up the canals from the marina to the ocean. And 15 minutes later I was at anchor. In my three month stay the prop had become so fouled I was barely crawling along and the engine wouldn't go past 2000 rpm at full throttle. I half suspected this might happen but I wasn't going to dive on the prop in the marina, the things one saw floating past each day were disgusting. So clear of the marina away from embarrassing eyes and in slightly less murky water I went for a swim and after much duck diving had removed a bunch of very obstropulous oysters. Once on the ocean the trip started well, I set the wind vane and trimmed the sheets and Sylph was off on a close reach in the light easterly breeze. I looked approvingly at my trusty wind vane, she was steering the boat perfectly, I was confident that my recent bit of maintenance must have worked wonders, but three hours later I realized I had forgotten to remove the locking pin. The vane wasn't steering Sylph at all. I love these old designs, with the wind forward of the beam it is just a matter of trimming the sheets and with a little breeze Sylph finds her course fair and true. In fact when I pulled the pin out the vane started to throw her about erratically and it took a bit of fiddling with string and rubber bands to get her all balanced again, but for an investment of only $400, and after seven years and some 20,000 ocean miles it's doing pretty well. By 4 a.m. the next day the winds had once more deserted me and I downed sails and drifted. This proved the pattern over the next several days making for a slow trip, either light winds or no winds and I ended up drifting quite a bit, it took me seven days to sail just over 700 hundred miles, but I'm not complaining, no hurricanes and the seas have been relatively smooth. I don't mind drifting or sailing slowly but I hate rolling and slatting sails. On Michael's recommendation I stopped in St Augustine for two nights as it is the oldest settlement in the US. I arrived in the middle of the night and as I was unfamiliar with the small entrance I tacked offshore waiting for daylight. A light steady wind blew, my sheets were taught, eased just a little, the ship heeled, and I sat on the leeward cockpit coaming, alone but not lonely, as the bows swished quietly. The stars above, the sea below. It was perfect. The silhouette of the jib in the now moonset, moonless night, a perfect curve bending the wind to my purpose, I am going nowhere but it doesn't matter. The moment is enough. And the next day, now at anchor, I explore St Augustine and feel more lonely than ever. Umberto Eco's observations in "Travels in Hyper-Reality" sum up my feelings (though I am still trying to work out what semiotics and philology are all about), America's confusing fusion of reality, facsimiles, fakes, and pure fantasy presents a montage which only serves to isolate and disorientate the visitor from both the past and present. But I did find a great second hand book store. Sylph's waterline continues to creep ever closer to the gunwale. The next leg to Beaufort Entrance and thence back into the ICW was more of the same with the addition of an awesome display of lightning one afternoon, to the extent that I decided to alter course to try and avoid it, but to no avail. One cannot but empathize with the ancients who saw such displays as the handiwork of the gods, there is no doubt that it evokes the feeling of being surrounded by a living and implacable presence. But to the rational modern mind it is but a frontal condition, and as I entered it the wind backed into the north, picked up to 20 plus knots such that I double reefed the main, and it rained. I joyously donned a t-shirt, track pants and foul weather gear, the first time since the Mediterranean, the temperature was actually cool. Unfortunately it didn't last long and by morning the clouds and rain had cleared, the wind was back in the south and I was broiling naked under the sun again. From Beaufort Entrance it was some 30 odd miles of motoring through the ICW before I was back into the sailing waters of Pamlico River. My next stop was Colorado, Virginia to visit my friend Cheri on the gallant little Gallivant. My determined efforts to sail there were thwarted however. I went east to go via the large body of water called Pamlico Sound but after the better part of a day's sailing and a close study of the chart I realized my path was obstructed. I had to get around Roanoke Island to get into Albemarle Sound and to its west there was plenty of water but the bridges were too low for my mast height. And to the east they had some nice big bridges but the minimum depth went down to 4.2 feet. I couldn't believe it, that's just crazy! I studied the chart, looked up alternate sources of information, hoping something miraculously would change. I contemplated forging on, maybe a local could solve my problem, maybe they would dredge a channel for me, maybe pigs might fly. After about an hour of this I came to the conclusion that the earth's geography wasn't going to change over the next few hours, all my sources were consistent and the only one at fault here was me, I had been lazy. Still, no big deal, it's all attitude (though I admit to cursing just a little) so I turned around, made the best of it and in the end enjoyed a very pleasant night sail tacking back up the Pamlico River and coming to anchor up the Pungo River at half past midnight where I fell into the V-berth for a sound sleep. Underway again at 10.30, after a short stop at a little place called Belhaven for fuel, I resigned myself to the rest of the day motoring up another 30 mile stretch of the ICW taking me from the Pungo River to the Alligator River. Another night at anchor in some mangroves with F14s using me for target practice, the next morning I was able to get into some relatively open water and sail, albeit with a head wind, which involved quite a bit of tacking, but it was fun. Anyone who tells you a cruising boat doesn't need to go to windward is an utter idiot, is simply making excuses for owning a crap boat and, in my opinion, they are missing out on some of the best sailing to be had. So after a great day with a near perfect breeze, I sailed through the narrow channel at the entrance to the Scuppernong River and was finally forced to drop my sails, the wind dying as the beautiful timbered shoreline closed in around us. I motored the remaining couple of miles to Colorado where I tied up alongside the town dock and found the gallant Gallivant next door in the small marina. Here I found Cheri and the stick has at last been returned though I strongly suspect that the stick I have "returned" is not the same one Cheri left in the jungles of Dominica, Cheri would not openly say that it wasn't but as I said to Cheri it might not be the same one but it must be the right one because it's the one I found and which Sylph has carried some 2,500 odd miles to deliver to you. Cheri and I enjoyed each others company enormously and we had some great discussions, for the moment at least filling in some of the empty space in our respective lives. Unfortunately Cheri's partner, Will, is away in the mountains working so I didn't get an opportunity to catch up with him. Cheri introduced me to some local ladies, sisters Willa and Charlotte. I enjoyed a very pleasant evening in their company. They were both lovely and very interesting people. Willa dominated the conversation, a retired truck driver with the gift of the gab, despite her slowly failing eyesight she has a wonderful sense of humour. I regretted not having a tape recorder with which to save some wonderful oral history. Willa, who introduced herself as Billy because everyone has difficulty remembering her name, had been a very attractive petite woman in her day, and while her looks might have left her, her outgoing cheerful personality had not. Clearly feminist issues were not an obstacle. She took her truck driver's test and left the examiner marooned some 20 miles from town to make a point, and still got her license. One time she was under her truck fitting a nickel with a small hole in it to her fuel return line in order to over-ride the speed governor when a stranger came up and slapped her quarters and told her it wouldn't work. She spared no gentle words for this fellow trucker's advice. Then when she went back to the dispatcher's office she was told she had to go to California that day and she had a co-driver. And who should it be but of course the same fellow who had slapped her posterior. Out came her six inch skinning knife which she lays on the seat between them, "You put a hand on me and I'll cut it off, is that clear?" "Yes ma'am!" And so her stories went. They drove many miles together and one time her co-driver Rob says that when they get back to Colorado she has to buy a dress because they are going to a wedding. A long and colorful story involving finding a dress and shoes ensues. Eventually she ends up in the church and asks where is the bride at which point Rob says "It's you." Willa is furious, "Why didn't you ask me?" "Because if I did you would have said no," was the obvious reply. "Too right I would have said no! OK, for now I will go with the flow and go through with this charade but tomorrow we're getting an annulment." "OK" says Rob. More fun and antics follow but of course 28 years later they are still married and from what I could gather they love each other dearly. What a strange thing love is, I wonder whether I will ever work it out. Charlotte, a much more demure soul and clearly a carer, was preparing herself to look after her sister for as long as was needed. Unfortunately Rob was out on the road for the duration of my visit which was over all too soon but, as I have some potential work awaiting me, after three very short days I had to say farewell to Cheri, Willa and Charlotte and be on my way. The next leg was more motoring through the ICW, this time up the Pasquotank River and through the Grand Dismal Swamp Canal. Say it slowly and morbidly . . . "The Graannd Diz-mooooll Ser-wumm-puh Car-narghl . " It sounds like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe story. You would expect a sign as you entered, "Abandon all hope ye who enter here", for the sun to go into total everlasting eclipse, the sky to turn leaden grey, broken by distant flashes of lightning, a deadening silence fading in and out of slow rumbling thunder, for dank stagnant murky waters to give way to foul black mud, dead grey trees with bare contorted branches stark on rotting hollow trunks and everywhere the stench of decay and corruption. A solitary blue black raven crawks, "Nevermore." (Well I enjoyed writing that bit.) I was certainly intrigued as to what to expect but I hardly expected the fairy tale scene we entered. The canal as it gradually narrowed into a winding avenue bordered by tall healthy trees and rich thick verdant growth, full branches overhanging such that Sylph's shrouds occasionally brought down a leafy shower. Scores of dancing purple dragonflies escorted us as we made our way north, the occasional bright orange butterfly or large black beetle respectfully fluttering or buzzing amongst their ranks. A fine layer of tiny soft pale green leaves covering the water's surface muffled our passage, Sylph's bows gently pushing them aside, opening a narrow trail of dark clear water reflecting silver sunshine, as I cast my eye astern I sighted a dragonfly momentarily surfing the crest of the wind wave generated by Sylph's low undulating wake. It was simply magical. I stopped for a night alongside a visitor information centre and the next day the Dismal Swamp Canal eventually gave way to the Albemarle/Chesapeake Canal. Sylph's motor has had a good workout and now we worked our way through the naval shipbuilding heart of the USA. I counted no less than 15 Aegis Cruisers tied up alongside as we passed Newport News, I didn't bother to count the carriers and assault ships ("they" might think I'm spying). One little FFG looked completely lost among all this fire power. Then all of a sudden I am into the Chesapeake Bay. After all this motoring I treated myself to a stop over in the Hampton Public Marina but with the scent of Annapolis in my nostrils after a night's rest we were underway again. The Chesapeake Bay is huge. Annapolis is still some 140 miles from the entrance of the bay. Again I met a variety of conditions, ended up anchoring one night on Wolf Trap Shoal waiting for some wind which came early in the morning, on the nose again, so at first light we weighed and punched our way north for another 130 miles, this time without stopping and 30 hours later Sylph came to anchor in Back Creek, Annapolis, here arriving Saturday 3 September 2005 to discover the next chapter in Sylph's Sailings. To a Mouse On turning
her up in her nest with Wee, sleekito, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, sleek O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' brickering brattle! I wad be laitheo to rin an' chase thee loathe Wi' murd'ring pattleo! plowstaff I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth borne companion, And fellow mortal! I doubt na, whileso, but thou may thieve; sometimes What then? poor beastie, thou mauno live! must A daiman-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' with the laveo, remainder And never miss 't! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! Its sillyo wa's the win's are strewing'! feeble An' naething, now, to bigo a new
ane, build
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