Down the Ditch

Just when I got done whining about the literal ups and downs of offshore sailing, I get smacked upside the head with the monotony of motoring through the ICW. So far it's been a drag, and I find myself itching to get out of the restricting shallows of the channel and back into the open. The going on the ICW is painfully slow. Rodeo treads through the swampy waters of North Carolina at a dizzying speed of 5 Nautical Miles per hour, so we're making our way forward in short increments of 55NM per day. 
The ICW route is a series of creeks, rivers, bays and sounds strung together with a dredged channel at their heart. The channel snakes along existing and man-made waterways, joining them to form the 1,090 mile stretch from Norfolk, VA to Miami, FL. Current part of the ICW is carved into barely inhabited wilderness. Walls of cedar trees bound to each bank, and patches of tall marshes, encroaching on the water before them, stage the backdrop. We go past an occasional settlement or slide under a busy bridge that trails off towards civilization, somewhere beyond the tree-line, but for the most part the ICW is a quiet and lonely place. The way is not lit and therefore treacherous at night, which means we can only cruise it during the day. It makes for slow progress, but restful nights and a proper home cooked meal at supper time. Our first night out of Norfolk, on American Thanksgiving, I cooked up some turkey legs, butter carrots, served up with potato salad from the day before, and even managed to bake a pumpkin pie for dessert. It's not so tough out there for a skipper, after all. Another perk of slowing down to drop anchor every night is enjoying spectacular sunsets. Arriving at a scheduled anchorage in time to use the last bit of daylight to maneuver around shallow inlets, and then watching the sun drip down from the wounded sky, sinking in the murky waters, along with our anchor. 

ICW

I can't decide what's worse, getting pounded on the nose or slapped around from behind. Head winds and opposing seas deliver a punishment that repeatedly jolts the boat up and down and back to front, as it crashes into the waves. Following seas, on the other hand, create a roller coaster-like effect inside the cabin, with a centrical movement that tugs the body in all sorts of directions. Each motion induces a different kind of ill. The former is more tiring on the body. Hard blows of the hull against rising waves are more difficult to brace against, and the noise produced in the process makes it hard to relax anyway. With wind at the back, however, the boat is propelled into a nauseating tango with the seas that in the beginning rendered me dysfunctional, at best. My tolerance for the abuse is growing, however, and I'm beginning to weather it quite well. Maybe the masochist in me is waking up.
Actually, I can see how sailing, despite its demands and challenges, becomes an addiction for some. It's thrilling, rewarding and very liberating. But I'm not addicted yet. We've just entered the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW), and we won't have to contend with the elements in the same way we did out in the open waters. And for now I'm relieved. For us the ICW began in Norfolk, VA, a Navy town that Gabe calls Halifax on steroids. 
It really is. The shores of Chesapeake Bay and Elizabeth River, which runs through the city, are flanked by Navy and commercial shipyards. We didn't get to explore any of the city the short time we were there. We came in from a 36h run from Atlantic City, exhausted, hungry and in desperate need of a proper shower. This time we knew better than to be sneaky. We arranged for a slip at the Waterside Marina in the downtown area. There we had access to power, showers, laundry and a shuttle to the grocery store in the morning. We took full advantage. That night we also treated ourselves to all you can eat wings at Hooters, which we spotted just at the edge of the waterfront. As we entered we were greeted by a 14 year old hostess and were promptly seated opposite the bar/open kitchen, amidst a kindergarden, it seemed. At what point did Hooters become a family restaurant? The atmosphere in there carried non of the provocative, subversive ora I was expecting. It was disappointing. But the grub was good, so a pitcher of Sam Adams later, when we had our fill of wings, we cheerfully made our way back to Rodeo, for a full night of warm and comfortable sleep. 

Sucked in

I've never been as happy to leave a place as I was to leave Atlantic City. The Atlantic City harbour is an atrocious little whole that literally sucks you in. We hoped to bypass this port altogether and head straight for Cape May out of Sandy Hook last Friday, but by mid afternoon, when we reached the area, we were making very slow progress in opposing winds and Atlantic City seemed like a good place to call it the day. Especially that Edgar and Ginette were already in there. They went ahead and turned towards the port for a scheduled stopover, while Gabe and I tried to make more headway south. Having made very little ground in hours, we decided to join Pegasus in the city that's "always turned on". 
The skyline of it exploded out of the dark sky like fireworks. Buildings illuminated with shades of purple, orange and green flashed on the horizon, drawing us in like a beacon. It was obnoxious. And very distracting. I called Ginette to let her and Edgar know that we will be meeting up with them after all, and got a few words of caution from them concerning the port entry. Ginette told me that they ran aground, 3 times, coming through the main channel, where channel marker lights and traffic lights from the streets on shore merge into one messy blur. As we pulled in closer and closer, we were not surprised that crew might be steered wrong in these waters. Some of the channel markers were not showing up on the GPS and in the dark it is hard to judge the distance between them and the boat. But with Edgar's guidance we were able to avoid making the same mistake, and shortly joined them at the State Marina dock, where they were already tied up and calming their nerves with cocktails. 
Having spent a restful night at a dock, where we could plug into shore power and enjoy the comforts of electric heaters, we felt rejuvenated and ready for more adventure. And boy did we get it. 
We snuck out of port and back out to sea before office hours. What we save on marina fees we contribute directly into the sauce fund. I'm not trying to brag about being a freeloading lush, but this lifestyle definitely comes with a few benefits. But back to our story. Despite discouraging weather forecasts, we decided to make a run from Atlantic City to at least Cape May, but the going was slow and tedious just like the night before and we turned back. Being cheeky as we are, we pulled right back into State Marina, tied up and got away with it for most of the day, until the dock master informed us around 5PM that we had overstayed our welcome. With no other place to go, and no room for their expensive fees in our cruising budget we had no choice but go to anchor. The only anchorage lay in a shallow bay at the top of the main channel and, this being the weekend, was riddled with small fishing boats buzzing all around us. It was hard to get into and hard to stay put. Winds coming from the south and the tide ebbing east made the boat unstable. After half hour of being bounced around we chose to get back into the marina, preferably unnoticed. Making our way through the treacherous channel again we came up on a mud bank. That was unexpected. With a few hard revs of the motor in reverse we were able to break loose of the mucky bottom, but while swinging around towards our destination we got stuck in another mud bank. This time for good. We raised both sails to try to help lift the keel out of the mud, but it was no good. The thick silt engulfed the bottom of the boat and as the tide went down, it sucked us more and more into its sloppy entrails. That's what we get for trying to be sly. 
Unable to get ourselves out we called Tow Boat U.S., a towing service we purchased as a precaution before departing Canada. Nearly 2 hours later Captain John showed in a small tug boat, secured a few lines to Rodeo and gently pulled her to freedom. He then escorted us to a fueling dock nearby, where Gabe filled out some paperwork and was on his way out shortly after. We spent the night tied to the fueling dock, hesitant to go anywhere else in the dark. It was already late and we've had enough thrills for the day. After arranging to make another tandem passage along Pegasus, we were out of the ominous shallows of Atlantic City a day later. Its bright carnival of lights, still turned on, appeared dampened by the morning mist and as we motored away we were glad to see it fade into the horizon behind us. 

Vagabonds

We left New York City alongside another Canadian vessel. Edgar and Ginette, a retired couple from Quebec on route to their winter home in Florida. Getting out of Hudson River and into the New York Bay was a big deal for them, because it marked their first salt water passage. They had come to New York by the way of Lake Champlain and the Erie Canal, and had been anticipating this part of the voyage. They said they were relieved to know that they can follow in the footsteps of 2 experienced sailors. Ha!!! I certainly don't think of myself as an experienced sailor, but hearing them say that boosted my confidence just a tad. We proved to be most adequate guides with the fair winds and sunny skies on our side, and shortly before dusk both boats were safely anchored in the protected harbour of Atlantic Highlands on the Jersey side. 
Here we spent 3 productive days making improvements to the boat and re-provisioning. We hated losing time, but staying put meant we could tend to a battery issue that has been puzzling us for some time now. We installed a new battery bank four months ago, but as of late it wasn't holding the charge for more than a few hours. The wind generator and solar panel just couldn't keep up with our power consumption and we have had to run our engine a few times a day to keep the charge topped up. A new set of batteries should certainly hold for at least 3 days while we're on anchor and not connected to shore power, but ours were not. Something wasn't right. We purchased a battery tester at a local hardware store, and sure enough ours were flat. They were back to the state we found them in after they got flooded in the big storm, corroded and just looking sad. Drying and cleaning the terminals proved a lost cause. There was no other choice but to purchase new ones. We got lucky and bought a set from a local dealer that was willing to drive them over to the marina where we were anchored. 
We spent all of the following day hauling the old ones out of the bilge and setting the new ones in. Of course Gabe did all of the heavy lifting and dirty work, while I helped prep cables and handed him tools as needed. It reminded me of helping out my dad when I was a little girl. My dad is a bit of a McGiver, just like Gabe. They're both very handy, Renesainse men, who know a little bit about everything. Back in Poland, my dad used to build and repair sound systems, tinkling around with transistor radios and amplifiers. Whenever he worked I hovered over his station, watching him dissect all sorts of electronics. I remember the bright, focused light of his table lamp and the solder smoke emerging from the glittering guts below. I like to think that everything my dad tried to teach me somehow made me better suited for this vagabond lifestyle, where every bit of skill comes in handy. By the end of the day we had finished everything that needed to be done before the next leg of the trip. Repairs - check, full water tank - check, diesel - check, new bottle of Baileys for the morning coffee - check. We were set to go. 
Stealing past the fishing boats nodding off in the marina, we set course for the southern Jersey shore at 5 AM on Friday. Following closely behind us were our new friends, Ginette and Edgar.

Go big or go home

I like big cities. I like the anonymity of being in a big city and how you can just get lost in it. I love the energy of all the other lives trapped within it and the way each little part of town is a small universe all its own. That's how we found New York. 
We spent the first evening in town with Donald, a family friend, who was holding onto a package my parents sent us. They're so sweet. They packed a box full of Polish treats and kaszanka, a blood sausage that my parents know we love. Donald told us of some new Broadway shows to check out if we got a chance to score cheap tickets, but we decided to spend the next day roaming around town. The weather was warm, so we took advantage and set for Central Park. It was teeming with people walking, running, cycling, taking row boat rides in the pond. A sea of New Yorkers and I was floating in it with a big grin on my face. It made Gabe happy to see me enjoy myself. He worries sometimes that I'm disheartened by the challenges of the life "on the road". I admit that since we left Halifax the going's been tough at times and the conditions get to me, but arriving at a place as stimulating as this and feeling it lift my spirits, makes it all worth while. 
You know what else makes up for the hardships? (no pun intended) A lunch at Katz's. One of the oldest and most popular delicatessens in the city. It's where Harry met Sally, and she had the thing that the old lady at a table next to her wanted to have, too. The Katz's experience took up most of the afternoon, but it was a blast. First we waited outside in line with a few dozen other folk. A hefty bouncer was letting handfuls of people in at a time, dispensing order tickets as we trickled in. Inside steel barricades hoarded patrons into separate lines. Those who wanted self serve advanced toward a store-long counter where they shouted out orders and handed in their tickets. It looked like a trading floor at the stock market. We watched the conveyor belt of people flooding in and out of the place while we waited for service at a table. Bundles of salami dangled overhead on the wall behind the counter, where busy staff prepared fresh rye bread sandwiches and fished out delicious pickles out of tank-size barrels. A plate full of those and pickled green tomatoes arrived at our table shortly after we placed our order. We couldn't get enough, and the best part was still to come. People around us were gobbling down pastrami and corned beef sandwiches stacked with meet so high it could barely be contained by the thin slices of bread. The meal delivered to our table was a lot more than we bargained for. I got a football sized Reuben sandwich, with corned beef, cheese and sauerkraut. Gabe's was a hot open faced roast beef sandwich with a side of fries and coleslaw. We shared the two meals and washed them down with pints of Brooklyn Lager. It was heaven. We wobbled out of Katz's and toward the subway in a food induced stupor, but I wasn't completely satisfied. A neat little gelato shop, disguised as a chem lab, situated right next door lured us in, and we gave in to a double scoop of plum and coconut icy delicacy. That did it for us. Food didn't even cross our minds again until the next morning. We grabbed a quick breakfast and prepared to sail down the Hudson toward Sandy Hook, where we would wait for the next weather window to depart south, toward Virginia, this time in the company of another vessel.

Approaching NYC

Ahhhh, so close and yet so far away. We had to spend 3 nights out in Manhasset Bay at Port Washington, just barely out of reach of New York City and managed to only catch a glimpse of the skyline. We couldn't make it across Hell Gate any sooner than Saturday due to poor weather. What else is new? We are now 14 days behind schedule as we linger here and there, waiting for favourable conditions. But every bit of the slow and sometimes aggravating passage to New York has been rewarded by the stunning views of the city, at our approach from the East River. Gabe has come this way with Rodeo before so for him, this time, the thrill was in watching my reaction to the scenery as we flowed down the river in a canyon of the Upper East Side high-rises. It was loud and quiet all at the same time. Bustling and calm at once. Gliding along the shoreline, we saw it all go by so close, so tangible, but we watched it like a scene in a movie. The opulence of it seemed a bit imposing, compared to the simple ways I've become accustomed to since living on a boat, yet I found it familiar and comforting. Once we approached lower Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty came into view beyond the Brooklin Bridge. I've been to New York before, and it sure made an impression, but to see it from this perspective was a real treat. Dodging the water taxi and ferry traffic we steered North to head up the Hudson, where we were scheduled to moor for the next few nightss. The West views of the city were just as spectacular and the setting sun behind us cloaked the city in a rusty hue that intensified its mesmerizing effect. We motored slowly along the busy harbour front and pulled into the 79th Street Boat Basin, located right at Riverside Ave. It felt like we scored front row seats to the Big Apple experience. We couldn't wait to dinghy to shore and dive right into it. 

Fog

Fair winds are a blessing when making a night passage. The boat moves slowly, but purposefully ahead with a gentle rocking motion that gives the sleeping crew member a real chance to get rest. Calm seas are also easier to handle, so the person on watch doesn't get exhausted at the helm. This really works for me, because I'm still not completely comfortable handling the boat on my own. Smooth sailing conditions come at a price however, and this became apparent to us just as dawn broke last Wednesday morning and we got engulfed in a fog as thick as New England clam chowder. The still, windless air was saturated with moisture that absorbed the world around us. We could barely see 50 feet ahead. When out in open waters this may not be a huge issue, but we were nearly through the Long Island Sound and closing in on the narrows of Throgs Neck near New York. This is a major commercial route and the traffic was beginning to pick up, only we couldn't see it. While Gabe steered the boat, carefully monitoring the radar and GPS, I stayed at the bow with a fog horn in hand. All around us, across immeasurable distances, we heard signs of boats that were not showing up on the radar. One came so close we could hear the crew on board before we saw the faint outline of the boat headed in our direction. We were petrified. Navigating into Throgs Neck in these conditions was going to be impossible, so we decided to anchor by a small island nearby. This plan proved to be just as tasking as maneuvering in a busy bay. We couldn't see the shore and had to trust our instruments to guide us in the shallow waters. All the while I was at the bow, projecting short signals with the foghorn, when suddenly we heard a rapid fire of signals coming in our direction from somewhere very, very close ahead. We still couldn't see anything, so I signaled another 2 short beeps and one long one. Before I even got through the pattern, the response came back, blaring 2 short and one long beep directly at us. We didn't know what to make of it, until we saw a ghostly outline of a building materialize from the foggy air. The large compound before us was an old prison and the signal we heard was an echo of our own foghorn bouncing off its tall brick walls. What we could make out of the scene in front of us wasn't inviting. The building was derelict and it bore a large "keep off" sign on the waterfront wall. A tall smoke stack towered above it. Enveloped in fog, the whole island looked eerie and intimidating, but at least we could see something and we took comfort in knowing that we were in a sheltered cove, away from the busy bay and its shipping lanes. We anchored for a few hours, had breakfast and rested, waiting for the fog to lift. The coast didn't clear till mid afternoon, by which time it was too late to follow the current into Hell Gate on the East River. We had to find a place to stay overnight and try again tomorrow. New York would have to wait another day. 

NYC bound

Cape Cod Bay has released us at last. We made a slow but steady run across it late Sunday, over still, moonlit seas. After the hostile treatment we received from the ocean last week, we were relieved to be treading it under very little wind. We had to motor most of the night, but the steady pace got us into the Cape Cod Canal just as the tide turned and we didn't need to fight the current getting through it. Once on the other side, in Buzzards Bay, the winds picked up. They came right on the nose so we were beating into it, plowing through 4 foot waves, but enjoyed every bit of it nonetheless. 
So did Rodeo. She carried herself so gracefully. Every time we collided with a wave, she stirred up a fizzing white foam below. Like a lace train, it flowed around and away from the boat in a quiet whisper. Until we bashed into the next wave, and my tranquil musings got drowned out by the hollow pounding of the hull against the water and the hiss of spray. The only one of the crew members that was uneasy during this passage was our cat Pickle. She pops up on top of the v-berth mattress and crawls under the duvet, where she bounces up and down as if on a trampoline, every time the seas get rough. It's the worst place to be when the boat is pounding the waves like that, but I can't seem to explain that to her. She feels safe there so I leave her be. Poor thing, she puts up with so much. 
Tacking back and forth to get the most out of our wind, we were able to sail all the way into New Bedford, where we were scheduled to clear customs. They couldn't clear us in Provincetown, where we first made landfall in the midst of the epic storm, so the officer we've been keeping in touch with came out to the boat in New Bedford instead. She was extremely nice, filled out all of the paperwork necessary and was on her way within 15 minutes. She gave us a cruising license, so that we don't have to check in and out of every port in the US. It will be one less thing to worry about. 
We got ourselves ready to pull out of the transient slip and into the deep by 6 the next morning, just to be met by more strong, opposing winds and seas rougher than the day before. We hadn't expected that. The forecast underestimated the wind force, and we saw that it was only going to get worse. After little over an hour of putting up with the abuse, we turned back inland to wait on anchor for a gentler passage. There we treated ourselves to one of the yellow curry preserves I canned before leaving Halifax, and tucked in for a quick sleep before leaving the anchorage at 3 AM. We were finally New York bound, under a bright moon, on a beautiful, serene night. 

Now it's personal

Mother Nature: 6 - Rodeo: 0. Six lost days, that's how long we have been hanging around Provincetown, due to unfavourable weather conditions. We tried to make it across the Cape Cod Bay and into the Cape Cod Canal on the opposite side yesterday, but we met with some resistance from the choppy seas and winds gusting right on the nose. Progress was slow and uncomfortable, and by the second hour out we realized we had a slim chance of getting into the canal with the flooding tide at 4:30 PM. Besides, we didn't like the idea of being pushed around by the elements any more than we already had in last week's storm. So we turned back into the comforts of MacMillan Wharf, where we had spent the four days prior preparing for this crossing. 
Mother Nature has been working against us, it seams, since last Saturday, and I'm starting to take it personally. It's getting colder and colder by the day, and our already slow progress is being further impeded by capricious weather shifts. I guess that's part of the limitations of a cruising life, having to play it by ear and waiting for a good weather window if we want to make a safe passage. But the benefits of leading a leisurely existence when there is nothing left to do but wait really make up for the inconvenience of it. Having nothing better to do while back in port we catch up on reading, knitting, visit local galleries and enjoy spectacular pizza at George's. Last night, after the disappointing venture we devoured a large Buffalo Chicken pie with buffalo sauce, bacon and onions, all topped with gorgonzola. What a treat. 

Tightrope

Sailing to me is still like walking a tightrope. A balancing act which, based on my observations, requires complete dedication, control and skill, if it is to be performed safely and effectively. Oh, and bloody courage with nerves of steal. Not to mention confidence and instinct to help overcome moments of uncertainty and hesitation. Both of these acrobatic feats have got to be, arguably, the slowest, most exhausting and most challenging way to get from point A to point B. When underway, we measure our progress in small, meticulous increments plotted over a chart. These plotted points become the line which separates us from one safe harbour and the next. We carefully maneuver over the line in our wobbly ways, giving in to some forces while resisting others. At times with shaky knees and dizzy heads, we inch forward focusing only on the current position and the demands of the immediate conditions. Like our lives depend on it. Because our lives depend on it.
Today point B is Provincetown, MA. We arrived here Sunday morning on 20+ foot waves, ushered in by the unseasonably early arrival of the Northeasterly winds, as they're known in the region. We battled the high seas and strong winds for hours before getting here wet and exhausted, but safe and relieved. The weather quickly turned around and in the last couple of days we have been able to clean up, dry up and re-provision for the next leg of the trip. We'll be off and on our way to Rhode Island tomorrow morning, wandering down the long stretch of New England coast before we arrive in NY some time after Sunday.