The Night Before Crab Season

The Night Before Crab Season
Parody By: The Boatbuilder's Wife

Twas the night before Crab Season, and all through the town,
Every one was scrambling, there was no sitting down.
Crab pots were flying down down streets, bridges and docks
With great anticipation about Crab Season O'clock.

The bin boards were sorted and ready in holds,
And bait was chopped and loaded in spite of the cold;
And R with his toolbags, and I close behind,
Doing last minute fixes with what parts we could find.

When each engine on the dock started with roars of noise,
We jumped off the boats and said bye to the boys.
And Up the slippery ramp we flew like a flash,
Praying none of our friends would find rocks to bash.

Waiting at the South Jetty the moon was aglow,
Showing the fleet hurrying outbound, props churning below,
Under the gaze of their families, the wives, kids and dogs,
The small ships ran on, decks bulging with pots.

Each boat had a Captain, and a scurrying crew,
Still lashing down deck gear, battening hatches too.
By the scores they all gathered and approached buoy 10,
While Families ashore waved 'til they'd see them again.

Bye Katrina, hurry Nicole, and Cape St. James too,
Go Ballad, Cassandra Anne, be safe all of you!
Careful over The Bar! Watch out for those waves!
Hope electronics and hydraulics behave!

Heading out to sea in the shivering cold night,
Their decks glowed with work, deck lights shining bright.
As they each passed the jetties, small their lights grew,
And on each boat soon there would be so much to do.

Dear ones watched on as each ship crossed The Bar,
In search of Dungy crab, wether near or far.
A last phone call goodbye before out of cell range,
While freezing fog made things on deck look strange.

Wives and girls headed home, slept, and headed off to work,
Watching phones and weather, trying not to go berserk.
Soon the fleet will be home just as sudden as they left,
Holds full of more crab than the old cranes can heft.

Then R will spring into action, with more parts aready,
Fixing more items at the dock, as each boat holds steady.
I kissed R goodbye, aimed to Portland in flight,
"Happy Crab Season dear, but please sleep some tonight."

When it rains, it pours.

This week we seem to be struggling with heavy weather. As I drove into work this morning it was raining so hard that my car wasn't only trying to hydroplane in the ruts of the road, it was just trying to hydroplane everywhere. It seemed like the gods were just pouring never ending buckets of water over my car, the wipers couldn't keep up. Add to that, there's a never ending stream of large vehicles that seem all too willing to pass you and hold a position so that their wash is directly hitting your windshield. 100 miles away, the In-Law's house was getting battered. At that time of morning, both of the fur-babies should have been warm, dry, and snoozing comfortably with MIL & FIL, if not with R himself, despite the windows rattling in 70mph winds and driving rain. Sleep well, my sweethearts. I mentally pulled blankets over my sleepers and sent kisses winging their way up the road in the opposite direction and focused on driving.

We're also plagued, luckily, with an overabundance of work. R remains swamped, and the To-Do list is hopping. Everyone in town who seems to know him seems to know which boats he's working with, and who's waiting for what. Meanwhile, we actually have a contract at my regular job, with a short lead time, and the vessel is basically being designed in tandem with it being modeled. Which is hard on me, and yet par for the course. I try to keep a margin between when things must be done and when things are done, because for all the trying, I always end up just barely meeting deadline. I've lost my margin early on, so this week I went into balls-to-the-wall mode to try and regain some margin--because all I know about the near future for my project is how much I don't know about it. It means no home life; I'm only there to sleep.

So as I worked late last night at one shipyard, duking it out with a recalcitrant model, I reflected that 100 miles away--down the same damn highway--my husband was at another shipyard, duking it out with an electrical system. Our to-do lists are formidable, and we're scrambling to knock things off, although one of us has things to model, and the other of us has things to wire. Our situations are similar--one of us is waiting on parts, one of us is waiting on drawings. And the response to that is similar--you do everything you can on everything else, even if it's more difficult to do it without the stuff you're waiting on, and get everything organized to do the rest of your job as quickly as possible when your stuff comes in. Our deadlines are similar, homing in on mid-December, whether it has to do with crab biology, or economic and manhours factors. Our work ethics are similar--get up, go to work, work work work work work work work work, find food, work work work work work work work work, drive home hoping you don't fall asleep before you get there, drop clothes on the floor, and crash.

He called last night, as I was working on a piece of bilge plating, to update me on the firing of a main engine. I snickered when he said he was only stopping for 10 minutes to hit the grocery store up for food. I was nibbling on my own dinner--the only meal I was going to get for the day.

Innocent bystanders don't seem to get it. "Why do you agree to this? This is insane. You don't REALLY need to do this, do you? How can you keep this up?" Industry regulars say: "Hurry the F up." It's a hard industry, and if you're not doing everything you can to make your customers (or employers) happy, you're not going to get the next contract. At least, when I talk to my husband, it is a relief to talk to someone who understands. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, lead times getting longer, bosses and captains wanting things earlier, planning the project out to go as smoothly as possible, prioritizing your to-do's to keep everyone else around you able to move forward on their own to-do's. Different, but very much the same.

That Thanksgiving and Christmas are looming, is merely background noise and background guilt. When I get a moment to think about it, which is rare, the should-be's start. I should be going home. I should be getting my shopping done. I should be helping with food, with cleaning, with, with, with. He likely thinks he should be spending time with me (he informed me today maybe if I packed really warm clothes I could help him this weekend). Mostly, we don't have time to think about anything other than work.

Inexorably, the clock is ticking. I just hope we're making progress fast enough.

WINOS

It's the end of a shift on a particularly horrific workday and I'm nearly in tears about something going on at work. It happens to be an issue involving maturity, intelligence, honesty, and a few other traits (mostly, an issue arising out of the lack of these). In any event, it's affected a major project and several people. And while it once was just a semi-private issue over the last few weeks, it's blown up this week. And after the blow up, it was assumed that things would simmer down, folks would go sit in their respective corners and chill out. Instead, there is an extensive avalanche of kaka continuing to run down the mountain as the depth of the issue is becoming apparent--not because anyone was attempting to investigate--but that folks stumbled on evidence of... well.

In any event. I've been trying so hard and pushing so hard and cajoling so hard. I've been at my wits end for awhile now, trying to keep my personal biases or thoughts or knee-jerk reactions away from the project. And now I feel like it's all been for nothing (not the case, considering much of the project is behind us). . I am unable to put words to how I feel now... I think the only way to put it is, I want to throw a temper tantrum and screech, "I wanna go home!"

I'm thinking of that Bucket Theory, and I know the best way to ignore the water and quit splashing is to start some splashing of my own and go sailing. Unfortunately, the weather is gray and dreary and I have no boat available.

When I was at the Sail for the Cure event, there were a bunch of ladies wearing WINOS shirts. It said, "Women In Need of Sailing." I WANT one of those shirts. That is the kind of day I am having. There needs to be an emergency hotline, where you can call and schedule an emergency sail. There needs to be like a ZipCar of boating.

I imagine a crisply clean boat advancing up to a dock in a cloud of fog, just as you arrive at the pierhead, bedraggled, miserable, wanting, needing sustenance... Perhaps the Flying Dutchwoman, and a gal or two or three on board, and your pup is already with them. They reach out and snap you on board. While you head below to shower away the filth, the boat magically disappears into it's own continuum, and reality is forgotten. Post the greatest shower you've had in your life (or at least the last few months), put on clean comfy clothes, and feel that relieved feeling you get when your hair doesn't look like crap and you smell nice. Perhaps there's a nice savory and healthy snack or meal on a real plate with real tableware at a galley table with a real view, a beverage of your choice, alcoholic or not, cold or hot, while the boat sets sail in a nice breeze. You are not cold, you are not wet, you are not wanting or needing for anything, and you are not needed for anything except perhaps setting the sails and sitting a spell at the helm, only if you feel like it. The destination: catharsis.

I recently saw a bumper sticker. "Humankind. Be both." It resonated. Life is too short to be mired in poop.

On the Art of Splicing

My dad (not R's) was always very careful with his lines, and still is. Chafing gear has always been in place, although what type has changed from time to time. He's switched back and forth between 3-strand twist or Braid-on-Braid (BOB) from time to time, but every few years he gets his new docklines diligently. He's always careful about having fenders out, and the fenders are always attached with thoughtful spliced lines.


When I was little, Dad worked a lot (actually, nothing's changed there either). I only saw him on weekends (every other weekend he was on call) and Wednesday evenings, if we were lucky. He's a doctor, but doesn't fit into the general American stereotype for doctors. Sure, he drives a nice car, but it's a nice 12 year old car. Sure, he lives in a nice house, but it's a house he plans on keeping the rest of his life. There aren't ritzy vacations to Europe, and Mom still cuts coupons and watches for sales like everyone else's Mom. They save money up for big purchases, pay things off as quickly as possible, and believe in insurance.

Anyhow--his late hours sometimes made him cranky, but I liked to watch him, quietly, when he was puttering around on the boat, or in the garage. He had a copy of Harvey Garrett Smith's "Marlinspike Seamanship". It was a hardback with a goldenrod yellow dust jacket. The jacket didn't hold it's color well, and it looked slightly battered then. It looks more battered now. I liked looking through it and used it to learn to make a Monkey's Fist and a Turk's Head. His use of it was more immediately practical--he learned to splice and whip ends from it.


I do remember Dad working with us at night, teaching us how to make ropes off to a cleat. He had a chunk of 2 x 8 board, with a large cleat and a big eyelet to look similar to a chock, and there was a rope that went with this setup. And to Mom's chagrin, it seemed to stay in the living room a lot of the time. We could each belay a line properly as rugrats. When you're taught that young, it is as second nature as breathing--even if you haven't had to do it for a decade.

I also remember Dad splicing. It wasn't something he tried to teach us, but it was something he would take care of, religiously. Rope didn't get put into use without the ends being melted and whipped. Docklines were always neatly spliced if 3-strand twist. He'd buy the BOB's pre-spliced.
I could remember him sitting in his big lawyer office chair in the home office, with one of the funny old cut-glass tumblers half-full of scotch on the rocks on the desk, electrical tape and spools of whipping thread set out, and chunks of new dock-lines, or fender-lines, sorted out for him to splice.

I learned both whipping and splicing from watching him. I still like to pull out a copy of "Marlinspike Seamanship" to get me started on a splice, but those who are familiar with the task know that once you have the first set of tucks, the rest of the work is rather predictable. It turns into a bit of a meditation.


R is not a big splicer or whipper. I have rarely seen him do either. In fact, maybe only once have I seen him splice. I've never seen him whip anything. I think it looks shoddy to just run around with electrical tape, and for a long time I never did anything about his running rigging or docklines. It's his boat, it's his job, even if it irks me to see some taped ends and some fraying ends (and some fraying taped ends). But this last year his docklines for the Hans were looking extremely dubious. To the point that I ordered a massive amount of rope for Christmas for him and his father, along with whipping thread. They were both disturbingly slow to get going on making docklines, and it's getting on towards winter, and all of the weather that brings. FIL even attempted a whipping at one point. He simply wrapped the thread around in a jumble about 20 times, tied it off, and called it good. My mouth twitched and I decided I shouldn't really say anything. So I am now immersed in splicing, and whipping.

To warm up on the whole splicing thing, I got some 3/8" 3-strand twist and made a few practice splices. At one point I took my practice line to the Hans, where it was high-jacked permanently for use as the dinghy painter. The dinghy was towed many miles during our Labor Day weekend run, and the splice held. Uh... not that I was worried or anything.


Then it was time to start on the docklines in earnest. I had researched about rope failures and thought back to what we learned from Hurricane Katrina. 3-strand twist and BOB each have their pro's and con's. I hated how after not-so-long in use 3-strand twist became unpliable. I hated how BOB lost strength quickly as it suffered from abrasion. Chafe gear is obviously important, but it's impossible to guarantee everything is protected at all times. Hurricane Katrina taught us that under cyclical loading, as is seen during storms, BOB failed when the inner and outer layers of strands stretching created friction, heated up, and fused together.

So I had looked at Samson and New England Ropes single braid lines. New England Ropes offers a 12-strand single braid, and Samson offers a 6-strand single braid. Both looked great. I decided these had qualities I wanted, and it was worth a try. A somewhat expensive try, but a try. I spilled the beans on what the big Christmas present would be to my FIL and got his estimate on how much rope would be needed to do the docklines for both boats, and called our favorite chandleries for prices, then placed an order. (We are frequent customers of Englund Marine and Fisheries Supply.)


After obtaining my ASA101, I got a certificate to West Marine for a marlinspike. Seemed like a good thing to have. R had given me a knife for a graduation gift, a beautiful S&W 3" serrated folder. I carry it every day, especially if I'm going to be near the water. But for bandying about on boats, a marlinspike is quite useful. I don't particularly love the WM brand marlinspike I got--it doesn't seem to settle well in my pockets for regular use without making holes in my jeans, and the knife doesn't lock back or stay sharp. But, a marlinspike you have but don't love is better than one you don't even have, so...

I rounded up all of the rope to start my epic splicing adventure, dragging out my other accoutrements. Lighter for melting ends. Water in case I set something on fire with the dang lighter. My good S&W knife for cutting things. The WM marlinspike. A cutting board. Electrical tape--my preferred tape for splicing. The whipping thread. And while I don't have any cut-glass tumblers (just plain ones), or any Glenlivet, I did pour myself a glass of wine and put on a DVD, and put out a pillow for the dog to come nap nearby while I worked.


The instructions for splicing this stuff is fairly straightforward. But the tucks were difficult to actually accomplish for the first part of the splice. Even with the marlinspike. I moved forward at the rate of one splice per movie. Part of the problem was that it was hard to raise an entire strand, nothing more, nothing less, with the marlinspike, in order to pass the strand-to-be-tucked through. Bits of other unwanted strands would get pulled in, or bits of strands that were wanted would get left out. While I think this might have some to do the shape of the marlinspike, I've never used another to be able to say this with certainty. I got to wondering if a pair of hemostats might help, but I didn't have any.

I trudged on with my project in spite and got the first few docklines made. Then took a break from the project while I vacationed with my parents. While I was packing to for the vacation, I happened to be sorting through bags to pick which ones to take, when a crochet needle fell out of one of my totes I frequently use for craft projects. I bent to pick it up and move it to my craft cabinet, when I stopped. It wasn't like a lightbulb went on, so much as a 2x4 whacked me in the head.


Now... what's so different about crochet work than this whole splicing business? Obviously, stitches are not like tucks. But stitches sort of involve tucks. The head of the crochet needle had a pleasing round nose to it. I wonder what would happen if you try to use it to pick up entire strands...?

I passed by the craft cabinet, pulled out my entire collection of needles, big and small, and went over to my splicing project, which was semi-permanently erected at the coffee table in front of the TV. I picked up the rope, and tried passing my largest metal needle under a strand. With far less anguish, the entire strand raised up and slid over the needle. I wiggled the needle to make a bit more room, as though I was making one of my initial tucks with two-strands of my 12-strand rope. Then I slid the marlinspike through to hold the strand, and shoved two strands I had recently trimmed off a finished splice through. The crochet needle had made it easier to pick the entire strands, and not part of others I didn't want. And it had helped widen the area.


"HA! That was easy... DING!" I said to the dog, imitating the office supply store commercials. He cocked his head momentarily, then flicked his ears in annoyance, and went back to staring out the patio windows, on alert for the local tea-cup yorkie, Bear, or the local pug, Dapper Dan, to pass by, so he could hail them noisily and send them packing. I added my size "K" crochet needle to the bundle of tools and supplies I was using for the dockline project, and was actually looking forward to working on the docklines again when I got home.

I returned to my splicing the other night, and sure enough, the eye splice went a fair amount faster with the crochet needle. Despite repeated nosings from the dog, suggesting it was taking too long, it took a fair amount less time and frustration.


I still have a few last docklines to do, and a bunch of lines to whip. The first docklines I had brought back to R, unwhipped. He had taken a rare moment to sit down and do nothing other than watch TV when I settled into a chair nearby, spool of whipping thread in hand. I surreptitiously also brought "Marlinspike Seamanship" with me, and laid it open to the appropriate page, although, once you've whipped maybe one line, you don't need to see the illustrations ever again. I could play home movies in my mind of my Dad whipping line after line in the cockpit of our boat, after all. I was hoping R might learn by watching or viewing the illustration, and maybe he'd pick up the tidy habit. The boat has enough aesthetic issues, being a hurricane damaged restoration-in-progress; the least we could do is smarten up her lines.

He was watching my progress out of the corner of his eye. Originally I suspect he never thought the whipping would stay put. "You need a needle to stick that THROUGH the rope a few times..." he commented. No, not necessary, not if you're whipping tight enough. I start off with a slip knot with a very large loop in it, so that the free end of the starting end of the thread can be pulled to tighten the loop at the end of the whipping, once you've slipped the finish end of the whip through the loop. When I'm ready to stop the whipping and I've slipped the finish end of the thread through my loop, I yank on the start end some, then the finish end some, and the start end again, and so forth, till it's as tight as it will ever be, and the slip knot is a vague hint of a bulge midway down the whipping. Then I trim both tails.


He poked at the finished whipping, quietly inspecting. I was really hoping my little whipping intervention would result in a big breakthrough. I was ready to hand the spool of thread over, with the next dockline, so that he could take a turn, discover how easy it was, and decide he should fix all of the rope ends on his boat.

Instead he looked up and said: "You should really go ahead and do all the rest of the docklines, then whip all the sheets and halyards on the Hans too."


Sigh. Thwarted again. "Okay..."

The Bucket Theory

It seems a Tuesday ago I wasn't wanting to go to MOB/Lifesling practice. I went. It was cancelled. No wind. Went to Target, nearby, instead. :-)

This Tuesday was an even worse day at work. It made last Tuesday look like a walk in the park. I'm not one to throw things, cry, or throw absolute temper tantrums. At close of business that day, as I walked back to my cube, I seriously did a Nolan Ryan wind-up and launched my mechanical pencil into my cube wall (it didn't even make a sound, unfortunately), wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, bat my head against a real wall, throw more things, cry noisily, and stamp my feet. It didn't even seem like the problem was work-related issues, so much as absolute personality issues. (That's really polite, what I felt like at the time is that they were personality defects. But I'm not normal either, so who am I to judge.)

You can spend all day, every day, trying to manage a project, or a process. There are various leadership styles. I tend to think that when you're dealing with a bunch of engineers, it seems like the best bet is to try to understand the way a person works, what they need, want, worry about, wish for, understand, fear, etc... and use that understanding to help folks work together. But whatever my particular brand of leadership is, I was apparently not a Leader, but a Dart Board, on Tuesday.

It was such a filthy, foul day that day that I didn't feel like boating. Or learning something. Or... doing anything but laying on the couch. I ended up taking a shower... some type of ritual to cleanse myself of the Odiousness that was my day. But in my head, I still didn't want to go. In my heart, it was probably the healthiest thing for me.

I got in the car and headed back into town proper to go to MOB practice. And got there in a stupendously fast time--it's a drive that can take me from 40 minutes (late evenings, weekends) to 100 minutes. And when I got out, and it was cool, with a cooling breeze, and there were boats, and life was good. Not insane. And then nice people showed up, and life was even better.

MOB practice: AWESOME. Captain R was great. It deserves a whole separate write-up.

After MOB practice, I walked out with a friend, L, to the parking lot. I was describing my day, how I'd taken a shower to try and wash it off, but even then didn't feel like coming. She explained a theory her father had told her, called the Bucket Theory.

You take a bucket of water, and you splash it around wildly with your hand, churning that water up into utter chaos. You wait 5 minutes, and it's absolutely still. The lesson is, all of your wild thrashing doesn't matter, it's just a waste of energy, so learn to let things go.

Today had some crappy moments again at work again (though not nearly as bad as Tuesday's)... I walked away from it for a few minutes at one point, out to the big dock. And looked at the millions of little capillary waves on the river, and how in the grand scheme of things, their combined behavior really didn't budge the barge docked there one bit.

I'm going to use that Bucket Theory more.

Blasphemy

It was a long Tuesday, and as I was sitting at my cube desk I was thinking that it still had a long ways to go. I had planned to go home, deal with things at the apartment, come back into town proper, head to one of the more difficult to-get-to marinas for a LifeSling practice. But I'd also been up since 0400 on maybe 5 hours of sleep. And frankly, I just wasn't looking forward to going out and playing with boats.

Don't get me wrong. LifeSling is ridiculously important. I am gung-ho going to this practice session and learning about it.

R told me there was really nothing to it, when I told him I really thought we should practice, the two of us. "Nah, we don't need to practice. Don't worry about it." FIL said: "We practice it every time we go crabbing. Think about it." (I take them with a grain of salt. I even take myself with a grain of salt, for that matter.) I decided they had dubious ideas about MOB practice and decided to let the matter settle, slightly, and find a different way to bring it up.

Then last night, when I was about to get in the Radio Flyer to do the Pumpkin Drive, I reminded him of my schedule for the week, which included LifeSling. He opened his trap and said, "Just make sure blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah."

To which I said, "Blah? I thought it was easy."

"Blah-blah-blah-blah. Blah-blah. Just remember blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. Don't blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. If you blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah, then blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah, so blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. But if it's blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah, you'll need to blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. You see, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah."

"Um.... blah." My heart dropped. This might be more complicated than he previously led me to believe. Turkey.

Given the complications he finally admitted to, I've now been a little edgy all day. That, plus I'm reminding myself all of the little things I forget and beat myself up on, since I'll be on a boat with people I don't know (and who don't know what an absolute ditz I am). "Oh... hey, sorry. Thanks for noticing I decided to jibe and keeping up with the sheets for me. New to the whole jibing scene. Catboater. Sorry. No, not a catamaran. Catboat." (While they think to themselves, "Who did she say she was married to? OMG! What an idiot. Wonder if her husband's that dull...")

MOB procedures are like knowing what to do in the event of a fire drill, a tornado, a hurricane, a... anything. If not more important, and more likely. I am inherently concerned about safety, and what to do if my husband manages to get himself knocked overboard. Most especially, if he's unconscious. Not out of any particular intention on my part to take the fish whomper to his head (momentarily, anyway). Because he's usually quite graceful, I happen to think it'd take a fit of unconsciousness to occur for him to manage to end up in the drink. In any event, if/when this unconscious event occurs it will be (a) dark, (b) morbid weather, (c) the Hans or whichever other vessel will likely be having some kind of dubious issue, (i.e. sinking, broaching, turtling, etc.), (d) all of the above.

If I were the betting type, I'd bet on "d."

So although I have no question in my mind that I desperately need to go, and that this is unbelievably pertinent information that I need in my life, and that no amount of reading about LifeSling is going to replace the actual chance to practice... I'm tired, and nervous, and edgy. And I Do Not Want To Go. I am not terribly excited about anything other than going home and crashing on the futon in some scuzzy old yoga pants and a big tee. I don't think I even feel like reading a book. I definitely don't want to do housework. Or splice docklines--which is a major, major, major need in my life momentarily. (My parents are visiting in two weeks. You know how it is. People the world over worry about their docklines when Mom and Dad come to visit.)

I realize this not-wanting-to-go is pretty blasphemous and I apologize. It involves boats... I always want to go play boat. How could I not want to? Apparently even I have my limits. And for the day, I have reached my quota of boat-ness. Don't I get a break? I do barges or boats every dang day. No more today, please. I could throw a tantrum.

Don't worry, I'll be there at LifeSling. 6pm sharp.

One Year Later...

The tuna fiasco that I've mentioned a time or two happened a year ago this weekend. R's out of town and I needed to get away from the apartment, so I still went to go stay on the boat this weekend.

While I was sitting at the galley table, watching the kids on deck, I decided it was time to publish. I nearly waited--maybe I could add pictures. But I decided, no, just post it. Get it out. Quit waiting. I waited and waited because, frankly, I thought the whole incident was somewhat shameful. Not examples of our brightest planning, or brightest anything.

But to hell with it. No one's perfect. I'm sure there are those who could relate.

So... enjoy... or at least laugh a bit, while you hear a humiliating story.

http://boatbuilderswife.blogspot.com/2011/09/tuna-fiasco-part-1.html

http://boatbuilderswife.blogspot.com/2011/09/tuna-fiasco-part-2.html

http://boatbuilderswife.blogspot.com/2011/09/tuna-fiasco-part-3.html

And if you enjoyed it... please consider putting a few bucks towards an important cause: Sail for the Cure.

http://boatbuilderswife.blogspot.com/2011/09/blog-post.html

Thanks!

The Tuna Fiasco... Part 3

So obviously, I had some issues with this outing. Some meaning lots. Was it a good time to bring issues up directly after the fact? Nah. I think we had to all sleep on it, it was raw. We all needed to go home and lick our wounds personally, mull them over, and philosophize about them privately. Then sort through the issues together. And the longer I slept on it and re-hearsed the situations over in my mind, the more issues I saw with the whole incident. And, the more upset I was.

Responsibilities and the Blame Game

I don't think my husband, or anyone else, for that matter, should be perfect. He'd be quite boring if he was. And no one should be graded so harshly. And, technically, anything I could blame him for he has any and every right to turn around and blame me for. I am his wife, his partner, his other half, his other naval architect/marine engineer. Would he hold me responsible? No. He holds himself responsible for both of us, and holds the boat maintenance as his responsibility. Should he? In his eyes, I'd guess he'd tell himself yes. I'd say maybe yes, and maybe no.

I can see that, in a traditional sense, he should feel that he ought to deem himself responsible for the caretaking of the family, wife and boat/mistress maintenance included. Similar to the fact that I should probably take care of his laundry, keep the apartment and boat interior sparkling, meet him at the door with a drink and some munchies, have a lovely hot dinner available within minutes of him coming in the door, never be annoyed that he ties his shoes by putting his feet on the was-clean-5-seconds-ago-comforter, and in all ways be a regular 1950's housewife. (Do I feel a little guilty that I can't pull that off, yes.) Nice to aspire to in both of our cases, but frankly, it's a bit much to expect us to pull off perfectly, and we don't point out each other's imperfections very often. But, I do have a brain knocking around in my head and to assume that I'm not capable of being quite knowledgable about boat systems is laughable.

Can I come down on myself for not being more knowledgeable about her specifically, spending more time on the boat and with the boat? Yes and no. R still has a lot of systems projects to do on the boat, and as such we've not always spent a lot of time on board. "Um, I'm in the middle of re-wiring the.... so it would be best to just not be on the boat till I get it all sorted out, so that you're not moving stuff and the dogs aren't getting into it." But beyond that, there's nothing stopping me from being on the boat and re-learning what I've forgot about her, and learning more.

Frankly, for a long time, since R got the boat, I viewed her with jealousy. I wasn't involved in the decision to obtain her, it was before we were really together. I utterly adored the Nonsuch, was at home on her, was not homesick for my family on her. The Hans was this "other woman" that I put up with sportingly, helped on, periodically overnighted on, sailed on, because R loved her. When he needed to put all of his month's dock money towards a big fix, I'd spot him. He'd get me back. My feelings towards her: "eh." I was happy to help support his goals, but the Hans was his boat, not really "ours."

But now we're here in Oregon, and there is no Nonsuch... and she and I are probably both frustrated. I'd like time with him, without human interlopers--nothing specific, just time, and if it involves sailing, so much the better. She wants her sails up, her innards back together and miles under her keel with a bone in her mouth. Can two lovely girls work together and get what they want out of the guy at the same time? Quite possible. I'll start spending more time on her. You can't fail to learn some of the boat's systems when being a boatwife. Further, if I'm on the boat, ready to go sailing, when R gets the merest itch to go sailing, well then, he only needs to round up himself and show up.

Is this manipulative of the Hans and I, to be conspiring behind his back? No, I don't think so. No harm to me--I'm happiest on the water and I have no specific real rational complaint about the boat. She's a good boat, the type that'll take care of a crew that takes care of her, definitely not a Wally-world boat. No harm to R either--he's happiest on boats, working and playing on them. If I spend more time on the boat, he'll spend more time there. If he gets around to sorting something out, so much the better. And if not, next time then, and meanwhile he'll have noticed anything out of order. Just being on the boat will do everyone in this love triangle good.

Pre-Flights & Post-Flights

I used to ask R prior to going out, "Did you remember to..." or "Do we have..." and he can get a little snippy--especially if he's tired--we both have ridiculous sleep schedules these days. I tend to quit asking questions to avoid the crankitude. That's wrong. He might be in charge of everyone, but I'm still responsible for me (and as a wife I feel responsible for him), and if anything happens to him, I'm probably the next person left. I need to know what's up. That means not standing down if he gets his dander up. If he's tired and cranky, I just need to be creative in how I get my answers.

When I was very little, My Dad had a set routine. He actually had what amounted to his "pre-flight checklist" and "post-flight checklist"--a holdover from when he flew Cessna's as a hobby. The lists are laminated cards in the boat. He still uses them. But we each had assigned duties. The crew was the same on each voyage, however. Big Sis would handle the sailcover. I would handle the handrail covers, steering wheel cover, and instrument covers. Little Brother would please stay out of the way, and check that he had his Hot Wheels and Cheeto Puffs and coloring book.

If R's been working on one system or another, he may request that I let him handle certain things. We also share gear/tools/etc. between the family boats, or the shop from time to time. This makes a checklist a bit more complicated, but perhaps still do-able.

Safety Plan

One thing we may also want to work on is a Safety Plan. Big ships are required to have one posted--and it's not a bad idea for little ones--it's a sketch of the boat that shows where all of your required and spare safety equipment is. Posted in a prominent location, it's a nice thing to show guests in case they can't remember where, say, the bandaids are, or the horn is.

Confidence

While I know plenty about boats, and I've been sailing since I was 2, the majority of my sailing has always been on a catboat. Under sail I didn't feel like I was comfortable handling the Hans alone. I've never been out sailing alone, but all it takes is one dubious hiccup from the engine room and suddenly R's below and I'm skippering a really big boat I'm not entirely comfortable with maneuvering, really because we haven't had a lot of sailing time on the boat. And it didn't matter what boat I was on with R, I was always lowest on the totem pole if FIL was available, even if FIL knew not much about sailing, but plenty about running a powerboat.

For my own part, I wanted boat time for my own confidence. And I wanted it away from the guys in my life. And perhaps all guys. I'd had training for man overboard situations on big ships, but not on little boats. I wanted to prove to myself that I knew what I thought I knew, first. With that under my belt, I'd have no reason to keep taking a seat when in reality there were times I'd rather be taking a stand. It wasn't much fun for me. R would always be Captain and I would always acquiece to any demand or command he gave me; I'd actually agreed to obey when we said our vows and I'd meant it. But that vow was only to him, and I didn't care to be lowest man in the food chain on my own boat. I was pretty certain that in many ways I didn't deserve that.

When the boat show rolled around in January, I ran into a brokerage that also ran ASA classes. They offered a women's only ASA 101, and I signed up for the first one of the 2011 season, the first two weekends in May. I'd get boat time, practice, some time to sharpen my skills and practice with a sloop, and we'd gain contacts in the sailing community. I'd come out with a shiny certificate and a discount on our insurance.

ASA 101

When class time rolled around I was nervous. With the exception of ye odd silversmithing class, I haven't been in school in a few years now. Meanwhile, my husband had crossed the bar the day before on a customer's boat and was somewhere out on the Ocean. I'd slept, but not well, and I'd eaten, but not well. I was somewhat of a basketcase, because the trusty SPOT, which wouldn't transmit if R was below deck, hadn't been transmitting it's regular signals every 10 minutes for... oh... more than 12 hours. Which meant he was below deck most likely. So, he was maybe hurt or sick, but not so badly as to warrant emergency attention. Emergency or not, just because I didn't think it was an emergency, didn't mean my head was more with a boat 100 miles away than the 17' Hunter I found myself at the helm of.

At the same time, this unease made me doubly determined: with R beginning to collect offshore time, it was proof he was serious that we would be doing some offshore cruising. We would both need to trust me more before we could do that ourselves. We were each making steps in the right direction right that very moment for our goals. I knew I'd need to follow up and get more sailing time afterwards, perhaps even without R.

There was one other girl signed up for the class, N. D was our instructor. N and her husband owned a Beneteau 37, so we were both looking to become more comfortable on fairly similarly sized vessels. We went through basic parts of the boat, some basic knots, some safety, and found ourselves on the water, furling and unfurling jibs.

A few particular incidents stick out in my mind. The instructor was demonstrating docking along an abandoned dock. During the demonstration the outboard quit, but we had just pulled up to the dock. With the raging river current running past us, and no docklines out, just fenders, I didn't see any reason we would stay put. I'd always viewed outboards with unease--R's got a few around that know he's the boss but understand they can pull plenty of misbehavior on me. My experience was, getting the outboard started could take a few minutes--and if we didn't have a few minutes to get it started, it might be beneficial to be tied off, lest we float into other docks.

"Would you like docklines out?" I asked, ready to dig into the cuddy, after watching several pulls on the starter.

"Um... no." the instructor said. The outboard finally decided to start, and she added... "If this were your Hans Christian and R said no to that question, what would you do?"

"Nothing. He said no. He's the Captain. It's not a good time to quibble. Be ready for whatever he does ask me to do, and keep a look out. Deal with the situation first, then if I want to know why he answered the way he did so I can understand, I'll ask."

"OK. Good. That's fine." I wasn't sure whether to expect a blistering harangue for not saying something more feminist, but I was completely honest. To hear her say "Good" was a relief, and reassuring. And she would tell both N and I during the class repeatedly how well we were doing.

Over the 4 day course we practiced tacks, jibes, anchoring, docking, heaving to, and most importantly: Man Overboard. This consisted of the usual cushion (cue the reminder about most drowning victims being found with their zippers down). D would toss it overboard, and we would use the figure 8 method, approaching Peeing Paul the Cushion on a beam reach, the helmsman on the lee, catching their cushion. The only brakes available were the mainsail sheet; the jib was ignored entirely--if we had to rescue someone on our own, just focus on the main. Assuming Peeing Paul has a life jacket on and stays on the surface, I can get there.

The class was awesome. I have been on sailboats that small rarely, and it was pretty exciting to get her scooting. She worked on us about what makes us uncomfortable, what worries us on our own boats, what our issues are. I panic over outboards. I can handle heeling, but sudden heels do make me scramble on boats I don't know. I was very uncomfortable about jibing, being catboat raised, and I don't do terribly well with a tiller. If I let a situation get the better of me, I lose control entirely. Not anything I didn't know.

Did I learn a ton... yes and no. I re-inforced what I already knew in my head and had done before on a few other boats. In a situation where I was forced to be in charge, and there wasn't some guy hovering near to try to relieve me. It was a relief and a confidence booster. I expect I'll be taking more ASA classes in the future.

SeaBags

R likes to keep my life jacket in the Hans. Which means that if we are at the shop and suddenly need to go help someone, I have to use a dork-jacket without my whistle, that isn't all pre-set for me. Sure, something's better than nothing--but I want my PFD. That's why he got it for me, isn't it? It's one more thing to chase down when we plan to go fishing randomly. I've barfed, napped, sailed, fished, studied, got burnt to a crisp, and barfed some more... I've done everything in my PFD. It's Mine. Pretty much an extension of me. I'm used to it enough that I don't really remember it's there--even though it's the heavy one rated for offshore with the D-rings.

My instructor's convinced me. Keep it with me. Put it in a bag with the other stuff I want. Hat, gloves, knives, Bullfrog, extra sweater and cold weather gear, glasses, copies of certifications/licenses/documents/and a list of medications. Some basic first aid stuff. Two bottles of water and some snacky-treats that are human and dog-friendly. If I store the little stuff in a ziplock box, the box doubles as a bowl for the dogs on the run. I can't tell you how many times having one of those ziplock boxes available has helped me, or some random dog owner out. They're inexpensive, and I don't mind giving one to a stranger with a toasty dog.

Systems Issues

One issue that was probably embarrassing for R, and upsetting to FIL and I, were the VHF and nav light issues.

I decided to take matters into my own hands as far as the lights were concerned. I ordered fixtures for the lights we didn't have or needed replacements to. And new lights from Bebi. I even ordered a special light to be installed in the dodger, with white and red, and dimmer switches. When everything is finally installed (R's still having to fight for a few minutes on the boat at a time) we can turn all the lights on and light up like a Christmas tree. The missing transom light is installed on the hard dodger. Out of splash-range, for the most part, and aft of the backstay.

The VHF is an issue we're still working on. I think after the next haulout we'll be doing better. We've got the handheld and as long as it stays in the aft end of the cockpit away from the main VHF, they don't interfere with eachother.

Float Plans

Lastly, but not leastly... I'd like to work on having some float plans available for each of the boats that we take out, and keeping them in a binder that has the appropriate information available so that if someone needs to call in that we're having an emergency, they have all the information at hand they need to get on the phone with the Coast Guard and answer every question the Coast Guard could come up with. I came upon this generic one to start from, so I'm sharing it here. http://www.floatplancentral.org/

Finally...

While we're never going to be perfect, I think the tuna fiasco forced us to each think harder about being more careful this year. I felt and saw improvements, and I wish we had more time on our own boats to see more.

The Tuna Fiasco... Part 2

I was in the middle of a nice snooze when I became aware of R and FIL talking in the cockpit. I woke up with the sense that something was quite wrong, but my brain hadn't assigned a topic to the wrong-ness. While I frowned and waited for one of my sense to give me a clue to determine what boat system was suspect. A few seconds later, R was running down the companionway ladder and ripping it off, just as the Yanmar went silent.

I rolled over to face him, then shrunk back to outboard edge of the berth, in case he decided to lay tools out in front of me on the berth. I nonchalantly propped my head onto one hand--and nonchalance would be a complete act that R would see through--I dislike engine misbehavior--but I was determined to project a "no worries from over here" attitude. Hah.

The arrival of engine problems always tempts passengers to ask about 300 questions and require they be answered immediately. This aggravates the chief engineer, who would prefer to be left to his greasy engine room in peace to solve the problem of the moment. In good time, he will come out of surgery with his diagnosis, and prognosis. R seemed busy, which was good. Non-busy-ness would have been alarming. But waiting, whether in the waiting room of a hospital, or in the quarterberth next to the engine compartment, can be excruciating, whether it's for 60 seconds or 6 hours. My imagination can do plenty of damage if allowed to run rampant for 60 seconds.

But less than a minute was all it took, to have the engine running again.

"Fuel tank was empty. Had to switch fuel tanks." He said, by way of explanation, to the waiting contingent.

Which was one of those just fine answers that gets followed by the obvious silent question (Um, so just how much fuel DO we have left... since you weren't expecting to run the first tank dry?) I think he felt both of us staring at him, the question in our faces, unwilling to verbalize

R walked forward, dug for a binder in the Nav Station, flipped to the appropriate sheet, then punched buttons on the tank sounder panel. And stood thinking. After a second, he did it again. Something didn't appear to be computing. I decided I didn't care to see his facial expressions and studied my beat-up hands.

Finally, the second diagnosis came through. There was less fuel aboard than he had previously thought, but if we didn't push the engine hard... We could optimize the fuel consumption. We'd leave the sail up too and hope for some wind. As to why there was less fuel aboard... well, he'd had the fuel for awhile, and he'd gotten a little concerned about it being old, so he'd moved some of it to one of the forklifts. And, well, you know, forgotten about doing that. Now that he brought it up, I thought I remembered him mentioning it at the time. It had been months before though, and not something I would have remembered--I wasn't present when he did it, just something he mentioned over the phone.

I chewed my lip for a minute. Just what was he basing this calculation that we had enough on... The fact that we'd been out X hours, turned around Y hours ago, and thus probably had about Z miles left on our return trip... And at an rpm of A, we would make speed B in still water, and thus... So, did he figure in about the tides? River's current?

I started to open my mouth and start a barrage of questions about simplifying math assumptions, then shut it. The silence after R's diagnosis was deafening. All three people on the boat were engineers, we were all plenty capable of thinking the exact same thoughts and the exact same questions. And from the silence, we were asking them, and disliking the answers. R never specifically said we could make it home on what we had. Just that the plan was to optimize the fuel consumption. I decided I didn't want answers to my questions. Frankly, it wouldn't make a difference what the answers were.

With my face carefully hidden, it never occurred to me until recently that the guys may have refrained from further discussion on the offchance I hadn't understood the entirety of the situation. But it was all quite clear. If we ran out of fuel, all we had was our sails. And there was no wind, not even a breath. Certainly not enough to carry the Hans across the Bar, against currents and tides. Depending how close to the bar we were when we ran out of fuel, we might get carried towards the south edge into the shoaling breakers. Or we might get pushed further south, to the other side of the South Jetty, onto the beaches that his parents' house overlooked. We wouldn't be the first boat to be lost on those beaches. But few who had ended up on those shores had ever clawed their way off, and if the clawing off didn't happen immediately, it wouldn't happen period. We technically had tricks to slow the drift, sea drogues, spare anchor line, things of that nature. But I don't think any of us had ever had to employ them before.

For certain, the holiday mood that had struck us earlier, was quite gone. Everyone was quiet for some time, as we kept heading towards home.

********************

We had some hours worth of fuel left, that was for sure. And for now, all that was left to do was wait and see, whether the miles to home clocked down before the ounces of fuel did. I decided the day would be getting long, and that temperatures would drop soon. I wasn't warm with every stitch of clothing I had on. So nothing better to do than stay in the berth, where it was slightly warm, for now, next to the Yanmar.

I stared up at the chandelier above the galley sink. The crystals swung and danced with the motion of the boat, the sun light throwing a constant array of ridiculously ironic sparkles around the cabin. I focused on them, somewhat mesmerized, hoping for hypnosis.

R was up and down the companionway periodically, with his binder, punching buttons on the tank sounding interface unit. I still didn't want to ask. If the news was specifically good in any certain manner, he would announce it out loud. His silence suggested that this game would continue to be too close to call. Piping up to ask would just get a grouchy answer and amp up the stress.

After several of these trips, I decided to let him in on how cool his chandelier was, as a distraction.

"R?"

"What."

"You chandelier is sparkly."

"Mmm-hmm."

"No seriously. The cabin is now the sparkle room."

"Umm. Yes. It is sort of shiny."

"You're not looking."

"I can see it."

"Doesn't do it like this when we're at the dock."

"Mmm-hmm."

He was busy with mental calculations, or mentally thrashing himself. Either way, not to be distracted. I decided the sparkles were for me and me alone to enjoy. For so long as they might last. The sun would be sinking soon. I wondered if there would be a way to capture the show on a camera, but felt that the show might disappear if I tried. So I kept watching. And waiting.

****************************

As the afternoon stretched into early evening. We all grew restless. The beginning of the water interacting with the bar was maybe an hour away still. The guys were getting shifty. I was sick of waiting. It would be getting dark. And cold. I wasn't ecstatic about the thought of crossing the bar in the dark. If it all went to hell, it would go to hell in the cold steep pitch black waves. R had told me that at sea, studies show that sailors who abandon ship often don't make it, while their boat manages without them just fine. His point was to know for sure that the boat is going down before jumping. I wondered how well this rule held when land might be intervening.

It was time to find something to do. While I had been napping all day in an attempt to ignore the situation, the guys had been awake, steering, moving around the boat. They weren't used to being up early like I was either--they would be exhausted from that alone. I decided the thing to do was get something warm in them--it was going to be a long night no matter what. I stood in the companionway and looked up at them.

"Food?"

"YEAH!" Their response reminded me of the puppies at home, when I offer "treats" and my heart hiccuped at the thought of those fuzzy, furry, warm kids.

"OK. Do I have a way to warm anything up on the stove... or... there's MREs..."

"I'll make the stove work for you." R answered.

I dug through our options, many of which had expired in the last year. I found the tins of anchovies and smoked oysters that R had added on a whim. It was a holdover from our days of living on Peryton, the giant Nonsuch. The owner had given us carte-blanche--do as we pleased, take her out when we wished--but make sure that there's always anchovies and oysters on board. We'd thought he meant so he could show up whenever and have his favorite snack. But, it seemed to be a sort of good luck charm for the old girl. Everyone who had sailed on her knew about the anchovies and oysters. Apparently R thought it was an amusing tradition to keep, and had added some to the Hans' stores. Periodically he'd get new tins for Peryton, then eat the old rations; I certainly wouldn't touch them.

Peryton had been across the Atlantic and back, and had lost more than one mast. And she had lived to tell the tale, and hadn't turned a whisker (or whisker pole) at Katrina or Rita when I knew her. Maybe there was something to the icky tins of slimy marine biology. I considered offering them to R, then decided I would only mention them in a joking manner.

"Yeah, of course they're there. They're for emergencies." He managed half a grin at me.

I found a few cans of matching chili, after the offer of SPAM was rebuffed, then started digging for an appropriate pot while R turned on the propane system, then came down to light the stove for me.

As we finished eating, I got the ten minute warning to get the galley clean and stowed for the bar crossing and get back on deck with all of my gear. The restlessness level was way up at this point. I cleaned and stowed the dishes to dry in the sink, then made a last round forward and aft in the cabin, trying to memorize where every piece of gear we had was stowed. Our aft anchor line from Louisiana was stowed in the shower compartment, on its original spool. If we came out of this needing a tow, that would be the line we'd use. I also made mental note of a line that could work for adding a monkey's fist to turn into a heaving line. I could tie one, in the dark, pretty dang quick. The Coasties would have one already made. A fishing boat probably wouldn't. I surreptitiously stuffed a few ziplock bags in my pocket, for wallets, keys and cell phones, and made my way up the companionway.

We slowly motored on as the sun set behind us. R continued to check the fuel levels every 15 minutes. R and FIL were discussing the appropriate course, with the handheld GPS helping to point the way and provide hints about the Hans' leeway due to the current and tide. I had bought it in Louisiana, in case we'd had to head in different directions on different boats for a hurricane. It was for my little catboat, really.

The course conversation revealed a few important details. There was a strong current pushing everything south. There was a strong tide pushing us away from the bar into the ocean. And there was a strong current flow from the river's massive flowrate. So... basically, we were headed directly against the grain. And if we couldn't hold the middle of channel, we would be pushed towards the South Jetty and it's shoals. Not spectacular news. And the crowning fact: the closer we got to the mouth of the river, the less speed over ground we were making.

We inched forward towards home. The North and South jetties loomed in front of us, almost seeming to never get closer. In fact, I spied various landmarks in the difference, and compared them to the stays, watching to see if the landmarks ever seemed to move aft. Boat after boat passed us, speeding towards the bar, a berth, a warm dinner, a cold beer. Ships moved in and out around us--two big dredge ships moving near the jetties, Ro-Ro after Ro-Ro bustling in, grain ships headed out, everyone stately and business-like. With the sun set, the sky began to darken, and the steep wave pattern from the meeting of the River and the Ocean seemed to get steeper, in tall close-packed following waves.

The crappy part of a double-ender's cockpit is that you're never far from the water. In some situations it seems a bit disturbing. The good part is that in spite of it, the water seems to know it isn't welcome in the cockpit. R went below at one point to turn the lights on. I felt like there was something funny about this... I pictured our transom in my mind, and couldn't for the life of me remember where our stern light was mounted.

The wait was making me absolutely antsy. I wanted to start yammering about anything, but FIL was zoned in on steering the boat, watching the waves, trying to minimize having the stern slewed around, minimize roll. R was staring at the GPS, the tank level indicator, and the horizon. What conversation there was happened to be limited towards the identification of various buoys in the distance. I wasn't familiar enough with them in the dark to really do more than help watch them, but R could spot them far sooner than I could.

And on we inched, sliding off course to port and starboard to allow the big ships to pass us, then clawing our way slowly back towards the center of the channel. R revealed that we were making only 0.5 knots good over land at this most optimal engine RPM. The night came on thick and dark in earnest.

We had promised MIL yesterday we'd be across the bar before dark. At what point would she draw the line and decide something was Wrong? And what would she do?

I had been sitting near the companionway. Just inside the hatch is the VHF--which had largely been suspiciously quiet for the most part all day. At some point, it squawked: "Sailing vessel crossing the bar! Sailing vessel crossing the bar!"

I picked up the mic and handed it to R, who couldn't hear the radio from where he was sitting, "we're being called"

A Ro-Ro from behind us was calling. We moved to 68. Everyone who had their radios on probably moved to 68 too... I listen in on any conversation I can--you never know when there might be cheap entertainment. The Ro-Ro called to tell us other ships had been trying to call, and we hadn't responded.

I looked up accusingly at R, who couldn't see my face in the dark anyway. "Yes, thanks, we're having a problem with our antenna."

"Well, they're calling to tell you they can't really see you--could you get some lights on?"

"Yes, sorry, having a few problems here."

"Even a flashlight would help."

"Thanks for letting us know."

At that point, a nearby dredge ship we'd dodged a few minutes before shined a huge floodlight directly down on us, then up at our sails. Indeed, everyone had moved to 68 for that embarrassing conversation. There'd be gossip in town next week about the idiot sailboaters with the dark sails...

R ran downstairs and rummaged, coming aft with his biggest maglite flashlight. "You've got to sit all the way back here, and hold it like this." He handed me the maglite, and scooted me aft, next to FIL at the helm. "But you've still got to keep an ear out for the radio too, I can't hear it." I sat obediently as he prodded me slightly to adjust my hold on the flashlight.

When I first went to sea, the concept of going onto deck after dark bothered me. The water was so dark, and no one would notice if you fell overboard. How would they ever find you, even if you screamed your lungs out? As my trips would go on, I learned how to work around it. I'd go on deck with a buddy, because frankly, I had a feeling that if I let my nerves get the better of me, I'd lock up and stay paralyzed in some spot, unable to move towards a watertight door and a cheery interior. Even as a liveaboard, I'd been funny about walking unfamiliar docks in the dark (and even some familiar unlit docks), to the extent that R had added bunches of solar garden lights to Peryton's cockpit. I forced myself to go along on Fire Rounds on my first sea-term. On my second sea-term, I'd go with the mates during the night watches as they walked forward on the centerline catwalk, and we'd look together for phosphorescence in the bow wave. I learned that if I could ignore the water I wouldn't get so nervous. I also noticed that if I was on deck before the sun set and stayed outside till it was dark, I wouldn't be nervous. But now I was out of the habit, and R had just stuck me in the aft end of the Hans' cockpit, pointing a flashlight aft, towards the waves. And I was cringing in horror.

While the stern continued to rise to meet each following wave, we were periodically getting swiped by a quartering wave, wallowing and rolling, before sorting out. But still, with a flashlight in hand, I couldn't ignore the water, by any means. The waves had built--the tops of them even with midway up the hardtop stanchions, some 3 feet above the deck I was sitting on. Worse, some were folding over into breaking waves. It either meant we were too close to the southern edge of the channel (and the Jetty), or that the waves were just so steep that they were piling into breakers all the way across the bar. Or both.

I sat staring at the waves, periodically looking up to check that I could still identify each ship aft of us by their lights. As each wave would approach, my grip with one hand tightened on the flashlight, while the other held fast to the caprail. With hundreds of waves to pass us before we ever made it though, it seemed like there was no way that the Hans would continue to meet each and every single one. At some point her stern might not rise fast enough. I had a feeling that if cold water inundated the flashlight it would burn itself out, so I had to keep it dry if it looked like we would be getting doused.

After we pulled out of one rolly-wallow, R moved aft. "You ok?"

"Yep." What was I supposed to say? Cold, nervous, upset, concerned, uncomfortable? Part of me thought I should be angry with him, but it wouldn't have helped. He was probably angry with himself. Anyone could have put themselves into a similar silly situation.

He hurried back to his spot on the forward end of the cockpit, spying on buoys and comparing it to the GPS. More conversation ensued between R & FIL, we seemed to be slipping slightly less to the south, and slowly making it inbound. A particular church on the Ilwaco side had always been easy to locate, and it seemed as though we'd gained some ground on it. It had been dark for hours, and from what I recognized of the land in the dark, we had a ways yet to go to be done with the bar.

The only buoy that I could pull up on the map in my head was Buoy 10. It's the infamous buoy used for marking "Buoy 10 Season"--a time during the Salmon Season where anyone and everyone with a vessel that floats (and not a few that don't seem to float without serious assistance) shows up in our town and proceeds to attempt fish for Salmon. All I knew was we hadn't passed it yet, and we didn't have cell phone coverage yet, not that anyone really had a hand free for their phone.

What and who would we call anyways? Local fishing buddies? "Hey, I realize it's past 10pm and tomorrow morning is church and all, but we were wondering if you'd come out and find us in the dark. Yeah, bring 10 gallons of diesel." The Coast Guard? "Hey, we're running low on fuel. We're not out yet, but we might run out. We're not sure. But we have less than we originally thought. Oh, and we're that sailboat with no lights on The Bar." R's MIL? "Hey. So... yeah, we're running a little late for dinner, but so far we haven't lost the boat yet. Just thought you'd like to know. No, sorry, no tuna. No, not really sure when or if we'll be home. Check the life insurance policies, would you?"

Normally The Bar is approximately 6 miles of messy water--the interaction of ocean swells, ocean current, wind driven water, river current, and tidal flow. With that many groups of water trying to have their say, it's no wonder it's a mess. At times the water behavior ascribed to the Bar can be longer, or shorter than that 6 miles. But knowing that at times we're only making 1/2 a knot to the good would keep this a ridiculously long slog.

We kept on. And on. My fingers and arms and legs were stiff and cramping from having held tight and held still for so long. And I was beyond cold, had been all day, even when napping. I knew it was sapping my energy. R had kept on checking the fuel tank levels periodically, and FIL was obviously getting tired at the helm. We were getting quartering waves more often, and rolling more.

There were many times in college that we were faced with difficult projects and unfortunate timelines. We would be forced to buckle down and settle in to long night after long night, stretching into a blurry week or more. Your personal propulsion is some type of zombie autopilot, that carries you from class to class, to the shower, to your room to change clothes, to the professors' offices, to the galley for food, to the coffee pot, and back to your computer and calculator. Failure wasn't an option for us--it meant being dismissed. You tamp down the screaming in the back of your head, asking for a moment's worth of sanity or comfort, block out what your classmates are up to, ignore the 10 messages from your mother asking to call home and the boyfriend that needed a serious dumping, and focus on the fight that's in front of you, whether it's the unfairable hull, the firemain project from hell, a propeller that Just Won't Propel. You don't stop; you don't have a choice. I recognized the old feeling, and knew R did too. We'd tried to explain it to his parents before, and they'd looked at us in confused disbelief. My parents, a doctor and a nurse from the old days, did, but their professions lived by different rules.

I forced myself to change positions, forcing myself to move around and work the kinks out, considering each joint in turn, head to toe. My eyes felt full of sand. Then settled in and tried to re-focus--the waves, the ships behind us, and the squawks of the radio, holding that flashlight tight.

R finally began to note that our speed was picking up ever so slightly. Every few minutes he updated us with a new speed. The mainsail was still lifeless above us, but the engine kept chugging along. We kept watching. Waiting. The fuel tanks showed a little bit left. Our speed over ground continued to creep up slowly... and maybe it wasn't my imagination that the lights ashore seemed to suggest we were making headway.

But the fuel... still not enough to make it home for certain though. They discussed their options. There were two marinas closer than our own. One was Hammond, a few minutes down the road from ours, a few miles closer. The other was Ilwaco. Ilwaco had an entrance we'd never done in the dark, but boasted a fuel dock. While we'd need to stay till morning to add fuel to the tanks, we could find a transient slip and tie up. We could wake up first thing, get our fuel, and make the short hop home.

Ilwaco, hopefully, it was then. And if we couldn't quite make it to Ilwaco, the Coast Guard station was there--if they came to help, at least we'd be closer to their berths. R grabbed the chart, and we focused on our unexpected Port of Call. As we edged towards Ilwaco and away from the large commercial traffic, R took the flashlight from me to look at the map and search our surroundings for channel markers. No one else would be watching for us. I headed into the cabin, to warm up for a few minutes, and watched out the companionway.

We slowed our speed even more as we made the turn to enter the channel. The guys had rarely tied up in Ilwaco, and never with these deeper sailboats. As we nosed our way up the channel towards Ilwaco, at times I felt the boat begin to squat--hints we were close to grounding. I pulled out the boat hook and laid it handy, and glanced around for spare dockline before remembering it was stored on deck. Then I settled to clearing the berths.

With amusement I saw all of my weekend bags on our pullman berth. R had grumbled that morning that I wasn't "packing light." But my bags held PJ's, a change of clothes, my usual complement of toiletries including a fresh washcloth and a hairbrush. Hah. If I could warm up, which seemed like it might never happen, I might just sleep decent. I laid out toothpaste, facewash, a bar of soap, and my hairbrush. It they felt like cleaning up slightly prior to sleeping, they could. I straightened out the sheets and comforter, noticing a damp spot in line with one of the portlights. I flipped on the overhead light and felt around, then retrieved a towel and laid it between the sheets in the damp area.

The quarterberth was partly clear, since I'd snoozed there most of the day, but some of R's toolbags remained on it, and the fishing gear had been laid there prior to our return bar crossing. I pulled the toolbags out, one by one, carefully, and moved them in the same order to one of the settees. I moved the fishing gear next, poles, gaff, net, spare hooks, divers for salmon fishing.

On deck, the search to remain in the channel and gain the entrance to the actual marina went on, ever so slowly. I paced below, hoping we'd actually make the marina and find an appropriate slip prior to the fuel tank finally giving out. Finally the call came for me to get on deck. R backed slowly into a slip, a pair of long "Walk the Dog" docklines at the ready to become both breast and spring lines. Once the first few docklines were up and the engine shut down, I could feel us all begin to breathe.

Just then, a cell phone rang. MIL. Despite the phone not being on speaker, we could hear her yammering away, hammer and tongs, at FIL. We were supposed to be back by dark, yes. No, things were mostly ok. We were tied up in Ilwaco. No we weren't coming home tonight. No, the plan was... well we'd run out of fuel. The plan was... yes we'd had something to eat. The plan was... no we wouldn't make it home tomorrow in time for church.... The plan was.... no, she didn't need to come get us. The plan was... to get fuel first thing in the morning and come home. Yes, we knew it was late. No, we couldn't really help it. No we couldn't call and let her know, there hadn't been cell phone reception. Oh. She'd decided to call the Coast Guard if she didn't hear from us in the next half hour. It was 11pm.

We tidied the boat somewhat, and ourselves... and eventually went to bed. I told R about the damp spot in our berth, then snuggled in next to him in my PJs, pausing to grab him familiarly. Would he sleep, or would he be too keyed up? Would I sleep?

I started with the obvious: "You okay?"

"Yep."

"Well, I'm Cold."

"You're Always Cold." It was his usual retort to my usual statement of affliction, but over the years, it was just a language for "I love you." He wrapped an arm around me and we tucked the blankets in around us.

I reflected. Where he would go, I would follow, even when I was pretty terrified. The worst would have been to have been stuck behind on land, not knowing what was happening to him: not being there to see his face if he gaffed a tuna finally, not being there to back him up, literally, with food or a flashlight. He had always been the guy you'd want on a deserted island with you--he would sort it out. And he had. We all made it back fine, the boat was fine, silly old girl. The dogs were safe and sound with MIL, and we'd see them tomorrow. Sure, feelings and pride may have suffered, but we didn't lose anything that couldn't be replaced.

Everything Was Fine.

I kissed his beat-up hand and tucked it tight against me. "Mmm-hmm" he answered, and he grabbed tight for a second, then I felt him relax and pass out. I tucked the sheets down a last time, and followed.

The Tuna Fiasco... Part 1

This story is old--a year old this weekend. And I've hesitated a very long time in posting it, because the adventure was... affecting.

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Friday while I was at work, R sent the extremely wordy text message:

"tuna sat?"

I was supposed to be getting ready for the Commercial Fisherman's Festival, for this upcoming weekend. I had planned on having the entire weekend to thoroughly organize everything, to be ready to load it in our big trucks this Friday, get tags on the jewelry, etc.

I took a deep breath. I thought I'd escaped this fishing season intact (alive). I thought we were largely done with salmon, and that thoughts of a big tuna trip had petered out of R and FIL's heads. Tuna requires going some ways offshore, depending on the water temperature, as far as I am given to understand. They'd been talking about it for years.

The thing about these two and fishing... They don't seem to particularly love to eat what they catch, but they do eat it anyway. It's that they like the sport of fishing. When they're catching. And not puking. Perhaps it's some caveman thing, where they feel good about themselves if they can slap a pre-historic looking sturgeon on the kitchen-table/rock, and tell Woman to figure out how to cook, following up with a question about whether there are any Potato Chips left, and did we remember to get clam dip last time we were at Freddie's? Perhaps, given R's very long nose and red hair, it's more of a viking thing. Either way, they're very one-track minded about it. If no one will go with them, they still go. And both of their boats are pretty large for two folks to handle on their own, while fishing.

Add in my issues. I am frequently seasick--an issue in and of itself which happens to be epic since I moved up here. Imagine Rosemary's Baby. Perhaps my larger problem is that I can't stand to be left ashore, no matter how much I'm not interested in fishing (which doesn't seem to include lots of catching when I am with them). It's part that I love a boat ride. And part that, simply, where my husband goes, I go. Probably the only exception being the men's bathroom. On occasions where I have not gone fishing with them, I paced in circles. It's very unproductive if they go during the work week; I can pace just as well at work, even if only mentally.

They've used my issues to their advantage this season: I am now almost a requirement. This is partially because I'm the only one woman enough to Patch Up, approximately 12 hours in advance. "Did you put your patch on?" "Hey, you have her on the phone...ask her, did she put a patch on?" "Make sure you get more patches for next time at the pharmacy." "Don't forget about the patches." It's a subject of more concern to Someone than whether or not I have taken a Certain Pill against Accidental Keel-Layings at a Certain time. (Paradigm Skew, anyone?) While R isn't always seasick, FIL is often, but isn't prostrated by it like I am (usually). The patch is not a panacea--there are certain translations and accelerations paired that might still override its useful effects, but thus far I only feel a constant questionable strong twinge instead of Rosemary's Baby + Spewing behavior. It means they can send me below if necessary for items needed on deck. "You: Food."

It also means I'm available to take the helm when they go salmon fishing on FIL's Cal, which is a motorsailor Ketch. It took them awhile, but they've learned that I am capable of responding to commands, with somewhat better success rate than R's dog. We're both female and inclined to think for ourselves on occasion, which is a very dangerous affliction in women, I am told, by men who seem to think they would know. This leaves the two of them, who seem to generally communicate by mind reading, to work in concert at the aft rail reeling in fish, or attempting to do so. They pause periodically to pee, re-bait, and holler directions and suggestions, which are frequently of a conflicting nature (how's that mind reading thing going?), followed by a "You Need to Pay Attention!" However, the blood, guts, bait, dead fish, and baseball bat are kept aft of the cockpit, as are the men, and thus the majority of the fish scales stay away from me, so... my only concern is staying dry. Since it's a center cockpit boat, the cockpit is drier than the stern, though not necessarily actually Dry. This is the ocean we're talking about.

And so... I made a mental list of the 100 things I needed to do instead of fishing, and started re-arranging and prioritizing. Then I called R.

"I hadn't planned on tuna because, as you know, I planned on having the weekend to get organized for Next Weekend."

"We'll just be gone most of the day Saturday. You could bring stuff along to work on." (He very well knows that's a recipe for hurling, but he's just bartering.)

"Who's coming?"

"You. And Dad and I."

"How far?"

"25 to 30 miles out, they're saying."

"Ours or his?" (Which boat? His: Cal 46, center-cockpit ketch motorsailor. Ours: Hans Christian 38, cutter-rigged sloop, which has left the dock approximately once in the past year, because we've been busy, you know, building boats.)

"Ours."

"What time?"

"6 AM? 5 AM?"

I bit back a scornful laugh. These two and doing anything on time, or getting up early, that's a good joke. "Well, you know, I'm going to have to work late tonight, and on Sunday, if I go. And I'm going to have to HAVE your help."

"Yeah, that's what I figured. I can do that." (Bartering. Lies.)

"This for sure?"

"No. Just talking." (Translation: Yes, and I've already moved the fishing gear, checked the tides, and ordered a smidge of bait in case we try for salmon at the same time.)

"...OK..." (Translation: Reluctance... but we both know you're taking advantage of knowing I will go where you go instead of pacing on land till you come back to the marina.)

"Love you!"

"Love you too. Be home 6ish." (Translation: Love me? You had better...)

So, we were at the shop till 11pm Friday night: me trying to organize for next weekend, him back and forth between the marina and the shop, doing God knows what. In the midst of my preparations I wondered, in fact, what exactly he was busy with, and wasn't this just a bit really too soon to be going across the bar and onto the ocean with his boat, when we haven't had her out and about beyond a few hours last weekend, in nearly a year? When he got back to the shop for the last time he tried to hurry me along, to go to the house and sleep. I am not one to be hurried. I get Snippy. I hadn't fed him either, and he was very likely about to be Hungry. Which probably made him more dangerous than me, but not by much.

He didn't make it to get groceries for the trip, which he mentioned at this juncture, which made me feel guilty and stopped me in my Snippy Tracks. The last time we'd taken a trip, I seemed to remember something about the propane system being somewhat decommissioned, would I even have a way to heat something up? I considered the few items I'd just added to his cupboard in the shop galley, for next week. I'd picked up a small variety of cans, a single each, to be lunch, and he had frozen roasted chicken for dinners. I decided that if one is going to make decisions to go fishing at the last minute, one must deal with the consequences that the cook will likely not be on her game, or perhaps won't have any game to speak of. Hell. He was herding me out the shop door when I thought of at least grabbing his coffee beans, but he was adamant we go to home and to bed Now, so no coffee beans.

The reasons they wanted to take the Hans over the Cal are probably numerous. The Hans is easier to sail and has better sailing characteristics. The Cal can be ornery to sail well. It's a motorsailer C/C ketch, smallish sails, all roller furling, and they've never set the mizzen when I've been aboard, and not particularly balanced without. The Hans deserves some use. More than anything, though, the Cal has quite high freeboard. The Hans doesn't, making it easier to gaff a tuna. The bulwarked decks also make a prime tuna stowing location. (Cart before the horse, though, retrospectively--no doubt we could get plenty creative no matter the situation.)

When we arrived at the house, R's parents were watching the news. MIL wanted to know why we were supposed to get up so early. We explained about it being a very long day, and that we'd aim to return over the bar by dark. R and I cooked dinner together, then went to bed.

I slept fitfully, something seemed wrong and I knew I would be getting up at the same time as I do during the week. We were supposed to get up at 0430... but R didn't get up till almost 0600. I had laid out what warm clothes I had the night before. I stepped into them, gave the furry children a last hug and kiss and moved them to their beds in the family room, grabbed all my overnight bags and was out the door. R had complained about my bags, but I hadn't had time to dig through for sunscreen, sunglasses, hat, extra socks, fish license, etc. I put them all on board the boat anyway. Murphy's Law of boating with this family: If you have it, you won't need it; if you need it, you won't have it.

I was accused of being the one who made everyone late. This is traditional for any event involving more than one person in the family leaving. Frequently they accomplish this by not informing women of the planned time of leaving the dock or leaving the house, or of some task they have not done that the women should do, like feeding dogs/cats/fish, checking the mail, or remembering someone else's hat. Or, they're just not ready to leave the house on time. However, if they can force you to run back into the house to do one thing, so that you're the last person out of the house and into the truck, you're still the one who "made everyone late." It's traditional that it's always one of the females' faults on any family outing. Absolutely impossible to leave otherwise, since it's never not occurred. (Pardon the double negative).

We got to the marina with appropriate fanfare and began offloading gear out of the truck onto the boat. Despite R's assurances that we were "ready" I noted a 66# Bruce in the back of the truck. Ah. I determined I did not wish to partake in any part of the fun involved in moving the anchor and busied myself in moving all of the rest of the somewhat lighter gear to the boat.

As per usual, approximately 3 months before we move to a new marina, R finally builds a boarding ladder for me to use. Since we don't have plans to move, I have no boarding ladder. This means that getting on and off the boat is quite a tall step up and down, since the bulwark at the boarding area comes up to my hip, and it was somewhat slippery with morning dew. So I minimized the embarking/debarking, and moved back and forth between the boat and the parking lot, line gear up along the side decks, and then start shuffling items to the cockpit in "boarding groups." Sort of like Southwest Airlines. Group A = food-stuffs. Group B = personal-baggage. Group C = miscellaneous boat gear/canvas to be put away for the duration of the trip. This allows the guys to get into the cockpit sporadically and through the cabin without too much complaint. I also check the location of the First Aid kit--in the head, in the slider behind the sink. I have always laid eyes on it prior to leaving the dock, and I have never needed to open it.

We were off the dock and headed downriver by 0715... a few other sleepy boats out and about, mostly all headed for the bar for tuna. The buoys were getting pulled downriver hard. The bar itself was... not calm, but not terribly vicious about it like normal, either. Remarkably unremarkable. Except that we all commented anyhow. Which, perhaps, was a bit of a jinx. The gods and goddesses have very fine hearing.

Another jinx: FIL put ice in the coolers.

Another jinx: They made me touch my pole. Lately they put my pole out and it catches more salmon than anyone else's, but I handle the boat while they deal with my lefty-pole. I never touch it. It just happens to be assigned to me.

Another jinx: No one brought the Whomper (short baseball bat). I realize you cut their throats and drain the blood out and that kills them, but I think that's also prolonging the misery and rude. Drain them, sure, but thwap them immediately... Treat the gods and their gifts with grace, and you'll get more. I'm sure they noticed the omission.

And another: I forgot my cell. I always text my own Dad to let him know what we're up to. I've always had my cell with us since getting the Droid, for the Navionics. But we had a video camera and a regular camera. Which I've been told scares fish off.

For that matter, they had a female on board, and I've been labelled a Jonah before, by a Norwegian Captain with enough sea-time to know a Jonah (Jonette?) when he saw one. At least it wasn't the 13th, it wasn't Friday, and it wasn't Friday the 13th. But we did also unfortunately have a red-head aboard.

The bar over and done with, it would be a few hours and a few miles till fishing began. With nothing doing, no action, nothing pressing to do, no food to cook, nothing to engineer, no dogs to deal with, no laundry to wash, and the weather strangely decent for Oregon, if chilly, I decided that the only thing I really needed to get done, or could do, was catch up on sleep. So I kindly took my leave and went below to snooze all-standing in the quarterberth, arms wrapped around my PFD.

It took about an hour to fall asleep, next to the busy Yanmar, hearing random chat between the guys, remembering to myself the various creaks, groans, whirrs, purrs, shudders, thudders, swooshes and pops, the Hans' language of life.

A while later, R shook me awake. "Get up. There's a shi* in the water." Or at least that's what I heard. I tugged on my ears. He must mean ship.

"A ship?" (Are you telling me this because it's going to run us down? How bout you move a few feet forward and, I don't know, ring the damn bell, get on the VHF, and throttle the engine up as high as she'll go, and maybe turn the helm, dodobird.)

"A shi* in the water." He didn't seem panicked. We seem to be missing a key consonant here.

"A ship in the water?" (Well where the hell else would she be.)

"A shi* in the water. Get up." He ran back up on deck.

I laid my head back down and perused this. I doubt he means a floating poo. Ship in the water? Must be one interesting ship. Shift in the water? Where would it shift. Did Moses come? Noah? We have no elephants. Or kangaroos. No koala bears. Much less two by two. We had spiders covered, though. And I had to pee. Which settled it. I'd pee, then look on deck at what the hell is going on. R yelled my name again from on deck. I guess he was going to be all Captainy about it. I clambered out of the berth and semi-sprawled onto the galley island as the boat turned, and gave him a "Keep yer pants on" for good measure, since FIL was in earshot.

I followed my plan of action up forward, then flung my life jacket on deck, following behind it. The water had ShiFted in color, to that stunning deep blue with just a hint of teal--a dark crystalline sparkling apatite gemstone blue. It was a gemstone color all of it's own, the longer I stared at it--apatite, sapphire, tourmaline, nothing quite defined it. Barely any wave action, just the merest hint of capillary waves on vague ocean swells. And clear down for miles, it seemed.

Hundreds of small jellyfish were out, very tiny clear gellatinous organisms with a single coral colored blob in their amorphous masses. Give us 20 degrees more and a thoughtful breeze, and you could have fooled me into thinking we were in the tropics.

"Be on the lookout for fish, boats, or birds. We're in tuna territory." FIL told me. He was on the helm. R was up forward, fussing with fishing poles.

"OK... there's a fish, but it looks like its dying, it's on its side wagging a little side fin." I gestured over to starboard, not 10 feet from the boat.

"FISH!" FIL jumped up and leaned over towards where I was pointing. R came running aft. I rolled my eyes.

"It's dying." I waggled my side fin in explanation and leaned over.

"No, that's what they do--they sunbathe."

"oooookaaaay..." I wanted to suggest that if this was the appropriate animal, perhaps we launch the dinghy and try to sneak up on it with our big net, so we'd at least have one. After all, it was the only fish I could see, sunbathing. Maybe the others had gotten the memo about scale cancer and UV protection? Could fish sunburn? Was that called searing? I pictured the tuna that I'd seen hanging back at the marina, waiting to be loined. One, with a surfer accent, says to his neighbor: "Duuuude, the sun was hot today, I'm a bit rare!" The neighbor, with typically large tuna-optics, twitches his eyes in response, and says nothing.

We glided on (glid? glood?), further offshore. There were not birds, or boats, or fish, to be seen. Except our lone cancer patient, now receding far behind us, turning himself into pre-cooked tuna. I saw a hint of indecision as far as where exactly we should head, straight out, or a bit north or south? We could circle forever, or we could get on the fish and come home.

I leaned forward from my perch and the cockpit and hollered at R on the bowsprit, "Um... I suppose you could technically go up the mast and look for anything hopeful?"

I hate having R go up the mast. Hate, hate, HATE. He goes up using the steps usually. Sometimes he uses the harness, but it gets in the way, or so he complains. Sometimes he doesn't really even say anything before going up. But he's never gone up while we've been away from the dock before.

"Uhh.... yeah..." He practically ran up to the spreaders, and I wondered if I'd made a bad suggestion. I groaned and started to wonder out loud when he started yelling directions at FIL. Apparently there was a group of boats off of our port bow, just over the horizon. We pointed towards them, found a compass course, and got our monkey down from the crow's nest.

Some time later, we were on a group of boaters who were mostly stationary, fishing for tuna. It didn't appear that they were seeing any luck. Periodically we would see a fish sunbathing, but there is another species of fish in the area that sunbathes--sunfish. Apparently Japanese find them good eating. Americans do not.

The powerboaters looked vaguely confused at our presence: "Sailboat + fishing poles = Does Not Compute" With our sail up and a keel below we certainly rolled less. I felt vaguely nauseated just watching them, but the usual impulse to meander up and ask if they have any Grey Poupon still surfaced. We desisted. No one seemed to be catching, faces look generally frustrated.

We repeated our monkey trick and puttered farther around, looking for fin-wagglers and whatnot, for a few hours. After the first few, I napped on and off, down below in the quarterberth by the engine, where it was warm. It seemed as though it might be one of those fishing trips where we went bust, but I don't really think it's polite to comment with the obvious at the time when it appears we're on a wild goose-tuna chase. We even goofed off, videoing from the bow as the boat plunged into swells.

Around 1pm, we decided to make the turn for home. After all, we'd planned on making the bar by dark. But till then, the sun was out, and I was determined to enjoy the day as I saw fit. And napping seemed fitting. It would be a long run home, especially with no wind. So below I went, to snuggle back down in the quarter berth.

I was in the middle of a nice snooze when I became aware of R and FIL talking in the cockpit. I woke up with the sense that something was quite wrong, but my brain hadn't assigned a topic to the wrong-ness. While I frowned and waited for one of my sense to give me a clue to determine what boat system was suspect. A few seconds later, R was running down the companionway ladder and ripping it off, just as the Yanmar went silent.