One of the things we like about Uxbridge is its small town quirkiness. Take the Holiday First Night celebration - please! It's a quaint little town get together where Santa comes in on a fire truck to the town common and lights the Christmas lights to start the official Christmas season. It's just about what you'd expect - Deb's choral group sings Christmas carols, various groups serve cookies and hot chocolate, and the local banks and businesses open up with other types of entertainment and refreshments.
So, at first blush, it seems normal enough. But if you step back for just a minute and really look at what is happening, it's pretty freakin' weird.
First, let's talk about the animals. There's a petting zoo. OK, maybe it's not that strange to set up a small pen on the common and put goats in it for the kids to pet. But then there are the "other" animals like small alligators, millipedes, and chinchillas. I just picture an alligator lurking in the Nativity, licking his chops at the chance at an absolutely "perfect" snack.
Then there are the street vendors. These guys show up at the fourth of July and other parades selling light sticks and assorted other glowing things and here they are again. So now you've got hundreds of little kids running around waving lighted *swords* and whirling glow in the dark tubes over their heads! They aren't even Christmas colored!
Early on, the police block off main street for the parade that will bring Santa to the common and people line up to get a good spot on the curb. The excitement builds as you hear the siren and see the flashing lights coming over the hill. But wait, it's not Santa's fire truck, it's a truck from the neighboring town of Douglas. Oh and next we have a truck from Mendon with an inflatable Grinch on top. Then, there's a truck from Upton, an ambulance from Holliston (an ambulance?), an old time, open-air fire truck with two guys who look like their core temperature is about 1 degree above freezing, another truck from Rhode Island with an animatronic Santa (that Deb thought was the real Santa and wondered why he wasn't stopping to light the tree), and then several more trucks from even more towns near and far in various types of decoration. If somebody knocked over a candle, the whole of southern Mass. would go up in flames while all these fire trucks struggled to get out of town and strip off the 4 tons of Christmas lights (and portable generators that power them) before they could start spraying water.
So now there's a big delay in the parade. Nothing is coming down the street and the people are wandering out in the street looking confused. Wait, I can see some flashing lights and hear a marching band. Yes, it's the Douglas High School marching band. That's correct - Uxbridge doesn't have a marching band so we have to "borrow" the band from our neighbors to have a band in our parade. Yeah, we hate them throughout the year but come parade time, all is forgiven. After the band comes, is it? Yes, it's the Blackstone Valley Pop Warner (PeeWee) football organization. Of course it is.
Then there's Charlie Brown and Lucy walking down the street. And I think that's got to be Snoopy with an old time pilot's helmet on. Yeah, that's got to be it. I'm pretty sure that Charles Shultz estate would not approve of that costume...
Here's a float - OK, "float" is maybe a bit generous. It's Chevy Blazer pulling what looks to be the bed of an old pickup truck that has been cut from its cab long ago. The important thing, I guess, is that it has the ubiquitous generator powering a couple of strings of lights randomly arranged on some 2x4's that frame the perimeter. There are people standing on the platform throwing candy to the... no wait, it's not candy it's...confetti? Yes, I think those are small handfuls of confetti that are basically blowing right back in the faces of the people who are throwing it.
Next up is another trailer, this time with what appears to be a "stock car" on it with two kids sitting on the rear trunk with their feet going in through the (missing) back window. This car looks to be the type that you would see in "local" car races but I'm struck again with the thought "Why are they here?" And if that didn't pose enough of a question, the next item up for review certainly does. At first it looks like another stock car on a trailer but wait, this one turns out to be totally wrecked! The weird thing is that there are no markings of any kind. If it at least said "Happy Holidays from the Demolition Derby" or "This could happen to you if you drive after Christmas Parties" there would be some kind of connection but there's just nothing. Huh?
Next up, we have what looks like a Nativity scene. OK, cool, this is more like it. We've got the straw, the wise men, the spotlight in the East, and yes, that *must* be baby Jesus being held up by the neck and waved around by that six year old in the turban.
After that we have - a Trolley. Hmm. It says it's the official tour trolley for the Boston Red Sox and yes, it's pulling over to the curb and disgorging passengers. This takes several minutes as some people try to get on and those inside try to get out. Meanwhile, the 18 wheeler behind it (more on that in a minute) is laying on his horn to try and keep the parade moving. The Trolley, finally empty, pulls across the road into the bank parking lot (where it we figure it probably should have stopped to unload in the first place) and the parade continues.
As I said, the next vehicle is a tractor-trailer. Just in time, someone comes on the PA and announces that the Grand Marshall of the parade is none other than - wait for it - Hannaford Supermarkets! No, not the President of Hannaford Supermarkets. Not the manager of the local store, it's the whole company. And they've brought their truck.
After that, it's what looks like a large delivery truck with a hatch on top occupied by - you guessed it - Ronald MacDonald. We half expected him to reach down into a greasy bag and start chucking fries at the crowd.
Finally, there's the fire truck with Santa. He dismounts and comes over to the Holiday Circuit Breaker, the announcer does a count down (hesitating briefly on the number that comes next after "4"), and the lights go on.
Now, we've seen the maintenance crews putting the lights up in the days preceding the parade and and it looks like they are taking care to artfully arrange them in the perfect Holiday pattern. In the end though, it just looks like the Jolly Green Giant grabbed a handful of lights, heaved them up in the air, and let them fall where they may.
Did we say how much we love this town?
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Results and Soccer Vids
Well, the girls lost their State Semi game. The game was held about an hour and a half west of here in Westfield. The school got a couple of buses for the kids to go support the girls and we drove out as well. By game time - 7:00 pm - it was about 26 degrees but thankfully dead calm. The other team scored about 3 minutes in and then put another one in early in the second half. Our girls made a valiant effort but they couldn't put much offense together. The whole town is still really proud of them and it was a fun ride.
Meanwhile...
I've been using YouTube to host my videos - primarily because it is so popular. I've always had a problem with the quality of the videos though. Regardless of the quality of the video that you upload to them, they re-process the video into what is called Flash so that it is playable on all kinds of different computers. In the process however, the quality is drastically reduced.
Well, there are competitors to YouTube and so I recently tried out Vimeo. I uploaded the music video and the slide show I did for the Girls Soccer team and I think they look pretty good. Check them out and see what you think.
2008 Uxbridge Girls Soccer from Tom Hudgins on Vimeo.
2008 Uxbridge Girls Soccer Slide Show from Tom Hudgins on Vimeo.
Meanwhile...
I've been using YouTube to host my videos - primarily because it is so popular. I've always had a problem with the quality of the videos though. Regardless of the quality of the video that you upload to them, they re-process the video into what is called Flash so that it is playable on all kinds of different computers. In the process however, the quality is drastically reduced.
Well, there are competitors to YouTube and so I recently tried out Vimeo. I uploaded the music video and the slide show I did for the Girls Soccer team and I think they look pretty good. Check them out and see what you think.
2008 Uxbridge Girls Soccer from Tom Hudgins on Vimeo.
2008 Uxbridge Girls Soccer Slide Show from Tom Hudgins on Vimeo.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
An Improbable Run
The Uxbridge Girls Soccer teams have always been pretty strong. They usually finish at or near the top of the league standings and make it into District playoff action. Unfortunately, that's where they usually stop. In the past, they've just not played up to their potential in the really big games. This year was shaping up to look pretty much the same. They were seeded #2 in the District playoffs and had a bye in the first round. Their first game was with Leicester (say "Lester") and they won 3-1 to advance to the semis for, I think, the first time ever. That was an exciting game and Carly almost scored a blistering shot that hit the crossbar. It bounced up in front of the goal and Steph (something like 34 goals this year) headed it in. Already this was farther then they had gotten.
The game with Oakmont was on a frigid Auburn High School turf field and they came a way with a 2-1 win. There was wild celebration that they had made it into the District Finals! We found out that the #1 seed and arch rival Millbury (who had defeated them in Districts last year) would be their opponents in the finals.
The Finals were scheduled for Saturday, November 15 at Auburn High but it was raining and I guess there was lightening so it was postponed to Sunday at 1:00. A little after noon, I got in the car to head to Auburn. Deb's choral concert was today and Kyle was going to Wheaton to practice with the team so it was only me. I got to Auburn and quickly realized that I had a big problem because there was nobody else there. Hmmm. OK, I guess I'll strangle Carly after I figure out where the heck they are. I used my Blackberry to go to the Scheduling web site but the browser on my phone doesn't really render web pages that well and it refused to show me any details about the game. I called Kyle who was at home getting ready to leave for Wheaton and asked him to use a real browser to see if he could find out where they were. He got the page up but it didn't have any information about where the game was. I didn't have phone numbers for any of the other parents on the team and I could not figure out how to find the game. I called the sports desk of the local paper hoping they could help me but only got an answering machine. I finally Googled "Uxbridge Soccer MIAA" (MIAA is the Mass Interscholastic Athletic Association) and got a page with the tournament bracket. It was pretty jumbled on my tiny screen but I managed to find a link to the Finals and it said "Location: Foley Field". Great, I wonder where that is. I Googled "Foley Field" and found what had to be it - with driving directions to boot!
Luckily, it wasn't that far away so I as I got there and was walking in, I saw that it was halftime and the score was 3-0. Uh-oh. I was pretty sure that Millbury would be the one up by that big of a margin but when I got in and talked to the Uxbridge Athletic Director, he said "No we're up and your daughter scored a goal!" Woo-hoo!
The wind was howling straight down the field and, since it's a turf field, the ball just runs. Basically, whichever team is playing downwind has a huge advantage. Uxbridge had downwind the first half and got the big lead and now would have to hold on for 40 minutes of relentless pressure. Of course I didn't see Carly's goal but everyone told me she ripped one from the top of the 18 yard box and put in the opposite side netting. It sounded like a beauty.
The second half was a wild and woolly affair. When the Uxbridge girls would attempt to clear the ball it would basically get blown back in their faces. Millbury sent one of many corner kicks into the box and managed to ping it around and into the goal. They got another off of a deflection off of an Uxy defender. So it was 3-2 with time winding down and the crowd on it's feet. When the final whistle blew, it was pandemonium in the stands and on the field. When the girls finally came over to the stands, there were hugs and pictures all around. It's a fantastic achievement and I'm really proud of the team.
They are now in the State Semi-Finals and the game will be played later this week. Here's hoping for more success to prolong this improbable run.
The game with Oakmont was on a frigid Auburn High School turf field and they came a way with a 2-1 win. There was wild celebration that they had made it into the District Finals! We found out that the #1 seed and arch rival Millbury (who had defeated them in Districts last year) would be their opponents in the finals.
The Finals were scheduled for Saturday, November 15 at Auburn High but it was raining and I guess there was lightening so it was postponed to Sunday at 1:00. A little after noon, I got in the car to head to Auburn. Deb's choral concert was today and Kyle was going to Wheaton to practice with the team so it was only me. I got to Auburn and quickly realized that I had a big problem because there was nobody else there. Hmmm. OK, I guess I'll strangle Carly after I figure out where the heck they are. I used my Blackberry to go to the Scheduling web site but the browser on my phone doesn't really render web pages that well and it refused to show me any details about the game. I called Kyle who was at home getting ready to leave for Wheaton and asked him to use a real browser to see if he could find out where they were. He got the page up but it didn't have any information about where the game was. I didn't have phone numbers for any of the other parents on the team and I could not figure out how to find the game. I called the sports desk of the local paper hoping they could help me but only got an answering machine. I finally Googled "Uxbridge Soccer MIAA" (MIAA is the Mass Interscholastic Athletic Association) and got a page with the tournament bracket. It was pretty jumbled on my tiny screen but I managed to find a link to the Finals and it said "Location: Foley Field". Great, I wonder where that is. I Googled "Foley Field" and found what had to be it - with driving directions to boot!
Luckily, it wasn't that far away so I as I got there and was walking in, I saw that it was halftime and the score was 3-0. Uh-oh. I was pretty sure that Millbury would be the one up by that big of a margin but when I got in and talked to the Uxbridge Athletic Director, he said "No we're up and your daughter scored a goal!" Woo-hoo!
The wind was howling straight down the field and, since it's a turf field, the ball just runs. Basically, whichever team is playing downwind has a huge advantage. Uxbridge had downwind the first half and got the big lead and now would have to hold on for 40 minutes of relentless pressure. Of course I didn't see Carly's goal but everyone told me she ripped one from the top of the 18 yard box and put in the opposite side netting. It sounded like a beauty.
The second half was a wild and woolly affair. When the Uxbridge girls would attempt to clear the ball it would basically get blown back in their faces. Millbury sent one of many corner kicks into the box and managed to ping it around and into the goal. They got another off of a deflection off of an Uxy defender. So it was 3-2 with time winding down and the crowd on it's feet. When the final whistle blew, it was pandemonium in the stands and on the field. When the girls finally came over to the stands, there were hugs and pictures all around. It's a fantastic achievement and I'm really proud of the team.
They are now in the State Semi-Finals and the game will be played later this week. Here's hoping for more success to prolong this improbable run.
Friday, November 07, 2008
A Blast From the Past
I came across this document while browsing my computer tonight. I enjoyed reading it again and thought it might be fun to add to the blog...
CARIBBEAN HOLIDAY
As recorded by Deborah Hudgins
AUGUST 23, 24, 1985
I couldn't believe that we were finally leaving for ten days in the Caribbean. After Packing and repacking our luggage several times and patting our cat goodbye, we left the house in our neighbors' hands and headed for the airport with our friends, the Furriels. They dropped us off at our terminal with well wishes and warnings to "stay out of hurricanes".
Little did we know, as we wended our way to the ticket counter, that our flight was two hours behind schedule. We were not extremely thrilled to learn of the delay, but were able to see the bright side at least we'd be able to get a good head start on the novels we'd brought.
About half a book later, roughly 1:00 a.m., we were called to board the L1011 "Whisper Liner". We were seated in the middle section with a hefty couple seated directly in front of us. Naturally, they reclined and landed in our laps. Our "carry on" Luggage used up what little legroom we had, so the flight was not the most enjoyable. We were amazed at the way the plane shook at take off and landing; we thought she'd come apart at the seams. Obviously, nothing of the sort happened, and we made it all the way to Puerto Rico.
Why Puerto Rico when our destination was supposed to be St. Thomas? We wondered the same thing. As it turned out, Eastern Airlines had been unable to hold our connecting flight for an additional ten minutes, so, Puerto Rico was where we were left.
It was stifling hot as we walked from the main terminal to make our final connection. Tom made an executive decision and booked us on a little twelve passenger rubberband operated deal to St. Thomas. I was nervous, but tired enough not to really mind. There we were, packed into that mosquito of a plane like sardines, headed down the runway! As soon as we'd lifted into the air, I wished the pilots would land and take off all over again, just for the fun of it. It was frightening, but more exhilarating. The scenery below was beautiful; the water around the islands was multicolored blue, the clouds white and puffy. It was interesting watching the pilots at work in the cockpit. The descent through the clouds was a bit bumpy, but the landing was smooth. We'd arrived!
The airport in St. Thomas was the beginning of our culture shock; it was a converted World War II flight hangar. I plumped down on our bags while Tom tried to find out where one of our pieces of checked luggage had wound up. I inspected the scene: A throng I presumed was headed for a tour was being herded into groups according to hotel accommodations by a bossy gentleman, fortyish, wearing a loud shirt and touting a walky talky. Mr. loud Shirt continued to bark orders first into the walky talky and then to the bedraggled tourists. The tourists slouched listlessly on Suitcases or leaned heavily on one foot. Some sipped free rum punch they'd been offered when they entered the terminal. Finally, the crowd dwindled down to the inevitable two who hadn't heard their hotel called, and Mr. Loud Shirt first bellowed something into the walky talky, then escorted the stragglers out.
A few moments later, a couple stood practically on top of me; they were explaining their plight to an attendant... "You see, we just got in from Toeerrr tola and must have missed our connection... He was wearing a wild tropical print shirt and a cowboy hat, she an ankle length mumu. Though they were agitated about missing their flight, they spoke in an abrasively unhurried drawl, saying they'd just have to catch another plane for Texas. Somehow I'd known all along that they were from Texas. I was glad when they'd moved on; she was wearing a powerful perfume, and they were blocking the breeze.
After watching some garbage guys take away three loads of trash and the free rum lady mix another batch, Tom returned. Not surprising, our suitcase was lost. We were used to this sort of thing. The funny part was, neither Eastern nor Crown Air would accept responsibility for returning it to us. All the time I'd been luggage sitting and People watching, Tom had been hustling back and forth between ticket counters trying to get somebody to say they'd handle the case of our missing bag. At long last, one of them told Tom they'd call our hotel when it arrived. We loaded up our gear and headed for the taxi vans we were off and running.
We arrived at Secret Harbour Hotel hours late. Mom and dad were there, relieved that we hadn't been lost in the Bermuda Triangle or hijacked to Cuba. It sure was a pleasure to give hugs all around. We popped open a complimentary bottle of champagne and toasted our togetherness for a terrific vacation.
That evening, we shared an incredibly romantic first dinner. Despite the fact that the bugs were out for blood and the guys were wearing shirts and ties and sweating to death, it was postcard perfect. We sat on a patio surrounded by dipping palm trees, the water lapping at the beach, a pink sunset. We dined on roast duckling, filet mignon and fresh fish, and pinched ourselves to remind us that everything was real. That evening will long live in my memory; it was a dream come true.
AUGUST 25
We regrouped on Sunday morning, bade farewell to Secret Harbour and headed for Caribbean Yacht Charters (CYC) to claim our boat. Her name was Tattoo, and she was a beaut. We received brief instructions on the operation of the boat, where everything was, how to fix minor mishaps, how to work the radio. Then we sat around a table in the lounge area of the CYC office and listened to a crash course in navigating around the Virgin Islands. Our guide rippled around a map of the islands with colored markers, pointing out good and bad anchorages, places to see and avoid. He highlighted his whirlwind lecture with stories of "Fat Albert" at the Jost Van Dyke customs office, Clementine, an old storyteller on the island of Virgin Gorda, and how our boat, Tattoo, had been named...
"It seemed that time had run out. The owner was at wit's end trying to come up with the perfect name for his yacht. At the last possible moment, his wild secretary and girlfriend stopped by to show him what she'd gotten that day. She threw open her shirt and there it was, a tattoo on her breast!" And so our boat was named.
Our guide left the room for a moment; we glanced at each other apprehensively. We knew that we would never remember half of the things he mentioned. Next time, we decided, one of us would take notes!
While the guys went aboard to check everything over, mom and I braved a taxi ride into town to do the grocery shopping. Pueblo Market was very similar to a grocery store in the states. We stocked up on canned soups, spaghetti, macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly and loads of canned soft drinks. It took nearly an hour to gather what we needed and to check out. On the way back in the taxi, we were dismayed to find that our driver had no idea where Caribbean Yacht Charters was located. What a panic! Fortunately, we passed some landmarks that mom and I'd noticed on the way to town, so we were able to steer the driver in the right direction. At long last we arrived at the dock, stocked the boat with the supplies we'd brought and were ready to leave.
A CYC guide maneuvered Tattoo out of the Marina and into open waters, then left us on our own. We were sailing! Our destination for that first night was Christmas Cove off the island of St. John, a brief trip across the channel from St. Thomas. It was early in the day, so we were able to go for our first snorkeling expedition. Mom had never snorkeled before, so I showed her what Tom had taught me. I'll never forget her brilliant happy smile as she came up out of the water. It really was fun! I was amazed at how clear and turquoise the water was, at how many fish and sea urchins there were. The undersea world was beautiful and fascinating.
On board, we ran up against our first problem: we found that we had no water pressure. We fretted for a while before we realized that we hadn't flipped on the switch. I also discovered that our toilet, "the head", was tough for me to pump. I needed help in doing it, as a matter of fact. I later learned that I could manage by myself if I wore my sailing gloves to better grip the pump. Other than those minor details, it was interesting and fun discovering that the stove rocked, that the plates, bowls and cups had sticky rubber on the bottoms, and that there was a special trick to opening cupboards and drawers.
At dusk we noticed that our battery, the #1, was almost out of juice. It didn't pose any real problems since we had the #2 to fall back on. Each morning we were to run the engine for about an hour to keep the batteries charged and the refrigerator cool. At 8:00 p.m., we listened to the weather and "traffic" (messages for sailors) report, and watched the moon rise. There were millions of bright stars dotting the sky; it was beautiful.
No one slept well that first night, however. It was amazing how many unusual sounds that boat and its rigging produced. It took us a while to get used to the creaks and groans, the dinghy nudging and squeaking and the moon as bright as a flood lamp.
AUGUST 26
Before we headed out to sea, mom and I decided to take the dinghy out for a spin. We took a crash course in operating the outboard motor from the guys, and then sped off in the direction of a tiny island to do some snorkeling. As we approached our destination, we asked one another, "How deep do you suppose this is?" Then "scrape THUD" and we were aground on crunchy coral. Fortunately, we'd switched the motor into neutral. We couldn't, for the life of us, figure out how to lift the prop. So, I jumped overboard and 'Lifted the back end of the boat, careful not to step on sea urchins. I guided the dinghy over the coral and finally was able to swim and pull it into deeper water. I threw my shoes into the boat, grabbed my snorkeling gear and swam for Tattoo; mom got the dinghy going and kept me company on the way back. We spent quite awhile laughing at ourselves, afterward.
Our first real sail was to Frances Bay, and it was a wild one. We encountered heavy wind it was rather unnerving. All I seemed able to do was scramble madly from one side of the deck to the other, or peel my hands away from security for a moment to tail the winch. I sure prayed that the other guys knew what they were doing. There were some unfriendly looking rocks jutting from the swirling white capped water directly in front of us. And we were worried about negotiating Johnson's Reef, a place where the buoys had been known to mislead boats to their watery graves. I wasn't exactly scared; I was too busy hanging on to think about anything else. Grey wild sea, wind whipping, dark clouds scuttling I checked to make sure I didn't have an albatross around my neck. Finally, Tom kicked on Tattoo's trusty diesel engine and we made our way safely to our night anchorage.
Once the storm had abated and we were settled in, Tom decided to go for a Swim. When he returned, he reported that held seen a small nurse shark not far from our boat! We all saw turtles swimming by, their yellow heads peeking out of the water every now and then. We were also able to see stingrays resting on the bottom; the water was beautifully clear. Rain fell intermittently throughout the afternoon. According to the weather report, we were in for a tropical wave, the precursor to a hurricane.
True to the report, a thunderstorm caught us late in the day. The guys went out in the dinghy during a lull in the weather action to set the plow anchor over the bow. I acted as the official "dinghy painter watcher". My duty was to make sure that the rope tying the dinghy to Tattoo didn't get caught in the propeller as we backed up. It often took many tries to set the anchor properly, and was a worrisome task. We all had visions of slipping away during the night into a reef, or waking in the morning to find ourselves lost at sea. So, great care was taken to set the anchors well.
Once we were securely battened down, Dad and Tom grabbed some soap and climbed up on deck for a shower in the shower! Unfortunately, dad lathered up a little late and missed his rain rinse, so he was stuck with sticky old salt water. They came back in and closed everything up tight behind them. We all nestled in to weather out the storms seven, to be exact throughout the night. None of us slept very well., needless to say.
AUGUST 27
Next morning dawned behind a misty fog. We locked up Tattoo and headed for shore in the dinghy; we were off to explore the old Annaberg Sugar Mill on the island of St. John.
We started walking inland along an old dirt road. The sun burned through the fog and made the day all of a sudden hot. We were surprised to find millions of tiny maroon purple colored crabs crawling all over the around like ants it was hard not stepping on them, there were so many. The plants were dark green and tropical looking, with vines everywhere. Above ground roots extended down from the sides of the trees to the ground like elephant trunks.
As we came off of the trail and onto a worn paved road, we noticed several signs, which read: "DANGER. MANCHINEEL TREE. EVERY PART OF THIS TREE IS TOXIC. THE SAP CAUSES SERIOUS RASH. EATING FRUIT CAN BE FATAL." Another sign said that Columbus described the small green fruits of the Manchineel Tree as "death apples". We all had a laugh imagining how Columbus coined that name in the first place..."Here Giuseppe, try this little green thing; it looks just like an apple"...
We walked for what seemed hours; the sun was really beating down, making our hike feel like a forced death March. We were relieved to finally reach the Bill compound. The most prominent structure there was the base of an old windmill, built from blocks of cut coral. In my mind's eye I could imagine wooden blades turning in the wind. There was also an enormous stone vat once used for storing rum, and a number of skeletons of buildings, all fashioned from the cut coral blocks. It gave me a sad feeling to see everything so quiet and unused no pirates, no rum raids.
A brief shower caught us on the beach as we ran for the dinghy. En route to Tattoo, a beautiful rainbow arched through the clouds. It was like a good omen as we set sail for Jost Van Dyke.
Because Jost Van Dyke is part of the British Virgin Islands (BVI), it was necessary for us to go ashore to clear customs. Once again we went through the process of setting the anchor, locking up and heading for land. Young children played in the water by the dock where we tied up, and some men were building grass huts on the beach to the sound of reggae music. We learned that the preparations were being made for a wooden boat race and festival to be held the Labor Day weekend.
The customs office was a small cluttered room. The desks were piled high with papers; bent louvered blinds hung awkwardly at the windows. A few fat lazy flies buzzed around as we waited for Albert Chinnery (Mom dubbed him Albert Chimney) to locate the proper paperwork. Mr. Chinnery was a stocky black man, rum soaked and sweaty. He asked a few questions about our boat, where we planned to go and when we planned to leave British waters. Dad signed the document granting us permission to visit the BVI as "The Master" of our vessel. We were then the official guests of the Queen!
We stepped outside into a wall of humidity. It felt good to hop back on the dinghy and return to Tattoo, where the breeze always seemed cooler, fresher than on land. Tom and I decided to go for a snorkeling expedition around the reef at the entrance to the cove. We were not impressed with the view a few dead or nearly dead fish, small stinging jellyfish and lots of what morn called "beer can coral" (submerged trash). I also had a hard time clearing the water from my mask and wound up getting a lot of salt water in my nose, which stung. By the time we climbed back aboard and dried off, it was early afternoon, and time to get moving toward our night anchorage: Cane Garden Bay, off the island of Tortola.
The sail to Cane Garden Bay was my favorite of the entire trip. We had plenty of wind to speed us along, and I finally began to feel comfortable climbing around the deck, always being sideways. Tom showed me all of the fun places to sit on the sides with my head through the lifeline or with my bucket over the edge. I guess I grew my sea legs that day.
Once we had set the anchor, we were able to take in the beauty of the Bay. Coconut trees lined the beach; the sand was bleached white. Turquoise water was still as glass and reflected the perfect blue sky. It was heaven on earth. As steel drum music drifted over from shore, we grilled steaks and watched the sun go down. After listening to the weather report and traffic, we hit the hay early for a good night's sleep.
AUGUST 28
As we ate breakfast, we discussed the game plan for the next couple of days and opted to stay at Cane Garden Bay for one more night. Snorkeling was the first item on the agenda; a trip into town on the other side of the island was the next.
Unlike our experience at Jost Van Dyke, the snorkeling off Tortola was magnificent. Tom pointed out varieties of elkhorn, fan and brain corals, all vivid shades of red, orange, purple, and blue. Millions of iridescent blue and silver fish swarmed in schools around us. We saw a hogfish and a big jack, and many tiny jellyfish. It was thrilling and frightening at the same time being in a strange environment; I felt like a visitor in an enormous aquarium.
At lunchtime we went into shore ready for adventure. We all had a pina colada or two and bought T shirts at a little variety store and bar on the beach, and then headed out on foot towards an old rum distillery we'd read about. Old was an understatement; the place was an ancient ramshackle shed filled with casks and bottles of rum. Everything, including the elderly man who worked there, was covered with a thick coat of dust. The old gentleman claimed that his rum was the best in the world "Have fun, dance and sing... no hangover!" Mom bought two bottles of the dark rum and a T shirt to wrap them in.
We then proceeded back to the store where we awaited a taxi to take us to Road Town. When it arrived, we wondered how it would ever make the trip. Choking black smoke billowed out the back, and it actually seemed to cough and wheeze. Before I even had the door shut, the driver tore off toward town own.
We took a very steep road over the mountain; there were many times we wondered if we'd have to get out and push to help the poor old taxi along. On the way down into Roadtown, the hairpin curves and fear of the driver screaming "NO BRAKES!" combined to create a hair whitening experience. When we weren't squeezing our eyes shut to block out impending doom, we were treated to a spectacular view of our bay and the harbor on the other side of the mountain. The water was deep blue and sparkling in the sun, a beautiful sight.
When we arrived in Road Town, our first impulse was to throw ourselves down to kiss the ground. Instead, we paid the driver and requested that he return in two hours to take us back to the bay. I suppose the pina coladas had impaired our abilities to reason. Our spending abilities remained functional, however, and we passed our time in town meandering through the shops, supporting the local economy.
Armed with bags of souvenirs, we waited at the meeting place we'd set for our cab. Our driver pulled up in a different car, a dilapidated station wagon. The trip into town had done in the first taxi, we guessed. So in we climbed and off we peeled. Exhaust fumes poured directly into the open back window, quickly causing me to feel carsick. It seemed rather ironic that three days at sea hadn't turned my stomach once. Teetering on the edge of extinction, we careened over the mountain and landed once again at the variety store.
It was late afternoon when we finally climbed aboard Tattoo with our purchases and a six-pack of Tab. We were hot and frazzled, so decided to go snorkeling once again, this time with mom and dad. Dad got caught in a frenzy of tiny silver fish, and decided that he wasn't too keen on seeing what the denizens of the deep had in store for him. He said that he figured there must be something bigger and more ferocious following all those little fish, and he didn't want to stick around to find out how many teeth it had. Instead of snorkeling, dad got out the windsurfer and had a go at that, along with Tom. Mom and I returned to the boat to make some supper.
Our menu was boiled chicken, broccoli and hot rolls, a real feast. After the dishes were done and we'd listened to the weather report, mom and dad decided to go back to shore to buy some milk and check out the night life in Cane Garden Bay. Steel drum music started shortly after they'd gone, and Tom and I heard lots of laughter and singing drifting from the bar. Toting a supply of irradiated milk, mom and dad returned much later. It turned out that they'd wound up in a limbo competition!
Moonlight washed over the bay; one by one the lights twinkled out on the other boats and on shore. It was another perfect evening in paradise.
AUGUST 29
Early the following day, we sailed in a northeasterly direction past Guano Island and Great Amanoe to a tiny island called Marina Cay. There was a restaurant and grocery store there that we had hoped to visit, but both were closed. Snorkeling, swimming and general laziness became the order of the day. We mostly lolled around on deck; I wrote postcards and got sunburned.
Four special remembrances stood out among the rest during our stay at Marina Cay. First was the discovery of a current of hot water that flowed around the island just below the ocean's surface. We wondered if the heat thermals were caused by volcanic activity. The second was a woman's high heel, an old fish net and some pieces of coral; treasures found when mom and dad explored nearby Scrub Island. The third was the fun of sharing our hamburgers with a family of sea gulls. And the fourth, my favorite, was dad holding mom, dancing on deck beneath the full moon.
AUGUST 30
We sailed for a place known as The Baths on the island of Virgin Gorda, next. Tattoo wouldn't point, as usual, and it took us many extra miles to reach our destination. We had some excitement when a rainstorm blew by; dad expertly tacked away out of its reach.
Our first impression of The Baths was the enormity of the boulders scattered on the beach like carelessly tossed pebbles. We slid our boat into the bay along with the other sightseers and took the dinghy to shore.
Mom and I poked around the base of the boulders while the guys took off climbing. After exploring the pathways that wove around the rocks, we better appreciated their enormity, and wondered where they had come from. Having become warm like lizards baking in the sun, we all decided to do some snorkeling. And it was on that extraordinary occasion that I saw them. Three horrible grinning barracudas hanging motionless about four inches below the surface, looking Tom and I over.
My first instinct told me to get the heck out of there. The second best thing to do was grab Tom's arm and cling and hope that those 'cudas had lunched earlier. Tom motioned me to the surface and reminded me that we were not filming a sequel to Jaws 3D, and that we probably wouldn't be ruthlessly chewed to shreds as long as they were still grinning. So, we made a slow nonchalant escape, pretending that we were too busy admiring the coral to even notice them. The barracudas must have realized that they didn't have any bread large enough to make a sandwich out of us, so we were spared.
Having cheated certain dismemberment, we wallowed out of the water only to find our bathing suits completely filled with sand. It took us another half hour to unload before heading back to the boat.
As we sailed toward our next anchorage at the Bitter End Yacht Club on the island of Virgin Gorda, I got to daydreaming about why The Baths were called The Baths, and wrote the following story.
How The Baths Got Its Name
The way I figure it, the pirates must have given it the name. You see, rather than make pirate hopefuls walk the plank to prove their worth, they were taken to "The Baths" for a more grueling test of will.
Everyone knows that pirates were foul stinking vermin who had never experienced a Mennen Speed Stick. Think of it. Months, years at sea ... and no Life Bouy (Judging 'from the way I smell after only 24 hours without a shower, those guys must have been absolutely flammable!). Anyway, as part of the pirate initiation ritual, the seasoned pirates would strike out for the Baths first, under a bright full moon. They'd then hide behind the boulders and wait for the unsuspecting pledges. The guard on board counted to 100, if he could count that high, and then sent the young scallywags ashore. The pledges' main objective: to return to the ship alive.
Soon, the ambushes began. The old crusties would leap from the caches and wrastle the pledges into the little tide pools. It was customary for the pirates to dunk the pledges under for three counts, three times. If the pledge drowned, it proved that kindness and decency still owned his heart, a cardinal sin among pirates. If he lived, he was forced to endure the remainder of the night as an object of ridicule, for cleanliness had no place on a pirate ship.
The punishments for these poor souls were mean. After being heartily flogged, they were forced to sing boisterous sea shanties until their vocal cords were raw. They were then rolled in wild cow dung, spat upon, cursed and finally locked below in the aft compartment to heighten the effects of seasickness. Only after vomiting on themselves did the pledges earn the forgiveness of their peers, and the right to fly the scull and crossbones.
This initiation for pirate pledges all started at the place affectionately known by all true pirates as "The Baths". And we were there.
As soon as we kicked on our diesel engine, we realized we were without tach, volt or bilge. We were afraid to turn off the motor for fear that we might not be able to get it started again, and the destination we'd chosen required more accuracy than our sails could provide.
It was a long, hot uneasy motor all the way to Bitter End. We took great care not to hit coral reefs and jutting rocks; the passage was a dangerous one, but not impossible. Again, Dad and Tom's skill and our guardian angle brought us safely to our anchorage. We were treated to the luxury of a mooring bouy no setting of the anchor, no worrying about dragging away during the night. We'd reached an oasis.
We went into the yacht club for some breakfast milk and to order dinner. Somewhere along the line we fell into some margaritas and nearly drowned. We spent the rest of the afternoon laughing over things I don't or can't remember, and trying to get from the dock to the dinghy to Tattoo. We then showered, changed into civilized clothes and went back to shore for dinner.
The atmosphere in the restaurant was warm and friendly. Flags representing yacht clubs from around the world hung from the ceiling, the lighting was subdued, candles flickered at each table. I ordered conch soup, a steak and french fries, quite a spread of food. The conch soup sounds exotic, but it actually tasted bitter, like burnt clam chowder. However, after having done our own cooking for the last few days, eating out was a luxurious treat, even if the soup did taste unusual.
As we enjoyed our dinner, we became acquainted with a man seated at the table next to ours, a Mr. Fritz Seyforth. He was a writer and a salt, and looked like both. His hands were gnarled, his pants drooped down below his waist exposing the top of his underwear and his feet were bare. His eyes were deep set; his face, rugged and wind worn. Fritz plunged headlong into a sea tale about how his boat had been cut in two by a freighter, then peaked our interest by telling us that his book, Tales of the Caribbean, was on sale in the bookstore' Without a moment's hesitation, mom was gone and back again with two copies for Fritz to sign for us. We had experienced our first island character.
That night we were serenaded by a ship's cat howling on the boat moored next to ours. It had been a fun day.
AUGUST 31
We awoke to a dead engine in the morning. We radioed CYC first thing, and were told not to worry; Rene was in town. He arrived shortly carrying his tool kit and a few other odds and ends for repairing our ailing boat. He was fortyish, handsome and incredibly smelly. Every pore on that man must have emitted ten cubic feet of stink. He crawled into our cabin and from there entered the hot engine room, where he continued to radiate body odor.
To escape the stench, mom and I went to shore to do some reading. We reclined in lounge chairs, poured ourselves some cold cokes and dug into our novels. The best part of the day was using the flush toilets, something we'd recently begun to dream about.
Two and a half hours later, the men returned for us. Dad held out a mass of burned twisted wires. It was apparent that we could have had a serious fire had we run the engine any longer. Again we thanked our guardian angel.
Since Rene's musk lingered nauseatingly on the boat, Tom and I decided to rent a laser and do some sailing around the cove. It was a small boat, and easy for me to handle with some coaching from Tom. We took turns hiking our bodies out over the water to keep her from capsizing as we flew back and forth across the cove. It was exciting to feel the strength of the wind, to be able to use that power to take us where we wanted to go.
When our time was up with the laser, Tom and I took the dinghy out to Sabba Rock, a point that seemed to separate the shallows from deep ocean. We spent an hour snorkeling and sunbathing there. When we returned to Tattoo, we separated from our mooring and motored a short distance to Drake's Anchorage to settle for the night. It was a very difficult place to set the anchors. Dad and Tom planted both, but still worried about getting a good hold on the sandy bottom. Tom went down with a mask to see how much depth we had under our keel. He came shooting up to report that we were in shallows, dragging toward a sandbar and reef! Like lightening they pulled in and reset the anchors. In his haste, Tom accidently caught the dinghy's life jacket strap on the anchor line, and we watched as the jacket spiraled down to the bottom. Something about having a life jacket on the anchor started us all laughing, lifting the tension we'd experienced moments before. Our angel also had a sense of humor.
That evening we watched the lights of a sailboat attempting to find its way into Drake's. After the trouble we'd had in broad daylight, we couldn't imagine how she could negotiate the reef and set anchor in the dark. Long after her lights disappeared from our view, we wondered if she'd arrived safely to her destination. I spent some time appreciating the care, the foresight, the skill with which my shipmates sailed Tattoo. Stars filled the sky; we were able to see the Big and Little Dipper. The moon took its time rising, but once it did, its beams shimmered and danced across the ocean. A cool wind blew, and all was calm.
SEPTEMBER 1
We left Drake's Anchorage early, around 8:30 am., and sailed a reach for Salt Island. A rainstorm came up, so we skirted it by jibing away towards Tortola. When the squall had passed, we headed back and anchored in Lee Bay around a mooring bouy. It was here that the Rhone had wrecked on the rocks during a hurricane in 1867, killing all 125 aboard. Tom and I grabbed our snorkeling gear and took the dinghy out to the point to take a closer look.
The view was eerie, almost frightening. The hull was mostly disintegrated, and looked like the ghostly bones of what was once a ship. It was very large, and though seventy odd feet below the surface, looked as though it were close enough to touch. I didn't like swimming near it; I had no desire to dive down closer for a better look.
The fish were glad to see us; they probably thought we were there to bring them goodies as other visitors had. There were some medium sized black fish with yellow tails and others with black and yellow stripes that seemed to hang in front of us begging for handouts. They were a friendly bunch.
We climbed back into the dinghy and tied up once again to Tattoo, ready to head for the Bight, on Norman Island. Without the aid of the engine, we sailed effortlessly out of the bay and had a smooth ride to our destination. Once there, we anchored in among three other boats, only to slip away towards shore. We tried the engine and found it dead due to some failure in the oil pressure system. Tom and I quickly took the dinghy out and set the other anchor, and Tattoo stopped drifting. Meanwhile, dad called CYC about our engine. They said they'd send someone out in the morning. So much for the wonders worked by the odiferous Rene.
I had a case of sun poisoning, bumps all over my hands, knees and ankles, so I stayed below, took a quick shower and did some reading. Tom and dad went wind surfing most of that afternoon. Later that day one of the "stinkpots" (Non sailing vessel) spilled gasoline into the bay, covering both Tom and the windsurfer. Dad was especially angry and menacing. The owner of the guilty boat came over to apologize, but none of us were too interested in forgiving him Tom and the windsurfer, not to mention Tattoo's hull, were a smelly oily mess. It took the rest of the day to clean everything up.
Mom cooked dinner that evening Dinty Moore over noodles, with dumplings made out of muffin dough that had popped from its tube. We were amazed at the number of boats that came into the bay as night started to fall. Many had their diesel and gasoline engines running, and their generators blaring. Some were lit like tennis courts, TVs and radios competing. We longed for peace, quiet and fresh air.
SEPTEMBER 2
All morning we awaited the arrival of the CYC maintenance crew to arrive and fix our broken engine. I again remained below to stay out of the sun. When the guys got there at 11:00, we were all surprised to hear the engine start right up, as though nothing had ever been wrong with it. The bilge was working and all. Jim, the head mechanic with the Harley Davidson tattoo on his arm, did detect a squeal in the refrigeration unit, however, and decided to check it out. During his inspection, the belt broke, and he didn't have a spare, so we were left refrigerator less. The final word on our temperamental engine was that a wire had jiggled loose, disconnecting our clutch. We decided, after they left, that they had no idea what they were doing, and that Tattoo had been the recipient of a miracle cure.
At any rate, we gleefully left the Bight behind us and sailed that day to Salt Pond, off St. John, a beautiful secluded spot where we were again by ourselves. Dressed in my long shorts and baggy shirt I went snorkeling with Tom to explore by some rocks and a reef. We saw huge furry finger like coral, and fish traps down at the bottom. We also saw five large stingrays and a school of fish thrashing around creating billowy clouds of sand. It looked like a feeding frenzy.
After swimming, I took a good shower, applied ointment to my sun spots, and went to the galley to make pizza and salad for supper. It was an inky black night, the moon not making its appearance until 9:30, and even then behind a veil of clouds. Perhaps because it was so dark, the spectacle we beheld was even more beautiful millions of phosphorescent fish or organisms blinking in the water all around us. As quickly as it started, it stopped; we were glad to have seen it.
We then settled down to listen to weather and traffic. The captain of The Puffin kept calling for the Cookie Monster: "Cookie Monster, Cookie Monster, Cookie Monster, this is the Puffin..." We couldn't help laughing at the ridiculous names of these two boats. We joked about the Puffin running aground on Fraggle Rock, or needing a shipment of Scooter Pies. Then The Blue Hen's captain came on the radio. He had a low husky voice, as if to dare anyone to make fun of the name "Blue Hen". We all laughed again until we cried.
SEPTEMBER 1
This day we decided to go through customs at Cruz Bay, on the Island of St. John. We motored around Steven Cay and came into the bay, where the water was ten feet deep and filthy looking. It was balmy and very hot there; we hated closing up Tattoo while we walked around town.
We took our dinghy around the Bomba Challenger, a big old passenger boat, and slid into a spot by the dock. We arrived at the Customs Office at 12:24; it was closed until 1:00. So, we decided to have some lunch first, and walked up the hill to Frank's Restaurant. Frank, originally from New Jersey, had a long crooked nose and dirty hair. His son, co owner of the restaurant, looked exactly like his dad only 35 years younger. We all talked awhile as our lunch was prepared. I had a delicious cheeseburger and homemade french fries that tasted like heaven. It felt good to be on land, eating a burger and fries.
We were in and out of the Customs Office, mercifully. On our way out, mom asked the officer, "Don't we have to declare anything, or show receipts... Tom and dad steered her out the door fast, rolling their eyes as they went.
Afterwards we stopped at Mongoose Junction, a shopping complex, to do some souveniring. There was a wide variety of goods there yards of tie dyed material, T shirts, pottery, jewelry, hand painted bathing suits, billowy blouses and skirts. I purchased some tiny ceramic tropical birds to hang in my kitchen window.. We stopped in a small grocery and packed a box with fresh supplies some ice, cans of pop and beer, granola bars, fruit then went to the dinghy. We were just about to leave when we spied a man selling ice cream cones; naturally we couldn't pass that opportunity!
Back on board, we lathered on another coat of sunscreen, stowed our purchases below and headed back out to sea. Our night anchorage was to be Christmas Cove, off the island of Great St. James our last evening aboard Tattoo.
Despite the wintery, cheerful name, Christmas Cove was hotter than hot, the most uncomfortable hot we'd experienced on the trip. To add to the discomfort, there were strange currents and swells buffeting the boat! both a bow and stern anchor were needed to hold us down. We ate all of the leftovers for dinner macaroni and cheese, hotdogs, baked beans. The mosquitoes decided to join us. We doused ourselves with OFF and another more potent smelling bug repellent. The wind completely died, the dinghy bumped against Tattoo, it was hot, we were being eaten alive, and to top it all off, we found out that our, water supply was gone. No showers, no washing dishes, no nothing.
Needless to say, we all slept very poorly that night. Between the mosquitoes buzzing around our heads and the dinghy bumping against the hull , we were able to catch a few fitful winks, however.
SEPTEMBER 4
We awoke early in a sweltering sweaty mess, bug bitten and smelly. I finished packing what things I hadn't felt like packing the evening before, then went up on deck for breakfast. We were all in fairly foul moods. Thank goodness we had some sense of humor left to laugh at ourselves and our predicament. I washed all the crusty dishes from the night before and our breakfast bowls in salt water, dried them and put them away. We rounded out the morning by packing and cleaning, packing and cleaning. Then we motored to CYC, our starting and ending point.
Chris, from CYC, came out to greet us and pilot us into the harbor. It didn't take long to unload our gear onto the dock. After the night we'd just spent, we were not entirely sorry to be leaving Tattoo behind, but we did feel a little sad to be at the end of our adventure. It had been an experience of a lifetime.
Soon we were in a taxi en route to Secret Harbour Hotel, visions of water from a tap and flush toilets dancing in our heads. We dropped, off our bags, cleaned up and decided to go into the big city, Charlotte Amalie, for some lunch.
Charlotte Amalie is a very colorful town, full of street vendors, jewelry shops, linen stores, restaurants. There were three cruise ships in the harbor, a Royal Caribbean, and NEI, a Holiday. They were enormous. There were people everywhere, quite a contrast to the lonely quiet places we'd visited during our time on the boat.
We ate lunch at Chang's Patio and Bar, a breezy outdoor cafe. Afterwards, we did some browsing and shopping. Beautiful coral jewelry, finely appliquéd linens, tablecloths, tie dyed skirts and wide brimmed straw hats lined the shop windows. It was an exciting and interesting place to visit.
Back at the hotel that evening, we packed and repacked our luggage, trying to perform a miracle by getting everything to fit. We all enjoyed luxurious hot showers, then relaxed in air-conditioned bliss. It was hard to believe that we were heading for home the next day. We opened a bottle of champagne and toasted our safe return, and our time together.
CARIBBEAN HOLIDAY
As recorded by Deborah Hudgins
AUGUST 23, 24, 1985
I couldn't believe that we were finally leaving for ten days in the Caribbean. After Packing and repacking our luggage several times and patting our cat goodbye, we left the house in our neighbors' hands and headed for the airport with our friends, the Furriels. They dropped us off at our terminal with well wishes and warnings to "stay out of hurricanes".Little did we know, as we wended our way to the ticket counter, that our flight was two hours behind schedule. We were not extremely thrilled to learn of the delay, but were able to see the bright side at least we'd be able to get a good head start on the novels we'd brought.
About half a book later, roughly 1:00 a.m., we were called to board the L1011 "Whisper Liner". We were seated in the middle section with a hefty couple seated directly in front of us. Naturally, they reclined and landed in our laps. Our "carry on" Luggage used up what little legroom we had, so the flight was not the most enjoyable. We were amazed at the way the plane shook at take off and landing; we thought she'd come apart at the seams. Obviously, nothing of the sort happened, and we made it all the way to Puerto Rico.
Why Puerto Rico when our destination was supposed to be St. Thomas? We wondered the same thing. As it turned out, Eastern Airlines had been unable to hold our connecting flight for an additional ten minutes, so, Puerto Rico was where we were left.
It was stifling hot as we walked from the main terminal to make our final connection. Tom made an executive decision and booked us on a little twelve passenger rubberband operated deal to St. Thomas. I was nervous, but tired enough not to really mind. There we were, packed into that mosquito of a plane like sardines, headed down the runway! As soon as we'd lifted into the air, I wished the pilots would land and take off all over again, just for the fun of it. It was frightening, but more exhilarating. The scenery below was beautiful; the water around the islands was multicolored blue, the clouds white and puffy. It was interesting watching the pilots at work in the cockpit. The descent through the clouds was a bit bumpy, but the landing was smooth. We'd arrived!
The airport in St. Thomas was the beginning of our culture shock; it was a converted World War II flight hangar. I plumped down on our bags while Tom tried to find out where one of our pieces of checked luggage had wound up. I inspected the scene: A throng I presumed was headed for a tour was being herded into groups according to hotel accommodations by a bossy gentleman, fortyish, wearing a loud shirt and touting a walky talky. Mr. loud Shirt continued to bark orders first into the walky talky and then to the bedraggled tourists. The tourists slouched listlessly on Suitcases or leaned heavily on one foot. Some sipped free rum punch they'd been offered when they entered the terminal. Finally, the crowd dwindled down to the inevitable two who hadn't heard their hotel called, and Mr. Loud Shirt first bellowed something into the walky talky, then escorted the stragglers out.
A few moments later, a couple stood practically on top of me; they were explaining their plight to an attendant... "You see, we just got in from Toeerrr tola and must have missed our connection... He was wearing a wild tropical print shirt and a cowboy hat, she an ankle length mumu. Though they were agitated about missing their flight, they spoke in an abrasively unhurried drawl, saying they'd just have to catch another plane for Texas. Somehow I'd known all along that they were from Texas. I was glad when they'd moved on; she was wearing a powerful perfume, and they were blocking the breeze.
After watching some garbage guys take away three loads of trash and the free rum lady mix another batch, Tom returned. Not surprising, our suitcase was lost. We were used to this sort of thing. The funny part was, neither Eastern nor Crown Air would accept responsibility for returning it to us. All the time I'd been luggage sitting and People watching, Tom had been hustling back and forth between ticket counters trying to get somebody to say they'd handle the case of our missing bag. At long last, one of them told Tom they'd call our hotel when it arrived. We loaded up our gear and headed for the taxi vans we were off and running.
We arrived at Secret Harbour Hotel hours late. Mom and dad were there, relieved that we hadn't been lost in the Bermuda Triangle or hijacked to Cuba. It sure was a pleasure to give hugs all around. We popped open a complimentary bottle of champagne and toasted our togetherness for a terrific vacation.
That evening, we shared an incredibly romantic first dinner. Despite the fact that the bugs were out for blood and the guys were wearing shirts and ties and sweating to death, it was postcard perfect. We sat on a patio surrounded by dipping palm trees, the water lapping at the beach, a pink sunset. We dined on roast duckling, filet mignon and fresh fish, and pinched ourselves to remind us that everything was real. That evening will long live in my memory; it was a dream come true.
AUGUST 25
We regrouped on Sunday morning, bade farewell to Secret Harbour and headed for Caribbean Yacht Charters (CYC) to claim our boat. Her name was Tattoo, and she was a beaut. We received brief instructions on the operation of the boat, where everything was, how to fix minor mishaps, how to work the radio. Then we sat around a table in the lounge area of the CYC office and listened to a crash course in navigating around the Virgin Islands. Our guide rippled around a map of the islands with colored markers, pointing out good and bad anchorages, places to see and avoid. He highlighted his whirlwind lecture with stories of "Fat Albert" at the Jost Van Dyke customs office, Clementine, an old storyteller on the island of Virgin Gorda, and how our boat, Tattoo, had been named...
"It seemed that time had run out. The owner was at wit's end trying to come up with the perfect name for his yacht. At the last possible moment, his wild secretary and girlfriend stopped by to show him what she'd gotten that day. She threw open her shirt and there it was, a tattoo on her breast!" And so our boat was named.
Our guide left the room for a moment; we glanced at each other apprehensively. We knew that we would never remember half of the things he mentioned. Next time, we decided, one of us would take notes!
While the guys went aboard to check everything over, mom and I braved a taxi ride into town to do the grocery shopping. Pueblo Market was very similar to a grocery store in the states. We stocked up on canned soups, spaghetti, macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly and loads of canned soft drinks. It took nearly an hour to gather what we needed and to check out. On the way back in the taxi, we were dismayed to find that our driver had no idea where Caribbean Yacht Charters was located. What a panic! Fortunately, we passed some landmarks that mom and I'd noticed on the way to town, so we were able to steer the driver in the right direction. At long last we arrived at the dock, stocked the boat with the supplies we'd brought and were ready to leave.
A CYC guide maneuvered Tattoo out of the Marina and into open waters, then left us on our own. We were sailing! Our destination for that first night was Christmas Cove off the island of St. John, a brief trip across the channel from St. Thomas. It was early in the day, so we were able to go for our first snorkeling expedition. Mom had never snorkeled before, so I showed her what Tom had taught me. I'll never forget her brilliant happy smile as she came up out of the water. It really was fun! I was amazed at how clear and turquoise the water was, at how many fish and sea urchins there were. The undersea world was beautiful and fascinating.
On board, we ran up against our first problem: we found that we had no water pressure. We fretted for a while before we realized that we hadn't flipped on the switch. I also discovered that our toilet, "the head", was tough for me to pump. I needed help in doing it, as a matter of fact. I later learned that I could manage by myself if I wore my sailing gloves to better grip the pump. Other than those minor details, it was interesting and fun discovering that the stove rocked, that the plates, bowls and cups had sticky rubber on the bottoms, and that there was a special trick to opening cupboards and drawers.
At dusk we noticed that our battery, the #1, was almost out of juice. It didn't pose any real problems since we had the #2 to fall back on. Each morning we were to run the engine for about an hour to keep the batteries charged and the refrigerator cool. At 8:00 p.m., we listened to the weather and "traffic" (messages for sailors) report, and watched the moon rise. There were millions of bright stars dotting the sky; it was beautiful.
No one slept well that first night, however. It was amazing how many unusual sounds that boat and its rigging produced. It took us a while to get used to the creaks and groans, the dinghy nudging and squeaking and the moon as bright as a flood lamp.
AUGUST 26
Before we headed out to sea, mom and I decided to take the dinghy out for a spin. We took a crash course in operating the outboard motor from the guys, and then sped off in the direction of a tiny island to do some snorkeling. As we approached our destination, we asked one another, "How deep do you suppose this is?" Then "scrape THUD" and we were aground on crunchy coral. Fortunately, we'd switched the motor into neutral. We couldn't, for the life of us, figure out how to lift the prop. So, I jumped overboard and 'Lifted the back end of the boat, careful not to step on sea urchins. I guided the dinghy over the coral and finally was able to swim and pull it into deeper water. I threw my shoes into the boat, grabbed my snorkeling gear and swam for Tattoo; mom got the dinghy going and kept me company on the way back. We spent quite awhile laughing at ourselves, afterward.
Our first real sail was to Frances Bay, and it was a wild one. We encountered heavy wind it was rather unnerving. All I seemed able to do was scramble madly from one side of the deck to the other, or peel my hands away from security for a moment to tail the winch. I sure prayed that the other guys knew what they were doing. There were some unfriendly looking rocks jutting from the swirling white capped water directly in front of us. And we were worried about negotiating Johnson's Reef, a place where the buoys had been known to mislead boats to their watery graves. I wasn't exactly scared; I was too busy hanging on to think about anything else. Grey wild sea, wind whipping, dark clouds scuttling I checked to make sure I didn't have an albatross around my neck. Finally, Tom kicked on Tattoo's trusty diesel engine and we made our way safely to our night anchorage.
Once the storm had abated and we were settled in, Tom decided to go for a Swim. When he returned, he reported that held seen a small nurse shark not far from our boat! We all saw turtles swimming by, their yellow heads peeking out of the water every now and then. We were also able to see stingrays resting on the bottom; the water was beautifully clear. Rain fell intermittently throughout the afternoon. According to the weather report, we were in for a tropical wave, the precursor to a hurricane.
True to the report, a thunderstorm caught us late in the day. The guys went out in the dinghy during a lull in the weather action to set the plow anchor over the bow. I acted as the official "dinghy painter watcher". My duty was to make sure that the rope tying the dinghy to Tattoo didn't get caught in the propeller as we backed up. It often took many tries to set the anchor properly, and was a worrisome task. We all had visions of slipping away during the night into a reef, or waking in the morning to find ourselves lost at sea. So, great care was taken to set the anchors well.
Once we were securely battened down, Dad and Tom grabbed some soap and climbed up on deck for a shower in the shower! Unfortunately, dad lathered up a little late and missed his rain rinse, so he was stuck with sticky old salt water. They came back in and closed everything up tight behind them. We all nestled in to weather out the storms seven, to be exact throughout the night. None of us slept very well., needless to say.
AUGUST 27
Next morning dawned behind a misty fog. We locked up Tattoo and headed for shore in the dinghy; we were off to explore the old Annaberg Sugar Mill on the island of St. John.
We started walking inland along an old dirt road. The sun burned through the fog and made the day all of a sudden hot. We were surprised to find millions of tiny maroon purple colored crabs crawling all over the around like ants it was hard not stepping on them, there were so many. The plants were dark green and tropical looking, with vines everywhere. Above ground roots extended down from the sides of the trees to the ground like elephant trunks.
As we came off of the trail and onto a worn paved road, we noticed several signs, which read: "DANGER. MANCHINEEL TREE. EVERY PART OF THIS TREE IS TOXIC. THE SAP CAUSES SERIOUS RASH. EATING FRUIT CAN BE FATAL." Another sign said that Columbus described the small green fruits of the Manchineel Tree as "death apples". We all had a laugh imagining how Columbus coined that name in the first place..."Here Giuseppe, try this little green thing; it looks just like an apple"...
We walked for what seemed hours; the sun was really beating down, making our hike feel like a forced death March. We were relieved to finally reach the Bill compound. The most prominent structure there was the base of an old windmill, built from blocks of cut coral. In my mind's eye I could imagine wooden blades turning in the wind. There was also an enormous stone vat once used for storing rum, and a number of skeletons of buildings, all fashioned from the cut coral blocks. It gave me a sad feeling to see everything so quiet and unused no pirates, no rum raids.
A brief shower caught us on the beach as we ran for the dinghy. En route to Tattoo, a beautiful rainbow arched through the clouds. It was like a good omen as we set sail for Jost Van Dyke.
Because Jost Van Dyke is part of the British Virgin Islands (BVI), it was necessary for us to go ashore to clear customs. Once again we went through the process of setting the anchor, locking up and heading for land. Young children played in the water by the dock where we tied up, and some men were building grass huts on the beach to the sound of reggae music. We learned that the preparations were being made for a wooden boat race and festival to be held the Labor Day weekend.
The customs office was a small cluttered room. The desks were piled high with papers; bent louvered blinds hung awkwardly at the windows. A few fat lazy flies buzzed around as we waited for Albert Chinnery (Mom dubbed him Albert Chimney) to locate the proper paperwork. Mr. Chinnery was a stocky black man, rum soaked and sweaty. He asked a few questions about our boat, where we planned to go and when we planned to leave British waters. Dad signed the document granting us permission to visit the BVI as "The Master" of our vessel. We were then the official guests of the Queen!
We stepped outside into a wall of humidity. It felt good to hop back on the dinghy and return to Tattoo, where the breeze always seemed cooler, fresher than on land. Tom and I decided to go for a snorkeling expedition around the reef at the entrance to the cove. We were not impressed with the view a few dead or nearly dead fish, small stinging jellyfish and lots of what morn called "beer can coral" (submerged trash). I also had a hard time clearing the water from my mask and wound up getting a lot of salt water in my nose, which stung. By the time we climbed back aboard and dried off, it was early afternoon, and time to get moving toward our night anchorage: Cane Garden Bay, off the island of Tortola.
The sail to Cane Garden Bay was my favorite of the entire trip. We had plenty of wind to speed us along, and I finally began to feel comfortable climbing around the deck, always being sideways. Tom showed me all of the fun places to sit on the sides with my head through the lifeline or with my bucket over the edge. I guess I grew my sea legs that day.
Once we had set the anchor, we were able to take in the beauty of the Bay. Coconut trees lined the beach; the sand was bleached white. Turquoise water was still as glass and reflected the perfect blue sky. It was heaven on earth. As steel drum music drifted over from shore, we grilled steaks and watched the sun go down. After listening to the weather report and traffic, we hit the hay early for a good night's sleep.
AUGUST 28
As we ate breakfast, we discussed the game plan for the next couple of days and opted to stay at Cane Garden Bay for one more night. Snorkeling was the first item on the agenda; a trip into town on the other side of the island was the next.
Unlike our experience at Jost Van Dyke, the snorkeling off Tortola was magnificent. Tom pointed out varieties of elkhorn, fan and brain corals, all vivid shades of red, orange, purple, and blue. Millions of iridescent blue and silver fish swarmed in schools around us. We saw a hogfish and a big jack, and many tiny jellyfish. It was thrilling and frightening at the same time being in a strange environment; I felt like a visitor in an enormous aquarium.
At lunchtime we went into shore ready for adventure. We all had a pina colada or two and bought T shirts at a little variety store and bar on the beach, and then headed out on foot towards an old rum distillery we'd read about. Old was an understatement; the place was an ancient ramshackle shed filled with casks and bottles of rum. Everything, including the elderly man who worked there, was covered with a thick coat of dust. The old gentleman claimed that his rum was the best in the world "Have fun, dance and sing... no hangover!" Mom bought two bottles of the dark rum and a T shirt to wrap them in.
We then proceeded back to the store where we awaited a taxi to take us to Road Town. When it arrived, we wondered how it would ever make the trip. Choking black smoke billowed out the back, and it actually seemed to cough and wheeze. Before I even had the door shut, the driver tore off toward town own.
We took a very steep road over the mountain; there were many times we wondered if we'd have to get out and push to help the poor old taxi along. On the way down into Roadtown, the hairpin curves and fear of the driver screaming "NO BRAKES!" combined to create a hair whitening experience. When we weren't squeezing our eyes shut to block out impending doom, we were treated to a spectacular view of our bay and the harbor on the other side of the mountain. The water was deep blue and sparkling in the sun, a beautiful sight.
When we arrived in Road Town, our first impulse was to throw ourselves down to kiss the ground. Instead, we paid the driver and requested that he return in two hours to take us back to the bay. I suppose the pina coladas had impaired our abilities to reason. Our spending abilities remained functional, however, and we passed our time in town meandering through the shops, supporting the local economy.
Armed with bags of souvenirs, we waited at the meeting place we'd set for our cab. Our driver pulled up in a different car, a dilapidated station wagon. The trip into town had done in the first taxi, we guessed. So in we climbed and off we peeled. Exhaust fumes poured directly into the open back window, quickly causing me to feel carsick. It seemed rather ironic that three days at sea hadn't turned my stomach once. Teetering on the edge of extinction, we careened over the mountain and landed once again at the variety store.
It was late afternoon when we finally climbed aboard Tattoo with our purchases and a six-pack of Tab. We were hot and frazzled, so decided to go snorkeling once again, this time with mom and dad. Dad got caught in a frenzy of tiny silver fish, and decided that he wasn't too keen on seeing what the denizens of the deep had in store for him. He said that he figured there must be something bigger and more ferocious following all those little fish, and he didn't want to stick around to find out how many teeth it had. Instead of snorkeling, dad got out the windsurfer and had a go at that, along with Tom. Mom and I returned to the boat to make some supper.
Our menu was boiled chicken, broccoli and hot rolls, a real feast. After the dishes were done and we'd listened to the weather report, mom and dad decided to go back to shore to buy some milk and check out the night life in Cane Garden Bay. Steel drum music started shortly after they'd gone, and Tom and I heard lots of laughter and singing drifting from the bar. Toting a supply of irradiated milk, mom and dad returned much later. It turned out that they'd wound up in a limbo competition!
Moonlight washed over the bay; one by one the lights twinkled out on the other boats and on shore. It was another perfect evening in paradise.
AUGUST 29
Early the following day, we sailed in a northeasterly direction past Guano Island and Great Amanoe to a tiny island called Marina Cay. There was a restaurant and grocery store there that we had hoped to visit, but both were closed. Snorkeling, swimming and general laziness became the order of the day. We mostly lolled around on deck; I wrote postcards and got sunburned.
Four special remembrances stood out among the rest during our stay at Marina Cay. First was the discovery of a current of hot water that flowed around the island just below the ocean's surface. We wondered if the heat thermals were caused by volcanic activity. The second was a woman's high heel, an old fish net and some pieces of coral; treasures found when mom and dad explored nearby Scrub Island. The third was the fun of sharing our hamburgers with a family of sea gulls. And the fourth, my favorite, was dad holding mom, dancing on deck beneath the full moon.
AUGUST 30
We sailed for a place known as The Baths on the island of Virgin Gorda, next. Tattoo wouldn't point, as usual, and it took us many extra miles to reach our destination. We had some excitement when a rainstorm blew by; dad expertly tacked away out of its reach.
Our first impression of The Baths was the enormity of the boulders scattered on the beach like carelessly tossed pebbles. We slid our boat into the bay along with the other sightseers and took the dinghy to shore.
Mom and I poked around the base of the boulders while the guys took off climbing. After exploring the pathways that wove around the rocks, we better appreciated their enormity, and wondered where they had come from. Having become warm like lizards baking in the sun, we all decided to do some snorkeling. And it was on that extraordinary occasion that I saw them. Three horrible grinning barracudas hanging motionless about four inches below the surface, looking Tom and I over.
My first instinct told me to get the heck out of there. The second best thing to do was grab Tom's arm and cling and hope that those 'cudas had lunched earlier. Tom motioned me to the surface and reminded me that we were not filming a sequel to Jaws 3D, and that we probably wouldn't be ruthlessly chewed to shreds as long as they were still grinning. So, we made a slow nonchalant escape, pretending that we were too busy admiring the coral to even notice them. The barracudas must have realized that they didn't have any bread large enough to make a sandwich out of us, so we were spared.
Having cheated certain dismemberment, we wallowed out of the water only to find our bathing suits completely filled with sand. It took us another half hour to unload before heading back to the boat.
As we sailed toward our next anchorage at the Bitter End Yacht Club on the island of Virgin Gorda, I got to daydreaming about why The Baths were called The Baths, and wrote the following story.
How The Baths Got Its Name
The way I figure it, the pirates must have given it the name. You see, rather than make pirate hopefuls walk the plank to prove their worth, they were taken to "The Baths" for a more grueling test of will.
Everyone knows that pirates were foul stinking vermin who had never experienced a Mennen Speed Stick. Think of it. Months, years at sea ... and no Life Bouy (Judging 'from the way I smell after only 24 hours without a shower, those guys must have been absolutely flammable!). Anyway, as part of the pirate initiation ritual, the seasoned pirates would strike out for the Baths first, under a bright full moon. They'd then hide behind the boulders and wait for the unsuspecting pledges. The guard on board counted to 100, if he could count that high, and then sent the young scallywags ashore. The pledges' main objective: to return to the ship alive.
Soon, the ambushes began. The old crusties would leap from the caches and wrastle the pledges into the little tide pools. It was customary for the pirates to dunk the pledges under for three counts, three times. If the pledge drowned, it proved that kindness and decency still owned his heart, a cardinal sin among pirates. If he lived, he was forced to endure the remainder of the night as an object of ridicule, for cleanliness had no place on a pirate ship.
The punishments for these poor souls were mean. After being heartily flogged, they were forced to sing boisterous sea shanties until their vocal cords were raw. They were then rolled in wild cow dung, spat upon, cursed and finally locked below in the aft compartment to heighten the effects of seasickness. Only after vomiting on themselves did the pledges earn the forgiveness of their peers, and the right to fly the scull and crossbones.
This initiation for pirate pledges all started at the place affectionately known by all true pirates as "The Baths". And we were there.
As soon as we kicked on our diesel engine, we realized we were without tach, volt or bilge. We were afraid to turn off the motor for fear that we might not be able to get it started again, and the destination we'd chosen required more accuracy than our sails could provide.
It was a long, hot uneasy motor all the way to Bitter End. We took great care not to hit coral reefs and jutting rocks; the passage was a dangerous one, but not impossible. Again, Dad and Tom's skill and our guardian angle brought us safely to our anchorage. We were treated to the luxury of a mooring bouy no setting of the anchor, no worrying about dragging away during the night. We'd reached an oasis.
We went into the yacht club for some breakfast milk and to order dinner. Somewhere along the line we fell into some margaritas and nearly drowned. We spent the rest of the afternoon laughing over things I don't or can't remember, and trying to get from the dock to the dinghy to Tattoo. We then showered, changed into civilized clothes and went back to shore for dinner.
The atmosphere in the restaurant was warm and friendly. Flags representing yacht clubs from around the world hung from the ceiling, the lighting was subdued, candles flickered at each table. I ordered conch soup, a steak and french fries, quite a spread of food. The conch soup sounds exotic, but it actually tasted bitter, like burnt clam chowder. However, after having done our own cooking for the last few days, eating out was a luxurious treat, even if the soup did taste unusual.
As we enjoyed our dinner, we became acquainted with a man seated at the table next to ours, a Mr. Fritz Seyforth. He was a writer and a salt, and looked like both. His hands were gnarled, his pants drooped down below his waist exposing the top of his underwear and his feet were bare. His eyes were deep set; his face, rugged and wind worn. Fritz plunged headlong into a sea tale about how his boat had been cut in two by a freighter, then peaked our interest by telling us that his book, Tales of the Caribbean, was on sale in the bookstore' Without a moment's hesitation, mom was gone and back again with two copies for Fritz to sign for us. We had experienced our first island character.
That night we were serenaded by a ship's cat howling on the boat moored next to ours. It had been a fun day.
AUGUST 31
We awoke to a dead engine in the morning. We radioed CYC first thing, and were told not to worry; Rene was in town. He arrived shortly carrying his tool kit and a few other odds and ends for repairing our ailing boat. He was fortyish, handsome and incredibly smelly. Every pore on that man must have emitted ten cubic feet of stink. He crawled into our cabin and from there entered the hot engine room, where he continued to radiate body odor.
To escape the stench, mom and I went to shore to do some reading. We reclined in lounge chairs, poured ourselves some cold cokes and dug into our novels. The best part of the day was using the flush toilets, something we'd recently begun to dream about.
Two and a half hours later, the men returned for us. Dad held out a mass of burned twisted wires. It was apparent that we could have had a serious fire had we run the engine any longer. Again we thanked our guardian angel.
Since Rene's musk lingered nauseatingly on the boat, Tom and I decided to rent a laser and do some sailing around the cove. It was a small boat, and easy for me to handle with some coaching from Tom. We took turns hiking our bodies out over the water to keep her from capsizing as we flew back and forth across the cove. It was exciting to feel the strength of the wind, to be able to use that power to take us where we wanted to go.
When our time was up with the laser, Tom and I took the dinghy out to Sabba Rock, a point that seemed to separate the shallows from deep ocean. We spent an hour snorkeling and sunbathing there. When we returned to Tattoo, we separated from our mooring and motored a short distance to Drake's Anchorage to settle for the night. It was a very difficult place to set the anchors. Dad and Tom planted both, but still worried about getting a good hold on the sandy bottom. Tom went down with a mask to see how much depth we had under our keel. He came shooting up to report that we were in shallows, dragging toward a sandbar and reef! Like lightening they pulled in and reset the anchors. In his haste, Tom accidently caught the dinghy's life jacket strap on the anchor line, and we watched as the jacket spiraled down to the bottom. Something about having a life jacket on the anchor started us all laughing, lifting the tension we'd experienced moments before. Our angel also had a sense of humor.
That evening we watched the lights of a sailboat attempting to find its way into Drake's. After the trouble we'd had in broad daylight, we couldn't imagine how she could negotiate the reef and set anchor in the dark. Long after her lights disappeared from our view, we wondered if she'd arrived safely to her destination. I spent some time appreciating the care, the foresight, the skill with which my shipmates sailed Tattoo. Stars filled the sky; we were able to see the Big and Little Dipper. The moon took its time rising, but once it did, its beams shimmered and danced across the ocean. A cool wind blew, and all was calm.
SEPTEMBER 1
We left Drake's Anchorage early, around 8:30 am., and sailed a reach for Salt Island. A rainstorm came up, so we skirted it by jibing away towards Tortola. When the squall had passed, we headed back and anchored in Lee Bay around a mooring bouy. It was here that the Rhone had wrecked on the rocks during a hurricane in 1867, killing all 125 aboard. Tom and I grabbed our snorkeling gear and took the dinghy out to the point to take a closer look.
The view was eerie, almost frightening. The hull was mostly disintegrated, and looked like the ghostly bones of what was once a ship. It was very large, and though seventy odd feet below the surface, looked as though it were close enough to touch. I didn't like swimming near it; I had no desire to dive down closer for a better look.
The fish were glad to see us; they probably thought we were there to bring them goodies as other visitors had. There were some medium sized black fish with yellow tails and others with black and yellow stripes that seemed to hang in front of us begging for handouts. They were a friendly bunch.
We climbed back into the dinghy and tied up once again to Tattoo, ready to head for the Bight, on Norman Island. Without the aid of the engine, we sailed effortlessly out of the bay and had a smooth ride to our destination. Once there, we anchored in among three other boats, only to slip away towards shore. We tried the engine and found it dead due to some failure in the oil pressure system. Tom and I quickly took the dinghy out and set the other anchor, and Tattoo stopped drifting. Meanwhile, dad called CYC about our engine. They said they'd send someone out in the morning. So much for the wonders worked by the odiferous Rene.
I had a case of sun poisoning, bumps all over my hands, knees and ankles, so I stayed below, took a quick shower and did some reading. Tom and dad went wind surfing most of that afternoon. Later that day one of the "stinkpots" (Non sailing vessel) spilled gasoline into the bay, covering both Tom and the windsurfer. Dad was especially angry and menacing. The owner of the guilty boat came over to apologize, but none of us were too interested in forgiving him Tom and the windsurfer, not to mention Tattoo's hull, were a smelly oily mess. It took the rest of the day to clean everything up.
Mom cooked dinner that evening Dinty Moore over noodles, with dumplings made out of muffin dough that had popped from its tube. We were amazed at the number of boats that came into the bay as night started to fall. Many had their diesel and gasoline engines running, and their generators blaring. Some were lit like tennis courts, TVs and radios competing. We longed for peace, quiet and fresh air.
SEPTEMBER 2
All morning we awaited the arrival of the CYC maintenance crew to arrive and fix our broken engine. I again remained below to stay out of the sun. When the guys got there at 11:00, we were all surprised to hear the engine start right up, as though nothing had ever been wrong with it. The bilge was working and all. Jim, the head mechanic with the Harley Davidson tattoo on his arm, did detect a squeal in the refrigeration unit, however, and decided to check it out. During his inspection, the belt broke, and he didn't have a spare, so we were left refrigerator less. The final word on our temperamental engine was that a wire had jiggled loose, disconnecting our clutch. We decided, after they left, that they had no idea what they were doing, and that Tattoo had been the recipient of a miracle cure.
At any rate, we gleefully left the Bight behind us and sailed that day to Salt Pond, off St. John, a beautiful secluded spot where we were again by ourselves. Dressed in my long shorts and baggy shirt I went snorkeling with Tom to explore by some rocks and a reef. We saw huge furry finger like coral, and fish traps down at the bottom. We also saw five large stingrays and a school of fish thrashing around creating billowy clouds of sand. It looked like a feeding frenzy.
After swimming, I took a good shower, applied ointment to my sun spots, and went to the galley to make pizza and salad for supper. It was an inky black night, the moon not making its appearance until 9:30, and even then behind a veil of clouds. Perhaps because it was so dark, the spectacle we beheld was even more beautiful millions of phosphorescent fish or organisms blinking in the water all around us. As quickly as it started, it stopped; we were glad to have seen it.
We then settled down to listen to weather and traffic. The captain of The Puffin kept calling for the Cookie Monster: "Cookie Monster, Cookie Monster, Cookie Monster, this is the Puffin..." We couldn't help laughing at the ridiculous names of these two boats. We joked about the Puffin running aground on Fraggle Rock, or needing a shipment of Scooter Pies. Then The Blue Hen's captain came on the radio. He had a low husky voice, as if to dare anyone to make fun of the name "Blue Hen". We all laughed again until we cried.
SEPTEMBER 1
This day we decided to go through customs at Cruz Bay, on the Island of St. John. We motored around Steven Cay and came into the bay, where the water was ten feet deep and filthy looking. It was balmy and very hot there; we hated closing up Tattoo while we walked around town.
We took our dinghy around the Bomba Challenger, a big old passenger boat, and slid into a spot by the dock. We arrived at the Customs Office at 12:24; it was closed until 1:00. So, we decided to have some lunch first, and walked up the hill to Frank's Restaurant. Frank, originally from New Jersey, had a long crooked nose and dirty hair. His son, co owner of the restaurant, looked exactly like his dad only 35 years younger. We all talked awhile as our lunch was prepared. I had a delicious cheeseburger and homemade french fries that tasted like heaven. It felt good to be on land, eating a burger and fries.
We were in and out of the Customs Office, mercifully. On our way out, mom asked the officer, "Don't we have to declare anything, or show receipts... Tom and dad steered her out the door fast, rolling their eyes as they went.
Afterwards we stopped at Mongoose Junction, a shopping complex, to do some souveniring. There was a wide variety of goods there yards of tie dyed material, T shirts, pottery, jewelry, hand painted bathing suits, billowy blouses and skirts. I purchased some tiny ceramic tropical birds to hang in my kitchen window.. We stopped in a small grocery and packed a box with fresh supplies some ice, cans of pop and beer, granola bars, fruit then went to the dinghy. We were just about to leave when we spied a man selling ice cream cones; naturally we couldn't pass that opportunity!
Back on board, we lathered on another coat of sunscreen, stowed our purchases below and headed back out to sea. Our night anchorage was to be Christmas Cove, off the island of Great St. James our last evening aboard Tattoo.
Despite the wintery, cheerful name, Christmas Cove was hotter than hot, the most uncomfortable hot we'd experienced on the trip. To add to the discomfort, there were strange currents and swells buffeting the boat! both a bow and stern anchor were needed to hold us down. We ate all of the leftovers for dinner macaroni and cheese, hotdogs, baked beans. The mosquitoes decided to join us. We doused ourselves with OFF and another more potent smelling bug repellent. The wind completely died, the dinghy bumped against Tattoo, it was hot, we were being eaten alive, and to top it all off, we found out that our, water supply was gone. No showers, no washing dishes, no nothing.
Needless to say, we all slept very poorly that night. Between the mosquitoes buzzing around our heads and the dinghy bumping against the hull , we were able to catch a few fitful winks, however.
SEPTEMBER 4
We awoke early in a sweltering sweaty mess, bug bitten and smelly. I finished packing what things I hadn't felt like packing the evening before, then went up on deck for breakfast. We were all in fairly foul moods. Thank goodness we had some sense of humor left to laugh at ourselves and our predicament. I washed all the crusty dishes from the night before and our breakfast bowls in salt water, dried them and put them away. We rounded out the morning by packing and cleaning, packing and cleaning. Then we motored to CYC, our starting and ending point.
Chris, from CYC, came out to greet us and pilot us into the harbor. It didn't take long to unload our gear onto the dock. After the night we'd just spent, we were not entirely sorry to be leaving Tattoo behind, but we did feel a little sad to be at the end of our adventure. It had been an experience of a lifetime.
Soon we were in a taxi en route to Secret Harbour Hotel, visions of water from a tap and flush toilets dancing in our heads. We dropped, off our bags, cleaned up and decided to go into the big city, Charlotte Amalie, for some lunch.
Charlotte Amalie is a very colorful town, full of street vendors, jewelry shops, linen stores, restaurants. There were three cruise ships in the harbor, a Royal Caribbean, and NEI, a Holiday. They were enormous. There were people everywhere, quite a contrast to the lonely quiet places we'd visited during our time on the boat.
We ate lunch at Chang's Patio and Bar, a breezy outdoor cafe. Afterwards, we did some browsing and shopping. Beautiful coral jewelry, finely appliquéd linens, tablecloths, tie dyed skirts and wide brimmed straw hats lined the shop windows. It was an exciting and interesting place to visit.
Back at the hotel that evening, we packed and repacked our luggage, trying to perform a miracle by getting everything to fit. We all enjoyed luxurious hot showers, then relaxed in air-conditioned bliss. It was hard to believe that we were heading for home the next day. We opened a bottle of champagne and toasted our safe return, and our time together.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Tradition Interrupted - Resumed?
I don't know if you've noticed or not but sailing has played a not insignificant part in the family's life over the years. Certainly it was a big part of Dad's life which translated into your life and then I got dragged into it all. You may have also noticed that there was a rather abrupt stop when it gets to my family. I'm not exactly sure what happened - I didn't really plan on *not* getting my kids into sailing - it just seemed like the opportunity didn't really present itself.
By the time the kids came along, Deb and I were into biking, and then we moved way inland, and they got into soccer, and well, it just didn't happen. We took the bareboat trip back in 2004 and that had somewhat of a mixed result. The kids were initially so taken aback by the 3rd world-ishness of it that they spent the first half of the trip complaining. They ended up having a good time but they didn't really learn anything about sailing.
Fast forward to last weekend. Deb's brother Tim came up to visit and we decided to go down to Newport to go to the beach and just bop around. It was a beautiful day and the bay was *filled* with sailboats. After driving and walking around Newport, I asked one of the local tour boat operators if there was any place that rented boats to sail. They pointed me to SailNewport so we went down there and had a look around. It was a nice place and they rent J-22s for not a terrible amount of money. As we were walking around the boats, I was really feeling nostalgic for the good ole' days. It's such a different, exclusive world and I kind of missed it. Apparently, Kyle was starting to feel the pull of the dark side because, out of the blue, he said that he wanted to learn how to sail. He said "Grandaddy does it. You do it. I want to continue the tradition. Someday, I want to take my family on a Caribbean charter like you did."
Wow! Where did that come from? Well, I got some information and we drove home. Later on, I was thinking about whether I really wanted to try and pursue this and I remembered that I had a friend who had taken sailing lessons at a lake in Worcester. That would be a lot closer than Newport so I gave them a call. Turns out I could join with a 30 day or 60 day membership and then, after proving that I knew what I was doing, could just show up and take out one of their boats (primarily White 14s).
Kyle and I drove up on a Friday afternoon to check the place out. This place is practically in the heart of Worcester on Quinsigamond Lake. It's called Regatta Point Community Sailing and it seems to be geared towards teaching city kids to sail. There's a beach right next to the place and it's a very "city" crowd. The "club" also rents paddle boats and canoes. We talked to the guy in charge and I signed up right there. I asked if I could get checked out and take a boat out right then and, at first, he said he didn't have anyone to conduct the test and it was looking like we would have to come back the next day. He then said that he did have someone so I ended up being tested by 13 or 14 year old Callie. Through some communication mix-up, I was only being certified for a mainsail. Jib cert is a separate test...
Anyway, after coming back in (Kyle waited on the dock), de-rigging the boat, and putting the sails away, I was cleared to take the boat out. So Kyle and I re-rigged the boat and went out. This place has some of the craziest wind I've ever seen. The lake is not very wide and there are trees and buildings all around so the wind just swirls. One minute you are close hauled and the next you are dead downwind. Not the best of conditions to learn to sail but I gave Kyle the tiller and he sailed around.
We headed home after a bit and Kyle seemed to have really enjoyed it. He had a friend from school visiting the next day and suggested that we come back and take him for a sail. So, on Saturday, we went back for another sail. I had to get certified with a jib so the manager guy told me to rig a boat and he would check me out. I grabbed some sails and went down and moved a boat to the downwind side of the dock for rigging. As I brought the boat around, I handed the bowline to Kyle for him to tie to the dock so we could start rigging. He bent down to pass the line through a ring on the side of the dock and then just kind of froze. I looked down and saw the bowline sinking in the water and the boat starting to drift away from the dock. With a "You did *not* just drop that bowline!" I dropped down on my stomach and plunged my arm, head, and upper body into the water and snagged the line. As I scrambled to get my head and chest back on the dock, Kyle's friend grabbed my leg and, instead of holding it down on the dock, lifted it up - basically bending me in two. I managed to get myself out of the water anyway and tied the boat up.
Kyle and I then set about rigging the boat - he remembered a lot from last time so I just told him what to do. The last part was the jib so I hanked it on, hooked up the halyard, ran the starboard sheet through the fairlead, and finally, the port sheet through the fair... Oh look, there is no fairlead on the port side. It's been ripped off of this boat. So, we de-rigged this boat, took it back around to the other side of the dock, got another boat around to the leeward side and rigged that boat. I finally went back to the manager and told him I was ready for the jib checkout. He told me to go ahead on out and he would come by and see how we were doing. I never saw him again.
We had much better wind this time (stronger if not any more directionally consistent anyway) so we just sailed around for an hour or two. I gave Kyle the tiller and he did OK unless we got a good puff and things started happening fast and he got confused on which way to move the tiller. One time (I was on the helm), we got a really good puff and just about went over. As I was scrambling to the high side I was thinking "Great! Thrown out for capsizing on my first day!" The extra wind and hiking out helped to stoke the interest however and both Kyle and his friend said they loved it. When we got home, we watched YouTube videos of all kinds of extreme sailing.
So, you never know. Maybe the interrupted tradition will be resumed and Kyle will be able to pass it down to the next one.
By the time the kids came along, Deb and I were into biking, and then we moved way inland, and they got into soccer, and well, it just didn't happen. We took the bareboat trip back in 2004 and that had somewhat of a mixed result. The kids were initially so taken aback by the 3rd world-ishness of it that they spent the first half of the trip complaining. They ended up having a good time but they didn't really learn anything about sailing.
Fast forward to last weekend. Deb's brother Tim came up to visit and we decided to go down to Newport to go to the beach and just bop around. It was a beautiful day and the bay was *filled* with sailboats. After driving and walking around Newport, I asked one of the local tour boat operators if there was any place that rented boats to sail. They pointed me to SailNewport so we went down there and had a look around. It was a nice place and they rent J-22s for not a terrible amount of money. As we were walking around the boats, I was really feeling nostalgic for the good ole' days. It's such a different, exclusive world and I kind of missed it. Apparently, Kyle was starting to feel the pull of the dark side because, out of the blue, he said that he wanted to learn how to sail. He said "Grandaddy does it. You do it. I want to continue the tradition. Someday, I want to take my family on a Caribbean charter like you did."
Wow! Where did that come from? Well, I got some information and we drove home. Later on, I was thinking about whether I really wanted to try and pursue this and I remembered that I had a friend who had taken sailing lessons at a lake in Worcester. That would be a lot closer than Newport so I gave them a call. Turns out I could join with a 30 day or 60 day membership and then, after proving that I knew what I was doing, could just show up and take out one of their boats (primarily White 14s).
Kyle and I drove up on a Friday afternoon to check the place out. This place is practically in the heart of Worcester on Quinsigamond Lake. It's called Regatta Point Community Sailing and it seems to be geared towards teaching city kids to sail. There's a beach right next to the place and it's a very "city" crowd. The "club" also rents paddle boats and canoes. We talked to the guy in charge and I signed up right there. I asked if I could get checked out and take a boat out right then and, at first, he said he didn't have anyone to conduct the test and it was looking like we would have to come back the next day. He then said that he did have someone so I ended up being tested by 13 or 14 year old Callie. Through some communication mix-up, I was only being certified for a mainsail. Jib cert is a separate test...
Anyway, after coming back in (Kyle waited on the dock), de-rigging the boat, and putting the sails away, I was cleared to take the boat out. So Kyle and I re-rigged the boat and went out. This place has some of the craziest wind I've ever seen. The lake is not very wide and there are trees and buildings all around so the wind just swirls. One minute you are close hauled and the next you are dead downwind. Not the best of conditions to learn to sail but I gave Kyle the tiller and he sailed around.
We headed home after a bit and Kyle seemed to have really enjoyed it. He had a friend from school visiting the next day and suggested that we come back and take him for a sail. So, on Saturday, we went back for another sail. I had to get certified with a jib so the manager guy told me to rig a boat and he would check me out. I grabbed some sails and went down and moved a boat to the downwind side of the dock for rigging. As I brought the boat around, I handed the bowline to Kyle for him to tie to the dock so we could start rigging. He bent down to pass the line through a ring on the side of the dock and then just kind of froze. I looked down and saw the bowline sinking in the water and the boat starting to drift away from the dock. With a "You did *not* just drop that bowline!" I dropped down on my stomach and plunged my arm, head, and upper body into the water and snagged the line. As I scrambled to get my head and chest back on the dock, Kyle's friend grabbed my leg and, instead of holding it down on the dock, lifted it up - basically bending me in two. I managed to get myself out of the water anyway and tied the boat up.
Kyle and I then set about rigging the boat - he remembered a lot from last time so I just told him what to do. The last part was the jib so I hanked it on, hooked up the halyard, ran the starboard sheet through the fairlead, and finally, the port sheet through the fair... Oh look, there is no fairlead on the port side. It's been ripped off of this boat. So, we de-rigged this boat, took it back around to the other side of the dock, got another boat around to the leeward side and rigged that boat. I finally went back to the manager and told him I was ready for the jib checkout. He told me to go ahead on out and he would come by and see how we were doing. I never saw him again.
We had much better wind this time (stronger if not any more directionally consistent anyway) so we just sailed around for an hour or two. I gave Kyle the tiller and he did OK unless we got a good puff and things started happening fast and he got confused on which way to move the tiller. One time (I was on the helm), we got a really good puff and just about went over. As I was scrambling to the high side I was thinking "Great! Thrown out for capsizing on my first day!" The extra wind and hiking out helped to stoke the interest however and both Kyle and his friend said they loved it. When we got home, we watched YouTube videos of all kinds of extreme sailing.
So, you never know. Maybe the interrupted tradition will be resumed and Kyle will be able to pass it down to the next one.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The Great Wall of Uxbridge
There must be some gene or something that makes a man want to build a wall - even those men who have no business building a wall. I've built several walls - or at least wall-like structures - shelves, and work benches, and similar things - and I have no business building walls. So, of course, I set out to build a wall.
Let's back up. We've had several problems with our furnace over the years, water leaks, start up failures, and, recently, the power vent that pulls the exhaust out had started making terrible noises. I went out to take a look at it one day and found that it was rusted, corroded, and missing major pieces - like they had been eaten away. I guess this is normal - the sulfur in the fuel oil mixes with the rain water and makes - you guessed it - sulfuric acid! This eats away the metal and destroys the vent. We had the furnace guy come and look at it and he said we either needed a new vent or we needed to put in a chimney. He said the vent would be about $800 and the chimney would be about $1500. Right, so we called up friend John and had him start the process of putting in a new vent.
The problem was however, that all the while the vent was being destroyed, it apparently wasn't pulling enough exhaust out the flue. We noticed that we had a fine layer of soot all over everything in the basement. It was then that we decided that we should wall in the furnace so that if this happened again, it would be contained in the furnace room. This also afforded me the chance to build that wall and dabble in a plan to finish the basement. Of course, I really didn't know where to start. I had a Time-Life book on building walls that I had gotten a long time ago so I pulled that out and had a look. My, it looks so easy in the antiseptic "lab" they used for the photos. Funny, they don't seem to have all these pipes, and wires, and beams, and poles like I seem to have all over my basement. Luckily, our friend John Cote is a general contractor and does this for a living so I gave him a call and told him what I was thinking. He told me to pick up some lumber and he would be over to get me started.
On the appointed day, he showed up with all his tools and we got started. Getting the walls laid out properly is the critical first step. The book has you drop a plumb line down from the header so you can figure out where the sole plate needs to be but no, we don't use no stinking plumb line. John whips out this device that spins a laser light that "paints" a line along the floor, up the wall, and across the ceiling that tells you exactly where everything should be. We snap down some chalk lines and cut the sole plates. John then gets out his hammer drill, drills holes in the plate and the floor and we pound in concrete anchor "nails". Repeat for the studs on the walls. He pulls out another laser devices that makes a perfect 90 degree angle for the corner and we snap those lines and repeat the process. As he's having me cut studs and nail them in, he stops everything and says "OK, we have to go to Home Depot. We have to get you an apron." By apron, he means a tool belt - something to hold the hammer, square, nails, tape measure, and a pencil. I'm not too keen on the idea but he insists saying that it is really necessary. I give in and we come back with a new belt, a tape measure, a utility knife, a small square, a big T square, and a 4 foot level. I strap it all on (well, not all of it) and get back to work. After a little bit, I have to admit, it *is* much more efficient. I'm no longer looking for my pencil, or the hammer, or the square after each use - it's all right there. So John leaves and I continue over the next several days. By the next weekend, I've finished framing the wall. It was not without its difficulties of course. Measuring for studs and then actually cutting them the right length is a skill that mostly eludes me. The tolerances are ridiculous. A 16th too short and the stud sways in the wind and can't be nailed to the top plate. Too long and you can't wedge it in between the top and bottom plate. It's better to have them too long than too short and taking off one blades worth is usually too much so I end up leaving them long and bashing them into place laboriously. Toe nailing is another skill that I don't have and that's what this process mainly consists of.
Today, I worked on getting light into the new room. Once it gets walled in, the light in the basement will be outside the room so I had to figure out how to get light in there. Awhile back, I had run a new electrical circuit over to my work bench so that I could hang a fluorescent light and have an electrical outlet nearby. For the new light, I decided to tap into that circuit. I still had about a mile of Romex left from that project so I spliced into a junction box, ran wire along the header inside the room, down to a box for a switch, and then back up to the ceiling for a receptacle. I moved my light into the room, plugged it in to the new receptacle and - there was light!
At this point I'm basically ready to try my hand at drywall. According to John, this is actually the hard part so it should be interesting.
Let's back up. We've had several problems with our furnace over the years, water leaks, start up failures, and, recently, the power vent that pulls the exhaust out had started making terrible noises. I went out to take a look at it one day and found that it was rusted, corroded, and missing major pieces - like they had been eaten away. I guess this is normal - the sulfur in the fuel oil mixes with the rain water and makes - you guessed it - sulfuric acid! This eats away the metal and destroys the vent. We had the furnace guy come and look at it and he said we either needed a new vent or we needed to put in a chimney. He said the vent would be about $800 and the chimney would be about $1500. Right, so we called up friend John and had him start the process of putting in a new vent.
The problem was however, that all the while the vent was being destroyed, it apparently wasn't pulling enough exhaust out the flue. We noticed that we had a fine layer of soot all over everything in the basement. It was then that we decided that we should wall in the furnace so that if this happened again, it would be contained in the furnace room. This also afforded me the chance to build that wall and dabble in a plan to finish the basement. Of course, I really didn't know where to start. I had a Time-Life book on building walls that I had gotten a long time ago so I pulled that out and had a look. My, it looks so easy in the antiseptic "lab" they used for the photos. Funny, they don't seem to have all these pipes, and wires, and beams, and poles like I seem to have all over my basement. Luckily, our friend John Cote is a general contractor and does this for a living so I gave him a call and told him what I was thinking. He told me to pick up some lumber and he would be over to get me started.
On the appointed day, he showed up with all his tools and we got started. Getting the walls laid out properly is the critical first step. The book has you drop a plumb line down from the header so you can figure out where the sole plate needs to be but no, we don't use no stinking plumb line. John whips out this device that spins a laser light that "paints" a line along the floor, up the wall, and across the ceiling that tells you exactly where everything should be. We snap down some chalk lines and cut the sole plates. John then gets out his hammer drill, drills holes in the plate and the floor and we pound in concrete anchor "nails". Repeat for the studs on the walls. He pulls out another laser devices that makes a perfect 90 degree angle for the corner and we snap those lines and repeat the process. As he's having me cut studs and nail them in, he stops everything and says "OK, we have to go to Home Depot. We have to get you an apron." By apron, he means a tool belt - something to hold the hammer, square, nails, tape measure, and a pencil. I'm not too keen on the idea but he insists saying that it is really necessary. I give in and we come back with a new belt, a tape measure, a utility knife, a small square, a big T square, and a 4 foot level. I strap it all on (well, not all of it) and get back to work. After a little bit, I have to admit, it *is* much more efficient. I'm no longer looking for my pencil, or the hammer, or the square after each use - it's all right there. So John leaves and I continue over the next several days. By the next weekend, I've finished framing the wall. It was not without its difficulties of course. Measuring for studs and then actually cutting them the right length is a skill that mostly eludes me. The tolerances are ridiculous. A 16th too short and the stud sways in the wind and can't be nailed to the top plate. Too long and you can't wedge it in between the top and bottom plate. It's better to have them too long than too short and taking off one blades worth is usually too much so I end up leaving them long and bashing them into place laboriously. Toe nailing is another skill that I don't have and that's what this process mainly consists of.
Today, I worked on getting light into the new room. Once it gets walled in, the light in the basement will be outside the room so I had to figure out how to get light in there. Awhile back, I had run a new electrical circuit over to my work bench so that I could hang a fluorescent light and have an electrical outlet nearby. For the new light, I decided to tap into that circuit. I still had about a mile of Romex left from that project so I spliced into a junction box, ran wire along the header inside the room, down to a box for a switch, and then back up to the ceiling for a receptacle. I moved my light into the room, plugged it in to the new receptacle and - there was light!
At this point I'm basically ready to try my hand at drywall. According to John, this is actually the hard part so it should be interesting.
Civic Duty
It's great to have Kyle home from school but it does present somewhat of a dilemma - transportation. With Carly driving and working, and Deb working full-time now, there is no vehicle left for Kyle. Of course, he wasn't real thrilled about finding a job so it was looking like it wouldn't matter but I knew he would have to get *something* so we started the process of figuring out what vehicle to get.
There were quite a few options of course - just perfect for people who can't make decisions. I could get a car for me and give him the Camry or I could keep the Camry and get some junker for him. The wrench in the system is that he's going to be back in school in three months so the extra car would end up sitting through the whole winter gathering dust (and chipmunks). As we were pondering what to do, we couldn't help but look at cars and we found that we really liked the Honda Civic. Well, after a bunch of hemming and hawing, we hatched a plan. We would get a new Civic and then sell the Camry at the end of the Summer. Next Summer, we would find something else for him or me to drive.
Have I mentioned how much I hate the car buying process? This one actually wasn't that bad. We shopped around a bit and found a dealer that wasn't too bad. The hardest part was finding the right color/model. I decided I wanted white and Kyle was pushing to get a manual transmission. Turns out there was only one white, manual transmission Civic in New England - or so the dealer said. Anyway, they found one, we haggled, and then drove off in a new Civic. It's a very nice car. It's roomy, and fun to drive and gets great mileage. I'm not sure the manual transmission was the best decision. It's fun for awhile but then it's just work. Oh well.
Kyle and I are trading off driving it - although he seems to get it more than me... That's OK, he'll be back at school soon enough. I'm re-thinking about the plan to sell the Camry however. It's still in good shape and I'll need it again next Summer so it might be cheaper just to hang onto it over the Winter.
There were quite a few options of course - just perfect for people who can't make decisions. I could get a car for me and give him the Camry or I could keep the Camry and get some junker for him. The wrench in the system is that he's going to be back in school in three months so the extra car would end up sitting through the whole winter gathering dust (and chipmunks). As we were pondering what to do, we couldn't help but look at cars and we found that we really liked the Honda Civic. Well, after a bunch of hemming and hawing, we hatched a plan. We would get a new Civic and then sell the Camry at the end of the Summer. Next Summer, we would find something else for him or me to drive.
Have I mentioned how much I hate the car buying process? This one actually wasn't that bad. We shopped around a bit and found a dealer that wasn't too bad. The hardest part was finding the right color/model. I decided I wanted white and Kyle was pushing to get a manual transmission. Turns out there was only one white, manual transmission Civic in New England - or so the dealer said. Anyway, they found one, we haggled, and then drove off in a new Civic. It's a very nice car. It's roomy, and fun to drive and gets great mileage. I'm not sure the manual transmission was the best decision. It's fun for awhile but then it's just work. Oh well.
Kyle and I are trading off driving it - although he seems to get it more than me... That's OK, he'll be back at school soon enough. I'm re-thinking about the plan to sell the Camry however. It's still in good shape and I'll need it again next Summer so it might be cheaper just to hang onto it over the Winter.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Bailing out the Jetta
Deb called me at work one morning and said that she had to take Carly to school because the Jetta was flooded - as in there were three inches of water in the front passenger-side footwell. Of course the logical assumption was that Carly had left the sunroof or a window open but apparently she had not. Deb actually had to bail out the water and then stomp on towels to try and dry things up but she really couldn't tell where the water was coming from. I told her to park it in the garage (since it was still raining) and I would take a look when I got home.
Of course, the first rule of the Internet is - if you think you're the only one with problem X, you are wrong. Somebody, somewhere has blogged about it. So, I googled "Jetta water leak".
Big mistake.
Gee, should I read about the class action lawsuit against VW for the water damage from filled passenger footwells, or maybe the list of dealers who deny the problem, or any of a thousand personal sites recounting the trials and tribulations of dealing with the leak and the moldy smell and electrical problems it brings.
I eventually settled on a site that had a running commentary from people who had the problem and who had tried various different ways of dealing with it. After reading literally hundreds of posts, there seemed to be two main theories. The first was that the drains from around the sunroof were clogged. Of course there were people who had the flooding who didn't have sunroofs so that was a bit suspect and there were people who either paid the dealer to clear the clogs or did it themselves and it didn't help the problem. Hmm. The second theory was that the pollen filter in the engine compartment gets cracked when they put the cover back on and this lets the water in. I didn't know where this was going but I figured it would be an expensive trip wherever it went.
So on a drizzly Saturday, I had a chance to take a look. I had asked Carly if there seemed to be any more water coming in. She said there wasn't on the floor but she said she thought she heard water sloshing whenever she braked. Oh perfect. I hopped in the car and rolled down the street and put the brakes on. I swear there must have been a Bonsai Pipeline in the roof of the car! OK, I'm guessing the sunroof drains are clogged - who even knew there were drains in the sunroof?
The website posts had mentioned little rubber "nipples" that needed to be "worked" to release the flow - try googling *that* and see what you get - but I really didn't know where they were. I finally found another website that walked you through the whole process - with pictures of the nipples even! I went back out to the car, found the objects of my desire and started "workin' it". OK, enough of that. Anyway, as I worked this thing, it was excreting this thick, sandy/greasy gook like black toothpaste coming from a tube. Then, all of a sudden, the last of the gook came out followed by spraying water! It quickly drained and I repeated the process on the other three nips. It was amazing how much gook and relatively high pressure water came out. It drained the roof area though and it seems to have done the trick although we haven't had much rain since.
Of course, the first rule of the Internet is - if you think you're the only one with problem X, you are wrong. Somebody, somewhere has blogged about it. So, I googled "Jetta water leak".
Big mistake.
Gee, should I read about the class action lawsuit against VW for the water damage from filled passenger footwells, or maybe the list of dealers who deny the problem, or any of a thousand personal sites recounting the trials and tribulations of dealing with the leak and the moldy smell and electrical problems it brings.
I eventually settled on a site that had a running commentary from people who had the problem and who had tried various different ways of dealing with it. After reading literally hundreds of posts, there seemed to be two main theories. The first was that the drains from around the sunroof were clogged. Of course there were people who had the flooding who didn't have sunroofs so that was a bit suspect and there were people who either paid the dealer to clear the clogs or did it themselves and it didn't help the problem. Hmm. The second theory was that the pollen filter in the engine compartment gets cracked when they put the cover back on and this lets the water in. I didn't know where this was going but I figured it would be an expensive trip wherever it went.
So on a drizzly Saturday, I had a chance to take a look. I had asked Carly if there seemed to be any more water coming in. She said there wasn't on the floor but she said she thought she heard water sloshing whenever she braked. Oh perfect. I hopped in the car and rolled down the street and put the brakes on. I swear there must have been a Bonsai Pipeline in the roof of the car! OK, I'm guessing the sunroof drains are clogged - who even knew there were drains in the sunroof?
The website posts had mentioned little rubber "nipples" that needed to be "worked" to release the flow - try googling *that* and see what you get - but I really didn't know where they were. I finally found another website that walked you through the whole process - with pictures of the nipples even! I went back out to the car, found the objects of my desire and started "workin' it". OK, enough of that. Anyway, as I worked this thing, it was excreting this thick, sandy/greasy gook like black toothpaste coming from a tube. Then, all of a sudden, the last of the gook came out followed by spraying water! It quickly drained and I repeated the process on the other three nips. It was amazing how much gook and relatively high pressure water came out. It drained the roof area though and it seems to have done the trick although we haven't had much rain since.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Help Dad, I'm lost in Worcester
You know that Carly has a boyfriend who lives in Connecticut right? Well, she's been angling for us to let her drive down and visit him for awhile now. Deb and I actually drove her down there so that she could go to one of his school dances about a month ago. It's about an hour away and Deb and I chilled at Mohegan Sun - an Indian Mega-Casino right by his house.
Anyway, Carly has wanted to be able to go down there herself and we finally gave in. I set her up with the GPS to guide her there and everything went fine. Well, a couple of days ago, she made plans to go down there again after school. Since the GPS was in my car, it was my job to remember to take it out of my car and leave it for her before I left for work in the morning. You know where this is going don't you?
Right. I forgot to leave her the GPS. So, she calls me about it but there's really nothing I can do. She figures she can just go old school and get directions from MapQuest and be OK. She has already driven there after all. Fine, no problem.
So I'm in the car driving home from work at the end of the day when - Riiingg.
Carly (Sobbing): Dad, I'm lost.
Dad: What happened?
Carly: I don't know.
Dad: Where are you?
Carly: I don't know, somewhere in Worcester.
Dad: What street are you on?
Carly (Angry and Sobbing): I don't know.
Dad: Do you see any street signs?
Carly: I don't know.
Dad: What do you see around you?
Carly: Just buildings.
Dad: Are you on 290?
Carly: No. I was but I got off and now I can't find it.
Dad: You have to find out what street you are on.
Carly (full breakdown): I can't! I don't know where I am! I don't see anything!
So I'm trying to figure out what to do to help her. Worcester *is* a difficult city to drive in. It's got some sort of Bermuda triangle thing going on I think - things just don't seem to make sense. Let's see, I can't really go get her if she can't tell me where she is so there's no point in driving there. Hmm, what to do...
I arrive home with her still on the phone driving aimlessly around Worcester so I get on the computer and bring up MapQuest to see if I can figure out where she is. She finally gives me a street name but I can't really figure out where she is on that street or which direction she's going. I finally tell her to find a business and pull into the parking lot. She pulls into Metro Dental Group or something like that so I Google it, find their home page, which just happens to have their address, and pop that into MapQuest - Bingo! I get her going in the right direction and talk her through every turn - using my best "Miss Garmin" voice by the way - "ReCALCulating". I get her back to the shopping center that she knows and hang up with her on her way back home - the trip to CT scuttled.
She gets home and recounts how she must have gotten on 395 North instead of South and realized her mistake when she started seeing the buildings of Worcester instead of the CT countryside. She didn't want to get off the highway in Worcester so she kept going and turned around in Shrewsbury. She got off the highway when she saw a sign for Uxbridge but then got totally lost trying to follow that route. Worcester is "the big city" and a touch grimy compared to the sticks of Uxbridge so she got a little freaked at being alone and lost in a dicey area. I think she's going to pay a little more attention to driving after this little excursion.
Anyway, Carly has wanted to be able to go down there herself and we finally gave in. I set her up with the GPS to guide her there and everything went fine. Well, a couple of days ago, she made plans to go down there again after school. Since the GPS was in my car, it was my job to remember to take it out of my car and leave it for her before I left for work in the morning. You know where this is going don't you?
Right. I forgot to leave her the GPS. So, she calls me about it but there's really nothing I can do. She figures she can just go old school and get directions from MapQuest and be OK. She has already driven there after all. Fine, no problem.
So I'm in the car driving home from work at the end of the day when - Riiingg.
Carly (Sobbing): Dad, I'm lost.
Dad: What happened?
Carly: I don't know.
Dad: Where are you?
Carly: I don't know, somewhere in Worcester.
Dad: What street are you on?
Carly (Angry and Sobbing): I don't know.
Dad: Do you see any street signs?
Carly: I don't know.
Dad: What do you see around you?
Carly: Just buildings.
Dad: Are you on 290?
Carly: No. I was but I got off and now I can't find it.
Dad: You have to find out what street you are on.
Carly (full breakdown): I can't! I don't know where I am! I don't see anything!
So I'm trying to figure out what to do to help her. Worcester *is* a difficult city to drive in. It's got some sort of Bermuda triangle thing going on I think - things just don't seem to make sense. Let's see, I can't really go get her if she can't tell me where she is so there's no point in driving there. Hmm, what to do...
I arrive home with her still on the phone driving aimlessly around Worcester so I get on the computer and bring up MapQuest to see if I can figure out where she is. She finally gives me a street name but I can't really figure out where she is on that street or which direction she's going. I finally tell her to find a business and pull into the parking lot. She pulls into Metro Dental Group or something like that so I Google it, find their home page, which just happens to have their address, and pop that into MapQuest - Bingo! I get her going in the right direction and talk her through every turn - using my best "Miss Garmin" voice by the way - "ReCALCulating". I get her back to the shopping center that she knows and hang up with her on her way back home - the trip to CT scuttled.
She gets home and recounts how she must have gotten on 395 North instead of South and realized her mistake when she started seeing the buildings of Worcester instead of the CT countryside. She didn't want to get off the highway in Worcester so she kept going and turned around in Shrewsbury. She got off the highway when she saw a sign for Uxbridge but then got totally lost trying to follow that route. Worcester is "the big city" and a touch grimy compared to the sticks of Uxbridge so she got a little freaked at being alone and lost in a dicey area. I think she's going to pay a little more attention to driving after this little excursion.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Big Bad Voodoo Valentine
Ah Valentine's Day. The day that strikes fear in to the hearts of every man who has a woman. And really, it's only tough once you've firmly hooked them. All the guys who are courting some sweet young thing love it because it gives them a chance to show that they are sensitive and we know that the girls just eat that up (It was cute to see Chris drive up and give Carly a Valentine Bear). What the girls just don't seem to understand is that once the chase has ended, the game is over. Right? What's the point of going through all that effort when you've already won?
Anyway, just to keep the meals coming, I arranged for a Valentine's Day outing for the big day. I had heard on the radio that a band called Big Bad Voodoo Daddy was going to be at Twin Rivers in Rhode Island for V-Day. This is a modern day swing band who have had a few hits on the radio and I've liked them from the first time I heard them. Here's a link to an Amazon page with some of their songs. You can hear snippets by clicking the "play" triangle icon next to each song. "Mr. Pinstripe Suit" is representative of their stuff. A lot of their stuff is actually too fast for us to dance to but I decided to get tickets and see what it was like.
We got to the casino and walked through the noise and smoke and finally found the room holding the concert. It was in a big general purpose hall with folding chairs set up and two "dance floors" in the center. There was quite an eclectic mix of people trickling in - everything from old to young, people in jeans (like us) to people decked out in 20's flapper dresses and felt hats. The band came out (in suits and hats), started playing, and the dance floor immediately filled. We got out there after the first song and did our best to keep up. Our main dance is a triple step swing which is geared for a slower beat than these guys were playing. We can modify it into a single step swing for faster beats, which is what we did, but the turns are much faster and it's easy to get messed up. We still had fun though and worked up a sweat. We also enjoyed just watching some of the really good dancers. It's amazing how many different types of moves there are and how much we don't know. There were guys swinging the girls around and overhead and under. Crazy.
The band itself was really, really good and just listening to the music was a treat. We had a really good time.
We start up with lessons again in a couple of weeks with our old instructor. It's a beginner class so it might be a bit remedial for us but some friends are supposed to sign up so it should be fun.
Anyway, just to keep the meals coming, I arranged for a Valentine's Day outing for the big day. I had heard on the radio that a band called Big Bad Voodoo Daddy was going to be at Twin Rivers in Rhode Island for V-Day. This is a modern day swing band who have had a few hits on the radio and I've liked them from the first time I heard them. Here's a link to an Amazon page with some of their songs. You can hear snippets by clicking the "play" triangle icon next to each song. "Mr. Pinstripe Suit" is representative of their stuff. A lot of their stuff is actually too fast for us to dance to but I decided to get tickets and see what it was like.
We got to the casino and walked through the noise and smoke and finally found the room holding the concert. It was in a big general purpose hall with folding chairs set up and two "dance floors" in the center. There was quite an eclectic mix of people trickling in - everything from old to young, people in jeans (like us) to people decked out in 20's flapper dresses and felt hats. The band came out (in suits and hats), started playing, and the dance floor immediately filled. We got out there after the first song and did our best to keep up. Our main dance is a triple step swing which is geared for a slower beat than these guys were playing. We can modify it into a single step swing for faster beats, which is what we did, but the turns are much faster and it's easy to get messed up. We still had fun though and worked up a sweat. We also enjoyed just watching some of the really good dancers. It's amazing how many different types of moves there are and how much we don't know. There were guys swinging the girls around and overhead and under. Crazy.
The band itself was really, really good and just listening to the music was a treat. We had a really good time.
We start up with lessons again in a couple of weeks with our old instructor. It's a beginner class so it might be a bit remedial for us but some friends are supposed to sign up so it should be fun.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
HD-DVD Take 3
Remember all my wranglings with Blu-Ray vs. HD-DVD? It was chronicled extensively a few posts ago. I'll wait here while you go back and re-read it.
Back? OK, well, forget all that. Turns out that the format war is juuuust about over. Basically, two major studios who were staunch supporters of HD-DVD just jumped ship to Blu-Ray.
That's OK, go back and read it again. Yes, I agonized and finally bought an HD-DVD player a few weeks back (Yes, I'm also the guy who bought the snow blower and caused a New England winter without snow a few years back).
I never really liked the whole "Play movies on the Xbox" experience anyway so I did a little experiment. I had gotten "300" in HD but it came on a dual format disk - one side was HD and the other was SD (regular DVD). I played them both and basically couldn't tell that much of a difference. So, the HD-DVD player went on eBay and I got most of my money back from it.
God I love technology.
Back? OK, well, forget all that. Turns out that the format war is juuuust about over. Basically, two major studios who were staunch supporters of HD-DVD just jumped ship to Blu-Ray.
That's OK, go back and read it again. Yes, I agonized and finally bought an HD-DVD player a few weeks back (Yes, I'm also the guy who bought the snow blower and caused a New England winter without snow a few years back).
I never really liked the whole "Play movies on the Xbox" experience anyway so I did a little experiment. I had gotten "300" in HD but it came on a dual format disk - one side was HD and the other was SD (regular DVD). I played them both and basically couldn't tell that much of a difference. So, the HD-DVD player went on eBay and I got most of my money back from it.
God I love technology.
Another Movie Review
I'm not trying to make this a movie review site but I just watched "Stranger Than Fiction" and I thought I would give it an endorsement. It's Will Farrel in a more serious role and he does a great job in it. Here's a little snippet.
I also watched "300" - the "epic" movie about the 300 Spartans who held off the Persians in ancient um, Sparta I guess... Stupid. I think the toughest part was accepting the Scottish accent of the Spartan King. Go ahead, scream "Spartans, Chaaarge!!!" in your best Sean Connery accent.
See what I mean?
Oh heck, I can't resist. Here's a mashup to prove it all. Just loop this little 8 minute clip about 12 times and you'll have basically recreated the movie. Think of the money you saved in movie theater popcorn alone.
Wasn't that just wonderful? The only thing I'm confused about is that I thought that this movie was completed *before* the writers strike but I just don't see how that could be.
I also watched "300" - the "epic" movie about the 300 Spartans who held off the Persians in ancient um, Sparta I guess... Stupid. I think the toughest part was accepting the Scottish accent of the Spartan King. Go ahead, scream "Spartans, Chaaarge!!!" in your best Sean Connery accent.
See what I mean?
Oh heck, I can't resist. Here's a mashup to prove it all. Just loop this little 8 minute clip about 12 times and you'll have basically recreated the movie. Think of the money you saved in movie theater popcorn alone.
Wasn't that just wonderful? The only thing I'm confused about is that I thought that this movie was completed *before* the writers strike but I just don't see how that could be.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Sounds like a Super Hero or Something
I just watched Donnie Darko. It's little known movie that has developed somewhat of a cult following. I got it because Netflix recommended it based on other movies I had rented. The fact that I liked it is in itself kinda scary. How are those Netflix programmers getting into my head???
The movie is about an emotionally troubled teenage boy who sees and talks to freaky man in a rabbit suit.
And then it gets weird.
Let's see, we've got time-travel, worm holes, Watership Down, Graham Greene, God, destiny, free will, Star Search with Ed McMahon, and, of course, there's that man in a giant bunny suit. I'm not going to bother trying to explain it. Wikipedia has the best, concise explanation of the whole movie and there are about a billion fan/discussion sites on the web that argue and debate what it all means. That's actually part of the fun. After the movie ended, I couldn't wait to go online and see how other people filled in all the holes. Here's a YouTube homemade trailer that gives you a sense of this baby.
Speaking of Netflix, I don't know if I've mentioned that I subscribe to it or how it works. Basically I pay about $7 month and I get as many DVDs as I can watch (one at a time) sent to me. I go online and go through the catalog and add movies to my "queue". They send me the first movie on my queue and after I watch it, I just drop it in the mail in the prepaid envelope that came with it. About a day or two later, I get the next movie in my queue and so on.
Ain't technology grand!
The movie is about an emotionally troubled teenage boy who sees and talks to freaky man in a rabbit suit.
And then it gets weird.
Let's see, we've got time-travel, worm holes, Watership Down, Graham Greene, God, destiny, free will, Star Search with Ed McMahon, and, of course, there's that man in a giant bunny suit. I'm not going to bother trying to explain it. Wikipedia has the best, concise explanation of the whole movie and there are about a billion fan/discussion sites on the web that argue and debate what it all means. That's actually part of the fun. After the movie ended, I couldn't wait to go online and see how other people filled in all the holes. Here's a YouTube homemade trailer that gives you a sense of this baby.
Speaking of Netflix, I don't know if I've mentioned that I subscribe to it or how it works. Basically I pay about $7 month and I get as many DVDs as I can watch (one at a time) sent to me. I go online and go through the catalog and add movies to my "queue". They send me the first movie on my queue and after I watch it, I just drop it in the mail in the prepaid envelope that came with it. About a day or two later, I get the next movie in my queue and so on.
Ain't technology grand!
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