Narcissism on a Mud Flat.

      Long time, no entry as I’ve been focused on painting, and for the first time I’m endeavoring to create a web site. It will feature my nautical and coastal portfolio including landscapes, nature/shorebird material, and a way folks can purchase commissioned pieces and/or printed and original pieces. My art school chums have been doing their best to help in this endeavor, and their patience is appreciated. It’s been a challenge, particularly concerning decisions around exactly how one presents oneself. The pages and categories I’ve created have quickly gobbled up my artwork, and it points out the need for more work! 
    
     It’s finally cooled off and thanks heavens for that. Haven’t done much sailing in the last month or so due to the kids being back in school and life in general, but I have availed myself to Jody’s early morning canoe initiative by joining him on a few Sunday outings. Paddling along in the waning darkness, fishing rod leaning forward in the bow, a thought came to me from many years ago when my buddy Ali and I were wrapping up our second Everglades Wilderness Waterway canoe trip. With the canoe pulled away from the ramp, and all our camping gear strewn around, we took a stroll around the marina in Flamingo to stretch our legs, waiting for my Dad to come get us from Miami Springs. A gentlemen who seemed to have time on his hands as well engaged us in conversation, and he must have gone on a while, because I remember thinking “we got a talker.” Anyway, he relayed a story that has stuck in my head ever since, and there in the marshes of St. Marks on Florida’s Big Bend, it came back to me with some relevance. I’ll call his story, The Master of Hell’s Bay. He may have actually said 'Wizard,' but either way.

     Hells Bay is a lake in the mangroves of the Everglades National Park, a few miles on the right before you reach the headquarters at Flamingo. It can only be reached by a narrow canoe trail, twisting through the overhanging mangroves, about half a day’s paddle, till it suddenly opens up into the shallow expanse of a small lake. A pavilion sits in the middle of the open water where one can pitch a tent to hide from the mosquitoes, and of course they provide a porta-potty and a neat log book guests can sign, at least all that was there back in 1983. I should check to see if it still exists after the last few hurricanes. Anyway, it was the first canoe/camping trip I ever did with my friend Kent Reetz. There we were, two high schoolers, on our own, the smell of freedom, Off, and the aroma of rotting mangrove leaves made for a heady brew. I remember us trying to fish the perimeter of the bay, casting between the tangled mangrove roots hoping for a snook waiting in ambush, but before long Kent and I gave up. We agreed the bay was much too shallow and the water too warm and stagnant to be home to anything worth fishing for.
    
     But, according to this talkative stranger, the ‘Master of Hell’s Bay’ knew better. He was an old man who had the only angle on how to fish the place. He was very sneaky, never letting anyone follow to learn his method. It was his secret alone. The theory was, he would wait at the opening of one of the creeks that lead in and out of the bay, and when the tide was coming in, he’d lure a big snook who’d be there ready to catch whatever was moving through the opening. No one knew where he set up for sure, but apparently he would often return to the marina with his limit on snook. I think my mouth was hanging open at the hearing of this tale, as the memory of that place swirled in my head, along with thoughts of what might have been back when we were sixteen. Funny, there’s nothing revolutionary about fishing a creek opening on a rising or falling tide, that’s what you’re supposed to do. But the idea of an old man paddling a canoe for hours to get to into Hells Bay of all places, with it’s limpid water, shallow muck bottom, and a robust insect air defense, only to return with his limit on snook, is a grain of sand I can't get out of my proverbial clam shell.

     Well, I think we’re too far North on the Big Bend of Florida for snook fishing, but we do have Redfish, and they have of mystique all their own. So let me cut to the chase. I want to be the same guy. The ‘Master’ guy. And, as most everyone called a ‘Master’ is typically an old man, I figure I have time to get there. If Jody and I keep paddling around the marshes, were bound to stumble upon a couple reds eventually, if just by accident. Maybe old sick ones? And really, it occurs to me that it’s not necessary to be a great fisherman anyway. I just have to create the illusion of being a good fisherman, and of course I’ll need a mouthy guy who hangs out around the ramp at St. Marks to help spread the legend of my exploits. It would help if there was a nearby oyster and beer joint or even better, a bait shop frequented by old men who sit around a spitoon reading the paper, but unfortunately St. Marks is a Wildlife Refuge and there’ll be no such thing.

     I guess it’s gonna fall to me and this blog. Perhaps I should start laying in the narrative now, so in a couple decades from now it may will have taken root. Let’s see.....it would help if we actually caught some redfish, instead of the same two Spanish mackerel we keep encountering. Jody mentioned maybe hiring a guide. But as a master, that doesn’t seem right; listening to a guide. Perhaps if I pretend there was no exchange of money, and I would have fished exactly where he told me to anyway, I could square it with myself. That could work.

     But wait a minute, that won’t work. The Master ignored all the obvious, sensible places a guide would take you to around Flamingo. He made his name by fishing in as confounding a spot as you would hope to avoid. So I need to put some time into finding a similar place around here. Google earth will help with that I suppose. A dank mud flat, as far up one of these nameless marshes as we can push, completely exposed at low tide, as devoid of any angulatory potential as possible, and there we will set up shop, and not give up till we discover the secrets of that place. Just like the Master did in Hells Bay. And if one of the secrets of this secluded marsh includes a footpath that leads to a section of Highway 98 where the guy sells fish out of the back of his truck, then we can cut the time frame to achieving 'Master' status substantially.

Hells Bay Master Fishing Technique Theory #4. Stately Southern manners and a courtly demeanor seldom go amiss.

         For the time being I guess we’ll have to go at it honestly, using good old-fashioned jumper cables and a car bat.....I mean a rod and reel, and in this effort I promise to report any success. So far we've been concentrating around the oyster bars as the tides move in and out, like all the other anglers do, but so far without success. I had one nice hook up way up a marsh creek where the water was moving through a constriction in the reeds. It was exactly where I'd be hanging out if I was a redfish, but I had no leader on my jig and he broke me off. Seeing the many photos of people catching redfish in every outdoor magazine and sporting good store bulletin board would seemingly get on my nerves, but no. I have a sailboat, and none of those people in the photos are fishing from sailboats, so maybe there's some kind of handicap there. Plus they have pretty young women along in bikinis typically, so maybe that's an added attraction to redfish. Whatever the case, it's beneath a master of saltwater fishing to have anxiety over almost never catching any fish. So I'll hold it together, and let you know when things turn around. Because, according to my legend, it's clearly going to turn around.

     I have more to discuss, but again, I've resolved to shorten my posts. It comes to my attention there are people actually reading my blog. My closest friends report trouble pushing through my posts, but not their parents! So, to Sally and Jose, let me say welcome, and from the rail I raise my coffee mug to you. Salute!


Brian

My Daughter Emma--5th grade, was not going to allow Pops to hog all the fun of drawing mermaids, so enjoy her handy- work. Obviously the pet fish is some species other than a snook.

To Blue Skies...May They Someday Return.

      Ahhh. As the summer comes to a close the days grow shorter and the air grows crisp and cool with the trees showing their first hints of color. No wait. I’m in Florida! The air is not crisp and cool, it’s warm and so sodden with moisture there’s little difference between the rain falling and the water vapor rising. The rains have been relentless for almost three months now, surely enough time for an entirely new species of mushroom to evolve. The July rainfall in Tallahassee was almost 8” above the norm, and as of late August it is still raining. When I hear thunderstorms at day break I know we’re in for it. The storms sit over the warm water on the coast waiting to rush inland like a race horse at the gate.

     To think a month or so ago we were standing on the Columbia Ice Field just south of Jasper in Alberta, Canada. It was cool, not cold (I wore shorts). Tracey’s plans for our family summer trip included visits to the Glacier parks in both Canada and the US, and wouldn’t you know, we met some Florida Boat people on the bus ride back from Logan Pass; Dave and Connie McBride. They were on a side excursion while sailing up the East Coast on a Bolger Sharpie. These folks have some real sailing and boat building chops and you can read about them in a blog Connie maintains called Simply Sailing. She also has articles featured in Small Craft Advisor including an issue from last year.

Here's the Prince of Wales Hotel from the walking trail that begins behind the Park Visitor Center. We got up to the saddle and back down just before it was too dark to see the trail.

     If anyone is looking for a nice mid-summer trip I highly recommend exploring the Glacier parks on both sides of the border; just do it soon. Most of the remaining Glaciers were in the form of hanging valleys-the small upper decks of the mountain ridges, and their melt water seasonally has the rivers and streams running full tilt. I read there's maybe another thirty years or so before they are no more.

     Be sure to book a room at the Prince of Wales Hotel located in Waterton Lakes, part of Canada’s National Park System. During the period when the railroad barons were connecting the rails through the mountains, they built a string of lovely big hotels to encourage tourism. Now here’s a place where a hiker might wear knickers and stockings, and not look out of place; lovely old seasoned wood everywhere, six floors of it, resplendent in it’s dark creaky abundance. We had the topmost floor, right underneath the peak, and it reminded the girls of Hogwarts in one respect; semi-hidden staircases.

     The place has authenticity that just feels right. No TV’s, no wifi, and you better be okay with stairs, as the only elevator is for the bell hops. It sits lakeside, and our balcony door opened to this astounding view.

       Tracey was warned to keep the windows and door shut, as unpredictable gusts come through the valley and will leave the room in an disheveled mess. I dared it to happen, but, it must be the wrong time of year. The place had a charming, worn feel to it, like a weathered old sea boat. I sensed it’s a place someone who is used to staying in four and five star hotels might pass by. But of course it was five stars in it’s time.

                                         I ran across my favorite western bird, the American Dipper. If I'm not mistaken this 
                                         is our only aquatic songbird. These characters brave swift icy rivers to hunt for small 
                                         fish and insects among submerged rocks and logs. This individual I suppose was resting 
                                         and warming up after a morning spent foraging in the glacial runoff.  

     Back home in July we got in a nice afternoon sail in with my Mom and an old family friend Mary Claire Dant who resides in Naples Florida. Jody and I took them to Dickerson Bay as the beach there is excellent and mostly deserted. The wind checked out permanently in the morning so it was a motoring day, but in the wildlife category the trip was a knockout. I’ve never seen the Bay so active. The water was alive with rays scooting every which way under the hull and often breaching in huge splashes! We saw sea turtles, jellies, and a family of dolphins who accompanied us throughout the afternoon. These were some very large individuals, and they made a show of jumping, along with a baby who must have been less than a year old, still nursing I presume.

     At the beach we sat comfortably under a sun shade and enjoyed the group of birds gathered behind us. This included willets, terns, and a new sighting for this beach...marbled godwits! Further down were the unmistakable oystercatchers who preferred to keep their distance. Clouds began building just north of the ramp and in only twenty minutes brewed into a full thunderstorm with the tops arching way over to the south above our heads. This is the first time I have had that happen although one expects it every summer. The sea breeze usually pushes these forming thunderstorms just inland, and that could be said of this storm. We were even able to break down the masts and sails and button everything up for the road home before the rain really kicked in. It was an amazing days considering the only wind we had was in our face provided by the thunderstorm.

     I resolved to shorten my posts, so I declare the end of this one. We hope to sail again soon, although life returns its normal pace with our kids returning to school. But they are always happy to have me out of the house on a Sunday so perhaps we will go again soon. If anything interesting happens....I’ll post. Till then, keep your hand on the rail and your sunscreen well applied.

Salute!

Brian

Sorry, I had to close with one good shot of the Prince of Wales Hotel.

    

Dwelling On an Afternoon Sail

     The reason I started this blog, well a couple reasons. One, I don’t get out as much I’d like, so it’s a way to be on the water without being on the water. I believe I'm not alone in that. It’s possible to have something you hold dear in mind and how best to put it? There’s dwelling on something you care about, but with sailing and many other pursuits, you can dwell in it. Another reason; I thought if I linked the two interests; art and sailing, the two might augment each other. To that end, I’m trying to improve my use of water colors to a level where I can be free, have fun and have it resemble what I want it to look like. Anyway, thinking about what landscapes and water-scapes can be, my mind goes to those amazing Nineteenth Century artists. Consider Winslow Homer’s Gulf Stream...I remember gazing at that piece for long stretches. A small reproduction must have hung in a classroom I was stuck in way back when. It is such a mesmerizing image; atmospheric, highly narrative, strongly mythical; and...what a painting. It must have astonished the first gallery patrons to see it. Granted, there’s only one Turner or Winslow Homer, but one can aspire.

     But, returning to reality. I'm beginning to like my treatment of light on water, and my skies are coming along. That’s half the battle right there, maybe more than half. The boats are hit and miss, as are the sails, but I'll keep at it. I've just switched to some lovely super thick water color paper so I hope that will be the end of all that pigment guttering in the troughs of buckling paper.

This simple water color sketch I love love love!  Hopefully more will be on the way of similar style.

     Before last weekend it had been two months since we were last out, and around here that’s too long to leave a boat out in a barn unchecked, even with three tarps over it. The tarps were necessary as our hens liked to rummage through the dry pine-straw under the boat kicking up a ton of dust. I walked by the boat day after day on my way to collect eggs, failing to notice the spreading moisture stain in the plastic weave of the tarp. It wasn’t until our cat Maya took to sitting on the bow pawing at the area that I connected the dots. Situational awareness is a very important facet of seamanship and I’m not happy to be out-shown by my cat, but where it pertains to rat perception she does have an advantage. Removing the first layer revealed a nest, thankfully devoid of pinkies, but littered with......rat litter.  Disgusting. Luckily it had the courtesy to nest below the tarp but above my inner layer of plastic, instead of say, in one of my stern lockers. Hopefully Maya will keep a sharp eye out because the rodent did get away, and that makes me nervous. I’ve already replaced a wiring harness in my truck due to varmits, and from now on when I park in the pole barn the hood stays open.

     I tried that approach with the sailboat; that is, leaving the tarp folded open on the stern so Maya could sneak in and chase off the vermin, but I neglected to consider the hens, who love nothing more than to find a place away from their colleagues to lay eggs in privacy. When one of the hens went missing, it never occurred to me to check the boat, and when I finally pulled back the tarp, my what a lovely surprise that was. There was no simply cleaning the boat. I had to strip the paint in the cockpit and hit it with a couple new layers of enamel in the area where she expired. My sympathy for the hen’s plight was roughly equaled by my disgust and indignation, especially as her ordeal was over and mine had just begun. The damn hens were always so busy. Poor thing, she could find her way in well enough, too bad she didn’t lift the same flap with her head to escape.

     Anyway, all the hens are gone now. We grew weary of them wrecking the vegetable garden and pilfering birdseed, but now that I have solved that problem it has indirectly pointed to another. The presence of a hen house brought scavengers. Not raccoons or foxes, our dogs keep them away, but a helpful presence in the form of a rat snake. They don’t call them rat snakes for nothing I assume. Sure, more than a few eggs went down the snake’s gullet, but when I surprised him one day neatly tucked into a fold in the boat’s tarp, it didn’t bother me a bit. “You can stay right there buddy,” I told my little friend. “Have all the eggs you want, but please live up to your name and wriggle a perimeter around boat once in a while.”

I wasn't convinced there was a problem till I poked a bump in the tarp under Maya's watchful eye, then the bump started moving with Maya in pursuit.

.

     We finally got in a nice sail last weekend. This has been one of those summers so far with nice thunderstorm formation over land in the afternoons, which translates to a decent sea breeze at the coast as the air updrafts twenty miles or so inland. This was a two boat sail and as often happens we cast around for willing participants for an outing. The prospect of sitting in a motionless shallow with the mid-day Florida sun beating down dissuades a few friends who might otherwise participate, since there’s no guarantee there will be a sail-able sea breeze at the exact spot where we are, but Sunday worked out nicely. The wind was steady, the water a gentle chop, with temperatures perfect for a swim.

     We made our way out of the canal at the St. Marks Lighthouse and with favorable winds from the South-east we set our course for a wide shallow sandy area a couple miles to the south. My chart shows this as a large random shape with the word ‘sand’ off to the side. It’s shallow enough at low tide to be inaccessible to boat traffic, so folks will often anchor out there over-night with their hulls resting on the bottom.

Lunch over the 'Sand.'

     Tramontana is a long skinny two-masted sharpie. It can be soloed, but I haven’t had lots of practice doing it, as I get out so seldom and it’s usually a nice way to spend time with friends and family. It’s recently occurred to me that the boat I have, is not the boat I thought I was building when I came under the spell of Reuel Parker. I say spell with no reservation. I ruined the bindings of two copies of The Sharpie Book simply by having them open in hand for too long during the time that “the desire to build a boat filled my sky and I could think of nothing else.”

     Parker states that the Ohio sharpie is good for carrying 1000 pounds of camping gear. I can attest to that, since we load beyond that every camping trip by a few hundred pounds. But then he mentions his Ohio Sharpie carried “seven or eight people comfortably and still performed well.” Possibly the folks in the Keys back in the 1970’s were a skinny lot, so I won’t quibble with him on that point, but I’m struggling with what to do with even a few passengers in my boat. Tramontana is a 20 footer, so it’s not like we’re trying to cram 6 guys in a ’65 Fiat 500, but when I gaze over at Jody sailing with guests in the Swan; a 12 foot day-sailer with amble beam and tidy bench seats, I marvel at how design variations make up for pronounced differences in size.

    His crew sits sideways on bench seats facing inward, they’re in a comfortable place to man the  main sheet or simply idle for a bit, but either way they don’t interfere with sailing operations. My guests usually sit across thwarts that stretch the narrow beam of the boat, or they can perch on the coamings. Jody can sail by himself easily, but with two masts I presently require help sailing this sharpie, or I need people out of the way so I can do it. Problem is, there’s no ‘out of the way’ with this design, and with two separate masts and two sheets controlling the sails, plus the tiller, why not involve your passengers? It’s a wonderful moment for folks who have never sailed, to feel the thrust of the wind on the sail and the gurgle of the water down her side as she picks up speed. But on a day where the wind builds in the afternoon, things can get a little dicey.  No one better be sitting on ropes, and folks may need to jump out of the way or be ready to flash from one side to the other when we tack, and it helps if they don’t mind me using their heads as a railing when I jump to the bow to brail up the fore sail. So far no one has caught a knee in the back or had fingers stepped on, so I’d like to see this situation in the right way before that happens. I would include “before we experience a capsize,” but it’s already too late for that.
   
   All this means it’s best to have folks on board who know how to sail, or at least don’t mind all the bustle involved. I’ve been reluctant to bark orders at my passengers, because why should anyone who comes along at my invitation put up with that?  So I believe I’ll build two low narrow Adirondike style chairs that go along either side of the centerboard trunk to get lubbers low and out of the way of the sails and sheets. And, I should say, I'm willing to entertain the possibility that the space inside the boat is not as much the problem as the space between my ears. But whatever it is, more time on the water will settle this question I'm sure.

      I included these two sketches from my files for comparison. The top is Tramontana, clearly a longer boat, lots of room for gear, but on the bottom Swan holds her own for sensible comfort and simplicity.

     Hmmmm..... eight people. I think those must have been salty, fun loving free spirits. Actually I can see it; Buffett’s A1A coming out of an 8-track, maybe the bow bumping up against a square grouper, oh...and Captain Parker having a really good handle on things. So to him I raise my coffee mug. It’s 8:30 on a Sunday morning in late June. A storm is slowly making it’s way over the Big Bend, and it’s time to walk up to get the paper with an umbrella and Maya. She likes to go on walks perched on my shoulder....so from the Rail.....enjoy your Summer people!

Brian

What possible use can I make of this information?

Crossing the Bay. I like to let a friend pilot, so I can jump to whatever response the boat calls for; bailing included.

    “Have you thought about how you’ll handle a knock over?” This question was posed by my friend Walt during our latest Barrier Island Clean Up on Little St. George. Walt’s very soft spoken; a bit hard to hear from the other side of the fire with the wind churning through the pines overhead. Jody brought out the radio after dinner, and we listened to a forecast that sounded nothing like the one from a day or so earlier. We were expecting fortuitous winds for going out, and returning from St. George Island later in the weekend. NOAA waited till we were safely out of the channel before revising their outlook. Now it looked as if the challenge would be how and when would we get safely off the Island. This was a Thursday evening. A front was to hit harder than anticipated the next day, then Saturday the winds were to build steadily through the afternoon till it reached twenty knots in the afternoon and stronger on Sunday.

    We had no sooner reached our campsite, cooked dinner and settled ourselves in, before it became necessary to focus on going home. The problem was my 19 foot Sharpie, Tramontana. The other two boats, Jody’s Drascomb Dabbler and Walt’s Gaff Sloop, were not the issue. Hence Walt’s line of questioning concerning my boat and her crew. My response was a listing of some floatation amendments I had devised since my last knockdown. I’ve capsized before. Let’s just say we all have our stories and I’ll leave it at that. My stance on being knocked over, is that it shouldn’t happen. It shouldn’t happen in Apalachicola Bay on a day we decide it’s safe enough to sail and I’m focused on staying upright. Currently I see a knockdown as a black box scenario.

    I say this because despite Walt’s wise and methodical exploration of how it all works, righting the boat and bailing in rough conditions, I don’t see where it’s feasible. Not in my boat, not when there’s a respectable swell and semi-ugly chop. We'd be out on the waves bobbing up and down next to the boat, probably it’s cold because that’s when we do these trips. Hopefully my stern hatch and bulkheads are closed so the aft compartments aren’t filling with water. I’d have to pick apart my hitches to the spars so I can lower the sails and hopefully raise her up with her masts in place. We discussed having to reach under the coamings and clear away and dump weighty items that are snagged in my tied off gear.  We’d have to somehow bring her around and orient the bow to the waves, not sure how that would work. Then comes standing on the centerboard trying to rock her up, and if that does happen, then there’s getting in with her listing this way and that, no stability whatsoever, more like a soda bottle than a boat, and finally bailing desperately while the swells and chop roll over the boat as pretty as you please.

     We went through these steps one by one, and with each mental image I became more and more skeptical. I realize capsizing trials are done by folks who take small boats offshore, I just read about two fellas in Woodenboat Magazine who did so in preparation for sailing a small boat 90 miles out to Ft. Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas, but as currently configured Tramontana is not rigged for such adventures. Thinking on it further, I doubt that I could keep her nose up enough to even bail at all, despite Walt’s assurance that in such conditions I represent the world’s best designed pump, namely, a frightened sailor and a five gallon bucket. Frightened or not, I think I’d be effective for about a half hour before I was utterly exhausted. Anyway, as the discussion wore on, I think Walt became skeptical as well, and finally we decided the best and safest course would be to pluck me and my unlucky mate, either Jimmy or Seth, off the Tramontana to await a salvage operation later on my own time.

    Funny, the whole thing mirrors a discussion we had with Laslo a few seasons back pertaining to rattlesnakes. About a mile and half down the beach picking trash I decided I should warn him about the abundance of rattlesnakes. I was being sincere, there often are high populations of Eastern Diamondbacks on our southern coastal barrier islands, this is a fact. I wasn’t trying to scare Laslo for my own entertainment, I’m really fascinated by these creatures and I believe they need stricter protection, or will someday, owing to the fact that in the South rattlesnakes are killed on sight, hence possibly the difference with barrier islands. Rattlesnakes don’t need a lot of calories to live, and there’s no one on barrier islands to kill them. Anyway, we said something like, “watch out, there’s lots of rattlesnakes out here; they’re very dangerous, etc.” Jody and I didn’t put too fine a point on it, except to mention their exceptional ability to camouflage. They blend in so well you might reach an inch from a rattlesnake’s snout to lift a bottle and not realize it’s there, and that’s when you’re watching out for one. Laslo stood silent for a moment digesting this (I could see the wheels turning.....how to watch out for something dangerous you basically can’t watch out for), then he blurted out in his wonderful Hungarian accent, “Vhy did you tell me this? Vhat possible use can I make of this information?”

      I’ve done lots of wildlife illustrations for a biologist in Tallahassee named Dr. Bruce Means who is the world’s premier authority on the eastern Diamondback, I think I have a few out-take EDB sketches form many many years back, maybe I’ll see if I can located one. Oh, and I should mention an Eastern Diamondback probably wouldn’t strike even if you did reach down in front of it. In my experience EDB’s have to be provoked before they become aggressive. They want no quarrel with a beast as large as a human, we’re not on the menu, and they prefer to avoid an encounter, hence the unbelievable camouflage. That’s been my experience with them.

It turns out I did not have an old illustration to share, so I ground this one out. EDB's are hard to depict, so let's call this a study. Yes, it's a baby.

     Anyway, having Walt Donaldson along to discuss such matters was a nice feature of this trip. It was like having a direct line to a sailing forum as we visited various topics. One of the things I liked about building and learning to sail a small boat is that there’s a proper way to do things, in the pursuit of sailing generally, and for each individual design and sailing rig. Walt is someone who has a background in sailing broad and deep enough to put all the questions I ponder out loud in their proper context. It’s not always that there’s one correct answer for every question, but there’s a context with which to view it.

    I paraphrased something my friend Kent said about my boat after he and I traversed some hair-raising swells between St. George and Dog Island. It went something like, “When the NOAA issues a small craft advisory, they have in mind boats way larger and more seaworthy than yours.” When I recounted this around the fire Walt’s response was interesting, and I’ll paraphrase again. “If a small craft advisory is going to keep you off the water, then you need to ask yourself if you should be sailing in the first place.” I like both statements, and I don't think they're in opposition. The takeaway for me is, I need to get my boat more seaworthy. I freaked out the day we were shooting down between the swells looking up at those wave crests. I knew if any of those had broken over us, I’d have had no answer for it. We’d have made a lovely debris field on the incoming tide. I’ll be thinking of some solutions this year, and hopefully get closer to Walt’s sentiments. It will most likely involve compartments for my gear that will displace the water that I would otherwise have to bail out.

Here's a depiction of us between Dog Island and St. George. It was likely the swells were compounding between the two Islands, they were very steep with deep troughs. I didn't like it one bit. Kent theorized a few hundred yards in from the cut things would have been much smoother.

     As it went we were still able to haul in a respectable amount of beach trash on Friday, leaving about a dozen contractor bags worth at the Marshall Field House midway along the length of Little St. George Island. The State folks who administer the Apalachicola Estuarine Research Reserve come out and and retrieve the trash in their boats. We raised sail to make our way home across Apalachicola Bay in a moderate swell but a fairly dense fog. Walt in his Joan of Arc reefed his mainsail in the most curious fashion, I never saw it up close as I fumbled our start by fidgeting with my mainsail rig, but finally he let us pass and I could see his gaff spar down low on the mast with his main billowed out over the water. At first I was afraid he was dragging his sail and was possibly in trouble, but of course that was wrong. From a distance Joan of Arc took on the look of a felucca with a lateen rig. Walt wasn’t finished helping us it turned out, as he had to radio us we were sailing in the wrong direction-off to the west towards St. Vincent Island instead of East to the bridge. My pride would have me disbelieve we were quite that off course, but all the same I was bracing for some ribbing when we hit the ramp. Again Walt was the paradigm of nautical compassion and simply recounted a tale from his past similar to my blunder. (Not Walt’s mistake but one that involved him I should clarify). Jody however, I expect will just sit on this comedic ammo till the timing is just right.

I was curious to see in other images that Walt's gaff spar is, or nearly is, as tall as his mast.

Okay.....time to look back over this post and see if I can dig out punctuation and grammatical errors. Better yet, let’s let Tracey have a look at it. I'm ready for a re-fill. Here’s to you! Ciao.

It occurred to me I have yet to include a map. This trip we did not camp at West Pass; instead we camped further east at the Marshall Field House with the permission of the Florida DNR as a group conducting a beach clean up.

    

About that anchor.........

                                                                 West Pass Take 2
                                                                          April 5th, 2008 
   
      The wind was blowing at the Sabal palms next to the boat ramp in Apalachicola and I wasn't the only one to notice it. The fronds were whipping back and forth in a manner that depending on your point of view as a sailor, (and the size of your boat) was encouraging or ominous. After loading and launching Jody paused, took one last look at those palms before we shoved off and said with a resigned sigh, “I guess we’re going now.” This would lead me to scratch Jody’s name in the latter column, but other than some rolling swells, the bay turned out to be reasonable that day. I regretted my decision to go with only one sail, and before long Jody and Timothy shook the reef out of their main in the Oystercatcher.

Oystercatcher with her loose footed main sail billowed way out. 
I'm not sure what Jody was doing with the sail at this moment.

     We made the point of West Pass after the 9 mile crossing of Apalachicola Bay and anchored much in the same manner as before and this time I did my best to put things to right and gauge the distances correctly. I lashed the four horse outboard a friend had lent us to the centerboard truck, low and to the center, and came to shore with a line to tie off and stake above the high tide mark. In turned out this was to be a heavy weather weekend, and as the sun set a bank of heavy grey clouds moved in, the leading edge of a large scattered front that moved over us the whole weekend.

    It’s natural to wonder why we would go out into bad weather, so let me mount a brief defense. None of us are free wheeling adventurers untethered to jobs and family. We look forward to barrier island camping all year and the discussions and preparations begins weeks ahead. Add to the mix often vague weather forecasts that never definitively slam the door on our plans to the extent that you can say, “so much for that trip boys, better luck next year.” Plus these guys are experienced campers; Jody is usually turning things over in his head two, three steps ahead of events and typically has a solution in mind before it’s called for. Timothy has a life time of diverse technical occupations to draw from, and Ali--he’s the most lateral thinking of any person I have ever known. Ali likes comfort and efficiency and no matter what situation we get ourselves into he usually finds it. So with that, bad weather is typically not a deal breaker, and in fact often lends a trip an element of fun and excitement. I should also add that I love storms and find them beautifully compelling. Provided I’m not on the water.

    So by nightfall we were snug at our campsite gathered under a rain shelter while our boats rode at anchor in the channel. A moderate rain slanted in on heavy gusts, and we turned in after one last anchor check to settle down until the next anchor check. Later, at around at midnight, we were greeted by the sight of my sharpie sideways to the waves rocking violently with her tall masts arcing to an alarming degree.  Bob’s thirty pounds or so of outboard was lashed to the leeward side of the centerboard trunk and that made things worse. With a little more wind she looked sure to go over. It was deeply unsettling to watch. We agreed there was nothing for it but to cast off the shore line, and let her swing around on her anchor line bow to the waves and tide. It meant a swim to retrieve her but that was preferable to another beach salvage operation like before. Jody’s Drascomb by contrast was riding comfortably at anchor behaving well with it’s little stub of a mast and it’s high free board.

      I settled in for an uneasy sleep, where I dreamt I was at a marina in Ft. Lauderdale surrounded by curious onlookers and old salts watching me salvage my sunken boat and offering advice. At four thirty I ventured out for another check. There was Jody’s Oystercatcher still riding the waves exactly as he left her, and there was my boat, gone. Tramontana had decided to up anchor and go on a little cruise in the middle of the stormy night, and that’s all there was to say about it. Except for the reason she did this; I found or was given an anchor with a ring that slides up and down the shaft and since it was the one I always used, I went ahead and used it. I understand this is a fisherman’s anchor, on account of the ring slides up to the flukes making it convenient to pluck the flukes out of the bottom and find a better spot to fish. Jody upon hearing my news said, “I wondered about that anchor.” But, looking back, maybe I didn’t have enough chain on it, maybe it dragged and couldn’t reset in that deep channel, or maybe it was just one of those things.

    No bad dreams at this point. No sleep at all, just utter shock and incredulity. We discussed various scenarios which I continued turning over in my head long into the night. With an incoming tide I decided the likely possibility was she had blown over against St. Vincent Island, or maybe out towards Indian Pass, but then there was a slight possibility one of those big shrimpers could PT 109 her, a result too horrific to imagine. Then another jolt of panic flushed through me as the thought that maybe her line came loose at the cleat, and she wasn’t dragging anchor at all, but was free wheeling in the wind liable to end up God knows where. I was becoming irrational, but I still knew she hadn’t gone out into the Gulf on account of an incoming tide.

    Jody awoke early feeling refreshed and said “I slept great, for once you didn’t snore.” Walking up and down the beach in the early dawn light there was no sight of her, or of anything through the low light and fog. Ali met me walking back from my search and asked “Where’s your boat? I thought you got up early and went for a sail?” Pining over my coffee I refused to imagine any but the most tragic outcomes of this affair. “All that money, all that time to build this boat, my dream of having something to sail and explore in, Bob’s outboard motor...all down the crapper.” Also there was the realization, “That’s it, Tracey will never put up with me building another boat. I’m done.” It felt like a flowering branch of my life was just sheared off in one night. Awful.

     I stood up to retrieve the radio, and nervously went over what I was to tell the Authorities, (something like, "there's a derelict vessel hazarding boat traffic in Apalachicola Bay"). I pressed the transmit button and at the same moment I heard Ali’s voice from down the beach.

Hey! I found her!

    There she was, way off in the hazy distance, sitting over St. Vincent Bar, the place where all the oystermen line up their skiffs to harvest oysters. She had dragged her anchor, skipping it along the bottom till finally it hit something solid (oysters). She looked like a feint ghost out in the fog. After a few happy tears and breakfast we sailed out in the Oystercatcher to get her. She was perfect. Amazingly there was hardly any rain water in either boat, and a styrofoam cup one of us had jammed in her mast partner was there just as we left it.

Tramontana riding at anchor over St. Vincent Bar at max. telephoto. St. Vincent Island looms in the background.

     Feeling elated we all headed back to the beach, and the four of us rolled both boats up on the beach after considerable effort. I think we used the trunk of an old palm tree as a roller. The weather radio assured us the heavy stuff had not yet even begun, and neither Jody nor I had the stomach for more anchor watch drama. My wife’s friends called the house to warn her of bad weather on the way and I heard the message a day or so later on my cell. Tracey wanted us to come in and find a hotel room, but there was no leaving even if we wanted to. As before our camp site was tucked up against the first row of steep dunes and chatting over lunch someone noticed a ghost crab emerge from it’s burrow, almost an arms length from where we were sitting. It took a look at us, then quickly began sealing up the entrance of it’s tunnel with sand. Before the last bit of the tunnel was closed I swear it stuck it’s claw out one last time and gave us the middle finger but perhaps that’s my memory embellishing a bit.

My rendering of the storm on the beach. All the flying debris impressed upon us the need for a concerted beach clean up,  a great excuse future beach camping. The lines you see on the sand is railroad vine.
This is a living beach if there ever was one.

     The storm hit with a violent blast that filled the air with flying debris and tore out the grommets of Timothy’s rainfly. Ali’s simple technique of folding a tarp over his tent like a taco then turning the fold to the storm worked the best--simple and economical of effort. After the wind the rain set in for the remainder of the day and we spent the time enjoying the spectacle of a storm out on the end of a barrier Island. A big shrimper spent some time in the channel later in the day and we watched his fishing technique, noticing how the big boat swayed this way and that as the huge outriggers dropped out wide to spread the shrimp nets. Scores of gulls surrounded the boat at all times.

    Lightening struck the beach across the way over on St. Vincent Island and that was startling to say the least. That prompted discussions of lightening’s effect on sailboats, how much danger we were in, and why we were not dead already given all the metal tent poles surrounding us. I pondered this question for years. Specifically, if you’re camping out in the open on a beach, is it better to shove a long steel rod in the ground a few hundred feet away on top of a dune to attract lightening or would that be more dangerous? I finally got a really good answer to that specific question by listening to the Podcast “Stuff You Should Know.” If you have a little while it’s a fascinating analysis of what lightening is and what you’re actually seeing when lightening strikes, a topic still surrounded by lots of confusion. As Floridians it’s pertinent as we do live in the world’s lightening capital.

    The storm continued throughout the weekend and only abated after we completed the crossing back across the Bay in twenty-five mile an hour winds, a harrowing experience in a sailboat with only a foot or so of free board above the water. Upon our return we surveyed a sailboat which had been blown off it’s trailer while parked under the bridge across from the ramp. My wife saw on the news that several houses along the coast had suffered damage, which can be attributed to those initial first gusts. The sail back was worth a post of it’s own so I’ll touch on it next time I think, couched in a discussion of safety and maybe survivability.  I hope this is the last anchoring mishap I’ll ever have to report, I’ve replaced that particular anchor with a proper version, and to it I have attached an ample length of chain to keep the flukes down on the bottom. Folks have laughed at how heavy my anchor and chain is compared to the boat. That's okay.......
So for now let me say goodbye from the rail and clink my coffee cup to yours.

Salute.

I caught up with my lack of sleep during our rain in. What beats sitting under a tarp in the rain?

Standing over a fire with a puny umbrella in the rain.

   
    

Blowin' Sugar Sand

    Preparations are underway for our spring beach clean up/camp out on Little St. George Island. In years past the group of folks I go with--co workers of Native Nurseries, went to different venues around the big bend but of late we’ve focused our attention on barrier island camping.     Barrier Islands are special places. They have a character all their own, part low desert and part tropical hammock. It’s a harsh place for animals and plants to make a living, and their struggle for space and water gives the place that kind of severe beauty one will find in western parks and national monuments. Adding that the entire Island is constantly being moved around and stretched by shifting currents, storms and blowing sand the features you encounter reinforce a pervading sense of change. 
   
    Growing up in Miami it never occurred to me that our beaches were not so much sand as they were pulverized shell dredged up to keep the hotels from sliding into the Gulf Stream. On the gulf coast of North Florida its sand, and in particular sugar sand--the very fine grain that gets up and moves around in the wind and makes the squeak squeak squeak when you walk on it; that’s what locals take pride in. This material creates some amazing land features that truthfully I’ve not spent enough time appreciating. We’re all familiar with the successive ridges paralleling the beaches, but on the Big Bend dunes accumulate blowing sand building into huge promontories that offer some great views, as well as large dunes fields I would best describe as moguls. These are some strange features to get out in the middle of, and the battles waging between the plants and shifting sand are remarkable. “You gotta come see this” is often heard when we transect a dune field, probably something to do with a tree mostly drowning in sand or an oddly shaped plant that has self pruned to correspond to dune that’s no longer there.

   I can attest to the mobility of sugar sand. Jody and I camped out on West Pass, the very western point of St. George Island across from St. Vincent Island. It was a gusty night and our tent flapped endlessly. Jody fussed with whatever it was that the wind was picking at, but we couldn’t understand this shower of sand raining down in little puffs. Finally we decided it was the wind blasting the finest particles up the tent side, up under the rain fly, through the fine mesh mosquito net at the peak, to pepper our bags all night. Covering one’s head was the only solution. At least it was cold. The thing about camping in sand....you get tired of sand, although there are some protocols that one can follow to keep the tent and gear clear of it; mainly no shoes in the tent. To enter you sit just inside with your feet sticking out to put on and take off shoes, and keep a brush to sweep the entrance and whatever gear comes in. We discovered the perfect brush for the purpose purely by accident.

    So West Pass....it’s a wild and lovely place. As mentioned it cuts between St. Vincent and Little St. George Island and leads into the western section of Apalachicola Bay, re-known for it’s oyster fishery, which takes place principally on St. Vincent Bar just north of our camping spot on the point of Little St. George. West Pass has given me a couple of hard lessons on boatman ship, which I only seem to internalize experientially, as opposed to book learning. And even if I did have a vast mental library I don’t think I’d have a corresponding retrieval mechanism to quickly call up a piece of boating knowledge that might keep me out of trouble. I need experiences to dig a deep groove of situational know how, and as that groove is still being worn I’m happy to say my boat seems to be holding up pretty well.

Jody doing what he does best-working around a campfire.

   
    Apalachicola Bay is shallow principally, but between the islands where the tide comes in and out it cuts a deep channel. The chart shows 18’ deep off the point of our camp site at West Pass, which is where we anchor our boats. Out in the middle of the channel it goes much deeper. The exact spot we choose is influenced by where it seems most sensible to anchor, which is a tricky question as what looks like a calm safe spot may not be later when the conditions change. We opted for a spot towards the inside of the bay and off loaded our gear. Jody then stripped down to his shorts in a cold wind and demonstrated how one anchors off a beach. He spent considerable time rowing around and setting the anchor making sure he had enough line payed out to maintain proper scope, as a boat bobbing over a taunt anchor line will have the anchor out of the bottom in no time, yet Jody was careful not to let out so much line that the boat ended up on the beach if the wind changed. Performed perfectly the boat is the exact distance so when it swings around it’s just outside the breakers, yet hopefully not so far that you have to swim once you pull the boat over with the shore line. He spent a long time out there setting the boat to rights in preparation for the night, then jumped in with line in hand to be staked off with a long spike deep in the sand. Later as we watched it out there riding at anchor from our cozy camp site Jody mentioned the anchor watch. “It’s not the best night’s sleep. You should check the boat several times a night,” he said. “ You never know what it’s going to do.” After some thought he added  “It’s why nobody beach camps.” “What do they do?” I’m sure I asked, at least it sounds like something I would ask. “They camp on their boats.” was Jody’s natural reply.

True to the event, that's me out there trying to re-attach my rudder when I missed the lower gudgeon with the peg or 'pintil'. Meanwhile the boat was swirling around dangerously in gusty winds while the current was whisking her away. A terrible place to try and learn basic sailing. Jody snapped the photo I used for reference.

    So at this point I had only sailed the boat maybe three or four times, and never soloed. After five years of planning and construction and an addition couple months after her first launch I was dying to sail her needless to say. That morning the weather had not improved, it was drizzling and cold and the wind was variable and gusting. But sail I did, and as a first solo it was not an auspicious start. I was so green that I needed to have demonstrated to me the fact that tides and currents have a very important effect on a sailboat! That despite years of enjoying Patrick O’Brian stories where fleets of trading vessels are bottled up in harbors waiting for winds and tides to change, I was amazed to find I could not even hold my position relative to the campsite, and ended up walking her back up to the camp in the shallows. Writing that amazes me to this day but it’s true. I somehow became so entranced by the narrative of this sailboat design and focused on her construction, I hadn’t come to grips with what would happen when she interacted with the wind and currents-namely her function. No doubt someone who had a sailed a lick would never experience this dissonance. 
    
     As for the anchoring, I bungled it. The boat played around out there the whole rest of the day with no troubles, but the next morning we awoke to her listing on the beach awash with seawater and gallons of sand. An ugly sight. All the work Jody put into the anchoring on the front end I had to put in on the back times ten. It took forever to bail out the water and pitch the sand, not mention another anchoring episode, which at least was only temporary as we were leaving that day. It took lots of digging to free the rudder which should have been removed during the anchoring, something I never fail to do now. I was lucky it wasn’t damaged or torn off the stern altogether.

    At least Jody had some coffee on when I returned to our tent shivering and cold. (I actually got a cold from all exertion and exposure on this trip.) The weather cleared as we made our way North East towards the bridge at Apalachicola, and the wind clocked around to the North perfectly posted to make our passage back a long and arduous row. People who live on the water and on their boats watch the traffic come and go out of the city docks and a few came over to visit with us once we made the ramp. “We watched you guys out there forever, why don’t you come over to the dark side and getcha a little kicker?” One man asked. I did just that a month or so later when we made the trip again, this time with two boats and a larger crew. I borrowed a friend’s 4 hp outboard which sounds small but not on my boat. It brought the opposite comment from someone else at the same ramp. “You’ll be throwin’ up a rooster tail with that thing.” He growled. He was right. Two trips to West Pass in as many months was unusual, but we did it because we had some folks who missed the first trip, and things just lined up that way. Of course that led to a new and even harder lesson, but that’ll have to wait till the next post.

This campsite is nothing if not exposed. We set up against the dunes to create some measure of protection against the elements.

    But hold on there, I wanted to say something else.....
Florida’s not so much a sailing culture (although you see a sailboat in any sign or poster dealing with the ocean). It’s more a center console fishing boat culture, but there are a enthusiasts of small sailboats in Apalachicola. There’s even the Apalachicola Maritime Museum which features a 58’Herreshoff-designed ketch named Quark and various other craft. If you join with a family membership you can go out on day trips in the Quark. Apalachicola is a lovely little town and still supports a real fishing industry including a small fleet of active shrimp boats, some still made of wood. It’s small gem on the northern gulf and worth a visit if you’re in the area.

So that’s it. From the rail, I say thanks for stopping by and here’s to you!

Considering Aluminum Tape, and Shorebirds.

    It’s amazing how friends can inform your perspective on particular matters, especially when their insights and opinions come from their vocations. Driving around Ft. Lauderdale with my friend Kent some years ago my eyes were opened to the many commercial sites that contained contaminated soils in need of remediation. Kent worked for the State of Florida coordinating emergency responses to spills and their subsequent clean ups, and as we drove along he pointed to lot after lot of fenced in polluted properties. One had soil piled up under tarps, and another was a more serious toxic brownfield site awaiting federal aid for clean up. I remember it startled me a bit, and I remember Kent being very animated as he freaked me out, not unlike a small town resident discovering how many historic murder scenes their little seemingly innocent little berg had tallied up. As with all the other motorists whizzing by I would have had no clue if not for the kind of work Kent was in.

    That’s one example, but now come to think of it, neither of my other two are very uplifting. My friend Ali’s nonchalant accounts of keeping aircraft in the air with rolls of aluminum tape was enough to make you swallow, as was the question whether the guys who signed off on those maintenance work orders could actually read english. At least my old roommate Nick had a fun perspective. Nick worked for years on a building crew, and he enjoyed pointing out shoddy workmanship as we drove the winding streets of Tallahassee. Nick amazed me. His trained eye could catch construction crimes like crappy framing and poor sheathing not to mention wood rot from behind the wheel rolling along at 45 mph. I recall a large swanky apartment complex that had been finished a few seasons prior with tell tale signs of black mold and rotten wood in a superfluous cupola tower three stories up at least. I could’ve walked in and out of there a thousand times and never noticed it as I’m sure most of the occupants didn’t, however with Nick’s perspective I enjoyed a sense of smug superiority.

    Then there’s the insights that comes from the interests and passions of our friends. I never cared too much about cars, but I have a friend from Eastern Europe with such deep convictions and opinions on car and engine design that it’s impossible not to let his appreciations rub off on you. On our way to a camping trip we were driving behind Jody pulling his sturdy British made Drascombe Dabbler--a classic small North Sea sailboat. The idea of hanging an outboard off a sailboat stern like we do in America is an anathema to British sensibilities, so they create a well for the shaft of the motor to drop through. It looks a bit odd out of water but it is seaworthy. Laslo’s reaction was swift, visceral, and steeped in car culture. “$#@(*&^% British make engines that leak oil and their wiring sucks and they make boats with %$@%$# holes in them”.  That all came out in one torrid, heavily accented tirade.

     I tried to explain the boat had a water tight partition, but Laslo wasn’t having it. To Laslo, British made=Bad (maybe Mini Cooper excepted). German made=Good but over-rated? American made=Fine if you’re driving fast in a straight line. Italian made=what is there to say? A Ferrari is a Ferrari. Japanese made=excellent and he’s using an older Civic to win Auto-cross races. Laslo is confident his criteria is serviceable enough to cover nautical matters, and to be fair, the Japanese do make great outboards. But the point is I don’t, and can’t...see cars the same way after knowing this man. When a nice Audi or BMW slips by on I-10; where before I had no thought on it, I now smile and appreciate the design, and to some extent, maybe my friend Laslo as well. So, as a guest of this blog, I put in to be that guy to you, on a different subject of course.

                                                                  Shorebirds!

    No really. I’ll explain with an example. Maybe six, seven years ago,  I was watching two bored kids, one a toddler, in a inter-coastal waterway park in Ft. Lauderdale while Tracey was at a conference. Moral was low; bad night in a hotel as was the custom at the time. As we were milling about, our attention was drawn by a exquisitely lovely shore bird making it’s way towards us on the water’s edge. The bird had long orange legs and a sharp pointed bill. It’s coloring was a stunning pattern of black and white that looks absurdly like it was designed in a studio somewhere. It didn’t care about us, but worked it’s way up and down with it’s focus on the shallows. This bird, a Black Necked Stilt, was unfortunately named by a lazy person. Perhaps at the time these birds were everywhere, and deserved no particular notice. But this was now 2007, and I had never seen one before, and honestly, I can’t remember when I’ve seen one since.

     That’s the thing about shorebirds (I’m lumping in gulls, herons, terns, etc.). They’re wild beautiful creatures that may range over many thousands of miles, breeding and/or migrating from places we can barely fathom, and they pass through our landscape, and stroll right in front of us at the beach or near the dock at some waterside restaurant.  Depending on their adaptions to their environments and resources, they display a amazing array of shapes and colors, then just like that, they go on about their way, and we may not see them again for twenty years, if not ever! A experienced birder who spends a ton of time in the field may say, “Nah, a stilt’s pretty common”---to him maybe, but not to me, and not to someone who doesn’t get out as much as they’d like.

    And even if you do see a group or individual for a while, their patterns can change, and then you’ll be left saying to someone, “Remember when we used to see those lovely birds down by the docks?” Case in point, I grew up in Miami Springs, a small tree filled suburb near the international airport. Growing up we got excited if we saw anything besides a dove or a mockingbird or grackle. My friend Ali still lives there with his wife Azita, and a few years back he called and said “we have these amazing small finches with all these colors.” It turns out they were painted buntings! Now they frequent his feeders daily, and to Ali they’re as normal now as the neighbors, but their feeding patterns could change.

    So to wrap it up, as you move around; keep an eye out, because you never know what you’ll see, and even if it’s just the same flock of Ibis or gulls, keep your other eye out, because there’s a lot of inter-species hanging out, and often there’s something cool and different mixed in with them. That’s when it’s time to get out a bird guide, and when you open the book and start flipping through the pages, you get an sense how amazing and rich the varieties of birds there are. Some you see in the pages may be fairly infrequent visitors, or even fairly common, but it may be a special moment for you the first time you see it in the flesh. A special reward for paying attention. So there it is, my ‘shorebirds are cool’ pitch, all birds of course, and wildlife in general, as is seen in there area where you live. The things you see and become interested in can become part of your narrative, and that’s interesting as what you have there may not be what we have here, and incidentally you can see some amazing shorebird species even deep into the interior of the country.     

    I can’t say good bye from the weather rail every time, right now the boat is wrapped up under a tarp in the barn, and by the way, the ‘weather’ rail is the side of the boat from which the wind is blowing. When you see a bunch of guys hanging way out on the side of a sailboat, trying to keep it from capsizing, they’re on the weather rail. See, I brought it back to boats, and oops, it's time for another cup, so here’s to you!

On Naming Boats, Pisa, and Spraypaint

   

   I know two things about boat names. One, sailors don’t name their boats things like ‘Reel Magic’ or ‘Playin’ Hooky’ and the like. We use classic names like ‘Melissa’, or ‘Orion.’ Bird names will do, other animals, and even figures out of history or mythology are painted on a stern. Secondly, unlike powerboats the name goes on the stern. My rudder post cuts the name in half and still I wouldn’t put it on the side. The only sail boats that can flaunt that rule are double enders, as they have no stern; Catamarans and canoes being two examples.
   
   My sailboat is a 19’ flat bottomed plywood skiff named ‘Tramontana.’ That moniker is a bit above her station, her being of a workboat lineage. Tramontana is the name of a breeze in the Mediterranean. I pulled it from the Patrick O’Brian novel Master and Commander, and no matter what other alternatives I came up with I kept circling back around to Tramontana. I recently found the passage that must have caught my eye, but it didn’t reveal much. I think I simply liked the name, and ending in an A, it’s of the female gender and ripe for boat naming.  
  
   I bring this topic up as it relates to a couple close friends of mine in Charlotte, Jim and Paolo. Jim I look forward to sailing with some day. Paolo stated flatly that he’s never getting in my boat, and that was before I had some close shaves. Anyway Paolo is one of the people I was talking about in my intro (those friends who prefer to stay on dry land). He actually told me a story of watching his uncles’ small boat being destroyed by a storm and strewn along a beach in Italy where Paolo is from. Perhaps that left an impression. 
  
   Jim and Paolo always endured my talk of boat building with a benevolent patience, but when I shared the name I had in mind I threw Paolo for a loop. “Tramontana? That’s the name of my neighborhood in Pisa!” Paolo said with amazement. I was amused to hear that, but I didn’t realize the connection it had for him till he filled me in. In prepping for this post I recently asked Paolo a few questions, and he sat down and wrote the following. I include it because it’s a cool piece of culture and history which has nothing to do with sailboats.


   The word tramontana (Tra = Between or In-between, Montana = Mountainous ) has historically used to indicate a cold, northern wind that enters Tuscany from the gaps created by the Alps; hence the word "in between the mountains". It is a Mediterranean wind that was well known by sailors, and before them  even by the ancient Romans. In fact the term tramontana derives from the Latin "Intra Montes or Trans Montes, which translated into English would sound "in between the mountains, or beyond the mountains".

   The northern side of the Tuscan city of Pisa, which is literally split in two by the Arno river, is known as "Tramontana" because of its geographical location, which is north of the Arno river. The southern side of the city of Pisa, located south of the Arno river, is known as "Mezzogiorno", which translated into English would sound "Midday". Mezzogiorno or Midday is a term that has been historically used by Italians to refer to the direction "South".

   So the name of your sharpie - Tramontana - is densely meaningful: it is refers to the wind that propels her at times, it refers to the fast, razor sharp northern wind , and it refers to the northern side of the City of Pisa, to which I emotionally and physically belong. Also, it refers the party of "Tramontana", which is one of the two antithetical parties (Tramontana, and Mezzogiorno) of the historical game known as "Il Gioco Del Ponte" or "The Game of The Bridge", played in Pisa once a year since the 1100's.

   Since the Middle Ages, the two sides of the city of Pisa (Tramontana, and Mezzogiorno) would engage in a war-like game as a way to practice combat skills. Each of the two sides would try and conquer the other side. More recently the "fight" would culminate right on the "Ponte di Mezzo" (Bridge In the Middle), which was the central gateway over the Arno river. The fight would involve militia and special weapon called targone or mazza-scudo (mace-shield), which was a narrow wooden shield that could also be used as a mace to push, swing, and ricochet blows. Written documentation from 1407 describes this game, so that tells you how old the tradition is.
   Until the year 2008, the Game of the Bridge took place on the last Sunday of June, every year. From 2009, it takes place on the last Saturday of June, every year at 8:00PM. Each side of the City of Pisa is subdivided into 6 magistracies representing city districts for a total of 12.  Saint Mary, Saint Francis, Saint Michael, The Satyrs, and Calci under Tramontana. Saint Anthony, Saint Martin, Saint Marc, The Lions, The Dragons, and the Dolphins under Mezzogiorno.

   During WWII, the original Ponte di Mezzo (Bridge in the Middle) was bombed and destroyed. The game was interrupted until the new Ponte di Mezzo was built. A "tamed" version of the war-like fight was introduced. The physical fight of two armies over the Bridge in the Middle was replaced with a tug-war involving a monumental carriage that requires a total of 40 men (20 on each side). The 12 magistracies fight of over the bridge with a fierce tug-war, which can last a few minutes. The historical record is 22 minutes and 25 seconds in 1992 when San Michael and the Dolphins fought each other; St. Michael won that particularly fierce fight.

   Awesome no? These guys went at each other with cricket bats just for the pure fun of it! (The targone looks like a cricket bat). I’m sure there was lots of gambling as well. To put it in context one could compare it to the melee’ competition folks are familiar with in medieval jousting tournaments. The classic Ivanhoe comes to mind.  The modern version of the fight, the pushing of the carriage, is another one of those amazing European events like the Palio of Senia or the Running of the Bulls in Spain. I couldn’t find any good images of the spectacle but here’s a link if you want to see it.

http://gioco.amicidelgiocodelponte.it/pisa-battle-on-the-bridge.php

   The carriage slides on rails, and twenty men on each side endeavor to shove the thing to the other side and knock over a flag. It was fun to hear Paolo tell stories of the rival’s attempts to give themselves an edge as the competition has developed; people discreetly using bars as levers, and magnets on the rail to encumber the other side!

   Paolo sent home for a Tramontana flag and here you can see the targoni crossed behind a helmet. 

Blue, black and white I believe are the colors of Paolo’s neighborhood, and these colors fly in the parades that precede the competition. Kent Reetz and I flew this flag on a sail at Cape San Blas, but it was really too large for my mizzen mast and not being made of heavy canvas it would've been whipped to shreds. Paolo sent me a link with different flags of the Pisan neighborhoods, but I was unclear at the time just who went with what flag. Some of the images were very strange, and the true Tramontana crest, the helmet being central, seemed to not fit quite right with this area. I was attracted to the sun image particularly; sun=Florida, and the half cross indicates Pisa, which I thought looked good together. I settled on that.

    So, it should have seemed obvious I was picking as my pennant the flag of the opposing neighborhood- being a sun and all. Mezzogiorno=midday, but I was too far along when I learned this to stop, and Paolo was magnanimous about it, plus no one at the boat ramp in Wakulla county has pointed out the incongruity either, so now the lovely (at a distance) hand sew pennant flies on the leech of my mizzen sail.

Sewing the pennant was a learning experience, considering I chose possibly the hardest possible design to try to hand sew using really thin but stiff material (it was a mix of sun resistant stuff and an old tent rain fly). I brought it everywhere and poked away at it for a year. I now know why flags of the Civil War often looked so heinous. They used what materials they had at hand, and nobody in camp could sew. Plus the enemy was continuously shooting holes in them I suppose. I also had help with it from several people who took it for a time. Otherwise I’d probably still be poking at it.

   Spray paint....that is in my heading. But this has gone on long enough, so painting the name on the stern will have to wait for another post. That’s the boat building part of the blog I look forward to.

   As a postscript I want to share a few things about my friend from Italy. Paolo Batoni is an research engineer who attended the University of North Carolina. He currently develops Deep Ultraviolet (UV-C) technology, and has had a part in bringing to market the world’s first UV-C LED water disinfection system that can be used in labs and applications where mercury needs to be avoided. He is also continuing to develop hand held battery or solar power operated water disinfection systems utilizing UV-C LEDs that in the short term can be used in underdeveloped countries and scenarios where in line voltage is not available. 

    If you do a quick search of his name on Wikipedia, you’ll see not Paolo, but his direct descendant Pompeii Girolamoi Batoni, an 18th Century portrait painter whose work hangs in galleries around the world. Hannah and I found a Batoni at the National Gallery in DC, as well as a couple at the Met in New York. Paolo and Jim have also found them at the NC Museum of Art in Raleigh, and at the Getty Museum in L.A. Oh, Cleveland too! I happen to have found a photo I snapped, so enjoy!

                      .....and from the weather rail.....(I’m holding up my coffee cup) Here’s to you!