Dramanauts

Fettling: the Joys of Kerosene

2011-06-14T14:56:00.000-07:00

Patience is a virtue for any sailor, and thirteen has always been a lucky number for me, so it was no surprise that it took thirteen attempts to get my fabulous, vintage Hillerange kerosene stove working efficiently again. It was more than I had bargained for, but fettling is an art that I have come to appreciate if not fully enjoy, and the journey, though long, was interesting and had many a twist and turn! Here is my story:

Dervish, my Cal 2-29, came with a beautiful, vintage, pressurized kerosene range. I had never used a kerosene stove before, but figured I'd give it a try. All last summer I cooked on it, and grew to love it for its super-hot regulated flame. The key to a clean flame with kerosene, is to make sure the fuel is fully vaporized. As a liquid it burns yellow, less hot, and is very dirty; it can leave pots, pans and the cabin top sooty. Kerosene is smelly when in liquid form; the fumes can even make some folks sick. As a gas, it has only a hint of an odor, burns blue hot and leaves nary a trace of soot. I actually like the smell a bit. It takes me back to another time. I suspect I may have been a mariner in a previous life, but that is another story. Back to the stove...

Gradually over the year, one burner started to seep from the jet, first leaving the burner wet which caused smoking, and later, entirely filling the spirit cup each day. This was stinky and made my guests complain. Quite honestly it was a major pain in the butt to deal with; I had to pressurize and de-pressurize every time I used the stove, and had to sop up puddles daily. The entire cabin began to have an aroma of ode-to-musty-old-sailboat.

Everybody I know tried to talk me out of saving the old range, but I knew I had a good thing and dedicated myself to fixing it. The more I researched kerosene the more sense it made to me. It is clean, cheap, super hot (equal to propane) and has a very high flashpoint (higher than diesel and just below cooking oil) which makes it safe, unlike propane which can go "bahboom" on you. I vowed to bring my old stove back to her full glory. Little did I know that the adventure I was setting out on would take six months, cost nearly $300 and require the cooperation of people all over the world.

Locating parts for a pressure kerosene burner is very difficult. They don't manufacture them in the USA and there are no major distributors here either. Eventually, I located a company in the UK that sells spare parts, though no complete burners. Mike the Stove Guy at Base Camp was very helpful, and after a long telephone conversation I ordered a bunch of parts to rebuild my leaky burner, and some extra parts just in case. Sure, it ran me nearly $100 but that seemed cost effective when weighed against buying a new range and installing it.

The parts arrived and sat in the box for months. Over and over I looked at all the little bits and pieces until I convinced myself that I could never assemble such a thing. The leak got worse, and eventually I stopped using the stove. Plus I was landlocked after my injury and couldn't get to the boat all winter. When spring rolled around and I moved aboard, I decided I better just jump in and do it. Nobody was going to do it for me. I found a used book by Ferenc Maté, Shipshape: The Art of Sailboat Maintenance, which has a useful exploded diagram of the kerosene burner assembly.

(This is a great book, and you should click on the Amazon link right now and buy it! Especially, if you have a kero stove or heater.) Armed with the diagram, I dove into the project and discovered that some of the new parts were not quite right.

The old spindle is on the left and new on the right. Notice that the length is different. This caused the hole (at bottom) to not quite reach the knob that it mates to. It also has slightly different threads that make it incompatible with the old needle. I ended up cleaning and sanding the scores out of the old spindle. I installed a fresh graphite packing nut and after several attempts managed to seat it properly. Voila! She burned without leaking.

For a day! Then I noticed a flame under the burner where the gas tube attaches. I had caused a stress fracture from all the gripping during the several tries at seating the spindle and aligning the needle cogs. You can see the flame in the wrong place in the photo below.

At this point I did what anybody would do: I turned to the web. I found an awesome online forum, Classic Camp Stoves (or CCS) for kerosene enthusiasts and became the darling of the forum for a couple weeks. I sought to buy a plug for it, figuring that I simply wouldn't use that burner. I really only need two burners. I convinced myself of this. But it turns out the threading is insanely arcane at 37/64ths diameter and 34 threads per inch at a 55˚ pitch. Nobody had a plug for the thing. Nobody! So, being resourceful, I tried putting some JB Weld on the fracture, which stopped the leak--for awhile. On the third use it got too hot and crumbled off. With few options left, I located a shop in Tacoma where they cut the burner apart and silver soldered the bottom for me.

I now had a plug that would thread properly. I brought it home and put it in. Finally, I thought, I can cook again! Wrong. The old asbestos washer beneath the plug crumbled. Discouraged, but not defeated I sought professional help from the CCS Forum again. Several forum members coached me on what to do to stop the leak. This phase included driving around to auto repair places trying to get head gasket material custom punched to the proper diameter and thickness. A nice mechanic took pity on me and sent me home with a variety of different copper washers. I tried again and again. But still she leaked! More than ever, in fact!

I must admit, readers, that at this point I actually shed a few tears of frustration. I am not naturally inclined to fix things. I am, and always have been, more of a thinker than tinkerer. I whined a bit about my failures on the forum, and "Kerophile" took pity on me and sent me custom washers in two different thicknesses. These were hand fabricated in the northern most tip of Scotland and came in the mail about a month later! Kerophile is a dear old Scot who is available to help silly sailors like me with our stove troubles. I didn't know if the washers would solve my problem, but regardless of that, I needed the encouragement and the support he offered. It felt good just to have somebody say my stove was worth saving, and that under no circumstance should I switch to propane. Ah, the connections one can make on the interwebs!

Meanwhile, I was on a mad search for a completely new burner. There had to be one out there somewhere and by God, I was going to find it. I haven't been called a "Research Queen" for nothing, so find one, I did with a tip from another forum member. Southern Lamp and Supply sells Hipolyto burners which are made in Portugal and completely compatible with my original Patria burners (also made in Portugal). I tried to order three (you know, just in case!) but they could only get one for me. Evidently, even the Portuguese had run out! As far as I know Southern Lamp will be able to get more of these burners in the future, so if you are looking for one, give them a call.

I also got a hold of A and H Camp Stoves in California. It took several calls and emails to get a response; they are a small outfit, but they found one dusty old Patria burner on their back shelf. It was missing a few parts so they hadn't sold it. I bought it from them and waited for the mailman. I also spent an afternoon talking with various Amish men. Each thought another guy might have a burner somewhere. The Amish use kerosene almost exclusively and although very friendly, they are sometimes difficult to reach given that most do not use telephones. I had some delightful chats with various chaps, but nonetheless, the Amish whirlwind did not yield any regulated burners.

A couple of weeks later my first new burner arrived from Portugal via North Carolina. I didn't waste time, but immediately tried to install it along with a new washer/gasket. All went well, except that once I had it tightened down, it was not aligned with the control knob. Now, I know better than to over-tighten things, but it only needed about 1/8th of a turn. I held on with pliers and wrenched that baby hard! Something gave. Oh, shit! I bent the feed tube (if only I had used vice grips for a better hold!) and fractured it. I had the new burner, but the feed tube was now cracked and gushing kerosene. (It was later pointed out to me that I had forgotten to put the spirit cup on, evident in the photo below. Doh!)

Once again, I cried. I know most people get mad and swear at these moments, but I cry. Guess that is just my way.

But would I give up? Hell, no! When I set my mind to something, I do it. One way or another. So, I cleaned up the stinky mess and posted on the CSS forum again. This time, Dale, a sweet and helpful sailor up in Chimicum, offered to solder my feed tube for me if I brought the stove to him. I did. Shawn helped me wrestle it out of the boat and off we went up the Olympic Peninsula. It was a beautiful day and I felt enthusiastic. Finally, my stove would be working, and I could move beyond the raw food diet I had been forced to live on. I think it was around this time, I dubbed the stove, "Faith."

Dale was wonderful and spent four hours teaching me everything about kerosene burners and the finer details of maintenance. In the end, he soldered the tube up and after testing it with soapy water and an air compressor, sent us on our way.

When we got back to the boat, Shawn lifted Faith aboard for me and we fired her up. Guess what? Kerosene penetrates like nothing you have ever seen. So, yes, you guessed it. It leaked through the solder. Okay, this time I didn't cry, but rather uttered some choice expletives. But give up? Hell, no!

Three more days of calling radiator shops and refrigeration repair places. Nobody would touch it. Finally, I removed the copper tubing assembly and drove to the biggest machining, fabrication and welding outfit I could find, Mega Machine. I walked in there and told the receptionist that I was not leaving until I either had the thing repaired or the name of somebody who could do it. She called up Larry from the shop, who told me they didn't do that type of work there. I said I knew this, but surely there was an employee or somebody that someone knew who could do this work for me. I repeated my intention of staying right there in that office until I had a lead. I would not take "no" for an answer. Larry, scratched his head for a moment, then told me to look up Bert at Inlet Connections. I threatened to return if Bert couldn't do the job; I was not going to let Larry off the hook. He appeared annoyed, but secretly I think he was a little turned on by firm resolve.

I headed downtown to Inlet Connection to talk to Bert. I found him in his shop and explained my dilemma. He told me he had silver soldered custom artsy sprinkler heads with dragonfly wings and layered flower petals. He made custom fixtures for the State Capitol building. I knew right away, Bert was my guy. Soldering stoves was not something they do at the radiator repair shop, but he was willing to do it "on the side" for me when he could find the time. I left the burner assembly in his care and hoped he wouldn't take too long. The very next day he called me. It was done. All he needed was for me to pick up a fifth of Crown Royal Reserve. I did. And for that bottle of whiskey I got my fuel tube repaired. Now that is the way the deals should work!

Back on Dervish, Shawn and I installed the thing and managed to get the burner on, aligned and tightened just right with a combination of new washers from Scotland and the thin asbestos ones that came from Portugal. The trick is to use enough washer material to get the burner to tighten down AND line up with the knob assembly. To do this you have to experiment a bit with different combinations of washers. I fired it up , and oh baby baby, she burned. No leaks. But the next morning as I tried to boil water for coffee, something was still wrong. The flame puffed and fluttered and then went out with a huge plume of black smoke. What!?

Turns out I was out of kerosene, so the final chapter of this story involves researching the best fuel to burn in good old, Faith. In hardware stores you will pay up to $12/gallon for K1 grade kerosene. But did you know that jets use kerosene as fuel? They do. Airports have huge tanks of what they call Jet-A fuel which they sell for around $5/gallon. This is basically the same as K1 but a bit more refined. If you ask them for the sump fuel (the stuff they drain off regularly to check for contaminants) they will give you an even better discount. I got a gallon for $3 and was told I could get all I want at that price. And let me tell you, the stuff burns hot, clean, bright, and almost without any odor. I love love love it. I still haven't used the oven, but the burner in it works. I need to buy a thermometer and figure out a way to keep the temperature more or less stable. I'll be sure to post my experiences with baking in Faith as I gain them.

So, there you have it! My fabulous fettling ordeal and the grand success at the end of the story. In truth, my stove is still not 100%; I now have another burner that is a little seepy (probably from all the tweaking and stress of disassembling and reassembling). But I can fix it. I know I can! I have the parts, I have the knowledge, and I am developing the patience. Fettling isn't for the weak willed, but then, neither is sailing.

Feel free to contact me if you need encouragement with your old kerosene stove. I just might be able to help.

Engine Alignment and Spinal Recovery

2011-03-11T10:28:00.000-08:00

This week my dream, six years in the making, quietly emerged; I now call s/v Dervish my home. In truth, I will be spending most of March and April away as I work a temporary job to feed the cruising kitty. For now, this week, I am aboard and surrounded with all the stuff I couldn't bear to part with. I have been paring my life down with each move (6 moves in 8 years) and still I find incredible redundancy. I own so many objects in duplicate or even triplicate. I never realized this before. Look around, I bet you do too--unless you live on a boat, in a bus or on a bike.

The actual move was brutal due to a late February blizzard that left the docks iced over and treacherous. This, combined with steep low-tide ramps, made transporting my carloads of small boxes (small because I can't carry more than 25 lbs) nearly impossible. But tell me, what is the use of realizing a dream if you don't have some adversity to overcome? Just like a good movie plot, I had many obstacles between me and my aim.

My spine is still healing; I am now in the fifth month since the big crash. I am pretty much out of alignment from occiput to sacrum, however, each week is a little better than the last. I can feel my core muscle strength developing. Carefully shoveling snow with a small dustpan served as a meditation in conscious movement. I worked for over two hours clearing the deck and chipping the ice from the cockpit so the scuppers would be clear when it finally started to thaw. In addition to my boat work reconditioning regime, I continue physical therapy and weekly massages. I am determined to return to my pre-accident condition or better. I fully intend to sail my little ship north this summer.

Meantime, I plod along with the boat projects. Dervish was in desperate need of her own alignment; the 12hp Farymann A30 single cylinder diesel engine was as out of whack as my back. I always thought the motor seemed to jump around a lot and was terribly noisy, but since I had zero experience with one cylinder engines, I accepted it as normal. Wrong.

It was nearly a quarter inch off (no kidding), which was likely the cause of my dripping "dripless" shaft seal. That seal has been leaking since the day I launched Dervish. First time out I noticed water spraying from it and running into the bilge. It wasn't much, not enough to trigger the bilge pump's float switch, but enough to coat everything with sea water. I soon tracked down the shop that installed it in Coos Bay, Oregon and eventually got the technician on the phone who did the work. He remembered the boat and assured me it would improve with time, which it did. Evidently the interfaces need a little run time to mate up properly. It did improve after a few hours of use, but all last year, the seal continued to spray a little when motoring.

Shawn and I took a look the motor mounts, and he pointed out that they weren't easily adjustable with a simple turn of a nut like some are. I noticed the port side had a shim between the mount and the stringer that the starboard side did not have. My engine was actually laying on the starboard stringer as a result of the sheared bolt, and missing second mounting bolt. Correcting this would bring everything much closer to proper alignment. Shawn was able to jack up the motor and add the missing shim to the starboard side, replace the bolts, and align the engine coupler with the shaft coupler. Below is the starboard mount after the fix.

Like me, it isn't in perfect alignment, but it's much closer to the specified gap allowance. I haven't had a chance to take her out for a test yet to see if it solved the spraying shaft seal issue, but I do know that there is a significant reduction in vibration and noise. And I can rest assured that my little one-lunger isn't going to rattle completely loose!

While we were in there, we took the raw water and exhaust hoses off. I was amazed to see how much crud had encrusted the engine water intake. Unbelievable! The diameter of the pipe was probably reduced by about 25% due to the build-up. Shawn scraped it out with a screwdriver. Eww...

The water hose had chafed pretty badly in a couple places, so it was prudent to replace it. We looked everywhere for a decent one and ended up buying some West Marine hose which, although it had the same inner diameter, was much thinner walled than the original. Seems most things are poorer quality anymore. Shawn zip tied a little extra chafe protection on just to be on the safe side. (I like the safe side!) The picture is at a poor angle which makes the bend look much sharper than it really is. The new exhaust hose is also visible in the lower right.

As I type this from aboard Dervish, my neck grinds a little with each turn and my back has "adjusted" more than once already today. I may not yet be completely straightened out, but at least my motor aligns and my hoses are new! It will officially be spring in less than two weeks, (lovers awake!) the daystar burns through now and then, and I continue to meet interesting new friends who want to sail. The adventure is beginning, and this time around there is nobody but myself to hold me back. Watch out!

Photo by Michael Kleven

Charging Forward Old School!

2011-02-19T00:44:00.000-08:00

My Cal 2-29, Dervish, has been getting some major work this month. I've got several projects going on and could almost do a post everyday, if I weren't so darn busy tending to my life. I'm out of my apartment in a week, trying to line up some temporary work to fill the proverbial "cruising kitty," and even managing to find time for dating. I won't be going into that today though. Instead, I'll limit this post to recent work on my charging systems.

Dervish inherited quite a lot of hand-me-down gear from Nomadness and the Microship, for which I am very thankful. One of the more useful things was a TrueCharge Statpower battery charger. (It is now the Xantrex TrueCharge.) At a measly 10 amps, it is a bit on the small side, but since Dervish doesn't have refrigeration, or power hungry instruments, she uses very little power now, and will use even less once I swap out the failing, fluorescent cabin lights for a couple of low power LED dome lights.

The TrueCharge unit, though originally thought of as a temporary kluge, has been working sufficiently for a year. Why not stick with it? It is a three phase smart charger with dual leads for my two batteries. It is now mounted at the back of the starboard quarter berth where the old scorched Dytek charger once lived and died. In some ways this isn't the best location because I intend to use that berth for storage, which will make it tough to see the charge status lights, but again, convenience dictated. Better to get it done than put it off again waiting for the perfect solution. Moving it later is always an option. At least it's not simply clipped on as it had been for the past eleven months. I've already had one fire as a result of that! (Click here to read that adventure.) The switch next to it may not be necessary, but it was already wired in to the shore power. I figure if something were to go "haywire," I could manually shut off the charger. Then again, I could probably disconnect shore power more quickly.

Next we tackled the bigger issue: the engine charging system. Last summer one of my two batteries had bloated up a bit. We suspected it had over charged, so Steve disconnected the alternator before I put in two new group 27 deep cycle batteries. I didn't want to risk damaging them with over 16v or more surging in.

The alternator remained disconnected for all of my outings last summer. It wasn't too much of a problem really, as I was rarely on the hook, and miserly with power the few times I did anchor out. Still, I knew it was something that seriously needed attention. For Dervish, I try to only buy new gear if the old stuff can't be fixed, or if it becomes (or could become) a safety hazard. I like to stay old school when possible. In that spirit, we carried the alternator and voltage regulator to the local guru at Dan's Alternator and Starter Service.

Now, Dan is one of these guys that does what he knows how to do, and does it very well. One thing Dan knows, is alternators. He knew my Motorola 37 amp 12v marine alternator intimately. He is also a nice guy and honest; he isn't going to try to sell you something you don't need. Especially not if he can fix it. Dan clearly takes pride in keeping old parts functioning, which, in this day and age, is a rarity. Evidently few shops still rebuild components like these. Why should they? Can't you buy a new one for nearly the same price and get a warranty? Sure, you can always buy a new something, but rebuilding or refurbishing an old part to give it new life, is more satisfying. If guys like Dan can stay afloat in their business for a few more years, I think they will recover. If our economy continues downward, people will be forced to repair what they have. When goods become too expensive in a market where the dollar is no longer almighty, guys like Dan will be highly valued. But I digress...

Dan said he would test the alternator and open it up to see if a rebuild was in order or if it was irreparable. If I needed a new one, I thought I'd get something beefier than 37 amps, something newfangled with an internal voltage regulator.

In the shot above Dan is opening up a Delco alternator, not mine, (unfortunately, I didn't get down there with my camera in time) or even the same make, but he reminded me as he opened it that "basically, all these things work the same way."

Most alternators look something like this inside. Again, I was delighted to discover that it isn't really all that complicated. It is empowering to demystify some of this stuff. Strange that it took me so many years to discover that I actually enjoy learning how things work.

Alternators have stator coils fixed to the housing and rotor coils that are driven by the motor. The rotor produces a field current as the coils rotate. The strength of the field current determines the strength of the magnetic field. The magnetic field has, like all magnets, a north and a south pole. The rotor, driven by a pulley when the engine is running, supplies current to the coils via a set of brushes. As the rotor coils couple with the stator coils it produces A/C, which is passed through a few diodes that rectify it into D/C which can then nourish your batteries.

When Dan took my alternator apart, he found the brushes and coils were absolutely fine. The bearings, however, were toast. Below is a bearing exactly like the one from my Motorola. This one is pretty gunked up, but evidently mine was worse.

Fortunately, I hadn't run it until it had frozen up and completely destroyed the whole unit, so Dan was able to replace the bearings without having to do a total rebuild on it. He assured me it was a good little unit worthy of reuse.

When we returned a few days later to pick it up along with the new voltage regulator, Shawn and Dan marked the wires and terminals to insure proper installation of the new regulator. You really do not want to hook it up incorrectly, and it isn't all that obvious by looking at it, which wire goes where. Here it is all clean and reinstalled. The new voltage regulator is fastened to the inside of the engine compartment just a few inches to the right. It has been tested and works great! Plus I get "reuse" points, and I saved around $60!

Times are tough and the economy is poor; little shops like Dan's are becoming scarce. I encourage anybody in the South Sound area to take your business to Dan the alternator man. He'll fix you up. Old school. His shop is a metal mess of parts both new and used, but Dan knows exactly where everything is. You can easily miss his sign on Black Lake Blvd, and I told him as much. He said he was thinking of investing in a new one. He knows an aspiring, young artist whom he'd like to hire for her first paid job. If you visit him, be sure to tell him Sky sent you!

3614 A Black Lake Blvd. S.W., Tumwater, WA

(360) 352-4523

Pedestal Project

2011-02-13T15:16:00.000-08:00

As the long awaited and highly anticipated move aboard date approaches, I find myself excited and yet, a little panicked. Over the past week, I have had some recurring thoughts: Where will all my stuff go? I have no hanging locker. I have no refrigeration. My fuel tank is empty (and probably growing all sorts of biology). My charging systems are either jury rigged or completely disconnected. My vintage kerosene stove has a leak (I bought the rebuild parts from England eight months ago, but have I not fixed it yet). My wheel is so stiff that the rudder hardly moves, and like every boat I've known intimately, my plumbing could use "some work." I wouldn't even let myself think about wiring. My how quickly a perfectly sailable boat can become The Project Made of Many Projects.

But if you know me at all, you know that I am not easily daunted, and although I am still healing my injuries, I am ready for whatever the universe throws in my way. Nothing like a few hard knocks to wake me up and send me crashing straight through a stagnant phase. (I think Gurdjieff called these shocks.) I hold the same thought/feeling each night as I drift between the lucidity and dreamland. I envision good things working their way to me. Right now.

As it turns out some of these were much closer than I ever could have imagined! A friend I met awhile back had offered to help me with some boat projects. Shawn is a competent mechanic who understands the workings of marine systems, so I brought him aboard Dervish, to give her a looking over. He decided the steering pedestal would be a good project to start with because "you don't want that thing failing on you."

The first step was to open it up, so I could see how it worked. It really isn't such a complex thing. Here you can see the two cables, one for shifting and one for throttle. The big chain that couples with a brass sprocket (much like a bicycle) controls the movement of the rudder through cables and sheaves.

You can see that it was quite grimy. Shawn cleaned and lubed it up, but it remained stiff. We discussed the parts that could be the culprit and came to the conclusion that the bearings may be bad; I ordered a pedestal rebuild kit with needle bearings from Edson and waited.

When we returned two weeks later, the wheel was moving nicely due to the lubrication having worked its way in. I didn't need the kit after all! Shawn dismantled the rest of the pedestal parts and sent me home with some sanding and clean-up to do.

Unfortunately he also found what we thought was a broken bolt, but what turned out to be a broken off drill bit. Ultimately, the pedestal would get reassembled with only three of the four fasteners. Though he did install a stud to help hold the bottom half in place. I don't know how long it had been that way, but I am sure she'll hold up just fine.

Once the parts were sanded and cleaned up, Shawn put a few coats of Helmsman Spar Urethane and some fresh paint on, and we met at the boat for reassembly. Here he is drizzling a bit of motor oil onto the chain to lubricate it.

After dry fitting the pieces together, a bead of 4200 polyurethane was used to seal it.

Here is the final product. I just love how tidy and pretty the whole thing looks. Much better than it was, and most certainly better than I could have done. I am inspired to sew up a cover for it now.

I am honored to have so much generosity and expertise come my way. This week I plan to take her for a spin, fill her up with diesel and begin to prepare my little escape pod for full time living.

Next up? The charging systems. The stove. And art and adventures.

New Direction

2011-01-03T20:57:00.000-08:00

It has been been nine months since my last post, and my life has convulsed into an absolutely different shape. I haven't been able to write about it because, as they say, it was too close. I have decided to do a short recap here to clear the way for what will come.

The series of unfortunate events.
At the time of my last writing, my father's health was declining and shortly after that post, I made the decision to move to Olympia to be near him. I made the trip south from Oak Harbor to Olympia in three days with my sister aboard. She had never been on a sailboat, but picked it up quickly with my gentle instruction. We had a fantastic sail one day from Kingston to Gig Harbor on a 15 knot downwind run. I gained immeasurable confidence on the trip which went smoothly and without incident. Here is Gail at the helm just off Seattle.

Soon after arriving in Olympia, I found a studio to rent for Steve and I to use as an office and home away from the boats. Plans developed, and eventually Steve and I brought Nomadness to Olympia where she was hauled out at Swantown for a bottom job. Once the work was done we moved her to West Bay Marina to share an end-tie with Dervish. It wasn't long before Steve decided Olympia didn't work for him, and he resolved to move Nomadness north.

Meanwhile my father's health declined and my obligations to family increased accordingly. I became caregiver for my father while living alone in the studio. Then on October 1st, while Steve was sailing north on Nomadness to her new berth in Everett, I was rear-ended at high speed on I5 after having taken my father to Virgina Mason for a consultation. The accident was severe and traumatic. My car was totaled. As it turned out this accident would generate a shockwave through every aspect of my life.

By this time, it was clear that the universe was not cooperating with my plans. Nomadness's future no longer included me. I found myself facing months of recovery primarily alone and unable to move aboard. I thank the heavens for my loving and very devoted friends who have helped me through this by chopping wood, bringing food, making me laugh, and just being present with me through it all.

Long story short, my father passed away at the end of October from complications following the surgery for which we all had been waiting. There are no words rich enough to capture the heart's story after an event like losing a parent. Dad never boarded Dervish, but I am thankful for those last months with him. Although my personal life was in shambles, my spirit congealed around the understanding of what really matters in one's life: tender moments of compassion and lasting love. Here are my father and brother on Dad's last fishing trip.

I am still in recovery from my accident but doing better each week. My plans for the near future are to get strong enough to move aboard Dervish and reinvent my dream, while striving to keep my heart open. Everything is fuzzy, but focus will come, my core will strengthen, and soon the future will unfold and reveal unimaginable joys and adventures. Right?

Meanwhile, I am back to writing. I am currently working on commission to revise a play about the wife of the abolitionist John Brown. There will surely be a post on that as I flesh it out for a public reading.

And work progresses on Dervish as well. Current projects include rebuilding the steering pedestal and improving the electrical system; I'll post details of those projects as they come to completion. I might even find my way back to writing a blog about living on a sailboat in the Salish Sea, making art and love while discovering friends and other treasures along the way.

The Project List Is Devouring My Calendar!

2010-03-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

As a new boat owner, I am finding myself simultaneously smitten and overwhelmed. Steve is the Listking and has conveniently helped me to sort out all the things that must be done to Dervish before cruising season starts. He has posted a new list of my tasks along with his (much longer) list on the Live Page of his website. As things get finished we line them out and leave it for a few days so we can feel accomplished and show off to our friends how productive we are.

Before getting into the details of boat projects, I will assure you that I did get out sailing on an overnight trip to the homeland aka Camano Island. Steve crewed on the sail over which was predictably sweet, gentle and perfect. We grabbed a friend's buoy and had a glass of wine and some snacks aboard with Camano friends before going home for the night. The next day he drove back to Oak Harbor (where we moor) while my friend, Bonnie and I sailed Dervish. When we left Utsalady Bay it was warm and sunny with only a whisper of wind, but determined to sail back, I insisted we shut off the diesel. We drifted a bit trying to figure out how to capture the elusive and very squirrelly little puffs that came intermittently from the west, south or north. Then, as we rounded Rocky Point we found some wind. And boy did we! In less than five minutes it went from 3-4 knots to about 15! Yahoo! Dervish kicked up her heels and we were off! Before long we were facing whitecaps, a 20-25 knot southerly and 4 foot seas. A lot of fetch had built up in the mighty Saratoga Passage! When we hit 6.6 knots with the rail in the water, we discussed reefing, but decided to just hang on and sail a beam reach west across the passage. Once in the wind shadow we turned north for a downwind run to Oak Harbor. I can't even express how good this felt! I gained so much confidence both in myself as skipper and in my little boat. Even in those conditions, we were dry in the cockpit, and she held course without too much effort. Steve snapped this as we came into the marina after the epic crossing.

Once that trip was over it was time to get busy on the To Do list. One of the more frustrating projects is the repairing of my leaky Hillerange kerosene stove/oven. I really wish to keep this stove as it burns wonderfully hot, simmers well, doesn't have a risk of exploding and burning my boat to the waterline, and best of all, is already on the boat.

I considered replacing it with propane, but the cost of a new range, installation of an outside locker for fuel storage, venting (and all that goes with it), is more than I want to spend right now. Yet being able to cook is hugely important to me. I want to be able to make everything I love and bake goodies aboard. A one burner camping style cooking setup simply is not good enough for me. So, I have decided to roll up my sleeves and figure out how to repair the leaks. The problem is that the only place on earth I can find that sells replacement parts is in England, Base Camp Stoves. They have an old phone system and the message I get (at 8 am or past midnight-- time difference has its own challenges) states that their mailbox is full. I have tried three times now and no luck. I could order via email but need to talk to an expert to make sure I am ordering the right parts, especially since it will probably be a month before I get them anyway. Sigh. It could be awhile before that one gets crossed off. Meantime, I have to sop up leaked kerosene before starting the stove every time. This stinks!

Another issue I have run into that I thought would be easy, is putting the new name on. Turns out the old name is painted on and the hull is also painted. I can't sand off the lettering without sanding the entire transom and repainting. I have been collecting ideas on how to approach this, and purchased some nontoxic paint stripper to try. I do, however, have the new lettering and once the transom is bare, it will be trivial to put on the pretty new name in lovely copper-colored letters.

But I have managed to get a few projects completed. I have replaced the old Hawaiian floral curtains with some darker, heavier, ones.

Sewing curtains on Steve's mom's White in the cold, cold lab.

Insurance has been purchased and the Washington license numbers are now on. I am legal. I also acquired (thanks to a barter deal Steve did) an alcohol cabin heater, put nonskid patches on, put in a new fresh water pump (well, Steve did it really, but I could have) and purchased safety netting to keep Zubenelgenubi and crew aboard. I bought it from On Deck Sports because they had the best deal. It was just over half of what I would have paid for marine safety netting. It came with a convenient sewn rope border, UV protection and cut to size. I'll be installing it very soon and will try to put a picture up when it is done.

Speaking of pictures, the reason I don't have many photos this time, is because my camera died. If you (or anybody you know) has a digital camera with a decent zoom you'd like to sell, by all means contact me.

I am planning another trip to Olympia soon. My father has been having some health issues, and I'd like to be close for awhile. This will be a three day trip with two overnight stops. I need to refine my anchoring system a bit before leaving, but hope to get out in the next weather window. Until then I'll be taking on that To Do List with gusto!

My Escape Pod

2010-02-12T22:00:00.000-08:00

The night is black and wet and blue green on Saratoga Passage. Cool, still and damp. I pull from the half empty Sailor Jerry's Spiced Rum bottle and spread the sail cover across the deck. I am thankful that I made the trip without too many problems. Zuby watches curiously as I raise the bottle and nod toward the heavens. I didn't get the name off the hull. I didn't do the de-naming ceremony. I know I am pushing my superstitious luck, so I toss a splash of rum on the anchor and decide not to push it any further. We're hanging off an unknown mooring, and though the predictions say it will be calm, one never knows; methinks I've had enough grog for one night.

Zuby shadows me as I ramble back to the cockpit. I pause in the companionway struck by the contrast of colors and sensations. Outside it is huge and dark and very, very quiet. Below it is small and glows warm and woody. The red cushions that I couldn't decide if I liked are now inviting and womb-like. The oil lamp flickers and the kerosene stove hisses. My copper tea kettle steams. I could be anywhere. It could be any time. I go below and pour a thermos of Korean corn tea then fill my fleece-covered water bottle. What a simple comfort! A must for a chilly boat.

Back on the deck I listen to dogs barking in the distance as I gaze at the stars. I know so very little about the stars. I resolve to learn more and perhaps someday know how to navigate by them. I check the line tied off to the buoy before lying back to contemplate the vast emptiness. I sip my tea. The rum kicks in. I laugh at myself. What good fortune I have created. This definitely does not suck. In fact, it is better than I ever anticipated. Aesthetically it is intoxicating, and the sense of freedom humbles me.

As I sip my tea and snuggle with my pup, I wonder at it all. Images from the past three days--the first three days aboard Dervish - dance across my mind's eye. My Canon S2 camera died recently leaving me to rely mostly on memory. The few photos I have from the 120 mile delivery from Olympia to Oak Harbor trip were taken on Steve's camera. He traveled the whole way to Camano with me and served as Chief Engineer, Human Whiskerpole, Bartender, Helmsman and Lover. I couldn't have made the trip without him, nor would I have wanted to. But now, he is back at the homestead, and I am here aboard my very own boat, alone and very much alive. I am pregnant with the possibilities, the dangers, and the incredibly exciting and unpredictable future that I am stepping into.

Only three days ago I left Olympia. I was excited but nervous and somewhat tentative at the helm. That first day I made the short trip north to Boston Harbor with my partner, Steve Roberts and Cathy Starck Nemeth aboard as crew. It was a gorgeous south sound evening.

We arrived at Boston Harbor just before six pm. I really love the hometown culture and the wonderful characters who people that little marina. They even have a resident seal who escorts visitors down the docks. There are also eight or so local dogs that visit and roam the marina store at different times. They remind me of my little Corgi Lily who was well known at this marina. When Zuby was bitten by a local Golden, I had three different people offering their phone numbers and accepting responsibility for any damage. Luckily, Zuben was bruised but otherwise unharmed, but that is just the way people are around there. Wonderful and decent.

The dog fight did add to the general chaos of our arrival though. We had many logistical problems to work out including car transport, lost keys and mis-communications with our dinner hosts. After a lot of finagling - including being coached by a ten year old girl on the finer points of using a coat hanger to jimmy in through the window of my car - I managed to find my keys and deliver my very patient friend back to her boat at West Bay.

The rest of night, however, was delightful. We had a huge meal of fresh steelhead from the BH Marina store with our good friend Suzanne and her date, Al. Then we retreated to Dervish for a good night's sleep before the real journey began.

Next day we got off at about 10:30 with the goal of hitting the Tacoma Narrows at peak current and stopping at Gig Harbor for the night, both of which we eventually did, but not before we had just a wee bit of excitement. Motoring through Balch Passage we smelled some smoke in the cabin (oh god!) but it turned out to be exhaust. When Steve, acting as Chief Engineer, went to investigate he discovered water gushing into the engine compartment. A hose clamp had failed on the line feeding the engine raw water. He hollered up for me to cut the motor so he could replace it. I could still see water sputtering out the exhaust and looked around at our position just off the McNeil Island penitentiary docks. I put the motor in neutral. We started drifting toward the prison. I had to motor away. They might send out gun boats or something crazy. Steve did the miraculous and wrestled a new clamp on while we were underway. His hands shook like crazy, he burned his fingers, and he got a bit wet, but he did it. We were soon back on track.

We hit ten knots under the Narrows bridge and made Gig Harbor well before sunset. I called ahead and secured a slip at Arabella's Landing for the night. What a sweet little private marina! You can't beat the unlimited showering and friendly staff. After a walk through town for provisions, I made dinner aboard as Steve rigged a sweet little blue tarp boom tent (a dodger is high on the list of immediate projects!) and we settled in for the night.

And most importantly, we indulged in something I have longed to try for decades: Absinthe, the famed drink of artists and writers of Paris around the turn of the century. A drink shrouded in mystery and brimming with history. It was legalized in the US only a couple of years ago. This was my first experience with the strong sweet, anise-flavored, wormwood spirits. Let me simply confirm that "chasing the green fairy" as it is sometimes called, led to some luscious conversations and inventive lovemaking. I highly recommend it! Here I am pouring ice water over a sugar cube into a shot of the green elixir.

Next day we woke early without a trace of a hangover and went into town for breakfast before motoring up Colvos Passage. As we passed Blake Island, the wind blew light and southerly so we put up the sails and headed across the channel. Once we cleared the shipping lanes we turned dead downwind and ran wing and wing all the way to Shilshole Marina. Steve became the wondrous human whisker pole by holding the genny out with a boat hook. Honestly, it isn't as easy as he makes it look.

It felt like we were hardly moving but one look at the little dinghy, Hamster and it was clear from the wake that we were making good time. In fact, Dervish averaged about 3.5 knots and held her course quite well.

Zuby was getting used to boat travel by now and thoroughly enjoyed himself even when the wind was enough to make him squint as we raced along.

Shilshole was surprisingly quiet. We butt sniffed about (for the uninitiated, that means walking the docks checking out boats and peering around at their sterns for names) met some nice folks, and continued with the absinthe rituals. Uh-huh!

Next day we motored up past Gedney Island and along south Camano in what is known to the locals as The Mighty Saratoga Passage. The wind kicked up from the north as it often does there, and we did some close-hauled sailing for awhile. I was amazed to find that we could set Dervish on her course, straighten the rudder and just let her go. She didn't round up at all and actually gained a couple tenths of a knot without human interference. I am not sure what that says about me as a helmsman, but surely it proves I've got a sweet little sailing vessel.

When we finally gave up on beating our way into the wind, we powered up and chugged along to Indian Beach off a friend's house on the west side of Camano. We made three attempts to set anchor, but it just wouldn't grab. I think there is a lot of eel grass there, or perhaps I am simply incompetent. Either way, it was getting dark, I was exhausted, and Steve was eager to get home - now only half a mile inland. I didn't feel confident about heading on to Oak Harbor alone in the dark, so we grabbed a buoy and hoped for the best. We hauled ourselves into Hamster, rowed to shore and continued home with loads of stuff. I returned to Dervish a few hours later to spend the night alone. It turned out to be a magical night and a very important experience for me. The depth of feeling that came with the realization that I finally have my own boat, that I am the skipper, and that I am free to move about the planet made my heart swell and my imagination leap. I am about to embark on a journey both of spirit and in the flesh that will surely change me. It already has.

I made it through the night and single handed it over to Oak Harbor the next day without incident. Dervish is home now, and so am I. Once we get the homestead rented, the next phase of our journey will begin. Our flotilla is forming and the Dramanauts and Traveling Circuits are about to be born. My escape pod awaits me, bobbing happily at the dock.

Trial by Fire

2010-01-30T13:40:00.001-08:00

After a week away from Olympia and sweet Dervish while they fixed the crane truck, I returned last Thursday night and made a plan with Jim Benson to try to get the mast stepped Friday when the tide was right. The tides have been in the 17' range which is too high to get an adequate angle for the mast. We decided that around 1:30 pm Friday, the tide would be just right. I woke up early after my first night aboard alone. Took my pup out for his morning poo and returned to make myself a stout cup of coffee. I'm still learning how to use the Hillerange kerosene stove without undue smoking. The key seems to be to get the burner well heated prior to turning on the kerosene. If it is hot enough the kerosene becomes gaseous and burns cleanly and without smoking. If not, it burns as a liquid and smokes terribly. That morning I got it just right and managed to make my coffee without smoking myself out. I reached down under the starboard quarter berth, turned off the kerosene and sat down to savor my morning java.

But something smelled... weird. Hot. Toxic. Holy crap! I spotted some black smoke wafting up from the starboard bulkhead near the stove. I lifted the cushion and sparks flew. The battery charger wires were melting. Quickly, I unplugged the charger from the AC outlet. The wires ran from the charger down under the companion way steps to the batteries. Flames were flicking up through the finger hole in the step. I opened the hatch and huge cloud of smoke puffed out. I reached for the nearby extinguisher, but decided to try blowing it out first. And by golly, I blew the flame out. I disconnected the clamps on the battery terminals which sparked and flared up a little. I threw the whole mess out into the cockpit and opened every port and hatch. My heart was pounding. I nearly lost my boat to a fire. WTF?!

Steve had kluged the charger together until we could get a permanent one installed. There was a place where the wires were twisted and taped together and evidently when I lifted the cushions to get to kerosene tank, I caught the wires in it and then managed to smoosh it enough to cause a short. I inspected the batteries and all the other wiring. Nothing seemed to be damaged. I tested the battery. Phew! All was well. I drank my coffee out in the cockpit in the rain where I could at least breath. I wondered if it was a good day to try the mast stepping. Did I totally screw up by not doing the de-naming ceremony? Events like this turn me superstitious in a heartbeat.

After coffee and a meditation, I talked to Jim and everything was set for 1:30 pm. The truck had started fine that morning and the weather was dry and calm. I motored over at the assigned time and met my crew: Jim Benson, Jib Harlan, and Jack the crane guy. Everything looked good.

We hooked up the mast and slowly they hoisted her up while I scuttled about clearing lines and such.

The only problem we had was when the bow pulpit got caught over a chunk of wood on the piling (visible in bottom center in the picture below). As the tide ran out the boat lowered several inches and got hung up on it. We had to stop while everybody moved to the stern to raise the bow enough to get it off the wood.

Once the mast was up and steady, Jim had to work fast. All the wiring for my boat exit the bottom of the mast (rather than through a hole in it) which meant that it had to be balanced and kept within about 8" of the deck. Jib steadied the mast, and Jack adjusted the crane as needed until the wiring was done.

They lowered her onto the tabernacle and attached the baby stays. I motored back to my slip without incident. Then Jim worked on the rest of the standing rigging.

It took me several days to sort out the running rigging and furler assembly. I have an old Hood Seafurl 810 which is a continuous line furler. It must be one of the earliest models, and it wasn't easy to figure out how to assemble it. There were three little parts that didn't seem to fit anywhere. I had every guy on the dock advising me. I was buying beers in Tugboat Annie's (the Tavern/restaurant at West Bay Marina) and trying to get somebody to just come and rig it for me. Nobody did. But Jim Nemeth printed out an exploded view of the furler from the manufacturer's website which confirmed that two of the three spare parts did, in fact, belong to it. (The third mystery part still awaits its destiny.)

Eventually, I got Tony and Cathy to walk the docks with me until we located a Gulf 30 that had a similar furler which we could study and compare with mine. Aha! We figured it out and got all the parts in the right place!

It took another full day to rig my 10 kilo bruce anchor, and run the furling lines aft along the port stanchions. I'm not so fast at all this, but I did it, and now I understand how it all works. And that is very valuable.

January 27th I finally got her out of the marina and into Budd Inlet. Cathy, Jib, and Zubenelgenubi crewed with me. Here I am instructing Zuben to stay out from underfoot.

And here is Cathy at the helm as we motored out. (Cathy did all the photography for both the mast raising and the test sail! Thanks Cathy. My Canon is currently out of commission.)

We motored for about 30 minutes, pushing the little single cylinder Farymann diesel engine to its limit. She smoked a little until I backed off to about 75%. I forgot to turn on instruments, so I am not sure what our speed was, but judging from the wake and apparent wind, I'd say at least 5 knots under power. Maybe even six!

There was only a trace of wind, but I had to put up the sails. The main was a bit sticky going up, but the furler worked perfectly. Even in light wind little Dervish picked up some speed. I think Jib wanted the boat to heel a bit more, but alas we just didn't get going fast enough.

Zuby did his job splendidly: looked cute, stayed out of the way, and kept his vest on. I just love the heck out of this little boat dog. In fact, Zuby is largely the reason I got this boat. But that is another story!

After sailing about for an hour or so, we dropped the main, furled in the headsail and motored down to the public dock at Anthony's restaurant where I practiced docking.

I'm now back on Camano Island planning for the delivery to Oak Harbor Marina where a slip awaits. Before that trip, I'll be installing a new Shur-flo water pump and hooking up the sea water intake to the head. Then I'll get that old name off her stern, perform the necessary rituals, and make the appropriate sacrifices to Neptune. Stay tuned...

Dervish at Last!

2010-01-21T23:08:00.000-08:00

Finally, after months of twiddling my thumbs, real estate shopping, and contemplating the possibility that it could be years before we are able to move aboard Nomadness, a miracle, it seems, has transpired. As of last Thursday, I am now the proud owner of Dervish, a 1974 Cal 2-29 sailboat!

A couple of months ago, as I sat withering deep in the woods of Camano Island, lonely, unsure of my future, and dreading the long wet Northwest winter, Steve sauntered in from the lab one evening with a sly smile and claimed he had an idea that "is a little crazy, but just might be a rather elegant solution to our problems."

"Go on," I urged as he nervously fiddled with his pockets and rehashed all challenges we had been facing in our relationship. Then, almost reluctantly, he proposed we get a second boat. A smaller boat for me and Zuby dog to live on while he turns our blessed Amazon 44' into the Star Trek Enterprise. It took all of about a nanosecond for me blurt out, "Okay, that sounds great. Let's do it!" You see, I have been dreaming for years of a little boat to sail and live aboard. I pictured myself cruising the Salish Sea on a salty vessel of moderate size equipped with all the comforts of home. We talked it over rationally while my inner child was jumping up and down and squealing like a Christmas morning toygasm.

It seemed the only way I would get my thrills sailing, he would garner enough peace to focus and finish his highly complex boat systems, and we could stop the rapid outpouring of money trying to keep both a boat afloat and household in the woods, was to buy another boat. So the search began. I spent weeks diligently (obsessively perhaps) reading Craigslist and Yachtworld, studying different types of boats, and driving all over the Western Washington looking at various vessels. I found a couple that I liked, but alas they were either too small for my big guy to fit his 6'4" frame on, or too expensive. Long story short: a friend of a friend had a friend in Olympia who had a boat on a trailer that he had been talking about someday maybe selling. A few phone calls were made, and I drove to a Steamboat Island yard to take a look the following day. I fell in love. And the price was right.

I returned to Camano to tell Steve that I thought maybe I had found "the one." We began our usual internet research of Cal 29's and after googling the boat name, Chailena, Steve found out that she had once been owned by Tim Clauson. Tim had made many posts to Cruiser's Forum about the renovation of his Cal 2-29. He and Steve had even made several exchanges in the forums there. I emailed Tim, and sure enough it was his boat. He had traded her to the current owner in Olympia as partial payment on a larger vessel. Now we had a first-hand account complete with pictures of all the wonderful work he had done on the little vessel. (You can see pictures on Tim's blog, Seven C's Sailing Web log beneath the most recent post on his current boat, an Ingrid 38' cutter which is up for sale.)

Armed with so much information and history of the little boat, Steve and I drove down to Olympia two days later and decided to buy her on the spot without a survey. It took us a couple of days to get our all ducks in a row, and we went back to pick her up last Thursday. This is where it gets a little... uh... exciting.

It was pouring rain, and due to industriousness of the moles in the yard where she was lying, the trailer had begun to sink a bit into the mud. Now Steve's truck is a big Ram truck, but it isn't four wheel drive, and though it was spinning and straining the trailer didn't move. The owners, Jon and Vickie, got down and pushed and dug and grunted to get that trailer moving. Vickie even got a matching bathroom rug and toilet seat cover set (picked up earlier that day from Goodwill and currently being used as a bed for her dog) out of their car, and with great heroism threw them under the truck's tires for traction... but even that didn't work. I did give their dog, Scuppers, a pack of Zuby Snax for the sacrificing his cozy rugbed.

Well, now it was time for the neighbor and owner of the yard to get involved. A tall, thin drink of water in cowboy hat, he was quick to introduce himself. Darryl Duer is his name, and this fella was bound and determined to help us get that boat out of his yard. Moles or no moles, she was going. After rhapsodizing sparkly-eyed with me about his first sailboat, which he also bought in the middle of a blustery January decades ago and sailed all winter long, Darryl decided what we needed was his 1952 Case tractor. Within minutes he returned on the tractor and hooked up a tow chain to the truck which was hitched to the trailer which held my new boat. Round the yard they went, and we were on our way.

The ten-mile trip to Swantown Boatworks went smoothly. Though the trailer looked rough and rusty, it is actually quite strong, with good brakes and new tires. We parked it on the X in front of the lift and left her there, ready to go Friday morning. The lift and splash went on time and without incident. Thankfully, my rigger and diesel guy, Jim Benson, had the sense to remove the tape from the speed sensor at the top of the keel. Here she is, going into the water:

My good friend Jim (Jib) Harlan and fellow marina employee, Dan, arrived on time with a work boat to tow us over to a slip at West Bay. I was nervous, and it was raining like the devil, but actually it was quite fun. I asked Jib to ride with me while Dan towed us.

The winds were kicking up so we docked her on the outside.

Steve and I spent the night dining with Jib and his girl, Robin, and later drinking liqueurs aboard s/v Ethereal where we slept. Cathy and Jim Nemeth were wonderful hosts and even cooked us breakfast the next morning. Then we got to work trying to get the little Farymann diesel engine running. After a few tries and some priming, she turned over. Yay. Wait... oh shit... no water out the exhaust! The black button wouldn't shut the engine down. Steve suddenly became very nimble flitting around trying to turn the engine off. After a long 90 seconds or so we discovered the throttle could be pulled way back to shut off the fuel supply. The engine stopped and we sighed a big collective sigh. No damage done.

Benson arrived minutes later and gave me a bit of a scolding for not waiting for him. Steve poked around and figured out that the raw water intake was plugged... in fact, all the thru-hulls were plugged. Once again Jib came and towed us to our new slip next to Benson's boat on the southside, where we hoped to deal with the problem with more tools available.

We discussed hiring a diver to try to open them, but Jim Nemeth had a better idea. He brought us his air compressor, and lo and behold, we blew out the crap and cleared all four thru-hulls. Next Benson installed a gorgeous new Racor fuel filter complete with pressure gauge and shut off valve. We changed her oil and fired her up. How sweet it was to hear that little motor putt putt putt! I really like my little Farymann, which even has manual starting crank in case the batteries fail. They sure made them to last back in the day. Here she is before the new Racor (which replaced the aging filter at the bottom right of the photo). We also pulled out the big white vent that was left over from a previous gasoline engine.

That night, Steve and I slept aboard little Dervish. It was sweet and cozy until a Southerly gale blew in and started us rocking and rolling at the dock. We were now on the front line of a 30-knot blow, with gusts in the 50's. We added a fender and adjusted the mooring lines. I heard voices at 2 am and got up to see what the commotion was. By the time I was dressed and on the dock, everybody was gone. I added another mooring line (feeling rather salty as I secured it to the bucking bow) and went back to my bunk. Next morning I learned that one boat had broken its lines and a neighbor down the dock had fallen in and was, thankfully, rescued by the Bensons!

But it was a gorgeous day. Sunny and calm. So right on schedule we fired her up and I piloted her over to a slip where the crane awaited. I had a squad of pals on the dock to watch the mast raising. Everybody was cheerful and excited. We waited for the crane operator. And waited. He finally arrived only to discover that the damn old thing wouldn't start. They tried jumping it from Steve's truck and charging the battery, both to no avail. The tide was running out fast, and we were in danger of hitting bottom. Disappointed, I putt-putted back to my slip.

We couldn't wait around while they repaired the truck, so Steve and I returned to Camano to take care of critters and business. In a way it was fortunate as the interim days allowed me to wash the sails, soak my lines, and test my dinghy.

I'm heading back to Oly today with the intention of stepping the mast tomorrow. If need be, I'll bite the bullet and pay the extra $100 to have it done back at Swantown.

I'll spend the weekend testing systems, provisioning and maybe even getting my head working. Soon Steve will join me, and we will begin the three or four day delivery to Oak Harbor. I can't wait. I am about as happy as a gal could be with my Dervish of the Salish Sea. Perhaps my blog can return to the purpose for which it was created: to chronicle the journey from a land based life to a life on the water.

And be sure to read Steve's version of the story. I guarantee you'll get a kick out of it!

Whiplash LeRoue - A Man of Conviction

2009-08-27T15:30:00.000-07:00

My grandfather, Lloyd Joseph LeRoue was born April 17, 1914 in White Swan, Washington. He was the youngest of twelve children. Lloyd was a handsome charmer from the beginning and remained one to the end. In fact, all the LeRoues were colorful and well known in the Yakima Valley. Lloyd married Audrey Braniff, and had three daughters, Darlene aka Doc, my mother Audrey aka Weedy, and Dolly.

In the 1942 Lloyd became a Jehovah's Witness, and remained devout, never wavering, his entire life. His faith led him to be a man of peace, declaring his truth and denouncing the evils of war. There is a picture of my mother, no more than six years old, with her sisters, on the streets of Seattle carrying placards for peace, and handing out Watchtower Magazines. Here they are in a family portrait from a few years later.

Weedy, Doc and Dolly with Lloyd and Audrey LeRoue. (click to enlarge)

Though he worked at times at a sugar beet factory, as a farmer, and ran a hotel for years, LLoyd was enterprising in some unconventional ways. He panned for gold (though I doubt he found much) and was an inventor with a few patents. One was for a hollow telescoping fishing pole with the line running through the center. The pole was an inspiration designed to keep his grand-kids from tangling their darn lines up all the time. He took us girls fishing fairly often, and I dare say he spent more time untangling lines than landing fish. Lloyd always had plenty of ideas and tinkered with many inventions. He also enjoyed hunting for stones and polishing them in a tumbler. And he loved gardening and growing his own food. He had a green thumb and weakness for raw garlic. I remember the twinkle in his eye and that gorgeous smile of his when, a few years ago, he responded to my question as to what kept him so healthy all those years. He claimed it was a combination of raw garlic and his love of god. "Really, my girl, that's all there is to it," he said winking.

He loved spreading the "good news" and traveled to many Jehovah's Witness conventions. He always did a lot of driving and came to be known as "Whiplash LeRoue" among his brothers in the Witness Work, because he was a notoriously bad driver. He'd slam those breaks at the sight of somebody in their yard, then throw it reverse. Traffic be damned if there was a soul to be saved!

I remember riding with him in his big dirty dump truck... me in the middle and my two little cousins, Penny and Thea, on either side. All three of us squeezed into one seat-belt, flying forward at every stop and giggling our heads off. All the grand-kids adored GrampaRoo. He made crépes every single morning and was always in the mood to get something done. And since he never worked for anybody but himself, he could always use the help and company of his grand-kids. He was fun to be with and a great teacher.

Lloyd was not a highly educated man, but that never stopped him from taking on any project. He taught himself anything he wanted to do, by simply doing it himself. After his kids were grown, he built a beautiful house on a hill above the Yakima Valley where he lived until my grandmother, Audrey, passed away. I think the pain of living without Grandma in the home they dreamed about together, was just too much for him. Later he married Olive LeRoue and became a devoted father to her children and grandchildren. And he was a great resource and respected member of his community. Lloyd was always willing help a brother or sister with any project, sharing his knowledge and experience.

Lloyd LeRoue passed away on August on 13, 2009 at the age of 95. He outlived two of his daughters and all of his siblings. He was strong until the very end. Lloyd's loving wife, Olive cared for him at their home in Yakima until the last week or two when he was admitted into a nursing home.

To be honest, I think we all had our difficulties with Whiplash LeRoue at one time or another; he was hard-headed and willing to argue endlessly for our soul's salvation. It seemed a nuisance to always have to hear him preach to us. But ultimately, and deep down, I think we all respected and admired him. I know I did. A man of his convictions who actually lives by them, a man who walks his talk, is a rare man indeed.

There are plenty of stories about Lloyd "Whiplash" LeRoue and if anybody wants to add one, please do in the comments.

Life of Abundance

2009-07-21T10:35:00.001-07:00

High summer! Heat and sun. Warm starry nights. The time of abundance. A time of freshly harvested salads with flowers and dungeness crab chased down with a cold cold slug of amber beer. A time for sailing dinghies and paddling kayaks. It is high summer and whatever one could wish a summer to be, this is the summer we have! I passed the US Sailing Association small boat sailing course with Camano Sail. Woohootie hoo! I learned much and proved once again that every time I am on the water, there are learning opportunities to be advantaged.

(Self portrait while constructing the raised beds.)

I have been out on the water frolicking quite a lot in sun and wind this past month; I'm fast becoming a darker shade of white girl. And we've had a few close brushes with disaster too. On the water, a fun outing can quickly become problematic if the winds turn on you, or kick up above 25 knots. I'll address this a bit further down.

With the garden in full force, outdoor grilling, a recent buddy boat trip with our pals George and Celeste on Nereid, a rambunctious young pup at my side, it seems life is good again. All this has me thinking about abundance and scarcity. How do these concepts shape my experience and perception of reality? One thing I sometimes feel is a scarcity of time. I seem too often to be hurrying around in an attempt to "git 'er done," making preparations for the next outing, or cleaning up after the last one. But there is enough time to do everything if I just slow down and do it. The slower I go the more time I seem to have. What irony!

Take the twinkling of an iridium satellite flare that Steve pointed out one clear night. It required attention and patience to catch the shining little sky act. I was busy doing chores below when Steve interrupted and called me up on the deck for a show. He directed me to gaze, "about 50 degrees up and to the north... now watch... any minute now... keep watching... right there... any second..." I was about to lose interest when it happened, a star-like light appeared, brightened, traveled for a few seconds across the night and disappeared again to continue its orbit around the earth. It is amazing that we can know just where and when to catch the glint of sun off the solar panels of an orbiting satellite. It may be science and math that allow these satellites to be launched and to calculate their paths, but it is pure magic to see one appear in the night from the bow of a sailboat! Logic and romance touch for a moment in the still of night. In my rush, I barely savored the experience, but in retrospect I appreciate just how special that was. There is always time for moments like these. Take them when you can. There is an abundance of time... and infinity of it... eternity is the flip-side of linear time, and here is a tip from the mystics: it can be found deep within now.

(Image from http://www.satobs.org/iridium.html)

Abundance is only a state of mind, a certain framing of reality that colors our experience. She leaves contentment, generosity and camaraderie in her wake. Abundance is everywhere we bother to look. There is truly no reason any human should go hungry on this earth. When I see what 100 square feet of garden can grow, I know that this earth can provide an abundance for us all!

Around election time I posted an entry on Victory Gardens, and this spring I put my muscles into building one. Specifically, we spent $200 constructing and filling two 50 sq. ft. raised beds with organic soil, compost and seed. We put up deer fencing, and planted a few starts. I don't think we have gotten our $200 back in produce yet, but there are more greens than we can eat and most of the cost will be spread out over the next few years. We have three varieties of lettuce, spinach, radish, beet, cucumber, beans, peas, tomatoes, dill, fennel, bok choi, cabbage, celery (yep!) carrots, garlic, Italian parsley, basil, peppers, rhubarb, zucchini, and yellow squash. Later we'll have winter spaghetti squash and brussels sprouts.

(My garden in June)

Scarcity, the ugly stepchild of Abundance, begets deceit, mistrust, desperation and hoarding. The scarcity mentality is what makes us afraid to share, and afraid that others will take what we have. Scarcity mentality says there is not enough for all so get what you can, any way you can, and guard it from those without. Of course, we can all think of times when food or other necessities were in demand and scarce; it seemed there was not enough to go round. But if we were to zoom out a little and see a larger picture, there is always enough if only the "haves" will share with the "have nots." We can't give to everybody in need, but we can give to somebody in need--even if only a little. Like manic squirrels we stash away money and food, worrying that we will go hungry in the winter of our life, but disaster can strike at any point along the path and on any scale. Our reserves can be destroyed (from stock market plunges to power outages that cause freezers to fail) and leave us with little to nothing.

It is just my humble opinion, but I do not trust that money will continue to hold its value, while friendship and good will can span even generations. A lot of friends will serve one better than a savings account. As some body's grandma used to say, "You can't eat money, honey." Understanding abundance means trusting that there is an ebb and flow to resources and trying to freeze the process doesn't help in the big picture, in the long run, in truth. Letting go keeps resources flowing. When we get rid of what we don't need we make room for what we do.

(I recycled this painting to decorate my garden gate.)

Then there is Excess, the Dionysian cousin to Abundance, so arrogant and belligerent, who can be dangerous and harmful. We had a taste of this last Saturday when we were leaving our anchorage off the west side of Camano Island for the weekend and were surprised by an excess of wind. We planned a little over-nighter to Hope Island with our friends Suzanne and Bonnie aboard. Our trouble started with our efforts to get everybody, four people and two doggies, and all the gear dinghied out to Nomadness in the 15+ knots. I did the rowing for the three trips in ever increasing whitecaps and wind. Steve got knocked down by a cresting wave while trying to get in the dinghy--Bonnie got her foot caught doing the same and we nearly crashed into the bulkhead! Once we were all safely aboard, I slipped out of my soaking clothes and into a dry miniskirt and tank top. Finally the ordeal was over and we could take a breath before weighing anchor and sailing away. Wrong! Steve noticed the mooring buoys seemed to be getting nearer. Isn't the tide ebbing? Holy moly we might be dragging anchor toward the lee shore! I rushed to topsides so we could weigh anchor and get underway immediately. There would be time to collect myself and finish dressing once away from the shore.

Wrong again! The wind quickly built to a steady 25 knots with upward gusts. Waves were crashing over bow and stern. Steve got about half of the 120' of chain up when the windlass brake failed and all 300' of chain paid out in noisy rush! Now we were in a serious situation. We were on a lee shore surrounded by small boats and buoys on a falling tide in less than 30' of water with winds increasing! The anchor chain was knotted and jammed in the locker so we couldn't even cut ourselves free if we wanted to. For the next half an hour or more we danced a delicate and scary waltz as we managed to get the anchor hauled in without getting tangled in the mooring field, stepping on any other boats, or going aground. I handled the helm while Steve wrestled the chain back in with the help of a bridle he cleated on deck to keep more chain from slipping out! Little by little he got it in. I should have known something would turn bad when Suzanne was nonchalantly whistling the theme to Gilligan's Island on the way to the boat. "A three hour tour. A three hour tour..."

(Last fall in Saratoga Passage. We had hoped for another day like this.)

We powered across Saratoga Passage toward Whidbey to get in the wind shadow and calmer waters to discuss our plans. The prediction was for south winds to 20, but we had west winds gusting over 30 knots which ruled out anchoring at Hope Island which lies just east of Deception Pass. After weighing all our options we ended up going into Oak Harbor with which we were familiar. We would be docking in 25+ gusts, but we had no other choice. With the windlass brake failing, anchoring anywhere was out of the question. Steve radioed the marina and was advised to avoid the harbor which was white-capped and busy. We revisited the alternatives and decided OH was our only option. He called the marina repeatedly for help on the dock but nobody answered. Apparently everybody was busy, but Steve insisted we had to go for it. Docking proved to be a tougher than usual ordeal. Steve managed to stay calm and pulled it off with some help from a favorable headwind and five magically appearing dock angels to muscle the 18 tonnes to a rest.

What a day! What an education. I think we both gained some valuable confidence and trust in each other too. If you had asked me beforehand I never would have believed that I had the skills to pull that anchor dance off. I would have said I lacked experience. I would have had a scarcity mentality in regards to my abilities. But we did pull it off, we had enough knowledge and cool between us to do the right thing and avoid disaster. Steve proved to be a competent and calm skipper, and I did my job as crew (with nary a thought to my bare bottom flashing the houses on shore as my miniskirt flapped in the wind--whoopsy. I wish I had picture of that to post-hee hee!). So we drank wine and ate a delicious meal of corn on the cob, salad from my garden and crabcakes courtesy of Bonnie and her neighbor's gift of eight fresh crab. Summer abundance. We ended up sharing the crab and greens with a trio of brothers on neighboring, Mirador, our dock angels. Perfect.

It looks like one way or another Steve and I are gaining the rapport that we will need to respond to the various situations nature throws at us out there. I wished for opportunities to learn lessons on the water, and I am getting them. Oh boy. Nomadness may still be only a couple miles from the homestead, but we are steadily on our way. Besides, what's the hurry? We have an abundance of time, a garden full of vegetables to enjoy, and starry nights punctuated with glistening satellites to marvel at as they tumble through our little slice of heaven.

Now for those of you who would like to read a grittier, longer and much more detailed account of the lee shore emergency, please see Steve's exhilarating post!
Cheers!

Time on Water

2009-06-04T12:13:00.000-07:00

With all the long and ever more complex lists of things to do on Nomadness, around the homestead (an upcoming blog on the garden project is in the works), for Camano Sail, and trying to keep an eye on the precision chewer/speed digger Zuben, I find myself overwhelmed. I stand around staring blankly at the dishes, the yard, the boat, the lab, and into my sweetie's eyes asking, "uh... what are we going to do today?" Thankfully, we have friends who are more sensible and invite us out for fun on the water on these long warm days of late spring.

Last month, we tried to get Nomadness from Oak Harbor over to Camano for a potluck with friends and to share the water with Adventuress but alas we didn't make it due to extensive biological growth on the hull. We did get it cleaned off by some spry young divers, and made a little venture around Saratoga Passage the following day.

And we have gone out kayaking off the west side of Camano in the past couple of weeks too. Steve and Bonnie were in the pedal powered Hobie kayaks, so they left me in their wake quite rapidly. But I enjoyed paddling around slowly, carefully, taking in the sights and sounds of gulls and gently breaking waves on the beach. It was a gorgeous day to expose Zuby to the kayak. He even got to swim for the first time. He isn't crazy about it yet, but I'm not giving up on making him a water dog! He sure looks cute in his PFD (which he is rapidly outgrowing)!

Awww....this and the previous photo by Steven Roberts.

I also spent a day with Lawrence and Bonnie moving She Oughter from the west to the east side of Camano Island. Lawrence had a three day charter by a company testing some new submersible robots. He needed to set a buoy so he would not have to relaunch each day. We spent the entire day getting the cars set for transport logistics, launching at the busy Camano Island State Park, setting two danforth anchors with the right orientation and depth in the uneven bottom of Port Susan, and hanging the buoy off them. It was quite an elaborate process, but it turned out to be a wonderful day on the water. And as is usual with working for Camano Sail, I learned a lot.

I am not a big fan of motor boats, but I had blast zipping around in this thing. Zuby didn't like the sound of motor when revved up to high RPMs and whined. Bonnie suggested that supersonic sounds might be hurting his ears, so we slowed down a bit and everybody was happy. This boat can be beached, and with the cool landing craft bow, you can step ashore like a princess and never wet your feet! Gotta love that! As far a motor boats go, this little boat is really quite cool. Made by Ottercraft of Kingston, Washington, it is rugged and functional. They are sturdy workboats used by the coast guard, tribal police, shell fish companies and more.

Captain Baum on She Oughter.

The main thing for me right now is to just get out on the water more. It is too easy to get sidetracked with all the "projects" and let the sunny days pass without getting a taste of why we're doing all this work in the first place!

Speed Diggin'

2009-05-18T15:50:00.000-07:00

Zuby loves to dig, and I love the Brian Setzer Orchestra!

Wicked Winch of the West

2009-04-12T08:32:00.000-07:00

Spring has sprung and things are moving faster now. The days are warmer, longer, and filled with more activity than we've seen in these parts for the past few months. Of course having a rambunctious pup around brings a lot of life to the Camano Homestead ("noise" is what Steve calls it) but on top of that we've been on a serious property search. Having exhausted the possibilities in the South Sound (or at least what is available on the real estate market at this time), we are turning our sites to the Port Townsend area. We recently took a trip to Port Hadlock to check out the marina, and dare I say, we both fell in love. The community is sweet, welcoming, dog loving, boat-centric and wonderfully down-home feeling. The area is rural without being redneck, and the proximity to Port Townsend, which is full of travelers, artists, eccentrics, and world-class boat builders, makes it a perfect area for our relocation. Now we just have to sell the Camano Homestead and find a place to land.

Meanwhile, I have taken a part time job with Camano Sail and Power where I am job sharing with my good friend Bonnie for Captain Lawrence Baum.

That's me in the Geek Cruises Sweatshirt--I know what you ex's are thinking!

My work so far has consisted of sanding and preparing a J24 and a Hobie 33 for launch in May. I am happy to be gaining hands-on time working on these two swift little boats and can't wait for the day we finally splash them. The Hobie will be in the water by May 9th. Come on down to the Cama State Park and get a free ride on the historic schooner Adventuress or even on Samurai, as we participate in the Annual Center for Wooden Boats' Mother's Day Saturday Sail at Cama Beach.

Lil Samurai. J24 just before the final buff.

Hobie 33 with lift keel.

Samurai with freshly painted stripe and new vinyl lettering. Sharp!

This job is perfect for me, because it requires no long-term commitment, offers new skills, and pays for the pup's vet, chow and bone bills. Sigh. If we move, no worries. If we stay a bit longer, Lawrence will make me an assistant sail instructor for his dinghy sailing classes, and crew for any charters. In addition, if I stick around long enough, I might even get my Keel Boat Skipper Certification as well. So no matter what the future dishes out, I am sure to be spending lots of time on the water this year.

One of the most exciting things I've been taught is how to overhaul winches. This sounds scary, especially for a girly girl like me (yeah, right!) who doesn't usually do so well with things mechanical (the honest truth). Yet, in the past few days, Bonnie and I have overhauled a couple Barient two speed winches, two single speed Barients and five Lewmars. I found it incredibly satisfying to see how these things work.

Winches, as every sailor knows, are one of the most crucial pieces of equipment on a sailboat. Plus, somebody's life could rely on the use of a winch to pull an overboard sailor onto deck or to hoist a crew member up the mast. So learning how they work, how to disassemble, clean, grease (minimally please!) and reassemble them feels like a great skill to have under my belt. Sensing the difference between a grimy, sluggish, or over greased winch and a clean, smooth running winch, feels really good.

Now, for my readers who are sailors, bear with me as I explain the process. Or just skip to the end. Many of my readers know me from my other lives as a writer, theatre artist, or librarian (with a small "L") and know very little about sailing. Here we go.

To take most winches apart one needs only a strong fingernail, or perhaps a screwdriver if you don't want to "break a nail." Make sure you have a can or box or something to put all the parts into as you take them off; you don't want something rolling overboard for God's sake! First you remove the circlip, a little ring that coils around the top of the winch where the handle goes in. Lift off the the stainless top cap (the part with the manufacturer's name).

Next, you remove the black outer drum, which easily lifts right off, to reveal the inside of the winch and its working parts. The drum will have two pawls (shaped like "P's") with springs in it as well as a bearing or two. This winch had two roller bearings.

The pawl on the left is missing its spring. Roller bearings just visible inside.

The inside of the Lewmar 30 Two Speed Winch after the drum was removed.

Then you can pull out the gear spindle and remove the two ratchet gears. The gear spindle has an odd shaped head and is visible in the lower center of the above picture with a droplet of water on it. (The Barient winches had a gear spindle with a cotter pin--which requires a screw driver or other tool to remove and then must be bent to replace--an inferior design IMHO.)

Ratchet Gears with spindle removed.

Here you can clearly see two pawls, which only come in only a couple of sizes (small or large) and are interchangeable with the pawls on the inside of the drum, so there is no need to worry about getting them mixed up. Just take care when removing them not to let the little springs go flying! The gears separate and the top one fits into a little groove on the bottom one. It is possible to put them back together upside down, but not likely if you actually look at it closely.

Now you are left with the center stem and spindle which lifts out after removing a small plastic crescent-shaped part. I am not sure what the correct term for this is, but again a fingernail or a small screwdriver will do to pry it loose from either end. This is the only plastic part, and care should be taken not to clean it with a solvent that could damage it.

The white plastic part is right in the middle.

Now comes the grubby part of cleaning all the parts with diesel or kerosene and a toothbrush and/or wire brush. Wear appropriate gloves (not latex which will bag out something awful), and be sure to dry the parts well before lubricating lightly with winch grease. Do not grease the pawls or gear teeth as it could cause them to stick, but do apply a very light coating to all the smooth surfaces that will make contact.

Here are the parts after a cleaning. Note the one pawl spring is missing, which we replaced. Also I forgot to put the roller bearings in this picture. Oopsy. Click on the image to see it larger.

When reassembling, never force anything. The parts should go together easily. If they don't, you probably have them put together wrong. So that is what I have been learning. Need your winches cleaned? Call the Wicked Winch of the West, and I'll fix you up.

If you want to do it yourself, kits are available at most marine supply stores, and Amazon has them, which you can purchase by clicking on the ads above. Thanks!

New Crew! Meet Zuby!

2009-04-01T11:58:00.000-07:00

Puppy Love cures all. Well, maybe not all, but a heck of a lot. I couldn't get used to living without Lily. I missed having my little sidekick around. As my dear friend Molly put it, "Sky, you just need a familiar." She is right. I do need a familiar. As a woman who has chosen not to have children, I seem to need to find some outlet for my nurturing and mothering instincts. But, I not only missed my corgi companion, I missed the window she gave me into another world, the animal world. To see the world through the eyes of a pet is truly a wondrous thing that can bring us to place outside our busy thinking apparatus and inside the present moment.

My pets have always been amazing animals with developed personalities and complex relationships. Critters, if fed, cared for, and loved, can overcome their instincts and live peacefully with other species (more than we humans can do within our own species). This is the power of love. And the love grown between a human and a pet is a special manifestation, unlike any other.

So, in short, I just couldn't go on without another canine pal. Enter Zubenelgenubi (zoo-BEN-el-jeh-NOO-bee) a Miniature Australian Shepherd that we recently adopted from Underdawgz Rescue in Olympia.

He is named after one of the 57 stars used for celestial navigation which is something I someday wish to know more about. Zubenelgenubi is actually a binary star system in the constellation Libra. We've got some star charts and on the clear nights have tried to spot it, but haven't located it yet. We will.

Zuby, as we call him, is just a tiny little guy, the result of irresponsible breeding. At four months he just hit ten pounds. Breeders began selectively breeding smaller Aussies in the 1960's and 70's resulting in compact little shepherds under 18" tall. In recent years the Mini Aussie has become so popular that some folks have started making "designer Aussies" they call Toys. These tiny little dogs probably have other breeds mixed in to get them under 15 lbs. Since they could hardly do the job Aussies were meant to do - herd - they aren't really Aussies at all. Little Zuby is most likely the result of somebody breeding for small size over health, temperament, or purpose. Personally, I do not approve of this practice, but once the pups are here, they need love like the rest of us. We're hoping he'll grow up a bit, but will love him at any size.

There have been a lot of puppy mill busts here in Washington, and the horror of it would turn your stomach and break your heart. So please, I urge those of you looking for a new pet, go to a rescue, a shelter, or find a reputable breeder. Never buy from pet stores or online kennels that will ship you a pup, as there is no way to know the conditions from which the pup came. Most reputable breeders are very selective about the homes they send their pups to and would not allow their pups to end up in a store.

For those of you who don't know the breed, Australian Shepherds are some of the most intelligent, hardest working dogs out there. Bred for endurance, communication and herding both sheep and cattle, they have energy, brains, chutzpah, and stamina. This little fellow has the smarts for sure. He's already halfway through "Dog Logic: Companion Obedience" by Joel McMains. This book takes the standard, pack mentality approach to training. McMains loves and respects dogs, and it comes through on every page. Like any training manual, it is imperfect, but worth a read if you're new to dog training. And although Zuby cannot read, of course, he takes in a lot from the excellent illustrations.

Another wonderful book about human dog communication and the many misunderstandings that arise from our different use of body language and gesture, is Patricia McConnell's, "The Other End of the Leash: Why We Do What We Do Around Dogs." McConnell, PhD., has some great insight into the different interpretations of gestures between canine and humans.

At times, we also refer to our little pal as Dr. Genubi because he has the ability to cure my blues. His silly puppy antics are enough to mend any heart. Just look at that little pink tongue!

So for now at least there will be no need for antidepressants thanks to our new crew member. He's already adapted to the PFD (puppy flotation device) and getting good and wet. Soon we'll have him sailing. And in this household, we are ready to get back onto the water. Onward we go, Captain Steve, Number One, and Zuby-crew!

Touch

2009-03-04T10:48:00.000-08:00

To stay in touch. To be in touch. To get in touch with. To be touched. On the physical level, as sensation, touch distinguishes the lover from the fighter. We need to be touched one way or the other. Human touch, especially affection, feeds us deep down, through our skin, muscle, blood and bone. Without touch something inside withers.

Then there is the "tuned in" sense of being in touch with something. This is a particular mental state, one of receptivity and connection, and one, I would argue, that is every bit as essential to human well-being and overall health as physical touch. This is a mental state that I have seen very little of these last few months. After the loss of my pal, Lily, I fell into a bit of a depression, in the sense that I have not been able to make things happen. I am not getting things done. I am not taking those precious incremental steps toward the sea and the voyage of a lifetime that awaits me out there. I had, to some degree, lost sight of my aim, and lost touch with the part of me that manifests dreams. I have felt unconnected and vulnerable to negative emotional states. And my peeps are not here to slap me around in that loving way that can get me moving again in some direction or other.

(Penning my first play. Age 22)

I am, thankfully, coming around. Reawakening. Getting in touch with what brought me here. Steve and I have been toying with the problems of living in the woods with Nomadness hours away, and my friends, family, and vibrant community even further. The sense of community that feeds my soul is something I remember, but in which I no longer participate. Having an online community is wonderful, but having a face to face, hugging, laughing, bullshit calling, group of comrades to puzzle over problems with and be in touch with is something all together different.

We've come to a conclusion that while we prepare ourselves and our vessel for the journey we dream of, we have to stay in touch with the day to day pleasures of living. We have to create a community. Steve has his vision of the Flotilla, and I have mine. They overlap in our heads, but to manifest them, we need to touch others in a way that sparks up a firestorm of enthusiasm and forges something none of us, individually, could have envisioned. So the short of it is that we are looking to sell the Camano Island House and purchase something on the water and nearer to my community in Olympia. The logistics of boat installations and the lack of communal excitement can both be alleviated with a move.

(Camano House with 6 Acres For Sale)

It sounds like a huge distraction from our goal of moving onto a boat and voyaging forth, but in fact, it is not. We are in one of those places where we keep bumping into the same obstacles, turning from them for awhile, and later returning to bump again. The boat projects (solar installations, water works, geeky talking-ship nodes of information, comfort inducing cabin alterations, etc.) are getting planned, developed, and discussed, but not installed. Things are moving, but sometimes very slowly.

We both know we can be far more productive, both individually and together, than we currently are. Why? Well, when we talk about the best times of our lives, the most creative, productive, and satisfying, we both return to times when we had a community around us. I had my theatre, and Steve had his geeky interns helping him develop Behemoth (his over-the-top bicycle) and the Microship (the sweet home-built trimaran in the lab that awaits the next adventure). Basically, as I see it, we have lost touch with the energy of community. The thrill of the brainstorm, the all nighters that produce art (and engineering) amidst the sound of laughter, coffee percolating at 3am, huge pots of soup to feed the workers, and that blessed shout of "I got it!"

We need this kind of touch to do our best work. To be our best. We need to be in touch with other minds and in love with the process. When we are in love with our work, our work is always better. So, although it seems crazy, we are probably going to move. And although it will mean that this summer will be another summer of cruising the islands (poor us!), not blue water, world voyaging, I believe it is a step in the right direction. And if being in a community can reawaken the playful, anything is possible, attitude that is requisite to ingenuity, any delay or hassles moving brings, will most certainly be worth it. Perhaps a few more hugs, and few more late night brainstorming sessions with sailors and artists and adventurers will put us back in touch with the parts of ourselves that will "git busy and git 'er done!" One can only hope.

Our Legacy

2009-01-06T16:20:00.000-08:00

Tears2 by gregizzlegabrizzle

With the recent passing of my canine pal and a life-threatening infection in my aging father's hip, I have a had a lot of emotional activity to observe in myself lately. To put it simply, I've been about as much of a wreck as I can be. To any outsider, I am equanimously handling each challenge with a modicum of grace, but internally... oh boy! I observe myself struggling to keep a rational perspective while tsunamis of emotion crash on my inner shores. It is fascinating to watch how quickly my thinker starts churning up fearful thoughts and negativity.

This may qualify as "navel gazing" to some, but now and then, when things get very intense, it enables me to step further back and look at myself and humanity from some distant stance beyond my own life. One of the observations that keeps popping up, is how very wrongly we live in respect to animals. I see how acutely I suffered the loss of my doggy, and I know that many many people feel as deeply toward their own pets. Yet, in spite of this indisputable bond we make with our pets, many of us go on munching bacon, fishing out the oceans, harassing marine mammals, enslaving elephants, chasing down wolves from helicopters, and so on. I personally do not participate in all of these activities, but we humans do. We are all part of the human family that has become shamefully dysfunctional in relation to coexisting with other species. In the same way we feel deeply for our own family or friends and protect them fiercely, we feel for our pets, yet dismiss and disregard the well being of other animals and peoples.

I am no history expert, but I think most historians would agree that the domestication of animals was a major leap in human social evolution. It started with partnerships. Wolves and humans competed for the same prey and teaming up was mutually beneficial. Later nomads started keeping herds of sheep and goats, which insured against starvation of the clan. Eventually plants and food source animals became domesticated by humans and were an important part of the fundamental shift to settled communities and the rise of civilizations. With this change in basic human behavior came change of diet, the introduction of infectious diseases, and a wide range of other biological shifts in human evolution. In short, when our relation to other species changed, we changed. I am, of course, drastically simplifying a very complex topic, but the point being, that the human relationships to animals has been a major factor in our development both socially and biologically. A decent article on domestication of animals and plants is posted here, and there are dozens of books on the subject.

Domestication of wolves began 13,000 years ago, but, where are we today? The way we raise much of our food is a shameful abomination. In truth it is so horrific that few can bear to honestly acknowledge where their food actually comes from. How did we go from partnerships with animals to the enslavement and torture of so many creatures?

I have a suspicion that there is another huge step in human/animal interaction that is already underway. Many of the beliefs we have held about animals are now being examined more closely and some even proven false. Assumptions that animals do not have memory, cannot plan, do not feel emotions, have inferior systems of communication, do not use/make tools, or sophisticated social contracts are all being scrutinized by scientists. The results are astounding, and to me, the seeds of a revolution. Birds can learn our language and actually communicate their desires to us. Crows make tools and use them to harvest food. Whales develop complex languages and communicate across oceans to set up meetings and share information. Elephants recognize and respond to skulls and ivory from their own species and are reported to show signs of extended grieving for lost family members. Moved by music, camels weep. Dogs smell disease in humans. Primates exercise self control and plan ahead. I could go on and on...

Of course folks will say that these achievements are a drop in the bucket compared to human achievement, but we must remember that we are also measuring these critters by human standards. If we were to measure humans by animal standards we would quickly see that we are inferior in many, many ways not the least of which is sensory perception.

See this film if you have not already!

I sometimes try to imagine how aliens would see humanity as a whole. Gurdjieff did this brilliantly in "Beelzebub's Tales to His Grandson" and points out the absurdity of what he terms "process of reciprocal destruction." But what about the destruction of other species? I believe the effort to understand the intelligence of other species is a frontier that will yield nothing short of a huge evolutionary leap. So many of our technologies are weak efforts to do what animals do naturally and expertly: navigation, long distance communication, disease detection, architecture, flight, sonar, and the list goes on... if we have figured out how to do something with technology there is likely a counterpart in nature that has the ability built in.

What would our world be like if we truly cooperated with other species, letting each do what it has evolved to do? I for one, believe it would be far superior world. What arrogance has implanted itself in our hugely complex thinking apparatus that convinces us that we are superior to other creatures? Or more fundamentally, that we are separate? It is my wish to live to see the day we treat humans as humans and elevate animals to their rightful place of respect in our world.

Diamond Lily

Chimp Grin by Amp26

Miss Diamond Lil

2008-12-26T21:58:00.000-08:00

Today was one of the saddest days of my life. My dearest friend, Lily, my sweet corgi passed to the next bardo. I am too emotional to be able to reflect fully on what she meant to me. I am fascinated by what animals can teach us, how they can work with us, and how they can heal our hearts. Soon I will post more on these thoughts, but for now an obituary of sorts.

Sunrise's Diamond Lily

Lily was an amazingly wise and loving animal. Throughout her many years, she played piano (see the video); worked with autistic children in both Olympia and Santa Cruz; herded chickens, ducks, sheep, cattle and small children; lived at twelve different homes with over a dozen other critters of various species; spent most of a summer on a sailboat just to make me happy; did a five month road trip zigzagging across the Rockies and camping under the stars; stayed in a upscale Lake Tahoe hotel; spent a weekend in the Santa Cruz Slammer; was a hot spring swimmer; had a great sense of humor and feigned vicious attack on the code words "politician" or "get dick;" competed in agility trials and won one; loved ice cream and popping balloons; placed third in a talent show competing with mostly Evergreen students; treated cats with utmost respect; cuddled with a hamster; enjoyed kayaking and swimming; never let a vacuum cleaner do the job she knew she could do better; nearly died of mushroom poisoning and tripped for days; survived an attack by a German shepherd; and most importantly was a wonderful companion who saw me through some very dark and rough times with loyalty and affection. Lily was quite a celebrity in Olympia; she even had many friends whom I didn't know. People would stop in the street to say hello to Lily. She met lots folks through her various caregivers and dog sitters, and once you met Lily, you never forgot her.

Miss Lil looked great, and was having fun playing in the snow and taking long walks to Boston Harbor Marina with her guardians Suzanne and Sebastian right up to and including yesterday morning. Then, Christmas night she suffered three seizures and wound up in an emergency room. We do not know what triggered the seizures, but for a dog her age and without a history of epilepsy, it was likely a tumor or blood clotting problem. The decision to let her go without suffering was painful, though not difficult. Today at around 1pm she was euthanized in my arms, quietly and without struggle. She will be missed by all who knew her. She truly was a little character and a bright light.

Well loved. Well lived.

Sema

2008-12-17T13:41:00.000-08:00

The Mevleviye, one of the most well known of the Sufi orders, was founded in 1273 by Rumi's followers after his death, particularly by his successor Hüsamettin Çelebi who decided to build a mausoleum for Mevlâna, and then Mevlâna's son, Sultan Veled Celebi (or Çelebi, Chelebi) (the word "Çelebi" means " fully initiated"). He was an accomplished Sufi mystic with great organizing talents. His personal efforts were continued by his successor Ulu Arif Çelebi.

The Mevlevi, or "The Whirling Dervishes", believe in performing their dhikr in the form of a "dance" and music ceremony called the sema.

The Sema represents a mystical journey of man's spiritual ascent through mind and love to "Perfect." Turning towards the truth, the follower grows through love, deserts his ego, finds the truth and arrives at the "Perfect." He then returns from this spiritual journey as a man who has reached maturity and a greater perfection, so as to love and to be of service to the whole of creation.

For a nice description of what "turning" is all about watch this video.

No Sema But Much Snow

2008-12-17T12:23:00.000-08:00

I had a planned to go to Seattle tonight for the Mevlevi Sema Ceremony, part of the 735th annual commemoration of the passing of Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi on Dec. 17, 1273. Due to a snowstorm and treacherous road conditions, I will not be able to attend. We currently have six inches or so here on Camano.

A little something snowy from the vault:

SNOWSTORM

I’ll be a snowstorm for you
falling gently upon your face
in my tiniest voice I am calling
I’ll be a snowstorm for you
I am a billion icy moments
each one perfectly distinct
strung together
and woven into
a blanket of blissful oppression
I’ll be a snowstorm for you
coating your every desire
in my supreme nothingness
I’ll be a snowstorm for you
I’ll enfold you in my crystal arms
and carry you delicately
in my flurried falling
bury you beneath my slow weight
in my tiniest voice I am calling
I’ll be a snowstorm for you tonight
feel me drifting deep
silently gathering at your feet
I’ll be a snowstorm falling hard and heavy
smother you in my blizzard embrace
leaving no trace
of the life we slept through
before I touched you

c. sky myers November 1999

Solstice

2008-12-02T13:02:00.000-08:00

Winter Solstice is nearly here (December 21), and for those of us who are not so into the religious holidays, solstice is a great excuse to celebrate the passing year and the promise of more light. Being the longest night of the year, solstice also symbolizes mystery and the descent into darkness. With the sun at its lowest point, it is a reminder that we must first pass through the darkest night to find the light again. This has been a long difficult year for many, and my heartfelt wishes go out to all who have struggled, lost loved ones, and suffered illnesses.

As many of you know, I am currently underemployed (along with what is it? 14% of the population?) even while working all the time on various projects. My newest nickel generator (Steve's term) is a cafe press store. I will be putting all sorts of cards and prints out there for sale, including my art, photography, poetry etc...

Thanks for looking, reading, and simply for giving me the time of day. I am always delighted when I get a note from somebody letting me know they have read my blog. I know how busy our lives can be, and I truly appreciate your attention.

Please pay a visit to my store and be sure to check back later. The image at the top of the blog is my first store item. I took this photograph at Cornet Bay, Washington during a glowing, misty sunset. Steve has a cafe press store too. See his cool stuff here.

Victory Gardens

2008-11-26T09:45:00.000-08:00

"The way we spend our days is, of course, the way we spend our lives." --Annie Dillard

Afternoons have been exceptionally beautiful here on Camano Island, with sunshine filtering through the fall colors one minute and misty rains the next. A few days ago a warm breeze blew through, so I took a long walk and found myself contemplating Ms. Dillard's quote in relation to my own life. How do I want to spend my life? This is a tough question, because although for the past couple of years I have been learning to sail and provision a boat in preparation for long distance voyaging, right now, I am on land and my daily existence is anything but adventurous. I struggle to balance forward gazing and all its planning with the day to day tasks of land life. How to be here fully, but remain rootless?

When I returned from my walk, I did a little bit of cleanup in the yard, mainly to recover some chard and herbs into which a lot of lemon balm and grass had encroached. As I cleared a little patch of dirt in the middle of a large piece of land, bordered with blackberry brambles, the wisteria from hell, and over run by all devouring local deer, I deeply sensed the futility of my effort. In respect to affecting anything in a lasting way, my work is of no consequence whatsoever. Yet I also know that I desire a life in which I grow at least some of my food. I love growing things, plus politically, ecologically and economically it makes good sense. I have been in a rather contemplative mood since election night, and everything seems to be more meaningful these days. So, I rescued the little chard plants and made room for some garlic!

I also took on some bigger jobs that will be beneficial next spring. I took some old cardboard boxes discarded from Steve's "Kentucky Estate" liquidation, and laid them out in the back yard to create the foundation for an herb bed and path. Then I began the marathon of hauling and spreading wood mulch. The idea is that next spring, I'll pile the mulch in heaps, plant herbs and lay down a stone (or ??) pathway. Sure the back yard is not the best gardening site (the front yard is a huge, ever sunny meadow!) but for some reason, I just had to do the back yard.

As I labored, I recalled, as a child, hearing Grandma speak of Victory Gardens of WWII which I did not have any appreciation for at the time.Today such an endeavor is even more urgent, not only to help feed ourselves but also to reduce use of fuel and all that goes along with it, and most importantly, to bring us together in our communities.

Here are a couple of factoids about the Victory Gardens of the 1940's:

The US Department of Agriculture estimates that more than 20 million victory gardens were planted.
Nearly 60% of the population was actively involved with growing food at some scale.
Fruit and vegetables harvested in these home and community plots was estimated to be 9-10 million tons equaling all commercial production of fresh vegetables at the time.

Can you imagine an effort of that scale today! Wow! Think of how ridiculous it is that you buy an apple from the store that has been dieseled around and stored for weeks, while the guy two driveways down is cleaning up rotting apples from his yard. How absurd and disconnected our lives have become! I believe the best antidote for absurdity is putting one's hands in the dirt. So, consider growing at least one thing in a window pot, or till up a little square (or spiral) for spring, or start organizing for a huge community garden project. Whatever you do will help both yourself, your community and the nation, even if only a little.

Growing our own food is hugely ambitious, probably too ambitious for many of us, but growing something is possible. If you are already doing it, then my hat is off to you. You know who you are--Camano friends, Oly friends, Arkansas friends, Orcas friends, Oregon friends, Cali friends, NY friends, and unmet friends. And for the rest of you, just plant a bulb of garlic or get some basil going in a window. It will feel good. You'll be thankful you did it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Life as Myth

2008-11-06T12:39:00.000-08:00

What if we lived every day of our lives as though we were creating myth?

(creative energy 2005 oil on wood)

More and more I am aware that we are existing in two simultaneous realms. I am living my life on the biological level, but at the same time I am creating in another world: the world of ideas, where symbols incubate, myths are born, memes root and grow, and a human lifespan is but a sentence in the epic story of humanity. Yet it is a sentence. Our lives do play a part in the whole of human experience.

With our very human trait of moral choice, with Conscience intact we make decisions every moment of every day that build into the overall story of our life. What do our actions add up to? Would we act differently if we were to stop and recognize the symbolic power of our actions? Myth and symbol are extremely powerful forces in our lives whether we are aware of it or not.

Look at the the incredible story of President Elect Barack Obama as an example. There is his actual presidency, what he will and will not accomplish, which will reveal itself through time. Yet, very clearly a symbolic power was in full force during this man's rise to the US presidency. He made history. His story is clearly mythic. Barack Obama's contribution will be the last sentence of a chapter. It is the much needed resolve in a long sad song. The framing of a very specific painting of America.

And at the same time, he will usher in the next era of American politics, like Lincoln and FDR. Obama will, on the symbolic level, be the fulcrum between the collapse of a conservative ideology and the birth of the next version of America. Exactly what that will look like remains to be seen. How it will be done is still up in the air. Will this be the era of green energy development, environmental sensitivity, humanist policies? Will science once again have a place at the table? Will we raise new generation of stronger, healthier, smarter Americans? We can only hope.

Obama was able to capture the nation's top prize on a platform held together by just two words: Hope and Change. The youth and disenfranchised embraced and supported him, projecting their own struggle into those two words, and then stood up, not for him so much, as for themselves. We are a nation conditioned to respond to brands, and this was a brand many were starving for: Hope and Change. And then there was the show of feeling and compassion as seen in the image of our chosen leader with those tears on his face. This was symbolic and touched something very deep for many.

But, I'll put politics aside now and return to my point, which is the recognition of the power that each life has in the mythic realm. Each life contributes to the pool of human experience, and to the story we collectively tell to describe that experience. I sometimes look back at my life and see how much I have sleepwalked through. I have not often shaped my part in the myth with conscious contribution. But occasionally I get a glimpse. Because even when we have not fully awakened to this understanding, an outside event can occur that bisects both realities and for a an instant we see through ourselves and feel the larger unfolding story. The world mirrors our story back to us and says "You are a part of the whole."

I want to endeavor to live my life consciously aware of my personal myth. And I do not want just any old tired myth, I want an empowering, adventurous one that reveals the buoyancy and grace of the human spirit. One full of challenge and surprise. I want a life filled with love, laughter, music, art, the sea, and plenty exotic fruits to be sure. We all face difficulties and tragedy in life, that is a given it seems, but how we respond to life's events and how our story ends, is our decision. We do not choose our start, but we can choose our ending. The choices we make today will lead us to that ending.

So as I move into what could be a rather dismal winter in this rainy, gray northwest corner of the USA, I am going to do my best to keep a part of myself tuned to the larger story that is unfolding. To see my actions, even if very small, as symbolic and meaningful. Thanks Obama for waking me, us, up.

(from Erin Go Braugh 84 )

Apples, Horses, Chickens, and Democrats

2008-10-28T18:58:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am dehydrating bags of apples. Tomorrow I'll bake pies. It is time; the apples still hanging on the last late tree are crisp and ripe. I know from my one and only dehydrating experience that they should first be peeled. So I am procrastinating the long and tedious task that awaits me. I suppose I should use it as an opportunity for meditation. I'll get myself into a quiet place and then peel and core and slice. Peel and core and slice. Peel and core and slice with a heartful of love and the knowledge that someday, in some far off place, I'll eat my porridge, thankful for the little bit of home that sweetens it. This is intention. I can transcend today and reach out to tomorrow in the act of peeling and slicing apples. My grandma knew this, and I suspect grandmothers everywhere do.

The only other tree still fruiting has mealy, drab little bitty apples that aren't good to eat. Those we reserve for sweet Lola the gray mare down the lane. She runs to greet us when she sees us, knowing we are the new apple dispensers in the neighborhood. Like most horses, her scent is divine to me. Like perfume. Even her warm breath, vaporous in the cool afternoon, smells good to me. She nuzzles my palms the way only velvety horse lips can. Fall is magic. Horses are magic.

HORSES
Horses were a part of my childhood and one of the few appreciations I shared with my father. Lately, horses have been on my mind. I saw a post for a free horse while shopping at the Skagit Valley Coop in Mt. Vernon yesterday. The horse had been rescued after suffering a near fatal beating by some cruel ass. The rescuer had attempted to get animal control to take the horse, but they wouldn't for whatever reason. (?!) The kind and conscientious person ended up buying the horse to save its life. She even paid a vet to do emergency surgery, and is now offering the recovered horse to the right home. The horse, whose long sad face was pictured on the flyer with fresh stitches, no longer trusts men. The new owner must be a woman and have some riding experience. I thought. "Hey, that's me. I'm a woman. I've ridden. I'm the right home!" (For an animal lover this line of reasoning is automatic.) I've dreamed of living to see the day when we return to horses for transportation, and this would be my way to live by example. Now, that would be ultimately cool. Talk about retro! I'd just ride into town, tie her off and do a little shopping. Steve, synchronous in his own peculiar way, suggested lobbying the city council for hitching posts. "Somebody has to lead the way," I thought. Yeah, a horse. Why not? I thought about it with my left brain for a moment and reality hit. Our property is not fenced. That would be a big expensive project. Wait! I'm moving onto a boat. I can't adopt a horse for six months and then get rid of it. And surely I can't take a horse on Nomadness! It just isn't going to happen. Which brings me to chickens.

CHICKENS
Soon, Steve and I will be getting a small flock of young hens. We've been discussing the virtues fresh eggs and knowing where a little more of our food comes from. And of course, there's the soulful, beneficial stream of entertainment chickens provide as they scratch, cackle, strut and peck out their place in the universe. We've been browsing the net for coop plans, and walking the property to determine the best locale and how to keep them safe from predators. We both know there is a definite chance we will soon be gone indefinitely, and the hens will have to stay with whomever moves in, or be given away. Yet, I am so lonely for critters in my life, and Steve adores chickens. Who'd have guessed that? He claims he misses them. Plus chickens are a better investment than stocks or gold at this point. And my dog, Lily will thoroughly enjoy herding them around the yard. At fourteen, she deserves a few hens of her own.

As to the possibility of chickens on a boat... well, there is a tiny itsy bitsy sliver of possibility, right? I have always recognized my need to live with critters. Critters know their place. They are honest and true. They don't lie, or worry, or fret. Being with animals reminds me of who I am at a most essential level. In the mirroring eyes of my corgi or of a whale or a doe, I can see my animal self and also feel my humanity. I can distinguish my self.

DEMOCRATS
Yesterday I mailed in our ballots. I was adamant to get them in early and on paper. I hand carried them into the post office and made sure they were received by the one postal worker with a smile. When I left the post office, I passed the Democrats office, so I pulled in to pick up an Obama sticker. Better late than never, huh? (Besides it might bring some future generation a few bucks as a collectible someday. Now that's eBay thinking!) Anyway, I went in and volunteered to help on election day. Since I am not tied to a workday, I figure I can drive folks to the polls, or put out coffee for the voters, or do something useful. I guess I want to feel like I'm doing something to counterbalance my cynicism. Cynicism has been creeping into my heart lately, and try as I might, it seems to be taking root. Last night I actually lay awake for a couple of hours worrying about the election. The election! For those who don't know me--- I can usually sleep under almost any conditions. Heartbreak has kept me awake, but that's about it. For me to loose sleep over the idea of election fraud, is a HUGE sign that underneath my calm exterior something is boiling in my being. It is fear.

Fear is the enemy that lurks within. I don't remember who said this, but it smacks of truth. Fear is what they've been peddling to us for years. I don't like feeling manipulated. But then again, I don't want to look back and say, "I saw it coming but wouldn't admit it." So I admit it: I am afraid things could get much worse before they get better. I hope not, of course, but I see the signs. The writing is on the wall. But I choose to let this fear motivate me to dry apples and tend chickens while Steve puts a new watermaker on the boat. Besides, those apples and chickens and misty breathed horses are also my antidote.

Dependency and the Rhythm of Land

2008-10-16T11:49:00.000-07:00

We set out this summer with the intention of sailing whenever we could and learning the vessel's and our own idiosyncrasies. We had a wonderful time, and I wouldn't change a minute of it. Yet, somehow we only managed to sail a dozen times or so. Nomadness moves beautifully under sail, but more often than not we motored. Why? Mostly due to lack of wind, or late starts with few options for anchoring, thus pressure to get somewhere by such and such time. And the most frustrating of all: the winds weren't blowing in the right direction. How absurd! Beating our way for hours into the wind in narrow inland waters and still not being able to arrive before dark trumped our love of sailing.

But these are surface reasons; at the core of all this is something much deeper and much simpler. We were not sufficiently free from the rhythm of our land-based life. We decided where we wanted to go and then set out to get there. That's what one does on land, so that's what we did by and large. On the water, however, I think one needs a different approach. Deciding to set out wherever the wind can carry us safely in a day's voyage, would produce many more favorable sailing days. But this is a mindset that must develop over time and requires the willingness to slow down and let go of agendas. Essentially, when on the water, we change the rhythm and tempo of daily life.We're on our way...

Another thing that comes to mind in reflecting on the summer, is how much I don't know and how far from ready I truly am. Yes, I sailed a few times on my own (with Steve below of course) and I know how the plumbing works! I have internalized a lot of sequences for procedures that seemed confusing before (like the eight steps to take a shower), and I have a vague idea of what to do when the motor doesn't start. I know the basic functions of most of the electronics on board. And I know what every line in the cockpit does. But I still can't unfurl the main on my own. We haven't practiced man over board drills. We haven't practiced heaving to. I still haven't been offshore. I don't know if I'll get seasick. We have accomplished a lot, but we have a long way to go next year. Gotta keep working those learning curves!

Steve has gotten clear on the priorities of the ship's systems and has tackled some huge new projects to ready the boat. I have become clear on the priority of developing my sailing and navigating skills. When I read about women who set out with their partners and know nothing about the operation of their boat, I find it not only sad, but very foolish. We have to rely on each other and trust each other's judgment. This trust can only be built gradually, brick by brick from solid decisions and successful actions, into a foundation that will allow us the freedom of letting go when we need to. We can rest in the knowledge that our partner can carry the load for awhile if we need him/her to. We have to be able to depend upon one another without becoming co-dependent.

Dependency. What a loaded word. It has almost become a dirty word in our culture, and even more so in some subcultures. Dependency is viewed as weakness while self reliance denotes strength. I believe we must depend on each other. Nobody can do everything. Sure some can survive all alone on a boat or in the wilderness and that is commendable, but to thrive, our human souls need interaction and a community in which to grow.

In the coming times, communities of folks will need to band together and not only for practical reasons. We need each other to make us laugh, to open our minds, to teach us new skills, to nurse us, to challenge us, to introduce new ideas, and to sing new songs that raise our spirits in the darkest times. To be able to depend upon one another is a gift. To be of aide, assistance, and to give support to one another creates an opportunity to exercise our own highest and best selves. If we all go it alone, how will we ever develop greater kindness, generosity, charity, tolerance, and love for humanity?

What does all this have to do with sailing and flotillas and drama and art? Everything. It is all related. How we live, what we do, why we do it, and who we share it with, all determine the quality of life we seek. Whether it be at sea in flotillas, or on land in communities, whether through art, science, or even geek expressionism, we have to chase the big questions. We are symbolic as well as practical. Our journeys are mythic.

I have been reading a lot of great blogs lately that discuss sufficiency, self reliance, and simplicity, but I want to make sure that in the process of saving ourselves, we don't cut ourselves off from sharing the joy of life, the glee of kindness, and the bliss of love. We really do need each other.

Here

2008-10-14T16:28:00.001-07:00

Funny how a change of scene can bring one back to something familiar with new eyes, fresh respect, and a deeper gratitude.

I am back home in the Camano forest where owl stutters his lonesome welcome and, in every corner, spiders have built long term complexes for raising their young. I am here, where the earth smells of mushrooms and cedar, here in the mud, knee high grasses, and thorny blackberry tangles still bearing for all they're worth. Here, I find so much that can nourish and support me.

I see a touch of irony in my desire to take to sea, where there can only be what one needs for a short term. On the water I concern myself with tasks of the day, or of the hour. I think of the day's meal, where to park for the night, which way the wind blows, how much water remains, and will we be safe tonight. But desire is desire and must not be denied. On the water life is fluid. Here it solidifies. I think of the longer term; I put food by, stock up on stuff, and stack up wood. I watch barrels fill with rain, and forage what's left in the orchard. I plan to make spirits, and gather good friends round me. Here, I listen to the calling of the great horned hunter of the night and feel at home. Owl has been near most nights since we returned, and once, he perched himself just outside the lab for a more direct encounter. I think he is letting us know "the plan is good."

Times Like These

2008-10-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

We've landed back at Camano Island; Nomadness is safely berthed across Saratoga Passage at Oak Harbor. I'll soon post a piece in reflection about our shakedown cruise. At the moment I want to point to a really good blog post I read this morning by Jerome (Jay) Fitzgerald, the seasteading guy, which offers some excellent advice for us all about how to proceed in this economically disasterous time. He points to small things we can all do, which taken together, can add up to have an impact. I believe that focusing on what we can do, rather than being overwhelmed by the enormity of what we cannot do, is crucial in times like these.

Dramanautical Urges

2008-10-05T11:29:00.000-07:00

Steve is eager to get to Anacortes today to have the boat hauled out for some work that includes rust repair around the anchor locker and stern steps, bottom cleaning and paint, and a big tunnel through the bow with an electric motor in it (aka bow thruster). His mind races around on all the winter projects he wants to complete before we go "full time" next year. I, on the other hand, am growing accustomed to this life. I can easily imagine going on with this for another couple of weeks, or a month, maybe a year... Especially now that the Little Cod (little god) is in and oh, soooo cozy! Once we remodel the settee into "the nest" (more on that later) and get the mandatory pillows, artwork, and girly touches, Nomadness is going to be a regular love den in spite her supreme high geekery. Afterall we do plan to live on her for extended voyaging.

With the coming of fall, my pace has slowed and my eagerness to go go go, north north north, has finally calmed. I am meditating more regularly again and creative thoughts float up more frequently. (Hmmm...correlation?) Snippets of scenes on the "stage" of a boat play across my mind: amplified sounds of rigging creaking in the dark, a spotlit acrobat swinging from the top of the mast whispering almost inaudibly to a rapt audience about the plight of the seas, flutes and drums beckoning across a quiet anchorage conjuring a skiff in a gush of bubbles from the bottom of the bay... some mythic sea story is seeking a mind through which it can come into being. Again.

Fall has always been a fruitful time of year for my imagination. Perhaps this stems from those childhood days when autumn signaled the return to school. My siblings and friends mourned the end of wild, dusty summer, while I secretly celebrated the first sign of autumn and the promise of new things to learn and new friends. If I can kindle my imagination now, it may burn through winter and yield some roughly forged story for the future dramanautical productions. The key is not that I need, nor even want, to create a "something" for some future group to execute, but rather that I get in touch with the source of my creativity and exercise it. My muse has been drowsing for a bit too long (a little seasick perhaps); it is time she awaken and blossom again.

For the past week here on Orcas Island, while lazing in bed, or rowing the dinghy round Fawn island, or sitting amongst the work clutter of half finished projects, or while gazing into a fire in the midst of dinner party chatter, the questions of the role of art in my life and in society at large have been haunting me.

Artist, writer, and teacher, Suzi Gablik in dialogue with James Hillman:

Hillman: Now suppose the question doesn’t become what art should do, but rather how do we find that which art should serve? Art is already in service, so we could perhaps change that to which it is in service?
Gablik: So the question is what could art better serve than the things it has been serving, like bourgeois capitalism, throughout our lifetimes?

I am tangled up in this notion of art in service to something. Many artists proclaim that art is for art. Period. Art as aesthetic. As ornament. Decoration. Something to brighten up the den. While I strongly agree we need more beauty in the urban world of waste and decay, and that art should be beautiful (as in the eye of the beholder), I also want art to have be socially relevant at some level. Is it our responsibility as artists to bring light to this dark world, or to reflect back the darkness? Should we represent the way things are or conjure other possibilities? In the past decades discussion of art seems rarely to center on beauty, and when it does it often points toward the impulse to deconstruct beauty. Life is often ugly in our day and age, but we humans need beauty in all its forms, visual, rhythmic, and aural. The earth is fantastically beautiful. To see beauty is to witness the divine.

Again Gablik:

What we have lost is the ability to feel the divine in all things. Institutionalized religion in our lifetimes has once again become a war-making tool. How, then, do we get past our embarrassment about God? Everything in modern society has progressed except our spiritual understanding. We have yet to learn, for instance, that we can't survive without beauty, and that the loss of it is killing us.

If you are a sailor (as I hope many of you are) then you already appreciate visual beauty and the beauty of motion/rhythm. For what is more beautiful than a boat under sail on the rhythmic sea under a vibrant ever-changing sky?

Beauty heals, so I want art that soothes both the artist and the audience. Art that acts on our souls. Not mind numbing entertainment, but spirit raising and awe inspiring. Art as a call to action and to kindness. Art that offers something different and serves something greater. We are all hurting, and we are hurting each other and our environment. Art must stop being "more stuff for sale" that will eventually fill another landfill. It must become a salve for the diseased cultures so many of us are living in. Art can be useful and promising. Art can be a guidepost for the lost, and a seed for the fertile.

How? It is easy to theorize such an art, but how can we produce such art. Gurdjieff referred to Objective Art, art that transcends the personal experience and communicates truth. This is a tall order, for sure. I can't say how to do this but I suspect that ultimately we must live an artful life to produce this art. The experience of living intentionally together-- doing our best, learning, giving to and caring for one another and the environment -- is the raw material, the very food, for the metaphoric excretions we call art. I want to be with folks who turn life into myth and travel a life path paved with choices. Sharing our words, images, and songs with the communities we encounter, will do that magic thing that makes Art a necessity: it will transport experience from one mind to another, from one heart to another, and in the process plant seed for a new way of being. I'm not talking about high brow art; I'm wishing for art that serves something other than ego, capitalism, and individual self. Art that cleans up after itself, and leaves the world a little better.

Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe my ideals are ridiculously out of this world. Maybe I am lost in a fantasy. Or maybe I am on the right track. How? I don't know. For starters I'll write about it, sit with it, and send out this electronic beacon.

Wish oil on wood 2005

Sufficiency

2008-10-01T11:35:00.000-07:00

We have begun our journey back to Camano and the end of our summer adventure. At the moment we're in Deer Harbor in the thick of the long-awaited wood stove installation. We'll be here the rest of the week with the boat torn apart while the last sunny sailing days of summer slip away. And then more hole drilling awaits us in Anacortes next week. Gosh, drilling holes in your boat causes tension. Luckily, our landlubber friends, Mariah and David, generously entertained us with vittles and hot tubbing while ashore last night. If we're fortunate we might even relieve some tension with a musical frolic before the week is through.

Meanwhile Andrew of Navigator Stove Works and Jeff work away at a relatively complex stove installation.

(Figuring out exactly where to put the deck iron.)

They're an efficient team working out both the math and the functionality of how, where and why to safely build a heavy burning object into the middle of a cabin that will someday roll on the high seas. Add Steve's abundant brain power to the mix and my own random injections, and we've had some lively discussion and come up with some brilliant solutions. It may be a big old mess, but it has been fun. So far. And we inch, inch, ever toward sufficiency.

What is sufficient? What is simply survival? What is luxury? Many layers of meaning unfold from these words for me. I've been thinking about this idea of sufficiency. A lot. I recognize that Nomadness isn't yet ready to provide what we need to be truly independent and self-sufficient. With the financial collapse of our monstrous top-heavy capitalist system sending many, if not most, Americans into a frenzy to shore up their lives, my first associations with sufficiency relate to material wealth. I can honestly say that I am thankful I have very little to lose in this regard. I'm with the gulls on this one.

(At least the critters can still expresses an opinion outside the "free speech zone.")

Seriously, though, the degree to which people have life skills and the ability to be self sufficient will determine who gets hit hardest and who rolls with the punches. During the Great Depression, the general population may have been better prepared to deal with hardships. People still knew how to grow food, make stuff, and they weren't afraid to offer or ask their neighbors for a helping hand. Maybe I romanticize it. Maybe. But I do know that stuff (things, tools, clothing, etc) was made to last back then. I wonder what will happen in five or ten years when everything breaks, the dumps overflow with appliances, China has cut us off due to our debts, and very few know how to make what they need. What will be of value then?

So what does self sufficiency really mean? Having food, water, a connection to the world, and a place to be? Let's consider the most basic of these first. Water. Just how much water do we need? Do you know how much water you use? I do. On Nomadness the two of us currently use about fifty gallons of fresh water per week for washing, drinking and cooking. We could use half that if we set our minds to it and used more salt water. Fortunately, have a water maker back at the lab, resting at the top of the list of "stuff to install." Can we make water at a rate that will suffice? Where does survival become sufficiency become comfort? It gets blurry.

And food? Could we catch, grow or harvest what we need? How much do we need? Probably a lot less than we currently think. (And contrary to popular thinking there is enough food to go around. The concept of scarcity is a lie that suppresses the basic human impulse to care for one another.) Before we embark on the "big journey" next year I'll study how and what to fish for, and develop a small system for growing food hydroponically aboard. At present, I can say I know almost nothing about these things. I buy stuff at the store, google up a recipe or just throw something together. (To our credit, we did manage to catch and eat some crab this season. It was thrilling. I think I ignited a deep-seated bloodlust. Here is the proof.)

In regards to human connection, what do we truly need? Daily net connections? Phone? Post office? TV, iPods, and radios? Could we survive with weekly connections? Monthly? Could would live without these things entirely? Survive, yes. Would it be sufficient? That's a different question altogether, isn't it? So why not make our own music and stories to share? Somewhere inside me the need for connection intersects my need to create.

And what about electricity? How will we provide enough power for our cameras, radios, computers, lights, navigation equipment, and other necessities? Solar and wind harvesting certainly. I look forward to learning from Steve about how these work. He's planning a whole new power management system to give us an abundance of free electrons without relying on diesel. He'll be stripping solar panels from previous projects and, with help from a welder friend, installing them on the stern arch on Nomadness.

Sufficiency is hugely complex. And to complicate it all, we have differing of opinions on what is necessary. For the most part, I defer; my needs are quite simple really. Once survival is addressed, I seek human interaction and creativity, documentation of our existence in this moment in history. Those big universal questions rear up. What is important in life? Why are we here? What will I leave behind when I have turned to ash? For me, I suspect it has to with love, the creative force of the universe. Certainly there is more to our collective existence than the depletion of earth's resources and the invention of more thingy-ma-jiggers. Certainly there is value and purpose in myth-making and kindness.

So here lies the true heart of the matter. The crux is this: sufficiency resides in knowing that one can take care oneself. Not only financially, or physically, but in psychological and spiritual well being, which requires that one's Being is well. Am I self sufficient emotionally? Is my heart independent? Do I need others to validate my sense of purpose in this world? These questions touch on the role of solitude in boat life. Attending to the self in the sweet quiet communion with the waves, the wind and all that floats above and beyond may be the most nourishing food of all. Maybe all we really need is the sense that we are safe and fed, that our lover sleeps quietly below dreaming of turtles, while the sails fill and colorful flags luff in the autumn wind. Maybe that will suffice for this lifetime.

Then again maybe we best get the water maker installed and the solar panels up. Oh, and a first draft of something down on paper. And learn another language, and celestial navigation. And let us not forget to love at every opportunity in even the smallest ways. Hang on, this is going to be a wild winter ride for sure.

Crabbing

2008-09-28T22:51:00.000-07:00

One thing we've discovered on this shakedown cruise, is how ill-prepared we are to feed ourselves. We bought a great little Crab King coil away flexible crab ring that we throw over the side of the boat. If there be crabs in the waters, this thing will get 'em. Unlike the more professional pots you drop for hours or overnight in which the crab get caught, this is immediate gratification. We only left it down for a few minutes at a time. Buy one here for just $40 and be ready for next year. We used cockles and pork for bait, but I've heard they like chicken too. Isn't that weird? Crab like chicken. Poor chickens! Seems everything likes chicken.

Honor

2008-09-20T17:56:00.000-07:00

(Click to enlarge)

That is our track! We've traveled for 66 days and 512 nautical miles, and reached our northernmost point of Telegraph Harbour, but the adventure continues. The seeds of the flotilla have been planted and left to gestate in a few individuals in our wake. Currently we are in Montague Harbour Provincial Marine Park on Galiano Island, waiting out some rainy weather and catching up on stuff.

After Reid Harbor, Stuart Island, we had some business to take care of including securing unlimited data from Sprint while in Canada, (crucial to keeping our costs down and staying connected) and reducing our substantial liquor stores (silly us, stocking up on fruits and liquor on our way into Canada--Doh!) so we cruised back to San Juan Island for a full-service-yachtie-style stay in Roche Harbor. After a night on the hook, we indulged in a night at the marina, where there are cute young line handlers to catch your boat, 15, 30 or 50 amp power, delicious water, garbage bins at your slip, laundry, showers, ice cream, and even a post office on the dock! Once again we were just another midsized sailboat in big mess of fancy motor yachts... though in our hearts we're still Scotty's Great Dane!

The best part of Roche Harbor was the marvelous sculpture park just a short walk from the marina. Westcott Bay Sculpture Park boasts 115 pieces scattered over 19 acres of ponds, woods and meadows.

(Three Frogs and an Otter by Georgia Gerber. Photo by SKR)

The pieces range from conceptual to representational, from interactive to abstract, functional to found, and materials include marble, steel, bronze, granite, aluminum, glass, redwood, fabric... you name it, there is something for everyone. Many were truly breathtaking.

And best of all, like the Treasure Chest on Stuart where we purchased T-shirts and post cards, the Sculpture Park is on the honor system. You pay $5 at a self serve gate. They have a gate counter, and I suspect they've found that most people pay, and those who don't are welcome anyway. Art should be available to everyone whether or not they have money and whether or not they value it enough to give up a few dollars. I love the honor system! I think if you give people the choice to do the right thing, they will if they are able. Or at least I like to believe people are honorable. Naive? Optimistic? A sucker? Maybe. I guess I'd rather be naive than cynical and pessimistic.

(That's me contemplating honor way off in the distance. Photo by SKR)

After Roche, we passed customs in Bedwell Harbour, but found Poet's Cove Marina a bit too chic (we'd had our fill at Roche) so we motored around to Port Browning for a night. Then it was on to the highly recommended town of Ganges on Salt Spring Island. We hit the famed Saturday Farmer's Market, watched a wonderful street performer from Ghana, and kayaked about. We started to land our kayaks on Goat Island to have a wee pee and a poke around, when a Park Ranger-type person pulled up in an official-looking inflatable and informed us that they weren't "encouraging people to land on the island." This has been our only brush with Canadian law enforcement. Much like the honor system, their approach offered us the opportunity for right action, which we promptly took.

We also met a delightful, creative couple in Ganges aboard the ferrocement ketch, English Rose. We all hit it off swimmingly and decided to buddy boat about a bit. We aimed our collective 54 tonnes out of Ganges Harbour and circled Portland Island without finding safe anchorage to accommodate both our vessels. Ultimately we ended up in Genoa Bay where we had a raft up, dinner, and fun on the spacious and comfortable English Rose.

From there we continued north to Telegraph Harbour which separates Thetis and Kuper Islands. The marina, which is supremely down-home and laid back was only slightly unprofessional. Larry and Nancy of Jacari Maru (whom we met in Cornet Bay a few weeks back) saved a slip for us. We spent the evening tale swapping and Irish Whiskey sipping.

We also met some young upstart technomads, Adam and Brittany on their 26' Coronado sailboat. Adam gave us a tip about shopping that's not in the guidebooks. He sent us to the tail end of the harbour near the boat ramp, up and across the street to a fruit and vegetable stand with fresh eggs, jams, honey, baked goods, and dairy products. The entire stand was on the honor system! Completely unattended. There were pictures and news clippings about the family that owns it and provides the goods. I loved this. We stocked up and saved ourselves a ferry ride to Chamainus where we had planned to get groceried up.

Later that evening we kayaked through what they call "The Cut" a narrow shoaling channel between the Thetis and Kuper that connect Telegraph Harbour to Clam Bay. The current dumped us out into the Bay where we paddled along Kuper's shore. It appeared mysteriously uninhabited, and though quite beautiful, somewhat dark. I felt an unsettled vibe.

Once back to our net connection, courtesy of the Thetis Marina, I did a touch of research and found that the island has a history of over a hundred years of cultural abuse to native children. Salish children from all over the region were taken from their families and deposited in the Kuper Island Indian Residential School run by the Roman Catholic church. The claimed purpose of the "school" was to teach English and assimilate them into European culture. In essence they sought to destroy the language and culture of the people. This "school" evidently taught very little; as in other similar residential schools abuse and neglect were common. Like much of the European impact on the First Peoples, the history of Kuper Island was ugly and included the destruction of villages and the usual relocation of the people against their will.

Today about 300 of the Penelakut Tribe now live on Kuper. The island is serviced by a ferry to Chemainus. The Hul' qumi' Num Treaty Group, represents a collection of six nations from the region, and over 6,200 members. Their work aims, among other things, to improve conditions and increase cooperation in the planning and management of the Gulf Islands National Park Reserve. Their struggle echoes the struggle of indigenous peoples everywhere. From their website:

We have a vision of regaining control over our own destinies, allowing for strong, healthy communities for generations to come. Achieving this vision of reconciliation and a just resolution of our aboriginal title and rights within our territory will benefit the Hul'qumi'num people and indeed all Canadians. We stand firmly united in our conviction to negotiate a fair and honourable treaty — one that will enable our Hul'qumi'num communities to restore our historical prosperity and to ensure that our distinctive culture will flourish into the future.

And while it delights me to see so many instances of the honor system at work in these islands, it angers me to think about how dishonorable our ancestors have been with natives they encountered here. I never cease to be amazed at the grace resilience, and goodwill of native peoples I encounter.

I, for one, relish the small opportunities to be honorable. In return I wish to offer others this opportunity. Perhaps honoring and being honorable are key steps in the revolution of the heart that will begin to heal generations of wounds and the residual guilt associated with these dishonorable actions. We all know what is honorable and what is not. Those of us from fear dominated and untrusting cultures must make the effort to relearn to trust, and when given the chance, to practice what the Buddhists call "right action."

Midnight Oil said it well in the song, Beds Are Burning.

The time has come
To say fair's fair
To pay the rent
To pay our share
The time has come
A fact's a fact
It belongs to them
Let's give it back!

Horizontal and Vertical Travels

2008-09-11T12:52:00.000-07:00

Our pace on Nomadness is not one of rushing from place to place, but rather the pace of introspection. We spend a day sailing (Friday Harbor to Stuart Island was idyllic) or motoring, and then anchor for a few days, puttering about in kayaks or hiking. I bake things. Steve does projects. We play our flutes. We enjoy where we are.

So, although we haven't gone far horizontally, we go deep vertically. Years ago, Sam Smiley, a former professor and writing mentor, spoke of analyzing films based on the horizontal and vertical axes. The horizontal axis being what happens, the action and events of a film. The vertical axis being the depth of character, feeling, and/or impact on the viewer in a film. Great films move along a horizontal axis but have enough depth to make us care about the characters, perhaps identify with their dilemmas and maybe even impact our lives, or deepen our understanding. I grasped this concept and immediately began applying it to my life in general.

On Stuart Island we walked to the light house to watch boats pass as they struggled in the rips off Turn Point. This is the schooner Martha under full sail. Martha is a historic schooner offering youth training programs and more. What a sight she was! Later she anchored in Reid Harbor with us where we got a close look.

We listened in on the whale watch captains on the radio. They try to keep the frequency a secret, but with a hammy geek on board and several radios, we figured it out by receiving on one radio while transmitting tests on another until we hit it. The orcas were evidently near, though precisely where, was difficult to discern from the captains use of code words. So though we didn't catch a glimpse, it was exciting to eavesdrop on the chatter about J2, the lone unidentified male and the group of females feeding and frolicking in the nearby waters. Eventually, we are bound to see or hear them. Steve has a hydrophone on board. We are ready!

On the way back from Turn Point we bought touristy but quaint T-shirts from the honor system treasure chest the islanders set up to raise money for the school kids. You take what you want and mail in payment later. I only wish everyplace was as trusting and open as this. Here I am at the tiny little library.

So, Nomadness travels both the horizontal axis and the vertical axis making a track both across the map and deepening our character with experience. In fact, I've had to reassess my prejudice against powerboaters (formerly considered inconsiderate and wasteful) as we continue to meet interesting, conscientious folks on powerboats like Larry and Nancy on the trawler, Jacari Maru whom we hope to rendez-vous with in the Gulf Islands. They were a wealth of friendly knowledge and gave us lots of advice on the best spots to anchor in the Gulfs, where to get free wifi access, good grocery stores, farmers markets etc. It is always useful to see my own prejudices dissolve leaving greater tolerance in its track.

Speaking of tracks, if you'd like to follow our progress (on the horizotal plane) check out our APRS track. Well be heading into Canada soon, and once we do, postings will be limited since we will get "roaming" charges. (Shouldn't roaming be free and encouraged for all? )Heck we're already seeing roaming charges, and we're still in the USA! But with amateur radio nuts everywhere our little tracker signal should get bounced out into the net for you to see.

As for the vertical plane... well, there is no tracker that can follow us into those realms. We'll just have to see where this journey will lead.

Time (San Juan Islands)

2008-09-10T20:57:00.000-07:00

time
this time
tick tock
my heart
like water on a rock
hush rush rush
into the unknown
my blood
flowing home
with the moon
water rises
I fall
to sleep
for another thousand years
turn to stone
grind in the wind
and wash away again
to the sea
another day
the sun rises
and all of us
(the stuff of stars)
recognize light
when we see it
tick tock tick tock
water on rock...

(My dear friend Polydora posted a lovely (un)poem about time on her blog. This bit came after a day of hiking and paddling Stuart Island, marveling at the geology and rock formations, taking impressions. Then, I read her poem while at anchor in Roche Harbor, and excreted this.)

poem for a sailor

2008-09-06T21:19:00.000-07:00

tonight
half moon over friday harbor
a love that's full and by
sweet peachcake kisses
beneath a milky sky
a close hauled heart
has no need of charts
to navigate home
come morning
we will sail again
wing and wing
or on a reach
or scudding
cross the border
land a foreign
inner beach
treasures await us
both to starboard
and to port
come crazy sailor
cast off your mooring lines
come come
hoist your heart on high
wrap yourself in rum
and foggy red red wine
strip yourself of worries
come if you dare
come if you care
come let's make lore

Relationships

2008-09-02T13:57:00.000-07:00

I witnessed this young couple and recognized myself in their behavior. Sometimes I can see unfavorable qualities in others that I do not want to acknowledge in myself. I offer this short video for the enlightenment of your own nature.

Conjuring Dramanauts

2008-08-31T17:00:00.000-07:00

"...question your self with a guileless heart again and again... and the truth will unfold that knowledge to you... and you will cross the ocean of ignorance on a raft of knowledge."

the Bhagavad Gita

I have been contemplating of the gypsy life, the nomadic life, the life of wandering, exploring, discovering. The function of journey is mythic in both the personal realm and in the collective. Yet taking a journey differs from the nomadic lifestyle. The first may be seen as a rite of passage, through which one passes and returns, often changed. It embodies transition. The other journey, as lifestyle, is another matter altogether. It is a path. A Way. We orient our existence differently; the transit through this world becomes more of a spiral than an orbit. Everything is new, and although we come round to what appears to be the same, we are now in a very different space and our perspective has changed dramatically. We see what was once familiar, anew; and the new is welcomed as an old friend into our lives.

I don't want to be a foreigner anywhere. I wish to be more like a bird or a whale without boundaries -- at home beneath any sky, in any water-- for in truth it is one big sky and one big water. Of course, I recognize the reality of nations and their corresponding laws, still I wish to learn to embody the essence of living without these boundaries. And I am trying to actualize this.

Enter Nomadness, boundary defiant and sea worthy. On a sailboat every bridge looks like a disaster, but we continue on with faith, gliding forward into the future. We come to recognize that what appeared to be an obstacle was but an illusion manufactured from our limited perspective. Every sailor knows this feeling, we have the facts, yes we can go forth, and yet we tremble slightly each and every time before what appears impossible.

My partner, Steve Roberts, who is expert at actualizing the impossible, has written about his "epic bike trip" in Computing Across America. He saw the journey as an opportunity to merge all his passions into one lifestyle. What a great idea! We should all do it, right? Easier said than done for sure. The first step in this direction is the presence of mind and sincerity of heart to honestly ask and the answer the question: What are my passions?

In contemplation of this, I realize I have only a few. I love travel, sharing information (learning and teaching), experiencing nature, and art and beauty (especially the performing arts). So how can these possibly work into a cohesive lifestyle? After brainstorming with Steve one blissful winter eve, we came up with this: We'll travel about on boats, learning about the places and people we meet, sharing stories, information, skills and technologies while gathering like minded individuals into a flotilla. A strong element in the new vision is the idea that we can create an intentional community on the water. Steve recently wrote of:

"... a self-sufficient technomadic community that has reached a critical mass of skills and tools, and is thus able to respond to changing world situations (or pure whim) by relocating on a global scale."

I would only add to this the vital need for expression. I want to invite and inspire creative artistic expression. I want to "make something" of the experiences we share. What this "something" becomes, will be determined entirely by the individuals who people this community. This doesn't mean one has to have an artist's resume to contribute; we are all creative whether we have honored and acted on it in the past or not. What is important is the willingness to express oneself, to bare the truth, and to bear witness. To take the impressions of a nomadic life and excrete something potent, beautiful and inspiring.

I envision a gypsy-spirited flotilla of information junkies, sailors, songsters, survivalists, geeks and goofballs putting our heads together to make something new. I want a community that travels and creates together, pooling skills and moving toward self sufficiency and the seasteading lifestyle. We have an opportunity to create something that both expresses and demonstrates the freedom of nomadism. We can do more than write or perform about freedom and adventure; we can live it. We can experience it. With experience comes knowledge and understanding, the raft upon which we will cross oceans of ignorance and fear both within ourselves and in our world.

So... while this year is our "shakedown" cruise, time to learn the boat and how to get along on it, next year we can start making the connections to the folks who will fill out our Technomadic Flotilla of Dramanauts. Need some more inspiration? Here are some other folks who found a way to merge art and boating in one way or another. I am sure there are many more too!

Miss Rockaway Armada a crazy bunch artists with a similar dream who floated down the Mississippi creating art and theatre along the way.

Caravan Stage large scale theatrical production from an amazing vessel.

1000 Days at Sea this project isn't exactly a community, but a couple merging, life, art, sailing and spirit. Some inspired blogging too!

And my favorite, a group that sprang from the hearts and minds of the most wonderful, Poppa Neutrino and Captain Betsy. The Floating Neutrinos.

Transformation and Home

2008-08-24T11:49:00.000-07:00

Transitions. Or is it transformation? Can changing one's life circumstances change one's very Being? Or vice versa? I do know that the information I have acquired about sailing over the past few years is crystallizing into understanding that only experience brings. And is that not transformation?

(Cloud over Camano Island)

At one time, for a period between 1991 ad 1998, I actually felt I lived somewhere. I had a relationship to a tiny square of land, a structure (house), and its many contents. My relationship to the world was grounded in my relationship to a house, a garden and, of course, a lover. I believed in "home." When that ended, I began shuffling places, people, interests, lovers and jobs, reinventing myself with every new arrangement of my many "selves." Always chasing some ethereal notion of "home."

I started out life in the desert, on an Indian reservation, where everybody knows exactly where home is, and most don't fall too far from the tree. Yet I have always fantasized the gypsy life. I wanted to wander, travel, see places, meet strangers, and learn for myself the size of this huge small world. I now live with a man who identifies as a nomad; a man who has lived significant portions of his life as wanderer and is preparing for another nomadic adventure. Having uprooted and moved from my job, my friends and my family several times, this round is nothing new. And yet everything is new!

While Steve figures out what he needs to keep, what to sell, what to give away, what to store, what to recycle, and what to do with the remainder of his mountains of stuff, I am able to support his efforts without having my own entanglements to ensnare and slow us down. While he makes his transitions, I am anchorless. Drifting. And perhaps even approaching that deep, beautiful place in the heart where one is unattached yet fully engaged. For Steve it is an attractive feature. For me, it is something that I have worked years preparing for... that fateful moment in which opportunity breezes up, and I bravely let go and step aboard my future. Transforming indeed.

How does it feel? No job security? No safety net? Am I afraid? Yes, I am afraid, but perhaps that is why I am doing it. I always sail straight toward my fears and right on through them to the freedom on the other side. Isn't that what freedom is? Not living our lives reacting to fear, but instead responding to love?

Perhaps the old cliche is true about home and heart. You know the one.

Help! House Angel Wanted

2008-08-15T09:33:00.000-07:00

No, no we are not in trouble, but we do need some help. Our wonderful friend, house angel, and blog queen dearie, Polydora, must return to her Arkansas life at the end of the month. We had another friend lined up to stay at the house for September, but that arrangement has fallen through. So we are seeking somebody to look after the homestead for a few (3-5) weeks, feed Java the Cat, collect mail, and watch the forest grow. Lots of perks. Dates are flexible. If you are interested or know of somebody, please comment and leave your email. I will not publish the comment, so it will be private. Thanks for keeping us afloat.

Poem for Port Hadlock

2008-08-12T10:50:00.000-07:00

last night the masts danced for the moon
tried holding her for a moment
then let her go to the wind
but she always came round
to tickle nomadness again

this morning mist woke the bay
with a soft wet kiss
teasing the little boats
who bob between light and night
she held back the sun
with her thick foggy tongue
and licked the sleep from our eyes

(Port Hadlock)

Otter play

2008-08-11T17:25:00.000-07:00

Found this playful young otter on the docks at Port Ludlow. He is well known there by the staff who clean up after him at least once a day and have tagged him with an appropriate nickname.

Two summers ago at Port Hadlock I had the good fortune of seeing sixteen sea otters. A very rare sight. The sea otter was hunted to extinction in Washington nearly a hundred years ago for their fur which was "all the rage," as they say. Later, in the 1970’s, conservationists reintroduced sea otters from Alaskan populations. They have reclaimed these shorelines and are surely thankful for the clean water here.

This little fellow is more likely the common river otter which seem to enjoy the salt water shallows.

I haven't really mastered the video thing yet, but thought I'd give it a go. I hope to do more video work as we travel about, but there is quite a learning curve to overcome.

Leaving Port Ludlow

2008-08-11T13:02:00.000-07:00

We had a great stay in Port Ludlow in spite of having holes drilled into both the hull and deck and a huge compartment cut into the V-berth stowage (all for the great freedom of pooing aboard). Though we cringed as Bob of First Mate Marine broke bits while drilling, we enjoyed seeing the thickness of the steel. Wow! This baby is stout!

Here are some of the local folks we met:

Cragin and Gary of Estacada, Oregon aboard La Cragin are a delightful couple, who grow Christmas trees on 500 acres, and more like sailors than power boaters, so we got along just fine. Gary talked about their 4 foot draft and 7 knot cruising speed. "What's the hurry, anyway. You might as well enjoy the ride, right?" he asked with a grin. Now that's my kind of power boating!

Judy and Eugene sailed into Port Ludlow from Portland, Oregon aboard Cloud Dancer, fourteen years ago and just stayed. Judy asked "How many times have you been up there?" as she pointed to the top of the mast. I admitted that I had not yet ventured the sixty feet up due to fear of heights. "I'm trying to overcome it though," I said squinting up at the antenna on top. Then she told me tales of chartering boats, cutting down sails in gales, and the calm of dawn on in the middle of the Pacific. They both assured me, "Nomadness will take you anywhere you want to go." They seemed to enjoy sharing with a newcomer and seeing the gleam in my eye when I spoke of world cruising. It is so inspirational to meet older couples who are fit and strong and still learning every day.

(Click to enlarge any photo)

Cindy and John, both physical therapists, offered helpful tips for dealing with Steve's chronic back pain, but left for Princess Louisa with their lovely daughter, Journey, aboard Namaste before we could snap a picture.

Believe it or not, the most fun was had with a couple of landlubbers. Ray is a ham who has been following Steve's adventures since the bicycle days. He and his wife Nancy came down to the marina to meet Steve and see Nomadness. A couple of nights later we went into Port Townsend to see a fantastic sitar concert in a United Methodist church. "Music of Benares" featured Pandit Shivnath Mishra and his son Deobrat Mishra both on sitar. It was a real treat. I think I needed a healing experience to balance all the disruption of the previous week.

Self Observation and The Yachting Life

2008-08-09T13:39:00.000-07:00

“Your husband gave us a tour of your boat last night; she’s beautiful and appears very capable. And I love your bathtub,” the redhead said eyeing their custom figurehead and swinging gently from the forestay.

“I know. It is just wonderful. We put in a new water heater recently. I need a lot of hot water. We have a washer/dryer too, you know,” replied the woman on the dock, as she sipped at her Scotch.

“Really? We have a washer/dryer too!” she responded, remembering not to mention that they had not yet tried it out. Her mini skirt fluttered in the breeze. The woman below raised her cocktail in solidarity.

This was one of those moments. The instant in which I do not relate to myself as my self, but rather objectively, as though watching a character in a movie. The “she” in the story was, in fact, me. I have made efforts to observe myself objectively for years, attempting to consciously create moments such as this one. I have struggled, usually without success, to be non-identified, to study my thoughts and behaviors in an analytical way. Detached yet present. In the aforementioned moment, I achieved this. So blatantly absurd in relation to the rest of my life was this moment, that the possibility of not “seeing” myself vanished. Who was this 44 year old woman aboard a 44’ sailboat, chatting it up and comparing amenities with another yachtie? Certainly nobody I recognized or identified as “me.” This particular I (one of many) is one I never dreamed I would become. And the rest of my I's seem to like her. She’s odd. Unexpected. Entertaining. The culmination of events that led me here could never have been predicted by a past incarnation of "me" much less be guessed by any outside observer. My path through the obstacle course of life has been erratic and roundabout, punctuated with adventures and misadventures, broken bones and broken hearts, and a few short periods of calm in which very little occurred at all.

I once heard of a society which views their orientation to time as backwards from ours; they face the past and move into the future without seeing where they are going. They know where they have been, but what lies ahead is always a mystery. I think this may be correct. I never could have seen this life, this person, coming! And yet, somehow I am inevitably exactly who I have always been, as unreal as it may seem sometimes.

In reality, we are ripping the forepeak of the boat apart for installation of a new holding tank while docked in Port Ludlow, a beautiful harbor with a friendly marina. Herons abound, the water is clean, clear, and filled with thousands of little fishies. We spend the evenings watching boats come and go from the anchorage, and the marina regulars are charming and helpful.

The first photo is of Enchantress, a 49’ Liberty sloop owned by Myndi Morgan and Steve Cross. The heron, who is owned by no one, is the self-assigned sentinel of the kayak dock.

PS: If anybody knows of the culture I refer to (which escapes me at the moment) please respond. I’d love to refresh my information bank. That tidbit came from a musty old catalog card from the farback of my memory.

Travel Update

2008-08-05T11:15:00.000-07:00

We've been moving around a lot this week, so what follows is a general update of our journey.

After several days in Boston Harbor, we left Wednesday morning for a bit of South Sound exploring . It was warm and calm, so we wound up motoring up to Jarrell's Cove on the northern end of Hartstene Island. The State Marine Park lines one shore and a private marina the other. We snagged one of the many buoys and avoided the power boaters on the two park floats. We intended to kayak the long clear fingers of the inlet, but a very low (-3) tide left the ends dry, so we took the dinghy for a row and spent the rest of the night enjoying the still, still quiet.

Thursday evening we joined my library mates for a BBQ at Patty's waterfront house. Late that night Raina drove us back to the marina. Though it was raining and rather cold (damn will summer ever settle in?!) Raina braved the dinghy ride to come aboard for drink and some philosophizing.

Friday morning we took off with Boston Harbor as our destination where we needed to pick up a couple gauges that had been shipped in for the fuel filters. Much to our surprise we hit some 20 -25 knot winds in Case Inlet and our first real taste of sailing! Steve delighted me by letting me have a go at handling Nomadness under some gusty conditions. I loved it! She sails like a dream, heels gently and remains steady at 7 knots. The winds were a bit squirrelly requiring close attention, but the water was amazingly smooth, no chop at all. Even with my novice clumsiness, she held nearly 4 knots through tacks and kicked up her heels right away.

We decided to furl in the sails upon entering the narrow and busier Dana Passage because we wanted to practice pulling them in under some load. The jib furled in easily just like it is supposed to. Before bringing in the main, Steve decided to start the motor in case we needed some power to keep her pointed up wind and went below to do so. I held the helm waiting... nothing. "Steve, is everything ok?" No response. I saw him opening the engine compartment--never a good sign. Then he popped up to say, "There's nothing. Nothing. Not even a click." Very quickly I assessed our position to the lee shore, the wind direction, our speed, the depth. I determined I could tack and keep us sailing under the main for quite awhile if need be. "We're ok," I called. "No, we're not. The engine won't start," he replied. I assured him all was well outside, and he had time to figure out the problem.

Steve fiddled with the fuel solenoid which has stuck in the off position before, but that wasn't the problem. He checked connectors, batteries and whatever else he could think of that might inhibit power. No luck. He threw all the breakers and tried again. Vrooom! She started. Probably just a coincidence, but at least she was running. We brought in the main and motored the last mile or so back to Boston Harbor. After circling a couple times, Steve docked without incident.

The Marina was hosting a BBQ so we joined the locals for a bite and beer as the winds died out and the sun set behind the Olympic Mountains. It had been a great day. "We survived another one," Steve proclaimed is his usual dramanautical way. Another party ensued with Scotty, Chuck, Suzanne, Raina (who came back for more), Kelly, and young Rebecca aboard. Tales were told and spirits consumed.

Saturday we headed out early with tide under sunny skies and cruised through the Tacoma Narrows at 9 knots. We arrived in Eagle Harbor early evening and grabbed the linear buoy again.

Steve met up with his geek comrades, Dave Warman and Charlie Faddis, while I went to the Lynnwood Theatre and saw "Roman De Gare" a french thriller by director, Claude Lelouch. 'Twas exactly what I needed, thanks TJ! Since I do intend to actually write screenplays, I better get out to the cinema once in awhile.

Sunday we sailed in light winds around Elliott Bay dodging ferries in slowmo and generally having a great day sailing up to 7 knots in light wind!

Steve did some nice maneuvering to get us docked and proved that this big girl will back up if you give her enough thrust. (Like any ole stubborn gal, I guess!) Currently, we are in Shilshole Marina. Sean, our cheerful and capable mechanic from Hatton Marine has just arrived to put the injectors back in. Woo hoo! We'll be back on the water in no time, and without that embarrassing smokey exhaust problem.

Cormorants

2008-08-04T19:15:00.001-07:00

Although very common, there is nothing ordinary about these magnificent dark birds. They are excellent fishers and highly adaptable. They are said to have a penchant for vomiting when threatened. (I have considered using this method myself, but luckily, it has been a long time since I have felt threatened!) People blame cormorants for declining fish populations; these long necked black birds are the bane of fish farms everywhere.

I found this elegant bunch lounging about in the trees around Eagle Harbor.

What interests me is that here, in America, fishermen and aquaculturists shoot cormorants or employ other lethal methods of taking out the competition they sometimes refer to as "the black plague." Meanwhile conservationists boast the increase in populations of a species previously on the brink of extinction. They are the topic of much controversy in Europe as well, and each nation seems to have their own attitude about the bird. A good article has been published by the Science Daily about the varying approaches to these birds.

In China, however there is a traditional method of fishing that claims one good cormorant can feed an entire family. At night, fishermen shine lights over the water to attract fish to the surface, then use a cormorant tethered by a ring around its neck to catch the fish. Because of the ring, the bird cannot swallow and thus spits up the fish whole. After enough fish have been caught for the night, the fishermen release the noose and let the birds eat. It must be quite a sight to see these men navigating their bamboo boats at night across the water, with the great black birds perched on their boats awaiting the signal to dive!

And as for fish farming, it seems, like many profitable endeavors, a good idea has turned into a disaster. I am currently reading "Bottomfeeder: How to Eat Ethically in a World of Vanishing Seafood" by Taras Grescoe. Eye opening! He addresses health, ecological, social, and ethical issues surrounding the food we eat and how it gets to our tables. In one example, he sites a case where a single piece of salmon traveled over 22,000 miles before making it to a dinner plate! If you love seafood and want to make informed choices, I highly recommend this book.

The Great Dane and Other Salty Dogs!

2008-07-30T09:04:00.000-07:00

Since I got my first post up, I have already had questions about my corgi pooch, the sweet, sweet, loyal and multi-talented Diamond Lily.

Unfortunately and quite sadly, I have had to leave her on land. At 14, though spry as ever, she simply is not up for the seafaring life. She now lives with a best friend, Suzanne, her toddler, Basi, and a trembling little fox terrier named Bellaboo.

I have cried endless tears over leaving her, but the Lilster is happy with her family in Boston Harbor. At the marina store they call her by name where is known as Lily Langtree and seems to have evolved a life of her own as just another one of the colorful characters.

Speaking of colorful characters, we have met a few of them on the docks of the ports we have visited. In Eagle Harbor, Bainbridge Island we hobnobbed with the ever interesting inventor, Charlie Faddis and his wife, TJ who runs the Historic Lynnwood Theatre, and their extended family. And there was Rich, the salty live aboard on the strangest, yet most elegant ferrocement ketch I've ever seen. He had many tips on docking "a big girl." For couples he had the following advice, "You put the woman at the helm. She usually has a better driving record, and she's rarely strong enough to catch the boat on a dock. Let the more athletic man do the hard physical stuff." Good sound advice, however, I am no where near ready to drive this giant 18 ton steel womb into a marina full of fancy schmancy yachts! Hey, I'll even flash my titties (if need be) to get the dock angels to materialize and help catch our lines, but I'm not driving. Nope. Not yet anyway. In time. For now I am content to blow kisses from the bow to those who help us make it in or out without involving insurance companies. This boat seems to be a real challenge to back up. Bow thrusters, as decadent as they may have seemed to me in the past, sound a bit more reasonable with each close call.

The most delightful fellow thus far was Scotty, the seventy something grinning dock walker who appeared to expertly catch our lines and pull us in against the winds of Boston Harbor. He's a regular there, and knew of our arrival even prior to our VHF call to the marina. He claimed a girl with a couple of little doggies (Suzanne) told him to watch for a big black sailboat. Before we had finished cleating Nomadness to the dock, Steve asked if maybe we should haul her back to take up less space. You know, as a courtesy to other boaters? We didn't want to be the assholes who take up two parking spots. To this Scotty replied in his thick, melodic accent, "They mess around with the chihuahuas and move them about, but they won't mess with the Great Dane. And in this circumstance, I'd say you are the Great Dane!" And he was right. In fact when my pal, Jib, called to say he was doing a sail by, he commented, "Damn, girl, you've got the biggest mast in the Harbor!" To which I quipped, "I know."

We have a running joke about Nomadness being "The Great Dane."

Now a dachshund non sequitur.

These are Max and Teddy, companions to Steve and Tammy, a sailing couple who took their 50' ketch Skybird three quarters the way around the world. Tammy has a book out about the adventures and new blog too. They live in Boston Harbor.

Agile as Cats

2008-07-29T23:07:00.000-07:00

Something I have noticed in comparing my life on land to my new life on the water, as well as the observations I've made of others, has to do with degrees of awareness and levels of stress. In my land life, when stress climbed higher, my level of awareness often waned. As somebody striving to be health conscious and as somebody in the Work, I make efforts to lower stress and raise awareness. I was often caught in my worries about bills or romance dramas or... you name it.

Now I am noticing that life on a boat facilitates the lowering of stress and fosters greater awareness naturally. On the water one has to be vigilant even in calm times; there are so many things that can hurt you, so many things that can go wrong in the blink of an eye, something new to learn every day and so much breathtaking beauty to behold, that one's awareness becomes keener by the day. You can see this awareness in the movements of sailors. Sure, they may be hunched up from lack of headroom, or swagger from the habitual adjustments to the motion of a rolling deck, but they never waste a movement or expend more energy than needed. In other words, they are aware of themselves and their surroundings. And good sailors never hurry, they know they have time.

Sailing seems to melt stress away. Stress arises from focusing on what might happen. When one is fully engaged in what is happening there is little space in consciousness for projection into the uncertain future. I think this is why sailors often have a aura of health about them and even the old salts who sometimes drink way too much, seem to be sharp as tacks and agile as cats.

The Adventure Begins

2008-07-29T10:32:00.000-07:00

Well, well, swell. At long last I have set sail aboard the s/v Nomadness in search of my strange new life and live new strangers and new reasons to laugh in spite of the terror of the situation. My able and brilliant partner, Steve Roberts, has provided the substrate for our journey in the form of an 18 ton raised pilothouse steel sailboat.

I abandoned my land based life of librarianship about six months ago and took the plunge into what I've come to know as the technomadic lifestyle. It is true what they say about having to let go of something to be ready to grasp the next opportunity. Ask a trapeze artist, they'll tell you.

It is twelve days now since we motored out the Swinomish Channel and left the chic but cold little town of Laconner in our wake. We have traveled a mere 120 miles, but already the list of new friends and accounts of harrowing experiences is filling pages of my journal. (Thanks, Patty--I'm finally using it!)

This space will be used to log my inner and outer journey, share our experiences through words and pictures, and allow friends and family to track our geographical journey. For those who know me, the choice of title for this blog will seem natural, I have a flair for the dramatic having spent years doing avant garde theatre and running a performance space. A couple years ago I discovered sailing and something very deep and long asleep awoke and demanded attention. "Take to the water" the voice whispered. I thought it over. I love to travel but hate cars and planes; I love being in nature, but need socializing. I love solitude but despise routine. Ahh... the cruising life suits me well. And for the first time in my life, I will have the time and space to write. Not to mention an endless flotsam and jetsam of material and colorful characters to people my stories and ignite the imagination.

Today I write from Boston Harbor, a darling, home-towney little marina just north of Olympia which is the southernmost tip of the Puget Sound and my home on and off since 1983. From here we travel north to Seattle for some engine maintenance (diesel injectors for those who care) then on to Port Townsend for some plumbing upgrades (don't ask, but if you must know the gritty details visit Steve's Nomadness blog where he discusses all aspects technical). We'll probably crash the Latitudes and Attitudes party and once the hangover is over, we'll head north into the wilds of British Columbia, so stay tuned good people, the adventure is beginning...