Marooned in Charleston

Charleston Battery

Jimmy Buffet’s “A pirate looks at 40” is becoming my all to cliché theme song ever since I left Black Beards old stomping ground of Cape Fear NC and landed in Charleston.  Yes I am a pirate, 200 years too late, the cannons don’t thunder there is nothing to plunder…..arriving too late, arriving too late and the feeling I felt when entering Charleston on my bucket list quest to do the “Charleston in Charleston”. Only off by 80 years, its long been forgotten. When mentioned on the street people look at you with blank faces as if they have no idea what you are talking about. I guess that’s the natural progression of things, out with the old and in with the new. Although I don’t think that Boston will ever forget the Boston Massacre and to add a parallel to dancing the Charleston in many areas of Boston you will get the same look if you mention the Great Molasses Flood that killed 4 times more people and injured 25 times more than the Massacre did. Great Molasses what? No biggie if you are not that polished on your history all you need to know is that in 1915 a massive molasses tank exploded in the North End causing a tsunami size wave to rip down the streets at 35 mph taking out everything in its path. It was one stickie mess to clean up, taking 87,000 man hours and leaving Boston Harbor brown for 6 months.  If you ever are in the North End on a hot summer’s day, the smell you smell isn’t some old Italian women baking cookies, its 100 year old embedded molasses. Moving back to dancing in Charleston, one old man said it best when he looked at me and said “At my age doing the Charleston consists of me going down town once a week with my lady, walking through the shops, the market and grabbing a bite at one of the cities restaurants”. Normally I would be disappointed but it’s kind of hard to hate the city for modernizing its cultural trends all the while maintaining its architectural history. If you are a shopper or a foodie this should be on your destination list. As always I hit Charleston in my own Anthony Bourdain-ian style of approaching everyplace I visit looking for those cultural food and drinks that are regionally based and although found globally their true essence is authentically found in one spot. Here its shrimp and grits a dish that goes to the top of my favorite list and have also found some other smaller “you can only get it around here” hits like the boiled peanut (said byl peanit), fried pickle (better than what you get at the fair once a year) and sampling a little moon shine.  Southern Sam I am becoming but no fear no matter how much time I spend in the south I will never become a NASCAR fan, like Duke Basketball or get a confederate flag tattoo. Really I am ready to move on but am stuck waiting on engine parts…If you are ever stuck, Charleston is a good place to be marooned.

I am hoping to explore a lot more of Charleston before I go in a week or so.

Boston Below

Taking the 1920's by storm, Rhett rolls into town, Real Rednecks and Holding Fast.

Do they dance the Charleston in Charleston anymore? A question I am planning on answering tonight. Starting my quest with pre-prohibition era hand crafted cocktails at Sips, a small plate comparison between two supper clubs and rounding out the night with Jazz at High Cotton. After a long few days getting here I stepped onto the dock and was greeted by an ebony colored standard poodle. A good omen that once again proves I am in the right place at the right time. I booked a week here but can see why one would fall in love here, stay in love here, buy a house, have children and stay forever. Yesterday afternoon I rode my bike down and got a haircut and a straight razor shave from a real barber, bringing civilization back to my savage styled last 4 days, followed by a strong Irish whisky at the oldest bar in town. I wonder if Rhett Butler would have had a drink here, wiping his mouth on the curtains when he was done, punching a man or two to defend his honor from shifty glances and taking at least 3 ladies home after setting fire to the place. After all there is only one Ms. Scarlett….and no one puts baby in the corner. You have to love his Southern style, Rebel spirit and zeal for life. It’s not like I haven’t had a run in with the local Sheriff already, who after spotting my Northern ways stopped me as I was pulling in.  Ever see the beginning of First Blood. Opening fire on my northern ship like Citadel cadets opening fire on the Union ship “Star of the west” in an act of the Civil war, I was boarded. Found free and clear of any contra band and once again making new friends I moved on into the City Marina. I can’t blame them for stopping me, having run the boat high and hard the day before and tired to the bone, I and the boat looked like we had been flipped upside down, which we were.

    I want to thank everyone who takes the time to read this and support me. I am sorry if I have been slow with updates which are not due to a lack of material but more do to so much going on. Life on the water is completely unpredictable and new every day. Every morning when I wake up I get sucked right into the current that moves these waters and now my life. 

When I got to Wrightsville beach a week ago a friend said to me “be careful these docks have Velcro, we stopped for 2 nights and 21 days later we are leaving”.  I said “one night and I am on the road” 5 days later I left. On Saturday I caught up with an old friend Chris, his family and my old Admin in Wilmington (the town next door), having fun dinners, telling old stories, getting caught up on the new and exploring the town, working hard to check off a list of “must see” given to me by another buddy Brandon who use to live there and true to his word steered us through the Barbary course of fun times and cool places. Although the most adventure we had was a new Trader Joes that just opened in town (there aren’t any in the south) and its reputation preceded it with traffic, manned by police, stretching  around 6 blocks. After Chris dropped us off and headed to Rite Aid to get a new Taylor Swift poster for his office ;) we walked through the hostile parking lot of people who were taking getting their holiday case of Two Buck Chuck as a life quest. (**side note, people south of Maryland don’t care if you are a pedestrian or on a bike. If you are in a cross walk and on foot it’s not their problem silly; get a car**) Once inside it was fun showing Anne all the cool stuff that they have and stocking up on my favorite dark chocolate bars which is the only sweet I carry on board. $150 bucks later I walked out with enough food for, once again, a mission to mars, posing a new problem. How do I get this back to the car. Thank You to the TJ associate who walked us out to the car that was 2 streets over. Cool thing about TJ’s associates, you don’t need to tip them, just spend a min talking about how cool their 300 tats and 12 piercings are. If you don’t know what I am talking about….you have never been to TJ’s.

In the days that followed I met so many new friends in Wrightsville. On Tuesday I went out onto the water for a perfect day. Fishing over a wreck where we could see the bottom and the fish, we caught everything from a puffer to sharks and a prize porgy. When we caught our fill headed to Carolina Beach for a late lunch among the million dollar boats and 2 dollar rednecks, catching my first up close  glimpse of the real thing. And this is where I call people out. Tim Lind, Alicia, Sarah, Cheryl, JD and Dad….you are not real rednecks. (Even you Dan D ….Rednecks don’t fly around in Gulf Streams and deal with misbehaved third world politicians, you may have an accent and can skin a buck in 20 min flat…but) For a while I was convinced that you were, but now realizing that you embody the American spirit and action but no matter how much you go to stage coach, country thunder or how big your boots are, you have no idea what a true southern redneck is until you see one in the wild. That and you are all to pretty. I love the North Carolina accent, its smooth, rolls and not snotty like South Carolina’s, but found out that you can’t understand real rednecks!  Coming in off the water in their boats covered in branches and grass so thick that it really looks like a piece of land, rifles a shot gun and a forty five sticking out from the side, usually with some sort of kill under tarp, they are friendly, talkative, laugh a lot and you have no idea what the heck they are saying. I just do what I always do with any indigenous people: smile shaking my head up and down and follow Earnest Hemmingway’s advice on dealing with Latin culture from For Whom the Bell Tolls : Offering the men Tobacco and leave the women alone. While heading down the ICW I was startled by guns being shot on shore 100 yards from me, with 3 gun men and dogs chasing a dear, all along I was thinking “hey guys…ummm I am here, right friggin next to you”, half ducking half wanting to see.

Damn Yankees….no wonder it took you 4 of the 5 years of the Civil War to take Charleston leaving it to men like Rhett to take. The waterways are like a maze with beauty that lulls you into a false since of surreal living. If the gators don’t get you, know that the tides rip stronger than anything I have ever seen , and if all that doesn’t get you the sand bars will. Now back to my grounding. After a night of sitting on anchor in a small creek among miles of golden grass where once dark I screamed with excitement and a spot light as gators jumped and made crazy sounds in a feeding frenzy all around, I got up early to make my final 30 mile march on Charleston. In a misty morning I snapped a few pics fired the engine and headed into the ICW. Within a mile I was cruising mid channel and hit an unmarked shoal, unable to back off with the tide dropping quickly, I knew I was stuck. Quickly I called back to Venture who was just about to leave anchor and draws more water than me to stay put. After sitting there for 45 min the boat was laying enough on its side that I could start cleaning it form the dink and at a certain point I wanted to get into the now one foot of water in order to do a better job. As I stepped on the rail of the dink I noticed that I cut my foot somewhere in the chaos and watched the blood run into the water, my survival skills kicking in as visions of gators from a mile around hitting the water upon smelling my blood caused me to jump back into the dink (And I never thought I learned anything from watching Croc Dundee.) after an hour Vic and Susie showed up in there dink to help. We spend the next 5 hours stringing lines to keep the boat from being pushed further into shore in the heavy winds and current potentially making it impossible to get off. It was  a hard day and I want to thank them for all their help…looking back we actually had a lot of fun. That night I went down for the count by sundown.

I love living a life that you can’t buy. And I only told you ¼ of the story.  

Hernan the Conquistador, foul play in the Canadian Monarchy and a friend of Sean Penn's

One afternoon I stopped by an expedition styled motorsailer in my dinghy to find out the story of this interesting looking boat. Standing on the transom steps stood Robert. In his early 50’s, hair dyed to its original black, fit, with an ex-military feel, he was friendly and invited me aboard.  Sitting on the back deck he told me a wild story of mystery and foul play surrounding the boats original Canadian owner and “Heir to the Seagram’s fortune”, how he acquired her in Monaco in 1982 and his expeditions since. You don’t have to know every line in the God Father to know that anyone who is given something because someone owned them money, it wasn’t a good thing. The inside of the boat was dark and creepy. Strange tribal masks and odds from around the world hung with no pattern on the walls. With authority he talked more about his experiences, his trials at sea, diving for treasure, fighting pirates….. and……and …..his eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to remember where he was, who I was….. his mind started to skip…..his stories…. started,started,started getting stranger. Clearly he was only playing with half a deck, but when he told me he knew where Cortez’s lost fleet was, his master plan to secretly excavate its treasure and smuggle it out of South America, I knew he was only a quarter there.  My guess is that somewhere in his life he probably knew Pablo Escobar and broke the cardinal rule of trafficking; sampling his cargo along the way.

Starting up the dinghy he untied my lines and said “you should come back later and have a drink”.  "No, I dont think so. I already have my story", I thought. But apparently "Sean Penn" has already bought the movie rights.

USCG photo take while rescuing Robert off Cape Hatteras.  

 

 

 

 

In a world of Dragons

Through a series of storms and gales, waterways and gators I find myself in the shrimping town of Oriental and deeply in love with North Carolina. I understand now why James Taylor sang “In my mind I’m going to Carolina, can you see the sunshine, can’t you just feel the moonshine…” A song written about a mental escape he took while signing his largest record deal in London, when the pressure caused him to hit his boiling point he went to his childhood home in his mind. I get it, seeing more changing beauty in the last week than some see in a life time. Its hard to write about what I have seen or done, I simply don’t have the capacity or ability to translate it to paper. Same with taking pictures, which I love to do but most of the time I don’t since the only way to capture this or share it with you would cause you to have to stand next to me. If you did, you would never regret it. Words and books can expand your world, take you places, make you feel, but remember no matter how good the picture or how powerful the words, all those thoughts are synthesized.
 

Sitting in the corner of the local coffee house, ordained with oriental dragons and standing room only I feel lucky to have a seat. Across the street the shrimp fleet sits proud on inky black water, birds sit lazily on the pilings, three dogs sit on the porch waiting for their owners to drink up and get going. Every ten minutes or so one in particular climbs up on the table at the window and knocks on the glass, gives her master a look then climbs down. I guess he isn’t moving fast enough for her this morning. The “bean” is the crossroads where cruising sailors, watermen and locals collide. A bumper sticker on the register reads, I (heart) my Barista. My guess is it was stuck there by a Seattle sailor as some sort of homage, I am sure a barista somewhere in Pikes is feeling the love but not here, barista is a foreign word. Behind the counter stands pure southern charm and humor. A man walks in an says to the girl, “darling do you have a potty mouth?”. “Sometimes” she says and smiles, “when I drink too much coffee, but I guess you’re lucky since I am the nice one”. “Well then I will have a coffee since you are being so nice” I am more than sure they know each other, heck I have been here two days and already know everyone (Proven!! As I was writing this a woman walks in and says “I have a question for everyone. Does anyone have Jessie Edwards phone number?” She had it two seconds later)  I am quickly finding that there is only 2 degrees of separation between everyone. It is a bit surprising that I was almost kidnapped last night. That story I will save for a book.

In many ways I don’t want to leave. There is a smooth pace here that is tranquil. I have been offered a free dock but don’t want to take it. Anchored up a creek that is so still you can see a leaf drop by the shore and watch the water ripples run to the bay, where my morning views are heart stopping and the night so still it takes me to the deepest parts of sleep. When I got here, I carefully made my way up the creek and picked a suitable spot in front of a nice house and dropped anchor. After getting settled I called a long time friend and Oriental resident RC Clements. “Where are you” he asked……..”oh your anchored in front of my house” . I couldn’t have picked a better spot if I tried.

No editing was done to this image. This is what I say when I woke up this morning.

For those of you who do not know, I am on the ICW (intercostal water way). Think of it as a water highway that runs inland through bays, rivers, creeks, swamps, lakes and canals, stretching and winding from New Jersey to Key West. As soon as you set adrift on the ICW you become a part of a family of transient boaters from all over the world that are there to help you in every way. Usually you meet these people in a said town or anchorage, having dinner together, coffee, cocktails or just talking. Most have no idea where they are going, some Columbia, others Australia, Panama, Key West and some have to go home soon. You make connections exchange info.  In the morning you will leave and head here or there and they go their own way, sometimes you go together. Usually you run into each other days later and get together again. In just a few weeks I have met everyone from bikers to Brits, adventurers to 20 something’s escaping corporate life and yes a ton of Canadians. It’s really cool and the stories you hear make it even more worthwhile.  From here, there are a few must see’s en route, but most of us are gunning for Charleston SC, A: because its charming as hell B: its warm. The 27*f/-3*c  nights are rough.

 

 

For additional photos please view my facebook http://www.facebook.com/james.munsey.5 

 

 

I recently read on a fellow travelers FB a post that said. Our time on this planet is limited, yet most of us live like we will be here forever. Better get cracking.  

 

 

 

And like that, I was gone.

 

Growing up my dad always fixed and maintained his own equipment, this use to boggle my mind, why would he want to crawl under the car and change the oil when he could hit Jiffy lube for a 20 spot, or get your brakes done at Wal-Mart for short change. The problem wasnt that he maintained his own stuff the problem was I had to help and would have to sit there handing him tools when he needed it, point a flash light, and read his friggin mind. After all when your dad says hand me that thing and the other whatcha~ma~call~it or shine the light you have to know what and where. Lord forbid he would actually have to ask for a tool by name or be specific about where to shine the light. This drove my brother and I crazy as kids, and oddly enough today when I am wrenching on something with my brother Dan he will say to me, “grab me a socket wrench”, but not say the size or I will say “hand me a screw driver…..”I guess the apple never falls to far from the tree, proving once again that evolution does exist, well at least with my brother and I  “progressing” over our father and being able to ask for a tool by at least its phylum versus our dads categorization by genus or telepathy. I would always complain to my dad for waisting my Saturday and his answer was always the same, “James you need to know how to fix stuff because you never know”. That never meant much to me since I had developed the skill and yes would still take my car in most of the time to have work done. In  New Jersey it was obvious who knew how to fix stuff and who didn’t. In a catastrophe it’s up to you. I saw three guys plug two holes in a tire in the middle of the street (seriously when was the last time you saw someone plug a tire?), rig a HD antenna to a roof with a rake and some ducktape, get a cranky old diesel engine started that was flooded, keep generators running around the clock, fix all areas of the home that were damaged from plumbing to electrical, to carpentry to pure demolition. Without these skills things would have been tough and comfort would have been near impossible. When all fails it doesn’t matter how well you can work it, if you don’t know how it fix it you’re in trouble. Its amazing to me how many kids now days have never changed a tire, a sparkplug or even an air filter!   

When the water killed the Rover Dan Dunn knew his his generator was next.
In the middle of a hurricane, Dan jumped on the hood and pulled the genny up
on the hood to keep it from flooding. For that I would like to dedicate, to this
Virginian, Country folk will survive by Hank Williams Jr.

I have so much to say about NJ and I would write more about it but it’s still filtering through my mind; it was a lot to processes and I am having trouble starting to write again (so forgive me since this is a bit scattered). When I got to NJ it was like candy land along the shore and when I left it was like Gulliver had step all over the game board. Everything was wrecked.

Adams street. Crossing that line would be like a scab crossing a picket
in 1930.

Saturday I was finally able to leave. Pulling out on to the river I got ahead of my guide boat, which was full of new friends and some old who were seeing me off and helping me navigate the lost channel out to sea. We were just pulling out of Adam and Terry’s canal,  I was lazily  putting on my sea boots since I thought I was in the channel and I got stuck fast in the mud. Only half complete with putting on my boots I was running around getting lines ready to get pulled off and only had one boot on. This fearless man of the sea is far from perfect. I want to take a min and thank Melanie Dunn for photographing the moment. I am sure she will be debuting those photos on FB soon….and if she does there will be no Christmas card from me to the Dunn Family this year. Not that I was going to send one anyways, lets be real thanks to FB I don’t even send B-day cards anymore….why….when I can write on your wall “Have a good one, what a “special” day .  Thinking about it, it actually works so well I don’t even have to call anymore….something’s are said better over text anyway. ;)

Happy Birthday John Beverage. I hope you read my blog or you will have no idea that I even cared enough to say happy birthday.

Hitting the open sea gave me a feeling of a parakeet who cage was left open ( I know it’s a bad analogy; feathers would be everywhere and I would have kids trying desperately to save me and put me back into captivity) Let me try again. Hitting the open sea gave me a feeling of water flowing down a stream…nope sounds like John Denver wrote that. It gave me a feeling of soaring like an eagle..ahhh (to Disney or Bet Midler; take your pick)….how about it was a relief… it was time for me to go, get down the road and continue my journey. Within about an hour of hitting the open ocean it was dark and I settled in for a night on the water. Snug in the cabin I made dinner while listening to Latin music from New York. About every 15 min I would pop my head out of the hatch check that the auto pilot was keeping the correct course,  that everything was running smooth and most importantly there were no ships. When I got tired I would sleep for 20min then wake up, make adjustments and then go back to sleep for another 20 min…..Around day break I was happy that I was making such good time with the steady wind and flat sea. In 24 hrs. I would be on mark to cross the Gulf Stream and on to Bermuda. At around 9 am I came across the largest freighter I have ever seen, having spotted him early I made course adjustments to give a wide berth. Soon I was moving away from him. I went down below and started working on a pump that needed to be rebuilt. When you are at sea for a long period of time you develop a rhythm with the boat and the ocean that is so strong that if it goes out of sync you know it, even if you are asleep it will wake you up. While working on the pump I got this feeling and popped on deck to find I was headed right back at the freighter, glancing at the compass, which was spinning like roulette wheel, I found myself turning around….my auto pilot had broken.  

 

Peters Self steering system hooked up.

This was a hard hit, it’s like losing your only other crew member over board and would now require me to sit at the helm unable to leave it until I got to port which was 20 hrs away. It took me a solid hour to come up with a solution. Last summer a friend of mine Peter showed me an old world method of self-steering a boat that uses a series of lines, bungee and pulleys connected to the sails to steer the boat to a given wind angle. (I won’t bore you here with details).The problem was that I had only some of the stuff that Peter had given me, but not all of it and I was gray on how he actually did it. With a little trial and error I had it up and running in 20 min and set a course for Ocean City Maryland. Amazingly with only 1 adjustment to this system I sailed right to the Ocean City light in just under 20 hrs.  It was one of my finest sails ever.

Ocean City MD

Today I have my new auto pilot and am ready to leave. This morning when I hit the inlet it was breaking surf 4-6 (there isn’t supposed to be any surf at all) and is simply stupid to try to cross. So here I sit, the temperature dropping and friends waiting in Bermuda for me. The forecast says I will be able to get out in the early morning….cross your fingers. Nothing I have planned on this trip has happened….but I am finding out that life simply taking me where it wants and what has made this such an amazing adventure so far.

 

It’s hard to believe that I left a month ago.

Phase II the lock down.

 

 

In the movie Casablanca the nightly curfew slowed the action at Rick Café American from escapee aristocrats holding on to their last few minutes of fame, into the dribble of Casablanca’s underworld. Casablanca’s curfew signaled the time when Victor Lazlo met and lead his free French, Bugatti bought and sold his visas. It was after “lights out” that the start of the cat and mouse games trafficking people into the free world began and the time for all the other activity that need to occur in the dark to occur. For us 7pm is the curfew which is heavily enforced as well as daytime lockdowns so stiff in some areas you need paperwork endorsed by Eisenhower himself if you are going to pass. Sadly there is looting going on. Travel in to help those in need or to see what’s around you is impossible if you don’t have ID pertaining to where you want to go or a VERY convincing reason for traveling to a destination; Jersey cops are some of the most skeptical people in the world. This poses a problem for me as I am a resident of New Hampshire; I am foreign and in question everywhere.

For a minute I ask you to close your eyes and imagine yourself in bed with your family asleep, your world around in tatters, there is no heat, no light and unsafe water.  Outside your house are stacks of carpet, furniture and junk on the lawn similar to what one may see in front of a dorm building at San Diego State on the last day of school but with mold already set in. On the hood of your car you are drying a few left over family pictures, a pair of boots, some mail and a trinket that although wasn’t your favorite survived.  To find sleep one must answer over and over in their head thousands of  questions like, when will we have power or any other basics which all seem so far out in the future it doesn’t matter, worries of how all this will be covered by insurance, getting sick or worse. You live in half dreams and as you slip and slumber you hear a car pull up, people in your yard and that generator that was running  your one light or the fridge that keeps the babies milk cold is now cut and gone. You have been hit by insurgence and its only getting worse. Looters are now coming by water like pirates sweeping your decks, by car and foot. The local pub has become the central hub for everyone, opening at 5pm and having last call by 6pm, it’s a place to get food (one of a few places open in this area), have a drink and for at least a few min share some stories. Tonight’s topic far and wide was looting….In short there is a very clear code, if you violate someone in any way you will be at the hands of the public, a public that would forever remain silent to your fate. Interestingly everyone is wide open, giving, paying it forward and paying it back, if you knocked on anyone’s door and asked for help you would not be turned away, I am 100% sure of that, these are very good people; sadly the looting is done out of greed more than survival. I say this not to make a speech about the right to bear arms, which at this point is a given for 100% of the population, but to tell what’s around me as the real story, to give light to things that we don’t deal with on a day to day that tilt our vision.  One of the things I learned from this experience…we link things to what we know in our mind and sometimes fail to stop and think with freshness. The people, who linked this storm to storms past, did the basics and lost a lot because of it (I want to be clear to say a lot of people did a lot of prep and still lost everything): “Evolve or die”. Thinking out of the box is so critical to foreseeing things before life reshapes everything.  Lessons which are hard to earn from a Toronto high rise, a cute little Cape Cod, while California dreaming, or on those rolling plains. The perspective I am showing is much more fundamental and what life at the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs looks like.  A life that cannot be policed or kept under order law, there simply isn’t enough, its one that is kept together by the citizens.  Again bringing me back to how important it is to surround yourself hith good people. It’s easy to say oh they can have it I will buy another one….your linking again.

This morning was spent picking up and re-loaning a spare generator now needed at another location in order to pump out. On the way into the very hard hit neighborhood, we picked up coffee in a thermos, a luxury to the highest standards, which was more than appreciated. Creating the upward spike in emotions for me, but after 2 hours I hit the bottom again with depression setting in again, slipping back in your mind to shut down.  It’s funny how we think we are so strong, but something as simple as seeing a baby bassoon on a heap of junk followed by a beautiful morning picture from a special friend threw me over the edge, no one saw, but it was needed.  30 min later someone else mentioned in passing that they finally broke down, I can connect with that. On the way out we were stopped by an elderly lady who asked us if we could help carry some stuff out of her house, a women of means, now ragged she broke down as we carried away the contents of her house to the curb to be picked up and dragged away. It was like we were removing 30 years of memories.

 I have to give credit to Terry who seems to be the local therapist and neighborhood “Kennedy” who is ever unfailing. Tonight she has created a bon fire potluck which I am sure will turn out a crowd.  Getting prepped she bouncing back and forth from the kitchen where she is cooking on a make shift stove that I brought in off the boat and a bbq out back. Where is Martha Stewart now?

Waiting to get gas...

Right now it’s a 50/50 on whether or not I will be able to leave here by boat. Currently there is a lock down on the waterways with heavy fines.  A low pressure system passes on Thursday which will give me the window I will need for the 700mile trip to Bermuda.  Pray for me, its time to go.

I want to thank everyone for there support of my blog, although I only have 6 followers the page view count is mind blowing and growing all over the world.

10/30/2012

I have found that in moments of crisis I look at things in a very unrealistic way. Let’s take right now for an example, I am sitting at the kitchen table looking out the window thinking how cool it must be to live in Venice, realizing that there is something so inviting (and chic)about stairs that lead directly into the water. I imagine guests pulling up in their little boats gracefully stepping on to your step to make their entrance to your gala, your annual mascaraed, or your spouse’s birthday. What would I wear? The thumping sound of the Black hawk helicopter in the background flying just above the water looking for people in need, bodies or whatever else is out there is only slightly injecting my senses with sobriety or maybe it was that last sip of yesterday’s cold coffee that’s trying to give me that final call to reality. Without a doubt I am in shock, we all are in shock and with that what will this day unfold? Stuck in the house which is now its own island, looking at steps that use to lead to docks or land fade into the water.  

I keep getting asked what it is like to take a direct hit from a hurricane. A huge crash of wind and rain comes hammering down and flattening everything in its way… well that is how I have always thought it would be but in truth it’s a slow thing and almost unbelievable thing. To see water slowly rise higher and higher soon filling the garage, soccer balls, boxes and once valuable items instantly ruined to trash, floating everywhere. It starts with a small puddle appearing and in a few minutes there is an inch of water in the room, then a foot, you step in it its cold, your cold, but what do you do? Your house that was once on the water is now a part of the water.  Oh sure it is loud, the wind violent, the rain hitting the house like 100 drummers randomly beating their sticks on the wall, weird creaks, the sound of things ramming the house indicated by some distant thud two walls over that after a while goes unnoticed. In the end everything you own is now trash. But mainly what gets you is you. Your own fears your own fatigue. You have to really fight the urge to not entertain the thought of tsunami waves, the wind ripping the roof off or worse….After all, fear doesn’t lead to good decision or situational awareness. The aftermath is actually worse. I and everyone around me is constantly fighting off depression. Interestingly I have no self-motivation, no one does, just the motivation to help others, where in we all find the power to start the cleanup.

 It’s interesting to see devastation 2nd hand, on a tv, the internet or by word of mouth and as an outsider it is really hard to absorb what’s really happening since the concepts of what is happening cannot be linked to anything in most of our minds. I think my response to Katrina was…waaaoooo… that suuucks, looks like I won’t be going to Mardi Gras this year. ---Pause, now break. ---and I kept going with my day to day. But when the world all-around you is crumbling, suddenly things like the World Series, Cartier and your lovers quarrels seem pointless leaving me with a level of guilt for every time I celebrated or mindlessly took everything for granted  while others  suffered. I know that one cannot and should not take on to much of the world’s problems, but it is healthy to sit and reflect about what’s important, what you are thankful for and to not take things like Haiti,  the conflicts in the middle east, drug wars, starvation, human rights violations or any other of man’s unnecessary quests for power and control as something that has nothing to do with you.  After all if we lived in the Gaza Strip our houses would have a hurricane called a tractor tearing them down.

Mantoloking NJ

Moving a boat out of the street so we can get by.

A wind is a blowing

Some people simply know how to live. Rich or poor they will always carve out lifestyle. I have always admired these peoples artistic ability and their sense and uncanny ability to always select the right foods, music and mood. This last week has finds me on land still at the Goldenberg’s soaking in that lifestyle, with my world class hosts and catching up on laundry, writing, working on the boat and resting, Mainly I am still here to wait out the epidemic hurricane that is fast approaching.

Relaxing while on a troll

It’s been an interesting week experiencing the Jersey culture which is more redneck and tough guy than I thought. I have always felt that one should be a bit suspect of a culture where no one uses their real name and everyone uses an alias which is reflective of whom they really are. My week has been filled with characters like puffy, who smokes too much, Fatter than me, who is, well, fatter than me or Jewie Soprano, lovingly given to the tough guy from somewhere others than here. Naturally I was given a nickname day one which has stuck and is ironically dead on; Hemmingway. “Yos! Hemmingways” screams Moose from across the docks,” yous wansta go fishin, haw Hemmingway?” Apparently I broke a curse that had been on the boat and am seen as having a lot of Moxie (aka balls). Which has now gone as far as someone wanting me “ with all my luck to lay their roulette chips for them in Atlantic City. Making no jokes this is Jersey and I am aware that if I was lucky with his finances I would get a cut and never leave but if I were unlucky…well there are places for people like me. Just ask Jimmy Hoffa or Vincent Mangano.

The sun was just right this morning, the air felt so soft  as we sat on the back patio overlooking the water sipping bittersweet espresso and feeding on poached eggs, polenta and sausage. As we sat talked and laughed an interesting feeling struck me leaving me knowing that destruction was coming but continuing to live in harmony somewhat naive like the Parisian aristocrats had who popped champagne and continued to throw parties as the Germans marched in. Ultimately what can you do, you can’t run from nature and at a certain point after preparation all you can do accept it and pray.  We are predicted to take a direct hit.

Manhattan Transfer                                                                                                                              

Like a little frog leaping onto a leaf and riding it down stream, spinning its way through the currents, rips and eddies was my ride down the east river. After two days of storms the weather broke allowing me to pull the anchor at 10:30 pm in order to make the midnight tide at Hell Gate. As I entered the river I was greeted by barges, tugs and ships moving in all directions. Panic stuck me as I closely passed between two moving barges, I would have turned back but had no choice the fast moving current had its teeth in me, like it or not, I was committed, headed toward Harlem, the east river had me now. Soon I found myself alone being careful to avoid the hundreds of years of sunken ship, barges, the rocks sticking up from nowhere, and the shallows outside of the channel.  As I rounded the bend at the Triborough Bridge I was grabbed by the surge from the Harlem River pulling the boat with such force I almost went over the side, watching my speed double I was headed toward the gate, fog moving in and wind beginning to blow. I kept thinking please don’t be any ships in the gate I can’t fight the tide; I can’t stop, or control the flow. And like that I found myself making the turn, the boat slipping sideways in the current, I couldn’t steer, I couldn’t see the fog was too thick. I was now being pushed to the head of Roosevelt Island. Hitting the power the boat sputtering forward into the mist, in the distance I could see a slight reflection of from the cars racing down FDR drive, I could now overwhelmingly  feel one of the strongest currents in the worlds, one of the best currents; the pulse of Manhattan. Mesmerized by the mystique of the fog smoking city now broken by an ocean going tug breaking through the clouds, waves tumbling from its bow, coming right at me, I pushing on the tiller hard to starboard, I once again was on the leaf.

From Roosevelt Island to the tip of Manhattan I felt like I was living history, a movie and seeing something in a way rarely seen. Bridge after magnificent bridge and 3 ½ hours at the helm I now slipped past the battery clearing Manhattan knowing that I was living a moment I would never forget. High from the ride, my legs started to shake the Statue of Liberty fading from my vision fast in the fog and by the time I cleared Governors Island I could no longer see 100ft, the light or lady liberty; Manhattan a distant memory. I took this trip for the adventure, I took this trip to really feel life and now I found myself in the middle of New York Harbor, alone, in the thickest soup, blind, racing in the outbound tide, in one of the busiest harbors in the world a little frog among one million pound iron goliaths moving all around. In the distance I could hear their giant motors rattling the water, their house size propellers churning at the water. I kept waiting for a freighter bow to break through the clouds, gasping my last breath, breaking my little leaf. I hugged as close to shore as I thought I could get in the dark to get out of their paths.

Soon I found myself approaching the Verrazano Bridge one of the largest expansion bridges in the world which marks the entrance of NY harbor at the narrows. A pillar seen from NJ to NY and within less than a quarter mile I couldn’t see it. Carefully lining myself up in the channel to miss its bases, I made my run for Sandy Hook NJ the sky turning clear and in an instant I could see. In the channel in front of me were ships of all sizes impatiently waiting for the harbor to become clear before entering. As I moved forward the fog kept pace behind me, never pulling away, never getting closer. Once again fear sleazed a hold as the fog horn poured from deep within the bowls of a rusty freighter hiding behind the cloak of fog behind me. Its sound rattling my spleen, I could feel the blood start to pump, I knew that in any minute he would be on me. Setting a course between a reef and the channel I safely moved to the side and watched him appear from the mist. Out of the way and now being tossed in a horrifically rough ocean, unable to even stand at the helm, broken now, I refused to stop I was going another 18 miles to the Jersey Shore.  Four hours later I found myself at the breaking inlet to let me into the protected water beyond, I surfing my way into the inlet, I was now safe. That afternoon after tying up to the Goldenberg’s dock, I stood on the ground for the first time in days still feeling the ocean rolling under me. The only thing missing: Theme Music.

People keep asking me how I can do this alone and all I can say is, “I can’t!” In our modern world we are taught and at times believe that we really rule our worlds, can do it alone and are immortal. I want to thank Earl, for sitting up most of the night as my co-pilot on the river, until my phone died in Manhattan. Without him walking me through the gate with his firsthand knowledge it would have been tough. Thanks to Adam for guiding through the breaking inlet into New Jersey and all the countless emails, text message and face book encouragement from all my family and friends. It reminds me of something I heard my uncle say recently. “If you want to see how you will turn out in life, look at your friends”. Pick them wisely, take care of them…no one is an island.

Start Here

Traveling by boat can be difficult. It’s a fine balance of daylight, tides, currents, wave direction, wave height, the distance you are able to travel in a set period of time and of course that thing called wind. Unlike a car you can’t just stop it where ever you want and rest, which can make it difficult at times to get where you are going, but there within lies the challenge of sailing. This last week of sailing has been very challenging as I have been traveling some difficult waters with gale force winds and very strong currents. This week the ocean has punished me, pushing me, to see what I am made of. I have had some crazy experiences, nights without sleep, extreme weather and in the end for every blow and beating I have been dealt, I have been given an equal reward.

   As I crossed past Cuttyhunk Island (google) I was now exposed to the open North Atlantic in a full gale, the wave heights were well over my height as I stood in the cockpit, strapped in to keep from washing off the boat, I battled the waves off my rear quarter rolling the boat all the way onto its side before righting itself. I could have changed course and ran into Newport RI (a much easier sea motion) but I wanted Block Island, I needed to shake out my land legs, test the boat and sharpen my sea skills before heading out in to the open Atlantic 1200 miles to PR. As I got closer to the island the water got more turbulent, the wind stronger, spray sprayed like bullets from a machine gun and I just screamed. I wanted Block and I was going to get there. My screaming was soon silenced by a dropping in the sky, rain poured down on me like gravel. Down it came, down it came, I couldn’t see anything and like that it stopped, the clouds pulling away like a changing of a theatrical set, the sun came out. Although the swells were still mountains they were now smooth and the ocean was like glass, the rain with all its might flattened the sea. In the short distance I could see the green rolling hills of Block Island, its sandy shores and the harbor.  Like an Irish afternoon I ghosted in, waving at people fishing on the shore who waved me hello. The felling of inner strength, of accomplishment and joy filled my body. I was no longer tired, no longer in the sea; I was home for the night.

I couldn’t be happier with the performance the boat.

The harbor in Block is a pond in the center of the island, with good protection from the waves but its bottom is poor for holding on anchor. When I lay my head down that night it was soft and beautiful but I knew that the winds were coming. Out like a light and 2 seconds later awoke to the rigging whistling a high tune in the wind, I felt the boat moving my powerful anchor having no effect on the bottom in these high winds, I was skating across the harbor, heading towards the shore. I dashed on deck needing to pull up the anchor and move to a better position, I ran to the bow but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t pull in the anchor. In the blackness of the night I could just make out the advancing shore. I grabbed the anchor line and ran with it to the cockpit throwing it around one of the big winches, started the motor and moved forward steering with my legs and pulling with both hands as the boat advanced. Wham I was hit by a wall of wind like a truck nocking me down and tearing the anchor line out of my hands with so much force it peeled the skin off my thumb, finding myself once again heading to the shore.  I grabbed the line again deafly cursing at the wind “ You mother ……” and repeated the process until I felt the anchor break free and I started pulling as fast as I could, my arms burning, still screaming I got it in. I kept thinking “cross fit has nothing on me”. Two hours later I got the boat safely bedded down again with good holding. I awoke to the most perfect morning and day of sailing imaginable. I earned my sleep that night.

Pulling into Mystic gave me a childlike feeling of newness with its little homes along a tight channel, surreal sunlight, calm water. It was a place I knew I could stay forever. That day I rode my bike around town, went to the market, carefully selected my produce, cheese and bread. As I rode back to the boat along the railroad tracks, hundreds of birds sitting above me on a wire, the cloudy sky, it hit me. I now live where ever I am.

Today I find myself tied up to a dock in front of someone’s home in Westport, CT.  Last night I pulled into Westport, an unplanned stop but much needed since I ran out of favorable winds, current and day light. A gale would becoming sometime in the night and I needed a safe place to be. I motored up the little channel passing working tugs, small row boats and a fleet of sail boats second to none. By the time I got to the bridge at the top of the channel I had seen nothing, no places to anchor, no empty slips, nowhere to hang my hat. In defeat turned the boat around and said “you are just going to have to deal with the sea until you can make the next harbor.” A feeling of tiredness came over me, I was vulnerable as I mentally tried to gear myself up for the next 6 hours to Bridgeport when a man yelled from a dock in front of a little house “hey do you need a place to stay for the night?”….he helped me tie up, said this was his “boat house” and his boats had been pulled for the season. “Stay as long as you need, there is a storm coming, the place is unlocked, there is beer in the fridge, feel free to use the shower, maybe I will see you tomorrow”. I had few words, thank you really, that was about it, I didn’t know what to say. “My name is Tom, you are doing something that I have always wanted to do, I am glad I could help.” and he pulled away in a little boat.  I stood on the dock with just my thoughts for a while. In life, we build a protection around ourselves to the point where we no longer need or allow the opportunity for blessings. On a trip like this I have no such protections…I have been blessed more times in the last week than in the last 10 years. I went inside my boat, closed it tight from the cold night, lit a few candles, turned on some good jazz, sipped some wine and made a great dinner. The food never tasted so good.