I  believe it was an accident the first time I tried to kill Tim. I made a simple offer: how about flying to Utah and joining me, my sister (Jen) and brother in law (Steve) for a long weekend of hiking round in the high desert of south central Utah. Against the urging of his wife, Brandi, Tim brokered a deal with United Airlines and met me in Salt Lake City. He did bring along a brain bucket  (helmet )something he’d promised Brandi he’d wear any time he was in my presence. With Steve in the lead, we headed out on a fairly demanding hike-we carried harnesses and a short section of rope in anticipation of a couple of sections we thought might be tricky.  About half way to our turning round point we ran into a little embankment that we’d need to scramble up.  Probably about 80’ of soft, gravelly dirt in all. Looking approachable, we didn’t bother roping up.  Steve, Jen, me, and then Tim.  Upon gaining the summit I took a look back and didn’t see Tim anywhere…Within about 5 seconds we were all screaming our heads off looking for Tim…and not really wanting to go back to the precipice and look down.  Finally I mustered up the guts to walk back and look down…and there he was, sprawled out like a rag doll on his back, his head a few inches from a sizeable boulder.

Believing that he might possibly be dead but not wanting to exert the energy to scramble back down the incline, I decided to start yelling at him.  In an act of utter defiance of death, Tim’s head began showing signs of life…not responding to my pleas but instead he laid perfectly still and just started taking in the situation he was in.  A few seconds later his hands began moving up and down his limbs, squeezing every inch of his legs and arms…After that a quick inspection of his abdomen and back and finally a ‘thumbs up’ to me standing above him on the ledge.  Attempt 1 had failed.

As it turns out, Tim reached the final edge of the embankment and pulled on a rock to top out.  His pulling on the rock, combined  with millions of years of gravity exerting it’s pull proved too much for the rock and it gave up it’s precarious perch at 7780 feet above sea level, instead choosing to settle in for a few more million years at round 7700 feet.  Currently it seemed to  be enjoying it’s brief time laying next to Tim, his uninjured body, and his shiny and functional helmet.

Chapter 2: The Owens-spalding route on the Grand Teton, Wyoming.(OR Jeff tries to kill Tim several times in one day)  A few years later when Tim’s memory of Chapter 1 had faded a bit, I again convinced him to defy death and get onto an airplane to join me, Nancy, and Hube in an attempt to be just the 455,231st person to climb the easiest route on the 13,770 foot peak, the jewel of the Teton Range.  We met in Jackson, enjoyed many  beers, and discussed our upcoming climb.  We intended to climb first to the Lower Saddle, a climb of about 4000 feet, where we’d spend the night before an alpine start the following morning.We’d climb and return back down to “The Meadows”, a camp site located about 9000 feet.  On day 3 we’d cover a the remaining feet and return to the car and pizza.

After a sweaty day gaining the Saddle and a sleepless night of anticipation, at 3 in the morning we were ready to headed up to the upper saddle and the start of the climb in earnest. We made good time to the saddle, even though we didn’t really know the route and got lost a couple of times in the dark.  Just as the sun came up we were standing at the start of the actual climb…a technical climb rated something like 5.4.  All went well at first…then we (I actually misled us)  got off route somewhere in the vicinity of the Catwalk and ended up trying to climb an iced up and probably unnamed chimney somewhere north of where we were supposed to be. In a stroke of luck, we actually all made it up this shit-your-pants scary, cold, and icy climb.  That’s where the bad stuff should have happened.  As it turns out, we made it to about the 13,600 foot mark as a team…but our self-imposed deadline to return was coming up rapidly.  Tim decided to forego the summit and wait for us to quickly scramble up the last few feet, take our picture, and return.  We just barely beat a team of Girl Scouts to the summit register.  A few minutes later our team had descended to the point of the 140 foot rappel…something I had apparently failed to mention to Nancy, who was less than enthralled with me about right now.  Hube and I set up the twin 8 mm ropes for the descent and I went down first. Nancy went second.  In case I didn’t mention it, it’s an overhanging rappel…you don’t get the benefit of a wall to walk down.  You’re free to free fall right away…and that’s what Tim decided to do.  (somehow his hand got messed up in the brake and he started zipping down the lines) Thankfully I got to save the day, yank on the ropes, and arrest his fall.

It was a strange experience watching my good friend hang lifeless 100 feet over my head.  Some mechanism in him turned on/off and tried to shield him from the horror of a gigantic fall.  He appeared to basically go unconscious and didn’t respond to words.  He remained this way for a while…basically until I lowered him down and his hand touched the earth again. And as that happened he awoke, as if from an afternoon nap.  Then good ol’ Tim was back.

We descended down from the mountain as a storm rolled in…I had convinced Nancy that she didn’t need a helmet for this climb…so when the guys above us started pushing rocks down on us poor old Nan got plunked a couple of times in the punkin. As we raced to get back to our tent and gear the winds picked up and the rain/hail started.  Thankfully we ducked into  the Pain Cave, a small cave on the west side of the lower saddle ridge.  A small cave, we had jammed about 10 climbers into it, Nancy being the only female.  So I got to spend the next couple of hours listening to 8 other guys, all jacked up from climbing the Grand and then getting hailed on all try to arrange dates with Nancy for later that weekend in Jackson.  After the rocks to the head and the free rappel, she was all ears.

After the storm cleared we packed our shit and headed down the mountain, eager to get a good night’s sleep at The Meadows.  Unfortunately, I didn’t realize Tim’s hatred of mice, which were amazingly abundant at the campsite.   As it got dark you could see hundreds of things moving out of the corners of your eyes, and those things turned out to be mice.  Not up for sharing a tent with rodents, Soldier Tim chose to soldier on another few hours back to the car rather than be devoured by hungry mice in his sleep.  He attacked the next few miles of trail with extreme prejudice.  Looking like half man, half werewolf, half Barry Gibb (Bee Gees!) he powered down the trail towards the car gulping unpurified water from every stream and puddle he could find. About 2 in the morning we were back in Jackson eating food from the Wendi’s drive through, all that was open at that hour.  Several chances to kill him wasted.

Chapter 3: Death on the High Seas.  Again, taking advantage of Tim’s faulty memory and the passing of several years, we met again in San Carlos, Mexico to sail from there across the Sea of Cortez (gulf of California) to Loreto and then down to La Paz.  Tim’s brother Roman joined in the fun.  Third time’s the charm and I was sure I could finally get him. And I wouldn’t let my conscience get the best of me either. If Tim’s ticket got punched, it got punched.

After a couple of days of delay due to boat problems and Roman’s poor Hooker Management skills, we motored away from San Carlos with 12 knots of wind from a favorable direction, headed right into the sunset.  (we love night sails) The forecast called for light and variable winds decreasing to near-calm that night.  We were behind schedule and needed to pick up Brandi the next day in Loreto, so no winds wasn’t a great thing.  Oh well, we had plenty of fuel, had assigned watches, and were making plans to enjoy a calm night on the sea under a blanket of  beautiful stars.  But the wind didn’t die down.  It increased consistently.

As our groups most experienced Mexican sailor, I knew it was fairly common for the winds to increase until an hour or two after sunset, then die down.  I also knew, as does  Nancy and Bryan H., that they also sometimes strengthen literally all night until midmorning the next day. About midnight they’d strengthened to about 22 knots sustained with gusts to 30.  It was my watch.  Roman was below sleeping and Tim was snoozing on the low side of the cockpit.  We were about 40 miles offshore.

Here was my time…time to finally get rid of Tim once and for all.  I had the perfect plan in mind ( I won’t share it completely, but let’s just say he wasn’t wearing his helmet this time)…but sleep overcame me and I began to doze off myself on the other side of the cockpit.  Suddenly both of us awoke to mouthfuls of salt water and wet undies.  Apparently a rogue wave came from a different direction than the other waves and completely filled the cockpit…to the point of nearly washing Tim overboard. Hundreds and hundreds of gallons of chilly salt water washed over the rail and floated both of us in a couple of feet of water…Tim was on the low side of the boat and very nearly got washed overboard. Suffice it to say that if his lifejacket had gone off he’d be floating in the Gulf as you read this crummy blog.

The immediate emergency being over and his adrenaline dying down, Tim started to complain of being cold.  (Tim had given away his only waterproof jacket the night before in a drunken ordeal of which I shall not elaborate) Kind of still in shock myself, I encouraged him to go below and change into something dry.  He did but nearly chattered his lovely teeth out in the process.  It was cold out there.  He emerged still chilly at 7am thanking me for demanding him to get out of his clothes.  (ah go on…say it.  I know you’re thinking it. )

In case you’re wondering, the wind picked up to the  low 30’s and stayed there until early morning. We made 7-8 knots all night and made it in plenty of time to meet Brandi…and the phosporescence was wonderful.

There have most definitely been other times that he could have croaked in my presence…outside of the Baja en route to Cabo San Lucas.  Sailing Conundrum at Lewis and Clark and missing a massive tornado by 15 minutes. Mt. Shasta (cemented into 10′ of heavy snow), pacing at Leadville or Western States.  It’s a testament to Tim’s personality disorders that he still calls me from time to time.

Thanks for being a good friend, Big Daddy, and thanks for making so many vivid memories.  I’ll get you some day.  I hope it’s some consolation to you that I’ll blog about it.

We drove straight through to one of our favorite campgrounds in the world: Middle Fork in the Bighorns.  It’s a very small Forest Service campground a few miles SW of Buffalo.  It’s got 10 campsites and all of them are next to the Middle Fork of Clear Creek.  As we set up our tent, Conrad began his shift on Squirrel/Chipmunk Patrol.  He’s fairly adamant that the campsite not be overrun with the little rodents.  He’s good at his job.  I was Jonesin’ for a hike with my girl and my dog…unfortunately Nancy called BS and Bogarted the tent for an afternoon nap. Three hours later we finally began our hike but a mile down the trail the afternoon thunderstorms began and Conrad hot-tailed it back to the tent, where we shared a loaf of bread, sodas, and a wet dog as it proceeded to rain through the night.

A few hours later we were awakened by the sound of ATV’s roaring through the campground. 10 years ago there weren’t any of these awful things.  Now, apparently, every single person who lives in Montana or Wyoming must be required to own one.  And they all congregate at campgrounds on weekends.  We broke camp, threw the wet gear in the trunk, and headed on down the road beneath an amazingly blue sky littered with fluffy clouds.

I hate to air my dirty laundry here on this site, in this way, but I’ve got to get this out: Nancy’s a junkie.  She’s addicted to Starbucks Mochas.  So we stopped in Sheridan and picked up a mocha, an Americano, and learned that her precious Starbucks Gold Card was out of money.  It was gut wrenching to watch as $7 passed from the dirty Ick’s window to the girl in the retractable window.  (I’d been under the impression for the past 7 years that Starbucks was just refilling her Gold Card because they liked her-she came clean that I’d been misled) As our Land Yacht bashed through potholes, over pronghorns, and around construction workers we approached Little Bighorn, a place Conrad (and Ruth) had never been.  So we flashed ‘em our National Park Pass and headed through the gate.  It’s beautiful country out there.  If I were going to make a critical military mis-judgement and end up scalped, I’d like it to be in a place like The Little Bighorn.  And I love the fact there there’s a casino there, too.  Nancy drove over a few curbs and benches while we were there, but no real damage to the yacht, so we didn’t bother reporting it and drove on…through Billings, Bozeman, Belgrade, Three Forks, and finally to Whitehall, where we turned off to find Gerd and Bonnie.

It’s really pretty country out there and they have a beautiful home, built all under one roof. It’s got two residences, horse barns, and parking for a private army all under the same roof.  Conrad met their dog, Gus, a Rottweiler pup who, at 12 weeks, was already bigger than our little fatty.  He was not impressed by the horses.  Two of them tried (and nearly succeeded) to kill him. Horses are dead to him now.  It’s amazing that we didn’t invent the car sooner than we did.  Seems like having to ride a horse to work would be plenty of incentive to design alternate transportation.

We visited nearby Butte, which must have been one helluva town 50 years ago.  Butte is the home of copper mining in the US and has been for a very long time.  There was a lot of money in that area, at one time.  Now it’s mostly abandoned or in disrepair.  But with a little imagination you can see what it must have been like.  One part of the mining history that hasn’t left and isn’t likely to is the Berkeley Pit. It’s a gigantic reservoir full of the heavy metal remnants of decades of mining.  And it’s quite pretty, too.  We don’t recommend drinking from it.

After eating Gerd and Bonnie out of food we headed on down the road towards our Sweet Spot, Jackson  Hole and the Teton range.  We hoped to camp at Jenny Lake, but the unusually heavy traffic through Yellowstone impeded our progress and we arrived too late in the day to secure a primo site.  So we moved on to the Gros Ventre campground, pitched the tent, and rolled into Jackson to survey the town and pick up ingredients for chili.  Nothing like eating a giant bowl of chili and sleeping in a tent, eh? On the way back from town we made a little detour and headed to Dornan’s for a beer on their rooftop.  There’s nothing quite like that place.  It’s located in Moose, near Jackson (one of the wealthiest cities in the world) and offers quite literally the best view in the world.  But they keep it real.  Stand in line at a little window and order your food.  If you want wine, visit our wine shop, buy what you want, and we’ll loan you a couple of glasses. They don’t cater to Richie Rich, so Richie Rich doesn’t hang there and folks like us do.  Score one for the little man.  We sipped our beer and headed back to the campground to make chili.

We got back to site 221 and got to work on the chili.  Midway through our meal, the ground started to shake.  Nancy thought I had farted, which made me kind of proud.  As things turn out, it was a 5.1 earthquake centered about 10 miles from where we were. I’d never experienced an earthquake before and it took a few seconds to figure out what was happening.  It was an odd experience…a low grade rumble and the ground literally moving and jumping around.  At least we were 40 miles from the Yellowstone Caldera…so we were safe, right?

We hopped in Ick in the morning, loaded up on Pearl Street Bagels, and headed up the pass for Dubois, Thermopolis, Buffalo, and eventually back home.  2,400 miles, 5 days, 1 earthquake and countless more memories.

Jeff

Grounding at Oyster Point Marina: It was a full moon night and Bryan H. was in town to visit us.  Nancy and I had arrived a couple of days ago to continue the work aboard and Bryan arrived on a Saturday morning.  We were planning on taking Oblivion out for an afternoon sail around the bay (the winds always kick ass in the afternoons there).  I’d spent the day on deck working on several projects and watching Al, the professional captain of our neighbor’s boat called Giant Feet, haul jerry jugs of diesel fuel all day to load up the 50′ foot power cruiser for it’s night-time cruise around SF Bay.  Al hauled about 200 gallons of fuel during that day, taking occasional breaks to tell me about his days of flying secret helicopter missions during the early days of the Vietnam War.  We went out sailing about noon, knowing it was an extreme tide/current day on the bay that that due to our 6′ draft we’d need to be back in the slip by about 6pm.  After a great day of sailing we headed South to OPM a little behind schedule.  Fortunately the winds freshened, we sped up,  and soon we could see the entrance to the channel ahead in the darkening skies. Then the engine died.  I still don’t know what caused it.   Some kind of blockage I guess.  Knowing we were running out of time to get in the shallow channel we immediately radioed Vessel Assist, who promised us they’d be there in 10 minutes.  30 minutes later, in pitch black, we saw no sign of them.  They eventually did show up and tied their super-beefy rubber boat up to the port side of Oblivion and began pushing us into the marina.  We grounded slightly as we passed the breakwater, but their 600HP engines soon got us free.  A couple more turns and we’d be home free in slip 13-22.  The plan was to ram us forward into the slip and run the rubber boat up on the dock, then back it off and hopefully we’d be home free.  As it turns out, the mud in our slip had been growing and we stuck hard about half in and half out of our slip.  We were grounded in about 2′ of mud and dirt and even the powerful motors couldn’t move us.  So we tied off and decided to wait for the tide to begin coming in around 2am.  In the meantime, Giant Feet (owned by two Japanese guys) was busy loading up a crew of 26 for a birthday party/karoake night cruise around the bay. Captain Al was watching as we came in under tow and gave me a stern look…then approached me to tell me that I needed to understand the currents and tides of the bay and that I was essentially being irresponsible.  (I counter-argued that I HAD known of the tide issue but that the engine had died)  A couple of hours later Giant Feet shoved off into the bay full of Japanese speaking party goers.  We woke up around 9am and immediately noticed that Giant Feet had not returned from their night of sailing/karoake.  Then another neighbor asked if it was Giant Feet that was the subject of the rescue…we said we didn’t know.  Nancy was returning from the bathroom and happened to notice a city bus full of Asians dropping off in the parking lot.  Hmmm…weird.  As details became clear during the next couple of days, it turns out that Giant Feet had run aground on at Coyote Point on a man-made breakwater under a full moon.  And to top things off, they floundered there for a long time because all of the equipment aboard GF failed and Captain Al couldn’t even direct the Coast Guard to where he was at as he couldn’t come up with a GPS location.  Finally, one of the passengers used their I-Phone and the CG rescued everyone by helicopter.  And all that fuel spilled out into the bay.  Perhaps Al should be aware of obstacles in the bay before heading out for a nighttime cruise?

The Curious Incident of the Linseed Oil-I flew out to SF one weekend to work on Oblivion and had finished my list for the day. I was looking through a cabinet and ran across a quart of Linseed Oil that Tim had used to oil the wood plugs attached to all of our through-hulls.  For some reason it caught my eye that the marketing on the can said “Woods Best Friend” and it got me thinking…this boat has a lot of wood on it and shouldn’t it have a best friend, too? So I cautiously took some out and began cleaning a section of the floor to see what it looked like. It looked great, and I continued.  I ended up cleaning and polishing the entire floor, threw the rags in the garbage can, ate some Ramen, and went to sleep around 8pm exhausted.  I remember laying there in our small cabin and thinking that there was something wrong…that my throat was burning and something smelled like acrid smoke. But I was too tired and wrote it off as a figment of my imagination. Surely it was the linseed oil curing, right? Right? It continued to get worse as I continued to get groggier.  Finally, and miraculously if you know how I sleep, I pulled out of the slumber to check and see what was happening.  To my surprise, there was thick black smoke coming from the trash can! I threw a couple of glasses of water on it and it didn’t seem to help…I could see embers in the bottom of the can and a fire couldn’t be far behind.  So I grabbed the can and ran topside where I could hose it out with our dock hose.  I filled the can with water, put it on the dock and went back to sleep.  Crisis averted.  A few more minutes and Oblivion would no doubt have been engulfed in flames.  I told this story to a few people…who all said “you idiot! of course linseed oil is combustible! Haven’t you heard of spontaneous combustion?” Now I have.

We drank all that?: One night in November Tim, Thane, and I decided to take Oblivion out sailing. It was an exceptionally warm night and we were planning on anchoring or mooring somewhere else in the bay…had to get our girl out of the dreaded Oyster Point Marina if not just for one night.  So we loaded up with cheese, wine, and beer and headed out around 5pm.  We sailed and drank and drank and sailed.  Not a good combination.  We sailed around Angel Island and around Alcatraz.  The moon came up late that night and we literally had the bay to ourselves.  It was amazing and it felt like we were sailing 20 knots, though I know we weren’t doing 5.  Tim’s all about efficiency and he’d decided that it wasn’t efficient to waste effort pouring wine into glasses, so he started uncorking and drinking whole bottles, directly from the bottle.  Thane was now drinking rum.  It’s about 11 pm and probably 80 degrees-unheard of on the Bay.  I went below for some cheese and came back to find Thane and Tim sans-pants (they’re both budding nudists) and dancing crazily in the aptly named cockpit.  Thank goodness they both had long shirts on.  We ended up deciding that the Maritime Park would be a good place for us to anchor.  It’s right at the heart of the city. Only problem was that it’s a no-engine zone, so we’d need to sail in under sail power and anchor the old fashioned way. (in the end we just cheated and hoped we didn’t get caught) We inflated Robin1 and, against all good judgement, headed into the city for more  drinks.  We hit Golden Boy Pizza, then drank all the Scotch in town.  On the way back to the boat around 2:30am I walked into a convenience store and grabbed a case of beers…you never know, right? I carried the case about a mile back to the dinghy, we rowed back to Oblivion, we crawled aboard and finally dropped the case of beers, smashing glass everywhere in the cockpit.  Oh well…we’ll clean it up tomorrow before we head out under the Golden Gate Bridge for some ocean sailing, right? (BTW, using a toilet on a boat in rough waters hung over on beer, wine, Scotch, and rum isn’t that much fun)

Marina del Rey-This was the first real trip that Nancy and I did together.  After a fantastic time in Santa Barbara we left at 10:30 at night (we love night sailing) and headed South to Los Angeles.  As it turns out we just motored all night in cold, cold weather (32 degrees at one point) and arrived in Los Angeles the following afternoon.  We pulled into Marina del Rey and motored up the huge channel, looking for the harbormaster (where we thought you ALWAYS had to check in).  I finally pulled into and tied off on a dock labeles Harbormaster/Sheriff and went looking for the office, proud as a peacock that we’d managed to make it 90 miles by our lonesomes.  That ended quickly as the Sheriff basically told me I had 60 seconds to get my boat off his dock and get moving! (we had to find the fabled mariner statue?) We finally did and tied off on the proper dock.  Not perfect but not bad for our first time.  (we had a similar experience at the police dock in San Diego)

La Cruz near-sinking-when you tell someone that you nearly sank your boat they seem disappointed to learn that it happened in the slip and not out at sea somewhere.  Well, prepare to be disappointed.   Thane and Brenda had headed off to Puerto Vallarta to spend a night in a hotel, sleep on a good bed, and experience air conditioning.  We were alone onboard Oblivion for the first time maybe ever.  We had spent the morning working on varnish, the afternoon swimming at a nearby beach, and we were exhausted when we got home.  We cooked dinner, Nancy took a shower, and we went to sleep around 9:30.  About 4:30am  Nancy started shaking me and screaming to “get up, get up! We’re sinking!”  I awoke to find that we had water about 2″ above our floorboards.  We had probably taken in 800 gallons of water in the few hours since we went to bed.  We had no idea how the water was getting in, but the bilge pump must have malfunctioned.  Crap.  I grabbed the handle for the main manual bilge and went topside, underneath a clear sky full of stars.  I removed the protective plate, inserted the handle, and pumped once.  The mechanism on the pump broke on the first pump! Damn! We eventually got the electric bilge pump working and within a few minutes the water level was receding.  After about 45 minutes the bilge was ‘dry’ and we were assessing the damages.  What had caused it? Why had it stopped coming in?  We dried everything out and then began worrying about the engine…it had been partially submerged in saltwater while connected to the electrical system.  That couldn’t be good..and to top it all off there was oil residue everywhere.  The dipstick was below the water level and it appeared that saltwater had displaced the engine oil…our newly rebuilt 30 year old engine was surely done for.  We had found a business card for “Teapot Tony, Master Mechanic British Merchant Marine” and called him. Within literally 9 minutes Tony arrived aboard to assess the damages.  I could tell he was very concerned but, like a good doctor, he tried to calm us with his good demeanor.  He advised us on what to do and removed the alternator and starter to have them rebuilt.  All’s well that ends well and it turns out that the engine works perfectly…only a small portion of the oil had been displaced, he rebuilt the starter and alternator better than before, and all we really needed was some new wiring and a new regulator.  It took us months to figure out what caused the near sinking: a reverse siphon created by running our refrigerator on ‘turbo’ mode and the bilge at the same time.  Someone hadn’t plumbed it correctly years ago and it had finally reared its ugly head.  Oh well….now we know!

Espiritu Santo/Isla Partida: These islands, along with many others, are part of the San Lorenzo Marine Archepeligo, a national preserve in Mexico.  We’ve been there several times now…with the Paulsens, with Bryan H., and by ourselves.  It’s absolutely amazing.  The water here is so clear you can easily see your anchor sitting on the bottom in 30 feet of water.  You can swim with the Sea Lions (highly recommended, if not slightly scary).  There’s snorkeling everywhere.  You can (and we did) sleep on the beach.  You can camp and hike the islands.  And you’ll mostly have the place to yourself.  A person could spend a month or two there poking around in the sand, staring at the scenery, or imagining that you’re sitting on a deserted island in the middle of the South Pacific.  It’s a natural wonder that’s rarely visited-which means it’ll likely continue to be a natural wonder.

Nights on the Ocean: I’ve written about this a little bit before.  It’s one of those things that I think you’ve got to experience to understand, but I’ll try.  If we need to cover 50-100 miles to our next anchorage we normally prefer to depart at sunset and sail through the night.  It’s a surreal experience to be under a starry sky, sailing silently through glowing waters.  I for one can’t get enough of it.  On the way down from San Fran to Santa Barbara I finally got to see constellations-not just parts of them, but the whole thing.  I used to ’see’ Orion’s belt, for instance, and think “wow.  three stars in a line.  you’d have to be kinda drunk to imagine a hunter up there”  But now I know.  He IS up there.  So are lots of others that I’d only read about on the horoscope page.  And if you could get bored looking at the stars all you have to do is look down at the water going by.  It glows an eerie, Scooby Doo-ish green.  (the monsters on SD always had that glow, right?) The waves going by glow, and within the waves are flecks of light, like stars in the water.  Whales and dolphins create a greenish wake when they go by…once we thought we were under torpedo attack as we watched the dolphins race at our stern in the middle of the night.  Even the toilet takes on a magical appearance at night. Flush it and it glows in the dark.  I remember sitting on Seaward in Drake’s Bay in the middle of a cold night with Tim, splashing deck lines in the water in order to see the glow…the Sea of Cortez made those times look very pedestrian.

Last night I watched the move Inception.  In it they talk about how 10 minutes of real time equates to something like 5 hours in dream time.  We spent 7 months in Mexico.  It feels like we spent 10 years.  And we’ve got the memories to prove it.

Lately I’ve felt like   Ben Wallace.  I’ve felt like I’ve been fighting an uphill battle against American society.  Unfortunately for me, there’s no Damon Killian that I can confront…no face to put to the idiocy that we’ve come to accept as part of our daily lives.

My recent frustrations began as I tried to get my drivers license renewed the other day.  The state of South Dakota (and every other state in the ‘union’) has drastically changed the procedures to get a drivers license. Because of the Real ID Act of 2005 we are now required to prove that we are a US Citizen.  The actual purpose of the law is to create a uniform Federal ID that we’d be required to show in order to board an airplane, enter a federal building, and do a multitude of other things.  Yes, Orwell would be so proud.  It’s the mark of the beast, and we’ll all be forced to carry it.  Super, dude.  I’ve always wanted a tattoo.  Let’s just get it over with.

Back to my story.  I’m now required to provide the following: Identity Documents (Passport or Certified Birth Certificate), Proof of Social Security Number (SS Card or other document) and (2) documents to show Residential Address.  This can be a utility bill, health insurance bill, mortgage stub, etc.  As it turns out, last fall Nancy and I use a mail forwarding service.  This gives us a street address for mail to be sent.  They then forward our mail to us when we call and give them an address to do so.  Unfortunately, we do not have any bills.  No credit card statements (we have one and it’s an e-bill), no health insurance (won’t pay those pirates), no mortgage payment (isn’t that a good thing?).  So I can’t prove that I have a permanent address because I don’t get mail or have debt.  Ain’t that great?

So here’s what the state has advised me to do: stay at a campground for a night and use that address.  Or a motel.  Doesn’t that sound like a plan? Oddly, I was planning on getting my Commercial Drivers License endorsement in order to help my father in law with his business this summer…and I can’t get a CDL if I use the campground or motel for an address.  It’s a no-win.

So say I decide I don’t want a drivers license.  Say I decide to ride my bike everywhere.  Down the road I will not be able to ride on an airplane or enter a government building unless I have the ID…I won’t be able to serve on a jury or talk to my congressman (or enter any federal building) unless I can prove my residential address and get that ID.  It’s frustrating to say the least.  No one could argue that this law makes much sense.

This morning I pick up the Argus Leader and read an article on the front page.  It’s about how the state has just started enforcing a law making it more difficult for farmers markets and small, home based producers to sell their products.  They will be required to provide nutritional information and be subject to inspection and training on canning and cooking techniques.  The farmers market in Sioux Falls is booming.  People jam in on Saturdays and everyone leaves happy.  So why the change? Call me a cynic, but I’m all but positive that it’s corporate America behind the change.  People are sick and tired of the processed, chemically-laden foods we buy from the Mega Producers.  So we’re lining up to buy healthy foods.  Here’s the problem: ADM and Kraft don’t get a penny.  They see billions of dollars of potential revenue disappearing, and they can’t compete.  So their lobbyists convince our legislature that it’s a good thing to regulate the little guy…the guy who makes 200 jars of homemade jelly a year.  What happens? The little guy decides it’s not worth it and quits.  We then spend our money with Smuckers.  The little guy doesn’t have a lobbyist.  So…it’s OK to sell cigarettes, which WILL kill you.  It’s OK for me to buy Hostess cupcakes and Red Bull, but not an onion grown on a nearby farm?

After reading the paper, I got on my bike and headed to Shopko to buy a refill on my contact lenses.  I had my last eye exam last October.  I wanted to order 4 boxes of lenses but was denied.  Even though my prescription was still valid they would only allow me to order 1 box of lenses, as I’m due for an eye exam in a couple of months.  I got pissed at the girl and told her I wanted her to print out my prescription…that I’d just order it online from one of the websites.  She informed me that there’s a f’in law that got passed that I can’t wear contacts unless I have an exam every year and that everyone enforces it.  Alas, I would not be able to buy 4 boxes from 1-800-Contacts.  So…follow me here.  The stinking optometrists lobbyists have make it a law that I need to have my prescription updated every year.  It hasn’t changed in 12 years now.  So I’ve got to spend $100 on an exam so they can tell me I have the exact same eyesight as last year.  I KNOW! THEY’RE MY F’in EYES! I USE THEM ALMOST EVERY DAY!

In the 20 years I’ve been in Sioux Falls, the 2 hospitals have quadrupled (or more) in size.  So has the courthouse and prison.  Half the people I know are on anti-depressants, are alcoholics, or should be one or the other.  Life in America is becoming unbearable.  People are afraid of terrorists.  They fret for their retirement and investments.  Good jobs are becoming a thing of the past as the American worker is being devalued.  Education is on the decline.  Everyone’s over their head in debt with little or no hope for relief.  Somewhere along the line we did something wrong.  And people are finally starting to talk about it…but what’s “it”? How do we change it? The Mr. Smith Goes to Washington model no longer works.  The house and senate leadership no longer allows wildcards to speak on the floor, let alone wield power.  It takes years of Washington BS to garner any clout.  And even then it’s just one voice out of hundreds.

In my heart of hearts, I want to believe that Barack Obama wanted to fix things…that he tried to do the things that he promised us he’d try to do.  But in the end I believe that even the president of the United States is powerless against this…this…well, I don’t even know what to call it.  And if I had all the power in the world I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for ‘it’.  But all of us know it’s there.  It doesn’t matter what political party you belong to…in the end, the parties are the same.  They’re not looking out for us.  If they were, would they really force the issue of  a national ID? What’s even the purpose of it? They stop illegal immigration if they want. So that’s not it.

The best solution I’ve come up with so far is a pipe dream.  I’d like everyone in this country to walk into voter registration office and register as an independent.  As it stands, the Dem’s know that if you’re registered Democratic, you’ll more than likely vote that way in the voting booth.  So they’ve got you and don’t need to work for your vote.  Same thing with the Repubs.  Let ‘em sweat it out on election night, not knowing what in the world is going to happen.  Give ‘it’ the same insecurity that the rest of us live with every single day…if only for that one day called Election Day.  And think of what would happen if 100% of us were registered independent and couldn’t vote in the primaries…if no one got a single vote in those elections, what would happen to ‘it’? Those would be magnificent times…if only.

Here’s the problem…Ben Wallace is now part of “it”.  Who’d a thunk it?

Sorry for the political ramblings, everyone.  I need to get back aboard Oblivion….moderately badly.

10 days later we find ourselves living in a world that we don’t feel entirely comfortable in.  We’re living apart. I’m with my parents and as a result of her cat allergies Nancy’s living with Ann, a great friend.  We get together every day and go for a long walk to discuss how we can find a way to balance the financial necessities of our new life, our love for our families, and the feeling in our guts that we are not where we belong.  Or rather that we don’t fit in as we once did.

We’ve gotten accustomed to 6 mile walks to the grocery store.  To garbage lying everywhere.  To searching constantly for the material possessions we take for granted here in the States.  We’ve grown accustomed to seeing new sights.  To making new friends.  To dinner for two for $8.  And to seeing, hearing, and feeling the greatness of the ocean all around us.  We’d gotten to the place in our relationship where we were content to just sit in each others presence and read a book or stare at the horizon for hour upon hour.  We woke when we were rested, ate when we were hungry. We had conversations until the wee hours with friends who looked at you when you talked and actually listened.  Not distracted by kids, television, unread e-mails, or phones ringing we got to know people…not just idle chit chat with both parties constantly checking for voicemails or thinking about what they had to do tomorrow.

Now, back home in the place I’ve lived since I was 19 years old, I feel unsatisfied and overstimulated.  Everyone’s house seems full of stuff and noise and lights and air conditioning, and it’s stressful just being in them. Onboard Oblivion, things are ship-shape.  There’s a place for everything and everything in it’s place.  We used to live in the sea air 100% of the time. Now we feel like prisoners…we can’t constantly see the sun and sky…and the air conditioning everywhere is killing me.   I’ve got the sniffles all the time, and headaches.  Those were absent during our time aboard Oblivion.

I am at a loss as to how to find a balance in my life.  I know Nancy feels the same way.  I want to go back and yet I want to have dinner with my parents and have a beer with my friends.  I want to see dolphins racing underneath Oblivions bow and I want to go for a walk with Conrad.  I want to sleep in a comfortable bed and at the same time I want to crawl into my little berth and pass out, covered in salt and exhausted from a long day of sailing.  I want to go have dinner at Spezia and I want the satisfaction I get from bracing myself in a moving kitchen and cooking a cup of ramen noodles without spilling boiling water all over myself.

Any idea how I can convince everyone I know to move aboard Oblivion with us? I’m open to suggestions.

Jeff

If you own a  boat you know that there’s always something going wrong with them.  “Marine Grade” means poor quality and 4X as expensive.  You’re always looking for advice on how to do this, fix that, anchor properly, or trim your sails.  Ultimately this quest for knowledge leads you to the online sailing forums.  You can usually find the answer to your question by searching through thousands of older posts. It’s probably happened to someone before…you just gotta find out what they did to fix it and your problem may be solved.  For several months I was a voyeur of these forums.  Then I started asking questions and even answering a few here and there

If you’re a registered user on the forums you generally post a profile picture and some brief information about yourself.  The different websites keep track of your activity online and other users, such as myself, can see if you are an active (or over-active) user of the site.  Some guys have responded to literally thousands of topics making them, in my eyes, veritable experts.

At first I believed these guys new everything.  They had answers for every question, from docking procedures to international cruising to fuel additives they knew it all.  I asked questions and they generally answered.  It was a good relationship.  Then one day the wheels began to fall off.

I began to contemplate actually hitting the open ocean and doing some real sailing-not just tacking back and forth across a lake but going somewhere…somewhere with blue water, dolphins, and sandy beaches.  One day I asked the question on Cruisersforum.com: could someone with my sailing experience possibly buy a boat and sail the oceans? The answer was something I did not want to hear.  Almost unanimously the respondents said I was incapable.  You needed years or decades of coastal experience before you could tackle such a thing. It might not even be possible, since I wasn’t born on a boat and didn’t come from 30 generations of sailors.  I was kind of crushed.  The consensus of these old Salts was that I would need to move to an ocean and practice, practice, practice for years before embarking on such a trip. I’d be irresponsible to myself, my family, other boaters, and the Coast Guard if we were to actually do it.

Anyway, as you know, we ignored their sage advice, bought a boat, and did it anyway.  So…were they right? Did the guy with 10,000 posts actually know what they were talking about? In a word, yes and no.  I’ll give them this: they do generally seem to know boats and boat systems.  But they’ve obviously not actually gone sailing.  I think most of those guys just sit at the dock and work on their boat year in and year out, trying to get it in perfect working order before departing…and any boat owner knows that they  never work perfectly all the time.

People think too much about this hobby.  Get a boat that’s not going to sink, make sure a few critical systems work, and go. Don’t overthink it.  Sailors are historically not the brightest bunch. This really isn’t hard at all.  It is occasionally uncomfortable.  Nancy’s been scared once or twice.  But I know 45 knots isn’t going to sink our boat.  There have been a few nervous moments almost always in and around marinas.  The logistics part is easy.  Anchoring has been a piece of cake.  Every other boater will do anything in their power to help you.  Sometimes it’s frustrating but not difficult.  Watch your weather windows, don’t take unnecessary risks, and just do it.  This isn’t rocket science.

Do you think Magellan would have circumnavigated (I realize he didn’t really) if he’d put too much thought into it? And there wasn’t even a Coast Guard to rescue him if things went wrong. If there had been an online forum they no doubt would have been naysayers.  Thankfully Al Gore hadn’t invented the internet yet…if he had I think we’d all still be living in spice-deprived Black Plague infested Europe.

Jeff

Six months ago I was standing in a Mexican government office in Ensenada faced with getting our tourist visas, boat importation documentation, customs, etc.  And without the benefit of knowing more than 5 words in Spanish. (no shame to you, Mrs. Means) I remember being slightly nervous and being calmed by the attitudes of the staff working there.  It would be alright.  I had been having nightmares about re-entering the US.  And to top if off, we were entering on a bus via the Arizona border-a state full of people so tired of people from Mexico entering that they’d built a huge, ugly fence stretching as far as the eye can see.  As we approached the border my heart raced.  We stood out as the only gringos onboard.  And we’ve all heard (or experienced) the stories of people trying to enter the good ol US…not the friendliest of countries if judged by its border guards.

Almost shockingly, the trip across went well.  Much better than expected.  Traffic was light and it was a Sunday morning.  Although sending an overly-militaristic vibe, the agents seemed to treat everyone with respect and were by all accounts very professional.  It only took our bus 30 minutes to cross.  During that time everyone exited the bus, claimed their luggage, and passed it through a screening machine.  And there were dogs.  Dogs with the greatest dog-jobs in the world: they got to run around and sniff stuff all day, every day.  And they weren’t even reprimanded for doing it.  What a life.  Faced with what is no doubt one of the most stressful entry points into the country, the agents here did a great job.  Why can’t the agents in other cities be more professional and less dickish? (I’m talking specifically to those agents in the airport in Calgary, Alberta.  Lighten up.  You deal with fishermen, skiers, and hikers, not the Mexican drug cartel)

Our bus dropped us off in a strange part of Vegas.  We didn’t even know where we were.  We couldn’t find a taxi line.  But in a final act of Mexican Kindness, the bus driver realized we were screwed and graciously offered to drive us in the bus to a place where we could get a cab to our hotel.  Can you imagine a US bus driver doing that? $25 in cabfare later (it would have been $5 in Mexico) we were charging all of our electronics simultaneously, soaking in the A/C, and running the tub, shower, and sinks at the same time.  Within the first 30 minutes we no doubt used more electricity and water than we normally would in a month.  We were on the fast track to being Americans again.

So here we are, in Las Vegas.  It’s a little bit different than Mexico.  Brad from Tenacious Grace ‘dropped’in from San Diego last night.  (it’s only 350 miles, right?) Having one of our sailing cronies helped ease our transition.  $6 crappy beers did not.  Enormous crowds didn’t either.  We stayed up until 3am chatting in the hotel room.

This morning I went for a walk down the street.  In 5 minutes I saw more freaks than I’d see in a month of Sundays in Mexico.  And I was kind of scared of other pedestrians.  They looked dangerous.  In Mexico, everyone walked everywhere.  It was the criminals who owned cars and drove.  Here of course, it’s not quite like that.  I felt more unsafe than I ever had south of the border.  It’ll be different once we get home I know.  It will, won’t it? Won’t it?

Jeff

Against the advice of other sailors and our Lonely Planet guide, we spent the last week in Guaymas.  (LP had nothing good to say about Guaymas whatsoever) And I will say, it was a particularly dirty, stinky city.  But 3 former Mexican presidents were  born there and we didn’t see a single gringo the whole week.  Guaymas had a Soriana, a Sams Club, and a Ley.  It had a downtown, a town square with a central structure designed by Gustaf Eiffel, a cathedral, and even a multi-plex movie theater.  Again, not the nicest place we’ve ever been, but compared to what we’d come to find in San Carlos it was a veritable Shangri La.

One day last week we paid the 12 pesos and took the bus to visit San Carlos, the place Oblivion would be put “on the hard” for a couple of months.  The bus wandered out of Guaymas and through a few kilometers of desert before turning off on a beautiful, divided highway lined with palm trees for the last 5K into San Carlos.  As we approached, our spirits dampened noticeably.

San Carlos isn’t an actual city.  It’s like what you’d find on the outskirts of Vegas 30 years ago.  A crappy house here.  An old hotel there.  Drive another 2 blocks and there’s a storage facility.  In fairness, the town is centered around Marina San Carlos, a 400 slip marina and gigantic boat storage yard known as Marina SECA.  There’s a hotel and spa that’s overpriced and doesn’t look too nice.  Fully half of the commercial real estate is abandoned, and the other half isn’t far behind.  A quarter of the homes are for sale and look like they’ve been for sale for decades. (except the fancy multi-million dollar homes on top of the hills) The grocery store closed.  No gas station.  And all the nachos are made with processed cheese-orange death for certain.

And then there’s the marina…full of boats and devoid of people.  It’s the place boats go to slowly die after the wife issues the ultimatum.  It’s close to the US and above the dreaded 27 degrees latitude, a line insurance companies say you must be north of after hurricane season begins.  After driving through the marina it doesn’t look like there are inhabitants on more than 10% of the boats.  Marina SECA has another 1000 or more boats on the hard, awaiting a brokerage arrangement or a buyer with a fresh dream.  If you are one of those people who believe your boat has a spirit, a soul it’s the last place in the world you want to leave her.

So, to SV Oblivion: We still have hope for you.  We still have dreams of taking you places.  Don’t lose hope, pretty girl.  We’ll be back, and when we come back we promise to get you away from those losers at Marina San Carlos.  Which one of those boats is not like the others? OBLIVION, that’s who.

So enjoy the beautiful scenery while we’re gone and don’t get too comfortable.  We’re coming to get you soon.

The Cap’n.

Everyone should have to live on a boat for a few months.  There can be no better way to become aware of your footprint than living aboard a small boat (not the kind with professional crewmembers either).

Water Usage: we carry 100 gallons of water. When you’re never sure where your next tank will come from you use water judiciously(I think that’s an appropriate adverb but since I know several judges and they’re almost universally tight asses, it’ll work well in this context) We filled up our tanks in La Paz…100 gallons lasted almost a month.  100 gallons= 25 days.  4 gallons per person per day, for drinking water, dishes, cleaning, cooking, washing food, and showers.  We wash dishes with salt water and then rinse with fresh.  Drinking water needs to be purified via our Steripen before drinking.  Showers are short and sweet: dribble a little water on, stop the flow, soap up, then rinse.  You can shower in 1.5 gallons of water.  Our toilet does use salt water to flush so that helps us a bunch, and we do not do laundry onboard so water use for washing clothes is not counted. (plenty of sailors DO their laundry aboard by washing in salt water, rinsing in fresh, and hanging it out to dry on their lifelines) The average American is estimated to use 80 gallons of water per person per day.  We use 2 each and we’re pretty liberal compared to some people.  (one couple we met had a 26′ boat and 14 gallos of water)

Electricity: Oblivion runs on a 12V DC system when we’re away from the dock and both a 12V and an AC/DC system when we’re at the dock.  Our ‘house’ bank of batteries consists of (4) 6V batteries wired to get 12 volts and 360 amps. Our actual useable amp hours is around 72, or in terms of watts, around 900.  This powers our electronics, such as radar, lights, water pump, bilge pumps, etc.  We can also convert DC to AC via our inverter, and occasionally we do that.  Up until recently we had to run our engine to turn our alternator to generate power to recharge our batteries, which takes about 2 to 3 hours every single day.  The average American uses 11,400 watts of electricity every single day.  If we were at home we’d use 22,000 watts.  Instead we’re using less than 1000.  Before Thane left he installed an Amp meter on our electrical panel in the companionway.  It shows in bright red LED numbers exactly how much electricity we’re using at any given minute.  When we’re sitting on anchor and a light is on, it shows 2 amps or less.  Refrigerator kicks on, it jumps to 8 amps.  Turn on the radar and it goes to 13.  Start the engine and it shows the actual amps going back into the batteries.  This single $150 device has opened up a new world for us…it’s made us aware of exactly how much electricity we’re using.  And the more we use, the more we’ve got to run our 30 year old engine to recoup the amp hours. Note: most sailors have solar panels that provide 100% of their daily needs w/o running their engines.

Suzie, our Isuzu Diesel Engine: Since we’ve been in Mexico we’ve put 500 hours on our engine.  At 2000 RPM’s we burn 1 gallon of diesel per hour.  We estimate we’ve used 450 gallons of diesel in 6 months, an average of about 3 gallons per day.  If we happen to be motoring some place, we can double dip: the engine’s running taking us somewhere and creating electricity at the same time.  More commonly, we’ve found ourselves sitting at anchor and having to run the engine for an hour in the morning and an hour around dinner.  (if we got rid of our refrigerator, like many sailors do, we could cut our electrical use by 75%) If everyone at home had to run a 60HP diesel engine 2 hours every day, as well as maintain that engine, they would cut back on their electrical usage drastically.  It’s a terribly expensive way to create a few electrons of electricity.  If you were at anchor all the time and ran your engine 2 hours every day for electricity, it would cost you about $250 month for the little bit of electricity we use.  (this includes engine depreciation, cost of oil changes, filters, and diesel fuel)  Convert that into the amount of electricity that a family of 5 would use every single day and your electric bill would be somewhere around $10,000 per month.  So the reason Americans don’t pay any attention to their electrical usage is not that they can’t cut back or do anything about it, but commercially produced electricity is just so damned cheap it’s not worth trying.

Garbage: The difference in the amount of garbage we produce when we’re in a marina vs. on anchor/at sea is staggering.  During our 3 weeks in the Sea of Cortez, we created 3 small bags of garbage.  In large part it’s due to the fact that we can throw certain kinds of waste overboard.  We always through organic waste over at sea, but our marina neighbors wouldn’t be too happy if the place was full of apple cores and avocado pits.  We’ve been at Marina Singlar Guaymas for 6 days now and have probably thrown away 5 bags so far.  The rules of the sea are too liberal when it comes to waste: until recently, you could throw anything you wanted overboard, provided it was 12 miles offshore (this included plastics, which could be discarded provided they were chopped up!) Nowadays, you can dump trash 3 miles offshore, provided it’s not plastic and that it doesn’t float.  At 12 miles, you can dump all trash except plastics provided they don’t float…and 25 miles out even floaters are OK.  If it’s going to be a while until we find a trash receptacle, we throw cans and bottles overboard.  They sink right away and the cans disintegrate fairly quickly.  Using the same rules Americans could cut down on probably 75% of their trash: cans and bottles are recyclable.  Organic waste can go to a compost heap.  Most plastics are recyclable.  There’s no excuse to have 5 cans of garbage every week.  In Mexico, the only thing that gets recycled is aluminum, although there are no receptacles for it.  (we usually sort it out and leave it outside the trash can so someone in need can easily grab them) As a result, we throw out an ungodly amount of garbage when were in marinas…not much we can do.

Propane: Our Force 10 stove is run by propane, as is our grill.  We have 2 tanks: one we refilled in La Paz in January, the other we filled in La Cruz in February.  It cost $40 to fill both and we’ve got about 60% left.  At this rate we’ll spend about $40 per year on fuel to cook with.  Our stovetop isn’t the most awesome thing in the world.  No gourmet chef would want it.  It doesn’t heat as evenly as you’d like and the burners are small…too small for most people.  But talk about energy efficient.

Since moving aboard Oblivion we’ve cut our electrical usage by about 95%.  We’ve cut our water usage by about 95%.  If we’d been at home we’d have probably used 1500 gallons of gas driving our cars to work and on trips.  We’ve used 400 gallons to travel AND create electricity.  We’ve cut our garbage output by probably 70%.  We don’t buy processed foods, which are full of chemicals and, purchased in the grocery store have a ridiculous amount of packaging. What’s happened to our overall environmental footprint since we’ve left? Hard to say, but I’d guess it’s at least 80% smaller than it was…maybe 90%.  And did I mention what it’s done for my stress level and blood pressure?

My expectation was that I’d meet a lot of snooty ‘yachtistas’…the guys wearing the matching Polo shirts and leather boat shoes. Gentlemen, if you will. Although I have a better word for them not suitable for this blog. San Francisco was full of super-fancy boats. Tons and tons of really nice weekend racer/cruisers and their crews. Oblivion never failed to get waves or ‘thumbs-ups’ from other sailors. She was an ocean cruising boat and looked different than anything out there. Lots of upper middle class folks sailing on weekends (albeit only during official sailing season there) and then meeting at the gentlemen’s clubs for cigars and cognac. The BVI was a different story. Every boat looked alike (charter fleets like that…it limits options and prevents people from wishing they’d rented a different boat). These boats were full of (primarily) East coasters. Successful people who just want to get away for a quick week on the water. Unfortunately, it’s too hot there to wear the sterotypical sweater tied around the neck so a complete Ralph Lauren stylin’ summer outfit has to suffice. Let’s just say that most of them aren’t people I’d care to share a Caribe with.

Jump forward to Mexico.  We’ve had the pleasure of meeting dozens and dozens of boats and their owners, beginning with the crew of Endurance on Christmas eve to Trevor of SV Nakiska, earlier today. For you, the reader, we’ve painstakingly categorized them into these classifications.

The Couple: Nancy and I fit into this group.  Two heterosexual folks traveling along in their boat.  There are three sub-groups.

Youngerish Standard Couple: These couples are usually taking some time off their jobs and have a destination in mind: Tahiti is the most common, although there are some who intend to stay in Mexico, head through the canal, head to Chile, or visit Central America.  They usually travel in smaller boats and live on extremely modest budgets.  Nancy and I fit into the group, but Oblivion is significantly larger and our budget is more grandiose than most.  Mike and Hyo are more typical, as is IO, t 28′ traditional sailboat.

Olderish Standard Couple: These couples are usually retired or semi-retired but live on surprisingly modest boats.  Generally nothing fancy here.  They’re people who have worked hard and been moderately successful.  This is a seasonal lifestyle, as they almost always have grandchildren back home that they need to boogie back to in the summertime.  Most likely it’s a 3rd or 4th marriage for the guy and the 2nd for the woman.  (his first few wives couldn’t adapt to life onboard so he traded them in. Listening, Nancy?) They guys are almost always wearing a Tilley hat and sport a white, close cut beard with either a necklace or earring.  (full disclosure: I own a Tilley, have mostly white/grey hair,occasionally a short beard, and have taken to wearing my wedding ring on a necklace so I don’t catch in on a winch but I intend to stick it out with Nancy) The women are usually 10-15 years  younger than their spouse and are usually a bit heavier.  An ankle tattoo is common, usually of a flower or butterfly.  And about 50% of these couples have a dog or cat.  When at anchor or dockside, a fully stocked bar is available any time after 4pm.  (beer before that).  Due to their commitments to their grandchildren, these couples stay close to airports (never know when one of them might do something worthy of flying home, like read a book) and seldom sail outside of Mexico. These couples usually maintain friendships with other yachties from year to year and often hang out at the same marina with the same people for several years.

HomoSailors: (if you’re a Christian conservative, a member of the Quoram of 12 Apostles, Pat Robertson, Pat Buchanen, or a member of the Klan I’m just making this stuff up. There are no gays or lesbians. Anywhere.  So don’t bother trying to discriminate any more) As the statistics bear out, a significant percentage of boatowners are gay or lesbian, although not as many as you would think, given that fact that gays and lesbians are, as a group, better educated and more successful than the rest of us.  The couples that we’ve meet have been superfantastic, although the sterotype that gay men are neater and tidier and better dressers than the rest of us is inaccurate, or maybe they just pale in comparison to me and my stylish ways)

Sailing Families: This is far more common than you’d expect, and it’s not from who you’d expect.  It’s the Canadians who are doing it! We’ve run into probably 12-15 families who are living aboard fulltime and sailing with their kids and even their dogs.  Most of them are Canadian.  It’s hard to imagine the circumstances that would lead up to an American denying their kid the quality education they’re getting nowadays.  Hell, it’s probably illegal.  But what have the Canadians have to lose? Not much, it appears.  They’re pulling their kids out in droves, choosing instead to educate them via homeschool aboard a boat, sailing around the world.  What could a kid possibly learn by meeting and interacting with kids from other cultures? What good could it possibly do to introduce kids to other parts of the world? Swimming everyday DOES NOT top dodgeball and should not count for a PE credit.  Just because you can speak English, French, and some Spanish, Chinese, and Russian doesn’t mean you’re smart! Americans: keep your kids isolated and in the dark.  It’s easier to manage them that way.  The Canadian kids I’ve met who are traveling are scary to talk to.  They’re like little adults! Go get your kid another Playstation game for Pete’s sake or God forbid they’ll turn out like Zach, Katrin, or Foster.  Cripes.

The Solo: This is BY FAR the most dangerous group of sailors.  I’d like to say you never know what you’re gonna get, but that’s not true.  You ALWAYS know what you’re gonna get: a guy who’s been aboard a 40′ boat by himself for a month/year/century and does not know how to put a cork in it.  The Crew of Oblivion is not the most outgoing crew and it’s simply because of The Solo.  One day you might be running your dinghy to shore and swing by a new boat in the anchorage just to say ‘hi’…next thing you know it’s midnight and you’re still sitting there listening to some guy drone on and on about how he tackled a wave near Pt. Wherever or how his jib sheet broke and he had to improvise and fix it with a pair of underwear and a snorkel.  And it never ends There’s no point in trying to be civil when you run into one of these guys.  If you knock on a boat and a guy comes up the companionway, ask right away if his wife/dog/roommate is there.  Prove to yourself beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s not the only one aboard.  And they’re cagey: they’ll lie.  “oh yeah, my wife’s below cooking up the dog with some turtles”.  It’s important that you NEVER TAKE THEM FOR THEIR WORD.  If you play nice and pretend to believe that someone would marry such a guy, he’ll seize the opportunity and begin telling you about his passage from X to Y…and from there you’re fucked.  So cut your losses early: if there’s any question whatsoever that he’s a solo, get outta there. AND NEVER, NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH THEM IN THE SHOWER.  It’s awkward. In the name of decency, I’ll leave it at that.  FYI, there are no solo women sailors.