“Jeez! This is wicked slow even for an old turtle like Ginger Lee“. I look down in disbelief at the GPS. “Three miles per hour!”
“Maybe we should get out and push,” the XO deadpans.
“I guess I miscalculated the current,” I admitted. The good news is: it’s a gorgeous morning, absolutely and literally sparkling. Seas are running less than one foot, very nice indeed, and the VHF radio is alive with interesting chatter from all the hard-working, bad-boy Captains leaving New Bedford Harbor. Many of them sounding half asleep as they pilot their fishing vessels toward what many consider the easiest passage through the Elizabeth Islands: Quicks Hole.

View from Quicks Hole.

In retrospect, after leaving Swifts Neck, I should have set a course through the tumultuous Woods Hole Cut to ride the more favorable current southwest down the Vineyard Sound. But noooooo. I wimped out, cut across Buzzards Bay, went through Quicks Hole, and now we are fighting the current northeast to our destination: Tarpaulin Cove.
“Two point six,” my wife rubs it in a bit, but I know she’s just joshing; we are certainly in no rush. A sailboat, paralleling our course to starboard, drops behind us, unable to gain any speed. There is no wind, and a three MPH current, but hey, so what! The day couldn’t be prettier. So much bright sunshine floods the salon that I need to place a dark towel in front of the helm to ward off the glare reflecting off the shiny, snow-white gelcoat.
“A little more to the left,” the XO instructs and I comply immediately; she has been at the helm for almost four hours now.

The XO at the helm.

She admits this is a time she loves: guiding our boat toward its destination, following a course, a heading, taking pride in the arrow straight line drawn by the chartplotter. I’m glad she told me that, because I can relate. In my field service job, I drive my car many miles every working day. It becomes, dare I say, spiritual.
“There’s the lighthouse!” I gush. Finally, the familiar structure peeks over the top of the mainland it guards. We are here! Tarpaulin cove! I inadvertently rub my legs, remembering the last time we were here and tried to climb the pathway to that old lighthouse. About halfway up, I was so covered with ticks that we ran back to the beach in revulsion. I had at least thirty of the loathsome creatures on my legs. I am shuddering with that revolting memory.
“You okay?” Susan says with a smile. She remembers too, but somehow escaped the tick attack!
“They favored my sweet Italian flesh,” I reasoned.
“Can’t say I blame ’em,” she quips, being way too kind.
“Yeah, I hate ticks.”
Tarpaulin Cove is just a dimple on the Vineyard Sound side of Naushon, the largest of the Elizabeth Islands. I think it’s so cool that it’s privately owned. Its beauty would surely be destroyed by developers. Oh yeah, it would be another high-priced destination like Block Island or Nantucket in no time. With the addition of a few loud bars, pristine Tarpaulin Cove could be the next Oak Bluffs!  Fortunately, the owners don’t mind if you use their beach. Watch out for cows! It’s not unusual to see several of the massive beasts wade into the water to cool off on a hot day.

Bloody Marys.

After Bloody Marys, we dinghy ashore to stretch our legs. Everything is as I remember it: pebbly sand dotted with cow-pies, friendly boaters with dogs, and hunting osprey. We are on a magnificent hunk of Massachusetts that not many folks know about. It is one of the most beautiful unspoiled places in our state.  Our time here feels special. Like we are on foreign shores, privileged to breathe its air, feel its sunshine. It’s magnificent. I am in awe.

July, late afternoon, Wareham MA.
It’s summer vacation, and the Executive Officer and I do what we always do this time of year: pack up a bunch of stuff, truck it down to our dinghy, and head out on the water for an extended boat trip.

The XO and a bunch of stuff.

Ashore on Swifts Neck, our hardworking dinghy Salty ll is loaded to capacity, its water-line much higher, but not dangerously so. I point the bow towards our cabin cruiser Ginger Lee and push off, savoring the exact moment when foot leaves land. We are now living by a different set of rules. Ironically, for boats, it’s called The Rules of the Road.

Loaded up.

Salty’s old Honda 9.9 horsepower four-stroke engine fires right up and motors us slowly along, fine bow slicing through rippling waters until it finds Ginger Lee’s large teak swim platform. We have work to do, unloading and stowing all the stuff, but the XO and I make a good team; we’ve done this many times.
Soon everything is put away and we settle down on the aft-deck with cold adult beverages.
The plan is as follows:
Tonight: drinks and Red Sox radio while safely tied to our mooring.
Tomorrow: leave Wareham at the crack of dawn.
Destination: East.
Objective: fun, relaxation, adventure.

The crack of dawn.

Early morning, Swifts Neck, Wareham, MA.
Odd, but I have never needed an alarm clock. Somehow, I don’t know why, I just get up in time, every single time without fail. The sun, boasting the same peculiarity, rises over Tempest Knob and speaks to me as I rub the sleep out of my eyes. “Are you ready dude?”
“Oh yeah,” I answer simply and respectfully, not knowing if it’s proper to “dude” the sun.
Maybe it’s the strong percolated coffee that’s making my heart race; I am excited. Who knows what will happen? I don’t even know for certain where we are going! We’ll figure it out at sea, based on the tides, the currents, and our fancy. Meanwhile, I revel in my good fortune; I have a boat that can cruise indefinitely, and a wife who loves that boat as much as I do.

Dropping the mooring at dawn.

Early afternoon, outside Scituate Harbor
The entrance to Scituate Harbor is marked by a brilliant white, postcard-worthy lighthouse. One I have never seen before. After consulting the Duncan and Duncan cruising guide, I discover that it’s been decommissioned and privately owned. Can you imagine living in a lighthouse? How cool!
As we slowly cruise in, two working lobster boats are heading out, they pass us to port and their captains smile and wave. Today, Susan has appointed herself the designated waver, and returns the gesture.

Entering Scituate Harbor

Raising the Scituate Harbor Yacht Club on channel 9, I request a mooring assignment. “Meet me at nun 8, I’ll show you your mooring,” was the reply. As we follow the nav-aids down, I wonder why it is, in all my years of boating, I have never been to this beautiful place. Both the cruising guides we carry on board say very nice things about it. Apparently, it has everything a boater could possibly want, restaurants, liquor store, CVS, a supermarket, and gift shops, all on a quaint little street which is supposed to be just a short walk from the dinghy dock. I can’t wait to check it out.
When we reach nun 8, the yacht club launch meets us and it’s skipper shouts: “Follow me. I’ll circle it.” We follow. He circles. Susan captures the mooring line with a boat hook and loops it around the bitt. I shut down the engines and the electronics. Time for a cold drink! “What are ya havin’ Hon?” I ask. Knowing the answer, I have it ready before she stows the boat hook and hops onto the aft deck. It’s so darn hot and humid we’re sweating buckets just sitting in the shade. It’s much too hot to even walk down the street, so we decide to postpone our usual dinghy trip for now. It’s a good thing we did.

Scituate Harbor Yacht Club launch

“Rick! Check this out.” Susan is looking at the northern sky, transfixed by the cloud formations marching frightfully fast towards us. “Quite a weather front,” I say. “The clouds look like big fried Chinese chicken fingers!” Within seconds, a chill wind turns every boat on a mooring northward like they’re magnetized. Delightfully cool air is whipping through the boat, freezing the sweat on my face. It feels soooo good! Too bad we have to close all the widows and hatches soon.

Storm Clouds

NOAA vessel coming in before the storm.

Out on Massachusetts Bay, the ocean turns an unfriendly shade of olive scribbled with whitecaps. A dozen boats come bombing in. Nearby, the yacht club pool and bar, which was packed to capacity ten minutes ago, is now nearly deserted.
“Here it comes,” I announce. Suddenly, a gorgeous, sunny, July afternoon turns into a dark maelstrom. Ginger Lee is bucking to and fro. Lightning cracks all around us. Huge windswept droplets of rain loudly pelt everything. “I never saw it leak there before,” Susan says as she lays a towel on the wet inside window ledge. “‘Cuz it’s raining sideways! At least it’s leaking above the waterline,” I say as I place a towel under the usual drippy spot near the center windshield. Despite the craziness outside, it’s so cozy inside our boat I decide I need a nap! A decision that extracts the oddest look from my wife, and rightfully so, I suppose. Still, I stretch out on the couch, pull my hat over my eyes, and mumble: “Just a cat-nap. Ten minutes at the most.”

Susan says it rained for about three hours with heavy thunder and lightning. I blissfully slept through it. Old age has its perks!

Early evening. Clearing skies.

Finally, the rain stops and we’re able to take a dinghy ride. We hop into Ol’ Salty, wipe off the seats and head out. The Harbormaster gives us a friendly wave as he slowly motors towards us down the fairway. “Where’s the dinghy dock?” I ask him when he gets near. “Two wharves down on the right, under the gangway. Take my space, and if anyone says anything, tell ’em Bob says it’s okay.” Bob smiles broadly and idles off. He looks as rugged and craggy as his old Boston Whaler.
Finding his space, I tie off Salty and we amble up the long, steeply angled aluminum gangway. A gazillion lights of a travelling carnival bombards us as we reach street level. Enjoying the feel of solid, unmoving ground beneath my feet, I feel so giddy that I leap-frog a wooden piling. My wife is duly impressed, but I make a silent vow to never do that again; it’s exactly the kind of thing that can land a sixty-two year old man in the emergency room of the nearest hospital.
Doctor: “So, Mister Coraccio. Exactly how did you break your face?”         Rick: “Oh. The usual way. Being wicked stupid.”

Refrigerator magnets

As advertised, everything a boater could possibly want is here on Front Street, except a refrigerator magnet. We try to buy one in every port we visit but today we have no luck. There is a certain style we prefer but any one with the name of the town or city will do.
Hand in hand, we stroll along the waterfront, enjoying the view of the harbor which is dramatically lit with that yellowish tint that only occurs for a few minutes before dusk. Susan calls this “the lemon light.”  I regret taking only one night in this gorgeous, quaint little harbor. It feels good just being here. I’m coming back!

The lemon light. Situate Harbor

Early Wednesday morning, Swifts Neck, Wareham, MA
The Sun is just below the horizon. Its reddish gold glow illuminates thin streaks of silvery clouds over Tempest Knob. A gentle northern breeze funnels its way down the Wareham River, swinging Ginger Lee on her mooring, allowing me a perfect view of the spectacle from the aft deck. With steaming cup of coffee in hand, I take it all in, vowing to never forget its beauty, at least until the next perfect sunrise. It’s already 72 degrees. “It’s gonna be a hot one” I say aloud to myself.

Tempest knob

“Coffee’s ready Hon,” I announce. My way of saying: please get up, I’d love to get going soon. Yawns emanate from the berth, and soon my wife’s small feet hit the floor. She doesn’t ask the time. We have tucked our watches away in a drawer and turned off the old brass ships clock for the duration of our trip. We won’t need them, don’t want them. It’s a luxury we are treating ourselves to.
“I saw a red sky last night,” she says as she joins me on the aft deck. Sailors delight,” I finish the age-old adage. “Good coffee,” she says sweetly, and I agree. “I’ve finally figured out that old percolator. You have to wet the screen before adding the coffee. It keeps the crunch factor down to near zero.”
The Sun, now free from its bedding, washes over us, warming our faces and arms. Momentarily, we fall under its spell.
“Let’s go boating!” I gush, breaking out of my trance.
We both have our own jobs to do before getting underway. Susan readies Salty II, our 12 foot aluminum dinghy , attaching a bridle line to the floating tow painter.

Getting the dinghy ready for towing.

I climb up to the fly-bridge and remove three Gullsweeps, then go out to the fore deck and cut away the fishing line I have strung across the bow rail to keep the birds away. Susan now preps the mooring pennant, the mast buoy, and clips our custom-made dog burgee onto the bow staff. The whole process takes all of five minutes.

Dog burgee. Rest in peace Ginger Lee, you were a good dog.

Ginger Lee the dog.

“Lighting ’em up” I shout, and hit the starters. Both engines, which we have named Castor and Pollux, fire right up and settle into a nice 800 rpm rumble. I scan the gauges and they all look pretty good. Leaning over the transom railing, I check the flow of water coming out of the exhaust. “Good boys,” I say, then return to the helm, flash two thumbs up, and Susan slips the mooring lines off the bitt. We are floating free.

Handling the mooring lines.

After rounding can 15 into the Wareham River channel, I bring the engines up to 1200 rpm and hand the helm over to my wife. She is the open water, long distance driver, and I am the close quarters, finesse driver. Time-wise, this may not seem like an equitable division of labor when you consider she sometimes spends many hours at the wheel, but I don’t just sit around eating bon-bons. I do stuff too! Like chart our course, arrange dockage, wash dishes, make the bed, vacuum floors and generally clean up. There’s always something to do on a boat. Anyway, this is the routine we have settled into.
      Ginger Lee is doing a whopping 6 MPH as we leave the protection of Sippican Neck. Not a typo folks; this is a slow boat! We steel ourselves for the usual 3 foot Buzzards Bay swells but they never come. In fact it’s surprisingly flat.

Mass Maritime Academy and the railroad bridge.

The wind turbine at the Mass Maritime Academy is barely turning as we motor under the railroad bridge and enter the Cape Cod Canal. The tide is flowing in our direction and soon we are doing 14 MPH even after throttling all the way down to the minimum 600 RPM. Normally, Canal Control will scold boats breaking the 10 MPH speed limit, but today they are leaving us alone. I can only assume it’s because there is only one other boat in the canal and we are not leaving a wake. Jeez! I’d have to use reverse to slow the boat down!

The Bourne Bridge

10:00 am Bourne MA
I love going through the Cape Cod Canal with its lush greenery and nice houses. A paved path along both sides of the entire length is well used by walkers, joggers, skaters, bikers, and what I call “cycling fishermen”. They rig their bicycles with coolers and rod holders, sometimes carrying as many as six fishing rods. Dozens of them spend the entire day fishing off the large rocks that line the canal. We toss them all friendly waves as we pass; they mostly all wave back.
The Sun is streaming in, warming the cabin so much that I need to open every window and hatch. When a colorful Monarch butterfly flits across the windshield, I know Neptune has blessed us with the good Ju-Ju. I feel great! Downright giddy. Susan senses my joy and threatens to jump overboard if I start dancing. Okay. I can’t dance. I freely admit it. So I break out into a song! She rolls her eyes, but thank goodness she stays on the boat.
All around us, the water is swirling in unpredictable eddy’s, reflecting greenish beams of light off the salon headliner. “Washing machine!” I warn Susan, but she is already deftly cutting through it, ruddering hard to port, then quickly correcting to starboard. “Not so bad,” she answers. You get used to this sort of thing cruising around Buzzards Bay. Ask anyone who has entered Onset Harbor, or gone through the Woods Hole Cut, where the nuns and cans lean at a forty-five degree angle from the intense current twisting through.
On the eastern end of the canal, the Sagamore Bridge is being serviced and workmen are climbing through scaffolding set up underneath. Above, there are lane restrictions. “It must be a mess up there,” I comment. On any given Summer day, the Sagamore’s constant flow of traffic on route 6, the Cape’s main highway, is absolutely crazy. I will avoid it like the plague this time of year.

Sagamore Bridge

“Not much traffic down here,” I say as we glide under the massive span, past the power plant, the Harbor of Refuge, and out into beautiful Cape Cod Bay. From here it’s a straight line course to Scituate Harbor, our next stop. The seas are running less than one foot, the wind negligible. This is very, very good.
The old familiar New England summertime phrase, Triple H, perfectly describes the weather conditions today: Hazy, hot and humid. I love it, but  November Bob, the computer generated voice on the VHF weather channel WX1, is being a wicked bummer, warning us of a possible thunderstorm mid afternoon. Hopefully, before then, we will be in Situate, safely tied to our rented mooring float.

Off in the distance, our destination.

.

The lawn is turning a lovely shade of water-me-brown. For the sake of the grass, part of me wants the skies to open up and rain like the devil. Another part of me says: “the heck with the lawn, bring on the sunshine! That’s why they invented sprinklers.” This is the fourth pissa weekend in a row!
We load up our bikes like pack mules and head out to the boat. It’s only a few blocks away, but with all the stuff we haul, it’s so much easier than walking, and way more fun!
I’ve got some maintenance and other projects to work on, and the Executive Officer is anxious to commission her own personal command, sailing vessel Windsey, so we decide to stay right here in Wareham, floating off beautiful Swifts Neck, firmly attached to our mooring.

Pack mule?

More fun than walking!

Dinghy Salty II awaits.

Once on board, my first order of business is to check out Ginger Lee’s batteries. I’ve been having a few problems: low voltage alarms, dim lights, sluggish engine starts, stuff like that.After checking each of the five large marine service batteries, I soon discover one of them is totally defunct, and bringing the whole system down. I yanked that sucker outta there like a bad tooth. The next order of business is to figure out why the solar panel stopped working.After taking the solar panel apart, I find a bad solder joint. No problem! I repair it with my new butane powered soldering iron. I’m on a roll! The next thing on my to-do list is to service the starboard rudder stuffing box, which is a kind of seal where the rudder shaft goes through the hull underwater. It’s way out of adjustment, letting in a steady stream of sea water, overworking the bilge pumps, and draining the batteries. Without a working solar panel to recharge them, it’s probably why the weakest battery bit the dust. While adjusting the stuffing box, I discover one of the rear bilge pumps isn’t working. I trace the problem to a bad wire and fix that as well.

The bilge master.

A boat is like a living organism; all systems depend on each other for good health. I’m just glad I discovered problems here, at the home mooring, instead of some far away port. This is why, every once in a while, I like to poke around in the engine room, aft deck bilge area, and every place that can be poked. I keep a large tool box on board so I can handle anything that needs handling.

Lift crane and winch.

The other thing I’m working on is our new lift crane winch system. Since we added an aft deck hard-top, we needed a way to get our folding bicycles, and a portable generator up into the fly-bridge, which has lots of storage space. As a safety measure, I designed it to be strong enough to lift the dead weight of an unconcious person out of the water. I hope I never have to test the limits of my design that way.
Enough of this work stuff. It’s time for lunch, and a cold beer!

The X.O. rigs sail.

WINDSEY takes off.

The Executive Officer readies her sailboat and takes command. Wind filled the sail and she took off so fast it made me gasp. In a heartbeat Windsey was a football field away.
Mid afternoon we take the dinghy into Wareham Harbor to see the WAR OF 1812 ATTACK ON WAREHAM RE-ENACTMENT. It’s part of the CELEBRATE WAREHAM festivities taking place at various times during the summer.

The Redcoats invade Wareham!

The Wareham Minutemen stand their ground.

The  British are banished. Note Minutemen guarding The Narrows bar.  Save the booze!

Nantucket light ship in Wareham Harbor.

Lee and his dog Taz stop by for a visit.

the X.O. at the helm of KAYAN.

An Osprey heads home.

What a gorgeous day. I feel like I’m living in paradise.
As the daylight fades to atomic red, the number of beachgoers dwindle, until only a few diehards remain to witness the sunset. They clutch together on the sand in their folding chairs and hoodies, until the cool night air sweeps in and chases them home. Overhead, we hear the familiar “cheeope-cheeope-cheeope” of a lone Osprey calling it a day as well. I am sure we are the only people staying the night on a boat in this whole mooring field. We always are.
The night brings a pleasing calmness to the water, as if Neptune himself has laid down his trident for the evening. The only sounds are the occasional muffled conversations from the nearby cottages, and the quiet swishing of water against the hull. There’s nothing quite like it.

Swifts Neck sunset.

Why am I always alone when I walk picturesque Swifts Beach? It’s understandable in the winter months, when I have to bundle up in forty pounds of clothing, but it’s almost summer, and this mornings weather is the finest I’ve experienced in quite some time. The temperature is in the mid seventies with bright blue skies and wispy white clouds. There’s even a hint of humidity in the air. When was the last time it was humid? Last August? Where is everybody? I hope I never become immune to such beauty. But I suppose I shouldn’t complain; it’s nice to be alone with my thoughts on a beautiful beach in any weather. To me it’s inspirational, gets the creative juices flowing. Years ago, when I was a professional musician, I wrote most of my songs while walking the beach. Now, I write my blogs here as well!

I take advantage of the firm, wet sand along the shoreline, walking so close to the water that my footprints could easily be washed away with the slightest ripple. But it rarely happens here in Wareham; there are no waves, except for when it storms, and even then they’re not so impressive. On this picture-perfect late spring morning, not only are there no waves, there is no breeze. Everything is still, quiet, unmoving. Everything, that is, except the no-see-ums. With no wind to blow their loathsome little bodies away, they unmercifully nip my bare arms, legs, face, and even find their way under my hat. Jeez I really hate that! “The walk is over,” I say to myself and quicken my pace, but they chase me all the way to my dinghy pulled up on the sand. Sure, the bugs are awful this time of year, but the good news is: it’s tee-shirt and shorts weather! Around here, that’s practically cause for celebration.
I motor slowly back to Ginger Lee, our cabin cruiser moored off Swifts Neck. My wife Susan, is having coffee on the aft-deck. She puts down her book, pulls a boat hook from its holder, and helps me dock to the swim platform.“You’re up early,” I say, and peck her on the cheek. “Went to bed early. I think. Around boaters midnight,” she answers.
It’s sometimes hard to stay awake on a boat after the sun goes down. Probably because the motion of the water gently rocks you to sleep. I noticed the phenomenon long before I heard the phrase “boaters midnight” from other boaters. But you know, sleep is good, so I figure it’s a good thing.  It’s been our habit, while on the boat, to put our timepieces away. No watches allowed. The only clock on board, a beautiful brass antique, is purposely left unwound. We go to bed when tired, wake when ready, eat when hungry, and get there when we get there. It’s amazing how relaxing boating can be when you have no strict time constraints. That being said, if you’re going somewhere far, it’s usually a good idea to leave as early as possible, before the waterways are stirred up by the sun and other boats; it’s always calmer in the morning. To get around the no clocks rule, we made up our own boat time references. For example:
Wife: “When are we leaving?”
Captain: “In the morning.”
Wife: “At oh-my-god o’clock?
Captain: “Sounds about right, give or take.”
Wife: “Just drag my butt out of bed and pour some coffee down my neck.”

Then there’s my personal favorite:
Captain: “Is it beer-thirty yet?”
Wife: “I’m sure the sun is over the yardarm somewhere!”
This morning, right after breakfast, we plan to cruise to one of my favorite places: the quaint little village of Onset. I love the place! Every time we visit, it feels special, like an expensive and distant beach vacation destination, but it’s neither. Twenty bucks a night gets you a mooring near the town wharf, absolutely the best deal in South Coast boating by a longshot. There’s also plenty of free anchoring space on the east side of Wickets Island. A slow boat like ours can make the trip in a little over an hour. A nice little cruise with plenty to see along the way in the busy Hog Island Channel, and since Onset is part of Wareham, technically, we never even leave our hometown!

Interesting working boat.

Massive barge in the Hog Island Channel.

Happy boater snagging a town mooring.

Kayakers on Wickets Island.

Dinghy dock, Onset beach.

Check out Onset Harbor, it has everything a cruising boater needs: a beautiful beach, ice cream shops, hardware store, market and liquor store, plus great restaurants.

Two blocks away from the dinghy dock.

For seafood, Susan likes The Quahog Republic. I don’t like seafood, but the hot dogs and sandwiches are great. For pizza and subs, we both highly  recommend the legendary Marc Anthony’s. Onset also has a launch (new this year), a pump out station, and two marinas. Bring your kayak and stand-up paddleboard because the conditions are great for either. Don’t have ’em? You can rent them right on Onset beach.

Caught napping. Wickets island in the background.

Have I inspired you to get into your boat and explore our wonderful waterways? I hope so because that is my intent. They are here for all of us to enjoy. I wish all of you calm winds, gentle waves, and sunny days.

12:30 PM Saturday
“I dare you to find a cloud in the whole sky,” I say, more by way of an exclamation than a true dare. The sky is a deep postcard blue. The color blue that just doesn’t exist on the mainland.
It’s amazing. A couple of hours ago, we had the heater on in our boat as we crossed a chilled, grey-green Nantucket Sound. It really looked awful weather-wise. Now, as we stroll down the picturesque, boutique filled Tisbury Main Street, I realize that I am seriously overdressed. “Jeez it’s warm!” I say as I push up the sleeves of my long-sleeved shirt.

Tall ship Alabama

Main street is a tad touristy for my taste, but interesting all the same. We check out a few shops, but there is nothing for us to buy, and everything is expensive. One block away, however, Water Street holds more of the stuff a frugal boater can use, like a Supermarket, pizza parlor, post office, and Mad Martha’s ice cream shop. We stop at a tiny information kiosk to grab a walking map before heading off to see firsthand what this Black Dog thing is all about.
“The Black Dog System,” is what I jokingly call this complex of several quaint, cedar shingled buildings, set out on a whole city block of valuable and rare Marthas Vineyard waterfront. First, they hit you with no less than three clothing and souvenir shops, “For all your Black Dog merchandise needs,” as Susan so aptly puts it. I admit, I was so taken by a heavy, old fashioned coffee mug, that I bought one. Then, there’s the bakery, the museum, and finally, the tavern. We consider stopping in to test out the new drinking laws, but are rebuffed by the 18 people waiting outside the door.
“I don’t feel like waiting. Do you?” Susan asks.
“Nah. Let’s go back to the boat and cook those Porterhouse steaks I brought.” Nothing puts a spring in your step better than the promise of a sizzling steak and an ice cold beer. Within ten minutes we were back on board.

Late Saturday Afternoon

Late afternoon in Vineyard Haven

Although the Sun is getting low, it remains a perfect 72 degrees with no humidity to speak of. There is a crystal clarity in the air that is hauntingly memorable. A young couple meander by in a small inflatable and wave. “Nice evening,” the Captain says with a smile. I raise my drink in agreement. Their scruffy little terrier is boldly perched on the bow, mouth open, tongue hanging, bright eyes sparkling, deliriously happy. Heck! I feel the same way!

Early Sunday morning

The sun is a promising glow beneath the horizon, but I, the incurable morning man, am up and about, and trying very hard not to wake Susan, but I can’t even look at my old stainless steel percolator without making it rattle loudly. Miraculously, she sleeps through the coffee making procedure. With a hot cup of coffee in hand, I pad my way out onto the aft deck, wipe the morning dew off the deck chairs, and wait for the Sun to rise.

Vineyard Haven sunrise

Through binoculars, I watch the workers on the nearby ferry dock. They are busy directing traffic onto their ship. At this ungodly hour, it’s mostly tractor-trailers and commecial vehicles. On the ships well lit bridge, I can clearly see the captain arrive and get right down to business. He pulls down a microphone from the ceiling and says something into it. Immediately, lines are released, engines rev up, and they leave the dock. It’s amazing how such a large floating mass can pass so close and have practically no wake.

The sun pops up behind the lagoon’s bascule bridge, silhouetting its outline like a pen and ink drawing. Wonderfully warming sunlight floods our boat. Within minutes the temperature rises at least ten degrees. I take off my hoodie and don my Wayfarers. Have I mentioned that I really love it here?

The Lagoon Pond bascule bridge.

After awhile, Susan appears on the aft-deck, extra large mug in her hand.
“What would you like to do today?” she asks.
“Dinghy tour! Well, for for starters anyway. I thought we’d check out the Lagoon Pond. Then have a walkabout to Lake Tashmoo, and then get ice cream at Mad Martha’s”.
“Wow! you got plans,” she says.
“I do indeed. You in?
“Sounds good!”
I leave her to enjoy her coffee while I start cooking breakfast. I’m making an omelet with bacon, tomato, onion, mushrooms, and olives, and frying the whole thing in butter, garlic, and olive oil. The galley is smelling pretty darn good!

10:00 AM Sunday

Motor vessel Daisy, moored inthe Lagoon Pond.

After breakfast we hop into the dinghy and head out to the Lagoon Pond. It’s much larger than I expected, twice as large as the harbor. “So this is where they hide all the power boats,” I thought. I might like to anchor here next time.

11:00 Sunday

After exploring the Lagoon Pond, we zip over to the dinghy dock, tie up ol’ Salty, and walk the sun drenched side streets to Lake Tashmoo. It takes all of twenty minutes. It’s a nice walk but so anticlimactic. The road just ends at a dirty old dock. I dunno, I thought there would be a nice park or something, but no, there is not even a bench to sit on. So we turn around and head back to Vineyard Haven to get ice cream at the highly recommended Mad Martha’s. When we arrive, I go with the butter crunch, and Susan orders coffee. We are not disappointed, and the servings a so huge we can’t finish them.

Morning in Vineyard Haven

The Black Dog Tavern.

9:00 AM Monday morning
Boating on Monday rules! Tourists and weekenders are gone! We are having breakfast at the normaly packed Black Dog Tavern. Today, the place is practically empty, so we get the primo window seat facing the harbor. I surprise Susan by ordering the avocado eggs Benedict. “You don’t even like avocado,” she says. “But I don’t hate it, I just thought I’d try something different,” I reasoned. She orders a massive cheesy omelet with corned beef hash and white toast. Hers looks better than mine so we sort of share. It was all wicked tasty.
On the dinghy ride back to the boat, the mood is somewhat subdued; we will be leaving this beautiful place within the hour.
“Susan honey, I don’t want to leave.” I say bluntly. I really mean it. I could seriously live here forever. The weather is nicer here, the sky is bluer, the food tastier, the boats boatier, the beer beerier.
All good things must come to an end. Today, that old cliche echos over and over in my brain. We must go. We have jobs, a house, a life. “But we could quit our jobs, sell our house, start a new life!” I can’t believe I just said that out loud!  My wife just looks at me, but not like I am crazy, it’s a look of understanding, and love, and knowing that I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve. She kisses my forehead, walks to the bow, and slips the mooring line off the bitt. Ginger Lee reluctantly backs away, turns, and heads home.
I pick up the radio mic, tune to channel 9, and transmit:
“Vineyard Haven Harbormaster. This is motor vessel Ginger Lee checking out. Thank you for having us in your beautiful harbor, we really enjoyed it. We’ll definately be back. Ginger Lee, over and out.”
I didn’t expect a reply, but I was pleased to hear Harbormaster Jim’s voice come back loud and clear.
“Copy that Ginger Lee. Nice to have you guys, you are welcome anytime. Have a safe voyage, and come back soon. Vineyard Haven out.”

Springtime on the South Coast of Massachusetts is arguably the best boating of the year. Mainly because there are not so many boats out there. Only a few float in our mooring field on Swifts Neck. There are even a few winter sticks hanging around.
The weather report for Friday through Monday is looking pretty good. I think it’s time for a boat trip!

Rick and Salty II on Swifts Neck Beach

Friday, mid afternoon, Swifts Neck, Wareham, MA.

Since I have the day off from work, I take advantage of the favorable midday tide and provision our 32 foot Trojan fly-bridge sedan, Ginger Lee, with enough food, drinks, and ice for a three night trip. Destination: Vineyard Haven, Tisbury, Massachusetts, on the Island of Martha’s Vineyard.

It’s about 6:00 in the evening, I’m relaxing on the aft-deck waiting for my wife to get home from work. I got my feet up, I’m sipping a cold beer, and just watching the world go by, when the phone in my pocket jingles.
“Hey. I’m home. Are you on the boat?” my wife asks.
“Yeah. It’s a nice night.”
“I know,” she says. “See you at the beach in a few.”
I jump into our dinghy ,Salty II, and motor the 100 yards from our mooring to the beach to collect her.
“How was work?” I ask. She tells me about her day as we putt-putt slowly across the mooring field, and tie up to our boats old teak swim platform. The instant she crosses Ginger Lee’s transom, the tension of a days work visibly leaves her body. Her eyes brighten, posture straightens, attitude lifts into positive mode. There is no more talk of co-workers, clients, or bosses. Our conversation turns to our upcoming trip. Which way will we go? What will we do? What will we eat? What time should we leave? Did you pack this? Did you bring that?
I mix up a couple of drinks, turn on the Red Sox, and we settle in on our floating home for the next three days. The plan is to sleep here tonight on our mooring, and get an early start in the morning.

Saturday morning.

It’s a comfortably warm, slightly humid and sunny morning. The forecast says we should expect mid morning showers followed by a “10” of a day. A line of darkening clouds creeping along the western sky pretty much confirms this, but the front seems to be slipping sideways, so I’m hoping the rain will miss us completely. After coffee and corn flakes, we prep Ginger Lee for departure. Susan readies the dinghy by attaching a sturdy bridle line to its towing painter. My job is to take down and stow all the bird deterrents. It’s a constant battle with the birds here in Wareham. A fight, I’m happy to say, we are winning. This was not always so. Ginger Lee’s black Sunbrella flybridge top is warm and high, perfect for big, messy seagulls, but thanks to three Gullsweeps (wind powered spinning things) and a Bird-B-Gone spider (a metal spike thing), the birds are staying away.        Susan is at the bow, hooking a mast buoy up to the two mooring pennants. After the engines are warmed up, I give her a thumbs-up and she drops them into the water.
We are floating free and and on our own. No longer attached to the Earth. There are no white-lined roads to guide us. No guard rails, stop signs or traffic signals. It’s wonderfully liberating. I engage the Velvet Drive transmissions and we slowly glide away.
I love these first few moments. “Good-bye Mr. Mooring. The pressures of the work-a-day world are seemingly attached to you, and now, like you, they are left behind in our wake, dissipating, becoming smaller as the distance increases.”
On our floating cottage, we are living in the moment and a new priority takes precedent: our very lives! Boating is not perfectly safe, never has been, never will be, but that element of danger is part of the appeal. What will happen this weekend? Will our engines behave or will we be one of those unhappy boaters tethered to a towing vessel? Will we make it through the tumultuous Woods Hole Cut without being slammed against can 5? What adventures will we find? One never knows.

10:30 AM Saturday

We have timed our arrival at the Woods Hole Cut for mid ebbing tide, hoping for an easy transit in the normally turbulent pass. As we enter, three sailboats ahead of us are quickly losing speed against the strong current. After bringing my engines up to 1600 RPM to maintain a workable four knots, I realize that sooner or later I’ll have to pass them. Not an easy thing to do because it’s like a washing machine in here. Eddies and whirlpools toss us to and fro. Fortunately, two sailboats peel off to starboard toward Hadley Harbor.
We are four lengths behind the remaining sailboat, when suddenly, the bow of the dinghy it was towing plows under, then flips up violently on its side! I blow my horn trying to get the attention of the couple in the cockpit. They both turn around and look right at me but somehow don’t see the dinghy doing the hootchie-koo. I pass them well to starboard, still doing about 4 knots, when they hail me on the radio. “You just swamped my dinghy with your wake!” crackled the excited voice. Susan and I looked at each other in disbelief. I radioed back. “I saw your dinghy plow under then flip onto its side. I blew my horn to get your attention…Over.
“I don’t think so!” was the surprising answer. What can ya say to that? Why would I lie? I looked back at my wake. It was an anemic six inches! Jeez! This is nuts! We just got scolded for a six-inch wake in the Woods Hole Cut, where large, high horsepower vessels routinely bury their stern and power through, waking us slower boats with four footers. It’s laughable to think that our puny wake could swamp their dinghy, but I’m certainly not gonna get into a pissing match over it. I hang the mic back on its hook. There is nothing more to say. We saw what we saw. Through binoculars we watch them exit the Cut and head southwest down the Vineyard Sound. I’m a bit upset that they would think poorly of me.

West Chop in the rain.

West Chop is in sight and the weather is quickly deteriorating. Scary dark clouds are engulfing the two new wind turbines in Fairhaven, obscuring them from view. It’s obviously raining there and coming our way fast. Ahead of us in Nantucket Sound, two dozen or more sails are silhouetted against the white and grey horizon.
“What’s with all the sailboats?” I ask.
“Could be a race.” Susan speculates.
“It must be. They’re all grouped by size.”
We watch them flash by. Crew members in colorful foul weather gear are leaning well off the starboard rail. Salty spray, wind and waves are attacking them furiously. I can imagine the face-in-the-weather excitement happening on those boats. A twinge of something very much like guilt hits me as we motor by, sipping hot coffee in our warm and dry salon.
The rain finally catches up with us just as we make our southerly turn between the East and West Chops. The surf kicks up a bit as raindrops pit the water giving it an unusual appearance, like a pebbled driveway.       An immense luxury yacht falls in behind us to port as we reach the long Vineyard Haven breakwater. I hail the Harbormaster on channel 9 but get no response. After three more failed attempts. I try again on my other radio, a reliable Standard Horizon handheld. Still nothing. Suddenly over both radio’s we hear the captain of the large luxury yacht (with his heavy New Zealand or possibly South African accent) hail the Harbormaster and get an immediate answer! “That’s odd,” I say to myself. After waiting for the channel to clear, I try again with no response.
“I don’t get it. Are BOTH our radio’s busted?” I look at Susan questioningly.
“Maybe you should try it with an accent,” she deadpans. So with my best, snooty, pseudo English accent, I hail the Harbormaster one more time, drawing out yaaahd in Vineyard Haven like I heard the luxury yacht captain do. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work, but we both crack up laughing. Finally, as a last resort, I pick up my cell phone and call. You could have knocked me over with a feather when an actual human being picks up the phone on the first ring!
After getting our mooring assignment, I test both radios with the Falmouth based automated radio check system on channel 28, and discover they are both working perfectly.
“Well, apparently they receive me in Falmouth,” I say.
“But not in the Harbormaster’s shack a hundred yards away!” Susan finishes my sentence.
I really like this automated radio check system. Simply tune to channel 28, key the mic and say something such as: “Testing one-two-three.” After a second or two, if your radio works, your message is repeated back to you. It’s so cool! You get to hear your own radio voice!

Ginger Lee and many sailboats

As soon as I pull up to our assigned mooring float, the rain stops abruptly. Susan snags the pennant with a boat hook and drops it over the bitt just as the sun breaks through the clouds. By the time she walks back to the aft-deck, it’s a glorious, beautiful day. A real ’10’ just like the weatherman said. A sparkling 70 degrees.
“The sky is so blue!” I bubble.
“Look how clear the water is!” Susan says. “You can see the bottom!”          The water is indeed crystal clear, not like the brownish green water off Swifts Neck. “I love this place!” I say, surveying the colorful surroundings. It’s cozy, but not crowded, and it has a laid back feel.
Mostly sailboats are moored here, it’s like a forest of sails. It seems every boat in here is interesting in some way. The houses that line the shore are not big or expensive looking. There are no grand mansions with manicured lawns. Everything seems low key. A car ferry glides by and the travelers on the upper deck wave to us and we happily wave back. “I’ve only been here ten minutes and I don’t want to leave…ever!” I said. “I like it too!” Susan agrees.
There are places in this world that just appeal to you, sometimes they slowly grow on you, and sometimes they just grab you right away. For me, Vineyard Haven is the latter.

Harbormaster Jim

We had originally planned on spending only one night here and then move on to either Lake Tashmoo or Tarpaulin Cove, Naushon Island, but when Harbormaster Jim pulls his center console up to greet us and collect his fee, we tell him we will be staying two nights.
“That’ll be fifty dollars,” he says. We could only come up with forty-two dollars in cash, so we promised to come by his office later, after we hit the ATM. He says that will be fine, turns off his outboard, and chats with us for a solid twenty minutes. The man was probably in his fifties. He wore his thick blond hair on the long side, and it suited him. His uniform was casual, clean, and khaki.
“It’s nice to talk to someone without an accent. Where ya from?” he asks.
“Wareham. It’s our first time here,” Susan offers. He gave us the rundown on the whole place, especially the interesting Black Dog story, and how they went from a small cafe to their large presence here, and world-wide.
“They own the two tall ships over there and sail them regularly,” he points with his chin towards the two impressive vessels.
“I hear this is a dry town,” I cut in.
“Well it was, but last year they voted to allow beer and wine, and ya know…the world didn’t come to an end!” His wry smile reeking of approval.
“I’ll be sure to alert the media. My cruising guide says no booze,” I joke, and for effect, take a healthy slug of Budweiser.
“Well, I gotta go, enjoy your stay.” He shakes our hands, starts up the Yamaha outboard, and idles slowly off.

Tall ship Shenandoah

      It was a gorgeous morning. Absolutely sparkling. I awoke at six o’clock and bounded down the stairs like I weighed five pounds. After getting the coffee brewing, emptying the dishwasher and a performing a few other mundane morning rituals, I faxed in my official “Employee Request for Time Off” sheet, filling in the normal pertinent information like name, date, and pay option in the usual way, but under the “reason” heading, I truthfully and boldly wrote in the word that gets my heart pumping every time: BOATING!

      Okay. I admit it. I am a boating junkie. Incurable. A hopeless case. A candidate for intervention. Enabled by an understanding employer and the nicest wife in the whole world. She floated down the stairs not long after I did, obviously as excited as I am about today: the first boat ride of the season. This is the day we cruise Ginger Lee, our much-loved motor vessel, from her winter home at the Moby Dick Marina in Fairhaven, to her mooring at Swifts Neck in Wareham. A three hour tour.      Fellow boaters know the work involved leading up to this day. The scraping, the painting, the cleaning, the primping, the lavishing of love. I won’t boor you with the gruesome details. Let’s just say that two days ago, after many hours of work, many sore muscles, a few skinned knuckles, and a twisted up knee, I proclaimed the old Trojan F32 “seaworthy,“ and had the marina launch her.

Bottom freshly painted, zincs installed.

“Breakfast?” My wife asked, pouring herself a mug of coffee.
“Sure.”
“Eggs?”
“Yes please,” I answered.
“Toast?”
“Okay,” I said with a smile way too big for toast. On this morning everything’s okay. All’s right with the world, because finally, after a long, cold winter, there’s once again, boating.       I fired up the Lehman 120 diesels and let them settle into a nice 800 RPM rumble while Susan handled the dock-lines. After switching the radio to channel 13, I hailed the only obstacle in our way.
“New Bedford bridge, New Bedford bridge. Motor vessel Ginger Lee, over.”
“Go ahead Ginger Lee.”
“Good morning sir. What time will you open? Over.”
“Nine o’clock Captain. Line up on the west passage.”
“Good copy. Ginger Lee out.”
After checking my watch, I realized we have only twelve minutes to make the bridge opening. “It’s going to be close,” I muttered to myself. Sticking my head out the open side window, I alerted the Executive Officer.  “Honey, the bridge opens at nine, we gotta go.” The XO quickly un-cleats the lines, tosses them on the deck, and after a final push-off, deftly scrambles on board. She has the fenders stowed in their holders and the dock-lines neatly coiled before we reached the old swing bridge.

The XO wrangles the fenders.

Fellow happy boaters.

The New Bedford Bridge.

We made it!

A huge barge coming through the swing bridge right after us,

Rowing club in the Harbor

I love New Bedford Harbor. Years ago, while living on my boat here, I got to know it fairly well. Cruising through it always makes my old heart sing. It’s so “New England.” The real deal. I urge you to cruise here. Take your dinghy through the working docks, where hundreds of fishing vessels are tied to each other. Some ancient, some new, some half sunk, some abandoned. It’s incredible, and totally free of charge. Tie your dinghy up to the public wharf and venture into a real New England working waterfront scene. Don’t forget to visit the Whaling Museum.

Approaching the Hurricane Barrier

On the Fairhaven side of the harbor, explore the docks where they haul out and service large fishing boats. Walk the amazing Hurricane Barrier, completed in 1966 after the hurricanes of 1938 and 1954 destroyed most of the fishing fleet. Check out Fort Phoenix; it’s been guarding the harbor since 1775.       With the hurricane barrier at our stern, we followed the channel to nun 4, made a left and set a straight line course to the Bird Island Light, the unofficial entrance to the Wareham River and our home port of Swifts Neck.

The winds were light, seas less than one foot, visibility unlimited. The Sun greeted the ocean and sparkled like diamonds off its ripples. There’s not a cloud in the sky. Ginger Lee’s engines thrummed steadily in unison, seemingly happy to be transporting us after their long Winter hibernation. They vibrated reassuringly beneath our feet, like a living, breathing thing. I felt their heartbeat, know that they are healthy, and it pleases me.

Ginger Lee at home in Swifts Neck.

It was a Summer of droughts, both rain and Sun. Here on the South Coast of Massachusetts, where beaches and boats abound, the lack of rain is generally tolerated if it’s warm and sunny. But Ol’ Sol was being a lazy bones, hiding under cloudy blankets untill late morning, sometimes longer, if he decided to show his face at all. It seemed that Mother Nature was hard pressed to string together two sunny mornings in a row. And on the water, the weather gods weren’t listening to the marine forecasts. They were doin’ whatever the heck they pleased, whipping up all kinds of winds and waves. You never knew what the conditions would be like untill you were in them. I’ve experienced this twice before while boating. The first time was many moons ago in my bachelor days. One nice sunny day, I was leaving Oak Bluffs on Martha’s Vineyard for the short run across Nantucket Sound to East Bay, Osterville and got caught in eight foot seas. Occasionally, a mountainous wave would crash over the bow, sending my girlfriend into involuntary screaming fits. In a Hollywood movie, it would be one of those scenes where the handsome leading man would slap the supporting actress sharply across the face and say, “Get a grip woman!” She would immediately calm down and say, “Thanks. I needed that,” and everything would be fine. But in the real world, you just can’t do that without repercussions involving lawyers and new apartments. “Honey, you are screaming very loudly into my ear. Please stop,” seemed to work just fine.
Another time, a few years ago, I was leaving Woods Hole for my home port in Swifts Neck, Wareham. The predicted two to three footers turned into angry five to seven footers. That was one hell of a white knuckled ride across Buzzards Bay. Those bad boys were coming straight at me until I passed Bird Island and slipped into the protection of Sippican Neck. Again, it was a gorgeous, sunny day with light winds.
This Summer, after spending a few wonderful days hanging off a rented mooring in Westport Point, we woke early, ate breakfast and pointed our bow towards Point Judith. I thought we’d stay there awhile before continuing East through Long Island Sound to Watch Hill and eventually as far as the Connecticut River. Our plans were washed away when the marine forecast changed abruptly. It was hard to believe that on such a nice morning, small craft warnings were being issued. To make matters worse, for the next several days, four to seven foot seas were predicted for Rhode Island Sound, Block Island Sound, and Long Island Sound. Pretty much everywhere we had planned to be.

Mooring field at F.L. Tripp’s, Westport Point, MA.

Working boats at Westport Point

Working boat

Sunset at Westport Point

Carburetor repair. I look oddly perplexed.

Successful test!

Castle guarding Westport Harbor

Leaving Westport Harbor

Leaving Westport on a sunny morning.

By the time we passed Sakonnet Point and picked up the Narragansett Bay racon buoy on our radar, we were in four foot swells every seven seconds, fairly comfortable because they were coming at us at a decent angle for our heading. But the weather was getting worse. The sky turned three shades of gray and fired warning rain drops across our bow.
“I’d better secure the hatches,” I said and headed downstairs, somehow managing to keep my balance as I quickly locked down all three hatches.
“Honey, the plant!” Susan said from the helm.
“I’m on it.”
From the aft-deck table, I grabbed our young spider plant. The poor thing is always toppling over. Makes a mess every time. I swear I heard it say “Thank you Rick” when I gently placed it in the small, round bathroom sink and gave it a drink from the tap.

Saved!

“The rug will get soaked,” Susan said, referring our the new aft deck carpet.
“Got it,”
I rolled that sucker up and tossed it on the couch just as the rain started coming down in earnest. When I closed the sliding glass door, the sound level dropped so dramatically it felt like we driving the boat from our living room.

“Wow! Check it out Hon,” I said. We were right in the middle of a sailboat race! Several large racing sloops zoomed up out of the mist. Professional crews were toiling away in their colorful team uniforms, all working together, running all over the flat decks, desperately trying to outmaneuver their opponents. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be on one of those beautiful vessels. Wind and spray stinging your face, hands sore from hauling lines, your whole body cold, achy, and soaking wet. The razor sharp bow rising house-high and crashing hard into the trough. Torrents of sea water washing over the deck. Yet you still perform your duty, bravely, unerringly, no matter the weather. Teammates totally depending on each other through the maelstrom.

Racing Sailboats in Rhode Island Sound

“Any more coffee?” Susan asked, pulling me out of my daydream.
“Ya, sure, let me fix you a cup,” I said.
In my advanced age, I was happy to be here in our sturdy old boat, warm and dry in the comfortable salon, but I could certainly understand the appeal of what those young men were doing out there.
“What do ya think?” Susan asked. I could see she was fighting the helm with every roller that went under us. “GPS says we’ll reach Point Judith by Noon. Two hours from now.”
“Let’s speed up.” I suggested.
“The less time we spend in this the better,” she agreed, obviously not happy about fighting the wheel for another couple of hours.
Bringing the old Lehman diesels up to 1600 RPM only increased our speed by three or four knots. Jeez! We were only doing ten! But it was enough to make a huge difference. The GPS now said we would reach Point Judith within the hour.
“This is sooooo much better!” Susan said.

Point Judith Light

Point Judith Harbor of refuge

Working boats in Galilee

Sandbar off Galilee, Point Judith

We entered the well protected Point Judith Harbor of Refuge, wound our way several miles north into the Upper Pond, and took a slip at the Stone Cove Marina located as far as north as the water will take you. Two bucks a foot including electric is as good as it gets in New England!

Stone Cove Marina in Wakefield R.I.

Soon cloudy skies gave way to sunshine and by early afternoon it was beautiful. A July heat wave was settling into its fourth day. Who cares if we can’t head West down the Long Island Sound. I figured we’d stay here a couple of days, then cruise into the well protected Narragansett bay where there are plenty of places to explore. Some new, some old and familiar. It’s all good. Right? We’re on vacation going wherever we damn well please. No schedules, no time constraints, and I got plenty of cold beer.

Hand in the cooler!

Susan called an old friend who owns an art supply store in downtown Wakefield and made arrangements to meet her and her two children for ice cream. After several days on board the boat, we were both anxious to take the mile and a half walk. We wobbled on through the quaint tree-lined neighborhoods. My legs were still attempting to compensate for the movement of the ocean but I managed to stay mostly on course, only falling off the curb once!
Susan’s friend Andrea, sitting behind the cash register, perked up and greeted us warmly when we walked in. Her store looked pretty darn good. It was brightly lit, well-organized and had lot’s of interesting stuff on the shelves. My bohemian side was pleased. At one time in my life I fancied myself an artist, and after seeing all the art supplies laid out before me, I realized that I still do, or at least still want to. In a perfect world, I would have ample time for all my creative interests. “So many interests, so little time,” should be tattooed across my back.
Andrea gathered her two kids, locked the door and took us on a walking tour of picturesque Wakefield village. The whole time her gregarious and irrepressible son, Bill Jr., entertained us with his antics, tantrums, and joie de vivre of a normal, healthy, 7 year boy. Andrea’s 9-year-old daughter was much more reserved by comparison. I remembered when I had children in my house, and how much energy it took to raise them. Yes, they were sometimes exhausting, but one of the many rewards is their endearing curiosity. When we showed them our boat, the kids were all over it, opening every hatch and cabinet, checking out every nook. For some reason they were fascinated by our assortment of boat hooks.
“Are there any more rooms?” young Bill asked.
“Sure. There’s the fly bridge, up that ladder. Check it out, and take these.” I handed each child a pair of binoculars. It was like I was handing them banana splits topped with Halloween candy.
“WOW! These are really good!” Bill gushed to his sister as he looked through them. “Focus like this,” I showed him how and he picked it up right away. They slung them over their little necks and excitedly climbed up the ladder. Kids LOVE ladders! I could hear them oohing and ahhing up there as I sat at the salon table with my cold Budweiser.

Bill Jr. in full hurricane mode.

Andrea graciously offered to drive Susan to the supermarket for some much-needed provisions. When they all left, I bathed in the glorious silence, thankful that my child rearing days are behind me.
The next morning, Stone Cove Marina was so calm and quiet that we paid for another nights stay, but as soon as we got back from the office, a singer with an electric guitar and a PA system started performing on the coffeehouse deck that overlooked the marina. It was loud enough to be annoying and it wasn’t the kind of music my wife and I enjoy. After discovering there was an “Open Mic” affair going on all day until 8:00 at night, we immediately got our money back and vacated the slip.
About a mile away, near Gardiner’s Island, we found a nice anchorage that was well attended by local boaters. I even recognized some of the boats from the marina we just left. We spent a pleasant afternoon people watching, listening to the Red Sox on the radio, and drinking adult beverages until the early evening, when all the boats faded away with the sun, and left us alone with the stars. The sound of crickets and frogs on Gardiner’s Island was our musical entertainment.
In the waning light, a gaggle of sailboats snuck past us and anchored a respectable distance away. We took turns guessing which would turn on their anchor light next. I felt so far away from the working world, actually proud of the fact that I didn’t even know what day it was, didn’t even know the time. Who cares? We had no place pressing to be. We ate when we were hungry, slept when we were tired, and woke up when we felt like it.

Sunset over Gardiner’s Island

As usual, the next morning brought us grey skies. But the Sun glowed dimly through a thin layer of clouds, and I remained hopeful that it would find its way out from behind them. Despite the lack of sunlight, it was a good morning. The air was warm and held a musty, wood-like fragrance that reminded me of camping out. Tiny ripples barely disturbed the water we floated so gently on. Our neighbor sail boaters were busily preparing to get underway. I watched them for a while through binoculars until the coffee percolator started rattling, my signal to turn down the heat on the butane stove. “I’ll let Susan sleep another half hour,” I thought to myself. Like the sail boaters, I wanted to get going as well, in order to take advantage of the morning calm.
By the time I climbed out of the galley with a hot cup of coffee, the sailors were slowly leaving, single file. Their hailing ports all the same: Mystic CT. “Must be a sailing club,” I thought. It could be fun I suppose, but I prefer to keep my own schedule. I tossed the last sail boaters in the line a friendly wave and wondered where they were heading.
Just when we were ready to leave, a colorful Monarch butterfly flitted across the windshield as the Sun sprayed holy rays onto the Eastern shore. Five yards off our port bow, a hunting Osprey crashed into the still waters and emerged with huge wriggling fish that was at least half the length of the massive bird. “Could there be any more good omens?”  I had my answer when the anchor came up clean as a whistle.
I love cruising through the Point Judith Pond, especially in the morning before everyone wakes up. It possesses a special scenic quality, like a nautical postcard in 3D. Definitely not an area to speed through. We took it all in at a snail’s pace and slowed down even more to let the massive ferry coming out of Galilee go in front of us. Out past the Harbor of Refuge breakwater, conditions couldn’t be more different. The ocean was just starting to kick up. In another hour it would be scary for a boat our size.The plan was to bravely head Southeast into the four footers to keep them from broad-siding us until we can clear the Point Judith Lighthouse and head due North up the Narragansett Bay West Passage, where the waves will push us along from behind, increasing our speed, until we reach the protection of the Beaver tail on the Southern tip of Coninicut Island, a distance of maybe seven miles.
The plan worked! We got a nifty push Northward on our ten ton surfboard. It will be a forty minute ride to Whale Rock, the black and foreboding hunk of land that has the remains of a lighthouse that was washed away, along with its keeper, in the storm of ’38.

Whale Rock

We keep it well to starboard, hoping to take advantage of the protection of Boston Neck. The tactic worked and the large swells turned much friendlier.
Raindrops spattered the windshield as we entered Dutch Harbor, the quiet side of Jamestown.

Dutch Harbor RG bouy

Pier in the Dutch harbor approach.

I hailed Dutch Harbor Boatyard on channel 69, they responded immediately, and soon a nearby launch circled the float of our rented mooring. Susan donned her bright yellow raincoat, slipped on her Sperry’s and grabbed a boat hook. “Do I look boaty enough?” she joked and headed out to the bow. Damn! She DID look very nautical. Especially when in one quick motion, she snagged the pick-up line and put the pennant eye over the bitt. “We’re in,” she mouthed through the wet windshield. I killed the engines, shut down the electronics, turned off the starting batteries, and switched on the house batteries.

Mooring float and pennant. Dutch Harbor Boat Yard.

Dutch Harbor Launch “Nova”

I have Susan’s customary rum and coke prepared before she snapped the gaff back into its holder. Hey! I know the drill.
I snicked the top on an icy Bud and slipped it into a well-worn yellow coozie that says “Don’t boat and drink.” Very good advice by the way. We always cruise sober until we’re safely hooked up for the night. That first pop always tastes so friggin’ good!
50 dollars a night for a mooring is pricey but certainly not unheard of. Kingman’s in Pocasset charges 50 as well. And Tripp’s in Westport Point charges $47.50. There’s a great anchorage just on the other side of this mooring field, and it’s free of charge, but I’ve decided to disburden myself of the worry of dragging anchor, and support the local economy in the process.
The Sun came out and the temperature quickly shot up to a steamy 88 degrees. People started poking their heads out of their boats, wiping off wet decks and chairs. Dinghies were being deployed, small sailboats were sailing, and children were swimming, laughing and splashing about. It turned into a fine summer day in beautiful Jamestown Rhode Island.

Only found in Rhode Island.

After awhile we went ashore and walked about a mile to the other, busier side of Connanicut Island. On the way was everything a boater could want: grocery, liquor, hardware and marine stores. Also lots of restaurants, sandwich and pizza shops, and pretty much all the things one would expect to see in any bustling resort community, including an awesome museum.

Jamestown Yacht Club. The busier side.

Nautical stuff in the museum

For the novice Captain!

For our dinghy adventure, we went to Dutch Island. There’s a historic lighthouse on the Southern tip that I wanted to explore, but the shoreline was so rocky we couldn’t find spot to land.

Dutch Island Lighthouse

I opened up the throttle on the old Honda 9.9 and we zoomed around the island at full speed. Skimming along, wind in our hair, sun on our backs, brought smiles to our faces. We found the Southeastern shore better for landing. We pulled up next to a massive, low, flat, cement and brick structure that may have once been a wharf. I thought it looked military because it was so over-built. A good part of it was still mostly intact, if not weather-beaten by decades of storms.There was a couple sitting on an old cinderblock wall, their feet dangling over the still water, Jet-Ski floating nearby, cooler perched between them. I didn’t want to interrupt their lunch and tried to walk silently by.
“Hello,” the man said.
“Hi. Nice day huh?” I offered. “Do you know what this place was?” I asked.
“Yup. It was a WWII Naval refuelling station, don’t know much more than that,” he admitted.
The interior of the island was so densely overgrown and rocky that it seemed impossible to reach without heavy-duty hiking gear, there were no trails whatsoever. We confined our exploring to the coast which was covered with flat, grey, slate-like rock, the kind that’s excellent for skipping.  My arm got sore attempting to beat my world record of 24 skips. “Water’s too ripply,” I muttered to myself. I gave up and headed off to see if Susan had found anything interesting. She had.

Susan exploring the coast Dutch Island.

Unreachable brick ruins.

The remnants of a large red-brick building fifty feet above us peeked out through the forest. We looked up at all the thorny bramble guarding this castle. It was obvious that there was no way to get to it in shorts and flip-flops, so we left and dinghied across the harbor to the end of Sheffield Cove, not far from where our boat was moored. The cove was so shallow I had to tilt the small outboard motor up to get through it. We pulled the dinghy up on a little patch of sand, scrambled up a low embankment, and walked over the small road that separated Dutch Harbor from Mackerel Cove, and the mouth of Narragansett Bay. I was expecting to see raging ocean, but instead, soft sands, colorful flowers, and gentle waves greeted us. Why was this beautiful place deserted? Why were our footprints the only ones being gently washed away by the waves? If I lived here I would visit this beach every day and never become immune to its appeal.
I hated to leave Dutch Harbor, but after a few days, it was time for a change of scenery.
It was another cloudy morning. We ate breakfast and waited for the fog to clear. A 36 foot Marine Trader moored next to us suddenly swung dangerously close in the slack tide. It’s concerned Captain appeared on the aft-deck. We were so near each other we could have shook hands! But the Jamestown Bridge had just emerged from the mist and our engines were sufficiently warmed. “It’s OK Cap” I said calmly. “We’re leaving.” The concern left the Captains face. “Safe journey”, he said and added a friendly nod as punctuation. Susan slipped the eye loop off the bitt and dropped it into the water, giving Ginger Lee her freedom.
As is my custom when I leave a port, I hailed our hosts on the radio.
“Dutch Harbor Boatyard, this is motor vessel Ginger Lee, over.”
” Go ahead Ginger Lee.”
“We are vacating mooring F-5. Thank you for your kind hospitality. We really enjoyed your beautiful harbor. Hope to return soon. Ginger Lee out.”
“Thank you Ginger Lee, have a safe trip, come back soon. Dutch Harbor out.”

Dutch Harbor sunset

Leaving Dutch Harbor on another grey morning.

Jamestown Bridge and bug-light

Our next port of call, Apponaug Harbor Marina, is in the Northwestern corner of Greenwich Bay, the body of water that forms the western shore of Warwick Rhode Island. I’ve never been there, never even heard of it. It was just a random choice, chosen because it offered moorings and seemed so low-key compared to the two fancy Brewer Yacht Centers next door to it. The cruising guide actually said the words “Low key, friendly, easy-going.” It sounds like my kinda place! So I called ’em.
“Hi. I’m looking for a mooring for my 32 footer.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, I dunno, couple nights at least.”
“Ya I got some. How’s thirty bucks a night sound?”
“Sounds great, see ya in two hours.”
“Sure thing. Take mooring number 134, South side.”

I mostly shy away from the fancy marinas like Brewers. I’m sure it’s a lovely place but I prefer the quiet privacy of a mooring. And besides, Ginger Lee develops severe self-esteem issues when she’s docked next to mega yachts. Even when I do take a slip, I always head bow in because I don’t care to have strangers looking into my boat. It’s not an anti social thing, it’s a privacy thing.
We had a great deal of trouble finding mooring number 134, and no one answered the phone or the radio, so we gave up and tied to the pump-out dock. I walked to the office and knocked on the door. No answer. In fact, no one was around anywhere, and only one car occupied the huge parking lot. How odd. There are 800 boats in this place and there wasn’t a soul to be found! Where is an attentive dock boy when ya need one? “Jeez this place IS low-key,” I thought to myself.
I walked back to Ginger Lee and took advantage of the free pump out station. That killed twenty minutes but still no one was around. I grabbed my binoculars and walked to the dock nearest the mooring field to search for number 134. No luck. “That’s not good.” I said to nobody.
While heading back toward the office I was surprised to see someone walking towards me.
“Did you just come in?” he asked
“Ya, well, an hour ago.”
“Hi. I’m Barry, one of the live-aboards here. John, the owner, called and asked me to give you the mooring closest to the dock.”
“Okay Barry. Point it out to me. I’m Rick by the way.” We shook hands and he pointed out the float.
We got settled on our mooring just as the sun broke free of the clouds and once again it was hot, humid and absolutely gorgeous. We put up the white canvas windshield cover to stave off the raging Sun. When I opened all the hatches and windows a glorious cool breeze froze the sweat on my face.
Apponoug cove is small and well protected. About a half mile long. One could easily swim across the widest part. It’s lined with lots of foliage and tall trees with houses and cottages nestled under them. We had a nice unobstructed view out across Greenwich Bay to Patience Island. A half-dozen sails decorated the horizon.

Greenwich Bay

Several small, salty looking skiffs glide by. Each with outboard motors and each had a scruffy looking man stuffed into its tiny pilot house. They were obviously working boats. We later discovered they’re quahog rakers.

Quahog boat

Directly to port, a hundred yards away, was the fancy Brewers Greenwich Bay Marina with its huge artificial reef. A thousand large, well-cared-for yachts gleam in the hot sun. Beyond that,  the Brewers Yacht Yard Cowessett. And beyond that, we were surprised to see a MBTA commuter rail train free itself from the dense foliage, and speed northward, disappearing behind a small hill.
“I thought we were in Rhode Island,” Susan said.
“That’s definitely the commuter rail from Massachusetts.” I said. Another mystery to crack!
Several white and grey wading birds were fishing the sandy shoal on Cedar Tree Point not twenty yards in front of us. We watched them through binoculars for a half hour. Patiently, stoically, these large birds stood absolutely still on orange stilt-like legs, then suddenly snapped their long necks, thrusting their pointed beaks toward the unfortunate prey swimming at their feet.
“I love it here,” I said, breaking the trance.
“Oh you love everywhere on the boat,” Susan said.
She’s right. I do.

Wading birds

A forty foot sailing catamaran cruised in and started motoring through the mooring field, obviously looking for their assigned float.
“Hello. Have you seen number 140?” the captain asked when he got within earshot.
“Oh ya. It’s right here under my keel,” I said glibly. Just then, as if on cue, Ginger Lee swung right in a breeze and float number 140 popped up amidships. “I’ve been floating over it all morning.”
“That won’t work, too damn close,” the Captain said, stating the obvious.
I advised him to do what I did. Tie up to the pump-out dock until you can get some new information. He thanked me and headed off.
As usual, we did some exploring in our dinghy. First into Apponaug Cove, where we discovered the cheapest ice anywhere in the world. It was at a little bait shop next to the public boat ramp. We stocked up on cubes and blocks, brought them back to the boat, then headed back into Apponaug Cove to have an early dinner at the Crow’s Nest restaurant. At the bar, an elderly gent pulled up a stool next to me. He was trim, white-haired, and dressed in clean, well ironed slacks. His jersey said “U.S Marine Corp.” stitched in neat letters over the pocket.
“What’s good here?” I asked.
“I’ve been coming here twenty years and haven’t had a bad meal yet,” he answered in a friendly, off-handed manner. I liked him right off the bat.
I went with the chicken pot pie and a cold Heineken. Susan had the fried scallops and a margarita, and our new friend John had mahi mahi and a root beer. None of us were disappointed.
“You were right John, the food’s great,” I said.
“In about an hour, there will be a line out the door all the way to the street. That’s why I come early,” he said.
We had a nice conversation. I discovered John has a good-sized cabin cruiser he keeps in a slip at the Brewers Marina. A fellow boater! He handed me a business card that had his name, a picture of his boat “Semper Fi” and the motto: “So much water, so little time.” Later that evening, he came by in his dinghy for a visit.

Captain John Manney

I’ve never been known as a talker, but there are some people who I just hit it off with. John Manney is one of those people. Conversation flowed easily as we putted around the bay in his little R.I.B.
“How old are you Rick?” he asked.
“I’ll be 61 in a few days,” I answered.
“I was older than you when I got my Captains licence. I’m a certified Master,” was his shocking answer. Jeez! With my birthday fast approaching, I’d been bemoaning the fact that I’m old and decrepit. This guy just slapped me right the heck outta that nonsense!
“Way t’go Johnny! How old are ya now?”
“I’m 84,” He said proudly. “Still working too. Oh I would’ve retired long ago, but I like my job too much.”
Guys like John restore my faith in mankind. Why are the people I meet while boating nicer? Maybe it’s me. I’m nicer when I’m boating. Well, I feel nicer anyway. So maybe nice boaters are drawn to each other. I don’t know. What I do know is; the world is a friendlier place when I’m on my boat.

     Clean clothes, warm from the dryer is one of the simple pleasures that are magnified  on a boat, where even clean clothes soon acquire a dampness and a faint diesel scent. I pulled on my favorite cotton tee shirt and faded cut-off shorts. They felt soft, dry, and smelled nice like fabric softener. Laundry-wise, I’m good for another week

East Greenwich scene.

Dusk in Apponaug

 

Writing by lamplight.

Once again, it was another grey morning, but there was something about this day’s overcast that said “No Sun today, sorry Rick.”

Warwick Point

We passed the lighthouse on Warwick Point, and said good-bye to Greenwich Bay. Our wipers never stopped sweeping away not only the rain, but the considerable windy spray kicked up by grey-green choppy seas as we zig-zagged around Providence Point, Bristol Neck, and under the Mount Hope Bridge.

The Mount Hope Bridge.

Not until we turned South at Common Fence Point did the battering stop. The current in The Hummocks, where the Sakonett river gets funneled and pinched, was so strong that I bonked our dinghy off a mooring ball. Jeez! It surprised the heck outta me! We just got swept sideways. Susan got a kick out of it though, and kid me about the rest of the day. Hey, I deserved that! I managed to dock at the Standish Boat Yard fuel dock without any follies so I was more or less exonerated. We fueled up and paid for a couple of nights on a mooring.

Fuel Dock, Standish Boat Yard, Tiverton, RI

 

Ginger Lee moored in Tiverton, RI.

 

Our hard-working dinghy “Salty II”

 

Our cold and wet, hard-working dinghy.

At 25 bucks a night it was the cheapest moorings anywhere. The place wasn’t pretty but what they lacked in ambiance they more than made up in niceness. When I asked about a grocery store, they gave me directions and the keys to their pick-up truck.

Susan piloting the pick-up truck

 

Exploring Tiverton in the dinghy.

Tiverton waterfront scene.

 

Nice Lyman

The next day was a total washout. It rained cats and dogs all day long. We had to use our cabin heater to ward off the chill.
I got caught up on my writing, lost miserably in the big Yahtzee tournament, watched Judge Judy, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Mathis, and Peoples Court on the TV, and ate the best salad Susan has ever prepared.

Three Yahtzees in one game!

 

Selfie in the rear view mirror

 

killer salad.

By late afternoon the rain stopped and we were literally able to see Tiverton in a different light.

Rainbow over Tiverton

 

As a glorious, full arching rainbow filled the sky, a large crowd began gathering on nearby Grinnell’s Beach where a monster bon fire was lit. Along the adjacent Stone Bridge waterfront, sailboats, power boats, canoes, kayaks and rowboats, were all lit up and decorated. The happy owners honking horns and whooping it up to the delight of the crowd on shore.

Bonfire on Grinnell’s beach

 

sailors at sunset

The backdrop was easily the most amazing sunset of the Summer. We stood transfixed on the aft-deck. “What IS this,” I asked. Susan went online and discovered it was an event called “Celebrate Tiverton 2013. To honor its friendly people, storied history, and beautiful surroundings.” And we witnessed it! We saw it all!
Tomorrow, weather permitting, we will cruise home to Wareham, tie Ginger Lee to her mooring on Swifts Neck, dinghy to the beach and walk home to our little house. We have jobs to go to, schedules to keep, commitments to attend to. We will take our watches out of the drawer and strap them on our wrists. We will set our alarm clock and we will definitely know what day it is. But on this night, quite by coincidence, we have this wonderful memory to mark the last night of our Summer boating vacation.

Ginger Lee’s mooring. Home safe in Wareham.

 

Birthday cigar on Swifts Neck.