Tuesday morning July 24, 2012
The marine forecast doesn’t look good. There is small craft warnings and 3 to 5 foot seas. The sunny blue sky to the East, that warmed my soul for morning coffee, is very quickly being overtaken by storm clouds that present themselves as a study in dramatic shades of gray. I need to carefully consider my decision to leave the safety of Provincetown Harbor for Wellfleet Harbor, a two hour trip. I think we should give it a try, reasoning that we can always turn back if the conditions prove to be too rough. I inform the marina of our intentions and we head off.

Morning storm front

Shades of gray

Not long after rounding Long Point we encounter high winds and waves large enough to wash over the foredeck.
“Gotta turn back Hon,” I say apologetically. I radio the marina.
“It’s much better to be safe. You can have the same mooring.” Was the reassuring reply.
After about an hour, the sky brightens and we consider another try for Wellfleet. On my phone I check the detailed marine forecast. Still 3 to 5 foot sees but with diminishing winds. Tomorrow and the next day will be 4 to 7 foot waves and high winds. It’s now or never.
” PTOWN MOORING, PTOWN MOORING. THIS IS MOTOR VESSEL GINGER LEE. I’M SEEING A SMALL WEATHER WINDOW HERE AND WILL GIVE IT ANOTHER TRY SHORTLY. I’LL KEEP YOU INFORMED. THANKS FOR EVERYTHING. GINGER LEE OUT.”
“COPY THAT GINGER LEE. SAFE PASSAGE. OVER AND OUT.”
Once again we round Long point. The seas are still running 3 to 5 five but they are no longer crashing over the bow. I favor our course strong to the west to ease the effect of the waves rolling in on our starboard bow, all the while working the rudders to keep the boat as level as possible. I’ve driven through worse, but conditions like this are never pleasant. After about an hour the sea is slightly calmer; occasionally throwing a five footer at us.
By the time we reach the Billingsgate Shoal, we are in two foot seas and the Sun is peeking through the clouds. The worst seems to be over!
We watch our depth fluctuate from 40 feet to sometimes 4 feet as we pass over this massive shoal and into the Wellfleet Harbor approach. My chart warns me that the channel and the aids to navigation are subject to frequent changes. Directly to port, Billingsgate Island, which is normally covered at high tide, is showing itself as we round nuns “6” and “8”. My chart is showing the next marker, R10, is directly to the North and slightly more than a mile away. It is fairly clear today but neither one of us can see it with binoculars.
“They must have moved it,” I say.Susan dons a PFD and walks out to the foredeck with our most powerful Nikon binoculars.
“I got it. North, northwest,” she says and points directly at it.
“I see it Hon.” I say and aim Ginger lee toward the nun. On my chart, the area between can “11” and can “15” seem to be the most critical. It’s a thin, dredged channel with 1 foot depths on either side.

Tuesday 12 noon Wellfleet Ma.

“Rick, take a look at this.” Susan says. The temperature gauge for the starboard engine is creeping steadily toward the 220 mark. I lean over the transom and see that no water is coming out of the exhaust.
“Let’s shut it down.” I say “We can cruise into the Harbor on one engine.” Fortunately, the Harbormaster is cruising by in an old Boston Whaler. We flag him down and he leads us to our directly to our mooring.

Welfleet Harbor Mooring

“It could be a bad impeller.” I say.
“Or a blocked intake.” Susan suggests
“It’s got to be one or the other. There’s not much else going on there.” On a Lehman 120 diesel engine, changing the impeller takes about three minutes and the only tool needed is a flat head screwdriver. The only problem is, I don’t have a spare. We check in with the Harbormaster and he suggests we try Wellfleet Marine Corp., a boatyard down the street. He points to a large old salt-box with weathered cedar shingles and the word “Lobsters” painted on the side in huge white letters.

2:00 pm

The Welfleet Marine Corp. has a large presence here. We’re talkin’ fuel dock, boat rental, harbor launch, fish market, lobster pound, gift shop, and marine repair. It’s obviously a family owned business because all the guys look alike; they’re all large with full bushy beards and reddish curly hair. They even walk with a similar, arm hanging, loping stride. We dub them “The Bear Brothers.” The first one I encounter is manning the boat rental shed. He’s wearing a big straw farmers hat like one of the Berenstain Bears from the famous children’s book. I ask about the impeller and he also points to the lobster house.
“Year, make and model will help.” Is all he says.
“I can do better than that,” I say. “I have the part number!”
Behind the lobster house is a large barn with a big canvas tarp for a door. Used boat parts are everywhere, loosely arranged in great piles. Hundreds of old outboards with missing parts hang on saw horses. Aging runabouts, sailing dinghies, and prams line the perimeter, all in various stages of disrepair. Three large bears are working on a tri-hull skiff and completely ignore me as walk right up to them.
“The Harbormaster said you might be able to help me.” I say–no response for an uncomfortable twenty seconds–finally, the bear with the palest blue eyes I have ever seen on a human being, speaks.
“What ‘cha need?” he rumbled.
“impeller,” I say, proud of the fact that I manage to use fewer words than him. I hold up the packaging from the old impeller that I saved because it had the part number on it. Saying nothing more, he took the packaging, loped off to the barn, tied the canvas door open, and entered.

Waiting for the impeller

Inside the barn, as in the yard, parts are piled everywhere, but I have no doubt that this man knows exactly where everything is. It’s cool to watch him work, opening manual after manual, cross referencing part numbers, searching pigeon holes, going back to the manuals, searching more bins. After twenty minutes he has a brand new impeller in hand. He tells me I should save this packaging as well because it has a very important and more common Johnson part number cross referenced on it.
Never judge a book by its cover! I had the wrong idea about this man who turns out to be very nice and very well spoken. He asks what happened and I tell him about the overheating.
“What time was it?” he asks in a concerned tone.
“‘Bout noon” I say. He nods in understanding.
“Around here, we have this very sticky muck, we call it “Puppy Shit.” The oysters love it, but boats hate it. We have a 15 foot tide swing; you have be aware of the time because at low tide you could suck it in. Not only will it block your intake, it also acts as a lubricant, making the water pump useless.”
Across the parking lot, Susan is enjoying the shade of a large Elm. I wave her over.
“Honey! We got puppy shit!” I say as she approaches. The big man breaks into a hearty laugh and explains the phenomenon to her. He went on to tell us stories about it, boats being swallowed up by it, people getting stuck in it, dredging it by hand. Jeez! I like this guy! I wanna ask him over for a beer! We pay him his 28 bucks and thank him.
“Just glad I can help. C’mon back anytime.” He says.
Back at the wharf, the Berenstain bear with the straw hat asks me how I made out. I hold up the package with the new impeller.
“The blue-eyed guy came up with it” I beamed.
“Ya, he’s pretty good.” he says.
I count out five bucks for a couple bags of ice but he won’t take my money.
“Better see if your dinghy is floating. I  don’t want to you to get back to your boat with two bags of water,” he says.

Wrangling Salty

As it turns out, I had tied our dinghy “Salty” up on the wrong side of the dock, so it’s the only dinghy still floating, even the dock is sitting on mud. We stare up at 15 feet of blackened, slimy, barnacle encrusted sea wall and dock posts. Quite a tidal swing! For comparison, the tide swing in Wareham is usually only about 5 feet.

Tide swing

Back on board Ginger Lee our depth sounder reads one foot. Yikes! There is only one foot of water underneath the transducer that is mounted on the lowest part of the transom. Our propellers are in mud. Half the boats in the mooring field are sitting on the bottom. A large sailboat on the far end, is completely out of the water, its keel impaled into the muck.
In the engine compartment I check the impeller on Pollux, out port side engine. The darn thing looks almost new. Probably because it IS almost new! The rubber is still pliable, the metal hub is firmly attached. I have Susan turn over the engine while I watch the shaft and it rotates just fine.
“It’s looking good hon, we musta sucked in some of that muck, but I think I’ll wait ’till the tide comes up before starting the engine.”

Wednesday July 25, 2012, about noon

“Jeez! I think that kid’s in trouble!” I say looking out the starboard window. A young dude in an old 16 foot runabout is drifting by at a fairly good clip. The motor must have died because he is frantically trying to paddle against the strong current with what looks like a two by four. I stick two fingers in my mouth and whistle loudly.
“HEY! You need help?” I yell. He shakes his blond head vigorously in the affirmative.
“Be right there.” I say. I jump into our dinghy Salty, hit the electric starter and roar off to the rescue. The young man tosses me a line as I near.

Rick to the rescue

“Where can I tow you,” I ask. He is very humble in his answer.
“Well, you can put me anywhere, but if you’re going near that blue fishing boat over there, it would be nice.”
“No problem son, blue fishing boat it is.” I say as I cleat off his line.

Rescue complete

“Hey, do you like oysters?” he asks. Before I could answer–no, I’d rather eat sand– my oyster loving wife, who was within earshot, shouts a resounding “YES!” The young dude laughs. I laugh with him.
“Someone on your boat like ’em,” he says and hands me a net bag filled with three dozen live oysters.

Three dozen oysters

Back on the boat, Susan whips up a spicy cocktail sauce and standing on the swim platform, deftly opens and devours every single one of them. She refers to this murderous rampage as “The Great Welfleet Oyster Massacre of 2012.”

massacre in progress

Wellfleet Harbor is advertised as “One of the last and best examples of a small, New England fishing village.” I wholeheartedly agree. It’s all that and much more. At Macs, a restaurant right on the waterfront, we had the most delicious lunch of oysters on the half shell, fried scallops, and onion rings. In the quaint downtown area, we attended an old-fashioned farmers market, browsing through the local stands of bees-wax, pies, and fresh produce while a fiddler played 18th century seafaring tunes. We visited the most interesting museum at the Wellfleet Historical Society where you can actually touch most of the artifacts. We browsed gift shops and bought trinkets, a small cast iron whale for me, a string of fresh water pearls for her. At the town market, we found all the supplies we needed including a Wellfleet refrigerator magnet. The Harbormaster was helpful, friendly, and easy-going. The unavoidable Bear Brothers at Welfleet Marine Corp., may seem gruff at first, but will warm up to you after a while. We both agree  this place is one of our favorites. We will back for sure.
Mooring rental: 2 nights @ $41/ night= $82.
Impeller $28.
Refrigerator magnet $2.99

Saturday morning July 21 2012

Because Cape Cod is shaped like an arm curled up and making a fist, (Provincetown being the fist and Boston being the shoulder) the distance from Boston to Provincetown is considerably less by boat than by car, roughly 28 miles from the outer harbor. At 7 MPH it should take us 4 hours to cover that distance. Once again I thank the weather gods for light winds and calm seas. On this beautiful sunny day we are cutting straight through Cape Cod Bay on a direct line course to a way-point just outside of P’town. But with no land in sight and not much to look at, except for the occasional sail in the far distance, we are bored out of our gourd. Even after doing a slew of chores and putting up a new shelf, the time seems to be dragging. The Pilgrim Monument Tower, a Provincetown landmark that can be seen from 22 miles away, has been hovering in our windshield all morning. Growing from a small black dot on the hazy horizon to an impressive dark spire. At least we have something to point our bow towards.

Wood End Light and Pilgrim monument

Saturday about noon

Finally the GPS beeps, announcing that we have arrived at our way-point. My chart tells me that the water is plenty deep enough to cut way inside the marked channel, saving time as we curl northward around Long Point and into Provincetown Harbor proper. It’s my first time seeing it from the water and let me tell ya, it is beautiful. Larger than expected, at least from my land based observations a few years ago, and filled with hundreds of moorings, most of them occupied. Many white hulls reflect off pale blue mirrored waters, tall oaks and maple trees occasionally allow white steeples and cedar shingled peaks to escape their cover, a dike of quarried stone hosts several walkers on its back as it does its job protecting the harbor and keeping the awesome beaches and dunes of Wood End attached to mainland Massachusetts. There is a large rock breakwater, two city blocks long with day markers on each end, protecting two massive and very old looking wooden wharfs. Two Coast Guard vessels with the familiar orange stripes, are docked at Station Provincetown at the end of a long pier. Setting the VHS to channel 9, I contact the Provincetown Mooring Service and they direct me to go around the West end of the breakwater and wait. After doing so and waiting 15 minutes, and not seeing anything but hundreds of moored boats, I was beginning to wonder if I was in the right place. I call again: “P’town Mooring…this is motor vessel Ginger Lee inside the breakwater…It’s my first time here…am I waiting in the correct spot? over.” Yes Cap…I see you…white Trojan…black canvas…over” “Copy that…standing by channel zero nine…Ginger Lee out

Long Point Light

Walkers on the dike

Coast Guard Pier

“Well I guess we wait.” I say. Apparently they see me, but I have no idea from where. Fifteen minutes later, a launch with a ridiculous amount of fenders hanging off it, makes it way towards us and the VHS crackles to life. “Ginger Lee…follow me…over. “Are you the launch with all the fenders?…over” I ask. “Ya Cap, that’s me…I’m a terrible driver!”  The little launch with too many fenders neatly pivots in front of us and we follow. Its’ name, PATIENCE, is boldly written across its rounded stern

The Breakwater

Our rented mooring is well away from the town wharf and adjacent to a waterfront hotel with an immense deck. The water is so transparent, we can clearly see the sandy bottom 7 feet below. Cracking open a cold Budweiser and surveying our new back yard, I proclaim this place “Wicked Nice.” It’s sunny and warm, the wind and water is calm, and the neighboring boats aren’t blasting crappy music. It’s all good!  We decide to barbecue some lunch before exploring the town. Susan whips up her famous pork chops with french cut green beans and mushrooms. I truly am blessed!

Saturday afternoon

“Ready for a walk,” I ask. “Sure, and a shower,” Susan answers and we hop into our dinghy “Salty II.” I like this part, getting off the boat for while, stretching your legs, doing something different. When we arrive at the dinghy dock the first thing I notice is that it’s way too small. More than half of it is reserved for the two launches, which are busily ferrying people to and from their moored vessels. The second thing I notice is there aren’t enough cleats, only three small ones and there are at least twenty dinghys tied to them. “I guess I’ll have to get creative.” I mutter to myself.  Using her extra long painter, I tie Salty to the gangway rail and float her neatly past the crowd of inflatables.

Ginger Lee moored

Fisherman’s Wharf, one of the two public wharfs in the harbor, is about a quarter-mile long and as wide as a New York boulevard, complete with potholes and probably rats. The end nearest the land is a parking lot that holds maybe two hundred cars. They are charging twenty bucks whether you stay ten minutes or all day. It seems exorbitant, but as they say; “it’s the only game in town,” and there is certainly no shortage of cars waiting to park there. The far end has a fuel dock, some kind of warehouse type structure that caters to the working boats, and all kinds of barnacle encrusted nautical gear like pilings, ropes, chains, mushroom anchors and slime covered floats and buoys. The entire place smells like low tide! I think it’s great but the normal tourist would most likely be repulsed. The marina office is essentially a run down shack with bathrooms. The tokens for the showers cost one dollar for three minutes, we each buy two from a gruff, bearded individual with a shaved head and gold loop earrings. He seems distracted and curt, like he doesn’t want to be there. But in his defense, he does allow us to pay him later when we can’t come up with anything smaller than a fifty dollar bill.

Stepping into the grungy shower stall I immediately regret not bringing flip-flops. Jeez! There is no way to control the water! No spigots or mixing valves. Once inserting the token, cold water mists weakly out of a rusty shower head and takes a whole minute to warm up to tepid. I wonder if I can pay extra for a HOT shower! I barely have the shampoo rinsed from my hair when it abruptly shuts off. I dunno, I just thought it would be a bit fancier, considering the magnificent location. They charge $55 a night for a mooring including launch service, the most I have ever paid.

Macmillan Wharf is much nicer. All the ferries stop here as well as the sightseeing, whale watching, and fishing party boats. The place is bustling with tourists and travellers. We duck into a gift shop in search of a Provincetown refrigerator magnet to add to our collection, and not finding one, settle for a little yellow rubber ducky wearing a pirate hat. I figure it’ll look good on the shelf above the sink in the head.

Rick on MacMillan Wharf, Breakwater in background

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Walking through town, or more specifically, Commercial street, is incredible. It’s a constant parade of bicycles, rickshaws, joggers, walkers, street performers, and all kinds of unusual and interesting people. The small sidewalks simply cannot hold all the pedestrian traffic and it spills out into the street. Cars must proceed very slowly, fording their way though the throngs. We consider stopping for a bite to eat but every bar, cafe, and restaurant is way too crowded to even consider going into. Tomorrow we will attempt to climb the Pilgrim Monument, but right now I am anxious to get back to Ginger Lee, away from the madness to our quiet aft-deck and cold adult beverages.

inside town hall

We are definitely living in the moment, attending to the things that matter in our own little world on the island of Ginger Lee. Right now, the things that matter are 4 bags of ice, a 5/8 stainless steel thimble for our dinghys painter, a pump-out, and of course, a refrigerator magnet. It’s so nice to be on vacation on our boat, where for the next few days, these few simple things are all we have to worry about.

Provincetown has a great marine supply/hardware store where we find a dandy stainless steel 5/8 thimble for only nine bucks. At the Harbormaster’s office, a friendly man wearing the familiar tan uniform appears at the counter and in a heavy Portuguese accent asks if he can be of assistance.  ” I need a pump-out. How do I handle that? Do I bring my boat here to the wharf? I ask. “No no my friend. We will come to you. Where are you?” He flipped through a well-worn appointment book and entered the boat name and mooring number. “Should be in about an hour, “he said and closed the book. “Perfect!” I say and thank him.

Pilgrim Monument

Pump-out arranged, thimble in hand, and four bags of ice secured from the marina office, we cross three items off the list and dinghy back to Ginger Lee for the aforementioned cold adult beverages. We have two more days to find the refrigerator magnet. I think I’m up for the challenge.

View of Ginger Lee from the top of Pilgrim Monument

Late afternoon

“What’s that thumping noise?” I ask. On the hotel deck near us, there is conservatively 800 people gathered. Disco music is playing but we are far enough away so that we can barely hear words or music, mostly the rhythmic thumping of the bass reaches our ears. “Must be some kind of function, like a wedding or something,” I offer. It was wishful thinking. This idyllic setting could be compromised very quickly if it was anything else, like some kind of all night disco. I was really hoping that this didn’t turn out to be another Oak Bluffs, the quaint Martha’s Vineyard Harbor known for its loud parties that last until the wee hours. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Heck, I like a good party as much as the next guy. I just don’t want ’em keeping me awake! Susan and I both agree, the quieter the better. Two years ago on my birthday we spent a night in Waquoit bay. It was so quiet and serene that it still remains the benchmark for the perfect mooring. Just before sunset the thumping abruptly stops and the deck clears out. “Thank you!” I say aloud to nobody, raising my hands to the sky. Hallelujah! Our sanity is saved. It really is a big deal. Susan refuses to visit Oak Bluffs, like, ever again, and I can’t blame her.

Tall ship Kalmar Nyckel

The magnificent tall ship named “Kalmar Nyckel” enters the harbor under full sail. It’s really quite moving, seeing this huge wooden vessel slowly approaching the breakwater, its impressive form silhouetted against the sky over Pilgrim Beach. Suddenly, it fires off several cannon rounds shattering the calm and I feel the percussion in my chest. The echo rumbles thunderously off High Pole Hill. WICKED PISSA!

It is a warm summer night on Cape Cod. The Sun itself is not visible, having recently plunged below the horizon, only its following light, slower and less luminous, lingers behind and colors the clouds with pinks, off whites, and pale yellows, as if to say; “See, I am beautiful too!”  The two marina launches, “Patience” and “Deliverance” are busy collecting boaters for an exciting Saturday evening in P-town. Twenty years ago, I might have been a passenger on one of those launches, willingly thrusting myself into the madhouse. Tonight, I am content to stay right here, relaxing on the aft deck of ol’ Ginger Lee. Who can blame me? The beer is ice-cold, the Red Sox are on the radio, and my lovely wife just told me that this is the best summer vacation she has ever had.

Mooring rental 3 nights @ $55/night=$165.
refrigerator magnet $3.50

9:00 AM Thursday morning July 19, 2012
It’s a gorgeous summer morning. A line of thin feathery clouds mimic the coastline and once again we are blessed with zero to one foot seas. Even though the trip to Boston is only about 18 miles, I need to enter no less than 7 waypoints into the GPS in order to thread our way through the Boston Harbor Islands. Our first waypoint, the famous 1-4-3 or “I love you” lighthouse is in view as soon as we leave Scituate Harbor. This lighthouse marks the edge of some nasty rocks so we keep it well to port as we make a northwesterly turn toward Point Allerton and the Boston Harbor Islands beyond. I prefer entering Boston Harbor through The Narrows, a well-marked channel between Georges Island and Lovell Island, thus avoiding the high-speed ferries which can throw up a wicked wake. All the ferries usually use Nantasket Roads, a much wider channel through Quincy Bay well off to our port.

1-4-3 “I love you” Lighthouse

10:30AM Boston Harbor

It’s always so exciting coming into Boston Harbor. It’s just so visual! We are cruising down the channel called “President Roads,” motoring past Deer Island and the water treatment complex that looks like immense eggs. We pass Castle Island on our port, a centuries old fort and scenic park. Directly to starboard is Logan Airport. Huge jetliners are landing about every thirty seconds. As we pass by the main runway, one roars so close overhead that I swear I can read the writing on the tires

Deer Island

Castle Island

Landing at Logan Airport

We continue past the Black Falcon Pier and the working part of the Harbor. Enormous cranes that look like Star Wars “Imperial Walkers” are unloading tractor-trailer sized containers from a large freighter. An orange and black Coast Guard RIB with a scary 50 millimeter machine gun mounted on its bow slinks ominously by. When the gleaming Boston skyline, with its stunning combination of old and new buildings, completely fills the view through our windshield, we start looking for the familiar triangular-shaped roofline of the Marriott hotel because The Boston Waterboat Marina is tucked discreetly behind it. “There! Over there,” I point and slowly glide Ginger Lee past the slips reserved for pleasure craft of over 100 feet long. One boat is so large it has a small car on it!

Unloading freight

Boston Skyline

“Over there!”

11:30 AM VHF Channel 9

“Waterboat Marina…Waterboat Marina… this is motor vessel Ginger Lee requesting slip assignment… over.” “Yes Ginger Lee…take slip 29 Captain… second fairway on your left…bow in… port side tie up…over.” “Good copy…Thank you sir…Ginger Lee out.”

Susan slips on her Sperrys and heads out to hang the fenders, grabbing  two dock-lines on the way. There is not much room in this fairway so I have to come to a complete stop in front of the slip, then pivot the boat by shifting one engine into forward and the other into reverse. Ever so slowly I easy her in, staying well away from the beautiful 35 foot antique Wheeler sedan next to me. I am almost blinded by the perfect bowling alley aft deck! Susan hangs a fender on that side as well, just in case. A friendly guy in the sailboat on the other side came out to help with the bow line while the manager secures the stern and expertly sets up a spring line to keep the boat steady. “We’re in!” I kill the engines and thank the two men. The manager welcomes me with a handshake and produces a business card. “Here are the codes for the showers and the front gate.”

Slip 29 Ginger Lee, Salty II and antique Wheeler

Ah! Shore power! Such a luxury when your boat usually lives on a mooring. I can use all the power I want without running down the batteries, and with the dockside water system, I can use all the water I want without emptying the tank. I hook up the 30 amp cable and the fresh water hose.  Suddenly a water pipe blows out from under the galley sink, spraying water onto the parquet flooring. I quickly turn off the spigot. Luckily it was just a loose compression fitting and easily repaired.

Hooking up

The weather is just right, about 75 degrees. Yesterdays’ thunderstorm cleared out all the heat and humidity and  a deliciously refreshing breeze is coming off the water.

I love this marina because it’s very close to everything I like in Boston. The North End, for instance, is a mere one block away. For those of you who don’t know, the North End has really good Italian food! I usually avoid the larger restaurants, preferring  the smaller, five or six table ones, and there are many. I’ve never been disappointed! Just walking down Hanover or Salem Streets, with its old world Italian charm, is a memorable experience.

In the other direction, is the Rose Kennedy Greenway. This long, well-groomed grassy walkway used to be the infamous Southeast expressway, an elevated highway that cut through Boston. Outdated since the sixties, it became a horrible day long traffic jam, a cacophony of honking horns and revving engines spewing carbon monoxide and swear words into the atmosphere. Several years ago it was torn out like a bad tooth. The traffic now flows silently in a tunnel underneath thanks to the largest interstate highway project in America, nicknamed “The Big Dig.”

On the other side of the Rose Kennedy Greenway is the entrance to the Quincy Market, an indoor and outdoor mall built out of former warehouses. Lots of cobblestone and red brick with the historic Fanuel Hall at one end. It’s a bit touristy for my taste but still quite impressive. Let’s not forget the Harborwalk. It’s a stunningly scenic public walkway along the historic waterfront from Fort Point Channel to North Station.

Friday morning July 20 2012

This morning is chilly enough to require sweatshirts. Quite a treat for July in Boston. The clouds are battling the Sun, and for now, are winning. We are giving Ginger Lee a good scrubbing with a sudsy eco-friendly boat wash. Something we don’t often do, simply because we prefer the privacy of moorings and anchorages over slips. The accent stripe below the port side salon window is looking a bit faded so I mask it off and repaint it with black topside paint. “Please don’t rain for at least an hour.” I appeal to the rain gods with fingers crossed.

Another beautiful morning in Boston Harbor

Sweatshirt weather in July!

Washing Ginger Lee

Dogs on a sailboat

Time for a dinghy ride! I fire up the Honda 9.9 outboard and we cruise ol’ Salty slowly around all the neighboring marinas, checking out the sights and the boats. We give awards for boat names in several categories such as; most imaginative, most boring, most fitting, and my personal favorite; most ridiculous.

We end up in the Historic Fort Point Channel, the waterway that separates South Boston from Downtown Boston. It’s probably most famous for The Boston Tea Party that happened in 1773. I only know this because there is a replica ship floating here, with tours, a museum, and of course, a gift shop. But after a visit to my friend Wikipedia, I learned that in the 1830’s it was also a hot-spot for wool and other fabrics. The Boston Wharf Company built a bunch of lofts, eventually abandoning them when the company went belly up. Artists took over the abandoned lofts, and now it’s a huge artist community.

We follow the channel as it curves around under the Post Office and through the South Station train yard. A grizzled, unshaven engineer, sitting in a smokey, idling Amtrak engine, seems surprised to see us and I wonder if maybe we are not supposed to be here, but there are no signs warning us to keep out so we continue on, using the boat hook as a depth sounder. Ducking way down we clear one last bridge before the channel abruptly ends in a trash strewn lagoon. For all its history, three-quarters of it is not very scenic. I understand much of it was filled in years ago to build the Southeast Expressway.

Now that I know the channel is plenty deep, and we are the only ones in it, I turn my baseball cap backwards and open the throttle, quickly bringing Salty up on plane. We do the return trip at full speed, zooming through the curves and under the bridges.

12:00 Noon

The Barking Crab restaurant looms ahead to starboard. “Hungry?” I ask. “Yup.” Came the expected answer. Can’t go boating in Boston without a stop at The Barking Crab!  I pull Salty alongside their large dock and tie her to a cleat. We find two empty stools at the bar and order drinks. I love the food here and they make a world-class Bloody Mary. It’s extremely casual and filled with what can only be described as “nautical clutter.” One side, open to the water, faces an aging and historic swing bridge, and to my surprise, it starts to open to let a sailboat pass. “Jeez! I didn’t think that thing actually worked,” I say. The friendly bartender informs us that it opens two or three times daily.
Susan orders the bucket o’ shrimp, and I go for the  fried cod sandwich with extra tartar sauce.  If you don’t mind picnic tables and plastic forks, pull your boat up to their dock and give this place a shot.

Nighttime in Boston

Maybe it’s the city atmosphere, or maybe it’s the coolish weather that made this day one so busy and full of activity. So much to see and do. No time to be lazy like we usually are. We walked for hours through this wonderful place and ended the evening having dinner at Legal Seafood with our good friends Danny and Janice. Bedtime couldn’t come fast enough!

Saturday morning July 21 2012

I’m manning my usual post on the aft-deck awaiting the sunrise. Darkness turns to purpleness and soon the sun punches in for its usual shift. “Well done Mister Sun. One of your finest!” I applaud. I hear Susan moving about the salon. She joins me clutching her favorite extra large coffee mug. ” Good morning. Did I wake you?” I ask. She’s never been a late sleeper, but I always try to be quiet in the morning so I don’t wake her. This morning we plan on cruising to Provincetown, a place we have never been to by boat. It’s kind of exciting, doing something new, not knowing what to expect.

Sunrise in at Waterboat Marina

After coffee we busy ourselves with our usual departure routines. Pollux, our port side engine, is not turning over.(Yes we name our engines! FYI, Castor is the starboard engine.) I check the 30 amp breaker but it is still closed. Then I check the battery selector switches and they are both properly set. I hit the starter again…nothing. The voltage meter reads 12.5 volts, more than enough. Susan, standing on the finger dock waiting to release the bow line, looks up in concern. “What’s up?” she asks. “Pollux won’t turn over” I answer. “I’ll have to take a look. Help me with the couch will ya please?” We slide the heavy sleeper couch to the other side of the salon to access the engine hatch. With volt meter in hand I climb down and start probing the starter connections. “Give it a try will ya hon?”…Susan turns the switch…still nothing but the meter swings to 12 volts DC…”She’s got voltage,” I say, talking myself through the evaluation process. I lay a screwdriver across the solenoid terminals expecting the starter to jump…still nothing. “Whatta ya think?” Susan asks, “It’s either a bad starter or bad wiring to the starter. I’m thinking we could take her home on one engine or try to find a starter here in Boston.” I say wiping the grease off my hands, reviewing the options. “Hang on a sec.” I say, not willing to give up. “Got a mirror?” I ask. She digs a small compact out of her purse and hands it to me. With a flashlight in one hand and the mirror in the other, I begin to carefully check all the wiring under the starter in the dimly lit engine compartment.

“I’ll be damned! A corroded spade connector!” I can just barely detect the tell-tale greenish fuzz that is almost completely hidden by the blue plastic connector apron. It’s so corroded that it crumbles in my hand. Within 30 seconds I crimp on a new one, hit the starter and Pollux roars to life. “Oh Yeah!” I cheer, doing my best Tom Brady fist pump. “I knew you could fix it,” Susan says. Apparently she’s more confident in my abilities than I am, but I’ll take the credit anyway. Next stop; Provincetown!

Slip rental: 2 nights @ 4.50/ft $288.
30 amp electric service $24.
Refrigerator magnet $3.99
Waterboat Marina Tee Shirt $15.

A couple of months ago, my wife and I were forging our way through the Woods Hole cut after anchoring for the night in Tarpaulin Cove. In a spur of the moment decision we thought it would be nice to head for Pocasset and grab a mooring in Red Brook Harbor. Right after transiting the Cut and heading north northeast I caught my first glimpse of Quissett Harbor. It looked so pretty and inviting, calling to me; “Rick…Come visit… you’ll like it here! Really!” We agreed to spend some time there before the summer was out.

Saturday evening September 1, 2012 Wareham, Ma

The Labor day weekend is upon us, the marine forecast is wicked good, so now would be the perfect time see what Quissett Harbor is all about.

Our cabin cruiser patiently awaits us on it’s mooring off Swifts Neck. In the waning early evening light we approach her in our dinghy with enough food, drinks, and ice to hopefully sustain us through the long weekend.

Sunday morning September 2

“I always sleep so good on the boat. It’s like a water bed on ten!” I say between sips of scalding hot coffee. Susan looks at me sideways and adds a few ice cubes to her own large mug. “OK…OK. I sleep good anywhere,” I admit. It’s not uncommon for me to be snoring on the couch before ten o’clock. “But it feels so good to wake up here.” I spread my arms expansively toward the gorgeous sunrise glowing majestically before us.
I cook a breakfast of bacon and eggs sunny side up, scooping the bacon fat over the top of the eggs with a spoon until they are firm, just like my mother showed me. It’s one of the few things I can cook fairly well. We eat on the sun drenched aft-deck. “Mind if I finish the coffee?” Susan asks. She knows I only have one cup but she always lovingly asks.

It’s like a mill pond out here as we slowly motor to the Zecco Marine fuel dock. Our bow slices smoothly through the unrippled Wareham River. “Where is everyone?” I remark. It’s nine o’clock on a beautiful holiday weekend and we have the whole harbor to ourselves. Sometimes I don’t get it. My wife and I sleep over on our boat every chance we get but we are the only ones doing so in our entire mooring field! What is wrong with all these boat owners? We live in this beautiful area surrounded by long sandy beaches, lush unspoiled greenery and hunting Osprey. To me it’s like heaven on earth. It’s so nice that sometimes we spend the whole weekend just tied to the mooring!

The fuel dock is empty as we pull up to the pump out station. The attendant helps with our lines and we tell him we just need a pump out and some water. Afterwards I give him a generous tip and we head out, excited to try a new place.

Quissett Harbor, a brand new way-point on the GPS, is twelve miles away and pretty much a straight shot with maybe a little zig to avoid the rocks near Great Hill Point. Susan takes the helm and I wash the breakfast dishes and make the bed. “Hang on! We’re gettin’ waked,” she warns, leaning out over the companionway. Two huge Sea Rays pass us close on both sides like they were racing or something, bow up and plowing for maximum wake. They both toss us friendly waves, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they could be damaging somebody’s property. We have gotten so used to this type of rude behavior that it would be shocking if someone actually passed us correctly and signaled. It just doesn’t happen in New England! Susan turns into the large wake to starboard, riding over it at a forty-five degree angle, two bottles fall off the liquor shelf harmlessly onto the bed. She does the same for the other to port. Ginger Lee’s old wooden interior groans in protest. “Save the rum!”

As predicted, the seas are running 1-2 feet, this is very good for Buzzards Bay. We pass Bird Island light on our right. Framed between it and Butler Point, we watch a school of small sailboats leaning in unison in Sippican Harbor beyond. Across Buzzards Bay, Old Silver Beach is glowing orange from all the rental beach umbrellas. A chirping osprey, the sole resident of Cleveland East Ledge Light, warns us to stay away and we comply.
After an hour or so, a large rock promontory called The Knob, gleams in the sunlight off our port bow, welcoming us to Quissett Harbor.

Approaching Quissett

12:00 Noon Sunday

The entrance is wide and well marked with a red flasher as well as red and green nav aids. Sailboats are coming and going under sail, not unlike Mattapoisette Harbor, another sailboat haven. I call Quissett Boat Yard on the phone (they don’t monitor VHF) and ask about a mooring. “Keep nun 6 to starboard and grab any one with a QBY written on it. The inner harbor is full, but the outer harbor is beautiful,” says a pleasant female voice. “It’s thirty dollars for the night,” she continues. There is no shortage of empty moorings even on this nice holiday weekend. I ease up to the closest one.

QBY mooring float

Susan hooks the floating line attached to the white and blue float and loops it over the bitt. “Yeah! We’re here!” I say and shut down the diesels. We have a hug on the fore-deck and take in our new surroundings. Big oaks and elms, large mansions with manicured lawns and dock houses. Rocks! Lots of Rocks. In fact, a large mess of rocks separate the outer harbor from the inner harbor. Right off the bat I see at least a dozen Herreshoff twelve and a half’s, they all look like the real deal from the 1930’s, designed and built in Bristol Rhode Island by Nathanial G. Herreshoff himself, specifically for this exact Buzzards Bay location. I’m impressed at the sight of them! No sailboat snob I. A good line is a good line, be it stinkpot or snailbote!

Ginger Lee and mansion

“What’re ya drinkin’ hon?” I ask. The driving of the boat is done for the day so it’s time to relax with a few adult beverages. I’m surprised that Susan doesn’t put up the Bimini in this brilliant sunlight. She is as tanned as I have ever seen her…well…as tanned as a fair skinned flaxen haired woman of Celtic descent can be. Usually she is either burnt or not burnt. “The angle of the Sun is not so severe” she correctly reasons. Myself? I’m not a sunbather but I love sitting in the Sun. It feels especially good in late Summer. Like getting into your car that has been sitting in the sun on a coolish day. It just warms ya to your bones.

Suddenly, four feet from our stern, an Osprey crashes into the water and emerges with a large silvery fish. Rising to about twenty feet, it shudders and shakes off the excess water causing it to temporarily lose altitude before rising again with its unfortunate prey secure in large talons. I like how they turn their catch toward the front in a aerodynamic fashion.

Hunting Osprey

Early afternoon, Sunday September 2

All around us boaters are enjoying the day. The water temperature is 74 degrees, warmer then the air temperature, so there is a lot of swimming going on. A few boats are rafting with friends. Several children are playing a loud game of tag on the lawn of a nearby mansion. A 62 foot Ocean Alexander motor yacht is pulling up to an adjacent mooring. On it, a woman, holding a fancy mahogany and brass boat hook, lays flat on her stomach on the tall bow, she reaches down as far as she possibly can and just barely reaches the mooring line! We wonder why she doesn’t get a longer pole.

Time for a walkabout! We plan to walk the scenic trail through the Cornelia L. Carey bird sanctuary. These trails wind their way along the Quisset coast and end at the Knob. On the way to the dock, our dinghy “Salty ll” is acting up. The normally dependable Honda 9.9 is sputtering and almost stalling. I managed to keep it going by working the choke. “Let’s take our walk and deal with the motor later. We can always row back,” I say, but I am thinking I can get her running with a screwdriver.

We leave the boat yard and walk a short distance along Quissett Harbor Road. Wooded hills on our right, the harbor to our left. Twenty feet away, a Herreshoff “S” class floats apprehensively, like an athlete at rest, a thoroughbred in a cage. I think I hear her talking! “I don’t want to be floating here, tied to this stupid buoy, take me out and race me!” she screams. Twenty seven feet of timeless sleek lines. Elegant, refined, and powerful. Its mast curves quite a bit aft ward. My eyes are drawn to it like a beautiful woman. “YOU! look at me!” she demands. “I hear you. I am looking at you. Yes! You are lovely,” my mind answers. It’s hard to believe they were building them in 1919. Less than a hundred were built, more than seventy still sail, forty still race, three of them are right here in Quissett and will race tomorrow.

The entrance to the trail has a large sign with lots of useful information like;  stay away from the poison ivy. The whole place was donated as a preserve by the former owner, Cornelia Carey, thereby keeping it out of the hands of the evil, money grubbing developers who would have surely turned this wonderful place into something either not so nice, or not so public, a strip mall or condo’s or something. The path is well worn through deep woods and the smell of vegetation and peat mixes nicely with the salty ocean aroma. The sun, almost completely blocked by the trees, allows a coolness from its absence that dries the sweat on my neck. Every person we pass says a friendly hello.

The Knob

Eventually the woods break into a lovely view of Racing Beach on our right. Its irresistible expanse practically forces us to descend the long wooden stairway just to put our feet in the water. The Knob itself rises high in front of us and we climb the path to it.  A stone patio offers an amazing 360 degree view across Buzzards Bay. Two new wind turbines in Fairhaven give us our bearing and we easily pick out places we recognize on the western shore.

Both our on-board cruising guides confirm the same two things about the Quissett Boat yard; they specialize in wooden boats, and there are no amenities here except ice. Their dock, at the head of the inner harbor, is kinda small and features only a small shack and an ice freezer. In January of this year, a two alarm fire destroyed most of the main shop building. The owners are in the process of rebuilding. Fire in a boatyard filled with old wooden boats is definitely not good. Fortunately, only a couple of boats were destroyed.
We stop by the office to pay for the mooring and ask about ice. Owner Weatherly Dorris is on the phone with a boater who has a some kind of medical emergency. Apparently an older gentleman is having alcohol withdrawal symptoms and the captain wants him off his boat. Susan translates: Grampa got the DT’s and being a real pain in the ass

Carb. repair

We get a couple of bags of ice and jump into the dinghy which starts right up but immediately dies. I open the cover and hit the electric starter. Raw gas is bubbling out of the carb…must be a stuck float. I was psyching myself up for rowing back to Ginger Lee when a friendly guy from Long Island offers to tow us back to our boat. “Are ya sure? I got oars,” I say “Ya, no problem. It’s what boating is all about,” he says.

Quoted from Dozier’s Northern Waterway guide: “Simply attach to a vacant mooring, and the yard’s skiff will eventually appear in the evening to collect the fee.” Sure enough, just after the sun dipped below the horizon, co owner Richard Dorris and his skiff “Ticker” appear at our stern. He is standing at the rear of the tidy little 14 footer holding onto a shapely wooden tiller. He deftly whips it around stops it dead two inches from our port side.  “Nice skiff. How are you controlling it? I ask, seeing no throttle or shifter. “With my foot! Check it out,” he says pointing. In the middle of the boat is a small engine doghouse with a maroon vinyl pad atop it. Sticking out of the side near his foot are two metal paddles right next to each other. Shifter on the left, throttle on the right. “Sweet!” I gush. He proudly flips up the maroon pad to expose a clean little engine. “Atomic 4!” he gushes back. Jeez! I love that skiff! Looks like glass over wood painted white, plumb bow, flat bottom, decent freeboard. nice straight lines, probably tinkered it together himself. He says good bye and motors slowly off. Susan notices my obvious skiff envy and says, “you wanna talk to him some more, don’t ‘cha.” “I do! I do! Please come back. I have beer!” I joke.

Ticker

Monday Morning September 3

Racing 12’s

Wake up on a boat in a new location and you will feel the way I feel right now; inspired. I want to take it all in, imprint my mind with the new visual experience. I can’t find a cloud in the whole sky and everything has a bright blue sparkle. It’s crisp, dry, and about 70 degrees. Susan is asleep and I have the aft deck to myself. This is the time I like to make my log book entries. I grab the familiar brown volume and instead of writing, I start sketching, something I do only when I am really moved.( Apparently I’m moved a lot because almost every log entry has sketches!)

Black S class

A white and grey lobster boat with tall outriggers and a proud bow anchors near the far shore. Three children scramble to the fore deck. Out of a brown paper bag they pull out sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and eat them hungrily, coltish legs dangling over the bow. Youthful chatter interspersed with laughter reaches my ears. Our neighbors in the big Ocean Alexander have donned swimsuits and dive in. Brrrr! I give ’em credit. The last time I went swimming the temperature was in the hundreds! Their transom swings my way in the breeze. It says “Celtic Charm” from Monkeybox Florida. They have a wicked expensive boat but I like that they run it themselves, no crew, boating just like me, only with more expensive stuff.

Herreshoff S

Several Herreshoff 12 and a half’s, each with two people, are sailing down the channel into Buzzards Bay. Two Quissett Yacht Club launches, a center console skiff and a Parker pilot house, follow. The race will begin soon! Here come the gorgeous ‘S’ class boats. Yesterday I wondered about the curved mast. This morning as I watch them speed by under sail, the reason is so obvious; the curved mast and sail create a wind scoop. A hot rod sail boat!

While the racers assemble just outside the harbor entrance, the largest sailboat I have ever seen cuts across Buzzards Bay and drops anchor fifty yards off the Knob. It must be well over one hundred feet long and has only one mast! The tallest mast in the whole friggin’ world! Through binoculars we watch as a twenty foot section of the port side flips down hydraulically to form a dock for the fancy inboard tender that they winched off the aft deck. The tender made two trips to the modest Quisset Boat Yard dock. One trip just for a slew of matched black leather luggage and another for a well tanned, well dressed, family of four. We speculate that it is a movie star and family but we don’t recognize anybody. I think the man sort of looks like Timothy Olyphant. On shore, four large men dressed in black suits and sunglasses wait by two large black Cadillacs with blacked out windows

.
Just before noon Susan drops the mooring line and we motor off. “Good bye Quissett! Thank you for a great weekend.” I actually say the words aloud. Sometimes I am just too corny. But this place is special and I really like it. I can’t wait to go back!

Quissett sunset

The dreaded last ride of the season is upon us. I don’t usually end the season so early but this impending storm concerns me. After a quick call to Moby Dick Marina in Fairhaven my fate was written.

“Hello, Moby Dick Marina.” I recognize the voice as one of the owners. “John, this is Rick Coraccio. How are you?” “Rick! What’s up pal?” John asks. “Well…I sure wouldn’t mind taking my boat down there tomorrow.” I say “You and everybody else!” John states the obvious. “Well, you know, the storm and everything,” I say. “No problem Rick. C’mon down.” Thanks John, ‘preciate it” “What time will you be here?” he asks. “Oh…’leven, twelve.” “Put it right on the ramp, if some one’s there, pull her into a slip,” he says. “Thanks again John.” “No problem Rick. Safe passage.”

Friday 10/26/2012 6:00 AM
I brew a pot of coffee and run through my exercise routine to bleed off some of my excess morning energy. The thermometer hanging just outside the kitchen window reads 61 degrees. Wow! Sixty-one! Really? I open the back door and step out onto the brick stoop. It’s so warm! Not a cloud in the sky, birds are singing, nary a breeze. Damn! It’s the nicest weekend we’ve had around here since forever and I gotta pull the boat out because the perfect storm is gonna tear through in 72 hours. Where is the justice in that? I start cooking the bacon and soon I hear my wife Susan moving around upstairs. Last night I warned her that I would be waking her up early. “Just pour some coffee down my throat and I’ll be ready to go,” she said.

Down at the beach, the sun pops through the trees as I untie our dinghy. “It’s so nice out!” I say as I lower the old Honda outboard into the water. Our boat “Ginger Lee” looks so lonely. There is only one other boat in this normally bustling mooring field. It’s really kinda sad. I hate the end of the boating season. Susan senses my dismay and hugs my neck. “It’s for the best, this storm looks really bad. Remember when we came down here during Hurricane Irene?” Helplessly from the shore, we watched our boat buck and sway violently against her mooring lines. It was sickening. I’ll never forget it. “I know…I know,” I agree. Boating has always kidnapped my soul, but this particular boat has kidnapped my heart. Dammit Rick! Enough of this mushy crap, just fire up those engines and get her safely to her winter home in New Bedford Harbor.

As soon as we round the Bird Island light I notice the normal Buzzards Bay chop has taken the day off, as if to say; “I slapped you guys around enough for one season. Have a nice last cruise.”

Along the way we listen intently to a developing situation being reported on the VHF channel 16. A boater reports to the Coast Guard that he has come a upon small boat adrift in Mount Hope Bay with no one aboard. “Just a fishing rod,” crackles the voice. Later another report of an empty life preserver ring afloat in the same area is reported. Silence fills our warm salon with the realization that a fellow boater has possibly taken not only his last cruise of the season, but the last cruise of his life.

New Bedford Hurricane Barrier, from the harbor

As we pass through the New Bedford hurricane barrier, a crew on a small barge is working on the door. No doubt they will be closing these doors as hurricane Sandy is predicted to hit the eastern seaboard at high tide during a full moon. I raise the Popes Island Marina on channel 9 and ask about a pump out. They direct me to a small floating dock in the middle of a huge bulkhead breakwater. As I approach, I realize how much I like the way Ginger Lee responds to the controls, how much I will miss her. Jeez Rick! you are NOT getting nostalgic about the last pump out of the season are you? Well I guess maybe I am. Hey! It’s all part of boating, all good as long as we are messing about in our boats.

Ginger Lee out of the water for the winter