a stormy relationship ................ from P

She is hanging in there, but she is taking a beating! I just got back into dry clothes after spending a couple of hours out in the newly dubbed "November Nor'easter," or as another newsman called it, "Hampton Roads' Perfect Storm." HA and I slogged along the pier (it is submerged under 8 inches of water at low tide!) to check on Senara.

To ensure we don't step off the dock, we have to stay visually aligned with the pilings and shuffle along so that we can continue to feel the boards under our feet. We make several stops to hang onto anything within reach, as the 45 knot gusts roll across the mouth of the James River and into our creek. Each gust causes Senara's dock lines to stretch and sing as she heaves hard against them, heeling and pitching up and down, just inches away from the lee pilings. Before we reach her I notice the sail cover, with the attractively stitched sail number on each side, has been shredded to tatters - hurricane style. I am barely able to reach the swim ladder at the stern, stretch my foot up to the low rung, and pull myself up to clamber aboard. After adding two more lines to the bow, re-securing the spring line, and lashing the sail cover, I check below to make sure the cabin sole boards aren't floating. Everything looks OK so far.

HA and I shuffle down the pier and lash a large chunk of a broken off finger-pier to a piling, secure an electrical pedestal that has somehow been sheared off at the base, and gawk at our neighbor's fishing boat that now floats upside down, completely capsized.

As we make our way homeward up the pier, I feel a familiar sense of sadness and helplessness, even sympathy. It is the same feeling I had last night as I lay awake envisioning the conditions down on the water. I have to tell myself again - Senara is just a boat; just a pile of fiberglass, wire, and teak crafted together to sail on the water. So why do I feel like I just visited an ailing family member? Why does it physically hurt in my gut when she gets injured, or is in some kind of danger? Inexplicable, but there it is. She has to hang in there for 24 more hours. I just hope I did my part and set the lines well, as high tide will arrive in four more slow, painful hours.

creekazoids take the Mobjack! ..... from P

We had everything - a Friday night sail under the moon, perfectly sunny conditions in optimal wind, gusty conditions up to 25 knots, sailing in a torrential rainstorm, and rip currents caused by the full moon and northeasterly storm combined. All within a Labor Day weekend. Neil and Carol, aboard Isabel's Revenge, sailed with us up into the East River of the Mobjack Bay to join up with our real boat club (the dues billing kind), OPCYC. After a perfect sailing day, we rafted together and soon saw Fred aboard Belladonna (yet another boat he is working on), Fred's brother Russell aboard Overkill, and John aboard Seabiscuit. We rode the dinghy over to the OPCYC raft-up and did happy hour with them - wow, nice boats, but not nearly as well travelled.

By sunset we had five creekazoids rafted together - forming a larger group than the OPCYC had! On Sunday, K led the group in a floaty session while the guys played with our snorkel & diving toys. Turns out, Neil's mom and stepdad live two rivers over (Ware River). So we sailed over there Sunday evening and got ourselves invited into their home for an incredible meal of fresh baked redfish, aka puppy drum around here. Monday we faced a hard rain most of the day, but the sailing was good. I looked back through the rain at the boats coming out of the Mobjack and thought - just kill me now, unless I can do this again soon.

1) Senara and Isabel's revenge together again. I think they missed each other!

2)Kai aboard Isabel, making sure he knows where everyone is.

3)Family portrait! Neil, Carol, Bailey

4)Is your bottom clean ?!

5)Fred returns from a successful gas hunting trip.

6)K hauling in the port sheet.

Creekazoids rule! .......... from P

The Cape Charles Cup; a race for cruisers, and a cruise for racers. The starting line is in Norfolk; the first day’s race finish line is at Cape Charles on the Eastern Shore, and the second day’s finish line is back across the Bay in Hampton. This was the first organized racing event in which all our sailing buddies entered their boat, or crewed for another. I entered Senara in the Cruising B fleet (17 boats), Tony entered TL Sea in the Non-Spinnaker racing fleet (6 boats), and John entered Seabiscuit in the Cruising C fleet (14 boats). Fred, because his boat is “on the hard,” was the first mate on Seabiscuit, Neil and HA were my crew, and Tony took on a new crew of mostly family members. We all maintain our boats near each other on one of the hundreds of creeks that feed into the Chesapeake Bay. For that reason (along with other reasons) we have taken up the name “Creekazoid Yacht Club.” It is a club with no club. No dues, no planned meetings. Just Creekazoids who enjoy sailing together.

Well, let it be known that the Creekazoids kicked some transom in the Cape Charles Cup regatta this year! Senara took third place in her fleet, TL Sea took third in her fleet, and Seabiscuit won! John and Fred raced Seabiscuit (Morgan 24) in her first race ever, and won the class outright! They had no GPS, and they forgot to carry a chart with them! So all day they are “dead reckoning” their way through the tacks and currents to end up at a short finish line 20 miles across the Bay. Nice job. I think the good karma generated by our most excellent name-changing ceremony for Seabiscuit did the trick. Also, a newly adopted Creekazoid, Raleigh Martin, took second place (single handed – no crew on board) just behind Seabiscuit in the Cruising C fleet.

What a great weekend. Two days of racing across the bay, visiting other boats at night, listening to some very talented boaters playing music in their cockpit (thank you Nancy and Nancy’s friend!), living aboard Senara again for four more days. Hanging with good friends. I know this endless summer will have to end soon for me - but not just yet.
Me officiating the all-important and most sacred name changing ceremony for Seabiscuit.

















Off and racing













Yeehaw!!!











HA takes a break - yes my daughter will still crew for me during a race!













Fred accepts the trophy for Seabiscuit's first place finish












I will take third out of 17 boats, thank you!














Neil takes it all in.









And, finally, the Creekazoids rule!

sail fast, swim slow......... from P

What a week! We knew we were in trouble when we saw the list of entries in our class. Almost every boat in the class had been a regular winner in their respective locales. We have won a number of regattas - but mostly the Friday night "barnacle races" sponsored by our local boat club. It is unusual to race in a fleet of boats wherein every crew expects to win, and any one of them are capable. Usually there are two or three premier boats in a class, but this regatta series is packed full of them. It was quickly clear that the other nine boats in our class had spent more money on sails than the entire cost of Tony's boat, TL Sea. But here we were, on the racecourse early every morning, going hard every race. Three races on Sunday, two on Monday, three more on Tuesday. It was a blast.

The wind was up Sunday, and we finished fourth, just ten seconds behind the boat that eventually won the class "overall" for the week, Black Widow. It was fun at the party that night to hear Black Widow's crew tell us they were getting worried about us, and how well we sailed that old Cal 31, etc. etc. It was downhill from there. On the second race of the third day, we were on our game and the breeze was just right for TL Sea. Lo and behold, as we were nearing the windward mark preparing for the rounding and final downwind leg to the finish, we found ourselves in second place! Just about the time the adrenaline of a second place finish started to kick in - disaster struck. Somehow our portside gennie sheet got caught on the whisker pole (laying unclipped on the gunwale), and as the sheet came taught, it flung the whisker pole overboard. Much yelling. Tony (our skipper) is frozen for a few seconds, then he lets go of the helm, turns around, and dives into the water!! I scramble behind the wheel to regain control of the boat. Tony swims over to the floating whisker pole. I'm gybing the boat around to pick up Tony as a cacophony of indiscernible yelling and flailing of sails confuses the scene. Approaching Tony's shaved head bobbing up and down in the Chesapeake Bay, I reach back to push the swim ladder down over the transom so that he can climb up. Oh no. Someone has taped the ladder in the "up" position - around and around - with thick vinyl tape. I cannot force it down. Someone find a knife - quick!! By the time we get the ladder cut loose, I have missed Tony. He is still bobbing, quickly getting tired. We tack around. We see a man in a motorized inflatable dinghy zipping across the water toward Tony. It's the race photographer! Tony grabs a line on the side of the dinghy, and the photographer tows him over to our stern. The first thing I yell to Tony is ".... you know what this means... you have to buy a photo from him tonight!" Once aboard, a dripping, caughing, cussing Tony takes the helm, and we all look around to see that the fleet has passed us by. I asked Tony what he wanted to do. He said "you didn't start the motor, right?" Right. "So let's finish the race!" We gathered ourselves, re-hoisted both headsails, and headed for the finish line. As it turned out, with time corrections, we still finished eighth out of the ten-boat fleet!

We ended up eighth overall in our class, but first in line for beer, and first in the hearts of our compatriots. A great week; three days of sailing Senara up the bay to Solomons, three days of racing and partying, and two more days sailing home. I already cannot wait for next year!

Charging toward the starting line.

Tony and I working a downwind run.

Fred watching out for crossing boats.

Drew taking a short break between races.

Party central!

Tony, Drew, and Fred relaxing aboard Senara after the first day.

good morning America .......... from P

Do I hear someone walking on my deck? What time is it? Just barely some light; must be around 5:30 AM. I must still be dreaming, so I roll over and close my eyes. But now I smell bacon frying. Footsteps across my deck again.

We three boats are rafted together in a gorgeous little cove inside the Coan River, which is six or seven miles up the Potomac River. We are on the way up to Solomon’s MD for the Screwpile Light Challenge race series. We have sailed for two days, made approximately 100 nautical miles with 30 or so to go. K and I are aboard Senara, Tony is sailing TLSea (the boat we are racing). Fred is aboard his old boat, which he recently sold to his brother, then immediately refurbished and refitted from stem to stern. She is a great looking, rock solid Columbia 26, originally built at the old Columbia yacht factory in Portsmouth, VA. If you see an old Columbia 26 that looks like a bumble bee (a bright yellow hull with black trim) it will probably be him. I doubt if there is another one.

I hear the squeaking of fenders rubbing up and down between our boats. Maybe I’m not dreaming. Definitely smelling bacon. Hungry. Suddenly I hear Willy Nelson singing at what must be the maximum volume on the CD player. “Good morning America how are ya! Don’tcha know me I’m your native son….I’m the train they call the city of New Orleans……….. Yes, I am awake. It is Fred’s unique way of rousting everyone out of their berth to enjoy one of his big breakfasts cooked on a small gas burner in the 26 footer. Bacon, poached eggs, toast, strong coffee. I wouldn’t want to miss it.

K "enjoying" a sunrise breakfast.

Senara in the middle of a 3-way raft up.

Fred aboard "Maxine" - named after his late mother.

oh, sailing is soooo quiet and peaceful... from P

There’s the horn, one minute!! Boat at two o'clock on your starboard bow! Come up, come up! We’re too early, prepare to gybe! Gybe ho! We gotta get better on the gybes – too slow on the trim. We’re gonna tack back toward the committee boat and luff up on the line – prepare to tack! Helm’s alee! Get that #&*# sheet in! Watch out for Black Widow, she always barges the line. Twenty seconds! Watch the flag! Watch the flag! Luff up! Luff up! Ten seconds! Excelsior is coming down hard on us – don’t let him push us down! Give me some power! Power now!! Harden up! Class flag is down! We’re racing!!

And that’s just the start. As Tony picks his way through the traffic trying to find “clean air,” I am trimming the gennie, trying to read the telltales, and always wishing the fairlead car was either one hole further forward or astern. It rarely seems to be set perfectly. Fred is on the high side near the mast, trimming the cunningham and halyard, watching out for traffic behind the 155% genoa. Kent is thinking ahead, calling tactics. Drew is helping out anywhere he is needed; he and I tag-team trimming the main. If John is aboard, he trims the main. Fred, Kent and Tony are intently gazing forward looking for the first mark. “Halaha is tacking! Halaha is tacking!” – then Kent and I usually in unison: “Don’t go with him yet! Put some in the bank!” Soon we make the decision to tack, and all hell breaks loose. As the bow comes around through the wind, the big genoa backwinds just for a moment, then “break!”, I let loose the windward sheet and start cranking the leeward sheet as hard and fast as I can. The wind whips the big mylar sail and it sounds like someone beating on the side of a metal barn with a hammer until I can trim it tight. It seems like it took me forever to trim that sail. But actually it was a good tack and we are moving well.

We near the first mark and there is traffic. “The current is against us, put plenty in the bank before making the gybe! For God’s sake don’t miss that mark!!” Then to the boat leeward of us, “Overlap! Room at the mark!” Him to us, “Plenty of room!” Sometimes there are three or four boats stacked up trying to get around the first mark. Everyone yelling for room. Everyone dependent upon the leeward boat to fall off a little. Voices charged with tension. Someone cracks a joke about the other’s liability insurance and everyone finally laughs.

As we round the mark we are all scrambling to hoist the second headsail, gybe the mainsail, and hoist the whisker pole - all simultaneously - for the downwind run. Inevitably there is a snag, or the clip on the whisker pole gets jammed, or something. Initially everyone is shouting, then a tense quiet as Fred and Drew work to solve the problem. Then both headsails pop like big kites and we start gaining on the fleet. I love it.

Yes, race week is here again. K and I are sailing Senara up to Solomons, MD where we will live aboard her for a week while “the boys” will indeed act like boys and race Tony’s boat (TLSea) again this year in the Screwpile Challenge Regatta. It is hard to believe it’s been a year since I blogged from Solomons, as we stopped there to race while on the first leg of our trip last July. Three days of racing, two or three races each day. Parties every night, and lots bragging, bonding, and B.S. I can hardly wait!

windward leg to the first mark

birth of a nation ............ from P

This independence day weekend I tip my sailing hat to the brave revolutionaries of Key West. The courageous, and possibly inebriated, Mayor Dennis Wardlow along his brave band of city councilmen made their stand and declared independence from the mighty U.S. of A. Yes, the fledgling new republic of hardy souls would struggle against all odds to form a more perfect republic by raising their glasses and pointing out to the rest of the world the absurdity of the treatment they had been subject to by the mother country.

It was April of 1982. The U.S. government’s previous loose immigration policies, capped by the Mariel Boat Lift, resulted in a backlash of tight immigration and drug enforcement crackdowns. U.S. customs had set up a checkpoint on A1A at Florida City – just before the bridge crossing to the northern keys. That was the last straw. According to first-hand accounts from those who survived these trying times, the checkpoint looked and felt just like a border station. So the intrepid city council did what any good sunburned, T-shirt wearing American city council would do. They declared independence, thereby forming a new country and a more perfect union of native islanders, a.k.a. “Conchs.” For good measure they declared war on the U.S. by breaking a loaf of stale Cuban bread over the head of a U.S. soldier in full uniform. Oh say can you see! The bravery and vision! After finishing their beers, these leaders wisely decided to surrender their new country rather than risk the wrath of having to do all the paperwork required to sustain a new republic. So the history of the Conch Republic spans a total of approximately one minute. But since that fateful day in 1982 the rich history and lore of the Conch Republic has been passed down from biker bar to biker bar throughout the ages. One of the lasting vestiges of this revolt is the flag of the Conch Republic. Senara now proudly flies the Conch Republic flag on her mast. Yes, on this independence day we should remember those who seceded when others failed.

Flag of the mighty Conch Republic