Atlantic Coast

by EmilyGreat Dane 28, Living Aboard, Lonely Blue Highway, Solo sailor girlPosted on One Comment

When I think of the East Coast the first thing that comes to mind is not a wild landscape. Yes, there are beautiful ocean beaches, historic lighthouses, protected national seashores, and a variety of other delights ashore. But the majority of shoreline is privately owned. I think of the east coast as the place I grew up. A good place to buy, fix, and practice seafaring aboard small sailboats. As a place you have to sail past to get to the islands. But never as a place to travel to. It is not the land in itself that interests me. It is the sea. It is being out of sight of land. 

Coming back to shore here is merely a means to an end as my boat is a continuous work in progress, not quite ready to be at sea for longer than a few days. It is distant landfalls with far less population that intrigue me, not the coastal U.S. cities. Sometimes I wait weeks for a small passage window, anchored in some town I’d never chose to visit on purpose. Where there are few public landings and grocery stores are miles outside of town down four lane highways. Sometimes I get lucky and I can see a rail yard from the lawn of the public library and watch freight trains roll by while using the WiFi. Other times, there are mates around. I’ve been up and down this coast enough to have friends almost wherever I go, but not always.

From sea the coastline can look almost perverse. The abandoned Ferris wheels of the New Jersey Coast, the sky scraping condos of Miami Beach, accompanying tributaries marked endlessly by mansions, water towers, beach houses, second, third, and fourth homes. It’s as if the only reason they stopped building is because they ran out of land. They ran into the water. It like civilization is just perched precariously and ready to crumble into the ocean. Like an apocalyptic daydream. 

The wind can be a challenge as well. 

The East Coast is killing my soul a little.

But I do it for you, Atlantic. 

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Two Jews, a Mennonite, & an Engineer Go to a Boat

by EmilyBoat Hobo, Boat PeoplePosted on 3 Comments

“It’s called a bulkhead, Dr. Steve. Bulkhead. Not a wall,” I say rolling my eyes.

We’re aboard the boat of Dr. Steve Cohen somewhere on a river in North Carolina. The boat’s high and dry. It blew aground in the last storm and has been there ever since. Without much of a tidal current, it could be a while until he gets it off. He’s a New York Jew, like me. He’s always feeding us vegan brownies and fermented foods. He’s a revered practitioner of natural medicine, with clients from near and far who come to him when nothing else is working.

But he knows absolutely nothing about boats.

He recruited my boyfriend and a young Mennonite who owns a lumber mill to help him build a sculling oar, because his engine is unreliable. He has to spray it with gasoline to start it. It’s a diesel engine. He says he can, “sail anywhere,” but we don’t believe him.

He’s had this same boat, anchored out in front of a private community, for ten years. He locks his dinghy on shore at the park and recently some community member slathered his entire dinghy (oars, seats, and sole) in grease. To what end I can only assume was send a message to get his boat out of their little development.

No such luck, though, since his boat is still hard aground a week later. And Steve isn’t the kind of guy to let a little grease on his dinghy or a hard grounding prevent him from becoming a sailor.

I (the Jew) am somehow roped into organizing setting up and splicing a permanent mooring for his boat, and Sean (the engineer in the story) works with the woodsman (the Mennonite) cutting and carving the oar. It all seems rather fruitless for a boat that is high and dry, but Dr. Steve (the other Jew) has the confidence, enthusiasm, and endless bowls of soup to convince us. He’s convinced himself, too, that Tow Boat U.S. will be able to pull him off once the water levels are up. After all, they know him by name. So we have to finish his new means of propulsion and his new mooring before then.

Steve has been instrumental in helping me get my health on track. He’s guided me in treating a myriad of health issues naturally. It’s been a long road, but like Dr. Steve says, “If it could be fixed right away it would be called a miracle, not treatment.”

When I asked Steve if we could stay in contact after we left he said, “Of course! We’re Jews!”

As in, we stick together

So even though he’s literally the worst at boats, I’m swamped with work, and it’s time to leave his town as soon as possible–we feel inclined to stay a little longer to help him finish his sculling oar and new mooring. Which will hopefully prevent a grounding of his boat, and another greasing of his dinghy in the future.

As far as getting his boat off the ground, well, that’s in the hands of the tow boat…

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A Brief Update!

by EmilyBoat HoboPosted on 5 Comments

Holy shit.

Someone made a thread commending the story on this blog about sailing the Dismal Swamp Canal and nine pages later people are still arguing about it!

http://www.cruisersforum.com/forums/f90/sailing-sculling-dismal-swamp-icw-228887.html

I almost couldn’t get through all of it, but with persistence and focus I read the entire thread. My mind is blown that there are people who are so upset by the post and this blog and my basic existence that they feel compelled to write, and there are people who feel strongly enough to defend the post and this blog and my basic existence that they feel compelled to write.

I’m literally laughing. Not at anyone, but because I am simply tickled by it!

The comments range from downright creepy to inspiring. Like, women seldom make history and—yeah, those women end up dead or worse. Someone also commented about a recent post I wrote about my grandfather, saying they’d venture to guess I probably don’t know what he really thinks of me. I got a real kick out of that one.

Engineless circumnavigator Sean D’pagnier even joined in on defense, although I’ll probably tell him he is wasting his time with these people!

People went really bizarre and personal with their comments. It just shows we really live in a time where hate, and in this case sexism and people so angered by those trying to cut back on fossil fuels, is so pervasive.

A couple of years ago this would have really bothered me, though. I remember someone made a comment about how the shit I had on Vanu was like a homeless bag lady and being really sad. I was in the process of going hardcore minimalist and a refit when they said that, and went on to make Vanu a prime piece of real estate.

So, those people really can’t say shit.

No one can. There is no bad press. If you have haters, you’re doing something right as far as media is concerned.

And on a more philosophical level? What all those people have to say is more a reflection of themselves than of me. And there are even some nuggets of wisdom buried under there. So, give it a read if you want to join in on the fun!

Anyway I am tucked a way in the mountains a little while longer working on drafts for some magazine articles. Keep an eye out here for a post coming soon about an Herbal Medical Kit for Sailors, and don’t forget submissions are open for Heartwreck : Romantic Disasters at Sea. Heartwreck is a collection of short stories about romance gone wrong on and around boats. Submissions are open now until July. We are compensating writers! Check out the links!

Will you launch my boat if the apocalypse comes?

by EmilyBoat Hobo, Classic PlasticsPosted on 2 Comments

My rigging sounds different than usual in the gusts. I thought trying to tune the rig would help. It’s really fucking with my brain because when I’m sailing the rigging doesn’t shudder like that. Not even in gusts. That ‘fluttering’ sound is usually indicative of something being wrong. Like, when I hear that sound Vanu is saying adjust me. Trim the sails, bitch. So my mind computed this new sound in my rigging to tune the rig, bitch. So I did.

But it’s still happening.

Maybe it’s because I’m on the hard. The rig is even farther aloft, or…something. Or maybe I’m losing it, and don’t actually know anything about sailing.

I’m still in the boatyard with quite the list. But it’s different now, actually living on the boat on the hard. I’ve kept boats in boatyards before for entire winters, but this is the longest I’ve ever lived on a boat on land, and it ain’t over yet. I think I’m making progress, though. I can’t exactly measure up what I’ve done, versus what still needs to be done, versus what I’m doing. Despite my copious lists, it’s all kind of a blur. I just try to accomplish as much as I can everyday and remember that these things take time.

rebuilding pearson ariel 26

The owner of the boatyard does this thing where he goes around the yard and puts anything on the ground around people’s boats up on the deck. Sometimes he uses a forklift. I’ve somehow escape his wrath unscathed. How? I don’t know. I keep boxes of tools on the ground, but as neatly as humanly possible. Maybe he sees that I’m fucking trying to be neat and work on my boat. Or maybe he doesn’t see me at all. All I know is most of my life I’ve had a real problem with authority except when it comes to the Coast Guard, and the owner of this boatyard. I don’t even look him in the eye. I’ve never spoken to him and any time I’ve even considered addressing him it was with, “Sir.” 

Why? You might ask.

Why have I adopted this don’t speak unless spoken to attitude?

Because the dude’s cut throat. There are all sorts of embellished tales floating around the marine community about him just launching your boat and setting it adrift if you piss him off. But regardless of these tall rumors, I respect the shit out of him! Millions of dollars in perfect yacht finishes are always coming and going through his yard and I’m just here existing in constant trial and error.

Maybe I’m just paranoid, but I don’t want to get kicked out of the yard before I’m ready, so I keep my head down, do my best, and try not to break any rules. But there’s still a part of me that wants to win him over and get him to like me.

I’ve thought about ways I could find common ground between the owner and myself. Like by playing a practical joke. I’d put a bunch of those plastic pink flamingos that people put on their front lawns, on the ground in front of a bunch of people’s boats. And him and the yard workers would come back after their holiday vacation and see it. But I thought better of it. I think it might back fire when he runs over a pink flamingo with the travel lift, or sees a bunch of happy pink little birds on the ground that he is so adamant about keeping clear.

I’d like to establish a rapport sooner as opposed to later, though. Because at this point what am I supposed to say if the apocalypse comes? What am I going to say then?

“Sir, will you please launch my boat?”

Please, Sir, will you launch my boat?

I thought maybe the flamingos could bridge the gap. But it’s too dangerous. The act itself in putting them on the ground and possibly getting a negative reaction rather than a laugh, and also the symbolism.

My friend Dave and I were recently having a conversation where I asked, in earnest, “do you think I’ll ever get off the hard?”

“Not a chance,” he said sarcastically. “Might as well get some pink flamingos to put in the ground outside your boat.”

You shouldn’t trust sailors on land.

by EmilyLonely Blue Highway, Solo sailor girlPosted on Comments are Disabled

“Don’t forget me,” I say. Only to the important ones. When they are leaving or I am leaving. I feel like I used to be so good at leaving. Now it takes so much longer. Sometimes you gotta stop before you can keep going. Sometimes you have to get into the boatyard to get out of it. That’s why I’m moving back aboard. Even though it’s hard. Even though there’s dust. I’ve taken to calling it pixie dust. My buddy Canoe Jeff from Lake Champlain coined that turn of phrase. He’s definitely one of the ones I told not to forget me.

And he hasn’t.

The boathouse and my time here feels like a blur. Visiting sailors have always been welcome here. It’s how I first ended up here, and I’ve kept the tradition alive. Two schooner boys are our next guests. I remember the first one that showed up. Scott from SV Steady Drifter. His experiences in the Bahamas had rendered him changed. Then there was Johnny and Pete, who I would sail my boat with for the final time before hauling her. Chris and his Nor’sea which laid at the dock because work kept him chained to a ship that wasn’t his own.

They’re all land based now, too.

Never trust sailors on land. There’s more at stake out there, so there’s no time for trivial things. Like the anxieties of modern life and modern relationships. Being out there makes me a better person. Being out there makes me more independent and sharpens my desicion making skills. Out there everything is simple, even though the reality and rules are harsh.

On land everything gets misconstrued, so I had to start keeping a planner.

“I don’t do well alone,” my friend says. This is over the phone. Maybe that’s why he’s talking to me at 1 a.m. The funny thing about being alone is I only notice it when someone else comes along and points it out. Going down the Hudson river, getting shit out into the Atlantic ocean at the bottom of the tidal universe, my six horse power engine buzzing and my main sail struggling to stay full of air in the busy harbor. The passing ferry wakes are mountains I climb and careen down. There are tankers, container ships, water taxis and I don’t know which way to go to get out of their way, so I just hug the buoys. Content with running aground or into a bridge pillar if it means avoiding collision with one of them. I’m shit out into the Atlantic ocean and the wind fills my sail. I turn off the engine.

I am completely alone.

Everywhere I go there seems to be some old salt with thousands of miles under their keel that believes in me. However for every one of them, there is someone who thinks I am fool hearted. -From the Log, May 2017