Harts At Sea

Say “Goodbye” to Popcorn for Dinner (Mostly)

A few weeks ago, I was delighted to have a chance to talk on the phone with Lynnelle in Dallas and Rhoda in Santa Fe at the same time.  It allowed them to share a laugh at my expense, but I still say they were laughing at an uncharacteristic solution I developed to the problem of meal planning. I told them, “I just created an Excel spreadsheet for meal planning and I think it’s going to help a lot.” Instead of a “Good for you!” or at least an interested “Hmmmm”, I heard silence followed by two of my dear friends laughing at me. With her charming Dallas accent Lynnelle hooted, “Did she say spreadsheet?!”  “Yes!” said Rhoda, “Yes! She did! She said Excel spreadsheet!” and they laughed again.

OK, I admit that this act is not how I normally attack meal planning and provisioning – and that’s the problem! Before we left Maine, I took the wonderful SSCA (Seven Seas Cruising Association) provisioning course by Barbara Theisen. Then I declined to take the time to plan meals before provisioning. I still am not up to planning menus for 30 days. That’s just not going to happen. And when anchored in a harbor among cruisers, I have to be very flexible, as parties happen and frequently involve lots of appetizers and tapas that take us all through the dinner hour. Consequently, I stopped planning meals, and then would have no idea what to serve EW for dinner. He likes popcorn. Still.

While we were in St. Thomas, I reflected on my lack as a provisioner and chef. EW has never complained. Not once. But I know that we had popcorn for dinner many times in Grenada and that really isn’t acceptable to me. I also purchased way too many produce items that were subsequently tossed out after going bad. I needed to get better at this, and decided to tackle the problem while we were in St. Thomas. This is a real issue for many cruisers; after all, we can no longer stop by Beale Street Barbeque in South Portland and grab two bowls of their chili du jour to go – with Cole slaw on the side. Mmmmm. None of us are near our favorite take out option from home, and no one has yet delivered pizza while we are on the hook. Popcorn became the option when I didn’t feel like cooking.

So, if popcorn is the result, what is really the problem? I like to cook (sometimes) and have tons of recipes and cookbooks on board. The challenge is to find a meal I wanted to make for which I had stuff on board. On hot Grenada afternoons,  I would languidly peruse recipe after recipe and think, “No, I don’t have that,” or “This needs to marinate 2hours.” And I would make popcorn.

OK. So, lack of planning is the problem. What was the solution? That Excel spreadsheet. (Laugh if you will, but it’s working for us.) I spent an afternoon going thru my recipes, from cookbooks, cruising cookbooks, my files, and those shared by other cruisers through email. I pulled out twelve recipes that could be considered Quick Meals, and noted what ingredients they needed from my on-board stores and what ingredients were “special’ items, such as fresh veggies, protein, and perhaps a special cheese. On La Luna parmesan cheese is a staple, feta cheese would be a special item. Most of the Twelve Quick Meals only require a salad or some veggies. A few need special fresh veggies, such as broccoli, and chicken. My definition of “Quick” in the Twelve Quick Meals is that I can prepare it in the time it would take for EW to pick up a pizza – about 20-30 minutes.

 

 

My plan is simple, with only two goals:

1. Every day, I will have on board all the ingredients for 3 of the 12 meals.

2. Each recipe must always make at least four servings.

That way, I can participate in a pot luck or have food for unexpected guests – or have left-overs for another meal. By only having three meals, I’m not purchasing too many veggies for the week and there is less waste. We don’t eat out a lot, and try to do so at lunch more than dinner. On days when we eat out at lunch, no dinner meal is required – except a salad, fruit, appetizer or, (OK) popcorn.  I also keep on hand a few items that allow me to make any of my staple five or six appetizers to share at impromptu sundowner parties.

I’ve been using this system for a month or more, and it works. I also added another spreadsheet with 10 not-so-quick meals, such as home made pizza, chicken satay, and fish tacos, and I try to keep stuff on board for two or three of those, as well. When the mood strikes and I’m feeling more creative, I’ll look through my recipes and cookbooks for something else. So far, we aren’t bored with the list and we are eating a lot less popcorn.

As for organizing the recipes, I simply noted on the spreadsheet where I could find each recipe – which page of what cookbook, or which file in the computer, or which of my two three-ring recipe notebooks. (Told you I have a lot of recipes.) I hope to change out the top Quick Twelve Meals every so often as I find other recipes that fit the requirements. in the meantime. We are eating well.

FLASHBACK: EW has never complained about my cooking or popping, although there are meals he would prefer not to eat a second time. Usually we both agree on those. Let me tell you about the first meal I made for him.

We’d been dating for a few weeks and I was already smitten, so I invited him to my tiny apartment for dinner and decided to make Fettuccini Alfredo. I’d never made Fettuccini Alfredo before, but I had a recipe (of course) and figured it would be hard to mess up. Right.

We had wine, I made garlic bread, and salad. The instructions were clear. Once the pasta is done and you pour the cheese on, you must only heat it for a very short while – just until the cheese melts. But the bread wasn’t quite done and I figured I’d better keep the pasta and cheese mixture hot, so it stayed on the burner some minutes after being perfectly done.

Have you ever eaten natural peanut butter – the kind that you have to mix because the oil is separated from the peanut gunk? And have you ever not quite mixed all of the oil in so you have really sticky peanut gunk that refuses to spread? Well, that is roughly the consistency of the Fettuccini Alfredo that I served EW that night. I couldn’t eat it. He kept at it, chewing each mouthful. When I protested that it was inedible, he said, “Hm ----- um ---- n ----“ holding his index finger up for time as he worked on masticating and swallowing the cemented noodle mixture. When he had finally cleared his mouth, he said, “No, it’s fine. It’ wouldn’t taste bad at all if you didn’t have to keep it in your mouth for so long.”

That’s when I knew I wanted to marry this man.

The Dance Classes in My Youth Have Not Paid Off

Step. Together. Slide. Step. Step. Together. Slide. Step.

Miss Marilyn would not be proud.

Neither would my mother. “It’s just a cha-cha rhythm, Barb. Surely, you can do that.”

“Friends don’t let friends clap on One and Three,” Peter Bonta has told me. It seems that I Zumba on One and Three, while everyone else kicks and shakes, and slides and shimmies on Two and Four. I Zumba. Therefore I sweat. Since exercise is the point, then I guess my Saturday mornings have been successful. Wish I didn’t feel like such a dork, though.

Evidently Zumba is big in St. Thomas. We learned from a fellow cruiser that most gyms offer classes, and she attends a class on Tuesdays and Thursdays held in the air-conditioned gym at the University of the Virgin Islands. She also joined me and at least 40 others at the free outdoor class held on Saturdays at Yacht Haven Grand.

It’s a work out in the sun, and in public. Folks walking to work, to shop, or to have coffee, pause and watch this massive group of women (and one man who aborted his jog to join us part way through the class) moving to a Latin or Latin-ish beat. Today, two instructors took turns leading the routines. My favorite song had a western feel – that’s the Wild West – complete with lasso twirling hand motions. I could do that. Back in my youth, square dancing was an option for physical education. Really. But our dances were never led by a slender woman, with bare midriff and jangles tied around her hips (the better to encourage us to shake our boo-tay. Both instructors wore the jangly scarves, the second instructor is to my left in this photo. 

Unlike my dance class days with Miss Marilyn in Dexter Maine – over 40 years ago – Zumba instructors don’t call out steps. They dance and we follow. I can shimmy (a bit), I can Slide. Together. Slide Step – with a little Latin flavor (some), and I can move my arms up, down and to the side. What I can’t do, is put it all together. I looked like a dork. I went left when the rest of the class went right. I got off on the wrong foot. A lot.

But I had a great workout, and a lot of fun. I zumbad. (What is the past tense of zumba?) And I kept hearing all of these voices in my mind:

• Miss Marilyn. “Slide. Together. Slide. Step.” and “Step ball change.”
• My mom – who was a great dancer. She sent me to dance class to help me be more coordinated. It didn’t work. After a couple of years, I switched to the flute. I was able to march in the band and play flute at the same time. Left. Right. Left. Right.
• My band director – "No, Barb, the other left." Oh. That.

(In case you missed it, in the photo above right, I am one of two people facing right. Seriously. The other left!)

At least I was better at zumba than I was in that interpretive dance class in college. “Float across the floor like a leaf. Be the leaf.” Yeah. Right. Evidently leaves don’t giggle. Who knew? Forever Friend Kathy took that class with me, and we can still crack each other up with, “Float across the floor like a leaf”, followed by an eye roll. I wonder if she’s tried zumba. I am sure we shouldn’t be allowed in the same class, as it would be really embarrassing to be separated by the teacher at our age.

I don’t plan to attend Zumba three times a week, but I’ll go to the Saturday classes while we’re here as a way to add some spice and a lot of sweat to my daily exercise. It was fun. Really. Don’t I look as if I were having a good time?

Thanks to Ben from s/v Cricket, who took these photos, and to his wife Pam, who knew she’d end up in the shots and danced next to me anyway. Cruisers are like that.

We Lost Our Sense of Humor. (Don't Worry. We Got it Back.)

When you lose your sense of humor, where does it go? Since laughter bubbles up out of a person, perhaps a lost sense of humor sinks into the bilge, and waits to be invited back into the main living areas. We both lost our sense of humor last week, and in retrospect it was pretty funny.

At the time, I said, “You can be sure that I won’t write about this!”  Evidently I lied.

 

We were good humored at Monday Movie Night on Honeymoon Beach. We had gone in early with Carl and Carrie so that we could enjoy the French fries from Joe’s. Not sure why it’s called Joe’s as Britt seems to run the place, but in any case, word was out about the fries and there were too many orders ahead of us before the movie started. No worries. We trooped across the sand, chatting with new and old friends, set up our chairs in front of the screen, and bought our hot dogs and sodas. The movie was Captain Ron, a sailor’s classic. It’s a funny movie, even though it gets most sailing, boat repair, and Caribbean geography horribly wrong. It was even funnier because two couples in our group know all the good lines and have the comic timing to speak them in that split second before the actor, causing us to laugh even more.

The next day, I gradually felt a bit icky.  By afternoon I had a mild intestinal “issue”. EW was perky, perky, perky.  Around five I said, “I’m not feeling great and don’t feel like eating at all. Do you mind taking care of your own dinner?”  “No problem, My Sweet,” EW said. “What’s wrong?” So I told him I had an intestinal thing and cramps. Said I didn’t feel like eating and didn’t really want to even cook anything. I went back to my book.

A while later, EW said, “I feel like French fries!” I assumed that he would take the dinghy into the island and get some from Britt. But no.  “That’s fine,” I said.

“I’ll make them!” He said. “Wouldn’t you like me to make you French fries?”

Um. No. Actually, I could think of few things that were less appealing than a pile of greasy starch.

“No thanks,” I said with a bit of an ‘are you kidding me?’ tone.

EW proceeded to haul the hot dogs out of the freezer and hum and bustle in the galley. “Do we have any butter open?”

“Yes.”

“Which oil should I use to make the fries?”  I couldn’t  have cared less, and requested that he leave me out of it. He was hurt. Really. After all, he had offered to make me home made French Fries. He was happy. He had cleaned the bottom of the boat and needed a high carb meal. He was making that meal. Wasn’t he wonderful? What was my problem?

I was crampy and somewhat sick to my stomach. I had an intestinal bug. But at that moment in time, EW was my problem. He hummed. He bustled. He carefully cut and peeled the fries and placed them in a bowl of cold water. When I saw that, I paused. “You really know how to make French fries.”

“Yeah,” he said, in a tone that meant ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

Well. “We’ve been married for 26 years. In that time can you remember ever making French fries for me?” I asked, with a tone.

“Nope, guess I can’t”, he said.

Now I love French fries. We had even had a discussion once about not making them on the boat due to the large amount of hot oil in a moving galley. He had never made them for me in all of our married life and there he was , happy, happy, happy, about making French fries when I didn’t feel up to eating them. What part of this reality didn’t he understand? What was left of my sense of humor scurried into the bilge under the forward cabin, as far away from us as possible.  I took my book and moved to the cockpit so I didn’t have to smell the sizzling oil and the fries in the making.

He popped up into the cockpit and stated as Britt does, “Fries take 10 minutes. Extra crispy fries take 12,” smiling cheerfully. I didn’t give a … well you know. There was nothing left to give. I glared at him. He was hurt by my defection.  I went back to my book with a sigh that meant, ‘leave me alone.’

Mr. Happy couldn’t let it go. Once his meal was prepared, he once again popped up into my supposed fry free safe seating zone, waving his plate of loaded hot dogs and sizzling hot crispy fries. “Doesn’t that look good?”

“Get away from me!” I had lost it. He was stunned, stunned I tell you, by my rejection.

What part of “I don’t feel like eating, cooking, or looking at food” did he not get?

And frankly, I was ticked off that he had actually made fries on the boat when I was ill and couldn’t eat them. I was more than ticked off. I was not in a loving mood.

That morning, when EW had single-handedly cleaned the waterline while I had gone ashore to do laundry, he had scraped up his right hand on the barnacles. He had cleaned his wounds and applied anti-bacteria cream and adhesive bandages. Normally, I would have been sympathetic.

After his repast, the galley looked – well -- messy. I am normally the dishwasher and don’t (normally) mind at all. But I had decided early in that evening’s war that there was no way I was going to assist in cleaning up that mess. Ever.

Here’s how that conversation went:

EW asked, “What should I do with the fry oil?”

I charmingly replied, “I don’t give a damn.” He was not pleased.

A while later, he said, “I don’t think I can do the dishes with my hand like this.”

And I smiled and said, “Then they’ll sit there until your hand heals. I’m not doing them.”

These were not my finest hours.

He was stunned.

I remained uncaring. “Did you get all cut up like that with your gloves on?”

“No. I forgot the gloves and just kept going anyway.”

“I have no sympathy for you. I’m going to bed.”

Oh, I can be nasty.

EW cleaned the galley and washed the dishes. I went to bed and slept very well, thank you.

The next day,  I imagined all of this as it would be played by one of those British comedies. He would be waving a hot platter of crisps under her nose. She would turn green and run for the loo. The audience would laugh uproariously.

It was kind of funny.

Our sense of humor peeked up through the floor boards and gradually came back to live with us, but we haven’t yet actually laughed together over this episode yet. Maybe some day.

He owes me a batch of fries. I’ve found the fry oil in a bottle in the fridge. I’ll wash the dishes.

 

NOTE: Yes, EW has read and approved this message. He even laughed. I love EW. He also took me to lunch at XO in Redhook once I felt better. I had a marvelous CBA – Chicken, Brie, and Apple sandwich. 

NOTE 2: The photo of honeymoon beach was taken from the website, www.water-island.com. If you don't have a sailboat, this is a marvelous property to visit when in the islands. You can find out more about Honeymoon Beach at this website for beach lovers. 

 NOTE 3: If you like my sense of humor and haven't checked out my book -- Harts at Sea Sailing to Windward -- you can find it on Amazon for Kindle for just $2.99. Tell your friends. Heck, tell your enemies. Thank you.

Dingbat in a Dinghy (Blond Jokes Allowed)

We have ordered a new dinghy from West Marine. It’s not likely to be in stock in time for us to get to Puerto Rico, shop, and be back for Christmas, so it will be a New Year’s dinghy. In the meantime, EW has tried twice to repair the new leak in the inflatable floor.

Yesterday, I was not the image of Patience as I waited for the repair to cure so I could go ashore to take photos. In truth, it was time to be off the boat by myself for a bit. EW and I had begun to fall into the old anti-communication habits and we needed a break. He was a bit short with me, I was a bit impatient and short with him, and neither of us was fully listening to the other. That means it’s time for a solo excursion ashore. I was ready.

Well, I thought I was ready.

EW decided that the floor needed more time, and agreed that I could take the dinghy in without the floor. He did ask me to use two area rugs and the yoga mat to protect the bottom of the dinghy (and help to keep me out of the water). So I loaded those into the dinghy, strapped on my camera and jumped aboard. Now that we attach the dinghy safety key to the key for the security locks, I never forget the safety key--without which the motor won’t start—so I jumped in and started her up. EW obligingly untied the dinghy and handed off the line and I headed for shore.

Tum, dee, dum. I’m going to shore. And the motor died. It sputtered, I looked back at it as it stopped and …..  I discovered I’d forgotten to load the gas tank into the dinghy.  Of course it was out because EW had to take everything out in order to remove the floor. I knew that. So, there I was drifting toward sea with no gas, no gas tank, and no oars. The seat is broken and we only have one oar, so why take oars?

Dumb and dumber. I let myself drift (like I had a choice) until the dinghy neared a mooring ball, and then I secured the camera, leaned over the bow, and paddled like hell for the mooring. Having tied on, I waited. A short while later a sailboat came into the mooring field, and I thought they were heading for “my” mooring. I called to them, and they pointed beyond me. The woman called back, “Do you need help?” 

“Yes, please. My motor died and I’d like a tow to our boat.”

Pointing to her companion, she said, "He’ll be over as soon as we tie on.”

They nosed up to a small sailboat on a mooring and the man jumped into the dinghy to attach their boat to that one, leaving two on the mooring. Then he came over to me. Now, it’s telling that I have few photos of this debacle. I know I take a plethora of photos for any of EW’s “adventures”, but the bottom of the dinghy is wet, and it’s bouncy, and I didn’t want to get the new camera out of its safe bag. Imagine an older gentleman in white shirt and white shorts, driving a large, older inflatable. He deftly secures my dinghy painter to the stern of his boat and asks me to point out La Luna. I did and he turned toward my home. No other words passed between us.

As we neared our boat, I called out to EW who appeared in the cockpit. One glance and his face fell. I knew he believed that he’d have to tackle “Another” Project, but I had no intention of easing his mind in the presence of the kind stranger. “What happened?” called EW. The stranger was facing forward , and I was still behind him, so I put my finger to my lips in the “shhh” sign and EW (amazingly) stopped talking. He took my line and we both thanked the nice stranger, who immediately went back to the two boats.

There I was, sitting in a bouncy, damp, bottomless dinghy, and I looked up to EW who was standing on La Luna’s deck. “I forgot the gas tank.”

Once he stopped laughing and could form words, EW said, “You better blog this!”

So I did.

 

If the situation had been reversed, I wouldn’t have let EW out of the dinghy until I’d snapped his photo. Unfortunately for him – but fortunately for me—he doesn’t think like that. (Poor EW.)

 

Here’s a photo of the dinghy taken after I finally made it to shore. Imagine the red gas tank gone, and you’ll see how I set off the first time.

How to Speak Australian

One of the best things about this lifestyle is the chance to meet and make friends from all over the world. In Bequia, we met Tony when we had a bunch of boaters aboard La Luna for a  four-hour cocktail hour. Tony is from Darwin, Australia and since we saw him in Bequia he’s been joined by his girlfriend, Jess, who is from Ireland. I love to listen to them talk, and frequently ask them about some of their phrases. “Taking the piss” means to mock or ridicule someone. When Jess and I were talking about the guys, sotto voiced, Tony accused us (accurately) of “taking the piss” on him. Busted.

Tony is an excellent musician, and the organizer of the Sunday jam sessions. He’s also very nice about offering tips to EW, who enjoys playing with him. At the recent jam session, Tony and Jess broke for dinner after EW and I had eaten and EW had returned to the music corner to play with another cruiser. Tony began to tell tales about Darwin, his mates, and his yacht club. His language is very salty – Tony drops a lot of f-bombs – and he told me and a couple of other cruisers that true friends in Darwin insult and swear at each other. “I’d been sailing for a few years when I returned to my old yacht club. (Tony is a past commodore.) I walked in and saw the current commodore who took one look at me and said, “For F;%$ sake! I thought we’d gotten rid of you, Aalksjfd;!” (think donkey butt) Tony told us he had been delighted with the greeting, and laughed when he said that it had been great to see his mates and be so warmly welcomed.

We laughed along with him and I filed the information away, never expecting to use it.

A day or so later I ran into Tony and we talked about red wine – and I relayed that conversation to EW. Now EW likes to occasionally surprise me or our friends with a small spontaneous gesture. That afternoon he was running some errands and decided I needed some red wine and chocolate and returned home with the treats. Over a glass of the “plonk” (that’s Australian for wine) in the cockpit, EW gleefully told me he had “dropped a bottle” of wine off into Tony’s dinghy. “He’ll probably figure it’s from us, but I hope he enjoys it.” I told him that was a super idea, and was delighted by his gesture. A couple of times that evening, EW wondered if Tony had been pleased by the wine.

The next day, we were off the boat for hours, and returned to find the bottle of wine in our cockpit. Evidently in Australia, impromptu gifts are discouraged. EW had locked the dinghy, but I told him to unlock it as we were going to take this wine back to Tony. I wasn’t at all mad, as I realized this was just a cultural issue, but I wanted to let him know that he couldn’t return a spontaneous gift. I could have told him that nicely, like the New England WASP I was raised to be, but I figured that my intent would be lost in translation. So I decided on the way over to speak Aussie, as Tony had taught me on Sunday.

We pulled alongside his boat and hailed him. When he popped his head up the companionway, I cheerfully told him to “Get his A%% on deck!” His eyes opened wide in surprise, but he complied with a smile. I handed him the bottle of wine and cheerfully said,  “You F;%$in Aalksjfd;! When we give you a gift, you bloody well take it, and you don’t F;%$in give it back. If you try to do that again, I’ll shove it up your F;%$in Aalk!”  Tony laughed, and thanked us for the wine, and laughed some more.

Here’s what I couldn’t see: I was in the bow of the dinghy and EW was in the stern at the motor. He hadn’t been a part of the conversation on Sunday and had never, ever heard me threaten to shove something up anyone’s donkey. He’s certainly heard me drop an f-bomb or three, but never in this manner. While I was letting Tony know we were good friends, Tony had a clear view of EW’s aghast expression. EW was so stunned, that he spoke not a word during the entire dinghy visit. I said my piece in Australian, called Tony an unspeakable name one last time and shoved off. Tony thanked us. laughed and waved.

I turned to EW and said, “That went well.” Still speechless, he just looked at me, and light dawned in Barbara Land. “Oh!” You didn’t hear Tony tell us how friends talk to each other in Darwin, did you?”

Long pause. “Noooo.”

So I explained and EW laughed, and continued to laugh. In fact the rest of the evening he would break into spontaneous laughter as he thought again about the incident. He told me the next morning that he’d awakened in the night, laughing over it.

Guess I can still surprise him after 26 years.

Don’t try this at home.

Hash– The Grenada Hash House Harriers, That Is

Yesterday, I was a Virgin and now I’m not. I have the certificate to prove it.

Here, I have signed in for the Hash as a Virgin – yeah, insert joke here.  About three hours later, I was no longer a virgin (again) and received this certificate to prove it.

 

 

 

 

 

(I never got a certificate for that the first time.)

For those of you who are uninitiated, a Hash is essentially an event for runners with a drinking problem or drinkers with a running problem. Beer is consumed at the end of the Hash, but this is more of a social and family event than the organization’s own jokes and customs would indicate. 

In Grenada, there is a very active chapter of Hash House Harriers, and an equally active group of cruisers who join them every week. 

The best thing about participating in the Grenada Hash is that it’s the first event we’ve found that interests and attracts folk from every group on the island including: local youth, retirees, families, medical and veterinary school students, and cruisers.

The worst thing about participating in the Grenada Hash is that you are moving quickly (some run) up and down steep hills, through brooks and rivers, getting muddy and cut by razor grass. Does that sound like fun to you?

After the 6 hour trek to Concord Falls, our hashing/boating friends all said, “If you can handle that trek, you can handle a hash. Those only last two hours.” Since my dear friend Dora wanted to Hash and her sweetie and EW were still under the weather with colds, I agreed to participate with her.

I was going to provide for you the official description of this event – but you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. It started in 1938 in Kuala Lumpur … and there’s some mention of Hares and Hounds, as if normal people knew what that was. Just think Mad Dogs and Englishmen and you’ll get the general feel of the event. There’s an element of a race – but that isn’t important. In a very minor way it is similar to a road rally, but not really. It is not a walk in the park. I would not participate where there are poisonous snakes. (Since I won’t do much where there are poisonous snakes, this should come as no surprise.)

Confused yet? If you really want to know, go to their website (linked above and read their Bible. (Not kidding about that, either. You can’t make this stuff up.)

Maybe I should just tell you what I experienced.

One of the cruisers is an avid Hasher (She has two Hash Names) and she reserves busses for cruisers. Yesterday we filled three of them. At the chosen site, which is different for every hash, folks arrive by car, bike, and a bus from the university. All ages attend. We all sign in so they have an accurate count and know for whom to look if they don’t arrive back to the starting point in a timely fashion. (This is serious. When we first arrived in Grenada there was an entry on the cruisers’ Facebook page by a woman who was thanking everyone for finding her husband. He took a wrong turn on his first hash and wasn’t found until 2:00 AM! His Hash name is now “Brain-dead”. Hashing is not for sissies.)

So, then the leader of the Hash Chapter stands on a high point and talks and is largely ignored by everybody. (Yes, that is a cemetery in the background and yes, he did refer to it, as in we could end up there if we weren’t careful.) Before we start off, he calls all the virgins forward for instruction, because no one else will pay attention. I am so not kidding. Here are the instructions as I remember them:

1. You are on your own.  However friends and families stick together. Some amble and talk – not too slowly as the event doesn’t start until 4 and one prefers to finish before dark. (Did I tell you Dora told me to bring a headlamp? Yes! A headlamp! What kind of walk was this?)

2. You find the trail by following “piles of paper”. I had no idea what that meant until I saw a pile of paper.

3-A.  At two points on the trail there will be a large circle of paper, denoting a deception. You will have numerous options for the trail, and if you are in front, or so far behind that you don’t see anyone ahead of you, you will simply have to try each possible trail. Count the piles of paper and if you reach 10, you are on the right trail. If you get to a large black X made of paper, you are on the wrong trail and have to go back. (Still not kidding.)

3-B. Whenever you are confused/concerned about the trail you are on and if there are folks ahead of you, you may shout,          “ R. U?” down the trail. If it is the right trail, folks ahead of you will answer “On! On!” If it is the wrong trail and they are heading back, they will shout “On back!” and you can try another trail. They aren’t supposed to lie, so you can trust them.

4. This trail starts “over there” (the far corner of the field at yesterday’s location).There is a “runners’ trail” and a “walkers’ trail”. I think these are only  separated near the start so the walkers aren’t run over or to separate the hares from the hounds or whatever, but I was in the back and never saw the runners or the two trails. There is no starting gun – once the leader has instructed the virgins, he simply points us all in the direction of the first pile of paper and everyone heads for it at their own pace. This particular Hash was very slow at the start and folks were bunched together for quite a way into the trail.

Except for the miles-long vertical climb through a young forest, this was a fairly easy walk. (I may have exaggerated the “miles-long” part.)  There is no photo of the vertical climb through the forest because I needed two hands to keep myself moving forward, or at least from not falling back down. (Again, not kidding.) I was assured by many that it was the easiest they had ever experienced; some of it was even on paved roadways, and past bucolic scenes.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is a bucolic scene for a Hash.

Even so, I remained near the rear of the pack. I’m OK with that, but was chagrinned to be passed (twice) by two women each of whom carried a baby. I am so not kidding. One woman had a very young toddler in a backpack. She (the mom) was a serious Hasher. They were ahead of us on much of the first part of the trail, but took a wrong turn at a circle so we were in the lead. Dora and I were congratulating ourselves that we would “at least beat the mom with the kid on her back” when said mom ran past us, baby bouncing. Shortly afterward a cruising mom, carrying her nine month old son in one of those fabric slings bounded past us at a brook crossing. Hashing is hard on the ego.

 

At the end, one can purchase beer. (What is Carib? It’s why we Hash!” – We had to chant that prior to starting. Carib is one of the local beers.) The baby is drinking water. This is the nine month old and the mom who carried him. Hashing is brutal on the ego. Folks also sold ice cream and a boil down – but we didn’t find the boil down before the food ran out. At the end of the event the virgins get their certificates for which they have to pass through a gauntlet of sprayed beer. (Still not kidding.) Also – don’t ever wear new shoes to a hash. Just don’t. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.

You know what?

It was fun. Sign me up for next week. EW’s going to attend as well, and we each have a headlamp. (Still not kidding.)

I “Heart” EW

 

News about EW – my partner and captain.

 

Early EW. Before my time.

 

(The photo below is from our honeymoon.)

I always knew he had a magnetic personality. Now he positively glows.   As you may remember, last week, I got caught in a storm while in the dinghy when EW was aboard FoxSea, helping them to take her to the travel lift. It was a fierce storm and lightning struck a couple of businesses in the area – and EW was jolted as well. He was standing on FoxSea, holding on to the handle of the bimini and the guard rail on the binnacle. (Both are metal). ”I felt a jolt and it went right through my arms  - hand to hand – across my chest. Then I heard thunder. My hands were buzzing and I sat right down. It was quick.”   I first heard the story from Vicky, who told me I’d better “watch him.” I have no idea what to watch for – twitching, hair loss, religious conversion.

When telling the story, he takes his hat off and exclaims that his hair turned white. Long pause and then he laughs. (NOTE: When we met over 27 years ago, he was so grey then that I wondered how old he was – I can assure you that lightning did not turn his hair white.) Two days after the strike he was approached at the mall by missionaries who want to introduce him to Jesus. He’s a lapsed Catholic and I think it’s going to take more than one lightening strike for him to convert. Just sayin’.  So far he’s not twitching, either.

Color me green for envy. He is in great shape and he doesn’t seem to work at it.  We  both lost weight at the start of the trip, he continued to lose more weight after Hampton, Virginia. I did not. I’m happy for him, but a slimmer body has presented problems. Before we left he had purchased three sets of swimming trunks in Maine and he’s been complaining that they are now a little loose, but that hasn’t been a problem when we swim off the boat and snorkel. However when he attempted a manly lunge out of the pool at Port Louis Marina, he placed his hands on the edge and launched himself up into the air. The trunks did not follow. EW felt a draft and immediately fell back into the pool but not before he had mooned everyone. I’ll probably have tailor his trunks a bit. 

 

 

 

 

Getting back to above his shoulders, some of you may have noticed that EW looks a bit scruffy in recent photos. Yes, he’s due for a haircut and finally he’s going to go to a barber and get a professional cut – the first since Maine.

But it’s more than a shaggy head of badly cut hair.

EW is growing a beard.

We are past the “Oh my god that’s prickly!” stage and I quite like the feel of it now. It’s a good kind of tickle and very useful. ‘Nuf said.

Though I am clearly affected by this growth on EW’s face and neck, I wasn’t consulted. It took a few days to realize that he did not intend to shave for the foreseeable future.  I didn’t have any power regarding this issue, and from chatting with other cruising wives I’ve found that this is a common occurrence – particularly by men of a “certain age”. They don’t want an earing or tattoo so they show their cruising freedom by ditching the razor.

Most of  these men have nicely trimmed cruising beards. Once EW’s beard has enough hair to shape/style/trim he says he’s going to do all of those things to make it look good. In the meantime I’m married to Captain Scruffy – and that’s OK.  Of course neither of us know how to shape/trim/style a beard. This should be interesting.

The currency of EW. Astute readers will have notice that in the Carnival post I listed the price of the package as $70.00 EW. I’ve fixed the typo, but “King EW” was mentioned, and I think he’d like having his own currency. He may be a scruffy sailor with a magnetic personality, but he’s my scruffy sailor.

 

Bonus round. Why do I call him EW?

If you know this, you can stop now. For new readers ..when we lived aboard year-round in Maine, we were frequently interviewed by local reporters looking for a new human interest story. One of them spelled our last name incorrectly and I was not pleased. When a different paper approached us a week later I was insistent that the young reporter get it right. “He’s an EW Stewart”,  I said – with some force. OK with a lot of force and insistence and I may have said it more than once … or twice.

When the article appeared my husband had become “E.W. Stewart Hart” and was referred that way through the entire article as in, “E.W. Stewart Hart is ..” and “E.W. Stewart Hart said ..”  So, on Twitter and in my blog, he is EW. 

Thank goodness my scruffy, svelte, kingly sailor is a good sport.

Curmudgeons at Sea

cur·mudg·eon

[ker-muhj-uhn]

noun

a bad-tempered, difficult, cantankerous person.

 

We need an international symbol for curmudgeons – just like they have for Walk/Don’t Walk and No Bull Poop – a kana to create anti-curmudgeons zones. 

Can you tell I met/ran into a curmudgeon today? Actually I inserted myself into his space and had to put up with an amazing conversation. Here’s how it went.

We are anchored in one of the numerous bays in Grenada, a lovely country. Yesterday we had a harrowing experience leaving a different bay and our friends went aground. It was painful to see, especially because it brought back to mind our hard grounding in the Berry Islands in the Bahamas. Our friends were towed off the reef by the Grenadian Coast Guard who brought them to this harbor. (That is their story and not one for me to tell on this blog.) They asked for EW’s consul regarding the damage and it was decided that they should haul out this morning, so EW went along to help handle the lines, and I took our dinghy in to lend moral support and retrieve EW.

As I dropped EW off at our friends’ boat he remembered that we wanted to take paperwork ashore to register at the nearby marine store. I told him I’d go back to La Luna and as I did, the sky darkened ominously.  My inner voice suggested that I stay on La Luna until the squall had passed, but the dinghy motor was running and is was a bit of a bother to start, so I elected to grab the paperwork and head in to the marina “ahead of the storm”.

Right.

It started with a nice, gentle shower, which quickly became a downpour. I was full steam ahead across the bay until the visibility made it difficult to find the marina, the rain pelting on my face hurt,  and someone cued the thunder and lightening. I was passing a catamaran and saw a figure in their cabin so I pulled in next to their pontoon and waved, giving my best wet puppy expression. The young man in the doorway (Sloops like La Luna have companionways. Catamarans have sliding glass doors.) gestured to someone behind him who came to the door, and said I could come in out of the weather.

As I crouched on their pontoon, carefully tying the dinghy’s painter (rope) to their rail, the captain muttered something that included the phrase “lesson learned”. I had a pretty good idea what he was alluding to but waited until I was in under his covered aft deck before I said, “Thank you so much. I didn’t hear what you said as the rain is so heavy.”

“I said that I bet now you’ve learned your lesson about leaving your boat in this weather. The sky had been getting darker for at least a quarter hour.”

I smiled (he did not) and said, “Yes, I almost stayed with the boat but thought I’d beat it.”

He harrumped and disappeared into his salon, the young man remained in the doorway and chatted with me for a bit. I sat, dripping, but out of the rain, and was grateful to be there while thunder boomed and lightening flashed.

The captain returned with a sandwich. It is difficult to convey his tone – not harsh, exactly. I would bet that, if he thought of this conversation at all, he thought it was just fine. He’s a man who speaks the truth as he sees it. His tone indicates that there is no room for other opinions and I certainly felt like a perky idiot. But I stayed planted on that deck until the rain stopped. And I continued to smile.

“Where you headed?”

“We have friends who are having their boat hauled and my husband is helping them with their lines. I’m going it to give him a ride home.”

“Why are they being hauled?”

“Well, they ran aground yesterday,” I began and we discussed the incident very briefly.

“Don’t you all have Satnav?”

Now, Satellite Communication has nothing to do with running aground, but this man’s demeanor and the fact that I was a wet stranger on their deck made me choose to stay cheerful and not challenge him, but I looked at him quizzically. He realized his error and said, “I mean GPS. Don’t you have a chart plotter?”

“Well yes, we do, but there was some confusion and quite large rollers over the reefs,” I explained. He was not impressed.

“This happen yesterday morning?” I said that it had. “I heard the Coast Guard go out early.” I said that yes, we had called the Coast Guard.

“What do they draw?” (For you landlubbers, he wanted to know how deep their draft is – how far below the water their boat extends. Mono-hulls tend to have deeper drafts than catamarans.)

“I think about the same as us. We draw six and a half.”

“That’s too much for the Caribbean and the Bahamas. Shouldn’t come here with boats like that.”

We weren’t going to become best buddies. He had just damned us, our friends, and 75 per cent of all the boats in the Caribbean. I dripped and smiled, and decided to change the subject.

“So, how long have you been down here?”

“Three years.”

“Nice. Do you spend all your time in Grenada, or have you visited other islands?”

“As far as I’m concerned. Grenada is the best. No reason to go anywhere else.”

My thoughts quickly went to Isles des Saintes, Bequia, Chatham Bay. My lips stayed sealed.

“Where you from?”

“Maine. We left there in October.”

He harrumphed. “Cold up there.”

I refrained from telling him we had lived aboard, year round, for 8 years. I couldn’t take the ridicule.

“It can be. We certainly enjoyed the warmth here this winter.”

About this time the rain stopped and I thanked him for the shelter and got into my dinghy. This is one of  the least hospitable cruisers I’ve met. The other two were in Luperon. All are men of a certain age, and all would be curmudgeons in any neighborhood in the world.

It’s a good reminder that our boating neighbors are as varied (or more varied) than the folks in our neighborhoods back home. I suspect that Captain Curmudgeon and I aren’t going to become friends and I respect his right to being a curmudgeon, whether or not he respects my right to have a mono-hull with a 6.5 foot draft, blond hair and a perky personality. (I may actually have perkied it up a bit in his presence. That’s my curmudgeon defense.) 

Instead of a kana, perhaps there should be courtesy flags that indicate “Curmudgeon Aboard”. Ashore, houses with young children have signs they hang indicating the kids are taking a nap. At anchor, we can raise a martini or beer mug flag to announce PARTY!  If there was an international sign for curmudgeon a Curmudgeon Aboard flag could be flown at all times by habitual curmudgeons and during “curmudgeon moments” by the rest of us. Given the warning of Curmudgeon Aboard, I’d have chosen a different boat for refuge.

Finding Gasoline in Les Saintes

Les Saintes is a sticky harbor and it’s easy to stay here longer than planned.  We need more time to explore all of the beaches and trails; we love the people; and fresh produce and fresh fish are plentiful and reasonably priced.  We can get water here (though it is the strangest set-up we’ve ever seen), and since this is a French island we can also find excellent wine and cheese ashore. What we couldn’t find was gasoline for the outboard and Honda 2000.

This was inconceivable to me as there must be a thousand motor scooters on this island and all of them run on gasoline. I had walked all over the town, and crossed the island on every road without seeing a gas station of any kind and we were running low, so we went to the tourist office and asked the nice lady there where to find fuel. “Ah!” she said, “Morel Marine at Baie de Marigot!” and she pointed on the tourist map indicating the bay north of town. This agreed with the information in Chris Doyle’s, The 2008-2009 Cruising Guide to the Leeward Islands:

It can be choppy when you enter Marigot, but the seas diminish farther in….there is a good little fuel station selling gas and diesel.

Earlier in a description of the bay, Doyle said about Morel Marine,

You can take your boat there or walk over. It is a long but lovely walk, the last half-mile being along a tiny path through the trees.

EW and I had already hiked to Marigot Bay and discovered that the easily accessible boat shop is not the one that sells the fuel. (The boat shop we visited is to the left of Beach 4 on the map. La Luna is moored at the far left of the map. Morel Marine is labeled “Fuel Depot in yellow lettering.)  We could see Morel Marine across the water at the mouth of the bay, but we had no idea how to get there, and could not believe that the entire community used this out-of-the-way location to purchase gasoline for the many scooters and few four-wheeled vehicles. The lady in the Tourist Office assured us that this was the only fuel depot on the island and pointed out the route. Since we were nearly out of gas and the seas were choppy, and since she didn’t indicate that this was not a normal walk, we set out one morning with another couple, towing two 5 gallon gas containers strapped to our shore cart.

We followed the road out of town where it met the road that turned toward the head of the bay. Earlier EW and I had found only a rough track from the head of the bay towards Fort Josephine. Do we continue along the main road, which goes around the steep hills away from the bay, or turn towards the bay and the mountain trail? “I’ll ask these gentlemen,” I said, pointing to a town work crew. Since I speak no French these conversations are always interesting but the islanders are helpful, friendly people and try to answer my questions. Looking at the four of us with our cart and gas jugs, the gentleman driving the truck was incredulous. “No, No” he said. Followed by the French version of "Maine’s “You can’t get there from here.”: He absolutely conveyed that we should not take those jugs over the hill to get fuel, but did finally concede to provide directions: right at the end of this street, then left. I confirmed that “this” street was indeed the one we were standing on as EW and I had been down this road before and knew it was a dead end.

Well, not exactly a dead end; one must simply leave the street and set out up hill to the trail. The photo at left is looking back from the easy, grassy trail to the dead end, and two of the ubiquitous scooters. At the top of the first hill, there are trail signs indicating that the path to the left goes to Morel Marine and the path to the right goes up hill to Fort Josephine. Neither of these paths are easy walks on grass and be began to understand what the town worker had been trying to say. We took the lower path on the left, up hill, over volcanic rock, and through brush. It was not a comfortable path and all we could think about was traversing it with two full 5 gallon containers of gasoline. We knew that we’d never be able to negotiate this trail with the cart and were in fact carrying everything at this point, I had the cart and each captain was carrying his boat’s gas jug. Still, we persevered for a short while until reason took over. We were not wearing the proper footwear for this hike, and carrying thirty pounds of fuel back along this trail would not be fun. We returned to our boats. At right is a view from the beginning of the Morel Bay Trail. You can see the buildings we were trying to reach and the mountains we had to skirt or trek in order to get gas.

The next morning, I went to my source in Les Saintes, Ali, the produce man in the park. He speaks some English and delights in teaching me French. “Fu-el?” said Ali. “Ah! For ze scooters!” We take bateau to Marigot Bay. You know Marigot Bay? You have bateau?” I assured him that I did, indeed, have a bateau and asked him again about walking. “No,” he said. “You take bateau.”  By this time, the seas weren’t quite as choppy, so EW and I set off at 1:30 for Morel Marine Services in Marigot bay. It was a lovely dinghy ride, and we arrived to find a well maintained ramp and break wall, fuel pumps, and buildings in various states of dis-repair. In one, EW found a work crew building a fiberglass boat, while I checked the property. There is no road to Morel Marine, but there is a path that enters the yard from the direction we had taken the day before. While I explored and took photos of boatyard goats, EW found out that the fuel depot was closed until 3:00, so we waited.

Shortly before three, a fisherman arrived to queue up for fuel, followed by another fisherman, and finally by a man in a small boat who opened up shop for the afternoon. He chatted with the fishermen, and they untied their boats and prepared to leave, one saying to me, “Fuel for you, no fuel for me.” Evidently the fisherman must purchase fuel that is charged a different tax and they were out of that gasoline and diesel, but they had gasoline for tourists and scooters. As we finished filling our three containers, a young man arrived with a small fuel jug. He filled it, paid and left on foot, back along that trail, and five other people emerged from the woods and walked along the utility lines, picking their way down to shore. All were locals, and all carried small containers for gasoline.

Scooters get about 80 miles to the gallon of gas, and there aren’t a lot of roads on this island, so perhaps they can go a long time between fill-ups. When they do need gas, they can take the ferry to the mainland, take a private bateau to Marigot Bay, or trek over hill and dale and rocks to the pumps. Chris Doyle was right, it is a long and lovely walk and the last portion is through the trees, but he did not mention the rough terrain. The town worker was right. We did not want to carry 30 pounds of fuel over that trail and our cart would never have made it. Ali was right. “You have a bateau? You take the bateau.”

Laundry at Sea

NOTE: This post is dedicated to my Twitter friend and Maniac, @bexmith who got me thinking about laundry when we had a Twitter exchange one day. It began when she tweeted  the following:

“The phrase is not all intensive purposes. Just so you know.”

A few of us found this funny and started a conversation going to show how witty we were. We decided that “All Intensive Purposes” was a great name for an organic cleaner that would take could be used for anything from washing your dog to brushing your teeth.

It was funny at the time. Since @bexmith has visited the boat and likes to hear how we live – this one’s for her.

 

You know you’re from Maine when your 5-gallon Home Depot bucket has duct tape on it to repair a crack. (That works, by the way.)

You know you’re a cruiser when you do your laundry in that bucket. 

While heading down the US coast from Maine, I did our laundry at laundromats (or the very occasional marina) from New Jersey through St. Thomas. The cleanest facility was  Ida’s at Black Point in the Bahamas. The one in the worst condition was on Main Street in Atlantic Harbor, New Jersey. Twice during the last six months I spoiled myself and EW by having the laundry done (and folded) by an attendant. I don’t know where they learn to fold but I need lessons – especially since we left the iron with Goodwill.) In some areas, even do-it-yourself laundromats are expensive, and in other areas laundromats of any kind don’t exist. Such are the joys of anchoring out. In Antigua, the sheets and towels were done on shore, but I did our clothes in the bucket, a system I’ve been perfecting since the Bahamas.

While in Nassau, we met a cruising couple who were heading north, to swallow the anchor after over 25 years of cruising around the world. I’d like to have talked with them for three days with a tape recording running, but was able to glean good information during drinks on board one evening. Somehow the discussion turned to laundry and I was stunned to learn that she had an  automatic washing machine similar to this Avanti model.  They’ve had two or three of them over the years, upgrading to a slightly larger one when the old one fails. They call it “the guest” as it is stored on the berth in the forward cabin; when the admiral wants to do laundry, the captain puts “the guest” in the cockpit and laundry gets done. The machine is filled via a hose to one of the faucets and is drained down the cockpit scuppers. These boaters also had a water maker and a generator, and both were needed for regular use of “the guest”.

We didn’t have a generator until recently and we still don’t make water, so EW was glad to hear that I had no desire to purchase our own “guest” right away. In fact, the storage of said unit would be a challenge for me as EW’s guitar is “the guest” and I’m not inclined to add any more clutter to the forward cabin. I’m embarrassed to say that a few years ago, friends gave us a hand washer that they’d no use for, which I kept it in the storage locker until we set sail, but did not bring with us. My bad. It just seemed … inconvenient, hard to store, too much work … really what was I thinking? For my sins, I’m doing laundry in a bucket.

The experienced cruising couple told me they use non-sudsy ammonia for laundry detergent aboard. They wash their clothes in the machine, the spin dry gets most of the moisture out, then they hang the laundry on the boat and let it air dry. Non-sudsy ammonia allows them to wash and not rinse, saving time and precious water. After some experimentation I’ve found a system that works for us.

1. Choose a day when no rain squalls are expected. (You’d be surprised how often I’ve gotten this wrong.) A breeze is good, but too much wind will whip the clothes off the line. I lost a towel that way.

2. Select two loads of laundry and separate them into “clean” dirty and “dirty” dirty. (We’re saving water here.)

3. Carefully inspect the laundry for stains, then treat said stains with nail brush and whatever you use for stains. I use an organic cleaning product that seems to work as well as anything else. Rinse much of the stain product out of the clothes.

4. Fill bucket 1/2 way and add about 1/3 cup ammonia. Plop the clothes in and stir with a boat hook. (Here’s the lazy part.) I just let them soak for a few hours. NOTE: if you let them soak together too long darker colors will bleed on the lighter ones they are packed next to. (I learned that the hard way, too.)

5.  Let’s discuss wringing. When I was a child my mom had a wringer washer. I don’t remember it much, but I do remember being about 4 years old when they purchased an “automatic” washing machine so she’d never have to use the wringer again. She was thrilled. Now I’d be thrilled to have an old fashion wringer, something I wished we’d purchased before leaving the states. (Really, I’d be thrilled to have that crank washer I gave away, but a wringer would make me happy, as well.) Since neither is available at this time, I’ve resorted to the “Mary and Barbara Wringing Method for Sweaters”. Mary, one of my roommates in college, and I had a lot of colorful, hand wash only sweaters. We would wash them in the sink, then wrap each sweater in a plush towel, put the bundle on the rug and stamp on it until the moisture from the sweater was absorbed by the towel. It worked great. On La Luna, I have a plethora of cham-like cloth purchased at a number of boat shows. They are great for drying dogs, so --- once the clothes have soaked for the proscribed amount of time, I remove one item at a time, wring it by hand and wrap it in a cham-wow-like cloth, then I stamp on it. The clean item no longer drips and I hang it on the line, wring out the cham-thing and tackle the next item. Works great.

6.  A word about laundry on the line. Hanging laundry on your boat is forbidden when on the dock in most marinas. Since we anchor out, I’m not restricted by anything except my own good taste and nice manners. I will rig a clothes line on the foredeck from mast to forestay and neatly hang my laundry with clothespins. I take them down as soon as everything is dry. EW rigged up a nifty retractable indoor line in the forward cabin where I hang our under garments. Whether one is on a sailboat or living in a million dollar home on shore, I don’t think he or she needs to look at my clean underwear so I draw the line at hanging our drawers and my bras on deck.

7. Now, back to the bucket. Once the first load has been wrung out and hung up, I place the “dirty” dirty clothes in the bucket, add a bit more water and ammonia and let ‘em soak until the first load is dry.

If I stay of top of the laundry I can do this every 5 or 6 days – less often if we’re living in swimsuits – and not be over-burdened by the job. When dry, everything smells clean and feels great – no ammonia odor lingers at all. We haven’t been kicked out of restaurants or off of neighboring boats, so I’m pretty sure we don’t stink. 

If I have the opportunity to get another hand washer, I’ll probably do so as I suspect that agitation is a good thing, and it would provide for more upper body exercise. In the meantime, our Mainah’s Home Depot bucket works just fine.