All along this journey I have greeted the sunrise at morning and bid it goodnight in the evening and have wondered at each shift which was a bigger blessing. At 6:20 a.m. I had both my anchors weighed and was back on my way to what I hoped would be a nice 50 mile day with no locks to contend with. My destination was Boby's fish camp, which is the last possibility to get gas before reaching Mobile. The place was actually started and still run by a man named Bobby Dahlberg, with whom I had already been on the phone with a couple of times to make sure I had enough depth at his famous docks. The Nitty Gritty book said there was only 5 feet at the fuel dock so I was a "little" anxious, but Bobby himself assured me there was more.
The boat fared well on that 98 + degree day and averaged about 4.9 knots for an easy 9 hour, 50 mile day, and by 3:20 p.m. we were all tied up at the fish camp. Today I had decided to inch up to the dock facing upstream to let the lovey south wind that had been fighting me for the last two hours blow in through the companion way and help cool things down a little. Unfortunately, Bobby's does not have power so I couldn't run my a/c. I went to settle up with Bobby's daughter, who now takes care of much of the business, in the wonderfully cool office/restaurant and found out two bits of bad news. Firstly and worstly that the restaurant was not open today. It looked like such a prime location to get my honest-to-God down home river side cuisine fix. And secondly there was supposed to be a sixty foot trawler coming into the dock later. Not until they arrived did I realize just how shitty this news was. In the mean time there were several projects I wanted to tackle. So I did another oil change which was probably my fifth since the start of the trip. I mounted cam cleats to the wheel for the Cape Horn wind vane steering system, and I replaced some rotten bolts on the big pad eye anchors at the stern which I was planning to use for jack line anchors on the sea journey. Jack lines are lines that run from front to back along the decks on either side of the boat onto which you clip your harness tether as a safety for going forward of the cockpit. By the time I had completed my little jobs it was around 6 p.m. and I was absolutely drenched in sweat and beat. Just about then the sixty footer arrived.
I hopped of my boat and stood by on the fuel dock to help them tie up. After I helped them tie up I realized that their behemoth of a ship was now completely blocking my lovely breeze. And later as I was choking on diesel fumes I learned of course that as Bobby's does not have shore power they would be running their generator all night and what south wind managed to get around their tub would be bringing the sweet cancerous diesel with it, wonderful. I tried to move as far forward as I could, about 5 feet, I was fucked. Thankfully ,as was usually the case, by the time the sun went down the wind completely died and then mercifully changed direction. All they guys on the boat were really nice fellows. One of them was actually going to have trouble sleeping knowing the fumes were wafting my way. I joked I could come sleep on their boat, and he laughed and said then I would get even more noise, vibration, and the fumes to boot. Another guy recognized the name of my boat and said it was inspiring him to get back to work on the memoirs he was writing for his grandchildren.
I filled my two little jerry cans of gas at the fuel dock and missed my courtesy car trips to the cheaper inland fuel, but felt a little better when I caught a glance at the bill the guys on the sixty footer were getting. And as the sun went down I toasted the merciful end to it's scorching rays.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
July 28th. Demopolis to anchorage at MM 168
By 7:25 a.m. I was in and out of Demopolis Lock, number 11 of 12 locks. The engine ran smoothly all day at an average of around 5 knots. I arrived at my destination much earlier than anticipated as due to my typically abysmal arithmetic I thought I had 58 miles to make today, but as it turns out the mileage from MM 216 down to MM 168 is only 48 miles, go figure. Part of my urgency to get an early start out of Demopolis was to make those 58 miles to the anchorage before dark, and of course with me it was no small amount of angst. So I busted ass to get to my anchorage for the heat of the day. What a thrice double ass am I. Another amusing bit of knavery is the fact that I painted my decks brown, although I thought it was tan paint at the time, the decks are most certainly brown. While I was relaxing at Grand Harbor ready to jump off into the Tenn-Tom, a passerby noted that my decks were pretty dark and when he painted his he added a little white to tone it down. "Get fucked," I thought "If the decks get hot we'll just wear shoes, you asshole." I'm just so very smart. So after about a week of thinking the engine heat was solely to blame for the excessive heat in the cabin at the end of the day, the passerby's words finally penetrated my cement scull and found their way into my pea brain. " If the sun is heating the deck then, duh, maybe its also heating the cabin." And like the protoman who needs empirical evidence that "fire burn", I put my hand on the white part of the boat that had been in the sun all day, "not bad", then I put my hand on the brown part that had also been in the sun all day and, "holy shit," it almost sizzled. I then repeated my scientific process from the underside of the decks, and guess what, the underside of the brown parts of deck were radiating the heat from above like a Dutch oven. What a Schlemiel. I had simply repainted the decks the same color as when I first bought the boat and I can only imagine that since the boat came from Michigan that the former owner wanted some extra heat. It had never occurred to me before as I only did day sailing for the most part and was using a/c in the heat of the summer at the docks. In addition to turning my boat into a solar collector, I had also obliterated the non-slip properties of the basket weave with all the coats of brown paint. I had noticed the ice rink quality of the decks one evening on the river when bathing. The soapy water under bare feet made for a comical busting-of-the-ass/ eureka moment. So while in Demopolis I got on the horn to the Mobile West Marine and put in my order for all the paint and non-slip additive I would need to to a dash job on the decks before Chris and I set off for the southernmost point of the U.S. in the hottest and potentially most turbulent month of the year.
I arrived at my anchorage at around 3 p.m. , and apparently a good thing for the early arrival as it took me a solid hour of comical attempts to finally get anchored. Part of the reason I lost my good ole' anchor at the last place was that I ignored the advice of the Nitty Gritty book to employ a trip line. Which is an additional line attached to the back of the anchor for hauling when the anchor or rode becomes fouled. So this time with my brand new anchors I would have trip line. And as I was concerned about the trip lines getting snagged I rigged them to two small fenders to act as buoys and keep the trip line going straight up from the anchor. The anchorage at MM 168 is really just a pull off just outside the channel so I would need to set a bow and stern anchor to prevent swinging into bank or passing barge. Something I had never really done. I made a pass at the pull off and decided where I would like to be and pulled back around nose to the wind which of course in my case is always opposing the current and my progress at a more significant rate than the current is helping. I took the boat out of gear and drifted to a stop then pitched out the bow anchor, and of course the trip line was too short so the fender was pulled underwater out of sight. I pulled the anchor out and tried to edge closer to the bank to a better spot, at this point I had about 30 feet of line on the trip. I circled back around a to a shallower spot and pitched the anchor, this time the fender stayed on to of the water just fine so I let the wind blow me back upstream so I could set the stern anchor. I would allow the momentum to set the bow anchor then pitch the stern anchor when I stop then haul in on the 200 feet of scope on the bow to set the stern anchor. So I waited and drifted and waited but just seemed to keep on drifting. I went to the bow to check and sure enough this genius did not tie off the bitter end of the rode, so now I've got my new anchor and 200 feet of rope lying useless on the bottom. Thank God I had that buoy floating to tell me where to pick up my anchor. I inched over and picked it up, which proved to be rather a pain single handed to head toward the bank, pick up the anchor, and back off the bank before running aground . I tried again pitching bow anchor first, this time tied off, and tried drift and use the reverse to set the bow then pitch the stern and haul in on the bow, but now the stern was in too much water and the bobbing buoy is not letting the anchor set. So I payed the bow line out again to drift back down to retrieve the stern, hauling on the anchor rode and trying to steer the boat towards the anchor and away from the bank. I got everything back on board in a tangled mess with mud everywhere and decided to start all over again. This time I will drive in and pitch the stern anchor first, and it jamed in just fine with buoy floating, as did the bow at long last. A full hour later after a crash course in bow and stern anchor school both anchors were set and I'm on the verge of heat stroke.
100 degrees both in and out of the cabin. I try to get on the shady side of the boat at the bow where the dingy is and make a misstep that results in the longest most clumsy falls ever experienced. It's one of those descents where you have no recourse, nothing to grab, no way to break your fall. I just had to resign myself to falling and prayed I did not get hurt to badly. I went down to my ass then rocked onto by back with my feet straight up in the air. Just absolutely land lubberly and comedic. I felt like a walrus who had tried to walk upright in high heels.
Again I enjoy a scorching sunset as I sip my Crown Royal and contemplate the folly of heading south in summer. Even stupid birds know better.
I arrived at my anchorage at around 3 p.m. , and apparently a good thing for the early arrival as it took me a solid hour of comical attempts to finally get anchored. Part of the reason I lost my good ole' anchor at the last place was that I ignored the advice of the Nitty Gritty book to employ a trip line. Which is an additional line attached to the back of the anchor for hauling when the anchor or rode becomes fouled. So this time with my brand new anchors I would have trip line. And as I was concerned about the trip lines getting snagged I rigged them to two small fenders to act as buoys and keep the trip line going straight up from the anchor. The anchorage at MM 168 is really just a pull off just outside the channel so I would need to set a bow and stern anchor to prevent swinging into bank or passing barge. Something I had never really done. I made a pass at the pull off and decided where I would like to be and pulled back around nose to the wind which of course in my case is always opposing the current and my progress at a more significant rate than the current is helping. I took the boat out of gear and drifted to a stop then pitched out the bow anchor, and of course the trip line was too short so the fender was pulled underwater out of sight. I pulled the anchor out and tried to edge closer to the bank to a better spot, at this point I had about 30 feet of line on the trip. I circled back around a to a shallower spot and pitched the anchor, this time the fender stayed on to of the water just fine so I let the wind blow me back upstream so I could set the stern anchor. I would allow the momentum to set the bow anchor then pitch the stern anchor when I stop then haul in on the 200 feet of scope on the bow to set the stern anchor. So I waited and drifted and waited but just seemed to keep on drifting. I went to the bow to check and sure enough this genius did not tie off the bitter end of the rode, so now I've got my new anchor and 200 feet of rope lying useless on the bottom. Thank God I had that buoy floating to tell me where to pick up my anchor. I inched over and picked it up, which proved to be rather a pain single handed to head toward the bank, pick up the anchor, and back off the bank before running aground . I tried again pitching bow anchor first, this time tied off, and tried drift and use the reverse to set the bow then pitch the stern and haul in on the bow, but now the stern was in too much water and the bobbing buoy is not letting the anchor set. So I payed the bow line out again to drift back down to retrieve the stern, hauling on the anchor rode and trying to steer the boat towards the anchor and away from the bank. I got everything back on board in a tangled mess with mud everywhere and decided to start all over again. This time I will drive in and pitch the stern anchor first, and it jamed in just fine with buoy floating, as did the bow at long last. A full hour later after a crash course in bow and stern anchor school both anchors were set and I'm on the verge of heat stroke.
100 degrees both in and out of the cabin. I try to get on the shady side of the boat at the bow where the dingy is and make a misstep that results in the longest most clumsy falls ever experienced. It's one of those descents where you have no recourse, nothing to grab, no way to break your fall. I just had to resign myself to falling and prayed I did not get hurt to badly. I went down to my ass then rocked onto by back with my feet straight up in the air. Just absolutely land lubberly and comedic. I felt like a walrus who had tried to walk upright in high heels.
Again I enjoy a scorching sunset as I sip my Crown Royal and contemplate the folly of heading south in summer. Even stupid birds know better.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Big bite outta that apple continued.
I spat three times over my shoulder to try and remove any sort of suggestion of curse I may have come in contact with after having spoken with the old man, and thought of the refrain from Rigoletto, "That old man cursed me." But I did actually feel a little better that his rantings were good advice for one such as him. I felt confident that we were two fundamentally different people, and furthermore knew my crew was not going to be some drunk I had to worry about in the least. Plus I wasn't about to spend anymore time motoring that I absolutely had to after having done 569 miles with another 216 to go.I really hoped the engine was as ready to get the fuck out of this pit as I was.
I woke at 5 a.m. as was my regimen so I could have my little breakfast of warm chocolate milk over cereal and do my clockwork business in the shore side bathroom. This morning I was greeted by the scatterbrained night watchman who was also deficit a few front teeth. He tried to give me some run around about someone else giving me my bathroom key deposit then eventually produced the envelope of cash the proprietor had given him for that purpose. This confusion after the night before he tried to accuse me of not returning the keys to the courtesy car, then later found them on the forklift he was driving at the time I returned them. I had to forgive these lapses of memory however when I learned he was diving long distances between his nightly watch to be with his father who was dying of "prospect"cancer. " Make sure you takes care of your prospect, as you get on in years." He said. It was truly sad to hear of his hardship but it became tedious as he was intent on detaining me with all the bad news of the surrounding area. He told me of how someone he knew who was diabetic was fond of staying up all night playing dominoes and drinking gin fell asleep at the wheel of his Lincoln and drove it through the living room of another friend of his. He stopped me from having my shave to tell me about some bank robbers in some town he couldn't remember.
I was waiting at the chandlery at opening time as the bleary eyed employees rolled up. I got a little anxious as there was some confusion about where the keys to the shop were. As soon as the fluorescent lights flickered on I had my two new anchors on the counter and my plastic ready, and almost ran down the dock with my purchase to avoid any further delay. I was very happy that by 6:30 that morning I was leaving Demopolis in my wake.
I woke at 5 a.m. as was my regimen so I could have my little breakfast of warm chocolate milk over cereal and do my clockwork business in the shore side bathroom. This morning I was greeted by the scatterbrained night watchman who was also deficit a few front teeth. He tried to give me some run around about someone else giving me my bathroom key deposit then eventually produced the envelope of cash the proprietor had given him for that purpose. This confusion after the night before he tried to accuse me of not returning the keys to the courtesy car, then later found them on the forklift he was driving at the time I returned them. I had to forgive these lapses of memory however when I learned he was diving long distances between his nightly watch to be with his father who was dying of "prospect"cancer. " Make sure you takes care of your prospect, as you get on in years." He said. It was truly sad to hear of his hardship but it became tedious as he was intent on detaining me with all the bad news of the surrounding area. He told me of how someone he knew who was diabetic was fond of staying up all night playing dominoes and drinking gin fell asleep at the wheel of his Lincoln and drove it through the living room of another friend of his. He stopped me from having my shave to tell me about some bank robbers in some town he couldn't remember.
I was waiting at the chandlery at opening time as the bleary eyed employees rolled up. I got a little anxious as there was some confusion about where the keys to the shop were. As soon as the fluorescent lights flickered on I had my two new anchors on the counter and my plastic ready, and almost ran down the dock with my purchase to avoid any further delay. I was very happy that by 6:30 that morning I was leaving Demopolis in my wake.
July 26th.Heflin Lock to Demopolis "Big bite outta that apple"
By now I felt like I had the hang of that first lock in the morning thing. I would dock or anchor just above the lock so early in the morning I could call ahead to let them know I was coming and for the most part they would have the chamber full and the gates open for me by the time I got there. So I called Heflin and they said they would be ready for me, great, then my day proceeded with some difficulty. As I tried to pull up my tiny secondary anchor, the one that wouldn't hold, I saw that it had hooked itself to the rode of the primary anchor, to which it held very well. It took no small amount of humping and tugging to get the little anchor and the primary rode out of the water far enough for me to lean over the rail, to liberate the little guy. It apparently had caught a bight of rode between the primary anchor and somewhere that the primary anchor rode had snagged on something below. Now when I went to haul up the primary I could get about ten of two hundred feet of rope before it became impossible. I tried humping and hauling and using the engine from several different angles, but apparently the rope had wrapped itself around some prehistoric log or submerged house. I was getting concerned about loosing my chance at the lock so I let go of my one good anchor that over the years has held me faithfully through some pretty heavy stuff, as well as my rode with two spliced ends, thimble and fancy work. Now I have no anchor that will hold this boat, but I did gain an open sore on my left palm where the skin had torn away from all the tug-o-war. I hope I can get two new anchors in Demopolis as from then on I will need to anchor in the waterway and prevent swing into bank or barge.
At least the cooling system is working properly again after over five hundred miles of running hot. At seven a.m. I was through Heflin Lock, number ten of twelve, and by ten a.m. my friend the wind was right on my nose again and making himself felt. There were also some ominous skies following and some distant rumblings. Finally the river took a turn away from the prevailing winds and at long last I had a little wind on my back which brought my rate of travel up from 4.4 knots to around a whopping 4.9 and 5 ! However, this boon of wind came ultimately with the price of torrential rain. Visibility was diminished to almost as bad as the morning of fog, but I was now afraid to use the radar as lightning seemed to be getting closer. In fact I turned off all electronics fearing they would be fried in a strike. I again feared tows coming out of the blinding sheet of rain, but eventually got a grip as a couple approached and past. After all, I was going only about jogging speed and the approaching barges about the same or slower. Freaking out and getting a grip is one of my favorite games I play with myself.
The rain eventually slacked enough to take in the milestone of passing mile marker 225 which is exactly halfway between the Tennessee River and downtown Mobile, and incidentally the boat had motored 560 miles from Nashville to that point. And finally at 4:05 p.m. after 11 hours and 52 miles of motoring we were all tied up at the famous Demopolis yacht basin.
Everybody talks about Demopolis. Big fucking deal. The place gives me a bad vibe. Maybe it was because it was so run down. And not in the quaint way Smithville and Marina cove were rustic in tiny towns and still seemed nice despite their character. Demopolis is supposed to be the epicenter of the Tenn-Tom. It's where tows buy oceans of fuel and they charge heafty transient fees, but still its just run down. Or maybe it's because as I went to check in at the fuel dock/office I saw this gigantic half rat half beaver looking thing that filled me with fear, disgust and loathing. Or maybe it is just my prissy sensibilities. They did have all I needed for a comfortable stay. The lady at the counter was very nice, and once all was setteled up I was able to take the unexpectedly fine courtesy car to get some cheap fuel for the boat and for me. I noticed that the national average for gas had gone down so I filled up. I also found a very unlikely mexican restaurant called La Gran Fiesta. Looking at the place and the surronding town I had low expectations, then when I saw the guy working the register was a Gringo and the patrons were all sterotypically rural, honkey Alabamites I was resigned to the worst possible meal scenarios. But they did have Negro modelo, so I was staying. The salsa was suprisingly damn good and the local hicks apparently have allowed them to use onions and cilantro. They had some Yucateco on the table which I added liberally to make a super fine affair. When I eeked out my few ready Spanish words of greeting and to order some tacos al carbon my waiter was overjoyed. He proceeded to rattle at me like I was an hermano, and I tried my best to keep up, catching about every third word of his and replying I'm sure like a retard or a stroke victim. We had a grand time though and I kept pounding the cervesas and nodding, as he told me about a place I think he called Guayavitas.
As I approached Demopolis on Friday I had been debating weather to stay for one or two days, but when I learned that the only chandlery in town(the Demopolis Yacht basin ship store) where I had to get my anchors would not be open untill 6 a.m. Monday my fate was decided for me. I had to have those anchors to proceed. So after sleeping in on Saturday morning I had a leisurely breakfast of two tins of kippered herring, fried and two english muffins also fried. I always feel like I'm communing with my grandmother Stuart when I have kippers with toast and strawberry preserves, and I imagine her disapproval at my gluttonous portions. I remenber feeling like I could have eaten the plate back when she introduced me to this culinary delight. After breakfast I listened to Bob Marley, drank coffee, and worked on a few projects I thought the boat needed before we put to the great wide sea. My anxiety about the ocean and the season of our voyage was steadily increasing. As I was outside fashioning some reinforcements I met my nieghbor. He had all his hatches open so I figured he had no a/c and I remarked at how hardcore I thought he was, and he said I would know hardcore when I got out in the ocean. He gave me a very usefull phone number to one of the lift bridges who apparently does not monitor the radio, and told me a confusing story of where he had stayed on his way up stream from Mobile and how at this particular bridge he struck his tricolor light and antenna. He told me he had done the trip down two years ago and kind of hung around the gulf coast. When I told him my plans he very obviously paused, and I went on about my business. I came out later and he stopped me and said he didn't want to try to talk me out of anything, but really wanted to share his idea of an alternate route. I said of course I'd love to hear any advice at all from someone who had been there, cause I really didn't know what the fuck I was doing. I then learned that his boat was a Westsail 32, a famous oceangoing vessel built to withstand the harshest weather, and usually able to outlast the people within the boat. He also told me he was staying in Demopolis for the month of August because he couldn't bear the heat of travelling on the river. This seemed very odd to me since in my experince the heat is worse when you stop the boat, and sweltering in breezeless, shitty, hot Demopolis with or without an a/c seemed like my idea of a certain type of Hell. Now the old man's sense of forboding and concern about my voyage has got my already high anxiety peaking. So I told him I would meet him up by the bathhouse later after I got the boat all squared away after my long day of projects.
Cleaning up took me a lot longer than I thought and by the time I got up to the bathhouse the old man was absolutely shit-face "D"-runk. Apparently it is his daily routine to start cocktail hour rather early in the afternoon until the wee hours with his new local dock resident freind, Bewla, who dons a backpack to stagger back and forth from her houseboat to the drinking patio.
He thought I should have had a drink in my hand, I guess I looked out of place. He proceeded to launch into his repeditive, slurred diatribe in his own thick native deep woods Tennessee accent .
"Yee' gunnah taeek uh beeug baaht outta thayut ahpple, ah meen a beeug baaht." He thought sailing from Mobile to Tampa right out of the box was absolutely crazy. When I told him I added Tampa as a waypoint just recently, that my original plan was to sail nonstop around Dry Tortugas, he slurred at me ," Yeew aint gunnah git maad at mee ifn aah say sumthin 'r yee? Yer fuhlah sheeit." "Naw , naw whutchyee wuhnnna dew eeuhs taeek thuh I C W an' cum out aroun' Purdeeduh Bay, an' eef yee wunnah gow out intuh th' guhf 'fer a cuhpla ars, faayhn but git bak eeuhn an gitcha' hamberger er sum'n . Yee downt neeyud t' be out ehr awl naaiht. th' guf'uhl keek yer ayuss. nauh shee maaht be jes' lahkkat raht thehr." He gestured to the mirrorlike conditions in the marina. "Thahs whutchu wownt raht thehr, buhtchu gownuh burn alawtuh feeyool. Th'Guf'l keek yer ayuhs. Y'aint gonna geeyt no sleeyuhp, ah doncayer haw metch crew y'got. Yeel alwaees b'wonerin wuhss thayut drunkupehrdooin'. aah donwanna tawkyee owta nut'n. Yee maht gitahtehre an' thank awhell thahyut old mayuns jest sumol drunk, butahm jessayin the Guf'l keek yerass." The old man went on and on in this circle of logic untill I had heard the gist of his argument about four times. Fortunately the more he prattled on, the more at ease I felt. I wondered what it was in his particular makeup or experience that had made him so fearfull of spending time on the ocean, especially when he had spent the money to get such a bulletproof boat. Perhaps related to the strange part of his character that would make him prefer sweltering in shithole Demopolis as opposed to making way to his home destination. Some people don't like being offshore and some people don't like sailng, which may have explained his admonition to use the I.C.W. and to always have enough gas to get where you are going. And of course he had about twenty, five-gallon jerry cans strapped to his decks. He did repeat several times that he didn't fear for saftey, and he kept stressing that we would just get so exhausted. There was no way I was going to tell him that there were no planned stops from Key West to Myrtle Beach.
At least the cooling system is working properly again after over five hundred miles of running hot. At seven a.m. I was through Heflin Lock, number ten of twelve, and by ten a.m. my friend the wind was right on my nose again and making himself felt. There were also some ominous skies following and some distant rumblings. Finally the river took a turn away from the prevailing winds and at long last I had a little wind on my back which brought my rate of travel up from 4.4 knots to around a whopping 4.9 and 5 ! However, this boon of wind came ultimately with the price of torrential rain. Visibility was diminished to almost as bad as the morning of fog, but I was now afraid to use the radar as lightning seemed to be getting closer. In fact I turned off all electronics fearing they would be fried in a strike. I again feared tows coming out of the blinding sheet of rain, but eventually got a grip as a couple approached and past. After all, I was going only about jogging speed and the approaching barges about the same or slower. Freaking out and getting a grip is one of my favorite games I play with myself.
The rain eventually slacked enough to take in the milestone of passing mile marker 225 which is exactly halfway between the Tennessee River and downtown Mobile, and incidentally the boat had motored 560 miles from Nashville to that point. And finally at 4:05 p.m. after 11 hours and 52 miles of motoring we were all tied up at the famous Demopolis yacht basin.
Everybody talks about Demopolis. Big fucking deal. The place gives me a bad vibe. Maybe it was because it was so run down. And not in the quaint way Smithville and Marina cove were rustic in tiny towns and still seemed nice despite their character. Demopolis is supposed to be the epicenter of the Tenn-Tom. It's where tows buy oceans of fuel and they charge heafty transient fees, but still its just run down. Or maybe it's because as I went to check in at the fuel dock/office I saw this gigantic half rat half beaver looking thing that filled me with fear, disgust and loathing. Or maybe it is just my prissy sensibilities. They did have all I needed for a comfortable stay. The lady at the counter was very nice, and once all was setteled up I was able to take the unexpectedly fine courtesy car to get some cheap fuel for the boat and for me. I noticed that the national average for gas had gone down so I filled up. I also found a very unlikely mexican restaurant called La Gran Fiesta. Looking at the place and the surronding town I had low expectations, then when I saw the guy working the register was a Gringo and the patrons were all sterotypically rural, honkey Alabamites I was resigned to the worst possible meal scenarios. But they did have Negro modelo, so I was staying. The salsa was suprisingly damn good and the local hicks apparently have allowed them to use onions and cilantro. They had some Yucateco on the table which I added liberally to make a super fine affair. When I eeked out my few ready Spanish words of greeting and to order some tacos al carbon my waiter was overjoyed. He proceeded to rattle at me like I was an hermano, and I tried my best to keep up, catching about every third word of his and replying I'm sure like a retard or a stroke victim. We had a grand time though and I kept pounding the cervesas and nodding, as he told me about a place I think he called Guayavitas.
As I approached Demopolis on Friday I had been debating weather to stay for one or two days, but when I learned that the only chandlery in town(the Demopolis Yacht basin ship store) where I had to get my anchors would not be open untill 6 a.m. Monday my fate was decided for me. I had to have those anchors to proceed. So after sleeping in on Saturday morning I had a leisurely breakfast of two tins of kippered herring, fried and two english muffins also fried. I always feel like I'm communing with my grandmother Stuart when I have kippers with toast and strawberry preserves, and I imagine her disapproval at my gluttonous portions. I remenber feeling like I could have eaten the plate back when she introduced me to this culinary delight. After breakfast I listened to Bob Marley, drank coffee, and worked on a few projects I thought the boat needed before we put to the great wide sea. My anxiety about the ocean and the season of our voyage was steadily increasing. As I was outside fashioning some reinforcements I met my nieghbor. He had all his hatches open so I figured he had no a/c and I remarked at how hardcore I thought he was, and he said I would know hardcore when I got out in the ocean. He gave me a very usefull phone number to one of the lift bridges who apparently does not monitor the radio, and told me a confusing story of where he had stayed on his way up stream from Mobile and how at this particular bridge he struck his tricolor light and antenna. He told me he had done the trip down two years ago and kind of hung around the gulf coast. When I told him my plans he very obviously paused, and I went on about my business. I came out later and he stopped me and said he didn't want to try to talk me out of anything, but really wanted to share his idea of an alternate route. I said of course I'd love to hear any advice at all from someone who had been there, cause I really didn't know what the fuck I was doing. I then learned that his boat was a Westsail 32, a famous oceangoing vessel built to withstand the harshest weather, and usually able to outlast the people within the boat. He also told me he was staying in Demopolis for the month of August because he couldn't bear the heat of travelling on the river. This seemed very odd to me since in my experince the heat is worse when you stop the boat, and sweltering in breezeless, shitty, hot Demopolis with or without an a/c seemed like my idea of a certain type of Hell. Now the old man's sense of forboding and concern about my voyage has got my already high anxiety peaking. So I told him I would meet him up by the bathhouse later after I got the boat all squared away after my long day of projects.
Cleaning up took me a lot longer than I thought and by the time I got up to the bathhouse the old man was absolutely shit-face "D"-runk. Apparently it is his daily routine to start cocktail hour rather early in the afternoon until the wee hours with his new local dock resident freind, Bewla, who dons a backpack to stagger back and forth from her houseboat to the drinking patio.
He thought I should have had a drink in my hand, I guess I looked out of place. He proceeded to launch into his repeditive, slurred diatribe in his own thick native deep woods Tennessee accent .
"Yee' gunnah taeek uh beeug baaht outta thayut ahpple, ah meen a beeug baaht." He thought sailing from Mobile to Tampa right out of the box was absolutely crazy. When I told him I added Tampa as a waypoint just recently, that my original plan was to sail nonstop around Dry Tortugas, he slurred at me ," Yeew aint gunnah git maad at mee ifn aah say sumthin 'r yee? Yer fuhlah sheeit." "Naw , naw whutchyee wuhnnna dew eeuhs taeek thuh I C W an' cum out aroun' Purdeeduh Bay, an' eef yee wunnah gow out intuh th' guhf 'fer a cuhpla ars, faayhn but git bak eeuhn an gitcha' hamberger er sum'n . Yee downt neeyud t' be out ehr awl naaiht. th' guf'uhl keek yer ayuss. nauh shee maaht be jes' lahkkat raht thehr." He gestured to the mirrorlike conditions in the marina. "Thahs whutchu wownt raht thehr, buhtchu gownuh burn alawtuh feeyool. Th'Guf'l keek yer ayuhs. Y'aint gonna geeyt no sleeyuhp, ah doncayer haw metch crew y'got. Yeel alwaees b'wonerin wuhss thayut drunkupehrdooin'. aah donwanna tawkyee owta nut'n. Yee maht gitahtehre an' thank awhell thahyut old mayuns jest sumol drunk, butahm jessayin the Guf'l keek yerass." The old man went on and on in this circle of logic untill I had heard the gist of his argument about four times. Fortunately the more he prattled on, the more at ease I felt. I wondered what it was in his particular makeup or experience that had made him so fearfull of spending time on the ocean, especially when he had spent the money to get such a bulletproof boat. Perhaps related to the strange part of his character that would make him prefer sweltering in shithole Demopolis as opposed to making way to his home destination. Some people don't like being offshore and some people don't like sailng, which may have explained his admonition to use the I.C.W. and to always have enough gas to get where you are going. And of course he had about twenty, five-gallon jerry cans strapped to his decks. He did repeat several times that he didn't fear for saftey, and he kept stressing that we would just get so exhausted. There was no way I was going to tell him that there were no planned stops from Key West to Myrtle Beach.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
July 25th. Marina Cove to Gainsville Dam Heflin Lock
At 7 am I was in and out of Beville Lock, #9 of 12 locks. I averaged about 4.6 knots for a short 7 and a half hour,37.5 mile day. At about 9:40 am I stopped dead to inch under some overhead cables that were not on the Corps of Engineers charts, but had obviously been there a long time judging from the kudzu growing all over the poles, man they really looked low. For the past several days I had been worrying myself to death about the depth of the entrance to the only viable anchorage listed in my Nitty Gritty Tenn-Tom river guide book. The book said I had about 6 feet at normal pool and at least one of the lock operators told me he believed we were below normal pool at that spot, and I need at least 6 feet. At one point I had to tell myself to just stop freaking out, council I should give myself more often. So I poured over those childish charts for more options and thought I might have luck near the Heflin lock where there looked like a big fat cut off to the Gainsville Dam. Go figure Deep water near a dam, fucking genius. So going down the river in a rare pocket of cell reception I decided to call the author of my new found river bible, and to my amazement he was there and more than willing to consult his charts which he has used for no fewer than 18 runs up and down the waterway to publish as many editions of his guide. He agreed that the cut off was a possibility but did not publish such places as anchoring there relied on weather or not they would be spilling water off the dam which would create unsafe currents.
So I bypassed the published anchorage that had driven me to increased consumption of Crown Royal, and inched into the deep -ass cut off to Gainsville dam. Nice and deep but relatively narrow. I tried to deploy two anchors but found as soon as the storm I had been running from found me that only one anchor held and the wind swung me around to within about 20 feet of the leeward bank. Too close for comfort so I pulled anchor and pushed to the edge of the channel where I had just enough swing room. The engine running above normal temperature had been bothering me so I resolved to attack the problem. The Moyer Marine shop manual suggested that the problem may be a clogged hose. I didn't have a clogged one but did have one that had almost been sawed in half by a loose alternator belt. I had noticed it before but thought as long as it wasn't leaking no problem, but now I noticed some moisture around the worn part. Before working this time I did remember to remove my watch as the last time I was working around the starter my all stainless watchband completed the circuit between the terminals on the starter which sparked like hell, welded the clasp shut on the band and burnt the shit out of my wrist. I was now thankful for the miles of extraneous hose I was cursing when I was stowing all my gear for the trip. Replacing that section of hose seemed to have done the trick. So I celebrated by tucking into some Crown Royal and dined on my gigantic Kirkland bag of dried fruit and nuts. And wrote in my log as I got stewed.
Another hot night on the hook, cabin about 90 degrees at sundown, watched the sunset and thought of my honey as I sipped some crown. Then the mosquitoes force me below. I get the screens all pulled tight and only use the led lights but they seem to still get in, "impossible", I think. Start to wonder if there is a domestic malaria, and to worry about West Nile. "Whatever happened to the Kulex mosquito we used to worry about growing up in Houston."
I think about Dan, my friend who walked from Mexico to Canada, just no comparison. I also think of Lewis and Clark and the poor bastards that worked on this canal. When I think I've got it rough I think of them and laugh at myself. I'm in a water Winnebago with enough food for a small country, enough drinking water to float my boat and all I do all day is sit on my ass and putt down the river. In fact my biggest discomfort during the day, besides the heat, is my ass getting sore from sitting on it. But I do wonder why my ankles are so swollen all the time.
So I bypassed the published anchorage that had driven me to increased consumption of Crown Royal, and inched into the deep -ass cut off to Gainsville dam. Nice and deep but relatively narrow. I tried to deploy two anchors but found as soon as the storm I had been running from found me that only one anchor held and the wind swung me around to within about 20 feet of the leeward bank. Too close for comfort so I pulled anchor and pushed to the edge of the channel where I had just enough swing room. The engine running above normal temperature had been bothering me so I resolved to attack the problem. The Moyer Marine shop manual suggested that the problem may be a clogged hose. I didn't have a clogged one but did have one that had almost been sawed in half by a loose alternator belt. I had noticed it before but thought as long as it wasn't leaking no problem, but now I noticed some moisture around the worn part. Before working this time I did remember to remove my watch as the last time I was working around the starter my all stainless watchband completed the circuit between the terminals on the starter which sparked like hell, welded the clasp shut on the band and burnt the shit out of my wrist. I was now thankful for the miles of extraneous hose I was cursing when I was stowing all my gear for the trip. Replacing that section of hose seemed to have done the trick. So I celebrated by tucking into some Crown Royal and dined on my gigantic Kirkland bag of dried fruit and nuts. And wrote in my log as I got stewed.
Another hot night on the hook, cabin about 90 degrees at sundown, watched the sunset and thought of my honey as I sipped some crown. Then the mosquitoes force me below. I get the screens all pulled tight and only use the led lights but they seem to still get in, "impossible", I think. Start to wonder if there is a domestic malaria, and to worry about West Nile. "Whatever happened to the Kulex mosquito we used to worry about growing up in Houston."
I think about Dan, my friend who walked from Mexico to Canada, just no comparison. I also think of Lewis and Clark and the poor bastards that worked on this canal. When I think I've got it rough I think of them and laugh at myself. I'm in a water Winnebago with enough food for a small country, enough drinking water to float my boat and all I do all day is sit on my ass and putt down the river. In fact my biggest discomfort during the day, besides the heat, is my ass getting sore from sitting on it. But I do wonder why my ankles are so swollen all the time.
July 24th Colubus Marina to Pirate's Marina Cove
From mile marker 335 , Columbus Miss. to mm 307, Marina Cove in Pickensville Ala. the river snakes in and out of Miss. and Ala. several times. Of course the wind is right on the nose again this morning. I tried to get rid of a nasty shaking by revving the engine higher and now she is running a tad hot. A super short day today, only 27.5 miles and one lock. Stennis Lock, #8 of 12 located just below Columbus Marina, where I met those two dudes hurtling up river at 24 knots and where I had that lovely six of Heineken, and where I awoke to a strange scratching sound on the cabin top that to my horror and revulsion turned out to be an opossum. As I popped my head out of the companionway I saw him crawl along the rail back to the dock and nearly off the bridge, thankfully for his blindness he did not perceive me in the darkness. Seeing that guy only strengthened my paranoia of things crawling in through nooks and crannies.
I arrived at Pirates Marina Cove at 12:50 pm after only a 6 hour day on the waterway. The proprietor Star was there to greet me and help tie up. Another extremely hot day that only gets hotter when the boat stops moving. There were two guys that apparently worked for the Marina working on on of their own boats and sweating to make up for any deficit of rain this summer. The boat was one of several large mostly wooden and mostly dismantled boats on the very low docks. There was an old tug called cricket, one modern motor cruiser from somewhere in Fla. and a small sailboat that by the color looked like it had been underwater for some time. One of its dock lines actually had vegetation growing thick all the way up to the boat. Both here and at Smithville there seems to be a predominance of liveaboards and derelict boats that started in the great white North. The marina office has a nice porch overlooking the docks and shares a lot with an R.V. park. Star sits behind the glass display case in the well air conditioned office with the television on some courtroom drama. She told me she had never worked until last year when she took over the administration of the marina. Occasionally she has to wake up and drive over to pump gas or something, but doesn't mind because she lives close by. She said she had dreams of one day moving to Columbus Miss., but her hubby said it was too expensive there so she has never left Pikensville.
I think my favorite part of this Odyssey is taking the courtesy car from these marinas into these tiny, God knows how they're here towns. Especially to find some down-home type restaurant where the locals go to eat cheap. I have always liked to dine in the barrio, but these little side of the road joints with their little side salads of iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, shredded cheese, bacon bits, croutons and some low rent Italian dressing just taste especially good after a hot day of motoring on beef jerky, cereal bars, and 90 degree drinking water. I love that even rustic places like Smithville and Marina cove actually have courtesy cars, and sure enough Star directed me to a place called "Down Yonder" which was just down yonder.
Everyone smoked at Down Yonder, and the waitress just left hers burning in the ashtray at the table near me when she would occasionally stop texting long enough to vouchsafe time to the clientele. I thought of moving to what I believed was the nonsmoking room but didn't care enough to make a nuisance of myself. The waitress knew everyone who came in; the old man who was there twice a week, the two guys sitting by the window one of whom sounded like Froggy from the little rascals with his cigarette destroyed larynx, "Miss Star," who must have followed me there, and the big tattooed biker looking guy who now sat at the waitress' smoldering table. Of course I ordered the house salad, roasted yard bird w/ green beans and mac&cheese, and the great southern traditional sweet tea. Perfect meal for the perfect time and place.
Above the doorway to what I guessed was the non smoking room was an Auburn license plate, so I asked the old man if they were fans, to which he replied, "Very few, I won't even go in there with that thing up." I later noticed there was a pewter Alabama christening plate right next to the Auburn one. There must have been around two hundred dollar bills signed and tacked to the ceiling and walls. The old man asked me about what I was doing and said he had fished every hole from here to Gainsville. I thought he meant Florida, but I later realized he was talking about Alabama. He told me about the typhoon he endured when he was stationed with the air force on Guam in '64. He said it was "Karen",and she had stuck broom straw into telephone poles and pushed an entire hanger off the runway into the ocean. This account of destruction did wonders for my anxiety about my forth coming game of hurricane roulette. "It was during the Cuban missile crisis.""We had 18, B-52s with 8 a-bombs apiece, we could have cracked the earth's crust." "Our destination was China." "Back then we didn't like commies and they didn't like us."
The old man and I, as well as Froggy and his smoking buddy all got up to pay at the same time so as to inconvenience the all too preoccupied waitress as little as possible. We left the biker guy sitting at the nicotine campfire.
I delivered the car back to the marina then walked the pine tree lined road over to the Tom Beville lock and dam and visitors center. The visitors center is a replica antebellum mansion built in the 80's, which I couldn't believe at first was not a private residence. It housed the most comprehensive display of information about the Tenn-Tom waterway. As well as the history of the rise, heyday and decline of the river trade. It was spooky to read about how towns like Nashville, Miss., Vienna and Memphis Al., rose and flourished in the pre-civil war days of river trade, then "declined" or altogether died as a result of the railroads taking the river trade and bypassing those towns. Destruction caused by the Reconstruction. The Beville visitors center also features a national landmark steam driven snag boat, built in Charleston, S.C. for removing trees and other debris from the waterway, now moored in concrete.
I think tonight how rich, striking and impressive all these river characters seem to be. I am also overwhelmed at how rich and immensely special my real friends seem to me right now. And furthermore, how much I miss touring with Stomp. I think about how much I love watching the world go by in the buddy seat on the bus, and how I think everyone likes their turn there.
I arrived at Pirates Marina Cove at 12:50 pm after only a 6 hour day on the waterway. The proprietor Star was there to greet me and help tie up. Another extremely hot day that only gets hotter when the boat stops moving. There were two guys that apparently worked for the Marina working on on of their own boats and sweating to make up for any deficit of rain this summer. The boat was one of several large mostly wooden and mostly dismantled boats on the very low docks. There was an old tug called cricket, one modern motor cruiser from somewhere in Fla. and a small sailboat that by the color looked like it had been underwater for some time. One of its dock lines actually had vegetation growing thick all the way up to the boat. Both here and at Smithville there seems to be a predominance of liveaboards and derelict boats that started in the great white North. The marina office has a nice porch overlooking the docks and shares a lot with an R.V. park. Star sits behind the glass display case in the well air conditioned office with the television on some courtroom drama. She told me she had never worked until last year when she took over the administration of the marina. Occasionally she has to wake up and drive over to pump gas or something, but doesn't mind because she lives close by. She said she had dreams of one day moving to Columbus Miss., but her hubby said it was too expensive there so she has never left Pikensville.
I think my favorite part of this Odyssey is taking the courtesy car from these marinas into these tiny, God knows how they're here towns. Especially to find some down-home type restaurant where the locals go to eat cheap. I have always liked to dine in the barrio, but these little side of the road joints with their little side salads of iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, shredded cheese, bacon bits, croutons and some low rent Italian dressing just taste especially good after a hot day of motoring on beef jerky, cereal bars, and 90 degree drinking water. I love that even rustic places like Smithville and Marina cove actually have courtesy cars, and sure enough Star directed me to a place called "Down Yonder" which was just down yonder.
Everyone smoked at Down Yonder, and the waitress just left hers burning in the ashtray at the table near me when she would occasionally stop texting long enough to vouchsafe time to the clientele. I thought of moving to what I believed was the nonsmoking room but didn't care enough to make a nuisance of myself. The waitress knew everyone who came in; the old man who was there twice a week, the two guys sitting by the window one of whom sounded like Froggy from the little rascals with his cigarette destroyed larynx, "Miss Star," who must have followed me there, and the big tattooed biker looking guy who now sat at the waitress' smoldering table. Of course I ordered the house salad, roasted yard bird w/ green beans and mac&cheese, and the great southern traditional sweet tea. Perfect meal for the perfect time and place.
Above the doorway to what I guessed was the non smoking room was an Auburn license plate, so I asked the old man if they were fans, to which he replied, "Very few, I won't even go in there with that thing up." I later noticed there was a pewter Alabama christening plate right next to the Auburn one. There must have been around two hundred dollar bills signed and tacked to the ceiling and walls. The old man asked me about what I was doing and said he had fished every hole from here to Gainsville. I thought he meant Florida, but I later realized he was talking about Alabama. He told me about the typhoon he endured when he was stationed with the air force on Guam in '64. He said it was "Karen",and she had stuck broom straw into telephone poles and pushed an entire hanger off the runway into the ocean. This account of destruction did wonders for my anxiety about my forth coming game of hurricane roulette. "It was during the Cuban missile crisis.""We had 18, B-52s with 8 a-bombs apiece, we could have cracked the earth's crust." "Our destination was China." "Back then we didn't like commies and they didn't like us."
The old man and I, as well as Froggy and his smoking buddy all got up to pay at the same time so as to inconvenience the all too preoccupied waitress as little as possible. We left the biker guy sitting at the nicotine campfire.
I delivered the car back to the marina then walked the pine tree lined road over to the Tom Beville lock and dam and visitors center. The visitors center is a replica antebellum mansion built in the 80's, which I couldn't believe at first was not a private residence. It housed the most comprehensive display of information about the Tenn-Tom waterway. As well as the history of the rise, heyday and decline of the river trade. It was spooky to read about how towns like Nashville, Miss., Vienna and Memphis Al., rose and flourished in the pre-civil war days of river trade, then "declined" or altogether died as a result of the railroads taking the river trade and bypassing those towns. Destruction caused by the Reconstruction. The Beville visitors center also features a national landmark steam driven snag boat, built in Charleston, S.C. for removing trees and other debris from the waterway, now moored in concrete.
I think tonight how rich, striking and impressive all these river characters seem to be. I am also overwhelmed at how rich and immensely special my real friends seem to me right now. And furthermore, how much I miss touring with Stomp. I think about how much I love watching the world go by in the buddy seat on the bus, and how I think everyone likes their turn there.
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