It's OPEN!

Woo HOO!

Here in the gloomy PNW, we have our first, real day of spring.  The temperature is passing the 60° mark, the sky is sunny, the heat pump is turned off, and for the first time since way back in the fall of 2016, we have the storm windows out and our ports are OPEN!

We are flushing out the old winter air and replacing it with some flower-scented spring air!

It's OPEN!

Of Sailing and Gardening

Sailors, it would seem, have little in common with gardeners.  But this time of year, in the Pacific Northwest, they are brothers and sisters under the skin.

It is a time when being outdoors is unpleasant.  It gets dark early, and light late.  It is cold and rainy outside.  For the sailor sitting in an open cockpit or the gardener in ankle-deep soupy mud, it is a time when each wishes that he or she was in a warmer climate.  And so neither ventures forth from their carefully-maintained bubbles of warm dry air.

But we dream.

With cruising guides and seed catalogs we dream of the coming times when the sun will be brighter, warmer.  When the thought of a breeze brings warm thoughts instead of a hood pulled tighter, and green shoots appear to commune with the sun.  Days spent at anchor in a deserted cove and afternoons lovingly coddling tender green plants, tho impossible now, fill our minds.

And so we bring reminders of those coming times indoors to enjoy, and to give us hope.

Of Sailing and Gardening

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!

All Is Well

By the time the forecast windstorm arrived, its strength had been downgraded a tiny bit.  But it was still very strong when it arrived Thursday nite (aside: why do these things always happen at nite?).

For an assortment of reasons too complicated to detail here, we spent the nite at our cabin on Camano Island.  The maximum wind speed we clocked was 43 kt, but the NWS recorded 53 kt elsewhere on the island.  We lost no trees that we know of, and suffered no damage.  But the power went off at about 19:30.

But oh boy, Friday morning, when I decided to make a mad dash up to Anacortes to check on Eolian, the wind's effect was everywhere.  First, in our little neighborhood, trees had fallen across the streets in three places in the two blocks out to the main road.  But islanders, being self-reliant, had cleared them overnight.

The real problem was evident a little further along.  A tree had fallen and taken the power line with it.  Tho the road crew had cleared the worst of the tree debris, the wire was still lying in the road, with large burned spots and melted aluminum wherever it touched the road surface.  In getting off the island I passed more than another half-dozen places where trees had fallen across the road.  In each case, they had already been cleared by 08:00 - impressive!  Nevertheless, the power line crews had their hands full.  At its height, the PUD reported that some 17,000 of their customers were without power, most on Camano Island... which only has 22,000 residents.

I was a bundle of nerves all nite long, and so by the time I got to Anacortes I was pretty apprehensive.  But as it turned out, Eolian was fine.  The heat pump was running, keeping her at 61° inside (which was the setpoint).  The dock steps (probably 100 lb, and with a big iron grappling hook stored inside) had been blown perhaps a foot down the dock.  But the LED Christmas tree we had on the bow was still in place, undamaged. 

As you might expect, there are no wind reporting locations right at the marina, but here are the reports from some nearby locations:

Smith Island, in the east entrance to the Strait of Juan de Fuca

South end of Padilla Bay

Mid-Padilla Bay

As you can see, there's a lot of variation - not uncommon where there is significant relief in the landscape.  So the winds at the marina probably did not reach the forecast 50 kt, although it is possible that some gusts could have been that strong.

With Eolian having weathered the storm successfully, and power back on at the cabin, all is right in the world once more.  Halleluia!

All Is Well

Thanksgiving

In America the last Thursday in November is set aside for giving thanks for all that we have. 

Those of us in the boating world have things to be thankful for that the average American can only vaguely understand...

• The quite peace of an anchorage at dawn, coffee in the cockpit
• The look of filled sails against the sky
• The feel of a boat as it slices thru the waves, propelled only by the wind
• The stark beauty of a rocky islet topped with a cap of evergreens
• Gulls (no, really - they are the most accomplished and graceful fliers ever)
• A nite sky filled with an infinity of stars
• Sleeping to the sound of water gurgling against the hull
• And... sunsets

 I am thankful.

Thanksgiving

The Renaissance Man

Tom Steinbach 1932-2014

In 1975, when two young kids drove cross country from St. Louis to Chewelah, Washington, they were beginning an adventure that would last a lifetime.  But they didn't know that they were following in the footsteps of another adventurer.

We first met Tom Steinbach (and Dorna, and Teena, and John, and Mike - it was a family business...) in 1980 when we contracted with Steinbach Construction to pour the foundation for the house we were building.  But because of Tom's outgoing and inquisitive nature, the relationship grew.

Pretty soon Tom was helping me with difficult framing issues - have you ever built a house?  Framing is solving one problem after another.

And grew.  Tom and his family essentially adopted us...  he became an older brother to Jane and I, and he and Dorna became surrogate grandparents to our children (since their real grandparents lived 2500 miles away).   Our children were part of Teena's wedding, and the Steinbachs hosted Easter egg hunts for Adam and Erica.  Tom and John even participated in the Christmas Eve toy assembly ritual at our house.  He introduced me to goose hunting and trout fishing (but alas, thru no fault of his, I am no good at either), and flying (yes, Tom was a pilot).

Above all, Tom was curious.  He was always thinking.  Some of our best conversations involved the Big Subjects:  the meaning of life, cosmology, etc.  But not always big, tho always from an unusual angle.  One particular thought that comes to me in that vein as I write this was a remark he made as we surveyed a woodlot he held behind Quartzite mountain - he asked me to imagine the tons of wood that were being created literally from thin air every month in that woodlot.

Tom was gifted mechanically - he was an inventor.  Have you ever been to a real sawmill?  I suggest you go to one, and then contemplate the fact that Tom built his own.  And I remember that he stole a march on the power tool industry when he came up with the idea of using propane to power an air nailer instead of compressed air, the idea being that this would be an internal combustion tool, burning the propane one explosion at a time to drive nails (my small contribution was to use a piezo ignitor as the trigger).  Dragging an air hose around not required!

I cherish the memories of those discussions.

Tom was also a collector of what today might be called practical knowledge:

• How to hammer a saw blade (look it up)
• What varieties of wood were best suited to each purpose (use locust for fence posts - instead of rotting, it will take root)
• How to run 3-phase tools on 2-phase power
• How to straighten a warped cast iron saw table by building a fire under it and then cooling it slowly
• How to build a metal-cutting chop saw using an automotive power steering pump for the hydraulics
• How to supply his house with all the water it needed from a small spring way up the hill behind the house
• He ran a few cows occasionally butchered one.  Have you ever cut up an animal?
• His house was heated with a wood-fired thermostat-controlled furnace... that he built.

And as if that weren't enough, he was an artist:

Tom carved this squirrel on a yellow locust log harvested from his property on the Flowery Trail in Chewelah.

Tom was a true Renaissance Man, and the world will be a poorer and drabber place for his passing.

The Renaissance Man

Raining

It's raining today.  It has been since some time last nite - I didn't look at the clock when it woke me up.

It woke me up because it was an unusual sound...  it having been so long since water fell from the sky.  The ground is baked and hard, and surely much of the rain must be running off, unabsorbed.  But this is the slow, gentle rain that Seattle does so well, so perhaps I am wrong about that.

Anyway, we need it, badly.  We even have wildfires on this side of the mountains now.  Hopefully this will put them out on both sides of the Cascades.

Raining

It begins again

Jane's blackberry crisp, already sampled

The great wheel of the seasons continues to turn, bringing us now to the time when the blackberries ripen.  Last nite, Jane made the first blackberry crisp of this year.  As we sampled it (with ice cream, of course!), a warm memory came to me.

It was a little later in the year - the blackberries were ripe and plentiful, especially at the head of Blakely Harbor, back by the concrete boiler pillbox that is all that remains of the old Blakely sawmill.  We had dinghied thru the opening into the millpond, and Jane went ashore to pick those berries.  It was one of those days where it is warm when the sun is up, but quite cool after sundown.

And as the sun went down, Jane fired up the oven and made a blackberry crisp using those freshly picked berries. 

Only a little later the sun was gone.  But the residual heat from the oven  kept the cabin cozy while we enjoyed that crisp, watching the stars come out.

It begins again

Peace

I mentioned earlier that while on our Shaw Island hike, we encountered and had a mid-road conversation with a nun.

But that bald statement gives nothing of the event.  Despite the warmth of the morning, Sister Miriam, a woman in her late 20's or early 30's, was dressed in the full black regalia, and yet she looked entirely comfortable.  Our conversation ranged over the usual topics one might expect when just meeting someone on an island...  where are you from, where are you going, how long have you been here...  like that.  And Sister Miriam is a woman who quietly and confidently knows where she is and where she is going.  But far more than the topics, during this conversation we were presented with an overwhelming sensation of... PEACE.  It was subliminal, but it was powerful.

It was so powerful that immediately after we resumed our walk we both turned to each other and remarked on it.  It was so powerful that even now, as I am writing, it is with me.  It is simply amazing to me that a brief conversation in the middle of a road on a small island could be so transformative.

I wonder if Sister Miriam knows she carries such a powerful aura.

Peace

Splashdown!

Tuesday, 15:00

And Eolian is back in her natural element: saltwater!

What a relief.  And completely miraculously, we managed to dodge several weather bullets - despite ominous forecasts of rain and high wind, none ever materialized except for a light sprinkle on Monday nite.

Back in our slip, we quaffed a celebratory IPA and then both took desperately needed showers.

And then the rains and wind came...

Splashdown!

Dawn thoughts

As I look out the window this morning, just before dawn, I am struck by how blessed we are to be able to live this way.  Yes, it is chilly out there, but the colors the early morning light brings to life are absolutely gorgeous.  The water is as smooth as a mirror, showing the sky better than the sky itself.

And I sit here with my latte, almost in disbelief that we get to be here, now.

Dawn thoughts

On the other side

It's funny how some events can strike a bright line in your life, dividing it into "before" and "after".

Our new heat pump arrived on Saturday, and Angela made it possible for us to pick it up at Dockside Solutions office on Sunday morning (thanks Angela!).  We managed to get it down the dock and onto the boat in between bouts of cold, pouring rain, tho as it turned out, protecting it from rain was probably not as necessary as I had anticipated, due to its superb packaging.

With the background of the electric space heaters' whine, and the fan we have to circulate the heated air the Dickenson produces, I worked most of Sunday to disassemble the unit, get it into place under the settee seating, and reassemble it in place.  I also made inventory of what would be required to permanently mount it and hook it up both electrically and plumbing-wise.

On Monday we made a foraging expedition to various marine stores in Seattle to get the miscellaneous fittings and parts required.  As usual, our trip would have been shorter if we had just gone to Fisheries Supply first.  And then I crawled under the settee once again and got to work.

By Monday afternoon, we had water running out of the boat once again, and blessed heat streaming into the saloon.  I shut down the Dickenson and the space heaters, and there was...  peace.  The heat pump is very quiet.  Very quiet.  The only thing you hear is the rush of air entering the saloon, and even that will be diminished when I complete hooking up the ductwork so that heat is delivered to the whole boat, not just the saloon.

This morning, having slept the whole nite under the aegis of the heat pump, I perceive yesterday afternoon, when I turned on the heat pump for the first time, as one of those bright line events.

And we are on the other side of it.

On the other side

Here and gone

One of my favorite things

You know what one of my favorite things about this part of the Pacific Northwest is?

Rain.  (No!  He didn't actually say that!)

On a Saturday nite outing, Jane and I felt snow on our faces as we walked down the dock to shore.  And by the time we got home again, the dock and everything else was white.  By Sunday morning, there was an inch or two on the ground, and of course the roads were not plowed.  But there had been enough traffic that the main streets were pretty clear due to traffic.  And it wasn't long before snowmen popped into existence, at least three to every block.  Snow in Seattle is not a common thing, so when it happens, it is a real treat for kids, young and old alike.
 
But we have lived in other parts of the Pacific Northwest too, 300 miles or so to the east.  And over there, the first snowfall of the year, perhaps in late October or early November, is a treat too.  But by this time of the year it has become pure drudgery.  Shovel the driveway, again (where will I put the snow?).  Is the weight too great up there - do I need to shovel the roof?  The roads are all corduroy from the snow plows' chatter as they are pushed over the permanent pack of snow and ice on the road.

So yes, the snow was here Saturday nite and Sunday morning.  It stayed long enough for the child in all of us to delight in it.

And now the rain has washed it all away.  No shoveling required.

Here and gone

A very special place

Seattle is a very special place. While the rest of the nation is shivering under sub-zero temps and inches of frozen global warming, here in Seattle in the middle January, we have flowers. 

I rode my bike around the UW campus for a little while this morning and found these rhododendrons. 

I also found these tiny white ones that had filled the nearby air with a heady perfume:

I feel so blessed to be able to live here!

Sailing season can't be far away...

A very special place

Thru the darkness

Joy, in the darkness.

We made it.

We are on the other side of the Winter Solstice.  It occurred here in Seattle at 09:11 on Saturday (YMMV, depending on your timezone).  The sunrise was at 07:55 and sunset at 16:20 - that's a really short day.  But worse, in true Seattle fashion we have had a heavy cloud cover for quite a while, making even the daylite at noon minimal.  And when the sun does shine, it comes in at this weird very low angle, making the light reddish.  Subliminally, it seems like late evening, even when it is noon.

The Christmas lites we see everywhere add some very needed joy in the darkness.  I don't think it was a coincidence that the early Church fathers put the Christmas celebration in the dead of winter.  More than at any other time of year, we need the joy to counteract the darkness.

Today, the daylite is three seconds longer.  Woo hoo!

Thru the darkness

Stitch 'n glue

Step 1: one side and one end glued

We're doing a little stich n' glue construction here aboard Eolian.  Well, maybe not so much stitch, but plenty of glue for sure.  These are gingerbread houses under construction here.  The glue is powdered sugar with just enough water to make it barely fluid.  (If you should decide to try this, beware - it takes less water than you might think, and the slightest additional amount will make the "mortar" too runny.) 

We are making three of them - one each for Hazel and Eliza (Ken and Erica's children).   We are also making one for Monkey  - Adam and Kaci's child, due any day now! - called "Monkey" because the gender will be a surprise - how great is that?  We have both the blue and pink flags at the ready.  (How's that for a sneaky way to announce an impending addition to the crew of Eolian?)

Step 2: Assemble with more mortar

Step 3: Call in the roofers

Step 4: ... and the decorators

This was really fun to watch!  Hazel (standing) is 3½ and did a wonderful job of decorating.  But Eliza, at 2, was much more interested in eating the decorations.  In fact, the construction manager's primary responsibility was to keep enough marshmallows in front of Eliza that she could be persuaded to actually put the occasional one on the house.

Ta da!

I wonder if they will make it to Christmas...

---

Update...

Nope

 Monkey's didn't make it - Rainier The Raider did some counter surfing and left behind only the paper plate foundation...

Stitch 'n glue

On giving thanks

Because I don't think I can improve on it, I am reposting something I wrote in 2011...

---

In many cultures there is a harvest festival or feast, celebrating the end of the toil in the fields, growing and harvesting the food for the winter, and before the start of the rationing needed to make that harvest last until the first crops of the spring are available.

Americans have set aside the forth Thursday in November as such a holiday.  I have no familiarity with the harvest feast customs elsewhere, but in the United States, while there is typically a feast (turkey-based, traditionally), this also is a time of reflection, of recognition of the bounty which we receive on a daily basis (would you rather be the King of England in 1263, or you, today?  Yeah, exactly). 

It doesn't seem too much to spend one day in an attitude of thankfulness for our bounty.  So no matter where in the world you might be, please join us aboard Eolian in giving thanks for:

• Our friends and families who are there for us, giving support in our times of need, and are there also on a daily basis to fulfill that most basic human need: companionship. We are all in this together.
• The most amazing assortment of food available to mankind, in the history of the world, and all year round to boot (do any of you still remember receiving an orange for Christmas, and why that was so special?) 
• Energy and technology that would make us all, every one, to be taken as Class 5 Wizards to those living but 100 years ago.
• Peace, and the freedom to live our lives according to our desires (for the most part)
• Those who gave up their time, their health, or their very lives in the service of this country that we might enjoy these things.
• [Please add 5 items of your own here]

So, from the crew aboard Eolian, happy Thanksgiving.  But more importantly, may you have a thoughtful, contemplative, thankful Thanksgiving!

Bob & Jane

On giving thanks

More than a month without a saltwater fix

June 28.

That was the date we returned to the dock from our previous little cruise.  And now it is August 16^th.

Those intervening weeks were filled with travel, a family reunion, a wedding, and the Dude Drive - all wonderful fun and very fulfilling.  But no saltwater.

Ah, but this morning we woke up at anchor in Port Madison - woke up to the smell of the sea, absolute calm, and a fuzzy layer of fog that filtered in and out as I sat in the cockpit, drinking my Coast Guard-required latte.

It is so good to be home.

More than a month without a saltwater fix

We're all liveaboards here

We love these guys.  They seem to tolerate us here at the marina.  Barely.  They are the curmudgeons of the avian world.

If one happens to be standing (they're not small - waist to chest high, depending on how much of that neck is extended) on the dock when you are coming, they will sloowly stalk out onto a finger pier, while giving you the evil eye for disturbing their royal presence.

And when they can tolerate you no more, they will produce a sound that can only be described as "Gronnk!", spread their gymongous wings, flap once, and glide in ground effect over to another dock.  When you hear that sound, you will have no doubt that dinosaurs are alive and well in our modern world.  But now with feathers.

And, if you are a thinking person, you are grateful that they are not Jurassic-sized, for surely then you would be dinner.

We're all liveaboards here

30:30

No, not talking about a rifle.  (Sorry NSA - false alarm)

It is June 30, and we have been off the dock for 30 days so far this year.   That is simply an amazing statistic. 

Since the sailing season started for us in the first week of May, that means we have averaged every other day off the dock, so far this year.  Of course, it is my three-day work schedule that has enabled this, but it has been the weather that has made it possible. 

The last summer I remember like this was  1998, and I don't think it was this good.   If this is Global Warming, then I am all for it. 

30:30