Tuesday October 1 2013

Climbed out of my bunk to a wet dog lying on my floor.  Actually, my nose had crept out from under the blankets first, so I had good warning that Butkus had already ventured out this morning, and that the rain that had been hammering at my hatches all night was still on.

Time to move.   Luckily I was farsighted enough to make yesterday’s socializing into an ad sales campaign, so The Shoreline will have enough paid column inches to pay for this week’s edition.  Result:  I don’t have to go out in the rain today and sell ads.  Instead, I can start my annual mudskipper-like migration from the sea to land. 

This fall tradition, unlike its spring counterpart, is a pain in the ass.  In spring, the move from cabin to boat is usually done in sunshine and imbued with a spirit of hope.  After all, I’m getting to move out of dingy winter lodgings which are shrouded in shadowy darkness, assaulted by rain and tree drippings, and battered by incessant winds, onto a floating, 35 foot palace.  Well, maybe not everybody’s idea of a palace, but certainly mine. 

By contrast, what I’m doing today feels like a retreat.  And it is, kind of. 

I have this fantasy that one day, one fall, instead of packing up my life and dragging it down Beecher Street behind a borrowed ATV,   instead of the spectacle of Duncan’s pitiful parade, there will be a grand exit.  There I’ll be standing at the tiller of my boat waving goodbye to all and sailing south—maybe Mexico, maybe Guatemala or El Salvadore—but somewhere sunny and warm boat friendly.  Mark my words, it will happen.

However, for the nonce, it’s black plastic garbage bags and a cooler and away I go, prepared to fend off taunts from the sadistic denizens of The Bean and The Dance.  By late afternoon, I had settled into the cabin.  The reliable Fisher Papa Bear, which I cleverly made a special trip to light before starting to pack up this morning, had heated the logs and the two rooms to a toasty warmth.  It has also boiled the first of hundreds of kettles of water for tea.  By the time I had to turn on the lights, I was feeling at home.  Always happens this way:  Sadness and resentment at having to leave the boat, followed by a sense of ambiguity toward the whole thing, then a feeling of being resigned to the inevitability.  Finally, with Butkus curled up on his rug behind the stove, me with my feet up on a ratty, old ottoman that mice steal stuffing from, my floor lamp lighting my lap, and the spine cracked on a new book, I feel once again at home. 

But I miss the boat, and will for several days.  When I tell people it has a heartbeat, I’m referring to the regular, pulse-like rhythm in the way it rolls with the swells.  It’s reassuring and calming, and there’s nothing comparable in the cabin.   

I’ll go back down to the marina through the winter.  We’re fortunate enough here that the water never freezes solid.  There are times when it feels colder than ice, but the action of the waves prevents it from forming a sheet.  As a consequence, no one has to take their boat out of the water in winter.  Saves a lots of expense and hassle, and I’m grateful for it.  But the boats still have to be checked from time to time.  More than one mariner has neglected to do this and found his vessel gunwale deep in water when they finally showed up.  For me, it’s reassuring to see my boat. 

Beyond that the only thing that needs to be done during winter is to shovel and sweep off the snow, if and when we get any.  I learned this lesson the hard way.   My first winter in Midden Harbour I decided I needed a break, and flew off to Mexico for a couple of weeks.  During that time there was major snowstorm.  It fell so heavy and fast and long that it was every man for himself.  There was no time to look after anyone else’s boat because everyone was kept at it trying to protect his own.  The result was predictable, I later learned.  The snow built up and up and up and inexorably piled higher on the side of the boat facing into the wind.  You don’t need to be a physics expert to figure out what happen to a floating object if you overload one side.  Yup, it tips!  My boat did just that.  Had to get a new boat.

A final word.  Last night the U. S. congress fumbled its way into a government shutdown.  The shining light on the hill has become a Halloween lantern.  Trick or Treat?!