DOWNSIZING TIP: LOSE THE PAPER TRAIL

St. Helena, CA

When we started plotting our escape from land life, one of the toughest challenges was ink on paper. We had to dispose of piles of books and miles of files. Then we had to dodge, stop and divert shocking amounts of junk mail, a task that we tilted at for more than two years (read about it here).

Now that we're back on land, I'm trying to arrest a new flow of paper into my life by using lessons learned in the paper trenches. Come along. It's not easy and requires continued diligence, but I know from experience, the less paper you have, the lighter you feel!

1. Slim down your paper files.

This was a tough and time-sucking task when we were downsizing. I had files that were 20 years old. Doing it all at once was intense, so take your time -- even if it's one file per day. Be brutal. Here's advice from usa.gov on how long you should keep files and what you should keep. And here's info on what papers to shred. Many businesses including banks offer free shredding. If it doesn't have to be shredded, recycle it.

2. Go paperless.

Start right now. Request paperless statements and bills from utilities, banks, credit cards, retirement accounts, etc. Many stores are now offering to email receipts, and I was happy to find that our local library sends records through email. Any time someone tries to hand me a piece of paper, I ask for other options. Doctors, dentists, pharmacies, I ask them all. I opt out at the pump or the ATM unless I absolutely must have that piece of paper. If I accept it, I try to do something with it immediately, file, shred, recycle. Otherwise, I'm making homework for myself to do later.

3. Curb the junk mail.

Junk mail is the spawn of Satan, tenacious and prolific. It hunts me down and then reproduces itself when I'm not looking. The National Do Not Mail List is a good starting point. It offers ample options for what you want (nothing for me) and don't want to see in your mailbox. Then, I directly contact companies that are legitimately sending me mail I don't want. This is time consuming but worth it. Some companies offer to send catalogs less frequently if you just want to stem the flow.

4. Don't keep books you don't need.

Unless you're 20 or younger, you probably have a fondness for ink-on-paper books. That's okay. Keep the ones you want/need. However, admit that there are many that you neither want nor need, and get them out of the house. There are a lot of options for doing this, including selling them on Amazon.com. I've found it's not worth the trouble unless they are worth more than $5 each. Otherwise, many used bookstores buy used books, or you can donate them to libraries, schools or charities. 

5. Purge magazines and newspapers regularly.

This one takes continued, relentless dedication. Start by canceling subscriptions for publications that are no longer relevant. Then set an expiration for unread literature, such as one week for newspapers, one month for magazines, and then get them out of the house. If you balk at recycling or throwing them away, trade them with friends or give them to a doctor's office or library.

Now, take a deep breath. I told you it wouldn't be easy. Reward yourself for reducing the paper weight!

Today, I'm grateful for: bare feet. It's deliciously warm in wine country today!

MORE ABOUT: downsizing | living small

THE JUST ENOUGH KITCHEN

St. Helena, CA

I was reading recently about Dave Bruno and the 100 Thing Challenge, a downsizing challenge where you pare down your belongings to 100 things. Having just moved into our small place with almost nothing, I kept thinking, "100. That's a lot."

On the other hand, that 100 things could add up pretty darn fast, in the kitchen alone.

But living on a boat for four years gave me a new understanding of what is essential. When we first moved onboard, we pared down our galley supplies to an imaginary bare minimum. I realize now that those "bare necessities" were not what I needed but rather what I could fit in the space.

Now, with unfettered space, I have made a commitment, not to filling the space but to having just enough.

So now, with a fresh start, here's what we've got:

Good thing the last tenants left that space-saving shelf!

We've opted not to use a dishwasher since that would require a lot more dishes. And technically, we could get by with two of everything, but we want to have guests, so we've opted for four. Two at a time, folks!

Four place settings of flatware and some kitchen tools. We have a Brita filter, a coffee pot, a grinder, an iron skillet, a saucepan and a cake pan.

And finally, because we don't have many things, we decided they should be pretty. We found these dishes on clearance at Pier 1.

Complementary but not matching, just like us.

The kitchen is done, and we've topped out at less than 50 things (although I counted flatware as one thing). This is considerably less than we had in the tiny galley on the boat, but it feels just right.


Today, I'm grateful for: my beautiful square plates.

MORE ABOUT: wine country | downsizing | living small

GETTING SMALL, BEING GRATEFUL

St. Helena, CA

If you've been with us since 2008, you know in graphic detail how hard we worked to get off the grid. For months -- years even -- we struggled to dispose of and redistribute a houseful of belongings. It was a painstaking process that I wrote about extensively in my old blog.

And now, after four years of living off the grid on our 38' sailboat, we have once again taken up residence on land, but I find that many things have changed. Well, not many things. Just me, really. I've changed. My understanding of 'need' and 'want' have shifted. I now know the difference between 'necessity' and 'luxury'. Things I used to think of as necessities, like hot water? Water is a necessity, but hot water, that's a luxury. Things I used to think I needed, like a closet full of linens? What I 'need' is one set of sheets, two bath towels and a hand towel. There's a washer and dryer here, yet another incredible luxury, not a necessity.

We moved into our empty, 512-square-foot cottage with what fit in our VW Jetta: an IKEA rug, two unassembled barstools, sheets, towels, four suitcases, some dishes from Pier 1 and some cleaning stuff from Target.

It's kinda echo-y in here, but the rug helps. We ordered a bed, and it was delivered soon after our arrival. A bed. Aaaah. Total luxury.

It might appear that I am leading a spartan life, but the reality is quite the opposite. This tiny cottage is filled with luxuries, and I am filled with gratitude for my few things, a gratitude that I didn't have when I lived in a house three times this large with ten times as much stuff. Less has come to mean more.

We have made a commitment to staying small, staying out of the escalation game and staying in the gratitude game.

I wish I thought this would be easy, but I'll write about it here, so we can all learn together.

Today, I am so, so grateful for a bed and two chairs.

MORE ABOUT: wine country | downsizing | living small

FLIRTING WITH LAND

Vashon Island, Washington

For almost four years now, I have lived completely afloat. Water has been my medium, my muse, my only constant. But taking a break from the water for a few months, I find that in those previous 50 years and 3 months before moving onto a boat, I took a few things for granted.

Like earth. I walk out the door and step onto solid ground. No dinghy ride, no precarious hop across a chasm. Just a step, so simple. It's always there, the earth, faithful, calm and reassuring, with its musty smells and nourishing palette of green and brown. I run my hand along a tree trunk, rough and solid, a pad of moss, soft and velvety.

And stillness. No matter how calm the water, a boat is in constant motion. Inside, everything moves too, my couch, my bed, my bathroom, my kitchen. On dry land, I walk on floors that are utterly still, and I thank them. I recklessly set a glass on the countertop without concern that it might go unexpectedly flying, shattering. I lie on a bed so still, it sucks me into unconsciousness like anesthesia, and I rest.

Living aboard is like parenting: you're always on watch. A part of my brain was always devoted to safety, planning, watching, worrying. On land, my brain rambles around with newfound freedom and ease. My nerves have lost their edge. Have I?

Water against fiberglass, wind in rigging, rain on the coach roof. Lines in cleats, chain against anchor. Once, I even heard a grouper make his guttural sounds just beneath my bed. Life onboard is one of constant sounds. But in our remote cabin, silence is like a blanket. It embraces me like memory foam, pressing down errant thoughts and soothing tight muscles.

Water I am not finished with you yet, but today, I'm indulging a little land crush.

CLASSIC YACHT: A LESSON IN SEAKINDLINESS

"Just before 9 a.m., we headed downwind out of the anchorage flying the main and jib side by side in my favorite point of sail, wing on wing. Cara Mia, our Island Packet 380, glided over placid turquoise water. Then we rounded Sandy Cay, and things went south."

READ MORE...

[Low bandwidth pdf here]

Sailing's learning curve is a steep one, and we tumbled off it many times. Our first year we were clambering to develop processes and protocols, learning how to work together instead of at odds, but oh so often, we got it wrong. Fortunately, our most experienced crew member was on hand to show us the way.

For the real-time back story on this, here are the links to my blog posts:
OH SHEET, that windy day
REWARD FOR A JOB DONE, the details of sewing the sail, actually more interesting than the rending.


NOTE TO CARA MIA's NEW OWNERS: That rending incident was not actually a rip in the sail but in the sacrificial cloth, which has subsequently been replaced. :-)

FOOTNOTE FOR WORD PEOPLE: Seakindly is, in fact, a word. It is a nautical term for a boat with gentle motion -- as opposed to a tender one that rolls around in an unkind way. Seakindliness is the noun form, and used here for all its entendres (which, with an 's,' is not a word). Seakindly and seakindliness should probably be hyphenated, so I'll throw a few in here -----

CHECKLISTS: GETTING UNDERWAY

Annapolis, MD

I should have named this post "Checklist of Things Learned the Hard Way," which seems to be the way we learn everything. This dog-eared list, usually taped beside the companionway, has served us well as a reminder of everything that needs to be done before moving the boat. It has grown over our three years of living aboard and obviously needs a rewrite.

Here it is in a more organized format.

ENGINE

• Check oil
• Look at Racor clarity
• Check fuel level
• Look around in engine compartment to make sure nothing's amiss
• Check raw water filter
• Make sure engine intake seacock is open
• Check engine coolant level
• Turn on engine battery
• Check transmission -- before pulling out, engage both forward and reverse
• Monitor packing gland (once underway)

BELOW

• Close hatches (definitely learned the hard way with boarding waves in the Tongue of the Ocean)
• Double-check hatches (see above)
• Lock drawers
• Stow
• Turn on VHF to 16
• Turn on electronics switch
• Toilet bowl dry
• Check battery charge
• Stow companionway boards (unless leaving them in place)

COCKPIT

• Binoculars at hand
• Handheld VHF in place and on 16
• Covers off helm electronics and stowed
• Covers off dodger
• Life jackets in place
• Make sure plug is out of dinghy
• Check dinghy securing
• Charts in place as needed
• Route pulled up on GPS
• Gates closed and locked

AT ANCHOR

• Turn on windlass power
• Check chain in locker/pull back to make room as needed

AT DOCK

• Turn off AC main and unplug from shore power
• Stow shore power cord.
• Stow water hose if out
• Discuss undocking plan

SAILING

• Remove main sail cover
• Unlock jib
• Untie boom (secured to keep from moving)
• Remove forward dorade horn (gets caught in staysail lines)
• Attach main halyard
• Sailing gloves 

OFFSHORE

• Offshore jackets on
• Tethers in place
• Heavy duty stowing
• Check that cockpit lockers, gear clear of autohelm and life raft accessible
• Pray ;-)

CLASSIC YACHT: IN THE MOMENT

"I check my watch and the wind speed. I wonder if we'll keep this pace, and if the wind will keep a constant breath, if that cloud far off to the east is headed our way. 

Ming's words flutter like tell-tales in the breeze, and I am reminded of the things that matter and the ones that don't."

READ MORE...

"I'll get there when I get there."

It was a simple sentence we heard only six days after leaving our home dock, but their meaning has resonated for three years.

And I am still learning the lesson: how to patiently ride a soft wind, to release the false frenzy of land, and focus on the moment, not the destination.

For the backstory on this column:
The day we fell under Ming's spell: Get There When I Get There
The day we met Ming: The Raft-Up

IN THE STREAM

Fort Lauderdale, FL

My first column debuted this week in Classic Yacht magazine, a beautiful ezine published every two months. If you've never seen the magazine before, you're in for a treat.

I will be writing about the lessons I have learned while following a dream. We'll see if they promote me from 'novice sailor' somewhere along the way!

RACING THE SUN

Lake Worth, FL 26º46.055N | 80º02.693W

Rainbow just after sunrise, between Vero Beach and the Fort Pierce inlet.

"Now that's how you want to start your day. A rainbow has to be a good omen, right?" I said.

Chip said, "There's something in my weather book about a rainbow in the morning ....."

Neither of us bothered to look.

I was way too focused on a beautiful day offshore, 5-10 knot east wind, 3-6 foot swell, no ICW, no bridge tenders.

A line of six sailboats ahead of us had to be another good omen. The chatter on the VHF said Chris Parker declared today a good weather window to cross to the Bahamas. Yahoo!!

Our first sign of clouds on the horizon was when all but one of those sailboats passed the inlet and headed on south on the ICW. Strange, I thought as I turned east down the inlet channel.

I knew we would be headed out the inlet on a falling tide, with the water going out, and with wind coming toward us. However, with such low wind predicted, I thought it might be a little rough but fine. And so far, as predicted, the winds were zero when we left Vero and had picked up to 7 or 8 before the inlet.

We followed the other sailboat down the channel into more and more swell as we approached the ocean. The other boat, Imagine, was about 200 yards ahead, and we could see him getting tossed around at the end of the channel. Then really, really getting tossed. At one point we could see the entire length of his boat -- from the top, as if we were flying over it.

It was the first moment I thought of turning back. I was at the helm. I should have. I did not.

As we neared the end of the channel the swell turned into huge, unorganized chop. I mean, really, can't someone get this shit organized? Who's in charge here? I tried by my very will to get it organized, you over there, hold back, you ahead, calm down and proceed forward. You, way up there .... Yikes.

It was hopeless. Each pounder would send the bow straight down into the water, then rock us, sometimes side to side, sometimes hobby horsing, ending with the bow pointing straight up.

Chip took this photo of one uphill run. We both tried to take photos.
It was not possible to both hold on and take pictures.

We think they were only 8 to 10-foot waves, but they weren't swells. They were steep, smashed up together and unpredictable.

Then it got really crazy.

Chip asked if I wanted him to take the wheel, and I said YES. He's much better at reading waves than I am -- a misspent youth body surfing really pays off.

He manhandled us through while I sat on the floor of the cockpit trying to tie down the cockpit table that had come loose was pounding against the helm.

I kept thinking, please engine, please don't shut down now -- LIKE YOU DID YESTERDAY.

We cleared the inlet and turned into large, choppy swell with 20+knots of wind, and not perfectly east for our southeast trek. It was clocking south, just hovering enough east that we could get some traction.

"Hello all stations. This is United States Coast Guard Miami Station, United States Coast Guard Miami Station, United States Coast Guard Miami Station, please tune in to Channel 22 Alpha for information regarding a small craft advisory."

Great. From the time we left Vero, we had gone from a predicted 5-10 knots and nearly calm seas to a small craft advisory. The swell and wind were, as we already knew, much higher than predicted, and on top of that, there was a nasty chop on top of the swell. Not dangerous, just bumpy -- not the glorious ride I was hoping for.

Our plan was to make the 50-mile hop to Lake Worth (Palm Beach), anchor until 3 a.m., and then set off again for another 50-mile hop to Miami, but the swell had us slowed down to a pace that would put us at Lake Worth well past dark -- and, even if we went in, it would be with wind, against current, a lesson very fresh on our minds. The only other option would be to keep going all night, slowing down to make Miami just after dawn.

We got on our line, adjusted as much sail as we could manage (reefed main, jib and staysail) to give us the easiest ride possible for the conditions (full sails give you traction in the water, making the pass through waves much smoother, less rocking).

We motorsailed to get our speed up, and, most amazing of news, according to our GPS, we would be in range of Lake Worth between 5 and 5:30, just before sunset, WITH a rising tide peaking at 5:12 (wind with current going in).

I had been fighting seasickness all morning, but my usual shot of Pepto before going offshore was keeping it in check. The worst place to be for getting seasick is below in the cabin, so to get what we needed I would dash below and run back up, dodging the array of stuff strewn about the cabin floor. We had "stowed" before going offshore, but a few months of soft inshore travel had made us lazy -- plus, we did not expect the thorough tossing we got from the inlet.

By about 1 o'clock the seas started backing down and the wind moderated to an easy 13-15 knots. Aside from a rolly swell, we were travelling in relative comfort and were able to regain order below. No major spills, no breakage, just a few things tossed about.

At 3:20, we were only 11.4 miles from Lake Worth, the wind was down to 13, and the sea was growing very kind.

Palm Beach. A happy sight.

At exactly the dot of high tide, we traversed a calm inlet and turned to drop the anchor in seven feet of water. I looked down as the anchor sank and -- for the first time since June in the Bahamas -- I could see it go all the way to the bottom!

I watched as the anchor spun into position and nestled itself cozily in the sand. I could almost swear it was smiling.

So was I.

HOW LONG?

Charleston, SC 32º46.832N | 79º57.599W

As I slowly re-acclimate to being back in the U.S., it is clear to me that I have changed. Six months in the Bahamas has taught me to use my time and resources much more prudently than I did when I lived on land -- or even when living onboard in the U.S.  This leaves me wondering ...

How long will I conserve water like it's gold?

How long will I resist the ever present Internet, leaving my laptop to be the occasional novelty, not an appendage?

How long will I go without consuming and taking on the attendant emotional burden of daily news?

How long will I appreciate the bounty of strawberries, avocados, melons and dark chocolate, available everywhere, any time?

And how long will I eat only when I'm hungry and not because it's there?

How long until we "plug in" our power cord -- physically and metaphorically -- leave our green habits behind?

How long will I practice one lesson learned from the sweet people of the Bahamas: look people in the eye and greet them kindly?

And most importantly, how long will I maintain the gentle pace of Bahamian life, resist the frenetic energy and hurry-up pulse of daily life in our country?

SUPERMOON! SUPERDUMB!

Georgetown, Exumas 23º21.48N | 75º45.94W

The rare 'supermoon' was also super shy.

They're calling tonight's full moon a supermoon -- something that happens only once in a blue moon (actually longer) -- something about the moon being closer to the earth. Or something. Whatever.

Do you remember that lesson we learned last November on the ICW about full moons and run-call-your-mama low tides? Well, whatever.

Today, on supermoon, supertide day, we chose dead low tide to cross Elizabeth Harbor, shallow at the best of times, and pull up to a shallow all the time dock -- just to fill our water tank.

Why? No, really, I hope you can answer that. Why? I don't know. Something about moons and lunacy perhaps.

It did not help that there were boats anchored in the freakin' channel, all over it. The dockmaster guided us via the VHF -- right into a sandbar.

So we went back and threaded our way through and around the anchored boats and limped up to the dock, then wisely (if you can be wise in the middle of being stupid) stayed tied up until the tide turned.

In the meantime, two of our friends had made the long crossing from the anchorage and into Georgetown in their dinghies. That's one of the tough things about anchoring here: the dinghy ride across the water is loooong -- 20-30 minutes -- and wet. Most of us don foul weather gear, or garbage bags. Johanna from Snowbird just strips right down to her bathing suit in anticipation of the dousing.

So, since we were crossing back to the anchorage in the big, dry boat, we offered them all a lift.

Our rubber dinglings.

One boat, six people, three dinghies, six opinions on anchoring.

Lunacy.

Chip, waiting for the supermoon -- and a shot of vodka.

Elizabeth Harbor from Stocking Island, Georgetown across the water.

New album: The Swedes of Snowbird. Now we just need the music ....

OH SHEET

Black Point, Exumas 24º6.04N | 76º24.12W

Anchorage at Black Point Settlement on Great Guana Cay.

Sailing is a humbling occupation offering infinite ways to challenge, confound and embarrass yourself. It's like the first day of school or a new job -- every day -- rife with new opportunities to prove you're an amateur. It is not possible to be bored, because you're waiting to see what will go wrong next.

Today's forecast called for 10-12 knot winds from the northeast, dropping and shifting to southeast mid- to late afternoon. We left Sampson for a short, less than 10-mile, hop to Black Point just before 9 a.m. to take advantage of favorable winds.

Leaving the anchorage we headed southwest-ish looking resplendent flying the main and jib side by side in my favorite point of sail, wing on wing.

As we turned south around Sandy Cay, it was apparent that the wind was already shifting to the southeast, which would be, of course, right in our face on the next turn. We headed out into the Exuma Banks hoping to be able to tack back toward Black Point once we passed Harvey Cay, sailing the whole way.

We never saw the predicted 10-12 knots, rather 15 at first soon picking up to 20+ with squalls on the horizon ahead. Chip was thrilled to find he could get Cara Mia moving at almost 8 knots despite my complaints about weather helm.

This concludes the peaceful portion of the sail.

Next we had a fight about, well, we're not really sure. That's how those married fights go.

Then we decided to reef, using our new, untried reefing rig.

When we turned into the wind, the jib got away from us, flapping like a coop full of scared hens and just as noisy. The jib lines got all twangled, around themselves and in the standing rigging. You don't really notice how much stuff there is overhead on a sailboat until it all starts weaving itself around each other. That took some time to wrestle under control.

Then the new reefing ring kept coming off the new horn that was supposed to hold the now-smaller sail in place. Put it back on. It comes off again. Repeat.

Everything finally started working harmoniously, just as the wind dropped down below 10 knots right outside Black Point harbor.

That's when I noticed the the entire back seam of the jib had ripped out while it was flapping in the wind.

If you look closely, you can see
 the leech line dangling behind the jib.

We pulled in the sails and humbly dropped anchor in Black Point, happy that our boat performs flawlessly even when we don't.

LOST AND LOST

Coconut Grove, Miami, FL 25º43.532N | 80º14.193W

We're not absentminded people. Usually.

When we had a house, we kept all our important things organized there. We followed routines, like you do.

When we sold the house, we kept all our important things organized at the wine shop. We made new routines.

When we sold the wine shop, we kept all our important things in my car. We made new routines, and we knew where things were.

When we sold my car, all our important things got scattered between Delaware (Chip's parents), North Carolina and our boat. Our routines disintegrated. Chaos ensued.

Now that we are about to step off the continent our discombobulation has become almost comical.

First, we lost the key to the Mini Cooper we're borrowing from Chip's sister. With the patience and persistence of Karen and Dale, we found it.

While we were looking for the key, we went back to the restaurant where we ate dinner. We did not find the key, but we did find the camera we had left there.

Then we lost a bag of our laundry -- probably left at the laundromat.

Then we were walking to the car at the marina when somebody called out to us, "Is this your key?" The Mini key had fallen out of Chip's pocket onto the dock.

What has happened to us? We just have to laugh.

If we misplace the boat -- and doesn't that almost seem inevitable -- I'll be too ashamed to tell you.

Has anyone seen Chip?

Coconut Grove, Miami, FL 25º43.532N | 80º14.193W

RETURN TO SANITY

St. Augustine, FL 29º53.153N | 81º18.319W

Sunrise south of St. Augustine

I had a few words with that damned mooring ball in St. Augustine before I released it this morning at 7:05, not patient enough to wait for sunrise.

The reasons are not clear to me yet, but we've noticed a definite trend about cruising life: if we stay stationary for more than three days, we get restless, but the second the hull starts moving through the water, the restlessness just completely evaporates. We're suddenly productive and motivated to take on the world, almost giddy.

My fears of yesterday seem long ago and clearly overblown, but as first-time cruisers, we go through various stages of excitement, worry, joy, fear, confidence and lack thereof, all in the normal course of setting off on a new adventure. We are living a dream, not a daydream.

I remember telling our daughter as she was leaving for France last year, terrified, that nothing worth doing comes without fear. The greater the challenge, the greater the fear. Never let fear keep you from chasing your dream.

I do not view fear as a negative thing, just another element that must be harnessed, learned from, put in its proper perspective. It is normal to experience fear, cowardly not to admit it and foolish not to take its lessons.

We pulled into a marina in Daytona midafternoon -- into a slip coincidentally right beside friends from the Outer Banks who now live here. The four of us had a blast watching the Christmas boat parade from the bar next to the marina, one of those happy serendipitous moments of life on the water.

Daytona, FL 29º12.309N | 81º00.878W

Fishing boats heading north at sunrise.    ©2010 Tammy Kennon

Beautiful homes along the ICW.

Awesome trailer park sharing the same view with the mansions.

THINGS I SHOULD NOT DO

St. Augustine, FL 29º53.153N | 81º18.319W

[[INSERT PHOTO HERE]]

Me freaking out.  ©2010 Tammy Kennon

Yesterday I used the bad weather as an opportunity to be productive. Today, to mix things up, I tipped the other side of the scale. Really, really unproductive.

I was reading another cruiser's sailing blog, and apparently we read all the same news, because it was a discussion of two articles I had been obsessing over. First was the experienced sailor who was killed near Bermuda last week when his boat rolled 360º in heavy seas, the details of which I will not scare you with, but his crew of two survived. Then in a separate incident the Coast Guard has called off the search for a woman missing after her sailboat was swamped in the Abacos -- yes, the Bahamas. Again, no frightening details, but three other people onboard survived.

The blogger followed this recap of the dreadful sailing news with a thoughtful discussion of how he might improve the safety equipment on his own boat to avoid such disasters.

Dang, I respect people who can react in such a sane and practical way to this type of news.

After having read the same news stories, I had a thoughtful conversation with myself that ran more to WHAT THE HELL ARE WE DOING!!?!!?!?!

With several days in a row of sitting on a mooring listening to the wind howling and the mooring ball cracking on the side of the hull, my nerves are shot, my confidence low. The very thought of heading offshore seems remote, ill-advised, insane. Disaster seems certain. Dismasting inevitable. Death imminent.

Then I listened to some Christmas music and reminisced about fun times with the kids, who we won't see this holiday season, about friends and family faraway, probably sitting in front of fireplaces sipping eggnog.

Tomorrow, I'm planning a few paper cuts in the morning and severals drops of lemon juice in my eyes after lunch while scraping my fingernails on a chalkboard.

St. Augustine, FL 29º53.153N | 81º18.319W      <-- TIME TO GO!!!!!

OPEN WATER

Carolina Beach, NC 34º03.556N | 77º53.285W

We were told yesterday that we had nothing to fear but Cape Fear River itself.

Local knowledge and a little studying under our belts, we untied and motored into Snow's Cut, with, apparently, the same information as everyone else. There were two sailboats behind us, and out front was a veritable traffic jam.

Traffic, shallow water, tight squeezes. The entire trip has been claustrophobic.

But then, we rounded south out of the cut, crossing to the Cape Fear River, and the water opened up, the depth meter logging 30+ depths. Glorious.

All the other boats started putting up sails.

"If we're already going 8 knots, why would we put up sails?" I asked as the other boats flew past us.

Then, I started thinking, a pastime I always engage once my mouth has stopped flapping. Our displacement hull can only go 8 knots. But WAIT! The meter was using the GPS, telling us our speed over the surface of the globe, not through the water. What if we ran at full displacement speed on a running current? We could go faster!

I pulled out the staysail, the small sail between the mast and the jib, and quickly learned its limitations. The wind was almost full behind us, and the little sail running inside the lifelines couldn't catch enough wind.

That's when we pulled out the jib, the bigger sail on the front of the boat.

Starting at an already high 8.8 knots, we creeped up past 9 and topped out just above 10 knots. We were motorsailing, surfing, flying through water wide and deep. This is sailing.

How tempted we were to chase the Cape Fear right out into the even wider ocean where we dream of sailing on a four-hour tack across open water, the engine off, only the sound of water rushing across the hull. Yes.

Instead, not quite ready for water that open, we pulled into Southport in time for breakfast.

Wide open water. Soon.

Southport, NC 35º55.038N | 78º01.720W

Thanks to Barbara & Murray for dinner out in Oak Island.
And look at those homemade cookies from Barbara!

GET THERE WHEN I GET THERE

Swansboro, NC  34°41.07N | 77°7.289W

Steam rising off the water at sunrise in Swansboro, NC.

It was a bitter cold dawn in Swansboro. Dozens of small fishing boats buzzed around us on our way out of the harbor where we immediately fell behind an enchanting little catamaran named simply Ming. The boat was moving so slowly and deliberately, that we hailed him on the radio to see if perhaps he had timed his pace to make the bridge opening.

"No, I'll get there when I get there," said the disembodied voice.

It was tempting to pass Ming, but as we watched his movement, like some aquatic Pied Piper, we fell under his spell. All morning we kept pace, very slowly, just on Ming's stern as he moved left and right of the channel, seeking and usually finding the best route.

Our brush with the Ming dynasty.

Late morning, I was at the helm, sounding the depths with our two depth meters, a modern Mark Twain-ing that's tedious and nervewracking, keeping an eye on Ming's deliberate movement and keeping my own counsel, my goal always to avoid the shallows and a potential grounding, the fate of two boats we passed today. 

At one point, I was tense and tired from staring at the depth meter and referring to the GPS when I looked up at the vista before me.

I realized that with my nose down I was missing some of the Earth's great splendor. The moon overhead, marshes sprawling just off to port, stately Southern homes to starboard.

But nose down is how I've spent a lot of my life. These panoramas are no less stunning than the ones I left behind in the Outer Banks but how often have I failed to enjoy them. Our planet does not tuck her magnificence under a bushel. It takes some real effort to miss it, and yet ...

A few minutes ago, Chip said, "Sunrises and sunsets are ridiculously beautiful. I feel stupid for missing them most of my life. What was I thinking?"

Midafternoon I passed Ming in hopes of timing the last two bridges just right. We missed the first one by 10 minutes and had to wait another hour. Just as the bridge was about to open, I looked back to see Ming ghost up and respectfully take his place in line behind a row of sailboats waiting to pass.

Our day ended with a harrowing 30-minute wait at the Figure Eight Island Bridge, a wait that seemed much longer, in a strong current pushing us toward the bridge in heavy traffic. I throttled back, did a couple of 180s, pirouetted, did a pas de deux with another sailboat, backtracked and finally went through in a nail-biting rush of little recreational boats flitting under my bow, too close on the heels of a slow-moving sailboat ahead, straight into an unexpectedly shallow channel leading to our destination.

Exhausted after an 11 hour day, we anchored on our third try in a sketchy current running opposite a stiff wind in Wrightsville Beach, sending all the boats at anchor willy nilly -- and one bumping right into another upwind, its owners frantically trying to intervene.

As we were settling in, we looked up to see Ming tooling slowly into the now-calm anchorage, quietly dropping his hook in the glory of a technicolor sunset.

Wrightsville Beach, NC 34º12.39N | 77º48W