"All I ever heard, Redemption Songs"

-Bob Marley,  Redemption Song

The commander got a dog. Another dog. Or rather the commanders faithful crew got the dog…..another dog.

The first dog died.

And Kim and Savannah, if you read this, I know how it is to lose a critter.

Now don’t get me wrong. I still don’t think canines have any quarter on a boat (and I know there are chingos who would disagree). So maybe I better rephrase that…canines have no quarter on my boat. And after all, I have become sort of a feline person over the past few years. You see one does not own a cat….rather the cat owns a person, and I know for a fact they make good shipmates. Our cat is fixin to find out in short order too….

But this entry is not meant to be a canine versus feline debate, or the justifications thereof.

The last dog I owned (and loved) was a German Shorthaired pointer named Niko. He was my constant companion and we hunted together for several years during my quail slaughtering phase. Unfortunately, he was the victim, collateral, of a very bloody divorce. It wasn’t another year afterwards in the care of some stranger that Niko died, heart problems too. A broken heart.

I know how it is.

So I vowed to never own another dog after that.

I’ve told a tall tale already about fishing for halibut in Kodiak Alaska. At that time I had a big old dog. A Husky-Wolf cross. A gentle spirited, tequila drinking dog named Martell.

This big awkward dog DID belong on a boat, and on the docks.

One of things about dogs is their penchant for leaving bombs wherever, just picking a convenient spot and depositing their little gift. Cats are a lot tidier in my estimation, having the good sense to bury their excretory products.

Martell however was the exception to the rule. From the first time I even took him out on the docks, if there was no time for him to get to some outdoorsy-poop-arena he would just put his fantail over the side and grace the harbor with a turdboat, knowing that the strong tides and current would pull it out to the open sea. He was the cleanest dog I have ever known. Only problem was that dam tequila habit.

His -ahem- anal attitude towards cleanliness extended to the boat too. He'd just put his stern over the stern and let loose....

Now that is a dog worth owning. One like that can come aboard anytime.

AND he had the good sense to do this (most of the time) outside the three mile limit, thus upholding Marine Sanitation Laws.

"If you believe in things you don't understand, then you suffer......superstition ain't the way."

-Stevie Wonder, Superstition

Earlier in the week I was pretty tied up with my phony-baloney administrators job coordinating a bunch of upgrades to a County Park that is essentially, new.

These upgrades were spur of the moment type stuff designed to aggrandize the current commissioner, who was appointed after her husband, the former commissioner vapor locked in office about two years ago, and subsequently expired. Recently this commissioner was re-elected. So, in honor of the anniversary of the death of her dearly departed husband (who, by the way the park was renamed for), she decided to misappropriate a pretty substantial wad of County resource and add some additional accoutrements to the facility, throwing a pachanga grande (Big Political party, complete with beer, fajitas, rice and beans) out there on Wednesday.

Over the weekend, the winds had been pretty perfect for sailing, and I gnashed my teeth and watched in agony as just about the entire fleet streamed by on Saturday and Sunday while I was toiling in ‘Divs cockpit, mounting the plundered radome, chartplotter and radar displays. It was pretty maddening, but I had a task to do yasee…

Whistle while you work.

The wind started picking up on Monday, and by Tuesday as I was out in the Southmost area (about a mile from the border) ‘supervising’ the planting of a butterfly garden for this commissioners super-tailgate party it was beginning to gust fiercely, pushing the anemometer over forty.

On Wednesday a full tilt wind was raging, and dust, sand and lawn furniture were blowing about with great abandon. I was crossing the causeway from Port Isabel, watching the long muddy rollers, that had formed as a result of the incessant jen-aire hot wind, making the bay look like cappuccino, whitecapped and frothy. The confusion was offset by orderly spaced Langmuir currents, defined by green, dancing mats of Thalassia, the occasional pelican winging down into the heaving swell in search of a meal.

I was thinking that somewhere out there, in the natural and unseen world, perhaps this commissioner had violated some sort of precept, a ritual, or protocol unknown to me and had pissed off the weather.

Yep. I am not a particularly superstitious person, being a scientist and all, but as a sailor, I know there are just certain principals that must not be overlooked, or dishonored. A lot of this stems back to my early days on the northern seas fishing under the tutelage of ancient mariners and seaport scoundrels.

We all know the consequences of renaming a vessel without the proper procedure. It does spell consternation, aggravation and ultimate doom for the poor thing. So that is one element that I never overlook, with either my own boats (if they get renamed), or any other boat that I sail aboard that I suspect might have had a name change. For example, on the last voyage aboard Ciclon (and I will not even mention her former name lest I invoke the wrath of the sea), we had a bit of a mishap, which caused a valuable crewmember to suffer a serious accident and which caused us to bail from the race, I was concerned about whether the proper protocol had been followed. The commander however, ever adroit and observant to not only the scientific, but also the ritualistic, assured me that the proper protocol had been followed, and this was simply one of those ironic twists of fate.

I suggested that perhaps we re-perform the proper procedure, this time making sure that we too imbibe in the proper amount of 23 year old Ron Zacapa rhum. Hey, better safe than sorry.

When I was fishing out of Kodiak, I had a skipper aboard a vessel, the Bold Lady, who was very superstitious and ritualistic regarding the things of the sea. No getting underway on a Friday. NO OPENING CANS FROM THE BOTTOM (because then the boat might see this and want to follow the open can down, down below the waves). We used to jack with him regarding this one, taking the labels off of the cans, writing on the top and bottom what was inside…Hey doc? Which end is UP? NEVER turn a hatch cover upside down, because the boat might try and follow it down and sink, NO GREEN PLANTS ABOARD because the boat might want to try and follow the plant back to shore, ending up beached somewhere, and so on…..

“Days, precious days, they roll in and out like waves”

-Guy Clark, Boats to Build

Date: 29 April 2008 / Depart: 1430 PI Fingers / Arrive 1600 PI Fingers / Wind S, 10-12mph /Temp: 75 deg F / Tide: High / Water: Stained / Sky: Achingly Blue

I could not have imagined staying cooped up in my phony-baloney administrators cubicle all day yesterday. It was one of those precious days. You know the kind I’m talking about. One that in the end, if you missed it you’d pay all of the money you ever earned just to have another chance at. I am sure that in the end, if one’s proverbial life flashes before their eyes, there will be great regret about missing days such as this. For sure, it’s far better to regret something you have done, than something you haven’t done….

I was riding around Isla Blanca Park yesterday morning around 1000 in my phony-baloney administrators truck, windows down, IPOD tuned to a little “down south” music, watching the beautiful blue water in Brazos Santiago Pass pulse rhythmically along the granite jetties, surveying the offshore which was flattening out after a very late, very strong…but very short lived norther that the idea of bailing to go sailing overtook me like a narcotic.

Keeping myself contained (just barely), I drove back to the office, and called the commander, who was just hanging out over at the University, waiting for students to show up for some last minute tutoring before the finals. As he explains; “It’s the loneliest time in a professors life…..no one ever comes.” He continued in disgust, “and then they can’t understand why their grades are so low”. The commander’s altruistic limit had been reached, and so it didn’t take any convincing for him to appreciate the fact that it was a precious day.  He said he was on his way over as soon as he could get here. I offered my own administration a thin excuse, piled my stuff in the Caddy and roared off across the causeway in a cloud of sand and taillights…

In Port Isabel, we stopped for lunch and I called Island Time Jim to see if he wanted to go too. He said he’d check his schedule, and a moment later declared that since he is retired, he could probably make time to go out for awhile.

He just has to rub it in…..

The commander and I arrived at the boat, hurriedly making preparations, uncovering sails, hanking on the headsail, securing sheets, checking fluids and then in record time, I had the Universal purring as I hoisted the mizzen sail. Oh crap! I forgot to clip the stupid halyard to the headboard, and up goes the stupid thing halfway up the mast. A bit of creative boat hook brings it right down, and I go through the drill again. Only this time I the stupid halyard is outside one of the mizzen mast stays and the sail fouls half way up. Down it comes again, and this time I finally get it right.

It’s not a shameful thing at all. This is what happens when one lets matters as trivial as work come between them and sailing.

Jim arrives and we are immediately underway, chugging out into a beautiful afternoon. Outside the marker, I slow the engine head into the wind as he and the commander hoist the sails. And of course that’s when the litany of things that happen whenever one trades work for sailing began…..the cutter stay needed to be taken off and secured to the mast so that the jib would go through the triangle without having to be walked through, the port jib sheet car needed adjustment, the starboard jib sheet had a chingaso and so forth. And then of course, the sails needed to be trimmed.

By this time I am at my administrative, phony-baloney best, a true public servant, letting others do things for me, as the sun warms my shoulders and I hold the boat into the wind. Jim scoots aft and adjusts the tension on the port jib sheet, wryly commenting on this, and I agree, straight faced.

If you have followed this journey, you know that my background is large commercial fishing vessels, and all of my sailboats to this point have been tiller operated. Olivia is my first wheel- steered sailboat. So for the longest time, I have applied the big power boat mentality to the wheel on ‘Div, often fighting the sails as the boat oscillates back and forth, until finally I have incrementally gotten it on a course. It is particularly bad at low speeds, light winds, when there is slow and sloppy rudder response.

I just figured that’s the way it is.

Island Time Jim noticed me fighting the wheel, and corrected this action, telling me to just let the boat go where it wants, make small corrections from there, and I’d be surprised with the results. Let the boat just head up. Well, I did, and I was. Something new learned, and of course it makes perfect sense, thinking about it in terms of a tiller especially. It was just a habit. Yesterday I became a better sailor thanks to my friends. And that’s what it’s about too.

Feeling even more administratively lazy, I turned the helm over to Jim, got myself a cold Tecate and settled back in the cockpit as we tacked back and forth east to west, only making good a little south. But, getting somewhere yesterday was not the point. No, we were already somewhere. I would not have traded that afternoon with anybody at that point. It was of course, precious. Good friends, a little wind, an ice cold beer…..how could that be topped?

We heard the exhalation of a couple of dolphins and turned to see a pair crossing astern, heading out toward the intracoastal where others were pounding the water, obviously feeding along the edge of the ditch.

It was getting close to 1600, and the commander had to get going in order to pick up his daughter, Savannah, so reluctantly we spun around and sailed almost all the way to the entrance before starting the iron genny sliding towards the slip, gently nosing in and tying off. All chores were accomplished within about 15 minutes, I closed down the companionway hatch, bidding Olivia farewell for a little while. It was a precious day.

I had debated adding this entry, but, reading it over decided to anyhow. It's not exactly nautical (actually not nautical at all), so if that matters just skip it.

But if you wanna experience what we did yesterday, than read on.

1001 Beach Street

“Y cunado llueve yo recuerdo”

-Tish Hinojosa When It Rains / Cuando Llueve

There is a street in Laguna Vista Texas that overlooks the Laguna Madre Bay to the east. It is a street of affluence, and many of the houses are valued in the mid to upper six figures and beyond. Mostly newly constructed, they reflect the success of businessmen, real estate agents, professionals and others who work to provide services to South Padre Island, whose high rises are visible from patio sliding glass doors on the clear, hot summer days out on the distant horizon looking for all the world like geometric blocks jutting above the low sandy barrier island some eight miles to the east.

The bay here has a rough-shod beauty, and when the winds are light from the east, it is often clear and blue-green on this western shoreline, revealing dark sea grass beds and bright sandy potholes in its shallow depths which grade upward into dry secretive monte, sentinels of Yucca and Mesquite overlooking dense zacate populated by rattlesnake, bobcat, quail and dove. There is a harsh timelessness here, dusty and inhospitable.

During the middle twentieth century, the shoreline of Laguna Vista, as well as the old town site were composed of mostly vacation homes belonging to folks from the mid and upper Rio Grande Valley, a bedroom community to the Island, a place that offered quick access to the prime fishing spots along the western shoreline of the Laguna Madre. Some of the houses on Beach street, on the west side of the street are original homes, constructed as far back as the 1940’s. Some have been restored; some are in the process of being restored, and some are left in rundown ramshackle existence, testaments to another more charitable  time in our history. Regardless of condition, property values here are high, as is the case in any place where the view is that of the water.

We had recently been house hunting again, looking for a place that was large enough to accommodate our family, and it’s newest member, my father, who at 88 years old had suffered a minor stroke, necessitating him to move in with us so that we could give him a little help. We had tried to purchase a house in the old town site, on Ebony Street, but because of realtors inattention and a myriad of unresolved “issues”, after seven months of trying to close the deal, I finally bailed on the thing in abject disgust. So it was back to square one. And I didn’t really feel like house hunting again after that experience. No, if it was up to me, I would move everybody onto the boat, and live there from now until the indistinct future, let this current whirlwind of economic uncertainty pass. With my Dad though, it just wasn’t possible.

So we were relegated to the great house search again. Something that would fit us, and him. And there is no shortage of houses right now either, what with the housing market downturn raging in full boogie tilt mode. No, houses are plentiful and the prices are falling along with the market.

Since this last disgusting experience, I had formed the opinion that real estate agents were basically spoiled adult-children, selfishly awaiting their commish, while they lazily attended daily wine and cheese socials, basking in the largesse of rich yuppies who bought houses more as an investment strategy than as a home. It was my observation as well, that these days are now gone forever, and they had better ship up or shape out…adopt a new hungry attitude and get to work. And that point was validated by my friend JJ who owns Coastal Auto in Laguna Heights, who noted that he had several cars in his shop that the owners could not pay the repair bill on, owners who just happened to be realtors.

It was with this in mind that I hesitatingly retained Christine, a realtor whom we have known for some time from the Church we tend to attend on a semi-annual basis.

In the process, we decided to move my father to a gated condo community in Laguna Vista for several months while we continued to hunt for a suitable house. The closest was a nice complex right on the bay, the Bridgeview. Last week a real estate agent was showing us a unit, and as usual I began my anti-realtor diatribe, describing in lurid detail the events of the past seven months and how it was due to the inattention and carelessness of realtors that the sale of the house on Ebony had been lost. In the course of our conversation, he mentioned that the house across the street from him on Beach Street was for sale. The owner was asking around two hundred fifty thousand, but he was sure that an offer of a hundred forty something would take it. And he himself had already sold the house several times.

Later, after we finished up at Bridgeview, we drove over to Beach Street, less than a mile away, and located the house, a white brick, low, flat 1960’s vintage place, with an enclosed front porch and a recessed entrance. The outside looked benign and tranquil, the front yard dominated by a large flowering poinsettia.  And there was a clear view of the bay across the street through a vacant lot. We were intrigued enough to call Christine and see if we could arrange to see the inside of the place. It looked to have all sorts of potential. Definitely a fixer upper, but one that just might be worth it.

On Tuesday Christine called and said that she had several houses for us to look at, including the one on Beach Street.

About six-thirty we met her at another two story house, a recent upgrade on Palm Street and took a walk through. The owners had nicely furnished the house in tropical décor, avocado and mango walls accenting the Rousseaus and Picassos hung tastefully throughout. Coral and other classy nautical flotsam and jetsam adorned baskets, and brightly patterned window treatments hung from driftwood curtain rods. Over the refrigerator a lacquered paper-mache parrot kept watch along with a dark wooden African war mask.

The house neither inspired nor depressed me. It was just another house.

Please understand that I am a conservative individual by nature and politics, I am trained in the classical sciences and I tend to try and explain things in terms of natural process, mathematics and statistics. It makes the universe a much more orderly place to do so. I am a natural skeptic regarding what the new-agers call paranormal. However, I am convinced that the world we live in is certainly more complex and in some areas incomprehensible to us. I consider myself an unashamed Christian, and so I believe in the dichotomy of the soul, ultimate good and ultimate evil, in the cosmic struggle that we are privilege to in poetic verse.

I do not avail myself to popular culture and television shows such as haunted houses, demonic possession and the like. Nor do I (generally) watch horror flicks, although as a normal 60’s American kid I would watch the Saturday afternoon monster movies, things like The Mummy, The Creature from the Black Lagoon and The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

That was a long time ago.

But, houses in general seem to retain some of the energy of their past occupants. Through the course of my wandering and gypsy existence I have owned, leased and rented a number of abodes.  Some of the houses, apartments and condos remained sterile in their impression, unaffected by the colorless past souls who lived there. A few have only retained a diffident façade of former occupants, vague impressions of either tranquility or chaos. An even fewer had an almost tangible aura, usually one of unsettled and troubled existences of tenants now absent. I am sure that I am not alone in being able to detect this. I think it’s like a child’s coloring book. Sometimes the pictures are colored lightly, almost gossamer with little dots of wax adhering to the almost imperceptible texture of the paper, other times a heavy slick coat laid down by an angry hand.

And so, this house seemed almost neutral, with no perceptible past, and it felt sanitized and disinfected. As we walked to our cars to drive over to Beach Street, I told Christine that it would remain on the list.

The afternoon was waning, softening towards a warm spring evening as we drove across the main street, Santa Isabella on our way to the house on Beach Street. Dee told me that Christine had mentioned that the house had a lot of issues (realtors love this buzz word) and that we should go in before her, get our impression of the place. She mentioned that there were a lot of different tile combinations, wall combinations, and that a lot of work would be needed to bring it up to date.

We parked and waited by the door in the sky lit breezeway that gave tenant to dry and dying landscaping plants in planters that once had obviously been arranged in an attempt to brighten the features. The lawn now desiccated and brown, was interspersed and overgrown with native burrs, heliotrope and buffalo grass.

Christine drove up and before opening the door mentioned that the realtor who was actually in charge of this property mentioned that her client had to sell the place, and just to bring some sort of reasonable offer……

She turned the key in the lock and the door swung open.

Inside, in the dimming light an unkempt vista of dark green eighties carpet greeted us. The walls were cedar tongue and groove, wainscoted in places. There was a hodgepodge of Saltillo tile along with several other styles, culminating in a faux-flagstone tile in the front, which was obviously a screen porch enclosed to now be additional living space. On the kitchen counter bar, were a number of pennies. For some inexplicable reason, I was drawn to them as if by a magnet.

My insides began to churn.

A vague nausea began to grip me from the solar plexus, as if I were being pulled….pulled somewhere. Despite my attention to the house layout, I felt a strange almost tangible sense of melancholy….no….a sense of something ineffable, something more like despair, and it begin to overtake me.

I did not let on.

Continuing down the hall, I glanced in the bedrooms, simple affairs, bare brick on the exterior walls. The first bedroom had a Gatorade bottle lying on the floor, in a pile of what looked like perhaps some sort of shards of shattered glass. The feeling of unsettlement grew stronger.

The adjacent bathroom was dark, and so I continued down the hall to the next bedroom which was much like the last, except it had an integral restroom. Lying on the floor of the shower was a child’s rubber duck. I stared at it for a moment, experiencing an overwhelming sense of sadness.

By now the feeling of despair was growing to an almost perceptible level, and I could almost feel as if the house were literally muttering and mumbling, speaking words in a language that I could almost understand, but did not want to.

And I began to feel as though we were being watched, as wave upon wave of electric terror began to work its way from my center outwards to my extremities.

Further down the hall, was a large room with chaotic storage areas and a strange huge shower with two shower heads inside the claustrophobic bathroom, dimly lit by diffuse light that poured in through high small windows, and by now I just wanted to be outside.

Still, I did not let on.

Back in the living room, and past another door leading through a laundry room, into another room which I suppose might’ve been maids quarters. All doors to the outside, except for the main door were locked, and so we retreated back to the front door, and went outside and around to the dry and barren back yard, taking stock of the sprinkler system, cut down Ash tree and general malaise that seemed to be creeping outward from the inside of the house.

Dee wanted to go back inside one more time. So we went back inside as the sun continued to sink low in the west, illuminating a shaft of light down the hallway in a sad and hopeless way. I went out to the car to get a flashlight so that I could get a better idea what the bathroom adjacent to the first room looked like. By this time I was beginning to feel quite terrified, with no rational reason, and I just wanted to be gone from there. But I played along, keeping up my banter regarding what needed upgrading, trying unsuccessfully to cost estimate in my head as the house continued to mumble and mutter.

Still, I did not let on.

Standing in the living room, I did as I always do in any house that I am looking at with the intent to perhaps purchase, or at least live in. I try to imagine myself and all of us there somewhere down the road. Sometimes it’s easy, other times not so easy. Some houses I can see myself in, in years to come, either ambivalent to that particular picture, or usually at best comfortable with it; others houses I can and don’t like the picture so much, and so they don’t remain long on the list….

I could imagine neither in this house. Looking down that subdued sunlit hall as if through some sort of hidden prism, a sickening kaleidoscope began to grip my inner eye. It was death. No not physical death, but eternal death. It was the corporeal removal from good and light. It was vacuum, it was evil, it was darkness, despondency and despair.

It was a vision of hell, the eternal separation from God.

We finally turned to leave, and still I did not let on, even after thankfully venturing into the outside. I felt that whatever was in that house had extended long tendrils around my innermost being and was trying to pull me back inside. By now the hair was standing up on my arms, on the back of my neck as we told Christine goodbye and closed the car doors.

Once away from the house on Beach Street, I turned to Dee and all I could think of to say was; “I don’t EVER want to go back there again.” Her normally tanned face pale, reflecting shock and horror, and she was soon echoing my sentiment. “You felt it TOO?” she asked. “That’s why I wanted to go back in….just to make sure.”

I told her that I have on occasion had dreams about this sort of thing, houses that were like this, and this house was that dream. Not a sense of deja-vu, but the literal feelings of terror and despair from the dream that I always awoke from…..only this was no dream

Soon we were both babbling almost incoherently about what had happened. “I need a drink” I said “a strong drink”, and started heading back towards our house. On the way we ran into Christine who was driving by another house for us to look at. I rolled down the window and blurted out:

“There’s something terribly wrong with that house we just looked at.”

She looked at me incredulously and said: “You could feel it too?, I’m nauseated even!”….and she told us how the day before she had gone in by herself and experienced the same thing, how she didn’t want to go back, and that’s why she wanted us to go in first.

After this unsettling conversation, we started back towards the house, but by this time we just wanted to be many miles away from the thing. We could still feel some sort of tentacles, tendrils trying to pull us back for whatever reason, and so we decided that perhaps we’d go over to Gabriellas and have some strong alcohol and try and forget about it….at least try and soften it up.

At Gabriellas it was not quite so easy, and for me I viewed every person with some sort of irrational paranoia as though they were complicit in this event. I felt strangely dirty, as though my soul had been dragged through excrement.  And the nausea was still there, the gripping at the solar plexus. Finally after a few drinks the terror began to lift ever so slightly, but still we both sat there looking shell shocked and zombie like.

Ironically as we continued to drink nervously, Christine called and informed us that she had mentioned to a realtor friend of hers that she had shown us a house on Palm Street and the house on Beach Street.

Her friend told her that the house on Palm Street, the one I felt was so neutral, had been the scene of a suicide years before, when some border patrol agent, for whatever reason decided to give himself a heavy lead lobotomy. “Ahh” I figured, “so that’s why they remodeled it!”….still this information did nothing to change my impression of it. Perhaps that’s because often time suicide is a spur of the moment act, and probably not one that leaves much more than the physical splatters of brain and bone on walls.

But the house on Beach Street? Some sort of pervasive ongoing evil must have been committed there, over a period of time. However, Christine’s friend did not know.

I did not sleep well last night, tossing and turning, vivid strange, abstract dreams that I do not fully recall.

I wonder if the house on Beach Street will ever sell? I know that there are people who are insensitive to what we experienced and so it just might. What will happen then?

"Do you think you can help me with this" Nicholai asked? "Does asparagus make your piss stink?" Le Cagot replied."

Trevanian, Shibumi

Last week, Island Time Jim stopped by while I was dropping some stuff off at ‘Div and asked me how crazy I really was……I didn’t have to think about it for too long. “You know me” I said, “I’m muy crazy”.

“Good” he replied, as we drove over to the  Bass Street Marina to check out a certain 27 foot Catalina that some guy up in Corpus had just purchased on E-Bay for like 2,600 dollars. “’Cause the new owner wants us to deliver the boat up to Corpus next weekend, and willya take a look at this thing?”

Now believe me, project boats are no stranger to me, they followed me around for a good many years, until I finally did the math and realized that there is just a point of diminishing returns on the things, and so since ‘Div, I have made a conscious effort not to even look at a boat that resembled a project. Most of you know what I mean. Today, just the thought of a project boat makes me tired. We’ve all re-bedded stanchions, fixed blisters, chased rigging, cussed corroded electrical systems, railed against reticent engines redolent of years of neglect. The list is endless, and it seems as if the project boat will never sail away from the dock. And oftentimes, it doesn’t. No, it’s bad enough with an upgraded, well taken care of vessel. So it was with a modicum of distant amusement that I surveyed this old girl.

I had seen this condition before. Too many times

An obvious well developed reef surrounded the waterline, a true marine biology project, great billowing growths of algae, oysters, tunicates, barnacles, and all other manner of warm water marine growth gently waving in the translucent water. Fat mullet nibbled gingerly at the growth and further below one could make out the form of a spadefish or two barely visible in the inky depth. A true ecosystem had evolved since the last time this boat was untied and taken into open water.

Above the waterline, a hodgepodge of accumulated nautical detritus was stuffed into the cabin, which itself had become a science project in mold and mildew culture. The cockpit contained the usual spaghetti conflagration of lines and fenders, all faded and brittle from prolonged neglect and exposure to the relentless latitude 26 sun.

From the stern hung a 9.9 outboard, lower unit above the water, by just inches.

 “Check this out” Jim muttered as he took hold of the power head, gently twisting the engine on the bracket, indicating with his eyes, at the stern which bulged in and out like the bottom of an oil can.

We both knew that this Clorox bottle would never make it on the outside for a ride up the coast. No, we were going to have to try and coax it up the intracoastal waterway, up the ditch…..

The remainder of the week was spent getting things ready (mostly by Island Time Jim, who, being retired, promptly put himself to work on the project). On Wednesday I bailed early from my phony baloney administrators job and went over to help lift off the engine and install a ¾” plywood backing plate, which somewhat shored up the stern. We hoped it would last at least to Corpus. But we did, after all have sails, and with any luck we would have a reach all the way.

After we re-mounted the engine and hung the outboard, I donned the dive gear and plopped into the water, scraping the hull clean in about an hour and a half. The water line rose a good inch and a half.

Thursday, final preparations were being made while the arrival of a late season norther was being anticipated.  

Friday, the norther came, and Jim fiddled and fiddled with the carburetor from the 9.9, never getting the engine to run for more than a few minutes. Finally in frustration, he called and said that it looked like the engine wasn’t going to cooperate. Perhaps a long neglected piston had corroded through.

The trip was off.

So Saturday, which was to have been another anniversary of my birth, underway this year, was spent watching the twins perform folklorico dance  in McAllen at a baby fair (and DON’T ask me about this).

Returning Saturday evening, we got together with Island Time Jim and Janice to go out to eat, but first, a little birthday present.

Jim knows that I have been closing in on a big boat for big escapes, and so here was his contribution, MY NEW BOAT:

It is Tuesday now, and yesterday we dropped the mast on the Clorox bottle Catalina, securing it to the deck. I am waiting a phone call so as to bail once again from my phony baloney administrators job and help Jim tow the thing over to South Point, where the Travel-Lift will pull it out of the water and we will load it on to a big trailer so that the owner can truck it to Corpus……

……Then he’ll get his first taste of a true project boat.

“Trim my sails to greet the breaking morning, past the headlands to the open rolling sea

And it comes to me

I have never been so free

As when I’m listening to the song of the sea”

-Dan Fogelberg, Song of the Sea

I went to a Port Isabel Planning and Zoning Committee meeting last night with Island Time Jim and Janice. On the way in we were talking about one of the items.

Doug (Wind Fit) was going to comment on the Cities general lack of attention to the Tow Boat US operation being run out of a residential area next door to Wind Fit and Olivia. It has become a major sore point with Doug, who prizes his solitude and peace within his heavily forested compound next door. He becomes irate with ‘smogboat’ every time he fires up the decrepit vessels, which belch dense clouds of smoke, and discharge never ending sheens of soot and oil on the water, not to mention the wake the operator throws with apparent impunity, so far immune to any City ordinance (even though they are there, just un-enforced).

I have had my own history with the owner of the smogboats.

In 2003 we suffered an accidental fire which destroyed everything we owned, including our land yacht, a 36’ motor home. Not to rehash an old tragedy, we found ourselves under threat of lawsuit by the smogboat owner, who we were leasing the property from. I’ll spare the gory details, but suffice to say that we were in the right, and a bitter dispute arose….resulting in all of us here at Olivia’s mooring carrying around a lot of anger for many years against this pathetic little fella.

For the past several years as those of you who know us from this journey are aware, we have participated in the lighted Christmas parade….and so has smogboat. I have viewed the event as a sort of time of laissez-faire, and I would push my disdain for this guy aside for that one particular event. Following this year however, I made a stalwart resolution to just stop being angry at the guy. Not that I like him….no far from it. It’s hard to elicit a response as strong as  “like” or “hate” towards someone you have no respect for, so I simply let my anger go over this, and offered an olive branch by no longer actively walking around pissed off with the guy. Anyway, I do know the way karma works too…..

Whatcha do comes back around to you.

I told this to Island Time Jim on the way in to the meeting. Said I just didn’t have enough anger to go around any more….not at this stage of my life. I’m just getting too old to be pissed off (unless it’s quite necessary of course).

Every year around about this time I allow myself the luxury of personal reflection. This year is no different. With very close to another years worth of mileage under my keel, I turn around and look back at all of the things that go together to create the lights and the brightly painted ponies of this crazy merry go round ride.

First, I am most thankful for my family, who put up with the nonsense and madness on a daily basis that define the vessel that is me. I am left quiet and contemplative by them.

Then there are those who make up the many pages of the story.

I am thankful and humbled by my friendship with people who will leave indelible marks on my soul regardless of where I travel.

Among these are the commander, whom I have crossed a few miles of open water with, somebody who I would trust in a full gale, either on or off the water. There’s Captain Sean, who I’d like to be just like if I ever grow up – my admiration extends to his youth and his commitment to travel from one adventure to the next, unencumbered by the mandates of society. There’s Island Time Jim and Janice, both only a couple of steps beyond on the journey, mentors of both the sea and life, people one feels comfortable to just be around and say nothing to…which is my highest compliment to friends.

I stop and think of Gary, and Roach of Sol Mate, friends and brothers who took me to the pinnacle of my fishing  career, an honor and a debt that could never be repaid. There's Doug of Wind Fit, a true sailing fool. And of course there’s Art, Valerie, Olivia and August. I see them in every line and loving restoration to the boat each and every time I am there. Far from buying just a boat, we became lifelong friends with this amazing family.

There’s those who read the pages of the story and share in the steps of the strange dance that it weaves in and out of time. They too leave their mark on the sails of my ship, in the logbook of my life.

I’m thankful for Don and Donna, Lee and his hairless cat ET, Littleman and Emily, just a few of the friends who drop in and see what’s going on here. And there’s our distant cruising friends -  Magna Carter, Holding Pattern, Storyville and Sereia all journeys that we follow, take part in and live vicariously, journeys that encompass thousands of miles distant oceans. We hungrily follow all of their triumphs and tribulations which in turn color the pages of our own story.

And there are others as well. There are the actors, the players, the jesters and clowns. People who inhabit the tall tales of my stories.

Mark,  Dockboy and Dock Mama, DB2 and the Cussing Man and all of the other flotsam and jetsam that wash ashore in this coastal community with each ebb and flow of life’s tide.

There's even the smogboats owner...

In an odd and almost twisted way, I am grateful to them as well. Because without their presence there would be no tall tales and stories

I have vowed to come about, assume the starboard tack into the wind this year. Sheet the sails in tight and just hang on as the little ship bounces over uncharted and unfamiliar seas. I have made a promise to myself to write more, try and assemble some new stories and tales into some sort of chronicle outside the pages of Olivia’s Journey.

Changes are in the wind.

Thank you all.

Date: 04-06-08 / Depart: 1600 Port Isabel Fingers / Arrive 1830 Port Isabel Fingers / Wind Dir: E Wind Speed: 12-18/ Skies: Clear / Water: Stained / Seas 2’ / Tide: Standing high to falling / Temp: 82 deg F. / Water Temp: 75 deg F.

It’s getting to be that time of the year again. The indeterminate, very transitional period between the non-existent spring and the dreaded days of summer. The H season is still almost two months away, and sailboats are venturing out like there is no tomorrow, all weaving a frenetic dance between fishing skiffs cris-crossing the Laguna Madre once again in search of redfish, trout and flounder all just getting active, hungry following several months of cold water inactivity. On the south side of the causeway, parasail boats haul customers around in obnoxious circles, acting for all intent and purpose as if they are the only vessels on the bay, presenting ever present challenges to sailors trying to tack across the lower part of the mother lagoon towards the open Gulf of Mexico.

Friday found me ducked out from my phony-baloney administrators job after lunch, bored with the SOS that has become de rigueur around here. I just needed a little sanity maintenance, and so pleading that the caddy was running poorly and needed to go to the shop (and it really was / did), I holed up over at Olivia, doing a few chores down below before the afternoon sun became too hot, driving me topside in search of a fishing rod that I cast into the channel sans bait, hoping nothing would touch the bare hook, a ploy to at least look somewhat productive as I lounged in a deck chair, hidden behind very dark sunglasses.

The day was going well, Doug (Wind Fit) occupying the other deck chair and we chatted, mostly about nothing in particular as the afternoon slipped quietly along like a boat under sail….

-Until-

Island Time Jim came peddling down, telling me that D needed me to call immediately.

The rest of the afternoon and part of the evening were spent in agitated productivity, moving furniture from the garage of the now cancelled new home port, something we should’ve done several days earlier when we negated the deal (hey, we tried to deal with the stupid real estate agents for over seven months, and I finally just had enough….so it’s back to square one). Because real estate sales are so very few and far between this action created a chain of events that caused the realtors (and the property owner) to gnash their collective teeth, stomp their collective feet, and howl collective evil venom at your humble narrator.

The cherished sanctity of the afternoon was broken by the demon, work…..Thank goodness Island Time Jim helped us out, lending his ever wry and astute sense of observation to the event. Afterward we barbequed some hot dogs, finishing off the evening with a round of Pussers rum. A surprisingly delightful, aromatic  elixir…..

So Sunday I was quite ready to set sail for awhile. Because of a multitude of other commitments, which finally seemed to sort of taper off by the late afternoon, we finally managed to cast off the dock lines and chug out of the harbor into a pretty windy afternoon. White caps were already forming on the bay, which was still a little ticked off following a late season short lived cold front. I decided to motor under the causeway, and set sail on the south side, letting D have the helm, and just enjoying the afternoon, busying myself with pre- sail setting chores.

On the south side, as usual the wind was a bit more piped up as I hoisted up the main (having earlier set the mizzen), and jib, ‘Div rolling onto her port side as I changed spots with D, wending our way through three parasail boats that were making a nuisance of themselves. We spent the next hour and a half maneuvering among them, heading toward the powerlines, but never crossing through.

Just to lazy to tack, tack, and tack.

The wind started turning gusty, and on one close haul, sheeted up tight Olivia hit about a 25 degree heel, and things down below went crash, all over the cabin sole. Sailing is a good exercise to weed out what needs to be tied down or stowed better. My personal motto is “anything that can fly…..will”.

Since we were both feeling a bit indolent, we turned downwind and slothfully run back toward the causeway underpass, crossing through as the day began to wane. Past the Pirates Landing pier we doused the jib, steaming along past a lone bay boat on the anchor. As we got ready to shut down the main and mizzen another skiff came haulinass out of the fingers, slowing down alongside the anchored boat, handing the lone occupant a 5 gallon jerry can of gas which he promptly poured into his tank. A rather Samaritan act…Then they both fired up, and I guess felt obligated to come blasting by us close enough to grace us with their rooster tails as they headed back into the fingers.

It is hard for me to not hold these moronic weekenders in righteous contempt. Every day I put up with their high speed noisy entrances, sometimes only several feet from Olivia’s stern there in the harbor. They are for the most part pathetically oblivious to their lack of respect and manners, ignorant of good boating skills. And no amount of yelling, cajoling or browbeating will change that fact.

Back inside the harbor, we steam up to the dock. Doug and some folks are barbequing, just partying away, and several of them come out on the dock to handle lines. I miss the first pass as the current is beginning to flow now, but the second time around nose ‘Div gently into her slip and we attach the mooring lines. We take care of the various chores, stow the headsail and sheets, cover the booms, clip off the halyards, adjust the topping lifts and sheets, stow the cockpit cushions, reattach the cutter stay, cover up the winches, offload ice chest and nav bag before relaxing on the dock with the other itinerant sailors, where we had a most excellent cheeseburger and a huge caguama of Modelo beer.

On Saturday (the day before) my passport arrived in the mail. Guess what that means?

I had Monday off…..didn’t even realize it.

And yes, unfortunately I am still a card carrying member of the petit bourgeois, not being quite a gentleman of leisure, just yet. I have however, been thoroughly negated at my phony-baloney administrators position, relegated to menial, mostly meaningless tasks (hey, but that might actually be the purpose of phony-baloney administration to begin with….hmmmmmm, food for thought). All of this and more for opening my mouth and making observation of things that cannot be changed by mere mortal. Things like graft, corruption and mismanagement of public resource. Ahhh, but this entry has nothing to do with that…

No, it has to do with having Monday off, which was a true phony-baloney holiday, Cesar Chavez day. Now just whointhehell was Cesar Chavez one might query? Well, Cesar Chavez is the (now deceased) reason behind why grapes cost like $10 a pound in the US. He unionized farm workers to hold the big, nasty US farms hostage, thus ensuring higher prices, eventually forcing the majority of US-American agriculture South, across the border, leading to things like NAFTA.

Enough of this uber-conservative rant for now though….I shouldn’t give a you-know-what who they canonize, as long as it results in a little boat time for you-know-who.

So anyway, I showed up at my phony-baloney administrators workplace, and nobody was there. I thought (hoped) for just a millisecond that perhaps some sort of space / time continuum thing had occurred, and everyone on the planet (except myself) had been transported into an alternative universe, and I was left alone to enjoy the day.

But no such luck.

JR at the park gate told me it was a county holiday (he couldn’t remember which one though), and after verifying this fact with Shorty, who was ostensibly sweeping a parking lot over by the first pavilion, but was really using his broom as a prop for his head,  leaning on it, contemplating the endless surf rolling in here at latitude 26. I immediately headed over to Olivia determined not to waste a single second of this windfall.

First I cleaned the raw water strainer, which was getting pretty stuffed with Thallasia (turtle grass), running ‘Divs iron heart for awhile after that.

And one chore leads to another.

I’ve noticed a bit of smoke lately, and being the ever retentive owner that I am, I finally changed out the big dual fuel filters for the first time since I’ve owned her. It was about time too. The fuel inside looked like honey, and chunks of rust lay at the bottom of the filter housing (no, I don’t have Racors, I have BIG industrial filters, designed for ships of like, 100’+). Island Time Jim, was returning from a trip to the local grocery store and poked his head in the companionway, asking me if I was working or just screwing off. I wasn’t sure I understood. Of course I was screwing off, after all it was a holiday - Cesar Chavez Day. But I was working too, doing vital and necessary – long overdue chores to Olivia.

I told him I would stop down later on maybe really take a little while off… Visit him and ol’ Ron Zacapa.

But first I needed to check the heat exchanger zinc, battery bank fluids, swab down the bilge (yes, it’s clean enough to eat out of), add a little block to the main sail outhaul, repair the forward hatch hinge, install the new DSC VHF radio (one of the plunder items from the good ol’ San Jue-ahn), sailkote the wheel and sail track,  and drag some small stuff up the stick for rigging up new Lazy Jacks and a guy for the whisker pole.

Anyone who thinks that having a boat is all about fun and relaxation, obviously doesn’t own one.

Around 1600 D showed up with the twins. She mentioned that she was going to go walking in the evening, leaving the topic open for me to volunteer accompaniment. I just rolled my eyes, stating that the hardest work that I felt up to at that point was maybe a couple reps of twelve ounce curls.

I had hoped to be able to dive the hull (something I’ve been putting off until the water warms up), but by 1800, it was just too late, and besides, by that time the twins were heavily absorbed in fishing, and so I reposed in the cockpit on a beanbag, propped up against the house, watching the late afternoon sun fade away.

I never did make it to Jim and Janices, before finally heading back to LV around 2100.

My former assistant at the University Lab has taken over with the San Juan 23 that Island Time Jim and I moved over behind Don’s house recently. He seems pretty enthusiastic with her, and so I will try and help him out as much as possible. Right now, he doesn’t know the difference between a halyard and a headstay. Kind of reminds me of me at one point.

Mark finally vacated the marina. The Old Salts(farts) club helped him get the battery on his new(old) motor home charged up, and pointed him in the right direction – down the street. He promptly drove off into the sunset, west, right down Tarpon Street, hooked a left on Highway 100 and moved into the Travelers RV Park, overlooking the harbor, and you guessed it, Anchor….errrr I mean Pelicans Point Marina.

"In the east the wind is blowing the boats across the sea. Their sails will fill the morning and their cries ring out to me. Man, man your time is sand, your ways are leaves upon sea" - Al Stewart Eyes of Nostradomus

Date: 03-20-2008 / Depart: 1800 Tarpon Street / Arrive 2030 Tarpon Street / Wind: SSE 6-12 / Tide: Rising / Water Color: stained blue / Skies: Clear / Temp: 75 deg F. / Seas: neg. /

I swear Olivia, I swear I will not wait so long to take you out for a stroll again.

Thursday afternoon rolled around, with a gentle easterly breeze, warm oh so perfectly warm, around 75 degrees F, the water clearing up from  stained brown to it’s tropical azure blue, the entire world seemed to be in sync as I struggled to cross back over a causeway crowded with spring breakers and pinche frescas, almost rear ending people several times as my sight remained fixed on the bay below…..

I had promised to meet the commander at Renaissance, lend him my heavy duty rechargeable drill to do a bit of repair work. I figured on having a cocktail or two, while watching him work. But suddenly I was overcome with guilt remorse, and the strongest need to tug up the canvas that I think I have ever had. It’s just been far too long….So I called my erstwhile crew to assemble an ice chest of cool and refreshing beverages, grab the nav bag and get to Olivia.

Once aboard I busied myself rigging up the big genny, the sheets, uncovering sails and casting off duplicate lines in anticipation of a sunset cruise on the bay. The commander called, having just dismissed his class and I told him my plans. He said he’d be there ASAP.

After what seemed like eternity, the crew finally showed up, and I fired up the engine, backing out into the placid late afternoon water. Rounding the corner the infernal dredge was blocking the channel, and there was a maze of PVC pipe leading in no specific direction toward marker 17. I gave the dredge operator a shrug, and he pointed lazily at the eastern part of the channel, the part where the sandbar is the worst. Figuring that it was now navigable-deep, I crowded over to that side, dangerously close to the dredge pipe on the other, and immediately started dragging the keels…..Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, lean on the throttle, hunt the bow back and forth and finally we began to creep off. I can’t believe how long this tiny dredge has been trying to clear up the hazardous shoal in front of the harbor mouth. Months now. I figure it’s like the case of Sisyphus rolling the stone up the hill, just in time to have it roll back down again. Perhaps this effort is the same study in inefficiency….just as they get one part dredged out, another fills in, as soon as the get it dredged out, the part they were just working on fills in. A perfect testament to small town job security I thought….No matter though….we were preparing to sail.

The commander and D went forward to raise the main, and I busied myself with the mizzen. Grabbing a handful of halyard, I hauled up, and a bunch of twigs, mud and feathers came puffing out of the space between the sheave and the bottom of the mast. Oh Lord, had it really been that long? Have I been this negligent in the thing that I love so much?

The main now up, I could feel Olivia chug forward with a sense of anthropomechanical joy. The commander and D upped the genny, and…..oh no….I rigged the sheet wrong, inside the shroud, between the lifeline a Houdini-esque mess. My quick thinking companions soon had this chingaso straightened out, and we were trimmed and sailing along in the waning afternoon light.

Ice cold Tecate’s were passed around, as we ghosted along on the light breeze. A couple of tacks near Pirates Landing pier (just for show….), and we were at the causeway underpass, where we opted to spin it around and head back, dead downwind.

Sailing into the big red fireball dropping low over Laguna Vista in the west, I realized that my life is in transition not unlike the ephemeral transient time between light and dark. There is so little time to do what needs to be done, and this afternoon just reinforced that fact. I thought about what Island Time Jim had told me several days prior, as we sat on his patio overlooking the marina, and the public boat ramp, watching the late afternoon show as people arrived back at the docks drunk, trying to trailer their bay boats. He wondered what had become of a certain sailboat moored across the harbor. It’s owner had this plan you see….was going to upgrade the thing then get some experience sailing in the Gulf of Mexico. Only he came down with some sort of incurable cancer, which put the end to those plans. For good. He failed to listen to the nonlinear, unconventional, deemed by society as generally reckless, itinerant and irresponsible advice to just go now…

Perhaps I had waited this long to take Olivia strolling because of this. Perhaps it is a frustration with the status quo….with the seemingly endless parade of things that are in the way before I can round the pass and head out. It is the forbidden and sirens whisper of the wind, and the smell of the sea. Things that add to my already restless soul. Maybe I was just trying to keep things in check. I don’t know, but I resolved not to wait this long again….

Back to reality, so little wind, coupled with an incoming tide and we were traveling faster than it could push us, so we stowed the canvas and chugged back in. Inside 17, and the freakin’ dredge was still right where it had been, this time with no operator aboard. Once again, pinched next to the submerged dredge pipe, and on the shoal, we wiggled our way off. Thank goodness for Olivia’s 30hp iron heart.

I left the genny  bagged on the foredeck, sheets attached, only covering up the main and the mizzen sails determined to sail again regardless of responsibility.

We had a couple of drinks on board, in the glow of the cabin lights, then migrated to Gabriellas for a martini or two, catching up with Jim and Janice (whom I had wanted to take sailing, but who just happened to be in McAllen all day….).

On Friday morning Janice called and let us know that Jean, the matriarch of (formerly)  Anchor Marina had died Thursday. It was her birthday. I thought about what a beautiful statement, so very classy that was. Come into, and leave the world the same date. Jean was a tough woman with a big heart. I will miss her.