On the same weekend that I learned that watermelon pieces, plastic scrub brushes, and boat cleaner bottles float, I discovered that sunglasses don't.

After Mike and I had finished cleaning and hosing down the boat (and after I knocked a small scrub brush and the cleaner bottle into the bay when moving the hose around), I noticed a slightly larger-than-small spider trying to climb the side of the cockpit.  We have spiders everywhere in the marina, and it's quite common to go to sleep with a mostly web-free boat only to wake to a myriad of fascinating webs scattered all along the deck and rails, so I thought I'd rescue this particular spider and hope it built a web elsewhere.  I corralled it onto a flip-flop, passed it off to the dock, and had just pulled back the shoe when I noticed the spider had attached a string of web to the footwear.  It let go just as the flip-flop hovered over the gap between dock and boat.  Not sure spiders float, but I did the bone-headed thing of looking over the edge to see if that's true.  As I pulled back, the sun tarp over the boat caught on the top ridge of my hat.  Where my sunglasses perched.  And dragged them off.  Into the water, where they promptly started to sink.  I jumped onto the dock and reached in to try to save them, even getting the retrieval pole in on the action, all to no avail.  Apparently, it's kind of deep at our slip -- at least just slightly deeper than our pole.  So there's a decent pair of $20 sunglasses that I liked now hiding in the mud at the bottom of our dock slip.

They are not alone.

We decided to try to build a make-shift bimini top for extra shade that we wouldn't have to take down every time we wanted to hoist the mainsail.  Mike drew up plans and we got some plumbing material from the hardware store and started cutting up pipes and putting together our rig.  As Mike attempts to Velcro an upright PVC pipe to a horizontal support pipe with 90 degree joiners at either end, the horizontal pipe fell in the water.  And proceeded to the bottom of the bay.  Mike made a sort of catch pole out of various parts of as-yet unused pipe and joiners, and I had the retrieval pole, and the two of us tried to scoop our missing part off the bottom of the bay.  Where you can't actually see anything due to depth and murk.  So Mike worked mostly by feel and by us staring at the area where the pipe disappeared so as not to lose our place.  It took about 10 minutes, but we actually managed to get the thing back (after several near-misses).  However, in this process, as I'm laying prone on the dock with my arm in as far as I can reach to try to snag the pipe, I shifted my legs, and heard a little splash.  Turns out, Mike had left the small hack saw on the dock as we leapt to save the pipe.  The saw doesn't float, and there's no way we can get it back short of snorkeling or diving down to get it, and if you've seen the bay, this won't be at the top of anyone's list of fun things to do.  Mike continued on with the bimini creation and I went for a drink (of water of course).  He called out, "Have you seen the tape measurer?"  And then we figured out it went for a swim with the hack saw.  So there's another thing that doesn't float.  Luckily, the electric jigsaw stayed on the dock, along with all the other pipes.

Once we got the frame for the bimini in place, it was time to see how the new tarp worked up there.  We initially had a small movers blanket we wanted to try, but without grommets, we had to figure out a way to secure the blanket to the frame.  We found tarp clips designed for this purpose (OK, maybe not for this exact purpose as I don't imagine the makers envisioned a moving blanket as a boat shade, but they'd do the trick).  I should mention that we chose a hot yet very windy day for this project.  As we're trying to secure the blanket to the frame using bungee cords (we're nothing if not classy), the wind kept pulling at the blanket.  Not sure if the wind or the nearly-long-enough bungee caused one edge to snap free from Mike's hand, but in so doing, the tarp clip popped off and flew about four feet.  Into the water.  Where it too sank out of view.  Hmm.  We ended up using a cheap tarp for the moment, bungees through grommets, just to see if it would actually provide any decent shade.  And we called it a day on that project.

When I told Mike what I intended to call this blog a few days later, he said to be sure to mention that sausages are also less than buoyant.  So if you're on a boat and want food that you can retrieve if it gets too frisky, pick the watermelon over the sausage.  Don't try to rescue spiders.  Watch where you sprawl when fishing things out of the water in case you accidentally add more things to the bottom of the bay.  And only work with large sail-like objects on calm days.

With the blindingly brilliant sun boiling above and the calm, still waters sitting silently below, you'd think being on a sailboat on a hot summer day would seem preferable to beating the baking pavement as you seek the shade of the next tree on your walk.  Not necessarily though.  For one thing, if you're walking, at least you have the benefit of the breeze of your own passage.  On a boat on a calm day, with no wind, in a sheltered marina, you don't even get that.

We have a tarp that we put up, draped over the boom and secured to the lifelines, to provide shade from the glaring heat of the sun.  It helps, but if we go out into the bay to sail -- assuming we want to use the mainsail as well as the jib -- we have to remove the tarp, leaving no shade at all.  We're considering rigging up some form of bimini, but have not done so as yet.  So ... the shade of the tarp and resorting to just the jib (which, with little to no wind, doesn't help much in the way of movement) or the motor, or no shade and hoping to catch a breeze while trying to line up the mainsail to act as a shade barrier (which only works if the meager wind bothers to puff in the right direction).

We decided, on a bright, hot summer afternoon, to leave the tarp up, rolling it back from the port corner near the bow just enough so that we could at least see where we were going, turn on the motor, and chug along toward Lake Ontario, heading for Burlington Beach.  We passed two groups of racers -- that is, small two-crew (or sometimes just one crew) sailboats from the nearby clubs, working fiendishly -- and slowly -- to navigate around the racing buoys set up in the bay.  Not an easy task with no wind, but fun to watch anyway.  A bunch of smaller motor boats sit on the perimeter, keeping an eye on the proceedings, the majority of them spotters, making sure no one gets into any trouble as they race (or glide languidly along, seeing just how close they can get to the other racers).  Keeping out of their way posed no problems as we motored past -- unlike a previous day with actual wind when I passed the tiller off to Mike as dozens of these small sailboats soared straight at us.  I trusted Mike's capabilities far more than my own when sailing mostly upwind right into the maw of so many sharp white teeth, er, triangular white sails.

Anyway, we glided past without incident and made it to the bridge with several minutes to spare.  When the half-hour sounded and the bridge rose, three sailboats and two tall motor boats roared under from our side, and another sailboat came from the other direction -- the most activity I'd seen at the bridge.  No one smashed into anyone else, and we continued on to the beach, just on the other side of the bridge (beside where we had seen/heard the music festival a few weeks previously).  We found a nice spot and I got to drop the anchor for the first time.  Lots of other folks had also dropped anchor for a dip in the clear, calm waters, and the beach itself had a decent number of people, but we didn't feel crowded at all.

Mike pulled our ladder out from the lazarette (the locker that's also a bench in the cockpit) and plunked it over the side.  I'm not usually very fast about getting into any swimming water, but I managed to get in up to my neck in under five minutes.  Did I mention the heat of the day?  Low 30s, no wind, so the cool refreshing liquid of Lake Ontario should come as quite a relief, yes?  Sort of.  I pushed away from the boat and it felt like I had found the spot in the Lake full of ice cubes.  My arms almost felt numb despite my flailing about, but I persevered.  Mike joined me despite my glowing recommendations on the temperature of the water, and agreed that the ice cube analogy wasn't that far off.  I even swam around the boat, just to say I had.  Understand, I'm not a very good swimmer.  I do the breast-stroke/frog-kick kind of swimming, and I don't put my head under water.  Self-taught swimming and all, but I get by, and I'm not out to win any awards or anything.  Luckily, the extreme cold section only seemed to occur right near the ladder.  Nevertheless, we didn't stay in long.

We went up to the bow of the boat to dry off.  Mike brought out a mini watermelon that we demolished, although I lost one piece over the side when I tried to break off an end.  Slippery little thing just popped overboard and floated away.  Apparently watermelons float.  (sunglasses don't, but that's another story)  We stayed for lunch (shish kabobs on the BBQ), some reading under the tarp, and an afternoon nap for Mike while I kept reading.  Had a seadoo dude come up and compliment me on the boat -- he very kindly waited until he had moved a respectable distance away before he powered up again so I didn't have to suffer his wake.  Then we headed off back to the bay.

Once through the bridge, we decided to try the sail, see if we could get enough wind to take us home.  So, tarp down (sun still high, though not quite as glaring), both sails up, and we managed to catch the wind, which kindly picked up just enough, and from the right direction, to get us going at a decent clip.  Mike even tried to get the boat into the marina on sail alone (the jib, as we dropped the mainsail just before the marina), but the wind deserted us just as we passed through the channel buoys marking our marina.  He did get us to within a couple of slips of ours, but finally had to resort to the motor to take us in.  We had tried the same maneuver the evening before in minimal wind, only making it as far as the end of B dock before stalling, so we were getting closer (Bruce called out his congratulations on making the effort).  One of these days, Mike is determined to sail in all the way.  Wish him luck.

We went to Fifty Point Conservation Area on our first major excursion beyond the bay on Lake Ontario.  It lies East-Southeast of our marina once you get beyond the Burlington Bridge.  We had decided to do an overnight at a different marina and chose this one as highly achievable, being relatively nearby - under 30 km away.  So we picked a weekday in June when we had a week off and were staying at the boat, got up early (for us), and motored out into the bay.

It's about 7 in the morning, and the wind has also decided to take a vacation.  Not a breath stirs the air.  The only other traffic on the bay are the rowing groups out practicing.  Deftly avoiding them as we motor toward the bridge - and they manage to catch up and keep up surprisingly well, so it's a good thing our paths don't converge for too long - we approach the Burlington Bridge on track for the 8 am opening.  As we're approaching, we see a freighter leaving the Hamilton Steel Mills, also heading for the Lake.  Those things are huge, and seem to have a special privilege when it comes to the opening of the bridge.  As it nears, the bridge goes up, despite it not being on the half-hour.  Totally understandable once you've seen a freighter go.  It gets up enough momentum that, once started, it could not stop and go again in any reasonable amount of time, so the bridge operators obviously have it down to an art as to when to raise the bridge so that the freighter won't have to stop.  Pretty neat, and I thought we might avail ourselves of the early opening of the bridge, but it turns out, they go much faster than appearances would suggest.  We were motoring at a decent rate as we watched the freighter disembark, but there was no way we could catch up.  Once that became evident, we slowed down a tad instead so as to catch the usual bridge opening and not get swamped in the freighter's wake.  Not that that was likely, as it took us close to another fifteen minutes to reach the bridge.  Distances can deceive you on the water.

We finally made it through the bridge and onto Lake Ontario.  Absolute glass, not a ripple on the water.  The breeze did not blow, the sun did not shine, the Lake looked like a mirror, grey sky reflecting on a still surface of motionless water.  We could see the freighter chugging along the shipping lane, and if not for that, would not have had much reference for the horizon.  Had we taken a picture, I would have had to point out where water ended and sky began or you would only see pale grey with a big boat floating in nothingness.  Needless to say, we didn't bother putting up our sails; just plotted our destination into our GPS, turned the boat, and motored an hour or so toward Fifty Point.  The only other movement (besides that freighter, and another later heading back to the Steel Mills) came from the birds.  I think they are Double-Crested Cormorants (based on a little Googling), but am not 100% sure.  Whatever kind of bird, there were lots of them.  With our binoculars, we could see hundreds of them congregating in the still waters.  Another reference point for the horizon, but again, like looking at something floating in a sea of grey for as far as the eye could see, little to differentiate between water and sky.

And then, at last, we reached our destination.  Fifty Point Conservation Area.  The marina sits sheltered by a narrow entrance.  Once through, we tied up at the fuel dock and a young woman did her best to help us secure a slip for the night.  It was her first week, so I think we helped her as much as she helped us 
(for instance, when referring to a map of the marina, the question: "What do these triangles on some of the slips mean?" and her answer: "I actually don't know.  Maybe electrical hook up?"  As we obviously couldn't answer her return question intelligently, she got on the phone and checked on things for us), and we booked ourselves a berth for the night.  It took a couple of tries before we found the correct dock.  ("C dock is the one on the second finger," the helpful newbie told us, and we figured out exactly what that meant by motoring up to a couple of docks, then asking someone going to their boat, whereupon we were redirected to the proper area - the second finger being, in fact, the far side of the first finger; it all depends on how you look at things).

One of the questions upon signing in was whether we belonged to another yacht club (we'd have gotten a deal if so).  While this might potentially indicate that this marina sat on the higher end of the scale than our marina, we just smiled and said no and continued on our merry way.  That being said, imagine the horror of those with permanent berths when we motored in, decided once the sun finally came out that we wanted some shade on our boat, and swiftly proceeded to set up our sun tarp.  This consists of a grey tarp tented over the boom and secured to the lifeline; simple, easy, and cheap.  A not uncommon sight in our marina, but we had the distinct pleasure of being the only folks with such a rudimentary yet perfectly functional contraption at Fifty Point.  The other boats with shade devices had bimini tops, ridged fabric on a structure supported by metal poles.  No one commented on our set-up, but then again, this seemed like the sort of marina people park their boats in and visit on the weekends, not overnight on or actually live in (that's more the style of our marina - yes, we have people that live in their boats year-round where we usually dock), so there weren't many people around to see our simple system.  We laughed about our 'trailer trash' manners anyway.  A case of those keeping up with the Jones' vs something closer to Cletus the Slack Jawed yokel.

While here, we did a little exploring, seeing if this might afford an alternative to our current marina should we decide to change locations in the future.  Fifty Point is nice, though not many trails (unlike Bay Front Park, right next to us now), so if Mike wanted to do any long runs, he'd either get dizzy repeatedly looping the conservation area, or have to run on the road - somewhat less picturesque.  I did appreciate the abundance of washrooms, and how you didn't need a key to get into any of them.  

The Conservation Area does have a beach though, and we took a walk there.  By this time, the wind had picked up and the waves broke upon the rocks lining one side of the beach in great white plumes.  Definitely happy to have missed sailing in those conditions, especially given the narrowness of the entrance.  It would have been our luck to approach the lighthouse, get clipped by an errant wave, and get a little too friendly with the shore.  Happily, that didn't happen and we enjoyed the waves on the beach, though we didn't go in beyond our knees.  Those waves had a definite pull and seemed only too eager to suck you back into the Lake with them.  The wind would not usually come directly from the Lake like that, so another good reason to have missed the wind on our journey in.  The guy on the sea-doo, however, very much enjoyed bouncing along the waves as he swerved in and out of the beach area and around the buoys that marked the edge of the swimming area.

So all in all, our great adventure to Fifty Point was more of a sleepy putter to a nice green space with fancier boats and more accouterments (on both land and vessels) than what we usually saw.  The way back, however ... a different story.

We left early the next morning, the weather forecast suggesting that might prove the wisest course.  We stopped by the fuel dock again, and happened upon the woman in charge of ringing in sales - somewhat more knowledgeable than the woman who greeted us.  We filled up our gas tank and headed out.  Into the waves.  Which were far more evident than yesterday.  In retrospect, Mike figures if we'd gotten the sails ready before we left the marina (had the mainsail cover removed so that we only had to raise the sail), I'd have been OK.  As it was, we bounced into Lake Ontario, I crawled up on the roof of the cabin to undo the sail cover (without falling off), crawled back, helped raise the mainsail and unfurl the jib, and asked Mike to get my bracelet (which sometimes helps with the motion-sickness - whether in truth or only psychologically hardly matters).  I sat as Mike got us pointed in the right direction, then decided maybe lying down would work better.  So I stumbled belowdeck and curled up into a fetal position while Mike took care of the sailing.  Turns out listening to Gordon Lightfoot and Neil Diamond while trying not to throw up and lying on my stomach actually works for me.  We got to the bridge and I considered coming up to join the land of the living, then decided just lying there might be the better course.  By the time Mike lowered the sails for the second time (the first being at the bridge), I managed to get myself back on deck and doing something useful as I helped bring the boat back into our own slip.  So this adventure on the way back from Fifty Point proved that Mike could sail our boat single-handed, and that I could find myself a suitable position so as not to throw up.  Not a bad learning experience!

That's right, through the bridge.  If you've ever had to wait at the lifting bridge in Burlington, right beside the QEW at the Burlington Skyway, chances are you're waiting for one of two kinds of vessels to pass: a freighter to/from the Hamilton Steel plants, or a sailboat.  If that lift bridge did not lift, we would have to go through the bridge, which would leave a broken mast for us, and perhaps a bit of a dent or scratch on the somewhat less mobile bridge.  Bridge one, boat zero -- although some of those freighters might help even up the score.

To get out of Burlington Bay where our marina sits and into Lake Ontario, we head toward Burlington Bridge, which will rise every half-hour as needed.  And lifts only as high as needed.  They're really good judges of just how high to lift that sucker, which is just as well, because distances are deceptive from the deck of a boat.  Paul warned us of this, how it looks like there's not enough clearance when really you have 20 or 30 feet above the mast to spare, also noting how the lift operators appreciate some alacrity once the bridge has risen far enough.  On our first pass through the bridge, Mike kept waiting for the bridge to reach a good height, until finally the lift operator called through the loud speaker some form of "get a move on."

Before even entering the channel to get to the bridge, a sailboat drops sail (or at least, it should; haven't seen anyone dumb enough -- or skilled enough -- to go through while under sail) and switches to motor.  There are a couple of reasons I can think of for this.  There's the obvious safety factor where, if a sudden gust comes up, there's no danger of smashing the mast into the bridge if sails are lowered.  Of course, you could wham into the bridge if you haven't timed your run right, or if you can't control your motor steering, but it's less likely.  If the wind doesn't blow in your favour and you had sails up, you'd have to tack or jibe your way through, which takes time, and every moment that the bridge remains raised, it's holding back traffic.  The operators frown on that, as do the motorists, cyclists, and pedestrians waiting back down on the street.

Also, motor boats have no problems passing under the bridge at any time as they're short enough to get through without raising the bridge, and some of them are driven by idiots who don't appreciate the effect of their wake on other boats.  Many motor boat operators are conscientious enough to slow to impulse speed when going under the bridge, but when someone whips through at something closer to warp speed, they leave big waves behind.  A sailboat under sail can turn into those waves to try to minimize the tossing effect, but when stationary, really has no choice but to ride it out.  If the sails are up when you start bouncing wildly near the bridge, any number of disasters could occur.  At least if you're only under motor, you stand a better chance of countering the effect of drifting into the bridge or the sides of the canal.

So, motor in neutral, we wait for the half-hour.  The lift operator sounds his/her air horn to warn motorists, cyclists, and pedestrians that the bridge will soon rise.  He/she waits for the pedestrians and cyclists (some of whom walk their bikes across the bridge) to clear the bridge, sometimes having to blow the horn again to prod the slowpokes into getting off the bridge, then the signals for the motorists.  The alarms sound, the electronic arms lower and the red lights flash -- rather like a train crossing -- and now the operator is ready to lift the bridge.  We have gone through the bridge four times now, and we're getting better at the timing, but basically, for our boat, we wait until the bridge has reached about the first cross-beam, then put the motor in forward and slowly start our approach.  By the time the bridge has risen enough to allow our mast through, we're already motoring along well enough that the operator knows we're trying to hurry.  So we move along right quickly and, once we're through, little time is wasted before the bridge starts to lower again.