​​So, obviously I haven't written to my blog recently.  Spent my time doing, rather than reporting, which totally works for me.  
A brief recap of the last couple of years, then.

 [Not so much travelling, but in October 2016, we sold our Grampian 26 sailboat: Freedom Four-Two.  Saved us having to store it for the winter.  Not to worry; we bought a new boat in July, 2017.  More on that at a later date.]

And then, in November of 2016, we went further afield.  Two weeks in New Zealand's North Island, and one week in Cook Islands.  Good friends of ours (we call them Mom & Dad 3) had started their trip in Tahiti and Australia, and we joined them as they hit NZ.  We rented an RV and toured around from the Bay of Islands to Napier, with several stops along the way.  A fantastic country with incredible scenery, windy roads (both twisty and blowy, depending on the day), and friendly Kiwis.  And we only saw a portion of it.  Definitely on our list of places to return to, check out the South Island, as well as revisit parts of the North (like Russell).  

​Mike & I went parasailing, snorkeling, and tromping.   We hiked the 19 km Tongariro Alpine Crossing (featuring Mt. Ngauruhoe, aka Mt. Doom), and we all enjoyed a traditional hangi feast with the Maori, learning a wee bit about their culture.
On Rarotonga in the Cook Islands, we snorkeled and swam, hiked, and mostly cooked our own food.  Mike rented a scooter and saw pretty much the whole island (it's all of 32 km around).  A truly enjoyable 3 weeks.

In February/March of 2017, we went to Belize.  We left for Pearson on Mike's birthday, and caught a direct flight the next day.  I only mention that because all the Americans we met found it incredible that we could get a direct flight, as all of them had at least one layover, even the ones from Texas.  We became known as the couple who flew direct.
We spent three days on the coast, and the rest in the jungle, having rented an SUV to get around.  Some of the roads seemed decent, others ... perhaps a bit bumpy and twisty (by a bit, read nauseating).  Especially the road (all of 7 miles) to El Pilar, which has only a little excavation, but gives an awesome (in the real sense) idea of the effort involved in restoration.  We saw many resorts and cabins, never staying more than 2 nights in one place.  Partly so that we could experience more areas, and partly because that's just how the reservations worked out.
We stayed at a cabana on the beach for a couple of nights, taking a cruise on the Monkey River one day.  Saw howler monkeys, many species of birds, iguanas, spiders, bats, and crocodiles (our guide could point out a creature from far away, while us yokels on the boat - 3 couples - could only find it when he motored us to within inches of the cirtter).  In the interior, we saw 3 Mayan sites (Cahal Pech, Xunantunich, and El Pilar), and a cave (more howler monkeys, and a truly huge insect that luckily only Mike saw and photographed).  Of the three, Xunantunich holds the most popularity, but we rather liked Cahal Pech more.  El Pilar was interesting in that you see the huge effort involved, but the road in even has warnings in the tour books.  We arrived around 12:30, and the ranger there said we were the first folks of the day, though he wondered why.  Mike & I bit our tongues rather than point to the huge boulders and potholes we had somehow managed to drive around/through.
Supermarkets in Belize are a bit strange, as it's difficult to find fresh produce, but with a bit of hunting and luck, you can sometimes find a place along the side of the road to provide fresh fruit.

Two other events, completely apart from travelling, occurred at the beginning of 2017.  OPUS II, the sheet music store where I worked for the last 10 years, closed its doors forever at the end of February.  I had no problems with this, as it allowed me to concentrate on writing again.  This has worked so well, that I finished the first draft of In Dreams We Live at the end of May 2017.  Just waiting for Mike to give it a read through after some editing, and then, I will have it published.  Yay!

OK, so now we're all caught up on the last couple of years, at least up to July.  When boating begins ...

When we started this whole sailing thing, little waves and slight heeling overs rather freaked me out.  I felt like the boat would tip at a greater than 45 degree angle, when it had barely gone past 10 or 15 degrees.  At these times, I would clutch the life-line and hang on for dear life, sometimes going so far as to hide my head in my arms.  Ah, the days of gentle winds.

I have since gotten much better at avoiding panic (remember rule #2: don't panic), and the phrase "I don't like this ..." doesn't crop up as much.  Having said that, this past weekend had a little wind, and we went sailing.  Our marina sits in a sheltered area, so when you can feel any wind while at dock, you know it's going to blow somewhat stronger once you reach the bay.  On this day, you could definitely feel the wind.  After all, it blew at somewhere between 15 and 20 knots (about 20-28 kph), which means white caps in the bay.

Mike had gone out the previous day, with similar wind conditions, so he had a blast battling the waves again.  Me, on the other hand, I didn't know if it seemed like such a good idea to sail around with waves smashing against the hull and causing troughs to plow through, but I was game to try.  Our dock neighbour Paul did, after all, point out that attacking storm-like conditions on your own terms would prepare you for any eventuality of ending up in a real storm by accident.  So, best to try your hand at sailing in big (-ish) winds when it didn't really matter and you could always just go home.  I did, however, for the first few minutes, utter the phrase "I don't like this," whereupon Mike just grinned at me and forged ahead.

Usually when I steer the boat, I do so standing up.  Not sure why, it just feels right.  However, with the first blast of wind that pretty much took me off my feet, I promptly decided that sitting down to steer would work far better on this day.  One hand for the tiller, one hand firmly clutching the life-line.  And occasionally, both feet propped against the side of the bench so I didn't go flying across the cockpit.

Our boat reaches optimum speed around 6 knots - that is, on a typical day, full sails and good weather conditions, once you reach 6 knots, you pretty much stay there.  On especially windy or some stormy days, you can push the boat faster, but the sails don't appreciate it.  Mike managed to get Freedom Four-Two up to 7 knots one evening when he and a couple of friends sailed to Fifty Point a couple of months ago with the wind at their backs the entire way.  On this day, with one reef in and the jib about 1/3 furled, we reached a little over 6 knots a few times as we bombed across the bay.  And that was into the wind.

​I can usually get a feel for what I call the "sweet spot," where I've got the boat lined up in the perfect position for the wind to take us places as efficiently as an element with a mind of its own can.  Not so much on this day, as the waves mess up that sweet spot.  Riding up and down the waves, or smashing through them, depending on when the bow reaches the wave trough, tends to pull you away from an ideal course, pulling at the rudder just when you need it to turn or maintain a heading.  I passed off the steering to Mike near the beginning of our sail as I couldn't get myself quite coordinated.  He very sneakily managed to pass it back to me a little while later, and it took me a bit to realise that he had relinquished control, and I did just fine anyway, once I got a handle on things.

The waves built up enough that we had considerable spray on our journey.  The bow got quite wet ("There's a lot of water up here," Mike said at one point as he went up on deck to check on things - luckily it all drains away off the side), and once or twice, we managed a gentle soaker on ourselves, which quickly dried in the wind.  We keep some of the lines to the mast secured with bungee cords when at dock to keep them from rattling around and making too much noise at night, and we usually don't need to remove them when sailing.  This day, we lost one as the wind and constant motion tore it away, and we just managed to save another as it clung soggily to the deck.  The anchor also somehow jumped out of its holder and banged against the side of the boat for a bit before we figured out what made that nasty sound (apparently, it had tried a similar escape on Mike the previous day too), so we might have to figure out an even more secure holder for it.  Considering I usually have a bit of a struggle removing the anchor from its holder on calm days, I'm just as glad not to have gone anywhere near the bow with turbulence enough to jolt anchors around.

Anyway, by the end of this exciting bit of windy sailing, I had gone from "I don't like this ..." to grinning happily as I steered us along a breezy course.  Not saying I want to go trying any sailing in truly stormy weather, but I'm more confident I can steer us through a fresh to moderate breeze, if needs must.  Happy sailing!

We had a lovely outing on the boat with a couple of friends of mine from band, Matt and Ashley, and our biggest adventure came on our return to Hamilton/Burlington Bay (the name differs depending on whether you're reading the navigation charts or google maps) from the beach at Lake Ontario.

Burlington Bridge, just past the Burlington Skyway, Ashley's favourite bridge ever.  She's seen the bridge from both sides now ...
We had just gone under the Burlington Bridge, sails up and motor chugging along to get us through before the bridge lowered again.  On the Bay side, we finally cut the motor once clear of the channel and hoped that the very slight breeze we finally found might get us somewhere eventually.  We watched a motor boat whiz by not too far off on the way to Lake Ontario with a doughnut-tube bouncing along on a rope behind it.  Empty (the doughnut, not the boat), with a dark blob in the boat's wake.

"Did they just lose a passenger?" we wondered, as the motor boat continued on its speedy way, oblivious to anything untoward that may or may not have just happened.  So we decided to check it out, see if that blob needed rescuing.

We put the motor back in the water (sails still up full, as the wind didn't really seem to want to play with them anyway) and turned ourselves around.  It's a dark blob we're heading toward, no flailing arms or legs, but definitely not a buoy either, as they don't come in black (at least not in our bay).  Mike has retrieved the binoculars for a closer look, and after a moment hands them to Matt.

"Is that a balloon?" they ask, whereupon we decide to continue our rescue attempts anyway.  After all, this is an ideal opportunity to practice the Crew Overboard maneuver with multiple characters in our little drama (or comedy).  And the closer we get, the more obvious it becomes that our rescuee is indeed a balloon, and likely had absolutely nothing to do with that passing motor boat.  Which would explain why they didn't even slow down.

Additional humorous moments and comments along the way:

As we head toward the bridge and Lake Ontario, Mike decides to put up the extra boom to provide more support (and airflow) to the jib.  I haven't seen this done before, though I had heard the tale of when Mike and two of his friends figured out the trick.  So there's Mike, trying to get the end attached to the jib, while keeping the other end on the mast.  It slips and heads for the drink, though Mike retrieves the boom before it falls completely in the water.  Me, on the way to see just how this whole 2-boom system works, pause long enough to say, "Oh, that can't be safe," to the great amusement of Ashley and Matt.

Later, as we heel over just a tad vigorously, we hear a gentle thump from inside the cabin.  Mike looks in and sees a couple of oranges have rolled off the table onto the floor.  In a moment of Zen-like serenity, he calmly states, "That's just where they go sometimes," which totally tickles Ashley's fancy.

Matt loved the sailing.  He got to drop and weigh the anchor, clamber all over the deck, haul on the lines, keep a lookout for bobbing balloons, and had a couple of shots at steering ...

When Matt gets the chance to helm the tiller, he takes to it with great enthusiasm.  He's eyeing up landmarks, checking out the wind gauge and getting a general feel for the boat.  And he's learning how quickly the wind can change, and the extent of sensitivity of a rudder under sail.  During one such unexpected course change, there's Matt with a fantastic litany of "Crap!  Crap, crap, crap!"  No worries; we've all been there.  He got us back on track easily enough after that.

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.

There are times on our boat when someone does something less-than-brilliant.  Often, that person is me.  The most common idiotic thing I do that you'd think I'd learn from is to bash my head against the bottom of the boom when emerging from the cabin.  Sounds painful, I know, but it's really not that bad.

The thing is, when we first put the boom on, I had no problems.  I could stand under it with a bit of room to spare.  That's probably where my whole problem started.  My brain knew in that moment that the boom left about 5'4" of space to stand in.  I'm 5'3", just enough clearance.  Then we put on the mainsail, and when not in use, the sail comes down, folds up along the boom, and drapes a bit against the support of the boom.  Tie it up so it doesn't flop all over the place, and now the boom has a cushy layer of sail around it; a layer that takes up more than an inch.  My brain hasn't yet caught on and constantly declines to remind me of the lack of sufficient headroom between the boom and, well, my head.  So up I come from the cabin in the morning and, bam -- head against boom.  With the sail as a cushion, it doesn't hurt, even though I manage an "ow" most of the time.  More like walking into a firm pillow.  OK, so maybe I'm sleep-fogged and I'll clue in the next time I emerge from the cabin.

I haven't yet.  In fact, more often than not, the next time I pop up from below-deck, I still manage to whack myself, morning, noon or night.  Maybe I'd learn if it actually hurt, but as it doesn't, I've chosen to laugh whenever it happens.  And it happens so much that I'm pretty sure I have a very specific chuckle for my brainless act, one Mike knows well even without having to witness the blunder.  (Even after Mike rigged the boom to lie off-centre when not in use, I still manage to hit it with my noggin.  It's a gift I seem to have)

Both acronyms basically mean the same thing, but I know I was more familiar with MOB, seeing as that's what I'd always heard.  It's what you never want to hear for real when you're on a boat, but should definitely know what to do if it happens.  Man Overboard.  Or, more politically correct these days, Crew Overboard (COB).

The first rule in boating (at least for Mike and I) is don't fall off the boat (closely followed by Don't Panic).  But just in case it happens, it's best to practice what to do.  Which Mike and I did a few weeks back.  Not with an actual person -- that's just inviting disaster -- but with a life preserver acting as the unfortunate crew member.

We chose a calm, yet overcast day.  No one else sailed (or even motored) the bay with us, so we had ideal conditions to try out our COB maneuvers.  Of course, we kept in mind that should a COB happen for real, the water would likely be choppier and the wind blowing, because disasters like to happen in less-than-ideal conditions.  But when you're learning or practicing, it's easiest to concentrate when you have fewer things with which to contend.  With little wind and fewer waves, we could focus on how to actually get the boat back to the COB without running into him/her.

Mike went first, using the motor and no sail.  As pilot (helmsman), it's his job to move far enough away from the COB and then safely turn about and come up along side them without running them over.  As spotter, it's my job to keep an eye on the COB, pointing them out pretty much constantly (as in actually keeping a finger or arm pointed at them), and having the safety pole to hand, ready to pull them back on board [or the roped life ring or whatever you'll need to bring help them in.  For this particular exercise, we used the pole as we were more about learning how to move the boat into position than all the different ways to retrieve someone, which often depends on the situation, like the consciousness of the COB].  You have to move the boat far enough away from the COB (a few boat lengths) so that you have plenty of room to maneuver if the wind or other unforeseen conditions crop up, and so that your own wake doesn't complicate things (like swamping the crew member).  Then you turn the boat so that it will approach on the windward side of the COB, which would provide shelter to them and take any line you throw closer.  Of course, you have to be especially careful not to smack them with the boat, so it's about angles as much as speed (which is pretty much nil at this point).

There are two approaches most used: the Figure-Eight Method, and the Broad Reach-Close Reach Method (BRCR).  The Figure-Eight is exactly that in shape, and the BRCR is more of a single loop.  I could describe each in terms of wind direction and sail position (as these methods mostly pertain to what to do while at full or partial sail, rather than only using the motor), but suffice it to say there are 2 methods, and we practiced both.  Mike used the BRCR a couple of times, as he wasn't satisfied with his first approach.  I think it would have worked to retrieve a COB, but he felt we might have over-shot them, and seeing as this excursion was about practicing, it seemed a good idea to do it more than once.  It also gave Mike a chance to explore and hone his motoring skills which, if you'll recall from our disembarking and docking adventures, is something he feels needs more work.

Anyway, it all worked out.  We got to the COB/life preserver without hitting it and close enough that I did not have to stretch to hook it with my pole and bring it back on board.

And then it was my turn.  We raised the sails and tossed the life preserver over again.  Mike talked me through the turns which, as I mentioned before, are dependent on the wind direction.  He left the distances and steering up to me, just helped me figure out which way to turn for the Figure-Eight so that we're always tacking and never jibing (in other words, so that you pass through the wind rather than turning away from it, concentrating on the jib instead of the mainsail).  To my surprise, I managed a great COB retrieval on the first try, coming up closely and slowly enough that Mike pulled in the preserver with great ease.  I even managed to get the boat hove-to, which basically means I put it neutral, the jib where we left it and the rudder opposite, keeping the boat from moving very far (a great way to stop and have lunch without having to anchor).  Next time, though, I'll have to figure out the turns of the Figure-Eight on my own, seeing as, if I'm performing a COB maneuver for real, the most likely crew member that I'd have to retrieve would be Mike.

When you're a pro (or at least have done these things numerous times), disembarking and docking seem like simple, fluid tasks to the newbie or outside observer.  Such is not always the case.

Let's start with disembarking, or leaving the dock.  Depending on the size of the boat, one can do this single-handed, and that is, in fact, a skill Mike is working on, for the times when he's there and I'm not.  But I'll describe a couple of ways that two people can do this.  First of all, make sure dock power (if you have such) is detached, as trying to sail away with a power cord holding you ashore is just embarrassing.  Luckily, we've managed (so far) to remember this step, even if occasionally it was at the last minute.  You then want to make sure all docking lines (the ropes holding the boat to the dock) are free.  Typically, we've had the front (bow) docking line nearest our slip (the port line, in our case) and the port aft line as the only things holding us to the dock until the last second.  Mike takes care of slipping free the aft line (a simple quick tug or flick usually does the job) while I handle the bow line.

We have done this in a couple of ways.  First, we can leave the bow line loosely around the front cleat and, if a gentle tug or flick on my part as I sit at the front of the boat doesn't remove it as we start out, then simply letting go and allowing the line to slip free of the cleat and dangle in the water for later retrieval will do the trick.

Second, I can walk the boat out.  While I stand on the dock, I will have the bow docking line in hand in case of any sudden need to wrap it around a cleat to secure the boat (like if it starts to swing too much or if Mike suddenly decides we need to stay onshore for some reason -- like engine failure or another boat coming past or something), but otherwise, the boat is free.  Taking hold of one of the mast shrouds or a stanchion (vertical metal pole that secures the lifeline -- you can see one in the above picture behind the cleat), I guide the boat out and give it a little push to keep the nose off the dock before I hop aboard.  Only nerve-wracking the first time, when you're not sure whether you'll clear the lifeline or if you have a tight enough hold on the shroud to pull you on and will fall in the water or not make it on board before the boat pulls too far away from the dock.

Now, before all this has happened, back when you're removing all the dock-lines save the fore and aft ones, Mike has lowered the motor propeller into the water and started it up in neutral.  Once we're ready to go, he puts the motor in reverse and we cast off.  In a boat with tiller steering, like ours, things seem backwards, as when you push the tiller right while sailing or motoring, the boat will move left, and vice versa.  EXCEPT when in reverse.  Mike took a bit to get used to this, and we even took the boat out on a calm day to practice motor steering in the bay, both forwards and backwards.  The first couple of times disembarking had us doing some interesting turns and near loops, but Mike always managed to sort things out, though he felt bad about his mistakes for awhile.  Until we watched other more experienced sailors occasionally having their own spot of difficulty.  Then he felt better.

Like when Bruce took his boat out for a little spin and misjudged the turn as he reversed.  He also saved it from any crashes, but the gentle sound of "Fuck!" drifting across the water over the sound of his motor made us smile in appreciation.  His boat has a steering wheel rather than a tiller, so reverse is like in a car; opposite to the direction you're steering.

Coming in to dock is, loosely, like disembarking, in that you do things in the reverse order.  Once the sails are down and the motor turned back on, you can start the return to your slip.  (This can also be done with the sail rather than the motor, but that's a little more advanced than we want to try just yet.)  Before entering the marina, you want to make sure that the fenders are in place to protect the boat from sustaining damage should you hit the side (or front) of the dock, or another boat.  Pulling in the fenders so that they don't drag as you sail is something you do once underway after disembarking.  You can dock single-handed, as Mike has attempted a couple of times so far, but I'm going to describe how we dock with two people.

Mike brings us around to our slip by nearly going past it in order to make the turn in as straight as possible.  We did start off going a few boat-lengths past our slip and then turning around, as suggested by other sailors helping us to learn, but now we've progressed to turning right in.  He will have the aft line ready to slip over the cleat as he steers and then cuts the motor to keep the back of the boat from swinging around.

I, meanwhile, have jumped off the boat onto the dock with the bow docking line in hand.  I wrap it loosely once around the mid-way cleat to keep the bow from veering too far and to hopefully keep it from smashing into the front of the dock.  Depending on how quickly Mike has cut the engine, or how fast he entered the slip, this hasn't always worked as expected, but we haven't done any real damage to the dock.  The boat's made of sterner stuff.  We have occasionally cut it a little close and so perhaps added another fender near the front just to make sure no unnecessary scraping occurs on the boat.  It is difficult to really see the dock when you're trying to line up a 26' boat next to it, so judging how close to put the nose is a bit of a learned art, and one Mike is learning well.  I try to help with hand motions, but sometimes my observations from the bow don't quite line up with the dimensions of the side of the boat.  But then, that's what fenders are for, right?

Once the boat is in a good position, Mike will secure the aft line and I will move my line from the mid-way cleat to the forward cleat and secure it there.  We attach another dock line to the front so that it has a line running from the port side and another from the starboard.  We also use one or two spring lines for added stability and to keep the boat from moving forward and backward, as the front and aft lines keep it from moving sideways away from the dock.  If we use two spring lines, one goes from near the front to the mid-way cleat on the dock, and the other goes from near the aft to the same cleat.  It might be overkill, but that boat's not going anywhere.

Again, it's all a learning process, and watching others is often just as gratifying as doing it yourself, especially when they make equally bone-headed mistakes.  Like the boat that bounced off the side of their dock before swinging around to try it all again.  Or sailing past your row of docks because you're new to the place and didn't recognise the right entrance at first (oh wait, that was us on our first return).  My favourite is the slip with a line of swimming noodles strung all along the inside of the dock to protect the boat; I've considered getting some of our own and doing the same thing ...