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)

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 ...

We decided to try out our reefing system and anchoring on the same day.  First, the reefing.

Reefing refers to foreshortening the sail, having less sail exposed to the wind.  Mike's been working on a system for the mainsail and we wanted to test it while the weather remained calm.  So off we went, setting up the sail with one reef.  Our mainsail (and most others too, far as I know, at least on boats our size) accommodates two reefing points, so that you can shorten the sail twice before you just haul it all in and hope for the best.  You can see the reefing grommets next to the mast in the picture (not their proper nautical term, but you can see what I mean) and the reefing ties spread across the sail.  You pull in the sail until it reaches that first grommet and hook it onto a reefing hook (which is the correct nautical term) on the boom.  Then you tie the rest of the sail to the boom, leaving 2/3 of the sail still in the wind.  A second reef would leave 1/3 of the sail exposed.  We cheated, having already set the hook and tied the sail at the first reef before we left the dock, but the idea is to have the ability to reef when the weather/wind turns on you.

And lucky we had done so, because the wind decided to do its surprise gusting on this day too, so it turned out to be a great day to sail with a reefed sail.

And not so great for trying to anchor.  According to our chart and the GPS (which also provides awesome charts), Willow Cove looked like a good place to try to anchor.  We managed to battle the wind and get there, but just as Mike's about to head to the bow to drop anchor, I look at the GPS and see red anchors with an X through them.  This means we've found a 'no anchor zone' and we really shouldn't toss the breaks overboard.  I call Mike back, we determine that we've made it to the patch of oil (according to the buoy) that stretches across part of Willow Cove, and we turn the tiller, heading back out into the bay.  The wind, meanwhile, has continued to bluster and we decide that perhaps this isn't the best day to attempt our first anchorage.

So we saved that for the next day, which cooperated better on the weather front.

We're going to try for Carol's Cove instead this time, mostly just straight out from our marina.  Over we go, motor's on slow, and Mike heads up to the bow.  His job, besides tossing the anchor overboard, is to let me know, back at the tiller, when he can see bottom so that I can cut the motor.  My job, keep us heading into the wind and ready to put the motor into reverse when the anchor is set.

So when I can suddenly see the bottom, and it looks terribly close for our 4-foot draft, I shove us into neutral, then reverse, as Mike waves us away from the approaching shallows.  Now I get to learn about how the motor makes a clunk every time it changes gears -- forward to neutral to reverse.  I did not know it did that, so I'm thinking I've gone and broken the motor and we're far too close to shore.  Yikes!

Mike calls out, "Are we in reverse?"  To which I respond, "I don't know!", somewhat freaked out that we'll bottom out.  He lays the anchor, comes back, reassures me, and we get settled, me now somewhat more knowledgeable about the motor.  We stare over the side of the boat into very shallow waters.  Mike creates a makeshift depth finder out of a heavy block tied to a rope, and we determine we currently sit in just shy of 5 feet of water.  Just enough to accommodate our keel.

We lie at anchor for a few minutes, just to make sure that our anchor does indeed hold us, then very gently begin the process of hauling up the anchor.  This involves me motoring the boat slowly toward the anchor chain so that, once we're pretty much above it, Mike can pull it up, then me quickly steering away from land and back toward the bay.  Remember, we're in barely enough water for the boat, so we've got to get this right, because I don't know if I can steer us back again without hitting bottom if we miss the first time around.

Happily, this all ends in our successful first anchoring experience, our boat is still in one piece, no extra scrapes on the hull or keel, and we now have a depth finder for the next time we find ourselves in shallow waters.

Back to the dock for us.

Nautical terms are not always obvious.  It's a bit like learning a new language.  Shrouds and stays and lines instead of rope.  Sheets are not the sails, or anything involving soft fabric; rather they refer to the rigging on the sails that control movement (more ropes).  The mainsail has one shroud at the end of the boom, and the jib (our secondary sail, also called a genoa [I think]) has two sheets, one for port and one for starboard.  Apparently we also have a spinnaker we could use (rigging and halyard all set if we want), but that's a sail more for racing, and we're not there.  There's tacking and jibbing to describe turns, and the direction of sail involves terms like close reach, broad reach, beam reach, and being in irons.

Confused yet?  That's barely scraping the surface of the sailing lingo, and on a good day, I manage to remember a good portion of them, but I'm definitely lucky to have someone as patient as Mike to help me along.  And a handy reference book: Sailing for Dummies.  I kid you not, this is a decent book.

So we now have our boat in the water and we're ready to try our first sail.  As soon as we get our sails attached.  So we motor over from beside the crane where we had put up our mast the previous night to an empty slip on one of the docks.

First oops moment.  When the motor is running, it's hard to hear someone from the shore give a friendly warning.  So while I'm at the bow trying to figure out how not to fall in the water when I jump off the boat at the dock to secure a dock line, and thereby prevent the boat from hitting the dock, Mike's in the cockpit beside the motor, steering.  I heard Mark call out from the shore, warning how the middle of the little stretch of water we're going to cross is very shallow; only two feet deep before it's all silt and mud.  Mike did not hear this.  We have a four foot three inch draft, which means that's how much clearance our keel (bottom of the boat) needs to keep going.  Mike gets a slightly concerned look on his face when he realises that the boat is not moving, despite the motor doing its best.  Mark calls out "That's what I was saying.  It's too shallow."  Mike hears that and now understands the problem.  Solution: I hop up on the roof of the cabin and walk back and forth a few times to get us unstuck.  Doesn't take too long and we continue on to an empty slip.  We're pretty sure only Mark witnessed this little mistake.

We tie up to a dock slip.  The marina has three docks with several slips at each.  We chose B dock for the simple reason that our key (which is the bathroom key) fits in the lock at B dock's gate.  The owner had simply told us to use any empty slip and he'd let us know when/if we had to move once all the other boats were in the water.  Interesting system.  So we don't have any official keys beyond the bathroom key.  We're just happy it worked on one of the gates.

We haul out our sails and Mike shows me how to rig them.  Everything looks great, and the weather remains nice.  Off for our very first sail.  As we head out, one of our new neighbours, a fantastic though quirky guy named Paul, gets out his air horn and blasts us on our way, a huge grin plastered on his face to see the newbies embark on their first adventure.  It takes a bit for Mike to get the hang of steering the motor in reverse, but we make it out of the marina without bumping into anything.  On to the bay.

Mike gets us pointed into the wind, as this makes it easiest to unfurl the sails.  He kills the motor.  We get the mainsail up, which involves Mike at the mast ensuring a smooth raising, and me in the cockpit with the tiller, keeping the boat pointed into the wind, and hauling on the halyard line to keep the mainsail up.  Easy-peasy.  Now the jib.  Mike joins me in the cockpit and pulls on the furler line.  Jib opens and we point the boat so that it catches the wind and ... we're sailing!  Not too bad; I can handle this.  I've got my life jacket on and the breeze is gentle.

"Want to try tacking?" Mike asks.  I wrack my brain, trying to remember which of those nautical terms involves tacking.  Ah yes, turning across the wind, moving the jib from one side of the boat to the other.  Now how did that work again?  Mike describes with visuals before I can even come close to panicking, and here we go.

"Ready to come about?" he asks.  I release the taut line on the jib -- happens to be the starboard sheet.
"Ready," I reply.
"Helm's a lee," he says as he turns the tiller.
I launch myself across the cockpit and start hauling on the port sheet, moving the jib from right to left. The boat changes course and when I can't pull any tighter, I cleat the line.
"Nice job!" Mike says and I grin.  This sailing isn't so bad.

We do a few more tacks, some smoother than others, both of us learning the feel of the boat.  After a bit, Mike points us back into the wind so we can take down the sails, start up the motor, and head back to the marina.  

As we come in, pointing out the slip we're going to claim (so that the port side,  which will most often get the wind, abuts the dock), Paul calls out the best way to pull in.  That is, go past the slip, then come around so that we're motoring into the breeze.  Paul waits at our new dock along with two other guys, Bob and Jerry, and we toss them our lines.  They get us all tied up and comment on how good the boat looked out in the bay.  Paul shows us how to fold and tie the mainsail neatly on the boom.  We get the cover on the sail, sit back and enjoy the day.  Everyone who comes by greets us with good cheer and just like that, we are part of the community.

You wouldn't really think that getting your boat from its cradle into the water at a marina where you have already paid for the service would pose much difficulties.  You would be wrong.

Our boat is at what Mike calls a 'blue-collar' marina in Hamilton.  That is, there's no membership fee, no high-class hoity-toities, no restricted access; it's a working-persons marina, low key.  We like this.  But apparently, that also means that time-tables are very flexible, and 'next week' could mean anything from 'some time this month' to 'maybe I'll get around to it before the fall'.

The owner is very big on customer relations ... or at least, that's what he'll tell you.  "If the customer says they want their boat in the water on Tuesday, you have to get it done," he says.  "It's all about the customer.  That's just how business works."

So after we had painted the bottom of Freedom Four-Two with anti-fouling paint, we told him our boat was ready for the water.  "I should have it in by the weekend," he tells us.  But when we show up to do some more work that next weekend, the boat's still on its cradle.  Hmmm.  Mike finds the guy and asks what's up.  Well, the forklift had some issues and the parts only came in on Friday, so once the breaks are all fixed up, he can get back to boat launching.  We had seen the forklift problems, so OK, seems a legit excuse.  We later learned that this pretty much happens every year.  Anyhow, he promises he'd have us in by the next weekend, which was the May long weekend.

With this hope in mind, Mike and I book the week off work, planning on familiarising ourselves with life on the water.  We show up on Saturday and ...

Boat's still on the cradle.  Needless to say, this did not impress Mike at all.  The owner is busy sailing on his own boat this weekend (it's a beautiful weekend, so where else would he be?  Certainly it's too nice out to do his job and get others' boats in the water when he could be out sailing instead), so our boat is not getting in.  We do some cabin painting and cleaning.  We sit around chatting with some of the other folks in the marina, each distressed to learn we had taken the week off and, after all the work they'd seen us doing the last couple of months, still land-bound.  Some even suggest we demand some money back as we'd already paid for insertion and docking fees.

We catch up with the owner as he comes in for the day and he lets us know that he'll try to get the boat in on Wednesday.  This does not impress, but neither of us wants to get into any big confrontations.  So we head off to visit friends and commiserate.

We decide to try for Tuesday; at least show up and do some work even if we can't get in the water.

Enter Bruce.

This man is a machine, as one of the other guys there says.  (He reminds me of my grandpa's neighbour, whose name is Wayne, so sometimes I catch myself calling him Bruce Wayne by mistake, luckily not to his face).  Bruce suggests that Mike go tell the owner to get our boat in the water, then changes his mind and says he'll tell the man himself.  The excuse that he doesn't have enough helpers, as they are off that week, is made moot by the fact that Bruce and another guy named Doug, along with Mike, are more than willing to help out.  So the owner gets his forklift going, moves the two boats blocking ours out of the way -- the first he puts in the middle of the street (it's a public access connecting parks that grounds-crew along with many pedestrians use constantly), and the second he moves toward the crane for later insertion.  Then he gets out of the forklift and wanders away.  I'm sure he had somewhere important to go, something important to do, though I have no idea what.  I just know that for about 10 minutes, we're waiting for him to come back, that one boat still blocking traffic.  Doug wanders off to get some work done (he's trying to get electricity to a group of docks, which I think the owner pays him something for, but I wouldn't bet on it), telling us to call him when the owner gets back.

Eventually, the owner gets our boat on the forklift and takes it to the crane.  We get it hoisted up (by we, I mean Bruce, Doug, Mike and I -- the owner's gone off again, I think to get the offending boat out of the roadway), and now it's time for the finishing touch of paint.  While on the cradle, boats are held by four cushions, for lack of a better term.  When you first paint the bottom, these four patches are inaccessible.  Those putting the boat in the water are supposed to go over them before moving the crane.  This fell to me.  Mike had left a little paint in the can for this job, and when he said a little, I assumed I'd be scraping it out.  So I had some paper towel ready to scoop up as much as I could.  Turns out there's a good 1/4 inch of this black tar-like substance in the bottom of the can.  But the boat's hanging in a crane and I can't get aboard to find a paint brush, so I'm stuck with my dumb idea of the paper towel.  The guys laugh as I scoop this stuff out, getting as much on my hand (and shirt sleeve) as on the towel, and wipe it over the unpainted sections.  Mike and Bruce joke about how we also should have found me some gloves, and the owner, when he comes back, jokes how we didn't just spring for a 50 cent paint brush.

Anyway, painting done, they swing us over and lower us into the water.  Finally!  The owner, upon leaving, says "Tell Mike I like Bacardi White," as though we should give him something extra for a job he had promised to get done two weekends ago.  What a shmuck.  But then Doug points out that, in all his time there, he has never seen the owner do this kind of favour for anyone, coming out special to put one boat in the water.  Somehow, I cannot summon up a great deal of awe for this favour.

Now, we just need to get the mast up.

Again, we have super-Bruce to thank for that.  He had to head out for a couple of hours of paid work, but assured us that we should get the mast up that evening and that he would help when he got back.

We started around 7:30 that night.  "There's lots of light left, and if it gets dark, we have spot lights we can use," he says.  So we get our mast moved over to the mast crane, put on the spreaders, check all the stays and lines, making sure that nothing is tangled.  We get the mast craned over and the base pinned in.  Now the stays.  There are 3 metal lines (stays) running from the top of the mast to each side of the boat and attached to the deck with turnbuckles, one to the aft (back), which is then split into two (one for each side), and one to the bow (front).  Our bow stay is actually a furler, which is where one of the sails (the jib) is wound around.  You attached the forward and aft stays first while the mast is held mostly in the correct position by someone (aided by the crane), then the side ones are attached after.  I'm the one holding a side stay, trying to keep the mast vertical, while Mike and Bruce work on the furler, having already attached the aft stay. 

Problem: we're a couple of inches short.  And it's getting dark.  And colder, and windier.  By this time, I have on an ear-warmer and gloves, my teeth are chattering, and when at one point I hold the flashlight for Mike, my hand shakes so much the beam looks like a strobe-light.

Maybe if I could get the mast straighter, they say when I'm holding the side stay, and have me haul on the stay harder.  I'm pretty much hanging off the side of the boat at a 45 degree angle trying to shift a huge pole that weights more than me, and it's not budging.  Someone comes along to help, and points out that two grown men adding their weight to the front of the boat will tip the bow lower.  So Bruce stays at the front while Mike and I move to the back to balance the boat more, and our new helper, Mark, stands off to the side with the stay now in his hand where he can actually put some weight behind it.  Still not enough.  

"We're almost there," Bruce tells us.  "We could take it all down and try again in the morning, but we're so close.  You'd hate to stop when it's just a few more minutes' work.  But it's up to you."  We keep going.

Mike starts fiddling with the aft stay connector, the one that splits.  Mark says all turnbuckles turn counter-clockwise to tighten, see if adjusting that helps.  Apparently, ours is the exception and Mike barely manages to grab the escaping stay before it gets out of reach.  So they try it another way, Mike hanging on to this aft stay for dear life while Bruce, who now has enough slack, quickly gets the furler attached, then comes back to help get the aft stay back in place.  Mike is a little over 6 feet; Bruce is shorter.  Mike is almost on his toes on top of the seats with the stay while Bruce tries to get him the split connector and they determine that, yes, our turnbuckles are counter to the norm, and hard to line up in the dark.

Anyway, it does all work out in the end, all stays attached properly, the mast no longer dependent on the crane, our boat a true sailboat and ready to go.  It is a few minutes shy of midnight.  Bruce is our hero.  We take him a bottle of rum a couple of days later.