Dear Blue Buds:

         Here you have it: "Bluebonnet's" Annual Report. By the time you receive this, we will have been cruising for over a year.  I know that many of you Blue Buds are wondering, indeed many have asked, "what do you really think of the cruising life now?" A good question that deserves a whole lot of answers.
    First, many of you receiving this have been placed on the list mid-way in our voyage. So I will recap. (For those of you who know 

Our Story Thus Far, patience.)
             Darline and I stopped working by the end of June,'00. We sold our house, my accounting practice, the cars and turned off the cable. We spent a little while getting our boat ready for extended cruising byinstalling a generator, air conditioning, a Max feathering prop, and (after we were underway) an upgraded GPS, single side band radio (short wave), fancy battery charger, new batteries, and new VHF radio. 
        We left Port Arthur in pre-morning drizzle Oct. 22, and headed
towards Port Isabel on our shakedown cruise. We returned to Port Arthur briefly, and headed east after Thanksgiving. By the 1st week of March, we were in Key West.  A trip to Cuba, then up the east coast to Maine, where our Farthest East and Farthest North were reached in August at Lakeman Harbor, Roque Island, Maine. We started re-tracing our track back down south, where we now write this at Cape May, New Jersey.

            So here we are. Many questions we get from Blue Buds really get to the question, "What's it really like?"
          So I'll answer the best I can, probably not as succinctly as the
question is asked.
          I'll start by talking about adjustments. Our life aboard can best be described as "minimalist, modified." Our total cabin space aboard  "Bluebonnet" is about half of a Motel 6 room. Bunks occupy most space. We could sleep six onboard if they were really close friends- if you're not close when you start, you will be when you finish. All of the sleeping space is also storage space, which gives us quite a lot. Our bunk in the forward cabin is about the size of a queen size bed, though since it tapers towards the bow our feet don't have queen space. We have a full kitchen ("galley" in
boat talk)- pressure water, hot water heater, refrigerator, 3 burner gas stove plus oven, but no other appliances. If you sleep on one of the main cabin bunks with your head pointed aft (to the back of the boat) frying eggs at breakfast are about 9 inches from your head. Our head/shower is about the size of a phone booth. Despite all of this compactness I never feel cramped.
I guess for a number of reasons: I always have space for my person, I have
headroom, and the total space is about twice that on our previous boat. We
have spent a fair amount of time on "Bluebonnet" before The Big Shove-Off
and I think we were mentally ready for the adjustments in space.
     We have a shower, but we don't use it a lot, because (1) it uses part of our limited water supply, and (2) it gets everything in the head wet. So we are always on the lookout for a shower ashore.
          But space is just one of the many adjustments. For example, a land-based existence usually pays little more than passing interest to weather. After all, "8 To 5" happens every Monday through Friday and weather considerations usually consist of "umbrella or not." Aboard, weather captures your interest more intently. For example, as I write this in Cape May, we are sitting out a storm. A full gale has been forecast offshore
(wind 45 knots or better) and the wind is howling through the rigging. Even though halyards (ropes that pull things like sails up) are pretty well secured, in the stronger gusts they rattle pretty well. And while we have a secure anchorage, others we have had have been varying in degrees of rolling
and pitching. We are more used to it now, but at first, we didn't sleep excessively. Generally, the boat lies to weather better on an anchor or mooring, so we try to find those. Besides being cheaper (like, free) we prefer them to marinas because in passing weather the boat is more likely to rub against the dock, and neighboring boats (usually those unattended) make noise by rubbing, or halyards slapping, etc. But in really strong weather we
still get action of all kinds no matter where we are. And it's not just a sleep issue, it's a safety issue.
             We've been asked a few times about provisioning. For example one non-sailor said, "but.where do you get your food?" Where everybody else does- at the grocery, of course. Which is an experience in itself. Having shopped at the same Albertson's for twenty-two years, any grocery is a change of pace. Cruising, we have a change of pace each shopping trip. Our criteria for grocery shopping are always the same: the closest one. Since we
are usually using some combination of hiking and (hopefully) public
transportation, bag-carrying distance is some consideration. Obviously, this strategy exempts us from specials and sales, and familiarity with what any given store carries, and certainly with where to find it within the store.
But it is part of "Bluebonnet's Big Adventure" nonetheless. What stores carry varies regionally, and that is kind of fun.
            Which gets us to transportation. That is a challenge each time we go ashore. Our bicycles haven't worked out as planned. We have to transport them in the dinghy, a lifting proposition on and off at each end of a crowded dinghy ride. It takes some time to set them up. The places where we would need to ride them are not safe, quite, sedate residential neighborhoods, but busy central city areas, complete with cars, buses, and heavy trucks. There is a feeling of vulnerability about bicycles. 
        So our shore transportation consists of walking usually, or using public transportation where available, and it's not always available. We have ridden in automobiles quite rarely. So, absent public transportation, our shore experiences tend to be within walking distance of a dinghy dock.

    We have a new found evaluation of what classifies as "convenience" compared to "hassle." Things we heretofore took for granted become surprisingly essential. Take telephone: Our original plan was to use prepaid telephone cards through pay telephones for communicating with home, etc. These are
surprisingly expensive. What you find out is that there is a charge of three "units" (twenty cents is a unit) for each time you use a pay phone- which is every time. This has the effect of increasing telephone communications cost. Sure that can be eliminated if you eliminate calls to family (not likely and not appreciated) but there are other times that that is not an option. For
example, we had a problem with our health insurance. That entailed going to shore several times (we were anchored at the time) to clarify the resolution of the problem. And then we had a problem with a credit card: same drill. So
we finally accepted that phone cards were not the answer and got a cell phone. A little plug for Sprint here: our plan has no roaming (except in Maine) and we get 2500 off-peak minutes and 500 anytime minutes for $39 a month. So we're spending about the same or less than the prepaid cards and a lot more convenience. And when you're trying to chase down parts for this or
that, which is not uncommon, it sure beats going ashore and finding a pay phone. And pay phones almost never have phone books anymore- for a reason. In Newport, Rhode Island, I called for information on a pay phone: they wanted $3 for an information call. Remember when it was part of the service?
        And of course, when you're trying to find something by phone, you rarely get lucky on the first call. So I think our cell phone has been well worth it.
       But inconvenience takes other forms. We have a lot of stowage on "Bluebonnet." We've been on several boats with seemingly immense amounts of cabin space, engine room, etc. But the space on our boat was designated as stowage, which we use to the max. We carry a lot of stuff, much of which we haven't used yet. But the things you do use- well, they're usually on the bottom of that particular locker. And you can't necessarily put the most
frequently used items on top or out front. Weight or shape usually
determines storage location, not frequency of use.  So regardless if we're cooking or whatever, it seems that to do anything, you have to move everything.
 

         But I'm beating around the central issue: what's it really like?
Too often, in a word, boring. We have spent many, many days of just powering down the ICW for ten to twelve hours a day at six knots, listening to that diesel engine grinding away, hour after monotonous hour. If we could sail those same miles, it would very different. I don't think I would care for a trawler-type boat, because that's 100 percent motoring. I'm not looking forward too much to going back down the ICW to Florida. It will be 1400 miles of non-stop powering, with only the occasional bridge to open to
relieve the sameness.  In that regard, I think we may have been a little ambitious about what we've tried to do this year. In retrospect, we probably should have allowed for more legs that would permit sailing, even if it means hanging on the hook for a day or two longer.
         We came to realize fairly early in the game that where we go is generally one vacation destination after another. In other words, kind of like being on a waterborne Winnebago at six knots. What this means is that everywhere is tourist season. After all, you don't want to be in Maine in the winter or Key West in the summer. So when we go is when everybody else goes, which means crowds and higher prices. For obvious reasons, we are never in the off season. For example, the day after we pulled into Annapolis, the mooring rates went up for the season. We're just a little behind the season now, so while prices haven't gone down, at least places
aren't crowded- until we get back to Florida, when the cycle re-commences. But there is more to this perpetual tourist environment than prices. One of the things that we don't seem to be able to do very much is to meet and connect with local people. Oh sure, there are the sales people at the grocery stores- hah!  We certainly aren't unique and interesting to the people in the places we go to- we're just another couple in the Winnebago.
I'm sure that part of this is my own naiveté. For years, I've read cruising stories of this or that sailor who went exploring on his boat. But as I think about it now, I've come to realize that some of those stories are almost forty years old now, and things have changed- drastically. Here's how: the Census people tell us that half the population of the US lives now within an hour's drive of the coast. I believe it- I think they all must have summer homes there, too. We have seen hundreds of miles of coastline from Florida to Massachusetts that have been built up, mile upon mile upon
mile of vacation or summer homes. And more building every day. Consequently, the "quaint" fishing village where one would hope to tie up or drop an anchor has just about disappeared from the US coast, with the exception of Downeast Maine and the bayou country of Louisiana. Cruising has increasingly become a matter of going marina to marina. Coming down from City Island in
New York through Atlantic City, we simply had no choice for the nights except marinas. And some are incredibly expensive. We thought we got a bargain in Atlantic City because we "only" had to pay $2 a foot a night to dock. In Newport we would have had to pay $45 just for a mooring, but there we were able to anchor, something prohibited in many places.
         And there are reasons for that. Too many harbors are so crowded that there's just no swinging room for an anchor- in Ogunquit, Maine and Milford, Connecticut mooring in these tiny harbors was bow and stern, so even that amount of swing is eliminated. And many places in Florida have been infested with liveaboards. Not the kind of people who chose to live on
a boat, always ready to cruise who are working regular jobs, but transients in the scruffiest sense. In Sarasota, Key West, and Marathon, among other places, there is a sizeable accumulation of boats that have less resemblance to transportation than cheap housing. Kind of like a super low rent floating
mobile home park, without rent. The boats are too often un-seaworthy, with literally years of barnacles encrusting the hulls. In Sarasota, we saw boats with a half-foot thick of oyster encrustations that had clearly seen their last days of mobility. Sails are in mildewed rags on these boats, and sanitation defies every state, federal, and local law. So the local harbormaster has a jaundiced eye when new "cruisers" show up in his harbor.
"You one of them, too, huh?" 
     Everyday is not exciting. As we wait out the front's passage here in Cape May, we will be on the boat for two or three days. We could dinghy in, but that means launching the dinghy in the wind that has calmed down now to 25 knots. And ashore, there is absolutely nothing- nada, rien, zero. We are near a marina-restaurant that is closed for the season, so we might as well
stay aboard, until the front moves offshore as expected tomorrow evening.  So, we use our fog entertainment routine: cook, read (we've read a lot of books by now) update the "Chronicles", try to tune in a radio station. 
         You learn to respect a schedule only generally. Since we left Maine three weeks ago, we stayed longer than expected in Boston two days and Padanaram one (fog), Newport two days (generator repairs,) one in Bridgeport, Conn. (nor'easter), and a couple of days here. So out of three weeks, we've spent one week in port due to unforeseen delays. And we've learned that's part of the program- that a schedule is only a general idea,
and by trying to keep a tight one you could get hurt.
         I'd have to say that my single biggest disappointment is that I
have not seen the sense of adventure that I have hoped we'd find. Everything is too civilized, too structured.
          There have been some unanticipated positive aspects. Though we have made precious little contact with local "natives", we have met a large
 umber of fellow cruisers that we have truly enjoyed. As Albert Follett told us early on, you meet the nicest people. And we have indeed.
         As a cruiser, one must be ready to work on just about everything. Since we left Port Arthur, I have worked as electrician, plumber, carpenter, painter, rigger, mechanic- truly, jack of all trades but master of none. I have four toolboxes full tools, and could always use more. The average sailor who day-sails with the occasional overnighter will work on his boat proportionately. We have put as much use on this boat in this year as many
people do in ten. That means ten times as much service attention. As a German cruiser told me in Havana, "Meekey, I haf vorked on my boat in zee most bootiful places in zee vorld."  The point is you don't choose when to do it- it chooses you, usually at the most inconvenient time. For example, I've replaced the propeller shaft key three times when we were trying to
leave docks. Nothing to do but dive down into the bilge and repair it
immediately.  Sure, many yacht services are available within range in most cruising areas, but "yacht" means labor repair rates of $60 per hour- and
every boat with a cabin is a yacht.
         I know that many sailors who read this may be contemplating a similar venture in the future. Those who are will no doubt ask- "What's it cost?"  That depends on how you like to live. If you want to travel graciously, which means traveling marina to marina, eating out often, using the water taxis, getting cabs, renting cars, seeing every tourist attraction, it could be pretty expensive. But we have encountered no
long-term cruisers, meaning gone more than two weeks, who do that. We eat out about once a week, stay at marinas rarely (twice in three months) and have used the water taxi about four times. We do not do any tourist attractions, but we do visit good museums- Boston Museum of Fine Arts, Museum of Natural History, Cloisters, etc. And there are not many of those
on our route. So, what does it cost? Not counting travel back home, we do this for around $25,000 a year. That includes most of our repairs, not counting our hot water heater installed in Florida. It could be done for less with some degree of comfort and adventure, and I'm sure many do it for more. How cheap can you be?
              Finally, how long will we do it? As cruising author Lin Pardey puts it, "till it's not fun any more." And despite what you may gather in the previous comments, it's still fun. We are separated from friends and family, and we miss everyone. That will probably be the determining factor affecting our return to Texas.
   This has been a long one. If you have any questions or comments, we'd love to hear from you.
Still sailing,
Darline and Mickey Rouse
Cape May Harbor, New Jersey

The cruise around the Eighteen-mile light in August was attended by four (4) boats; Puffer, Second Encounter, Grand Cru and Parrothead. The boats that went on the cruise encountered two very different experiences. Grand Cru and Second Encounter sailed at night with a gorgeous full moon and 18 knots on the beam. Parrothead and Puffer went in daylight experiencing fluky light winds and the typical August heat. They all seemed to enjoy the cruise. On the way back some of the cruisers stopped at the Port Sabine Marina for the night. There we were taxied to Skeeters (a local restaurant), for camaraderie and some great food. The next morning the PAYC members cruised back into the lake. As a sidebar, our own D.C. Cook won the fishing award for the largest fish (27-1/2") Redfish on the cruise.

Thanks, Ed & Sandy Ludwig

892-5018, 861-3161 or E-mail: edsan83@aol.com.
 
 
 

Notes From our Cruisers

Dear Blue Buds:  #22

The Time: All Day
The Place: Buzzards Bay

The day has begun early for Bluebonnet's crew. This far north at this time
of year, and this far east in the time zone, the daylight comes pretty
early. At six A.M., the Newport harbor is starting to stir, so we stir with
it. But with little enthusiasm, because it is on and off foggy. We're trying
to make Sandwich on the Cape Cod Canal today, so that's about a fifty mile
day. The radio's weather channel says, "Wind to twenty-five knots from the
southwest until mid-afternoon, when it should shift to northeast, clearing
in advance of a cool front." So if we get going, we should get well into
Buzzard's Bay and off Rhode Island Sound before we get the wind on our nose.
So we hoist the muddy anchors and sail away. 
 As we get past Newport harbor, it appears the weather forecast is less than
accurate. The wind does not blow from the southwest with the wind that will
speed us to Cape Cod, but instead is on our nose. As we near Sakonnet Point,
we are getting pretty good swells. It is overcast, raining in spots, and fog
forms in patches. There is a surprising amount of traffic out, mostly large
mega-yachts (100 ft. or more), but a few sailboats our size. As we near
Buzzards Bay Light, wind increases, rain falls harder, the waves (on our
nose) build, and visibility drops to a few hundred yards. It is not warm. We
have sails up to assist our motoring, and also to provide some stability.
There is not enough of that. The boat is pitching pretty good, and when our
bow gets knocked off (frequently) we also roll wonderfully. We have not
removed the dorade vents, an error, and water blows into the main cabin and
the head. A latch on the drawer that holds our small navigation plotting
gear does not hold. The contents of the nav drawer are distributed across
the floor of the boat. The bicycles come loose on deck, and the dinghy,
stowed bottom side up over the bikes, also wants to go adrift. By the time
the peanut butter and crackers reach my mouth after a quick pass-off from
Darline, they are less than crisp.
     The dullness of ocean motion and rainfall are suddenly interrupted by a
loud crack followed by wild flapping. Our mainsail has torn leech to luff in
wind blowing over thirty-one knots. Darline steadies the helm while I crawl
on this bucking horse of a deck to drop the main and secure it.  After that
job is done I return to the cockpit. I take stock of the situation: A
miserable day, very little forward progress, possible closest safe harbor
means a nighttime arrival, a torn (ruined?) main with unknown chance of
repair immediately ahead.  Or three hours back to Newport with a known safe
anchorage. We reverse course. "Bluebonnet" arrives in Newport with the skies
clearing and wind from the northwest, the only part of the forecast that was
right.
                                                               ***** 

We have generally been pretty lucky with our weather. Sure, it has rained at
times, and we've had squalls come through at anchor several times, but we've
had very little bad stuff while underway.  That's what we hear from most
cruisers.
   We were fairly fortunate on our sail repair. The sail was actually
unrepairable at reasonable cost, and we found an excellent condition used
sail that fits pretty well from a small loft. Of course, if there is
anything that a boat needs, Newport is one of the best places in the world
to get it. The variety of boats in Newport boggles a mind that is easily
boggled.
   Our second effort leaving Newport was entirely different. The high
pressure held for several days, and we left in sparkling weather. We made
good time through Buzzard's Bay, past the Elizabeth Islands, and on into
Cape Cod Canal. The tidal current runs pretty strong in the canal, and the
sailor transiting the canal wants to time it right, otherwise little headway
can be made in the typical sailboat. It is quite attractive, having been cut
through the ridge of hills that define Cape Cod, much unlike the ditches
that grace the Gulf Coast. We made it all the way to Plymouth Harbor,
anchored right next to a boat from Texas that friends we'd made in North
Carolina had asked us to look out far. That boat was "Case Rested",
belonging to a retired judge from Dallas.
 Leaving Plymouth at sunrise, we motored out with the Plymouth Rock monument
in view into a mass of lobster traps, the first really heavy infestation
we've encountered. The lobstermen do not tie extra floats called "toggles"
to them as often as they used to, which makes them less of a hazard to
propeller shafts. But we don't like to tempt fate, and try to avoid them
just the same.
   Massachusetts Bay was clear, lovely, pleasant- and totally windless. It
is rare to see such a large body of water so millpond smooth, but it happens
frequently here at this time of year.
  We arrived in Gloucester and the Annisquam River Canal across Cape Ann at
rush hour: three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. Every inch of riverbank
across Cape Ann had somebody sunbathing, fishing, swimming, or just
splashing. The river-canal was also packed stem to stern with boats
crossing, or just joining in the Sunday afternoon parade. Summer is short
here, and the locals want to make the most of the rare warm weekends.
  We reached Newburyport on the Merrimack that evening just in time for the
Yankee Homecoming riverfront festival. We only felt a little out of place
with our Texas flag and homeport. But those Lone Star attributes are really
attention-grabbers up here. And everybody talks funny.
We reached main the next day, after yet another sheared shaft key on our
propeller drive shaft. Any thoughts on that from any engineer Blue Buds?
With stops at Perkins Cove in Ogunquit (tiny, steep cliff harbor, invisible
entrance from the sea) and Boothbay Harbor, we were on Penobscot Bay two
days later.
Penobscot is the central long bay in Maine. It is dramatic, with dark
spruce-covered mountains guarding the entrance. The bay is about thirty
miles long. Camden and Rockland, the headquarters for most of the charter
schooners in Maine, are on the western shore. We headed for Belfast, a
little north of Camden at the mouth of the Passagassawakeag River. Here we
anchored off the town docks and did varnish for a couple of days. Belfast is
one of the many towns in New England that were built on a seafaring
tradition. It is loaded with houses from the early 1800's built by ship
owners and captains. Most of the houses have been well restored, and the
small town, very un-touristy, is one of our favorite towns along the whole
East Coast. We also laid in a stock of provisions in anticipation of the
arrival of good friends Kim and Roy Henslee. As we packed our boat cart with
groceries and prepared for the walk back to the marina a fellow Texan
(Dallas) offered us a ride.  He also offered to have a book written by a
local author and recently read by Darline signed by the author.  Thanks to
M.C. Reeves who sent the book to Darline, Belfast was made an even more
special stop.  At the Henslee's  arrival, we sailed (motored) over to
Castine, one of our favorite stops. We overnighted at Butter Island,
Northhaven, and Blue Hill before stopping at Southwest Harbor, site of
"Bluebonnet's" construction and original launch.
         Southwest Harbor is an interesting combination of high-end
Hinckley's and working lobster boats. We've been here several times and
always enjoy returning. We will stay here for a few days, trying to get the
varnish just right and attending to routine boat stuff. From here we plan to
go east to Roque Island, then get ready for the turn back south.
As always, wondering why the guy in the large barge never waves at the
people in the small yawl.
Darline and Mickey Rouse
Southwest Harbor 
 
 
 

The "Bluebonnet" Chronicles #21
 

It is late afternoon at our mooring in Somes Sound. We have to moor: the
water is too deep too anchor safely. In some places, "Bluebonnet's" depth
sounder reads 185 feet just two boat lengths from shore. We are grateful for
the Hinckley mooring ball. There will be no sunset. St. Saveur and Acadia
Mountains are just a hundred yards away, and there has been no sunlight here
now for several hours. The shadow cast by these mountains now falls on
Norembega on the opposite shore of Valley Cove, and the residents of the
large-lawned, three story, six-chimneyed summer houses there enjoy the
sunset as it glides below the ridge line.
This is textbook peaceful mooring. As the air cools coming over the
mountains, its weight falls down the steep cliffs and we occasionally get
some breeze, but it is not unpleasant. This close to shore, there are only
inch high-ripples. This sound, this cove, are highly viewable, and the local
boating public comes out in late evening in force- ten or fifteen boats. But
at dark, the traffic subsides, and with it any movement in the water. As we
enjoy the evening, the boat could be on land, except the nearest land is a
hundred feet down.
Cool air has moved in from the north during the night, and morning breaks
crisp and clear. Yesterday's on and off fog is gone. High above us at the
ridgeline of the mountains, ospreys soar with barely a flap of the wing. The
hunting can't be good from that height, but the soaring is great. Perhaps
ospreys like to have fun, too.
The Ice Age gave Somes Sound to Maine as its particular gift. It is the only
true glacial fjord on the East Coast of North America. Sailing here is a
blessing indeed. Here in Valley cove, the cliffs rise almost completely
vertical for a thousand feet. In some places, the cliffs are so sheer that
they are almost polished. Yet, spruce trees here and there find a cleft in
the rocks to send a root down and grasp a footing.
     We row ashore for pictures, and while there we gather mussels. Dinner
is in the bucket.

*** 

The Maine sailing experience is incomplete without fog. It is as essential
as air. Considerations to fog are everywhere. Foghorns are at every
lighthouse. Every boat that plans to be out overnight has radar and radar
reflectors.  Lighthouses are incredibly numerous: Maine had 190 beacons
built in the heyday of lighthouses, and though many are privatized, most of
those still show a light. Fog comes at all hours of the day or night.  It
has appeared quite often after boats and people get stirring and away in the
morning. Often it is not so much fog as haze that reduces visibility to less
than six miles. Other times, it can be so thick that the bow of the boat is
invisible. It is always clammy and damp. 
  Many cruisers stay put when the fog rolls in. but it seems to restrict the
lobstermen not one bit. Those John Deere diesels are grinding away in fog
all day long. Fog can be frustrating to progress made, but it can be looked
upon as an opportunity. Clean the boat up, write letters, go shopping, get
repairs done, do laundry. Cook a special meal. 
 But it doesn't last forever, at least not yet. When it starts to lift,
layers began to appear in the thickness. The lowest levels began to clear
first. Then patches clear totally. Next large areas open up, bordered by yet
obscured densities. It may be clear enough to see blue sky in one direction,
and completely dense in the opposite direction. In thirty minutes it may be
so clear as to doubt it existed. Or it may hang on another two days. One
learns to find uses for one's time. And no one's on a schedule.

**** 

We have sailed off the beaten path- for Maine, that is. Roque Island is only
about thirty miles from Canada. Surely it can't get too wild from here, so
this is probably the turn-around point. Of course for "off the beaten
track", we're having to share our tiny cove with a Canadian boat, and in the
larger arc of the island's beach there are four other boats anchored. But
one of the coves is not called "Paradise Cove" for nothing. The lobster
traps are pretty thick in the harbor. There was once quite extensive
shipping here, now it has all reverted to nature, and it appears to be
untouched. Not that the developers aren't sniffing around. A fairly larger
(130 ft.) motor yacht was anchored here last night- owned by a New York real
estate developer.  Lakeman Harbor, "Bluebonnet's" little cove, is surrounded
on all four sides by rock, one side being sheer vertical rock cliffs. Yet
another totally placid anchorage. 
    The crescent of the harbor is a huge mile-long white sand beach. No
litter of any kind is found on it. The water is crystal clear, quite
inviting for swimming- if you like 60 degree water. Visually, the water
could be in the Florida Keys. Ashore, two or three varieties of spruces
dominate the foliage. The forests are so thick that walking is almost
impossible. The weather has been beautiful, but we are thankful for our
jackets.
                                                                    **** 

The time: dinner
The place: "Bluebonnet's" main cabin.
Another day, another wonderful meal. We will be having mussels Chez
Toutounne (in a white cream sauce). The lobster of the day is lobster
crepes, Darline's solution to the always- nagging problem, "what to do with
leftover lobster." The day before it was mussels bianco, over pasta. Or
simply steamed in garlic butter, as you prefer. The day before it was
lobster newburg. Lunch for the past two days has been lobster roll, (my
favorite) served on what is similar to a hot dog bun. I don't suppose one
could get tired of it, but we're willing to try. Breakfast the other day was
eggs benedict.
Tonight we're having chicken marinated in red wine with shallots. The crew
of "Bluebonnet" eats pretty well. We cruise with as many cookbooks as we do
navigation guides. Food will not be a cause of mutiny.
                                                                  **** 

The sun is slinking down over the western horizon. A chill is in the air,
and this is not the August weather we are accustomed to. The bread Darline
has been baking all afternoon, filling the air with a yeasty aroma, is now
withdrawn from the oven. We spread pate' from Sawyer's Southwest Harbor
grocery on the hot slices. Debussy's "Claire De Lune" accompanies the
afternoon appetizer. Life somewhere else could be better, but we don't see
how.
    Darline and Mickey Rouse
    Roque Harbor (east of Jonesport)
 
 

The "Bluebonnet" Chronicles, #20
 

Dear Blue Buds:

The time: 10:00
The Place: Patapsco River, Chesapeake Bay

The line squalls that blew through the Annapolis anchorage yesterday brought
yet another cool front, making the day all sparkling and crisp. We enjoy our
jackets in this first week of July. The wind is from the northwest, with
puffs up to 23 knots, and the sailing is excellent. There is a lot of
sailboat traffic headed in our same direction, apparently all of the mass of
boats anchored outside Annapolis harbor now going back to home and work. The
current seems to be against us as usual, but for the present we brush it
off. The suspension bridge crossing this narrow waist of the bay looms over
us, with no concern of mast collision on this span that ocean-going ships
routinely pass under. The boat is moving well: the knot meter quickly reads
seven knots. I adjust the main just a touch. Seven and a half knots shows
immediately. That jib is a little too loose: a little adjustment nets eight
knots. No mizzen this morning, it is cut too full to help when we are close
hauled, and it just increases weather helm. Hmmm, main is a tad too tight-
there, slacking off takes a little pressure off the helm, and Bluebonnet
sails more easily. A puff of wind, and the boat heels over, water rushing in
the channels. Eight point six knots- is there any more? We're going for
speed now, so I disregard our day's course for the present, and search for
the wind. There it is! A little more of a gust, the wind comes more abeam
for a moment; the boat stands up a little- 9.22 knots. That's not just
sailing in this overloaded boat- that's smokin'! 
                                                                 ***
But we kicked the smoking habit just a few brief moments later when a wave
from a passing powerboat washed aboard (we were pretty well heeled over,
with the rail under,) and caught our starboard horseshoe buoy and washed it
out of its rack. We quickly spun around, and Darline, boathook at the ready,
snared it on the first try. Now that's how an impromptu man overboard drill
is supposed to work.
The Upper Chesapeake is very different from the lower part of the Bay. First
of all, it's not nearly as wide.  And at the Patapsco River intersection,
all of the heavy commercial traffic is converging on the channel to
Baltimore. Shallow spots seem to be a little more frequent, meaning buoy are
important again, and the bay begins to trend to the northeast. And large
bluffs line the river on both sides. Of course, that means that stunning
houses are on the slopes of those bluffs- very sedate, comfortable,
large-lawn places.
We dropped our anchor for the evening in the shallow mouth (7 feet) of the
Bohemia River, one of the short, wide rivers that abound in this section. We
enjoyed yet another of our subtly beautiful evening sunsets, before arising
early on our way through the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal. The C&D is one
of the US oldest canals, dating from the 1820's. It has been widened and
deepened several times, and we passed a couple of ocean going ships
westbound. The tide runs pretty fierce through here, and the passing sailor
does well to coordinate his passage with those tides. Helped by these tides,
we made the nineteen-mile transit in a little over two hours. We did have
the thrill of being rocked stem to stern and beam to beam by passing
powerboats, whose high-speed wakes were amplified by the canal's vertical
rock sides. 
This canal brought us to the Delaware River. A little late in the day for
the 45 mile run down Delaware Bay, we pulled in to the marina at Delaware
City, which is situated on an old dead end of the C&D Canal. Talk about a
place that time, history, and commerce have passed by. At one time this was
an extremely prosperous transshipment point for goods on the C&D. But when
the demands of increasing ship size caused the canal to be widened, Delaware
City was cut off and by-passed, becoming a backwater. As so often happens,
the lack of "progress" meant that no economic class of people was present to
"improve" the city via architecture. The result: quite an impressive
collection of early nineteenth century houses, most still in fairly good
condition. We actually spent an extra-unscheduled day there. When we left
(real) early the next morning on our way to Cape May, New Jersey, the wind
was blowing strongly from the southeast- our direction- and the waves were
limiting our speed in spots to little over two knots. And that was with the
tide. Knowing that the tide would turn foul about four hours later, I could
envision an arrival time at Cape May well after nightfall- something we try
to avoid.
Taking the cautious path, we turned around and return to our slip in the
mud-hole marina. It was not exactly a spiffy place. But we caught up on
sleep, I got running lights burning, and the time was not entirely wasted.
We had better luck the next day. Another cool front had blown through during
the night (the one we were counting on the day before) and let us run before
the wind on the ebb tide for most of the distance of Delaware Bay. The wind
held almost all of the way, and we got to Cape May early in the afternoon. 
Cape May is kind of a Jersey Riviera of no particular charm that's just
another stop. We spent a pleasant night and were up with the sun for our run
up to Barnegat Inlet. We had favorable winds and made good time under sail,
arriving about 4 PM. All of these Jersey inlets have a reputation for having
pretty strong currents, and Barnegat lived up to its rep. Though there are
jetties there, they're fairly short by Sabine and Galveston comparison, and
the channel is pretty tricky even inside the jetty. And the current- we
arrived in time to buck an ebb (falling) tide, and even though we were
showing 7 and a half knots on the knot meter under sail and power, our
headspeed was almost nil. Once we got inside, we had a pleasant evening in
the shadow of the very tall Barnegat Inlet Light House.
Away the next morning, our course paralleled the evermore densely populated
New Jersey Coast. By the time we got halfway, the buildings ashore, though
not the plush Florida-style condos and developments, were indicating our
proximity to a major population center. As if the increasing ship traffic or
the density of boaters would not have told us.
We spotted the Manhattan's World Trade Center at twenty-eight miles, and
would probably have seen it from farther had it not been for the haze. Our
run up this last leg of New Jersey Coast, thus far with a little tidal help
but no wind, was about to change. Abeam of Perth Amboy, just before Sandy
Hook, the tide turned, and the wind picked up- from the northeast, allowing
us to sail a little east of north. That was okay, more or less until we
reached Sandy Hook. At that point "turning the corner" into this increasing
tidal flow also put the wind dead on our nose (again) about twelve miles
from our destination in Great Kills Harbor on Staten Island. Our forward
speed dropped to about three knots, and we arrived in the late afternoon.
But we were there just the same, in an out-of-the-way harbor that was
peaceful and convenient to New York transportation.
Great Kills is a favorably un-New York -like location. It has the look and
feel of smaller New England Towns. As one of the residents told us, "it's
like Brooklyn forty years ago." Maybe Brooklyn wasn't a bad place, because
we liked Great Kills. Staten Island is fairly pleasant, too. It's not as
densely crowded as Manhattan, as has distinct neighborhoods and communities.

We joined the commuters for the ride across New York Harbor on the Staten
Island Ferry. As we walked along the deck, I noticed the builder's plaque
that said, "built at Levingston Shipyard, Orange Texas, 1963." All three
ferries we rode- "Herbert Lehman", "American Legion", and "John F. Kennedy"
were built and launched in Orange at about the same time- a little bit of
Southeast Texas here in the Big Apple.
We did some of the usual touristy things, but since we were here a year ago
we didn't repeat much. Except for two trips to Zabar's, that is. Zabar's is
the ultimate New York delicatessen. Thirty different kinds of imported
olives in bulk, twenty different types of salmon, hundreds of cheese,
incredible bread, hundreds of kinds of olive oil- the list goes on and on.
It's where half of the East Side gets cutesy things for snacks parties, etc.
Only in New York.   We supplied for a picnic in Central Park there, a trip
that took four hours from Staten Island. We could have driven to Dallas in
that time. 
We also took a trip to see the Cloisters almost at the upper tip of
Manhattan. The Cloisters is a re-creation of several medieval Spanish and
French monasteries that has the atmosphere of what a religious environment
would have been like in the Middle Ages. Parts were re-assembled stone by
stone from old abandoned monasteries in Europe.  It is very beautiful,
located in Washington Heights at Fort Tryon Park, which overlooks the Hudson
from cliffs several hundred feet high. It actually feels quite secluded, and
the opposite New Jersey cliffs are equally undeveloped. Not what we usually
think about New York City.
We enjoyed another picnic here with Zabar's remnants, accompanied by a
French couple we had met in Delaware City and had anchored with a couple of
stops along the way. 
After the usual  "3 R's" day  (rest, repair, and re-supply ), we left Great
kills for our trip across New York Harbor. The tides really move here, and
one doesn't go traipsing across the water without an awareness of the local
tide conditions. We use "Reed's Nautical Almanac" for our tidal information,
but have found that some predictions are not really accurate. We had
something of a head tide against us until we reached the Battery, at which
point it turned in our favor.  I must say that seeing the Statue of Liberty
from the deck of your own vessel has a special meaning. The difference
between that and the millions of arrivals in New York traveling steerage
class is a universe.
We had a pleasant ride up the East River, tide in assistance. Though there
is a lot of traffic passing through New York harbor, very little of it goes
to New York proper. Most of it heads for the modern container facilities in
Elizabeth or Bayonne, New Jersey. No ships other than the occasional cruise
ship docks in Manhattan, and in Brooklyn we saw only one ship. Since we were
on the right side of the tide, the highly touted concerns of Hell Gate did
not materialize. We made it to Port Washington where we anchored for the
evening and had a pleasant dinner (balsamic chicken, thanks to Chef Darline)
with our French friends as a farewell.
The next three days were spent going up Long Island Sound.  While still in
close sight of Long Island, we enjoyed the views of the legendary Long
Island estates. "Baronial" seems to be the correct description. We stopped
at Milford (tiny river, packed with boats, ducks, geese, and swans) and
Essex. The weather was cool, and sailing was only allowed in the afternoons
when the winds finally bent around our way. In addition to the recreational
boats, there are lobstermen and a surprising number of tugs, barges, and
large ships.  We were almost always in sight of both the Connecticut and New
York shores of Long Island Sound.
 Two really charming places I must linger on:  the first, Essex, is up the
Connecticut River from Old Saybrook and Old Lyme. We're talking New England
quaint here. Most of the town retains its New England atmosphere and
architecture, even if it is well discovered by the tourists-, which WE are
not, of course. It is in a pleasant valley flanked on both sides by hills,
old church steeples, and about a zillion boats on moorings in the tiny
harbor. One could do worse.
The other place is Mystic. It is the Connecticut seaport claiming the
longest, richest, most important share of Connecticut's sea-going history.
It is also Connecticut's Boating Central. Which is why Mystic Seaport is
there. It is a re-creation of a New England seaport of the 18th and 19th
centuries, including the various shore-support shops and businesses required
to maintain ships. There are the Charles W. Morgan, the only remaining
American whaling ship, a Grand Banks fishing schooner, and many others. One
I particularly enjoyed was the Joseph Conrad, the smallest full-rigged ship
ever built, and one my Uncle Harold served on in World War II when it was a
Merchant Marine training ship.
We are now in Newport, Rhode Island.  Newport claims to be America's sailing
capital, a title contested also by Annapolis. We've been to both places.
It's close, but I think I'll have to give the edge to Newport. Every kind of
boat- and several of each- is here. It's really a boaty kind of place. The
collection of super-yachts is unbelievable. One really fascinating aspect is
the old twelve-meter yacht that was used in the America's Cup races in the
sixties and seventies. There are about eight of these old beauties, and they
would love to have you aboard for a morning or evening sail. Though they are
a little "de-tuned" (they don't use any headsails) they still move pretty
fast. And since they all go out together, there is a little "competition"
between boats for the benefit of the tourists aboard. It's a thrill to just
see them sailing.
Newport is a colonial town as well, and they have an impressive collection
of buildings (all still in use) from the 17th and 18th centuries.
From here, we head to Boston, where it is just a hop & skip to Maine. 
It's good to hear from everyone. If anyone would like more explanation on
anything we talk about, please fell free to ask. And keep those cards and
letters coming.
Message on T-shirt: If a man speaks at sea where no woman can hear him, is
he still wrong?
As always, wondering why the depth sounder goes on the blink only when we're
in shallow water.
Darline and Mickey Rouse
Newport, Rhode Island
 

The "Bluebonnet" Chronicles #19
Dear Blue Buds:

The time: late afternoon
the place: Healy Creek, Piankitank River, Cheasapeake Bay

The cool front that passed through yesterday has left a dry cool light
breeze from the north. "Bluebonnet" is in a borrowed slip in this tiny
creek, just up from the Piankitank. We are in the dinghy, enjoying the soft
part of the day. Conversation at levels above a whisper seem out of place.
Though this is a small residential community, it would
scarce be noticed from the water. We are rowing, with the oars barely
dipping the water. Ospreys live here, and as we have traveled north, we note
that there is a little more activity in the nest. Over there, that one hs
two fuzzy heads peering over the side, bobbong back and forth. The house are
nestled on the ridges along this creek, and harmoniously barely intrude upon
the natural setting. As the sun settles behind the ridge, the long shadows
blnket the mirror surface of the creek. .Water striders are on the opposite
side of the surface rippled  by minnows. A blue heron patrols the edges of
the creek, while in the braches above a kingfisher is alert to what the
heron may miss. Everthing seems in perfect harmony: the green drapery of
tree limbs, the tiny marina, the lovely houses. After experiencing Florida,
we can only wonder: how long will this beauty last?
                  *******
Lets get down to the nitty gritty: the Chesapeake is sneaky big. WHile some
parts allow one shore to be seen from the other, ther are also sections in
which no land can be seen at all. Like the ocean. Navigation is a little
more important than I would have guessed. But it's a good place to cruise
and sail, particulary if you have wind, and it's from the right direction.
Which we haven't. 
We stayed an extra day in Hampton, visitiing th Mariners Museum- trully on
of the best in teh world. Besides, weather was pretty crummy, which also
encouraged extra time. When we got away, we experienced Hampton Roads/
Norfolk at a fairly busy time: contaner ships, tugs and barges, cruise
ships, tour boats, recreational fishing boats of all kinds, commercials
fishing boats, sail boats, navy vessels, nuclear submarines (the "Ohio")-
just about anything you could imagaine seemed to be there at once. In
addition, the rainey weather brought a front, which meant wind right on our
nose. It finally backed a little, allowing us to sail. We made good progress
through the water, but the tides on the lower part of the Bay are pretty
strong, and our forward progress was almost nil. It took about fourteen
hours to make forty good miles, but that's how it goes sometimes. Our
destination was Deltaville, a micro-town between the Piankitank and
Rappahannock Rivers. Population: 1500, but they have about ten marinas. And
a
West Marine. A great number of the people in Richmond keep their boats here,
which acounts for the disproportionate numbers.
    We visted some goods friends, Warren and Susan, that we had first met in
Key West. Their lovely  home on storeybook Healy Creek makes for a warm,
cozy, beautiful view. 
From there, we sailed (somewhat)to Duck Cove on the Eastern Shore, where a
tiny
village dominated by a Moravian church is home to crabbers. Leaving here,
the bay turned still, hot, humid, and hazy. We could have been on Sabine
Lake. 
  Into Annapolis at sunset, we met
up with more cruising friends who had been guarding a mooring for us. A good
deed indeed, because this place fills up. 
   Annapolis is kind of Tourist Central for the Chesapeake. It seems that
every cruiser stops here for a few days. The town has the greatest
concentration of colonial buildings in the US, and together with the Naval
academy, attracts quite a lot of tourists. It claims (not without challenge,
of course) to be the sailing capital of the US. They have a lot going, to be
sure. Every street that ends at the water becomes a free dinghy dock. 
Along with Charleston and Key West,  it seem to cater to water-born tourists
(those are cruisers with money to spend) more than any city we've seen yet.
And many do a fairly good job. But there are about twenty marinas in this
community of 20,000, and the shore services for sailors of all kinds are
extensive.
  We made our usual visit to West Marine- we've passed up very  few. It has
become fairly obvious several times that we need to change our main anchor,
because it has drug so many times. For you sailors out there, I'm going on
record saying that a CQR plow (35 lb.) just doesn't hold as well in mud as a
Danforth anchor. We bought a Fortress aluminum anchor, and hav high hopes
for it. 
   We toured the Naval Academy the day the new midshipmen arrived. We saw
several groups being marched around, and you never saw a more subdued bunch
of eighteen year olds. No doubt they all were wondering just what they had
gotten themselves into.
  The typical summer (so we are told) Chesapeake weather of sultry, hot,
still, humid days broke with a cool front blowing through yesterday, and
today is wonderfully dry, brisk and breezy. Let's hope it lasts. We will be
here through the Fourth of July (should be a respectable fireworks display
at this one-time US capital) and we will start on the New York leg of the
trip.
As always;
     Hoping that "crunch" I hear in the middle of the night is on the boat
next door
Darline and Mickey Rouse
Annapolis
 

Chronicles #18

Dear Blue Buds:

The Time: Sunrise
The Place: Cape Hatterras Inlet

The rain began in the early morning, coming down quite heavily. It has been
warm, and the additional moisture will only make the air even more humid.
The days are getting much longer, particularly as we make our way north
Seabirds are milling around as they do in bad weather. The local
sport-fishing tournament will surely be called off, as we learn that the
tropical storm that flooded Southeast Texas has stalled over eastern North
Carolina. The wind blows on Bluebonnet's beam while in the slip and we heel
slightly, causing her docklines to creak and groan.  It will be another day
in port. A storm is on the Outer Banks.
                                                               ****
        As we began to ease out of our slip in Charleston, I shifted the
engine into forward. Nothing. I shifted back to reverse. Also nothing. We
let the wind blow us back to a slip, where I diagnosed the problem: the
propeller shaft key at the coupling had turned to dust, and the shaft- and
propeller- were motionless. This happened in Key West, and I had what I
needed to repair it. It only took about two and a half-hours this time, and
we were on our way. 
      We crossed Charleston Harbor right under Fort Sumter's nose, where the
Civil War began (or as a resident of Charleston corrected me, the War of
Northern Aggression.). Back to the ICW, we resumed our northeastward trek.
The weather along here was starting to get cloudy and drizzly, and our foul
weather gear was always nearby. The ICW along in here is mostly connecting
rivers and creeks and dredged channels, though there are a few long land
cuts. 
     We only made the distance to McClellandville, a small fishing community
about 40 miles up from Charleston.   We anchored in a tidal creek. The marsh
here is a vast perfect carpet of sweetgrass. This grass is not as tall as
the cordgrass we associate with marshes in Texas, but each stem is precisely
the same height as its neighbor. They are perfectly, densely, spaced,
unifromly bright green with no hint of yellow or brown, and the effect is of
a giant, flawless carpet. This grass tolerates daily tidal floods almost
covering it. Beyond where the sweetgrass grows, in the tidal zone not
covered as deep or as long each day by the tides, is the cord grass; taller,
more willowy, responding to the wind a little more slowly, less perfectly
colored, more irregular in height, more clumped in its spacing. Past that
grow the rushes.
      All of these grasses are used in the making of baskets, a folk
industry in the Low Country, which can be traced directly backed to the
African origins of the slaves imported to the Carolinas.
      We passed into Cape Romain Wildlife refuge, through a section I call
Gator Junction. The numbers of alligators in this marsh was huge- I saw six
crossing the ICW in various directions at one time. Past there, we come to
Georgetown, on the Waccamaw River. Georgetown is a pleasant small town that
we skipped, but I am told is full of grand old houses. The river is without
doubt one of the loveliest we have been on. Though it was a gray drizzly
day, we thoroughly enjoyed the motor-sail up it. It is lined in some
sections with the abandoned rice fields that once were the backbone of South
Carolina's agricultural economy, in other places by hardwood forests of
cypress, oak, and cedar. Our last night in South Carolina was spent on a
Corps of Engineers public dock (that means free) on the edge of Myrtle
Beach. The next day, a Saturday, saw our entry into North Carolina.  In
coastal Carolina, at least, the people are as boat crazy (if not more) as
South Florida. This is popular fishing country, and great swarms of boats,
all at full speed and full wake, infest the waterway. It is also very
comfortably housed. Gracious houses line the waterway almost the entire
distance from the Carolina state line to Camp Lejeune. While some are less
than marvelous, it is surprising how many of them are three story houses,
set only barely above high tide. I can only wonder what the destruction will
be when the next hurricane comes, as surely it will. 
       Outside of Camp LeJeune, we anchored in a small harbor used by the
army (or marines?) as a training area for their small assault boats. They
were up late and early, running around with no running lights- I guess if
you're at war you don't want to advertise your presence.   We anchored near
some boats we had seen earlier, and fell into traveling with one boat,
Morning Calm, for almost two weeks. Steve and Darline (yes, the same name,
same spelling) have been cruising for three years aboard their Jeanneau
catamaran , having made the ICW run four times. Their experience in some
sections was to prove very helpful. 
As close as we were to Cape Hatteras, it was too inviting to pass up a
diversion to the Outer Banks. It was a couple of days of pure sailing the
open water of Pamlico Sound, and Hatteras is not usually on the cruising
path. Just our kind of place. We're glad we did it. Though the marina had no
amenities other than a place to tie up, they more than made up in their
hospitality. They insisted we borrow their car to see the island, and I'm
glad we did.  We visited the lighthouse, walked the beaches, saw an old
Civil War era shipwreck, and felt like we absorbed the thin island.
Weather-bound for a couple of extra days, we took the ferry (free) to
Ocracoke one day and just killed time the next.
    We sailed to Roanoke Island and anchored near where the Lost Colony was
last seen. Next day, we sailed past Kill Devil Hill at Kitty Hawk, and could
make out the First Flight monument. There, we sailed into a headwind (with
power, of course) across Albemarle Sound and up the Pasquotank River to
Elizabeth City.  You may recognize some of these place names from your
junior high American History. These places are full of it. One feels the
weight of that history quite distinctly all along here.
   We stayed a couple of very enjoyable days at Elizabeth City. It is a
charming little town, which once enjoyed great importance as the junction of
navigation between the sounds and towns of the Outer Banks region and the
exit (or entrance, if you're headed north) of the Great Dismal Swamp Canal.
With the rise of the railroads, cars, and semi trucks, that strategic
location is not as important as it once was, but it produced a charming town
full of eighteenth century homes, and gracious people who haven't forgotten
how to be hospitable. 
      Back on our way, we found the Dismal Swamp Canal to be not so nearly
dismal as, well, boring. This too I've heard about for years, and wouldn't
have missed it for anything, but it's thirty-four miles long,
arrow-straight, with only one slight bend. It's fairly narrow, and we
brushed tree limbs a couple of times. It's not overly deep (8 feet max) and
part of it runs along a highway. But it has the thickest swarms of biting
flies we have yet experienced. They seemed to be worse at mid-day, and were
not to be found once we got out of the thick forests of the Dismal Swamp.
But our feet and legs look like I've been shot with birdshot, and they itch.
    One moment of near-excitement: Going through the bridge at the far end
of the canal locks, we noticed a siren sounding in addition to the usual
bridge siren. I realized it was some kind of emergency vehicle, and that the
bridge would close micro seconds before we got to it. I began to turn, the
bridge began to lower, and the then asked if we could stop. Fortunately we
had just started moving, and it was easy to turn. I think the bridge
attendant was more scared than we were.
             On through the locks (drop: nine feet) we entered the Elizabeth
River to Norfolk. It has the reputation of the world's largest naval base,
and I believe it. There are actually a number of different installations,
and the combined effect is massive.
We anchored less than two hundred yards from the red bell buoy that marks
Mile Zero of the ICW.    So now we've done it: The complete Gulf Coast ICW ,
Brownsville to Appalachicola, and the Atlantic ICW, Key West to Norfolk.  My
recommendation if you plan to do it: bring some good books.
    Which brings us to Hampton, Virginia. We've been here a couple of days
visiting the Mariners Museum, and will head out tomorrow up the Chesapeake.
I fell like we've really arrived at Someplace. We can't wait to see more of
it.
      As always, wondering why the boat goes faster when we're headed in the
wrong direction.

Darline and Mickey Rouse
Hampton Roads, Virginia

               The Bluebonnet  Chronicles #17
 
 
 

Dear Blue Buds: 

The Place: The Ashpoo River, South Carolina 
The Time: Late afternoon 
 

It is the end of a long day. Bluebonnet's anchor came up with the sun in Georgia. It was a brisk morning, but that seems long ago now. The day that began in Thunderbolt is now ending on the Ashpoo. It is full summer here, and the evening squalls that threatened hastened our anchoring, but they have dissipated and all is peaceful now.     We have anchored on the flood tide behind a grove of cedar and pine, and the only sounds are the shrimp crackling against the hull and crows cawing in the trees. The sun is starting to set behind dirty gray clouds. Darline has seen fit to add a little lipstick and blush to soften the effect of tugging on lines and grinding on winches through the day. We relax, enjoying the sundowner snacks Darline has provided. A good days run, several hours of sailing at hull speed down the Coosaw, a change of terrain andscenery- it is all worth it, and our rest is well earned. 

     Cruising is not just about moving; it is also 
about the peace and serenity of these isolated anchorages. 

*** 
   We are finally out of Florida, and glad of it. Not that Florida's bad, but the boat has been there since early December, and we have been ready for a change. In general, I find it a little too crowded and too intense. North of Fort Pierce, the condo canyons finally start thinning out. Of course, they are quite thin along Jupiter and Hobe Sound, where the Palm Beach crowd has their cottages. 
    North of Fort Pierce, the Intracoastal Waterway is the Indian River, which stretches for 120 miles. In some ways it reminds us of the Laguna Madre in Texas, but much more civilized, deeper, and sailable. We took two days getting through that, where the light wind and direction didn't allow much sailing, but when we crossed into Mosquito Lagoon north of Titusville 
we were able to sail quite well its full length.
     North of Daytona, we 
encountered a small group of manatees. "Caution: Manatee Zone" signs are everywhere in Florida, but except for two in an aquarium in Sarasota, we had seen no sign of them. And we probably would not have seen these were it not for a group of people at a park on shore been motioning and pointing to a spot in the river of mildly disturbed water. These creatures are docile and huge, slow moving, and  too frequently are victims of boats. This group was traveling in our direction, and we drifted along with them for about half an hour. 
      We tend to count the days we sail as accomplishments, and the days we 
have to power as almost work days. Sailing is dynamic- the wind speed is 
constantly changing as well as direction, the boat fells alive, and there is a lot going on. Powering, on the other hand, is just mile after mile and 
hour after hour of engine vibration. Or maybe I just have a simple mind and it doesn't take much to entertain me. Of course, while powering, it's easier to do small chores, cook, sleep, etc. so it does a have a plus or two. But sailing doesn't burn fuel. We almost always have at least the main sail up when we're powering, because it is infrequent that the wind is blowing dead 
on our nose, and even in light air we'll get some assistance from the sail. 
   We are using surprising less fuel than I anticipated, burning a little less than three-quarters of a gallon per hour if we have the slightest help from our main. With our forty-eight gallon main tank and two plastic fuel jugs, our six knot motoring speed gives us a substantial range, well over four hundred miles. And if we can sail a little, our re-fueling stops are far between. 
    It's just as well. Fuel in Florida is priced based on the leisure market, diesel in some places costing as much as  $1.85  per gallon. That compares to the $1.05 we paid in Port Isabel based on a commercial market. And we are
thankful for a sailboat in other ways. Here at the Charleston Marina, the dock crew was calculating how much it would take to refuel one of these 150 
ft. megayachts: ten thousand gallons at a pump rate of twenty five gallons per minute was going to take almost seven hours. At $1.39 per gallon. I 
blush at the smallness of our fuel bill. We used about forty gallons from Marathon to Charleston. 
 But enough of engine talk. 
    The terrain has changed dramatically from Florida to coastal Georgia. Development in Florida was starting to play out (mercifully) by the time we got to San Augustine, and stopped abruptly once we crossed the St. Mary's 
River into Georgia. The ICW in Georgia is strictly a series of marked channels winding through the sweetgrass marshes. It is beautiful in its own 
wild way. There is extremely little sign of human encroachment in any part of the Georgia ICW, though at the edges of the marshes an occasional 
habitation can be spotted. Up some of the creeks, a few shrimp boats dock, and a building or two rests at the end of an isolated road. It is so unlike 
Florida. Of course, you need to come prepared. There was only one fuel stop between Fernandina, Florida and Thunderbolt, outside of Savannah. 
      As we crossed into South Carolina, development seemed to pick up, but not at the insane Florida pace. Gracious homes began to line the waterway as the marshes began to narrow outside of Thunderbolt. In some of the small 
communities like Port Royal and Beaufort  (In South Carolina, that's BEWfort, in North Carolina it's BOfort - one in each state) there are clusters of comfortable, grand, and gracious homes along the waterway. They are seemingly more in harmony with the surroundings, pleasantly like what wehave seen in much of Maine. 
     By the way- they have real tides here. We anchored at the Sapelo in Georgia on high tide in nine feet of water. The tide range is eight feet. By
bedtime we were cocked over on one side, and about to roll out of our bunks at low tide. It all came back though with no problem. 
         All of which gets us to Charleston. This city is intensely proud of its heritage and history, and has learned how to market it well to tourists. There are numerous buildings in the historic district almost three hundred years old, and almost all of the old buildings have been well 
restored. We took a walking tour of the historic district, and for my money, Charleston has done a lot better job of retaining its historic flavor than 
New Orleans has. The restaurants we ate at were almost as good as the good ones in New Orleans, and I think I'd just as soon come here again. Which we will, in the fall. 
      We'll leave this morning this morning on up the coast through the Chesapeake and into New England, with our ultimate destination Maine. 
  Keep those cards and letters coming. Meanwhile, as always, Hoping the money goes farther than the boat does. 
  Darline and Mickey Rouse 
   Charleston 

Dear Blue Buds:

The "Bluebonnet" Chronicles #16
June 6, 2001

The time: 6:30 AM
The Place: Elliott Key, Biscayne Bay

After an evening that started on the boisterous side, the night finally settled down to a dead calm. I am up with the sunrise, hoping to get going without disturbing Darline. The water is even more clear here than in the lower Keys, if that can be possible. I quietly pull the boat on the anchor rode until I get to the chain part. It's just not possible to pull 60 feet of chain aboard without a terrific racket on deck practically over Darline's drowsy head, so she pops up a few minutes later.
    In the still water I can almost count the spines on the urchins below. The anchor clambers on deck, and I begin to make sail. The wind is so light that it barely ruffles the water, and the sails hang limply after their hoist. Miami's tallest buildings are visible on the horizon, but there is little else intruding on nature, at least for ten miles around. Two or three other boats have also anchored for the night here, but their draft lets them go closer in to shore
than we do. The light air lets us ghost along at a couple of knots, then the wind picks up to about 4 knots. Our speed increases accordingly, as we leave bubbles in our wake on the otherwise smooth water. Suddenly, as though the Master Wind Switch was thrown, the wind jumps up to twelve knots on our
beam, ideal sailing conditions for "Bluebonnet." Her speed increases dramatically, and we start pushing eight knots in the still-smooth water.
    A few powerboats, heading for their Miami home after a weekend in the Keys pass us, but they can't be enjoying getting there nearly as much as we are.  We sail all the way to the Rickenbacker Causeway. One more perfect sail of
several we've had lately.
***
We are finally out of the Keys. After two and a half months of them, I suppose I've had all I want for the present. I find the Keys over-publicized in many ways. No doubt they were paradise- if you can ignore the insects, water scarcity, remoteness, summer heat, and the odd hurricane or two-before development and "improvement" came. There are many exclusive resorts
that occupy choice beachfront and sometimes whole islands, but the view seen from Hwy 1- the only highway- is kind of like Vidor, Texas placed on top of Crystal Beach. We drove to Miami one day while in Key West, and so much of the Keys seen from the highways seem like clusters of boat storage sheds
supported by odd-shaped islands with the occasional trailer park, dive shop and hangouts with names like "Squid Bar " and "Sharkey's." There are a few keys that have no roads to them, but very few east of Key West. Most of the uninhabited islands are mangrove islands that don't really ever get dry. But
we've neither of us ever been here before, and are grateful for the
experience.
   Our Marathon experience (second edition) was a work session. We removed the rest of the varnish from the boat that we hadn't gotten to in Fort Meyers, and put a few coats on, six to be exact. I counted up the other day, and realized we have applied two gallons of varnish in the last twelve months. And we could use quite a bit more. Anyway, that's just part of the program. 
    Marathon in particular and the keys in general are rest stops for
birds coming up from Central America. We've spotted orioles, redstarts, pine warblers, vireos, and others, all small colorful songbirds. While there, we got the urge for Mexican food. We went to the (only) one in Marathon, across from West Marine, of course. It was interesting, but it's not real Tex-Mex. Guess it's as good as we'll find east of the Sabine, though.
   It is interesting the people we run across. A boat anchored next to us from Fort Worth out of Seabrook that was just a few days behind us in December, and who had spent a couple of nights at Port Arthur Yacht Club. We met a couple in Key West - she's from Port Arthur- who are retired Navy, who helped me do some practice with my sextant and celestial navigation. We meet
wonderful interesting people everywhere. 
   Also in Marathon,, we made a quantitative enhancement to our cruising experience: bicycles. While in Havana, the lack of shore transportation really hit home. Back in Key West, we thought hard about buying a scooter.  But the problems of getting it on and off the boat, as well as having it exposed to salt water and air, leaking oil and fuel on the deck, and one more thing to work on cooled us on the idea. So we landed on folding bicycles. By an incredible stroke of luck, another cruiser told us about two
used Dahon 3-speed folding bikes he knew of. They were a bargain, so we now have shore transport. They look like kids' bicycles with their 16" wheels and small frame. But the seats and handlebars extend to full size, and they feel just like regular bikes. Of course we look like a circus act coming down the street, and every kid that sees us pops his eyes out. They fold up
into a suitcase 24" by 38", and have really expanded our horizons. I guess I have to get some stretch pants and an aerodynamic hat.
   Coming up from Marathon we sailed across the reef line one last
time. Regardless of the rest of the Keys, the reef is really something. I just can't get over seeing the bottom in thirty feet. We've had some great sailing, too. One day I reached my personal best boat speed on "Bluebonnet" - 9.11 knots. Really fun for an old, loaded up boat.
    We took the inside passage from Marathon, which means we came inshore at Lower Matecumbe.  It is certainly more tame on the Florida Bay side, but the scarcity of anchorages between there and Miami pretty dictated that. We
made it to Elliott Key, where we anchored for the night with a beautiful sunset right over the Turkey Point Nuclear Power Plant.
   At Miami, we anchored in the Lee of some towering condos just a few yards west of Miami Beach, something of a culture shock. Here we made full use of our "toy" bicycles and toured all up and down Ocean Drive viewing the old art deco hotels. There's not much white paint sold here. These colors-
in fact just about all of the Miami area- are painted every imaginable shade of pastel and tropic colors- and a lot of aquamarine and magenta give things that "Miami Vice" look. 
   We went one evening to Little Havana to eat at
Versailles Restaurant, which despite the French name, is the most
recommended Cuban restaurant in town. A very classy place- mirrored walls, headwaiters in pencil mustaches, waiters in tux tops, gold trim- the works.  The food was very good, the servings were enormous- our "to go" boxes fed us for two days- and the prices were unbelievably low. Very satisfying.
    Some rain fails even in paradise. We notice a leak in our water
system on morning, and determined it was the hot water heater. Thanks to Hinckley, Judi Wilson coordinated the acquisition of a new heater and set up service for us at the Rybovich-Spencer yard in Palm Beach, we set out for "the palm Beaches" with a stop at Fort Lauderdale. 
   We made an offshore passage to avoid a maze of drawbridges, which open on set schedules. At the Lake Worth inlet at Lauderdale, all we could see was a wall of spray and
foam, out of which occasionally a boat would appear. This city is home to over 40,000 boats, and apparently they were all out heading through the inlet this Sunday afternoon. 
   Fort Lauderdale can only be seen to be truly appreciated, and then it must be seen from the water. The waterfront homes
are enormous- palaces in every sense of the word. There are 167 miles of water-front property in Ft. Lauderdale, and it seems that half of them have a 100-ft. yacht tied up on their private dock- or out in the boat maze with us. Sunday afternoons are quite a show on the waterfront.
   We left early for Palm Beach where Rybovich-Spencer is located, and had a fantastic sail up the coast. Offshore about three miles, with the wind a little aft of our beam at 9-11 knots, we were holding boat speed at 7-8 knots for most of the distance, We made the jetty-to-jetty distance of 46 miles in six hours, another fantastic sail. We really have appreciated the sailing we've had in the last few weeks, because so much of our forward progress has been accomplished under power. That's okay if you really have
to get somewhere- but we're on a SAILboat, and sailing is just so much satisfying. 
   We're here at Rybovich-Spencer, truly a world class yacht yard with world-class yachts, size-wise and price wise. It's amazing 
How slow they can move though, at $60 an hour. After we get our water back on stream, we'll be heading north up the ICW as far as we can go before the approaching winter makes us turn back.
Let us hear from you- this e-mail thing works both ways.
As always, hoping we don't bounce far when we hit the dock.
Darline and Mickey Rouse
Palm Beach

May 8,2001
The BLuebonnet Chronicles 
Dear Blue Buds: 

The question has already been asked: What's Cuba like? In one word, 
puzzling. This is supposed to be a socialist economy, right? That means that

central planning answers all questions of resources, supposedly allocating
scarce limited resources in a fair manner for the greater good of all. I 
don't get it. This country is dirt poor, and has been able to accomplish a 
lot on its own. Yet gross inequities exist. In a society where the security 
guards at public places earn $10 per month (that's right, less than what we 
pay for a mediocre meal) and doctors earn about $200 a month, some people 
get enough together to live in some pretty nice houses and drive some pretty

nice cars. How? 
  There are other puzzling questions. This place must have driven the 
Soviets crazy. After all, listen to the music. So much of it is really good.

But it sounds, well, decadent. I like it, and it doesn't seem to fit in to 
the Soviet model of an ordered society. 
   But the people are wonderful. Everyone tried very hard to help us when 
we were looking for something, and all are extremely friendly. But I can 
understand why half the population has gone to Florida. In many ways, the 
place is overwhelmingly drab to shabby. Closed factories are everywhere. A 
surprising number of sports arenas and similar facilities appear to be 
unused or abandoned, or maybe they just look that way due to no maintenance.

We took the city bus (cost: 2 cents) into Havana one Saturday morning, and 
rode through some pretty nifty neighborhoods, with nice SUV's parked in the
driveways. Must be hard for the bus passengers to see this every day. It 
would be nice to live here IF you didn't have to get parts for the 
dishwasher, or car, or have the air conditioner fixed, or anything else like

that. It's just about impossible. You can't buy magazines or newspapers 
other than the Party rag, Granma. You can get Spanish language CNN if you 
have a dish, but local TV, other than weather, is pretty much Party rah-rah 
stuff. 
    Public transportation is a shambles. At "rush" hour, the streets are 
what we would think of as nearly empty. There are buses, though, and they 
are crowded beyond belief. Some, which they call "camels" because they're 
hump-backed, must carry over two hundred people- mostly standing, and are 
really trailers pulled by large semi trucks. We rode one bus, and I almost 
couldn't get off at our stop. I was finally extruded out the back. On our 
trip to Pinar Del Rio, we rode an extremely nice tourist coach, less than 
half full. We drove down a four lane highway that was almost deserted. That 
day, we saw farm workers using ox carts, farmers using horses as obvious 
basic transportation, and one guy riding a saddled water buffalo. Definitely

third world, but you do what you have to do. 
   Despite the lack of many material goods, everybody gets an education 
through university if they want it. Medical care is universal and free, and 
apparently the doctors are at least competent to avoid ongoing health 
crises. You can drink the water. Apparently the flies everywhere outside 
don't hurt anything. 
Everybody seems to have clothes, though the women generally favor things 
made from stretchy Lycra, which fits like a coat of tight paint. One T-shirt

on a paunchy old guy in Old Havana: "SURF TODAY   SURF TODAY." 
    The US dollar is the basic unit of exchange here. Oh, they have 
"national money", but it is accepted at extremely few places, like the open 
air vegetable market and a few small paladares, the private restaurants that

have opened. But almost everything that's not rationed takes dollars. They 
have their own change for dollars- 5, 10, and 20 centavos as opposed to the 
old coins which look very different, and aren't worth the metal they're made

from. 
Almost everything for sale is imported. At the dollar grocery stores, we saw

almost no items of Cuban origin. Most of  the grocery items shown come from 
mostly Spain, and the Spanish seem to have established strong commercial 
relations. On one of our city walkathons, we passed by a "shopping mall", 
conceptually just like we have at home. The stores are very tiny, though, 
the stock is very limited, and the government runs it all. And the people 
flock in like lemmings, apparently just to see what's available in the rest 
of the world. There were few buyers, because every transaction requires 
dollars. The only store doing much business was a small kiosk selling cheap 
Chinese plastic toys, socks, and barbecue lighters. 
  There is a steady flow of dollars, though. Cubans in the US send almost a 
billion dollars a year back home. These "remittances" were strictly black 
market for years, but recently the government decided they wanted their
hands on these dollars, and made them legal. The tourist business is also a
strictly  greenback business as well. And it's big business here. East of 
Havana is the former fishing village of Varadero. It has beautiful beaches, 
not always available here.  Over fifty large resort type hotels have been 
built here, and it is full of Europeans. Cubans will work for free just to 
have access to tips. 
  We met a tour guide who was a former college professor of English. His 
accent-free English sounded like he could have been from Ohio. He switched 
jobs for the obvious reason. 
   Tourists are pampered to an embarrassing degree. At Marina Hemingway, 
for example, there must have been ten security guards on duty around the 
clock. At no time did we feel that they were there for any reason other than

to protect us. One morning I was awoken by a guard because he couldn't find 
our water hose. I had placed it back in the boat, but he didn't realize
that. He had a checklist of all equipment that was outdoors on each boat, 
and he was concerned that the hose was missing. Another night, the guards 
woke us up because our dinghy had become untied. I had used it while 
varnishing that day and had not been careful when I got through with it. Of 
course, I couldn't convey that with my six words of Spanish and their twenty

words of English.  In a major internal night security operation, every guard

on duty- must have been a dozen- began searching for the attempted boat 
thief. A dozen guys, two cars, one launch- but not one flashlight among 
them. They had to borrow mine. When we left, we made a small gift to a 
couple guards that we had dealings with. One was so touched he almost 
started to cry. The gift: three bars of Ivory soap, two pencils, and two 
note pads. 
    Our encounter with officialdom upon clearing in was courteous and 
business-like. No threats, guns, intimidation, tough anti-American talk or
anything.  There was a host of them, from the Guarda Frontera, Agriculture, 
Health, Customs, Immigration, plus one sniffing dog (for handguns and ammo) 
and one diver. At no other time did we encounter any evidence of the police
state. 
  The people may not be committed socialists, but there seems to be genuine 
support for Fidel. That support may extend to his designated successor, 
brother Raul, but it will remain to be seen if it goes deeper than that. 
There seems to be a lot of curiosity about Americans. After all, almost 
everyone has an uncle, brother or nephew who waits tables in Cincinnati, or 
works construction in Tampa. 
   There is a strong cultural life of music, ballet, etc., but very few 
movie theaters. A few video rentals exist, showing the latest Hollywood 
blockbuster. 
 Officially, there is an embargo of American goods shipped to Cuba. It 
seems rather porous.  The snappiest cars on the streets are new Mustangs. A 
few Lincolns are around too. Coca-Cola is everywhere. So is Kodak. 
Spanish-language Microsoft Windows 98 is on all the computers. Clearly 
American goods and technology is getting in through foreign subsidiaries. 
But they don't have Jell-O. 
  Where we docked the boat, Marina Hemingway is quite an international 
floating community. We saw boats from every western European country, plus a

large replica of a Spanish galleon from the Czech Republic. We had visitors 
aboard Bluebonnet from Quebec, England, Portugal, France, and Germany. 
  We are immensely grateful for the experience, because private boat is 
about the only way Americans can legally go there, though a lot of American 
traffic flies through Canada, Mexico, and the Bahamas. 
Would we go again? Well, we've got to cross the Gulf Stream twice to go and 
return. As it turned out, going was a piece of cake. The return was a 
slightly different story. 
  We had been thinking of going west down the coast to where the cayos 
(small islands) begin. But a high pressure system over the Bahamas kept the 
wind blowing from the northeast up to 25 knots, and we didn't want to get 
stuck facing a 60 mile headwind to return to Marina Hemingway to clear out. 
So we decided to wait until the weather got right in a couple of days and 
then head back to Key West. 
     The two days stretched into ten. So we did a few boat projects, 
including a couple of coats of varnish. One day, we went to visit 
Hemingway's Cuban home. Must have been a very comfortable place. No 
interior entry is allowed, and the place is a time capsule of the day he 
died, including his old shoes. (Big feet) They even have his fishing boat, 
Pilar. But since it, like everything in Cuba ,is not in the best of repair, 
it seems less like "Hemingway's fishing yacht" and more like just "Ernie's 
old boat." Our taxi to the place was in a '55 Chevy. Been in Lionel's family

since his grandfather. I haven't been in one since the last time I rode in 
Eddie Bernard's. 
     Finally we got what seemed to be a promising weather forecast. We were 
up early and waiting at the customs dock to clear out at 6:30. For no good 
reason. It only took a few minutes after the officials showed up, but we 
didn't get away until 9:00. 
   We almost wished they hadn't showed up at all. We left with a southeast 
wind. By the time we got offshore, good size waves were rolling in from the 
northeast. But the wind was holding at 15-20 knots, and though our main was 
reefed (reduced in size) and the big genoa up front was  partly rolled up, 
we were making really good time. Even with the sloppy reef in the sail, our 
speed  (confirmed by GPS) was holding over 8.5 knots, with a peak of 8.88. 
Now that's really sailing, especially for an old boat with all our gear, an 
added generator, air conditioner, a dinghy on deck and an outboard clamped 
to the rail. And this was before we were in the area of the Gulf Stream. 
    We're not sure just where that was, because it never seemed to have an 
eastward push to our course. I think it was when the waves got really big. 
Much bigger than those on our crossing to Cuba. It's difficult to accurately

measure wave heights, but consider this: I'm six feet and a little change. 
The floor of our boat cockpit is probably two feet above the water. When we 
were in the troughs of some of the waves, the crests required me to look up.

Way up. I'd guess the biggest to have been maybe fifteen feet. They can only

be seen to be believed. And these are everyday waves, not unexpected when a 
20 to 25 knot wind has been blowing for several days against a current that 
moves almost 4 knots. 
    By mid-day we got into a couple of rain squalls where the wind picked 
up to about 27 knots according to our wind gauge. The waves, of course, grew

as well.  The squalls didn't last long, but the wind shifted to northeast. 
We were going in that direction as much as we could, but our sideslip (we 
didn't have our centerboard down) resulted in a course due north of Havana. 
I expected the Gulf Stream to push us east, but our track on our chart shows

this never happened. It was a beautiful day though, and the flocks of flying

fish flushing from the waves and flitting forty or fifty yards is fabulous. 
  However our arrival calculations went haywire. If we could do 8 knots- 
and we did, almost all day- we should be able to make the ninety-mile 
crossing in twelve hours. Put us at Sand Key Light a little after eight, 
sailing past Mallory Square at nine, the anchor down at 9:30 in the evening.

Sounds good, doesn't it? Well, we did make it across the stream at just 
about a nine o'clock crossing of the reef- but it was 30 miles west of Key 
West. We wound up tacking  (that means zig-zagging in sailor talk) up Hawk 
Channel, and didn't get a mooring until 2:00- the next afternoon. The tardy 
arrival was due to our centerboard-less induced sideslip. 
  So now, the question again: would we do it again? We definitely have no 
regrets, are very glad we went, but our Gulf Stream return would give us 
pause before a second trip. 
We are now in Marathon, and will do varnish for few days before we head 
east. 
  As always, 
  Hoping their English is better than my Spanish. 

Darline and Mickey Rouse 
Aboard Bluebonnet
 
 
 

4/20/01
Vinales
Pinar Del Rio Province
Cuba

     The hotel balcony outside our room provides a commanding view of this little
valley. Huge vertical-sided limestone rock formations, mogotes, some the
size of hills themselves, rise from the valley. The view of the little
village of Vinales reveals what few secrets it has. The dome of the church's
bell tower next to the small plaza is the only object rising above the
pines. The late afternoon sun's light is diffused by the hundreds of puffy
clouds that have blown down from the Gulf. The light that gets through is
even more filtered by dust, mist, and fires arising from the small cinder
block houses. To the west, the only road has etched a thin trace into the
valley coming from the city of Pinar Del Rio. At the opposite end, the road
escapes through a cleft in the mogotes towards San Vicente, where the
asphalt covering runs out. On the valley floor, small farm plots plowed by
horses and oxen sprout corn, vegetables, and sugar cane, but mostly the
tobacco that will become Cohiba cigars. The growing season is yearlong, and
every crop is in various stages of cultivation. Most small plots have a
steep pitched thatch hut that is used for drying tobacco. It is a lush
valley, where pastures, pines, palms, and plantains grow side by side in the
red soil. In some fields, purple-flowered shrubs mark borders.
Below, the occasional farmer re-stakes a grazing cow or horse, and
dogs play in small vegetable gardens. We close our eyes: The pines whisper,
song birds call, roosters crow, dogs bark faintly, a cow calls. We hear no
automobiles. 
Above it all hawks ride the wind blowing from Florida.
Cuba has called.
We have answered.

***

Crossing

     The Gulf Stream is found immediately after passing Sand Key Light. The chart
says, "axis of Gulf Stream" at 42 miles south of the light. It much closer
today. It is as abrupt as a coral reef. The knotmeter shows 8.5 knots. The
small GPS indicates 3.5 knots, surely an error. The large GPS agrees, also
surely an error. The loran concurs in this errancy. Would three
simultaneous errors in the same amount be believed? We watch Sand Key Light
for an hour. It does not grow smaller. Slowly, we accept the reality of it.
The Gulf Stream is here, it is now, and it is real.
      The wind from the east is blowing 15-20 knots, against the east-flowing
current. The waves, at 7-8 feet are not breaking, but when they rise higher
than the boat they are breath taking. The wind from our stern quarter is
pushing the mizzen around and making Bluebonnet hard to steer, so we drop
it. She handles better immediately.
      We passed through the channel at Sand Key with three other boats. Two are
speaking French on the radio- are they the Canadian boats we saw in the
anchorage this afternoon? One of them, Moriah, hears our call to an
approaching freighter and confirms this, and tells us that all three are
headed to Havana. Since safety seems to lie in numbers, we ask if we may tag
along. "Surely."
       As the sun settles into the horizon, we spot more heavy ship traffic.
None of it gets very close, but we track it on radar nonetheless. The tops
of the waves now reflect silver in the fading light, and water that two
hours earlier appeared deep blue is now dark black. Night has fallen, and I
try to sleep. Finally at 11:00 PM I take the watch. Darline has had the helm
since 4:00 PM and she is tired. Immediately I start feeling sleepy. I chew
gum until my jaws ache. I have six cheese cracker sandwiches, and allow
myself one at the top of each hour.
      The waves have begun to moderate, though the wind has held steady. Down
below, Darline seems to be sleeping. A few more ships appear, each
announcing his position, heading, and speed. Some move no faster than we do.
At 22 minutes after midnight, the moon rises. It is a crescent, but still
illuminates the water quite well. I estimate that our speed places us 30
miles off Sand Key, and I am concerned about a nighttime arrival at Marina
Hemingway.
2:00, and enjoying the hour's cheese cracker. In the middle of the
Florida Straits, no one awake within miles, hoping to be on course,
struggling to stay awake: all added dimensions to the usual anxieties that
usually accompany midnight sleeplessness.
      Two of the boats in our little party have been over the horizon for
sometime now, and it's just us and the other boat. Which one? Moriah, from
Westchester, New York, or one of the Canadians? Is it the cutter? We won't
know until morning. 
Darline is up at 2:30. I tell her to go back to sleep that I'll be okay
until 4:00. Thankfully, she does.
I have to read my watch by the compass light, its radium dial gone long
ago. I begin to get my second wind, and by the time of my 3:00
cheesecracker, I think I could make it a couple more hours. But Darline gets
up at 3:40, and the idea of a bunk is irresistible. At four, she takes the
harness and safety whistle from me and I stumble below to check our GPS
speed and position. VMG is 6.5 knots, and our distance to go is less than
forty miles. Very good news. I crawl to my pilot berth and fall asleep
immediately.
     I sleep until 6:30, and go on deck to take a trick at the wheel. Darline
passes the harness and whistle to me, and crashes below to immediate sleep.
As she does, the sky begins to lighten in the east. The other boat is still
only a few hundred yards away. The sun slips one edge over the horizon at
7:13. The swells have moderated even more. The sun's illumination dispels
the petty anxieties of the night. Darline arises and takes the wheel. A
quick splash of water in the face, a few peanuts for breakfast with
lemonade. A quick check of the GPS confirms a 10:00 arrival. In the
southeast, a quick light flash must be the final signal of the night from El
Moro at Havana. Soon, buildings begin to appear where the city should be. We
raise the Cuban flag, along with the yellow "Q" for quarantine.
Marina Hemingway is hailed on the radio, politely directs us to the
outer seabuoy, and asks us to call when we reach it. The wind dies away, and
we start the engine. The seabuoy appears on schedule and in place. The
passage through the reef is adequately marked, and we pass through the
breakwater in front of the Guarda Frontera. Guards motion us to continue to
the left, ahead of the other two boats that arrived ahead of us. A guard
takes our dock lines and secures it to the docks.
Cuba has called.
We have answered.
***
 

Habana Viejo

The road to Havana is a tree-lined thoroughfare through Mariel. This
community was the home of the wealthy before Castro, and is still quite
comfortable. A few of the homes are still occupied by their original owners;
many are now embassies or offices of international corporations doing
business in Cuba. As the road tunnels under the Almendares River, it runs
along the top of the seawall called the Malecon. Past the old American
embassy, where the great seal is prominent. At El Moro, the ancient fortress
guarding the harbor entrance that is the symbol of the city, the road turns
and ends at the Plaza De Armas, the center of the old city. Here begins
Calle Obispo, the principal street of the section. Along it are found
tourist oriented businesses: cafes, a few artesan shops, a couple of banks,
tour agencies, a restaurant or two, and a few other unidentifiable
establishments. It is fairly pleasant, and the authorities have understood
it as a tourist draw. If the traveler gets off this street, the "old" in Old
Havana is painfully obvious. With this and most of two nearby sections, the
buildings are almost all colonial, which means pre-1898.
In the lower profile areas, streets , single carriage-width, range from
poor to terrible. If one can imagine how Havana looked when original owners
occupied these buildings and maintained them, it must have been a grand
city. But without exception they haven't seen fresh paint since they last
saw Batista. Many are more than merely run down, they are literally falling
down.
    These parts of the city are by any measure low income. Life happens in
the street here: Laundry, car repairs, bakery deliveries (unwrapped),
children's games, dog fights, con games, courtship, bicycle repairs.
Sanitation is casual. Trash finds its way to street, with the occasional
dead rat. Garbage is waiting to be picked up in large wheeled plastic
barrels. Parts are no worse than New York; the effect of much is that of
the New Orleans French Quarter dropped into Calcutta. . 

     The children all go to school. The school houses, many small, have seen
no more paint than any other building. The children are like beautiful
children everywhere. Each child's uniform, white shirt and red short pants
for boys, white blouse and red skirt for girls, a red kerchief for all, is
the same throughout the island.
     Every café has music. The worst is still pretty fair; the best is very
good. Every third guy has a hustle. "You want cigars?" "You want paladar?"
Paladar is a privately operated restaurant, usually tiny, with decent food
at fairly cheap prices. All the street musicians sing "Guantanamera" in your
face until you give them a dollar. Nobody offers rum in the street. It is
cheaper than bottled water. 
Next to this section are some of the famous hotels, cathedrals, the
Capitol, and National Theater. These are prestige buildings and are well
maintained. Except for the refurbishing of a couple of buildings into
hotels, there is absolutely no construction of any kind anywhere in the
city. Apparently all construction is directed towards Varadero, where the
tourist industry is focused. Tourism will be the economic salvation of this
country.
     Transportation is a major problem. The railroad system is so bad that
employees of the rail tour company advise against using it. Buses are in
wide use, but often unspeakably crowded. Automobiles generally fall into two
classes: European (and some Japanese) imports- usually Russian-built Fiats
called Ladas- and pre- 1960 American. Apparently nothing has ever been
scrapped. Havana is unquestionably the world's largest rolling outdoor auto
museum. Cars from the 40's are common, and there is absolutely nothing
unusual about seeing cars from the thirties. They are not "sport" or
show-off cars, or collectibles, or even the old Studebaker that's been in
the family and kept for sentimental reasons. They are all everyday
transportation. Period. The original upholstery has been gone for years,
they have been brush painted in bright primary colors several times, and few
have all the original chrome. Body putty makes up part of the load they
carry around, and an old Chevy may have a Plymouth engine with a Hudson
transmission. Or it may not. But they all run, a miracle of practical
mechanical skill. There are more Studebakers than Fords. All the horns have
been replaced with "oo-ga" sounds.
     West of Habana Viejo, Havana Centro, and Vedado and south of Miramar
is La Playa. Here the streets are wider, many houses have small garages, and
the structures appear to have built in the fifties. It is not what we think
of as spiffy, but very little in Cuba is. It is probably the closest thing
to middle class. This is where the managers, government officials, and
professionals live. It is fairly comfortable, is close to the university,
and wouldn't be a bad place to live.
     East of La Playa and south of the university are the principal
government buildings. These get first class maintenance. In the midst of
these ministries is the Plaza de la Revolution, where Fidel addresses the
faithful. Supposedly it sees crowds of a million-plus. It looks like a
moderately small parking lot for a mid-
size supermarket in the states. If it ever sees a million, sardines would
have more elbow room.
     It takes a few days, but it finally dawns that there is no advertising
seen anywhere. None. Nada. The small businesses have a small sign over the
front door. That's it. There is little political advertising. Only the
occasional billboard of El Commandante en Jefe Fidel. There is only one
newspaper on the island, "Granma", available in several languages. Eight to
twelve pages long, they want a dollar for it. Older people try to sell it to
tourists. There are no takers. No other newspaper, magazine, or periodical
is found for sale on the island.
The people are friendly. They try to be helpful. They do not talk
politics. They want a better life for their children. 
Havana has called.
We have answered.
Darline & Mickey Rouse
Havana, Cuba
 

        The "Bluebonnet" Chronicles #13

The Place: Boca Grande Key
The Time: 6:00 AM
The Weather: Perfection

The alarm has beeped us awake. Despite a windless evening, a slow swell from the east has rocked and rolled us all night. Slipping on my shorts and tee shirt, I start the engine to a slow idle, and prepare to hoist the anchor. We are in twelve feet of water, but it could just as well be air. The water is not merely clear, it is almost invisible. I am concerned that something I see below that may foul our anchor, then I realize it is the anchor. I am not accustomed to retrieving the anchor without pounds of sticky, gooey, mud. Here, it comes up clean. We head out to the deeper water a half mile
away. As we turn west to the Dry Tortugas, a gentle breeze from the northeast justifies unrolling the big genoa. I look to the east to see the just-risen sun peeking between the valley made by two clouds. The radiospoke of yet another cold front stretching across Texas to the East Coast, but it won't reach this far. Unaware of cold anywhere, ballyhoo, prized as bait by sportsmen, tail-walk for thirty or forty yards across our path. Flying fish escape their pursuers even more dramatically. 
  We pass into deeper water, and the water's color goes from perfect aquamarine to richest royal blue.   As I contemplate the horizon, where sky-blue meets ocean blue, I think: I could be doing somebody's tax return. 

   In nineteenth century America, taxes (which hardly anyone paid much of) went chiefly to the military. One of the biggest pre-Civil War army projects was the construction of Fort Jefferson. It was a boondoggle. Under construction for twenty years, it was declared obsolete before it was completed both due to the Civil War advances in artillery, and to the settling of the foundation. (Another cracked slab?) I have heard about it since the fifth grade, and have always wanted to see it. But you have to really want to. It sits on Garden Key, the next to western-most of the Keys (Loggerhead, a mile away, claims that honor). You can take the ferry, all day, or air service by floatplane. Or your own boat. We found several boats that did just that. It's about seventy miles from Key West, so that means a full  day each way for a sail boat, plus a day  at least for exploring. 
   On our way, we passed the Marquesas, the only Atlantic atoll and believed to have been formed by asteroid impact. That's also where treasurer hunter Mel Fisher and his Treasure Salvors found the wrecks of  Santa Margarita and Atocha and tons of silver and buckets of emeralds. And they're still looking- we saw their salvage boat on station.
    The Dry Tortugas ("Dry" because no freshwater is found) aren't much more than specks. On approaching, it is a little unsettling to see this massive fort rise out of the ocean. As we closed with the little islands, the surrounding sand bottom practically glows with neon green, in contrast with the deeper blue outside. In the little harbor- Tortuga Harbor, where the battleship Maine last called before she sailed to Havana to be remembered -several boats were already anchored, including several Cuban-American fishing boats. They are all willing to barter, so we traded for some very
fresh yellowtail. We grilled some with olive oil, and oven-fried the rest. Wonderful, wonderful.
      The Tortugas have to be the most idyllic islands in Florida. Some of the small keys are nesting grounds for the entire sooty tern population in North America, which means hundreds of thousands of birds. Their raucous chirping and cackling runs around the clock. In the anchorage, we could see the occasional nurse shark glide below "Bluebonnet."
      Just as we returned to Key West, we saw a couple whose acquaintance we had made out in their boat. We sailed alongside, and turned to take their picture, When we turned, I realized that we were dragging several hundred feet of floating polypropylene rope, apparently used for fishing floats and crab traps. It was too late- just seconds later it fouled our prop and killed the engine.  I gathered up the large mass that was not wrapped around
our prop and cut it loose. I pulled on the tail with the engine in reverse, and was able to free enough to allow the prop to turn forward.  Since we were in the middle of the channel and the sun was setting, we went on to the anchorage, dropping the hook at dark.
        We've had our share of excitement here. While Caroline & Co. were here, we sailed out to the Sand Key Light to try some snorkeling. The current was causing the boat to roll at a mooring something wonderful, though, and since it was a little cool combined with the prospect of jumping into the open ocean, the girls weren't too keen on the idea. I didn't blame them. On the return, though, the dinghy somehow came untied and went missing. I immediately got on the radio to see if anyone had seen it. Good luck! I got an immediate response, and we picked it up in less than a half-hour. 
  In the process, we had a brush with celebrity. While tied up to retrieve our dinghy, we decided to have our "sundowner" snack. The girls suddenly said- "That's Phil Donahue on the boat next to us." Much excitement while trying to be cool. After a little while the girls walked down the dock. Donahue leans out of the cockpit of the giant boat he's own and says, "hey captain these guys here want to know how you get such good looking crew."
       The night of our return from Dry Tortugas, someone banging on the boat awoke us in the middle of the night. "Yo Bluebonnet! You're anchors dragging." It sure was. So we got up and powered away from the other boats and set a second anchor. Much more securely- so we thought.   But the real thrill came Saturday night. A front was forecast to come through with fifteen-knot winds. No big deal, so when it started raining hard that night I thought, "There it is."  But  the wind rose quickly, and suddenly we
crashed over on the side. I knew that meant we had probably tripped the anchors and were starting to drag again, and that we had only a minute or two before we dragged into the moored boats. I scrambled on some foul weather gear. By the time I got on deck- maybe a minute total- it was lightening all around us. It was raining so hard I could see no shore lights, but in the lightening flashes I saw we were almost in with the moored boats. I started the engine, but the thunder and wind made so much noise I could only tell it was running by the vibration. I flicked on running lights and crammed the shift lever forward. I was extremely grateful I had taken the opportunity the day before to clear the rope from the prop shaft. Moving forward, all the time hoping I didn't foul the anchor rodes on the prop, I could see nothing but pitch black. I kept the compass on "N" because no one was anchored north of us and I knew that would be relatively safe.  We were in a somewhat protected anchorage over here in Garrison Bight, but the wind was blowing so hard that salt water was blowing into the cockpit over the bow. I expect spray like that in open water while sailing- but this was a protected anchorage. It was all over in twenty minutes or
less. After it blew past. I re-set the anchors in water so calm it wouldn't even take the slack from the rope. I was wet, and thirsty from the salt spray. The weather radio said that Key West Airport recorded wind speeds of 60 knots. I believe it. 
   In general, I kind of like Key West a little better than my first
impression of the tourist traps.  Outside of the newer areas, the town has
quite bit of charm. And by any measure it is, well, unique.
    We will probably be here a few days more, but a Cuba trip is appearing to be less of a possibility.
 As always,
 Keeping our eye out for spare change
 Darline and Mickey Rouse
 Key West