Heading Home

Well it has been quite some time since I hit the old blogosphere; frankly I have not feeling all that creative. I do not believe that is healthy... I had my last night of work at La Pentola restaurant tonight and frankly, I'm glad to be going. Going where? We will be leaving for Maine in a few days. I'm currently watching a storm that is building around South Carolina and our destination is Charleston, a 40+ hour trip by sail. I'm always a little anxious until we get underway and there is a lot of preparation before leaving. We have been tied to a dock in St Augusine since February and I feel out of shape. Here are some photos of a great day at the beach. I have so much to tell you, but may not have the time until I return. Until then, stay true!

Computer Down

When in City Island, the Bronx, my computer picked up a bad virus that has rendered it totally inoperable. I cannot use it or download any of the exciting images I have taken. I hope to get this repaired before too long and get the blog up to speed. Please visit Rebecca's blog www.familyinabottle.blogspot.com for photos and videos.

Going Single

The trip from the Gulf of Maine through the Cape Cod Canal and into Long Island Sound went fairly smooth with no exceptional sailing moments, except terrific conversation with artist Eric Smith. Eric sailed from Newburyport to NYC and is a great friend and asset. He stayed with me over a week and had to get back to the farm where he works.

We had a terrifying ride through the Hell Gate. The confluence of Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean with the East River and Hell Gate in the middle. The current runs at 9 knots and once you enter the narrow chokepoint, it takes control of the boat, speeds you up to where it is very hard to control your direction, then spits you into the East River where you need to quickly avoid tractor tugs pushing petroleum barges. We had a large ketch in front of us as we passed into the narrows that was caught in a back eddy and was literally moving in reverse. It looked like a collision was eminent as I lost steering trying to slow the boat down in reverse. Acid from my stomach went right to my throat as I put the Vindhler's engine into full forward and somehow edged around this guy. I did not care for the scare and decided on the spot that I did not like the other sailor.

I took a risk and sailed into the Newtown creek, a superfund site that contains one of the largest oil spill in the world. I found a wall of concrete that was recently constructed on the creek and tied up to it, only to be sitting on the bottom when the tide ran out. The best part of the anchorage beside the incredible midtown views is the other voyaging sailboat belonging to singlehander Chris Hanson, just back from the Azores. We hit it off and in a matter of 30 minutes developed a friendship that will last a life time. Chris, Eric and I shared sea stories leavened by hand rolled cigarettes and scotch. Later in the evening sailing friend Steve Morse offered hot showers for Eric and me at his nearby home. Steve is a friend who I used to see weekly and since leaving New York, spoke to him only twice in seven years. I know it is sad, but we picked up like a moment of time never passed between us. That is friendship and I love my easy friends.

I have been nostalgic about NYC since the day I arrived in Maine and still hold a candle for that city. It was where I found myself and the experiences there created the person I am today. Its streets contain the wanderings of my youth and 15 years of a soul's poetry. Unfortunately, Eric's tour on the Vindhler was to come to an end. The thought of him leaving and pushing on alone made me incredibly anxious and fearful. I just did not want to be alone on the high seas and have enough experience sailing to know that things can turn problematic very fast.

I did push off from Newtown Creek a little after noon, only to be headed by a cold wind and gray sky. I avoided ship traffic in NY Harbor and once under the Verrizzano bridge and into Raritan Bay, I was feeling better. I anchored at Sandy Hook, NJ just after dusk and was feeling much better.

The coast of New Jersey has a bad reputation for its limited number of safe harbors if the weather turns bad. Some of the harbors are not deep enough for cruising sailboats. I sailed to the Manasquan Inlet on day one and Atlantic City on day two. AC was pretty bizarre with the glitz of casinos pushing against a dingy waterfront with clam boats unloading their catch. It was a positive note that the waterfront was not over commercialized. I have a low tolerance for suburban sprawl and gross amounts of advertising. Day three put me in Cape May with a sixty degree day and nice little anchorage near the Coast Guard. Removing my two wool sweaters and wearing a t shirt put me in high spirits.

Newtown Creek, is a 3.5 mi (6 km) estuary that forms part of the border between the boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens, in New York City, New York, United States. It derives its name from New Town (Nieuwe Stad), which was the name for the Dutch and British settlement in what is now Elmhurst, Queens. It is one of the most polluted industrial sites in America,^[1]containing years of discarded toxins, an estimated 30 million gallons of spilled oil, and raw sewage from New York City’s sewer system.^[1]

Proud Flesh

Chris Balzano was a man I knew in NYC. I worked with him, although we did not work together, we worked at the same place. Chris was always spouting off a colloquialism to fit the moment and was a "Badda Bing" kind of Italian guy. The kind you find in big cities. A real stereotype. The phrase he loved to say the most for almost every situation was", If the queen had balls, she'd be king...but she doesn't." This would be met with laughter from his cronies and was at times funny when it had nothing to do with the conversation at hand.



At this point in my life I was fully immersed in professional photography and was shooting magazine assignments as well as working in restaurants. Chris came to me one day and said," Hey John, you want to see a pitchure of sometin gross?" Being at a point in my life where I was particularly voyeuristic, I said", yeah, only if it is not a photo of a child or something really disturbing." "It is a pitchure of my son's back, just after an operation." Chris pull out a series of photographs where a boy about 10 years old is laying on his stomach and his back seems to filleted open. The cut was about 10 inches long by four inches wide and had the overall shape of a sword handle. Apparently the boy had a bad abscess that had to be removed and the excavation was only about two inches deep. The thing that blew my mind was that the doctor did not stitch it all back together. It was left open. The wound would heal from within. I learned later from a veterinarian that in the equine world of medical procedures this is called", Proud Flesh!" The flesh fills itself in or the flesh is proud and covers the wound. A strange phrase that has many meanings and can be associated with all types of behavior. Pride is rarely a good thing, although I was never taught that. I was taught that you had to have pride, had to have backbone.



My friend Paul, actually he is more than a friend, he is a brother, told me to stay humble", Stay humble man, stay humble out there on the seas." These are great words of advice, for one who has proud flesh on the ocean will be punished. Today I sailed in very tough conditions with a seasick mate, although I had just the right combination of sail up and the motor clicking over slowly moving toward my destination at seven knots. Ten foot following seas and thirty knot gusts of wind made the boat a carnival ride you could not get off. I think I did everything right today, except for the decision to leave the marina in Portsmouth, NH. It would have been a good idea to stay put, but I was in an area that I did not like, nothing to see except the ostentatious facade of a beautiful, yet mediocre hotel. Hotels need to have great service and food as well as nice rooms and a view. I could not afford to go to the bar and that made the place that much more undesirable. I admit I feel smug that I negotiated a dangerous bar at the entrance to the harbor. I cannot deny the proud flesh of sailing in harsh conditions and surviving. I will try to be humble. as an individual I like to believe I'm humble, although my wife does not think so at times.



Tuesday, October 27

South Port Marina, South Portland to Manchester by the Sea Marina, Portsmouth, NH

Crew: Angel Silva and Ethan Smith

Conditions: Cold with wind out of the southeast. Sailed to windward for 6 hours averaging 51/2 knots. Motorsailed for 4 hours and entered into the mooring field with no problems.

Problems: Ran aground again at South Port Marina on the ebb tide at 10pm. Boat was practically on its side when the water bottomed out at 3 to 4 feet. We all recovered, but with very little sleep.

Knowledge: I learned that when my body hits the wall and is telling me to stop, I should listen.



Wednesday, October 28

Portsmouth, NH to Newburyport, Mass

Crew: Jonathan Paff

Conditions: Small craft warning issued by the Coast guard. Heavy following seas with two medium boarding waves. Crew was seasick and vomiting, but held it together. I felt find and was not scared, the boat was great and handled the conditions well. 15 to 20 knots of wind with higher gusts. Sailed with medium genoa sail only and engine. Speed was 6 to 8 knots going southeast.

Problems: Conditions to get into the Merrimack river were highly dangerous with the ebb tide pouring into a nor'easter. If the diesel stopped for any reason, I would have lost the boat.

Once in the Merrimack river, I should have persisted in picking up a mooring, but I wanted to dispatch the crew. I ended up creaming the dock and chipping some paint off of the bow.

Knowledge: Sail with seasoned crew when possible, or go really slow with only easy conditions. Always dock against the current and be careful when taking advice from other sailors. The advice I received came from the owner of a Hunter! Huh...

Editing

Dear Friends and Followers,
As I write new postings to the blog, I constantly find areas I need to edit for grammar or content.  Unfortunately, every time I add a comma or change a sentence, the system will email you.  If the emails seem excessive, I apologize in advance and thank you for following.

The 9th Rider

I was nervous when I arrived at work to give my notice.  There is always a thin layer of invisible poisonous gas floating in the air.  If you are having a bad month, the lack of air is more prominent.  Salesman, a most insecure lot, rarely talk about big deal closings, but always about the one that got away.  They mostly get away.  I had purchased a couple of books on How to Sell and How to Sell More.  These self help sales books left me feeling like an inadequate loser (quitting your job would be deemed as offing yourself). I did realize that when you used the techniques it was a numbers game.  If you used the technique 1000 times, it would work at least once.  This absence of air kept me in a total panic even when I was making money.   I felt by giving my notice I was going to disappoint my employers.  They had paid me through good times and bad, and now I was leaving at their time of need.  "The business is down and we need results."

My handlers heard me out as I babbled about this and that, and the economy, and so on; to finally come to the point that I was going sailing.  "You scumbag, how dare you?  How dare you leave us with our quest for Mercedes and Corvettes?  Our new homes on Cul de Sacs with hot tubs and riding mowers.  Our Lowes credit cards and vacations in Playa del Carmen.  How dare you leave us in this office,  where we sit on our asses under fluorescent lights, eight hours a day, every day until we die?  You will pay for this, pay big time."

I also realized that I would have probably been fired in the heart of winter when surviving in Maine is the hardest.  The people who came after me were let go, so the writing was on the wall.  I got out of the building as soon as possible.

The anxiety that I felt did not leave me as soon as I stepped outside.  Like rounding the dangerous Cape of Good Hope, even though you have sailed 300 miles past it, it can still humble  you with a storm.  So I quietly disappeared.  On the drive home, I felt as if I was cast away into the ocean with no tether, free floating, but floating, not sinking.  The sinking feeling was gone.  I started to laugh and feel an honest joy, an elation.  The blinders that were on my eyes fell away and the day became so colorful; I became high, as high as a kite.

I was caught up in thought while travelling back to Portland on the I-95 super highway for the worker.  I noticed in the rear view mirror a pack of motorcycle riders moving toward me quickly.  It was a gang, all travelling at 85 miles per hour and with no helmets. I moved to the middle lane so they could pass.  Eight barbarians on Harley's.  The six men were all of the barfighter variety and wore the leather uniforms of a Connecticut posse.  These hard heads did not come from Mystic.  I locked onto a heavyset women riding a FLH with straight pipes. When she was next to me, I sped up to stay close.  Her concentration at 90 mph was significant and her beauty mystifying.  As I rolled down the window I could not help thinking that all that power and speed must render her insatiable in the real world.  I fell in behind the group and increased my speed so I could be a part of the gang.  With the windows rolled down and the sound of their pipes bellowing, I placed my hands on the car wheel in such a fashion where it was like I was holding handle bars and not a steering wheel.  I became the ninth rider.  I rode my hog to the Portland exit ten miles away, where the gang flipped me the bird and went on their merry way. I went home to celebrate not having to drive to the orifice(office) anymore.

Motorcycling was the beginning of my love for sailing.  At seventeen, I would go camping with friends, but would travel alone on my CB750F.  A small duffel and a sleeping back was all I carried and all I needed.  The feeling of freedom and independence was profound.  Sailing offers freedom and independence.

Harder can be better.

Many people have mentioned how they envy us and how they would like to go on a big sailing adventure. I'm not certain people realize how much work is involved. You get to sell your possessions and home which stirs up your emotions beyond belief. You have the stress of juggling a job, outfitting a boat and keeping the finances in order. The last has never been a skill of mine. No matter how much money you have, it is not enough. The same goes for time, you will not have enough of that either. Oh, you still have to be father and a husband!

We went for a little overnight this weekend to cow island. It is just a few miles from Portland, but you instantly feel like you're far from the city. Maine is like that! Great smooth sail at 3 knots with Rebecca at the helm. We had got a late start around 4pm and the wind was dying. My two year old started melting down and our 8 year old started feeling his needs were not being met around 5:30. (Dante can blow your head off with his super shrill tantrum scream. I promise I will record one for you.) With half a mile to go, we tied the inflatable onto the side of the boat and motored to the mooring field. Amazing how a four horse Evinrude can push a sailboat that has a gross weight of 15 tons. Now, I'm working on my anchoring skills and a mooring whose condition is unknown tells me",anchor over there, where it is clear," no problem. Done. Now rush to get dinner to calm the troops and get a gin and tonic.

That night, all the Bondellio's were snug in their births, when a high pressure trough funnels in creating 20 knot winds and 3 foot seas that turn our anchorage into a lee shore. A lee shore strikes fear into all sailors. Especially sailors with engineless boats and kids on board. I did not sleep the entire night. I was on deck to check the anchor 30 times, fearing that it would lose its grip or chafe through the rode. I was prepared to sail off and we had the room, but it would have been a total white knuckle situation. Thankfully, the anchor held.

The next day, after the wind abated and a leisurely breakfast... I hoisted the sails to sail off the hook. The boat heeled over and headed out of the anchorage only to stop and round up back toward the spot we just came from. Two hours of back breaking anchor hauling and sailing around in circles would not break the anchor free. Finally, I waived down a Lobsterman and and he agreed to haul up on my anchor rode to see what the problem was. Turns out there was a 3 foot by 3 foot ball of tangled lobster pot warp (trap line) surrounding the anchor. It took this man 30 minutes to set the gear free. I was indebted to him and presented cash which he would have none of. So I presented half a bottle of dark rum. He gladly accepted.

Now as I ponder the situation, I cannot believe how lucky we were or blessed. Did my anchor drag and was the Vindhler heading for the rocks, only to be saved by the lobster pots? Or did we somehow create the entanglement trying to get off in the morning? Well it does not matter now. We are safe and learned another valuable lesson. Funny how life keeps teaching us regardless of how long we have lived. That is, of course, if you are really living, taking some chances.


The sail home was fantastic. Blake and I were in the cockpit and we had the Vindhler dialed in. We were reaching into Portland Harbor and were walking away of boats that should have sailed with us. They were trying to, but we were invincible at that moment. So we had a night of incredible stress and fear, needed the help of others, and then had a euphoric high. Such is sailing. Art Dahlberg sold me the Vindhler and stated appropriately, that sailing is 90% boredom and 10% terror.


The photo is of a couple of doubler patches under the stern. My brother Matt helped me with the welding.