July 6th

I awakened at 8:15 to the hum of the motor. Dad had decided that since the day was pretty much crap; foggy and calling for rain, we might as well get an early start down to Newport. We motored down the East Passage to Breton Cove where we had to drop anchor as the Ida Lewis Yacht Club moorings were all booked up. Our passage was not without its unexpected challenges. Firstly the afternoon before the speed indicator had stopped working and Dad thought it possible that something had gotten caught in the propeller which he was unable to dislodge even when pulling the unit up through the hull of the boat. (You’ve got to be quick on this job as water comes shooting up through the hole when the indicator is yanked). Then we noticed that all the buoy’s and depth markers had disappeared from the GPS. Re-booting did not fix the problem. I went entirely through the manual; playing with the screens to no avail. Suddenly as we approached the end of Prudence Island the markings started to appear to the south of our position. Prior to this Dad and I were chatting and discussing the GPS and not paying a whole lot of attention to the water as we were pretty much alone when suddenly our speed slowed down. In not paying attention we’d motored directly through a floating patch of seaweed and sea grass. Dad tried reversing the engine twice to dislodge the debris to no avail. “I hate to ask this but can you dive below and see if we have crap wrapped around the propeller and if so pull it off?” Of course I could; Super Hero Navy Seal (in my own mind) to the rescue. Since the water is still pretty cold and I didn’t have a wet suit I quickly decided that looking good would be my best defense while doing the job so I went below to change into a dark green Speedo that exactly matches the hull of the boat. While we drifted in the East Passage I executed a flawless dive from the starboard deck into water that was 75-90 feet deep according to the charts and 65 degrees according to the weather channel but I honestly think those computer voices were lying. It was more like 50 degrees and sucked the air right out of my lungs. Two dives under the boat to pull off about a soccer ball sized mess of weed that was tightly wrapped around the propeller and drive shaft and I swam back to the ladder we’d dropped over the side and climbed out of the invigorating water.


We made it to Newport without further incident until we put the boat into reverse to back down on the anchor. A loud metallic clanking sound that none of us had ever heard before issued from the bowels of the engine compartment. After a few moments of thought Dad (who is a navel architect by trade and can fix anything on the boat) said he thought he knew what may be wrong. The drive shaft had slipped in trying to reverse the weeds off of the propeller. I suspected that my underwater yanking of the crap may have contributed if not caused the problem but kept that counsel to myself. 45 minutes later in tight positions and this too was fixed. This is Dad’s version of yoga. Actually he has in the past developed tendonitis from being in bizarre and cramped positions on the boat for hours on end by virtue of not first having warmed up according to his doctor. Who knew? I have to tell you I love boats and sailing but don’t ever want to won one. I don’t know what people who are not engineers do when facing these problems. I’d be prone at some point to just stand on deck with a bull horn, “Help! I need someone competent on board!! Dilettante in Distress!!” (Great title for my autobiography)
Mom and I took the launch ashore and walked to the Stop and Shop for supplies and then back to the boat with same. It seemed upon returning on the launch to the boat that our position had changed but I gave it little thought as perspectives on the water always change. It turned out that Dad had in fact pulled anchor and moved the boat twice in our absence of 1 ½ hours. A youngish woman had motored her sloop into the harbor, dropped anchor near to us and jumped a launch to shore. Her anchor was not properly set so her boat was dragging. Sometimes under these circumstances an anchor will set itself again but this was not one of those times. She continued to crag, becoming a definite threat to other unattended boats so we finally called the harbor master to report our location and the problem. (In the picture you can see where she {the white sloop} is bearing down on the little boat)

They arrived within 5 minutes or so. Dad climbed back on board out of the dingy where he had been preparing to row over to the near colliding boats to our starboard to potentially avert an accident. The harbor master (no he was not dressed in leather) arrived with 2 assistants on board. I waved to them and they then headed toward our boat. With gestures they asked which boat and I pointed toward the offender. They pulled along side of her and made fast while one fellow jumped on board to pull up the anchor. The yelled over that she had at least 70 feet of lead out which is twice what was needed in a tight anchorage of this depth. We thought they were just going to reset the anchor but just as soon as it was hauled they took off rafted to her side and moved her clear across the harbor to a remote mooring where they made her fast. We were of course glad that the threat was past but wondered what this gal was going to do when she the launch brought her back to the location where she’d left her boat. Hopefully that will be enough of a lesson that she’ll be more careful in making sure her anchor is actually set before leaving her boat unattended next time.
The weather report had radically changed because of a tropical storm coming ashore in the gulf which would be responsible for dumping a lot of rain on us Friday which changed our plans. We’d already decided to stay in Newport Thursday to spend some time ashore, tour another mansion, and go out to dinner. Now it looked as if we’d be here Friday too only because it would be so miserable and they were predicting wind gusts of 25-30 knots and a small craft advisory as the front moved through. Why be out in that mess if we don’t have to? Not too many years ago rain was rarely a factor in Dad’s plans but age and conservative nature have tempered that much to my Mom’s and my relief.
Thursday night we finished up leftovers for dinner with fresh marinated berries picked up at market that afternoon served over pineapple cake. Mom proceeded to kick Dad’s butt in a game of Chinese checkers. He crawled up the passageway of shame to the forward cabin and into his bunk. She meanwhile sat tat the table in the main cabin while staring me down with a sickening gleam in her eye as I tried unsuccessfully to read. I collapsed under the pressure after about 15 long and painful seconds of soul searching before joining her at the table of my doom. This must be what POW/s experience; you know something horrible is coming yet still participate in your own eventual suffering. I forestalled the inevitable by suggesting we play the last hand of Shanghai Rum knowing full well that there was no way I could still win but naively figuring that if I could lay down my cards while leaving her with a full hand that perhaps she’d think twice about terrifying her offspring, spouses, and occasionally small children with her intimidating competitiveness. The objective in the last hand of this game is while holding 15 carks to have 3 runs of 5 of the same suit. Five minutes into the hand and I was having remarkable luck; I had only to draw a 5 of spades or a wild card to win the hand and avoid a complete slaughter! I discarded a queen of hearts. Slowly her right hand released the fan of cards, leaving her left hand alone to hold the weight. I watched horrified as in slow motion this right appendage which had in t the blink of an eye transformed into a claw swept down upon the now screaming queen (the card, not me) and swooped her up to the aerie. Slowly her eyes which were now red rimmed black pinpoints that swallowed the ambient light flickering from the two lit candles stared into mine as the talons lowered the cards to the table. “Noooooo……!” I screamed (silently so as to not awaken Dad again to the nightmare of his and now my defeat) but it was too late. Three runs of five hit the table; two of the runs including face cards which had joined me in silent screams of horror over my foul, shameful, and bloody demise at the ands of my mother. “You were making me nervous, I couldn’t wait any longer” she pointlessly croaked at my now prone carcass.
Not being one to hold a grudge or to be a sore loser I said not a word as she slid the Chinese checker board across the table from where it had been impatiently waiting. I would swear I heard it groan with pleasure as her hand stroked its blood soaked wood. “I’ll be white” she intoned while leaving me to (of cours) be red. Psychological warfare is the least of her weapons I thought while setting my already bloodied players upon the board. At her bequest I moved first. She moved, I moved and somehow I have yet to figure out her second move involved multiple jumps which is a feat impossible for mere mortals. In the face of my very slaughter my senses heightened and focused. My players were virtually flying across the board, leap-frogging her white knights. With my heightened awareness I saw not only my current possibilities but also hers and so in one move blocked a passage she had been setting up. “You BITCH!” she growled from across the table. I wet my pants in fear of her full evil being revealed and rolled belly up for her to finish the game in a few short moves. Actually this was due more to the fact that I could no longer concentrate due to laughing at the reality of my mother getting so frustrated that a curse word slipped from her lips. A rare occasion indeed. After raising my hands in mock surrender I retired to my bunk with a book and a smile.