Thus far royalties won’t cover the cost of my next tank of gas, but the response from people, the surprise and intrigue from those who know Jimmy well and from those who will never meet him, is reward enough. That’s why writers do what we do. And when people get the jist of this particular story, they’ll buy the book, regret that they didn’t, or neither. (I assure you do NOT have to be a Grateful Dead fan.)

When Jimmy’s dad turned 80, he told his son that ‘if he had regrets about life, it was more for the things he didn’t do than the things he did.’ Throughout the extensive, very personal process of sharing stories and editing the depiction, that quote didn’t come to light and was not included in the original publication. During the revisions, I made sure it got in there.

Mother Nature gifted some of us with musical abilities. Others, such as myself, staying in tune is a hard no. I tell another’s story from their point of view; I’ve practiced, and I have a talent that, honestly, I cannot fully explain; I’m not boasting because it’s rather confounding sometimes and can give me pause. My short intrusion, the time I take as their storyteller, is a tiny percentage of that person’s life. They LIVED THEIR STORY. They CREATED THEIR STORY, whether intentionally or with a random chain of events triggered by ‘sure.’ Most tales never get told.

Me? I’M PASSIONATE ABOUT IT. Fascinated, intrigued, energized, moved by the stories people have underneath calm demeanors and outwardly ordinary lives, people who, day to day, walk by you on the street and stand behind you in the grocery store; they hear the same bad news and yet prevail with their strengths and talents that no one even realizes because they still have to eat and drive and pay their rent and no one has time to consider the past when it’s hard to contemplate a shaky future and then their talents diminish with each passing year of misuse, (or do they), and everyone comes to believe that the story is not worth telling but it probably is, whether to a meeting or a friend or an author or whoever you think might be your Higher Power, it’s worthy, I tell you. Maybe more than worthy.

Stories don’t have to be printed, they just have to be shared, reflected upon, considered, learned from and noted, remembered, respected, archived and MOST IMPORTANTLY, listened to. Do we listen? Most folks are simply looking for someone to make them feel important. While I understand, deeply, that time is a valuable commodity, it is the only cost of listening to a fellow human being who simply needs a kind audience and to feel like they matter. STEADFAST is visible and accessible enough that we have folks, boat-loving folks, strangers, wanderers, and friends drop by and simply start reminiscing, telling tales from Navy service to piano repair, fortunes lost to dreams come true. They’re looking for a commonality and an audience. Both can be hard to find.

Nine weeks ago in a moment of madness I signed up for an online class called “The Science of Happiness.” My first session is still in an open tab, stuck on the ‘pause’ icon thirty minutes into my trip down joyful lane. I should have known that there was not enough room for that this month. I wanted there to be. We all chase happiness, don’t we? What IS the science of happiness? Perhaps my warm, fuzzy, Carpenter-bee loving self was secretly a little appalled that it was a science instead of an art form. The happiness professorial team are so determined to hear from me that they send emails begging for a continuation of the education I never got and didn’t need. I’m kick-ass happy this weekend to be signing books with storied pianist Jimmy Jacobs aka Jimmy Warren aka Jimmy Johnson aka…we all get to showcase our art.

Rather late last night two folks knocked on the port hull of Miss STEADFAST just as I started editing this piece. I didn’t have time for a visit, but as I peered down, a lifetime of politeness prevailed. They requested a tour, told their story—two pilots with a newly acquired passion and 46’ Vagabond sailboat under repair (by other people). Their enthusiasm was genuine; their timeframe will be longer than they expect. We talked SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE, they climbed down the ladder with contact info tucked away—STEADFAST’s story, if they choose to access it, and my own. Whether they ever contact me or not, I’m glad I took the time.

Next time someone needs to be listened to, it just might be worthwhile, or it just might be you. ~J

Have a minute? Take a look at WHO IS JIMMY WARREN? Keyboards, Chasing the Dragon & Jerry Garcia to decide for yourself if it’s worthy of a few hours of your time.

A sampling of our private reviews:

***** WHO IS JIMMY WARREN? is an “All Access” back stage pass to the music scene of the 70s and 80s. It’s also a page-turning thriller with danger and heart-pounding adventure! Lon Holmberg

***** I loved the way this was told….What a life Jimmy lived. So glad he decided to tell his story. Definitely a different time…buy this book! Debby

It’s not simple or easy to put great stories into words. If you think I string them together in a worthwhile fashion, you can support my assorted writing endeavors, as some of you already do with a thumbs up, a comment, a purchase, a re-stack or an upgrade—whatever works for you works for me.

My Website "Everybody Has A Story"

‘Til next week— here’s your sunrise…

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I was (still) engaged in the endless prep you’re tired of hearing about and I’m tired of doing, re-taping the bronze through-hulls for one of the middle coats of paint. The following morning I noted with a certain amount of astonishment and a bucketful of respect that a small, ragged hole had been torn in the center of the tape. Yes, you’re following along; it was about Bumble-Bee size, half an inch. Tree hugger at heart, I felt horrible, awful, guilty, neglectful and downright mean that I had probably taped my newest and rather loyal companion in there….also equally impressed at the solution found for such a (dire?) situation.

The chosen thru-hull is the drain for our shower in the aft cabin. An assortment of these exits (above) and intakes (below) waterline make our yachting systems self-sufficient, some have more powerful forces than others; the exhaust for the generator, for example, even a hearty insect would vacate that steamy, strong outflow. Now, of course, I had to wonder what’s been constructed in there, and how not to harm anyone while ensuring the functionality of said plumbing drain. We saw several bumbling about outside the next time tape was quadruple-layered over their main doorway. I learned later that they can and do bore through inches of solid wood. Ah well, I had her best interest in mind, and once again a human highly underestimates the ability of creatures surrounding us.

Kami was so much in the forefront of my mind that I mentioned my follower to former farmer, friend and fellow 'Stacker Elizabeth Beggins (see her pollinator story here). She informed that it was a Carpenter Bee and, stingless, was trying to defend his chosen home or more likely, his mate’s chosen home—(BTW females can sting if addled), which was clearly a bronze-framed hole in my chosen home. Happy to report that after the taping incident he/she/they bumbled off and found a more suitable location with less chance of imprisonment and flash-flooding. Thank a bee, save a bee.

Even with this delightful distraction from the drudgery, I finally said it out loud. The exact quote was, “Your boat is kicking my ass.”

Here’s the precursor. We’d decided that what was to be the final coat of paint was not actually good enough coverage to be the final coat, making a total of seven. It takes almost twenty hours of labor between coats. STEADFAST feels sooooo much longer, bigger, taller and wider than she was when we energetically, enthusiastically started this little repair project. “She grows on you,” is groan-worthy. To refresh memories and bring all our cool new subscribers up to date, we began in July of 2024; with an original estimate of four months.

I’m thinking you know who I was discussing the ass-kicked ailment with; he answered with a resigned, “I know.” And he does; his rear-end is certainly in a similar state, perhaps a tad worse even. We don’t need to say this out loud, but I finally did. Remember that story GOING GRAY? Still going! It would be far beyond bat-shit crazy to stop now.

At some point recently I had the realization that I’d really like to not pick up sandpaper or a paintbrush again until 2028. Our Secret Sparring Society knows how HIGHLY UNLIKELY that is, but a girl can wish! Honestly I really did enjoy refreshing and rejuvenating this floating home on a regular maintenance schedule; we all need a little rewarding reinvigoration, don’t we? But this has been way too much, there was no bargain struck for this.

My favorite quote of late? “The longer we stay here, the worse our habits become.” I’m swearing like a sailor and drinking like a fish***. That statement is not truly true, but… well, I’ll leave it to your active imaginations. More info follows on the fish part.

Have you stayed doing something, somewhere, too long? By choice or by chance? Betcha have. Do tell! My website is entitled ‘Everybody Has a Story’ AND THAT MEANS YOU DO, TOO.

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Each Monday, an idea for our weekly Sparring Society Story has formed or been chosen from my brain and I gradually build these messages, an hour here and a couple hours there, often taking on a life of their own, ending up a paradox to the original idea, the best laid plans. This is one of those weeks, I think…an unintentional interlude and candle-at-both-ends ending….always searching for maximum impact, of course; we all are as we toddle through life. As I finish this, it’s almost the witching hour here on the East Coast of North America and my candle is sputtering, so until next week, I’m yours truly,

~J The accidental boat builder.

Think my work is share-worthy? Please do! Easiest way is simply to click on the little heart and the little recycle symbol, both of those send this piece to word lovers everywhere. Thanks.

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*** DO FISH DRINK?! According to McGill University, yes, they do, but the rate and consequences vary based on their environment. I guess we have that in common!

I HIGHLY recommend the thoughtful and thought-provoking pieces from this writer:

Chicken Scratch by Elizabeth Beggins

In other words

If you prefer to listen, you can access an audio recording, read by me, here. ⤵️…

Read more

24 days ago · 37 likes · 55 comments · Elizabeth Beggins

& From the archives… enjoy— it’s available to all.

That is where the conversation ended, but later he reconnected, reconsidered, and confided, “No one knows the whole story. I’ll bare my soul to you, if you can stomach it.” My stomach did do a little dance, actually, but I was intimidated not at all. James (Jimmy) Jacobs aka Jimmy Warren, aka Jim Johnson, (aka, aka…) and I combined our forces to write my seventh book. Lucky seven. Lucky me. He and I agree that most memoirs and biographies include large amounts of superfluous information so we’re concentrating on his third decade, 1975 to 1984. Fifty years, as it turns out, is a long way to look back, and becomes a page-turning read.

During our first meeting I went through an entire legal pad at Starbucks; hot tea went cold as I felt the weight of a responsibility I had so firmly requested. It’s no small thing, to become another person, speak in their voice while constructing the intimate details of a life you haven’t lived but need to do justice. Not just do it justice but bring it back to life, in black and white, with a spine, making sure the key points are driven home in the form of entertainment, explanation and a dash of irony. I researched, learned and experienced substantial awe about the paths and bridges Jimmy crossed and built.

Anecdotes spilled forth about multiple passports, counterculture characters and supplying what fueled them, talented people you’ve never heard of and some you have, playing four-hand piano with Chuck Berry, exploring every genre and touring with the Jerry Garcia Band. Jimmy had been wise enough to jot down a few stand-out escapades, a delightful, intriguing assortment, really. Like the stamps in his passports, intriguing, unexpected.

To quote the Eagles, it truly was Life in the Fast Lane, and I became even more honored to be the only one who was told the story, in order to make sure that everyone would eventually hear the story.

I will be perfectly humble and tell you that I sent out many time-consuming, soul-sucking, well-researched query letters (47 all told) to agents and representatives of the traditional publishing industry, hoping for someone who was willing to take a chance on an aging keyboardist with a truly worthwhile tale and an unknown writer, but I didn’t find one. I took a class, even, and digested towering piles of advice on how best to find the right representation, bought books about publishing books…ironically enough. It’s a changing industry and there are no vampires in there, just bold truth. No regrets, just reminisces.

Well, all those ‘professional’ people missed out, in my humble opinion. When you read this story, I think you’ll agree. “Who Is Jimmy Warren?” now joins this author’s list of self-published work about a life that is far beyond ordinary. In an era when innovation peaked, this creative, entrepreneurial keyboardist had his finger in all the pies in San Francisco and beyond. Jimmy was introduced to Jerry Garcia and passed unconventional auditions with flying colors, playing over a hundred shows in 1981-1982. That music still lives on today. His incarnation recorded some of the Jerry Garcia Band’s best work; two shows were released to accolades in 2023; the person named on keyboards is Jimmy Warren, someone who never actually existed. Lots of folks, when they saw the insert, asked, “Who is Jimmy Warren?” “It’s a long story,” he’d tell them, thinking, Oh, if you only knew… the secrets were secret until now. Jimmy can still play all of that music and scores more, blindfolded, upside down and backwards; the book delivers insight into myriad aspects of the hippie counterculture and the burgeoning music scene. You should not miss this read!

This ‘Stack announcement is the second step in a marketing plan that DAMN WELL BETTER WORK (I know for certain your warm, generous hearts are going to SHARE & RESTACK this publication, please—EVERYBODY KNOWS SOMEBODY WHO LOVES the counterculture, the Deadheads, and all the other genres that came out of the San Francisco Bay area at the crux of Sex, Drugs & Rock’n’Roll. Everybody knows the words to Life in the Fast Lane. Here’s another ride.

NO REGRETS-- Just available— Ebook, Paperback & Hardcover

If you would prefer and are proximate enough to personally experience our debut of “Who Is Jimmy Warren?” please come and hear Jimmy Jacobs tickle the ivories with Dean’s Five Piece Racket on May 16^th at the very location where his sweet music first tickled my ears, a cool little coffee and wine bar in old Downtown Annapolis, Maryland, called 49 West. We’re selling signed copies and it’s gonna be a sought-after show, so make a reservation! Good things keep happening there.

THANK YOU, TRULY & SINCERELY, for getting this far. My happiness is radiating.

Until next week. ~J

LEARN MORE ABOUT THIS BRILLIANT, MYSTERIOUS KEYBOARD PLAYER

I think some of those old-school hippie music lovers are undercover, incognito, and everywhere among us, so we should send this work along to everyone. Right?? Take a step back in time. Please SHARE & RESTACK this post. It really does help publicize my work and is much appreciated.

LAST CHANCE-- GRAB A COPY!!

As always, my world can be found on my website “Everybody Has A Story”

For direct access to my Author Page on Amazon, Janice Anne Wheeler.

Keep it to yourself, love it and then share.

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Thanks!

I think my boat-dwelling on-land interlude can be/has been slow-moving and I’m trying as hard as my big heart will allow to keep all of this interesting, poignant, and personal, reaffirming that no matter what happens, life is a journey with unanticipated, challenging and marvelous ports of call with lots of adjectives.

On the West Slope of Colorado I owned a custom catering business supplied by an organic garden (LONG before it was trendy), and most people didn’t realize I was the sole guru; marketer, planner, procurement, farmer, chef, baker, employer, QA manager, cleanup crew and accountant. Because I understood the importance and interdependence of every aspect, after fifteen years, I was very good at what I did. When I baked my brilliant cheesecake, not a single ingredient was overlooked, substituted or rushed. Not one…and they all have to be added in a particular order, then manipulated perfectly, transformed into the finished product, and relished. My cheesecake was delish, and constantly reordered. Sometimes I baked dozens of those cheesecakes at a time; big precision. We all do it in some aspect of our lives.

My current world couldn’t possibly be more different. My work here is done on a big scale, nearly all of it, but, like so many other professions, hobbies, crafts and trades, it takes relentless attention to particulars (as well as patience) in order to complete everything to the required standards.

HERE ARE A FEW MORE INSIGHTS INTO BIG PRECISION—

Ultimately, all of these big details deter water ingress— after all, water is both our favorite medium and our most dire enemy. Since I have my Captain’s License and we can charter, more than our lives depend on the quality of what we are doing here. Until next week ~J

P.S. Maybe I should serve cheesecake…!

I’m so glad you’ve not jumped ship! If you want to learn a bit more about me and what I’ve produced, please visit my website. JaniceAnneWheeler.com; I’d be flattered.

*** Big news —my latest work is on the presses—you’re wondering, aren’t you, what interesting character I chose to draw out of the shadows? Stay aboard! ***

@YachtingSteadfast on Facebook & YouTube—here’s the latest.

Thanks so much for SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE! What crazy weather; she’s as riled up as the rest of the planet! Care to share a peaceful read with friends?

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I smoothed every inch of 400ish vertical square feet yesterday, taped seams and edges, calculated timing and wind because we have a gorgeous wooden boat neighbor who is sanding with equal vigor before moving on to paint. Dust is an enemy, among others, to the shiny, protective coating I’m applying. And it’s up to $60USD per quart; we’re careful with it.

The pre-dawn breeze was cool with a forecast of 87F. I’m a lizard of sorts, always have been. My finely diamond-wrinkled skin demonstrates how much I worshipped our orb, and those dismaying gems are far more noticeable, I think, when it’s at its apex. Back when it was healthy to have a tan and I had much more resilience, everyone compared contrasting lines and selected tropical destinations for that very purpose. There are few more welcoming experiences than the first rays of spring sunshine warming your back or a colorful, luminescent sunrise announcing another day. Feels so good, doesn’t it? A primal element, essential for so many things, but even sunshine burns if you get too much. Avoidance is advisable, impossible. A life inside could not be a life I chose.

My mother and I stained the deck each year and did all yardwork wearing bathing suits and tube tops. Now, grudgingly, I take cover with sweaty long sleeves, floppy androgenous hats, my beloved sarongs and substantial sunblock. There used to be single-digit SPF protection out there, which we thought was enough, and now some claim 100x your ‘natural protection’. Is it more poison or a different poison or a good idea or the best solution? I have a dozen or so varieties tucked aboard, none of which I treasure or trust. The scrubbing to get zinc off my tender exposed skin also seems like too much abuse. Who knows for certain what’s best?

As with many things in our lives today, the answer varies depending on how you phrase the question.

I don’t want to ask an entity, any entity, who is trying to figure out what answer it thinks I expect. I want the right answer, whether I agree with it or not. Such questions used to be called ‘leading’ in the realm of growing up when my parents were trying to ascertain truth from fiction. Anthropic AI can now figure out how to wreak serious worldwide havoc, according to a NPR story today. They withdrew their latest model for the safety of humanity, because it’s too I when the whole goal was to make it I! I’m just trying to wrap my mind around what AI can do while it replaces authors and writers, publicists and artists without a backward glance, in fractions of seconds. I don’t use any such tools SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE, both literally and in producing this weekly observe-all, but sometimes I feel surrounded.

Back here in the real world, second cup of coffee in hand on the scaffold (still) surrounding my antiquated wooden boat, I am prepped and ready to paint when an excavator arrived with two dumpsters and the contracted intention of dismantling a piece of Chesapeake Bay heritage—a neighboring classic Skipjack. In six short hours, the hand-hewn vessel was gone, the land leveled; nothing to show but, well, but what? Nothing to show, really. Sure, someone’s living was made upon her, more than one generation, perhaps, the name and hailing port were long faded.

In an attempt at resurrection or stabilization, steel i-beams were inserted lengthwise and side to side in order to maintain her original shape and a scrap of dignity. When I first saw her, she was too far gone to save but the presence that most vessels from early in the twentieth century garnered respect. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy decision to take her to the nearest dump, but it was probably a practical one. STEADFAST lies along the property border between the Richardson Maritime Museum and our current home port, Yacht Maintenance Company. The Museum is a burgeoning, well-intentioned non-profit with what appears to be an assortment of visions. While I personally liked the ashes-to-ashes display, now there is a patch of dirt where the scruffy trees and mulberry had grown up around the skipjack’s keel. Ray, the gentleman with the excavator, was precise and pragmatic. “I don’t know her story,” he said, ”but somebody left her here long enough for trees to grow up through the deck….” He tilted his head at me curiously, “time for her to go.” It was a question and a statement. Wisdom and consideration, combined. “I’m not a boat guy,” he told me in a local accent, meaning he’s got no skin in the game. He might think I’m crazy to live where I live, but still has a modicum of respect for how I spend my resources.

In this photo, I paint the final reconstructed bow section on our page of maritime history as another chapter is hauled efficiently away. The birds who perched there will have to change their routines, just like everyone does when lives are up-ended.

I shift gears with this turn of dust-kicking events, put the topcoat gallon away and pull the building primer back out. The label says “EZPrime” but that is not true. Fate does allow me to work on the shady side of the vessel, but it’s a back-pedal. I’m ready to get this damn project back in the water. Of course I mean damn in the most affectionate way possible; she knows how much I must love her.

The starboard side of STEADFAST (right side facing the bow for my crew of loyal non-sailors…of course I didn’t know that for 95% of my life, either…) is oriented perfectly north. Around the June Solstice there is barely a shady side, but today she protects me as she always does from the unexpected power that is beaming down on my stained t-shirt as I organize my bucket of tools; you’ve seen the kit before and although contents vary, the basics are in the bottom at all times, paint scraper, utility knife, screwdriver, tape, soft putty blade, assorted sandpaper, gloves, sometimes a pair, more often not. I wear the right ones out faster so it often happens that I’m only left with lefts. The awesome gifts received from subscribers last year are still going strong.

I’m solo today, Sailor Steve is working elsewhere, to pay for the primer I’m dripping down onto the filthy felt placed beneath us nearly two years ago, and the rent for the ground beneath that cloth, among other things. When his ears aren’t here I choose the classic country station; I know every word from those times when my mom and I stained the deck, and every Saturday morning without fail. Marti belted them out like I do, out of tune but so sincerely that no one should care.

Since we mentioned lizard, there’s a nine-incher aboard of late, sleek, slightly creepy, shiny black with yellow racing stripes. Yes, I know they eat bugs. I’m OK with it as long as I don’t have to sleep with him and he doesn’t want to sleep with me. ~J

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Restacking is a great way to share my work— good folks can discover our wise comments and life lessons…. Thanks! & stay aboard!

*** The title this week comes from a famous, quotable work by Veronica A. Shoffstall, originally shared by my mom, lifetimes ago. I still have the ragged copy.

AFTER A WHILE

After a while you learn the subtle difference

Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning

And company doesn’t mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts

And presents aren’t promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats

With your head up and your eyes open

With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,

And you learn to build all your roads on today

Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans

And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn…

That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,

Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure…

That you really are strong

And you really do have worth…

And you learn and learn…

With every good-bye you learn.

If you’re interested in learning more about AI, I highly recommend Ruv Draba from Down Under; he, along with Claude from Anthropic, can be found on Substack Reciprocal Inquiry: from Doubt to Discovery.

In case you missed it:

Check out the archives at the top of each post to select from over 100 sea stories.

DANGER. I see the word every time my worn workboot lands on the top of that eight foot ladder. Do you disregard warnings like this? And if so, under what circumstances? When you think it doesn’t apply to you? Because the warning seems without threat (those damn mattress tags)? Or because there isn’t any other way to get where you want to go, to do what needs to be done?

The worksite path containing this ladder has been traversed thousands of times and there will be hundreds more before we’re done. Here’s how it goes: with your right foot on the danger icon, you swing your left leg way up, over the top of the scaffold, down onto a crossboard, then three steps across onto a wobbly, borrowed keel block to boost you two more feet up to the top, the level with the most risk, perhaps, and then you walk out to either side of the bow, usually against the wind, always acutely aware of the stunning force of gravity. Usually, at least one of your hands is full and it’s often something expensive and/or sharp; on a really dangerous day, it’s both.

This is a theme in my last month or so; there is a certain risk in many things that we do, and also risk in not doing them. Calculated risk? Maybe, but more so simply part of whatever deal you’ve dealt yourself, and decided to hold your ground, ante up, wait it out, go the distance. Sometimes there is little choice.

The top of that scaffold looks much higher from the top than it does from the ground, and a misstep would be a mess. So we don’t misstep. And we don’t get too comfortable, either. I think that is when missteps usually occur.

The carelessness of comfort is thinking that there will always be another day.

A few months after STEADFAST arrived at this boatyard for repairs, we were joined by a well-cared-for, classic cruising vessel on its annual haul-out. John, a well-cared-for, soft-spoken, slightly quirky, caring gentleman a generation beyond me, showed up even before his boat did, and then on a very regular, sometimes daily, basis to tinker and check on her and to check on us. She was for sale, he told us uncomfortably, shrugging off the importance of such a thing that was, clearly, very important, a milestone, a seemingly practical if counterintuitive decision that was unwanted and unwelcome, at least for that particular sailor. We shared friends, Friday Happy Hours and random conversations. The next fall, 2025, he struggled with the decision and then with certainty took his vessel southward. We admired him, and secretly encouraged the one-last chance attitude.

Our boatyard neighbor hadn’t told me that he had made a dozen or so solo passages, thousands of miles, on that vessel, traveling many of the same seas that we had, distinctly remembered by folks from the Florida Keys to the exquisite Bahama’s Exuma Chain. He donated hours and hours of time to the National Park there, I learned later, too late to congratulate him on such a worthy cause. STEADFAST has spent time in that region and it is stunning, postcard-perfect, biologically diverse. A place which needed protection because it is too beautiful, too coveted, and that can destroy those sorts of destinations. There is considerable brilliance in dedicating your time and energy to a place you want to be. He knew how important it was to all involved.

John also knew he had aged before he was ready, betrayed, as many of us are, by a body that has become sporadically untrustworthy. I think other things were at work in his decisions; John’s spirit was betrayed, too, by a society that tells us we’re too old for such adventures; it’s not conventional to keep taking risks, wandering the planet, making people wonder what you’re thinking, what you’re doing, where you are. To me, he was torn between what he wanted to do and what everyone thought was best.

John left this world in early January, so suddenly and unexpectedly that the shock brought waves of grief to everyone who knew him. He was a day away from taking his sailboat back to the Bahamas one last time.

His broken-hearted family carefully planned a tribute to his life and gathered today; I was honored to contribute considering how short our relationship was; I miss John, many tears were shed. He was a welcome part of this peaceful, difficult corner of my life. It’s a risk, isn’t it? A danger. Opening up your mind and your heart to someone new, no matter the circumstances. It takes time and precious energy to find commonality, comfort, companionship. He had generously offered us those.

My impression had been that John did not take a lot of risks. We often don’t know what people are really all about do we? Most folks don’t share their stories and often, I wish both that they realized it was important enough to tell and I’d taken time to listen. My website is titled Everybody Has a Story. Many souls and stories are worthy of your time and attention.

I’m trying to finish this piece for publication and tie it all together with a little more cleverness but frankly my sadness has taken over and I’ve given all I’ve got for today. As is our SPARRING routine, I scheduled this for tomorrow, Sunday, 6am on the East Coast of the US, and though I am trying to concentrate, I thought to myself, shit. I haven’t filed my taxes. Death and Taxes— the only two things that are a certainty in this world. Now, you may be groaning but I think my friend John would have smiled his, beautiful crooked smile.

Until next week, let’s not get too comfortable with the fact that there will always be a tomorrow because that is simply not true. ~J

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And why, you may wonder, are such crude shortcuts in order? I arrived at STEADFAST’s substantial aft end last week and got quite a flashback. Or a couple of them, actually. The photo on the left was taken in September of 2024. The other one was taken this week. Sigh. Thought we were done? Looks pretty similar. Well, we mighta stripped that section last year. Mighta known it was gonna need it. Coulda, woulda, shoulda done something differently? No, not really.

The reality is that STEADFAST’s port side, (left facing the bow) is full-on southern exposure in a part of the northern hemisphere which gets some intense sun, in fact, three-quarters of the year it shines directly on those surfaces and, ironically, far less in the steaming summer months. Her near-century old planks (and some newer ones) didn’t stand a chance against Mother Nature’s solar array, nor did the caulking holding them together, even under half a dozen layers of enamel paint. Our very real concern is those materials cannot recover from so much sun and not enough sea; they need a fresh seal, re-caulking in maritime terms, which is quite a process. As often happens, our best protection from nature’s power wasn’t good enough, and over time her planks have dried and shrunk just enough to separate and be dangerous. Wooden boats are designed to be in the water to remain watertight— if the build is proper, the planks expand perfectly to squeeze the caulk, just enough but not too much, creating a seal. Click the story link below or peruse a (very) brief explanation as to what’s gotta happen next. THERE ARE NO SHORTCUTS.

We braced ourselves and dug in; there is no point in taking chances, compromising quality or cutting corners now. If you’ve been subscribed since the beginning of SPARRING (originally designed to be a wooden boat sailing and travel journal—you never know where life will take you…), feel free to skip to the next divider line or stay and get a refresh.

Many of you found STEADFAST after these crucial tasks were completed on the balance of the (above-water) hullsides. We also had to Caulk every inch of the 32 new planks on the bow, stem and knee. Somewhere I calculated that we completed all eight time-consuming, meticulous steps on approximately three-quarters of a mile, or 1650 meters of seam. Just today, we reefed, pounded and sealed 300+ on the starboard aft quarter seen above.

OK—the Caulking process; STEADFAST was extensively rebuilt in Puerto Rico in the 1980s by a very passionate and equally crazy Sailor who reads my words each week. His seal has lasted forty+ years and that’s impressive; some of this new work would not even need to be done if we hadn’t run into the lengthy rebuild which we are immersed in. After removing that old seam material (a process called reefing, another one of those maritime terms that has too many meanings, IMHO), the multi-step Caulking task consists of brushing on two protective coats of boiled linseed oil and turpentine in equal parts; my favorite boatbuilding aroma, seriously appealing to the forest lover in me, I suppose. After that tonic, some perfectly pounded fresh, soft, pure cotton strands (nothing man-made works as well), as many as three rows if the existing cannot be saved, are inserted and tucked firmly with iron and mallet. If I do say, we’re a hell of a lot more efficient at it than we used to be, but it was dejà vu like I’ve never experienced to be back to doing things I thought were completed months ago.

Then it is protected with red lead paint, from George Kirby Jr Paint Company in New Bedford, Massachusetts, where, coincidentally, a hundred and twenty years ago, William Hand Jr was designing beautiful, diverse boats, eventually reaching Design #608: our number, which can be found in the Massachusetts’ Institute of Technology archives. And Mr Hand still wasn’t even close to being done conjuring seagoing vessels.

When we first hauled out, July 2024, we had no idea what we were in for. OK, let’s rephrase. I had no idea what I was in for and the Sailor had a better idea but still no true grasp because STEADFAST’s problem was insidious. One of my favorite words, learned long ago from my treasured Grandma Pearl.

By early August, while experts were assessing the bow structure, I set about stripping her lovely transom, whose teak had been replaced in the 1980s rebuild. I also took at least a dozen coats off the highest of her hullsides, the steel gray color above that kick-ass bronze rubrail, stripping down to bare planks.

We had noticed and noted that some of the seams in that region had become just a little too loose for comfort. It was a tad disconcerting to see daylight out through one of the seams on the aft port side. Thinking we would simply take advantage of our four months or so out of the water prior to heading to the Bahamas in the fall of 2024, we naively thought we were killing two birds with one stone when in fact there was a giant flock to be addressed and managed. Unforeseeably giant. Ah, the best laid plans become those with no shortcuts.

One of the most stunning displays of power I have seen in a long time occurred here on April 1st. A very warm, windy day proceeded a slow-moving cold front with show-stopping lightning, wind and rain; as I write this two mornings later we are still socked in by fog, every surface dripping, unable to work on what needs to be done. Back to this appropriate expression:

They go awry, those plans, but I firmly believe that eventually things fall into place and happen as they should. STEADFAST and her crew found a place to call home for two years with a group of kind, kindred spirits the likes of which I have rarely encountered.

This week SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE enters its third year and I was inspired to look back on my first few pieces. They detail the devastation wreaked by Hurricane Dorian on Marsh Harbour, Abaco, Bahamas; the first is entitled IMPOSSIBLE TO IMAGINE. Those resilient individuals experienced a battle for life, not merely a spar, and STEADFAST was there, three years afterwards, listening to the stories and watching a painfully slow recovery. The balance of the pieces I produce are likewise stimulated by moments in time, characters and considerations. I find this platform and my reader interactions incredibly rewarding even if it is not monetarily so.

The name of this publication came to me in the spring of 2023 when we rounded Cape Hatteras in a considerable sea state, under full sail, and STEADFAST’s impressive rigging went slack. Even if you’re not a sailor you can intone how bad that might be, right? It was bone-chilling. Since masts are also known as SPARS, and we were in for remarkable jousts that summer and beyond which seem to have become contiguous, endless even, the title was born. It’s what all of us do every day, at least to some extent. That multi-faceted story was published in WoodenBoat Magazine (limited access) here. Mother Nature is the most predominant force on the planet and some humans think she can be conquered, tamed and harvested without harm nor foul. I don’t agree.

While SPARRING’s topics deviate, the fascinating, resource-consuming world of wooden boat construction and ownership has taught this mountain and desert dweller innumerable things. Not the least of which is patience. There’s no point in considering what Mighta Shoulda Coulda Woulda. The thing that matters is what ya gotta. ~J

See you here next week! Please restack this post so my community continues to reach water and nature lovers; we currently have subscribers from 36 nations. Along those lines, I am posting casual, imperfect, work-site videos on our YACHTING STEADFAST channel in order to document what has become a worthy, educational project.

Saving our piece of maritime history is a daunting task.

And more on Category 5 Hurricane Dorian, September 2019.

This week flew by with final edits, acoustic guitars, sketches of anchor systems and calls to Port Townsend Foundry in Washington State, one of the only remaining forges in the US. They create stunning, creative, powerful bronze vessel hardware, you can view their work here. We haven’t come to a consensus yet, but are confidant that owner Pete Langley has the talent and skill that we need to build the new, larger, system that we require. Their reputation is impeccable and the reason we chose to go to this level of quality and expenditure is because, as mentioned last week, it is very important to stay where you want to be on a vessel, especially if it is anywhere near land, shallow water or other obstacles, often other boats. The mariner’s term for this essential holding equipment is ground tackle.

Since I received more than a few comments on this topic, I decided to link a story, originally entitled DRAGGING (modified to Eclipse Interrupted by the Editor), published in SAIL magazine, 2024. Since these sort of events seem to always happen at night, this truly depicts the heart-pounding terror that grips a sailor and crew when an anchor is no longer doing what it should. You feel like your hair is on fire. All hell has broken loose along with your ground tackle. Looking back and reliving the moment, I hope it conjures a dose of adrenaline and a dose of our reality; dragging an anchor really is bolt-upright-in-bed scary stuff with the potential for both danger and destruction. It’s the reason STEADFAST is upgrading the size of the anchor as well as its deployment and retrieval system.

Between what can happen when we’re on the water and what we have had to do to get back in the water, it’s no wonder friends far and wide are convinced we’re batshit crazy. I know that description still stands, and is probably as accurate as it could be.

What I also know is that it’s quite a unifying, satisfying feeling to be passionate enough about something to put our lives, savings, souls and energies into it.

We are engineering, thinking, consulting, sanding, priming, painting and preparing for this crucial install. Here are our workspaces:

Right now SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE is mainly the weather—from 74 to 24(F) with an occasional downpour and north winds that chill to the bone…no complaints because some of this nation has had it much worse and our hearts are with them.

As always, thanks for being aboard. There’s nothing quite like STEADFAST, and nothing quite as dedicated as you, if you’ve gotten this far. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it—-makes the whole project so much better when I can share it with the world. Wooden boats may or may not have been a topic that you would have chosen, so just remember, this mountain and desert dweller never imagined herself here, hauling anchors and meeting the eyes of dolphins. LIfe is good, if unpredictable.

All the best to you and what you are passionate about, whether it makes sense to everyone else or not! See you here next week. ~J

Thanks to SAIL magazine, I appreciated their publishing my work, here is the link:

https://sailmagazine.com/cruising/cruising-eclipse-interrupted/

Serious cruiser use anchor alarms for a reason! Sailing Vessel Roam’s Substack is interesting in regard to utilizing three alarms set simultaneously. They are currently on the other side of the planet; if you’re interested take a look, Jim is quite an informative writer!

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Reality set in, I doubled up my Smartwool socks and headed out. Later on it was cold but we had a mix of sun and clouds; the sky seemed impossibly blue as I gazed up at the rig. I deconstructed the protective winter tent/greenhouse that allowed us to smooth and beautify our bottom, and are making tremendous strides finishing the rebuild of STEADFAST’s bow.

Contemplating this week’s content, I came across this photo, which ties together everything this crew has been working toward; the crucial reconstruction project intricacies that still lie before us and what we will most certainly, most hopefully, encounter on our passages this fall and forevermore; Atlantic Bottlenose Dolphins.

Of most interest right now is the intricate, layered teak deck and the numerous rigging components, (which hasn’t looked like that in a long time); I imagine you’re as surprised to read this as I was to write it, dolphin-obsessed as I am. However, sometimes the practical things simply must capture our attention, even if we’re left-brained.(!) None of the essential topside deck or hardware is yet reattached, and none of the creatures on the left are ever guaranteed. There are no guarantees, but if you ever have this opportunity, and you lean over, dolphins will meet your eyes, which makes me tingle all over. OK, back to practicalities…

The aforementioned intricacies of STEADFAST’s deck are exactly why Sailor Steve is absorbed by engineering, calculating, measuring, defining contact points, angles, strengths and the like while collecting bronze rod, oak, teak and tenacity. Importantly, this is only a third of what his boat-loving brain is processing. (foreshadowing)

Since we don’t do anything in particularly small style, STEADFAST is the recipient of an entirely new anchor system; that decision came with some difficulty and considerable financial burden but has practicality and safety on its side. Throughout the project we have insisted that all materials and a tremendous majority of the style components were original. We even reclaimed the planks from a factory built in the same era, long over a century ago.

Traditional William Hand Jr designs nearly all had a starboard bow anchor hause pipe (a channel for the anchor chain and shank that goes from the deck down to the starboard hullside near the waterline) where the anchor is stored while underway or at a dock. This system saves space on deck, is a classic design of the times and eliminates traditional bow anchor chain stress. Unfortunately and importantly it also trapped moisture and perpetrated some deterioration of her hull, as seen in the photos below. Steve’s theory, the less holes in the hull of the vessel, the better.

Whether you are experienced or not in the artful sport of using wind as propulsion, (and if you’ve read my more harrowing descriptions), you can imagine that the anchor, no matter how tightly it is restrained, can do some pretty impressive slamming on the bow as we spar with Mother Nature, borrowing her forces to propel us forward and being repelled (or additionally propelled) by what I consider the most powerful, consistent force on the planet, waves. Even tidal waves and currents are powerful and often underestimated—most of us know this simply by wading into a calm ocean on a picturesque beach; it’s impressive, surprising, and effortlessly tugs your feet from beneath you. Imagine the pressure and strength of waves that are many feet taller and pushed by not just the orbit of the moon, but winds which can be light, gusty, consistent, strong, and is nearly always unpredictable.

Right or wrong, with forgiveness asked of the famed designer William Hand Jr, Steve decided to not replace the starboard hause pipe and rather to redesign the anchor system, moving it to STEADFAST’s newly reconstructed stem and bow. No small task, and no wonder his hair has gone a little (more) Einstein.

On STEADFAST, it is the physically smaller of the crew who manages the anchor deployment and retrieval (yep, that’s me). While that should not matter, it’s in the forefront of this relatively new sailor’s mind. Perhaps the most important thing in a boat is not how it goes forward, but how to keep it in place when necessary. After all, if we cannot do that, dangers abound close to shore, perils that can and will destroy, debilitate and least of which embarrass to no end.

It’s ironic that what is a final step in the long rebuild process, and not as grand as new planks and a glorious exotic stem, is also the most technical and essential to what we have already accomplished. The smooth new teak ridge on the left is inelegantly referred to as a ‘mud board’ which was designed to deflect dirty water from anchor retrieval back into the sea rather than down our decks. On the right is the glue-laminated oak anchor platform, which is currently being meticulously encased in teak. The new system is designed for a large primary anchor on starboard and a secondary storm anchor on port.

We are STEADFASTly moving forward, and I hope warmer weather will prevail! March 20th was Equinox, so no matter if you are moving into fall or into spring, beautiful change is in the air. Until next week….thanks for staying on board; it’s crucial ballast! ~J

If you think my work is worthy, restack this baby and then, if you have time, tell me what you liked. Or not. No pressure! Glad we’re in this together.

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In case you missed how we (painstakingly) found the proper planking, enjoy. Lots of other stories in the archives, too, on my home page.

And a harrowing experience:

I found the Galápagos so remarkable that I wanted to share and added a YouTube channel to STEADFAST’s repertoire. I have considered taking this step since TALLY HO started documenting a wooden boat rebuild, and it’s definitely experimental. While there are a few folks around who call STEADFAST the TALLY HO of the Chesapeake Bay, there is no time here for long, edited works with background music. The YACHTING STEADFAST channel may eventually regale you with occasional stories of life aboard a classic sailing yacht, raw and rare processes, innovations and experiences; it currently gives you glimpses of the diverse creatures I found on the equator. Please know I’m a writer, and my main conveyance will always be the magic of words.

The guide who showed me Mother Nature’s awe-inspiring Grand Canyon (he knows of what he speaks) said simply, “Janice. The Galápagos. Go. Ya gotta go.” I’d always wanted to, for as long as I can remember. I thought I knew what I was in for, but beneath the surface, there was, and is, far, far more to discover. Some day, there may be too much human traffic looking for a peaceful place in the world, but for now, Sea Lions (Los Lobos del Mar) rule, so I tell you, if you have any inclination, “Go.”

We were the awkward, overdressed, bubbling visitors dropping beneath the surface between Isla Baltra and sea stack Daphne Menor, they were the sleek, playful, powerful residents. Sea Lions are laughably uncoordinated on land but persist to travel on it anyway. Divers, equally graceless in a watery world, were thrilled to be sought out by the creatures we sought. The locals swept around us, careening, peering into masks, seeking the same connection we were, whiskers twitching, making fun of us, perhaps, deep in their comfortable-to-them world. Even the innumerable white tip reef sharks seen below were remarkably ambivalent about our presence. All of us were intrigued, a life lesson indeed.

I visited the Galápagos in the hot, wet ‘off’ season, so I don’t know if it’s ‘too busy’ during the months where more folks explore what is perhaps the most widely recognized archipelago on the planet. I was deeply impressed with the management of Equador’s Parque Nacional; to me, it is well-managed and promotes respect rather than invasion. I may never return, so for the short time I was there, I delved deeply, at first simply thrilled with the opportunity, and then of course I thought…..Since I’m going…I might as well, you know, go big.

I’ve been SCUBA certified since I was thirty; the last six years I was more than satisfied surface diving and spearfishing in the stunning blues of the Bahamas. But the Galápagos are bucket list stuff; I dusted off the dive computer and paid the price for a review and single-diver guide. Was it worthwhile? Oh yes, my friends. Among diving enthusiasts, it is the Hammerheads that are notorious here (among other stunners), and dozens of those massive, matchless sharks circled above as we tucked between the underwater cliffs of Léon Dormido, Sleeping Lion, now known as Kicker Rock, just west of Isla San Cristóbal. I was gripping hard against the current, heart pounding at the proximity, eyes wide with the wonder of it all.

The second dive at Léon Dormido included a thousands-strong school of gleaming, circling Black-striped Salema which literally blocked the light of the sun.

A glance in one direction revealed countless Yellow-tailed Surgeonfish and another a group of impossibly graceful Mobula Rays enhanced by a Sea Turtle photo bomb.

After lunch of fresh tuna, the tour included a beach stop with shuttles to shore. Just happy to be on the water again, I declined and propped myself on the transom. Blue-footed Booby Birds decorated a point protecting our anchorage, squawking amongst friends. But I couldn’t stay seated, because look what popped up!

Seeking Sea Turtles

Who to my wandering eyes would appear?

This gentleman here

Twixt the boat and the beach,

Not even slightly out of reach

Off came the sarong

as I yelled to the Captain I wouldn’t be long

Quick search with a snorkel, I found him grazing

Endangered creatures, nothing short of amazing

More giants appeared and their guest count was short

The Crazy American had no retort

They found me although I was not really lost

If I had been left it would certainly cost

I could not hide my giant smile

It got broader with each passing mile

I am touched by something few folks can report

Seeking Sea Turtles is my favorite sport ****

I didn’t imagine that day could have gotten any better but know this, even long-time guides and Captains still get damn excited about dolphins. Every time. And halfway back to the Harbour hundreds found us, the largest pod I have seen. It was awesome, but not the best quality capture of it all!

There was more than meets the eye everywhere, really. Early one morning on Isla San Cristóbal, capital of the Ecuadorean Provincia de Galápagos, all the municipalities gathered, dressed to the very hilt of their swords.

An unforgettable parade commenced: prideful, colorful, contrasting. Many residents possess physical characteristics far more like the indigenous peoples of South America than the Spanish whose language they speak and Christian Churches they worship. Similar to the unique creatures they protect, many emanate peace, and also extoll a certain fierce independence. It stopped traffic, that much is certain.

On that same island, for sixty-five dollars (Ecuador uses U.S. currency) you can hire high-energy Cesar to take you on a six-hour deep-dive tour that includes plant and animal identification, history, geology, biology, endangered species, agriculture, the invasive blackberry problem as well as anecdotes; how someone, just fifteen years ago, decided that the Caldera on San Cristóbal would be the perfect spot to raise Tilapia (they’ve been eliminated) and how his family has made a living here for generations. “You have an amazing country,” I told him genuinely. “Sí, amiga,” he looked at me in the rearview mirror carefully, to make sure I understood what was beneath the surface. I’m not fluent in Spanish, and yet the proud joy of sharing his homeland transcended the language barrier; I know I understood most of what he conveyed. He was respectful enough to answer questions as he has done thousands of times before. I asked a park ranger for the best guide and he called lucky #07 Amarillo Taxi; I paid $100. Buena suerte en encontrarlo! Good Luck finding him!

All my encounters in the Galápagos, as short as the time was, taught me that one can be perfectly, peacefully immersed there while still challenging your own limits, experiencing things you’ve seen only in National Geographic or science class, eating amazing, fresh, flavorful food and drinking local beer. These lava tunnels on Isla Santa Cruz are one of the incredible surprises; reminding me to embrace all twists and turns.

The final bus driver braked sharply, swung wide. Luggage tumbled, passengers grasped, necks craned, for one last glimpse of a not-too-creatively-named Land Iguana, much like this one standing just off the airport runway on Baltra.

This was the last soul I spotted in the Galápagos, and he certainly didn’t disappoint; so much to immerse yourself in, above and below the surface. Back on STEADFAST next week! ~J

Please RESTACK & send my work along to wanderers everywhere!

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For more information on the Galápagos, feel free to inquire in the comments.

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I captured this magic at Playa Punta Carola on Isla San Cristóbal; similar scenes played out everywhere, without fear or hesitation. No zoom required.

The wild animals I was raised amongst shied at my presence; white tailed deer, snowshoe rabbit, chickadee, assorted squirrels, raccoons, and avians were but a quick blur, providing glimpses of varied tails rather than the chance to observe, study or relate. My childhood home was in the woods on a dirt road and in decades of wandering the (very) lightly populated Adirondack Mountains of Upstate New York I encountered only a single, rolly-polly, fast-moving black bear, barely recognizable in its race to safety; the birds we fed fled. The vast majority of that deciduous forest’s residents sank into the shadows with their natural camouflage, detected my presence long before I got there, and left me feeling like a solo traveler rather than an accepted participant in their environment. I carried only a camera, stepped what I thought was softly, and willed them to let me capture their character, to no avail; I disturbed the peace rather than brokered it.

The creatures of the Galápagos? They shied not at all.

On the equatorial archipelago that Carlos Darwin (as he is known locally) made famous, sea lions are draped peacefully on every step, bench, dock and picnic table, calmly, awkwardly, moving toward their chosen spot until someone gives way. The only path to the lighthouse was blocked by snoozing pinnipeds. We climbed railings, rocks and ridges to maintain a respectful distance with the joy that is created by such a unique and calming presence as well as the paradox of it all.

It is as it should be, I think. Clearly, they were here first.

Tiny birds alight within easy reach, eyes clearly twinkling; ancient, ungainly tortoises utilize the narrow roads and long-imagined, prehistoric Marine Iguanas are everywhere, blending in perfectly with the lava rock where you were just about to step. On Tortuga Bay, Isla Santa Cruz, they were the beach traffic, dozens walked back and forth, forth and back, as we humans dodged, photographed and admired intricate, grasping claws, the erectness of their intimidating spines and the completeness of their patient silence.

I dusted tracks off the sarong laid down in a path that was not mine to block, and apologized profusely for overstepping my bounds. They were not bothered. I still was welcome, flitting along in the background of a National Park experiment that is brilliant in its simplicity and impressive in its success.

In that bay my skin wrinkled and whitened as I took in every detail of a 1.5 meter Pacific Green Sea Turtle grazing placidly in less than three feet of warm, hazy, outgoing tide. She turned her triangular tail, only to turn back, move closer, munch louder, not remotely disturbed by my hours of undying gratitude and gut-clenching fascination. Four others with similar girths and soulful presence that day had me in a haze of happiness. Young sharks darted by and assorted cleaner fish worked diligently on algaed, ancient shells and leathery skin; symbiosis beneath the surface.

One serious, informative young tour guide kept asking us in quick, strongly accented English, “Are you getting me here?” “Got you,” we told him, smiling, jealous that he lived in and taught about a world where everyone simply gets along. Red-throated lizards and even redder Sally Lightfoot Crabs pause rather than skitter; Blue-Footed Booby birds decorate the cliffs. Soaring Frigates constantly grace the sky, but you cannot keep looking up. You must look everywhere.

I’ve explored only a small percentage of our amazing, complex world, but I’ve made concerted effort to see a considerable measure of the coveted creatures thus far identified above the surface of the sea and below it. Never have I been so peacefully proximate. I know this awe will be with me forever.

I was entranced by the reality of such fabled, varied life, all of it strolling, flying or swimming remarkably close to humans from all corners of the globe with benign, curious acceptance. I’ve often commented on animals knowing, instinctively, who is a threat and who is not. Is that fact? I do not know. It is simply my observations, far and wide, which back up the theory, time and time again. ~J
*** This one piece isn’t enough to show you what I experienced—-not even close! There will be more images & impressions in Part II —-Encounters beneath the surface—-next week. Hope you’re loving it!

If you believe this work is worthy of sharing, simply click the heart & recycle icon each week. That sends my stories to readers & nature lovers worldwide. Thanks!

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Sometimes it’s hardest to realize what’s closest to you, right? We all do that, so I stepped away and upon my return I realized that even more hard, complex work had been tackled and tamed, bringing STEADFAST to the final stretch of our long, windy tunnel, discussed so many times on these weekly pages. There is a light, and I can see it. We’re not done, but the end is (REALLY) (pretty) near.

Please feast your eyes on these examples; they are the most striking to me.

We’ve come a long way. And I’m so glad you’re with us.

Until next week, Happy March! ~J

GOT NUTS?! I bet ours are bigger….we can discuss that next week, too, if you wish…..

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…and always maintain your sense of humor.

You can help save a piece of maritime history by liking, restacking & signing on for adventures far beyond the re-launch!

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I need to thank the tremendous wealth of knowledge that is Captain Bob Wallace whose five extended sails to that archipelago on research vessels make me think, nay, know, I’ll want to stay far longer.

Photos next week! I hope all is well; I’ve tuned out from the balance of the planet to focus on the peaceful and extraordinary.

All the best to all of you,

~J
Www.JaniceAnneWheeler.com

If you’re not already familiar with my website, do click it! I am a self-published author and ghostwriter, perhaps your story needs telling??!! Everybody Has A Story. There are also lots more SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE stories in the archives and those can be found on my homepage here:

SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE

The stories I share are real; I don't have the imagination to write fiction. I don’t need to. I'm a Sailor.

By Janice Anne Wheeler

All of my content is free— please share—having new folks hop onboard is my best reward. THANK YOU! Very helpful platform tools are the little heart, as it’s an algorithm kicker, and the ‘restack’/recycle icon, as those send my words to others who have not had the chance to experience them. We’re all learning what works as we go!

In particular I’m searching for the restaurant where the sea lions can be found beneath the bar stools—: if Clare Polders of Wonder, Wander, Write, hangs out with them it must be an adventure. I appreciate and recommend her sage advice—the second in her excellent, informative series on the Galápagos can be found here.

Simply said I was far too wound up gathering information and booking SCUBA to concentrate on boat rebuild and the contemplation thereof, much less write about this week’s challenges... I leave the project in more capable hands than my own.

Have a wonderful week!

~J
Www.JaniceAnneWheeler.com

You know the first thing I packed was my SARONG & you can read about those here:

More on WANDERLUST—

And more—

And more—a different perspective—

Thanks for being on board! ~J

We left Beaufort, North Carolina, U.S. at 2am December 1st 2021 and dropped anchor in Charleston (South Carolina) around 11am on the 2nd, 33 hours later. On passages, we opt for four hour watches and because of my obsession with dawn, I cover 8pm-midnight, 4-8am and Noon-4pm.

Part One. Sent 11:58pm December 1, 2021

Rapid flashes silhouette clouds on our eastern horizon line, far out above the Gulf Stream where the warm water has met cold air and caused an old fashioned weather ruckus. The clouds ignite with lightning from within, and just as quickly it is gone, leaving me mesmerized, waiting for the next strike, wondering where it will come, how wide, how far in the distance. It’s always hard to guess.

Those flashes are far more beautiful because they are so far away. December snuck up on us and seems deceptively calm as the boat beneath me rolls languidly, gently. She and I are both happy to be heading where we are heading, sensing the freedom that it can bring. While sometimes it feels as though this lifestyle controls us, and it does, there are nights like this when we feel invincible, wrapped in a cocoon of self-sufficiency, calm in the knowledge that we have all that we need.

The strikes are closing in, sharp, bright light that now creates distinct outlines of the thunderheads hidden otherwise by darkness. Their more occasional nature somehow contradicts the threat. We are sailing along in the calm next to the storm with only a light swell from distant lands. As my watch ends, the wind freshens, the flashes fall into my peripheral vision, into a quiet corner of my mind.

My relief awakens slowly, rumpled, and silently checks my work as I wait, apprehensive, fatigued from the tension of peering into darkness, of anticipating danger. This time there is no correction, no lesson as there has been all the times before this one. I am exuding pride. He does not notice.

My epiphany, my competence, my confidence, was a long time coming. Eighteen months thus far, puzzling over terminology, tactics and procedures that are easy for people who have grown up around sailing. For me, my world was a constant, thousand-piece puzzle with its own language, tools and rules. Finally, I understand when and why you do what you do in order to harness the wind, in order to safely, efficiently sail a course; it all fell into place. An epiphany indeed. This revelation is important to me and to the Captain; whether he notices or not, he is finally able to sleep. And so am I.

Part Two. Sent 6:02am December 2, 2021

I could not, with any amount of fumbling in the dark, figure out which way my underwear went. Which was leg, which was waist. For God sakes, I laughed to myself, trying desperately to keep my balance in the swaying ship as the floor fell from beneath me, always at a slightly different angle; the weird dance of a boat on the open ocean in changing weather. I want to be able to do this without turning a damn light on.

We try (and try and try) not to use lights at night; it effects your vision for a long while afterwards, and more importantly changes the vision of the person at the helm. So I fumble. And fail, flicking on the light for just a second to find the battered tag, position it properly and slide them on. I ponder briefly how long it’s been since I was anywhere near a Victoria’s Secret, pawing through the annual sale rack of cotton, shimmer and lace, 5 for $25. Choosing five. Choosing five more. Half a decade at least, and these lace numbers probably don’t belong on a boat equipment list. They certainly don’t match the rest of my warm wooly outfit.

That task completed, I grab my Alpaca long underwear, laid nearby when I crashed at the strike of midnight. I sigh, just a small one. Same problem. Which side is the back? Fumble. Try one leg. Give in. Flash the light on. Find the print on the back side. Fumble. Stumble. Succeed. Pants. At least they have a fly. One leg at a time. Find a sock. Grab the doorway. Tilt. Stumble. Other sock. The weather has obviously deteriorated in the four hours since my last shift and the motion of the vessel is no longer a gentle roll but an off-kilter slog that keeps the floor far less than level. It didn’t happen fast enough to awaken me in my bunk, but now that I’m actually trying to balance I realize, again, how odd this life is.

Tank top, t-shirt, & fleece were removed as one after the shift that ended four hours ago. I tug them down away from my neck, wonder about my hair, do nothing with it, and ascend the aft hatchway. I already see the low glow of Charleston to the west and a flotilla of looming, anchored cargo ships, lit up like small cities, still far ahead to the east, awaiting their turn in the troubled times of COVID and supply chains.

The Captain and I convey all pertinent information as we do at every transfer of power and another watch has begun, four hours of just me and the helm, a desert and mountain dweller, responsible for forty tons of boat and everything else that comes into our realm as STEADFAST carries us south.

I wouldn’t refer to it as an epiphany now; I had no idea how much I didn’t know, but I was happy, and that is no small thing.

And now, between watches, I don’t bother to undress…the simplest epiphany ever; sometimes it is the easiest solutions that prove elusive. ~J

For more recent sailing lessons, northbound 2024 on that same coast, please peruse:

LOOSE CANNON’s Peter Swanson published a work about what color lights to use at night.

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Each day there is frosty artwork on the outside of STEADFAST’s temporary shelter; these are two stunning examples. Is it the dust particles that create such stunning designs? Is it Mother Nature’s remarkable gift to me? A tradeoff, perhaps, as she slows progress and offers only downright treacherous conditions to do what needs to be done?

Water is our planet’s most precious resource in its many forms: liquid, solid, gas, salt, fresh, brackish; 85% of me is water as I pen this musing about the impacts of something so prevalent and accessible for some that it can be taken for granted, while others walk miles each and every day for mere survival, not for showers or luxury or houseplants, but for subsistence. Although it is salt water which flows in human veins, fresh is what we must partake of to survive; a couple was found lifeless last year, their raft adrift atop the salty Atlantic while, ironically, the fish below would even more quickly perish in a sea of fresh. There are fine degrees of difference in the water all creatures need, but need it we all do.

In parts of the U.S last week, Mother Nature bestowed all forms of the sometimes controversial, hard-to-manage stuff; inches of intricate, delicate crystals were topped with freezing rain resulting in a crusty coating causing gridlock, cancellations, photographic opportunities and one more lesson about the powerful natural forces that control our lives.

Now, she is maintaining temperatures low enough to keep that solid state remarkably slippery and impenetrable. Each day sunshine slicks the surface, mimicking relief, only to refreeze again when the day ends. As a child I skated on the ponds of Upstate New York but never really took to the uncertainty of it all, a counterintuitive activity that encourages movement on two skinny blades of steel. In Colorado my younger self would don harness, grab axes, challenge the ice falls of Ouray to revel in the beauty and adrenaline. The final time I chose that activity a shard broken loose by my own hand crashed into helmet, nose and cheekbone, dripping blood on the crystal clear surface. My crampons may still be tucked somewhere, perhaps in my brother’s North Country basement, (they are an essential tool for winter ascents of the Adirondack Mountains), but the helmet and axes were retired. I try not to repeat too many SPARRING matches I cannot win.

There is still no safe way to navigate the hundred yards from where STEADFAST is entombed to our boatyard office. Yacht Maintenance Company spent a day removing the five or so inches of clear, glaciated water from in front of their main entrance. Folks build entire hotels out of the stuff! Such a stay is not even remotely appealing to this thin-blooded girl.

That same blood boils when I hear about acts committed by some members of the U.S. government entity with the same name as Mother Nature’s treacherous essential.** May this debilitating ice and that wayward ICE quickly be transformed into something less menacing and far, far kinder.

See you next week.~J

I hope you value SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE. My friend Switter has a view of the world that always broadens my own, which I find incredibly valuable: Do partake.

Switter’s World

Some Women

Pamela Leavey left a thoughtful note on Substack that triggered my own memories:Some women don't get to live soft lives. They get handed chaos, grief, betrayal, and they have to learn how to bloom anyway. They become the ones who know how to carry others when their world falls apart because they remember what it was like when no one showed up for them. They'r…

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10 months ago · 26 likes · 14 comments · Switter’s World

Some men don’t get to live soft lives, either. I strive to always appreciate mine.

REFERENCES:

** In case you’ve decided to stay under a large rock for the last year (not altogether a bad choice in these aggressive times), the current President of the U.S. has enlarged our Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). The majority of citizens (61%) do not agree with their tactics.

-For more commentary on water’s tremendous impacts, I highly recommend John Lovie’s ‘Stack

MOSTLY WATER.

I sat back when the noise stopped, able to remember exactly when I asked about that particular device due to the impact of the answer. All of STEADFAST was new to me the day I found myself climbing up her then-foreign rope ladder to stand on a deck farther above the water than any of my small realm of vessels had taken me, surrounded by more complicated rigging than I had ever seen.

At the time I lived aboard a cozy Tartan sailboat which, while known for quality, have certain ordinary similarities with many mid-size cruising vessels of the 1980s. She was thirty-seven feet long and nine wide with far, far less than half of our living space, but I had gotten used to her, no ladder required, one mast, no intimidation. Fifty-six-foot soon-to-be STEADFAST was comparatively vast, raising so many questions that cold May morning in 2021 that I couldn’t voice them all, but I clearly recall asking about the orange light mounted just behind the Mizzen (smaller, aft) mast in the pilot house.

“That’s the high water alarm;” was the casual reply to my inquiry. Such a modern piece of equipment was starkly out of place on a wooden vessel built nearly a century ago. My eyes narrowed, taking in that piece of information like the desert mountain climber I used to be. “She needs a high water alarm?” I persisted, voice up an octave, knowing I was rowing up a creek I didn’t belong on. “Well, they’re not required,” was tossed over a shoulder as he walked away, “but probably a good idea.” Hmmmm.

Today’s wind chill sits at a princely fourteen (-10C) so we’ve moved to inside projects which happen to entail reinvigorating bilge pumps and changing out old, inefficient hoses for higher quality models, no small feat, and weaving the cold, rigid, uncooperative new ones through small spaces in our low-ceilinged engine room. “It’s lots easier in the summer,” he tells me and I nod, tugging absentmindedly at my long underwear bottoms whose elastic has recently, utterly, failed.

Throughout the morning the high water message split the air randomly as rewiring and reconfiguration continued below me. If activated for more than a second, the startling amber and white flashing light came to life, too, as it should. It isn’t the proximity that made it so piercing, although the source happened to be right above my curving back; it was the concept. Alarms are, after all, meant to startle, to inspire action, reaction, adrenaline and fear.

If you hear that alarm out on the sea you should, first and foremost, be frightened, even if that’s not the word you want to use. It’s telling you that something is very, very wrong.

Those alarms and pumps maintain their vigil even when the main battery power is cut off, and they should. The two wires connected to that key safety device are integral to STEADFAST’s complex systems, some of which you never, ever want to need.

After an hour of jumping just barely out of my skin each time it went off, the Sailor approached me gingerly with a not-sure-how-to-broach-this-subject look. “I think we should add a shut-off switch,” he said, pausing for my reaction. A shut-off switch for the high water alarm would mean that you got the message, can’t fix the problem, and that the water level will (probably) never again go down. All that most certainly adds up to the fact, among others, you don’t want to listen to the alarm anymore. “Well,” I said, in what I thought was my most practical, pragmatic, calm voice even though my stomach did a tiny somersault, “It might as well be reachable from up here in case we can’t even get down into the engine room.”

That would surely mean all was lost. We gazed at each other silently.

He installed the switch and in keeping with the theme of the day, inquired, “Did we find the handle to the manual bilge pump?” I had relocated it during my floor sanding, never having thought all that much about the fact that neither of us knew exactly where it was. Needing that particular tool would mean all four electric bilge pumps have either failed with the power system or aren’t pumping fast enough (10,200 gallons, 38,600 liters per hour) to keep our dear vessel afloat, so we then would coerce open the ancient bronze cap on the manual one and pump away, probably with considerable force after decades of neglect. All this while assumably thinking straight regardless of the incessant screaming of the high water alarm. Thus, our prior decision in regard to quelling that potential distraction is explained.

Meanwhile, someone (yours truly) would be designated to pull out the ditch bag and try to collect the list of things to add to that bag if it’s actually being used for its only, dire purpose (our electronics, documentation, wallets, battery packs, water jugs and fresh food). PFD’s, flotation devices and whatever else we may have time and the clarity to think of can also be slung into our hard-bottom inflatable dinghy, which serves as our life raft. The Emergency Position-Indicating Radio Beacon (EPIRB) is a worldwide universal communicator which is immersion or manually activated; ours is attached to, (appropriately perhaps), the rear gallows above deck level. Every two years I confirm with the U.S. government that if they receive a signal from that particular beacon, it’s us and we’re in serious trouble. The protocol is to take it with you if that is in any way possible; does little good to transmit from the bottom of the sea.

So, it suddenly seemed pertinent to ensure that we had our safety plan in order. Which is weird. And reality-checking. There’s a certain relief to making sure all that intricate, redundant equipment is working as it should even though we’ve been on the hard, hard ground (actually mostly oyster shells) of Cambridge Harbor, Maryland for, well, too long.

When you’re on a boat, walking away is not an option.

That reality is why stories of boats sinking strike an inner chord of fear—and why there are so many metaphors and sayings about sinking ships. I certainly never want to tell one. It’s hard to imagine and this is the lightest approach I could come up with when describing such a true crisis.

Everyone is in far more danger traveling in a car than on a boat. There are 2,842,528 vessels registered with the universal maritime location system (AIS) and somewhere around 336,000 underway as I type this publication, according to Marine Traffic. The tremendous majority of vessels sink (69-80%)* while tied to a dock or mooring and largely due to lack of maintenance and/or Mother Nature’s wrath. It’s always sad for me to see someone’s dream become a neglected nightmare.

This week’s publication didn’t start out as this conversation, but as always they evolve and hopefully intrigue, giving you insight to how my life differs from your own. ~J

I’ve actually listened, heart in my throat, to a boat going down and the subsequent rescue of those aboard just a few miles away. I told the story here:

There is a tremendous amount of safety equipment and gear that you desperately hope you’ll never use. If you’re interested, the following is a list of what our ditch bag always contains:

Fifteen hand held flares, 12 gauge flare gun and six flares, signal mirror, orange square which is the universal indicator of help as seen from above, two whistles, compass, desalination hand pump machine, (one gallon per hour), ten MRE military issue meals, 12 energy bars, 12 granola bars, 24 Propel packets for electrolytes, sunblock spf 50, two hats, two microfiber towels, gold reflective blanket used for sun shade or warmth, bonine, fishing line and hooks, lighter, matches, extensive first aid kit, water bottles, cleaning wipes, filet knife, multitool, two small drybags, two long sleeve shirts, cheap sunglasses, 20 yards of small gauge rigging line, two flashlights with batteries, solar charger with ports, shammy towels, small fleece blanket, and a few other odds and ends that I’ve tossed in over time. What else would you include?

Thanks for reading SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE. Such an occasion as we discussed preparing for here today is, of course, the ultimate SPAR.

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REFERENCE:

Circumstances of US vessels sinking per BOAT US (link)

Marine Traffic International Vessel Tracking (free public service)

“You’re going gray,” I told my old wooden girl directly, “Just like me.” What I didn’t say was that, in my case, she is the cause. She’s not completely the cause, but you know what I mean. I give her considerable credit.

At some point over the last few weeks I conveyed to you the palpable relief I experienced when I pulled off my stiff, filthy TYVEK PPE suit for what I thought was the last time. On Wednesday I found myself re-draped in an XL complete with crotch just barely above my insulated knees. I rolled the pantlegs up once, again, and a third time, after those damn, already-bent brass hooks on my workboots relentlessly caught the hems and tripped me up, hard. Some days here seriously lack grace.

The respirator really caught my attention as to how permanent, how powerful, how poisonous, this layer must be. I filled every pinhole, every tiny imperfection in our new bottom with the gray plastic-ish solution that requires a certain temperature for application. Sun shone through our structure and I was highly overdressed; the sweat ran down my spine as well as from breastbone over ribcage. As I rolled it carefully on, a little piece of joy took me by surprise; each new step teaches me something, each step takes me closer to living back on the sea. The barrier coat of this vessel, properly applied, under ordinary circumstances, will outlast yours truly. You may already understand this project well enough so that you can foresee, prior to launch, applying yet another barrier coat (or two or three…) just to make sure we’ve got it right. It’s all about protection. It’s all about getting it right and we’ll get there, regardless of the redundancy and transformations required.

STEADFAST is now sporting a very stately, steel gray two-part epoxy barrier coat on her smooth new bottom, another layer of protection from formidable Mother Nature, this time on top of the seafoam greenish fiberglass (it was QUITE A PROCESS) below her waterline. Her careful replanking and recaulking, the new, bright white seams, the months of hard, careful labor, are no longer in evidence. I vascillate between disappointed and elated. Are YOU sporting a color? Does it change? Does it cover up all the hard work you put in? Or emphasize your best side?

When I first met my Sailor, he deemed himself ‘platinum’ not merely silver and most certainly not gray—this society’s tell-tale indicator of inevitable, oft-dreaded aging. As a child I can remember that my mom’s premature coloration—in her very early 30s—was costumed every few weeks by a private ritual. My blondish-brown has been transforming for years now; I’m thrilled with the fairly slow rate (accelerated by circumstances) and most certainly label the new tint platinum. Does that change the dynamic? Or buoy me from aging? My grandmother Pearl’s hair was white my whole life. No coverups. No shame. No regret. Gray that was white. An indicator of age that, on her, was timeless. Stately.

Could aging be described as some other color? And could that descriptor become some other perspective? Well, yes. And yes. I pluck almost-white eyebrow hairs as soon as I notice them. Since they are usually full-size (or impossibly appear even larger than their cohorts) by the time that happens, I clearly don’t pay attention very often. Or do those individuals suddenly turn, under stress or duress or neither, from my traditional, boring brown to course white and strikingly noticeable? That seems ridiculous, (and I know this is too much information!). Sometimes I tug out a brown one with the white by mistake, wonder how many of those I have to spare, and then also contemplate whether, when they’re mostly white, will I keep pulling or…the options are limited; after all…I won’t want to go without.

STEADFAST sports her custom steely gray better than I will. I find the whole graying process a tad disheartening, but that adjective is far too strong; if that’s my biggest problem in this mad mad mad world, I’m kicking ass. No one cares. Not even me. I used to, but we’re wiser, I think, and particularly in tumultuous, unpredictable times, so many other things take precedence, don’t they? ~J

If you think my work is worthy, it takes two clicks; the heart icon & the restack arrows to share it. Or… just privately love my writing & stay aboard. That’s perfect, too.

FAITH is still with us… @ sunrise on the 17th.

In case you missed it:

NOTES:

As we’re discussing colors and concepts, I’ll offer a provocative, creative perspective on an entire year of gray from 'Stacker Amy Cowen, Illustrated Life. Color yourself, color your year. I give her credit for inspiring for some of this content.

Spelling: did you wonder gray vs. grey? I did, and found a tremendously refreshing change; everyone is correct.

See you next week! It’s a pleasure to have you here.

FAITH is one of the smallest, mightiest-looking tug boats I’ve encountered; her category of working vessels are tremendously respect-worthy and I marvel as they guide hundreds of times their own displacement with a reassuring roar of engines and chugs of dark, lingering exhaust from cartoon-like smokestacks while knowledgeable Captains dive hard into their responsibilities. Tugs are a constant, reassuring presence worldwide.

Tugging gently (oh, yes, pun intended) on the impressive, slightly frayed nylon lines that kept her snug to the dock, she was bow to bow with what I assumed was her charge, an aging US Coast Guard YP Vessel which was sporting blue icicle holiday lights along its substantial length. Spirit finds its way no matter the place or circumstances.

As I tend to do with everything that captures my attention, I walked closer, lingered a bit before returning to my routine. I’ve been thinking about FAITH ever since and the next morning, my brain woke up at a ridiculous hour, as it often does. I tossed countless times, reached over and pulled this trusty, now-dusty, Mac out and started typing these words, as always not sure where they might roam.

My phone vibrated at 4:29am. This morning’s early missive brought tears to my just-focused eyes but they were the good kind, the appreciative kind, from one of those angels who walk the earth among us, writing to send strength and love when remembering my father, because she knows that sometimes the pain can outweigh the good memories, at least momentarily. Her belief is strong and people like her increase my faith in humanity at a time on our planet when it’s hard to comprehend or justify what people are doing to each other for power or money or stature.

Seven years ago that very morning, a wee-hour ring from the nursing home conveyed that they had taken my father to the hospital at the very beginning of what would be his last day on earth. We who loved him had enough faith to know it was his time. The memory brings tears. I’m sure my brow crinkled as I read it, knowing that those communications are generally bad news, such as when the doctor receives a test result but doesn’t want to talk about it on the phone, needs you to make an appointment, show up, create a plan; you know that kind of news or, actually, if you’re truly lucky, you don’t know that kind.

I’m having one of those weeks, I guess, because tears threatened to spill another evening at dinner, when conversation and commonalities led me to discover a true soulmate, another angel whose life path could not be more different or more the same than my own. Another strong woman who has enough faith in her own judgement to make decisions most folks shy away from.

The next day, I retraced my steps to see FAITH in the bright sunshine, double stacks polished. I wondered where she and her namesake were headed next, and where we were headed next.

The third morning I awoke predawn, with promising color on the eastern horizon, and donned my layers. The sunrise was incredible, Mother Nature’s best hues reflected on the near-mirror calm of the Choptank River.

I lingered, again, watching the ethereal sky and many of the same creatures I view each time; only the Great Blue Herons and the Osprey are wise enough to migrate south as the leaves fall. I’m wise enough, too, but you know this, circumstances restrain.

I heard the chugging, first, echoing above the din of Canada Geese in multi-V formation overhead. They overwinter here in a climate much milder than their namesake and I’m guessing that some flock or other, way back, asked, “Why, exactly, do we go any further than this just to fly all the way back in the spring (FFS)??” And so they stay and procreate, making ample target practice and delicious meals for a myriad of hunters; shotguns echo across these same waters most mornings.

And then, I saw a tug silhouetted against the brightening sky, creating a glowing wake while seemingly not even disturbing the peaceful surface. She was larger, but with the same lines, designs, stacks and presence of her counterpart. I snapped a photo, amused, intrigued.

That day, was a stronger FAITH required? As it turns out, it was.

I may be a tad crazy (batshit crazy, in fact) to place such impact on a name and a crossing of paths; if so, I’m comfortable with that. A more powerful version of FAITH had shown up, as if on cue, as I was leaving to go on with my day, and, just two hours later, when an unexpected friend stopped by, I had enough belief, enough faith in humanity or whatever, for both of us, I think, in the face of unexpected, awful loss.

In that instance faith supported me when I lost a friend, that very day, without being able to say goodbye; we had the faith, and hold the understanding, that it was his time and that he had, somehow, taken part in the decision even though we selfishly still want him around. And always will. It’s that way with the people you love and respect.

Sometimes, while you may not know when or where or why, you need a stronger FAITH. ~J

See you next week, my faithful audience. I recommend spending a little time with someone you love; it’s been a rough week here, loss and lessons and, well, shit.

Thank you for staying aboard. Next week— oh, yeah, see what we got done... ! Meanwhile, share a little FAITH.

I nodded with an unexpected wave of emotion, blown in through the doorway like the biting north wind. That evening, after an exquisite hot shower (our joys are simple), I sat down on this very Mac and delved into the thousands of photos I’ve taken with both Canon and phone over the last twelve months. It occurs to me, each time I do this, how complex, layered and impressive big wooden vessels can be; there is so much hidden beneath the planking. So many steps, so much time. Here’s the bow one year ago and yesterday. Nineteen months ago today, we investigated the tiny brown spot that led us here.

Port side, one year ago and yesterday.

Starboard side: new purpleheart stem (front of the vessel) was installed one year ago.

The views from the interior during the rebuild are even more striking to me.

Eyebrows did raise when our visitor took in the multiple 1.75liter bottles of the least expensive 40-proof grain alcohol we could find to winterize the plumbing. “We’re serving the same thing at the launch party,” I joked.

We are truly SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE this year in much of North America. I added a fourth layer and paid another 50.93usd for kerosene to keep the workspace warm enough to function. Winds here peaked at nearly 50 knots last Friday and have been consistently above average as a string of cold fronts sweeps through. The day before, our sky was deep azure and clear as crystal with a chill wind that indicated it would not be that color for long, although it’s amazing what the sun can do. The solar power created through our plastic enclosure is remarkable, forty degrees warmer inside than out when conditions are right.

My workboots were propped up on the sawhorse which is used as a table and as legs and a sawhorse and a roller for the planer. Pretty handy, that thing. Purchased at the beginning of this land-dwelling adventure for 34.95 from some horrifyingly big box store so we didn’t have to make them ourselves; after all, we weren’t going to be here very long. There’s a little burro emblazoned on one corner. Not a horse, a burro. For a moment, I ponder why and then I ponder why on God’s green earth that could possibly matter and direct my gaze elsewhere. On the very long list of things that don’t matter, that could be right near the top. I then contemplate a fleck of fiberglass resin on my sunglasses that I fear is irremovable and will need to be ignored. Epoxy resin is as permanent as permanent gets and any attempt at removal would surely lead to extra scratches and a curse or two. Of course, that’s the whole point of this project, isn’t it? To make STEADFAST as permanent as she can possibly be. To make her outlast me, the Sailor and most of you perusing this story.

“I’m quitting after this last three feet,” he told me above the din of the air compressor, grinder, fans, and constant, mellow classic rock at the highest volume the thirty year-old speakers will handle. The sailor was sanding the sunny side waterline so that it didn’t cure too much and make that task (even more) difficult. A whole lot of curving surfaces come together at STEADFAST’s waterline, a whole lot of forces, both inside and out, and you already saw that he did, in fact, smooth our bottom. A thick, intimidating layer of snow-white fiberglass dust covered every imaginable surface.

“I feel lazy,” I called through the plastic. People, myself included, pay money to meditate, do nothing, relax, reflect and regroup. On this particular day, I wasn’t comfortable. I had just dropped lunch down the line used for that purpose, descended the ladder and sat in my now-a tad-rickety teak rocker, but I wasn’t working as I have come to know boatwork. I don’t grind the fiberglass to its desired finish; that careful work is not in my skillset nor my job description and Steve was just as dusty and worn out, maybe even more so, than I was last week when we finished the application. “That stuff is awful,” I had told him, stripping off my TYVEK suit for what I thought would be the final time. I shouldn’t have lamented having nothing urgent to accomplish; as soon as he finished, my work began in the doo-rag of the week.

Many of you don’t know that my Sailor Steve Uhthoff retired from a successful career in yacht repair, rebuild and refit as well as keel design. Some of you Annapolitans might remember the notorious Steve’s Yacht Repair and more recently Annapolis Fiberglass & Gelcoat based near and within Jabin’s sprawling marine operation. “We did that work because no one else wanted to, I liked it, and I made money doing it,” the hard labor was a trade-off, but who thinks of these things when life is happening full-tilt, full of challenges and a desire to be the best? That business sold just after he and I met in 2019 so he could venture back out on the water, see if I was worthy of such a life and also decide if it still brought the same joy he remembered. I’m not sure worthy is the main description I would use for me.

We’ve come a long way, year after year, project after project. I can’t say that I wouldn’t change a thing, now, can I? That might be a lie. In this case, neither one of us knew what we were in for, but it’s all gonna be worthwhile. BTW he’s a Marine Surveyor, too. I think folks have wondered how on earth we could possibly have completed this venture, and so now you know, as they say, the rest of the story. Well, no, but you have a sample chapter with a few surprises.

See you next week in our usual time slot. ~J

Do you believe that my work is share-worthy? If so, please do! It’s easy to pick another water-lover in your life and forward this email, or simply ‘restack’ with the little arrows below. I appreciate your creative comments and encouragement, especially last week when all those MILESTONES were tumbling around! Thanks for whatever support you send, in whatever way you send it. ~J

Lots of new folks signed up last month— YES!! If that’s you—please read my intro—