All posts by meps

2004 April Fools Cruise #1 (Offshore and ICW with Brian on Cayenne)

First Offshore Passage: Solitude and Companionship

Our first day out from New Orleans found us in the company of barges, fishing boats, and ships. We opened a number of bridges, waving gaily at the bridge tenders as we passed through. On our second day, heading out into the Gulf of Mexico, vessels became fewer until Brian noted the last ship on the horizon during his Friday night watch.

Our crew included a couple of special additions: Brian’s sister, Kem, who flew down from Seattle to make our maiden passage with us, and our cat, Prussia, who flew down as well and will be cruising with us for the duration. So our little world included four humans, one feline, a teddy bear named “Frankie,” and Brian’s infamous Mardi Gras snake. As the passage wore on, we became goofy with lack of sleep and assigned silly names to each other, including Wheezy (me, with a cold), Queezy (Kem), Barfy (Prussia), Nappy (Barry), and Happy (Brian).

All day Saturday, we had complete solitude. The sky was blue and clear and the sun shone brightly. We all commented on the blueness of the water, hanging out over the stern to enjoy the deep azure color. Every few minutes, I’d scan the horizon in a circle, but there was nothing to see but water and sky.

That evening, a tiny black and brown bird circled the boat. Fearlessly, he landed on the lifeline. Then he discovered the windbreak provided by the dodger, so he moved into the cockpit. I was down below and snapped a bunch of photos when he landed at the top of the companionway. But he got bolder, and then — oh, no! — he was inside the boat, sitting on the nav station.

All I could think of was bird poop on Brian’s computer, so I went to shoo him back out. But he was confused and flew over my head and into the main cabin, where he circled and flapped. He found the entrance to the v-berth and started zooming around our bed, zipping over my head a second time when I tried to capture him. He ended up in the head and finally came to light on the floor under the toilet. Got him! Cupping him carefully in one hand (gotta have one hand for the boat), I carried him up to the cockpit and freed him.

You may be wondering, where was kitty during all this? Well, of the four humans, only Kem experienced much seasick queasiness. But our feline companion had a much rougher time of it. After barfing all over our bed the first night, she’d found a tiny but stable hidey-hole in a locker and hadn’t come out again. She was completely unaware that a tasty little bird had flown within just a few feet of her, and probably too queasy to enjoy it anyway.

Our little bird refused to leave the boat and was joined by two others. Darkness fell, and they huddled under the dodger all night. Sadly, by morning, all three had simply laid down and died. The guys gave them a burial at sea while Kem and I were sleeping — if I’d been awake, I’d have played Amazing Grace for them on the harmonica or something.

Sunday evening’s companions were much more cheerful — a school of bottlenose dolphins! One caught our attention by doing a back flip out of a wave beside the cockpit. Then they were everywhere, their sleek streamlined silver bodies surfing and leaping on all sides. Kem and I stood on the bow, and we could actually see them under the water, riding our bow wave like underwater surfers. Groups of three or four would come up beside us, zooming by in perfect formation. When a particularly big wave came up from astern, several of them would surf in it, leaping out of the wave crest in the blue-white moonlight.

I never saw the dolphins depart. I watched them for a half an hour, until my frequent yawns ran together into one continuous yawn. I went below and climbed into the v-berth to sleep. The last thing I heard as I was drifting off was the high-pitched clicking of the dolphins, chattering with each other on the other side of the hull.

Family Tales, Living in the Pacific Northwest, Living on a Boat, Philosophy

Visiting Home

A week or so ago, I sat alone in the hot tub in Barry’s parents’ backyard. A silvery bright half moon shone over the black silhouettes of towering conifers. The only sounds were the soft gurgle of the water and a chorus of distant frogs. I relaxed completely, leaning my head back and wondering about this strange concept of “visiting home.”

To Brian, Cayenne is truly a home where he has invested time, emotion, and blood. Although he didn’t like New Orleans much, he was not terribly interested in returning to Seattle before we began cruising.

But Barry and I were willing to drive for three days straight in exchange for a few days visiting home, family, and friends. Coming over Snoqualmie Pass on I-90 on Wednesday morning, I was exhilarated. The road was lined with pine trees, frosted with snow. The air smelled like wood smoke. In places, there were waterfalls beside the interstate. Even the drivers were better, using turn signals and driving considerately. Their license plates all had Mount Rainier on them.

I am not a native of Seattle. I have only lived there for eight years, far fewer than my twelve years spent in Columbus or nine early years in the New Jersey shadow of the Big Apple. But those places did not fit me, so they’re not my home.

The Northwest is a place apart from the rest of the country. I felt that strongly, viscerally, when we drove the pass. The flat lands of Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and eastern Colorado ran together. The mountains of Colorado and Utah and Idaho did, too. But crossing the Cascades was like coming up the front walk of a home that you haven’t been to in a while.

What exactly is “home?” Is it possible to have more than one?

While in New Orleans, we called Seattle “home.” But while visiting Seattle, I said things like, “When we get home, we should…” Which is it? The place where you fit in and your soul feels at rest? Seattle, for me, is this place where I fit in, where the horizon ringed with mountains is like a border around my life. If so, why am I content cruising the rest of the world in a sailboat? There must be another home, one where you spend your days and nights. For me, that’s Cayenne — and like a happy turtle, I love the fact that we take our home from place to place.

Friends Along the Way

E-mail snafus and oopsies

The wonderful thing about the Internet is that those of us who are addicted find ourselves looking for a hit in the oddest places. This morning found us checking the Wi-Fi signal at a grungie truckstop, then driving through a small town looking for the public library. We found the latter, complete with Dell workstations, in a town called Rock Spring, Wyoming.

Once we logged on, we discovered Murphy is alive and well and haunting our communications. First, I accidentally sent my latest limerick to all of you, instead of the select few who are regularly subjected to such torment. Hope you liked it.

Living in New Orleans

All on a Mardi Gras day

Before Mardi Gras day arrived, we had seen five parades, experienced Bourbon Street, and even eaten a bit of king cake. But that wasn’t enough for me and Barry, so with some local tips on where to go and what to do, we threw ourselves headlong into Mardi Gras itself.

At seven am., we were already heading out for Zulu, the traditional black parade. They had much more energy, more spunk, than the rest of the parades. There were fewer “throws,” so the crowd went crazy over silly things like plastic cigars from the “Big Shot” float. The most prized item is a hand-painted coconut, which brings good luck to the recipient. We saw a number of them carefully handed from the floats, never thrown. And the costumes were by far the best, from grass skirts to elaborate feathered headpieces, and everyone in blackface.

Now that it was Mardi Gras day, the costumes were out on the street, not just in the parades. Two men shambled down the street wearing huge piles of Spanish Moss. A girl in a candy-striper’s uniform with bubble-gum pink hair took photos with an expensive camera. The Jefferson City Buzzards, the city’s oldest walking club, meandered along the parade route in elegant costumes, exchanging paper flowers for kisses (I got one of those!). The mayor was even wearing a top hat when he rode by on horseback.

In the black neighborhood where we parked, there were barbecues on every block. Not in the backyards, but in the front yards, right out on the sidewalk. Some had even set up in the grass strip in the middle of the street — tables, smokers, coolers, and all.

Walking into the French Quarter, we ran across some Indian “tribes” on their way to the meeting place. There’s an informal competition to see who can come up with the most elaborate beaded and feathered costume for their “chief.” So the tribes marched along under the freeway, chanting and drumming in street clothes, with one person carrying the headpiece, one carrying the armpieces, one carrying the breastplate, one bearing the standard. The chiefs themselves looked tired just from walking around in the leggings.

The costumes and spontaneous parades in the French Quarter were overwhelming. One parade was led by a woman in a wheelchair named “Queen Colleen.” Another was called the “Krewe of Woo-Hoo.” Another one went by with a brass band playing “When the Saints Come Marching In.” There were outrageous costumes, like men wearing nothing but beads and underwear, or two gay men dressed up in tuxedoes with wedding veils. But there were also courtesans in 17th-century gowns. Everyone wearing a costume encouraged photos, and there were plenty of topless women who wanted their pictures taken, too.

The scene on Bourbon Street was beyond insane. Every 2nd story balcony was packed, and the flashing went on both above and below. Also above and below the waist! Signs read, “Huge Ass Beers to Go” and “Jesus Saves.” Besides the Christians and the police, I think we were the only sober people there.

We wandered down to the riverfront, a bit of peace and quiet next to the French Quarter. A fellow with a trumpet serenaded us; we could barely see him in the thick fog. After a bit of respite, we caught our breath and dove back into the madness. But as afternoon faded into evening, the parades ended, the really good costumes went home, and the scene was dominated by the reek of alcohol and trash and the sight of bare flesh and trampled beads. We didn’t stay for the traditional midnight clearing of the Quarter by police on horseback, but headed back to the boat to have a drink and celebrate our safe return.
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Living in New Orleans

Three Mardi Gras Virgins Go to a Parade

“Take a look at this, guys,” I said one afternoon, a couple of weeks ago. “The Gambit Weekly has previews of all the Mardi Gras Parades.” Each entry included a map of the route with a list that included the theme, king, queen, number of floats, and an item called “throws.”

I started reading the entries out loud, avoiding the “family-friendly” ones and selecting the more outrageous ones to entertain my two male companions. “We could do this one, Cleopatra. All the women on the floats are female,” I announced with a grin.

Brian perked right up. “I’m there!” he said. And just like that, we were off to our first parade.

Well, maybe not just like that. We decided to take Peepcar, in case parking was a problem. With a car that small, you know you can always pick up the front end and scoot it into the space. First, we had to contend with hideous traffic and bad New Orleans drivers. Pouring rain, dark, wet pavement, lame windshield wipers. We got a little lost near the parade route, so we stopped at a MacDonald’s for directions. The employees were all busy, but there were a few kids hanging around. An ebony-colored 7-foot tall giant with 1/4-inch diamond stud earrings told me the best place to watch the parade was in front of Wal-Mart. I was trying not to stare at his gold bicuspids.

Back at Peepcar, we folded Barry up and stuffed him into the back seat again. But a block later, another stop beckoned. Since Louisiana doesn’t have any open container laws, New Orleans is full of daquiri shops, many of them drive-ins. We walked into a cross between a Wendy’s and a bar. Behind the counter was a whole row of alcoholic slushy machines, with labels like “Hypnotic Chill” and “Hi-Octane.” The three girls ahead of us looked to be about 17, but they all walked out with 24-oz larges.

I tried asking the lady behind the counter (in a place like that, is her job title “bartender,” or “slushy barrista?”) to describe some of the flavors. She just shook her head, “I’ll give y’all a taste. I don’t want to sell you nothin’ without you tastin’ it.” What was she thinking? If I tasted all 16 flavors, I’d be in no shape to continue driving! As it was, I had to overcome twenty-plus years of conditioning just to get into a car with three open containers, my medium-sized amaretto-pineapple safe in the passenger’s hand.

A few blocks later, it was apparent that we were on the parade route by the cars and mobile toilets parked by the side of the road. We parked at Wal-Mart and sat in the car for a while, steaming up the windows in the rain and making inroads on our daquiris. By the time the parade started, we hardly noticed the drizzle, we were so warm inside. The downside was that Brian kept having to leave the parade to find a bathroom.

At first, there were just marching bands and junior ROTC groups. Standard parade fare that we’ve seen in other cities. But then came indications that we weren’t in Kansas any more.

First, there was the queen herself. She sat on a throne in full regalia, about 10 feet up, in front of (not under!) a decorative canopy. The rain poured over the canopy and onto her miserable head, and the poor thing shook and shivered with possible hypothermia. If she spent thousands of dollars and many months having her costume created, she was certainly regretting it now.

And then there were the floats. The rain was nothing compared to the beads that showered down upon us. Metallic, shiny beads in green, gold, and purple. Huge strands of fake pearls that hung down to our knees. Red, blue, pink beads, some shaped like dice or hearts. Translucent chokers in yellow, green, blue, and pink. We smiled and waved at the nice ladies, and they buried us in beads. Every one we caught, plus some we picked up from the street, we put around our necks.

And still came more beads, children’s toys, and baggies of peanuts. Brian caught the eye of several of the ladies, who elected to give him special gifts. One handed him a purple-and-red stuffed pig. Another waved him over to give him a 5-foot-long snake in green and gold with a purple mouth. I caught a purple hippo and a plastic scepter. One of the strangest items was the Sheriff Harry Lee refrigerator magnet — he’d recently had a gastric bypass operation, and the magnet showed a normal-sized version of him wearing hugely oversized pants.

When the parade was finally over, you could hardly see our raincoats under all the beads. If we stooped to pick up another strand from the street, there was a risk that all the weight would simply topple us over. It was impossible to get into the car with them on, and all three of us struggled mightily to get them off. Fortunately, one of the best throws was a large zipper-topped Mardi Gras bag, into which we piled them all. When we returned home, I couldn’t resist weighing them — 21 pounds of beads and toys. Ain’t it wonderful what Mardi Gras does for the Chinese economy?