Nan's first encounter with Whispering Jesse

Nan and I were out in Solomons, Maryland for a long weekend last week to check the progress with the refit project on Whispering Jesse. Though we have owned the boat for over a year, it was the first time that Nan had ever seen it, and I was nervous about what she would think. Fortunately, the boatyard's mechanic, Chaz, had heard that it would be my wife's first look, and he took the time to clean up some of the mess that I saw when I was last out there over Memorial Day weekend. It paid off. Nan was favorably impressed when we entered the paint shed on Friday morning. She carefully climbed up the ladder and then down into the cabin to check on accommodations. When I asked what she thought, she said the boat definitely had potential. I took that as a good sign and showed her the berths, the head, the galley, the nav station and everything else, including the newly repainted engine room and the new stainless steel portlights. We couldn't spend too much time down below because it was like a sauna down there. In fact, the weather all weekend was like a sauna. I've never experienced that level of heat and humidity before.

We had purchased a Zodiac inflatable dinghy at Washington Marina in D.C. the evening before, and Kevin from the boatyard helped me move it out of the rental car and into the shed. Then Nan helped me haul all the sails off the boat and we were off to see Clarke at Quantum Sails to see if they could be cleaned and mended as necessary. I haven't heard back yet, but I'm hoping for good news because new sails are not in the budget. Since we were in the neighborhood, we stopped by Creative Canvas Design to see if we could talk with Steve, the owner, about the dodger and bimini he is making for the boat and to show Nan the interior cushions he has already made. He wasn't there, and his seamstress didn't want us going upstairs to see the cushions, so we wrote Steve a quick message and left.

Back at the boatyard, we took a look at the new engine, a remanufactured 50-horsepower Perkins 4-108, which was sitting in the garage next to the paint shed. Chaz walked in and introduced himself to us. I commented about the improved condition of the boat and he said that he had cleaned it up. When I thanked him, he smiled and said, "Hey, I have a wife, too!" He walked with us into the paint shed to show us a problem with the JRC radar antenna, which is called a radome. At some point, the antenna's pole had been left in its hinged position and rain had collected inside, corroding the sensors. Chaz said it was ruined and that I should see if I could find a replacement on the Internet. He also showed us how he had cleaned up the folding two-blade propeller. He said he didn't recommend replacing it with a new Max Prop because the shaft had been tapered to fit the existing propeller and would need to be replaced for a new one.

Nan and I next went over to the local West Marine to check out boat accessories. I looked at expensive fenders while Nan looked at discounted sandals. For the heck of it, I wandered over to the electronics area and struck up a conversation with sales associate Bob S. about radar, chart plotters, AIS and radomes. He told me that all that equipment is matched by the manufacturers and that it would not be possible for me to replace the JRC radome with a new Garmin one, for instance, if I couldn't find a replacement online. When I asked how much a complete rig would be, he estimated it at about $6000, plus installation. So that isn't going to happen anytime soon.

Back at the boatyard once more, Nan and I met with Don, the boatyard manager, to discuss the timeline for finishing up the refit and what remained to be done. In addition to the current projects, we agreed that the bottom needs to be repainted, the manual toilet needs to be rebuilt, the stove problem needs to be fixed and the electrical system needs a good going-over. Don didn't think any of this would delay getting the boat into the water, getting the mast stepped and getting all the new standing and running rigging in place before I return on September 3. That's when my friend Mike Young and I will be arriving to get the boat into final shape for a September 8 departure for Savannah, Georgia. Another friend, Kurt Beereboom, will be flying in on September 7 to join us. There will be much more about our plans for this sailing adventure in future posts.

During our forays around the boatyard, Nan and I ran into John Simonton, who has been living on his boat at the marina, and chatted with him briefly in the cool of the marina's upstairs lounge. He mentioned that he was thinking of sailing south to Charleston for the winter, and I told him my crew and I would be sailing that way in early September. He said he would give it some thought and let me know if he would consider forming a two-boat flotilla for the trip.

Before we headed out to Solomons, I ordered sets of vinyl letters from BoatU.S. that spell out "Whispering Jesse" and "Savannah, Georgia", our boat's name and hailing port. I had intended to apply them myself while we were out there, but Don talked me out of it. He said they had a person on staff, Marty, who used to own a sign company and could probably do a much better job of it--aligned straight and without any bubbles--so I entrusted the letters to Marty's capable hands. We'll need to plan some kind of a christening party at some point before we sail away in September.

The Snowball Fight

     It may be just the way that everything seemed larger when I was younger, but I remember that it used to snow a lot more than it does now. Where we lived, a few miles west of Lake Michigan, it would start to snow right after Thanksgiving, and there would be snow on the ground until St. Patrick’s Day. During the holidays, there would be two feet or more in the front yard.
     As with the size of things, time seemed more drawn out then. Christmas breaks seemed almost endless, especially as I approached my teen years. With the excitement of Christmas Day behind us and the New Year looming, we would counter the boredom of being cooped up inside by going out to play in the snow. The proximity of Lake Michigan kept the climate humid and contributed to what we called the “packing” quality of the snow. It was excellent for making snowballs, and we obliged it by making and throwing snowballs all winter long. We would throw snowballs at each other, at street signs, and at passing cars and buses. We would make a game out of seeing how many times we could hit a bus as it passed, with extra points awarded for getting a snowball through an open window.
     On one of those Christmas break days, in 1970, I was wandering around the neighborhood with my friend John from across the street. It had snowed heavily the night before and there were at least three feet of heavy, wet snow on the ground. I knew it was wet and heavy because I had already shoveled it off our driveway and sidewalks. Up the street, John and I noticed that our friend Dave, who lived next to John, and another neighborhood kid, Robbie, were dragging Christmas trees toward us. This was back when everybody had live trees, which would dry out and become fire hazards if they were not taken down right after Christmas. It was the city’s practice to collect the trees from people’s curbs and mulch them into fertilizer, which they would then sell back to the people. It helped to ease the guilt over wasting all those evergreen trees.
     Dave and Robbie had decided they would have some fun with the Christmas trees before they were collected. They were dragging every tree in the neighborhood into Dave’s front yard. When we asked them why, Robbie said they were going to use them to build a fort, like a giant teepee made of trees. John and I thought this was the most ridiculous thing we had ever heard and said so. Robbie’s pale face turned crimson but I couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. John was something of a bully in those days and he saw an opening. He walked over to the few trees that were leaning together and shoved them over. Now there was no question that Robbie was angry. He sputtered that we should leave him alone and seemed to be on the verge of crying. Dave looked like he was trying to work up the nerve to order us out of his yard. John kicked at the trees and teased Robbie: “What are you going to do about it, you cry baby?” This infuriated Robbie, and he started moving toward John through the deep snow, like he was going to try to hit him or wrestle him to the ground. John laughed mockingly as he dodged out of Robbie’s grasp. I had been packing a snowball during this entire exchange and it was now as hard as a rock. When Robbie made another lunge for John, I threw it with all my might. The snowball hit Robbie squarely in the back of the head with a sickening crack. He went facedown into the snow like he had been shot. He didn’t move for several seconds, and I worried that he was badly injured or possibly dead. But then he emitted a horrible wailing sound and struggled to his hands and knees. I was so relieved to see that I hadn’t killed him that I started laughing uncontrollably.
     Robbie got to his feet and turned to face me. He was covered in snow. It was melting off his bright red face and mixing with tears as he cried hysterically. I tried to sympathize with how much his head must have been hurting, but it didn’t stop my idiot laughing. Robbie lumbered toward me, and I was sure he intended to kill me. I backed away through the deep snow and then turned to run across the street to the safety of home. But Robbie was a big kid, and he had rage working for him. He caught me in my front yard and tackled me into the snow. Before I could struggle away, he sat on my back and shoved my face violently into the snow. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to get away but I couldn’t move. My vision was fading and I could feel myself losing consciousness. Adrenaline took over and my body did a super push-up, throwing Robbie off my back and bringing me back to my feet. Robbie looked astonished as I turned to face him, my arm fully cocked. He never saw the roundhouse punch that hit him squarely in the temple. Again, he went down like he had been shot, this time on his back. I stood over him, my hand on fire, not believing what had just happened. Robbie lay on his back, blubbering and in obvious pain, his arms and legs spread like he was making snow angels.
     I was overwhelmed by a terrible sense of shame at what I had done and turned to walk away. I went quietly into my house and downstairs to the basement rec room. I sat in the dark replaying the fight in my mind and trying to wish it away. The phone rang and I could feel the blood drain out of my body. I heard footsteps approaching upstairs. My mother stopped at the top of the stairs and said, “Are you down there? Robbie’s mother is on the phone, and she is very unhappy. What did you do?” I didn’t answer her right away. How could I explain that in the short time I had been outside playing in the snow, I had almost killed a person and then almost been killed by that same person? I opened my mouth to say something but heard her steps retreating back to the phone. I sat in the dark and watched the light fade from the day.

Liberty Cap hike

On Sunday, in keeping with the spirit of Independence Day, I hiked the Liberty Cap trail with Rich, Wes and Rita, who were also on Saturday's rafting trip. It was only my third time on the trail, mostly because it is inside the boundary of the Colorado National Monument and dogs are not allowed. If I'm going to go for a hike, I want to take my dog Scout with me, so I normally hike outside the Monument.

One of the reasons I wanted to do the hike, even though it meant leaving Scout with Nan at home, is because I see the Liberty Cap every morning from my bedroom window and because it involves some unusual terrain. Near the top, there is a series of switchbacks up narrow sandstone ledges, which has caused me to refer to the trail as "the miniature golf course of hiking trails." It's like taking a regular hiking trail and compressing it down to its most basic elements.

The four of us got off to a fairly early start, leaving the trailhead off Wildwood Drive before 9:30. The temperature was already in the mid-80s, so I was glad I had my CamelBak full of ice and water and not just a water bottle. The distance to the top is two miles and we made it up there in about 40 minutes, stopping along the way to drink water, take photos and admire the view.

When we reached the top of the trail and were standing next to the Liberty Cap, which is a giant, impressive-looking petrified sand dune, I mentioned that some people take the hike to its natural conclusion and climb up the Cap itself. Wes and Rich immediately started trying to figure out how that could be done. The Cap is shaped like a breast, or like a rounded, lopsided cone, and the trail ends at the steeper side of it, which would be a dangerous free climb. So we all worked our way around to the less steep side to see if there was an easier way up. While Rita watched, Rich and Wes tested some foot and handholds, and I went back around to read the Liberty Cap's sign, which for some reason is a good 75 yards from the Cap. Screwed to the main sign was a smaller one that warned people not to attempt the Ladder Route up the Cap due to damage to the rock and rungs. This was news to me, that there was a named route up the Cap and that it had permanent rungs.

As I started to walk back to meet the others, Wes called my name and I looked up to see him standing on top of the Cap. He had discovered the Ladder Route on his own and risked the climb. When I caught up with Rita and Rich, they were on the back side of the Cap, on the other side of a big crack I had never jumped over before, and they were watching Wes carefully pick his way back down. I could see why the route was supposed to be closed, because there was only one rung left, it was more like a bent rod, and it was at least ten feet up. Wes had shoved his fingers into the holes in the sandstone left by the missing rungs and kicked his way up. Now he was using Rich's shoulders for footholds as he climbed back down. We took more photos, admired the views one last time and then made a hasty retreat as the biting gnats were making it uncomfortable to stand still and there was no wind to keep them away.

Happy Independence Day!

Whitewater rafting over the Fourth of July

I had so much fun whitewater rafting a couple of years ago with my friend Kurt Beereboom (Rafting the Colorado River) that when our friends and neighbors Rich and Diane Heintz proposed taking a rafting trip down Glenwood Canyon, I definitely wanted to be included. My enthusiasm must have been infectious because I managed to talk Nan into it, too. By this past Saturday morning, we were a group of eight: the Heintzes, Diane's daughter Bree and son Wes, Wes's girlfriend Rita, our friend and neighbor Mim, and Nan and me. We all met up at the Whitewater Rafting facility in Glenwood Springs and after a brief orientation, piled into a school bus with about 30 other rafters for a ride up to Carbondale. Apparently, the Colorado River is running dangerously high right now through Glenwood Canyon, with all the runoff from last season's record snowfall, so we would be doing a "three-fer" instead: the Crystal, Roaring Fork and Colorado rivers, for a total of about 18 miles.

I didn't know what to expect when we shoved off from the banks of the Crystal, but the water around my ankles sure was cold. Our guide Matt had us dig our canoe paddles in with gusto as we surged below the County Road 108 bridge and into the first set of rapids. Holy crap, I thought, as the raft disappeared into a big hole in the water and launched out the other end, thoroughly soaking Wes and me at the bow. After the shock of the cold water, all I could think was, Woohoo! We surged through subsequent holes at weird angles that had everybody else soaked and laughing.

The Crystal soon fed into the Roaring Fork, which was living up to its name and really moving. Matt had us dip our hands into the water to see that it was slightly warmer than before. Ever so slightly. We cruised through riffles, watching the bald eagles and herons that nest along the river and admiring the beautiful houses along the river that we could never see from the roads above.

We noticed a girl in one of the other rafts sitting on the bow and asked Matt what she was up to. He said she was "riding the bull" and he asked for volunteers from our group. Rich climbed up front and had the ride of a lifetime through the next set of rapids. Then it was Wes's turn and finally Rita's. After that, the river settled down again, and we started to wonder if that was it for the excitement. It was not. The river saved the best for last, and we were all thoroughly soaked again.

A little ways on, the Roaring Fork joined up with the Colorado River, which felt immense and heavy. The water was slightly greener and ever so slightly warmer, and it smelled lightly of dead fish. A few hundred yards later, we were at Whitewater Rafting world headquarters again. We pulled the raft out, handed in our paddles and wandered up the bank to the parking lot to retrieve towels and dry clothes from our cars. After changing, we met up in the photo room to see the photos Matt had told us would be waiting. Nobody remembered seeing any photographers on any of the banks or bridges, but whoever it was sure took some great shots. Mim purchased the photo CD, which is where the images in this blog post are from, and we headed out for an early dinner and some well-deserved beers at the Glenwood Brew Pub.

If you've never tried whitewater rafting, you don't know what you're missing. I used to think it was no big deal, but now I'm a convert. It's a blast!

The right-size boat

This blog post is in response to a comment from a reader about "Meanwhile, back at the boatyard...":

I understand your attraction to the Pacific Seacraft sailboats, the Dana 24 and the Flicka 20. They are sweet-looking little boats, and in the proper circumstances, I am sure they would be enjoyable to sail. In fact, each is small enough to be trailerable, which opens up all kinds of sailing possibilities. Being small, they are also less expensive to purchase and maintain than larger sailboats.

Unfortunately, for me at least, that is where the advantages end. Smaller boats are naturally slower. This is partly a function of hull shape. Because a boat's beam needs to be wide enough to accommodate a comfortable cabin, smaller boats end up being shaped more like stout rowboats than sleek canoes, with a corresponding loss of performance. The smaller hull size lends itself well to the incorporation of a full keel, which helps with trailerability but reduces maneuverability and adds surface drag.

Smaller sailboats naturally accommodate smaller crews and offer less storage space, so they are not well suited to long-distance cruising, which might require rotating watch shifts and enough food and water to feed a hungry crew for an extended period. You mentioned that someone sailed a Dana 24 or a Flicka 20 from California to Tahiti, but I'll bet that it was just one person, that the boat was loaded to the gills with provisions, that the passage took several months, and that he was lucky to have favorable wind and wave conditions most of the way.

What I am leading to here is the issue of safety. I have been on small sailboats in bad conditions, and it is no fun. It can be downright scary. When the waves are huge and the wind is howling, there is so much motion in a small sailboat that it can be difficult to make any headway at all. And a boat that is not moving forward is like a raft, at the mercy of the elements. A larger sailboat, instead of riding up and over the waves, will plow through them. Its greater length and weight give it better stability and smoother motion, which keeps it making headway in all but the worst conditions.

My recommendation to you is that after you have taken the sailing lessons you have scheduled for July, you should evaluate what type of sailing you would like to pursue. If it's sailing inland lakes or coastal cruising, then a Dana 24 or Flicka 20 might be the perfect boat for you. But if you dream of crossing oceans, you should seriously consider a larger sailboat, one more in the 36- to 50-foot range.

Best of luck to you as you embark on one of life's most rewarding journeys!

More fun with Google Maps

My friend Capt. John Kretschmer departed from Solomons, Maryland yesterday morning on a transatlantic passage in Quetzal, his 1987 Kaufman 47. With fair winds and good weather, he and his crew should arrive in Cork, Ireland on or about July 11. Since I maintain his website for him, John asked if I would post position updates from his SPOT beacon as he sent them via email. I agreed that I would, but I wanted to do more than just copy and paste the latitude and longitude coordinates and their associated links. I have seen other sailing websites that display images showing passage progress, point by point, but when I looked into them, I found that they either required a subscription fee or they only covered coastal areas. This led me back to Google Maps and its My Maps features, but I found that I couldn't position placemarks exactly by latitude and longitude. Some searching on Google revealed that the only way to do this is to import placemarks from outside sources, using a KMZ or KML file format. Well, I found that the process of creating, exporting and importing placemarks in these formats is not explained very well anywhere that I could find, so here is an explanation of how I created the position chart for John's transatlantic passage:

First of all, you need a software application that will create KMZ or KML files. The one I already had installed was Google Earth, which I don't use very often anymore since Google Maps came online. Then you need the latitude and longitude, in Google-friendly format, from the SPOT beacon's email message. Here is some of what is contained in a SPOT message:

Latitude:36.99486
Longitude:-75.95612
GPS location Date/Time:06/12/2011 10:50:38 EDT
http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&geocode=&q=36.99486,-75.95612&ll=36.99486,-75.95612&ie=UTF8&z=12&om=1

The highlighted text above contains the latitude and longitude and can be copied and pasted into Google Earth's search feature. (It may be necessary to paste the entire Web address into Notepad or another text editor in order to make the latitude and longitude selectable.)

After Google Earth rotates the earth and zooms in on the latitude and longitude, it shows a new placemark on its map and also under the search feature. Right-clicking on either placemark brings up a menu of choices. Choose "Save Place As...", and then choose a folder location on your computer. The default file name and type are fine. Click the Save button.

Open Google Maps (http://maps.google.com/) and click on My Maps. Create a new map or edit an existing one. Click the Import link, browse to the KMZ file created above, and click the Upload button. Just as in Google Earth, Google Maps shifts its focus to display the new placemark, which may then be edited for icon, title and description by right-clicking and choosing Properties.

That's all there is to it. It's not exactly intuitive but it's also not too complicated a process to follow in order to get exact latitude and longitude coordinates into Google Maps.

If you would like to follow Quetzal's transatlantic passage in Google Maps, please click here. It will be updated daily so be sure to check back frequently. Thank you.

Meanwhile, back at the boatyard...

I am out in Solomons, Maryland again, checking on the refit progress with Whispering Jesse, my 1980 Valiant 40. When I was here last October, the boat's hull had just been painted and the deck teak was being sanded. Since then, the teak has received some coats of Cetol and the cabin top has been painted and had anti-skid applied. The chocks that once held a hard dinghy in place on the foredeck have been removed and the teak handrails nicely reshaped where the chocks were joined to them. Aside from some additional deck and bottom painting, refinished hatches, and new stainless steel portlights, the exterior of the boat is almost starting to look finished.

The inside is a different story entirely. This morning, I borrowed a multi-meter from my friend John Simonton, who is back at Spring Cove Marina after a trip south to Hampton last fall, to see if I could figure out why the stove will not light. I had not been down in the cabin much the last two days because it is like an oven in there, but I figured if I got an early start, before the temperature climbed into the high eighties, it might be more tolerable. Well, aside from the general chaos of boat parts spread all over the interior, the first thing I noticed was a light dusting of mildew on almost every wooden surface. The dorades, which normally vent the boat, have been taped over for several months, as have all the hatches and ports, so the rainwater that came through the mast hole, where the duct tape had disintegrated, and pooled in the bilge has caused a nice growth. I ran my finger along it and it came right off, but it will be a big job with an anti-mildew cleaner and Murphy's Oil Soap to get the wood looking good again.

I moved some stuff out of the galley to get access to the propane switch and unscrewed its panel from the wall. I used John's multi-meter to verify that the fuse was good, but when I switched on the batteries and flipped the propane switch, the light next to it did not go on, so I suspect there is a deeper problem. Don the boatyard manager and I talked yesterday about what it is going to take to finish up the project, and electrical problems are definitely on the list. There really wasn't much else I wanted to do in the cabin knowing that within the next few weeks, the chaos down there will get much worse as Don and his team replace the Perkins diesel engine with a new remanufactured one. They are also going to replace the outdated radar pole with a new Scanstrut one that will attach to and run parallel to the backstay. Other projects, like replacing the manual windlass with an electric one, replacing the Webasto heater with a reverse cycle air conditioner, and installing a new chartplotter, are going to need to wait for additional time and money.

On Friday evening, when I first arrived, I picked up my friend Kevin and his girlfriend Beth at the Holiday Inn and went to have a look at the boat. Kevin helped me sail it down from Baltimore last May, and he was impressed by how much better the boat looked now with its repaired blisters and fresh paint. We also took a look at the rerigged mast, with its new Harken furling gear and integrated Forespar whisker pole. Then it was off to The Dry Dock for dinner, where we discussed Kevin and Beth's travails with trying to purchase a used Dana 24 sailboat. They had sailed with the owner of one for sale earlier in the day and were not impressed enough to pursue a deal. As a gift, they gave me a copy of John Neal's Offshore Cruising Companion. Kevin made a Bay of Biscay passage with the Neals a few years ago and knew I would appreciate all the good information packed into John's book. Thank you, Kevin and Beth!

I fly home tomorrow, but I will be back in late July with Nan, who will be getting her first look at the boat. Hopefully, the new engine and portlights and the refinished hatches will be in place by then and the chaos in the cabin under better control. After that, I am planning to return in September with a crew to sail the boat down to Savannah. There will be more about those plans later. In the meantime, there is still so much to get accomplished.

The Apple War

     A.J. Foyt had just won the Indianapolis 500, school had just let out for the summer, and my family was moving to a new home more than two hundred miles away from our old one. It was 1967 and the country was in turmoil. Bombs were falling in Viet Nam. Race riots were raging in major cities. And young people were pushing traditional boundaries. The sense that everything was changing all at once was palpable. Even I, a nine-year-old boy, could feel it.
     At that age, I was obsessed with building forts and forming clubs. My seven-year-old sister Jane and I thoroughly explored every inch of our new house, inside and out, looking for a place to locate a fort. What we finally settled on was the giant tree that grew behind our garage. Its trunk, almost five feet in diameter at its base, grew at an angle that allowed it to be climbed without nailing in planks for rungs. At the level of the garage roof's peak, the trunk split into three huge branches. The left branch extended horizontally for many feet before there were any smaller branches. It was only possible to reach those branches by either scooting along on the seat of one's pants or by walking across like a tightrope walker. A fall from that height would have meant a broken leg or worse. Because of the danger, we didn't venture out on that branch very often. The middle branch was the main trunk's extension but without the climbable angle. Its verticality and lack of branches made it too difficult and dangerous to climb.
     The right branch was where we established our fort. Like the left one, it extended horizontally a long ways, but it had numerous branches that served as handholds, making it a safer climb. Far out over our backyard neighbor's yard, more than thirty feet off the ground, the branch forked in such a way as to make a perfect bench, complete with foot and back rests. There was no need to build any kind of tree house; the tree was perfect as it was. I simply used my Cub Scout pocketknife to trim some of the smaller branches to make the bench more comfortable, and we had our fort.
     Next came the club. We were crazy about zoo animals, especially the big cats, so we called ourselves the Tiger Club. I wrote the word “Tigers” on an old piece of white bed sheet in big striped letters using Magic Markers and tied it to a bamboo pole that a new house rug had come rolled around. I stuck our new flag in the open end of a corner railing post on our second-floor back balcony, where it could be seen from the street and announce our presence. The bamboo pole served double duty as a makeshift spear when I rubber-banded a sharpened tongue depressor to one end, though it was never taken seriously.
     A two-person club is not much fun, so Jane and I went off in search of new members. We found Eileen, who was Jane's age, just a few houses away. Eileen knew the people who had lived in our house before us, and she was very familiar with the giant tree behind our garage. The three of us climbed up to the tree fort's bench and spent some time picking off leaves and watching them slowly circle to the ground. Eileen knew the neighborhood well and pointed out everything that could be seen from high up in the tree: the neighbors' houses, the public library, the sandlot baseball diamond, and in the far distance, an old apple orchard.
     Eileen said we should go take a look at the apple orchard, so we climbed down from the tree, climbed over the chain-link fence that separated our yard from the library parking lot, and set out for it. What we found was not so much a thriving apple orchard as an old sloping lot with a few ancient, untended apple trees growing in it. There were apples growing on the trees and the ground was covered with them, but they were wormy and not good to eat. Eileen picked up a rotten one and threw it hard against a tree trunk. It splattered in a satisfyingly messy way. We walked over to a dug-up area near the bottom of the lot. It looked like someone had been digging foxholes in the sandy soil, maybe to use for playing army, but there was no one around.
     Within a few days, Eileen had shown us around the entire neighborhood. She introduced us to most of the other kids and warned us about a few of them, including her eight-year-old brother John, who was in a club of his own called the Hanscotter Detective Agency. The name was an amalgam of the three principal members' last names. They were fans of the FBI television show and everything related to law enforcement. Eric, their eleven-year-old leader, even had a signed letter from J. Edgar Hoover appointing him an honorary G-man. Together with his friend Joe, also eleven years old, Eric was the law of the land as far as the kids in the neighborhood were concerned. The Hanscotters had converted Eileen's brother John's wagon into a tank by building a wooden turret that sat on top of it, like in the John Wayne movie War Wagon, and they used it to patrol the neighborhood with their squirt guns.
     The Hanscotters did not appreciate the Tigers' sudden appearance and immediately considered us the enemy. We didn't realize how serious they were until they captured Eileen and me one afternoon, plucking us off our bikes and carrying us into Eric's backyard. They chained us to a tree using bicycle locks and left us there to suffer, but it didn't take long for us to escape. I took Eric's brother Chris's squirt rifle in revenge and hid it under my bed, but my mother found out and made me give it back.
     The Tigers thought this would be the end of our conflict, now that adults had gotten involved, but we were wrong. The next day, as we rode our bikes down the street past the Hanscotters and their war wagon, they reached into it, pulled out apples from the orchard and opened fire, throwing as hard as they could to try and knock us off our bikes. Apples flew everywhere, splattering in the street and exploding through our bent spokes. Nobody was badly hurt, but we were shaken and angry. We managed to get home and regrouped at the tree fort. If they were going to throw apples, then we would too, we declared. We trooped off to the orchard with paper bags to arm ourselves.
     The Hanscotters had gathered up all but the most rotten apples from the ground, leaving just the ones still in the trees for us to gather. Eileen climbed up a tree to shake down some apples to Jane and me. We had gathered up only a few when the Hanscotters returned to rearm. They accused us of stealing their apples and said they were going to make us pay. Joe, the biggest and meanest of them, picked up a fresh apple and threw it hard at Eileen, knocking her out of the tree. She fell more than eight feet but landed on a mat of rotten apples and soft ground, uninjured except for a red welt on her chest. The shock of seeing her fall stopped everything for a few seconds, but then the Hanscotters recovered and launched a barrage of fresh apples at the three of us. Leaving our bags of apples behind, we ran for safety as they laughed and called us names.
     The apple war continued through the summer, with minor skirmishes occurring every few days. The Tigers did eventually arm themselves, and the battles became less one-sided but more fierce. Instead of one side or the other running away, both sides stood their ground and threw apples as hard as they could at each other, until there were no more apples left to throw. Bruises and welts were common. Black eyes were not unknown.
     One hot August day, I was helping my mother with some weeding in the front garden. Joe walked past and said something disrespectful. Without thinking, I picked up an apple and threw it at him, striking a glancing blow off his shoulder. He looked back with murder in his eyes and ran to get the apple I had thrown. He turned and threw it at me with all his might, but he missed me. In the midst of the commotion, my mother had stood up from her weeding and turned just in time to get hit square in the stomach by the apple. It knocked the wind out of her. She doubled over, gasping for breath. I started crying. Joe started crying. He yelled, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" And he turned and ran for home.
     No more apples were thrown that summer, but the differences between the Tiger Club and the Hanscotter Detective Agency were never resolved. The feud continued, but in a non-violent fashion, until my family moved to a new neighborhood two years later. In that time, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy were assassinated, Richard M. Nixon was elected president, and man walked on the moon. The apple orchard was paved over to expand the library parking lot, and the giant tree behind our old garage was cut down after a kid fell out of it and broke his leg.

Louis's new sailboat

While we were in Isla Mujeres, Teresa and Louis, the wonderful couple who own and manage the Color de Verano apartments where we always stay, mentioned that Louis had just bought a fixer-upper sailboat. It had been moldering for more than five years at Oscar's Marina, just a few doors down from where they live on Laguna Macax. According to Oscar, the owners had sailed the boat, a 1979 CS 27, from Ontario, Canada, where it was originally built, through the St. Lawrence Seaway, down the eastern seaboard, and across the Gulf of Mexico to Isla Mujeres--quite the adventure in a 27-foot boat! They left the boat behind when they returned to Canada and eventually stopped paying the dockage fees. Oscar claimed ownership and sold the boat to Louis at a very good price.

The boat was not exactly sail-ready, but Louis needed only to motor about a hundred yards farther into the lagoon to tie it up at his own pier and begin what will be an elaborate refitting project. But Louis, an expatriate from France, is an artist and a master craftsman, with the skills to turn the little sailboat into a work of art. He designed and built both of the art deco Color de Verano buildings, the one next to Jax Bar and Grill downtown and the one where he and Teresa, who is originally from Mexico City, live on Laguna Macax, including all of the beautiful wooden furniture that each contains. At one time, he owned a furniture factory in Cancun, but he is mostly retired now, with plenty of time to put into the refit.

Nan and I agreed to meet Louis at his home one morning during our recent stay to see the boat and discuss his plans for it. When he led us out back to his pier, we were surprised to see the boat in better shape than he had described. The worst thing about it was the three or four inches of marine growth on the hull. Louis said he planned to haul the boat out and address the hull situation later, but first he wanted to do all the work he could right at his own pier. We stepped aboard and started taking note of all the repair issues. The boat looked like it had been subjected to some heavy dock thrashing, as there was some fiberglass damage along the rails, a few of the life line stanchions were bent or missing, and the stern arch, which had once been the mount for the boat's solar panels, was mostly destroyed. None of this dampened Louis's enthusiasm. He fired up the diesel engine for us, and it hummed like it had been well maintained, not neglected for years. Then he led us down into the compact cabin to show us all the nifty design features built into the interior. He explained how he was going to spruce things up to make them as comfortable as possible so that Teresa would be willing to do overnight sailing trips to Cancun and other destinations with him. He was excited by the possibilities that the little CS 27 opened up for them, but he confided that his long-term dream is to get the boat into tip-top shape, sail it locally for a year or two, and then upgrade to a larger boat with a greater range.

Louis, we wish you the best of luck with your refitting project! We can't wait to see the results the next time we visit your island paradise!

"Isla Animals" Dog Rescue Shelter

Last week, before I arrived here in Isla Mujeres, Nan went over to the Playa Norte headquarters of Isla Animals, the local dog rescue shelter, to donate some leashes, collars and ointments she had brought down with her and to walk a few of the dogs. While there, she met the founder, Alison Sawyer Current, who coincidentally is also from Colorado and divides her time between the two places. She also met maintenance worker Marcelino and, of course, all the dogs. Each dog has its own sad story, like Rusty, a young mutt with a white heart-shaped patch on the top of his head. He was found in the Cancun dump, suffering from eye infections and weighing only five pounds. Now he is at a normal weight, healing, and playing non-stop with his dog buddies.

Nan had such a good time walking Bruno, George and Karen that she suggested we go walk them together. On Tuesday morning, volunteer Irene set us up to walk just Bruno and George, who had been neutered since his first walk with Nan. Both dogs are pit bulls with histories of fighting and abuse, but aside from their scars, you would never know it. Both are friendly, affectionate and good on a leash. Like all dogs, they respond to love with love of their own. We did a big beach loop with them and they had a great time, cavorting in the surf and chasing after sandpipers. When we dropped them off, George followed us to the gate like he wanted to go home with us and looked sad that we weren't taking him.

We went back again on Thursday morning. Irene told us that George had been taken to a shelter in Cancun to be adopted. It saddened us that we wouldn't see him again, but we were happy that he was going to a good home. Irene set us up with Bruno, her personal favorite, and with Sol, Alison's small, curly-haired, black and white dog. We did another big beach loop, with Bruno off the leash most of the time and Solly sniffing and marking the entire way. We were supposed to meet our friend Juan Torres at the shelter to help him pick out a puppy that morning, but he was tied up with business. He wants to give one to his son Joab for a birthday gift next month. There are three different litters of puppies, more than twenty in total, to choose from right now.

Unfortunately, there are more puppies born on Isla Mujeres than there are homes for them all. Isla Animals does what it can to make sure the puppies in their care get a healthy start at life, and each is neutered or spayed before adoption, but far too many dogs end up on the streets, where they are rounded up and electrocuted by the local government. To help prevent this inhumane treatment, Isla Animals conducts regular spay/neuter and pet care clinics all over this area of the Yucatan Peninsula. To learn more, or to make a donation, please visit the Isla Animals website. Thank you.