Monster Media 1993 #2/Image.iso/magazine/s_m0793.zip/S&M-04

Text File | 1993-06-20 | 11KB | 174 lines

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 ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Island Cruise░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░by Steve Myrick
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                 Once upon a time, Goldilocks (and her little
        sister, too) went to visit Grammie, Grampa, Nanny, and
        Puppa.  And with plenty of porridge stocked in the galley,
        Mama Bear and Papa Bear shoved off for a one week cruise to
        some enchanted islands.  Sounds so good it could be a fairy
        tale, but pinch me and trim that mainsail, we're on our way.
                 Our hurricane battered Pearson 26 is fixed up and
        sailing under someone else's able hand this year.  We dearly
        loved our little boat, but it was too small.  We planned
        last season to take this cruise in a chartered Little Harbor
        63.  It sounded great, but it was too big.  In the spring,
        we purchased an Islander 32, in many ways, our version of a
        dream boat.  We've sailed it all summer, learning and
        letting it teach.
                 An Islander it is, and islands we will visit on our
        first extended cruise aboard SNAPPY LEDE.  But it is not the
        azure and coral of the Caribbean we yearn for, nor the
        European flavor and blistering sun of the Med. Instead we
        will chart a course for for the jewels which adorn the the
        southern New England coast, chancy weather, tricky
        navigation, and all. As they say in the story, there's no
        place like home.
                 Wait just a minute here.  It's overcast.  It's
        beginning to drizzle.  Now it's raining.  Now it's pouring.
        Now the wind has kicked up to twenty knots and the rain is
        blowing sideways hard enough to sting our faces.  Where is
        this in the story?
                 Only ten miles out of our home port of
        Mattapoisett, we are looking for safe harbor. Our options
        are beautiful Padanarum to starboard, and isolated Cuttyhunk
        Island to port.  We dash for Cuttyhunk, screaming through
        the pelting rain on a beam reach until we turn for the well
        protected mooring basin.
                 The next morning, a dream shattering BANG BANG BANG
        on the hull bolts me out of my berth.  It was only the
        couple who collect the mooring fees.
                 "Twenny," he grunted.  I payed up, a small price
        for safe refuge in a storm.
                 The forecast called for all manner of horrible
        weather, but the winds were light, the visibility improving,
        and the rain intermittent, so we sailed off.  Mama Bear and
        Papa Bear like Cuttyhunk.  We've spent many enjoyable
        weekends soaking up the slow paced isolation of the island.
        But on this cruise, it was too small.
                 We set a course for Aquidneck Island, better known
        perhaps by the sailing town at its southern tip, Newport.
        Connected to the mainland by several prominent bridges,
        Aquidneck can't claim the magic of island isolation, but its
        tourist industry has a definite sailing slant.
                 SNAPPY LEDE turned into Newport Harbor just in time
        to catch the last voice-bop strains of Bobby McFerrin's set,
        at the JVC Jazz Festival at Newport  Applause sprinkles from
        a sea of colorful slickers. We swing right into the evening
        with some adventurous pub crawling, and finish upstairs at
        the Ark listening to a Mac Crupcala's talented local group,
        in masterful command of the room.
                 Morning brings fog.  Serious fog.  No hint of
        lifting fog.  Not to worry, our ambitious island itinerary
        can absorb a lay day or two, and as places to get fogged in
        go, Newport is not too bad.
                 The next morning brings more fog.  Maddening fog.
        Nothing is ever going to dry out fog.  The brain defends
        itself with silly word games.
                 "We could still be in Cuttyhunk."
                 "We could be in here with bored kids."
                 "We could be out of bourbon."
                 By noon, the mist lifts a bit.  (Or is it just
        wishful thinking.)  We duck out of the harbor, but very
        light winds, a late start, and no sign of further clearing
        dictate caution, and we turn back.
                 The next morning brings thicker fog.  Damp for the
        rest of your life fog.  Can't see the shore from the mooring
        fog.  The recorded weather information on the VHF has gone
        berserk, and every twenty seconds it jumps back to the start
        of the tape loop, to the part where the forlorn forecaster
        drones "with another rainy forecast."
                 After five days of rain and fog, the brain has no
        credible defenses left.
                 "We may never leave Newport."
                 "I miss the kids."
                 "We are out of bourbon."
                 Having exhausted all philosophical discussions on
        the role of mildew in a complex ecology, we desperately need
        some clear weather.
                  Halleluiah!  Dawn breaks clear and bright with a
        fresh northwesterly breeze polishing the sea and sky until
        they sparkle.
                 SNAPPY LEDE gallops out of the harbor on a close
        reach, headed for Block Island.  Mama Bear and Papa Bear
        love Aquidneck Island, but on this cruise, it was too foggy.
                 It is a glorious sail to Block Island, with plenty
        of company escorting us into Great Salt Pond, twenty-two
        nautical miles from Newport, in mid-afternoon.
                 Block Island is far enough away from the mainland
        to remain mostly wild, though the pressure of development
        and a growing dependance on tourism are evident.  There is a
        well organized and effective recycling program on the
        island.  That's a lesson that most of us who live on the
        bigger islands havn't learned yet.  Still, there are miles
        of unspoiled beaches, and miles of open walking trails
        through the fields.
                 It is quite a hike from New Harbor, where most of
        the cruising boats moor, over the hills into the town of Old
        Harbor, where the action is.  We laze away the afternoon at
        a few of the many outdoor pubs.  Every snatch of
        conversation involves the rare appearance of the sun today,
        illustrated by the bloom of pink sunburns.
                 Mama Bear chooses a spicy shrimp dish for dinner,
        at a sidewalk restaurant overlooking the peculiar ebb and
        flow of ferry landings from the mainland.  Papa Bear will
        feast on jambalaya, with mako shark, mahi mahi, and mussels
        added to the usual New Orleans fare.
                 Another splendid day greets us in the morning, but
        exploration of Block Island's beaches and back roads will
        have to be saved for another cruise.  We must be sailing
        east, it is time to steer towards home.  Mama and Papa Bear
        loved Block Island, but our visit was too short.
                 With light but steady air over our stern, we run
        toward Vineyard Sound.  The lazy roll of the following sea
        soothes hour after hour from the day.   Approaching the
        Sound, the beautiful, desolate Elizabeth Islands are to
        port.  To starboard are the spectacular bluffs of Gay Head,
        on Martha's Vineyard, oozing the pastel colors of ancient
        clay deposited by an obliging glacier.  Standing at the
        helm, it is easy to lose yourself in the delicious dream
        that this island hopping might last forever. We
        consider putting in at the tiny fishing village of Menemsha,
        on the Vineyard, but opt instead to push on to Vineyard
        Haven.  We should make it by dusk, and miss the worst part
        of the strong tidal current.  No problem.  We're very
        familiar with the harbor, and we checked all the running
        lights yesterday.
                 The reverie of a terrific sunset, is interrupted
        when we switch on the running lights to discover none of
        them worked.  No amount of tapping, wire wiggling, or
        swearing would coax them into providing safety.  Twilight
        lasted approximately eight seconds.  The moon wouldn't rise
        for hours yet.  It is really dark out here.  It is another
        white knuckle hour before we reach the red flasher outside
        Vineyard Haven and turn for the harbor.
                 Safely on a mooring after a fifty-two mile day, we
        can't think of a better way to end the island cruise than a
        late dinner at the Black Dog.  Oysters, grilled tuna, and a
        bottle of champagne satisfy voracious appetites, sharpened
        by the last jolts of adrenaline.  This porridge was just
        right.
                 The sailing is done, but the images remain: a field
        of wildflowers leading down to a harbor; a pretty girl in a
        pickup truck; a morning stroll before the tourists fill the
        streets.
                Some geologist is going to make a career someday by
        proving what most of us already suspect.  There is some kind
        of freaky magnetic force associated with an island.  It
        draws you near, and won't let you pull away.
                We recently heard an old timer explain that there
        are three kinds of people on an island.  There are those who
        see the surrounding water as a wall to keep things out,
        those who see it as a wall which keeps things in, and those
        who see the water as a highway that leads to every other
        place on earth.  With a sturdy boat, a willing crew,  and
        little luck, we hope to fit into the third category for a
        long, long time.
                The end.

                                    -end-
                      Copyright (c) 1993 Steve Myrick
        Steve Myrick is a Freelance Writer living in Boston, MA.
        Contact him through Pen and Brush BBS at [phone] (modem).