The Trip, the Train (of thought), and the Tribute

Welcome back faithful reader.
It's good to have you back on board.
And I have to tell you, it's good to be back in the writer's chair once again.

First, let me apologize for the prolonged absence.
However, it was unavoidable, as we were being wined, dined, spoiled, and generally pampered by Becky's friend (from kindergarten thru high school - Jack Stumborg, and his gracious wife Joan).
Trust me, there will be more on that later.

But, when we last left our super sailors, they were spending the night in Ocean City, MD with the fishing fleet - facing a long arduous run along the length of the Delmarva Peninsula . . .

The TRIP:
Riddle me this:
Q). What time do fishing boats leave the dock?
A). O-friggin early o'clock.

At 3:00 a.m. the Jo-Jo fires up her diesels - welcomes the day's patrons (one of whom asks the Cap't if he would like to sample the Breakfast of Champions: Coffee cake with a shot of Jack) - and spins their 50+ footer within inches of Hot Water, on their way off shore. The rest of the fleet follows suit, and a thundering heard of Hemingway wanna-be's head for the hollowed hunting grounds.

Now, wide awake, I fight to get back to sleep - no dice . . .
When the alarm finally does go off, I want to throw it in the harbor.
But, I smack myself awake, splash some water on my face, put on my mascara and eyeliner (one can only do without so much) and then peek outside, only to find what the Fates have in store for us (again):

 

I am so bummed, because I know my mascara is going to run in all this moisture . . .
But seriously, FOG - AGAIN. Give me a break. Thus was NOT part of the game plan - no way.
Today was supposed to be tough, but not impossible.
But, getting offshore worked for us once before, so we figured that perhaps lightning could strike twice, and it might work again. As my daughter Whitney would say - it could happen.

So, out we crawled out of the harbor, and into the mist.
Just as we were feeling pretty good about making our way thru the harbor, we came across another ominous omen:

 

I knew it was going to be a tough day at the office, but it's not like we could call in sick. So, on we ventured. Right as we were passing the equivalent to the "MR" buoy of the Ocean City inlet, we hear a radio transmission from someone - who had been offshore, only to turn around, because he had lost his electronics, and was "just trying to find land".

So, I know he can't see me, I  just hope that we can see him.

I push the throttle up and decided it's best to distance myself from him, anyway possible.

 

It is now 7:30 when we get 3 miles offshore, and I ask Spence what time she thinks the fog will clear.

She says 10:00 - and I (trying to be optimistic) say 8:30.

By 9:00, we are 9 miles offshore, and I surrender my wager. We are still in pea soup.

At 10:00, as God is my witness, the fog lifts.

 

I look to Spence and ask how she did that, to which she replies: "what can I say, I'm that good."

 

Now, while I've made this sound fairly dramatic (and it was), we were blessed with one variable.

What is the one thing that cannot exist in fog . . . ? Wind.

So the seas were fairly flat.

 

But, we played tag in the fog for most of the day.

And when it was thick, we had less than 1/4 mile visibility.

So, we were feeling pretty uptight about the day's prospects, until the 12:00 aquatic show:

I thought that I had many more great shots, but they turned out to be of my fat fingers. It's not easy driving and snapping pictures at the same time.
'Cause Spence was on the bow, with a front row seat.
We came across a pod of about 20 dolphin, who decided that it would be cool to ride our bow wave and hang out with us for about a 1/2 hour.
I defy you to be bummed out, or in a bad mood when a pod of dolphins suddenly adopt you as their BFFs.

Suddenly, the whole day changed for the good.
The skies cleared. The seas remained flat, and we cruised the entire length of Delaware in better fashion (and spirits) than we could have hoped.

 

The Train (of Thought)

It occurred to me that while I have been relaying events to you, I have not really been telling you what this trip is really like. It is a funny thing, because albeit a cliché, it is so true: it's not the getting there - it's the journey.

Having taken many 6, 8, 10 hour offshore excursions, you take for granted what they entail.

Like any other long distance event, they are more mental than physical.

 

Once you head offshore, and dispense with the pleasantries and chatter of the task at hand (fishing or cruising) the small talk inevitably dissipates, and you are left with 2 basic elements: time and the sea.

Both of which seem ever present, yet endless.

 

And so, what happens is that there are long periods of silence and concentration on wherever your mind takes you, as a way of dealing with the uncontrollable time expenditure ahead.

 

Finding ways to break the monotony become inventive challenges, often resulting in food, beverage, or hygiene breaks.

 

But, the point is - it's a mind game. One that you either accept and embrace , or a fight and detest.

Personally, I love it - always have. I'm just saying: "it ain't all peaches and cream".

 

 

The Tribute

I feel the need to get something else of my chest, and that is a shout out to the unsung heroes of the maritime marriage - the Mate.

Without the Mate, just where would the Cap't be?

I can tell you - up the proverbial creek.

 

It would be like Fred without Ginger, Batman without Robin, Abbot without Costello,  . . .

It just don't work.

 

Because, it's not just that they handle the lines, or fix the food, or jump when you bark.

The truth is that they have to sync with the Cap't well enough to know (and do) whatever needs doing - even if the Cap't doesn't.

For example, knowing when to say nothing - because the Cap't is so pissed off that any syllable is going to be fuel to the fire.

 

Here is the truth.

Boating is a team sport, and requires the cooperative effort of all involved to be successful.

 

Here is another truth.

I married one of the best Mates that any Cap't could ask for.

I've realized on this trip just how lucky I am, and that I never get to tell her that.

So, if you are ever looking for a good Mate, I know one.

She comes highly recommended.

(Just don't tell her I said so. After all, I am the Cap't and have to maintain some semblance of superiority . . .)

 

Tomorrow - the story of Great Times with Jack and Joan - and how we came to Coinjock . . . ?