It's amazing how much stuff you don't actually need. Donate all your furniture. Throw out the old Valentine's cards and college term papers. Get rid of most of your kitchen stuff, except what's really important to you, or was important to your great-grandmother. Leave stuff in the alley and it'll be gone in ten minutes. Give away three-quarters of your clothing - do you wear all of it, anyway? - and put next season's stuff in storage. In all, I walked away from 14 years of adult life with a dozen Rubbermaid containers. They are well-organized in a storage unit downtown by the bus station, beside Mark's motorcycle. I have less stuff now than when I left for college.
You know what? I don't miss all that crap one bit.
20061120
The Mayor of River City
The Lake region doesn't take too kindly to winter boaters - the last remaining harbors are closing their docks, shutting off their water, making it generally impossible for somebody to stay all year if they choose. River City just south of the loop is one of the last homes for the winter boaters - those few renegades whose love of boating goes beyond drinking and riding the waves and getting sunburned. The diehards. The Live Aboards.
River City is not as pretty as Monroe or Belmont harbors. The lakefront is much more regal, much cleaner thanks to all the zebra mussels. People dump all kinds of shit into the river, even though Friends of the River has a plan that it be swimmable by 2015. (It's almost 2007 and you're not supposed to let the river water touch your skin.) As my friend Kathy pointed out, "You could dump a body back here and nobody would know." And I'm sure they do, in between the dark docks and mysterious lines, along with all kinds of industrial waste and other impossible-to-place-garbage. Last spring I saw floating the small carcass of an unidentifiable animal - was it a lizard? an oversized tadpole?
This winter, River City is housing eight boats with Live Aboards.
We are an ecclectic crew: a suburban PE teacher, an NPR addict, a City of Chicago union worker and his girlfriend, an IRS employee, a dentist, an engineer planning for retirement and sailing the world, and overseeing us all, the unofficial mayor: Stan the Man.
Stan the Man is Irish, usually drunk, though you'd never know it if you stayed out of breath-shot. He worked as a handyman with travelling carnivals for a while amidst other unknown careers. How he ended up in Chicago living on a nameless Chris-Craft I don't know. He is the kind of guy who lives under the radar, always attached somehow to the main action; the kind of guy you believe has connections to politicians and mobsters, if only because he's willing to do the dirty work at the last minute and take the cash without asking questions.
He's also kind, friendly, and warm, keeps Rice Krispies on his boat, along with mirrored letters on his door that spell out STN. When we had to move Mark's boat in subzero temperatures last January, Stan was the first to arrive to help. When a boat arrives in River City, he is right there to take your lines. When we returned recently from a trip and sent Mark's brother ahead with some things for the boat, Stan was right there asking him who he was and why he was aboard Mazurka.
One night after midnight Mark and I came home to a quiet River City. We rounded the gates and passed noiselessly along the dock's corridor (though making enough noise to scare away any rats). The water was quiet and still; the only sound was a subtle steam coming from the post office across the river. As we passed Stan's Chris-Craft, there was the sudden unmistakable howl of Roger Daltrey, followed by Stan's cry: Won't get fooled again!
Every neighborhood has its unofficial mayor: the old Japanese painter who sits on his front porch and chats it up; the retired black gentleman who sweeps his walk and smokes cigars; the Irishman who always magically appears whenever you need to slide into a slip and tie up your home.
What we all need is a mayor who's rocking on out to The Who.
River City is not as pretty as Monroe or Belmont harbors. The lakefront is much more regal, much cleaner thanks to all the zebra mussels. People dump all kinds of shit into the river, even though Friends of the River has a plan that it be swimmable by 2015. (It's almost 2007 and you're not supposed to let the river water touch your skin.) As my friend Kathy pointed out, "You could dump a body back here and nobody would know." And I'm sure they do, in between the dark docks and mysterious lines, along with all kinds of industrial waste and other impossible-to-place-garbage. Last spring I saw floating the small carcass of an unidentifiable animal - was it a lizard? an oversized tadpole?
This winter, River City is housing eight boats with Live Aboards.
We are an ecclectic crew: a suburban PE teacher, an NPR addict, a City of Chicago union worker and his girlfriend, an IRS employee, a dentist, an engineer planning for retirement and sailing the world, and overseeing us all, the unofficial mayor: Stan the Man.
Stan the Man is Irish, usually drunk, though you'd never know it if you stayed out of breath-shot. He worked as a handyman with travelling carnivals for a while amidst other unknown careers. How he ended up in Chicago living on a nameless Chris-Craft I don't know. He is the kind of guy who lives under the radar, always attached somehow to the main action; the kind of guy you believe has connections to politicians and mobsters, if only because he's willing to do the dirty work at the last minute and take the cash without asking questions.
He's also kind, friendly, and warm, keeps Rice Krispies on his boat, along with mirrored letters on his door that spell out STN. When we had to move Mark's boat in subzero temperatures last January, Stan was the first to arrive to help. When a boat arrives in River City, he is right there to take your lines. When we returned recently from a trip and sent Mark's brother ahead with some things for the boat, Stan was right there asking him who he was and why he was aboard Mazurka.
One night after midnight Mark and I came home to a quiet River City. We rounded the gates and passed noiselessly along the dock's corridor (though making enough noise to scare away any rats). The water was quiet and still; the only sound was a subtle steam coming from the post office across the river. As we passed Stan's Chris-Craft, there was the sudden unmistakable howl of Roger Daltrey, followed by Stan's cry: Won't get fooled again!
Every neighborhood has its unofficial mayor: the old Japanese painter who sits on his front porch and chats it up; the retired black gentleman who sweeps his walk and smokes cigars; the Irishman who always magically appears whenever you need to slide into a slip and tie up your home.
What we all need is a mayor who's rocking on out to The Who.
20061116
Safe Harbor
We were supposed to leave our autumn home in Belmont Harbor on November 15th. The same day Japan was bracing for a great tsunami. That night, we drove home from work with two of our friends. It was windy all day, but not till we hit Lake Shore Drive and saw the lakefront like a pail of water lugged by a three year-old did we realize just how windy it was.
We tried to convince ourselves it wasn't that bad - as waves crashed against the shore and shot twenty feet into the air. In the safety of Belmont Harbor, Mazurka rocked back and forth. I worried that the City of Chicago would fine us for staying in the harbor past the leave date. We listened to the weather report, we hemmed and hawed - none of the other straggling boats in the harbor seemed in a hurry to get outta Dodge.
"I'm claiming Safe Harbor," Mark declared.
Who knew there was such a thing? But maybe because large bodies of water are the last wild frontiers - gale force winds can come up in an instant...runaway thunderstorms...pirates.... As we sat around the table that night drinking wine and eating dinner, Mark told us of his uncle sailing Lake Michigan when a storm came up. He parked his boat at the Great Lakes Naval Station, claiming safe harbor, and even though civilian boats aren't allowed there, they had to let them in.
What a concept: If you are in trouble, they have to let you in.
Mazurka carries with her an aura of safety no matter where she goes, even the shady south loop. She has a security system, but it's more for nautical purposes; she has her own phone line and will call Mark if she starts to sink, or leak fuel, or if someone tries to break in, I suppose - but who's going to board a boat docked in the middle of Lake Michigan? We have a lock for it - a thick padlock in the shape of a man, his crotch the keyhole. And every morning when we leave for work we lock her up. But if someone really wanted to get on board, they could. Downtown Chicago, where thieves will break your car window just for the change in the cup holder, but boats are left untouched.
There's a mystery to boats. "People are intimidated by them," Mark says.
Like we were with the gale force winds that night. The lake is 17-22 feet deep along the course we would sail to River City. With 14 foot waves...that made for a rather shallow bottom for the keel on this ship. We stayed put for four more days, till the smooth sailing of the weekend.
And the great tsunami of Japan? 6 foot waves.
Wimps.
We tried to convince ourselves it wasn't that bad - as waves crashed against the shore and shot twenty feet into the air. In the safety of Belmont Harbor, Mazurka rocked back and forth. I worried that the City of Chicago would fine us for staying in the harbor past the leave date. We listened to the weather report, we hemmed and hawed - none of the other straggling boats in the harbor seemed in a hurry to get outta Dodge.
"I'm claiming Safe Harbor," Mark declared.
Who knew there was such a thing? But maybe because large bodies of water are the last wild frontiers - gale force winds can come up in an instant...runaway thunderstorms...pirates.... As we sat around the table that night drinking wine and eating dinner, Mark told us of his uncle sailing Lake Michigan when a storm came up. He parked his boat at the Great Lakes Naval Station, claiming safe harbor, and even though civilian boats aren't allowed there, they had to let them in.
What a concept: If you are in trouble, they have to let you in.
Mazurka carries with her an aura of safety no matter where she goes, even the shady south loop. She has a security system, but it's more for nautical purposes; she has her own phone line and will call Mark if she starts to sink, or leak fuel, or if someone tries to break in, I suppose - but who's going to board a boat docked in the middle of Lake Michigan? We have a lock for it - a thick padlock in the shape of a man, his crotch the keyhole. And every morning when we leave for work we lock her up. But if someone really wanted to get on board, they could. Downtown Chicago, where thieves will break your car window just for the change in the cup holder, but boats are left untouched.
There's a mystery to boats. "People are intimidated by them," Mark says.
Like we were with the gale force winds that night. The lake is 17-22 feet deep along the course we would sail to River City. With 14 foot waves...that made for a rather shallow bottom for the keel on this ship. We stayed put for four more days, till the smooth sailing of the weekend.
And the great tsunami of Japan? 6 foot waves.
Wimps.
20061113
Cheek to Cheek
I visited my friend - a great photographer with a long white beard - in his basement studio. As unusual as he is, he is perplexed by my living aboard a boat. "Isn't it cramped?" he asks. "Don't you feel like you're right on top of each other?"
I look around his studio, only a bit smaller than Mazurka. "Well, there's different levels," I explain. "And I have a room and bathroom in the front. I can work up there. It doesn't really feel crowded - it feels like we're outside."
Surrounded by windows - the reason Mark bought a trawler to live aboard - you are always acutely aware of the nature around you, even in the city. Each morning, the first thing you notice is the sky - is it sunny or gloomy? Is the lake filled with fog shrouding the downtown skyscrapers (as it was this morning)? You may go to work in a building with few windows, but all day you know what outside is like, and you return to it at night.
You wake up to water, you fall asleep to water. There isn't a day I approach Mazurka when I don't zip my pockets and clutch the keys close to my chest for fear of losing them to the bottom of Lake Michigan.
And you learn to be economical with your space. The first thing I did in my new role as "wife" aboard Mazurka was rearrange the kitchen. I removed the microwave that required eleven minutes to heat a can of soup. I cleared the pantry shelf and threw away half-used packets of meat seasoning and instant coffee from Thailand. I organized the counter and put everything within easy reach. The lack of space necessitates shopping two or three times a week, which means fresher food, less waste. We have a dorm-sized refrigerator, and a large cooler outside, where I store vegetables and yogurt. A shelf two feet wide and two feet deep serves as our main pantry, with cereals, fruit, crackers, coffee, and cat food. And the squat shelf above the plates and cups holds cans of soup and extra spices.
Boating magazines always include cooking articles, and it seems that boaters latch onto one item they really like - a pressure cooker, a crock pot - and use it for everything. The previous owners left behind a breadmaker and Mark makes killer chocolate pumpernickle cornbread. But our true staple is the grill - a fantail off the stern, fueled by good ole propane.
As little space as we seemingly have, we're having some fantastic meals. Grilled hamburger, sauteed mushrooms, onions, peppers, edamame, salad, and Spanish red wine. Grilled vegetables (zucchini, squash, onions, potatoes) and ribeye steak, and for dessert apples sprinkled with Chinese cinnamon, cheddar cheese, and white port. We cook together, and we clean up together.
The thing I didn't explain to my friend is that, for the few hours we spend aboard Mazurka each day, it's not enough. Maybe it's because we're newlyweds, but I only want to be five feet away from Mark at any given time. Even if he's sitting at his computer, or reading the Wall Street, paying absolutely no attention to me at all. Mark can take apart the entire boat trying to fix the furnace while I sit in the midst of it all writing letters. We are learning to be in each other's space - which we will do for the rest of our lives; we are learning to waltz cheek to cheek.
20061110
Water, Water Everywhere...
To provide hot water for your shower, your dishwasher, and your clothes washer - perhaps all three run simultaneously! - the average house these days boasts a hot water heater that holds 30, maybe even 50 gallons of hot water.
The hot water heater aboard Mazurka holds six.
Yes, six. Six gallons. Take that gallon of ice cream in your deep freeze, that gallon of milk in your jumbo refrigerator and multiply it by six. That's the most hot water there is at any given time.
If you are a man with little hair, you can take a quick shower and be done with it. But you can see how this would be a problem if you were, say, a woman with long, fine hair - very fine hair - which requires two rounds of conditioner. And if you were a woman who, though not a regular leg-shaver, periodically used a razer to clean things up. You can see how this particular woman might be screaming three-quarters into her shower, and then begin to avoid showering on the boat altogether.
"I can just go to the gym," she tells her husband.
So her new husband, wanting to please his new wife, begins to search for alternatives. A new water heater - a cylinder that holds 12 gallons, a cube that holds 10. The cube is a great price on clearance but won't fit in the engine room without knocking a hole in the wall; the 12 gallon heater costs $1400.
"I can just go to the gym" she says again.
And so she does. Monday morning, she's there to swim, then enjoy the long, hot shower. But as she steps under the nozzle...it's cold. Ice cold.
Water, water everywhere - and none of it hot.
The hot water heater aboard Mazurka holds six.
Yes, six. Six gallons. Take that gallon of ice cream in your deep freeze, that gallon of milk in your jumbo refrigerator and multiply it by six. That's the most hot water there is at any given time.
If you are a man with little hair, you can take a quick shower and be done with it. But you can see how this would be a problem if you were, say, a woman with long, fine hair - very fine hair - which requires two rounds of conditioner. And if you were a woman who, though not a regular leg-shaver, periodically used a razer to clean things up. You can see how this particular woman might be screaming three-quarters into her shower, and then begin to avoid showering on the boat altogether.
"I can just go to the gym," she tells her husband.
So her new husband, wanting to please his new wife, begins to search for alternatives. A new water heater - a cylinder that holds 12 gallons, a cube that holds 10. The cube is a great price on clearance but won't fit in the engine room without knocking a hole in the wall; the 12 gallon heater costs $1400.
"I can just go to the gym" she says again.
And so she does. Monday morning, she's there to swim, then enjoy the long, hot shower. But as she steps under the nozzle...it's cold. Ice cold.
Water, water everywhere - and none of it hot.
20061103
Urban Fisherman
There is no shortage of wildlife in the city. Rats, pigeons and squirrels. Ducks and geese. Opossum and bats. One morning on the way to the car Mark tossed our garbage in a dumpster. "There's a raccoon asleep in there," he said. "Wanna see it?" He lifted the lid as I carefully approached. There, atop some newspaper, slept a 40 pound raccoon, curled like a cat. He raised his head, assessing us with black, beady, un-cat-like eyes. "He should be happy," Mark said, closing the lid. "I just gave him half a pound of hamburger."
And, of course, there are fish.
I grew up on the Mississippi River, learning to fish the backwaters at the junction of Illinois, Iowa, and Wisconsin. We caught far too many blue gill, the occasional illusive, coveted walleye, a lot of gar one season (the long-snouted heads of which my brother Jim strung across the front of the camper like some scene from Heart of Darkness), but mostly, we caught crappie - strong, good-natured, good-eating crappie, which Dad and Jim cleaned and piled into the deep freeze for us to eat all winter. One of my best memories growing up is fishing at dusk during mayfly season, when the wispy carcasses of mayflies speckled the water, and crappie leapt up to eat them. We caught our fill that night before the sun went down; our poles barely cast before there was a bite.
When you catch a fish on the backwaters of the Mississippi, you catch in solitude, with only the turtles and woodpeckers to cheer you on, until you return at dusk with a basketful, and then, at the fish cleaning house, the less fortunate gather round to gawk over your catch and slyly inquire where you found them. If you are like my father, you are polite and smile and chat away, but never reveal the sacred spots you have worked so hard to find. Though you might throw them a little bone of a place, if they won't get too tangled in the sunken trees.
In the city, there is always an audience (for anything you do, don't forget). On the first day of October, Jim, Mark, and I watched a fisherman just south of Shedd Aquarium spend twenty patient minutes hauling in a 15 pound salmon. By the time he brought it to shore, a crowd of thirty had gathered to watch, and we applauded.
The salmon come to spawn in Chicago from September to November, and the urban fishermen are out in full force to meet them. They gather along the lakeshore before sun-up, in camo pants and down jackets, jumping fences and ignoring the no fishing within 100 feet of boats signs. They linger till long after the sun is set. I see them when I leave for work in the morning, I see them when I come home. They stir in me some quiet, biological need to catch the fish that swim beneath my home.
One evening, gliding into the pump out station, I motion for the three fishermen gathered around the sewage tank to move aside. "We're coming to pump out," I called to them. They stood a ways off, while I leapt onto the dock and scrambled to tie up. (Definitely not boaters - boaters will always help you tie up.)
I introduced myself to Keith and Sheryl (all fishermen I have known have a girlfriend named Sheryl) and Sheryl's kid Ricky. A few days back Keith caught a couple good-sized salmon - 12, 14 pounds - had them smoked and ate them. I asked if he was concerned about the mercury. He held his hand out in front of him. "Well, I can kinda see straight," he joked. Sheryl joined in. "I was scared, but I ate some. So if we're messed up, at least we're messed up together!" They told me about someone who had caught a northern in Montrose Harbor the previous week - maybe three feet long - "good enough to get in the paper."
I called Jim, a fisherman by vocation, like our dad. "The best thing to do is see what everybody else is doing, then do that. They're probably fishing with roe," he said, before I even described the mass of orange fish eggs sprawled all over the sidewalk. "Is that like sushi?" I asked. "Sort of. They wrap it in small nets to keep it sturdy." Then he thought for a moment. "But if everybody else is fishing with roe, you might try throwing a night crawler out there - they might be itching for something different."
A few days later he called to see how the fishing was. I confessed I didn't feel like doing it in the cold rain. "Go get some sardines from a bait shop," he said. "Not the ones in the store - the frozen ones. They're a real greasy, oily fish - the salmon'll be all over that. Just put one on your line and go inside where it's warm. Hell, you could even put a line out in the morning, then when you get home at night check it. You might have a salmon hanging off your hook."
Because it's in my blood, I'll try it. But I have to admit, it feels wrong to fish for an animal I won't eat for all the mercury we've injected in its blood. I prefer them alive, unseen, quietly swimming beneath my pillow while I dream at night.
And, of course, there are fish.
I grew up on the Mississippi River, learning to fish the backwaters at the junction of Illinois, Iowa, and Wisconsin. We caught far too many blue gill, the occasional illusive, coveted walleye, a lot of gar one season (the long-snouted heads of which my brother Jim strung across the front of the camper like some scene from Heart of Darkness), but mostly, we caught crappie - strong, good-natured, good-eating crappie, which Dad and Jim cleaned and piled into the deep freeze for us to eat all winter. One of my best memories growing up is fishing at dusk during mayfly season, when the wispy carcasses of mayflies speckled the water, and crappie leapt up to eat them. We caught our fill that night before the sun went down; our poles barely cast before there was a bite.
When you catch a fish on the backwaters of the Mississippi, you catch in solitude, with only the turtles and woodpeckers to cheer you on, until you return at dusk with a basketful, and then, at the fish cleaning house, the less fortunate gather round to gawk over your catch and slyly inquire where you found them. If you are like my father, you are polite and smile and chat away, but never reveal the sacred spots you have worked so hard to find. Though you might throw them a little bone of a place, if they won't get too tangled in the sunken trees.
In the city, there is always an audience (for anything you do, don't forget). On the first day of October, Jim, Mark, and I watched a fisherman just south of Shedd Aquarium spend twenty patient minutes hauling in a 15 pound salmon. By the time he brought it to shore, a crowd of thirty had gathered to watch, and we applauded.
The salmon come to spawn in Chicago from September to November, and the urban fishermen are out in full force to meet them. They gather along the lakeshore before sun-up, in camo pants and down jackets, jumping fences and ignoring the no fishing within 100 feet of boats signs. They linger till long after the sun is set. I see them when I leave for work in the morning, I see them when I come home. They stir in me some quiet, biological need to catch the fish that swim beneath my home.
One evening, gliding into the pump out station, I motion for the three fishermen gathered around the sewage tank to move aside. "We're coming to pump out," I called to them. They stood a ways off, while I leapt onto the dock and scrambled to tie up. (Definitely not boaters - boaters will always help you tie up.)
I introduced myself to Keith and Sheryl (all fishermen I have known have a girlfriend named Sheryl) and Sheryl's kid Ricky. A few days back Keith caught a couple good-sized salmon - 12, 14 pounds - had them smoked and ate them. I asked if he was concerned about the mercury. He held his hand out in front of him. "Well, I can kinda see straight," he joked. Sheryl joined in. "I was scared, but I ate some. So if we're messed up, at least we're messed up together!" They told me about someone who had caught a northern in Montrose Harbor the previous week - maybe three feet long - "good enough to get in the paper."
I called Jim, a fisherman by vocation, like our dad. "The best thing to do is see what everybody else is doing, then do that. They're probably fishing with roe," he said, before I even described the mass of orange fish eggs sprawled all over the sidewalk. "Is that like sushi?" I asked. "Sort of. They wrap it in small nets to keep it sturdy." Then he thought for a moment. "But if everybody else is fishing with roe, you might try throwing a night crawler out there - they might be itching for something different."
A few days later he called to see how the fishing was. I confessed I didn't feel like doing it in the cold rain. "Go get some sardines from a bait shop," he said. "Not the ones in the store - the frozen ones. They're a real greasy, oily fish - the salmon'll be all over that. Just put one on your line and go inside where it's warm. Hell, you could even put a line out in the morning, then when you get home at night check it. You might have a salmon hanging off your hook."
Because it's in my blood, I'll try it. But I have to admit, it feels wrong to fish for an animal I won't eat for all the mercury we've injected in its blood. I prefer them alive, unseen, quietly swimming beneath my pillow while I dream at night.
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