Today I had eight hours of work to do for a Friday deadline that’s about a dozen monkeys on my back. Instead, I blew it off because it was just too damn nice outside. Beautiful summer Sunday afternoons don’t happen all that often in Chicago – when we are blessed with blue skies and calm waters and a sweet breeze, we should take advantage of it.
Rather than taking out Mazurka, we decided to go for a ride in the little zodiac, which we named “Li’l Chopin.” We loaded up with towels and sunscreen and soda and headed for Montrose Harbor, which is about three miles north…maybe a little more. On the way out there, I asked Mark, “How much gas does that thing hold?” “Enough to get us there and back,” he assured me. “I just filled it up.”
We motored for nearly an hour before reaching Montrose Beach, where we put down the anchor just outside the buoys. The beach was filled with people, with boaters and jet skiers and kayakers practicing not far from us. The water was warm, and we swam around the zodiac for a long time before deciding to jump back in and head home. The problem is, you can’t really jump into a zodiac. Or climb. Or gracefully lumber up. A zodiac raft is damn near impossible to climb into if you’re in the water. Mark and I tried to climb up on opposite sides, to steady the boat, but as he's trying to pull a limb inside I'm laughing hysterically. He’s got one leg in the air as a boat comes by, “Need some help?” they call. Mark gazes over his leg nonchalantly, “No, we’re fine." We try climbing up the stern, bracing against the motor. Finally, we try the old fashioned way; I climb up on Mark, into the zodiac, and pull him up after me. We’re on our way.
I’m driving back to Belmont, with Mark in the front, when about a quarter of the way into the trip…put…put…put. We’re out of gas.
“Well, I kind of just filled it up,” Mark explained. “When we were in South Haven. Maybe it was halfway full.”
We’ve got a long way to row. Like almost three miles. Mark takes the oars, and I begin bailing the boat with a pop can (water has collected from waves over the bow). Lesson for next time: bring extra gas and a bucket.
This is going to take hours. We’re bickering about the best way to go back. I vote that we row to shore and guide the zodiac in the water from shore, via rope. Mark thinks it’s best to row. “I just hope the oars don’t break,” he says.
Just then – I’m not kidding – the piece that attaches the plastic oar to the raft cracks, making it impossible to row.
Luckily, we’ve got extra supplies in the emergency bag, including the plastic piece that cracked. We’re putting it together when a jet ski saddles up beside us. “Need some help?” asks the driver, his arms covered in tattoos.
Our new friend Dan takes our rope and tows us at back to Belmont, very slowly. Mark looks back to me, his brow furrowed, “The only thing I’m worried about…”
“Don’t say it!” I plead, “Don’t say it!”
He doesn’t say it – not till Dan drops us off in Belmont Harbor, and Mark is rowing us back to Mazurka. “The only thing I was worried about is that you’re not supposed to tow a zodiac – the ropes are only secured to the raft with glue. They could rip right off and the boat would sink.”
Maybe we'll try it again next weekend.
20070714
Whose Hobby is This, Anyway?
Mark just returned from a six-day conference in Orlando. Usually, I like to go with him on business – I work poolside while he sits in conference rooms all day, and I get to enjoy the rare luxury of a bathtub. But there are three very strong reasons I didn’t go with him: Florida – July – Disney.
Mark joked to his colleagues, “Yeah, she’s home, keeping the boat afloat.” Before he left, I fretted just a bit. For six day and five nights, I would be in charge of Mazurka. If something went wrong, I was the point person. This scared the hell out of me. Not like the captain was backpacking in Alaska and unreachable; and not like he didn’t leave me with a boat in working order – the water tanks were filled, the sewage was empty. In fact, everything on Mazurka is ship-shape – part of Mark’s plan to abstain from any work in the month of July and just enjoy the boat (if you own a boat, you are laughing hysterically right now). And except for the first few days of the month, when the varnishing project went a little long, he’s kept to this abstinence.
But I don’t know a whole lot about this thing I live on. When bells and whistles go off and stuff starts happening for no reason, my first reaction is to ignore it till Mark fixes it. My knowledge ends at differentiating the flat-head screwdriver from the Phillips, and sometimes I don’t even do that.
To be completely honest, I regard this boat as Mark’s hobby, not mine. He lived on it before I ever came into the picture. He loves working on it. There are few things that give him so much joy and peace of mind as pulling apart the entire boat and putting it all back together. This is not my idea of fun. We have divvied up the tasks among us – his stuff is outside, mine is inside, and I stay the away from the engine room. But on a beautiful Saturday morning as he’s pulling out the varnishing tools to recoat the teak on the deck one more time, I’m hiding.
Meanwhile, our fellow summer campers, our neighbors aboard the Harbor Dog, are re-canvassing their boat. It’s a big job, sewing canvas covers for the windows and side railings; they brings out the sewing machine on the aft deck and work close together, solving problems like how to make hundreds of holes for the grommets. (Answer: soldering gun.)
Mark and I both noticed this together-ness. This is what marriage is about, right? Working together on a joint project – whether it’s children, a boat, or life itself. So even if this was Mark’s boat long before I ever came into the picture, and even though boating is not my first choice in hobbies…I think the time has come that I have to give a little, learn about how this thing works, and start pulling my share of the weight.
It could be worse; it could be football.
(Captain in Training)
Mark joked to his colleagues, “Yeah, she’s home, keeping the boat afloat.” Before he left, I fretted just a bit. For six day and five nights, I would be in charge of Mazurka. If something went wrong, I was the point person. This scared the hell out of me. Not like the captain was backpacking in Alaska and unreachable; and not like he didn’t leave me with a boat in working order – the water tanks were filled, the sewage was empty. In fact, everything on Mazurka is ship-shape – part of Mark’s plan to abstain from any work in the month of July and just enjoy the boat (if you own a boat, you are laughing hysterically right now). And except for the first few days of the month, when the varnishing project went a little long, he’s kept to this abstinence.
But I don’t know a whole lot about this thing I live on. When bells and whistles go off and stuff starts happening for no reason, my first reaction is to ignore it till Mark fixes it. My knowledge ends at differentiating the flat-head screwdriver from the Phillips, and sometimes I don’t even do that.
To be completely honest, I regard this boat as Mark’s hobby, not mine. He lived on it before I ever came into the picture. He loves working on it. There are few things that give him so much joy and peace of mind as pulling apart the entire boat and putting it all back together. This is not my idea of fun. We have divvied up the tasks among us – his stuff is outside, mine is inside, and I stay the away from the engine room. But on a beautiful Saturday morning as he’s pulling out the varnishing tools to recoat the teak on the deck one more time, I’m hiding.
Meanwhile, our fellow summer campers, our neighbors aboard the Harbor Dog, are re-canvassing their boat. It’s a big job, sewing canvas covers for the windows and side railings; they brings out the sewing machine on the aft deck and work close together, solving problems like how to make hundreds of holes for the grommets. (Answer: soldering gun.)
Mark and I both noticed this together-ness. This is what marriage is about, right? Working together on a joint project – whether it’s children, a boat, or life itself. So even if this was Mark’s boat long before I ever came into the picture, and even though boating is not my first choice in hobbies…I think the time has come that I have to give a little, learn about how this thing works, and start pulling my share of the weight.
It could be worse; it could be football.
(Captain in Training)
20070706
Any Real Fishermen Out There?
This morning, the 4th of July, five fishermen arrived at our door at 3:45 AM. We were underway by 4 AM in search of salmon.
Right before dawn, I started to feel queasy. Due to only two hours of sleep or semi-rough waters, seasickness took me over. I wasn’t the only one. Out came the wristbands and Dramamine. I stayed on deck just long enough to snap the sunrise, then disappeared inside.
After proclaiming to Mark, “I hate this and I’m never going fishing with you again,” I collapsed into bed and slept for three hours, without even taking any dramamine. When I awoke, we were heading back to Chicago, empty-handed, nauseous, disappointed, and tired. There’s serious talk of hiring a charter boat to take us where the salmon actually bite.
“At least I got the planer board working,” Mark said.
So I’m just going to throw this out there to all you “real” fishermen. Send me an email if you know what you’re doing when you fish the waters around Chicago…where are you catching these illusive salmon?
Right before dawn, I started to feel queasy. Due to only two hours of sleep or semi-rough waters, seasickness took me over. I wasn’t the only one. Out came the wristbands and Dramamine. I stayed on deck just long enough to snap the sunrise, then disappeared inside.
After proclaiming to Mark, “I hate this and I’m never going fishing with you again,” I collapsed into bed and slept for three hours, without even taking any dramamine. When I awoke, we were heading back to Chicago, empty-handed, nauseous, disappointed, and tired. There’s serious talk of hiring a charter boat to take us where the salmon actually bite.
“At least I got the planer board working,” Mark said.
So I’m just going to throw this out there to all you “real” fishermen. Send me an email if you know what you’re doing when you fish the waters around Chicago…where are you catching these illusive salmon?
Welcome to Belmont Summer Camp
Our original plan for the weekend was to head north to Waukegan on Thursday, cruise on to Milwaukee on Friday, hang out at Summerfest for the weekend, then head back to Chicago by the 4th of July. We waited all day Thursday in Belmont Harbor for the wind to subside…and all day Friday…and by Saturday, decided we weren’t going anywhere; instead, we spent our vacation right here in Belmont Harbor.
Good thing there’s plenty to do: with our neighbors aboard the Harbor Dog, we went running, shot arrows at the archery range, played doubles tennis, went for bike rides, had craft time (otherwise known as varnishing and canvas-making), and essentially spent a week at summer camp.
When you’re an adult at summer camp, you get to stay up as late as you want, sleep as late as you want, and there’s no camp counselor to boss you around.
Half an hour late for tennis? Eh, who cares? Don’t feel like going swimming today? Take a nap instead.
Dear Mom, Camp was great this year. We made neat friends. Can’t wait to come back next year.
Good thing there’s plenty to do: with our neighbors aboard the Harbor Dog, we went running, shot arrows at the archery range, played doubles tennis, went for bike rides, had craft time (otherwise known as varnishing and canvas-making), and essentially spent a week at summer camp.
When you’re an adult at summer camp, you get to stay up as late as you want, sleep as late as you want, and there’s no camp counselor to boss you around.
Half an hour late for tennis? Eh, who cares? Don’t feel like going swimming today? Take a nap instead.
Dear Mom, Camp was great this year. We made neat friends. Can’t wait to come back next year.
20070702
In Search of Calm Water
Some days more than others I am aware that we are at the will of a higher power. Think you're in charge of how things go? Try living on a boat.
Like yesterday, when a party I had planned for months – about twenty people coming on board on a Wednesday evening for dinner and fireworks – was precariously postponed by a violent thunderstorm. At 4:30, I am sitting atop the fly bridge, the only place I can steal a wifi signal, hunched over my laptop to protect it from the rain, emailing my guests to say that as the rain is coming sideways, we’re probably going to cancel…but I don’t know for sure. It could pass and by 7 pm there might be beautiful, smooth sailing. At 5:30, I make the call to cancel, and I get in touch with each guest to let them know. And by 6:30? You guessed it – clear skies and calm water.
So Mark and I decided to head out just the two of us.
We cruised up to the playpen and dropped anchor in front of the Hancock Building. Our plan was to spend the night and in the morning, make our way up north, to Waukegan for a night, then on to Milwaukee.
It’s a cool thing to be able to make a decision to go on an extended trip, and half an hour later, you’re on your way. The feeling you may have forgotten something doesn’t go away, but you have the peace of mind knowing that you can’t possibly have forgotten anything: you’re taking your whole house with you.
The playpen was calm, protected by breaker walls, except for powerboats passing through at top speed, which sends ripples of high waves. So we put out the stabilizer – a hinged wing of stainless steel that is suspended down into the water from the boom; as the boat rocks, it floats up and down in the water, creating enough drag to keep us from rocking too much. It doesn’t completely take away the rocking, but it makes it a whole lot more manageable.
The passing storm stirred the water and dropped the temperature, so it was too cold to swim. Instead, we spent the evening on the aft deck, in a sleeping bag, watching the fireworks over Navy Pier, drinking vanilla tea.
After the fireworks, most of the boats left the playpen, except in a short while we noticed two powerboats, rafted together with a party, drifting closer and closer to us. They didn’t have their anchors out. When they were within 20 feet we started to get nervous and stood out on the deck. “Don’t worry,” they called to us, “We see you – we’re moving.” Except it took forever to get their engines going and someone in the drivers’ seats – we wondered if they were all plastered.
Their boats drift even closer; “Let’s get out of here,” Mark says, going to start the engine. By now, there are twodrivers in the other boats who at first steer straight for Mazurka before correcting the direction. I go up top to man the wheel while Mark begins to pull up the anchor. Except it won’t come up. The foot pedal on the deck, which starts the wheel to pull up the anchor, is a little touchy anyway, but after a good ten minutes it’s still not working. The other boats have driven safely away, but now we’re stuck with an anchor lodged in the mud at the bottom of Lake Michigan.
It’s after 11, and Mark gets out his set of tools and an extra foot pedal (yes, we have an extra foot pedal on board), and commences to figuring out the problem. I am tired and collect the cats into the bed – they’ve been fighting seasickness all evening – and the three of us settle down to sleep together. It’s nearly midnight when Mark returns to the cabin. “I figured out the problem!” he proclaims. “The anchor is powered by the same source as the bow thruster – and I didn’t have it on.”
This problem solved, we decide to stay in the playpen for the night, as the waters have cleared of boaters and are calm. We drift off to sleep.
But before the sun is up, I am awoken by strong rocking and my husband wide awake and cleaning up cat puke throughout the cabin. “The wind shifted,” he says, wiping his feet. “It’s coming out of the northeast. We’re going to have rocky waters.”
We also have new neighbors, blasting house music at that early morning hour. They look like people who have been partying all night, as opposed to early-risers up to see the sunrise.
The cats are hunched miserably low in the engine room, but come out when Mark starts the engine. It’s not yet six when we pull up the anchor and begin our cruise back to Belmont. The weather report cites 10-15 mph winds from the northeast, rising to 15-20 mph in the afternoon. There’s a small craft advisory warning. We’re not going anywhere today.
So we sit in Belmont Harbor. I call our Thursday night Waukegan guests and cancel the second party this week. With a cooler full of Italian sausages and kabobs, we’ll wait till tomorrow to head north.
Like yesterday, when a party I had planned for months – about twenty people coming on board on a Wednesday evening for dinner and fireworks – was precariously postponed by a violent thunderstorm. At 4:30, I am sitting atop the fly bridge, the only place I can steal a wifi signal, hunched over my laptop to protect it from the rain, emailing my guests to say that as the rain is coming sideways, we’re probably going to cancel…but I don’t know for sure. It could pass and by 7 pm there might be beautiful, smooth sailing. At 5:30, I make the call to cancel, and I get in touch with each guest to let them know. And by 6:30? You guessed it – clear skies and calm water.
So Mark and I decided to head out just the two of us.
We cruised up to the playpen and dropped anchor in front of the Hancock Building. Our plan was to spend the night and in the morning, make our way up north, to Waukegan for a night, then on to Milwaukee. It’s a cool thing to be able to make a decision to go on an extended trip, and half an hour later, you’re on your way. The feeling you may have forgotten something doesn’t go away, but you have the peace of mind knowing that you can’t possibly have forgotten anything: you’re taking your whole house with you.
The playpen was calm, protected by breaker walls, except for powerboats passing through at top speed, which sends ripples of high waves. So we put out the stabilizer – a hinged wing of stainless steel that is suspended down into the water from the boom; as the boat rocks, it floats up and down in the water, creating enough drag to keep us from rocking too much. It doesn’t completely take away the rocking, but it makes it a whole lot more manageable.
The passing storm stirred the water and dropped the temperature, so it was too cold to swim. Instead, we spent the evening on the aft deck, in a sleeping bag, watching the fireworks over Navy Pier, drinking vanilla tea.
After the fireworks, most of the boats left the playpen, except in a short while we noticed two powerboats, rafted together with a party, drifting closer and closer to us. They didn’t have their anchors out. When they were within 20 feet we started to get nervous and stood out on the deck. “Don’t worry,” they called to us, “We see you – we’re moving.” Except it took forever to get their engines going and someone in the drivers’ seats – we wondered if they were all plastered.
Their boats drift even closer; “Let’s get out of here,” Mark says, going to start the engine. By now, there are twodrivers in the other boats who at first steer straight for Mazurka before correcting the direction. I go up top to man the wheel while Mark begins to pull up the anchor. Except it won’t come up. The foot pedal on the deck, which starts the wheel to pull up the anchor, is a little touchy anyway, but after a good ten minutes it’s still not working. The other boats have driven safely away, but now we’re stuck with an anchor lodged in the mud at the bottom of Lake Michigan.
It’s after 11, and Mark gets out his set of tools and an extra foot pedal (yes, we have an extra foot pedal on board), and commences to figuring out the problem. I am tired and collect the cats into the bed – they’ve been fighting seasickness all evening – and the three of us settle down to sleep together. It’s nearly midnight when Mark returns to the cabin. “I figured out the problem!” he proclaims. “The anchor is powered by the same source as the bow thruster – and I didn’t have it on.”
This problem solved, we decide to stay in the playpen for the night, as the waters have cleared of boaters and are calm. We drift off to sleep.
But before the sun is up, I am awoken by strong rocking and my husband wide awake and cleaning up cat puke throughout the cabin. “The wind shifted,” he says, wiping his feet. “It’s coming out of the northeast. We’re going to have rocky waters.”
We also have new neighbors, blasting house music at that early morning hour. They look like people who have been partying all night, as opposed to early-risers up to see the sunrise.
The cats are hunched miserably low in the engine room, but come out when Mark starts the engine. It’s not yet six when we pull up the anchor and begin our cruise back to Belmont. The weather report cites 10-15 mph winds from the northeast, rising to 15-20 mph in the afternoon. There’s a small craft advisory warning. We’re not going anywhere today.
So we sit in Belmont Harbor. I call our Thursday night Waukegan guests and cancel the second party this week. With a cooler full of Italian sausages and kabobs, we’ll wait till tomorrow to head north.
Go Fly a Kite
It’s never a good sign on a first date to run out of gas – especially if your mode of transportation is a boat.
Long before I ever met him, Mark’s first grade teacher, Sister Susan, set him up on a blind date with a woman who lives in Milwaukee. Mark lived in Chicago at the time (on land), and decided it would be fun to take his boat, the Escape Hatch, up to Milwaukee for the blind date, and stay there for the weekend. But it’s a much longer ride than he anticipated, and by the time he got within a quarter mile of shore…he ran out of gas.
He had to call the Coast Guard to help him, which is no small thing. They board your boat, check out every nook and cranny, charge you for the gas and their time, and no doubt give you a lot of shit for being a dumb ass who ran out of gas. All the time this is happening, Mark can see his blind date sitting on the dock, waiting for him.
Needless to say, they didn’t hit it off. Not that they didn’t get along, there just wasn’t a spark.
As a parting gift, he sent her a kite. I scoffed when he told me that detail. “What?” he said. “We talked about kite flying.”
Long before I ever met him, Mark’s first grade teacher, Sister Susan, set him up on a blind date with a woman who lives in Milwaukee. Mark lived in Chicago at the time (on land), and decided it would be fun to take his boat, the Escape Hatch, up to Milwaukee for the blind date, and stay there for the weekend. But it’s a much longer ride than he anticipated, and by the time he got within a quarter mile of shore…he ran out of gas.
He had to call the Coast Guard to help him, which is no small thing. They board your boat, check out every nook and cranny, charge you for the gas and their time, and no doubt give you a lot of shit for being a dumb ass who ran out of gas. All the time this is happening, Mark can see his blind date sitting on the dock, waiting for him.
Needless to say, they didn’t hit it off. Not that they didn’t get along, there just wasn’t a spark.
As a parting gift, he sent her a kite. I scoffed when he told me that detail. “What?” he said. “We talked about kite flying.”
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