Take the Left Fork at the Olive Tree

The directions here are classic. Or should I say, medieval.

In Umbria, you can't "turn right at the light and look for the fourth house on the left." The towns are 13th-14th-15th century castles on hilltops, dominating cultivated hillsides and vast open plains.
                          
These former fortresses encircle the "town" houses. For centuries past, peasant huts were below. Fields of hard labor are now replaced with prosperous estates overseeing olive groves and vineyards.

Inside the town walls, the narrow lanes wind and climb through centuries of recollections, renovations, and pigeon roosts.

Walls are stone or crumbling brick, the roofs red tile, and
doors are shorter than house plants.

When you ask for directions, prepare for an enlightening explanation of the twisted medieval-era geography.

Below are the directions I received for my pasta-making class, in the next hilltop village.

The Umbria map is in my day pack, and my taste buds are tingling with anticipation.

At the end of the long city stone wall on the left where the road divides, take the right turn into Via Madonna della Stella. Continue on this road until it divides, about 100 m further. Keep right following the sign saying Fontanaro or Tartagli or Residence lʼOlivo and continue downhill 100 m further on where you reach a small church on the right.

Directly opposite the church is a road with another small Fontanaro sign. Turn left onto this road which descends through olive groves. At the next junction 400 m later, and just past a pair of wooden gates with a mail box, turn right.

Keep left at the next fork and continue passing the house on the right (La poderina). Just past this house is a shrine at another junction. Keep to the right and continue for another 250m where the road ends at the gate for Fontanaro. There is an arch of Roses that bloom in May and a big cypress tree.

Ciao 

Alina 

Pestilence on the High Seas

I donated blood today. To the dozens of biting flies that swarmed Echo II in the Choptank River and feasted on my legs, arms, toes, fingers, ears, and nose. The ones I slapped in shock and desperation were loaded with red corpuscles--mine. And I am bruised from slapping myself silly, too.

Darn wildlife. Getting more aggressive every year. Why, just the other day I was blogging about mosquitoes. I blame climate change. No, I think I'll blame Trump! Plague and pestilence are invading the planet, taking multiple forms. The list of predators and victims is growing.

These particular predators, a Chesapeake Bay variety, were just as vicious as the ones last week off the coast of New Jersey--way out in the ocean!--though not as numerous. They all ignore, or maybe even feast on, 40% DEET. 

I hope my red blood cells are contributing to a good cause, ecologically speaking, and not just fattening the bellies of greedy, bloodsucking, worthless parasites.

All in a Day's Sail

6 am Sunday, September 2, 2018--choppy Atlantic waters off the coast of New Jersey. Perfect conditions for seasickness if one were so inclined. Instead, swaying in my bunk, surrounded by beach towels in case of salt-water intrusion. Pope charting course and updating captain's log. Visiting crew member Dennis at the helm. The dinner dishes areunwashed and I can't get the tangles out of my hair.

My friends are dancing night and day at a music festival in Rhode Island. We made it to the western edge of Long Island in our trusty old boat, then declared "no farther"!

 We survived intact the East River past Manhattan in both directions. A maelstrom of swift and confused currents, waves, and wakes. A dodge-'em of freighters, ferries, barges, tugs, water taxis, and the occasional sea plane. The boat hops and jumps. We surf. "A free roller coaster!" Dennis declared.

Not exactly. The costs are in bruised legs and seared nerves. The passing panorama of architecture and history, the song of this city in stalled traffic and sunbathers in the parks, are the rewards.

Along the way we made new friends, a young couple who decided on a whim to forgo normal prospects like income and air conditioning to live on a boat the size of ours. Sealing cracks. Replacing rigging. Raising and lowering sails without the aid of roller furling or lazy jacks. Chasing fair weather and hats blown overboard. Cramped. Demanding. I admire their perseverance and ability to kick back and enjoy.

Yesterday, we caught up with old friends after chasing them uo and down the coast several years. They rescued me from a predictable future of boredom and comfort by convincing me, on Christmas Eve 2013, Browns Marina, Bimini, the Bahamas, to stay on the boat with Pope instead of jumping ship. Two hundred and seventy seven bites ago, from no-see-ums, gnats, pesky mosquitoes, and vicious Georgia and New Jersey flies. Blood spatters on the cabin ceiling, some dried long ago and others from only yesterday.

After trading rum and remarks for crackers and retorts in Pearl's spacious cockpit, we returned to Echo II to set anchor for a few hours of roly-poly, rock-the-baby sleep before entering the Atlantic.

Is It Nap Time Again?

Abort * Abort * Abort. Wait! That Was LAST time. That title's been used before. Need a new one.

I'm getting a tingling in my brain; it's a memory, yes; a sense of deja vu, having been here, done that.

It's a memory that evokes an oft-heard refrain among sailors: oh, broke down again? Well, that just leaves more time for naps.

Pope's brother Jake had visions of flying up Long Island Sound under full sail, wind in his hair, blissfully soaking up salt and sea. He looked forward to it for weeks.

Instead the three of us are soaking up shade under a makeshift bimini, flying around a mooring ball in a strong southeast breeze--a breeze that would have been perfect for the sail up the sound. An excellent opportunity for a mid-day snooze.

Jake's vision faded with the sunset shortly after departing the East River and entering Port Washington on Long Island, as one of us leaned heavily on a gearshift already worn and rusty, long overdue for an upgrade. Snap. 

Yep, I've heard that refrain before. Broke down. Flurry of trying to fix it ourselves. Defeat. 

The beer is cold, the red wine flows, the Stop 'n' Shop has bread, berries, and bananas. I've got an excellent book and a backpacker's guitar to practice my music.

The rocking boat lulls us gently into a stupor every time we settle in, waiting for a Monday morning mechanic.

No Toll On These Bridges to Brooklyn and The Bronx

The bridges of Manhattan are a beautiful infrastructure of granite, ironwork, and steel. The architecture is taken for granted by millions of oblivious commuters honking impatiently at the brake lights ahead. Sailing underneath, however, is an introduction to centuries of changing materials and engineering.

 

Sailing toward Manhattan is a treat. We did it for the first time last summer. This summer, approaching Manhattan just before dusk because of the timing of the tides, we took a quick slide past the Statue of Liberty.

 

 

Early that morning, Echo II had arrived at Atlantic Highlands near Sandy Hook, after 24 hours in calm ocean off the Jersey coast, and anchored for a few hours, waiting for the tide to turn in our favor. By afternoon we would be torpedoing past Manhattan and through the notorious Hell Gate in the East River, in currents that can climb to 5-10 knots. Always a thrill.

On the way up the coast, we were surprised and pleased to pass fellow zydeco dancer Steve B. in Delaware Bay, returning from New England on his own boat. He recognized our spinnaker from my Facebook pictures and circled around to say hello! (I thought he was going the wrong way, though; the dancing will be in New England next weekend.) After Delaware Bay, we passed through Cape May and sailed north for the New Jersey ocean passage.

By the time we reached Sandy Hook, we no longer looked fresh and clean (see "before" photos in previous blog post), nor was the boat, after three days of hard sailing, biting flies, night watches, and cooking while underway, with nothing but a few naps and a good Scotch to fortify us. Couldn't wait to stand under a shower, dump trash, and buy beer and bandages.

First, though, we had to pass through New York City, a juxtaposition of historic glory and modern glitz.

Dodging ferries, water taxis, and jet skis in the lower East River, we passed the United Nations then the upper east side. Finally came the rocky ride through the notorious currents and eddies of Hell Gate. 

We left Manhattan glowing under a full moon, headed for the next anchorage and a rest.

Look Out, New England: Echo II On the Move

Captain's log: Stardate 2018, 22 August, 1330 hours. Hot and humid. Scanning the horizon, no obstacles in sight but a few dark clouds. 

Down the hatch: duffle bags, boat bags, food bins, water jugs, tools, spare parts, books.

 

 

Sail cover removed and lines cast off at Blue Water Marina. 

 

Wind and rain as we left the dock. Oops, Pope forgot his summer rain gear. Up the bay in heavy yellow slickers, his brother Jake at the helm.

First entry in ship's log by Captain Pope: cast off for another cruise to New England. 

First mate Amber sagging from the labors of shopping, packing, closing up house, organizing boat for departure, feeding crew one last energy-packed, home-cooked feast. Climb aboard.

Aah. Feels like second home.

Next Port-of-Call: Culicidae Central

Pope wants me to go on another sailboat cruise. He promises minimal heeling, elimination of all boat leaks, and no mosquitoes.

Ha ha, just kidding! The only thing he promised is that he will take the helm and I can stay in the cabin when blood-suckers strike. He hand-crafted a wood-framed mosquito screen for the companionway. Very classy. Score one for Homo sapiens.

Pope is rarely attractive to mosquitoes (Culicidae). I suspect his consumption of meat and alcohol (B vitamins), junk food (poisonous preservatives), and sugar (bleached and stripped of nutrition) has created a toxic environment around his pores.

I, on the other hand, eat healthy, organic produce with natural spices and the purest milk, butter and local honey. Sweet nectar to the discriminating ectoparasite. Bzzzzt bzzzzt. Yum yum. Scratch scratch.

To weed our garden plot yesterday, I donned long pants, long sleeves buttoned at collar and wrists, plus Deep Woods Off (25% DEET) on hands and face. I ran the gauntlet, then raced for the shower to cool the itch. I counted 11 bites--five on my left hand alone, and two on my left thigh--THROUGH THE DEET AND CLOTHES! I even caught Pope scratching. 

According to the pest-control firm Orkin, DC is the fourth worst city for mosquitoes. And they can be deadly. For now, I'm giving up on lemon eucalyptus and raw garlic and switching to 40% DEET!

On the boat, the situation exacerbates. Covering up in hot sun risks heatstroke. Showers are the one-minute variety. DEET blows into eyes and ears. Pope THINKS he's in control, but when I'm on board, Culicidae rules.

Another sailboat cruise? Maybe. If we start in October and head for Iceland, one of the few places in the world without these hungry beasts.