Friday, May 27th, 2016

I Never Want to Leave Biscayne Bay!

Sunset From Biscayne Bight Anchorage

These famous last words were shortly followed by “we had a pretty successful shakedown cruise, nothing happened!” "Start the engines, we’re heading north!" Silence. "I said, start the engines!" Click. It seems like the Yamaha dinghy engine spent all night telling Stan the starboard Yanmar the joys of going on strike. “I went on strike the other day, and it was so much fun! Watching these humans suffer for a change is great. Maybe when they realize how valuable we are, they’ll treat us engines better.” Well, the pep talk worked and Stan the Starboard peaced out. Matt fiddled with it all day and because the starter does not electrocute you when you rake a screwdriver over it, we think the starter is dead. Matt was happy not to get electrocuted but very sad about Stan the Starboard’s Starter (Seriously, this is Nigel Calder’s solution.) We were planning on being at our old dock (which we paid for through May 31) this weekend, soaking up wifi and A/C and mail and Chinese delivery.

We debated heading north with one engine. It is a sailboat, after all. We just like having two engines for navigating tricky inlets and getting into docks. And then there’s the disturbing thought that Portside Pete might not think it’s fair to do all the work with Starboard Stan naps, and might join the protest strike. He’d wait until we were under the bridge, battling hoardes of drunk holiday boaters, being tossed by wakes and pushed by currents.

We called the Yanmar dealer in Miami, and he had an off-brand starter, and was open for another hour. My brother could swim to shore and run to the dealer in this time; however, he is not available and we are weak and didn’t even contemplate it.

Working on engine parts on the dining table

Sunday, May 29th

Dinner Key Mooring Field
Our peaceful anchorage off Biscayne Bight was a washing machine yesterday. I actually felt quite put out by it. The anchorage and sandbar fills up with about 10% of Miami (literally hundreds of boats, possibly up to a thousand!) on the weekend - and this was a gorgeous holiday Saturday - and the nonstop wakes make it very uncomfortable to get work done. Matt worked on the dinghy engine all day. We had soaked the carburetor overnight and felt sure that would fix it’s peevish little tantrum. It didn’t.

We made it to Dinner Key Mooring field this morning and put on quite a show picking up the mooring. Too bad none of our neighbors were home; they missed some high quality free entertainment. The Dinner Key Mooring Field shuttle took Matt to shore, he walked to West Marine, and bought a fuel line for our dinghy motor. It didn’t work, so it’s row row row your boat. Just think how fit we’ll be!

Dinner Key Marina and Mooring Field. Independence is way out there, as tiny as it could be!

Hastings' Update

You can’t afford to close your eyes and take a well deserved nap, even for a second! I was napping this afternoon (I deserved it, I had to supervise entrance to a narrow channel and then picking up a mooring ball that seemed very unprofessionally handled. I was very embarrassed, but I don’t think anyone saw). I awoke to find Dearest Darling Daddy missing. Gone! There had been no splash, no scream. No permission to leave was sought. Just gone. I’ve searched the vessel many times, and there’s no explanation. The long haired one doesn’t seem worried, but what does that mean? Not much. There is some good news. I am on the boat with the food stores, and LHI and I had some salmon, so apparently survival is possible. Secondly, I believe DDD is on a cheese farm recon mission. I bet he’ll come back soon with a sample for me, because he’s the best!

Next Time on the Blog

May 26th, Biscayne Bay

On Our Way, at a Normal Speed, Before the Trouble.

The humans say they having nothing to write about, as nothing has happened. If only I could blot out my troubles as easily as they forget theirs!

It’s up to me, the only reliable, sensible creature aboard to catch you up on the latest round of suffering.

My humans can be quite sweet, really. This morning they said "we want to take you to the sandbar”. I protested that it wasn’t necessary, I was quite happy laying in the shade as opposed to marching through wet water and dodging urchins. They insisted, and I consented as I do love a good dinghy ride. Of course I impressed upon them to take all necessary safety precautions; at the very least an extra batch of brownies and a block of cheese. They assured me we were just going to the sand bar 300 yards away, and it was going to be lovely. They could swim there and back, and the only reason for the dinghy was for my comfort. All this talk about my comfort, my happiness, and adventures for my sake, is bewildering. Anytime someone says “I’m doing this for you” be afraid. Be very afraid.

We arrived at the sandbar at low tide; however, it was not wadable for me. They could have foreseen this if they cared to use their noggins, but as is often the case, they didn’t care to. I choose not to swim if it can be avoided. It is demeaning and embarrassing to have to doggy paddle through the water like a dog.

The humans then came up with the brilliant idea of going to the park; again, "for my sake", so I can walk. Walking on land is an opportunity to find the cheese farm, or at least meet other humans who might have better provisions and air conditioning. We got to land, wonderful land, and had a lovely walk. No cheese farm this time. However, when it was time to go home, the trusty engine wouldn’t start. Most dearest darling daddy worked at it for 45 minutes under my watchful eye. The long haired interloper suggested paddling home. There were a number of other options available, had only standard safety protocols been followed. The humans could have brought a phone and used it to call a tow boat. The humans could have brought their rowing seat so they could row. They could have brought chicken, cheese, and brownies to sustain me while I embarked on the relentless task of being an oar master. As you might have guessed, they did none of these things.

They paddled, one on each side. Dearest darling daddy, being more wonderful in every way, paddled better, which caused the boat to row in a circular motion. I attempted to help by standing on the tube and glaring at the long hair interloper, imploring her to be more like dearest darling daddy. This worryingly slow ordeal went on for quite some time. Dearest darling daddy then decided to make a rowing seat out of the fuel can and lifejackets. This scheme bypassed the weak link (we shan’t point out her name) and improved our dire situation. I asked for cheese to sustain me. They tried to give me water instead. Foul muck! We’re surrounded by water. Water is the problem. Water is the enemy. It is always water that prevents me from finding my cheese farm. I hate water!

Then, like a miracle, rescuers appeared on a jet ski! Like a dream, they addressed me! Oh, guardian angels! Oh, bastions of hope! They were sitting in their house (a wonderful looking looking house that definitely had air conditioning, and possibly had a cheese farm out back) and said they saw this cute dog (me!) and had to come over and say hello! I’m the best, cutest, dog they’ve ever seen. Finally, some humans with some sense! I leaned as far over as possible and offered kisses and requested asylum. Sure, these humans I’m with will probably get swept to sea without my supervision, but they bring these things on themselves, they really do. And yet nothing happens. I am not on most wonderful humans jet ski, but I am still on this useless hunk of junk with no air conditioning and no cheese. Then the guardian angels say, "enjoy the rest of your day! Thanks for the kisses!" and ski off. Back to their house. Without me. I am baffled, truly baffled by this experience. Can’t they tell I’m being traumatized? Did they think this ridiculous rowing ordeal looked normal? How is enjoying the rest of our day even a remote possibility when we can’t possibly survive another 5 minutes in this hell of the humans own making?

I am now more hopeless than before. The long haired interloper takes over rowing and immediately lists her own pathetic litany of complaints: her legs are hot, she has a blister, now there’s salt water in the blister and it hurts. Why she shares these minor concerns when my life is flashing before me, and my rescuers are sitting in air conditioning eating blocks of cheese, and I’m still out here, is beyond me.

We get to the sandbar. The humans get off and swim - and then, as if my afflictions have not already peaked, force me to swim. "It’s for your own good old chap", they say. My own good! The nerve! “Don’t you feel better?” No! No, I most certainly do not.

Unaccountably, we make it back to the boat. I am traumatized and collapse on the nearest cushion. The humans seem bizarrely cheery, as if energized by adversity. “What larks!” they say, as they ruin lunch by making it entirely out of vile weeds. Life is so tragic; there is such hope on the horizon, and yet such immediate despair. The only thing for me to do is nap, and dream of jet skis, and air conditioning, and cheese.

Editors note: The distance traveled may have been miles and hours on four paws and in dog time, but was only a mile and twenty minutes. We did have a phone on us, but Matt can never find anything in his bag, and we didn’t look for it as a few moments of exercise won’t hurt us. We’ll be sure to remember the brownies and cheese next time.

Have you ever left important items at home, like a phone? Have a found a good solution to the bottomless pit bag syndrome? Let us know in the comments! 

Let sleeping dogs lie. For when they wake, their sufferings at the hands of the humans begin.

My dear, darling daddy and provider of food (though never enough) and I were both given writing tasks this week. I was thrilled to be able to finally set the record straight on my circumstances, so sat down with alacrity to tell you this tale of suffering. Dearest darling daddy has, understandably, due to the vexing tasks that are always before him, fallen behind on his post. It is my duty to fill in.

The Truth of My Life

I began writing this dispatch some time ago. I was being unceremoniously carted down the dock when a neighbor said “When I die, I want to come back as Hastings” I kissed her in an attempt to impart the truth, but she kept going “He just has the life of Riley”. Sigh. All humans seem to be inflicted by confusion about my life and the constant agony I endure. A full look at my sufferings would tax the comfort food section at Wal-Mart, so I will attempt to give only a partial look at the many trials and tribulations that I bear on a daily basis. It is my fervent hope that you will come to see what has previously thought as being “fun” and “adventure” is actually “bad times” and “extreme horror”. What you see as sufficient provisioning is scant and barely enough to keep a fly alive, let alone a 30 lb dog, who would prefer to be 35 pounds.

Wonderful, Glorious Air Conditioned House

We used to have a house. I didn’t know it at the time, as most lucky bastards don’t know what heaven is until they have been introduced to hell, but it was an oasis. This house had Air Conditioning. This is a wonderful invention that makes a house a normal temperature. In the way of my life, I have noticed that the long haired interloper (more on this later) is a miser. When visiting a dog friend, I became aware that most people use the amazing Air Conditioner to make their house cold. Wonderfully cold! Cold enough that the weak humans are enshrouded in blankets, but the quadrupeds are perfectly content.

In this world of my youth that appears to me now like a dream, a vision, the humans would entertain themselves by swimming in their pool. This caused me great consternation, and I would have to supervise. No splashing, no going under water, and they’d really be better off not to go in at all, but cool down by turning the air conditioner colder. After a requisite show of supervision, I could retreat to my house and pretend my humans were normal. I have an inkling that every once in a while, they went off on more worrying adventures, but I was upgraded to Grandma’s house where I was fed pizza and chicken, so that was OK. Grandma also had Air Conditioning at a normal level. How I loved Grandma’s house!

The Humans Sell Our House

Then one day, something happened. People arrived and moved our stuff, and we were in an apartment and not a house. I suppose if I was honest with myself, I had noticed changes afoot, but I had tried to ignore them. Months before, a bizarre pattern began. The phone would ring, the long haired interloper would march around opening blinds, turning on lights, and sweeping up. Then she’d gather me, and we would walk around and around the block, staring at our own house from many houses down. On good, blessed, wonderful days, she would put me in the car, turn the air conditioning on, and sit at the stop light. She’d mutter things like “What on earth are they doing there? It’s a house! It has a kitchen! Are they making tea?” I always thought this was funny. Poor long haired one doesn’t understand that this is America and we don’t drink tea. But, she is an interloper, and I’m sure has faced many trials that have affected her common sense.

We did this little ritual possibly hundreds of times. The person that would remain in the house while I was shuffled off said he’d never shown a house so many times with no offers. The Long Haired Interloper, aka, Miser in Chief, after much consternation, consented to turning down the air conditioning to a normal level, and voila, the next strange stage commenced.

Random people would turn up to the house and knock. Sometimes I would get shut in the bedroom and be forced to howl my extreme disapprobation at dangerous things happening without my obviously much needed supervision. I was right, of course, to be concerned. For some reason, my humans were allowing other humans to cart off our stuff. The dining table and chairs left. This seems foolish, for the humans eat there; however, if they are now going to eat on the floor with me, this does make my #1 mission in life (to eat more chicken) easier.

The guest room furniture left. This was greatly worrying. The arrival of guests meant the Air Conditioning was set to a normal level, and heaps of chicken were produced, and the guests were slow and stupid and would just leave their food, handbags and clothes out for me to rifle through and take full advantage of. No guest furniture: no guests: no little semblance of fun and excitement for this poor neglected dog.

We Move to an Apartment

The day which I have previously alluded to appeared, and we moved into an apartment. This is like a house, only you can hear the next door neighbors yelling at each other and you don’t have your own yard. I felt the loss of my yard, and with it my sense of freedom, keenly. But, as I still had air conditioning to comfort me, it appeared that I would somehow suffer through this injustice, as I had suffered through many previous injustices. I, at least, was afforded a balcony. As luck would have it, this balcony overlooked a dog park. Many happy afternoons were spent verbosely and intently supervising the goings on at the dog park. I, myself, prefer the company of humans (even though they are stupid) to dogs. Dogs never have handbags with jerky, and rather unceremoniously and constantly sniff at my bum. It’s humiliating for us both, and, frankly, unacceptable.

We Move to A Boat

I thought we would live in this apartment forever. However, the humans again had other humans too and fro, carting off all the remaining furniture. Are we poor and headed to debtor’s prison? What’s the food like there? Air Conditioning? One day I was put in the car and driven to our boat, Independence, and we sailed to a new dock. I never saw the apartment again. Never again did I take pleasure in admiring the somewhat sufficient quantities of food in the normal sized refrigerator. It’s unlikely that the dog park has survived without my supervision. Now I am faced with a constant, burning worry: how we will survive on the puny rations stocked in the pathetic refrigerator? My only consolation, and it is a small one, is that the food storage is at dog-eye level, and I am permitted by the oppressors to view it on occasion.

We fell into a less than acceptable, but manageable, routine. My humans decided to carry me all down our dock and back, as apparently it isn’t polite to pee in front of other people’s boats. The humans finally noticed my knack for management, and with 25 other (unnecessary) dogs, I became a manager at Day Care. There were 5 humans who needed daily supervision. My superior skills were noted, and I climbed through the ranks to become dog in charge. The humans I was in charge of called me the best. Of course, I was the best, so they were not giving me undue praise, but merely speaking fact. I was just glad that these humans appreciated me, unlike my humans, who really are quite hapless. You may be wondering why, if conditions were so bad, that I did not run away or go home with another dog’s humans? Stupid as my humans may be, I am attached to them, and I worry horribly that they would simply die without me. I have to remind them every night at 6PM to open the cold box and start cooking. I have to implore them to do basic things, like going on a walk, or getting out of bed. How would they manage without me?

More Change, More Suffering

Now, dear readers, brace yourself. Change is afoot. First, one of my "transportation to the grocery store where all good things come from" vehicles disappeared. Then the second one sold. How will we get groceries without these important retrieval vehicles? The humans kept saying goodbye to people. They kept saying things like, "Hastings will love it!" "Lucky Hastings!" Wait, I’m lucky? Are we moving to a chicken and cheese farm? How wonderful! All my pain and suffering has paid off!! Finally, these stupid humans have seen the light and found the way to happiness!

Now, dear reader, I imagine that you have eaten through all your brownies and chicken stores in solidarity with my woes thus far. I shall leave you to restock your provisions and brace yourselves for next week’s entry. I’d go ahead and get double the usual amount. You’re going to need it. I, myself, I’m off to bark at the fridge so the humans remember to feed me.

Where we’ve been:

May 17th: Biscayne Bight (Scarface anchorage)
May 18th-20th: Elliot Key
May 21: Biscayne Bight
May 22: Sailed to Boca Chita, then back to Biscayne Bight
May 23: Biscayne Bight

Dirty, Dirty, Dirty

The boat is filthy! The constant rain has helped wash the salt off the decks, but the tramping in and out with wet feet has made the inside disgusting. The bi-peds onboard have been trying to mitigate the filth by wiping feet on mats, but the quadruped has been getting as dirty as possible and wiping the dirt on my light grey couches. He has quite the system of spreading the filth worked out and since it seems to give him such joy, who am I to stop him?

Hot, Hot, Hot

It’s hot in South Florida! Some beastly, cheap miser said we didn’t need a boat with A/C and we’d just open the windows. That’s mostly OKish, but at Elliot Key we had to put bug screens up due to a constant onslaught of murderous mosquitos, and the wind died= hot. The water is nice enough to swim in, so we’ve been swimming several times a day.

Mini-Retirement is Exhausting!

We’re back at Biscayne Bight and committed to not moving the boat today - because I’m exhausted! I used to judge other bloggers in my heart- why are they so behind on their blogs? They have no job! No commute! Well, retirement is very tiring - and internet is limited. Then there’s the lack of motivation to blog when you could be staring out the window instead. For instance, this morning I was out on deck thinking about writing a post when Matt pointed out a shark swimming by our hull. A very small (18 inches?) black tip shark! Shortly followed (I mean several hours of blank staring) by a spotted eagle ray leaping out of the water. Then there’s the tarpon fishing, and other boats, and people in their fancy houses. So much monitoring, so little time.

The Weather is Fickle

We’re in a bay and have access to weather reports, radar, etc. When we picked up my sister, the wind was so light we motored. We took her out to go sailing, put the sails up, and it was 20 knots of wind. Then 30. Then it started storming. Then the jib got caught on the mast when we tacked to turn back and a pillow decided to blow onto the swim step. It was a little nautical, but hey - my sister got the full experience! (We won’t mention how we got lost in the dinghy during our attempt to drop her off).

Elliot Key beach

Independence at sunset, Elliot Key

Hastings thinks he is a cat!

Scarface sandbar. We're happy, Hastings still isn't sure.

Departures and Arrivals by the numbers:
16 - number of hours it took us to “sail” from Lake Worth anchorage to Biscayne Bight. I say “sail” because it was more like motor-bashing directly into 20 knots of wind, against 4 knots of Gulf Stream current.