Copyright 2006 Blue Crab Publications

 

 

NO CRUISE… NO CRAB CAKE

By Mark Einstein

 

 

INTRODUCTION

            Who is Christopher Columbus anyway? And where has his spirit gone?  Is he the intrepid Admiral of the Ocean Sea, the brave explorer; navigator, cartographer and mathematician conjured from our first days at school?   Or is he the ruthless, Indian killing barbarian, the self-serving conquistador vilified in modern history lessons?  Is his genius worthy of being immortalized as the greatest namesake in the western hemisphere?  Or is he yet another dreamer who just wanted to go sailing, lured away from family and friends by the mystery and fascination of the sea?

This is my search for the heart of what drives the dreams of sailors and explorers.  It is a quest as much within the vast and boundless mind and soul as it is a tale of day sails, sunset cruises and high adventure along the liquid highway from the Delaware River to the Chesapeake Bay, to the Atlantic Ocean and beyond.  This is the story of a life-long journey, the destiny yet unknown; and the discovery of the spirit of Columbus, sailing inside of me.

 

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I WOULD HAVE TAKEN A SABBATICAL A LONG TIME AGO IF MY BILL COLLECTORS WOULD TAKE ONE TOO

M. Infanti

 

            The whole thing started very early in the school year.  I had spent many months secretly planning a proposal that might persuade our school board to release me from a year of teaching American History.  After my most successful charter season ever, I hoped to sail my boat to the Caribbean for an educational adventure of a lifetime; my ultimate voyage of discovery. I was very much afraid to discuss such a fantasy with anyone, since even though it is mentioned in our contract, I had never before heard of a high school teacher requesting such a leave. Perhaps, such lack of interest is related to the fact that if approved, the teacher must forego all salary, benefits and any other form of compensation for the entire year. Fair enough, I thought, as I studied every line stipulating the educational travel and study requirements outlined in the union agreement.   I have seen plenty of young female teachers, often without tenure, sail away indefinitely, realizing their own dreams of having children and raising a family.  I could not imagine how anyone could refuse my completely legitimate request to seek educational study abroad?  I confided in my supervisor, the principal, the union rep, and finally, I mustered the courage to submit the following proposal to our superintendent.

 

 

 

To the Superintendent:

 

I am writing to ask your consideration in granting me a one-year sabbatical leave of absence, in accordance with our union contract, for the purpose of educational travel and study during the 2005-2006 school year. I will briefly outline my proposal for your review and will be happy to address the Board to answer any questions you or they might have.

 

As a twenty five-year veteran history teacher, I have found that genuine, first hand experience is the best means by which to gain expertise in any given field of study.  I believe that over the years, my many personal interests have greatly enhanced my professional ability to inspire and motivate students to broaden their own horizons.  I have had a lifelong interest in history and its relationship to the sea; particularly, the 15^th century voyages of discovery and global encounters that have shaped the development of the western hemisphere.  I presently have an opportunity to further extend my level of personal and professional expertise in this area, and thus, provide resources that will be of great value to our school district.

 

During the 2005-2006 school year, I propose to visit and study a significant number of landfalls discovered during Christopher Columbus’ 1493, second voyage to America. Beginning with a 1500 mile transatlantic offshore passage from Norfolk, Virginia, I will navigate and visit as many of the historic harbors as time will allow, studying passage routes, approaches and the geographic make-up of the region. Destinations will include at least fifteen islands in the Greater and Lesser Antilles in the West Indies.  My specific areas of study will focus on factors that contributed to oceanic travel and exploration in the 15^th and 16^th centuries, including technological innovations in ship building and navigation, the effects of wind and current, and the major trade routes between North and South America.  Additionally, I will examine the effects of European conquest on the indigenous Native American population, the West Indian connection to the African slave trade, the Triangular Trade routes and the role of the region in America’s period of imperial growth during the late 19^th century.  I will also have an extended opportunity to observe and comment on the modern societies that inhabit the region. Ultimately, at the conclusion of the experience, I will be able to provide our social studies department with a multitude of project ideas and activities, as well as series of lectures and a video documentary for use in implementing NJ core standards in World History/Culture, US History, and geography and diversity studies.  Special events related to Columbus Day and Black History Month may also be included. 

 

As an experienced, licensed, professional US Merchant Marine officer, I have the skill and qualifications needed to undertake the venture successfully.  I have put a great deal of thought and consideration into the plans for the project.  In addition to financing my own expenses, I will use my own boat, which has been deemed exceptionally seaworthy, by a recent survey.  The 1500 mile ocean passage will take place through the sponsorship of West Marine, the Nation’s leading marine supplier, and will be in the company of approximately 50 other vessels which will provide a safety net for each other.  I will be accompanied by one of my sailing colleagues, also a teacher, for the voyage down and back.

 

A challenging venture such as this is something I have always hoped to accomplish.  I believe that such an endeavor would greatly benefit the students in our district as well as enhance my ability to inspire and motivate others during my remaining years of service.

 

I respectfully ask that the Board consider this matter as quickly as possible since it involves a great deal of time, cost and research to plan effectively.

 

I sincerely thank you for your consideration,

 

Mark T. Einstein 

 

           

            I waited impatiently for weeks, receiving unofficial nods and thumbs-up from those who held my fate in their hands.  Finally, in October, I received official notice that my plan had been approved.

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            I grew up believing that the world was round and have always dreamed of an “adventure of a lifetime”.  My earliest adventure came at about four, when I cast off from the safe harbor of my childhood home in Baltimore and made a successful circumnavigation around the block.  A few years later, when I learned to ride a bike, I was able to convince a group of pals to pedal as fast and as far as we could, timing ourselves, so we could make it back home before suppertime. Later, when I had grown up a bit, I learned how to hop onto the back of city buses and ride them all over town.  It was a dangerous way to get around.  If my sister had not spotted me and my friends flying past our house swinging wildly from the stern of the downtown bound Number 20, this story might have ended there.  She alerted my father who promptly kicked my ass when he finally caught up in his car. All in all, I had a happy childhood filled with many such exciting memories. Then, just as I was about to start high school, I was kidnapped by my parents and forced to live in New Jersey.  

            High school was a nightmare; a complete culture shock.  I felt as though I was imprisoned in a backyard of boredom, futility and regret. I missed the excitement and adventure, and the freedom that I knew in Baltimore. Trapped in a suburban plywood jungle, decorated with tiny trees, newly constructed, unoccupied strip malls, and populated by Philadelphia sports fans, I made up my mind I would have to head south.

            Henry was the only friend I had who was crazy enough to sign on as crew. One night, he and I decided we would “borrow” his father’s car and drive it to Florida. At just fifteen years old, it would be a navigational adventure of epic proportion to sneak out of our houses in the dead of night, blow off school and drive without a license to Fort Lauderdale. It took us months to gear up and make the final plans. We studied maps. We made estimates of food and fuel costs, saved our lunch money and taught ourselves to drive.  In anticipation of my being dead asleep when Henry came to pick me up, I tied a line to my big toe and threw it out the window.  I really didn’t believe Henry would show up.  However, when I felt the tug on my toe, I knew the adventure had begun. That was thirty-four years ago.

             The explorer in me was born a long time ago, and at 48 years old, I found myself gearing up yet again.  I’ve often been accused of running away, and I guess when too many people accuse you of the same thing, they just might be right.

 

 

            I have had the best of many possible worlds. Having taught high school history in New Jersey since I graduated college, I have never experienced the monotony of a year-round work cycle.  Hope and freedom have never been more than 180 days away.            I have lived ashore in a variety of houses and apartments, but have found the greatest peace while living aboard a sailboat. When I’m not on the road or in the classroom, I run a charter sailing business in Rock Hall, Md., the “Pearl of the Chesapeake Bay.”  Rock Hall is located on Maryland’s upper Eastern Shore, straight across the bay from my birthplace, Baltimore. I guess you could say I have finally made it home.

 

“Nice People Live Here”

 

Rock Hall is located directly on the Chesapeake Bay just north of the Chester River and south of Swan Point, twelve miles west of Chestertown, the seat of Kent County. It is known as the sailing capital of the Eastern Shore as well as one of the best places in the world to find blue crabs. It is actually a shorter drive to Rock Hall from Philadelphia than it is from Baltimore, which is less than twenty miles to the west as the crow flies. During Colonial times, travelers heading north from Annapolis to Philadelphia and New York would ferry across the bay to Rock Hall where an easier, flatter land route would take them to their destination. George Washington, Eric Clapton and Tallulah Bankhead top the list of famous people known to have frequented this small crabbing and fishing town. 

            Crabbers, fisherman and sailors make up the better part of Rock Hall’s population of around two thousand.  There is a distinct stratum of social rank and respect among the people who live and visit the town. It has nothing to do with income or education, quite the opposite of Annapolis, Baltimore and the Philadelphia Main Line, the major source of transients who come to Rock Hall. The native-born watermen top this hierarchy, followed by the charter fishermen, the locals who have found their way into various service industries, the bartenders and waitresses, cruisers and drifters and spinsters and drunks. Finally, somewhere in the mix, are the “chicken-neckers”, the vast hordes of mainly upper middle-class interlopers who have discovered refuge in the uniqueness and convenience of vacationing, dining, inn-keeping, shop keeping and boating in this isolated, artsy little harbor town.  “Nice people live here”, reads the welcome sign on Rt. 20, and in the tradition of small towns, if you go there often enough, everybody might eventually know your name.  Rock Hall offers a unique blend of the old, the new and the completely original.

            The boats found in Rock Hall are divided into three basic categories, each commanding its own level of respect or disrespect. There are, first and foremost, the workboats, the highly venerated and romanticized Chesapeake watercraft used specifically to produce income from crabbing, oystering and fishing. These are the tools of the waterman’s trade. Then there are the “blow boats” and the “stink pots”- the thousands of recreational sail and powerboats that fill the many marinas found in the well-protected waters of Rock Hall.  It is the captains, crews and friends of these modern and mostly expensive vessels that support the ever-burgeoning tourist economy during the summer months. 

            Rock Hall faces west, looking out upon the open Chesapeake Bay.  Its privileged location permits one to witness some of the most dramatic and sensational sunsets imaginable anywhere on the east coast.  When the sunset fades, and darkness comes, the harbor lights reflect out upon the water, stretching for awhile across the rock jetty harbor entrance where they disappear into a horizon lit only by the distant sky of Baltimore. To the southeast, the Kent Narrows Bridge, like a string of pearls, is all that can be seen connecting this spectacular Chesapeake gemstone with all there is that we have come to get away from.  The spectator might equate the feeling to sitting on the moon looking at the earth.

 

 

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“I’m Sailing!!!”

Bob

 

 

I first started sailing after high school when my long-time good friend Mike, bought a nineteen foot Cape Dory Typhoon to keep at the New Jersey shore.  The idea of sailing was completely new to me, even though I had spent many days on the Chesapeake in fishing boats as a child.  Mike’s only experience was from having read about the freedom and excitement of the sailing life in books like Robin Lee Graham’s, Dove; the classic tale of the romantic adventures of a sixteen year old solo circumnavigator. He did his best to translate his fascination to me, and through many trials and errors, we learned to sail together.  There are countless stories of our running aground, calling for help, losing our engine, and Mike’s fighting seasickness out on the high seas off Atlantic City.  Looking back, we were about as prudent novice sailors as drunken reckless drivers squealing wheels out of the many Jersey shore nightclubs during the 1970’s.  Weekend after weekend, we found ourselves stocking the ice chest galley with Cheese Whiz, beer and bread, venturing seaward from the shallow back bays of Sommer’s Point, running aground, losing our engine and barfing our way back to port under sail.

            I am fortunate that I have not had the curse of seasickness, at least not yet, but I have learned to sense a seasick sailor onboard well in advance of the critical point of no return.  At first their smiles become looks of grave concern.  Then, you ask if they are having a good time.  They insist they are, but it must have been something they ate. They force a smile and gaze off blankly at the horizon. Then, when their denial is no longer possible and their conversation has diminished to a low-pitched grunt or a groan, there is a sudden shift of body position. The critical moment arrives when everybody onboard takes cover as the pitiful would-be adventurer charges the nearest lifeline, hopefully on the leeward side, propelling his lunch into the briny depths.

            Part of my life’s ambition has been to cure Mike of this terrible misfortune, as he is one of my most trusted and able sailing crews as well as my most beloved friend.  Despite his seasickness episodes over the years, he remains one of the most knowledgeable, well read and determined sailors I have ever known.

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My first sailboat was a nineteen-foot Lightning racing sloop.  These are popular one-designs that are built with spacious cockpits for day sailing, and no cabin below.  Mine was a derelict, wrecked and abandoned in a virtual urban war zone in Camden, NJ.  I don’t remember what inspired me to go boat shopping in such a place, but I do remember Rodney, the Bohemian, misplaced Jamaican boatyard owner, pointing out the few selections in my price range. There was a thirty foot wooden replica of a Chinese Junk that only needed a mast, sails, a “few planks” and a new keel. The old keel would have sufficed had it not begun to turn to mulch as it settled into the muddy soil.  A better choice, perhaps, was a twenty-seven foot fiberglass Coronado, made by the predecessors of Catalina.  I had heard of this manufacturer before, and she might have been the one had she not been lying upside down on a crushed cabin top with a centerboard hopelessly jammed into the trunk.  A very reasonable alternative was the Lightning.  The modest price of $175.00 was well within my price range and included free delivery to my father’s house. Rodney guaranteed me that the only holes were in the topside and that the bottom was sound and seaworthy.  With such assurances, I felt no need to bother with a survey, so I bought my first sailboat and named it “Patriot”. 

 Patriot was delivered the next day and was set down onto wooden blocks in my father’s driveway.  There were plenty of holes on the topside.  In fact, there was one for every piece of deck hardware that belonged in its place.  It arrived with no mast, no boom, no sails, no centerboard, no floorboards, and very little hope of ever sailing again. Nonetheless, it was at that precise moment, as I positioned myself proudly in the cockpit where the helm should have been, gazing forward across the muddy, punctured deck and over the bow at a full audience of horrified neighbors, that Captain Mark was born.

            I felt a strange and sudden passion unlike anything I had ever felt before.  My father shook his head in disbelief, but soon came onboard to lend his support for what became, perhaps, the most remarkable nautical restoration project in the history of South Jersey.  Piece by piece and hole by hole, Patriot began to take shape, and in less than a year, we began looking for a marina.  Knowing precious little about the recreational boating facilities available on the Delaware River, we finally located a run down, out of the way marina situated on the Christina River, just outside of Wilmington.  The launching went well as Patriot splashed down from the rented trailer into the murky waters of the Christina River.  Morris, the aging owner of the marina stood anxiously by, waiting to see how fast the boat would sink.  But, to everyone’s surprise, she stayed afloat.  It was time to start sailing!

            If experience is the best teacher, then the Patriot was the Ivy League education of sailing and seamanship to me. An intense curriculum of maritime misadventures defined my four-year apprenticeship as master and commander of this lively little ship.  Upon my commencement, I could have composed a virtual doctoral dissertation on the topic of what not to do on a sailboat.  For example, never flaunt your spinnaker handling skills in heavy air before a large audience. This is a lesson I learned one chilly, autumn Saturday afternoon when Mike and I went sailing past the Fort Mercer battlefield on the New Jersey side of the Delaware River. It was a blustery October 22^nd, the date of the annual picnic and battle re-enactment at one of South Jersey’s Revolutionary War sites.  Onboard were some half eaten sandwiches, a cockpit full of mostly empty beer cans, Mike and me. Ashore, was a large crowd of curious onlookers strolling toward the beach, waving as we hoisted the bright green, yellow and red spinnaker sail up the wooden mast for a broad reach down the river. It must have looked majestic as the multi-colored nylon balloon snapped open to catch hold of the fresh, northwesterly wind. The sheet line held fast in my fist as Patriot leaped across the chop against the tide.  Mike and I were thrilled as we skidded, nearly airborne, down the river for almost a quarter of a mile then turned up into the wind to drop the flogging sail.  Mike insisted we do it again and we made it quickly back up the river on the current and the close-hauled mainsail. Who could resist such an opportunity to demonstrate the power and beauty of wind and speed as the fascinated men, women and children filled the beach? 

            We seemed to execute each maneuver exactly the same way as we accelerated onto a surfing plane downwind.  Then suddenly, a tremendous gust hit us from the starboard side and the giant sail swung sharply to port, tearing the sheet line from my fist. At once, as if in a choreographed, slow motion movie, and before I even realized what was happening, the entire boat fell onto its side, rolling everything we had, including Mike and me, into the drink.  By the time we swam up to the surface, the boat was completely upside down and the motor, rudder, floorboards and beer were hopelessly lost.  It was a most tragic scene as the shivering captain and crew clung desperately onto the centerboard, surrounded by the dozens of beer cans riding on the current past the amused crowd of spectators.  Within a half hour, the race was on to see whether the National Park Marine Police, the Philadelphia Navy Yard, or the United States Coast Guard would be the first to reach the scene.  As it turned out, they all showed up at the same time, ensuring that the spectacle would be talked about and remembered for years to come. And if that wasn’t enough, the Navy Yard newsletter published a brilliant article chronicling their dramatic rescue, and they mentioned names. Notwithstanding, Patriot, although dismasted, sunk, and returned to its original state of disrepair, did live to sail again.

 

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            Sailing on the Delaware River demands an advanced level of navigational expertise.  The shifty winds, the swift current and the six-foot tidal range present a rather unfriendly challenge to the recreational boater. Other hazards such as commercial traffic, floating debris and narrow channels combined with an unsightly industrial landscape and a generally unpleasant smell, possess the mariner to wonder why he didn’t simply stay on land.  It is understandable that the bulk of the area’s boaters would prefer to do their yachting either on the Chesapeake Bay or at the New Jersey Shore. I might have never had the chance to move on if it hadn’t been for my mentor, A.J. Thompson.

Beach Marina Blues

 

            I first met A.J. in 1983, when I responded to a want ad in the paper while looking for a summer job.  The ad stated thus:

           

            “SUMMER HELP WANTED: S.J.Boat dealership seeks highly motivated individual to assist in all phases of boat yard work.  Must have a valid driver’s license and sailing experience.  Contact A.J. Thompson, A.J.’s Sailing World, Berlin N.J.”

           

            As a young schoolteacher with a passion for sailing, I thought this might be a great opportunity to combine my love of sailing with my love of making money.  First I called and left a message on an answering machine.  The next day, a very calm, soft-spoken man called and introduced himself as A.J. Thompson. He explained that his dealership was in the business of selling brand new sailboats and that he was in need of someone to do the preparation work for the delivery of boats to their new owners. The job description included everything from general cleaning and detailing to actual delivery of the boats. He invited me in for an interview.  Located miles away from any kind of navigable water, and right on a major highway, I noticed a large fleet of sailboats packed together in front of the store blocking the entrance. When I found the door and squeezed through, I entered a cluttered room lined wall to wall with aisles full of boxes and boating supplies.  The smell of fiberglass resin and the sound of high-speed buffers and other noisy power tools filled the air. I began to look for someone who looked like he might be Mr. Thompson.  Venturing deeper into the room, I found two people having a heated conversation in an office in the back.  One man kept shouting that he’d been waiting since January and he wanted his money back. The other paced back and forth, pleading that if he’d give him just two more weeks, his boat would be in the water by the Fourth of July.  The shouting quieted to a muffled discussion and I remember hearing the word “lawsuit” just as the one man stormed out of the office nearly knocking me down.  Following close behind, shaking like a leaf, the other man stumbled out of the room, threw up his arms and sputtered, “Hello, I’m A.J. Thompson, are you here for the job?”

            The interview was a stellar performance on my part.  It began with a general quiz on sailing terminology, assessing my background and experience. It commenced with a line of questions to which I could only respond with pure fantasy if I hoped to get the job. I think he saw right through me, yet somehow, I sensed he was no stranger to the fine art of fabrication.   He gave me a tour of the building and grounds. The yard was completely jammed with dozens of brand new Catalina, Watkins and Tanzer yachts, high and dry in various states of un-readiness, waiting to be commissioned for the season.  The interview concluded with A.J. promising to let me know within a week if my services would be of any use to him.  When I got home, I had a message to call A.J. Thompson immediately. If I wanted the job, I could start right away.

 

 

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            The rise and fall of Thompson Sailing World is an intriguing tale itself. A.J. was the lucky beneficiary of the sailboat boom resulting from the high gasoline prices in the early nineteen-eighties. Having unexpectedly become the largest landlocked sailboat supplier in South Jersey, he suddenly found himself making promises to customers that he could not possibly keep.  Several factors worked against him, which exponentially compromised his success. The most obvious was the fact that it was very easy for A.J. to sell sailboats.  He was truly a master salesman. With his charismatic smile and his captivating, upbeat conversation, A.J. could convince even the most unwitting landlubber that he was born to sail.  “We’re a full service marina”, he’d exclaim. “We’ve got a fully trained staff of professionals ready to service you and your boat’s every need”.  Then, he’d pull out a giant color photo of the brand-new Beach Marina complex, located on the western shore of New Jersey’s Barnegat Bay, pointing out the very slip from which their newly delivered dreamboat would sail. The less obvious and most complicating circumstance was the fact that neither the boat builders, the sail makers, the electronics suppliers, nor his “fully trained staff of professionals” could meet his hopeless demands for the impossible.  As a result, A.J. found himself locked in the irons of irate customers, persistent lawyers, bill collectors and a “staff of professionals” on the constant verge of either quitting or being fired.

            I showed up the very next day to start my new job.  As it turned out, just after my interview was over, one of A.J.’s top men threw a broom at him from the deck of a brand new Catalina 30 and got himself fired along with two additional sympathizers who followed out the door. Completely unaware that I had already been promoted even before I had a chance to fill out a W-4 form, I was summoned to an early morning meeting with A.J. in the back office.  He sat me down in a chair next to his desk and he laid it on the line. “I’m up to my ass in alligators,” he began.  It was the third week in June and there were at least a half dozen boats that had to be launched and commissioned by the Fourth of July or else he was going to court.

            My first trial by ordeal would be to deliver each boat by trailer to Mariners Marina in the town of Barnegat, stand by while the boat was launched and rigged, meet the new owner for a shakedown cruise, and complete a systems checklist required by the manufacturer to activate the warranty.  The task did not seem too impossible at first, but A.J. wasn’t through with my instructions. He handed me a long handwritten list and motioned me outside where there were about fifteen or twenty boxes piled up on the floor with customers’ last names scribbled on the top.  He opened the first box, informing me that it contained the back-ordered depth sounder that needed to be installed on Mr. Quigley’s boat in slip #114. The next was a stern rail that had finally come in for Mr. Cillini.  “If I had a chance”, maybe I could bolt it on while waiting for one of the new boats to be launched.  The list went on and on as A.J.’s eyes riddled me with glances of hope and despair. I was dumbfounded and totally dazed. Nevertheless, I stood outside of that office, right next to a frantic A.J. Thompson, nodding my head, affirming my complete confidence that I would somehow be able to perform the miracle.  There were a few setbacks at first, such as getting lost, driving the truck, the trailer and a thirty foot sailboat  down a dark dirt road in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. But, when all was said and done, and to everyone’s amazement, I spent that Fourth of July relaxing on a sailboat, drinking a beer and singing Jimmy Buffett songs with my brand new bevy of thrilled new boat owners at Beach Marina.

 

 

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            The rest of that summer was a breeze.  A.J. was delighted as his drivers brought me boats for commissioning at Beach Marina. I kept my own hours spending weekends and weekdays installing parts, sailing with customers and making long on-water deliveries to places like Atlantic City, Cape May and even the Chesapeake Bay. Residing aboard a Watkins 29 sailboat at Beach Marina, I got to know the many owners who came down for the holidays and weekends.  And, I began to acquire a sweet taste for the pleasant thrill of “living aboard”. When it came time to return to school, I went back with a heavy heart. I don’t remember exactly why I turned down A.J.’s generous offer to take me on as a year-round employee, but I agreed to work weekends at the shop and return again in the summer. 

 

 

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The Age of Discovery

I have always had a tropical soul.  I vacationed a few times in Florida as a child, and then made local history with Henry, as the first and only Gateway High School Students to ever successfully complete the over-land passage from New Jersey to Fort Lauderdale in a stolen car. After high school, my friend, Steve and I left our girlfriends so we could spend two weeks in Florida and the Bahamas. Not long after we returned, I sailed off to college in Boca Raton, Florida.  And, soon thereafter, I married my first wife, Stacey, with whom I had three wonderful boys, Joshua, Benjamin and Matthew.  I never did convince her to move away from New Jersey, but we got away whenever we could.

Stacey had a high school girlfriend that I will refer to simply as M. I will forego the revelation of her actual name, since I would not want to implicate her in further restitution lawsuits, civil charges, or even criminal double jeopardy.  M found her niche as a controller for a trucking company in New Jersey and operated a travel agency, specializing in tropical destinations on the side. Soon after high school, she was living comfortably in a luxurious condo, driving a brand new car and giving away lavish gifts that far exceeded any hope of equitable reciprocity.  During the fall of 1983, as I finished my first season with A.J., she “invested” in a condo in Clearwater Florida.  By wintertime, Stacey and I found ourselves, nearly every weekend, whisked away to the airport in a limousine en route to her southern “investment” retreat.  She seemed to have an endless supply of disposable income and no one could figure out exactly why she was so eager to share it with us.           

My maiden voyage to the Virgin Islands came as quite a surprise, and it is to M that I owe an eternal debt of gratitude. Stacey and I were invited to M’s New Jersey Condo for dinner on my twenty-seventh birthday.  When I walked through the door into the room, I was truly taken aback when a mob of nearly fifty friends, acquaintances and total strangers dressed in brightly colored Hawaiian shirts leaped out into the room to wish me happy birthday.  I was even more bowled over to find a plane ticket to St. Thomas standing beneath a plastic palm tree clung to the icing of the cake.

            By the end of March, as I was dozing off on a pristine, sun-soaked beach at an all inclusive tropical resort in St. Thomas, I noticed, without even the slightest clue, a vision that would possess my soul for many years to come.  It was only a sailboat tethered to a mooring about a hundred feet off the beach.  Yet, firmly attached between the mast and the forestay, fluttering beneath the tropical sun, flew a sign that beckoned: “V.I. Sailing Charters, Daysails – Sunset Cruises – Overnight Destination Cruises” followed by a phone number.  I scrambled to my feet, ran back to the room and called the number, thrilled to discover that the boat was available for a sunset cruise that very evening. 

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The sailboat rocked gently alongside a floating pier outside the hotel.  The captain was cool as he extended his hand to help Stacey and M aboard.  I stood back and examined the rigging, the deck, the softly undulating hull, and the most picturesque natural setting I have ever witnessed.  I stepped aboard, mesmerized, as the free-spirited captain motioned his young and beautiful mate to release the dock lines and cast us forth into a panorama I thought existed only on postcards.  The breeze held at a steady 15-20 knots easing the 36 foot Endeavor sloop slowly away from the dock.  The mate took the wheel in her hands spinning it sharply to port as the captain prepared to hoist the mainsail. Then, he asked me if I’d like to help.  I completely understood that he did not need my help, but I am sure he fully sensed my desire to be a part of his crew; to feel important.  Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I found myself participating in the very essence of sailing perfection. I had been totally and irreversibly inspired.  It was as though I was standing outside of myself, watching, as I hauled the luffing mainsail upward into the cloudless sky. The boat heeled agreeably as the sail took its shape on the warm tropical tradewind. The long keel dug in to the deep blue, crystal clear water as the skipper moved aft to take the helm.  The ever-responsive mate smiled as she descended into the cabin, returning with our first round of drinks; a beer for me and margaritas for the ladies. I had managed, somehow, to slip through a crack in every reality I had ever known and enter into a realm of existence that I could only imagine as Paradise.  At the invitation of the captain, I eagerly took the wheel and felt for the first time, my dream fully come to life. I carried those colorful images with me for many years before I had any hint that the dream might one day come true. 

            We sailed pleasantly for several hours into the kaleidoscopic sunset.  The sound of steel drums followed in our wake as we talked about Columbus and his great voyages of discovery.  We discussed the Virgin Islands, the West Indies, and stories of my experiences at Thompson Sailing World.  Most inspiring, however was finding out how this delightful entrepreneur came to cast off his old life in New York and wind up living such a dream. By the time we returned to the dock, I was already in the bag.  Having taken too much advantage of our mate’s generous offerings of beer, wine and margaritas, I was grateful to turn the boat’s helm over to its master.  We stepped ashore, saying goodbye, and taking with us a memory that has yet to fade.

             I might have been persuaded to call it quits right then, but Stacey and M agreed that we should cap off the evening at the tiki-bar on the beach.  I can barely recall forcing down a few more beers as the solo guitar player entertained a group of relaxed vacationers with reggae and calypso music.  Suddenly, in the middle of Bob Marley’s “Stir it up”, the guitar player began to cough uncontrollably.  He stopped the music, put down his guitar and started nearly choking to death right on the stage.  I was prepared to lunge off my barstool and administer the Heimlich maneuver, but thankfully he began to regain his composure. 

            The musician looked completely spent as he struggled to excuse himself for an unscheduled break.  Relieved, I slid back onto the stool just as I noticed M hasten toward the retreating guitar player.  I wasn’t sure what she was saying, but almost instantly, the guitar player returned to the microphone, announcing that there was a special guest in the audience who would finish his set.  “My God”, he was pointing at me!

            I have never been a coward, but it had been a long time since I played music in front of a crowd.  I heard a round of applause and I felt M dragging me towards the stage where the guitar player handed me his guitar and pick.  This vacation was on her; after all, the least I could do was humor her.  So I played and sang for nearly an hour before the rejuvenated musician returned.  The crowd was fantastic, singing along to every song I could remember.  I did not want to go home.  

            Sadly, it wasn’t long after our hiatus came to an end, the story broke that M was arrested and indicted for embezzlement.  It was quite a shock to everyone. 

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            Early in April, 1984, A.J. Thompson invited me to a local seafood restaurant where he proposed to me his latest brainchild. He announced that he wanted to expand his dealership to include a charter business and a sailing school.  He also wanted a “man on the scene” to service customer’s boats and tie up loose ends during the upcoming season at Beach Marina. He described the advantages of having a fleet of new boats in the water available for charter as well as demonstration models for prospective buyers. He made me an offer that I found quite flattering and I could not pass up.  I would obtain a captains license with his help and become a corporate partner, generating my own income from the charters and instruction and be paid hourly for tying up the loose ends. We opened for business on Memorial Day weekend and by the time school was out, business was booming; at least in the loose ends department.

            Beach Marina was an idyllic, brand new marina located straight across the bay from New Jersey’s Long Beach Island, separated from Island Beach by the dreaded Barnegat Inlet.  The crashing surf, the poorly marked channels and the shifting sands have defined this inlet as New Jersey’s most intimidating and sometimes treacherous entrance to the Barnegat Bay from the ocean. Millionaire developer, Bucky Martin from Philadelphia, first conceived the luxury marina complex around 1980 and got right to work on its construction. The facility offered all the amenities demanded by the modern world of yachting; such as, private showers, floating docks, a bathing beach, ice and snacks, and a funky little restaurant called simply “Beach Marina Café”.  After decades of buying, developing and selling real estate, Bucky had decided it was time to fulfill his own dream of building and running a marina with his wife and two sons.  He later confided that his primary ambition all along was to manage the waterfront restaurant. He had always wanted to cook. Within about two years, the construction was complete and Bucky was set to go.  The only thing missing was the boats.  So, in an attempt to occupy the brand new slips and generate restaurant patronage, Bucky approached A.J. Thompson and offered him a very generous seasonal rate for customers of the sailing center.  It was a brilliant concept. A.J. would have an additional incentive to throw into a sailboat deal and Bucky would have a steady flow of traffic stimulating much needed business for the marina and restaurant.  Within the first two years, Bucky Martin’s Beach Marina blossomed into an exquisite floating campground; a weekend community populated primarily by novice sail boaters whose nautical inspiration could be traced to A.J. Thompson.  And, I became the “man on the scene”

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  At Beach Marina, I lived aboard a brand new Watkins 29, “Canvasback”.  I had grown quite fond of her many comforts at the end of the previous season.  I keenly observed many fascinating aspects of marina life that would captivate me throughout my life.

             I came to love the sound of “marina music”; the angelic hum of wind in the wires and the soft, symphonic chime of bells jingling from the orchestra of masts towering overhead. The calming cadence of wavelets tapping lightly on the hull accompanied by a chorus of seagulls is Mother Nature’s magnum opus. However, like a sudden squall, the insufferable song of the obnoxious floating camper often interrupts the harmonious composition. The more dissonant cacophony is conducted by the selfish demons of ego, impatience and a wealth of inexperience.  Specifically, I am referring to communication problems that frequently beset men and women under sail; almost always sparking a downward spiral in the romantic dreams they may have originally sought. 

            I have found that sailing a boat can be easy, as long as no one is watching.  The difficulty, I have observed, emerges as the proud commander brings his ship back from the open sea, successfully traversing the channel between the day marks and buoys, entering the safety of his port.

.           It is happy hour. The wind is up; marina music fills the air, and the ever-faithful mate, the captain’s wife, stands watch from the bow eagerly awaiting instructions from her master.  The marina is packed tightly with a flotilla of boats, squeezed snuggly up against each other, their cockpits crowded with spectators enjoying their cocktails. 

            The wind is coming from behind as the captain makes his turn into the fairway. Passing his narrow slip about halfway down, he slows to a crawl.  He is going to back her in. Suddenly, he is slipping sideways in the direction of the defenseless flotilla.  He barks a command to his wife on the bow. She turns and hollers that she cannot understand him. He yells back that she needs to fend off, screaming, “NOW! Goddammit!” They are on a collision course with a neighboring yacht whose protruding anchor reaches out into the fairway.  The helm won’t respond in reverse. She shoves hard against the first victim’s bow rail but is overpowered by the momentum of the wind driven assault. “CRASH”! The captain explodes into a tirade as the sharp flukes of the anchor scrape deep into his new fiberglass hull. He abandons the helm, screaming, and frantically stumbles to the bow throwing his mate out of the way. His language is atrocious. His incredulous neighbors stow their cocktails, leaping from their cockpits onto the dock to lend a hand, but it’s too late. The damage is done.  The captain’s ego has sunk and his marriage may be on the rocks. 

            Such battles for sexual supremacy on a boat can also present great hazards to life and limb as I personally discovered one day while performing a routine repair on a boat at Beach Marina.  As the “man on the scene”, I often found notes and reminders taped to my boat for my “immediate attention”.  These were sometimes invitations to dinner, dockside parties and other welcome pleasantries.  More often, they were requests for favors, advice or some kind of repair needed on a boat.  This particular day, I discovered a note asking me to fix an anchor light on a Catalina 34.  The task required the use of a bosun’s chair, a small canvas seat in which the mechanic is towed up to the masthead.

The owner easily winched me to the top where he held me in place by tying the main halyard line around a cleat on the deck.  His wife stood next to him in the blazing sun, holding a large glass of red wine, squinting up at me as I completed the task.  A sudden powerboat wake rolled in - the boat gave a lurch, knocking her off balance and the wine went flying. The glass slipped out of her hand smashing into the metal cleat where the line was tied. Out of nowhere, and as if possessed by some sort of evil spirit, her husband began to scream uncontrollably, calling her names and blaming her for staining his boat and saturating his halyard line with the dark red wine. Looking down from the masthead, I thought he had lost his mind.   He flew into the cabin, forgetting about me, looking for rags and cleaning supplies.  The problem was that if he let me down, the dripping stain on the halyard would travel back up the mast, out of his reach, then set and dry in the hot sun. I tried to yell down that he could lower me first, and then we could tie another line to the halyard to get the stain back down. He would have none of it as he insisted he needed to hose and scrub the mess before he could let me down.  The entire coil was drenched and he was afraid the line would stain his mast as well as drip down all over the cabin top. He continued to scold and berate his wife as he mopped up the mess. When he was finally satisfied with his work, he prepared to release the halyard. He unfastened the wet soapy line and then sliced his hand wide open on a piece of glass he had missed from the cleanup.  His hand snapped open and he let go of the line, sending me free falling toward the deck fifty feet below.  It happened so fast that the best I could do was get my arms around the mast and wait until I slammed into the spreaders half way down, grabbing on for dear life. I hung on for a second or two while the owner and his humiliated spouse eased me the rest of the way to the deck. By this time, the halyard and the deck were stained with blood. 

There is a wonderful sailing school in Annapolis called Womanship, whose patient curriculum is designed to give women the confidence to sail without fear of humiliation.  Their motto is “nobody yells”.  Unfortunately, I am sure there must be a school somewhere called Manship.  And, far too many boaters have graduated with flying colors. Their motto seems to be, “don’t make me yell!”

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            In spite of the occasional ugly scene, I still believe that a bad day sailing is better than a good day doing anything else. A sailboat represents total freedom to me.  When you are on a sailboat, you can be anywhere in the universe. “Home is where the boat is.”  The afterglow of a good sailing experience can sustain itself indefinitely, casting constant rays of hope into the lives of everyday people trapped in the daily grind.  I had a lot of fun during the three years I worked at Beach Marina.  I developed a true sense of why people are willing to spend entire fortunes escaping, even if for just a few precious hours on the weekend, from their homes, their jobs, and every other corner of life that they have backed themselves into. I believe there is a part of every sailor that wishes he could live aboard his boat; to take it everywhere he goes; to cast off and travel far and wide; to find things, and ultimately, to find himself.    

 

 

IF A CRAB COULD FLY, IT WOULD BE THE STATE BIRD OF MARYLAND

 

                                                                               

 

            The blue crab symbolizes the state of Maryland.  With its distinguishing profile and graceful symmetry, it is the definitive treasure of the Chesapeake Bay.  The Maryland blue crab represents a unique lifestyle that cuts across all social and cultural boundaries.  It is the pride of all that live there.

            Growing up in Maryland, I learned early that eating crabs is an unavoidable way of life. Most kids grow up eating hot dogs, hamburgers and French fries, but my family preferred a standard fare of steamed crabs and beer. I remember one night, when I was about four years old; my father insisted that I have a taste of back fin crabmeat. There was a crowd of friends and family sitting in my grandmother’s basement smashing crab claws with wooden hammers on her big white table. The table was covered with old Baltimore Sun papers and piled high with crab guts and shells.  Everybody was having fun, talking, laughing and reaching into the pile of crabs that my father had just brought back from the Eastern Shore. I hesitated at first, staring at the giant portion, hoping to God I would not die if I ate it. Then I closed my eyes, opened my mouth and bit into the steaming cluster.  I chewed very slowly at first; tasting and smelling the Old Bay spices that overtook my senses. I looked around the table as everyone stopped what they were doing; watching me.  I waited for a while to see if I would die, and I didn’t.  I loved it.

            I have been eating crabs ever since, in Baltimore, Annapolis, Oxford, St. Michaels, Rock Hall, and in any other place where people and crabs come together. Eating crabs with friends or strangers is a visceral experience, ostensibly uncivilized at first. Yet, it is a magnificent event that can reveal the very best qualities of one’s sociability.

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            Maryland is a state that can best be explored by water from the inside out. The Chesapeake Bay is the largest inland bay in the United States, and its hundreds of deep rivers and tributaries offer more miles of waterfront property than perhaps any other state. Traveling on the Chesapeake Bay, in any direction, one is constantly on a collision course with a crab house. These are the unique and interesting mainstays of nearly every city and town on the Chesapeake Bay, making wonderful destinations for any kind of boat. It is always a thrilling moment when a captain shows off his stuff, executing a perfect landing at a crowded crab house.  Sailing and seafood blend happily together.

            The inspiration for Blue Crab Chesapeake Charters first came in 1993.  I was completing a summer cruise on the Chesapeake Bay with my three sons, Josh, Ben and Matt, aboard our Bristol 26, Andiamo.  Sailing north from Mears Marina in the Back Creek, just east of Annapolis City Dock, we hugged close to Greenbury Point as we exited the Severn River, rounding into Whitehall Bay. The sky was clear and the shoreline was lit with beautiful afternoon summer sunshine.  Enormous, elegant homes stood high on top of the green rolling hills, reflecting in the light. We followed the channel markers around a doglegged course coming quite close to the shore.  Here, we crossed a threshold into a remote world completely unknown to the non-boater.  We proceeded upstream into Mill Creek, fully absorbed in the splendor of such beauty and tranquility.  Just ahead and to the left, the faint sound of country music and robust conversation drifted downward from a rustic building on the hillside. High above the docks and pilings, overlooking the creek, Jimmy Cantler’s famous crab house, Cantler’s Riverside Inn, emerged into view. Outside, spanned a canopied deck filled to capacity with people hammering on the paper covered picnic tables.  The docks were nearly full as we approached, but a boat had just cast off and the dock master waved us in. 

            Strolling along the dock, we came to a large tank used for shedding soft shell crabs surrounded by many bushels of live crabs just delivered to the dock.  We climbed a long, high stairway leading to the crab deck and restaurant above, waiting a while before being seated for dinner. 

            The menu featured every variety of crab and seafood imaginable –hard crabs, soft crabs, jumbo lump crab cakes, crab balls, crab imperial, crab dip, cream of crab soup, fresh fish stuffed with crab meat. It was crab heaven; so seemingly removed from society yet less than an hour by sailboat from Annapolis City Dock. The place was packed with many tourists and the line queuing outside the door was getting longer by the minute.   My wheels began to spin as I started to imagine a sailboat, boarding passengers at City Dock, making regular passages to this classic Chesapeake crab house.  I was certain that many such visitors to Americas vibrant “Sailing Capital” would gladly spend their money for a chance to sail across the threshold I had just discovered. I contemplated the idea in my private world of dreams and concluded, “It just might work!”

 

 

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            I soon realized that if I had any hope of starting a charter business in Annapolis, I would need a bigger boat.  The “need” for a bigger boat is a debilitating illness affecting millions of boaters every year. It usually starts with a mild feeling of inadequacy and sensitivity about one’s boat size. It is quite contagious and is transmitted mainly in marinas and boat shows, especially in cities like Annapolis. The first symptoms may occur as soon as the unsuspecting captain sees his boat docked next to a larger boat. As the disease progresses, it becomes impossible for the sufferer to even glance at his vessel without taking mental assessments of mast height, bowsprit length, cabin space and every other linear and spatial dimension.  The misery can eat the injured party alive, and it becomes only a matter of time before he acts to ease his pain. He will most always buy a bigger boat and thus, buy a little time before his bigger boat is assigned to a bigger slip, usually next to an even bigger boat, starting the cycle once again. 

             One day that fall, my second wife, Nancy noticed an advertisement in the Philadelphia Inquirer for a 29-foot Swedish sloop, located in Rock Hall. The ad stated, “Owner must sell immediately”. The very next day, we drove to Rock Hall to survey the boat on the hard at Gratitude Marina.

            The drive from the Philadelphia area to Rock Hall is a calming experience, usually taking less than two hours.  After breaking loose from the snarls of I-95 past Wilmington, you will soon cross over the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal, arriving onto the Delmarva Peninsula.  From that point, there exist only two other possibilities to reach the western shore megalopolis by automobile, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge to Annapolis and the Chesapeake Bay Bridge tunnel to Norfolk, Virginia.  Soon after reaching State Highway 301 heading south, you will turn right, into the direction of the Chesapeake Bay.  The more scenic route meanders through thousands of acres of pristine farmland close to the Bay, through the small town of Galena on the Sassafras River.  From there, Rt. 213, the scenic byway through Chesapeake Country will lead to historic Chestertown where Rt. 20 proceeds west twelve miles, until it suddenly ends in Rock Hall.  It is surprising how few people in the Philadelphia area realize how close they live to some place so far away.

            Nancy and I arrived at the end of Rt. 20 where a 29-foot sailboat named Blitz was propped in the weeds at Gratitude Marina awaiting our inspection.  The boat appeared rather unexceptional at first, with a pale blue top stripe and a somewhat oxidized white hull.  However, I immediately discerned the sleek, unobstructed flush deck and the heavy, stable bulb at the bottom of the fin keel. The interior was comprised of striking, dark teak wood, quite spacious and comfortable looking.  We agreed that with a little work, she would make the ideal boat.  After some smart negotiating, it became an easy decision. The next weekend, my father and I drove to Rock Hall where we scraped the name Blitz from the transom and replaced it with Blue Crab.

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The Crab Cruise

            Blue Crab’s restoration did not involve much more than adding a new dark blue top stripe, refurbishing the wood, buffing the hull and painting the bottom. The two-cylinder Volvo engine looked a little tired, but it started right up when we launched at Gratitude that spring. Our 1994, maiden voyage was a short, pleasant sail to our new slip at Mears Marina in Annapolis. The boat handled surprisingly well, complemented with a colorful inventory of sails and plenty of room for guests to relax on the topside.  All summer long, friends and family visited Annapolis, sailing, sight seeing, dining, and enjoying the Chesapeake lifestyle. By the end of the summer, I was ready to put my plan into action.

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            I sailed myself to Cantler’s crab house and fastened the Blue Crab to the slip closest to the restaurant. As I stepped onto the dock walking toward the stairs, I passed a bearded, weathered looking waterman hosing off his boat.  I called over and asked him if he knew where I might find the owner of the restaurant.  He looked up and replied, “That’s me! How can I help you?”  My eyes opened wide as I stopped.  I moved closer, and asked him, “Do you have a minute? 

            As far as watermen are concerned, Jimmy Cantler is the genuine article. He comes from a long line of crabbers and oystermen born and raised on the Chesapeake Bay.  Besides the restaurant, his family owns a fleet of crab boats, not to mention a wholesale and retail crab business. The food at the crab house is always fresh.  Jimmy Cantler has created a virtual gold mine on the banks of Mill Creek.              

            Over the years, Cantler’s has become a major western shore attraction. It is an inconvenient drive by car though, especially if you don’t know your way around the area. You must first drive through many confusing back roads until you finally reach a dead end on the Mill Creek.  Here, you will usually encounter a line of cars waiting to get into the parking lot. Once parked, the hostess will put your name onto a list.  They do not take reservations.  Friday and Saturday nights can be especially crowded, but it is well worth the wait.

            Jimmy Cantler looked mainly disinterested as I introduced myself, but he stopped what he was doing and turned off the hose to indulge me.  I began right away with my story of the “threshold”. I described the scenery that he knew all too well and recounted my vision of the charter boat delivering customers from downtown Annapolis right to his door. I sensed that he liked my enthusiasm.  He did not once look away as I made my very simple proposal.  I assured him, he would have nothing to lose. However, there were a just few things I would need.  I explained that I would want a waterfront table reserved for my guests, an open slip at the dock, and the right to display a sign as well as my brochures at the restaurant.  He was excited about the possibilities and suggested we go inside to meet Dan, the manager.  After a friendly introduction, Jimmy Cantler shook my hand, bought me a drink, and then disappeared back to his boat, leaving Dan and me to work out the details.  It was settled, Blue Crab Chesapeake Charters would open for business the following spring.

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            During the winter, I designed colorful brochures advertising the “Crab Cruise” to Cantler’s. I ordered business cards, I activated the “Crab Line” an 800 number that would be used for receiving messages, and I visited every bed and breakfast in Annapolis, pitching that I could provide their guests with a true Chesapeake adventure.  Imagine, no traffic, no parking, no directions, no waiting; just sailing, relaxing, sightseeing and crabs; the ultimate getaway.  Mickie and Don DeLine , from the charming Chez Ami bed and breakfast assured me that my idea would be a hit and by early May, six of their guests booked my first “Crab Cruise”.

The first trip was a dinner cruise.  The group was from the Midwest and had never been to Annapolis before. They wanted to get as much activity into their short weekend as possible. I instructed them to meet me at the top of the dock, just a block from their bed and breakfast.  It was 4:00 P.M. on a Saturday when I motored the boat around Horn Point alone from Mears Marina, just ten minutes away. The breeze was nice, about 12 knots. Approaching, I passed between the many yachts moored in the Spa Creek and followed a parade of motor and sailboats into City Dock. I throttled back to a slower speed as acoustic guitar music rang out from the crowded deck at Pusser’s Landing restaurant on my left.  To starboard stretched a long row of public docks, completely full, with water taxis crammed with passengers, sliding in and out of their berths.  Up ahead, about a hundred yards, Compromise Street signaled the end of the line.  Here, lost among the swarm of tourists, my first official guests awaited my arrival.  I was ready for them. I wore a bright Hawaiian shirt and made sure that the Blue Crab was spotless. The soothing instrumental music of Calido hung in the breeze.  I had placed a bottle of Champagne on ice for celebration. I made up my mind; this would be their night.

            Proceeding nicely, I was the next boat in line to make the turn to port.  I would be pulling up alongside the concrete dock on the edge of Compromise Street just after the turn. I pushed hard on the helm, slipped her into reverse, gave a little wag on the tiller, and the Blue Crab eased to a perfect stop, up against the dock.  An excited group of three couples emerged from the crowd and I reached out my hand to assist them aboard. 

            As we exited the fairway, I explained that City Dock is also known as “Ego Alley” because all day and night boaters like to “show off their stuff”.  On the hottest days the high performance powerboats steal the show as they parade up and down with their scantily clad girlfriends clinging to their transoms.  My guests were fascinated by all the energy and excitement and they wanted to know more. They had never seen anything like Annapolis and the tour had just begun.  The conversation was lively as we motored past the Naval Academy into the open waters of the Severn River.  I moved forward, hoisted the mainsail and then the bright yellow, blue and black lightweight drifter that would become Blue Crab’s signature.  I shut down the engine.  And there, except for soft music and the gentle sound of wind and waves, remained the sweet sound of silence. Everyone stopped talking as the Blue Crab maneuvered between the familiar aids to navigation leading into the bay. Once past Greenbury Point, each guest took a turn at the helm.  We sailed into Whitehall Bay, awestruck as we completed the dogleg “across the threshold” to Cantler’s Riverside Inn. It was working!

            When we arrived at Cantler’s, the dock master waved us in.  I had called ahead as I was told.  I led the group up the stairs to the hostess who promptly led us straight to a perfect waterfront table.  I made sure that everyone was comfortable and started back to the boat when someone called out,

            “Captain Mark, will you join us for dinner, we don’t have a clue how to eat these           things”.  I stopped; I smiled and turned to take my seat.      

            The evening was unforgettable. We ordered crab cakes for appetizers and a main course of steamed crabs. I offered to pay my share but they would not allow it.  It had worked!

              The ride back was stunning. My shipmates and I exchanged our favorite stories and they seemed to be having the time of their lives. I felt as though I was making two dreams come true that night, theirs and mine. The sun was starting to set by the time we returned to the harbor. I will never forget the brilliant stripes of orange and red that fell across the State House dome nor the softly silhouetted Naval Academy chapel as we approached the city. Ego Alley was beating with life as we chased the parade back to the dock. I handed them business cards and they handed me cash, quid pro quo.  I was sad to see my new friends waving goodbye as I pushed off the concrete seawall. But as I was leaving, I slipped below deck, opened a beer and motored off into the twilight, alone, feeling like a very rich man.

 

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            Turning strangers into customers is the whole point of advertising and is the toughest part of any business.  The sailing charter business is especially tricky because, in a place like America’s Sailing Capital, the competition is overwhelming. I would not make it on bed and breakfasts alone. It would take a great deal more time and ingenuity to make a credible name for myself in such a place.  I was a small fish in a big pond and I decided early that I would have to employ my most aggressive sales tactics if I hoped to establish any kind of clientele. I began by making a daily trek across the Eastport Bridge into town where I hit the streets hawking my wares.  I carried a color photo display and passed out flyers to nearly everyone I saw, chatting up the “Crab Cruise to Cantlers”.  There are many sightseers and tourists strolling along the dock and I began to feel like I was fishing in a barrel.  I started by introducing myself, then baiting the hook with vivid descriptions of the relaxing boat ride and the unique, genuine Chesapeake fare at the crab house.  If all else failed, I assured them that I could get them a waterfront table at Cantlers without waiting in line.  

Annapolis is a chic seafaring town and for one to properly exhibit the yachting image, it is of the essence to dress appropriately.  It is not uncommon for nearly everyone to outfit themselves with expensive nautical clothing and accessories, thus confusing any distinction between the boater and the non-boater. I learned to examine people’s feet in order to discern my most likely patrons. Nothing so unmasks the non-sailor as a brand new shiny pair of deck shoes, while a crusty old pair of Sperrys or Sebagos  is a strong indicator that the wearer is a bona fide yachtsman, not likely to pay for a boat ride.

 

The Lawyer and Marcie

  Every trip is not so perfect. Summer storms, dying breezes, seasickness, and countless other potential problems, can put a damper on one’s ideal sailing experience. But, nothing can so setback the magic of a perfect moment, as realizing that you have set sail with the wrong person at the wrong time. As captain of the ship and master of the ceremony, I am well aware of my responsibilities and commitments.  I stand firmly behind my assurance that if a customer does not have a good time, I do not want their money.  But, when push comes to shove, I am the captain, and every now and then, when the going gets rough, I must take command.

One day around the Fourth of July, I encountered a couple that would become my standard response to the frequently asked question; “Have you ever had a trip gone awry?”  The fiasco began at Davis’ Pub in the Eastport section of Annapolis where I sat with Nancy and our friends, Tom and Chris, talking about the lunch cruise I had taken earlier that afternoon. We had all planned to go out for dinner and to hear some music later that night.  I had nothing else booked and called it quits for the day.  I must have been talking loud, because a man approached me from the next table and asked if I could take him and his girlfriend to Cantlers for an early dinner.  I didn’t notice the disapproving looks from everybody at the table, but I calculated that if I could squeeze in a quick cruise before we went out, I would return with plenty of money to spend later; like sailing to the MAC machine.  The man explained that his girlfriend was in town to attend a course at the Annapolis Sailing School and that he would like to get her out on a boat beforehand so she could get a feel for sailing.  They were also very anxious to try out Cantler’s Restaurant.  I explained that if I took them, it would have to be quick because I had big plans for the night.  After a bit of conversation, I was easily persuaded despite Nancy’s more obvious glares of protest. I swore to Tom, Chris and Nancy that I’d be back by the time they were finished shopping and showering. And I promised I would pay for dinner, drinks and our night on the town.  I asked the couple to follow me to the boat at the Marina where they could park for free and we could sail straight to the crab house. 

            The cruise started out well, with a nice departure from the marina out of Back Creek.  The wind was light and variable, but we were moving along rather nicely.  On the way over, I reminded them that we were on a tighter schedule than usual.  I had a date with my wife and friends.  That would mean ordering something fast like a crab cake at the restaurant.  They completely agreed. 

            I am not in the business of judging or analyzing my clients, but from the beginning, this couple seemed a little strange to me. The man was an accident attorney from New York and the woman he had introduced as his girlfriend was obviously his mistress.  Since he was sending her to sailing school, I gathered he had hoped to impress her with his vast wealth of nautical know-how. So he went on to provide her with a completely detailed textbook explanation of every move I made on the boat.          

            “Mossey, that loine is cuulled a halyad. He’s attaching the halyad to the sayal and           then he’s going to pull it up”. “Watch Mossey!”  “See how he’s pulling the loine         tighta?  That’s cuulled trimming the mainsheet.”  “Can you do that again,   Captain?  I’d like Mossey to see that again?” “Can you let her troiy it?”  “She’s             staating school tomorrow.”

            I went along for a while as the lawyer guided the Blue Crab slowly toward Greenbury Point.  Then, the last breath of the faint breeze suddenly died, completely. We bobbed about for a while as he went on about his heroic sailing adventures on the East River and Long Island Sound. It suddenly dawned on me that this cruise might last longer than I had thought and I started to worry about making it back on time.  I looked at my watch and I concluded that if we motored the rest of the way, we’d have plenty of time for a leisurely crab cake and still get back in time for my date.  I started the motor and moved forward to lower the sail.  He flipped!  I  suddenly felt like a defendant on a witness stand undergoing cross-examination. He pointed his finger at me and exclaimed accusingly, “You stated we were going to sayal to the crab house, not mota!”  I reasoned as diplomatically as I knew how, that we did sail, as far as we could, but without wind, we could never make it to the crab house. I assumed that a scholarly old salt such as he, would understand that I could not control the wind.  Instead, he argued that if we stick it out and wait a while, based on his understanding of the Chesapeake Bay, the breeze would return by sunset. I objected at once, reminding him that I had a date with my wife and that if we wasted any more time waiting for wind, the crab house would be packed by the time we got there.  He was not convinced.

I pulled my rank. I lowered the sails, reclaimed my tiller and throttled up, offering no apology on Mother Nature’s behalf.  I stood alone at the helm as we steamed across the threshold into the Mill Creek. The lawyer and his girlfriend sat on the top deck taking little notice of the magnificent scenery I tried to point out. I continued with my standard monologue as I tied the Blue Crab to the dock.  On the way up the stairs, I snagged a waitress and slipped her a tip, asking her to take care of my guests as quickly as she could, since they were only planning to have a crab cake. I directed them to their table and assured them I’d be back to check on them in a bit. 

I started getting anxious as I looked at my watch. We were already two and a half hours into the cruise and the sun was setting fast.  I decided to check on their progress.  As I turned the corner around a canopy post, I was horrified by what I saw. There they were, the lawyer and Marcie, sitting face to face, staring into each other’s eyes, motionless in the summer sunset.  On the table between them was a large size bucket of soft shell clams. This is the variety that has the gross looking “foot” sticking out and is commonly known as the “pisser clam”.  This type of clam is actually very tasty, but there is a time consuming  procedure that must be undertaken before eating them. First, you peel the skin off of the foot, then you dip the clam into warm water to rinse it off, then you dip it into hot, drawn butter, then you dip it into some Old Bay seasoning, then, finally, you put it into your mouth. 

            I stopped at the post, out of their view, where I watched with excruciating pain as the lawyer slowly lifted his right hand to reach into the overflowing bucket of clams. Without taking his eyes off of Marcie, he hauled up a clam, peeled back the foot, swished it around in the water, swished it around in the butter, swished it around in the Old Bay and then raised it up about six inches from Marcie’s lips. They continued their gaze, transfixed, not saying a word.  Then, Marcie’s mouth slowly began to open as she snapped the clam from his fingers, chewing ever so imperceptibly.  She finally swallowed, and then smiled pleasantly. They sat steadfast in their fixation for what seemed like an eternity. Then, Marcie, not permitting such a tender act of love to go unrequited, went into action preparing her clam for her lover’s delight.  I looked at my watch.  There were over two dozen clams in the bucket and it was already starting to get dark.  As if all this wasn’t enough, from out of the shadows, the waitress arrived serving them each a crab cake.  I was stunned!  I walked up and coolly reminded them that I was on a schedule. They blamed the waitress for slow service. They promised me they would eat fast and they’d meet me as soon as they settled up.  I stopped the waitress and demanded to know what was going on with these people. I had been watching them for twenty minutes and they had only eaten a half-dozen clams.  I was completely blown away when the waitress told me they still had crabs on the way.  A dozen of them!  She told me she had tried twice to serve them, but they “were not ready for them yet”.

            I was going to leave them there, staring into each other’s eyes stranded in the middle of nowhere.  I called Nancy from the pay phone, but cannot repeat the things she said.  I think she hung up on me. I put down the phone and started for the boat thinking that if I left right away at full speed, I might make it back to Annapolis in time to salvage the night.  I watched from a distance as they fumbled with their crabs. I walked over and informed them I had run out of time and out of patience.  I was leaving.  They apologized and begged me to give them just a few more minutes.  They insisted that the service was slow. I stormed off, as angry as I’ve ever been, back to the boat.  The dockmaster was fueling a large power boat blocking my exit, causing even further delay.  I proceeded to rail, in the most explicit, derogatory terms, about this atrocious know-it-all lawyer and his mistress trying to make an ass out of me all night long. I felt better as I raved. Then the dockmaster pointed a finger in my direction. I looked over my shoulder and there they were, the two of them, standing in awe, listening to every word I had said.

            The return trip was an icy, record breaking, high-speed motor cruise back to the marina. When we were finally ashore, I followed them toward the parking lot walking as fast as could to keep up, insisting that they still had to pay me.  The man eventually slapped the cash into my hand and I never saw either of them again. 

Plan B

                                                   

 

 

            The next few years brought many unexpected changes.  I grew tired of the crowds, the traffic and the parking problems in Annapolis.  So, in 1997, I decided to move the business from Annapolis to Rock Hall on the Eastern Shore.  Not long after that, Nancy decided to elope with, Tom.  The shock of the divorce was devastating and the depression lasted several hours.  I realized it was time to put plan B into action. Plan B was a multi-phase recovery program.  First, I would rent a storage garage, and then I would move myself and what little I could aboard the Blue Crab.  So many times, I had fantasized about such a vagabond lifestyle, and now I had the perfect opportunity to make it happen.  Finally, I could re-activate my social life and begin my own journey of self-discovery.  Living and working in Rock Hall during the summer and in Philadelphia while teaching school in the winter, I could fully discover the best of both worlds.

I found my niche at Watermans Crabhouse, the bustling waterfront restaurant, located on the southeast side of Rock Hall Harbor.  Surrounded by floating docks and a large outside deck overlooking the water, it has all the characteristics and ambience one might expect in a genuine Chesapeake crab house. Because of the excellent food, the live music and the spectacular view, it is here that nearly every visitor to Rock Hall will ultimately end up.  The restaurant sits at the end of Sharp St. directly across the pier from Rock Hall Landing Marina, a meticulously maintained boater’s haven, a few blocks from Main St. - A perfect location for Blue Crab Chesapeake Charters. 

I figured that if I could make it in Annapolis, I could make it in Rock Hall.  And sure enough, business began to pick up as soon as I put up my sign.  I placed brochures in the restaurants, shops and bed and breakfasts. And remarkably, in just a few years, Rock Hall’s “original” sunset cruise became quite an attraction in Kent County.  I am the only captain who guarantees a sunset every night.  (Although I can’t promise you will see it).  I have met many fascinating people right on the dock in Rock Hall.  Some have become my best friends, some have become a big part of this adventure, and one in particular, has become the most essential part of the dream itself.

 

 

The Suburban Bureau Chief

KYW 1060 News Radio is the largest all news AM radio station in the Philadelphia area.  Nearly everyone in the Delaware River Valley knows the familiar voices reporting the news, traffic and weather throughout the day.  During the summer of 1999, I became very curious why a KYW news vehicle was parked outside of Watermans Crab House.  There were no police cars, no ambulances or any other evidence of a breaking story.  I could only imagine some horrifying report of a Philadelphia mobster found dead, floating face down in the harbor, or a wealthy Main Line wife running off with a local crabber who turned out to be her long lost brother.  Anything was possible.  After all, in Rock Hall, if you want the news, all you have to do is ask somebody.  I jumped out of the boat and hurried around to the bar to get the scoop.     

Everything appeared normal with the usual blend of locals and tourists sitting at the bar.  However, I noticed a man with a KYW cap looking out at the water.  He was drinking a beer and filling out a KENO card.  I pulled up a stool, and asked him what was going on.  Without hesitation, the unmistakable voice of the station’s now retired Suburban Bureau Chief resonated in response, “Nothing much, I’m trying to win my money back”.  I introduced myself.  He replied, “Pleased to meet you, I’m Jay Lloyd”.  “Wow!” I thought at once, “The Jay Lloyd…right here in Rock Hall?”  I ordered a beer.  An enlightening conversation followed as we found we had a lot in common, specifically, our love of sailing, crabs and hanging out in Rock Hall’s local drinking establishments.  And there, the friendship began. 

The work of a radio news broadcaster often involves obtaining candid interviews. Sometimes they are broadcast live, but more often, they are pre-recorded and saved on tape for future use.  An experienced radio reporter might pre-record a whole collection of interviews, store them “in the can” and then broadcast them later when he needs a story.   The master broadcaster can combine edited interview material with clever voice tracks, and then add “ambient sound”, to produce the effect of actually “being live on the scene”.  Jay is among the best broadcasters in the business and he takes his work quite seriously. He has discovered many ways to organize his work schedule around his passion for sailing and skiing.

 One day, just a few summers ago, Jay and I were relaxing aboard Blue Crab in Baltimore.  I noticed he had become very quiet and nearly motionless.  I had to ask him why he was dangling a microphone over the side of the boat.  He quietly placed his finger to his mouth and whispered, “Sssshhhhh, I’m recording “ambient sound.”  He was working on a story about watching fireworks from Fort McHenry.

In June 2000, Jay told me he would be covering the OP-Sail 2000 Tall Ship celebration on the Philadelphia waterfront.  He had been invited to cover the story live from the warship, Niagara, sailing to Philadelphia from Newport, RI.  Coincidentally, I was planning to sail Blue Crab from Rock Hall up to Philadelphia for spectator cruises at the very same time. 

 

 

I had gotten off to an early start from Rock Hall and reached the C and D Canal by the afternoon on a fresh southerly wind.  Normally, I would have stopped in Chesapeake City for the night, but with a favorable current in the canal and  “just a chance” of thunderstorms in the forecast, I was convinced I should sail on; at least to National Park, NJ, just south of the city. 

The Crab was making excellent progress against the Delaware River current until around 7:30 PM.  I looked to the west, and the sky had turned completely black within a few short minutes. I turned on the VHF weather band and was not surprised to hear a severe thunderstorm warning had been issued for my exact location.  Strong thunderstorms can pop-up anywhere on the water during the summer and can frighten even the most experienced sailor. 

Imagine, sailing happily along on a typically hot, hazy summer afternoon.  A chance of thunderstorms is in the forecast, but you know that if you allow such worries to keep you ashore, you might as well sell your boat, for such chances exist nearly every day in the summer.  High dark clouds begin to block the sunlight as the sky turns a purple shade of black. The haze thickens around you.  The first flash of lightning in the sky reminds you that you are floating on a 30’ piece of plastic just a few feet away from a very tall aluminum rod, ready to catch the first bolt that comes along.  The wind suddenly gusts from a new direction, and the sails luff wildly as you struggle to get them down.  There is no time for heroics…you start the motor and get moving.   Although, lightning, thunder, wind and waves are all forces to be feared, potentially worse is the commercial traffic on the Delaware River.  Tugs, barges and ships, difficult enough to avoid in good weather, simply disappear into the poor visibility of a storm.

After I heard the warnings and saw the sky, I dropped the sails, started the motor and scanned the shoreline for a reasonable place to drop the hook.  There isn’t much anchorage on the Pennsylvania side of the river, so I motored into an oil refinery to drop the anchor.  It was ugly, noisy and smelly. But, “home is where the boat is”.  At least, I would at least be safe until the storm was over.

With the anchor set, safe and secure, I took a last look around before going below to get some sleep.  Suddenly, from not far off, I heard the unmistakable clatter of a large anchor chain rolling out… then…SPLASH!!!   I looked across the river through the blur and saw just a few hundred yards away; a large, tall ship had just dropped its anchor not far from the main channel.  Sizing up the situation, I could just make out the hazy profile of the Tall Ship, Niagara. 

“Jay!” I screamed in my head.  I knew he had to be out there.  The storm was closing in, but there was still time.  I had an idea!  I fired up the engine and hauled the muddy anchor onto the deck, speeding away from the refinery towards the Niagara.  I held her firmly in my sight as the Blue Crab slapped ever closer, rocking and rolling in the storm-driven waves.  All I had to do was get close enough to holler up to Jay. He was probably having a beer on the deck.  When I got a little closer, I could see there was only one guy on deck.  It wasn’t Jay and whoever it was must have thought I was nuts as he stared up at my masthead, wondering what I was screaming about.   “Jay Lloyd,” I shouted, “the radio guy!”  Tell him Captain Mark is out here and wants to talk to him!”  He didn’t understand me. The boat was rocking like crazy and I made a second pass along Niagara’s starboard side. By this time, there were three or four bewildered crewmen frantically trying to figure out exactly where I would crash into their ship.  I looked up to see the top of my mast swinging wildly in the direction of Niagara’s yard-arm…then, a huge roll to port.  Just missed it!  “Jay Lloyd!,” I repeated, “the radio guy!  Tell him Captain Mark is here!”  I was making my third pass by the time someone figured out what I was saying. “He’s sleeping down below!” one of the deckhands hollered down to me.  “Well can somebody wake him up? I need to talk to him.”

I thought Jay was going to die laughing when he looked down and saw me, alone, in the Blue Crab, circling the tall ship in the middle of a thunderstorm on the Delaware River.  By this time, there were at least a dozen people on the deck and I thought that nearly everyone of them was going to die laughing when they heard me ask if I could tie up to Niagara’s stern.  I was hoping we could hang out and ride the storm together. I had no intention of hitting them!  Jay told me later that he thought the captain was going to have a heart attack, and if the Niagara had had working cannons, he might have used them to blow me out of the water. At any rate, we all had a good laugh and I anchored close by where they kept an eye on me until the storm was over.

Blue Crab Landing

In the summer of 2002, I attempted to move ashore and bought an older, two-story house on Route 20, right around the corner from the marina. The price was good, and it had a lot of character. And the previous owner, Roy, was a real character as well.  He was a crazy old local who could easily be identified by his two remaining teeth.  Even they must have been loose, as both of them appeared to flap and wiggle when he laughed.  They were useless for chewing, but I imagine they’d do a fine job either cracking peanuts or opening beer cans.  He was especially proud of the “extra room” he and his son built off the back of the house, a “bonus” never mentioned in the property description.  In reality, it was an enclosed deck with 4’x 8’sheets of blue insulation screwed into to the latticework with a few old windows and screen doors, creating the illusion of a room.  The temperature sweltered at around 100 degrees and upon entry; one was immediately overtaken by the stench of dirty laundry.

Before his evacuation, Roy attempted to “sell” me all the junk he could not fit into his U-Haul trailer.  And just before our settlement, as I made my last inspection, I remember trying to explain to him that I was not interested in any of the food he wanted to leave me in the refrigerator. I politely asked him to throw it away.  It was amazing to see what he left behind.  As I was sweeping the dirt off of the bedroom floor, I uncovered a large yellow tooth from beneath the dust.  It took several months to de-Royify the house and the garage.

The de-Royification was a long process, and I often found myself hanging out in the garage next door commiserating with my new neighbor, Meck Thayer.  Meck is a native Pennsylvanian who decided to move to Rock Hall with his wife, Beth, around twenty years ago.  He could easily pass as a native Rock Haller, and might even pass for a waterman after he’s had a few beers.  I try not to remind him that he is a “chicken necker” just like the rest of us. He immediately struck me as one of the most genuinely sincere individuals I had ever met.  He offered his tools, his help and his friendship in a way that is unforgettable.  He filled me in on many aspects of life in Rock Hall and he quickly became a dear and trusted friend.  Meck is actually short for Merrick.  I found this out after months of calling him “Mick”, or “Mack” or “Mike”.

One of the first things I wanted to do to the house was destroy Roy’s eyesore in the back.  I began by lifting up the threadbare carpet and found a beautifully constructed wooden deck underneath.  Inspired, I threw the power screwdriver into reverse and began un-building the room.  With each sheet of pressed foam insulation removed, I unveiled more of what would become a classic, Caribbean style tiki-bar, right on the back of the house.  It was indeed a bonus and is the most frequently occupied part of the house, now dubbed “Blue Crab Landing”.  It would be at this tiki-bar, after many crabs and many beers that the idea for our “adventure of a lifetime” would be born.

 

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