We were still about two miles from the glacier, the closest we got to this one due to all of the icebergs. If you look closely, you can see seal pups on many of the bergs.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
South Sawyer Glacier
We were still about two miles from the glacier, the closest we got to this one due to all of the icebergs. If you look closely, you can see seal pups on many of the bergs.
Brad Rocks!
It had to happen sooner or later. At least that is what the seasoned sailors tell us. Still, it doesn't heal the pain.
We were entering North Finger Bay in Glacier Bay when Brad lost focus for just a minute and that was all it took. We had just gotten past the constriction into the bay and thought that we could relax. Wrong. We were surrounded by sea otter families floating on their backs, some munching on sea urchins, others cuddling their delightful little pups, and still others cleaning their whiskers and paws. Enchanting.
All of a sudden, the port side of the boat lurched up as we heard a hellacious thud and then the boat settled back down again. It was over in a flash. Brad's face looked stricken as he asked "What was that?" I answered, "We hit a rock!" (I wanted to add "dumb ass" but I managed to hold my tongue.) He was incredulous. He yelled "We need to check all the bilges for water right now." He started to go below so I pointed out that he needed to continue to drive the boat, so I volunteered to handle it. "Hurry! Hurry!", he blurted. I did so and found no water intrusion anywhere, but I couldn't do it fast enough for Brad's sense of urgency, believe me. (In my defense may I remind you that all of the carpeting has to be moved out of the way first in order to get to the hatches.) Shall we say a certain level of panic ensued?
In Brad's defense, we had just hit an uncharted rock about two feet below the surface in very murky waters. (Unlike most of Glacier Bay, this particular little bay had a big influx of muddy river water.) No one could have seen it, but had he been watching his depth gauge as he usually does, we wouldn't have been in that shallow of water in the first place. Those sea otters were just a little too captivating.
Within minutes we were safely anchored at our intended spot, but not before Brad nearly ran us aground at the mouth of the small river that feeds into the bay. As he was making his circle in preparation to anchor, the depth gauge read 20' and then it dropped to 2' in just a few seconds. Brad's heart be still! Aground twice in less than 10 minutes?? Need I say Brad's confidence was shaken to the core? We didn't actually hit bottom this second time but it was a near thing.
All I could think of during this bad patch was "Oh, thank God I wasn't the one driving! If I had, Brad would never have forgiven me!" Truly, I was thrilled it wasn't me!
Within minutes of anchoring, Brad donned his wetsuit, mask, snorkel and fins. I tried to talk him out of it as the water was 55 degrees and the visibility was less than two feet, but he would have none of it. So down he went, all covered in neoprene, afraid of what he might find.
Fortunately, Island Packets are built like tanks. The only damage he found was a 3-foot scrape mark along the port side about two feet below the water line. No obvious dent and that rock didn't even scrape off the bottom paint entirely. Whoohoo! What a relief! The only serious damage was to Brad's psyche. I wonder how long it will be before we can once again get near the shallows without Brad on "full alert"!
We were entering North Finger Bay in Glacier Bay when Brad lost focus for just a minute and that was all it took. We had just gotten past the constriction into the bay and thought that we could relax. Wrong. We were surrounded by sea otter families floating on their backs, some munching on sea urchins, others cuddling their delightful little pups, and still others cleaning their whiskers and paws. Enchanting.
All of a sudden, the port side of the boat lurched up as we heard a hellacious thud and then the boat settled back down again. It was over in a flash. Brad's face looked stricken as he asked "What was that?" I answered, "We hit a rock!" (I wanted to add "dumb ass" but I managed to hold my tongue.) He was incredulous. He yelled "We need to check all the bilges for water right now." He started to go below so I pointed out that he needed to continue to drive the boat, so I volunteered to handle it. "Hurry! Hurry!", he blurted. I did so and found no water intrusion anywhere, but I couldn't do it fast enough for Brad's sense of urgency, believe me. (In my defense may I remind you that all of the carpeting has to be moved out of the way first in order to get to the hatches.) Shall we say a certain level of panic ensued?
In Brad's defense, we had just hit an uncharted rock about two feet below the surface in very murky waters. (Unlike most of Glacier Bay, this particular little bay had a big influx of muddy river water.) No one could have seen it, but had he been watching his depth gauge as he usually does, we wouldn't have been in that shallow of water in the first place. Those sea otters were just a little too captivating.
Within minutes we were safely anchored at our intended spot, but not before Brad nearly ran us aground at the mouth of the small river that feeds into the bay. As he was making his circle in preparation to anchor, the depth gauge read 20' and then it dropped to 2' in just a few seconds. Brad's heart be still! Aground twice in less than 10 minutes?? Need I say Brad's confidence was shaken to the core? We didn't actually hit bottom this second time but it was a near thing.
All I could think of during this bad patch was "Oh, thank God I wasn't the one driving! If I had, Brad would never have forgiven me!" Truly, I was thrilled it wasn't me!
Within minutes of anchoring, Brad donned his wetsuit, mask, snorkel and fins. I tried to talk him out of it as the water was 55 degrees and the visibility was less than two feet, but he would have none of it. So down he went, all covered in neoprene, afraid of what he might find.
Fortunately, Island Packets are built like tanks. The only damage he found was a 3-foot scrape mark along the port side about two feet below the water line. No obvious dent and that rock didn't even scrape off the bottom paint entirely. Whoohoo! What a relief! The only serious damage was to Brad's psyche. I wonder how long it will be before we can once again get near the shallows without Brad on "full alert"!
The Plague of the UFO Tuning Fork
For several weeks we were plagued by mysterious, UFO-like vibrations. The pitch, volume and frequency would change every few minutes and for short periods would cease completely. It seemed most noticeable in the evening and was so loud at times that we had troubles sleeping. The sounds were just plain spooky, like something from "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" or "The Twilight Zone".
When we were docked at Swanson Harbor, we were convinced that the generators the fishing boats use to keep their ice makers going were the culprits. And believe me, we were cursing them under our breaths. But when we returned to this very same dock a week and a half later on a weekend when the fishing boats were gone and only cruisers like us remained, the vibrations were as strong as ever.
A few days earlier I had tried to troubleshoot the problem. I'd not heard other boaters complain about these eerie sounds, so I just had to wonder. The noise was most noticeable in the head. I had an idea so I headed topside and found that our 1 1/4" stainless steel lifelines were abuzz. They quivered quite vehemently from about 6' back from the bowsprit and about the same 6' in from the stern, with the most violent vibrations coming right near the center of the boat. And the shrouds were vibrating too. But all of this emanating sound was only on the starboard side of the boat. It appeared as though half of our boat was acting as one giant tuning fork! So I had a few clues but I still couldn't figure it out. Frustrated, I gave up in disgust.
Sometimes the eerie noises were nearly mind-numbing and I almost wished I was among the hearing impaired! One night it was so bad I feared I would simply not be able to fall asleep if we didn't fix whatever it was. I finally got Brad to get up and "do something" about our "damned tuning fork". This time HE had an idea and threw on his clothes and went topside. He came back down in under two minutes. The noises had stopped entirely. "What did you do?", I asked, relieved and delighted. "I took the extra wrap off that I had put on the flag halyards", he explained. "You have got to be kidding!", I said. "It's been like that since we arrived in Ketchikan when you removed the Canadian courtesy flag??? That was weeks ago!" (In fairness, he had put the extra wraps on because we thought that we might loose the Canadian ensign in high winds. When he took down the flag, he put the extra wraps back on. Who would have guessed the unintended consequences?) Aargh. Brad, the cause and the cure!
When we were docked at Swanson Harbor, we were convinced that the generators the fishing boats use to keep their ice makers going were the culprits. And believe me, we were cursing them under our breaths. But when we returned to this very same dock a week and a half later on a weekend when the fishing boats were gone and only cruisers like us remained, the vibrations were as strong as ever.
A few days earlier I had tried to troubleshoot the problem. I'd not heard other boaters complain about these eerie sounds, so I just had to wonder. The noise was most noticeable in the head. I had an idea so I headed topside and found that our 1 1/4" stainless steel lifelines were abuzz. They quivered quite vehemently from about 6' back from the bowsprit and about the same 6' in from the stern, with the most violent vibrations coming right near the center of the boat. And the shrouds were vibrating too. But all of this emanating sound was only on the starboard side of the boat. It appeared as though half of our boat was acting as one giant tuning fork! So I had a few clues but I still couldn't figure it out. Frustrated, I gave up in disgust.
Sometimes the eerie noises were nearly mind-numbing and I almost wished I was among the hearing impaired! One night it was so bad I feared I would simply not be able to fall asleep if we didn't fix whatever it was. I finally got Brad to get up and "do something" about our "damned tuning fork". This time HE had an idea and threw on his clothes and went topside. He came back down in under two minutes. The noises had stopped entirely. "What did you do?", I asked, relieved and delighted. "I took the extra wrap off that I had put on the flag halyards", he explained. "You have got to be kidding!", I said. "It's been like that since we arrived in Ketchikan when you removed the Canadian courtesy flag??? That was weeks ago!" (In fairness, he had put the extra wraps on because we thought that we might loose the Canadian ensign in high winds. When he took down the flag, he put the extra wraps back on. Who would have guessed the unintended consequences?) Aargh. Brad, the cause and the cure!
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Buzz Cuts and Combovers
Have you ever tried to explain how to do something to someone for whom English is NOT their primary language? If so, you will understand what I mean. As you are explaining the process of whatever it is you are attempting to educate therm about, they smile broadly, nod their heads vigorously, and say "Yyyessss" in a long, drawn-out syllable. You pat yourself on the back, thinking you have adequately conveyed your message. Later, as they walk away, you realize they did not understand a damn word you said! Aaaahh! Such is the way I felt a few weeks ago...
It all started out well enough. I got out the Wahl hair trimmer that I inherited from my mom and dad. Neither Brad nor I had ever used it before. As I cut Brad's hair, I was thankful there was no big mirror on the wall for him to watch me from (as there is at all salons). I am sure he would have nagged me the whole time, nervously watching my every move, thereby ensuring that I screwed up from all of the pressure of prying eyes. (In hindsight, maybe a mirror would have been a good thing after all.) As it was, he was pretty patient and not as terribly nervous as I would have expected. So all went well and we were both quite pleased with the job.
Since that went so well, I thought why not have Brad trim mine? God only knows what I was thinking. (And no, I had NOT been drinking, thank you very much.) I switched to the #4 attachment, the longest one we have, and explained to Brad how to use it. Or so I thought. He smiled, nodded and said yes he understood. (Okay, this should have been my clue, but I was caught up in the happiness of my triumphant success on him.)
The whirring little hamsters inside his pea-brain head were undoubtedly thinking "Yeah, yeah. Wife talking. Blah, blah, blah. Just give me the damn clippers already and let me get this thing over with!"
So I am sitting patiently on an overturned bucket in the cockpit in only my panties (so as to facilitate cleanup by giving the cut hairs less to land on), calmly awaiting my new haircut, confident in the deft manner in which Brad would wield the clippers and the resultant trim job that would surely ensue. On his very first pass of the clippers, my smile turned to a shriek. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" I screamed as I saw several two-inch long tufts of hair fall in front of my eyes! "What the hell are you doing????"
Brad's eyes were as big as saucers. "Oh my God! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it!" he vehemently declared. After the initial shock subsided, I couldn't help but laugh and I saw the relief in Brad's eyes. Laugh and cry at the same time. No, I couldn't glue it back. Oh, if I could just take that moment back. In haircuts, as in most things in life, there are no do-overs.
Suffice it to say, Brad was NOW ready to listen to my explanation as to how to orient the clipper so as to get the right depth of cut. Now he "got it", but it was WAY to late for the front of my head. I now have an inverted mohawk that fortunately doesn't run the length of my head. Instead, my furrow of quarter-inch hair goes only a few inches back. Brad the scalper. He has always claimed he had some Indian in his genes. Guess so. Thank God he didn't actually get all the way to my skin. That would have been worse. As it is, I have to either wear a cap at all times or do a modified combover to cover my nearly bare patch. The saving grace is that I will never see any of these people again. I'm hopeful that my hair will grow back and fill in by the time we return from this grand voyage. Needless to say, Brad is contrite. No pictures will follow.
It all started out well enough. I got out the Wahl hair trimmer that I inherited from my mom and dad. Neither Brad nor I had ever used it before. As I cut Brad's hair, I was thankful there was no big mirror on the wall for him to watch me from (as there is at all salons). I am sure he would have nagged me the whole time, nervously watching my every move, thereby ensuring that I screwed up from all of the pressure of prying eyes. (In hindsight, maybe a mirror would have been a good thing after all.) As it was, he was pretty patient and not as terribly nervous as I would have expected. So all went well and we were both quite pleased with the job.
Since that went so well, I thought why not have Brad trim mine? God only knows what I was thinking. (And no, I had NOT been drinking, thank you very much.) I switched to the #4 attachment, the longest one we have, and explained to Brad how to use it. Or so I thought. He smiled, nodded and said yes he understood. (Okay, this should have been my clue, but I was caught up in the happiness of my triumphant success on him.)
The whirring little hamsters inside his pea-brain head were undoubtedly thinking "Yeah, yeah. Wife talking. Blah, blah, blah. Just give me the damn clippers already and let me get this thing over with!"
So I am sitting patiently on an overturned bucket in the cockpit in only my panties (so as to facilitate cleanup by giving the cut hairs less to land on), calmly awaiting my new haircut, confident in the deft manner in which Brad would wield the clippers and the resultant trim job that would surely ensue. On his very first pass of the clippers, my smile turned to a shriek. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" I screamed as I saw several two-inch long tufts of hair fall in front of my eyes! "What the hell are you doing????"
Brad's eyes were as big as saucers. "Oh my God! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it!" he vehemently declared. After the initial shock subsided, I couldn't help but laugh and I saw the relief in Brad's eyes. Laugh and cry at the same time. No, I couldn't glue it back. Oh, if I could just take that moment back. In haircuts, as in most things in life, there are no do-overs.
Suffice it to say, Brad was NOW ready to listen to my explanation as to how to orient the clipper so as to get the right depth of cut. Now he "got it", but it was WAY to late for the front of my head. I now have an inverted mohawk that fortunately doesn't run the length of my head. Instead, my furrow of quarter-inch hair goes only a few inches back. Brad the scalper. He has always claimed he had some Indian in his genes. Guess so. Thank God he didn't actually get all the way to my skin. That would have been worse. As it is, I have to either wear a cap at all times or do a modified combover to cover my nearly bare patch. The saving grace is that I will never see any of these people again. I'm hopeful that my hair will grow back and fill in by the time we return from this grand voyage. Needless to say, Brad is contrite. No pictures will follow.
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