I didn't injure my shoulder doing my sailing thing.

Well, maybe it was a little injured from sailing. But then while pushing the chunky Scuppernong around on her trailer, I lost my footing and caught myself –– and my shoulder made a distinctly unpleasant crunching sound. Ouch.

Sports injury. No big: ice, rest, anti-inflammatory meds, and give it a week or so off. Two weeks later, yoga class.  And straight home to make an appointment with the local shoulder doctor. Or, ideally, with the local shoulder doctor's PA.

Oddly, I got right in. I wonder if they keep track of how many Linton shoulders they have dealt with? Do we get a volume discount? Is it like a frequent buyer deal?

The shoulder doctor's PA –– a young guy with a cheerful straight-arrow bedside manner –– came in, moved the ouchy arm around, and looked at my x-ray. Then he laid out my options.

I would need an MRI to be sure, but either I'd have some minor injury in muscle x or tendon y, or else it was a torn rotator cuff. He made a face and summarized the latter, "In which case, you're pretty much fucked."

He would know. 

Fast forward to this morning, the shoulder doctor's Fellow –– another personable young guy with good people skills –– walked us through the results of the MRI: the usual wear-and-tear on the ball-joint for someone my age (!), excellent cartilege margins, good-looking subscapularis tendon with no tears, muscles look good (why thank you!), infraspinatus looks fine, supraspinatus tendon no tears. In short, an intact rotator.

Yay!

However, he said, pointing at the grey image on the screen, where the supraspinatus comes into the arm –– where it should be clear and defined –– (I nodded, though it was like admiring someone's sonogram photo. It always look a little like an inkblot) –– it appears, the Fellow said, "a bit frayed."

Wisdom of the body: when things get frayed, inflammation steps up and says, "No, no, bad dog!" In order to keep the stubborn user of the frayed tendon from continuing to overuse the damn thing, inflammation ladles up a heaping dose of pain and weakness. Which causes one to remember to ice, rest, and anti-infammatory the snot out of oneself.  

Did that mean I should NOT sail next week? I asked. He laughed. Well, if you mean sailing with an umbrella drink in hand while he –– nodding at my favorite skipper –– does all the work? Sure. 

Icepack at the ready, ibuprofen at hand, I will be on shore for a bit.

​Andyman to the rescue! 

Writing is not exactly like playing professional football, but sometimes it feels like it.

Stretching and warming up.
The tackles and the ice-baths and the bruises.
The snail's pace forward.
That.bossy guy in stripes on the sideline demonstrating –– incorrectly, as it turns out –– how to perform the hokey-pokey.  

But fer reals, like any would-be linebacker, a writer has to practice and run drills. Here's my own little practice session. Omaha! Omaha Seventy-Eight! Set! Hut! 

Story 1
He woke to the familiar cathedral space of the pavilion. He smelled frost in the air and made a careful effort to roll in place on the cardboard, not wanting to let cold air into his sleeping bag. 
     If he waited maybe half an hour, there would be bitter coffee to warm his hands and burn his mouth. But if he waited too long, someone would hustle him along and there would be no coffee at all. Perhaps it was time already. He braced himself and then slid himself from of the cocoon of warmth, keeping his sock feet on the Ollie-Ollie-Oxenfree safety of his little bivouac. He stretched, feeling the crackle of his joints and an unpleasant stretching of his skin.
     He was not old –– no one would call him old –– but life on the road had weathered him. Only a few silver threads showed in matted hair, but chalky patches of callus punctuated his corners, showing like mushrooms at his elbows and knees. 

Story 2
In semiphore, the universe was telling him to cash in his bonds, sell his Persian rugs, set the birds free, and dispense with personal hygiene.
     Things were happening. An electric crackle at the edge of his hearing and the way the flags snapped in syncopation? It was all coming clear. They were directives, acronyms spelled out in flags, commands that he could not ignore. 
     He'd been waiting, he realized now, for his whole life for this. He found himself holding his breath, counting steps, feverishly translating phrases into Latin and then Spanish and then back into English. The sense of impending moment, like a cresting wave arrested briefly by the shutter of a camera, arched above him. The heavy perfume of orange blossom intoxicated him with sweetness.
     He woke to the familiar cathedral space of the pavilion. He smelled frost in the air and made a careful effort to roll in place on the cardboard, not wanting to let cold air into his sleeping bag.

  

After years of snapping selfies of Mr. Linton and me, I think this is it.

But then came the horn and they scarpered off the beach in the twinkling of an eye: Core Sounds and SeaPearls with stately grace, catamarans skittering along like insects, kayaks leaving only a trace in the sand and the water as they went.  

​It’s a mixed bag of competitors: a couple of doughty stand-up paddlers, many kayaks and sailing kayaks, multi-hulls, classic sailing skiffs, a pair of solar-powered electric vessels, and some funky one-ups, like our own Spawn.
 
Among the vessels I watch is the diminutive (and frankly adorable) Elusion 9' sailed by Wizard. This boat looks like a cross between the bow section of a Maxi racer and the costume worn by my nephew for Halloween 20 or so years ago. 

​The first boats arrived at Checkpoint 1 (CP1, Cape Haze, 65 miles from the start) in the early afternoon.

The WaterTribe Facebook page provided a far-too-entertaining selection of spectators’ videos of the fleet making the turn into Stump Pass.   

Spawn was third to CP1.

I send them a text telling them to change the batteries in their personal locater device (SPOT). 

In his inaugural Challenge, our buddy Andyman sailed his SeaPearl to victory in the UltraMarathon, which is essentially a sprint to CP1. He reported in wearily that, "It was a LOT hairier than I expected out there." 

Rumors started blowing with the wind: I got a message that the boys were maybe stopped to effect repairs.

I got a message that the boys had maybe broken a rudder. I got a message about the Coast Guard rescuing someone, not them.

They were taking a nap, someone said. Someone had seen them tied up in the mangroves. 
 
On the tracker, Spawn went from first by a long stretch to second, and then third. I didn’t pinpoint where they had paused for whatever reason, but whenever I checked, they were moving. Their speed looked good.

Meanwhile, on the high seas...

​When the sun set on Saturday, TwoBeers and Moresailesaid doused the chute, per their safety plan. [No trapezes or big sails at night.] The wind was blowing NNW at about 15 knots.

​A contrary wave at a sluggish moment, and Spawn went ass-over-teakettle.

Picture the scene:

​Bright moonlight.

The distant glow of lights on shore 10 or 12 miles distant.

50 or more feet of water underneath the gently bobbing upside-down belly of the boat.

Bio-luminescent plankton sparkling in the disturbed water.
​
​Waves playfully slapping at our heros as they considered their options. 

“That phone ––“ Moresailesaid brooded. “That phone was supposed to be waterproof –– wait, did you text us?”

TwoBeers’ litany of loss continued. “And everything in the bow switched sides. The storm jib was on the port side, and ended up on the starboard side. The Code Zero was on starboard and ended on the port side. It all changed places"

I said, “I wonder where the yellow rollers and the rest of the stuff will washed ashore?”

“Probably Cuba,” TwoBeers' voice took on a speculative air. “–– maybe the Dry Tortugas.”

Into the heavy silence that followed, Moresailesaid offered up this observation: “The worst thing was that my dry suit filled up with water and my legs were like THIS big around.

"And the first thing that happens is that the water burps your shoes right off your feet.” Shaking his head, “I was THIS far from slicing open my booties.”
​
“Did yours do that too?” I asked TwoBeers.

He shrugged.

Sweet mother of–– some things I guess I would rather not know.

“But JT gets the swimming award,” TwoBeers announced cheerfully.​

Glancing up, Moresailesaid hastily added, “It was warm! And I was floating just fine. It was only a problem when I went to get into the boat.”
​
Yup, that’s when it would be.

 “Oh, but the phosphorescence!” TwoBeers interjected.

“There was a TON of phosphorescence in the water,” agreed Moresailesaid.

"When I told him we’d lost our fishing gear, he came up with Crumb Cakes, and little bags of peanuts, and water. So we didn’t go hungry.”
​
Note to self: Crumb Cakes. They’re not just for breakfast any more.

TwoBeers stayed on narrative track. “Somehow the boom-bag got loose, but it tangled itself up with the water hoses. Good thing, too, because it had the VHF and the iPad and the solar charger. Don’t know if the charger works. The bag was full of water, but we used the iPad to navigate Florida Bay.”

Moresailesaid added, “I wiped the solar charger dry. We didn’t try it.”

​He shook his head and repeated, “Everything in the dry-boxes got wet.”

“So after we flipped and got it back,” TwoBeers spoke as a man summarizing. “We went through Caxambas pass and decided to stop and dry off. Every line on the boat was macramed around everything else.”

“I was shivering,” admitted Moresailesaid. “So we anchored in the mangroves for a while.”

“Did you just lie down and sleep?” I asked.

“No,” said TwoBeers. “We stripped down, dried the inside of our dry suits, put on dry clothes –– the Ziplock bags worked.  And so did the garbage bag – the sleeping bag stayed dry through everything! Weird. I don’t know why the dry boxes filled up.”

“We should have had everything in the dry boxes packed in Ziplocks.” Moresailesaid added darkly, “Wish I had the patent on the Ziplock.”

TwoBeers continued, “I don’t know how long it took, but the tide changed while we were anchored. And DeSea sailed past us.”

“Yeah,” I said, “He said that he saw you and checked to make sure you were okay.” I didn’t mention how DeSea expressed his alarm. Or how we’d shared an awful moment of camaraderie on the topic of human frailty and our own TwoBeers..
​
“So we had foul current all the way to CP2. We sailed and rowed. Rowed and sailed. Rowing warmed me up.”

​As it does.

Still, crossing fingers and knocking wood, they should be coming over the horizon before dawn.
​Here are some photos, and I'm going to try to try a little dose of shut-eye.

The fine ship Spawn is moving right along.  Rumor has it there was a sporty but successful passage into Stump Pass. Various friends of the WaterTribe are posting photos as the fleet streams down the coast.

In addition to the WaterTribe map (Here) and the RaceOwl tracking map (Here), you can click on the map below for the team's individual Spot locator link.  

Here's the link for Andyman's boat Dark Horse –– he is doing the first leg of the race and is neeeeearly there. 

I'll be clicking on these sites with unhealthful frequency overnight and will just hold my hush until I have something to report.   

Knocking wood and signing off for the day...

Huh. 4:25 am, and the Coast Guard has posted a Small Craft Advisory until 8 o'clock a.m.  According to the skipper's meeting, that means the Everglades Challenge Tribe will hold on shore until conditions are a trice less sporty. 

Quite a crowd of Challengers this year.

The scene from the beach on Friday afternoon was the usual mix of colorful and amazing.

After a short on-shore delay, the gang set sail at 9 a.m. A pleasant off-shore wind sent the fleet along with the usual magical rapidity. One instant they are there, the next, poof! they are away...

Because a restive boat might find itself all topsy-turvy when things go bad, we put on a sort of water-wing atop the mast. In the unhoped-for event that Spawn tips, the floaty prevents boat from turning turtle.

We put the Eyes of Horus on the job –– a little superstition goes a long way around here. 

So anyway, there are at least two ways to track the team as they sprint (we hope sprint, not claw) down the west coast of Florida.  

​Click on either of the two images below to check on them.

Crossing fingers, knocking wood...