Amy Smith Linton
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In a Tiny Boat

3/30/2021

3 Comments

 
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Every few years, somebody casts off a perfectly nice dock, heads out onto the bounding main, and breaks the record for exceptional adventuring.

Among ocean-goers, minimalism makes the record: go small, go solo, go alternately powered. For instance, the Norwegian-American fellas who rowed from Manhattan to the Scilly islands in 1896, and then, just 'cause, they continued rowing their 18-foot clinker-built oak open skiff to Le Havre, France. (George Harbo and Frank Samuelson were Jersey clamming buddies, and their 55-day record stands still for two guys rowing.)

The 13.5-foot long Tinkerbelle sailed across the Atlantic in the mid-1960's (78 days of salty solitary, chronicled in a book entitled, helpfully, Tinkerbelle, the Story of the Smallest Boat Ever to Cross the Atlantic Nonstop.)

Then there's Father's Day, a boat only 5'4" long, which made the crossing from Newfoundland to Falmouth in 1993. The boat has an uncanny resemblance –– to my way of looking –– to a large Igloo® cooler.  That sailor famously was nearly unable to walk after his 105-day crouch.  

via GIPHY


Mercifully, my favorite skipper is not going far in this thing.

Still, every time he inserts his person into the diminutive cockpit of his 2.4 Meter, I have a moment of cognitive dissonance.

The scale is so oddly skewed. 
​​
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It's my nature to draw parallels. A good metaphor makes me unaccountably joyful, much like cash found in the street. ​
So when Jeff reverse jack-in-the-boxes into his 2.4 Meter, I think, "Does it look as if he is sailing his own boot?"  

Giving the boat a titanic boost off the dock, I wonder, "Is that what Paul Bunyan would look like if he traded Babe for Courageous?"

I almost think we saw models at the New York Yacht Club that dwarf the 2.4.
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But as we say of one-design racing, if all your friends are racing turtles, race a turtle.  Or in this case, race an HO-scale turtle.  
3 Comments

Fish Out of Water –– Fiction Warm-up

3/16/2021

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The bay was a hammered silver platter under flattened silver clouds. A cormorant rose and dove, rose and dove.

​A tern sliced the sky and was gone.
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Water seeks its level, but when something large moves under the surface, a bulge will flex and dimple. The displacement of mass made visible.  

With a sound like the almightiest belch of all time, the bay heaved up one of her dead. Water and small fish poured from the wreck and the stink –– like a dumpster brimming with rotten calamari –– rolled in.

Tireless tides had yanked the soft furnishings away, leaving behind pink soft coral and grey silt. Nothing smooth was left unroughed.  

Saltwater does not affect fiberglass the way it infiltrates mahogany or oak, but it will devour anything metal. Consequently the aluminum window frames let go. The glass windows of the wreck, clouded with growth, surrendered to the alien influence of gravity, smashing musically one by one on the deck on the way down to the newly retreated water. 

Barnacles gulped and winked in the open air. Algae, fine as frog's fur over the hull, lay slick and flat. Something moved inside the dark cabin. Something swayed in the missing currents.   

Where is the captain with her flat-topped white hat and a cigarette clamped between her long teeth? The party-goers, the fishing folks, the small children mesmerized by the churn of water from the propellers?

Time makes phantoms of everything that was. 


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Everglades Challenge 2021: In the Books

3/9/2021

16 Comments

 
Imagine butterflies metamorphosing –– but in reverse. One by one, brightly-colored creatures alight and begin removing their orange and yellow vests, their chartreuse-and-black drysuits, scarlet wetsuits, gloves, booties.
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They are encrusted with salt. Their swollen, water-softened hands quiver. They struggle with zips and buckles, sometimes having to stop for a revivifying sip of nectar.

But they finally peel their waterproofing cocoons and emerge at Key Largo: smaller, barer, larval.


The transformation needs only a blast of the hot shower and some hours of sleep before, voilá! they transform into human caterpillars again, full of stories and potential, committed to mowing some vittles.
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​Here are a few of those stories:

​Andyman and Natedog screaming along on a reach, the rig humming with energy, everything on the edge and making amazing time in Florida Bay.

Natedog looks back and proudly announces, "The boat's bulletproof!"

Andyman immediately turns his eyes to the sky and says, "Oh Lord! Forgive us, I cannot control what words come out of his mouth."
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This photo from Paddledancer of Iron Bob and The Juice, the first paddlers to the beach.
Off Cape Sable, as Spawn of Frankenscot skitters along under spinnaker a, a 5-foot-long tarpon lifts itself clear of the surface –– four or five feet out of the water –– big jaws agape, sides shining like a mirror, and splashes down just shy of the boat's port water-wing. 

A near miss to a legendary fish story. Moresailesaid, from the other side of the boat, "What the hell was that?"

Tied to the dock at Checkpoint 3 in Flamingo in the middle of the windy night, Andyman wakes to the sound of covert rustling.  

He opens an eye, and –– projected against the tent-wall he's made of his mainsail –– is the clear profile of Rocket Raccoon, who has delved into the cooler and opened the plastic Tupperware container and is rummaging boldly  for the really good trail mix.  

Andyman repels the intruder and tries to return to dreamland from his spot on the trampoline of his catamaran.

Just as he is falling back into the sleep of the righteous, a manatee surfaces under him, perhaps 18 inches to the south of his face.

Meanwhile, Natedog snoozes peacefully in a nearby Toyota. 

via GIPHY

At Checkpoint 2, Bill Wright is the volunteer in charge of the administration of the race. Under Bill's watch, the duties include gleefully filming the technique of each team as they navigate the viscous grey mud that separates water from shore at low tide.  

His videos are accompanied by an evil chuckle worthy of a Bond villain.

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Photo credit Bill Wright.
Stumbling Thunder recounted the singular joy of sailing out Murray Channel to find a –– is it a congress of manatee?–– manateeing around.

He also said he was surprised by the number of porpoises that swam up to the boat to give the program the side-eye, as if to say, "Y'all crazy!"  Mind you, he and JustAnotherSailor were on a 2-hour watch system, so they were not as sleep-deprived on the mighty Dovekie as might others have been on their various other kooky vessels. 
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SailorKing and the RealDM finish their first Everglades Challenge at around noon on Tuesday. The last leg, crossing Florida Bay in a brutal 24+ hours, as the weather grew sportier and more on-the-nosey by the hour.

Tapped out on Monday evening, SailorKing and DM park the Windrider 17 in the lee of a mangrove island south of Tavernier.

​The RealDM tucks himself into a sleeping bag in the tent on shore while SailorKing snoozes at the helm, sitting, he notes, like a corpse.

​Weekend at Bernies takes to the waves! Hell, he remarks, I probably look like a dead guy the whole time.
Meanwhile, on shore, the adventures are perhaps less heroic, but not without risk:

That first bite of one of Harriet's Restaurant's key lime muffin carries a beignet hazard: do not sigh in pleasure and then inhale sharply.

Unless of course you enjoy aspirating powdered sugar and resembling a 1980's cinematic criminal. 

Paddledancer and Mrs. D-Squared both fall victim, but –– thank goodness! –– do not have to press the button for outside assistance. 

​

via GIPHY

Afterword

So, my favorite skipper, TwoBeers along with Moresailesaid sailed in the kind of conditions that are hard to top for Spawn racing down the coast: good breeze, mostly NNE, with favorable tides and excellent luck.

"We've never pancaked so much," announced TwoBeers, meaning that the boat was skim-boarding along large swaths of the racecourse, occasionally outrunning the scrim of water and belly-flopping into the soft sandy mud. The new gasket he'd installed along the centerboard worked well, but sadly, they forgot to close the automatic bailer. Hello Old Faithful of stinky mudflat mud.  

The team crossed Florida Bay in an astounding 4 hours moving like a scalded cat under reefed main and jib. The water-ballast and trapezes came into play on and off.

As they often express, they got their wish to finish before the second sunset, each sailor getting a couple of hours' worth of naps as the boat planed off on a (port) run. 

In fact, the vast majority of the Challenge was completed on port, aside from the odd tack and jibe through passes.
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Prudent superstition did not permit them to utter the words "record" until they were safely ashore in Key Largo, but they  finished in something like 33 hours, breaking their own course monohull record from a few years ago by a smashing three hours. 

We stretched out the clean-up and putting away of gear for a few days in Key Largo so that we could share in the triumph of other finishers; the event passes so quickly!

​Until next year...
16 Comments

Everglades Challenge 2021 –– It Begins.

3/6/2021

8 Comments

 
Crossing the Sunshine Skyway as playful gusts of wind nudge my RV from one side of the lane to the other, I dart a quick look to my right.
Spawn of Frankenscot EC2021
Thanks to power-boat riding Robert Hill for this photo of Spawn shortly after the start.
Of course the fleet of adventure racers is long over the horizon. Even knowing that my TwoBeers and Moresailesaid are sporting fine Gortex® waterproofs, I knock wood that they're hauling (dry) butt ahead of the rain.

​Rain that is just starting to ping against the windshield.


When my favorite skipper and Moresailesaid push Spawn off the beach for the Everglades Challenge each March, their focus is 100% on getting to Key Largo.  

The event is an "unsupported" adventure race, which means the racers carry whatever they expect to need. Preparation is key: for months, I'll find lists of how many AA and AAA batteries, of food ideas, of which things need fixing.

​There are long looong phone calls about how best to stow gear.
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Before sunrise on the beach, the game is all about stowing gear.
I stay out of most of it. I consider myself a quartermaster rather than a chef d'équipe for the team. I obtain and make stuff in advance of the event.  

But when they take off at 7 am on the first Saturday in March, my focus changes.

I'm ground control, so I keep an eagle eye on their SPOT track. And another eagle eye on the weather news.

And another on the WaterTribe tracking page and on the RaceOwl page when the WaterTribe page gets bogged down. 

Plus one more on what's shaking on the social networks. Oh, and maybe a peek at the weather radar.


How many eyes is that?

(Whatever you do, do NOT Google "eagle spider." Jayshusmaryandjoseph)

By ten, I've managed the bronco ride home –– despite that fool motorcycle that would decide to  nip in front of the big rig as we whoa'd down the exit ramp.

​The bumpersticker is right: you DO have to keep an eye out for those things.

I'm emptying one vehicle and repacking another, since tomorrow I'll be conveying Spawn's trailer to Key Largo (knock wood! if nothing happens in the meanwhile! fingers crossed!).

And refreshing my screens and answering texts.

via GIPHY

Among the many management challenges of the Everglades Challenge each year, the only thing tougher than organizing batteries and gear and the boys' socks  –– for me –– is keeping a lid on worry.
Knocking wood and crossing fingers and so on.
8 Comments

To Go Forth Unto the Waters...Countdown to Everglades Challenge 2021

3/1/2021

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Each year, my favorite skipper (aka Mr. Linton, aka TwoBeers) applies his specific set of skills to an adventure race called The Everglades Challenge.

It's a 300-mile race from St. Petersburg to Key Largo. No motors (but rowing is okay).

​He and O.H.Rodgers designed and built a 22-foot sloop known as the Spawn of Frankenscot. He and Jahn Tihansky (aka Coach, aka Moresailesaid) have made the sprint four times.
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For the full history of the Spawn program, browse around on the blog. The event is marked by thrills, spills, no frills, and saltwater crocs. Plus sleep deprivation (for those on the water and for us on shore keeping an eye on them) and a fixation on the weather.

Each boat is equipped with a satelite tracker as well as a cartload of safety gear.
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The naturally socially-distanced event selects for mad-scientists and salty mariner types alike. Still, my own Dr. Frankenstein made only a few small adjustments to his program for 2021.

He rewired the water-ballast pumps and beefed up the battery situation. He added hinges and latches to the ports leading to the forward "stateroom."

He rejiggered the storage bags. He shaved a few inches from the rudders and added tent-poles to make roomier camping accommodations.
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The race begins at sunrise on Saturday, March 6, 2021.

Click on the map below for a link to the WaterTribe tracking map.  BTW, that site is sometimes overloaded during the event. 
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Additionally, I will try to update the Spawn Facebook page with news as the event unfolds over the weekend.  

​Fingers crossed and knocking wood...
8 Comments

Nostalgic Talky Talk

2/22/2021

6 Comments

 
Oldgeezering: the tendency of anyone over the age of 20 to start reminiscing about how the world has changed.

​Identify by use of temporal phrases like "when I was a kid," "back in the day," "nowadays."

Also, Proustian locational references: "the video arcade," "my grandfather's farm," "the five-and-dime."
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Oldgeezering in practice:

When I was a kid, my dad used to drag us around behind a boat in pretty much anything that floated. Once it was a wide mahogany door: hard to grip –– and there must have been some additional flotation, right? Huh. It's all blur of water up the nose.
    
The safety rules were few but iron-clad: lifejackets for all kids and somebody was charged to act as spotter. NEVER take eyes off your mark. 

I guess I was spotting for cousin B in this picture.

Check out that flex. Daddo looks mighty buff; always with the Ray-Bans, the cigarette (gasoline canisters be danged!) and the bottle of beer.  

Kids these days –– they don't even.  

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Music and dance

2/17/2021

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Can anyone argue that humans come with music and dance already pre-loaded?
Caveat clictor.

Oops, I did it again...Not actually sorry if you did click on "Baby Shark doo-doo-doo..."  

Settle down, go on, do...I have a handful of consolation tracks.

Palate cleansers if you will. 

​Do a little dance.
6 Comments

Hey Ho, a Pirate's Life for Me

2/5/2021

2 Comments

 
Working. Sigh.

Every once and a while, someone will announce to me that it's cruel to make horses pull carriages, run around a race-track, jump obstacles.


These same people –– so far! –– will NOT agree with me when I suggest that throwing a tennis ball over and over is torture for dogs.

They are quick to assure me that, no! no! fetching is a game!

Sure it is.

Tell that to your average retriever. 

via GIPHY

Somehow the very idea of work get the stink eye ––  golly, we wouldn't even wish it on our animal friends. The same animal buddies whose stalwart character and skills we've selected for across hundreds of generations.

But did any of us evolve all these years find our joy while melting into the upholstery?  Add a bag of chips and a winning Lotto ticket, et voilá!  The American Dream nirvana!

I don't mean to rant. Or actually I do. I just don't want to glaze anyone's eyes for them. Save the anesthetized stare for the third season of whatever's streaming today. Grrr.

What kind of malarkey are we putting on toast?

I'm not above it, truly. Work can suck.

Carriage horses sometimes die of heat exhaustion. Racehorses twist an elegant ankle and are seen no more on green pastures. 
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But can a person deny a horse the joy of running? The snarfling satisfaction of a well-fetched stick? The sweaty pleasure of that last log split and stacked? 
2 Comments

Shark's Teeth

1/28/2021

4 Comments

 
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As anyone who knows my fondness for Archie MacPhee will testify, I am liable to announce a propos of nada: “Sharks have no bones!”  

It was a catchy tagline from a catalog some years ago. And true.


Shark are all cartilage and attitude. And, as one might discover on a foggy January wander along a beach – teeth.
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Sharks continually shed teeth and grow more. Row after row of them.
Having no tooth-fairy to look after them, these teeth sink to the bottom of the sea.

​Once the chompers hit mud or sand, chemistry does its magic.

​Minerals from the mud (or sand) shimmy into the teeth, making the once-pearly whites, dear, into something rich and chestnut-colored, or black.

Or, according to the lore, blue.
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Of course everyone wants a 5-inch-long megladon tooth, but these are pretty cool too.,
Walk down the right beach and tune your attention to the y-shape, and dozens of teeth will appear.

Which makes sense, because sharks have been swimming about for millions of years. And some grow up to 35,000 teeth in a lifetime.

I suppose someone has done the math, but it’s a lot of teeth underfoot. One might say, the opposite of hen's teeth, even.
4 Comments

The Would-Be Farm Rhubarb

1/12/2021

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My gardening heros, the Davises from Denver, used to send me homemade jars of rhubarb in exchange for some favor or another.

​I don't remember the chore, but I do remember the treat: that nearly chalky, stringy goop with a sour/sweet flavor that reminds me so much of springtime in the North Country. 


I know, sounds delish, right?  But no, it is.
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Consulting my notes, I see that it took me until 2017 to put in rhubarb plants at the Farm. It takes them a couple of years to get their feet under them, but they've done quite well.  Enough for us to have a half dozen or so desserts in the last couple of years. 

But is that really enough Rheum rhababarum? No.

Obviously.

Still, it was an extra surprise bonus that we acquired another patch of rhubarb this past summer.
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The "new" rhubarb patch.
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The nearest small town (pop. 650 people) did earn a mention in a Neil Young song, but frankly, the Would-Be Farm is located somewhere just this side of Beyond. The wild-and-wooly frontier nature of the place is mostly lovely, but it does have the occasional drawback. 

For instance, our former neighbors just to our north...nice folks, perhaps, but considerably more gun-happy than makes us entirely comfortable. Sure, fire your gun at a target, a varmint, dinner. But random gunfire? Combined with a LOT of empty bottles and very loud (and frankly awful) 1970's rock'n'roll? Oh boy.

So for the past couple of years, when these neighbors were in residence, my favorite skipper and I simply avoid the north section of that one field. Discretion being the larger part of not catching a piece of lead. 

It's not generally part of the culture out there near Beyond to call the coppers. Or at least not until things have escalated to the sort transgression that does deliberate physical harm. Holding a hootenanny at midnight on a Tuesday, well that's annoying, but live and let live. Letting your toddlers run loose at night –– well, that goes too far.

Anyhoo. Those lively neighbors with the large supplies of ammo moved along, leaving a "For Sale" sign behind them.

Things sometimes work themselves out.   

Which is how the Would-Be Farm grew a little over the summer.  We gained an additional 40 or so neglected old apple trees, an open field, and a honking big patch of rhubarb.
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