Day 57

My dad came down to sail with us for a week, flying into Jacksonville, FL and catching a taxi out to the coast to join us in Mayport. In preparation, Pete and I spent the morning getting the boat spic and span and sparkling. The boat was built the same year my dad graduated from high school so, there was only so much we could do with a washcloth and hand broom but, I think it looked pretty good when we were done. I was anxious for my dad to see how professional and sailor-like we'd become. Everything had to be perfect. I think I started to annoy Pete a bit.




It was a blustery day, with scattered rain squalls and big thunderheads rolling through. When Dad arrived, I met him at the ferry dock and walked him to the boat, gave him a quick tour and showed him his berth. Then, we all headed over to Singleton's Seafood Shack for lunch. Afterward, walking a bit slower, we made our way back to the boat to shove off. That's when we found out how strong the current in the St. Johns River is. Pete and I had moved Strolla to the public docks just down the beach for the morning while we waited for my dad. This had left her broadside to the current and she was now pinned hard against the dock by the
shifting tides.



The three of us together were just barely able to inch the boat along and had no hope of moving it out from the dock and parallel to the current. We were stuck waiting for slack tide which wouldn't be until around 6 pm, far too late to be setting sail. So much for impressing Dad, day one was a write-off.

While we three stood spread out on the pier, catching our breath after a final failed attempt to free the boat, a policeman made his way cautiously down the gangway. He asked to see some ID and documentation for the boat. He then took these back up took up to his truck. Pete and Dad went into the cabin to get out of the wind. I waited outside in the spitting rain to see what would happen. As I stood there shivering, collar turned to the cold, I could see him up in his truck, flipping through folders, writing on forms, talking on the radio. With excruciating slowness, the minutes ticked by.

Things seemed to be taking an inordinately long time. Then, I learned why. The policeman had called in the Coast Guard, who came idling up in their patrol boat came in and tied off to the dock next to ours. The crew got out and went up to confer with the policeman on shore. After a quick huddle, the whole posse made their down to me, combat boots thumping, leather gun holsters creaking. They asked Dad and Pete to come outside, asked a long series of questions about the boat, then informed us that they would be conducting an inspection of the vessel.

While everyone else remained on the pier, I accompanied one of the Coast Guard crew into the cabin for our first Coast Guard inspection. The guy inspecting the boat looked like he could have been a linebacker on his high school football team just a few months earlier. He was a huge, baby-faced man who I'm pretty sure, judging by how much he was sweating in this unseasonable cold Florida weather, was more nervous than I was. The whole inspection had a very unpracticed feel to it. He stumbled through the paperwork, had to read from his clipboard, and at one point had to go up on deck to get a checklist from his superior. As he struggled to move his massive frame through our tiny boat to check the bilge and engine compartments, I actually began to feel sorry for him. I think it was his first inspection. Despite some minor infractions, he gave us a passing grade and, with what seemed to be relief, climbed back out into the whipping wind. He forgot his coat in the cabin and I brought that out to him.

Dad and Pete and I decided against another trip to the seafood shack and cooked dinner that night on the boat. When the tides changed we moved Strolla to a different dock, this one parallel with the current, so that we wouldn't be stuck again in the morning and then turned in early. The wind continued to howl through the night and the waves on the river grew bigger and bigger. With the wakes from a few passing container ships added to the mix, it was a rough night.



We all slept lightly on the bouncing boat. Just before midnight, I found myself suddenly wide awake. Even lying there in my sleeping bag, I could tell something was wrong. The rhythm of the boat's bobbing had changed. I poked my head out of the hatch. The bow was rubbing against the edge of the dock where there were no fenders. How had that happened? I turned to look aft. Squinting through the dark, I could see that Strolla was no longer parallel with the dock. The back end was too far out. We'd broken a dock line. With a yelp I jumped up through the bow hatch and vaulted to the stern to retie it. Dad and Pete woke up in the commotion and rushed out to help. Each dressed in socks and boxers, we wrestled the stern back against the dock and tied it off. Then, as extra insurance, doubled up all our lines and set and repositioned all of our fenders before climbing wearily back into our bunks. Dad's first day aboard was over.