We are on our way to Jamestown, Rhode Island. The weather is quite warm and humid, not unusual for mid summer, tee-shirt and shorts weather, bare feet goes without saying, as well as a large glass of carbonated water with extra ice. I’m thankful for the hazy, quasi-foggy conditions; full sunlight would be way too uncomfortable.
Our heading is northeast toward the northern tip of Connanicut Island, then south down its eastern coast and under the expansive Claiborn Pell Bridge. Ginger Lee lopes along at a leisurely five knots, barely ruffling burgee or ensign. It’s a relatively short jaunt so there is no need to go any faster.

The Claiborn Pell Bridge.

We’ll avoid the hustle and bustle of the Jamestown Yacht Club, and instead, rent a nice quiet mooring at Clark Boatyard, located about a half mile south.

The bustling Jamestown Yacht Club.

Nice and quiet mooring.

I tried to get a mooring in Newport, the expensive playground-for-the-rich harbor in Rhode Island, but nobody answers their phone or even bothers to call me back. Just as well; the view is incredible here at Clark Boatyard, just across the bay.

View aft. Foreground is a hydrofoil windsurfer whipping by at about 50 MPH.

Starboard view. Jamestown Harbor.

Portside view of a house on a rock.

A sailing class.

We idle the rest of the day away, loitering on the aft deck enjoying cold drinks and unhealthy snacks, watching all manner of ships lumber slowly through the bay. I offer my hypothesis of where they are going, their cargo, and where they have been. The XO adds her version, and soon we have a whole imaginary story down pat, complete with main characters, subplots, and locations, ready for publication.

Southbound freighter.

Large unknown objects being towed north.

The hot July sun nears the horizon, and the lighthouse comes to life on Rose Island. Tomorrow we will visit that lighthouse, and maybe tour Newport Harbor, if the mood strikes us.

Rose Island Lighthouse.

You don’t have to fill every day with activities. Sometimes ya just gotta get lazy, and in a setting like this, it almost becomes spiritual. Floating here, not connected to land, I have everything I need, and someone to share it with. I feel like the luckiest man in the universe.

Every season there is one destination that really stands out. I think we’re at that place; I’m really liking me some Wickford.
Reader: “Jeepers, Rick! You say that about every place you cruise to.”
Captain Rick: “I know, I know. But I really mean it this time. Honest.”
Reader: “The season’s not over yet, and by the way, you use way too many superlatives. Show some restraint man!”
Captain Rick: “But jeez! Free WIFI!  This place is all that and a bag of chips!”

Despite my love of Wickford, free WIFI, and chips, I’ve made up my mind to leave in the morning. The pull of the open water and the excitement of a new destination is that great. The XO must feel it too: “Where to next?” she asks as if she can read my mind. Am I that transparent? I guess I’ve always wore my heart on my sleeve. “Jamestown,” I answer, conserving my words, sort of like a test, to see how it settles. It sits well; I’m definitely looking forward to it! Now that it’s all settled, we can concentrate on the present and enjoy one more day in paradise.
It’s time to toss the bikes into the dinghy and head out to explore some land based stuff. The cruising guide says you can tie up at the Town Dock, so that’s where we’re heading..

Low bridge.

Duck!

The XO plots a bike route.

We found the Wilson Park Bikeway and spent a couple of hours stretching our legs.

Beautiful views along the bike path.

Downtown scene.

We also found the Tavern By the Sea restaurant.

A hearty lunch.

After a hearty lunch we hit a souvenir shop for the required refrigerator magnet.

The souvenir shop.

Wickford Village is pleasingly quaint, everything is pretty much contained within a four block area near the waterfront. Lots of brick and granite like a miniscule Beacon Hill.
We load our doggie bags and packages onto the bikes and glide off to the Town Dock; it’s time to get ready for our boat guests: Andrea Peitsch, her date, and her two kids, Billy and Wendy.
Actually, there’s not that much to do to get ready, just clean up the boat a bit, and get some ice.

Stopping for ice at the Wickford Boatyard.

Andrea and her date. We forgot his name.

We have drinks and snacks on the aftdeck. The children provide the entertainment. With endless energy, they jump and dive off the gunwales, swim and splash about until dusk.

The Peitschlings at play.

It’s been a while since I’ve watched children playing. Their laughter and goofiness is contagious enough to prompt the boaters moored next to us to jump off their boat and loudly splash about as well.
It’s a good last night in wonderful Wickford. We’ll be back. I just know it.

I love waking up on the boat. It feels special, like having waterfront property only better. I’m surrounded by water!
It’s a warm, slightly humid morning in Wickford, Rhode Island. The sun has been up for a good ten minutes now. I feel its radiant rays on my bare arms as I sit at the salon table. As usual, I’m awake before my wife. I like that; it’s a quiet time to sip coffee and be with my own thoughts. Today is my birthday, so naturally, my thoughts are of my life as a whole. Don’t worry dear reader, I won’t bore you with any of it, except to say that I consider it a good one. Sure, there were peaks and valleys, but none too high, and none too low. I’m not rich. I’m not poor. Just thankful for what I have, happy to be alive, and respectful of my position in the universe.

Birthday presents and a wonderfully ridiculous light-up card that sang the tune “Happy Birthday” using only the word BEER, and then belched at the end.

It’s late morning and I’m messing about the boat. There’s a guy in a small Boston Whaler slowly circling Ginger Lee.

Mystery man.

He seems to be taking an interest in our vessel. After his third loop he drifts closer.
“What the heck is this dude doin’?”  Finally, he gets within speaking distance.
“Hey. How are those diesels treating ya,” he says with a friendly smile.
“Wait a sec, how does he know I have diesels?” I say to myself. Old Trojans like Ginger Lee are all gas-powered. Very few people know about the conversion to Lehman 120’s. Just a few close friends, two guys at the marina where I put her up for the winter, and of course, the previous owner who actually installed them.
Oh duhhhh. I look at the tidy old skiff, the deadpan clean-shaven face, and the can of Coors on the seat. Of course!
“How’re ya doin’ Mister Skerry?” I say, trying to sound like I knew who he was all along. “What’re you doing in Wickford?”

Captain John Skerry. The man who installed diesels in our boat.

“I live here,” he says. I was just taking a little ride and spotted this old Trojan. When I got closer I realized it used to mine.”

April 10, 2010. Allens Harbor, North Kingstown, RI. Captain Skerry preps “Sea Horse” minutes before selling it to us.

She looks great! Mind if I take few pictures? My kids will love it. We had some good times on this boat.”
As John circles the boat snapping pictures, I think about what a huge undertaking it must have been to do what he did: remove two Chrysler 318 gas engines, and replace them with two Lehman 120 diesels. These engines aren’t small or cheap; each one is the size of a large desk and a new one will run ya ’bout ten grand. Granted, since he’s a real working captain, and hangs around docks, boats and mariners all day long, he found a deal on the Lehmans, but the incredible amount of work needed to overhaul them, fit them in, hook them up to the transmissions, running gear and controls, just boggles my mind. This guy did what no one has ever done before. Ginger Lee is unique, the only twin Lehman powered Trojan in existence. He didn’t pay someone to do it; he did all the work himself.

Lehman 120 diesel engine.

“Hop in, I’ll show ya around,” he says.
Since I’m not driving, I grab a cold one, put it in a coozie, and proceed to climb into Johns old skiff.
“Hey what’re ya doin’? he said loudly, noticing my drink.
“Oh. Sorry,” I apologize and step back, thinking I’ve overstepped my bounds by bringing alcohol onto his boat.
“This is two beer ride!” he says.
“Ah. Okay then. Sorry man.” I pull another Bud out of the cooler and off we go.

Two beer ride.

It’s nice to be driven around. Our knowledgable “tour guide” showed us the whole beautiful area. We end up at his new boat: an awesome 12 meter Trojan with twin Caterpillar diesels.

Trojan 12 meter.

Old school bridge, bucking the newest trend to have all the instruments electronically displayed on one flat panel monitor.

True to form, he got an incredible deal on it as a fixer-upper, and did all the work himself. The guy’s like a force of nature. Thank you Captain Skerry for making our Ginger Lee so special.

The Osprey were at least an hour into their morning hunt when we backed Ginger Lee out of the slip. It’s not the crack of dawn, but pretty darn early. Judging by the lack of recreational fishermen, I’m guessing it’s a weekday. Only two guys in their skiff disturb the glass of the Upper Pond. Hiding behind a thin veneer of milky white clouds, the summer sun is well free of the horizon. “It may burn through,” I say hopefully aloud, squinting at the bright, opaque sky.
The marine forecast calls for three footers in the Rhode Island Sound; not so bad; we won’t be in it very long. The plan is to loop around Point Judith and head north up Narragansett Bay via the West Passage. It sounds simple enough, but the waves will be at an uncomfortable angle for about thirty minutes until we make that northerly turn, then they will push us smartly along at a good ten MPH.

The treacherous Whale Rock guards the West Passage.

I’ve never been to Wickford Harbor. I don’t know what to expect. It’s very exciting. My favorite cruising guide, Active Captain, says the town has four or five “first-come-first-serve” moorings just inside the breakwater. We hope to grab one, but just in case they’re all taken, we need a plan B. I call the Wickford Shipyard to arrange dockage.
“No need to make a reservation, I got plenty of room. Just pull up to the fuel dock and we’ll take care of ya,” the friendly dockmaster explained.

Under the Jamestown bridge.

After about an hour and a half, we cruise through the Wickford Harbor Breakwater and apprehensively look to our left for an empty mooring.
“There’s one right over there,” the XO points.
“Saweet! Looks like the only one left!”  Yee ha! We’re here!

Town mooring.

View forward.

View aft.

Right after breakfast we get a visit from the Harbormaster. Nice guy, friendly, talkative, and knowledgable about all the attractions. He explained the moorings used to be free, but the locals kept using them like their own personal property; there would never be any for visitors as they were intended. Charging money stopped the misuse.
“Never mind the three-day maximum. Stay as long as you like.” he says with happy smile.
“You gotta love a job you can do in your bare feet,” the XO quips.

“I love my job!”

There’s so much to see and do here. I can’t wait to get out in the dinghy and explore this new territory.

On this picture perfect July morning, we are heading east along Block Island Sound. The wind is minimal and so are the waves. Love it!
We leave New York and Connecticut behind and set a straight line course from the Watch Hill Pass to the Point Judith Harbor of Refuge, familiar territory for Ginger Lee and her crew. Right now, the biggest problem is the low morning sun directly in front of us. It is so brilliant we are squinting even with our sunglasses on.
The Coast Guard, stationed in Point Judith, is running some kind of exercise and the radio is alive with their entertaining chatter. We gather that two rigid inflatable gunboats will escort the Block Island Ferry out of the Harbor and a mile beyond. Sure enough, as we approach the familiar man-made seawall, two orange and black R.I.Bs, with large-caliber machine guns mounted forward, surround the massive ferry through the West Inlet and a mile out to sea before peeling off and zooming homeward. Flak-jacketed Coasties hang onto grab-rails and dark automatic weapons. We give them plenty of clearance; the intimidation factor is wicked high.
We transit the scenic Point Judith Pond, go through The Narrows to the Upper Pond, and tie up to the Ram Point Marina fuel dock. We were just going to pump out our holding tank and get our slip assignment, but the diesel price was so low we filled up the port-side tank as well.

Slipped at the Ram Point Marina. The windshield cover helps keep the cabin cool.

I like this marina a lot. Everyone is friendly and helpful, the showers are nice, the laundry room is clean (and has cable TV), they even have a well stocked marine store. Unfortunately not well stocked enough to provide us with a new depth sounder. Not a problem. I hop on my bike and ride off to the West Marine store, about two miles away. Hopefully, I can make it there and back before the rain.

Rumbling sky.

I spend a couple of hours hooking up the new depth sounder. There’s a gizmo called a transducer that attaches to the bottom of the boat, and reports to the gauge part at the helm via a long wire.
“How does one attach a transducer to the boat bottom while still floating?” you ask.
An excellent question! I don’t think you can without diving gear. So I have to McGuyver something. I cut the handle off a brush and screw the transducer onto it, then lash the whole thing to the swim platform supports with hose clamps. Unfortunately the darn thing isn’t working, so I call the manufacturers help line.
“The transducer should make a clicking sound,” the technician says.
“No click,” I say.
“Then it’s defective. Send it to us and we’ll be happy to repair or replace it.”
“Well, that’s not going to help me; I’m in the middle of a cruise.”
“I’m sorry but that’s pretty much all we can do for you,” he apologizes.
He’s right; there’s not much that can be done. I thank him for his time, he wished me luck, and that’s it.
Thankfully the nice people at West Marine agree to exchange the defective unit for another, even after I told them I had to cut wires to de-install it.

Bad transducer.

We are renting this slip for $2.50 per foot, or eighty bucks per night, including water and electric. Really cheap for New England, still, I prefer the privacy of a mooring but there are no moorings available in the crowded Upper Pond.

The beautiful and crowded Upper Pond.

We take a short bicycle ride into charming Wakefield Village to visit a friend who owns an art supply store. Then on to the Mews Tavern for a Burgers and fries lunch.

South County Art Supply.

Shop owner Andrea Peitsch and her son, Billy.

Waiting for the waitress at the Mews Tavern.

Fast service!

I can’t get enough of this delightful area. It has a quality that awakens pleasure. Yeah, I could live here forever, right in this very slip.

The weather has been so nice this whole summer. I think it rained only once. A great summer!
“Ah. Excuse me Rick, but I beg to differ,” my lawn says in his typical whining tone.
“What’re you complaining about? I watered you just last week,” I say, not really sure if that was true.
“Uh-uh Rick. You most certainly did not. Just look at me! I’m all brown and patchy. I think you spend way too much time on that infernal boat.”
“Well. He’s got me there,” I say to myself. “If it makes you feel any better you’re not the only dried up lawn. Even the Lawn Nazi down the street has given up,” I say with very little remorse. The fact of the matter is, I would rather have nice sunny boating days than a nice lawn. After a record-setting winter, we all deserve it.

I live in Wareham, Massachusetts, arguably the best place to keep a boat. The Wareham River reaches out to Buzzards Bay and invites you to visit so many beautiful places within and beyond. But Warehamian boaters need not travel any further than their own town. Yes, we are fortunate in that respect. There are many nice anchoring spots nearby.

Anchoring off Long Beach.

Sailing in the Wareham River.

Joe Mullins in his colorful kayak.

If you feel like a longer cruise, as we often do, you can head west down The Hog Island Channel to Onset Bay, the Jewel of Wareham.

A couple enjoying Onset Bay.

We love to stay overnight in Onset. The town has four moorings for rent at a bargain twenty bucks a night. We took one, called the Harbormaster (who thanked me for checking in), and settled in for a gorgeous weekend. About twenty minutes later there was a knock on our hull. It was the Harbormaster asking if we would mind moving to another shallower mooring so they could accommodate a deep draft sailboat. We of course agreed. Later that day, the couple from that sailboat dinghied over and gave us a bottle of wine for our trouble!

The Harbormaster nicely asking us to move.

Sailing couple Kate and Charlie.

Gift wine.

I was blown away! Damn good wine too! Later we went ashore for a walk and ice cream.

Frozen pudding with jimmies.

Stonebridge Marina viewed from Onset Beach.

I’m happy here in Wareham. Sitting on Ginger Lee’s aft deck on a warm sunny day, watching all the boaters, kayakers, paddleboaders, and beachgoers, I feel like I’m leading a charmed life.
While walking the beach one day, I came upon an older guy sitting on a dock.
“G’mornin'”, I said. “A real beauty.”
“Yup”, he answered. “Another day in paradise.”

Overlooking Onset Bay.

The way I see it, the worst thing about Fishers Island Sound are the CLUMPS; East Clump, Middle Clump and West Clump. Apt names for three piles of dangerous rocks pretty much smack in the middle. Oh, they are well-marked, and well-known, but still, there is no shortage of boats with banged up props and running gear at Dodson Boatyard. The prudent mariner will keep his chart handy when transiting this area.
I set a course that keeps Ginger Lee far away from all obstructions, but just in case, I knock on wood, rub our guardian angels head, and share my coffee with Neptune.
There is only one other boat in the sound, a sailboat motoring on a collision course to our port. He is the stand-down vessel yet is not giving way. I hail him on the radio but it’s useless; there is nobody at his helm! Suddenly I see a figure darting up the companionway towards the tiller, but it’s too late, I have to take his stern or be rammed by an inconsiderate sailer on autopilot. Believe it or not, this is second time a sailboat has done this to us. Just like on the road, there are rules that govern who has the right of way on the water. Unfortunately, within those rules is a clause that states that all boaters have a legal responsibility to avoid collisions regardless of who has the right of way. Which is kinda like saying you have the right of way unless the other guy doesn’t give it to you! Yup. It’s a free-for-all out there. That’s why The XO and I have a strict rule of our own: stay away from all boats and rocks.
Chocomount Cove is everything our cruising guides said it would be: quiet, serene, beautiful, and private. There are no amenities. You can’t even go ashore here.

The western shore.

I tuck Ginger Lee as far into the western shore as I dare, and drop anchor in 12 feet of water. I hope the wonky depth sounder is correct because the bottom is foul at shallower depths. We breathe a sigh of relief when our big Danforth catches and holds on the first attempt. We are completely alone here.

The eastern shore.

It is the kind of day you dream about. Perfect in all respects. Small puffy clouds adorn the horizon. The humidity is as good as it gets for July. Even Mister Sun seems kinder, gentler. Right now, on our floating home, we have everything we need from the world. 

We fritter the time away like it was free. The XO prepares a wonderful dinner of chicken and zucchini and we share a bottle of red wine. As the sun dips lower on the horizon, and the city lights of the Connecticut shore dance on the water, we make a game of guessing which one of the huge mansions will turn on their lights first, and which will not turn on any lights. Chocomount Cove will not offer you restaurants, night clubs or sandy beaches. There are no sidewalks full of shoppers bustling about with their purchases. No fishermen or happy boaters going to and fro in their vessels. There is none of that. Just us: two lovers in paradise.

“How was your shower?” the XO asks.
“Incredible!” I answer. ” It had a bench and a hook!”
It’s a typical July day in Connecticut: sunny, hot and humid. We walk the well maintained docks of Dodson Boatyard en route to our dinghy, insulated bag full of ice in hand.
Dockworkers in matching tee shirts smile and say good morning, birds sing, fish jump, butterflies flit, all obviously admiring our cleanliness.
“I feel so good and scrubbed,” I say with a wiggle.
“Me too! Do you think we could get a bathtub on our boat?”
“We can,” I answer. “But it would take our entire water supply to fill it once!”
Nothing can break this wonderful mood I’m in. It’s a glorious day and we’re on vacation on our boat! Getting paid not to work!
Outboard motor won’t start? No prob, Bob. That’s why they invented oars.
“How the heck do you do that?” I ask. The XO is sitting on the rear bench of the dinghy, facing forward and rowing the boat forward! For those of you who have never rowed a boat before, believe me, this is really difficult to do.
“It’s that time again,” she says.
“Apparently,” I reply.
Because of some ridiculous government mandate to add ethanol to all gasoline, boaters everywhere have suffered. For us it means that every couple of weeks I will have to completely disassemble a carburetor and thoroughly clean it, for others who are not so fortunate, it means replacing an engine or a fuel tank. Sometimes both. Old marine engines were just not made to run on the stuff, and there’s a gazillion of them out there.

Another carburectomy.

One of the main features of Stonington are the trains that run right through it. It’s not so intrusive though; the high-speed Acela smoothly zips through the harbor in about 5 seconds

It’s time for a bike tour! We load up Ol’ Salty who is running tip-top this morning after his bi-monthly carburectomy.
Cycling is a great way to get around; it’s fun and you can see more things in a shorter amount of time. Not that we’re in a hurry, but before we got bikes, it would sometimes take all morning to visit one place, or go to the store.

Unfolding the bikes.

Cannon Square.

The Old Lighthouse Museum.

Inside the Museum. I got scolded for taking this picture.

View from the top.

The small general store. They had everything on our list, including a fly swatter!

The dinghy tour around the harbor reveals a small fishing fleet, a town wharf, and in some places, a shallow rocky bottom which we only hit once. Thankfully, there is no damage.

Fishing fleet.

Rusty dragger.

I love this bow art.

Memorial on the Town Wharf.

It is our last night in beautiful Stonington. Yes dear reader, there are still places in this world that remain pure and unspoiled. No wonder every person we meet is friendly and nice. I will never forget our time here.

Stonington sunset.

Whenever the marine forecast predicts less than ideal conditions, it’s better to get out there as early as possible. Before the sun, wind, and other boats have a chance to whip things up.
“We need to get under way at dawn.” — Captain Rick.
“Just wake me up and pour coffee down my neck.” — The XO.
The words echo in my brain, yet I hesitate. She looks so darn adorable sleeping soundly in our cozy little berth. Tousled hair and everything.
“Well, maybe just a few more moments,” I say to myself, then quickly change my mind and softly touch her shoulder. We need to be on our way.
“Coffee’s ready Hon.”
“Okay. I’m up.”
In less than fifteen minutes, burgee and ensign fly, dinghy is bridled, engines are warmed, and mooring pennant is dropped.

Leaving Westport.

We aren’t too far down the fairway when I realize the depth sounder is acting all wacky.
“Maybe we should scrub the transducer,” the XO says. Sometimes barnacles and slime cover the underwater part of the system.
“I did that. Didn’t make any difference at all,” I say, tapping the screen. It’s not the end of the world, most channels are well-marked, but it’s definitely one of the gauges you want to work on the boat. So when we get to open waters, I climb up to the flybridge, remove the depth sounder from the upper helm, and temporarily install it in the lower helm using cable ties and duct tape.
Apparently that instrument also has its gremlins; sometimes it completely blanks out. But between the two of them I sorta-kinda know the depth, most of the time.
Today, contrary to the marine forecast, I proclaim the weather conditions “darn good.” It’s hazy and warm, not the full-blown sunshine that can really heat things up. The waves are like big lazy rollers; two footers that lack the energy to do anything but stir your coffee. Soon we find ourselves zipping past Point Judith at nearly eight miles an hour; the farthest west we have ever taken Ginger Lee. It’s all new territory now. Originally, I had planned to stop in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, a calm little anchorage behind a sweeping beach, but as we approach the unfamiliar and dangerous Fishers Island Sound via the Watch Hill Pass, I suddenly get a hankerin’ to visit Stonington, CT.

Approaching Watch Hill Pass.

I contact Dodson Boat yard on my phone and they assure me they have a mooring for us at the head of the harbor.
“Call us on 69 when you get to the breakwater,” a pleasant young lady instructed. Which we do. The same pleasant voice gives us a mooring number, a clue to where it’s located, and we begin the process of actually finding it. Surprisingly, it’s right where she said it was. The XO, standing on deck with a boat hook, scoops up the pennants, loops them over the bit, then routs them through the chocks.

Ginger Lee moored in Stonington, CT.

“You know, this is the same boatyard Anthony Bailey sailed out of,” I say, referring to the author of one of our favorite books,The Coast Of Summer, about his summer adventures cruising the New England coast in a 27 foot sailboat.
“Really?”
“Yup. He had a mooring at the head of this harbor. Could be this very mooring. They’re renting it out ‘cuz he’s off sailing,” I fantasize. She consults her smart phone and discovers Anthony Bailey is still alive and well.
After getting Ginger Lee settled, we dinghy over to the boatyard to pay for our stay and check out the land based things that matter most to cruising boaters: showers, ice, and provisions.

I managed to find the Ice cream shop.

There is a shower on our boat, but not unlimited water, so in order to conserve, showering is done a bit differently. First of all, you never leave the water running. You get yourself wet, shut the water off, soap up, than quickly rinse. It does the job, but man-o-man, after cruising for a while, it’s so nice to have a continuous stream of hot water cascade all over your body.
The Captain Rick shower rating system:
“Okay.” = A stingy amount of tepid water.
“Great!” = Lots of hot water at high pressure.
“Awesome!” = Lots of hot water at high pressure and a bench for your stuff “Incredible!” = Lots of hot water at high pressure, a bench for your stuff, and a hook for your towel.
Nothing else really matters. The condition of the stall is secondary. You’re not sleeping there! Just put on your flip-flops and do your thing. 

It’s an ambitious plan to be sure: cruise to Point Judith in one jump. Oh it can be done. No doubt about it. But why? Sure, the weather is nice, and the waves are not a problem at all, but by the time we pass New Bedford we are so many hours into the trip we start looking for a spot to spend the night. I bring up Point Judith on the GPS and it says it’s about four hours away at our present speed.
“How ’bout Clarks Cove? I suggest. (Between New Bedford and Pandaram.)
“I think we should go a bit further,” the XO counter-suggests.
“Barney’s Joy?” I counter-counter. “It’s supposed to be pretty good.”
That doesn’t seem to fly either.
“Lets go to Westport,” I say. My wifes eyes light up!
“That’s the ticket.”  I pick up the phone and dial F.L.Tripps marina.
“Sure. We got plenty of room. Just pick up any mooring with a yellow ball attached to it,” the guy with the Scottish accent says.

Horseneck Beach

Leaving Gooseberry Neck to starboard and the treacherous Hen and Chickens to port, we scoot past Horseneck Beach, wind our way through the well-marked scenic channel, and pick up a mooring as near as we can get to the age-old F.L. Tripps facility, figuring it’s better boat watching potential.

Little cottages along the channel.

Sweet little McKenzie Cuttyhunk.

The XO wields the spyglasses.

The 4 MPH current here whips everyone around 180 degrees every tide change, making it really bad for anchoring. But fear not young boater, Tripps always has a mooring for you, and the setting is absolutely gorgeous. It’s always a safe, quiet night and the staff couldn’t be friendlier. Great showers, coin-op laundry, book swap, marine store, and a pump-out that comes to your boat makes F.L.Tripp worth every penny of the  $47.50 they charge. Unfortunately they have nothing in the way of provisions, but the last time we were there they offered to drive to the nearest store and pick up a list of things we needed.
For supper, we grill pork chops and carrots brushed with olive oil while  listening to the Red Sox on the radio.

I wish we could stay longer, but the marine forecast is pretty good, and there is so much unexplored territory we would just love to experience. So at the crack of dawn, or as the XO says, “Oh-my-God-o’clock”, I fix her a strong cup of coffee and gently wake her with soft kisses on her warm forehead.
“Coffee’s ready sweetheart,” I whisper.
“Okay. I’m getting up,” she says softly.
In ten minutes or so, we will be off on another adventure, taking full advantage of our beautiful New England Summer weather.

The beauty of Westport