I have to confess that it’s challenging to start a blog about cruising life in the low season, while one is tied up in a marina with trains going by at all hours and all the conveniences and inconveniences of urban living close to hand. Still, days like yesterday and nights like last night make me glad we are tucked safely away in dock here at Shilshole rather than anchored out somewhere in the gale. The weather station at West Point shows sustained winds of 33 knots gusting to almost 40 around 0200 this morning; at some point right around then, I think I woke up to the shrieking in the rigging overhead, listened to the lines and fenders taking the load comfortably, and rolled over and went back to sleep.
Anywhere else, I would have been huddled up in the cockpit, shivering on anchor watch, trying desperately to make out dim landmarks ashore to make sure we weren’t dragging anchor. Down below, the cabin would still be cold and probably quite damp, as I would only have managed to start up the diesel heater after I made sure we weren’t in immediate danger, and it would take a couple hours to get the place warmed up, and a few hours more to get it dried out. By which time it would be about time for bed and to shut it off again.
It’s true, I would have taken a certain pleasure in raptly observing the full moon, skulking along atop a ridge of dark, forbidding clouds, lighting the mists even as it ducked away to hide behind the bank, then blasting out into the open as if propelled by the wind itself to gleam coldly atop the roiled waters, and I might have enjoyed the solitude afforded by waiting until the off-season to take to some of our more popular Northwestern anchorages, and if the anchor held fast I would probably have congratulated myself on passing another test of seamanship. But on the whole, I am just as happy to be tucked comfortably away in our slip here at Shilshole.
Of course, marina life is not without its own perils. Yesterday I was up using the public restroom at the head of our dock. There was someone in there already in one of the stalls, but I didn’t think anything of it, stepping up to a urinal and going about my business in the approved manner. I hear a flush, the stall door open, and then a low whistle of approval. I find this disconcerting, to say the least, but I hope for the best… maybe this guy is just one of those unconscious whistlers, a happy sort of fellow who mindlessly purses his lips and hums a little tune as he goes about his business. As I hear him step up to the sink, though, I think he’s really pretty bad at it… no tune to speak of, just that low intermittent whistle. Either way, best to ignore it, I think, staring resolutely at the wall in front of me and waiting for him to finish.
He does, finally, and steps outside… and the whistling continues! Did I miss someone? Were there two guys? If so, which one of us was the third one whistling at? I am confused. But then I realize, it was just the wind all along, whistling around the edges of the windows.
Nonetheless, it is those social situations that are the awkward parts of marina life for me. I’ve lived in the city too long, and I’ve lost touch with the small-town attitudes and ethos that marina tenants more closely embody. Shilshole may be an exception to that general rule; we haven’t been here all that long but people seem friendly, but more withdrawn, than has been our experience elsewhere. Consequently, I’m often at something of a loss as to the appropriate behaviors and expectations to adopt, and still somewhat ill-at-ease while staying here. That’s another argument for being out cruising, I suppose. But maybe I’ll settle in to it with time. Just in time, I suppose, for the weather to turn again and for us to go out cruising for real.