The Polar Bear Chronicles

Fitzroy Pics

2009-05-16T14:34:00.001-07:00

Fitzroy turned one year old last week. Here he is all grown up!

PS - He is getting sick of hearing how he is "the President's dog." Nope, we had him first. He's "the Polar Bear's dog."

The wedding video.

2008-12-28T14:07:00.000-08:00

For all our family and friends who couldn't make it to our wedding in Las Vegas (particularly since most of you couldn't travel to the states on short notice), here is a video of our wedding ceremony at A Special Memory Wedding Chapel, a quintessential Vegas wedding chapel, just a few blocks off the strip.

The ceremony was surprisingly quick, but the important part where Simon finally makes an honest woman out of me is in there.

Our wedding was really fun, which is what we wanted. As you all know, we aren't much for pomp and circumstance. In fact, rather than a civilized sip of champagne for our toasts, we did shots of ouzo (to honor our meeting in Greece and to get drunk cheaply and efficiently)!

So I am now Alicia Irene Getchell Dearn. And Fitzroy is now Fitzroy "the Fuzz" Dearn. He's lost a few names and I've gained one.

Fun fact: the wedding immediately after ours was for a couple in a biker gang. Unbeknownst to the chapel, the rival gang had a wedding immediately after that. The two rival gangs decided that being in the same church at the same time justified several stabbings. Awww, the romance. (And the irony! I'm sure God really likes it when people stab one another in church.)

Also for fun: a picture of me doing a little work before the wedding. Because a lawyer can always be billing. (Just kidding. I was working on wedding stuff.)

A little video on the interior of Polar Bear.

2008-12-28T13:47:00.000-08:00

So you can get a feeling for the interior of the boat, Simon made a short little video:

Adventures in maintaining a concrete hull.

2008-12-28T13:15:00.000-08:00

Simon and I painted the Polar Bear white after several hard days' graft of sanding in Wales. It was originally blue. It was only after several days with a palm sander that we discovered that an angle grinder fitted with sanding disks was literally 100 times faster in removing the old paint.

Then, after we brought Polar Bear down to Portsmouth and hauled her out again, we discovered that the paint was already falling off in parts. That is when we learned that it is uncommonly difficult to keep paint on a concrete hull. Our new plan of attack was to sand it down all the way to the concrete on the lower half and down pretty far on the upper half and try again.

We have heard from other concrete boat owners that epoxy-based tar is a better way to go than marine paint. We've already bought the paint, though, so we are going to give it one more try. Also, tar is black, so we would have to rename her "Black Bear." Also, we need to rule out the possibility that the paint didn't set well due to the cold temperature in Wales, rather than just because the hull is concrete. We'll see how it turns out.

In the meantime, we owe a debt of gratitude to the Dearn family, all of whom spent several weekends in August to help us strip this hull down. We now know the hull intimately, though, and are happy to report that it is in great shape. Where we had rust, we ground it out, cleaned the fresh metal with acid and filled the holes with an epoxy-concrete goo. This worked astonishingly well and was easy to do. Simon was like a dentist, filling holes at the bottom of the keel. After the goo was placed in there, we used duct tape to hold it in while it hardened. Then we removed the duct tape and viola! But the epoxy mix turned his hands black for about two weeks.

We have similarly gone down to the hull on the inside (only the front half is done), and have rooted out any rust there, and painted over bear metal with an epoxy paint. There was very little, though.

The most important lesson that we learned: epoxy can fix anything (we also used it to help build some of our carpentry, but that is another post). It is our favorite substance. We should buy stock.

So it isn't much to look at right now, but it is beautiful to us since we know that the hull has it where it counts. We know that concrete can look rough, but it is unique. It doesn't look glassy like a fiberglass hull. Most people think that it is steel when it is painted, and it does look similar to that. Anyway, thanks to the great properties of a concrete hull, the marine paint is more for looks than for protection or functionality (unlike most other boats).

We couldn't paint the hull this last summer because it was too cold and wet. When we painted the decks -- see pictures below -- it rained right afterwards, creating a mottled, goopiness to the paint. The decks now require another coat -- which is OK, since we still need to put down the non-slip, but we don't want to make the same mistake with the hull.

Here are the topsides with our dinghy lashed on top (our dinghy was a salvage, and we haven't refurbished it yet... but it is awesome to get free dinghies, in my opinion).

Polar Bear's new head.

2008-12-28T12:36:00.000-08:00

See... we did put a glass bathtub in! Hopefully it will remain in tact during our first bashing storm.

Our head is a Simon and Alicia original design, from the tub to the cabinets to the tiled "wet room" which will have a shower plumbed in over the center triangle space. We're very proud of this bathroom, which is 90% complete.

I've been derelict in my posting duties.

2008-12-28T12:23:00.000-08:00

So, I cannot believe that I haven't posted since July!! Time flies. Most of you already know what Team Polar Bear has been up to, though.

Recap: We worked like mad on the boat until mid-September, but were ultimately rained out. Also, I needed to turn my attention to my law practice and to Good Sharks, Inc., so we returned to San Diego. Good Sharks and GetchLaw have kept me fully occupied the last several months, hence the lack of posts. Plus, Simon and I decided to get married and had a blast doing it in Vegas. Then, the holidays.... You get the picture.

So, anyway, I'm not going to bore you with too many details at the moment. Instead, there will be the following posts in short order:

Our wedding video
Pictures of the Polar Bear in its current condition
Pictures of Fitzroy, who is now 7 months old

We hope you all are having a fantastic holiday season and we wish you the best for the new year! Lots of love!!

Alicia, Simon & Fitzroy

Team Polar Bear grows in number to three.

2008-07-29T04:15:00.000-07:00

Announcing the newest addition to Team Polar Bear: Fitzroy Maximus Decimus Meridius Getchell Dearn. (Fitz for short.)

Mr. Fitzroy (a.k.a. Fuzzy Muffin, Puppers, Honey Bear, Dog-dog and Woofy) was named after Vice-Admiral Robert Fitzroy of the British Royal Navy. Bob (as we know Captain Fitzroy) mapped much of South America and was the inventor of modern weather forecasting. Fitzroy was a dignified sea-faring name for our dignified sea-faring dog.

Fitzroy has been part of Team Polar Bear for a little more than a week. He is a pure bred Portuguese Water Dog. PWD's have been bred for centuries to be working boating and fishing dogs. They have instincts to swim, retrieve ropes, fish and save drowning people. They also have slightly webbed feet and a coat made of hair, not fur, which is especially suitable to cold ocean swimming. (It also means that they don't shed and are hypoallergenic!) The dog breed is fairly rare now that it has been replaced by mechanical fishing equipment, but is slowly making a resurgence as family pets.

Fitzroy will be a medium-sized dog, although as an eleven week old puppy, he is awfully big, so we suspect he'll be a big boy for his breed. We expect him to be about sixty pounds. He is very smart, has a calm but energetic temperament, and has already learned several commands and walks on a leash. He had his first ocean swimming lesson on Sunday with great success (i.e., he swam without Simon having to get into the water).

He also has a fan club on the marina. We walk down the boardwalk at least twice a day and literally dozens of people have specifically sought us out to meet him.

Simon and I are asked two things constantly these days: "what kind of dog is that; I've never seen that breed before" and "what is your boat made out of; I've never seen that hull material before." Team Polar Bear is nothing, if not unique!!

"I'm sailing! I'm a sailor!": Update

2008-07-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Simon was employed to do the same yacht transport job to Hamble that he did last week, and again I got to tag along. This time, however, it was actually sunny and warm out. Unfortunately, we had to head straight into the wind the entire time, so we motored the full way.

I sat in the cockpit, enjoyed the sun, and drank beer. Now I'm more like a real sailor. But Simon has officially banned me from quoting What About Bob?

In the meantime, there haven't been any interesting posts because I've been chipping paint for days. Paint chipping is not exciting, unless you think that identifying the waxy coat on the roof of the wooden cabins is exciting. We still don't know what it is, but we have dried out the wood significantly and found very little rot, which makes me surprisingly happy. Oh, the thrills!!

In future news, we've decided to get a puppy and I'll be picking him up on Saturday. We're temporarily referring to him as Pirate the Puppy. He'll be an all-black, pure-bred Portuguese Water Dog. Other potential dog names are Fitzroy, Magellan and Popeye. If you have any good ideas, please let us know! We're a bit stumped!

Simon the Monkey-Slayer: Update

2008-07-11T12:29:00.000-07:00

Simon has been a non-smoker for four weeks (as of yesterday)! He's awesome, but not entirely out of the woods yet. We're aiming for six months, and then he gets the reward of us going on a para-sailing trip!

Thanks to everyone for their support! Keep it coming!

Love!

"I'm sailing! I'm a sailor!"

2008-07-09T15:23:00.001-07:00

I've been quoting that particular line from What About Bob? for a couple weeks now. The first two or three times, Simon thought it was funny... but now, he is getting annoyed with me. I still get so excited about this world-sailing business, though, that I can't help but voice my exuberance, even if it is by quoting Bill Murray. I can't believe I am here doing it. Simon will have to tolerate my outbursts a bit longer.

Some days, though, I am not quite so exuberant. Polar Bear has been sitting on the hard for three weeks now. We've been working on her whenever possible, but the weather is not cooperating. It's been raining and windy here almost every day since we've arrived. I believe, though, that tomorrow the sunny July I was promised will arrive for good. I need to believe....

Simon has been out in the horrible conditions most days racing in the Solent. More than half the nights, he is away completely. When he is back, he is exhausted, salty, wind-blown and sore. To add insult to injury, I've been knocked down for the past week with the flu. Progress on Polar Bear is frustratingly slow.

It has also been pointed out to me by our caring friends that I'm now "that weird, lonely chick who lives by herself in a boatyard." Still, I am happy to be here, a bona fide "sailor." (Side note: as happy as I am to be here, I am eternally grateful to Rob and Amber for taking me bowling yesterday, so I could get away for just a bit and not be that crazy chick who needs a cat.)

Today the rain poured down nonstop, just like the past several days. The wind gusted. Polar Bear is saturated and beginning to leak in places. "It's amazing the sky has any rain left," Simon commented this morning.

He was employed today to move a 37-foot yacht about twenty miles away to Port Hamble. Since he was going to have to sail it by himself, he suggested that Rob, Amber and I join him. With the rain and wind gusting (and, to be fair, they had more important people to hang out with), Rob and Amber politely declined. I eyed the rain suspiciously and thought I ought not, since I still has a cold, but there was a part of me that totally wanted to do it.

So, I dressed up in my full gear (kindly bought for me by Simon last April, but which has never been used) and hopped onto the soggy boat around noon. Although he didn't say, I knew Simon was really happy to have me aboard. The sail would have been atrocious by himself, but now he had me to enjoy it with (and to order to move the fenders -- he denies that he loves ordering me to move fenders, but I know that is a lie).

We spent about an hour messing around with fuel and getting through the locks with the other boats. The rain was going constantly and I was completely soaked, but warm. I thought, "this isn't too bad!" But I knew that we were relatively sheltered, so I braced mentally for more.

Out of the shelter of the marina, things became much hairier. The wind gusted at thirty knots and had us leaning over onto our starboard side even though we didn't have the sails up! The sea was choppy and we were bouncing and crashing along. The rain was driving right at us and stinging our faces.

After I pulled in all the fenders, Simon let me at the helm. I giggled and felt a little nervous about driving in the rough conditions. After a few minutes, though, I was fully into my role as salty old sea captain. I adopted the wide stance and peered out from under my hood. I could feel the water streaming down my hands and face. My cold streamed, too, but I hardly noticed under the onslaught of rain and waves.

Simon let out less than half of the jib and shut down the engine. With that tiny bit of sail, we were going just as fast as when we were at full throttle on the engine. The boat leaned over even farther.

As we pulled around the headland and into the shipping lanes, the sea got really rough. Waves were crashing over the yacht and blinding me. I drove on, surfing off waves tops and bashing into the troughs, the whole boat shuddering.

We crashed and bashed and bounced our way along the sea. My adrenaline surged. "HA! Mother Nature! Come and get me!" I taunted, laughing robustly. "HAHAHAHAHA!!!! Is that all you've got, you old bitch!!"

Simon looked at me like I had lost my mind.

"You knew I was crazy, already, right?!?" I asked him, laughing brazenly, perhaps even maniacally.

"I'm beginning to learn."

Simon moved forward along the decks awash with waves to sort out some ropes. I saw him slide a bit and my senses returned slightly. "Just kidding, Mother Nature," I said. The absolute last thing I wanted was for nature to take me up on my challenge and wash him overboard. When he returned, I fibbed and told him I was tired so that he would take the wheel and stay safely in the cockpit for a while.

A few minutes later, he asked me to winch the jib tighter, if I was "feeling keen." I tried to ease my way across the soaked cockpit, but slipped on some rope and slid across like a drunk ice-skater instead. I heard Simon laugh. "You're so graceful." He commented, not for the first time. "Like a swan. Mid-flight." I felt slightly less keen, but winched anyway.

An hour and a half later, taking turns at the helm, we arrived in Hamble. Tying up was a nightmare as we were in a berth that was about ten feet too small. I huffed and puffed pulling lines tighter. At the end, I felt physically tired, and I could appreciate Simon's daily exhaustion a little more. I also felt completely soggy.

We pulled off our heavy weather gear, I brushed the wind out of my hair, and we walked into town to find a pub. The high street was narrow cobblestone boasting several pubs. We walked into one across from a small clothing store with bikinis displayed in the window. Those can't be selling well, I thought.

As we sat there recovering, Simon confessed that there is a certain exhilaration in being at the helm during a storm that he enjoys. "See," I commented, "I am not so crazy after all!" Or maybe we both are.

Still, I was filled with happiness and enthusiasm. I can sail in pretty bad conditions and even enjoy it! That was a relief. I also decided that I continue to be bad ass. "You're braver than most," Simon agreed, "and humble, too."

A few minutes later, Simon stuffed me into a taxi to wait for him back at Polar Bear. "Port Solent," I told the driver.

"You aren't going sailing in this weather." The driver stated it, not asked it, chuckling at the ridiculousness of his comment.

"I've already sailed today, actually. We sailed from Port Solent."

Because I sail. I'm a sailor.

Extreme Makeover: Boat Edition

2008-06-29T03:01:00.000-07:00

Simon and I have moved into a boatyard. Polar Bear was placed high on stilts, so we get on and off her with the aid of a ladder (we're about twelve feet off the ground).

We've run an extension cord to an outdoor outlet for power, use the marina's public showers and toilets (we have no plumbing on board yet and the wiring is shot), and we sleep in sleeping bags. Blue water cruising is so sexy.

I began sanding, painting and varnishing while Simon moved forward with bilge cleaning and demolition. Naturally, a previous owner used glue to secure every single screw, so only about five percent of them can be driven out. As a result, Simon's been hacksawing like crazy. Saw dust is everywhere. It is a bit sad, as the wood was good but so much of it has to be wasted now.

But our vision for Polar Bear is unwavering. We started by ripping out the entire forepeak cabin and the godawful head. We've decided to put in a luxurious bathroom in the front of the boat, using the point of the bow as a place for a tub. The shower will be right under the hatch, so you can look up and see the sky.

And that is only the beginning. This is a process better captured in pictures. Here are some "before" pictures. We're looking forward to sharing the "afters"!

PS - If you are in the neighborhood, please come visit us but be prepared to sand and paint. Free beer!

Team Polar Bear is successful in their first mission (even if it took a couple months). Woo hoo! Part II.

2008-06-19T02:56:00.000-07:00

We shared our bottle of wine (a lovely Pinot Noir that I brought with me from California) with Simon's friend, Cameron. It's nice to have friends in high places -- he let us moor up for free that night. He is one of many people whom Simon has inspired (at least in part) to take up sailing as a career. We run into such people with increasing frequency and I think it is quite remarkable. Anyway, the two of them also apparently got arrested in Africa (a tale I haven't heard fully yet), so I guess that is one of those experiences that bonds people for life. A future retro-chronicle, I think.

After wine, we took a water taxi into Salcombe town and had an unremarkable dinner and Irish coffee, before settling down for the evening. We walked up and down the narrow high street, which was filled with yachtie shops, but nothing that greatly impressed me. It was moderately busy as it was a Saturday night in June, but I would bet good money that it is normally very quiet.

The next morning we headed out early to catch the tides and conserve fuel. The wind was against us, so it looked like we would have to motor to get back on schedule.

Our original plan had been to stop the night before in Dartmouth and then head out into the English Channel more and get around the headland to a small bay in a nature reserve, where we would drop an anchor for the night. Fearing the unpredictability of our fuel supplies, we decided to add miles by going a less direct course, but stick closer to towns with fueling barges. We sailed into Dartmouth to fuel up around noon. Simon had told me a lot about Dartmouth (it has castles, beautiful houses, caves, an old square-rigged boat, access only by steam train or boat, a car ferry that is steered by a tug boat, and the naval college). Unfortunately, we weren't able to stop, but I took all these pictures driving in and out of the harbor. We'll go back, for sure.

We then headed towards Weymouth. Late that evening, just as the sun was going down, we arrived in the shallow waters outside of Weymouth and dropped anchor. We don't have a motor on our anchor chain, so Simon lowered it by hand. Henceforth, he shall be known as Hans, the beefy manly-man. I had the much more fun job of steering the boat and shifting the motor from forward, to neutral, to reverse, to neutral. Yup, I can handle that!

The bay outside of Weymouth was fabulously breathtaking. The beaches were white sand with red, sheer bluffs towering above them. The water was abandoned except for one tiny fishing trawler and about fifty lobster pots (it was a lobster pot minefield!). After we shut down the engine, we sat on the bow of the boat and looked at the moon in silence.
In that moment, I felt like I was in a dream. My life is just insane and I can't believe it is real. I couldn't believe in that moment that I was sitting in the midst of the great power and gentle beauty of the natural world, with nothing to do but enjoy it. I can't really describe that transcendental moment with justice, but I will say that it was surreal and awesome.

That night, in bed, the rock of the swell was more intense than I've ever felt, but also very relaxing. I practically purred like a kitten as I curled into the warm down of the sleeping bag and drifted off to sleep.

We awoke at 3:30 am. The tide was strong heading out of the bay and around the headland, so it was essential that we catch it at the right time. So, we were up, shivering in the idyllic moonlight, drinking coffee, and grumbling about time and tide and all that. Simon hauled up the anchor and I kicked her into gear. I told Simon I would be OK and that he should go back to bed. He did -- and he trusted me so much, that he slept with the door open, slung across the bed in his full foulies and shoes still on, ready to jump into action the second I crashed into something.

The swells were really big and the tide increased our speed by a swift four knots, but I got us around the headland with little trouble. I could hear French sailors on the radio as we pulled into the Channel.

Simon and I switched places and I slept for a couple hours. When I got up, we were pulling into another quiet bay to drop anchor as the tide had now turned against us. We were going to wait for a few hours, and then head to the Isle of Wight, which was on the far horizon.

This day was lovely. It was warm and sunny. We had the hatches open as we ate lunch and then took a nap in the sunlight. Just as we drifted back off to sleep in the rock of the ocean, I noticed what sounded like hundreds of little clicking noises -- like twenty people were typing on a typewriter in the next room, or like soft hail on a roof. "What's that noise?" I asked Simon, rousing him slightly.

"It's fish and crabs eating the grass on the side of our boat." He answered sleepily.

Wow, I thought. It was such a cool sound. I listened to it for a long time and thought about ways to fix up the boat and make her pretty and homey.

Laying in the sun felt so good, I almost didn't want to get up... but the Isle of Wight offered showers, which I hadn't had in days, so it didn't take much coaxing to get going again. Soon we were sailing through "the Needles," which is apparently famous for its shipwrecking capabilities as it is a shallow and rocky channel. Simon pointed out old forts and a Victorian battery.

We got into Cowes earlier than expected by an hour. Driving up the mouth of the river Medina to the marina, I asked Simon if it was "Moo-dina." He groaned.Pulling into the marina, at least two other skippers shouted out to Simon as friends. I guess I am in his home territory now, so I'll have to get used to people he knows seeing us, even when I look awful for not having had a shower in days. Fortunately, that was quickly remedied and we wandered into a pub for dinner and a well-done beer.

Cowes high street looks just like all the high streets I saw in London suburbs, but again with more yachtie stores. It was nice to see Cowes, where Simon will often be this summer for work, but it wasn't amazing, like the two bays we had just been in. I figure I will get to know it a lot better later in this summer during Cowes Week.

The next morning, we got up at 8:30 to drive across to Portsmouth, for our haul-out at 1 pm. That should be easily accomplished, and we had pushed hard to get to Cowes by this time as Simon did not want to "trip just as we approach the finish line."

Alas, tripping occurred nonetheless.

We got to the fuel barge for a little back up fuel, just in case. They asked us to wait a few minutes while they finished getting diesel off of the tanker that had arrived that morning. "Half an hour" the man on the fuel barge assured us. An hour and a half later, we were fueled up, but had missed the tide. At nearly full steam, we were going a mere four knots and the wind was completely dead.

At least the slow speed allowed us to fully enjoy views of Spinnaker Tower, the navy yard, and the HMS Victory. We basked in the sun on the deck, although it wasn't particularly warm.

We didn't make it to Port Solent marina until 2 pm. We missed our haul out, but they let us stay on the pontoon until the next morning, when they would haul us out first thing.
We made it! More well done beers and a couple lamb burgers were our reward.

Team Polar Bear is successful in their first mission (even if it took a couple months). Woo hoo! Part I.

2008-06-18T06:19:00.000-07:00

Polar Bear is no longer stuck in Wales (or any other crappy corner of the UK -- Simon's words, not mine). She is now safely on the hardstanding in Portsmouth, ready for more refit.

Last Monday and Tuesday, I flew to London from Los Angeles, via Dublin (picking up some whiskey in the jar for Simon along the way). We stopped at the Ailsa pub (which was our local this last winter while camping out in Richmond) for a pint or two, had dinner with Simon's family, then headed to Falmouth by train. The trip was a full day affair, as we hauled over 100 pounds of luggage (no exaggeration) by foot, train and bus. Eventually, we ended up in Falmouth and begged a ride off the tug boat captain, who brought us to Polar Bear.

We were happy to see her, although she looked a bit worse for the wear. In the intervening month, Polar Bear had grown a grass skirt and some mildew and had gained a nasty black gash on the bow. But she was up and running again, so we headed out the next morning. We sailed about twenty miles to the nearby town of Fowey. Fowey was an adorable little town, with old world buildings and narrow streets.

It just so happens that this little trip was my absolute first time sailing with Simon. I think that's a little funny, considering how committed we are to this plan of sailing around the world together. Even worse: I'm pretty much a sailing neophyte. I learned to sail twelve years ago, but have gone only a few times since then, and only for easygoing jollies where I did little of the hard work. I'm pretty much a novice.

I tend to be a bit "deep-endy," as Simon puts it. Liz will confirm, for example, that I went white-water rafting in Chile on the Futaleufu (one of the most challenging rivers in the world), without having ever rafted before or even looking at the trip's website. I just went. After the first day, I feared that I was going to die... but by the second day, I was more comfortable and now I'm all over it.

This sailing excursion wasn't really any different. Here I am, jumping in head first! I wasn't as afraid of dying, but I was nervous about how I would fare with steering, mooring, knot-tying, and staying generally upright and out of the water. I was also worried about annoying the pants off of Simon.

So, I was beating myself up a little when it took me three tries to toss the bow mooring line to the harbor master, who was waiting in a dinghy to tie us to a mooring buoy. "Crap," I thought, "I'm a total gimp just as I feared!" But the next morning, I was surprised at how easily I was able to jump off the boat and pull her close to the town quay before tying her off. My confidence boosted a little.

Later that day, we sailed off to Newton Ferrers, a cute and crowded little marina, up a quiet, shallow river. The weather was beautiful and the wind kind, so I enjoyed the peaceful sway down the coast. Mooring again turned out to be a difficult thing, though, as the only available space was on a floating jetty between two boats, and it was exactly the length of our boat. Simon slid it in brilliantly, and the other yachties all seemed quite impressed. With him, anyway. I got lectured that I wasn't tying up the bow line correctly.

"Twist it that way!" a frustrated onlooker instructed me. "No, no, you're doing it wrong. OK, go back to how you had it before and twist it." After five minutes of this, I shrugged. "Oh, let him do it," the helpful onlooker advised, pointing at Simon. Gimp strikes again, I thought. (When Simon came over, though, it turns out that I was doing the knot he wanted, so I was actually doing it right. Phew!)

We never went into town because the water taxi stops running in the mid-afternoon. Our kind neighbors offered to lend us their dinghy, but we decided to spend the evening watching the sunset on our boat and eating canned steak and kidney pies.

The next morning, our engine wouldn't start. We soon determined that we were out of diesel. (This appears to be a dumb mistake, but in our defense, the fuel injectors are deteriorating rapidly, so we were losing fuel at an unknown rate and we don't have a fuel gauge.) There wasn't a fuel barge anywhere nearby, naturally. We resorted to begging other boats to sell us their emergency supply. After two unsuccessful hours, Simon began muttering to himself that this was a stupid time to quit smoking. I contemplated selling sexual favors. Luckily, I didn't have to as a good Samaritan offered us twenty-five liters at cost. We were off again.

This time we went to Salcombe, which was not on our itinerary, but had a fuel barge. I managed tying up to the tall barge with some trepidation, but successfully. I think I am getting the hang of this.

It turns out that the new harbor master in Salcombe is an old friend of Simon's by the name of Cameron. "Simon!?!" he exclaimed from his dinghy as we motored by, obviously thrilled to see him. The harbor was extremely busy, so he instructed us to moor onto another boat, which was already tied to a buoy. He had several other yachts to contend with, but promised to stop by to catch up later on.

No one was on the other boat to help us moor up, I determined after shouting their boat name during our first drive by. Simon instructed me to take the bow line and, as he pulls alongside the other boat, jump onto it, run to the bow, thread our line through a strong point, pull us close, and tie to the cleat.

Um, yeah.

I positioned myself to jump while pushing visions of horrible accidents out of my head. I could hear Simon complaining that the other boat was swaying around quite a bit, making his approach hard. I ignored him.

The first time we went by, I didn't have the nerve to jump. "You have to tell me if you can't make it," Simon scolded me as we reversed and tried again. I didn't tell him that I could have made it, but just lacked the will to try. I screwed up my courage for the second approach. This time, as we drew close, I threw myself at the other boat and scurried across the deck, while weaving my rope through various impediments. I heard Simon instructing me as I went along, but I was too busy at my task to pay any attention.

Somehow, I managed to make it to the front and got my rope around their cleat. "Good job!" Simon shouted, and he instructed me on how to use the rope to pull the boats together while still using the cleat to bear the load. I tied us securely and opened a bottle of wine. Maybe I am a little less of a gimp than I thought. Rock on.

Simon the Monkey-Slayer.

2008-06-17T08:14:00.000-07:00

Have I ever told you about the time when Simon was bit by a monkey?

He was driving in Thailand on his motorcycle when a gaggle of monkeys jumped out of the trees and onto a group of school children walking along the road in front of him. Most of the kids were able to fend off their rambunctious attackers, but one little girl with a clubbed foot and a banana in her sack was getting the worst of it. Simon jumped off the motorbike and grabbed the monkey by its tail, freeing the sobbing and frightened little girl.

The monkey turned on him, screeching, clawing and biting. It chomped down hard on Simon's forearm and wouldn't let go. Despite seeing his blood mixing with monkey spit and running down his hand, Simon calmly poked the dirty beast sharply in the eyes. The monkey let go and ran back into the woods. The children cheered him and began calling him, "hua petong nga whi," which is Thai for "Big white monkey slayer."

Simon suffered a severe a case of monkey fever about a week later, but has lived to tell the tale (which he leaves entirely to me, as he is too modest to brag about it). Indeed, Simon is so shy and modest about his celebrity status in Thailand, that he will almost certainly deny it to anyone who asks.

How did I learn about it, then? Simon told me once, over a static-y Turkish pay phone, "I got bit by a monkey." My mind scrambled to understand how he got bit by a monkey in Turkey.

"You got bit by a monkey!?!" I repeated incredulously. "Where? In Thailand?"

"No, I got bit by a mozzie. A mosquito." Simon laughed.

"I distinctly heard you say that you got bit by a monkey," I replied. "You can't take a statement like that back."

Several conversations later, I put together the rest of the monkey story.

Simon has a new monkey that he is slaying right now, which is what prompted the telling of this story on the Chronicles. He quit smoking a week ago. I'm very proud of him as he gets this monkey off his back. Admittedly, it has not been the easiest thing. Anyone who knows Simon at all, knows he loved his "rollies."

So, I need two things from all our friends and family: First, root for his success, please. We need all the support and silent good wishes we can get. Second, for any of our smoking friends, please note that Polar Bear is a strictly non-smoking boat, at least until Simon is safely beyond the danger of relapse.

Thanks!

Travel is the meaning of life.

2008-06-06T14:37:00.000-07:00

Simon and I expect that we are going to be traveling most of our lives and certainly for the better part of the next several years.

I said this to my mother last night, who apparently thought that "sailing around the world" meant goofing off in a boat along the coast of Europe for a few months before settling down in San Diego. She got mad at me. She said, "You are going to abandon your family to go see a world that doesn't give a shit about you." I laughed, which didn't help.

Penultimately, she has never understood why I want to see all of the world so badly. So let me try to explain. Traveling is aligned with the purpose of my existence. Without it, I wouldn't know why I was alive.

I live on Earth to experience the joys and abundance of the world that God put me on. I'm here to experience. That's it. That's the meaning of life. So, I want to experience the wide and vast array of life, rather than just one small slice of it. I want to absorb the world like a sponge absorbs water. I feel like I would be ungrateful to God for the life I was given if I did anything else.

A year and a half ago, my sister asked me, "Why are you going to Chile?"

My response: "Because it is on the planet." That's the honest answer, in its simplest form.

I may be a success or a failure. I may be brave or irresponsible. I may be searching or content. It's all a matter of perspective. What I am is what I am. But travel is my truth. It gives me the greatest joy and makes me grateful to be alive. I doubt that will ever change as long as I live.

Team Polar Bear on Temporary Hiatus

2008-06-06T01:48:00.000-07:00

Team Polar Bear continues to be on hiatus, but only for a few more days. We had originally intended to reunite on May 28th. Then June 1st. Then June 8th. Now it is June 10th... set in stone.

So, continuing our saga from where I last left off....

I left Simon in Wales to head back to California to handle some nagging business. (I sold my car just in time for $4 per gallon gas prices. I've got wind power now! Haha, suckers!)

Simon returned to the boat to get it into the water and down to Portsmouth. After several days of work, he finally managed to get it hauled into the water, only to find out that the engine wouldn't start. The starter motor had to be replaced. Rats.

A few days later, he was finally on the high seas! But the engine has a strange knock. After a few days, the knocking got worse and Simon shut it down. Unfortunately, it was 4 am and the tide was against him, bringing him straight to some rocks; the water was too deep to anchor, and there wasn't enough wind to give the beasty boat any power.

Despite the knocking, Simon tried turning on the engine again, but it wouldn't start at all. With no other choice, he called for help and was towed to a mooring buoy up a river in nearby Falmouth. (I can assure you that towing a 13 ton boat in the middle of the night is not a cheap proposition.)

The next day, we spent several hours on the phone together trying to troubleshoot the engine. We were in no position to do it, however, without much experience taking apart and re-building diesel engines. I had bought a book on marine diesels, but it hadn't arrived yet. Plus, I was in California and Simon was stuck on the boat (we don't have a dinghy yet) in Falmouth. We moved to Plan B and paid an engineer to fix it.

The engineer said he would need at least a week, so Simon packed up to go work in Portsmouth. A few days later, the engineer said he needed more time. Simultaneously, Simon was offered work for two weeks in Lanzarote, Spain (the Canary Islands, off the coast of Africa). We decided he should take it while the boat was in the shop. Team Polar Bear's rendezvous was rescheduled for June 1.

In the meantime, I've been going crazy at home. I am renting out my condo, which means I have to move the rest of my stuff out of it. I've packed up stuff that I'm taking with me to the yacht, but it is too much to carry. The rest was going to various storage spaces. I no longer have my car, so I've been renting/borrowing/walking. The logistics began to make me a little nutty, so I decided I needed more time. To be frank, though, as much as I love San Diego, my house, my family and my friends, I cannot wait to get back. I'm tired of running in fifty directions and I look forward to completing my tasks here so I can focus on my business and Polar Bear full time.

Good news, though. Polar Bear is all fixed up. The engine problems turned out to be loose parts, resulting in another small part becoming bent and jamming the whole thing. This was the best case scenario, and also what Simon and I thought might be the issue due to improper winterizing, so we are pleased with that. Simon is currently working again in Portsmouth, but on June 10, we are getting back on track. We have a fun itinerary planned of batting around the West country for about a week before returning to Portsmouth.

So, yes, things are a bit boring right now while we continue in this slow phase of gearing up for extreme nomadism. We're impatient to get going, of course, but at least things are moving along in the right direction.

How I became a Welsh coalminer. Part V. Subtitle: Playing with power tools in hail storms.

2008-05-21T22:32:00.000-07:00

Simon and I spent only a day in London before we were off again to Southampton to get supplies for Polar Bear's refit. The plan was roughly:

Sand the hull back with rotary sanders as far as needed to ascertain its condition and to change its color from blue to white
Repair rust on rudder with acid and grinder
Repair weak spots in hull with epoxy
Prime, paint and anti-foul
Change batteries and check electrics
Clean out the bilge (it was filled with oily water)
Remove all the junk from inside and air the boat out
Check engine, change the oil, etc.
Replace Welsh flag with British flag
Check rigging, anchor chain, sails, etc.
Stow all our stuff
Sail it to Portsmouth, where we would place her back on the hard for a more thorough refit of the inside and topsides (including, most importantly, putting in hot water and a shower)

This was quite a tall order, so we decided we had to move to Wales, albeit temporarily. We had about two weeks to accomplish this stuff, with a weekend in the middle already booked with teaching work in Port Solent for Simon. Since it was about an eight hour drive to Pwllheli, several days were lost to transportation. We had no time to waste. Simon and I moved to the George hotel for the first week and camped out in the boat after that.

Now, I won't get into the mechanics of how we accomplished all of this work, because I imagine most of you will find that boring. If you really want to know how we did any of this stuff, feel free to email or comment and I will supplement this post.

Suffice it to say that we were covered in black dust and oil from head to toe for the entire two weeks. We were so streaked and stained black, that when we walked around town to get lunch or supplies, people stared at us and came up to us just to ask us what we had been doing. And, yes, I was asked almost daily whether we had been "down in the coal mines." It wasn't unreasonable to ask, since I'm obviously too big to be a chimney sweep, gov. I laughed and embraced my inner Pig Pen.

The sixteen hour days of hard labor that left us sore and filthy were masochistically fun. There is something really satisfying in physical labor and in building something, especially when you get to play with lots of power tools! Even though I have a million projects going right now (not the least of which is starting a business... shameless plug: Version 1.0 of GoodSharks.com launching in June), I was able to get lost in my coalminer alter ego while I went inch by inch over the hull with my sander. They were zen days.

We had only one industrial accident, too, despite the fact that we were working in intermittent hail and rain storms. One afternoon, I was using some acid to remove rust off the rudder. Unfortunately, it got under my gloves and onto my thermal shirt. I will tell you that claims of wicking action is not an advertising gimmick! The fabric wicked the acid right up my arm and I ended up getting a nasty burn. The cold water hose (fun for me in the freezing cold Welsh spring) was handy, but I still had to go back to the hotel and shower for about twenty minutes. I even burnt my fingertips removing my shirt, which made holding hot coffee the next day a rather unpleasant experience.

So, the good news is that the hull turned out to be in excellent condition, although it took us way longer to sand it than we hoped it would. In fact, everything took a little longer than we hoped, so I had to leave Simon in Wales to sail Polar Bear down to Portsmouth on his own. He had ten days and a volunteer in his good friend Alex, so we felt pretty confident that he would make it OK. But, alas, he only made it about half way....

You'll just have to tune in next time to find out why Simon ended up having Polar Bear towed to the port in Falmouth, leaving her on a mooring buoy and going to Spain. I returned to California to sell my car, rent my house out and be the maid of honor in my friend Michelle's wedding. (Woo hoo! Crazy bachelorette party on Friday!)

Team Polar Bear rendezvous next in London on June 1.

PS - Next time you all need to clean out a wet and oily bilge, it turns out that baby diapers work great. I found it amusing that I went to the store just for a bag of diapers, a can of grease and a case of beer. There's got to be a redneck joke in there somewhere.

How I became A Welsh coalminer. Part IV. Subtitle: Simon and I stay in a haunted castle.

2008-05-09T00:37:00.000-07:00

You might be wondering how many parts this Welsh coalminer saga has in total. The answer is five.

April 8, 2008 is officially the most exciting day that Simon and I have ever had, bar none. In Part II, I told you about how we haggled our way into a concrete boat in the morning. In Part III, I told you about how we were highway robbed by a police officer in the afternoon. That evening, I learned how to drive in England and then we spent the night in a haunted castle turned luxurious hotel.

Simon drove for a little while after our agitating encounter with the police officer. After a few minutes, though, I suggested that I drive to give Simon a break. I don't know how much of a break I managed to give him, though, as roundabouts and driving on the left side of the road turned out to be slightly harder than I expected. Nonetheless, I enjoyed being behind the wheel for the first time in a couple months and I only drove on the wrong side of the road a couple times.

We hit the idyllic valley after about an hour and stopped at the B&B, thinking we should just pack it in for the day. However, it was booked. The same was the case for three more B&B's that we encountered along the road, despite the fact that we were in the deep countryside, on a random weekday in cold early April. We ended up driving into Shropshire, England long after night had fallen.

We drove past a castle that was lit like a beacon in the deep dark of the countryside nighttime. "That castle is a hotel," Simon observed. "Want to try it?"

"Yeah! It's not like I get to stay in castles very often." I answered. After a tricky U-turn, I drove the car up the gravelly lane towards the castle and parked in an open space under a giant tree.

"It might be too expensive," Simon warned, so we left our bags in the car and walked up the path to the front entrance.

The castle is named Rowton Castle and was beautifully decorated and renovated. It was warm and inviting but also held all the fantasy and historical charm of an 800 year old castle. The room was £104 for the night, which was actually pretty reasonable. "Please. I want to stay in a castle." I begged. Simon indulged me.

"Are there any ghosts?" Simon asked the receptionist jokingly as we registered.

"A couple of the rooms have them. There is supposed to be one in this front hall, too."

"Cool." Simon said. But I didn't think that seeing a ghost would be cool at all, though not surprising considering how crazy this day had been.

We collected our bags from outside and I was followed by a cute black and white stray cat. (I may have petted it. Somewhere Liz is annoyed with me and calling me a crazy cat lady.)

We went up to our room after ensuring that the kitchen would remain open a few minutes longer for us. Our room was beautiful, with a large bed and beautiful bathroom. We celebrated with a quick whiskey and Coke before heading back down for dinner.

The hotel offered to keep its white table-clothed dining room open for us, but, rather than be too bothersome, we decided to eat in the lounge. The lounge was actually an elegant drawing room with leather couches, tables, and a fireplace. The fabrics were rich and the twin life-sized statues of greyhounds were genuinely appropriate and nice touches.

We had just ordered a bottle of red wine when the receptionist came over and apologized profusely. "I should have upgraded you," she explained. It took us a minute before we understood that she was offering to give us a better room since the hotel was quiet and its four-poster suites were empty. Naturally, we accepted this upgrade happily. She was genuinely distraught that we had to move our luggage, but Simon assured her that we were delighted, not upset. "Which room would you like?" she asked us.

"Which room do you recommend?" Simon countered.

She pointed us to two rooms and said, "this one has a better bed."

"Sold." I said.

We ordered our food and I tested the wine while Simon moved our bags. Although I had originally had us set up at a table, the hotel's manager kindly set us up to eat before the fireplace and started the fire going. It was so nice it felt surreal. It was amazing how, despite our run in with that jerky cop, the day turned out to be extraordinary.

"You are going to hate the room," Simon teased, when he returned and found me relaxing before the fire. Dinner turned out to be extremely good, too. The restaurant is apparently busy even when the hotel isn't because the food is so nice. The room was absolutely gorgeous, of course. I especially appreciated the travertine tile work in the bathroom and the giant four-poster bed.

We were happy and contented when we settled into bed that night after more wine and a soak in the big tub. No ghosts came out despite the fact that we were in one of the supposedly haunted rooms, although I woke up several times during the night to every little bump or creak. The next morning we walked around the grounds, which are decently sized, but unfortunately abut more sheep pastures. I was totally sick of sheep by this time.

Rowton Castle is a great hotel and highly recommended as both comfortable and affordable, with excellent service and good food.

Mid-morning we drove back to London via Birmingham. We had originally intended to stop and check out Birmingham for the afternoon. However, driving through, it was so industrial and inhospitable looking that we both agreed instantaneously to skip it. We got back to London by early afternoon.

How I became a Welsh coalminer. Part III. Subtitle: Simon and I get highway robbed by a police officer.

2008-05-01T16:59:00.000-07:00

Having finally acquired a yacht, we decided that this day, Tuesday, April 8, 2008, was the best day ever ever. Consistent with that, Simon and I decided to stop and have a civilized afternoon tea and scone in Criccieth, overlooking the sea and castle. It was perfect -- euphoric -- with cream on top. Late afternoon shadows obscured the castle, so we decided to drive to Snowdonia national park, about an hour and a half down the lane, and stay at a B&B that we saw in an idyllic valley, complete with a babbling brook and frolicking lambs.

But how things can change in a minute! We had just finished driving through Port Dog when a group of teenagers piled in a red compact car, sped around us. "They're nutters!" Simon complained for the twentieth time about the crazy rally-car driving of the locals down winding, narrow lanes with blind turns. We continued puttering along at around thirty-five miles per hour.

Blip, blip! "What was that?" I asked, interrupting my chatter about rude teen behavior, mid-sentence.

"Police," Simon responded. "I think he is trying to get around me." Simon slowed down and cars continued to dart around us on the narrow country road.

"Is he lighting us up?" I asked, astonished.

"I don't think so." But he pulled over anyway, on the side of a grass field filled with squealing kids and grazing sheep.

To our utter disbelief, the cop -- a tattooed, burly man, with a shaved head and self-important swagger -- walked up and motioned for Simon to roll down the window. "Do you know what the speed limit is here?" he asked brusquely.

"Um... thirty."

"Do you know how fast you were going?" This guy is the stereotype of all cops, I thought, my irritation spiking. They are the same everywhere.

"Not much faster than thirty. I was going slower than the rest of the traffic." Simon responded, although the cop obviously wasn't interested in the answer, because he interrupted him.

"No sir. Step out of the vehicle."

Unbelievable! I thought, as I watched the cop make Simon get into his unmarked police car, which still flashed with blue lights. For the life of me, I could not understand what gave the police officer the right to require Simon to exit his vehicle and get into his. I began to wonder exactly what rights applied in the United Kingdom, as being forced into a police car is usually an arrest in the U.S., requiring Miranda warnings, etc.

I watched the two in deep conversation for about five minutes. (Simon later told me that the conversation started with the cop lecturing him about how a kid could have -- hypothetically -- kicked a ball into the street, and then what would have happened?!?)

I tried taking surreptitious photographs of the police officer for the Chronicles, but never managed to get any shots worth keeping. (Simon later told me that he saw me raise the camera and was praying that the cop wouldn't see me.) Finally, Simon got back in the car. "Are you covered by your insurance company to drive here?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so. International coverage is part of my policy. Why?"

"When he checked my insurance, he couldn't confirm the policy. He says that unless you are insured and can drive, that he is going to have our car towed and we are going to be stuck here on the side of the road."

"I thought your dad had bought a policy that covered you and your brothers for this car!"

"So did I."

I told the police officer I could drive. And since I wasn't the person pulled over and hadn't done anything, I was a mildly surprised when he demanded that I call my insurance company on the spot and let him confirm. We were stuck. The police officer had already seized the keys to the car and called the tow truck. He said that we had twenty minutes to confirm my policy before getting towed.

Nice guy that he is, though, the police officer refused to give me the phone number to my insurance company from his computer. So we had to call Simon's mother, who was able to look up the number on the internet. Then, just as I got through to the agent, Simon's cell phone ran out of credit.

Simon had to run half a mile to the nearest gas station to get more phone credit. I stood in the cold evening wind feeling like this was a ridiculous situation. The cop handed me a carbon copy of the ticket, which stated that his name was Williams (shocking surname for a Welshman) and that Simon was driving at the rubber-melting speed of forty-two miles per hour. I didn't think this was likely. "How do you know Simon was speeding?" I asked conversationally.

"Are you telling me how to do my job?!?" He barked back, standing up and taking a step towards me.

Shoving down my irritation at the stupidity of his response, I persisted. "Did you radar him? How do you know he was speeding?"

"He did it and it's not my problem," he responded, again with little logical connection to my actual question. He was practically yelling at me and took another step towards me. I've been against harder people in deposition, so I wasn't inclined to back down and I asked a third time. He actually answered my question this time. "Yes, and I followed him. He did it. He did it and it's not my problem." He was definitely yelling at me.

"How do you know it was this car that you radar'ed?" I asked, again taking pains to be nonthreatening.

"Are you telling me how to do my job?!?" At this point, he was leaning over me, raising his arms menacingly. I took an involuntary step back. Sure, I've had worse in deposition, but they were never armed. And he was a lot bigger than me.

I put up my hands defensively. "I'm not trying to offend you. I'm not arguing with you. I'm not disagreeing with you. I'm just trying to gather information." I responded. "I'm just trying to gather information, that's all."

"I don't know how they do things in America," he sneered. "He was the one who did it and it isn't my problem." I nearly snapped back that in America we have due process, but thought better of it as I was genuinely afraid that the guy was going to strike me. I also didn't want to frighten and confuse him -- and therefore anger him -- as he seemed to have a poor grasp of logic and reason, but an overinflated sense of importance. I looked at him warily but held my tongue. He stepped back and started to get back into his car. "Get back in your car," he ordered. Like hell, I thought, and folded my arms. I stood on the side of the road, shivering but defiant.

The cold finally got to me. The sheep were bleating so loudly, I meanly fantasized about having lamb for dinner. "Baaaahhhh," one bleated at me from a few feet away while sticking its tongue out. I stuck my tongue back out at it and got into the car. Simon showed up a minute later, panting and holding out the phone.

I connected with my insurance company and was confirming my policy when the tow truck showed up and blocked our car in from the front. A round guy in overalls with only one tooth came over and stood next to me, demanding that I hurry up. In response, I silently shut and locked my car door.

Naturally, there was another hitch. My insurance company had to reissue my policy with Simon on it. I had to hunt all over the car and under the hood for its make, year and VIN. Another half an hour passed... then, success! I explained to the laughing agent that he would have to talk to police officer.

The toothily-challenged tow truck guy was still hanging around and Simon was having another debate with the Williams. He filled me in a minute later. "They won't let us go until I pay the tow truck guy £105 cash. I don't have any money, so the officer is going to drive me to the nearest bank to get it."

We've been highway robbed! I thought. Of all the places! After another twenty minutes, the cash was exchanged and we finally drove off. "Let's get the hell out of Wales," I suggested. We sat in shocked silence for a few minutes. "I can't believe he drove you to the bank! That was cheeky." I couldn't help but laugh.

To this day, we haven't received the ticket in the mail. So the question is, do we formally complain and risk getting the ticket or just let it go? Thoughts?

How I became a Welsh coalminer (or, more accurately, how I learned to play one on TV). Part II.

2008-04-29T07:41:00.000-07:00

Our car was stuffed to the gills with yachting equipment that we had bought for Sharinda when we had planned to sail her up the Thames. We had a long, somewhat squished drive across England, through the mountains and down country lanes to Pwllheli, Wales. (For those of you who don't speak Welsh, I was told by a few locals that it is pronounced Pwuh-kth-eli, approximately.) The drive in was pretty, with rolling hills dotted by dozens and dozens of sheep. It was rainy and mountainous on the interior and windswept along the shore. Here are a few photos:

The lambs were out and very cute. I kept exclaiming, "Oh, look at the cute little baby lambies!!" Simon just laughed at me and even stopped by the side of the road to let me take pictures. (Sheep are not novel in England, but they are to me!) The castle ruins are in the town of Criccieth (pronounced Kris-eth), where we stayed. It is nine miles from Pwllheli. The sea wall picture is in Porthamadog (pronounced "Port-hm-a-doe-g," said in a fading sort of way. I had real trouble with this one and started just calling it Port Dog.)

We arrived late and stayed in a bed and breakfast hotel in an old stone building in Criccieth called the King George. It was a most amusing hotel and we refer to it fondly as Fawlty Towers. The King George is run by a group of Asian immigrants (I can't tell you from where, but I think maybe somewhere near India, but not India), with thick accents. They appear to be a family (or at least several of them are). At first the hotel was a bit scary as the wallpaper is peeling, the pipes groan frighteningly whenever someone flushes a toilet, the decor is questionable, the old elevator terrifying, and there is water damage along most of the ceiling. Our room the first night had broken heaters, too. The breakfast food is of mediocre quality. It caters largely to elderly tourists on budget coach tours and has weird sing-alongs in the evening (think Welsh-accented Johnny Cash). Nonetheless, the staff at the King George are so nice and genuinely friendly that we grew to love it there. It was also quite affordable, clean, with comfortable beds, bathtubs, spacious rooms and kept toasty warm (once we got into a room with good heaters). By the second day, they knew what we wanted for breakfast and it would be delivered immediately upon our arrival in the dining room at 8:30 am.

That first night, we ate at the only pub open and feeding people after 8 pm called the Bryn Hir Arms. I have no idea what that means or how to pronounce it. I referred to it, instead, as "beer in her arms," which, judging by the picture on their sign of a beer maid holding two pints, might not be that far off. Simon really did not want to eat there at first, as it looked like a dive. They are nicely decorated with rude statues behind the bar (one of a sheep being used romantically by a bear in Wellington boots, which probably alludes to the crude joke that the Welsh shepherds are "sheep shaggers.") Football was on and we could hear the bartender shouting, "Come on, you fucking wankers!!" at the TV. But, as it was the only place open, we had no choice. Simon walked me up and down the dark, windy street (it is a one street town) for twenty minutes to be sure. This part of Wales does not have a McDonald's anywhere. We were in the deep countryside. For all its roughness, though, I had some of the loveliest lamb and mint sauce ever, there. We went back for it several times over the next couple weeks.

Back to the adventure: the next morning after driving up, we wandered into Pwllheli and searched for the brokerage. Simon and I have an absolutely uncanny ability to find the boat we are seeking without any directions whatsoever beyond showing up at the town (this happened with Polar Bear II, the Grimsby boat and Sharinda). Julie Anne II was no exception. We drove straight to her, where she sat in a rocky boatyard on wooden supports. We walked around her and tapped on her hull for a bit before calling the broker and driving to their offices.

William Partington Marine sat on the opposite side of the bay. It is a family business, with son Will now at the helm. Will Partington seems to absolutely hate it. When we arrived and walked upstairs over their shop to their offices, one of the nice (but ever so dotty) ladies who are perpetually hovering in the office greeted us. "I'm bad with internet," she tells us at one point, which came as no surprise since we are still awaiting that email with the specifications of the boat. She knew nothing about Julie Anne II, except that it had been on the market for a long time. She poked her head out into the giant garage in which boats were being repaired and shouted, "Will!!!!! There's a gentleman here to see Julie Anne II...." After a shouted debate over keys, she tells us to just head back over and let ourselves onto the boat because it is unlocked. This was only the first of many trips over to Partington's that turned out to be perfectly pleasant but absurdly unhelpful.

As we walked out, she handed us a print out of the internet advertisement that we had already seen. This time, though, I noticed a detail I hadn't before: Julie Anne II was built by Roy McCartney in Ireland -- the very same builder who Mr. Davies had recommended to us the day before! We spent the next hour poking, banging and prodding Julie Anne II unabashedly. We pulled up the floor boards, looked at her equipment, yanked on her rigging, pushed sharp objects into her wooden pilothouse, scratched at the paint and knocked on her hull. Satisfied, we headed to the pub to eat lunch and discuss what we saw. And what we saw was a diamond in the rough! She had the potential to truly be the Polar Bear.

We had just settled into the Mitre pub in the center of Pwllheli when Will Partington called Simon and asked him how he felt about Julie Anne II. "We're having lunch now, but we'll stop by the office afterwards to discuss it with you," Simon said.

"I smell a weak wildebeest." I told Simon over my half pint of Strongbow. "Let's go for the kill and make an offer of £6,000." Simon balked a little, thinking that it was rudely low considering that they wanted twice that amount, and suggested we offer £9,000. But I persisted, "look, it hasn't sold in over a year; the owner passed away and his family isn't using it and probably just want to get rid of it; it is a concrete boat, which most people find risky and difficult to survey; it's ugly and spartan; it's in the boonies of Wales and being brokered by people who are like the 'anti-sellers' they are so unhelpful; I think we should go in low and feel it out. If they sell it to us for that amount, won't you be glad we asked?" I argued.

Simon agreed. "OK, but I think that psychologically, we should say £6,500. That sounds less like a low-ball offer and more like we've arrived at that amount for a reason, taking into account all that needs to be done on it."

"OK," I agreed. "There is a lot that needs to be done on it, though. So, when we go in to negotiate, remember to tick those things off," I said, listing all the issues and expenses. "Plus, this is a risk on our part, because we are buying it without knowing how it sails, whether the engine works or all the electrics. We have a limited amount of money, so we need to have as much left over as possible to fix it up if anything is in bad repair. Make all those points and I will only butt in to slow things down or remind you of these points; I'll say stuff like, 'honey, we found a prettier wooden boat in Woodbridge... I don't know about this one.' I'll play the girl but use it to control the pace; if you ever feel pressure, then just say we need time to think about this and discuss it." I warmed to the negotiation games as I coached Simon. Even lawyers like me are sharks... and I smelled blood.

Back at Partington's, we stood before Will, who had resumed his place in the office. After a minute, Simon asked for some seats, although I liked the idea of negotiating from the position of power, looking down on our opponent. I realized I was being a little silly, and took a seat when one was offered, finally. Simon began as rehearsed, but Will did not put up much of a fight. As Simon spelled out the problems with the boat, I could see all over Will's face that he agreed entirely. He clearly wanted to sell this boat, once and for all. When we got down to our offer, he said, "well, I can tell you right now that the [owner's] son won't accept that, but I'll call him now anyway." I could tell, by the way he said it, though, that he would try to talk the son into it.

We excused ourselves and poked around the shop. I shamelessly kept my ears tuned into Will's conversation, making out intonations but not words, until Simon told me to stop. Simon decided to head outside for a cigarette, but I was not equally willing to stand out in the cold. Not even a minute after Simon had left, Will came out and told me that the owner would sell it to us for £7,250. Simon had already told me that anything under £8,000, he would agree to on the spot. I kept my face blank and said I would let Simon know. As soon as I stepped outside, though, I had to work hard at keeping my composure. Half an hour later, we were unloading our gear into the fore cabin of Julie Anne II. "I told you we should go in low!" I couldn't help but gloat.

Simon gave me a smile and we moved onto the next, much dirtier and physically-intense phase: refitting the boat.

How I became a Welsh coalminer (or, more accurately, how I learned to play one on TV). Part I.

2008-04-20T05:14:00.000-07:00

Admittedly, just about everyone I know has sent me a message asking, "WTF?" and "Where the heck are you?" I figure it is time to pony up with the details. Today's topic: How Simon and I bought a concrete boat and ended up living in Wales. This will be a long post as I need to back up about a month, where the story really begins.

The last week of March, after Simon and I looked at Polar Bear II and before we looked at Sharinda, we were combing through dozens and dozens of ads for yachts within our limited budget. Simon wanted a project that we can partially rebuild ourselves, but not such a large project that we'd be consumed by it for the next several years. I wanted something that floated and would bring me closer to the equator. (OK, Simon wanted that, too.)

On a Saturday afternoon, he looks up from his laptop and exclaims, "I've found a 55 footer concrete yacht! It looks like a real bargain!"

"Ha-ha," I replied. "Concrete. Bargain. Good one."

"I'm serious. You can make a yacht out of concrete."

He had my attention now as my feeble mind fought to grasp the concept. "You're joking," I protested weakly.

"No," he said, "they float just like steel or wood. They make strong boats and are more likely to survive an accident than fiberglass." And that is how our strange trip towards a ferro-concrete boat began.

We contacted the owner of the homemade 55 foot ferro-concrete boat. He was in Grimsby and had an accident that prevented him and his wife from fulfilling their lifelong dream of cruising around the world. The boat had been their pet project for twenty years and was 75% completed when he had to give it up. It was a sad story. "This is a good example why," I told Simon as we drove to Grimsby the next day, "we need to get out and sail the world now rather than waiting for someday. Someday may never come."

It was cold and snowing that day. Grimsby was about a five hour drive from London and an industrial wasteland. (The pubs were also all out of food, for some bizarre reason. Every time we walked into one, we were told that they had run out of food. No joke. We ended up at a McDonald's by the motorway and eating in the car with the heater blasting.) "Grimsby is grim," Simon joked.

We toured the boat, which had great potential but was a huge (and I mean HUGE) project. Simon was excited at the prospect but I was overwhelmed by it. You can see my doubt as I peered into one of the cabins which was still a pile of wood. Still, we put in an offer for asking price. Unfortunately, we were outbid.

Grimsby wasn't a waste, though. We began reading about ferro boats voraciously and learned that they offered everything we wanted in a boat. They made strong, stable yachts. They could be abused a bit and didn't require the same maintenance that wood yachts require. They didn't have the same osmosis problems that fiberglass yachts have. They were closest in nature to steel boats, but with slightly less rusting problems and more flexibility in the hull. They were the rough and tumble 4-wheelers of yachts, capable of bringing us around the world in heavy seas. They were also cheap because the material is misunderstood by most yachties. They are not suitable for racing around because they are heavy. They also have the downside that they are frequently made by amateurs in their own backyard, so quality can vary widely. Many insurers are afraid of them and few surveyors know how to judge them. For everything you've ever wanted to know about ferro boats, go to www.ferroboats.com. Still, we were intrigued.

I quickly found a listing for an ugly 38 footer in north Wales. Her name was Julie Anne II and she had real potential. She had the double aft cabin, length and pilothouse that we wanted. In the pictures, though, she was Spartan and my girlie side protested. Simon, however, was again very excited. He particularly liked that she had a bilge keel with two feet on the sides that create a sort of tripod so that the boat could be parked in shallow waters, or even dried out, without supports. We sent an inquiry, but got no response. We telephoned and were told that she had been on sale for a year and promised more information by email. They even told us that they were dropping the asking price from £13,500 to £11,000. But still, they never sent us the information. As it was an eight hour drive to north Wales, we weren't willing to drive up there without hard facts on the build, equipment and history of the yacht.

In the meantime, I found Sharinda and my girlie side rejoiced. She seemed meant to be, as we were able to organize a surveyor, haul out, and a sailing crew on extremely short notice. (The plan, as an aside, was to haul her out on spring tide, when she could get pulled out of her mud berth, have her surveyed, paint on new anti-fouling quickly, return her to the water, and sail her around to the Thames, where we would berth her on Simon's father's mooring. With only a few days before springs and all the surveyors and cranes booked, we thought it was a miracle when a surveyor had a cancellation and the yard was able to fit us in last minute.) Unfortunately, the survey found that she had extensive rot that was concealed by epoxy filler and a lining on the inside of the hull. To be seaworthy, she required approximately £20,000 in repairs, on top of all the electrics and equipment that were going to cost us £10,000. We quickly decided to pull out of the deal.

But, Sharinda, although an expensive lesson, also turned out to be a valuable experience. Alas, our surveyor, who was able to work with us last minute only because of a cancellation, turned out to be the only ferroconcrete qualified and experienced surveyor in all of England! Peter N. Davies was an experienced, sage old man with the gift of gab. He was all around very knowledgeable and impressive. I think he may be the same Peter N. Davies who is a professor emeritus in maritime history at the University of Liverpool, but I can't say for sure. I base this opinion on several comments he made about his work and education (partially at a major university in Chicago) and the fact that he owns, with his brother, several historical square rigged ships, that are still sailing today. (Which, coincidentally, Simon worked on for a couple weeks a few years back!) Anyway, it was like we won the surveyor lottery.

Mr. Davies was concerned that our experience with Sharinda would put us off boats and offered lots of advice on what we should look for in purchasing our vessel. When Simon asked him what he thought about concrete boats, he lit up like a Christmas tree and that is when we learned of his experience in their construction. "Nothing wrong with them!" was his response. He told us a few things to look for, what build history he needs as a surveyor, and added that he was quite impressed by ferro fishing boats built by Roy McCartney in Ireland. He even charged us only half of his fee (as we quit a bit early, once Sharinda became an obvious loss), but he did so out of kindness. Grinning like Cheshire cats, Simon and I drove to Wales on the spot.

All Hell has broken loose.

2008-04-11T04:41:00.000-07:00

OK, that is an exaggeration, but the last few days have been excitingly busy and very weird. There are so many things that I need to write about, that they have to be broken down into multiple posts. Moreover, I am still running about in a frenzied fashion, so the posts will be trickled in over the next week or so. You have the following events to look forward to reading about:

Simon and I bought a concrete boat named Julie Anne II. I had already intended to write about our forays into the world of concrete boats (and a trip to Grimsby). Now it will be a central piece as this long, strange path has culminated in our yacht, to be renamed Polar Bear. We also met the only surveyor in all the land (literally) of concrete boats. But at least we have our yacht now, full stop (thanks to some awesome haggling skills)!
We dumped Sharinda, who turned out to be a dirty, rotten whore.
Simon and I have moved to Wales (temporarily).
We spent the night on Wednesday in a real haunted castle.
We got arrested and highway robbed. (Really, we did!)
We went to Birmingham. It was like Detroit, so we decided to leave Birmingham.
I've learned to drive in the UK and I've even mastered roundabouts.

As you can see, we've been busy. I can't wait to tell you all about it.

Cheers!

The weather in England is schizophrenic.

2008-04-06T08:19:00.000-07:00

It was warm and sunny just two days ago.

PS - We're going to be painting and antifouling our boat in this weather tomorrow and Tuesday. Even more fun: sailing it on the North Sea this Wednesday, Thursday and Friday through ice flurries. I like to do things to the extreme, baby. Woot, woot.

An American about town: comments on confronting misconceptions and cultural insensitivity as a traveling American.

2008-04-06T06:42:00.000-07:00

This Absolut Vodka ad is one of the single-most offensive things I have ever seen. For the first time in my life, I am genuinely going to boycott a product. I urge you all to do the same. It is crappy vodka anyway.

This ad is a tragedy and I hope that it is forgotten quickly and has little actual impact. It advocates hate, malcontent and an “us vs. them” mentality. As a San Diegan, I have always loved our unique blend of American and Mexican culture. To me, being American means not only embracing our diverse cultural roots, but also celebrating our Americanness: we are a unique country of free and varied people. We should be proud to be Americans, all of us, no matter what kind of American; and we are American first. We all know brave Mexican-Americans who fight to protect our country, and an invasion of our country by Mexico (or any other country) is abhorrent to what they fight for. Further, inclusiveness is something that many Americans have fought hard for throughout our entire history. It would be a tragedy for those struggles to be in vain and a culture of separatism to triumph.

So why is this relevant to the Chronicles? This is not a political blog. Nonetheless, this is relevant because I am an extensively well-traveled American and it reminds me that I am often been asked to comment on media-influenced misconceptions about America. (Sometimes I am just asked whether I ever pass myself off as a Canadian. The answer to that is "no.")

This ad is an extreme example of how the media creates misinformation and hatred towards Americans. It also shows how non-Americans can be insensitive to Americans. Absolut, a Swedish company, claims on its consumer inquiry line, for example, that they did not intend this ad to be offensive. They further claim that it is not meant to "advocate an altering of borders, nor does it lend support to any anti-American sentiment." Which begs the questions, what exactly did they think it was saying? How could they be so unaware of how this would make many Americans feel? Are they simply unaware that America is populated by feeling people? Have they been brainwashed by popular images that suggest that America is worthy only of hatred and malcontent?

Even though I travel through places where people make fun of Americans out of ignorance, spite or jealousy, one thing I will never do is apologize for being American. We aren’t perfect, but I can tell you that no place I have been is perfect. All countries have their social, economic and political problems. But to our credit, most Americans try to live up to our ideals of freedom, tolerance and generosity. Sometimes our government doesn't get it right, but although our government answers to us, it is not the same as being us. We are a good people.

I find it incredibly arrogant for other people to think that they can approach me with the assumption that I would be ashamed of being American or that they know better than we do what America should do as a country. Americans aren't the only people capable of being culturally insensitive. But at least this helps me not behave similarly insensitively.

I travel because I believe that it enriches you as a human being. It makes you empathetic and tolerant. It also highlights the "humanness" of people, which exists without exception, culture to culture. I've never been to a country where I didn't like the people or didn't see examples of love, hate, kindness, tragedy, hope, pettiness, humor and struggle. I only wish that more people would actually experience America and Americans before swallowing the media's popular misconceptions.

I believe that we are all brothers and sisters. And, when the questioner is actually interested in my answer and not just asking to feel superior, that is what I tell them.

Peace,

The sun came out in England today and I celebrated by drinking an entire pitcher of Pimm's.

2008-04-04T14:23:00.001-07:00

I was going to write a witty and informative article today on ferro-concrete boats and our adventure last week to grim Grimsby to try and purchase one. Alas, the best laid plans... (I would finish the adage, but I'm too hungover to remember it).

The sun came out in England today. I first learned of this at about 8 am, when I was startled awake by a horde of bees. Our bed is under a window graced with bright yellow curtains. The bees apparently awoke from bee hibernation and decided to get some of that good, down home pollen before the rain comes back. Unfortunately, they thought the curtains were flowers and buzzed around my face for a while.

I'm quite ashamed to admit that I find bees a bit -- OK, alot -- scary. At one point, I jumped out of bed with a yelp and spilled water all over Simon. Amazingly, he just shot me an annoyed look, helped the bee out of the window and went back to sleep. I decided that getting under the duvet and hiding from the bees was my best course of action and also fell back asleep.

Somehow, it became nearly noon and we were still sleeping. (It's shocking, since we are such early risers.) Since we were supposed to meet our friend Marie for lunch at 12:30, we did get out of bed and we headed straight to the pub (the White Swan in Richmond). Beer for breakfast. Good start.

It was a beautiful day outside, so after lunch we wandered down the path along the Thames towards the White Cross (another pub in Richmond, about 500 meters away). We decided to grab a seat in the sun and look over the idyllic water, graced with ducks and flowers. As part of the warm afternoon ritual, a small glass of Pimm's sounded like just the thing.

Now, if you've never had Pimm's, I can't really describe it to you. It tastes kind of like a citrus, cola, long island iced tea, only it is made with just gin. It is easy drinking, but it can sneak up on you. After the first pitcher, all good judgment was lost. We must have been a sight to Marie's boyfriend, Mark, who joined us late afternoon and had a civilized beer.

The three of us put down three pitchers as the afternoon turned to evening. I don't know how. I don't know why. But I do know that I put away my equal share and that about halfway into it, I thought, "I can't participate in intelligent conversation anymore. I can't even understand what is being said, between Marie's southern accent, Simon's British accent, and Mark's Scottish accent." (I, of course, speak without an accent like Hollywood and God intended.)

But we enjoyed the sun quite a bit. Simon was attacked by another bee at one point and expected me to save him. It was then that I understood the irony of my fear. I have little fear of sailing across the ocean in a 40 foot yacht or rafting class five rapids, but I squeal like a five year old at the sight of a bee. I don't even think bee stings hurt that badly. I'm a rich tapestry of psychological contradictions. Marie commented, "you should get that sorted."

So, anyway, the whole point of this post is: (a) the sun in England is like a four-leafed clover and (b) I spent the entire day drunk, which I half (but not fully) regret, so I did not accomplish much. I think that it is English tradition to get loaded when the sun comes out though. They call it Sun Fawkes Day or something like that.