[Rhodes22-list] Call yourself a sailor

[Joe Camp]

 Hey gang:    

Murphy's law bites me in the ass (or stern, if you prefer nautical jargon) every chance it gets.  We all know the bitter reality of the unexpected occurrence, and the regularity of its visits to the calm waters (in nautical jargon) of assumed regularity and unassuming expectations (most of us call these "life").  But then:

Ass-bite #1,  4 August 1012:  A freak storm sinks my boat on the Bohemia River (Upper Chesapeake) and it winds up on the hard for the rest of the season. Insurance (very aptly and without a single protestation) makes the entire thing better... financially.  The long off season, I spend upgrading stuff and dreaming of  the splash.  The frosty cold spring did not make this an easy roll-out, but the concept of roll-out brooks no delays.

Ass-bite #2,  27 April 2013: Launch date finally arrived. New electronics, new bilge pump, rigged an anchor-riding sail, buffed out all hull blemishes.  My sailing amigo (Spanish for friend) and I pulled into the chosen launching marina (mine has no ramp) and were greeted with a high tide (nautical conceit for "the greatest level") of praises on the sheer beauty of the Rhodes 22. I blushed, but gave mature, but still quite foxy, woman the $20.00 launch fee.  We rigged the boat and backed her down the ramp. The hull was wet!  The boat still floated!  The experience of fate feasting on my (apparently) tasty ass was done!  (or not done)  

Over the course of the fix-up season, the line for my centerboard came out of the cam cleat; so, when the boat floated, the center board dropped and wedged on the outboard side of the trailer's keel guide.  Our attempt to refloat and adjust had the boat resting at about 70 degree angle in the trailer. After some wrangling (cowboy term) we floated her again, scrambled aboard like a furtive mouse (rodent analogy) and locked the centerboard up. All was well, in a sense.

Ass-bite #2 (b):  A short motor to my marina showed that my mooring, in fact all the moorings, were not there.  They're being serviced.  I am now tied into a nearby slip (about four sizes too big for my 22 footer).  I have a few band aids on my tender ass.  But you have to have stories in order to call yourself a sailor.   Ergo, I am a sailor.   

Joe Camp
s/v John Dawson
Bohemia River, MD