State of The Blog Address, 2013

"I'll tell ya, folks, it's harder than it looks...."
                                     -AC/DC


  Yeah, I know.

  It's been a while.

  As I write this, the little hand is closing in on to midnight,  I am sitting in a lakeside room on the 22nd floor of the Westin Harbour Castle , sipping a  couple of fingers of Sailor Jerry's, watching the last of the day's Porter Airlines flights return home.

Folks, it doesn't get a whole lot better than this.

In January.

In Ontario.

Tomorrow, SWMBO and I and Hilary and Deb launch the annual Dock Six Boat Show Assault.  We'll grab some swag, eat some food, drink some beer, stumble through a couple of boats, scorn a few dozen more, buy some gear, then adjourn to the Chartroom at the Westin for the Saturday night gathering of the faithful.

We have hit a milestone this week.  Less than two years since the first post, the Dock Six Chronicles has had it's 100 000th page view.

I have no idea whether that 100 000th page view was a new reader or a regular follower,

(sorry, mom)

But thank you to all of you who have taken the time to check us out, fed back on what you have read, taken the time to say hello as you wander past us on the Dock, or just generally "talked the dock!" and passed the word.

Our world has become bigger than I ever dreamed it would be.

And that has raised the bar.

Thanks a hell of a lot.


See, if no one was reading the crap I typed into my crappy little netbook on an irregular basis, it really didn't matter whether it was worth reading.

The writing could suck, our (mis)adventures could suck, all of it could suck, and it wouldn't matter because no one would notice.

Well, f**k me, some poor masochistic idiots keep reading this stuff.

Repeatedly.

And letting their damn kids read it!  Which is why I have to use ** in all the really good words, ferf**ksakes!

Before I started throwing this crap at the cyberwall and seeing what stuck, no one cared whether I wrote anything.  Hell, even my kids turned to mom for signatures on permission slips.

Now?

I take a couple of weeks off while my children-of-choice (I hate the word "stepkids"- they are mine, chosen and cherished) are home for the holidays, and after a week the emails start coming in (what's new?  any new blog posts coming?) telling me it is time to saddle up.

I'm not complaining- it's good to be wanted.  Unless post offices and posters and rewards are involved.

Here's where I see the Chronicles heading in 2013:

   A regular schedule.  The idiots  my faithful readers deserve to know when to tune in, and potential new suckers readers should have some sort of structure to keep 'em coming back. Once a week?  Twice a week?  Daily?  Monthly?
Folks, let me know how much is enough.

   Better photography.  I look at some of my pics and cringe.  I'll work on it.  I promise.  I'll also use more of  
Melanie's pictures.  That chick can plain shoot!









More recipes.  More food ideas is more better.

More projects.

Less filler.  Yeah, I know, sometimes I work way too hard to make way too much out of way too little.  It succeeds way too often.

More connectivity.  There is now a Dock Six Chronicles facebook Page

Yeah.  facebook.  Next thing you know I'll be standing in line to buy the latest iPaidtoomuch.

More guests.  I want to have more folks tell more stories their own damn selves;  it means less work for me, and a different perspective is always good.  Win/win.

Book reviews.  Cripes, we read enough around here, we should be able to recommend some good boat reads, and/or good reads about boats,and/or good boat-related reads.

Less excuses.  I've posted less often this year than last, and offered all sort of bullshit to justify why.
It doesn't matter.  I slacked from time to time.  With a regular schedule and the deadlines all that entails, you're gonna get more D6C,  more often.
Some of you might even think that is a good thing.

More swag.  Beyond "Talking the Dock!", We're gonna "Pimp the Dock!"  T-shirts, hats, coozies, maybe even our own Dock Bock.
Say it loud!  I'm Dock and I'm proud!

Thanks for all your support.

  Happy 2013 to all of you!

"Talk the Dock!"

Last Sail for the Lost Boys

"And now, the end is here..."
                -Frank Sinatra



I shoulda figured that the solitary freakishly pleasant day last week foreshadowed more freakish but decidedly less pleasant weather to come.

But, it was my day off and October was running on fumes and I was sailing, and I have learned not to try to predict the future while enjoying the present.

  The Dock is looking sparse.

    In fact, the whole marina is tapping out:

      It's days like this that are the reason why we stay in the water as long as possible.  It's the last week of October, the Bay is mirror smooth, the sun is shining, and we are sailing in our shirtsleeves.

  The foliage is still vibrant, if you can see it behind the seagulls strafing the fish tug below:

      And construction on the new Stately Jones Manor proceeds at a steady clip.  Who says you can't get rich by blogging?

     Just kidding.  This property has been the subject of numerous rumours, the latest being that it has been purchased by a flamboyant British pianist who has made a significant fortune writing songs about dead blondes.

  The haze on the water seems more appropriate for June than October.  If you can squint and ignore the falling leaves, you might convince yourself that the season isn't coming to an end.  The haze also plays havoc with the auto-focus on my camera.

     Hilary  Jack and Melanie  and I decided to raft up and meet the newest, as yet nameless, new crew:

    Baasje's spiritual sucessor seems to be right at home.


  As the sun started to set, we cut loose and reluctantly turned for home.

Returning into the marina, I noticed that he water was exceptionally clear.  In fact, I could see bottom. It dawned on me that the water was not only exceptionally clear, but exceptionally SHALLOW.  As I passed the light at the end of the breakwall, I started noting the depth:

So far, so good...

Hmmmm....

Uh...

Er...

Gulp...

 
   Silent self-congratulations on having the foresight to sail a vessel that draws less than 3 1/2'.

 
   

   Ed and his classic Bertram glide through the marina at sunset one last time, before hauling her for the season.

    Our last sail of the season over, we return to the Dock to enjoy one last cockpit pot- luck, toast the departed canine crew,  meet James and Brooke's new crew, Rosie, and generally  wring as much enjoyment out of the last sail as possible.
The one bad thing about great days is that they have to come to an end.
It's pretty much all winter from here.


"Talk the Dock!"

Imma Get a Little Sentimental For a Minute..

      "...I'd like to pass on to you..."
                      -Trooper



I’m re-reading Chris Rose’s 1 Dead in Attic , his compelling compilation of the highly readable columns he wrote for the New Orleans Times-Picayune following hurricane Katrina.  As I read of the ragtag reconstruction and resurrection of that most un-American of American cities, and the stories of those formidable stubborn individuals left behind and those who returned, I pondered.   The locals never doubted they would rebuild, because it was a magical place that was worth fighting for.  As I read  I contemplated my own dirt-life-  my connection, or lack thereof.

  I have lived in Stately Jones Manor for over 12 years.  The house to the north has been sold once, the house to the south has been sold twice.   I don't know shit about any of the homes or homeowners across the street. I am on a nodding acquaintance basis with current neighbours on both sides.  I know their names.  We commiserate while shoveling snow.

That’s it.

If Stately Jones Manor was to be irreparably destroyed, I  would feel no sense of loss, and no compulsion or compunction to return or rebuild.  My neighbours would shrug off my absence, and nod and commiserate with my replacement, if one was to appear.

In other words, life would go on.


But  The Dock?

I know the names, email addresses, phone numbers, boat names, previous boat names,  dreams of the next boat, occupations, adventures, long-suffering spouses and favourite beers of many of the denizens here.  We gather by unspoken common ritual to watch the sun go down while we eat and drink and laugh.  We share the good, the bad, the ugly.  We get by, we get ahead and we get along.
I guess the best way to explain it, as corny and sentimental and cloying as it sounds is that Stately Jones Manor is a house.
The Dock is a home.

I don’t miss my dirt-home when I am here…

But I pine like a mofo  for here when forced to the dirt.

Losing Stately Jones Manor would be an inconvenience.

Losing the Dock would be a tragedy.

(If Stately Jones Manor happens to burn to the ground in the near future I am sure my insurance company will have a whole briefcase load of questions for me after a quick Google turns up this post.)

See, here’s the thing:  Bare naked truth be told, here on The Dock we’re all kinda self-absorbed and self-obsessed.

 The capitalization ain’t an accident.

 But it’s the larger “self,” :the group.

(Okay, maybe that should be capitalized too, but have you seen our boats?)

Our family of choice… The Dock.


None of us may be able to tell you who won last night’s major league baseball game, or which boy band has supplanted Justin Bieber in the moonlit fantasies among the under legal-drinking-age demo or even  whether the Muslim Brotherhood is an Egyptian religio-political entity or a movie checkbooked by Louis Farrakhan as a comeback vehicle for Ice Cube…
… but when you need someone to talk to,  sail with, consult on an electrical issue, borrow tools from or loan beers to, we got your back.


And that counts.

Take last night for example.

It's Thursday in July.  It's not just still air, no cloud HOT, it's also no wind, ass-crack sweating humid.  It beats the hell out of sub-zero, drifting snow January, but after provisioning the boat coming off the air-conditioned workweek, it's major-league uncomfortable.

The only option is to leave the dock and head for the beach to bake and bob.

We weren't the only folks executing this plan.  Hell, we weren't even the first.

Ralph and Julie and guests were already anchored, Hilary was ahead of us by five minutes, the Osborns (not to be confused with The Osbornes, capitalization intended)  had anchored Windslicer, and Jack and Melanie and Bas had snagged their Bluenose to the bottom on the millpond-still Bay:

Within a half hour, without consultation or plan, without mishap or harsh words, Hilary and Whiskeyjack and the Bluenose were rafted and posing for pictures  as Melanie flailed the oars in Quack while firing her Canon.

As the sun dropped below Wooley's Point we turned for home, retied to The Dock and shared dinner and beverages and laughs and photos and camaraderie.

People ask why we persist in hurrying from air conditioned offices to a small boat-smelling boat that is a long walk from the parking lot, lacking water and power and all manner of creature comforts...
If we have to explain it, you won't understand it anyway,  C'mon down and join us for a sunset.


 You'll get it.


And don't forget to "Talk the Dock"

This Has To Sting.

     "But I really think it's better this way..."
                                     -The Offspring






  On Friday night the Dock Six Sail Rescue Squad  (And Rum Drinking Society) sailed into action again.

As we were uncovering the mainsail, Jack and Melanie and Bas  passed our slip in Jack's latest Bluenose, on their way out to enjoy the 8-10 knot breeze.

As we were untying the lines, Jack and Melanie and Bas were returning...  with the catch of the day.

     I had to feel sorry for the Sea-Doo pilot as he endured the Sailpast of Shame.

     A little bit.



    "Talk the Dock!"

'Round Midnight

       "When there's no one else around..."

                                   -Wilson Pickett

     Some pretty scenes were captured from the Dock recently, and I have been remiss in not posting them sooner. No real context, no exposition or explanation, just pictures too pretty or too cool not to share.

      Sunset, shot by Sylvia from the cockpit of Whiskeyjack:

And another:

   Melanie decided to experiment with aperture, shutter speeds, available light and film speed settings, and came up with some hits and maybe some misses.  You decide.

    Personally, I am really digging this one:

     Get your mind out of the gutter.  It's Jack's slip number.  Okay, so, Jack's last name is Gutter, that doesn't mean...oh, never mind.

     Ours.

    Thanks for taking the time to check us out.  Please feel free to "Talk the Dock!"  Link us, follow us, or just tell your friends.