The Adventures of Green Eyes, Cruising in the Time of Covid Chapter 2

The Adventures of Green Eyes, Cruising in the Time of Covid

Chapter 2

     Social distancing can be easy while cruising on your own boat, providing you don't have to make trips to Home Depot, Pet Smart, Target, Costco, Sam's, Tom's, or the marina restroom (which is 550 feet from our primo slip at the end of the pier, near the harbor entrance and with a stunning view of Grand Traverse Bay.)

We're mostly in our own little world. We're content toot-tooting along, or sitting on the poop deck enjoying sundowners, and ominous or multicolored cloud formations. At night, we curl up on the seven foot couch and watch The Saint series from the 60's while snacking on M’nMs. Staying home afloat is easy and fun and beautiful. But then we realize we are in need of wine, or cat food, or showers so off we go into the Covid Stew of the bigger world, the real world in 2020.

     For the most part, folks here in Northern Michigan are "being good". Nearly every business has a cheerful sign on the door stating that masks are required. There's always tape on the floor, spaced six feet apart in the shape of a big X, or there’s decals of the store's logo dotting the floor. But not all the employees wear masks and they never turn away (that I've seen) customers who exercise their right to be unmasked, uninformed, or political. I coped with that back home in Silicon Valley California too, where, overall, most folks were considerate science believers. But there's a thing I've noticed here in Michigan that makes me more nervous when I encounter the mask-less, because some Michiganers I’ve encountered are breathy. I mean, when they say "Hi" it comes out of their mouth like a mini tornado. Okay, a gale. But the fact is, it's more wind than sound. Some also have a habit of removing their masks the instant they are at the exit to Target or wherever with a dramatic "Whew!" tornado aimed at the patron a foot away who is in the act of putting their mask on, as required, to enter the store: "Whew! It sure is hard to breathe in there with a mask on! But the sale on pool noodles makes it worth it!" People in California did that too. People sometimes act as if Covid doesn't exist anywhere masks are not required. As if EXIT doors are barriers to bacteria.

     I've seen only one boating party here in the marina wearing masks. The owner of the sailboat two slips down is a doctor. When he takes guests out on his boat, he arrives at his boat masked, firmly reminding his friends to don their masks or they can't come. He's not rude. He cares.

     What makes social distancing so difficult is that boating is so social. Boats exit the harbor nightly for sunset cruises with 10 or 12 or 20 souls on board. They raft up with other boats and party hard. Like it’s a normal summer or something. Weekends are nuts on the Bay. Fourth of July at nearby Power Island, and on Torch Lake, were cauldrons of open-mouthed cootie incubators.

     Michigan's Governor, the one the U.S. President famously and rudely called "That woman" is concerned. She has pretty strict Covid guidelines in place and she is trying her best to herd the kittens. But some say she opened the marinas not because her constituents endured a long hard winter indoors knowing life would begin again once they are able to launch their boats, but because her boat-owning-winter-surviving husband nagged her to do so. Opening the marinas benefited us, so I should not comment. And I'm not slamming boat owners or people who "come up North from Southern Michigan on vacation bringing the Covid, as Northern folks tell us. Some folks back home were just as adamant about not wearing masks or following the rules of social distancing. But Californians have sunshine. They haven't endured long, brutal winters like the ones here in Michigan. And Californians aren't as desperate to get out and about and enjoy some much needed Vitamin D, because they can have it any old time they want it.

     In fact, people in and around Traverse City are some of the nicest we've ever met. Truth. Young, affable employees at the marinas always stop to talk as they work their way up and down the docks wiping away thousands of dead bugs that are caught in massive spider webs, which are built nightly while we sleep. Sam plays the sax in the high school band. Jimmy dreams of owning his own boat someday. Being here reminds me of how San Jose and Santa Cruz was when I was a kid. Traverse City is small, with a good airport, miles of bike trails and beaches, and a few blocks of quaint downtown. Everything we need seems to be a twelve minute drive away. They have the best, literally the best, Classic Rock radio station. The local Tom's Supermarket just down the street (lake?) carries the New York Times, so I’m able to feed my crossword monkey.

And we can tune in to a good public radio station for BBC news or in-depth stories. I can even listen to my favorite weekend show, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me. We both really like this small city, except for the dreaded winters we keep hearing about. I mean, damn, the lake the size of inland sea, partially freezes!

I look out at it now and can't imagine how cold it has to get to rearrange that many molecules. I get it why people here must have their summers. 

     How, you might ask, did we end up in Traverse City, a town we'd never even heard of? 

     We bought a boat, a 26' Nordic Tug, on January 30, 2020 in Texas, but we had to move the boat out of Texas before hurricane season (June 1st). Plus, we wanted to do this bucket list thing called The Great Loop, a 6000 mile, one year boat journey on North America's lakes, rivers, and canals. (All that stuff is in the Eastern part of N. America.) So, in late May, Scott flew to Houston and met "Lenny" who had driven our newly purchased trailer, one specific to Nordic Tugs, from it's location in Traverse City, Michigan to League City, Texas. Then Lenny, with Scott as co-pilot, drove the boat and trailer back to Michigan because that was as good a place as any to start the Loop and it would be a great jumping off point to the Canada portion of the Loop, which is said by all to be the most scenic. Scott launched the boat in Grand Traverse Bay, flew back to California to collect me and the cat and we drove to Michigan (see Chapter 1 to read about driving cross country and camping with a cat) where, on June 6th, we boarded Green Eyes and where we've been, pretty much, ever since. There are many reasons for that, the main one being that since we like "old stuff" that has "character", we bought a thirty-year-old classic Nordic Tug, a boat we didn't know a thing about. We know very little about ANY power boat. In the olden days, we were sailors, but that was a long time ago. Our 40' catamaran named Different Drummer had an outboard, and a tiller for steering, and zero electronics. But it got us from Santa Cruz to Hawaii in twenty-one days and it was a hell of a lot of fun, mostly (I reflect now) because it had zero electronics. Oh, and because we were in our twenties. Anyway, it turns out that our vintage tug is adorable, but in need of many non-vintage things like: a new throttle, five new marine and house batteries, a leaky water tank repair, a new radar, a new-to-the-boat AIS Transponder, which lets other boats know our location and we can "see" them too. We needed a storage system (oh the nooks and crannies!) not to mention finding a place for our cat Pika's bed, her toys, her cat food, her treats, her cat carrier (which we refer to as her Quonset hut and which she retreats to at the sound of any noise or detection of any movement). And, oh my God, a place for her porta potty. This last task took about a week to design and install. We tried out every conceivable location before Scott finally built a triangular platform that fits perfectly on the floor at the end of the bed at the bow of the boat. One of us has stepped in in only once (so far) when getting out of bed in the middle of the night.

     Our home on the water is truly cozy. Contained in 150 square feet, we have a bedroom, a small loo or "head", a seven foot couch, a two-burner stove, a fridge and freezer, a deep sink, a microwave, and plenty of storage for dry goods, cat food, and "stuff". The amount of storage on our tiny house is amazing. There's under-the-couch storage, drawer storage, closet storage, and lots and lots of under-the bed-storage made so because the bed is so high off the floor. Honestly, it's about the height of my gall bladder, if I had one. Getting into bed requires one foot planted on the floor while the other pushes off the sloped side of the hull. It's fun helping one another into or out of bed, either by pushing or pulling. The shape of the ceiling of the berth is low, which means that the person sleeping on the inside has to slide over the person on the outside when getting up to pee at night. So that is fun too. The only thing we are not "on the same page" about is that Scott thinks the boat is a tool and spare parts shed, and Pika and I think it is a home.

     There is so much to see and do in and around Traverse City that we haven't been bored while waiting for parts to arrive. We've visited most of the charming towns in the area. Towns like Glen Arbor, Petoskey, Charlevoix, Leland, and we drove to Pentwater just to have a burger the size of a dinner plate at the Brown Bear.

We also had a chance to donate to a street-corner, trombone-playing, nursing student's college fund. Never have I had the opportunity to do that in California.

     We drove the length of the Old Mission Peninsula, an 18-mile long spit of land that juts out from the end of Grand Traverse Bay. It brings to (my) mind the image of Sacajawea pointing the way to Lewis or Clark; straight, direct, confident. It feels different from the rest of the surrounding landscape, mostly consisting of farmland, wineries, one country store, one gas station, lots of very pretty lake-front homes and a picturesque lighthouse built in 1870. 

     We drove to Cheboygan on Lake Huron because I had a craving for bratwurst, but it was the wrong Cheboygan. (Just so you know, Cheboygan Michigan doesn't have bratwurst. They do have Chicago style hot dogs at a place called Weinerlicious. Sheybogen, Wisconsin is the place for bratwurst.)

     We hiked to the top of Sleeping Bear Dunes, which was long and hard and burned the soles of our feet,

and we swam in Lake Michigan to escape the heat and humidity. We took the dingy on many sunset tours. Sometimes Scott just rows me around the marina, which is very romantic.  

One Sunday, we took the dingy to nearby Cedar Lake, which we circled twice before throwing out the anchor and napping in the shade.

We went back to Cedar Lake the next day, taking with us the stand up paddle boards that came with the boat. We perfected a "kneel up and paddle" position, and we both got up to standing, but we'd like to trade them for folding bikes or an inflatable kayak, either of which we think we'd use more often and would keep us dryer than s'ups because we fall off so often. Another day, we took the dingy up a river that leads to Boardman Lake.

But the water is so high this year, we couldn't get past the first bridge so we turned around dingy-ed into Lake Michigan and swam and read. 

We drove to several lighthouses and museums, all closed due to Covid. We walk to Frosties across the street or drive to the Dairy Lodge for good old fashioned softie cones or shakes.

We drove to MOOmers Ice Cream Farm, and bought Northern Michigan's famous fudge in Charlevoix to send to neighbors back home. We spend hot lazy afternoons at a shady lake park at the end of the bay, sitting under a tree or swimming up until sunset, which is between 9:30 and 10:00 P.M. It makes me feel like a kid again to get to enjoy summer nights like these at the beach. Old-fashioned fun.

          A swan family comes to visit every morning and evening, which is as adorable as a relaxed cat or husband.

     But you know what? Things just aren't as much fun when there's a pandemic going on around you. We all know that. I mean, you can try to ignore it, but there's just a whole lot of anxiety in the air.

We have been out for a meal only twice in four months. At the Brown Bear, tables were a good distance apart, and only a few diners were allowed in at once. The other time, we had fish and chips at a pub in Charlevoix, and used the outside dining option. Though we're invited to go out for sundowners on other people's boats, we decline because of Covid. It's tempting. The folks here in the marina are kind, helpful, and fun. One man, Bull, knows pretty much everything about boats and, it turns out, we  both like M'nMs and Original Doritos. He invited us to his annual Brisket Fest which was very kind of him and bar none it was the best brisket I'd every tasted. His wife Paula made a mesh screen for our bedroom so that Pika could be enclosed and won’t commit suicide by leaping overboard, as she wants to do every time Scott or I start the motor. I guess we'd go out with the doctor, if he invites us. If we could just go along with the fun, I'd feel less like a fuddy duddy. But I don’t want to wake up dead from Covid. Our neighbor Patrick, who takes his boat out almost daily, is so kind and so gregarious. But as much as we would like to take him up on his offer of wine at sunset, I really. really don't want to get or give Covid, so we always decline. We did attend a boat owners coffee one morning, but everyone (all ten of us) wore masks. Mostly, life is just we three, Scott, Pika, and me. It's lucky that we all pretty much like one another a lot, mostly.

     Sheltering in place will be easier once we don't have to make so many trips to Home Depot, and when all the parts are in. (Big shout out to our neighbor at home Keith, who collected the new throttle which was sent to San Jose by mistake and express mailed it to us here.) We'll finally pull away from the Elmwood Marina for good, and carry on up, or down, or around the Great Lakes, all summer long, or until marinas shut down again, as soon as all the parts are in. 

     *Due to the Canadian border being closed indefinitely, and the Erie Canal not opening until August 10, and the Illinois lock closure until October (all of which are part of the Great Loop), and due to Covid, we have revised our plan for cruising the Great Loop to cruising the Great Lakes. Since we don't have to be home until the end of November, at least we will have the Great Lakes portion of the Great Loop ticked off by the end of the season.*

     Canada's Georgian Bay and canal systems was our plan, but Trudeau's decision to keep the border closed is wise. I get it. With our infection rates, no one really wants Americans at the moment. Maybe it's time to pull out our Irish passports....

     I miss my family and my spacious back yard, where I could have people over, BYO-everything and sit over there please, safe and sound.

Meanwhile, I'll happily shelter in place here on the Great Lakes on Green Eyes, with Blue Eyes (Scott) and Yellow Eyes (Pika) as long as they continue to cuddle and push and pull me through the boat. And oh, the clouds! It's worth it to be here just for the clouds.

     I'd love to hear what you are up to this summer. How are you coping in the time of Covid?

Tris

Green Eyes

Lake Michigan

Next, Chapter 3: We almost send Pika home.

The Adventures of Green Eyes the Nordic Tug --Cruising in the Time of Covid

  Adventures of Green Eyes, Cruising in the time of Covid, Chapter 1

ZAP! I’m in the salon onboard our boat listening to Scott get zapped by the last of the five new batteries he installed today. “Oops. That’s the first time that’s happened today.” 

ZAP! “Ouch!” Now I smell singed human. 

“Okay. I’m done,” he says.

“Done as in cooked, or done as in the battery installation is complete.” 

“Yes.”

One week earlier….

Two dreamers and a cat set off from San Jose, California on June 1, 2020 for another adventure of a lifetime. Destination: Green Eyes, a 26’ Nordic Tug berthed in Traverse City Michigan. Were we crazy to buy a boat just before the Coronavirus invasion? Were we nuts not to call off our plans for a boating summer? Were we insane to bring a cat? A cat who dives under the hassock in terror at the sound of the garbage truck, a leaf blower, the coffee grinder… Why would we think she would thrill to the chugga chugga of a tug motor, noisy rigging of adjacent boats, or that she would not mind the sound of a coffee grinder, just because it’s on a boat? And, unlike our previous cat Tiger, who loved water and ran to any running hose, Pika dashes away from the sound of a trickle. I wished I had my camera handy when, after three days on board she summoned the courage to look out the porthole. The look on her face was OH MY GOD. I’M IN A TINY NOISY HOUSE IN THE WATER. And off she slunk.

But I’m getting ahead of myself because the five-day cross-country camping trip across America to get to the boat was no bowl of cherries. 

The decision to bring our beloved cat on a six-month boat adventure that was to be the first segment of America’s Great Loop, a 6000 mile circumnavigation of canals, rivers, lakes, and locks in the Eastern half of the U.S., and part of Canada, but with Covid keeping Canada’s border closed, the Erie Canal not opening for the same reason, the locks on the Illinois River closed for maintenance and a whole lotta marinas operating at zero or half capacity, the loop has become more like a cross stitch. Perhaps we will spend the season in The Great Lakes alone. Only Covid knows. But I digress. Back to the cat. The decision to bring her with us all started when we were on one of our morning Covid walks back home. We turned down a street we’d never walked on. I mean never. I was born and raised in the neighborhood we live in but I’d somehow missed this little street. 

“Hey look,” I said pointing to a sturdy carrier for a large dog that someone had put in the gutter. “It says FREE. I can’t believe it.”  It was large. Large enough to hold Pika’s porta pottie AND Pika’s scarlet colored bed. Pika’s bed is to Pika what Linus’ blanket is to Linus. I looked over at Scott and could see he was thinking the same thing. We each grabbed an end and carried it back to our house.

“Put her bed in it and let her get used to it,” Scott suggested.
“No way. This is going to be full immersion. On the morning we leave, I’ll put her in it. She’ll be fine.”

A week later…

 “I think I better sit in the back with Pika for a few hours,” I said as we looked at a sweet, but unhappy kitty inside the too-big-for-a-small-kitty-carrier. “Mew,” said Pika. “Oh brother.” said Scott as he rolled his eyes. 

I covered the carrier with a small throw blanket emblazoned with “Green Eyes”, a Christmas gift to Scott. “There. It’ll be better if she can’t see.” And it was. “It will be interesting to see what she does on her leash when we get to our first campsite tonight,” I said from the back seat. I had bought a total of three kitty harnesses. One for land lubber walks and two life vest type harnesses for on the boat. We didn’t want to lose Pika. 

The first time we lost her was in Wyoming.

Each night after setting up the tent we’d move Pika’s bed, litter box, and scratchy thing (the thing we call scratchy thing is a thingy that she sharpens her claws on. It’s shaped like an S and she loves it, almost as much as Linus loves his blanket) into the tent. Then we’d bring the cat in so that she could feel secure, and climb all over us all night. 

“Tris,” Scott said urgently while shaking me awake at 2A.M. “Pika wants to go out.”

“No.”

“She really wants to go out. I have her harness and leash on her. I have to take a pee so I’m going out anyway.”

“She doesn’t have to go out. This is not a good idea,” I mumbled, exhausted from three days of constant worrying about the cat. (“She isn’t eating... I think she’s dehydrated…. I’m sorry for putting you through this Pika,” I’d say for the hundredth time.)

“She really wants to though.”

“Oh my God. Put your hand through the leash and hang on to her. You know how feral she gets when it’s dark out.”

The next thing I am aware of is Scott walking slowly back and forth in front of the tent. He was barefooted. In fact, all of him was bare. “Pika, here Pika,” he called quietly and desperately. 

I rolled out of bed and onto the grass. “What happened? What did you do?!” 

“It was like she tried to trick me. Then the leash slipped out of my hand.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to take the cat with you for a pee?!” I was incensed. Panicked. Bad Mommy feelings coursed through my veins. It was very dark out. I heard her trying to claw her way up the 6’ fence that enclosed the campsite on three sides. 

So, there we were, two naked idiots calling, “Pika, here kitty. Heeeere Pika. Come for treats. Want some Fancy Feast?” in soft, non-threatening, pleading voices. Fancy Feast is something she cannot resist, but still she didn’t come. I began to circle the tent slowly for the third time while Scott stood helplessly by the picnic table, imagining, I’m sure, how this was not going to go well for him if Pika “ran away to the wild” as I knew he would try to explain it later. 

“Here Pika. Heeere Pika. Come kitty….” I spotted her. She was almost buried under the tent. “Good kitty!” She let me pick her up and carry her back into the tent. Neither of us spoke to daddy for the rest of the night. 

The second time we lost her was in Iowa. We took a lot of time picking out the prettiest campsite, one up against a forest thick with trees and ferns and creeping vines. 

“We should put her on her leash and let her roam around,” Scott suggested. “She’d like that.” It was an extremely humid day. Knowing how uncomfortable she would be in either the tent or the car and too tired for discussion I said, “Okay.” 

Scott was on his knees inside the tent laying out the thermarests. He had his Crocs on. You know, those shoes that have holes in them so that all your dignity has a place to get out. Pika’s leash was secured on a tent stake in the grass. Scott started to back out of the tent. “Careful, the cat’s right behind you,” I warned. But he kept coming and all Pika could see were two big Crocs coming at her. She became frantic.

Flaying wildly, she wriggled, backwards, out of her harness, only possible because of all the weight she had lost coming cross country. She made a mad dash for the forest and was gone.

We looked at each other. “She’s gone for good,” I said at the same time Scott said, “It wasn’t my fault.” But, fully clothed, he picked up her leash and headed into the brush calling for the cat. I melted into a chair and knew I would stay in that spot in Wyoming forever so that I could be there when, if ever, she came looking for Fancy Feast. I hoped to God it would not always be so hot and humid.

Scott reappeared. “I can’t find her.”

“Well!” I grabbed the treats and entered the forest shaking her treat bag. Is that poison oak? It looks like poison oak… “Pika, here Pika….” Shake shake shake. “Tree-eats!” I went deeper. Jumbles of logs scrapped my legs and thorns grabbed hold of my T-shirt. It was incredibly hot and humid. Like a steam bath. I could feel my face burning up. Or was that the tears. Man I felt shitty. Thirty minutes passed. “Here Peeks…”

“Mew.”

Did I just hear her? If you knew her you’d know she has the softest voice of any cat ever.

“Pika?”

“Mew,” she whispered.

I kept calling, she kept answering. I was getting closer and closer, hotter and hotter. There! Scrunched up like a pangolin in a tight ball. She was under a thick clump of bushes surrounded by fallen tree limbs.

I knew I had to be patient or she would bolt. I lowered into a squat and called, shaking her treat bag and calling over and over. Ten minutes passed before she stood, stretched, and came cautiously toward me then stopped. I kept calling her, slowly crab-walking closer. God, my knees hurt. Sweat poured down my face. “Come kitty. Good kitty…” Closer and closer. Almost close enough to touch her. But then she started to turn away! I lunged enough to grab her tail. “Sorry Peeks!” I picked her up and kissed her on the head about thirty times. 

The look on Scott’s face when I emerged from the brush was the look of a man reprieved from a death sentence. I’m exaggerating of course, but not.

“I honestly do not know how we got her back. Guardian Angels working overtime for sure.” 

We put her INSIDE her carrier on top of the picnic table. Scott, worried about how overheated I looked, went to the camp shop for ice and a wet towel for my neck.

That night, exhausted, we three fell into deep sleeps. Until the ranger came to wake us at midnight to say, “Big storm coming. Flash flooding, 60 mile per hours winds and hail the size of quarters expected.” “Okay. Thanks,” we mumbled. We slept through it.

Finally, we arrived to Michigan and boarded the boat. Gosh she’s pretty. We got all settled in, had dinner and went to bed; Pika in her red bed and Scott and I in our comfy cozy berth.

“Oh my gosh. I never slept so well. Except when those fisher guys came at 5A.M. and started up their loud boat engines across from us.” I yawned and stretched, noticing that Pika’s bed was empty. 

“Where’s the cat?” 

“Isn’t she in her bed?”

She wasn’t in her bed. She wasn’t in the galley or the salon or steering station either. “Ugh. The noise of that boat engine must have scared her.”

Two hours later…

“The entire boat is only about 150 square feet of living space, so she has to be somewhere,” Scott said after we’d searched the engine compartment, the anchor compartment, the bilge, the lazarette storage, (which is outside on the back deck so that really was a stretch)… We’d searched everywhere. You hear of cats getting trapped in small places, like inside walls and stuff. Visions of hiring someone to dismantle the boat stomped in our heads. Then Scott said, “No way she could have squeezed in there, but look in the water tank compartment.”

I shined my head torch into the cupboard that holds the cold water tank. “Mew.”

“Oh my God. Come out kitty.” And she did. I promptly stuffed a pillow in the small gap. 

Besides, “Here kitty” there were words. Scott may have said “It’s the cat or me.” But I’m sure he didn’t.

All is well. The new Garmin and batteries are installed. The bimini is waterproofed. Pika is familiar with the boat and getting more accustom every day to the sounds that echo around a marina. She doesn’t even dive under the blanket when we start the engine any more.  I laid in a HUGE supply of Fancy Feast for Peeks, and beer for Scott. Green Eyes (yes, Pika’s eyes are green too) and Blue Eyes are happy.

I promise, my next update will be less “Mew” and more “Hoist the anchor, full steam ahead, the Great Cross Stitch awaits!”

Toot-toot!