New Mission

Lush emerald mountains surrounded the natural harbor. As morning broke, it was time to leave. We weighed anchor. All hatches and ports were closed and dogged. All hands moved inside. The ship slowly moved toward the river mouth. The boson was alone on deck at the bow, standing by the anchor. The third mate was below decks in the stern at the emergency steering station. The Captain, Chief mate and I were on the bridge with one of the able bodied seamen at the helm, a pile of flack gear heaped to his left. The green mountains of the harbor gave way to the delta. Flat stretches of paddy in flooded fields. Men and women in coolie hats worked in the ankle deep water that harbored their precious crop. Pushing rice stalks into the mud, tilling with buffalo, totally disinterested in our transiting. We passed the first check point; one of the navy’s river patrol boats with two or three sailors visible onboard the small craft and a couple of machine guns. They crackled acknowledgment over the radio, the Captain responded into the mic. We waved from inside the confines of the closed bridge and passed on to the next point; a second boat. The instructions were strict and simple; run her aground if you get hit. Get out of the channel. After we had passed out of sight of the second check point, there was an explosion on the bank to starboard, fifty yards from our ship’s steel hull. Then there was another. Smoke and dirt flew into the air. We watched and passed safely by. Within minutes, a mile across the flat delta to our port, two jet fighters dived as missiles shot out from their bellies. There was more smoke and thunder as the missiles hit their target. The fighters circled once and were gone. The next check point came into view, another river patrol boat. There were no further incidents during our journey up the river to Saigon. It was Viet Nam. It was 1968. I was twenty.

As the C-130 spiraled downward avoiding the long gradually descending landing approaches we are so used to on commercial flights, my thoughts had reflected back to my last experience in a war zone. It was a long time ago. I was much younger; the war strikingly similar. Within minutes the big, old, but dependable plane floated down to near ground level. Its tires kissed the concrete with a small squeal, then rolled down the runway at BIAP, Baghdad International Airport. But we were not headed to the modern looking terminal building. Instead, the steel gray plane lumbered to a piece of tarmac a short walk from a dust covered white fabric tent. Chain link and razor wire encircled everything in sight. And everything was covered in a layer of fine brown sand. It is like that in Iraq. Soldiers were everywhere, “M” class weapons in hand or slung by a strap over their shoulder, and pistols strapped to their legs like misplaced cowboys on an unworldly plain. It is like that in Iraq. We moved single file into the stark tent for check-in. Soldiers were barking instructions. It was an unceremonious arrival. We took seats on long benches as our paperwork was checked. The soldiers were young; young men and young women. I wondered if, while visiting my last war, I could have been as young as those fair faced boys in sand-brown camo, armed, trained, and dangerous, and in danger. Wars should be fought by old men like myself; men who cherish life and cling to it with desperation; not the fearless youth who cannot yet see over the hill where death lurks. There would be far less shooting; far less killing; far less destruction.

Our luggage was piled on pallets under a canopy covered with dust. We retrieved it and looked for our transportation. Within a few minutes Rhonda greeted us and showed us our rooms for the night. As with all housing for coalition personnel in Iraq, the rooms were prefabricated housing containers – CHUs, containerized housing units. These had their own bathrooms. Wet hooches, they are called. The personal security detail (PSD) would move us the next day at a time undetermined or undisclosed. After a dinner at a dining facility (DFAC) some distance away, we settled in for the night. I lay there wondering if the two weeks in Washington had prepared me for all of this.

Sharon and I had made the trip to Washington and back to Mississippi, Johnny Dred and the boat. It had taken us three full days, two traveling and one in Washington interviewing and seeing some of the sites. The Mall is a short walk from Main State, the main office building for the State Department where I had my interview. We visited the Viet Nam War Memorial. I found the names of former friends memorialized on the sleek black wall. I have lived a full life since they died. Nothing more need be said. What has been done is now done. We cannot change it; only learn the lessons. Every President should be required to walk the length of that wall before committing any troops anywhere.

For a week, Johnny and I had motored our little craft across two states; from north to south across Kentucky and then Tennessee and over the border into northern Mississippi. The trip was more serene than we had experienced earlier. The barge traffic was lighter; the scenery beautiful. Our first stop was at a place called Cuba Landing. The cottonmouth swimming away from the boat as we entered the marina’s basin was a harbinger of things to come. A shaggy haired, bleach blonde teen in sagging jeans named Cody met us at the dock and helped us fuel and tie off. His grandmother ran the marina store, his father was the mechanic. The restaurant was closed for remodeling, but we were able to borrow a pot from it suitable to make spaghetti for our dinner. Johnny strummed his guitar on the dock as I prepared dinner. Within moments Mark and his girlfriend came by to enjoy the music. Mark was a retired auto worker from Flint, Michigan, his girlfriend a local. He had a boat on the dock next to where we were tied. Mark lamented that he had left his guitar at home for the first time in a long time. He and Johnny sang and strummed until dinner was ready. This was the high point of our visit. The restrooms and showers were nothing less than filthy. At dawn we gladly departed.

It was an early start from Camp Klecker near BIAP. We were taken to breakfast at the DFAC and then to where our equipment was issued; pants, shirts, tee shirts, turtle necks, jacket, coat, boots, flashlight, multi-tool, sleeping bag, and of most importance, helmet and body armor. We were rushed, the PSD was waiting. We donned our helmets and body armor and loaded our luggage. As is routine, we received a quick briefing. Our guardians were young skilled private contractors, armed and ready. Michael, Khalid and I took seats in our vehicle. Moving people through the red zone areas of Iraq is a complex multi-vehicle undertaking. Lights and sirens are often used. Highways and streets are cleared of vehicles by waiving, armed guards. The vehicles move quickly. They maneuver as needed; they will shoot if their requests are not met; it is all about the safety of the principals; it is all about us. I sat conflicted by the offensiveness of the process to the locals and the need to get me to my destination safely. We whizzed down the highway, Route Irish. Cars pulled off to the side of the road. Pedestrians watched as our caravan sped past. The landscape was stark and sandy. It then turned into city. Our situational awareness training had us watching windows, people on the street, overpasses and parked cars. Our guardians were doing the same. As we passed the first checkpoint of the Green Zone, the International Zone or IZ as it is referred; there was a noticeable easing of the tension that had been so stifling in the vehicle during the twenty minute ride. The young man riding “shotgun” lowered his weapon and released the chin strap of his helmet. He relaxed and turned to tell us we were in the Green Zone. We were met at the bus stop just outside the Embassy compound by Wilson and Pat. My new Mission had officially begun.

Until Next Connection,
Dan

Traveling the Rivers III.

III

Bad start, The big river, The Missouri joins, The canal, St. Louis from the river, Hoppies, Kimmswick, Missouri, More nice people, The wing dams or weir dams, New friends, The Kaskaskia River lock, Kidd’s Fuel Dock in Cape Girardeau, Anchorage, The Ohio – farewell to the Mississippi, Another anchorage with friends, The Cumberland, Nighttime at the Barkley Lock, Rescued, Reunion with friends, meeting more friends, Johnny Dred arrives and Sharon leaves.

We left Grafton Harbor early on Monday. The buoys at the juncture of the Illinois and Mississippi are a bit confusing to a novice river traveler. I ran aground. As I returned to the dock to get local knowledge, I watched a tow coming off the Mississippi and noted how he got there. I had been out of the channel clearly. The boy at the fuel dock confirmed the proper path and we were finally off and onto the Mississippi.

The river was big and was noticeably running faster than the Illinois, but it was not that intimidating. We passed Alton and some of our old haunts – the Alton Belle. It wasn’t long before we were directed off the main river and into a canal. We had passed over the canal many times on our trips to St. Louis. The canal has two locks; the last two locks on the Mississippi. Just above the entrance to the canal, the Missouri enters the Mississippi. The books advised of turbulence and we were not disappointed. The river suddenly began to churn and twist into whirlpools and pull my little craft this way and that. It was fortunately short lived as we veered off a curve in the big river into the canal.

The canal was mostly uneventful and with little scenery of note. It rejoins the river just north of St. Louis. It churned and rippled and swirled as we entered. The barge traffic in St. Louis contributed to the turmoil in the water. Within minutes we were passing the city and its renowned shining arch. As I fought the water in our little boat – pushing the tiller away then pulling it back – to keep us going straight down the channel of the river, Sharon snapped pictures of her old home and its landmarks. The view of the city from the water was magnificent even though the water challenged our vessel.

As we left the city’s waterfront, the water calmed slightly and I became more used to navigating in it. Our next stop was the legendary Hoppies. Carried by the swift current, we arrived an hour or so earlier than we had expected. There were several boats tied to a rough looking long dock on the right riverbank. People were on the dock and saw that we were coming to tie off. It was impossible to approach the dock from the north, I had to go past and turn into the swift current to be able to bring the boat alongside within range of waiting hands. Lines were tossed and, in spite of the rushing gurgling current, we docked. The several houseboats on the bank-side of the dock appeared to be permanent residents. The blue hulled Mainship Trawler named Lucky Dogz seemed to be a transient boater like ourselves.

Hoppie’s wife was one of our dock hands and greeted us warmly. A large woman with a handful of teeth scattered across her smile, she and her daughter invited us to sit on the old couches under the roof covering the part of the dock were the gas pumps and soda machine were. I asked her about the whirlpools and she said she would tell me all about them and that we hadn’t seen the worst of them yet. She said she would give us the information on the river we were told we would get from Hoppies. We bought sodas and I retrieved my river charts from the boat.
She started with the wing dams or weir dams as she called them. They are underwater dams built by the Army Corps of Engineers out of rock to prevent sediment from accumulating on the curves in the river. They are built 45 degrees to the channel flow. The result is that they swirl the water into whirlpools and literally drill holes – seventy to one hundred feet deep. The whirlpools have reputedly taken pleasure boats and turned them three or four times before the skippers could get them through the whirlpool. We also heard stories about tows being torn apart by the whirlpools and barges sent in all directions. Hoppie’s wife showed me two places where they are particularly strong. I marked them. She said to call ahead to make sure there were no tows in the curves before I entered. “You will have enough trouble; you don’t want to be in there with a tow.” I was made duly apprehensive. “Follow the red Buoy line,” she admonished, “the effect is less on the shore side.”

There was more. She then told us that there would be no services until we reached Kentucky Lake, over two hundred miles and three rivers away. There could be fuel in Cape Girardeau, one hundred miles down the river, if we were able to stop at a dock operated by the city at a public landing and walk to a gas station. The only other fuel in that city was from Kidd’s Fuel Dock, but he has a fifty gallon minimum. We could not carry that much fuel. But in any event, we should try to top off fuel in Cape Girardeau if possible.

Finally she showed me several good anchorages along the way. The Kaskaskia River Lock wall, the Little River Diversion Channel south of Cape Girardeau, the I-57 bridge seven miles north of the Ohio River juncture and some possibilities in Paducah, Kentucky and at the entrance to the Cumberland River off the Ohio. She gave us a synopsis of what to expect south from the Ohio all the way to Mobile Bay, where her information stopped. We first heard of Bobby’s Fish Camp in Alabama, the last place to get fuel before Mobile.

We filled our six gallon gas tank and the two six gallon Gerry cans I already had onboard. We purchased two five gallon Gerry cans from Hoppie and filled those. We could make it all the way to Kentucky Lake with this much fuel if necessary. I would try to refuel in Cape Girardeau. Meanwhile, Hoppies had a bathroom but no shower. We would make do. Evening was rapidly falling; we made dinner and slept.

We needed supplies. In the morning we trekked up the steep boat ramp and across Hoppies yard overlooking the river and headed down the drive toward town. We passed a horse ranch for troubled youth from St. Louis and crossed the railroad track. The driver of a pick-up truck gave us the direction to town and after walking a half mile we were in the quaint little town of Kimmswick. We were looking for the grocery and the breakfast place that Hoppies wife told us about. We came to the post office, a well preserved artifact of post offices past with brass post office boxes and barred transaction windows. Inside there were several women talking to the postal clerk. They recognized us as strangers and offered help. We told them we were off the river and looking for a grocery and the restaurant. After several hand gestured directions, one of the women offered to take us to the restaurant which was near her shop. Kimmswick is a tourist town thirty minutes from St. Louis. The woman told us that the grocery was in the next town another mile down the road. We offered that we were on foot. She told us her daughter worked the information booth and it didn’t open for another half hour or so and she could take us to the store. Indeed she did. She, like everyone we have ever met, had her own story; college graduate working overseas, married, lived in the United Kingdom (England) now returned home half way between separation and divorce. We bought the things we needed, including an extra ice chest which I would use to store extra ice, and returned to the woman’s shop. She let us use her refrigerator for our cold thinks while we went across the street to the breakfast place.

After eating a nice breakfast and purchasing a little something from the kind woman, we returned to the boat to prepare for a late departure. As I packed the ice chest with new ice and the groceries, I asked Sharon where the chicken was. She said she had brought it. It wasn’t there. Sharon trudged back up the hill and into town while I finalized preparations to leave.
The trawler Lucky Dogz was preparing to leave. I assisted. Little did I know that I would see this trawler again and again along our trip. Sharon finally returned. She had a story to tell. Returning to the woman’s store she learned that the chicken was not left in the refrigerator. The woman called the store. They acknowledged that they had the chicken and had called Hoppies. With no other means of getting to the store and the woman’s daughter now at work, the woman gave Sharon her car keys and told her to drive back the store to get the chicken. Again I was amazed at the kindness of the people we met.

It was a bit of a trick reentering the swift Mississippi current, but once off we again proceeded south. In Grafton I had received an e-mail from a prospective employer. They wanted a telephone interview. I told them I was on a river trip, sure that they would not fully understand all that such a trip entailed, and we set a date for the interview. I was fairly certain that the sporadic celphone service I had experienced would not exist in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. I projected our travel out a few days to conduct the call on our arrival in Cape Girardeau.

Within a few hours we began entering a series of curves in the river. One was the first of the dreaded locations that Hoppie’s wife had warned about. I radioed ahead. Receiving no response, I kept moving into the curve. I could see the water begin to churn. I moved to port to follow the red buoys as Hoppie’s wife had advised. It did not take long before the big whirlpools began to pull my little ship. I held the tiller firmly and pulled hard. She maintained course. On the far side of the giant eddy the boat pulled in the opposite direction, I now pushed hard to keep her from turning. The water churned and rolled and at times looked like we were in rapids. We repeated the procedure several more times through several more of these phenomenal vortexes before we were finally in less turbulent waters. Through it all we managed not to get spun around.

We were making better time on the Mississippi than on the Illinois and fifty miles ticked off quickly. At a reasonable time in the early evening, in spite of our late departure, we were at the mouth of the Kaskaskia River mouth. Just up the river less than a quarter mile was the lock and dam. I radioed the lock master from the Mississippi to confirm that he would allow us to tie off for the night. As we approached the lock to maneuver to the wall, we saw the blued hulled trawler Lucky Dogz already tied there. Ben returned my favor from the morning and helped us tie off. We met both Ben and his wife Jean from Fort Myers, Florida at this stop. They had made the great circle Loop and were on the final leg back to Florida. They had spent five months working their way up the East Coast and across New York and Ontario, Canada through the intra-coastal waterway, canals and finally through the Great Lakes and down the Illinois as I had come.

Just as Hoppie’s wife had said, the Kaskaskia was a fine place to stop, well off the Mississippi on a much smaller less traveled river. It was quiet and we enjoyed a nice dinner and sound sleep. Next morning we were off. Cape Girardeau would be our next stop. By early afternoon we approached the historic river town. I compared the charts that had not been updated for several years to what existed on the shore. The dock Hoppie told us about was not there. As we passed thinking we missed it we spotted the small fifty foot Kidd’s Fuel Dock. Ben, Jean and the blue trawler Lucky Dogz were tied there fueling. They could easily hold the minimum fifty gallons. With the swift current, I felt it was too risky to try to dock at the short dock already occupied by the thirty-seven foot Luck Dogz. I knew that we were past the landing where the dock was supposed to be. We headed back upstream to the landing. It was clear that the dock had been removed. After trying to hail some young men on jet skis to get more information and otherwise circling in front of the landing we decided to go to Kidd’s. When we got back Lucky Dogz had already left. No one was there. We tied off. There was a number on the sign. I called on my mobile phone and got the man who had just fueled Lucky Dogz. He said that he could not return for ten or so gallons of fuel. I told him we were taking on water and needed to stay there to address that problem. I exaggerated our small water issue. He agreed to let us stay there.

We surveyed the situation. The dock was connected to a walkway that ran across the base of a fifteen foot flood wall. The ramp from the dock to the walkway was another twenty feet steeply uphill. To prevent unwanted visitors there was an iron barred gate with side wings part way up the metal grid ramp. My only choice to refuel here was to climb over the gate with my Gerry jugs. One of the six gallon jugs was empty the other nearly so. The others were full. I climbed over the gate and had Sharon attach a rope to the jugs. So I could pull them over. Then I walked to the walkway and down to an opening in the floodwall that entered into the town. I walked another five or so blocks to the gas station. At the gas station I debated purchasing at least one bag of ice to replenish our rapidly diminishing supply. It was clearly out of the question. It would be too much to carry. After filling the jugs, now weighing nearly fifty pounds each, I headed back to the boat. When I was over half way back, a young man stopped in his beat up old car and asked if I needed a ride. I accepted. I put the jugs in the back seat and climbed in the front. The glove box door lay open providing a makeshift table for the man’s ashtray. Dust was everywhere and it reeked of cigarette smoke. I appreciated the ride nonetheless. He said, “If I was carrying those jugs I would want somebody to give me a ride.” I couldn’t help but reflect on all the much newer vehicles that had simply passed me by. I supposed that he was more likely than they to have been in my position before. To be sure kindness is classless.

My trip was not over after leaving the car. I lugged the jugs back down the walk way and ramp to the gate. Again using the rope, and standing half way up the gate I passed the jugs over and lowered them until Sharon could catch them. Most importantly, we had topped off our fuel. This was not a place to stay the night. We left for the anchorage just south of the city that Hoppie’s wife had told us about. It was in the Diversion River off the main channel of the Mississippi. As we carefully entered we saw Lucky Dogz anchored at the base of the railroad bridge a quarter mile up the small river. We stopped a hundred yards off the Mississippi still in fifteen feet of water. Moving to the north bank we dropped our hooks. Checking, I had celphone coverage. As night fell we could hear the traffic on I-55 some distance away. It was otherwise a serene location.

In the morning we sponge bathed and ate breakfast. I waited for my call. The interview took about an hour. It seemed a bit strange to be in a quiet anchorage off the Mississippi River surrounded by nature and talking to a group of people in Washington DC no doubt stressed as they sat around a table. Lucky Dogz passed mid-interview. I waved as they headed back onto the big river. We followed an hour later. The interview had gone well, the woman in charge had indicated that she may want to talk to me further in Washington D.C. I explained my situation to her, that I was traveling the rivers and was often in remote areas, and that I might not be in phone or e-mail contact for a few days. We agreed that I would contact her for details when I got to Green Turtle Bay in Barkley Lake in Kentucky.

By two in the afternoon we were at the I-57 bridge. It did not look like a very appealing anchorage. We would be in the Mississippi in a spot near the bridge where some jetties partially blocked the swift current. The spot was only seven miles from where the Ohio emptied into the Mississippi. I was looking forward to leaving Old Man River behind. The fast running water, gurgling and rippling as it rolled over itself in a rush to reach the Big Easy and the Gulf. The tension as we sliced through the swirling pools that threatened to capture us in their centrifugal grasp. All of it I was anxious to leave behind; food for future stories; a tick on my list of life. We decided that we would continue to the Ohio.

As we entered into the broad mouth of the Ohio, I breathed a sigh of relief. The barge traffic in and around Cairo, Illinois was heavy and Sharon didn’t like it. We were going up stream, against the current, but it only slowed us by two knots. I was just glad to be off the Mississippi. It was mid afternoon and there was no place to stop until possibly Paducah, Kentucky, if Hoppy’s wife was accurate. It would be well after dark in the best case when we would reach there. We would need to find something in between.

It wasn’t long before we left the bustling river traffic of Cairo and were in more remote areas again. There were still many barges plying the waters. Soon the large Olmsted Lock construction site came into view. This new lock and dam would replace locks 52 and 53 which we would soon transit. Radio traffic indicated that Lock 53 was down for repairs and barges were backed up. Fortunately when we finally arrived, the smaller of the two chambers at the lock was open. Barges were beached against the bank for several miles downstream of the lock. We radioed and were told we could lock through the smaller chamber. There was a relatively short wait. We talked with some captains about possible anchorages. Dusk would find us quickly after we exited the lock. One possible anchorage we were told about was an hour or so upstream above the lock. We could make it by dark. As we proceeded upstream from the lock, about two miles, we noticed the blue hulled trawler Lucky Dogz anchored between the narrow channel and the river bank. We decided that two anchored vessels were more visible than one and pulled a hundred yards behind our friends. Dropping both bow and stern anchors we settled in for the evening.

We were three days from Hoppy’s where we last purchased ice. We were out. The main ice chest was still cold with a few stray cubes in the still cold water, but all drinks were now warm. We made dinner. While dinner cooked the neighbors were taking their dog for a walk on the beach. They stopped by in their dinghy and we chatted a bit. I offered a warm beer; Ben said he had plenty of his own warm beer, thanks. They were out of ice as well. Ben and Jean had the luxury of refrigeration for their food, however. We learned that Lucky Dogz had experienced engine problems and was running on only one of her twin diesels.

For me it was a restless night. Every time a barge went by I was up checking the anchors. When the wind shifted the boat, I checked the anchors. I had only intermittent sleep. The anchors held like glue and we awoke in the same place we had been the evening before.

After a breakfast of cereal, and coffee we weighed anchor and began the long day’s journey that would end in Barkley Lake. We were at lock 52 within a short time. Lucky Dogz, who had left before us, and one other boat were waiting to lock through. We had arrived in near perfect time. Within ten minutes we were locking through and were off upstream to the Cumberland River. The Tennessee River enters the Ohio at Paducah. We were advised that the Cumberland route, several miles up the Ohio from Paducah would be a better fit for pleasure craft. The Tennessee becomes Kentucky Lake at the damn some thirty miles upstream. Barkley Lake and Kentucky Lake are a mere mile apart at the dams. We passed Paducah and Metropolis Illinois. The Ohio finally became a bit more serene. We watched as Lucky Dogz, making about a knot more speed than us, gradually faded into the distance.

Soon we were at the juncture of the Cumberland River. We were still making good time and could make Green Turtle Bay Marina by evening. The Cumberland was a much smaller river. We were still moving up stream but the river ran slowly and we could make six knots. The Cumberland was quiet with forest on the banks, few tows and few towns. Within a few hours we were at the base of the Barkley Lock and Dam. We radioed the lock master. We were advised that a tow was locking down and one was waiting to lock down. We faced a possible wait of several hours. We had an hour or so before dusk. Since the marina was a very short distance from the lock, I was not overly concerned about traveling in darkness.

The lock master came back and advised us that if we slipped quickly into the lock as soon as the tow cleared it, we could lock up before the next tug entered to lock down. It seemed forever before the tow cleared the lock. It was dark and overcast. There was no moon, only lights from the lock. As we entered the lock it began to sprinkle. This was one of the larger locks we had transited; we would raise up fifty-seven feet to Barkley Lake behind the dam. The sprinkle turned into a full rain by the time the large doors opened. At the outside of the chamber, waiting to enter was the tow we were told about. The captain, for reasons unknown to me, shown his spot light directly into my face. With rain and the blinding light I could not see anything at all. From my charts, I knew that directly to my right there was a bay. I maneuvered to starboard as I left the lock to escape the blinding light and get to a point where I could better determine where I was in relation to the marina. The shoreline was as black as the rest of the night. The rain became a downpour. I slowed but still hit something beneath me. I moved further into the bay. There were some boats anchored. I tried without success to identify landforms that I could find on my wet chart.

After several agonizing minutes, maybe ten or fifteen, the rain finally stopped. The night was still dark black. Lights were visible, but the shoreline features were still obscured in the darkness. I worked my way out of the bay following the shoreline as best I could, traveling at a very slow rate in an attempt to find the marina. We were tired, now wet, we hadn’t showered since we left Grafton Illinois six days earlier we were out of ice and all we wanted was to tie to a secure dock in the five anchor marina. I was using my spot light to follow the shoreline. Soon we came on a boat coming in our direction. I shined my spot on it. It shined back. I kept this up until they realized that I was trying to get their attention. They slowed. As we neared within hailing distance, I called for help. They pulled alongside. I told them I was looking for the Green Turtle Bay Marina. They were staying at the marina and agreed to lead us to it. We followed back into the bay I had come out of minutes earlier. We went deep in to the back of the bay and turned to port and entered a cove where there were many floating docks. They were very shabby looking; not what we expected from a marina rated as a five anchor facility; the equivalent of a five star hotel, but it was a dock and we tied to it. We walked to the facilities looking for an open restroom. It was ten at night now.

The young people who had led us to the marina were at the top of the bank near some dry storage racks. They asked if we were ok. Soon a security guard came by in a truck. He showed us where we could shower. After we showed he returned to take us back to our boat. On the trip back he showed us the rest of the marina. We had actually docked in an area that was used by people who trailered boats to the facility and stayed in condominiums. The part of the marina where we should have docked was in fact a very nice facility. We returned to the boat for a good sleep.

Next morning I moved the boat to the proper marina. Ben from Salty Dogz was walking his dog. We greeted each other. They were waiting for a factory representative for their engine problems as well as some other less serious problems. They would be there several days. It was a beautiful setting and a great facility. We were tired from several long days traveling on the boat with no showers and, at the end, no ice. We would rest here for several days and wait for Johnny Dred to come. During the telephone interview back in Cape Girardeau, the woman had said that she wanted me to come to Washington for a live interview. This was the first time since we left Grafton, Illinois that we had internet. I had a lot of e-mail to catch up on and I needed to make arrangements for a trip to Washington. After a bit of checking and calling back and forth we decided that Sharon would leave for Key West as soon as Johnny arrived. Johnny and I would continue on to a place called Aqua Yacht Harbor in Iuka, Mississippi where Sharon would meet us and we would drive to Washington D.C. for the interview. Johnny would watch the boat. The whole trip would take us three days. Then Johnny and I would proceed on to Mobile Bay and finally, Florida. I e-mailed back to Chicago to have my backordered charts delivered to Aqua Yacht Harbor. I also purchased charts for Florida.

I used the time at Green Turtle Bay to make a few small repairs on the boat, charge my battery and to discuss my water problem with the mechanic there. A sailboater himself, he convinced me that, weighing the severity of the leak against the cost of hauling the boat and the likelihood of actually locating the source, it was best to let it be.

We visited the little town dominated by tourist shops and restaurants. We made friends among the other boaters who, like us, were traveling through at varying paces. This was a floating vagabond community of retirees, adventurers and drifters. Some, here most, very wealthy; but all with that wandering spirit that moves people from where they are to somewhere they have never been and from there on to yet another place. We certainly qualified, having spent the last four or five years wandering the earth looking for nothing in particular, other than another place we had not yet seen, to meet people we had never before known. Wanderlust is a drug so addictive that it condemns those who have partaken too much to a life of searching and seeking and constantly looking, at the next mountain wondering what is on the other side; at the next ocean yearning to cross it, at the next river waiting, as we were, to travel its course. Whenever the car door closes, or the plane begins its taxi down the runway, or when the lines are cast off and the boat moves away from the dock, there is a rush of adrenaline and feeling of exhilaration that cannot be equaled. God I love it.

Until Next Connection,
Dan

Off alone, Ottawa, Henry, Pekin Boat Club, A leak, Stop in Havana, The first anchorage, Mel’s Yellow Dock and Illinois River Restaurant, Grafton, Parr

II.

Off alone, Ottawa, Henry, Pekin Boat Club, A leak, Stop in Havana, The first anchorage, Mel’s Yellow Dock and Illinois River Restaurant, Grafton, Parrothead party, Johnny and Sharon arrive.

Dear Friends and Family;

I awoke early for having gone to bed at five A.M but I was at the fuel dock and I wanted to get a proper slip for the night. It was Sunday and I would rest and leave on Monday morning. Beau had been good company and a good mate to have aboard. We had fun and he was indispensible in some pretty tight situations. I am thankful that I have been able to spend time with each of my three sons from time to time. They are good sons and fine young men.

I spent the day doing little. I worked on the motor a bit cleaning the spark plugs; this would become my ritual; fearing being caught on the river with half power or worse yet, no motor at all. I chatted with a fellow who had a sailboat he was working on. He planned to take it to Lake Michigan. Interestingly, he purchased the boat in Wisconsin and had it trucked to Wilmington, Illinois to the marina where it now sat.

Monday morning I started out at a leisurely time after having made sure I had cold water, a sandwich, all the other items I would need easily accessible in the cockpit. I would not be able to go below to retrieve things I may have forgotten. I had the charts, maps, binoculars, rain gear, cooler with drinks and food. Things like paper towels and handy wipes I kept inside within easy reach. I had the radio on to channel 16 and the mic hung outside in the cockpit. With my tarp, all would withstand sun and mild showers.

The Illinois gets prettier the further south you go. Always, however, there are a few heavy industrial sites; chemical plants, petroleum distribution sites, cement, aggregate, sand and gravel, and the like. That is the economic force that keeps the rivers open and the locks functioning. When I came to the first lock of the day I had to wait for one tow to be locked up before I could be locked down. I was directed to a place on the dam wall next to a spillway. It was secure enough, but it was a bit disconcerting to look over the wall and see the spillway pouring water to the river twenty feet below. This would be the first lock I would negotiate alone; I was happily surprised to find that I was the only boat there. The lock workers were helpful and friendly. This would only be a twenty some foot drop, less that the near forty foot drops Beau and I had experienced earlier. By standing amidships, I could hold both the bow and stern lines that were dropped to me. I slipped one under the bow cleat and one under a stern cleat. I had to add an extension to one but overall, the process worked quite well. Locking through was otherwise uneventful. When the doors opened, I was off.

I locked through the twenty-four foot drop at the Marseilles Lock in a short time. This was the first lock where there was no wait. In a way, it seemed a lot of engineering for one man and his little sailboat, but the system works for all vessels. Priority is given to commercial traffic, of course, but pleasure craft are afforded the same rights, and on the Illinois, the same courtesy as all others. It was late afternoon as I motored out of the lock and I was an hour from my night stop.

I had decided to stay at the Ottawa courtesy dock. It seems the city of Ottawa, Illinois had created a beautiful river walk that included a courtesy dock on the Fox river immediately off the Illinois. There was no electricity and no showers but also no fee. And a very nice dock an easy walk to town. I secured the ship and walked to the local library to use the Internet before it closed. This was the first time that I put my hatch boards in and locked everything before leaving. The Group in the gazebo seemed harmless enough with their bottles and slurred greeting, but I felt precaution was best.

As I crossed through the park, I learned that Ottawa, Illinois was the site of the first Lincoln-Douglas debate. The statues of both men on pedestals in the little park were ample evidence of the pride this community felt.

The library was open, the staff friendly and the Internet adequate for my needs – e-mail. The librarian directed me to a restaurant where I ate. I asked the bartender about the depth of the water at the mouth of the Fox River. I told her that I had dragged my rudder through mud on the way in. She told me that she and her husband were boaters and she would call him to ask him about the situation. Within a half hour, when she had a few extra minutes, she had her husband on her cell phone. He advised me that I had just cut the corner too hard and if I stayed close to the dock on the way out, I would have no problems. I was just beginning to learn that there are a lot of very nice people along the rivers of America. Every town and every landing has them. And in reality, I know they are everywhere. My faith in humanity was already being renewed.

Next morning, I made coffee on my grill in the park. A young man fished nearby with little success. Before I awoke he had tangled a hook in the netting on my life line. I retrieved it for him. On my way to town I asked a mail man where an auto parts store was. He got out of his trick to gesture and point the way to two stores. I went looking for new spark plugs, still concerned with my problem. At the auto parts store I talked with two of the fellows who worked there and they had several ideas, but one decided to call a man they knew who worked on outboard motors. He handed me his cell phone. I talked with someone whose name I do not know and whom I have never met. He gave me some advice that I believe may have fixed my problem. He said that either there was too much oil in the crankcase which would cause it to blow through and foul the plugs, or the engine was burning too rich, causing it to put gasoline into the oil. He also told me to use a heavier weight oil. I purchased a siphon, a can of oil and two plugs from the store. Back at the boat, I checked the oil and discovered that it was in fact overfilled. I siphoned it down to a point where I could add about a half liter of oil and changed the plugs again. I hauled gasoline from the station a few blocks from the waterfront and by 1:45 P.M. local time, I was on the river again.

The lock at Starved Rock was again no wait and by dusk I was entering the marina in Henry, Illinois. I entered through an old lock made of cut granite blocks and I tied off at a rickety dock that seemed to be for transients. At the restaurant my suspicions were confirmed and I was able to eat a nice meal before retiring. In Henry, I did laundry and bought a few things at the grocery. It was a rainy morning and I was not too in too big a hurry to get back on the river, but by the time I finished my chores, the rain had stopped and I was soon making my way downstream.

I passed the riverfront in Peoria, Illinois. As with many of the towns and cities along the rivers, Peoria has revitalized its riverfront with bricked walks and retaining walls, restaurants in old warehouses and the like. There are docks for three hour usage mainly for riverfront events and to allow boaters to stop for a meal. I passed on, working my way down the river. I locked through the Peoria Lock quickly.

As the day wore on I came to my evening destination, the Pekin Boat Club in Pekin, Illinois. I tied at the fuel dock which was on the river and climbed the stairway to the top of the bluff where the boat club’s clubhouse stood on concrete pillars. I climbed the stairs to the deck. A fellow named Steve greeted me and asked if I needed fuel. I told him I needed fuel and a place to stay for the night. He immediately went about helping me. It was later I learned that he was not in charge of anything, just a member helping out. We filled my tank and Gerry jug that I had partially emptied and walked to the other side of the grounds that contained an RV park for members to a bay off the river where the members docked their boats. The dockage was very shallow and I used a stick to measure the depth of each spot he showed me. Very near the mouth of the little bay I found enough water to allow me to dock. Steve climbed the steel wall twenty feet to check if there was electricity for me above where the RVs were parked. There was. I moved the boat around with Steve’s help and plugged in my electric cord. Finally I went to the clubhouse for a beer and something to eat.

On the way, Stan stopped me. Stan is the caretaker of the club site. He told me that Steve told him that he should take me to town if I needed anything. I had asked Steve where town was and was told it was a mile or so walk. I took Stan up on his offer to look for the exact brand of spark plug I needed for my engine. I was still nervous about my power source. We repeated the trip in the morning with more success.

Finally, after Stan and I got back, I made it to the clubhouse for a beer. The bartender heated pizza in an oven for a meal. All the members were warm and friendly. I asked someone who was in charge how much I owed for the slip. “We don’t do that.” I was told almost sternly. “You are a river traveler.” I thanked him and his wife asked me to have a drink for her at Irish Kevin’s when I reached Key West; it is her favorite place in Key West. I promised her I would.

The members told me that there was very little after Pekin as far as places to fuel and marinas to stay. I should stop at Havana and refuel and ask Bob about anchorages. Havana was the last fuel stop before Grafton; over a hundred miles down the river. Bob knew the river as it went south. ” Tell Bob you were referred by the Pekin Boat Club. He knows us.”

Next morning I awoke to water puddled on the deck in the main cabin. It had rained in the night, but this was coming from below. I had a leak somewhere. With sponge and pan I got the water out. The water did not seem to be coming in at any alarming rate, so I finished my business; a trip to town with Stan, a shower at the club’s shower room and breakfast. The situation was frustrating but without urgency, and with nowhere to go to fix it I packed and got back on the river.

As civilization thins, the Illinois becomes more beautiful. It rolls along through farmland and woods and spreads into large lakes, sometimes the river is enclosed in levies; sometimes it just spreads itself over hundreds of acres of wide shallow lake, necessitating careful marking of the channel and similar navigation. The wildlife on the Illinois is abundant, bald eagles, turkey vultures, wild turkeys, hundreds of herons both blue and white, deer, and of course, fish popping across the surface. It rolled slowly along and was a pleasant trip.

Midway through the afternoon I came to Havana where I fueled and talked to Bob. Bob, either out of politeness or truth, admitted knowing the people at Pekin Boat Club. In either event, he was able to show me a good anchorage an hour or two further down the river. This would be my first anchorage of the trip. Wes and Mike at Wolf’s Marine in Benton Harbor had equipped me with a suitable plow type anchor with chain and rode. I would use my old Danforth as a second anchor to prevent swinging in the river setting.

I crept carefully up into the slough that Bob had shown me on the chart. Indeed there appeared to be plenty of water and I could get well out of the channel, off the river and away from the path of any tugs and tows that would be passing in the night. I chugged slowly forward; then, putting the motor into neutral, I scrambled forward to drop my bow anchor. Once it was over, I gauged the water depth and let out an appropriate amount of rode. Moving back to the cockpit, I reversed the engine and backed off before I set the stern anchor, my old Danforth. All in all it was a very successful exercise. I was pleased; and the anchorage was as pleasant a place as one could ask for. Nature surrounded me and the sounds at night were a delight. After a good dinner, I retired early and slept very well.

Next morning I had early coffee and cereal and weighed anchor to reach the Yellow Dock, home of Mel’s Illinois River and Restaurant. Seventy miles from my location and ten hours of traveling at my cruising speed. At Mel’s I could spend the night tied to the Yellow Dock and, being at mile twenty-one, make a short day Saturday to arrive early in Grafton, Illinois where the Illinois meets the Mississippi and I would meet Sharon and Johnny Dred.

I had a two hour wait at the first lock I came to, but still managed to get to the Yellow Dock by dusk; around eight central time. The Yellow Dock is exactly that, a long yellow dock that Mel mainains below his restaurant. He charges to spend the night and is more than willing to serve travelers at his restaurant. He has no showers and no fuel. My two gerry jugs plus my tank were sufficient to get me to Grafton Yacht Harbor.

The restaurant was busy; it was Friday night. Most diners in that part of the world eat early and my after eight o’clock arrival found most people finishing their meals and leaving, and an overworked buffet. When I told the hostess that I was on the river and needed to spend the night, she immediately got Mel. I told Mel that Mike at Pier 1000 Marina had recommended his restaurant to me. Mel then left and returned shortly with a small plate with samples of his pork chop and brisket. Both were good, but I opted for ribs and chicken from the buffet.

Mel sat with me for a few minutes and told me a story about his restaurant during the great 1989 flood. Mel’s restaurant is two hundred yards back from the river and a good forty feet above its bank. As he sandbagged his building on news of the flood he took time to rest. As he slept, Mel says, his late wife came to him in a dream and told him to get out of the restaurant. He did and soon his restaurant had eight feet of water in it. For river travelers, Mel’s is a must stop. I signed the book that is kept of all river travelers as I paid.

It was 12:30 when I arrived at Grafton Harbor. Pulling to the fuel dock I filled and asked about a slip for a few days. The young man fueling boats asked if I had reservations. I did not. It seems that I had chosen the weekend of the fiftieth anniversary party for the yacht club that used the marina as its home. Boats were everywhere and more coming. Many were decorated for the boat parade later in the afternoon. Fortunately I was there just early enough to get a slip and get settled in before the entire marina was packed with boats and people.

By late afternoon the festivities were full force. Not really interested, but surrounded, I joined in a limited way. I had a beer and cigar and listened to a band playing Jimmy Buffett and inviting everyone to Key West in November when they will be playing there. The marina itself was very nice and I met a few people who had either made “The Loop” or who had been down the Mississippi. The Loop is transiting from north to south (or south to north) and back by using the Intracoastal Waterway on the East Coast through the Hudson River and across through the Great Lakes and down the rivers to Mobile as I was doing. They had good information. Mostly people said to stop at Hoppies. I would get a full indoctrination from Hoppy before leaving. Hoppies was in fact my planned first stop, just south of St. Louis.

I was apprehensive about the Mississippi River. For that reason, Sharon had agreed to join me for that part of the trip. Johnny Dred, our friend from Key West, wanted to visit friends in Georgia and Tennessee as well as accompany me for the remainder of the trip. They arrived Sunday. We loaded Sharon’s things onto the boat and Johnny took our car and was off back to Georgia. He would meet us somewhere on Kentucky Lake in Kentucky or Tennessee. Sharon and I spent a nice afternoon in Grafton and readied for an early departure on Monday. We could see the big river from the Marina. It did not look too awesome or intimidating from that vantage. But we would soon learn that it lives up to all that has ever been said about it. But that will have to wait -

Until the Next Connection,
Dan

An Interlude: Traveling The Rivers

An Interlude:
Traveling The Rivers

I.

The decision, The preparation, We get Started, We get towed, We get started again, The trash heap, The engine fails, Repair at the barge, Held up at the locks, Joliet, A hard nights travel

Dear Friends and Family,

I know I promised an epilogue covering our time in South America… and it’s coming. But I thought that my current adventure – or misadventure – may be of interest. As you know we sold our home in Michigan and are now fulltime residents of Key West, Florida. We still have two storage units and a sailboat there, however. Bruce and Judy have been kind enough to not only clean the old house with Sharon, including the garage, but to drag the sailboat to there currently unused barnyard. That was nine months ago and it is time to relieve them of the burden. We looked at many options and got several estimates to haul it down by truck. On the way to Michigan we both arrived at the conclusion that I would take the boat down the river system to Key West. The money otherwise spent on hauling could be used to get her in shape (a necessary expense regardless) and defer costs of the trip.

Deciding was the easy part. The boat hasn’t been in the water for five years or so and it had some problems then. Between mice, mildew and broken parts it would be a daunting task to get her ready for the trip. For starters I took the broken tiller base to Ed who built me a new one from better aluminum stock than the original. Tradesmen are good friends to have. With my son Beau’s help it took two weeks of hard work to get her cleaned waxed and her bottom stripped of freshwater paint and a saltwater suitable paint applied. Meanwhile I had been discussing the trip with Mike at Pier 1000 Marina who had made the trip several times and did not discourage my effort. After building a cradle for the mast that would allow me head room and a convenient cross member for a sun and rain shelter, she was ready for the marina. With the help of another friend with a big diesel pickup truck the job was accomplished. I made arrangement to launch. Beau, our middle son, decided to take a week off of work and come with me the first week. I planned a Friday launch giving me Saturday to work out bugs and we would leave on Sunday.
Disregarding Tom’s advice on mechanics to work on the twenty year old 9.9 horsepower four stroke Yamaha outboard that would power our little vessel; I used the first guy I could find who could get it done in my time. He didn’t. I was put off and lied to for several days until he admitted he had a problem with getting it running properly. After having been stored unused for five years, the carburetor was thoroughly gummed. I canceled the Friday launch. The marina could not launch me on Saturday but agreed to do it Sunday. Finally late Saturday afternoon the motor was ready. I hung it on the back of the boat and checked the electronic ignition etc. Everything seemed fine. Sunday we lowered the boat into the water.
Among the repairs I made was to replace a through-hull fitting that was below the water line, in plastic and without a seacock (shut off). I installed one in bronze with a bronze seacock. As the boat hung I checked my work. There was a small but all too steady drip from the new fitting. We hoisted her back out. I completely re-did the fitting installation and, due to the lateness of the day and poor lake conditions, scheduled a launch for Monday morning.

The boat was lowered into the water again on Monday, the fitting remained bone dry. We quickly loaded the remaining provisions and worked our way out of the harbor for our first planned stop at Michigan City, Indiana. I pulled the rope that lowers my retractable rudder and we were off. Things seemed to be going well. We bumped over some bars in the shallow river upstream of the Main Street Bridge and I then noticed the rope holding the rudder had frayed to about half of its thickness. If it were to break I would lose steering. I would have to fix this problem in Michigan City.

We motored through the piers in Saint Joseph, pounding through the six foot swells that funnel through the solid structures since the Corp of Engineers work many years ago. Once on the Lake, the swells rolled in from the northwest at about two to four feet; manageable for our little ship. We were between Warren Dunes State Park and New Buffalo, Michigan when the engine cut back. Thinking it was out of gas we stopped to refill the tank from one of the gerry jugs I carry. After filling the tank, the engine would not restart. Clearly there were more problems than fuel. Having already purchased Boat US tow insurance I called the number. Soon I was in touch with a tow boat operator. He began looking for us, leaving from New Buffalo Harbor. I could not get my GPS to function properly so I guessed at my location. Just south of Warren Dunes and a mile out. We watched and could see very few boats. The Lake turned to glass and the sun pounded down. Rollers swayed us from side to side. I rigged the tarp over the mast and cooled us down by ten degrees. We waited, watched and talked on the phone. When the tow operator was near the Cook Nuclear Plant and a mile out he asked for a fix from us on the Cook Plant. I took a bearing on the facility on the distant shore and gave it to him. It was not long before we saw him steaming toward us. When the boat finally located us we learned we were in fact four miles out. We were towed into New Buffalo Harbor to the Municipal dock there. It was evening so we secured for the night.

New Buffalo is not a large port and has only one marina with a hoist. They had no means of getting our boat to their marina for haul out, however, even though we needed to go only a few blocks. They put us in touch with a competent mechanic who diagnosed part of our engine problem. It seems that my mechanic took the lower unit off to replace a water pump and did not reinstall locking nuts on the shaft that controlled the shifter. The vibrations loosened the shaft and it parted, making shifting impossible. The boat would need to be hauled to get to that problem. We had no luck Tuesday getting someone to tow us. Wednesday the marina finally agreed to launch a boat to tow us to their lift. They charged me ninety dollars for that short tow so that I could pay them ten dollars per foot to haul out on their travel lift – three dollars more per foot than in Benton Harbor.

The motor mechanic fixed the shifter while Beau and I replaced he rudder rope. It took most of the day. By mid-afternoon we were launched again and headed back to the Municipal Marina. I now noticed that I had about half power. Once docked again, I called the local mechanic. He ran me through a few checks but could not get to me to assist more. Thursday the local mechanic was out of town. I called my original mechanic who asked a couple of questions and then suggested it might be the spark plugs. He promised he would come to New Buffalo on Friday and would call first. He, of course, did neither. I, in the mean time went to the local auto parts store and purchased two new spark plugs. I removed the old ones which were totally clogged with soot and carbon. That was my problem. After a quick test, I was confident I resolved the it.
On Friday I had a phone interview for a prospective job at ten in the morning. Before that I double checked my radio – a necessity on the rivers – only to discover that I have a bad connection at my antenna. Beau went to the local marine store for a new antenna cable while I interviewed. I jury rigged a new connection between my antenna and radio and by noon we were off for Chicago.

From New Buffalo, the route to Chicago is nearly due west. The two to four foot swells that day were coming straight down from the north. We rolled side to side for over five hours until we reached the Calumet River. We moved up the river, under the railroad bridges and several streets, under the Skyway Bridge and on to a marina we identified at Burnham, Illinois.

We arrived at around eight o’clock in the evening local time. The boat slips were along the canal and were all filled with pleasure boats. Several others were on cradles behind some metal marina type buildings. It was clearly a marina for pleasure craft but had a very industrial look to it. Everything was closed except for the bar; a low, long, brown, drinking looking establishment. We tied off to a vacant dock and went into the bar to find someone to assist us. With the help of one of the marina workers who was in the bar docked properly. We asked about dinner. The bar grill was closed but they had frozen pizza the bartender could make. We sat and had one dollar draft beers and pizza as we talked to the patrons. I notice out the window as I sat in the bar looking over the Cal-Sag canal, a huge solid waste land fill – a trash heap. It came right to the edge of the canal. I said; “My God there’s a trash heap right there!” A slight built fellow named Gene with a scraggly salt and pepper goatee, hair in similar condition dangling down his neck from under his cap and nearly all of his teeth responded by saying that the EPA had been there a year or two before with flyers warning of the dangers of the solid waste site and that he, Gene, had left a day or two earlier because he was physically bothered by some of the waste being disposed of that day. They said that they protested the site, but this was a little backwater spot with few people and none with clout. Seven miles inland from Lake Michigan and minutes from downtown Chicago.

Gene was a personable fellow and was initially intrigued by our little sailing ship. He had a sailboat himself; a twenty-five footer. He told us of how he had invented a mechanism for his boat to easily step the mast by himself. He said that he thought he might market it but after a quick check on the Internet he discovered that there were a hundred different such rigs for that purpose.

He asked where we were headed. I told him Key West. I said we were going down the Illinois to the Mississippi, to the Ohio to the Cumberland and into Kentucky Lake. He stopped me. Kentucky Lake is a place that he has wanted to go for some years. We talked about what we each knew of the area, neither actually having been there. He said several times that he and his brother were going to go and had talked about going in the Fall. He wanted to buy property and get a boat there. After we finished our pizza, we bid our new friends adieu. Gene wished us luck. My departing words to him were, “Gene, make that trip.” “I will for sure,” he responded. I like to think that he will, especially after having talked with us.

In the morning we showered, had breakfast and left. The Cal-Sag canal was created for barge travel and sewage disposal, similar to the Chicago Sanitary and Ship canal, the other route. The signs posted along the canal were a reminder of all that we have done over the years to move ourselves forward while moving Nature back. The signs every quarter of a mile or so warned that swimming, skiing, jet skiing, wading or anything that would put one’s skin in contact with the water was prohibited. And the disposal sites, factories, refineries and all manner of heavy industrial use along the canal was clear evidence why the warning signs were posted. These are places that few people see and even fewer desire to see.

A few miles before the Cal-Sag canal joins the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal and moves into the Illinois River, my engine dropped to half speed again. We had no place to tie off so we proceeded at half speed for over an hour until around four thirty in the afternoon when we came to a loaded barge parked along the canal. Because it was loaded it was low enough in the water for us to use as a platform to reach my outboard hanging off my stern. The barge’s cargo appeared to be some sort of aggregate and not particularly dangerous. It was Saturday and no one was working at the site. Carefully I pulled over and tied off to the barge. With Beau’s help I quickly removed the spark plugs, cleaned them with sand paper I had on board and replaced them. Within an hour we were off again. That seemed to have worked.

Just past the junction of the Cal-Sag Canal and the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal is the first real lock we were to go through. We had locked through the Thomas O’Brien Lock the day before but it’s two foot lift was negligible. The Lockport lock would drop us forty-two feet. It was 6:30 P.M. Eastern time when we arrived. A tow was ahead of us and we didn’t lock through until 8:30 P.M. Eastern time. Beau was scheduled to go home on Sunday morning and Kim was picking him up at our marina stop at the Harborside Marina in Wilmington, Illinois, south of Joliet. The Lockport lock is at river mile 290, the Brandon Lock in Joliet is at river mile 286. The Marina is at river mile 273.7. We were about three hours from the marina if all went well. That would leave us enough light to make it.

We arrived at the Brandon Lock just on the south side of the I-80 bridge at 10:15 Eastern Time.. A barge was ahead of us again. We motored around for several hours as the barge locked through. At 1:30 A. M. Eastern time, we finally locked through. It was no longer daylight and Kim was nearly at the marina already. As we left the lighted lock, my eyes tried to focus on the night. I could make out the buoys but little else. As we proceeded we passed an electrical generating plant with a string of lights on its cooling towers that lined the river. I could not determine if we were in the channel or not. It appeared to me that we were heading into a bay of some sort. Beau’s night vision is better than mine and he assured me we were in the channel. We motored along slowly until I could again distinguish the channel. We powered ahead full throttle which moves us at about seven miles an hour.

It wasn’t long before I was getting confused again in the darkness. We passed a buoy on the wrong side at Cedar Creek and I ran hard aground. At about that time, Beau had wisely decided that we should be using my spot light. I was able to back off the bar with little trouble and we began to use the light. The buoys all have reflectors and could easily be seen with the light. We motored slowly picking our way along the channel. Beau shined the buoys and I checked my chart with a flashlight. We passed two tows on the way down and finally at approximately 5:00 A.M. Eastern time we arrived at the fuel dock of the marina. I tied off for the night. Beau packed his things, called Kim who was waiting outside the gate. No one was around so Beau scaled the fence and left for home. My next week would be alone. It was Sunday and I would use the day to rest. I vowed that there would be no more nighttime travel on this trip. Exhausted, I climbed into the vee-berth. Secured to the dock I slept well.

Until nest connection,
Dan

XIX September 11; Another Ramadan; Leaving the Mission

XIX September 11; Another Ramadan; Leaving the Mission

Dear Friends and Family,

I

A long time has passed without a chapter. I will go back to the fall. September in Pristina brings a change in seasons, much like the northern US, the days start becoming noticeably shorter and the air has that feeling of impending chill to come. And in Pristina Kosovo, September brings the billboards all around the city memorializing the 9-11 terrorist attack on the US. The billboards have a nighttime view of the New York skyline with two burning candles in the spot where the World Trade Center once stood. In this Muslim country the population shares all the joy and all the sadness that their liberators experience. They are grateful for all that we did for them in 1999.

We were in the Supreme Court building on September 11. One of the translators there, a middle aged Albanian Kosovar of short slight build and an obvious and deliberate American bend to his speech, followed us down the hallway and began to talk to us about the grim anniversary. “You have friends here,” he said. “I mean it man. We’ll never forget what you did for us. Not just in 1999, but in 1919. You were the only ones who ever helped us. We won’t forget man.” In an increasingly anti-American world his words were comforting.

II

September 2006 brought an early Ramadan, the Muslim period of fasting, prayer and reflection. In Kosovo it is, like many religious holidays in the US, observed in earnest mostly by the older citizens. Fasting from dawn to dusk and observing the daily prayers five times per day are more than the modern young Kosovar is willing to undertake. Universally, it seems, people tend to seek out spiritual guidance as the end comes more clearly into view.

My friends in Bangladesh, however, are far more dutiful in their adherence to religious canons. Whether it is a product of poverty or simply the result of strict teaching, the Bengalis observe Ramadan with passion and sincerity. Since my time there I have at least annually communicated with my Bengali friends. We exchange Ramadan greetings every year and it offers an opportunity to catch up. This year was no exception. Urmi, the Major, Emdad, Professor Mynuddin and Justice Mustafa Kamal, former Chief Justice of Bangladesh. They are experiencing significant political turmoil in that country and all my friends are understandably concerned. In a way it is grounding. We have our own political issues we grapple with, but they pale in comparison to theirs.

III

In this business change is expected and often comes on short notice. It is a hazard of the profession. We arrive in a country, make contacts and friends, build relationships, hopefully make improvements, and then we leave. The leaving is inevitable and the only thing we can count on for certain. In mid-September I learned that I would leave Kosovo by the end of that month. Movers were contacted, arrangements made for cats and dogs that would not be coming with me since I would not be arriving in the US for several months. Sharon was still in the US selling our Michigan home. I took stock of my stay.

It had been just over three years since we arrived. I had come to consider Pristina as home. We had friends and neighbors, albeit communication sometimes being difficult. We had established an independent judiciary in accordance with the desires of the Kosovars. We created and staffed the Kosovo Judicial Council that would govern the courts of Kosovo. We helped select and recruit the members. We set up the Ministry of Justice. We helped courts work more efficiently; we identified and empowered the judges and administrators who would lead the new judiciary into the future. The result looked so logical but the road there was strewn with bumps and potholes, like all roads in Kosovo. Among my Kosovar friends were people like Judge Rexhep Haxhimusa, President of the Supreme Court and Halit Muharremi, former council to the late President of Kosovo, Ibriham Rugova, and Judge Jellena Krivokopic, the Serbian judge from Mitrovice. Judge Jellena is the Vice President of the Kosovo Judicial Council. We worked to maneuver her to get that important position. We had some difficult times in the Assembly because of her Serbian background. In the end she was confirmed as Vice President of the Kosovo Judicial Council. At one time she said to me; “I sat and looked across the table at you and thought: I am here because of that man.” An overstatement to be sure, but for whatever part I played I was glad that she appreciated the honor and importance of being in that position.

One of the final events to occur prior to my departure was the installation of Halit as Director of the Kosovo Judicial Council, something that I had very subtly been advocating for some time. Halit and his son Dritan had become friends. They are both very competent; Dritan now a judge and his father Halit both have the best interests of Kosovo foremost in their minds as they go forward. I suppose the most concise summation of our impact came in a conversation I had with Dritan as we walked to his office after a lunch I had with he and his father. Dritan said; “You know that judges say that it is not the Judicial Council that decides things here. They say that if you want anything you go to Dan Deja. I know that isn’t the case though.” Dritan of course was correct, that was not the case, but the positive part of the perception is a testament to our impact and involvement in molding the new judiciary in Kosovo. There are many hard working, honest and intelligent judges and administrators in Kosovo. If we did anything it was to identify some of them, support them, and when we could, move them to positions of influence. I have no regrets. I have done enough. I am satisfied. The rest is for others.

The judges and administrators are all personalities. Most are like cream and would have risen to the top eventually without our nudging. There are others from my stay that I will miss more than those who are left with the power. There are the waiters at the restaurants who we came to know well. Gazi from the Monaco invited us to his home where we met his mother, wife and his children. With his pregnant wife and young child he fled Kosovo to Macedonia when the Serbs came in 1999. He told of his mother’s ordeal escaping from the Serbs into the mountains where she took ill and today gets weekly dialysis for her resulting kidney problems. He told us how he rebuilt his home after the Serbs destroyed it, burning one floor. He showed us his garden tractor that was saved because his late father removed a wheel from it before they fled. Gazi told us all this with his ever-present smile, not a note of hatred in his voice or demeanor. I will miss Gazi. He left his job as a waiter to take a job with considerably less pay. He is now a school teacher. His students could not find a more dedicated or caring teacher anywhere in the world.

My other waiter friend from the Baci found our house for us and has always greeted me with a hug and firm handshake. So did all the other waiters at the hotel. Then there was Mohamed, the assistant manager of the Victory Hotel – the one with the statue of Liberty on its roof – always warmly greeted me and offered a coffee. I will miss them all.

Then there is our staff. We had the fortune of surrounding ourselves with some very fine and dedicated people. Brikena, who I took on as a volunteer and later hired as a secretary translator moved onto the US Office, a permanent job, and now has recently had a baby in the Netherlands where her boyfriend is from. She sent pictures and a long narration of the events. Ardita, one of our attorneys, Jeta, our secretary translator and Rame, our driver took me to lunch to say goodbye. It was a difficult lunch. I think we all were trying to act as normal but knew this would be our last lunch together. At the end, Jeta gave me a hug and said, “I will miss you, you were a gift to us.” I was speechless, tears welled my in my eyes. Although I have been in e-mail contact with her that is the last time I saw Jeta.

But I saw Rame again before I left. Rame was originally a guard at our office. He worked for Black Panther Security Company who provided our office security at the time. I was so struck by his honesty and diligence that I offered him a job. That gesture was something that Rame never forgot. It was something he never imagined could have ever happened to him. For the last five nights before I left Rame took me for a coffee or a beer. He helped me pack one Saturday. When he found he had to drive others to Prizren on the day I left and could not drive me to the airport, he was extremely disappointed. We went to dinner the night before. Rame drove his car. As the night wore on and it was after midnight, I finally insisted that Rame take me home. He seemed to not want the evening to end as though it might end some important stage in his life.

On Friday the 29th of September, I delivered the car to the shippers and packed my suitcases for the flight out. Gazmend, our office manager, came to take me to the airport. We had come to know Gaz and his family quite well. His wife Lily and Sharon had become friends. We had been on vacation with them several times, including at Lily’s mother’s cottage in Montenegro at the beach. We knew their children Roni and Ardi, two very nice young men who will have a great future in Kosovo or their adopted country England.

Gaz took me to the airport and helped me check in. I would be flying to Vienna and staying overnight before going on to Paris. The Austrian flight through Vienna is the usually way out of Kosovo for Americans. A bit of a problem with over weight luggage and I finally checked in. Gaz and I shook hands and embraced in the tradition of the region. He left me at the line for passport control. After checking through passport control I had a few minutes to wait to board. Henk from The Netherlands was there on his way out of Kosovo as well. Henk and I had worked together over the years trying to improve the collection of the KEK (Kosovo Electric Company) bills. We drank a beer and discussed our time in Kosovo, the situation as we left it and the prospects for the future. We played our part for better, worse or no effect at all.

The time came for us to walk one last time across the tarmac and up the stairs to the plane. I boarded found my seat and looked out the window at Pristina’s airport terminal one last time. We taxied down the runway gaining speed until the wheels lifted off and the plane rose into the sky separating me from my adopted home. As I looked down on the red-tiled roofs I thought of how they looked that first day I arrived. They had become personal over the years. I recognized buildings and towns and roads. As we continued to rise the mountains blended with all of the other mountains in the Balkan region and soon we were above a cover of clouds and Kosovo was gone. I laid back and thought of how I might come back and how Gaz and Lily and Sharon and I would go to the beach in Montenegro or Greece. I though of the trip that Rame and Gaz and I were to have taken to Greece and never quite got around to doing it. I though of when I might return to fulfill that promise knowing all the while that I never would. I will likely never return to Kosovo. That is the nature of things; of life; of this business. I laid back and closed my eyes. My thoughts soon turned to Paris and friends there and of South America and the months ahead before I would return home to the US. But that is for an epilogue.

Until the Next Connection,
Dan