The Bitter End ...

“The last thing on my 100-point checklist in getting ready for this trip was not to return that movie,” my father barked to my mother as he dropped the red Netflix envelope onto the settee.

Hour 10 of our four day family cruise and I think my old man’s gasket has shown symptoms of rupturing. “So dramatic,” I thought to myself … but then again, I guess that’s just par for the course whenever I have visited my folks the last 10 years. It’s not like they are going to kill each other, they always just sound like they are about to. You can tell there is a lot of love between them-- 40 years so far—But I digress …

It took us a little under six hours to sail --ahem, motor-- to our main destination for the Memorial Day weekend: the quaint, Eastern Shore town of Cape Charles.

It’s just my luck that after taking a multi-day course at the Annapolis Sailing School there was no wind for me to show off my new skills to my parents.

The wind was so light and directly on our nose each time we tacked, that even if you had a spinnaker and a massive Formula 1 wind tunnel fan you would probably still feel like you weren’t going anywhere. That’s sailing though, and if you don’t have any patience you quickly learn to develop some. Everything happens very slowly (sure, when you’re going 7 knots in your boat you later brag about how you were “hauling ass” across the bay) and there is nothing else you can do to make the boat go faster, short of dropping the sails and turning on the iron genoa (that’s the engine for you land lubbers).

It’s kind of weird that my father is such a tenured salt himself as he has to be one of the most impatient people I know. Nevertheless, put him out on the water in his vessel and he gets sorted out quickly, easing into an “island time” mentality, often taking his watch off and not putting it back on for days (something I picked up years ago from him and love to practice when out on the water.)
I hope our next leg of the journey provides more wind and the same sunshine we had today. Fingers crossed …

Oh, and if you are wondering what the title is all about, it’s a nautical term. Way back when (think 1600s, maybe even earlier), deck hands would shout to the captain “She’s at the bitter end!” when there was no more line to spare on a tied off cleat.