Mountain Man and City Girl

I got a call recently from a real estate client.  Whenever the mood hits him, he phones us to find out the real estate market conditions here in Cape May County, New Jersey, and more specifically in the Wildwood, North Wildwood, Wildwood Crest shore area.  He knows we have our finger on the pulse of the market.  And he knows I always have an opinion, good or bad.  There’s no BS.

Our conversation began with my monologue on how busy we have been since mid-Summer, 2007.  He heard the same thing from me back in October during our last talk.  “It’s still going great,” I added.  “We’ve just had plenty of closings in January and February, plus we’ve got several more properties ‘under contract’ and we’re in active negotiations on a few other deals.”

Sounds like typical realtor hype, right?  Actually not.  This client knows that when the market started to stall in mid-2005, even though few recognized it, we were quick to alert anyone who’d listen that it was NOT the time to buy.  Conditions were changing.  We could just sense it.  Something was amiss.

Just like a recession, the signal that a real estate market is going up off the charts or down into the hopper isn’t generally acknowledged until you are a half year or more into it.  The thinking is that it isn’t a trend until it has been sustained for a while.  That’s fair enough.

By 2006, much to the chagrin of City Girl, I openly admitted that, as realtors, we were losing our shirts.  The real estate market was dead, the phones weren’t ringing, and we went weeks at a time without any walk-in traffic.  It was disheartening.  And we told our clients so.  Honesty is so much more refreshing than deceit, and definitely easier on your conscience.

Fast forward to my recent phone call.  “Give me a reason to buy now,” the client queried, “Why buy?”  I was ready.

“Give me a reason to NOT buy,” I quipped.  “Interest rates are at near historic lows, inventory is plentiful, and the range of selection is great.  And as you know, prices are down $100,000 to $150,000 or more from 2005.”

“Remember all those sellers you were envious of back in 2003 and 2004?  The ones who had bought in the bad real estate market times of the late 1990s,” I continued.  “You thought how smart they were to be cashing out on their investment a few years later and making $100,000 or more, sometimes much more.  Well, the cycle is repeating.”

“You’re right,” he said, the wheels turning in his mind.  “Tell you what.  Email me some investment property listings, then I’ll pick a few and we’ll go look at them this weekend.” 

 ”Is Saturday or Sunday better for you?”, I replied, knowing that another client - and friend - was about to make some money.

- Mountain Man

To find out more about investment properties in Cape May County, visit our website at www.JewellRealEstateAgency.com

I have to snicker when I hear a youngster say that their goal in life is to be ‘rich and famous’.  I usually tell them, “Rich, okay.  But you don’t want to be famous.”  The reason, of course, is paparazzi.  Of all the legal occupations in the world, being ‘photographer of celebrities’ has to be one of the lowest levels on the integrity scale.

Paparazzi, as you no doubt are aware, will do anything to take the picture or video of a famous person.  Then they sell it to some junk magazine or mindless website or television Hollywood gossip show.  But the fact that they profit from such a shallow pursuit isn’t what makes them so despicable, though they are.  It’s the lengths they’ll go to capturing the photo.

Imagine the life of a paparazzi.  Sitting in your car day and night, staking out a celebrity’s home.  Or standing on the sidewalk for hours at a time outside a restaurant that attracts movie stars or music idols.  Your whole life is dedicated to taking some schmo’s picture.  That’s no way to make a difference in the world!

If I was suddenly famous, I would definitely not want this surreal attention.  You step out your door, a half dozen guys are battling to get your picture before you make it to the car.  Go to the grocery store and they’re following you up and down every aisle.  Take a Caribbean vacation, helicopters are hovering overhead or boatloads of photographers are swarming.  Big brother is watching.

All of this clandestine photography is only made possible due to unquenchable thirst of bored and boring people who live vicariously through others.  If Jane Public didn’t watch those trashy TV shows, buy those tasteless magazines, and support those hollow websites, the paparazzi would have no market for their product and they would just go away.

I don’t care about the everyday life of Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, those Olsen twins.  Not interested in Brad Pitt, Jack Nicholson or Macauley Culkin.  I don’t care who’s married to whom, who’s sleeping with whom, who’s been arrested or in drug rehab or slit their wrists.  I don’t care what dress they’re wearing, what style their hair is, or what restaurant they were spotted in.

Don’t get me wrong.  I respect a good actor because they’re a good actor.  I like their work, but I could care less about their personal life.  Same for singers, musicians, comedians, or pro athletes.  I shared a moment with you via your craft, but I don’t need to peek inside your personal life.  You’re just a person doing your job, just like me.  Is that weird?

For a photojournalist to chase these people in their cars, rumble through their trash cans, contact high school sweethearts, and turn their life inside out is inexcusable.  Show them some respect.  Let them live peaceably.  Give ‘em a dadgum break!

With all the injustice and suffering in our world, and all the problems that need to be solved to save our planet, doesn’t chasing someone around to take their photograph seem unimportant in the grand scope of things?  Isn’t one’s dignity and privacy cherished anymore?  Is nothing out of bounds?

- Mountain Man

I am really tired of hearing the national media spout tales of personal indiscretions by high profile people.  I don’t care about a person’s demons and misdeeds, just how they perform in the job they are entrusted with.  Let me explain.

So much has been made about Bill Clinton’s sexual snafus.  I could care less.  Those things should only be an issue between him and Hillary.  It’s their relationship, their vows, their betrayal, their problem.  The same goes for Dwight Eisenhower, Jack Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, Wilbur Mills, Gary Hart, and on and on.  It should be between Ike and Mamie, Jack and Jackie, Lyndon and Lady Bird, etc.  Did I really need to know about the Argentine Firecracker?  I think not.

Now I see the media frantically trying to tie John McCain to some much-younger female lobbyist. Give me a break.  I am only interested in whether these guys are good at their job.  Are they effective legislators?  Do they care about the people?  Do they suck up to special interests?  Do they have solutions?

The media focuses too much on personal stuff, which puts real issues on the back burner.  I am intensely interested in the 2008 presidential election.  I want to know the details, yes details, of how each candidate would restructure our economy, rebuild our worldwide relationships, end the budget deficit, promote alternative energy, etc.  Instead, McCain has to defend himself against the lobbyist garbage, Obama has to defend wearing a turban, and Hillary has to defend … well, you know.

I have visited the websites of each of these three candidates.  Pandering to the media and not wanting to alienate a single voter, each tells vaguely what they are going to do as president, but not HOW!  I wanna know.  Stop giving the media sound bites, and let’s talk nuts and bolts. 

I also want to know why Congress is getting involved in steroids in baseball?  Don’t we have enough serious problems in the world that need to be addressed?  Shouldn’t the steroid thing be handled by major league baseball.  They have a commissioner and their own bureaucracy.  Let them deal with it.  Why is Roger Clemens out lobbying Congressmen in Washington? 

Now I hear speculation that Congress might even stick its nose into the spygate affair concerning the coach of the NFL’s New England Patriots.  You’ve got to be kidding.  The media is making a big thing out of stuff that is inconsequential to my life.

In baseball and football, teams have tried to intercept their opponents intentions since the sports originated.  What pitch is the catcher calling for?  Is the quarterback going to throw a screen pass or run an end around?  Figuring the other team’s strategy has been an integral part of those sports, and until recently any means necessary was an acceptable part of the game.

So when did the introspective media originate?  When did reporters stop winking and hushing up?   In my mind, it was around the time of Watergate.  Woodward and Bernstein took investigative journalism to another level, bringing down Richard Nixon.  The same can be said for the national media driving Thomas Eagleton away for psychiatric therapy in his past, or William Loeb and his Manchester (NH) Union Leader probably costing Edmund Muskie a presidential election victory, only to later find out the charges were false.

Let’s focus on issues.  Let’s have candidates and politicians talk about solutions.  Let’s bring the process back to its grassroots.  Let’s have honest debate, citizen input!

As for all the dirt, the muckraking, the philandering.  Frankly Scarlet, I don’t give a damn!

- Mountain Man

Many folks are fooled by the lack of new construction activity here in the Wildwoods and throughout the island communities of Cape May County.  “I knew it would never happen,” the backseat drivers shout about new 20+ story hotel/resort projects touted in the newspapers but not yet started.  They are wrong.

In the state of New Jersey, any new construction project that is within 300 feet of water, has more than 24 units, or more than 48 parking spots, needs a CAFRA permit.  This Coastal Areas Facility Review Act, administered by the NJ Department of Environmental Protection, is a thorough and lengthy process.  It takes a minimum of two years to two and a half years to obtain the CAFRA permit, and in the case of the seven high-rise hotels in Wildwood, can take four years.

So while developers are exerting an inordinate amount of effort and $100,000 or more in fees for their environmental attorneys, engineers, architects, and endless environmental studies, an uneducated Joe Public sits on the sidelines and proudly pronounces the project DOA.

Unfortunately, these uninformed zealots are given a public forum to make their opinions widely known.  In the local weekly county newspaper there is a gutless section called “Spout Off”.  In it, anyone can basically say anything and push it off as fact.  Right or wrong, it is printed.  The authors don’t have to sign their name.  It’s a disgrace!

The newspaper is owned by a far right, ultra-conservative snob who labels wind power and solar power band-aids, global warming a left-wing hoax, and promotes the drilling of the arctic and nuclear power.  He’s a small town version of William Loeb and his Manchester Union Leader.  You can see why he not only allows this journalistic embarrassment, he’s proud of it.

Anyway, Spout Off perpetuates the so-called decline of the real estate market and the county in general by letting these ”doom and gloom” know-it-alls have their say.  Then more naive citizens read it and believe it.  Soon they talk about it in public as if it was fact.  After all, they read it in the newspaper so it must be right.  Right?  Wrong.

The truth is that these projects, along with large hotel complexes in Cape May, North Wildwood, and Diamond Beach are moving along, slow but sure.  Rome wasn’t built in a day.

As realtors, we see more and more developers in the area looking for tracts large enough to host more hotel or condominium projects.  At our agency, we have several conglomerates with upwards of $100,000,000 to invest in the shore area of Cape May County.  We are constantly calling them with leads on new vacant properties, along with faxing and emailing tax maps, lot descriptions, comparative market analyses, and more.

Large projects don’t happen overnight.  From concept to completion is about an eight year process.  Unknown to most local residents, that concept faze is already underway!  The developers are busy shaping the county’s future, secure in the belief that the real estate market is on the brink of another boom.

- Mountain Man

To learn more about the Cape May County real estate market, visit our website at www.JewellRealEstateAgency.com

Having been a mathematics major in college, I’m understandably enamored with numbers.  Talk is talk, but numbers give substance.  There’s nothing like good, hard numbers to bring a topic into focus, to cut down on speculation and misleading conclusions.

Let’s see if the demographics support that the real estate market in Cape May County will see another boom.  Not just a rebound, which is already happening, but a boom!  It’s an interesting prospect, one that many insiders like myself support and others just can’t fathom.

The state of New Jersey has a population of 8.724 million people.  The median age is 38.2 years, with 12.9 percent of folks 65 or older.  The median household income is $64,470 and the homeownership rate is 67.3 percent, meaning two-thirds live in a home they own.  Of adults, 33.4% have a college Bachelor’s degree, and 12.4% have even higher degrees.

What this all means is that New Jerseyans, on the whole, are pretty well off.  The median household income in the entire country is $48,451, so we’re a third higher.  New Jersey has the highest percentage of millionaires in the USA.  Throw in metropolitan Philadelphia and suburban New York City, and there’s a lot of affluence in our region.  All this fuels the second home market, which comprises half of all properties in Cape May County.

Experts keep tossing out that 40,000 new employees will be needed in the Atlantic, Cape May, Cumberland county region.  Most of this is centered on Atlantic City, whose 11 casinos already employ 40,788 people.  Several casino expansions are in the works, with at least three new casinos slated. 

MGM Mirage will be breaking ground within a year on its $5 billion megaresort, located on 72 acres next to the Borgata.  This largest resort in AC, scheduled to open in 2012, will feature 50 stories, 3,000 hotel rooms, a 7,500 seat concert arena, and a half million square feet of space for retail, restaurants, and entertainment.  Revel Entertainment has already broken ground on a $2 billion casino complex, located on the strip next to the Showboat, slated to open in 2010.  Pinnacle Entertainment, which tore down the aging Sands Casino last October, should have their new $1.5 billion casino in operation by 2012.

With 128-acre Bader Field going out to bid in the next year, the possibility of another mega-casino, or up to four smaller casinos, will add to the need for new employees.  So where will all these new employees live?  Rounded off, the current yearround populations of the three counties are Atlantic 250,000, Cumberland 150,000, and Cape May 100,000.

Let’s suppose that keeping with the statistics, two-thirds of the 40,000, or 26,680 will purchase their own home.  Forget the island communities, where summer folks have driven up prices.  I’m talking about Longport, Ventnor, Margate, Ocean City, Sea Isle, Avalon, Stone Harbor, Cape May, etc - places where a single family home would be prohibitively expensive for a working family employed by casinos, retail, or restaurants.

That leaves the mainland towns.  Arguably, Egg Harbor, Galloway and Hamilton townships, all Atlantic County towns situated in the Pinelands “growth zone”, would pick up the brunt of the new residents.  But many families will look to live a little farther from the hustle and bustle of the AC area. 

Cape May County, just a 20-35 mile commute, fits the bill.  The mainland communities - Lower, Middle, Dennis, and Upper townships, plus Woodbine - currently have 822 single family homes listed for sale.  With the number of housing developments already approved in those towns doubling the number, that’s about 1,600 available homes.  An influx of 40,000 people over the next half dozen years or so will surely result in most of those homes being snapped up.

In the world of supply and demand, especially in real estate, this demand will create more building and higher prices on the mainland.  Doesn’t that add up?

Throw in the seven 20+ story hotel/resort projects on the books in Wildwood now awaiting NJDEP approval, and a couple big resorts upcoming in North Wildwood and Diamond Beach, and you have the recipe for another real estate boom.  Numbers don’t lie.

- Mountain Man

To learn more about the Cape May County real estate market, visit our website at www.JewellRealEstateAgency.com

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.)

Finally, we docked in a marina full of nice boats.  Unlike Mayaguena Island, we weren’t the only boat around.  Here in Freeport, Bahamas, were hundreds, maybe thousands of every size and description.  I eased off the onto the dock.  I had become so used to the swaying of the sailboat that the ground seemed to be swaying underneath me.  I had to fight to keep my balance and not stumble over like a drunk.

Tony spoke to the harbor master, then returned to the boat with instructions for us to stay put until customs officials arrived.  After 20 minutes, I was going nuts.  I could see the marina’s bathroom and showering facilities.  I couldn’t resist.  I had to get the salt stains off my skin, wash my cuts, smell fresh again.  I gathered up clean clothes, shampoo, soap and a towel, and headed for the shower.  I muttered over my shoulder, “Let them arrest me.  I wanna shower!”

Once in the shower, I couldn’t wash myself.  I had to hold my arms out sideways to brace against the walls so I wouldn’t fall over.  My land legs hadn’t returned yet.  Still, I was all smiles and finally got enough of me clean to call it quits.  I dressed, then walked a hundred yards over to a casino in the first floor of a hotel.  I stood at the Coke machine and bought three straight sodas, guzzling each one like I’d been in the desert.  It was sooo nice to drink something cold again.

Returning to the dock, I saw uniformed authorities checking Tony and Lisa’s papers.  They passed.  As they eyed mine, I announced that I would not be leaving on this sailboat.  The higher ranked official didn’t like that thought.  “You have to,” he stated with a genuine smile.  I was firm in my resolve, so we began negotiations.  Soon, he relented and would allow me to fly on an airplane.  He drove me to the airport and we had a wonderful discussion.  He was a nice chap, a pride to his country.

At the airport, I bought my $79 ticket and he assigned a security cop to make sure I got on the plane.  Two hours and another three cold Cokes later, the puddle-jumper plane bound for Orlando began boarding.  Soon, we were airborne.

By the time the hour flight was circling Orlando, just about all 20 passengers on the little airplane were thoroughly engrossed in the tales of my sailing adventure.  I showed off my cuts and bruises like they were medals.  After touch down, we departed the plane onto a tarmac.  Surrounded by a dozen of my new friends, I dropped to my knees and kissed the ground.  They applauded, causing a tear in my eye.

Needless to say, I have not stepped foot on a sailboat since that fateful adventure in 1990.  Once was enough.  But I have relived that trip a thousand times.  I’ve swayed with the waves, heard the wind, felt the seaspray, and looked longingly at the sunrises, sunsets, moonrises and moonsets.

- Mountain Man

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.)

I was anxious to get the life raft inflated and paddle the 200 yards to shore.  I was ready to explore Mayaguena Island.  But by the time Tony and Lisa were ready, the dock was nearly empty again.  I had hoped to talk someone into giving us a ride to town, but most already left for home.

Finally, we got to the shore.  When I stepped out of the raft, I stood on the beach and then bent and grabbed a fist full of sand and yelled a victorious “YES”.  I soon located a few locals who took us halfway to town.  On the ride, after relating our story about the storm, I mentioned that I washed my blood off in the little harbor.

Imagine my horror when my new companions told me that 14-foot sharks are so abundant there that it is off-limits for locals to swim.  They said I was lucky to be alive to tell of my foolish act.

At a makeshift drug-runner airplane landing strip where we were dropped off, a jeep quickly stopped and ushered us into the open-top backseat.  It turned out to be island’s governor and the chief of police in the jeep.  They didn’t reveal their identities until we reached the edge of town (actually, it was more a collection of shacks).  By then, we had already shared our experiences at sea.  They knew we were good folks.  And beat up.  In typical island-style, the chief told us not to bother showing him our passports because it would make unnecessary paperwork for him.

After five Cokes and an order of french fries (they called them chips), I called home back to City Girl in New Jersey on a shortwave radio.  I had told her I’d be in Florida in nine days, so she was shocked when discovering I was only halfway there.  Three hours later, we were back at the raft.  We inflated it again, and raced to get aboard our sailboat.

We left Mayguena and limped northwest in our battered craft.  It would be nearly a week before we got to Freeport, Bahamas.  Another week of nothing cold to drink and no shower.  My thoughts that last week were of a great, big chocolate milkshake, of soaking in a bathtub, and of being on solid ground.

The Mayaguena to Freeport journey was uneventful.  We were all somewhat subdued after our ordeal at sea.  The beautiful skies, especially around dusk and dawn, left lasting memories.  Finally, we spotted the Bahaman island.  It was exciting.  It was just what I needed to rid me of an incessant headache that had haunted me since the storm.  A few more hours and we’d be in port.

It also meant the conclusion of the sailing portion of my trip.  At Freeport, I would find other means of transportation to Florida.  You see, I had discovered that sailboats are too slow for me.  A hundred miles a day won’t due.  I thought to myself that I would never do a long sail again.  Never!

- Mountain Man

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.”

The intense storm continued to turn our St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands to Florida trip into an immense adrenalin rush.  The scary kind, the “I don’t want to do this again” kind, but nevertheless it got your heart pounding so loud you could hear it over the howling wind.  It also made my head feel like my brain was bouncing around inside my skull.  Boy, did I have a headache!

On one of my shifts, outside alone in the dark with nothing for company but the roar of the wind and waves, a tune suddenly popped into my head.  “The weather started getting rough, the tiny ship was tossed, if not for the courage of the fearless crew, the Minnow would be lost.”  Where did the Gilligan’s Island theme song come from?  Was I losing my mind?

After about 36 hours, I was off shift and down below in the cabin which was strewn with the entire contents of the ship.  Everything was soaking wet and the boat was rocking vigorously from side to side.  I was attempting to fix our location on a map and discovered an island to our west.  I pointed it out to Tony and he decided we’d head for there.  With the wind coming from the east, there should be shelter on the west side of the island. 

We sighted a light two hours later (the first signs of civilization in eight days) and the wind pushed us just north of the island.  We mustered all our energy and with partial sails pulled to the west side of the island into a safe cove.  It was 40 hours since the storm first struck.

As if an omen, the storm suddenly abated just minutes after we dropped anchor.  The clouds spread and it was near sunrise.  We had survived!  It had now been 10 days since we left St. Thomas.  That was 10 days without a shower or anything cold to drink, 10 days of constant rocking of the boat.

I had to get away from the rocking motion.  My solution was to jump into the water, where I could also wash off the blood that was caked on my arms and legs from the hundred cuts and abrasions I had received in the storm.  I turned the water pink.

The refuge we had found was Mayaguena Island, one of the southernmost islands in the Bahamas chain.  It had about 200 inhabitants.  From our vantage point in the cove, all we could see was a large, empty dock in the eerie first light of day.  We all retired below for a quick nap, but I was soon alerted to the sound of diesel engines.  Did I really hear it?

I ran up top and there was 150-200 foot ship hauling butt past us.  The dock now must have contained half of the island’s population.  Every age group of locals was ready to greet the ship.  And no wonder.   It was the once-a-week ship bringing everyones supplies from food to clothes to furniture.

A sense of relief flushed over me.  This was land and there were people.  Hurray!  I needed to not be on a boat for a while.  I wanted solid ground that didn’t sway back and forth like a dadgum sailboat.

- Mountain Man

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.)

The only other downside that first week at sea on our voyage from St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands to the central Florida coast was that the winds were not cooperating.  Tony had expected to cover 150 to 200 miles a day, but at 4 knots we only logged 96 a day.  On top of that, the winds were in the wrong direction.  We needed to head northwest, but in reality we were going almost dead north into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

On the eighth day, there was NO wind.  It looked like a tabletop, something I’d never seen before except in maybe an old Errol Flynn pirate movie.  The only thing breaking the surface was the thousands of flying fish who accompanied us the entire trip, and three killer whales who seemed curious about our craft and kept rubbing against it.  They let us touch them on each pass.

By midday, off to the north, we noted ominous black clouds.  We were about to get the roller coaster ride of our lives.

Within an hour, the wind had kicked up to 40 mph and the seas were wild.  When we were in the trough between two waves, the tops were 30-40 feet above our heads.  The rain came down (or perhaps sideways is a better description) with such force that it stung our exposed skin.  The power of the ocean and Mother Nature had earned my instant respect.

We had a big problem that had to be addressed immediately.  Tony, not knowing how bad conditions would become, had decided to leave the sails up as the storm approached.  Now we had to get the sails down or risk losing our masts.

Since Tony was the sailing expert and the most necessary person aboard, I quickly volunteered to go out and reel in the sails.  Snapping on a lifeline, I crawled along the deck as waves washed over me.  It was like being in a washing machine. 

In what seemed like an eternity, but was probably 15 or 20 minutes, I got the sails down and secured and got back to the hatch.  My heart was racing a mile a minute.

The storm continued all night and all the next day.  We each took our three hour shifts in turn outside in the weather, although we really had no control over our craft.  Or destiny.

- Mountain Man

(This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.) 

I had an hour to hitchhike across the island to the Megans Bay beach, but I was there in 45 minutes.  I was tired from not sleeping and a bit woozy from all that alcohol, so I plopped down in the sand.  I looked across the bay and saw what I imagined was their anchored sailboat.  Soon, Tony appeared, jumped into a tiny lifeboat, and rowed to the beach.

“Let me pump some more air into this before we head back,” he said.  “It’s not holding air very well.”  That done, I threw my possessions into the life raft, climbed in, and we were soon back to his sailboat.  I met Lisa, and soon the three of us were heading north toward Puerto Rico.  I had never sailed before, but this seemed like fun.  It wouldn’t last.

About six hours into the trip, the combination of over-imbibing the night before and being a landlubber caught up to me.  The rocking back and forth of the boat was too much.  “I’ll never drink again,” I said as everything in my stomach came up and found its way into the Atlantic Ocean. 

I continued to heave over the side when I noticed a US Coast Guard cutter bearing down on us.  They must have thought we were drug runners because the next thing I knew they launched a motorized raft and four of the soldiers were carrying machine guns.  Over a loudspeaker, one yelled, “Prepare to be boarded”.  Through it all I was laying prone on the deck, cursing everything my stomach was rejecting.

After coming aboard with guns drawn, one yelled at me, “Don’t move!”  “Please shoot me,” I answered.  I think I would have preferred it to being that sick.  After they tore the boat apart in search of drugs, the Coast Guard guys mellowed out and we chatted for awhile.  Naturally, each one had done his training in Cape May, New Jersey where I lived, so we had a lot in common.  Oh yeah, they got a real kick out of me being so sick.

The need for three crew on the sailboat was due to each person needing to take the helm for three hours, then you’d have six hours to rest.  That would have to be maintained around the clock.  Tony had me follow him in the batting order, that way he could brief me - the rookie - on anything special I needed to know when I took over.

For the next week, the trip was rather uneventful.  We anchored in a small bay in Culebra that night, then the next day stopped in San Juan to stock up for the voyage.  My seasickness lasted just that first day, and the beautiful sunrises and moonrises and sunsets and moonsets brought an inner peace that defies description.

Besides my seasickness, something else lasted just that first day - our electricity.  For some reason the boat’s batteries wouldn’t recharge.  That meant we had no running lights at night when those big ships that were 20 times larger than us could squash us like a bug hitting a windshield.  We would have to be extra alert on our night shifts.

It also meant we couldn’t use our global positioning satellite (GPS) instrument whenever we wanted.  The ship’s batteries, if we didn’t use them for anything else, had just enough juice for us to use the GPS tool once a day for five minutes.  We could only positively fix our position once a day.

Hmmm.  No lights, GPS only once a day, and a life raft that wouldn’t hold air.  What had I gotten myself into?

- Mountain Man