Blogging – Caro Babbo

A year ago next week…

It took a year for me to rediscover this…

Port Townsend 18-NOV-2025 – I’ve been thinking about this for a couple of days: thinking about writing a blog – it’s been a long time – thinking about what the topic should be, and thinking about the topic. I kept losing what I’d write about the topic. Losing what I’d write isn’t the result of the stroke. I’ve always lost things I need to think about. I once forgot my ATM code for four days in Vegas where I was teaching a course. Fortunately, I had a checking account (remember those) where I could cash a check (remember THOSE).

I want to write about reminiscences. I’d like to start off with how much time I’ve spent on a boat. This started when James and Jeremy came to visit, and James asked how much sailing I’d done on Caro Babbo. I initially said 16,000 miles. I texted him two days later to say I was wrong; it was at least 26,000 miles on Caro Babbo. He said he knew the 16K was low.

As I let that wander ’round in my head, I thought about how much time I’ve spent aboard a boat – this came about because I was thinking about how little time I’ve spent at my domiciles over the past bunch of decades.

I’ve had a boat for the past 22 years.† I spend a minimum of three months each summer living aboard. Some years less, other years twice that amount, so let’s say three months is an accurate average. Three times twenty-two is sixty-six. That’s five and half years.

I’ve spent five and half years sleeping aboard a sailboat I own. That amount surprised me. The first ten years were in a T-Bird*, a double-wide coffin, I’d tell people. I spent a lot of time learning on that boat and a lot of time sailing.
In those days, and for a good number of years later, I worked.

On the T-Bird, I had a mooring in Mt. Sinai Harbor. I would ride a bike to the Port Jefferson Library, where I had electricity and internet, and work. Six miles each way, up and down. It built muscle. I was surprised to learn that the route I took most days was a training route used by competitive cyclists. At the end of one summer day, I left my keys on the library counter and had to ride back for them. It was easy. You can turn your body into a machine that does what you tell it.

The first summer I spent largely on the boat. I had just been swindled out of a company that I had bet everything on and dumped by a woman whom I had done the same. I made a deal with my dad (Babbo) that if I got his boat ready for the water, he’d let me live on it that summer. I did both, and reacquainted myself with sailing, taking my sister-in-law, Cathy, with me whenever I went out. I generally worked aboard, telling clients that someone was mowing the grass whenever an outboard went by. The next year I single-handed and didn’t invite Cathy anymore. I’m ashamed of that and embarrassed.

The years at the library were in the town where I went to high school. I saw some of the students that I knew in High School and a teacher I knew then.

One woman I liked a lot did not, apparently, have good memories of me. I was shocked when she was cold and kept away from me. Another, very nice woman who was very shy in high school was still as shy as an early fifties woman and the high school teacher told me that the teacher that I loved had died in her early thirties of breast cancer. Thanks to computers, the teacher was still listed as alive and well and living at her last address.

The only picture I can find. Judy is in the bottom right.

Judy Neige was gorgeous, to my memory, and had a wonderful husband. I would see the two of them outside of school, and for a few years after I graduated. Her husband told me Little Richard was gay and wore tons of makeup. The makeup I believed; gay I did not… well, I was young. He called Judy, Kit. I asked about it, and he said it was short for Kitten. She was seven or eight years older than me, and he was about the same. Time passes quickly when you’re old, but it passes just as quickly when you’re young and building a career. It was twenty-some odd years later when I started looking for her, and she’d been dead for close to twenty years by then. I thought of looking up her husband, but never did.

During those first few years I generally just day-sailed, and took a run across the sound and once a trip to NYC to race on someone’s boat. Taaris was 26-feet long (25 foot nine inches to be precise – this will be important later). I towed a ten-foot Mirror dinghy with me wherever I went. My dad had found the plans and built two or three Mirrors for practice and for his grandkids. I pulled one all over the place. I was single; well, I wasn’t married during those early years.

Taaris on a mooring buoy at City Island. She was a fast boat for her size, even towing a 10-foot Mirror Dinghy

Then in 2005 I met Jennifer and everything changed. Within six weeks, she had traveled to Amsterdam with me to see my dear friends there. From there, onto the boat. Jennifer had no interest in day sailing; she wanted to go somewhere, and go we did. The next six summers I would move onto the boat and live alone for six weeks. Then Jennifer would join me for the next six.

Some years? Most years? She would meet me in Boston and sail back with me.

Jennifer sailed for the first time one afternoon on a breezy day. My Dad joined us. After an hour or so, he decided he’d had enough. Sailing was something he wanted desperately to do. I’d made the boat seaworthy; he came with us, and then decided it wasn’t for him. He’d come once before and had had a good time. It was very flat water.

I started sailing a Sunfish at Tuscarora Boy Scout camp when I was 13 or 14. It was transformative; I loved the idea that one could use the wind to go anywhere, even into the wind, sort of. I told my dad, who helped find plans in Mechanics Illustrated for a small sunfish-like boat. I built it across the summer after my freshman year in high school. I got pretty good at boat building and with advice from my dad and no real experience on how much was enough, I overbuilt the boat and left off coaming that kept the water out of the cockpit.

But the boat sailed, and after some minor refits, I sailed it for the rest of the summer.

I had a girlfriend that summer. We sailed where we could, and I sailed near shore. I was an outgoing kid, who embarrassed himself constantly. In the years that passed, some of the things I did embarrassed me more than they had then; as time passed, I realized I was just a kid learning his way through life.

When I was fifteen, my dad saw a Star sailboat for sale for $500 somewhere in Nassau County. He convinced me I should buy it, and off we went. Where I would get $500 didn’t enter into it. He and my mother lent me the money, and I worked it off by getting a job at Whites Department Store. We also bought a beer keg for me to use as a mooring buoy, and at some point a mushroom anchor, 25 feet of ½” nylon rope, and 25’ of chain.

I never removed the anchor at the end of the season, and replaced it each spring. Life was very different in the late 1960s. I was 15 years old when I got the job at White’s. No Social Security number was required, and I made $1.65 per hour. I learned about car parts and thievery, riding 100 mph on a Norton motorcycle and people from different parts of Long Island. I didn’t learn much about work ethic besides what I already had, but I did learn that keeping busy and looking like you earned your money was important.

I learned how to run a tire machine to put on and take off tires, I learned how to unload a truck full of bags of charcoal briquettes.

I was asked to unload a tractor-trailer of bags of briquettes and take them to whatever department they belonged.

Whites was nothing but a big retail space with concessions. Each department was a separate concession with its own managers and owners. I hadn’t thought about this for 56 years. Why was I unloading charcoal briquettes? The truck driver had the same question.

He was a very colorfully dressed black man who drove the truck. He had on a yellow shirt, green trousers, and brown shoes. He was wearing a colored scarf (I can’t remember what color) around his neck inside the collar of his shirt. He had on a stiff, narrow-brimmed hat.

When I showed up to unload, he wasn’t happy because he’d be pitching the bags to me. Someone else, a manager, I think, told him he’d have to do that part of the delivery. He wasn’t happy.

With his instructions, I placed a flatbed cart, then kind you now see at Home Depot, behind the truck. He told me he’d toss me the bags – I can’t remember how big they were…10# 25# – to me. He tossed the first one, and I stepped into it. The bag exploded in my arms, covering me with black dust. He didn’t laugh. He wasn’t amused. He told me I had to sling the bag into my arms the way he slung it to me.

We worked for an hour or so unloading the bags. I made multiple trips. When we were done, he left.

I had a friend, Bob Pethick from Boy Scouts, who would sail with me on the Star, Bajan Star, #1922, built in 1940 of wood, then glassed over. She was wet-sailed, so she had bottom paint on when I got her. Her trailer was the frame of some 1930s car with (then) big 17″ spokes on very narrow tires. One of the tires had a chain pattern for a tread; another had writing that said Dunlop. The front wheels turned because the tongue activated the steering mechanism; the rear wheels were attached to the live axle with that big ham of a differential. It used inertia brakes that pushed the master cylinder to activate the big drums.

I was a bit of a novice when I got the boat. The only sloop I had ever been on was a 24’ owned by my junior high biology teacher, Mr Doloph, for one day, and with Mr. Ickes, my high school math teacher, but I’m not sure that was a sloop.

A Star was an Olympic-Class racing boat. Caro Babbo’s designer was an Olympic Star racer, so the circle closed a little bit.†††

The boat had no motor, so we’d sail it out of the harbor and sail it back. She was 23’ and had 295 sq ft of sail. She was designed for Long Island Sound, and sail she did. She’d move on wind you could just barely feel on your face, with a huge mainsail and a small 90% jib. She was narrow, had 900 lbs of iron bulb keel that drew 3 ft of water. Bob and I would leave in the morning and come back in the afternoon. I learned how to sail and dead-reckoning navigate, all through books and trial and error, how I have learned everything I know.

My dad got tired of waiting for me to thread my way through the moorings and bought me an engine to mount on the transom of the boat. The motor, a small two-cycle, had been won in some sort of lottery by the brother of a girl from my high school. I thought this was an affront to the spirit of sailing and never mounted it. It would take an hour some days to sail from the mouth of the harbor to the corner in the back by my mooring.

My dad built a dinghy for me out of a four-by-eight sheet of plywood and some one-by-twelve shelving with fiberglass taped seams. I would paddle that out to the boat and paddle back in.

I was kind of stupid in those days; that wasn’t the reason girls liked me. The fairleads to the mooring cleats would wear through the lines to the beer keg and the boat would float loose. It would take me a day or two to find it floating in the harbor.

When I was 16, there was a girl, who the summer between my sophomore and junior year, had water skied naked across the sound. To my adolescent imagination, this was the height of sexuality and daring. She was a tall, thin, attractive girl, who didn’t seem too embarrassed by the revelation of it.

The summer following my junior year, I dated a girl who was gorgeous and a year older than me. We’d go sailing, the days neither of us was working, in the light LI Sound winds. Joan would take off her top, and we’d sail around the Sound. It was my wildest fantasy come to life. We’d spot some larger boat in the distance and chase it down. She’d put on my button-up shirt as we got close.

We’d generally speak to the skipper about his boat, where he was from, and where he was going. I never saw a woman skipper in those days.

Starting at 9 am, when the air was cool and light, we would ghost out of the harbor and return mid-afternoon.

By the next summer, Joan was gone and there was a new girlfriend – she was gorgeous in a different way… I was stupid, but now in the ways of women – or girls at least. I screwed that relationship up so bad, I still am reaping what I sowed all these years later.

I never took the Star out single-handed; it was Bob Pethick and me, and Janet sometimes. Jason and me other times. We’d sail into Port Jefferson harbor and anchor in the pool left by the gravel mine. There was an old barge left on the beach.

The wind would blow in the afternoon some days, and there was no way to reef the sails on the Star, so we’d sail it anyway. It took me years to learn when I should reef. I always took the advice to reef early. I think I was reefing too early – I learned that in 2017 leaving Haida Gwai.

We were sailing the Star, I don’t remember who was with me, in Port Jefferson harbor on a broad reach, just aft of beam (the wind was coming from just behind the midpoint of the boat). Just like everything I read, I pulled in the main, and the Star hopped up on a plane. It was like sailing on smooth ice. We threw a big rooster tail, and we were off. I still feel the rush of that excitement.

I held it as long as I could, but we were heading into the mooring field, so we headed up to starboard and tacked back. I never found that combination on the Star again.

Port Jefferson Harbor on the left, Mount Sinai on the right

We stored the Star in the back driveway at my parents’ house between seasons (I lived there too, being a minor and all). I’d try to fix the exposed iron on the leaded keel – the iron keel had a coat of lead to keep it from rusting. I used polyester resin, which didn’t hold well, and then switched to epoxy, which did.

My friend Erwin, who I am still friends with, would help with that. I don’t know if I ever took Erwin sailing on any sailboat until Caro Babbo in 2014. I’m not a good friend, I’m afraid.

Arthur Knapp, the author of Race Your Boat Right, was a member of the Larchmont Yacht Club, which spec’d out the Star design, had it built, and held the license to the plans. Knapp tells the story of one member who allowed the keel to rust away, making the boat a killer downwind, but requiring the crew to get out and stand on the keel to bring the boat back to vertical when it took a knock down. He found this very funny, and I found it very puzzling. Knapp had a seat on the New York Stock Exchange (NYSE).††

When I was nineteen, I allowed, by not visiting the boat for a few weeks at a time, the line to the mooring ball to once again wear through. This time the boat caught in one of the channels in the marsh, filled up with water, and the bottom fell out. People had come along and stripped her of anything useful, plus the mast and boom. I was, and still am, very embarrassed about this. I had plans to go back and set her on fire; instead, I cut off her bow, which I still have, and left her to rot. I have no idea what happened to her keel. It could still be buried in the mud these fifty years later.

I continued to sail my Sunfish, which had no flotation. One time, my friend Keith and I, whom I met freshman year at SUNY Stony Brook when he and I had the same schedule, went out in the Sunfish (technically a Funfish) when the sea came up. We’re talking two-foot waves. The boat started to fill, and there was no way to empty it.

We discussed spending the night in the water when a powerboat with two couples came by and rescued us. I have no recollection of how old they were. In my mind’s eye, fifties. But who knows.

As I recount this, I guess the women must have thought we were good-looking. They said one of us, Keith, I think, looked like John Tesch, who was a newscaster on WABC-TV.

They took us into Port Jefferson dock, where we’d parked the car. We bailed the boat and met our girlfriends, whom we were each destined to marry. (Keith is still married to Elizabeth.)

I continued to sail racing dinghies, but never raced them after we left for San Diego, for what was a two-year postdoc.

There were two Lasers I had from a friend with whom I raced a Lightning; He was interested in a retail franchise. Robyn and I would each sail one out to the spit in Port Jefferson Harbor and camp under the large No Camping sign. Robyn was a good sailor. We’d go camping with the two of them stacked on a small flat-bed trailer. We lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn, in those days and stored my 1973 Celica, the boats and trailer in my parents’ back driveway, where years later I would store the T-Bird.

When we brought the assemblage (two lasers with all rigging lashed to the trailer pulled by the Celica with a trailer hitch made from a lentile), two of the neighborhood kids came by to look at the stack.

I remember the two boys as being very Brooklyn and speaking with a serious Brooklyn accent, something people on our block didn’t have – New York is defined by blocks, they are your enclave within your neighborhood. They looked at the trailer, and one of them asked what it was. I said it’s a boat. After a few moments, he replied, it’s not a boat. It has wheels.

We drove to Connecticut, camped, and sailed. Robyn sailed into the marshes at one point, despite me saying that she’d get caught in there. She went anywhere and did, but to my pride and amazement, she tacked her way back out. She really could sail.

When Robyn got her postdoc at UCSD, I proposed we buy a sailboat and live aboard. So, when we went out there to look for a place to live, we saw San Diego harbor, which was an open harbor with dozens of boats anchored near the shore. (By 2019, it was very tightly managed with an effort to keep boats that can’t sail out of the harbor.)

Robyn looked at the boats and, as we looked at apartments, said, ‘‘This will be like camping out, won’t it?’’ I didn’t sail again until 2002, 20 years later.

*number 1113, Taaris, built in Canada,

†Ignoring when I was younger

††He also was the author of the phrase ‘‘Winches like wenches come in many sizes and shapes’’

††† Pelle Petterson – it turns out a new friend, Alex, raced Pelle and beat him – so did a bunch of other people in that race, as apparently Pelle came in tenth.

8.5% for increased margin (Broken Boat Blues, Part 2)

Blake Island Marina, 17-SEP-2026 – Another $1000 all together to get the cutlass bearing fixed. I could have done it in 90 minutes.

But I would have needed a machine shop for part of it. And I definitely would have needed a lift. That’s about $800. The extra two hundred isn’t too bad to swallow when you look at it that way.

Stuck inside of Dockton with the Boat Repair Blues Again

Dockton, Quartermaster Harbor, WA – 10-SEP-2026 – We arrived on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend – last weekend – to visit my friend John Riley. To see him again and work on his boat a bit. It was good to see him. He arranged a mooring ball for us. He came over for breakfast and dinner, I rowed over to his boat and he rowed over to ours. When we cast off the mooring ball on Tuesday, it sounded like someone had attached a coffee can full of bolts under the cockpit.

Chaffles and Eagle Island

Eagle Island, Puget Sound, WA 6-SEP-2026 6:45 AM – ‘‘Get me the dog blanket, please,’’ says Jennifer as she settles into the cockpit to drink coffee, read the NYT and look at the seals.

This our fourth day at Eagle Island (after three nights). It is an island one can walk around in ten minutes at low tide and there are no eagles. Across the sound from us is part of greater Tacoma, north is a prison island, and south Anderson Island connected to Seattle by ferry. There are three mooring balls, one on this (east) side and two on the west. This time of year there are generally mooring balls available. The bottom here has very good holding so one can just drop an anchor if there isn’t a mooring ball available and then there is no limit on how long you can stay.

Pondering

McMicken State Park, 30-AUG-2026 – I’ve been thinking about all the additions and changes I’ve made to Caro Babbo, and all the changes in my life that have happened during our ownership.

There are still things I learn about my boat. Not many and not startling. I’ve learned about solar panels and batteries this year. I’ve learned about Jabsco toilets – learned more about them really. Enough that I am rethinking the composting toilet I had planned for this year. And I am thinking about all the people that have come into my life and those that have left life during these thirteen years. Twenty-three years if I count when I moved aboard the T-bird that first summer.

Sound Sailing

McMicken Island State Park, 29-AUG-2026 – It’s Saturday, the last Saturday in August. We’re at anchor, on a mooring ball in Puget Sound. The people we run into don’t take there boats out of the country generally and the Sound is their boating world. Most are still working, so it is quite understandable.

We’ve been back from our Canada trip about a week and half and been on the boat since then. We’ve been out of Port Townsend for nine days. Three of those were in Swantown in Olympia.

Despite our travels, family and family responsibilities (and business) have crept into our travels. We were in Olympia to help Jennifer’s daughter change apartments. The new space is marvelous for her daughter and cat. It opens onto a public patio where there are people and those people bring their animals. I worked on the move one day, Jennifer worked on it part of two more, then her daughter had had enough of mom’s help and we left the next morning (yesterday).

Bertha Osgood Hart

46º18’N 60º7.5’W 25-JUN-2026 – I’m returning to eastern Canada. I haven’t been here in 53 years. I was 19.

We left Port Townsend on the 5^th of June, spent a night on the American side and crossed over. We’ve border crossed three times on this trip and never been asked a question beyond why are you/ why were you in Canada? The last time I crossed into eastern Canada was a different, though a very polite crossing with me allowing the customs guy to keep an allergy pill, over the belated protestations of my then girlfriend.

This trip has been a geology trip, Jennifer’s dream trip come true. We stopped a various geological sites: places where the layers of the planet were visible, a coal mine and a dinosaur graveyard in Alberta.

We spent the most time in Alberta of the provinces so far – that will change beginning tomorrow. (If you check the coordinates, you’ll know where we are going.) Drumheller and the area around there is where the Cretacious era dinosaurs fossils are exposed. The saying is that if you can go twenty feet without tripping over a fossil your not in Dinosuar Provincial Park. This isn’t hyperbole, but you must be on your hands and knees looking for fossils. Most are a few millimeters in size. The big dinosaurs are there, but either embedded in rock, or entombed.

This time, finally, the paleontolgical world has been specifying where the continents were at the time of whatever era they are talking about. For the times of the really big dinosaurs, Alberta was just above or below the equator. Nova Scotia was attached to Morocco. Things made sense for me finally. There were three die offs, mass extinctions, they’re referred to as. There were big dinosaurs, which weren’t called dinosaurs, that were all killed off, only to re-evolve ten or twenty million years later and be called dinosaurs.

[Interestingly, some researcher in Australia have predicted were in the middle of one, 40% of all species will disappear in the next couple of decades. Mostly insects, but as SCRAM meant in nuclear power development meant, the earth will do fine. In that college course, they talked about the amount of radiation necessary to result in mean dead earth. The guy teaching the course, then emphasized that this was air breathing creatures, creatures in the sea wouldn’t know anything had happened.]

The specific era in Alberta was four or five million years before T-Rex, but his smaller forbearer was present.

The number of these large beasts that existed was very large indeed, with herds of three thousand. But how many were there actually. No one, but no one would give a guess.

The land in Alberta is a plain with deep canyons cut out when fresh water carved up the land, leaving hoodoos standing. A hoodoo is a lump of harder earth which was not dissolved away by the rushing water, that still has the harder layer of stone supported by the column left behind. Yes, the plain that is Alberta where there were has a rock layer covering many layers of sand an other stuff below. As you know, as you descend, the layers were laid down over time. The lower the layer, the longer ago is was laid down.

These layers were quite flat. In Nova Scotia for example, the crashing of the continents where they bang together can made the layers tilt, go vertical, or fold on on top of the other, but here in Alberta they were in layers.

Which brings us back to how many dinosaurs were there. There areas dug out by the long ago water is a very small percentage of both the province and the land in the area. Is this exposed area representative of all of the are that wasn’t exposed? Is under the highways, under the developed and undeveloped land the same? Then the numbers are too high to calculate… but, were talking ten or twenty million years. That big a number is beyond comprehension. Elizabethan England was 600 years ago, the Egyptians were 4000 years ago. A million years is 250 times longer ago than the Egyptians, ten million is 2500 times. Ten million years, the number of years these large beasts roamed is 25,000 times the length of time since the Egyptians. So a billion of them, divided by ten million is just a thousand per year. There had to be many more than 100 billion of them. How many fossils are there starting with a population of 100 billion large animals?

Well, Canada and Alberta is very proud of these fossils. They have built the best museum I have ever seen, and the they label which are castings and which are actual fossils.

Jennifer and I spent eight hours in the museum. While we were there we started a conversation with one of the workers, Warren. Warren was quite knowledgeable and answered our questions. When I asked about how the place was funded, he spoke with enthusiasm and knowledge. He broke down the different entities that ran the place, who funded what, etc.

Warren mentioned that he started after high school when he rode his bike out and asked if he could volunteer. ‘‘I never left.’’

We spoke for about twenty minutes; I was feeling guilty about keeping him for so long so I broke off the conversation and said good bye.

After he did leave, I told Jennifer I should have asked him to walk around the museum with us.

The next day we went on a tour of the reserved lands at dinosaur park. The person taking us around (terrible weather, small group) was a young woman who has worked there three years and was discussing what she would do next – I thought I was monopolizing here and broke that off as well. We spoke later when she made it clear that we weren’t. I always encourage everyone to get a PhD. You have a much bigger effect when you run things rather than be an individual contributor – and you can get your own funding to decide what you’d like to work on.

A group of trucks went by while were we walking through the reserved lands. The woman mentioned the man driving one of the trucks. ‘‘He oversees the logistics of the site and ferries the researchers out. He’s an interesting guy. His name is Warren.’’ I mentioned we’d met someone named Warren. ‘‘He’s worked here his entire life,’’ the woman responded. I countered, ‘‘He didn’t go to college.’’ ‘‘Yes, he’s published papers, sponsored meetings, he runs lots of committees at the museum and internationally.’’

I should have asked him to walk with us.

Fossil hunting stopped for about 50-70 years in Alberta, and then started up again with people my age. It sounds like fishing in Alaska in the 70s, about the same time that fossil hunting got going. Very little oversight, great discoveries to be made, lots of fame to be gotten in fossils, and lots of wealth in fishing. Then came the regulations. Probably necessary in both, to both to prevent over fishing, and destruction of the fossil sites. You can’t keep any fossil you find in Alberta and most of the provinces and you need a license, which you must buy from someone who has one to commercial fish.

Who is Bertha Hart? I spoke with her in 1973 on the trip where the customs agent kept the allergy pill, which cost a dollar in 1973, about $11 in todays money. Keep reading.

End Part one.

Cruise: Who is whom

47º 34N 169º 51N, 8-MAY-2026 – During the conversation with the senior staff that manages the hotel and restaurants, a discussion came up about the people who work for the hotel and restaurants. They are generally Filipino, then Malay and Indian. Though I was told that the people who interface with the guests are generally hired because they speak the language of the guests. So, while they were in Asia, they had a lot of Chinese speakers, and they will hire a lot of Mexicans for the Spanish speakers. He was somewhat unclear, or I didn’t understand the tenses of when these people were/would be hired.

The Cruise

Ovation of the Seas, 50º 57N 159º 22E, 7- May-2026 – We’re traveling at 20 knots in pretty calm water. It has been foggy. The ship has been blowing a fog horn: One long blast every two minutes.

There are 4100 guests and 1500 staff, close to 7000 people on board. Except at meals, it feels like less. At the start of meals, it is very crowded at lunch and breakfast. The other meals aren’t too bad. Most of the passengers have set times they eat at the same table with the same people, so there is some order.

Working our way to the next boat in Japan

North East of Yokohama, 2-MAY-2026 – Let’s start with Caro Babbo: She’s in slip 132 in Boat Haven in Port Townsend. We can keep her there until October first, as long as we don’t leave the slip for more than three days. Then they will cancel our agreement and give the slip to someone else. No, they didn’t tell us that when they offered the slip. I found out when I went to the office to confirm things. I raised it with Kristian and told him we should each think about it, and I did. I expect we’ll keep it there until we want to go sailing, and then won’t bring it back until October when we return to Point Hudson and slip 28.