Only the guy who isn't rowing has time to rock the boat.
-Jean-Paul Sartre --French existentialist philosopher and writer, 1905-1980

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Well it sure is nice to wake up to sunshine this a.m.  It's beautiful out. At least for a bit. They say more rain tonight. But luckily the high winds are over. People are out and about again. In fact I think everyone was suffering from cabin fever because there were several people out early this morning, walking, running, walking dogs, working on their boats.
I can't complain too much, the bad weather allowed us time to do some work inside the boat. We have the shower working properly now which is a big deal. It's a pain when it isn't functioning correctly. Did some deep cleaning. So it's all good. But I am glad to see the sun.
The marina had new bark-dust laid just before the windstorm and now it is all over the grass. So I guess they will have to go back and rake it all out. It looked nice before it blew all over the place.
Ok, I am going to get back to the story where I left off yesterday. For those of you who did not get a chance to read the first post of the story, go to yesterdays post, then you will be all caught up.
Enjoy more of  Boat and be Damned  

Vermin believed that he could hitch his wagon to a prevailing wind and thus save the cost of a team of horses. His strange craft was last seen tracking through a wheat field in Kansa while pointed in the general direction of Oblivion, Nevada.
In recent years, the Midwestern Male no longer need abandon his yen for navigation just because he lives in an arid section of the Panhandle. On my last research trip into the landlocked hinterlands, I found Sioux City seamen, Texas tars, Montana mariner's.
In Dry Gulch, Wyoming, my wanderings led me to the headquarters of the Tumbleweed Yacht Club.
I was welcomed into the modest clubhouse by the Grand Admiral himself, a man named, Chester Binnacle.
"Glad to have you aboard," said Chester. "Port your helm to the bar and we'll swap yarns."
Chester Binnacle had cruised the coastal waters from Maine to Florida. He spoke knowingly of Chesapeake Bay, Cape Cod and many a port along the Atlantic. He had run the gamut from rowboars to outboards, from cruisers to yachts. He knew the pull of the tides, he could read a chart, box a compass and discuss maritime law. He was familiar with the latest motors and hulls. He was, indeed, a skilled seaman.
"You are, indeed, an accomplished mariner," I told him. "But why have you settled out here in the desert?"
"Boating is just as big out here," Chester said. "Matter of fact, all of our club members are expert navigators."
"Where do they navigate?"
"Out there," said Chester.
"Out where?"
"On Old Tumbleweed Lake, of course."
"Tumbleweed Lake?" I inquired, staring through the window at what seemed to be an endless expanse of desert, cactus and assorted rocks. "Where, exactly, is it?"
"Right out there, on the starboard side of that big cactus. Just beyond the dock."
To be sure, there was a dock in the distance, the pilings standing like fat toothpicks in a sea of sand. A few small boats lay on their sides near the invisible shore. Three buzzards circled over the hot landscape. The entire scene was as wet as a dust storm in the Texas Panhandle. The nearest body of water lay in the sink behind the bar.
"I can't see a thing without my glasses," I observed. "To me your lake looks like a cactus preserve."
"So it is," said Chester. "From January to October old Tumbleweed Lake dries up. But you should see it when the rains come. Positive torrent. Mad, tricky channels. Tough, choppy old devil. No place for landlubbers out there. Puts all of us to the test."
"All of you?" How many members do you have?"
"Full up. Dozens. All of them good, sturdy sailors. Care to meet some of our men?"
"I can't wait."

-------------------Stop-----------------more tomorrow.

Have a great day all!