Plans Turned Upside Down

Today is the day we pick up the barge, but we have plans before that happens; a trip to another lighthouse and a hike to Salmon Falls, but first we head to the Cracker Barrel to return a copy of John Grisham’s, The Fugitive – a book on tape—to the cashier.

We are here, we order breakfast.

Dawdling over a cup of coffee, I decide to make sure the pick-up time for the boat is 3 pm.  I reread the instructions.  Pick-up time is 2 p.m., and many people arrive at noon, check-in, and then head to the grocery store to buy provisions.  It is 10:30 a.m. Macedon is thirty minutes away. I relay the bad news to Michael, “I don’t think we can get to the Oswego lighthouse.”  A questioning look demands an explanation.

“Well, I messed up…”

This unplanned, planned vacation may be my undoing.  I don’t do well flying by the seat of my pants.  I’m going to have to return to my old ways.

The Harriet Wiles

We arrive at Macedon Landing, opening the office door to an empty desk and note telling us to go down to the dock and start hollering. Luckily we don’t have to because as we walk down the hill, the owner walks up. We discuss things.  I’m given a quick tour of the barge—I’m curious about storage.  There is plenty.

I knew what the Harriet Wiles would look like; I’ve seen lots of pictures on the Internet. But in person, she looks cheerful as she sits there waiting for us to begin our trip.  She is the color of perkiness personified; bright red, bright green, and bright yellow.  I can’t help but think of Popeye and want to start singing his song.  But I don’t.

Soon we are at the Wal Mart Super Center making purchases. We decide to buy only as much food as will fit in the top of a small double-tiered cart; Michael knows I tend to overdo, so I am given limits. We leave with three dinners, two lunches, and seven breakfasts.  I’m quite proud of myself.  We stop at the liquor store and buy a few bottles of wine—and rum. You have to have run if you are a sailor.

Michael unloads the car, and I begin to fill nooks and crannies with all of our belongings. Soon we are told it is time for our orientation to the whys and wherefores of the Harriet Wiles. I have ten minutes to finish what I am doing.  We’ve chartered boats before, so we think we know what we are in for. Normally we are given the keys, a few brief instructions, and we are on our own. So much for thinking.

Lessons on the Ins and Outs of a Canal Barge

We are schooled on everything! Fuses and electricity and plugging and un-plugging and batteries and tillers and stoves and radios lines and engine rooms and controls and thrusters and backing and slow forward and neutral and little buttons that can be pulled out but need to be pushed in and cords and heads and hidey holes where special stuff is stored and what doesn’t matter and what does. And I wonder how in the world Michael is going to remember all of this stuff.  I don’t even know what they are talking about.

Then they tell us it is time to learn how to drive the boat and what to do when going through a lock.  They will instruct, only instruct; we will do all of the doing. I wonder if Michael is nervous; we sold Island Rose a long time ago, and the Harriet Wiles seems like a huge, heavy, unwieldy tug.

Instructions While Underway

I’m enjoying myself till we reach a lock, and I am told I need to go to the bow and catch the rope inside the lock and hold tight, so the boat doesn’t move. I am also told to put on a special pair of gloves, and I am a little stressed, but the catching is easy, and soon the gates close, and we drop the sixteen feet we need to proceed.

We pull up to a field of newly mown grass and let the two young men off the boat.  After a few minor repairs—by the owner who was summoned by our instructors—we are off.

On Our Way, On Our Own

We go through another lock—on our own. We have to wait forever for the gates to open. Harriett is not happy with the wait and wiggles around like an impatient child.

Our plans are a night in Palmyra, but it comes too soon, and we pass it up.  My fault.  I’m the navigator. I look at Michael and say, “You are going to have to do a wheelie.” In a five-ton tug, I think.

Michael doesn’t even frown.  He proceeds to make a u-turn and head back down the canal the way we came.  But he doesn’t like what he sees; the path to the dock is too narrow, he says.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “the next town is only one and a half miles away.” Another wheelie, and we continue on our trek east.

There are three navigation aids in our cockpit, and I begin looking at one, counting miles.  I look at another and groan inwardly and worry.  I’m a terrible navigator—it has been so long!  “Michael, I think it is almost twelve miles. At least that is what this other guide says. And this map—this map shows it to be much longer.  I don’t understand.”

“Charlotte, the chart you were looking at is in hours, not miles.”

“Well then, we better go back—twelve miles—it will be dark when we get there.”

“We’ll be fine,” Michael assures me.

Being back on the water, being back on a boat, feels like coming home.

We’re fine.