I am in the saloon after breakfast when I suddenly realise that everyone else it at the bow looking over the boat into the water so I go up to investigate - there’s a large blue legged crab clinging to the anchor chain. Mike lets a bit more chain out and our stowaway lets go but swims over to the bridle and clings on there instead. Apparently these local crabs are edible but one between four doesn’t provide much meat (and I don’t like the thought of boiling it to death anyway) so while Mike goes off to get the boat hook to give him a gently nudge, I waggle the bridle to see how hard he’s going to cling to it. To my surprise he lets go immediately and swims off.
Now I’ve never seen a crab swim in deep water; I thought they just crawled around on the sea bed and rocks, and just floated a bit if the water caught them, but they have special little flippers (or at least these do) that waggle around in the water. He looks quite sweet actually and I wish I had given him a closer look before encouraging him to clear off.
It’s another lovely day for just sitting around on the boat but Ann has other ideas and wants to get some washing done – she has seen that there is a laundrette in the town. We gather it together, and along with some of our rubbish, we head over to the dinghy dock. We give ourselves nearly two hours to do it and ask Mike to come back for us at 1.15 pm. I should have taken the hand held VHF as I later find out.
Getting rid of the rubbish ends up being a major problem that I had not anticipated. Although there will be places to dispose of it in the marina, we are on the other side and not marina guests. I ask around, go to the administration office, a lady makes phone calls and eventually I am told to go into the maritime museum to see Bill. In the museum shop, no one has heard of Bill or his bins but a very helpful lady there goes out to the boat yard behind them and eventually we discover where they are hidden in plain view of her office.
As we walk back to the museum she questions me about my sailing and when she hears that I have sailed around the world in 16 months she asks me if I will come back and give a talk about the experience. She’s disappointed when I say I am just passing through.
Ann has been guarding our dirty washing and wondering where the hell I have got to and I explain as we walk up the road to the laundrette – and discover that it is well and truly closed. Peering through the door we can see that all the machines are there but the place is deserted so Ann goes off to one of the other shops to find out what the score it. The score is nil points to us – the place has shut down for good. Apparently we can get a taxi and go a few miles down the road where there’s a place that will do it for you but that’s not what we want.
We figure there must be a laundry at St Michael’s Marina so we drag our dirty linen down the high street and down the road that I hope will lead to the other side of the creek. It does.
I go into the marina office and am greeted by a woman who, after realising that I am not a marina customer, proceeds to treat me as though I am something that she wants to scrape off the bottom of her shoe. When she finds out we actually want to use her laundry facilities, without being a marina customer (heaven forbid) she becomes even more frosty telling me that marina customers come first (no, really?) and that someone had just arrived who wanted to use the laundry. Her husband smiles apologetically and asks if we can come back tomorrow which seems to horrify her as she says they are fully booked at the marina tomorrow. Extremely reluctantly she says that if we are quick and only have one load, we can go right now, right this minute. Yes, ma’am! Any one would think we were getting the service free instead of having to pay for it.
Smiling sweetly and mentally giving her the ‘v’ sign we walk round the back to the laundry. After all the fuss I was expecting something really good but it’s a tiny room with two washers, two driers, a dirty floor and a rank smell of drains. By the time the washing goes in it is 45 minutes after we have left Mike and there is no time we will be ready by 1.15 pm.
There’s nothing we can do so we go off for a drink. The waitress is one step away from care in the community - Ann’s wine comes slopped over the glass and the bar, and my water is decidedly odd - it has bubbles and tastes of bicarbonate of soda. Yuk. When Ann asks for the bill we realise we have been charged for wine and draft soda – so that’s what the strange taste is.
We need to let Mike know that we can’t meet our rendezvous on time and go to the marina office. Thankfully the dragon isn’t there and the guys let me use their VHF to call the boat although there’s no answer – as I haven’t taken the hand held Mike hasn’t bothered to switch the radio on. One of the staff is a staunch fan of all things British and a massive Liverpool supporter. He gives us a brochure for the marina. What a rip off. This place is twice the price of the one in New York which was right by Central Park, and more than the one in Boston which was right in the centre of town. Not only that, they charge more for Friday and Saturday nights. I hate it when places do that.
The brochure does enlighten us on the subject of all the Union Jacks though. One reason is for ‘our partnership and loyalty to the USA during the Iraq conflict’ and the other reason is over the Battle of St Michaels in 1812. The British navy arrived to wipe out the town’s boatyards but were outwitted by the villagers who hung lanterns in trees beyond the town causing the gunners to overshoot. St Michaels has since been know as ‘The Town That Fooled The British’.
We go up to the end of the dock and watch for for Mike. We are on the opposite side of the creek to where we are supposed to be and hope that we can do something to attract his attention. We spot him immediately he leaves the boat and as soon as we think we are within yelling distance we stand there and shout, waving our arms around to attract his attention. He fails to notice us but no one else in the marina does. As cries of ’Mike’ and ‘Skiplah, we’re over here’ echo loudly around the marina, Mike passes 50 yards away, completely oblivious, our screaming masked by the noise of our outboard and his vision probably blocked by the smoke it puts out. Only when he reaches the dock on the far side and cuts the motor can he hear us and over he comes.
Refusing to go back to the boat and come back for us 45 minutes later, he instead comes to the bar and we wait for the drying to finish. Ann receives another glass of wine slopped everywhere. What is wrong with that woman?
We just have a very late, light lunch because we are off to the delights of Big Al’s smoker, and spend the afternoon reading and catching up with computer stuff.
Big Al’s is a bit of a disappointment really, especially for Terry. Ribs are off the menu until tomorrow and although the rest of the food is good, the portions are decidedly un-American and we leave, most of us with room to fill which unfortunately for my diet gets filled up by another vat of ice cream on the way back to the boat.
Position: 38 deg 47 min N, 76 deg 12 min W
Distance so far: 2636 miles
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