Back in Canada! Crossing Champlain, Cassette Tapes, A New Delay, and Boozing With Quebecers

Orchard Point, Lake Champlain to St-Jean-sur-Richelieu - 80 nautical miles sailed, 3 kilometres walked

By 5 am SeaLight was already on the move. The plan today was to cross the entirety of Lake Champlain, cross back into Canada, and continue up the Richelieu River to the first lock of the Chambly Canal, putting us just a day and a half from Montreal. Despite the loss of a day back in Troy, we were still well positioned to get to Montreal in time for Curtis to fly home on Saturday - and even have time to get the mast back up.

We had a steady south wind at our back and a favourable current that pushed us along at over 7 knots and even up to 9 knots at one point - amazing, considering we were without sails. The beautiful scenery from yesterday continued as the water widened into the full lake. Until this trip, I had known nothing about Lake Champlain, but now I could see why the Quebec sailors we'd met along the way raved about it. It is a long lake - 60 miles from top to bottom, but quite skinny with only about 8 miles at its widest and far less than that in most areas. There are many bays and islands providing dozens of great anchorges and there didn't appear to be a great deal of development along the shorline, giving it some sense of remoteness. The only disappointment for me was that we did not have time to explore it or visit any of the towns. I was really hoping to see Burlington, Virginia - the largest town on the lake, but that would have to wait for a future trip.

It was a relaxing ride as we had no locks to pass through and no winding curves to navigate. We met some boats, but not many, and it felt like we had the lake mostly to ourselves. The time passed neither fast nor slow and we spent it in lazy conversation. One topic we meandered into was music cassettes. Magnus was curious about how the transition from cassettes to compact discs happened and what it was like. It gave Curt and I a chance to reminisce over the tape deck years and the mechanics of music enjoyment back then. Magnus sat intrigued as we delved into the finer points of cassette operation: how the sound quality began great but slowly degraded each time you played it, how you had to fast forward or rewind to get to the next or previous song (and needed lightening fast reflexes and a highly developed sense of timing to nail it), how a blank tape and double cassete deck allowed you to create mix tapes, and how you could high speed dub it, but had to suffer through Chipmunks-styled songs, how you could record new mix tapes over old ones, but it often left a ghostly echo of the overwritten tune and eventually became unlistenable if you did it too many times, how you could record songs off the radio but had to sit for hours waiting for a good song to come up then you'd usually miss the first 20 seconds of it because you had to go for a quick leak, how you could toss cassettes on the floor of your car and step on them and spill beer on them and they'd still work, and how the ultimate destiny of most cassettes was to be eaten by a dodgy deck and you'd spend hours retreiving the flimsy black knarled tape from the guts and gears of the player then wind it all back into the cassette with patience and a pencil. Then we told Magnus about the transition to compact discs and the incredible sound quality that did not degrade over time...that is, assuming you did not toss them on the floor of your car and step on them with gravelled shoes and scratch them so bad they skipped all over the place. And how even clean cds would skip in the car every time you crunched over pitted grid roads or crashed over crappy train tracks or ran over a gopher or attempted a last minute cop turn and hit the curb. And how expensive they were (something like $60 in today's money) so you had to be damn careful what you bought as there was a new CD in your future only every month or two. And how you could buy a cd repair kit to fill in the scratches on an abused disc and bring it partially back to life. And how my first cd was Motley Crue's Shout at the Devil and it cost me $27 from Sam the Record Man in Fairhaven Mall and I must have listened to it a thousand times. And how if somebody had told us back then that by the time we had kids of our own you'd be able to buy a service for you and your family to have access to nearly every song ever recorded, from every country in the world, and be able to use it in your car, home, or portable devices as much as you want and not suffer through commercials, and create your own playlists and share them with all other users of the service and have artificial intelligence curate custom playlists for you accordings to your musical interests, and have it display the song lyrics as it plays, and how you could have all this each month for less than the price of a single cd? Well, we would have told that person that was simply impossible then put on a Motley Crue cd. 

In an attempt to top or at least match the dazzling fried spam and spinach sandwiches Magnus made for us yesterday, for lunch I took the leftover chicken curry, fried it crunchy, boiled an extra large can of baked beans, and sliced up and toasted fresh pumpernickel bread. It was pretty good...but paled in comparison to Magnus's creation.

We crossed the lake and made it to the Canadian border shortly after 1pm. The border itself was marked by what seemed to be a floating pool chair and we lifted our feet as we crossed it, admiring New York State to the west, Vermont to the right, and Quebec straight ahead. We docked at the tiny Canadian border station and went in to clear through. The Quebecer dude there had the blackest hair and mustache I'd ever seen and looked like he belonged in a movie. He asked us a few question then asked for the boat documents. I gave him the original Certificate of Registry for the boat issued by Transport Canada.

"Ok, but where is the original bill of sale?" he asked, eyes peering at me through his black eyebrows.

"Bill of sale?" I asked.

"Yes, to prove it is a Canadian boat."

My internal voice was saying a bill of sale says nothing about the registration of a boat and I could write one up on a pice of paper in thirty seconds and a Certificate of Registry is the only document that proves country of origin and ownership, but remembering my propensity for aggravating border guards with questions and getting myself into trouble, I replied, "I probably have it in the boat somewhere. I can go and dig it out for you if you like?"

"Where did you buy this boat?"

"In Bowmanville, near Toronto. Four years ago."

"And you are the owner?"

"Yes, along with my wife."

"OK, but next time bring the bill of sale."

"Yes sir."

"Have a good day."

I was exceptionally proud of myself for not arguing my point and instead just nodding and smiling.

With that, we were finally back in Canada, but the joy of being this close to Montreal was cut short when I received a message from my friend Jonathan from Hibiscus, who had arrived yesterday to the first lock at the town of St-Jean-sur-Richelieu. He told us there was a big backlog of boats and it was going to be at least a two day wait to get in. For the second time of this journey leg we were smashed with the feeling of "Let's go, let's go! Now let's wait."

We arrived around 4:30 and took one of the few remaining spaces on the concrete wall in town near the locks and were helped in by Jonathan and another boater. He gave us the rundown of the situation and told us to walk over to the lock office to register and get our boat name in the queue. This we did, and were impressed with the beauty of the town as we walked through the lovely waterfront area with comfy outdoor furniture, two level gazebos, public washrooms, and a high street filled with bars, restaurants, and shops. We got SeaLight added to the list and were told it would probably be Saturday, but there was an outside chance we could get through Friday afternoon. With that, we settled in for an extended visit of St-Jean-sur-Richelieu.

We found a cinema and they were showing the new Mission Impossible movie, but upon closer inspection we discovered it was the "VF" format: Version Francaise, which meant the damn dialogue is overdubbed with French, probably the last place in the world where they still do this. So we skipped that idea and returned to the boat, made dinner, and cracked into the ample supply of cold beer.

By 10:30 pm Magnus had fallen asleep in the cockpit, it was completely dark outside, Curt and I were still drinking beer, and we decided to pound a quick tumbler of tequila then go check out the local dive bar we'd found earlier. So, we left the boat wide open with Magnus on guard and jolly-strolled into town. Being Quebec, the bar was, of course, full of people having fun on a Wednesday night. We ordered two pints of Beau's Juicy IPA and a group of Quebecers latched onto us immediately. Richard was a stereotypical Quebecer - funny, smiling all the time, wore a cool derby hat, worked for Cirque de Soleil as an equipment installer, and lived next door to the bar. His companions were an 85-year-old grandma who loved to smoke and drink and her slightly younger daughter who was sweet as pie, missing a number of teeth, and was intensely interested in us after she heard we were sailors. But it became clear she hadn't understood the nature of our sailing situation as she started asking difficult questions on our rank, Navy experiences, and expected duration of shore leave. We mostly nodded, smiled, and focused on the game 1, overtime period of the Stanley Cup final between Edmonton and Florida, showing on the big tv in the bar.

The bar was alight with activity. One crew of girls played a roudy game of foosball, hooting and hollering. A group of dudes told loud stories at the bar, laughing. The bartender poured out drinks continually, stopping only to drink herself and she looked to be pounding back more than some of the customers. Richard brought over two shots for us, purchased by one of the dudes at the bar who had lost a bet over something. We raised our glasses to Richard and his gang, the dudes at the bar, the bartender who also had a shot, and tipped it back. It was boozy, high octane, and had a finish of either black pepper or jalepeno. We watched the rest of the game through watery eyes until Edmonton flipped in the puck for the win.

We said farewell to our new friends then floated back to the boat on a cushion of intoxication and joy.

It had been a day.

A Day of Locks and Arrival at Lake Champlain

Lock 4 to Orchard Point, Lake Champlain - 75 nautical miles sailed, 7 locks

Despite pulling anchor and leaving at 6am, the Frenchies got the jump on us and were nowhere to be seen. It was a beautiful morning and I could tell that it was going to be a hot day once the sun burned off the morning chill.

When we reached lock 5 we found our Quebecer friends at the front of the queue, followed by Bobcat, then two other sailboats. The lock opened shortly after 8 am and the boats entered one by one and got tied up. We managed to sqeeuze SeaLight's wide arse into the remaining space and the lock lift was smooth and fast. 

The remaining locks were similarly fast and trouble free and time passed rapidly. Halfway through the locks we reached the highest elevation and began the downhill portion, which we found easier, but the crew on the sailboat behind us had a hell of a time snagging the lock ropes with their boat hooks so their boat was drifting out of control frequently. We kept a good distance from them.

We passed one amazing property that fronted on a lock and a gorgeous bay. But when we got closer we realized it was beautiful from afar, but far from beautiful. On the lawn was a rusted snowmobile surrounded by dandelions. Curtis called it Polaris Yard Art. Beside the house was a beaten-up tractor that hadn't moved in years and other rusted out trucks up on cinder blocks, one of which, ironically, had a load full of old tires. At the shoreline was a busted up kayak, cords of driftwood lying haphazardly, the ripped up remains of a greenhouse, a scary shed no doubt harbouring legions of rats, and other piles of random junk. Towards the back of the property was a boat and trailer graveyard with hulking vessels lying in severe states of disrepair and neglact. The house itself probably started out nice, but was now leaning strangely, had a curling roof, and bedsheets hung across the windows. The only thing I couldn't spot was a pitbull chained to an engine block but that was probably on the other side of the house.

We completed the last lock at around 3:30 and pulled up to the fuel dock at the nearby marina and had the fastest fuel stop we've ever experienced. We were in and out of there in twelve minutes. In that time we pumped in 20 gallons of diesel, 30 gallons of water, used the john, and had a tour of of the bar and restaurant by the shirtless, leather-hided gentleman working there who was fast, efficient, and friendly. He looked a bit like Iggy Pop, but had better hair.

From here we motored north through the ever widening channel until we reached the south end of Lake Champlain shortly after 8 pm and there found a gorgeous anchorage with a backdrop of a classy lighthouse, a state park, and a sun glowing deep red from what seemed to be smoke in the air.

It had been a long day so we had a quiet dinner, glass of vino from the goon bag, then called it a night in preparation for tomorrow's 5 am start.

The Champlain Canal

Troy, New York to Lock 4 of the Champlain Canal - 13 miles sailed, 5 locks

7 am. I was clobbered by the sting of a headache as I opened my eyes, ending my anasthetic sleep. Last night's sea of Carlsburg continued to ruminate in my gut and that final glass of tequila we poured on top of the beer now seemed like a bad move. I checked the New York Canal Corporation's website for notices on the lock situation. Nothing yet. We were going to be stuck here for another day.

I contemplated getting up to do some writing. But the warmth of the bed would not release me and I instantly fell back asleep.

8:30 am. My phone is buzzing. It's Ana. I clear my throat and try for an awake voice.

"Hello?" I croak.

"Hi. What are you doing? Why does your voice sound like that?" Ana says.

"Late night."

"Why aren't you guys on the water?"

"The locks aren't open."

"They sure are, they posted a notice at 7:30."

"Shit! I checked at 7 and there was nothing," I said as I leaped out of bed and threw on yesterday's clothes.

"You never sleep in."

"I made an exception for Curt's visit. Hey, I gotta go, will call you later."

"OK, bye. Good luck with the locks!"

After some rapid boat prep we pushed off the dock and headed upstream to the Federal Lock, first of the journey. I was hoping we could make the 10am opening for the start of the Champlain locks, which was four or five miles away, but we arrived at the Federal lock just as the doors were closing so there was no way that was going to be possible.

I gave the lads a briefing on lock protocol while we waited, and we waited a long time. When the ancient steel doors finally opened we proceeded into the lock, secured the boat, then waited patiently for the other five boats behind us to get into the lock. The lift went well, but the full process was painfully slow. On this trip we've learned lock staff are chosen specifically for their slow pace of walking, and candidates with leg deformities, missing limbs, or severe back injuries are especially sought after. The gentleman tending this lock had all limbs intact and seemed to walk without pain, but moved with a general hokey-pokiness, stopping to chit chat with the captains of all six boats in the lock. We were the first boat out but were soon passed in sequence by the three cabin cruiser power boats that had been in the lock with us. The first two passed gently but the third threw a giant wake that rocked SeaLight and rolled her from side to side. He then passed the other two boats and waked one of them so hard he nearly did a 360. Curt reckoned the boat was loaded with drugs.

We arrived to lock 1 of the Champlain canal shortly before 11, tied up to the concrete wall, then waited. The captain of a 42' Nordic Tug named Bobcat was out for a walk and passed by our boat.

"Morning!" I said. "How are you?"

"Old and ugly," he muttered, then kept walking. You hardly ever get an honest response to that question.

The four locks went fairly well, but they do lay a beating on boats. Each of the other five boats who locked with us all of the way through took some bruising - masts scraping along the concrete wall as the crew stuggle to straighten the boat being blown sideways, hulls grinding along the canal edges, cleats being strained, bows smashing into floating logs. As we approached lock 3 a giant tree blocked the path, but then began to slowly rotate, opening a small gap for us. I gunned it to make it past the tree, but then a heavy gust and current pushed us into the concrete wall as we passed. It felt like we had scraped the entire side off the boat and destroyed the solar panel, but a subsequent damage assessment revealed only a few bruises on the already beaten up aluminum gunnel guard rails. And the solar panel somehow survived unscathed.

By the time we exited the final lock it was nearly 6 pm so we tied up to the wall on the other side for the night, along with a Quebecer boat we'd met along the way. Magnus found a fishing rod on the boat so began throwing casts while Curt and I enjoyed revitalizing Carlsburgs which wiped away the stubborn lingering headaches. We were enjoying some fine tunes when Magnus, who had walked back to the lock to try his luck, called to us. His previous cast had been too aggressive and half the rod had separated and launched into the air along with the lure. Both had sunk to the bottom and become snagged on something. Curt deployed the dinghy and set out paddling a rescue mission while I finished up a call with Ana, giving her an update on the day's events, then had to cut it short when another boat, southbound, arrived and needed some help with their lines.

The rescue mission was a total bust and they returned with half a fishing rod and full embarrassment. The three of us went for a dinghy ride to see the nearby town then returned to SeaLight and spent half an hour cleaning up the mess of liquified caulking from the disastrous reattachment job I had attempted a couple of weeks before on the stern flooring panels.

Dinner was simple pesto pasta with a fantastic Magnus twist - layering in a bag of spinach on the nearly cooked pasta which gave it a nutritious green zing and paired perfectly with the pesto sauce and pleasant plonk drained from the five litre Cardbordeaux sack, which we had started calling the "Goon Bag" - an excellent hunk of Aussie slang Magnus had picked up from his flatmates in Edinburgh.

Our post dinner drinks and chatter was going so well, then we heard the blast of a vessel horn and popped out of the boat to see a giant barge had arrived and was looking for his parking spot. With headlamps and spotlights, the crews of the three boats flew into action and we squeaked between the mighty steel barge and the twisted tree branches that hung from the shore like witch fingers. We motored slowly through the channel and into the bay, navigating with the help of the spotlight and the chart, but otherwise blind in the darkness of the evening. We dropped anchor, set it, then retired to the cozy cabin where we finished off the night with a few more pumps from the goon bag and some beautiful music.

Let’s Go, Let’s Go! Let’s Stop.

Coxsackie to Troy, New York - 23 miles sailed, 4 kilometres walked

By 7:15 am we had prepped the boat, ate breakfast, kissed Ana goodbye, and were pushing off from the Coxsackie Yacht Club dock headed north up the Hudson to the Champlain Canal. We were excited and energized as Magnus and Curtis got their first taste of the Hudson, dodging partially submerged trees and other debris. The heavy rain yesterday had again flushed a bunch of junk into the river creating hazardous conditions which, as I learned from the Mariner's Alert on the New York Canal Corporation's website, also forced them to close the first four locks of the damn Champlain canal! Sometimes it feels like the world is plotting against you. I try not to take it personally, but crikey, are we ever going to get this boat home?

I called Waterford dock master, which is the town nearest to the start of the Champlain canal to see if they had any space left on their docks. They did not. So we pulled the boat into the free public dock in the city of Troy, which is just north of Albany, ten miles from the Champlain canal, and a hundred and fifty steps from Dinosaur BBQ where Ana, Sina, and I had gorged ourselves on food just two weekends before. We hung at the boat for a while and after a brief disappearance in the cabin, Curtis returned to the cockpit.

"Hey, how do you transfer a dump from that hatch thing on the composting toilet to the chamber," Curt asked.

"What? Wait, did you read the SeaLight Visitor's Manual, page 3?" I said, voice teetering on the edge of alarm.

"I skimmed it," he admitted.

"You're supposed to open the hatch before you drop the load. So what you got there now is an inspection platter."

"Ah yes, I understand. I'll be right back..." he said as he took a few deep breaths then disappeared back into the cabin.

After the cleanup, the boys and I headed into town to see what we could find, and what we found was a food festival. But not just any festival. We stopped at two or three vendor stalls and I was perplexed, as the food that looked so delicious radiated no recognizable buttery or cheesy or porky aromas, and we were aghast to find ourselves in the epicentre of a Vegan Food Festival. The food did look good, but we had just scarfed Wonder bun hot dogs with jalapeno ketchup and cheese strips at the boat so weren't too hungry.

We explored a few of the shops, walked the streets admiring the beautiful architecture of the classic buildings, and stood for a very long time watching a local percussion troup banging drums, snares, triangles, and shakers to a large crowd of swaying onlookers. When we got tired of all that we returned to the boat and started working on the case of Carlsburgs we'd picked up at Duty Free. That went on for a very long time and fueled some magnificent conversations on music, travel, and the art of living dangerously. In fact, the beer drinking went on for so long that pouring ourselves tumblers of tequila took on the illusion of a stupendous idea.

I have no idea when we went to bed. But I do know my stomach was slightly irritated from laughing so much.

New Crew. Same Mission.

Paris, Ontario to Coxsackie, New York - 650 kilometres driven

Shore leave was fantastic. After arriving home nearly two weeks ago I immediately assembled a "Things To Do" list to give my life on land meaning and purpose. I cut the grass. I planted the garden. I cleaned the shed. I replaced the water heater. I did the banking. Ana and I painted the outdoor canopy ceiling and posts. We decided on a plan for our crumbling deck. I helped my friend Dave with his triplex construction project and a small art project (including creating a poo emoji using PL construction adhesive). I discovered more and more things to fix around the house (jobs I'd diligently procrastinated for years, but no longer had the convenient excuse of a full time job), then added them to the list after they were complete and scratched triumphant pen strokes through them.

Then, the kids arrived. Stella first, then Magnus eighteen hours later. Ana and I were overjoyed to have our ninos back with us. They both seemed older to my eyes, even though it had only been a few months since I'd seen them. We enjoyed family dinners together and heard about their shared trip to Europe, and Magnus's time in Scotland, and Stella's busy life at home. I had missed the kids so much.

My brother Curtis arrived yesterday and had a late night with Ana and I visiting and tippling, while the kids and a few of their friends visited and tippled and played poker in the dining room. It was a 2am finish and a 7am start to get ourselves to the Newport Yacht Club open house this morning, as a stop on our way back to SeaLight in Coxsackie.

I was so happy to see all of our Newport friends again. Dear friends. And Lydia and Daryl's little baby Zach, whose beautiful face we've been tortured with for months through digital images instead of in person. Once Ana got hold of him she refused to give him back and I thought she might try and smuggle him to the boat with us. The visit to Newport felt like a homecoming, and everybody welcomed us back, even though we weren't quite back yet. I will admit, I was shocked at how many of our friends had been following our trip through these journals. I thought it was only my mom and aunts reading them. It was all fun and games until a couple of Newporters physically assulted me in retribution for the little literary trick I pulled on them a few weeks ago. I took it like a man. And started planning my next big bullshit journal.

Shorly after 1pm we left Newport and headed south for New York state. Seven hours later we were back in Coxsackie, sitting in SeaLight, having drinks and eating custom naan pizzas. Once again, we stayed up way too late.

The boat trip was back on.