July 17, 2023 – A Magnificent Waterfall, Storming the Spirit of Rochester, and Line Tossing

As I’m sitting in the cockpit eating a bowl of cereal and peanut butter toast I think to myself, it’s our last day in Rochester, need to make this one count. As if on queue, I hear this chugging noise and a gigantic freighter appears in the channel, practically blocking out all light. I call Mom up from the cabin so she can see it, and she’s shocked and thrilled at the size of it.

Today, we decide to split up, Scooby-Doo style. And I present Stella with a choice.

“What’s it going to be my dear, boring shopping with the ladies or awesome adventure with the dudes?” I ask her, trying to represent each option fairly.

“Hmmmm, I don’t know. Let me think about,” she says.

“Well we’re leaving in five minutes so you better make it fast.”

30 minutes later I find her in her cabin lying on her side with her phone attached to her face.

“Hey, what the hell? Are you coming?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“We’re leaving. And you don’t want to do boring shopping.”

She sits up, looks at me and says, “I have decided I will go with the boys.”

“Yesss!”

Stella and I take off in our dinghy and Daryl leaves in his as the ladies wander off to explore the nearby shops. We ignore the no wake signs and take off at full speed up the channel, beneath the lift bridge, past Hillbilly Harbor, and up to the abandoned Spirit of Rochester vessel which, as you may remember from last year, Daryl had partially infiltrated but our crusading party was held back by the sensibilities of the ladyfolk and the limitation that a member of the party was one year old and unable to walk. We had a quick look at the ship and decided we’d get back to that mission later. The immediate goal was to see how far up the Genessee River we could go with the dinghies.

The ride is exhilarating as we speed up the river, with high forested banks on both sides, punctuated intermittently by cliffs of shale rock. We see a pair of herons, pass beneath several industrial revolution era iron bridges, find a concrete spillway with water streaming down, and yet do not see a single other person. We travel for several miles then notice a fine mist in the distance. Rapids maybe?

We find a small beach and park the dinghies there, tying them to rocks, then scramble up the hill and find a rough path through the woods. We follow this for a short ways and it leads us back to the river, from where we can now see the source of the mist – a huge waterfall! Beside it, high up, is an old power station, or perhaps it’s still in operation as there are a few white work trucks parked beside it. We walk carefully across the rocks to get a close look, and the closer we get, the more slippery are the rocks, until we are finally as far as we can go and we stop to take in the remarkable scene. I’m not sure what we were expecting, but certainly not this. The mist is soaking our hair, our faces, and our clothes as we taken in the scenery. The waterfall is surrounded by a circular canyon and part of this canyon breaks down into a giant cave. We climb the rocks and walk into the cave which is damp, dark, and foreboding. We walk to the end and find a giant circular hole in the cavern roof where water is spilling down and pooling. Stella seems to be as impressed as Daryl and I and asks me to take three hundred pictures of her, which I obediently do.

We return to the dinghies, crack open a cold drink, and take a little rest before continuing back. Soon, we reach the Spirit of Rochester, and this time we mean business.

We tie the dinghies up just beneath the “Private Property – Entrance Forbidden” sign and Daryl and I penetrate the ship. Stella chooses to stay back, but soon she reconsiders and climbs the ship to join us, as she’s a rebel at heart.

The ship is creepy as hell. It used to be a cruising, party boat but has been abandoned for at least 20 years and is a ghost ship, haunted by its glorious past, now just a shell of a boat. There is junk lying everywhere – paper files, flotation devices, hunks of steel, blankets, oil containers, bus bins, racks, chunks of ceiling tile, and terrifying graffiti spray painted on the walls. We explore the first level, dodging flying birds that have made this their home. One of the cabins has a bare wooden table with the word “RAPE” spray painted above it. The graffiti on the galley refrigerator reads, “TODAY IS A NEW START TO LIFE” then beyond that images of skulls and hearts on the walls. We climb the stairs to the second level, sealed by a door. The door does not open easily and a rope hangs from the knob on the other side. Is it booby trapped? We push it and it opens, no explosion and no poison darts shot our way. Moldy life jackets, busted up chairs, and broken glass litter the floor. We go up one more level and find the helm, with pieces of radar equipment and electronics still there. The wheel is gone, as is the compass, but a telephone directory from 1998 lies on the desk.

Returning to the first level, Daryl finds a door that opens to a staircase leading downward. The engine room. Stella doesn’t want us to go, but how can we not? She knows the basement is where most people get axed in horror movies. It is surprisingly untouched. The diesel engines remain and even an inventory of spare parts. There is no graffiti or garbage here. Just abandoned. Forever.

We leave the ship, careful not to be seen by the pontoon boat that passes by. Back on the dinghies, we untie and take off. Mission accomplished.

The ladies are back at the boats and they proudly display their purchases. They’ve had a good morning but we are ready for the beach as it’s a hot and sunny day (I realized earlier why the weather is so perfect today…it’s a back to work Monday! But at least for these two weeks we are cheating the system.) We dinghy over to Ontario Beach Park and take Mom for a ride on the beautifully renovate carousel located there, then wander down to the beach and get our towels laid out. Stella and I approach the water for a swim but find five feet of thick green algae lapping at the shoreline and she immediately backs away. I walk down the beach a bit further and see no algae so walk into the water which is extremely shallow and smells bad. So bad that I just quickly dip my body in but keep my head and face dry so as not to infect my eyeballs.

Daryl has brought along his metal detector, on Ana’s request, and she takes up some beach scavenging with great joy. Finding valuable beach treasures by way of metal detecting is the cornerstone of Ana’s retirement plan, despite her never having used a metal detector before, so I am really hoping this works out. She returns after half an hour with a diamond studded miniature gun, a scrap of aluminum, a steel nut, and some metallic rocks. An excellent start, but she has some way to go in achieve massive passive cashflow from her new hobby.

We ditch the working class beach and retire to the exclusive yacht club pool which we have to ourselves since nobody goes to the yacht club on Mondays. We take advantage of this and plunder the pool noodle inventory which provides each of us with 12 noodles each and full floatation.

After a lovely dinner of Lydia’s fresh squash pasta and Mom’s shepherd’s pie, we move onto Boater Olympics, focusing on the line throwing event. This is where we get out a bunch of rope and practice coiling it then launching it at an imaginary dock hand. Many boaters don’t have a clue how to toss a line and they will come into dock and hurl a big twisted and messy rats nest of a rope to the dockhand standing two feet away but it will just drop straight into the water then get sucked into the prop and whamo, there’s another four thousand dollar repair job.

Everybody does well with the drill and before long the lines are being flung out 30 feet, straight and true. We also practice lassoing dock cleats, as this is sometimes necessary when there is no dock hand and you’re not able to get from your boat to the dock to cleat down the line. We try two different techniques for this with some success.

The rest of the evening is consumed by laundry, a pump out, boat cleanup, and preparation for tomorrow’s early morning departure for Little Sodus Bay.

2022 Sailing Trip Day 3 - Caesars for Breakfast, Jolly Jumping, and the Spirit of Rochester

Boat vacations are all about making the miles in the most efficient way. Today's destination was Rochester which was 58 nautical miles or a 9-10 hour sail, so Pat and I got up at 3am, navigated the boat out of the harbour in darkness, then were soon on the calm and flat lake enjoying the dawn experience while the autopilot did her magic and kept our course straight and true.

I am most often by myself in the cockpit for these early morning departures and my routine is pretty boring - usually consists of drinking decaffinated coffee and writing. But Pat brought a whole new dimension to the experience. First, we had a round of butter croissants and blueberry muffins. Then he cracked out an industrial sized bag of extra-crunchy potato chips and that giant cannister of pretzels he bought the day before. Then he made us a couple of Caesars and man, there's nothing like a splash of vodka and tomato juice to start your day. We then moved onto iced coffees, then peanut butter toast and cereal. When Ana came into the cockpit several hours later, she found the remnants of a big party - empty booze cans lying around, crumpled chip bags, food crumbs, and dirty dishes. The boat trip was ON.

Once everybody was up, eaten, and caffeinated, we stopped the  boat and went for a morning swim and lake shower. The water was a pleasant 23.5 degrees, slightly below Ana's minimum requirement of 25, but she went in anyway and tested out the brand new pool noodle floaties we added to the boat inventory this year, courtesty of the Paris Dollarama. Beau had his own custom baby floatie and happily plopped into the water and floated around blissfully. The day was heating up nicely and it was going to be a scorcher.

Once back underway we removed some of the canvas covering the cockpit and rigged up the boom so it couldn’t move. This fancy engineering enabled us to hang Beau's jolly jumper from the boom, so we strapped him in and let him go. His little legs started pumping and he was off bouncing and leaping like a madman with a crazed look in his eye. After a while I got severely exhausted just watching him so I grabbed some licorice, pretzels, and beers from the cabin so the rest of us could restore our energy reserves. But Beau didn’t miss out – when he finally did tire of the jumping, Melissa pulled out this fancy packet of prepared food mush and squirted it into a spoon, shoved most of it into his mouth, then he wiped the remnants off his chin and wiped it in his hair. The next quarter spoon went on Melissa’s clothes, and the two after then went on the seat cushion then the floor. Ah, babies are so entertaining.

We had a reserved slip at the Rochester Yacht Club, and when we visit yacht clubs there’s a specific protocol we always follow, which helps sustain our reputation as a gypsy caravan boat. First, there must be clothes, towels, swimsuits, lifejackets, underwear, and socks pinned to every inch of lifeline around the boat, and when the clothespins run out just throw the rest on the deck surface. With a baby this was even easier than normal considering the quantity of clothes they go through. Next, you need to ensure your waste holding tanks are full, so that you leave a trail of sweet septic odour behind you, and possibly even in front of you if the tank contents are foul enough. This is so everybody knows you’ve arrived, even the blind folks. Third, the boat should be exeptionally dirty, and this I took care of during our swim as I tossed hundreds of feet of spare line from our mucky anchor hold into the lake to give it a cursory wash. When I pulled it up it was only half clean, but half is better than none, so I then draped it all over the topside of the boat to let it drip dry, leaving snaky trails of muddy stains all over the surface. The boat was disgusting. Lastly, you need to be dressed appropriately, usually micro Speedos and ball caps turned backwards for the men and g-string bikinis and hippie beads for the ladies, or their sailing moo-moos, whichever they are more comfortable with. The only other thing that’s hard to plan for, but a real treat when it happens, is an engine failure as you’re navigating through the marina so that you lose control and crash into a few boats and docks. The yachties really notice that.

The entrance to the Rochester harbour was huge and busy. A steady stream of inbound and outbount boats filled the wide channel. We found the entrance to the yacht club, turned in, and after a bit of confusion with slip assignments, we finally pulled into slip 12, which happened to be located directly in front of the clubhouse, showers, pool, and ice machine. If we were racing, this would be Pole Position.

To celebrate our arrival, Ana and Melissa whipped up chicken caesar burritos, and I belive that may have been the most delicious burrito I have ever eaten. After our long and leisurely lunch we received a message from Lydia saying they were about to arrive so Pat and I ran over to their assigned slip at the far side of the marina to give them a hand docking. Well it’s a good thing Pat had that tub of Vaseline he usually carries around with him, because the wooden posts at the entrance to their slip weren’t quite wide enough for their boat. Pat lobbed a gob of petroleum jelly at the far post, hitting it squarely, then slapped another dollop on the near post, which enabled Daryl to slide it right in, like a gentle lover.

The afternoon sun was wicked hot so we filled up our cooler bags with cold drinks and headed for the pool. The route to the pool led through the clubhouse and I had a peek into the restaurant area. It was magnificent with its classic wooden bar, tall beer handles, starched-collar servers, and antique wooden tables and chairs. Many of the club members were there dining or having drinks and yachting memorabilia was displayed everywhere – trophies, pennants, club burgees, photos of classic ships. I fit right in with my faded swim shorts and Beer Lao wife beater.

After spending an hour or two at the pool enjoying the lovely, cool water, we packed into our respective dinghies to go out and explore the area. Daryl and Lydia have a 9.9 horsepower 2 stroke engine (which Daryl affectionately calls a “two smoke” due to the noxious odours that trail behind them as the engine burns the oil/gas mixture) and we have 4 horsepower four stroke which is less odourous, but also much less powerful, yet still able to push the five of us around. We motored up the Genesee river, passing by many fancy boats, marinas, restaurants, and even a couple of huge barges and tugs that were hauling aggregate and gigantic rocks out to the breakwater they were reconstructing in the channel. The further we ventured upriver, the smaller and more desperate the boats became. As we passed under a large bridge we looked to the right to see Hillbilly Harbour, a sort of graveyard for derelict boats that probably didn’t run anymore, but at least still floated. The shaky docks these boats were tied to led up to the shaky custom bar sheds built on shore. I could picture a million cans of Bud Light being poured down smoky throats, with simultaneous fistfights and laughter to the whines and drawls of country music. There would be groping, and some falling, and perhaps a near drowning most weekends. If we could only score an invitation, it would be a fun place to hang out.

Almost immediately after Hillbilly Harbour, the busy harbour scenery was completely replaced by water, trees, reeds, and lily pads. Oh, plus one boat – an abandoned dinner cruise ship, unironically named “The Spirit of Rochester”, anchored beside the reedy and swampy shore. We circled it, looking for a way in, and Daryl and Lydia found one and in seconds Daryl had scrambled up, over the balcony, and disappeared into the belly of the beast. Hoping to make one of them Found Footage horror movies, we had our cameras rolling, waiting anxiously for Daryl to be attacked by a legion of zombies, or infected bats, or rabid mice, or at the very least a strung out wino, but we were rewarded with nothing of the sort. The only exciting thing that happened was a drone came flying over and probably took a picture of Daryl coming out and standing beside the “PRIVATE PROPERTY – DO NOT ENTER” sign. I assumed it to be a police drone so I yelled, “Cops!” and then everybody started shouting “Cops! Cops!” and just like back in the good old bush party days, we got the hell out of there before we got busted, not thinking that if it was a police drone we were already busted, but in the heat of the moment it was hard to think straight. As we motored off in our low speed getaway dinghies, Daryl said he’d probably come back later, and maybe set it on fire. I’m not sure if he did, but that would be a real hoot.

After a very long day we found ourselves late at night in SeaLight’s cockpit, eating chili and Mexican dip, drinking Coronas and rum, laughing and chatting, and everything was going great until Pat’s eyes went blank and he started tipping forward, face racing towards the bowl of chili in front of him. He woke up just in time to avoid the crash, then quickly excused himself and went to bed. Poor little tyke was all tuckered out from the long day on the water.