I suggested to Tom that he should write a blog update, but he says he doesn't have anything much to say at this point. "Nobody writes a novel about a six-hour car ride, do they?" He has a point. I've found that as soon as we reach another mooring/dock/float, my memory of the previous mooring/dock/float is erased. I have to consult Randy's boat log to remember where we've been.

Days are very much like like long car rides. It's hard to read because the boat is usually moving in several different directions, and while we do have the option to go below and pee, cook, and eat, all three of us find that we spend most of our days in the cockpit. Randy goes below to ponder charts and listen to the weather broadcast. Seasickness is pretty much a non-issue these days, and I was recently able to make a hot lunch while we were up-and-downing in a swell. The gymballed stove still freaks me out though. I have to stand right beside it, and I find myself grabbing it whenever the boat shifts around it and the whole damn world goes crazy. It's just not right.

Spending days in the cockpit and in the weather means that attention to clothing is a big deal. "What will I wear?" is not a question that has a variety of answers. I've been wearing the same four pairs of pants every day for the last several weeks. Long johns, polarfleece, baggy jeans, fouly pants. On top: t-shirt, sweatshirt, polarfleece, vest, and then I go to the companionway and ask, "down coat or foul weather jacket?"

Of course, accessories are essential to every outfit. We have two pairs of hunter orange gloves, one pair of sheepskin gloves, an assortment of polar fleece gloves and mitts, and then there's the hats. You get the picture, and it's not pretty. On any normal day, two-thirds of the outer gear gets salty and wet, and the interior of the cabin is festooned, and we have to open the hatch to let the steam out. But we're usually eating something pretty good at this point, and enjoying a good bottle of wine, and congratulating ourselves for being miles closer to vacuuming-packing this outerwear and sending it back to where it came from.

Most evenings there's cribbage. Tom's game has improved. Frighteningly, actually. I had two 24 hands in the second half of a game last week and I couldn't catch him. Dad, I'm sorry I ever taunted you. Family ought not to treat each other this way. Mike Murray, you're not family.

I think we should be making a note of many things that happen. Tom says he is going to make a note of how often I say, "we should make a note of ________" We just been joking about papering the cabin ceiling with wine labels, carefully annotated with what we ate along with them and who did the dishes. I've suggested that we should also make a note of the birds we see (gulls, gannets, ducks, a white swan yesterday, gulls, gannets, ducks, one more swan, and geese), the marine life - a couple of small whales. Something about a coastline peppered with lobster pots seems to discourage the swimmers.

So we haven't been taking formal note of very much. Tonight (which was sometime last weekend at this point) we ate leg of lamb, roasted veg, green beans and cauliflower, along with a Californian - 10% cab, 20% petit syrah, 70% syrah - it's called "the Other" and there's a Nekked Woman on the label. This really is a glamorous way to live. If you can get by the wardrobe issues and the sketchy hot water issues.

As of today - Nov 15 - we are at Cape May, New Jersey, after a 24 hour trip from City Island - just the other side of NYC. We have a terribly slow connection, so I'll post pictures when we get better access. We're all fine - tired, hungry, but showered and the laundry is on the go. More later.