The blunt twin pontoons of the Hobie Wave catamaran pounded down the trough of the surprisingly large wave, sending a shudder through the shroud lines to the top of the mast. Water pushed up through the trampoline mesh and sluiced over the lacings. Wind gusts whined through the rigging. The leeward bow submerged. I gasped.
A 70 degree, sunny April day is a gift not to be squandered. Even if the wind is gusting as high as 30 mph. Too windy to sail, we decided to go biking. But biking at the beach in strong winds, in the spring, when copious amounts of chicken manure lie loosely over barren fields is a disgusting olfactory experience.
Check out Mitch’s fantastic St. Augustine video. My role in it was very painful:
Usually we freeze in St. Augustine. Winter in north Florida can be cold, and it’s a damp cold – the worst kind. Those that live out West don’t understand. “Fifty degrees?” they say. “Fifty degrees is nice.” In Moab or Steamboat or Fountain Hills, fifty degrees is shorts weather. But in Florida, a damp wind-blown fifty degrees penetrates stocking caps, gloves, winter coats, and especially bones.
To some, five nights in the jungle conjures visions of anacondas, tarantulas, stealthy jaguars ready to pounce, humid air heavy with the whine of mosquitos. For me, the most terrifying moment of my five nights in the jungle was
Like most RVers, our camping rig purchases have followed a logical progression:
Tent camping became a hassle, so we bought a pop-up.
All summer long I tell people to kayak into the wind first, do the hard work at the beginning so that the return trip, when you’re tired and have to go to the bathroom, is easy. Yet here we were, about to set out on a bike ride (my first in three months) doing the down hill portion—the easy part—first.
Less than an hour earlier we’d arrived in Jim Thorpe, PA and had checked into our cute boutique hotel room at Kelly Suites on Broadway for a one-night getaway to celebrate my birthday and our first break of the season. Two days earlier, when Mitch surprised me with his plan, I’d never even heard of Jim Thorpe, or of this impressive bike trail which stretches 165 miles from Wilkes-Barre, PA to Bristol, PA.
Home is where you’re safe. It is familiar; you know your way around so you feel comfortable. You belong. And even when it changes – maybe it gets crowded, or things you thought you could count on disappear, personalities come and go – you still flock to it. At least if you’re a bird and home is Point of Cedars Island in Little Assawoman Bay.
My favorite running trail in our area is the 4.5 mile Bob Trail at Trap Pond State Park. Why is it so great?
“There’re some waves out there,” Mitch said as we paddled away from the ramp towards the mouth of the Ocean City Commercial Harbor. He couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice and I was trying to decide if he was legitimately surprised.
I’m guessing that if you’re not from Delaware and you’re not a history buff you don’t know who John Dickinson was. If I learned his name in my high school and college American history classes, I’d long since forgotten it. But for years, every time I drove to Dover and passed the sign pointing to his home, I’d been curious about him.