Ship’s Log: November 21, 2009.  So I’m out on the river on September Blue, only the second time out under sail, and I send my faithful crew down below to prepare the daggerboard.  On a West Wight Potter – 19, the dagger board is a 450 pound slab of steel that is lowered through the bottom of the hull to supply both control and stability.  It helps keep the boat going straight, instead of sideways, and helps old it right side up.  If fact, the manual warns the reader very sharply that under no circumstances should you raise sail unless the dagger board is down.  In any case, F, my crewman, went below and released the retaining pins that keep it up in storage mode, and I lowered it using the winch at the helmsman’s station.  F then proceeded to apply the second set of retaining pins that hold it in the down position.  Not normally an issue, these pins hold the daggerboard in place should, God forbid, September Blue turn turtle (capsize) due to a sudden burst of wind.

F is somewhat . . . methodical in his approach to safety gear, and that’s generally a good thing.  But since the dagger board was down, it was now safe to raise sail, so I went ahead and deployed the main, whilst F was fiddling with the retaining bolts.  And we got under weigh.  The air was light that day.  Very, very light, but it was enough to get us moving just under the mainsail, so I maneuvered the boat about the lake while waiting until F came back to the cockpit to deploy the foresail.  We were sailing down wind under a quartering “run,” and I wanted to get to know the boat a little.  So for no particular reason, I changed course.  The sneer quotes are there because the tiny zephyr I was sailing under could hardly provide a “run” of any kind, except technically.  Now as it happens, this course change would bring my stern across the eye of the wind.  Jibing, is the jargon for this maneuver.

Under normal circumstances, jibing is introduces controllable hazards in sailing.  First, as the stern moves through the eye of the wind, the boom will move, often sharply, from one side of the cockpit to the other.  If you’re not paying attention, you can get a sharp crack on the head.  Even if the boom misses you, there’s a shifting of sheets and other tackle that can cause you to trip or lose your balance.  A secondary effect of a jibe is that, again, under normal circumstances, the movement of the boom and sail from one side of the boat to another causes the boat to stop heeling (tipping) one way, and to heel in the other.  The humor ensues when you come to understand just how slowly everything was moving.  When I executed my jibe, the boom moved sedately from one side of the center line to the other.  The wind was so light that September Blue was not heeling at all, so there was no change in the orientation of the cabin.

But it was a new boat, and I was playing, so I executed the turn as though we were running under a stiff breeze.

I barked to the crew below, “Prepare to jibe!” so that he would be able to brace himself.  Nothing perceptible happened, but I noticed he was a little startled.

F was below decks, facing away from me, has tinnitus in both ears, in different pitches.  So he doesn’t hear very well.  What he had heard me holler, his brain interpreted through the filter of all those submarine movies he’s seen.  What he heard was all those Executive Officer’s hollering “Prepare to DIVE!”

When you are in the cabin of a small sailing yacht, this can be some cause for concern.  When he came back above the deck, he explained what had gone through his mind.  Not “Wait, no, I’m on a sailboat.”   Not “Wait, no, this is not a submarine.”  No.  The first thought to go through his mind was, “You can’t dive.  The hatch is still open!”

At long last, and finally, I took my first abbreviated voyage on September Blue. For the uninitiated, I have bought a sailboat. I visited Richmond Virginia last weekend to pick her up and bring her home. (UPDATE: the pickup date for September Blue was Saturday, November 14.  I wasted an entire week sitting at a desk doing “work” and my “job.”  The first voyage was the night of November 20.) Despite getting up at the crack of dawn, and blasting down the highway as fast as remotely safely possible with a 23 foot long trailer, I was unable to take her out last Sunday. By the time I got her rigged and off the trailer, the sun had set, and her dead batteries wouldn’t support the night running lights. So we had to pack her in the dark, and despite my best hopes, I was unable to get her into the water tonight.

This afternoon I took two hours off, and left work at 3:00. My friend F also got loose, and we met as his place, where September Blue is enjoying a temporary trailer berth. That was at 4:00 PM. We were at the boat ramp at 5:00, and had the boat rigged by 6:15. Unfortunately, sunset was at 5:30. This time, however, the batteries were charged. Turn a dial, flip three switches, and the running lights, mast light, and depth finder are good to go, and we shoved off from the dock.

The lake was like glass. Only the lightest puffs of air were moving. The thermometer read 58 degrees. Our breath rose in small clouds. We killed the outboard, lifted it clear of the water, and raised sail. We spent the first 15 minutes just under the main, as I tried to get a feel for the boat. She was very responsive, given that there was no wind to speak of. The speedometer didn’t register our motion, but the GPS I brought from the car did.

The GPS was a Garmin, designed and programmed for terrestrial navigation, not nautical. As far as the Garmin was concerned, the lake was a featureless blue blob. But since I was trying to navigate at night, on a lake I didn’t know, on a boat I was unfamiliar with, I brought the Garmin, with the idea that if I kept the little car icon in the middle of the lake, I wouldn’t run into anything important. Between the depth gauge (Lake Loudon is 45′ deep in the middle) and the Garmin (the car Icon looked really silly in the middle of the lake) I managed to sail for about two hours. I eventually flew the foresail as well as the main, and we experimented a little bit with the full rig, but frankly, there just wasn’t enough wind to fill it. We ghosted out into the middle of the lake, up to where the Tennessee River enters the lake. The buoy there is not lit; it’s just a dark mass the rears up out of the water with no warning. Fortunately, we carried a big flashlight with us. The channel markers flash a green reflector. It was still startling.

I wonder if I’m even allowed to sail at night. I should probably look that up. We were missing some critical gear. Oh, the lights worked, and we had adequate life jackets. We did not have a heaving line, though. Should we have had a man overboard, his life jacket and a recovery operation would have had to do. Small chance of getting lost in the “surf,” at least. Also, the water temperature was about 56 degrees. Getting wet would have been no joke. I need a console mount for my Garmin. And, frankly, a flask of single malt was in order, given the weather. I don’t hold to getting loaded and piloting a boat, mind you, but a wee nip to warm the blood would have done a lot to enhance the experience.

After the first fifteen minutes, we ran out the foresail. The guy who invented roller furling was a genius, and I hope he’s rich. It was truly amazing.  Yank on a rope, foresail is deployed.  Yank on another rope, foresail is not only out of service, but packed in a UV-proof cover.  If only it could work that way for the main.  Anyway, it was amazing to be out under the stars, ghosting along on that mirror-smooth lake. I could never have gotten Dad’s Boat to move in that air.  Just not enough sail area.

I really like my new boat.  There’s just one problem:  I paid through the nose so that I wouldn’t end up buying a “project boat.” I wanted a boat I could sail, not a boat I could work on.  I have enough projects. There’s a thought for a blog post: compose a project list. But I digress.  September Blue is exactly as she was advertised, and, allowing for the need to replace the batteries (which I was warned about), rig the galley, which the previous owner had never used, rig the head, which has also never been used, she needs no work.  But there are so many cool things I could do.

The galley storage sucks. I don’t know what her designers were thinking.  There’s  a HUGE area, mostly below the waterline, that’s got no shelves, no drawers, and, near as I can tell, is supposed to be accessed via a TINY door.  Same for the sink area on the other side, although that’s complicated by the presence of the water bladder.  I want to add a dedicated boat GPS so that I can know a little bit about the bottom of the lake I’m sailing across, instead of trying to keep a little car in the middle of the river.  Here in East Tennessee, I want specialized sails for light air sailing . . .

Help me!

Well, it was bad.  Very bad.  Yesterday Dad was supposed to visit a specialist. The follow-up was scheduled in his orders from the hospital, so the Health and Rehab people got a professional patient transporter to move him.  Patient transporters are interesting.  They call them ambulances, but they are not.  There’s an EMT driving, but inside the truck is no equipment.  Except the necessary straps and belaying gear for safely anchoring wheelchairs and gurneys.  They rolled Dad in, strapped his chair down, and dropped him off at the doctor’s office.  I was startled and disturbed as all hell to find him sitting there in a wheelchair, just staring into space.  I would have figured the EMT would have waited for me. I was on time. They were early.  But they just left him there.  In fairness, he was in the waiting room of a doctor’s office.  There were plenty of people around, and medical professionals to hand if there had been an emergency.  But still, the idea that they would just drop him off like that makes me very uncomfortable.

In any case, by the time everyone was ready for the test, he was too weak to get up on the examination table. The nurse and I together couldn’t do it.  This told the Doc the test was pointless.  As weak as he is, his condition isn’t going to improve until he gets stronger.

I had been left with the impression that dad was continuing to recover.  I can’t believe he’s so weak.  If he doesn’t improve substantially, there’s no way he can go home.  If you can’t get up out of a chair, how are you going to cook for yourself?  Or bathe?

I’m reluctant to write this review, really.  The more people know about the Zeus Gallery Cafe, in Richmond Virginia, the less likely I will be to get a table the next time that I am there.  And I’m not sure I want to share this with you people.  If I were being paid to write these, it might be different.  Still, I’ve taken on a task, and I feel that I am, in some bizarre way, a journalist, and, unlike the New York Times (All that fits, they print), I view telling the truth is a sacred calling, and the truth is, I’ve found a gem.

The Zeus Gallery Cafe is at 201 N Belmont Ave – Richmond, VA, in the Carytown district.  Right around the corner from the Museum of Art, and neighbor to the local school of Art and Design, you’d think it would be in a bohemian neighborhood.  Since “bohemian” makes my teeth itch, it’s a good thing it’s not.  Belmont Avenue is a slightly dark street, and 201 is a few doors down from the well-traveled Grove Avenue.  The Zeus Gallery Cafe is located in an old storefront, probably an old millinery or fabric store.  There’s a large plate-glass window up front, partially blocked by one of the booths.  I was put off initially.  I wasn’t looking for a pub.  I wanted an elegant dining experience.  I’d just bought a boat, and I was out to celebrate.  The noisy, crowded, booth-filled old dry-goods store wasn’t at all what I had in mind.  But we were there, and I had no idea where else to go.

We were seated immediately – a good sign – by a friendly, smiling, and cute hostess.  Our server showed up before we could get the (cloth) napkins unfolded, and took our drink order.  Vodka gibson, extra onions.  The apparently small bar had a selection of five vodkas.  My companion had a Bombay Sapphire and tonic.  The mixologist had to have been the fastest shaker in the West, ’cause we had our drinks within five minutes, despite the crowd.  Really, except for the total lack of cigarette smoke, the atmosphere was like a local pub in south London.  If your local has a cellar of more than sixty vintages.  There are two chalkboards on the walls, above the booths: one for reds, and one for whites.  Each had thirty labels each.  Some of them were familiar, but there were many I’ve never seen before.  Prices ranged from $23/bottle up above $150.  (Ain’t NO spoiled grape juice worth $150 for five glasses.)  Okay – so, nice cellar, good bar, prompt courteous service.  Still sounds like a high school cafeteria in here.

Then there’s the kitchen.  It’s maybe ten feet wide and 18 feet long.  It’s visible behind the bar.  There’s barely enough room in there for three guys to move, let alone cook.  I was skeptical, say the least.

Then came the menu.

Oh, my.

It was complex.  A broad range of continentally-inspired dishes made with mostly local ingredients.  My companion started with the pate d’ fois gras, while I went with the roasted beet salad garnish with parmesan.  To quote my companion, “oh, uh, mmmm.  Oh, it was wonderful.  The accompaniments were perfect.  Flavorful.  The clover was almost peppery, and there was a vinegar reduction . . . .  Mmmmm.  It tasted like pate should.”  To hear her talk, you’d think that the Platonic Form of pate had been reached.  Point of fact, I sampled it.  Now, as we all know, liver is not what food is. I could have eaten more of this.  It was like meat pudding.  It had a very, very slightly caramelized outer skin that I hesitate to call a crust.  It had just a hint of sweetness, and inside it was all meaty goodness.  Completely absent was the heave-inducing flavor of, well, liver.  I don’t know what the chef d’ cuisine DID to that goose liver, but he should do it some more.

A word about the service.  The night before, at the Crown and Goose, Knoxville, TN, my companion had ordered the fois gras and scallops, and been disappointed.  It had turned out to be a perfectly good dish of scallops, garnished with fois gras.  But is was not fois gras and scallops.  We related this experience to the server, and five minutes later she showed up with a glass of sauternes (wine), to go with the fois gras, on the house, because my companion had recently had a bad fois gras experience. At another restaurant.  My companion is not known for her sweet tooth, but she like the sauternes so well that she ordered it as her after dinner wine.

My roasted beet salad was nothing short of amazing.  The beets were in quarter-inch cubes.  Were they pasta, I would have said they were just past al dente.  There was a good, solid beet flavor, without the dirt overtones that so often haunt root vegetables.  The vinaigrette was tart and complimented the field greens very well.  The parmesan added just enough fat and protein to take the edge off of my appetite without spoiling it for the entree.

For the entree, my companion had the roasted lamb, rolled in herbs.  The lamb was clearly very fresh, tender, and very, very good.  I got one bite.  The gaminess one expects from lamb was barely there, more of a memory than a flavor.  The herbs were clearly fresh and flavorful.  For myself, I tried my first beef wellington.  This is a dish that intimidates many cooks, because the beef is baked in a pastry shell, and to get the shell to finish properly, it’s easy to over cook the beef, leaving you with either an underdone pastry shell, or a beef roast suitable for boot leather.

Not my experience tonight.  The roast came out a tender, juicy medium, and the pastry was tender, flaky, and delicious.  The herb rub had what must have been three ounces of chopped black truffles in it.  It was all I could to do restrain myself and keep from licking the plate.

The dessert menu was interesting, and I tried ot order the cobbler, but I’d done too well with the wine, appetizer, and entree, and could not do justice to the dessert.  I think I disappointed the chef.  I couldn’t help myself. It’s pretentious as hell, but I asked for the chef d’ cuisine to come out, if he had time.  We’d been lingering over our meal, and the house was emptying out, so he came out and chatted with us.  He’s known the owner for over 20 years, and has been at Zeus for the last five or so.  He was very friendly, and willing to talk about ingredients, techniques, or his experiences as long as time permitted.

So – how good was dinner?  We were in Richmond for two nights, and tried to imagine where we might find better food.  We went back to Zeus Cafe for our second and last night in town. I wanted to try the veal meatballs I’d passed over, and my companion lusted after the Amber Jack, and carpacchio.  We were not disappointed.  Still didn’t make it through dessert, though.

Summing up is tough.  Because the food is clearly fine-dining.  But the atmosphere is a pub, and the service is below prime for a fine dining restaurant, but several cuts above a public house.  Here we go:

Five Pints for Cuisine.

Four and a Half Pints for service.

and Four Pints for Atmosphere.

That gives the Zeus Gallery Cafe a score of 4.5, and one of the highest scores I’ve ever given.  I can’t recommend this place highly enough.

I’m walking a little funny today.  A certain portion of my anatomy is sore.  It suffered an unanticipated injury.

For the uninitiated, I have bought a boat. I found the boat I wanted on-line, drove to Richmond, Virginia, and paid cash, and towed it home.  A quick glance at the bow revealed Virginia registration numbers.  I don’t know much about owning boats yet, as my previous boating experience has been with overgrown beach toys. But I was pretty sure that using a boat with Virginia numbers in Tennessee would, in some way, cause problems with Virginia cooties or something.  So I did what any rational geek would do.  I went to Google and typed in “How do I register my boat in Tennessee?”  As almost always happens, Google had my answer, immediately.  Not too surprisingly, it’s the Tennessee Fish and Wildlife Resources Agency who track boats here in Tennessee.

“Bummer, sez I.”  I’m sure they’re nice guys, but I wasn’t looking forward to hunting down TWR, wherever their offices may be, and getting the registration forms.  Then I notice that the local County Clerk’s office has the forms.  You go down there, pick up the form, fill it out, and mail it in with a check.  Obnoxious, but livable.  You should be able to do this on-line.  Postal mail? In this day and age? I mean, really.  But the good news is that the County Clerk’s office is less than four blocks from here.

And so I set out.  It was beautiful day.  The sun was shining, the birds that haven’t flown south yet were singing, and a gentle breeze was blowing.  The only thing wrong with the day was that I was at work, and walking to the Old City Hall on my lunch break, instead of sailing.

So, like an idiot, I toodled on down there.  As I walked, the skies began to darken.  When I reached the 150-year-old building, I glanced up, and the dark clouds were swirling in a dark vortex.  Sleet bounced off the brim of my hat.  As I walked through the graveyard in front of the building, the charnel house scent of death filled my nostrils.  Reaching the top of the stairs, I stepped over the small family of scorpions and tarantulas, and opened the door.  The ancient hinges creaked with the sound of lost souls, doomed to wander the earth.  I approached the security station.

The hunch-backed guard, wearing a dark hood, shuffled forward. “Please deposit any pocket knives here.  And step through the scanner.  Oh, and please also leave behind any crucifixes, holy water, or other holy symbols.”  He smiled, revealing brown teeth.  I did as I was told and proceeded into the vehicle registration office.

As I approached the window that did not have anyone waiting, lightning flashed, the light glinting off the horns of the woman behind the counter.    Foolishly, I told her at the window that I’d bought a boat in Virginia and needed to register it in Tennessee.  She smiled.  I somehow missed the fangs.  “Do you have your bill of sale?”

Moronically, I replied, “Sure.  Here it is,” and then I actually handed it to her. She turned to go to the copier, and the leathery rustle of her batlike wings quietly filled the air.  She returned, her cloven hooves clicking on the tile floor.  She then seated herself at her computer, and proceeded to type for about twenty solid minutes.  When she was done, she looked up at me, and spoke again.  This time the sulfur on her breath was unmistakable.

“Here you go,” she said.  And presented me with an invoice for a thousand freaking dollars!!!

The great state of Tennessee, apparently, feels entitled to the sales tax I would have paid, had I bought my boat in Tennessee.  I had neither anticipated, nor budgeted for this.

It’s not quite irony, but it is kinda funny.  She did have the form I needed.  I’ve filled it out, but I still have to mail it in with the registration fee.  I’m out a thousand freaking dollars and I still don’t have my boat registered.

So my advice to you, if you need to register a new boat?  Go directly to the fish and wildlife guys.  They only want about thirty dollars, per year, and, as far as I know, don’t tell the state revenuers.

The whole experience has left me with an uncontrollable twitch in my right leg every time I think of TN state legislators.  I have a deep, deep need to kick them in the groin.  If you see me on TV being led somewhere in handcuffs, that will probably be why.

Oh, the funny walk? It’s caused by pain in my wallet.