The puffins have been very worried about their friends in Central Park. While it has now been confirmed that no Puffins were among those tragically lost in New York, there is sadness in the air over Central Park, and the usually tough urban puffins are still crying every day at the senselessness of it all.
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Puffins do not care when they fly from US to Canadian airspace. Or UK, or Icelandic, or Norwegian, or any other nationality. Atlantic puffins don't hate Tufted puffins, nor do Horned puffins fly suicide missions into other puffins rookeries. Frankly, the puffins are at a loss to explain why their friends in New York must choke on cement dust and smoke. But even more, the New York puffins miss their human friends who would come to the park to visit them, but now will never come again.
The Puffins of the world are united in their belief that every puffin life is sacred, and that as the Creator loves all puffins, so should they. Amen.
Apparently the cedar house has met with Will's approval, because he decides he'll help us celebrate the opening of Labor Day weekend by coming up and staying at the house. Of course, a boat ride is part of the inducement, and it's a good thing he's motivated because a few zillion other people are leaving Seattle to go North for Labor Day weekend, and Seattle traffic is not for the faint-of-heart.
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With his true Norwegian heritage, Will is anxious to deckhand. We lunch at a place only locals know about (no, we're not going to tell you where). Once fortified, we head out for an island cruise. As we head into Guemes channel, we point out the house for sale reputed to be owned by Farrah Fawcett, Randy's by the old Wyman's Marina, Dakota Creek with a huge ship currently under construction, some of the houses we looked at before we pledged our hearts (and pocketbook) to the cedar house, and of course, we point out the ferry. We look at Guemes Island and wonder what it would be like to live somewhere you can only go by ferry. A place which until recently didn't have so much as a store.
It takes a certain type of personality to want to live on an island. We will be living on an island next year, but we like the proximity to our very own Commercial Ave., complete with hardware stores (Marine and conventional), book stores, bakeries, resturants of various ethnicities, and of course the Rockfish Grill. The Rockfish Grill has a logo which looks just like the yellow-eye Sara caught in Alaska, which she now realizes to her dismay has been fileted and eaten without even so much as a trophy photo. "My fish was bigger than any of these guys' fish!" Sara exclaims. But since we didn't stuff it, didn't even photograph it, it's just another fish story. A legend in her own mind.
So, living on Fidalgo has all the advantages of living on an island, but doesn't keep one shackled to a ferry schedule. As we continue around, we realize there are houses on other islands without even ferry service. To live in one of those houses, you would have to be a real recluse.
Washington may have its share of reclusive people, but does not as it turns out have Brown Recluse spiders. Tom and Sara and Will compared notes about the remarkable spiders they have found in their houses, and Will says he too has caught a couple of whoppers just lately. He speculates that the spiders came in out of the rain and said, "Hmmm. It's nice in here. I think I'll stay."
After circling the island, we head back toward Cap Sante, and can see our house quite clearly looking back at us, between Hat and Huckleberry Islands. Even at that distance we can tell it's our house, and besides, it give us an excuse to look through the fancy new binoculars we got at Captain's (on 15th St.) last time we were in Seattle. Cap'n Tom had done lots of research on the 'Net, and both Cap'n Tom and Sara had comparison shopped at several reputable marine supplies, but Captain's had the people who really knew optics. The binoculars, while not the most expensive available, are a wonder. For the first time, Sara as navigator can actually read the numbers on the aids to navigation from a reasonable distance. It's hard to believe that something as simple as a combination of lenses could create such a magical product. Sara keeps grabbing the binoculars and looking at things, including a real working tug which is heading south at the same time we are, but more quickly. The tug boat looks like business as it moves smartly down the channel. We look like fun.
Deckhand Will gets his turn at the helm as we make our way around the islands. He gets to feel the effects of the currents as the tide floods. He studies the radar, depth-finder, and chart. He muses that it would make a good interactive game. Knowing Will, if he gets bored enough on the weekend he could write one.
When we come in, we notice the fuel dock is uncharacteristically slow, so we pull up for our first refueling since we took delivery of the boat. Cap'n Tom and Deckhand Will "do the math," so we will know a little before the tanks will be full. Together they listen for the characteristic gurgle as the tank nears full but before it spills out the overflow. Thanks to their accurate math and keen ears, both tanks are filled and the pump shut off without spilling so much as a drop. For good measure, we buy a little plastic container with suction cups and a foam gasket which you can put over the overflow, and thus assure the purity of the water in case there ever should be any splash-back from the pump. We love the pristine water, and want to do our part to keep it that way.
We return Pacific Puffin to her berth. Deckhand Will wants to learn anything and everything there is to know, but recognizes we're still learning too, so he mans the bow lines while Sara takes the stern, and the Puffin lands back in her perch. We make fast, bathe her in Salt-Away, and head over to Randy's for dinner. Randy seats us in a nice booth overlooking the channel we had traversed a few hours before. We look out at the boats going by, and watch the seals at play. The seals seem to like Randy's dock, and provide free entertainment nightly.
Randy is running for Port Commissioner. We ask him what he would get to Commission if he won, and he explains how much is under the jurisdiction of the Port. It's quite a lot as it turns out, not just the Marina and the Airport, but also much of the waterfront land. Randy gives us a rough estimate of the annual budget, and it jolts us back to reality to realize how much can be done with $7 million. Corporate life, not unlike political life, can distort a person's perspective.
We have a delightful dinner, forget to save room for dessert, and go home to the cedar house. Luckily for Deckhand Will, there have been no recent spider encroachments, and we all sleep peacefully on our last night before the inevitable trip back South.
A note on spiders in Washington:
Residents of Western Washington may find themselve sharing their domicile with Aggressive House Spiders, Hobo Spiders, and Giant House Spiders. The good news is we have no Brown Recluse Spiders. The bad news is, all spiders are poisonous at least to some degree.
Giant House Spiders compete with Hobo Spiders for food and cool web sites. So, if you see Giant Spiders you probably won't have a major problem with Hobo Spiders. Spiders usually will not bite you unless they are molested. A common cause of spider bites is to put your hand in a work glove, physically trapping the spider so that he has no choice but to bite you or be crushed. Some of us have long suspected that any activity requiring work gloves is to be avoided.
Also, be sure the spiders do not compete with you for your cool web sites.
Normal creatures migrate South in the Winter and North in the Summer. Pacific Puffin has always been very much her own bird. With that spirit, she feels the end of Summer approaching, and is making ready to head--North.
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Elliott Bay is beautiful, urban, exciting. Dinner guests arrive in limos, and dine on the finest seafood and expense accounts. The Seattle skyline twinkles at dusk, the occasional cloud snagged on the top of the Space Needle. Ferries glide in every direction. Container ships cozy up to bright orange derricks. Channel 14 is a constant chatter of VTS traffic. It's thrilling.
There but for the grace of the railroad gods goes Anacortes. It's been a grand Summer in the big city, but it's time to go home.
The cedar house sent out its siren call, and Cap'n Tom & Sara were helpless to resist. It is perched on a hill, overlooking Pacific Puffin's home marina, as well as Fidalgo Bay--and on a clear day--Mt. Baker. You can sit in the living room, which in this case really is designed for living, and watch the fish jumping in the water. Anacortes is a good home port for people as well as boats, and now the cedar house is in the family. In about a year, the family will be in the cedar house. Until then, it's a good place to hang out for frequent holidays.
Cap'n Tom and Sara determine that between them, they have two of practically everything, and that the extra stuff would furnish a vacation house quite nicely. In some momentary lapse of rationality, they decide that they could bring the extra stuff up to the house in a Ryder truck. Son Jim has offered to assist, and the hot, dusty trio get the truck packed to the rafters. Tom drives, Sara rides a drowsy shotgun, and Jim wisely flies. The three reunite in Anacortes, on the doorstep of the cedar house.
Out of the truck comes the furniture, bedding, dishpacks, clothing, and miscellany. It occurs to us that the neighbors must find it odd that the new people came in a Ryder truck instead of with a regular mover. Our aching muscles remind us that we are in fact not college students, and that Ryder trucks are for the young. Well, we're young-at-heart if not in body, and besides, it was a cheap thrill (cheap being the operative word) to do it ourselves.
We spend the first night in a motel. The next day, we have the goal of scoring a box-spring and mattress for the brass bed frame Russell used when he was little. Our first stop is The Merchantile, an estate liquidator open only twice a month. We're in luck that this was one of those days, but they don't happen to have a twin set, so we try a regular retailer, A Better Night's Sleep (on Commercial Ave. of course). We introduce ourselves to the proprietor, who asks our quest. We tell him we need a box-spring & mattress for a guest bed, and he says it would be irresponsible of him to sell us a twin set, because his product is too expensive for our needs, although Tracy's down the street could probably accomodate us with a good product at a fair price. We can barely stifle our laughter at the idea of a merchant from the Bay Area making such a claim of sincere concern. In the Bay Area the anonymous quick-sell is the order of the day, and "building a relationship with the customer" is management sending down an edict to make eye-contact for a prescribed number of seconds. In Anacortes, the guy you sell to today is the guy sitting next to you in church, or the bar, tomorrow. And next week. And next year.
We then turn our attention to pillows, and are finally successful at parting with some of our money, but only after a very lucid discussion of sleep disorders in general and apnea in particular. We are forced to cut the discussion short when we realize it's almost time to run back to the house for a call from the security company, scheduled so they can explain to us how we can get in and out of our house without accidentally calling the Police. Also, the house makes the most annoying chirping noise everytime an exterior door is opened, so we need to learn how to turn off the alarm. Anacortes being the hotbed of crime that is it, we are very concerned about security, by golly!
Part of the walk-through of the security system includes a test of each of the security zones, which means we have to trigger the alarm on purpose, and run around breaching the doors and motion sensors while the alarm shrieks in our ears. We're sure the neighbors find this sight almost as amusing as the fact that we arrived in a Ryder truck. The alarm is enough to raise the dead, so there's not alot of doubt that there's a new family on the block.
Step right up and see the circus! In the first ring, the big, yellow truck! In the second ring, the security drill! And if that isn't entertaining enough, in the third ring we have crew from the landscape company sitting on the driveway with their hands over their ears waiting for the alarm to stop squealing.
It may seem odd that we have made the acquaintance of a landscape company so early in the possession of the house. But the weeds in the back yard are now as high as an elephant's eye, and the pollen is blowing 'way up to the sky.
More correctly, the pollen is blowing in the neighbors' yards. To the left, we have a neighbor with a well-tended fruit and vegetable garden. To the right, we have a neighbor with a lovely yard of flowers which might have come right out of Buchart Gardens. In the middle, they have us. A field study of nature reclaiming her roots, as it were.
The landscaper tells us they can do weed abatement in the back, and re-bark the front for "only...$..." an number which chokes us even more than the pollen. As we attempt to revive ourselves from the shock, he points out that our neighbors would be grateful if we did something about the weeds, so we would really be buying the goodwill of our neighbors, as well as a greatly improved back yard. He presses for us to consider putting in landscaping, but we remind him that we aren't interested in any major investment in the yard until next year, when we will be around to tend it. Eventually we capitulate to his logic, and sign up for weed abatement in the back, and bark in the front.
By now curiosity about the unfolding side-show has begun to get the better of the neighbors. They begin to wander by, under the pretext of walking the dog, picking up the mail, or no pretext at all other than friendliness. Soon we have met the neighbors to the right (with the flowers) the left (with the veggies) and across the street. We find that word has gotten around at lightening speed that we are from out of town, have a son just finishing high school, and that we'll be moving up "for real" in about a year. Within the first day, we've spent more time chatting with neighbors than in the last year down here in the 'burbs. We're liking this a lot. Of course as retirees, we have nothing to fear and everything to like from a town where everyone knows everyone's business. As teenagers...well...that might be a different story, but we aren't teenagers any more, merciful God.
We are however still in need of a bed. So, we head out to Tracy's, an old-time furniture store with a traditional showroom and salesman. He greets us, asks our names and our quest. We tell him we are in need of a box-spring and mattress for a guest bed, and a low-profile inexpensive mattress for the trundle.
He directs us upstairs, where he shows us a display of good quality, moderately priced twin sets. In a repetition of the mantra we heard earlier in the day, he tells us he does not want to sell us something fancier than we really need for our application. We select a modest but servicable set, and he asks us when over the next few days we'd like it delivered.
We look at each other. We look at our salesman. Hmmmm. "Well," we say, "we guess we were a little naive." He gives us a puzzled look. "We'd like to take it with us now."
In a masterfully professional performance, the salesman surpresses a look of surprise. "I'm not sure we have them in stock in the store," he says, "but I'll check and see. We normally don't like to sell the display sets, but if it would help accomodate your needs, you could likely take the one you are sitting on, if you wish." We look at eachother, and at him. "OK," we say. He disappears briefly, and on his return says that the manager has said that they would do whatever was necessary to provide what we needed, and that we could in fact take the set with us. A short time later, a couple of young men arrive at the back door leading out to the parking lot with a box-spring and two mattresses, as we requested. They assist us in loading the beds into the truck.
We suspect that at some point, someone might ask us to pay for the items, although up until then, no one had. We follow the salesman back into the store, and plop down in a couple of very nice chairs we had been eyeing on the way in. The salesman, who calls us by name, tells us about the chairs, where and how they are made, makes observations about what seems to appeal to each of us, and after much trying of chairs, we have a winner! So we take a couple swatches with us to decide which color would look best in the new house. Oh, by the way, we also pay for the mattress before we leave for home. We drive gingerly up the hill, pulling up in the driveway and unloading our latest prize. Jim will have a nice new bed to sleep in tonight, which pleases him since we've squished more than a couple spiders on the floor downstairs, and he wasn't too enthusiastic about sharing the floor with pouncing spiders.
Before long, the beds are assembled and made, and we fall fast asleep in our new home. We are dog-tired, so we know we'll sleep a long time. Or so we thought. The next morning, Tom and Sara upstairs and Jim downstairs are awakened "the old-fashioned way" by the sun. A very, very bright sun. Oh well, there's lots to be done, so we get up. Very early.
But we have promises to keep, and miles to go before we can return the Ryder truck to the rental place in Burlington. We return the truck, eat breakfast, swing by Holiday Market, and thus the day is spent, running errands, unpacking, and settling in. We also go back to Tracy's and order the chairs, which are made-to-order in Norway, and will have to be shipped here. They will arrive in a few months, just in time for the holidays.
The next morning our built-in alarm clock fails to wake us, because sun is so obscured by clouds we sleep right through sunrise. That's more like the Northwest we were expecting.
And as soon as we've come, it's time to go. We head to Seattle for a couple days with the Puffin and the Seattle branch of the family, for the next trip will the appointed time for the Puffin to migrate North for the Winter. North to home.
Cap'n Tom & Sara plan to take Pacific Puffin to Alaska--Puffin Mecca as it were. Such a trip will require considerably more experience than we have so far, so an advance team was sent to scout the area. The intrepid explorers flew in to Anchorage, and of course stopped at Once in a Blue Moose, purveyors of all things puffin, and business establishment of one of our cyberfriends.
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The gang of six then traveled southward to Seward, home of the SeaLife Center, and also a great place to fish.
The SeaLife Center has an exhibit of seabirds, including puffins. The exhibit allows you to view the puffins from above, where they can be seen paddling about in the water, or hopping up on the rocks. Downstairs, the diving pool has a glass wall, where you can watch the puffins swimming furiously down to catch fish for their dinners. Lest you be concerned about the entrapment of puffins, these puffins were procured from captivity, including a pair which came from New York's Central Park. Needless to say, moving puffins from New York to Alaska is an act of mercy. The SeaLife Center is a working, research facility. It sits right on Resurrection Bay, in the old part of Seward. They also sponsor a camera on an uninhabited island not far away, and pipe the video feed of the sealife to the Center and to the local cable company. When you are in your room at the motel, you can watch the sealife channel. Amazingly enough, this channel was a hot ticket with the kids.
Visiting Seward also seemed like a good excuse to ride in a helicopter, so we flew up to the top of a local glacier to ride dogsleds and cuddle puppies. At the top of the glacier, a cacaphony of dogs greeted us with much barking and tail-wagging. The mushers explained to us a little about the dogs and the sleds, and off we went on an erzatz Iditarod. The dogs, unlike the tourists, like to run at night in weather close to zero. Apparently the dogs understand their preference does not make for a good business model, so they cheerfully pulled us along at 3:00 in the afternoon, and about 60 degree weather. They stopped a few times along the way, and threw themselves down into the snow for a good roll. They licked our hands, and wagged their tails, and it was definitely an "E-ticket." At the end, you get to see a little pen of wiggly, cuddly puppies, which can be yours for a mere $400 "to a good home." We wonder what kind of person can provide a "good home" to a dog who by nature wants to run, at night, in sub-zero weather. Someone could probably provide that, but we can't, so we bid the puppies good-bye and are whooshed back to reality in the helicopter.
The next day, the gang of six presents itself at the dock where M/V Crackerjack makes its home. Cap'n Nik and deckhand Brian have everything ready for our departure, and suggest that the day is perfect for halibut fishing. We hem & haw briefly, before explaining that this is the day the girls are going, and that we were looking for a day of salmon & rockfish. Tomorrow will be macho fishing day. Nik & Brian take this announcement in stride, switch the poles, fetch new bait, and we're off for a day of puffin watching & fishing.
The weather is perfect. The sea is flat. Crackerjack is an excellent vessel, with enough power to get up & move. This boat also has a real head. Luxury for a fishing boat.
First, we catch salmon. Jessica flinches when she sees that the salmon have to be bonked on the head with a bat. We assure her that the fish we drop down in the hold are sleeping comfortably. At one point, the salmon are hitting like crazy, and there's three or four fish all flopping about in the cockpit. They are quickly subdued. After spending a glorious morning of salmon fishing, we decide it's time to head out for some Ling cod. Up come the lines, and we head toward the Gulf.
Some days the ocean is just too pretty for words, and this is one of them. Nik and Brian show us how to jig, and we start fishing for rock fish. The kids are amazed at how prehistoric the cod look. Sara catches a yellow-eye, and is somewhat chagrined to find out how old the fish was to get so large. "I feel like I just cut down a redwood" she muses. This fish was not happy to be caught, and flexed his considerable muscle before being subdued. A few spines from the fin catch Brian's leg. "It's a good thing I'm not alergic to these things," says Brian, as small dots of blood begin to appear through the leg of his double-thick (brand new) canvas pants.
We are having good success catching Ling cod. We throw back some good-sized fish, and the ones we keep are monsters. We're feeling very proud of ourselves when Forrest yells that he has a fish on, and that he thinks it's big. We all watch as he fights, and fights. Nik & Brian grab the belt which will brace the pole, and he fights on as they strap it around his narrow waist. Man against fish. As he finally triumphs, we see he has caught a halibut. Not just a little chicken either, but a real hog (106 pounds as we will find out later). Looks like Nik & Brian were right, it's a good day for halibut fishing.
We return to the dock, tired but happy. We watch as Nik and Brian filet the fish. The cod all look pregnant, and the analogy is apt as we see them disemboweled to reveal freshly eaten salmon. The salmon emerge from their bellies almost whole, but with a slightly cooked look to the meat. The tender-hearted Jessica blanches, but gawks along with the rest of us.
We check in with Captain Jack's fish processor. A young girl, with short blonde hair, a friendly smile, and a direct gaze walks among the fishermen, handling the fish, explaining the process, and putting everyone at ease with her confidence and expertise. There is something mesmerizing about this georgeous girl, the new-age Captain Jack. She understands service. She understands people. And she understands fish. Sara sighs to herself, "If I could bottle that talent I'd be rich." But she feels blessed enough just to observe the girl in her native habitat. If you ever fish in Seward, be sure to have your fish processed at Captain Jack's.
If you ever fish in Seward, you also would want to use Crackerjack Sport Fishing. The folks from Crackerjack are great guides, capable sportsmen, and pleasant company. They also know more than your average fellow about sealife, and in fact may be seen over at the SeaLife Center where they also work. If you were a fish, you'd wish there were more people like this, making the world a better place for fish and people too.
The next day, the manly men go out hunting halibut. The girlie-girls sleep in, eat breakfast, mosey around town, and (dare I confess?) watch a couple soap operas. We meet our men at the dock when they return, the hold loaded with fish. Tom and Russ have the catch of the day, a couple big hogs. But everyone has done well, and there's lots of gawking at the docks when the catch is hauled up to be cleaned and fileted. Much to our amusement, perfect strangers want to have their pictures taken by our fish. When we get home, someone even accuses Forrest of having his picture taken by the plastic tourist fish. Tsk, tsk.
The last day we decide we want to see a moose and a bear. We drive to Exit glacier, and see a big moose standing by the side of the road. We turn around and come back to get a better look. He looks stupid. Really, really dumb. About that time, traffic (a couple cars is "traffic" in Alaska) comes down the road, and we begin to wonder what moose do when they are scared. Do you supposed they kick the crud out of parked minivans? We think this is a distict possiblity, so we head back toward Exit glacier. We keep watching for bear, but see none. When we get to the glacier, we decide to take a little walk up even though it's beginging to drizzle. When we get near the glacier, it looks like a moonscape where the glacier has retreated. The glacier itself is the signature blue. We can see how the glacier scours the valley with dirt on its retreat. The park service has put up signs to show the position of the glacier in previous years. We pass our various birth years as we go. By the time we make the circuit and return to the trusty minivan, we're drenched. We decide at this point that getting a little wetter can't hurt, so we stop at Red's for burgers, and take them back to the room. Red's is built out of the hollowed out carcasses of two old buses, with a little awning over the window where you order your food. By some magic, the decrepit bus produces wonderful cheese burgers, and pretty respectable fries and onion rings too. We happily eat too much, and sigh with contentment as our cholesterol rises with every bite. We pack up, ready to head out early the next morning, back to Anchorage.
Before we go to the airport, we meet our friend from Once in a Blue Moose. The kids chastise us for agreeing to meet someone we've only known through the Internet. She could be an axe-murderer! She could be, but she isn't. We arrive at her office, and she confesses that her husband was concerned that she was going to meet strangers who she only knew from the Internet. We could be axe-murderers! We could be, but we aren't. Instead, we all have lunch at a local coffee shop, chit-chatting like the friends that we are. We invite her to visit us if she comes to the lower 48, and she says maybe she will.
Notice to children reading this site. Do not ever agree to meet someone you met on the Internet! Adult supervision required! Do not try this at home...or on vacation!
We retrieve our fish, get it checked onto the plane, and wonder how we are going to pack 376 pounds of filet into the freezer. What a nice problem to have! We also have some nice puffin paraphernalia, for what better place to get puffin stuff than Puffin Mecca? We can bring gifts to Pacific Puffin. We can reassure her that Alaska is everything she's dreamed of. One day, she'll take us there.
Cap'n Tom read on the internet that there is a small knife one can buy from Spyderco which has a clip on one end suitable for attaching to your PFD (Personal Flotation Device). It can also be opened with one hand, so in case of emergency...especially if you're holding on to something important with your other hand...you can cut free of whatever might be necessary in a crisis.
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Tom, Jim Tom's-son (aka Jim Thompson), and Sara set off to Jim's favorite knife store, the Edge of the World in Oakland. We arrive at the store to find that it and all the surrounding stores in Jack London Square Village have been leveled, with nothing left but a cyclone fence around the hole where the stores used to be.
Turns out the Edge of the World is no longer in Oakland, but is now in Brentwood. (Well, we always knew Brentwood was a little "out there" we just didn't know it was the new "Edge of the World").
We are greeted by a woman with red hair, a ring piercing her lower lip, and a black T-shirt which on the back reads, "No one knows what a killer looks like."
As we look around the store, a middle-aged man comes in and the red-haired woman goes in the back to fetch a knife for him. She brings out a quite-large package, and carefully unwraps it to reveal a long, old breadknife. She hands him the breadknife, which he carefully inspects, and then beams with gratitude and tells her what a wonderful job she has done. It seems he put a bad nick in it, and she was able to sharpen it back to pristine condition without losing anything of the depth of the blade. She re-wraps the knife. He leaves, and calls to her that she must be sure & come down for dinner.
After he has left the shop, she explains to us that her grandfather, the owner of the shop & now retired, taught her how to sharpen knives. That she had shown him the damaged blade, and then shown him the repair, and that he had praised her work. She was flushed with pride that he had approved. She also said the happy customer had given her two gift certificates for dinner at his restaurant, but that she had given them to her grandparents because they don't get out on the town as much as they used to.
One tough woman, that purveyor of knives.
The Tender To Pacific Puffin was hatched today out of the lamination shop. She looks great, and will shortly be headed North toward the Mother Ship to be mounted on her perch on the sundeck.
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Cap'n Tom & Sara are going to all-day Trawler school on Sunday. 10 grueling hours of On-the-Water Training. Training will focus on docking, anchoring, and Man-Over-Board. We figure, if you're going to learn to dock, better you should do it with someone else's boat.
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I feel brave today. I'll add some major milestone information on Pacific Puffin.
Delivery: On target for 3/28.
New Digs: Elliott Bay Marina Dock D, Slip 63 (effective mid-May)
Next trip: March 26-March 31