All revved up on Center Island: When a new boat motor is more than just a prop

P1260709.JPGAwaiting her new motor, WeLike sits at the West Sound Marina guest dock on Orcas Island as a Kenmore Air seaplane painted like an orca taxis in to pick up passengers headed for Seattle.

IMG_7955HALLELUJAH, we are islanders empowered.

In the past year, we’ve learned that a few needs are pretty basic when you live on a remote little island in the San Juans. Near the top of that list: a boat you can depend on.

We love (not just like) our restored 1957 Skagit Express Cruiser, WeLike, a handsome little runabout built in La Conner, where Barbara once worked as the town librarian.

WeLike has served us pretty well so far. But WeLike’s motor, a 90-horsepower Evinrude E-TEC outboard dating to 2007, has performed spottily, with enough hiccups and a continuing series of repairs that added up until we’ve finally thrown in the shop towel. Tuesday, we got a brand-new motor mounted on the boat at West Sound Marina on Orcas Island.

As is often the case when you live on a remote island, acquiring the new outboard was no small feat. It wasn’t at all like buying a new car, where the sales folks are masters at nabbing any warm body that wanders in to the showroom and sending them home with a stunned look on their face while driving a shiny new latest model.

No, this acquisition took weeks of palavering, a score of phone calls, dozens of emails and a rather large wire transfer.

P1260819.JPGIn the slings of a giant Travelift, little WeLike resembles a spider-trapped-fly as she’s plucked from the water for repowering.

First I have to tell you that, despite accusations of insanity from some of my island friends, we replaced our motor with the same make and model, despite my occasional choice curses directed at Mr. Evinrude as I performed repairs in recent months and encountered inaccessible bolts, illogically engineered parts and other foibles.

My explanation: (A) This is the devil I know, and all outboard makers have their critics; (B) This time I can baby my new engine and give it proper maintenance from Day 1 instead of struggling with inherited problems; and (C) I like the fact that this motor still uses two-stroke technology, modernized to be more efficient and eco-friendly. Two-stroke engines have fewer moving parts than four-stroke engines, so they are less complicated, smaller and lighter. The latter makes a significant difference when you’re hanging an outboard on a little boat sized by 1950s standards, before the advent of Large Americans Who Drive Monster Pickups.

Making this long story shorter: Buying a new 2019 engine from the local Evinrude dealer on Orcas Island would have run well more than $10,000. But trolling the internet, I found a new 2018 model sitting on a showroom floor near San Diego priced more than $2,000 less. Even paying to truck it here, we saved plenty. That counts when you’re old retired people. And even with the 2018 model, we qualified for a spring special that gave us two extra years of warranty coverage and a $300 rebate.

West Sound Marina agreed to mount the new motor for us, even though we didn’t buy it there. But as carpetbaggers who had sent our cash to California, we had to wait a few weeks until after the Fourth of July boating rush, when they found time in their yard schedule.

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Bald eagles perch atop a fir on Picnic Island.

My engine repairs held true enough that we zipped the 12 miles over to West Sound on Monday. We tied up to the marina’s guest dock with a lovely view of eagles and other bird life on rocky little Picnic Island, just off the Orcas Island shore. We spent the night aboard WeLike, our first time sleeping on her. The little cuddy cabin was cozy, with new turquoise curtains Barbara had installed. The one-burner butane stove cooked up a tasty dinner, and we were blessed with a flat-calm night and a sky full of dazzling stars.

 

Installation Day was long and tedious and need not be relived here. The bottom line: By shortly after 5 p.m. Tuesday we were finally zooming homeward to Center Island, with our new motor purring behind us like a lion full of prime wildebeest.

P1260848.JPGThe helpful yardman at West Sound Marina lowered the new motor into place.

Now we can wander these islands at will, boat camping when the spirit moves us this summer. We live in orca country, so we bear the responsibility of careful boating, gearing down whenever whales are sighted and keeping our distance per new restrictions. But now we can enjoy the Salish Sea with new confidence. Frankly, it’s a whale of a relief. 1-anchor

 

A wild (and enjoyable) ride to Victoria

P1260106.JPGBarbara Marrett, right, and Barbara Cantwell push their bikes off the Sidney ferry on our way to Victoria, B.C.

IMG_7955IT MIGHT NOT SEEM KIND to compare my dear wife with the obstreperous Mr. Toad from Kenneth Grahame’s wonderful The Wind in the Willows, but she brought it on herself.

We’ve just returned from a two-night cycling trip, via the Sidney ferry, to Victoria, B.C., with our Friday Harbor friends Barbara Marrett and Bill Watson. They had made the trip three times before and are big fans of Vancouver Island’s Lochside Trail, which connects Swartz Bay (north of Sidney) with Victoria.

“My Barbara,” as I tend to call my wife when we’re with these friends, has challenges with her stamina, so we came up with a good solution, renting her an electric-assisted bike from Discovery Sea Kayaks in Friday Harbor (whom I highly recommend, if you have occasion to rent a bike or kayak in the islands; they didn’t know me from Adam yet gave us wonderful service, with the island’s best rates for a multi-day rental).

The electric bike was just what Barbara needed. She still had to turn the pedals, but could quickly shift the Bosch electric motor from the “eco” setting (light assistance) to “touring” to “sport” to — the big gun — turbo.

P1260568.JPGThe rented Kona bike from Discovery Kayaks featured a Bosch electric motor that was good for 50 miles of cruising before recharging.

It was mostly flat trail, much of it following an old rail route past bucolic farmland and several scenic lakes on our 18-mile ride to Victoria. But at one point when we had ventured off the trail a few blocks to a beachfront lunch stop and had to climb a straight-up-the-cliff street to get back on our route, the rest of us laboriously pushed our pannier-laden bikes while my speed-demon wife shifted into turbo and zipped up past us, brazenly calling out “Poop, poop!” the way wild-driving Mr. Toad imitated the speeding automobiles of which he was dangerously fond.

Waiting at the top, Barbara tapped her toe nonchalantly as we puffed our way up the last few yards.

P1260154.JPGThe two Barbaras and Bill Watson at our pleasant lunch stop, the Beach House Restaurant on Cordova Bay, about halfway between Sidney and Victoria.

We enjoyed the little inn our friends recommended, Swans Hotel, with its own brewpub. Located by the Johnson Street Bridge, it sits right at the end of the bike trail and within easy walking distance of all that downtown Victoria has to offer.

It was a couple days of good company, good food and fun sightseeing. A new discovery, based on a tip from another friend: the lovely (free) gardens surrounding Government House, the home of the Lieutenant Governor, British Columbia’s official representative of the British crown. (Don’t miss scones and tea in the little teahouse, served by very proper older ladies with distinctly Canadian good manners.)

Then, after a pleasant bike ride back to Sidney and the homeward ferry, my Barbara and I made our way home to Toad Hall — er, uh, I mean The Nuthatch cabin.

Poop, poop a doop, one might say. Tally frightfully ho, even. 1-anchor

 

Summer-stock on Center Island

P1260083.JPGA goldfinch pauses atop the bamboo fountain outside the front window of The Nuthatch cabin.

IMG_7955YOU MIGHT CALL IT “BIRDIE THEATER,” the tableau we’ve set up just outside the sliding-glass door off The Nuthatch cabin’s living room.

Besides spending $30 or $40 a month on birdseed to attract the feathered friends that help keep us old folks entertained day to day, we’ve set up a water feature, a large ceramic tub with a recirculating bamboo fountain. As part of our deck garden, it’s surrounded by draping branches of fuchsia whose hoop-skirt blossoms of crimson and lavender dip nearly into the water.

It’s a hit with the birds in our dry neck of the Northwest woods, ranging from goldfinches to towhees to hummingbirds. It provides a rare source of fresh water in which to dip their beaks or have a good, shake-all-over bath. And it provides us and our guests entertainment that has nothing to do with Netflix or Amazon.

On solstice day here at The Nuthatch (Latitude 48 degrees 48 minutes North), where one cathedral-ceilinged wall is all windows, I awakened when the sky started getting light at 3:45 a.m. The nice thing for us retired types: I could whisper to Barbara, “Good god, it’s getting light already,” and then turn over and go back to sleep for four more hours.

To my Northern Hemisphere readers: Enjoy your summer. 1-anchor

P1260035.JPGIts tiny wings a blur, flapping at up to 60 beats a second, a female rufous hummingbird pays a visit to the water feature on Center Island.

A tool chest full of memories on Father’s Day

P1260013.JPGMy father’s old tool chest, and the bent nail that keeps the latch closed. It was classic Joe Cantwell, though the man actually was a rocket scientist.

IMG_7955“I’M NOT JOE CANTWELL’S SON FOR NOTHIN’,” I often tell my dear wife, usually after I’ve effected some simple DIY repair, such as epoxying the broken door handle back on to the microwave. (Hey, it’s a discontinued General Electric part, you can’t order a replacement.)

What really made me Joe’s son was when I used the laser printer to create a tiny little sign with an upward pointing arrow and the word PULL, taped to the handle to encourage users to grab at the top where the repair is stronger.

There, I was totally channeling Dad, in the worst way.

And the best way.

On this Father’s Day, almost five years after my father’s 2014 death, I’m thinking about him. Joseph Robert Cantwell, father of four, of whom I was the baby. Joe Cantwell, forever the aerospace engineer. He could help design the rocket that put men on the moon. Or, much more in my consciousness as a queasy teen who hated for my friends to see these things, he could carve a wooden gizmo and secure it with string and epoxy to replace a broken latch on our Hoover vacuum. He kept that rotten Hoover till he died.

None of his children inherited much of his aptitude for science or engineering, and we had our share of growing-up tensions, sometimes inflamed by not-so-thinly veiled fatherly disappointment. But when we cleaned out his Ballard apartment in 2014, there were things I couldn’t part with, such as his old tool chest that was held closed with a bent nail.20141005162821_00010.jpgOn the Washington coast in the late 1950s: Dad holds me, next to my brother Doug, at left, sister Marcia, and brother Tom.

His little fixes were forever functional. They didn’t consider aesthetics. Why should they? A child of the Great Depression, he used what was at hand. Watching the old movie “Apollo 13,” when engineers on the ground had to innovate ways for the astronauts to save their own lives with any humdrum supplies they had in their capsule, I always pictured my father in the fray. He’d have been a star at coming up with a carbon-dioxide scrubber fashioned from duct tape and spare Kleenex.

Recently I was struggling to repair my boat engine and didn’t have quite the right tool. In desperation, I went to Dad’s old metal tool chest, which was probably shiny and fire-engine red sometime before I was born. Now it’s dinged up and rusty and kind of mauve around the edges.

I pulled the bent nail out of the metal loop in the latch and let it dangle on its special Joe Cantwell retaining string.

Opening the lid, I rummaged about and soon came up with something I’d have least expected to find there and don’t remember having ever seen before: a long, thin stainless steel surgical clamp, just like Hawkeye Pierce might have used to stem a bleeder during meatball surgery on “M*A*S*H.”

It was the perfect thing to reach deep into a really narrow space and grab an important little screw I had dropped into the motor’s innards. I’d never have retrieved it otherwise. It was an odd, tiny size probably not to be found in a hardware store anywhere near here.

I felt close to my dad as I replaced the bent nail in its place. If he was still around today, I’d have been at his place making his favorite waffles, to be savored with peanut butter and syrup, with link sausage on the side. Together we’d have tackled the Sunday New York Times crossword, which his old eyes had a tough time reading. It was a routine we followed for many Sundays until he was gone at age 92.

Five years have passed and you’re on my mind, Dad. I might just go bend a nail in your honor. 1-anchor

20141005162821_00009On a tour of Ireland with Mom in their later years. With typical dry humor, Dad labeled this photo, “Local drunk, waiting for pub to open.”

ALSO: If you missed it, here’s a reminiscence about recent travels with my sweet daughter that appeared in The Seattle Times this Father’s Day.

It’s Flag Day at The Nuthatch

IMG_2973June 14 is Flag Day in the U.S.A. At Nuthatch Cabin, we fly the colors from a weathered driftwood staff. (The stars-and-stripes we reserve for Memorial Day or Veterans Day, in honor of our parents who served in WWII.) A milestone Barbara and I always remember: We returned to San Diego Bay from our sailing cruise to Mexico 24 years ago today. In the foreground in this photo: After weeks of shivering in mild island temperatures and getting more obese day by day, a giant fuchsia bud (lower left) finally popped open in this week’s balmier weather.

Thorny issues in the San Juans: unexpected cactus and a lovelorn bear

P1250972.JPGA blooming miracle? Actually, it’s Western Washington’s only native cactus, which prospers in the dry San Juan Islands. Note the green bug investigating the upper flower.

IMG_7955CACTUS IN MOSSY WESTERN WASHINGTON? Really? Did we take a wrong turn at Albuquerque? Sometimes you just have to go see for yourself.

So the other day we asked fellow islanders Dan and Lisa Lewis if they’d take us over to their favorite beach on neighboring Decatur Island and show us the cactus they insisted existed.

We piled in to their big RIB, which stands for “rigid inflatable boat,” meaning it’s basically a Zodiac but with an aluminum, v-shaped bottom that helps it get up and plane. With a 50-horse Suzuki on the transom it scoots faster than a bird-feeder-raiding raccoon pelted by pine cones.

Barbara packed sandwiches for our exploration party and on the way to the dock we stopped by the Center Island farm stand for a carton of fresh ruby-red strawberries. Sweetest you ever tasted.P1250935.JPGStrawberries from Monique and Chris Maas’ Center Island farm helped fuel our explorations.

In less than 10 minutes from the Center Island dock our friend Dan powered the RIB’s prow up on to a sandy tombolo, a driftwood-strewn, tide-washed isthmus connecting rocky headlands at the south end of Decatur Island. This was the showpiece of San Juan Preservation Trust’s 56-acre Kimball Preserve, set aside in its natural beauty for perpetuity. Looking out on the rushing tidal waters of narrow Lopez Pass and to Rosario Strait beyond, the beach is sheltered by the headlands and can be peaceful even on a windy day.

P1250942.JPGBarbara hides behind her sandwich as we lunch with Lisa and Dan Lewis on the tombolo in Kimball Preserve.

We perched on logs and folding chairs and devoured lunch while trading stories, such as the time the Lewises forgot to tie up their RIB here and looked up from a beach log to see their tide-snatched ride disappearing around the point.

That was (unfortunately) also the occasion when they discovered the cactus, as they scrambled in panic to keep their boat in sight. Lisa’s sandaled feet bore the prickly testimony, she recalled with a groan. Eventually, a passing boater returned their RIB, but only after current had sent it shooting out toward the wide waters of Rosario Strait.

After lunch, we went to see the flora phenom. Wandering out on the western headland on an old deer path just above the waterline, we skirted twisted old fir snags that looked to be perfect perches for eagles. Wildflowers slowed me down as I pointed my camera every which way. “There’s a camas flower, the blue one!” I called. “Camas, Washington, was named for it, and Indians used to eat the roots,” I told Lisa and Dan, who formerly lived in the nearby Oregon town of Boring, one of America’s great place names. (My other favorite Oregon town name: Drain, as in “circling the.”)

P1250982.JPGWildflowers abound in Kimball Preserve on Decatur Island.

Emerging on rocks bristling with reindeer lichen, Dan and Lisa soon brought us to a wide panorama of water and islands, looking in at Lopez Sound. And at our feet, wide patches of ground-hugging prickly pear cactus.

“And look, this time it’s blooming!” Lisa cried, stepping gingerly.

Sure enough, this was cactus-flower season. Big blossoms of lemon yellow softened the thorny visage of the pincushion-like plant. An unexpected bonus for us Sunday-afternoon explorers.

It was testimony to what we already knew: Thanks to the Olympic Mountains rain-shadow, our island home gets more sun and a lot less rain than drizzly Seattle (about 20 inches per year here, about 36 in the city). Dan and Lisa had stumbled (literally) on a patch of Opuntia fragilis, or brittle prickly pear, the only cactus native to Western Washington. It is found around Sequim, Port Townsend, Whidbey Island and the San Juans. There is actually a small group called the Cactus Islands northwest of us, between Speiden and Johns islands. Be careful landing your inflatable on those little rocks.

Before heading home, Dan pulled out his phone and showed us photos of a bear recently seen nearby on Decatur. It was a rather famous black bear that had swum between islands from Whidbey to Fidalgo to Orcas to San Juan to Lopez to Decatur. It finally swam to the mainland and roved as far as a neighborhood in Mount Vernon, 23 miles away, before being captured June 1 by wildlife officers and transplanted to the North Cascades. Distinctive markings convinced officials it was the same bear. The theory: Yogi was looking for love in all the wrong places.

I think we need that bear for the next Olympics. Sounds like a medalist swimmer to me.

I just hope he’s found a girlfriend after all that looking. 1-anchor

IMG_1711 - Copy.jpgA weary black bear walks the beach on Decatur Island after touring the San Juans in a fruitless search for a mate.

 

Don’t be a maroon, try rowing in June (is it here so soon?)

P1250884.JPGWe glide out of Swantown Marina on National Learn to Row Day. Jean Farber perches in the bow (left), with me just behind her. Daniel Farber is amidships in the burgundy sweatshirt. My wife, Barbara, was our event photographer.

IMG_7955THIS OLD DOG LEARNED A NEW TRICK on a recent visit to our friends Daniel and Jean Farber in Olympia.

“It’s National Learn to Row Day, and the local rowing club is offering free lessons on Budd Inlet, want to try it?” enthused Jean, a soon-to-be-retired teacher whom I had never suspected might become an aficionado of the oar and the eight.

So we headed down to Port of Olympia’s Swantown Marina on a calm and cloudy morning at 8:30 to sign up for a spot on a 10:40 a.m. outing with Olympia Area Rowing (OAR).

The Olympia club, based in an impressive little warehouse chock full of rowing shells of every size and construction, has been doing these recruiting demonstrations for years, and they were a model of good organization.

We started with a guided tour of their facility and learned that the big fiberglass, eight-person shell we would take out was valued at about $30,000, so they politely requested we not wreck it.

We then jumped on to ergometers for a warmup session and lesson on how to sequentially pull with our legs and back while not tangling the oar in our knees as they pumped up and down (tougher than it sounds!).

P1250854.JPGOur vessel bore the name “Salmon & The Seal,” with corresponding Salish tribal images.

Four experienced club rowers, plus a veteran coxswain, then joined four of us newbies in the boat, so each of us would have a model to mimic as we learned the technique. Jean and I were in the bow; Daniel was in seat 6; Barbara was our on-shore photographer.

After 45 minutes on the lovely smooth water that morning, with the state capitol dome on the horizon, I can’t say our crew was quite a well-oiled machine (a few oars splashed and we weren’t always in sync). But we returned the boat in one piece and all learned the basics. Jean, the new water nymph of Budd Inlet, said she wanted to sign up for more.  cropped-1-anchor.jpg

P1250923.JPGHappy on the water: Intrepid rowers Brian, left, and Jean.

Perfect picnic spots are one of the finer things in life

P1250827.JPGLolling in the shadows of a tree and reading a good book is a fine way to let your picnic lunch digest at Fisherman Bay Preserve on Lopez Island.

IMG_7955WE CAN SEE LOPEZ ISLAND from The Nuthatch cabin, and when we get island fever, we go visit.

A picnic lunch is often involved.

Lately, we’ve returned more than once to a perfect picnic spot with a view of the entrance of Fisherman Bay, with Lopez Village on the far shore. It’s an old farm site, with only the rock fireplace and chimney surviving from the farmhouse, plus a few ancient apple trees and a lovely wide swath of meadow that slopes down to the water. The property is a San Juan County Land Bank site called Fisherman Bay Preserve — The Spit. That’s all I’m telling; beyond that, you’ll have to find it on your own.

Perfect picnic spots are supposed to be hard to find. cropped-1-anchor.jpg

P1250791.JPGBarbara passes the old farmhouse site as she carries a crusty baguette from Holly B’s Bakery, one of our favorite haunts in Lopez Village.

P1250805.JPGWild bushes of Nootka rose surround our picnic site, with their sweet aroma pungent on the breezes. Come visit, and we’ll take you there.

 

Free is a very good ferry fare

Friday Harbor ferry.jpgWalk-on passengers get ready to board a state ferry in Friday Harbor. Between islands, walk-ons need no ticket, we’ve learned.

IMG_7955THIS WEEK WE DISCOVERED a good trick to know if you live on a remote island: how to play tourist without it costing more than a trifling bit of gas money (to get there, anyway).

We visited Friday Harbor, the San Juan Islands’ most popular tourist town, had lunch with a friend, did a little shopping, and got back home in time for dinner, letting someone else do most of the piloting.

Here’s how it works:

We take our boat, the WeLike, from Center Island to the Hunter Bay public dock on Lopez Island, just a couple miles across the water, and tie up for the day. From there we take our stored pickup truck, known as Ranger Rick (yes, it’s a Ford Ranger), to the Lopez Island ferry dock and park it in the free day-parking lot. Then we walk aboard the Friday Harbor-bound state ferry for the hour-long ride, with stops at pretty Shaw and Orcas islands.

Turtleback Mt.jpg

A nice view of Orcas Island’s Turtleback Mountain (with the turtle head on the left), as seen from the state ferry.

What we didn’t realize before: Washington State Ferries doesn’t charge walk-on passengers traveling from one island to another in the San Juans. It’s not worth their trouble, I guess. So “ha, ha,” say we! Now’s our chance to get back all the ferry fares we paid over the years, like when we lived in Bremerton and worked in Seattle.

And because Friday Harbor is quite walkable, you don’t need a car. Or if you wish to see more of the island, you can hop on one of two island shuttles, and have lunch in Roche Harbor. Or go crazy and rent a moped (maybe next time).

It beats taking our own boat that far and having to find (and pay for) dock space. We’re retired folk, you know. Squeezing pennies until Abe screams is becoming a finely honed new talent. cropped-1-anchor.jpg

ferry view.jpg

It’s still the islands’ quiet season, as this view from the ferry’s stern testifies, with nary another vessel in sight.

 

 

If we can make it there, we’ll make it anywhere

P1250495.JPGAs more skyscrapers rise, the rest of Manhattan doesn’t look so far below anymore, from the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

IMG_7955FROM 35,000 FEET OVER MONTANA – We island-dwelling hermits re-earned our merit badges as urban navigators this morning, departing on foot from our hotel on New York’s Upper West Side at 5:30, when the only other people on the Broadway sidewalks were a few guys washing down shopfronts with garden hoses and one early-rising hot-dog vendor just starting to get his relish, mustard and ketchup organized for the day.

From 79th Street, we made our way south on the No. 1 subway to Penn Station, then caught the commuter train to Newark Liberty International Airport, transferred to the airport tram, and sat down to wait at our Alaska Airlines gate by 7:30 a.m., each with a cup in hand of the hot, brown, taste-free liquid that masquerades as coffee in New Jersey. A whole hour to spare before boarding our flight home to Seattle, and we didn’t have to ask directions once.

We’d seen a lot the previous day, on our final full day in the big city. Best choice we made: Going to the top of the Empire State Building (Barbara’s first time) at 9 in the morning, just as the sun was burning away morning clouds. No lines for the elevator at that hour. And the golden morning light was still good for photos. Barbara and Lillian got a kick out of looking down at rooftop gardens on buildings all around us. I got a kick out of checking my watch to see how quickly the elevator rocketed upward (79 stories in less than an ear-popping minute).

P1250591.JPGLillian and I explore the High Line, a former above-the-street rail line preserved with lovely plantings and outdoor art, near the Hudson River shore west of the Empire State Building.

The next adventure on the agenda Lil had set out for us was a trek on the High Line, the former elevated rail line – now an above-the-streets walking path — that has become a major hit with residents and visitors alike. The 22-block walk retains many of the old train tracks and ties, lined with public art and lovely plantings of forget-me-nots, hellebores and more. We found a private bench among leafy trees and picnicked on salads and olives from Zabar’s deli, with blooming trilliums at our feet. Delightful, and unexpected.

Late that afternoon, we finished our day with a tour of the T-Rex special exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History on the edge of Central Park. It was one of the better interactive exhibitions I’ve seen about the king of lizards. Lil and I had fun playing with a sound mixer that let us experiment with what the dinosaur’s roar might have sounded like (we blended bits of sea lion, some bison bellows, crocodile grunts, and even some loon laughs — the dinos were related to birds, after all). We also got a kick out of a virtual-reality set-up that had us donning goggles and manipulating handsets to help “assemble” a T-Rex skeleton, which then came to life before our goggled eyes and gave us a few good thrills and chills. (I had to duck when it tried to bite my head off.)

P1250720.JPGTwenty-seven-year-old Lillian measures up to a four-year-old T-Rex at the American Museum of Natural History.

After a delicious dinner of gourmet tacos at Cafe Frida, Barbara chose to put her feet up back at the hotel while Lil and I strolled through blooming gardens of bleeding heart and fragrant azalea among the rocky landscapes of Manhattan’s Riverside Park. As we watched the sun set over the Hudson, where sailboats bobbed at moorings, it was a happy conclusion to an urban adventure on an island very different from our own. 1-anchor