It’s only a couple of hours from Marineland to the oldest city in the US – St. Augustine – where I will find, finally, a decent hat. A short, easy day. Doug makes another fine breakfast, we wash up, anchor up, and head north.
Trusty WoodenBoat cap works in a pinch.
Soon the linear dredged canal relaxes into winding creeks and marshes, the Matanzas River proper. Drawbridges spring from clusters of houses that appear along the shore more frequently. We enter a patchwork quilt of history loosely stitched together – ruins of colonial era Spanish fortifications, new McMansions next to an old Victorian from 1862 at the start of the Civil War, rustic fish camps from the 1900s, wilderness as it was before Europeans arrived. Every mile under the keel takes us forward or back decades, but the trend is definitely backward in time until we reach St. Augustine.
We spent a few days with friends on the Northern Neck, in the village of Morattico on the Rappahannock. We shared an old farmhouse built in the early 1900s, like many you still find all across Tidewater, with a good dock on a broad and winding tidal creek – perfect for paddling and small boat sailing.
I brought a Melonseed, but it rained the first two days, so didn’t get it in the water. Instead we spent relaxing days on the big wrap-around porch, reading in swinging sofas and doing puzzles. Like the best country homes, there’s as much living space outside as in – outdoor showers, a fire pit, and patios under the trees. In the evenings we went for local oysters at Merroir, and ice cream at flower shop in White Stone.
One of our daughters and son-in-law moved overseas eight years ago. We tried for years to go see them. As teachers, they have regular breaks to travel. Our simple idea was to meet them somewhere, anywhere. But a worldwide pandemic got in the way, among other things. Plans were made, and cancelled, and made again and cancelled again. It happens. Finally, eight years later, everything fell into place.
They now live in the desert of Saudi Arabia, so they wanted to go somewhere wet and green for spring break. Where else but The Netherlands?
Water everywhere
We spent a week in a small cottage in the country, a bit north of Amsterdam. Water everywhere. And windmills. The nearest town of Zaandijk has a train station, bakery, brewery, and couple of cafes, and was just a short bike ride away. A ride along dikes and levees past a dozen working windmills.
Cafe in Zaandijk
One evening we took the train back from Amsterdam. We walked from the station to the cottage, stopping for dinner in a small cafe. After dinner, we walked the rest of the way back in the moonlight. It was amazing, the windmills whooshing overhead like giant birds flapping in a starry sky. Flocks of geese and ducks in the canals and the polders cackled, adding to the surreal effect.
One morning while the others eased slowly out of bed, I rode by as the windmill crews were just opening up. Several of the mills earn their keep doing the same work they’ve done for hundreds of years. One is a working sawmill. At that early hour there were no crowds to contend with – I was the only visitor. Most of the crews are older men who work the mill, and a few young apprentices have joined them. One of the old Dutch guys saw how interested I was and gave me a personal tour, explaining in detail how it all works (in fluent English), and the history of that particular mill.
“The Young Sheep”Young Apprentices
This mill, Het Jong Schaap (“The Young Sheep”), had been in continuous operation for over 400 years, right up until WWII and the Nazi Occupation. Things became so desperate during the war that townspeople needed to dismantle the mill for firewood. But before they did, they documented in detail every piece they removed. Years after the war those plans were found. Funds were raised and the mill rebuilt exactly as it was, along with many others along the Zaans River.
Work Shoes
Inside the mill, I was immediately struck by the sound – it’s like being inside an enormous breathing animal. The pace of respiration rises and falls with natural rhythm of the wind. From slow and steady, like the beast is sleeping, to rapid and muscular.
The canvas on the vanes are trimmed like sails to match the strength of the wind, and the whole head is turned with a crank to follow the wind direction as well, just like a sailing ship. In fact, as he was explaining how the gears work, he suddenly stopped short and made a quick adjustment to take advantage of a gust, which he heard instinctively – just like we do in our small wooden boats. “Just the same, it’s the same principle,” he said.
After the sound, there’s smell of fresh sawdust, and everywhere the rich golden glow of sunlight on wood. No reek of petroleum or exhaust, no screech and whine of industrial motors. Just heaving and sighing.
The whole apparatus is built like a big clock inside, and every step of the process is automated and facilitated by the power of the wind harnessed by the vanes. A windlass winds a hawser that hauls logs from the river up the ramp and into the mill, then lifts them onto a carriage where the log is dogged in place. Then another gear, ticking like a slow second hand watch gear, moves the log and carriage steadily into the blades as they pump up and down, the blades driven by a crank shaft turned in the attic by the wind.
The blades are spaced with wooden blocks measured down to the millimeter. Using a combination of blades and spacers, they can cut thin planks and thick timbers from the same log in a single pass. With good wind, they can cut three logs at once, running all three saws side by side.
Spacer blocks, sorted to millimeter precision.
My guide, knowing I was a sailor, told me they recently had a commission to make a new mast for a large sailing ship. Cut eight sided and tapered. They used a single log 40 feet long, floated down rivers and canals from the Black Forest in Germany. There are small doors at the back of the mill just for this purpose – opened to let oversized pieces extend out through the walls.
Found this on my phone this evening, and realized I never posted it.
Shot on October 10, 2024, in the hay field next to the house.
I walked out in the dark, not expecting much, so wasn’t prepared for what I saw. No camera or tripod. I took off my shoes to prop up my phone on a hay bale. I stood there barefoot in the wet grass, shaking from cold and wonder.
On Sunday morning, many with long drives hauled out. A few of us, locals or those staying over, headed out to take advantage of the great weather with another sail. Chris H came all the way from Pittsburg, so he was staying another day to make it worth the trip. He invited me to join him on his Vivier Ilur Clarissa. Dennis K got a ride on Randy C’s William Garden designed Eel, Winkle. Harris and Barbara led the way in their new catboat, Mariah, just delivered mid-summer.
Winkle chasing Mariah
It was a real treat for me to be able to lay in the boat and let Chris do all the work, while I enjoyed the view. It let me keep both hands on the camera for a change. And what a great day for it. Beautiful boats and beautiful weather.
All three boats danced around each other all afternoon. Sometimes coming together close enough to chat, then veering off to points on the horizon. With the chuckle of water on a lapstrake hull tapping time.
As usual, most of our views of Harris were of his transom. He can’t bear to slow down enough for us to get close.
I shot a lot of video. Something to savor over the coming winter.
