This is my best attempt at keeping the sun off the outboard engine’s tiller.  I know, it looks like a ballerina’s foot in a pointe shoe

or an ostrich with an elongated head (and beady eye)

but it really is the tiller of the outboard 

covered by a kiddies sock. 

10 knots is record speed for Lily B.  We usually cruise around the islands at about 6 knots, but here we had huge help from the current.

Perhaps it also helped that she had had a little grooming!  

We scraped off long strands of green weed from the bow that wafted along the waterline like a beard on her chin.  We then power washed the hull until her bottom was smooth, as if she’d had a bikini wax!  A special cream was applied to the propellor to inhibit the growth of barnacles — now this is really sounding like she went to a spa — and hoped that by doing all this she would pick up a knot or two.

And she did.  

Be back soon … gone messing.

Boerewors — pronounced [bu:r … eh, can’t find the schwa icon … vors]

Sometimes I hanker for boerewors, but only late in summer when the ground is hard and dry and the night air smells like a dusty desert road 

and I’m feeling flush.

A local butcher sells coils of frozen boerewors


which tastes just like it should — fatty, peppery and full of dried coriander — it’s a delightful mixture of beef, lamb and pork ground in with lumps of white fat that you can see through the casing. 


We braai boerewors in South Africa and use hardwood logs to make coals that glow long into the African night.  The smoke from the hardwood, be it kameeldoring (camelthorn) or rooikrans (acacia), infuses the sausage and enhances the taste.  I prefer this smoky taste, but the BBQ is quicker.   


MUCH quicker.


Robb melts those fatty nuggets over a good heat and lets the fat mingle with the meat. When the skin is firm and slightly blackened and the inside soft and juicy, we snap off pieces from the coil and devour them with dollops of blatjang …


pronounced [chutney] !

The sun was showing her fatigue and as she slipped down behind the trees she left a moiré pattern on the water.  All around the bay lights were flicking on like fireflies in a forest.  The water lapped gently against the hull as the tide pushed in and I could see tiny pearls of dew collecting on the dinghy and the deck.  

It was time to go in.  

We lay down in the salon, we didn’t want to miss the moon.

We pottered over to Pender Island for the night, a boat trip that was well over due.  LilyB had been tugging on her lines since the beginning of summer, eager to get back out on the ocean, and so were we.

After and hour or so of motoring, dodging crab traps and floating logs, we turned into Bedwell Harbour and dropped anchor.  I wanted to sit in the last rays of afternoon sun and read, while Robb wanted to do “boy-things” like get the dinghy in the water and test the motor.  

We both got what we wanted.

Tonight, pictures speak louder than words.

(Reblogged from be-calmed)

My last post shows a photograph of a “dead end” sign.  I did not realize how appropriate it was until right now.  I looked at the date that I last posted anything and it was more than 3 weeks ago!  

I wasn’t really at a dead end it’s just that we had visitors — my mother and younger sister came all the way from Cape Town!  

After a few days of shaking off their jet lag, we tore through the stores like a whirlwind and then soaked up the sunshine on the deck.  

We ate, and we ate.  We had hardly digested the last meal and we were planning the next!  I would go to sleep with images of scallops and salmon, rib eyes and rhubarb swirling around in my head.  

And now they’ve left.  

My belly is full, but there’s a hole in my heart.

Sign post right at the end of a long road — a dead end for motorists, but not for sailors!