The Alligator Had a Good Hold on Us Jan. 2006

We had sailed east uneventfully through beautiful Albemarle Sound, NC, and turned south into the mouth of the Alligator River.  Initially the river is a wide and deep body of water, but then a long point, composed of lowland and marshes, puts out from the western shore and squeezes the navigable area into a narrow channel.

It was now dark and the channel markers were difficult to find.  Marnie had to search for each one with the spotlight, so sometimes we proceeded blind for a period until the next mark was spotted.  I therefore also kept an eye on the computer screen to watch the GPS-driven icon representing our boat as it made its way down the channel displayed by chartplotter. There was a turn to the right, west, and I was careful to stay in the center of the channel on the screen, and of course stayed inside the actual channel markers when I saw them.  As we turned, the boat began to slow, then slowed some more, and finally came to a halt, although I had not touched the throttles.  I threw the boat into reverse but she didn't budge.  I tried to rock her forward, and then backwards, to no avail.  I had been aground a number of times before, so didn't panic, especially as the muddy bottom, unlike the rock ledges in Maine,  did not represent a threat to our steel bottom,  I decided to call it a day and take a fresh look at our situation in the morning.

 

However, in the middle of the night I felt the boat gently rocking, perhaps meaning we were coming free.  I started the engines and tried to back down -- or push forward -- no luck.  Back to bed.  A couple of hours later, the same scenario.  At daylight, I saw we were close to the mark on the west side of the channel, and watched a couple of other boats navigate the passage successfully by hugging the mark on the eastern side.  I decided we would just have to wait for a rising tide to get us off.  However after reading up on the area I learned there was virtually no tidal range here and that the water depth only increased when a strong north wind blew water from Albemarle Sound into the river.  So waiting for a high tide to lift us off was not in the cards. 

 

I can be a stubborn, cheap s.o.b., and in 30 years of groundings, power or sail, was always able to eventually free myself without assistance.  So whenever the boat was rocked a bit by small wave or boat's wake over the next 24 hours, hinting we might be able to break free, I rushed to the pilot house to start the engines to try to power us free.  Sometimes we would be able to move in one direction or another for as much as ten or twenty yards, but we never broke loose.  After 36 hours I finally threw in the towel and called Boat US towing service on the VHF.  It was going to be expensive, but I and poor crew had had it!  The nearest towboat was several hours away but it finally arrived.  At first glance, I was very disappointed.  The fiberglass boat was no more than 20 feet long with twin outboards and could not have weighed over 1500 pounds -- and here we were, all 55 feet and 90,000 pounds of dense steel! 

 

The towboat's skipper tossed us a line and we agreed that when (and if!) Simba started moving, I would throw her in gear but not rev the engines so high that, once we broke free, we might run over the little boat and turn her into a shattered white Christmas tree ornament.

The little boat moved ahead and took up the slack in the tow rope.  Its engines roared and the water frothed, but we didn't budge.   For five minutes the Little Engine that Could's motors roared continuously, with the props producing apparently nothing but a large amount of foamy, muddy water.  I knew that the little boat could not possibly drag us across the sand and gravel bank, so wondered what the skipper was up to.  It finally dawned on me that the little guy was not actually attempting to tow us.  With its propwash, it had to be trying to dig us free; trying to dig a channel to deeper water.

     
Finally, I felt Simba move a few inches forward.  I put her in gear with low engine power.  Now we moved a few feet and stopped.  I goosed her a bit.  We moved further, and faster.  Maybe we'll finally make it!  Suddenly we broke free. I quickly pulled the throttles back to neutral and we coasted after the towboat, the boat feeling light and free as a bird.  A wonderful feeling of relief surged through my body.

 

I can't imagine you'd be surprised to learn that within 24 hours, at our very next port of call,  I signed up for a year of towboat insurance. 

A Whomping Off Tangier Island Nov. 2005

It was late afternoon on November 29, 2005.  We were running south down the western shore of Tangier Island, near the foot of Chesapeake Bay.  As time was a bit short, and as I tend to take the most direct course between two points where I deem it possible, I eschewed sailing way out a mile or more in the main buoyed channel, meant chiefly for large ships, and chose to run about a half mile offshore where my chart and depth sounder indicated I had 10-15 feet of water (Simba II draws about six and a half when filled with 3000 plus gallons of diesel).  We were headed for a buoy lying to the southwest of the island; I figured the buoy was south of any shoals and decided we would turn east at that point to round the base of the island and then run up its eastern shore to the small fishing port of Onancock.

We had about a half mile to go to the buoy and the way seemed clear, although the previously calm water had turned into short choppy waves, when suddenly the boat slowed, the bow rose, and BOOM!, our foot-wide I-beam keel smacked down onto hard bottom.  The sound and vibration resonated the length of the ship.  The paper chart and the electronic chart plotter both indicated plenty of water here but the bow quickly rose and BOOM!, we crashed down again.  My crew turned an anguished face towards me and shouted "Shouldn't we call the coast guard?" I ignored her as I struggled to control the boat. "Call the coast guard!!" she wailed as she struggled to maintain her footing in the pilot house (both captains chairs had long since fallen over and were slamming into us as the ship's bow plunged then rose, turning from one direction to another, the short but strong waves tossing us like a cork.  "The coast guard's no use to us now!" I shouted as I struggled with the wheel, "We gotta get out of this on our own!"

My main concern was to avoid being pushed back high onto this sand bar where we then could be thrown on our side and the boat filled with water.  I fought the waves, trying to work the vessel to the southwest, out below the buoy where I knew deeper water lay.  I constantly rode the throttles to avoid racing the engines each time the stern rose out of the water as we hobby horsed.  (I thanked my lucky stars I had had strong four inch wide steel beams welded to the hull way back in Mobile, Alabama.  These skegs protected the props from hitting bottom.  I knew that one encounter with this hard bar would mangle those three foot brass blades, leaving us to the waves' mercy.) I monitored the engine instruments to watch that oil pressures stayed up and water temps down.  With the boat struggling like a wild beast, we inched our way southwest.  After what seemed like hours, but it was probably only the better part of one, we finally managed to escape our trap.

Despite the tremendous pounding the boat took, it appeared at first that no damage had been done.  However, when we left Tangier Island two days later, the starboard engine soon overheated and I had to shut it down.  I couldn't start it the next day in Norfolk, VA.  It turned out to have a cracked exhaust manifold pipe and I had to have it completely overhauled, an expensive job which kept us at a marina in nearby Portsmouth for a week.  Sadly, I had had the same engine overhauled not six months earlier.

I think you will understand why I now have a healthy skepticism for stated chart depths and a markedly increased vigilance for dangerous shoals.

The Kaaterskill Clove

I owned a vacation cottage in Twilight Park, in New York's Catskill Mountains, for 25 years.  The Victorian house, the Park, and the mountains will always be very special for my sons and me. This Thomas Cole painting is the view down the clove from the falls at the entrance to the park. 

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cole_Thomas_The_Clove_Catskills_1827.jpg

Detroit River Debacle

It must have been mid-December, 2005.  I had purchased Simba II, my 55 foot steel trawler, in Hamilton, Ontario and, after two weeks of requisite repairs in Toronto, was on my way to Mobile, Alabama.  I had hired two crew (that's another story!) in Toronto and we had crossed Lake Ontario, sailed through the big Welland ship canal connecting Ontario with Lake Erie, run the length of Erie, entered the Detroit River and moored the ship in a Detroit marina, the only one open that time of year.  It was below freezing with six inches of ice and snow on the dock.  The marina had one attendent, a man in his early 40's.

 

The owner of the boat, a man in his mid-eighties, was difficult to deal with (and that's another story) and claimed he no longer had the original plans of Alexari, his name for the boat.  Without plans, I had nothing to tell me how much fuel she could carry.  I did some calculations and figured she could hold well over 3000 gallons of diesel in the seven tanks I had located.  The tanks are all built into the sides and bottom of the boat.  I wanted to take on a full load of diesel as we would be heading out onto the Great Lakes in the dead of winter and it was unlikely I would be able to find fuel or any open marinas out there.

 

The marina attendent was pretty sure they had 2000 gallons or more diesel (I already had taken on close to a thousand back in Toronto to be sure I could make it across Lake Erie)and he handed me the heavly diesel hose and nozzel.  Each tank has a "fill" on the deck and I methodically began pumping the diesel, aft-most tanks first.  It took considerable time to fill each tank.  I kept track of the gallons pumped into each in order to try to eventually arrive at a good understanding of each tank's capacity.  After filling the four aft tanks I moved to tank #5, the fill located amidships on the port deck.  The attendent stood by as I worked the nozzle, talking non-stop.  Unfortunately he was a low-class, bigoted fellow who laced his conversation with unfavorable comments about "niggas" and others.  He seemed  loaded with animosity and I chafed because the fueling process seemed endless.  And particularly this #5 tank which was apparently empty and I had calculated should hold no more than 300 gallons.  The pump meter clicked past 300, then 400, while the attendent ranted away.  Suddenly I became aware of a splashing noise on the starboard side of the ship, away from where the attendent and I were standing.  I released the nozzle trigger and excused myself and said I needed check something in the pilot house.  Crossing through it to starboard, I glanced down the side of the boat and saw a red stream of liquid shooting out into the river.  Oh, no! I could see a red slick trailing a hundred or more feet down the river.  Passing back through the pilot house, I shut off all bilge pump switches and told the attendent tank #5 was full and I wanted to break for lunch.  I suddenly showed a strong interest in his latest rant and kept him there with me on the port side for another half hour, to be sure the telltale red bloom had been carried a good distance south of the boat.  I had no doubt that if he realized what was going on, he would summon the EPA and other authorities in hopes of collecting a reward for turning me in.

 

As soon as I was alone, I peered into the bilges.  My nose was immediately assaulted by diesel fumes and I saw pools of fuel there and elsewhere.  I canceled further refueling, walking the long slippery path to the attendents street side office so he would not return and get a whiff of my ships sour perfume.

 

That night I and my recently-arrived replacement crew (another story) pumped out all the bilges under cover of darkness.  Of course I was anxious to learn what had cause this mess.  It didn't take me long.  I had noted that the other fuel tanks had a hose connecting the fill port on deck with the tanks below.  I suspected there was a massive hole in this tank's hose and had an idea of where the hose would be located.  Well, I could have looked 'till the cows came in for this hose, and never found it. Oh, there was a fill port, and a hose fitting on the tank, but no hose in between!  That nozzle was stuck down through the deck and just pumped diesel down on top of the tank, and you know the rest. Somebody blew it, and the owner never knew it.  I reckon he only ever filled the two tanks in the engine room.  Too bad, with the dirty tricks he played when selling me the boat, the least he deserved was an oil bath -- an a hot one at that!

Mechanical Notes Nov. 26, 2005-May, 2006

Generator

Less white smoke this morning, perhaps OK.  Noise increase without muffler not bad ( as muffler cracks leaking water I replaced it yesterday with piece of steel pipe).  Important to note that black exhaust hose near forward end is very cool now, unlike other hose.  Perhaps cleaning carbon out of junction fitting and clean strainer and new impeller all contributing.

Autopilot

Running up Delaware bay, flat calm with current .7 kts off starboard bow.  Boat yawing widely.  Problem solved with Yaw control full on, full clockwise and rudder at 12 o'clock.   Two hrs later AP behaving poorly again.  In orient mode, lights not blinking sometimes now (1200 hrs).  Unless in full yaw mode (clockwise), rudder corrections too rapid, and not consistent with holding correct course.  1800 hrs: sea conditions slight change to 1 ft waves following, doing better with yaw at 3 oclock and rudder at 9.  Oh,oh,problems again.  Next day nov 27, 2005, on Chesapeake, to combat rapid oscillations have yaw at 2;30 and rudder full counter clockwise.  Its been working for 2 hours.

Engine Starting

No problem with stbd engine but needed ether for port.  Once started, it kept stalling.  I released power takeoff and engine idled smoothly.  Note it was below freezing in Cape May and had been for 36 hours so engines quite cold no doubt, even though engine room didn’t appear very cold.  On Sunday, 11/27 both engines started quite well, port needed one brief shot of ether to keep it from stalling (PT not on).

PTO Generator

On 11/27 I upped port rpm from 17.5 to perhaps 18.5 to generate 115 volts compared to less than 110.  Hour later checked engine room to find gen and platform vibrating more than normal.  Topside found rpms over 1900 – backed off to 1800 and it ran smoothly.

Dec. 28, 2005- Removed the single belt and installed v belt pulleys and belts.  Bolts on pulleys supposed to be tightened to 192 inch pounds.  A mechanic told me to divide that by 16 to get foot pounds, so I got 12 ft. lbs. Another mechanic said 12 ft. lbs is very little, about as much effort as you would use to turn a ¼ inch socket drive tight.  So I just snugged them down “pretty good”.

Eng.Hours

Must log them daily to keep track of oil consumption.

Oil Consumption

On long 1600 plus hour run Port Wash to Cape May, both engines took 2 qts next to raise level from low to full marks.  Yesterday (11/26/05) on 10 hrs runtime, neither down off full mark by much.

Power Takeoff December 16, 2005

On shutting down port engine today while trial running the rebuilt engine, Bobby Rowe and I heard a scraping noise at front of engine.  Noise came from inside PT so Bobby took cover plate off (has specs written on it) and asked when I last greased it.  Of course I hadn’t since installed year and a half ago in Mobile.  I greased the four fittings observable (one at 3 o'clock as face engine, is inside a hole in side of PT).  All took grease, especially the one inside the hole which appears to grease the shaft bearing.  Let’s hope it’s OK.  Must grease the PTO regularly – how often?

Fresh Water Tank

Dec. 28, 1005  Beaufort,NC

The two fresh water pumps started up in middle of night, dropped to only one, kept running, and I had to shut it off; tank reads 30%.  Turned pumps on again in morning and did same thing, then last pump shut off.  Maybe just air in lines.  Happened again, had to turn pumps off again.  Tank ¼ full.  I am filling tank now.

Water Maker.  Dec 28, 2005.  Fresh water rinsed for 4 minutes (about time, old guy!)  I will probably have to pickle those tubes, or whatever it is called.

Bilge pump, January 7, 2006

Engine room pump on breaker 48 ran but did not pump.  I used small sump pump to do the job then removed the Par belt pump and replaced it with an old spare (I have another and a spare base as well).  Note it leaks a bit out of hole in base where I removed a bolt that was too long. I may have to steal one off another pump – monitor this leak in case it adversely affects functioning of the pump.  Replacement ran well for 30-60 seconds then popped breaker.  I replaced the motor and breaker still popped.  I changed from breaker 48 to 46 which was a breaker even weaker than 48.  Changed to 50 and pump seemed to run OK but did stop shortly…because float switch turned it off.  I lifted float and pump ran, but I did not leave it on for more than few seconds.

Bilge pump May 30, 2006

Pump broke its belt; replaced it (need to buy spares).  Then pump ran but pumping weakly; I found pickup hose almost clogged, cleaned it and used mosquito netting screen.  Pump would not shut off; switch is on metal plate, removed assembly, cleaned off gook, seems OK now.

Green Cove Springs to Brunswick, Etc. Nov 2, 2006

As I start to write this, I find myself humming “on the road again, …” and yes, Simba is back in action.  She departed Green Cove Springs, FL,30 miles south of Jax on the St. Johns River where she has been docked since late spring.  I actually am jumping the gun here, as to be truthful, Simba cast off her lines at 0700…and tied up again an hour later because her bottom and props were so badly encrusted with barnacles she could attain a top speed of only two knots and the poor engines were working so hard she was puffing black smoke which first caused me to think I had engine problems.

At 1100 hrs. diver Carl showed up.  Although I was eager to get goin’ because I wanted to make it up to Jax that day so I could run offshore the next day some 40 miles up to St. Simons channel, leading into the small city of Brunswick, GA.  The following day a blow was (is) expected, precluding any hopes for an offshore trip and I was not eager to use the Intracoastal Waterway ‘cause, if you ever read last winter’s logs, you know that waterway can frequently prove unfriendly to a vessel drawing almost six and a half feet, or even shallow draft critters in places.

And so I wanted Carl to get cracking (scraping, chiseling, pounding).  However Carl had caught sight of my BMW and offhandly asked if it happened to be mine.  Well, the next hour went by like a flash as we spouted bike talk.  He had lots to tell, all 6’2” and 300 lbs. of him, and I of course told him how Chris changed our planned aerobic, healthy bicycle excursion along the south coast of France into a wild ride on two BMW’s from Germany through the Alps down to southern Italy and France.  In a blink an hour had passed.  I shoved Carl underwater and spent the next four hours twiddling my thumbs while he did his thing.  And he performed, for when I departed at 1600, Simba the snail morfed into Simba the Donzi wannabee.  I made Jax in four hours, anchoring near container docks with huge cranes and freighters making Simba feel like the proverbial knat on that elephants hide.

Prior to departing I had to perform a few chores of which I shall mention a couple so you will know I am not yet ready to join Dad's “Sittin’, Starin’ and Rockin’ Club”.  After sitting idle, mechanical devices can oft times attempt to show who’s boss.  The genset, a generator powered by a dedicated diesel motor,  creates 120 volt (household) alternating current to run the frig, a/c and heaters when not plugged into shore power or using the other AC generator which is belt-driven by one of the engines when underway.  I could get by for a bit without the genset, except for the fact I need AC to power the windlass which deploys and recovers the anchor and chain.   When I checked the genset out, it refused to fire.  I changed two filters – no luck.  I then got out the old manual and “bled” air out of the fuel lines using a manual fuel pump.  The “blood” flowed well until I got to the second stage series of plugs and pipe couplings to loosen.  The pump seemed to lose “thrust” but I persisted manipulating the lever down and up countless times and still no joy – no fuel or air bubbles emerged from the last fitting on the line.  Dang!  Disappointed, I tightened the final fitting and offhandly pushed the starter button.  Kazam!  Ignition!

The past two years the electric windlass, controlled by a handheld switch I grasp while leaning over the rail to watch the chain, had the nasty habit of blowing its fuse (circuit breaker) at the most inopportune times, like while attempting to set the anchor to keep us off the rocks.   Stopping everything to run down to the engine room to reset the breaker gets old pretty quickly.  This summer I found a similar switch on the net, bought it from Grainger in Darien (that of course is Darien, CT and not the Darien near Brunswick, GA, accented on the first syllable).  I installed the sucker and, crossing my fingers, it worked flawlessly last night and this morning.

You may recall that, while crossing the Gulf Stream last Spring the marine gear (transmission) broke off the back of the starboard engine.  Limping back to Florida I had a mechanic remove it and install a rebuilt gear before again crossing the Stream to the Bahamas.  Before returning, I noticed the starboard engine was vibrating more than normal and found that it, and the rebuilt transmission, had pulled free of its engine mount.  I also saw that the other side of the engine/transmission was only fastened to its mount by one single bolt, rather than two.  What to do?  Well, I found that if I reduced that engines rpm’s from 1850 to 1500, the vibration in the engine and gear subsided markedly, so that was the bandaid I applied.  When I got to GCSprings, I removed the broken piece of bolt from the marine gear and found a man who could fabricate new motor mounts.  Of course I erred in telling the man he had all summer to make the mounts, for he had done nothing when I returned this fall.  Then he and I erred again in designing the new mounts; we patterned the new ones on the old which had extensions broken off.  We added a certain length for the extensions – and we were short by 1.5 inches.  I discovered this when attempting to install the new mounts.  My man agreed to add the small extensions, and so I waited…and waited.  After three weeks I got word to the man that I had to leave the next day, October 31st.  That evening he dropped the modified mounts off at my boat, still warm from the welding torch.  The next day I installed the mounts after drilling new holes in the steel support beams, and now the motor, gear, and propeller shaft are running so smoothly I frequently am mesmerized just watching them.

Oh, another problematic piece of machinery has been the power take-off (PTO) on the other engine which drives the big 120 volt electric generator.  This big “hub” with it’s large activating lever, was installed by a  mechanic in Mobile. After a few months, the PTO began making unpleasant noises (high-pitched dings, occasional ominous rattles, etc.).  Finally, last Spring, it gave up the ghost and refused to spin it’s big pulley when  prompted.  At GCS I found a PTO mechanic who said, “Yep, it’s broke.  You want me to remove it (2 hours at $75 per) or you wanna try?  Three hours later I delivered the unit to the man.  I was able to order an already-assembled clutch kit from the manufacturer, saving me big bucks, and installed the PTO.  The unit is performing quietly (amen!) while I write this.  A sad note: when I removed the unit from the engine I found that the pilot bearing, which supports one end of the PTO shaft where it joins the engine crankshaft, was missing  It was never installed!  It’s a wonder the unit functioned at all, and those weird, worrisome noises were created as the unit broke up internally.  Guess that Mobile mechanic wasn’t quite as proficient, or friendly, as I had thought.  

So I keep busy.  And I now know two things.  Caveat emptor when it comes to owning a complicated, well-set-up boat, for the good mechanics are rare.  Second, unless you are handy, mechanically-inclined, energetic, and willing to frequently get real greasy and dirty, ya better carry a fat wallet and be prepared to experience plenty of down time.

At Princeton I rowed in the crew in the fall of my freshman year.  Boy, I recall those frosty mornings struggling, along with a dozen other novices, to heave and thrust a telephone pole-sized oar while perched on a hard plank in a barge.  Well at 0530 this morning, it was almost déjà vu.   While it was still pitch black out on the St. Johns, I heard a voice shouting instructions, looked out the pilot house door and saw five shells glide by powered by taciturn young men and followed by two small power boats occupied by coaches shouting though megaphones.  In addition to recalling Lake Carnegie, I saw a similar scene on the snow-banked Seine near Paris where a novice “caught a crab” which I caught on film.  Good memories.

It’s now 1300 (1PM), little wind, no wave, bright sunlight, no naughty noises from the engine room, 7.8 knots – tuff life, this!  I’m eight miles to the east of Cumberland Island, one of the “Golden Isles”.  All I see are trees and beach.  Coming up on Jekyll Island, a Georgia state park!  It contains the “Millionaires Row” of early 1900 mansions owned by the barons of industry.  The state owns  most of the mansions now but the Jekyll Island Club hotel is still a hostelry and privately owned.  There are “regular folks’” houses too, but no more can be built, and there will be no more than the two garden variety two-story hotels.  The state has a convention center and promotes various social events on the island.  The ocean beach is spectacular – and almost bereft of two-legged creatures.  Now and then a few bicyclists go by and I plan to ride my mountain bike there ASAP.  The seven mile bike ride, to be done on skinny tires, has to be neat also.  You cross the high Sidney Lanier (Georgia Poet) suspension bridge (under which I will pass this afternoon) and ride though magnificent marshland.  Maybe there is a riding club in Brunswick?!

I have always thought it would be great to serve in the Peace Corps.  In 1956 I met some members serving in Cuba and admired them.  I believe I can find a way to “payback” a bit in Brunswick.  I have visited the Latin American Resource bureau, unfortunately now almost defunct due to lack of funding, and learned they desperately need someone who is bilingual to teach beginning English to Hispanics.  Hmmm.

Birth of the Coastal Georgia Soccer League August-Sept., 2009

(Letter to brother Richard)

Unlike the previous nautical adventures I have written to you about, this adventure is on dry land and still unfolding.  You see, about five months ago I was in Selden Park, the site for Hispanic soccer games on Sundays for the past few years.  I teach tennis to some Mexican student/friends Sunday mornings in the park and I recalled the games were halted in mid-season.  I asked  my friends why.  They said drinking and fighting caused the police and park authorities to shut down the games.

I thought it a darn shame that these folks, here with so little, should lose the opportunity to  enjoy their national sport, especially when it was one recreational activity that had to be virtually free.  As director of LARC, whose mission was to aid Hispanics, it seemed natural for me to wade in and get to work putting the games back on track.

At LARC, I asked students who they knew that had been involved in soccer. One student, Candelario, told me his brother-in-law had been an assistant referee at the games last fall.  I met with this man, Valdemar, we agreed to work together to get things going once again.  
We found two other men with a similar interest.  One of them, Tito, had served as an assistant referee last fall, and the other, Ruben, had managed a Honduran team.

At the initial meeting, Ruben and Tito announced, emphatically, that we could not have an Uruguayan team in the new league as the Uruguayans were trouble causers and loved to fight.  (They also let slip that the Uruguayans happened to be the best players and invariably won --  I stored that information away.)  Ruben also said, with a sly grin, that there should be a decent pot of dinero for us commissioners to split at season’s end.
 

We met again the next Saturday.  Ruben brought his six month old daughter and three year old son, and Tito his four year old.  The children were a major distraction from the git-go.  In addition, both men announced they could not stay for long.  It was thus apparent to me that family obligations would likely prevent both of them from being of substantive assistance in running the nascent league.

I suggested we call ourselves Commissioners of an organization to be called the Coastal Georgia Soccer League and that we give ourselves titles that befitted the responsibilities we were willing to assume.  Valdemar thought that he and Tito, since they were referees, should be designated commissioners in charge of disciplinary matters.  Ruben said he wanted to be president.  I asked Ruben if he had any experience creating or running such an organization.  He admitted he had none.  I said that perhaps it made sense for me to take on the role of president, as I had some experience creating similar organizations.  Ruben quickly settled for vice president.  Little did I know that before long Ruben would decide to resign, and I would be not only president, but treasurer and secretary as well!

Valdemar was the only other man who seemed to have the time and sincere interest in creating a new organization.  He had played in a semi-professional league in Mexico for years until injured in a bus accident three years before.  He was working only part time, and his brother-in-law, Candelario, finished work at McDonalds at 1:00PM.  We agreed to meet in the afternoons.

We went to work with a passion.  The two men would arrive to meet with me about 3:00.  At 5:00 they would prepare a Mexican dinner.  We would work on as we ate, and then the two of them would continue working in my administrative office while I taught evening ESL classes.  When classes ended at 8:00, I would join the men to continue the league work.  

Let me tell you what we specifically did.  Valdemar had helped create a soccer league for his daughter to play in back in Mexico a decade before.  He therefore knew how many teams were required, how a game schedule could be laid out and team rankings reported, etc.  He set all this up in rough fashion.  I used Word and Excel to produce templates and finished materials.  I created an Access database to manage players, their scores and infractions.

And then there were The Rules!  The former soccer program was haphazardly organized and casually managed by a paid non-hispanic.  There were no written rules.  On top of that, the recreation and parks department never enforced its no-alcohol stricture, didn't even post warning signs.  Add to these sad facts a strong dash of hot latin temperament, and you had a sure recipe for disaster.  It was no wonder the soccer games had to be closed down by the police the prior year.

Valdemar, Candelario, and I worked hard to change things.   In addition to creating the administrative infrastructure described above, we wrote comprehensive rules.  There were 36 of them, covering things from no drinking by players and spectators, to team area policing and cleanup responsibilities, to even player decorum off the field.

The result was a very successful six month season:  Eight teams (after quite a battle, I found a way to include an Uruguayan team), 230 players, excellent competition, strong spectator attendance, even fabulous team trophies and medals for 80 players.  And no fighting!

I even got a Nissan dealer to pay us $1000 to sponsor the league.  We mounted a 20 foot long banner high on the abutting baseball field backstop.  Players, spectators, and even cars out on the highway, could see that our league was sponsored by GOLDEN ISLES NISSAN.

The league lives on.  Valdemar had to return to Mexico, and I left Brunswick, but Candelario Pina is now President of the Coastal Georgia Soccer League.  He somehow, all on his own, manages to administrate it, carrying out his many duties, and successfully enforces the rules. 

The two brothers-in-law from Mexico have certainly served their community well!