|Winter pine woods|
I have tried not to whine about it, but summer on a boat in the South can be brutal with unrelenting heat and humidity. Skin and clothing perpetually damp and sticky.
On the other hand, we have yet to meet a winter's day for which we cannot find comfort aboard the boat (knock on wood). Worst case, even on a day such as today with sharp tendrils of huge winds ripping at our clothing and tearing at our skin, we can bundle into a cocoon with fleece and sleeping bags and hot tea in the saloon (no, it is not properly a "salon" though the Puritans have popularized that term). Mind, this does nothing to alleviate the rain inside, but it makes it bearable. Back to this later.
Friday was warm and reasonably still with temps in the low 60s and "abundant sunshine", as the weather forecasters like to describe a pleasant day for being out of doors. Of course, the weather forecasters should be called weather "guessers" as they are rarely any more accurate than any sane person making a wild ass guess. Yesterday was a fine example of the wholly unscientific results of their forecasts, er, guesses.
|Raindrops and fog on the winter river|
A winter precipitation event was something of a certainty. Its extent and duration were mostly unknown. We were predicted to receive, variously, cold air and rain, cold air and snow mixed with rain, snow without accumulation and snow with accumulation. From that series of multiple choice options, we were free to select the outcome most acceptable to each of us. After all, no one knew what would happen until it did.
It rained and, before the temperature dropped below freezing, it snowed. Then the temperature dived into the twenties. Inside our cozy cabin, enveloped by suddenly chilled fiberglass, our warmth (three human furnaces cranking out 98.6 degrees, plus a dog) and warm breath condensed on every cold surface. What had been dry but cool became cold and wet. By morning, it was raining all over the boat. Drips here and there and everywhere. No matter how many towels used or surfaces wiped, the wet flourished at the interface of a cold hull and deck with the interior warm air.
I still like it better than summer. At least in winter I do not stick to whatever I touch.
|From Keith's dock looking toward Oriental and downriver|