There is something in the American Contract that commands that on Memorial Day weekend we must eat a burger or something previously alive, take in a sporting event of some sort and do something out of doors with the family, while we pause to remember all those who made it possible - it is in the agreement, trust me I've seen it.

Saturday night the grandson and I took in the sprint car race (checking off the sporting event requirement) , so bright and (not so) early on Sunday we checked the tides, winds and forecast... yep tide was okay, we'd be back before low-tide prevented us from getting back into our slip; winds were supposed to be 8-10 kts, super... great sailing although the forecast said there was a possibility of drizzle here and there... no biggie, it is warm... so pack the sodas, chips, snacks and sandwich making stuff and throw an extra gallon of gas in the kicker's nearly empty tank, and we're off...

15:45 -- Three or four hours of more or less downwind sailing found us well out of sight of the village, at which point we decided to start our beat home - as we said at the time, expecting some smashin' and bashin' as we wended our way back through the occasional whitecaps we'd been softly sliding over... a few passing raindrops were of no great threat, so we did our 180, avoiding three tugs wrestling with a couple of coal barges...

An hour later we had made almost no progress... the wind had died, dead calm... okay, crank the kicker go find some wind... save gas we don't have much - oops no running lights either other than battery operated flashlights... better hurry, but still have three hours until sundown...

18:15 - Whew... wisp of a breeze... motorsailing... breeze adds about half a knot, throttle back to save our meager gas... Rory suggests the drifter... super, that seems to get us another quarter knot or so... Deanna on the tiller as we nurse Wings along, playing with the wind and trying to use minimal throttle...

19:45 -- Wind died again -- okay we'll cut the corner around the village point, maybe save thirty minutes as dusk draws... Deanna asks how much water is under us because we're well to the side of our normal track... "Oh, about six inches to a foot..." I shrug with false confidence... within the minute we crunch to a halt... aground... oops.

Getting dark, aground... we try all the usual - weight forward, weight to the side, crawl out on the boom, use precious gas gunning the kicker harder - it labors dutifully making frothy bubbles in the water, but Wings just laughs at us... okay, last resort... Deanna suggests one of us gets off and push... skipper is the biggest lardbutt aboard, may as well be him... one lardbutt over the side, Wings chuckles quietly and then floats free... push to deeper water... now to get back aboard in the dark... no working ladder... after several attempts it clear that ol' lardbutt is about thirty too many years out of shape to scale the side - getting seriously dark now, but desperation is the mother of invention... handy mooring line makes for an expedient, if sloppy, Swiss-seat, hook to the jib halyard, Deanna and Rory hoist ol' lardbutt aboard... whew... totally dark now... three miles to go...

22:00 -- Putted home slowly, navigating the old-fashion way by chart and flashlight -- without further fanfare, should have been outa gas long before, almost five hours of motorsailing on a gallon and a half - the Lord supplies... yep ran aground at the slip... no matter, thirty minutes later Wings floats free in the tide, a little before midnight we walk her safely back in her slip looking no worse for her Memorial Day, and then dash to the village McDonalds just before the drive-in window closed (to satisfy the burger requirement). So much for day-sailing... gas? It took almost 3.7 gallons to fill the 3.5 gallon tank, go figure... Angels Wings has re-verified her name, despite seriously ham-fisted skippering...