|
We’d
been in an eight-year remission from insanity since 1994 when we
gave up our liveaboard status and sold our 33-foot CSY sailboat,
Jus’ Do It. Since that time we had lived like normal
people, working nine-to five and spending most of our time
keeping house in suburbia. But on February 1, 2002, the routine
ended when we signed on the dotted line to become boat owners
again. This boat would not be for fishing trips or weekend
getaways; no, we would sell our house, live on the boat and
journey around the eastern half of the U.S. for a year, maybe
longer.
After
months of looking, we’d found what we believed would work for
us: A 1978 34’ Mainship. It was big enough to provide
our requirements for basic creature comforts but small enough to
handle, sturdy enough to be seaworthy, and affordable. Bringing
the trawler from Merritt Island on the east coast of Florida to
Dunedin on the west coast of Florida was a worthy shakedown
cruise, but she was aging and we knew she needed work…lots of
it!
Turns
out we were lucky to get home without incident. A week
later on a warm Sunday morning, we took Drifter – that was her
name then – out for a little pleasure cruise in St. Joseph
Sound. Towing insurance is a wonderful thing. What we didn’t
know at that time, and what the surveyor didn’t catch, was
that a bolt on the end cap of the heat exchanger had been eaten
away by electrolysis, and the last little bit holding it together
it picked that time to gave way. Tom killed the engine in a flash. With no heat
exchanger it would overheat in 
minutes. Now we sat there, rocking at anchor, watching Sunday
boaters pass by, one after another, while we waited for the towboat.
For
months we worked on the old trawler, inside and out, trying to
create a comfortable home, or as comfortable as two people can
be in thirty-four feet of space. When we had done as
much scraping, modifying, painting and cleaning as we could in
ten months and the bank account wasn’t completely empty, we
decided it was good enough. Not everything was as it should be
and likely never would be. Are you kidding? This is a boat
we’re talking about.
There was one more important step before the odyssey could
begin: A new name.
We’d heard the expression "Pura Vida" (literally
“pure life”) often in Costa Rica.
The locals started using the phrase after a movie called Pura Vida and now they
use it on a daily basis to convey a state of happiness, peace,
and tranquility. To some it simply means, ‘way cool.’ We
hoped for happiness, peace and tranquility in our ‘way cool’
new home.
The
night of the official name-changing ceremony started out with a
parade down the dock, cymbals clanging (well, not really
cymbals, lids from our friends’ pots and pans), headed by a
black rubber chicken named Ernie, thanks to our friend Tom.
After the 
completion of the ritual and the drinking of the beer, she
became our Pura Vida.
Now
the real challenge began, navigating the great American loop,
over 5,000 miles through 16 states! What follows is a chronicle
of that journey. I hope this gives you some enjoyment, as well
as an idea of what it’s like to cover the eastern half of the
U.S. solely on the waterways.
THE
BIG DAY ARRIVES
On
the last day of January 2003, at 10:15 in the morning, it
finally happened. Amid waves, best wishes, and diesel
fumes, Tom piloted Pura Vida out of the Dunedin
Municipal Marina
to begin her grand tour of the Great
Loop. I’d
often heard boaters rhapsodize about how one day they would give
up their security, cut the dock lines and go cruising. Always
that elusive ‘someday.’ This morning the mere act of leaving
the dock felt like a victory in itself.
We
had company in the beginning. Rendezvous motored
alongside us with Jim and Al on board. Dick came on board with
us as far as Madeira Beach. After a dockside lunch stop for beer
and burgers, our friends turned around to head back to Dunedin
and we were on our own. It felt strange that first
afternoon to go below and peel carrots and potatoes for dinner -
we were traveling, yet home, at the same time. At 5:00 Tom nosed
into the anchorage at Longboat Key
and I let the anchor down
near Moore’s Crabhouse. We’d covered 54 miles the first day
of our yearlong adventure.
February
1: Saturday morning brings weekend boaters out in hordes so we
stayed put and made use of our brand new dinghy to row ashore.
The little 8-foot rowboat slid onto the sand just behind an
inflatable with a lone occupant, a sailor named Bill who said he
lived on an old French-built wooden sailboat anchored nearby. He
offered us a ride to Ace Hardware. Bill had an old black
Chevrolet that looked as if it had survived a war, just barely.
He opened the driver’s door and began the task of clearing
armloads of stuff from the front seat to the back. When he had
moved enough stuff so that the actual seat was visible, he
invited me to get in. I sucked in to maneuver around an oar
protruding from the back seat and then scooped up an electrical
adapter, a wrench, a pair of large scissors and various pieces
of metal off the front seat before gingerly sitting down. A
thick residue of gray powder remained where the pile had been.
At the hardware store we thanked Bill for the ride and as soon
as the old black Chevy was out of sight, we brushed each other
off.
A free trolley makes a loop from Bradenton Beach to
Anna Maria Island every 20 minutes. We rode the trolley but
still got plenty of exercise trudging back to the anchorage from
the end of the line, through a huge picnic area and over the
bridge, a good half-hour walk.
Monday,
February 3: It was frigid at six-thirty in the morning. Well,
frigid to us anyway, maybe not to a Canadian goose. To us,
anything less than 50 degrees is glacial. I finally braved
getting out of bed and, after shoveling down some hot oatmeal,
felt better. It was a good thing we’d had our oats; the anchor
had buried itself deep in the soft bottom over the three nights
we’d been at Longboat. It finally broke loose and we eased
back into the channel with lots of dolphins for company. I
watched from the stern as they surfaced and plunged in synch all
the way to the next red day mark. That day mark must have been
some kind of dolphin boundary because we never saw them after that. Just
before they disappeared, the largest dolphin held its head out
of the water for a few extra seconds and then turned sideways
for a moment to observe me with one big eye. I waved and they
were gone.
Pelican
Bay is a good-size anchorage off Cayo Costa State Park
. It would be our next stopping place. After sundown I
baked chocolate chip cookies as the sweet fragrance from the
galley wafted through the open windows. Our nearest neighbors
had rafted their sailboats together and sang sea chanties all
evening. I think they had something much stronger than cookies
to keep them going. I was beginning to get into this life as a
sea gypsy.
Next
morning we lowered the dinghy and rowed to the park’s dock.
There on the island they had planted several botanical
specimens: wax myrtle (makes candle wax), Spanish bayonet
(sharp!), and wild coffee (psychotria nervosa). I love that
name. Cayo Costa is wild and natural, there are no
houses, and the only electricity comes from the park’s
generator, which makes it the perfect spot for osprey nesting.
One of the nests held a chick that looked as if it was testing
its wings in preparation for a flying lesson.
Tom
chatted with a park ranger about the state’s volunteer program
and said he would be offering his services at Bahia Honda Park
in the Florida Keys. At that, the ranger said, “Stay here.
We’d love to have you.” But we weren’t ready to stop yet.
Back
in the ICW we endured serious wakes from a few supersonic boats,
one of which bent the steel fasteners that held the dinghy in
place. One of the revisions Tom had made before we left was to
bolt brackets to the swim platform that attached to the dinghy
davits. Once connected, the dinghy could be hoisted out of the
water with a couple of lines and tied off on the stern rails.
Now the connections wobbled.
Tom
headed for Fort Myers City Marina. Arriving just after noon, a
dockhand directed him to a slip, not one he would have chosen if
he’d had the option. That particular slip proved difficult to
get into with the way the wind was blowing and Pura Vida’s
single engine, so he had to make a few runs at it. Amid lots of
noise and churning water, he finally succeeded on the third try
and then went about fixing the loose fasteners.
The marina is perfectly situated for walking in
historic Ft. Myers. It isn’t far from Edison’s winter home and there’s a great
Mexican restaurant downtown that serves up good cheesy food and
frozen margaritas. After that we needed some serious exercise so
Tom unloaded the bikes and we pedaled a few miles to Publix.
This was our first grocery-shopping trip by bicycle and we
overdid it. It didn’t seem as if we’d bought a lot until we
had to pack it all on the bikes. Tom had the foresight to wear a
backpack and he loaded it with heavy things like milk and coke
while the lighter items were pocketed in zippered saddlebags on
my bike. Anything that didn’t fit in the backpack or
saddlebags stayed in the plastic shopping bags and hung from our
handlebars. Peddling back, with each revolution, my knees would
slap the bags, one at a time, first into the cheese on the left
side and then into the grapes on the right. After a few of these
shopping runs, I learned how to arrange the bags so that my
knees didn’t bang into them every time they went around.
We
stayed in Ft. Myers another night and the next day got around
town the easy way, by public transportation. The bus station is
just a short walk from the marina. Our driver, a tall, trim
black man who said he was already past retirement age, loved to
talk about his job and told us exactly where to stand to catch a
return bus, when to transfer and which bus would take us over
the bridge to Wal-Mart. Across the street from the bus station
we found the local library with computers for internet access so
were able to read and answer our e-mail. As daylight faded from
the sky we patted ourselves on the back for having mastered the
challenges of daily living in an unfamiliar city.
Thursday,
February 6: The run to Marco Island
was effortless. We laid
anchor in Factory Bay, a tranquil, well-protected harbor. I did
a double take at the sight of an Italian gondola gliding by,
poled by a young man in traditional gondolier garb: black and
white striped shirt and brimmed straw hat with dangling red
ribbon. We guessed it must have been a sunset cruise, Marco
Island style, out to gather customers. Two days later we left
Factory Bay on the tail end of a norther.
Saturday
afternoon we endured a turbulent ride to the Little Shark River.
By now we were almost to the southern tip of mainland Florida.
Tom studied the chart and picked out a quiet bend in the river
where we could spend the night. Our cell phones had gone into
analog roaming mode. This was, after all, an untamed, wild
element of the state, the Florida Everglades
. When the sun disappeared it was inky dark and utterly silent. In the
dead of night I was awakened by the sound of splashing water and
heavy breathing. It came closer. My heart raced. I listened
without moving. More breathing, more splashing. What kind of
person would be in the water, in the Everglades, at three
in the morning? A crazy one! I woke up Tom. He stumbled out of
his bunk, walked out on the deck, listened and then muttered,
“Margaret, it’s dolphins feeding on a school of mullet. Go
back to sleep!” J
We skirted the shoreline all the way to Flamingo, our next port, where Tom called ahead on the VHF radio. The slip we
were directed into had rough edges with protruding bolts but our
trusty fenders took all the punishment. In the park there’s a
lodge, nature trails, a small store and the marina. Bicycling
the nature trails was tranquil but hot. I watched a
smiley-toothed gator sunning himself at water’s edge.
By now we had accumulated enough dirty clothes to
warrant a trip to the laundromat so I stuffed some quarters in
my pocket, hoisted the mesh bag filled with clothes onto my
handlebars, threw in a jug of detergent, and managed to hold it
all in place and balance myself for the half-mile ride. I
finished the job, carried back the clean folded clothes, and
then went out to hose down the boat. Evening shadows were
overtaking the blazing sun and, as if on cue, clouds of
bloodthirsty vampire mosquitoes big enough to carry away small
animals descended on me, en masse. I dropped the hose, ran for
cover and shut the screens!
Monday,
February 10: We had to vacate our slip early to make room for a
boat club that had reserved a number of spaces for the next few
days. Back in the open water, we were about to enter the 1700 islands known as the
Florida Keys. Boating in that blue-green water of the tropical
keys is a destination in itself so we weren’t in any hurry. I
could see the bottom, a submerged complex of sand, sea grass and
coral reefs and watched sea birds plunge into the warm water,
one after another, and pull up wiggling silver fish. The only
thorn in our side was the massive number of crab traps -
they’re everywhere!
Tom
had some sketchy information about volunteering in the state
parks where, in return for 20 hours of work each week, they give
you a boat slip (or RV space) and use of their facilities. We
dropped the hook at Bahia Honda, paddled to the dock and hunted down one of the park rangers, who gave
us the bad news. Volunteers for this prime location sign up a
year in advance, they had all they could use, and all their
slips were full. We hadn’t counted on rejection so our plan to
spend a few weeks in the state park quickly faded. Now we had
time on our hands. It was too early in the season to start north
and we had to make a decision.
Tom
resituated the boat and I let the anchor out in shallow water
next to the bridge where a constant surge pushes through at a
good clip. We started calling marinas in the area to see what
they had to offer and narrowed down our choices to a month in
Marathon or a month in Key West. If we stayed a full month in
one place we would avoid paying pricey daily rates during high
season in the Florida Keys. We chose the Key West Municipal
Marina for $850.
That
decision made, we fell asleep early but wave action near the
bridge bounced us around all night and the depth alarm kept
going off and waking us up. I think big schools of fish swimming
under the boat set it off.
THE
CONCH REPUBLIC
Between
Bahia Honda and Key West
thousands of yellow and
white Styrofoam floats dot the surface of the water. Under high
cumulous clouds, I snaked between them while Tom went below to
check the oil filters. Moments later he popped his head up
topside.
“Aim
it toward the beach and shallow water. Algae's been growing in the fuel
tank and it's got the filters plugged up.”
I,
being mechanically challenged, asked if it couldn’t wait until
we were at the marina. I was given a simple explanation: If the
plugged filters weren’t changed right away, the engine would
quickly die from fuel starvation. With that, I put the rudder hard to
starboard and held a course toward land! When we were shallow
enough to anchor, Tom climbed down into the bowels of the beast
to start the task at hand. It looked like a miserable job –
you lower yourself as far as you can into a hole, work on small
parts with
tools while holding your head held at a cockeyed
angle, and all the while try to keep your balance as you roll
around in the waves. But Tom’s good. My contribution was
to hold plastic bags open, ready to catch the gooey black messes
as they came out.
By
noon we were in Key West. I zipped up the enclosure on the
bridge, turned off the instruments,
and carried down everything  from the bridge while Tom secured the lines.
We were assigned a slip along the broad wooden dock just
past Captain Runaground’s, a floating turquoise and pink
vessel turned bar/restaurant strung with colored floats and
decorated with seashells, barnacle-encrusted bicycles, old
fishing nets and colorful characters. The other half of the
city-owned marina across the street is Charter Boat Row, where
floating tin-roofed condos were never meant to leave the dock.
We
didn’t have much luck at picking restaurants in Key West except for the
Hard Rock Café and a tiny neighborhood eatery called Jose’s
Cantina, where they served excellent Cuban fare; the rest are
best forgotten. Bicycles and feet were all that were needed for
transportation, but we occasionally rode the bus to carry
groceries or when we just wanted to sightsee. There are routes all over
the island with printed schedules, but they actually run on ‘island
time.’
Before
a week was up, we'd seen all the sights of Key West. With time
on my hands, I ventured out to a temporary employment agency and
the next day was hired for a two-week stint at a tax accounting
firm. Tom occupied himself with the never-ending boat repairs
and maintenance.
March
11: We departed Key West in record-breaking heat and six hours
later arrived in Marathon. We eased our way into Buddy’s canal. We’d rented a downstairs
apartment from him 14 years earlier and he graciously invited us to
stay at his dock for a few days. We got our bikes out and
revisited old haunts like the 7-Mile Grill and Banana Bay.
People of Marathon seemed strikingly different from the Key West
crowd. In Key West we feared for our lives every time we had to
cross an intersection on our bikes - they took aim! Marathon
folks would invariably stop and wave us through. Along the paved
bike trail on Aviation Boulevard, people would smile and say
hello; Key Westers looked the other way.
As
long
as
we were docked for a while, Tom decided to replace the exhaust manifold
gaskets, intake manifold gaskets, side cover gaskets and valve
gasket. You can’t order parts (or anything else) while
you’re floating around without an address but now we were at a
real house. He called in an order for an exhaust manifold
insulating boot. For
five days he operated on Pura Vida, her vital organs spread out
on the dock, and made countless purchases at hardware stores,
marine stores and the Home Depot. His Visa card wore thin from
so many swipings, but those purchases paled next to one, the
insulating boot, which cost just under $500! Maybe that
little gem has some gold on its inside.
Friday,
March 21: Due to low tide in the morning and a rock the size of
a Buick at the end of the canal, we had to wait until
mid-afternoon to leave, too late to make Key Largo. We dropped
the hook off Lower Matacumbe Key
and when the broiling sun went down it was still stifling,
like trying to sleep in a sauna. I blew up an air mattress and
put it on the forward deck, thinking it would be cooler to sleep
under the stars. It was, but each time the wind gusted it would
lift the edges of my mattress and I’d wake up. The last time I
woke up it was 4:00 a.m. and I was soaked in dew, little
improvement over sleeping in a sauna.
Saturday,
March 22: The long-closed Quay Restaurant in Key Largo
had an unused dock complete
with cleats that we thought would make a perfect dinghy dock.
The wide-open anchorage of Tarpon Basin is shallow in the middle
so we skirted the edge and finally picked a spot that would be
our home for the night.
The
tropical heat wave seared on. We wore the least amount of
clothes we could get away with and still be legal, but
perspiration trickled down my forehead and dripped off the back
of my hair. The merciless sun gave no relief. I slid off the
swim platform and into the (relatively) cool water to float around until the sun leaned toward the west.
Tom’s
friend and co-worker from Dunedin, Steve, had transferred to
Pennekamp State Park and invited us to stay at his house - his air-conditioned
house - for two nights! No hesitation on our part.
Steve arranged for me to go snorkeling on one of the park’s
boats the next day. El Capitan took passengers five
miles out to a coral reef where we were instructed to pair up
before jumping in, so I buddied-up with two women, one from
Nebraska and one from Minnesota. The clear 76-degree water
wasn’t bad after a few minutes of acclimation. I watched
translucent jellyfish drift aimlessly among multi-colored
parrotfish and striped grunts. A pointy-nosed barracuda was
getting a thorough cleaning from an electric blue wrasse that
swam in and out of its mouth while remoras (suckers) stuck fast
to other larger fish. The allotted hour for snorkeling passed
way too fast.
Tuesday, March 25: We were on the move again.
Mangrove estuaries and forested knolls give way to mile after
mile of exclusive homes in Miami Beach. We followed guidelines in Skipper Bob’s book about anchoring
near the police station and tying up at the wall. It’s not
really a police station but a Marine Patrol building, which is
surrounded by a fence with a locked gate with no public access.
Painted on the wall was a sign: “Authorized Persons Only. No
Trespassing. Towaway Area.” I don’t think they wanted us
there. We made a futile attempt at rowing up the canal against a
strong current and couldn’t help noticing that every dinghy
parked at water’s edge was locked with a steel cable. We had
no cable on board but decided to put it on our next shopping
list. There would be no going ashore at Miami Beach.
The
Intracoastal narrows near Hallandale and Port Everglades
and bustles with activities of cruise ships, charters and
fishing boats. High-dollar mansions line the banks of this
‘inside’ route that’s protected by barrier islands.
Cruising along at 8 knots gives one a perspective that is
entirely lost to motorists on the interstate.
North
of Jupiter we glided past the subtropical wilderness of mangrove
swamps and palmettos, often said to be ‘the real Florida.’
At 3:30 we dropped anchor just off the dock of the Old Key Lime
House Restaurant in the little town of Lantana. After dark, muted laughter and music drifted across the water from a
waterfront bar strung with colored lights and the wail of
distant train whistles lulled us to sleep.
Thursday,
March 27: The Waterway Guide lists bridge openings in the area
at the quarter hour. We timed our arrival accordingly so as not
to drift around the channel aimlessly, only to learn that their
timetable had changed a week before. Now it was on the hour and
half-hour. We waited. Some bridges, just a mile apart, are on
the identical schedule, not staggered, so you’d always have to
wait at the next one. Go figure!
Low,
ragged clouds threatened at the St. Lucie Inlet and serious thunder and lightning crackled just as our anchor
slid down in Manatee Pocket. We were barely set in when an ugly
cloud dumped on us. Safely attached to the bottom, we stayed
snug and cozy for the rest of the night.
Friday,
March 28: Harbortown Marina
in Fort Pierce is a nice
facility with all the amenities, even a pool, cable TV and
Internet service, but one thing they didn’t have was the right
fitting for our holding tank pump-out connection. Tom had to
borrow one of their bikes, pedal to West Marine to buy one, install
it, and then pump out the tank. Steve (from Key Largo) was in
town so we had dinner together at the Tiki Hut, along with Perry
and Debbie.
Saturday,
March 29: We started out again in the Indian River which, on this
day,
was dotted with brown-edged
jellyfish that made me think of Chinese mushrooms. I could tell
it was Saturday, if only by the powerful wakes from a gazillion
boats. By some miracle, a bottle of wine that went crashing to
the galley floor didn’t break. A huge turtle surfaced just as
another wake washed over it and I never saw it again. We managed
to make it safely to the bridge at Eau Gallie
(pronounced “oh,
golly”) where we hoped for protection from the next day’s
predicted cold front.
It’s
almost a disappointment to prepare mentally for bad weather and
it doesn’t show up. Sunday morning was still balmy so we hiked
off to find a grocery store. The pharmacist at Walgreen’s said
it was “just over the bridge.” It was, but he didn’t
mention how far over the bridge. Each way took 40 minutes
walking at a good clip.
Halfway
back, the wind picked up, a darkening sky began to spit rain, and
the temperature took a nosedive. It was downright frosty by
sundown and the howling wind played with us through the night
and well into the next day. By mid-morning my fondest desire was
just to stop rocking. That funny feeling you get before you turn
seriously green and hang over the rail started creeping over me
around noon - I had to get to solid ground without delay. So
into the dinghy and off we trudged, again over the bridge. This
time on the way back we looked up just in time to see the
spectacle of a feathery white arc across the sky, the trail of a
Cape Canaveral launch just gone up.
Tuesday,
April 1: As we neared Merritt Island, where Pura Vida’s former
owner lived, Tom decided to give him a call. Rodger was glad to
hear from us and said he’d wondered how our plans worked out.
Tom briefed him the renovations he’d made, sounding like a
proud father, and filled him in on our journey so far.
They
call this part of the ICW the Indian River. It’s not really a
river at all but a lagoon, a diverse saltwater estuary that
stretches 150 miles from Palm Beach to Cape Canaveral. We forged
ahead to New Smyrna Beach for an overnight stay between two small islands, where scores of
dolphins circled us, playing their undersea version of
ring-around-the-rosie just before sunset. Next morning the
glassy sea was like a mirror with only the warbles of seabirds
to break the stillness, the ultimate in tranquility. Then we
grazed a shoal heading back to the ditch. Oops!
Near
Daytona the water turned coffee-color where stilted beach houses
dot the shore. Here, only a thin strip of sand separates the ICW
from the Atlantic Ocean with its wide beaches, crashing surf,
sand dunes and sea oats.
Wednesday,
April 2: Four o’clock in the afternoon is not a good time to
arrive in St. Augustine
and expect to find a place
to anchor. On the north side of the Bridge of Lions, we wedged
our way into the only possible opening that looked as if it
might be workable, but we swung so much in strong current and
wind that we came dangerously close to other boats. Before we
lost the sun we decided to break anchor and go another mile to
Salt Run Channel. It, too, was crowded and we anchored
practically in the channel but there was no boat traffic at
night so we were OK. Next morning we went back to the Bridge of
Lions where several cruisers had pulled out so we nabbed a good
spot. We watched other boats came in later in the day and go
through the same thing we did - drop their anchor and then dance
around in the current so much they pulled out. But we had a
solid hold and were planted for the weekend. For only $5 a day
we could use the city marina’s floating dinghy dock, showers,
laundry, water and trash service.
We
were anchored a stone’s throw from Castillo de San Marcos, a
stone fortress built by the Spanish in the 17th
century, the first permanent European settlement in the
continental U.S. They
dressed in period costumes and put on historical performances
for visitors. I didn’t know they’d be firing muskets during
these performances until an unexpected blast rattled the
boat – and my knees.
For
four days we took in the sights of the historic city, mostly on
foot, but we took a bus to a store and the beach. Every time the
Bridge of Lions opened 
to let sailboats pass under, traffic on St. Augustine’s narrow
streets backed up for miles. While we waited in a lineup our
driver talked about the city’s plan to replace the 76-year-old
lift bridge that connects St. Augustine with Anastasia Island.
It won’t be the same without the striking architecture and
stately lions of the unique landmark. Its towers are prominent
in every skyline rendering of St. Augustine and light poles fly
ceremonial flags to mark holidays and special events.
On
a Saturday night stroll through historic downtown we encountered
‘ghost tours’ led by costumed guides telling haunting tales
of the past as they escorted sightseers to ‘spooky’ places
on dark and narrow streets. Some rode the Trolley of the Doomed
past graveyards to the gallows of the old jail.
Monday,
April 7: We said goodbye to St. Augustine at daybreak and soon
were on the Tolomato River, banked by cocoa brown sand and mud with unassuming homes of various
shapes and sizes that were a contrast to the elegant villas of
Miami. It was a long, narrow run to Amelia Island and Fernandina Beach, the
second-oldest city in Florida. When we got there the wind was
erratic and gusting too hard to row ashore. We anchored within
sight of a pulp and paper mill and got wind of a variety of
odors, depending on which way we swung. Our enthusiasm was
high - we were now on the Florida/Georgia border and on the verge of
entering a new state. We were finally cruising beyond Florida!
FLORIDA
IN THE REAR VIEW MIRROR
The
next day a low-pressure cell was closing in. We’d made plans
to stop at Brunswick Landing Marina in Georgia to get together
with our friends, Mary and Larry, former sailors that we
hadn’t seen in years.
Approaching
Brunswick, a misty fog made it tricky to follow the channel entrance off the
Atlantic and we were battered by cold rain and heavy seas. The
closer we got, the rougher it became and the more we pitched and
rolled. Frothy water foamed over the deck and flung spray mixed
with rain on the isinglass. We were at the mercy of the sea’s
fury. It was the first time I felt fear since we’d started
out.
“We
have no business being out here,” Tom snapped, bracing against
the swells and feeling helpless.
I
was at the wheel and remained silent, concentrating on the deep
troughs of white-crested waves.
“We
have no business being out here,” he repeated more loudly, his
brow deeply furrowed.
“But
we are here,” I snapped back. “Focus on getting through
it.” We were both on edge and getting testy.
Within
the hour we made it to Brunswick, intact and grateful to be
at the dock. Back in February Tom had said he wanted fuel in the
tank to slosh around and mix old with new to help break up algae
and keep it from plugging up the fuel filters. His wish had come
true – it got mixed!
Brunswick
Landing was crowded with cruisers ducking the storm. Pacific
Rose from Seattle and Le Garage from Brunswick, Maine
were there. They’d been next to us in St. Augustine and now we
all had brown mustaches on our bows, thanks to dense mangroves
up and down the Florida coast. Their tannin stains the water a
rusty brown and the color doesn’t come off the hull without a
fight. Simonize cleaner finally took it off.
Friday,
April 11: Conditions improved enough that we could venture
forth. Crossing Sapelo Sound was blustery but calmed
considerably in the narrower river. Past stretches of native
woodlands and saltwater marshes, we dropped the hook in the
Wahoo River, where we had entered the land of bigger tidal changes, about seven
feet up or down. Riding the anchor at slack tide was calm as a
pond but when it started to change, watch out! Water slapped
against the hull like we were racing down a river. The next
slack came at 7:00 a.m. and again we floated in a pool of silver
mercury.
Sunday
night we chose the protected anchorage of Tom’s Point Creek but set two anchors to compensate for strong tidal currents.
It was a postcard setting. The lowering sun had tossed sparkly
white diamonds on the water and croaking frogs serenaded as
background music. Only one thing would wreck this idyllic scene:
Bugs! Screens may keep out mosquitoes and flies, but not
no-see-ums. Those little critters squeeze right through the
holes to chomp on you, and chomp they did. We closed the windows
to keep any more from coming in so it got hot and stuffy real
fast. Picture two hot crabby people swatting invisible biting
pests – that was our night, losing the battle of the bugs.
After
an itchy night on the hook I stepped outside at first light. The
deck was wet with dew and had a thousand tiny bodies plastered
to it, looking like some kind of grotesque wallpaper. The little
critters didn’t overlook dying on the windows either, and
wiping them turned into a smeary mess. When the sun was fully
over the horizon we broke anchor and glided back down the creek,
only to be enveloped in a thick blanket of fog that clung to us
for the next two hours. Getting out in the ICW was out of the
question, so back down slid the anchor while we waited, shrouded
in stillness. If I squinted I could barely make out the
shoreline just a few yards away. We were alone in the world.
Around
10:00 a halo of sun broke through and we snaked along the narrow
Wadmalaw River, making headway from east to west and back again, slowly pushing
northward, serpentine fashion. A few lonely houses sprang
up in the distance, large colonial-style manors with white
pillars, incongruous in this marshland setting. Two dark objects
in the water ahead appeared to be some kind of floating debris
until I noticed them progressing at a steady pace across the
river, sideways to the current. They didn’t swim like turtles,
but they were swimming. When we got closer, I could make out the
heads of two large black Labradors dogs paddling across the
river. Where they were going in the quagmire on the opposite
bank, only they knew.
We
realized when we began this voyage that it would be impossible
to see everything along the way. Charleston was one of those
things, so we took a passing view of the stately waterfront
homes, put it on a mental list of places to visit next time, and
cruised onward to our next stop on the South Carolina coast.
Tuesday,
April 15: We eased out of Graham Creek and were underway on water
smooth as silk. After passing a few scattered houses, we were in
absolute wilderness for hours. The only boat encountered all
morning was that of a crabber wearing tall white boots and
pulling up his chicken wire traps. A pattern of soft ripples
from our wake angled back toward mud and grass banks on either
side. Scores of red-winged blackbirds fluttered and
balanced themselves on tall reedy grass the color of hay. I’d
never seen so many in one place.
We
were yanked out of the peaceful tranquility in Winyah Bay where a powerful current
took hold of us and pulled Pura Vida like a towrope. We ducked
into Georgetown
Landing Marina to pick up an anticipated batch of mail the next day and tied
in next to a Mainship owned by a couple from Charleston. They
invited us on board for a look around. It was 34 feet, same as
ours, but much newer and wider by two feet, making it
considerably roomier.
We
strolled through Georgetown’s historic downtown waterfront,
and then biked through a residential area dripping with all the
southern charm of mint juleps and magnolia blossoms. Dignified old homes predating the civil war stand in the shade
of ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss with puffs of pink and
white azaleas decorating front yards. Everyone nodded or said
hello. Some areas on the outskirts of town, however, are vastly
different. A light industrial region looked grimy and ramshackle
and other neighborhoods are nondescript. I guess nothing is
perfect.
We
wandered downtown again after dinner and returned under a fat
yellow moon rising over the water. This is Carolina ‘low
country.’ Farther north is ‘East Carolina.’
Thursday,
April 17: Four hours out of Georgetown (that’s 30 miles the
way we travel) the Socastee swing bridge came into view at a
mere 11’ above the waterline. We need sixteen feet, minimum,
to pass under. The bridge is scheduled to open at 15 and 45
minutes past the hour but according to radio traffic it was not
keeping to that schedule. Huge tarps hung like hammocks under
the bridge to catch debris from the work being done by a
construction crew and they were not about to interrupt their
work every half-hour to let pleasure boaters pass through. I
could tell from the radio transmissions that one hovering vessel
had been waiting for more than an hour. We listened to the
frustrated captain’s conversation with the bridge tender, who
had a thick Carolina drawl and a voice that was a dead ringer
for Gomer Pyle.
“Please
relay a message to the contractor for me,” said the boater.
“Sure.
What is it?” drawled Gomer.
“Tell
him he’s an inconsiderate idiot!”
Gomer,
in all sincerity replied, “Captain, I can’t relay a message
like that.”
Just
then he got a signal from the construction crew that he could
open the bridge.
Making
way in a narrow canal or river is usually uncomplicated and
trouble-free: You set a leisurely speed, keep to the middle, and
watch the greenery go by. The only thing is, without constant
attention to time and distance, you lose track of where you are.
We were in South Carolina, we just weren’t exactly sure where.
Navigational charts pinpoint channel markers, bridges, shoal
areas, anchorages and such, but provide little ground
information. We always know our position on the water but not
necessarily on terra firma. There are no highway signs.
In
the midst of nothingness we approached a very long wooden dock
lined with all manner of vessels. I guessed it might be the
transient dock at Barefoot Landing I’d read about in the
cruising guide. We tied up in the shadow of the Queen Mary,
a tri-level excursion boat with three red smokestacks, it’s
big black hull looming over us. When all our lines were cleated
and the fenders squished between the rub rail and the dock, we
walked up the ramp. Going ashore was like crossing a threshold
from wilderness to party time! The twisting boardwalk is home to
T-shirt stores, ice cream vendors, junk shops, a merry-go-round,
tigers to take your picture with, an arcade, and on and on. I
was curious to know exactly where we were but didn’t want to
walk up to someone and ask, “Where am I?” They might drop a
net over me so I searched for a sign. I spotted a Cracker Barrel
logo ahead and where there’s a Cracker Barrel, there must be a
main road. There was. Up and down the street were miniature golf
courses, carnival rides, a House of Blues, the Alabama Theater -
one tourist attraction after another and a road sign. It was
Myrtle Beach and we were at Barefoot Landing
.
Myrtle
Beach
is not a place for
bicycling; sidewalks are sparse and traffic is heavy. Foot power
is your best bet. Back at the dock we met lots of friendly
cruisers. We were invited on board Ed and Barbara’s 33’
Navigator and a roomy 42’ Marine Trader owned by Claude and
Cheryl. Bob and Carol’s Boca Run was there too. We’d been hopscotching with them for days.
After
three days of camaraderie we eased back into the waterway and
within ten minutes we were deposited back into the natural world
with all signs of neon and glitz disappearing as quickly as
they’d appeared.
It
was Easter Sunday when we crossed the Carolina border, South to
North. We waited a half hour for an opening of the Sunset Beach
Bridge, the last remaining pontoon bridge on the Atlantic coast.
Weekend wake-makers were at it again but I had my sea
legs by then. I was in the galley fixing sandwiches for lunch
when the aftermath of a speeding Sea Ray collided with the hull
and my ‘floor’ began to fall away. I simply planted my legs
farther apart to accommodate the roll of the boat, held onto the
knife, flexed my knees, and continued spreading peanut butter
without missing a beat – a small personal victory!
In
our anchorage at Carolina Beach, setting the hook wasn’t difficult but Tom thought we were swinging
too far out into the channel and decided to move 'just a
little.' He hauled the anchor up while I exercised tactical
maneuvers between buoys and local boats planted on mooring
buoys. The danforth anchor refused to set a second time; the
bottom seemed rock-hard. He let it down, he pulled it up, again
and again and again. We moved around to every possible location
for him to perfect his weight-lifting act but I think we must
have found the only existing soft spot the first time. He tried
a bruce anchor instead of the danforth and still had trouble,
but it finally grabbed hold. He snubbed the chain with a sigh of
relief. At last, after all that effort, we were in the same
place where we started. Maybe it was the only soft spot.
Our
problems weren’t over. The engine had strained to start when
we began our re-anchoring maneuvers because that morning we’d
both forgotten to turn the switch from the starting battery to
the house battery, which meant the starting battery never got
charged. Then Tom discovered that the alternator belt had
stretched and was slipping. The spare belt that came with the
boat when we bought it turned out to be an old one that the
seller had put in a new package and it wasn’t any good. All we
could do at that point was learn a lesson and hope for the best.
Near
sundown, a pair of mallards swam by looking for a handout. After
munching a few crackers they quacked their thanks and left.
Later, in the last glimmer of twilight, I stepped out onto the
stern to see v-shaped ripples in the water coming toward the
boat from four directions. Word had gotten out and the gang was
coming! The original pair had returned as well and
didn’t like it one bit when I tossed snacks to the newcomers.
In fact, they ganged up on the intruders and ran them off.
There’s violence in duckdom!
In
the morning, to our relief, the engine started and took us 12
miles to Wrightsville Beach, where we needed to buy a chart book and hoped to find an auto parts
store that sold alternator belts. We found out the closest auto
parts store was six miles away, too far to walk. Wrightsville is
a pretty little beach town but there’s not much to it besides
vacation cottages and tons of bikers, joggers, walkers and
skaters. It must be the fittest town in the country.
Tuesday,
April 22: Swans Point Marina in Snead’s Ferry, North Carolina, has character. There were
no high-dollar mega yachts at the sagging wooden docks, just
your everyday sailboats, shrimp boats, and one bright-red
humungous houseboat showing it’s age. Vintage bathrooms and
showers were in the process of being painted, bright pink for
girls and bright blue for boys, and the painter was working on
the women’s when we checked in. Any cruiser who has a
40-gallon water tank (as we do) knows that the first thing you
want to do at a marina after you’ve been on the hook for a few
days is make use of shower facilities. The pink one was out of
the question but I had no intention of waiting, so into the blue
one I went, shower bag in hand. Tom was my door guard so that I
didn’t get any company.
The
staff offered us the use of their old Ford station wagon and we
accepted. It got us to Food Lion, an auto parts store for a
hefty new starting battery, and to Sullivan’s Pick-a-Part
Salvage yard, where Tom found a tensioning bracket to adjust the
alternator enough to keep the belt working. Trudging through
black mud past rows of wrecked cars in Snead’s Ferry, North Carolina, wasn’t something I’d ever dreamed of (or thought
of for that matter), but there we were.
Back
at the marina, Ed and Barbara had come in on Pacific Sunset (we
last saw them in Myrtle Beach) and happy hour was on their boat,
along with another couple on Ducky, a Grand Banks. Camp LeJeune,
right next door, was practicing military exercises; rumbles,
roars and booms exploded late into the night. Next morning we
topped off the fuel tank at New River Marina for $1.15 a gallon,
the cheapest diesel we’d seen so far.
We
wanted to stop at Beaufort but the docks and anchorages were too
crowded so instead, we went on to Shackleford Point, a small island state park with steep sand dunes where the bottom drops
off fast. The depth sounder showed six feet of water under us
where Tom dropped the hook; a few seconds later we were in 18
feet. By the time he finished paying out anchor rode we were in
32 feet! After dinner the island was deserted so we paddled
ashore for a look around. It was great until we took about five
steps from the dinghy and swarms of hungry mosquitoes feasted on
us. Never mind walking around to the other side! Shackleford
Point is not a protected anchorage and we got into some serious
rolling during the night. Pura Vida would swing for a minute,
rest for a minute, and on and on, for the rest of the sleepless
night.
In
the morning we passed under the fixed bridge at Oriental and followed directions
from the
Waterway Guide: Keep the rock jetty to starboard and the shrimp
boat wharf to port, and there it was - the town dock. It’s a
single dock with room for only two boats, one on either side.
One side was unoccupied so in we went, gratis for 48 hours.
When
the lines were secured Tom studied the charts while I looked
over Oriental. Mature oaks and masses of purple and gold pansies
line spacious yards in turn-of-the-century neighborhoods.
Virtually every house has an old-fashioned front porch and every
porch has a rocking chair, a swing, or both. A sudden downpour
put an end to my sightseeing.
The
rain came hard and one of Pura Vida’s windows was stubbornly
leaking again. The leak had started back in Brunswick where Tom
thought he’d fixed it but the deluge found a new place to seep
in, so he and the caulking gun went at it again. ‘Leaky
old boat’ had new meaning.
Saturday
morning’s haze gave way to sunshine and we brought the bikes
out. There is no central town in Oriental, only businesses
dotted here and there. We picked up a few provisions and by the
time we came out of the store, the sky was about to open up with
another cloudburst. A customer offered our bikes and us a ride
in his pickup truck but we had our foul weather gear, so on we
rode. Within minutes a war of thunder, lightning and hail
were upon us. This weather couldn’t make up its mind!
Sunday,
April 27: Tom laid a course for the Neuse River.
He had entered waypoints in
the GPS so we were running ‘on instruments.’ On a northeast
heading, we crashed straight into the waves for a bucking bronco
ride, and it was hard to hold a heading. The next waypoint was
more northwesterly and it was even worse - now we rode in the
wave troughs! Then came a crash from the galley below. The
casualty was a wine glass that I thought had been secure in its
holder. The guidebook doesn’t lie when it states the Neuse
River vies with Albermarle Sound as some of the meanest water on
the ICW.
We
crossed the Pamlico River
without incident (thank
goodness) and went on to the Pungo River where we stopped at
Belhaven, North Carolina. Tom rowed
ashore and was back ten minutes later declaring, “We’re
moving.” I looked out to see what was wrong, but nothing was
wrong. He had walked into Robb’s Marina, where only two boats were berthed, and chatted with Creighton, a weedy
old sailor who lived on one of the boats with his mutt, Jesse.
Creighton said we might as well tie up at the marina dock, as it
had shut down two weeks earlier due to an unspecified problem
and he was the acting caretaker. We moved into a slip with
Creighton and Jesse as our only neighbors. The other boat was
empty. Even the town was nearly deserted. Numerous storefronts
with broken or boarded-up windows lined Main Street. An eerie
feeling pervaded. The only living things in abundance were
mallard ducks and Canadian geese.
The
widely advertised River Forest Marina was three blocks away with just one boat in residence. Their
claim to fame is a southern smorgasbord in an elegant 1899
mansion that houses the office. The manor was impressive with
carved ceilings, leaded glass windows and five fireplaces but
the smorgasbord was closed the day we were there. They offered
shower facilities for a small fee so we took them up on it.
The
town museum is weird. I walked up creaky sagging stairs in a
musty building full of relics, including shelves of various
sized jars containing an odd assortment of subjects in
formaldehyde. There were rabbit embryos, an unborn pig, a fully
feathered bird, large snakes (one per jar) as well as a jar
packed full of little snakes, three human embryos, and a
10-pound tumor that had been removed from a woman in the local
hospital. Belhaven is one bizarre town!
A
CITY OF HOSPITALITY
Tuesday,
April 29: Our next stop was Elizabeth City, NC. It was named for
Elizabeth Tooley, an early landowner, or Elizabeth I of England,
nobody is sure which. In order to get there
we had to cross Albemarle Sound, so small and innocent looking
on the chart. Cruising guides advise crossing Albemarle in the
morning for smoother water but the next day’s weather forecast
wasn’t all that good so Tom mulled it over and we plunged
ahead. It was a carnival ride, dipping up and down in wave
troughs all the while evading a million yellow floats marking
crab traps. Landfall would be late in the day so I was relieved
when we spotted something on land, a massive blimp-building
structure on the outskirts of town.
You
couldn’t miss the sign they had painted on a brick wall: Elizabeth
City, City of Hospitality. Free Dockage 48 Hours. We wormed
our way into a slip, a very short slip, but long enough that we
managed to get on and off. It was late, we were hungry, and we
set out to look over two nearby restaurants, one across the street
and the other next door, a place called Groupers. We’d just
started out when a spring shower and some serious lightning
bolts chased us back to the boat.
In
the morning 89-year-old Fred Fearing came by on his golf cart to
check out the new arrivals, as he does every day. Fred is a
legend in Elizabeth City. When they first opened the cruisers’ dock twenty years earlier, Fred
had an idea. He decided to give a little party at his house for all the boaters who
came in that day. It was such a success that he’s been doing
it ever since, every day! He invites everyone at the dock to
come to his house for wine and cheese and he presents each lady
with a rose from his garden. On this day he made several more
visits to the dock. By 4:45 we looked like a pack of lemmings,
some on foot and some on bicycles, following Fred’s golf cart
to Fearing Street. When we got there we found lawn chairs neatly arranged in a
semi-circle (for conversation) by the Rose Buddies, Fred’s
cohorts, and they had set up a table with beer, wine, cheese and
crackers. They’ve played host to some well-known folks, Walter
Cronkite and Willard Scott, to name two. We had a great time
trading stories with other yachties during the friendly social
hour.
Thursday,
May 1: It’s a stone’s throw from the city dock to the
bascule bridge so we timed our departure to make the 7:30
opening. From there we proceeded through the narrow, winding
Pasquotank River against a pastoral backdrop. That's my kind
of cruising, on quiet water, going fast enough to get there but
slow enough to see.
We
were shooting for the 11:00 opening of South Mills Lock but got there ahead of schedule and drifted for a bit. At
11:00 we proceeded into the lock. I looped a bowline over a
bollard and held onto the other end while Tom manned the stern.
I thought back to a year earlier when we locked through the
Okeechobee Waterway and I was chided by a lockmaster for holding
my rope so tight. “Relax, the boat’s not going anywhere,”
he said. So this time I relaxed and even stepped back a little
in order to stand in the shade out of the hot sun. I didn’t
know it but I was about to learn an indelible lesson in line
handling – and lockmasters. Some open the gates slowly so
there’s hardly a noticeable movement of water and others open
wide and fast and let it rip! This lockmaster was in the wide
and fast category. The floodgate opened and in seconds swirling,
rushing water pushed the bow away from the wall and toward the
middle of the lock. I instantly tensed and pulled on the rapidly
escaping line with every ounce of strength I had but it was too
late - I couldn’t get the bow back in. Instead, it pushed out
farther from the wall. The taut rope was slipping through my
fingers a little at a time, burning like crazy. I was playing
tug-of-war and I was losing. If it pulled all the way to the end
of the line I would lose it altogether and Pura Vida would swing
all the way out and back, crashing into the sailboat behind us.
I needed to snub it around the cleat before that happened but in
order to do that I would have to hold the slipping rope in only
one hand instead of two, while I wrapped it on a cleat with the
other. I could barely hold it with two! I needed more muscle. My
heart was pounding when I finally let one hand go and my little
voice demanded, “You’ll do it fast and you’ll do it
right.” I made it by the skin of my teeth. Tom was watching me
from the stern, having a heart attack.
We
survived
South Mills Lock but the day was far from over. Next came the
Dismal Swamp, the oldest operating artificial waterway in the
United States. It’s
a 22-mile long, tree-lined ditch filled with tea-colored water,
so constricted there are places where two boats would be hard
pressed to pass each other. Fortunately, the only thing we had
to pass was a tethered Army Corps of Engineers barge loaded down
with logs and debris it had picked off the bottom. It had a
five-pronged metal claw attached to a massive chain that it used
to pluck fallen trees out of the water, like a giant-sized
version of the game kids play when they try to scoop up a prize.
Near
the end of the Dismal Swamp is Virginia’s coastal
plain, commonly known as the Tidewater area, where low-lying
tidal swamps and marshes border the rivers. Our next lock would
be Deep Creek, scheduled to open at 3:30 but they were having
mechanical problems and were running late. When the lockmaster
finally threw a switch around 4:00, the massive steel gears
belched out a raspy screech. He shut if off again. “Bad
valve,” he said. By the time they got it fixed and we locked
through it was almost 5:00 and we still had 21 miles ahead of us
to get through Norfolk and on to Rebel Marina in Willoughby Bay where
we’d made a reservation for the night.
Norfolk’s
harbor is packed with Navy ships of every sort: destroyers,
cruisers, aircraft carriers and smaller tenders, every one of
them painted battleship gray. I was at the helm after a
difficult day. I was stressed, tired, and it would be dark soon,
but I assured myself that we were almost there. That’s when
the resounding blast of a horn shook my last nerve. I looked
behind me to see a pilot boat guiding an ocean-going freighter
out into the channel. I could only hope it would go the other
direction. It didn’t. The giant behemoth was bearing down on
us. Tom cautioned me to give him plenty of room, telling me
ships like that create suction that could be dangerous to
something as small as us. Like I needed more pressure. But I
gave it plenty of leeway, so much that I was running outside the
channel markers.
When
we finally got to Willoughby Bay the sun was already below the
horizon when our weary eyes caught sight of Rebel Marina. Stormy
weather was predicted for the next few days and we were only too
happy to stay and relax for a while.
Friday, May 2: Pura Vida got scrubbed and hosed on the
outside to get the salt off her decks and vacuumed on the inside
until she shined like a new penny. Then we scrubbed ourselves in
really nice, spotless showers. Rebel Marina is a colorful old
landing attended by a resident dock master, Captain Briggs. He
lives on a 1948, 65-foot-long, red tugboat docked near the office
and his father, Lane, owns the place. His long sideburns, gold
earring and weathered face give him the typical look of a crusty
old sea dog, which he is. He had just returned from cruising the
inland waterways, starting at the Tennessee River, and had lots
of stories.
The
marina cat is an old guy named Starboard who spends most of his
retirement curled up by the sink or sleeping on a piece of foam.
He only drinks water from a running faucet, never from a dish,
which would explain his spot near the sink. Lane said when they
found him more than ten years ago he had survived by drinking
from dripping faucets and the habit stuck.
Our
friend Ray from Springfield came to visit and drove us into
Norfolk
for lunch and shopping. Tom
bought a couple of big round orange fenders and an extra fending
pole in preparation for all the locks that lay ahead.
R ebel
Marina
sits in the middle of a residential neighborhood where houses had begun
to have a different look, a more northern style - darker colored,
constructed mostly of cedar or brick and two or three stories
tall rather than spread out. Shopping of any kind was a long
bike ride from the marina but Lane offered to drive us around in
his 'land schooner' to shop and refill prescriptions.
We
slipped out early Monday under a brilliant golden sunrise. Now
we were in Hampton Roads, open to the Atlantic with ocean swells. Long intervals between waves
allowed us to float up and over the crests until a southeast
wind turned northward and one-foot seas grew. As the day wore
on, we piled on more and more clothes in the cold rain and
biting wind. Twelve miles into the Potomac River we called it a day (a long
day!) and dropped anchor in a protected bight they call the
Glebe. We had traveled 87 miles. I was exhausted and cold and
could do no more than open a can of ravioli for dinner and fall
into bed at 8:30.
A CAPITAL OCCURRENCE
Next
morning the sky cleared but back on the Potomac a cold, gray
mist enveloped us. I played helmsman while Tom went below to
make coffee. There was no definition between sky and water; they
were both the same dreary shade of mouse-gray. It’s hard to
hold a course with no horizon. This was not the time to let my
attention wander. My eyes darted back and forth from the GPS to
the depth sounder to the grayness ahead. Every time a crab pot
marker popped into my field of vision, I dodged it, like playing
a video game. Fortunately, I won this game. The process of
extracting a tightly wound rope from the propeller was something
I didn’t even want to think about.
We
stopped 20 miles short of Washington, D.C., in a sheltered cove of
Mattawoman Creek and woke up socked in by a
thick, wet fog. There was no choice but to dawdle over a
leisurely breakfast and relax until the sun broke through. When
you live hand in hand with Mother Nature you learn to get along.
She always sets the pace.
Wednesday,
May 7: We continued toward D.C. The Washington Monument was the
first familiar silhouette, then the Capitol Building, and then
the city of Alexandria passed to port just beyond the Woodrow
Wilson Bridge. Before long we were in the Washington Channel
where the shoreline is shoulder-to-shoulder with marinas. The
odd thing was, there were no visible signs to identify any of
them. More puzzling, there were no anchored boats, not a single
one! I was sure something must be wrong. The Waterway
Guide said to call the Metropolitan Harbor Police before
anchoring. I called.
“There’s
no restriction. Anchor anywhere you want.” The woman never
even asked my name.
So
we picked a spot to call home for the next five days very close
to Sequoia, the presidential yacht, and the Gangplank Marina.
We had access to a dinghy
dock, showers and laundry for $10 a day, downright cheap by D.C.
standards, and the sights of the Washington Mall were at our
doorstep – or, I should say, at our swim platform.
| 
