On to the Chesapeake Bay

From the Captain:

4/22/14  Durant Island to Dismal Swamp Visitor's Center, Camden, N.C. 50 nm

The cold front has truly passed. The sky is clear, and the wind is from the southwest, about 10 kts. We are heading north and raise both sails. Luna hums along. This is a nice day. The payback for the past few days of rough sailing continues.

The trip across the Albemarle Sound is going well. We enter the Pasquotank River toward Elizabeth City. We pass a huge Coast Guard air station with large hurricane-resistant hangars for their helicopters. We look over and see a fast orange runabout coming at us from the station. As it nears us, we can see the uniformed officers, sunglasses, guns of those who protect our shores. They pull up along side. A young officer introduces himself and says they are going to board us for an inspection. "Do you have any weapons aboard?" he asks. We don't. I wonder what would happen if I said, "Yes."

The inflatable boat pulls up along side. "Maintain your course and speed," he orders. He and another climb on board as we move along. He examines our life jackets, our fire extinguishers, checks the bilge for oil, checks our documentation. All is in order. He looks at the valve for the holding tank to make sure it is locked in the closed position while we are inland. It is not. He allows me to affix a nylon zip tie so it will pass inspection. He looks for a sticker saying it is illegal to dump oil in coastal waters. We find this in the cockpit locker. He looks for another sticker in the galley that notes it is illegal to dump trash or garbage in the water out to the three-mile limit. We don't have one of those, and he happily provides one. "Put this somewhere in the galley," he directs.

The sticker is large and says what one would imagine it would say. You can't dump garbage or trash in the water. Beyond the three-mile limit, it is acceptable to dump garbage cut into small pieces. It is illegal to dump plastic anywhere. I put it up behind to door under the galley sink.

Luna passes the inspection. We get an official paper to that effect, and the boys take off. Very efficient and professional, just like you would like our soldiers to be.

The commander at the helm says, "We'd better get the sails down." The Coast Guard boat left as we approached Elizabeth City, where a drawbridge waits. We quickly drop the main and furl the jib. We motor past the Elizabeth City public docks, waving at the official greeters, who were hoping for a visitor on this quiet day.

Spring in the Dismal Swamp

The Dismal Swamp looks delightfully familiar. When we came south in November, the trees sported muted fall colors. Today, there are springtime leaves, small and light green. At the edge of the dense woods, dogwood blooms. Lavender wisteria hangs in clusters from some of the trees. Birds call, hidden in the foliage.

There is a lock and a drawbridge at each end of the canal. They open only a few times a day, and the last opening is at 3:30. We will have to anchor somewhere at the southern end of the canal if we don't make the opening. Even with the Coast Guard inspection, we should make the opening in plenty of time. There is a boat behind us, Cat's Paw. We heard him hailing the drawbridge after we passed.  Approaching the lock, we slow down as he comes into sight.

In the fall, there were seven or eight boats tied up at the Visitor's Center dock, rafted together three deep. Today, there are only two of us. Cat's Paw, a nice 41-foot Island Packet motor sailor, pulls in behind us.

We have been talking with Phil and Nancy on the phone. They have left Emerald Sunset in Florida for the summer and are driving back to Vermont. They left Charleston this morning, will meet us at the Visitor's Center, and stay in Norfolk tonight. They provide us with some of their provisions from their boat, a couple of bottles of wine and tonic, and some great happy hour company before pushing on. Their coming and going remind us how we are looking forward to rejoining our community back home.

4/23/14 Dismal Swamp Visitor's Center to Sunset Boating Center, Sunset Creek, Hampton, Virginia. 36 nm.

The lock and drawbridge at the northern end of the Dismal Swamp is 14 miles beyond the Visitor's Center, and the morning openings are at 8:30 and 10. There is a small south-flowing current in the canal, and our speed is about 5.5 knots.To make the 8:30 opening, we figure we have to leave at 6:15. There is barely enough light to see. Cat's Paw has already gone. We see his white stern light in the distance.

In the dawn, the birds' songs echo in the forest. To hear them, Robert J. Lurtsema would have swooned in the heyday of National Public Radio. I see an otter swimming along the bank. He climbs out onto a log. Luna glides along. A cup of coffee. We are on schedule.

The bridge-tender raises the span, and we pass down to the lock. He is the most personable lock/bridge-tender we've met. At the lock, his little shelter is landscaped with conch shells given him by boaters returning from the Bahamas. He asks where we've been. "Where is my conch shell?" he asks after our sheepish answer.

The man wears a perpetual grin. He tells us about an extended trip he took with his wife through Florida and eventually over to the Bahamas. He tells us he is a champion conch-blower. "They won't let me in the contests any more because they think I'm a professional."

Of course, I bring out my conch shell. "You put your hand inside like this to lower the note," he demonstrates. "If you trill your tongue, you can get a vibrating note." He plays a little song on the shell. Satchmo of the mollusk shell. He hands me back the shell. To the commander he grins, "You're going to hate me for that."

"I know what you mean already," she replies. He has left some of his mojo on the shell. I blow into it and get a full, clear note. I put my hand in the shell and lower the tone. The best yet. The sound echoes off of the walls of the lock.  Downstream, however, I try it again--the mojo has gone.

As we prepare to leave the lock, this friendly man warns us about conditions in the Chesapeake. There are strong winds up there and high seas. He tells us of several free spots to anchor or tie up in Norfolk if we don't want to cross the bay.

The north wind is back for a day or two, but it is sunny and fairly warm. We are undaunted by the waves off Norfolk. They are not as bad as the ones we crashed through a couple days ago. The wind is slightly west of north, off our bow quarter, and we unfurl the small genoa. We are flying along at 7 knots, hitting 8 occasionally.

There are only 6 miles of open water from Norfolk across to the Hampton River. Once in the river, the waves calm considerably. We furl our sail and motor up the quiet Sunset Creek to the marina.  We'll wait out the two north wind days here. I have called a sailmaker in Hampton, and he comes over and picks up our large genoa. I change the oil in Luna's diesel engine.

Sage advice, Hampton, VA

The marina is within a pleasant walk of downtown in one direction and the supermarket in the other. We walk downtown in the afternoon. Hampton has many historical plaques pointing out the town's role in Colonial times, the War of 1812, and the Civil War. People have been sailing into Hampton since 1607, when the British colony at Jamestown was established.

The history is there, but all the buildings are fairly new. During the Civil War, the Confederate soldiers under General James Magruder set fire to the town to keep it out of Union hands. Only St. John's Church remained standing. The church, a brick structure, sits amidst an old cemetery. A large monument to the Confederate soldiers rises in front. No hard feelings for the fire. The church is nearly hidden by the unbelievably lush white dogwoods that are blossoming all around.

Historic St. John's Church

We are tourists again. We pass a row of restaurants on Queen's Way and settle on Marker 20. It's happy hour, and they are having a special: 1 pound of peel-and-eat shrimp for $10.99. Nowhere have we had fresher. Afterwards, we split a fried-oyster dinner that absolutely delights. The oysters are lightly breaded, crispy on the outside, and barely cooked within. You can still taste the ocean as you bite into them.

4/25/14 Hampton, VA, to Jackson Creek, Piankatank River, Deltaville, VA 41.8nm

We spent a second night at the marina in Hampton. I got a haircut, and the commander did laundry. We walked to the Food Lion in one direction and then walked to a fish market about a mile-and-a-half away in the other.The manager gave me a ride to the hardware store. The commander and I had lunch at the Barking Dog, a little place attached to the marina. They make a very good pulled pork sandwich.

The sailmaker called to say he completed the sail repair and would bring it back to the marina. He said in addition to repairing the tear, he did some reinforcing at the head of the sail and installed some new webbing at the clew. One thing we really appreciate about boat people is that they are rarely satisfied with good enough. He made this right for us. When we hoisted it back up the forestay, we were delighted to see that he put new telltales along the front of the sail.

We stopped at the gas dock to take on fuel, pump the holding tank, and say goodbye to the friendly staff. "Be careful. Terrible storm coming this afternoon," one of the men on the dock said.

Here we go again. More heavy weather. The day is sunny, though a little cool. There is a south wind. In the late afternoon, another front will pass, and the wind will turn strongly to the north with thundershowers, possibility of hail, and a tornado watch for the area. The Coast Guard is broadcasting alerts on the VHF.

We leave anyway, but change our destination to a closer anchorage. While I'm at the helm, the commander consults the chart and the iPad to find a place protected from the north winds and waves. We're looking for a small creek that runs east and west with places to anchor. About 40 miles north is Deltaville, and into the nearby Piankatank River flows Jackson Creek. Active Captain on the iPad describes three highly rated anchorages with good holding for the anchor and good protection from the wind. We should be able to make the Piankatank River by mid afternoon. I have a good time adjusting the sails to the brisk south wind that carries us along and saying "Piankatank." We are able to complete most of the day's journey under sail alone.

Piankatank means winding river in the language of Chief Powhaten, who is credited with the name. His daughter, Pocahantas, interceded with her father to prevent the untimely demise of Captain John Smith. Time on my hands, I read that Pocahantas went over to the English side, converted to Christianity, and took the name Rebecca. She married John Rolfe and bore a son, Thomas. Thomas' descendants include Nancy Reagan and Sen. Harry Byrd.

There are three sailboats anchored in the creek, but room for more. The anchorages are like lagoons in the narrow creek, wider areas lined with well-appointed houses, docks, and boats. Osprey soar overhead, playing in the wind.

As darkness falls, we see lightning, the heavy rain starts, and the wind picks up. We measure gusts of 35 kts, but the water in the creek is calm. This is a good place to be. Eventually, the storm passes, and we have a quiet night.

4/26/14 Deltaville, VA to Smith Creek, Lower Potomac River, St. Mary's City, MD 44.6 nm.

More heavy weather in the forecast. The day starts with a moderate north wind that will back to the west later. This will reach 25 kts with higher gusts. A thunderstorm is possible. We leave Jackson Creek with plans for a short hop north to the Little Wicomico River at the southern edge of the Potomac River

We beat across the bay toward the eastern shore, then the wind stops. We motor back northwest to the anchorage. It is mid afternoon when we get near the mouth of the Potomac, the water is calm. We consider going on to the other side of the river, a distance of 17 more miles. We look on the chart for an anchorage over there and find Smith Creek.

Here is a decision point. Should we play it safe and turn into the Little Wicomico. Or should we chance the strong west wind but get further north?

Here is the intellectual part of sailing that I really like. On the way south, the water at the mouth of the Potomac was really rough, unpleasant to cross. Now it is calm. We check the current. It is an ebb current for the next four hours. That means if the west wind comes, it will be blowing in the direction of the current, and the water will not be so choppy. We will be heading northwest, at an angle to the wind that will permit us to keep the sails up. On the other hand, if we spend the night south of the Potomac, we will have to cross it in the morning when there will be a brisk north wind. This will make for a very rough passage. We weigh the factors and decide to head to Smith Creek.

It works out. The west wind comes up suddenly as we head across the Potomac. In a matter of minutes, it goes from dead calm to 20 kts. We see gusts to 30 kts, but we're sailing with partially furled genoa only. The waves are not too high, the day is warm enough, and we make good time to the creek.

The anchorage is a fine one, a wide cove off the main branch of Smith Creek. The water is calm. There are farm houses, boats, and smaller summer homes on the distant shores. There is a small marina up another branch of the creek. There is a large osprey nest at the top of a dead tree across from our anchorage.

These out of the way creeks and coves are known affectionately as gunkholes. The term is both a noun and a verb. We are gunkholing our way up the Chesapeake and having a wonderful time doing it.

We comment on the satisfaction gained from a hard day's travel ending in a calm, protected, and secluded spot, surrounded by natural beauty. Surprised continually by the wonder of it all. Happy hour on the deck, watching the sunset. Listening to the osprey's high-pitched calls overhead. What's not to like?

Hooper Island light

4/27/14 Smith Creek to Hudson Creek, Little Choptank River, Maryland 51.4 nm

The weather forecast promised another day of cool north headwinds and big waves. This proved accurate. We set out sailing northeast in 20-kt winds and four-foot waves across the bay, and when the winds diminished as predicted in the late morning, we furled the sails and motored the rest of the way directly into the one-to-two foot waves that remained.

Crashing against the wind into four-foot waves was fun on the Alligator. It was challenging in Hampton Roads. It was interesting across the mouth of the Potomac. Today it feels chilly, and, as one may say, "Like, whatever." We soldier through it. We're on 30-minute shifts on the way to the Eastern Shore and the Little Choptank River.

On the way, we pass schools of fishing boats--more than a hundred, I'd say. They're trolling the waters of the southern Chesapeake for rockfish, the Chespeake Bay striped bass. Behind the boats, floats play out the lines. There are outboards and larger charter boats. Some big sport fishermen. We have to dodge the boats and the floats. I don't see anyone reeling up a fish. It seems like a whole lot of fuel to burn looking for these clever and seemingly well-sated critters. It's even too cold to drink much beer. But the fishermen persist. Later, I learn that the mayworms come up off the bottom of the bay at certain times in the Spring. The stripers eat them in preference to whatever the fishermen are offering.

Tanker, approaching astern

We also have two large tankers to our stern. As they near, we can see the bow and the port and starboard forward quarters. Do we see both sides equally? The ship is coming right at us. We can see the bow wave. We move off to the side so we can see the starboard side more than the port side. It takes a while for these monsters to get past us.

When they were younger, our kids used to stick an arm out of the car window and make an imaginary pulling gesture to get passing trucks to blow their air horns. It worked most of the time. I tried this with a tanker captain. Nothing doing.

Hudson Creek is a wide anchorage protected from the swells of the bay by a narrow spit of land. It opens into the mouth of the Little Choptank, and there are some surprisingly large homes along the shores. Surprising, I say, because there is really nothing much around here. No large cities, no airport. I wonder where the owners come from.

Rain and strong easterly winds are in the forecast for the next few days. Tomorrow, we'll leave for Rock Hall on the Eastern Shore above the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and wait there until the weather improves. Between that and the strong northerlies we've experienced, our fantasy of a relaxed week or so sailing around the Chesapeake has gone the way of the skipjack oystermen.

At Rock Hall, we'll be but a day from the top of the Chesapeake Bay and the canal that leads to the Delaware River.

Fishing boats in Hampton, VA

Oh, your anchor chain's a fetter,
And with it you are tethered to the foam.
And I would not trade your life
For one hour home

 The Lock Keeper.  Stan Rogers

From the Captain

Toward Norfolk, the end of the ICW

4/13/14 Carolina Beach State Park to Swansboro, NC

We're motoring with the jib out, running before a moderate south breeze. We're shadowing the coast as it courses eastward through the Carolinas. But for the drawbridges, we're making good time. On this part of the waterway, bridges operate on a tight schedule. Wrightsville Beach opens only on the hour. The next one up only on the hour and the half hour. Further north, Surf City bridge opens only on the hour. Onslow Beach, at Camp Lejeune, opens on the hour and the half hour. Precisely, in the fashion of the U.S. Marines. We measure distances and adjust our speed to arrive at the bridges near opening times.

Camp Lejeune is quiet on this Sunday afternoon. We pass through the desolate artillery firing ranges, the camouflage-colored woods, the acres of marsh grass that marks the Waterway through the Carolinas. This has been a very nice day.

North of the marine base, we arrive in Swansboro at the anchorage we found on the way south. It is right along the channel, but there is a small inlet into a shallow bay. We are on the rising tide, about two hours before high. We see how far we can get into the bay.

In this regard, inching over shallow water, the commander has nerves of steel. I help by crossing my fingers. There is a bar across the mouth of the bay. Three feet under the keel, two feet, a foot and a half. A foot. The depth finder is falling. But then it comes up. Four feet, five feet. She pilots back into the bay, and the depth starts falling again. We turn around and find the four foot section, stop, and drop anchor. Four feet under the keel means a total depth of eight-and-a-half feet. There is a two-and-a-half-foot tide here, so there is plenty of water to anchor safely.

Quiet anchorage at Swansboro, N.C.

We're close to the mouth of the bay, but well off the Waterway. On a rising tide, the current is coming into the bay, and we're facing outward, toward the town of Swansboro on the opposite shore of the Waterway. When the tide turns, we'll swing 180 degrees. However, we're fairly close to the beach on our port side, and when the tide changes, we risk going aground if we swing toward it. Rather than re-anchor further out toward the ICW, we decide to put out a stern anchor. This will prevent us from swinging around with the tide.

Swansboro is the third anchorage in which we've used a stern anchor. The first was above Daytona beach where we anchored close to a construction barge. The second was in the rapid current of the relatively narrow Prince Creek in South Carolina.

I have read books on anchoring, and they talk about stern anchors. When to do it. When not to do it. Believe it or not, I've never read actually how to do it -- how to put one out. Here's what we're doing: We drop and set the bow anchor and determine how much rode to let out. The water is eight-and-a-half feet deep, and Luna's bow is four feet above that. We are not expecting heavy weather, so a 4:1 anchor scope should do -- about 60 feet. The commander backs down so there is about 100 feet of line in the water. At that point, I drop our second anchor, a Danforth, off the stern. She motors forward, letting out the stern anchor rode, while I'm up on the bow pulling in the bow anchor rode. When the bow anchor gets to about 60 feet, I signal her to stop, and we cleat off both anchor lines. Luna stays still all night, facing outward toward the ICW.

In the morning, I let out the bow line as the commander uses the cockpit winch to pull in the stern line. When the stern anchor comes up, she motors forward, and I pull up the bow anchor as usual. We get both anchors up and keep the lines out of the propeller. A major success.

Swansboro is another of those peaceful, secluded anchorages that stir the soul. It would be hard to have too many of these quiet Carolina coves. Sun set and sun rise. Morning mist rising. Marsh grass. Woodland along the far edge. Light greens, dark greens, yellows, and browns. A dolphin surfaces here and there. A couple Canadian geese swim at the edge of the beach. We wonder if they're heading to Vermont as we are. Understandably, none of us is in a big rush.

4/14/14 Swansboro to Broad Creek, Oriental, North Carolina 50.4 nm.

We're heading back toward River Dunes Marina, the beautiful and friendly marina situated in a man-made lagoon off Broad Creek north of Oriental. Here the floating docks are made of ipe wood, the tiled showers are large and have those huge round rainfall showerheads. One has side jets and steam. The clubhouse is inviting, and everything is just so. All for $1.50 per foot. The lagoon is accessible through a long, narrow canal off the creek. This is probably the most well-protected place we've seen. Certainly the cleanest and most opulent.

The commander has been in email contact with our Vermont friends on Blue Jay. They were looking for a place to leave their boat for a month while they do a project for their work. She suggested River Dunes, and they are very pleased with the monthly rate for their slip.

200 miles to go on the ICW

So. Luna, Blue Jay, and a huge cold front are racing toward River Dunes. It's Monday, and gale force northerly winds are predicted for Tuesday night with temperatures in the high 30's by Thursday morning. Both boats have decided to bypass Beaufort and Morehead City and make the longer passage directly to Oriental. Blue Jay spent last night about 12 miles south of us at Mile Hammock anchorage within Camp Lejeune.

Ahead of the front, we have a fairly strong south wind, and we put out the jib. To our delight, it rolls out smoothly on the newly cleaned roller furler. We fly through Bogue Sound, wide, shallow, and fairly choppy with the wind. We call Blue Jay on the VHF, and they are about 10 miles behind us. At Morehead City, the Waterway arcs through the Newport River, then enters the narrow Adams Creek Canal. It's hard to keep the sail full in the canal, so we furl it--smooth and easily done!

Adams Creek widens as it opens on its mouth at the Neuse River. We see a boat at some distance behind us. Jimmy calls on the VHF: "I think we see you up ahead. Is that you?"

Blue Jay passes on the Neuse River

At this point, the channel has widened, the wind is steadier, about 15-20 kts., and Luna's engine is off. We are completing our day's journey under sail alone. Blue Jay passes us. Four friends wave, happy to see each other, and we take pictures of each other's boats. They'll check in to the marina this afternoon.

The waves pick up in the Neuse. We're having a delightful time and making nearly 7 kts at times. The forecast calls for persistent south winds tonight increasing to 25 kts. after midnight, perhaps a thunderstorm or showers. This continues into tomorrow morning, then rain becomes heavier. Overnight tomorrow, the wind turns north and picks up as the front enters.

We decide to spend tonight anchored on Broad Creek, beyond the channel to River Dunes. The creek narrows and winds to the west and north, and there are places to anchor in the lee of a southern shore that would shield us from the strong winds overnight. We prefer the solitude and freedom of lying at anchor, pointed into the wind, than the more formal confines of the marina. We'll check in to the slip tomorrow morning, hopefully before the heavy rains start. At night, we hear a chorus of what sound like whippoorwills calling each other in the woods beyond the creek. We're only 15 minutes from the marina, but a world away.

4/15-4/18/14 River Dunes Marina, Oriental, N.C.

Tuesday: No need to rush out this morning--we're just around the corner from our destination. There was rain and wind overnight. Distant thunder. The water was calm where we lay. After breakfast, a light rain starts. We pull up the anchor and hail the marina. "Come whenever you'd like. Call from the entrance channel," Rich, the dockmaster, responds.

Ten minutes later we call him back. He directs us to our slip and helps with the lines. We gather our stuff and head over to the clubhouse to register and take a shower. The latter will prove redundant. In short order, rain is pouring down heavily, coming right under the rain gear.

Other transient mariners are here also. The coming front is a strong one, and it might take several days before the weather clears. There is a sign up sheet in the marina clubhouse. We put our name on the list for pizza for dinner. Someone is sending out. Thirty people and about half that many boxes show up at dinner time.

Wednesday: Overnight the front enters, and, in our protected harbor, we measure 30 kt gusts at the top of Luna's mast. Out in the Neuse River, we hear winds topped 50 mph. We move gently in the slip with the wind surges. Fortunately, we're nose in and facing north, so we don't have a strong cold wind blowing through our companionway hatch into the cabin.

Temperature drops, and we plug in the space heater. Not much to do here. Too cold to walk in the biting wind. Barbie borrows the marina's car, and we go with her to the grocery in Oriental. We drive further, just beyond the bridge, to Endurance Seafood, the funky little place we found when we were here last October. Too rough for the fishing fleet to be out, but the owner, Keith,  has some fresh clams to sell. We buy a few dozen to steam for dinner.

Jimmy and Barbie join us for dinner on Luna. They bring a salad, a ripe avocado, and some odds and ends from their refrigerator. They're leaving the boat in the morning. We have the steamed clams for an appetizer, then grill some peppers and onions and chicken for fajitas.

We rarely have company on Luna. It seems that everyone else's boat is larger and more accommodating. But it's cozy and intimate down in our cabin, and the dinette table seats four comfortably. We have a nice time.

Thursday: The north wind continues at 20-25 kts, and the temperature remains around 60 degrees. Our propane tank is about 2/3 empty, I figure, and I ask to borrow the car to go back to Oriental to fill it at the hardware. Rich, the dockmaster, tells me Bob and Barbara, who are on their way back to Georgetown, MD, on their Bristol 41 sloop, BobarAnn, have signed out the car at 9 am for the same purpose. I call Bob, and they're happy for the company. This is their second year of cruising. They visited the Bahamas last year, but spent this winter in the Florida keys, mostly around Marathon.

April 18, 2014. River Dunes Marina to Upper Pungo River anchorage, Belhaven, N.C. 42 nm.

We've been poring over our smartphone weather sources. The consensus is that winds will moderate somewhat today, but remain northward. Tomorrow, Saturday, the winds diminish, but the forecast calls for rain. Cool north winds persist on Sunday. The sun appears on Monday, and winds turn south, finally, on Tuesday, as the air warms. Monday would be the ideal day to leave, but we're anxious to press on. We'd like some time to sail around in the Chesapeake on the way up. And we're not anxious to spend another three nights at River Dunes. We know we might spend the day tomorrow at anchor waiting for the rain to stop.

We get ready to go. Anticipating a rough passage out on the Neuse, the commander makes sure everything is stowed or tied down below decks. I unplug the electric power cable and bring the adaptor we borrowed back to the marina office.

Coming out of the clubhouse, I meet Bob and Barbara on their way in. There is a meeting of stranded cruisers to discuss the weather and decide when is the best time to leave. I return to Luna and ask the commander if she would like to see what the group has to say. We look at each other. Remembering the meetings spent obsessing over the weather in Bimini, we start the engine. From neighboring boats, two guys magically appear to help us out of the slip.

Cruising books are very clear on the dangers of groupthink. The boats you're sailing with decide to leave. You look out and see "elephants" on the horizon, a sign of large waves off shore. The warning is to be very careful not to be swayed by the group to take one course when your own judgment suggests another. Nowhere have I found, however, a reference to the reverse situation. Obsessive concern with weather and differing comfort levels lead to a group paralysis of sorts that permits sailing only on the calmest days. Listening to the group, you question, and then doubt, your own judgment.

We have assessed the weather. We know our comfort level and our capability. By now we know Luna's capability, which, fortunately, sits on a graph well to the right of our comfort level. At this point, we trust our judgment.

We set out. The wind is at the upper end of the forecast, about 20 kts, and remains from the north at 15-20 kts all day. Initially heading east, we motor sail with the genoa across the wind before turning north. The waves are about 4 feet and get higher as we get out toward the middle of the Neuse. The magenta line turns north into the wind, and we debate whether to furl the sail and motor into the wind or tack back and forth across it with the sail out.

An osprey nests along the ICW

We are steadier and faster with the sail. But the commander looks up and sees a strip of cloth coming off the leech of the jib. Some of the stitching has come loose. We furl the sail and motor the rest of the way. We'll change jibs and repair the stitching later.

The Waterway leads back to the northwest and enters a series of creeks that shield us from the waves. We are making pretty good time. The sun appears intermittently. Back at the helm, in the wind, we take 30-minute shifts and manage to stay warm.

At the helm on a cold windward passage

I call Barbara back at River Dunes to give her a report on the conditions we found. A little rough and windy on the Neuse, but totally doable. Calmer on the in-shore creeks. The group decided to leave on Monday.

We pass the town of Belhaven with several marinas and drop anchor about 10 miles north on the Pungo River, where the northern shore protects us from the wind overnight. We have pasta with clam sauce for dinner, using the broth saved from the steamed clams a couple nights ago. The heat from the stove warms the cabin as dinner cooks.

April 19, 2014. Pungo River anchorage.

All day rain, plenty of
Nothing to explain,
Lifetime of love.

Greg Brown

The north wind picked up overnight, and the rain started. Not a nice showery rain. These rain drops were wind-driven darts, nasty things that fell on a slant and managed to drive through every possible opening, even ones we thought we sealed earlier. The wind is howling, and the cabin is festooned with bowls, pots, and tarps to catch the drips.

The wind is cold outside, but we are cozy. In Florida, we stopped at Gander Mountain and bought Mr. Heater, a portable propane heater who is quite effective in keeping Luna's cabin warm. He runs for  5-6 hours at medium on a one-pound propane canister. He can also dry gloves, socks, dish towels, or whatever we hang on lines above where he sits.

We spend the day at anchor, reading. If there is another upside, it is this: We have closed the cabin to keep out the wind and rain. There is only a little ventilation through the companionway and the hatch over the cabin. Here is a test of the plumbing project in St. Augustine, where I revised the outlet to the holding tank. There is no odor. We have passed the test.

April 20, 2014. Pungo River to Alligator River 22 n.m.

The Pungo River leads into a narrow canal that connects with the Alligator River to the north. At the mouth of the Alligator is a swing bridge. The commander calls the operator: if the wind is above 35 mph, he will not open the bridge. He tells her that there are 38-mph winds on the Albemarle Sound beyond the bridge. He cannot open the bridge today.

Today's forecast calls for stronger winds than yesterday, and periods of rain, especially in the afternoon. There is an anchorage, protected from the north, at the end of the canal just as it enters the wider Alligator. It is 20 miles or three-and-a-half hours north of us. If we anchor there, we can cross the bridge in the morning when the wind is forecasted to diminish. From there, we can get to the Dismal Swamp by afternoon. Today, we will be protected from the wind in the Pungo Canal, and we take a bet on the rain showers.

We lose the bet. An hour out, the rain starts and it falls continuously for the rest of the trip. The wind blows the rain, like little needles, into our faces. It's Easter Sunday. In our yellow rain gear, we look like marshmallow Easter chickens as we take our soggy thirty-minute shifts at the wheel. The commander takes a photo of me and posts it on Facebook. One of her friends comments, "You married a peep?"

Wind and waves build as we enter the wider Alligator River. We measure gusts up to 30 kts. In these conditions, we wouldn't go any further than this, even if the bridge could open. We turn off to the anchorage, which is in the lee of a low northern shore. The wind howls and abates, then returns even more strongly. The rain continues. The water is relatively calm near the shore. Luna lurches in the wind. The anchor holds.

Mr. Heater warms the cabin. The iPad and a visual check of our surroundings show we are holding steady. The second rum punch makes the wind sound less threatening. We get one bar of cell phone service. On You Tube, the commander finds Judy Garland and Fred Astaire singing, "In your Easter Bonnet."

4/21/14 Alligator River to Albermarle Sound, 37 n.m.

The rain has stopped, but the day remains overcast. The gusty wind continues. We measure 30 kts on occasion. Were we still at River Dunes, we wouldn't be able to leave as planned today.

From our remote anchorage, we have no cell phone service to call the Alligator River Swing Bridge, and it's out of range for the VHF radio. The forecast is for winds to diminish this afternoon. We decide to take a chance that the wind will permit the bridge to open and let us through.

The Alligator River is three miles wide and flows due north into the Albemarle Sound and the north wind. In the open water, the waves are 3-4 feet tall. Luna climbs up the back of a wave and crashes down, sending spray out from her bows and into the wind, which blows it back onto the unlucky person at the helm. We're taking 30-minute shifts and are thankful when the timer rings to signal the next person's turn. We're making about 4 kts of headway.

Spray washes over the bow in the Alligator river

We question our judgment, if not our sanity. It's a little warmer than yesterday. The intermittent spray is not as bad as yesterday's rain. In time, we are able to raise the bridge tender on the VHF, and he says, "Come ahead, I'll open the bridge for you when you get here." This encourages us, and we press on.

Chirps the commander without irony through the hood of her yellow foul-weather parka as we bounce through the waves, "This is really fun!" Later, she will marvel that Luna has done everything we have asked of her so far without complaint.

The gusty wind starts to slacken as the bridge comes in sight, about six miles away. The river is a bit calmer. The bridge tender advises just to come ahead; he will open the bridge when we arrive. When we are a quarter-mile away, the bridge swings open, and we pass without problem.

We have arrived mid-afternoon, and think we can continue across the 12-mile Albemarle Sound toward Elizabeth City. Once out in the Sound, however, we have second thoughts. The wind is 20 kts, but it is still directly ahead of us and the four-foot waves persist. The wind is forecast to diminish overnight and turn to the south by morning. There is no good reason to continue this pounding journey for another three hours today. Tomorrow will be much easier and faster.

We turn back and anchor next to Durant Island, which offers some protection from the north. There are crab traps to dodge along the way. We find an open spot among the traps. There is a long panoramic view of the island, the Alligator River bridge, the bank on the far side of the mouth of the river, the expanse of the Albmarle, and not much else. We own the world at this point. There is not another boat or house in sight.

In the last hour the clouds have passed. We have not seen blue sky for three days, and it cheers us. We have reached a milestone in our minds. The sun sets, and the water settles. We realize the nasty fronts of the Cape Hatteras Carolina coast are behind us. This was the worst we have encountered so far. Six days of strong north winds, driving rains, battering waves. We made it through.

Living in Vermont, we are used to bad weather. The sky is less often sunny than cloudy. There is a familiar feeling when at last the skies clear and the day is warm. We know that feeling and have it now. A sense of relief, a lightness of being, a weight off the shoulders. God is in Heaven, and all is right with the world.

There are mountains in Vermont. Drive up a mountain road, and you are treated to a sweeping view of the valley below. Ride up on a bicycle or hike up on a woodland trail, and you see the same view in a much different frame of mind. The sense of accomplishment, of exhaustion, of ownership belong the the biker or hiker, but not to the motorist. He just enjoys the view.

The last few days have tested us. We extended ourselves beyond our comfort zone and found ourselves and our boat up to the task. We're tired but proud. The solitude, the land, the water the sky are our reward. We've earned them.

Would we trade these last few days for an easier passage? Would we trade Vermont's weather for the sunshine and warmth of the Bahamas? You betcha!  In a heartbeat. I'm sure we'd  find other ways to test ourselves.

Sunrise at Durant Island, mouth of Alligator River. A new day dawns.

Under the boardwalk, down by the sea.
On a blanket with my baby,
That's where I'll be.

The Drifters

Carolina Beach

From the Captain

4/5/14 South Harbour Village Marina to Carolina Beach State Park Marina 12.5  nm

We visited my brother, Barney, and daughter, Samantha, in Carolina Beach on our way down in the

Barney and Beth, Carolina Beach

fall. To free more locker space on Luna, we left our spinnaker there. We stop again going north to pick this up. And to visit again. Barney's wife, Beth, is here now. We stay to avoid a cold front that is due to come through in a few days. Looking at the weather up north, we see cold nights and cold days continuing down into Carolina. Not rushing to get home, better to spend a week in their cozy beach house than face the cold in Virginia. And, face it, how bad is this? We're at the beach! As that great philosopher, William Ludwig, known to his grandchildren as Bubba, my father-in-law, might have said, "What's not to like?"

It's off-season here, so the place is rather quiet. Britt's, the place on the boardwalk that sells hot, freshly made donuts, is open only on weekends. Lucky that! The beachfront tiki bar is likewise closed during the week. But there are plenty of year-round residents in Carolina Beach, and the regular places are open. Like the great barbecue joint, A&G, which is just around the corner from the beach house. Near that are the Veggie Wagon, a little market selling fresh local produce, and a convenience store with a Red Box vending machine that rents DVD's. The fish market is down on the docks not too far away. The state park where Luna sits is about a mile-and-a-half away, and a little past that are the post office and Food Lion supermarket. Between the supermarket and the fish store is the hardware store. All of this is within a bicycle ride away, and when Barney and family departed for their other house in Raleigh, their beach cruiser bikes remained. The commander and I enjoyed picking our picking our way through the neighborhoods, looking at the houses, and discovering ways to our destinations that avoid the main streets.

Of course we find a daily excuse to visit Luna. Leaving her at the marina feels like leaving your puppy at the vet while you go on vacation for a week. The marina isn't very crowded, which is odd considering that, at $30 per day for a slip with electric power and water, it's probably the best deal on the Waterway. Lest Luna get lonely, we return one day to pick up some things we'd forgotten. Another day, we bike by with a load of groceries to put in the refrigerator. One day just because we were in the neighborhood. Like a good mare in her stall, she awaits patiently for the action to begin. Boats pass by along the Waterway outside the marina. The commander and I watch wistfully, thinking how nice it is to be moving.

Between the bikes and the long beach walks, we get a week of good exercise. We've hardly been off Luna since leaving St. Augustine five days ago. Although we haven't walked more than a few blocks in that interval, I believe it would be incorrect to say we had no exercise.

Being on a sailboat, even motoring along, is more exercise than one might think. Although it seems that all you're doing is sitting, there is exercise in the occasional pulling on lines, walking on the decks and climbing down into the cabin and back. More importantly, I believe, is the subtle core strengthening exercise that is taking place 24 hours a day. As the boat moves beneath, you need to make little changes in position and posture to maintain balance. This occurs when sitting or standing, perhaps even lying in the bunk. The changes require subconscious adjustments in tone of the abdominal and back muscles, the muscular "core." After seven months of this, the commander and I are feeling pretty fit. Amazingly, since the early days of the trip, we have not taken an Advil for back or joint pain. We wonder if this is due to lack of cold weather or maybe the absence of stress. I believe the small body changes required of the sailor are keeping us loose.

We arrived at Carolina Beach on Saturday, and the front passed on Tuesday as predicted. There was rain and occasionally thunder. The wind turned north and cool for two days. Thursday, the temperature was in the low 40's in the morning. The warm sun made for a pleasant day before long. We took the bikes to the state park to have a look at Luna's roller furling mechanism.

The roller furler has been sticky and hard to turn. Recently, I have had walk up to the bow and turn the drum by hand to get the jib fully out in a light or moderate breeze. It is hard to wind the sail back in. With the good, fast internet connection at the beach house, I looked up the Hood Seafurl mechanism and found comments by others who had the same problem as Luna. The cause for the sticky mechanism is thought to be salt and dirt in the bearings. The solution is to spray WD-40 into the center of the furling drum, rinse with hot soapy water, and then flush with fresh water. One internet posting described black debris coming out of the bottom of the furler.

On the way to the state park, we stop at the hardware store and buy a a new can of WD-40. I intend to spray the whole can. With some difficulty, we unfurl the jib and remove it. I spray nearly the whole can. Black debris, along with a few dead ladybugs, comes out of the bottom of the furler, We haven't seen ladybugs on this trip, so I imagine this hasn't been done in a while. I rinse with a bucket of hot water from the marina's shower and Dawn dish soap from Luna's galley. I take the hose and flush with water. I spray more WD-40 on the swivel at the top of the jib. The whole thing works much better once we hoist the sail back up and refurl it. I hope the fix holds.

While we're staying in their home, I ask Barney if there's anything I can do to help. He shows me a few sheets of panelling to put up in their room downstairs, which is a sort of girl-cave for Samantha. Perfect! Of me, the commander notes in an email, "Give him a hammer and some nails to pound or a boat to steer, and he's a happy man." Between my carpentry and her comment, I'd say we both nailed it.

I also have the occasion to visit the local dentist. A day before we arrived we arrived here, a molar
started hurting--first to cold or hot, then to pressure. We are carrying an assortment of antibiotic tablets on the boat, and I started a course of penicillin. By the next morning, it was improved somewhat, but I was able to get an immediate appointment with Dr. Amanda Cerqueira, whose husband, David, the office manager, said, "I think she can fit you in if you come now." I was both impressed and grateful that they would take me in so quickly.

They're interesting, competent folks and were most curious about our adventures on Luna. Of course, it's hard to say much with your mouth open. Luckily, she found nothing that needed immediate attention on her exam or X-ray. Eventually I told her about our trip, and Daniel sent me an email summarizing my visit and telling about their blog: bikesboardsandsmiles.blogspot.com.  She and Daniel are into mountain biking and stand-up paddle boarding, and they do both in the mountains and streams of North Carolina.

On Friday, Barney, Beth, Samantha, and five dogs return to the beach house. Five dogs? Yes, this kind-hearted family are dog people, and they  raise golden retriever show dogs. Beth is helping to coordinate a nationwide data base of health problems affecting goldens for a study to see if there are geographic differences in the incidences of cancers and other illnesses. She also helps with animal rescues.

Tully and Brandy, best buddies

They have their own goldens, Journey and Jaeger. There is another golden, Tully, rescued from a hoarder who housed over 100 dogs. "She was so weak when we got her, she couldn't walk," noted Beth. Sharpy, a mixed breed, was adopted from a rescue following Hurricane Katrina. "I think she had a broken spine when we got her," said Beth. And there is Brandy, a cute little pug. They take over the house. As they flow by, sometimes I feel like a small boat sailing on a tide of tan--all the dogs are tan.

Journey, the young show dog, is beautifully groomed and has champion features, down to the perfectly trimmed hair on her tail. She has a regal posture and gait. She comes over with a rubber ball in her mouth. She won't give it to me. She walks over to Barney sitting in the living room and drops it at his feet. Barney doesn't budge. She cocks her head and pants. Her eyes are wide. There is no doubt what she is trying to express. Barney still doesn't budge. She picks up the ball and puts it in his lap.More expression in the eyes. An occasional jerk away from the chair. Barney says, "No." They don't play fetch in the house. She grabs the ball and gives it to him again.

She wins. Barney gets up, opens the door to the back porch, and throws the ball down into the yard. Journey retrieves it and is back up the stairs before he can turn to go back inside. Champion or not, she's definitely still a dog, and like the rest of them, she's part of the family and very well behaved.

Beth and Journey

On Saturday in Carolina Beach is the 20th Annual ChowderFest. Chefs from 11 local restaurants have booths and dole out small servings of chowder to a long line of people waiting to sample. We are encouraged to go back for seconds--voting for a favorite takes careful consideration! On entry, each festival-goer was given a ballot. Once through the line, we drop our ballot in the box that corresponds to our favorite booth.

Digging in at the Chowder Cookoff

Ten of the 11 chowders are cream-based, loosely New England style. The winner for the past few years, Havanas, occupies the first booth. They make a traditional clam chowder that would not be out of place at Legal Seafood or the Union Oyster House in Boston. It has Barney's vote, and it is my favorite through the first few booths. But by the end of the line, the one that gets my vote is from Gibby's Dock and Dine in the harbor. It is thick with fish, clams, and a whole shrimp. There is a little heat in the spices. The commander favors a smoother chowder from the Hilton resort that has roasted corn and bits of poblano peppers and is served with a small dollop of hot red-pepper aioli.


Later that evening, after the festival and a late dinner back at the beach house, the family drives us back to the state park. We will spend the night aboard Luna and get ready to leave in the morning at first light. The weather has been nice the past few days, and the average temperatures north of us seem to be rising slowly. But we're not in the clear yet. Soon, another strong cold front is coming, and we'd like to get further north before the rain and heavy winds hit on Tuesday.

Transportation in Carolina Beach

Ain't no lions and tigers. Ain't no mamba snake.
Just the sweet watermelon and the buckwheat cake.
Everybody is as happy as a man can be
Climb aboard little wog and sail away with me.
Sail away. Sail away,
You can cross the mighty ocean into Charleston Bay.
Sail away. Sail away,
You can cross the mighty ocean into Charleston Bay.

Randy Newman

Out of Florida

From the Captain

3/31/14 St. Augustine to mooring ball at Fernandina Harbor Marina, Fernandina Beach, FL,57 nm.

The Bridge of Lions in St. Augustine opens every half-hour, and we were on hand for the 9 am opening. There is no friendly repartee with the bridge keeper as there is in some other places. "This is the sailing vessel Luna. We are heading north on the ICW and would like to pass at the next opening."

"If you're here, you can come through," the bridge keeper replies, implying that time, tides, and the Bridge of Lions wait for no man. He said the same to two other sailboats that were going through at the same time as we.

Gradually, the mangroves and palms of southern Florida gives way to the marsh grass prairies of the southern mid-Atlantic states and the stately spreading live oaks draped in Spanish moss. The tightly packed waterfront homes are spaced further apart. At times, empty marshland is all that we see.

As we motored north, we had a radio conversation with the other two boats. They both wondered if we had made this trip before. "Yes," we said. "On the way down." "Good," one of the other boat captains replied. "You can lead us through the shallow parts."

We didn't remember any shallow parts, but Luna assumed the lead in a little parade of three boats. It turns out there are shallow parts up by Amelia Island, and we are passing through at a neap tide, the low, low tide the accompanies the new moon. We follow the advice of Active Captain on the iPad that tells us the best routes to follow.  On the radio, we call out the depth readings to those behind us. None has a problem with grounding

Paul and Kathy, from New Brunswick, on their 41.5 foot Beneteau, Lucia, were most interested in our plan to make the off-shore passage to Charleston and asked if they could join us. We are happy, of course, to have a buddy boat. We had adjacent moorings in the harbor and made plans for our passage on the VHF. Both boats had dinghies stowed aboard, and neither crew was inclined to take their dinghy down to make the trip over to the other boat. So we never actually had a chance to meet them.

We filled the diesel tank at the Fernandina Harbor Marina, and the friendly staff allowed us to leave Luna there for as long as it took to walk to nearby Atlantic Seafood to get some fresh shrimp and a grouper filet. We didn't spend much time in the city on our return trip but got closer than we wanted to a part of it.

On our trip down, Luna, disabled in Cumberland Island, was towed in at night past the mills of Fernandina Beach. There was steam coming out of many chimneys, noise, bright lights, and a terrible odor all combining to make us think at the time we had entered the gates of hell. In the mooring field tonight, the constant hissing of the steam boilers sounded like a Vermont winter windstorm on this otherwise peaceful night. And the odor led me to think, "Guess I picked the wrong week to fix the holding tank."

The guidebook tells us that the city was founded by Union soldiers who occupied Amelia Island during the Civil War. This by way of an explanation for why the little downtown area looks so much like a New England village. The soldiers apparently liked the climate better than that of home. No surprise there.

The Southerners, defeated in battle, won the war by establishing two humungous paper mills on either side of town. If the cute multicolored buildings in downtown were a shelf of library books, the plants would be bookends. And one of the plants is directly in front of the mooring field.

In a state not generally known for its commitment to urban planning, placing these plants on the waterfront next to the downtown was a colossal failure of foresight. Of course, who knew how desirable riverfront land might be someday. The shame is that Fernandina Beach is a delightful little town otherwise.

Paper mill, Fernandina Beach

There are trains that must be bringing wood chips to the plants. You can hear their horns all night blaring the standard train horn cadence: Long…Long…Short…Long. Not the mournful freight train sounds of the southern folk songs. At two in the morning, the snappy reports became the bark of the heady underworld dog, Cerberus, on guard that those trapped in the netherworld between these plants do not escape.

If I were Fernandina Beach, I'd surely make my getaway. Lure Cerberus away with a busload of Tea Party Republicans, who think urban planning and other government functions are unnecessary. Get all the Fernandina locals together to make an exact cardboard and wood model of the town and its residents. They can do it. I've seen it in a movie. They'd do it for Randolph Scott.

While Cerberus is occupied with the Tea Party, the residents can move the town and replace it with the models to fool the tourists passing by on their boats. Under the cover of night, bring the town down to the southern end of Amelia Island, next to the new Hilton condominium resort. That would be a nicer place for it. Or better yet, pick up the paper mills and move them down there.

4/1/14-4/2/14 Fernandina Beach, FL, to Charleston, SC. Charleston Harbor to Price Creek anchorage. 175 nm.

Our mooring fee ($20) entitled us to the marina showers, so before departing for Charleston, we motor Luna back to the fuel dock and left her while we bathe. We are timing our departure to the current. The marina staff advises waiting for an outgoing current to exit the inlet. Slack current is at 11:30 or so. By leaving at 10 am, we will not have an ebb current, but the incoming flood will not be very strong. The strategy proved effective. We had no problem with the calm inlet.

The shore of the southeastern U.S. above Florida bends westward. By following a rhumb line from the Fernandina inlet to the Charleston inlet, we are soon over twenty miles off shore and out of sight of land. A light easterly breeze allows us to set both sails and motor sail north at 6.5 kts. The seas are calm.

Later on, the wind clocks to the southwest, directly aft of us as we head northeast. The swells pick up. The waves are larger and come every four seconds. We sail with jib only for awhile, but the wind decreases, and the seas continue to increase, buffeting Luna and making control of the jib difficult. For a time, we make a series of long gybes around the rhumb line, but as the wind decreases to 5 kts toward morning, we furl the sail and continue under motor.

The sky show was worth the price of admission. A crescent moon, bright against the barely luminous shadow of the moon circle itself, set early. The stars were distinct. A meteorite looked so large it might have fallen into the ocean not far away. Shortly before dawn, Venus rose large in the east, casting a lighted shaft on the water.

We were concerned about busy shipping lanes around Brunswick and Savannah in Georgia and in Charleston itself. One large freighter crossed our path before dark. We altered course to go behind it. We saw just one ship at night. It was some sort of cruise ship with lots of lighted windows. Perhaps an off shore gambling ship returning after midnight. We could see its red port bow light far off. There was a low white light on its bow and a higher white light on a mast further back. From the configuration of lights, we knew it was traveling in the same direction as Luna.

Ocean freighter at sea

As time passed, the two white lights got closer together. The ship was turning. The lights were closer to us. Then we could see the green starboard light, and the white lights were in a vertical line. The ship was coming right at us. And it was getting closer.

Of course, it was turning, and after a few anxious moments, we saw the white lights begin to separate, and the red bow light disappeared. At that point, it was heading away from us, and we could relax. We kept a watch for other ships, but there was very little boat traffic after the cruise ship.

We met two other sailboats on the night time sea. West Wind and Twitchin appeared as two lights in the distance. We established radio contact. The skipper of Twitchin, apparently sailing single-handed, announced he was going to take a two-hour nap. He asked us to call him if we saw anything of concern. We could see his light behind and to the east of us as the boat followed on autopilot. The cruise ship that concerned us was not on a course that took her near Twitchin.

It was an uneventful crossing, but tiring. The autopilot, an object of so much hope and attention, disappointed us once again. Keeping the boat on course required great attention. The commander and I steered in 90-minute shifts, shortened to an hour as the air became colder in the early hours.

Out in the ocean, marked on the navigation charts, are artificial coral reefs. One is a collection of subway cars. One is an old tugboat. A couple are sunken barges. This certainly gives me an idea for a good use of Luna's autopilot.

We had thought of doing another offshore passage from Charleston to Cape Fear, NC. The forecast, however, promises more of the same as last night. Literally more. Winds are 15-20 kts from the SW, and seas 4-6 feet. We think of another cool night trying to run northeast before the wind and following seas and decide we'll take the inside route.

Once in the harbor, we say goodbye on the radio to our unmet friends on Lucia. All through last night, we kept in contact out in the ocean. When it got dark, we asked them to lead. Their auto pilot kept them on course, and their white stern light provided a star for us to steer by. In Charleston harbor, they continued west to the city marina, while we turned north up the ICW. We exchanged email addresses on the radio. I commented they were the best friends we never met.

We followed the ICW to Price Creek, 12 miles north of Charleston on the barrier islands. It was one of our favorite anchorages when we were southbound. It's a wide and deep channel that connects the ICW with the ocean. There is a strong tidal current here, but the anchor holds the sandy bottom with a seemingly unbreakable grip. There is marsh grass all around. There is a sunset. There is the ocean not far away. There is another sailboat anchored up the creek. There are one or two fishing skiffs coming by. There is nothing else.

On the way down, because of the current, I was awake frequently checking Luna's position to make sure she hadn't moved. This time, I gave it a brief thought and slept soundly all night. Both times, Luna remained right where we set her.

4/3/14 Price Creek to Prince Creek, Waccamaw River, SC. 60 nm.

Above Price Creek on the ICW, civilization largely stops.This is the most remote, and to us, the most beautiful part of the Waterway. The channel leads through marsh grass wetlands with forests behind. There are evergreens, and the light green of the first leaves of spring. Some trees near the water have red or pink flowers.

A dolphin surfaces near our port quarter. He swims along with Luna at about 6 kts. We see his dorsal fin just below the surface. He arches up for a breath and continues to shadow us. I'm confident it's a "he." The tour guide on the sunset cruise in Sanibel told us females usually travel in groups of two to four. Males travel alone. I'm also confident our guy has excellent hearing. "Get the cam…," I say to the commander. Before I can get to the second syllable, the "mer," our friend is gone. Perhaps he is a wise old teacher, this Zen dolphin, reminding us to experience each moment in the present. To approach the world with a sense of joy and thankfulness and wonder. And to avoid the futile conceit to think we can own or relive each moment with a photograph. We always feel blessed when these creatures are around us.

Occasionally there is a house. There are a few parks, and people are fishing and launching small boats. Everyone waves as we pass. There is a narrow canal that leads to the Santee River. On the Santee, I look up from my position at the helm and see two great birds flying circles high in the sky. I am thinking, "Eagles." I imagine one of the birds going into a vertical dive and streaking to the water. He comes up with a fish in his talons. The fish, either dead with the initial strike or completely resigned to his place in the food chain, is placid in the eagle's grasp. The eagle flies away to an unseen nest high in a tree beyond the banks. Suddenly, it is all clear to me, and I think, "Yes, yes! I do believe in Santee claws."  Fortunately, my turn at the helm is done, and the commander relieves me before I am swept away in the stream of consciousness. The birds turn out to be common turkey vultures, the kind we have in Vermont. I retire to a book I am reading.

Barge and tug pass by on Santee River

Steaming up the Santee, a tugboat hauling a barge hails us on the VHF. He is on the way to Georgetown, SC, and is going to pass us. He advises us to stay to the red (right) side of the channel. He goes by, we cross another canal into the Waccamaw River, and we have the world to ourselves. After the busy waterways and anchorages, it is an unsettling, but altogether wonderful, feeling.

The Waccamaw is wide and wild, in the sense of uninhabited. We are going against an outgoing tide but have a favorable wind on our quarter, so we put up the jib the catch this. We pass Jericho Creek, where we anchored on the way south. We are headed for Prince Creek. We explored this coming south. It is a horseshoe that connects with the Waccamaw on both ends. It was a lovely detour, and is a spectacular anchorage. Maybe the best yet.

anchorage on Prince Creek, S. Carolina

The creek is deep and wooded on both sides. There is a lazy current flowing through. It smells wonderful. We find a wide spot and drop the anchor in about 20 feet of water. Because we don't want Luna to swing into the banks when the tide turns, we put out a stern anchor as well. But for two great white herons roosting in a nearby tree, we still have the world to ourselves.

4/4/14 Prince Creek to South Harbor Village Marina, Southport, NC. 61.7 nm

We have been logging the miles recently. Our goal is to reach my brother's place in Carolina Beach before the next cold front comes through in a couple days. We'll stay at his house until the north wind and cold weather subside and then continue northward. The commander has a note from a friend on Facebook. Spring seems to be happening finally in Vermont. The snow is melting. The ice is off the driveway. The air is warming. Crocuses will be blooming soon.

We pull the anchors up at our usual time, 7:15, taking a few moments to enjoy the loveliness of the creek in the early morning light. Out on the river, the day is sunny and warm. The waterway is deserted as usual. The trees seem unusually close and inviting. It's the kind of day to make your heart sing.

My heart is singing. It is that fine a morning. The birds are singing. The world is singing. In my head, James Taylor is singing:

In my mind I'm going to Carolina
Can't you see the sunshine, can't you just feel the moonshine
Ain't it just like a friend of mind, hit me from behind
Yes I'm going to Carolina in my mind  


Our usual morning routine, on travel days, is to be on the water near first light, now around 7:30. The commander takes the first shift while I make a cup of coffee. Then I take over while she has breakfast. Having finished that, she takes the first 90-minute shift while I have breakfast. Doing the breakfast dishes usually falls to me.

The Waccamaw gives way to a dug canal before petering out to the north near Myrtle Beach. Civilization begins. Large tracts of woodland are gone. Garish houses face the waterway. Some are so close together, you could nearly touch both with outstretched arms. There are empty spaces for houses yet to be. Elaborate lawns and walkways extend toward the water. There are few trees.The commander observes: "South Carolina has some of the prettiest, and the ugliest, parts of the intracoastal."

ICW on the Waccamaw River

ICW by Myrtle Beach, S.C.

And then we are in North Carolina, which feels different somehow. There are more people sitting on their docks, fishing, watching the Waterway. Someone snaps a photo of Luna as we glide by, genoa full in the quartering breeze. It's the first time I've felt like part of the scenery.

The tide is not in our favor in the beginning. We are averaging about 5 kts. The weather, so nice at the start of the day, looks like there might be rain. We are trying to make Southport, but we won't be able to get this far by dark. We start looking for marinas, as there are no anchorages along this stretch of the ICW.

We find The South Harbor Village Marina in the guidebooks. It is right on the waterway, and they have a space for us on their face dock at $1.20 per foot. There is a seafood and an Italian restaurant on site. Bill, the manager, has a Vermont connection--his girlfriend lived near Burlington and worked at the hospital there. We'll be about 25 miles from Carolina Beach, and should have an easy run there in the morning, before the front comes through later in the day.

We tell Bill we should be there between 6 and 7 pm at the rate we're going. He says he'll wait for us. But then, the current turns, and we're making up to 8 kts with genoa flying. We slow down around the inlets, but arrive at 5:30 pm. "I knew you'd be here sooner than you thought," says Bill.

Sunset at Price Creek anchorage welcomes us back.