Through the Chesapeake

We spent an extra day in Annapolis. Among other things, on Saturday was the 28th annual Kunta Kinte festival at the harbor. There is a statue here honoring Alex Haley who wrote the book, Roots. The festival, honoring his ancestor, brings people of color down to the harbor, where there is music, drumming, dancing, booths selling colorful African clothing, works of art, and food. I can’t resist a North Carolina-style barbecued pork platter (vinegar sauce), and the Commander chooses a dish from a vendor of African food. We marvel at the clothing.

Alex Haley telling his story in the Annapolis waterfront

People are having a good time, and busses bring families from Baltimore and other places. Conspicuously absent are any references to Black Lives Matter. This is not, outwardly, a political event.

Kunta Kinte is said to have arrived in this very harbor 250 years ago. Today, the harbor is full of boats. But I’m sure there were more people of color in the harbor 250 years ago, albeit it very unhappily so.

Boating seems like such a white activity, but appearances may deceive. There are two African American yacht clubs in the area. The Universal Sailing Club was formed in 2001 by black sailors from Baltimore, Annapolis, and Washington, D.C. The Seafarers Club of Annapolis was established in 1945 by black yacht captains who were unable to get service at local gas docks. Their club was originally housed in an old primary school for African American children in Eastport, once the poor neighbor of Annapolis. Both clubs stress boater safety, education, and a commitment to reach out to children at risk to teach boating, sailing, fishing, swimming, and water safety skills. Both clubs organize events and cruises that have gone to the Caribbean, the Bahamas, Florida, and the Great Lakes. The Seafarers have formed a Coast Guard Auxiliary squadron.

The original Seafarers were working-class people, putting a lie to the notion that one needs to be wealthy to own a boat. One of the founders of the Annapolis Seafarers noted that if he just smoked and drank a little less, he could afford to buy a boat. And so, apparently, he did. Lewis Green, the founder of the Washington, D.C. Seafarers, was a vocational arts teacher in the Washington schools. He liked to build boats, but could find no one who would allow him to dock his boat. With the help of Eleanor Roosevelt, he established the club on the Anacostia River in Washington.

My guess is that people who are connected to their boats on that intimate level, cemented by their own sweat and toil, would not attach disrespectful names to them like some we’ve seen on this cruise. My guess is there are no Windfalls, Perfect Putts, Wine Downs, Knot Yets, Knot Tonights, Aweighs of Life, among the boats in the Seafarers Club or the Universal Sailing Club. The Commander, Carol, in particular, hates puns as boat names. She wouldn’t let me call Luna Following Cee, which in retrospect was a good thing.

Eastport, by the way, once the working class suburb of Annapolis, site of the funky boat yards on Back Creek, is becoming hip. With gentrification, property values are skyrocketing. And our favorite seafood restaurant, The Boatyard, is there, among fancier places. Walking across the Spa Creek Bridge from Annapolis, we never miss a chance to visit The Boatyard for a plate of oysters, a crab cake, and a bowl of Maryland crab soup.

I’d forgotten how, whenever Luna strays from the center of the Chesapeake Bay, she is dodging crab traps. At the helm, suddenly we see a buoy floating nearby. And just as suddenly, we start to see lots more. Where there is one, there is a field of them, usually arranged in lines. You have to pick your way through to avoid running over them.


Occasionally, we hear a disheartening thud before we see the traps, and Luna’s propeller has struck another. This has happened twice already. With luck, the stricken buoy shoots out the back. Our fear is that the rope that attaches the float to the trap below will get wound in the propeller. Luckily that hasn’t happened yet, and we really keep a sharp lookout whenever we’re navigating through shallow water.

We can’t complain about the traps because we’ve been eating crabmeat whenever we can. It is a tradition in the Maryland tidewater. The Chesapeake Bay is North America’s largest estuary. Born of the Susquehanna River and washed by the salty tide of the Atlantic Ocean, the bay’s brackish water is the perfect breeding ground for shellfish, particularly crabs and oysters. Differing levels of salinity is felt to influence the favor of the meat from different parts of the bay. Our friend, Nancy, swears by crabmeat from the Chester River.

The brackish conditions are ideal, apparently, as breeders of another bay creature: the sea nettle, a relative of the Portuguese Man-o-War. These little white jelly fish deal a painful sting and are visible just below the surface in the little harbors and creeks in the middle section of the bay. They are about two to six inches in diameter and have tentacles trailing off the undersurface. They contract and relax, as to propel themselves against the current.

After Annapolis, we motor over to St. Michaels on a calm day. We’re visiting the captain’s niece and family, and of course sampling the local seafood. We drop the anchor right outside the harbor for the night. The little jelly fish are everywhere. No swimming here. We take the dinghy for a short ride into the harbor and tie up at the public dinghy dock next to the Maritime Museum. Later, we have a couple fried oyster sandwiches at the Crab Claw restaurant, also next to the dinghy dock.

In the morning, the commander starts the engine, and I pull up the anchor. As she motors out, she feels a new vibration in Luna’s drive train. The motor runs smoothly, but as soon as she puts it in gear, Luna vibrates noticeably. We motor out of the harbor, shaking our heads as the transmission is shaking our feet.

What to do? We have a 50-mile day planned. We discount the idea that we continue on and see if the problem gets better. Throwing the transmission in reverse to clear any detritus from the propeller hasn’t helped. Should we take Luna back to St. Michaels and hope a mechanic can check her out? Or, should the captain don bathing suit and mask and look at the propeller himself?

The captain does not relish swimming in these waters, having developed an aversive relationship with these little white blobs as a child. We look around carefully. There are no visible nettles out here. They are mostly in the quiet harbors. I look again. The commander suggests a long sleeved shirt and gloves. I have another look. Sighting nothing, I go down the swim ladder into the warm water of the bay. It feels good.

Sure enough, there is about a foot of small diameter line wrapped in the propeller and drive shaft. It is loose, and I can remove it easily. A remnant of one of the buoys we ran over? I climb up the ladder, and once underway, we are pleased to note that the vibration we felt is totally gone.




There was no wind as we motored out of St. Michaels, but by the time we got to the mouth of the Miles River into the bay, the wind had picked up, and we hoisted Luna’s sails. We would rather sail at 4 kts than motor at 5.5 or 6, and we turned off the engine and enjoyed the quiet. We’re sailing again!
There is a conundrum we often face, and I doubt we’re alone in this. Being goal directed, we set a destination and a time. When the conditions have a different idea, we put on the motor. Or not. We have time to sail to our destination, and we arrive in Solomon’s, Maryland, to anchor in the small harbor there near dinnertime

Sailing wing on wing before

a

 light north wind

Running before a brisk wind

The next day, we continued to ride the north wind south to Deltaville, VA. The forecast called for 10-15 kt winds and 1-2 foot seas, occasional gusts to 20 kts. The next two days, as Hurricane Maria nears the coast, the winds are forecast to be much stronger, so this is our window to move south.

We set out on a broad reach with reefed main and genoa. As we turned more directly downwind, we took in the main and ran with jib alone. Luna is flying down wind and dancing on the swells, which are three and occasionally four feet high. The commander and I take turns on the helm hourly. Steering over a choppy following sea requires constant vigilance and work at the helm, making sure Luna takes the swells astern or on her quarter and avoids turning her side to them. In that situation, the force of the wind on the sail and the lift of the wave on the beam  can knock a sailboat down on her side, the term being broaching. These waves and wind are not strong enough to do that to Luna, but without the attention, she can roll uncomfortably.

And, of course, the wind builds, and the seas build. We’re seeing 30 kts of wind by the time we pass the mouth of the Potomac River and reach the Rapahannock, where we will stop for the night. And, as we prepare to turn back toward the north bank of the river, it happens.

It always happens when the winds are strong and the seas are running, and the adrenaline is flowing. Perhaps when you are over-tired or hungry. “It” is the disaster lurking, the screw-up waiting to happen, and in this case, when we decided it was time to take in the jib, the roller furler jammed.
In the days before roller furling, when it came time to douse the jib, you loosened the halyard and dropped it onto the deck. Done and done. But having the furler, instead of dousing the jib, I fixated on why it was jammed and how I could fix it. Meanwhile, the jib was loudly flapping, the sheets were flying, the seas were breaking, and Luna was lurching. Finally, from the foredeck, where back at the helm, the Commander could not hear my yelling, I pointed to the top of the jib and made a hand motion like I’m pulling it down. And without hesitation, she locked the wheel, left the helm, unfastened the jib halyard, and then turned up into the wind so I could pull the jib onto the deck.
Mission accomplished, we motored into Norton’s Marina on a quiet creek and spent three days tied to the dock. They sent a sailmaker to repair the tear in the foot of Luna’s jib—the result of the uncontrolled flogging—and we borrowed their truck to do our laundry, shop for groceries, and visit the Deltaville Maritime Museum.

Early morning in Deltaville, VA

On our shopping expedition, we found a great farm stand for fresh produce, and a seafood wholesaler who sold us 2 dozen fresh oysters for happy hour. When we got home with all that, we found more than twice as many oysters in the box as requested, so after the oysters on the half shell appetizer, I made fried oysters for dinner. Which just goes to show, when God gives you oysters, make dinner. And these fried oysters were the best yet for me.

Fried oysters: Pat freshly shucked oysters with a paper towel to dry them, dredge in flour, dip in egg, and coat with panko bread crumbs. It’s possible to combine a few oysters to make them larger. Sauté in oil, about 2 minutes on a side, until the coating browns, but not so that the oysters are overcooked.

The Commander with fresh Virginia oysters