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