Garth's Words

Thursday 11-19-09

Light winds in the wrong direction and isolated showers meant a good opportunity for a day off from travels.

“Fit Community 2006-2009”, the Wilmington city welcome sign says just over the drawbridge. Any pedestrian here must traverse a sea of joggers, but apparently that will all change at the end of this year when the population goes back to eating potato chips in front of their TV‘s.

Subway lunch break along our 2-mile trek to the county library on Military Cutoff Road.
“This is the hippest library I’ve ever seen.”, Sarah observes, “It’s like a book store. I’ve never seen so many well-dressed people in a library.”
And true her observation was, not an obvious homeless person in sight among the stylish décor and wide open spaces.

We set up our laptop workshop in a cubicle of artificial plants, little oval-shaped desks and striped green chairs.
“I’ve never uploaded a photo album that fast”, Sarah says of the wifi connection, “It just did like 300 files in like 30 seconds!”

Taking full advantage of our temporary land-based existence, an early dinner was obtained from Wendy’s, along with some groceries from Food Lion.
We are now the proud owners of two 1-pound packages of cured pork side meat(bacon). The epiphany hit me upon seeing a cardboard display of the cured products, ‘Hey! This is how we can keep meat on board!’. Cured meats have a shelf-life of a year or more. They’re all quite salty but meat is meat is far as I’m concerned when living on a sailboat.
Eggs just so happen to usually last quite a while out of the fridge also, so this means bacon and eggs are now a breakfast reality!
Someday we hope to have a boat big enough to raise cattle on, but for now cured meats will have to do.

Friday 11-20-09:

That bacon and eggs breakfast……it happened this morning!

Me in the cockpit doing the “girl’s work”, cooking and cleaning, Sarah lifting the muddy anchor alone, raising the mainsail. “I just want to practice doing it myself”, she objects as I emerge to offer assistance. Maybe she is planning on running away with the boat.

Cooking followed by hours of cleaning. “Sarah, can you finish the rest? Can you pump out the bilge?”.
She obliges.

I take the helm in Myrtle Grove Sound just before the turn into Snows Cut, a narrow 2-mile channel passing under the Carolina Bridge.
The bridge lingers at the same close distance, the outflowing tidal current being so strong as to bring Gonzo’s progress to a standstill.
A turn of the throttle. Now crawling along at the speed of a tick. A larger turn of the throttle, now crawling along at turtle speed. More throttle, ¾ of the way to full power and only two miles per hour.
Gonzo ever-so-slowly passes the bridge, passes the fishermen who have climbed down the steeply eroded 20-foot banks to cast their poles.

At the southern end of Snows Cut runs the Cape Fear River, a commercial shipping route. Buoys swing madly at the intersection, in converging currents that don’t want Gonzo on a straight path.
Spin the helm this way, that. Water sloshing past the hull even when only still moving at the speed of an aging zoo goose.

A hundred yards into the Cape Fear River makes all the difference, now three miles per hour in favorable current AND wind.
I press the motor kill switch!
We’re sailing!

A floating pipe extends across half the marked channel, leading from a team of dredging barges rafted together. So that’s how they dredge! They pump the muck off the bottom. But what a time consuming operation! It must be a never ending process in an area with such swift tidal currents, all the accumulating sediment slowly pumped away through a pipe less than 2 feet in diameter.

Ferries, commercial and non-commercial,  pass back and fourth from a large ferry dock. A tanker arrives to a tanker dock outside an industrial complex.
Wind dies but no need to start the motor. Still moving along with the current at 3 miles per hour. A flock of 20 pelicans glides inches over the water’s surface in a v-shape formation.

The ICW turns off to starboard, into a channel separating Oak Island from the rest of North Carolina. That intersection of waters takes everything the engine has, as the North Atlantic Ocean attempts to suck Gonzo out through the mouth of Cape Fear River. Full power against the raging masses of molecules. Using the water’s surface as a reference point, one would have thought Gonzo was a speedboat. But using land as a reference point, the speed was less than two miles per hour. Five less horsepower and we would have been out in the ocean waiting for the tide to turn.

Peaceful waters again. The Skipper Bob Guidebook mentions that a good anchorage is located just two miles away, a dredged channel just past marker “R8”. Gotta love Skipper Bob. The recommended channel contains an anchorage basin where a dozen other sailboats already lie, surrounded by multiple dinghy landing possibilities.

Before getting some land time, though, the mainsail needs attention. Sarah spends an hour mending a 4-inch split in a seam near the sail’s top.  Seeing her at work motivates me to continue polishing the fiberglass in the cockpit, a job I started some days ago at a very leisurely pace.

We land the dingy on the sandy banks of a public park. A very short walk from there sits the “village” of Southport, which appears to be an attempt at a pre-manufactured town. A molding sign points to the direction of the “village’s” various attractions, including “chapel”, “marina”, “restaurant” and “store”. All these establishments sit within 100 yards from each other on the same road, all of the same exterior design and all appearing to be built within the last decade.

The “village” has condominium housing for a hundred or so families, but nobody’s home. Just a few lone cars sit in the parking lots, the store is closed, and not a sole present outdoors except for a groundskeeper in a golf cart. The restaurant however is open, but appears to have few, if any, customers.

Back at the park, our dinghy is discovered to have been moved some feet, the oars tossed into the sand. Those meddling kids! Good thing it was tief to tree roots or they may have just pushed it right out into the water.

One more task to do aboard Gonzo before retiring to the cabin, mount a solar yard light to the bow. This is accomplished with garbage sack ties but the result is acceptable. We had been hanging the lights out at night, which is not how they are designed to repel water. The result was that the circuit boards corroded and at least one of them may be dead.

One last peek out the hatch before bed revealed that Gonzo had drug considerably towards other boats, requiring us to raise the anchor and reset it further up the creek. But, holding was terrible everywhere. The typical method to get an anchor to hold is to put the engine in reverse before all the slack is out of the line. The full weight of the boat then snaps the line tight, driving the anchor deep into the mud. This method however had no effect tonight, simply dragging the anchor through the mud.

No other options, we places ourselves far away from any other boats

In other news, Sarah and I are developing a new plan……

Instead of heading off to the Bahamas after reaching Florida, we are instead going to seek out a large near-derelict sailboat to begin working on. Such sailboats sell for little or nothing, often given away free just so the owner doesn’t have to pay disposal costs. We will look for something in the range of 40-50 feet, preferably one propped up on boat stands at a boatyard. The beginning phases of the project just couldn’t be done with the boat in the water, at least not without serious risk of sinking.
And the boat will have to be located near a metropolitan area to ensure that temp work will be regularly available. Then for some time our lives will be cycles of – work a bit for the boat, work a bit on the boat.
Once the boat is in the water with a working engine we’ll have more flexibility. Once the boat is finished then we’ll have GLOBAL flexibility.
Hopefully this is the project that truly sets us free, resulting in knowledge, tools and equipment that can be utilized to make money working on boats wherever we go. When we are anchored off the coast of China and some rich Americans arrive desperately needing to mend a torn sail……Sarah and I will be there to help…..for $1000. Our reference will be our own gleaming boat, sails made by Sarah on the sewing machine down in the cabin.
(so yeah, that’s just a dream really. The cost is prohibitive. Not impossible, but like we’ve recently established……we’re through with working the kind of hours required to complete such a project. And especially, we’re through with trying to own any kind of valuable property.)

Saturday 11-21-09

So I wrote this once and the computer shut itself down automatically “to install updates” before I was finished, resulting in a loss of everything typed. I just want a SIMPLER operating system, one in which I can run software in a CONTROLLED environment. Windows and its software is getting out of hand, always thinking it knows what you want. What especially irks Sarah and me is Microsoft Word with its automatic formatting and respelling. Sure, those “features” can probably all be turned off, but they shouldn’t be automatically turned on in the first place! I’m too familiar with PC’s to bother switching to anything else, but I think it’s time to look at other operating systems!

Anyway, about today…..

Sixty degrees and cloudy is not exactly comfortable on the water.

Passed ICW marker three-hundred-and-something.

Passed through a floating bridge, basically a barge that’s moved in and out of place on a cable system.

A powerboat intentionally grazed Gonzo just to put us through a huge wake. I turned away as the boat approached, yet it turned towards me. I turned away further and so did it. Maybe I should keep a water balloon filled with ink in the cockpit just for such occasions.

“Hey, you’re dragging a buoy”, a man yells from a tiny boat full of fishermen. The engine comes to a sudden halt just at that same moment, the line from a crab pot wound tightly around the propeller several times. Tilting the engine up to its highest level, I was able to lay over top it and untangle the line, a five-minute process that left me with an uncomfortable blood-rush to the head.

Anchored a half-mile up the Calabash River at the last channel marker, where the river was just 50 feet wide. On one side of Gonzo was a muddy marsh, on the other side a rotting dock next to a ugly building. A sign atop the building read “Internet Café and Sweepstakes”.

Using the dinghy, we placed our second anchor over in the marsh so Gonzo’s aft section wouldn’t drift out into the middle of the river. We landed the dinghy on a crooked floating fiberglass dock, at low tide between big dirty wooden fishing vessels. Thousands of jagged black shells covered the pilings. Don’t know what those shells are, but there everywhere in this region, dinghy killers.

A set of floating stairs creaks under our weight as we ascend up to the fixed docks. A marina is atop, just consisting of two tiny buildings displaying a plethora of hand painted advertisements. Not a single person present in either building, we enter the waterfront outskirts of the town, Calabash, North Carolina.

Half a dozen big seafood restaurants dominate the muddy shoreline. A walk up the hill into downtown reveals a dozen more such establishments. Calabash is apparently the happening place when it comes to eating seafood. It’s normal for a fishing community to have some seafood restaurants, but Calabash takes it to the extreme.

We unsuccessfully seek out a liquor store, only taking from the town our memories and the digital images stored within our cameras.

Random thought:
Imagine a universe made up of numbers instead of atoms. Say hydrogen is number “1” and oxygen is number “2”, for example. The numbers are black in color while empty space is white. A human being, mostly consisting of hydrogen and oxygen, would look like an erect blob of “1”’s and “2”’s gliding through the white landscape cluttered with innumerable other numbers.

For example, a photo taken in such a universe could look like this:

3476736437412483773465745
5938473945121158564875648
3948573985 21298795345587
593847593874117897979879

Notice the “1”’s and “2”’s in the middle and all the other digits to the edges. You are looking at a photo of a person’s face, with the surrounding numbers being the elements in the air surrounding their head.

So again, you suddenly find yourself in this universe. After some moments of shock you begin moving around, curiously poking and prodding at the numbers nearest to you. You notice that sometimes a single swat of your hand through the numbers can create a wave of changing numbers all around.

Thinking it’s some fabulous dream, you run around gleefully, swatting and kicking wildly, creating a huge storm of the black numbers flying all around.

You just destroyed the World Trace Center in universe XJ47.

……………………………….
Our society spends a great deal of time looking for new life out in the cosmos, but could it also exists right under our noses, in forms so strange that nobody has ever noticed.

Atoms are by no means the smallest unit of matter, if there even is such a thing.

Or could such new life even exist on the scale of the naked eye?
Is instinct really as simple and clear cut as we’d like to think. Ants for example, lets explain in greater detail the “instinct” that makes them build elaborate colonies numbering in the millions of individuals.

This concludes Random Thought.

Sunday: 11-22-09
SOUTH CAROLINA!
Yes, it’s true, as of early this morning. North Carolina is done, the second longest coastline we’ll traverse on this trip. Georgia and South Carolina should be completed within another two weeks, then will begin the biggest coastline of all, Florida.
Mid-day’s journey took us through Myrtle Beach, the most prosperous stretch of waterside properties yet seen. Entire canal-based HOA communities, mansions with sprawling indoor tennis courts and backyard amphitheatres.
AND NOT A SINGLE PERSON USING ANY OF IT!
Just the cost of a couple ornamental bricks from any one of these structures could probably buy a month’s worth of rice for a starving family.

The revolution has already begun, as every historian has always known it would. Step two will take place in an unforgivably severe and swift manner, leaving anyone unprepared fighting for basic survival. Be ready today. Be ready a decade from now. Don’t ever let “positive economic data” cause you to let your guard down. Such an oversight could have life-shattering consequences.

But on the bright side, if the world shift ends well then humanity could finally become a SUSTAINABLE society. Imagine, for example, the defense budget of every country transferred to a general fund managed by a coalition of the world’s biggest aid agencies, the world’s most prominent scientists and engineers. Trillions upon trillions of dollars going such into a fund every year, just imagine.
We can only hope that the world shift ends this way and not with splitting atoms to wipe each other out.

After many days of straight and narrow canals populated by houses, we are finally back to the winding “wilderness”, having this afternoon entered the rural Waccamaw River portion of the ICW. Some of the river’s major turns have been detoured with short canals. We anchored at such a bend tonight, hiding behind the island created by the canal. Three-hundred and sixty degrees of thick leafless forest, the only sign of civilization anywhere being a small wooden dock hundreds of feet away.

On the backside of the island was a longtime-derelict sailboat, barely even recognizable. This, of course, we had to go check out. The boat appeared to have been blown into the trees and crushed during a severe windstorm or hurricane, the starboard side of the hull and deck ripped away. Although the vessel appears to have been abandoned for decades, a bright orange “South Carolina Department of Natural Resources Investigations Department” sign fasted to aft portion of the hull is dated April ninth of this year.

Monday: 11-16-09

Tightened Gonzo’s shrouds this morning, which seemed to have slightly loosened over the past two weeks. (Shrouds are the steel cables that run from the middle and top of the mast down to both sides of the deck.) Initially investigating the shrouds yesterday, I’d been surprised to notice how floppy the mast’s middle section is when shaken front-to-back from the base. Although, the design of the boats appears to allow for such flexibility, because the shrouds connected to the mast’s center only prohibit side-to-side floppiness. Front-to-back floppiness is prohibited at the mast’s top by the mainstay and forestay, the steel cables that run to the bow and stern. This is probably too much bland information, but it was surprising to notice for the first time that the mast flops.

Passed underneath the fixed bridge at Beaufort, entered Bogue Sound, a long strip of water between the North Carolina mainland and its outer banks. Traversing the Sound was an all-day affair in beautiful 75-degree sunny weather, hindered only briefly by a string of seaweed that became entangled in the propeller. That slight hindrance was easily removed by tilting the engine up, sitting atop it, and reaching back to pull the weed off

Early afternoon, encountered the sailboat Christine stuck on an unmarked shoal within the marked channel. Two markers not on our chart were placed in the center of the channel there, a red and a green floating buoy. The Bogue Inlet channel intersected with the ICW at that point, so it was unclear whether these uncharted buoys in the channel were an alteration to the ICW channel or part of the Bogue Inlet channel.

A man whistled and yelled from a passing motorboat, noticing our confusion, “FOLLOW THOSE MARKERS!”
We turned back around to inspect the chart further, unsure if the yelling man had maybe just thought we were trying to enter the Inlet Channel. The unmarked buoys appeared to be located in water charted less than two feet, so we decided the best course of action would be just to follow the charted ICW markers.

A Coast Guard vessel was positioned near the stuck sailboat Christine, which approached Gonzo immediately after we turned back around.
“FOLLOW THOSE MARKERS!”, a man yelled from aboard after we had ignored the first buoy.
So there we had our answer to this mystery. The strong tidal currents from the Bogue Inlet must have shoaled the marked ICW channel here, hence the temporary buoys being put into place.
Passing by the shoaled sailboat, we’d planned on offering assistance till noticing that two Coast Guarders were already aboard.
Any boat of over 2-foot draft must be very careful in the Bogue Sound, shallow enough to walk across in most areas outside of the ICW channel.

Late afternoon, anchor next to the town of Swansboro at the White Oak River, near the town’s 12-foot fixed bridge. The strong outflowing current creates a perpetual running water sound against the sides of Gonzo’s hull. She swings back and fourth on the anchor, line creaking under pressure, as if anchored in windy conditions. We watch our position closely for some time, knowing that if the anchor drags when the tide switches, Gonzo would most likely be demisted under the bridge.

Holding fine. Inflate dinghy. Row ashore to a tiny park at the base of the bridge.
Downtown Swansboro has sold out, its main street consisting almost entirely of just gift shops and restaurants. Nothing left genuine to see there, we move outwards to the “suburban sprawl”. A young family sells black lab puppies out of a Piggly Wiggly supermarket parking lot. A section of highway is nearly washed away, probably a result of the recent deluge, marked off with orange cones and flashing arrows where a sinkhole has formed. There is a Hardees near the sinkhole. Big Hardee sandwiches are $2.29. Hardees has stolen the Big Mac.

The locals definitely don’t hang out downtown, that much was obvious, but where were they hiding? A couple inquiries of random citizens led us across just across the bridge to the Swansboro Yacht Club, the best place to find a cheap drink according to a young man out walking his dog.
And dog-walker couldn’t have been more right, $1.25 drafts in just the kind of local dive bar we’d been looking for. Cement floors, a lone pretzel spinning under bright lights behind glass, several flies trapped inside, fighting with one another.
“Imagine if there was a piece of food a thousand times bigger than you. There are only two other people around to eat it but you still want to fight them.”, Sarah ponders.
“Yeah, that’s like the Nobel Prize-winning idea that the guy came up with at a bar in the movie ‘A Beautiful Mind‘. Maybe it could win you a Nobel Prize.”, I reply.

Despite the disturbing pretzel and hard floors, the bar has a very warm feel to it. The lighting is of a pleasant glow and the building is right on the water with a houseboat docked at the backdoor.
“Yeah, that houseboat is stuck here because the water’s too high to get it under the bridge right now”, a fellow bar patron says, having noticed us walking over by Hardees earlier, “The water used to be 8 feet behind the bar but has shoaled up to about a foot since they built that bridge.”

Beers are 50 cents on Wednesday but how much will the pretzel be?

A small mammalian head poked out of the water repeatedly as we boarded the dinghy, just feet away in the darkness under the bridge, emitting a soft squeaking sound each time. Each thrust of the head was rapid, appearing and disappearing in a single splash, just enough time to peek. What this odd creatures was, we have no idea.

Tuesday: 11-17-09

“Live Firing Range”, the sign reads, “Do not proceed if light is flashing”. A brightly-colored guard tower lurks in the woods nearby, appearing empty of any militant inhabitants.

Lights not flashing, Gonzo slowly floats past. A military patrol boats speeds by moments later, followed closely by a sleek black helicopter roaring just feet above mast.
As if we hadn’t already been monitored closely enough, a low-flying airplane appears as the helicopter grazes the mast a second time.

Then silence. Were the sign, boats and aircraft not present, one would think they were just cruising though yet another swampy uninhabited section of the ICW.
But there apparently are mechanisms of mass murder hidden out in that swamp somewhere.
Rapid fire begins the moment we pass the “Live Firing Range” sign at the base’s other end, flashing lights now flashing. Not just machine guns but 100-round-per-second super machine guns.

The war continues as we sit stuck by the flashing sign for 30 minutes, waiting for the Onslow Beach swing bridge to open. Operated by the Marine Corps, the bridge staff is far less pleasant than other previous bridges.
“You’re not coming through here with that sail up”, a curt skinhead voice tells Gonzo over the radio, as if doing so with a very light wind in the correct direction would have posed any problem.

We run Gonzo up onto shoals twice in the afternoon, fighting very brisk tidal currents. I would never take a heavy fixed keel boat through the ICW. Not only is Gonzo’s swing keel and light weight an advantage here, but also her pivoting outboard engine. Sailboats with in inboard engines steer with the rudder alone(unless the have side thrusters), but Gonzo has the added steering capability of pivoting the engine. And that’s exactly how we escape a shoal, just like one would in a car, back and fourth. Each time we wallow ourselves right back out of the mud that we’d wallowed into.

Nighttime anchorage was less than perfect. Tiny Goose Bay turned out to be too shallow, hitting bottom just feet within, and there was nothing any better within many miles. The solution was anchoring near a bridge immediately north of Goose Bay where the channel was a bit wider. I motored towards the edge until the tip of the keel touched the mud, then Sarah threw down the anchor.

The water level soon dropped a few inches, leaving the keel entirely in the mud. And of course just one more big motorboat had to speed by before dark, creating a huge wake that banged the keel against the hull several times. Remember, Gonzo’s keel can be raised, so when it sits on the bottom and the water level lowers, it starts rising up into its shaft. This method of anchoring is not good in any occurrence of waves or wakes, as the banging of a two-ton keel against fiberglass can’t be good.

Surprise dinner. Fresh shrimp! The captain of a tiny aging shrimp boat pulls up alongside us.
“What ya’ havin’ for dinner’”, he asks.
“I don’t know. Whatcha got?”, I reply.
“I was gonna give you some shrimp.”
“Hell yeah!”
“Ya’ got a container?”

I hand over a 1-gallon plastic tub, which the man scoops into a cooler, completely filling with his nice-sized catch.
“You know how to take the heads off?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, ya’ll have fun on your trip.”

“I love it when random things happen”, Sarah says as I put the entire container of still-twitching shrimps to boil on the Coleman stove, seasoned with garlic powder.
An hour-long dinner served with rum. Nothing to complain about.

Wednesday: 11-18-09

Not wanting any early morning wakes to bang the keel around again, I rose with first light, fighting Gonzo out of the mud, continuing the journey south down the ICW an hour before the sun.

Two more swing bridges passed under today, both operated by douchebags. Whatever happened to the jolly old bridge guys from the north? Every bridge up there was pleasant and every bridge down here is unpleasant. Replies on the radio such as;
“Anybody out there can just wait till the next scheduled opening.”
And;
“I only open once per hour. It’s been like that for 12 years.”
And;
“You’re not going through THIS bridge with those sails up.”

The operator of the Wrightsville Beach bridge was especially hostile as a swarm of southbound sailboats and trawlers awaited passing. Having overheard the operator’s repeated radio sarcasms toward various boats, the captain of a trawler refused to respond.
“Trawler closest to the bridge. What is the name of your vessel?”, the bridge asked several times as the young captain sat at the helm listening to the calls just a few feet from Gonzo.

Immediately on the other side of the bridge lies a city of marinas consisting of hundreds of boats. We make an easterly turn there, down what’s known as Mott’s Channel, towards Wrightsville Beach, passing hundreds more “little” boats and a few costing enough to feed the population of a small country.
Distination; SeaPath marina, where a voice on the phone had earlier assured that showers would be included with a gas tank refill. Even showers may not justify paying $3.55 for gas($1.00 more per gallon than a gas station), but we only filled one tank. So, the showers essentially cost $2.50 each, not a very good deal considering the water got cold in 10 minutes.

Some familiar faces on the SeaPath docks, the Australian occupants of the sailboat “Onda”, which had been docked with Gonzo in Elizabeth City. The Aussies bought the boat in the US and plan on sailing it back to Australia over the winter, via the Panama Canal. Passage through the canal will cost them $1500, which has been prepaid using an agent.

Light rain is falling as we anchor Gonzo just past the marina, in a man-made cove surrounded by condos and large homes, all of which have their own private docks. A convenient dinghy landing area sits on the edge of an upscale neighborhood, a tiny public park with a staircase leading down into the water. Algae growth on the stairs is icy slippery and the dinghy trembles in fear of razorish shells attached to the rocky shoreline.

Then we find ourselves in the strange neverland of the neighborhood; huge luxurious homes, landscaping so lush as to form a canopy over the streets, but no people, not even in a car. Only several blocks later does a human finally appear, a young child at play.

Across a bridge in the setting sun, rainbow to the north, we traverse a touristized strip of land to the raging ocean on the other side. Surfers out in mass to ride the crashing waves. The waters are too intimidating for non-surfers, not another casual beachgoer in sight.

More rain. Retreat to small grocery store. Purchase six-pack of Natural Light, Ballpark Franks, Pall Mall smokes. Rain ceases through the warm night. All hot dogs consumed, so many that two beers still remain.

Thursday 11-12-09

Had to get off the water today! Living on a little boat quickly becomes no fun when stuck in the cabin over 24 hours. High-speed torrents of rain rarely ceasing, the wind had pushed the hull so hard at times overnight as to nearly roll me over in bed. We have grown surprisingly adept at sleeping in such conditions, although with each brief awakening I make sure that the creaking of the anchor rope can still be heard. Creaking means tension and tension means the anchor is still attached and firmly stuck in mud. And with each trip to the bathroom I regularly stick my head a couple inches out the forward hatch to make sure no serious dragging is taking place.

Thirty minutes of hand pumping the bilge this morning, which had been almost perfectly dry 24-hours ago. Nearly 15 gallons of water in such a short time! Where so much is getting in I just can’t imagine.

Gonzo got a free power-washing overnight and all else was well, except for the fact that we were about to be stuck in a little sailboat cabin for the second straight day, wind and rain not forecast to cease till overnight at the earliest! Only one thing to do, brave the elements in our little yellow kayak.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?”, Sarah asks as the wind forcefully propels the kayak into her while were untying it from the lifelines.
“We have to do something!”, I reply over mother nature’s howls, and Sarah doesn’t hesitate to continue.

Into the kayak goes the trash, Sarah’s purse and the backpack containing the computers, everything fragile wrapped in multiple plastic bags. Waves cover Sarah in salt spray as she boards first, tightly wrapped up in her rain gear. A five minute gap in wind gusts comes at the most convenient of times, allowing us to get halfway to shore against 10 knot winds rather than 20 knot winds. The second half of the row continues at a crawl, rain combining with salt spray to drench parts of me even through the rain gear.

And success! Less than 15 minutes later the dinghy is tied to a floating dock adjacent to the public boat ramp. And we are in town! In Belhaven, great flooded city on the banks of the Pantego. Parts of nearly every street lie submerged in up to a foot of water, ankle deep being the norm. Police cars in the station parking lot sit submerged above the base of their wheel rims. Orange rubber road construction barrels sit in the center of the most severely flooded downtown street, directly in front of city hall.

We enter a little downtown restaurant called O’neils, looking just as it must have in 1950, walls covered in Rotary Club memorabilia, chessboard-checkered tile floors.
“It’s gonna be windy if you sit there by the door”, a skinny white-haired Caucasian female warns as she brushes water out the front door.
We don’t heed the warning but are only accosted by wind when the occasional 30mph gust blows the front doors open.

Sarah orders the “Hungry Man’s Breakfast”, as do I, both with coffee, consumed under the side-eyeing of curious hungry locals also enjoying their breakfasts. Our waitress was an attractive six-foot-tall African American girl of no more than 18 years with the humblest of Southern Bell accents that one can imagine. I’d somehow come to think that such accents and ultra-politeness now only exist in fictional movies, but that aint’ true atall’.

After a long breakfast sitting we make our way two more blocks down Main Street to the public library. One could walk right past the building without knowing it, as the construction mimics the neighborhood’s historic homes. Inside however are all the amenities of a modern public library, in a very comfortable setting even further enhanced by very friendly staff. And the wifi……A++.

Trees bend outside ominously in near-tropical storm force gusts as we spend hours inside the wonderful shelter. Fellow sailors Ben and Theresa show up in the afternoon, inviting us to their friend’s boat “Sabatical” later for a potluck dinner.

Rain has turned to fine mist by the library’s 5:30 closing time. Winds till raging. We make an unsuccessful attempt to purchase package liquor from a small bar with bare plywood floors. The bartender directs us to a liquor store 2 miles away. Not worth it in this weather. Return to boat ramp instead.

The first few scans of the nearly-black watery horizon reveal no sign of Gonzo! Then her tiny aft light briefly flickers into view, at least 600 feet away in the middle of the creek! There had been 20 feet of chain and 40 feet of line on the anchor, but still apparently not enough to withstand the afternoon gusts that had approached 40mph. Luckily, once again luckily, the path of her dragging had been open water. She must have drug right on across the 3-foot shoal at the creek’s very center.

We prepare our portion of the potluck while reading over 280 comments I’d copied earlier from the New Orleans newspaper’s online version of the March police beating article. Till checking the article today, we’d had no idea of the wide public response, ranging from praise for the police to calls for riots. As for the comments directed specifically at Sarah and me, they range from calling us heroes to physical threats. One of the more direct threats appears to have been deleted by site moderators. Other posts reference the threat but it no longer appears to exist. These comments reveal a sad truth about humanity. It’s no surprise that the Nazi’s were able to dupe millions of otherwise-innocent citizens to murder. People so easily let themselves become tools.

Chad from his boat Sabbatical arrives to pick us up in his dinghy at 7:30, wind again howling with such fierceness that we fear for Gonzo’s safety in our absence. The five minute ride over to Sabbatical is a non-stop thrill ride of head on wind, waves and salt spray. This is some seriously nasty stuff.

Inside the clean, brightly-lit shelter of 36-foot Sabbatical is Chad’s significant other, Nicole, seated at the table alongside Ben and Teresa. This makes for 3 26-year olds(Sarah, Chad, Nicole), and two 31-year-olds(me and Teresa). Like Theresa, Chad and Nicole are also “retired” teachers from the Northeast.

Each couple had made one contribution to the meal, with the finest presentation being Nicole’s baked dish of chicken, potatoes and onions, her grandmother’s recipe. My masterpiece was pasta with chicken, alfredo and green beans. Ben made a curry vegetable dish and Teresa prepared the rice for that dish. Ben split a bottle of wine among everyone and there was more than enough food to go around. Very nice evening in very miserable weather.

“You’re still here Gonzo!”, Sarah says rubbing the hull later, echoing my sentiments exactly. Next time such weather rolls around Gonzo will have to be in a smaller body of water, even if that body is in the middle of nowhere. This is no way to be unless the sails are up!

Friday 11-13-09 – River Forest Manor, Escape from Belhaven

Day three of thrashing winds, yet the rains have finally subsided to isolated showers as the remnants of Hurricane/Tropical Storm Ida move further up the Atlantic Coast. Eight inches of rain fell in Norfolk, an amount that was probably about equal to what fell in Belhaven, North Carolina.

River Forest Marina, on the southeast corner of town, doesn’t answer repeated phone calls. Then strangely, a voice there responds to a channel 16 radio call in less than 1 second, “This is River Forest. Confirm and switch to six eight.”

The wind attempts to blow us off deck as we make preparation to raise the anchor. The inflatable kayak put up such a fight that it had to be put down, deflated that is, and tied flat under the boom. The anchor comes up mangled in two places. One of its two teeth and the rod that the chain attaches to are sharply bent, probably a result of the 40mph gusts that had drug Gonzo over the shoals yesterday. That was some serious weather, with wind speeds just off the coast said to have been over 60.

A young man in an orange shirt, the voice from the radio, is on hand at River Forest Marina to assist with docking. “There’s a $15 day usage fee for the facilities”, he says, “It includes the golf carts. You can drive them into town if you need anything.”

Fifteen dollars would have been high for just showers and water, but the golf cart seals the deal. And there’s another perk, exploration of the century old mansion on the marina grounds. This whole town is straight out of a horror movie(in a good way), but River Forest Manor is above and beyond that.

It’s what appears to be a bed and breakfast/banquet hall, a massive old structure built in a style similar to that of the White House. Located in the home’s front room is the front desk, which doubles as the marina office. Behind the counter solemnly stands an attractive young woman who peers out from underneath several layers of white makeup. She stands silently among the century-old furniture, apparently all alone in spooky old labyrinth.

“So does this place ever freak you out when you’re here by yourself?”, I ask.
“No, I grew up here, so not really, but lots of people have said they saw things.”
“You grew up in the house?”
“Well, no, but my grandma lived here.”

The model-version Bridge of Frankenstein takes the $15. Sarah and I find the showers in an aging 2-story square building at the head of the docks, surrounded by a muddy temporary moat. Behind doors of flaking paint, under the strong odor of sulfur, we each get our own big private shower room. A flickering florescent light dimly illuminates the room’s spacious dirty interior. I nimbly plug a partially melted electric heater cord into a partially melted socket above the sink.
The source of the sulfur smell is the water, which remains hot less than 15 minutes. River Forest Marina is weird! And I love it!

Same scene in the tiny laundry building located between the house and showers. Machine tops not cleared of debris in ages. Enough leftover soap atop each one to do an entire load of laundry if one wished to do so. Half of the machines display “Out of Order” signs.

Laundry underway, it’s time for the golf cart, but the house is empty. Nobody at the front desk, nobody anywhere, just two old TV’s stationed to the weather channel. It’s our opportunity to take 100 photos each of the eerie old place, which must look just as it did when Grandma lived here as a young woman. Towering grandfather clocks, exquisite hard-wood mantles, faded paintings. To any director looking for the perfect place to film the next haunted-house horror movie, River Forest Manor is the place, and surrounded by a whole historic town that’s slowly peeling away one paint chip at a time.

Orange-shirt-guy and white-makeup-girl are eventually discovered far back in a big commercial kitchen. Orange-shirt authorizes golf cart privileges, Sarah and I zoom off at golfing speeds through the still-waterlogged streets of Belhaven. Some streets must be bypassed, just too deep for our shallow little vehicle.
All of our stops are at a shopping center some two miles away, the last stretch of which is a highway not very well suited for golf carts, but this a golf-cart-legal town so our activities raise no eyebrows or draw no honks.

First stop is a new handle of rum! Then Food Lion then an automotive store then Hardees then home. Another couple is back at the Manor awaiting their turn on the golf cart. Hammer the anchor back into shape. Fill Gonzo’s water tank. Free ourselves of Belhaven once and for all!

Escape through the town’s storm wall, reenter the Pungo River three days after having taken refuge from its waters. Getting late so no too much of an escape, though. We anchor for the night in a little cove just north of the town, still within ominous view of the Manor. The winds had still been raging out on the open water, but our little cove offers the first calm waters in three days.

I install a new light above the v-berth, an LED “racing” light purchased earlier from the automotive store, 2 for $20. That anybody would actually buy one of these things and mount it on their bumper is a joke, but they are quite a nice alternative to the $50-a-piece marine version, and very similar except that the housing is fake chrome instead of real chrome. The lamp pivots out to illuminate the cabin and pivots in to illuminate the v-berth.

We enjoy BBQ potato chips with rum and coke under our new soft white glow.

Saturday 11-14-09

Friday the 13th came a day early. Gonzo passed through a subspace wormhole today instead. We were sailing down the Pungo River on 10 knots of wind when suddenly finding ourselves in the huge body of water known as Pamlico Sound, separated from the Atlantic ocean only by a thin ribbon of land that must stretch for 100 miles.

Our destination had been the Pamlico River, on the south side of which the Intercoastal Waterway continues. Thinking that would be easy to find, we had been navigating on sight alone, paying most of our attention to comparing the passing landmasses to those on the chart.

‘Something isn’t right about this’, I finally thought to myself, noticing the increasing wave heights and wide open space. A quick check of the GPS confirmed it, the destination having been overshot by nearly 10 miles, our current location being 2 miles into the Pamlico Sound. As if that was not annoying enough, our toilet malfunctioned at this time, releasing a small but disgusting amount of sewage into the bilge. Actually it wasn’t a malfunction of the toilet but of a person using it. Anyway, it was gross.

Rather than backstepping ten miles we choose a course back to the ICW through the Sound, getting ourselves into a lot more time spent and annoyance experienced than we’d bargained for. Winds increased to 15 knots, knocking the waves up to 3 or 4 feet, and the most direct route was blocked by a military prohibited area and shoals that extended out for miles.

“Danger Bombing Range”, the signs said for hours as we skirted the edge of the prohibited zone, everything constantly wet from explosions of salt spray as waves slammed Gonzo’s bow and starboard side. This just wasn’t the kind of calm day we’d planned on, further enhanced by damaged and missing markers. Our confusion and annoyance grew with each passing inconsistency. Marker “WR2” was miles from where it should have been, a red-lighted buoy that had apparently drug out of place during the storm. The signs marking the perimeter of the bombing range were shown on the chart to be identified by letters, but only one of the dozen-or-so passed actually had a letter, and some were just bare posts with no signs at all.

We moved for hours in what we knew to be the general right direction, constantly being beaten by the weather and only passing one other boat all day. Sometime mid-day we were finally able to confirm our location exactly with a marker on a piling. Pilings can’t get drug across the bottom, so a marker on a piling is a sure thing unless somebody has deliberately played some mean practical joke(or your chart is old and the number on the marker has changed).

Late afternoon and the spacious Neuse River finally comes into view, a tributary of which is our reentry point to the ICW. But not enough time to reach that reentry point today, instead anchoring in Broad Creek, a tributary on the west side of the Neuse River.

I think now that Sarah and I both have the desire to sail big bodies of water in heavy weather for no reason out of our systems. Gozno can handle it but we can’t. Just too much thrashing, beating and concentration required. Even with an autopilot system, Gonzo would never be a comfortable boat in such conditions. From now on we’re going to have to have a very good reason for putting ourselves through such discomfort.

Sunday 11-15-09 Beaufort, NC

A school of dolphins frolicked about Broad Creek this morning as we pulled the anchor, indifferent to us but passing within 20 feet as they headed back out towards the Neuse River.

Barely any wind for sailing, but sunny and 70 degrees! Back into the ICW channel by midday, at Adams Creek, which quickly narrows into the Adams Creek Canal. The 10-or-so-mile canal is a popular place for residential real estate development, lots of brightly-colored  homes built in the southern waterfront style. A few palm trees have even started to appear at this relatively northern longitude, transplanted palm trees that surely need replacing after every cold winter.

The Adams Creek Canal intersects with the coastline at the city of Beaufort, the greatest center of civilization we’ve seen since Norfolk. But we didn’t enter the city tonight, instead anchoring out in the maze of marshes and little islands just to the east of it. A network of marked channels zig-zags about these marshes, where the average depth is less than 4 feet. Many a boater has surely ruined their day by assuming that the wide open watery spaces were deep enough for their vessels. Even the widest bodies of water here are pocked with frequent occurrences of half-inch water all the way to their centers.

Given the depths, our options for anchorage were quite limited, with the only decent spot I could find on the charts being a narrow strip of deep water between what’s known as Newport Marshes and the state port terminal. That location was removed from any marked channels by a few hundred feet but small pleasure fishing boats still regularly passed by until an hour after dark.

Not wanting some speeding little vessel to cut Gonzo and us in half, I put all the solar yard lights up on deck. The most common thing to do in anchorages with night traffic is to turn on the anchor light, the light at the top of the mast, but Gonzo’s anchor light is an incandescent that drains the battery.

I’ve discovered that replacing the AA rechargeable batteries in the solar lights with regular AA batteries gives the lights a much longer life. Using the rechargeables, the lights will usually run out of juice after 4 hours or so, but the regular batteries have so far lasted completely through every night for the past two weeks. My only concern is that the charging will eventually make them explode. However, the cheap solar charging device is of very low power, probably not enough to cause a problem. I never realized non-rechargeables would take any charging at all, but apparently they do.

Saturday: 11-7-09 Escape from the Dismal Swamp

The Coleman heater burns itself out of fuel at a wee morning hour, leaving the cabin filled with a stink so awful that Sarah braves the cold to set the stinkpot out in the cockpit.

Refill, relight stinkpot at sunrise. Stinkpot ceases to stink, filling the cabin with wonderful warmth instead. Frost covers the deck. Steam rises from the water’s perfectly mirrored surface. We enjoy a Chinese breakfast, noodles.

With the aid of sun, the freezing motionless air eventually rises to 60 degrees. Sarah and I take one-hour shifts all day; one person steering in the cockpit, the other down in the cabin telling stories to the laptop. A passing sign in the early morning hours reads “Welcome To North Carolina”.
South! Yes! South!
Other morning landmarks are the North Carolina Welcome Center, and a floating bridge that’s moved in and out of place with a small tugboat.

Noon. We arrive at the South Mills drawbridge, marking the end of the Great Dismal Swamp Canal.
South Mills Bridge says on the radio, “The next bridge/lock opening for southbound traffic is 2 o’clock. Until then you can tie up on the wall next to the bridge.

The tiny downtown area of South Mills surrounds the bridge. I climb out of the cockpit and up onto a wooden plank walkway atop the wall, making my way over to the bridge and then 100 feet down the main street to a thrift shop that calls itself a flea market. An little old white-haired woman sits behind a desk piled high with junk, surrounded by junk.

A sign hanging from the desk reads, “Layaway Plan”, describing the stores layaway procedures. Two customers discuss a layaway item with the white-haired professional saleswoman.
“I live right next door in the white house, so ya’ll can just come and make a payment there anytime the store aint‘ open.”

Tens of thousands of items piled from floor to ceiling, the shelving barely left visible.
“I bet you know right were to find a can opener.”, I tell the white-haired woman. She walks to the center of the store, reaching elbow-deep into a two-foot-high pile of kitchenware. The hand emerges grasping a cheap metal can opener.
“Oh, sorry”, I say, “I was looking for the other kind. The more…..um…..durable kind. I have one of this kind and it doesn’t work very good.”

The woman has no such can opener in stock. No longer being such a professional saleswoman, she says, “Well, you can have this one for free then.”
Continuing to rummage around the store, I end up with a $10 high-risk investment, a “gas particulate tester”, headed to Ebay someday. The device, just consisting of a gauge and a tube, is housed inside a small army-green-colored metal aluminum box with yellow lettering on the top and side listing the contents.

We assist the sailboat “Christine” with tying up to the wall in front of Gonzo and then spend 20 minutes chatting with the occupants, Allen and Louis from Shiremanstown, Pennsylvania. Of retirement age, the couple was living aboard boats when they met and now live aboard Christine together. Their destination, the Bahamas.

“OK!”, the lock/bridge master yells from the bridge control room, raising the single-span bridge at nearly a 90-degree angle. He lowers the bridge and arrives at the lock, a few hundred meters away, before Gonzo and Christine arrive. “Where’s the dog?”, he yells as we slide in through the gates, an obvious joke that’s meaning at first eludes me.

Water levels drop back down 8 feet, the gates on the lock’s other end open…….and that was the Great Dismal Swamp Canal. If you cruise the east coast or ever do cruise the east coast, put it on your bucket list. It’s a pretty unique ditch as far as I’m concerned.

The waterway triples in width as Gonzo enters the curvy Pasquotank river, an almost entirely rural body of water winding miles south towards Albemarle Sound. Beautiful late afternoon setting, floating through a swamp in very mild air, the last of the fall swamp colors reflecting off the perfectly still water’s surface. Barely a creature stirring anywhere except for the occasional interrupted duck. Serenity distracts me from a huge floating log, which sharply jolts the boat before coming back to hit a second time on the swim ladder. Better the ladder than the engine, much better. In these dark murky waters, logs are invisible unless a portion of them is above the surface.

I pull over and drop anchor somewhere midway down the river, near the first house(or any kind of civilization) we’d seen since entering the river. We light the heater and view the day’s photos over a dinner of pasta with alfredo sauce, canned chicken chunks and canned corn. I have an hour long conversation with my dad and step-mom. What could have only been a pterodactyl screams down the river. Sounded like the distress signal of a blue heron amplified 100 times. So somebody tell me, are there pterodactyls on the Pasquotank? Should we take defensive measures?

Sunday 11-8-09 – Elizabeth City

Anchor raises with the sun, Gonzo continues down the Pasquotank River. The channel triples in width around a bend just a mile past our overnight resting spot. Red dawn sunlight further enhances the swamp’s autumn colors. A slight eastern breeze ripples the water ever so slightly.

Sarah takes over the helm. I take over her position in the cabin, telling stories to the laptop. She pilots us through an abandoned lock. The 4-lane Elizabeth City drawbridge opens upon command, leaving an ambulance to sit several minutes awaiting Gonzo’s 5-knot passing.

The famous downtown Elizabeth City complimentary 48-hour docks sit just beyond the bridge, recommended to us by many a cruiser over the past months. The tradition was apparently started in the 80’s by two local men and their wives who served dinners to the passing cruisers and gave them bouquets of locally-grown red roses. The tradition grew, word of mouth spread, national media attention followed. The founders have since passed away but their legacy lives on.

Sam was the face of Elizabeth City today, a man of some 80 years who wears a “WWII Veteran” hat.
“I need two bow lines!”, he yells across the water at Gonzo’s approach, Sarah at the helm.
“I bet she can drive that boat better than you!”, he jokes as I toss over the bow lines, “My radio is broken so I have to yell!”

Leaving Sarah in the cabin to use the complimentary wifi, I follow Sam’s directions to a Hardees half-a-mile away. There are many photographic distractions along the way, including the Corner Stone Missionary Baptist Church. I shoot video of the concert being performed by the church’s musical bells. The congregation is arriving for services, all elegantly dressed black folks who eye me curiously from across the street.
“Hello“, a woman in a bright blue hat says from her position near the church’s front steps. I walk over to introduce myself.
Blue Hat continues, “Were you taking pictures of the church for any particular reason?”
I briefly explain my current travels and the website.
“Well, you’re welcome to come on inside. This is the oldest black church in the area”, Blue Hat answers.
I reply, “It’s a very nice church and thanks for the offer, but my girlfriend is back at the boat waiting on cheeseburgers. Cheeseburgers trump god.”
OK, just kidding, I didn’t really say that last sentence, but I was absolutely starving due to the ¾ bottle of wine consumed last night. Alcohol does that.

Cheeseburgers are not one dollar, so instead, hot ham-n-cheese and spicy chicken sandwiches are obtained. The return walk to the city docks is even more of a photographic distraction than the walk there had been. I take a different route which passes block upon block of century-and-more-old homes in various states of being. Some structures derelict or near derelict, others appearing as they must have brand new.
“Looking good”, I say in passing to a man out painting his ancient dwelling.
“You can’t imagine how much work it is, though”, he replies.

Just directly next door to the man’s fabulous residence is an abandoned 3-story apartment building, windows all boarded up, uncared for in a decade or more. And that’s the gist of downtown Elizabeth City, a tale of two cities all mixed up together in one.
So, which city will win out? Will downtown Elizabeth City someday emerge as the now-abandoned once-prosperous city of Cairo in Southern Illinois did? Or will downtown Elizabeth City become another Annapolis but with more down-to-earth sailors?
Only time will tell. But at least with people like Sam continuing the complimentary dock tradition, and the man who maintains his perfect old home next to a three-story dump, hope remains. Don’t judge this town by the many 16-year-old girls driving around in beat-up pickup trucks with cigarettes hanging from their mouths.

Returning to Sarah and Gonzo, I find that several neighbor boats have arrived and several more are approaching, quickly filling the 15-or-so free slips available. Some familiar faces and boats arrive, including Allen and Louis on their sailboat Christine, and two sailboats that had been anchored near Gonzo in Hampton, named “Elizabeth” and “Daphne”.

Recognizing the boat “Elizabeth“, we introduced ourselves to its inhabitant, Ben, who in turn introduced us to the inhabitant of “Daphne“, Teresa.
Ben, a 37-year-old graphic and web designer, works from his boat, spending some hours doing so this afternoon. Teresa is a 31-year-old former boarding school dance/theatre instructor who may or may not go back to work, depending on how the universe treats her. The two met near their home in Martha’s Vineyard and plan to cruise into the Caribbean together, hopefully even further. Like Sarah and I, they both chronicle their travels on websites and have established a small readership base.
Theresa can be found at: www.sailingsimplicity.com
Ben can be found at      : www.bccelizabeth.com

Today’s plan had only been to spend an hour in Elizabeth City to use the wifi, but the atmosphere was just too nice not to spend the day. With lots of fellow sailors to meet in a historic town with a big brand new free museum to explore, there were just too many opportunities to pass up.

Stuck a near-empty gas tank into a rolling suitcase, transporting it few blocks away for refilling, then came 2PM, opening time at the Museum of the Albemarle.
“It looks like a ski slope”, Sarah says of the museum’s glimmering rooftop, a relatively huge new structure sitting on the southeast corner of downtown. Such buildings don’t come cheaply so the absence of an admission price, even a suggested one, comes as quite a surprise. However, much of the building appears to be used for other purposes, as the museum displays take up only a fraction of the space inside. Those displays are however quite good, offering an artifactual history of the Albemarle region ranging from native inhabitants to present day scum (maybe “artifactual“ wasn’t a real word but it is now, and that scum comment was just a joke, take it easy killer).

A small temporary display on the first floor focuses on WWII spy devices. The main display area is on the second floor and consists of three rooms, with the two smaller rooms focusing on narrower subject matter. One of those smaller rooms is dedicated to US Coast Guard history, while the other is dedicated to waterfowl hunting. It was quite amusing to see that a man appearing to be in his late 30’s had chosen to spend his museum time playing a big-screen duck hunting video game set up in a rear corner of the waterfowl display room.

Theresa and Ben spent time with us in Gonzo’s cabin this evening, helping to finish off the last bottle of Dave and Rob’s delicious Annapolis homemade wine. Noticing our portable head(toilet), the conversation started out with a focus on poo, which can be a major area of concern for sailors. Liquid is rarely cause for trouble but poo can present quite the challenge. Theresa threw away her portable head, instead opting for a 5-gallon bucket with a screw top, for which she fashioned a wooden seat.
Surprisingly, Ben and Theresa think that Gonzo‘s cabin is very spacious for a 26-foot boat. Theresa has a 27-footer but claims even less cabin space.

Monday 11-9-09 – Crossing the Albemarle Sound

Gonzo is the first boat to leave the Elizabeth City docks this morning, even before the rising sun. Several more boats depart within 30 minutes, all but one of them quickly overtaking us. A sailboat comes up along Gonzo’s port side, a man in the cockpit yelling and flapping his arms, his words inaudible over our engines. Just as I’m beginning to think that he’s attempting to inform us of some danger, his boat nears and the urgent voice carries across the water more clearly, “Are you getting a GPS signal?! I can’t get one!”.

My confused reply, “Um, not sure, it was working this morning, but I think that’s channel marker (some number) in the distance.”

What? All that commotion over a GPS signal? On a calm, clear morning in a wide marked channel? People come to rely on their gadgets far to heavily. Such experiences make me glad I’m forced to operate Gonzo on a strict budget, because someday if I do have all the gadgets, I’ll never panic if they fail.

“OK, the signal is back, thanks anyway.”, the now-relaxed voice calls back across the water a moment later.

Fog enshrouds the Pasquotank River banks, the cannel continues to widen as we approach Albemarle Sound. Then comes a real reason for panic.
“There’s an alien spacecraft hiding over there, enshrouded in fog!”, I yell down into the cabin at Sarah. A massive dome pokes out high above the fog line on the starboard side. The thinning fog exposes the rest of the craft as we pass by, a craft with an interior large enough to hold many jumbo jets. More thinning of the fog and a second craft comes into view. It’s an invasion! The other ship can only be a warship, much sleeker and aerodynamic, similar in shape and size to the Goodyear blimp, just hovering there, orange sunlight reflecting from its sleek white surfaces.
It’s a good thing we’re on a boat. Maybe they’ll only take the people on land.
Gonzo slides by the invasion force stealthily, undetected, down into the wide open Sound.
So seriously somebody, what the hell are those things anyway?

Lands becomes nearly invisible for 360 degrees as we make our way towards the Albemarle’s center. A southeast breeze becomes a light southeast wind. The direction shifts even more eastward, allowing us to put up the sails. Thirty minutes on sail power alone, but only at about 2 knots so we restart the engine. The extra kick from the sails means that the engine can now be run at the lowest throttle setting, with the result still being five knots, exactly what it had been on a higher throttle setting before the sails were raised.

The wind however dies as soon as we enter the Alligator River, a much smaller body of water than the Sound but still some miles wide. The Alligator River swing bridge swings open with a radio call. The operator of that bridge must get very little downtime, as his openings are frequent even in this late season.

Darkness begins to fall as Gonzo nears the center of the Alligator River. Our chart shows a tiny opening just to the west, leading to a body of water called “The Frying Pan”, and our “Skipper Bob” guide says The Frying Pan is navigable. The late Skipper Bob was a trawler cruiser who published his own Intercoastal Waterway anchorage guidebook after discovering that there was no such guide available. The book was given to us by fellow sailors Conrad and Sally, our former coworkers at the boat show. As far as convenience of ICW navigation goes, the book surely is a must-have. Thanks so much Conrad and Sally.

But those in sailboats must remember that Skipper Bob was in a trawler, and the draft(depth) of a trawler is far less than that of most sailboats. The Frying Pan is one of those waterways that a trawler captain can operate within much more calmly than a sailboat captain can. The channel opening is nearly invisible until one comes within a very short distance of it, especially in the twilight. And the approach is tricky. Had the Skipper Bob guide not specifically said that one must pass closely between the swampy shore and a shoal with jagged protruding tree stumps, I would have abandoned the approach all together.

Using the combination of the charts, GPS and Skipper Bob Guide, we did successfully make entry into The Frying Pan. The opening had remained invisible until less than 100 feet away, hidden among the camouflage of the swampy shoreline. Without any one of those three navigational guides, I would have abandoned the attempt, especially the GPS, which assured me in real-time that the opening was indeed where it was supposed to be.

A fog of mosquitoes follows Gonzo into The Frying Pan, attacking in mass as soon as we drop the anchor. Despite the scramble to get ourselves sealed inside the cabin as soon as possible, at least 20 of the little beasts managed to enter, prompting a 20-minute genocide with a flashlight and flyswatter, an in-depth inspection of every single little nook and cranny where an elusive mosquito might hide.

Oddly, there were very few mosquitoes outside later. They must have just followed the vibrations of our engine, or at least I can’t come up with a better theory. Sitting in the cockpit with a cigarette later, I was surprised to notice that not a single light was present for the entire 360 degree perimeter around Gonzo except for a single light on a trawler that had anchored further up the channel. An absolutely desolate swamp, devoid of even any air movement.
‘Exactly how rural is The Frying Pan?’, I thought to myself, getting the GPS out to answer the question.
“Unnamed Road” dead ends at The Frying Pan some two miles to the northwest. A community, also called Frying Pan, is also listed as being there, but one would think that at least a light or two should be visible over the flat swampy terrain. And a mile or two to the south is another “Unnamed Road” leading to a supposed community called “Gum Neck”, but again, not a single light in that direction. Now this is a real Dismal Swamp.

Tuesday 11-10-09 – Alligator River-Pungo River Canal

The aviator sunglasses are now property of The Frying Pan, captured by the dark waters as I wrestled Gonzo’s rudder down. Having gone straight from the bed to the cockpit, my wits weren’t yet reestablished. Sarah was feeling ill, still laying in bed, leaving me to make the departure alone.
‘Why is the boat just going in circles?’, I think to myself as Gonzo does 3 or 4 doughnuts in the swamp.
‘Ha!, the rudder is still up!’

And bending over to lower the rudder was the end of the aviators. Bounced off head, into right hand, into water, sunk immediately. This was the start to the first cloudy morning in days,

Gonzo emerged back into the relatively spacious Alligator River, her path until late morning when entering the 20-some-mile Alligator River-Pungo River Canal. This manmade waterway is double the width of the Dismal Swamp Canal, and full of speeding powerboats. Likewise, though, it is still mostly a swamp.

No sign of civilization for 10 miles, then a few sparse houses as the swamp sometimes gives way to pine forests. Rain threatens repeatedly but only a few drops fall. A soft wind cooperates for over an hour and both sails come out, but the engine must still be run on low power to maintain any decent speed.

3:30, enter the Pungo River, then immediately turn off the ICW into a deep but marshy tributary on our starboard side called Back Landing Bay, our home for the evening. Gonzo traverses the maze of little grassy islands, anchored before 4PM. An hour of daylight means time left to fix our ailing mainsail halyard. The aging line had worn partially through during our windy overnight escape from the Chesapeake nearly two weeks ago.

The solution was a segment of a new 100-foot line purchased from Home Depot last month. The line is roughly the same width and strength as the old one, but at $8 per 100 feet, the life will surely not be as long. As for the old halyard, it could have been there since 1979 from the looks of it.

Getting the new Halyard through the track at the top of the mast without climbing the mast presented a bit of a challenge, with the easiest solution being to connect an end of the new one to an end of the old one and pull the old one through, drawing the new one in behind it. The plan of connecting the two lines together with safety pins was abandoned after realizing that the safety pins might come open. Such a plan malfunction could lead to mast climbing.

The better plan; Sarah sewed the two lines together. And presto! Done in a flash. We have a new halyard, a bright red one.

A phone call to an automated weather line revealed winds 15-20 overnight. Gonzo was too close to shore with too little anchor line out. We remained in the same little cove but just moved further out to the center and added 40 more feet of anchor line. Looks like heavy rain and wind for days……….

Wednesday: 10-11-09 – Belhaven North Carolina

The weather forecast had been correct, 60-degrees remained steady overnight, the price paid being pounding wind and rain. A brief 2AM poke of my head up through the forward hatch revealed that Gonzo’s anchor was slowly dragging towards the center of the creek, evident by the only two reference points on the horizon, the anchor lights of two sailboats that had entered the creek last night shortly after Gonzo.
Even peeking through just a slit in the hatch, the rain was flying in at a stinging force and I decided that we would have to drag a lot closer towards land before I was willing to go out on deck and do something about it.

The total drag distance by first light was about 200 feet, still plenty of room for an additional 100 feet of dragging had we chosen to sleep in longer. The anchor came up along with a 20-lb stinking mud ball it had accumulated during its rebellious nocturnal activities on the creek bottom. This anchor is going off to boarding school if it doesn’t shape up. It’s should be grateful for the 20 feet of chain it has been given. Some anchors don’t even have any chain!

A convenient early morning break in the rain occurred as we reentered the Pungo River, continuing on our journey down the ICW. No break in the 15-20 knot winds, though, making for extensive white caps out on the open water. Had this been an unsailable headwind, Gonzo could have made little or no progress with her shallow outboard engine bobbing in and out of the water. But his was a tail wind! Sailable!

We dared not raise both sails in such conditions, the forecast calling for gusts in excess of 25 knots. But we did raise the jib and we did fly along on that alone at 5-10 knots, 6 or 7 average. Mother nature knew she was being used, resuming her pounding rain, big speeding drops that stung the face like room-temperature sleet.

Today’s destination was just 10 miles away, a little center of waterside civilization known as Belhaven where we could ride out the forecasted several-day disturbance in the weather. A place with a library, a place with a grocery store, probably a place with a major fast food chain selling $1 double-cheeseburgers. Maybe God could even be found in Belhaven, a town of some couple thousand folks along the banks of Pantego Creek.

Entering Pantego Creek involves passing through a slit in the creek-wide wooden storm wall, a few hundred feet in length, the town’s protection against the potentially-furious Pungo River. The angle of approach towards Belhaven puts Gonzo into a close-haul with the wind, too close of a haul with just the jib up. The sail flaps wildly, sending sharp reverberations through the entire hull as Sarah looses helm control, now on a collision course with the storm wall.

Wind speeds suddenly increase, a sustained 20 knots with outrageous gusts that make me fear for Gonzo’s rigging. Sarah turns away from the wall as I engage into a brawl with the jib, wrestling it back down into submission flat upon the deck. Then on engine power Sarah successfully pilots Gonzo through the storm wall.
“Why would anybody put a crab pot here? I think they just do it to mess with out-of-town boaters.”, she says while dodging bobbers thoughtfully placed right smack-dab in the storm wall entryway.

With three-foot-deep shoals in the creek’s center, the marked channel is within a stone’s throw of the town. The channel markers end a mile-or-so up the creek where a 14-foot-high fixed bridge has thoughtfully been placed, forever blocking sailboat access to the rest of the creek.

We position ourselves to within 300 yards of a public boat ramp, anchoring in the creek’s center within feet of where the shoals are charted to be. Gonzo could easily escape from a 3-foot shoaling by partially raising her keel, so the location poses no real risk, just potential inconvenience.

We float at our new temporary home before 10:30, four neighbor boats anchored a distance away over near the bridge, boats with fixed keels that couldn’t risk taking on the shoals. And here the day ends, rain and wind pounding the hull so hard that we’d rather stay stuck, but stay dray, in the cabin rather than exploring the wet town.

Thursday: 11-5-09

Clear skies yesterday evening. Rain pounds overnight. Clear skies this morning.

Return to library. Finish up Chesapeake story telling.  Find wet handwritten note on the sidewalk outside the building, a whole page of “hate myself and want to die” ranting. I hang the note to dry on a limb next to a bush with a hole in it that little bees constantly fly in and out of.

“What if somebody cut that bush down?”, Sarah asks.
“The bees would be pissed. It would be like cutting down somebody’s mansion.”, I answer.

An email informed me that the article about us had appeared in yesterday’s edition of the Annapolis Capital Gazette! Thank you Sue and thank you Teri! The websites got hundreds of hits from the Annapolis area yesterday!

And just about anybody who has ever had their name in print knows that half the response will be negative, no matter what the subject matter. As of noon today, the only two comments about the story on the newspaper’s website were:

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“reading these peoples blogs and looking at their photos, they are an accident waiting to happen. Upon buying their boat, they read a how to sail book to see how to get where they need to? And use a LAND based GPS system with no water markers, to GUESS where they are in the water. Where are their PFDs? Where is their EPIRB or life raft? They plan on taking a centerboard style sailboat offshore? And since they mentioned their head is broken, discharging waste overboard too?? I dont think they have the slightest idea of what they are getting themselves into. I have no problem with their dream BUT they need to be educated about what dangers are out there, water is NOT forgiving and one mistake will cost them their lives. What do they plan on doing if their boat is taking on water, jump in their inflatable kayak in heavy seas in the ocean? Please for your own sakes, get sailing lessons, off shore lessons, heavy weather lessons, etc. And make sure you have the right equipment, and learn how to use it. A land based CAR GPS doesn’t work in other countries especially for waters and currents in the caribbean. This whole story saddens me. Undergoing an offshore live aboard lifestyle is not something you can do on a whim.”

And:

“hope the coast guard finds these people and informs them it is illegal to be out without running lights, discharging waste into waters, not having proper safety supplies, and sorry guys but you cant cut off cruise ships and tugs with barges. There are rules to sailing and any boat navigation you must abide by. Restricted by draft is one of them. This cruise ship wont move for you, it cant, it will run aground. In case of a show down, YOU will be the looser. Anyone in doubt, feel free to read their blogs in their own words…

Quote as follows:

Small southbound sailing vessel its captain says over the radio.

This is Gonzos Flying Dog, Garth answers.

You must have a death wish, being out here at nite with no running lites on, the captain says.

He doesnt understand (NOTE: THERE IS A REASON HE IS THE LICENSED CAPTAIN OF A CRUISE SHIP) that people with no money cant afford to run 10,000 lites all nite long like the Carnival Pride does (YOU HAVE TO BY LAW SO YOU DONT END UP A SMEAR ON THEIR HULL). From then on, we turn on our red and green running lites each time we see a big ship approaching.”

**********************

Return to Gonzo for lunch, narrowly avoiding spending $15 at a tiny charming crab shack on Armistead St. that has captivated us ever since seeing it for the first time yesterday morning.

Spread our charts out on the cabin benches in the afternoon sunshine, trying to determine how to get to the Dismal Swamp Canal entrance tomorrow. There are two Intercoastal Waterway(ICW) options for cruisers heading south from Norfolk, one of which is the Great Dismal Swamp. We decided earlier on this route, a 22-mile narrow manmade waterway supposedly dug by slaves, after hearing that it may eventually be closed down in the near future.

Showers! I’d mentioned before on here that the Hampton city dock showers weren’t up to standards of the Annapolis city dock showers, but I was wrong. There are actually two shower buildings and today we got the nice one, which is actually much more private than Annapolis. Thumbs up to Hampton on their showers, and extreme thumbs up to Hampton on their spacious comfortable library with its fantastic wifi.

“That guy reminds me so much of your dad and his name is even Ron”, Sarah says of a fellow sailor we chat with that had just single-handedly brought his boat down from Nova Scotia.
“Don’t trust the weather forecasts up there”, Ron says, “the wind unexpectedly changed on me at night and I nearly ended up on shore. I turned on the engine to get away but sucked up a huge jellyfish in the water intake.”
Using his anchor, Ron did manage to keep his boat from blowing ashore.

Late afternoon walk downtown. A plaque reads that the confederate army burned 500 buildings. One would think that that armies wouldn’t be so destructive during a civil war, but armies are armies regardless of the circumstances.

“Hey! I know what you’re doing. Follow me to the front of the store. You can buy the things you already have but you have to leave now. I don’t play like that”, says the manager of the Family Dollar on Lincoln Street.

Sarah and I just stop and stare.

“Come on. I’ll call the cops right now. Somebody saw you do it.”, the manager continues.

“OK, so call them”, I reply.

The manager pushes a button on the cordless phone in her hand. The dial tone sounds. Manager  stares, looks us up and down, pushes the button again. Dialtone ceases.

“Somebody saw you messin’ round’, I don’t play like that.”

She must be speaking of shoplifting? Nothing else could possibly explain such a confrontation.

“We have nothing”, I say, “I promise you, we have taken nothing.”

“Somebody saw you messin’ round’. I don’t play like that. I don’t play like that”, the manager continues, eyes growing increasingly redder.”

“Look, we DON’T have ANYTHING. I PROOOOOMISE.”, I repeat.

Manager continues scanning us up and down with here eyes. She seems to be calming down, satisfied we have nowhere to hide anything, but then says, “Well, I’d just be a lot more comfortable if you came to the front with me now.”, says manager.

I give up, knowing a shopping alternative is just down the street, “OK, we’ll go to the front with you”.

I drop our basket on a Christmas display near the counter, turn to face the manager, “Whoever told you that, I wouldn’t be so sure of what they say in the future. You can tell the cops to find us on a sailboat at the city docks.”

How random, accused of shoplifting, nowhere other than…..Dollar General? I can only assume that the informant was the customer who passed us in an isle selling automotive products. Sarah and I had been examining many $1 clip-on LED lights there, attempting to find one that actually worked. The customer had stood at the end of the isle eyeing us suspiciously for some time before passing.

Anyway, we  instead found the things we really needed at a Rite Aid. Bleach, soap and paper towels.

“That was really stupid. I think there’s something in the water around here”, Sarah say in conclusion of the incident.

I rarely send an official complaint to a business, but may have to do so in this case. Any retail professional should know that in such a litigious society you NEVER take a random informant customer on their word in a case like this. But even above that, it’s just a simple matter of disrespect. The proper procedure would be to view the security footage, and if that’s not available, to have an employee discreetly monitor the customer. Family Dollar apparently has little money in their budget these days to train store managers.

Friday: 11-6-09

Underway minutes before the sun makes it’s grand debut. Pull the anchor and pilot Gonzo just a couple hundred meters away, to Bluewater Yachting Center on Sunset Creek, a creek which branches off from the Hampton River, Gonzo’s home for the past three nights.

A helpful young man works alone in the Bluewater office, whom helps us tie up Gonzo and dispose of the wet gas that had plagued Gonzo’s engine earlier in the week. I’d hated to just throw 4 gallons of away, not knowing if the water had been in the lines or the tank, but better to be safe than end up with water in the carburetor again. Gonzo doesn’t like that.

Stopping at Bluewater also offers the opportunity to fill Gonzo’s water tank and our two spare 5-gallon jugs. Total cost of the stop: $29 for gas and a $2 tip to the young man for disposing of the gas. Wish I could have tipped more because getting rid of the gas could have been a real pain.

Big wind has suddenly arrived as we depart Bluewater, forcefully blowing Gonzo up against the floating docks there. The young man advises to put the engine in forward, pull slowly away from the docks then turn back around in the middle of the creek. Works wonderfully.

Getting a sail up is however not as easy. Wind speed out in wide-open Hampton Roads is as had been forecast, 15-20 knots, serious business for a lightweight like Gonzo. Remembering our recent tip-over experience, we decide to raise only the  main. In such strong tail winds, using only one sail can be sufficient.

The wind doesn’t want to be taken for free, however, inciting the main sail to put up a long arduous battle as I raise it. Sarah stands at the  helm, still running on engine power, struggling just as hard to control the steering as 20-knot gusts flop the main back and fourth. Gonzo tips sharply with each flop as I hang onto the mast as to prevent being bucked from the bronco.

“Let’s just use the engine only”, Sarah yells over the roaring sail.
“No! The wind is free!”, I yell back.

As works best with any battle against a sensible opponent, in this case that opponent being mother nature, a compromise is reached. I did eventually get the mainsail up, although the wind had been too strong to maintain helm control, repeatedly veering Gonzo in a southwestern heading. The compromise was motor sailing, running the motor at very low throttle while at the same time keeping the main up. The result was 5 knots in the correct direction.

While we did use some gas, the added power of the main sail doubled what our speed would have been on low-throttle engine power alone. As for the reason that control could not be maintained on sail power alone, this was because the jib wasn’t being used. The same speed, probably more, could have easily been obtained without the engine had both sails been used. But, had we been inattentive at the helm for just a moment and let Gonzo wander into a beam reach(wind from the side), then a big gust could have potentially pushed us over again. Probably not, but no reason to take an unnecessary risk. And as all you negative commenters know all too well, neither Sarah nor I ever take unnecessary risks J

Frigid two-hour crossing of Hampton Roads, our curses trailing off into the icy wind. Freighters, tankers and Navy warships passing by, approaching miles of cargo ship cranes on the eastern shore, the massive Craney Island Disposal Area on the southern shore. The disposal area is classified on the charts as an “ocean dumping ground”, where what appears to be many square miles of Hampton Roads have been filled in with garbage and covered with a layer of dirt.

Coming to the southeastern corner of Hampton Roads, we enter what is referred to as “the Southern Branch“, also known as Elizabeth River(I think). This relatively narrow channel, 200-300 meters, is the body of water that flows between the downtowns of Norfolk and Portsmouth. This urban area is a mixture of office towers, convention centers, luxury hotels, container ship loading facilities and a Navy shipyard. As far as the sophistication of marine activities goes, Norfolk was even more impressive to me than New York Harbor had been. If you have a boat on the east coast and you’ve never been through the Southern Branch, then I would highly recommend it.  If you don’t have a boat, then it’s worth spending a few bucks to get on a tour boat. Norfolk is a marine-based economy and can therefore only be fully appreciated from the water. You won’t regret it.

Dozens upon dozens of absolutely massive ships sit docked on both sides of the waterway, over half of which are military vessels. Small security boats perpetually monitor each military dock, motoring back and fourth, back and fourth. Must be one of the easiest and most boring jobs one can possibly get. Some kind of maintenance or the other is being done on many of these military vessels, including an aircraft carrier getting a new Ugly-gray paint job. The most impressive sight in the Southern Branch was an entire 500+ foot ship pulled up out of the water, making it appear even twice as massive.

Winds soften in the afternoon, calm at times with the occasional 5 to 10 knot surprise gust at other times. We pass underneath 2 railroad lift bridges and between the lift towers of another that has had its center span not-so-peacefully removed, jagged torn steel and chunks of concrete dangling from both towers. The two active railroad bridges are only lowered occasionally, remaining open during most daylight hours.

The landscape grows increasingly rural after the 3 bridges. A few turns in the waterway and the Gilmerton draw bridge appears.
On the radio, “This is Gilmerton bridge. We are closing after this sailboat and these two powerboats pass through.”
Sarah’s radio reply, “Gilmerton bridge, this is southbound sailing vessel Gonzo’s flying Dog. Come in.”
Bridge: “(crackle, crackle) merton (crackle, crackle) idge”
Sarah: “Yes, Gilmerton Bridge we are at mile marker (some number), will we have time to pass before you close?”
Bridge: “You’re breaking up (crackle, crackle), call back when you’re closer.”

Gonzo’s radio has much to be desired. The bridge was less than a quarter mile away.
We only must wait about five minutes, along with another sailboat and two trawlers, all which had passed us in the last hour. A couple less knots of speed makes very little difference in arrival time and a very big difference in the amount of gas used. On full power during our approach to Hampton Roads three days ago, we’d used nearly a full tank of gas in just four hours. On a low throttle setting, that same amount of gas can last 2 and a half entire days!

A few dozen cars pass over Gilmerton Bridge, then it reopens five minutes later. Just on the other side are two tug boats pushing a tanker up against docks, their powerful engines creating turbulent foaming chaos across the entire channel. The trawler named Islander, just in front of us, veers back and fourth wildly before regaining control. The tug’s powerful The currents have the same affect on Gonzo, sharp cuts of the helm required in both directions before control can be reestablished.

Speaking of the trawler Islander, we’d met the occupants of this boat as it was anchored next to us during our first night in the Hampton River, the boat from Belfast, Maine, who’s captain had said it was snowing when he left.

Another turn in the channel, the Interstate 64 bridge screams overhead. A raging wild opera of automobile and semi-truck tires, their demonic voice box being the steel-grated center span of the bridge.

“Dismal Swamp Canal Entrance ———à”, a sign in the water reads just on the other side of the I-64 bridge, pointing south. A final chilly gust of air and we make the turn, entering the calm narrow waters of Deep Creek, protected from the weather by dense forests and foliage on either side. The air quickly becomes mild in the bright sun. Fishermen in little john boats sit peacefully here and there, shifting their eyes between Gonzo and the ends of their poles.

A few turns in the creek reveal a little community of upper-middle-class homes among the forest, each with its own dock and boat(s).  Peaceful setting for a house, other than that 24-hour interstate opera that’s performed in the background 365 days a year.

An hour into our journey down Deep Creek lies the Deep Creek Lock, gateway to the Dismal Swamp Canal.
Sarah on the radio, “Deep Creek Lock, this is southbound sailing vessel Gonzo’s Flying Dog. What is your next scheduled opening time?”
Reply, “Yes this is Deep Creek Lock, next opening time 1:30.”

Thirty-minute wait, we catch up with the trawler Islander again and anchor nearby it. The captain throws a Dove chocolate candy to each of us. I get Sarah’s due to her inability to eat chocolate, an ailment which I benefit from quite often.

Time for a hot lunch, ramen with green beans and Vienna sausages, then a horn blows and a green light shines at the lock.
Sarah on the radio, “Deep Creek Lock, this is sailing vessel Gonzo’s Flying Dog. We’ve never been through a lock before. Does the horn and green light mean enter?”
Deep Creek Lock: “Yes. Pull in on your port side with a bow and stern line ready. I’ll take the stern line first.”

Gonzo slowly enters the lock, a rectangle of about 30 feet wide and 100 feet long, walls rising 12 feet above the water’s surface, as if entering some marine cage in which cruel and unusual experiments will be performed on Gonzo. Lockmaster Robert is however neither cruel nor unusual, a jolly man of some 40-years who plays Sinatra over the lock’s PA system.

Robert reaches down the lock wall with a hook, grabbing the bow and stern lines, attaching them to posts at the top. The Islander follows. Same procedure. Robert enters a tiny building next to the lock’s open gate, slowly closing it, then he enters an identical tiny building next to the closed gate at the lock‘s other end. Water begins churning in from underneath the closed gate, pumped in at such a volume as to fill the equivalent of what must be an Olympic-sized swimming pool in under 10 minutes.

Robert’s old brown dog sniffs around the lock’s edges as Gonzo and the Islander slowly rise eight feet up the slimy black walls. Robert puts on a show, playing some kind of little horn, chatting the entire time. He says that we are entering the oldest man made canal system in the Americas, hand dug by slaves. He tells of how he operated the lock controls for the first time when he was 14 by hanging out at the lock and befriending the operator.

Federal budget cuts to the US Army Corps of Engineers had threatened to close the locks some years ago, which had only been saved by an outpouring of disapproval by some 30,000 seasonal cruisers, locals and other Dismal Swamp lovers. The result of the budget cuts is that Robert now works 7 days on-2 days off, one of only a couple employees still employed. He’s only had one Christmas off in 14 years and never a Thanksgiving, alone responsible for not only the Deep Creek lock and the Deep Creek drawbridge, but also the canal’s water levels. Thank you Robert, because if it wasn’t for people like yourself, our government would destroy everything our predecessors worked so hard for.

“There’s a $100 fine for writing on the walls. You owe me $100 so get your money’s worth”, Robert jokes with Sarah upon catching her writing on the lock walls with a marker, adding her signature to those of many other vessels that have passed through over the years.

The 8-foot rise in water levels propels Gonzo to a vantage point above the top of the lock walls. Robert opens the gate on the other side, releasing the two trapped boats into the Great Dismal Swamp Canal, a perfectly straight line less than 50 feet wide, cut through the trees as far as the eye can see. Trees on both banks are large enough to nearly form a canopy overhead. We begin our 22-mile trek down “The Ditch”, an affectionate nickname given to the Canal by the thousands of seasonal cruisers who pass through its waters twice a year.

The town of Deep Creek passes by just to the east, where a highway runs parallel to the canal, just feet away. Robert quickly gets in his pickup and drives into town to raise the Deep Creek Bridge. Gonzo motors along at 4 knots for the next two hours, occasionally having to avoid large branches and other debris floating in the dark-reddish waters. One debris field passed was so thick and cohesive that a pretty green lawn had grown atop it.

The parallel highway continues but eventually turns into a walking trail, closed to vehicles and enjoyed by many young families out for afternoon strolls with their dogs. We come upon a dilapidated pullover area, consisting of a rotting wooden seawall with a grassy area behind it, complete with picnic tables and benches. Slowly we move towards the crumbling wall, unsure of the depth.

There are a few posts left on the wall for tying up boats, but most have since rotted and fallen away. We make the best of what’s available, resulting in having Gonzo docked for the evening in the most serene setting she’s ever been docked since Sarah and I took over ownership last April. Some of the young families say “hello” as they stroll by in the fading late-afternoon sunlight. Sarah prepares a dinner of rice mixed with beef stew and baked beans, an odd combination but very edible. Consumption of the meal takes place at the picnic table. The Great Dismal Swamp: what a wonderful place!

Two lightings and I’m able to start the Coleman heater recently purchased from Bacon’s Marine in Annapolis. The proper lighting method of the device had before eluded us. To light, a generous helping of gas must be applied to the heater’s cloth dome. Lighting that gas-covered dome then generates the heat required to begin sucking gas from the tank below. There had been several unsuccessful lighting attempts and much hatred for the heater over the past few days but tonight I realized the trick. In the initial dousing of the dome, the dome’s edges must be concentrated upon. Tada, we have heat!!!!!! It’s the most reasonable night in Gonzo ever!

An article about our travels came out on November 4th in the Annapolis newspaper. Here is the link.

Halloween Saturday:

“That bathroom is for customers. It’s not a public restroom.” says a dark-hearted Rite-Aid manager pushing a cart of merchandise past.
“Well I was going to be a customer but I guess not.”, I reply, departing without purchasing the planned $30 of goods, not even the whiskey.
In a baggy raincoat, damp of drizzle, some people just don’t consider you a human being. You could be one of “them”, some worthless “street person”, some “transient”, undeserving even to perform bodily functions with the rest of society.

Teri walks under an umbrella, carrying a big leather handbag towards the boat ramp.
“You don’t happen to be Garth and Sarah? Do you?”, she asks, the reporter from the Capital who has come to interview us.

“Can we see your boat from here?”, peering across Weems Creek through the foggy mist. Gonzo is elusive, barely visible, won’t even face us, aimed bow-to.
Teri snaps some photos with an aging little Canon Powershot.
“It’s hard to take notes in the rain. Can we go up to my car?”

Thirty-minute interview ensues. Teri takes several pages of notes, personally amused by our recollection of events.

“The story should run on Monday.”, she says in conclusion.

Departure south delayed once again. Twenty-five mile-per-hour wind and rain forecast overnight, wind that’s not in the right direction. Worth waiting just one more day.

The delay offers the opportunity to clean Internet house. The websites are sure to see a spike in traffic if the article does indeed go to print. Spruce things up a bit using City Dock coffee shop wifi. A hundred uniformed Spiffballs pass by along the damp walk downtown, all headed in mass to the big Spiffball event down at Navy Stadium. Rain nor shine it’s Spiffball time! Last Saturday ecstatic Spiffball cheers could even be heard a mile away through torrential downpours. These are some serious Spiffballs!

We take advantage of an early evening rain break to walk home, stopping along the way for one last hot meal, delicious $5 cheesesteak platters from Acme Bar and Grill on Main Street. Passing by the Rite Aid where the offending manager works, two signs hand printed in large block letters had appeared on both sets of automatic doors, “NO PUBLIC RESTROOMS”.

Rain beats Gonzo’s deck all night, nonstop.

Sunday: 11-1-09

Rain continues. Temps only in the 50’s. But north winds mean go! The 32 days in Annapolis have now come to an end! Made $2500. Spent $1000 of it. Money well spent however. Gonzo is so much better equipped than before, at least well equipped as far as we’re concerned, but still ill-equipped as far as any other sailor is concerned.

Despite the miserable weather, Annapolis Harbor is still full of sailboats, some with 20 people on deck, passing within 20 feet of Gonzo at high speeds. These are racing boats with massive spinakers, a kind of sail the shape of a half-bubble that grabs wind from behind. Gonzo is a turtle in comparison with her moldy little sails. Yes, our jib actually did mold, a fact that was noticed for the first time today. Got to put that thing away dry when not in daily use.

Sarah and I both scramble to take pictures of the sailing scenes in Annapolis Harbor, taking turns at the helm while the other snaps. Coffee spilled in cockpit, two hands not enough.

The constant rain turns to frequent showers as we enter the Bay, begin the journey south. A whole team of racing boats plays chicken with Gonzo. I spin the helm to port at the last second, aiming the bow east as the team flies by.

“Thank You!”, three or four of the dozen-or-so sailors on board  each boat yell over the roar of splashing water.

“The sun!”, Sarah cries in glee from the helm. But she had been punked. The sun immediately disappears, replaced by dark clouds that send the hardest rain of the day down upon her.

We sail through a page on the charts, then another! Five miles per hour feels like 100!

Dinner: whiskey with coke, rice mixed with chili, corn and Vienna sausage.

Daylight savings time finally upon us, dark just after 5PM. I take the first night watch, it flies by in an instant, 5:30-7:30PM while Sarah attempts sleep in the heavily rocking v-berth. Wind has increased, waves have increased.
‘Come on six miles per hour…..six miles per hour’, I think to myself, watching the speed on the GPS, taking Gonzo into a direct beam reach.

‘7 miles per hour!’, Gonzo isn’t a turtle after all! The attempt at speed probably sent Sarah involuntarily rolling around the v-berth.
And you may wonder, why am I listing speeds in MPH instead of knots? That’s because our GPS is a TomTom, designed for roads. Don’t call Gonzo ghetto. Gonzo aint’ ghetto.

White water can be seen through the darkness around Gonzo’s hull as she crashes through the still-increasing waves. Pitch black ten story buildings slide by,  the shadows of tankers and freighters. Most of those monsters only have four lights visible; a white light low on the bow, a white light high on the stern, a red light on the port side and a green light on the starboard side, each light just a spec. This is how nighttime mariners tell what direction other ships are headed.

The professionals can get very upset at a little sailboat not following the rules, as the captain of the cruise ship Carnival Pride did at Gonzo for not having her red and green navigation lights on in the shipping channel.

“This is Carnival Pride calling the small southbound sailing vessel between (some geographical point) and (another geographical point).”

“Yes, this is sailing vessel Gonzo’s Flying Dog, come in.”

“Yeah skipper, you’re in stealth mode, we came right up on you. I just didn’t see you pal. You need to get some lights on”.

“Thanks. Will do. Thanks.”

Carnival Pride oozes past through the black bulging waters, her veritable city of lights illuminating white breaking crests.

Sarah says, “Easy for him to say, somebody with enough electricity to run 1000 lights.”

“Yes, this is the Carnival Pride calling the small southbound sailing vessel again.”

“Yes, this is Gonzo’s Flying Dog, come in.”

“Yeah, skipper, I never saw a red or green on you, just some white lights. You’re gonna get yourself killed out here.”

“Sorry about that. We’re low on batteries. Next time a ship comes up on us I’ll turn something on.”

“Well you’ve got a death wish being out here at night without nav lights on.”

“10-4”

“Carnival Pride out.”

Captain was dramatizing things a bit, as he was never actually on a collision course. We had already known from watching his lights before the radio call that his ship would pass by. And a ship like that would have every piece of expensive radar gear to avoid collisions, hence how he already knew from a half-mile away that Gonzo was southbound. He was just pissed off we weren’t following the red light-green light rule. Gonzo’s recharchable yard lights, which I’d just put new batteries in to make them brighter, are visible for a couple miles out on the open water. (Still though, you should always assume that all bigger boats can’t see you. No matter what the rules of navigation are, the bigger boat always has the right of way.)

Still, though, we did put on nav lights the rest of the evening anytime a large ship passed by, and I shined a small LED flashlight onto the sails. The Coast Guard puts on an anti-terrorism pamphlet listing “no nav lights on at night” as a sign of terrorist activity, and we didn’t want the Coast Guard coming to hunt us terrorists down in the middle of the night.

One other ship did call us on the radio and shine a spotlight, a tow boat pulling what appeared to be an entire freighter. However, the ship was silent after the initial call, saying nothing more after I responded, “Yes, this is Gonzo’s Flying Dog.” Maybe the name offended them.

Anyway, the tow boat was the most confusing thing we encountered on the water all night because we couldn’t determine what direction it was going, having forgotten that a stack with three white lights means that it’s a tow boat. The red and green nav lights were located on the object being towed, both of which were visible at the same time. Had we remembered the tow boat lighting configuration, then we would have instantly known that the vessel was approaching. There are dozens of different lighting configurations for different kinds of vessels, but only a few are common, and a tow boat is an important one to remember.

Sarah is feeling ill in the late night-early morning hours, doesn’t appear for her midnight watch. Arrives in the cockpit at 2AM thinking she’s only been gone for two hours instead of 4 hours. Then tries to get me back into the cockpit after just an hour and a half, thinking her two hours have already passed. She is quite a good sailor but was a bit confused during the adjustment period. Even many experienced sailors will tell you that they still go through an adjustment period after having not been on the water for some weeks, often feeling ill for the first day or so.

Monday: 11-2-09

Six-foot rollers by dawn, the average waves 2 to 3 feet. The Bay runs north-south, and as we learned today, sustained winds in those directions builds up huge waves over time. The big ones only come every few minutes, just two or three at a time, but oh are they big, much larger than anticipated. Gonzo however handled beautifully, leading us to believe that the wind gust which knocked us over last month must have been well over 30 knots. On the side of a six foot wave in 15 knots of wind Gonzo has no problems whatsoever. Everything not bolted down inside the cabin will fly everywhere, but Gonzo is quite stable. An ocean in light stormy weather would not present a problem. Good to know, although we don’t plan on taking Gonzo through any ocean storm intentionally.

Salt spray keeps the deck continually moist. Waves periodically smack the hull instead of sliding underneath it, violent encounters that even throw the Coleman stove out of the galley, a stove that had been fastened down with a bungee cord. The cabin floor is full our possessions by the morning’s end, everything from dirty dishes to a spilled gallon of bleach. Gonzo now has the cleanest bilge on the East Coast.

I decide to take down the jib after the Coleman incident, waves still growing larger, never even a slight pause in the 15 knot wind. The time to reduce sail area had come, and running on the main sail alone also meant that it was much easier to run with the wind, straight south rather than slightly southwest. The waves always go in the direction of the wind, and going with the waves is generally much smoother of a ride.

Running directly with the wind under both the main and jib is quite difficult in Gonzo, as even a slight mishandling of the helm will cause the jib to luff, and a major mishandling will cause the boom to swing back violently in the other direction, one of the most dangerous things that can happen on a sailboat. We have both had our close calls by now and are ever watchful for an angry boom.

Our general overnight direction had taken us slightly southeast, to the center of the Bay, then our morning heading had taken us slightly southwest, back towards the western side of the Bay. Continued running straight south through the afternoon, within a couple miles of the shore, then turned into Magothy Bay, a body of water wide enough that the other sides were not visible on this continually gloomy day. The plan was to get Gonzo into a small creek on the Magothy’s north side until we realized that there were plenty of other inlets on the Magothy’s south side. South meant that we could sail there rather than use the engine. (It would have been possible to tack straight north but that would have taken twice as long. We were tired.)

End up in the York River, home of the historic city of Yorktown where Cornwallis surrendered to Washington, I think. Time for a bit of engine power to get Gonzo up into the Perrin River, a small body of water that branches off the York’s mouth. But the engine only runs for a minute,  then sputters and dies! Not to be restarted again! I pull the cord so many times that my already sore hands, sore from hours at the helm are aching. But nobody home in the engine, not even a sputter.

Getting too dark to continue sailing further up the York River in search of calmer waters there. Some huge ships can be seen anchored up the river, and we don’t want to end up in a narrow channel without an engine where such ships are lurking.  The wider of an area we anchor in, the less of a chance that something hits us. The York is over a mile wide at the mouth, and there’s almost no traffic. We are a bit too close to a marked channel for comfort, but it seems best to just drop the anchor for the night.

So, we get as close as possible to the York’s eastern shore and drop the hunk of metal in the chilly water. Still too close to the channel for comfort, but the wind only wants to blow us up the river or to the western shore, not where we want to go. The only problem with the western shore was that it was even further from the Perrin River, on the eastern shore, where protected waters and a small marina are located(says so in our cruising guide). Getting this engine fixed would require at least calm water, and maybe even a place to buy tools or parts, or worse, a place to find a mechanic if we couldn’t fix the problem ourselves.

The York’s mouth offers at least some protection from the Chesapeake. The wind still howls but the waves are quite diminished. We place all four yard lights out on deck, have a whiskey and coke, then pass out cold for 12 straight hours.

An experience I will never forget, riding the cold front all the way down the Chesapeake Bay, over 150 miles in just over 24 hours, ending up with a broken engine. All done in none other than Gonzo’s Flying Dog.

Tuesday: 11-3-09

Sun peeks over horizon as I peek out hatch. It’s a new day and the sky shows it. Perfectly clear except for a single line of clouds far to the eastern horizon. Wind is slight, but from the east now. Waves greatly diminished.

Must get somewhere even calmer to work on the engine. Just to the north lies the Perrin River, where we’d wanted to end up last night, but the wind still won’t have it. Examining the chart, we notice a shallow marked passage just to the south, between Goodwin Neck and the Goodwin Islands.

“Why do people in Virginia insist on calling things ‘necks’?”, Sarah asks as we ever-so-slowly sail Gonzo through the passage. A running turtle could have passed us. The marked depth is only three feet, so the potential of having to raise the keel existed, but the depth never turned out to be a problem. The several- hundred-meter-long passage leads to the mouth of Back Creek.

The immediate are is quite rural, but what appears to be a marina lies just inside Back Creek behind a commercial fishing operation. However, the already faint eastern wind suddenly fades to almost nothing, not enough to continue the beam reach required to enter the creek. Gonzo comes to a complete halt, now slower than even the unicellular organisms that surely are floating past her hull.

“The weather is so calm, maybe we could just tow Gonzo by rowing our dinghy.”, I ignorantly suggest.

“Yeah, that might actually work.”, Sarah ignorantly replies.

“Or maybe somebody will see it and feel sorry for us and offer us a tow.”, I wisely add..

We are actually able to pull Gonzo with the kayak, but are of course unable to control her heading. The plan fails. Plan B kicks in, run with the occasional light breezes into the little cove just to the east of Back Creek’s mouth, a tiny body of water named after somebody called Claxton, Claxton’s Creek. The Claxton’s must have liked to think of themselves as bigger than they actually were, probably even having their children address them as “Mr.” and “Mrs.”

Whatever kind of egotistical family the Claxtons were, their ‘creek’ turned out to be quite sufficient a place to undertake the task at hand, fixing the engine. The carburetor detaches with just two bolts, a fuel hose and two connecting rods. The chilly morning turns to an absolutely beautiful day. Sarah cooks and cleans in the cabin as I dismantle the carburetor in the cockpit, filling our gender roles nicely except for the fact that it’s all being done in a tiny sailboat in the middle of nowhere.

Nothing obviously wrong with the carb. I clean it all up with carb cleaner, reassemble, reattach. The float had been working fine and there was no blockage. Pumping the gas tank’s primer bulb revealed that gas was indeed getting to the carburetor, so what could be the problem……

The memory of a man weeks ago yelling at his dinghy engine in Weems Creek returned to me.
“What was the problem with that engine?” I’d asked him later.
“Water in the gas.”, he’d replied..

That must be it, water in the gas! The engine would briefly start each time carb cleaner was sprayed into the carb, so that meant the electrical system was working fine. And if both the fuel system and electrical system are working fine, then……..

I remove the carb again, drain out the gas. Attach the other gas tank. Use the primer bulb to pump all the gas out of the lines into an empty can that once held pineapple chunks. Drop socket into water while reattaching carb. Metric luckily works, good enough at least.

One pull of the starter cable…..

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!

It runs!!!!!!!!!!!!

It’s one of those great moments in life, so great that nobody but you and the people with you at the time could ever understand. Sarah has macaroni and cheese mixed with chili and Vienna sausage waiting. We sit in the cockpit filling our mouths, smiling at the humming engine as it recharges our dead batteries. Our first hot meal in over two days, and oh at what a great time it comes.

“Let’s go somewhere!”, I say.

Looking at the charts we realize that Norfolk is within the day’s reach, just around a point of land to the East. And that’s just where we want to go! Had we looked at the charts closer yesterday then we would have just sailed straight there rather than going into the York River, which is located on the western side of the Bay.

Water like glass, what a difference a day makes. Not even a breeze till late afternoon. Norfolk and Hampton Roads come into view. Hampton Roads is the huge harbor where the mouths of multiple rivers converge, apparently one of the largest natural harbors in the world. The waters of the Chesapeake take one final stab at Gonzo as we depart them for the last time. A chaotic pattern of big waves from speeding superyachts throws us around like a toy for our last 30 minutes on the Bay.

We pass over the Hampton Roads Tunnel, hundreds of cars speeding into the ground on either side. And at that moment we’re officially free of the Chesapeake!!!!!! Six months after purchasing Gonzo and we are free at last!

Just inside Hampton Roads, on its east side, is the Hampton River, on the banks of which lies the beautiful suburban town of Hampton, Virginia, big red brick buildings with stately green lawns.  We drop anchor just south of the Route 60 bridge, a few hundred meters up the narrow river, sailboat masts rising from marinas all around.

A fellow mariner cruising from Maine in a trawler hands us a Hampton visitor’s pamplet as we pass by his boat in our dinghy. “It was snowing when we left”, he says.

A young man from the harbormaster’s office comes to the dock as we tie up Gonzo, tells us that the dinghy dock is further down, gives us the code to the shower room. The cost is $1 each but we don’t have any change so I let him keep a $5 bill. We may be here for a couple days and his assistance could be useful.

Showers are below Annapolis standards, but they are hot, and the cost is right.

“Let’s walk towards that McDonald’s sign we passed up the river.”, I suggest.

She agrees.

We cross the Route 60 bridge, finding a Burger King just on the other side with a sign in the window, “Free wifi”. Turns out that the wifi is a bust, but double cheeseburgers are $1, real double-cheeseburgers, not the ones that every other fast food chain is selling for a dollar now, the wanna-be double cheeseburgers that only have one piece of cheese. There must be a cheese shortage. It must be the Chinese! They must have discovered cheese! Bomb them now! Steal their cheese! Enslave them in dairies. Rename their country to Cheese. They shouldn’t complain because it sounds almost the same.

Return to Gonzo under almost full moon. Drink the last of our whiskey.

Wednesday: 11-4-09

A work day. There’s a good story to be told and it must be told, the story of Gonzo’s escape from the Chesapeake.
Library required. Hampton has a beautiful two-story red brick one with sweet smelling bathrooms and wide open spaces. And private cubicles! Yes cubicles! Like a real office, we put in a 9-6 shift. That’s how much time it takes to write 3200 words,  post ?? pictures and 12 minutes of video. Another story told!

Sarah’s shift ends on a sour note as she looses two hours worth of photo editing work. The open source program we use, Jalbum, has a nasty habit of allowing users to create files with names that Windows doesn’t approve of. As was the case with Sarah, sometimes the bad filename goes unnoticed till the work is lost.

A gas station Subway sandwich cheered her up. “I’m callin’ Obama”, a drunken old man screams at the cashier upon being asked to leave the restrooms. The gas station has a sterile hard little dining room with a “Free wifi” sign on the window. While consuming my half of the footlong sandwich I notice that almost every single customer, and every employee, is black. Just a few blocks away, downtown where all the huge yachts and luxury office buildings are located, almost everyone is white.

Hmmmmm. I’m callin’ Obama.