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.”
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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!
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