Garth's Words

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.

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