"The Intracoastal Waterway" It had the ring of possible
adventure, the exotic unknown--even a faint echo of
The Yellow Brick Road--before I ever set foot on a boat. Then
we bought a sailboat, and the ICW increasingly became territory
to investigate. Not all 1,000+ miles, mind
you--just enough to dip our neophyte-sailor's toes in.
Last month, the CDSOA's Carolinas' Fleet invited members to
attend a BBQ celebrating 34 years of Cape Dorys in the
Carolinas, dating from when Andy Denmark first splashed a
Typhoon into the water at Oriental. For once, all our personal planets
lined up: we could get together with other Cape Dory owners;
Warren and I arranged free days at the same time; and finally, the festivites would be held near Oriental at Broad Creek, providing a perfect opportunity to venture into the ICW.
Several CD-ers and our own charts assured us it would be about a 10-hour trip; we allowed a good day-and-half. New to sailing in general and to Morveren, our CD270, in particular, we tend to be pessimists when estimating the time and/or difficulty of any new enterprise. With the get-together scheduled for late Saturday afternoon, we left "our" Broad Creek (on the Pamlico River, a couple sailing-hours east of Washington, NC) Friday morning, after leisurely checking the engine and tanks (holding, fuel, and water) and having one of our frequent farmhand-type breakfasts. We were headed towards a familiar destination: Indian Island.
Indian Island is a pleasant anchorage, located reasonably near the mouth of the river as it widens into the Pamlico Sound. Last year, when folks in the Carolinas' Fleet came to Washington from points south, they rafted overnight at Indian Island. For us, it's been the first stop-over for trips in many directions, such as Swan Quarter, Ocracoke, and Belhaven. This time, though, we'd be going a few miles past Indian Island to the entrance for the southbound ICW.
It wouldn't have taken long. . .except for the headwind. We spent a couple of hours sailing on long tacks, covering very little distance. Not that this was a bad thing. The wind was decent--although from exactly the wrong direction--and the weather was gorgeous. The forecast had been for "Possible showers" and "Isolated thunderstorms", but we kept heading towards nasty-looking banks of grey clouds. . .then watching them dissolve under a warm sun.
Plus, we had just repaired our ripped/taped-up batten pockets, added new REAL battens (instead of the 1/2" PVC pipes we inherited), installed a new leechline (in place of. . .nothing whatsoever), and un-frozen the cars for the genoa-track, finally making them adjustable. So while we spent a couple hours sailing without much actual headway, we also had time to play with all the new adjustments. It was great, being able to look up at the mainsail or genny and say, "Look at that beautiful shape! No more creases! And the edges are straight and strong, not fluttering!"
Eventually, not yet to Indian Island, we decided to motor. But the motor didn't start on the first try. . .nor on the second. "That's odd," Warren said. "She always starts right up, unless something's wrong." I offered, "Maybe she's just having an off moment." "No," he said. "It's not like her." The third try worked, though, and it started.
We chugged along steadily, past Indian Island, then the extra 30-45 minutes to the ICW's entrance. According to the charts, we'd have to travel an extra bit farther down-river to miss shallow water at the entrance, then swing back sharply to line up with the channel. This was a concern until we reached the waypoint for our turn: the entrance is as obvious as a parade route, an unmistakeable red-and-green-marked corridor. After this, we were looking for Campbell Creek, which Pete Cregger had recommended as a convenient achorage, just 30 minutes south of the ICW entrance. We found Campbell Creek to be one of the nicest anchorages yet. It is secluded, sheltered, and accessible.
As dawn broke the next morning to reveal a gentle fog lifting, we looked forward to firing up the Westerbeke and motoring out whilst enjoying another "farmhand breakfast". Alas, that was not to be. All gauges and alarms came to life with the master switch as expected, but on turning the key to "start": nothing. Warren began trouble-shooting, rummaging around in the engine muttering "Try the key now. . .Hmm, nope. How about now?" I primed the alcohol stove, put on the Brokeback Mountain coffeepot (which takes a good 20 minutes to perk), and watched him musing. After a few minutes half-submerged in the engine space, Warren quietly re-emerged, stood up, with a barely discernible smirk, and announced, "I think it'll work now--Is the coffee ready? Oh yeah, by the way, the 12v wire from the solenoid broke at the spade lug".
Off we went, down the ICW. This stretch, passing Hobucken, with its Coast Guard station and impressive bridge, is a wide, charming canal which makes it easy to see why the ICW is called "The Ditch." Not a puff of wind in sight. More motoring, all the way to Broad Creek, as it turned out. At the entrance to Broad Creek some, three hours later, we encountered our only rainshower. It was refreshing actually. We made our way up the creek to Andy's residence, and easily raised a rather-surprised Ron Turner (he hadn't expected us so soon) on Ch. 16, and made arrangements to come ashore after we'd rested and cleaned up a bit. During that time, Pete and Dick arrived further down the creek and anchored in deeper water, as they drew 2 more feet than our vessel.
As the crowd began to assemble, we took our turn in the "shuttle" dinghy with Lou Ostendorff at the helm, clambered ashore, and began greeting our fellow CD'rs, many of them for the first time. Ron and Kim Turner's, our hosts', house ( 2 doors down from Andy's) is serene and welcoming; we gathered out front under the Scuppernong trellis, where we were shown the proper technique for eating the grapes--if we dared.
Aside from conversations with new (and previous) acquaintances and the chance to talk all things "boat" at length, one of the interesting aspects of the afternoon was visiting the barn next door, home to a large (40-something-foot) wooden ketch. Hearing we had permission to inspect it, Warren jumped at the chance. As the story goes, the builder had no experience in boatbuilding and chose this as his first project. Many of us were impressed at the grade of lumber and condition of the hull, not to mention the craftsmanship overall. I'll defer to local authorities on further details (Andy? Ron?). No doubt, there's an interesting story there.
Now for the best part: our hosts arranged for a good ole North Carolina BBQ complete with all the sides and iced tea. Participants (between 20 and 30?) had free rein to bring desserts, and they all outdid themselves. Warren certainly ate his share, as did everyone else!
Reluctantly, we headed back to our mooring (via the courtesy dinghy-shuttle) as the sun set. The calm evening subsided into a calm overnight on Broad Creek. The following morning was clear, and we began motoring out at first light, past Dick Turner, bidding us farewell from the deck of Mystical as we began an uneventful but pleasant trip back to "our" Broad Creek--already discussing when we might check out more of the remaining 990 miles of the ICW.
Washington is our nearest "big town." First and foremost, it's simply low-key charming. There was a time, I'd guess, when it was a '"big town" without quotation marks: interesting old buildings downtown are marked, e.g., "Built by Haskell Supply Company 1912" (we recently made the acquaintance of a fellow sailor who just bought the entire second story of that building and is converting it to apartments). But then, one supposes, industry and interest shifted to another part of the state. . .or the world.
Now, however, the whole intriguingly-quaint downtown has a Rip Van Winkle air, as though just awakening from a very long sleep: the city has recently rebuilt the waterfront and docks; little shops and restaurants are moving into the old brick hotels and storefronts; every weekend seems to offer live music with a crab-picking, a fund-raiser at the estuarium, etc.
Check the "Washington" collection for some photos of the place. Warren will be giving some explanation/description of them.
We more or less slid Avecita, the dinghy (the "titmouse" [rodent + bird: toooooo perfect!]), under the radar without acknowledging she's Boat #2. But now we've got another, and it's time to `fess up: we've stepped up to three watercraft!
So, our latest addition is a little one-person inflatable kayak. They call this model "Dragonfly," and there's no way to improve on that name, as she just skims and darts over the water. Plus, even fully inflated, she stores easily on deck; deflated, she stores unobtrusively in the quarter-berth. . .As it turns out, we anchored at our fave spot, Goose Creek, for her debut--and we all fought for who'd have the next turn in Dragonfly.
The rationale was "If the boys go off exploring in the dink and run into trouble, how can we go look for them?" We're going, you might say, for redundancy backup (Hey, all the best space programs do it!). But. . .the fundamental reason may come back to boat-lust. :-) Where, oh where, will it all end?
What I hadn't realized about sailing is. . ."the basics" are nowhere near basic. There's dynamics (aero/fluid/thermal) and topography and meterology and geography and cartography and oceanography and naval architecture and ergonomics and mechanics and carpentry and plumbing and organization and cooking challenges and psychology, both child and adult--oh yeah, and advanced stain-removal expertise (say, if the boat heels as one is pouring red wine. . .of course, that's a totally theoretical concern). And those are just for starters :-)
In short, it touches on most aspects of regular ole life, plus requires a heightened understanding of--and attention to--one's whole environment. I can sleepwalk through much of my land-lubber workday; I don't see doing that in my boat. There's more riding on what happens in and to the boat, even at the dock. . .like personal safety, even continued existence (of both vessel and/or crew). Not that every matter is life-and-death--HECK no! A lot of it is just flat-out FUN :-)
I'm quite certain any experienced sailor would respond with "Well, duh!" Or the nautical equivalent thereof. But, for the new initiate, it's fascinating to discover and deal with. A whole `nuther world, indeed.
So you want to own a sailboat? I didn't. The thought had never entered my mind. Then--June 2, 2006, email from Warren: "I'm thinking about renting a sailboat, and it requires a two-man crew." Although he has some actual experience, my background consists of being passenger in a sailboat once or twice, some 15 years previous. . .
So we rent a 22' Catalina and sail blithely from Atlantic Beach into the Morehead City turning basin and past the Beaufort Inlet, acquitting ourselves reasonably well and only running aground once, just off Shackleford Banks. (Warren counts it as two groundings, I count it as one, with a brief intermission of freedom.)
We discovered afterwards that the Beaufort area gives some sailors pause and even made one boat-owner blanch visibly: "You sailed WHERE? My God, I won't go anywhere it!" (Granted, he was not the most seasoned tar we've met.) More immediately, however, I discovered something myself, as we tied up to the dock after our half-day outing and Warren exhaled, allowing as how he'd never sailed anything bigger than 14 feet. . .
I'm not very clear on how the transition between "Let's rent boats!" to "Hey, let's just buy one!" occurred. . .except it happened easily. I do remember we then looked at every possible boat on every possible website. AND we became frequent yachtyard lurkers: some of our candidates are shown in "The Search" collection. The first one we actually stepped foot on was the Compac23 (owned by the not-so-seasoned tar); as we left, I did a little dance, bounced up and down on the dock, and burbled "Oh, let's just buy it!" Luckily, my enthusiasm soon became tempered by reality and experience. Otherwise, we'd own half a dozen boats. . .Then again--perhaps some day we shall.
Several of our candidates were listed at McCotter's Marina, in "Little" Washington ('First US city named after George Washington'), North Carolina. By this time, somehow or `nuther, we had been pulled into the Cape Dory zone. At McCotter's, we looked at a Cape Dory 27 (very affordable, VERY in need of work: oh Lordy, do we really wanna do all that?), a Cape Dory 28 (not enough room, really--what about the boys?). . .And then TTB, Tom The Broker, said, "Here's a Cape Dory 270 I haven't even put on the website yet." We entered the boat, stepped down into the cabin. . .and it was a Movie Moment. I have the CLEAREST recollection of looking at Warren, him looking at me, our eyes locking, and--time stopped, violins swelled, and the thought overwhelmed us simultaneously "This is IT!" It was a lovely boat. Not too big, but still plenty of room, including head-room. We could stand up; there was space for [relatively] untrammeled boy-activity; we could go into shallow waters, and we could sail into DEEP waters (thanks to the full keel + centerboard design: unique in Cape Dorys, limited to only the nineteen 270s produced). We could, in short, do anything, go anywhere, with this boat. AND we could afford it. So. . .we bought it.
